#in the end it all comes down to choices. impulsive or not. made or not. we all choose.

[teaboot]

While I'm happy that the word "gaslighting" is more known than it used to be, and that people at large are learning to recognize what it looks like, I feel like we need to be careful not to turn it into something soft and casual we throw around off the cuff without meaning.

Being gaslit is psychological abuse that fucks you up very badly, very slowly, at such a gradual pace that you don't usually know it's happening until it's already re-wired your brain.

If you're unfamiliar with the term, "to gaslight" is to intentionally persuade someone that they cannot trust their own perceptions of reality. It's a destabilizing form of manipulation that leaves you constantly anxious, off-balanced, confused, and dependant on others.

This is done by lying about events that have happened or about things that are happening, invalidating feelings and observations, and either denying, refusing to acknowledge, or deflecting away from hard facts.

As someone who has experienced gaslighting as a form of abuse, this is what I remember from when I didn't know anything was off:

"Oh, I must have forgotten what really happened."

"I'm just not seeing it from their point of view."

"Everyone has their ups and downs. This is normal."

"I guess I wasn't thinking about what I was doing."

"I must have been wrong."

This is what I remember from when I first started realizing something was weird:

"How come every time I'm convinced they did something wrong, they just talk to me a few minutes, and I end up asking for their forgiveness? What has me so convinced I was right in the first moment?"

"I should start writing things down when they happen, so I can go back and check later when I'm confused."

"If every relationship like ours (familial, romantic, platonic) works this way, how come I never hear about it, or read about it, or see it anywhere else?"

Getting out and adjusting to the real world is hard, too, and comes with rapid swings of unfounded guilt, shame, fear, anxiety, and self-deprication that are completely unfounded in reality.

You've been conditioned to believe that you are entirely helpless and unable to think for yourself, possibly "crazy" or otherwise fundamentally impaired, and that there is a singular source of guidance that knows exactly what is right, and all of a sudden that pillar of support has vanished.

The immediate "after" that I recall looks like:

Constant uncertainty. Because nobody is there to tell you what's real and what isn't, you approach every situation thinking at it from all angles. Every question has fifty possible answers and most of them are wrong and you don't know which. If you choose wrong, the world will end.

A sense of helplessness. You feel that nothing you do is correct, and it's easier to make no choices at all- or you make wild, reckless, impulsive choices, because you feel you have nothing to lose.

Memory loss. I don't understand this one, but it's not like memoriescare being erased, but more like... you're so used to treating your memories as dreams or imaginations that you reflexively dismiss anything you recall as fake, and you can't believe anything you recall because you don't think it was real. Your abusers voice is in your head, wiping things away and telling you that you did the wrong thing. And you believe them, because they're the only constant you can rely on.

Missing the abuser, or the abusive dynamic. Because you know now that it wasn't healthy, but at least you knew where you stood. As long as you said the right things and acted the right way, agreed and obeyed and did as they expected, you felt like thevworld made sense. Now you have to figure out which parts of you really are broken, and which parts are working fine in a really weird way, and it's like tuning a piano when you've never played one before.

The long term "after"- for which I can only speak for myself- looks like:

Having to double-check, triple-check, and continue checking hard evidence of an event before responding in an active way.

Consulting with trusted friends to verify that your observations are legitimate and that your perceptions are valid. Following up with them to see if someone is really angry at you, or if you're just projecting anger onto them because it's what makes sense to your old pattern.

Obsessive collection of "evidence"- saving pictures, writing detailed journals, making recordings and video, never deleting emails or old texts, because you still don't quite trust yourself all the way and you're afraid that someone will cause you to doubt yourself again.

Continued self-doubt and being "gullible": I have straight up seen people flip me off to my face in front of witnesses and then immediately tell me, "No, I was just waving", and my first instinct is to believe them. For a few seconds, I *really do* believe them. Your brain is so trained to latch onto what people tell you to believe that its really, really hard to hold onto information that you already have.

Learning to take ownership over your own actions. (I didn't mess up because I'm "crazy", I messed up because I'm a person and people do that.)

Instinctively seeking approval. (Takes a lot of work to remind myself that I don't exit to make people happy, and that some people suck ass, and I can tell them to piss off.)

I don't intend to invalidate anyone currently struggling with this- if you feel that something is wrong, it probably is. That's the thought that got me out. Trust that feeling that something isn't right.

I just want people who don't know what to look for to know what gaslighting *actually* looks and feels like, so they don't just roll their eyes and think, "Oh, that word doesnt apply to me- I'm not some snowflake".

('Cause we all saw what happened with "triggered", right?)

#Gaslighting #Abuse #Information #Psychological abuse

[sxcret-garden]

Ateez when they're jealous ღ NSFW Edition [M]

ღ Ateez all members x fem-bodied!reader ღ genre: smut, headcanons (dom-sub dynamics in some parts, semi-public sex in some parts, most of them get more or less possessive) ღ warnings: alcohol consumption in some parts

Author's note: Maybe I went a liiiittle overboard with this.... maybe I'm also very tempted to turn one of these into a full fic....

Hongjoong:

He's usually one to deal with his jealousy in a very adult manner and simply talk it out with you. However, after coming home jealous one day and having what was probably the best sex in your relationship up until that point, you've made an arrangement to deal with your jealousy in the bedroom. So it's really become more of a game to him than a pestering feeling to get rid of asap. And today as well, after you've spent a little too much time (in his opinion) having a very engaged conversation with the cute waiter of your regular place to get dinner, Hongjoong can't wait to get home and to drag you off to his bed. And that's exactly what he does, as you're filled with expectation because you didn't exactly miss the evil smirks he's been giving you throughout dinner, and you could guess what would be coming once you're home. He's moving slowly as he crawls on top of you, brushing his lips against yours in teasing kisses, and then telling you to strip naked for him. Will be the biggest little shit ever as he touches you in all the ways he knows will rile you up, and has you cursing underneath him when he pulls his fingers out of you just as you're about to cum. "You're gonna have to beg for it, babe," he whispers, licking his fingers clean. "I'm not gonna let you cum until I know you can't take it anymore."

Seonghwa:

Is so shocked when after weeks of suffering he finally figures out that seeing you with your male best friend makes him jealous, that he impulsively decides to get (almost blackout) drunk. What he forgot to consider was that you were scheduled to make dinner with him at his place, and so when you walk in on him having downed what's probably his third bottle of soju you're definitely mad at him. Wondering whether it'd even make sense to try to reason with your drunk boyfriend, you do eventually end up scolding him, but the second you're within reach he pulls you down onto his sofa, crawling on top of you. He's blushing from the alcohol, and usually you'd have found that cute, but today the cold stare he gives you makes you shiver. Worriedly, you ask what's wrong with him, and finally he explains. "I'm jealous. Like really jealous of your best friend. And drinking it away wasn't the best choice but right now I just need to make you mine." You're not sure if you should be impressed how in control he is for the amount he drank or if you should just be insanely turned on by his words, but when you give him permission with a nod it's not like he leaves you any time to think about this further anyway. Has you both naked in no time and pins you down as he fucks you rough, and if you think he'll be satisfied with giving you just one or two orgasms that night, you couldn't be more wrong.

Yunho:

Doesn't get jealous ever, except for that one time when you had only just started dating and were still in a bit of an awkward phase of figuring everything out together. Now usually he doesn't mind you going out to see your other guy friends, he has no reason to worry about that because he trusts you to never betray him. However, who he doesn't trust is that one guy who very obviously has a crush on you and he wouldn't put it past him to try to steal you away. And so he even went so far as to warn you about it, but you just brushed it off, defending the other guy and saying he's just a friend. And well, when one night your boyfriend witnesses how that guy drops you off at Yunho's place and he's being just a little too touchy before he hugs you goodbye, that's when the jealousy sets in. Needless to say he's upset when you walk inside, and not knowing what to do with that feeling, he simply kisses you. And it's a passionate kiss filled with need, the kind of kiss you've never received from your boyfriend up until that point. Yet he takes the lead, and soon he pushes you up against a wall, hands roaming your body and his lips nipping at your throat. "I don't ever want to see that guy touching you like that again," he mutters, rolling his clothed hard on against your hips, making you throw your head back. "You're mine and nobody else's." When he feels you going limp in his hold and all you can do is agree and whine at his touch, he takes you right then and there, proving to you that nobody could ever make you feel as good as he can.

Yeosang:

When he's jealous he needs reassurance above all else, especially towards the beginning of your relationship. The only problem is that he's kinda slow at figuring out that he's jealous, and so it's often you who picks up the cues before he does. And you know he tends to get sulky and avoidant when he feels bad but can't quite put his finger on why, so one day you decide to try to help him out of that. And so you approach him, telling him straightforward that you want to have sex with him. And pulling him out of his bubble takes a while of hesitation from his side, but when you take him by the hand to walk him to your bedroom, he doesn't protest. Crawling on top of him and making out with him, you wait until you can feel him somewhat relax underneath you. Your fingers of one hand tangled in his hair while the other roams his toned upper body has him melting underneath you, and just then you ask him whether he's jealous, in the sweetest tone you can muster. "I... I think so," he mumbles. "Do you need me to prove to you that I only want you?" you ask, and Yeosang nods. And you'd be surprised how quickly he can go from desperately clinging to you as you get him off slowly, humming praises for your boyfriend, to him flipping your positions around and with a "Sorry, I need this now" he starts thrusting into you, hard and slow. The pace as well as him suddenly taking charge of the situation makes you see stars, and his desperate but possessive groans could make you cum right then and there.

San:

Seems more helpless than anything else the second he comes back from picking up some takeout coffee for the both of you when he sees a complete stranger flirting with you, and you doing nothing to ward the guy off. And of course he'd be jealous at the sight, but he decides to play the tough guy for now, telling the guy off as he approaches. "Dude, what are you doing flirting with my girlfriend?" He puts an emphasis on his last word, and his voice sounds darker than usual. And though the stranger leaves immediately and you two continue your date as usual, something's off about San once you arrive home. Dragging you off to the bedroom by the sleeve of your shirt, he doesn't say anything and doesn't let you see his face right until he has you pinned to the bed, hovering above you and pressing a fiery kiss to your lips. Clothes don't stay on for long, and when he finally has his hips snapping into you, you have to slow him down from how rough he's being. "Fuck, that guy pissed me off," he mutters as he buries his face in your neck, leaving his mark there. When he has you coming undone underneath him, he doesn't stop, continuing to fuck you towards your next high, and your head starts to spin when you hear his next words, growled into your ear, "Don't ever flirt with another man again. Don't even look at someone else, or do you think anyone else could ever fuck you this good?"

Mingi:

Well if he isn't a wild card idk what. Gets jealous rather easily, and from him sulking like a kid to him taking charge and dragging you off to the nearest secluded space, anything could happen. It entirely depends on his mood that day, and a bit on the situation too. Mingi definitely needs you to comfort him if it's the former option, but the good news is that he'll be fine rather quickly after you assure him he has nothing to worry about. However, after you've been dating for a while and he's internalized that you're not gonna let someone else take you away from him, that helplessness soon turns into anger at whatever guy is flirting with you. And so one night when you're out with friends, all being a bit tipsy and this one guy just won't stop giving you all of his attention, Mingi eventually shoots up from his seat and drags you to the restrooms without an explanation. Kisses you feverishly after locking up the stall he entered with you, and only when you ask him what's wrong he gives you an explanation. "I don't like the way that guy looks at you. It pisses me off," he hisses, before going right back to kissing you. His hand finding your core underneath your clothes in no time, he starts fingering you, even teasing you about how you're already wet for him, and eventually he'll flip you around so he can grind his clothed bulge against your ass as he gets you off, relishing in the way you're desperately trying to suppress all noises.

Wooyoung:

Big switch energy so this can go one of two ways, but after the initial deep conversation you had about jealousy and how you can trust each other despite that feeling sometimes arising, the one thing that's for sure is that you're gonna resolve it with sex.  Even when the jealousy is barely even there, just like earlier today when you had commented to your boyfriend on how handsome one of Wooyoung's friends looks in his latest insta post, he doesn't miss the opportunity to seek proof that at the end of the day you only have eyes for him.  "And what about me?" he'll asks as he walks up to you from behind, hands put on your waist and his lips ghosting above your neck. The tone of his voice gives his intentions away immediately, and it doesn't take long for him to spin you around in his hold so he could kiss you, dragging you off to the nearest surface to have sex with you on (whether that's the bed, the sofa, or the dining table he doesn't care). And it really all depends on your mood whether he'll pin you against it, making you beg for him until he's satisfied, or put all the power into your hands and let you have his way with him until he's the one whining for your touch. One way or the other, the reason for his jealousy will soon be forgotten, because now all that matters is you and him chasing pleasure together.

Jongho:

You're at a party hosted by a mutual friend of yours, and from the moment you dressed up at home you've known that your outfit choice today is doing something to your boyfriend from the looks he's been giving you. You like the attention, you're not gonna lie, and you can imagine what this night will lead to once you're back in the comfort of your own home, after making him stare at you all evening. However, what you didn't expect were the death glares he's been giving one of your male childhood friends who's been occupying you ever since you walked into that party. You know Jongho isn't the type to get jealous easily, but when he does he usually struggles with expressing it. However, you also know your boyfriend will usually do the right thing anyway, and so when he pulls you into the empty kitchen and locks the door behind himself, you expect him to simply tell you about his feelings. What you certainly do not expect is him backing you up against a counter with a possessive stare glued to your lips. "What's wrong...?" Kisses you instead of answering your question and makes your head spin from the way he runs his hands down your body alone. There's need and anger behind his actions, and in no time he has you pressed up against the kitchen counter, facing the wall now, both your pants and underwear pulled down just enough so he could fuck you from behind, teasing you with just his tip until he has you begging for more, and this really is just what he needed to alleviate his unnecessary feelings of jealousy...

#ateez smut #ateez reactions #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez x fem reader #ateez headcanons #hongjoong smut #seonghwa smut #yunho smut #yeosang smut #san smut #mingi smut #wooyoung smut #jongho smut #smut

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

#masters of the air #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #gosh is that a first tag? i don’t think so I know I’ve seen schemes at the very least on here #mota fanfic #austin butler #gale cleven #john egan #Major Egan #Major Cleven #buck cleven #Gale Cleven fanfiction #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #austin butler fluff #Austin Butler imagine #Austin butler smut #callum Turner fanfiction #callum turner #harry crosby #anthony boyle #hbo war #band of brothers #the pacific

[vln-vibes]

Heroes Hunted

(I need to finish my other fics before thinking of others Q^Q)

Basically we've seen quite a few Danny getting hunted down by the GIW and ending up in Gotham resulting in him warning certain Bats (mainly just Jason) that hes in danger as well--- but what if the GIW decided to target 'smaller fish' in order to train themselves against Phantom; their main target.

Unfortunately Team Phantom is too busy trying to keep the calm around Amity Park and don't realize it until they're too late.

The JL never see them coming.

The Bats are frantically looking for what should be their literal assassin trained Robin, Red Hood and Black Bat.

Supers are flying around the area looking for any trace of Supergirl and Superboy (I). Not even Tim's trackers on Conner show anything (just like the ones he had on his fellow Bats).

Arrows had sent Green Arrow and Arsenal to help with the search of the Bats, Roy leaving Lian behind with Dinah, only to drop off the face of the Earth.

The Flash, Blue Beetle and Hawkwoman are all reported as MIA.

An Emergency Meeting is announced and trying to get into contact with all the other fellow heroes. Some were known to be off planet but there were a few who'd failed to respond at all...

Batman is the first to realize a common factor to all those who've disappeared as most had concluded something or someone was targeting heroes.

They'd all died.

Diana was the one to bring forward worst news; the hunt wasn't done.

Impulse, Red Robin, Cyborg, Hawkman, Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman herself were possible targets as well.

Cyborg was able to recover and corrupted and dropped emergency call from Barry "Those weirdos in white from earlier are attacking downtown, could use some backup asap. Something about Anti-Ecto Acts or whate-- Hey! Ugh"

A shiver went down their spines as they collectively told stories about spotting men in white suits walk around their cities. Some had brushed them off whilst others had kept tabs but the guys seemed to have lost interest and left.

It was a terrible oversight.

"Looks like some assholes are digging their noses into my turf, gonna stake them out tonight" Jason had told Bruce the last night they'd seen each other, "My guys they were wearing white suits, terrible choice for Crime Alley or Gotham"

Red Hood had said he didn't need backup as he would just gather intel, still that was also the night Black Bat and Robin were paired for patrol and she'd indicated she'd check in on him before the end of the night. The three never got to call in for the night.

Oracle had informed him that Red Hood's helmet had detonated, fortunately without him in it, its location the last place his children had pinged in the scanners.

The only audio they managed to recover from the device was "---Control Act, Article 1, Subse---Under Arrest---Questioning... And experimenting lots---"

Oracle had finally found the 'Anti-Ecto Acts', formally known as the Federal Anti-Ecto Control Act hidden along laws against the privatization of new green energy sources; Anything that was made off of or produced this so called 'ectoplasm' was to be handed over to the federal government's Ghost Investigation Ward for imprisonment, experimentation and finally termination.

"What the hell even is ectoplasm?"

"Its the source of all ghosts" Zatanna spoke up, repulsion clear as she read and reread the acts words, "Their body and souls are made up of the energy much like atoms make up all things in the physical world. The energy of the dead"

"According to these documents" Red Robin pulled up a research paper around two decades old from some students of the University of Wisconsin, "Ectoentities or ghosts are unfeeling, nonsentient echoes of their formerly living selves. They'd even theorized a means to access their home dimension they call the Ghost Zone"

"Ghost are made of bloody emotions" Constantine rolled his eyes "What kind of idiot would think otherwise? And don't get me started on a 'home dimension'--unless?"

"John, you don't think?"

"I sure as bloody hell hope not"

"The Infinite Realms!?"

Which only proved the situation more dire; a potential for a dimension that glued the multiverse and their afterlives, whose beings all had potential of rivaling the strength of a Super when provoked, their noted territorial nature making that a given if a portal happened upon them.

They were on a ticking time bomb to rescue their fellow heroes but they didn't even know where to start. Luckily they weren't the Justice League for nothing---

Potential locations scouted, teams made and buddy systems enacted for those potentially targeted.

Batman and his team headed to Amity Park to check on the three researchers of those papers-- Madeline Walker, Jack Fenton and Vladimir Masters. Background search revealed that Madeline and Jack had gotten married and had two children Jasmine and Daniel.

It wasn't until they crossed the town border in the dead of the night that their systems pinged the Fenton children were reported as runaways-- and not just them. The local high school had shut down as children were reported missing or also runaways from their parents. Even the faculty and some parents had begun to disappear.

Those that remained were kept under strict curfew by marshal law-- the GIW had the town under their control.

Just what exactly had they stumbled upon? Could their comrades be hidden somewhere in this small midwestern town?

Their theories were proven right the following night when tapping into their communication line about the 'aggressive subject G-02' and how 'it' had managed to break some arms when it had been relocated to the Fenton's personal lab. The 'unfortunate' Agent H who'd tried to yank it by its black and white contaminated hair had gotten his nose broken for it. It was scheduled for biopsy tonight.

Batman couldn't help but taste the bile make his way up fearing/knowing who G-02 was.

His Team was right behind him in the change of plans as they made their way across town as covertly as they could; it seemed as though after finding out about G-02 (it couldn't be him, he couldn't put a name to him lest he let his fear override everything) Batman pinged on more and more of their ghost detectors.

Disabling was taking too long, loathe he admit, as they devolved to destroying as discreetly as they could.

Finally they could see the garish neon of the FentonWorks logo, the steps and door to the house were covered in ectoplasm and another familiar substance-- handmarks, clawmarks, clear signs of resistance could be made out.

And then Fentonworks went up in a flame and red and green.

Batman couldn't keep in his desperate cry. Not again! Please not again...

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dpxdc crossover #crossover fic #heroes hunted down for a change #or is it just heroes? #things just keep happening #not good things #things get better #eventually #dp x dc fic #disregard canon do phanfiction

[sanemisstalker]

NSFW // KNY characters that are serial humpers. There's nothing they won't rub themselves on for just a small chance to get off.

CW: GN Reader/ Both Genitals reffered to/ specific CW will be before each character so you can peruse as you see fit.

Karaku

Object Of choice : Anything and Everything.

CW: Genital Mutilation (he gets curious, no scene), Dub-con/Non-con, Somnophilia.

-While I think all of the Clones have a bit of a problem keeping it to themselves, I think Karaku, being, you know, the pleasure clone, is most certainly a cum chaser.

-He can barely keep his hand out of his pants in public, all but physically refuses to hide his boners, and, worst of all, you can't keep underwear in one piece, on, or even around.

-This man is disgusting. The only difference between him and the others is that he's unabashed about it. You'd think the honesty would help, but it just doesn't. Not after he's torn through your last set of undergarments and now what?

-'So what? I don't wear anything- eh? What do you mean it's digusting?!'

-He's so proud about it too, it's almost disheartening.

-Is not gentle with his dick. It can just regrow, I'm sure he's done- awful things to it.

-I think that pleasure thing comes at a cost. It's a signifier of Hantengu's lack of impulse control. Karaku probably can't stop himself, even if he wants to, which he never would because lusting is his only purpose.

-Everything is made to read as innately sexual to him- doesn't matter if it's your fist or a cheese grater- He's experimental with his nerves to a self destructive degree.

-'I didn't intend to cut it off- no! I saw a photo of a man that flayed it o- Hey! It's not that bad! Just liste- It'll fix itself soon!'

-I don't know what else He'd do other than jack off, or try and convince the other clones to jack off. I don't think he has- hobbies?

-Definitely tries to hump you in your sleep. If you don't wake up to him jerking off, you're waking up to him trying to slip between your thighs.

-'I just got horny- no no- just go back t- hey, no, you're not allowed to leave? Come back! Y/N!'

Aizetsu

Object of Choice : Your thigh

CW: Severe Depression / BDSM Dynamics (Severe degradation, both self and inflicted) (Aizetsu receiving)

-What a miserable fuck, he doesn't know what to do with himself half the time, so when he gets horny he just cries and begs.

-He's a manifestation of every awful thought Hantengu ever had in that big ol' head of his. Aizetsu just drips with the most gut wrenching, vomit inducing level of self-hatred you've ever seen anytime you're intimate.

-you begin to wonder if being talked down to appeals to him more than he'd like to admit.

-He's like a dog when he asks, because, at the end of the day, he's still Hantengu, a selfish bastard who self serves. Aizetsu just doesn't have the joy receptors for it- his nerves jump at the bud for any impulse they can fufill.

-When you let him ride your thigh, because he's pathetic, and he looked so... him asking, it became his favourite thing. Ever.

-When you two are alone, he'll just beg for it out loud. He has no self respect. So much shame that he'll never conquer.

-'Please, please- Y/N- I- I'll do whatever you want me to. You're the only person I can do this with, they'll all- laugh at me- please please- I'm sorry, I know, I'm- God I'm worthless- I can't do anything in return, nothing will be good enough-'

-he's practically jerking himself off on your calve as he spews his self hate. You might as well give in.

-When you're infront of the other clones, he'll tug at the edge of whatever you're wearing. They all toss him hauty looks. They're disgusted by him, too. He likes humping your thigh more than his dignity infront of his fellow cluster, I guess.

-Maybe he's... a bit of a.... a lot of a masochist. You stare at him like he's dirt, there. He's a grown man humping your thigh- drool spilling out of his mouth.

-'I'm- I'm sorry I- oh god- please don't hate me- please don't hate me- please please-'

-'You're pathetic. You can't make me cum, but you have no problem mak- did you just cum again? Are you cumming right now? In your pants?... Are you serious?'

-You could easily have him wailing in minutes, maybe even seconds if you hit the right nerve. And the whole time he'll just be thrusting away, chasing his own pleasure against your skin because that's all he knows how to do.

-Push him off right as he's cumming and ruin his orgasm, he doesn't deserve to feel good (The abuse will just make him cum harder)

Kaigaku

Object Of Choice: You.

CW: Mention of Trad Wives

-Listen, I know we have a lot of Kaigaku haters in the crowd. I, however, see a man with a choker, and I see a potential slut. Give him his moment.

-I think Kaigaku would be a very selfish lover, obviously, but I don't think this is in natural capacity for him. I think he's like, brainwashed by societies standards of what attracts him, especially in a relationship.

-You know when you see a 'sigma' guy that's really upset his trad wife who he specifically picked out for being trad won't do anal? That's Kaigaku.

-So he's really, really upset when you won't put out.

-You see a chance, though. A chance for a life lesson.

-Kaigaku is allowed to fuck you... just not really fuck you. He's allowed to use your hand. He's allowed to use your thighs. He can rut in between your pussy lips/ up and down your shaft-

-He is not allowed in you. And it lights him up.

-'Thats a stupid rule! You think I'm not enough? Are you fucking someone else? Are you making fun of me?!' He'd probably try to insight a screaming match for a week, but you just won't give in-

-Fine. Whatever. He just won't touch you, won't talk to you- won't-

-The first time Kaigaku slides in between your thighs, he swears he sees stars. It'd been weeks... probably the longest he's ever held off on an impulse. Hadn't jerked off either, He'd been too pissed.

-Its there, in that little space between your sex and the top of your thighs, that Kaigaku finds God. At least he thinks it's god. It's got to be. He's never cum so hard in his life.

-Kaigaku becomes almost... willingly obedient. He continues to pretend he's so inconvenienced by the whole thing, but then he's sliding into your fist, and the world is just sliding away.

-I have a very specific image of standing infront of him, and him trying to angle his dick to slide in your underwear. He's really awkward, and he's struggling to stay upright because he's got to bend his knees to meet your cunt/cock- and it's just not working, but that's the only way you'd let him get off on you that day-

-It like, kind of gives me the ick thinking about him doing it, but also like- Aw? He'll literally do anything to get off now? You broke him?

-'I can't- it- it's too hard-' He'd mumble, voice sounding particularly defeated. 'I just- I want to cum-'

-'Too bad.' You'd go to walk away, and He'd jerk off on the floor, pissed as hell. He wouldn't be able to cum and that'd just make him angrier, because now he has to go beg his partner, who he's whipped for, to please let him use their pussy/dick again-

-He's like, never been this needy before, though. He's not supposed to want to chase you. He's supposed to have people throwing themselves at him- It's kind of... exciting, to be denied.

-You know, guys that whimper are really cool, but idk, I think Kaigaku's a whiner. I think he whines and groans and it's really unsightly but??? There's something so appealing about it? Like, he's so big and strong and his ego is so inflated, and he's just toppling for you?

Enmu

Object of Choice : Your pillow

CW: Enmu / Crossing of explicit sexual boundaries.

-Listen, he's not right in the head. Enmu never claimed to be right in the head, either, but he's particularly fond of cumming on your pillow. Not just humping it, cumming on it. He doesn't really know why either.

-'It just feels right, I think.' He'd reason.

-'Do you want to- cum in my hair? On my face-'

'No, I want to cum on your pillow. It's where you sleep.' Thats the only explanation you get from him. He cannot articulate anymore.

-He doesn't even think about it when he's doing it. He's just got one leg hiked up on the bed, a thumb pressing the head of his cock into the plush, and he's just thrusting- almost blind.

-He doesn't ever remember the build up to getting there, or what in his brain is satisfied by doing this, but if he doesn't do it, something... off will happen, he's sure.

-You catch him, one day. You thought he was just cumming on it- no, he's got his full weight in his pelvis, pitching his hips forward with all his might. You didn't even know Enmu could physically do such a thing.

-He's not weak, obviously. He's a demon, but you all rarely have sex where he's the one leading, so it's a bit of a shock to watch him be so... rough with the fabric.

-He's almost in a trance, it's kind of scary, until he cums, and he covers his mouth with both hands, and his hole body shakes. The fucker knows he has to keep this silent...

-Maybe you're...Maybe you're not right in the head either, because you really, really want to be that pillow.

This might have a part 2, because i think Mitsuri would be prone to this.

#demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut #kaigaku x reader #kaigaku x y/n #kaigaku x you #upper moon smut #upper moons x reader #kny smut #aizetsu x reader #aizetsu x you #hantengu clones x reader #karaku x reader #karaku x y/n #karaku x you #enmu smut #enmu x you #enmu x reader #kaigaku smut #karaku smut #aizetsu smut

[boss-poss]

See, Lethal Company's real genius is that it somehow marries two normally opposed genres, those being horror and comedy together into something greater. Mechanically it's a multiplayer looter extraction survival type game. It's designed to create stressful and scary situations by forcing you to speedrun mini randomized dungeons while monsters hunt your character to meet a certain quota (our asses are not making quota). That's not the clever part though, no, that's giving the players the ability to fuck themselves over and the hilarity that comes from it.

Anything you say into your mic is said in the game world and can be heard by certain monsters. Many items, similarly, can be used to make noise and you can bet there is little impulse control when a player finds an air horn or gets a walkie talkie. The sound of a distant honk somewhere out of nowhere is not something most players are prepared for while in a pitch black maze. Sound in this game has a doppler effect, which makes it harder to hear the further away the source is, allowing screams to fade into nothing and unintelligible yelling heard for a second before vanishing. You must rely on your senses but those are, by design, limited and regularly tricked.

Because level layouts, monster locations, and item spawns are all random, it's insanely easy to get lost or lose track of thigs, especially in the dark and especially when panicking. Seeing a bracken for the first time will almost certainly send a player running in the opposite direction and get lost, if they even see it all. No one is prepared to have a hand wrap around their face and snap their neck in an instant. It's utterly shocking and will leave you gasping in surprise to first time you experience it.

Certain weather patterns make levels harder, some even nearly impossible (looking at you eclipse), and sometimes your options are avoiding deadly lightning or not being able to see due to fog. High level moons have excessively valuable loot but also feature the worst foes and cost a fee to access, forcing a compromise between greed, ability, and resources.

Dying, likewise incurs a penalties. Your team is fined for dying and not bringing the bodies back but if you all die, all your collected loot goes poof. Gone. A team wipe can and will effectively end the run in an instant if you do something stupid like stick around when you hear "pop goes the weasel" or try to pick up that funny looking roomba. You can almost feel the pressure weighing down on your shoulders when you realize you're the last one left and you need to get back to the ship or miss the quota.

The monsters likewise, are engines of terror that are comically effective killing machines with no cohesive theme to help anticipate them. The already mentioned bracken is one of the scariest things I've seen in a game, and those technically aren't even that bad. They're completely manageable if you keep your head on a swivel and pay attention to your surroundings. Coilheads are these mannequins with bobble heads that will path to and kill you in a microsecond the moment you aren't looking at them, weeping angel style. There's a thing called the ghost girl that I have yet to see but is apparently one of the most terrifying critters in the menagerie. Forest giants. If you know, you know.

All these little mechanics, these choices that are made by and for the player, create a maelstrom of unpredictable chaos that, like a buxom blond transforming into an orgasming pooltoy, turns what would be strictly serious horror into a unique form of dark comedy that layers over it like jelly on peanut butter. You are scared, you are on edge, and it only gets worse when you know what these things are capable of, but the sheer hopelessness is something you all have in common. It's funny how little hope you have. You will die. A monster will wipe your team. There will eventually come a quota you can't beat. You were doomed from the start.

So why not get silly with it? Why not try to fight that bracken with shovel? Fuck him. Why not just run past a turret and try to nab that fat jar of pickles? Why not wander off from the group? You're just as likely to come back with arms loaded and the quota met as you are likely to not come back at all. You're already dead, so take the gamble, do stupid shit, repeat this hell until you can meet its horrors with grim determination and put in the effort to afford that goddamn boombox. Dance. Just press 1 and dance the fear away.

You are all united in your mortality and duty, fragile sacks of flesh working to break even at the behest of perhaps the greatest horror of all: The company you work for. You are so preposterously fucked beyond all belief from every angle there really isn't enough adjectives to describe it. And that's comedy baby, when things are so bad all you can do is laugh.

#lethal company #indie games #legit one of the best games I've played all year and only $10 #THIS is what games should be #goofing off with the lads while surrounded by the horrors

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Been a hot minute, my friends, and I'm sorry for that.

This is something that has been sitting in my drafts for a bit and with how long it's been taking me to get other work out, I figured why not even if I'm not fully pleased with it.

I hope you enjoy regardless 💛

Pairing: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader

SFW

Word Count: 910

Warnings: Yandere, Kidnapping, Forced relationship, Murder (mentioned)

Please be nice, I don't write for this man often

“May I ask you something?”

It was a simple question, but one you regretted the moment it left your lips because of how it silenced the room.

Gone was the soft scratching of pen against paper as Chrollo looked toward your seated position, his expression thankfully that of neutrality mixed with a hint of slight intrigue.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap. Better than annoyance, you supposed.

“I just… I can’t stop thinking about it, and I have to ask...” Your fingers picked at the frayed ends of the couch while your graze returned to his. “Why me?”

He arched a brow, amusement creeping into his eyes. “Why you?”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“Yes.” You replied with a little more conviction in your own tone this time. “Surely keeping one person alive when the rest were doomed to die is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Are you saying that you would’ve preferred to have shared the same fate as the rest of your fellow party go-ers?”

Your cringe followed by a beat of silence was more than enough of an answer, but you felt obligated to continue since you were the one who started this conversation in the first place.

“...No.” Your teeth found your bottom lip while you tried to gather your thoughts in a way you hoped would make sense, all while pushing the memory of the fundraiser-turned-bloodbath out of your mind. “I’m saying I don’t understand.”

Chrollo leaned back in his own seat, still looking directly at you. “You’re here to keep the police from doing anything foolish.”

“I know that!” The frustration in your chest made itself known. “But you could have taken anybody. One of the sponsors of the damn thing, or even some other random woman, yet you kept me alive. I want to know your reasoning for it.”

He didn’t seem upset by your outburst, if anything it just served to increase his growing interest in the conversation.

Likely because these were the most words you had ever spoken to him at a given time.

Bastard.

“I liked you.”

Such a simple answer, and one you did not expect from someone who typically played their cards so close to the chest. It threw you off whatever balance you mentally had, and you recovered with a scoff.

“You liked me?”

“Yes.”

A twitch went through your eye when he didn’t expand on that - the sound of pen on paper filling up the room once more. You refused to let the conversation die there.

“I don’t believe you.”

That was a lie, but one you were willing to risk if it meant bringing the topic back to life, and boy did it work.

Not only did he stop writing, he set the pen down on the desk in front of him and turned his whole body to face you. “Oh?”

Shit.

“I mean, I don’t know how you could decide using something like that in a situation that was such a spur of the moment.”

“What makes you think any of what I do is ‘spur of the moment’?”

That made you pause. He had a point there. In the short time that you knew him, he had proved himself to be anything but impulsive…

Your temples throbbed with a quickly encroaching headache.

“If it wasn’t, then what? Your choice was made before the bloodshed started?”

The words were spoken sarcastically, but you had no idea just how right you were until you saw his expression change from amused neutrality to one of…

Come to think of it, you had no idea what to call the look on his face. Admiration came closest to mind, but that didn’t feel right.

“You catch on fast, well done.”

You made a face, not a fan of the condescending tone. “So, what? If I’m not sacrificed to the cops in a hail of bullets, you’re going to keep me as some kind of pet?”

Amusement crept back onto his face. “Is that what you think?”

“If it is, I hope you know I’ll fight that with every fiber in my being.”

He hummed lowly, your promise of violence completely brushed to the side. “As intriguing as the notion is, I have no intention of doing such a thing to you.”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

A small smile appeared on his face, but he didn’t answer, allowing you a moment to draw your own conclusions.

When you did, you frowned.

“Not a chance.”

“Why?”

You gave him an indignant look. “You can’t seriously expect me to willingly be with you after everything that has happened.”

“I don’t, hence your current circumstances.”

Silence filled the air again after that. A nice reminder that whatever outcome you could’ve hoped for during this exchange, you were doomed to lose regardless.

All you could do was shake your head in malcontent and pick at the frayed ends of the couch again, unable to come up with anything further to say.

More amusement flickered across his face. “You do not wish to be my pet, nor to be my lover.” He sat back ever so slightly in his chair. “Tell me then, what do you wish to be?”

“Free.” You replied without a sliver of hesitation, locking eyes again with him once more. “But we both know that will never happen, will it?”

Chrollo threatened to genuinely smile at your answer and he shook his head once.

“No. It won’t.”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2023. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.  

#riri writes #Chrollo x Reader #Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader #tw yandere #tw kidnapping #tw murder #tw forced relationship #Chrollo #Chrollo Lucilfer #HxH #Hunter x Hunter #Reason I'm not a fan of this is I think I made him too talkative here #but c'est la vie

[bonefall]

i know u dont rework arcs untill theyre complete but im very excited to see what you do with a starless clan, theres so much exciting things happening in this arc to work with. do you have any changes you already know for sure you’ll be incorporating?

No for-sures. I don't want to make any for-sures. I have ones I'm feeling but I don't want to call ANYTHING a for-sure yet. I need to find out what the ending is, WHERE this is all going, because I have a strong philosophy in my writing that a story is like a spear;

IT'S ALL ABOUT GETTING TO THE POINT.

But we are 4/6 of the way in, so I CAN start talking about thoughts!

I'm actually leaning pretty heavily towards axing Nightheart as a POV. There's still time for the books to turn around and justify it, BUT HEAR ME OUT

(Saying AS someone who is a Nightheart Enjoyer)

So far I'm really feeling that his character would benefit from us never being inside of his head, or seeing what he's been going through. As much as I WILL stand by that I enjoyed books 1 and 2 and liked his perspectives there, I'm starting to think that it would serve the story a lot better for Sunbeam and Frostpaw to be guessing just as much as we are.

We'd get introduced to Nightheart on the journey for catmint.

Sunbeam connects with him immediately, because she's tossed on this mission while she's in the middle of a swirling tide of drama. With nothing but Clerics and a hardened Rootspring to the left and her ex-bestie (exstie) to the right, he's really her only other choice for companionship. She's chronically unable to stop problems before they get out of hand, the sort of person who becomes frozen by indecision, and then here comes this Glorious Bastard

In her eyes, he's so caring, and bold, and fun! He's the first one to jump headlong into danger, to really be interested in her problems and just let her talk, and his story is so heartbreaking! A mother who's so hard on him... and his Clan is so mean all the time, but he wants to prove to all of them that he's more than just Firestar's descendant... but he was so brave to choose his own name.................

And then, when she follows him into ThunderClan, she learns he fucking lied. She changed Clans based on SOB STORIES

When she first comes, no one knows what he's been saying behind their back. Even if they did, they don't want to start trashing Nightheart right to his new mate's face. But then he LEAVES, and Sunbeam will bring up,

"Maybe it was because you were hard on him?"

And then Sparkpelt tries to agree, just to take blame onto herself and stop all this, but Finchlight's had eNOUGH and ends up setting the record straight;

"No this is DEFINITELY another tantrum. He already ran off once before."

"NO he didn't pick his own name, he stopped the whole ceremony to complain and Bramblestar gave him a compromise"

"MEAN to him?? I had to do HIS WORK because he couldn't STAY ON THE GROUND"

"Oh he's buckling under the weight of his legacy? that must be so hard. I was cat-fifteen when i punched my first fascist and he was wearing the face of my grandpa."

"His mom aba-WHAT?? ABANDONED???? OUR MOTHER WAS EXILED AND HE STAYED HOME!!!!! WE WERE CAT-FIFTEEN!!"

With this false hope shattered, Sunbeam is thrown into a devastating situation where... her mother was right. She was tricked. And now she's stuck in this new Clan without any of her old friends, without this mate who was too-good-to-be-true, the ONE impulsive choice she's made on her own in her WHOLE LIFE turns to ashes in her mouth. She can't go back, either, because Berryheart would NEVER let her live this down.

But... it's okay.

It's a slow shock, to make a choice SO impulsive and SO self-concerned, and find a safety net below her. It's going to be okay. The trials are fair. The cats of ThunderClan interrupt and speak over each other, but, that teaches her to be more assertive. Sparkpelt and Finchlight are not the mean assholes that Nightheart built them up to be, and they'll support her no matter what she chooses to do with her possible mate.

I want Nightheart TO get better, but, in order for that to happen, he has to face, and, more importantly, ACCEPT consequences. He needs to develop the maturity to say, "I acted like a brat and didn't appreciate what I had. and I'm sorry. you don't have to forgive me."

Bottom line being, Nightheart is striking me lately as a character that works best as unpredictable, because we have NO IDEA what's truly in his head. It would be interesting for him to have a novella later, but as it stands, his POV has consistently just been a duplicate since he joined ShadowClan. We gained NOTHING from splitting the Frostpaw Journey of the newest book in half POV, and VERY little from splitting the ShadowClan one into half POV.

I might reduce the POVs to 2, just Sunbeam and Frostpaw, or change Nightheart's to Lightleap. If I NEED 3 main characters, then they should all be a consistent camera on different parts of the conflict.

Again. I do not commit to changes until the arcs are done. Nothing in BB!ASC is set yet.

But here's some other little things I'm thinking,

Bramblestar is VOTED out.

He does not step down. The little "game" he played with Nightheart to create a situation to yell at Squilf, who hasn't been his mate in a long time in BB, was the LAST straw for ThunderClan.

They had sympathy for him before that point, because of what he went through with Ashfur, but his leadership was long and controversial even before the Impostor.

And there's a really strong sentiment that IF Bramblestar had been a good leader... they would have realized he was possessed sooner. So, there are those who partially blame him for the tyranny of the Impostor.

Basically; enough is enough.

Berryheart's hate group has ACTUAL consequences. Someone gets killed; probably Antfur, who survived the last arc to die here.

More fights. This arc has been too bloodless. Already planning SEVERAL sudden, random brawls in RiverClan as tensions boil.

Heartstar is going to be MORE controversial. Not controversial enough in canon imo. I don't like how Leaf and Squilf seem like they have "hypothetical" issues with the invasion instead of being able to point at REAL ones.

riverclan didn't forget how to do the chores they've done their WHOLE lives, no. I'm going to talk about POWER VACUUMS and create ACTUAL factions that begin to coagulate in RiverClan.

if we're going to have a brainless plot about how "Well Ackshually democracy has enough problems to make us reconsider not having unaccountable, tyrannical dictators, because a vote could maybe be called over One Single Issue" then I'll talk about shit like the spoiler effect, mob mentality, and factionalism. Get the hell out of my way ERIN I'll cook

No Smoky. Society has progressed past the need for Smoky. No Smokyng Area.

Whistlepaw should to try and take care of her ALONE, not trained enough to take care of SUCH bad wounds and barely able to keep her trembling paws straight, and Frostpaw realizes that she's making her watch her own friend die.

Is this how her life is going to end? slipping away under the paws of someone she loves, for what? pride? to do what her mother told her-- trust no cat?

As she TRUSTS Whistlepaw? Trusts her SO much, that Frostpaw will force her to be the only witness to her death?

FROSTPAW CALLS THE HUMAN

...which in BB, is a team of researchers. She drags herself to them, and collapses. This is why they just HAPPENED to have the proper equipment on them; they're WILDLIFE VETS.

Not sure how I'm going to handle Frostpaw's Journey though. In BB, the Park Cats are already a foundational part of Clan Culture.

In all honesty, while I HAVE to praise the fact that the Erins have FINALLY created ONE outsider group that isn't malicious or defenseless... I don't much care for them.

sending frostpaw on a side quest to what's essentially a big DOTC reference. Look! It's that group we introduced in the last 5 chapters of our latest glorified recap! cooool.

We're just going to get nothing but fucking founders in every dream from now on. I'm SURE of it.

As a consolation prize to myself though I will be writing cool angel scenes of the absolute BEING that Riverstar has become in heaven.

Riverstar (normal cat): "Elder Bones I'm going out!"

"not dressed like THAT you're not!!!"

Riverstar (the manifestation of the river, the rain in the sky above, and the abyss below, and how through water we are all truly connected as one being): "better?"

I will probably keep the Park Cats and rework them significantly, but I'm leaning pretty heavily towards Frostpaw visiting a LOT of places. A holy pilgrimage.

ESPECIALLY one of the Tribe's three wards; the River Ward. The Tribe of Rushing Water believes (it's even in the name) that water connects all things.

So I think it would be really fitting for Frostpaw to learn from MANY perspectives, starting with this philosophy put forth by the River Ward.

And she realizes-- that's what Riverstar is, as well. As a being. He is mentoring her on this pilgrimage, while barely saying a word. She can feel him wherever she is, because he isn't JUST the God of the River.

He is connection. He is peace. He's water. Too much and you'd drown, not enough and you'd thirst.

#BB!ASC #better bones au #Bone babble

[doodle-pops]

House of Fingolfin | Getting Into a Fight For Their S/O

A/N: Finally decided to continue more headcanons for the other elves.

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Fingolfin

He’s proper and never one for engaging in any physical altercations even if the situation escalated. Fingolfin is someone who would allow his men to dispose of the individual who dared to step to his level.

However, when the unknown situation arises and the need to become violent is necessary, I’m not sure who’s the one to put a leash on this terror of an elf, but it’s definitely more than five guards to hold him back from damaging the elf who spat absurdities at his family or you.

He’s made up of pure strength so brute force he required to drag him away from lunging at the ellon. Your appearance would assist in diluting his temper, drawing his focus to you and not the pulp of an elf lying on the floor.

Fingolfin would have landed hits to the elf, so his knuckles would be bruised, this you would nurse back to health while silently brooding and muttering under his breath at the speed of light.

You don’t pick up on anything he’s cursing on and on about, but you know it’s based on the situation. Just give him some kisses on his face and lead him far away to blow some steam off.

Take him for a long walk away from the kingdom and have him kick some rocks like a child. He’ll surely calm down after a week. “Have you calmed down yet?” “I’ve always been calm,” he says as his eye twitches.

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Fingon

Can appear impulsive when he isn’t thinking right, but like his father, Fingon’s a composed individual and refuses to throw the first fist for something that can be solved otherwise. His solution is to walk away or laugh it off, which probably provokes the other person to take insulting jabs at those precious to him.

It’s gonna take a lot to make him lunge at the individual, preferably, the latter being the one to throw the first hit leaving him with no choice but to defend himself. In that moment, you can bet all his frustration would come pouring out.

The entire scene is unusual, watching Fingon engage in a physical altercation with a random elf which leads to everyone knowing it’s something serious and rushing to pull him away. It’ll take just Maedhros or Turgon to tug Fingon off the battered ellon.

To you, the scene is horrifying after watching a gentle–natured elf engaged in a fight. You know he’s not thinking straight with fury in his mind, so it’s for you to step in and dissolve his temper with soothing words and touches to his face. His siblings would stand guard, unsure of whether he’d break away.

For starters, he’s ashamed that you witnessed him so unhinged and would rather disappear for days into weeks before confronting you. It’s for you to ensure him that you don’t hate him for it. You have to hold him down and tend to his wounds while listening to his endless apologies.

Make him feel better with lots of cuddles and spending time with him away from everyone. “Come for some love, Finno,” you say as he wastes no time in running over to snuggle into your arms.

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Turgon

Not the last person anyone would suspect to throw a fist, but the first person due to his cold temperament and judgemental persona. His temper is unmatched and will not hesitate to connect his fist with someone disrespecting him and his family.

I don’t believe anyone will survive his punches but let’s pretend this person does to receive a few more to create a brawl and you can witness Turgon becoming absolutely unhinged. It is quite easy to rile him up into becoming physically involved, yes, he would prefer to walk away but not when the disrespect is unspeakable.

Maybe his father has to pull him off or his brothers and cousins all together because like his father, he has the strength to match his stature. Turgon is a brute force of nature, so kudos to whoever is on the receiving end. However, what makes his attack dangerous is his stealth.

No one expects him to openly throw a hit because one minute he’s laughing and the next he’s on the floor beating someone up. Like?? It’s not a pleasant sight for you to witness though you’re aware of his sizzling temper and his bitter tongue. Plus, he probably got into fights as a child so it’s natural.

The only time you can approach him is when he’s already dragged off and in the healing wing being persecuted by his father (if he’s around). Your appearance would be the ice he needs to completely dissolve. He isn’t going to forget (this man holds grudges), but he’ll follow you as long as it’s far away from the altercation.

Take him on a random spur-of-the-moment holiday and pamper him like a baby. Of course, you will have to prepare yourself for hearing him complain about the incident. Every. Single. Day. “Are you finished Káno?” “...No.”

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Argon

It physically pains me to imagine this beanstalk engaging in a physical altercation with someone, however, he is described as impudent, so there you have it. Argon will throw around his fist like his older brother to beat some fool to a pulp for insulting his friends and family, and you.

He doesn’t want to hear a reason for why he shouldn’t do what he did, all he knows is that the elf said disrespectful comments and deserved to be handled with extra care. There’s no stopping Argon when he starts, given his hunk of a structure which has muscles to accompany his frame.

Definitely get the family to separate him from the perpetrator because he isn’t budging from his spot. They can pry him off and he’d slip away to finish what he started because he’s fighting them to let him go. You got to stand between him and the bruised ellon on the floor to catch his attention.

Talk sweetly to him, call his name—slip in a nickname—to soothe his unhinged nature. Reach for his hands and tug him away from the scene, telling him everything will be alright, and his family will take care of the rest.

Spend the time cleaning his wounds and littering kisses to his bruises. Use this moment to incorporate a ton of affection; maybe every time he feels angry, give him a kiss and a hug. Don’t think you’re escaping his grasp once he becomes aware of the affections you’re bequeathing.

Like many others, shame becomes him, and he’ll endlessly apologise for the manner in which you saw him behaving, promising to never act impulsively like that again without gauging the situation firsthand.

“It’s alright, Káno. You were simply being my hero, defending me from those naysayers. Now come for some kisses.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @ranhanabi777 @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @zheiya @lamemaster

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link.

#house of fingolfin #silmarillion headcanons #silmarillion x reader #middle earth imagine #silmarillion imagine #middle earth x reader #middle earth headcanon #fingolfin x reader #fingon x reader #turgon x reader #argon x reader #fingolfin headcanon #fingon headcanon #turgon headcanon #argon headcanon #fingolfin imagine #fingon imagine #turgon imagine #argon imagine #nolofinweans #x reader fluff #x reader insert #silmarillion #doodlepops writings ✨

[gabessquishytum]

Dream's a software developer (I could see either as an architect for that large-scale view mentality or as the Senior level dev that keeps getting asked to move into management type positions and just straight up refuses because he's been doing code happily for the past fifteen years and doesn't plan on changing that now).

He enjoys his job enough. He likes computers and code. It functions exactly as told (for better or worse) and appreciates the straightforwardness of it all. He's a bit insufferable to work with, but if you have an issue, he'll readily help (just be prepares for critiques on your code in the process).

Hob works at the same company as Dream, but as a front-end dev. The work he does for his day job is kinda boring. All standard corporate style web design. No fancy scripts or fun colors. But in his spare time, he weaves Javascript and CSS like a wizard and creates magical, animated scenes across the page. Would it be easier to just make a video and play it on the page instead? Sure, but where's the fun in that?

Dream and Hob get paired together on a small side project for work. Hob does the front-end work, Dream does the back-end. They get on each other's nerves at first, until Dream spots Hob tinkering with his personal code on their lunch break and is honestly a bit in awe. He's found code beautiful in its own right (the way one appreciates a well-oiled machine) but he's never seen it wielded in such a fashion before. This is the moment he falls just a little bit (read: a lotta bit) in love with Hob. He was already starting to fall for that endless charm and wit of his anyways.

The company hits the first quarter of the New Year and with it come layoffs. Hob gets fired along with some other devs from Dream's same team (a younger pair of devs: Matthew and Jessamy). A fellow named Will comes along to help Dream finish the project in Hob's stead and Dream hates every moment of it. He misses Hob, more than he ever thought he would.

So, in an impulsive rush of anger and longing, he quits the company because how dare it toss someone as good as Hob Gadling out the door without a thought? He's halfway to the café he and Hob had started frequenting together when he realizes that he's just thrown away a career fifteen years in the making. But when he finally gets to the café and sees Hob tapping away on his laptop, he knows he's made the right choice.

Dream slides into the seat across from him and proposes that they build something wonderful together. So they create a small business of their own. They become a freelance web dev team (and steal Jessamy and Matthew as well) and with their skills combined, they take off. It's not huge, but for their size, they're incredibly popular. And Dream's certain he's never enjoyed his work more than when he's working beside Hob.

Later on, Hob proposes to Dream via a custom website with the most beautiful web animations he's ever seen before. And of course, he says yes.

(If you're curious about what inspired this, here's the website: http://www.species-in-pieces.com)

This is such a good concept for a story!!! I really really love aus where Dream and Hob are coworkers. Dream being the grumpy, awkward guy who hides behind his coffee mug while Hob is the popular, chatty one who tries to get Dream involved in fun office activities or socialising after work - it makes so much sense to me.

And Dream quitting his long-term dream job because he's mad that genuinely talented people have been laid off? I love it. Dream just has this inate appreciation for hard work and good art, and that's exactly what Hob (and Jessamy and Matthew) do. How dare the stupid company not understand that they're firing people who deserve to thrive and grow in an environment which actually appreciates them? Everyone is shocked that Dream has quit (not only that, he sends around an email to everyone in the company from the ceo all the way down to the work experience guy, outlining exactly why he quit) because he seemed to be the type to play by the rules and never leave his comfort zone. Apparently, Hob has really helped him bloom into a much more confident person, able to express his principles and strive for better.

And Hob isn't surprised, because he always knew that Dream had the courage, talent and ambition to strike out on his own. Maybe he just needed a bit of love and understanding. Which Hob is only too happy to provide.

Their work together sometimes involves long hours and stress, but Dream wouldn't ever want to go back to the slightly soulless corporation where he used to be. Even if he's tired and a little frustrated by Hob’s disorganised workspace, Dream is perfectly content. There's nothing better than curling up in Hob’s lap while he taps away on a line of code. Plus, he has a great time building their wedding website. Hob got to propose, so Dream gets to celebrate their upcoming marriage with his own expression of love through code. The theme colours are, of course, black and red <3

#kydrogendragon #the sandman #dreamling

[seafoamreadings]

week of march 3rd, 2024

these are written predominantly for the *rising* signs but they are also intuitively "channeled" enough that they should work for any dominant energy you have! (try your sun if you don't know rising, or more advanced readers can try moon, anywhere you have a stellium, etc and see what works best for you!)

aries: there is a lot of aries-favoring astrology this week especially where the lunar nodes are involved, so big things are happening even if they seem small at the moment. the one big thing to watch out for as a possible hiccup is mars square uranus; be very careful. your impulsive nature may get you into some trouble with accidents or fights. slow down and think carefully.

taurus: it may seem like everyone is trying to push your buttons this week, maybe all week long. try to be patient with them, they are likely inconsiderate but not truly malicious.

gemini: mercury conjoins neptune and then heads into aries at the end of the week. before that aries ingress, be cautious with the words others say as they may not be quite true, even if there is no outright or intentional lying. once mercury is safely into aries, though, social circles are likely to become much more fun, even a bit rowdy.

cancerians: especially if you've been wanting travel or try something philosophically or spiritually new to you, this week's new moon in pisces can be quite beneficial for that. set relevant intentions and watch them bear fruit over the next several weeks.

leo: this week it is important for you to stay out of debt, and try to be forgiving of what other people might owe you whether it's financial or otherwise. you can also set powerful intentions with this new moon to pay down credit cards, pay off loans, or simply form stronger interpersonal bonds with people you deeply care for.

virgo: do not neglect communication and connection in your closest and most important relationships, even if it feels a little bit confrontational or scary to do so. what is flimsy may fall apart but that is to make space for where you're really meant to be.

libra: if you can start out the week strong in your routines and rituals, your day-to-day life, making it fun and sacred, then by the end of the week your relationships are, one way or another, rewarded. probably in a huge way, due to the karmic nodal influences.

scorpio: overall amplification of pisces vibes suits you if you've been feeling kind of fizzled out, you get some juice. plus mercury into aries can help you make connections out in your day to day life. but none of it works very well if you sit home and pout too much!

sagittarius: you're widely known as more of a nomad than a homebody, but if you care for your physical base of residence and set kindly intentions around it this week, you'll be pleasantly surprised as to how much fun and excitement it opens up to you in seemingly unrelated ways.

capricorn: likely you're always the lee of the rock to your friends and acquaintances but this week especially you are a safe place, a calm harbor in what others are perceiving as a harsh storm. don't let them take advantage of your kind strength, but don't deprive anyone of safety either. your boundaries are important.

aquarius: your ideal schedule this week should start out with a lot of rest, cleaning and clearing, and planning, and then after the new moon continue with good, sturdy financial intentions. resources and abundance can flow to you if you have cleared the space and made good choices.

pisces: the new moon in your sign heralds many beautiful and favorable things to come. be clear in your intentions - it will result in more powerful manifestations, although you are manifesting whether you mean to or not. watch for signs and you will see your desires take physical form over the next few weeks.

#horoscopes #horoscope #weekly horoscope #weekly horoscopes #astrology #signs #zodiac #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces

[greeenchrysanthemums]

Hermitcraft x MHA au

I will never use this au but I had to get it off my brain or I would not be able to get anything done. Fair warning, none of this is very thought out, so it is not my best work when it comes to aus.

I'm thinking that The Watchers would be the main threat. They want to return to a world without heroes. The way they go about doing this is by slowly targeting pro-heroes, attacking them when they're alone, and stealing their quirk; sometimes even going so far as killing them with their own stolen quirk. As these attacks become more frequent and heroes start falling left and right, the heroes decide something has to be done about it.

A group of heroes gets called forward by the hero commission for a top-secret mission to locate The Watchers and take them down before they can do any more harm than they already have. The main cast would consist of Grian, Pearl, Impulse, Scar, and Mumbo; with Etho, Cub, Gem, and Skizz as supporting cast.

Scar

Quirk: None. He uses support items to enhance his strength and speed, and uses a bow and arrow as his weapon of choice.

About: #1 pro-hero. He's wanted nothing more than to be the #1 hero ever since he was young and was very determined to do just that despite his lack of quirk. He takes the hero ranking very seriously and treats Grian like his rival. He is often disheartened by Grian's inability to take things seriously. Only a few select people are privy to the fact that he is a quirkless hero, and he ends up using that to his advantage when they find out The Watchers are stealing peoples quirks.

Originally, it was only going to be Scar that went after The Watchers, but he put in a request for a team, and The Commission approved of it. Scar was the one to recommend the commission ask for Grian's help, because as much as he considers him a rival and thinks he needs to take things more serious, Scar sees how skilled Grian is and wanted him on the team.

Hero Name: Sharpshot

Grian

Quirk: Explosion. He creates explosions from the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet.

About: #2 pro-hero. He never intended to be popular, and only really got into being a hero to have a little fun, but people ended up liking him, so his ratings skyrocketed at the start of his career and have stayed relatively consistent as it progressed. He could not care less about the hero rankings and isn't even aware that his own placement is so high.

He is very destructive and careless. He usually leaves a lot of property damage behind in his wake, which somehow does not tank his public ratings? He's a little cocky and a little full of himself, enjoys blowing things up just a little but too much. At first, he was only helping with the case because he thought it sounded fun. He would be the first team member attacked by The Watchers after their mission officially starts, barely making it out alive. He starts taking things more seriously after the encounter.

Hero Name: Ground-Zero

Mumbo

Quirk: Technokensis. He has a level of control over technology, such as computers and similar hardware. For example, he is able to remotely hack computer systems as well as security systems.

About: An underground hero who specializes in information gathering and infiltration. He always hated the sensationalized nature of the hero industry and tries to stay out of the limelight. He is well adept at hacking and creating programs without the use of his quirk. He only agreed to join the mission because Grian, his best friend, begged him to. Grian's reasoning? It would be boring without Mumbo. However, Mumbo ends up becoming vital to their mission and is the one to gather all their intel and get them into places.

Hero Name: Computo

Pearl

Quirk: Lightshow. She can create clusters of light similar to stars and control their brightness and multiplicity.

About: #14 pro-hero. Despite being a new hero (only a few months into her pro career) Pearl's flashy quirk and endearing attitude has made her a quickly beloved and well recognized hero. She is very, very excited to be working with the #1 hero on a mission as important as this one.

Hero Name: Moon-Ray

Impulse

Quirk: Candy. He can secrete a thick, caramel-like substance from his body that he can harden or soften at will. When hard, it is incredibly hard to break, making it perfect for securing villains and unstable structures alike. It's also edible.

About: #5 pro-hero. He's sweet and funny, so it is no surprise that he is fairly high ranked. He is popular with kids. His quirk is surprisingly effective for things like search and rescue, so he is often called in as a first responder to disasters. He doesn't fight very many high-class villains but will jump at the opportunity to help in any way he can whether or not he is outclassed. Pearl was his sidekick before she went pro, and he was the one who put the hero commission in contact with her for the mission.

Hero Name: ???

Etho

Quirk: Magnesis. He has control over all metals. Not only can he move it around at will, it can also become malleable in his hands and he can mold them into whatever shape he desires

About: Former #1 hero who retired after receiving near fatal injuries in a fight with a villain, including the loss of an arm and leg, and permanent damage to one of his eyes. He now works in the support department creating items for other heroes. He helped create some of Scar's support items.

Hero Name (former): Forge

Cub

Quirk: Chemical sweat. He can secrete any number of different chemicals from his body as long as he knows their make up (similar to Momo's quirk but he can only make chemical compounds).

About: Scar's longtime friend who has supported him from the very beginning even when others doubted him. He was the one who got Scar into contact with Etho. Due to the nature of his quirk, he can also create medicine, so he acts as a medic for the heroes. He likes to experiment with poisons.

Hero Name: The Doctor (not an official name, that is just what he is referred to as).

Skizz

Quirk: Dove. He has a mutation type quirk that gives him a pair of massive, white wings. He can fly with them, and they also become rock hard to protect him from attacks. He cannot fly with them when they are in protection mode.

About: Skizz is Impulse's former hero partner and is currently a gym teacher at a hero school. He occasionally still helps Impulse out with villains/missions when it is asked of him. He is everyone's first go to for venting, and he gives a mean hug. He was Pearl and Gem's gym teacher.

Hero Name (former): Angel

Gem

Quirk: Manifest(?). She can take on the attributes of any animal in her immediate vicinity. For example, if a bird flies over her, she may turn her arms into wings or sprout them from her back (though that takes more effort and concentration). She does not have to see the animal for this to work, they just have to be near her. It works with bugs too.

About: #15 hero and Pearl's hero partner. They attended a hero school together and always had the intention of working together after graduating. Gem was disheartened when she was not invited to be a part of the operation to take down The Watchers, but she was happy for Pearl nonetheless and supports her all the way. She still offers support from time to time, but she is not an official part of the operation. She was not invited because they deemed her quirk "too situational" since it relied on a live animal being near her at all times for her to maintain a manifestation.

Hero Name: Fauna

#hermitcraft #grian #goodtimeswithscar #ethoslab #pearlescentmoon #mumbo jumbo #impulsesv #skizzleman #cubfan135 #geminitay #i seen that a lot of people were giving bakugpu the name ground zero before he had an official hero name #and i liked the sound of it so i stole it for this au XD #this au is free use as long as you credit me in some way or send it to me 👀

[apomaro-mellow]

Demon!Eddie 4

Oh, hoo boy. I feel like this one warrants some content warnings: blood kink, teeth kink, unsafe(?) sex he’s a demon idk, self lubricating dick

“You wanna ask me something.”

Steve didn’t know if it was demonic powers that made him so easy to read, or if it was just that he wanted it that much.

“I wanna ask you...for something. But I don’t know if I can.” If he did, would Eddie say no? Would he push him away? Laugh in his face? Tell him that all his sacrifices fell to his charms eventually?

“Is it the kind of thing you’ve asked for before?”

Steve couldn’t help the bit of confidence that showed through as he thought about the girls he had kissed in the past.  “Not verbally, no. I’ve always just like, put out a vibe or something.” He could usually tell a girl wanted to be kissed by him before he did it. Could tell that she was waiting for him to make a move.

“Try me then.”

Eddie had a look on his face like he knew exactly what Steve was talking about; what he was trying to ask him for. This was the same dude who took him on a whirlwind job adventure and turned into whatever he wanted at the drop of a hat so Steve wondered why his impulse wasn’t kicking in now, when Steve was at his most nervous.

But why was he nervous? Steve looked down at his hand, still in Eddie’s hold after he drank from it. He intertwined their fingers and Eddie didn’t pull back. He never pulled from Steve. He never refused him. Never said no.

Steve’s other hand went up to cup Eddie’s jaw, his thumb caressing his cheek. He didn’t see an opportunist demon. He saw a man who wanted him.

“Come here.”

He was kissing Eddie.

And Eddie was kissing him.

And then Eddie was gripping his face and pushing his tongue into his mouth and pressing him down into the couch. There was that impulse. 

Yet Steve couldn’t find it in him to complain. Never even occurred to him. Not when kissing Eddie felt this good and right. Not when Eddie’s weight on him had him feeling the most grounded in the past 24 hours.

Eddie was licking into his mouth, biting at his lips, sucking on his tongue like he literally wanted to eat him and Steve might let him get away with more than a few bites.

“You gotta-”, Eddie started before cutting himself off by diving in for another kiss. “You gotta tell me when to stop.” 

Eddie let a fang drag across his bottom lip and Steve felt a spike of arousal at the danger.

“Otherwise I’ll just take.”

Steve tried to catch his breath as Eddie’s words rolled over in his mind. “I don’t believe that.” 

Nothing about what he’d seen today made him think for a second that Eddie would just take without considering him first. He didn’t just try to hustle Steve through figuring out his wish. He made sure he had breakfast, showered, and a proper night’s rest first. So far, he had entertained Steve’s career choices, even if all of them didn’t end up so well. And he didn’t just rush Steve through them all nonstop. He let Steve dig his feet into it so he could make an informed choice. Then took him home before he got overwhelmed.

“I think you’d stop me before going too far. Like you’re doing right now.”

Eddie looked caught. “I don’t-Steve I don’t think you know what you do to me. How hard it is to stop.”

“But you did it.”

Eddie took a breath through his nose. “I don’t wanna scare you.”

Steve let out a belt of laughter and even slapped Eddie on the arm. “Dude, you were an adorable dog today. And I saw you try and teach a bird how to whistle the Flintstones theme song.”

“I swear I’ve heard birds singing showtunes. They can be taught.”

“My point is, you’re the least scary demon I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve met other demons?”

“If anything, you should be the one stopping me.” Which Steve supposed Eddie was doing right now, but that was beside the point. The point was, he had known this man for about a day and was ready to give him everything.

“You remember you don’t owe me anything, right?”, Eddie’s eyes searched his, hoping Steve wasn’t putting himself on a platter just because of their current situation.

The way Steve saw it, even if he ended in just some soulless occupation, he owed Eddie everything. But that wasn’t why he was doing this.

“Because I’d just make out with any career counselor”, he rolled his eyes.

“I think I’m a bit more than that”, Eddie grinned.

“An exceptional career counselor then. Eddie, this is mine to give. Let me give it to you.”

Eddie let out a groan and his head fell upon Steve’s chest. “You won’t be afraid? Promise?”

Steve patted the top of his head. “Promise.”

Then, he felt more than saw Eddie growing on top of him. Horns protruded out of Eddie’s head and black, leathery wings formed on his back. Eddie looked up from his chest, those red eyes staring back down at him. “We’re gonna need a bigger couch”, Steve breathed.

Eddie smiled, rising up and taking Steve with him by the hand. “You deserve a little better than a couch, sweetness.” Eddie was leading him to that magic door again but this time when he opened it, there was a bedroom inside. Unlike the one in the apartment, this one was much more spacious. The bed was large enough for five of him at least. There were candles everywhere and Steve nearly had a mind to ask if they were actually in hell now but Eddie was on him before he could.

Steve wasn’t small by any means, but in his true form Eddie had a few inches on him and he had to look up to kiss him. 

Eddie remembered the first whiff he got of Steve’s blood, back when he had been tied down to the altar. It had smelled so sweet that once they had a moment, he couldn’t help himself. His thirst had sealed the deal and he had counted himself lucky that he had gotten that much.

But now Steve was giving him more. Giving him everything. And he didn’t flinch away or anything. While they kissed, Eddie used his hands on Steve’s hips to lead him to the bed. Steve broke the kiss to crawl backwards onto it and then grabbed Eddie’s shirt, pulling him back in and on top of him.

Steve got a little bold and as he licked into Eddie’s mouth, he let his tongue brush against a fang. Eddie’s hold on his hip tightened a little. Steve licked at the other fang while Eddie held his mouth open and still. Steve pulled back with a smirk.

“Careful gorgeous, I bite.”

“Yeah?” Steve held his face and waited for Eddie to open his jaw again. Eddie obliged and this time when he licked at one of his fangs, Steve let it prick his tongue. Eddie let out a groan as a drop fell on his own tongue and he sucked on Steve’s.

Steve moaned and he was definitely starting to chub in his pants. Eddie’s pants. He was in Eddie’s clothes, in Eddie’s room and in Eddie’s space and he just wanted to be Eddie’s.

Eddie got as much blood off his tongue as he could and started to kiss at Steve’s neck. His lips made a trail at the way down to his collarbone until the shirt got in the way and then he was pulling that off. Eddie found his mouth again while Steve was trying to get his shirt off too. Eddie rose to his knees to remove it and tossed it somewhere without a care.

“How did you do that?”, Steve asked.

“What? Get my shirt off?”

“I mean get it over your...your wings? Without ripping it?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets”, Eddie smiled, wiggling his fingers.

“Fine, deal torn shirts in the future then.”

Eddie tried not to smile too much at the implication Steve was giving him. He would take what he was given, which was there here and now. It was a present, after all. Steve had practically gift-wrapped himself.

Steve let his hands trail down Eddie’s body. 24 hours ago, he had this same sight. A demon hovering over his body. How did things change so much in such a short time? 

“See somethin’ you like?”, Eddie teased.

“At least one thing”, Steve looked down between Eddie’s legs to the still growing tent in his pants. He reached out and grabbed, making Eddie hiss in pleasure and buck into his hand. A thrill ran through Steve at being able to make someone this powerful buckle with just a touch.

Eddie pulled Steve’s pants down, Steve helped by kicking them off. That left him in just briefs which of course Eddie had to snap the band of.

“What’re you 12?”, Steve snorted.

“On a scale of 1-10? Yes. And here I am....” Eddie kissed at his hips, clawed hands lightly dragging down his sides. “At the knees of a 20 at least.” He kissed under Steve’s bellybutton as he slowly peeled off his underwear.

Eddie might be just a bit obsessed. His blood was sweet, his skin was sweet, and here where his scent was at its strongest and muskiest was just too much to resist. And he didn’t. Eddie rubbed his face in Steve’s crotch, kissing at the wiry hairs and rubbing his fully hard cock against his cheek.

“Fuuck, Eddie...”

He looked up and saw the kind of sight that was too holy for the likes of him. Steve was already so blissed out, expression so open. Eddie was going to give him everything he wanted. Eddie rose up to take off his pants, letting out a sigh once he was free.

“Holy shit”, Steve’s eyes got wide when he saw Eddie’s dick. 

It was darker than the rest of him, leaking at the tip already. But not just there, there was a sheen over it like it was wet. And it looked like the kind of thing that might actually split Steve in half.

“You want it?”, Eddie asked.

Steve nodded. “I want it.” If this was how he died, then so be it.

Eddie grabbed Steve’s hand and brought it to his cock. Steve bit his lip as he felt how hot and slick it was. Eddie guided his fingers to stroke it, getting them nice and lubed up before taking his hand and moving it towards his hole. Steve’s breath picked up a little.

“You gotta get yourself ready for me, baby.”

Steve took in a breath. Eddie’s eyes were boring holes into him. He threw an arm over his eyes while rubbing at his rim with a slick finger. He let out a whimper as he pushed the first one inside. Eddie grabbed the arm that was covering his face and pinned his wrist to the bed.

“Don’t hide from me. Let me see you.”

Steve couldn’t help the whine and turned his face into his arm anyway. But his hand didn’t stop moving.

“Look at you, so beautiful”, Eddie praised. He grabbed Steve’s thigh and lifted it, making him spread more. Steve pushed a second finger in and Eddie let out a groan like he was the one being touched. 

“Next time...I want you to do it. Wanna feel just you.”

“Think you might regret that Stevie”, Eddie said, letting his claws lightly scrape at his chest.

“We could do it in your human form”, Steve suggested, trying to get his fingers as deep as he could.

“And deprive you of your Count Chocula fantasy?”

Steve laughed out loud at that but it quickly turned into a moan when Eddie bit into his calf and licked at the dripping blood. Feeling good enough, he started to press a third finger in. Eddie sighed as he wrapped his fingers around his cock. He stroked and more pre cum and slick dripped right onto Steve’s hole, making the slide of his fingers easier.

Eddie was a simple demon. He saw a literal angel, fingerfucking himself with his own slick, looking up at Eddie like a god and that was it for him. With a curse, he came, shooting across Steve’s body. The blood sigil those people had drawn on him hadn’t been Eddie’s own symbol, just a generic mark for summoning anyone. But Steve was marked as his now.

“Gonna make you mine”, Eddie growled, biting at his neck and shoulders. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else.” 

He rubbed the head of his cock against Steve’s fingers, still stuffing himself. He thought Steve might hesitate, might second guess. Instead, he pulled his fingers out and grabbed at him, using his legs to bring him in closer. Eddie burned for him and couldn’t wait a moment longer. Eddie pushed the head inside and Steve sang. Eddie kissed him, not even letting the air around them have his sounds.

Steve was panting into his mouth. He had been right. Eddie was splitting him apart. But he wanted him even deeper. Steve had been gripping the sheets but now he was clawing at Eddie’s back. 

“You’re doing great baby, taking me so well.”

“Yeah?”, Steve surprised himself with how breathy he sounded. “I feel good?”

“Feels incredible.” Eddie could feel Steve’s body fluttering around him as he adjusted. He had a hand on each thigh, keeping him spread wide. He let Steve breath while he gave much needed attention to his neglected chest. Eddie buried his face in it, squeezing both pecs and effectively motorboating him with adoration.

Steve squirmed under him and Eddie started to move, taking it slow but still giving him all that he could take. 

“Mine”, Eddie murmured, nibbling at his chest, then up his neck until he founds his lips again.

Then Steve surprised him.

His fingers gripped his curls, forcing him to bare his neck. And then Steve bit him. Sank his teeth right in. It didn’t break the skin but damn if Eddie didn’t get the message. Especially when Steve didn’t stop at one bite. He wanted to mark him up; show that he belonged to Steve as much as Steve did to him.

The biting made Eddie release noises like an animal. So Steve really shouldn’t have been surprised when he started fucking him like one. He felt the girth of that goddamn ridged cock push in and pull out with the kind of wet noises that might’ve embarrassed the Steve Harrington of yesterday. The one of today wanted to slather himself in the slick and show everybody that he was Eddie’s.

There was so much it was coating the inside of his thighs and dripping between their bodies. Eddie gathered some and wrapped a hand around Steve’s cock.

“I want it all, sweet thing. Give it to me.”

“Eddie! EddieEddieEddie~” Steve’s voice cracked and his back arched off the bed, spurting and coating himself in his own cum.

Eddie’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fucked Steve through it all. Then Steve felt two hard thrusts and then suddenly a rush of warmth filled him. It pushed out past Eddie’s dick and dripped onto the bed under them. 

“...Shit...”, Eddie said between pants.

Steve had no words. He felt like he was floating through syrup. Only the points where he was touching Eddie anchored him. He let out a whine as the other pulled out of his body.

“Shh, I gotchu baby.”

Eddie pushed his hair back and kissed his forehead. Blindly, Steve searched for his other hand.

“Eddie, I need...”

“I know what you need.” 

Steve let out a relieved sigh and felt his eyelids get heavier by the second. Eddie would take care of him. He felt a chaste kiss to his lips as everything around him faded.

Part 6

HE PUT THAT ASS TO SLEEP

Okay, I’ve stared at this smut for hours so here is the writer literally asking you guys to legit tell me if it’s good or nah.

Also if you want to see the visuals that inspired this from the very beginning, check out vivalski’s patreon. They have glorious monsterfucker steddie art, as well as other things that are well worth the price of admission.

Tag Team

@swimmingbirdrunningrock @flustratedcas @estrellami-1 @weirdandabsurd42 @lololol-1234 @chaoticvictorianspirit @giopandaonice @marklee-blackmore @blackpanzy @kacatshi

@stevesbipanic @goodolefashionedloverboi @panicatthediaz @gregre369 @littlewildflowerkitten @starryeyedpoet17 @envyadams-vs-me @abbiecadabi-blog

@genderless-spoon  @stxrcrossed186 @l0st-strawberry @willowsmelody @bornonthesavage @mxmakessense @roaringgoodshow @potato-of-the-lord @actualwakingnightmare @meccaminayah

@irregular-child @fandomcartographer @cherr1ehead @anaibis @finalmoondragon @sani-86

#apo writes #stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #Eddie: *wit cow eyes and a monster dong* everyone's so mean to me #steve: my parents were assholes but they didn't raise a quitter

[1000roughdrafts]

Fic request!: Dean and Reader have been engaged for a long time and are waiting for the perfect time to finally get married. On what should have been an easy hunt with the brothers and Cas, reader is mortally wounded and in their last moments together, Cas marries them (I mean, angels should have that authority right? lol) as Reader dies in Dean's arms?

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: slight violence, dying!reader, blood, slight gore, angst

Dean X FemReader

We round the corner of an abandoned building, and not even this fierce wind could break the dark, thick fog of tension that sits among the three of us. Neither I nor the Winchesters have a clue what we're up against, or if they do, they haven't filled me in. I just know it's demonic and killing innocent people.

We haven't exactly been getting along lately, and if not for the danger that constantly looms around us, I'd have made a joke to Dean about acting like a married couple before we could even tie the knot. But the worst part about the frustration that we feel is the impulsivity that comes with it. The pissing contest of heading into hunts we know we're not prepared for, but are too damn prideful to say so. And somehow the anger leads us to believe we're stronger than we actually are.

I want to convince them to turn around and leave, but I realize that it's too late when Dean kicks down the door, his gun aiming every which way before his foot could even land back on the ground. Leaves rustle under Sam's quick steps as he follows behind Dean like a dutiful soldier. I'm told to stay close, but I'm immediately distracted by the smell of something rotting and the graffiti on the wilting walls. There are words like 'kill', 'die' and 'run' written in red and the hair on the back of my neck stands.

“Y/N!" Dean quietly shouts.

I jolt to look in his direction. He motions with furrowed brows and two fingers for me to move in, and I reflexively roll my eyes. I realize I'd been absentmindedly twisting my engagement ring around my finger.

We shouldn't be here. I know it, so why don't they? Or do they and they just don't care? I stare at Sam internally begging him to turn my way, for him to see the fear in my eyes and help me convince Dean that we should leave, tell him that something just doesn't feel right, but when he does look my way he only shoots a sympathetic smile. I roll my eyes again.

Anxiety clouds me. My chest feels tight, and air feels thin. My vision gets blurry, and I can feel the anger inside of me trying to claw it's way to the top, but all the while I can feel myself weaken, my guard down. I carry on, walking towards where the brothers are and I can smell my threat before I see it. Sulfur. I quickly turn to attack, but feel a piercingly sharp pain in my side.

With a yelp, I instinctively place my hand over the area that burns to hold pressure on it, but it scares me how wet my hand feels, and when I pull my it up I can see that it's drenched in blood.

I manage to croak out Dean's name before I fall to my knees, collapsing on the ground. The last thing I see before my world goes black is Dean kneeling down next to me, repeatedly and terrifyingly shouting my name as Sam fights off whatever it was that attacked me.

Laughter echoed in the halls of the bunker as Dean chased after me. We ended the game in our room, and trapped between Dean and the wall I had no choice but to succumb to him. Roping me in his arms, he tickled me until I begged through tears and a smile to be let go.

When I could catch my breath, my eyes met his gaze, and the whole world stopped around me. I took a few steps back to drop onto the bed, watching Dean as he plopped down next to me. I felt warmth throughout my entire body as he leaned to kiss me.

I could just explode I was so overwhelmed with love for him and for this moment, that when he pulled away I couldn't control my voice. "Marry me, Winchester." And my eyes widened when he quickly sat up.

He propped himself up on his arm, "what?" he said with one eyebrow raised.

"I'm serious, Dean," I chuckled, sitting up to turn my body towards him. I placed my hand on his leg, feeling him relax under it, "I have never felt the way that I do about you, for anyone. We have no idea when our last days are going to be, and in this line of work it could be tomorrow for all we know. I can't bear the thought of dying without you as my husband."

---

I hear my name in Dean's voice from a distance, but I'm surrounded by total darkness. I try so hard with all of my might to tell him I'm here, that it's okay, but the words don't come. It takes all of my strength to open my eyes, but they burn. Everything burns. I don't even try to suppress the scream that bellows out of me.

Taking as deep of a breath as I can, I'm scared for myself when it sounds and feels like I'm breathing a water and air mixture. "What's happening?" I manage to say, but Dean puts a finger to my lips.

"No, no," he soothes, "no, don't talk. It's okay," he says so gently, and as he maneuvers me into his lap I cry out in agonizing pain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, then his voice switches into a shaky, fear filled command at Sam to call 911 followed by a yell for Castiel that hurts my heart almost as much as my wound hurts.

I feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness, but I'm brought back every time by Dean shaking my body in his arms, "hey, no! Stay with me, Y/N!" I feel his arms twitch around me, and I know he's frantically trying to figure out his next move. "Hey, stay with me," he pleads.

"Maybe we should get her talking," Sam's voice suggests from the other side of me. I keep my eyes shut. "So we know she's still here," he says.

Dean's hot breath hits my face as he lets out a heavy sigh, and I sway with him in his arms as he shakes his head no.

"Cas! Finally," Dean's voice is excited, but hesitant as Cas remains quiet. "Cas! Heal her!" Dean grunts, and what follows is more silence. "Cas!"

"Dean, you know I can't do that," Cas says somberly, a cold brush of air hitting me as Cas walks over to our side.

"Why the hell not?" Dean shouts with enough force to rattle me in his arms. I grunt from the jolt of pain it sends through my body, but he ignores me.

"I'm limited on my powers," Cas whispers. “Heaven, they-“ but he’s cut off by a scoff from Dean.

I feel myself weaken more and more with every second that they bicker around me, and I don't even have the strength to contest it. They're voices grow distant, and my muscles relax as I'm brought back to unconsciousness.

"I know you're not the marrying type, Dean, but-" I said, losing confidence in myself, and as if he realized this, Dean quickly straightened himself out to hold his palms up at me.

"No, no, it's not that. I'm just... I'm just a little surprised is all." Without letting me respond, he walks to his dresser and the drawer creaks as he opens it, the smell of old wood filled my nose as he rummaged around in it.

He turned to face me, and in his hands was a small, black box. His eyes softened, and he knelt down to one knee, "Y/N, I have been wanting to ask you this, maybe since the day we met," he chuckled. "And I had a whole speech prepared, but I think you got me beat," he laughed again, "and left me nearly speechless. So, Y/N, yes, I will marry you," he said.

--

The terrified shouts of the men around me brings me back to them, and thank God for that. My eyes still burn, and I clench them even tighter, forcing a tear I didn't know was there down and over the bridge of my nose.

I try to clear my throat to speak, but it's like it gets caught on something, and I cough to get it out. Dean quickly raises me up to a sitting position, which is excruciatingly painful.

"Y/N," Dean's voice shakes.

I take a few deep breaths in to clear my airway, and fight to open my eyes. They only open to a squint, but I take what I can get. I glance at Sam, then Cas who keep their eyes on the floor in front of them. My head tilts back as I look up at Dean. His eyes are trained to mine, his eyebrows pressed tightly together, as are his lips.

"Marry me, Winchester," I squeak, and I can see his face instantly relax.

"What?" he says, then the corners of his lips curl down. He nods gently and the tears he had been holding back come pouring down. He looks up at Cas, who immediately understand and kneels down next to us.

"Allow me," he offers, placing his hand under my cold fingers, and his other on Dean's shoulder. "Y/N, do you take this man to be your husband, to live together in holy matrimony," Cas begins, and my lips quiver at the words 'live together' because it finally hits me that this is the end of that.

Cas continues, voice a little louder to overshadow the sobs that break through Dean's chest. "To love him, to honor him, to comfort him, and to keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

"And even longer," I say, my eyes, even blurry, moving to Dean's in time to see tears slip down his cheek.

Cas turns his attention to my other half, "Dean, do you take-"

"I do," Dean eagerly states when he notices my breathing has slowed exponentially. "Skip to the end," Dean pleads.

"By the virtue of the authority vested in me under the laws of the Lord, I now pronounce you husband and wife". Cas sucks in a breath, and lets it out slowly. "You may kiss the bride."

Dean brings me closer to him, and his lips are hot and quivering against mine. I pucker to kiss him, but I know my lips don't move by the way his press deeper into mine to accommodate it. My breaths are even slower now, and I can feel myself slipping away again, no matter how hard I try to fight it.

I draw in a long, cold breath, trying to hold on as long as I can. "I love you, Dean," I say and as the breath escapes me, so does my light.

"I love you, t-"

----

If you liked my story, please remember to heart, comment or reblog. Or if you'd like, you can add yourself to a tag list here if you wish :) Thank you for reading!! :)

Everything Tags <3

@waywardblueshun @81mysteriouslyme @drakelover78 @soab1967 @shutupandfeedmethings @pollywantacracker666 @sonnierae26 @obsessed5sosfreak @tlovescoffee @noodledoodlebug @hobby27 @cluz1babe @emptycanvasposts @suckmyapplejacks @sigrunsavestheday @flamencodiva @roseblue373

Dean <3

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#dean x reader #dean x reader angst #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #supernatural fandom #supernatural fan fic #supernatural fic #fanfic #dean angst #1st person pov

[dairy-farmer]

Actually? Can't stop thinking about this possibly expanded Time-Loop Of Bad Ideas AU? Because EVERYONE could get one! That Idol was made for Life Lessons and good at it's job!

Why NOT Moar Loops~☆?

And? Was GOING to suggest the whole BatFam. But this time not together. BUT THEN? My muse(adhd brain) smacked me and called me a coward! Go BIGGER they demanded! That sexy, sexy genius(me)!

That bust was probably not in Gotham! Or at least, not FULLY in Gotham. Maybe it was Superman, maybe someone else, but SOMEONE saw the Idol when Bruce found it.

We have PROTOCOLS, Batman.

That YOU made.

GDI. He sighs, but admits it's true. And Magic Bullshitry means getting scanned for Curses and Compulsions. Everyone up to the Watchtower. *various Bat Children groans of annoyance* No getting out of it. Come on, better this then getting possessed.

They Zeta up. Annoyed but here.

It's late and they'll probably miss dinner.

Come to find out? Fuckin EVERYONE but Captian Marval and Wonder Woman, who knows Magic, is off doing "Magic". Just... unspecified, vauge, could be anywhere, "Magic".

REALLY?!

AND they get pulled into a last minute, emergency, meeting about where they should store the Idol. Because all Wonder Woman and Marvel can TELL them about it? Is "Yep, Cursed. Probably."

And so they are annoyed. Everyone is arguing. Tensions are getting higher and higher. Somebody mutters a snide comment about somebody ELSE'S sidekick, and? Punching breaks out. Shoving. The big three stand to break it up.

But it's too late.

Some IDIOT throws a CHAIR. Their target, being a trained hero, OBVIOUSLY dodges. Which means it sails right across the table and HITS THE IDOL. Crash!

BOOM.

Everyone is slammed back by a lightshow and huge wall of air. Wonder Woman is FURIOUS. Marvel scared. Everyone gets checked out. Everyone, Go Home and isolate for AT LEAST 24 hours. Report any symptoms or strange thoughts.

They go home. Go to bed. Midnight.

Click.

Everyone locked in their own little Loops.

Now, some of those affected? Lesbians. Married and grossly, gooey, shmoopy, "No, yooou~♡" hang-up type In Love. Or just not in to him.

But! How many people in Loops? Do you think? Get that Bad Idea impulse~

Feel their eyes get drawn towards the Highly Competent and Sexy, Red Robin? Pretty-boy Tim Drake? Their Friend, colleague, or the son of such? It's a time loop. Who would ever know? They HAVE always been... curious.

I mean, they'd treat him right. It's not like they're HURTING anybody! Doing anything against his consent. It's just a Bad Idea.

Batman would murder them. Nightwing would help. Launch them straight into the nearest black hole. Or it would CHANGE things. Their relationship altered forever. Or... well, he's their Brother. Their Son.

So many reasons Not Too.

But it's a Time Loop.

They wear you down. Mentally and emotionally. You get lonely. A little bit crazy. Start doing things you know you shouldn't.

Like eating out your Boy until he's sloppy and ruined, fingering him for hours. Just to feel that sweet heat in your hand. Lazily resting you head on a trembling stomach, not letting him escape. Not hearing him ask for it to end, only whimper that it's too much. Because he's so good for you. And always has been.

Or finally breaking down, when the loneliness gets unbearable. And clinging like an octopus, as you bend your little Tim in HALF. Rolling and snapping your hips like you want to crawl inside his skin. Soaking in the pleasured cries your punching out with every thrust. How CLOSE you finally are.

Sneaking in windows, early in the morning. Teammates, Supers and Speedsters. Crimelords, here to pound him rough and sweet on his own bed. People who should NOT, but do~

Why so early? Uncle Clark?

What brings you to Gotham, Hal Jordan?

Hi, Roy, looking for Jason?

Even crossing paths, as choices diverge things. Ah, Aquaman! Your Majesty, what did you need me for?

All while Tim is, in his OWN Loop? Discovering that Sex is actually kinda awesome. And that he should never be left unsupervised. But mostly the first one!

And THIS time? Because I am a generous and benevolent Enabling Jackass? He DEFINITELY steals Dick's "time to threaten Deathstroke" burner phone. And uses it for purposes other then intended.

One stack of info, several shiny new crates of ammo, and showing up in Dick's Robin costume later? He's in Cairo getting his guts destroyed by a supersoldier. The day resets before Slade even breaks a sweat. Tim on the other hand? Passed "fucked incoherent" about three hours back and would probably shoot him, if the dick weren't making him too uncoordinated and stupid.

Nonetheless? Bats pull miracles. And Tim finds Constantine. Who refuses to TOUCH anything of the "learn a life lesson" variety. Since too many deity have it out for him.

But he is just a man.

And finds himself suddenly MUCH more agreeable and willing to try, after being dragged into another room and slammed against a wall. Blown by Batman's kid.

Nothing like face fucking a Robin to motivate a man to greatness, he discovers.

Which? Is when everyone gets their assorted bank of Loop memories. Lot of boredom for a few. Lovey Dovey bonding for others. Life lessons etc.

But?

Oh.

Oh My God.

Kon is panicking. As it filters in. Tim, bro, he can EXPLAIN! Constantine has cut off in amusement. Because, see? This? This right here is why he avoids- blah blah blah- *white noise* *Distant sound of Kon panicking and his Phone trying to explode itself with texts*

Because HOLY SHIT. Tim stares into the middle distance and realizes? So... SO many people jumped at the chance to fuck him. Like... A LOT.

So many.

His head is FULL of getting RAILED. Kon looks like he's gonna cry. Clark is ripping the door off the hinges. He can explain! Kon no longer looks like he's gonna cry. Explain WHAT, Clark?!

Tim fucked...So Many People.

Or was it Fucked By?

Both?

Does.... does he have Boyfriends now? Bootycalls? A harem?

..............whoops?

*arguing over Tim only gets louder as more Heros show up*

-🐼🐼🐼

all of them taking the opportunity to fuck tim- including some people tim's horny brain hadn't even gotten to considered but now had memories of fucking!😭😭

#answered asks #asks #anonymous

[middle-name-queer]

A great thing about the good place is how all four of the main crew are actually self-centered

We commonly identify forms of self-centered behavior such as selfishness that is exemplified by Elenor. (aka "a Bad Person"), but then you have Chidi and Tehani. These two are far less classical in their self-centered behavior but are still self-centered, nevertheless.

The show makes Tehani's folly pretty clear, despite all her philanthropic acts she still centers herself in every situation. How she ended up there is actually parallel to Elenor's upbringing, the only real difference is the glitz and the glamour. They both had parents that were withholding for one reason or another, neither felt seen nor wanted and so one shut down to protect herself, the other made her entire existence a performance, either way they are deeply, deeply self-centered people.

But Chidi is my favorite, for the obvious reason that his self-centered behavior is the least obvious. Now of course it's made pretty clear to us as viewers but as a character within the world, for nearly all situations most people would judge Chidi as a good (albeit, sometimes annoying) person. You'd be hard pressed to find anyone who would out right call him self-centered... yet he is!

Chidi acts as though the world rests squarely on his shoulders, that each little choice he makes carries the weight to change the trajectory of humanity. Putting this into words pretty clearly illustrates the ridiculousness of it. It simply isn't reality, and it shows how, even though Chidi is a "good person" (vs Elenor and Jason) he is still susceptible to the very human condition of not looking past yourself. Another way to state it (as I'm sure many have before) he basically suffers from thinking he's a main character. (lol) Now, lucky for him he actually is one but translating this to real life you can see how people fall prey to this way of thinking, convoluting their lives due to the faulty belief that they, and they alone, can make or break the world around them.

This rolls around my brain like a marble because, I did this! For an embarrassingly long time in my youth, I truly felt the grief and horror that comes with thinking you, and you alone, can fix the world's problems. And I think this sort of thing isn't talked about enough because there isn't an obvious red flag of being a "bad person". Chidi is "good" and so there is a smoke screen effect hiding how poor his behavior actually is. (Can you tell I deeply identify with his character? 🤔)

Jason is an interesting case in his own right, because he's self-centered almost in the same way as a small child. I assume Donkey Doug was simply unequipped to help Jason develop past that stage in his upbringing, in tandem with say... other lifestyle choices, Jason's overall mental development is limited. He's an interesting example of how not all self-centered behavior is motivated by innate "selfishness". Jason is very much capable of empathy, generosity, and comradery, as shown by his relationship to Janet, lifelong friendships, and his participation and organization of a 60-person dance crew. This is in opposition to Elenor, a selfishly self-centered person who could not form meaningful or lasting relationships.

Jason Mendoza's behavior is more of a big kid who acts on impulse, this can obviously be perceived as "hurtful" and when done by a grown adult it may be judged as "he's a bad person". But when looking at his overall character it's clear that he doesn't make a single move with any ill intent or malice. You can easily reason with him in nearly all situations, even when he chooses to throw a molotov at a train, all it takes is grabbing him by the arm and telling him to knock it off. He doesn't argue or get defensive, unlike versions of Elenor who would tell you to "go fork yourself". Jason is only self-centered because he struggles to see the big picture, but when it's shown to him, more often than not he accepts it with a little guidance.

I have no end point here other than watching these characters exude self-centeredness in four distinctly different ways, only to then learn and better themselves, is a delight!

#tgp #the good place #tgp spoilers #not really but whatever #damn i didn't even talk about micheal #whatever maybe later