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#someone tell kale to shut up
talaok · 9 days
Note
a smutty joel imagine with him saying, “you’re in trouble doll”
Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader
summary: Joel, your dad's best friend, has pissed you off once again for his constant fear of your father finding out about you, so you decide to make him jealous, only he doesn't take it as well as you expected... or maybe exactly as you had
warnings: jealousy, he grabs you by the neck at one point, possessive!Joel smut| a bit of thigh riding, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, she calls him daddy ONCE bc I need to cut back on the daddy kink it's becoming a problem, kind of exhibitionism, and unnecessary feelings cause i can never fucking write a story where they're just fucking for some reason
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You were flirting good
The way you only did when you weren't really interested, when it was just a game, when you were bored, or perhaps... in the mood for taunting someone
Maybe someone who was across the backyard, his hazel eyes burning a hole into the back of your head as he gripped his beer hard enough to shatter it, his head nodding slowly at whatever your dad was saying, but his thoughts only to you, only to that little asshole who had his hand on your cheek- on his girl
"I'd forgotten how funny you are" you said, after falling into a more than exaggerated laughing fit at one of Kaleb's miserable jokes.
He grinned with that smile guys have when they think they have it in the bag, when they’re already picturing you in their bed
As if
“Tell you what, I'm even funnier in front of a drink,” he said, his eyes glinting with victory “you free tonight?”
But before you could respond, a very much non-friendly voice barked from beside you
"she's not"
Joel looked even hotter than usual with that t-shirt clinging to his toned biceps and pecs, and the way he was looking at Kaleb... he looked ready to kill, and fuck if that didn't make him even hotter
"Tommy needs your help on the grill, I'm takin' a break" he nodded toward his brother, giving the guy a chance to scramble before he had to punch him in the face
"now?" Kaled wined, his gaze trailing to you, as if counting on the understanding of another man of what he was interrupting
"Now."
There was no room for negotiating, and the guy finally got it, sighing loudly before nodding
"Fine, I'll catch you later then," he smiled, watching you reciprocate, before he started for the grill
You squinted your eyes against the sun as you looked up at Joel, making a show of rolling your eyes as he gave you that stern, angry look he was always so good at giving
"Cockbloker"
You didn't wait for whatever smart retort he was gonna send your way as you turned around and started making your way into the house,
only of course, he was right behind you, closing the glass door to the kitchen with a loud thud
"you're in trouble doll"
again, you could only roll your eyes as you opened the fridge to look for what you didn't even know
The party of people just outside the windows was loud, but his steps as he stalked to you were the only thing you could hear
"I'm talking to you"
You could hear the restraint in his voice, almost feel it oozing off of him, the way you were getting under his skin, the way he was controlling his own rage
And when you only sighed, still not acknowledging his presence... then his self-control slipped, and his hand had forced the fridge to fly shut, the bottles rattling inside.
maybe this will get your attention
And it did, you turned to him, a bored, stoic look on your face
"what do you think you're doing?" he hissed, his jaw ticking 
"what?" you cocked a brow "I'm not allowed to talk to people anymore?"
The way he tilted his head, flames of anger lighting his eyes as he took a step towards you made you want to get down on your knees and suck him off right there and then... but then again, you were supposed to make him pay
"Don't give me that bullshit" he growled "That wasn't just talking, there's only one thing that guy was after and you know it"
You scoffed, taking a step closer to him in affront
"so?" you asked, raising your brows "What I was after the same thing Joel?" you argued "You know, since you're so scared of my dad finding out... since you're always saying I should find someone more age-appropriate, I figured... why not Kaleb?" 
Oh he was fuming
"At least he's not scared of my dad" you mocked "At least he wouldn't have to sneak out of my house after he's done fucking me-"
you didn't even see him move, the only thing you felt, was the back of your head hitting the fridge, and seconds after, his hand gripping your throat, and only then did you hear the gasp fleeing your throat
he had moved you to the other side of the fridge so that from outside, no one could see your dad's bestie choking his daughter without so much of a hair of second thought.
"If he even tries to come near you" his face was but an inch from yours "He won't have a dick to fuck you with sweetheart, got it?"
What did he think? That he was gonna scare you? please
You snorted, your mouth twitching in a smirk
"You don't own me Joel" you only purred "I can fuck who I want"
The snarl he let out was nothing but predatory
"You think that fucking guy's the right one for you?" he asked, his right leg in between yours, the top of his thigh dangerously close to your core 
"you think that little asshole's gonna make you come?" his breath was ghosting your mouth, but he ducked lower, murmuring against your ear now 
"You think Kaleb's gonna fuck you better than I do?"
Although shivers were running down your spine, you chuckled, as you murmured "Maybe"
He groaned, his thigh immediately going to your center, rubbing against your clit as his fingers tightened on your throat.
"say that again" he challenged, his voice rough and throaty
"what," you grinned, "you think you're some kind of sex god or something?"
The fact that he could hear all the little whimpers you were swallowing down your throat didn't help your case
"Have you forgotten already about all the times you were begging for my cock sweetheart?" he teased, his jeans damping with your slick as you parted your mouth in pleasure "All the nights you spent screaming my name, mh?" 
His warm words felt so good on your neck, and his leg... if he kept at it you might just fall apart like that
"you think another man can do that for you?" his eyes were boring into yours now, his hand forcing you to meet his gaze 
And when you didn't answer, the same smug grin on you, he understood what he needed to do
"You need a little reminder, 's that it?"
And just like that, you had exactly where you wanted him.
If he was aware that this was your plan all along, he didn't show it, probably because you had turned his brain into a jealous angry heap.
He watched the way you bit your bottom lip, the same way he's seen you do thousands of times before, need pooling in your iris and panties at the same time
"ah that's it, isn't it?" he growled, his right hand going to squeeze your ass "my dirty girl needs me to remind her who's the only man that can make her feel good huh?"
And fuck it, but you were already palming the bulge at the front of his pants
"whose cock she needs to be filled with" he smirked, watching your pretty eyes fall to his mouth
"then I guess I just have to, don't I?"
His lips were on yours faster than you could blink, his mouth ravenous and hungry as much as his tongue, which was exploring every inch of you as if he needed to have all of you, right there, right now.
You felt his hand leave your neck and seconds after your ear picked up his zipper getting undone and then he was picking you up and he was hastily freeing his cock from his boxers and-
It was all so fucking fast- he felt like a man possessed
For this much talk of you being the one to need a reminder, it looked like it was him the only one to need this
And maybe it was because seeing you talking to that guy made him see red, or maybe because it had been more than 24 hours since he had a taste of you and missed you more than anything, or maybe... maybe he was just starting to realize that it wasn't the 24 hours, and it wasn't Kaleb, but it was you, it had always been you, with that smart mouth and that smug attitude and your determination and kindness and beauty and fuck- this had never been just fuking- he could never just be having sex with you, he wanted to have you, all of you, not just like this, but in public, in front of everyone, in front of Kaleb and you pissed off dad- he wanted to- to bring you on a proper date and pay the bill and only then fuck you so good you forgot your name- he wanted, he wanted everything, he wanted you, completely.
"You know anyone could come in here at any moment right?" you asked breathlessly as you leaned away, your lips swollen already 
He had you propped against the part of the fridge facing the wall, so you were hidden from the outside, but anyone could have just taken a closer look, or come into the kitchen for a fresh beer and caught you just as he railed into you... and he couldn't have fucking cared less
"What, you scared?"
And the way you smiled- the way you smiled was enough to make a grown man drop to his knees in an instant
"fuck me, daddy"
God fucking damn him, but he might just be in love
"Jesus fucking Christ doll"
He didn't let you laugh at him before he had pounced into you with one hard and deep thrust, his mouth crushing into yours simultaneously to drown out that clamorous moan he already knew was coming from your throat
He didn't let you get used to him, he only started fucking up into you like he needed to split you in half, like he needed to get deeper into you that he'd ever been.
He was grunting with each push, and you could faintly hear the fridge beside you move in tandem with his movements, but you couldn't have cared less about worrying whether or not it could be seen from outside.
he hit a particularly deep spot inside of you and just as you were about to cry out like a mad woman, his hand was on your mouth, shutting you up for good
"you let another guy touch this fucking pussy and they're dead" his eyes were just as brutal as his thrusts, although a veil of harrowing honesty lay beneath them
He was being serious, he needed you to know that
 "got it?" he asked, your mind only half listening as your walls tightened around him "It's fucking mine" he purred, the hand he had on your waist tight enough to bruise "You're fucking mine," he said, "all of you" 
You swore you felt pain underneath the anger in his voice
"I don't care what you say, I'm the only one that can make you come, 'm the only one who can touch you or fuck you or- or fucking take you out to dinner- got it?"
If it were any other moment you would have teased him, but this... there was something too precious- too honest about this
"yes" you whimpered into his palm, 
And that sent him straight to fucking heaven, he couldn't help but relieve your lips of his hand and kiss you again, kiss you with every inch of life he had in him
"You're mine" he breathed, both of you breathing so heavily you were nearly hyperventilating
"I'm yours Joel" you promised, your core wisting and tuning as he drilled you closer and closer to the edge "I'm yours" you repeated, watching what it did to him, the relief plastered onto his face, the want only multiplying in his pace "only yours- all of me-"
"that's right" he breathed, his skin slapping with yours "My pussy, my body, my girl" he purred "You're mine, doll"
And just like that, he had pushed you over the edge, watching you fall apart closely before he couldn't help but follow suit, kissing you as he silenced both your moans, bottling them up inside of him, so he could never forget them, forget this.
You opened your eyes to find his already on you, so many unspoken words, feelings, hopes in them, and you couldn't help but smile, dropping your forehead to his as he settled you back onto the ground
"That was- wow" you sighed, still grinning like a kid "I should make you jealous more often"
"Please don't" he begged, his fingers drawing circles on your waist as you kissed him again, smiling softly onto his lips
You needed to talk, about what happened, about what this was, about everything... but as you both leaned away, a mutual understanding passed through you
Later
"You should get back out there" you murmured, although halfheartedly.
the prospect of moving away from his embrace felt like hell right now
"what about you?" he asked, his nose nuzzling against yours
"I gotta clean myself up" 
"I could help" 
You rolled your eyes playfully as a small laugh flowed through you
"Joel" you said, still smiling "go"
And so even if his whole mind, body, and soul were fighting against it, he did, kissing you one last time before he leaned away, fixed himself up, and looked at you one more time, before walking out of the kitchen and into the backyard
And as if on cue that fucking asshole had to come in and ruin his fucking vibe
"Hey, where's y/n? I've been looking for her" Kaleb asked, walking up to him.
Joel didn't even try to be nice, he didn't even bother with that "count to ten before answering" bullshit Sarah was always telling him about
"She's not interested, and if I see you even just looking her way ever again, I am going to kill you Kaleb, understand?"
To say the guy was taken aback was the understatement of the century
His eyes widened so much he didn't even look like himself
"w-what the fuck?" he spat "Where is she, I need to t-"
"she's in the bathroom" Joel cut him off, pure rage and annoyance in his voice, in his stare "cleaning my come off of herself"
Kaleb stumbled back, literally now
"w-wha-"
"I told you buddy" Joel said simply "she's not interested"
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hifirushimagines · 1 year
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aaahhh! delighted to see this blog pop up! hi :D good luck on the blog! can we getttt,,, some general crushing hcs of The Band? thank you!! <3
⊱ ────────────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───────────── ⊰
The Band having a crush on someone
TW; Crushing, fluff
Notes; Thanks and have a great day
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⊱ ────────────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───────────── ⊰
Chai
He is a mess when it comes to crushes Chai can't talk right, he'll fumble with everything he his on hand and he'll act all sorts of goofy, sometimes he gets lost staring at his crush as they focused on something until they turned their attention back to him as he finally realizes what he was doing
Chai will try to impress his crush by showing off his arm during training or fights, try to make them laugh by making 808 talk (with his own voice obviously) or play a song that he just finished on his guitar
Sometimes he'll buy things that reminds of his crush like their favorite food or drink, their favorite chapstick or their favorite band
Peppermint
When she first realizes that she has a crush on someone Peppermint freaks out a little because it's been a long time since she had a crush, let alone during her fight against Kale but overtime she accepts this new feeling
Most of the time during missions she keeps a close eye on them and helps them out when needed but sometimes will intervene when it's getting overwhelming
Blushes at every complement that she receives and gifts that they said that reminds them of her then in return Peppermint will buy/make something for them, small things like a key chain or an upgrade on their phone
Macaron
This big guy can't keep his mouth shut when he talks about his crush with Chai or Peppermint he can't talk about with CNMN for a lot of good reasons, Macaron will ask for advice from his friends mostly Korsica
Just like Chai he becomes very goofy and clumsy messing up a lot of his projects, spewing out gibberish when he talks with said crush and missing his targets during missions much to the demise of his friends
Sometimes he'll make their favorite snacks/drink at the base when everything has calmed down for the day, just talking with them about anything from today, what they're interested in or whatever comes to mind
CNMN
He outright tells them about his crush on them no doubt just outright tells them to their pretty face, he doesn't understand the concept of having a crush but they're understandable about and is willing to help him through this
Korsica
Denies the whole thing not because she doesn't want love but because she's scared of being rejected cause she put her whole life into her work at Vandelay, she's not sure how to talk with them so she asks Chai and Peppermint to help
She'll show her interests in them through actions since that's the best thing she can do via helping them carry their stuff, filling out half the reports that Vandelay needed today and checking up on them when she notices them getting stressed or having a bad day getting them anything they want
Most of the time she'll unknowingly flirt with her crush until she sees their red face then she'll profusely apologizes them hundred times, before running off to find herself a spot to cool down
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winterbrrrd · 2 months
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On the market: Vacant Victorian (CHARM & CHARACTER) - $40,000
You found your first abandoned house,
Void of humans for two decades.
Wood is twisting,
Paint is chipping,
Roof is on the verge of caving.
Yard’s unruly and disheveled,
Like a hair day straight from hell,
Untamed branches reaching forward
Through a window,
Broken out.
And brambles navigate through spaces where the roof meets with the walls,
At least you’re certain there’s protection
From the rain, which always falls
This time of year,
Like late October,
wind is crisp but not enough
To keep you locked away inside,
Orange juice and vodka
In a cup.
Inside the house, you will discover things
You probably shouldn’t see, such as
Lewd photographs,
Bad poetry,
Old porno magazines.
Dead men get no privacy.
Walk in the house,
Search desperately
For signs that someone was living
A life, like yours,
Made history.
The cobwebs hang in every cranny,
Hang like garlands made with string.
Raccoons shit all up the stairwells,
Like they failed to litter train.
Paper peels from kitchen walls
Where grease was splattered,
Leaving stains,
You tear it down to find a door,
Leading to the lonely place.
So shine your flashlight, see inside,
Down at your feet, a pine staircase.
Now shut the door, switch on the light,
But do not meddle with my space,
And when you enter,
Please don’t mind
Me playing movies on rewind,
Speaking in tongues to feel sublime,
With egg yolks dripping down my face.
Now you’re in my secret room
And the room smells like mildew.
I do not wash, I do not clean,
I only sit and watch and stew
Like dinner soup, but my ingredients
Aren’t what you might assume,
I’m adding memories to finally
Give my dark thoughts to the moon,
An orb of white or cream or yellow
Just depending on your view,
A vessel for these endless struggles,
Somewhere that has enough room
For every trauma,
Every moment when I feared I’d end up dead,
Including all the times I tried to die,
Not by my hand
But his.
Explore the old abandoned house,
Poking your head in every room.
Here’s where I died in a small car,
Here’s where I gave self-harm tattoos,
Here’s where I fled when I was chased,
Here’s where I learned I was displaced
From every home, from every state
I tried to flee riding a freight.
Here’s where I learned they’re all afraid
Of who I love, of what I do,
They’ll never fortune tell my fate
But girl, it ain’t looking
Too good.
Explore my uncle’s hoarder house,
The small container where he died
Alongside three neglected dogs,
I say neglect, but he did try.
He tried and tried and he survived
For 60 years, or 69.
Got sober by like 35,
And stayed that way until the day
His heart stopped working,
Goodbye, life.
Explore my uncle’s hoarder house,
The way the dirt extends throughout
In layers, like a Cali drought,
No water means
No kale,
Bean sprouts,
Or broccoli,
Or wildflowers,
Or brushing teeth
Or taking showers.
Just dirt,
More dirt,
They cleaned for hours.
So you bought your first abandoned house
And you plan to fix her up.
She needs full rehab,
Will take years before she’s in good condition.
Are you prepared?
And what’s the goal?
Live in an old Victorian
With new, spring life freshly breathed in,
With flowing cream colored curtains
That dance in breezes, bleached by sun,
Tickle your cheek, like
“Hi. Welcome”?
Or will you flip me just to sell me?
Will a new family move in?
Will they find my hidden basement?
My own makeshift looney bin?
Or do you really want to keep me?
Want a home that feels like yours?
Keep the most authentic details,
Gut the rest,
There’s too much dirt.
The house was bought from an old woman -
Her estate,
For she’s deceased.
She lived alone with her black cat
And she wrote songs and poetry.
Her neighbors fancied her a witch,
But that’s just what they call a freak
Who never leaves her spacious bedroom,
Sits hunched over on her sheets,
Smoking weed and cigarettes,
Confined for everyone’s safety.
It’s better that she doesn’t speak,
It’s better that she doesn’t share,
It’s better that she’s not out meddling
Scream-singing the Lord’s Prayer
On a street wearing a trench coat,
Nothing else - what lies beneath
Is just her naked, wrinkled body,
Sacred scars of the deceased.
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kopawz · 10 months
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it is wip wednesday, my dudes. i wish i could add a keep reading on mobile... oh well! here:
CNMN had placed a small, featureless, saturated brown journal into Chai’s hands.
808 brought a paw up to slightly pull the journal downwards so she could examine it herself. Smelled like CNMN.
Staring at it for a few moments, Chai opened the pages, flipping through–
"Hey, these are all blank."
"For now, Mister Chai–" CNMN had a big, open-mouthed smile drawn on his face, "But soon, you should be able to write your experiences with your dreams inside this journal!"
…He wants me to write a dream journal?!
CNMN guffawed, "Oh– There is no need to look so embarrassed, Mister Chai–! I believe you can customize the journal with any drawings and stickers you see fit.
"I *do* like customizing the hell out of things, but–" He snapped the journal shut, "What if somebody reads all the embarrassing stuff I write in it?"
"This is just to help yourself, Mister Chai. It doesn't *have* to be shared with anyone,"
CNMN gave him a double-thumbs up, "Unless you would like additional help or advice on what to do with your dream business in future counseling!"
Humming, Chai flicked open the pages.
"...That doesn't sound so bad, actually."
He palmed at the pockets on his jacket, trying to feel for a pen–
Macaron laughed, "You want to start writing in there already? Alright, here," He reached into his floral sweat-pockets, producing a novelty pen. Handing it to Chai, he laughed when he swiped it from his hands–
The little guy was filling up a page so fast, the pen would have had been smoking.
Looking over what he had written with a little nod, Chai grinned, and handed it over to CNMN to read, "Here y'go. The last two nights were pretty vivid, so I wrote about those."
Examining Chai’s handwriting so he could decode it after a moment of processing, CNMN hummed at what he read. Accompanying his writing was several doodles, alongside the retelling of the dreams.
The dream he was mumbling in his rest last night was included, along with some additional context from Mister Kale’s end. CNMN almost wishes he could offer this strange, angry man counseling, too. Oh well! Like that's ever going to happen.
On the next page was an earlier dream of Chai getting upset with Kale, as he was bothering him while driving to…
The words on the page stopped there. "Hm."
"Mister Chai? I don't believe you finished this one. Do you not remember?"
Chai scratched his cheek, "I mean, kind of. It's just hard to tell if it was a ride to school or a ride to the coast…"
He shrugged, "I wasn't really paying attention, because Kale broke the window–" He frowned, furrowing his brow with annoyance, "The jeep'd been through enough as is with *my* crap-ass driving, so I don't see why he had to go and break stuff like that."
"But, I guess?" Chai leaned back into the sofa, "It's not like he’s hurting the real jeep. He’s just doing that, uhh–"
He paused, thinking it might be a good idea to use what he had just learned for once.
Chai nodded, "The projecting thing, again. Right?"
"Right! And you know, Chai–" Macaron looked over from his screen, and reached to hold Chai’s shoulder and back with a big, warm, supportive arm,
"If you ever wake up from a bad nightmare, it's okay to call someone, too. Hell, if you want, so you can really be secure with the dream strats,"
Mac gestured between himself, Chai, 808, and CNMN, "We could even have a sleepover tonight!" He offered with a grin.
"Ooh!" Clapping his hands together, CNMN's eyes sparked at the proposal, "And if you awake in a panic– We could support you after your first night implementation these new strategies. How fun!"
Chai’s eyes went wide. A sleepover, huh. Never had one of those, before.
Does hanging out at Peppermint’s house for nearly a year count as sleeping over? Well it mustn't, considering Macaron would thinks this would be one… Eh, best not worry about it, this sounds like a good idea.
After thinking it over with a scrunched face, Chai smacked his forehead, and smiled earnestly, "Oh, what the heck, why not."
Chai pat Macaron’s arm draped over his shoulders, "...I call dibs on the couch, though. I'm kind of all over the place when I sleep." He scratched his cheek bashfully.
Macaron practically squealed with glee, and had promptly placed his computer onto Chai’s lap,
"Here! Hold this for a minute, I wanna grab something," Mac lifted his arm off the little guy, and got up from the couch–
The whole thing creaked from his absence. Chai tilted his head, confused about what Mac would need from the… bathroom?… Oh well.
He glanced at the laptop, seeing as it was given to him temporarily. Pretty old model, too. Very retro… Cool. Reminding himself for later, Chai should get a computer for his own place, eventually– Wait–
808 was staring at something on the screen with awe and intrigued curiosity. This is what she was so insistent on trying to sit on Macaron’s laptop earlier for.
Chai squinted at the screen, adjusting his glasses so the glint of the laptop's light bugged his eyes a bit less, "Huh."
There's a display of… a schematic of his power unit's model? Chai whispered, confused at what exactly he was looking at, "…Something about an upgrade?"
"Oh, that?"
Macaron had returned, holding several, tiny, glass containers of various containers of nail polish,
"I was gonna wait until your birthday to show you, but–" He had sat back onto the couch with an audible 'OOMPH', and began placing all the polish onto the table–
"I guess now wouldn't be a bad time for you to hear about this idea I had–" He picked up the laptop back from Chai, pulling up a file to view with a slight excitement, "To let you switch between more than two special attacks at a time!"
Chai’s brows flew up, giddy at the idea of more firepower. He could barely contain his enthusiasm– "SERIOUSLY?" He and 808 leaned over Mac's arm to get a closer look.
"I suppose Chai’s triggerhappy tendencies are something that not even counseling can quell," CNMN gave a scolding, funny look to Mac, "Is it, Sir Macaron?"
"Nope!" He looked proud of himself.
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hepatosaurus · 11 months
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national poetry month, day 21
After My Brother’s Death, I Reflect on the Iliad The water cuts out while shampoo still clogs my hair. The nurse who swabs my nose hopes I don’t have the virus, it’s a bitch. The building across from the cemetery calls itself LIFE STORAGE. My little brother was shot, I tell the barista who asks how things have been, and tip extra for her inconvenience. We speak only to the dead, someone tells me—to comfort, I assume, or inspire, but I take it literally, as I am wont: even my shut up and fuck and let’s cook tonight, those are for you, Stephen. You won’t come to me in my dreams, so I must communicate by other avenues. A friend sends an image from Cy Twombly’s “Fifty Days at Iliam” —a red bloom, the words “like a fire that consumes all before it”— and asks: Have you seen this? It’s at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. If I have, I can’t remember, though I did visit with you, when you were eleven or twelve, when you tripped silent alarm after silent alarm, skating out of each room as guards jostled in, and I—though charged with keeping you from trouble—joined the game, and the whole time we never laughed, not till we were released into the grand air we couldn’t touch and could. You are dead at twenty-two. As I rinse dishes, fumble for my keys, buy kale and radishes, in my ear Priam repeats, I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son. Would I do that? I ask as I pass the store labelled SIGNS SIGNS. I’ve studied the mug shot of the man who killed you; I can imagine his hands. Of course I would. Each finger, even. To hold your body again. And to resurrect you? Who knows what I am capable of. If I were. Nights, I replay news footage: your blood on asphalt, sheen behind caution tape. Homer’s similes, I’ve been told, are holes cut in the cloth between the world of war and another, more peaceful world. On rereading, I find even there, a man kills his neighbor. “Let Achilles cut me down, / as soon as I have taken my son into my arms and have satisfied my desire for grief”—this, my mind’s new refrain in the pharmacy queue, in the train’s rattling frame. The same friend and I discuss a line by Zbigniew Herbert “where a distant fire is burning / like a page of the Iliad.” It’s nearly an ontological question, my friend says, the instability of reference: The fires in the pages of the poem, the literal page set afire. We see double. You are the boy in the museum. You are the body consumed, ash. Alone in a London museum, I saw a watercolor of twin flames, one black, one a gauzy red, only to learn the title is “Boats at Sea.” It’s like how sometimes I forget you’re gone. But it’s not like that, is it? Not at all. When in this world, similes carry us nowhere. And now I see again the boy pelting through those galleries a boy not you, a flash of red, red, chasing, or being chased— Or did I invent him? Mischief companion. Brother. Listen to me plead for your life though even in the dream I know you’re already dead. How do I insure my desire for grief is never satisfied? Was Priam’s ever? I tell my friend, I want the page itself to burn. —Elisa Gonzalez
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randomwriteronline · 2 years
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"Why... Do you work here?"
Cameron won't lie - he doesn't like to be the one having to talk to her on account of him knowing sign most fluently, because she freaks him out a little bit.
Granted, something like that could be said about talking to Jackie too, someone who likes actively and purposefully being cryptic and weird all the time with all the ominous stuff they spout, but Jackie can still be fun.
Briosa looks at him with her eyes that look like dark rotten olives and blinks.
"It's a job," she answers flatly.
"But why?" he insists.
Her lips are perfect parallel lines, her expression unreadable: "Living costs money," she repeats: "It's a job."
Cameron shifts the weight on his feet and twists his mouth nervously.
His fingers move a little faster: "All of us Depot agents like trains. We're passionate about them. But you don't seem like that."
"I'm not." she confirms.
"Then why do you work here? Instead of somewhere else? There's less stressful jobs for sure. Less demanding jobs."
Briosa hums.
"Can you keep a secret?" she asks.
Cameron nods fervently, heart in his throat, curiosity bursting from his eyes.
She treats him to one of her horrendous grins -- wide and bony, stretching her mouth into a rectangle of teeth that, with the angle at which her hat casts a shadow on her face, makes her look menacing beyond belief.
"Me too!" she replies as loud as she can, her voice turning cutesy and almost squeaky with the heightened volume.
Then she turns around and keeps at her paperwork, ignoring anything he might want to sign at her, and Cameron feels like he just got out of a death trap with a tap on the nose and a hissed threat curled around his ear; the rest of the Depot agents retreat from behind the corner with beads of terrified cold sweat dampening their foreheads, praying she did not see them.
-
There is, effectively, extraordinarily little they know about Briosa.
She is from Driftveil City, she is deaf, her Mawile is her hearing aid Pokémon. She eats mostly cheese, meat, and boiled kale. She could beat a man to death.
She listens to - feels, it’s maybe more correct to say - incomprehensible music.
She detests being touched.
She is a man.
There is also a small series of unnerving facts she has shared about herself for the sole purpose of ending a conversation, but there’s no way of telling whether or not they’re true, and nobody really enjoys thinking about any of that.
What else is there?
She calls her Conkeldurr “babygirl” (because she is female) and her Cryogonal with she/her pronouns (because she doesn’t mind). Her Emolga, with a face scarred and mutilated enough to look straight out of a horror movie, comes from a hippie sanctuary, but she’s not fond of hippies. Seismitoad was likely her first Pokémon, but Bisharp might be her favorite. Apparently, she has held her Heatran in her arms like a flamethrower against at least one person with the intent to either scare or severely burn. Or kill. But usually she has a  more hands-on approach when it comes to violence.
What else is there?
According to Ramses, she has a grudge against telepaths. Or was it Kalosians? Furze could swear it was Kalosians. Might be both. Who knows.
Cloud claims she wears full body lingerie. No, they have not seen it. No, they have not slept with her! Shut up! Shut up! She’s aromantic anyways! And yes that doesn’t mean she’s also ace, but like, shut up!
A known voice coughs loudly and reminds them they’re all still at work. All six apologize, mortified; Briosa, blissfully unaware, departs for the platforms.
Still no clue on why she works here.
-
There is a man getting on the train to Castellia City who is always in full Arlequin get up. He gets in his seat, pulls out a make up kit from his suitcase, and spends the entire ride carefully yet quickly applying his face paint.
This isn’t weird at all of course. Man’s gotta go to work! Gotta make the most out of every precious second he can - he’s from Driftveil, after all, having to take a coincidence in Nimbasa - and besides, he’s just your average respectful passenger. They’ve had people almost having their Pokémon start fights in the cars and some others with some very specific (and illegal, whether consensual or not) ways to get their rocks off. A clown getting ready is nothing worth taking note of.
But Isadore does take note of the still make up-less Arlequin as he boards the train, and not because of any bad behaviour.
The man beams and grins, waving excitedly in the direction opposite his train.
Briosa - Briosa - beams and grins, waving back.
The interest in the clown skyrockets.
Who the fuck is that guy?
Why does he wave at Briosa? Why does she wave back? Why do they know each other? Why are they so happy to see each other? Is he her much older boyfriend? Are they in a queer-platonic relationship? Why did she go for a guy who looks like he could be her father? How old is Briosa, actually, now that he thinks about it?
“Twenty-five,” she answers him.
Isn’t she too young for him? Even if it’s a platonic thing?
The questions plague Isadore.
Arlequin Guy returns at with the eight-forty-five service to catch the subway that will bring him back to Driftveil: he’s cleaning the make up off with a humidified handkerchief, lips pursed so that it doesn’t go in his mouth.
Suddenly his eyes light up: Isadore follows his gaze and wouldn’t you know it, there she is, Briosa, giving him a rare grin that doesn’t show her teeth.
Arlequin Guy presses his clean fingers to his mouth and sends her what is unmistakenly a booming, silent kiss followed by a quick wave; she replies with a wave of her own, and a similarly enthusiastic kiss.
He fakes being hit by it in the chest as if it were an arrow.
What. The fuck.
Isadore speed-walks his way over to the Depot agent as she leaves (Arlequin Guy also leaves, but that’s not important) trying his hardest to catch up to her. Damn her short legs for being so fast.
“Do you know that guy?” he asks Mawile instantly.
The little thing bites gently at her dress pant; she doesn’t stop, but she gets her entire arm in the steel maw to let the Fairy hang from it loosely instead of havig to run around as she signs her coworker’s words at her aidee.
“Who?”
“The clown! That Arlequin guy, do you know him?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Who is that?”
Briosa keeps walking: “My dad.”
Isadore stops. He immediately picks up the pace, because she’s still going and will leave him in the dust with no remorse or hesitation.
“And you just do this everytime he’s here?”
“Every day.”
“Where does he even go?”
“To work.”
“Well, what does he do?”
“He’s an Arlequin.”
“Well, what kind of clown is he-- does he work in a circus?”
“No, and he’s no jangleur either.”
“Jan--?”
“He works for the gym leader.”
“Burgh? Gym leader Burgh?”
“Yes.”
He has several questions, each feeling more important to ask than the last, but he just can’t choose which one to go for.
Then: enlightenment.
“Is that why you work here?” he asks. “So you can see your father?”
Briosa stops.
She turns to him and stares right into his pupils with her eyes dark and green like rotten olives.
Her mouth is pressed into a tight line.
Is this really the reason?
“Once I threw a guy off the docks and left him to drown while I stole his bike.”
Ah.
Isadore cough lightly: “Is this a-”
“This is a conversation stopper!” she cuts him off cheerily: “Stop asking me things that aren’t your business!”
He doesn’t follow her when she leaves, Mawile still dangling from her hand - partly because she could easily break his ribs with a kick if she got annoyed enough, and partly because he realizes he’s late on schedule, and needs to hurry across the station.
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muschiosa2 · 2 years
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The water cuts out while shampoo still clogs my hair. The nurse who swabs my nose hopes I don’t have the virus, it’s a bitch. The building across from the cemetery calls itself life storage.
My little brother was shot, I tell the barista who asks how things have been, and tip extra for her inconvenience. We speak only to the dead, someone tells me—to comfort, I assume, or inspire,
but I take it literally, as I am wont: even my shut up and fuck and let’s cook tonight, those are for you, Stephen. You won’t come to me in my dreams, so I must communicate by other avenues.
A friend sends an image from Cy Twombly’s “Fifty Days at Iliam” —a red bloom, the words “like a fire that consumes all before it”— and asks: Have you seen this? It’s at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
If I have, I can’t remember, though I did visit with you, when you were eleven or twelve, when you tripped silent alarm after silent alarm, skating out of each room
as guards jostled in, and I—though charged with keeping you from trouble—joined the game, and the whole time we never laughed, not till we were released into the grand air we couldn’t touch and could.
You are dead at twenty-two. As I rinse dishes, fumble for my keys, buy kale and radishes, in my ear Priam repeats, I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son. Would I do that? I ask as I pass the store labelled signs signs.
I’ve studied the mug shot of the man who killed you; I can imagine his hands. Of course I would. Each finger, even. To hold your body again. And to resurrect you? Who knows what I am capable of.
If I were. Nights, I replay news footage: your blood on asphalt, sheen behind caution tape. Homer’s similes, I’ve been told, are holes cut in the cloth between the world of war and another, more peaceful world. On rereading, I find even there, a man kills his neighbor.
“Let Achilles cut me down, / as soon as I have taken my son into my arms and have satisfied my desire for grief”—this, my mind’s new refrain in the pharmacy queue, in the train’s rattling frame.
The same friend and I discuss a line by Zbigniew Herbert “where a distant fire is burning / like a page of the Iliad.” It’s nearly an ontological question, my friend says, the instability of reference:
The fires in the pages of the poem, the literal page set afire. We see double. You are the boy in the museum. You are the body consumed, ash.
Alone in a London museum, I saw a watercolor of twin flames, one black, one a gauzy red, only to learn the title is “Boats at Sea.” It’s like how sometimes I forget you’re gone. But it’s not like that, is it? Not at all. When in this world, similes carry us nowhere.
And now I see again the boy pelting through those galleries a boy not you, a flash of red, red, chasing, or being chased— Or did I invent him? Mischief companion. Brother. Listen to me
plead for your life though even in the dream I know you’re already dead. How do I insure my desire for grief is never satisfied? Was Priam’s ever? I tell my friend, I want the page itself to burn.
Published in the print edition of the April 25 & May 2, 2022, issue.
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imastrangeone98 · 2 years
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Into the Unknown - Chapter 2: Complete Strangers
(A/N: guess who's back... back again... with a shitty story not a single person is gonna read~~)
Spoiler warning: nero is a real one, what a nice boi 💙 also, my Dante is very different from canon Dante, and it makes vergil very confusion
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"I said, back up, Dante!" Nero shoved the devil hunter away from the girl, keeping an arm extended to keep him from trying to rush her. "She's telling the truth!"
"I ain't trying to do anything!" Dante replied, hands lifted defensively in the air. "I'm just sayin', if she did some weird demon shit to Vergil, I'm gonna slice her head off! Simple as that, see?"
"So you really are Dante?" the girl- Faith, she called herself- stepped closer to him, carefully observing him from head to toe. She was so close that his cheeks started to redden, nose flaring. "How'd you get so old? And what's happened to the office? Why is it so dirty now?"
"Uh, alright, lady- Faith, right?" Nero attempted to distract her from the very frazzled 40-year-old virgin. "So, just to clarify, we need to take you to the middle of bumfuck nowhere to fix this huge mirror that's actually a mystical portal to different worlds?"
"Pretty much, yes." She showed the two men the fragment; if not for the slight golden tinge to the glass, it would have easily been mistaken for a simple mirror shard. "By any chance, did you happen to have anything like this?"
"Yeah, now that you mention it."
Nero recalled the past few days: a mission dead-set in the countryside, with demons swarming an abandoned town- the empty church in particular. After the rubble and demon corpses had been cleared, right on the dusty altar was a shard similar to the one currently in the girl's hand.
"I will look after it," Vergil had said, taking the shard into his palm. "Neither of you have the sufficient knowledge to-"
"So you did find one," Faith mused. She was busy scooping trash off of Dante's desk, even going so far as to wipe it down with a wet cloth. The hunter had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. "It seems we both messed with the pieces a bit carelessly; that's probably how your brother and I switched places." She looked at Nero. "I know of a way to bring him back. But you'll have to trust me. Do you think you're capable of doing so?"
He thought about it for a few seconds; despite the circumstances, his demon instinct told him that she was trustworthy. And he, for one, wasn't someone to ignore his gut.
"Alright," he nodded in agreement. "I believe you. Let's get this shit done, and fast."
Dante rolled his eyes but made no complaint. "...If it'll get my brother back, I don't give a flying damn what happens."
She nodded. "Then it's a deal. Now, would you happen to have some money on you?"
[...]
"Fucking hell!" Dante paced the floor, viciously turning on his heel that it left dents on the wood. "So we really have no choice but to go back there?"
"Back where?" the newly arrived Vergil hissed. "If it will take me back to where I belong, then take me there immediately-!"
"Shut the fuck up," his now significantly younger brother snapped. "You're very lucky I'm not tempted to smack you to hell and back right now!"
Vergil recoiled for a second, mildly surprised at the raw venom in Dante's voice, but recovered just as quickly, his grip on the Yamato tightening. "Such bold words, coming from you, little brother."
"You fucking-"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" A sharp gunshot broke through the tension, the two "brothers" snapping their heads towards Lady. "You two fighting about whose dick is bigger isn't gonna help us solve the problem. We need our friend back, you need to go back. Simple, yes?"
Vergil's jaw tightened, but he reluctantly nodded.
"Good. Then it's decided: you're coming with us."
"To where?" he asked.
"To the place where it started," Dante muttered, slinging his sword over his back. "That shitty town. Cael."
"...There exists a town called Kale?"
--------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: I got distracted by life so I couldn't post it sooner but it's doneeee! The next chapter will also probably done in a few days but maybe it'll be earlier if I'm motivated enough (see what I did there?)
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sunny12th · 1 year
Text
After My Brother’s Death, I Reflect on the Iliad
The water cuts out while shampoo still clogs my hair. The nurse who swabs my nose hopes I don’t have the virus, it’s a bitch. The building across from the cemetery calls itself LIFE STORAGE.
My little brother was shot, I tell the barista who asks how things have been, and tip extra for her inconvenience. We speak only to the dead, someone tells me—to comfort, I assume, or inspire,
but I take it literally, as I am wont: even my shut up and fuck and let’s cook tonight, those are for you, Stephen. You won’t come to me in my dreams, so I must communicate by other avenues.
A friend sends an image from Cy Twombly’s “Fifty Days at Iliam” —a red bloom, the words “like a fire that consumes all before it”— and asks: Have you seen this? It’s at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
If I have, I can’t remember, though I did visit with you, when you were eleven or twelve, when you tripped silent alarm after silent alarm, skating out of each room
as guards jostled in, and I—though charged with keeping you from trouble—joined the game, and the whole time we never laughed, not till we were released into the grand air we couldn’t touch and could.
You are dead at twenty-two. As I rinse dishes, fumble for my keys, buy kale and radishes, in my ear Priam repeats, I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son. Would I do that? I ask as I pass the store labelled SIGNS SIGNS.
I’ve studied the mug shot of the man who killed you; I can imagine his hands. Of course I would. Each finger, even. To hold your body again. And to resurrect you? Who knows what I am capable of.
If I were. Nights, I replay news footage: your blood on asphalt, sheen behind caution tape. Homer’s similes, I’ve been told, are holes cut in the cloth between the world of war and another, more peaceful world. On rereading, I find even there, a man kills his neighbor.
“Let Achilles cut me down, / as soon as I have taken my son into my arms and have satisfied my desire for grief”—this, my mind’s new refrain in the pharmacy queue, in the train’s rattling frame.
The same friend and I discuss a line by Zbigniew Herbert “where a distant fire is burning / like a page of the Iliad.” It’s nearly an ontological question, my friend says, the instability of reference:
The fires in the pages of the poem, the literal page set afire. We see double. You are the boy in the museum. You are the body consumed, ash.
Alone in a London museum, I saw a watercolor of twin flames, one black, one a gauzy red, only to learn the title is “Boats at Sea.” It’s like how sometimes I forget you’re gone. But it’s not like that, is it? Not at all. When in this world, similes carry us nowhere.
And now I see again the boy pelting through those galleries a boy not you, a flash of red, red, chasing, or being chased— Or did I invent him? Mischief companion. Brother. Listen to me
plead for your life though even in the dream I know you’re already dead. How do I insure my desire for grief is never satisfied? Was Priam’s ever? I tell my friend, I want the page itself to burn.
By Elisa Gonzalez
April 18, 2022
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0278ji · 1 year
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The water cuts out white shampoo still clogs my hair.
The nurse who swabs my nose hopes I don't have the virus, it's a bitch.
The building across from the cemetery cals itself life storage.
My little brother was shot, i tell the barista who asks how things have been, and tip extra for her inconvenience. We speak only to the dead, someone tells me—to comfort, I assumen, or inspire, but I take it literally, as i am wont: even my shut up and fuck and let's cook tonight, those are for you, stephen. You won't come to me in my dreams, so I must communicate by other avenues.
A friend sends an image from Cy Twombly's “Fifty Days at Iliam”
—a red bloom, the words “like a fire that consumes all before it”— and asks: Have you seen this? It's at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
If i have, I can't remember, though i did visit with you, when you were eleven or twelve, when you tripped silent alarm after silent alarm, skating out of each room as guards jostled in, and I—though charged with keeping you from trouble—joined the game, and the whole time we never laughed, not till we were released into the grand air we couldn't touch and could.
You are dead at twenty-two. As I rinse dishes, fumble for my keys, buy kale and radishes, in my ear Priam repeats, I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son. Would I do that? I ask as I pass the store labelled SIGNS SIGNS.
I've studied the mug shot of the man who killed you; I can imagine his hands. Of course I would. Each finger, even. To hold your body again. And to resurrect you? Who knows what I am capable of.
If I were. Nights, I replay news footage: your blood on asphalt, sheen behind caution tape. Homer's similes, I've been told, are holes cut in the cloth between the world of war and another, more peaceful world. On rereading, I find even there, a man kills his neighbor.
"Let Achilles cut me down,/ as soon as I have taken my son into my arms and have satisfied my desire for grief”—this, my mind's new refrain in the pharmacy queue, in the train's rattling frame.
The same friend and I discuss a line by
Zbigniew Herbert "where a distant fire is burning / like a page of the Iliad."
It's nearly an ontological question, my friend says, the instability of reference: The fires in the pages of the poem, the literal page set afire.
We see double.
You are the boy in the museum. You are the body consumed, ash.
Alone in a London museum, I saw a watercolor of twin flames, one black, one a gauzy red, only to learn the title is "Boats at Sea." It's like how sometimes I forget you're gone. But it's not like that, is it? Not at all. When in this world, similes carry us nowhere.
And now I see again the boy pelting through those galleries a boy not you, a flash of red, red, chasing, or being chased— Or did I invent him? Mischief companion.
Brother. Listen to me
plead for your life though even in the dream I know you're already dead.
How do I insure my desire for grief is never satisfied? Was Priam's ever? I tell my friend, I want the page itself to burn.
Elisa Gonzalez, the winner of a 2020 Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers' Award, is at work on her first book.
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thewordslam · 1 year
Text
After My Brother’s Death, I Reflect on the Iliad By Elisa Gonzalez
The water cuts out while shampoo still clogs my hair. The nurse who swabs my nose hopes I don’t have the virus, it’s a bitch. The building across from the cemetery calls itself life storage.
My little brother was shot, I tell the barista who asks how things have been, and tip extra for her inconvenience. We speak only to the dead, someone tells me—to comfort, I assume, or inspire,
but I take it literally, as I am wont: even my shut up and fuck and let’s cook tonight, those are for you, Stephen. You won’t come to me in my dreams, so I must communicate by other avenues.
A friend sends an image from Cy Twombly’s “Fifty Days at Iliam” —a red bloom, the words “like a fire that consumes all before it”— and asks: Have you seen this? It’s at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
If I have, I can’t remember, though I did visit with you, when you were eleven or twelve, when you tripped silent alarm after silent alarm, skating out of each room
as guards jostled in, and I—though charged with keeping you from trouble—joined the game, and the whole time we never laughed, not till we were released into the grand air we couldn’t touch and could.
You are dead at twenty-two. As I rinse dishes, fumble for my keys, buy kale and radishes, in my ear Priam repeats, I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son. Would I do that? I ask as I pass the store labelled signs signs.
I’ve studied the mug shot of the man who killed you; I can imagine his hands. Of course I would. Each finger, even. To hold your body again. And to resurrect you? Who knows what I am capable of.
If I were. Nights, I replay news footage: your blood on asphalt, sheen behind caution tape. Homer’s similes, I’ve been told, are holes cut in the cloth between the world of war and another, more peaceful world. On rereading, I find even there, a man kills his neighbor.
“Let Achilles cut me down, / as soon as I have taken my son into my arms and have satisfied my desire for grief”—this, my mind’s new refrain in the pharmacy queue, in the train’s rattling frame.
The same friend and I discuss a line by Zbigniew Herbert “where a distant fire is burning / like a page of the Iliad.” It’s nearly an ontological question, my friend says, the instability of reference:
The fires in the pages of the poem, the literal page set afire. We see double. You are the boy in the museum. You are the body consumed, ash.
Alone in a London museum, I saw a watercolor of twin flames, one black, one a gauzy red, only to learn the title is “Boats at Sea.” It’s like how sometimes I forget you’re gone. But it’s not like that, is it? Not at all. When in this world, similes carry us nowhere.
And now I see again the boy pelting through those galleries a boy not you, a flash of red, red, chasing, or being chased— Or did I invent him? Mischief companion. Brother. Listen to me
plead for your life though even in the dream I know you’re already dead. How do I insure my desire for grief is never satisfied? Was Priam’s ever? I tell my friend, I want the page itself to burn.
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judeiscariot · 3 years
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happy met gala day everyone its time to use my nonexistent fashion knowledge to harshly judge the work of extremely experienced designers
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Weighted Blanket
I blame the Bog for enabling me here. This got out of hand. It was just gonna be a cute little drabble I swear yall. But the feels took over? I want a Geralt for myself? Preferably the fanon himbo variety? Idk fam, ya get what ya get today.
Warnings: anxiety/anxiety attack (not panic attack), new established relationship, Jask feels like he has to hide his anxiety from people, Geralt being a soft ass himbo, someone plz find me one? plz?
_______________
Jaskier had spent the night at Geralt’s a few times and he was always incredibly nervous until Geralt opened the door. He adjusted his backpack strap and tapped his foot on the concrete porch and felt a little bit like a child at a playdate. He was a grown ass man. This wasn’t that big of a deal. At least that's what he told himself while he waited for Geralt to scramble out of whatever pretzel yoga pose he was undoubtedly in. Jaskier was all for taking care of himself, he just preferred the ‘extra whip and a pedicure’ style rather than ‘whole foods and regular exercise’ route. He was worried Geralt would try to get him to go to the gym and drink kale but he seemed perfectly content to let Jaskier do what works for him. 
When Geralt opened the door he had a goofy grin and his hair in a sweaty floppy bun, “You’re early,” he said it like it was a treat every time, regardless of how early Jaskier really was. Be it fifteen minutes or an hour and a half, he always looked like an excited puppy and it set Jaskier at ease. 
But today he didn’t feel the tightness in his chest melt away when Geralt smiled at him. Not when he pulled him into a hug before he could utter his greeting. Not even when Geralt kissed the top of his head and rubbed his arms vigorously to warm him up because, “I know you have a sweatshirt in your backpack.”
Jaskier shrugged and leaned into his chest, “I kinda forgot.”
“You weren’t cold?”
“Well now that you mention it....” Jaskier forced a playful tone and got two handfuls of Geralt’s ass, that wonderful, perky ass. And it did absolutely nothing to him. 
Geralt frowned and tilted his head, brushing the damp hair out of jaskier’s eyes, “I was gonna invite you to shower. But you don’t sound excited.”
Jaskier sighed and gave him a weak smile, “I want to be excited.”
Geralt just tilted his head the other direction and tightened his grip on Jaskier’s shoulders and oh wasn’t that nice. That eased the ache a little bit. 
“I’m just a little anxious from work,” Jaskier assured him, patting his hands over Geralt’s perky asscheeks, “Go shower. I’ll be good by the time you’re done.” 
“Are you sure?” Geralt slouched just a bit to draw Jaskier’s eyes to his, “Come with? I’ll wash your hair?” 
Jaskier shook his head with a little smile, “Tempting. But I’ll drink some tea under my blanket then we can enjoy our evening.” 
Geralt kissed his forehead and gave him a quick but firm hug before darting down the hallway to rush through his shower. Jaskier measured his breathing as he made tea, now fairly familiar with Geralt’s kitchen, and settled down on the couch to dig through his backpack for his weighted blanket. 
Only it wasn’t there. His backpack had felt light when he left but it was just such a hectic day and he’d just wanted to see Geralt so bad. 
“Fuck,” he whispered, seeing his hands start to shake as he rezipped his pack, “It’s just a little anxiety Jask. It’s fine. You are fine. It isn’t the end of the world. It will pass. It’s just because that asshole yelled at you, not anything to do with Geralt. You two are fine, good even…” 
He sat back on the couch and pulled his knees into his chest, clutching at the mug of too-hot tea to keep his hands from shaking. Every few seconds he remembered he had to breathe, and do so slowly, if he wanted to get through this feeling and he would gasp a little bit with the realization he hadn’t been. He whispered his logical thoughts he’d prepared for this. The spiral would get a little momentum and he’d count his breaths and repeat his prepared sentences and he’d feel it receding but that was as much momentum as he could get. 
As soon as he started to calm down, he’d think about Geralt coming out of his shower to see him like this and it would start up again. He’d managed to keep his anxiety under control in front of Geralt so well. Geralt was so calm and steady and gentle that Jaskier hadn’t had to try so hard to begin with. But now his crazy was all out on the table and he wasn’t quite mentally prepared to be thrown out of Geralt’s house. 
In the middle of repeating one of his calming thoughts, he heard Geralt pad around the couch and felt more than saw him sit down.
“Jask?” Geralt’s voice didn’t quite sound real, but it was still soft and gentle enough not to spike his anxiety any worse, “You okay?”
He just shook his head and forced himself to exhale slowly. 
“What’s wrong?”
Jaskier swallowed hard and whispered with more effort than he’d like to admit, “Just an anxiety attack. I… I forgot my weighted blanket.” 
Gods did that feel horrible. Admitting to your hot new boyfriend that you have a security blanket at 30 and it sends you into an anxiety attack when you leave it at home wasn’t really on his to do list, but here he fucking was. 
Geralt gripped the tea mug by the rim and took the now lukewarm tea before his shaking hands spilled it all over his knees, “What do you need?”
Jaskier felt tears brimming behind his eyes and squeezed them shut, “Wh- what?”
“What do you need? To help you.”
“Oh,” Jaskier opened his eyes and tears fell down his cheeks, “No one’s ever asked me that before...”
Geralt took a deep breath and held it for a moment before exhaling and offering his hand to Jask, palm up, “Can we try something that helps my brother?”
Jaskier nodded, he didn’t even care what it was, he was too shocked by the realization that Geralt wasn’t scared off or disgusted with him. 
“Your weighted blanket helps, right?”
Jaskier nodded and set a trembling hand in Geralt’s palm, swiping at his face with the other. 
“Can I hold you? See if that helps?” 
Jaskier nodded again and uncurled from his ball a little bit so Geralt could pull his legs over his lap and wrap his arms around Jaskier’s body. He squeezed a little tighter than his usual hugs but the pressure was just barely registered with the way Jaskier’s body was in overdrive. Regardless, he burrowed into Geralt’s shoulder, partly to hide his tears and partly because it felt safe. 
“How’s this? Are you okay?”
Jaskier nodded, “Can you squeeze tighter?”
“How about we lay down?” 
“Lay down?” Jaskier’s voice cracked on his words but he barely even noticed. 
Geralt rested one large hand over his soft brown hair, “I could be your weighted blanket? It works for Skel sometimes.”
“Yeah- yeah, okay,” Jaskier muttered as he forced his creaking knees to straighten as Geralt laid him back onto the couch. Geralt positioned them so he was laying on his side against the back of the couch and Jaskier was on his back in front of them. He laid his head on Jaskier’s shoulder and half draped his body over him, just testing the waters. 
That alone was nice, but the little bit of relief only made Jaskier crave more. He tugged at Geralt’s elbow, not really pulling but guiding him to completely cover him. That was perfect. Jaskier could think a little clearer after a few seconds, then he could feel his limbs again and hummed happily. 
“Good?” Geralt’s hopeful smile beaming up at him from where he was resting his chin on Jaskier’s sternum was bright enough to end wars. 
“Very.”
Geralt closed his eyes and sighed, that soft little smile still on his face. Jaskier took a deep breath and basked in the way Geralt’s torso pinned him to the cushions. His thighs were pressed over his legs and pleasantly heavy and the way he’d cushioned his chin with his hands meant Geralt’s lovely, squishy, heavy arms were keeping his shoulders down. 
After a few minutes Jaskier felt the post-anxiety exhaustion hit that let him know it was really over, but he didn’t want to move. Instead he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s ribs and laced his fingers together over his spine. 
“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes closed with a tired smile, “You’re the best weighted blanket I’ve ever used.” 
“Anytime,” Geralt’s voice reverberated through Jaskier’s body in the most soothing way, deep and strong but gentle as well, “I mean it. You don’t need to hide this from me. I want to help.”
Jaskier giggled, “Oh don’t tell me that.”
One of Geralt’s hands floated up to trace Jaskier’s jaw and the high points of his cheekbones, “Why not?” 
“Well, I might believe you. It's a little overwhelming- believing you. -And my anxiety,” Jaskier clarified, brushing his thumb over Geralt’s back as he spoke.
“That’s okay.”
Jaskier frowned and looked down at his boyfriend. He was staring up at him with ridiculously round eyes and his eyebrows drawn in and together with a not-so-subtle pout to his lips. Regardless of the cute face, his eyes held sincerity. And Jaskier didn’t really know what to do with it. 
“I-” Jask took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling as he spoke, “I’m used to hiding it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Geralt tapped Jaskier’s chin to get him to look at him, “Yeah, that’s okay. If it’s hard for you to tell someone, that’s okay. We’ll work with it.” 
If he weren’t pinned underneath Geralt at an uncooperative angle, Jaskier would have kissed him, but he settled for resting his palm on his jaw, “You’re too sweet to me.”
“You deserve it,” Geralt hummed, turning his head to kiss his wrist. 
For once, Jaskier didn’t fight him on it. 
505 notes · View notes
morganaspendragonss · 3 years
Note
fic request because i am d e s p e r a t e : tarlos carlos whump with supportive gabriel reyes ??? if you’re down to write him that is. i love ur work n ur whump n i think u would write a p good gabe. 🥰
holly’s august extravaganza day 1: against all odds (we're still here)
i'm always down to write gabriel! thanks for the prompt trick, i hope you like it!
ao3 | 2k | car accidents, whump, major character injury, angst with a happy ending
“I told you we should have brought the car.”
Carlos scowls over at TK, shifting one of the many bags he’s carrying higher on his arm. It cuts painfully into his skin, his good mood from earlier long since soured. The knowledge that TK is, of course, right isn’t exactly helping matters.
“In my defence,” he starts, for probably the fifth or sixth time, “when we texted your dad to see if he wanted us to pick up anything from the store, I wasn’t expecting a full list.”
“We could have told him no.”
“TK, he’s your dad and we are literally crashing his home right now. I’m not gonna tell him no.”
TK opens his mouth, presumably to retort with a comment about how his dad loves Carlos and loves having them around. Both of which are things Carlos knows perfectly well, thanks, but he’s still not interested in testing it by refusing to get Owen’s kale chips or that specific brand of shampoo which took half an hour—and two stores—to track down.
Whatever TK was about to say is abandoned when one of his own bags slips out of his grasp and falls to the ground with a depressing thud. It bursts open—because why wouldn’t it—and spills their purchases across the sidewalk. The only solace is that nothing breaks, but that’s where the good news begins and ends; Carlos’s eyes track a can as it rolls down the street and into the gutter, landing in a puddle of dirty water. TK looks forlornly between the dropped bag and those still balanced on his arms, then heaves a long-suffering sigh and crouches awkwardly, easing the other bags down as carefully as he can manage.
“Call an Uber,” he grumbles. “We are not walking home like this.”
On that point, they’re in agreement. Carlos spares himself a moment of idle amusement at TK’s predicament before beginning the arduous task of extracting his phone from his pocket without dropping any of his own shopping.
He’ll hate himself for it later, but he’s so focused that the screech of tires coming around the corner barely registers as a blip on his radar. He doesn’t notice anything until TK suddenly barrels into him, throwing Carlos to the side just before something else, something heavy, crashes into them with a blinding flash of pain, and then—
Nothing.
*
Oh my god!
Someone call 911!
Are they even alive?
Just hold on, son, you’re going to be just fine.
*
Beeping.
Carlos frowns, slowly blinking his heavy eyelids open. It takes a minute to register his surroundings for what they are—a hospital room—and a further minute to notice the presence at his side. It’s his father, looking exhausted, turning his cowboy hat in his hands as he stares at the floor.
“Dad?” he croaks, wincing at the soreness in his throat. “What happened?”
His father’s head jerks up, his eyes going wide as he sees Carlos awake. “Mijo. It’s good to see you awake.”
“Dad, why am I here? What happened?”
He sighs, reaching out to pat Carlos’s arm. “There was an accident,” he explains. “A drunk driver lost control of his car and mounted the curb right where you boys were standing. He was speeding, so he hit you pretty hard. Your foot was crushed under a wheel, you have a fractured wrist, and you bumped your head when you fell so you probably have a concussion. The doctors say you should heal just fine, though, gracias a Dios.”
Carlos lifts his head to look down at his body, only just registering the casts on his arm and foot. There’s a dull ache radiating through his entire body and his head is pounding in time with his heartbeat, but he’s alive and he’ll heal. He should be happy about that, but the only thing occupying his mind is his dad’s silence on TK.
“What about TK?” he asks, part of him dreading the answer. “I remember him pushing me; is he okay?”
“He’s…” His dad hesitates, sending a cold slither of fear down Carlos’s spine. “Alive.”
Carlos stares, the beginnings of panic stealing his breath. “What does that mean?”
His father blows out a long breath. “It means you were right,” he says, meeting Carlos’s eyes. “He did push you, so he took the brunt of the hit. He suffered a serious open pelvic fracture and broken ribs, which punctured his lung. Last I heard, they managed to fix him up and they’re not expecting any further complications, but we won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”
“He hasn’t woken up?”
“Not yet. He will, you’ll see.”
“I want to see him.”
And Carlos knows what the answer will be to that—a resounding no. He also knows that he won’t be able to argue; his father is incredibly stubborn, and when he digs his heels in, there’s no moving him. But he needs to at least try—he’s not going to stop worrying about TK until he sees him, and probably not for a long time after that.
His dad sighs and fixes him with a firm look. “Carlitos, you and I both know that’s out of the question,” he says. “You’ve only just woken up, you need to give yourself time to heal before exerting your body even more. Besides, he’s in good hands and Owen is with him, so we’ll know as soon as there’s any change.”
“Joder, Papá, I know all that,” Carlos cries, frustrated, barely able to refrain from throwing his head back on the pillow. “I just hate that he’s here, hurt, and I can’t even see him.”
“Lo sé,” His dad smiles gently, something that’s probably supposed to be comforting, but really only gets on Carlos’s nerves. “Escúchame, hijo. Descansa. Cúrate. Then you can focus on TK.”
It’s easier said than done and his father knows it, but Carlos has no choice. The conversation is effectively put to an end by his dad reaching over and pressing the call button next to the bed. A nurse comes in and quickly sets about checking his vitals and asking enough questions to make Carlos’s head spin. His probable concussion becomes definite, but otherwise he’s in good shape, all things considered.
He can’t help but wish he weren’t.
*
Two days later, Carlos is deemed fit to be discharged, providing he has someone to help him and providing he agrees to rest and not do anything even close to strenuous. TK is also awake now but, according to Owen, he’ll be kept in the hospital for at least another week. The break to his pelvis was bad, so he’ll need a wheelchair for a while even after discharge, and his refusal to take strong painkillers means his recovery is going to be long and painful.
Carlos is itching to see him. It’s been torture cooped up in his room without knowing how TK was doing—there’s only so much relief messages passed through their fathers can bring. It had only been his father’s stern and steady presence that had kept him in that bed when he felt like he was losing his mind with worry.
But now, finally, he’s being wheeled into TK’s room and helped onto the chair next to the bed. Owen stands off to the side, watching the two of them with a mixture of affection and sadness in his gaze, and his dad hovers behind him, but Carlos only has eyes for TK.
He looks incredibly tired, but he attempts a smile when he rolls his head to look at Carlos, extending his hand out across the distance between them.
“Hey, Ty,” Carlos says softly, taking TK’s hand in his good one. “How are you feeling?”
“Been better. Not sure if I’ve been worse. I think this might just beat getting shot to that title.”
“That’s not funny.”
TK just hums, his eyes drifting closed for a second. “Maybe not.”
“Why did you push me?”
TK’s eyes fly open at the question, confusion overtaking his expression as he stares at Carlos. He moves as if to sit upright before groaning in pain, his face screwing up. Carlos reaches out for him, but he’s beaten to it by his father, who places a reassuring hand on TK’s shoulder.
“Take it easy, son,” he says gently. “Don’t move too much.”
“I hate this,” TK mutters, his body relaxing bit by bit. His gaze is still clouded when he looks back over at Carlos, but he manages a soft smile all the same. “I pushed you because I didn’t want you to get hurt. The car would have hit me either way; I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to get you out of the way in time.”
Carlos blinks at him, dumbfounded. “You’re sorry?” he asks, disbelief colouring his tone. “Ty, you’re in the hospital, seriously injured, because you chose to save me instead of yourself. Why would you do that?”
“You know why.”
Carlos does; of course he does, but it’s not enough to assuage the guilt still bubbling in his stomach at the sight of TK in the bed.
TK sighs, squeezing his hand. “You would have done the same for me,” he points out. “We both know you would have, so don’t you dare ask me to apologise for my choices.”
“I know. I won’t.” Carlos closes his eyes, deflating a little. “I just hate seeing you hurt.”
“And I hate seeing you hurt, so maybe you can do us both a favour and go home. I’ll be fine.”
Carlos must need his hearing tested, because there’s no way TK just said that. There’s no way his boyfriend told him to leave right after calling him out for hypocrisy. Except apparently he did, because he’s trying to disentangle their hands, and Carlos is not having that.
He grips onto TK even tighter and glares at him. “TK, if you think I’m leaving you here—”
“Carlos,” TK interrupts quietly. “I get it. But, babe, you need to rest and heal, and you can’t do either of those things sitting here.”
“Watch me.”
“No.” TK shifts his gaze over Carlos’s shoulder, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “Mr Reyes, can you make sure he rests?”
His dad laughs, leaning over to pat TK’s shoulder. “Of course. I’m sure once his mother sees him, she won’t let him out of her sight for a week anyway.”
TK grins. “Good to know.” He yawns and resettles himself slightly in the bed, his eyes fluttering shut. “Carlos, if you’re still here when I next open my eyes, I’m not kissing you for a month.”
“You shouldn’t make threats you know you can’t follow through with.”
“Don’t make me make it two.”
Despite himself, Carlos laughs. He leans over and presses a lingering kiss to TK’s temple, then stands as well as he’s able, leaning on his dad for support. “Alright, I’m going. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”
TK already sounds half-asleep when he mumbles, “Love you too,” back, and Carlos can’t even be embarrassed by how ridiculously smitten he must look, even though he’s in front of both their fathers.
He allows his dad to move him back to the wheelchair and says a quick goodbye to Owen, keeping his eyes on TK for as long as he can. Just as they reach the door, he catches TK’s eyes opening to slivers, obviously checking to see if Carlos is actually leaving. Carlos shakes his head at him, causing TK to flush at the knowledge he’s been caught. His eyes slam shut again, his tongue poking out childishly, and Carlos laughs, a lightness settling in his heart even as TK’s room disappears from view.
It’s going to be a long few months for the both of them, but they have family behind them to help them get through it.
And they have each other. Which, given everything, Carlos thinks is nothing short of a goddamn miracle.
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kalee60 · 3 years
Note
Kalee. Kal. Hi. Hello.
So I recently got a Tiktok because all the kids these days are doing it and my sister keeps sending me videos 🤦🏼‍♀️🙄 I know.
Anyways
There’s apparently this challenge.
Kalee.
It’s a kiss your best friend challenge.
And all I can think is:
Steve and Bucky.
It could be canon verse. It could be an au.
But like imagine. If you haven’t seen the videos it’s super cute but also cringy because like what if it doesn’t go over well, it would be awkwardddd! They basically just film themselves hangout with their best friend and then try to kiss them and see if they’ve secretly been pining too.
Imagine.
Claire - my gorgeous pocket rocket from the Big Apple 🍎
This ask (that you sent eons ago) could not just be answered with a simple - 'omg, yes - I know right - it's the perfect Stucky scenario - someone should write it'... Because well - I guess somehow it turned out that I could write a little something...
I hope you enjoy this, because without your cheerleading, your throwing of pom poms and generally screaming at me in comments and on here - well writing wouldn't be half as much fun.
So for you Claire - enjoy this little story of two boys, a kiss in the making and a TikTok account 😘
~*~*~*~*~
Nerves rode Bucky as he placed his phone down into the perfect position; camera at the ready, not pressing record yet - but waiting for the signal. Steve was doing the exact same with his phone, only from a slightly different angle, setting it up for their parkour trick - something they were going to post to TikTok later. But although Steve was under the impression he was about to perform a flip off Bucky’s shoulders to grab hold of a tree branch then scale the fifteen foot wall beside it - Bucky had other ideas.
He’d seen a new TikTok challenge that week, it was plastered all over the platform and filled his suggested videos, and since the first time he’d watched one, then devoured another fifty straight away, he’d secretly wanted to do it. Wanted to throw all caution to the wind and seize the moment.
Today was that day.
Bucky Barnes was going to kiss Stevie Rogers right on the lips. His best friend since middle school, the boy, now man that he’d secretly loved for over a decade - and although Bucky could have thought of a million different ways to show Steve how he felt - he’d just never had the courage. At least if the video bombed, he could still put it up as a laugh and hopefully Steve would see the joke and it wouldn’t ruin their friendship - hopefully.
So Bucky waited for Steve to finish fiddling with his phone and camera positioning, which was taking him longer than usual to set up, trying to not let the butterflies in his gut take over.
Steve finally looked up, face flushed red like he’d already performed the stunt and Bucky was struck dumb, staring at how beautiful Steve was in the afternoon sunlight. He became lost in the way the shadows from the trees created patterns across Steve’s tightly toned body, the slight wind whispering to Bucky to take his chance, to not mess it up. And Steve stood before him like a golden god, nervously splaying his fingers, cracking his knuckles while staring back at Bucky with an unreadable expression on his face. Was he worried about their trick?
“You okay, Pal?” Bucky asked, his voice faltering with the knowledge he was about to change everything - or nothing.
Steve nodded, eyes wide and bright, darting over Bucky’s face, and Bucky took a moment to bask at being in Steve’s full attention.
“Yep,” Steve popped the ‘p’ and ran a hand through his hair, blonde strands sticking up comically, but Bucky didn’t laugh, he’d never seen someone as breathtaking as Steve did in that moment. 
Steve was Bucky’s true north, a steady and unrelenting force at his side - but it went both ways. They’d been through family deaths, relationship fallouts, fights and everything in between, but the one thing that was always unbroken - was they were in it together. No matter what life threw at them, Steve and Bucky were as solid as rock. Unshakable.
And Bucky was probably about to screw it all up.
They closed in on each other, coming to a standstill until only a foot separated them; Steve’s huge blue eyes darted quickly between Bucky’s; there was something different about the look, intense, and Bucky wondered if his own nerves were obvious and Steve was suddenly unsure about the acrobatic feat they were attempting.
“You still want to do this? Haven’t changed your mind?” Bucky asked to make sure, and was surprised when Steve licked his lips and shook his head emphatically.
“No, I’m sure - more sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”
Bucky smiled, Steve being dramatic about their parkour tricks was not unusual, but the way Steve’s cheek twitched and how his foot tapped on the ground was not normal behaviour. And Bucky couldn’t help but start to worry that his idea to surprise-kiss Steve wasn’t the greatest one, wasn’t something he should be trying, as it seemed Steve was janky - wound up.
“Alright, Stevie. If you’re sure.”
Resolve filled Steve’s features as they both turned on their cameras, and once set up, Steve took an almost hesitant step forward.
Bucky held his breath.
It was the moment of truth. 
They’d practised the trick so many times, had to start toe to toe for it to work, Steve pushing off Bucky to sprint to the wall, running vertically up the side of it, to twist around and jump off Bucky’s shoulders and flip onto the tree branch, shoving off it then using his momentum to run up the rest of the wall. Finally gripping the lip and climbing over it. 
They’d gone over it at least thirty times.
No injuries as of yet.
But this time, just as Steve pressed forward, Bucky yanked him in - at the exact same time as Steve flew forward, completely catching Bucky off guard as he was heading in the wrong direction than expected, he was moving towards Bucky instead of pushing away - and their heads slammed together with a loud thud.
And instead of taking the defeat of the moment graciously, Bucky was in too deep, had waited too long, had it all planned out - and so as Steve rubbed his forehead looking as mortified at what had transpired as Bucky, Bucky once again leant forward. Only to find Steve pitching towards him too, and for the second time in less than three seconds their skulls cracked against the other.
“- holy shit, Barnes. Are you going to let me kiss you or not?”
“- Steve you fucking menace, I’m trying to kiss you!”
The silence was deafening as their words mingled together and wide ocean blue eyes met stormy silt infused grey-blue ones in shock.
“- what did you…?”
“- did you just...?”
Once again talking at the same time, they both trailed off, and the words started to sink into Bucky’s fried brain. Steve was trying to kiss him. Him.
Slack jawed, he could only stare at Steve whose expression mimicked his own, clearly having come to the same realisation about Bucky. He managed to swallow the obscenely thick lump in his throat and with a small tremor in his hand, reached up to place it on Steve’s forehead where a red mark was forming - rubbing the spot gently with his thumb. Steve’s eyes softened and his shoulders relaxed.
With the last tendrils of fear slipping away, Bucky trailed his fingers down the side of Steve’s face before reaching behind his head, gripping the base of Steve’s neck. Then stopped.
Steve’s breathing laboured, coming in sharp and Bucky tightened his grip, loving the way Steve’s eyes fluttered half shut before they opened again, trying not to lose contact with Bucky’s.
Steve was stunning, so responsive and Bucky licked his lips, loving how Steve’s attention snagged on his mouth immediately.
“Can I?” Bucky husked, and Steve nodded jerkily when Bucky’s fingers played with the silky strands of Steve’s hair as he leant in.
The first meeting of their lips lacked the pain of slammed heads and teeth - but it was perfect in every way. Steve’s lips were plush, soft and pliant under Buckys as Bucky took control of the kiss, pressing forward into Steve’s heat. Bucky’s other hand came up to cup Steve’s face tenderly, unable to express how it felt to be kissing his lifelong friend after so many years of yearning for it, Bucky almost at the point where he thought it could never happen. The fact Steve kissed him back - enthusiastically, made his heart thump louder and harder until it was all he could hear in his mind.
After a moment, Bucky pulled away, resting his forehead on Steve’s, mindful of the tender place they’d cracked heads minutes earlier, and couldn’t stop the rasped laugh that escaped.
“You laughing at the way I kiss, Barnes?” Steve sassed with a smile in his voice.
Bucky chuckled, “no, not at all.” He paused a second to gather his thoughts, “I just can’t believe I set this up to kiss you on camera for TikTok, so damn nervous the whole time you’d freak out and punch me - and you were doing the exact same thing.”
Steve grinned and pulled away enough so that he could stare into Bucky’s eyes, the emotion shining from his beautifully clear expression stole the breath from Bucky’s lungs.
“How long?” Steve asked with a whisper. And Bucky wanted to lie, to tell him it wasn’t long, that he’d only just realised if only to stop himself looking too much like a sap.
He didn’t lie.
“The day you punched Deon Franklin when he asked me for a tongue kiss while calling me those terrible names.”
Steve’s stunned look spoke volumes, “Bucky. We were sixteen.”
“And…?” Bucky winced at Steve’s incredulous tone.
Suddenly Steve laughed hysterically, and Bucky started to back up, but before he got too far, Steve grabbed his biceps stopping him in his tracks. “Oh no you dont. You do know why I punched him right?”
“Because he was a dick?”
“Well apart from that.” Steve said wryly and took a deep breath, letting Bucky go. “It’s because he upset you. And I was desperate for your attention - wanted that kiss he so crudely demanded as a joke.”
“What…” Bucky stammered out, “You wanted me back then too?”
Steve smiled indulgently at him. “You didn’t think I stuck around just for your personality did you?”
Bucky roared with laughter, elated at the turn of events and grabbed Steve, slamming their mouths together, and soon the kiss morphed from chaste and exploratory to something meaner, something heavier. Pushing Steve up against the tree, the small noise from Steve’s throat as the bark dug into his skin set something feral off in Bucky and he kissed deeper, shoving his tongue further until both of them struggled for air.
A loud beeping infiltrated Bucky’s hearing and he reluctantly pulled away, adoring the slack jawed and glazed look in Steve’s eyes way too much. Wanting Steve to look up at him with that exact same expression but with a lot less clothing and a lot more privacy in place.
“Want to do the trick still?” Bucky questioned as he walked over and grabbed his phone to stop the alert that he was running out of video. When Steve didn’t answer he looked back over his shoulder and almost dropped his phone.
Steve was leaning limp against the tree, clearly half hard and staring after Bucky like he’d just gifted him the world. When in actual fact, it was Steve who’d done that for him.
Bucky stalked back over, gripping Steve’s chin, kissing him soundly one more time, and Steve immediately went pliant under his touch, oh boy, they were going to have so much fun.
“How about instead, we go back to mine and see what other tricks we can come up with?”
Steve’s breathing came in faster and harder and a broken ‘yes’ worked its way out of his throat, Bucky catching the word in his mouth as he kissed Steve again.
Bucky smirked as he pulled away, helping Steve stand upright.
“But, only on the condition that we tape it.” Steve said in a voice deep and rich, and Bucky was suddenly on the back foot when Steve smiled deliciously at him, eyes full of dirty promises.
Dry mouthed and vibrating from anticipation, Bucky followed Steve to his car, walking in a slight daze at what had transpired in only twenty minutes.
And all Bucky was certain of, was that although his TikTok kiss hadn’t gone to plan - everything else would fall into place.
Just the way it was meant to.
169 notes · View notes
recurring-polynya · 3 years
Note
For the Renji birthday prompt: A fic where Renji discovers that he can't go tits out anymore now that he's married (maybe with some jealous Rukia thrown in perhaps)?
I maintain that the new tits-in regime is self-imposed; I present to you my thesis. (I did not attempt to take on The Vest; I assume it came later, and I eagerly await more Vest Lore from Kubo himself)
Warning that I sincerely hope deters absolutely no one: This fic is about boobs. It contains many, many synonyms for boobs. Some of them are rude. 
Read on ao3 or ff.net
---
“I’m telling you, you’re jumping to conclusions. Sometimes he puts them away when he fights. He told me this.”
“I haven’t seen them in weeks.”
“It’s been winter.”
“That has never stopped him before. And it’s April now. Open season. And yet…?”
“I think we should just ask him.”
“You can’t just ask a guy, ‘hey, where did your tits go?’”
“I could, but I refuse. Abarai’s aesthetic is his own business.”
“Since when?”
“Okay, he’s here, someone’s gotta do it.”
“Not it!”
“Also not it!”
“Matsumoto, you have to do it. You’re the one who talked him into letting them hang out in the first place.”
“I agree with Yumichika. Renji knows what he’s doing, and if he has decided that the puppies are off-limits, that’s on him.”
“Hey, guys!” Abarai Renji’s cheerful voice rang out over the din of the bar. “Sorry I’m late!”
“Just means you have to catch up quick!” Rangiku declared, pouring him some sake.
“No missus tonight?” Shuuhei asked.
Renji’s entire face went pink and he got the same moony look in his eyes he always got whenever someone mentioned his wife or his marital state generally. “She sends her regards and says I’m supposed to drink extra for her. She goes over to the Manor on Wednesday evenings now to hang out with her brother.”
“Have you actually managed to call him by his given name yet?” Iba asked. “Now that you’re related?”
“His given name is ‘Captain’ and I call him that all the time,” Renji replied snottily.
“So. Renji,” Izuru said, leaning forward on his elbow. “Are you doing something different? With your look? I feel like there’s something different about you.”
Renji’s face lit up. “You noticed!” He swung his head around, his long braid swinging over his shoulder. “I’ve started braiding it!”
“Oh, no, it’s permanent?” Yumichika moaned.
“That’s not new,” Iba scoffed. “You slept with it like that the whole time we were roommates. I just figured that you didn’t have time to fix your hair in the morning anymore because you were too busy taking care--oof!”
“It looks very nice, Renji!” Momo said sweetly, extracting her elbow from Iba’s rib cage.
“It’s different,” Renji glowered at Iba. “I braid it loosely at night to prevent breakage and lock in moisture. This is an action braid.” He wheeled on Yumichika. “And I’m only French braiding it for now, because it’s shorter in front than in the back, you know, because of the accident. Once I’ve grown it out to all one length again, I’ll just do a regular braid.”
“You could just cut it to the length of the shortest part and go back to the pineapple hair,” Ikkaku suggested. “I always liked the pineapple hair.”
Renji turned pink again. “Ah, well. Rukia likes it long.”
“Yeah, I don’t think the braid is… what I was thinking of,” Izuru soldiered on.
Renji sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “I got a new tattoo? A pair, actually.”
“Oh! Did you?”
“On your chest?” Shuuhei asked hopefully. A healing tattoo would be a good excuse to cover up.
“Nah, on my thighs.”
Izuru sighed. “Since when do I look at your thighs, Abarai?”
“I have good thighs, Izuru.”
“He probably just looks different because he’s so happy now,” Rangiku suggested. “By which I mean getting your back blown out every night.”
“That could be it!” Renji agreed cheerfully. “Oh, I was wearing a scarf for a while there, when we had that cold snap! Is it the scarf? Or maybe the lack of scarf? It’s a nice scarf, Captain gave it to me for a wedding present. He says a man of quality should own a scarf.”
“I give up,” Izuru sighed.
“Hey, jocks, what’s going on?” a new voice interrupted.
“Akon!” half the table chorused and Renji scooted over so Akon could slide in next to him.
“Glad you could make it!”
“Yeah, sorry, I had an experiment I wanted to get finished up.”
“We were just talking about how there’s something different about Renji,” Shuuhei pressed.
Akon surveyed Renji for a moment. “Well, he’s got his tits tucked in for once. Aren’t you hot? You told me once you did that for ventilation.”
“That was very much a lie,” Renji clarified. “And I’m a married man now, my cans are closed for business. Speaking of which, Rangiku, fill ‘er up again, please, I’ve gotta keep up my wife’s reputation.”
---
Momo couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Out of their entire friend group, she was pretty sure she was the least interested in Renji’s… bosoms. There was a time… long, long ago when she had thought he was pretty hot stuff. She still counted him among her closest friends and favorite people, but had long ago come to the conclusion that big and beefy just wasn’t her type.
“Why, Lieutenant Hinamori! What brings you to my office?” Acting Captain Kuchiki Rukia leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. She must have been practicing, because the last time Momo had seen her do that, she had nearly fallen backwards out of the chair.
Momo sighed. “I have to tell you, this isn’t business.” Not exactly. It sort of was, in the sense that Shuuhei and Matsumoto (who apparently did care very much about Renji’s chest situation, so long as she wasn’t the one who had to confront him about it) had come over and dramatically draped themselves all over the Squad 5 couch and complained about the dreary state of affairs to Captain Hirako until he ordered Momo to go do some investigating.
“Good, because I have been filling out Nanao’s new skills-inventory-for-seated-officer forms all morning and I’m about to lose it,” Rukia said with an overly cheerful grin.
“We could go out to the yard and fight?” Momo offered hopefully. Maybe she could tell Captain Hirako that she got distracted and forgot to ask about Renji.
Rukia’s face fell a little. “Er, I’d love to, but I really shouldn’t today. Sentarou just made me this pot of tea, though. Do you want some? It’s lemon ginger, it’s really good.”
“Sure,” Momo agreed.
“So what’s up?” Rukia asked again, once Momo was perched in the guest chair, a fragrant cup of tea cradled in her hands.
Well, might as well just rip the bandage off. “I need you to know that I was put up to this by… you know. The idiots. The cowards we go drinking with.”
“Understood,” Rukia agreed.
“There is… some concern… about your husband.”
Rukia’s eyebrows shot up. “My sweet pumpkin pants?”
“I’m leaving,” Momo announced.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Rukia waved her hands, laughing. “I’ll be serious. What has that lunkhead done now?”
“This is so dumb,” Momo muttered. She cleared her throat. “He’s stopped going around with his bazongas hanging out all the time, and everyone’s losing their minds over it.”
Rukia stared at her. “Excuse me, his what?”
Momo made a vague gesture at her own chest. “You know. His… boobies.”
“That’s what I thought you meant,” Rukia nodded, her brow creased in thought. “Bazongas. I like that.”
“Not that I care!” Momo excused. “I mean, I agree, he should be allowed to dress how he likes, but you two seem to have a very equitable relationship and I said that I was sure he wasn’t doing anything that he hadn’t agreed to--”
“Hold on,” Rukia interrupted. “You think I had something to do with this?”
“You didn’t?” Momo asked. “He said he was keeping them tucked in because he was married now. We assumed it was at your request.”
“I didn’t even know!” Rukia replied. “I mean, I came home yesterday, and he was just--” she made a hand gesture like she was pulling her kosode open, “--completely out--”
“I don’t need to hear this,” Momo begged.
“Well, I tell you I had nothing to do with it,” Rukia assured her. “No one is more supportive of Renji acting slutty in public than me. Everyone knows I have that locked down, and honestly, it just makes me seem more powerful.”
Momo squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to punch Shuuhei so hard.”
Rukia rubbed her index finger over her chin. “It’s possible this came down from Brother…”
Momo whimpered, although, honestly, having a conversation with the other Captain Kuchiki about Abarai’s pectorals couldn’t possibly be more awkward than this.
“...or it might be… something else.” Rukia frowned. “I’ll talk to him, okay?”
“You will?” Momo asked hopefully.
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it. I can’t promise to bring the jugs back, but I’ll make sure it’s just Renji being a doofus and not Renji hiding his anxieties under aesthetic choices or Renji being oppressed by his brother-in-law.”
“Thank you, Rukia,” Momo said. Rukia could be bossy at times, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Sometimes, Renji has to be bullied into taking care of himself.”
“You’re telling me!” Rukia exclaimed. “Thank you for caring about him,” she added warmly.
“For the record, I care about him,” Momo replied. “Everyone else just misses the view.”
“Noted,” Rukia replied.
---
Renji had his nose stuffed in his cookbook, which lately, wasn’t a good sign. Renji only owned one cookbook, an encyclopedic tome that he only cracked open when he was trying something new or otherwise wasn’t sure what he was doing.
“I hope you aren’t making that kale curry again,” Rukia noted dryly.
Renji jumped three feet in the air. “Aaah, shoot! Rukia! I didn’t hear you come in! I’m so sorry!”
Rukia hopped up on her kitchen stool and leaned across the counter to give him a kiss. “We’ve been married for four months now. You don’t have to greet me at the door every single day, you know.”
“Sixteen weeks, three days,” Renji replied. “And I can still be sorry about it.”
“Just tell me we’re having something normal for dinner, and I’ll forgive you,” Rukia replied.
Renji jerked a thumb toward the stove behind him. “I made oden,” he explained. “It’s simmering, probably’ll be another ten minutes.”
“Ohhhhhh, I love your oden!” Rukia stretched her arms across the counter and did grabby hands at his hands until he laced his fingers through hers. “Did you make enough for me to take some for lunch tomorrow?”
“Depends on how much you eat tonight,” he replied. “Your appetite’s been really hit or miss lately.”
“Yeah, well...” Rukia agreed. “So what’s with the cookbook, then?”
“Oh,” Renji said vaguely. “I’m thinking about learning to bake cookies?”
“I’m in favor of that,” Rukia agreed, although her mind immediately went back to the conversation she’d had with Momo that afternoon.
“I’m not sure this book is helping,” Renji admitted. “If I was any good at baking, it would be one thing, but it’s too different. I’ve always been better at learning stuff from other people. Do you think it would be weird if I asked Iba’s mom to teach me? She used to make these little sesame biscuits for Iba. I would always steal them from him. They were so good and he didn’t properly appreciate them anyway.”
“It would absolutely be weird, and I think you should do it anyway,” Rukia proclaimed. She paused. “But maybe you could wait a few more weeks until we tell everyone we’re pregnant so all your friends will stop asking me what’s wrong with you.”
Renji’s eyes widened. “Did your brother say something last night? Because he told me he liked the braid!”
Rukia snorted. “No. He’s worse than you are anyway, he’s been reading books. Please make him stop, if you can. Actually, I’ve been getting complaints about,” she circled a finger in the vicinity of Renji’s chest.
Renji glanced down, and realized that his kosode was still neatly folded up to his collarbone. “Oops, sorry! I told you I didn’t hear you come home.” He immediately began untucking it.
Rukia leaned her chin on her palm, watching his progress. “I realize that making emotionally constipated people face their feelings is usually your department, but it seems you’ve got something heavy rattling around in there. Wanna talk about it?”
Renji’s eyes slid to one side. “Talk about what?”
Rukia cocked an eyebrow and waited.
Renji heaved a sigh. “Do you remember that time, back in Inuzuri, the first time I used my reiatsu in public? When I blocked a lead pipe with my arm?”
Rukia almost choked. “What do you mean, do I remember it? Of course I remember it.”
“Well, not so much that, but do you remember afterward, when you said I was too big and mean to be a sneakthief anymore? That it was better to confront the world and show it what we were made of?”
“I do remember that. I did not call you mean.”
“You probably didn’t. It’s probably just something I thought about myself.” He looked pensive for a moment. “In any case, it was something I really took to heart, especially after we split up. At first, I just wanted to make myself as big and loud and scary as possible. I liked the way people shied away from me. Later on, after I started hanging out with Yumichika, I realized that walking around sexy could be intimidating in a different sort of way, and I liked that, too.”
Rukia had a comment for that, but she decided to just listen, instead.
Renji smoothed the page of his book with his fingers. “I don’t want to look scary anymore.”
“You don’t look scary,” Rukia reassured him. “You haven’t looked scary in a long time.”
“I want to do better than that, though,” Renji frowned. “Has your brother ever talked to you about his dad?”
Rukia blinked, surprised, mostly that Byakuya had talked about Soujun with Renji. “A few times.”
“I, uh, asked him what his dad was like. Since I never had one myself. I expected him to either blow me off or start bellyaching, like he does about his granddad, but he didn’t. He said his pop was very gentle and kind. He said he was a good dad.”
“Byakuya loved his father a lot.”
“Yeah, that was pretty clear.”
“I hope he finished by saying what a good father you will make, but it’s my brother, so I’m sure he didn’t.”
“He said something about how he was sure I would proceed in my own way.”
Rukia sighed again. “Renji, you’ll be a great dad. It’s super obvious. I’ve only told half a dozen people that I’m pregnant and all of them who aren’t Byakuya have immediately reacted with ‘Renji is going to be such a good dad.’ You don’t need to change anything about yourself.”
Renji sucked his teeth for a moment. “Well, all my good dad instincts are telling me our kid is gonna wanna fight the world bad enough as it is, that the last thing they need is a dad who wants to fight the world, too. I’ve fought the world long enough. I’m probably never gonna be gentle, but I can try my best to be kind, and I can dress like a normal person in public for a change and… maybe I can make a cookie? It’s worth a try, I think.”
Rukia flashed him a sad, but fond smile. “You’re such a dork. A sweet, thoughtful dork, though, and I will support your experiment, even though you know I love your bazongas more than anyone.”
“‘Bazongas’? Oh no, did those assholes make Momo come and talk to you?”
Rukia shrugged and tried to look innocent.
“Anyway, you’re my wife, I will take them out for you whenever you want.”
“Yay!”
Renji furrowed his brow into its “determined” configuration. “Do not get me wrong. I am actually upping my chest day routine. I am going to keep them immaculate, and when my shirt gets ripped off in a fight, people are going to lose their minds over how lush my boys are.”
“I love you so much,” Rukia replied.
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