#//Sue him; he's a bit sentimental that way

[redxriiot]

As he progresses in his hero training, Kiri would definitely start making efforts to adjust his hero suit to be compatible with/carry things to help his hero partner/heroes he knows he'll be assigned to work with ahead of time.

#hc #//Briefly talked about this with a friend last night but ye #//I mean there's been tidbits on this blog already about Kiri mentioning he's taken to stocking up on snacks for Tamaki #//Whether in his room/bag or in his hero suit #//He would deffo go through all the hurdles to make sure he can accommodate first and foremost the gum fam #//For Tama jn particular it's a pounch full of dried sea snacks or capsules containing animal dna #//Esp bc he plans to stay with them even going pro. NOBODY will ever get him to leave the gum agency; he's happy there #//Well; after he comes back from America lmao #//But ye #//Overseas; he will also adjust his suit for his fellow agency heroes there #//Mans is made to PROTECT and SUPPORT; so this is one more way he can do that #//He doesn't care about what he has to do to ensure it #//Also makes him feel more connected to his hero partners like this. something tying them together aside agency name #//Sue him; he's a bit sentimental that way

[joelscurls]

feel it in your bones

next part

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 12.5k

summary: Two years ago, you finished your PhD and moved to Vermont. In the time since, you’ve gotten a job as a college professor, had your heart broken, and sworn off relationships entirely. Enter Joel, the father of one of your students, here for Homecoming Weekend – and too attractive to resist.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), alcohol consumption, fluff, smut, masturbation (f), mutual pining(?), sexual tension, grinding, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, cumplay / cum eating, some light biting, use of pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby, etc.), reader has an asshole ex, no use of y/n

a/n: my first Joel fic! This is honestly a bit self-indulgent but I love fall and academia and Joel Miller so sue me okay. ty to my bby @caffeinated-validation for reading through this and offering your insight -- get you a partner who will beta your filthy Joel Miller smut for you lmao <3

You’ve gotten used to being alone. 

You don’t mind it as much as you had a few months ago, the breakup still fresh, every touch of your own fingers seering into your skin when you’d remembered the way he’d touched you, the sound of your voice almost unrecognizable as you’d convince yourself each day to get out of bed and go to work, where you’d inevitably run into him. It was painful then, having to come home to the quiet, always far too aware of the sound of your own thoughts drumming against the inside of your skull. 

Now though, you revel in that quiet. Sip your coffee in silence each morning. You’ve learned how to stay lost in your work, bringing home stacks of papers to grade and eating through texts to support your research while your dinner gets cold on the table in front of you. You’re well aware that this isn’t the healthiest way to cope, to just avoid it all, but it’s better than feeling. 

You’ve sworn off relationships entirely. It’s a silent promise to yourself – that you’ll remain married to your work. You will devote all of your energy to making sure your students excel and that your research is strong. That is your life’s purpose, to make use of the PhD you worked so hard to get – not to be someone’s girlfriend or wife. And you’re fine with that, really. You’ve become immune to loneliness – or numb, maybe.

Regardless, you welcome the independence. You don’t have to worry about anyone else’s thoughts or feelings when it comes to the way you spend your own time. You’re free to do whatever you want. You can draw yourself a bath, fill it with bubbles, sit in it while you drain a bottle of wine into your mouth until the water runs cold. You can eat an entire box of dry cereal in one sitting while you re-watch your favorite show for the twentieth time. You can make yourself cum at any hour of the night with your vibrator or your shower head or your hand – and then go to work the next morning without a semblance of guilt.

Really, you like being alone. 

Until you don’t.

It’s Homecoming Weekend at Sarah’s school. 

She had insisted that Joel didn’t have to come, that it was mostly an opportunity for the college to milk donations out of sentimental alumni. But he’d missed her for the month she’d been gone, the house far too quiet with just him in it. In previous years, Joel had busied himself following Sarah’s departure with home projects. Three years in, though, he’s updated just about every room in the house,  re-done the floors, built a brand new back deck. 

In other words, he’s fresh out of distractions.

So, he’d made the trek to Vermont,  with the excuse that he’d always wanted to experience a New England fall. It’s a lie, one that Sarah can probably read right through, considering he vocalizes his discomfort whenever the temperature drops below 70 degrees in Texas, but she goes along with it. 

Besides, he wants to see what his tuition money is paying for.

In truth, Joel had been nervous when Sarah announced what major she’d decided to pursue. She had just finished her freshman year, prerequisite courses all completed. When she’d said the word – anthropology – Joel hadn’t even been sure what it meant. Since then, she’s explained it to him many times and in truth, he’s still none the wiser. Really, he’s just happy that she’s happy. Her passion for it is evident on her face any time she talks to him about the courses she’s taking, how great her professors are. 

Especially you – she talks about you all the time – her mentor. 

You’re supervising her on her thesis project – a qualitative assessment on students’ views on feminism and gender politics in the classroom. This past summer, Joel swears Sarah had mentioned your name more than her own friends’. She’d told him what courses you teach, what research you’ve conducted, all the countries you’ve traveled to for fieldwork. And she gives the best advice – Sarah had said one night over dinner – she’s like, my lifeline at school. 

Joel doesn’t know you, but he’s thankful for you – for the guidance you so clearly provide Sarah.

There’s an Open House today for the Social Sciences college, which Joel tags along with Sarah to. He’s hopeful that he’ll learn something, come to understand the field and why Sarah loves it. 

A buffet table stocked with refreshments sits on one side of the lecture hall. Sarah grabs them both cups of water infused with cucumber while Joel saves them seats at the back. There’s a slideshow projected onto the white board at the front, the current slide reading: An Introduction to the Social Sciences College & Our Current Research Efforts. A group of professors gathers at the front, name tags stuck to their button-downs and blazers. Sarah spots you as she sits down, pointing you out as she hands Joel his water.

“There – that one’s my mentor – the one in the plaid pants.” 

Joel’s eyes follow her finger to the group at the front,  scanning down the line. There’s a man, short and stocky with noticeably small hands hooked by the thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. Next to him, is a woman, taller than him, wearing a bright turquoise silk shirt, gold bangles decorating both of her wrists. And next to her is you, in the plaid pants.

Sarah had told him a lot of things about you, but she’d never mentioned that you’re fucking gorgeous. You’re smiling at something Turquoise Shirt has just said to you, and it’s like your entire face is glowing. Joel has to take a sip of water to collect himself.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you for the entirety of the presentation. 

The dean of the college starts by briefly covering each department and what research efforts they have planned for the semester. Joel should be listening, he came here to listen – but he can’t get himself to focus on anything other than you.

You’re mostly focused on the presenter. Every so often, though, you distractedly toy with the buttons on your cardigan or twirl a strand of your hair between delicate fingers. And Joel is suddenly realizing how touch-starved he is after years of refusing to date – because just watching you, your hands – is about to send him into orbit.

You’re well-spoken too, he learns, when you take the microphone to discuss your current research project. 

“This semester, I’ll be delving into the presence of food deserts in Vermont, and the effects these are having on the overall health of youth in the state,” you say. “We have received a sizable grant for this research, and I am thrilled to get started in a matter of weeks. This project will span the better part of the academic year as I speak to locals and craft surveys that will provide qualitative data to support my findings from the field.”

You press down on the clicker in your hand. A new slide projects onto the whiteboard. It’s a photo of you against the backdrop of a jungle, lush, green trees stretching past the top of the frame. The wide-brimmed hat you’re wearing covers most of your face – but that damn smile radiates through the makeshift screen.

“This is me last summer, in Peru. My research here was much more self-indulgent – I studied the important role that food plays in the average family there – and ate wayyyy too many sweets.”

The crowd laughs. It’s the first reaction they’ve expressed this entire time. 

It’s entrancing, the way you command the room. You have such a calm confidence about you as you speak, words never once faltering as you stride back and forth across the front of the lecture hall.  Joel isn’t much of a talker – maybe that’s why he feels like he could listen to you for hours on end. He thinks that you could read the damn phone book and his focus would remain unwavering. That your voice, velvet-soft, could spellbind him without much effort.

When your portion of the presentation ends, he’s more than a bit disappointed.

Students and their families filter out of the lecture hall. You situate yourself in a corner of the room for the actual Open House portion of the event, at the ready to answer any questions or, more likely, offer directions to another part of campus.

You smile as familiar faces and strangers alike pass you, reach for your to-go mug on the table behind you, and take a sip. The coffee is pretty much ice-cold now, but you still gulp it down, only after the caffeine anyway.

You place the mug back down with a light thud against the tabletop. Suddenly, a voice you’ve come to know well rings in your ear. 

“Professor!” 

When you look up, Sarah Miller is bounding down the aisle, signature smile plastered across her face. And there’s a man behind her, you notice, moving much slower. 

He’s tall, broad shoulders pulling taut against the green flannel he’s wearing. He cradles a beige workwear jacket in the crook of his bicep,corded muscle visibly bulging against fabric. His other hand rubs at the scruff along his jaw, pointedly sharp in the patches where hair doesn’t grow.

He has a distinguishable nose, you notice as he gets closer,  strong – large and hooked at the center of his tan face. It’s complemented perfectly by his plush, pink lips that seem to be set in a permanent pout.  

In other words, he’s handsome – almost distractingly so, as he stands next to Sarah in front of you.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she beams – turns to the man next to her.

“Dad, this is my mentor,” She says your name. 

He nods. His eyes meet yours. They’re deep brown, almost black – and undeniably entrancing. 

“‘‘ts nice to meet you, Ma’am. I’m Joel.”

Ma’am.

It’s not like the word is foreign to you, given your profession. There’s something about the way he says it, though, that makes your head spin, his southern drawl dripping in honey-butter and bourbon. 

Joel outstretches a hand. You shake it – try to ignore the way it dwarfs yours.

“Joel,” you repeat, eyes locked firmly on the space between his eyes. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“That was a great presentation you gave up there. You’re a good, uh – talker.” His expression is unreadable. His hands fidget at his sides.

You offer him a smile. “Thank you – I think? My students probably wish I would shut up sometimes. Right, Sarah?”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, “as if you’ve never seen your rating on Rate My Professor.” 

She’s not wrong – you pride yourself on having pretty stellar reviews – but you also try your hardest not to let them get to your head. Sarah isn’t helping that, right now.

“Anyways,” she exaggerates the word, “what are you up to tonight, Professor? They’re holding an exhibition at the art center later, all student work – d’you wanna come with us?” 

Your reflex is to say no. After all, he’ll probably be there. Your ex, Quentin, works in the art history department. And even though you’re over him, you’re not exactly looking for an excuse to be in the same room as him. But you technically don’t have plans tonight, and you can’t even think of a good lie right now with Sarah staring you down. 

And then there’s Joel, standing in front of you, all broad shoulders and chiseled jaw – and you think, what a great opportunity to get to know him, you know, as the parent of your student. Definitely not as anything else, anything more. It is Homecoming, after all.

So, you say yes. 

“Cool!” Sarah smiles, “Meet you there at 7?”

You nod, tell Sarah that sounds perfect, and that you’ll see them tonight. 

Sarah starts toward the door. But Joel stands there for a moment longer. His eyes linger on yours, his wordless stare threatening to burn a hole in your head. You can feel the heat of it, beads of sweat beginning to form at the base of your neck. You tug at the collar of your shirt, trying your hardest to conceal them. 

A beat passes. It looks like he might say something, his mouth opening then closing again.

He gives you a courteous nod, turns on his heels, and follows after Sarah.

Joel hadn’t remembered the food being this bad when he’d visited for orientation. He struggles to keep down a particularly rubbery bite of chicken and reaches for his water bottle, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he focuses on not vomiting. 

Sarah laughs next to him. “Hey man, at least you don’t have to eat this shit year-round.”

He grunts in agreement. “Gonna cancel your meal plan next semester and jus’ give you the money to buy groceries.” 

She hums. Cocks her head. “That means I’m gonna have to learn how to cook – do you think Student Housing has fire insurance?”

Joel wants to roll his eyes, but it’s definitely his fault – after all, he can barely fry an egg without setting off the fire alarm. Their freezer has always been well-stocked with TV dinners and tater tots. So instead, he just shrugs. 

“So what’s this art thing tonight?” He moves on to the salad on his plate, decidedly much safer. 

“I don’t really know – my roommate asked me to go, she has some pieces in it, I guess.”

He nods. “And your professor – that was nice ‘a you to invite her.”

Sarah nods, smiles. “Yeah – you like her, right? I mean, you’re sure you’re cool with me asking her to come?” She asks, a mouthful of lettuce.

“‘Course,” he says, attempting to keep his voice level, nonchalant.

“I know you’re not really one for meeting new people,” she teases.

He mock-glares at her. It quickly softens into a smile. “Nah – she seems cool.” It’s an understatement, but Sarah doesn’t need to know that.

She doesn’t need to know that her dad is attracted to her professor.

Joel thinks that he might not have been so great at hiding it, though, when a few hours later, in the middle of watching an unarguably bad student production of Macbeth, Sarah turns to him and whispers that she’s not feeling well. 

“Hm, is that right?,” he whispers back, unconvinced. 

“Yeah, must’ve been the food.”

“We ate the same thing, Sarah.”

There’s a shout on stage. The actor’s voice cracks.

“Well I dunno,” she continues, “My stomach just doesn’t feel good.”

“Yeah, and what about that thing with your professor?”

He can see her smirk even in the dim lighting. 

“Shit, you’re right. And I don’t have her phone number, so it’s not like I can text her...” 

She groans. Joel thinks she should be on that stage right now. 

“We can’t just ghost her.” Joel has no idea what that means. He doesn’t bother asking. 

“Sarah-” he starts.

“Please. She’s such a nice lady, she doesn’t deserve to be stood up.”

He could say no. It’s not like he knows you, owes you anything. But in truth, Joel does want to see you again. And he’s well aware that Sarah might be trying to set the two of you up – ever-perceptive and hell-bent on her dad being happy – but he tries not to think about how embarrassing that feels, his daughter playing matchmaker for him. Because he wants to spend more time with you, get to know more about you, if you’ll let him.

He’s barred himself from forming any kind of real relationship with a woman since Sarah’s mother left. Not because she’d broken his heart, but because he’d needed all of his energy to go to Sarah. As a single father, he had always feared that he wouldn’t be enough for his daughter – wouldn’t give enough – that growing up in a broken home would leave her half of a person. That fear had fueled him to be the best dad possible – to work overtime so that he could provide for them, to never miss one of her soccer games or dance recitals. And so, he had never even considered dating, not seriously, anyway. It would take attention away from Sarah, and he couldn’t risk that. 

He’s found it difficult to shake this principle, now that Sarah has grown up. He often grapples with the fact that Sarah doesn’t need him as much anymore – that she’s her own person living her own life. He knows he could date now, could meet someone new, open his heart to them. But he’s so used to fighting that human need for companionship, that it feels almost unnatural to let his guard down.

But now there’s you – your megawatt smile and your impressive intelligence and your care for his daughter – and suddenly he’s forgotten his own rules. 

“Okay; I’ll go.” It comes out entirely too enthusiastic.

He can practically feel Sarah’s accomplished, shit-eating grin burning into the side of his head.

You leave campus around four pm, once the last of the Open House participants have gone. 

You take a shower when you get home. Then you order sushi – stuff rolls of yellowfin and salmon into your mouth as you sit at the dining table still wrapped up in your towel, trying your best not to spill soy sauce on the half-graded essays that litter the tabletop. When you’re done, you retreat to your closet, treading on damp feet across the waxy hardwood floor.

And you definitely don’t think about Joel – not when you debate what to wear to the art exhibition, not when your fingers accidentally graze one of your nipples as you put your bra on, not when you get distracted while pulling your panties on by the pool of wetness that has formed between your thighs. 

You definitely don’t think about him – because he’s Sarah’s dad, and that would be wrong.

So it’s accidental when his name falls from your mouth, fingers pressed against your clit, visions of large, calloused hands flashing behind your closed eyelids. 

You cover your mouth with the curve of your palm to prevent it from slipping out again. Sink back into the mattress.

Then you press your fingers down harder. 

Joel feels like a first-year student, wandering aimlessly across campus in search of the art center. Sarah’s directions had been, well, brief. She’d insisted he’d be able to find it no problem. Now though, in the limited light of dusk, all the structures look the same, bleeding together like watercolors against the evening sky. 

He does find it, eventually, a three-story brick building tucked between the library and what looks to be a dormitory. Bright, artificial light seeps through the windows that line the bottom floor. The double doors at the front are propped open, people slipping in and out of them as he approaches. 

He looks for you outside, searching for a familiar head of hair, the brown cardigan you’d been wearing earlier. When he doesn’t see you, he reluctantly makes his way up the stairs and into the building.

He spots you almost immediately affixed in front of a painting, studying it intently.

You’re wearing a different outfit than the one you had on this afternoon – a merlot-colored slip dress and a cropped leather jacket. He struggles to ignore the way the satin clings to you, the curves of your body excruciatingly accentuated. He has to remind himself that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, shouldn't expect you to stick around for long once he lets you know Sarah isn’t coming. You’ll probably make an excuse to leave shortly after, and he’ll be back on Sarah’s couch within the hour. 

After all, why would you stick around just to talk to him?

You don’t see him when he sidles up next to you. He clears his throat and you startle. 

“Sorry,” he brings a hand to the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to spook ya.” 

You take a step back to face him and put a hand to your chest, your breath beginning to even. His eyes wander, for a moment, to where your fingers rest against your collarbone. 

“Shit – it’s okay. Where’s Sarah?”

“She wasn’t feeling well, but she said I should still come. Is that – uh – is that okay?” He’s suddenly worried that this was dumb, that he shouldn’t have come, should’ve just let Sarah explain to you on Monday.

But your features soften then, a small smile forming between rosy cheeks. 

“Joel, it’s fine; I appreciate you not ditching me.”

“‘Course,” he manages. He’s waiting for you to say something else – that you need to leave. But you don’t, and you both stand enveloped in the pregnant pause that lingers, bright overhead lighting and nerves giving Joel the start of a migraine he’ll have to ignore for the rest of the night.

He clears his throat. Turns to the painting in front of you. “So what’s this one, then?”

The painting in question is a mish-mash of shapes and colors. Joel can’t distinguish any one thing on the canvas. It’s all just a lot of…nothing. He knows it’s not for him when he thinks a preschooler with finger paints could’ve done this.

You bring your hand up to cradle your jaw, brows furrowed in contemplation. It looks like you’ll offer an actual, intellectual interpretation. So Joel isn’t prepared when instead, you say: 

“Looks like a bad trip.”

A laugh bubbles out of him, the corners of his eyes creasing. 

“Sorry,” you say, between giggles. “That was stupid.”

“No,” he says, swiping a hand over his jaw, trying to physically rub the embarrassing smile off his face. “You’re funny.” 

He means it. He’s not sure how it’s possible that you’re funny, when you’re also so smart and interesting and gorgeous. It’s almost unfair. He thinks, fleetingly, that you’re way out of his league – a boring, old man like him.

You continue to the next piece, Joel following closely behind. It looks like it must be by the same artist. The same variation of shapes fill the canvas, just in different colors.

“Alright Cowboy, what’s your take on this one?” 

Joel studies it for a moment – tries to find something he can pull out. Something tangible. Something funny, even. 

He comes up empty.

“‘ts interesting f’sure. Lots of…colors,” he tries. He realizes how ridiculous he sounds. Laughs. “Shit…art ain’t really my thing,” he admits, arm stretched behind his head.

“So what is your thing?” Your voice is tinged with something – Joel tries his hardest not to let himself believe that it’s flirtation. 

Your eyes are still fixed on the canvas in front of you. And Joel is thankful, because he thinks if you looked at him, let those eyes meet his, he’d break – tell you that right now, you’re his thing.

He doesn’t get a chance to answer either way, though, because he’s interrupted by a man’s voice behind the two of you. 

“Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here!”

You whip around to face him. Joel turns too. The man is taller than you, but shorter than him. He’s wearing round, wire-frame glasses that sit like a suggestion on his nose, and a full suit, with a tie that has some god-awful, ugly pattern all over it. It looks like the art here, Joel thinks.

Joel’s eyes flit back to you, and he watches as your hackles go up. You back up, bumping into the canvas behind you. You curse under your breath.

“Quentin. Hey.”

“Glad you could make it,” the man, Quentin, says. He swirls a cup of what appears to be red wine in one hand. He leans in closer, brings the other hand up at the side of his mouth to conceal his words. “I know this isn’t really your scene.” 

You shift uncomfortably. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m uh, venturing out, I guess. Trying new things.” 

He laughs. It’s an asshole laugh, Joel notes. Everything about this guy screams asshole. 

“About time!” The asshole puts a hand on your shoulder. You flinch. Joel’s hands instinctively bunch into fists at his side. 

“So proud of you,” Quentin says. “Finally letting yourself be a little cultured.”

This guy can’t be serious.

You scoff. Grab his hand and flick it off your shoulder. He looks wounded. Good, Joel thinks. 

“Yeah, because traveling the world has left me so very uncultured, Quentin.”

“Hey,” he puts his hands up. “Don’t take offense, baby. I know your little field trips are important, too.”

It’s the last straw.

In one movement, you’re pushing off the wall, shoving past Quentin, and making your way to the exit. Joel doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at the asshole, just follows after you out the door. 

It’s gotten colder in the short time he’d been inside, he notices. A gust of wind nips at the exposed skin on his hands. He stuffs them haphazardly in the pockets of his jacket.

He finds you perched on the front steps, arms wrapped around your body protectively. He takes a few cautious strides forward. When you look up at him, you’re visibly distraught. 

You groan as he sits down next to you. “Sorry. That was embarrassing.” 

Joel wants to touch you, put a reassuring hand on your shoulder, but he knows he probably shouldn’t – not right now. 

“‘ts not embarrassin’,” he says, instead. His warm breath materializes in the cold air. “Not for you, anyway. That guy was clearly an asshole.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That was my ex-boyfriend.” You’re  both quiet, then. The two of you sit there, side by side on the stairs, in comfortable silence. A few minutes pass. Joel notices you chewing on your bottom lip, like you’re considering something. When you speak again, your voice wavers.

“Would you want to go for a drink or something? It’s just, I really don’t want to be here anymore.” 

For a moment, he can’t believe what he’s hearing – you’re asking him out? He takes a second to respond. You start to backtrack. “It’s okay if you don’t wan-”

“Hey,” he stops you. Makes sure you’re looking at him. 

“I thought you’d never ask, darlin’.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Great.” Your hand drops to your side, brushing against his. He expects you to move it. He’s thankful when you don’t.

“I know a place–” you continue – “one that won’t be full of drunk college kids.”

“Great,” Joel parrots you. He stands, extends a hand to help you up. You take it, letting your palm rest against his for a moment longer than necessary when you’re upright.

“Cool,” you say, clearing your throat. You pull up the Uber app on your phone. Joel watches you book a driver. Then you turn back to him with a smile. It’s different from the one he’s seen before. It’s smaller, shyer.

“Larry will be here in 4 minutes,” you say.

The bar is a twenty minutes’ drive from campus – fifteen with Larry’s lead foot.

It’s more of a lounge than a bar, really – leather armchairs accompanied by low cocktail tables arranged throughout the single large, open room. A brick fireplace sits on the back wall, currently roaring with warm orange flames. 

On either side of the fireplace are floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with vintage books, their illegible titles etched in gold along weathered spines. You can imagine that their pages are yellowed and dusty, and it’s so tempting to swipe one off the shelf to see, to smell.

The light in here is warm, a stark contrast from the bright white of the art gallery. It’s comforting, and you feel your body immediately relax when you walk through the entrance next to Joel.

The bar at the front is busy (it is Saturday night, after all), so you and Joel stand at the back of the crowd for a few moments, waiting for the people in front of you to get their drinks. When a group of men start forcing their way through right next to you, Joel immediately puts a large hand on your shoulder, turning your body towards his. He’s just being chivalrous, making sure you don’t get shoved, but it still sends a shockwave up your spine.

When a spot clears in front of the bar, Joel steps forward, bringing you with him. He orders a whiskey neat, then turns to you, asking what you want. 

It’s difficult to think with his hand still on you, so you go with the first words that come to mind. 

“Same as you.”

He stares at you for a moment, amused, like he can see right through you and the fact that you’ve never had whiskey in your life. But you hold his gaze, challenging him with your eyes, and he drops it. “Make that two,” he tells the bartender.

Once you have your drinks, Joel slaps a few bills down on the bar. You can tell he won’t let you do so much as offer to pay him back, so you don’t. You lead him through the lounge to a couple of chairs tucked away in the back corner, partially hidden behind an antique wooden partition – far enough from the main seating area, but still close enough to the fireplace that you can feel its warmth.

This is where you always sit when you come, usually with coworkers, once or twice with him. Quentin had been pretty critical of this place, like he is with everything. He’d complained that the wine selection could be larger – that they could have more French options. When you’d explained that most of their wines come from local vineyards, he’d just rolled his eyes.

You’re still reeling a bit from your interaction with him at the gallery, even as you settle into soft leather and feel a burst of warmth against your cheek. He was such an asshole, you think, taking a cautious sip of whiskey. You’re immediately repulsed by the taste of it, and you do a poor job of hiding the grimace that automatically spreads across your face in the crook of your arm.

Joe laughs across from you. “Not your thing? I can go grab ya somethin’ else,” he offers.  

“No,” you insist, “this is fine. Just need to get used to it.” It’s a lie – you both know it – but he doesn’t push it. 

Instead he leans back, swirls his own glass – which looks comically tiny in his grip – and lets out an exaggerated sigh. 

“So, your ex is a real dick, huh?”

“You can say that again,” you mumble. 

He quirks a brow at you. “Why’d you even date him?” 

It’s a fair question. Why had you dated him? Loneliness, maybe? You’d like to blame it on that, but it’s not the truth – not entirely. Quentin had been kind, at first. He had seemed so interested in you and where you came from and what you were passionate about. He was a relatively good boyfriend, all things considered – until he’d grown tired of hiding who he really was.

You’d gotten a substantial pay raise at the end of your second year at the university. When you’d told Quentin, he’d gone quiet – practically gave you the silent treatment for days on end. When you’d finally worn him down, gotten him to talk, the most he could utter was that he was happy for you; he just wasn’t sure why he hadn’t gotten a raise like that yet. 

It’s not like you were in competition – you worked for two entirely different departments, in different colleges. But it had been a constant losing battle nevertheless, to get him to stop comparing your successes. And when he’d found out you actually made more money than him – that had pretty much been the nail in the coffin. 

You tell Joel all of this. You’re not sure why you do – it’s not like you can blame the alcohol after one half-sip of whiskey. You feel comfortable with him though, here, like this. He’s a good listener, too, attentively nodding every so often as you ramble. 

When you’re done, he’s quiet. He stares at his drink, pursing his lips. 

After a beat, he looks up at you. 

“You deserve better than that, darlin’.”

You almost crumble under his gaze. His eyes are at least two shades darker than they had been a moment ago – and there’s something lingering behind them that you can’t quite place. Whatever it is has you feeling weak.

“You barely know me,” you joke. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know enough, though. Could do much better than him, I reckon.”

You want to ask him if he has anyone in mind, if he would be better for you, but you can’t – not yet – not this sober. You take another sip of your drink, breathing through your nose as it burns its way down your throat. 

You talk for hours. He asks about your family; you tell him how you moved out here two years ago on your own after you finished your doctorate program. He’s impressed by that, says you’re brave. You tell him you’ve never felt very brave. 

It’s all so easy, talking to Joel in the dimly-lit bar you’ve been to so many times before. Sipping on whiskey as if you actually enjoy it. It’s never felt so much like home — not the bar, not this town. The thought is dizzying.

He asks about Sarah, too, how she’s doing in school. He insists that she doesn’t tell him much, and if she does, it’s about you and how great your classes are. 

“I had never even heard of anthropology before she decided to study it,” he admits. “But I’m glad she did. It’s her thing, f’sure.” 

You smile, knowingly. “Yeah, it is. She’s a great kid, Joel. You raised her well.”

He shakes his head humbly, but you don’t relent. You want him to hear this, really hear this. Because you get the feeling he hasn’t been told enough. 

“She’s not just smart, Joel. She’s good. She’s a good person. That’s kind of rare nowadays — especially among her generation.” 

Joel chuckles, his head hanging between his shoulders. 

“I mean, shit,” you continue, “she brings me pancakes from the diner just off campus whenever she knows I’m stuck in my office working late. My other students barely even ask how I’m doing most days.”

Joel hums in amusement. His eyes are locked on a wrinkle in the leather of the arm of his chair.

“Joel,” you say, pointedly. You wait for him to look at you. When he does, his gaze is uncertain. “She’s a good person —“ you repeat — “and that’s because you raised her to be.”

“‘ts just southern hospitality, is all,” he mumbles. 

“No Joel – it’s you.”

He stares for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing. His jaw twitches. And then he breaks, finally, a smile pulling at his lips. 

“Thank you.”

His voice is so soft suddenly. It throws you off. It also turns you on – like, a lot, the gravellyness of it scratching your brain and your loins. You dig your nails into leather in an attempt to steady your quickening heart rate.

“No problem,” you mutter sheepishly.

Suddenly, there’s a buzz on the table – Joel’s phone. He picks it up, squinting at the bright screen.

“Sarah?,” you ask.

“Nah, ‘ts just my brother, Tommy.”

He types out a quick response and re-locks the phone, placing it back down on the table.

“Everything alright?” 

“Yeah, jus’ asking if I think hookin’ up with a client is a bad idea,” he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief.

You don’t know Tommy, but you like him already – seems like a fun guy. And clearly values his brother’s opinions. It’s telling, you think.

“That’s right – you’re a contractor. You and your brother work together?”

“Yeah, we got our own business back home.”

“And you like it?,” you ask. 

“Used to,” he laughs, “when I was more limber.”

You laugh too. You can feel the heat of slight intoxication, and something else, in your chest, your inhibitions dissolving in your bloodstream. And suddenly that horrible idea you’d had earlier to flirt with Joel doesn’t seem so bad anymore. 

“Still look plenty limber to me, Mr. Miller.” The words leave you before you have the chance to stop them.

Joel’s hands tense on either arm of his chair. Despite your buzz, you still have half a mind to worry that you’ve fucked up, that there’s a chance you’ve misread this whole thing.

But then he sinks back in the chair, the leather groaning under him. He rakes his dark eyes over you. And the way he’s looking at you is unmistakable. He looks hungry. You feel like your entire body has been set ablaze. 

Without thinking, you stand up, take a couple of steps toward him. Scan the lounge. Most of the remaining patrons are huddled by the bar, talking boisterously among themselves. Tucked in your little corner, the two of you might as well be in a different zip code.

“Whatcha doin’, darlin’?” Joel smirks up at you as you stand unmoving in front of him. He takes one of your hands in his and traces gentle, reassuring shapes along the back of it with his index finger.

Without a word, you hike your dress up to your thighs and straddle him, knees digging into the leather on either side of his legs. He hums approvingly as you sink onto his lap and cup his face in your hands. He places his own on your lower back, just above your ass. “This okay?,” you ask. It comes out breathy and wrecked.

“C’mere,” he says in that syrupy drawl, and then one of his hands is on the back of your head, pushing you gently against him, your lips slotting to his. 

It’s messy and all-encompassing. He kisses you with a fervency that confirms this hasn’t all been in your head –that he’s been wanting this too. 

The voices of bar-goers and the clinking of glassware are suddenly muted. All you can focus on is Joel — the way he tastes like whiskey and cinnamon gum, the way one of his large hands comes to rest at the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in the hair there while the other remains on your back, steadying you. The way he licks into your mouth after a few seconds with a groan, causing you to reflexively bare down on his lap.

You feel his cock swell underneath you and you grind against it, laughing low and quiet against his lips when his entire body tenses. He pulls back, blinking up at you with glazed-over eyes. Joel, all six feet of him, looks wrecked.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he pants. He looks down at where you’re hovering over his now fully-hard cock. “Gotta stop. Otherwise you’re gonna make me cum in my pants like a damn teenager.”

You pout at him, lifting your lower half off of his. You don’t stand up, though – not immediately, anyway. Instead, you take his head back in both of your hands. He lets you, blinking up at you wordlessly. 

You’d known when you’d first seen him earlier today that he was handsome, but right now, his face so close to yours – you’re seeing all of the little details – the scar indented in his forehead, just above his right eyebrow; the flush that stains his cheeks, which you can guess is partly from the alcohol, but maybe also from you. He’s biblically gorgeous, which makes it difficult to pry yourself off of him.

You do though, after a minute, smoothing down your dress once you’re back on two feet. You feel a bit breathless, suddenly. And exhausted.

What time is it? 

You retrieve your phone from where it’s been lodged in the cushion of your chair. 

You tap on the screen, waking it up. 

12:47?! When had it gotten so late?

Joel stands, adjusting himself in his pants. You can’t help but giggle at him — big, tough man looking positively ruined after just a few minutes of being under you. You feel pretty accomplished. He rolls his eyes at you. 

“Shut up — just get us an Uber.” You don’t miss the smile that sprouts between his cheeks when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You wait outside for your driver — John M.

The cold Vermont air is sobering. You feel almost normal by the time the car pulls up, save for the dull, throbbing ache between your legs. You will it away as you crouch into the back of the silver Nissan behind Joel. The sound of the radio playing soft rock hits is a poor distraction on the drive home.

“Wanna come in?,” you ask Joel when the car comes to a halt in front of your building. You watch him ponder it, eyes glued to the roof of the sedan. But ultimately, he shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says. “Gotta check on Sarah.”

You nod, try to hide your disappointment. “Right.” 

You open the door. Just as you’re about to get out, Joel stops you. 

“Wait,” he says. “Can I see your phone?” You’re confused, but you hand it over. You watch as he pulls up your contacts and clicks the ‘plus’ button in the corner, an understanding smile pulling at your lips. 

When he hands the phone back, his contact now in it, you grab his from off the seat next to him and do the same. 

“I’ll text you,” he promises as you step out. 

You turn back to him. “You better.”

He’s smiling when you shut the door.

You’re smiling when the car pulls away. 

It’s only when you’re tucked into bed, phone charging securely on the nightstand that the thought crosses your mind: you’re catching feelings for someone again. 

And then you feel sick.

Joel wakes up the next morning feeling giddy. It’s like he’s a teenager all over again – waiting by the phone for a pretty girl to call him back. Only this time, he’s waiting for a text.

He had messaged you almost as soon as he’d gotten back to Sarah’s apartment last night, asking if he could see you again before he goes back to Texas. He has no shame about it, he can’t – not when his entire mind and body are consumed by his overwhelming attraction to you. 

He’d found it difficult to sleep last night, and not because the springs in Sarah’s cheap couch were digging into his already-damaged back. It was thoughts of you, and the borderline-painful erection they caused, that had kept him up.

Now, with the sun seeping through the living room windows directly into his eyes, he doesn’t have much of a choice but to be awake. He checks his phone immediately, and tries to ignore the way his heart sinks when he sees you haven’t responded yet. You’re probably still asleep, he tells himself.

He tosses his phone aimlessly back onto the couch and stands with a groan. His legs feel worse than his back, if that’s even possible. 

Sarah still isn’t awake, so Joel meanders into her kitchen, in search of something to eat for breakfast. It’s pretty much what you would expect from a college student’s kitchen – bare bones. There are a few suspicious containers of leftovers in the fridge along with a Brita water pitcher and a package of cookie dough. In the freezer, several cartons of ice cream (all chocolate) and half a loaf of bread. And finally, in the cabinets, a few boxes of mac & cheese and an unopened jar of peanut butter. 

Toast it is, then.

Sarah appears just as he’s raiding her drawers for a butter knife. “Morning,” she announces sleepily behind him. 

“Hey, Kiddo,” he says, turning to face her. “Hungry?”

“Yeah. There’s a diner down the street. Thought we could get pancakes.” She yawns.

Joel grins. That must be the place you’d told him about – the one Sarah brings you leftovers from when you’re working late. 

“You buyin’?,” he jokes. 

“Only in exchange for the juicy deets from last night.” She pauses. “Okay, maybe not all the deets. There’s some things I don’t need to know – like why you got home so late.” 

“Sarah,” Joel warns, but she’s undeterred, smiling like a Cheshire Cat with every one of her unbrushed teeth on display.

“Just get changed,” she says, and skips out of the room.

You’ve been staring at the text for twenty minutes now.

Had a lot of fun tonight. Can I see you again before I leave? Let me know if you’re free tomorrow (today I guess). - Joel

You should say yes – you want to say yes – so why can’t you get your fingers to move? 

It’s a stupid question. You know why – it’s Quentin and your inability to shake the fear that someone  else will hurt you like he did. If you keep Joel at arm’s length – continue to ignore his message – he can’t do that. You can just take last night for what it was – a fun time, a hookup – and stop this before it goes too far, before feelings get involved.

Because it never ends well, once they do.

You get out of bed without responding, but you leave the text open on your phone. You attempt to busy yourself with housework and grading. Again and again though, you find your fingers hovering over the screen, your mind wandering to the way Joel’s lips had felt on yours, the way the bulge in his jeans had felt against your clothed heat, the sound of his southern drawl when he’d called you darlin’. 

Then you snap yourself out of it and place the phone face-down on the table.

This goes on for hours, a vicious cycle. You feel your resolve slipping more and more each time you pick the phone up.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you break, light bathing your kitchen and revealing all of the spots you’d missed when you’d dusted earlier. Your phone is heavy in the palm of your hand like a bomb – like if you don’t hit send right now, you’ll lose the motivation and it’ll detonate, taking any chance of you seeing Joel tonight and not self-sabotaging with it. 

You close your eyes when you press the button and toss your phone somewhere across the room.

Well – you think – no going back now.

Joel is sitting on cold, hard bleachers at the Homecoming football game when he sees you’ve responded, the shouts of people in the stands around him not enough to avert his attention.

Hey, yeah, that would be great! Do you want to come to my apartment later? I have a bottle of wine we can crack into if you’d like. And I can order pizza.

The announcer is saying something about player #72 over the loudspeaker. He doesn’t tune in. 

Joel types his reply and sends it:

Sounds perfect. I’ll come over around 7?

Sarah groans next to him. “You wanted to come to this game, dad. If you’re bored already, can we leave?”

His eyes shoot up. “No, uh – sorry. Just had to answer one text.”

Sarah narrows her eyes at him. They dart to the phone just as another message rolls in, your name flashing across the screen before Joel can hide it.

“Is that my professor?”

Joel doesn’t answer. His silence confirms enough. 

“I knew you guys hit it off last night! See, dad, even though you didn’t wanna tell me at breakfast, I still found out. I always find out. Because Sarah knows all.” She attempts a maniacal, Disney villain-esque laugh. 

Joel raises an eyebrow at her. 

“You done?”

“So you going out again later? Do I need to make your bed on the couch, or should I just not bother?”

He ignores her. Someone gets a touchdown and half the crowd goes wild. He doesn’t bother to check what team scored. 

He opens your latest message, instead.

Perfect. See you then, Cowboy ;)

His breath hitches at the nickname, at the thought of you calling him that again in person. The thought of kissing you again, if you’ll let him.

He doesn’t catch who wins the game.

Joel arrives at your apartment at seven o’clock on the dot. 

Punctual, you note.

He’s holding a bottle of wine, gripping the neck with long, calloused fingers. 

“Know you said you had some already,” he says as he steps over the threshold. “Just didn’t wanna come empty handed.” 

The sentiment takes you aback. You’re not exactly used to dates bringing you gifts, especially ones this expensive, if the minimalist yet fancy label is any indicator. 

“Thanks,” you say awkwardly, taking the bottle from him. You can’t quite make out the name – something foreign, etched in cursive. 

“‘ts Italian, I think,” he mumbles, as if he can read your mind. 

Your eyes shift from the bottle to Joel, standing in front of you in his Carhartt jacket, brows furrowed, gaze trained on the floor at his feet. 

“Thank you,” you say more genuinely this time. 

Joel smiles appreciatively. You motion to the space behind you.

“Come in.” 

You lead Joel to the kitchen, just off the entranceway, and place the bottle down on the counter, gently. You tuck yourself in the corner, leaning back to rest your arms on cool granite. Joel mirrors you against the adjacent island. 

“How’s Sarah?” you ask. “Feeling any better?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing at his scruff. “She was askin’ about you. Saw me textin’ you.”

“Yeah – guess you couldn’t exactly hide this from her, staying at her apartment and all.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Guess not.”

You pop open the bottle of wine. Pour glasses for both of you. Then you order pizza: one cheese, one sausage and pepper. The person on the other end of the line tells you it’ll be thirty to forty minutes. 

“Gonna be a bit of a wait,” you tell Joel when you hang up. “Busy night, I guess.” 

He nods, takes a sip of wine, and then places the glass down, his eyes unmoving from yours. 

You realize then that he’d been staring at you the entire time you were on the phone. The way he’s looking at you – gaze the same as the one from the bar last night when you’d straddled him – has you feeling suddenly nervous.

“What?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks.

Oh.

You breathe out a laugh. It’s not funny – really, the opposite – but you hadn’t been expecting him to ask that. “Joel-” you’re going to say yes – fuck yes – but he interrupts you. 

“Been dyin’ to since last night.” He’s so open, so earnest. It’s fucking hot.

“Joel,” you say again, louder this time. He freezes. His eyes widen, like he’s anticipating your answer. 

“Please.”

It’s all he needs to hear. In an instant, he crosses the distance between you. He places his hands on the counter behind you, framing your body with his. You peer up at him and, fuck – he looks ravenous. 

He kisses you – hard. His teeth crash against yours. It’s messy and hurried, but you don’t care – you want him closer, need him closer. 

Your head swims with memories of the feeling of his bulge against your clothed core. The need to feel it again is all-consuming. You’re greedy for it. And with the time constraint, you don’t want to wait another second. 

You pull back abruptly. Joel furrows his eyebrows where he looms over you, concerned.

“Joel,” you pant,  “I need you.”

It takes him a second to compute what you’re asking. And then he’s nodding furiously.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Okay, darlin’.”

You pull him back in with a hand at the back of his neck, digging your nails into the skin there. His tongue slips into your mouth with a groan. You’re minutely aware of him shrugging his jacket off, hearing the light thump it makes when it hits the linoleum. And then his hands are on you, wandering up and down your body like he needs to feel every inch of you. He tugs at the base of your t-shirt impatiently. 

“Off,” he mumbles against your lips. You pull back only to do as he’s asked, and then you’re right back on him, sucking a bruise into the skin below his ear, your body claiming him subconsciously. His head falls back momentarily, revealing his bobbing throat. You scrape your teeth lightly along the skin there, eliciting a groan from Joel. 

Your mouth continues exploring his neck as his fingers find the clasps of your bra, unhooking them quickly and tossing it aside. You don’t see where. You don’t really care – you’ll find it later.

He grabs your now-naked sides and steps back, pulling you with him. Then he turns you and pushes you back against the island. 

He slaps the countertop behind you. “Up,” he breathes against your neck. You don’t argue. You don’t want to argue. You’re so used to being the one in charge, the one in control — right now you’re happy to bend to Joel’s will.

You grip the edge of the island with both hands and hoist yourself up so that you’re perched there, legs dangling.

Joel’s fingers immediately go to the button of your jeans, popping it open before moving to tug the zipper down. And then he’s helping you lift your hips so that he can pull them down and off. He adds them to the pile at his feet.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear splayed out on your kitchen counter in front of him. You feel like you should be self conscious, maybe even embarrassed by your depravity. But you can’t find it in you to be either, not when Joel is slotted between your legs, his dark eyes scanning over you hungrily. Showing you he needs you just as bad as you need him.

He rubs his hands over your thighs and up the sides of your body, mapping your curves with great concentration. “God damn,” he whispers, what seems to be, mostly to himself. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

You whine pathetically. Your patience is growing thin.

He smirks up at you, likely seeing in your face how desperate you are for him right now. 

“‘ts okay baby, I got you,” he coos, suddenly sinking to his knees in front of you. His hands move closer to your clothed pussy, but not quite there, tracing light circles along your inner thighs. Then he replaces his fingers with his mouth, sending your hips bucking off the counter, chasing him.

The coarse hair of his mustache scratches the skin surrounding where he sucks and bites. You don’t care. You just want to feel it lower, against your dripping folds.

“Please,” you breathe, shakily. Through hooded eyes, you catch Joel’s satisfied grin. You realize then that he loves this — making you beg for it, for him. It’s a dizzying contradiction to the way he was practically begging to kiss you just moments ago.

He presses a chaste kiss against your skin, his lips infuriatingly close to where you need them most.

“Whatcha need, darlin’?” he purrs. The vibration of his voice just next to your core has you spiraling. 

“Need your mouth,” you cry. “Please.”

“Where?” He nips at you, half an inch closer to your swollen clit. You can feel his breath. Your cunt reactively clenches around nothing. 

“On my pussy, Joel” you plead. 

He pulls away from you completely, looks up at you with devilish eyes.

“Good girl.”

He dips one finger into the side of your underwear, pulling them aside to reveal your glistening core. “Damn baby, you’re soaked,” he drawls. You catch the hint of pride that tinges his voice. 

“Please,” you beg again, your voice wanton and broken.

Joel gently pets your throbbing clit with the pad of his thumb. The pressure he applies is feather-light, barely there. But still, after all the teasing, you can’t help the embarrassingly loud moan that escapes you.

He chuckles darkly. “Alright sweetheart, I know – enough teasin’.”

He hooks both index fingers in the top of your panties, pulling them down and off in one swift movement. And then his tongue is on you, exactly where you need it. 

He holds you open with fingers digging deliciously into the meat of your thighs as he licks long, languid stripes from your leaking cunt up to your clit, over and over again until you’re a whimpering mess underneath him. You struggle to hold your weight up on your elbows, watching him as he works you with his mouth.

He’s so good at this – too good at this. You tell him as much, between broken moans. 

“Sofuckinggood Joel – holy shit.”

You swear you can feel him smirk against your heat. 

He buries his face into your cunt then, nose pressed against your clit, and swivels his head back and forth, coating his mustache and beard in your arousal. He groans against you, like this is getting him off just as much as you. It’s all so obscene, so filthy.

You’ve never had a man go down on you like this – like they actually enjoy it. But then again, it doesn’t come as much of a surprise, not when it’s Joel. You’ve quickly come to learn that he’s attentive in every sense of the word. Knows just what you want, what you need – evident by the way his lips latch back onto your clit when you keen for him.

He keeps his attention there, switching between suckling on it – which is enough to make you see stars on its own – and lapping at it with short, shallow flicks of his tongue. He experiments with different angles, licking at different spots on the bundle of nerves until he finds the one that makes you cry out, your babbles of there Joel, yes, right fucking there, don’t stop, letting him know exactly where to focus. 

You feel yourself quickly hurtling toward the edge. You just need a little bit more to get you there.

“Fingers,” you pant. “Need your fingers in me.”

Two of his fingers are at your entrance before you can even blink. You’re so wet that he slides them in easily, curling them against your walls. He expertly finds your G-spot, massaging it as his tongue continues to lap at your clit.

You gasp at the combination. It’s so good – so much.  “Oh my god Joel, I’m so close,” you cry.

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even look at you. His eyes are closed in concentration, fingers and tongue unrelenting. He’s lost in your pussy. You can tell he’s not going to come up for air until he’s given you an orgasm. 

And it doesn’t take much longer – one, two, three more strokes of his fingers and you’re cumming hard.

Your vision blurs and your ears ring in your head. You’re vaguely aware that Joel is pinning one of your thighs down with his free hand to hold you in place as you thrash against the countertop. 

He fucks you through it, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he continues to curl them against that spot, your clit throbbing against his tongue. 

It is – without a doubt – the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. 

He doesn’t stop when you’ve come down, eager to milk every last drop from your weeping cunt. The overstimulation is too much. Your grip tightens in his hair, weakly attempting to pull him off of you as you whimper nonsense above him. You manage to exhale his name, or something close to it, and he finally lifts his face.  

His eyes meet yours, dark and hooded. He looks absolutely pussydrunk.

The entire lower half of his face is soaked with your slick. His shiny, pink lips pepper kisses along your inner thighs, smoothing over the spots he’d marked with his teeth just minutes ago. You feel so sensitive – you shiver under his touch. 

His smile curves into your skin. He leaves one last light peck and stands up, grunting at the ache in his knees. You laugh, but you can tell by the darkness still looming in his gaze that he’s not done with you yet.

He helps you off the counter, steadying you with hands gripping your sides as you find your footing. Your legs feel like Jell-O, a welcomed side-effect of the earth-shattering orgasm you’ve just had. You lead Joel to your bedroom, leaving your clothes scattered across the kitchen floor.

He backs you toward the bed as soon as you’re in your room, lips latched to the side of your neck. The backs of your legs hit the mattress, and then he’s lowering both of your bodies onto it, cradling your head in his hand as you settle underneath him.

He sits back on his knees, pulling his t-shirt over his head to reveal his broad, tan torso. You’re pretty sure you’re salivating, lost in the slope of his shoulders and the wide expanse of his chest. Your eyes trail lower as he undoes his belt, followed by the button of his jeans. He shimmies them off along with his boxers, his large cock springing free, tip shiny with pre-cum, and hovers back over your eager body. 

He dips down and presses his lips to yours, prying your mouth open with his tongue. He’s remarkably patient for how hard he is, his erection pressing into your thigh as he kisses you, slow and wet.

One of his hands grips your jaw, the other pressed firmly against the mattress next to you. Minutes pass like that, you and Joel losing yourselves in each other. Then you remember that you don’t have all the time in the world – that your delivery driver could get here any minute. In truth, you’re not even fucking hungry anymore – not for pizza, anyway.

You snake your hand up to the back of Joel’s head, pulling at his roots lightly. “Joel,” you breathe when he lifts off of you, “please fuck me.”

He doesn’t have to be asked twice.

“How do you want it, baby?” he purrs in your ear, his warm breath skating over your skin. “How do you like it?”

You breathe out a moan. No man has ever asked you how you like it. They usually just give you a few sloppy, ill-timed thrusts, whatever they can muster before cumming and leaving you unsatisfied. 

But Joel isn’t just any man. 

“Hard,” you whine. “Need you to fuck me hard.”

He growls, low and dark. “‘ts right, sweetheart.”

He lines himself up with your entrance, rutting against your folds a few times to gather some of your wetness with the tip of his cock.

Then he sinks into you, slowly, stretching your walls as he notches further and further in. There’s a sweet, stinging pain, one you hope, fleetingly, that you’ll be able to feel tomorrow – like a keepsake from him. 

You sigh when he reaches the hilt, his tip nudging your cervix. He stills, letting you get used to his girth and you have to dig your nails into his back to keep from writhing under him. You don’t mind if it hurts – you just need him to move. 

“Please,” you whine, unable to stop your hips from bucking any longer. “I can take it, Joel.”

“Know you can, baby,” he coos, beginning to rock slowly inside of you. The pleasure is immediate, washing over your body like a warm wave.

He picks up the pace when he’s sure it feels good for you, dragging his cock halfway out of you and thrusting back in, over and over again. 

He grabs both of your legs, bending them so that you’re spread wide open for him, and grips the backs of your knees tightly as he slams into you. He can get so much deeper like this, his cock hitting a spot you didn’t even know you had. You let out a labored moan, fingers anchored into his delts.

“Talk to me darlin — tell me how it feels,” he pants.

“So – fuck, Joel – so fucking good.”

Joel drops his mouth to your shoulder, nips at the skin there. 

His voice is in your ear, a low snarl.

“‘Better than that fuckin ex, I bet.” 

You’d be annoyed by his cockiness – if he wasn’t so right.

But he is, and so you parrot, “So much better.” And then, because it’s the truth, you add, “the best.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hips stuttering at your words. “Can’t say that angel, you’ll make me cum.”

He pulls out and slams back into you again, setting a new, devastating pace. He fills you up just to leave you empty, over and over again. You’re a babbling mess underneath him, couldn’t string two more words together if you tried. Luckily, Joel is happy to take over and do the talking. 

“So fuckin’ pretty, babygirl. Make the most gorgeous noises, too.”

You’re so fucking close, you can only whimper in response. You feel your walls tighten around him.

He presses your foreheads together, his sweaty curls sticking to your skin. His eyes bore into yours. 

“C’mon baby, show me – show me how pretty ya are when ya cum on this cock.”

He brings one hand down to your clit, rubbing sloppy circles over it as he continues spearing into you. You hike your newly-freed leg up over his lower back.  A white heat licks at your spine. You barely have time to tell Joel you’re about to cum, your warning coming out a single cry of his name. He gets it, though, bringing you over the edge with his words. 

“I got you, baby, I got you; you can let go.”

Your orgasm barrels through you, from the tips of your toes all the way up to your ears. Joel doesn’t let up his ministrations, talking you through it as you writhe under him. 

“Thaaaats it. Good – ahh – good fuckin’ girl.” 

The only word you can think of in your state of euphoria is his name, chants of Joel, Joel, Joel spilling from the back of your throat as you cum.

You’re squeezing his cock through your aftershocks, and you can tell he’s close by the way his thrusts become more and more uneven. 

“Fuck – where do you want it?” he braces both palms against the mattress on either side of you.

“Inside – please, Joel,” you beg. “I’m on the pill.”

He curses in ecstasy,  cumming seconds later with a series of low grunts. His hips stall as he spills inside of you. There’s so much of it – he’s nearly drowning your cervix, coating your walls with rope after rope of his spend. 

He softens inside you, staying there for a long moment as you both come down from your highs. You’re sweaty, panting messes, and you can’t help but giggle at how spent you both sound. 

“Good?” he asks, nosing at the space just below your jaw. It’s so soft, so gentle. Your stomach does a backflip.

“Yeah,” you say. “Really fucking good.”

He pulls out of you with a low, guttural noise. You sigh at the loss of him, your hand coming down reflexively  to feel where he’s leaking out of you. His fingers graze yours, and he bumps them aside to scoop up some of your combined fluids. 

He brings his wet, sticky fingers to your lips, humming when you immediately take them into your mouth and suck them clean, eyes unmoving from his the entire time. You bat your eyelashes at him, innocently as he pulls them out with a wet pop.

“Fuck,” he curses, “gonna get me hard again, angel.”

He lays down next to you, letting his head thump against the pillow, and flexes his biceps behind his head. You kind of hope he does get hard again, despite the fact that your whole body feels like liquid. Like if you were to try and stand, your legs would most definitely give out on you. They’re trembling right now, where you have them half-bent, heels dug into the mattress.

Your phone rings, then, snapping you out of your post-coital bliss. Fuck – the pizza.

You answer, trying your best to hide the undeniably fucked-out lilt of your voice as you tell the delivery person that someone will be right down.

Joel laughs next to you when you hang up. “I’ll get it – hold on.”

He jumps out of bed and dresses quickly. You’re gawking at him as he does. You can’t help it. This man – probably the hottest man you’ve ever seen – was just inside of you. You want to pat yourself on the back. He notices you staring as he’s zipping up his jeans and shoots you a wink.

Joel deadbolts your front door and disappears into the hallway. He returns moments later, shutting and re-locking the door, and strides back into your bedroom with both boxes. You can see the steam coming off of them through the cardboard. 

He sets them down by your feet.

“In bed?” you ask, sitting up against the headboard. 

“Well I’m not sure you can walk to the kitchen, darlin’.”

Your face heats. He has a point. But he doesn’t have to be so smug about it. You roll your eyes at him and mumble something nonsensical under your breath as you tuck yourself in under your duvet.

“What was that?” He quirks an eyebrow.

Long gone is the shy Joel from earlier this evening. He knows your body now, knows how hard he makes you cum. He’s a whole different man post-coitus – bolder. It makes you damn near melt.

And maybe you’re different now too. Because you’re pretty sure you’d give up your vow of solitude for him, if he asked.

It’s crazy, probably. You’ve only known Joel for two days, after all. But you can’t help the way that he ( and his dick) makes you feel. Like maybe there’s a promise of something down the line, however serious that something may be. You just know you want to give yourself the opportunity to experience it, no matter how it ends.

“Nothing.” You break, grin pulling tight at the corners of your mouth. “Just get me a slice of cheese.”

He lets his gaze linger for a second longer, the faux-threat of it heating you from the inside out. And then he’s vanishing into the kitchen, returning with two plates and a stack of paper towels. 

He dishes up slices for the both of you, climbing into bed next to you and handing over yours. 

He settles in with a content sigh.

You both eat in happy silence for a few minutes, Joel giving you a satisfied nod when he finishes up his first slice. “‘ts good,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food. 

“Right?” you retort. “It’s my favorite pizza around here.”

He hums in agreement. Pulls the box of sausage and pepper onto his lap to grab another slice.

“So,” you start, “you’re heading home tomorrow?” It’s more of a statement than a question. You know he is. But still, part of you wants Joel to say no, tell you that he’s canceled his flight, that he’s decided to stick around for a bit longer. 

“Yeah,” he says. You feel your heart sink. You silently curse yourself for being delusional. 

“Are you excited?” you try. “To be home?”

He doesn’t respond right away – his forehead wrinkling and his lips falling into a small frown. You watch as he thinks on it. 

“Not really,” he admits after a few seconds. 

“I know you’ll miss Sarah,” you say, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. 

He peers down at you with a heavy sigh. “So much…” His voice trails off, like there’s something else he wants to add, but can’t. 

The air feels thick, suddenly – heavy. You try your best to lighten it.

“Can’t stay a bit longer? Let Tommy run things for a while?”

“No,” he laughs. “Pretty sure he’ll just end up screwin’ every client we got.” 

“And you’d end up screwing every one of Sarah’s professors,” you tease. 

His mouth falls open in mock-offense. He grabs at both your sides, suddenly, letting the open box of pizza slide off of his lap and onto the bed. He tickles relentlessly just under your ribs, causing you to squeal and squirm under his grip.

“Joel,” you cry in between fits of laughter. “Stop!” 

“I don’t think so, darlin’,” he tuts. He removes one of hands momentarily, to toss your plate aside, and then he’s hooking one of his legs over your body, straddling you. He looks so big like this, his body hanging over yours. You feel content – safe. His hands release you, finally, coming to settle on either side of your head on your pillow. You blink up at him. He’s staring down at you with narrowed eyes. 

“What?” 

“Nothin,” he mumbles. “‘ts just, I wouldn’t, ya know. Sleep with anyone else, I mean. If you didn’t want me to.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You know that if you respond, it’ll come out way too eager. So you just blink at him again. 

“Would you want to keep talkin’ after I get home?”

Yes, you want to say. Please. I don’t think I could go on without knowing if I’ll get to see you again – fuck you again.

You swallow. Collect yourself. 

“Yeah. I would.”

You shimmy under Joel so that you can sit up. He straightens out, shifting his weight onto his knees. Takes both of your hands in his and pulls you up.

His eyes are still locked on yours. “I know we just met this weekend,” he says. “But I had a lot’a fun with you. I like you.” 

Your cheeks warm. “I like you too, Joel.” 

He smiles. “‘m glad.”

“Doesn’t have to be anythin’ serious,” he continues. Lets his fingers trace aimlessly along the inside of your arm. “We can jus’ see where it goes.”

“Yeah,” you nod, your heart squeezing in your chest. “See where it goes. I like that.” 

And it’s the truth. You do. In the stillness, your legs tucked under the covers, Joel caressing you, you feel, for the first time in a long time, happy to not be alone. And you know you will be again, very soon, when Joel leaves to go back home. But then again, you won’t – not really. His voice will be there, a phone call away, and his body will be there, in the divot he’s left in your mattress. And you’ll have the promise of taking this slow, seeing where it goes. 

You’ve never been so excited for the future. 

end notes: tysm for reading! I may turn this into a series if people want more of these two <3 lmk hehe

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel x reader #pedro pascal as joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #fiiyb

[dwarf-hat-enjoyer]

🌼Favorite Flowers🌼 (Bachelors' V.)

synopsis: Favorite flowers of all six Stardew bachelors! No farmer mentioned, headcanons. SFW.

w.c.: 1.2k words!

content warnings: None!

A.N.: shoutout to @jellyaris for inspo on the Shane section! Hope everyone enjoys these little snippety snippets...Suuure, some of these headcanons kind of diverge from canon (yeah, yeah. Alex is neutral to dandelions ingame. Sue me, LOL.) But who cares, it's Tumblr! Might make a bachelorettes' version too.

Alex

He's a simple man with simple tastes. DANDELIONS suit him well! He has fond memories of picking dandelions with his mother and blowing the seeds away, and even vaguely remembers how to make flower chains out of them. Of course, he could never get them as neat as hers, but Granny Evelyn still asks for his help when making crowns for the Flower Dance. Apart of him wonders why they have to use nicer-looking flowers for the formal crowns when dandelions work just fine. They're sturdy yet flexible- not nearly as fragile as the more 'beautiful' flowers, and as an athlete, he can admire that about them.

On a deeper level, there are many similarities to be found between Alex and his favorite flower. First impressions can be deceiving- just like most people think of dandelions as pests, Alex can come on a bit strong and even arrogant. But looking beneath the surface, they both share the same physical and mental will to push forward and survive in even the most difficult circumstances. They both go through drastic changes as well. Just as the bright and spiky bloom of a dandelion becomes softer and more delicate, Alex's spirit softens too. His own changes, though, won't float away on the wind anytime soon :P

Elliott

As obvious as it would be to say red roses, SNAPDRAGONS would be his favorites instead! As much as he is a romantic, he's just as much a daydreamer, and snapdragons would provide his imagination with ample opportunity to run wild, both with their fantastical name and lush, delicate appearance. They remind him of adventures in far-off lands, harkening reveries of ancient castles filled with wondrous secrets and the brave heroes set out to uncover them. He's a homebody at heart, but nothing is stopping him from holing up in his cabin and writing about any of it! (Or, well, fantasizing about writing about it, in most cases. <3)

But just as established, he's a romantic. Elliott is definitely well-versed in the language of flowers, and the meaning behind snapdragons in particular hardly eludes him. They symbolize grace, earnestness and strength under pressure, but are also known to represent something less than well-intentioned. Emulating the former qualities is something Elliott has done effortlessly, but in a way, the last one entices him the most. To create something beautiful, strong and mysterious; something that draws one in and sparks love and fear and longing for an endless more- isn't that what every writer wants? What every writer dreams of?

Harvey

A little like Elliott in this regard, Harvey is the sentimental type. FORGET-ME-NOTS hold a special place in his heart. It's a simple flower in appearance with an almost childlike name, but he likes them just the same. Maybe it's because of those traits that he does- they remind him of the carefree days he's missed out on, since moving to the valley. On top of his doctoral duties, he's a very lonely person overall. Forget-Me-Nots, with their hopeful pale blue, almost cheer him up to see on days where he feels less like a member of the community and more like a robot with a stethoscope and scrubs.

It's also their name that connects with him in a way...Forget-Me-Not. On top of the way they look, they cheer him up with that name. On the rare instance that the flower comes up in conversation, he jokes that the person who named it must've had terrible memory, as cheesy as it sounds. But all jokes aside, it's comforting to him that a flower otherwise unremarkable would have a name that insists to the listening ear that it shouldn't be forgotten. Almost inspiring, even. It makes him feel as if one day, he won't be another face-in-the-crowd. Somebody important, though to whom in particular...? Well, time will tell!

Sam

For Sam, it's DAISIES all the way! He constantly flip-flops between spring and summer as his favorite seasons, but daisies give him the best of both worlds. Seeing them dotting the fields in the warmer months always brings a smile to his face. Whether or not he's close with him, Sam definitely got Alex to teach him how to make flower chains one late spring...Of course, Alex may or may not have been mildly jealous of how easily Sam picked up on the skill, but when spending time together outside, Sam's restless hands sometimes find themselves picking daisies from the grass while Abigail and Sebastian chat and bicker and making the both of them bracelets!

When he still lived in the city with his mother, father and a much younger Vincent, he'd sometimes see them poking out of cracks in the sidewalk. While they weren't as common as dandelions, they still always caught his attention. While Jodi chatted aimlessly with her fellow PTA moms outside one of the countless Zuzu City JojaMarts, he'd busy himself, plucking daisies and dandelions from whatever nooks and crannies he could find and playing with them however he wanted. Back then, he didn't think much of it, but he looks at those times with almost a fond nostalgia. Things changed, but that doesn't mean it all has to be sad, right?

Sebastian

He doesn't think about this sort of thing very often, being the lovable terminally-online dork that he is. But if you ask, Sebastian's favorite flower would have to be BLACK TULIPS. It's not a very deep answer, really. Sure, tulips are more of a spring flower, but he finds the pitch purple color to be one of the more interesting colors that plants can have. They stick out among the cheerier colors that most other breeds of tulips display- the goths of their genus, if you will, and that's small part of why he likes them!

He entertained the idea of gardening, at one point, even prior to the farmer's arrival. Though he plans to move out eventually, he thought it would be a good way to get outside and get some exercise, though it wasn't ever really anything he thought to commit to. Though, he does chat with Evelyn on occasion- their shared affinity for tulips and his occasional fantasy of maintaining a small garden has ended up providing a lot more conversation than he's used to, or even expected! Even if most people see him as an asocial shut-in, it's comforting for him to recognize his softer side.

Shane

Look at him. All gruff and mean. His favorite flower is probably a thistle of some sort, or something poisonous. All things considered, his favorite flowers are FAIRY ROSES. Don't give him that look- it's just because Jas likes them so much! Seeing the way she lights up when she sees them is contagious for this gold-hearted curmudgeon. She'd spent two entire weeks planning out a one-woman recital for him and Marnie once, and when he handed her a little JojaMart bouquet of them afterwards...Well, the look on her face made the price tag worth it. Although, her excited squeal did leave his ears ringing for the rest of the evening.

The flowers are native to the valley, too...Sometimes, he feels as if he doesn't belong. Why would he? It's not as if he was born there or has any particularly close friends. If Pelican Town was a garden, he'd just be a weed. But Jas seems to have taken like a duck to water, although she's still shy as ever. Shane can be self-defeating and pessimistic at times, but he's not made of stone. He's grateful that she's in a place where she can flourish, just like the fairy roses she adores so much.

~FIN~

#stardew valley #stardew #stardew valley alex #alex stardew valley #stardew alex #stardew valley elliott #elliott stardew valley #stardew elliott #stardew valley harvey #harvey stardew valley #stardew harvey #stardew valley sam #sam stardew valley #stardew sam #stardew valley sebastian #sebastian stardew valley #stardew sebastian #stardew valley shane #shane stardew valley #stardew shane #stardew valley headcanons

[aledethanlast]

If I'm already on the topic of the foxes and grown ups, let's talk about Kevin.

I think Kevin mellows out a lot by the time he goes pro. In part because there's not nearly so large an axe over his neck anymore, but largely because around his fourth year, when pro teams start seriously trying to recruit him, he realizes that his caustic and dismissive attitude towards his teammates can't really fly anymore. It's a Raven behavior, a label he's both disavowed and been disowned by, and most coaches are not his dad who will let him do whatever and kowtow to his expertise. He was an assistant coach for one semester, and never a captain. His behavior has a deadline and if he misses it, it might end his career. He's gonna need to make an actual effort.

And he wants to make the effort! He always admired the Trojans for their good nature, and while he is definitely a fox, he thinks he'd very much like being part of a more friendly team.

So when he signs on to his first pro team (the culmination of six weeks of studying various teams for play style, lineups, press reputation, and point stats), he feels ready to turn over a new leaf. If nothing else, he thinks he'd like to make more friends now that he doesn't have Andrew and Neil around all the time. And the team seems like a nice bunch! They're talented, driven, he can see how he can mesh with them.

This sentiment lasts him about a week.

"Put Neil on the goddamn phone," he says as he slams the door of his car.

"Kevin," his father says on the other end of the line. "We are at practice right now."

"I know, that's why I called you."

His father sighs in the way he does when he needs a few seconds to debate who he should blame for this latest headache. Then he hears a fist on glass on the other end, and a minute later the little fucker says "Kevin. How are you."

"I don't know how you did this or why, but I am going to fucking end you."

"Please be more specific." Smug little motherfucker. Kevin slams his foot on the gas and pretends it's Neil's neck. Though he eases up a bit when he almost tailspins out of the parking lot. He hasn't driven a car in six years, fucking sue him.

"Practice ended three hours ago, Neil. I am now leaving the stadium. Can you guess what I was doing in that meantime?"

"Rediscovering the lost city of Atlantis," Neil says, deadpan, and when Kevin goes to trial for homicide he is going to play this recording back for the court and they're going to call it justified.

"No, see, by the time Gotlieb started talking about Atlantis, I knew he was fucking with me. That doesn't salvage the two goddamn hours I spent trying to convince my teammates that the pyramids weren't, I shit you not, built by Napoleon." He pauses as he reconsiders what just came out of his mouth. "This was Andrew's idea, wasn't it?"

"Kevin, if you only talk to people about exy, they're going to think they can only talk to you about exy. Now your team knows you're an actual fucking person. Have fun with that."

Plague upon his fucking house. "Are you expecting a thank you?"

"You promised yourself you'll make more friends. I'm just holding you to it. So...yes."

Kevin doesn't say it, and he tells himself its because Neil doesn't need the ego. Somehow Neil hears him anyway. "Drive home safe, Kevin."

"Go get your rookies in line, Captain," Kevin says, and hangs up. He dials Andrew next; he needs to know just how much of Kevin's thesis Andrew turned into conspiracy fodder.

#the foxhole court #all for the game #aftg #neil josten #kevin day #they're besties your honor #continuing with my belief that neil never ever stoped being a meddling little shit #and why would he it has literally never failed him

[latibvles]

points on a map.

this is... [loud kazoo] rather late but oh well! better late than never. related to this piece, this next one is plucking from the prompt crew and, as you can expect: is an introduction to the rest of Viv and Willie's crew! It was fun to write though, so I hope you enjoy it (will these make it onto ao3? maybe. no it is not proofread, sue me) Meet Inez Eckley, our very lovely navigator. All of these OCs will be on the carrd very soon!

—

It takes ten people to fly a B-17.

Not ten men, or ten boys — ten people. That was it. Really early on there used to be a joke, the setup was always the same: how many girls does it take to fly a plane? To no one’s surprise: Inez never found it funny, no matter how many times the punchline changed. It takes ten of me just like it takes ten of you.

She’d never said that, never had much of the courage to open her mouth about it. Luckily, the other navigators she knew either didn’t have the same sentiments or just kept them to themselves — Inez optimistically hopes for the second.

i.

“So we’re just… puttin’ pins in it?” Inez asks, turning to Croz and Bubbles. Croz nods, gives her a bit of a sheepish smile and Inez tries not to squint at the now blurry map in front of her — her glasses feeling like a cross where they hide under her jacket beneath her shirt.

“Pretty much. It’s a tradition.” He affirms.

“Gotta know where everyone’s from.” Bubbles tacks on immediately after — his smile is a little brighter. It doesn’t surprise her: Inez is fairly certain Bubbles was the one who was gonna run around and shoving red thumb tacks in people’s faces. Inez nods once, slow and pensive, before reaching for one of them.

“Ladies first, then?” She wants it to be a statement — but she can’t help but ask. As if they’d have her set up the map on the wall for a boys only activity.

She catches a glimpse of Harrie Morgan over in the corner, trying to nudge one of the guys out of the way so she could listen to the fight on the radio, and assumes that her worry isn’t a crazy assumption to make.

“So y’don’t forget about us,” Inez tacks it on at the end, a bit sheepish, fixing her gaze now on the plastic between her fingers. When she looks back up — Bubbles is still smiling brightly.

“Sure thing. You can do the honors.” He encourages, and that much makes her smile a little bit as she nods once to herself then takes a couple steps forward. She squints a bit, trying to will the text into becoming more solid, trying to recall the maps she’d pour over during practice missions over the States. Inez hesitates a moment, settles on the spot and hopes that she’s hit her target. Turning her head, Bubbles and Crosby are both looking over at where she’s placed it.

“Nashville, huh? That makes us neighbors,” Bubbles puts his own above hers. “Louisville.”

“Guess you’ll have to visit then. We’ll make a day out of it. Hit all the real touristy spots.” Inez offers. There’s a vision there that has her smiling to herself — one where her mother overfeeds them because they’re “too skinny to be Army,” and Croz, polite as ever, doesn’t know how to say no to her. “You too, Bing. And it’s your turn.” Crosby seems to perk up a little bit, takes his pin and tacks it right onto Iowa. Bubbles chuckles to himself, arms crossing over his chest.

“Yeah, you gotta visit. Th’hell’s back in Iowa.” He teases, and Inez can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes her. By the time they got back from this, Iowa would have Mrs. Jean Crosby again, who’s letter was probably sitting comfortably in Croz’s jacket pocket right about now.

“Don’t get him started, we’ll be here all day.”

ii.

Harriet Morgan, their ball gunner, has successfully stolen the seat closest to the radio. Carrie Hughes, one of their waist gunners, is standing awkwardly to her left when Inez tracks them down. Harrie’s leant forward on her elbows, the guy next to her, Roy Clayton, gives her a questioning look, expression twisted into one of mild annoyance as Amison messes with the knobs of the radio.

“You even got money on this, Morgan?”

“No, but ma’ pa might!” The expression on her face is bright, and she flashes him a sunny-side up grin — all crooked teeth and crinkled eyes. Carrie says nothing, but her cheeks flush in that mildly embarrassed way that they always do when Harrie’s garnering a bit of attention for herself. Sometimes, Inez is marveled by the fact that Carrie continues to follow her around in spite of her own introversion — but the world was full of mysteries and Inez figured this one would just have to go unsolved.

Harrie, as usual, is none the wiser.

Inez clears her throat on her approach, drops a hand on Carrie’s shoulder to squeeze it and give her a half-smile.

“Got a second to spare? Wouldn’t want you losin’ your seat, after all,” Harrie’s grin turns a little mischievous, and she waves her hand flippantly as she jumps up to her feet.

“Roy gon’ watch ma seat for me, ain’t that right?” Roy makes a face, a mix of shock and protest that falters almost immediately upon Harrie holding his stare for another second or two. Harrie claps him on the shoulder. “‘Preciate it, pal,” before clapping her hands together and jumping up to her feet. Inez thinks she hears Carrie mutter a sorry Roy under her breath. Inez can’t help the small laugh that leaves her as she guides the two of them towards the map.

“Shouldn’t take more than a minute.” Inez offers, but Harrie whizzes by her like a dog catching a scent, sidling up immediately at the work-in-progress amalgamation of push-pins.

“Well what’s all this then?” Her question is as bright as the rest of her and Inez only wonders momentarily how it is that she can treat every minor occurrence as though she’d just found a winning lottery ticket. Carrie’s interest, although more subdued, is still piqued — Inez can tell by the way those big brown eyes of hers light up in curiosity. June had made a couple jokes about the girl being the baby deer of the group: the nineteen-year-old was really living up to it now.

“Croz and Bubbles say it’s a tradition. Gotta put a pin where everybody in the group’s from.” Carrie tilts her head, brows furrowed — although Harrie wastes no time in taking one from the table and smacking it onto the map. Somewhere South, but that part was obvious.

“We get to…” Carrie’s voice trails off, but Inez knows how that question was going to finish, so she nods.

“All thirty of us. I went first,” That makes Carrie smile, and Inez pats her back before gently pushing her towards the map, before sidling up on its opposing side to squint at where Harrie found her mark. Montgomery, Alabama. Carrie, however, is more subdued about it — she simply points and voices it, as opposed to doing it herself.

“Denver,” Carrie offers and Bubbles puts the pin in.

“Ever been to the Rockies?” He asks with a bit of a tease. Carrie lets out a small huff.

“Do I look like a mountain climber to you, sir?” And now it’s Inez’s turn to snort at the barely there bite of Carrie’s remark — one that has Harrie laughing loud and unapologetic. Silently, Inez just hopes Carrie keeps sharpening that edge of hers’ until it gleams, if only for her own sake.

iii.

Inez knows that when their radio op smiles at her and promises she just needs to finish up this last game, that it is the beginning of a doom-coming.

Not for Fern, of course. Never for Fern — Inez was fairly sure she could talk Eisenhower himself into giving her a brand new fort for free. The doom-coming being for the wallet of whoever Fern has successfully deceived into thinking she was actually bad at darts: this time, it seems to be Quinn and Blakely — Hinton being her newfound accomplice. Inez doesn’t know how they haven’t been made aware of Fern’s goal to sucker at least half the 100th before they reach England, but that’s none of her business.

“No shame in callin’ it quits now, Carmine. I’ll even halve the winnings for ya,” Bailey drawls, and Fern scoffs lightheartedly. She puts her hands on her hips, cocking a brow and tucking a loose strand of shiny auburn hair behind her ear. There’s a slight pout to her lips. Hook, line…

“Don’t tell me you’re calling me a quitter, Bailey. Matter of fact, I hit this double eight and we double it. Two bucks each.”

Sinker. Quinn looks reluctant, but Bailey agrees — so they all cough up another bill to make it eight on the table. Fern takes her last dart and passes Hinton one of those award-winning smiles of hers, and Inez is reminded briefly of how they had her posing up by the plane for pictures back in Sioux City. And how a passing remark about how she should’ve been painted on the plane, not flying ‘em had earned the offender a fist to the teeth from June.

She lines up the shot, takes in a deep breath and then…

“Boop!” Fern declares as the dart finds its target, to the collective groaning of both Quinn and Bailey. “Thaaank you! And thank you!” She swipes the cash from the table, hands four to Hinton and then pockets the other four, before turning to Inez. “Heard something about a map, is that it?” Fern is looping their arms, her cheek brushing against the side of Inez’s head.

“Four whole dollars. You’re really stretchin’ that Mouse Hole piggy bank,” Inez remarks, and it makes Fern laugh a little with a shake of her head.

“Once we hit England it’ll burst all on its own,” She declares, definitively, then listens intently as Inez explains exactly what it was they were doing. The map’s got a few more pins — from Brady and Blakely and their crews. By the time they hit it, Fern’s already opening her mouth and unlooping their arms, pointing at the spot on the map in one fluid motion. “Racine, Wisconsin, boys, riiiiight there.”

iv.

Josephine Alden was always good at not taking up too much room — with Lorraine next to her, they would have the quietest corner of the bar were it not for Lena Connolly filling it with her own storytelling of tales from home. Jo seems more intent to listen than Lorraine, who’s eyes have fallen decidedly further down the bar, towards some back-and-forth occurring between June and Douglass. For a moment, Inez idles behind Lena, trying to figure out the best way to worm herself in.

Noticing this, Josephine gives her one of those warm and acknowledging smiles of hers.

“Did you need something, Inez?” she asks, shifting the attention towards her. Well, Lena’s attention at least. Lorraine still seems preoccupied.

Inez smiles, rubs the nape of her neck.

“Bubbles, Croz, and I are wranglin’ people to tell us where they’re from. Keep track of location and stuff. There’s a map for people to put pins in their hometown. I just wanted to make sure we all got ours,” she explains, looking over the three of them. Lena nods slowly, and Josephine is already straightening out to get up and head over.

Lorraine’s lips tug into a frown, dark eyes flitting from her back to the scene she was watching unfold in front of her.

“Do I have to?” And, despite knowing her, the question still manages to knock some of the wind out of Inez all the same. It’s not posed with a whine, but that sort of indifference that she takes towards most things that didn’t pique her immediate interest. Inez has shared a bunkhouse with the woman for the better part of a full year, but sometimes she still has to remind herself that it’s rarely ever personal; that it’s just Lorraine. Slow to convince, slow to bite down on anything without an incentive.

Sensing Inez’s own faltering, Lena taps in — a clap on Lorraine’s shoulder and a smile up at her.

“Haven’t seen Pasadena Nena touch down yet,” she casts a look to Josephine sliding off the bar stool, “Or Sparky.” Josephine perks up, an animated full-body thing so unlike her typical reservations that it even catches Inez offguard.

“That’d make us first, wouldn’t it?” Josephine points out. “First of the girls, at least,” She looks to Inez for confirmation, and it dawns on her all at once — so she nods almost too quickly in confirmation.

“Uh huh. Croz and Bubbles even let me put the first pin in it,” Inez admits. Lorraine’s brows raise just enough for her to notice, and there’s a twitch of Lena’s lip in knowing they’ve thoroughly incentivized her into something else.

Lorraine Ivanova didn’t care for much — but she did like to be first to things.

“Alright,” she assents, and Inez smiles a little more genuine, guiding the trio back towards the map. Josephine lets the other two walk in front of her, whipping around to raise her hand in greeting. Inez looks back to see who it is — only to realize all at once that she doesn’t know who it is that Josephine’s waving to. A member of Brady’s crew, maybe. By the time Inez is turning back around, Lorraine is taking one of the push pins to jam into the map wordlessly.

“Brooklyn,” Josephine murmurs quietly to Inez, as Lena mimics it, her own pin nearly on top of Lorraine’s. “And the Bronx.” She knew the two were from New York — but the differences between all those little neighborhoods made her head spin on a better day. Inez gives Josephine an appreciative smile that the girl returns, patting the spot between Inez’s shoulder blades before stepping towards the map and pointing.

“New Englander, huh?” Bubbles points out as Croz presses the pin into its spot.

“Same as Crank,” She nods, stepping back, before giving Inez a curious look. “Did you get Juney yet?”

v.

She had not, in fact, gotten Juney yet.

And their bombardier looked like she was about to bite Howard Hamilton’s head off — but Hambone just looked amused with his ability to successfully get a rise out of her. To be entirely fair, it wasn’t hard. And it also wasn’t worth the smack in the mouth he’d be getting if he kept poking her as though she were a sleeping bear; Inez walks a little quicker, Josephine keeping step. Douglass, who’d also been participating in the conversation, catches them first with that pearly-white smile of his.

“Ladies,” it’s an easy greeting, and Inez fixes him with a nod.

June Cielinski looks back at them now, blue eyes lit up, argument on her tongue and jaw clenched. She fixes her gaze on Inez and Inez feels her stomach drop almost instinctually. She’s like a horse being wrangled straight into a pen she wants no part of, because whatever conversation that was just transpiring would be far too much for her to keep up with.

“Eckley, would you tell Hamilton that—”

“We need you for somethin’,” Inez blurts abruptly. She then fixes her look back to the two men behind her and lets out a soft puff of breath. “I’m borrowin’ her.” Josephine slides seamlessly into the conversation with a heard you had a rough landing! that’s laced with all the concern of a mother checking on her kids after a long school day. June, however, is muttering what Inez can only assume are obscenities under her breath. Inez doesn’t speak a lick of polish — her cheeks flush anyway.

“What was that all about?” Inez asks after a moment, and June scoffs.

“Dougie wants to make a pass at Fern so I told him to piss off about it. Hamilton thought it was pretty funny,” June seethes, and Inez knows her immediate piece of advice wouldn’t be much help. Don’t feed into it was like asking June to hold her breath for an entire flight exercise.

She also knows it was less about the prospect of Douglass and Fern, of all people, and more about what lies beneath it — the principle of it. They’d all been sat down and had the fraternization policy nailed into their skulls. Inez figures that it’s hard to take a rule seriously when you’ve never seen the consequences of breaking it. So the guys found it funny, even if, like most things, the consequences felt very, very real for the woman. And most girls understood how words could be dangerous in a way that guys didn’t.

June was always going to be the first one to bat for them. That’s just how it was.

“Should only take a minute, then you can go back to uh… fightin’ the good fight, I guess,” June snorts, unapologetic in the way she rolls her eyes, but Inez knows it isn’t malicious. Her lips curl on something between a smirk and a smile and her physical being seems to loosen up a bit more. That makes Inez relax a bit, letting out a soft breath as they reach the map. “They’ve just gotta know where you’re from. Put a pin in it.” June’s lips pull into a small pout, a nod of understanding.

“Hope you boys don’t need me to point you in the direction of Chicago,” She raises a brow at the two other navigators. Bubbles just laughs, but Croz seems to flush a bit — meek in the presence of June’s sharp remarks as he goes to put the pin in its place.

vi.

“You get lost or something, Cleven?”

It’s never been hard to find her pilot, Captain Savorre’s made a spot for herself by the door just as Major Cleven comes in with a gust of wind. Inez watches Cleven take Savorre’s hand and shake it, and they give each other a smile — Cleven’s is barely perceptible, Savorre’s is mostly teeth. Whatever Cleven says in response, Inez doesn’t pick up on, but Savorre turns her head and Inez follows it.

Inez doesn’t get how she didn’t notice that the horn above the mantle was split in two. Savorre says something else Inez can’t hear, and claps him on the shoulder twice before he walks past. The two of them look like something out of the movies they’d play on base, if she was being completely honest with herself. Tall, confident, attractive. Cleven presses forward, nodding towards those who catch his eye, greeting those he knows.

She didn’t know the commander of the 350th well, but the general consensus of her and most of the girls was that he was quite alright. Harrie had gushed about how pretty his girlfriend was when they saw her once at the bar — all Veronica Lake waves and friendly smiles. Inez was too shy to talk to her then. Still, Captain Savorre and Lieutenant Neumann seemed to like him well enough — that was as much of an assurance as any. Sometimes it was hard to discern who their allies were in a group of hundreds of people.

Inez presses forward once she realizes Savorre is no longer preoccupied, clearing her throat as she approaches.

“Captain?” Savorre’s face lights up in another smile.

“Eckley.” Inez looks to the left, to Buck over by the map, then clears her throat.

“Me and uh… the other navigators were just gettin’ everyone to put a pin where they’re from up on the board. I pretty much got everybody but you and Lieutenant Neumann.” Captain Savorre had an air about her that was somehow both comfortable and intimidating. Inez always chalked it up to her having a good four inches of height on her. But the smile she maintains is a comfort as she straightens out a bit.

“Look at you, making friends,” There’s something about the way she says it that reminds Inez vaguely of her older cousins asking about her social life back in high school. It’s almost sisterly. When Savorre starts walking, Inez is quick to follow. “How’re those glasses working out for you?” she inquires. Inez feels her face flush. The cold metal frames hanging on the inside of her shirt feel heavier.

Savorre picked up on Inez’s habitual squinting pretty quickly. She said nothing of it, but Inez did find a pair of readers on the pillow of her rack in Wendover. She’d thanked the woman at least five times; Savorre just laughed it off, telling her her secret’s safe with her.

“Just fine, thanks,” Savorre nods, satisfied. Then, Inez lets her curiosity get the best of her as they pass by Cleven again in conversation with the Sergeant at the bar. “Everything okay? With the Major?”

Savorre’s mouth curls on a grin, directed ahead of her as opposed to in response to Inez’s question. Inez watches as Savorre drapes an arm around Neumann’s shoulders. She’d been in some kind of conversation with Lieutenant Brady. There’s a quick exchange there: an I’ve gotta steal her from Savorre, a small eyeroll from Neumann and then a small, surrendering nod from Brady that ends with Savorre turning on her heel.

It’s then that the Captain seems to remember Inez’s question.

“Our Air Exec just knows how to make an impression, is all,” is Savorre’s breezy reply, arm still draped around Neumann’s shoulders, who’s giving her an equally questioning look, but saying nothing. “Lead the way, Eckley.”

And so she does: back to the table, with its awaiting map with an ever-growing collection of red pins in places all dotting the U.S. Croz introduces himself all over again and handshakes are exchanged, Inez taking a step back to admire their work. There was something about being unable to distinguish any of them from one another that made her happy. Ten men in a bomber, ten women in a bomber, ten people to fly a B-17, ten pins on a map.

Bubbles puts the one for Neumann somewhere in Pennsylvania that Inez has never heard of. Then Savorre takes one for herself, looks over her shoulder and casts a smile pointedly at Inez as it finds its mark. Like she’s letting Inez in on a secret.

“Motor City,” is all she says as she puts it, presumably, on Detroit — it only then occurs to Inez that their pilot didn’t talk much about where she was from.

Before Inez can ask anymore questions, the door opens once more and Savorre heads off, curious as ever, to see who’s walked in. Neumann’s already ducked back to her prior conversation, and Inez falls into a contemplative, but satisfied silence as Bubbles goes to wave down another pilot. Indiscernable points on a big, big map.

#*poet writes #masters of the air fic #masters of the air OC #mota oc #hbo war fic #hbo war oc #hboww2rewatch

[the-bjd-community-confess]

Hello, Anon, this is your Oldie Chinese Diaspora Anon™️. I have to confess, I have some really heavy, mixed feelings after reading your post. It’ll take some time for your OCDA to sort them out; I am very sure that your mileage will vary far and wide from mine. But… if you’ll lend me your ears for just a little bit, I would really appreciate it.

For starters: No. Rîng Döll is -not- owned by Tencent. You may have come to that misunderstanding when you take a look at the latest MDZS IP-doll ad (https://www.ringdoll.com/products/yilinglaozu ) However, if you look at the new dolls that were also based on the same writer, Heaven Official’s Blessing, you do not see the same sponsors (https://www.ringdoll.com/products/xie-lian-2 ). This is because Tencent now owns the MDZS IP, who is an official collaborator of RD. That’s why other IPs that do not belong to Tencent do not carry their logo. Take a totally different IP doll, for example: https://www.ringdoll.com/products/zhao-linger, you will see the IP holder of this franchise Softstar (a Taiwanese game company) and CMGE (the Chinese company that took it over). No Tencent.

RD is a subsidiary of the holding company created by its owner, Mr. Hu4ng Sh4n. The company is called “YuZhu0 Culture” and was incorporated in 2012 (you can actually see the logo for the company in the same poster that mentioned Tencent). YZC holds Ring Doll (BJD) as well as another subsidiary, Ring Toys (figures, other collectibles) and also act as the holding company for Hu4ng’s fashion designs brand. You can find the company website here: https://h5.yoohso.com/?ym=Home and a more detailed breakdown of its composition and holdings here https://pitchhub.36kr.com/project/1678426749858822 (in Chinese, but online translators work.)

As such, your sentiment and your concern for Hu4ng, the owner of YZC, may be a little misplaced. His vision of “spreading Chinese culture” and the firm belief of “MiC’ was something that he had attached himself to over the years. I mentioned his mishaps in the past (see here: https://the-bjd-community-confess.tumblr.com/post/676741591427416064/post-on-why-ringd0ll-is-problematic-the-company and here: https://the-bjd-community-confess.tumblr.com/post/678836763019624448/ring-follow-up-i-was-the-anon-who-posted ) but he seemed to have come far and away from it. His own personal blogs and Weibo reflect his growing nationalism, which he seems to do unprompted. Most recently, he reposted something from the State-sponsored People’s Daily regarding 1931/09/18 with his own comment “We need to make ourselves strong” (https://weibo.com/1727191592/NjQD6ivRh ) In a recent interview with him (when he was invited as a Taobao flagship store owner, he once again touted the importance of digging into Chinese culture for the “ultimate win” (full article here: https://m.cyzone.cn/article/708080.html ) In fact, RD have also started to sue people who continue to make the connection that their old Hayato doll meant they were “Shaming China” (which is a lese majesty in the eyes of Chinese netizens. (https://weibo.com/1727191592/Nhysl8lcL )

This is a man who – pardon the language – drank the Kool-aid. He wanted people to know that he stands firmly on the side of China. In the last linked Weibo post, he even said “the subpoena from the courts is not the same as a ransom note from a gang; the courts will not harm your personal safety.” Well… let’s just put it this way: even I don’t believe him.

Which brings me to the last thing that made your OCDA stop and ponder. Anon mentioned that fear can be a great motivator – and heaven knows, there’s a lot to be afraid of. Some (one?) of the Anons here have mentioned more than once that I should set up shop somewhere and post outside of the relative anonymity of this blog. First of all: thank you very much for your approval; I am really flattered. But I also know that I speak of a lot of unflattering things about China. I am fully aware of what happens to people who – for one reason or another, in one degree or another – speak ill of the CCP, even if they are foreign nationals living outside of Asia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_police_overseas_service_stations as an example of their reach). So, the person who is actually afraid is yours truly. I am -that- sucker the OP Anon thinks Hu4ng was, being literally cowed to not speak up publicly out of fear. Until I can find a way to leave the old country out of BJD discussion (which is, well, impossible) or find a way to stay safe and at least (relatively) anonymous, I am afraid the only place you’ll find me is here, hiding here on this blog. I very sincerely apologise.

~Anonymous

#BJD #ABJD #BJD Confessions #Community Confessions #BJD Companies #Knowledge Anon

[ellayuki]

21102022 - One Piece

#LunamiWeek2022 - Day 2 - First + (free space) -> First Kiss

~

"Come on, Nami," Usopp laughs, leaning against Chopper. "As if an idiot like Luffy would even know what kissing is."

And, well, on any other day, she would say fair point. But, "He spent enough time with that Boa Hancock. Everyone and their mothers know how she feels about him."

"Doesn't really mean anything-"

"What are you guys talking about?" Luffy pops up out of nowhere, and Nami nearly jumps out of her skin. He's too close, head over her shoulder, tilted just so in curiosity. 

Nami pushes his face away; or tries to, anyway. "Nothing, you nosy brat." 

But of course, Usopp and Chopper grin like devils. Because Nami cannot have any kind of peace on this ship (not that she'd have it any other way). "You, actually," Chopper says. 

"Tell us, Captain," Ussop follows up, and Nami might actually strangle him. "Did you or did you not smooch one Pirate Empress, Boa Hancock?"

Luffy frowns, obvious confusion tugging the corners of his mouth down. "I didn't? Why would I do that? Boa's a friend."

And yeah, okay, maybe Nami had been a bit unfairly jealous of whatever was brewing between her captain and the so-called Pirate Empress, sue her. But all that just. Crumbles and blows away like smoke on the wind now. She turns to her crewmates, a pointed look on her face. 

But Usopp is like a damn bloodhound sometimes. "What about anyone else?"

Luffy's frown deepens, and he looks pensive enough that Nami's afraid they'll start seeing smoke coming out of his ears soon. "Mmmm. Nope."

And okay, that's enough of that, Nami doesn't need to know about this. Her Captain's love life (or lack of one) is none of her business. 

She stands up.

And finds herself unable to move much because there's a rubbery arm wrapped several times around her body. She sucks in a sharp breath. "Luffy? What-" 

It’s all she manages to say.

Because there are chapped lips pressed against hers, warm and slightly off centre, and all at once Nami can't breathe. 

The room has fallen so silent, she thinks, hysterically, that her wardrum of a heart can be heard by everyone on the ship. 

And then Luffy pulls back, grin stretching across his entire face, and the arm around Nami unwinds. "So that's what all the fuss was about," he says with a shrug, as if he hasn't just stolen a kiss and what was left of Nami's poor heart in one surprisingly smooth move. 

From the corner of her eyes, Nami can see Usopp and Chopper with their jaws on the floor. She understands that sentiment. 

Before she can do anything, though, Luffy laughs and leaves the room, mumbling something about Sanji and food. 

And Nami… sits back down, drops her forehead onto the hable, and sighs.

Apparently, this is her life now.

(Her lips still tingle an hour later when she goes to bed.

She thinks they will even when she'll wake up in the morning.)

#LunamiWeek2022 #one piece #lunami #nami #monkey d luffy #usopp #chopper #by moi #fic #my fic #2022 fic #opfic

[just-another-mess-in-a-dress]

A Simple Kindness

YOI Snz Fic #1:

I finally sat down and decided to post some of my kink fics from over the years. Starting off with a bang:

Phichit my beloved, be still my beating heart I had to write for my boy. I love him so much, this was one of the first fics I wrote for this fandom. I hope you like it.

Fetish!Yuuri and a sneezy!Phichit because I’m horny and can’t help myself. Also Yuuri being a fuckin disaster is vibe okay!?!

Phichit 🥰⛸️

Just a little fyi I caught a pretty nasty cold ☹️🤧🤒

😬 IDK if you want to kick me out of the dorm.

I get it if you do.

I’ll try to keep my germs to myself! Promise.

😷

Yuuri reads the string of texts no less than thirteen times after receiving them. Because first of all, who gave emojis the right to be so lewd? And second… how the fuck is he supposed to keep it together if Phichit has a cold?

Their dorm is basically the size of a glorified closet there’s no way Yuuri can ahem… keep things to himself… Perhaps he should be more worried about Phichit potentially spreading some kind of virus to him but really that’s not so much a concern, per say… Also, is it wrong to be completely turned on by your friend’s cold and maybe lowkey hoping you catch it yourself?

Moral quandary aside, Yuuri does manage to text back.

I’m sorry to hear that! Of course I’m not kicking you out, you must be exhausted. When does your flight get in?

Yuuri tries to turn his attention back to business ethics but his mind is well and truly in the gutter now. Besides, the professor could not be more dull as he drones on about nothing and Yuuri’s a little busy hyper fixating on the emojis Phichit used.

As he sits there nervously bobbing his leg, Yuuri’s mind wanders to Phichit’s performance at the Cup of China just a day or so ago. He had looked a bit shaky with his jumps in the free skate and Yuuri knows Phichit’s triples are solid. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well then too? Maybe that’s why he hadn’t placed well and that thought breaks Yuuri’s heart a bit.

Our flight leaves in about half an hour, I should be back around 5.

I’m so tired. Send help 😩

Grimacing at his phone again Yuuri tosses his notebook into his bag.

Do you need anything from the store? I’m going after class.

Yuuri taps his pen nervously on the edge of his desk as the professor’s conclusion slide pops up on the screen. Their midterm essay is due instead of class on Wednesday, which of course, Yuuri has already completed and sent in.

Just as he’s walking out the door, he gets a text that sends a rush of warmth between his legs.

Get lots of tissues and probably some of those disposable face masks. I’m really sneezy. 🤧 🤧 🤧

Like I haven’t really stopped sneezing since we landed in LA. 😩

People are staring at me lol.

Shit… Shit.

How is he even supposed to respond to that?! What does one say when their best friend says something that should be simple conversation but instead is giving Yuuri a new fantasy?

Is there anything else I can grab you?

It’s lame and stupid but holy shit he’s a little busy being jealous of all the people in LAX staring at Phichit…

Just some juice? You’re the best Yuuri! 💖💕💖

While Yuuri definitely disagrees with that sentiment he manages to smother his feelings (salacious and otherwise) long enough to get to the store. He gets four boxes of tissues, a pack of disposable masks, and a few small bottles of juice to put in their mini fridge. There’s a moment where he considers not grabbing disinfectant wipes and hand sanitizer, but he decides that he shouldn’t actively try to catch whatever Phichit is bringing with him.

He does his best not to think about his roommate’s condition until he’s back in the dorm. It takes a minute to put away his groceries and another five to feed the hamsters before he throws himself onto his bed. Only then does he let his mind (and okay, yes, his hand too. Sue him) wander. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Phichit sick before, they’ve been rooming together for two years now and they travel internationally. Illness is common, normal for them, even.

Turns out his dick didn’t get that memo, however, and still gets all tingly at the idea of a runny nose. Such is life, he supposes.

Once he’s handled himself, he turns to his schoolwork, the monotony of his assignments. The mundane task does the trick and he feels more in control of himself now. And yeah, okay, jerking off can do that too, crazy world.

He checks his syllabuses to placate his nerves; his history professor is notoriously strict and for a second he’s convinced himself he did his whole mid-term in the wrong citation style. However, his nerves only settle for a minute or two before they bundle up again. This time because his ears catch the sound of a very congested sneeze from down the hall.

Yuuri’s mouth dries a bit as he fidgets on his bed, lord have mercy here we go.

The door opens and Yuuri’s heart instantly beats a bit faster.

Phichit looks terrible even with half his face covered. His eyes are red and watery, his complexion is nearly grey, and there’s a wet spot sitting right in the middle of his face mask.

“Hey. How’s it going?” Phichit asks, his voice is drenched in congestion and the question is punctuated with a harsh sniff.

“I’m alright. I thought you weren’t supposed to land until five.” Yuuri closes his laptop and sets it aside.

“We got- hhin early.” Phichit’s eyes squint up towards the industrial light above. His chest rises sporadically but ultimately leaves him without the satisfaction of a sneeze. “Ciao Ciao took me to the Student Health Center. On the bright side, it’s not the flu.”

“That’s good.” Yuuri manages to nod as Phichit drops his bag at the foot of his bed.

“So how… how wa-was… ahh…” An unnecessary hand raises up to cover his face, though Yuuri wonders if maybe it is necessary considering the sodden material. “He-tchuh! Tishuh!.. heh… heh eh-Psheh!”

“Bless you.” Yuuri forces himself to look away as his roommate wipes his eyes.

“Thank you… snif!” Phichit sighs as he squeezes his eyes shut. “How was your week?”

“Oh, it was fine. Business as usual. It was nice to have practices by myself.” Yuuri watches Phichit deflate into his bed. “Did the health center give you anything?”

“Yeah… but I don’t think I can take it… you know how the ISU is about medication. Don’t wanna risk it.”

“I’m sure your cold medicine isn’t banned.” Yuuri tries to reason.

“Ciao Ciao offered to call the hotline to find something I could take. I told him not to bother… it’s just a cold.” Phichit shrugs out of his coat. Yuuri swears he can see the goosebumps rise on Phichit’s skin when the coat falls to the floor.

“Yeah but… you look pretty-”

“Et-chuh!”

“Bless you… miserable.” Yuuri bites back the undignified sound he wants to make.

“I’ll be fine.” Phichit sniffs a few times, “Ugh, sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Yuuri bites his lip as he shuffles off the bed. “I got your tissues and juice.”

“Tha-hank chuh!... thank you.”

Yuuri opens one of the boxes, then he decides to just bring the trash can with him as he returns to the beds.

“Here.”

He places the bin near the head of Phichit’s bed, when he turns back to his friend he has to bite down hard to keep his jaw from dropping.

Phichit has removed his soiled face mask revealing the mess beneath. His nose is a bright warning label shade of red and its glistens with thin strands of mucous. He sits just on the precipice of a testy sneeze, his eyes half closed, his nostrils flaring dramatically, and of course, the jittery gasps that all culminate in what has to be a hugely reliving release.

“Hep-Tshu! He-Tcha! God.” He groans.

“Bless you.”

Phichit snuffles into no less than six tissues to clean up what must be hours of mess. Between the flight and the drive back to the university… god why does Yuuri sort of wish he were a face mask? What the fuck even…

“You don’t have to keep blessing me… I’m gonna be sneezy all night.” Phichit tosses the wad of tissues into the bin. “Do you want me to wear a mask?”

“Uh, no, you don’t have to. You’re the sick one and you’ve flown halfway across the world today. Just try to get comfortable, okay?”

Phichit looks up at him gratefully, “Maybe you should wear one then? Trust me, you don’t want to catch this.”

Well, that’s just patently untrue… Regardless, Yuuri plucks one of the disposable masks out of the box and throws it on. At least now he can hide his blushing, right? Especially because Phichit sneezes twice more while Yuuri’s back is turned.

“The nurse says it’s just a head cold but Ciao Ciao isn’t letting me skate for at least a week.” Phichit slumps further into his bed, a thin cough escaping his lungs. “I mean, isn’t getting last place punishment enough?”

“I don’t think you’re being punished.” Yuuri says grabbing a bottle of juice from the mini fridge.

“No, it’s punishment… He’s upset because I went out there and did my free skate while I had a fever.”

Yuuri swallows thickly as he puts the drink on the nightstand. “Oh, well, in that case… I guess you’re being punished.”

“What was I supposed to do? I went all the way to China to skate so I-… huh… I skha-ate… skated… uhuh… ehh…” Phichit’s hand raises lethargically in front of his face. He takes four deep inhales clearly trying to entice the sneeze forward and failing to do so.

“Yeah but… You should remember that Celestino is in charge of us, especially when we’re abroad. He wants you to take care of yourself, that’s all.”

“You’re one to talk.” Phichit snorts, the grimace he gives afterwards indicates the action hurts at least a little bit.

“Well… it’s easy to say when I’m not the one in trouble.” Yuuri chuckles nervously.

Phichit squints again, a shaky sigh rattling his chest. “Ehhh… ahh-ha-… huh… come on… Heptshah! Hatchu! Etsha-ETCHOO!”

Yuuri has to really focus on not paying attention to his groin after that particular display. Holy shit, why does his roommate – his best friend no less – have to be the perfect picture of a head cold?

“Bless you.” Yuuri can’t help himself from commenting as Phichit mops up his nose.

“Thank you…”

“You don’t have any mid-terms coming up do you?” Yuuri asks settling back into his own bed.

“No, thank god.” Phichit looks up from blowing his nose, “Did them all before I left. If I can’t skate there’s no way I’m going to class.”

“That’s good then, you have time to rest.” Yuuri tries in vain to return to his assignment but it’s incredibly difficult considering the circumstances. Phichit really is sneezing every five to ten minutes which is starting to wear on Yuuri’s resolve. Between blowing, sniffling, and sneezing he’s basically living in the type of universe his wildest wet dreams could only imagine.

It’s a relief when Ciao Ciao calls him.

“How are you Yuuri?” He asks, perfectly unaware of how ridiculous that question sounds to him.

“I’m alright…”

“Great, can you do me a favor? I got Phichit some medication for his cold can you come get it from my office?”

“Sure thing coach, I’ll be there in a bit.” Yuuri nearly runs out of the room. Part of him is a bit embarrassed to do so. The last thing he wants is Phichit thinking he finds his cold disgusting, but damnit he has a great excuse now to get his shit together. He throws his mask away the second he sees a trash bin and instantly takes a deep breath. The world is certainly testing his resolve today.

The walk to Celestino’s office is blissfully calm and the cool evening air does the trick. By the time he arrives, Yuuri feels like himself again and he’s not being manhandled by his dick, thank god. Ciao Ciao corrals him into a conversation about the Grand Prix Final coming up in December before handing off the medication.

Yuuri strolls back to the dorms at a leisurely pace, his head swirling with an ocean of thoughts. Between the Final, schoolwork, and the intrusive thoughts about Phichit’s cold; his brain is overrun with activity.

When he pushes into their room he finds the lights are still on but Phichit is dead to the world. Still, he tries to rouse his friend from his slumber.

“Phichit? Celestino got you some medicine.” Yuuri says softly putting a hand on his shoulder to shake him. There’s a moment where Yuuri can’t help himself. He finds his hand creeping up to Phichit’s forehead to check for temperature. He’s warm but not to such a degree that Yuuri is concerned.

Phichit’s eyes crack open just the slightest bit.

“Hey, Ciao Ciao got you-”

“Het-chu!” Phichit’s eyes shut as he jolts forward with the sneeze.

Yuuri pulls his hand back and closes his gaping mouth. Holy shit, holy shit, Phichit just sneezed on him. Any resolve he might have gained on his little walk around campus instantly leaves his body as he takes a step back.

Phichit, however, hasn’t seemed to notice at all as he rears back for another sneeze.

Yuuri pushes the tissue box a fraction closer to his friend. Phichit buries his face into the offered tissues and sneezes two more times before he seems to be aware of the world around him.

“Ugh… Hey, how… how long have you been gone?” Phichit asks pulling another tissue out of the box to blow his nose.

“About an hour. Ciao Ciao got you some ISU approved medicine.” Yuuri holds out the box to him, still reeling from what has just happened. His legs feel weak and he’s incredibly warm inside.

“And you… Aw, Yuuri that’s so nice of you to go get it for me. Thank you.”

“It was no trouble.” Yuuri tries to hide the furious blush overtaking his features.

“I’d hug you but I don’t think either of us want that.” Phichit sniffs to prove the point.

Yuuri turns back to his bed while Phichit downs a dose. When Yuuri turns around he sees the familiar sight of Phichit scrolling through his phone.

“You don’t want to get back to sleep?”

“I’m making sure Chris yelled at Viktor for me.” Phichit wipes his nose with the heel of his hand.

Yuuri sputters out a few incomprehensible sounds before eventually settling on a: “Huh!?”

“Oh, yeah. Viktor was patient zero.” Phichit rolls his eyes, “I’m pretty sure that he either doesn’t know how to cover his mouth or he was conspiring against us. The man was a walking biohazard during our practice days.”

It’s official, Yuuri no longer exists. Not on this Earth and maybe not even the next. Phichit has Viktor King-of-the-Ice Nikiforov’s cold. Phichit got to witness Viktor having the head cold from hell for days, and he apparently never covered his mouth. And now Yuuri has been infected. With Viktor’s cold. Viktor’s sneezy drippy cold. What a world.

The next few days are going to be quite the adventure. And Yuuri has some internet sleuthing to do to see if anyone recorded the Cup of China practice…

#yoi #snzblr #snz kink #snz fic #fetish!yuuri #sneezy!Phichit #my writing #snz fan fic #cold #mess #cw mess #cw contagion

[thecraftymagician]

Hi dear!! Hope your having a fantastic day! If it's not too much trouble (or none at all! 😆) may i request Headcanons for Julian with a same height male s/o, who will pick him up and spin him around, just absolutely loves Julian so much he gives all the love he has stored every chance he gets, whether it be a compliment or sweeping him off his feet?

Thank you in advance! May the Arcana guide your way 💙

Yes. Yes yes yes, a thousand times YES. You're welcome in advance and thank you!! No trouble at all, I have soooo many thoughts haha I'm sorry for gushing in this one, it really made me go brrrrrr

Warnings: Reading further will give you a cavity. Do not sue me or send me dental bills, I am broke lol

Julian With A Same Height MC

Immediately upon first sight Julian will just stare at you in amazement as heat rises to his cheeks. His eyes dart to your shoes expecting to see heels on them but no. They slowly scan back up with evident bewilderment.

Somehow he's likely to stumble over his words even more and once or twice you might catch him with his hand raised, comparing both of your heights when he thinks you aren't paying attention.

He finds it very attractive, especially being able to look directly into your eyes. (Not that he doesn't mind bending down for a shorter MC, it's just different is all.)

He'll try to limit having you climb in through windows with him or places where he know you'll both need to stoop. He doesn't want his love getting a goose egg on his account after all!

He's very used to lifting up others or carrying them around but it's safe to say he himself hasn't had the luxury since he was.. was it 6, no, maybe 7 years old?

If you go to lift him up he is sure to get rather bashful. "O-oh MC! Er, uh, I don't think you can lift me- that is to say! N-not that I don't think your strong enough! It's just, uh, w-well.."

As soon as his boots leave the ground his face and neck are redder than those auburn locks. The first few times he might avoid eye contact or go a bit stiff out of embarrassment but his heart is simply bursting in his chest.

He'll try to play it off with a joke but that's how you know he actually enjoys it; it's just that he's not used to it yet. "I-I stand corrected, MC. Well, er, not literally as you, ahem, truly do have a way of sweeping me off my feet, darling."

Hugs can be a bit awkward with the long limbs and all going every which way but he finds them absolutely perfect nonetheless. He love love loves burying his face in your neck and shoulder. It just makes him feel so safe and cozy.

When you surprise him by picking him up and spinning him around, his heart feels so light and he can't help himself from giggling. He clings tight to you, as giddy as can be.

Of course Julian will flirt with you and be the sweetest to you but when you return the sentiments or even initiate them he still gets a little taken aback. It still takes him awhile to let himself believe he deserves it and he's still just bewildered that you like him.

Every time you show him affection he ends up giving into instinct after awhile, allowing himself to be utterly happy.

Every kind word, smile, laugh, hand hold, hug, hair tussle, kiss, etc. makes him believe just a bit more that he truly is deserving of your love.

He'll still feel a little insecure so he does his best to meet your level so you know he truly does feel the same way for you, if not more.

In fact you inspire him to be much more bold with his feelings. Many more spontaneous kisses and touches, doesn't look away when you catch him staring, holds your hands more often, etc. (all as long as you are comfortable with it!)

Julian is also absolutely entertained by dancing with you if you decide to lead or take turns. He's more used to leading but that doesn't be he can't or doesn't like to follow someone else. He likes to study the way you move and navigate the you two.

He'll laugh and shower you with compliments all the while positively beaming. When you dip him, he just melts with a big ol' sappy, silly grin.

I'm gonna stop before this turns into a novel haha but aahh I could go on and on..

#thearcana #thearcanagame #julian the arcana #julian devorak #julian x mc #julian x reader #the arcana

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The flutes and drums beat out the time As in his box of polished pine Like dead meat on a butcher's tray My youngest son same home today

My youngest son was a fine young man With a wife, a daughter and a son A man he would have lived and died Till by a bullet sanctified Now he's a saint or so they say They brought their saint home today

Above the narrow Belfast streets An Irish sky looks down and weeps On children's blood in gutters spilled For dreams of freedom unfulfilled As part of freedom's price to pay My youngest son came home today

My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The flutes and drums beat out the time As in his box of polished pine Like dead meat on a butcher's tray My youngest son came home today And this time he's home to stay

+

[I was about to post this piece when I heard the news of Ben Zussman's death. So, posted that instead. Now, here's this. I hope this war ends soon, so I can get back to writing about other things. Working on my novel. But this is where I am. So this is what I write. Also, if you read it all and decide to share, please paste Abu Saif's essay into the first two comments on your post as I do below.]

I'm pasting in the first two comments an essay from the NYT by عاطف ابوسيف(Atef abu Saif). I’m violating the paywall because it's so important and you might not have a subscription. Sue me. If you manage to read the title and can continue, read all the way to the end. If I believe in the idea of sin, I believe it is a sin to look away. I began to write an introduction, but it turned into something longer. A lot longer. The longest post I’ve ever written. So, feel free to skip my meandering and oh so sentimental musings and read the essay. In any case, I urge you to read his essay. More than that. I dare you. Especially if you support this war.

This post will be difficult for some to read. It sure as hell was difficult to write. There’s complexity here if you recognize the horrors the IDF is perpetrating in Gaza. Even if you, unlike me, stand with those who think them necessary and justified. It’s not simple to write then. But if you make your way through it and then read the essay in the comment, maybe you’ll understand something better. Though perhaps not more sympathetically. Just maybe a bit better.

I’m between the hammer and the anvil with regard to the IDF. I’m in no way an apologist. I’ve been clear with my son that I would support him if he refused. There’s no chance of that. But I wanted him to know. I’ll write something else about that later. These are issues about which I will repeat myself.

But I also reject that people serving in the IDF are like Nazi stormtroopers, or the majority of those serving in it are the equivalent of Hamas, even though I have friends I deeply respect who have presented me with those opinions explicitly. I hope that they are able to read this. It’s again about my children, as Abu Saif’s is in large part. War, for me, is always about children. Always. And, as I wrote last week, maybe if we all recognized that, there wouldn’t be more war.

We should all listen to Eric Bogle’s song “My Youngest Son Came Home Today” more often. Especially the rendition here by the PS22 chorus.

My three children came to me for Shabbat dinner this past Friday. We're all still getting used to the divorce. One meal with me, one at home with their mother, a 20 minute walk from my place. Sometimes, it’s dinner with me and lunch with her. Sometimes vice versa. Once in a while, all five of us together. Their mother sees them more on Shabbat. It’s the nature of things. That’s their home. I see them for two hours. Precious hours. But I see them.

We generally have a very nice time. But even when not, I’d rather have a horrible time with them than a wonderful time with anyone else. They are never eager to walk those 20 minutes, as much, I think because of what that time and distance represents as the effort required to make the short trek. Sometimes one or more of them arrives grumpy. They are teenagers, after all, in the wake of a domestic disruption. But usually, even then, things loosen up. I make food they like. I make sure things are clean and orderly and calm. That things feel stable and safe.

Finally, in the past few weeks, I have prevailed on them to enter without knocking. “It's your father's home,” I tell them. “You don't need to knock to enter your father's home. You aren't guests. You have a place here. Always.” I don’t know if it makes a difference to them. But it does to me. I hate it when they knock. They’re my kids.

I only see my elder daughter on Shabbat. She was recently inducted into the education corps for her compulsory service. (The army aspires to be a source of knowledge for people who have been deprived.) She began her service just a few weeks before October 7th. A member of her course was from Kibbutz Beeri. He was home for Shabbat and caught up in the massacre. Even in the education corps, one may be connected to the dead.

But she’s nowhere near any danger. She says she’s a bit embarrassed when she’s in uniform on the street, or on a bus, and people bid her “watch over yourself”. Or “May the Name guard you.” I tell her she’s a member of a corporate body that puts itself in danger to keep them safe, even if that’s not her posting. They are wishing her well because they need to wish all of our soldiers well. Because, often, they can’t wish family members and friends and friends’ children well at that moment. They need to say it. For themselves. And she provides them with an occasion. A sort of gift she can give them. Also, I want everyone to bless my children. To wish them safety and protection. To want their wellbeing. Who wouldn’t?

Sometimes, the one who gives the blessing benefits more than the one who receives it. Every Shabbat when I see them, before we eat, like many Jewish parents, I move from one to the next, in order of their birth, place my hands upon their heads, and recite the tripartite priestly blessing from the Book of Numbers. Three blessings in one. An ancient bargain!

May The LORD bless you and guard you. May The LORD shine His face upon you and grant you favor. May The LORD raise His face to you and grant you peace.

My favorite moment of the week. Routine, a formula, but never formulaic. The regularity never diminishes its emotional charge. They are often distracted or bored or grumpy. Though when he was little, my son, who was born with a galaxy-sized heart – when he was two, one of his caregivers told us “he’s simply full of love” – would respond by putting one hand on my head and one on his mother’s. And we would grin and sometimes giggle a bit. And feel blessed. Even when I’m irritable or tired, blessing them always redirects me toward meaning, if only for a moment.

I remember the first time I did this. In a hospital recovery room. Their mother looked up at me, tired beyond tired, and said “should we give our daughter a b’rakhah?” A blessing. We’d been preparing for nine months. In some senses longer than that. Since we were engaged and hoping to give one another children. So, I’d been waiting for the right moment, and I was about to say something. Our daughter had been born on Friday morning. We’d lost track of time. The labor had been so long, and the delivery had not been easy. But Shabbat, commencing with sundown, pulled us back on schedule. We always measure time from Shabbat to Shabbat. From that moment on, I would measure it from blessing to blessing.

I had been about to say something about it being time. Our first time. But she preempted me. It was right for her to claim the prerogative to prompt us. Earned. Childbirth is never egalitarian. And despite the long anticipation of this moment I’d imagined, even dreamed, the substance of its performance, the special mix of gravity and joy, the glow of it felt surprising. We’d placed our fingertips on her small, warm, downy head. So delicate. So fragile. With barely any pressure. She was in a deep sleep. Being born is very hard work. Especially when it takes so long. In a matter of weeks, if not days, we’d be longing for her to finally sleep. So, we could collapse or work or read or watch TV. Mostly collapse. But at that moment, I wanted her to be awake. I wanted her to hear us. I wanted her to watch us and feel our hands upon her, blessing her with a wish of peace. Shalom. A more expansive term than peace that also connotes health and fullness and well-being. A blessing that channels something beyond language, something language can only summon but not contain. I wanted her to feel it. I remember crying a little. I think I did. I hope I did.

I wonder how Atef Abu Saif blesses his children.

I don’t connect so much to the idea of a “personal God.” Sometimes I wish I did. I wish I had an almighty and benevolent addressee who would hear me. “Nigh is The LORD to all who call upon Him,” as the psalmist says. But I’ve never really felt it. That presence. I’ve studied some theology. A body of knowledge I admire. I wrote my Bachelor thesis on Maimonides’ reading of Job in his Guide of the Perplexed. A dazzling text that I never found as cold as some find its rationalism. Rather, it’s literary and bold and charged with a kind of passion, with humanity, even as the author, that monumental Sage and philosopher strives to distinguish God absolutely from anything human. A deity so far beyond humanity that ascriptions of physicality to him in scripture must be read strictly and scrupulously as metaphors. Yet his text sings with humanity. I’ve studied mystical theologies as well. They have moved me in similar fashion. Though a different flavor.

But despite all the humanity in theology, I’ve never felt that immediacy of touch or attention or found the arguments compelling enough to engender belief in God’s objective existence (and now the RaMBaM, the acronym by which we refer to Maimonides, is shouting in my head that God is not an object, and the idea of His objective existence is idolatrous). Yet if God is so elusive for me personally, I still find the conceit powerful. Imputing a name and a face to the Cosmos, with apologies again to the RaMBaM, whether or not it’s an intentional power, is very alluring. So, in that hospital room, my fingers timid on that little head, the regularity of my hours-old daughter’s breathing so miraculous, we pronounced the ancient formula. Please God, let her be well. Let her be whole. Let her have peace. And then we had a son. And then another daughter. Each a blessing. And every week I bless them.

So, once again, this past Friday night I blessed them. Let them have peace. Shalom. Wellbeing. Let everything be well with them. I know it won’t always be. There will be struggles and illnesses and disappointments. Maybe heartbreak. Certainly heartbreak of some sort. I’ve had more than my fair share. Not only recently. Atef Abu Saif, whom I hope you will read below, has had more. Much more. Hard to imagine any Gazan who hasn’t. There are so many kinds of heartbreak. It’s endemic to humanity. To life. Only a babe who dies very shortly after birth never knows heartbreak. Not to know heartbreak seems inhuman. “Nigh is The LORD to the brokenhearted,” says he psalmist. But nonetheless. Please spare them that. Please. When I bless them, I want to feel power flowing through me, pouring out of my hands onto them. Enveloping them in radiance. I want to be a conduit for divine favor. Let God’s face recognize them, let them be seen by the Cosmos, and be received in kindness, and receive kindness. As I said, giving a blessing can be more for the one blessing than for the blessed.

This Friday night, they barely broke their chatter when I went around to bless them. As usual. I did it quickly. I usually do. But it never undercuts the profundity of it. And like many parents, I kissed the tops of their heads as I removed my hands. My son, who recently surpassed me in height by a few centimeters, now bends his head down so I can do this.

These days, that final word in the mystic formula, shalom, feels particularly powerful, particularly heavy. Even more than usual. Despite its range of abstract meanings, it always feels so specific and concrete as their heads round into my palms. And I stand in a posture of power. The ultimate patriarchal pose (though, of course, many women, like their mother, do it as well). But perversely, it makes my powerlessness palpable. I won’t be able to preserve them from suffering and deprivation and disappointment. I have, myself, presented them with such experiences already. It has been a difficult few years. And as my yearning for power underscores my powerlessness, the blessing becomes a plea. Please. Bless them with peace. Please. Please. Please. Always. But especially now. Shalom.

My daughter had told me earlier that day that because of “the situation”, they are going to start sending members of her unit home with rifles when they set out for their near weekly Shabbat furloughs. I think it's ridiculous. She’s in the education corps. It seems both thematically incongruous and useless in a practical sense for her to travel with a semi-automatic assault rifle. A machine gun. I tell her she’ll never use it. And she shouldn’t. The only place she might do so would be if “something happens” on the way. But fifty more visits to the shooting range wouldn’t equip her for that situation. Excellent field soldiers sometimes fail to pass anti-terror training, teaching people how to use a weapon in the middle of an attack in a civilian area. Though we send armed soldiers into civilian areas right now. We always have and we always do. But those aren’t ‘our’ civilians. Aren’t we supposed to hold every human life as equally sacred? We claim to. We don’t. Obviously. No army does. Laws and ethics of warfare don’t. But that doesn’t make it ok.

She mentions the attack that happened the previous day. Two Palestinians from East Jerusalem opened fire on a bus stop at the entrance to West Jerusalem. And two soldiers and one civilian shot them dead. Three civilians died. Four, actually. I’ll get to that in a moment. Several are in the hospital. I admitted that maybe then. If she had a clear shot. But that’s crap. The presence of mind to operate a weapon under pressure without extensive training? I imagine her quickly swinging her rifle around to the front of her body, quickly inserting a magazine, cocking it, bracing the butt against her shoulder, aiming, finding a clear sight line, and pulling the trigger. All while under fire herself. Yeah. That’s not happening. She should get herself behind a very solid object or lie flat on the ground with her hands over her head.

Then my son mentions that one of the people who was killed, the fourth, had jumped from his car and it was he who shot the terrorists. A 38-year-old lawyer named Yuval Kestleman who served in a reserve combat unit and carried a licensed handgun. I saw the security footage. As the two off-duty soldiers had turned and trained their weapons on him, he'd dropped his gun, sunk to his knees, ripped open his jacket so they could see he wasn’t wearing an explosive belt, all the while calling out to them in Hebrew, identifying himself as a Jew and an Israeli. And one of the soldiers, a member of the radical right-wing settler “hilltop youth” who was on his way back to Gaza, shot him dead.

There’s a controversy over whether the soldier who shot him can be excused. Part of a broader controversy about what constitutes a “neutralized” suspect or perpetrator and the ruled of engagement. Some, like the awful Chief Rabbi of Safed, explicitly support summary executions. Even if they are lying unconscious. Just shoot them. The ideological community this soldier affiliates with holds this position. And if you get it wrong, well, as our Prime Minister initially said about this incident, “that’s life”. Really.

I don’t know the soldier. Just his ethos. And he expressed glee at having killed someone, at least before he found out whom he killed. “Everyone wants an ‘x’.” A kill. A lie. Many if not most hope they never have to. But he did. It’s hard for me to believe he couldn’t see Yuval Kestleman drop his weapon, fall to his knees, and raise his hands over his head, hear him calling out in Hebrew.

I’ve already argued about it with one total stranger, a security guard at a building I was entering, holding forth with another security guard about the case. I couldn’t help myself. “You don’t fire at someone if they are on their knees with their hands above their head.” He responded with “and what if it had been a terrorist?” I repeated that you don’t shoot someone on their knees with their hands over their head. And the footage is quite clear. My daughter would never do that, even if she could get in position to do it. My son wouldn’t. None of their friends would. I can’t imagine any of he people I served with doing that. Though it’s been a long time. Maybe some would. Certainly not those I trained and commanded. But we send lots of people like this soldier and this security guard to Gaza. And sometimes people like Atef Abu Saif and his son and his mother face soldiers like these.

My son is 16, a year old than Atef Abu Saif's son, about whom you will read below, if you have the courage to witness. You should try. The act of witnessing is a sacred act. And sometimes, it’s all we can do. I know that telling people what they should do is both strategically and morally a sketchy thing. Lots of things these days are strategically and morally sketchy. I suppose it will be much easier for those who don’t live here, haven’t served, don’t have children serving in Gaza, or know children of friends serving in Gaza, or have neighbors serving in Gaza, or. . .well basically almost everyone who lives here. Barring ultra-Orthodox and Arab communities. He’s an elite athlete, a student at an academy for dedicated and ambitious and highly disciplined basketball players located 40 minutes from Gaza, much closer than his older sister’s army base.

My youngest is 13, the only one who lives with their mother full time. I see her once in the middle of the week as well. She comes for dinner. Or we go out. We always have fun. Last week, I made a pasta she loves, and we watched The Godfather. She shares much more with me now than she did when I lived with her. And I feel guilty that her mother shoulders most of the hard parenting bits, though we both try to share those as well. Some things are overdetermined by the physics of space and time. And sometimes a distance of 20 minutes might as well be 500 kilometers.

At some point, as was inevitable, the conversation shifted to “the situation”. My son says he believes this war is necessary. That it will make us safer. That the civilians dying in Gaza, with whom he says he sympathizes, are all Hamas' fault. ‘Look what they made us do!’ He says his opinions have changed since October 7th. I think that's Hamas' fault. His older sister says she trusts the army that they are doing everything they can and know what they are doing and she thinks we must all have faith in its commanders. She’s very firm about this. Too firm? Does she really think this? Or does she need to believe it? They have friends serving in Gaza. They know people who were murdered on October 7th. They know someone who is being held hostage.

My youngest offers that for every Hamas member we kill, we make three more. A common saying among war skeptics and opposers. Maybe she heard it somewhere. Maybe the formulation is obvious. Maybe she uses the number three because our minds so commonly divide things into threes. Lots of theories about that. Aristotle, in his Poetics, says all stories must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. We invoke the names of three patriarchs in our liturgy. It takes Abraham and Isaac three days to reach Moriah, where the former, a father, binds the latter, his son, on an altar and raises a knife over him. Three blessings make up the blessing I bestow upon them every Shabbat as a plea for their shalom, their wellbeing. Three bears. Three pigs. Three caskets in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Some say you surface three times before you drown. Like Emily Dickinson.

Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever To that abhorred abode.

Kill one and make three, she says. I say I agree with her. I tell them that I don't believe that the situation you will read about, if you dare, in Abu Saif’s essay below makes us safer. It's at best a strategically and morally sketchy endeavor. A sketchy calculus. And suddenly I realize how calamitously insufficient the word sketchy is here.

I don't say much more to my elder daughter and son. It won't help to argue and correct them. And they already know my politics. It’s one of the reasons they are unloading on me. Sometimes they are uncomfortable with how far outside the mainstream I am. Sometimes they are confused by my orientation and commitments. It's not easy to have a parent so far outside consensus. A member of a dissenting minority. Who sometimes even dissents from the dissenters. They want to belong. They want to feel at home in their social world, their society, their culture, their history, their people. I used to want that. Sometimes I still do. I have friends with activist children. Mine are not. I don't know why they aren't. Maybe it’s a parenting failure. I haven't always been as stable and present a parent as I intended and always wanted to be. I had serious struggles. I’m better now. Much better. And there’s no deficit of love between us. But I obviously failed to present them with a compelling model for engagement the way I would have liked.

So I let them unload their fear and anger. Posing a question here and there. Offering a brief comment that I strain to phrase in a way that isn't argumentative. I'm not good at that, so I stay mostly quiet. They know what I think. And they are speaking with that knowledge. Fighting with them won't help. They are in the middle of a crisis. Their trauma is unfolding. Though not like Abu Saif’s son’s trauma. Nowhere near that.

I noted that my son was now standing on his feet. I was distressed at the turn it had taken. For selfish reasons. These hours are indescribably precious to me. I want them to be pleasant. But this, too, is part of parenting. A part I don’t want to miss. There were stories and laughter. Sometimes, even my stories and their laughter. With no accompanying eyerolls. I have some talent for telling stories. But when they began to unload, I reminded myself: say less, listen more, as their mother would often urge me with extreme exasperation. If I had been able to do that, would they be coming with me to rallies and demonstrations? Or, the deeper question, would they be splitting their Shabbat meals between me and their mother now?

We moved onto the blessings after the meal. As always, we prefaced them by singing Psalm 126. ‘He goes forth weeping, the planter bearing his store of seeds; come, he will surely come back in joyous song bearing sheaves.’ Tell that to the loved ones of the victims on October 7th. What about all the kids whose lives were cut short like sheaves, before they could plant their own seeds? Still, I sang with them. Then, this morning, I read Atef Abu Saif’s essay. Tell that to him. I dare you.

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https://www.nytimes.com/.../gaza-family-palestinian...

And listen to "My Youngest Son Came Home Today"

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‘I Want to Be Awake When I Die’

Dec. 2, 2023

[Atef Abu Saif was visiting family members in Gaza with his 15-year-old son, Yasser, before Oct. 7 and has kept a diary of the war since it began. Here is his entry for Nov. 21, the day he decided to leave the Jabaliya neighborhood in the north of the territory for southern Gaza, en route to the Rafah crossing into Egypt.]

We cannot stay here any longer. We have decided.

The shells over the last two nights have been so close to the apartment we are staying in that I didn’t just see the light and hear the thunder of their explosions. I saw them pass right by my window. The Israelis are getting closer every minute. Most of the outer regions of the camp are under full occupation now. Overnight, troops advanced a couple of streets closer from the north. Our street came under continuous shelling from the tanks.

I never closed my eyes. “I want to be awake when I die,” I told my brother Mohammed, who has been with us for most of the war. “I want to see it happening.” Before going to sleep, my son Yasser said he felt more afraid than ever. For the last 45 days, he has shown great strength in the face of everything, but we all have our limits. “Let’s see,” I told him. “In the morning we’ll decide.”

This was two nights ago. So, yesterday morning, I went to see my dad to ask if he’d consider moving with us. It was a hard “no.”

“But most people have left already,” I said. He’s staying put, he insisted, come what may. Then, as I was leaving he shouted back to me: “Get that boy to safety.”

That helped convince me. As I lay on my mattress last night, I realized it was not fair that my 15-year-old son should pay for my decision to come to Gaza and stay so long in the north. He might have survived 45 days, but would he survive the next 45? The chances of escaping death are growing narrower and narrower. I do not have the right to decide for him. In her last call to me from our home in Ramallah, on the West Bank, my wife, Hanna, said simply: “I want my boy. You took him to Gaza. You bring him back.”

Talk of a truce fills the news, and this might be a good time to head south to Rafah and be near the border with Egypt in case it opens. I have a job in the ministry in Ramallah to get back to, after all.

The sight of the shells flying past my window the night before also made it clear that it was time to leave: sometimes it is better to be wise than correct, if that makes sense. The wise thing is to give everyone a chance to live, even if the correct thing is to not let the Israelis get away with a second Nakba — yet another expulsion from our land.

When this morning finally comes, the driver we have hired for the first leg of our journey arrives. My father-in-law Mostafa and his wife Widdad, who uses a wheelchair, are traveling with us. My in-laws want to stay with their granddaughter Wissam, 23, at the European Gaza Hospital in Khan Younis, in the south. Wissam is recovering from triple amputation surgery, after surviving a bombing in the first week that killed her parents and most of her siblings. Wissam’s surviving sister, also named Widdad, can take care of her grandmother as well as Wissam.

I carry my mother-in-law into the car. As the car sets off, we all try to prepare ourselves mentally for the long journey ahead. We get out at the Kuwait traffic junction and negotiate the hire of two donkey carts to carry us all to a gathering area along Salah al-Din Street, the main north-south route already called “New Nakba Road” by some.

#Scotch/Irish folk song #singing #songs #Ori Hanan Weisberg #words and writing #Israel Hamas war #anti-war #human #humanism #humanity #Youtube

[numerowah]

So, in your AU, even Wario gets to wear a princess dress? ;) Despite the swapped roles, everyone is the same gender as they are in canon?

Everyone's the same gender as canon, yeah! Just their roles that got switched up.

Wario does have a dress I'm workshopping, yeah >:]! With Mario, Luigi, and Waluigi I feel they're much more in-tune to wearing dresses, y'know? Mario Odyssey gave Mario a wedding dress, Luigi swaps clothes with Peach in Super Mario Adventures [I have the book with this in it it's great. This is also the main driving force of why my au exists and why Luigi swaps with Peach specifically!] as well as Superstar Saga. And then Waluigi just has the vibe and I think he'd look great in any kind of dress.

Wario is the odd one out since like. Lack of a better term, he's the manliest outta them, right? He's described that way somewhere, anyway. So while I definitely think he'd also look nice in a dress, I think he's less receptive to it than the others, so the outfit I initially gave and still have for him is this:

ALSO! Since he spent. a WHILE. as a cat, I decided to give him funny ears and fangs. Maybe the curse is still there in some capacity and if he gets really worked up, it flares up and he turns back into a cat. idk hehee. He gives Shokora one of the earrings because he trusts her to not lose it, he wants to keep her safe [i hc the jewelry+crown has a protection charm or at least a curse reversal thing to them], and I think it's cute that Wario of all people would share something so valuable, monetarily and sentimentally. also i gave him a tooth gap and stubble. i thought it'd be cute and i was right, sue me

ALSO ALSO! I used to think Shokora's True Form was wearing overalls, or at least shorts. We don't get official art of her true form [i think that's a crime] so we only have the pixel art. I recognize my mistake now, but my misunderstanding is also a reason Princess Wario doesn't currently have a dress designed. That, and I need to figure out a motif.

Waluigi has space as a princess like Rosalina, and plants in general, leaning more on vines. Luigi has rights to any shroom-themed apparel, and most of his outfits are thunder or rain themed thanks to Thunderhand. Mario has plants from Daisy, and fire of his own right. Since fire flowers are a combo of both, that's his main theming as of right now. While Peach's outfits don't have a shroom look to 'em, she definitely has her niche of pink.

Wario could def have a theme of wealth, but that's a bit hard to convey when I don't want to just cover him in gold and call it that, it feels too easy. And Shokora, due to her human form[s] only being shown in a newspaper and at the very end of the game, doesn't have a lot either, if anything. Her official art doesn't give me a particular theme to her, other than that she also wears pink, albeit a different shade [I do have that as a semi-joke, semi-serious reason Shokora doesn't like Peach in the AU. That blondie totally snagged her style!]

His more masc outfit works well enough as a placeholder for now, and honestly I think when i DO finish his dress, he'll still have this outfit, just updated to fit his themes. I really like designing dresses, and I feel they allow for more symbolism or, like, character to be shown, y'know? Like, most of Princess Waluigi's outfits are flowy, which while it def shows the spaciness, i think it also conveys how distant he's made himself to be over the years. Through all the designs I've went through with Mario, they've all had striking colors and lots of frills, both to show who he swapped with and also how outgoing and happy he is. I make sure Luigi's main dress is REALLY puffy, both because it draws on clouds and so it looks like he's swimming in his clothing, like it's too big for him and he has a ways to go before he comes into his own.

So I wanna make sure I do as good of a job with Princess Wario. Hey, after all it's Wario! Only the best for him! Definitely has to show off his toughness, since I do think that's incredibly important to Wario as a character.

#i know i could probably just slap him in any yellow dress with royal purple or gold accents and it'd fit him well enough and all #BUT! i go big or go home #I think Shokora is the one with the most thought in HER outfit #I say to myself Rosalina has the least but honestly she has a fair bit in her color scheme and the fact i give her bell bottoms so #asks #unrelated but did you know he doesn't have perfect vision #i need to find where it is but i remember reading something that he's like 20/40 or something. so i guess it could be false but still #so mayhaps i can give him glasses sometime

[watchtowerindistress]

we are not our demons (14/24) - bruce wayne x batmom

Gif source: edwardsmunsons

Author’s note: As you can probably tell from the middle part, this follows into Suicide Squad.

Damian's and Dick's appearance was pretty much impromptu here, but it actually fit in the story. What can I say? I love it when my muse just demands their presence. I'm a little sucker for Damian, sue me.

Beta-read by Heidi.

Words: 3.2k

Warning: language

Please reblog/leave a comment.

Series Masterlist | Want to be tagged? | Read on AO3

And you had a lot on your mind now

Your mind (your mind), it’s true

So, tell me the truth was it me than

Who needed you (you)

— You by Two Feet -

It turned out that working under Bruce Wayne had its perks. Either that was the reason for him letting Ellie leave at 3 pm—it was more of an order judging by the text message she received—or it had more to do with her functionality as technical support in a certain cave.

As soon as his name swiped over her screen in a notification, her heart jumped wildly beneath her rib cage. Damn him and his astounding ability to monopolize all of her sentiments. As much as Ellie tried to ‘get over’ what happened last night, it was hard to forget about that kiss.

All warm and soft. Making her all gooey inside while she forgot everything around her.

The cool wind stroking the side of her head was like a wake-up call to her surroundings after she exited through the transparent doors of Wayne Enterprises. Heavy raindrops pelted down her umbrella with every step outside.

Despite wearing thick-rimmed glasses covering her face, her eyes still constricted to prove to herself what she was seeing wasn’t a mirage. If her glasses weren’t fooling her, the man himself who had been clouding her mind before, was leaning like a devil-may-care billionaire against his sleek, black Aston Martin parked at the curb. His feet were crossed, and one hand was safely hidden in the pockets of his pants while the other held up his own umbrella from the severe weather conditions.

Before Ellie knew it, she was standing a few feet away from him and tilted her head in speculation. Her eyes whipped around, like she was scandalized at the thought of being seen with Bruce.

“What are you doing?”

Bruce shrugged his shoulders, as if there was nothing wrong. “Parking my car. Why? Is there something wrong with it?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the biting wind.

Ellie inched the strap of her purse higher to ward off the autumn chill, despite the coat she was wearing. As far as she remembered, Bruce was a human heater, so she was a bit flabbergasted that he needed a warm, black overcoat over his suit—of course, everything in a classic black—that gave him a mysterious aura.

Ellie pursed her lips, playing along with him. “Nope. I just wondered what the following words meant—” She whipped out her phone to correctly quote the message Bruce had sent to her. “You can go home now. PS—not a request.” Ellie looked up again. “Short question: how close were you to using caps to get your message across?”

Bruce rolled his eyes.

So, that’s where Damian got it from. Or maybe his son was finally rubbing off on him.

“I don’t write in caps, ever. Just…” Bruce’s smile seemed strained when he nudged his head towards the car. “Just get in the car, Ellie.”

Ellie sighed lowly. “Your manners are getting worse, Bruce.”

He groaned at her words, turning his body sideways. “You sound like Alfred.”

“Ah, so it must be true then.” Without waiting for his gentleman ways to show up, Ellie turned to the passenger door, only to find it still locked. “Bruce, will you do the honors?” the young woman sighed.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows playfully. “If you say ‘please’.”

Ellie’s voice turned saccharine. “Please, for the love of God, open this frigging door, so I can finally purr inside the warmth of your car.”

With a smirk on his face, Bruce lifted the car keys in the air and flamboyantly pressed a button.

At his display of arrogance, Ellie rolled her eyes. “God, I forgot what a dick you could be sometimes,” she complained under her breath and released a sigh as soon as she was in the cozy, warm safety of the Aston. At once, Ellie was forced to take her glasses off to let their fogged-up state disappear over time.

Bruce was still chuckling mirthfully when he got inside as well, letting the inside of the car make a purring sound. He barely showed any reaction when Ellie asked, “And Alfred’s okay with me operating the system tonight?”

Bruce made a grunting sound. “You keep on asking that question, Ellie. But don’t worry about that. It’ll be a relief for Alfred to worry less about me, you know? Maybe you guys can find some sort of accord.”

“So, you only want me to worry about you tonight? Alright.” Ellie rubbed her hands together, slowly getting used to the toasty-warm feeling flowing through her fingers. “Have you talked to Babs recently?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows and sent her a piercing glance—long enough to make her worry about their safety—as he was meandering through the thick traffic of Gotham. Bruce turned his gaze back through the windshield once he saw her facial expression.

Ellie’s eyes shifted anxiously to her twiddling thumbs before her hands spasmed in her lap. Instead, she chose to place her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just—I don’t know.” Ellie exhaled jadedly through her mouth. “I’m getting the feeling that Babs feels lonely. I feel guilty that I don’t talk to her more often.”

“I’m going to talk to Alfred about that. Maybe I’ll have a chat with her later on.”

“Okay, great.” Ellie breathed out a sigh of relief.

Bruce sent her a furtive glance out of the corner of his eye. “Feeling better now?”

She smiled shyly with a small nod. “Immensely, yes. Thank you.”

Bruce nodded, pleased with that. “Anytime.”

The rest of the car ride was spent in amicable conversation. Temporarily, it actually made her forget the obvious elephant riding along in the car, and it surprised her how Bruce could talk about anything else but that kiss. Ellie brushed a few hairs behind her ear and simultaneously peeked at him from under her eyelashes.

They were winding down the unpaved pathway which suggested they were about five minutes from their destination. Bruce didn’t even have to glance back at her to feel her inquiring look on him. “What?”

Ellie shook her head. “Nothing.” Maybe she should just follow his lead and ignore their kiss ever happened.

The pebble stones made a crunching sound under his wheels before Bruce steered the car into the garage. Silently, they stepped out of the vehicle. The temperature inside wasn’t as cool as it was outside, so Ellie unbuttoned her coat and walked alongside Bruce through the corridor.

“Why don’t you get inside the cave already? I need to get some things first. I’ll be right behind you. Wait, let me take your coat.”

“Alright. Thanks.” Ellie nodded her head in agreement and took the jacket off her shoulders into his waiting arms, surprised by Bruce’s hindsight and care, before their paths inevitably separated.

Barely a few minutes of rebooting the computer system passed when the dull thuds of Bruce’s footsteps entered the Batcave.

Something smelled delicious in the air. Her nostrils flared, sniffing the new scent spreading around the lair before a ‘Big Belly Burger’ paper bag was gently placed on the metallic bench next to the keyboard.

“Uh, …” Ellie felt far too speechless to let other words slip through her mouth. Her eyes met his with a silent question.

“It’s going to be a long night, Ellie,” Bruce said without contributing anything else. “There’s a burger inside, you know, and some fries to tide you over.”

“Thanks.” Ellie smiled appreciatively before opening the bag to take a long and ecstatic sniff of its contents. “Extra onion rings and sauce to practically drown in?”

“Of course.”

“Perfect,” Ellie sighed blissfully.

Bruce leaned with the insides of his palms against the edge of the table. “Can you get me access to the Iceberg Lounge? I need CCTV of the nightclub and the map for its street corner.”

Ellie asked the rhetorical question, “Did I hack the database of the FBI when I was 12?” After the rise of Bruce’s eyebrow, she elaborated with a careful speaking tempo, “I mean, not that I would actually do that.”

Bruce huffed at her statement before crossing his arms over his chest, choosing not to add anything else.

The cave was filled with her accelerated keystrokes until a street map expanded on the computer screen, revealing the zoomed-in location of the nightclub.

“Put the live feed of the Iceberg Lounge on the big screen.” Bruce already turned away and shifted his focus on the massive TV screen suspended close to the ceiling facing her.

“Alright, you got it.” While Ellie did her hacker magic—as she liked to call it—and her eyes focused on the code flowing down her screen, she spoke, “You know, I wonder if it should surprise me that Penguin doesn’t have more airtight security. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s still a bit harder to breach than Arkham.”

Bruce could barely snort with derision before the computer display and the linked television revealed the club’s footage. “I’ll try to find you a more sophisticated security network next time.”

“Oh, please. I’d love that.” Ellie made a praying motion in thanks to Bruce’s insight to her craving more of a challenge.

Ellie turned in her chair to watch the staff’s movements on the big screen with Bruce, silently wondering if she was allowed to call it the Bat-TV.

Absent-mindedly, her fingers dug into her fast-food selection and scarfed down two fries at once. She stood up from her chair with a heavy sigh and stopped next to Bruce.

“Not a lot going on right now.” She licked the salt from the tips of her fingers. “I reckon it’s going to be more exciting at 6 PM when the club officially opens.” Ellie swiveled her head expectantly to her left until her brown eyes lingered on Bruce. “So, what’s the plan here?”

“Did you—?”

“Yep.” The brunette woman chewed rapturously on the potato fry, feeling grateful for Bruce getting her some French Fries since it had been some time since she had those. “Facial recognition is running through the system for Joker and Quinn. The moment they’ll enter this place we’ll know.”

“Good.” Bruce nodded, pleased with that development before his head turned towards her again in consideration. “Did Ivy mention the time of Joker’s deal taking place?”

With her lips pursed, Ellie tilted her head. “Not exactly. Only that it would occur at night.”

Bruce shrugged, becoming resolute in his determination. “I’m going to hit the streets then.” The intent in Bruce’s eyes became obvious. “Can I count on you to stay here?”

Ellie rolled her eyes, cocking her head at the absurd insinuation. “Expensive drinks and lousy atmosphere? No, thank you, Sir. I may like penguins, but I have no interest in meeting this one.”

Snorting chuckles left Bruce as he stalked away to suit up.

Ellie had the first bite of her gifted burger and was relishing in the special spicy ‘Big Belly’ sauce when it dribbled down the corner of her mouth.

“I smell food!” Dick’s voice called out in elation when he bounded down the stairs, seemingly exceptionally motivated by the delicious smell. His youngest brother Damian followed behind him, but with a slower pace and not as enthusiastic.

Ellie’s eyebrows lifted in the air at Dick’s nose smelling the finest scents in his environment. “No, you don’t!” she exclaimed in defense and turned her body away to shield her food from him, but it was already too late. “You’re like a bloodhound, Dick,” Ellie mumbled quietly.

He was within reach when his fingers delved into her white bag with the red, yellow and white emblem at the side. Before Ellie could even protest, Dick devoured a handful of fries.

“No one told me there was going to be food,” he replied through a mouthful of food.

Ellie’s narrowed eyes were aimed at Dick’s thieving hands. She was more disgruntled than truly annoyed. “Gee, I wonder why.”

With his mouth still chewing, he replied, “Wow, you’re as bad as Dami when it comes to sharing, huh?”

Damian’s only answer was to sigh.

Dick’s gaze met the computer display which had the facial recognition program running through the system. His features darkened once the two mugshots caught his eye. “Bonnie and Clyde, huh? I’m guessing our dear ol’ dad is playing cops and robbers without telling me,” Dick pondered under his breath.

“Uh…” The objection of the blue-eyed man sounded legit, but sometimes it was hard to understand Bruce’s plans when he refused to divulge them. “I’m sure Bruce has a strategy that he didn’t unfold yet.”

Dick only sighed before crossing his arms. “No need to sound like a diplomat, Ellie. Is that the Iceberg Lounge?”

Ellie hummed meekly in agreement before Dick mumbled, “We’re going to need more food.”

Damian was a silent companion at her left side while Dick did a quick snack run into the kitchen.

“You’re not supervising Dick’s every move?” Ellie sent Damian, who took a seat next to her, an inquiring glance that bordered on teasing. It surprised her that he harbored no issues in sitting so close to her.

As a reply, Damian shrugged, like he couldn’t care less what Dick did in his free time. “I will see what he brings.”

“Did someone call my name?”

Ellie rolled her eyes before she could stop that gesture.

“Here, I got you your yogurt, Damian.”

The younger boy’s grunt was the equivalent of a pleased affirmation. Those small grunts really came close to the sounds Bruce uttered sometimes. Ellie’s eyes caught the label on the lid of the yogurt cup.

“Soy yogurt with berries?” she asked with a curious nature.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Damian declared before his spoon popped into his mouth.

Ellie’s eyebrows rose in the air at that new development which came out of nowhere. “What? And no one cared to tell me? Why didn’t Alfred mention that months ago when I asked him about your guys’ allergies?”

Her eyes caught Damian’s softening, although Dick wrapping his arm around hers diverted her attention. “You’re adorable, Ellie.”

She only nudged the man’s side playfully, though the comfy feeling in her belly showed her how comfortable she felt in their company.

The beeping sound emanating from the Batcomputer brought her back to the present. Ellie slid her chair close to find the system had detected their fugitives. “Back to work,” Ellie mumbled and opened her line to reach Bruce’s communication link.

“Batman, come in.”

“I’m here. Any news?”

Ellie kept a close eye on the green-haired psychopath and his sidekick entered the stage while replying, “Affirmative. I’ve got eyes on Quinn and the Joker. They just got into the nightclub.”

“Copy. I see Joker’s Lamborghini,” Bruce commented distastefully—either from Joker’s choice of color, the model in general, or maybe that personalized license plate—before he got serious again. “I’ll let you know when there’s a new type of development. Out.”

At the end of his transmission, Ellie shut off her comm link and leaned back in her chair, exhaling loudly. “Why does this feel like it’s going to be a long night?”

“Perhaps your intuition is trying to tell you something,” Damian surmised flatly. Two heads turned towards him with blank stares.

“What?” The young boy wondered, truly perplexed by their reaction. “I wasn’t insulting anybody.”

Dick’s boisterous munching of popcorn made a crunching sound in the silent cave. If she wasn’t as focused on the high-speed chase between Batman and the Joker—

it was more like the masked knight was lying on the hood of the car, trying to get the upper hand—

Ellie would have said some words about Dick’s manners, or lack thereof.

Ever since he ditched the Batmobile, and the dashboard camera footage wasn’t available, her only source was the CCTV live feed of the city.

“Are you feeling entertained, Dick?”

He shrugged, but still kept on stuffing his face. “What can I say? It’s been some time since I’ve seen a high-speed chase. I’ll take what I can get.”

The dwindling number of feeds was starting to worry her. “I won’t be able to be of much help. There aren’t a lot of CCTV cameras Downtown.”

“I’m aware,” Bruce grunted through their transmission link.

Ellie’s eyebrows creased when Joker’s route started to dawn on her, and after a second glance at the map, she announced through Bruce’s radio link, “Batman, Joker’s close to Gotham Harbor.”

There was radio silence on his end. Ellie pursed her lips in anxiety when he didn’t react to her notification. “Batman, do you copy?” She thrummed her fingers against the desk when the deafening buzz of their connection touched her ears. “Damn it, remote control,” Ellie muttered under her breath.

She was practically operating on autopilot when she synchronized with remote control the Batmobile to the transmitter in Bruce’s suit. Letting it navigate swiftly through Gotham’s traffic until it finally arrived at its destination. She was grateful to Bruce’s prescience in providing all the suits with a GPS locator and included health stats to observe their well-being during missions.

Ellie nibbled on her bottom lip while the location of Batman in the harbor didn’t soothe her concerns. His heartbeat was slightly elevated.

Dick crossed his arms over his chest. “Who knew that Bruce’s paranoia would one day pay off?”

“Paranoia doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know?” Damian retorted from her left.

He sent his adoptive brother a thorough glimpse over her shoulder. “You guys really are related,” Dick grumbled lightly.

“Guys, hush.” Ellie didn’t expect to be the voice of reason in the end, but desperate times. She tilted her head in befuddled scrutiny of the screen revealing Bruce’s location being congruent with the tracker on the Lamborghini. “Did the Joker ditch his car?”

Ellie’s breathing returned to normal when Bruce’s bulking figure stepped into the view of the dashboard camera, with Harley Quinn hanging over his shoulder.

“Dude, he ditched his girlfriend,” Dick recapped in bafflement.

Harley Quinn’s dripping body was laid on the hood of the Batmobile before Bruce—after a serious length of hesitation—put his mouth on hers and attempted to return life into her lungs.

They had a pretty good view of the Bat blowing air between Harley’s lips—

Ellie was unable to comprehend what she was witnessing when all of a sudden, Harley’s pale hand reached for the back of his cowl and her mouth crashed vigorously into his.

Fervently kissing him.

Ellie’s heart stuttered in her chest at the unsettling display and even more that Bruce needed four excruciating seconds to sever their lips. There was a simmering ache settling low in her belly. Ellie cursed herself for feeling this way in the first place.

Dick’s slothful, almost slow-motion, nibbling aroused true irritation on her face when she turned her head. That and judging from his twinkling eyes gave her the sobering impression that he didn’t mind this type of entertainment this night had turned into.

Ellie’s focus was barely on Bruce’s radio transmission when he announced gruffly, “The Joker got away. I got Harley Quinn. Sending her to Arkham now.”

Dick’s feelings were clear as day when he groaned and threw his head back.

Her voice sounded terse when she relayed, “Copy and out.”

Tagging: @mellowstatesmanhandsempath​ @ravenmoore14​ @alwayshave-faith​ @ikranfuad​ @daydreaming-gemini​ @bluegalaxyprime​ @liadamerondjarin​ @steph21369 @andrewswifes-blog​  @yanna-banana

#steph writes #watchtowerindistress #we are not our demons #batfleck #batfleck x oc #bruce wayne x oc #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne imagines #batman x oc #bruce wayne #bruce wayne fanfiction #batman imagines #batman imagine #joker #harley quinn #dick grayson #damian wayne

[obnoxiousselfdiagnosedneurosis]

tobirama for the ask post

Send me a character and I'll tell you my least favorite and favorite thing about them and the fanon pet peeves I have with them!

Favourite thing: He is Pretty I guess. And also funny. I enjoy the running gag of him being upset people keep stealing his jutsu and claiming them as their own.

Least favourite thing: Everything else but especially the headplate??? Could've revolutionized ninja fashion with the armour fur but ruined the whole ensemble with that ugly ass metal crown. L.

Fanon pet peeves: I think he's annoying most of the time and form-fitting black turtlenecks aren't enough to sway my opinion and so I cannot be converted to Tobiramaism. Sorry. But I DO think:

Some of y'all are a bit too harsh on him. Specifically, I think saying "he made the Uchiha cops to systematically oppress them" in any way that isn't humorous is a bit crazy. I think his theory on the sharingan is heavily rooted in prejudice, sure, since not taking into consideration that mayyyybe war time made its effects worse and concluding that its users are always destined to go insane is kind of a massive oversight on the part of someone who's supposed to be incredibly smart. But also what happened to the Uchiha is Hiruzen and Danzo's fault and I think it's a little crazy to act like he personnally orchestrated their downfall from the beginning. Sure, hold him accountable for his insensitive comments, god knows I do, but I think that's the worst it gets. If you've seen me express other sentiments beforehand, which I will not deny... opinions change. Sue me.

I just don't see where his ass is. @akatsukitrash I'm sorry.

#Anon #Ask #thank you! None of y'all start discourse over this I've made a solemn vow to never engage in Tobirama discourse again

[sherunsfaster]

And I also hate the idea that Leah's overdramatic about the guys. We didn't get a lot of insight into the pack dynamics since the story was mostly told from Bella's perspective but we still have plenty of evidence of the anti-Leah sentiments and we also all know how teenagers are. And teenagers having to deal with all of the supernatural drama on top of that would make things worse. I think it's clear that she probably butted heads most with Jake because he was going through his own heartbreak and feeling each other's pain did pit them against each other for a time. And then there's Paul that has the hardest time controlling his temper, so her backhanded comments set him off pretty easily. Besides Seth, she's least likely to lash out at Embry, because she feels for him and his situation with his mom not knowing and she respects his decision to keep her out of it.

Direct quote from Jake's mind: I remembered back to when I used to think that Leah was pretty, maybe even beautiful. That was a long time ago. No one thought of her that way now. Except for Sam. // Sam was going to give me hell for that, but it was worth it. Leah wouldn’t bug me anymore. And I’d do it again if I had the chance.

Also Jake:   “How do you think the rest of us like looking at Sam through your eyes? It’s bad enough that Emily has to deal with your fixation. She doesn’t need us guys panting after him, too.” // “ If you're upset about your gender confusion, Leah...”

Paul: You are such a pain, Jacob. I swear, I’d rather hang out with Leah. Jake: Ouch. Wow, I bet Leah’s really going to love to hear that you want to spend some quality time with her. It’ll just warm the cockles of her heart.

“Being the fastest was the only edge she claimed.” just say you're mad you're slower Jake it's fine.

And in the Eclipse movie when Sam and Paul both throw shade her way because of what happened with the newborn battle. She would have torn into both of them if it had happened when they knew Jake was going to be okay.

And of course even Billy gets involved in it. Saying she's more of a wolverine than a wolf, not to her of course, but I'm sure that got back to her.

Sam openly says he thinks imprinting is to give the best chance of passing on the gene while Billy thinks it produces stronger wolves. Both of these add to her worries about what not having her period means.

She is absolutely not innocent in this as she has mocked the likelihood of Bella dying to Jake and likely said some rather vile things towards all of them. Trying to keep everyone out of her heart to avoid losing them again isn't an excuse, even though she had lost her relationships with Sam and Emily and later Sue, even if most of the tension in the relationship with her mother is her own doing. Losing her father in the way she did completely destroyed her because she was a hardcore Daddy's girl. But she does have reasons to be miserable in pack life and it far exceeds hearing Sam's thoughts. While her and Jake butted heads the most, she still found him the better alternative than having everyone in her head and they were able to separate themselves from their hostility enough to build a meaningful connection to the point she remains his pack beta even after Embry and Quil join their side.

All of this sticks with her and while she's a little bit less caustic as she matures and grows past a girl pining over her high school relationship, even though she still feels without imprinting she and Sam would still be together, she still finds it very hard to let new people in.

#╰––– » 「 ☾ 」 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻. ┊ is it me? am i the drama?

[beneathashadytree]

Hi! I hope you had a good day! All I can think about is Reiner ngl 😭. Hopefully I can request a Reiner x reader. Where Reiner begged Peick and Zeke to take you with them to Marley if shit went south (like you wrote in the Bertholdt x reader one) and the reader is prego with Reiner child. How would Reiners mom and his family react bringing her home? (I’ve been honestly thinking that his family would hate the reader because she’s a devil in there eyes especially his mom 😀.) but slowly learn to like the reader after the years being in Marley (I BEG let Bertholdt be alive in this ) And love break my heart make the hate so Angsty (Only if your comfortable !!!!!)

And keep up the amazing work!!!!!! I love them all !!!!

MIRACLE - REINER BRAUN X READER

Warnings : canon-divergent AU, Bertholdt is alive and well in this, implications of sex, teenage pregnancy, vulgar language curse words, Reiner and reader are both 17 and then 18, reader is female!

Genre : mixture of angst and fluff

Word count : 5.8K words (I got carried away again afshdkdk)

Synopsis : Reiner never thought he'd make it out alive, let alone have a blessing added into his life.

Additional notes : As you can see, I wrote so much and took a while to post this oops. It was so much fun writing this (I'm a sucker for domestic Reiner and angst; sue me), so I hope you enjoy this! I'd love to hear your feedback of course. PS: I apologize for the very bulky format, but Tumblr has a paragraph limit, so I had to lump some paragraphs together when it came to posting.

Requests : Are open! Check the rules over here.

Want to support me financially? Here’s my CashApp!

Masterlist

Pieck didn't have it in her heart to voice any complaints---not when Reiner's last ounce of strength had been used up to yell a single name, a plea in his raspy voice for his comrade to pick her up. The cart titan wanted nothing more than to selflessly help him out, but it really wasn't as easy as he'd made it out to seem, considering the fact that she'd already had to snatch both Bertholdt and Reiner himself away, after having dragged Zeke's mangled body out of Levi's shackles. Still, honoring her now-unconscious friend's request, she swiped at the girl's small body, picking her up as quickly as she could in that huge body of hers, trying her best to be gentle in the process (she often forgot her own strength in this form). It wouldn't have done if she'd accidentally hurt her; the blonde would've given her an earful, going off on a tangent about how much the girl Pieck had rescued meant to him, and how precious she was, in a way that had him wanting to treasure her.

Sure, Pieck could mildly understand the sentiments behind his request; the affectionate yet somehow sorrowful look in his eyes held a thousand stories of adoration and trials, and she could tell that this girl was someone who'd entered his world to turn it upside down. After all, she wasn't blind, and she could easily tell that he was madly in love with her just from the desperation that had bled through his shouts for her to rescue the girl the moment things went south for them in Shiganshina. But still, wasn't that a bit too extreme? At least, in her opinion, that is. Sure, she could excuse his hurry by believing that he was enamored by her, but what had him dealing with the situation as though it were a matter of life or death, when he himself was slipping away? Despite her compliance, Pieck still didn't get it; she didn't get it all, and she didn't think she really wanted to know.

***

"How are you feeling?" Reiner's voice was soft, as calm and collected as he could muster, despite the thick steam that his body emitted as it tried to heal itself, pulling himself to sit upright as he checked his girlfriend's body over a million times, "Anything hurting?" his question laced with worry, and the furrow in his eyebrows showing how concerned he was.

She gave him a weak nod, hand reaching up to rub at her temples, clearly sporting some sort of headache, "Nothing much, just a migraine," squinting at the bright sunlight, she felt around and realized she was sitting on planks of sturdy wood, "Where are we?"

A momentary feeling of shame washed over him, after having nearly failed to protect her in the mission he couldn't finish, "On the ship Zeke took to Paradis. We're going back home."

"To Marley?" she couldn't do much in protest but to frown, and Reiner was suddenly reminded of the fact that the mainland was far from home to her; in fact, she probably would've never believed it even existed months ago.

His lack of reply to her question and his faraway gaze towards Bertholdt's unconscious body to the far north of the deck counted as confirmation, and the girl sighed beside him, the sound a mix of sadness, melancholy, and helplessness. It didn't take a genius for him to understand that she'd simply given up the fight, knowing better than to argue with him about taking her back to Liberio. Even if he himself didn't know if the technicalities would all work out immediately, at the very least he knew that she'd be under his watchful eye---and she knew perfectly well (after having several arguments concerning this topic) that he had every right to be as protective as he was of her.

He had to admit, her presence in his life had been a factor he hadn't taken account of when he'd planned on retrieving the founder as had been instructed of him and his two remaining comrades. Bertholdt in particular had been especially weary of the girl's presence, his anxious nature leading him to overthink that maybe she'd caught onto their secret, and that that was the reason why she'd expressed the desire to get closer to his blonde friend. But his worry had been entirely in vain, because the truth was that she simply found Reiner so enticing in every possible way that she couldn't stay away from him. And that character he'd adopted after what happened with Marcel only drew her in further. He seemed so dependable, so wise, and so charming, in an unconventional almost-brutish way. Every thing about him, she'd said, from the way he'd laugh boisterously with Connie over dinner to the way he'd cooed as a lost kitten licked at his cheek, had dragged her into a never-ending loop of fond stares and a want to get closer to him. Reiner (having grown up so lonesome and starved of proper affection) couldn't find it in himself to push away her more-than-obvious advances, often indulging in them more than he should have (much to Annie's chagrin, as she would sit, staring at them talking quietly with something akin to disgust in her eyes, believing that he was getting far too ahead of himself).

The attraction was far from one-sided, after all, so it really was no surprise to the cadets when they saw how their strong big brother Reiner wound up dating the girl who'd weaseled her way into his heart, filling every nook and cranny with the warmth he so craved. Perhaps he was a coward who ran away from his duties and shut off his subconscious to adopt a personality he never should have tried to delude himself into thinking was real, but he was at least a young man who couldn't deny how he felt; not when his head was swimming with thoughts of her in the same way she'd confessed she couldn't get him out of her mind, even after they'd joined the scouting regiment and knew they'd be even busier than ever before.

And with the recklessness that came with youth, came bouts of times when Reiner really, really couldn't stop himself from begging to see her whenever he could find the barracks devoid of any other cadets, and with the unbridled passion they both shared as most teenagers often did, they often found themselves lost in each other's moans, bodies entwined and writhing in pleasure on the sheets, just barely making themselves look presentable before the others would come back. Their disheveled appearance wasn't turned a blind eye to, and everyone had their fair share of teasing to dish out to the flustered and yet entirely shameless couple. Bearing it with red cheeks and blinding grins that held some sort of secret, the two 17 year-olds maintained their nightly escapades, even sometimes having Eren or Ymir help them sneak out and ensuring they wouldn't get caught (not that there weren't a few close calls when Levi's sudden appearance hadn't been put into consideration and they'd been forced to hide in a nearby storage room where they still wound up muffling their sighs of pleasure on the spotless floor as they came as one).

As caught up as he was with bedding his girlfriend at every possible chance, Reiner was every bit attentive as he was all over her. He'd always kept a close eye on her, in tune with how she felt and reacted to everything, so he'd know the correct course of action to take. Hell-bent on being the perfect boyfriend as he was the perfect comrade, he'd noticed how she grew more fatigued, irritable, and even sick at times. Undoubtedly concerned for her well-being, especially after witnessing firsthand how tender---sometimes sore, even---her body had gotten over the past while whenever they'd get the chance to fall into each other's arms at night, he found her breaking down in his arms, whimpering how she'd missed her period and how absolutely terrified she'd felt. The implications of her words had sent him spiraling into shock and worry, unable to voice his thoughts of how he hadn't intended to forcibly tie her down like this, especially with his impending betrayal. Knowing that the revelation of the truth would be inevitable, Reiner had sat her down on his lap, petite hands clasped in his huge palms, offering some sort of grounding and stability as he prepared her for the huge news that he knew would either make or break them.

His whispered confession of his secret had let to a horrified gasp, with her almost scrambling to get off of him as though being within a five mile radius of his presence disgusted her. Unsurprised but still every bit as heartbroken, the blonde had left her to her devices, allowing her to process the information over days and weeks. But when his lingering glances became too much to ignore when she herself was itching to find her way back to him, she found herself gulping and reaching out for him with shaking hands, knowing that he was still every bit of the young man she'd fallen for. They were both foolish and senseless, and they found consolation in loving each other---that much she couldn't deny, no matter how many times she discovered that he was a traitor. And with a quivering voice, she'd told him of her visit to the infirmary; of her confirmed pregnancy that frightened her to no end, and of how she still wanted him to be by her side, and her by his, even should the world come crashing down on their shoulders. Back then, Reiner didn't know whether to break down in tears or hold her like he'd never let her go ever again, so he'd opted to doing a bit of both.

And right now, with the ocean breeze licking at their hair and the seagulls crying overhead, Reiner felt a sense of dread inside him, but oddly enough, he also felt he was looking forward to the upcoming period of their lives, come what may.

His girlfriend pushed herself up slowly, trudging across the deck to stand near to the metal rail, gripping it tight as she fluttered her eyes shut, inhaling sharply, "So this is what the sea is like," she mused, voice carried by the wind and reaching Reiner, his heart pounding as he saw her mingle with what she'd always been deprived of; the nature she'd never seen.

Glancing down, he lamneted the fact that his limbs hadn't all grown back, wanting nothing more than to stand up and join her. Instead, he settled for smiling at her figure as her hand subconsciously fell to her still-quite-flat belly, thinking of the future that awaited them once they'd reach the pier.

"C'mere sweetheart," he rasped out, fondness in his eyes, calloused palms waiting until she was within arm's reach to pull her down beside him, "Lay down beside me, you might get sea-sick." Settling her tiny palm against his tattered shirt, she rested her head against his broad chest, and he was sure that if she strained her ear, amdist the sounds of the waves she could hear his heart pounding in his chest as his mind wandered to what might lie ahead of them.

***

Standing in front of his house, limping a little and clasping his girlfriend's hand tight, Reiner came to the realization that he really hadn't thought this through. With a quick glance to her left arm, he realized her lack of armband said one of two things, one of which was an impossibility, the other punishable by crime---an unfavorable position eitherways, and one he knew his mother would be quick to notice. Picking up on his sudden discomfort and hesitance to knock on the door, his lover turned to frown at him, "What's wrong, Reiner?"

Shaking it off because he didn't want to concern her when she had more than enough to worry about, he shook his head, giving her a small smile and a peck on the lips to momentarily satiate her, "'s nothing. Don't sweat it."

The words directed towards himself too and not just her, he gathered all his nerves and rapped his knuckles against the wood, waiting to greet his mother with the happiest expression he could muster. The woman in front of him looked as though she'd been worn down by the years, to the extent that he almost couldn't recognize her. But they were still the same kind eyes that had tried to comfort him when he was a young child who was confused as to why he was the only one among his peers without a father, and her lavender shawl was the same tattered one he'd clutched years ago when he couldn't sleep at night.

"Reiner?" she breathed, tearing up at the sight of her son who now towered over her, "You're back?"

With a small hum, he gave her his warmest smile. As she flung her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her chest, she let loose a few sobs in his shoulder, missing the warmth of the child that had been taken from her years ago. As much as a part of him loathed her for bribing him with a dream that would never come true, Reiner couldn't help but blink his tears away. Before he could even register the hug, she'd pulled away, eyeing the girl standing awkwardly but politely behind them.

"Is that one of your warrior friends?" she enthused, tugging her inside with a curious twinkle in her glossy eyes, "Or... someone special to you?"

"Let's not rush things," he patted her back gently, a weak smile on his face as he stood between them, "But yeah, she's my girlfriend. She's not a warrior though."

With a frown, she glanced at her arm, "You should be careful. We might be in the internment zone, but the laws are strict and you still have to wear your armband at all times," her tone wasn't unkind though, and she ushered them to the living room while she began to peel some oranges for them by the sink, "You don't know where the guards are lurking." Nervously, the young couple glanced at each other, remaining silent, and as she turned to see them fidgeting like that, his mother's eyes widened while she balanced the plate of fruit between her hands, "Don't tell me... Reiner?! Have you forgotten what happened because your father was Marleyan?!"

Curling his fists against his pants, he shook his head, "No, I haven't, I---mother, that's not it, she's not from..."

Drifting off, his mother's scowl only grew, and her feet remained rooted to the spot, her grip on the plate steely, "How long have you been together?" she asked through gritted teeth.

If he could curl into a ball out of shame, he would've, but all he could do was stare at his lap, "A year. Give or take."

Crash!

"Mother!" Reiner cried out, stumbling over the carpet as he tried to hurry and clean the remains of the glass dish on the floor, but the old woman made no move, shaking out of fury and pure, unadulterated rage as she gave the girl on the couch a glare that could've shredded her to pieces.

Her silence was eery enough as it is, and the clinking as Reiner carefully picked up the largest glass pieces only made it more unnerving. No one dared breathe loudly, his girlfriend almost statuesque as she still remained silent, knowing that she'd only probably make things worse if she spoke.

"You've... you've brought a devil into my house."

Eyes softening, he dropped everything, trying to cross the damage to make his way over to the woman who'd brought him into this life, "No, she's not... listen, it's a long story---"

"Reiner!" she yelled his name, face growing red as horror struck her, "Her people are the reason why we live in fear, why your father left," gnashing her teeth, she stomped her foot down, flames flickering in the eyes he'd grown up beside, "She's the spawn of Satan himself, the reason why humans were at risk of extinction, and she's filthied our house with her bloody hands!"

"Mother, she's never hurt anyone," he tried to reach out for her, only to have her jerk away from him, a pang resonating in his heart, "Please, I know it's difficult to believe, but I love her, and she loves me."

Snarling at him, she touched her chest, "What would you know about love, Reiner? When was the last time you've witnessed that emotion, when all you've ever had was me?"

"I know enough, I'm not a child anymore," he began to raise his voice, though it didn't seem like he noticed it, "You don't get a choice eitherways, she's here to stay with me."

"What good could ever come from someone like... like that?" she groaned, disgust lacing her voice, "It's like you're trying to ruin what you've built by associating yourself with that wretched devil."

"She's carrying my child."

The middle-aged woman froze in place, unblinking at his deadpan expression. It didn't seem like she fully processed his words, and it took her a couple of seconds to speak, "Pardon?"

Locking his jaw, Reiner backpedalled to rest a firm hand against his girlfriend's shoulder, partially to affirm his statement, partially to steady her shivering form, and partially to ground his own self, "She's pregnant now."

When his mother spoke again, the bitterness wasn't held back from her words, "So you've knocked up a whore."

"Excuse me?" in an offended tone, the girl finally spoke up, a scowl set deeply on her face, "I'm not some common hussy you speak of like that."

"I'll call you whatever I want, scum," his mother spat out, looking down on her as she sneered, "Spreading your legs for any man that comes near you, I bet that's what lowlifes like you do."

Livid, she tried her best to maintain her voice leveled, "Ma'am, I've never even been near another man aside from your son---"

"And that was enough for you to get pregnant with that demon child as soon as you saw him, like the animal you are," Karina scoffed, venom in her eyes as she slammed her hand down the small table to her left, "Terminate it."

"What?" the girl hissed, eyes narrowed, about to get up, had Reiner's grip on her shoulder not tightened to get her to remain seated, "You don't get a say in that---"

"That's my child, mother," Reiner's voice was colder than she'd ever heard, and it was honestly rather surprising to both parties that they shut up for a moment, "Are you aware of what you're saying?"

"See some sense, child, she's just using you as a ticket to leave the island," she sounded exasperated as she pointed at the girl protectively touching her belly, "That wretched slut only ever wanted to be tied down to you."

"I'm the one who dragged her into this, and frankly, while I don't want to discuss my intimate matters with you, trust me, she's far from being the one who was the reason behind the pregnancy," crossing his arms, Reiner gave her a challenging glare that he never dreamt he'd give his mother.

As she gaped at him, she tried to reason, "That's my grandchild, who'll carry the family name! If their mother is that bitch, then I don't want them."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Reiner grumbled, "When are you going to realize that you can't live your life through me? I'm capable of making my own goddamn choices."

"She's even turning you against your own mother, you never would've cursed at me---"

"Because I was a cowardly 12 year-old when I left!" the blonde raised his voice, frustration evident in his voice as he tried his best not to go overboard and end up yelling at the woman who, at the end of the day, had raised him, "I hope you'll come to your senses someday, but until then, we're going somewhere where we could take care of our child," turning to gently pull up his girlfriend, he mumbled under his breath on their way out, completely ignoring his livid mother, "I should've known better than to come here."

Doing his best not to slam the door behind them, he let out a heavy breath of air, slumping his shoulders and instantly wrapping his arm around the girl's waist, pulling her back into his chest as he squeezed her tight. Breathing softly into her neck, she held him back just as firmly, as though leaning back on him for strength just as he stabilized himself. The comforting embrace lasted a couple of minutes, before he unwrapped his arms from around her, rubbing her stomach comfortingly.

Before they could take any steps forward, a small body plowed into Reiner's side with a yell of his name, with more force than he'd anticipated, causing him to nearly lose his footing in surprise.

"Gabi?" he grinned, picking her up, earning an excited nod and equally enthusiastic laugh, and he couldn't help but hug her close, "You've grown so much, holy crap. How old are you now?"

"Eight!" she proudly said, puffing her chest and pointing one thumb towards her self while the other arm clung to his neck, "And just so you know, it's only a matter of time before I'm the second Braun to inherit the armored titan," she sounded so smug, before turning her head and finally noticing the girl, "Hey, who's she?"

"Gabi, it's rude to point," he sighed exasperatedly, already feeling how heavy she'd grown in his arms, "Anyways, she's my girlfriend."

Hopping off, the brunette leaned in close so she could inspect the young woman, "Woah, you're beautiful! How did Reiner ever date you?"

With a laugh, she replied, "He did get quite lucky, yeah."

"You haven't seen your cousin in five years and here you are ganging up against him," he shook his head, "Where are your parents?"

Gabi waved behind them, and he turned with a look of surprise to find his uncle and his wife standing together with kind smiles. Greeting them with quick hugs that didn't express half of how he felt and how much he'd missed being home, he wondered how long it would be before his happiness would be shattered.

"Say, who's the lovely young lady beside you?" his uncle asked, "She looks rather taken by you, if I'm not mistaken."

Awkwardly laughing, Reiner rubbed the back of his neck, "Yeah, we're together."

"How long have you guys been---"

Before he could begin to anxiously sweat profusely, a hand clapped down on his shoulder, startling him and cutting the conversation off (much to his relief).

"I've been looking for you two all over," the soft voice he'd been fretting about not hearing ever again was comforting to finally hear.

"Bertholdt, you're alright," he breathed, wrapping an arm around the shoulder of his best friend, "When were you released?"

"I left the hospital this morning," he jerked his thumb in the direction outside the gates, "I got word from HQ that they want all warriors gathered at 4 PM, said it was important," he turned to the pregnant girl, lowering his voice and his eyes growing softer, "Think you can blend in?"

After a moment of thinking, she nodded, "Yeah, no big deal. I'll stay in the yard."

"Good, c'mon," with a wave towards his friend's extended family, Bertholdt practically dragged the couple away from any more prying questions.

***

The meeting had proven to be quite useful, considering that without it they wouldn't have been able to stay in Liberio. Once at HQ, the top brass had discussed their funding and salaries, granting the returned warriors the choice to receive hard cash or lodging instead. After much consideration and discussion with his beloved, it was only logical to pick a standard two-bedroom house to live in, instead of splurging on a mansion that was neither practical nor necessary---especially considering that since there were no urgent missions for the next while, he'd have no regular income of money---so that he could stash away the remaining cash portion for use in their daily lives, until they could find a better alternative. As of now, his girlfriend was heavily pregnant and found it difficult to go anywhere without waddling like a penguin. Her walk had earned them several stares as they made their way to visit his old house---or at the very least, attempt to. So far they'd tried knocking on the door once a month, and every time a venomous reply had been thrown their way after the door had been cracked open.

"Mother, how long do you intend to keep this up," Reiner sighed exasperatedly, "All we want is to talk to you."

"The baby is healthy," his lover spoke quietly as she touched her stomach, the baby kicking as though knowing they were talking about them, "In case you were wondering."

A moment of silence, before---

"To hell with it."

Another sigh of defeat, and then they were on their way back home again, bumping into Zeke who'd only just made it out of his grandparents' house.

"Difficulty getting through again?" he gave them a sympathetic smile, "C'mon, why the long faces? It's not the last chance you'll get to try and make amends."

Frustrated, the teenager ran his fingers through his hair, "Thing is, we shouldn't have been discussing things in the first place. It's my child, and I'm the one who knocked her up."

Rolling her eyes, the girl punched his arm, "You could've phrased it differently."

With a quick apology, he bent down to kiss her lips chastely, blushing at the way the wonder boy smirked at them knowingly.

"See, this is how she ended up pregnant in the first place."

"Zeke!"

As they strolled back home, Reiner found himself lost in thought, feet kicking up the gravel absent-mindedly. He must've spaced out completely, because his lover was soon nudging him.

"You okay, love?"

A little startled, his eyes went wide, before he nodded, settling into a more comfortable walking pace. They lapsed into silence for a couple of minutes as they trekked the path to their home, until he found the courage to speak up again and spill what was on his mind and had been taking up his thoughts for the past God-knows-how-long.

"Have you... thought about us taking our relationship further?" his voice was quiet when he asked the question tentatively.

Chuckling, she took his large hands in hers, "Honestly, how much further can we go when we're already having a child together that might pop out any day now?"

Cracking a smile, he patted her head, "Finally, we'll get to see them," his hand lingered on her hair, "But no, that's not I meant. I meant us, as a couple, without a third party."

"You mean... marriage?" she softly questioned, and he could only nod with burning red cheeks, "Well, I'd be lying if I said I haven't. You're too charming sometimes."

"Flatterer," he coughed, "You just want a foot massage at home."

"That too," cheerily admitting it, she gave him a breathtaking smile that instantly disarmed him and had his heart fluttering in his ribcage, "No, but seriously, I know we're young and all, but it's not like we've got the luxury of time either."

Reiner had tried multiple times to forget that he didn't have that many years ahead of him, not wanting to put them through the hurt of thinking of something tragic like that, but she handled the topic surprising well, even broaching it herself. She never failed to surprise him. She went on to say, "Being with you forever... isn't that the thing I've wanted from the start? And if I can't have forever, then all the time I can borrow works for me too," staring at the sky that held the airships she'd never seen before, she looked so peaceful; so beautiful to him, "Carrying your last name is only one final confirmation."

His voice was low and thick with emotion when he spoke again, hazel eyes a few shades darker as his gaze intensified, "Have I ever told you how absolutely head over heels I am for you?"

With a flirty wink, she grinned, "Might wanna remind me when we're inside, then, future husband."

***

"He's fussing again," she groaned, the baby swaddled in the blanket crying as he kicked about, pulling him closer to her chest in a vain attempt to pacify him with her familiar scent. Chuckling, Reiner leaned down to look at his son's red face, "What did you expect, he's only two months old and this is his first proper outing," tenderly, he stroked his tear-stained cheeks with two of his knuckles, "Mother used to tell me that I was a restless baby too."

"He's a carbon copy of you already, imagine being as annoying as you are too," she grumbled, causing him to playfully glare at her, before his son distracted him again.

"Look at him," he mused, a happy sigh escaping him without even noticing it had, brushing his little blond locks with his fingertips, "He's so small." With a snort, she playfully elbowed him, "You're the one who's too big. He's the perfect size for holding."

"Never thought we'd be parents at the age of 18, honestly," he hummed, holding his arms out as a silent invitation to pass his wriggling son to him, "But I'm glad it happened." As Reiner began to hush him and rock him gently, she looked on in awe as he began to settle down in his arms, as though his father's presence alone was enough to ease his nerves.

"I carry him for nine months, and he still ends up being a daddy's boy?" she huffed in pretend-annoyance.

With a smirk, he quipped back, "Guess he likes your husband more. Can't blame him, really, neither of you can resist me."

At the mention of it, she subconsciously touched her ring finger, "Still can't believe we're married now," she spoke, wonder in her voice, a blissful sigh escaping her, "It's so nice, though, living in our own little world."

"Wouldn't have happened without Porco, though," Reiner said, voice lowered so as not to disturb his resting baby boy, "Who knew his father was an officiator?"

"It's not just that," she shook her head as she leaned her head against Reiner's sturdy shoulder, watching the rhythmic breathing of the child in his arms, "Porco must've gone through a hell lot of crap trying to cover up the fact that I'm not from here. He must've fabricated lots documents and government papers, and that can't have had no risks."

His tone dark, Reiner added, "Especially since he isn't too fond of me, and especially since it's important to have a clean record as a warrior."

Wrapping her arm around his shoulder, she pressed a gentle kiss to his neck, and Reiner felt something stirring inside him at the sweet intimacy, "He's a good kid."

"My memories of him aren't the best, but I'm willing to look past that after the huge favor he did us," Reiner admitted, before turning his head with a hopeful look in his eyes, "So? Wanna give it a try?" Nodding, she exhaled sharply, "How many times have we gotten kicked off your mother's doorstep, now?"

"15 times, this'll be the 16th," he rolled his eyes, "How stubborn can one woman get, really." Arching her eyebrow, his wife gave him a pointed look, "The pot calling the kettle black?"

"You sure pick up idioms fast," he grumbled, looking away to knock on the door for what felt like the hundredth time since his arrival to Marley. Before she could quip back a smart reply, the door swung open, revealing his scowling mother, giving them a mild look of offense for having them step in front of her.

"What do you want?" she barked, impatient as always.

"We just thought you might want to see him," the young mother stiffly said, clearly not wanting to interact much with the woman who'd called her every insult under the sun. Skeptical, Karina eyed the child from afar, and Reiner could swear her eyes almost instantly shifted to something akin to longing. "He looks... a lot like you did back then," she croaked out, voice thick, before she blinked twice, as though trying to stop herself from drifting away from the plan she'd originally had.

Reiner had the sudden epiphany that she probably had an innate desire to see her only grandchild, but her deeply ingrained morals denied her of the pleasure. Knowing that she'd never voice her wishes out loud, he decided he'd be the one extending the olive branch---if not for his sake, then for his son's sake, so as not to deprive him of the happiness a grandparent's presence brought. "Want to hold him?" he offered, waiting for the nod that only came a minute later.

Still on the doorstep of the house he'd grown up in, he carefully began to lift his arms, cooing his name and ready to snuggle his son into the arms of the only person who'd made him feel safe and loved as a child. The baby only whimpered twice at the change of surroundings, before he surprised them all by clutching at his grandmother's shirt with his tiny fists as soon as he settled down against her chest. Breath hitching, Karina didn't move a muscle as the boy's chest rose and fell rhythmically with every rock of her arms.

She breathed his name out, and it was like a magic spell had been cast and blanketed the entryway, her eyes glimmering with what could easily be taken for tears. In that very moment, every single person in the room knew that everything had changed; that nothing would ever be the same again.

Even if it took them a million baby steps to maintain a sense of normalcy in this dysfunctional family, the new parents both knew---with absolute certainty---that they would wait however long was needed to ensure that their boy grew up, loved and beloved by every person that had a string of fate tied to his pudgy index finger---they had more than enough love to share between them, and they were sure that he'd ensnare the hearts of every person he crossed, given time. After all, he was a miracle child, born of abnormal circumstances; they'd be damned if they didn't give him the entire world and more.

Taglist: @blondeboyfriend

#imagine #oneshot #fluff #anime #aot #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #survey corps #marleyan warriors #angst #pregnancy #young love #reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner braun oneshot #reiner braun fluff #reiner braun angst #reiner x reader #reiner oneshot #reiner angst #reiner fluff #snk reiner #reiner snk #aot reiner #reiner aot #attack on titan reiner #shingeki no kyojin reiner

[jamespotterthefirst]

could you maybe write some quick HC where Ethan and Lilac go to a haunted house?

I love this! Here we go:

Haunted (HCs)

“You have anxiety.”

This is Ethan's sole and (in his opinion) strongest argument in deterring his wife from the idea of going to a Halloween Haunted House

“It'll be fine.”

Lilac says this with too much emphasis on the last word, as though trying to convince herself more than him.

It wasn't.

It wasn't fine.

Ethan finds the first horror of the night at the entrance.

The price of admission.

“For a hundred dollars each, we better be wheeled out of here in a stretcher.”

“Amen to that,” Jackie proclaims.

The rest of their friends cheer in agreement as they're herded indoors.

The second terror of the night for Ethan is discovering the theme is zombies.

Lahela, on the other hand, is far too excited than anyone has any right to be. He wears dark sunglasses, even indoors, as he pumps his fist in the air.

“Let's go! I'm rea—” Lahela begins, but the sentiment turns into a loud curse as something hops out from nowhere.

Lilac, meanwhile, clings to Ethan's arm like a cat.

“We can go back.”

A pale, wide-eyed Lilac shakes her head resolutely.

It's times like these he wished his wife wasn't so brave. To a fault.

When the hoard of zombies appears from nowhere, everyone in the group reacts differently.

“Hell nah.” (Greene)

“Scatter everyone.” (Lahela)

Loud shrieks quickly followed by laughter (Trinh)

“You touch me, I sue.” (Varma)

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” (Lilac)

Ethan, for his own part, tries very hard not to laugh at the gaudy attempt to inspire terror in people. It's juvenile and downright tacky.

But his terrified wife digs her nails further into his skin and since she won't be reasonable and get the hell out of there with him, he does what he does best.

He uses the dry humor she loves so much to distract her.

“Blunt force trauma to the abdominal area.”

The creature—aka the actor in heavy makeup and prosthetics— blinks at Ethan.

“An unknown object was used with acceleration to inflict a laceration, damaging the kidneys.”

Everyone, even the other zombies, stops to gape at him in the foggy darkness.

“Babe?” Lilac's grip in his arm slackens a bit.

“Resulting in hypotension and more severely, hypovolemic shock.”

Jackie, realizing it first, crosses her arms, giving Ethan an impressed once over.

“Dr. R, are you diagnosing the zombies?” Greene asks, stunned.

“Cause of death: circulatory failure.” Ethan says by way of answer.

“Could have been organ failure,” Lilac adds thoughtfully. “Kidneys.”

Sienna laughs in unrestrained excitement. “Okay, okay! New game! We're diagnosing these bastards.”

The group agrees with excited murmurs.

“Alright, Doctors, look alive!” Sienna commands before they get down to business.

And so they go through the rest of the attraction, examining wounds and diagnosing the various gruesome ailments.

Every once in a while, they ask for Bryce's surgical opinion. Most of the time, he shrugs and explains that if they've been bitten and infected with a detrimental zombie virus, the best course of action is to shoot them. In which case, diagnosing them is moot.

“You're no fun, meathead.”

“And you're also surprisingly cold-blooded.”

“It's the zombie apocalypse. Everyone has to make decisions they'll have to live with for the rest of their lives.”

By the end of it, Lilac is laughing by Ethan's side.

Even more when the appeal of applying medical knowledge to this ridiculous situation wears off by the end and Ethan just opts to carry her out.

“Thank you,” she says when everyone's amusement has simmered down. “I knew you'd do something like that for me.”

Ethan only raises his brows, feigning disgust. “I'm becoming that predictable?”

“You've always been.”

She's thinking of the very first moment they met, when he steadied her hand through the fear of her first medical emergency.

“Or maybe you just know me too well.

A/N: Thank you so much, anon!

If you sent me a HC request, I am working on it :)

The last thing I have planned for Halloween is a fic called "Cara Mia" and I just need to figure out how to end it lol. Hopefully it gets posted in a few hours!

#open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #headcanons