#a tale of two woodies

[cannibala-co]

hi hi hi hello, sorry for the bad MS paint art, i wanted to try digital art for once and uh

So this is my Chapter Three secret boss. her name is Katie, Katie the Cowgirl. her "Freind inside her" is a Wii remote lol. in the light world, Shes Cat Petters 2, and the main jest of her lore is that she wants to go back to Catlick Forest, or Catty and Cattis house. might do a huge lore dump later.

#deltarune secret boss #safeutdr #utdr #deltarune #deltarune theory #deltarune oc #deltarune chapter 3 #woody #deltarune woody theory #deltarune chapter 2 #deltarune chapter 4 #deltarune au #under tale #secret boss #secret boss oc #deltarune secret boss oc #deltarune chapter two #deltarune fan character

[margowritesthings]

A Job Well Done

pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f) word count: 4944 words warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancé love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*

You pull Arthur’s jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isn’t too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.

It’s been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely you’ve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthur’s presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesn’t even need to be here. 

His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame. 

He’s there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you can’t shake even if he’s not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.

There’s a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. He’s always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. He’ll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if you’re still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. You’ll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you. 

Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. That’s why you’re sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally it’s just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but there’s something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something you’re seeking tonight. 

You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes. 

It’s just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthur’s smoke between your lips. You wonder what he’s doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him he’s probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray he’s safe, hasn’t been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You can’t let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to. 

Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. You’d have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable. 

You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you. 

He’s much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he ‘bested it in combat’ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake). 

Manifestation is a powerful tool, you’ve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthur’s gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words “hey, sweetheart” into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in. 

“Arthur?”

He’s here.

“C’mere, darlin’.”

You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him.  Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner. 

He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.

“I missed ya’, beautiful.” He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes you’ve stolen from him. 

“I missed you so much…” You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle you’re pressed against, caring even less. 

It’s only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys don’t bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together. 

Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.

“Having a fancy smoke of a night, are we?” 

A cheeky little smirk- Arthur’s favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.

“The smell reminds me of you…” you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together. 

“Well I’m here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.” 

You’re eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesn’t suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.

“We’re celebrating? You got the bastard, then?”

“Sure did,” he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, “Eventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he weren’t alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.”

You hang on his every word, your hero. You know he’s downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you don’t worry every time he’s gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying. 

“Oh, Arthur, I’m so glad you’re alright…” You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.

“Course I am, couldn’t leave you here all alone with this buncha’ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marston’s too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.”

“So you got the full price?” Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.

“You’re damn straight I did, baby.”

Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you don’t want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just can’t explain. It’s just a cigar, and yet you’re pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them. 

“I’m so proud of you… I always am.” Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthur’s you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthur’s hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. It’s seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.

You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you. 

“What? I missed ya…” His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest. 

“I can see that, cowboy… I missed you too. I missed you more.” You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but you’re soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, you’re glowing. 

“You absolutely did not, you little siren…” He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that you’re grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully. 

“Oh, yeah? I can prove it.” There’s a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthur’s jaw. He’s starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control he’s struggling to possess. There’s no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this. 

“You wanna take this to the bedroom?” He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat. 

“No.” You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, “Finish your smoke.”

A distant laugh captures Arthur’s attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. You’re somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and you’re planning on plenty- would bring you into view. 

The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and you’re soon pulling Arthur’s thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand. 

You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him “Patience, cowboy…” 

He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always. 

Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.

“Need to see you while I fuck that pretty little moutha’ yours, angel…”

His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just can’t wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to. 

Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can. 

“Fuck.” He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. He’s probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way he’s sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it. 

You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy you’re providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-

“Arthur! That you?” 

Marston. 

For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasn’t seen you, and you’d like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthur’s legs. 

You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthur’s jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below. 

“Sure is. Whatchu’ want?”

Straight to the point.

“We didn’t hear you get back. How long’ve you been here?”

All that tension you’ve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthur’s form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second a’ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering. 

“Not long, thought I’d try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.”

Subtle, cowboy.

Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, “How’d it go, then? You got the bastard?”

He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. It’s too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthur’s twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.

You wouldn’t.

Oh, but I would.

And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthur’s strangled, poorly hidden groan, you can’t seem to stop yourself.

“Y-uh… Yeah, I got ‘em…” 

It’s impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin. 

You can’t see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur. 

“You alright, brother?”

He won’t be.

You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds you’ve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world. 

“I-I’m fine. Just tired.” He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs you’ve been reaching for finally igniting. You’re stuffed with him, feeling so full that it’s hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you can’t, Arthur’s huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge. 

“Where’s the Mrs?”

A raise of a brow. You’re not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this man’s wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation. 

“S-She’s- fuck…” When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. “She’s in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.” He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. You’re not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him. 

John sounds unconvinced. You’d giggle, if you could.

“Alright… Well, g’night, brother.”

Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open. 

“You goddamn siren.” He isn’t mad. He’s trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and he’s burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need. 

The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering. 

It’s all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that you’re pathetically writhing in Arthur’s hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing he’s regaining the power in the situation. 

Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldn’t splinter under the force. 

“You gonna finish what you started, my little siren?” He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment. 

Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore. 

“Patience, angel.” Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.

The grip you had on the power in this game you’re playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but that’s just where he wants you. 

“Now, little siren, I’m gonna teach ya’ some manners, and you’re gonna finish what you started, alright? And if you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours off…”

It’s all it takes, the promise of Arthur’s fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. You’re all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesn’t stop even when you’ve fit all of him in that you can.

“Fuck, good girl, just like that baby girl…” he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it. 

There’s an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when you’ll be released, but his eyes darken, “Come on, baby, you can take more, can’t you?” 

He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didn’t even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose. 

“Shh… good girl,” he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. You’ve pushed him, and God do you live for it. “Not much further… wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?” 

You can’t nod, but it isn’t much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. You’re irrevocably his, body and soul. 

It doesn’t feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that won’t come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy. 

“Good girl… my good fuckin’ girl.” 

His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out, but you’re so desperate to feel Arthur’s spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that you’d honestly be willing to die for it. 

Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthur’s restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, you’re allowed one gasp for air, before he’s thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share. 

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna-” But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody you’ll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same. 

It feels like it never stops, Arthur’s spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward you’re earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthur’s features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.

“My good girl…” He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but you’d do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again. 

“Now…” He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Get on inside, sweetheart, I think you’ve earned yourself a reward.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redeption 2 #red dead 2

[spooky-holtz]

I Put a Spell on You

Melissa Schemmenti x fem!reader

Genre: fluff (crack if you squint)

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: This is the first part in a little series that explores the mug from 'Delicate'. I really wanted to share some little ideas I had about the images that would be on it so stay tuned for some more parts bc I'm already writing them :)

Feedback is very much appreciated!

When the topic of Halloween costumes came up in conversation in the teachers’ lounge during a crisp morning at the beginning of October, you couldn’t help but join in with tales of your own previous looks. The good, the bad, and the ugly are all shared amongst the group when Jacob brings up his outfit from the year prior; one half of a matching Mario and Luigi costume with Zac.  

“You know, I’ve never actually done a couples costume,” you say to nobody in particular, thinking out loud as you stir sugar into your coffee in an effort to make it a little less bland. The conversation stops immediately, and every head turns to look at where you lean with your back against the counter, cradling your steaming mug.  

“Wait, what?!” Janine exclaims, her wide eyes only adding to her outrage. “Never? In your entire life?” 

“I guess, yeah,” you shrug, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. If you had known that every pair of eyes would be focused on your quickly reddening cheeks, you would never have opened your mouth. “I’ve just never been with anyone who was interested in that sort of stuff.”  

The silence in the room is tense. The fact that this group is so shocked at your little revelation is worrying to say the least but at least it shows they care, albeit about the wrong things.  

“Have you at least done a group costume with your friends?” Asks Jacob, his expression of concern and disbelief matching Janine’s comically wide eyes. You pause for a moment, looking up at a stain on the ceiling in a bid to avoid all eye contact as you recall various high school and college parties. Not once can you remember organizing a group costume.  

“Uhhh, nope. I’ve never done it,” you say, feeling brave enough to look back down and at the table directly in front of you. Barbara has turned in her seat to join the conversation, watching the two sides of the room like a tennis match. She’s clearly not as bothered as the rest of the room but happy to be involved, nonetheless. Your gaze shifts to Melissa who is looking over the rim of her cat-eye glasses at you, eyebrows furrowed, and lips pursed slightly in thought. The intensity of her stare makes you feel more uneasy than the rest of the room combined. You shuffle your feet and pull your eyes away from hers when Janine chirps up again.  

“I actually can’t believe it. I thought you would have been really into all that.” 

“Who says I’m not,” you shoot back. “I just didn’t have anybody that was willing to make themselves look like an idiot with me.”  

All through college you would have killed to enter a party, no matter how shitty the frat house venue was, with the Barbie to your Ken or the Buzz to your Woody on your arm. The memories of entering parties with your friends in ‘sexy cat’ costumes, trailing at the back dressed in a bright white Padme Amidala getup makes you chuckle.  

“Actually, the parties kinda remind me of that scene from Mean Girls, you know?” Most of the group chuckles along and nods in recognition, with only Barbara looking slightly confused. “I guess it was just never meant to be.”  

You push yourself off the counter and move toward the closest table. Pulling a chair out next to Barbara, you can’t help but feel a certain redhead’s gaze boring into the side of your head.  

“I say we change that,” she remarks, her first addition to the entire discussion. “I’ve already got my costume, and it’s pretty hot if I do say so myself, but we can easily make it a couples thing for ya.”  

Barb turns to you, shockingly overjoyed at the idea. Considering she didn’t get involved with Halloween, her enthusiasm at the prospect is unmatched.  

“Now wouldn’t that be lovely?” She gasps, looking between the two of you with an almost knowing glint in her eye. You think for a moment, looking over to meet green eyes and seeing them scrunched slightly as she smirks back at you, knowing that having Barbara on her side ultimately means you lose.  

“That’s really nice of you Mel, but we’re not a couple. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable with whatever talk will happen from certain people,” you almost whisper, trying to keep prying eyes of your co-workers that crane their necks to look over her shoulder from hearing.  One sharp look over her shoulder has them quickly backing down, instantly focusing their attention on the suddenly interesting paperwork that sits in front of each of them. Satisfied, Melissa continues.

“Hun, you really think that bothers me?” She says with a raised eyebrow, leaning forward onto the table, the grading she was doing completely forgotten about. “Please, I’ve had much worse said about me. Besides, having you by my side will only make my costume look better.”  

She punctuates her last statement with another wink and you feel your cheeks heat again, turning a violent shade of red.  

In the last year you’ve spent at Abbott you’ve grown to learn a lot about Melissa’s ‘persuasive’ personality and admittedly had fallen head over heels for her. Who wouldn’t? You’re pretty sure Barbara has caught on to your lovesick puppy act, thankfully leaving the topic alone in conversation. Instead, you get knowing glances from the older woman anytime she catches you and Melissa giggling like school children over a joke in the hallways, or when the redhead makes your coffee just how you like it in the mornings, leaving the steaming brew waiting in front of your seat for your arrival.  

You mull her proposition over, staring into your cooling mug of coffee that sits between your hands on the table. She leans back in her chair, arms folded, and eyebrow raised again as she stares you down. She knows she’s won.  

“Okay, why not?” You sigh, looking up again to meet her gaze. She grins and claps, the laugh lines around her eyes accentuating the wideness of her smile. If you had known agreeing would have made her this happy, there would have been absolutely no hesitation. Seeing her pearly white smile is the highlight of most days for you, the sight instantly improving any bad days you may have. This is no exception.  

In hindsight you probably should have discussed the details of your costume before blindly agreeing to Melissa’s proposal, but there’s no way you could ever turn her down. This idea doesn’t come to you until the morning of Halloween however, as you stand in the hallway outside your classroom trying to psych yourself up for a day pretending to be Melissa Schemmenti’s other half.  

“Mel, I look like an idiot,” you grumble. “How do you get to dress like that, and I’ve ended up looking like Elmo and Kermit the Frog had an illegitimate child?”  

“No no no, you look great, hun,” she reassures you. The way her lips are slightly pursed in a desperate bid to bite back the giggle that’s threatening to escape says otherwise.  

You, on the other hand, are less than impressed at her terrible poker face. Of all the times for her to lose her hard exterior, it had to be now. As much as you want to be mad at her for omitting the extremely-green-lycra part of your Vision to her Wanda costume, her visible excitement and rosy cheeks immediately put a stop to any negativity.  

“I’m serious,” she continues, “besides you don’t look anywhere near as bad as Janine right now. That girl is wearing whole-ass beard.”  

You raise your eyebrows as if to say ‘really?’, not quite believing her frantic excuses.  

“Don’t give me that look. It looks as if she’s rolled around on the floor of a barber shop.”  

You huff through your nose, arms crossing over your chest. You can’t help but look her up and down as she tries her best to reassure you that this look was the best decision for today. There’s no denying that she looks incredible in her Scarlet Witch getup, the tight outfit accentuating her irresistible curves and stunning figure. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her in such a form fitting piece and you really hope this isn’t the last time. You’re so obviously checking her out, but you hope your furrowed brow makes it look as though you’re just deep in frustrated thought.  

Meanwhile, you’re clad in bright green lycra and sickly yellow basketball shorts, all topped off with a matching cape and some alarmingly bright red face-paint. Your hair is tucked inside the hood of the outfit, and you desperately hope that this aids you in going unnoticed and unrecognised, though deep down you know that the assaulting colours will do little to disguise you and give you away as soon as the day begins. There is absolutely no hope of camouflaging in the full halls of Abbott when you look like a walking Crayola pack.  

As you begin to retreat into yourself, the annoyance quickly turning into embarrassment at the situation, Melissa reaches out to touch your arm that is still crossed over your torso.  

“Hey, I’m telling you we look incredible right now. I can guarantee you nobody else will have made this amount of effort with their costume,” you know she’s trying her best to reassure you but you’re past the point of no return. You’re one mean sunburn joke away from taking a dish sponge to your face and changing into something a lot less… weird.  

As you open your mouth to dismiss Melissa’s words, she silences you by reaching out her other hand to flatten the tie of your cape that sits around your neck. Her gloved hand feels impossibly warm through the fabric and you’re sure she’s moved closer to you, the toes of your bright white sneakers almost touching those of her crimson heels. She looks up through her eyelashes at you once she’s satisfied with her work, her hand staying in place and flattening against your sternum. This is the only time you’ll be glad for the paint slathered across your delicate features because you’re sure you’ve turned the exact same shade of red underneath.  

Melissa’s proximity to you is intoxicating. You can almost see every faint freckle that is covered by her makeup, her winged eyeliner impossibly sharp even this close. You’re trapped in this position, but you have no desire to move, desperately hoping she’ll push you back the few steps to trap you against the cold brick wall. You’re positive you’re imagining her eyes flickering from your own down to your scarlet lips, but the sight can’t help but make you imagine what she would look like with her own red lipstick smudged past the edges of her full, inviting lips.  

The clicking of heels against the tiled floor snaps you out of the moment and she jumps back, putting a good foot of space between you as you both try to recollect yourselves. Ava rounds the corner adorned in a flashy silver getup, her cape billowing behind her as she struts toward you. Her eyes squint when she sees the two of you and her mouth drops slightly as she realises just who is stood next to the Scarlet Witch.  

“Wandavision, wuh-wandavision,” she sings as she nears you. “Goddamn girl, you look less like Vision and more like ‘blind’”  

“Ava,” you groan over her cackle, “I can already feel my students ripping into me for the next 7 hours, i don’t need you getting involved as well.”  

“All I’m saying is you look like Mr. Clean had a bad accident with some ketchup,” another cackle follows as she carries on her way down the hallway, not even giving you chance to process the insult as the sound of her walking away grows faint. You turn slowly to Melissa, not wanting to see her expression of pity. When your eyes meet, all you can see is an impossible softness that rarely comes out in the redhead.  

“I genuinely think you look incredible right now, hun,” she says, her hand reaching out to touch your farm once again. Her thumb begins to rub where it lays, the friction burning an abnormal amount through the layers of fabric that separate your skin. You scoff at her statement, not quite believing that in her world the sunburnt equivalent of Howie Mandel is ‘incredible’. Before you can say a word, she continues. “Nobody has ever been willing to do this for me. You dropped everything to join in and I absolutely love you for it.” Her grin widens as she sees your walls visibly come down at her words, knowing she’s got under your skin and won yet again.  

You can’t help but lose yourself in her eyes at her confession, noticing the smile lines that surround them deepening with her increasing happiness. You would give anything to see those lines deepen like this every single day, especially if it means that you were the cause of it and her good mood.  

A gasp from behind you pulls you away from losing yourself too deeply, both of you snapping your heads to look at the interruption. In front of you stands none other than Barabara Howard dressed as... a bumble bee? Almost as if sensing your confusion at the letters attached to her torso, she jumps in with, “I’m a spelling bee, before you can ask,” you raise your eyebrows and let out a small 'ohhh' before she continues. “And I have no need to ask who you two are, you little marvel cuties! You both look absolutely incredible!” 

You don’t miss the way that Melissa squeezes your arm slightly from where it still sits, resting against your bicep, saying a silent ‘I told you so’.  

“You have to let me take a picture of you so I can show Gerald before the students get here,” she pleads. You’re about to decline the request until you look down to where Melissa stands next to you, only to see her grin impossibly wider than before, practically bouncing with excitement. The sight makes your heart melt in your chest and demolishes any notion of hesitance you had about this costume. Her happiness and enthusiasm are reason enough for all this to be worth it, even if your face will be stained by the bright red makeup for days to come.  

“Alright then, let’s do this,” you sigh, moving away slightly to get into position while Barb pulls her phone out of her own costume, lifting it up to prepare for the barrage of images she is about to assault you with.  

You both stand facing the camera, Melissa with her hands reaching out, almost as if she’s casting a spell. You take the opposite  approach, widening your stance and placing your hands on your hips. Your head is lifted, standing tall and proud to the side of the redhead as you both pose.  

You hear the camera shutter closing each time Barb jabs at her screen with her forefinger, Melissa changing poses slightly with every noise. You can’t help but grin yourself as you look down at her, her excitement for the holiday no doubt going above and beyond that of the literal children you teach.  

Her head turns toward you as the photoshoot continues, catching your loving gaze toward her. She softens her own gaze and smiles back at you as the shutter goes off one last time and you hear a “alright, I think that should be enough pictures” from the eldest woman of your group. The statement causes you to tear your eyes away from Melissa’s and clear your throat, the both of you forgetting the company you had for a brief moment.  

“Uh, yeah, I think so too,” you stutter, caught off guard by the way the irresistible redhead matched your captivated expression. “I think I’m gonna shoot off to get ready for the day – that classroom won’t tidy itself.” Your eyes flit between the two older women as you speak, both of them nodding along and agreeing to do the same with the last few free minutes of the morning before madness inevitably ensues.  

“I’ll see you at recess later hun,’ Mel calls as you turn and wave, making your way down the hallway toward your classroom. “Have a great day!” You can’t help but grin again, feeling as though it hasn’t fallen off your face for the last ten minutes that you’ve spent in the redhead’s company. Your step undeniably has a little more pep than it did earlier, that’s for sure.  

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #abbott elementary #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti fic #melissa schemmenti imagine #abbot elementary fanfic #fluff #melissa schemennti fluff #wlw #self insert #writing #reader fic #reader fanfic #melissa schemmenti x y/n #lisa ann walter

[littleredwing89]

PRINCE OF GOTHAM - PART 2

PRINCE OF GOTHAM - PART 2

CEO!Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings – Language. NSFW Smut. Brief Derogatory & Misogynistic language about women.

A/N: Please remember this is a revised version of “The Intern” but swapped out Roman for Jason. Hope you all enjoy the next chapter! :) xoxo

The smoke curled thick around the four men situated around the poker table in Roy’s rich mahogany furnished games room. Jason rolled the crystal glass against the green felt, the rattle of the ice cubes echoing in his mind. He hadn’t been able to think straight all night. You’d plagued his thoughts since the gala, the scent of your perfume still invading his senses.

Oswald flicked his cigarette into the ashtray at the side of him, eyebrow curved upwards as he frowned at Jason, “That's the worst hand you've played tonight”.

Harvey laughed before taking a sip of his whiskey, savouring the woody flavour, “Hey Todd, try betting the ownership of The Iceberg. See if your luck'll change”.

The pair of them waited for a sarcastic or biting remark but Jason stared at his cards, still rolling his glass, paying no real attention to either of them.

“I think we lost 'im”, Oswald cackled.

Roy leaned back in his chair, putting out his cigar, “I think we have”. He grinned knowingly towards Jason.

“Do you think if I take his wallet he'll notice?”, Harvey flipped over his cards, smirking with glee at Oswald’s crestfallen face.

Shuffling the cards again, Roy dealt out the cards swiftly, “Hmmm, likely not but considering he's cleaned out, I doubt you'll actually be able to get anything”.

Jason was aware of the conversation around him but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. Not when his mind was conjuring images of you, spread out on his bed sheets with your hands bound above your head with his tie. He cursed under his breath, feeling the front of his trousers becoming uncomfortable.

Harvey watched as Jason’s cigarette burnt at the side of him, resting in the ashtray forgotten about, smoke billowing wildly, “I bet you anything it's that tight pussy from last week that's got him so worked up”.

“Oh, I remember, that hussy in the red dress?”, Oswald threw his used cards towards Roy waiting for the next hand.

“Yeah! That’s the one. Can't blame him, she's got a sweet ass. Ain't that right, Harper?”, Harvey downed the rest of his whiskey, pouring himself another large helping.

Jason glared towards Roy, silently murdering him with his gaze. He didn’t want to think of any other man touching you, let alone one of his closest friends.

Roy ignored Jason and shrugged casually, “I have no clue what you're talking about. She simply works in my department”, with a devilish glint, he turned towards Jason, “I bet you’d know about it though, wouldn't you Todd?”.

Scoffing loudly, Jason rolled his eyes, “I told you, nothing happened that night”. The lie slipped off his tongue easily although he wasn’t sure Roy believed him. He’d known him long enough to spot the tell-tale signs.

“So that sweet piece of ass is fair game?”, Oswald perked up, his interest piqued.

Jason gripped the edge of the poker table, controlling the twitch trying to spread across his face. His lips wanted to snarl at Oswald and tell him to stay the fuck away. But he had no right. It was just a quick fuck. That was what you both agreed. He swallowed the bubbling jealousy about to answer but Roy barked out laugh.

“You’d have more chance fucking a penguin”.

Harvey spat out his drink, almost choking. Oswald growled something under his breath, flipping Roy the finger.

“I don’t have time to get attached to a tight little pussy only worth a few fucks”. 

As the words left his mouth, the distaste left behind was rotten. It didn’t feel right talking about you that way. The conflict churned his stomach and it was something Jason wasn’t entirely used to.

Roy attempted to slide two cards across to Jason but he shook his head grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the centre of the table, “And on that note boys, I’m going before you take my last $100”.

“Do you have to take the bottle?”, Harvey grumbled.

Jason ignored him, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, digging out his phone from his front trouser pocket. No new messages. He’d been hoping you’d have made the first contact. Possibly trying to coax him into another encounter. Not that he needed much convincing with you.

When he looked up from his mobile, he saw Roy smirking at him with a knowing look. It made Jason uneasy. How did Roy know what he was planning? Or was it just that obvious he was still hooked on you?

“Need me to sort a lift to your apartment, Todd?”.

It was only after years of knowing the asshole, he heard the teasing tone in his voice. Oh he fucking knew alright. He saw right through him.

“Nah, I’ll be fine, I fancy a bit of fresh air”.

Roy chuckled under his breath, “Sure”.

———

You huffed, staring down at your dress. Wade, the foul mouthed head of security, otherwise known as your date, had cancelled on you at the last minute, telling you he had a family emergency. You weren’t entirely sure if you believed it or not. Something didn’t feel right. You stepped out of your heels and dropped them next to the full length mirror, throwing the emerald dress back into the closet. Your eyes lingered over your appearance. You’d made a real effort for him tonight. A tiny lace thong with a matching bra, paired with a pair of black stockings.

Just typical. Now you remembered why you didn’t like dating. You grabbed your silk robe from the end of the bed, wrapping it around you as you wandered into the living room. Take-out and a terrible movie it was. You ordered your favourite pizza via the app on your phone. That way you didn’t have to talk to anyone and mask the sadness from your voice. Perfect.

Lounging back on the sofa you wrapped your fingers around the TV remote, flicking through to find a trashy film or maybe you’d finally finish watching that guilty pleasure TV show you’d fallen in love with. The loud knock on the door startled you. The pizza couldn’t be here already, surely? You pushed up off the sofa and headed through to the front door, opening it without second thought to your attire.

Fuck. Your eyes widened at the sight in front of you. Jason. His charcoal shirt untucked and a little dishevelled, matte black tie hanging loose around his neck and his dark suit jacket slung over his shoulder. Fuck. The smell of whiskey and spice spiralled around you.

You slammed the door shut, pressing your back against it. Your heart hammered wildly against your chest. What the fuck was Jason Todd doing outside your door? You’d been under the impression last week was just a one off. Nothing more than sex. Extremely hot, mind blowing sex. But just sex, none the less.

There was another rap against the door, rattling it gently and you opened it slowly. His forearm was resting against the door frame, his tall stature towering you as he looked down. You stared up into his blue eyes. They were hooded and a little smirk curved his lips upwards, “Who did you think I was?”.

“The pizza guy”.

He laughed and inched his head down lower, eyes scanning over the delicate silk wrapping your body, “Do you always greet delivery people in your just murdered my husband robe?”.

His gaze made your body heat up, shivers travelling down your spine. You shrugged casually, giving him a flirty smile, “Only when I want my food free”. His scowl made you chuckle internally.

You opened the door a little wider and stepped back slightly, “Come in, before someone else sees me like this”. 

Jason made his way into your apartment quickly, brushing past you. You noticed the half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand and rolled your eyes, wondering what or where he’d been before coming to you. He looked around your home with interest, gaze running over your photos by the bookshelf. The whiskey was discarded on the coffee table, his suit jacket tossed over your armchair messily.

“Make yourself at home”, you grumbled under your breath, picking up his jacket and hanging it neatly over the back of one of your dining chairs. You dropped down onto the sofa, sighing happily as the cushions welcomed you.

He laughed before joining you, his arm stretching along the back, fingers brushing along the back of your neck, “Why are you wearing this on a lonely Friday night?”, his eyes raked your figure, noticing the sheer black stockings covering your long legs.

“Maybe I was waiting for you”, your eyes sparkled mischievously as you folded one leg over the other, allowing him a glance at the lace topping of your stocking before letting the silk robe fall down, covering it up.

Jason choked, caught off guard by your forward statement. He swallowed, looking over your face, “Seriously?”.

You laughed, not quite believing you’d managed to reel Jason in that easily. You guessed the whiskey wasn’t helping his brain function. Shaking your head, you grinned, “No, my date cancelled on me unfortunately”.

He frowned, feeling a wave of jealousy twinge in the pit of stomach. You were going to wear that for a date? What were you going to put on, over it? Or was your date just going to come round to your apartment and…he stopped himself, not wanting to picture that.

Jason’s fingers gripped the back of the sofa slightly wondering if you’d wear that for a date with him. He pictured ripping it off piece by piece as you begged him to give you more. He licked over his bottom lip before muttering, “A date?”.

“Yes, a date, I don't suppose that's against company policy?”, you raised an eyebrow looking directly at him. His face was stern, sharp jaw locked tight.

He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his cheek, scratching over his dark stubble, “So, what were you planning to do instead?”.

Running a hand through your hair, you leaned back against the sofa, “Eat take out and watch a film”, you waited for a reaction but he just stared silently, “You’re welcome to watch it with me if you want? But I can’t promise the film will be Oscar worthy though”.

You had to admit this was uncharted territory. You didn’t know what the protocol was. The CEO of the company you worked for, had turned up at your door uninvited and slightly tipsy. The same CEO who you’d slept with last week and hadn’t been able to take your mind off. The same CEO who’d given you the impression it was just a ‘one off’.

“Please tell me this isn’t Titanic…”, he muttered whilst kicking his shoes off under your coffee table.

You smiled, “Nope…it’s a mafia film”.

“Oh, they’re my favourite”, he grinned happily.

It wasn’t that far from the truth. It was about a mafia boss. But, the point of the story was far from mafia dealings. You smirked to yourself and folded your legs under you, settling as you pressed play on the movie; 365 Days.

———

You flicked your gaze across to Jason, hiding the little smile on your face. You watched his features set into a tense frown, eyes not moving from the screen. His entire body was rigid. You had fully intended to turn it off after the first 30 minutes but you’d enjoyed teasing him far too much.

“I thought you said this was a mafia film?”, he ground out.

“It is”, you replied innocently pointing to the dark haired Italian man on the screen, “He’s the mafia boss”.

Jason finally turned to you, his eyes blown black. He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip and edged closer to you on the sofa, “This is practically pornography”, his voice was thick with lust. Every scene playing on the screen, he pictured in his own mind with you.

“You’re exaggerating! Just sit back and enjoy this cinematic masterpiece”, you waved your hand to him, brushing him off before turning back to the screen, ignoring him.

“I think”, he growled low, “You put this on to tease me”.

When you looked at him again, he was practically on top of you, caging you down onto the sofa. The scent of his cologne engulfed you making you feel dizzy. His arms were resting either side of your head, making sure you couldn’t escape. You gasped and pressed your palm on his chest, feeling his heart pounding.

“You’ve been sat there, all the way through this film, in your sexy-come fuck me-stockings…tormenting me”, he wedged himself between your thighs, spreading them wide before leaning down, his lips brushed against your ear lobe, “Well princess, I think it’s your turn now”.

You swallowed thickly, feeling your entire body reacting to him, craving to be closer. He smirked, letting his hands run up your thighs, the lace topping of your stockings felt perfect against his skin.

“Jason…”, you felt the sparks shooting across you, lighting every nerve on fire.

He tugged at the tie on the front of your dressing gown, pulling it open revealing the expanse of your naked flesh. The high rise thong framed your hips perfectly making Jason wet his lips. He couldn’t drink you in quick enough.

“This all needs to go”, he growled and helped you out of the robe, throwing it to the side carelessly. His fingers snapped the waistband of your thong making you whine his name again. When his fingers dipped under the lace, you expected him to slip the material off you but he didn’t. A loud tearing sound made your eyes flash open, Jason had ripped your panties off you, dropping the ruined fabric onto the floor.

Your face knitted with anger. You went to scold him - those were expensive.

“What the-”.

“I’ll buy you some more princess”, he ground his hips into yours, rubbing his bulge into your core. A frustrated sigh left his throat before he crashed his lips against yours with a fiery passion quelling any of your earlier complaints.

You threaded your fingers through his dark hair, tugging on it and earnt a deep groan from him, which you swallowed readily. The sound shot down to your core, desire slick between your folds. Jason’s hand wound around your back, unclipping your bra before throwing it over your sofa. You purred softly, letting your tongue dance with his as you continued to kiss, desperation peaking between you both.

You arched your back pressing your body into his. The expensive cotton felt perfect against your heated skin. There was something incredibly erotic having him fully clothed, covering your bare petite frame beneath him. The tip of his tie tickled over your sensitive flesh.

He smirked, his ego inflating at the way you reacted to his touches. His rough fingertips grazed down the valley between your breasts and over your toned stomach. You whined when they dipped into the indent of your navel.

“Jason…please”, you begged, circling your hips to entice him. 

He continued lower until he stroked a finger through your silken core. Your wetness coated it. He hummed appreciatively, adding a second finger. You threw your head back against the arm rest, moaning unabashedly. The euphoria buzzed through your veins but you needed more.

Jason flicked over your clit, “You’re so wet for me sweetheart and I’ve barely touched you”. He grinned before continuing with his sweet torture. Your hand gripped his forearm trying to guide him where you wanted him but he resisted with a devilish smile.

The knocking at the door made you both jump. You looked up at Jason through your thick, dark lashes. Your lips were swollen from his bruising kisses.

“Who the fuck is that?”, he grunted.

“Pizza”, you sighed, disappointed at the interruption.

Jason dipped back down, his lips marking your neck eagerly, enjoying the way you mewled and shivered. The knocking sounded through the apartment again making him nip your collar bone roughly. Fingers dipping into your tight core.

“They-”, you panted and dragged your nails through his hair as he continued to thrust into you, “They won’t go away”.

“Fuck!”, Jason tore himself away from your body, growling deeply as he stormed towards the door. The front of his trousers were painfully constricted due to the throbbing of his cock. He threw the door open, glaring at the young teenage boy with the pizza box in his hand. The boy squeaked when he saw Jason, withering under his irritated stare.

“P-pizza f-for Y/N?”, he stuttered and went bright red seeing the pile of tattered lace on the living room floor. Your silk gown strewn over the glass coffee table lazily, bra hanging off the lamp behind your couch. He caught a glimpse of your bare legs before squeaking when Jason huffed loudly. The delivery boy struggled to meet Jason’s gaze, instead choosing to stare at the button at the top of his own shirt. The heat flamed his cheeks at realising exactly what he had interrupted.

“Take this and fuck off”, Jason snapped, throwing a wad of folded notes at him before slamming the door. He ran his fingers through his messy hair, heading back towards you on the sofa.

You had to bite back a smile at Jason’s attitude. He dropped back onto the couch, looking down at your naked body. He groaned, hands palming your tits greedily. His thumbs brushed over your nipples as he leaned down, kissing your throat. You writhed under his touches, burning for more.

“Y-You do know that you just gave him an $80 tip right?”.

“Pocket money”.

Losing his patience, Jason forced your legs apart and unzipped his pants, shoving them down quickly. His cock sprung free, slapping against the bottom of his shirt. Your eyes traced the length of it, mouth going dry at the delicious thoughts. You couldn’t wait to feel the sting of it as it stretched you, dragging against your walls as he fucked you.

He smirked watching the way you eyed him greedily. The look on your face was enough to boost his ego nicely. Using one of his hands to pin your wrists above your head, he guided the head of his cock between your damp folds, teasing your clit with it. You shivered under him and rocked your hips.

“Jason please!”, you whined, sucking your plump lower lip between your teeth.

His fingers dug into your wrist as he sunk his full cock into you, bottoming out. Your head flew back as the burning stretch of his cock sent pulses of pleasure up your spine. He groaned deeply and pressed his face into your neck, continuing his quest to mark you up as his own. His hips started to drive into you wildly.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”, you cried out repeatedly, trying to tug your hands free. You wanted his shirt off. You wanted to trace every muscle on his back and scratch your nails down it. You wanted to hold onto his hair and yank it as he fucked you just the way you needed it.

“No one’s gonna fuck you like this princess”, he rasped in your ear, “Never”.

His words careened in your mind as the euphoria coiled deep in the pit of your stomach. The drag of his cock against your tight wet walls was pushing you higher. He was right. No one had ever fucked you like Jason. Which scared and electrified you at the same time. You moaned his name loudly, forgetting the neighbours, as he changed his angle, hitting you even deeper than before. Your vision became blurry with desire.

“Look at the way your body responds to me”, he gloated, looking down at your breasts, the way they bounced with every thrust of his cock. A damp sheen covered your body as you felt the familiar flush running over your skin.

“You can’t get enough of my cock, can you?”.

You so badly wanted to snap at him but your body betrayed you, desperate to climax. You hooked your legs around his strong waist, pulling him closer to your body. The fabric of his shirt was rough against your overly sensitive skin.

“Oh god!”, your eyes rolled back into your skull as you felt the orgasmic tidal wave start to crash. Your blood ran cold when he stopped. His thrusts became languid, keeping your climax at bay.

“You going to let me fuck your tight little pussy whenever I want?”, his lips curled upwards, smugness radiating off him.

“W-what? Jason- please - I’m so close”, you begged, rolling your hips against his, eager for more friction than he was giving, “Don’t fucking stop”.

“I asked you a question”, he grunted and thrust into you sharply once, before returning to his slow, maddening pace, “Are you going to keep letting me fuck you, princess?”.

You whined when he thrust into you then huffed in frustration when he wouldn’t continue, “Yes!”.

“Yes what?”.

You glowered up at him, cheeks hot with desire, “Yes I’ll keep fucking you”.

“Only me?”.

He was starting to piss you off. You could feel your orgasm ebbing away with each lazy thrust into your sopping pussy. You growled, ripping your wrists free from his grip, locking your hands around his neck.

Yanking him down to your mouth, your lips ran over his, your hot breath mingling with his, “Yes! I’ll only fuck you! Now if you don’t make me fucking cum I’ll kick you out and do it myself!”.

Your words made his eyes darken and he resumed his brutal pace, driving deep into your core. One hand gripped onto your hips and the other held onto the arm of the sofa, helping him thrust into you harder.

Your moans were depraved as he fucked you into the soft plush of the cushions, ripping your orgasm from you possessively. Your nails scratched down his back, under his shirt, enjoying the way his face winced between pain and pleasure. 

The white hot burst of flames exploded behind your eyes as you came, sobbing his name into his shoulder. His thrusts became sloppy and uneven as he neared his own end. Cock pulsing inside you.

Jason groaned huskily as your pussy strangled his cock, tipping him into his own powerful orgasm. He shot rope after rope of hot cum into your core, fingers bitterly biting into the flesh on your hip. You’d definitely have bruises tomorrow. You weren’t even sure if you’d be walking straight tomorrow after the way he’d pounded into you.

His body rested into yours slightly as he caught his breath, his arm propped on the back of the arm rest taking the brunt of his weight.

You stroked your hand up and down his back, regaining your own breath and sanity. Your legs were still locked around his waist, heart beating erratically. 

His lips brushed your cheek delicately and he pushed himself up to look down at you. Your hair was dishevelled, lips swollen from his bruising kisses. You looked delicious. He could easily delve back in for another round but he’d at least allow you to rest first. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Moving off you eventually, he reached out to the coffee table to grab your robe, allowing you to wrap it around yourself as he zipped his pants back up.

“I just want to clarify-”, he started but you cut him off immediately. 

“Please don’t kill the afterglow Todd”, you chuckled and ran your fingers through your messy hair, “I know what you meant. It’s fine. Just sex is all that I want too”.

He went to speak again but you placed your finger over his plump lips, “Yes, only with you”.

Jason licked the pad of your finger, grinning at you, “Perfect”.

You shivered and stood up, not bothering to tie your robe. It fluttered open allowing him to glance over your naked body, “You’re welcome to stay, the night is still young after all”. You winked and sashayed through to your bedroom. You heard him shuffling before catching you up, arms immediately coiling around you from behind.

———

Wrapped up in the sheets of your bed after the second round, you turned to face Jason, stroking your fingertips along the grooves of his muscles, “Where did you put the pizza?”, you pressed a kiss to his chest and murmured, “I’m starving”.

Jason blinked before looking a little sheepish, “Well- I- errr…”.

You watched him before realising exactly what had happened. You groaned and pressed your face into his solid mass, “You paid him and didn’t even get the pizza?!”.

“In my defence I was a little preoccupied”, he winked smugly and tightened his arm around your waist, tugging you on top of him. He enjoyed the way your tiny frame instantly sank into him, not that he’d admit it.

“You owe me new pants AND a pizza”, you huffed and poked his chest playfully, “I honestly can’t believe you”.

He shrugged, “We could just order another one, it’s not like I can’t afford it”.

Whilst his answer sounded arrogant, you knew it wasn’t intended that way. You rolled your eyes and inched your face closer to his, your breath fanning over his lips, “But can you control yourself until it gets here?”.

“That's a tall order princess”, he closed the gap instantly, nipping your bottom lip before rolling you over, trapping you underneath his bulk. You laughed into the kiss snaking your arms around his neck.

--------

#ceo!jason Todd x reader #ceo!jason todd x reader insert #jason todd smut #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader insert #jason todd imagine #red hood smut #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x reader insert #red hood imagine #jason todd x reader au series

[seireiteihellbutterfly]

Sunflower Sorrow - A Hanahaki Tale

A/N: Writing this almost drove me insane. Like the banging your head against a laptop praying to the inspiration gods for a sign that you haven't made a mistake kind of insane.

Thank you so much @actuallysaiyan for making the pretty banner! And for reading my drafts and reassuring me multiple times that the story wasn't garbage.

All original artwork is credited at the bottom of the post.

Pairing: Higuruma x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, mentions of pain and death, PIV sex, clitoral and vaginal fingering, oral (fem receiving),

Summary: The reader finds herself infested with Hanahaki, right at the cusp of beginning to date her long time crush.

Your eyes open blearily against the sunlight pouring in, feeling like you’d much rather stay in bed than anything else. There’s a strange feeling in your body, almost like you’re about to come down with the flu, your chest feeling tight, and your throat feeling dry. Which is strange because you were fine when you went to bed. 

You groan as you roll over under the covers. Now was not the time to be getting sick. You wonder if you’re even well enough to go to work. Almost instinctively, your hand reaches for your phone, squinting against the backlight as you check your messages. A smile graces your face as you see a text from the man you had been out with last night.

I know this was just our second date, but I’m already thinking about a third. I’ve enjoyed our time together recently and would like to see you again. I guess get back to me? Oh, and I hope kissing you good night was appropriate. 😅

“Hiromi,” you mumble under your breath, feeling a rush of happiness flow through you as you read his text. The man was incredibly sweet and transparent and you loved that about him. Dating in your thirties was hard but he had given off some very positive signals over these last two dates and you couldn’t help but want to set up a third one quickly. You liked being around him, he was laid back and almost goofy, traits that most men seemed to lose at a certain age. Maybe if you recovered from this flu fast enough you can meet up with him over the weekend. 

I’d love that. I’m a little under the weather right now but if I’m feeling better by the weekend we can make plans? I’d like to see you again too. And yes, the kiss good night was totally appropriate. 😊

You text him back, heart fluttering as you hit send. You’re glad you had finally bitten the bullet and asked him out. There were signs of interest, but you had been secretly admiring him from afar for the better part of a year now. He was very gentlemanly, opening doors, asking if he could hold your hand, and checking in on your comfort while you were with him. A lawyer turned sorcerer, he talked passionately about his past cases and the interesting events that sparked his path into Jujutsu. On the first date, the both of you had been so wrapped up in conversation it took the poor waiter a minute to get a word in edgewise to ask if either of you had wanted another glass of wine. 

He was so impossibly handsome, the thick black hair and rich mahogany eyes, that crooked smile that came onto his face when he was amused by something. It was a wonder how he was still single. Just passing by him in the hallways made your heart pound, so sure that his greetings to you were just platonic and nothing more. There were so many other talented people in this institution, that you didn’t possibly think he could have any interest in you, convincing yourself those brief glances he gave you were imagined. 

But after last night’s kiss…so soft and patient, the lingering of lips, his large hands resting courteously on the small of your back, resting his forehead on yours, unwilling to let you go. Your hand had gripped the lapel of his coat, his scent flooding your senses, something woody and spicy that made you want to bury your face into his neck. Sure it’s only been two dates, but you couldn’t help but imagine what your life could be like with him. It felt like a guilty pleasure admitting it to yourself, but it wasn’t hurting anybody. It’s not like you were clawing at his door begging to move in with him. You were just really attracted to him, smitten, perhaps was the right word. 

A small ding from your phone shows a response from him. 

I’m sorry you’re not well. Yes, please get better soon, and let’s plan something for the weekend. I totally wasn’t waiting for your text by the way. You just happened to catch me on a break. 😉And I’m glad the kiss was appropriate. 

His text makes you giggle. How could someone be this adorable? The lucidity of his intentions was refreshing, with no awkward back and forth of painfully crafted messages trying to sound casual. He was making his interest plain, making it easier for you to let down the wariness of sounding too eager. It was a pleasant change of pace compared to some of the other dates you had been on. You hoped this would go somewhere. You wanted it to go somewhere…

A sudden coughing fit overtakes you, racking your body as you feel something come up your throat. You reach for a tissue from your nightstand…and then look dumbstruck at what falls into it. 

You stare at the yellow flower petals, each about an inch long, covered in pale pink mucus. A feeling of dread and anxiety fills you and you crumple the tissue, trying not to think about what you just saw. Your brain races. What could it be? Cancer? Was there a cancer that made your insides turn into tapered flower petals? Or maybe those weren’t flower petals but a tissue of some sort? The feeling of tightness in your chest gets worse. Maybe a visit to the doctor’s wasn’t a bad idea.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Shoko places your X-rays against the lightboard and frowns. You’re no medical expert but even you can see what the problem was. You stare at them with morbid curiosity. 

“Are those…?”

“Sunflowers, it looks like,” Shoko confirms, the large circular flowerheads unmistakable. “And they’re growing very fast. Your lungs will burst if they keep up at this rate.” She throws away her gloves and looks thoughtful.

“It’s strange how recently a lot of Hanahaki cases have popped up. We had Nanami in here a few weeks ago with the same thing.”

“And Nanami is in perfect health,” you interject, hoping Shoko is about to tell you a cure. “What is it? A pill? Surgery?” 

Shoko purses her lips and then faces you. “Hanahaki can be removed surgically. However, you’ll lose whatever feelings you have for the person that caused it.”

Feeling like you’d been doused with a bucket of ice water, all you could say was, “Oh.”

“But you’re dating Higuruma, aren't you?” Shoko asks. 

“It’s only been 2 dates,” you admit. “But it’s going well.”

Shoko’s expression remains impassive but she continues in a gentle voice. “But it’s obvious you’ve wanted him for much longer than that. The size of these flowers…How long have you loved him?”

Your chest tightens uncomfortably, this time not just from the flowers. “Who said anything about loving him?”

“The flowers don’t grow unless it’s love. But it looks like they were growing slowly and then when you started dating, your feelings intensified and caused them to bloom faster. Hanahaki rates vary from person to person depending on the level of emotions involved.” 

A nervous ripple passes through your body at the thought. You remembered the way you had yearned for him after the kiss but were worried about scaring him off. Who confessed their love for someone on a second date? 

“Is there any way to slow it down?”

Shoko shakes her head no. “The only thing that helps is when they return your feelings. Romantically.” 

“I see.” There’s a moment of silence before you double over as another coughing fit grips you, a blob of red and yellow falling into your hands along with a few black and white sunflower seeds.

“Couldn’t you just tell him?” Shoko helps you get up to the sink in the examination room. You wash your hands and spit out the flower petals that are stuck in your gums. “I mean, he wouldn’t be dating you if he wasn’t interested.”

“You don’t tell a guy you love him after two dates!” You wipe your mouth and grip the counter trying to think. You glance at the X-ray, wondering.

“How long do I have?”

“It’ll worsen over the next few weeks now that the plants have started to bloom. Beyond that…it’s difficult to say. The more time you spend with him and he doesn’t say he loves you, it’ll only accelerate the process. You’ll feel little moments of relief, followed by an even stronger relapse.”

For the first time since this morning, you felt genuine fear. What if Hiromi didn’t feel more for you? What if after a few more dates he decided you weren’t what he was looking for? Were your only choices waiting for him to love you back or to have your feelings surgically removed?

“Am I going to die from this?” The words leave your throat in a whisper. Shoko flinches and appears to struggle with how to word her response. 

“I hope not. I hope for your sake he does feel the same way.” Shoko hesitates before continuing. “I don’t want to alarm you but…if it truly becomes critical, have you considered having a plan of action?”

A tense silence passes between you both as you weigh her words. “I hadn’t. But…” You consider the words. “Is it worth dying for love, Shoko?”

“I can’t answer that for you. I can only say that I don’t wish to see you suffer.” 

You drop down into one of the chairs, covering your face with your hands, trying not to cry. You had never wanted anyone quite in this way, trying to brush it off as a crush but the feelings never went away, always persistent, weighing down on your thoughts at all times of the day. You remember the tender way he’d looked at you after the kiss, brushing strands of hair behind your ears, gently drawing you against his chest, a cozy moment. He certainly seemed to be fine with the pace things were going at and hadn’t asked if he could come in like some men had after such a short time. 

“Is there any chance that he’d…love me back in that way?” 

“If he harbors those kinds of feelings for you then yes. But given that the window is narrowing, the sooner, the better.”

But what if…

Your mind resolves, and you sigh, finalizing on a decision. “Shoko.”

She looks at you curiously, hearing the change in your voice. Yes? 

“I want to live no matter what.” Your hands ball into fists and although the notion makes your heart clench, you tell her your decision. “If my health declines, I want to be kept alive with special medical intervention. But if it gets to a point where the Hanahaki is going to be fatal to me… Please surgically remove it.”

Shoko looks at you surprised. “Really?” 

“Really. Don't leave it up to chance.” You rub your eyes wearily. It felt like a cruel joke, longing for Hiromi for so long, then when you finally started dating it ended up triggering the Hanahaki at a faster rate. “I may love him but…I mean I have a life too. If it gets that bad… it would imply he doesn't feel that way…and he may never feel that way. It may sound selfish but… I want to live.” 

“I get it. You don't have to explain to me.” Shoko pats your shoulder. “But considering your life is on the line maybe don't hold back in showing him how much you love him?” 

You laugh humorlessly. “How many men do you know who respond well to a woman saying she loves them after 2 dates?” 

Shoko sighs. “Fair enough. I wish you luck.”

 *＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

You hadn't set the third date. After the intense conversation with Shoko, you just felt like you needed to be by yourself. 

The bed felt so comforting but sleep eluded you as the coughing worsened, shaking your whole being. You got up countless times to clean yourself in between and finally having had enough, dragged yourself out of bed to grab a pot from the kitchen, heaving into it, watching with horror as it filled. After 24 hours, it had progressed from seeds and petals into partial flower fragments, bunches of petals stuck to a portion of the flower head falling out of your mouth. 

Your head throbbed, feeling like it could burst. Almost self-pityingly you think about what life would be like if you hadn’t asked him out. Eventually, it would have made no difference, the Hanahaki would’ve grown despite that, you muse to yourself, feeling the scrape of stems and roots embedding their way into your organs. How did things change so fast? You were fine and one kiss later…

Your phone buzzes, and you barely manage to pick it up, looking at it with one eye open, your pulse racing as you see his name. 

How are you feeling? Still sick? 🥺

A smidgen of relief is felt in your chest, surprising you, as you take in a breath that hurts just a little less. He was checking in on you. Would a man do that if he wasn’t interested? Was there hope that he may feel more for you? You try to calm your wandering thoughts, knowing it wouldn’t do you any good to imagine things that he hadn’t explicitly stated. 

Unfortunately 😔 I'm sorry but I don't think we can make that third date this weekend. Rain check? I hope work was good today. 

Ding. 

Work was fine. Yes, we can certainly hold off until you feel better. 

Before you can reply he sends another message. 

Do you need anything? I wouldn't want you to struggle while you're sick. 

Butterflies flutter amongst the blooms in your chest. You did want to see him, but Shoko’s words come back to you, about how spending time with him without any promise of returning your feelings could worsen things even more. Additionally, the state you were in made you want to immediately decline the offer. You didn’t want him to see you like this, pale, hacking up bloody mucus flowers, pining for him like a lovesick dog. You grip your phone wondering how to reply, then carefully word your text.

I think I’m ok. Besides you don’t want to see me sick. Not a pretty picture.

Ding.

I’m sure I’ve seen worse. But I promise not to run away screaming. 😄  What do you say? 

Despite it all you laugh, noting with wonder how you didn’t feel as bad as you did a minute ago. 

Ok, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. 💀

Ding.

Noted! I’m bringing soup! See you in 30. 

30?! You scramble up suddenly, then hang over the edge of the bed as more flower bits force their way up your throat, falling into the grotesque potpourri pooling into the cooking pot. With as much speed as your exhausted body offers, you dump the flower vomit into the toilet, quickly rinse the pot in the kitchen, and throw together an outfit appropriate for company. You add a little blush to your cheeks and some lipstick to remedy the pale sickly quality that your skin has become. 

You’re jittery when the doorbell rings. Taking a deep breath, you open the door, revealing Higuruma, looking so casual in jeans and a tee rather than the suit he wore to work. He was carrying a bag and there’s a slight twitch to his lips as he looks at you. 

“I’m disappointed,” he says good-naturedly, stepping inside. “Where’s the horrifying red nose and dripping snot? The messy hair and phlegm-covered tissues? At least tell me you have those droopy eye bags?”

“They’re hidden with concealer,” you admit, biting your lip to avoid smiling goofily at his presence. You feel a strange sensation in your body, almost like the parasitic flowers were retracting to allow their host to breathe a little before resuming their consumption of your flesh. 

“Concealer! The ultimate trick. Do you think I should wear some? Look at these.” He points to the just visible bags under his eyes and you give up, laughing heartily, the growing blooms inside you only slightly painful. 

Higuruma grins at you. “Well, they do say laughter is the best medicine. However, soup, as promised,” he says, brandishing the bag, “And decongestants, and a little dark chocolate. Because it’s the best.”

You take the bag from him trying not to blush. “Thank you, Hiromi. You didn’t have to come over. I appreciate it so much.” 

“Aw, it’s no trouble. Besides you don’t let people you like suffer. Well not alone anyway.”

Your heart constricts in your chest as he says he likes you but you try to play it cool, leaves and petals stirring in your heart and lungs. “Oh? Wasn’t aware you liked me.” You try to sound nonchalant as you say it, but secretly hope he’ll say a little more, something more concrete which would imply there’s something stronger between you two. Something that might take away this dreadful thing growing inside you…

“Really?” He widens his eyes playfully and covers his mouth pretending to be shocked. “Oh no! All my efforts have gone in vain!” He drawls dramatically. “What good is bringing someone soup if they’re unaware you like them?”

You place the bag on the kitchen counter and cover your mouth as an unruly snort of laughter leaves you, which you use to hide the twinge of disappointment you feel. Well, at least he didn’t deny that he likes you. That was a start, and it could progress from there, in a best-case scenario. 

Your chest contracts suddenly and you quickly grab a napkin and stand at the kitchen sink, coughing up more foliage, trying to be discreet, attempting to soften your coughing as the fragmented sunflowers fall out of your mouth. Higuruma walks into the kitchen at the noise and you hide the napkin in your hands, wiping your mouth. 

Unlike before his face is lined with concern, and he waits for you to turn around. You try to smile reassuringly, your lipstick smudging from wiping your mouth.

“You don’t have to hide being sick in front of me you know,” he says softly. “We’re both adults. What’s life without a little mucus?” 

You throw away the napkin and shake your head. “We only just started seeing each other. Helping someone when they’re sick is more of a sixth date thing.”

Higuruma contemplates your words, leaning his hip against the counter. “Well, we’ve worked at the same place for a year. So that plus two dates…I think it comes close. Your lipstick is smudged by the way,” he adds, tapping his upper lip to indicate where you should clean it. 

You wish he wouldn’t look at you like that, like you’re still pretty even when you’re hacking up blood, literally dying from how much you love him. You hastily swipe a finger over the color, and when he doesn’t comment further, you assume it’s gone. 

“Well…thanks.” You take out a bowl to pour some soup. “Do you also want some?” you offer him.

He shakes his head no. “Here let me.”

His large hand takes the bowl from you while the other picks up the takeout container and he deftly pours steaming chicken noodle soup into it. “I can bring it outside for you. C'mon, sick person’s privilege.”

It was odd being ordered around in your kitchen, even if it was in this endearing manner. You shake your head. “You and your chivalry code.”

“I thought women loved it when men waited on them like this! Maybe I should double-check Reddit.”

How did he manage to do this to you? Your stomach is doing flips and it feels like for a brief second, the Hanahaki has frozen, allowing you a moment of clarity. Being near him was like not knowing your head was underwater until you took in that first gasp of air and felt it expand in your lungs, life flowing back into your veins. 

You settle on the couch and accept the bowl from him. He sits down on the opposite end, crossing a leg over his knee, and turns to look at you. 

“I think the remote’s on your end. Feel free to put on anything.”

“Anything? What a treat. I had come fully prepared with a list of rom-coms but I’m glad I can put on anything.”

You roll your eyes as you swallow the hot soup, savoring how it slides down your throat. “Rom coms? Why?”

“Isn’t that the default for when you’re sick?”

“Is that the default when you’re sick?” You probe him teasingly, noting how you don’t feel the irritating brush of the flowers as much as before. It almost felt easier to breathe with him around. 

Sheepish, Higuruma grins at you and rakes a hand through his hair. “It might be. It’s too early to reveal my secrets.”

“Oh? And when would it be appropriate?”

“After a third date.”

You glance at him, spoon halfway to your lips. He hastily adds, “After you’re feeling better of course!”

You busy yourself with the bowl to hide the blush that was threatening to make itself visible and swallow zealously. As mentioned, he puts on a rom-com and you finish the soup, feeling warm and cozy. You’re wrapped in a blanket and Higuruma has remained politely at the opposite end but as he sees your eyes beginning to droop he offers his shoulder.

“No, it’s ok…I’m fine here…” You mumble, trying to focus on the movie but the Hanahaki is beginning to take a toll on your body. 

“It’s all right y/n. I guarantee I’m comfier than a couch cushion.” Seeing your hesitation he chuckles. “I promise to behave. Just…c’mere. I wasn’t joking when I said people shouldn’t suffer alone.” 

He scoots over to the middle and helps you tip over slightly, placing an arm around you as the side of your cheek rests on his shoulder. The effect was instantly soporific. You couldn’t believe it. He was here…and yet so far away. You struggle to remind yourself that nothing was solid, that this was all still in the beginning stages, and that plenty could go wrong.

But the yearning is stronger and you let yourself indulge for a brief moment before your brain switches from consciousness to sleep. Hiromi, warm, gentle, sweet Hiromi, here, next to you, on your sofa in your living room. Letting you use him as a pillow. It was like plucking a private daydream from your brain and shaping it into reality.

If you could disperse the little moments like this…could you possibly slow down the Hanahaki enough that you could date him a little longer until it was appropriate to tell him you loved him? And perhaps when you did…he would say it back? 

 You smelled that familiar scent of wood and spice, memories of the kiss lulling you to sleep. His hand rubs the side of your blanket-covered arm, steady and comforting.

“You smell nice,” you mutter almost imperceptibly but he hears it and his heart skips a beat. 

“I’m glad you think so.”

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Monitors beep and there’s an IV in your arm. Shoko peers anxiously into your face as you come back to reality. Things had taken a turn for the worse. You had been floating in and out of consciousness for the past few days. 

“I need to know everything that happened. I’m sorry, I know you don’t feel like talking.” Shoko helps you sit upright in the hospital bed and hands you a glass of water which you sip weakly. “But I need to figure out when I should start the special interventions you mentioned. I have all the labs. But I need to know where you are emotionally if I have to make a call about surgical intervention next.”

You take a few breaths of oxygen from the mask in your hand before steadying yourself to speak. Every inch of you hurt. Your body prickled as you tried to suck in a breath, your mouth dry and your words raspy. Living was simply draining right now. 

“Four days ago, Hiromi visited me at home. He wasn’t aware of how sick I was. And I didn’t tell him.”

Shoko’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

You shake your head wearily. “It just didn’t feel right. He put me to sleep. When I woke up, I was laid out on the couch and Hiromi was gone. I felt a lot better and got myself to bed. Then the next day, I was in pain. So much pain. It felt like one of my lungs had burst. Like a million thorns were scratching the inside of my heart and throat. That’s when I called you.”

Shoko paces back and forth as she ponders on what the next best step would be, looking exasperated. “Y/n. I told you that being with him in this unrequited manner will only cause the Hanahaki to spread faster. You should have said no to him coming over. The closeness and then his absence, plus the lack of admission of any romantic feelings made it grow alarmingly. Your heart and lungs are almost purely plant now.”

You lay back against the pillows, taking the most shallow breaths possible to alleviate any further discomfort. “How long? Before…?”

Shoko sighs deeply. “I will have to do the surgery tomorrow.”

You had known deep down that she wouldn’t have any better news. Tears fill your eyes as you stare at the ceiling, dripping down your cheeks and onto the pillow. Your voice quivers are you talk. 

“Wow…I really thought…I had more time than that. I thought…we’d go on a third date. Maybe a fourth. And by the fifth or sixth, enough time would have passed that it wouldn’t be weird if I said it.” You press your hands over your eyes and a sob passes from your lips. “I really wanted it to be him Shoko. My end game. I guess…it wasn’t meant to be huh?” 

Shoko pats your arm sympathetically. “It’s not that you won’t ever fall in love again. It just won’t be with him.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing Shoko. Would anything else feel the way this feels?” You let yourself think back on every little interaction you ever had with Higuruma. Every tiny second where the two of you had been in the same room, or just passed by each other at work. The way his eyes danced as he laughed, little crow’s feet forming at the corners. And the fact that you’ll never find out if rom-coms were his go-to when he was sick. It was so bittersweet, to be so close yet so far to the addictive idea of almost knowing what it would be like to be loved by him, yet too late to escape the effects of the Hanahaki. 

“Can you find him for me Shoko? I just…need to see him one last time. Before…you know.”

Shoko’s eyes are contemplative, but she nods. “Let me see if he’s on campus.”

“And Shoko?”

She already knows what you’re about to say but listens anyway.

“Please don’t tell him anything. The last thing I need is him pitying me.”

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Higuruma checks his phone and can’t hide his disappointment when he sees you haven’t replied to his last few texts. He’d been careful not to wake you when he laid you down on the sofa and quietly crept out that night. He’d been sure to text you to let you know you hadn’t been abandoned, but that he didn’t want to encroach on your boundaries and was looking forward to seeing you again. That was 4 days ago. Had he made things awkward without realizing it? Had you ghosted him?

He told himself it couldn’t possibly be a simple case of ghosting because you hadn’t been coming into work either. He was positive he hadn’t misread the signs. You were comfortable and relaxed around him. There was no reason for you to avoid him. Had your illness worsened? The ideas turn over and over in his head as he wanders the halls of the vast Jujustu High campus, then comes out of his reverie as someone calls his name.

“Oh! Shoko, hi.” He greets the brunette as she approaches him. Her expression looks tight as she nears, and she seems unsure of what to say. 

Shoko knows she’s obligated to hold her silence, but in this case, she can’t bring herself to do it. “Can we find a place to sit down? There’s a lot that needs to be said and I’m not sure there’s a lot of time left.”

“Time left? For what? Is this about y/n?” Higuruma feels uneasy but allows Shoko to direct him toward a bench in the well-maintained courtyard. 

Shoko does her best to explain everything concisely; the origin of the Hanahaki, its unexpected acceleration, and how you would be heading into surgery tomorrow to get it removed. Higuruma listens quietly but it’s clear from his expressions and the way they turn to shock and horror as Shoko describes it that he’s feeling this on a personal level.

“Unrequited love eh?” He runs a hand over the back of his neck and takes a deep breath. “Who would’ve thought?” Higuruma mulls this over in his head. Was there someone else he wasn’t aware of? He shouldn’t be surprised. You were so beautiful after all, and with your Jujutsu talents, courage, and principles, it wasn’t that much of a shock. It couldn’t be him…he was new to everything, needing help, always feeling like he was one step short. He looks to Shoko, needing confirmation. “And do we know who the mystery man is?” 

Shoko looks at him pointedly and he frowns for a second thinking. “What? Is it someone I know? Am I supposed to pass on a message?”

Shoko impatiently tapped her foot against the ground, biting her inner cheek, her expression almost becoming a glare as she prayed he’d have the epiphany soon. 

A lick of irritation passes through him. “Shoko, trust me when I say I want her to live. I'm dating her right now, but if there’s someone else that she needs to be well, I’m not selfish enough to stand in the way of that.” His heart clenches at the thought but if it was a matter of life and death, he couldn’t deny you that. 

To him, you were the moon, the lovely, elegant, marker in his sky, and he was the ocean, hopelessly drawn by your gravity, yet never getting close enough to grasp you and make you his own, waves crashing down into salt and foam after each failed attempt. 

Feeling like she might burst, Shoko begrudgingly gives him another clue. “There’s no other man.”

“There isn’t? Then…” He’s silent as the meaning of her words suddenly dawns on him, making him blush. The realization is stunning. “You’re kidding.” 

“I wish I was. But it’s always been you. Now let me make this very clear. If you do not have any feelings for her that are equal to romantic love, then there’s nothing else that can be done. I’ll take her to surgery and remove all of it. She deserves to live.”

He falls silent as her words wash over him. “And that…would take away everything right?”

“It will. She’ll forget everything. All those times she felt her heartbeat quicken when she saw you. The dates you had. You bringing her soup. She’ll forget and her feelings will become purely platonic.” She looks at him appraisingly and waits for an answer. 

“I…” The words catch in his throat and he feels an unbearable guilt wash over him. He was responsible for putting you in this state. It was his fault you were now hovering between life and death. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose and takes a calming breath. Nothing about him was steady at the moment. He was a knot of nerves, worried for your safety. 

“I do love her,” he admits. “For the longest time. It’s just…you can’t blurt out things like that. Scares people off.”

“So I’ve heard,” Shoko says, trying not to sound sarcastic. “But you were dating her. That must mean that you have feelings for her.”

“Who says ‘I love you’ to someone after 2 dates?”

Shoko’s eye twitches menacingly and Higuruma leans away, looking slightly apprehensive at the expression. “What is it?”

“Nothing just that you two…are very similar.” She sighs, massaging her temples. 

“So, what do I have to do now?” Higuruma looks at her helplessly. “I don’t want to be the reason she’s suffering. If I tell her I love her, that’s it? The Hanahaki fades? Because I’ll do it. I’ll tell her over and over. Anything to make it right.”

“That would certainly help but the state that she’s in…verbally making your feelings known would still require her to remain in the hospital for a few weeks.” 

“What else can I do?” Higuruma looks at Shoko with sincerity. “Whatever she needs, I’ll do it.”

Shoko clears her throat wondering how to put forth the matter. “Well, while the verbal affirmations would ease her discomfort, physical love would definitely speed up her recovery.”

“So hugs? Kisses? I held her on the sofa while she slept. I can do that again, I’ll cuddle her until she feels better.”

Shoko lets out a sigh, wondering how much more explicit she would need to get. “We are very much short on time, so let me ask you this. What’s the usual culmination of romantic love?”

“What? The culmination of romantic love? It’s…it’s…OH.” His eyes widen as the realization washes over him, turning his face a brilliant shade of crimson. “Doesn’t that cross a line? We’ve only ever kissed, and it was only once.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind if it saves her life. Besides, I can’t imagine her denying it if it’s you.”

“Ah, thanks?” he says uncertainly, not sure if it’s a compliment. Still flustered, he rakes his hands through his hair, trying not to feel embarrassed. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve loved this. To make love to someone as gorgeous as you? It would’ve been a privilege. But the added complication of you being sick added a layer of uncertainty. But he knew he’d have to figure it out.

Feeling like she’s finally gotten through to him, Shoko smiles at him softly. “Just…let yourself love her naturally. It’ll fall into place. You’ll figure it out.” She pats his shoulder reassuringly. “Think you can take some time off? Stay at home with her?”

He nods, feeling his resolve strengthen. “Of course.”

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

The hands that carry you are warm, large, and gentle. Was this it? Were they taking you to surgery? Shoko had given you something strong for the pain. Had she found Hiromi? You couldn’t recollect talking to him. Maybe he was out while you were hospitalized. Well, so much for that…

It was all going to be over soon. Shoko would extract the Hanahaki from your body and the next time you saw Higuruma, you wouldn’t feel a thing. Life really was cruel. 

But something felt different. Instead of being moved to a cold surgical platform, you felt yourself being placed onto a soft bed, the familiar smell of fabric softener surrounding you. Were you home? Was the surgery already over? 

A presence lays down next to you, gently drawing you closer, and as you inhale, you recognize the fragrance of woody spice. Hiromi was here? How? Were you dreaming? That must be it. You were post-op and experiencing whatever pleasant sensation the anesthesia gave you until you woke up. 

You feel your face being caressed, your hair brushed away, being pressed tightly against his chest as his lips skim across your temple. 

“Y/n. I’m so sorry.” His voice sounds regretful. “I guess…I was an idiot. I was so unsure about how you felt, when in fact, it was quite obvious. And I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t want more. Because baby, the things I feel when you’re near me. They take my breath away. I thought the worst thing that could happen was that you would decide you didn’t want to see me anymore. I was wrong.” 

His embrace tightens, and he adjusts so that your head rests on the crook of his neck, your breath falling sweetly on his skin. “The worst thing is seeing you like this, knowing I put you in this state. Why has society made dating so hard? Why are we shamed for feeling things too soon? Or too late? I think it should be different depending on the people involved. Some people feel it early. Others feel it down the line. I guess I’m one of the former. I just know.”

He kisses your forehead, and when he speaks next, there’s a crack in his voice, raw emotion coming through. “I love you. Always have from the moment I first started as a sorcerer. You leave me in awe. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I love you, y/n. I love you so much.”

You stir slightly, listening intently. Did he just…?

“You have to get better. Remember how on the first date, you told me that you’d love to visit Paris someday? We’ll go. Just us. After you’re well. I don’t care what society deems normal anymore. We’ll go on our third date. Because you deserve it. Because I love you.”

His words permeate your body, a curious sensation because it feels like they entered your bloodstream, and were being absorbed into your heart. The tightness of the root system embedded into your veins withdraws, and you feel your breath becoming less labored.

“Please wake up darling. You have to wake up.” 

He presses his lips against yours, full of tenderness and passion, and when he pulls away, he sees color coming into the previously pale and chapped lips. He kisses you again, and it’s bliss, his hands combing through your hair, stroking your back, and you take in a deep breath, the relief feeling ecstatic, your blood humming in your veins, almost purifyingly. Compelled to react, you move your lips gently, feel him still and pull away incredulously, and look down at your face.

“Y/n?” There’s so much relief on his face as he looks at you, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks.

‘Hey,” you manage to rasp, feeling that same purifying sensation, like the flowers in your body were contracting ever so slightly, making room for you to breathe. 

Higuruma lets out a soft laugh, then rests his forehead on yours. “Oh my…you’re awake. You’re going to make it darling, don’t worry.”

“Do you really love me?”

“I do. So much. I don’t know since when. I just knew I did.”

The fortifying effect of those words brings back strength into your body and you raise your arms, wrapping them around his neck. 

“Hiromi. You have no idea how happy I am that you’re here.”

“Oh I think I have you beat there darling,” he says weakly, nuzzling your neck. “I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.”

He kisses you again, slow and gentle and your mouth opens to accept his tongue, reveling in the taste, feeling every inch of your body respond to his touch. His hands roam under the back of the thin T-shirt you’re wearing, anchoring themselves onto your shoulders, inhaling your scent as he tries to breathe through it all. He strings a line of soft kisses from your jaw down your neck, stopping to savor the way your pulse felt as it beat with vitality inside you, before coming down to your collarbone. A gasp leaves your lips, fingers tangling with his hair as he does so. 

The noise brings his attention back to you, unaware of the desire pooling into your veins where the flowers were starting to withdraw. Your cheeks had a healthy glow, a flush settling into them as he pulled you against him. 

“Are you ok with this?” He asks, his fingers tracing circles on the back of your neck, waiting for a response. 

“I am. More than ok. Just…don’t stop now. I need this.” You lean up and kiss him, electricity sparking between the both of you. “I need you.”

Hearing you needed him switches something on in him and he groans against the passion of your kiss before burying his face in your neck, nibbling the soft flesh, listening to the flow of breath running through you. His hands sneak up under the front of your shirt and rest against your breasts, letting the heat flow into them, feeling your nipples perk up against his palms before he squeezes, his mouth leaving wet kisses between the crook of your neck and shoulder. 

“Please…” you whisper into his ear, the word spoken with so much urgency that he almost loses control. He finds the hem of your shirt and pulls it off, taking in the sight of your lovely body, the pebbled nipples ripe for sampling. He pulls one into his mouth, causing a quiet moan to leave you, and begins to tease the other, rolling it between his thumb and index, listening to your cues as he increases the friction and pressure.

You feel like you're on a cloud, pleasure tingling into every crevice of your body, sighing, losing all other thoughts except for the man in your bed. “Hiromi,” you call his name in a breathy tone, cradling his head as he suckles, heat gathering between your legs. How long had it been since you were touched in this way? Held like you were precious, kissed like you were ambrosia?

Hiromi observes the way color comes back to your body as he teases you, watching with mild fascination as the pert nipple between his fingers changes color, life coming back into you. 

Your eyes close against the gentle ministrations of his tongue and fingers, the moans becoming whimpers as need takes over. When he finally lets go the need for more contact with his skin was overwhelming. You fist the fabric of his top and pull it off, and he allows it without any questions. Your eyes roam over the broad, tanned chest, the cloud of black hair on his chest leading into a thready trail that crawled lower like a lion’s mane, hidden by the waistband of his jeans. For a moment you stare, drinking in the sheer masculinity of it all, the hard planes and defined muscles, contrasting against the softness of your body. 

Almost shyly you run your fingers through the patch of hair before coming down to place a kiss between his collarbones, hear his breath strangle before continuing down, feeling all the muscles in his abdomen tense up as your lips follow the happy trail, delighting in the way he reacted when you nibbled around his bellybutton.

“Y/n you’re making me crazy.” he grits his teeth, struggling to keep a hold on his sanity. You had just recovered, he shouldn’t be rash or grab you but you were making it very hard to ignore the rush of want pouring into his bloodstream. It was so surprising how these acts of love, even briefly, had brought you back from the edge. 

He slides you back up, sees the vitality glittering in your eyes, and crushes his mouth to yours, letting his body speak for him as he runs a hand down your smooth skin, pausing to knead the soft squish of your belly, his hand slipping under the band of your shorts and underwear, bringing them down to reveal the curve of your ass which he grabs possessively, savoring the fat, pushing your lower body against his throbbing erection. He slowly grinds against you, paying attention to your body but you aren’t pulling away from him, rather, it appears to make you crave more, the way your hands fumble at his back, holding on to his shoulders and pressing your face into his chest.

Hiromi’s hands move to your front, repeating the action of pulling the waistbands down, exposing you to his hands. As he slides your clothing off, your legs part for him unashamedly, the throbbing in your sex unbearable, feeling your chest becoming free of the previous pressure that was suffocating it. Grasping your mound in his large palm, he feels for the edge of the swollen labia and massages, grasping the moistening flesh between his fingers and applying pressure, causing you to arch against his hand, the noises you make music to his ears. 

He gently parts the folds of your sex, seeing the slick from your arousal gathering at the entrance of your core, begging to be touched. He looks back up at you and you nod, the small sign of consent all he needed before he plunges his tongue into the most heat of your cunt. The knowledge of knowing he was here at such a sensitive spot on your body sends a thrill through him and he licks up, finding the base of your swollen clit, letting his tongue flick against it, satisfaction flowing through him as you hum your pleasure at the action. Laying his tongue flat, he slides up and down, unfazed when you move against him, trying to build a little more friction. 

He lets his middle finger circle the entrance of your pussy, teasing until you raise your hips slightly before sliding in, the digit feeling so wonderfully filling, curling upwards to find the little patch inside you that makes you take a sharp breath before becoming so wonderfully pliant and soft under him. He inserts his ring finger, and your sighs become a crescendo of gasps and moans, writhing under him, holding the pillow to remain grounded as the ache in your core becomes unbearably sweet, blossoming from the center and filling your body with a thrum of pleasure.

You sob as the orgasm hits, all the muscles in your body contracting before pleasurably spasming, your cries becoming shrill as it passes, feel Hiromi’s tongue slow down and continue to nudge against your clit, ensuring he squeezed out every drop of pleasure from you before pulling away from your core.

You’re a sight to see after that, body rosy and flushed, a fresh vigor visible all over, hair messy and splayed across the pillow. 

“Y/n…you’re so beautiful,” he rasps as he crawls back up to you, licking your juices off his fingers before covering your mouth with his. Shivering from the climax, you taste yourself on his tongue, gripping the back of his neck as though afraid he might slip between your fingers if you didn’t hold onto him hard enough. 

“Do you…ahem…” He suddenly turns shy but powers through. “Do you happen to have condoms? I kind of…forgot...you know with everything that happened.”

Your lips quirk and a peal of laughter leaves you, and he joins in, smiling, cupping your face tenderly in his hands. “Top drawer,” you answer him. “You went to the drugstore a couple of days ago and bought decongestants, but not condoms?” you tease him. 

“Who knew I’d be having sex a few days later?”

“We were dating! It was bound to happen.”

“Oh really? So that’s what happens when people are dating?” he teases you back and it’s your turn to blush, but he’s being sweet about it, brushing your noses together, and pressing feather-light kisses all over your face. He slides off the bed to finish undressing, and you watch him, fascination all over your face as his cock slips free, long and veiny, leaking precum, throbbing with hot need. He fumbles through your nightstand before finding the little wrapped packet, rolling down the condom before joining you back in bed, cuddling you close. 

“Ready?” 

You nod, a look passing between you both, before he positions himself and starts entering, the push of his tip feeling exquisite, going inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to him, feeling your fingernails scratch his forearms as he starts to bottom out. He holds still, your eyes meeting, your mouth slightly open as your pussy involuntarily spasms around him, feeling wonderfully stretched out. 

He starts moving, hips rolling deliciously to set up a rhythm, leaning forward to kiss you as he does so, arching his back to ensure your G-spot wasn’t missed with each stroke. It was so artful the way he made love to you, your body so responsive to everything, and he gathered you in his arms, both of you looking into each other’s eyes. 

“I love you.” He buries his face into the crook of your neck and you lock your ankles around his waist, mewling as he thrusts into you. 

“I love you too,” you mumble, mind in a haze, feeling nothing but pleasure flowing through you. Your breathing has changed, no longer ragged and shallow but to a full-bodied draw of air, so refreshing as you both touch and caress each other.

Your body starts the familiar sensation of tension gathering in your belly, coiling, waiting for release. Misty-eyed, you look at him, knowing he’s been watching your face all this while, looking for cues. 

“I’m close…” you whisper, touching his cheek, tracing the outline of his lips as you move with him. 

“Let go for me…I’ve got you…” With a cry, your second orgasm grips you, more powerful than the first, and you barely manage to keep your legs locked around him. 

“Hiromi…Hiromi…” his name falls from your lips, and his movements become a little sloppy, feeling his own orgasm nearing, and not too soon, he falls off the edge, cock twitching inside you, as he rides out the wave of pleasure. 

It was the best sleep of your life afterward, wrapped up in Higuruma’s warm and secure embrace, cheek resting on his chest, and listening to each other’s heartbeats as you both dreamt.

When you wake up, it’s the middle of the night and Higuruma is awake, peering at you through the darkness.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, petting your hair. 

“I can’t, I have the distracting problem of having a handsome man in my bed.”

“Hmm…And this is a problem, how?”

“I want to keep looking at him. Makes for bad sleep.”

A deep chuckle leaves his throat as you cuddle against him. 

“So out of curiosity, if I wasn’t conscious by the time you started up, what would you have done?” You lean up to look at him, legs tangling under the covers.

“Oh, Shoko reassured me that kissing you would bring you around.”

“Yeah, but what if it hadn’t?” you press, curiosity building.

Higuruma makes a funny expression, like he’s weighing whether or not to divulge something to you. 

“What is it? C’mon, tell me!” You lightly slap his chest and he sighs, defeated.

“Well, Shoko gave me a letter of medical necessity.”

Your face turns blank. “She…what?”

Higuruma takes his phone and pulls up an official-looking email with an attachment. Trying not to laugh, he reads out, “I, Dr. Shoko Ieieri, hereby state, that in the event that F/n L/n is only partially conscious, or fully unconscious,  the giver of medical services, Mr. Hiromi Higuruma, has my complete medical consent to make physical love to the patient to ensure her life does not fall into jeopardy. This medical order shall remain in effect until F/n Y/n becomes fully conscious and capable of making her own decisions. See she signed it and everything.”

He tilts the phone screen so that you can see, and you cover your mouth as you try to stifle your laughter. “I can’t believe Shoko!”

“I’m sure she wrote it as a joke,” Higuruma says amusedly. “She was very confident that kissing would wake you up sufficiently.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe my doctor wrote a note advocating for sex to save my life.” You bury your face into his chest and the both of you laugh uncontrollably. 

“So is it a safe bet to assume we’re having another date?” he teases, pressing a kiss to your neck. 

“I’ll have to think about it. I’m joking!” you add hastily, seeing his expression grow stony. He sighs, dramatically shaking his head.

“Guess I better get used to this. Looks like it’s going to be part of my life for a long long time.”

He kisses you again before you can retort. You smile up at him, knowing he is yours. 

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[balladofhollisbrown]

"The Need For Topical Music", written by Phil Ochs

Before the days of television and mass media, the folksinger was often a traveling newspaper spreading tales through music. 

It is somewhat ironic that in this age of forced conformity and fear of controversy the folksinger may be assuming the same role. The newspapers have unfortunately told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the cold war truth so help them, advertisers. If a reporter breaks the "code of the West” that used to be confined to Hoot Gibson movies, he’ll find himself out on the street with a story to tell and all the rivers of mass communication damned up. 

The folksingers of today must face up to a great challenge in their music. Folk music is an idiom that deals with realities and not just realities of the past as some would assert. More than ever there is an urgent need for Americans to look deeply into themselves and their actions and musical poetry is perhaps the most effective mirror available. 

I have run into some singers who say, “Sure, I agree with most topical songs, but they're just too strong to do in public. Besides, I don't want to label myself or alienate some of my audience into thinking I'm unpatriotic.”

Yet this same person will get on the stage and dedicate a song to Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger as if in tribute to an ideal they are afraid to reach for. Those who would compromise or avoid the truth inherent in folk music are misleading themselves and their audiences. In a world so full of lies and corruption, can we allow our own national music to go the way of Madison Avenue?

There are definite grounds for criticism of topical music, however. Much of the music has been too bitter and too negative for many audiences to appreciate, but lately there has been a strong improvement in both quantity and quality, and the commercial success of songs like “If I Had a Hammer” have made many of the profit seekers forget their prejudices.

One good song with a message can bring a point more deeply to more people than a thousand rallies. A case in point is Pete Seeger's classic “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” which brought a message of peace to millions, including many of the younger generation who do not consider themselves involved in politics.

Folk music often arises out of vital movements and struggles. When the union movement was a growing, stirring and honest force in America, it produced a wealth of material to add to the nation's musical heritage. Today, there regrettably seem to be only two causes that will arouse an appreciable amount of people from their apathetic acceptance of the world; the Negro struggle for civil rights and the peace movement. To hear a thousand people singing "We Shall Overcome" without the benefit of Hollywood's bouncing ball is to hear a power and beauty in music that has no limits in its effect.

It never ceases to amaze me how the American people allow the hit parade to hit them over the head with a parade of song after meaningless song about love. If the powers that be absolutely insist that love should control the market, at least they should be more realistic and give divorce songs an equal chance.

Topical music is often a method of keeping alive a name or event that is worth remembering. For example many people have been vividly reminded of the depression days through Woody Guthrie’s dust bowl ballads. Sometimes the songs will differ in interpretation from the textbooks as with “Pretty Boy Floyd”.

Every newspaper headline is a potential song, and it is the role of an effective songwriter to pick out the material that has the interest, significance and sometimes humor adaptable to music.

A good writer must be able to picture the structure of a song and as hundreds of minute ideas race through his head, he must reject the superfluous and trite phrases for the cogent powerful terms. Then after the first draft is completed, the writer must be his severest critic, constantly searching for a better way to express every line in his song.

I think there is a coming revolution (pardon my French) in folk music as it becomes more and more popular in the U. S., and as the search for new songs becomes more intense. The news today is the natural resource that folk music must exploit in order to have the most vigorous folk process possible.

(Broadside #22, March 1963)

#phil ochs #topical music #protest music #folk music #transcribed by meee

[mrwinterr]

Die Happy (Eddie Munson Version)

Pairing: Ghost!Eddie Munson AU x Female Reader; hint of Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Summary: You summon a really friendly ghost. 👻

Warnings: Smut 18+ (consensual vibes all around, masturbation, vaginal fingering, oral? [female receiving]) and language. 🚫 Minors DO NOT interact. Dabbling into the occult (use of a Ouija board).

Disclaimer: I’m a spooky bitch, but I would NEVER mess with an Ouija board. This is an AU. The upside down and the events that happen in the series Stranger Things (2016) aren’t entirely canon here. 

Title Inspiration: “Die Happy” by Dreamers  

A/N: This is a re-imagine of my Ghost!Bucky Barnes AU from years ago, but I wanted to convert it to fit with our dear boy Eddie. It’s only altered to fit a different narrative, but the smut is still closely the same. The inspiration came from an erotic audio on Reddit, so I owe it to that. There was a part two in the works, so if this goes well, I’ll continue writing it for this AU. Enjoy!

You sat there on your small couch of the trailer you had just moved into about six months ago, staring at the unopened brown rectangular box placed on your coffee table, contemplating on unboxing it. A part of you was scared to touch it again because of its contents and the other part was bullying you to just rip it open and get this over with. This was your idea after all. This was your last resort. This was the package that would, hopefully, help you find the answers you were so desperately looking for.

What exactly were you trying to solve? 

Six months prior, you’d managed to save up enough money to move out of your parents’ home, away from a superficial city and into a small, quiet town. Albeit a trailer wasn’t your first option, it was something you could call your own. It was the most adult thing you’ve done in your life so far. Initially, you were excited because you would be able to decorate it the way you wanted for every holiday, host small gatherings with friends and maybe even bring someone home. However, you couldn’t exactly do most of that, not with all the strange things that have been happening and while you attempted to brush them off as mere coincidences, they were becoming almost too outstanding to ignore any longer. 

First, it was the air conditioning unit acting wonky. You kept the place at a reasonable and comfortable temperature, but you found yourself often sporting hoodies or wrapped up in blankets. Never mind the breeze that blew past you here and there, the technicians couldn’t find a single problem with the system and besides whenever you scheduled a visit for inspection, it was magically working just fine. 

Next, much like the AC unit, the electricity started to have a mind of its own. Before you could flip the light switch or press the button on your remote, it was always one step ahead of you. It was almost like you were living in a smart house, but instead of acting on voice command, it read your mind.

The most bizarre thing though, was things disappearing and reappearing. Small things like the morning paper would vanish from where you left it and if you couldn’t locate where you last left your keys, you never had to search too far because there they were. Maybe it was all in your head? 

The eeriest one of them all was the unexplained smell. There was a distinct yet alluring scent that would trail behind when you felt that breeze pass over. You couldn’t pinpoint what it exactly smelled like, a composition of something woody with amber undertones that suggested a sense of strength and warmth from its presence. One thing was for sure, it wasn’t any like your fragrances nor was it from the only person that visited you. It was a pleasant odor and almost a calming one to you.  

You didn’t want to believe it, but these weren’t just common occurrences - these were tall tale signs of a haunting. You came to the conclusion you were living with a ghost. The spirit wasn’t vengeful, that much you gathered since it didn’t make attempts to harm you in any way. If anything, it helped you out more than bothered you. Sure you could just either ignore these oddities or move out, but you’d worked too hard to get here and you weren’t going to let whatever entity run you out of your new home. Instead, curiosity won the best of you and you opted to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

Pulling the Ouija board out from the box, you place it on the table and it seems to have a hold on you. How do you prepare yourself to summon a ghost? You don’t know how long you’d been staring but it was only when the sudden knock on your door does the spell break.

You get up and make the short distance to the front door and you’re briefly greeted by your close friend Steve. Your relationship with him was close to the point where you’re not even bothered that he just makes his way inside as if he lived here with you. He’s so busy rambling about something, probably about his latest shift at the video store he worked at, that he didn’t notice how uncharacteristically quiet you were being. 

“Whoa!” He exclaims, stopping in his tracks once he sees the Ouija board laid out. Its presence was enough to effectively cut his story short. “What are you doing with that?” He asks, pointing at the object and taking a few steps away from it.  

You roll your eyes, sitting back down and reaching into the box to pull out the remaining piece, the planchette. 

“What does it look like I’m going to do with it?” You say, staring up at him blankly. 

“Shit,” he starts, running his hands through his thick hair, “okay, uh, I knew you liked Halloween, but I didn’t think you were this spooky,” he says, his eyes bugging out in disbelief. 

He stands in place as if the items in front of you were cursed, but seeing that you hadn’t actually begun anything yet, there’s a bit of relief. You’re not deterred by the Ouija board at all. It had quite the opposite effect because you were all too fascinated with the supernatural. It was just wild that it was happening to you. 

“You really shouldn’t mess with that kind of stuff,” Steve warns as he cautiously makes his way back closer. 

“I don’t know why you’re so scared,” you respond, blowing him off and kicking the now empty box aside.

“And you’re not?!” He says incredulously, “trying to speak to the dead is not right!” 

Well, it certainly wasn’t normal, but so weren’t the things that were happening in your home lately.

“I need to find answers, Steve!” You bite back, the volume of your voice matching his, if not, louder. Your once calm demeanor switching to an intense one, cutting the tension of what you were going to partake in had brought about. You didn’t miss the hint his exclamations gave off and it bothered you. “What do you expect me to do? Continue living like this? I’m not in control of my own place.”

Oh yeah, he knew. Steve was the only friend you could confine in and the one person you could share your stories about your home and the experiences in it.

“You really think this place is haunted.” It comes off as more of a statement because he can see you’ve clearly made up your mind on how you’re going to prove this theory. He could see the inner turmoil you were facing and the vulnerability that cracked through your exterior after your outburst. 

“I’m not going crazy! And I certainly am not going to spend another fee on having a technician tell me there’s nothing wrong with the units again.” If the frustration wasn’t visible in your features, it definitely was in your voice. 

“Look,” Steve says, voice now careful, ”why don’t you just come spend the night at my place and we can think of another way to approach this?” You knew this offer all too well. It had always been on the table. When you decided to move to Hawkins and were looking for your own place, Steve had offered you a room, but you were hellbent on making it on your own. You were proud and independent…and weren’t sure about taking the next step with him. 

Steve was everything your past lovers weren’t and you while you both weren’t official, a couple of dates happened here and there, something was holding you back. You cherished his friendship so much and even though you'd both crossed so many lines already, a part of you feared crossing anymore would jeopardize it. Worse, what if whatever it turned out to be would just fail miserably in the end. Then where would that leave you both? He made it clear how he felt about you, but you brushed it off casually each time. Steve knew you simply weren’t ready and he was willing to wait. 

“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” You reply, breaking away from seeing the look of concern on his face, the kind that made you feel guilty, and went back to fidgeting with the planchette in your hands. You knew he was a skeptic on these kinds of things and only worried for your safety. He’d always been protective of you and hated seeing you upset. 

The nights he had spent in your trailer nothing strange ever happened. It’s like these occurrences were only happening to you. Steve wasn’t sure if he believed in ghosts or not, but he wasn’t about to stick around and find out today like this. He knew that you could be stubborn, but there was only so much he could do to change your mind from where he stood and he just hoped he hadn’t lost you yet.

The crack of thunder in the sky, slightly rattling the trailer, indicated a storm was coming and you took that as an excuse to convince Steve to leave for the night. You didn’t want to fight with him about this. The few times you did talk about a possible haunting were just humorous conversations to Steve, but you were always being serious. It was evident that you two were not on the same page. 

“You should probably start heading home before the rain comes,” you advise, standing up , walking over to the front door, hoping it’d sway him, but he knew what you were doing. Steve wasn’t mad. He knew you weren’t going to change your mind this time, but he could be patient. He was always very patient with you.

He reluctantly nods, defeated, before following your lead. “I’m coming back first thing in the morning to check if you’re still alive though,” he jokes, before pulling you in for a hug and kissing the side of your head. His words elicit a light chuckle from you, but it mostly muffled against his biceps. You bask in the warmth of his embrace for a few lingering seconds, inhaling his fresh, clean scent, one that was a complete contrast to the one you were used to smelling inside your trailer, before pulling away and playfully shoving him out the door. 

As soon as his car disappears from the end of the street, you jump, head snapping at a sudden crashing sound from the kitchen area. You make your way in that direction to find the mug gifted to you, on your last birthday from Steve, shattered in pieces all over the kitchen floor. The last roar of thunder must’ve been a strong one or the elevation of the shelf had been slightly off or maybe the house just didn’t like Steve… You shook your head at that last silly thought and sighed preparing to clean up the mess. 

The gloomy weather quickly casted a blanket over the once clear sky and with the sounds of the fast raindrops against the windows and pavement, the lag in thunder chasing the flashes of lightning, you didn’t waste time on the mission.

What better time than now? It set the mood. Were you scared? You weren’t sure. You were already convinced you were living with something so what could’ve been scarier than that. You didn’t ponder long enough to think about the aftermath. Was this all just a bunch of hocus pocus or pseudoscience? Would you get possessed by a demon or would they be like Casper?

Would this even work? The use of a Ouija board, especially by someone inexperienced as yourself, was highly not recommended. You’d seen The Exorcist and not to mention this kind of activity was very much frowned upon during your upbringing. If only your parents could see you now…

The spirit in your home couldn’t be that bad though, right? If they wanted to possess you, they would’ve done so by now; unless they were just waiting for an invitation. Well, there was only one way to find out.

You dimmed the lights and lit a few candles around you. Was this insulting? There wasn’t exactly a guide on etiquette for communicating with the dead. You did your fair share of research, but most of what you knew about Ouija boards were credited to horror movies.

You take a deep breath in and out then begin to summon your supposed roommate.

Eddie felt bad. 

He felt bad as he watched you clean up the mess he made in your kitchen. He knew you liked that mug, but he didn’t. He remembered when you were given that mug. He saw the way your face lit up after reading the stupid text on it that only you and the person who gifted it to you understood the meaning behind it. 

He didn’t like Steve and he certainly didn’t like how Steve made you feel. Steve made you feel all sorts of things and Eddie knew that, which explained why Steve never experienced anything unusual in the house because Eddie didn’t like seeing you with him. He chose to not be present in Steve’s presence. Most of his kind would make it a point to make it known they hated them, but Eddie didn’t want to spook you. 

He was aware of how silly it was. A ghost jealous of two living humans. He had his turn, but it was tragically cut short. He was so young, barely in his 20s before he left an ongoing cold case behind, providing no closure for his friends and his uncle.  

But why did his afterlife have to consist of seeing the most angelic living human being just waiting to fall in love with the perfect living man? He didn’t get a chance to live out that part of his life, so was he bitter? Yes. He’d grown so attached it outraged him to see any distress that was brought upon the current tenant of his home.

Eddie wasn’t sure why he was able to roam around his old stomping ground over the last couple of years. He tried his best to communicate with his uncle before he finally managed to move into a better place. He was proud of Wayne for working hard to get a real house for himself. He took assurance that he was able to live more comfortably now. He should’ve known his own flesh and blood wasn’t bothered or spooked out by his attempts to get his attention, so when he left, Eddie was alone for nearly three years. No one was exactly in a rush to move into a trailer, his trailer, until you came into the picture. That day you walked in, if he wasn’t already dead, and you could’ve seen him, he just knew he would’ve been as pale as a well…ghost. He made sure to not send you running for the hills.

He tried to subtly help you with everyday things. He didn’t even spy on you during private moments like in the shower or on those lonely, needy nights. He proved himself to be a ghostly gentleman.

He even tried to not eavesdrop on your conversations and almost always disappeared when guests were present, but he heard you raise your voice earlier at Steve. He wasn’t sure what you two were arguing about and sure it was petty on his part, but before he could summon enough energy to knock over the mug, Steve was already gone.

Eddie followed you back into the living room, watched as you lit the candles scattered around and dimming the lights. He lightly smiled believing you were attempting to relax. You deserved a nice night in. If only seeing you in peace was enough to put him to rest - permanently. He was already trying to guess what kind of movie you were going to turn on but when he saw what was laid out in front of you as you sat back on your couch, his expression fell and he swore his heart would stop again if it could.

“Oh no,” he says as he stares at the Ouija board on the table. Eddie starts pacing in front of you, his hands bunching up his hair in a panic state. Anyone that had ever set foot in this trailer to scope it out knew this place gave off a spooky vibe. This was a tough trailer to sell because not only was it unsettling but so was the story behind it, which it was unbeknownst to you why it was so affordable. You weren’t stupid and you knew there was something or someone lurking, so this was almost bound to happen. 

“Is anyone here?” He hears you ask the first question. He looks over your direction and sees your eyes are closed with both hands on the planchette. You’d close your eyes to mask your fear so that should anything bad happen you wouldn’t have had to stare death right in the face. 

“Oh my God,” he barely whispers and realizes, “she’s really trying to talk to me.” He couldn’t believe you were willingly reaching out to him. He hadn’t been able to talk to anyone in years, so now given an opportunity to do so gave him a sense of elation. 

“Yes! I am! I’m here!” She can’t hear you, idiot. “Fuck, of course she can’t hear me.” Eddie argues with himself on what to do before he remembers how Ouija boards work.

He almost can’t believe it when he does it, but he’s able to delicately and effortlessly move your hands to slide the planchette over the word ‘YES’.

Your eyes pop open and you gasp when you see that you received an answer. Now that was not your imagination. This wasn’t your mind playing tricks on you either. You’re frozen, but look up in front of you half expecting the spirit to show itself to you, however you don’t see anything.

At least that’s what you think. On the contrary, you’re staring right at Eddie or rather through him. His expression mirrors yours - complete and utter shock for two reasons. 

First, he was never able to easily move or touch anything solid in years. The incident with the mug earlier, that kind of stuff usually required a lot of concentration and energy on his part. Secondly, he was in awe. He knew he was attracted to you, but even though you couldn’t see him, he could see you clearly and you were so beautiful to him.  

He’s scared that he’s frightened you with that move, but at the same time it excites him that he’s successfully communicating with you.

You’re unsure if you should continue. You were half expecting this to be a bust, but it moved. It actually moved! While you were excited that this worked, the tiny voice in the back of your head had you thinking that maybe you shouldn’t go any further, but who ever really listened to them? If you were to get hurt or anything, you’d deal with Steve later. You blink a few times and refocus your attention on the task.

“What are you?” You ask next.

“What am I?” Eddie repeats the question, “I’m dead, sweetheart.” Wait. He starts to spell the letters ‘D-E-A-D’ with your hands on the planchette still. The corners of your mouth lifting, amused at that response, of course he was dead, had him comparing it to what angels must’ve felt like when they earned their wings. If anyone believed in that sort of stuff…either way he felt very blessed to pull such a thing as a small smile out of you. 

“You liked that one, didn’t you?” Eddie said more to himself with a big smile on his face. He loved this! It was like he was having a real conversation with you. It was something he only ever dreamed of for the last six months.

A particular flash of lightning followed by a clamorous thunder startles you, breaking you away from the Ouija board. You weren’t going to lie. You were still absolutely spooked out and decided maybe that was enough contact with the dead for the night.

When your heartbeat finally returned to its steady rate, you got up to turn on the lights. You made sure you blew all the candles out and doors were locked before turning in. As you walked the path to his old bedroom, Eddie watched you look back to the living room and bid goodnight to seemingly nothing, but he knew who it was directed towards - it was meant for him.

The days that followed, you were growing more and more curious. In your spare time, you started digging into how much can come out of the Ouija board, but first you needed to figure out who you were dealing with.

You went from door to door of the trailer park doing your own investigation on who used to live in your trailer. You got mixed reviews from the neighbors, but you believed you got the gist of it down.

The trailer originally belonged to a man named Wayne Munson, who took in his nephew becoming his sole legal guardian. You dug deep at the local library, sifting through old Hawkins newspaper archives, to find out that his nephew had commonly gone by the nickname ‘Eddie’ and he wasn’t too far away in age from you. He went to the same high school as Steve, where he struggled in graduating, had a reputation of being a delinquent and someone who participated in satanic practices. The worst of his offense was being linked to the murder of a beloved teenage girl, Chrissy Cunningham.  

The accompanying images of the girl and boy in the newspaper clippings, you assumed to be Chrissy and Eddie. She was undeniably pretty and he was…cute. The tips of your ears burned and turned red as you caught yourself staring a little too long at his picture. 

Why’d that make you feel weird? You’re thinking things about someone you’d never met. You didn’t know anything else about him and what you had learned, it didn’t sound good either. That couldn’t have been the same Eddie in your trailer, right? 

To your surprise, Chrissy had brutally died in your very own living room. Were you living with her? Something didn’t make sense though. What was her unfinished business? All the things you picked up on from the TV or movies, was that most spirits that wandered had some sort of “unfinished business” that prevented them from moving on. Right? 

The news seemed adamant that it was Eddie who killed her, but it was her own boyfriend, some star athlete, Jason Carver, who had been found guilty of her murder. Eddie had been acquitted but the twists and turns never stopped as you read he himself had been found dead inside the trailer a few weeks later. The puzzling thing was the autopsy proved it wasn’t by suicide. He didn’t do this to himself. The saddest thing, aside from the loss of two young lives, was his uncle being the one to discover his nephew lifeless in their home. No one was ever charged for his murder and it didn’t look like there was a rush to locate the killer, which angered you as you continued reading. The real killer was possibly still out there free to live the rest of their life. 

You’re so engrossed with your findings you barely paid any attention to Steve when he’d come in to check on you. He had the spare key in case of emergencies, and ignoring most of his unreturned phone calls, which seemed uncharacteristically you, to him was deemed as an emergency.

Steve was only less than thrilled to see your enthusiasm on all this. Normal people didn’t go around poking at the dead. He pointed out you were lucky you didn’t get possessed, not paying any mind or adhering to you claiming he was probably a friendly ghost.

“This isn’t an episode of Casper!” Steve shouts, fed up again. His face falters as he watches your shoulders visibly slump. He hated killing the vibe, especially when you were excited, but you were hyped about something all too unreal and that shouldn’t be messed with at all in the first place. 

He looked around the small space seeing your notes scattered throughout the coffee table, some spilled on the carpet. There were so many he couldn’t see the Ouija board still laid out. It was just buried underneath. 

“What if I can help him?” You try reasoning with him. “Did you know? Did you know Eddie? Or what happened to him? Did you know that he and someone else died right where we’re standing?” This was the first time you asked him about the person Eddie was, not the ghost. You wondered why he didn't say anything? He’d lived in Hawkins his whole life. Surely he’d had to have heard about this. It’s a small town, people talked.

“I barely knew him,” Steve sighs, guilty but admits, “he wasn’t exactly popular or well liked by most because of how different he was.” You watch as he brings a hand up to rub at his eyes, “but even I didn’t think he was capable of doing that stuff to Chrissy.” He was trying to erase the crime scene the media had released to the public from his mind. “I swear I didn’t know this was his trailer though. Like I said, I barely knew the guy.” You can hear the sincerity in his response and nodded. Had Steve known, he’d most likely had pushed harder for you to move in with him. 

“What if I can help him pass on? Then I can live in peace…and so will he,” you start to persist. 

“You’re not going to be able to convince Hawkins that Eddie Munson didn’t kill someone,” he says bluntly. “You’re already lucky that you’re unharmed,” Steve reminds you. “I’m just worried about you,” he brings his hands to your arms in an attempt to comfort you. 

“I know you are, but I’ll be fine,” you assure him, hoping you could keep that promise. After all, you couldn’t even confirm you were really communicating with Eddie.

You were relieved that the conversation with Steve didn’t take a turn for the worse like it easily could have. You understood where he was coming from and you were lucky to have someone like him care so much about your wellbeing. The realization never fails to punch you in the gut for not allowing yourself to give in.

So why were you more scared to commit than of willingly reaching out to the dead?

Take two.

You sat perched, trying to hype yourself up to communicate once more. Eddie, on the other hand, is more than ready and the cool familiar breeze that passes you by lets you know that they’re here.

“Chrissy?” You ask, your fingers firmly on the planchette. You hadn’t figured out which one was actually still here or if both were. 

Your hands move over to the answer, ‘NO’. 

Shit. Eddie thought to himself when you said Chrissy's name. How much did you know about Chrissy? If you read anything about that night in the papers then it surely wasn’t good. What did you think of him now? You probably thought he was the devil. He thought you were going to end this, cut ties with him, cleanse the house or even move out after discovering it’s been him this whole time. The realization that you were living with a monster. 

“Who are you?” The last revelation had to be obvious, but you needed confirmation. Eddie had nothing to lose, physically, but if this was the last time he’d get to communicate with you, he’d take every second until you stop. Your heartbeat starts to pick up as you’re slowly spelling out ‘E-D-D-I-E’.

“Eddie,” you whisper. Boy, did Eddie like the sound of his name coming from your lips.

“Is anyone else with you?” The answer points to ‘NO’. He was alone. 

“How did you…die?” you had to swallow in between the last word in that question, hoping it wouldn’t trigger a negative response. Even in the afterlife, death couldn’t be an easy topic.

The letters ‘M-U-R-D-E-R-E-D’ give you your next answer. It was indeed him! Internally, you’re overjoyed that you’ve figured out your ghostly John Doe, but you try to remain at ease.

“Did you knock down my mug?”

Eddie rolls his eyes at that, but swiftly moves your hands over to ‘YES’.

“Okay. I mean that wasn’t very nice,” you couldn’t just bite your tongue as the sass flowed right out of you.

‘S-O-R-R-Y’.

The apology takes you by surprise, and suddenly you weren’t mad about the mug anymore.

“It’s alright. It was just a mug,” you try to assure him. You’d just have to explain to Steve another time that the ghost broke it. No biggie. Yeah, right. What with the tiny arguments, he’d most likely believe you destroyed it out of anger and frustration at him.

Your arms were getting tired from the position they were in. Several minutes had passed since you last said anything to Eddie and you weren’t sure of what to ask next, but you didn't want to stop talking to him.

Where does this end? Do you ask him to leave? This is his home. No, it’s not anymore. It’s your home now. How do you help him pass on? Did you have that ability? Do you hire a medium? Enlist the help of a priest? Call a ghostbuster? Your mind grew tired all too quickly, you slumped back in your seat, breaking away from the Ouija board.

Eddie watched as you rubbed the muscles of your sore arms. He felt helpless. He wishes he could ease or take away your worries and pain. Instead, all he could do was watch and make sure you were okay until you were ready to start talking again.

With your hands back on the board, you ask, “are you still here?” Eddie responds with ‘YES’. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, mentally preparing yourself, before proceeding with the next question.

“Can you show yourself to me?” There is the ultimate question and Eddie can’t help but ask why? Why were you interested in seeing him? He was a lost cause.

“No?” you ask more to yourself, still staring at the word through the eye of the planchette, and frown, defeated at his response.

Eddie wanted nothing more than to show himself to you, but he didn’t know how. He was nothing but a gust of air. No matter how hard he tried to show himself to those nearby, he was never successful.

You pull your hands back away and place them in your lap, unsure of where to go from here. Well, you couldn’t force a ghost to do something they didn’t want to do, but you hoped that maybe seeing him would make it less taxing while communicating.

There’s a sudden iciness that covers the side of your cheek, sending a chill down your spine. You flinch and your hand rises quickly to warm the spot. What was that? You didn't feel that when using the Ouija board. Was that Eddie?

Eddie almost disappears at the sudden reaction. He can’t believe it. You felt that. You could feel him. All he did was caress your face and it was different than pushing your hands in different directions because this time, neither of you needed the help of the Ouija board.

You’re not sure where he is as your eyes scan the room, you wanted to feel that again. Sure, the cold was a bit alarming, and as sharp as his icy touch was, so was the surge that flowed through you. It was unexplainable, but soothing.

It sucked for Eddie because he couldn’t keep your eyes trained on just him.

“Are you sure you can’t show yourself?” You ask again to the open area, this time convinced you didn’t need the Ouija board anymore.

However, Eddie still needed the board to reply. You sigh in defeat as you watch the planchette slide across to the word ‘YES’ on its own. You couldn’t allow yourself to get mad. You just couldn’t understand how it was possible for him to do all these other things, but not be able to show himself. Whatever it was, you’d just have to accept that you’d never understand ghost logic.

The sound of the planchette scraping against the board, offers you the word, ‘F-E-E-L’.

Feel? You definitely felt a presence and a touch, but now it was confirmed. He was trying to communicate through touch.

“Yes, I felt you!” you let Eddie know quite eagerly. The planchette remains unmoved after that and instead of what would appear to be awkward silence, the seconds that were passing by could be more appropriately compared to that of a ticking time bomb.

“Touch me,” you requested.

Eddie is stunned. If he were alive and well right now, he’d no doubt be on his knees for you with a command like that. He floats over to you and is only more than eager to touch you again, but he’s not sure of where. Feeling the soft anticipation of a ghostly tingle, he hesitantly places both hands on the underside of your jaw, in a cradle-like fashion, hoping it’ll stop your wandering eyes.  

You are still, frozen in place, now seeing the breath of air that escapes your mouth in a cloud of smoke, his comforting scent invading your senses. It was him. It had been him this whole time and he’s definitely here in front of you.

“More,” you say barely above a whisper, not paying mind to the coldness.

Fuck. Eddie inwardly swears at himself as you unintentionally egg him on. Testing his limits, what more could he already lose? He was already dead.

He goes all in. He leans in and presses his cold, dead lips to yours in the most gentle and light kiss ever. When he pulls away, he sees that your eyes have closed and he can’t help immediately start to wonder if you actually felt that or not. He sure as hell felt it. He can’t be certain as he tries to gauge the expression on your face. Shit, why did he do that?

“Do it again,” and this time with a more affirmative tone, Eddie doesn’t question anything anymore and obeys. His lips back on yours, but with added pressure, you let out a small moan and purse your lips to respond. You don’t think about how silly it must look to be making out with practically nothing, not knowing what to do with your hands because there was nothing to hold onto, but despite that it all felt too real. He was real.  

Eddie’s mind is reeling at the sound of pleasure that spews from your mouth, he can’t comprehend how this is even possible. He’d been dying to know what kissing you felt like - what you felt like at all.

When your lips start to get numb and turn blue, disregarding the temperature, you reluctantly pull away. You open your eyes to a dark room and wish you could at least hear him, the sounds of ecstasy played a pivotal role in intimacy.  

Your body temperature returns to normal, blood rushing, mind a haze. You stand up and head towards your bedroom without another word. Would he take the cue to follow you? You can’t be sure. You can’t see or hear him, but your actions say otherwise and make you both feel as if he wasn’t dead at all. It was now a game of cat and mouse.

Eddie or not, you were unabashedly turned on. In moments like these, it was hard to be in control of your own body and the only thing you could do was give in to the desires. In this instance, your body couldn’t make up its mind because as if you weren’t just freezing your ass off while kissing Eddie, you were suddenly hot all over.

Flustered, you pulled down your shorts on the way to your bed, tossed them carelessly across the room, perhaps a little too harshly. If he wasn’t going to help you out, then you would do the job yourself. A mad smile on your face, surprised you weren’t the least bit embarrassed if he was going to watch you or not. It only added to the thrill and the excitement.

Trying to regulate your breathing, you lie down on the center of your bed and run your hands over your face down to where you need them the most. Your fingers experimentally graze along the wet spot of your panties, groaning in acknowledgment of the sudden arousal. There’s no sense in conjuring up a justifiable explanation as to how something so seemingly innocent as the kiss you shared with Eddie got you so crazed. Not wasting any time, you lift your hips up and bend your legs to slip the flimsy garment off.

No longer a thin barrier between, your entire body shivers slightly, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, when your fingers make first contact with your clit. Using your slick, you begin to rub slow circles over it. Your stomach sinks in with each relieving exhale, your breathing growing heavy. Your fingers run off course and dip into your folds, past the floodgates, resurfacing now coated by your own wetness as you use it to an advantage in invigorating your bundle of nerves.

Eyes closed, you start to think about Eddie. How his skin would feel against yours. How you’d tangle your fingers in his wild hair. How his hands would feel on your sensitive parts. You want to feel guilty or believe this was all wrong. Instead of getting off to someone like Steve or someone real for that matter, you lied there baring yourself to a ghost. You try to picture that baby face of his, and all that you could based on the lone image you found of him to get you through the finish line. 

The curve of his full lips that you were fortunate enough to feel on yours moments ago. You already knew they were soft, but what about his other features? Did his eyes sparkle or were they like black holes? They had to be of a set that could hypnotize someone. Maybe it was okay that you couldn’t see him because if you had you just knew that you’d be at his mercy.

And that was just on the surface of it all. How was he like in other areas? How would his tongue feel against yours, on your skin, in you…The simulation causes your thighs to clamp up, knees involuntarily knocking into each other; your other hand clutching onto the bed sheets. He made it that easy.

A thin layer of sweat coats your skin from the increase in body heat, then you hiss at the abrupt familiar cold sensation that runs through you, his alluring scent filling your nostrils, your legs forcefully separate; all tells you that Eddie was here. You pick your head up, always a small hint of disappointment flashes through your features at the fact you still and won’t be likely to ever see him.

It shoots a wild pang through Eddie's chest because he doesn’t miss it; never knowing he could read someone so openly. He missed a few significant things in his life already. He missed graduating high school. He missed a chance to get a better car. He missed a chance to sell out venues. He missed playing music. He missed his uncle. He missed his friends. He missed Hellfire. He missed out on someone like you. He missed a chance to develop a deep connection with someone. Life was so cruel.

Your thoughts aren’t as far away from his as you start to wonder, why was it all so easy - seamlessly flawless - with him? Running with only first-party information and two silent conversations, you were already willing to go headfirst for halos for Eddie. The feeling had you wishing he had lived to one day cross paths with you. Would he have still been in Hawkins when you moved here? Would you be neighbors, friends or more? Would it have been him and not Steve? All the could've and would’ve scenarios sprouting in your head. You got too attached learning about him. Was it pathetic? You didn’t care anymore, whatever would ultimately bring you to him, you just knew in the end you’d die happy.

Your head falls back in defeat and you try to keep your emotions at bay, until you feel the hem of your shirt being lifted, exposing your midriff. Your lips cave in and you wince at each uncalculated cold peck Eddie’s lips leave on you. Whereas you felt minor stings at how cold his touches were in the beginning, for the first time, Eddie felt like he was on fire at how hot to the touch you were in this moment. This moment with him.

His lips create a path down to your core, and the contrast in temperature felt good. Not knowing what to do with your hands again, your arms lie sprawled on the bed on either side of your body.

Cool air brushes past your folds and your heartbeat spikes up again. Eddie never imagined he’d ever be able to make someone feel this way. It was pointless for him, but he dreamt about it countless times. And then he wickedly thinks how he was dumb to not spy on you during those nightly sessions. He was missing out. You were absolutely divine in his eyes.

“Eddie,” his name slips past your lips breathlessly when he makes contact with your swollen clit. It started off so innocently, but when he pulled his mouth back to ran a long, flat strip over your folds, giving him a taste of what you had to offer, he wanted more.

The cold, with each bit of contact from Eddie, was no longer a thing as your body quickly acclimated to it. Eddie uses his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and allows himself to get a better taste. Your head lulls back, sinking deeper into your pillows.

There’s only so much you could do to communicate with Eddie, you want to feel his hands all over, but instead you pick up on the slack, pulling your shirt over your head to grab and squeeze handfuls of your breasts, massaging them and adding onto the sensation. Your groping proves to be successful when you draw out more noises.

Eddie’s eyes never tear away from watching your reaction, the way your body moves, squirming from pleasure - pleasure he’s bestowing on you. His mouth doesn’t require guidance as his tongue pulls all the right moves, weaving its way through and between your folds. He drags out a long moan from you when he finally dips his tongue inside your wet hole and back out, before capturing your clit between his lips, sucking on it. The sweet suction sensation on your clit as his lips enclose around it.

“I-I need...fuck,” you try to voice out your desires, but you’re reveling in so much, especially in being able to feel Eddie’s fingers digging into the sides of your hips; you bite down hard on your bottom lip, you could taste a hint of copper already, trying your hardest to not let out a crazed scream.

Eddie doesn’t want you to hold back though, so he introduces his fingers into the mix as they and his tongue take turns in you. The addition of his thick fingers start taking you closer to your impending orgasm. You wished you could hear him and all the sounds of his onslaught. To hear those pretty boy moans, the filthy pops and slurping noises. Was he a dirty talker? God. Imagine the filthy things he would say or do.

He gets the message loud and clear. You want to come, and so he quickens his actions until your body goes into overdrive. He could feel your walls closing in tight around his digits, your wetness pooling around them and spilling, he almost loses control of your withering body. When you reach your peak, your mouth and eyes snap open, a choked gasp transitioning into a straggling loud moan, pupils blown, the sweat beads trickling down, and your back arching up in perfect bridge-like fashion. It almost looks like you’re being possessed when your orgasm rocks through you before you come back down releasing choppy breaths from its intensity.

Exhausted, you struggle to stay conscious wanting to communicate with Eddie one last time, but it felt like the orgasm almost sucked the life out of you. His fingers slowly slipping out and the puffs of cool air against your pussy are an indication that Eddie is still present and he wasn’t going to go anywhere just yet. He hasn’t moved from his position and is short of breath, in awe of seeing you coming undone for him and more so the fact that this happened. This wasn’t just another one of his dreams.

For as long as he’d been an apparition, he’d always hoped to be able to finally pass on and if this was his actual last day on Earth or wherever he was, then he’d gladly accept it because one night with you was enough. 

Eddie would die happy.

A/N: Reblogs, comments & likes are appreciated. 🥹 Do we want a part 2? Let me know! Thank you for reading! 🫶🏻

#mrwinterr writes #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #ghost!eddie munson #ghost!eddie #stranger things fic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington

[thepatchycat]

Hi! For the WIP List Game: Dragon Jedi AU?? I am intrigued

Hehe, that one is inspired by @bubblew0lf1's Dragon!Jedi AU! I adore all of their dragon designs, especially Obi-Wan's, and it got me thinking about a sort of fantasy AU where the Jedi are shape-shifting dragons. I'm not sure it's something that'll ever become a finished thing, but it's been fun to think about.

Rambling and a snippet below the cut :P

This AU's setting would condense most of the notable SW planets into continents/countries/cities on one planet; there wouldn't be any space travel, though technology would probably be better than in a medieval fantasy setting. Dragons are rare and I'm thinking the knowledge of their intelligence and that they can also be people is not well-known (either a closely guarded secret or actively suppressed)--and they're also being actively hunted by the Republic/Empire under the justification that dragons are extremely dangerous (this is Palpatine's fault, and he has far more nefarious reasons for hunting them down). I haven't worked out all the worldbuilding details, but I think the Jedi are a subset of dragons who serve as guardians where they can; recently, though, they've been forced to hide due to being hunted.

In this world, Cody and Rex are wardens (possibly heading up a small group of rangers) of a large woody/mountainous area bordering a very rural town far from the center of the Republic; the land was claimed and the town founded by the Mereel-Fett family after unrest in Mandalore forced Jaster Mereel (Jango Fett's adoptive father, Cody and Rex's grandfather) and his clan to leave. Mandalorians have a complicated history with dragons, but Jaster liked to tell stories about Tarre Vizla, a Mandalorian leader long ago who either was close friends with a dragon or was a dragon himself; details passed down through the centuries seem unclear. Jango's never been that interested in the tales, but Rex and especially Cody enjoyed them growing up.

Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka moved to the town together pretty recently; I think Obi-Wan runs a bookshop (or maybe a small library? A fusion of the two?), while Anakin works as a mechanic who's teaching Ahsoka the trade as well. Cody likes to read and chats with Obi-Wan when he stops by for books, while Rex brings the rangers' equipment to Anakin and Ahsoka for professional servicing (Rex tinkers a bit himself, but Anakin's a wizard) and they become fast friends. Of course, the friendly neighborhood bookkeeper and mechanics don't tell anyone that they're also dragons, including the Fetts, but Cody and Rex find out the truth eventually.

The only thing I actually started writing for this beyond notes is a scene just after Obi-Wan (in dragon form) fights Grievous (also a dragon but not a Jedi) somewhere deep in the Fetts' protected area. Cody had been doing a sweep/patrol at the time and witnessed at least part of the fight, and he goes to investigate the aftermath.

Warning that it's more gruesome than I usually go, what with blood and a dead dragon. This is just also the most snippable portion of what little I have, I think.

There is a deafening thud, and then— Silence. Cody slowly approaches the edge of the ravine and looks down. A hulking white shape lies still at the base of the rocky slope, red pooling under its gash-ridden body. It’s hard to tell from a distance what precisely killed it, but the lack of motion and abundance of blood suggest that either it’s dead or will be soon. Partially obscured, a smaller brown shape lies behind the great white beast, closer to the river; it seems similarly bloodied and still. Cody feels a pang of sorrow—that one had saved his life, whether intentionally or not. …Better make sure they’re dead, lest any survivors roam too close to town. Cody picks his way carefully down the side of the ravine, shifting between stepping and climbing as needed. When he’s made it to the bottom, he draws his rifle and approaches the white dragon. There is no movement between its sharply defined ribs, and up close Cody can see where the base of its throat has been torn open by—well, horns or claws, most likely. He follows the long neck up to the head, where dull yellow eyes stare sightlessly out from behind a gaping maw. Cody prods its nose lightly with the tip of his rifle. No response. Tempting as it still is to put a bolt in its skull, he’s hunted enough himself to know what death looks like. There’s no need. He steps around the body of the beast toward the visible back of the brown one. One of its wings lies bent at an unnatural angle behind it, and— It’s breathing, quick and labored. Not moving otherwise, but still alive, at least for now.

(Once he works out he's not going to get mauled to death for trying to help, Cody puts his wilderness first-aid skills to use. He still doesn't learn that it's Obi-Wan for a while, though.)

#Patchy Babbles #Patchy Writes #Thanks for the ask! :P #All my fanfic is self-indulgent but this one especially so #I can make my blorbos watch over a pseudo-preserve and also have dragons and nobody can stop me #Tag Games #cw blood #cw death

[letsquestjess]

Books and Roses - Part 2 (Hunter x GN! Reader)

Summary: You and Hunter go on your beach date where your feelings are brought out into the open.

Word count: 1.5K

Warnings: Going to put an 18+ and MDNI on this one since it gets a bit heated towards the end.

Part 1

-- -- -- -- --

“Tell me that isn’t the best caf you have ever had,” you said, strolling by Hunter’s side as you left the beachside cafe. As you both walked, occasional squeaks from above caught your attention, and you watched the tiny specks swoop and vault in the open blue. 

“I’ve had fresh caf before, but that… how did they get it to taste so good?” Hunter replied. 

“I know! Must be a secret of theirs.” Taking the lead, you navigated the twisting fences until you reached the stone steps and the beach at the bottom. The sand squished and moulded around your shoes until you found your stride. 

“A secret that needs uncovering,” Hunter said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It would be quite the adventure.” 

You let out a theatrical gasp and met his playfulness head on. “A new page for the folklore of Pabu,” you considered. “The Legend of the Fresh Caf. Will these two daring heroes find the secret of making the freshest cup of caf in the galaxy, or will they be consumed by their search, lost on a desolate planet?” 

A smoky laugh shot from Hunter, enrapturing your senses. Your own beam slipped into an adoring smile, and all you knew was that you wanted to make him chuckle like that again. To hear that enchanting sound until you could play it on repeat in your head. 

“As long as I was stuck with you, I wouldn’t mind,” he admitted. 

“Is that so?” you replied. 

Hunter nodded, and a surge of warmth rose from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. You turned away, grateful for the cooling touch of the coastal breeze. 

The tide washed in to soak the edges of the beach before hurrying out again in churning rolls of foam, whispering and crashing against the late morning. The birds overhead observed the shifting sea intently. Their keen eyes trailed the ripples before they dropped below the surface at breakneck speed and emerged seconds later, fish in their beaks and saltwater droplets shivering from their dusky feathers. 

“It’s so empty down here,” Hunter commented. “I thought it would have been busier.”

“It usually is in the afternoon, but there are certain times of the day when it’s quieter,” you said. “Evenings can be quite pleasant on this part of the island. I used to live close by, so when it was calm, I’d come here to read.”

He took in a lungful of air and the salty scent of seaweed filled his nostrils, mingling with the dry, woody aroma blowing from the hillside forest nearby. “I can’t believe I never asked you this before, but what’s your favourite folktale?” 

“Oh, that’s a difficult one.” You clicked your tongue, ruminating on a story that had enthralled you until you were powerless to do anything but bask in it. You knew exactly which tale you wanted to recount, but a tinge of embarrassment crept into your resolve. “Okay, I will be totally honest with you about this, but you have to promise not to laugh because it’s really mushy.”

The clone placed his hand over his heart in solemn assurance and prompted you to continue. 

Once you were convinced he’d keep his vow, you began your story. “When Pabu came into being, there was no light. Initially, the inhabitants thought little of it, confident in their ability to navigate the dark, but they soon discovered that it housed deadly creatures. These monsters waited for years, learning about the dwellers and building their strength before they unleashed their attack. They tore residents from their homes and left their bodies in the streets, taking some into the shadows where they were never heard of again.

“On the third day, the creatures chased two lovers up a mountainside. When the pair reached the top, they realised they were stuck. They could either wait to get eaten or jump. But instead of looking down into the gaping jaws of fate, they looked up into the nothingness above them and gave themselves up to the sky to become the sun and the moon. Their light killed the creatures and Pabu was saved.” 

Hunter released the breath he’d been holding. The stars themselves could have fallen and cracked around you both, but he would have remained unaware. His eyes fixed on you, on your lips as you spoke, on the wistful glimmer on your features as you told your tale and he was lost. He didn’t even want to fight it anymore. Why push away the serenity that filled him, that kindly presented him with little pockets of respite from his troubled past? His brothers were free to tease him endlessly if they wished so long as he got to spend every day with you. 

You stopped by the cliff base for some shade and handed him a bottle of water from your backpack, sipping on your own drink and completely oblivious to the crescendo of adoration growing within the man beside you. “That’s why there are so many lanterns on the island and why everybody turns on their lights as the sun is setting. It’s the island’s way of thanking the sun for protecting us during the day and to encourage the moon to shine and keep us safe during the night.” 

A rush of the tide resonated and when Hunter offered nothing in response, you turned to face him. If all the love in the universe suddenly vanished, you found it in his eyes, looking right at you. 

“That’s… that’s a very sweet story,” he managed to get out, his voice catching. He drank multiple mouthfuls of water, hoping it would soothe the dry rasp that grated in his throat. 

You sat down on the cool, gritty sand and patted the space next to you, inviting him to join you. 

He found a comfortable spot and settled himself down, focusing on the rhythm of the waves. “Omega would love this place, especially with all the coves for her to explore,” he said, pointing out a cave entrance he’d noticed along the rugged coastline. “And my brothers would probably enjoy the quiet. They’ve been asking to meet you.” 

“They want to meet me?” you asked, intrigued. “Why?”

“Because they got curious about me spending so much time at the library, and Omega told them about you. Wrecker convinced the others to sneak up a few days ago.” 

“And they saw us sat outside?”

“Yeah.” 

An amused chuckle escaped your lips, and you quickly smothered it with the back of your hand. 

“I will make sure they apologise to you,” he promised. “They shouldn’t have been spying and-”

“Hunter.”

“No, they should apologise. I-”

“Hunter,” you said, lighter, shuffling closer in a moment of confidence and silencing his concerns. “They don’t need to. No harm done. They were probably just worried about you.” 

His face still held the irritated notion that his brothers had spied on you both in those tentative, vulnerable moments, but as you delicately traced his skull tattoo, every annoyed crease vanished. 

“We’ve been dancing around this, haven’t we?” he said, encouraging you closer. 

“Perhaps a bit,” you shrugged. “But that’s part of the fun, right?” 

A brief hum tickled his throat as he nuzzled your nose and cradled your head. The scent of caf lingered on him, and lifting your chin, he whispered his lips over yours before he redoubled his efforts and deepened the kiss. 

He drew back to admire every inch of you and the sprinkle of stubble on his cheeks gently grazed your face before he dived in again, hungry and impatient. He slowed for a second to tease you, to have you whimpering for more before he wrapped his arm around your waist to bring you flush against him. 

Your body begged to venture that bit further, but your lungs screamed for air. You reluctantly separated from him and pressed your forehead to his. “Hunter…”

“I love hearing you say my name,” he whispered as he began planting delicate pecks down the side of your neck. 

A delicious laugh broke through your parted lips and he delighted in the sound, peppering open-mouthed kisses along your skin to elicit the same response. He got to your shoulder, and you guided his head back up, admiring the flecks of muted grey in the brown of his eyes. Tucking the loose strands of hair behind his ear, you kissed the tip of his nose. “We still have a lot of the beach to cover and our picnic,” you said. “If you like, we can find somewhere the watch the sunset later, and afterwards…” A brief smirk lit up your features and Hunter arched an eyebrow. 

“Afterwards?” he prompted. 

“You could come back to my apartment. I may not make the freshest caf on Pabu, but it’s still pretty good.” 

Hunter rose to his feet and helped you to yours, brushing the sand off you both. “How could I resist an offer like that?” he grinned, fingers lacing with yours as you stepped out of the shade and into the bright sunlight to continue your leisurely stroll.

As you pointed out landmarks and shared more stories, his mind overflowed with new date ideas. He realised, with serenity flooding his heart and a soothing sense of peace guiding him, that this was the beginning of the life he’d always wanted. 

TAGLIST (Message if you’d like to be added, 18+ only)

@skellymom @freesia-writes @the-hexfiles @theeyesofasoldier

#tbb #the bad batch #tbb fanfic #tbb fanfiction #sw tbb fanfiction #sw tbb fanfic #the bad batch fanfic #the bad batch fanfiction #sw tbb #sw the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #tbb x reader #tbb x you #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch x you #tbb hunter #hunter x reader #tbb hunter x reader #hunter x you #tbb hunter x you

[lostwriter--xx3]

Slightly Haunted

@prongsfoot-microfic

abused!James microfic dedicated to @rosemelodyshah <3 TW: Abuse, dark F&E Potter

...

The floor wasn't tiled. It was panelled, like the walls. A deep, woody hue. An almost lofty colour, but too hard to be completely comfortable to stand on. The difference between Sirius' heritage and aristocracy and his heritage and aristocracy was purely political — both houses had the ancient panelling with the tell-tale tallow drips. Between his feet, there were two drops of candle wax.

"I suppose you do this on purpose?", His father's voice wasn't angry, just resigned.

James was very sure that last week, there was only one wax drop on the floor. He kept his gaze down.

"Why, James? Why? After everything we have done — all the money we have poured, though goodness knows I don't like to bring it up!"

James kept his gaze down. The drips looked grey. A very deep grey, like an overcast, stormy night.

"Look at me, young man! You know you are one, I pray!"

James looked up, guilty. Again, he saw the Sirius' letter scrunched up in his father's hand. Again, he felt a tallow trip of lead in his stomach.

"He scored more than you, damn you! Don't you see? A Black! How could he be your friend? He is more than your family's council, I suppose?"

He is trying to sabotage you, distract you, ruin your reputation while...

"He is trying to sabotage you, distract you, ruin your reputation while he builds one for himself!"

Tears sprang up in James' eyes. He couldn't help it. The words were a blow to his guiltiest insecurity.

James had not been selected Prefect.

"He intentionally sabotaged you from become Prefect! He knew his family's awful reputation would get him nowhere, do he pulled you down with him!"

Remus had.

"How else could that werewolf's leavings win over you? Over you, damn it! After so many summer tutions, so many camps, so many private tutors — how many did that Lupin boy have? All the money— I don't like to speak of it, but all the money!"

I love my friends.

"Your friendships will ruin you", his mother warned. "Mark my words— they won't be grateful! Only family remains. Your friends will not chose you over their family." Hateful tears were in her eyes. "Only you are damned enough to do that."

There were few more grey drips on the floor now. All years.

James bit down on Sirius' lip, hard, trying to clear his head. Sirius gasped, leaning closer. "Yes."

The dorm was dark— and empty. James reached out, struggling with Sirius' robes. Sirius pulled apart, pulling them over his head. In the half light, James could see him brilliantly. The half shy, half cheeky smile. The invitation in his eyes. The flush on his cheeks. A dozen cuts on his arms from petty scrapes. Fresh bruises on his necks. So lovely, so perfect, so personal, so familiar.

What if that was real, and this isn't?

Sirius swooped in for a hard, intense kiss. "You're so goddamn lovely, mate."

"Funny", James muttered, breathless. "That's what I was thinking."

Sirius pressed his lips harder against him, teasing his mouth open. As he slipped his tongue over his teeth, he mumbled. "I love you too goddamn much."

How much is it worth to me?

"Everything", James whispered. "You are my everything."

Sirius' eyes flit open, meeting James' already wide, open ones. And Sirius' eyes were grey. A tallow-drip grey, like an overcast, stormy sea. So, James closed his eyes.

#prongsfoot microfic #sirius black #james potter #bambibelle #prongsfoot #prongsfoot microfic haunted #ink inking stuff

[evanesdust]

to forever

written for- @sterekmonthly word: forever @sterekbingo Valentine's square: mate

Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski Additional Tags: POV Alternating, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Werewolf Mates, Meet-Cute, time skip, Explicit Sexual Content, Rimming, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Knotting, Mating Bites, Fluff

Summary:

Supernatural lore had always described the mate bond as a sacred union of two destined souls, a concept Derek had dismissed as mere myth. Until he was struck by an intoxicating scent that evoked memories of home. It could only mean one thing. Mate.

Derek

Mate.

That was the only thought running through Derek's head as he inhaled the most enticing scent. It was woody and fresh, like oakmoss and lavender, reminding him of the preserve. Reminding him of home. Which was how he knew that whoever this scent belonged to was his mate.

Mates weren't exactly rare, but they certainly weren't common either. Supernatural lore spoke of the mate bond as sacred, the joining of two souls destined to complement and complete each other. Derek had always thought it was a myth—an old shifter's tale, but now, as his heart raced and his inner wolf howled in recognition, the truth was undeniable. This deep, inexplicable connection surged through him, drawing him toward the source, like a moth to a flame.

He followed the delicious scent into a coffee shop, the bell tinkling cheerily as he entered. Inside was bustling with people, all of whom were oblivious to the magic that had led Derek here. His gaze frantically swept across the room, searching for the one person among the crowd who would stand out like a beacon to his senses.

Derek frowned as his mate's scent was overpowered by the bitterness of roasted beans and the sweet undertone of pastries. As it was drowned out by the perfumes and after-shaves of the other patrons.

Dammit.

He needed to find them, his other half, before—

A body crashed into him, warm liquid spilling all over his front. It was a stark, unapologetic shock of heat against his skin and a sharp redirection of his focus. Derek gripped the guy's arms, steadying him when he swayed. As they locked eyes, he was met with a pair of startled brown eyes, though brown was too simple an adjective. They were like honey or amber, rich and warm, holding flecks of sunlight captured within their depths.

Derek could get lost in them. This guy was easily the most beautiful person he'd ever seen, from his large doe eyes and cute, upturned nose to his messy chestnut hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it one too many times.

As the guy's apologies stumbled over each other, Derek's gaze was drawn to his mouth, to those perfectly plump, pink lips he suddenly wanted to kiss until they were puffy and raw. A vivid picture of them stretched obscenely around his cock, of them moaning his name, flashed through Derek's mind, causing him to growl in approval. He barely registered the man's continued apologies.

Fuck! Derek had never had such a visceral reaction to a person before. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to regain some semblance of control over his primal instincts. Besides, he was here to find his—

The scent of his mate wrapped around him, even as the man's frantic voice pierced through his haze.

"Again, I'm so, so sorry," the guy stammered, hastily reaching for napkins to dab at the spill. He was drenched in the scent that had lured Derek here, the unmistakable mark of his mate. In that instant, the clamor of the coffee shop faded away, and all Derek could see was the person whose touch set his skin on fire with recognition.

"It's okay, accidents happen," Derek said, his voice calm despite the storm of emotions raging within him. The man looked relieved and gave a sheepish grin, and in that small exchange, the bond pulsed stronger, weaving an invisible thread between them that Derek felt tugging at his core. He wondered if his mate felt it, too. "I'm Derek, by the way."

"I'm Stiles." Stiles's cheeks flushed as their gazes met again, and Derek felt an absurd urge to chase that blush with his lips. To trace the moles on Stiles's cheeks with his tongue and taste the salt of his skin.

Derek knew without a shadow of a doubt that fate had handed him a treasure more precious than anything he had ever hoped to find. The realization hit him with the force of a thunderclap. The mess of the spilled drink was inconsequential, practically forgotten now. Who cared about a soiled shirt when all that mattered was the palpable bond between them, growing stronger with every shared heartbeat? Certainly not Derek now that he knew that the mate bond wasn't just a tale; it was real—and right in front of him, in Stiles's excited smile, in the flush of his cheeks, and most of all, in the vibrant beat of his heart, which seemed to call out to Derek's.

He needed to find a way to bring it up. Sure, the world might have adapted to supernaturals and humans co-existing, but the significance of the mate bond wasn't something most people knew about or even understood. It was intimate and profound, and Derek had to tread carefully so he didn't scare Stiles off.

Stiles looked at him with a quizzical expression, and Derek knew he had to explain. His heart pounded as he took a leap of faith. "Okay, so, this might sound crazy, but there's something I need to talk to you about. Can we sit and talk?"

"Uh…y-yeah, sure. Okay." Stiles nodded, curiosity flickering in his eyes, clearly intrigued by Derek's sincere yet mysterious tone. As they found a secluded corner amidst the busy coffee shop, Derek felt the weight of his revelation pressing down on him.

"Stiles," he began cautiously, his voice a low rumble, "what do you know about the supernatural? About werewolves?"

Stiles's eyes widened perceptibly, a mixture of surprise and intrigue flashing through them.

"I, uh, I know some," he said cautiously, leaning forward. "I have some friends that are supernatural. A couple of werewolves, a banshee… And, of course, I've read things, seen stuff on TV, but...why? Are you saying that...are you...?" His words trailed off as realization dawned on him.

Derek could see the gears turning in Stiles’s mind, so he nodded slowly in confirmation, the gravity of the situation anchoring his words. "Yes, I'm a werewolf. And there's something more. Something that involves you directly." He held Stiles's gaze, unwavering with the intensity of a vow. "We have something called a mate, and you’re mine. You’re my mate," Derek stated plainly, despite the magnitude of the admission.

Stiles's reaction was instantaneous; his breath hitched in his throat, and his pulse quickened—a subconscious response to the claim, to the bond that now tethered them.

"I'm your mate?" Stiles asked, disbelief and awe mingling in his whispered voice.

Derek merely nodded, allowing the weight of the revelation to settle between them. "Have you heard of it? Of mates?"

Stiles's eyes locked onto Derek's, a storm of emotions swirling within them. "Yeah, I've heard of it. Like soulmates, right? One person perfectly made for another. It's just...it's rare, right?" His voice was filled with wonder, tinged with a hint of skepticism. "I mean, I never imagined—" He paused, taking a deep breath as if to ground himself. "But with you, somehow, it makes sense. I can't explain it, but I feel...connected to you and I don't even know you."

He reached out, fingers tentatively brushing against Derek's, and there was electricity in the contact—a gentle spark acting as a silent acknowledgment of the unseen force pulling them together. The buzz in the air was almost tangible, wrapping around them like a warm embrace. It solidified something deep within Derek, an unspoken understanding that this was the beginning of something monumental.

Stiles let out a shaky breath, his grip on Derek's hand tightening slightly. "So what happens now?"

Derek responded with a reassuring smile, his voice steady and clear. "Now, we get to know each other. To understand the full depth of this bond and build our connection. No rush, no pressure—just us learning about what it means to be mates. If that's something you want, that is."

God, he hoped it was. Now that he knew he had a mate, now that he'd met Stiles, the thought of a future without him seemed unimaginable despite knowing nothing about him. It was as if Stiles had already become an essential part of his life, as if Stiles had filled a gap Derek hadn't even known existed.

He gave Stiles's hand a gentle squeeze, his heart fluttering with the excitement of the journey ahead, filled with endless possibilities. Assuming Stiles agreed, of course. For all Derek knew, Stiles had a full life that didn't include space for werewolf soulmates. He certainly didn't want to think of the possibility that Stiles was dating someone. But the way Stiles looked at him—the warmth in his touch—betrayed interest and, possibly, the beginning of acceptance.

"I want to explore this," Stiles said, a mix of determination and curiosity in his eyes. "I mean, it's not every day you find out you're someone's destined other half."

Derek's heart soared. That was all he could have hoped for.

"Then that's our starting point. No expectations or predictions, just a journey we'll take together," Derek said, the smile in his voice as clear as it was on his face.

Stiles nodded, his expression earnest. "I like the sound of that. A journey with no roadmap, just...discovery." He chuckled, a light veil of nervous excitement in his laughter. "We should start now. This can be our first date. Let me buy you a coffee."

"I feel like I should buy you one since it was my clumsiness that got us talking in the first place," Derek replied with a playful grin.

Stiles laughed, the sound easing the tension between them. "I'm pretty sure I bumped into you, but something tells me if I tried to argue, we'd be here all day debating it. So how 'bout a truce? We both get each other a coffee. Sort of like a symbolic exchange—a fresh start."

Derek agreed, and they rose together, heading to the counter. The barista greeted them with a warm smile, oblivious to the extraordinary connection blossoming between them. And once they had their orders and sat side by side back at their table, the world around them continued its bustle, but for Derek (and Stiles), the chaos fell away. They were in their own little bubble, poised on the brink of discovery, stepping into a future that was uncharted but promising.

---

Stiles

The morning sun cast a soft glow across the room as Stiles blinked awake. He lifted his head from the pillow he'd been drooling on, squinting against the light, but that wasn't what woke him. No, that privilege belonged to Derek—or, rather, to Derek's talented tongue and the strong, slow sweeps over his hole.

"Fuck," Stiles muttered, glancing back at Derek. All he could see was Derek's dark hair, his fingers that were gripping Stiles's ass to hold him open, and the broad expanse of Derek's shoulders as he continued eating Stiles out like a man starved. From the ravenous sounds Derek made, maybe he was.

Stiles's breath hitched, a cocktail of desire and morning haziness fogging his brain. Usually, he woke up to Derek curled around him, using him like a pillow, face buried in the crook of his neck as if the only thing he wanted to inhale while sleeping was Stiles's scent. But today was different; Derek's hunger was palpable, his urgency a tangible force—almost feral in its intensity. Stiles could feel it in the way Derek's hands clenched, holding him steady, and in the relentless push of his mouth. The usual morning quiet was pierced by the slick sounds of Derek's tongue, his moans and groans, and the occasional whimper that slipped from Stiles's lips.

He reached back, fingers tangling in Derek's hair, urging him on without words. The sensation was overwhelming, bordering on too much, yet not quite enough.

"Derek," he gasped, his voice a rough whisper that immediately got swallowed by the soft hums of pleasure Derek emitted. The intensity of Derek's ministrations increased, fingers digging deeper as he pulled Stiles closer to the edge of bliss. With every flick and swirl of his tongue, Derek asserted his intent to worship Stiles with an unspoken promise of relentless pursuit. Stiles's toes curled, his grip tightened, and he arched his back, lost in the sensations that threatened to consume him whole.

Yeah, this was definitely the best way to wake up.

Stiles moaned, long and low, as Derek lifted his hips, his touch more insistent now that Stiles was awake. The heat of Derek's breath and the press of his lips were like a brand, igniting a fire within him. Stiles reluctantly let go of Derek's hair, fumbling for purchase on the sheets, crumpling them in his fist as he arched into the sensation. He could feel every lap, every tease, as if Derek was speaking directly to his nerves, weaving a spell that left Stiles desperate for more.

"Derek," he breathed. He pleaded and begged. And it was clear that Derek understood without a single word being spoken. Of course, he would. They'd been together for twenty years now, and Derek knew every silent plea, every desperate clutch of the sheets, every single beat of Stiles's heart. He knew without Stiles having to vocalize what he wanted. What he needed. Their connection was beyond words, a dance of understanding and response honed through countless mornings like this one. Derek's expert touchwas a catalyst, sparking reactions that only grew more intense with each passing second, pushing Stiles closerclosercloser to an edge he was all too willing to tumble over. The room—no longer just a space illuminated by the morning sun—transformed into an altar of pleasure, with Stiles as the offering and Derek, the devout worshiper, paying homage.

Stiles's dick throbbed as soon as he heard the soft snick of the lube cap. He'd laugh at the fact that Derek couldn't bring himself to pull away for even a second, but like Pavlov's dog, Stiles was conditioned to respond to that sound instantly, his heart rate spiking in expectation.

Derek wasted no time, slick fingers joining his mouth in a symphony of sensation that had Stiles writhing, gasping his name like a mantra—DerekDerekDerek.

With painstaking precision, one finger became two, then three as Derek stretched him, stoking the fire he'd started with his tongue.

Some days, Stiles could be patient, loving the way Derek drew out his pleasure, savoring every touch, every kiss, every caress. He knew how much Derek loved doing it—keeping him on edge, burning with lust and anticipation. But today was not one of those days. Today, Stiles was all about the destination, not the journey. He bucked against Derek's fingers, silently pleading for more. He needed Derek's cock. Needed to come on his knot.

When Derek finally complied and pulled his fingers out, Stiles wanted to cry at the emptiness, but he knew it was a prelude to what he craved most. There was a brief pause, a whisper of movement, and then Derek was there—the hard press of him, insistent and promising.

"I've got you," Derek murmured, easing Stiles to his side. His voice was low and steady, a comforting anchor through the waves of anticipation that crashed over Stiles.

Derek's presence enveloped him, strong and sure, and Stiles nearly sobbed with relief as Derek filled him in one smooth thrust. The initial breach was pleasure and pain, a sensation that Stiles craved in the very marrow of his bones. Because this was Derek. His mate. The person who'd always known exactly how to touch him, how to take him to heights of ecstasy. It was everything Stiles desired, so intense and overwhelming, a connection forged in the depths of their twenty-year history.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, his gaze locking with Derek's, understanding passing between them before Derek began to move. Part of Stiles wanted to shift to his back so he could see Derek's face, to watch his eyes darken with lust and love, but the position they were in allowed Derek to hit the most perfect spot within him. Plus, there was something about the way Derek held him like this, cradled from behind, that felt incredibly intimate and protective. Their rhythm was steady, a crescendo of thrusts that had Stiles gripping the sheets tighter, that had him letting out breathless moans that mingled with Derek's growls of pleasure.

Each thrust was a testament to their years together, a perfect rhythm only they knew. There was no need for words as their bodies spoke volumes. Pleasure built upon pleasure until Stiles was teetering on the precipice, ready to tumble over into the blissful abyss.

Stiles reached back, threading his fingers through Derek's hair. It was grounding, another silent testament to their bond. And then he tugged Derek closer, needing more. To kiss him, to taste him. And the moment their mouths met, it was a clash of teeth and tongue, a desperate, hungry kiss that mirrored the intensity of their movements. It was all-consuming, the taste of Derek's mouth, sweat, and need. A mingled moan vibrated between them as they consumed each other. The kiss left Stiles aching for more, every fiber of his being pulled taut with desire.

The room echoed with the sounds of their passion, the soft slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed frame, the rustling of the sheets. The moans and groans and panting breaths. Every movement, every connection, was intensified by their bond, pushing Stiles higherhigherhigher, and as soon as Derek wrapped his hand around Stiles’s cock, he shattered.

Stiles called out Derek's name in a visceral crescendo of satisfaction as his orgasm ripped through him. His body trembled, waves and waves of intense pleasure crashing over him—crashing through him when Derek followed him over the edge, letting out a deep, guttural groan that matched Stiles's cries.

As Derek's knot swelled, locking them together, he bit down on Stiles's mating bite, marking him once again, something Stiles would never get enough of. The intensity of the bite sent another wave of ecstasy through Stiles, reaffirming the bond that tethered them together. It turned him into a mewling, quivering mess, his body overwhelmed by the aftershocks of his orgasm—something that never seemed to diminish no matter how many years passed, no matter how many times they did this. And Stiles never wanted that to change.

As their heartbeats slowly synchronized, a harmonious rhythm that felt like coming home, Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles, pulling him closer in a tender embrace of sweat-slicked limbs and shallow breaths.

"Happy anniversary," Derek whispered against Stiles's skin, the words soft but laden with emotion.

Stiles chuckled, his heart swelling with love and contentment.

"Happy anniversary. Couldn't have asked for a better celebration," he replied, voice still hoarse from the intensity of his release. Stiles closed his eyes, bringing one of Derek's hands up and kissing his knuckles. He smiled as he thought back to that day in the coffee shop. "Can you believe it's been twenty years? Do you remember when we met?"

Derek chuckled, running his nose along the curve of Stiles's neck, inhaling the scent of them. Stiles smiled, knowing how much Derek loved it when Stiles smelled like him.

"Of course, I remember," Derek murmured, his voice a low rumble that never failed to send shivers down Stiles's spine. "That was the day you spilled your coffee on me and apologized profusely, but all I could think about was how gorgeous you were and how excited I was to find my mate."

Stiles laughed softly, the sound bubbling up from deep within, filled with years of shared memories and experiences.

"God, I was so embarrassed," he said, a smile playing on his lips at the memory of running into a hard wall of muscle. He'd been in such a hurry because he was late for class—not that any of that mattered after he met Derek. Nothing short of an emergency could have pulled Stiles away from that moment. "And I remember being so utterly mesmerized by your eyes."

Derek's eyes were…indescribable. A kaleidoscope of colors that seemed to hold entire galaxies within them, always filled with warmth and love when they rested on Stiles. The intensity in Derek's gaze had always been a lighthouse in the storm for Stiles, guiding him back to safe harbor. Just like their bond. And now, as they lay intertwined, Stiles felt the strength of it, unbreakable and eternal, and he knew without a doubt that he would choose Derek again in every lifetime they were given. Which made sense, considering they were mates.

Soulmates in the truest sense of the word.

Their bond was a rarity, something that many longed for but few could truly understand. And as they lay there, basking in the glow of their love, Stiles couldn't help but feel grateful. Grateful for the coffee spill that changed his life and for the years of joy and challenges they faced together. Grateful for Derek, who was more than just his mate but his partner in every sense of the word.

"I love you," Stiles turned his head and kissed Derek softly. It was a sentiment echoed back in Derek's heartfelt 'And I love you,' voiced in a tone conveying the depth of his emotions. "Here's to another twenty years."

"Mmm...not long enough." Derek brushed their noses together before whispering, "Here's to forever."

The promise hung in the air, as solid and enduring as the bond they shared. In the quiet afterglow, they lay intertwined, basking in the love that had only deepened with time.

They stayed in each other's embrace, the silent contentment between them was as profound and comforting as it had been from the very beginning. Outside, the world continued on, but in their shared space, time seemed to stand still—a moment captured forever as a testament to their enduring love and the years they would continue to build together.

#sterek #sterekmonthly #sterekmonthlyforever #sterekbingo #sterek valentine's exchange #holy shit i wrote something

[intheorangebedroom]

Road Trippin’

Summary: you take a road trip along the west coast with your boyfriend.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Can be read as a stand-alone. This said, I respect you all far too much to try and make you believe this isn’t my two PTMY filthy puppies. Let’s say, for the sake of suspense, that it might be them OR it might be an AU in which they get a happy ending…

ETA (July 22nd 2023): Now that PTMY is complete, I can finally move that baby up to a brand new Drabbles section of its masterlist, because it's always been Frankie & Gabrielle, Gabrielle & Frankie 🧡

Rating: Explicit 🔞 Fluff and filth with a dash of angst because hey, it’s me 😏

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: @wildemaven here it is! Again, thank you so much for sharing your incredible talent with us, for this wonderful idea, and for showing me a different way 🧡 I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

As in 99% of what I write, the story is titled after a song, another source of inspiration for me, here RHCP’s Road Trippin’.

Warning: contains some very self-indulging reference to a certain line of dialogue from TF…

Drabble: Road Trippin’

“Frankie, it’s beautiful,” you breathe out, your words immediately engulfed by the deafening noise of the waves crashing on the rocks below.

He nudges your shoulder, letting you know he heard you, and you chase the heat of his body, leaning against his arm and resting your head against the firm slope of his shoulder. The soft, cottony fabric of his hoodie caresses your cheek when you brush against it. You look up at him and it’s another vision that has your breath hitching in your chest. Locks of luscious brown curls perk out from under the hood of his sweater, swept soft and tempting by the ocean breeze over the landscape of his sharp profile .

Your heart leaps out of your rib cage and you quickly return your gaze to the tumult of the ocean. You don’t think you can withstand so much beauty.

“The weather could be better,” he says about the thin drizzle that surrounds you like misty drapes, but you shake your head no.

The subtle pink and blue pastels of his sweater stand out under the overcast sky, the pearl gray clouds highlighting the colours of the nature that surrounds you. Shadows play across the surface of the ocean, deepening its many shades of green, the soft slopes of the mountains evocative of the curves of a sleeping figure draped in emerald velvet.

“Oh no, this is perfect. Everything is perfect,” you murmur, breathing in his scent, woody and musky, with a faint, clean note of your laundry detergent. He smells like home.

Frankie smiles at the clouds, and his swelling heart feels cramped in his chest. He doesn’t think he can withstand so much happiness.

The large, white wagon you’re traveling with is parked behind you, where you screamed at Frankie to stop just before driving over Bixby Bridge. You got so caught up in the scenery you forgot your camera on the passenger seat.

You had always wanted to see Big Sur, and the trip had moved up to the top of your bucket list since you’d come to America. You had told him about this life-long dream of yours in passing, but of course, he had remembered.

And the idea had slowly taken root in his mind as you kept asking him for tales of his childhood and the place where he grew up.

One evening back in January, he had come home from work to find you sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, fiddling with a bottle of British lager, weary and defeated by a particularly rough day of icy cold weather and dealing with unpleasant customers.

The tired but sincere smile you had greeted him with had swept away the last of his doubts, and he had presented you with a half formed plan: flying to San Diego, and road tripping up north along the coast to Monterey. Perhaps even to Yosemite, if you’d like to.

You' ha'd risen up from your chair and jumped up and down excitedly like a kid who’s been told they’re going to Disneyland, and his face brightened up with a dimpled smile, which prompted you to sit on his lap, wrapping yourself around his body and pecking his pretty face with so many kisses he couldn’t open his eyes, his broad shoulders shaking with a breathy chuckle.

You’d agreed to travel in April, to avoid the crushing heat of Southern California, and the two of you had started drawing lists of everything you wanted to see.

Later that night, as you lied in bed naked, tucked in against his warm body with your legs intertwined, you’d ask him, encouraged by the friendly obscurity.

“Will it be ok, for you, Frankie? Going back there?”

He’d kissed the crown of your head, breathing in your scent briefly, before offering a reassuring answer. When in truth, he had no idea how he would feel about it. He hadn't set foot in San Diego, or even California for that matter, since he’d moved to Brooklyn with his sister after their mother’s passing, some twenty-three years ago.

And in the end, it had been just fine. Better, actually, than anything he could have hoped it to be. Seeing you walking these distantly familiar streets, the same ones he had spent hours exploring on his bike as a wandering child, had rewritten the narrative of this past life. Just like you’d done with his time in the army, just like you’d done with his scars, the tangible ones, and the ones only you and him could see.

You wanted a real adventure, you’d said, as real as they come in movies and postcards, camp out in the wild, sleep under the tent, snap a million pictures with your dented Rolleiflex, forget about the GPS and use a roadmap instead, because you were pretty good with these, you’d said. And sure enough, you were. He had had some reservations about the camping part, given how long you spent under the shower every morning, but you’d surprised him with your ability to clean up and get ready in under five minutes in gas station bathrooms.

And with his skills for organisation, a happy occupational hazard of sorts, the road trip was going as smoothly as possible.

Your enthusiasm and candid wonderment were like a drug to him, there was nothing you’d wish he could deny you.

When you’d ask to make a detour to visit Hearst’s castle, he’d immediately agreed. The excitement lit up your eyes as you buoyantly told him of the many tales you’d read about the place. Hearst himself, Marion Davies, Louise Brooks, Buster Keaton, Greta Garbo, Dolores Del Rio, the feud with Orson Welles about Citizen Kane, down to The White Stripes’ Union Forever.

You’d smile at him apologetically for being the most annoying Wikipedia page, but he’d cupped your sweet mug in his large hands and nuzzled your nose, telling you this was the best trip he’d ever been on, after the one you’d taken the previous year in Paris.

“I missed the ocean so much,” you sigh, wrapping both arms around his.

“We don’t live far, we definitely could go more often.”

“Could we fly to Coney Island?” you ask excitedly, tilting your head up.

His laughter rumbles over the waves as he answers, “Right! I can land the chopper on top of the Wonder Wheel, how’s that?”

You push him gently, with a quiet giggle. You know he’s joking but you’re pretty sure he’d try to do it if you kept pressing…

“Did you go often, back when you lived in Paris?” he asks after a pause.

“Any chance I would get. I usually went to Normandie to see the cliffs, by the Channel. It’s my favourite place, it’s really gorgeous. I could spend hours looking at the tide, just get lost in the waves, it’s just so soothing, watching something that existed long before you and that will remain long after you’re gone. Like I could get in the water and drift away, and everything would be fine. But it’s nothing like here. Here is much more… I don’t know, gentle?”

The way you express yourself in sensations triggers something warm within him. He untangles his arm from yours and positions you in front of him, encircling your waist and leaning down to whisper in your ear, “Tomorrow we’ll have a swim, if the weather’s better.”

His warm breath fans the soft hair on your nape and heat flares up in your lower belly. You don’t doubt for a second that this was precisely his intention.

“Did you swim very often, when you lived here?” you ask, and he can hear the arousal in your wavering voice.

“Yea, all the time. I’d ride my bike to the beach and swim for hours. Like you said, the water makes everything better. I would get a thrill swimming as far as I could, until I was exhausted, until I wasn’t sure if I could make it back. But everything would be fine.”

You shiver between his arms at the shared experience and he tightens his hold around you. The two of you get lost in each other’s silence, in the foreign memory of forgotten loneliness.

“That explains the shoulders,” you finally say.

“What’s with the shoulders?” he asks, and his husky tone confirms the mood has shifted.

“You know what’s with the shoulders, Morales. But I’ll show you tonight, anyway.”

—

The night air is cool outside the tent, but inside it’s humid and hot. The blanket scrapes your knees where they rub on it in your swaying movement on top of him, as you try to work in his length, your splayed fingers digging into the plane of his solid chest just like you like it, but it’s useless, Frankie’s restless underneath you, roaming his hands all over your body, cupping your breasts and kneading them greedily, then down to the swell of your ass where he grabs a handful of your flesh and uses it to press you further down on him, but you’re slippery with sweat and he grunts in frustration until you tell him, winded by exertion, “What do you want, baby?”

“Fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back onto the bunched up duvet, and oh god, his neck, his gorgeous neck, the view sends a new wave of slick rushing down your walls, “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s fine,” you say, “just take what you need, Frankie baby.”

He sits up and flips you on your back before you can even finish your sentence, and the air is punched out of your lungs when you hit the floor with a muffled thud.

Oh it is fine, you think, as you downright salivate at the sight of his sweaty chest, his golden skin gleaming in the yellow hue from the camping lamp, his dampened locks glued to his forehead and curling around his ears.

He takes hold of your ankles and places them on his shoulders, and you brace yourself on the blanket, knowing what’s to come. Frankie kisses your calf and as he lines himself up, you see how his eyes have gone completely dark, his pupils blown wide with lust and need.

He drives into you suddenly, to the hilt, and you clench your eyes and trash your head back with a hissed “shit”, but he grinds further in, swirling his hips against your ass, rearranging you for him, and for a brief second you recoil, you don’t think you can make it.

He leans down over you, pushing your knees into your chest, folding you in half. Your frowned brow halts his grinding, but the thought remains, he can’t shake it off. He wants to anchor you to his body, fuck his love into you, care for you and pleasure you in all the ways he knows how until you never feel the need to drift away ever again.

Comprehension strikes you when you open your eyes and look at his face. “I’m here, Frankie, I’m here with you, not going anywhere, baby,” you coo, running your thumb over the crease between his brow.

Frankie lets out a deep breath, lets his shoulders sag, softly kisses your palm, and pulls almost all the way out.

It’s passed. The storm has abated.

He leans back a bit, and you can breathe again, and when he resumes his moving, he rocks into you slowly, with shallow thrusts, giving you time to adjust.

You moan with the effort, you don’t think he’s ever been this thick or this hard, and when he places his hands on your forearms for leverage, you grip his back, using the hold to try and control his pacing.

“Alright baby, alright baby, come on now, you know you can take it.”

“It’s a lot, Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea? You’ve taken worse than that,” he smiles cockily and you answer with a soundless laugh because, yes, indeed, he’s made you take far worse than that.

He links your forearms over your belly, holding them with one hand, and brings his other one to your lips, prompting them to open. You take in his fingers, suck on them sloppily, with hunger, and he chuckles.

“That’s it, good girl. Look at you, so fucking filthy, of course you can take it.”

He starts rubbing fast circles on your clit and drives into you a little faster, a little harder.

“This okay, baby?” His voice is hoarse with restraint and you feel the tension shifting in your core as a new rush of slick pools down your folds.

“Tell me how it feels, baby, lemme hear your pretty voice.”

“It feels good, Frankie, fuck I- I’m so full, you feel good, you feel so good,” your voice is waning as your climax draws nearer, your belly pulled taut under your crossed wrists.

He’s pounding into you now, hard and fast and deep, his fingers a steady pressure across your bundle of nerves, and you watch as beads of sweat roll down his neck onto his chest, and you warn him, “Oh god I’m coming, Frankie, I’m coming.”

“I can feel it, baby, I can feel it.”

He presses down on your legs, his hips starting to stutter, but he keeps talking, talks you through it, and you let his voice swipe you and pull you under, let it take you over the edge as pleasure washes over you in violent waves.

The flutter of your cunt tips him over and he comes with a loud curse, and when you feel his body slump over yours, you shift under his weight and he pulls out all of a sudden.

Gently, he takes your limp legs off his shoulders, kisses your scraped knees better, and lowers them on the blanket. When you lift your head to look at him, he is kneeled between your spread thighs, watching his spend leaking out of your swollen folds, heaving, a tired smile curling his plush lips.

Your eyes meet, and he tells you, “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fuck it back in.”

—

Tomorrow you will go swimming together in the ocean. He will gaze in amazement and reverence at your smiling eyes, mirroring the sea and the sky that saw him grow up. He will kiss the burn from the sun off your shoulders and you will lick the salt from the water off his neck. You will sit close to him in the white wagon, tracing the route on the map with your finger, to the north, to the east, to the west, or the south, it doesn’t really matter, because anywhere on earth, with him, will always be the best trip ever.

****

Bonus: some pictures Reader captured along the trip 🧡

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

#frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales / you #frankie morales / fem!reader #frankie morales / reader #frankie morales / ofc #the pilot™️ #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #wildmaven prompts week 2 #wildmaven prompts

[cinemaocd]

Jenny's ongoing list of films watched 2024

January

RRR (2023)*

Peter's Friends (1992)*

The Lady Eve (1941)

How to Get a Head in Advertising (1988)*

High Fidelity (2000)

Frieda (1947)*

Oh...Rosalinda! (1955)

The Quick and the Dead (1995)*

The Barefoot Contessa (1954)*

The Life and Death of Col. Blimp (1943) Commentary Track (2012)*

Rhubarb (1951)*

The Birds (1963)*

House of Yes (1997)*

Cassandra Cat (1963)*

Foreign Correspondent (1940)

The Long Goodbye (1973)

Night of the Comet (1984)

The Day the Earth Caught Fire (1961)*

For Me and My Gal (1942)*

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

The Small, Back Room (1949)

House of Games (1987)

Water (1985)*

The Ballad of John and Yoko (2023)*

The Meaning of Life (1983)

Track 29 (1988)*

*New to me

Thoughts on the New to Me films:

New Year's Eve we watched RRR, a lot of fun, energetic, bright and action-packed. I enjoyed the way that little attention was given to the British characters. They were straight up villains in ill fitting ahistorical costumes, kind of like the way Indian/Asian characters are treated in Western films most of the time...$$$

New Year's Day we watched Peter's Friends, a drama/comedy from the early 90s starring all of the famous Cambridge Footlights. Big Chill-ish film set in a country house over the Christmas holidays. $$$

How to Get a Head in Advertising was weird and also really good. Had a similar vibe to Withnail and I (possibly because of Richard E. Grant, but also possibly the mixture of the surreal with the realistic). Quite stage-y in some ways but clever and savage in it's satire of life in the 80s. $$$

Frieda: Oh I loved this! Weird World War II melodrama about a German girl marrying a British boy and all the trouble it causes with his complex family situation. Such a stellar cast including the late, great Glynnis Johns. $$$$

The Quick and the Dead: I set my expectations quite low for this and was pleasantly surprised. I liked Sam Raimi's comic book-y take on gunfighters and esp. loved Sharon Stone's character. We love to see a female action hero with no love interest. A nice twist on the Man with no Name trope. Excellent cast as well with Russell Crowe, Gene Hackman, Roy Scheider and Woody Stroud in his final film. $$$

The Barefoot Contessa: Joseph Mankewitcz is one of the geniuses of old Hollywood but this ain't it, chief. Just kind of all of the place melodrama that makes no sense and relies too much on Ava Gardner looking amazing in technicolor in the South of France. A bit of a commentary on Grace Kelly who a few years earlier married minor royalty on the Riviera. Even Rossano Brazzi can't save this mess for me. $

Rhubarb: Two genres I usually kind of hate (family-friendly animal centered film, sports film) combined into one and it's actually a lot of fun. Ray Milland and a bunch of classic character actors as the baseball team (also Leonard Nemoy has a tiny part as a mobster) in this slight/ predictable romp. $$

The Birds: Woah, shit this was good. I should have known. Amazing tension created and Hitchcock just sells the surreal horror with lots of rear projection...so. much. rear. projection. $$$

House of Yes: How about House of NOPE. Ugh what a mess this was. Some good performances and intriguing story, but it was very stagey and I don't know why the 90s couldn't make a story about adult children and their parents without reducing everyone to cliches and stereotypes but this and Six Degrees of Separation are definitely guilty of that, but the latter is just a better film. $

Cassandra Cat: Takes a long time to get to the cat which given that this was a family film from the 60s might be a problem for some viewers, expecting a more cat-centric movie. Interesting riff on fairy tales from the Czech New Wave. Beautiful Demy-esque technicolor and settings make this 60s nonsense fly by. $$

The Day the Earth Caught Fire: 60s nuclear panic disaster film that really just shows the earth as it is now in the throws of global warming. Yikes. Thoughtfully written and well acted by a bunch of folks I'd never heard of. $$

For Me and My Gal: Directed by Busby Berkley and starring Gene Kelly and Judy Garland and set in the 1920s on the Vaudeville circuit, I was expecting a lot more fun, dancing, color, costumes etc. This is actually more of a black and white war time melodrama with some music shoved into it and the dancing is very rudimentary. (I think this is probably because Garland esp. at this stage wasn't in the same league with Gene Kelly and I think it would have been too noticable...). Filmed at the entry of America into WW2 this was quite a deliberate propaganda piece. $$

TLADOCB Commentary: I've watched this movie 20 times at least but the commentary really made me think about a bunch of things differently. Can't say I recommend unless you are fanatic though as it's obviously pieced together from interviews Michael Powell and Martin Scorcese $$

Water (1985): If you smoke the exact right strain of sativa and ignore some of the more dated aspects of this 80s comedy, that reads as if Local Hero were a Cheech and Chong film--this is a total classic. Irreverent Michael Caine just straight up breaking character the minute he turns into a guerilla fighter in the jungle and being far too competent and cool, and then snapping back to sweetly shy, inept British Civil Servant, finding he actually loves his hated backwater post (the invent Casara part Caribbean, part Devon Jurassic Coast) while having to actually do his job. Political satire and fully both barrels to Maggie Thatcher and Reagan. Good on em. Filmed in St. Lucia, the movie has a zany heart and little taste, hoovering up vast quantities of competent TV players from my youth: Herman Munster and Reginald Perrin to name but two. Awkward love story and some uneven acting from Valerie Perrin and Brenda Vaccaro. I enjoyed myself, heartily, anyway. $$$

The Ballad of John and Yoko: Technically a video essay with amazing production values (the licensing alone was epic) dragging together disparate topics around the central theme of women being blamed for bad things happening to infantalized male geniuses. Is it the most coherent argument? No. Does it absolutely tap into many unexpressed or implied ideas that have been floating around since me too? Absolutely. $$

Track 29: This was some of the worst casting I've ever seen in a film. When I think of Texas nurse who is into trains and spanking, I don't automatically think of comedian Sandra Bernhardt. When I think of an actress of that era who was old enough to play Gary Oldman's mother, I don't think of Theresa Russell who is the same age as Oldman and looked every bit as young as he did in the film. Maybe that was the point? I'm not sure. The story was weird, like a Southern Gothic melodrama/black comedy ala Flannery O'Connor, but there was something off about the whole thing.

#Jenny's Film Odyssey #all credit to @dweemeister #January film Odyssey

[princesssarisa]

Sleeping Beauty Spring: "The Sleeping Princess" (1939 Walter Lantz cartoon)

This 9-minute Technicolor "fractured fairy tale" was produced by Walter Lantz, the creator of Woody Woodpecker. It comes from a series titled Nertsery Rhymes ("nerts" being an old slang word for "crazy"), which seems to consist of just two cartoons, this one and a version of Jack and the Beanstalk. As Sleeping Beauty adaptations go, it's far from high art, but but it does have silly charm.

At the beginning, we meet four fairies who live together in the clouds above a rainbow: the Fairies of Wealth, Beauty, Wisdom, and Destiny. "They were all very beautiful... twenty years ago," says the narrator; now they're aging, rubber-limbed, bulbous-nosed goofballs. But they still share a happy life of music and dancing. That is, until the little princess is born in the kingdom below, and when the mailman delivers the fairies' invitations to the castle, Destiny's invitation accidentally slips under the rug by the door, without anyone noticing. Thinking she wasn't invited, Destiny is outraged. So after the other fairies give the Princess their gifts of wealth, beauty, and wisdom (instantly draping her cradle in silk and pearls, changing her from an ugly baby into a cute one, and making her able to talk at one day old), she curses the girl to prick her finger on her fifteenth birthday and fall asleep for a hundred years.

Fifteen years later, the big-eyed, noodle-limbed Princess finds Destiny disguised as an old woman with a spinning wheel. At first her response to the offer to try spinning is a flighty "I don't wanna." But when Destiny begs enough, and shows her the book of Sleeping Beauty that outlines what she has to do, she finally pricks her finger and plops onto a bed, telling the audience "Come back in a hundred years, folks, and see me wake up!"

One day, a hundred years later, the fairies finally discover Destiny's invitation under the rug. Destiny is more amused than remorseful for what she did, but she still resolves to set things right, and makes a magic wish to send the nearest prince to the castle to break the spell with a kiss. Unfortunately, the Prince (voiced by an uncredited Mel Blanc) is a scrawny, clumsy, giggling idiot who makes Disney's Goofy look dignified, and is overcome with shyness and hiccups when he arrives in the Princess's tower. But Destiny's magic transforms him into a "handsome" parody of a swashbuckling matinee idol, in the vein of Douglas Fairbanks or Errol Flynn. His kiss then wakes the Princess, who is thrilled by the sight of him and dips him onto his back for a wild make-out session. Destiny can't quite tell the audience that they lived "happily ever after," though, because she finds that she's caught the Prince's hiccups.

To say that this cartoon doesn't take itself seriously is the understatement of the year. It's a "fractured fairy tale" par excellence. But its goofiness is charming, and it includes plenty of clever, funny details throughout. One standout scene comes near the beginning, when the fairies slide down their rainbow, landing in a giant pot of gold, and then attend the celebration at the castle, which resembles a movie premiere with a marquis advertising the "First Showing of the New Princess." The colorful, rubbery animation isn't beautiful by any means, but it suits the silly tone, and the lively music by Frank Marsales (who also scored many early Warner Bros. cartoons, including the first Loony Tunes short, Sinkin' in the Bathtub) perfectly suits the visuals.

This cartoon is far from a definitive version of Sleeping Beauty, nor does it try to be one. But if you like the concept of a gleeful comedy version of the tale, in the unique madcap style of a 1930s cartoon short, then this is a must-see for you!

@ariel-seagull-wings, @faintingheroine, @thealmightyemprex, @thatscarletflycatcher, @paexgo-rosa, @reds-revenge, @the-blue-fairie, @comma-after-dearest, @autistic-prince-cinderella

#sleeping beauty spring #sleeping beauty #fairy tale #the sleeping princess #1939 #walter lantz #universal pictures #nertsery rhymes #cartoon short #animation

[forelevenses]

before you go

rating: T fandom: the lord of the rings characters: frodo baggins, sam gamgee, bilbo baggins, elanor gardener pairings: frodo baggins/sam gamgee summary: before Bilbo is set to depart the Havens, Frodo and Sam have someone they want him to meet

with lovely art done by @verchielmarch! 💕 read here or on ao3! When Master Elrond informed Bilbo of Frodo’s decision to decline the offer to the Blessed Land, he was rather at a loss for words (to the surprise of the entire House).

The letter arrived towards the tail-end of April, and all the while, he spent his afternoons on his favorite thinking bench under one of the many blooming bowers in Rivendell and thought of many different things: his past adventures, his verses, his upcoming journey, but most importantly of all, he thought of Frodo.

At first, he found the situation quite hilarious and wished he could hug his dear nephew. After all, it was quite in Baggins-fashion to be accorded with a special honor by the elves to only say ‘No, I am quite all right, thank you’ as if one was rejecting an extra helping of tea cakes during elevenses. He taught the boy very well, in his humble opinion.

However, as the months turned warmer, Bilbo’s humor began to turn into concern. Although he was not at the Cracks of Doom when it happened, Bilbo felt a sort of clarity when It was destroyed, even all the way in his small, cozy room. It was as if he was finally unburdened from the last of a 60-year-old weight, and he could really feel again. So, he could only imagine how Frodo, who walked into the very heart of the Enemy’s realm with the accursed thing, felt about the whole ordeal.

He may have shut his eyes more times than he would have liked then, but Bilbo remembered when Frodo returned to Rivendell after it was all said and done. His nephew was there, yes, and yet, he wasn’t. He wasn’t the same rosy-cheeked lad he met all those years ago in Brandy Hall, or the one who would hang on to every word of Bilbo’s tales with wonder in his clear eyes. Of course, Frodo talked and smiled well enough before he headed off on the last leg home, but none of it ever reached his shadowed eyes. It was as if Frodo was hollowed from the inside out, a weary and fragile shell of who he once was years ago.

The Blessed Land would have given them both long-overdue relief from their times with their shared burden, so why Frodo turned down the offer was too great a riddle, even for Bilbo. Had he turned for the worse upon arriving home? He may have held the ring for a shorter amount of time between the two, but It weighed on him far worse than Bilbo experienced. Not to mention his wounds- knife, sting, and tooth all crushing down on him with an immense pressure that Bilbo wished he could help alleviate. Did he think himself unworthy?

His boy more than earned his rest, so just why did he turn it down?

The first clue to his answer arrived just a week before he was set to depart for the Grey Havens: a Shire postmarked letter, written in the firm but slightly unsteady hand Bilbo recognized anywhere. Bilbo thanked the heavens Frodo could, at the very least, be well enough to have written a letter and practically tore into the envelope. It was short, the usual and respectful ‘How do you do? I’m doing well, thank you’ found in any hobbit correspondence, however, the letter’s closing caught Bilbo’s curiosity:

‘The three of us eagerly await the day we shall meet you at the Woody End.’

While he was more than happy to hear Frodo would be seeing him off, why only three? It was a shame to think the four lads had a falling out of sorts upon returning, however it seemed unlikely. There was talk among the newly-arrived elves of a gardener breathing life back into the halfling’s lands feared to be too unsalvageable, and Bilbo did not need to spare a guess on who the mystery gardener was. He hoped he would’ve seen young Samwise one last time, but he was a very important hobbit these days if the rumors were to be believed, and perhaps had bigger things to attend to than to see old Mad Baggins sail off into the blue.

At the very least, he would get to see his young cousins one last time and for Bilbo, it was a comforting thought.

***

The final clue arrived on the morning of September 22nd.

Their passage into the Shire was uneventful and unnoticed by the Shire-folk, even by the most keen-eyed Bounder. Their small company took the paths least traveled, through the rolling green hills and even through a forgotten sunflower field. The elves seemed to have enjoyed the field particularly, even Lord Elrond seemed a bit misty-eyed (sunflowers were not his personal favorite, although Bilbo can appreciate how their beauty can bring anyone to tears).

As they passed into the Woody End, one of the elves in their company ordered the scouts to be on the lookout for the Ringbearer’s carriage. Seemed a tad excessive for a small trip, even for Bilbo, but Frodo is a Baggins after all. He thought nothing more of it and quietly slipped into a peaceful nap.

Until he was rudely awoken by one of the escorts.

Perhaps some time passed, judging by the light but the elf laughed, “You have company little Master.” They had stopped at the edge of a small clearing (the same one Frodo and he would use to camp out under the stars during their famous days-long tramps), and elves around him busied themselves with the horses. Two lone horses were in the clearing before a small carriage and he recognized them as Lord Elrond’s and Lady Galadriel’s. Bilbo couldn’t help his quiet huff. He may be old, but certainly not too old to not be the first to greet his nephew!

Before he could show those two stuffy elves a piece of his mind, the horses were making their way back to the company. They were in good spirits to Bilbo’s mind, whispering to each other in the ancient tongue and smiling more than he had ever witnessed them to. Their horses slowed to a stop before his pony, regarding him fondly with their keen eyes. At last, Lord Elrond raised a hand before he could squeeze a word in.

“No need to rush, we shall set camp here for the evening,” he said, and motioned his horse forward. Lady Galadriel was silent, but her bright eyes twinkled in mirth before her own horse followed after Elrond’s.

Bilbo looked out toward the clearing, and though his eyes have seen better days, he recognized the pacing figure of his nephew anywhere.

“Let’s see what’s gotten into the lad’s head,” Bilbo said and he urged his pony forward. As he got closer, he began to make out the voices from the carriage: Frodo’s, and to his surprise, Sam’s. What joy to see young Samwise one more time, after all the great deeds he accomplished since their last meeting! Bilbo’s thoughts returned to the letter and he chuckled. Maybe Frodo was trying to give him the slip, and all four of them have arrived to see him off. Blast it all, he should’ve known all along!

“...he’ll understand, me dear.”

“...cuff my ears, just like old times!”

Just why would he need to cuff his ears? Honestly, the things the lad says sometimes! But, he’d know soon enough. Before Bilbo could get to it, the soft snort of his pony announced his arrival and a hush fell before Frodo turned around from his spot behind the carriage.

Bilbo had some sort of greeting ready at the tip of his tongue, but he felt it slip from his mind. He blinked, stunned as he took in his nephew. It had been nearly a year since he last saw him, a ghost of what his nephew once was. There were days when Bilbo, even Master Elrond, wondered if the Blessed Realm would be enough to heal Frodo.

The Frodo standing before him now was not fully healed, but Bilbo would not have known any better.

Frodo shifted in place, his hands fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves like he did so long ago whenever Bilbo would scold him as a tween. “Hullo Uncle,” Frodo said, color staining his properly filled-out cheeks (which Bilbo believed he would never see again).

Bilbo found the words he meant to say, but as he gathered his wits enough to answer, a soft gurgle got the first say.

He realized he had forgotten all about Sam in his astonishment.

Bilbo looked behind Frodo, and Sam sat at the edge of the carriage. He looked weary, but was ever the fine hobbit he always was. Sam smiled and mouthed a ‘Hullo’ before turning his attention back to the squirming bundle of blankets in his arms.

He looked at the bundle, then to Sam, then to Frodo, and then back to the bundle.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Bilbo said softly, the pieces falling together perfectly in his mind.

“I suppose we ought to explain ourselves,” Frodo said, still looking rather expectantly as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I dare say you do,” Bilbo said, dismounting his pony with ease. “But, I would much rather be introduced to this little one first.”

As quietly as he could as to not disturb the bundle, Bilbo approached Sam and settled by the spot next to him. The bundle was well-covered, although he couldn’t help but notice the little golden curl sprouting out from the blankets. Sam must have thought him silly trying to get a look and laughed softly. “Would you like to hold her, Mr. Bilbo?”

Bilbo smiled. “Her?”

“Aye,” Sam replied, “Here, mind her head.” Bilbo held open his arms and with Sam’s gentle guidance, he held the bundle. When was the last time he held a babe? Bilbo could not recall, but were they always this small? And quite hefty this little lass was! She began to squirm a bit, no doubt from not recognizing this stranger’s arms and Bilbo began to softly rock his arms.

“There, there,” he hushed. “Now, let’s get a look at you.”

He uncovered the blanket near her face, and he stilled. The little lass was fast asleep, her face flushed from the warmth of her blankets but rather at peace with the new set of arms she found herself in. Bilbo was silent, studying every single movement and trying to commit it to his memory. If his mind wandered a bit more, he would have thought he was back in Brandy Hall so many years ago, when a proud Primula plopped a sleeping Frodo into his arms for the first time.

“Uncle, we’d like to introduce you to Elanor Baggins-Gamgee,” Frodo said, taking the empty spot next to Bilbo.

Bilbo sniffed, using his hand to wipe his eye. “The sun-star?”

“Half of all the maid-children in the Shire are named for flowers, but we wanted something different for her,” Frodo said, leaning in closer to Bilbo. “She’s beautiful and she’ll grow to be even more beautiful still.”

“Well, of course she will!” Bilbo laughed. “She’s a Baggins! Why, look at that hair! You know, your Aunt Dora’s hair was so thick that not even a comb could get through!”

“Goodness!” Sam said.

“I remember a time when your father tried to plait ribbons in her hair, Frodo! You should have seen the look on his face when the handle on the brush snapped like a twig! Oh, she was so cross with him, it was her favorite!” Bilbo laughed. “But the color! That is, of course, Samwise’s doing.”

“Nay, my own isn’t so bright, nor any of my relations if I can recall,” Sam said. “A lot of the babes born this past year are golden-haired, even if no one in the family is so!”

“Is that so?” Bilbo asked, brushing a stray curl back Elanor’s ear. “Well, if you will not take credit for the hair, then don’t bother denying the nose! My eyes may not be as sharp as they were when I was a spry tweener, but that’s a Gamgee nose if I ever saw one!”

Sam laughed, his freckled cheeks turning a bright red, “You’ve done and settled the score, Mr. Bilbo! All this time we haven’t been able to tell where she got it from but you say it as if it were plain as day!”

“You don’t think it reminds you of cousin Peony’s a bit, Bilbo?” Frodo asked, tucking the blanket back under Elanor’s uncovered feet.

“Your cousin Peony’s nose was a bit sharper, too sharp if I’m being truthful,” Bilbo said, bringing his finger up to Elanor’s nose to lightly tap the tip, “And with the freckles on top, little Elanor’s definitely a Gamgee, through and through!”

“If me old Gaffer were here, he’d say she turned out way too fine to be a Gamgee, but I know he’s being silly,” Sam chuckled.

“Bah, nonsense! I’ve always said Belle and he made such a beautiful family, but you know him better than I: too humble to accept any compliment! It’s like pulling teeth with him sometimes!”

That set them laughing, full and whole-heartedly until a soft coo mingled in. They stilled, Bilbo freezing in place as if he heard the rumbling snort of an awakening dragon all over again. Frodo and Sam shared a gentle smile between them.

“I believe someone has something to say about all our ruckus,” Frodo said. Bilbo looked down and was caught in the gaze of two, clear blue eyes. Elanor stared at him, her round face calm as if she was still deciding whether Bilbo was a new friend or not. Her small eyebrows were set in the same fashion of Frodo whenever he was in deep debate over which book he would spend the afternoon with, or whenever Sam would concentrate on his rose pruning out in the gardens. Bilbo could not stop the overwhelming joy bubbling within him.

“Hullo there,” Bilbo whispered, offering his finger to Elanor. She considered it for a long while when at long last, her clear eyes shone bright and she took his finger between her strong grip. She laughed happily, showing off the slight gap between her growing front teeth. Bilbo laughed, the tears welling in his eyes flowing freely down his wrinkled cheeks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Elanorellë,” Bilbo said.

***

By nightfall, the company settled quite comfortably under the stars. The meal was modest, but quite enjoyable after days of travel and before long, the elves were resting peacefully under the soft starlight.

However, the night was still young at least according to hobbit standards.

A ways away from the elves, the hobbits huddled around a cheery fire, their bellies full from the bit of stew Sam threw together and the ale Frodo managed to bring along for the trip. Although the elves in Rivendell tried their best to replicate hobbit fare and Bilbo appreciated the efforts, nothing could quite compare to a proper hobbit meal in the Shire itself.

They talked of many things – Lotho and Sharkey, the rebuilding efforts, this past season’s remarkable harvest, and all the doings of any hobbit in and around Hobbiton Frodo and Sam could think of. No wonder Frodo’s letters were so to-the-point – he would have been sending a book each time otherwise! And even with all their catching up and reminiscing, Elanor stayed right in Bilbo’s arms, making quite the fuss if her new cousin made any effort to settle her down in her basket.

When each of their corners were properly filled and every story that could be told was recounted, the fire was banked and the hobbits clamored into the carriage and settled into their bedrolls, ready for what the next leg of the journey held in store for them.

All except for Bilbo.

Maybe it was a pesky pebble under his bedroll, or the slight chill in the air that kept him turning about, but Bilbo was at his wit’s end. How long he strayed between waking and sleeping, he could not tell but it was no use making so much fuss when everyone else was fast asleep. As quiet as he could, Bilbo reached for his cloak and slipped out from under his roll.

Sam was turned to his side, his soft snores lulling Elanor into a deep sleep. It was a comforting sight to Bilbo at first, until he caught a glimpse of the empty roll next to Sam. Frodo was nowhere in sight, and the flap to the carriage cover was left undone. Worry started to grip him tight and ever so gently as not to wake the other two, Bilbo slipped out of the carriage and onto the clearing.

The stars glimmered against the dark sky but they paled compared to the evening-star, shining steady but brilliantly compared to all others. Bilbo felt his breath catch, mesmerized at its gentle beauty and after a long while of contemplating its light, he let his eyes fall back down to the earth. Right below the star, Frodo sat alone by the empty fire pit.

“It hasn't fully healed, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Frodo sighed. “There are days where I feel somewhat at peace, but there are others where it feels as if the sickness has me completely in its hold. Sam helps the best he can in those times, Rosie as well, but I'm afraid they can only do so much.”

Biblo tried to picture it: Frodo, in the throes his sickness while Sam and the Cotton lass helplessly tried to do anything to ease him. No, he shouldn’t use ‘helpless’. He was confident they both did everything within their hobbit-sense to help Frodo, that much was clear. But even so, a nagging whisper in the corner of his mind would not relent.

“Do you believe this to be the best choice, Frodo?” Bilbo asked, unsure of the question himself. Frodo was silent, his brow creased as he considered his words.

“It was always a chance to be healed,” Frodo said, returning Bilbo's firm grip, “Never a guarantee. But even so, there was a time when I was prepared to take the offer. I couldn’t bear the thought of burdening Sam, even after everything we have endured, but then one day, I found him crying in the potting shed all by himself. I brought him back inside and after a long talk, I found that it was not the first time Sam had hid away in such a manner. The thought of him suffering alone pained me and when I asked why, wouldn’t you believe it- he didn’t want to be a burden to me! All that time, we had suffered in silence without the other knowing, when we could have suffered together! And I was about to leave these lands so we could continue suffering alone?” Frodo scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Bilbo, I understand the risk in my decision, and how it worries you so. However, this is a risk I am prepared to make. For myself, for Sam and for Elanor.”

“I have never doubted your decisions, my lad, nor do I plan to start,” Bilbo said, bringing up one of his wrinkled hands to Frodo’s pale cheek, “I know you’re doing what you think is best, like how you’ve always done. My only wish is that you find your rest at last. You, out of anyone in this world, have earned as such.” Frodo smiled and wrapped his slender arms around Bilbo.

“It will not be an easy road, but Uncle, I truly believe I will find my rest here in the Shire. There’s so much to be and to do, and being able to try and experience it all with Sam and Elanor by my side is worth more to me than any Elvish healing can bring,” Frodo said.

Bilbo was silent, the dust in the wind clouding his vision of course, and without any further word, he returned Frodo’s embrace. All was quiet among the wood, but perhaps the sharpest of elf ears in Elrond’s company caught the faintest of sniffling in the breeze.

***

“We shall be arriving within the hour, Little Master.”

Bilbo yawned and faced the kindly Elf at the doorway. After the ship casted off from the Grey Havens, he found it rather difficult to keep track of their days out on the Sea. What felt like weeks to him were just mere days to the Elves and decided it was best to leave it be.

“I shall rather believe it when I set foot on the docks,” Bilbo chuckled. The Elf laughed brightly and dismissed himself, leaving Bilbo alone in his small room. He stretched and stood from his seat by the desk, still marveled at the ease his old bones moved. Master Elrond credited their proximity to the Blessed Land, and wondered what other changes awaited him once they docked.

It was quite the change, he supposed. Becoming the first mortal, much less hobbit, to even breathe the sweet air of the Blessed Land was quite the ordeal. While the promise of a new adventure awaited him, Bilbo could not help but wonder how long would it be until he could truly call the Land his home?

His eyes (ah, no more need to squint) fell to his bags by the foot of his bed, and lingered on Frodo’s gift. It was large, wrapped in a soft cloth and was rather light. Bilbo recalled the cries of the gulls as they stood on the docks, sharing one last hug with his dear nephew. When they pulled apart, Sam handed Frodo the gift, wiping his tears with newly free hand. Elanor cooed curiously as she looked on, not quite understanding what was before her (though he knew with time, her fathers would explain).

“When you reach the other side of the Sea,” Frodo sniffed, handing the gift to Bilbo, “We hope this small piece will help you remember The Shire.”

He supposed he could wait until they reached Elrond’s estate on the Isle, but the anticipation was too much for an old hobbit. A small peak wouldn’t hurt. With the utmost care, Bilbo picked up the gift and placed it onto his bed. The thread keeping the cloth together was simple and gave him no trouble undoing it. Slowly, he uncovered the folds and felt the breath leave him.

A painting laid before him, and if Elf magic were real, it might as well have been a passage back to The Shire. Bag End was captured in all the quaint beauty he remembered it but, his eyes were focused on the stoop. Frodo and Sam stood side-by-side, smiling softly with Elanor held between the both of them.

They will age- both lads growing more lines and gray hairs as the years went by while Elanor would only grow more in beauty. Perhaps more bairns would be added to their growing brood (imagine, Frodo with a brood of his own!), but for now, they remained frozen the way he left them at the Grey Havens.

Bilbo smiled, feeling tears pool in his eyes, “I doubt I’ll forget The Shire anytime soon, my dear boy.”

#samfrodo #frodo x sam #lotr #lotr fic #fotfics #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #samwise gamgee #miki.fic

[ridenwithbiden]

Susi Newborn — one of the most skilled and effective activists in Greenpeace’s 52-year history — passed away on the last day of December 2023. She is remembered fondly by her beloved children, Brenna, Woody, and Naawie; her granddaughter Toody; by her ex-husbands, Martini Gotje and Luc Tutugoro; and by friends, colleagues, and shipmates around the world. 

In 1977, when Susi arrived in Canada for her first Greenpeace action, to protect infant harp seal pups in Newfoundland, she was already something of a legend. Journalistic tradition would have me refer to her as “Newborn,” a name that rang with significance, but I can only think of her as Susi, the tough, smart activist from London. 

Susi was born in London in 1950, from Argentine parents. Her mother had grown up among the Buenos Aires elite and knew famous artists such as Raul Soldi and Mexican muralist Don Sequeiros. Susi’s godmother was a founding member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) in the UK, and a colleague of Bertrand Russell. Susi grew up meeting writers, philosophers, and artists. 

Susi’s father was an Argentine Embassy diplomat, whom she described as “a deeply spiritual man.” He told her about meeting Mahatma Gandhi and urged her to “work for peace.” At the age of five, she stopped her father from chopping down a tree near their London home, her first ecology action, and in 1970, at the age of 20, she attended the world’s first Earth Day protest in London’s Trafalgar Square.

Argentina at the time suffered under a series of military dictators, and Susi’s father quietly opposed the Junta headed by General Alejandro Agustín Lanusse. When her father died, the tragedy radicalised her and she embarked “on a personal journey of activism.”

Hosting the film star

Susi worked for Friends of the Earth in London for two years, and in the summer of 1975 she attended the International Whaling Commission (IWC) meeting in London, where she met Greenpeace members Paul and Linda Spong. Greenpeace Foundation in Canada had spent two years planning our first global ecology action, after protesting US and French nuclear weapons tests for four years. We were tracking Russian whalers off the coast of California in a fishing boat, and our campaign depended on confronting the whalers during this London IWC meeting. 

Paul and Linda Spong informed Susi about the planned confrontation, and she helped organise London ecologists and media for the coming drama. In June, two days before the IWC meeting would close, we located and blockaded the whalers. The next day, we announced the confrontation by marine radio; and Susi, Paul, Linda, Greenpeace filmmaker Michael Chechik, and a team of activists stormed the IWC meeting with the news. 

In 1976, Susi met Greenpeace co-founder Bob Hunter in London. Hunter returned to Vancouver with tales of “the amazing Susi Newborn” in London. He called her “a hard-core, grassroots ecologist who could help lead the next generation of Greenpeace actions in Europe.” Six months later, she arrived in Canada to participate in a campaign to halt the slaughter of infant seals on the Labrador ice floes. Susi told me that the direct action tactics and Earthy spiritual style of Greenpeace appealed to her. 

In May 1977, Susi pitched her tent on icy Belle Isle, 32 kilometres off the coast of Labrador, surrounded by ice floes, awaiting the arrival of the Norwegian sealing ships. Susi and David “Walrus” Garrick explored frozen caves and wrote a “Declaration of Freelandsea,” a free-spirited manifesto of ecology.

Three days after Susi and the Greenpeace team pitched camp on the ice, French actress Brigitte Bardot arrived to help bring attention to the Norwegian infant seal slaughter. Bardot wrote in her account that she had been “terrified” flying through a storm in the helicopter, and she arrived at the camp stifling tears and clutching her frozen fingers under her arms. Susi made her a cup of hot chocolate, warmed her in the tent, and explained practical tips such as how a woman could pee at night on frozen Belle Isle. “They give me courage,” Bardot wrote in her journal. 

Rainbow Warrior

Back in London, Susi next wanted to disrupt Icelandic whaling. She recruited Denise Bell from Friends of the Earth and set out to find a boat to confront the whalers in the North Atlantic. I sent her a file of photographs from the nuclear, whale, and seal campaigns. Like us in Canada, Susi had no money. She started fundraising, using Michael Chechik’s documentary film of the first two whale voyages, which was aired on the BBC with an introduction by British naturalist David Attenborough.  Susi and Denise met Charles Hutchinson from London and Allan Thornton from Canada, and the group opened the first Greenpeace office in the UK at 47 Whitehall Street. Simultaneously, French activist Rémi Parmentier and Canadian David McTaggart opened another office in Paris, where they were protesting French nuclear testing in the South Pacific.

Susi and Denise Bell scoured maritime journals, looking for ships for sale. On the Isle of Dogs, in the Thames Docklands, they found a rusting, diesel-electric, 134-foot trawler that had been converted to a research ship by the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Food. The Sir William Hardy was available to the highest bidder. Charles Hutchinson introduced them to the manager at Lloyds of Pall Mall bank. They received a bank loan, secured by the life insurance policies of Hutchinson and Bell. The Department of Trade accepted their bid of £42,725, and they put down a 10 percent deposit, £4,272, on the ship. This was the first ship that Greenpeace actually owned, and Susi sent us photographs of the sad looking trawler that within a decade would become one of the most famous ships of the 20th century. 

Newborn, Bell, and an army of volunteers cleaned the ship, stem to stern. Susi recruited her childhood friend Athel von Koettlitz and Australian boyfriend Chris Robinson to tackle the restoration. They clambered down into the pitch-black engine room with a flashlight. The hovel was a rust bucket, and the 800-horsepower engine had not been fired in years. They wiped moisture off gauge glass, tightened loose fittings, and got the two-stroke diesel engine running. Susi and the team removed trawling gear, scraped off rust, painted the ship, and shopped for second-hand parts.

In the fall of 1977, they negotiated with the Ministry to reduce the final price of the Sir William Hardy to £32,500, about £182,000 today. To raise this money, they toured Europe with the documentary, The Voyage to Save the Whales. In the Netherlands, the World Wildlife Fund financed a fundraising campaign. Bob and Bobbi Hunter departed for Amsterdam to accept the money for Greenpeace. On the way, they stopped in London to see the new ship, and there Bob Hunter gave Susi a copy of Warriors of the Rainbow, a book that had inspired Greenpeace in Canada, with a prophecy about how all the people of world — people of the rainbow — would come together to save the Earth from ruin. The crew later agreed to rename the ship Rainbow Warrior. The crew added rainbows to the ship’s deep green hull, a white dove copied from the book cover, and painted Rainbow Warrior at the bow, the vessel’s glorious new name.

Whales and nuclear waste

Susi saw Greenpeace as an integration of ecology, the Gandhian satyagraha she had learned from her father, Quaker direct action, and a deep respect for Indigenous Earth-informed spirituality. She was naturally inclusive and realised that the hard-edged punks of London appreciated ecology as much as the hippies, peace activists, and affluent conservationists. She recruited nuclear campaigner Peter Wilkinson, who had grown up around the South London docks, and had good relations with the dockworker unions, whom he convinced to “turn a blind eye” to the non-union Greenpeace team working on the ship. Susi built alliances with everyone. “Our gut reactions to injustice are the same,” she told her colleagues. 

By January 1978, the Rainbow Warrior was ready for its first ecological campaign, and on 2 May, they slipped down the Thames and into the North Sea. The seasoned crew included skipper Nick Hill; chief mate Jon Castle; Peter Bouquet, a mate off a tanker; cameraman Tony Mariner; and Von Koettlitz assisting Chief engineer Simon Hollander. Devonshire nurse Sally Austin served as medic, Hilari Anderson from New Zealand as cook. Bob Hunter and Fred Easton joined the crew from the Greenpeace Foundation in Canada. Remi Parmentier and David McTaggart joined from the Paris office; and Bell, Hutchinson, Thornton and Susi Newborn form the UK core of the crew. Others came from Holland, Scotland, South Africa, Switzerland, and Australia. 

Crowds welcomed the ecologists in Calais, Amsterdam, Hamburg, and Aarhus, Denmark, where Susi and the crew showed films from earlier Greenpeace missions. Greenpeace organisations emerged in some of these cities. Susi understood that to spread the ideas of peace and ecology we needed to not only take action, but also build the movement itself.

The Rainbow Warrior crew confronted Icelandic whalers, then put into Reykjavik to release film to the media. Pete Wilkinson joined the crew in the UK and told Susi he had found evidence that the European nuclear industry was dumping radioactive waste into the Bay of Biscay, off Spain. The crew decided to expose the toxic dumping scheme, and pushed south. They would soon blow the lid off one of Britain’s nastiest secrets.

At Falmouth Bay, Susi and Denise Bell returned to London to issue media releases and handle inquiries. Easton and Mariner travelled north to Sharpness, where the nuclear dumping ship Gem sat in port, loading large drums labelled: RADIOACTIVE WASTE. 

Later, off the coast of Spain, the Rainbow Warrior interrupted the dumping. A 600-pound drum dropped from the Gem and flipped a Zodiac, throwing Gijs Thieme into the water, as the film crew captured the event. Later, in London, Susi and the European media teams released the film and photographs and organised a debate with nuclear industry representatives on the BBC. The activists revealed that each year, approximately 80 kilograms of plutonium-239 had been dropped into the Atlantic trench. In a few weeks, the Rainbow Warrior team had opened a new era of scrutiny for the entire European nuclear industry.

Greenpeace International

For the summer of 1979, Susi and the London activists organised new confrontations with the Icelandic whalers and the nuclear garbage scow Gem. Susi, the alliance builder, offered the Rainbow Warrior to Amnesty International, CND, Greenpeace New Zealand, and to other activists for campaigns. When crews returned from campaigns, Susi later told the New Zealand Dominion Post, “it’s like they’ve been to a war zone. You feel like you’ve gone to some bloody killing field somewhere.” In 2015, she recalled, “I still have injuries from those experiences.” 

As Greenpeace became more famous, power struggles naturally arose, and in 1979, Susi fled London to get away from the conflicts. She retreated to the Greek island of Samos, but didn’t rest for long. In Ayios Konstantinos, she heard from fishermen about an annual massacre of Aegean monk seals in the Mediterranean. In her typical fashion, Susi organised “Greenpeace Aegean Sea,” recruited young environmentalist William Johnson, launched a monk seal crusade, and made an alliance with Dr. Keith Ronald from Guelph University in Canada, who brought in the World Wildlife Fund. The ad hoc group successfully ended the marine mammal massacre. 

I next met Susi in November 1979, when we gathered in Amsterdam to create an International Greenpeace Council to coordinate the fast-growing organisation. Susi arrived on the Rainbow Warrior with Jon Castle, Tony Mariner, Athel von Koettlitz, Pete Wilkinson, and others from Europe. The council included representatives from Canada, UK, US, France, Denmark, and the Netherlands. New Zealand, Denmark, Australia and Germany joined soon thereafter, and Greenpeace now operates in 55 countries.

Susi was a fearless activist, more interested in the ecological vision of Greenpeace than in organisational manoeuvring or who would have power. During the week in Amsterdam, I met with her frequently, and the talk was always about our next actions and what we might achieve with Greenpeace tactics. Susi was the real deal, an activist to admire and emulate.

Kia ora

Susi moved to the US and received a degree in Human Ecology from the College of the Atlantic in Maine. In 1985, in New Zealand, during a campaign to stop French nuclear tests at Moruroa Atoll in the South Pacific, the French Secret Service bombed the ship Susi had loved and laboured over. The bombing broke her heart. “Not in a month of Sundays,” she said, “would I ever have expected a major European country to blow up a peace boat.” 

In 1986, she moved to New Zealand (Aotearoa), where she stayed active in ecology and justice campaigns. In 2003, her Rainbow Warrior memoir A Bonfire in My Mouth was published by HarperCollins. 

In New Zealand, in the 1990s, Susi served on the Board of Greenpeace New Zealand. She worked for Oxfam as their climate campaigner, for the NZ Refugee Council, and for the film union. Susi was a poet and a grand storyteller. She loved to talk about her days with Greenpeace and the importance of nonviolent direct action in changing our world for the better.

In the late 1990s, she moved to Waiheke and remained active in campaigns from protecting sensitive ecological regions to supporting Palestinian civil rights. In 2014, Susi helped create a Climate Voter initiative, encouraging New Zealanders to use their vote to make change. The following year, she joined her friend, Greenpeace Aotearoa executive director Bunny McDiarmid, in a march to stop deep sea oil drilling in the region. 

In 2022, Susi began treatment for breast cancer. “I know there is something in the world that is creating a giant cancerous tumour,” she said at the time, “that is tearing us apart, commodifying the air we breathe and the water we drink. I also know that this tumour is interspersed with flowers and song birds and the salty waters of the tears we shed.”

Susi Newborn passed away on 31 December 2023, at the age of 73. The Maori community of Waiheke hosted a memorial for her at Piritahi Marae on Waiheke Island, on the tribal lands of the Ngāpuhi and Ngāti Paoa Māori people. Piritahi means, fittingly, “coming together as one.” The community gave her a tangi, a Māori farewell. Friends who worked and sailed and battled with Susi over 50 years, attended and offered fond memories. 

“Susi, had a strong sense of injustice,” said McDiarmid, “and never gave up hope it was possible to make change in the world. She believed in the strength of people to make change. She was also really funny, clever and incredibly good company.” 

“Susi was brave and fearless,” said her friend Bianca Ranson, “but that was balanced with her kindness and her generosity. Susi showed us how to be fearless and brave and calculating. She taught us how to keep ourselves safe while pushing the line as hard as we could. What she was doing decades ago, if only people had taken that seriously then we’d be in a very different situation now.  She was a pillar, a pou, of the island community. What are we supposed to do without her?” 

“What I loved in the early Greenpeace years was the feeling that anything could happen anytime, anywhere,” wrote Rainbow Warrior photographer Pierre Gleizes Nicéphore. “On board, life was never dull, and Susi was part of that story from day one.”

“Susi and I have been the best of mates since we met in 77,” said former Rainbow Warrior cook, Hilari Anderson. She called Susi “a feisty sister Warrior.”

I corresponded with Susi and spoke with her by phone many times while she was in New Zealand. She always signed off with “Kia Ora,” a Māori greeting of wellbeing that means “have life.” 

Indeed. Kia Ora, dear Susi. 

#GREENPEACE #SUSI NEWBORN #The Rainbow Warrior