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inkykeiji · 3 years

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you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #jjk smut #OKAY I'M GOING TO BEEEED NOW #IT'S LIKE FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING #tw daddy kink #tw noncon

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47crayons · 3 years

Text

so, you want to write a musician?

about me: i play viola and have experience in symphony orchestras, string orchestras, string quartets (+ a few other small ensembles), and solo performances. i've done some light composition, and have friends/family who play other instruments. while my musical history is extensive, by no means do i know everything or speak for everyone.

this guide will focus on classical music/how to portray classical musicians and things that aren't as easily researched.

quick overview of instruments in a typical symphony orchestra

upper strings (violin, viola), lower strings (cello, (double) bass; i've seen viola included here too, but it's more commonly classified as upper strings)

strings also technically includes harp and piano

woodwinds (flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon)

depending on instrumentation, they may also have piccolo, english horn, bass clarinet, contrabassoon

saxophones are not traditionally in symphony orchestras due to it being a relative newer instrument! but this is changing because more contemporary composes are including sax parts

brass (trumpet, trombone, bass trombone, tuba, euphonium)

percussion (depends heavily on instrumentation, but common instruments are bass drum, timpani, snare, crash cymbal, xylophone, marimba)

some things you should research

where the hands are supposed to go!! i'd recommend you look at pictures of professionals in orchestra settings (ny phil, cso, berlin phil are all top tier). some musicians *coughs at yoyo ma* have less than perfect posture when they're performing solos (for the same reasons famous authors can break "rules")

necessary equipment including reeds, rockstops, different kinds of sticks/mallets, rosin, mouth pieces for whatever instrument you're writing

common misconceptions

loose/photocopied sheet music is not aesthetic—it's annoying and impossible to keep organized. folders and binders are fairly common especially when managing multiple ensembles.

original copies are often expensive and required to perform a piece (legally) for profit or otherwise (though i know a few people who have bent this rule)

not all performers are good composers (i myself have very little formal music theory training), but many composers have performance histories.

not all musicians can sing.

perfect pitch is both a blessing and a curse. notes can be slightly lower/higher but in tune with the context of the piece, which drives people with perfect pitch insane.

having perfect pitch does not guarantee someone will be a prodigy, and people don't need perfect pitch to be a talented musician.

drama in ensembles does exist, but it rarely gets in the way of rehearsal. same thing goes for good friends: if your characters have even a shred of common sense, they aren't going to be talking/messing around during rehearsal.

instruments (especially good ones) are extremely expensive. people very rarely store instruments on the wall or other displays for fear of falling.

instruments are very picky and require tuning every time. every time! it doesn't take long anyway. temperature and humidity can and will make instruments go out of tune or damage your instrument if not properly stored.

some people listen exclusively to classical music, but in my experience, that's definitely not the majority

like with anything, most musicians struggle with self doubt at one point or another.

musician culture

getting excited when we hear a piece we recognize

getting frustrated because we can't remember the name of the piece (after all, no lyrics to search)

being horrified when a non-musician actor is playing a musician. yes, we notice. yes, it's obvious.

if people are joking, it's likely to be about: violas (a quick search for "viola jokes" will tell you all you need to know) or trumpets (a reputation for being overly loud, playing and not)

putting stickers (places they toured, their orchestra, or just purely decorative) on cases is common, but not for everyone. same goes for pictures (of family, past concerts, or anything) on the inside.

scrambling for a pencil when the conductor says to mark something. pencils are a musicians best friend :D

asking (and forgetting) how to split double stops/two parts at the same time. sometimes one stand partner will play the top while the other plays the bottom, and sometimes this is split stand by stand.

this has NEVER resulted in a sexual top/bottom joke. please just. don't. also no g string jokes. it's just unrealistic.

awaiting the obligatory "it's one week before our concert, and you sound like this?!" lecture

not talking about music 100% of the time!!! they have lives outside of music (most of them, at least /j). especially to close friends, music is probably not going to be a conversation topic unless something is out of the ordinary (high stress, something funny from rehearsal, etc.)

bragging/talking about how often they practice is generally not welcomed. great, but other people don't need to hear it!

stages are hot and bright. there's no way a performer can see someone in the audience with the possible exception of the first row.

practicing

three words for you: love. hate. relationship.

slow practice (like really slow lots of people recommend half speed; good for focusing on the right notes, tone, phrasing, smooth transitions)

metronome practice (while playing, it's not annoying at all! it's helpful and requires a lot of focus; when NOT playing, it's annoying and loud because it needs to be heard over the playing)

drone practice (having a machine/website/another person play one note in the background; good for tuning and scales)

and too many more for me to detail

auditions

ensembles may have entrance auditions to determine who gets in and seating auditions to determine placement within the section.

adrenaline does not make us play better; it just makes us make mistakes. and then thinking about those mistakes causes more mistakes.

some instruments, especially those with less repertoire, have common excerpts that come up frequently (i can think of one in particular that i've played for three separate auditions this year).

stopping/starting over is not recommended ever, but if you do, it has to be 10x better. most audition judges aren't looking for perfection!! they want to see how your character can keep going after messing up.

sight reading (being given new music, having ~30 seconds to look at it, being asked to play) is never perfect. i don't care how talented your character is; if they think they nailed it, they aren't experienced enough to see all the phrasing/dynamics that they didn't incorporate. no one gets sight reading perfect!!!

perhaps most importantly, musicians are not all the same! they enjoy it for a number of different reasons and have diverse and interesting lives outside of music!!! more information about specific instrument groups under the cut :)

strings

callouses. with the exception of pianists, most string players (and especially professional ones) have callouses where they press down/pluck the strings. i also have one on my right thumb where i hold my bow. cellists and bassists might have them on their left thumb from playing higher notes in thumb position.

hickeys are also fairly common, though only some people get them. upper strings will get these by under their left jaw. cellists may have one from the wooden body resting on their sternum. some people (including hilary hahn and many many others) use a cloth for comfort and to prevent hickeys.

few people want a hickey, but it might suit a character who is constantly trying to prove themselves.

our fingers do not "glide" anywhere. you can get cuts/"string-burns" from pressing down too hard when shifting. cuts like those are the only reason someone's fingers will bleed, and it's rarer than you think.

upper strings are more prone to back/neck problems from the way they hold their instruments on one side. see also: shoulder pain.

finger cramps happen. they aren't too common, but most if not all strings have experienced at least one.

pianos require tuning every few years or else the chords will be out of tune. few pianists can tune their own instrument because of how complicated it is.

piano parts/accompaniments will have so. many. pages. a page turner may sit on the right of the pianist to turn the page.

woodwinds & brass

spit. so much spit. some instruments clean afterwards with a cloth; others have a spit valve which is as gross as it sounds.

proper embouchure, or how a musician uses the muscles in their face/lips, is tiring, and people actually get strong cheek muscles. they can also easily turn red, but it varies based on a person's facial complexion. see also: good lung capacity.

flute and piccolo are not dainty. piccolo requires as much air as a tuba. an old teacher of mine almost passed out playing piccolo when she was in college.

flutes and piccolos are high, but often not shrill depending on the level of the ensemble.

reeds last a few weeks (less if your character plays for hours a day) and can be expensive to buy.

keys and valves can get sticky especially on older instruments which can result in the wrong note or bad tone.

saxes, clarinets, flutes are more likely to "honk" on low notes.

oboes are more likely to feel "wispy" on high notes.

articulation comes from the tongue, especially for brass instruments, and conductors may ask for "tah" "pah" or "wah" sounds depending on the style of the piece.

percussion

callouses from the friction between hands and sticks/mallets.

there are so many types of sticks and mallets!!! make sure to take a look at what materials are good for what instruments/sounds.

cymbals, triangle, and bass drum are not easy to play, even though they look simple.

percussionists with the exception of timpani may play more than one instrument during a piece, and they're constantly moving around in the back during their rests.

percussion instruments are too expensive for most people to have everything they ever play. practice pads are very common in place of these instruments.

ability to play one instrument doesn't translate to different instruments. for example, many percussionists don't have experience playing set/drum set.

some of the things detailed here are heavily glossed over, so if you have any questions, i'd always be happy to talk about it with you; i may not have answers, but i will try to help as best i can!!!

since you read this far, have my favorite viola joke.

what's the difference between a violist and a large pizza?

a large pizza can feed a family of four :)

tagging some people who showed interest: @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @kg-willie @owilder

#writing advice #writing resources #writing reference #music #wow this absolutely consumed me

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insufferablelust · 4 years

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hi, uhm can I maybe request a dom!Spencer x sub!reader where they had a pretty intense session the night before, nothing they haven't done before, but the reader goes deep into subdrop when Spencer is at work and hesitates to call him but does it anyways?

Hello! thank you so much for the request, i really enjoyed writing this baby up although, this concept will have different vers, one is the dirtier with obvious smut which is this one and the other one- which is full of fluffs should be uploaded tomorrow. Thank you again, Love, D.

Warnings : Dom!Spencer x Sub!Reader, Daddy kink, Subdrop, subspace, DDLG undertones, all the characters are 21+ years old, Tiny bit of degradation, soft and rough sex at the same time, its just so cute yet fucking filthy.

MASTERLIST

when Y/N woke up this morning, she never thought she would get to the point of crying out of frustration and desperation. She woke up with an arm around her waist, warm breathing against the back of her neck, and a hard on that pressed against her bum.

She giggled then, feeling how her boyfriend grinds his hips against her in his sleep. Spencer was letting out grunts and groans, which you appreciate because that shows how much he wants you even in his sleep. Last night’s events tire the both of you to no end, it was your second anniversary and after a candlelit dinner underneath the stars, you both spent the rest of the night making love— or rather, fucking. hard. everywhere you could possibly think of.

Y/N and Spencer had recently moved into a new apartment together as an anniversary present for the both of them. Spencer called last night’s activities was a way for them to christened the place, laid their claim on it, which Y/N thought was silly but still giggled with him anyway. The sex was amazing, as always, Spencer was rough just as how she likes it, but something about last night was so good— so good that it almost becomes too much.

It was rather clear that their dynamics are always harmonious; most of the times Y/N is the submissive, and Spencer loves it. Last night showed how much control he has over her, starting by telling her to take off her panties at the restaurant and to place them on top of the desk before stuffing them inside his suit pocket, to fucking her against every available surface imaginable inside their apartment, resulting in a pretty intense sub drop from Y/N and a very concerned yet caring Spencer.

Reid knows just how much she could take it, and he had to admit that he was really pushing her limits, but she trusts her to always say her safe word if she ever feels like its too much. From the way her lips quivered, her thighs trembled, her body shook, and her voice high pitched calling him spew of, “daddy.. sir.. i love you, ‘m a good girl right?” whilst her eyes burning holes onto his own suggests just how deep she was inside her sub space.

So, they both did their usual after care routine, and Spencer managed to coaxed her out of the intense head space an hour later after reading her 3 different books. Y/N’s head was definitely clearer yet she still feels fuzzy and almost as if she was flying, deep down she knew that she was still inside that space—practically swimming in them but she refused it, knowing how tired Spencer must be from spoiling her that night, so she convinced him that she was back, she was a big girl.

And their night ended at that, with them wrapping their arms around each other and asleep, though one thing for sure was all that Y/N could think of are ways to please him, and to be good for him.

———

so when Spencer was practically grind himself against her backside, she immediately thought that she needed to please him— not that she minds, its just that it was so early, and her headspace becomes more fuzzy, almost blurring the lines of submission play and actual submission in life.

She turned around as Spencer woke up from his deep slumber, grunting a small “Baby” that instantly has her clenching her thighs, she leaned down to nip at his neck softly as her fingers move down to trail themselves all over his crotch, earning a pleased hum from the sleepy man beside her.

“Being such a good girl for me, it’s so early too.” He rasped, making you more needy than before, you lived off of the praises he gave you—always has even if you’re not in the headspace, she’s a sucker for compliments and praises especially from her wonderful boyfriend and daddy.

“Just for you.. daddy.”

He should’ve caught it then, the way she clings into him, the way she practically begged to have him in her mouth, the way she drools all over his cock, the way she cries as he fucked her nice and hard that morning, the way her eyes focused solely on his, the way her moans are all high pitched whines that sounded like a kitten, or the way she begged for him to leave bruising marks on her body— as a way to remind herself— and him, or everybody that dared to look at his beautiful baby that she’s his only.

He fucked her almost as hard as he did the night before, the adrenaline clearly still affects him in more ways than one. When they both cums, Y/N just trembled like a leaf inside his hold, her lips sucking on his thumb like it was her favorite pacifier— it actually is.

“Gonna be okay, little one?” The way he had asked sent her to an alerting state, she knew automatically that he needed to go to work, and in order for him to do his job, she’ll need to stay home and wait for him like a good girl, daddy’s good girl.

“Mhm! yes yeah!” Her voice was still super high pitched, which he seemed to take a notice but decided to let it pass because he heard his phone rang then and there, signaling that there might be a case. So he pressed a small kiss on her lips after he had cleaned them up and goes downstairs to pick up the phone leaving Y/N all alone, showered and fresh yet still way too fuzzy.

Her lips pouted, looking for an excuse to just huff at her boyfriend for being so busy on a friday morning, but she knew if she gets too clingy, he’ll be late— late means suspension— suspension means.. so many childish thoughts ran through her mind as she whined out loud before getting up, knuckling her eyes and head down to the kitchen to make the both of them breakfast.

——

As Y/N managed to plate the pancakes messily, Spencer hurriedly went to the bar sitting counter and smiled as he admired the sight in front of him, “You look so good, it’s a shame that we have a case..” He mumbled as he sipped on his coffee, clearly not noticing how Y/N stopped her movement altogether, as she trembled a bit before scolding herself inside.

“umm.. will it be uh a long one?” He could immediately tell from her distinct voice that there’s something wrong, with furrowed eyebrows, he stood up, rolled his sleeves and then hug her waist from behind to place an adoring kiss on top of her head.

“It’s local, don’t think it’ll be that long— are you going to be okay, princess?” He cooed,

Y/N desperately wanted to say No! no she won’t be okay cause she needs him to be her safe haven, she needs his love, affection and warmth— she needs her daddy. But the voices disturbed her from her needs, scolding her to not be clingy and annoying and that she would have to be a big girl today, so she took a sharp breath and tried to deepened her voice, “No, no at all honey. Just get back home as- um soon as you can..”

She cringed at the tone as it was as fake as it could get, and of course her boyfriend noticed it yet before he could make any comments, his phone rang again, and he sighed, “I promise as soon as we find the unsub, i’ll come home to you.” He smiled, pressing a hurried kiss on your lips, before grabbing a slice of pancake and ran out the door with a “love you!” as he closed it.

This is definitely going to be a long day.

After Spencer had left, and done munching your pancakes, you grabbed your phone then hurried upstairs to bury your face on his pillow to pick up any of his calming scent.

It was primal really, your needs for him is always primal— where you need your fix soon or you could go crazy. And this is one of those times where you just want to be taken care of and fucked to oblivion. Your thighs tighten against themselves as your mind drifted back to last night’s events— you could still feel the burning sensation of his length stretching your cunt, and the dull pain on the mark right on top of your pulse.

Y/N wanted so desperately to touch herself, just have some sort of release, but her submissiveness never allowed her to do so as she remembered the rules her boyfriend— her dominant has laid out for her,

‘Tell me whenever you feel fuzzy, small, or any type of head space, communication is key.’

‘Absolutely no touching and no cumming unless it’s under my permission and mine only.’

As she feels her sweet nectar dripped onto the sheets, her trembling fingers reached out to grab her phone and call Spencer immediately. After no more than two ringings, his voice rang through her ears like molasses.

“Hey baby, are you okay? are you hurt? i’m just finishing up here— turns out they got the guy to confessed even before we arrived.” Gigantic amount of relieve washes over you as you tried not to sound off your whines, surely hearing the way he was stuffing his belongings onto his satchel.

“No dad- i mean no um no si- ugh i mean no i’m not hurt but i..” you stopped midway, holding back a painful whimper as you grind your hips into the mattress and feel the overwhelming pleasure that comes from it- upon hearing the estranged whimper, Spencer stopped his movement altogether and voiced out his worries.

“Hey hey little tiger, slow down. Shh, you can tell me whats wrong okay?” He bit his lips as he thought of her, and suddenly realizing what this must be, “Hey kitten, just talk to daddy okay? daddy’s here.” He looked around to see that nobody’s around him on the elevator before saying it to you.

His confirmation was proven by the choked out cries you let out suddenly, muttering ‘daddy please! need you!’ and nuzzling your nose deeper into his pillow to fill every fiber of your soul with his scent.

Spencer would be lying if he said that he wasn’t turned on beyond belief as he hopped inside his car and quickly turning his engine on; yet he also feels stupid and useless as a dom; a boyfriend to have left his girl, his sensitive fuzzy minded girl alone without taking care or pay enough attention to her state.

“Shh princess hey hey..” He tried to calm her down, as he sped down the road— but hearing his voice made her cry even louder for him, for him to come home. “Y/N, quit it right fucking now.” He demanded, voice laced thick with faux authority- he didn’t mean to be so harsh but he needed her to stop crying so he could take care of her, he could sworn that his heart break as he heard her sudden gasp with a following, “Sorry sir, ‘m sorry.”

“Listen to me, i’m on my way home okay? i need you to stay on the phone with daddy. Can you do that, little one?” He cooed gently, making sure to punctuate every single word so her fuzzy mind could make an actual sense out of his words.

——

When Spencer arrived to their shared room, his inner caregiver was screaming at himself for not paying enough attention to her. There she is, his gorgeous girlfriend’s body— laid face and belly down on top of their satin sheets, as she rocks her hips into tiny cute movements that made him cooed.

Y/N turned around when she feels his warming presence beside her, quickly letting out a choked out whimper as she shuffled close to him and nuzzle her nose onto her thighs before Reid scooped the frazzled girl into his lap and buried her face on his neck.

“Shh shh, there she is, there’s my good girl.” He whispered gently, rocking both of them on the bed, her cries died down quickly as she nuzzled her nose deeper into the crook of her boyfriend’s neck, her limbs were sprawled out all over him.

“Sorry daddy.. i didn’t— i didn’t mean to disturb you or or— please don’t punish me,” Spencer’s heart breaks once more at the soft tone of his girlfriend, gently cupping her face on both palm as he smiled and shook his head, pressing measly kisses all over her face.

“Of course i won’t punish you baby, you’ve been so good, my best girl.” Her small giggles instantly melt him, as he leaned in to kiss her lips softly, savoring her neediness and desire, practically sucking her soul with every tantalizing bite and suck of his tongue on hers.

Y/N couldn’t help to move her hips against his crotch greedily, spewing out squeaks of whimpers and whines onto his lips. Spencer groaned harshly as he feels his cock harden underneath her touch, pulling back from her lips as he reached his palm downwards to cup her clothed gently, causing her to gasped out loud- “Oh! Daddy!” to which Spencer hummed, and starts to rub his large palm directly on top of her clit.

His long slender fingers slipped past her panties and tugged them down her ankles before tossing them to the side, then he gently laid her down on the bed before taking off the rest of her clothes and his as well- leaving them both naked, skin-to-skin against each other, spreading each other’s warmth like how Y/N has been craving. He smiled softly as he sees how perfectly soft his girlfriend is, leaning down to gently kiss her lips before whispering, “Daddy’s going spoil you rotten now alright?” He grinned before moving his kisses downwards.

“Yes..yes yes please,” All you could do was moan and whine, your skin was on fire— sensitive to the core, as his lips attached itself to the flushness of your cunt, pressing soft gentle kisses onto the very top of your bundle of nerves.

The ministration alone caused you to buck your hips, “Daddy—“ your whines were stopped by the sudden overwhelming pleasure as Spencer’s tongue collect your wetness before spreading them so expertly accords your labia.

Little uh uh uh’s is the only sounds that came out of your lips, with following gasps. Your body trembled as he managed to sucked on your clit harshly whilst his fingers slip inside your warm wet walls. He thrust his fingers slowly, as his gaze stayed upon your eyes adoringly admiring how you thrash around the bed, lips bitten red— pleading with him— begging for his cock.

“What do you want, little one?” He leaned his flushed cheeks against your thighs as he worked your cunt gently, the tips of his huge fingers pressing onto the very spot that has you cumming in seconds, but you refused to— you would never cum without his permission, you’re his after all— therefore daddy has to be the one that give your orgasm to you.

“P-Please.. want your— ungh! want your cock!” the way Y/N’s lips pouts, sent overwhelming amount of warmth through his veins, as he chuckled, finally pulling his fingers out of your walls before crawling back up and pressed those very wet fingers on top of your lips.

“Open.” Was his only command, and you eagerly obeyed, sucking onto his middle and index fingers greedily— lapping up your juices off of him as you bat your eyelash. “Such a perfect little girl for me, you want my cock huh? that what you want baby?” He taunted, his other sets of fingers traced around your hair, tucking them behind your ear.

You nodded eagerly, mumbled a loud please! through his fingers— you didn’t care that you’re practically choking and gagging on his ridiculously hot long fingers; the only thing you cared about is making him feel good, being a good girl for him.

“Careful little love, we don’t want your cute throat to bruise now hm?” He cooed, prying his fingers away from your mouth, tapping them against your cheeks as he went on his knees; on the bed, and hiked your legs up his shoulder so his cock was practically touching your slit perfectly.

“Daddy..” You felt like crying, finally being able to feel him pushing himself inside you slowly, feeling every burn of the stretch, and the warm fire that settled deep inside your belly at the feeling of his cock nudging on your cute tummy, “Daddy—daddy..” Your cries becomes louder as he bottomed out completely, letting out strings of curses and ‘fucking love this tight pussy.’

“Shh it’s alright Princessa. Here hold your bear for me okay? hold onto him real tight, because daddy’s going to fuck you dumb now.” His voice was so venomous and electrifying that your hips bucked out of anticipation and your walls tighten involuntarily. You took the bear from his grasp before tucking the stuffed animal under your neck and clutching onto it tightly, “T-Thank you s-sir, please.. now?”

Spencer groaned for a moment as he let his feral need taken over him, pounding in and out of you with a brutal pace, his nails pushed deep on your inner thighs as you helplessly clutching onto the soft fur of your teddy bear.

Your moans were incoherent, your brain was completely fuzzy, and your soul was satisfied fully as Spencer thrust his cock deeper and if possible— even faster making you scream out in pleasure and pain. His eyes locked with yours, as he spewed out strings of curses, loudly.

“Fuck— such a perfect darling little thing for me, such a good fuck doll.” His words should’ve hurt but if it did something to you, it just made your walls clenched tightly— suffocating his cock, causing him to bucked his hips harder that the tip brushed against your cervix. “Oh!” Was the only thing you could let out weakly, feeling your body overcome with ridiculous amount of pleasure and yet you still want more— more of him.

“could practically see your tummy bulge like that baby, so fuckin perfect.” He cooed before continuing to fuck you into oblivion, his free thumb reached down to pinch and rub your clit, in which brought you closer and closer to your mind-blowing climax.

“Wanna cum baby? yeah?” He whispered, feeling himself getting close— he couldn’t help it when you looked like this, like a perfect little girl for him, with your arms clutching around the homemade stuffed bear and your eyes rolled as you’re nearing your orgasm.

“Yes please! daddy may i? may i? please i’ve been so— oh ungh! good!”

At the sound of her half-coherent neediness, Spencer let out a gruff mumbling of “Cum now, cum now little baby, thats it good girl— oh fuck daddy’s going to cum too, princess.” he warned, closing his eyes shut as he finally spilled his warmth inside your cunt, jerking his hips couple of times to make sure its all inside.

——

Your body was trembling as he held your close, wiping your skin gently with a very soft warm cloth— you had desperately begged for a bubble bath right after the sex, but he refused saying that it was too dangerous considering how fragile you are right now.

Although your mind has cleared out a bit, you still feel the fuzziness as he clothed you, fed you a granola bar and tipped your head back so you could drink slowly. “There is my good baby, I love you so much, Y/N.” He said tenderly yet somewhat convincingly.

Convincing enough to snapped you out of your daze, staring confusedly at him yet noticing what happened immediately. “S-Spencer?” You croaked out, wetting your lips as he smiled softly and laid down beside you,

“Hey Y/N.” He whispered, as much as he love his little girl, nothing and no one could beat how head over heels he is for his girlfriend. “I.. love you.. so much.” You managed to whimpered out, tucking your face onto the crook of your neck, “Sorry i got so fuzzy like that.”

His heart clenched as he heard her, “Hey no. It was my fault that i didn’t coaxed you this morning and i’m so sorry baby.” He apologized sweetly, causing you to giggle and wrapped your tired self all over his body and nods,

“Already forgiven, Doctor.”

With few more laughter and short pillowtalk— it doesn’t take long for you both to drift off comfortably, wrapped around each other in happiness.

Thank you for reading and supporting, give this a like if you enjoyed, thank you! My req and tag list is open, just message or send me an ask.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer x reader #dom!spencer #criminal minds smut #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid angst #insufferableblurb

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b0ba-chan · 4 years

Text

Good Puppy

summary: won’t you be a good puppy for daddy?

pairing: Bokuto Koutaro x fem!Reader

word count: 1700

warnings: dom/sub dynamic, daddy kink, puppy kink (not in a furry way tho), spanking, car sex (if you squint), pure filth, no editing

a/n: my fingies went WILD omg she just kept going. so close to 2000 words but that would’ve been a little too much. Also, again i do not know how to write endings

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

Bokuto Koutaro seems like a giant golden retriever to the public, with his bright eyes and even brighter personality. Everyone loved him no matter the age or gender, his warm and loving energy could draw anyone in. That’s how he was able to draw you into him. Being with him feels like whirlwind, constant moving and acceleration in both life and relationship. There is never a dry or boring time with Bokuto, he always made everything so fun.

People may think that he would prefer to be more submissive in bed the way he loves to please people or he would be more light hearted with everything. You thought the same way too, that there will always be that light hearted vibe to always linger around. What you weren’t prepared for was the fact that he has an extremely dominating presence and quite serious. Not only was his vibe felt so big, but he’s just built so well with his thick muscles and towering height, it just makes you feel even smaller than you already are.

Today has been a rough day for you, a busy day at work and an angry boss that you had to deal with which almost cost you your job. You felt so tired and overworked that you could barely walk back home, but luckily for you, your loving boyfriend is on his way back from training to pick you up. Parked out at the front, he leans on the car waiting for you to come out. Right when he was about to text you he was there to pick you up, your small body plopped against his broad chest. You inhale his scent that made you feel like home and melt into him as he wrapped his arms around you?

“Alright, pup?” Koutaro coos at you and runs a hand through your hair, kissing the top of your head. Letting out a small whine and press as close as you can to him.

“Go home, daddy?” You couldn’t help whispering out the little nickname that could change his attitude in a snap. His eyes grew dark and lust filled, but he kept his composure for you, because he knew you needed him the most right now.

“Yeah, let's get you home. Daddy will take care of you,” Kou smiles and opens the passenger door for you. His gym shorts are already straining slightly, knowing he can have his fun with you tonight. On days like these, he knows you want him to take all the reins and wreck her to forget today’s troubles.

The drive home was quiet, making you feel more ansty for more touch than his hand on your thigh. You needed more and his hand did not have enough access to your pussy, but you do have easy access to his crotch. All you had to do to get to him was reach over and tug the shorts down, so you do as you think, letting your hand reach over. He glances back and forth from the road to you, sending you over a warning glare.

“Puppy, keep to yourself. It’s dangerous, wait till we get home,” Bokuto grunts as your hand reaches to pull down his shorts and boxers, just enough for his semi-hard on to come out. He hisses at the cold air, but he doesn’t stop you. His rule is that you have to listen to him the first time around, never wanting to repeat himself. So if you don’t want to listen, he’ll let you have your fun but punishment does wait for you at home.

You hum at the weight in your hand and tease the tip with your thumb, lightly giggling when his breath hitches. There was a punishment to this and you knew full well that you’re bound to get a punishment, but anything for you to have your hands on him. You have your fun, jerking him off slowly and taking in the feeling of him getting hard in your hand. The car parks, but that doesn’t stop you from playing with his cock until he pulls his shorts up, causing you to let out a whine.

Kou doesn’t say anything but gets out of the car and goes to your side to open the door for you to get out. Before you can walk away, he grabs you by the jaw and leans in to your ear. He blows gently, causing you to emit a whine and shiver. “Get inside and get naked. Face down, ass up. Understand, pup?”

After you nod, he lets a low chuckle and lets go of your jaw to pat your cheek. A flush runs through your whole body as you go into the house and to the bedroom, getting in position the way he asked you to. It feels like forever until he comes back, strolling in with only his briefs on and hair ruffled down from it’s normal brushed up style. Trying to tempt him close, you shake your ass for him, but he acts unphased which causes you to pout. Maybe deepening your arch for him? No, he seems like he doesn’t care.

You close your eyes to let out a frustrated whine, but before you can continue any longer, a sharp slap hits your ass. It’s so hard and aggressive that it causes you to lurch forward and gasp. The stinging was burning, but before it settled down, another spank landed on the same spot. Tears are already threatening to spill out as the blows to your ass keep going. You loved spanking, but this wasn’t enough contact with him to satisfy you. Bokuto knew this as well, that all you wanted to touch him. After fifteen spanks, he easily flips you onto your back to take in your already fucked out expression. He smirks, enjoying his work, but right as you reach out to him, he immediately pins you down to the bed by the wrist.

“No touching, pup. You’re still taking your punishment,” His eyes stare directly into yours, showing that he’s completely serious. You let out a little whine, but comply anyways. Punishments were rough but you never want them to worsen. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, puppy. Daddy will take good care of you.”

Shivering at his words, you nod compliantly because you know daddy always takes care of you. He lets go of your wrist and lets it trail down your face to your chest, grazing his fingers lightly over your perky nipples. The light huffs and whines arouse him even more and brings his hand down to your sobbing cunt. The pad of his thumb presses on your clit causing you to let out a groan. Your hips roll down on his thumb, trying to grab more pleasure. Why was he being so mean? Wasn’t it enough that you can’t touch him?

“Maybe daddy shouldn’t prep you. Think you can take all of my cock with no prep baby? Be a good girl and take it, yeah,” He smirks at the pleased reaction from you. It’s not like you haven’t taken him with no prep before, but it was rare and you’re willing to take the challenge now. You let out small pleas for him, not really specifying what you want, but Bokuto knows you well enough to know what you want.

One of his hands reaches up to grab the headboard and the other holds the base of cock. He angles himself to your hole and pushes his blunt tip into you. The intrusion causes you to let out a squeal and try to hold onto the sheets to stable yourself. Koutaro doesn’t waste his time to continue pushing into you; you just looked so small and fragile under him, he just had to ruin you. Even when you plea for him to slow down, he doesn’t listen and continues until he’s balls deep.

You keep squirming around and crying over the intense pain and pleasure of the stretch of his thick cock. He pinches your side to get you to calm down. “C’mon, puppy. Relax for me.” He chuckles at you trying to gather yourself. His hand comes to your tummy and presses down, moaning at the pressure he set on himself. Sobs wrack through your whole body, feeling him so deep in you.

“Doesn’t it feel so good around daddy’s cock? C’mon, calm down,” Kou lets out a grunt as he adds a little more pressure. As you start to calm down, he shocks you by starting to pound into your cunt. Both of his hands are on the headboard, limiting his skin contact with you, still keeping to his punishment. But you don’t even care anymore, you’re fucked dumb and can’t even form coherent sentences. Words spill out of your mouth about how good Bokuto feels inside you, babbling about needing more.

“Puppy just can’t shut up, huh?” The man towering over you grunts, taking one of his hands to prod his fingers in your mouth, keeping his brutal pace at your sloppy hole. He holds your tongue between his thumb and index finger and increases his pace. Distorted moans spill out of your mouth as your legs start to shake, signaling your oncoming orgasm. He slows down his thrusts but gets deeper every time.

Once his tip presses against your cervix, screams break through your mouth as you fall over the edge, crying over the intense feeling. Your eyes roll back as your sight goes white. Bo moves both hands back to your hips to your hips to pull you as close he can to spill his hot seed into you.

The only words coming out of your mouth are daddy and different variations of his name. As you both slowly come down, Bokuto stays in your hole and pulls you to his chest. He soothes your crying and praises you for being such a good girl for him.

“That’s my good puppy, there we go. Did so good for me, princess,” He coos into your ear, letting you touch him however you wanted. “Been so good for me, baby. C’mon let's get you cleaned up, drink some water too, yeah?”

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

a/n: thanks for reading (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

#FINALLLYYY ALL DONE #boba!post #bokuto #bokuto koutaro #bokuto koutarou #bokuto x reader #bokuto koutaro x reader #bokuto kotarou x reader #haikyuu #haikyu #hq #haikyuu x reader #haikyu x reader #hq x reader

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mummybear · 4 years

Text

Mated In The Darkness

Words: 2102

Warnings: ABO, Swearing, Dirty Talk, Claiming, Smut, Alpha Dean, Omega Reader.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester

Summary: When You and Dean go on a hunt, something goes wrong. Which means that something happens that will change everything between you and Dean.

A/N: This is for Bee’s 5K senses challenge @negans-lucille-tblr Congratulations babe! Love you loads! You deserve every one and a shed load more! Enjoy my love! :D (My Prompt was - I’m not trying to stop you, love, but if we’re going to do anything tonight, we might as well just fuck. And my sense rule was - SMELL - Your fic must include A/B/O dynamics

Ko-Fi - (Here) :)

You knew you shouldn’t have gone on this hunt alone with Dean, Sam had warned you that it was a bad idea. With your heat being due any day now, you were at risk. Sam was injured, so you’d had no choice, unless you wanted Dean to go it alone, which you didn’t. Even if he’d insisted he’d go alone, you were sure that had more to do with his stubborn Alpha brain trying to take charge.

The three of you were all un-mated, but luckily Sam was a Beta and most of the time the three of you got along more than fine. You and Dean had made sure to keep yourselves separate and distanced when he was in rut or you went into heat.

Dean had only just managed to get a message to Sam and turn on his cell tracker, when you’d both noticed you were being followed. Minutes later the demons had come from nowhere and gotten the upper hand on you, knocking you out with one blow. When Dean had tried to get to you he’d been slammed against the wall so hard, that he was knocked unconscious instantly.

You wake up with a groan, trying to take in your surroundings, the trouble was, wherever you were being kept was pitch black and you couldn’t see very much. The floor is tacky beneath your hands as you crawl across the cold floor. There’s also a faint smell of blood in the air, one that unfortunately gets stuck in the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut as a wave of nausea rolls through your stomach, you know better than to think it’s the smell in the air that’s causing it, especially with the way that your skin has become heated and the sweat is clinging to your skin.

Biting into your bottom lip you force down a moan as an all too familiar scent hits your nose, Dean’s in here with you somewhere. Which is both a good and a bad thing. It’s good because his scent is strong and means he’s alive, it’s bad because your heat has been known to last for at least three days at a time and you can’t lock yourself away from him while you’re trapped in here.

Right now, you’re stuck in a room with an Alpha who you want more than anything in the world. You know you’re getting closer to him when the smell gets stronger still.

He smells fucking delectable, your base instincts are starting to take over searching for him in the darkness. You can practically taste him on your tongue. You don’t stop moving until you bump into something, you can just about see the outline of a body leaning back against the wall as the moonlight streams through a few cracks in the wall where he’s resting.

“Dean, is that you?” You ask quietly, gently tapping his leg.

The room remains silent and you start to feel panic rising in your chest, although, logically you know you don’t need to worry, part of you can’t help it.

“Alpha, please. You need to wake up.” You had never referred to him as Alpha before, but you need some part of him to hear you and respond. You climb into his lap the best you can and grab him by the shoulders, shaking him gently. Being this close to him makes you lightheaded, but you need him to wake up.

His hands are on your waist before you know what’s happening and a deep growl fills the room, pulling a needy whimper from you.

“Fuck you smell good ‘mega. Now I know why you lock yourself away from me when you’re like this,” Dean’s voice is so deep, even with his face pressed into your neck, you tip your head back and shiver when his tongue runs up the column of your throat.

“Alpha, please. I need you.” The longer you sit in his lap, grinding down against the thickness trapped behind his jeans, the hotter and wetter you get.

You press your sweaty forehead against his, a breathy moan leaves your lips when you feel his hands on your skin, big hands that cover the tops of your thighs as he slips them beneath your skirt.

“Couldn’t have picked a better day to wear this,” he tells you, with a voice as smooth as expensive whiskey, you can clearly hear the smirk in his voice. You sit up on your knees and your skirt is quickly pushed over your ass and around your waist. Dean’s knuckles drag over the front of your soaked panties, until you’re arching into his touch. His fingertips move slowly to hook into the crotch of the damp material and he pulls it to the side.

“So much easy access, it’s almost like you wanted something to happen.” He nips at your bottom lip as he eases two thick fingers inside you. You moan into his mouth as he lets your lip go and starts to curl and scissor his fingers inside you.

“What’s wrong sweetheart? Did this tight Omega pussy get sick of all of those toys I hear you usin’, did you need a big thick Alpha cock to stretch you open?”

Dean’s filthy mouth is driving you crazy, but hell if he wasn’t right about everything. Your thighs start to shake as Dean’s fingers move faster, driving his fingers into you harder and the wet sounds of your juices gathering thickly starts to fill the room, mixing with your breathy pleas and Dean’s quiet praises. You lean against him, gripping his shoulders hard to keep yourself up right.

“Alpha please, I need to come,” you beg him quietly, feeling the coil in your stomach wind impossibly tight.

“Hold it for me baby, just wanna watch you squirm a little before I fuck you against this wall.” Dean chuckles as a whimpered ‘God’ falls past your lips. His thumb starts swiping back and forth over your sensitive clit, groaning as you squeeze your eyes closed and your pussy clenches around his fingers.

“Fuck Dean, I can’t,” you gasp, head dropping to his shoulder as you start to rock your hips into his hand.

“Go on then my slutty little Omega, come all over my fingers.”

It’s like the command your body had been waiting for and you have to gasp for a breath when a powerful orgasm rocks through your body, one like none of your toys had given you in years.

You barely have time to come down from your high before Dean helps you onto your shaking legs and roughly pushes you against the wall he’d been leaning against. You whimper loudly when he pushes your face against the rough bricks on the wall, kicking your feet apart with his booted foot. You hear the obvious sound of a belt buckle clanging open and you can feel the heat of his body, even through your heat as he presses up behind you. Dean roughly tugs your panties down your legs and you quickly kick them off, before resuming your position against the wall.

“So you want my knot do you ‘mega?” He asks quietly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it as he presses his plump lips to your ear. “You wanna come all over my thick Alpha cock?” Dean’s voice has dropped to a growl, so predatory and everything you’d ever imagined it would be. You’ve lost all the words you’d imagined saying in this moment, you can only gasp for a breath as his name rolls off of your tongue, feeling his cock start to effortlessly slide through your slick.

“Yes Dean, please. Fuck, wanna come all over your thick cock. I need you to mark me, make me scream, want you to fucking own me Alpha.” You know how desperate your voice is but your head is foggy and all you can smell is him, you’re not even thinking about who might hear you because the truth is you don’t really care.

There’s a deep and primal growl that leaves Dean’s throat as the wide head of his cock slowly pushes past your opening, you try to cling to the slippery wall in front of you. With every inch that he eases inside you, you find your breathing beginning to slow a little more. By the time his hips are flush with your ass you’re holding your breath. He’s so much bigger than you’d imagined, his cock is so thick and presses tight against your walls, it feels like he’s everywhere.

Dean pins you to the wall, his front pressed tight against your back. His breath hot against your ear and his hands are gripping you tightly, one on your hip and the other on your shoulder.

“So fuckin’ tight and wet for me baby girl, that tight little pussy stretches around my cock like a damn glove. Gonna have to take it nice and slow, don’t wanna split you in half.” Dean chuckled darkly, dragging his teeth over your earlobe slowly.

“Do it, just move Alpha. I need you.” You pant heavily against the cold brick of the wall.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream when Dean pulls out to the tip and roughly thrusts forwards, until he’s filling you once again.

“Such a demanding little Omega, sweetheart. Good job I fucking love it when you get feisty.” He grunts, picking up his pace as you arch your back just a little, which only pushes him deeper.

The sweat is rolling off of your skin now, he’s giving you everything you need and more. Every thrust is so demanding and rough and you can already feel the coil in your stomach wound tight, so desperate for release it’s almost painful.

Your pussy is fluttering uncontrollably, the sounds of Dean’s hips bouncing off of your ass echoes around the darkened room, with your desperate whimpers and Dean’s deep growls. Everything feels more intense without your sight. He’s all you can smell, like his scent is blanketing your own.

“Can I come, Alpha? Please, I need it! I’m so close.” You practically sob, doing your best to cling to the brick wall in front of you.

Dean’s pace doesn’t falter at your words, but the hand he has on your shoulder moves between your legs and the one on your hip is now fisting the hair at the back of your head. Dean’s fingers move back and forth over your sensitive clit and all you can do is whimper his name, you feel the tip of his nose move slowly along your neck, his breath fanning across the skin.

“Fuck, I love it when you beg for permission, like a good little Omega should, so fuckin’ pretty. Do it then, come all over my cock.” Dean rasps, his voice pulls goosebumps from your skin and you feel his teeth drag along your neck gently, giving you a taste of what’s to come.

His fingers tighten in your hair and he applies more pressure to your clit, within seconds you fall apart, coming so hard that you can hardly breathe.

Dean’s thrusts become more erratic than before and his hips stutter, as your pussy spasms repeatedly around his cock. You move your head back, resting it on his shoulder.

“Alpha, come for me. Want your knot, please.” You pant, feeling the exhaustion of your intense orgasms.

“So fuckin’ close. Gonna fill you up, make you mine-” his teeth drag over your pulse point, as if to highlight his intentions. “-fuck you full of my pups, you want that Omega?” Dean growls against your skin.

“Please Dean, please Alpha.” You cry out, feeling his teeth sink into your skin seconds later. A satisfied moan vibrates against your skin as his knot catches against your walls and swells perfectly, fucking you full.

Dean catches you before you fall, his tongue gently lathing his mark in your skin. Neither of you have time to talk before the door bursts open. The two of you do your best to turn around and see what's caused the intrusion. Only to find Sam standing there looking at you both with a grin.

"About damn time, I'll give you guys a minute to…..well, do whatever." He states, waving in your general direction, closing the door with only enough of a gap for you to see each other.

"Well when we get outta here we're gonna be busy, huh?" Dean grins, kissing your cheek the best he can.

"If you keep fucking me like that, Alpha, then definitely."

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pandoraimperatrix · 3 years

Note

Can you lily for BatCat?!? PS you’re just so talented at writing!

This is a sequel of Time Unreal that @comicskbanime2 requested in march.

It falls after the 4x15 of Gotham,so Baby!Batcat what feels weird to say when this is smut lmao.

Lily - “Staying quiet was never your strong suit, wasn’t it?” “Well, you could do something about it.”

Enjoy!

---------------------------

Growing up on the streets Selina learnt by pain and hurt that the only thing that really matters is power. And the main two things that could give you some was violence or money. She didn’t enjoy violence very much. She was no lily livered coward, but she did not take pleasure on inflicting physical pain to others. And the way she avoided to be on the receiving end was being small, fast and smart, but those three things could fail her, and had many times. Money, however, she liked very much, but she didn’t have any, that’s why she took it from people that had too much.

Dealing with Bruce was different, the rules did not apply at all. For once, despite still having nothing of the things that should give her power over him, there was no doubts of whom from the both of them had the reins of their particular dynamic. And it was not the boy billionaire.

But Selina miscalculated. She made a mistake she never really expected she could ever make. Because it was so unlike her, it never occurred to her that she needed to look out for that particular kind of danger. She got comfortable, domesticated. And, by doing so, Selina led herself to believe that the things between them would never change.

Back then, she, sometimes, when lying on his couch, watching through half-lidded eyes his never-ending reading, pretending to be asleep, she wondered why. Why he didn’t mind her presence? God, why he even seemed to enjoy it? Worse, why was he so despaired for her good opinion? Why he even cared about her at all? And how could have her let herself forget that those questions didn’t have an answer? And if she didn’t know why or how she managed it in the first time, how could she keep her power over him?

Did she even had any, like, ever? Wasn’t their whole relationship just one of his experiments and when he tired of consorting with the poor, he’d forget her? But wasn’t exactly that what happened, wasn’t it? Granted, in the heat of her rage, when for the first time since they met, he rejected her, it hurt so much and so deeply that she told herself that’s what happened. That their whole relationship was a lie, that Bruce was just another selfish rich bastard who used her for amusement and now was done with her.

Of course, that was stupid and not true at all. Even if she couldn’t understand why Bruce liked her, she knew him well enough to know he was none of that. And that had been why, even after believing their story was over, her heart broke when she saw him playing that part, forcing himself to be something so far from his true self, something that he, himself, despised. And when he told her what was really going through his head the last time they fought at the hospital, the surprise, the relief, the need was so great that she couldn’t do it anymore. Selina realized that Bruce hadn’t been the only one pretending to be something he was not, and she kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, and when they had their first time, in the wrong place, wrong time and even more wrong circumstances, finally, she felt something was right in the world.

He put away the jewellery, and she waited as he came back, feeling awkward. Such unfamiliar feeling. She, who had wore shamelessness on her head like a crown all her life, felt embarrassed by being under Bruce Wayne’s gaze now. He didn’t come back to the Sirens after their last encounter. Then the whole affair with Ivy happened and when she heard he was one of her former friend’s victims, the whole affair was done with, and he was okay. Good. Yet… Some part of hers, the one that was still insisting on making the same mistake that costed her so dearly before, expected him to make the next move. And when he didn’t, when not even the dirt bag Brucie that haunted her bar failed to show, she was disappointed. Of course, her pride would never let her admit that to him. But even her pride had its limits, and after how Ivy tricked her into participating in the murder of Roland Charles, Selina felt the need of a friend. Someone who understood. Someone to whom other people’s lives mattered. She needed him.

He looked surprised to see her still there in his messed up kitchen when he came back, but other than a small smile and a special glint in his gaze, he didn’t comment on her lingering presence.

“Are you still hungry?” he asked.

“You have no food,” she answered, trying to shake the weird shyness she was feeling off. She was sitting on the counter now, her legs swinging. His eyes darkened, maybe he was remembering the last time he held her against a bar counter, maybe it was a trick of the light.

“I could make some.”

“I could eat.”

He took the apron from the hook and tried to tie around his waist, but his hand – now puffy and purple – hurt and he winced in pain.

Selina jumped off the counter and took the apron from his hands, helping him to tie it on his back.

“Are you really alright?” she whispered, taking forever to make the knot, she wanted to lean her forehead against his back, when had it become so broad? He used to be such a frail thing.

“Yes…” he sighed, knowing she didn’t mean his hand. “As much as I can be.”

“I don’t understand it,” her hands fell limp around her body.

“What?” he turned to look at her, but Selina was facing down, biting her lip to stop it from trembling.

“Why don’t you just take off to your castle in Italy and never come back to this stupid city?”

“Chalet in Switzerland, Selina,” he said in a mock-annoyed tone. “I’ve told you a hundred and fifty-seven times already!”

That got her to raise her eyes to him.

“Knowing you, I might believe you counted for real.”

Bruce took his good hand to her face, Selina’s eyes fluttered closed; his thumb caressed her cheekbone lovingly.

“Still… You really can’t think about a reason?” his voice was barely a whisper.

“Hm?” she made, leaning into him, one hand on his hip, the other on his chest, she wished he would shup up and kiss her already, she didn’t want to hear it, because she might believe him.

“Can’t you?” he urged her again, but now his hand had slid into her hair, and his lips were against her ear.

Selina shivered, but pushed him away gently.

“Look, Bruce…”

“No, no,” he pleaded, his voice betraying his despair, “don’t do that,” he reached for her hand, “not now, please.”

“What do you even want from me?” she asked, frustrated. “I just don’t get you. You’d think that fucking you would give me some clue, but somehow I know even less of what goes on in that huge head of yours, and I’m tired of trying to figure it out. Thank you for the help with the jewellery, I’m… I’m taking off now.”

She tried to pull her hand from his grasp, but Bruce used the leverage he had to pull her awkwardly closer, making their bodies smash into each other.

“I’m sorry!” he said letting go of her hand, but doing nothing to create space between them. “But just-“ he sucked air in. “Stay, please. I don’t get me either, most of the time, but after Ivy did to me I think I might be getting somewhere… I feel like myself again. But one thing never changed. Not even when I was so completely lost… What I want from you… Oh Selina, how can you possibly not know?”

She just stood there, staring at him, and for the longest moment, it seemed that nothing else would happen. Because she couldn’t move, her thoughts were running so fast that if she did, something could break. And she was taken back to the last time he showed himself so vulnerable to her, and what the lack of reserves blew out the walls she had painstakingly built around herself. It was dangerous, Selina knew, and her brain was trying the impossible by pushing the acquired notion of Bruce growing out from his attachment to her to the reality of the young man standing there, who was so obviously in love with her.

“I want you,” he said finally.

Selina rose to the tip of her toes, crashing her face against his so hard her nose stung. Her hands went straight to his hair, her body arching to get more of his warmth, as he wrapped his arms around her and licked the seam of her lips. Selina gasped letting him in, she moaned when she felt his tongue slide to the roof of her mouth, remembering how it felt against her clit last time.

“Bruce…” she breathed when he started spreading kisses way from her lips. Selina pushed him away another time, but now her objective was to peel that stupid turtleneck off, she needed to feel him.

He grunted when, of course, the offending garment trapped his maimed hand as they hastily worked it off.

“Your hand!” she cried, alarmed.

“It’s fine,” he roared back, trying to catch her lips again, but Selina, ducked, taking the harmed hand delicately between hers, examining the damage.

“You should put ice on it.”

He used his free hand to pull her chin up.

“I have something better to do now.”

She snorted.

“You are so corny.”

She saw his smirk get closer and closer, until their lips were together again. He was being weirdly sweet as he kissed her, going slowly, kissing her skin as he peeled her jacket off, as if he was apologising.

It was too late for apologies, as Selina didn’t want any anymore.

She pushed him against the counter and unzipped her hoodie, discarding the shimmering fabric on the floor. He reached for her, but Selina stepped back, staring directly into his eyes, almost daringly, she pulled her undershirt off, revealing no bra. Bruce swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, he licked his lips in anticipation, but instead of claiming his mouth again, Selina hooked her arms around his neck and bit his chin, licking downwards and sucking the sensible skin of his throat hard. She leaned back to admire her work, his skin was so fair, it was so easy to mark. She wished it was easy like that, to brand him as hers, to remind him so he wouldn’t stray again.

Wondering about his silence, she rose her gaze to his eyes, they were pitch black, her throat dried, Bruce’s mouth fell upon hers again, but didn’t last. He used her stunned oxygen deprived stage to rotate her body by her hips, pulling her thick hair aside and kissing down the nape of her neck, giving her one mark too, while his hands were free do grab her chest.

Selina moaned when he licked between her shoulder blades and pushed her hips towards his, desperate for more. By doing so, Selina felt against her backside how affected he was too, and reached behind to do something about it, but Bruce grabbed her still gloved wrist and pinned it on the counter.

“Not yet,” he told her, ignoring her annoyed huffs and continued from where he was interrupted. Selina looked over her shoulder to see him, kissing lower and lower down her back, he bit the curve of her hip kneeling on the floor, she involuntarily arched against him, and Bruce, finding that the fabric of her trousers were a problem reached for the front button. Selina helped by unhooking her whip from her belt as Bruce kissed the new revealed skin, but when he parted her soft mounds to lick her middle through her damp underwear she cried out in pleasure and shock.

She threw daggers through her eyes when she heard him chuckling.

“This morning you tried to grab my attention by making loud mess. But as Alfred is back, you’ll have to be quiet if you don’t want us to be interrupted.”

She turned around, facing him.

“I didn’t try to get your attention,” she said in arrogant tone, “I’ve got it”

He smiled again, but instead of amusement at her expense there was a mix of fondness and arousal in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

Bruce tried to stand up, but Selina hooked her leg across shoulder.

“Yes,” she leaned down, their faces inches from each other, “I still have you wrapped around my little finger, Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce’s smile disappeared and Selina’s core contracted in anticipation, he cupped under her knee, pushing her leg open and sucking her inner thigh. With each inch of skin he won, she bit her lip harder, trying so hard to not give him the satisfaction of having her loud and clear praise of his talents. Selina’s eyes rolled shut when Bruce pulled her underwear with his thumb and slid his impossibly hot tongue across her slit.

She was pretty sure she had broken her own skin, but all her efforts were nullified when he started sucking her clit and Selina cried out loud, one of her hands grabbing his hair with despair and the other reaching behind for support distrusting the capacity of the only leg she still had on the floor to keep her standing.

“Fuuuuuck,” she moaned when he started lapping, Bruce didn’t stop, his thumb let go of the fabric of her thong to penetrate her, and the combined stimulation made her fall apart, her leg giving in, pleasure mixed with horror as her fingers slipped from the hold she had on the counter. But before she had a very undignified fall, Bruce guided her body down, lying Selina on the kitchen floor.

She was still startled and still having orgasmic spasms when he started kissing up her navel.

“Staying quiet was never your strong suit, wasn’t it?” he teased.

“Well,” she breathed hard, “you could do something about it. Come here.”

He did, and she held his face as they kissed, enjoying the weight of his body over hers, the contrast of his feverish skin and the cool floor tiles. They took a break, Bruce’s forehead falling against Selina’s, his hands wandering down to her chest as she caressed his back.

“Your hand,” she remembered.

“What?” his mouth had joined his hand in the exploration of her breasts.

“When I fell and you held me-“

“It’s fine,” he mumbled.

She studied his face, trying to judge if he was being honest or just way too horny, deciding she believed him, or didn’t care enough to stop, she looked down.

“You still have your pants.”

That made him follow her gaze. And then when he sought for her face Selina smiled devilishly. She pushed him away, making Bruce fall on his back, then she rose to a kneeling position, undoing his fly. Selina used her teeth to pull her glove off before inserting her now bare hand inside the waistband. Bruce grunted when he felt her fingers close around him. He watched transfixed as she pumped a few times, and then pulled her hair behind her ear leaning in. When her lips closed around the tip, he held his breath, seeing stars.

“Hey,” she called wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Bruce remained with his eyes closed shut. “B to earth,” he heard her giggle and opened one eye, “do you have a condom? Last time we didn’t and… Better not risk it.”

He breathed in trying to remember how to process language and speech again.

“My wallet.”

“K,” she bended over him fumbling with his jeans’ pockets until she found his wallet. But when she opened it, she was surprised by a picture of herself. It was old, she should be around fourteen when it was taken, she didn’t know the picture existed and wasn’t looking at the camera. She turned the picture around trying to find more information of where it came from, but glued on the other side was a portrait of Bruce’s parents smiling to each other. Her hand shook, and she turned the picture over again, facing herself, and blinked trying to sway the tears wetting her eyes.

“Selina? Did you find it?”

She didn’t answer, not trusting her voice.

Bruce sat up, his hand caressing her back.

“Oh,” he made when he found out what was distracting her, “this…”

Selina sat of her heels, Bruce’s hand followed the change of her posture sliding up her back until he found the curve of her neck, massaging the bottom of her scalp.

“How did you get this?” She asked.

“I took it…” he said studying her expression. “Alfred found my mom’s vintage camera and I was playing with it.”

She turned her face to him.

“I don’t remember this.”

“You weren’t looking, I’m sorry,” he was now caressing her face tenderly, “are you upset I took it without telling you?”

“No, it’s just…” she closed her eyes shut. Why did he have to be so… “Where’s that damn condom?”

“Selina, I don’t un-“

She let go an exasperated sigh and pushed his wallet to his bare chest, climbing on his body.

“Find it, or I’ll fuck you without it.”

He found the object without difficulty and handed it to her.

Selina used her teeth do open the foil package.

“Do you know how to-“

“I was a virgin last time, not stupid.”

He chuckled.

“What?” she asked, rolling the condom down, Bruce hissed with the contact.

“Nothing,” he answered with a tight voice, his hands were now on her waist, wishing she was closer. “I just missed you.”

She pulled him for a kiss at the same time she guided his penis inside. Her mouth fell open breaking the kiss for a moment, before he urged her to continue, pulling her bottom lip with his teeth. Bruce’s hand, kneaded Selina’s buttocks as she swayed her hips back and forth.

As they got momentum, Bruce started thrusting his hips up to meet hers, by then Selina was being so loud, he had to cover her mouth with his hand. She came again, becoming limp in his arms, then he laid her down, without breaking their union, and proceeded to seek his own release until he collapsed over her.

They remained there, locked into each other, Selina’s hand playing with his hair, his head on her chest, Bruce felt so much at peace that he might have fallen asleep before being brought violently back to reality by a very loud British exclamation of horror.

When Bruce entered his bedchamber that night, there was someone already under the covers.

“So, what did you say to Jeeves?” she asked, as if having her on his bed as something normal and not the first time ever. Earlier, they dressed in haste and Bruce ran after Alfred to stop him from leaving again, when he went back to clean the mess in the kitchen, Selina was gone.

“A lot…” Bruce said pulling his turtleneck off and folding it. “He was worried I lied to him about fixing my life, but I convinced him.”

“How?”

“I told him” and he made a pause looking straight into her eyes, “it was you.”

“Oh…” he didn’t hide his smile when he saw the redness on her cheeks, Selina rolled her eyes.

“Won’t Barbara and Tabitha worry about you?”

“Nah,” she shrugged, “they don’t care.”

“Hmm,” he made unsure, he didn’t understand or liked Selina’s association with the two criminals that filled the space he had left in Selina’s life, but that was something he would have to deal with. After finishing his preparations, he fell on the bed and pulled Selina against him, very aware of the pleased smiled on her face.

“So…” he said kissing down her neck, “are you my girlfriend now?”

--------------------

I hope you liked this one too, and if you do, please reblog so more people can find it too <3 Have a nice week!

#batcat #brulina #baby batcat #gotham #selina kyle #bruce wayne #catwoman #batman #my fic #flower prompts #blythbrezna

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harryspet · 4 years

Text

little doe [2] peter parker

[Warnings] aged up peter parker x oc, multiverse oc, peter being domestic af, mj exists but she’s not with peter, doe goes into heat, dd lg dynamic, broken english, some sexy stuff, fingering

A/N: Thank you for the feedback on the last post!

Like, reblog and let me know what you think!

word count: 2.6k

Peter was an early riser. Not because he enjoyed it but because he was so used to four a.m. calls from Fury. In the morning, he woke up disoriented mostly because he didn’t even recognize the room he was in. It took him a moment to realize all the events of yesterday. Doe, a superhuman from another version of earth, was now living in his apartment.

“Peter,” although her voice was silvery and light, Peter almost jumped out of his skin. He had forgotten that he had fallen asleep in her bed, mostly against his will.

“Doe,” Peter clutched his chest because his heart was beating so fast, “Jesus, you scared me.”

The young girl was now sitting up in the bed, her white hair now a bit tangled, and she seemed to worry about the way he was holding his chest, “Peter?” Even first thing in the morning, he thought she was beautiful.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” He assured her as he sat up in the bed. He had to remind himself that he had to adjust the way he spoke to her because she didn’t understand the nuances of the language. She reached out to touch his hand and Peter simply stared as she grabbed it, wrapping her hand in his, “Well … good morning.”

Peter looked at the clock on her nightstand to see it was only seven in the morning. With his other hand, since Doe was still holding his other, Peter rubbed his tired face, “Maybe we should sleep in. Sleep, Doe.”

He gestured for her to lay back down but she raised an eyebrow. He tried to pull his hand from hers but she only gripped his tighter. Looking at her, the girl was clearly wide awake now. Maybe they ran on less sleep on her version of earth.

Fine, he was used to this. Peter sighed, “We’ll start the day early then,” Peter hoped by noon she’d be tired and they could take a nap.

Peter moved to climb at the bed and she followed him, still keeping their hands interlaced. “Good morning! Good morning!” Doe exclaimed, practically bouncing. He showed her to the bathroom and, luckily, the functions of the bathroom translated well.

To say the least, Doe was not shy at all. If it was up to her, she’d hold his hand through the shower, when she was brushing her teeth, and even when she was relieving herself. He had to pry his fingers from her, deciding that he had to lay down the rules or she’d never have any sort of independence, “Doe, I like when you hold my hand, I do,” He squeezed her hand and smiled, “But we don’t need to hold hands in the bathroom.” He shook his head.

She frowned, of course, but he promised he’d keep the bathroom cracked open as he waited in her room.

“Peter?” He shouldn’t have been surprised when she arrived in the doorway, completely naked. He stared, only for a moment, and then realized he hadn’t given her any clothes to change into.

“Stay there,” He spoke sharply and she froze. He looked through the drawer of clothes and pulled out the first dress he could find and then the … underwear. He tried not to look down as he handed her the clothes.

Peter turned around and released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

She tapped his shoulder when she was done and then she was standing there, her wet hair dripping onto her mint green dress.

He was already drained and didn’t feel like attempting to help her dry her hair. Instead, he said, “Okay, Peter’s turn,” He had a feeling that he might be speaking in the third person from now on.

She interlaced their fingers again and Peter led her out of the room and down the hallway. The rising sun lit up the apartment thanks to the far wall practically only being made of windows. He told her to sit on his bed and she obeyed without hesitance. She was still bouncing with excitement, ready to begin the day.

“Stay, Doe. Okay?” Peter raised his hands into two thumbs up. She stared down at her own fingers before mimicking him.

“Stay,” She repeated.

He had to admit, though he was glad to get a moment alone, he didn’t like not being able to see her. Peter went on with his routine, changing into a regular t-shirt and grey sweatpants. A lazy Sunday was hopefully ahead.

Doe had wandered around Peter’s room which didn’t seem to have nearly as many decorations as hers. She wondered why Peter wanted her to sleep in a different room than hers. Were their souls not intertwined? Maybe since Peter was from this version of earth, he couldn’t feel the same bond that she did.

She found a couple of photo frames. Peter with a tall girl with dark and curly hair. Peter with an older lady who looked just like him and Peter with an older man with a goatee. He was smiling so hard in that one. Doe picked it up, tracing her fingers over Peter’s face noting how young he looked.

She hadn’t even looked up as Peter returned from the bathroom. Peter walked over calmly, already knowing what she was looking at, “Peter?” She pointed at the man standing beside him in the photo, “You … you,” She searched for the right word, “F-fa… f-”

But he shook his head, a solemn look on his face, “No, he’s not my father. He was a great man though.”

Doe raised an eyebrow, “Sad?”

Peter nodded, “Yes, but not because of Doe,” He tried to assure her.

She pressed a hand to her chest to say “my” and then tried out the new word again, “F-Father, he leave.” He hadn’t even thought about the Family she was probably missing. She had grown to like him so easily that he hadn’t even considered it.

“Your father? He left?” She nodded but he had the idea that “leaving” to her meant something different. Something darker. He wasn’t sure how to talk to her when there was such a barrier between them, “I’m sorry.”

Peter grabbed her hand this time and Doe smiled. Then she moved closer, leaning into him and, out of instinct, Peter wrapped his arms around her.

Perhaps that barrier was just in his head. It seemed that this, their touch, was all each other needed in that moment.

He had poured Doe a bowl of cereal as he made a cup of coffee and some toast for himself. And, like everything else, Doe didn’t like the way he did things. She wanted the toast and coffee and, when Peter insisted she eat her own meal, she climbed into his lap and started to eat his food. Really, it was most likely because she didn’t want to sit in her own chair.

The dimension she was from must lack the concept of personal space. They weren’t together, she couldn’t just sit in his lap platonically. She shouldn’t be comfortable with him seeing her naked and he definitely shouldn’t have liked it.

Realizing he had to lay down the law once again, he lifted the girl and returned her back to her seat. Besides that, he did not want to see her with caffeine in her system, “Your chair, your food,” He told her before returning to his seat, “My chair, my food.”

She scowled at him, picking up her spoon, “Peter i-is . . . mean.”

Peter froze, in the middle of taking a sip of his coffee. She was learning faster than he expected, “I’m not mean,” Peter spoke, sounding offended, “You are a brat.”

“Not brat!” She didn’t understand what it meant but knew it was an insult, “Peter is brat.”

Her hands curled around the spoon tightly as she grew frustrated. Peter suddenly remembered that he hadn’t given her the suppressant pills. He stood up from his seat, “Doe, eat your cereal,” he spoke sharply, “Now.”

She took a few breaths as if to calm herself down before dipping her spoon into her cereal. Of course, she thought it was delicious. All this was only to prove some type of dominance over him and Peter decided he couldn’t tolerate it.

Peter walked into the kitchen and opened the small kit that Pepper had given him. It had several weeks worth of pills as well as some sedatives in case she lost control. He collected two pills and a glass of water.

When he returned to the table, she had finished her food but she was staring off sadly. He held out the pills to her and she simply stared, “Doe is not brat,” She told him, sounding resolute.

“No, it was mean to call you a name, I’m sorry” Peter sighed, setting down the glass of water, “But Doe has to listen to Peter. Peter is in charge and he will take care of Doe.”

“Doe is sorry.”

He gestured to the pills again and she took them from his hand, swallowing them before grabbing the water. “Good girl,” Peter brushed his hand through her hair and she blushed, “How about we watch a movie?”

If they had a version of TV in Doe’s dimension, she certainly didn’t act like it. She was entranced by pretty much every movie he put on the TV and they had gone through several of the Star Wars and Terminator movies. Despite them being his favorites, she wasn’t nearly as impressed as when they got to the cartoons.

The giant blue genie on the thumbnail intrigued her and then he watched her fall in love with both Princess Jasmine and Abu. She was crying, holding his hand tightly, as Aladdin gave the genie his freedom, “Again!” She shouted her new favorite word as she forced Peter to play the movie again. “Please,” She added quietly and Peter only laughed.

And that’s how they ended up watching Aladdin three times in a row. Luckily, as it played for the fourth time, Doe rested her head on Peter’s stomach and began to doze off.

Peter gently moved her head to rest on a pillow before standing and covering her with a blanket. He had a missed call from MJ that he hadn’t wanted to take while he was alone with Doe. Peter walked to his office and slowly shut the door.

“MJ, hey-”

“Ned told me everything. I knew you were hiding something, Parker,” She interrupted him and spoke in her usual cool, monotone voice, “You’re keeping a literal alien in your apartment? Did something in your brain ever say ‘hey, that might not be a good idea’”

“You want to meet her, don’t you?”

“Of course!” Peter smiled, walking over to the window, “You realize that her existence disproves a million known scientific theories. She’s probably valuable too. I bet a bunch of countries would be interested. You’d probably never have to work another day in your life-”

“You talking about selling her to a foreign government is not convincing me to let you meet her.”

“Fine, sorry,” MJ continued, “Here’s something that will. You know literally nothing about girls.”

“That’s not true!” Peter exclaimed defensively, “I’ve dated … I dated you for christ sake, MJ!”

“That is highly debatable,” MJ laughed, “Anyways, I can help! Feminine projects, did you think to buy those?”

Peter was silent for a moment, “Well …”

“Does she have bras that fit? Things to do her hair?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, “Do you even have those things yourself, MJ?”

“I’ll see you soon, Peter,” MJ said before hanging up and Peter only pressed his lips into a thin line. Peter knew she’d keep her word and, knowing her, she probably had her own key to his place.

When Peter walked back into the living room, he heard Doe calling for him. Well, that nap lasted quicker than he thought. As he made his way to the couch, he realized something was very wrong. Her face and skin had turned a shade of red and she looked like she was hyperventilating, “Peter,” She gasped, tears in her eyes.

He rushed to her side, flinging the blankets away as he tried to find where she was hurt. He saw lines of blue, like electricity, running beneath her skin. He gulped. He couldn’t find any physical wounds but she was writhing as if something in her core was wrong. She clutched her stomach as she continued to moan his name.

“Doe, Doe,” He was panicking, it was their first real day together and it was already going so wrong. She didn’t answer, only moaned his name. Peter cursed, pulling out his phone to call Pepper.

Peter placed a hand on her forehead, she was burning, “Please pick up, please-”

“Peter, is everything okay?”

“No, something happening to Doe. She’s burning up and she’s holding her stomach. I think something's very wrong.”

“I’m not sure what it could be … I’ll have a doctor sent over. If he can’t figure it out then we’ll have to run some tests. A sedative will help while you wait,” Peter was already running to the kitchen, grabbing one of the needles. He might vomit in the process, but he would do anything to ease her pain.

He expected her to be afraid but her mind seemed to be elsewhere. As the needle entered her arm, she winced and began to cry even more. He put the syringe on the coffee table before sitting on the couch and lifting the girl into his lap.

“I’ve got you,” He spoke softly though his heart was racing fast, “I’ve got you.”

She shifted reaching a shaky hand to touch his cheek, “Peter,” she spoke again, “hot.”

“I know, you must have a fever, Doe,” He couldn’t understand how she had gotten sick so quickly, “Just rest, the sedative should kick in any moment.”

She didn’t close her eyes, she shifted, positioning herself so she was straddling his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling her face into his neck, and Peter wrapped his arms around her. They were so close that he was starting to feel that heat too. This was more than a fever, Peter thought, but as he held her he could feel some of the heat melting away.

“Peter,” He felt her breath against his neck and a shiver went down his spine. That’s when she started to move her hips against him, “Hot … please Peter …” She was begging now.

His hand fell down to her thigh and he felt her bare skin as his hand rose up her dress. He could feel her nodding and she grinded harder against him, “Doe,” he was begging now, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop if she kept going, “Doe … I can’t.”

Then she bit at his neck and then kissed the spots she bruised. She reached back to grab his hand, moving it so it was positioned between her legs, “Please,” she begged, and he felt the heat of her sex. She held his hand there, grinding against his hand now, “Take care.”

Heat.

The need to be … relieved was causing her sickness. He followed his instincts, now beginning to move his fingers in a circle against her most sensitive part. She lifted her head, tilting it all the way back. “Thank you,” She mumbled over and over and he watched as the color came back to her skin.

She shook as she finally reached a climax and as she moaned his name, Peter’s eyes darkened.

She breathed heavily and her skin was cold against his as she fell back against him, “Peter .,, t-thank you,” She whispered. She rested against him and he knew she was sleeping now.

It seemed he was more powerful than the sedative.

Thank you for reading! My idea for Doe is that, in her universe, there’s an A/B/O type of dynamic in society.

Please reblog or send me an ask if you’d like to be added to a taglist! My request are OPEN so if you have a specific peter drabble you want me to write then I can! Also, if you have any ideas/wishes for this series then feel free to send me an ask too.

part 3 is up!

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boogiewrites · 3 years

Text

Never Break the Chain Pt. 2

Part 2 of 5

Characters: Javier Peña x OFC

Summary: Javier and Esme's first time seeing each other in almost twenty years. A photograph leads to an obsessive hunt for the woman he thought was dead. They both find they got where they wanted. But is it what they want now?

Warnings/Tags: Tension. Big reunited kiss.

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Time passes, as it always has and always will. It stopped for no man, not even Javier. Seeing his first love fade into nothing had left him a different man. Walls came up, barriers were built that his enemies would even be impressed by. She’d done him a favor, snapping him out of the young man’s dream, but he felt he had nothing left but trying to help once she was gone. So he threw himself into his work.

Sure there were other women. He thought he loved some, but would always leave them. He always hurt them and that wasn’t his intention precisely but they would thank him years later. He was what they would refer to in close company as “a dodged bullet”. He’d been called far worse.

He despised his cliche reactions to his trauma sometimes. Drinking, smoking, being a general pain in the ass, renowned and proud asshole was easier. Burying yourself in prostitutes and let them take away the thoughts for a little while was the easiest. He would fantasize he could help them, even save some of them. He surely wasn’t getting his hero complex stroked when it came to his work. He had a soft spot for women, he had learned the hard way the shit deal they’d landed when they were born. He couldn’t do much...but he could try to help. So he did. Loss after loss he kept trying. This was that bit of good Esme had always believed in. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would have it so he made the best of it while he could.

The night before was nothing knew, an old habit at this point for him. He went out and got a woman, he’d pour every bit of good in him into her, convincing himself he still had it. He’d make them feel good, listen to them, things that were in short supply in their lives from men. He could be that good guy exception, if only for a short while. It felt nice to not be looked at with disgust or fear. The slivers of affection kept him going after dark. He’d leave them breathless, moans turning to laughs as they dressed, joking they might not make him pay. But they always took the money. And he offered it with no judgment, pulling his jeans on and halfway through a highball glass as his lean outstretched arm offer up their compensation for making him feel something good and push out the bad thoughts for a short while. He could be making worse decisions.

He rubs his temple, suppressing a groan as he slid his way into the uncomfortable chair at the beaten-up metal table. The chatter of his coworkers all making their way into the room was grating but nothing he couldn’t ignore. Morning debriefing, something he gave a shit about. Well, work was the one thing he gave a shit about right now, hyper-focused on the clock and trying to drown out the obsession off the clock. It was a dynamic that he was still trying to perfect. He downs the hot black coffee in his hand and nods at the secretary just outside the doorway, “Get me another, sugar. No sugar.” he winks and sends her off. She side-eyed him and went on her way, that was just Pena to her, horny but harmless. He cracks his back, a grunt before landing his elbows on the table to focus, the overblown commander coming in with a handful of photos, spreading them on the table as they talked about what they always did, the cartel.

Pena tries to approach everything individually, but there was only so much range these guys had, and not seeing them all as one giant collection of piss ants with assault rifles was something getting harder and harder to do. So as new and old names were said, he watched the board fill out, the line attaching known connections and new ones. There had been a new wave of intel, something Pena and his partner Murphy were used to being the ones doing, but he wouldn’t complain if someone else finally wanted to sack up and their fucking job like they were supposed to.

“So we have our old friends,” a slap of photos to the board. “Then there’s a new round of boys coming in.” he taps the newest addition to the board. “Seems we’re getting inbred with the other families, the jewel smugglers, the miners...seems we’re trying to venture out and expand our already impressive portfolio.” he snorts.

“They can never just be fucking satisfied with their millions.” someone groans and complains.

“It’s a good chance try to take them down too.” Murphy shrugs.

“Eyes on the prize, kiss ass,” Pena says quietly, accepting his coffee without a second glance. “Do we know these women?” he asks with a nod in the direction.

“Typical.” Murphy rolls his eyes.

“No. Our assumption is prostitutes. Nothing new there.” the commander goes on, but he quickly becomes background noise as Pena stands and moves toward the board. He stood, hips jutted forward, eyes scanning, hand over his mouth in thought. Once he saw the new pictures he hadn’t heard another word the men had said. “PENA!” barked his way grabs his attention as he casually shifts his attention.

“Mmmph. Yeah.” he mutters, eyes moving back to the board.

“I was informing you, you’d be doing street intel on these newcomers.”

“Yeah,” he says disinterested, thumbing his lip before placing his hands on his hips. “Do we have these photos in color?”

The question catches the room off guard. “Why?” he’s met with annoyed opposition.

“This woman…” he taps the photo of a woman with a sly smile on the arm of a very powerful man. Dark waves teased and a heart-shaped face buried in a fur coat collar worth more than he made in a year. He clears his throat. “I’ve seen her before…”

“They’re whores Javi, of course, you have.” Murphy leads the room in a wave of amused hums and chuckles.

“No I’m serious,” he says with no inflection, catching his partner’s attention. “Do we have a location on them if there’s no color?”

“Why’s color important?”

He’s quiet for a moment, jaw tense and eyes blinking, baffled at what he was allowing himself to think. “Her eyes… were green.” MUrphy readjusts himself in his seat, watching Pena’s eyes carefully. He could swear they looked sad.

“What information we’ve got is here.” the commander points at the table with its thick manilla envelopes.

Javier nods with no spoken response, staying in place until the room is empty except for a hesitant Murphy who approaches him. “Who is she?” he asks quietly.

He shakes his head in response. “It can’t be her,” there’s a heavy pause, “But it...fuck it looks like her…” his voice trails off and Murphy is left with more questions.

“Well, are you gonna answer me or just write poetry about her Javi?”

“She’s…” he sighs and sucks his teeth. “She’s supposed to be dead.”

“Did you-?”

“No… no… nothing like that.” his voice still quiet. “I knew her… fuck...over a decade ago now.”

“So we can add hunting ghosts to our agenda now too. Great.” Murphy takes it lightly and presses his lips together. He stares at Javi, his eyes dark and focused. He was left with more questions than answers. His money was still on it being a hooker. It’s not as if Pena had even talked about Esme since the investigation when he was young. His partner may have his back in life or death situations, and they may have been close, but no one knew about her. Pena had hoped to keep it that way. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped it wasn’t her. Because if it was… well he didn’t know what he’d do.

---------------------------------------------------

Esme didn’t know it but with every minute that passed, she was being proven right about her belief in her first love, that if he knew she was alive, that he would find her.

Esme had ran, a bug out bag down the river and no trace left behind. She made her way south over the years, learning her craft and making friends in the right places. She’d started with rich men, especially rich white men trying to make a living off exploiting her fellow man in Mexico. It had been almost too easy. They thought nothing of her and wore her as if she were a watch; on their arm and shiny and proof of their wealth. She would gain access, gather intel and then sweep in and take the goods and ghost out.

Esme had been legally declared dead and was now living as Estelle. She had so many names over the years but her current incarnation was Estelle. And she was a star. She’d become what she wanted, she was rich and self-reliant. She needed no one and had her fun as she craved it. There were men and women and drugs and jewels and for so long it had been a pleasant hazy dream. But the novelty of it wore off, she grew bored, a witness to her hypocrisy, growing soft and lazy with her indulgence. When she emerged from her haze and saw the state of the world around her she knew things had changed. Narcos now ruled the world. The government bowed to them, the poor worshipped them. She saw they were the future, the new leaders. And for her, that meant that’s where she had to be.

She found herself once again sharp and full of adrenaline. Her new role took real savvy and cunning. Otherwise, she’d end up dead for real. She cozied up, working for Narcos to steal for them. It wasn’t hard in skill, but it was in the amount of sexist shit she had to deal with. She’d killed men for laying hands on her, and worse. She’d pulled knives and guns and made frown men piss themselves as she threatened them with words they’d never heard women utter up to that point. Most of the leaders would laugh until they cried after the fact, seeing a woman act in such away. She entertained them. They underestimated her, saw her as some novelty pet that fetched things and entertained them. She could handle that. As long as she got paid.

Following the groups, making her way around it made sense she found herself in Columbia. She knew it was dangerous, but she was addicted to it. It filled the void of sex and drugs for her for the most part, although she did partake among her peers from time to time. She thought it made her admirable, independent, and a shining example of what a woman could be if she had the nerve to do it. She was, to a degree, but she was also wrong. She lacked the softness in her life anyone, not just a woman needed. A void where no love or trust or intimacy was in her life she filled with material things and lists of her accomplishments. if she kept busy and looking ahead she wouldn’t be still king enough to face her demons.

Except she was about to come face to face with her biggest one.

—

As was his way, Javier had become a bit obsessed. He had to know if this woman was Esme. He’d been tracking her and was able to have DEA level observation to do it. It was a personal mission he’d been able to spin to look like a cartel one. There was a connection, she was seen with them, but little was known outside of that. After he’d put the word out for the beautiful woman with green eyes it hadn't taken long before someone scorned by her leaked information on her next job. The informant knew what his boss wanted to be stolen and when she’d be there. Normally no agent or cop would care to pay attention to her, or some jewels being stolen, she was just some woman to them. But serendipitous timing made sure she became THE woman for one of them.

She practically waltzed into the store. She scaled a fence, a wall and came through a window but for her, that was practically begging her to steal from them. The rooms were dark, silent except for the sounds of her feet as she made her way into the back, unseen and unbothered. It wasn’t until she’d stopped to admire her score before snatching it they the clicking of a gun behind her caught her attention.

He’d waited in the shadows, and none too patiently. With the aim set to intimidate, not kill, he Easter no more time. “Who are you?” It came out as an order.

Her head snapped up, back still to the faceless voice she felt was all too familiar. She blinks, the former goal now removed and replaced with a flood of emotion. She remains silent, her turn to be shocked like he was when he saw her face in the photos.

“Turn around.” Another order. The voice was deeper, darker now but still made her feel the same way.

She turns, and painfully slow. She doesn’t meet his intense gaze immediately, reading his body language first and calming her racing mind. There’s no way it was him.

There’s no way it’s her, his mind reassures him. But as soon as her eyes raise to meet his his stomach drops. He was right.

“Javi?” It was almost a whisper, for the first time in she couldn’t remember when she didn’t hide her emotions in her face.

The gun falls first, his sense falling to the wayside as it slipped into its place in the back waist of his jeans. His frame was broader, still lean moves towards her with an earned confidence now. He doesn’t speak, staring at her as if she might not be real. She gives him his time. He’d earned it. “It really is you.” It was his turn to let the veil fall, dark eyes shining in the low, cool light.

She nods. “Javi I can explain.” She begins, prepared to apologize and ask forgiveness before asking him why the hell he was there at all. They were a long way from home.

“You’re alive.” A rather obvious statement that made her smile. It was all he could handle.

“I can explai-“ a quick burst of words before they’re cut off by his mouth landing against hers. She hadn’t expected this. She was prepared for many things last but not this, at least not for him to be kissing her. “Javi my-“ she tries to get out but his hands are already on her cheeks, hot and damp and certain. She lets her concern fade for a moment, it would all be fine. She gives in to it, lets him take the lead, and pull her against him roughly. The anger and hurt coming through in his grip on her back and face as they kissed breathlessly. He stole her focus without trying, there was the signature huff from his nose, the nuzzle into her between separating to catch his breath but he felt different. But so did she.

Where they once held differences in certainty they now held the opposite. He kissed her like he just found out his first love was alive after decades of vices to cover the loss. Because he had. Every woman and experience he’d had between her and now, every skill and thus gained confidence was clear and apparent. This was not a boy handling a girl. He was a man handling his woman.

And there she was, blindsided and touch starved, passion and intimacy starved being devoured by the only man she’d ever truly loved. The only man she’d ever let in and see her for what she was. The only man that knew Esmeralda. It was a raw and painful ache that emanated from her chest as she clutched her hand around his wrist and the other gripped his shirt in her hand. She gave in because she knew it wouldn’t last long, and after it was over she’d miss it.

With eyes squeezed shut, his forehead pressed to hers, his statuesque nose gently rubbing against hers he exhales hot against her face. “Esme…” he pulls back and holds her face, demanding her focus.

“It’s been so very long since someone’s called me that.” she sighs and puts her hands on his forearms.

“Since I called you that?”

She nods and smiles, face pressed into his hand.

“Maybe it’s about time people called you that again.” he pauses and looks her over with a hard brow, he couldn't hide his simmering anger underneath the confusion, relief, and affection. “Where the fuck have you been?” She sighs in response. “Why the hell are you HERE?”

“Same as you. Work.”

“Why are you with those men? Don’t you know who they are? What they do?”

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

“Why Esme?” his eyes water and his hands squeeze her face a bit too tightly before a wave of dizziness hit him.

“Same reason now as then,” she whispers, his grip loosening and not hearing her response, she slicks his dark hair back as his eyes start to roll around in their sockets. “You're fine, Javi. Seems you fell for my defense mechanism.” she smiles and he looks at her, starting to slump. “To be fair I didn’t know to expect you. You’ll wake up soon enough. It’s only temporary.” she wipes the culprit of the sudden wave of forced unconsciousness he was going through, her lipstick off his mouth. He was out quickly, and she spent some long moments exploring the now aged face of her once wide-eyed companion. “You are even more handsome than I thought you’d be.” she coos and kisses him after dragging him into a chair and pushing it into a corner so he wouldn’t fall. “It now inevitable we’ll meet again. My old hound dog.” She chuckles, a kiss to take in the scent of his hair before she parted ways. “See you later, mi amor.”

-----------

Peña awoke to a boot knocking against his knee and an odd headache. It was pitch black outside by now, people on the streets outside none the wiser to the life-altering experience he’d just had.

“Are we blacking out in stores now?” Murphy snarks and shakes his head, leaning against a door frame.

“That’s not...I’m not…” Javier shakes his head, rubbing and tapping at the pulse in his skull.

“Then what the hell is it?” He can hear the judgment in his partner's voice.

“If I told you you would think I was crazy.” he groans and sits up with his back straight in the chair, one cocked brow looking over to the man staring him down.

“And I don’t now?”

Peña huffs out a laugh. That was a fair assessment. He’d think the same thing. He looked across the room, the glass case he’d found her standing in front of now empty. “She took the jewels.” he switches the subject, an arm raised lazily and collapsing against his lap after.

“Were they made of cocaine? Why do we give a shit?”

“It’s not the jewels that are important. It’s the woman that did it.”

“A woman? Huh. That’s something you don’t see every day. That is… a little bit crazy I guess.”

“That’s not what’s crazy.”

“Am I gonna have to fuckin’ waterboard you man, just tell me.” he groans.

“That woman I told you about... that stole those... she's been declared legally dead for almost twenty years.” he finally says with a defensive tone and a face that said don’t fucking try me to the man still assessing his sanity with no attempt at hiding his negative prognosis.

“Oh.” Murphy contemplates looking away to the empty case. “That... yeah okay that is crazy.”

@jaegeeeeer @likedovesinthewnd @inkededucatednnerdy @biharryjames @ladamari68 @past-romantic @weliketomoveit

#javier pena #Javier Pena Fanfic #javier pena fic #javier pena fan fic #javier pena x reader

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arcticdementor · 3 years

Link

I have to begin this column by admitting that “Biden” (note: when in quotation marks, I refer to the “collective Biden”, not the clearly senile man) surprised me: it appears that my personal rule-of-thumb about US Presidents (each one is even worse than his predecessor) might not necessarily apply in “Biden’s” case. That is not to say that “Biden” won’t end up proving my rule of thumb as still applicable, just that what I am seeing right now is not what I feared or expected.

…

I think that both of these grossly oversimplify a probably much more complex and nuanced reality. In other words, “Biden” surprised many, if not most, Russians. That is very interesting by itself (neither Bush, nor Obama nor Trump ever surprised the Russians – who knew the score about all of them – in any meaningful way).

My strictly personal guess is that there is some very serious infighting currently taking place inside the US ruling class. Furthermore, that serious infighting is not about core principles or even strategy – it is a dispute over tactics only.

We have to keep in mind an old truism about outcomes: John F. Kennedy once said that “victory has a hundred fathers, but defeat is an orphan” and he was right. When any group seizes power and effectively controls its interests, all is well, and everybody is busy consuming the proverbial milk and honey. But when this group suffers a series of humiliating defeats, a typical cascade of events begins:

Finger pointing: everybody blames everybody else (but never himself/herself)

Hindsight wisdom: “if I had been in charge, this would not have happened!”

Infighting over quickly shrinking spoils of war

A collapse of the centralized center of authority/decision-making centers

Generation of subgroups, fighting each other over their sub-interests

In other words, following many years of extremely weak presidential administrations (since Clinton, imho), it is hardly a surprise that infighting would take place (in both parties, by the way). In fact, an apparently chaotic set of uncoordinated, or even contradictory, policies is what one should expect. And that is exactly what we have been observing since 1993 and this dynamic has been getting worse and worse with each passing year).

…

That being said, there are some observations which might be helpful when trying to at least (indirectly) identify who are the main groups fighting each other.

The hardcore, really nutty, russophobes are still here, especially in the US media which seems to be serving not so much “Biden” as much as some “crazies in the basement” kind of cabal. Next to the legacy ziomedia, there is an increasing number of US/NATO/UK military officials who are foaming at the mouth with threats, warnings, complaints and insults, all against Putin and Russia. This is important because:

The “Zone A” media has comprehensively and very effectively concealed the very real risks of war with Russia, China and Iran. And if this was mentioned, the presstitutes always stressed that the US has the “best military in the history of the galaxy” and that Uncle Sam will “kickass” anybody he chooses to. If the people of the USA were informed of the truth of the matter, they would freak out and demand that this path to war be immediately abandoned and replaced with a meaningful dialog.

US/NATO/UK authorities have talked themselves into a corner where they have only two outcomes left: they can do what the US always does, that is to “declare victory and leave”, or they can force Russia to protect her borders on land, air and sea and, thereby, face a major military humiliation delivered by Russia.

Truth be told, during the recent naval exercises UK and US officials made a lot of threats and promises to ignore Russian warnings, but in the end, they quietly packed and left. Smart choice, but it must have been painfully humiliating for them, which is very dangerous by itself.

…

There will be many more NATO exercises in the Black Sea in the future. Ditto for USN operations off the Chinese, Iranian or DPRK coasts. This (always explosive) combo of ignorance, arrogance and incompetence could result in a major war.

LAnother option is the terminally delusional UK government (supported by those Brits who still have phantom pains about their lost empire and, of course, by the largely irrelevant 3B+PU gang) might do something really stupid (say, like this) and trigger a war with the DPRK, Russia, China or Iran and then the US would have to move to defend/save a British Navy which is mostly a joke (at least by Russian or Chinese standards). The main problem here being that the USN is also in a terrible shape and cannot compete against Russian and Chinese standoff weapons (I mean that literally, there are currently no defenses against maneuvering hypersonic missiles! The only exception would be the Russian S-500). The latter two nations, by the way, have joined into an informal and unofficial military alliance for many years already; check out this article and video or this one for a recent update).

But opposite, de-escalatory developments are also taking place. First and foremost, “Biden” seemed to have “farmed out” the “Ukrainian dossier” to the Germans and washed Uncle Shmuel’s hands from it. If so, that was a very slick and smart move (which is something we have not witnessed from any administration in decades!). I highly recommend this translation of a most interesting article by arguably the best Ukraine specialist out there, Rostislav Ishchenko.

Ishchenko goes into a lot of interesting details and explains what “Biden” apparently just did. Frankly, the Germans richly deserve this full-spectrum mess and they will be dealing with the consequences of this disaster for a long time, possibly decades. In fact, the Germans are stuck: they want to be the Big European Leader? Let them. After all, the EU politicians, led by Germany, did all they could to create what is now often called “country 404” – a black hole in the heart of the European continent. Germany is the biggest economic power of the EU? Good, then let the Germans (and the rest of the EU) pay for the eventual reconstruction of the Ukraine (or of the successor-states resulting from the breakup of the country)! Russia simply cannot foot that bill, China most definitely won’t (especially after being cheated several times by the Ukies) and the USA has absolutely no reasons whatsoever to do so. I would even argue that chaos (social, economic, political, cultural. etc.) in Europe is probably seen by the US ruling class as highly desirable since it 1) weakens the EU as a competitor 2) justifies, however hypocritically and mistakenly, a “strong US presence” in Europe and 3) gives NATO a reason (however mistaken, misguided and even immoral) to exist

The US is protected from the fallout (immigrants, violence, extremism, etc.) of the Ukrainian disaster by distance, the Atlantic, a much stronger military (at least compared to anybody else in NATO). The US can print money in any way it wants and has no interests whatsoever in the (dying) Ukraine. If Ishchenko is right, and I agree with him, then there is somebody (possibly a group of somebodies) who is a lot smarter than anybody in the Trump Admin and who figured out that the Nazi-occuppied Ukraine should be an German/EU problem, not one for the US.

There is, of course, also the pessimistic analysis: the US is on the retreat everywhere, but only for the following reasons:

Regroup, reorganize, buy time to develop some kind of coherent strategy

Focus on each adversary separately and prioritize (divide et impera at least!)

Re-analyze, re-plan, re-design, re-develop, re-train, re-equip and re-test pretty much everything in the US armed forces (which have not been shaped by any rational force planning in decades)

Those who believe the strategic retreat theory (I am not personally discounting this version, but I do not see enough evidence – yet – to endorse it either) typically add that “the US only left Afghanistan to hand it over to the Taliban/al-Qaeda and unleash them against “soft underbelly of Russia”. Now, that is utter nonsense, if only because Russia does not have a common border with Afghanistan.

…

Coming back to “Biden’s” great retreat: if “Biden” is smart enough to hang the Ukraine on Germany, “he” is probably too smart to predicate the US foreign policy towards Russia predicated around the “soft underbelly” thingie. As for all the “fire and brimstone” threats of war against Russia, they are not impressing anybody as the Russians, the Chinese and the Iranians know that a confident and powerful country does not need to threaten anybody, if only because the actual capabilities of these country are a very telling “threat” by themselves. But when a former superpower is weak, confused and frightened, it will make many roaring statements about how it can defeat the entire planet if needed (after all, the US military is “the best military in the history of the galaxy”! If you doubt that, just listen to Toby Keith!). In other words, while in the West threats are an instrument of foreign policy, in Russia, and in the rest of Asia, they are inevitably seen as a sign of weakness, doubts and even fear.

Then there seems to be a long list of weapons systems, procurement plans and “defense” monies which have been pulled back, including the (truly awful) LCS and F-35. While it is true that the US is gradually phasing out fantastically expensive weapons systems and platforms which were also more or less useless, this show the ability to at least admit that all that talk about super-dooper US superweapons was just that, talk, and that in reality the US MIC is incapable of producing the kind of superb high quality systems which it used to produce in large quantities in the past (Arleigh Burke, F-15, Jumbo 747, the Willys Jeep, F-16, A-10, Los Angeles SSN, KH satellites, etc.). This is why the F-15X is designed to “augment” the F-35 feet (by itself a very smart move!).

Such an admission, even if indirect and only logically implied, might show a level of maturity, or courage, by “Biden” which his predecessors did not have.

Could it be that the folks at the Pentagon, who do know the reality of the situation (see here for a very good Moon of Alabama article about this), figured out that Clinton, Bush, Obama and Trump vastly over extended the Empire and now they need to regroup and “re-everything” to achieve a more sustainable “defense” posture?

Could it be that “Biden” will deliver what Trump promised, i.e. to end the useless (and unwinnable!) wars, stop caring too much about the agonizing EU, silently accept that Russia has no intentions (and no need!) whatsoever to attack anyone and focus on the biggest non-military threat out there: China. Maybe.

As far as I know, many (all?) simulations – by RAND and the US military – and command staff exercises have shown that the US would lose badly to both Russia or China. Could it be that “Biden” wants to put Russia and China on the backburner and “deal” with Iran first? The latest news on the US/Israel vs Iran front is not good, to say the least.

…

So what are we left with?

Frankly, I am not sure.

I think that there is very strong, even if only indirect, evidence which there is some very serious in-fighting taking place in the “Biden” administration and there is also strong, but also indirect, evidence that the military posture of the United States is undergoing what might end up being a major overhaul of the US armed forces.

If true, and that is a big “if”, this is neither good news nor bad news.

But this might be big news.

Why?

Because, objectively, the current US retreat on most fronts might be the “soft landing” (transition from Empire to “normal” country) many Trump voters were hoping for. Or it might not. If it is not, this might be a chaos-induced retreat, indicating that the US state is crumbling and has to urgently “simplify” things to try to survive, thereby generating a lot of factional infighting (at least one Russian observer specialized in “US studies”, Dmitrii Drobnitskii, believes to be the case: see the original article here, and its machine translation here). Finally, the state of decay of the US state might already be so advanced that we can consider it as profoundly dysfunctional and basically collapsing/collapsed. The first option (soft landing) is unlikely, yet highly desirable. The second option (chaos-induced retreat) is more likely, but much less desirable as it is only a single step back to then make several steps forward again. The last option (profoundly dysfunctional and basically collapsing/collapsed) is, alas, the most likely, and it is also, by far, the most perilous one.

For one thing, options #2 and #3 will make US actions very unpredictable and, therefore, potentially extremely dangerous. Unpredictable chaos can also quickly morph into a major war, or even several major ones, so the potential danger here is very real (even if totally unreported in Zone A). This, in turn, means that Russia, China, Iran, the DPRK, Venezuela or Cuba all have to keep their guard up and be ready for anything, even the unthinkable (which is often what total chaos generates).

Right now, the fact that the US has initiated a “great retreat” is undeniable. But the true reasons behind it, and its implications, remain quite obscure, at least to me.

I will conclude by asking you, the readers, for your opinion: do you think that the US is currently in a “contraction phase”? If yes, do you believe that this is a short-term only phenomenon, or will this retreat continue and, if yes, how far?

#unz review #the saker

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shirtlesssammy · 4 years

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5x05: Fallen Idols

Hey all! Welcome to Hate Watch Week! We’ve picked the best of the worst and are recapping them all week. These are our personal choices, and I’m sure they all (*but one*) have redeeming qualities, we just see the bad more than the good. Enjoy our snark --and join in if you want :) (And if you’re still trying to guess our hiatus theme, this episode doesn’t count.)

Then:

Angst-a-thon!

Now:

We meet Jimmy and his pal, Cal, both race car enthusiasts. Well, enthusiasts for one sports car: James Dean’s Porsche 550 Spyder. While Jimmy runs to get the camera, Cal sits in the car, ready to start the “Little Bastard”. Only, the air gets frosty and the car radio flickers on. We hear a crash and Jimmy heads back to the garage to find Cal’s head smashed into the jagged edge of the convertible’s windshield.

Sam and Dean are on the case! Sam wants to know why this case is so important --what with the devil and apocalypse and all. “This is what we’re doing, okay?” Dean insists. Dean highlights that they’ve been away from each other for a while (*Ahem* maybe I don’t like this episode as much because the last two episodes were just Dean and Cas having fun times together? IDK. 5x03 and 5x04 were a wild ride that I watch over and over again.)

THE HORROR:

They arrive at the local cop shop as FBI agents Bonham and Copeland. The local sheriff shows them the video “evidence” that Cal’s good buddy Jim killed him. The brothers are less than convinced.

The sheriff applied Occam's Razor, and done and done.

The brothers want to interview Jim anyway. He tells them what he heard from the house: tires squealing, glass breaking. The car killed Cal. It’s cursed. Jim mentions that it was “Little Bastard” that did it, and Dean’s eyes light up like a little boy at Christmas. OoooohhhHHHHooo. Dean and cars and, well, don’t tell me he never had a crush on James Dean. We all have had a crush on James Dean. Sam “I can’t be any more straight” Winchester has no flippin’ clue what’s going on. Dean insists they check out the car. Bby boy.

They head to the car, and Dean takes a moment. Sam asks for some exposition. Dean explains that after James Dean died, the mechanic bought the wreckage and fixed the car.

The car fell on him, and death continues to follow the car wherever it goes (Ugh, I just went down a rabbit hole of what happened to the car and am now in a weird spiral of remembering how much I loved James Dean as a teen and how much Rebel Without A Cause meant to me. I’m not 90 years old. What a weird flex for a 1990’s kid to experience. But also not, since Dean’s right there with me, right?)

Anyway, to really confirm if the car was James Dean’s, they’ve got to match the engine number. Dean heads under the car to confirm, begging the car to not hurt him first. Dean takes his sweet ass time being nervous and writing down the engine number, but he makes it out alive. He tasks Sam with tracking down all the owners.

While Dean hangs at a bar, Sam discovers the car is a fake.

Meanwhile, a nerdy man reflects on his day at his desk when the air gets frosty and he hears a creaking behind him. He turns and utters, “Oh my god, it’s you. You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead.” Is it a long lost wife? An old rival? Nope. It’s a growling Abraham Lincoln. He chokes the nerd man until he becomes a victim of the blood cannon. Better angels of our nature, my ass.

The agents meet the sheriff at the crime scene. They remark that there’s nothing strange about the victim dying of a gunshot wound where there’s no gun, no gunpowder, no bullet. Awkward. The brothers demand a reasonable explanation from the sheriff. He hunkers down and whispers, “Professional killer.” He’s thinking this is a Michael Clayton-type thing. And I love it because that’s the limit of his imagination. Sam and Dean know better but only because they live in the fringe of this world where monsters are real.

Sam and Dean head to interview the victim’s maid, Consuela Alvarez. She’s very distressed, and can only speak Spanish.

Sam pulls out his freshman Spanish to save the day. I only remember “Donde esta el baño?” Good job, Sam! The killer was a tall man with a long black coat and a beard. And he wore a hat. A tall hat. Dean cracks the code: A stovepipe hat like Abraham Lincoln. DEAN BEAN, so street smart he doesn’t even realize how book smart he is. Sigh. “Abraham Lincoln killed Mr. Hill,” Consuela confirms.

The brothers continue to research. Dean watches the car video frame by frame until he finds one frame of a blurred red coated figure ---and INSTANTLY guesses that it’s James Dean ---but like Jim Stark James Dean. It’s not like James Dean wore the damn red coat outside of that movie role, lol. (Sidenote: Fun fact: Fry from Futurama’s coat is modeled after that red coat.)

Sam realizes that they’re dealing with famous ghosts that are killing their fans. (Sidenote: I hope Misha Collins never dies.) The brothers wonder why these ghosts are haunting Canton, Ohio. They do more research.

The brothers head to the Canton Wax Museum. They marvel at all the random wax figurines (and Sam is taller than Lincoln? Hmmm. They’re the same height. #Borisisanerd) Dean makes fun of Gandhi and Sam defends him, but uh, nope, Sam, nope.

The museum curator shows up and the brothers introduce themselves as reporters for Travel Magazine. They’re writing an article on “how totally non-sucky wax museums are.” The curator points out that this place is unique. He points to Lincoln and tells the boys that’s actually Lincoln’s hat. Yep, he’s got real items from all the dead guys.

He’s going to make wax museums hip again. And OMG Sam’s little thumbs up in response. STOP.

Later, Sam loads up on salt rounds and walks in on Dean talking to Bobby about him. Dean gets off the phone fast and dismisses Sam’s questioning about the call. Dean’s not 100% with Sam yet. They head out to finish the case.

At the wax museum Dean starts poking around. Let the tomfoolery begin!

Sam hauls out a metal trash can which they can use to torch all the priceless, one of a kind objects. (History-fan me cringes.) While he’s doing an ultra-close-up examination of Lincoln, the doors slam shut. Suddenly, Gandhi is on him! Gandhi is strong, he’s fast, and he’s out to kill. Dean torches Gandhi's watch and Sam’s attacker winks out.

The next day, Sam mulls over the case in the motel room. Ghost Gandhi's quick disappearance has him troubled. He didn’t flame out like most ghosts, and he seemed almost zombie hungry. Sam thinks the hunger is uncharacteristic given Gandhi's tendency towards fruitarianism. (WWMGD? What would monster Gandhi do?) Dean dismisses Sam’s concerns, and Sam tells him that hunting together isn’t working. Dean doesn’t trust him. More than that, Dean’s trying to stick to their old patterns with the older brother telling the younger brother what to do.

“Before didn’t work,” Sam tells him. That old dynamic chased Sam off into Ruby’s arms. “You’re gonna have to let me grow up.”

Dean’s phone rings. It’s the local cops, calling about another terrible incident.

The Sheriff is…utterly at a loss with this next one. Dean and Sam head into the station to interview two teen girls. They tearfully recount the “horrible” “way horrible” disappearance of their friend who was kidnapped earlier by…Paris Hilton.

Dean and Sam tick the obvious boxes. Paris Hilton isn’t dead, so they’re not after a ghost. Sam suits up in scrubs to do a detailed autopsy of one of the prior corpses. He pulls out two strange seeds from one of the victim’s stomachs.

Sam fills Dean in on the excessive blood loss he discovered (something was feeding) and the seeds. The seeds are unusual, and he takes them back to the motel. There, he discovers that the seeds were indigenous to a forest in Europe, and the forest was ruled over by a god, Leshi. Leshi can take on any form and feeds on his followers. Dean hand waves the shapeshifting explanation for the audience by asking, “So how's he doing it? What, he touches James Dean's keychain and then morphs into James Dean?” Thank you, Exposition Dean!

The Winchesters arrive back at the Wax Museum, this time bearing a nice sharp axe. In a creepy closed exhibit they find the victim and…Paris Hilton. She (He?) takes out Dean and Sam quickly. When they wake a little while later, they’re tied to the fake trees in the exhibit.

Leshi sharpens a blade slowly, excited to do the sacrificial ritual correctly this time. He explains that he’s settled in this town to stuff his face full of worshippers arriving at the wax museum. With the apocalypse nigh, there’s no reason to diet!

Leshi grouses about the poor quality of worshippers these days. Dean fights whining with snark, and Leshi tells him that he worships somebody - his dad. “Poor little Dean. All you ever wanted was to be loved by your idol.” They fight and Sam breaks free and hacks off Leshi’s head.

The next day, we learn that the victim they rescued is going to recover. And even better? The bumbling Sheriff is putting out an APB on Paris Hilton.

At the car, Dean admits his own culpability in bringing about the apocalypse, when he broke the first seal. He apologizes for being preoccupied with the wrong things. Sam responds with the hero speech with which we’re so familiar. “We gotta just grab onto whatever's in front of us, kick its ass, and go down fighting.” Dean’s on board. Hell, he’s more than ready to move forward. He hands Sam the keys to Baby and they roll off to the sweet sounds of Jeff Beck's “Superstition." D’awwww.

These Quotes are Hot:

We’re not your typical cops

Death follows this car around like exhaust

Christine is fiction, this is real

I'm gonna make wax museums hip again

Four score and seven years ago, I had a funny hat

You’re not the first god we've met, but you are the nuttiest

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recp #spn rewatch #spn 5x05 #fallen idols #dean winchester #sam winchester #hate watch week #supernatural season 5

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chriscdcase95 · 4 years

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Why people like Luaggie and odd couples

The following is based off my opinions and observations.

This is the only gif I could find of them by the way. I haven’t figured out how to upload pictures from desktop.

So I haven’t really been vocal about being a Loud House fan on here, mainly because I want to avoid (often manufactured) fandom drama that often comes up in my circle of friends and acquaintances; but some of the few discussions I’m willing to engage in these the fandom are shipping’s and alleged shipping wars. Shipping’s are a funny thing - they are a small thing all things considered, and yet people make these big deals about them as if they are the center of the fandom as a whole.

Because this is Luaggie Week in The Loud House fandom at the time I am writing this, I decided to use Luaggie, and other Loud House" ships - both canon or non canon, and both romantic and non romantic - as examples. But Luaggie is the primary example here.

“So what is Luaggie ?” It is a popular non canonical ship in the Loud House fandom, and is a good example of a “Fanfic Ship” - This means a ship that can only work in fanfiction and is very, very, very unlikely to work in canon. And why is that ? Because Luan has a canonical lover interest in Benny and in the actual show Maggie only appears in one episode, and doesn’t remotely interact with Luan in the actual episode. Maggie’s mother appears in the show more than Maggie herself, and that is as a background character.

This is because Maggie is an Ensemble Darkhorse, which TV Tropes defines as “A secondary or minor character in a work who becomes popular among the works fandom”. What Maggie made popular ? Arguably because she was a teenage version of Haiku (an Ensemble Darkhorse in her own right) or was an emo girl who was the opposite of Luan in terms of personality, but close to her age that it would be believable they’d know eachother. From such, fanfics and/or fan art did one or two things to Maggie; they either pair her up with Luan, or more rarely make Maggie a big sister to Haiku. It should be noted that Maggie is hardly the only example of the Ensemble Darkhorse trope in the Loud House, and is hardly the only secondary/minor character to be shipped with one of the main characters.

“So what makes Luaggie so special ?” Nothing canonically, there’s two short and simple answers to this; some fans write fanfics and art, in turn other fans grew to like them. And so Luaggie spread, but what made them appeal ? Others answer with “opposites attract”; Luan is a clown girl for lack of a better word, and Maggie is a near stoic goth. But my answer is a little more lenient and applicable to other ships both in and out of The Loud House; canon or romantic or no. This is a little something called the Odd Couple and the appeals to these couples are not what they have in common, but what they don’t. They have differences that can play off eachother, and I think that’s what people like to see in polar opposite relationships. This dynamic is also applicable to non romantic relationships and family bonds.

And to demonstrate this, I present to you Loud House examples. The biggest familial and platonic example of this in the Loud House can be seen in Lola and Lana’s dynamic; as twins they are arguably the closest pair of sisters among the Loud siblings, and yet their entire characters revolve around how they are polar opposites of eachother. And for a romantic example, there was Lucy having a crush on Rocky, despite them being seeming opposites with Lucy being a total goth and Rocky…pretty much being your average nerdish kid. Other canon or non canon relationships apply to this dynamic; Lynn and Clyde -or Clynn- are a popular non canon pairing (a jock girl with a nerdish boy); Lincoln and Ronnie Anne - Ronnincoln - is considered one of the biggest pairings in the fandom and it also somewhat falls into the same category of a tough girl and not so nerdish boy. I bring these up because these “Tough Girl and Nerd Guy” kind of relationships have a special appeal to me for some reason. Both Lincoln and Clyde are also popularly paired up with Haiku, which can fall under the same category as Lucy and Rocky above.

Why is contrasting characters appealing to fans ? Because pairing someone up with someone who is the exact same as they are can get boring, if there is nothing to play off with. Let’s take the episode L is For Love for example; besides Benny, Sam, and Chaz, the love interests introduced for the sisters in this episode are basically male, two dimensional, carbon copies of the sisters that serve as plot devices to segway into the reveal that Luna is Bi; Sam was initially popular because she was a confirmed love interest for a major female character, and even then the episode where they go on a date has a plot about what they don’t have in common, which saves Sam from being a total copy cat of Luna; Chaz became popular because he was (physically at least) the opposite of Leni; Benny was initially popular because he wasn’t Maggie (more on that below) and even in his and Luan’s spotlight episode we see a slight difference between them in that Benny was more of a theatre lover than Luan, who was more of a comedian.

It should go without saying contrasts don’t always work for compelling positive relationships. Many of fictions greatest rivalries stem from how two rivals contrast eachother.

But didn’t Luaggie start a fan war ? Hardly. There was a pretty one sided fan war going on around the time Stage Plight aired. Because this was Luan and Benny’s episode, fans of them - Lunny’s -were getting all hyped that their ship was going to be made official, and spent a good amount of their time bragging about it to Luaggie fans. Now as I mentioned above one of the reasons why Benny became popular with fans in the first place was because he was a Luan love interest that wasn’t Maggie, and Luaggie detractors tend to hate it with a burning passion. Now I can see where they are coming from, considering Luaggie’s popularity in fanfics and art, and some fans have a problem when it comes to compartmentalizing fanon and canon. It gotten to the point that when Luaggie art used to get shared, Lunny fan’s would get all up and arms about how Benny was Luan’s love interest. What people call ship policing.

Trust me, I can understand their frustrations I’ve been on the receiving end of such things, so I can certainly put myself in their shoes, albeit with different ships.

Anyways, Stage Plight airs and Luan and Benny are an official couple. Did Luaggie’s complain ? Cry ? Leave the fandom ? Have a total social media meltdown ? No. For the most part, Luaggie’s I’ve seen and talked too generally took the episode in stride, said they liked the episode and went on with their lives. The episode certainly didn’t stop Luaggie fan works from being made, as the Lunny fans predicted. Because Luaggie was always a fanfic based ship, and I don’t think anyone seriously thought or expected them to be an actual couple in the show. Lunny fans on the other hand spent their time showboating and singing sweet victories over the “defeat” of the Luaggie fans, celebrating a war they made up in their own hands.

I have seen some go as far as to say Luaggie is a toxic ship, which I don’t see. I think people have different ideas over what a toxic ship is. A friend and I talked about two different ideas of what a toxic ship is; to him a toxic relationship was reflected by their fans and bullying behaviour they do in the name of their ship; to me a toxic ship would be a relationship that promotes or romanticizes abusive ideals such as rape, incest, pedophilia, victimization, etc. As such I don’t see how Luaggie falls into that category - although a non Loud House ship called Jemma from Every Witch Way, might fall into that category, but that an analytical rant for another day.

That being said, it does bring to mind the concept of Ship Policing, which means telling people who they are allowed to ship or not to ship and bullying others over them. Again, I think this might have to do with a failure to differentiate between popular fanon and canon, and I have been on the receiving end of this so I gotta vent.

Stress Induced Rant incoming

I once got into a shipping debate earlier this year regarding two non Loud House related ships in a Facebook group I’m in where the non canon Kigo ship of the Kim Possible fandom was brought up. I mentioned that Kigo didn’t really appeal to me due to re-watching the show and coming to the conclusion that Kigo would be canonically problematic, and their canon pairings (Kim x Ron, and Drakken x Shego) grew on me. At no point did I say Kigo doesn’t work as a fanfic couple, but canon wise, I saw too many problems that goes against Kigo’s favour in comparison to their canon boyfriends.

I am going to use this as an example of what shipping police are and how not to debate other fans. So when I mentioned I wasn’t into Kigo in comparison to KiRon and Drakgo, this one Kigo fan went ballistic and kept badgering me. So I explain myself, answer all her questions, and bring up some of my points and reasonings. In turn, she answers my points with Double Standards and Non Sequiturs; either dodging my questions or saying my answers don’t apply when they don’t go against her arguments. She then resorts to using fanfics as “proof” that Kigo would work in canon, and when that fails she starts making Ad Hominem attacks and personal insults - notably calling me retarded when my autism was briefly mentioned in the discussion - and went on about it well past midnight. Rule of thumb, when you resort to personal insults and attacking someone over an opinion that won’t budge, you kind of forfeit your argument. Luckily, this was only one Kigo fan, who doesn’t represent its fandom as a whole

Venting over.

Like I mentioned, ships are a funny - they actually mean very little in the grand scheme of things, but to fandoms, they are the center of the world.

I should also say there a third or fourth reason non canon ships become popular; a lot of fans either take note on onscreen chemistry a paring may have, or project some where there is none, and that is because fans tend to project themselves or their ideas onto characters they like, including what their ideal relationships would be like. It’s hardly exclusive to The Loud House fandom. Me for example, in stories I wrote but never posted, I paired a young adult version of Steven Lloyd from the Halloween series and Edith Sawyer from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre series; I design them to have an obvious contrast between them and show how it would play off between the two, but these are two characters that never met in canon (especially since the two series never crossover). Had I wrote a legitimate Halloween/Texas Chainsaw crossover, chances are I’d implement that pairing into the story.

As far as Luaggie goes, I don’t see it as any different than another Leather and Lace relationship applied to fanfiction and fan art. What’s my opinion of them ? Really that depends on the fic or the artwork. I’m not gonna delude myself into thinking it’s gonna become canon or have some power over canon. Nor do I think it’s worth getting all hyped and excited for a non existant ship war.

#the loud house #Luaggie Week #luaggie #Luan Loud #Maggie #Benny #Lunny #lincoln loud #clyde mcbride #lynn loud #haiku #lucy loud #rocky spokes #ronnie anne santiago #ronnincoln

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years

Text

This Here is the Heavy Truth

The truth is not always easy to carry. Michael knows not everyone will be able to understand his version on the truth. FallenAngel! AU. Black!OC.

CW: Mentions of violence. Religious themes.

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Her heels make her ass look great. The tequila’s gone straight to her head and the heels are more than just an accessory, they’re a pain. She shuffles side to side, trying to alleviate the pain in her arch. “Oh fuck these things,” she huffs, reaching to pull them off.

Her friend reaches out for her hand, halting the movement. “I’m so f-fucking drunk, Violet,” Jean laughs. Violet, her nickname after her favorite flower. Everyone called her that. Even her coworkers used the nickname.

“I know,” she exhales. Her phone buzzes in her hand, once, then twice. It’s Michael finally calling her back. “Michael, I swear on God, if you made us wait in the cold--,”

“If you weren’t so blitzed, you’d see my lights on.”

She blinks, watching the car slowly creeping down towards the curb. There’s a lot of foot traffic right about now. Most bars are close to closing. People are finding their 1 am drunk food craving spots. “I see you. Shit. I’m gone.”

Michael laughs gently into the receiver and finally stops in front of them. She helps Jean into the backseat. It’s a task for sure, since both woman have on heels that are two inches too high their the amount of swaying the alcohol has them doing. Her main goal is just to get Jean inside without flashing anyone else but her.

“Sorry, Mikey,” Jean giggles when she bumps into the back of the driver seat.

“It’s alright. Seat can take a hit or two.”

She finally settles into the back next to Jean, shimmy down the already barely long enough skirt of her dress. “Jean drove my car,” she relays, head falling back into the cushions. “So can we just drop her off and can I crash with you?”

“Of course,” Michael nods, before holding back a bottle of water to the both of them. He’s driven Jean and her home a few times. Though it’s never that much of a hassle. They’re good drunk passengers as far as drunk passengers can go. It’s the getting in and getting out that’s a problem.

He was up anyway, much too late, headset covering his ears even though it’s was only him in the house. But the phone buzzes late at night, right when Michael tells himself only one more match. He cuts off the PC or console and finds the ladies sometimes leaning into each other. Sometimes one is supporting the other as both their weights lean into a pole or brick building. He’s always nervous that one of these times. He’s going to pull up and they’re not going to be standing there.

“You know you can wait inside. I’ll come find you guys,” Michael says, pulling away from the curb.

The rebuttal will be the same. It always is. “You worry too much. Chances are still the same inside or outside.” She settles herself deeper into the seat. He turned the warmers up, she can tell. It feels good against the bite of the night.

The only saving grace is that he knows one of the bartenders. Michael and her have a pact. If it’s only her and Jean, she texts Michael that they arrived to the bar-always the same one- and sends him any drunk texts or selfies. It’s a way he knows she’s still okay and if anything goes wrong, he can call someone he trusts to intervene.

Giggles erupt from the backseat. “God damn it, Jean. You’re gonna be pissed in the morning. That material stains like a bitch even with just water.”

“The dresss was cheap anyway.” Her speech isn’t too slurred, but enough to Michael to suggest a pit stop. “McDonalds, please!”

He nods from the front seat. “The Golden arches it is then.” Jean eagerly exclaim about a Big Mac. Violet gets the same thing all the time, 10 piece nuggets, large fries, and a sweet tea. And no one objects to it. Though he knows he’ll have to make sure to grab extra napkins.

They sit in the McDonalds parking lot, windows rolled down, munching on their meals. Michael stands outside the passenger door, stretching his legs. He’s been sat way too long in front of his laptop. The night is clear, for once. Michael stares up into the sky, watching the moon hold steady. He remembers watching it come into being. The way He had Earth pull it back into rotation, rounded it out, even with all the craters.

Violet pokes her head out the window, poking him every so gently in the thigh. “You got a thinkin’ face on, Michael.”

“Do I? Hadn’t noticed.”

“S-sure do. What you thinkin’ ‘bout?”

Michael shakes his head. He can’t tell her. It’s not that there’s a rule against it and even if it were, it’s not like Michael would be one to follow it anyway. But it’s that how does he tell someone? How does he let the words expand his lungs and slip past his tongue? He looks down to her, the way she rests her head on the door. He taps gently on one of the knots on her head. He can’t pull the name of them to the top of his head. He’s more than sure she’s mentioned it to him before though. “What are these called again?” he asks.

“Bantu knots.”

“They’re cute. But I have no clue how you sleep with those in.”

Jean cuts in. “The back knots are super far apart. Then you sleep on your back and it’s a bitch if you turn over. But a bantu knot out, oh, it’s fire the morning after.”

With a thumb raised over her bare shoulders, she grins up at Michael. “What she said. But you never answered my question.”

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Hey, Jean, you got anything important in the morning?” Her hand shake no spurs him to continue. “Crash at my place then. Then I’ll take you guys home later.”

“You ever gonna answer that question?”

He wants to. They’ve been friends for years. He knows so much about her. Like he knows she probably won’t be falling asleep anytime soon once they get home because the room will be spinning. And he knows she wishes she called her mother more. But they’re just not that close. And she’s found out who her father was, but he’s an ass, so they don’t talk. Michael knows she likes to sleep under two blankets with a fan on and will settle for nothing less. But she only knows very little about him. “I will,” he promises in a whisper. “I’ll answer that question.” Eventually is the word he leaves out.

Michael’s shocked at how quick it takes to get both girls into the house. Because she crashes over at his place often, make up remover, a spare couple of toothbrushes and spare clothes are stashed away in their own drawer. Jean slides the sweatpants and tank top on before curling up on Michael’s mattress and drifting to sleep. But Violet is laying on his living room floor, one arm thrown over her face, dressed in leggings and his sweatshirt. Though it sits near her knees on her, she still wears them.

“I hate the fact that the room’s spinning. And I’m fucking hot, but I can’t not wear clothes right now,” she whines.

With two twist of the knob, the fan whirs to life, oscillating. He lies down next to her, pulling his glasses off and finding the edge of the coffee table to rest them on. “You did it to yourself,” he teases.

“Shut up, Clifford.”

“Yeah, that’s my name. Just don’t wear it out.”

“Ignoring the fact that sounds sexual.”

Laughter bubbles out of his chest. “If I wanted it to be sexual, I would tell you to wear it out.” They nearly hooked up once. But Michael stopped it. He felt like he was lying to her. She didn’t know. She has no clue who is he. What he’s done and to some extent what he hasn’t done. It’s no secret to anyone who watches them that feelings are there. But they’re never really acted upon. Michael’s scared. Being intimate with her means he’s bound to be vulnerable with her. The dynamics will ultimately change and he will have to speak the truth. Out loud. For the first time in ages. In years. In decades. It’s probably too many decades to even use decades as the measurement of time.

“You know what I think?” She starts, pulling the arm down, but her eyes are still closed. “I think the sky’s like a home for you. Or something. You’re always looking at it. What do you long for up there? What’s there?”

Michael can feel his heart beating against his ribs. “Home.” It’s quiet. He repeats it, voice shaking. “Home was there.”

“Yeah, I guessed that,” she laughs, threading her fingers together and resting them on her stomach.

“No, I mean, behind the stars was home. I had a home there. Just as real as this apartment.” It’s probably a bad time to confess this to her right now. She’s not sober by any means. She won’t understand what he’s saying. The gravity and the truth won’t actually hit in her mind.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.” Her words are taking longer to get out. Her body feels like it’s sinking through the floor now. The spinning as stopped and she can focus on the sound of the fan whirring and the warmth that Michael gives off so close to her. She can finally sleep.

Michael notices the longer inhales, the prolonged exhales. He’s losing her. And fast. Damn alcohol he thinks. “I fell,” he confesses, turning to face her. “From heaven. It hurt. But not in the same way, not physically.”

She blinks up at him, brows furrowing together. Her already wide nose now taking up seemingly more space on her face from the action. “You what?”

“I fell from heaven.”

“Like, I know I’m drunk. But did you have anything tonight?”

“I could ace a field sobriety test. I’m not lying, or high, or drunk.” The disbelief doesn’t fall from her face. She won’t catch onto to what he’s trying to say. Michael smiles, pushing a tuft of laughter over his lips. His gut is heavy, but he plays it off. “Just kidding,” he whispers.

She swats at his chest. “Asshole.” Her eyes close again, body heavy and sluggish. Michael nudges her, holding all her weight for the most part as he helps her to the bedroom. With both woman finally in bed, Michael settles onto the couch. He shouldn’t have tried to tell her. She’ll never understand. And even if she does believe him, there’s no way she’s going to stick around. He’s marked. For damnation. For forever. He choose to turn his back and no one will ever get that.

Of course, they’ve discussed religion. She’s usually the one to bring it up. Michael shies away from it most of the time. But he listens to her rant, about her family’s inability to understand her conceptualization of spirituality. She’s not one to shun others for different beliefs. But to her, someone who once followed the rules religiously, wondered what rules what she was following. Was she just another mindless cog in the machine? Who established the rules? Did the rules have to be followed to a t? What happened to questioning things that didn’t make sense? Like who said no sin was bigger than the other? And who the hell made being gay worse than divorce? Was it even bad? She certainly didn’t feel bad for her queerness.

And Michael stupidly got too close. He loved watching her rant. Loved listening to all the questions she had because he had them too. But he had watched creation take place. He had witnessed the marvel and power of God. But he still had questions, he still yearned for those things that he was not to yearn for. Michael even questioned why he was made this way. If his whole purpose was to spread the message of God, why did he question it so damn much? Why did he feel incomplete?

This couldn’t be done by accident. No one who creates the Sun and Moon makes a curious believer. The idea of such contrast identities meeting in one body is never done just happenstance. So Michael went to confront Him. All of his robes billowing about his body he marched down the hallway, a fiere rap on the door. He was met with an uncomfortable sensation seconds before the door creaked up. He was hit with the thought that maybe this was a part of the plan along. Would Michael be playing into the game along? So he turned tail and hauled it back down the hallway. What if Michael’s curiosity was nothing more than a character trait instilled in him from the beginning?

Who turns away from the one that makes it all? But as more time passed, as more vengeance struck the Earth, Michael just couldn’t. He couldn’t be silent. He couldn’t not keep the questions from burning his tongue. He was geared up, ready to strike those that dared questioned the Lord. And yet he was one of them. So he stopped fighting. He stopped his carriage. He dropped his sword, pulled the helmet from his face. “Why do I fight, Father?” he asked to the bright light pouring from the sky. “Why do I wrestle with myself? Who’s word am I spreading? Tell me, My Father, do I burn with curiosity and questions because you have made me as such? Did you take your own perfect creatures and taint them? Am I tainted?”

“Nothing is tainted because of my own hands.”

The words shook his core. Michael blinked. Had he been given free will without even realizing? No, that’s not how it works. He had to be broken. But Michael didn’t break himself. He was made broken. “Father, but where do I come from if not from your hands?”

“Do you question me? Do you call my creations flawed?”

Yes. No. “Why do you strike down a flawed people? Are they not attempting to find themselves closer to You? I call into your question the entire system. You make them. You give them free will. You tell them there is Heaven and there is Hell. You tell them that they are inherently imperfect. You tell them there is a way closer to righteous. Why lash out on people who are trying?”

“Not all try.”

“Not all are given fair chances in life. And I’m not excusing murders who kill for the sport, or those the prey on others. But I raise this, You made them all. You even made Lucifer, gave him his own dominion and power. So are You really angry with them? Or are You angry with Yourself and take it out on those that are not powerful enough? If humans are flawed, and Lucifer flawed, and his followers followers flawed too, am I not in position to question my own fault? Am I not in position to question why the hands that made us make us this way?”

“I made balance. I made good and therefore, I made evil. What is pain without joy? What is sunshine without rain? Do you wish for perfect world? Then you wish for imbalance.”

Balance. As if people’s lives being laid down was for balance. “They are trying.”

“I made knowledge and the thirst for it. Tell me how much do you thirst for it? Has it consumed you so greatly that you questioned me?”

The truth is burning his tongue. His guts are light with a fire. Yes. He is questioning God. Michael is standing here, in the midst of everyone, his red robes billowing in the wrong direction. He’s turning his back on things he’s always thought he know, or tried to pretend to know, tried to pretend he didn’t question. “I am.” The words ring way too loud in his ear after they leaving his lips. His chest squeezes, air is harder to take in.

Michael wakes with a start, pressing a hand to his chest. That moment will always haunt him. The air is a little thick. The smell, it hits his nostrils and his gut churns. Michael doesn’t even bother with shutting the bathroom door before the heave takes over his chest. His guts hit the bottom of the toilet once. His stomach settles until he breathes in again. His wretches a second time but there’s barely anything left. Just the disgusting sting of bile in his throat.

He’s never cooked bacon a second in his life. He only keeps it in his fridge for appearances. He hates going to brunch. The whole place smells too much like his own flesh. They’re not exact scents. But it’s close enough. It’s more than enough for his body to think for a second he’s buried in a crater in the middle of the desert, his robes torn and his chest plate and helmet stripped from his body. It’s close enough that Michael for a second can feel the hot sting on his skin as it hits him that he’s fallen and he’s smelling his own flesh. Gone at his heavenly status and skin.

“Michael?” Her voice is soft as she approaches.

He flushes the toilet, praying she doesn’t see the mess he’s made. Bracing on the kitchen sink with one hand, and the other, stretched to the wall, he keeps his back to the door. “I’m okay,” he sighs. God, the taste is thick in his mouth. He hates this.

Something clinks against the countertop. She rubs her hand over his back and he catches another whiff. His body jolts, screams at him to vomit again. But he shakes his head, swallowing the urge back down. “Sorry,” he breathes.

“No, I’m sorry. Jean was up before me. I was going to tell her to wait to cook the bacon. But she got to it before me. I did my best to cut down on the smell.”

“It’s fine,” he exhales, wishing he didn’t have to breath in. He can keep the nausea at bay if he’s prepared, aware of what’s happening.

“I brought you some water. The windows are opened. I have the fan blowing it out.” She’s gone after that. The absence of warm hand let’s a chill seep in through his t-shirt. Michael could kick himself for keeping the food in his house. He grows tired of the excuses for not having it. So he buys a pack here and there, but never actually consumes it. Not even at restaurants. The taste, he discovered once when he found himself cornered, is fine all things considered. But the smell makes it hard for him to even consider eating it on a regular basis. Most people that Michael does keep close know about the aversion to bacon. And Michael really hadn’t meant to get bacon on this grocery trip. But as he was unpacking his grocery, he shrugged when he saw it. Figured he’d toss it eventually like he did like all those other times.

Now it was coming back to bite him in the ass. Hard too. Michael takes in another steady breathe. His stomach churns but he doesn’t feel the convulsion shaking his body. He rinses out his mouth with the glass of water and brushes his teeth. He hates the residual burn in the back of his throat. When he finally collects all of himself, he flicks off the bathroom light and walks into the kitchen. The plate laughs at him. If plates could laugh of course. But there’s a moment where all he sees is the offensive culprit.

“I’m sorry!” Jean rushes out. “I just saw it in the fridge and thought I’d repay you for taking care of our drunk asses. I’m really sorry. If I had’ve known, God, I’m such an idiot. I was--I’m sorry,” she concludes.

“It’s alright. I appreciate the gesture. The thought matters more,” Michael replies. His voice is still thick, recovering from the surprise assault. He clears it before settle down at the table and piling the eggs and pancakes onto his plate. He even drizzles a handful of blueberries over the sopping pile of syrup and whipped cream.

“The breakfast of champions,” he grins as the two woman stare at him. Jean looks shocked, some terror in her eyes. Violet watches him with concern, the same look a parent has when their child is doing something potentially dangerous. The look of someone dangling on the edge, the look of someone ready to pounce if needed.

Breakfast goes smoothly, all considered. Both woman keep Michael out of the kitchen and before it’s noon, he takes them back to the bar so Violet can claim her car yet again. She drops off Jean and then goes back to Michael’s apartment. It’s a wild shot. There’s nothing left to give her the impression that he went back there. But she remembers, albeit hazily, Michael’s confession about falling. From heaven. As if such things were real. She read about Fallen Angels in Sunday school, when her feet were so far from the ground as she sat in her seat, the white socks with lace trimming filling her vision. She didn’t pay much attention.

Angels had wings and halos. Angels looked heavenly, they glowed. Or at least that’s what she assumed. And anyone angel that fell went with Satan. They were demons and not that she didn’t consider her fate sealed to fire filled pits, but there was way no way Michael was a demon neither. He is sweet. He cares an awful lot. He is fundamentally, to his core, the essence of him is good. As she pulls into his complex, his car is there, in his assigned spot. She’s still dressed in his sweatshirt and her leggings. Her hair is still up in knots. Her face is bare after taking off all the makeup the night before.

She barely gets finished with the first knock before the door opens. Michael smiles, his place still smells a little like bacon, but it’s waning. “Were you actually being serious last night?” she asks.

His grip tightens on the door. Fuck, he was hoping she would be too drunk to remember. What does he do? Tell her no, that he was just fucking around. Like he said he was last night. But he knows. He can see by the way her eyes are wide and her voice is barely above a whisper that tells him she might actually believe. She might actually understand him. He nods, signalling for her to come inside.

Fuck, he really opened the door for this conversation, didn’t he? As awkward as it’ll be, he’s more confused about how to put it into words. Maybe they’re aren’t any words. Maybe words are meaningless. They stare at each other for a moment. Michael, used to having use words so often, is empty of them. He holds up a hand and turns. His robes. They’re the only thing he has left, along with this sandals. Everything else was striped from him. The helmet, sword and chest piece. There’s nothing, but ancient paintings and he has no access to them. His role was unique. Maybe it was that uniqueness that made him predestined to fall.

The robes are still in the same condition when he awoke. Burnt and tattered. He carries them gently to the living room. She’s still standing right in front of the door. Almost as if she were just looking for a reason to run out the door. But she sees the torn cloth in hands. It’s unlike anything she’s ever seen in person, all her twenty three years on Earth. “What is this?”

Michael places them onto the coffee table. Over the console controllers, and coasters, and magazines. It’s a gentle descension from his arms to the table. He still treats them with great respect for all the pain they’ve caused him. Michael stares at the outline of the lightning in the middle of material and lifts his shirt over his torso. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love. Though, he’s not even sure this, between him and Violet,is actually love. But he’s supposed to be alone. He’s supposed to be with anyone, not supposed to have anyone close to him. It’s not dangerous, just complicated. How do you tell someone that you saw them created? You saw the universe spoke into existence and you stood next to the person that did it all. You followed Their word, Their rule.

He is supposed to have a lonely existence after turning his back on God. And yet, here he is standing in front of the only woman he’s gotten close to in all his years of damnation. Half naked, the truth threatening to spill over his lips. “What the actual fuck, Michael?” Her words are stern, but her brow is pulled together. Her steps forward are shaky.

He remains on the opposite end of the table. Afraid that if he makes any more closer he’ll scare her. “Do you know that scripture, Nahum 1:2?” Her head shake no is small but noticeable. “God is jealous, and the LORD revengeth; the LORD revengeth, and is furious; the LORD will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.”

“What-What are you saying? That God did this? That He struck you with-- Michael seriously what the fuck.” Is she crying? She notices for a second or two that he blurs in her vision. One tear slips down, hot against her skin. She is crying and she hates how dry her throat is getting. Who would dare hurt Michael? Who would lift a finger with such intentions?

“I’m saying that when they said He’s a vengeful God, they were right.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“I fell, Violet,” his voice cracks. He hates seeing her cry, hates seeing the red watery eyes. “I turned away from Him. I questioned Him. I asked God to explain himself to me. To give me one good reason why I should keep following blindly after all those rules. I questioned why I was so unhappy with things. I questioned His system.”

Her feet take her closer. Is this true? Are the words Michael is uttering actually real? Her fingers trace over the scars. “Why were you unhappy?”

“Similar reasons why you aren’t happy. I felt like a puppet. I felt like nothing made sense. Who was I following? What did He want with me? Why was He so unhappy with this own creation? He did this. He made this. So if He was so displeased erase them? Why create the evil if you were just going to shun it.”

“You went so far as to ask if God himself was as perfect as He is made out to be?”

He had never thought about it like that. Had he really gone and questioned how perfect God was claimed to be? If so, he hadn’t meant to. He was just curious. He just needed answers. “Maybe I had, indirectly.”

“What did you do? I don’t mean to get kicked out. Before that, what did you do?”

“That’s-that’s complicated. But it all leads to me here; I’m here now.”

“You’ve listened to all my rants on God. This is why you never spoke on them. You would’ve given yourself away.” Does this change the way she feels about him? It’s not clear. But it changes something. It breaks something that was there that isn’t anymore. There’s not a wall there.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“So you wait. You wait until I’m drunk. But I wasn’t quite drunk enough.”

“It’s easier to tell you the truth when you ask. It’s easier to spill my guts if you ask me to. How do I tell someone that I care deeply about that I’m somewhere between human and celestial.”

“So you plant the seed? You make a joke?”

“It was not intentional. I wanted to tell you last night. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you. You wouldn’t have understood then.”

“Well, I’m asking, again--what did you do?”

“It was my responsibility to spread His message. Like any other angel. I was not special in that regard. But I spread the message amongst the armies.”

“Does it really need to be spread about His status to his own people?”

Michael shakes his head. It’s a thought. He can’t blame her. It sounds strange. He waves to the couch, picking his shirt off the floor. It’s chilly now and he feels oddly exposed. Things he’s never shown to anyone just blatantly on display. She perches herself right on the edge of the cushion. This is not the moment to get too comfortable. She’s got questions, if she could write them down, and record him, she would. But that’s too invasive, too formal. She’s just at a lost of what’s reality. Is anything real or known to her anymore?

“It’s not quite that. It’s not like spreading the word to the angels. It’s more like I carry specific messages for them and for followers. It was my duty to carry messages during war. It’s just eats away at you after a while. Why is this the specific word I must carry? Why is it this specific course of action people must take? Why are they’re not more second chances? He gave humans free will. Why is He punishing them for the very thing he gave them? Then why not make some people good and some people bad. Why punish people for exercising the very choice given to them.”

“Wouldn’t you say that some people choose wrong?”

“Maybe they do, but it feels wrong to punish them for that. Teach them.”

“Doesn’t the bible say Spare the rod spoil the child? Wouldn’t the punishment, be the exact thing He said was coming? I don’t agree with all of the rules and the whole no sin being bigger than others. And that’s probably due to the fact that the people do make some sins bigger than others. I’m classified as a sin. Like, it’s fucked up. But maybe some people deserve their punishment.”

Michael sits next to her, turned to face her. “Some people do. But to wipe the earth? To constantly beat people into submission? I couldn’t understand it. I wanted answers. I was greedy for knowledge that I didn’t have a right to know I guess.”

“Did it hurt?” She gestures to the scar.

He looks down to his chest; he knows all too well the way the scar looks there. How it hurt for a long time emotionally more than physically. He carried a physical scar of all his own wrong doings. A physical cross to bare for begging to know things, for thirsting after the knowledge that was created. But that was home. That was all Michael knew for the longest time. All that was stripped away from him. Without a blink, without a moment’s hesitation everything Michael know gone. Yes,” is his simple response.

“This is why you can’t handle the smell of bacon. Smells too much of your own skin?”

Michael gives another simple, “Yes.”

“Is this why you didn’t sleep with me?”

“Yes, and no.”

“No?”

“It wasn’t the only reason why I didn’t. If you saw this, you would’ve had questions. I didn’t have the guts to answer them then. Did I lie to you or did I tell you the truth? I didn’t like either option.”

She looks up to Michael. His hair now fading back to it’s natural brown. He’s sans glasses right now, which isn’t a shock. Though she figures he hadn’t gotten a chance to crack on his laptop. She looks back to the robes. The urge, it consumes her. So she slips off the edge of the couch to her knees and runs her fingers over the robes. It zaps her and she retracts the hand quickly. “It’s still full of lightning, or maybe it’s still connected to me.”

She watches the material, as if it will disappear. As if it’s going to somehow float off the table and dance for her. Michael continues, “I was struck down right before a battle. Everyone was ready, but I-I was not. So He and I went back and forth and he asked me if I was questioning him? But now that I think about it, He was asking more along the lines of was I betraying him. I feel like a fool for not seeing that before.”

“You’re not a fool. He didn’t ask that. So why would you assume anything else?”

“Because while He speaks with a plain truth, there is always something hidden about it.”

Then it is silent. Michael watches. Maybe she’ll say something. Maybe she’ll ask more questions. But instead she just stares at the material. Is she insane to just believe him? What’s crazier here, just believing the man she’s been pining after for the last year once was actual angel or not really caring that he was? She reaches out again. If it zaps her twice it’s not coincidence. If it zaps her twice then it’s real, then she has to decide if she’s going to do something insane.

When her fingers brush over the torn material, more gently this time, a small current runs up her arm. She’s slow to pull it back. Something in her likes the electric feeling, the buzz under her skin. But she knows she has to take it back eventually. She has to face Michael eventually. She remembers the way her body buzzed when they kissed that night. She shakes her head to clear her brain of the thought. That’s not what she should be focused on. Michael holds onto her shoulder. She’s going to leave him. It’s too much for her.

“I’m still me. I’m still the person who’ve always known,” he rushes out. He can’t lose her.

She holds hand, brushing her lips over the skin, the tattoos inked there. “I know. It’s just--it’s a lot. I don’t know what to believe.”

“It sounds crazy. I know. I can’t make you believe me.”

That’s the thing. She does believe him. She believes every word out of his mouth. But she wishes she didn’t. She wishes it was just a joke. She wishes she hadn’t come hear to ask him. “I do believe you. That’s the crazy thing. I do. What does this mean for us? What if I wanted to grow old with you? What if I wanted something with you?”

His heart nearly leaps out of his throat. He can’t believe it. Did she actually like him back? Did she want more than this will they won’t they game they had been playing? The game was really on Michael. He pushed her away, kept her as a friend and nothing more because he was afraid. He was trying to be martyr. And maybe all he was doing was being selfish. “I-I’m a giant idiot. Violet,” his fingers run along the parts in her scalp. “If you wanted something from me, I would give it with no hesitation.”

Are there more secrets? Should she throw all caution to the wind? Pushing to her knees she rotates, facing Michael, eyes level with his chest as he’s sat still on the couch. “Do you have any other secrets? Be honest with me,” she breathes. Her gaze finally lands on his face, into the green of his eyes.

He shakes his head. “No, no more secrets.”

“Will you age? What happens if we-I’m so confused.”

God, he hates watching the tears collect on the lower lids of her eyes. She should never cry. Her soul should never ache. Michael can’t pretend like he knows what happens. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

That’s what she was afraid to hear. Her eyes flutter close and Michael brings a hand to cup her face, stroking at her cheek gingerly. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.

He doesn’t fault her. He can’t. At least he gave up that wall to her. It’s a lot more than he can say for other people. “It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in.”

Those are still the same green eyes staring back at her. The same soft but calloused hand gently cupping her face. He still feels the same. But it’s not him. It’s different. He’s lived lifetime outside of what she knows. “How long? How long have you been down here?”

He’s lost track. Time doesn’t matter to him. It never has. But it matters so much to her. To everyone else he’s been around. It’s who gets up the earliest, it’s who stays out the latest, it’s how they dictate when to get to places. It’s how they measure success. “Maybe a millennia? I’ve been here almost too long.”

“So after death?”

“Yes, that sounds about right.” He can’t remember back that far. The past, since he fell, really never sticks with him. Mostly because it repeats itself. Things almost always seem to come right back around to him.

She exhales. Both hands fall to Michael’s knees as she stretches upwards. The kiss is a moment, a second of time of brushed contact. Her heart hammers in her chest as he rests his forehead against hers. She doesn’t speak. But the questions are still brewing. She’s twenty four. Her life is just finally starting to come together. She’s in no position to make decisions on marriage. But even if she wanted it and a family, could he give that to her? Would she be willing to compromise on those things? Are they as important to her as she once held them to be? But right now, she just wants to understand. To be put herself first in her life. To piece back together the truth to reality. But she knows nothing about the man in front of her. She knows nothing about his desires, his truth. “Michael, what do you want out of this stretch of your life?”

Michael’s chest constricts. His throat leaps as his heart races. Panic. But he can’t speak. No words find their way over his tongue. Is he able to withstand the lost of her? The question is loaded. He knows. But there’s a reason. In all honesty, he’s never sat down to consider it. His fingers wrap around the back of her neck. He can feel the sting of tears in his eyes. He’s never worried about what he wanted. He’s never needed to. “I don’t even know anymore.”

“You’re a person, for all intents and purposes right now. You’ve got to want something.”

It’s cheesy. Michael knows it. But even as he smiles, he can’t stop the word from falling over his lips. There is one thing he wants. “You.”

She pulls away from him. “Besides me, you dork. What do you want to do with your life?”

His life. What a refreshing way to think about this. Rather than a punishment it’s a re-do. He’s fortunate to be musically inclined. To be able to mess about with a guitar, teach some lessons. Play a few local shows. But he can get more from this life. He’s never had to be human before. Though it’s a complex existence. To have to get people. To have to handle emotions. He’s know them. He’s just never grappled with them like this. He’s never felt like this about someone else before, a craving that’s never really satisfied.

She’s no object to him, nothing to have and then toss aside. Michael prefers her company over silence. He likes having her around even if they’re both doing separate things. “I’m being serious. I-Most of my life has just been hiding. Trying to blend in. I’ve never stopped and thought about what I could gain from this life.”

“Well maybe you ought to give it some thought.”

“Maybe,” he agrees.

“Looks like we both have things to think about?” He’s praying it’s not a ploy. That it’s not some sick twisted way to get away from him without completely shattering his feelings. But he can’t make her promise that.

She reaches forward again, kissing him again. Something brave settling into her gut. Or maybe she just feels the same fear Michael does. “I’m not going to leave you. I just--I had feelings for you,” she breathes. “Or have, because I still do. But I had no clue this was in the way.”

Maybe the time is wrong. Maybe he should let her collect her thoughts. “If it’s not obvious, I have feelings for you too.”

“It was very obvious,” she laughs. “I just. Need to process this. That’s all. It’s not everyday your friend tells you he pissed of God enough to be kicked out of heaven.”

“It’s not everyday you tell your friend you got kicked out of Heaven either.”

Still the same Michael, she thinks with an eye roll. “Alright, smart ass.”

It doesn’t feel real to Michael, the confession, the hesitation until the door clicks close. Then he all alone. She rests against the door, exhaling. What is a girl to do? She can’t leave Michael alone. But should she? Should she just close the door on this as going any further or risk it all? Michael might have some kind of infinite shot at life but she’s only got one.

____ Michael goes to work on Monday, two days after she told him he needed time to think. Two days after he was confronted with a truth he had always known would catch up with him. He can’t be human fully. He’ll never be human fully. But he does have a new chance to embrace the aspects of humanity that he can. So Michael goes to work, like normal. He works the sells floor like normal. His first tutor session starts like normal. Until one of the kids he’s tutor absolutely kills a riff. Michael cheers so loudly, half the store turns to them in confusion. But it doesn’t matter. Not one bit. As they leave, Michael reaches for his phone, tapping on her name immediately. His fingers hover over send, the excitement is clear in the text. The boy has been trying hard to learn this riff for weeks now. But his determination paid off tremendously and Michael wants just one more person to revel in this accomplishment.

See this is what he wants. He wants her. He wants to keep that feeling when his chest flutters a little at her smile. At the same time, it’s the only thing that calms him sometimes. He wants happiness. He just wants to want something and not be punished for it once. There is nothing wrong with desire. But he feel so guilty for wanting companionship. Michael takes his lunch a little early, it doesn’t affect things much seeing as another associate comes in when he goes to the back. Maybe it’s the guilt for wanting intimacy. Maybe it’s guilt because he knows she is limited and he is not. It’s guilt for for thinking sacrificing himself was for the greater good, not considering the how the truth affects her.

Michael’s not thinking when he clocks out. Correction, he’s thinking but only about one thing. Violet responded to his text, but there was something in the way she responded that made his gut drop with worry. He didn’t confirm with social media, didn’t try to ask where she was, he just went to the beach. She goes there often. Said once it was the one place she went when she wanted to think. A phone call, a text won’t do this declaration justice. When he pulls into the parking lot, he spots her car.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve called. The buzzing starts, a hollow sound as his phone shakes in the cupholder. When he looks down he sees her number. Fuck. She’s spotted him. But he tries to be calm when he answers. “Hello?”

“I know you probably just got home from work. But I was wondering if you could talk? In person maybe?”

Michael looks out to the beach. He can’t see very far, but he can make out some of the bodies. He can’t quite find her. “Yeah, sure. I can meet you if you’d like.”

“I’m at the beach.” She describes her location, right next to the pier.

“I’ll be there soon.” He’s careful not to give a time estimate. Just soon. They hang up and Michael looks to the wooden structure. He can’t show up immediately. He can’t wait too long. Michael exhales, noting some of the small vendors and shops on the boardwalk. He ice cream shop is definitely slow at the time of year. But he figures it would nice to show up with something. Help break tension if there is any.

So he walks, over the sidewalk, and into the shop the bell twinkling above his head. She loves the lemon sorbet, so he gets a small. Nothing for himself. And then starts the walk down the beach. His legs want him to move swiftly. But he slows the steps, lets his limbs be heavy as they fight the trudge of the sand. Her back faces him, sat on a small towel, hugging her knees close to her body.

“I got you something,” Michael says.

She blinks up at him before the smile crosses her lip. “Thanks.” Without thought she hold the first scoop out to him. She always does. Especially when he’s not hold a cold sugary treat for himself.

Michael refuses it this time. It’s strictly for her. “I’m okay.”

She ought to just come out and say it. Say that her feelings haven’t really changed. But she can’t make promises. She can’t predict the future, no matter how desparate she is to do so. But she doesn’t want to force her wishes on Michael, doesn’t want him to feel like he has to want the same things as her. So instead she shovels a scope of the sorbet into her mouth, ribs nearly aching from the quick pace of her heart.

“When you asked what I wanted from this life I was shocked that I had a choice. I spent so much of my life not having one that when I did, I didn’t know it was there,” he starts. “I had spent so much time of my humanity hiding. I felt like I had to. I felt like I had to be as bland as possible. In doing so, I erased nearly the too humanly part of myself that made me fall in the first place. You can’t just casually bring up the fact you saw Adam and Eve created. “I guess that is a bit of a mood killer,” she laughs.

“Just a little.” He pauses as the last of the tinkle of laughter falls over his throat. “But I want happiness. I want to burn with passion. I want to be love and be loved, and ache. And as ridiculously as it may sound, I want that with you. While I’ve always feared telling you the truth, you’re the first person I’ve felt the most human around.”

“That’s fine. But beyond me? I can’t be your whole world.”

Michael bumps her arm, and their gazes finally fall onto each other. He has seen a world, several worlds outside of her. She is just the next one. “You’re not. If you think I’ve been alive this long and have not lived, you’re wrong. I’ve learned. I’ve survived. I’ve conquered humans. I’ve lead angels. I’ve walked amongst the construction and destruction of entire empires. And I’m choosing you next. If you think this is helpless puppy love, you’re wrong.”

Her cheeks warm, ducking her head into the paper bowl. “I never thought it about like that. I feel meaningless against things like that.”

“You’re actually quite meaningful. I want roadtrips to old school music. I want the small things, bonfires, watching the sunset at the beach. And I’d prefer to have that with you.”

She sighs. “I want to be grand, ya know? I want to do big things and mean something. I just feel small.”

“Then do it.”

“It’s not that simple. I also want a family, maybe.”

“And you’re wondering if I can give you that.”

“Not even in a strictly physical sense. What are people going to say if there’s a man that looks 23 next to dying 90 year old?”

“That he’s got some good genes.”

With a huff, she shoves his leg. “Not what I meant.”

They watch each other for another moment. She slides another scope of sorbet into her mouth. She really doesn’t want the rest of it, but she needs something to do, something to focus on other than depth of his eyes. Fuck, she hates herself for becoming this attached. “I should’ve run,” she whispers. The confession is soft as it falls, but it hits Michael hard. Because it’s true. She should’ve run. She should’ve given herself the opportunity to at least chase everything she wanted without debating compromise.

“You don’t have to give that all up for me.”

“But I want to,” she admits tugging at her hair. She wants to give this a shot. She wants Michael in the total sense of the word. “I want to give this a shot.”

“You know I’d never hold you back. I’d never drag you down.”

Those words are so easy to hear. But somehow to hard to feel. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t. You’re right. I don’t know the future just like you, I sit here and I want this to work. I want a shot with you. But I cannot force you. I cannot let you potentially cheat yourself. If the uncertainty of being with me is too much, go. Leave me.”

“And leave you for what? More uncertainty?” With a final exhale of determination, she turns to look at Michael. He’s been watching the muscle of the jaw, the way her nostrils flare. She’s not beautiful angry, she is terrifying. But Michael is okay with that. “You’re almost too understanding.”

“Call it a curse.”

“But you’re a blessing, so that’s not fair.”

“In all honesty, in all senses of truth, I’m shit at math. Okay? It’s a good thing I’m not a rocket scientist. But even if I miscalculated this risk, even if it burns me, I’d be okay with that.”

Michael almost can’t believe his ears. He pushes up from his palms, not even bothered by the small bit of sand that’s been biting into his skin. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. You know I’ve never known with any amount of certainty what will happen in my life. College, post graduate life. Nothing has been planned to a t so why should I start planning now?”

Michael grins. “You really shouldn’t start planning right now.” He can feel himself leaning into her, inching ever so closer to her. She brings her hand to his chest, body twisted to face him better. Her fingers presses into his flesh, feeling the truth behind the thin cotton. That is Michael’s truth, burning with too much curiosity. Banished from the only place he’s ever known. Forced to make himself normal, but never knowing what normal is. Alienated from one home, and alien to the other.

“You’re dancing with the devil, you know?” she breathes, her lips ghosting over his.

“I’ve met them. Terrible dancer.” Michael’s done waiting. He captures her lips, moving slow against her mouth. He wants to savor this moment, sink into the truth of right now. That she is choosing him. She takes like lemons and Michael feels the sinful press of moan. He breaks the kiss, praying he doesn’t shatter the moment. She drags the tip of her tongue up his lips. The noise finally pushes through his lips.

She laughs, low in her throat. “I like that sound.”

Michael tries to keep the blush from overtaking and turns his head towards the ocean. She can still see it and kisses his cheek. As her head settles onto his shoulder, Michael thinks he’s not too tainted after all. That desire is good, it means he’s still alive past the physical sense, still striving for something, still anticipating something.

#michael clifford #michael clifford imagine #michael clifford fanfic #michael clifford fic #michael clifford one-shot #5sos #5sos imagine #5sos one-shot #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #5 seconds of summer imagine #h writes #michael clifford x black oc

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thatlittledandere · 4 years

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1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 15, 16, 17, 20, 21, 22, 23, 25, 26, 27, 31 and 40 for that shipper ask meme (sorry for picking so many but those questions are GOOD)

You're right, they absolutely are. I'm sorry in advance that this is gonna be LONG and I'm on mobile so I can't even add a read more;;

1. Talk about the first ship you ever had

So I'm SURE there were relationships I was invested in in movies and cartoons I watched as a child (I've always been a sucker for romance, even though there was that period when I didn't want to admit it) but I can't remember anything from very far back;; So it was either Ron and Hermione from Harry Potter or Ichigo and Masaya from Tokyo Mew Mew, whichever I read first.

2. Talk about three of the most important ships throughout your life

GOSH. You can't do this to me. I guess Romione because it was the time in my preteens when I was becoming more aware of... stuff, in general, abs the two cemented my love for friends-to-lovers. Then Ioryuu, because I've never been AS invested in and passionate about a ship before and likely never will. Nothing can compare to that intensity and ngl I miss it;; I miss the genuine hype I felt in my heart that made me interact with people and make things. So many things. I honestly can't think of a third one with such a lasting impact, sorry;;

3. What's your current OTP?

I imagine Souyo scenarios in my head every night before falling sleep and every morning after waking up, this is not a joke not an exaggeration. I still feel a little traitorous saying this on tumblr but their dynamic IS somewhat similar to the way I see Ioryuu so-

4. What's your current NoTP?

I don't think I have one? I have dislikes, some of them strong, but I don't see any of them often enough to be, like, actively angry. I have better uses for my time than willingly exposing myself to stuff I don't like.

5. Do you have any poly ships?

Not generally, juggling two characters is enough work lol. The only poly ships I've ever really actively shipped are Niels, Duncan and Natalie from the web comic Niels And the Gang by humon and Kinatsuen from Boueibu, but neither are actively on my mind much these days.

8. Have you ever shipped yourself with a character?

BOY HAVE I EVER. I've seen someone on tumblr have a side blog for self-shopping and not gonna lie, it's an excellent idea. My late teens were spent reading character x reader fics on Quotev and I started my fic career with the same genre. I don't really know what to do with myself when I DON'T actively ship myself with a character, which is my state of being now that Yosuke surpassed Yoosung as my favorite character;; Ibushi and Yoosung are the biggest ones but man oh boy I have shipped myself with characters from early age and I'm showing no signs of stopping! There's a reason that I main dating sims.

15. Have you ever "shipped at first sight"?

Not for long. I SUCK at forming first impressions. Usually if I start thinking I'll ship something, I end up not being so invested in it after all, and instead shipping something I swore off at first lmao. Which leads us to...

16. Talk about a ship you initially disliked

As a rule of thumb, all of them. I don't understand HOW it keeps happening but somehow almost all the ships I truly care/d about (that I didn't start shipping through osmosis before knowing them in the source material) started out as something I thought I "wouldn't be able to get behind." Gajevy. Shikatema. Sasunaru. Doctor/Rose. Karabita. Atsutodo. Kiribaku. Yoozen. Enatsu. Freaking IORYUU. EVEN SOUYO. IT'S BEEN YEARS I REALLY SHOULD KNOW THE PATTERN BY NOW

17. Talk about a pairing you've stopped shipping romantically

Like, I started to think they're better as friends after all? I guess NaLi. Then again, I mostly only shipped them out of spite in the first place because I wanted a counter for N/a//Lu, which I never liked at all;;

20. Talk about a ship you feel alone in shipping

Now this time I can say for sure that there isn't one. I can't come up with ships myself and stay on board if there isn't content for it, canon or otherwise;; It's not a conscious decision or anything, it's just how my mind works. I get attached to stuff by exposure, whether from fans or the source material, and if the source material has enough content for two characters for me to pick up on and become interested, it's guaranteed to be enough to become a somewhat popular ship.

21. Is there a ship you just don't get, but have nothing against?

Actually... That's the extent I go to with notp'ing these days. I'm passionate about the right to ship whatever you want so by proxy I can't have anything "against" a ship, even if the sheer thought of it existing makes me nauseous. And I know how to think from points of view other than my own, so I can usually see the appeal, even if it appeals to me personally less than eating dog shit while walking barefoot on rusty nails that are also on fire.

That said, the only ships I have on my Tumblr blacklist are Yoo//ra/n and Suza//lu/lu because they're both popular ships for characters whose tags I am/was following and therefore get suggested a lot even if I want following anyone who ships then. Oh, and all B/LMa//tsu ships! I generally can't feel good about incestuous ships, but can and will fight for their shippers' right to do as they please as long as they stay respectful. (never saw blmatsus who weren't respectful. saw a plethora of anti-blmatsus who were absolute demons. actually the reason i moved away from the last remnants of my anti mindset was that i didn't want to be associated with THOSE anti-blmatsus, when the shippers they wanted dead were all such sweet people. food for thought.)

22. Which of your ships have the best chemistry?

All of them?? Lmao I don't understand this question, isn't shipping all about liking the chemistry between characters? Or the potential for it I guess, in which case the chemistry is whatever you want it to be, which is great B) I'm sorry I keep accidentally dodging questions I'm bad at choosing examples from a long, unordered list

23. Which of your ships deserve better writing?

Hhhhhhh I shipped Jerza for years and was still unsatisfied with their ending, Jellal didn't get to heal enough and we didn't really see them working through their past in an effective way and getting comfortable around each other. It's like they were supposed to be friends to enemies to lovers but the last part didnt really develop and their relationship stagnated at the stage were they were both just permanently awkward out of regret, and couldn't bring themselves out of it even though everything was forgiven forever ago. Or I've forgotten a lot of stuff that happened. Very likely. Is your a case of bad writing or good writing not working out the way I wanted it to? You're asking the wrong person.

25. Have you ever shipped a pairing before you even started watching the show/movie simply because of gifs/graphics or similar?

EYUP. Harumichi was my otp for like a whole year before I saw a single episode with them lol. It was crazy, but it was REAL. I've also went into shows already paying attention to things I knew my friends/people I follow shipped, kind of hoping I'd get into it.

26. Have you noticed a pattern in your shipping? Is there a romantic dynamic I'm writing these questions down from screenshots and I cropped the rest of this one out by accident rip

Eeeh I go for the obvious. Best friend pairs, obvious pining, some rivalry with sexual tension, though I don't really know what to do with those. Then there's the fact that I never see it coming sick Persona 5 reference bro and start shipping the couple I thought "should just be friends" at first. This is more about my relationship to the ships than their dynamic but it's very constant...

27. Is there a ship you've shipped for most of your life?

Hmmm well I got into HP and started shipping Romione sometime in mid elementary school so it's definitely been more than half my lifetime since, but I don't really know if I "ship it" anymore. I didn't start disliking them or anything but for me, "shipping" is an active intrest in a fictional relationship, so if it reaches the stage where I like it, in theory, but I don't have the feels, it doesn't really count. That's why I can say I like ships without shipping them. It's gotta be actively on my brain, man.

31. Talk about one of your favorite headcanons for a ship you love

I haven't mentioned Kannao once, which is criminal. So here's some of what I imagine their future to be like :D I've been getting new Persona followers recently so here's something for you to unfollow me over lmao

So first of all I ignore the canon that Naoto goes back to the city for her detective work after her first year of high school, shhh she stays in Inaba, only taking the occasional jobs. She and Kanji start dating during the spring break before their second year and get more comfortable with each other, so that the next summer they're still cute and very much themselves (which means somewhat reserved) but not as awkward anymore :) I haven't thought about what happens after they graduate but they get married in their early 20s and have a son <3 (Chie and Yukiko adopted their daughter only slightly earlier. They may or may not have had a bit of a competition going on) ((yes Souyo are very much together but if they end up having children I haven't thought about it it's later))

Kanji manages the textile shop and Naoto helps when she's free from detective stuff. They live in Inaba but Naoto is away quite often for her gigs;; She takes up a few jobs less when Kouta is little though so he wouldn't feel less close to his Mom than his Dad.

Both Kanji and Naoto suffered from unfair expectations growing up, so they try their best to make up for it with Kouta's upbringing. They want him to feel comfortable being himself and free to express himself the way he wants; they make sure he knows he'll always be loved and supported, and to never be ashamed of who he is. As a child it doesn't even occur to him that many social norms and social expectations exist, because Naoto and Kanji pretty much let him do whatever as long as he isn't hurting himself or anyone else. They might go a little overboard though, giving into Kouta's whims without much consideration at all. The Amagi Aunties enforce rules and keep kids grounded in reality much better lmao

40. If you could change one thing about your otp, what would that be?

HMNGHNMHGNMGH I WAMT YOSUKE'S INTERNALIZED BULLSHIT ACKNOWLEDGED!! It's there AtlUS!! Stop pretending oh my god.... I love the Dancing All Night story mode (so far. I am by no means done); Yosuke gets cool moments and Yu's internal monologue really shows how much he appreciates him. The dynamic is so much better than with a silent protagonist, and thank god they didn't go with the tactless anime Yu (as fun as he is). I know there are a bunch of nods to the cut romance across spinoffs but mannnn... I wish they were more serious about it. At this point it's not even that far-fetched to think Yosuke has feelings for Yu that he may or may not be aware of, and I know that Yu as the player character can't be too tied down to one option in canon, but still... Even the clown gets tired of jokes at some point. One can dream.

40 ship questions

#asks #anon #about me #this took like three hours and i didn't even take breaks shjddhjjdfh #i'm not complaining i love answering questions but like #i thought i'd still have time to do something else after #it's almost 3 am now;; it wasn't even midnight when i started;;;#i have another ask in my inbox but i'll have to leave it for tomorrow now orz #also sorry for dropping a bunch of ship names on you without specifying characters or fandoms #i have no excuse i just didn't want to do it #oh and if you're heavily in the 'naoto is trans only go die' crowd... this is the wrong blog for you #i respect other headcanons and preferred readings but it has to go both ways #and i prefer her as a woman if it wasn't clear from this #for personal reasons #that i'm not required to specify #if you make a post referring to naoto as them that's awesome and that's who they are in it #and if you think he's a trans guy but accept not everyone sees him that way that's awesome keep that up #but if me calling naoto her makes your blood boil for whatever reason then unfollow and block if you need to #that's great that's what taking responsibility over your experience is #i'm not guilt-tripping anyone into staying my headcanons are no better than yours

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beca-mitchell · 5 years

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for you, i would fall from grace (1/1)

Written for @bechloe-week day 4: high school. Loosely. Super loosely.

Summary: Chloe Beale hasn’t played dodgeball since high school, but she’s pretty sure this isn’t supposed to be how it goes. Or maybe it is. Nothing feels more like high school than a game of dodgeball with your crush and your crush’s ex.

Word count: 3,744

A/N: I was rewatching Trampoline Dodgeball with Kevin Hart & Anna Kendrick and this idea came to me. Then it got me thinking about all my own personal feelings about dodgeball. Anyway, this was my attempt to capture all those messy high school feelings, those mushy romantic feelings, and everything in between...and wrap it up neatly to present as a semi-serious, semi-crack piece of fanfic.

Kind of beta'd, but mistakes are still my own because this was so last minute. Thanks to my irl loves @summersailedin and Jordan for helping me out. You tolerate everything I do and I APPRECIATE YOU.

Read on AO3 or below.

–x–

It is totally just a game to her at first.

First, because Chloe is a super-senior and she’s kind of over sweating unnecessarily, even if she can admit she sees the appeal in lighthearted exercise.

Two, because the Treblemakers and the Bellas have no more rivalry. All previous rules had up and left with Aubrey’s departure and Chloe sees no point in continuing the long-standing tradition of hating the Trebles. Benji is sweet, Jesse is Beca’s amicable ex-boyfriend, and the other young men are nice enough.

Three, because it is Beca’s idea and Chloe knows Beca could care less about sports generally, so if she’s suggesting this aloud to Chloe’s face, it must mean something. She figures it is more Jesse’s idea than anything and Beca is willing to go along for the ride.

Still, none of that matters and Chloe still giggles when Beca mentions it at their weekly co-captain meeting.

“You want to do what?”

“I want to play dodgeball.”

“Okay, but why? You hate anything that propels your heartrate above resting.”

Beca looks mildly offended. “That isn’t true.” She stares at Chloe for a long moment. “I’m not against all activities.”

Something in Beca's tone makes Chloe's breath catch. She wonders if Beca is thinking the same thing. Of the previous night. Soft lips and damp skin. Exploratory fingers. Beca’s name from Chloe’s mouth, breathless and wanting.

It becomes fairly obvious because the light catches in Beca's eyes and she looks a little distant. Gotcha, Chloe thinks. Beca’s momentary deer-in-the-headlights expression is too fun to pass up. “Oh,” Chloe says, mild amusement coloring her tone. “Sex aside, Bec.” She likes the way Beca’s nickname rolls off her tongue. She also likes the way Beca blushes from her forehead to her neck.

It's a little new, this dynamic. While Jesse is Beca’s ex-boyfriend turned acapella partner-in-crime, Chloe is Beca’s sometimes-bedmate. Sometimes-confidante. Sometimes more.

Always uncertain.

Beca recovers fairly quickly and clenches her fists in some form of personal restraint. “Come on, Jesse thinks it’s a good idea. And honestly, it’s for a good cause. We could also use some Bellas bonding time.” Beca doesn’t flinch once upon completing that sentence. Chloe considers applauding her. “We know we’ve got the semi-finals in the bag and it’ll be a good warm up for when we crush the boys later.”

Chloe has no idea what Beca’s idea of a good cause is, but playing a miniature dodgeball tournament at a local high school for the sole amusement of high-schoolers is not Chloe’s idea of a good time. She isn’t even certain what the cause is.

But Beca is being adorable and Beca is gazing at her so earnestly (a welcome departure from her usual complacent expression) that Chloe complies almost immediately.

And besides, Beca does have a point. The Bellas could always use some good team-bonding exercises. She wishes Aubrey were around to hear this all for herself. She’d be so proud.

So, yeah.

It's just a game or two anyway.

–x–

Wait, but–

Okay, so, maybe there is a little streak of competitiveness that almost instantly rises up in Chloe, she can admit that much. But she chalks it up to the inherent competition between the Bellas and the Trebles. It isn't anything personal. They've been rivals since the day the two groups were created on campus, so it’s out of Chloe’s control, really.

–x–

Beca ends up getting one detail wrong.

Okay, perhaps a few details. But it is totally Jesse’s fault. And maybe Chloe's. Chloe should have asked for all details before agreeing to this.

It’s just a small problem, really.

They all end up being registered to be on one team and it becomes the Barden Acapella Team against UGA’s Competitive Dodgeball Team. To clarify, UGA’s literal competitive team, with matching armbands and uniforms.

Chloe looks at their own assembled ragtag team composed of some Bellas, some Trebles, and all the off-color t-shirts and mismatched socks.

“What the fuck,” Beca whispers furiously to Jesse. “You said this was lowkey.”

“It is!” he insists. “It’ll be fun!’

“We’re going to die,” Beca says, so matter-of-factly that Chloe also believes that to be their ultimate fate. “I’m going to die in a high school gym class like I always thought I would.”

Chloe is distracted briefly, amused at Beca’s aversion to any physical activity. Then, Chloe gets a grip on reality. “Beca, shut up. We are not going to die. Jesse, this was quite the understatement, but I know we can do it. Right, everybody?”

The other Bellas hover with uncertainty. Chloe tries to smile reassuringly at Flo who is the newest member of their team and also a transfer student to Barden. “It’ll be okay,” Chloe says quickly. “This will be fun!”

Flo gives her an amused, slightly patronizing expression. “I know. This is nothing.”

The referee looks bored as he signals for the two teams to close in. “We’ve won an acapella championship before. This is fine,” Beca whispers. “We got this.”

Chloe doesn’t have the heart to tell her this will be quite different.

–x–

Chloe wanders to where Beca is standing in a corner, stretching.

“Need some help?”

Beca scoffs. “No.”

Chloe bumps Beca’s shoulder before she leans down to touch her toes. “Nervous?”

“Why would I be?”

Chloe observes the rest of the Bellas and notes that they’re likely not taking this seriously at all. “You know,” Chloe says. “I’m not sure.”

A series of sneaker squeaks echo suddenly throughout the gym. From the corner of her eye, Chloe can see the rest of the players filing in, like a mass of red and black. The striking colors of UGA. Chloe looks down at her cheerfully green Barden Athletics shirt, stolen from an ex a few years ago.

It appears that the other team already has a captain. He snaps his headband on his head and immediately gathers his team close to start giving orders.

Chloe has to ask herself for the umpteenth time why she's here again, because, really, it is a stupid idea and she’s had her fair share of dumb ideas.

Chloe glances at Beca who is lazily stretching.

Oh. Yeah.

Teamwork.

Aubrey would be so proud of her.

–x–

"Who's team captain?" Amy asks. “Ref wants to know.”

“Me,” Jesse says immediately.

“Um, you’re not my captain,” Amy points out, but otherwise, nobody disagrees.

“We’re all on the same team,” Beca points out. “Just figure it out. As long as it’s not me.”

Beca’s voice pulls Chloe back to the present. Suddenly, the urge to harness all of her competitiveness rises to new levels and she stands up straighter. “Wait,” she says before anybody can say anything else

She’s never had a problem with Jesse so she sees and understands the surprise in his eyes. But something clicks for Chloe then, when the surprise gives way to something else, almost foreign to Chloe.

Perhaps Jesse never really saw her as any real competition.

That feeling is very familiar.

In high school, it had been absurd, but Chloe had always envied the male jocks and their privileges. She hated the way they got to walk around the school with their lettermans and all the confidence in the world.

Chloe had her own share of athleticism and enjoyed modest-enough popularity. She participated in a couple of the women-only teams (volleyball and soccer), but she never got the recognition the boys did. Ultimately, she never wanted to be them, but she always hated the unfairness of it all.

It is also telling that one of her most vivid high school memories is making out with Grace Henderson underneath the bleachers only for Grace to be on Nick Randall’s arm the very next day, his letterman around her shoulders. Grace had shrugged apologetically at her, like it was nothing personal. It was just status.

Before she realizes what she wants to do, her body is acting ahead of itself and she’s suddenly standing next to Jesse, facing the rest of the team. “I’ll be team captain,” Chloe says, as confidently and surely as she can.

The surprise on both Jesse’s face and Beca’s face is enough to tide her over for a while, she thinks. It is Stacie who smirks at her, like she understands what this is all about (even though Chloe herself doesn't want to openly admit it).

Amy flashes her a thumbs up and heaves a sigh of relief. “No offense, Jesse,” she adds as an afterthought.

Beca, to Chloe’s pleasant surprise, looks relieved at the thought of Chloe leading them through this complete chaos.

"Are you joking?" Jesse asks, his eyes trained on Chloe’s chin. He can’t meet her eyes. “Why?” Chloe has the same question floating through her mind.

Benji hovers near Jesse’s shoulder suddenly. “Dude, it’s fine.”

Jesse shrugs in reaction to both Benji and Chloe’s non-response. "Sorry Chloe, but this was my idea.”

Chloe knows from there that she's got him scared. It just fuels her more and she feels an almost manic excitement rise up in her. "So?"

Jesse pounces on that. "Tell them, Bec.” The nickname rolls off his tongue easily and with familiarity.

“Tell us what?” Chloe asks.

Beca is quiet at first, clearly in deep thought. It is the most pensive Chloe has ever seen her and she would laugh at the absurdity of this entire situation if her heart were not threatening to beat right out of her chest.

For Beca, she stands between two very viable options (though not literally because both Chloe and Jesse are staring her intently and it's kind of freaking her out). Of course she means viable options for dodgeball captainship. It is currently the most important decision of Beca’s life. She is not thinking about kissing Chloe. Not at all.

Beca’s first instinct is to throw her hands up and question why they’re all freaking out over dodgeball of all things. Beca never liked dodgeball, not even in high school and it was seen as a free gym period whenever their teacher was too exhausted to actually teach them anything useful in physical education.

She had originally suggested it to Chloe and only Chloe because she heard about the tournament from Jesse. She wanted Chloe to agree to it so they could spend some time together. Yes, with the Bellas, but some time together in an environment outside of school and acapella.

She sighs.

“Sorry dude,” she says to Jesse. “Chloe survived being friends with Aubrey for years. And she can kind of run laps around everybody on our team, so I trust her.”

The tension kind of breaks after that and the Bellas erupt into giggles. Even Benji smiles. Jesse’s lips twitch but he does not look angry. He shrugs and hands the armband to Chloe.

Beca tries not to stare too hard at the way Chloe’s arm flexes beneath the fabric of the armband, visible even beneath the opaque fabric.

She looks away quickly.

Chloe busies herself with adjusting the armband. It’s a garish yellow color which really goes horribly with her shirt and her hair, but she doesn’t care about it. She doesn’t even feel smug about Beca choosing her over Jesse. She just feels the strangest sense of calm, paired with immense satisfaction.

Okay, maybe a little smug. She’s only human. Definitely only human. She couldn’t stop the way her heart skipped a beat or the heat that rushed through her body when Beca’s eyes tracked down her body slowly and surely.

Still, a part of her had expected Beca to support Jesse. Jesse was right, this was his idea, technically.

But God, for as long as Chloe can remember, even meeting Beca for the first time at the activities fair and the series of events that followed, it had been remarkable to have Beca take her side on anything at all.

It felt glorious.

Looking up finally, Chloe catches Jesse’s eyes. He doesn’t quite glare at her because he’s not a mean guy, but the look he gives her is wholly unfamiliar.

Chloe has to remind herself that Jesse’s on their team, so it isn't like she can tell him that he’s going down.

–x–

“What’s some good advice?” Cynthia-Rose asks.

“Don’t die,” Amy supplies helpfully.

Chloe privately agrees, but she figures she should tack on some actual helpful sentences. “Catch the ball when you can. Please don’t get hit by the ball. Look out for your teammates," she rattles off like a drill sergeant.

Men and women alike nod their heads at her.

"That's all?" Jesse asks a little skeptically.

Chloe narrows her gaze on him. "Yes, pretty much.” She channels some Aubrey Posen. “Or you will die."

Amy cheers. Jesse’s face goes white. Beca looks like she’s trying not to laugh.

Honestly, Chloe’s a little serious. If dodgeball is anything like she used to play it in high school, she hopes that she can make it through the game in its entirety.

(If this is a reflection of what her life was like in high school, she truly and desperately hopes she can make it through the year in one piece.)

–x–

Unfortunately for Beca, she is their weakest link. While she is small like Lilly and Flo, she doesn’t quite possess their athletic grace.

Beca’s determination is cute, though.

“Beca,” Chloe says immediately when she catches the other team whispering to each other and looking in Beca’s direction. “They know you suck.”

“How do they know that?” Beca fires back. “We haven’t done anything.”

Chloe bites back a laugh. She loves this woman. “Okay,” is all she says.

–x–

Beca nearly gets beaned in the face twice. Right off the bat. The sound she makes amuses Chloe to no end.

They’re two close calls and it appears that Beca knows when she’s pushing her own luck. Suddenly, she’s standing near Chloe, trying hard not to look like she's using Chloe as a human shield. Chloe feels her presence before she sees her.

“I’ll stop the ball from hitting you. All of them.” Chloe says, catching one deftly as it sails towards Beca’s face.

That catches Beca off guard more than the ball had. "You will?”

"Yeah," answers Chloe. "Of course."

And then Chloe smiles at her like she did on that very first day.

Beca can almost feel the sunshine beating down on her head and her shoulders. Nothing feels quite as warm as the hopeful expression Chloe fixes on her and the millions of unanswered questions that float above them like a blanket of uncertainty.

"Thank you."

Chloe keeps a pleasant-enough smile for only a few seconds more, then she grows serious. "Don't thank me yet. We've barely started."

–x–

Benji gets hit next, right after Chloe sees another Treble go down. It is a hard hit, right on his cheek. He’s pale enough that Chloe can clearly see a perfectly circular red mark.

Right. They’re up against a literal competitive dodgeball team.

She hopes she made it clear that they were going to barely make it out alive. She already feels sorry for Benji, but she can’t really dwell, not when Beca is–

“Beca?” she murmurs, taking a quick second to spin around.

Oh. There she is.

Beca is surprisingly holding her own. For somebody who barely knew how to punch as to not bruise and injure herself, she whips the ball with some ferocity.

–x–

It is not just a game to Chloe.

It stopped being a game when Beca chose her as team captain.

It stopped being a game at each moment the ball barely misses Beca by a hair and Chloe’s breath catches in her throat.

It stopped being a game a long time ago.

Maybe even from the moment Beca walked into Chloe’s line of sight. From the moment Beca opened her mouth and sang.

So it is not just a game. Not anymore.

Chloe is so over games.

–x–

It happens quickly - so quickly - that Chloe doesn’t even think about it. The ball sails towards her and she thinks quickly enough. If she moves in any direction, she leaves Beca unprotected, though Beca seems less and less concerned with protection and more concerned with whipping the ball as best as she can.

If Chloe ducks, she thinks Jesse is behind her somewhere, but she honestly figures that he’ll catch it.

She could catch the ball, she thinks as it sails towards her unforgivingly.

Beca sees it happen too.

She exclaims “Chlo, duck!”

So Chloe does.

–x–

Jesse curses as he’s hit right in the face with the ball. It causes him to stumble and nearly fall over. Chloe can hear the impact it makes. It sounds remarkably painful. When she turns, Jesse’s nose is completely red, but he isn’t bleeding. He swipes at his nose uncomfortably and looks betrayed for whatever reason.

Chloe’s apology dies in her throat, already half-hearted and ill-formed to begin with.

–x–

Jesse is clearly feeling better and Chloe already regrets getting him back in the game. He is unfortunately one of their more decent throwers and he dodges well enough. He looks less winded, but he looks at Chloe reproachfully.

“You could have caught that,” he hisses, within earshot of Beca.

“No, I couldn’t,” Chloe fires back, not even bothering to look at him.

“Guys, it’s just a game,” Beca’s voice comes from behind them. Between the two of them – Beca and Chloe – Chloe never expected Beca to be the one to play peacemaker in any situation. She is vaguely reminded of Beca breaking up her scuffle with Aubrey. Of Beca walking into a chaotic auditorium and using her voice to stop everybody in their tracks.

Beca has always had that effect on her. Chloe takes pause, momentarily forgetting the chaos around them.

Jesse’s voice cuts through again. “Yeah, Chloe!” He’s laughing, but Chloe hears no humor in his voice. Nor does she see any amusement in his eyes. It’s hollow, a little like how she feels right now. “Why are you taking this game so seriously?”

“Dude, shut up. Jesus,” Beca says quickly and quietly.

Chloe feels like she’s in high school again. Being made fun of for having a crush on the track star who would never give her the time of day. Being told again and again that her value was less than the star of the football team. Dating the second most popular boy in the class above her. Holding hands with the girl in her English class.

All of it is a mess.

She knows now that none of those callous words had been true. The stupidity of teenagers - children really - and the way they let societal perceptions mold them into monsters.

Something catches in her chest, like the last fleeting gasp of fresh air before she’s choking on her own self-hatred. It had been bottled up for so long.

I just want to fit in.

I just want to be chosen.

She looks at Beca.

I just want you to stay.

Something in Beca’s eyes shifts then. The change is so wondrous to Chloe that she almost forgets that she’s in a smelly high school gymnasium, surrounded by adolescents who honest-to-God paid actual cash to watch young adults make a fool of themselves.

It could be worse, Chloe thinks. Beca looks at her so softly and so lovingly that Chloe forgets about one-upping Jesse who maybe was never worth all that thought after all. Because, after all, Jesse is not mean or malicious. A little quick to assume, maybe, but they can be adults for a moment.

She is still watching Beca when Beca’s eyes suddenly widen followed by her lips parting in a surprised gasp.

It could be wors –

–x–

Stay.

That’s her last coherent thought.

–x–

“Chloe?”

Chloe wonders if the feeling ever goes away. The feeling that is wrapped up in the smell of dirty gyms and the sensation of being alone in a crowded room.

Suddenly, she’s in high school again, staring breathlessly up at the endless blue sky. She had been winded from a sharp jab from her own teammate’s elbow, which caused her to trip over her own feet.

She had only ever wanted to fit in. To be wanted.

To be loved.

“Chloe,” Beca’s voice comes again, disembodied. “Wake up.”

–x–

“You should probably see a doctor,” comes Beca’s faint voice as Chloe blinks awake slowly. “You went down hard, Chlo.”

It takes Chloe a second to respond. She finds that her shoulder hurts a little bit and the side of her head is a little sore. She’s sure she has a bruise or two, but otherwise, she is fairly unscathed.

“Chloe?” Beca asks again. “You’re like...awake right?” She looks a little frightened.

“I don't need the doctor," Chloe rasps finally. The hoarseness of her voice probably does not help, but she can’t help but offer Beca a reassuring smile. She hopes it does enough.

“That’s what everybody says before it turns out that they do, in fact, need a doctor,” Beca responds sharply. She sounds a little hysterical, in all honesty.

“I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Belatedly, Chloe realizes that she is staring up at a nondescript, sloping ceiling. Pale yellow walls around her.

“Am I in the nurse’s office?”

“Yeah, we helped carry you in here after the ball basically concussed you.” Beca finally relaxes before a smirk spreads across her lips. “I bribed one of the high schoolers to send me a video.”

Chloe feigns hurt, internally pleased when Beca flushes upon catching sight of the jut of Chloe’s lower lip. “Did we at least win?” Chloe asks. “Please tell me we won.”

“Well, I was kind of carrying you here with Cynthia-Rose and Benji.” Chloe tries to make her impatience known with just her eyes. “Okay, fine, we didn’t win.” Beca shrugs. “We were never even going to win.”

Chloe finds that she does not care about that. She finds it hard to care about anything else really because Beca looks so relieved to see her. So genuinely happy to see her.

Beca is there.

Chloe reaches out, pausing halfway in the air between her and Beca. With her hand extended, turned upwards, she waits. Beca slowly and gently places her hand in Chloe's.

"Chloe?" Beca questions.

"Just…" Chloe trails off into a pause, then, "stay, Bec." Her hold loosens, but the mere fact that it's there is enough for both of them. "Stay,” she repeats.

"Okay,” Beca murmurs, all games aside. “I will.”

And she does.

fin.

#bechloe #beca mitchell #chloe beale #dodgeball #mine #my fanfic #fanfiction #pitch perfect #bechloe week #bechloe week 2019

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