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patchworkgargoyle · 11 months

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Booty 🌿

Steve has a plan, and Eddie falls for it. || read on ao3

Here it finally is, folks! My first smut for the ST fandom. I hope you like it!! Inspired by this post.

WC: ~4.8k || E || CW: Unsafe sex

“Please, Eddie?”

“Are you insane, Steve? It’s hotter than Satan’s taint out there, you cannot expect me to peel myself off this couch.”

Eddie heard a frustrated sigh and a small thud, imagining that Steve had let his head drop on the wall by his phone. “Yeah, I’m aware, I’m sweating buckets right now. But I gotta have the car fixed before tomorrow, I promised Claudia I’d pick up Dustin from the bus station and I can’t do that if it won’t start.”

Thing was, Eddie did kinda want to go and help him, heatwave be damned. They’d grown close in the months since spring break and despite his previous misgivings Eddie had gotten to like Steve. More than he should, really. He can’t help it if his queer little heart does a jig every time he manages to make Steve laugh in that eye-crinkling, head-tipped-back kind of way. Got good at it too, which made Eddie feel a great deal of selfish pride. And if he can’t take his eyes off the long lines of Steve’s mole-dotted neck, that’s his own business.

But this was something else. As soon as Steve called to ask if Eddie would help fix the Bimmer he couldn’t get the thought of him–sweaty and greasy and bent over the open hood of the car, his hair falling just so and lip bitten between his teeth in concentration–out of his dirty little mind. The things he’d want to do. It did as much to convince Eddie to go as it did to make him want to keep his distance.

He was a weak man, however.

“Fine. Alright. But you’d better make it worth my time, I’m risking my pale, un-sunburnt ass for this.”

Steve snorted. “Don’t worry, I will,” he said blandly.

They hung up after Eddie promised to be there in a few minutes, and he rolled off of the couch with a melodramatic groan. Moving in the muggy heat trapped inside the trailer sucked, but he wasn’t going to back out. Steve had sounded so relieved when he’d said goodbye that it gave Eddie enough pep to lurch his way to the kitchen to grab a few cold beers before scrambling into his van. He appreciated his own forethought when he burned his hand on the door handle and could hold a cold bottle against the spot. Fucking summer.

Parking in the Harringtons’ driveway, he spotted the Bimmer pulled halfway into the garage, the front shaded by the overhang in what must be an attempt to avoid the worst of the sunlight. The hood was popped open, but Eddie couldn’t see Steve.

“Ohh Stevie!” he sang, “your knight in shining armour has arrived!” He heard something thunk from the garage but got no response, so he wandered inside, trying to peer around the hood. “I come bearing gifts but they’re gonna get–”

Wheels squeaked from below and Eddie looked down, only to be treated to the sight of Steve’s legs, long and hairy and sprawled open, flexing as he dragged himself out from under the car on the creeper and revealing more inches of mouth-watering thighs. He was–oh fuck, Steve was wearing the tiniest cut-off jean shorts Eddie had ever seen, the fabric of the pockets poking out from under the frayed hems. They were tight, too, hugging his hips and, god, his bulge. The white tank top Steve wore had ridden up, too, exposing the trail of hair that dipped below the fucking shorts, but Eddie followed it up, along the grease stains and the swell of his pecs to Steve’s grinning face.

“...Hot.” Eddie’s voice cracked around the word.

“What was that?” Steve asked.

Clearing his throat, Eddie said, “The beer, it’s uh, gonna get hot.” Somehow he managed to not sound like he was choking on his own drool while Steve still stared up at him from the ground, a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. There was a slight smear of dirt across his cheek and Eddie wanted to lick it off.

“You know where the fridge is, Eddie, if you’re that worried.”

“Nah, you look like you need a break. Get up here,” he said, waggling the bottle over Steve’s face. Steve chuckled but finally stood and relieved Eddie of the misery of seeing Steve on his back and not having been the one to put him there.

He popped the caps off with the bottle opener on his keychain, and Steve took his with a ‘thank you,’ downing half in a few gulps. Eddie distracted himself from the sight of Steve’s throat bobbing by peering over at the engine.

“So what’s the issue, doc?”

Steve pulled away from the bottle with a soft popping sound from his pink lips and a gasp. “Dunno yet. That’s why I called you,” he said, leaning on the car beside Eddie. “Oil and battery are fine, spark plugs look good too.”

“She been making a sputtering kind of sound recently? Could be the throttle.”

“Nah, no weird noises.”

Eddie hummed, then set his bottle aside. “Alright, let’s get underneath her then.” Lowering himself onto the creeper and sliding under the car, he said, “Could be a belt has finally busted. Got a flashlight?”

“Really need to ask that?” Steve’s voice got fainter as he walked a little ways away. “The kids insisted on a disaster preparedness kit after round two with the Upside Down.”

There was a tap on the wood under Eddie’s hip, and blindly he reached down to grab the flashlight Steve found. He tinkered around under the Bimmer, unable to wipe away the sweat that started to drip and stick his bangs to his forehead. But eventually he began to roll back out into open, but no less stupidly hot, air.

“Looks like everything’s shipshape, captain–” Eddie choked on his own words when he looked up and was met with a sight straight out of his wet dreams.

Steve stood over Eddie, his legs spread wide enough that Eddie had rolled right between them. If he sat down, Steve would be straddling Eddie’s hips, but that would deprive him of this new angle at which to admire all of Steve’s assets wrapped so tightly in frayed, lightwash denim. Mouth falling open, Eddie let out an eloquent, “Uhhh,” and Steve laughed, holding out his hand.

“Thought you’d like a hand,” Steve explained, smirking.

He took it without thinking and let Steve haul him off the creeper board and up to his feet. A kick, and Steve sent the board skittering away underneath the car, but Eddie barely winced at the noise. He was too busy standing so close to Steve that they breathed the same humid air. If he so much as swayed, their noses would bump together. Christ, Steve had pretty eyes, a bright, warm brown flecked with amber even in the shade of the garage and he swore he could see Steve’s pupils dilate the longer their gazes locked together.

“So, what were you saying?” Steve asked in a low tone. He tilted his head ever so slightly and those eyes held some kind of dare within them, one eyebrow ticked upward. Eddie couldn’t help swallowing, licking his lips, and Steve went from staring into Eddie’s eyes to down at his lips.

“Just saying that, that everything looked fine. Might, uh, might be the crankshaft or the–” Steve stepped forward just enough to bring their chests together, the back of Eddie’s knees hitting the bumper, and Eddie’s breath hitched, his voice cracking, “–the sensor.”

“Eddie.” The way Steve said his name sent a frisson of heat through Eddie, right to his dick, which was becoming a very obvious guest between them.

“Yeah, Stevie?” he whispered.

Broad, warm hands wrapped around Eddie’s slim hips. Steve worked a finger through a belt loop on each side and tugged, and Eddie realised he wasn’t the only one with a hard on when Steve’s pressed up against his own, pulling a hiss of pleasure from them both. Oh, shit. Leaning impossibly closer, Steve’s lips brushed against Eddie’s when he spoke. “I don’t care about the car right now.”

That snapped whatever faint, lingering reservations Eddie had. “Fuck, Stevie, please kiss m–” He didn’t even finish before Steve’s lips crashed into his, plush and hungry. It wasn’t long before Eddie began to nip and lick, his teeth drawing short, pleased noises from Steve’s mouth before he pulled back a scant inch.

“Fucking finally,” Steve said, and dove back in, biting back, making Eddie groan. His hands found their way to Steve’s sides, then, spurred on by Steve’s enthusiasm, he reached down and grabbed at his ass. His fingers wrapped under the hem and he yanked Steve’s hips in and up, rising to meet them.

Steve’s cock grinding against Eddie’s was a fucking revelation. From the way Steve’s mouth parted with a hot gasp, Eddie guessed he felt the same. “Hold on, baby,” he rasped, and using what leverage he had, Eddie hoisted Steve onto his lap, Steve’s knees spread and braced on the car. There was no way he could keep them there for long, but fuck it was hot, rutting their hips together while they kissed, wet and messy.

Eddie tasted the salt of his own sweat when Steve licked into his mouth and moaned, hands fisted into the denim in his grip, feeling more sweat beginning to drip down his back. The heat was stifling, but nothing compared to what started to grow in Eddie’s gut. One of Steve’s hands buried in his curls and pulled, had Eddie bucking up and whimpering around Steve’s tongue. He could come like this, dry humping on top of the Bimmer, lap full of Steve in those shorts, hands on his perfect ass, would’ve if the idea weren’t more embarrassing than hot.

“St-Steve, wait,” Eddie panted, whining again when Steve’s hand clenched in his hair again.

“Why’d you stop? Don’t wanna stop, Eddie,” Steve groaned, before a little more clarity seeped into him and he leaned back into his arms, concerned. “Or, shit, wait, is this okay?”

“God, fuck yes this is okay. Been thinking about this forever, man.” Steve smiled widely, verging on a little goofy, before ducking in and pressing open-mouthed kisses to Eddie’s throat. Eddie’s arms began to shake. His legs had long since begun to tremble. “But, hang on, ah, I’m gonna either drop you or come in my shorts in like two minutes if we don’t rethink this.”

All that did was make Steve start rocking into him again. “Hot,” he mumbled as he licked up a trail of sweat under Eddie’s jaw, making Eddie swear and tip his head back.

Eddie’s knees decided to buckle right then. They shouted, Eddie scrambled, locking Steve in his arms and getting his feet under himself before standing, his hands still hooked around Steve’s ass while Steve’s legs clung to his waist. Steve’s shocked expression likely matched Eddie’s, before he rested his forehead against Eddie’s and laughed so hard his body shook. Helpless, Eddie joined in, holding Steve close while their giggling faded out. But his arms were aching so, gently, he put Steve down.

“Do you wanna stop?” Steve asked. Eddie shook his head.

“You?” Steve shook his. “Thank fuck,” Eddie said. He ran his hands over Steve’s ass, over the crease of his thigh, the tips of his fingers tickling the hair on the back of his thighs before guiding him close again. “Didn’t wanna let you go now that I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Steve dove into Eddie’s mouth with a hungry groan. The slick sounds of their lips echoed in the garage. With a tug, Steve turned them around and backed up into the car, his hands wandering underneath Eddie’s cut up Iron Maiden tee and clutching at his sides, over the fresh demobat scars, nails digging in bluntly.

Eddie couldn’t keep his hands off Steve either. He pawed at whatever he could, finding the places that made Steve pant and hum into his mouth. But he wanted more, because Eddie has always been a bit greedy. One hand snaked its way around to cup Steve through the shorts that barely contained him, pressing his fingers around the hard outline of Steve’s cock and squeezing, rubbing. The low, raspy moan he got for his efforts made Eddie grin wolfishly.

Head lolling back, Steve breathed hard and rose to meet each stroke of Eddie’s palm. Eddie began to bite and suck his way down the strong line of Steve’s neck, biting every mole he could find. “E-Eddie, I want you to fuck me.”

The words made Eddie bite down just shy of too hard. Steve whined, and Eddie lapped at the spot in apology. “I wanna, I wanna so bad, Steve, but we’re fucking filthy, sweetheart,” he mumbled into Steve’s neck.

“Don’t need to do anything. I, mmh, prepared for this.”

Eddie pulled back to blink at him in disbelief. “You what?”

“I’ve been wanting this for months and nothing was working! So I just, made this as obvious as I fucking could.”

“Months?” Eddie’s jaw dropped when Steve gave him a look that managed to be both fond, flirty, and frustrated. “I could’ve been fucking you for months!?”

“Or I could’ve been fucking you.”

That idea, as sexy as it was, had to be pushed aside before it managed to make Eddie’s horny little brain leak out of his ears. “Putting a pin in that, that’s absolutely gonna happen, but I wanna revisit something. You prepared?”

Steve smirked. “Yeah,” he said, simple and cocky and so hot Eddie could combust. Eddie tried to capture Steve’s lips again but Steve stopped him with a firm hand against his chest, pushing Eddie back a few steps. Turning, he closed the hood of his car and instead of twisting back around to face Eddie, Steve leaned on his arms and arched his back.

Now that was a sight. Steve’s long, tan legs spread just so, one knee cocked to give a slight tilt to his hips. The firm, round swell of his ass peeking out under the denim that struggled to hold together. And right on the apex of those pretty, biteable, jean-clad cheeks: two dark, dirty handprints. There’s even the blackened imprint of fingers on Steve’s skin. Eddie’s fingers, Eddie’s hands. His cock twitched against his zipper and he moaned out, “Ohhh my god…”

Looking over his shoulder, Steve’s smug smirk grew, and he tilted his hips up a little further. “I know I look good, Munson, but are you gonna do something about it or what?”

Eddie stepped forward and draped himself along the expanse of Steve’s back, rutting his hips into Steve’s and making him hum sweetly. “Don’t have to get bratty about it, baby,” he said. He dragged his fingers along Steve’s sides, letting his nails catch on the soft texture of Steve’s scars before dipping down and popping his button open in one swift motion. “Tell me how you prepared.”

He felt the shiver his words evoked run down Steve’s spine. As he slid the zipper down and slid his hand in to find Steve had gone commando–both of them groaning when Eddie’s hand wrapped around Steve’s leaking, twitching cock–Eddie nuzzled into the dip between Steve’s ear and neck, inhaling the scent of his sweat and musk and the faint traces of a clean, fresh cologne valiantly hanging on.

“I, I got this toy. In Indy,” Steve gasped as Eddie pumped him, pulling his cock out as his hand sped up the more Steve spoke. “Worked myself open on it.”

“What’dya think of?” Eddie squeezed.

“You,” Steve keened, jerking into Eddie’s grip.

“Fuck. God. Alright, enough of this.” Standing, Eddie took his hand away and ignored the needy noise Steve made to instead yank the shorts down. Steve only bothered to step out of one leg, having to kick his foot when they got stuck on his shoe. It made his cheeks jiggle. Eddie couldn’t resist giving him a few taps just to watch it again before spreading those cheeks with his thumbs. More dirt smeared over Steve’s dewy skin, but that was only the opening act. The true star of the show glistened with lube and twitched under Eddie’s hungry stare, already loose and used and ready for him. He held himself back from burying his tongue in Steve’s hole, but just barely, letting out a low, hungry rumble instead.

Eddie couldn't move fast enough after that. He grappled with his belt, popped the button of his shorts and shoved them and his boxers out of the way enough for his cock to spring out without help. Then he stepped forward. Eddie let out a shuddering gasp when his aching cock met the searing heat of Steve’s taint and smeared precome along it, echoed when Steve sighed unsteadily as his head slipped up, up, up. Brushed over Steve’s hole once, twice, before catching on the rim.

“Please, Eddie,” Steve whined as he pushed back, and who was Eddie to deny such a pretty request?

He thrust forward and sank into Steve with a slick sound and such little resistance that Eddie’s jaw dropped open in a soundless moan, eyelids fluttering at the hot, wet clench of muscle around him. Another thrust and Steve groaned thickly, his head tilting back so Eddie could see how his bitten-red lips parted deliciously.

“Steve, you good? Please tell me you’re good. Fuck. I wanna fuck you so bad, you feel so good, hot, please Steve,” Eddie begged and rambled, his hands shaking with the need to grab and pull and take.

“If you don’t fucking start right now I’m leaving–”

That was all the permission Eddie needed.

He sank slowly past that ring of muscle and Eddie didn’t have the capacity to be embarrassed about the high-pitched, breathy whine that escaped him. Steve really had prepped, just loose enough and slick enough, but he still took his time. He wanted to savour this, the way he slid into Steve’s tight heat, how the feeling made his legs tremble and his stomach clench. Steve deserved the caution. At first, at least.

“Tell me,” Eddie demanded, needing to talk to distract from the sheer feeling of bliss of being enveloped by Steve. “Tell me about what you were thinking when you fucked yourself on that dildo.”

Steve’s head tilted back with a moan, his brows drawn together, and Eddie longed to bite and lick the strong column of his throat, but he didn’t want to get distracted. He wanted to know.

“I thought about your fingers, first. Those rings, fuck, they drive me nuts. Wish you’d worn them today.” Eddie gave his hips a firm squeeze, fingers spread wide to catch as much soft skin as he could, and grinned when he felt Steve clench around him and heard a stuttering breath.

“I’ll wear them next time, big boy. Wanna see how good they look when I’m jerking you off.” The appreciative groan caused by Eddie’s words was divine.

“God yes. Next time.”

Of course it was then that the phrase sunk in. Next time. Eddie hadn’t even noticed he’d said it but Steve repeating it had something other than raging hormones rising in his gut. He didn’t even have time to process the implication because Steve kept going, and started meeting Eddie’s thrusts with small movements of his own.

“Then I thought about your dick. Y’know, it’s so hard not to stare when you get out of the pool.”

“Did you?”

“Duh.” Steve shot a bitchy look over his shoulder. The usual power behind the look was lost in the bright red flush on his face. It completely fell apart when Eddie shifted and hit somewhere new, Steve’s mouth dropping open with a guttural noise that made Eddie’s cock twitch. “S-shit, it’s so perfect,” he said.

Steve’s head hung loose from his shoulders, forehead resting on the hood of the car, needy, lingering moans bouncing off the metal, breath and sweat condensing on it while Eddie inched further into him every time he slid out and pressed back in. With his palms on the Bimmer, Steve used the leverage to rock into Eddie, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under the white cotton tank starting to go translucent with sweat.

Watching his cock steadily disappear into Steve’s hole was addicting. He leaned back to get a better view of how he split Steve open between the grimy handprints he’d left on the globes of his ass, placed his hands there again and dug his nails in, making Steve’s hips jerk so that Eddie sank the rest of the way with a groan.

“God, Eddie,” Steve mumbled, “fuck, you feel so. So, uh, so good.”

“Y-you too, baby.” Eddie could barely form words. The tight pressure around his cock threatened to end things there and then, but Eddie closed his eyes and breathed, letting the fire and the urge and the want die down to a less immediate threat. But then he opened his eyes, saw how good they looked locked together, the way his darker thatch caught against the lighter brown hairs decorating Steve’s ass, both of them wet from the lube he’d pushed out of his hole, and jesus fucking christ he didn’t want, he needed.

Pulling out slowly and bracing Steve’s hips with a punishing grip was the only warning he gave before snapping forward with a loud grunt, the slap of damp skin a filthy echo in the garage. Steve cried out at the second hard thrust, choked off when Eddie kept going, his hips picking up speed.

“Good?” Eddie gasped. Nodding, Steve uttered a desperate, pleading ‘yes’ that made him fuck into Steve faster.

“Look so fucking hot, Steve,” he started babbling, his voice reedy with pleasure. “God, my handprints on you. Want ‘em to stain, be there forever.” Steve moaned and Eddie felt him tighten around his cock. “Like that, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, fuck, I do, I do!”

Eddie leaned forward, draped himself across Steve’s back, and the angle was so fucking good, so much better, and he knew he’d started pounding into Steve’s prostate by the way his gasps had turned into a delicious mix of thin moans and choked out grunts. Fucking him into the car, Eddie let his hands roam. He rucked up the tank top, watched as the last of the dirt on his hands smeared over Steve’s perfect, scarred skin like loving and greedy claw marks. Finding a nipple, he pinched and squeezed until Steve writhed and squirmed.

Then Steve reached up. Buried a hand into Eddie’s hair, grabbed a handful and pulled.

“Oh fuck!” Eddie whined, his hips stuttering, the pain mixing with pleasure and zinging down his spine.

Steve chuckled, unsteady and breathy but so self-satisfied. “Thought about this… for so long, Eddie.”

“Thinkin’ about me so much, sweetheart. I’m honoured. What, hah, what did you think about?” he asked into Steve’s neck, lips catching on his skin, tempting him to lick, to bite. He did, groaning at the taste of salt.

“This. On your couch, by the pool, my bed, anywhere. Been desperate for it.” Steve pulled Eddie closer by his hair while he bounced back on Eddie’s cock as if to prove it. “Or, shit, bending you over that throne of yours and fucking you into it.” Eddie let out a pitchy whimper and Steve cooed in a way that could’ve been condescending but instead made Eddie melt. “But now, now that I know the kinds of fucking sounds you make–t-there, yes–I wanna take you apart. Slow a-and gentle until you’re a mess–”

He cut himself off with a broken moan. Eddie’s hips kept up their brutal pace with short, sharp, hard thrusts, the sound of their sweat-slicked fucking and and the jingle of Eddie’s belt buckle filling the room. His brain was nothing but static. The image was stuck in a loop like the end of a record left to spin. Eddie heard a desperate, animalistic whine and realised it came from himself.

“Close, baby?” Steve asked. Eddie nodded frantically, his lips dragging through beads of sweat dripping down his neck. He’d been holding it off, the fraying coil threatening to snap, his balls aching as they slapped into Steve’s asscheeks.

“You?” Eddie wanted to beg for Steve to be ready.

“Getting there, just, don’t stop,” Steve gasped.

Twisting, Steve pulled Eddie down to catch his lips in an open-mouthed kiss, fingers tangled in his damp curls. Their tongues met sloppily. Shared panting breaths like trying to inhale each other. Eddie’s thrusts were starting to falter. He was going to shake apart at this rate. Might just shatter when he comes, the pressure and heat and need too much and so fucking perfect.

“Steve,” Eddie whined, and Steve’s eyes met his. “So good to me, Stevie, sweetheart. Feel so wet, fuckin’ beautiful. Nee–mmh–need you, need you to come, please baby, please.”

“Touch me,” Steve said, practically commanded, and Eddie wasted no time.

Spitting in his hand and hoping it was enough, Eddie wrapped his fingers around Steve’s dick, mixing his spit with the shocking amount of precome leaking from the head and spreading it over his length. Christ he was hung. Steve let out a relieved sigh, which Eddie swallowed, smashing their lips together again while fucking hard enough that he rocked Steve into his fist. Steve started making little ah, ah, ah noises. Next time–please let there actually be a next time–he’d worship this cock in the ways he wanted to, the ways Steve deserved, but for now he pumped him mercilessly. Then, then.

Steve seized, a full-body tremble ripping through him as he came, pulsing in Eddie’s hand as he tightened around Eddie’s cock and he was so fucking gorgeous, plush kissed-red lips open in a silent scream, so hot and tight and, and, and–

With a hoarse shout, Eddie came too, rutting helplessly into Steve as he rode out the sparking shockwaves that also had him shaking, the wet sounds between them even more obscene with Eddie’s come slicking the way. He finally stopped when Steve’s whimpers sounded a little too sharp. Breathing heavily, Eddie braced himself on the hood of the car on weak arms to keep himself from collapsing on top of Steve, only letting his head rest in the crook of Steve’s neck where he left one final, achingly gentle love bite.

“Okay?” he whispered.

“Mhmm,” Steve hummed contentedly, leaning his head against Eddie’s, their damp hair sticking together.

“Gonna pull out now, Stevie, okay?” When Steve just nodded lazily, Eddie slowly pulled out, both of them groaning at the feeling. And he couldn’t keep himself from parting Steve’s cheeks to see his come dribble out a little, feeling a great deal of pride and greedy satisfaction at the sight.

“Bit late to ask, but you’re still clean, right? After all those tests for the bat bites?” Steve asked, grimacing when he stood up. He was the perfect picture of debauchery, only wearing his rumpled, practically see-through tank top, socks, and shoes, with his hair a wild mess and sweat still dripping from his forehead. The dirty fingerprints and red marks starting to bloom on his neck and hips were Eddie’s favourite part.

“Yep, only time I’ll ever thank those shady government fuckers for poking me with all those needles.” Eddie grinned at Steve’s tired, but fond, chuckle.

Steve looked at the car with heavy-lidded eyes, then did a double-take. “Shit, I gotta wash that off.” There, on the shiny burgundy hood of the Bimmer, was the white splash of Steve’s come, stark against the dark colour. Eddie started cackling and Steve complained, “Dude, shut up, it’ll ruin the paint!”

“Gonna wash your car without these, Winnie the Pooh?” Eddie bent down to scoop up Steve’s shorts, dangling them from a finger. He laughed when Steve snatched them back with a glare that barely hid his begrudging smile. While he stepped back into them with a wince, Eddie said, “Interesting choice of clothing to work on your car, by the way.”

“Worked, though, didn’t it?”

“What?” Eddie’s eyes narrowed when Steve smiled innocently and shrugged before he wandered off to get a chamois towel and soap. And it clicked. “You planned this? You lured me in with slutty shorts?”

Tossing the towel up and catching it, Steve’s smile widened into something smug. “Yep.”

“Wait. Is the car even broken?”

Steve just offered Eddie another sly shrug and started wiping his come off the hood.

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #fanfic #sac scrawls stuff

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piece-of-the-pie-if · 6 months

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Could we get 🌼 🌾 🌻 🍂 for Theo and Kinsley please?

this is a little long, lemme know if I should add a read more~ from this ask list. +I had nothing for Theo's part so I decided to just upload this for Kin, hope that's okay

KINSLEY

🌼──Who are this characters friends and found family? How did they meet, how long have they been friends for, could they ever be something more than just friends? What do they look for in a friend or a romantic partner?

Honestly, the people Kinsley surrounds herself with aren't good for her. Despite the fact that she calls them friends, both Tiffany and V are in her life for reputation... by default. She honestly avoids them just as much as she's seen with them. (Which is probably to her detriment considering she hasn't yet realised how manipulative both of them are.) The reason she's latched on to Dylan so much is because they're real with her, they don't pretend with her and they don't hold back their words for her. (Plus Dyl actually cares about her, which she hasn't had in a long time.) At the very base line, Kin just wants someone who will take her for who she is and will stay when they finally figure out who she really is─too many of her s/o's only wanted her because of her status.

🌾──Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them.

Kinsley is a wildfire. She's fierce and untamed and her influence spreads at the speed of light. She's untouchable and if you get too close too quick you'll get burnt. But she's warm behind the lick of flames, and she keeps the weeds at bay, she's protective of her territory. Kinsley is a shard of ice. Her gaze is cold and her words are sharp. If you handle her the wrong way you'll get cut. But she's unique, a complicated pattern of fractals to build up her walls, she's beautiful from the distance she keeps you at. But when her walls are shattered, she's the ice to keep you cool during a heatwave. Kinsley is a speckle of sunlight. It's not big enough to wrap you in it's embrace, warm you and heal you under it's light, but it's enough so you can see through the bitter darkness─a glimmer of hope, a helping hand to the other side of the tunnel. When she's yours, she's yours loyally.

🌻──What little things do they notice about people or the world around them that make them happy? What tiny little treasures do they find in the normal every day that makes the world seem a little brighter for them?

It might seem really insignificant to others but she really likes the colour green. Kinsley makes a little game with herself to. keep track of things she sees that are shades of green. She jokes with herself when she debates counting the things that aren't her preferred shade of green. She even makes physical notes of what she sees in a notebook when she gets home. If anyone else were to read it they'd just be met with lists and lists of random objects and, if she remembered, where she saw them.

🍂──Does your OC enjoy hugs? What do they do as a show of affection for: their friends, their family, their significant other(s) or for strangers? Over all what are they like with recieving affection from others?

Kinsley likes hugs, she just doesn't get them very often. One could say she's touch starved, leaning into the embrace of people she cares about longer than 'appropriate'. However, she's not particularly affectionate with most people, she shrugs off arms slung over her shoulder and she'll avoid cheek kisses from Tiffany, she'll drop attempts to hold her hand. She's not a very public display of affection person! She can and will straight up ignore strangers or sometimes she'll switch up and just glare at them until they go away. With her s/o however, it's different. She's not exactly clingy but she likes being in their space──or having them in hers. She maintains eye contact more, but now instead of an icy glare those eyes hold conversations. If you let her hug your arm she doesn't think she'd ever detach! Overall Kinsley's not very affectionate in public but will pull her s/o into a cuddle puddle when at home!

#piece of the pie if #kinsley grace-cameron

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alaskassweetdump · 11 months

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This year wasn’t my first time at the Farm, but it was most successful time. Last year, I attempted Bonnaroo on my own, during a heatwave, with undiagnosed health issues that are exacerbated in the heat. This time, I got to go with my best friend, like we have always dreamed and planned.

We arrived Wednesday morning and we’re then placed in our camp spot, which couldn’t have been a more perfect spot. We camped right at the House of Yes aka my favorite Plaza. We were only a short distance from both entrances and the Woods.

The heat still whooped my ass, but my best friend was there to keep me going. She was the one that told me to get my towel wet and keep it over me, which kept me sane the rest of our time there. Due to the heat, I stayed at camp while she went and saw Kendrick Lamar & DJ Diesel. Don’t worry, she sent videos and I could hear them in the distance.

Saturday was perfect. I found About Face Beauty’s set-up inside of Centeroo and picked up the festival pack that they had (dickies x af crossbody, enamel Bonnaroo pin, fractal eye paint, & light lock lipgloss). After that, we went back to camp and prepared ourselves for a night of Yung Gravy & Lil Nas X. Seeing those two back-to-back was quite the workout for the out-of-shape babes, but it was worth every minute.

Sunday we started tearing down camp and heard Paramore doing sound check in the distance. I had just seen them in DC, so we had decided that while it would have been amazing to stay, we couldn’t wait another 7 hours while tired and overheated. But! Silver lining moment: I got home just in time to catch the Foo Fighters streaming on Hulu & Paramore was up next.

Amazing trip with my best friend. Which in my opinion, is the best way to Bonnaroo. We are now even more ready for our next trip to that beautiful, glorious Farm.

Until next time, Bonnaroo. May it be sooner rather than later.

#bonnaroo #festival #bonnaroo 2023 #best friends #baecation #girls trip #dream come true #tennessee #farm #lil naz x #yung gravy #paramore #kendrick lamar #the foo fighters

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bernardhiking · 2 years

Text

East Ridge Summit (via Edith Cavell Meadows Trail)

Date: 07/30/2022 Country: Canada Region: Jasper National Park, Alberta Endpoint: East Ridge Summit: 2571 m. Trail type: In-and-out, with loop portion in the middle Length: 8.5 miles Elevation gain: 2,800 ft Trailhead: Edith Cavell Meadows Parking Lot

We started the hike early, as we knew it is a very popular destination. The two oversize parking lots at the trailhead, though almost empty when we arrived there at 8:30 am, gave a good indication of what was to come. We started vigorously, dashing up the paved sightseeing trail called “Glacier Walk” to a nice viewpoint, overlooking Mount Cavell and Cavell Pond—a jade colored glacier lake with melting chunks of glacier debris dotting its surface like vanilla ice cream in a float.

Before us rose the daunting north face of Mount Edith Cavell (named after a WWI nurse who was executed by the Germans for aiding Allied soldiers escape from German occupied Belgium—a strange choice of naming for a beautiful mountain, notwithstanding the gallant lady’s obvious merits). Seen from a distance, the mountain leans at a nautical tilt, with parallel bands of rock and snow giving the impression of a sinking ship; but up close, the view is of an imposing and doubtlessly hard-to-climb peak.

We were practically alone when we arrived at the shores of the glacier lake (incongruously called Cavell “Pond”), and we snapped a good number of pictures there, for the sight was lovely.

Then, just ahead of the first wave of sightseers, we headed up the hiking trail toward Edith Cavell Meadows.

Spring had arrived late in the Canadian Rockies this year, and only 2-3 weeks earlier, snow fields were still impeding hiking progress here. But now, a heatwave was in full swing, with temperatures soaring above 90 even in the mountains (part of a continental—or even north-hemispheric—drought phase), and this dispatched of the snow cover in a short time, allowing for the explosive growth of the flora waiting underneath. Now, the lower-lying meadows were in full bloom with Indian Paintbrush, Heather, Daisies and plenty of other pretty flowers vying for prominence.

But only a narrow band of altitude displayed this floral abundance, and once we gained more altitude, the flowers were still in wait. What was definitely out in full force were the bugs! Although we had slathered on a generous amount of repellent at the outset of our hike, we were soon attacked relentlessly, forcing us to double down on the repellent stuff, putting on a second layer of an even stronger product to keep the pest at bay. It got slightly better after we entered the area above the tree-line, although even here the flies and mosquitoes were still active. But just turning around to behold the glorious sight of Edith Cavell North Face, Angel Glacier sticking its tongue out at us, and the ice-dotted jade pond receding further and further below us--all this made the insectile inconvenience pale by comparison.

At a fork where the trail divides to form a loop, we chose the steeper (left) branch, reserving the longer, more gradual portion for our descent. About an hour and a half into the hike, we left the meadows behind and entered upon a stony ridge that led up to the end of the official trail. Along this stretch, we had good, muscle-straining fun, as we balanced on the edge of the comb, enjoying ever more spectacular views. We reached the “official” end of the trail at 11 am, and now we had the option of pushing on to reach East Ridge Summit, following a clearly visible, though less frequented trail made by people who simply were not satisfied to turn around before the highest point on the ridge was reached. It looked steep but doable, so we decided to make a go for it.

The extension was really worth it. A half hour later, just before entering the last stretch of loose scree, rocks, and an occasional snow patch, a large, flat stone to the side invited us to settle down for a picnic. Here, we ate our lunch sandwiches and replenished our fluid levels while taking in the sweeping vista.

Thus refreshed, we tackled the steepest portion of the ascent, making frequent zig-zag turns and holding each other’s hands for support. It is my favorite kind of territory—challenging to the point of making the heart race, yet without being outright dangerous. At noon sharp we arrived on the top, three hours after starting out. The scenery was wonderful in every direction, and we took a good number of pictures here.

But we didn’t spend much time on the summit, as it started to look like the weather was about to turn. A few pretty impressive thunderheads were developing, and we wanted to stay ahead of the development. Rain did eventually come down, but by then we were already on the lower section of the return trail, approaching the valley bottom. We had taken the more gradual segment of the loop going down, and we enjoyed another burst of flower power along the meadows there. A Ptarmigan by the side of the trail was picking at the floral buds without paying us any mind.

At 2:30 pm, we were back at the parking lot, now bustling with hundreds of visitors. The early bird gets the quiet moments.

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cptnbvcks · 4 years

Note

Honestly ANY goofy prompt with Javier

dripping (javier peña x reader)

words: 5.5k

prompt: goofy — with food

summary: javi brings you something to take the edge off during one of colombia’s heatwaves

warnings: smut smut smut, sticky situations (literally)

a/n: this was too long for any kind of drabble and i hate myself for it and this was significantly prompted by my childish urge for snow cones mid-february. this is also half unedited filth lmao sorry

You always thought that Miami was hot during the summer, but Colombian summers felt like the devil himself had turned on the fucking broiler and left the entire goddamn city of Bogota to roast.

Every window of your apartment was pushed open, beckoning any hopeful gust of damp breeze to uselessly relieve the drowning humidity that was swelling within the cramped one bedroom home. If you could have stuck your head through the burglar-proof bars and hung half your body out onto the street, that’s probably how Javier would have found you when he slid the spare key into your front door and let himself in.

Instead, Javi found you half-sprawled on the living room floor, dressed in nothing but a pair of cotton shorts and a thin tank top with your legs stretched out languidly across the cool tile. A half melted cup of ice lingered in a pool of condensation as you sat in front of a struggling electric fan while also clutching another hand-held woven fan that you had obtained as a wedding favour from some distant older cousin on your mother’s side of the family.

You only opened one eye to peer up at him as he entered your field of view.

Javi chuckled at the sight.

“News says the heatwave’s not supposed to let up until Monday,” Javi informed with a playful tease to his voice, as you closed your eyes to groan pathetically, “But, I brought something that might take the edge off.”

When you opened your eyes again, Javi was lowering himself to a squat infront you. Your eyes drifted from his amused eyes to his out stretched hands, both of which held a small styrofoam cup filled to the brim with a sad looking dome of syrup covered and half-melted shaved ice.

“Snow cones?” You snort humorously, a smile quickly spreading across your face at the sweet gesture. You grabbed the cone doused in red syrup, swapping the cup from one hand to the other as you noticed the mess the melted ice was making around its container. Javi’s hands were covered in it. “I haven’t had these for years. Are they from—?”

“The vendor across from Maria’s, yeah. You should have seen the line of kids. I’ve seen smaller mobs at election campaigns,” he said, lifting his messy hand to his mouth to mindlessly clean off the sticky syrup residue. He let himself fall back heavily on the floor across from you, his back propped up by the island cabinets and legs splayed on either side of yours, “I was on my way over and I saw that he was out today — thought of you.”

Your eyes followed his motion of his tongue, dragging thoughtless motions over the webbing of his fingers as he drew back to speak. A bead of sweat marked its way across the side of your temple, its path mimicked by the trickling ice running over the cup’s rim and collecting around your overheated hand. You blink back to attention as his throw-away words drag your heat-weighted brain to attention.

A smile as lazy as the heat teased at your mouth as you brought the cup to your mouth, using your lips and tongue to scoop into the side of the dwindling dome of shaved ice. You hum around the treat, eyes glistening mischievously as you watched him sip at the edge of his cup. “You thinking about me, Javi?”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” he grunted back, his brow furrowed with small focus as he looked from the snow cone to you. His eyes lowered to your mouth when you purposefully ran a pink-dyed tongue over your lips.

You hummed an affirmation under your breath as you tapped your bare foot into the inner portion of his thigh to watch him jump at the contact. Javier circled his free hand around your ankle, squeezing in small warning to behave.

A drop of watery syrup hit the top of your foot as the calloused pad of his thumb rubbed a broad circle against your skin.

“Mmm, too late.”

There’s a moment of silence that passes between the two of you, eyes locked on one another from across the narrow space between the kitchen counter and the island. Javier’s fingers stroke mindless patterns around the prominent bone of your ankle as you watch him manoeuvre around the snow cone, quietly noticing the way his baby blue shirt clung damply to his chest in spite of the first few buttons being undone.

Your eyes follow a small bead of sweat across the tendons of his neck, watching as it soaked into the collar of his shirt.

The snow cones didn’t stand a chance in this heat.

“You’re dripping,” Javier pointed out, the drag of his voice drawing your thoughts sluggishly back to attention. You raise a brow as he lifts his half-melted cup, raising a finger around it to point at your chest.

Tipping your chin, you notice the raspberry syrup stains that sprawled in messy drips over the front of your camisole. You laugh, because you know where your attention had been, and it hadn’t been on the cup of melting ice and liquid sugar.

“Oops.”

The word drops coyly from your lips, molasses thick and just as sweet.

Javier’s fingers twitch on your foot and his eyes don’t move any higher than the swell of your breasts, or the sheer top that no longer escapes his attention.

Your eyes are on him again when you tilt the styrofoam just a little more.

Another drop of syrup and ice falls. This time, it lands on skin.

Javier grips you beneath your shin and inhales lowly as your nipples visibly harden at the cold trail the spill leaves behind on its path down your cleavage. It’s icy cold even at its melting point but it does nothing to quell the wet heat that clings to your skin.

“Mala,” Javier breathes, the word dragging through the haze of the room. Bad.

You tap your foot against his thigh again, but this time you twist the appendage out of his grip with a quick roll and hook your leg over his thigh. Javier’s eyes don’t miss the not-so-subtle parting of your thighs as you scoot forward, both legs spreading and coming to a bend on either side of his hips until you sat squarely between his thighs. Your head tilted forward, tempting to bridge the small gap that existed between your faces.

At this distance you could see the speckling of sweat that peppered the length of his neck. You licked your lips and suppressed the urge to taste his skin.

Not yet.

There was pleasure in the denial, in the oppressing swelter. So you told yourself — not yet.

“Yeah?” You purred, watching the way he worked his jaw in small resistance.

Javier could feel the warmth radiating from you — sauna hot and hotter still in that sinful space between your clothed cunt and his crotch. Trying not to smirk, you purposefully shift onto your knees, straddling him as you set one hand on his shoulder as stretch your torso up and set your cup onto the counter behind him. The movement centring your tits right up to his face, close enough that you feel his breaths fan out warmly across your sternum.

“Maybe I’m just trying to cool down, Javi. You gonna blame a girl for trying not to overheat in this weather?”

“Is this your idea of cooling down? Putting your tits in my face?” Javi asked, the words hushed as he followed the impulse to lean forward, his mouth opening and his tongue pressing a searing swipe along the remnant trail of syrup.

Sweet and salty and so fucking soft when he drags his free hand up along the back of your thigh, squeezing for the sake of feeling the plush give of your flesh in his sticky hands. He goes for the straps of the camisole next, his manners non-existent when he yanks the thin strap down your arm and digs his fingers into the neckline of the stretchy polyester to expose your left breast to the humid air.

You laughed at his impatience, one hand dropping to cup the back of his head and card through the damp strands that clung to the base of his neck.

“Something like it,” you say, the words sighing on the edge of your laughter as you hold his head to your chest, a soft noise muffling itself behind your lips as he sucks a raspberry hued bruise into the top of your breast.

His mouth is cold and it sends a deep shudder along the valley of your spine that clenches vice-tight between your thighs. You know that you could get off on this alone, with his mouth bruising your breasts in red and blue patches — hell, he’s made you do it before (much to your own surprise).

“You taste so good, baby,” he murmurs, his teeth catching flesh and pulling a weak noise from your throat as he circles his free hand around your lower back, pressing your thighs harder into his torso while you remain poised taller on your knees. You don’t miss the way he sneaks a finger against the crotch of your shorts when he grabs your thigh from behind. “Come here.”

You grunt a response as you sink your hips back down into his lap before he can finish his path to your nipple. The edge of the styrofoam cup bumps your thigh as Javier mindlessly grabs for your waist, having forgotten the melted treat entirely from the minute you parted your legs to taunt him.

The cup tilts in his distracted grip, allowing the remainder of the dwindling ice hill to slosh out and land with a wet splat on your bare thigh. The shock of the temperature earns a startled shout that makes Javier laugh deep in his chest.

“Javi!”

“You’re making a mess, mina,” Javier taunts, mouth against your throat and a chiding pique to his voice that almost sounded like tutting. The spill runs berry pink streams over the flesh of your thigh, rivulets of its melt curving a slow descent to your inner thigh.

“I’m making a mess?”

“Yes.”

He punctuates the syllable with a soft growl as you begin to lean away from his prying mouth, forcing his lips to chase you as you arch out of his reach. You allow him the distraction of the chase, stealing the now half-empty cup from his hand before he eagerly uses his new found freedom to grip at your thigh.

His hands smears across the mess he made, spreading it across your skin when he reaches for your half-exposed breasts to finish tearing down the other side of your shirt.

Javier cups his hands under your breasts, pressing into your ribcage as he squeezes them together and watches in rapture as they fall back into place. Your breath comes shaky when he drags his palm across your hardened nipple, the syrup slick on your skin and dying your flesh in streaks of sweet magenta.

It’s cold and your skin burns and you’re thinking it has something more to do with the DEA agent fondling your tits and less so with the swimming heat that’s swirling through the apartment.

Javier brings his mouth to your nipple, tongue pressing flat and teeth scraping achingly over the swollen flesh as your hips instinctively roll into his. He groans into your chest when you repeat the motion, arching into his mouth as your fingers press into the back of his head to hold him tight.

You can feel the sweat beading at the nape of his neck, the slickness of his skin that makes you wonder just how messy things can really get.

“Javi,” you moan softly, your shoulders hunching slightly as a high note leaves your throat when he begins sucking another hard bruise into the side of your breast, just beneath your nipple, “Javi.”

Javier doesn’t pull back until he knows your skin has bloomed the same shade of crimson as the syrup, the kind that turns violet in the hours after. Your exhale is already wrecked when he releases his grip on your left breast, guiding his clean fingers to the cusp of your shoulder and throat.

Your skin is sweat and syrup and he uses his other hand to paint you to his liking.

The next noise you make is the soft grunt of a constricted moan when he squeezes gently. It’s brief, but lingers long enough to make you rut your aching core against him like a bitch so far in heat that not even the melted ice running down your leg could sequester.

The air is heavy with more than humidity and every gulp feels like sucking down water, growing worse yet when Javier’s fingers move to the back of your neck, gripping tight into the muscle there.

Your cheeks burn with flustered anticipation when he cups your jaw with his other palm, sticky fingers spreading a layer of coloured sugar over your cheeks and chin. His thumb coats your bottom lip with it, skin tugging at that tacky stick of drying sugar.

“Open your mouth, baby.”

Your eyes are half lidded, heavy with the weight of your own desire, as you look down at the man. It’s not his order that gets your submission; it’s the demanding press of his thumb between slackened lips that jerks your mouth into motion.

Javier watches as you tilt your head as best as you could, your neck and head held securely between both of his hands. Your jaw works with each suck as you taste the artificial raspberry flavour of his thumb.

Javier helps you along, pressing his thumb into your tongue as you drag it over the sensitive pad of his calloused fingers. The act earns a tight squeeze to the back of your neck as he softly mumbles to himself more so than to you, “That’s it, mina. So good for me, aren’t you?”

Tipping your chin in a weak nod, you pin him with those achingly soft eyes with blow out irises and droopy lids that makes his cock twitch between all the layers of clothes. His thumb disappears from your mouth and leaves you gasping for air.

You grind into his jeans again and hear yourself moan his name. Fuck, at this point you weren’t even sure anymore if that dampness between your legs was from the melted snow cone.

“I thought you were cooling down,” Javi smirks, the words rough and dragging slow on his tongue like his thoughts were moving just as sluggishly as everything did in this weather. He manipulates your head in his grasp, tilting your head down as he drags his spit-dampened thumb over the heel of your chin.

“I am,” you hum, your body undulating slowly over the hard ridge pressing incessantly from within his jeans. Your fingers grip at the cup that you had forgotten was still sitting in your strained grasp, the styrofoam punctured in spots from your nails digging into the sides. Your lips curl with a mischievous smirk. “Spilling that snow cone all over me really helped.”

You take him by surprise when you press your palm to his chest and shove him backwards, the movement demanding of his obedience and his shoulders hit the cabinet with a wooden clatter and a spare grunt.

His eyes are starved and the way his lips pout on the remnants of his kisses make you want to sink further down and press your lips to his until you forget where your breaths become his.

Javier stares up at you as your index finger dips into the deep part of his button down, pulling until the button gives.

Slowly, you lower your head to ghost your sticky lips against his, your exhale warm over his chin. Your eyes watch as his flutter closed, his head tilting to slot his lips against yours with only the small hesitation to prolong the moment. His fingers twitch against the back of your neck and jaw, domineering but tenderly supportive as he kisses your berry lips until he tastes the salt of sweat that had gathered on your upper lip.

Javier doesn’t see when you pull his shirt away from his chest by the crook of your finger — doesn’t see when you tip the cup into the space and let the coldness of it jerk him out of his moments reverie.

“Jesus Christ!” He hisses, jerking back as his hands release your head to pull his soaked shirt away from his skin.

You laugh, loud enough that the sound might have floated through the open windows and down into the streets below.

“See? Cooled you right down.”

The laughter doesn’t linger long before he’s pushing you down onto the tiles, the temperature change that slaps against your lower back makes you arch uncomfortably as your thighs spread around his hips.

Javier cages you in, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that’s more tongue and teeth and frantic urgency. Your lips part on the heel of a grin and he takes the opportunity to drag his tongue against the roof of your mouth.

The humour turns foggy in your thoughts when his fingers tangle into the roots of your hair.

“I’ll get you back for that,” Javi speaks against your chin and you shiver at the damning sound of his belt unbuckling. That’s your cue to set your hands into the part of his shirt and pull until the buttons pop free, shoving the ruined article over his shoulders as he leans up to aid its removal.

“You promise, Javi?” You purr back, dragging your nails over his stained and sticky chest and drawing a lazy circle over his left nipple with your index finger.

He shudders and grabs your wrist, his fingers circling easy around the thin bird-like bones when he pulls your hand to his sternum in a silent demand to touch him. His eyes are dark and set heavy when he pins you with a look that makes you painfully aware of the profound empty yearning growing between your thighs.

You let your eyes follow your fingertips down the expanse of his chest when he leans back on his knees to tug his belt out of its loops. His eyes wander — over your heaving, food-colouring stained breasts to the way your thighs part eagerly over his thighs. They hang loose enough that he can see the blush of your cunt through one of the leg holes.

Javier growls deep in his chest at the sight.

Mindlessly, his hand trails through the remnants of the spill he had made on your thigh and carries the mess up into the open leg of your cotton shorts.

Your head falls back into the tile and your body coils achingly tight when he flattens his fingers across your pelvis and draws the coarse pad of his thumb over the seam of your pussy. Your knee jerks against his hip, your fist clenches in the hem of his jeans, and the noise that bubbles from your lips is just as heavy as the mid-heatwave air.

“F-fuck, Javi, baby—” you whimper, lower lip quivering when he presses his thumb past your slick folds to find that little bundle of nerve endings that make your back arch high and your thighs threaten to snap closed. His fingers are coarse against your flesh and you pull hard on his jeans when he presses quick, purposeful circles into your clit just to watch you squeal eager nonsense beneath him.

“Right there, baby?” Javier tilts his chin and watches as you shiver in spite of the swelter, your muscles quickly losing their coordination when he drags your clit with a single rough sweep of his thumb. Your thigh jumps, threatening to shut tight in instinctive resistance, but he presses a broad palm over your inner thigh and holds you open.

The noise you make, just like your laughter, reaches the taxi-lined streets below.

“Ye–yes— Javi, Javi! Please, baby!”

Javier swears he might have cum right fucking there if you called his name like that again.

You sob into the humid apartment, gasping down a lungful of wet air when Javier pulls his hand out of the leg of your shorts. Your thoughts lag behind your reaction as he hooks his hands beneath your thighs, pushing them to your torso before hooking his fingers into the damp fabric, guiding it over your thighs and calves. He does not touch the camisole still wrapped around your hips when he lets your thighs limply fall open around him again.

You swear the room gets a few degrees hotter without your clothes on, and even more so when you catch the way his eyes fall to your exposed cunt, surely just as glistening and damp as the rest of your fucking body.

“Please, Javi,” your voice is smaller now as your fingers find themselves back at the fly of his jeans, pulling until the button pops open. The sound of his zipper lowering and the soft drag of your voice is enough to get Javier just where you need him. You feel as much when you raise your shoulders to lower your hand into his jeans, biting back the teasing smirk at his convenient lack of underwear. Batting your eyes as innocently as you can, you draw him from the constraint of his pants to circle dainty fingers over the base of his cock.

There’s a heaviness in his eyes as he stays on his knees between your thighs, watching your honey-warm eyes droop with lust when his hand wraps around yours, tightening your grip with a soft exhale. You begin to guide him, cock first, towards your core.

For once, Javier’s speechless, swallowing thick in the heady air as he lets you guide him.

“Please, fuck me, Javi.”

The laze breaks when you whimper his name like that, desperate and shameless, sweetly polite while saying the most impolite things.

His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your thighs as he spreads you further, squeezing your palm beneath his, trapping it there as he drags the smooth head of his cock through your folds.

He doesn’t catch the way your eyes flutter when strokes himself against your clit, but he feels the way your ankles squeeze against his thighs when he draws back, angles proper, and stretches you open on his length.

“Fuck, baby,” Javier curses and your refuse yourself the pleasure of shutting your eyes just so you can look up at the way his head lowers, the tips of his hair hanging heavy and damp into his forehead while his brow furrows deeply at the sight of your hand beneath his as your pussy clenches tight and eager around the first few inches of him.

Even this wet, the stretch aches deep in your body with a small pinch of pain that you’ve grown to savour every time he comes home and loses himself between your thighs.

“I’ll never get tired of this pussy,” he growls, hearing the soft effortful noises that swim through the air between your parted lips when he circles his arm beneath one bent knee and uses the leverage to yank you forward, forcing you to take him completely, “Never, mina. Never.”

His head lifts then, catching the way your eyes wrench shut, the way your mouth purses together at the sharp strain and full pleasure that hits you too deep to completely fathom.

Your coy one-liners die a brief death before resurrecting again the moment your hand, previously wrapped around his cock, to your aching clit.

“You— better not,” you grunt, the words jerking out of your throat in uneven gasps as Javier rocks his hips into yours with determinedly shallow thrusts, working you open. He pushes your thigh further into your chest and you swear the air leaves your lungs when he hits that familiar spot that knocks the vocabulary straight out of your head.

Your walls squeeze around him and the heat he feels inside of you is blinding; fevered from the inside out and it brings sweat beading across his forehead when he slumps his body down against yours to bury his face against your shoulder. You whine, high and loud, when he pins your knee against your chest, trapping your fingers between his pelvis and yours when he circles his hips and grinds deep.

It’s sweaty and sticky and your skin clings to his when your tits push into his chest. Your free hand curves up the muscles of his back, feeling the way his shoulder blades shift under the press of your fingers when he sets his forearm on the ground beside your head and lays into you. Your nerves light white-hot and you squeeze him with every fucking muscle in your pelvic floor with each press of his hips that sends your fingers harder against your clit.

“Tightest little— thing I’ve ever fucked, sweetheart,” Javier groans, his mouth at your ear and his fist clenching around the spill of hair beneath your head, his words jagged and rasping with every steady thrust. His nose brushes against the patch of skin between your ear and jaw, his lips trailing down to the beating pulse of your throat and sucking another hard bruise right there.

You moan like a whore for him, his words coiling something deep and fucking feral in the pit of your stomach. You think you’re babbling, something along the lines of harder, Javi, please, please.

“Christ, baby, you’re a fucking mess.”

The closeness burns you up, even more so when he draws his hips back, dragging heavily through your soaked walls. You try to chase his movement, aching and squeezing around nothing until he’s inside of you again with a thrust so hard it tears the cry from your lips and sends your back skidding sweatily against the kitchen tile.

Javier tightens his grip around the underside of your thigh, and it hurts but you can’t process anything but the way he’s rutting into you like he means to fuck you straight through the floor and into your downstairs neighbour’s apartment.

Your eyes feel damp and you can’t tell if its tears or sweat or a little of both, much less if it’s your sweat or his.

“I’m close,” Javier’s voice echoes somewhere in the haze, gravelly and tight as every syllable vibrates across his chest, “Do you want me to—?”

“No!” A particularly solid thrust jerks the word abruptly from your chest and Javier almost laughs when you drop your hand from the back of his shoulder to the base of his hip, squeezing hard to urge him forward, “No, please, Javi. Cum inside, fuck— cum inside me.”

The demand falls to unintelligible cries as his fingers sink beneath your head, pulling your head from the floor as he fucks into you with little regard for the heat or the sweat or the layer of sticky sweet syrup that’s only getting stickier with each thrust of his body into yours.

You bury your head into his shoulder and cling to him as tight as you can, your fingers working quick circles over your clit until your muscles strain and shake before everything uncoils, slick and hot and all at once like someone just pulled the proverbial fucking rug out from under your body.

You gasp for air but the humidity of the apartment renders you breathless, even with a lung full of oxygen.

The reaction is far too familiar to Javier. He’s fucked you enough times to memorize the way you hold onto him when you cum — like your arms were made for nothing more than squeezing him into your body while you sob his name over and over until your throat goes dry and hoarse. Just like you’re doing now.

Javier tightens his grip in your hair as your cries hit their peak and your nails bite into the valley of his spine, your body going taught as you cum hard enough that he swears you manage to take him a few inches deeper into your fluttering cunt. He curses deep from his chest and swears he’s hit the limit of you when you gasp and threaten to instinctively draw your hips back and away from the pressure.

His hips stutter hard as your cunt gushes warm around him, muscles spasming rhythmically despite the stretch of him filling you to your limits. You choke on his name and your final gasp when he stiffens in your arms, his cock jerking into you once, twice — and then he groans something sinful and raw into the flesh of your shoulder that he has caught between his teeth.

You feel the warmth of him when he cums inside of you, the sensation drawing your addled attention to the weight of him nestled deep at home in your body.

Javier doesn’t move, only letting his forehead drop heavily against your shoulder as he kisses the marks his teeth had left in your glistening skin.

Slowly, your hand manages its way out from between your bodies, fingers slick with your own cum when you reach for his jaw and force his face from your shoulder to press your lips shakily against his.

He relaxes his grip on your compressed thigh, moving his hand to rest against the forgivingly cool tile as you let your leg slump boneless and open against his hip.

“Javi,” you sigh as he exhales softly against your mouth, the kiss stirring him just enough that he manages to push past his own overstimulation to give a lazy thrust. Your thigh trembles when he kisses you again, his tongue tasting that raspberry flavour still lingering in your mouth. He nudges his damp forehead against yours when he draws away to kiss your cheek, then your eyelid.

He laughs when his lips meet your forehead, tasting the sweat of your skin and the radiating heat of you on his lips. Javier lowers his lips to kiss you between your brows when a sudden booming brap brap brap makes the both of you jump in each other’s arms and jerk your heads towards the front hallway door.

Javier’s response was immediate, trained and instinctual, covering you while also recoiling one hand to where he usually kept his gun in the belt of his jeans — only to realize his pants were around his knees and his gun had been safely discarded on the hallway table.

“Oye!” A muffled voice, elderly and warbling, shouted from the other end of the front door. You felt Javier’s body slacken against yours, his brow furrowing as the woman rapped on the door again, “Mantenga sus ventanas cerradas, por el amor de Dios. Podemos escucharte desde el porche. ¿No sabes que hay niños aquí afuera?”

Javier’s brow furrowed as the neighbour rapped on the door four more times, the sound clearly coming from a cane and not from her fist.

You laughed, breathless as you raised your voice, “Lo siento, Miss Rosa!” you giggle out, sliding your fingers into Javier’s hair as he shakes his head with an amused look in his eyes. Your voice lowers as the woman’s muttering fades into the distance, “Lo siento.”

Javier shakes his head as you card your fingers through his sweaty locks, pulling his head down to press your lips to his chin and the corner of his mouth.

“You’re pissing your neighbours off again,” he murmurs.

“You’re pissing them off, Javi—” you hum out, but his only response is to press himself into you again, watching the way your lips still part in a small gasp despite having already softened inside of you, “—because every time you come here, this always happens.”

He laughs and the sound is easy and you know that his walls are lowered, though never completely down.

“What do you say we piss off Miss Rosa a little more, hm, mina?”

“Javi,” you warn, but his lips are already pressing slow trail of kisses down the cusp of your throat and over your chest. You hiss softly as he draws out of your pussy, leaving you suddenly with the distinct overflow of his cum when your walls squeeze achingly around nothing.

A sharp yelp of surprise bursts from your lips when the man grabs your sides and pushes you further up the kitchen tile, your hand flying up over your head to prevent the crown of your skull from colliding with the cabinets behind you, “Javi!”

He takes advantage of the new found space to lower his face to the apex of your thighs, drawing one hand under your leg as he presses a kiss to the side of your knee. Your cheeks redden when you catch him lowering his gaze to your pussy, all soft and pink and terribly fucked out.

You swallow roughly when he presses his mouth further down your thigh, pausing at the patch of dried syrup. His fingers grip your flesh, holding your leg still as he drags his tongue over your skin, closing his lips around your skin and sucking an easy bruise right there. He doesn’t stop until he pulls a moan from your chest. Only then does he press another kiss to your thigh, inching lower and lower.

This time, your voice is low, tinted with laughter and flustered when you press your hands to his shoulders and half-heartedly push, “Javi, don’t—”

“Keep saying my name like that and I’ll fuck you right here until we both get heatstroke,” Javi warns, the amusement in his voice clear as he looks up at you to ensure his permission to continue despite your half-hearted protests.

He lowers his head again. This time, his gaze doesn’t deviate from your face until your eyes slowly slip closed, your brow furrowing as a bead of sweat slithers its way down the side of your temple.

You whimper.

“Javi.”

—

Tag List

@sophiria @imspillingcoffee @plumbuck @romqnofff @sexygaypalpatine @elisaa-shelby @readermia @the-dream-catch3r @pinkmoontribe-blog @madkingcrowley @whenimaunicorn @petalduck @fairylightsandchai @osejn @mandowhoreian @letdecemberburninflames @chickens-are-velociraptors @naiomiwinchester @peregrinestook @space-helen @virtuousburden @daddehhmando @thechampmylove @kiame-sama @knightheartcd @lustriix @deviantloving-detective @headsindreams @sebastianstanslefteyebrow @sgtbookybarnes @celestiaalbliss @coonflix @thetrappednerd @brooklymw @the-omni-princess @sav-a-nna @actuallyanita @equalstrashflavoredtrash @claynarwale @pedrolovebot @mermaid-seachelle @sasha1005 @kausmic@otherthingsinhead @maia-hocane @thatoneemosithlord @whenimaunicorn @fictional-thoughts @lilli-chae @spottedlekkudancer @mijachula @djjarindin @murdermewithbooks @justagarbagecompactor @itzagoodthing @i-like-those-oddss @awhiskeywithawinchester

#whew #happy valentines day babies #javier peña #javier pena #javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal #narcos #narcos fic #javier pena smut

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graceverse · 3 years

Text

Here Be That EniKao Fic I Told You All About

Please note that this is post "The Final" movie. This happened around 2 months after Kenshin and Enishi's fight. AND OH MY GOD, this is my first RK fic since what? 2017?! It has happened and I would like to thank Mackenyu for making this possible. LOL.

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An Unexpected Invitation

Winter and spring had passed quietly without much excitement. Which was exactly what the occupants of the Kamiya Dojo, and indeed the residents of Tokyo, needed. After much turmoil from the previous year, the quiet restful months have allowed everyone to heal from their wounds.

Physical injuries were all but gone now. No one was wearing any bandages, no one was limping around, clutching a broken shoulder or needing a change of bloody bindings.

Megumi has finally been able to get a decent enough stock of bandages and ointment for the actual patients of the Ouguni Clinic. A feat she didn't think was possible especially since everyone seemed to have been incapacitated in the aftermath of Yukishiro's Jinchuu.

"You're all a troublesome bunch." She told them when she'd given everyone a clean bill of health. She haughtily tossed her hair, looking imperiously down at them. "Next time, you're replacing everything that you'll use up in the clinic."

"Just let Sano take you out for dinner as payment." Yahiko suggested. Boldy too, since he had never really tried teasing Megumi before.

Megumi didn't seem to mind as she actually winked at him before turning to give Sano a look. "Dinner, eh? Sagara Sanosuke can afford dinner?" If she had any eyebrows, it would have disappeared up into her bangs. But the curl of her lips was enough to let Sano know that she was merely teasing him.

"Jou-chan would lend me money, right Jou-chan?" He sidled up to her, elbowing her and making faces that Kaoru supposed was meant to make him look like an adorable puppy, but failing miserably with the still darkened bruises on his face. His spiked-up hair did nothing to help his cause.

"I will most certainly not!" Kaoru indignantly crossed her arms, sending both Sano and Megumi a glare.

"I'd rather that Kenshin take me to dinner, ne Ken-san?" Cool hands snaked around his arms and Kenshin was quick to jump away from Megumi's clutches.

"Why you-"

"Maa, maa -" Kenshin said, raising his hands, trying to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.

As usual, they all ignored him; insults and intimidations of violence were quickly tossed around which ended when Kaoru actually promised Sanosuke that she will give him the money he needed just to shut Megumi up and make her stop acting so inappropriately towards Kenshin.

To which Megumi had answered with a laugh, sultry enough to make both Kaoru and Sano blush. Chaos ensued and Kenshin reveled in the happiness that stirred inside of him as he watched his friends chase each other, threatening murder and all sorts of physical pain.

It was good to be back.

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All traces of the violence and destruction from last winter was gone. It was as if it that night of chaos and fire, explosions and screams piercing through the night, the ghostly air balloons silently stalking the sky had become more like a nightmare that had faded away.

It was now the height of summer, the humidity so unbearable that even when Kaoru had changed the schedule of her classes to the hour of the hare, ("too damn early, busu!" Yahiko had complained), by the mid-morning everyone was drenched with sweat, limp and tired.

Classes were dismissed by noon which gave her ample time to take a long, cooling bath and sit at the engawa eating watermelons while watching Kenshin do the laundry or the gardening or whatever household chore he fancied for the day.

Today however had been hotter than usual and Kaoru briefly wished that she was alone at the dojo so she could changed into something more lightweight, like a yukata.

A slightly opened yukata.

She missed those days when she could just lie down, arms and legs thrown around and not have a care in the world about propriety. It was a constant learning process and test of patience living with two grown men and a young boy on the verge of manhood.

She could not understand how her father had dealt with so many hotheaded, pigheaded, sweaty, untidy – well, except for Kenshin – scoundrels.

Ugh!

Sighing heavily, she closed her eyes, leaning her head against one of the columns of the engawa, her socked feet listlessly swinging at the edge. If only there was tiny little breeze to alleviate this heat. She wanted very much to loosen the summer kimono that she was wearing.

She'd been planning on going to The Akabeko later. It was the only reason why she had dressed up today. Tae-san had promised her that she'd prepare anmitsu and Kaoru could already taste the sweet red bean paste inside her mouth, but as the day progressed it had become too hot that she could barely move from her spot.

Even Kenshin had decided not to do any outdoor activity, quietly sitting beside her instead. Apparently feeling the same kind of stupor that had descended upon them.

It was the kind of heat that robbed you of thought and speech and Kaoru had been imagining dipping into a tub filled with ice cold water when the sound of bells and sirens blasted through the tepid air.

Another fire.

There have been small conflagrations around the city, what with the heat and people being addled by it, someone was always bound to fall asleep with a lit cigarette or mothers too distracted by the heatwave would leave matches lying around for bored children to play with. Easily put out without much fuss but when she'd look up, startled by the sound, she could see dark plumes in the sky, getting bigger by the second.

"It looks like that's from the docks." Kaoru murmured, sitting up straight.

"That it does, Kaoru-dono." There's an almost sleepy quality in Kenshin's voice, low and raw from not having spoken for a quite a while, but she sensed his alertness as he stood up, grimly looking at the cloud of smoke that had impossibly become larger at such a short amount of time. Before Kaoru could say anything, Kenshin had stepped off the engawa, already sliding his zori on.

"Kenshin-" she had started to stand up as well, but Kenshin had placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, stilling her.

"Please stay here, Kaoru-dono. It is too hot, that it is. Yahiko and I will go check if we could be of any help." His eyes are narrowed, an unpleasant thought obviously occurring to him but Kaoru didn't think that a fire, a safe distance from their home, should be of any concern.

"Don't over exert yourself Kenshin." She told him, the warning tone in her voice softened his eyes, the corners crinkling as he very visibly tried not to smile.

"I mean it, Kenshin." She added a little more firmly, fighting the urge to grab on to the ends of Kenshin's hair and pull on it just to show him how serious she was. "Absolutely no running inside burning buildings. None of that foolishness. I forbid it, Kenshin."

Kenshin's eyes gleamed at her. "Aa, Kaoru-dono, this one promise to stay behind the police line, that I do."

A blatant lie. The insufferable jerk. But Kaoru was too tired to argue and she only gave him her mightiest glare, one that was enough to make Sano squirm.

It apparently does not work on Kenshin as he merely reached out to briefly pat the top of her hand, his fingers lingering for just a few second more and Kaoru suddenly felt all hot inside. Like she had swallowed a whole taiyaki fresh from the oven and now it was idly swimming inside her stomach. She felt her whole face heating up and was rewarded with a genuinely amused smile from Kenshin who had leaned forward, just a fraction of an inch, head bowed down that she couldn't even see his eyes.

She felt herself freeze, her heart stuttering inside her chest. Kenshin seemed to have sensed this as he slowly, almost languidly, pulled back, the same amused smile still on his face before murmuring a quick goodbye.

She reluctantly let him go, trying not to worry so much as she watched as Kenshin waiting for Yahiko by the gate, ready to provide some much-needed assistance to the Tokyo Police.

Once they have closed the gate behind them, Kaoru sent a quick prayer to Kami-sama that no one was hurt from the fire and that her boys would come back unharmed.

She let her lids drop, trying to recapture that emotion she had felt when Kenshin had nearly invaded her private space. He'd never done that before…she wondered if it was brought upon the heatwave or something that he had seen in her face – when she had been imagining tugging at his hair…

Kaoru took a deep breath her eyes suddenly snapping open as she realized that she was finally alone. She let out a lazy smile as she pulled on the collar of her kimono, loosening it a bit. She let herself lay down, sprawled on the engawa, enjoying the little comfort it gave her.

--------

A shadow loomed over her.

It took her a second to realize that she had fallen asleep and the presence of someone looking down made her sit up, grabbing the nearest object she could reach to use as weapon: it was an emptied tea cup, utterly useless but she threw it with all of her might, hoping that in her still half-asleep state, her aim would be good enough.

It wasn't.

A hand caught it with ease and then a glint of light caught her eyes as she stared up into the face of Yukishiro Enishi, casually staring down at her as he pushed the bridge of his eyeglasses up to his nose, his other hand crushing the tea cup in his fist.

Kaoru let out a small gasp, realizing that that was her favorite and most expensive cup. Kenshin always took great care when handling it and now it has been turned into dust.

The indignant scream of rage that had wanted to escape her throat was swallowed down as Enishi wordlessly tossed something at her feet, it made a soft sound as it hit the wooden floor. Scrambling to sit up she glared at the object only to find out that it was Tomoe-san's diary.

She frowned and then slowly turned to look up at Kenshin's possibly deranged brother-in-law, now apparently escaped from prison, fugitive brother-in-law.

This could not be happening to her.

"I'm dreaming." She muttered darkly, more to herself, ignoring the man standing before her. She reached out to touch the diary, but pulled her hand at the last minute, her fingers curling in mid air before digging into the plump flesh of her palms. "I just need to wake up and everything will be fine." She closed her eyes, wondering rather inanely, if closing one's eyes would work when trying to wake up, wasn't she supposed to be doing the opposite? But -

Enishi was not cooperating. "I've read it." He told her, breaking the silence and forcing her to once again open her eyes, back to the dream. He was looking at her as though they were having some conversation that she had missed entirely because, what?!

"What?" She asked, equal parts perplexed and irritated at her inability to wake herself up.

"Nee-san's diary. I read it like you told me to." Enishi's voice held the same quality as Kenshin's earlier. A low rumble that sounded too unused and raw. Like those were the first words he had uttered since the last time she had seen him at his ruined garden, clutching at his stomach, sobbing Tomoe's name. He looked strangely normal all things considered. He was wearing an unusually bright orange Chinese robe that made Kaoru squint.

Kami-sama. She brought her hand to the side of her head, pressing hard, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

And then completely out of nowhere, in an almost toneless, disinterested voice, Yukishiro Enishi asked her: "Are you married now?"

Again, "What?!"

Enishi frowned at her. "Am I not making myself clear, Kamiya-san?" Now he was impatient, the tone of his voice changing into something that sounded suspiciously patronizing.

Kaoru absolutely hated being treated like she was a child. "Shut-up." She hissed at him. "What are you doing here?"

Enishi made a displeased sound at the back of his throat, "Why is your kimono open, Kamiya-san?"

Why is my -?

Kaoru felt her left eye violently twitching before letting out a shrieked loud enough to disturb their neighbors, it was a wonder no one came rushing in to check if she was alright. Kaoru had the presence of mind to clutch at her kimono, closing the tiniest of gaps that Enishi deemed improper. The stupid jerk. He couldn't have seen anything.

She took a deep breath, both hands clenching into tight fists as she gathered all of the swearwords Sanosuke had taught her and was about to let Enishi have them when something inside her head clicked.

She blinked up at her former captor who looked almost friendly, if it weren't for the stoic expression on his face that might actually surpass the permanently emotionless face of Shinamori-san. "The fire, that was you?!"

Enishi merely shrugged, untroubled by her accusation. "It was an old, hideous building. Abandoned." He added when Kaoru opened her mouth to protest, "I did Tokyo a favor."

A favor?! Kaoru wondered how exactly Enishi's head worked. How was deliberately burning a building –

"It was the green one with the stupid yellow door." He explained further, seeing the balled-up fists that Kaoru was shaking at him.

Kaoru saw the building inside her head and winced. It was incredibly ugly and she had complained about it to Tae-san about how much of an eye sore it was and she wished someone would just burn it to the ground but hadn't meant it literally!

She suddenly jumped up when she noticed Enishi stepping into the engawa.

Going into her Chūdan-no-kamae stance, her left foot just a few inches behind her right foot, her left heel elevated, hip thrust forward. Her shoulder was too tense though and she had to concentrate, trying to relax her shoulders.

She took deep breaths, readying herself for any attack. She didn't have her bokken with her, dammit, but she wasn't going to be taken without a fight. Not again. Never again. If she had to claw out Enishi's eyes or shove his glasses to his eyeballs, she'd do it.

"Stay back." Kaoru hissed at Enishi as he took another step towards her. "I will not let you take me again."

Enishi frowned at her. "Take you? Why would you think I'd want to take you?" He asked in a tone that suggested something entirely different to Kaoru, she just didn't know what, which further annoyed her. This was too weird to be a dream.

Yukishiro Enishi was really here. Again. In her dojo. And he made damn certain that no one was with her but he didn't want to take her.

Why couldn't Kenshin's brother-in-law be Yahiko's age?! She'd have a better way of dealing with that instead of this brown eyed, six feet, bulging muscles of insanity - Kaoru shook her head, clearing her thoughts. "What do you want then, you creep?"

Enishi merely raised his eyebrows, a dark severe line, in complete contrast to his disheveled white hair. "Is this how you normally react when asked if you're already married?"

Kaoru's jaw dropped. A hummingbird can probably fly inside and make a nest inside her mouth. She quickly clamped it shut before, letting out a battle cry: "You jerk! That's not of your business!" She lunged at Enishi, who smoothly slid out of her way and she tried another attack, swiping her feet from underneath him, which he also dodged by jumping away from her. He backed into the dojo and Kaoru followed, grabbing a bokken. Finally, a weapon she could use. She grinned in triumph and prepared to attack once again.

The bastard didn't even break a sweat as he effortless avoided her blows – and if he hadn't, she would've cracked his head. The whistling sound her bokken made every time she swung it towards Enishi filled the air.

Still, he sidestepped, graceful and damn it, oh so elegantly. It was almost as if he was dancing, his feet light and silent.

"Kuso, stay still!" Kaoru ordered, completely losing her patience, panting like a wild boar.

And the stupid fucking Yukishiro smirked at her.

Smirked! She was going to wipe that off of his beautiful face.

Wait.

WHAT?!

"I take it you aren't married yet." Enishi finally said, stepping into the line of her attack.

Gotcha!

But of course, like before, his hands clamped around her bokken, snatching it from her with restrained viciousness and throwing it somewhere against the wall where it noisily clattered.

Completely unperturbed by the events, Enishi then very casually asked her, "Do you want to go to Shanghai with me, Kamiya-san?"

And Kaoru thought, not for the first time in her life, that she was cursed to deal with incorrigible men that she would very much like to whack with her bokken.

Mou!

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

Author's Note:

And that is what I have so far. I don't know what to do with it. Anyway, tell me what you think. This fic is borne out of the sheer frustration of The Final and how Jinchuu Arc, which I am now calling the Cursed Arc for obvious reasons– had been - watered down seems too kind, ne?

But I'll rant some more if I can manage to have a second chapter up. Maybe.

Lastly, I typed this all up really fast while pretending to work so, if there are any typos, annoying grammatical errors, I promise I'll come back and try to fix them. I hope.

Translations and notes:

The hour of the hare: 6:00 a.m.

Anmitsu is a traditional Japanese dessert, traced back to the Meiji era (1868 to 1912). It consists of cubes of agar jelly, which are made using water and/or different fruit juices. Typically served in a bowl, with toppings like slices of fruit and sweet red bean paste. The dessert is also served with a sweet black syrup, kuromitsu,(the -mitsu in anmitsu) that's poured over the treat just before you enjoy it.

Taiyaki - Fish shaped cakes filled with anko (red bean paste)

Chūdan-no-kamae is the middle posture used in kenjutsu. The most basic stance, it allows for a balance between attacking and defense. When performed correctly, the practitioner's trunk and right wrist are protected

#enikao #enishi x kaoru #kenkao #kenshin x kaoru x enishi love triangle of death #kidding #sort of #take this The Final #hahaha #no really #rurouni kenshin fanfic #rurouni kenshin #i'm done

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be11atrixthestrange · 3 years

Text

The Loft Chapter 4

After a bad break-up, Hermione Granger moves into a messy and dysfunctional loft with four single men. What starts as a temporary home until she gets back on her feet becomes so much more, as she learns there's a lot of life - and love - that happens at rock-bottom.

Inspired by the TV Series ‘New Girl’

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Also on A03 | FFN

More Chapters

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Chapter 4

[Ron]

Ron would best describe the loft as a mess, but a clean one. After hours of scrubbing, the windows are clear and smudge-free, and the concrete floor shimmers with its long-forgotten natural color. What makes him feel most at home, however, is not the fresh pine scent of the couch cushions, but the fact that they're strewn about the floor like plush stepping stones. The boys have arranged them around the trash can in the middle of the room, which is empty save for a dried-up bottle of Febreeze.

Ron's desperate to know Hermione's opinion on the new decor. Despite lifting an eyebrow at the bad doodles of United States presidents and the cardboard cutout of a bald eagle plastered to the wall, she doesn't say anything. She must know better than to think he'll offer an explanation.

After cleaning and decorating the loft, Neville, Seamus, and Harry dispersed into their rooms to make themselves presentable, leaving Ron and Hermione alone in the kitchen to finish up the last of the dishes. He hands her a plate to dry, and she takes it with a smile.

"Thank you for helping, Hermione."

"Of course! But I'm not sure why we're cleaning so much if it's just going to get trashed."

Trashed might be an exaggeration, but she's right in the sense that the new cleanliness of the loft isn't going to last very long. Tonight they're throwing a party, Hermione's first as a loft resident, and she's in for a treat. The boys have been purposely vague regarding loft parties, as any accurate descriptions might turn her off attending. Ron would hate to have her make other plans tonight, whether those be with the girls, or worse, a date.

"Hey, we're not animals. But if it's going to get trashed, it's nice to know it's new-trashed, not old-trashed," he says, earning an eye-roll from Hermione.

"So I'm guessing that this party is America-themed?"

"No. Why would you guess that?"

"No reason," she says, eyeing the miniature blow-up Uncle Sam doll that the boys have been tossing around like a basketball.

"The decorations are just for the drinking game we're going to play," he says, motioning to the multiple cases of PBR lining the wall.

"Right, how do you play?"

"It's not really a game you can explain. You just have to experience it. Nice try, though."

"Then I look forward to experiencing it." She finishes drying the last dish and stacks it away neatly in the cupboard. "What else do we need to set up? Everyone's coming at eight, right?

Ron checks his watch. "Shit, you're right. People should be here soon. I'm going to get ready. Can you start on the beer castle?"

"The beer castle?"

"Yeah. Just stack beer cans in a castle shape around the trash can in the living room."

Ron doesn't wait for Hermione's reaction before he slips back into his room. He rummages around his closet in search of something to wear, something that makes him look both put-together and laid back, ready to party. He lands on a pair of khaki shorts and a pastel blue t-shirt that looks quite nice with his eyes.

He's pretty sure Hermione hasn't seen him in it. Not that it matters, anyway.

He pulls off his shirt and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Surprisingly, he looks pretty damn good. He's a bit skinny but firm and fit. It comes as a pleasant surprise because he's been slacking on his workouts ever since Hermione moved in and he lost his home gym. It's been difficult to exercise in his tiny bedroom, so he doesn't. He hasn't wanted to work out in the living room for fear of Hermione seeing him, but maybe he should give that a try…

With a shrug, Ron pulls off his pants and stands back up. He can't resist the urge to take another look at himself in the mirror. As much as he wishes he was a bit more muscular, there are pros to being lanky. By comparison, his scrawny self really does accentuate his already well-endowed state.

He checks himself out from a few more angles before deciding that physically, he doesn't have much to complain about.

Before he has the chance to put on his pants, the door to his bedroom swings open. Ron startles when it crashes against the wall and Hermione barges in uninvited.

"Hey Ron, I have a question about the beer can castle—"

"Hermione!" Ron, completely naked, scrambles for something to cover himself with but doesn't have time before she's standing right in front of him. "You have to knock!"

She's staring at the two cans in her hands until she pauses and looks up, but her gaze never makes it to his face. Instead, it lands directly on his penis, and she seems to stare at it for an eternity. Thanks to his utter panic, Ron can't move.

It almost feels like time has stopped, and he's frozen there like the statue of David while Hermione ogles him. She appears to be frozen too, eyes wide, mouth agape, staring.

If his dick could blush, it would match the color of his ears, which are bleeding scarlet.

For a split second, he wonders if it's truly as bad as it seems. Maybe Hermione likes what she sees. A tiny seed of hope takes root.

But that hope shatters when she opens her mouth to speak and lets out the worst sound he's ever heard. It's somewhere between a scream and a giggle, and he wouldn't wish such a reaction on his worst enemy.

Without further ado, a red-faced Hermione mutters a quick and useless 'sorry' and rushes out the door and slams it behind her.

Ron stands there for a few seconds, dumbfounded, before the reality of what just happened crashes down.

Hermione just laughed at his dick.

Well, fuck.

Now that he knows how she really feels, he'll never be able to look her in the eye again.

Ron stays in his room until there's a knock on the loft's door, and he has to show his face in order to let in his guests. He's opted for a hoodie over his shirt so he can hide behind the hood whenever Hermione looks at him, because when she does, his neck prickles with heatwaves, and he feels like he's naked again.

It doesn't make sense — Ron's never reacted so strongly to having a woman see him naked, and he's had a decent amount of experience in that arena. He's no Seamus, of course, but he's not a stranger to the occasional hookup.

It's just because she laughed—no other reason.

He opens the door to find his sister Ginny, her roommate Demelza, and two of their mutual friends—Dean and Luna.

"Welcome," says Ron, opening the door.

"Hey, Ron!" says Ginny. "Hermione!"

Ginny crashes into Hermione for a hug, then introduces her to everyone else. "This is Hermione, Ron's new roommate."

"Nice to meet you all!"

Hermione falls into easy conversation with Ron's friends before they get a chance to greet him, but they don't seem bothered by it. He watches her through narrowed eyes and doesn't even realize he's glaring at her until she looks at him and scowls.

"What?"

"Nothing." He turns back toward his friends, hoping they didn't notice their interaction. "Make yourselves at home. Drinks in the fridge, food on the counter, and you know where the beer is," he says, pointing at the beer castle.

Harry turns the music up just as their guests crack open their beers, and everyone starts to relax. Except for Ron, of course. Even though he's hyper-aware of Hermione, he still manages to bump into her and make more frequent eye contact than he'd like.

For some reason, they seem to gravitate toward the kitchen to replenish food and drinks at the same time, and they barely manage a conversation when they run into each other.

"Oh, sorry," she says, trying to slide past him, only for him to walk directly into her in an attempt to get out of her way.

"Erm—"

"I'll go left; you go right."

"Yeah, okay."

Are they always this awkward around each other?

Every time he tries to act normal, all he can hear is her weird little high-pitched scream-laugh, and he just wants to disappear into his hoodie. On occasion, Ron can sense Hermione watching him, but she looks away whenever he tries to catch her gaze. Not that he wants to make awkward eye contact with her, he just wants her to leave him alone.

He continues to keep himself at a safe distance to avoid talking to her, making sure he's always involved in a conversation with someone else. Over the course of the party, he becomes progressively more resentful of how much mental space it requires to avoid her.

Then, like a hawk, she swoops in and catches him alone while he's in the kitchen grabbing another beer.

"Ron!"

"Jesus," he says, nearly crashing into her. "You scared me."

"Why are you being so weird?"

"I'm not."

"Is it because I saw you naked?"

"No."

"It's not a big deal, Ron."

Of course, she has the nerve to act like he's the one who's being childish.

"Oh yeah, Hermione?" he says. "Then why did you laugh? Too immature?"

Hermione opens her mouth to answer, but in the moment before she does, he turns away from her and shouts to the crowd, "Who's ready for True American?"

The loft whoops their approval and begins to gather in the living room.

"Right now?" whispers Hermione behind him. "We're still talking."

But he ignores her.

"The game is True American," shouts Ron at a volume much louder than necessary for the size of the room. "Say 'aye' if you've played before."

There's a chorus of 'ayes' and a room-wide scrambling toward the furniture. When everyone hops onto a cushion, a table, or a chair, Ron notices Hermione looking around frantically, her expression disheartened.

"I'm the only one who's never played?" she asks.

"It's okay, Hermione," says Harry. "All you need to know is that it's about fifty percent drinking, fifty percent life-size Candy Land."

"I'd argue that it's seventy-five percent drinking, twenty percent Candy Land, and the floor is lava," says Ginny. "Which is why we're standing on the furniture. Hermione, you're melting."

"Oh no," she says, hopping up onto the coffee table between the beer castle and Demelza, who extends a hand to help her.

"Honestly, guys, it's ninety-percent drinking and has a very loose Candy Land-like structure to it," says Neville. "There's also a truth or dare component."

"I just need to know how to play—"

"You're smart; you'll catch on," says Ron. His tone comes off a little more terse than he'd intended, so he quickly continues, "I'll start. JFK!"

"FDR!"

Everyone but Hermione shuffles to a new location, avoiding the lava floor, and Hermione is left standing in her same spot between the beer castle and now, Luna.

"What just happened?" she asks, looking confused.

"Hermione, since you're the last to find a new spot, you have to pick someone, and they'll ask you a truth or dare question," explains Ginny. "Just answer and drink."

"Okay, then," she says. "Um, Neville. Truth."

"How do you like loft life?" asks Neville brightly, eliciting a groan from the crowd.

"Neville, you can do better—" starts Seamus.

"It's her first game!" he says. "Let's ease her in. So, Hermione?"

"Well, it's great so far."

"Just so you know, not every question will be that tame," says Ginny from her precarious perch on the armchair.

"Go figure," says Hermione before chugging back a gulp of her PBR.

As soon as she swallows her drink, Neville shouts out, "The only thing we have to fear is…"

"Fear itself!"

When the crowd joins in, Hermione looks around the room, dumbfounded.

"Hermione, you didn't complete the quote," says Harry.

"I didn't know I was supposed to!"

"Well, now you do! Drink, and then pick someone."

"I feel like I'm at a disadvantage since you didn't explain the game," she says, challenging Harry.

"We've all been there," Harry says, shrugging, "It's a rite of passage."

"Fine," Hermione takes a long swig and points at Ginny. "Ginny, truth."

"Sweet!" says Ginny, beaming mischievously. "Hermione, are you attracted to anyone in the loft?"

Ron's ears tingle at Ginny's question, and he tunes in for Hermione's answer.

"Nope," she says, taking a hasty drink.

In his curiosity, Ron has made prolonged eye contact with Hermione for the first time since the penis-incident, but when she catches his gaze, he quickly looks away. Ron's stomach clenches. Not that he wants Hermione to be attracted to him, but after she saw him naked, it's quite the low blow. Trying to look casual, he pulls back a swig of beer.

"Really?" presses Seamus. "None of us?"

"Ginny's turn!" says Hermione, ignoring Seamus' question.

"Alright, here we go," says Ginny, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "Abe Lincoln! George Washington!"

"Cherry Tree!" shouts Ron.

"Correct! Pick a person and an amendment!"

"Hermione, second."

Everyone looks at Hermione, and Ginny tosses her an unopened can of beer.

"I don't understand," she says. "You still haven't given me any information."

"You have to shotgun a beer! And then pick someone to ask truth or dare," says Dean.

"Wait, what? That doesn't make any sense."

"Give it time, Hermione," encourages Neville. "I didn't understand it at first either."

Hermione groans and sets down her half-full PBR, and reaches into her pocket for her key. She stabs the bottom of her can, then tips it into her mouth, chugging it down while the loft's onlookers cheer in the background.

Eyebrows raised, Ron watches her shotgun her beer, trying to ignore the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He never thought he'd see that, and he isn't complaining.

"Yeah, there's no going back now," says Hermione once she finishes. "Luna, truth."

"Yay!" says Luna. "Did you and Ron get into a fight? You've been avoiding each other all night."

Ron's face grows hot. He bores his gaze toward Luna, who is staring intently at Hermione and doesn't seem to notice Ron's glare.

"Is that really your question?" she asks.

"Yep!"

"Luna, you've never seen us interact," says Ron. "How would you know that?"

Luna shrugs. "I can just tell."

"You know what," says Harry as he looks between Ron and Hermione. "You two have been acting weird tonight."

"Is it that obvious?" asks Hermione.

Ron feels Hermione's eyes on him, and his palms break out in a sweat. Once again, his refusal to make direct eye contact probably serves as a sufficient answer to Hermione's question.

"Well, fine then," she says, turning back toward Luna. "Earlier, I walked in on him changing. But it wasn't a big deal."

"Ron, is this true?" asks Harry.

Everyone turns to look at Ron, who groans. "Yes, but as she said, it wasn't a big deal."

His roommates might as well be shining an interrogation light on him by the way they all continue to stare.

"If it wasn't a big deal, why are you all fidgety?" asks Seamus.

"I'm not," says Ron, but his defensive tone suggests otherwise.

"Yeah, women have seen you naked before, Ron," says Luna. "Why is it different with Hermione?"

"Whose turn is it?" says Ron, much louder than necessary. Anything to divert the attention from Luna's oddly specific question.

"Oh, it's my turn," says Luna. "One, two, three, go!"

Luna holds up the number five to her forehead, and everyone else follows suit with their own number. Ron looks frantically around the room and breathes a sigh of relief when he matches numbers with Harry.

It appears that Hermione, who was the last to catch on, as usual, is the only one without a partner.

"Not again!" she says. "But at least that one made sense. Seamus, truth."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" asks Ginny.

But it's too late. Seamus, who is already slurring his words, looks at Hermione and asks, "So, Hermione, what does Ron's dick look like?"

"Dude, what the fuck?" shouts Ron.

"Seriously, Seamus," adds Harry. "That's not even an interesting question."

"Sure, it is! I'm interested!"

"Old news," pipes in Neville. "We've all seen Ron's dick."

Embarrassed, Ron glances toward Hermione. She looks lost for words. "You don't have to answer, Hermione."

"No, we haven't!" says Seamus.

"Really?" says Dean as he side-eyes Seamus. "I've seen it, and I don't even live here."

Ron looks toward the loft door. Maybe he can make a run for it.

"Am I the only roommate who hasn't seen your dick?" asks Seamus, now appearing uninterested in Hermione's answer. When everyone in the room turns to look at Ron, he feels like he's naked in a crowd again.

Ron shrugs. "I guess so," he says, casually taking a sip of his beer.

"When? Where?"

"I don't know, dude. Locker rooms, penis fights, I'm sure you'll see it someday," says Ron. "Can we stop talking about my dick, now?"

"Yes, let's move on," says Hermione with an apologetic glance in Ron's direction. "Just ask me a different question."

"Fine," says Seamus, his words melding together, "Hermione, what did you think of Ron's dick?"

"Seriously, Seamus?"

"I guess we can't," mutters Ron.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Whatever. He has a very nice penis."

"I wouldn't know," says Seamus bitterly. Then, just as quickly, "JFK!"

"FDR!"

Everyone scrambles for a new spot, and this time Ron's the only one left out in the shuffle.

"Fuck," he says, looking around for someone who won't ask him a dick-related question. "Uh, Demelza, truth."

Demelza smiles. "How did Hermione react to seeing your dick?"

"I picked you because I thought you wouldn't ask about my dick, Demelza."

"Sorry," shrugs Demelza.

"It wasn't a big deal," says Hermione.

Before he can stop himself, Ron scoffs, and once again, everyone snaps their heads in his direction.

"Sounds like it was a big deal."

"It wasn't!" says Hermione. "I mean—"

"Hermione, don't," says Ron, but Hermione continues without a missed beat.

"I laughed at first, but only because I was nervous."

"You LAUGHED?" asked Demelza. "No wonder you two are being so weird."

"It was an accident!"

"Let's move on," growls Ron. "Demelza, your turn." He shoots a glare in Hermione's direction.

"Niagara!" says Demelza.

Everyone brings their drink to their mouth and begins chugging. As soon as each person finishes, they toss their empty cans to the PBR castle in the middle of the room. Hermione, having caught on a moment too late, is the last one to toss it.

Hermione groans. "Harry, dare."

Harry grins. "Well, to make Ron feel better, I dare you to repeat after me. I love Ron's cock."

Ron's ears grow warm again, but they're also buzzing from the beer, which takes precedence over his embarrassment. Also, it'll be interesting to hear Hermione follow through with this dare.

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "Fine. I love Ron's penis."

Ron sends her a curious glance. She said it so… formally, like she was taking an oath in court.

There's a tense silence while everyone stares at Hermione. "Try again," says Harry.

"Why?"

"I love Ron's cock," he repeats. "Say it."

"I did."

"You said penis. Not cock."

"Same thing!" she protests.

"Hermione, why can't you say cock?" repeats Harry.

"Penis is the technical term," she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Ron chuckles at the argument playing out before him.

"What about dick?" suggests Demelza.

Hermione stares at Demelza, her cheeks flooding with color. "Why?"

"Schlong? Wang? Knob?" offers Seamus.

"Seriously, what's wrong with 'penis'?"

"Nothing, it's just weird that you won't say cock," says Harry. "I think that should require two drinks for refusing a dare."

Ron looks around the room; everyone nods in agreement.

"Fine," says Hermione before taking a second sip.

As soon as she finishes her sip, Harry shouts, "Give me liberty or—"

"Give me death!"

As assumed, Hermione is the only one who doesn't catch on.

"Ugh," she says. "Dean, dare."

"I dare you to make it even!" slurs Dean.

"What does that mean?"

"He showed you his; now you show him yours."

"Executive order," says Ginny. "Vetoed."

"Why?" asks Ron. "I don't think it's a bad idea. Plus, it would make me feel better." He pouts at Hermione with wide, puppy-dog eyes and grins when her cheeks flood with color. He's well aware that she never responded to Dean.

"Too far, that's why," says Ginny.

"Well," says Ron. "You guys are no fun."

There's a moment of silence when no one seems to remember where they are in the game or whose turn it is. Seamus breaks the silence with a question directed at Ron.

"Can I please just see it?"

Ron groans and rolls his eyes. "No. And I'm going to bed."

"Why?" whines Seamus.

"I didn't think my dick would be such a huge topic of conversation, yet here we are."

"More of a slightly above average topic if you ask me," says Harry.

"See what I mean?" says Ron, as he hops off his cushion and turns his back to the crowd. "Goodnight."

After chugging a tall glass of water, Ron retreats to his room for the night, ready to escape his roommates' drunken shenanigans. He changes into sweats, settles underneath the covers, and is about to turn off the lights when there's a knock at his door.

"Erm, come in."

The door creaks open, and Hermione pokes her head into his room. "Hi," she says.

"Hi," he responds, raising his eyebrows at his unexpected guest. "Thank you for knocking."

"So—"

"I'm not naked. Sorry to disappoint you." He cuts her off, aiming for an icy tone, but unfortunately, it comes off whiny.

Maybe he has been acting a bit petty and childish.

She stares at him, expressionless, for a few tense moments and then bursts out into laughter. He can't help but follow suit. Her laughter is quite contagious when he's fully clothed.

"For the record, I'm not laughing at the thought of you naked," she assures him as if reading his mind.

"Sure, Hermione. Sure," he says. His cheeks are heating up, but he's glad it's not from embarrassment this time.

"I meant it, you know," she says, as soon as her laughter dies down.

"You meant what?"

"That you have a very nice—" she clears her throat, "cock."

Ron beams — at both the compliment and her word choice. "You said cock!"

She stands a little taller. "I've been practicing."

"Say it again!" he urges.

"Please don't make me."

"Pretty please—"

"Fine," she says, taking a step, so she's fully in the room. The door closes behind her. "Cock. Dick. Schlong. Willy."

"Okay, now you're embarrassing yourself."

"Give me more words," she says, now grinning. "I want to prove that I can do it."

"Okay, why don't you try Peter Pecker. Big Red. The Orange Cannon."

Hermione's face flashes red, and she slaps a hand to her mouth.

"Too much for you?" asks Ron.

"Did you nickname your penis?"

"No!" Ron protests, although his flushing cheeks likely give him away. "Those are from former lovers."

"Oh, well, I'm not going to say them then."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not your former lover," she argues.

He catches a slight emphasis on' former' and forces himself to keep his expression neutral. Maybe some good will come from the penis incident. Either that, or he's imagining it.

"While technically true, I still want to hear you say them."

"Too bad."

Thankful that the awkwardness seems to be dissipating, Ron grins at her. "Then you'll have to make it up to me another way."

As soon he speaks, he winces, hearing the implication of his words a moment too late. Did he actually just say that?

Hermione doesn't waste any time with her response. "How? By making it even?"

Ron cannot interpret her expression — it almost looks like she's trying to keep it neutral. In his effort to decipher it, he hesitates for too long, and by leaving her comment hanging, he might as well have agreed.

"That was actually what I came in here to do," she says, biting her lip.

"Really?"

"Yes."

At this point, it feels like his whole face is on fire, and Hermione's smirk isn't helping at all. He can't bring himself to look away from her eyes nor say anything, as the air feels too thick with tension. She could be bluffing, but he has no desire to call her on it if she is.

Is she joking?

His question answers itself when Hermione averts her eyes to the ground and hooks her thumbs at the hem of her shirt.

Holy shit. She's not.

Hermione keeps her eyes on the ground, and Ron can't help but grin at how her cheeks turn bashfully pink. He wishes he could help it because he's definitely beaming like an idiot. With a deep, nervous breath, she pulls her shirt up and over her bra—

She's not wearing a bra.

Fuck.

Ron lets out a breath that he didn't even know he was holding. "Well damn, Hermione."

Still holding up her shirt, she meets his gaze. "Yes, Ron?"

"You have amazing… knockers."

"Ron!" she says, shoving her shirt back down. He immediately misses the view, but he doesn't regret his word choice. "They're called breasts."

"Boobies. Bing Bongs. Spongey love mountains."

"And I'm the immature one?"

"Jesus, woman, just take the compliment! I'm trying to tell you that I love your tatas." He speaks before he can filter himself, hoping she doesn't read too much into his phrasing. There's nothing wrong with showing appreciation, after all.

She lets a small smile at his admission but quickly narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her now fully-clothed chest. "If I have to say cock, you have to say breasts."

"Sorry, Hermione," says Ron, his tone veering dangerously close to flirtation. Then, feeling a bit bolder, he continues, "what I meant to say is you have wonderful breasts."

Her face tinges red, and she smiles smugly. "Thank you, Ron."

"You're very welcome. Your turn."

"What?"

He motions toward his pants. "I want to hear you say it again."

She groans. "Fine, but this is the last time."

"Sure it is."

She rolls her eyes before continuing. "Ron, you have a lovely cock."

His breath hitches in his throat. Hearing her say that again definitely does something to him, and it's not helped by the sincerity in her tone. She's not lying. As a result, his hair stands on end, heat pools in his stomach, and he's thankful for the positioning of his bed covers.

"Thank you, Hermione," he responds, looking directly into her warm brown eyes. Reflecting her slight smile, they appear softer and darker than usual, as if they're deep in thought.

Ron and Hermione keep eye contact for a few elongated seconds before the awkwardness of the interaction kicks in, and they avert their eyes, looking anywhere but each other. What an odd conversation to have with a roommate.

"I should go to bed," says Hermione, pointing at the door.

"Erm, yeah. Me too."

"So I guess I'll see you in the morning?"

"Good night," he says, but Hermione's already out the door. He sighs.

It shuts behind her, and Ron turns off the light and leans back in his bed. When he closes his eyes, the image of Hermione's perfect breasts is still fresh in his mind, and he makes no effort to let it morph into something else because who knows if he'll ever get to see them again.

Why would he? She's just his roommate.

Yeah. I'm definitely attracted to my roommate.

A smile creeps onto his face. It feels good to admit it, even if it's only to himself.

#muggle AU #Ron and Hermione #ron x hermione #ROMIONE #romione fanfic #romione fanfiction #Romione angst #Ron Weasley #ronweasley #Hermione Granger #hermionegranger #be11a_loft

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septiembrre · 3 years

Note

30 for the kiss prompts!!!!

Prompt: Weak, sweaty kisses because it’s unbearably hot.

@sothischickshe, I made a concerted effort to keep this silly and short. And I gave myself frown lines as I watched it grow longer and longer and… angsty. D:

Featuring:

A magical reappearance of Beth’s furniture

A broken air conditioner

A heatwave

Lots of summer clothing

Sweat (but like the typical annoying kind. This is not a euphemism for sex)

Beth and her anxiety

Rio, a certified Goth™

A relationship not yet ended

Pain

And a Mick cameo, of course!

On AO3, too!

---------

I’VE GOT TO LOSE MY COOL

Beth’s first mistake was not calling the HVAC technician first thing in the morning. She had called on the way out the door, left a voicemail.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Wednesdays were usually slow. She would be able to sneak away at almost any point to take a call back. In the message she left, Beth made sure to mention that her only conflict was at three (the weekly drop of bills from Mick). Otherwise, there was plenty of time to schedule the service visit with perfect timing for the impending heatwave.

But, of course, her life was no longer neat.

On this random mid-day shift, there had been a flurry of customers at the store -- multiple special orders for invitations, a desperate maid of honor running in for last minute bridal shower details. And, naturally, it was in this hubbub that the tech had returned her call. There was another subsequent round of phone tag. Beth left a new message.

On her phone, there was also a text from Mick. He was held up -- and that never happened. The texts hinted at some mysterious, more-important errand for their boss and she was a little curious. He had quashed her follow-up questions (only a couple!), with a gruff, “I’ll get there when I get there.”

And he indeed eventually arrived to Paper Porcupine -- a whole hour late and in a terrible mood. He barreled in the backdoor, sans his typical flannel and sans-leather jacket. Instead, he was in a t-shirt and sweaty as all get out in the late afternoon heat. Beth had stared at him aghast as her phone chimed with another call. It had been a perky soundtrack to Mick’s string of colorful swears when he realized he had left behind half the one-dollar bills needed for the next print run.

Well, at least that mess wasn’t on her.

When Beth finally caught the technician on her drive home, she confirmed what Beth had begun to suspect in her gut: they were all booked up with service calls until next Monday.

“It’s the heatwave, Mrs. Boland,” the tech explained over the car’s speaker phone. “Half of Detroit is calling in about faulty units. We can get you in first thing next week.”

Beth had nodded unseen and despairing. She had the AC blasting in the car, but she was still sticky with sweat. It was going to be precisely eleven degrees hotter by tomorrow. Then, it would chart 105 the day after that.

Good Lord.

Her second mistake was not immediately driving to the store to purchase a pool.

This is how Beth finds herself in the middle of the brutal once-a-year Michigan heatwave, reflecting on how truly her life no longer plays out in the tidy, pre-ordained trajectories it used to. And some days this is thrilling but other days, today, it’s...

Terrible.

Beth tries to do what she can.

She digs out her most breathable pair of exercise shorts, short short and purchased two children ago. She dons her comfiest, lift bra and throws on a frayed pink tank top. She no longer wore these articles of clothing in the presence of her husband (especially after that comment now etched into her soul about “a great ass and perfectly shaped boobs”) but kept them tucked into her dresser for such hellishly hot, solitary occasions such as today.

She pulls her hair messily into a lofty bun leaving no opportunity for it to cling to her neck. She also temporarily appropriates three of the flagging household fans and angles all of them carefully at her, meticulously layering the currents. Finally, she sprawls on her bed, starfishing her limbs for maximum air-to-skin contact.

All of it helps a little, but she’s still hot. Beth can’t fathom anything outside of her misery, wants to shed her skin.

She momentarily considers taking her third cold shower of the day.

Then, without realizing it is happening, Beth finds herself an hour deep into a frenzy of online shopping, precariously balancing her laptop so it doesn’t touch her skin.

Her focus: sandals.

Beth knows she shouldn’t go through with the purchase. Rationally, she can admit it is a feverish spiral, fixating on one fraction of why this week is awful. But, it is all she can think about: she does not have any appropriate footwear for this heat.

How will she survive?

From there comes a whole whorl of scenarios. If she could get away with not leaving the house, she could stay barefoot, stick to the shadowy corners of her house, shower any hour of the day. In fact, this was (part of) the reason why she had chosen to stay home as Dean took the kids to the community pool a few blocks over. Her old pair of ratty flip flops had finally given out and the mid-morning heat already had Beth at her wit’s end. God, she just needed some quiet and some sense of distance from Dean. So, she suggested the idea, urged him to go and leave her in peace.

Perhaps, she could send him out for all the kids’ needs and assorted errands?

...But, could he be trusted?

Well, if Beth refused to leave the house, that meant she was also choosing not to go with the kids to the movies or the library, places with functioning air conditioners where she could cool off. And what else could they do tomorrow? Maybe she could dig out the old sprinkler from the garage… But, then she’d have to go into the garage, and the temperature in there--

Anxiously, Beth meanders the tabs on the DSW website and adds two new pairs of flip flops to her cart. One’s a little more casual, definitely good for pool-side and backyard time. The other pair is a little more dignified. They didn’t look like they would clack.

Well, she doesn’t need two pairs...

She’ll narrow it down later.

In the back of her mind, Beth can acknowledge she doesn’t really need to buy anything at all, and that these sandals will not make her current discomfort any more bearable. But, it doesn’t hurt to look.

Oh, goodness -- what about when she has to go back to Paper Porcupine for her next shift? The thought of putting on any of her flats seems like too much to bear, claustrophobic as they were in the heat. Pumps were out of the question. Which brings her to her last job-appropriate footwear option -- her ankle boots. Weirdly, that seemed to be a fashion trend that was happening now, but nope, absolutely not.

It is in this fever pitch, that Beth makes her third and perhaps most egregious mistake: when Rio knocks on the French doors, she lets him in.

In her defense, she’s a little dazed. As mentioned before, the current state of Michigan is literally hell and Rio’s appearance… takes her by surprise. She was not expecting him to show up today with a duffle of the rest of the small bills. He hadn’t texted and to top it off, he is wearing... an outfit she has never seen before.

A sleeveless shirt.

A sleeveless shirt and joggers, fancy athletic ones that look a price point (or three) above the ones she usually buys for Dean. However, despite this new foray into athleisure-wear, Rio remains head to toe in his favorite color with black on black Chucks rounding out the look.

What a goth, Beth thinks, shaking her head to herself. This outfit in over-100 degree heat?

She feels hotter just looking at him.

Like Mick the other day, Rio is sans-jacket, sans-button-up, and sans-beanie and there’s just… miles and miles of uncovered brown, freshly sun-kissed skin.

Maybe, it’s her deep-seated jealousy of people who can tan. All her skin is good for is glowing in the dark and flash burning at the slightest interest from the sun. And mind you, she’s currently safe inside her dim bedroom, but it’s the strangest thing... She’s burning now as her eyes trace the smooth skin exposed at the base of his neck, burning as she follows along the neat, sharp line of his collarbone where she had bit--

Stop, Beth. Why did she still want--

Had he purposefully shown up with a work excuse on the hottest day of the year to pester her? Was this a latent extension of his punishment? Beth thought they were past this.

But, you know what? Whatever. Let him try.

She’s cool. She might be sweaty as hell, and wanting to crawl out of her skin, but she is cool as a cucumber, cold as ice, profoundly unbothered.

She’s so cool that she doesn’t say a word.

Not to greet him, or remark upon the mistake with the drop or… his atypical clothing choice.

She doesn’t comment either on the state of their business or ask after whatever it was he had assigned Mick to do this week and had seemingly gone awry.

She doesn’t comment as his mouth drops open with surprise as he takes in her appearance, his eyes widening with something as intolerably warm as the air around them. The bag slips from his grip just inside her doorway.

Nor does she say anything when Rio follows her back to bed, tethered to her through a tenuous spell of heat (weather or otherwise). She’s cool, indifferent, breezy actually as she repositions herself in the crosshairs of the fans. If she pretends he doesn’t matter, she doesn’t have to share the breeze right? So she doesn’t pay much mind as Rio slips off his sneakers and settles next to her. Instead, she re-balances the laptop and resumes pursuing the online DSW store.

She doesn’t say anything as he eventually shuffles closer, presumably to watch as she adds strappy sandals to her cart (or more probably to peek down her shirt). And god-- this stupid tank top. Maybe her boobs look better from over there in Rio-world, but over here she is sticky with underboob sweat and crossing her fingers that none of it shows through her bra.

His shoulder leans against hers.

And she has every reason to push him away, but… his skin is cool and smooth and not the most intolerable part of this weekend. So, she lets him stay there.

And she continues to ignore him, cool-like, or cool-aspiring.

Until he no longer lets her.

Concentrated as she is on her shopping, she notes idly as Rio’s foot reaches out to nudge one of her fans to aim more directly at him.

Beth can’t help the snarl that comes out of her mouth, “Don’t.”

He always brings out the worst in her.

There’s a low snicker. Her gaze drops down to take in Rio’s arm as it presses up fully against hers. His fingers reach over to pinch her thigh.

“Damn, ma.”

There’s that heat again, the one from inside. God, she hates him.

Beth shuffles away, frowning at her screen. Rio shuffles too, sidling up next to her again. She adds another pair of sandals to her order and then considers her cart.

“Elizabeth…” In the corner of her eye, she catches the movement of Rio shaking his head with reprove. “Think about where you live.”

Beth flails on the bed in a display that admittedly reminds her of her own children in a fussy mood and it only annoys her more. Her bedspread sticks to her arms, the backs of her legs, and the exposed sliver of her midriff where her top is creeping up. Beth shifts, trying to dislodge the cover from her skin, mindful to protect the laptop. It’s only happenstance that she manages not to shift a single inch of where the length of her arm touches Rio’s.

As she tries to calm down, a brief vision comes to Beth -- an alternate universe where the laptop is safely tucked away and the HVAC blessedly functions. The Rio and Beth of this fantasy are them but also not… maybe she’ll call them Christopher and Elizabeth. That Beth -- Elizabeth -- is only mildly inconvenienced by the heat raging outside. She can rest her dampened forehead against the cool arch of his-- Christopher’s neck. She can lean in to press a weak kiss at his collar bone. In fact, she can kiss it anytime she wants, invited to touch him anywhere she like. In this dream, Elizabeth’s ministrations don’t have to be surer or bolder or cool -- because she has him.

All the time.

She can afford to be soft.

In turn, Christopher nuzzles his face into her hair fondly, and that Elizabeth receives a soft kiss at the crown of her head. There’s an undercurrent of sex between them, the suggestion of it, but overall the scene is sluggish in the zenith of summer and content. Elizabeth can curl her body around his and let him hold her--

How silly.

Beth shakes herself out of it and realizes that Rio has shifted on his side, watching her as she’s zoned out staring at the cart full of sandals for too long. His lips twitch and almost pull into a smile. Then, he quells them into mock seriousness.

It feels too intimate, him with her on this bed, her bed, the bed. It feels like Before.

God, why is he here anyway? If she was alone, she could peel off all her clothes and… take an ice bath probably.

Not think of him at least.

Not think about that wild, feverish idea of curling up, fitting her body into his and surrendering to the heat. Not think about how desperately and pettily she wants to pinch him back. She wants to kiss that stupid look off of his face or... Maybe she could purchase all six pairs of sandals and start browsing for pools on Cloud 9 just to spite him--

“I am thinking about where I live and actually, it’s the middle of summer here--” Beth bites out. “--and it’s outrageously hot.”

“Just buy yourself a pair of sturdy white lady shoes. You mean to tell me you don’t already own some Birks?”

“Excuse me--” Beth splutters, incensed. She had considered them first but had been discouraged again by the price tag for a single pair. “White people aren’t only ones who wear Birkenstocks.”

Without missing a beat, Rio volleys back, “Baby girl, what are you going to do with so many pairs of sandals in Michigan the rest of the year?”

“Says you.”

“Oh?”

“You literally have a million pairs of shoes. Your closet is insane.”

It dawns on her, what she just said.

Oh.

Not good.

It’s the fucking heat. At least, the discomfort can’t blotch her cheeks any more than they already are.

She knows that if she looked at him now, she would see Rio doing something... obnoxious with his face. He’s probably smirking in that terrible, gloating, dumb, sexy way that he does, but too bad.

Beth refuses to look at him.

She’s indifferent and unbothered. She’s cool. She’s the kind of Beth that would never ever even think about his closet or daydream about them folding clothes together or fucking on--

So, instead, she snaps her laptop close with a final click. The sandals were a half-brained idea anyway and that was a conclusion she already came to on her own. Thank you very much, boss.

She starts to get up but then Rio’s hand reaches out to curl around her thigh, pinning her to the bed. He squeezes her leg gently, as he has the audacity to shush her.

It’s enough impetus for Beth to rear her head back to meet his gaze again and level him with her most withering glare.

And, what do you know? She was correct. He appears to be very entertained.

This time she feels the heat surge on her face and knows without a doubt that it shows on top of the heat rash.

“Yeah, so… are you ever gonna tell me what you were doin’ at my house?”

“No.” She snipes, prim.

“No?”

“I wasn’t doing anything.” It's outright untruth.

Rio’s amused disbelief and her defensiveness meet in a standoff. Beth knows from experience he’ll try to wait her out and she gnashes her teeth.

Then, there’s a twitch of movement at her thigh, the flex of fingers she realizes are still there and Beth registers the warm span of his hand a few inches above her knee. Her gaze darts down to look at where he’s touching her. He glances down, too. Together they watch as his thumb slowly strokes her skin. Then, again.

They both observe as the muscles in her thighs just perceptively clench.

God, him and her, in this bed.

His voice softens to that ridiculous mumble, both low and rich. “Aw, c’mon, darlin’. You can tell me.”

The tone raises her hackles -- as if she wasn’t already too familiar with this trap! She tries to affect nonchalance -- she’s cool -- and shrugs, “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Rio grins. It’s sharp like a knife and charming. She hates that he’s the most attractive person she’s ever met. “You liked my closet?”

Then, an idea comes to her-- how she can best him at his own little game.

Beth curls on her side towards him. Her cleavage deepens and god, she can instantly feel more sweat bloom but she knows what he likes. The line of their bodies is parallel, only separated by an inch or two. They’re sharing the breeze from the fans now and wisps of her hair have gotten loose from her bun and are blowing into her face. Rio’s hand shifts to resettle and it drifts up to stroke her hair back behind her ear. Then it drops to curl at her waist. And you know -- nice move -- but she can do him one better.

“Yes,” Beth says simply. She brings her hands up to trace along the neck of his shirt, across his pecs, and the expanse of skin she hasn’t seen since that afternoon of Before. “I didn’t see this though.”

Then, in a moment of haughty malice, her fingers find the notch of his clavicle. She watches his throat bob as he swallows hard and she counts the success. She ignores the tell-tale temptation to gift him more bruises, to kiss him…

The thought occurs to her, distantly, slowly emerging through the fog of heat, that if she tugged the fabric to the side a bit, she’d find one of the scars she gave him. Her hands become clammy and they retreat.

“You like it?” Rio’s voice comes out a smidge hoarse. But, perhaps only someone who knows him like her would notice.

Beth shrugs a shoulder.

His eyes are bright as he looks back at her. His gaze shifts crass, laden with the suggestion of sex, and there’s a tinge there that's not quite sour per se. But, it’s heavy with the particular weight of who they are now. His line of sight deliberately drops to her cleavage with old, salacious purpose.

It’s not the way he looked at her that day, that one time (or two).

Self-rebuffed, Beth tries not to think too much about how she hates that Rio caught her dressed like this. She itches to pull her top up to her neck or scramble off the bed to find something else to throw on. She itches to disappear entirely or to retreat into her bathroom (and see if this time he’ll follow her there too).

Slowly, in performance, Rio moves the fingers at her waist and dips them under the edge of her tank top. He traces teasingly underneath along her sweaty skin.

“I like this.” Rio says, biting his lower lip lewdly, tugging along the hem of her shirt.

And Beth feels-- she feels--

Too hot.

Too objectified.

Her stomach drops and she wants to crawl out of her skin. This wasn’t, this isn’t-- This isn’t what it was.

No matter who they are this minute, whatever mess continues to unfold, this isn’t what that day was.

She won’t let him ruin it.

“You know I did really like your closet. I liked your shoe racks--” she scrambles, trying to dangle a little of what he wants and to remind him. “Your pictures. Nice touch.”

The comment serves its purpose. It makes him pause, sufficiently rebuked by all the ways that she knows him.

Rio extricates his hand, pulls away from her skin, as she tries again to calm herself. She needs to be cool, cool, cool.

But, it’s unbearable -- who they are now.

She feels frazzled and depleted as she watches Rio roll onto his back. He looks up at her ceiling, not at her. “Why can’t you be honest with me for once?” He says it tiredly, without artifice.

She can’t stand it.

“You’re one to talk.”

Beth watches as Rio is now the one gritting his teeth.

“Y’know--” There’s a poignant, festering beat and then he says, “When I fucked you in this bed, I had wanted…”

More.

That want goes unsaid, suspended in the air around them with the heat.

“But, you just wanted me to fuck you,” he finishes quietly, leveling her.

Her stomach bottoms out newly pained and she wonders if that day, those two times, are already ruined for him. Certainly, she can understand if it’s because of the bullets. But, if he still has any doubt--

She makes a last-ditch attempt at levity.

“You’d probably say this is really… basic bitch of me.” The phrase fits awkwardly, and the call back immediately has Rio’s attention. She knows in her race to pull something together, to make it better, something bearable, whatever she’s going to say is going to be too candid.

“Yeah?”

“But, the times that I’ve been the most… attracted to you--” Oh god, this isn’t coming out light and casual at all. Oh no.

Rio shakes his head at her, “Don’t stop now, Elizabeth.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Beth huffs. Then, she tries again. “One is definitely when you were bashing in that butt-ugly car.”

Rio’s eyebrows raise comically high.

“You know with the crowbar,” She gestures, swinging her hand gratuitously. He absolutely already knows what she’s talking about.

“And two..” Beth shuts her eyes and takes a steadying breath. She hopes for the best and tries not to rush the next bit. “--was when I saw your closet was color-coordinated.”

She sneaks a glance at him, and her stomach twists again.

He has absolutely no business looking so fondly at her.

She strives to clarify. “But, that was before.”

“Not anymore?”

“No.”

Rio nods, presumably in acceptance of her refusal.

But, then he tugs her to him, across him. Beth settles on top of him, too hot, too sweaty. Her forehead comes to rest, pressed against the soft hollow of his neck.

#My writing #my fic #beth x rio #tbh i don't love how this came out but I need to get it off my hands #but I hope folks enjoy it!#and remember what summer feels like #nbc good girls

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nocompromise-noregrets · 3 years

Text

💕 get to know your mutuals!! when you get this, it means someone wants to know more about you, so list 5 things about yourself you want your followers to know. they can be as simple as your age or as complex as your deepest fear, as long as it’s something you’re comfortable with sharing. when you’re done, send this to 10 people you want to get to know better!! 🥺🌼💕

The ever-awesome @theresonlyzuul tagged me - thank you! Hmmmmm. Five things about me. *thinks*

I'm quoted in my absolute hero's biography. Way back in the mid-90s I used to write for a fanzine, and I wrote a review of a show by another band where he guested for the encore; it was the first time I'd ever seen him (he'd barely played in the UK for years) and the friend I was with got me backstage to say hello after the gig, and I nearly died on the spot because I thought I'd never get to see him, much less meet him and say hi. Anyway, I more or less forgot all about it, especially as a few years later he reformed the band he was famous for, toured a lot, I saw them loads, met him and the others several times, etc etc. And then I picked up a copy of the biography when I was in Helsinki and was leafing through it on the plane home when my name leapt out at me (quoted alongside an actual journalist who'd reviewed the show for Kerrang! the proper rock and metal magazine) and I went O.O what the actual fuck??? It turned out that a girl I used to know who was even more obsessed than I was (and was utterly self-obsessed and somewhat toxic as it turned out) had collected a huge number of press cuttings about him and his band, including this fanzine review, and had scanned them all and put them online in the late 90s/early 2000s - and later taken them down again because she'd fallen out with the person hosting the website or something, but someone had already taken a copy and put it back online, which is where the biographer found it. The kicker? I am almost positive I actually own (and have owned for more than 20 years) the hard copies of all these press cuttings because she gave them to me after she got obsessed with another band. They're in a folder in the loft and I've never got round to going up there and digging them out but I'm almost certain they're there. :D

Okay, how do I follow that? Hmmm. I'm studying for a degree in Language Studies with English and German with the Open University (distance learning uni in the UK) with a view to retraining as a translator from German to English. I just got my results for the level 2 German course I did this last year (85% :D ) and am supposed to be spending the summer learning all the grammar I didn't have time for during the course, but there will be no prizes for guessing that I have done very little towards that goal. Oops. Anyway, once I've finished the course I shall have the academic equivalent of Prince Charles' favourite band (the Three Degrees, sorry, that's a joke for Brits of a certain age who remember Charles and Diana's wedding...*echoing silence* XDDDD ) and will then get on with doing the OU's MA in translation studies, which coincidentally is run by my sisterinlaw, although I don't think that'll help me any. XD

I've been working as an archivist for 21.5 years at this point (if my professional career were a kid, it'd have its degree by now, jesus wept O.O ) and I split my time between the local authority archive service in the city where I live, and a real actualfacts castle. The castle in question has been owned by the same family (give or take 50-odd years where it was owned by the Crown, long story) since 1154, and the family can provably trace their descent in the male line back 26 generations to before the Norman conquest, and they're the only family left who can do so. On the one hand, colonialism, although they don't seem to have been too involved in all that with the exception of a few individuals, and on the other, I am responsible for a good three or four thousand medieval documents, including about four illuminated books of hours, three documents that are older than the castle itself, and a whole shedload of post-medieval and modern stuff including the papers of one of the greatest women gardeners (and most prolific renaissance women) the UK has ever had. So...no pressure. :D

I have three tattoos, all of them music-inspired, and am planning more, but whether I'll ever get round to booking in with our tattoo artist is up for debate.

We're in the middle of a heatwave at the moment and I'm soaking it all up like a solar battery to see me through the rest of the year when it's cold and damp and grey and miserable. But six days of continuous 30C+ temperatures is a tiny bit much, even for me.

Thank you! I am going to tag...anyone who wants to take part, my brain is a bit fried this morning :D :D :D

#tag game #about me

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sourbat · 4 years

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Nategaar R or U (Sorry (I'm not sorry) I keep sending you Nategaar I really love how you write it)

R: Romance Under the Stars

Wow. I actually have something to say about this.

Warning: Set during Galaktikon

The Falcon could not withstand the heat that ripped through earth’s atmosphere, and the sound of metal turning, massive plates groaning and giving under the increasing pressure, could be heard all throughout the ship. And yet it persisted, chasing after the increasing heatwave that only grew more tumultuous and unbearable, turning the band’s one way ride into a giant, flying oven; a coffin that would no doubt cook them alive if there weren’t other, greater issues at hand. A wave of demonic evil swept across the darkening skies, igniting the dwindling oxygen in an immense flurry of wild fire that struck the Falcon’s side. Emergency lights flashed, and amidst the chaos, the cracking glass panels and increasing light as the Falcon drew nearer its goal, all Nathan could think about was how nice the stars looked tonight.

Stars of prophecies aside, just about everything else in the sky appeared the same. Each bright dot flickered, shining a once insignificant beacon of hope, now so impactful as time began to drag. Nathan could feel it slipping before him, coming to a still as his eyes locked with what he hoped was part of the dipper. He didn’t care which one it was, so long as there was something recognizable within the black, empty sea of space.

Skwisgaar’s hand squeezed his. “What ams you lookinks at?”

“The stars,” Nathan answered without breaking contact.

A final decision had been made, though it’s unclear when each member gained their resolve. Nathan’s confident Toki and Pickles’ made theirs before setting foot on the Falcon, and Murderface, despite his lamenting, had become increasingly determined on the ride up. Nathan knew this was it, accepted it as such, but Skwisgaar by his side, wavered.

“Remember when we passed out drunk looking at stars?” He mentioned it absentmindedly, as a filler to help cover the dread he was sure Skwisgaar was feeling. Skwisgaar squeezing his hand? No, should be the other way around. Or maybe Skwisgaar was trying to reassure him… did any of it matter now?

Skwisgaar uttered an airy chuckle. “We does that all the times, Nathans.”

True. Nathan cannot count the times he and Skwisgaar passed out drunk during “x” activity, and when Skwisgaar brought it up, was almost taken aback by the remark. Then Skwisgaar laughed–actually laughed–at Nathan, and also at his own comment. It was a hearty, boisterous laugh, one so powerful it clogged Nathan’s overwhelmed senses. A laugh that deafened the flaring alarm. A row of shiny, white teeth that blinded the red flashing lights.

“Sorry,” Skwisgaar said, shaking his laughter away with a few sharp flicks of his head. Each one produces a serene, blond flash that Nathan greatly preferred over the impending lightning storm. “I was just thinkinks. All of them silly memories…” Skwisgaar’s eyed began to strain, and his bottom lip sank. Nathan gripped Skwisgaar’s hand, sending a silent, but firm order to finish the comment, no matter how painful. Skwisgaar’s head shakes a nod. “I thinks I will miss thems very much.”

“Yeah, well.” Nathan stopped. He stared at the vast, darkening sky, watching the blue begin to sink beneath them, replaced with the black void of space. A sharp pain shot through his heart at the sight of the millions of stars across the universe. Stars that he wished on, counted, and stars that lighted him the way home. Stars that shined when he and Skwisgaar kissed, glimmered when they fell in love, and stars that ignited in fury whenever they performed. The agony persisted, and Nathan relinquished his hand from Skwisgaar to pull him close. Their hips bumped, and Skwisgaar wrapped his arm round Nathan’s waist, and although the screen was almost completely warped from the mounting pressure and heat, the two remained together and stared at their battered version of the night sky. “They were all good,” Nathan stated, feeling Skwisgaar’s cheek brush against his. “Each one of them.”

Skwisgaar rested his head on Nathan’s shoulder. “Mhmm.”

Time continues to slow, coming to a near standstill. Nathan’s sure he’ll need to call the band to order soon, though when is still up in the air. Air? Sky? They were in space now. They were all amongst the stars. He and Skwisgaar were surrounded by the stars. Nothing mattered now. Not even time.

Time…

“Skwisgaar?”

“Yeah, Nathans?”

“I…think.” Nathan’s throat tightened. Skwisgaar shifted, pressing his weight into Nathan. “I think I’m really going to miss that,” he confessed, and felt Skwisgaar’s hair drape and spill over his shoulder as he turned to stare up at him. “Us. Together. Doing shit like that.”

The moment’s ruined, Nathan thought. Soiled with too much emotion. Stupid feelings that raised up fear and doubt, longing and so many unspoken words Nathan failed to get across with his lyrics, messages that could only be relayed through private stares or hands reaching and sending notes of desire. Now as not the time for doubt, for second-guessing and silently pleading for time to just freeze so that he could properly formulate the words he needed to say.

But Nathan knew he could have a million years, and it would never be enough to fix the pain in his chest, and in a few seconds, he would have no choice but to let Skwisgaar go.

Skwisgaar pressed his chin into Nathan’s shoulder. “Nathans?”

“Yeah?”

His lips pursed into a thinning, pale crescent. “Them stars looks very beau-tificals.”

Nathan hissed, stopping an exhale from turning into a groan, then gave Skwisgaar a sharp nod. “Yeah,” he said, then turned, brushing his nose across Skwisgaar’s silken crown. Nathan pushed his lips into the center, producing an audible kiss that could be heard through the vibrating metal. “You’re not half-bad looking yourself.”

Skwisgaar’s arms squeezed his waist. “I could say them same things abouts you.”

Time. Nathan remembered a time where a lightyear was unfathomable, when such distances could only be “explained” with fancy programs and numbers. Formulas had always been meaningless to him; it was only through experience that Nathan could truly understand the meaning behind such terms. As the Falcon continued forward, disregarding pieces of its tearing wing, or outer layer chipping away, Nathan finally got what it meant for something to stretch on and on, maybe even forever.

Perhaps this will last forever, Nathan pondered as the weight of his body began to lift. How perfect would it be if he and Skwisgaar’s final seconds together could last a million lightyears, could spread across the cosmos and be seen and wished upon forever? Was that too gay, or just too much for ask for?

The Falcon’s front peeled under the heat, and finally gave way, and the massive beast ahead unleashed a final blast of lightning towards them.

And then they ascended.

Just as planned, they united against the demon, and with their combined powers, pushed back the evil storm with one of their own. Dethlights flashed across space, swallowing up the lightning, thunder and flames. Their powers fighting, consuming and mixing with Salacia’s resulted in a massive reaction. Metal melted, evaporated under the unfathomable heat that coursed through Nathan’s entire being, that sweltered and scorched each band member. Just like the Falcon before them, they persisted, consuming all the evil in their path.

Such combined power proved to be too much, and as Nathan began to feel his every atom give under the intense, magical force, somehow found and pulled Skwisgaar into his chest, embracing him one final time before their physical forms ceased to exist. A massive pentagram filled the sky, burning through the booming thunderclouds. The pentagram remained for some time, fending off the residual magic that once threatened the planet, spreading across the damaged atmosphere and blanketing it with its force. It soon vanished, replaced with the promising formation of rain clouds that healed the planet with its soothing rain.

That, too, ended.

The clouds shifted, shrank and returned to the sea from which they came, unveiling the magnificent array of purple and white. Stars glowed, radiated across the clear night sky, shining their brilliant light over earth, and other, greater pieces shot across the cosmos, stretching long tails of burning light and vanishing once they breached the atmosphere.

Underneath an old, abandoned wooden set of high school bleachers, Nathan drunkenly peered outward, head lifted to the sky. His heavy jaw sank, and a harsh stare turned agape at the many shooting stars that birthed and died before him. He rested a hand against the ancient, rusted support beams. A single, massive light burst through the sky, soaring across Nathan’s line of view before disappearing into the darkness. Its sudden death sent a peculiar, if not melancholic, sensation up Nathan’s spine.

“What ams you lookinks at?”

Somewhat startled, Nathan turned around, facing Skwisgaar. The man sat under one of the better covered portions, and was nursing the last of the cold cans they had taken with them on their objectiveless adventure. Despite sequestering under the more covered portion of the bleachers, the man’s long hair was drenched, sticking to parts of his face. Under the shadowed frame, Nathan likened Skwisgaar to a handsome phantom, an angelic, but haunting figure that could lure him into the dark recess of the bleacher if he so commanded.

“A star,” he answered without breaking contact.

Skwisgaar’ eyes reflected, glowed menacingly like a tomcats under the shadows. “Instead of lookinks at silly stars, we coulds be... admiring each others more, ja?” He slipped his arms over a leg, then rested his chin on top of his knee as Nathan drew closer. “After alls,” Skwisgaar continued, voice dropping into a sultry whisper as Nathan’s eyes set upon his glowing form, “one day we wills be real stars…”

#apineappleheart #nategaar #skwisgaar skwigelf #nathan explosion #literally woke up and one and done this #def needs editing #Thank You #fic ask thing

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talesmaniac89 · 4 years

Text

Hiraeth – Home is where the heart is

Pairing: Dean x Reader (Past tense not current relationship)

Summary: Dean’s looking back on the summer he spent with you in his arms. A year has passed, summer is here again. But it’s a summer without you and, even in the sweltering heat of the bunker, he’s freezing to the bone.

Triggers: Heartbreak, Loss, broken childhood, John being a bad dad, ambiguous ending (could be implied as reader death though nothing is described), ANGST.

A/N: Written for @firefly-in-darkness’s summer challenge. My prompt was Hiraeth – a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was. Since it’s an uncommon word, it’s not used directly in the fic, but rather just the feelings it encompasses. As well as of course being a part of the title of the fic.

Y/N = Your Name | Y/L/N = Your Last Name | Y/E/C = Your Eye Colour | Y/H/C = Your Hair Colour

Home.

The word had always felt foreign and strange on Dean’s tongue. He had very few memories of the apple pie life others often referred to when they spoke of ‘home sweet home’.

He knew what it was supposed to mean. At least he had once. Back when he was still a kid, when he still held onto the hope of settling down to a new normal after his mother’s death.

There’d been more than one shaky crayon drawing of four walls with a smiling sun and happy stick figures on a green lawn painted onto scrap paper in the back seat of the Impala as his father drove them from hunt to hunt during his early childhood years. A pair of young, naïve eyes catching the picket fences that rushed past on the other side of the window and dreaming of a home to return to.

He’d only had a taste of it, for the first few years of his life, before it went up in flames around him. His young eyes watching everything he loved burn as he held baby Sammy in his arms and his father fell to pieces next to him on the carefully manicured lawn. But for the next few years of his young life he’d always held onto the hope that he’d get it back at some point. Until he grew old enough to know better.

Home had never been his father’s goal. John Winchester had been driving towards revenge, not a better future for his boys.

So, after that, home had always been the Impala, the guest room of a fellow hunter, and hell, even a few longer-term stays in ratty motels. Yet, none of them had fit right. They’d been houses, beds, and roofs over their heads, sure… But they were never a home. Not the way Dean thought a home should feel like at least.

By the time it was only Sammy and him, he’d long since given up the idea of home. It was just the two of them against the world. And the closest they’d ever come to having a place to return to was the safe confines of ebony steel and leather. With their initials carved into rear package tray of the Impala and the army man stuck in the ashtray. It hadn’t been much, but it was theirs. And with the entire world out to get them; it was all Dean had dared dream of.

---

They’d eventually found the bunker. And Dean had done his best to make it feel like a home for Sammy and him. It was as close to a home as anything else they’d ever had. Even if it was borrowed from a group of long-gone men and women in stuffy suits, Dean had made it theirs. For a while he’d even fooled himself into believing he’d finally come home. That the concrete walls of the bunker were all he ever really wanted.

But then she’d walked into his life. Fiery (Y/E/C) eyes had met his across the latest battlefield, and, damn it, he’d realised he’d been fooling himself all along.

The bunker was just concrete and steel… A home needed more than that. A home needed warmth. And, even without anything more than vague memories, Dean had seen it in her eyes. With (Y/N) there, smiling at him from the chair she’d quickly claimed as her own, Dean had finally been home.

Once he’d realised, a strange kind of calm had fallen over the weary hunter. He couldn’t explain it, not really. But whenever he walked into a room and found her there, something ancient and real at the very core of him would speak up and tell him that this, this was it. This was what a home was supposed to be like.

It was supposed to be warm, and safe. Even in the middle of a damned apocalypse. It was a haven of smiles and shared moments. It was supposed to feel right, and slightly nostalgic. Like some long-lost dream that he’d finally found his way back to. Not just a bed to call his own, or a favourite chair in a living room. But family and her. That was home.

---

For the longest time, he’d just revelled in that discovery. Too afraid to shake the foundations of his newfound place in the world to let her know. Just drowning in her bright attentive eyes and pretending he was fine being just a friend, just a hunting buddy.

But then he’d gotten greedy.

He’d found his way home, and he wanted to feel like he belonged there. Properly belonged, not just stuffed into some guest bedroom at the back of her heart. He didn’t want to be just a house guest that simply slipped into her mind from time to time. He’d loved her, and he wanted more.

He wanted to be her home, the one she went looking for after a hard day, just like he always did with her. So, he’d told her… Everything. He’d put his home and heart on the line. Though the words stuck in his throat and his heart beat so fucking hard that he could barely hear himself speak. Dean had told her he loved her, just as the weather was getting warmer and the sun hung in the sky a little longer each day.

His heart in his throat and hands trembling as he waited for her to shut him out in the cold and make him homeless. But instead, she’d smiled at him. Throwing her arms around him and letting him drown in the apple pie sweetness of her lips against his. His arms had hesitantly wrapped around her, crushing her to his chest.

And hell, Dean had been home.

---

He could still feel the ghost of the happy laughter that had filled his chest and heart when she’d finally been his. Buried somewhere deep in his chest, hidden behind a million unshed tears and defeated, angry screams.

Dean had gotten a taste of what picture perfect was supposed to feel like for three short months that summer. But nothing in his life was meant to last. And, exactly a year ago, life had once more proved that anything he touched turned to rubble under his destructive fingers.

He should have seen it coming. Happiness always fled from the Winchesters. It was as certain as gravity. But, he’d fooled himself into believing that the world owed him a little slice of apple pie. That he could protect his home; though his family tree of death and destruction should have been enough proof to show him that he wasn’t meant for happiness. Heartbreak and loss were a part of his legacy, no matter how hard he’d tried to outrun it.

And fuck, Dean had tried. Even if it went against everything he'd ever been taught. He'd been raised as a weapon, a soldier… He was a hunter, not a family man. His father had told him over and over again; to never settle down. A moving target was harder to hit.

He’d been raised knowing to never leave himself open or to stay in one place for too long. When strangers passing through his life had spent their evenings safe at home, he’d practiced how to protect his weak spots. Pulse points, heart, lungs, kidneys... By the time kids his age learned algebra, he was perfecting how to dodge, parry and kill.

Yet, his father had never told him what to do when his biggest weak spot was outside of his reach. When home was a person, not a place.

In all his years of training, Dean had never learned what to do when his heart was outside his chest. Shaped like a stubborn woman whom no number of blocks and parries could ever keep completely out of harm's way. Still, he’d foolishly thought he could protect that part of himself too. That he could keep her safe and protect the home he’d finally found in her arms.

But nothing good was meant to last. Not for Dean Winchester. And reality had finally caught up with him, a year ago, to the day.

He’d already suffered through a full 365 days of missing her. And Dean knew it would never stop hurting. Even if he still clung to the memories of that one perfect summer. Of how she’d finally been his, after years wasted loving her from a distance. Every single second of those flawless three months was branded into his heart, stinging with pastel coloured clarity and bittersweet memories.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N) had been his home and now he was homeless.

---

Stepping into her room; he could still somehow smell the ghost of her perfume lingering in the air as he remembered how she’d bounced up and down, giddy with childish joy. Bare legs barely covered by a pair of lounge shorts and soft (Y/H/C) hair pulled away from her face as she held out the water balloons she’d picked up somewhere to help cool them down in the sweltering heat.

Dean remembered how he’d laughed, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her out of the way to grab for the pack of balloons as she squealed happily in his arms. It had been one of the hottest days of the summer and he’d been drowning in the heat of the Kansas heatwave. But hell, he’d still not wanted to let go of her. Even as she squirmed in his arms and pouted adorably, pleading with him to join her for a water balloon fight, just to cool down at least for a little while.

It was one of the last happy moments he got with her. Hot heat, cool water and bright laughter that was still somehow etched into his skin, even a year later.

Now however, even the searing warmth of hot air trapped under layers of concrete felt chilly as he took a few shaky steps across her room towards her bed. Eyes downcast as he tried to avoid looking at the million little reminders of her. Dean was frozen, chilled to the bone. Without her, he’d never feel warm again.

Reaching for the picture frame at her bedside table, Dean sighed as his hand fell before even fully reaching the picture of him and her. She was smiling up at him, happy and unaware of the abrupt ending waiting for her. As bitter, angry tears stung in his eyes, he let his hands curl into weak fists at his sides as he sank back against her bed until he was crumpled on the cool floor.

He couldn’t avert his eyes from the reminders. They were everywhere. She was everywhere.

He couldn’t explain what hit the hardest, or what he missed the most. It was a multi-layered longing. He wasn’t just missing (Y/N). That word didn’t cover the depth of his heartbreak. No… He yearned for her, sure. He’d do anything to hold her in his arms and bury his lips against her (Y/H/C) hair as her laughter warmed the bunker. To feel her heartbeat under his fingertips and taste that apple pie happiness on his tongue once more.

But it was more than just that. Without her, nothing was right. The bunker wasn’t home anymore. It was just… Another pitstop. Another bed to sleep in between hunts. A prison cell filled with painful reminders. And even sitting there, in the middle of the room that had been hers, he felt homesick.

The bunker wasn’t his home. Not if she wasn’t there with him.

Nothing felt right without her there. The sweltering summer sun felt cold and artificial, and the days seemed to pass without Dean even noticing. Life wasn’t real anymore. Even the little moments that had him smiling and laughing just one summer ago, now felt wrong, without her there to share them with him.

And she’d never be there again. She was lost…

No… Dean was the lost one. He’d lost his way home when her fingers slipped from his a year ago, and he’d never find his way back. The bunker was just concrete and a roof over his head, without her, nowhere would ever feel like home again.

He longed to be back with her, where his heart belonged. Where the very core of him lived. But she was gone, and he was left weathering a freezing summer in a cardboard box heart. Only returning home, to her, in the sporadic moments of sleep he sometimes managed to get. Whenever exhaustion or alcohol knocked him out.

It had only been one summer, but for that one summer, Dean Winchester had a place to call home. A place where he truly belonged. And it wasn’t picket fences or pies cooling on the windowsill that had been Dean’s place to come home to. It was a woman with bright attentive (Y/E/C) eyes and a laugh that warmed the very air he’d breathe.

For that short while, Dean had finally understood why people said home is where the heart is. And just as quickly as he found his way home; he’d lost it, when he lost her.

And he’d never be home again.

Tags:

Dean Winchester Tags: @ria132love @woodworthti666 @defenderrosetyler @akshi8278 @justanotherwinchester @lyarr24 @torn-and-frayed @all-will-be-well-love @wearesuchstuff1 @thefridgeismybestie @adoptdontshoppets @punof-agun

Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons @winchest09 @hobby27 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @sea040561 @donnaintx @alwaysdreamingforthebest @thatmotleygirl @chocolateheart @superfanficnatural @flamencodiva @starryeyeseunbyul @waywardbeanie @supernaturalenchanted

#firefly’s summer challenge #Dean winchester #Dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean x reader #tales89writes #dean winchester angst #dean winchester supernatural #dean winchester fanfiction #dean angst #Supernatural Dean Winchester #spn #SPN Writing Challenge #supernatural reader insert #dean winchester reader insert #loss #heartbreak #angst

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enchanted--realm · 3 years

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Heatwave

HMS ff Prompt - Hope Valley Heatwave

I had so much fun writing this. This is the first time I've ever written and completed fanfic for WCTH. I hope you enjoy! It's a Nathan x Elizabeth fic btw

Nathan enters his rowhouse, letting out a breath of relief once in the shade of his home. Though the rowhouse is becoming hotter and hotter as the day goes on, it's an oasis compared to the oven outside. A heatwave hit Hope Valley today and Nathan knew it was just the beginning of a long, hot week.

Removing his hat and belt, Nathan steps through to the parlor, and then undoes his serge. A mountie’s serge is not ideal for hot weather and Nathan has been sweating all day and feigning off the heat that is getting to his head. Clad in his undershirt, he wipes the sweat from his brow and heads to the kitchen. Dipping his head in the sink, Nathan pumps the water straight over his head to cool off. The water glides deliciously over his neck and through his hair, giving him temporary relief from the heat. He cups his hand and drinks straight from the pump, and then washes his face, not bothering to dry off with a towel. It's a Saturday and Nathan came home to break for lunch, but the heat took his appetite away. He opts for some fruit to renew his energy and eats an apple on his way upstairs. After changing into fresh clothing, Nathan puts on a hat and heads out the back door to grab his toolbox. Allie is spending the day at the river with her friends to enjoy the water and the shade of the trees, so Nathan figures he’ll use the time alone to fix the porch steps that had gotten loose. Normally, he wouldn’t be outside hammering away in the heat, but he wants to fix the porch as soon as possible so Allie doesn't hurt herself going up and down the stairs.

Rounding the side of the house to the front, Nathan sets his toolbox on the ground and kneels at the bottom step to get to work. He can feel the hot sun beating down on his back right away and after a few minutes of working the skin of his arms feel like its burning. Sweat drips down from his face and onto the wood right in front of him and he wipes his face and neck down with a towel. He only hopes he can finish the job quickly so he can rest for a bit inside before needing to get back to the mountie office later.

Sticking her head in the icebox, Elizabeth lets out a sigh of relief. Hope Valley was hit by a heatwave and it’s been brutally hot all day. Jack wouldn’t stop crying for the past hour, fussy from the heat, but she managed to put him down for a nap and hoped the weather would make him tired enough to sleep the rest of the day away. Elizabeth takes a deep breath of the cold air when she hears a faint banging in the distance. Standing up straight, Elizabeth closes the icebox and walks across the room to her front door. The noise is consistent, like someone hammering away at something, she thinks. She wonders who would be doing yard work in this kind of heat. Opening the door she turns towards the sound of the banging and down the line of rowhouses she sees Nathan crouched down on his porch steps, working away at something. She smiles to herself, leaning back on the door frame and just watches him for a moment. Since she and Nathan started courting in the beginning of the summer, Elizabeth has felt the happiest she’s ever been in a long time. She finally feels like she can move on after Jack and she's ready to do that with Nathan, she thinks.

Going back inside, Elizabeth walks to the kitchen and gets out the strawberry and lemon water she made earlier this morning. She goes back into the icebox and adds enough ice to fill the pitcher she made. Then, going next door to Rosemary, she asks if Rosemary can keep watch over Jack for a little bit while she goes to see Nathan. Rosemary happily obliges and so Elizabeth is off to Nathan’s with her pitcher of water and a full glass ready for Nathan.

As she walks to his rowhouse the banging gets louder. In the distance she can see the heatwaves rising from the ground and contorting her vision. The sun bakes her skin and a drop of perspiration skids down her back. As she approaches Nathan she can see him fitting a new board to the top step of his porch. He places a nail in the wood and the starts hammering again. When she gets closer she can see the sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. His muscles tense with every strike of the hammer, and she tries not to let her eyes linger too long. Not wanting to sneak up on him while he works, Elizabeth walks around his side so she could be in his line of sight.

Reaching for another nail, Nathan looks up and doubles back when he notices Elizabeth standing in front of him. He smiles instantly, setting down his hammer and climbing off the stairs to meet her.

“Elizabeth,” he smiles in greeting and takes off his hat. She smiles brightly at him and it makes his heart light.

“Hi,” she says, holding out a glass of water, “for you.”

He huffs out a breath, taking the cool glass from her hands. “Thank you.”

He downs the class in one go to her surprise and she pours him another glass which he takes gratefully. She watches as he sits back on the steps and she follows him, climbing the steps and sitting a couple of steps above him to have her face in the shade. She sets the pitcher down on the porch and watches him drink the second glass with less desperation. She looks at the way his neck stretches out and his throat bobs with every pull of water. Drops of sweat line the perimeter of his face and his hair is dark like he's doused his whole head in water. She has to admit she likes seeing him in this different state. When Nathan finishes the drink she takes the cup from his hand and places it beside her.

"Thank you for that," Nathan pants, leaning back on his elbows.

“You’re welcome.” Elizabeth can't stop smiling at him. Then looking out at the hazy field ahead of them she huffs out a breath, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “Goodness, it’s hot.”

Nathan groans as he wipes his forearm across his brow. "It sure is," he agrees.

“Well, what are you doing working in the sun like this?” she asks, leaning back on your hands and looking down at him from the top step. Nathan’s head falls back to look at her, his blue eyes bright in the light of the sun, taking her breath away. His left eye squints and it makes her want to laugh a little, and pieces of his wet hair clump together across his forehead, making her want to run her fingers through his hair. She doesn’t do either.

“The porch step was loose and then the other one was splitting,” Nathan sighs and kicks the new board he was nailing in when she found him, “and I wanted to fix it before Allie got home,” he explains and squints out towards the field. Elizabeth hums in response and then bids him to come sit up a couple steps so he can get some shade. He listens and scoots up to sit back beside her, leaning against the porch rail.

Facing Elizabeth this close, he takes in the full sight of her beauty. The heat makes her skin flush pink and glow with perspiration and he thinks it's the most beautiful sight he's ever seen. He smiles to himself. Just her presence makes him feel more awake and lively despite the heatwave swelling through the town. She sits with her head resting in her hands and looks at him. They sit like that for a few minutes before he shifts against the porch rail and it groans against his weight. Reaching behind him with his arm Nathan feels for the pegs in the railing and catches some that are loose. He groans internally, another thing to fix. Elizabeth notices his slight sigh and stands up, touching his shoulder as she passes him.

“You know, I have fixed a few porch rails in my time.” Elizabeth places her hands on the railing, feeling where it needs some tightening.

Nathan gets up then from the steps to stand beside her, just mere inches away. “I'm sure you're more than capable, but a lady shouldn't have to do that." He looks down at her, smiling that crooked smile she loves.

She smiles back at him, looking up into his blue eyes. Standing this close she can see the dark ring around his irises, making his eyes pop even more. He takes an impossible step closer and she gravitates to him naturally.

Despite the heat outside, all Nathan wants is to be closer to her, and feel the warmth of her skin under his hands. He leans down, and closing the distance between them, captures her lips in a soft kiss. He cups her cheek in his hand and she leans into him instinctively. She runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and he kisses her more deeply, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. Kissing Elizabeth is like a cool drink of water in this heatwave. Pulling apart, they stand with their foreheads touching for a minute, and then Nathan gets back to work fixing the porch while Elizabeth sits and watches him. She likes watching him fix things, letting herself follow his movements, memorizing the way the muscles in his arms flex and the way his hair falls over his forehead when he leans down. She blotts him with the towel when he needs it and pours him more water when builds up a thirst. After another ten minutes he's finished with the steps and the railing, and he and Elizabeth talk for a little while longer before they part ways, him needing to get back to the mountie office, and her needing to get back to little Jack and relieve Rosemary from babysitting. She kisses him on the cheek goodbye and Nathan follows her with his eyes and watches Elizabeth disappear into the heatwaves until seeing her again tomorrow.

#hot mountie summer #wcth #my fic #heatwave #when calls the heart #nathan grant #elizabeth x nathan #wcth fanfiction #wcth fanfic

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer Review – Richard Ramirez Docuseries Speaks Plainly

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Netflix dives into one of the most horrifying cases of multiple murders with its eyes wide open in Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer. The documentary is told from the perspective of the investigators at the heart of the case, particularly a veteran homicide detective and his young, enthusiastic partner. They had nothing going into the case, and when they did dig out the clues, they often lost what they had because of its newsworthiness. The series works because it treats the audience the same way as the cops were treated: infuriatingly.

Every clue, setback, and recalculation in Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer is satisfyingly frustrating. We all know the story by now, so director Tiller Russell can leisurely fill in the plot. We don’t even get the name of the serial killer until the end of the third episode. It’s not in the title, and if the detectives don’t know it, the series won’t disclose it. This is an internal affair, and early disclosures to the media contaminate clues like dancing on a crime scene in a pair of size 12 Avia sneakers.

The four-part series opens in a hot and happy Los Angeles, filled with glossy tinsel and hair metal. The city hosted the Olympics in 1984, and the Lakers were international superstars. Archival weather reports continually update a sweltering heat wave, and the citizens cool off leisurely and diversely. But not after dark, where the bulk of the docu-series is set. That is LA Noir. The same kind of darkness that crept into the headlines when the Black Dahlia murder struck, but more similar to the Manson Family killings.

One bad boy, who will later be described as having incredible sex appeal, rips the nightlife apart. At the time, though, all anyone knows about him is he has bad teeth, smells like a goat, and loves AC/DC. Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer captures the mid-eighties period well, with archival TV news and clips of then-current shows. When the events turn creepy, Max Headroom is playing on a black and white TV in the distance, almost out of focus.

Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Detective Gil Carrillo and renowned homicide cop Frank Salerno are great storytellers whose obvious gravitas centers the documentary. There is one other standout from law enforcement. San Francisco Police Department homicide Inspector Frank Falzon actually breaks down what it’s like to be goaded into punching a possible witness. He completely explains the forces which lead him to do it. The frustration, the horrid images of the case which flashed into his mind. The disgust he felt at the actual details. Carrillo has a similar incident, convinced of a suspect who fits too perfectly only to be told “He’s a freak, but not your freak.” But his defining moment probably comes when he can’t bear to even listen to a discussion of putting a child who had been sexually assaulted on the stand to testify.

Even though we know how it ends, the limited docu-series captures the race against the clock tension of the summer of 1985. Initially tagged “The Walk-In Killer” and “The Valley Intruder” by the press, the satanic beast prowling Los Angeles came to be known as “The Night Stalker.” His crimes seemed disconnected because the victims were so varied. Serial killers usually have a specific type of victim. The Night Stalker’s crimes appeared to be random. “There was no pattern,” a detective bemoans in an interview.

The detectives get blowback from inside and out. We hear about an important theory being laughed out of a meeting. Investigators have to deal with cops in different districts not sharing information, as multiple jurisdictions spark “a pissing match between Type A dudes.” The investigators don’t only have to deal with the media blowing the case. They get the information from a politician who releases details which tip off the suspect. Many of these details have never been told.

We also get to hear Laurel Erickson and Paul Skolnick, the journalists who covered the story from the beginning, explain why they were so eager for details, and where they drew the line. Like the Hillside Strangler, who had recently been caught by Salerno’s homicide team, the Night Stalker was a once-in-a-lifetime case. Not only to the press, police and politicians, but to the community, which ultimately plays the most emotionally satisfying part in the documentary. When the suspect is caught in East Los Angeles, he tells the arresting officers “Thank God you came.”

The mystery unfolds through first-person interviews with victims who lived through the attacks, some of whom were allowed to survive. One woman remembers being dropped off at a gas station to call someone to take her home after the killer had sexually assaulted her in a dingy room. She was a child when that happened, one of the youngest of the Night Stalker’s victims. They ranged in age from six to 82; were men, women and children; some affluent, others poor; and of a mix of races. Anyone could be the next victim. The persistent updates on the heatwave accentuate this, because in a town under siege no one can sleep with their windows open. After Charles Manson had been caught, the people in Los Angeles didn’t feel the need to lock their doors, the documentary asserts. Now residents barred their windows.

Books

The Last Book on the Left Takes on the Grim History of Serial Killers

By Alec Bojalad

Movies

Crazy, Not Insane Doc Studies Serial Killers’ Minds on HBO

By Tony Sokol

The assailant also varied his weaponry, using knives, hammers, tire irons, and a .22 caliber pistol. The savage specter takes on an almost occult status when the investigators find pentagrams drawn and carved on walls, and occasionally on victims. The killer gouged the eyes out of one woman. He used thumb cuffs, which comes as a visual surprise to the detective recounting it. He relives that one moment of discovery with both a personal revulsion and a cop’s curiosity. He still hasn’t gotten his head around it, and it’s only one detail. Like an Avia sneaker, size 11 and a half, the only one shipped to Los Angeles since the company was founded.

There have been several features on the notorious killer at the center of Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer. Chris Fisher’s film Nightstalker (2002), Ulli Lommel’s Nighstalker from 2009, and Megan Griffiths’ The Night Stalker (2016). His story was dramatized in the 1989 TV movie Manhunt: Search for the Night Stalker. Zach Villa played Ramirez on American Horror Story: 1984. Director Russell, whose father worked in the Dallas DA’s office, grew up in courthouses, jails and police precincts.He keeps his focus steadily on the investigators and the victims.

Russell presents the evidence plainly. Emotionally, he wants to present the feel that anyone in the horrific footage could have been a viewer or someone they know. He never treats the victims like statistics. We get personal stories, like one told by a granddaughter remembering how she preferred a grandma who did cartwheels over any necklace heirloom which could be bequeathed. The documentary occasionally lets the camera wander around recreated footage too long, and takes leisurely pauses of action with only music over grim background sets to amplify the atmosphere. We also get the occasional emotion-cam closeup, with a frozen face willing a testimony into a camera wordlessly.

The first glimmer of a name the documentary provides for the suspect is Richard Mena, who is being treated for an impacted tooth. Richard Ramirez actually doesn’t get much screen time. We get a very curt statement on why he turned out the way he did. “All the things that could poison a child were part of his life,” a detective explains. The only detail is a recollection of how Ramirez was tied to a cross in a cemetery overnight as a reprimand from his religious father. Ramirez explains himself throughout, although without credit until we learn the quotes and affirmations come from a recorded interview the Night Stalker gave from prison. But we never learn how Satan was “a stabilizing force in his life,” which prompted “a motivational charge.”

The documentary explores the killer-groupie phenomenon, but it is from the amazed and uncomprehending reactions of the investigating officers, and the families of the victims. They don’t get it. The journalists who covered it have never seen anything like it. It proves everything about the case is unprecedented. We see Ramirez, upon sentencing, tell the families, as well as the judge, jurors and investigating officers: “You don’t understand me. You are not expected to. You are not capable of it. I am beyond your experience.” The doc cuts his last lines, “I will be avenged. Lucifer dwells in us all.” What replaces it is a snippet of Ramirez requesting a promise that his recorded interviews be erased after his death.

Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer is a satisfyingly exhaustive account of the investigation into the Richard Ramirez murder-and-assault-spree. But know it is limited to the crimes and the cities they were committed in. Los Angeles is a bigger character in the documentary than Ramirez. The docu-series isn’t about him. It’s about what he did, and the people he did it to. Survivors describe his very presence in the court as “evil,” and the documentary resolutely chalks the case up as a triumph for good. By following the timelines so deliberately, Russell lays out the arc of a perfect detective story. That being said, I could have watched two more installments on the villain and collateral damage.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer streams on Netflix on Jan. 13.

The post Night Stalker: The Hunt for a Serial Killer Review – Richard Ramirez Docuseries Speaks Plainly appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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popculturebuffet · 4 years

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Ducktales 87 Review: A Whale of A Bad Time (Catch as Cash Can Part 2)

A SEA MONSTER ATE MY ICE CREAM! Yup come with me under the cut as I cover one of the most infamous moments of all Ducktales.. and the absolutely bonkers episode attached involving robot ice cream trucks, giant robotic whales, Optimus Prime as a navy admiral, and semen.. er seaman Donald Duck! All of this and more commissioned by @weirdkev27 is waiting under the ocean and under the cut! Come aboard!

So yeah....

And not the adventure time or regular show or what have you kind of intetionally weird I mean all the elements just sort of conjeal into a mess of poor decisions in and out of universes, robotic whales and the most insane scheme to get a noble peace prize of all time. If that and the intro didn’t hook you I don’t know what will, let’s do this.

PREVIOUSLY ON DUCKTALES:

Okay maybe not THAT previously... guess I gotta do this myself. *Grumble grumble* : Last time we met a steoyptical-ish foreign leader give Scrooge and Glomgold a deadline to literally weigh their fortunes in his country at ten days, with Glomgold’s sending the Beagle Boys after Scrooge in an attempt to cheat.. and springing from jail in a giant blimp shaped like a cow because your guess is as good as mine. Scrooge naturally won and here we are. As said last time, these episodes were still basically written as done in ones, able to be digested on their own, just with the overall framework of the four parter, in this case Scrooge and Glomgold’s contest, tieing it together. So with that out of the way.

We open as Duckburg is hit with a heatwave.

No that’s Heat Wave.. and besides he works out of central city, not Duckberg silly.. wherever those images come from.. me I guess? I dunno. Point is the boys are sweaty and uncomfortable, just like me 90 percent of the time, and decide to cool off by visiting Scrooge’s new ice cream factory for free samples. We’re only about a minute, and a recap about the contest on the news, in and already the characters this episode are acting kind of dumb.. get used to it. One of Scrooge’s primary, most consistent, most iron clad character traits is he does NOT give away something for nothing. Even for Charity he’ll often try and pench pennies and how much he donates, and in older harsher comics like Carl Barks famous “A Christmas For Shacktown” good luck getting him to donate any money to anyone else AT ALL. If he DOES give someone a gift, it’s usually with an alterior motive or some sort of scheme brewing, with Donald or the Nephews or all four rightly questioning him. The idea any factory of any product of his would give out samples unless he got something out of doint so or that they wouldn’t be tiny or use flavors that don’t sell or some cost cutting measure like that is nuts and while it’s not out of the boys characters to be stupid it is a bit for them to just blindly think he’d be okay with this. Their soon distracted by other matters once they arrive though as the Guard won’t let them in despite being Huey, Dewey and Louie as much like bill and ted their a package deal, and yes they do a team pose and yes.. it’s actually pretty adorable. Again nepotism has never been a trait of scrooges either boys, why would he start now? They try flagging down one of his ice cream trucks but they totally ignore him. and seem to be driving automatically... they also look human which... yeah. Just.. yeah. The boys are naturally suspicious and plan to ask scrooge at Dinner. This fails because Scrooge isn’t coming and Beakly refuses to let them disturb him on his orders.. and refused to let Webby eat till everyone’s at the table. I’ll come back to Beakly in a second, and there will be blood dumpster.

The boys sleep that night, but are woken up by the ice cream trucks and wondering why the hell their running at night... which yeah is weird and was a bad part of the plan. We’ll get to why that plan’s a bit totally fucked in a second though as the boys assume someone is doing something shady with scrooge’s company and pull a Marty McFly, attaching their skateboards to a bumper and then hopping onto one of the trucks. And given that Magica, the Beagle Boys and Flintheart have all gone up at scrooge several times at this point judging by the episode guides, not to mention all the one off thieves, scumbags, con artists and warlords they’ve fought, you honestly can’t blame them for being super suspicious.

Their suspcions of this being some kind of elaborate theft are semeingly confirmed when instead of , and this is really the flavor they use “Bubble Gum Pistachio Fudge” they find Scrooge’s money. And let’s just take a sec to .. unpack that flavor as none of those go together. I mean in a three scoop cone or bowl maybe, but in the same ice cream your just throwing shit together at that point. And the flavor isn’t outlandish enough to really be a good joke.

I’ts just three flavors jammed together that don’t belong. It’s not like the, ironically in the same year, 87 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle’s love for weird pizza toppings. That.. actually comes off as a joke. It didn’t always land in the episodes i’d seen but I get what their going for. Thanks to this infographic I know they put ALL of this on pizza at some point, omitting actual pizza toppings for obvious reasons: Granola, Licorice, Fudge, Marshmallows, Clams, Peanut Butter, Avacado (Which didn’t sound bad in theory but once I thought about it I winced), Pickles, Asparagus, Butterscotch, Onions (Yes I know this is an actual regular pizza topping but no just.. no.. everyone hones in on anchovies, which i’ve never had but no.. onions are the real scourge of the pizza world), Toast, Tea (okay that one actually shocked me), Clam Sauce, Chocolate Sprinkles, Jelly Beans, Yogurt, Coconut, Strawberries, Oatmeal, Grape Jelly, Gucamole, Tuna, Popcorn, Sardines, Whipped Cream, Bannans and Goulash. The point i’m making is it’s not hard to come up with even a weak wacky flavor of something and it was a weird line to just utterly botch but they somehow did it. Also that the Teenage Mutant Turtles have serious issues to address. I mean onions, really? onions? Guys you can do better... onions are a next mutation topping!

One Tangent Later, the boys and the trucks arrive at the docks where they see the money filled ice cream trucks loading onto a boat and a shadowy mystery man. Who could it be? My money is on

But my money is always on Crab People. It’s likely why i’m poor. But the boys chuck a bag of cash at him, then Louie... prepares to break his legs with a crowbar?

Seriously the truck was automated and they came straight form home. he had to have brought that with him. Whelp at least Louie has a unique character trait: He likes to make people bleed. I don’t know if that’s necessarily a GOOD thing for a 8-10 year old to want to do but it’s better than nothing. Before Louie can get up to a bit of the ultra violence, Huey finds out it’s Scrooge who explains himself: Naturally the sudden new Ice Cream Factory he built in days right next to the bin is a front, and the trucks are his own, a stealthy way to outfox glomgold. While the news said he was transporting the loot by air, he’s doing it by sea stealthily to prevent glomgold from attacking it. Which given he hasn’t a giant cow Zepplin, fair enough.

The rest of this though is ludicrously overcomplicated: First off it’s not REMOTELY stealthy to build a giant fake factory next to your bin, days before you transport your cash, something so obvious i’m suprised Glomgold dind’t just come to the factory himself and set some explosives. Second while Robot Drivers isn’t a bad idea, Glomgold has many spies with many eyes, it’s a BIG gamble to both have active trucks around, especially at night carrying large sums of cash. I mean what if the police stopped them? Sure Scrooge could get his money back legally, but Flintheart might get to it first or bribe some cops first. Or some dirty cops might take it for themselves. It’s also WEIRDLY costly for someone as spiendthrift as Scrooge, I mean while he owns the land for the factory he had to buy a ton of trucks, pay for gyro’s, i’m assuming Gyro’s at least, material to make the robots, and pay for the guard to keep people out as well as presumibly either well paid workers or more robots inside to get the money into the trucks. It’s just hilariously overcomplicated and while not an intentional joke clearly got a laugh out of me as it just makes no logical sense for scrooge’s character and he’s done similar ideas for far less money in the comics. It’s a carl barks style “hide the money bin’s cash” plot, funnled through bloodshot eyes of someone having done a small mountain of cocaine to get this script done on time and I love it for that. The boys applaud their uncle for his wacky scheme while a mysteroius periscope watches them from a distance.

The Next Morning Beakly is still awful as despite everyone being there, she now refuses to let Webby eat till everyone’s settled. And NOW we can talk about 87 Beakly. I don’t like her. She’s had one or two moments in the episodes I watched, but outside of that she’s a bland character who mostly fusses over the boys and webby, worries things are too dangerous, or is there for a weak joke. She’s just not all that intresting, and while i’ll grant the 87 Ducktales cast isn’t the deepest set of characters and the boys can be annoying depending on the episode.. their at least INTRESTING. The boys are clever, rambunctions and curious, Webby has all of that and an underlying swetness that while cloying at times is mostly just really endearing, Launchpad is a klutz and a crash magnet but means well and keeps trying and genuinely is a good scoutleader and person, and Scrooge despite his rough edges is a hardscrabbled adventuerer. The rest of the main cast here at least has a drive and character to them that makes the stories work when their at their best. Beakly is just kinda.. there. Why I also go into this is because 87 Webby gets a lot of shit.. and she really dosen’t deserve it. Yes she’s clearly a studio executives idea of what a little girl should like and that’s bad. And yes she got kidnapped a bunch.. but so did everyone else. But she makes up for that by being the heart of the team, offering love and empathy to all of them, easily bonding with varous animals and people they meet, and genuinely offering a naive but optimistic worldview that nicely contrasts with scrooge and the boys understandable cyncism. And she CAN handle herself more often than not. Wheras frank and co basically took almost everything about beakly and started over with Webby they simply tweaked her for the times: Made her about the same age if not older than the triplets so their equals, took away the triplet’s outdated and utterly loathsome sexisim, and added badassery and intellegence to her already admirable emotional skills and naive optimism, along with some boundless energy on top.They took a decent character and made her an amazing one. With Beakly.. they took a dodering, easily frightned old lady whose overly proper and stuffy and turned her into a taciturn, snarky, badass former secret agent whose the sanest person in the mansion and when she IS wrong, will not only admit it but usually had some good reason for it. She also goes from being mostly deferent to scrooge to one of his few equals, to the point that the “87 Cent Solution!” lampshades the fact that if they’d called her the episode would’ve been over, as she’s , outside of a few exceptions the one person he listens to. She’s a throughly likeable, throughly complex character and one i’m glad their doing more with this season while I really hope I don’t see the original her more than I have to. Okay with that rant done for this and any future retro ducktales reviews, we can get to the reason your all here and Kev comissioned me to do all 4 of these episodes: You’ve seen it on youtube, you’ve seen it in “Let’s get Dangerous”, you’ve seen it in dreams, ladies, gentleman and others, A. SEA. MONSTER. ATE. MY. ICE. CREAM.

As the family sits for pancakes, Wippleman, Scrooge’s accountant and what I can only assume is this universe’s version of WWE manager Harvey Wippleman, comes in and has some bad news for Scrooge: A Sea Monster of some kind sunk one of his ships.. but the good news it was only Ice Cream. Knowing what it really was Scrooge goes absolute APE shit and procedes to hop around the table going absolutely insane, destroying everyone’s breakfast, with poor webby bemoaning she’ll never get to eat, Beakly remarking “it must’ve been some ice cream’ which isnt’ a bad line, Huey explaning what’s up with the weirdly delivered “It was half his fort-une!” and the boys finally restraining Scrooge with an impromptu tablecloth straightjacket, which calms him down and he hops off to get his money back. Wether you’ve seen the scene for yourself and ESPECIALLY if somehow you haven’t, it’s right here if you want to take another look.

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This scene is not only the most remembered part of the special, and easily the most beloved, it’s one of the best scenes in all of Ducktales 87 and easily one of the funniest across duck canon. Everything just clicks: The concept, the animation showing off just how manic scrooge is, how he never does the same move twice, how rather than looping it Alan Young very clearly said the word a bunch of times each time with a different more manic and uniquely hilarious delivery, Beakly’s deadpan reaction, and the boys vain attempts to restrain him before finally succeeding. Everything about this works and in an otherwise just really off center episode, this sparkling gem of a scene stands out. I waited till now to talk about Alan Young’s scrooge and honestly the man defined the roll for a reason: he can do a dramatic or emotional delivery just as effortlessly as a comic bit like this, and plays the character with the sternness and stubbornness expected. He got the character perfectly and it’s unsurprising Frank and Matt wanted him to reprise the roll and he only didn’t because he sadly passed on, though I will say David Tenant is a perfect replacement. Though even HE couldn’t do the Sea Monster Ate My Ice Cream bit as well as Alan, as his felt a bit more stilted and was clearly looped, but really I don’t think anyone could top him at this. It’s his shining moment as the character and he earned it square.

So getting back to the ten car pileup that is the rest of this episode, the boys and Scrooge head under the sea, doot doot doot, to find his ship. But while under water they instead find the navy who’ve quarantined the ship.. yet aren’t wearing face masks inside their little suits. How odd. Guess the giant glass dome and giant ocean of water between them and the ship helps but still, you can’t be too careful. Point is both sides are being kind of douchey: The Naval Guards, rather than direct Scrooge to their superior to PROVE it’s his vessel and ask questions to him directly since their aircraft carrier soon turns out not to be far from here just tell him he can’t pass and Scrooge is as bill gerent as you’d expect. I’m not saying people aren’t this dumb in real life, just google any video of a karen of any gender throwing a giant tantrum in a store over masks, i’m just saying i’td be nice to move the plot along without unnecessary cul de sacs. The boys however naturally have a way around this and sneak in with scrooge on the underside of a sea turtle. It’s a genuinely clever tactic. They find the ship with a large bite out of it.. and the Navy then swoop in to take them in.

On the ship Scrooge continues to not help his case and pulls a classic old white guy and demands to see their superior. Or white person in particular really. Point is he throws a strop on their way to what could easily be a trip to the brig with his behavior and possible criminal charges, while the boys muse that this is Donald’s ship. For the uninitiated, the in-series reason Donald left the boys for this series was he was called back to the Navy, and thus left the boys with Scrooge. Out of series it was an executive mandate: As Tad Stones, future creator of Darkwing Duck and story editor for Ducktales 87, explained, and I found out about this via looper, Disney was nervous about having one of their biggest characters overexposed by having him as part of 65 episode tv show. This was combined with the fact they were worried Donald’s voice would make stories confusing. I also believe, if with no proof there was at third reason: Tony Anselmo had just started as Donald Duck, taking over from the late great Clarence Nash at Nash’s request after Nash died in 85, and they likely feared putting Tony through such a ringer this soon might sour audiences on him before audiences had gotten used to the new voice actor. So with all this Donald was kept to the occasional guest roll, though I will say while there have been complaints about Donald’s voice on this show I have no issue with it. It’s not as good as the reboot.. but the reboot also comes after Tony’s been playing the roll for over 30 years and is just as iconic as his predecessor in the roll at this point versus two years after his mentor died and he picked up his sword.. or squawky duck voice in this case.

Scrooge is escorted to Admiral Grimitz, the head of this aircraft carrier whose showed up in other Donald episodes, specifically his segment of the Treasure of the Golden Suns series opener. He’s the gruff but mostly fair head of the ship and is voiced by, of all the va’s possible, Peter “Optimus Prime” Cullen, using a voice that is DIFFRENT but not by much. It’s hard not to be distracted by it. The Admiral waves scrooge off from his entirely justified fear the Army stole his money, but refuses to give any details since i’ts classified. Scrooge angrily.. decides to do the next shipment anyway and tells them to stay out of it instead of calling the president like he threatened to get some answers. Or threaten to pull funding for his military contracts. I know Scrooge never would, but they don’t know that. It’s just.. odd to see scrooge give up and it would’ve made more sense if the Admiral threatened legal action first or something that would get him to back off. The Admiral then brings in Donald, and gives him the truth: Their own scientist, Dr. Bluebottle, stole an experimental sub shaped like a whale and stole the money for reasons they don’t know. So since he can go undercover easily, he sends Donald to go with scrooge and slaps a transmitter on him so they can track him. Donald also does some slapstick. That’s my boy. And yes it was a very nice surprise to see him again since i’d forgot he was in this episode. Especially since aside from “The Trickining!” he hasn’t been in any episodes since Ducktales came back. Justifably though as none of those NEEDED him and the show’s massively improved from it’s “donald might as not well exist” days of season 1, I just miss him is all and it’s nice to see some form of him again. And this is where the episode kinda lost me, as this scheme, while not really out of the bounds of the reality, just.. feels like it overcomplicates the plot for the sake of padding. I mean I buy the Government going iwth a far more complex plan to cover their own asses.. but it would’ve made more sense from a plot standpoint to have it go this way: The Admiral is honest with Scrooge, tells him about bluebottle.. and threatens him into helping them by pointing out he broke into a federal quarantine and defined naval orders and could be brought up on charges, and if he tired telling anyone about Bluebottle could likewise be tried for leaking federal secrets. That way instead of using an unknowing scrooge as bait he goes into the situation KNOWING he’s probably going to get captured and while grumbly about it uses it to his advantage. Donald could still plausibly be sent along as naval lisaon/as a seemingly nice act/to have the bug to track the sub. Instead it just feels like they added an extra uncessary step to things to pad the episode more. I mean if you needed to do that just add more of the sea monster or give launchpad a cameo. He’s been missing for days at this point.

So Scrooge and family, which naturally includes Webby and Beakly even if I don’t like classic bleakly she’s still family, head out with the second half of his fortune which makes next to no sense when he has days left in the concept and you know, half is missing, but whatever. Naturally the obvious happens and we meet the famous Sea Monster.. which actually looks neat.. it’s drawn like your standard cartoony killer whale but has bits of indents much like a sub would to show it’s not entirely a beast. It’s a nice bit of design work. The whale eats the cash and Donald and Scrooge but the navy pick up the boys, webby and beakly. Donald let’s things slip on the sub, while back at the carrier the good Admiral explains the rest and my other issues with the plot aside this scene is a good bit of exploition as it explains some obvious questions away cleverly, something this plot could’ve used more of frankly but it’s refreshing to get at least a little: The reason they don’t just attack the sub en masse, besides it being you know incredibly valuable is that it’s made to be torpedo resistant, it’s sonar resitant so they can’t track it easily, and it’s faster than any ship. After all it was made to be a super weapon, so naturally the carriers standard barrage of navy vehicles can’t match it. However again to the episodes credit the tracker is actually vitally important, as it allows them to see the ship and where it is, so they can attack.. though right now their holding off on it since a crewman and a civilian are on board but if it comes down to it they’ll have no choice. I also gotta admit..t his concept is pretty cool. Kind of ridiculous? Sure but a super sub shaped like a whale that can still bite like one and outrun and outlast any other sea vehicle? It’s undoubtly awesome and a point in this episodes favor. But now we get to most gloriously insane and convoluted part of the episode.. yes NOW we do. Donald and Scrooge naturally sneak around the ship, and find Dr. Bluebottle at his controls, talking to Flintheart on a video monitor. Turns out, to no one’s surprised, Flintheart subcontracted out his plans to Bluebottle and in exchange for keeping the money under the ocean till the contest, Glomgold is going to make sure he gets the Nobel Prize, and covers on all the magazines. Okay at first I genuinely thought this plan made no sense.. until I realized it does, but ONLY for Glomgold. Bluebottle comes off as the smartest moron that’s ever lived for agreeing to any of this. But I have to give Glommy this the plan works out great for him: He convinces an already Rogue scientist to steal scrooge’s money, which prevents Scrooge from finding out what’s going on as he, correctly, guessed the government would cover this up because of course they did. He then correctly figured either the government would work with scrooge to trap bluebottle or they’d just use scrooge as bait anyway without a formal agreement, thus netting him scrooge’s entire fortune. He knows bluebottle won’t take it up because he gave bluebottle a bribe specifically for him and the only thing he wants, and even if he does take the money, Glomgold has more and Bluebottle could still remotely blow up the sub or something. And if he can’t the Navy would have to hold the sub, and money included , as evidence for the trial. And even if Bluebottle DOES rat him out, Glomgold could easily bury the evidence. The only way glomgold gets caught is if Bluebottle recorded their video chats or if scrooge saw them talking.. which he did, but given the two are direct competitors his testimony is dubious at best as is donald’s. So basically Flintheart almost certainly wins no matter what, and Bluebottle takes the fall no matter what. It does make Bluebottle comeff as a massive moron for not thinking of this, but props to glomgold. Also yeah.. it’s clear to me at this point that if he hasn’t said it somewhere Frank clearly did the same thing he did with Gyro here with Flintheart: Take one accidental trait from the original (Glomgold’s penchant for overly complicated schemes and Gyro’s tendency to make robots that go rogue.) and make it a part of their personality instead of just a coincidence and turn it up to 11 for hilarity.. which worked in both cases. I genuinely thought this Flintheart was saner but no he’s just less interesting. So Bluebottle gets an intruder alert.. and turns around to find Scrooge and Donald. Who rather than just whap the guy on the head while his back is turned, just stood there to confront him directly.

Look this review is running long and is behind, I don’t have more time to marvel over how plot conveniently stupid they are being right now. A fight ensues with blue bottles inventions till Donald threatens to pull a big lever. I’ts thankfully not the self destruct lever like Donald thinks or Bluebottle’s equivlent of the blow up the engine button because he’s clearly just that smart, but a lever to dump all the gold.. which isn’t a terrible idea for once as if the ship gets stalled it can float up, as we’ll naturally see as there was no way they weren’t going to pull this chekov’s lever at some point. Scrooge stops him, Bluebottle uses gadgets to tie both up and finds out about the bug , as that’s why the miltary have been able to attack him which happened but I didn’t get to becuse of all the stupid. Bluebottle snuffs it out and then fully assaults the aircraft carrier, and things look grim. But Scrooge and Donald aren’t put down that easily and escape and scrooge pulls a donald and just starts breaking shit and breaks the sub. Now with the sub plumiting, and Bluebottle bragging that only he can fix it as the sub will just keep sinking into the ocean’s depths.. and that only it’s design has kept compression from crushing them to death. But Scrooge has another solution and a suprisingly, and badassingly self sacrifical one: He dumps the money into the marinara trench, nice pun, and thus the whale floats up, Bluebottle is arrested, and Glomgold... still wins for now as Scrooge still has to get his fortune out, but Scrooge figures Gyro can help with that. We get an everybody laughs ending and we’re out.

Final Thoughts: This one is a mess. While it has a great moment here or there, Donald and Tony as him are fantastic as they are now, and of course A Sea Monster Ate My Ice Cream! is an utterly classic scene and an utter joy to watch. The attached episode is just a mess structurally, if still a fun watch. Yes despite my bitching about it the sheer slapped together nature of it means it’s fun to pick apart and make fun of, so it’s not unwatchable. I’ve seen worse episodes of this very show, and worse episodes of tv. But as an old friend would say.

Not a terrible sit, but it easily could’ve been better. I’m also getting tired of scrooge being enitrely usless and just throwing up his hands at times. Stop that he’s better than that. With this one THANKFULLY AND FINALLY out of the way, next up is Aqua Ducks.......

Oh god. Well if you want to see the next one follow me. If there’s an episode of any animated show you’d like to see me cover classic ducktales, modern ducktales, disney in general, etc, etc, just send me a PM and you can comission a review. 5 bucks for one episode, 15 for a movie and 5 bucks off one episode when you order three or more like say a multiparter like this. Until then say safe, check your house for Busey’s and hopefully we’ll meet again.

#ducktales #scrooge mcduck #donald duck #bentina beakley #webbigail vanderquack #huey dewey and louie #flintheart glomgold #reviews #review

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