#I’m literally seeing a fucking cop place being built when no one wants it and the people in power aren’t doing anything to stop it
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Well I lost a follower for a reblog that says that we live under a one party system in the us government and voting for the lesser of two evils won’t save us. I used to believe that voting for someone of the lesser of two evils was a good idea and would make a difference. Even if the lesser of two evils is awful and a racist person. However, I see now that isn’t. Things have gotten bad to worse and the current people in power didn’t even do anything about it. They just let it happen and broke every single promise to us. How can things get worse if an awful guy wins over the less awful guy who’s in power now when the current guy isn’t doing anything to help us and is making things worse? And continues the same awful policies that the awful guy did and is going against what most people want? And most importantly Is currently backing one of the biggest war crimes in history right now? Newsflash dummy, we are already in hell and saying that the other guy is going to make things worse when things are already fucking bad is fucking stupid! No one should have to vote for an awful candidate who is not only part of the biggest crime we are seeing right now but isn’t doing anything to help us! We need better options and there are better options. Voting doesn’t always help. If you really think that voting for a “less” terrible candidate over another terrible candidate, you’re a damn fool. We saw what happened in 2016 elections ( they did that lesser of two evils shit and that didn’t work) and the same thing is going to happen next year if we’re going to have vote for the same shitty guy we currently have in office!
#mine#I don’t speak on this kind of stuff on here but this is important#I’m literally seeing a fucking cop place being built when no one wants it and the people in power aren’t doing anything to stop it#they aren’t a bunch of republicans btw and they are trying so hard to for it to be built#when they ran that they would reduce the number of cops#they don’t give a fuck about us#no one does and they only serve one purpose#we live in a one party system with two parties#the current guy in power is still building the wall and he continues the loan payments
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Philosophies of Justice and Narrative Catharsis in Young Royals
Do you ever just have… conversations with yourself at 2 am?
Me: Wow. August did some bad shit. I want him to get therapy and help, but I also want him to face some kinda legal punishment.
Also me: Oh, self. You don’t trust cops or judges or prisons. The legal system would be way harsher on Simon about the drugs. Doesn’t that give you anxiety?
A third me, thousands of words in and possessed by a hyperfocus demon: Well fuck. We might be doing a meta about it. It’s okay, this can just be building blocks for our graduate school thesis on YA literature. Ahaha it’s fine.
The following meta looks at philosophies of justice, both retributive and restorative, as they appear in the worldbuilding Young Royals. This is a monster of a meta, like ~6500 words long, so be aware of that going in. Content note for discussion of all the usual crime topics in YR, as well as the injustices present in real world legal systems.
Intro: Shifting the Focus
Fandom loves discussing—and disagreeing about—the redemption arc. Who can blame us? As human beings, we’re wired to notice novelty, and redemption arcs involve a character experiencing some sort of dramatic transformation. This transformation could be gradually built up to for a series of chapters or seasons, or it could be sudden and jarring. It could involve one big dramatic gesture or a series of small changes. Whatever happens, fans end up debating what they see onscreen.
Now, I love a good discussion. I also love stories that poke beyond simple notions of good and evil, where characters are capable of change in multiple directions, And yet, as someone who has spent years in fandom, I increasingly find the discussion of redemption arcs unsatisfying and even boring. Everyone seems to have their own definition of what constitutes “enough” good deeds for a character’s redemption, and even their own opinions of who is worthy of redemption in the first place. It seems we can’t entirely agree on what the term means, and everyone gets bogged down in discourse.
At first, my dissatisfaction prompted me to ask what I considered a well-written redemption arc. Well, no, that’s not accurate. There was a little arrogant voice inside me telling me that I, the great bluedalahorse, who has devoted many hours of academic study to various literary texts and even made complicated spreadsheets to track ideas in my favorite books, could use my genius analytical skills to find out what a perfect redemption arc is supposed to look like and develop a formula for it. And then I stepped back and laughed at myself. Since when did good writing ever follow a formula? All the best writers know how and when to break the rules. Also, I am not as much of a genius as I think I am. I’m literally just hanging out here and overthinking my fictional faves like the rest of fandom.
A lightbulb moment switched on when I attended a workshop focused on restorative justice in schools, back in the summer of 2022. As I listened and processed the things I was learning, my storyteller brain kept poking me. Hey, it was saying to me. Heyyyy can we use restorative justice principles to write better character arcs? Particularly redemption arcs? I talked to my MFA adviser about this as we began to workshop ideas for a critical thesis in Young Adult literature. We started to explore the ways that restorative justice principles showed up in books like Patron Saints of Nothing by Randy Ribay and All American Boys by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely. I got a little further along in my theories, identifying techniques authors used to show characters confronting their privilege, unlearning old behaviors, and making amends for harm that they caused others. Still, something was missing. I just wasn’t getting where I wanted to with my analysis.
A few weeks ago I had a second lightbulb: what if we stop looking at justice in relationship to character arcs alone, and start looking at worldbuilding?
That clicked. Oh, boy, did it click! You really can’t talk about characters without understanding their world. Once I attended a panel on writing villains, and one of the panelists asserted that you can’t develop your villain as a character until you’ve developed your world. (Whether villains are outcasts hellbent on revenge, or oppressive tyrants at the top of their society, their world plays a role in shaping them.) Since what we call redemption arcs so often involves taking a character out of a villainous space and into a more heroic one, naturally worldbuilding has to be a factor in that kind of story. I also realized that the framing of the “redemption arc” frustrates me because on some level, it’s still tied to the Western Christian idea of individual salvation. I didn’t want to necessarily focus on what what one character does or doesn’t do individually without also focusing on that character’s relationship to other characters and their communities.
So I decided to experiment with shifting the focus of my thesis research. There were only two things left to do: come up with a framework for exploring my ideas, and test those questions out on Young Royals. Because it’s my favorite show, and it has a lot to say about justice. That said, a lot of what I say here and the methods I use could be applied to other shows as well. I’m curious to hear what it might have to say about your other favorite works of fiction!
The Framework
After some drafting during early morning bus commutes, I came up with three questions I wanted to explore when looking at Young Royals and other texts. These questions are:
What is the authorial philosophy of justice? What principles of justice are at play in how the author constructs the characters, world, and storylines?
How is justice enacted (or not) through the legal system(s) in this story’s setting? To what extent do the ideals of that legal system match up with its reality? To what extent should they?
What are the individual characters’ experiences of justice in their day to day life? What social norms do they end up creating in their smaller communities to enforce their ideas of justice?
What I like about this series of questions is that it allows a text to speak in multiple voices. There has been a lot of fandom discourse over the last ten years (and even longer, honestly, this shit goes back at least to Plato’s dialogues) about authorial intent and whether depiction equals endorsement and so on. I don’t think I’m going to end those debates today. Still, I do think it’s worth pointing out that a TV show or a book or a movie is able to tell a story and make a point in a different way than an essay or campaign speech does. You can have different characters own different parts of the truth. A particular setting can be positive for one character and negative for another. Fiction is really good at exploring paradoxes, contradictions, and tensions. I created these questions because they force me to tease out the tensions in a narrative and where there might be meaning in them.
Come on, Blue! you say. We know Young Royals has a lot of tension in it. When are you gonna start talking about your fandom? Okay. Fine. I’ll get to the sad teenagers now. Put on your school uniforms, everyone. We’re going to Hillerska!
No Good or Bad People, Only Good or Bad Actions
The title for this section comes from me paraphrasing Omar paraphrasing Lisa in an interview.
Two questions you may have about this section are: 1. What makes authorial philosophy (a term I am pretty sure I just made up for the purposes of this meta) different than authorial intent? 2. What’s the relationship between the author’s philosophy and their worldbuilding?
To answer question 1, I am defining authorial philosophy for the purposes of this meta as what the author intends + how effectively they convey that through their storytelling and craft. So like, authorial intent, but we’re also holding the author somewhat accountable for how their message comes across. Generally I read Lisa and the rest of the team as pretty intentional in how they craft their stories, and I can see how their ideas play out in practice, so I am more likely to give credence to authorial intent. I might not do that for other authors. As someone who reads heavily in the YA novel field, I’ve seen plenty of books with surface progressivism that end up being kinda reactionary when you scrape beneath that surface. Usually it’s a craft issue or the author not being intentional enogh. Young Royals, so far, has not been that kind of text.
As for question 2, authors can use their worldbuilding to reinforce their authorial philosophy, whether that’s through having characters in the story espouse said philosophy, or by using the story’s plot and character arcs to test their story, or by some combination of the two. Lisa is a writer who affords her characters a lot of grace, but I also see her as willing to test that grace and our her personal philosophy on trial. She’s very aware that ideals don’t always match up with reality, and those tensions are part of what she explores so well in her writing.
Now that we’ve addressed those questions, let’s address the authorial philosophy of Young Royal.
Young Royals stands out from other school dramas because it handles nuance so well. But how do Lisa and her team achieve that nuance? Part of it is the way their approach to characters resonates with the philosophy of restorative justice.
Restorative justice can be defined as “a system of criminal justice which focuses on the rehabilitation of offenders through reconciliation with victims and the community at large.” This website has some additional information about what restorative justice looks like in theory and practice. (Plenty of other websites do as well.) Restorative justice is really hard to pull of IRL, but philosophically it does ask us to think about the ways in which more retributive and punitive justice systems are failing people.
Now, before I get too far into my explanation, I don’t know if Lisa chose a restorative justice approach to her writing on purpose, or how much she’s read about the subject. But a lot of what she prioritizes as a writer lines up with certain RJ principles anyway. For example, RJ practitioners believe that every human being has worth and dignity, and that leaning too far into a retributive justice model (more on that in the next section) can be dehumanizing for both victims and offenders. In Lisa’s writing, each character is humanized, there are no characters who are caricatures. Everyone in Young Royals has their own reasons for behaving why they behave—even when they make choices that harm others. There aren’t excuses, but there are explanations.
Two other important ideas in RJ are accountability and dialogue. Season 2 of YR deals a lot with the question of accountability. Wilhelm’s positive growth is signaled by his willingness to be accountable for his actions; August’s more tragic arc is characterized by his baby steps toward accountability followed by his dramatic backflip away from it.
Regarding dialogue, Wilhelm’s growth is fostered by important and vulnerable conversations with others. Sometimes these conversations are with the people he harmed or impacted in a negative way. He and Felice have to talk their way through the weirdness of that kiss, while he and Simon have to talk about… well, everything. TBH they’re not done talking yet. But they’ve started, and that’s where the progress and catharsis is happening. Other times, Wilhelm’s conversations with other members of the Hillerska community—Nils and Boris come to mind—help him to see things in a new light and clarify his ideals. When we cheer on Wilhelm as he comes to better understand his privilege in the world and the weight that his actions have, we’ve been enlisted by Lisa to support restorative justice philosophy.
No one character represents Lisa’s philosophy entirely, because she’s so committed to all characters being fallible in their own ways, but I would say that of the main cast, the Eriksson siblings and Felice are the most likely to express different parts of restorative justice philosophy. All of them strive to look for people’s human side instead of relying on stereotypes. They want the people close to them to be accountable for their actions. They talk things through. They recognize the needs of multiple people in a situation. This doesn’t happen all the time, with every person, in every instance. They get distracted and led astray. There may be times where it would benefit them to get outside help and they don’t. Sometimes their efforts blow up in their face. But they’re trying, and I think Wilhelm has definitely joined them by the end of season 2.
So sure, all the characters in Young Royals might brush up against the principles of restorative justice, but they still “live in a society” as we may or may not still say on the internet. In order to understand more, let’s talk about the legal system as it’s presented in the show.
Call Your Lawyer Stepdad
As a writer, Lisa may believe in restorative justice principles, and this likely guides how she depicts the characters in her story. The legal systems she depicts in her work, however, are not restorative. What’s more, they are applied unequally based on the identity of the person who breaks laws or rules. Young Royals is very clear about the distinction between the ideals of the law and how the law actually gets enforced.
Obligatory disclaimer: I’m not a law student or someone who’s studied much comparative politics, so I can’t say for sure whether Sweden’s legal system leans more retributive or more rehabilitative. I also can’t say whether the ideals of its legal system match its reality, but I am making a safe guess that they don’t entirely. (Sweden, my ancestral homeland, I love kanelbullar and ABBA, but your current right wing government and your response to the COVID pandemic and your history of colonization, among other things, shows that you are just as capable of bullshit as any other nation. Forgive me if I approach your legal system with caution. If anyone from Sweden or another Nordic country has more info and can weigh in, feel free to weigh in.) It’s also worth mentioning my own preconceived notions here. I live in a country with a massive mass incarceration problem and a legal system that was specifically created to reinforce white supremacy, so my trust in law enforcement and courts and the like is… not high.
What I can say about the legal system in Young Royals is this: the writing of the show primarily focuses on the retributive aspects of the legal system. In a retributive justice system, those who break the law are criminals, and they are punished for their crimes. Punishment is seen as a way of deterring crime and keeping it from happening in the future.
We see the impact of a system like that when legal consequences motivate characters and the choices they make. Simon is afraid of getting caught and prosecuted for bringing drugs into school, while August fears being put on trial and imprisoned for leaking the video. What’s interesting to me, though, is that it isn’t just that both characters fear punishment. They also fear the stigma that comes with being publicly convicted of a crime. Simon doesn’t want to be stereotyped as the poor kid who comes into school and pushes drugs on the rich kids. He knows how dangerous drug addiction can be from witnessing his dad, and he brings the drugs into school out of financial desperation. August, meanwhile, wants to think of himself as an untouchable elite who is discreet about secrets, and probably (more sympathetically) also wants to think of himself as a relatively helpful guy who showed Wilhelm around school and took care of him the way Erik would have wanted. I think it’s very clever how Lisa had Simon and August each break the law in ways that betray their respective core values, because it brings this issue with a retributive justice system to light. Once someone has committed a crime, how do they move past that stigma and make themself into the sort of person who doesn’t do a crime again?
This leads to another issue with retributive justice. We often equate legality with morality subconsciously, but these two ideas are not the same thing. In August’s case, leaking the video is easy enough for us to label—it is both illegal because it is against the law and immoral because it violates Simon and Wilhelm’s right to sexual privacy. Simon bringing in his dad’s drugs—that’s against the law, sure. But is it immoral? Simon is up against a corrupt teacher who rewards students who can pay more with better grades. He needs to pay for tutoring if he want to succeed. He’s at a disadvantage because of his socioeconomic status, and he also probably hasn’t had time to process trauma around his dad’s addiction. From the point of view of a Hillerska parent, however, they’re just going to see Simon as a threat to their kid’s well-being.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Simon’s reasons for breaking the law are absolutely more sympathetic than August’s reasons. I cannot stress this enough. We see the way the system screws Simon over, and how it drives him to do what he does. Simon gets drugs to students who consent to take them, but when August films him and Wilhelm it’s without their consent. Moreover, August is complicit in Simon’s lawbreaking because he ends up being the guy who sells drugs on Simon’s behalf. (Jesus, August, sell a painting or something.) But who is the legal system in the YR universe more likely to give grace to? August. Who is it more likely to come down hard on? Simon. Simon does not have the wealth to afford a trial. He doesn’t have a lawyer stepdad on speed dial. He doesn’t have an in with the media like the royal family does, so he can’t control the public narrative of his life the same way that they can.
On a purely literal level, August dangling the threat of the pill bottle in front of everyone is the most textbook example of August being a little shit. On the thematic, level, however, this reminds us who the justice system really serves. It’s a caution against relying on the justice system—or at least relying on the justice system alone—for narrative catharsis in this story. Instead, we should be looking for narrative catharsis elsewhere. And, we should definitely be looking at more than one character arc if that is the case.
The Only Person You Can Truly Control Is Yourself
While season 2 includes the retributive justice of the legal system as part of its worldbuilding, we also see Wilhelm embody the philosophy of retributive justice through his actions. Wilhelm starts his arc in a place where he wants to punish August for what he’s done by taking away everything he cares about. He justifies this by pointing out the problems with the legal system—rich kids never actually face the consequences of their actions. While Wilhelm is correct to call that out, he ends up transforming himself into a more extreme agent of the retributive philosophy in order to pursue what he sees as justice.
Now, this is a writing gambit that could have failed spectacularly. We’ve all seen versions of the “if we are awful to our enemies, we’re just as bad as them” story that end up reinforcing an icky status quo. But that’s not exactly what happens in Young Royals. The first thing to notice is that Wilhelm’s approach works… initially. August has lost a lot at the beginning of season 2, part of it due to Wilhelm’s efforts, and that’s made him more willing to reflect and be vulnerable and listen to Sara when she tells him he can preserve his self-respect by turning himself in. I actually don’t think Sara’s being entirely naive when she points out that January August would have turned himself over. The problem is that as January August becomes February And March August and starts to gain new things to protect (an in with the palace, a new relationship with Sara) he becomes afraid of losing everything again, and starts to go back to his old ways.
The other thing to notice is that Wilhelm mostly acts alone. Felice is his confidant, but she’s not working alongside Wilhelm, suggesting they swap out August’s hair products with toothpaste. (I kinda wish she would have, though.) In spite of the fact that the video probably hurt Simon even more than it did Wilhelm (reminder: Wilhelm has access to a press team and hired security that let him walk away at first) Wilhelm doesn’t center Simon in the process of doling out punishment. He does it with the best of intentions—he doesn’t want Simon getting hurt—but that moment where Simon’s like “You did ALL THIS TO HIM when we could have reported him together???” Yeah. That’s extremely valid. And it hints at one of the central ideas of s2—yes, dealing with August is important, but priority number one for Wilhelm is Wilhelm taking accountability for his own actions (denying that it was him in the video) and making things right with Simon in that way. With that relationship restored (see what I did there? restorative justice?) they can lean on one another as they slay their next monster. At the end of the day, the person who Wilhelm has the most control over is himself. That’s why we end season 2 on him making the speech and publicly acknowledging his relationship with Simon, not with the arrival of cop cars at Hillerska.
Speaking of the choices Wilhelm decided to make, I invite Young Royals fans to consider how Wilhelm’s role as crown prince give his actions symbolic weight. The royal family may not have real lawmaking power, but they’re still supposed to represent Swedish values and traditions to the general public. If Wilhelm starts pursuing a kind of justice, then he’s making a statement about what justice looks like in Sweden whether he wants to or not. If he had shot August in the field, that would have been more than a murder—symbolically that would have been an execution, in a country that banned capital punishment in the 1970s. (Then again, Stella and Fredrika would probably be okay with that.)
I want to make one more point here as I transition into the next section. I don’t think Lisa is necessarily saying that August shouldn’t be punished or face consequences for his crime. But I do think she’s being very clear that a retributive justice philosophy is going to hit marginalized people without the resources to defend themselves—people like Simon—a lot harder. And that opens up the question of where we’re supposed to find catharsis. Can we really exhale at the image of jail cell doors clanging shut, knowing that this same legal system can come for Simon using the same tools? If Simon somehow manages to evade prosecution, can he ever really find relief? How long will that last? What’s to say the system won’t screw him over in other ways, and what’s to say that other rich kids won’t get away with what August did, or worse?
It would be one thing if a crime only harmed the individuals involved, but restorative justice philosophy reminds us that this harm also impacts communities and involves communities. So, without further ado, it’s time to zoom in and examine how justice plays out (or fails to) in the Hillerska community.
Snitches, Stitches, and Scapegoats
In the microcosm of Hillerska, students have organized their own justice system in miniature. Conformity gets rewarded, while open nonconformity gets ostracized. While there is some understanding among the students that individuals will deviate from heterosexual, traditionalist, rich kid norms, this deviation is generally only tolerated when students do it in secret. In this climate, Hillerska students do a lot of self-policing. Stella and Nils cover up their sexualities in ways that may not work for them long term. Felice frets about her physical appearance and how people will perceive her if she pursues boys a certain way. You get the picture.
Because of the pressure to maintain a pristine image of the school (gotta make those admissions brochures look sparkly clean!) the student body as a whole sweeps crime and “deviant” behavior under the rug by closing ranks and agreeing not to snitch on one another. The elite status of Hillerska students allows them to get away with a lot their public school peers would not. While gossip flourishes within Hillerska’s walls, woe betide anyone who lets it escape into the outer world.
On occasion, there are crimes that can’t be covered up, and it may be that more than one student is involved. We’ve seen what happens in this case. Hillerska students do not collectively assume responsibility, but instead agree upon a narrative about what happened and choose a scapegoat to pin the problem on. We see this most clearly in episode 1.5, when Alexander is found with the drugs that the Society used for their party. August suggests they pin the drugs on Simon, while Wilhelm breaks with tradition and says Alexander should take the fall, because Alexander can easily bounce back from an accusation like this. Sure enough, Alexander is back at Hillerska next season, far less innocent than before and far more likely to engage in political intrigue. Wilhelm’s considerations about how Alexander can more easily absorb the blame for the drugs are well thought out and in some ways compassionate—and we’re happy to cheer him on for defending Simon and to some extent we should. However, Wilhelm’s willingness to participate in the scapegoating system backfires on him nonetheless, and also entrenches him in one of the most toxic parts of Hillerska culture. He’s cut off one hydra head and two new ones have sprung up to take it’s place.
One obvious danger of scapegoating is that innocent people are often blamed for things they have nothing to do with. We’ve seen this negatively impact Simon on the rowing team and elsewhere. Vincent makes Simon the scapegoat for the rowing team’s loss in episode 2.3 and uses it as an excuse to bully him. Simon doesn’t get to sing his solo because people will recognize him from the video and that will affect the school’s image and the royal family’s image. Simon is innocent in these areas, but he’s being made to take on blame for situations that are a lot bigger than him. Of all the individual students at Hillerska, Simon’s probably getting the shortest end of the stick, and that’s directly related to the fact that he lacks privilege.
Feeding the Myths
There’s other ways to make people symbols of crime or deviance, however, that can damage the fabric of social groups in other ways. Since scapegoat isn’t quite the right term here, because it tends to presume innocence rather than superlative guilt, I’m going to borrow some season 2 language and refer to this as the Worst Person in the World Phenomenon. Now, this is where I’m going to go out on a limb a bit and ask a question the show might not engage with in season 3. They might do it. They might not. It may be beyond the scope of the story Lisa feels she is able to tell. I’m going to ask this question all the same:
If August faces public consequences and punishment for leaking the video, what impact will that actually have on the culture of Hillerska students? Will it prevent such a thing from ever happening again? Will it at least encourage self-reflection?
You could argue that a high profile case like August’s could deter his classmates from engaging in harmful behaviors. He may affect some students that way. I mean, what he did is Very Bad on the Bad scale. You might even call him… the Worst Person In The World. Who would want to be like the Worst Person In The World?
The flip side of the Worst Person In The World phenomenon is that can actually discourage people from taking responsibility and holding themselves accountable. Because gosh, what I did isn’t that bad. It’s not serial killer bad, or Vladimir Putin bad. Do we realistically believe that other students at Hillerska aren’t doing problematic things? That the rowing team has zero boys who will show a topless photo of their girlfriend (without her consent) to some of his bros while they chuckle over it? That some of the girl groups aren’t spreading wildly inappropriate and homophobic rumors about classmates that seriously damage reputations? That kids aren’t paying one another for test answers or putting pressure on one another to unsafely experiment with alcohol and drugs, even when students express boundaries and don’t want to? That kids don’t collectively work to bully teachers at times? And generally the kids aren’t getting in trouble because they’re the children of rich, elite parents, who will grow to be the rich people who run the systems and structures in society for the next generation.
Now, none of the Hillerska kids (that we know of) are doing bad things on the scale that August did when he leaked the video. This is important to stress. But it’s also important to stress that this “getting away with bad behavior” culture of Hillerska and rich people in general is part of what made August who he is. Are the other participants in that culture willing to reflect on that and actively work to change the culture in question?
Again, this does not mean that August shouldn’t face consequences or punishment, or that he shouldn’t go to prison and undergo some sort of rehabilitation. There are excellent reasons for him to face consequences. He did revenge porn FFS. But I think it’s worth acknowledging that the punishment of a very obvious, high profile offender can feed the myth that the legal system is finally working toward justice when in fact the system is continuing to perpetuate injustice. We can see how this works when only a few select predator men were convicted to placate the #MeToo movement, we can see how this works with corrupt cops when only a few who kill are ever convicted but most get away with it, and we can see how this works with political parties taking advantage of the fact that other political parties are, well, worse.
And yes, don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good, no ethical consumption under capitalism, etc etc. I think we can keep that in mind while also keeping in mind that we still bear a responsibility to Do The Work in whatever way we are able. This is wandering off of Young Royals a bit. But I’ve given a lot of thought to the way we point at glaringly bad examples of human behavior and say “at least I’m not that guy” while not really doing the reflective work about what we can do to be better and how we can change our culture and systems. This kind of rhetoric is what allows people, especially people like the Hillerska kids who are at the top of society and the peak of privilege, to sleep at night. And maybe they shouldn’t be sleeping so well.
I think a lot about how the scene with Sara warning August that Simon is going to call the police (which is about Sara giving August one more chance to embrace accountability) is followed by a scene of Henry showing up to his group project meeting with no work done. Henry might not have done his work on a literal level, but as a symbol, he’s doing a lot of work. Not only is Henry foreshadowing that August isn’t going to do the right thing and turn himself in, he’s also lampshading the broader culture of Hillerska itself. For all the fancy plaques about responsibility, the students use their privilege and power to avoid doing what’s right and keep the status quo going. This is who they are. This is what they are going to have to overcome to be ethical humans who make their world better.
Working for Catharsis and Healing (A personal opinion section)
I don’t make predictions. The idea of making predictions for season 3 is in fact pretty stressful for me. But what this intellectual exercise has opened up for me is a question of where I would find catharsis and healing in the narrative. It’s not in the sound of police sirens. Maybe that’s different for you. That’s okay. I think we can learn a lot from the discussion in question.
Let’s start with the obvious jerkface himself and the question of him facing punishment. I think it’s worth separating August from other people for a time, to prevent him from doing additional harm to others. If we’re going to call that prison, then sure, let’s call it that. But let’s unpack what that separation looks like. In order for Wilhelm and Simon (and Sara and Felice for that matter) to heal, they’re going to need to be away from him. They should not be the ones responsible for his rehabilitation. As a restorative justice nerd deep down (at least, mostly, but fictional teenagers are well within the broad spectrum of people I’ll offer grace to) I still think he deserves a chance to heal from at least his drug addiction and his eating disorder and his trauma over his dad’s suicide. I also think he needs to understand accountability and the impact his actions have on others, and needs to learn to act in ways that repair the harm he’s done and prevent future harm. This is what he owes the world. There’s not time enough for us to see that whole journey, but I feel like the writers could show us the first few steps.
I’ve seen some people try to argue that August can’t change because he didn’t respond enough to Sara treating him like a person. I can see their point, and I can see the show using the Sara subplot as a shorthand for the idea that August can’t change. Writers often have to use that kind of shorthand to make a point about a character. (The relationship between redemption arcs and romantic love is one of my ongoing problems with redemption arcs in fiction, just for the record.) The way I see it, though, Sara is just one neurodivergent girl with a family history of abuse experiencing her first romantic love. She’s not a team of trained mental health professionals and social workers and other help-minded adults who’ve studied up on how to de-program systemic nonsense. After all, we can accept that although Simon loves Wilhelm very much, Simon’s efforts alone weren’t enough to fully dislodge Wilhelm from his place of privilege. Wilhelm needed Boris and therapy, and a mom who made him go to therapy (Kristina often does more harm than good, but her making Wilhelm go to therapy is the broken clock being right twice a day), and Felice as a friend and confidant, and Nils as a different sort of confidant, and a literature teacher like Fröken Ramirez who’s assigning him books with queer representation. Wilhelm’s journey is still ongoing. Romantic love may be transformative, but individuals in love don’t change people on their own. Communities change people. I am an aromantic relationship anarchist and I will die on this hill.
Speaking of the Eriksson siblings, I want Sara and Simon to have a chance to repair their relationship and build it anew. This would be another point of catharsis for me. I’ve seen a lot of people saying “Sara needs to do xyz tasks…” like we’re in a confession booth and a certain number of Hail Marys will save the day, but step one is that Sara and Simon just need to start communicating again, and communicating honestly. I think it’s easy to point to August as being the root of their relationship struggles, but there were a lot of unspoken tensions between the Eriksson siblings long before he entered the chat. They would have had some other falling out even without Hillerska. Simon’s been led to believe he should parent his sister, and Sara’s been convinced she’s a burden to her brother forever. They both are still reeling from trauma related to their dad, and it may need that they need different things to heal from that. Even without all that, they’re both maturing and defining their values and exploring romance for the first time, and Sara’s getting friendships of her own without always tagging along with Simon and Rosh and Ayub. Simon and Sara are getting to the age where they may not always be the most important people in each other’s lives, and they need to learn to grow up without growing apart. That doesn’t always happen automatically; it takes self-reflection and commitment and listening. I don’t think we’ll ever be back to the innocent days of Sara teasing Simon about his fairy tale prince. But I do think they can move their relationship forward in a new direction, and bounce back stronger.
I also think both Eriksson siblings need to come to terms with the fact that they violated their own values. Sara didn’t do anything illegal, but she did do something that violated her own morals, and you can tell that she feels pretty awful about that when she’s alone on the bus and driving away from school in 2.6. As for Simon, I don’t know if he’s fully gotten a chance to sit with the fact that he violated his own values when he brought his dad’s drugs to school. Again, I don’t want Simon to have to go through legal trouble, or deal with the prison system. The legal system is stacked against Simon in ways that are not fair. But Simon values accountability, and Wilhelm basically rescued him from being held accountable in season 1. I imagine that’s caused cognitive dissonance for Simon he’s still sorting through. I wonder what that’s going to be like for him.
On Wilhelm’s end, I’d like him to continue growing in the ways he’s grown in season 2. He’s learned not to be a symbol of extreme retributive justice. What would it look like for him to model restorative justice practices instead? (Note: this doesn’t mean that he personally has to forgive August. That’s entirely up to Wilhelm.) How can he encourage his community to act differently?
For Felice—well, one of my few issues with season 2 was how they handled Felice, and how they made her ancillary to others’ arcs instead of having her own, but that’s a post for another time. All the same, I think Felice is learning to trust her instincts, push past her biases, and take a unique point of view on things. She’s able to look at the video and see the broken pixels rather than the scandalous gossip scene everyone’s talking about. She can sense Sara’s hiding a secret from her and knows Sara needs to talk. Even if the conversation they end up having is deeply upsetting for her, it brings truths to light that need to be shared. Felice doesn’t have every tool in the toolbox yet, but what she observes and how she interacts with people can be helpful in delivering justice.
I don’t have meta space to consider every parent and adult on the show and things they can do differently. But I expect in season 3 we’ll start to see some adults (I don’t think it’s likely that we’ll see all of them) consider the roles they play in perpetuating systems and cycles. At least, I hope so. It shouldn’t be all on the young people to achieve change in society.
As for the Hillerska culture, it needs to change too. It’s worth asking if a place like Hillerska should even exist. Every secondary Hillerska student is going to act a little bit differently in response to the events of the plot, and I don’t know if I’d buy it if the show tried to tell us the Hillerska culture changed overnight in a magical ripple of self-consciousness. We might see individual students taking baby steps toward responsibility and liberation here or there. We might just see status quo as usual. I think of all the threads in this story, this is the one I would be okay with seeing Lisa Ambjörn leave things unresolved or in a place of tension, as long as that tension feels intentionally placed. Because changing the world is hard, and not everything changes all at once.
Young Royals doesn’t have to tie up every loose end by the last episode of season 3, but I do think it’s already raised a lot of questions about the relationship between justice and storytelling and where we find catharsis in fiction and our own lives. These questions are worth us considering, even if the answers point toward all the work that still needs to be done for the future.
#young royals#young royals meta#my meta#simon eriksson#wilhelm young royals#august young royals#sara eriksson#felice ehrencrona#long post#holy crap this is long thank you if you read it
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Loyalties Lie
AO3 Mirror
Summary: You're a bartender in a Lothal cantina, living a quiet life in the Outer Rim after the fall of the Empire. You can't help but wonder what more might be out there for you. One dangerous guest in particular keeps catching your eye. Unfortunately, you've also caught his.
Rating: E
Words: 6.1k
Warnings: possibly mild dubcon, threats with a weapon, rough sex, verbal degradation, mentions of alcohol, cumplay, Boba Fett has a 24oz monster can dick and he knows how to use it.
A/N: Remember when I said I had a Boba Fett WIP laying around like, months ago? Well guess who showed up in Mando S2 with a sexy dad bod and the fattest dick in the galaxy to overhaul my dreams and make them a reality. Fuck me. Yes this is the first thing I’ve written in months hi I’m still here. No I don’t know how many chapters this will be. I live in hell. Welcome. Thank you to @kylorengarbagedump for graciously beta reading and listening to me literally scream about this man all the time. Love y’all so much PLEASE ENJOY.
**
It’s the kind of night that hums.
Like a moonlit Lothal prairie, quiet and alive somewhere beyond the outskirts of town. Except that in here, the crickets swoop past your bar to buy shots, and the stars fall steadily to become the lovely tink of credits in your tip jar. The twin moons are shifting hues of neon light, and time seems to stroll by, like it has nowhere better to be.
Tonight has been steady.
It’s not busy enough tonight to challenge you, but not slow enough to let you rest. Your guard is up, as it always is when you’re behind the bar. But your hold on it can afford to be loose.
Tonight has been…
Boring.
No brawls, no assassinations, not even a drunken paw fumbling across the bar towards your tits, attached to some overly rowdy patron who you then get to watch with quiet glee as they’re dragged out by the ears. No, in fact, it’s hard to remember the last time something remotely interesting happened around here. So much for the Outer Rim’s rugged reputation. You hate to say you miss the Empire’s occupation from time to time. But at least it brought nightly intrigue.
Tonight, your guests are especially calm and happy, lulled by liquor and the easy flow of conversation, murmurs blending like a stream through the grassland. And you suppose you shouldn’t complain. You’ve more than earned your keep for the night, and then some. Best of all, your boss has no reason to be breathing down your neck.
In fact, he’s happy, too, you note when the Lasat’s bellowing business-laugh resounds overtop a few flutes of spotchka, glowing inside a booth across the room. You pass a cloth around the rim of a clean glass, feeling a tickle of interest as to who he might be schmoozing this time. When you glance up, you can just make out a pair of well-dressed Rodians seated across from him through the leisure-thick air of the cantina, nudging each other and laughing at whatever witty, schmoozy thing he just said.
A soft snort puffs through your nose. At least Dakk is a predictable man, if nothing else. Must be rich folk, probably well connected. Good. You’ll get no help tonight, but at least he will be occupied for a while.
In fact...
Flicking a quick glance around the room, you take your chance and shrug your outer tunic off your shoulders, quickly smoothing down your much more revealing undershirt until it clings to the shape of you. You know Dakk hates when you do this, always goes on about keeping the place “classy.” But he’s not looking, and if it puts a few extra credits in your jar by the end of the night, it’s worth it. Anyway, you’re in a good mood tonight. Bored nonetheless, and the combination always forges a mischievous kind of boldness in you; a tiny spark that glows just bright enough to cast the idea of consequence in shadow.
You scan the bar for an empty drink, a flirtatious urge rolling off of your freshly bared skin and filling your ribs with air. It’s not long before you hone on your target-- an unsuspecting guest sitting alone, head turned away. Probably eavesdropping. A smirk curves your lips and you sidle over, plink a glass down between you, leaning your elbows on the bartop.
“Something else for you, sugar?”
His head whips around with a guilty swiftness, but you just offer an easy smile, shifting your weight through your hips to coax his eyes down your body. It works like a charm.
“I, uh...“ The young Mirialan stammers directly at your tits. “Yeah, c-can I, ah…”
As you wait out his struggle, an idea sparks in your freshly emboldened mind. Maker’s sake, might as well help the poor thing out.
“Got a ruge liqueur in stock, last shipment off Alderaan. Rare these days.” Your lashes flutter, tongue just barely playing your along your lower lip as if teasing some unspoken promise. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you seem like a person of exceptional taste.”
The words are warm summer air on your tongue, practiced and enticing. You can see them go to the kid’s head like spice smoke, his cheeks immediately flushing deep emerald beneath diamond-shaped tattoos.
“Y-yeah?” He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, grinning sheepishly. “I mean...yeah! I, uh, I am. That s-sounds great, yeah. Um. Please.”
You smile. Too easy.
Now, it’s not technically a lie. You do have the ruge in stock, it’s just that--well, it’s definitely nothing this kid can afford. But you’d bet a week’s worth of tips that you can slip him a cheap offworld varietal instead. Charge him triple its price, pocket the excess. Poor thing wouldn’t know the real stuff if it bit him.
You swell with the thought. That amount might even let you buy something nice for yourself for once. It might be a little slimy, but... fuck it. Kid seems well off enough. Decently nice clothes, cologne, that misplaced air of belonging that comes with sheltered entitlement. Surely he won’t miss a few extra credits. Anyway, you deserve this, right?
Moving to speak again, you prepare to lay the flirting on thick, really sell the gambit. But before you get the chance, a loud bang snaps your attention upward just in time to see the cantina door slam open.
You straighten where you stand, irritation and curiosity pricking your ears in equal measure. But then a slight hush cuts the ease of your buzzing meadow, and your chest squeezes with it.
Boba Fett.
The hunter takes up almost the whole doorway, a broad tower of matte green beskar catching the soft neons of the cantina. The distinctly cold gaze of the Mandalorian helmet scans the room, stirring murmurs and averting eyes until it comes to rest, finally, upon you.
It feels like two cold weights set down on your shoulders, being the focus of that stare.
Even as the energy picks back up around you, as conversations cautiously resume, it’s like you’re trapped in it, breathless under its weight and unable to look away. You vaguely register the Mirialan turn back to your tits and ask them something about when your shift ends. But you’re still transfixed, watching the armored man take a few deliberate steps towards the bar and straddle a stool, the visor trained like a crosshair upon you as his forearms settle on the bartop.
You’ve seen him here before. Heard his name whispered in weighted ripples ever since news spread through the Outer Rim that Bib Fortuna was dead. Since then, he’s come through maybe once every few dozen cycles, each time with a couple new chips in the paint of his armor. He comes here on business--or at least you assume that’s what it must be, since he always meets someone, speaks in hushed tones enshrouded by the dim corner booth in the back. He’ll toss a few credits on the bar when he leaves, but has never uttered a word to you, never ordered a drink.
Never even glanced your way, for all you know. Until right now.
You swallow. Fucking hell, if there’s anything you’re used to, it’s being looked at. So why is this gaze kicking your pulse up into the base of your throat, making you feel exposed? A prickle of heat is already settling in your cheeks.
And then the visor cocks, and just barely tilts down the length of your figure.
A tight breath snaps into your lungs, and your eyes dart to the bartop, across the room, back to the Mirialan still babbling dumbly at you, your face now hot. Kriff, what is wrong with you? Since when are you outright flustered by some stranger copping an eyeful? You try to breathe, ignoring how the hairs stand on your neck.
But you can still feel his attention like the heat of a sun warming your bare shoulder, and it makes something start to coil in your belly and glow there.
“I’ll have that ruge right up, sweetheart.”
You’re pretty sure you interrupt the kid, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just calls out a stammered thank-you as you pivot away towards your new guest, your heart kicking against your sternum. Your feet almost feel weighted to the floor, and by the time you reach him, your pulse has an edge like a blade.
“Something I can interest you in?”
There’s a breathlessness to the warm air of your voice now, and you pray to the Maker that it doesn’t betray you. You lean against the bar, hoping that the solidity of the wood will somehow teach your nerves to follow its example. It doesn’t.
He seems to study you for a moment, motionless. And then his shoulders shift, his elbows widen, and he leans in towards you.
“Information.” His voice is low and direct, barely above a graveled whisper, the single accent-laden word dragging through your belly and sparking like metal on stone.
Fuck.
Of course he’s after the one thing you’re not willing to sell.
Your heart stalls while your mind starts to race, eyes searching the dark visor. Of course you’d be a fool to deny him, and he knows it. That’s why he’s asking you. Why would you risk rousing a scene in your own bar, especially when the night is so mercifully calm? Easier to give him what he wants. Tap into your collection of liquor-loosened secrets, and knowledge of the local crowd.
The thing is, you’ve built a good rapport for your discretion. You think. Not to mention the number of cutting warnings Dakk has laid on you about the consequences for selling secrets in his bar. Is it really worth risking? Fett intimidates you, no doubt. But he’s also banking on the assumption that you won’t make this difficult for him. He has to be. And now unease and excitement are starting to play a game of catch between your ribs with that tiny, dangerous spark of boldness.
“Fresh out.” Your fingers drum the wood beneath them, trying to ground your reflexes through the rush of adrenaline that accompanies your words. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and you stare into the blackness of the visor as you let the tiniest, playful smirk flit over your face. “Perhaps something to drink?”
Slowly, achingly slowly, Boba Fett settles back on the bar stool. Unease lances you, splintering with the immediate question of whether you just made the right choice. You don’t want to think about how many he’d manage to kill before you could even blink, if he decided to do something extreme. His hand starts to shift back along his thigh, drawing a path towards the blaster at his hip. You swallow, panic pricking your neck.
Just as your muscles are primed to dive behind the bar, convinced you’re going to have to evade his quickdraw, his palm just takes a lazy rest on the hilt. The helmet levels, and then leans slowly to the side.
“No.”
Dizzied, you blink. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking through that helmet, and he’s offered you all of two words. But was that… amusement, you heard? No. Anger? Fuck, now you’re really imagining things.
Still a little breathless, you straighten, sensing that you’re dismissed. The thought of flirting with a killer was a much-needed rush, but you need to take his indifference as a mercy after that little stunt and get on with your job while he’s giving you the chance. What little you apparently have left of a survival instinct is at least telling you that much.
You shrug.
“Suit yourself.”
It feels dangerous to take your eyes off of him. But you force yourself to do so anyways, turning your back on the hunter and making your way to the dim doorway at the end of the bar, his attention still heating your spine.
It’s a fucking relief to slip through the door to the storage room, ease the door shut behind you, and for the first time in what feels like moons, you let a long breath fill your lungs. The familiar scent of dust and wine-aged wood floods you, and something like disappointment tugs at your heart.
Maybe that stupid, adventure-craving side of your imagination took things too far, fueled by your boredom and the prospect of something exciting finally happening. You suppose you projected that naive hope onto Boba Fett, if nothing else just because he’s the first person to come through here in a long time that actually intrigues you. That confounds your prized, finely-calibrated radar for reading people without having to speak a word to them.
Fuck, he really wouldn’t give you much more than a word, would he? Guess he’s determined to keep scrambling your sensors. It shouldn’t deject you as much as it does. But... come on, the least the son of a mudscuffer could do is flirt back if he was gonna fucking undress you with his eyes like that.
Or maybe that was just your imagination, too.
You sigh, scanning a shelf on the back wall for a ruge that will make a convincing enough dupe. A synthetic varietal, perhaps. No--too cheap. You’ve got something from a Naboo vineyard in here somewhere. Anyways, whatever, since when are you desperate for any man’s attention?
No, okay, it’s... you know that isn’t what this is really about.
It would just be nice to feel important, is all. Like the secrets you’ve gathered might be worth something. Could someday give you a place in something bigger. Or at least like anything about you might be worth more than equivalent to a shot of shitty spotchka.
Forget it. As if that will ever happen.
Your finger absently traces the dusty label of a bottle, and then a soft clink of metal behind you freezes your blood.
You whip around to meet a wall of beskar, inches from your face.
You start to scream, but the sound catches in your throat when a big hand seizes you by the back of the neck and wrenches you around, bending you at the hips and slamming you chest-down against the stale wood of a storage crate. Cold metal presses your thighs and your heart smacks your ribs, your body completely trapped under Boba Fett’s mass in one motion.
“I said I need information, little one, and you’re going to give it to me.” His voice scrapes over your body, sliding through the dim room like the shadow from a candle flame. You quail beneath him, brain racing with shock.
“I d-don’t—ugh!” The weight of his forearm comes down between your shoulder blades, pressing breathy little grunts from your lungs as you squirm. “I don’t sell out my customers.”
You freeze when the distinct click of a blaster registers right at your temple.
“Never said I was buying.”
Panic zips down your spine, your chest heaving against the wooden crate as heat slams your core. Somewhere, your rational brain is scrambling to parse the threat, but something about the sheer filth and danger of it is setting your whole body on fire, making far more primal nerves come alive. Trying to shake the feeling, you squirm.
“At lea--ngh, least nothing’s changed there.”
Fucking hell, what are you doing? Besides sassing the known murderer with a blaster currently trained at your head, alone in a dark room. Yet somehow that very fact is making arousal bloom so wicked and fast that you can already start to feel your cunt throb against the fabric of his pants.
“Willing to die to protect a few spineless slime crawlers who don’t even know your name?” Boba rocks his weight against you, powerful and lazy in the way he simply leans into his hips, grinds them up hard against your ass to keep you flattened over the edge of the crate. “Boss man lines his pockets while his good little pet works for scraps.” Air feels more scarce to your lungs by the second. “Interesting, how your loyalties lie.”
Indignance flares up your spine.
“I w-ouldn’t expect you to understand.” You try to put venom in the words, but it’s difficult between your breathlessness and the sheer eroticism of this position you’re in. “Small price to pay, f-for a good life.”
Through your annoyance, you can’t help feeling a twinge of enjoyment at his solidity, at how you can just discern the outline of him through his pants. An excited thrum of your pulse snaps to your core like a fuse.
Above you, Boba Fett chuckles.
“Is that what he gives you?” There’s a mockery to his tone that heats your blood, and you start to squirm in defiance before remembering the blaster at your temple. Fett simply crushes you harder, drawing your attention back to his crotch. “Seems to me like you’re the mouse in his attic.”
“I suppose you’re better than him? Than any of them?” you immediately bite, not wanting to acknowledge the truth behind his words. Instead, you grab that spark of bravery and crank the voltage until it drowns your doubt, throwing your caution to the stars faster than punching an airlock in hyperspace. “Do you even know m-my name, Mando?” A tiny giggle ripples your chest. “I know yours.”
“Might be the last one you know,” Boba growls, but you’re becoming fixated on his cock now, the way you could swear that it’s growing more distinct by the second.
Fear and pleasure wrack your brain, the combination intensifying so deliciously with the pressure of his groin against your ass that you can hardly think straight any more. In a moment of sick indulgence, you arch your back and shift just slightly, wanting to feel that pressure against something now pulsing and sensitive.
The grip on your neck locks tight, and your breath stops.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be, princess.”
He kicks your legs apart and crushes his hardening bulge against your pussy. And, fuck, you moan. You don’t even mean to, but the thrill of helplessness has you so mindlessly turned on that you can’t stop the noise from squeezing out of your throat.
“Filthy little thing you are.”
There’s a shift in his tone now. The vice hold disappears from your nape just before your pants are wrenched unceremoniously over your ass and down to mid thigh. You gasp at the feeling of air brushing your bare lips. He takes a moment, and you think he must be looking at you. Heat blossoms from your face all the way down to your chest, and then he’s against you again, a palm coming down between your shoulders as coarse fabric presses flush with your cunt.
You can really feel the outline of his cock now, hard enough to rival his armor but warm and thick against you, and you whimper. It’s only a click that snaps your awareness back to the weapon pointed at your head.
“Let’s try this again, little mouse.” Boba’s voice comes lower and airier through the vocoder now in a way that blazes right through you. “You give me what I want, and perhaps you’ll inspire my generosity.”
In emphasis of his intent, he rocks his erection against the cleft of your pussy. Your eyes snap wide, an almost painful stab of arousal making you immediately whine louder than you intend to. “Fuck--oh, please!”
“Careful.” His hand slides up your neck, angling your face so that he can see it twist in shame and pleasure. “Wouldn’t want anyone finding you like this.”
Your cheeks blaze. Shallow breaths stutter in your lungs as his thumb tugs the pillow of your lower lip. And then he releases you, his hand moving back somewhere you can’t sense. The pressure against your ass shifts for a moment, just before the wide, hot shaft of his bare cock caresses your cunt.
“Last night there was a man here, Mon Cala, middle aged.” Your body is on fire as he speaks, the skin to skin contact dousing your brain in blind want. You grit your teeth, screw your eyes shut, trying hard to focus on what he’s saying while your pussy twinges around nothing. “He talked to the owner here, then he met with someone. Tell me who.”
A reluctant whimper leaves your lips, and the noise might just be one of the most pathetic you’ve ever made as your tongue still stubbornly refuses to slip. But Fett’s words ring again through your head with a resentful pang: the mouse in his attic. Is that what you’ll die as?
At your temple, the blaster’s safety disengages.
“Fuck! Okay, okay.” Your breath comes heavily, brain uncertain and lust-addled, fumbling for the details. “He um. Met a--mmh, a woman, I d-didn’t catch her name. Please--” Your voice trails off in a soft whine, your hips shifting back, trying to find the means to swallow his cock where it teases your tender core, entice him with the diversion now that you’ve given him a crumb.
“You must be dumber than I took you for, sweetling.” His hips retreat slightly, evading you. The sheer display of restraint is infuriating, electrifying. It shallows your breath with need. He stills again, a rough, gloved hand running firmly up your spine, pushing your shirt up to bare more of your skin to his view. “Tell me the rest.”
Your teeth set with a final, feeble whine of hesitation. More instinct than anything. But then a cold ring of metal presses your temple, and fresh fear unbinds your tongue in a deluge.
“S-she had, ah--civilian clothes, but, um… an Imperial s-standard issue blaster.” Your eyes screw in concentration, details flickering like a glitchy holocom through your brain. “I heard them talk about, uh. A shipment. For… Fuck, uh. Th-three cycles from now.”
Boba hums, a sound that makes your eyes roll back as you feel yourself nearly dripping against him, your slick coating his cock where it just barely parts you.
“Smart girl.” His hand drags indulgently down your back, coming to rest on your hip and squeezing. “Where’s the shipment going, princess?”
Torture. This is some kind of galactic war crime, you’re sure of it. Pleasure surges from your teased cunt and his grip on your flesh, and his voice is almost soothing now, coaxing you further towards complacency. It’s all too much. Your head rests against the crate, defeat washing in a gentle tide over you.
“Going... to Hosnian Prime.”
A soft, satisfied puff of noise comes from the modulator. The barrel retreats from your temple.
“Now, there’s a good girl.”
Warmth crashes through your lower belly, a strange and exhilarating sensation that suddenly makes you want to... purr? No one has ever spoken to you like this, and it’s tickling a part of your brain that feels far, far too good. But then his cock glides thick and heavy along your folds, obliterating your thoughts, and all you can think about is having that inside of you.
“Fuck,” you whine as he slowly aligns himself, teasing up and down the drenched, tender flesh of your pussy. He takes his time, massaging the blunt head over your clit and sending little shocks through your muscles, making you shiver and clench. “Please, please…”
“Tame little creature when you want to be,” he grits, pressing against your entrance with an exhaled groan. “Keep being good for me.”
Slowly, he starts to push. And, oh, fuck.
You’re not ready.
You’re wetter and needier than you’ve ever been in your life, and you’re still not fucking ready to take a cock like this one when it crushes in and stretches you, setting an ache through your hips that tells you whatever happens, you’re bound to feel him for days.
A cry sticks in your throat and you will yourself to breathe, to relax as he sinks in further, forcing your walls to flutter and part around him. It truly feels like being broken open, and your fingers have to dig into the wood beneath you when he pulls out an inch and then pushes again, sinking deeper this time as a choked noise pulls through the vocoder.
By the time he finally bottoms out, you swear you can feel him shifting your guts. Every muscle in your pelvis is straining to take him, the intensity mind-numbing already. You’re nearly choking on your own attempts to breathe while he pauses, sheathed like this for a few moments, seeming to concentrate on his own breathing at the same time.
And then his voice comes again, a growl, pitched even lower and more ferocious than before through a clutched breath.
“Fuck, you’re a tight little thing.”
Stars.
This is different.
It’s so hard to think, you’ve never felt more full, but something in the back of your mind is unfurling, turning hot and primal with a roiling kind of need that burgeons and begs at the feeling of his cock rooted so fucking deep inside of you. You’ve had sex before, sure, but this…
You’re about to get fucked.
“Please…” you mewl. Desperation pierces you when you feel his fingers flex strong and firm around your hip in response. You turn your head, trying to glimpse him--only to realize that the blaster is still right next to your face, its angle nonchalant, close enough to brush your lips.
Your mind is so drenched in lust, the first urge that strikes you is to stick out your tongue and wet the metal, its sharp alloy piercing your senses and making your pussy seize with the shudder of danger.
In your periphery, you see the visor snap to attention, like he wasn’t fully looking at you before, lost in his own pleasure. But now he is. And he gives the weapon an experimental twist, allowing for your lips to wrap, delicate and wet, just around the tip of the barrel.
“Fearless little mouse.” There’s something dark and charged in his voice. “You look good like that.”
A slight wiggle to open your jaw, and the blaster shoves past your lips, resting thick and cold on your tongue, lighting your spine with a new thrill. Your voice swells on a muffled moan around it, such a soft and lovely sound to accompany a thing that’s orchestrated countless deaths.
“There we are. Nice and quiet now.”
Finally, finally, he starts to thrust, slow and measured, forcing your body to yield around the width of him. Something burns hot in your belly with each steady stroke, wiping your brain of everything but his presence.
The rough material of a glove smothers one of your asscheeks, grips and pulls at the pillowy flesh, spreading you open as his thrusts take up a steady, powerful rhythm. Boba Fett lets out a long groan, and you can only imagine the view he has right now. It sears you alive, the knowledge that he likes looking at you like this, pitching and whimpering with his rhythm, the sight of your pussy stretched, helpless around his cock and your mouth wetting his blaster.
Your spit slicks the barrel more with every thrust, and you can feel the mechanics shifting dangerously between your lips. But his trigger finger is steadier than death, and his control gives you the nerve to let your tongue lick out along the barrel, bathe in the electric wash of fear that sets all of your nerves into overdrive.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarls as his pace starts to kick up wilder.
Intense pleasure cracks through you now, visceral in a way you’ve never felt, and it’s all you can do to keep relatively quiet. The barrel on your tongue is a sharp enough reminder, yet it fuels your arousal to burn hotter and wetter all the same. The more you concentrate on the powerful bliss coiling in your core and rippling outwards, the more you can feel yourself starting to tighten around him, your body yearning vaguely towards a release it can’t seem to center on.
You hear him groan as you squeeze him, his grip on your flesh flexing and shifting. A few more strong thrusts, and then his cock pulls all the way out of you with a woeful pang, the blaster vacating your mouth in the same motion to leave you empty, dizzied and clenching. But before you can unscramble your brain, the blaster slots back into its holster and he’s moving you. With an effortless kind of control, he flips you over, shifting you until the solid wood of the crate supports your ass.
He hikes both of your legs onto one shoulder and in one swift, easy motion, whisks your pants over your shoes and off of your ankles, tossing them carelessly into the darkness of the room before hooking your legs around his armored waist.
“Going to watch you cum, princess. Nice and pretty.”
Your mouth opens on a gasp at his words, and a gloved thumb immediately presses your tongue, the taste of leather and plasma residue grounding your senses enough to register that he’s lining his cock back up at the heat of your entrance. You whine around his thick digit, and he growls somewhere low in his chest as he pushes the thick head back in, this new angle making you see stars all over again.
He doesn’t bother letting you adjust this time, just uses your wetness to his advantage to start railing through your tightness, burning and stretching you as that warm swell starts to crest again. It’s such a deep, full feeling, spreading a delicious ache from the spot where he hits you deep in your tummy.
Your brows draw together, your whines pitching higher as you search the visor. It’s a wordless plea, your vision swallowed by the power of him fucking you deep, your body now screaming to cum but needing something you can’t quite pinpoint.
The hunter’s thumb slips out of your mouth, his hand forging an eager path down your body. He palms your tit over your shirt, before grabbing the low collar and yanking it down, baring your nipples to his view one after the other. His whole hand spans your torso as he hooks the lower hem with his thumb, bunching the material until both your belly and tits are bare, your shirt like a handle at your diaphragm that he uses to pound you even harder, watching your body jolt, overpowered by his thrusts.
Airy little wails brush through your lips, the pleasure all too intense and not enough at the same time. You can’t take it anymore, you need something on your clit, and your fingers twitch to seek out that precious target. But he’s already moving, his hips slowing to a lazier pace while his free hand finds some destination at his belt, and what he produces freezes you in your tracks.
“Steady now,” he breathes as he slips a long blade out of his belt and spins it by the hilt, his fingers almost too quick, too tactful for such a brute.
Instinctual panic grips you at the sight of the weapon, making your legs try to close. But he’s pushed too deep in you, his frame has you pinned open, and there’s nothing you can do against the sheer breadth of his body. Powerless, you simply whimper.
“Wh… what are y--”
“Hush, princess.”
A flick of his thumb and the vibroblade springs to life, its hum filling the quiet air. He starts to bring the blunt hilt of it down where your body yields to his. Alarm pierces you one final time, but then he touches the pommel, just barely, against the tender swell of your clit.
You want to fucking scream. As if in anticipation of this, he claps his hand over your mouth just in time for you to bite down on his glove while your eyes roll back in a powerful wave of ecstasy. The vibrations surge through the sensitive nerves, lighting your whole body up in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s pure bliss, and then a low, long growl slips through the helmet’s modulator at the feeling of your walls pulsing tight, strangling his cock.
His thrusts deepen again, powerful and steady, stroking some devastating spot deep inside you. Your muffled wails get lost in the breath-dampened fabric of his glove while the intense pleasure crests from your clit, higher, higher, lasering in on that intangible cusp and barreling you straight towards it.
You suspend at the peak, all senses failing, and then your orgasm takes you in a riptide, surging through your nerves like liquid fire. The magnitude of it rends you, stronger than you’ve ever felt, dragging you under and forcing you to ride it out while it just pulls and pulls. By the time you regain your sight you’re shaking, waves of bliss still pulsing and crashing through your body in time to the strong rhythm of his hips, the glowing epicenter that unwavering vibration at your clit.
Sobs wrack your chest, pour out high and lose themselves somewhere in the meat of his hand, and you think you try to catch a few breaths, but you can’t even come down. Boba’s voice cuts through the rush in your ears.
“Good. Good girl.”
He holds the buzzing hilt of the blade impossibly steady against your clit and that glow is still so bright, twitching, starting to spill through your nerves again and holy shit you think you just might--
“Again.”
Your second orgasm shreds you like a plasma cannon.
You’re blind, numb to everything but the intense pleasure, nerves now as raw and sharp as the edge of the blade itself. His hand is tight over your face and you feel your cunt convulsing and gushing around his cock, slick cum spilling to wet your asscheeks, and it must be your own because his pace hasn’t let up.
A clatter resounds on the edge of your consciousness and when your eyes come into focus, Boba’s hand is locking into your waist, the blade discarded somewhere in the room. His hips piston hard with a few vulgar slaps of flesh, the head of his cock crushing against your deepest parts before he wrenches out of you and spills over your bare stomach with a strangled roar, gripping himself at the base and thrusting against you as warm, thick ropes paint your skin.
His release is long. Grunts distort into rough static through the vocoder as he rides out the last pulses, until finally he braces himself on the crate beside your head, hunched over you like a beast, his chest plate rolling with heavy breaths. You can only blink at him through hazed, damp eyes, your body feeling weak and utterly fucked dumb. The hand over your mouth slowly unlocks its grip, dragging downwards and leaving you to take shallow gulps of air while he gives your tit a deliberate squeeze.
And then he drags himself off of you, straightening with an almost-concealed groan as he adjusts himself and leaves you to blink at the dark ceiling, still letting oxygen find your brain.
When you shakily manage to sit up, you just glimpse him slipping the discarded vibroblade back into his belt and turning towards the door. Even through your dizziness, you scoff. Figures. Bastard is just going to fuck your brains out and then leave you like this.
“You know,” you sigh, watching him and lazily trailing your fingers in a circle on your tummy, enjoying the lingering buzz of your skin and gathering a bit of his spend where it coats you, still warm. “I’d say that tip-off was at least worth a handful of credits in my jar on your way out.”
He turns and looks at you then, the helmet cocking in consideration for a moment. As soon as his attention is on you, your fingers move from his mess on your belly to your mouth, where you slowly suckle him off of your fingers, never once taking your eyes off the visor, a tiny ripple of playfulness wiggling your shoulders and curling your lips.
His shoulders square to you, and that hunter’s stance still makes your chest seize, sends a pulse to your exhausted pussy.
Metal clinks softly as he walks towards you, stepping between your knees until you’re forced to drop your hand from your mouth and look up at him, heart fluttering again. He brushes the knuckle of his forefinger under your chin.
“Fresh out.”
His back turns as you stare, speechless. And then the door swings on its hinges, and Boba Fett is gone.
#boba fett#boba fett x reader#boba fett x you#boba fett smut#star wars fanfiction#smut#loyalties lie#my works#masterlist
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Hi, hello, Ghost AU but Rachel, Jasper, Edward, and Henry are all ghosts from different time periods haunting the Society because their final resting places were in the buildings that came before the Society or something, where the Society was started by Robert.
Rachel is a cook/maid from the early Middle Ages who likes to bake at night. The Lodgers are all completely flabbergasted as to why there are tasty meals ready for them that none of the staff Robert hired take credit for.
Jasper is a shepherd from the 2nd century, back when Celtic tribes still lived in England pre-Anglican era. He enjoys tending to the animals, and any Lodgers with pets often find them dozing in piles around an empty circle as if someone were sitting there.
Edward is the youngest of the ghosts, having been murdered during the early Victorian era and had his body buried on the empty plot of land that the Society was later built on. He's an absolute scoundrel and pranks the Lodgers constantly.
Henry was a navy surgeon during the Edwardian era who is absolutely fascinated by Victorian modern medicine and science. He also has a huge crush on Robert and often tries to help him with paperwork and make him tea whenever he falls asleep, leaving Robert very perplexed when everyone keeps asking to meet his 'mysterious yet charming co-founder'.
Robert soon finds the answers to the pranks, the cooking, the animals, and the help by walking into a room while the four are bickering and discovering he can see ghosts. Cue Robert trying to subtly ask Maijabi ghost stuff while trying not to have a breakdown and also not admit that that ghost in the ship surgeon's uniform is kinda cute.
JAHAJHASJASHDASD
JEKS I GOT THIS ASK AND I IMMEDIATELY TORE OUT MY SCHOOL LAPTOP FROM THE CASE BECUASE I WAS SO EXCITED T ANSWER THIS OK I LOVE THIS SO MUCH??? ALSO HENRY BEING A NAVY SURGEON HELL YES
Rachel still loving to cook, yet no matter how much she cooks ingredients never seem to disappear despite warm, tasty (and if not a bit old-fashioned meals) appears for the Lodgers to feast on. No Lodger ever goes hungry and Robert's staff quickly notices that they really don't have to cook as much as they do, as it seems like meals mysteriously appear. Lodgers explain it as the staff being kind but not wanting Robert to know that they cook extra and the staff thinks it's the Lodgers or Robert buying more pre-cooked meals. Maybe she died during a raid on the building she lived in if she worked for nobility.
Jasper being a shepherd and loving to take care of any and all animals, especially the mythological/supernatural ones because they fascinate him. Imagine him having been a werewolf regardless but like that one post about a werewolf shepherd because I love that post. The animals are constantly being fed and pampered and the Lodgers think their pets are being aloof, when in reality they are just getting so much attention from Jasper they almost ignore their actual owners. Maybe Jasper died because of an animal, or because of bad werewolf health care (i know nothing about the 2nd century in England, I don't know how they'd feel about werewolves dhdh)
Edward loving to pull pranks and yet being so fascinated with all the scientific stuff in the Society. He keeps tinkering and messing with the machines and devices and he keeps fucking them up without meaning to, yet he takes credit for having done it intentionally anyways. He loves to move the Lodgers' stuff and steal their shinies and just be a general menace, almost like a poltergeist. Doors opening and closing, windows and glass surface getting broken, he is just a scoundrel that keeps bothering the Lodgers for shits and giggles, literally, as he always will giggle when he has successfully pulled a prank but the Lodgers think it's the wind or someone else giggling. Perhaps he died in a barfight or similarly to Eli, where he got chased by the cops and the Society was where he died, before the building was built?
Henry being so kind and loving and fascinated with science, just like Edward, yet he is much more careful and is more likely to accidentally steal medicine and supplies from the infirmary because he got curious about all the new things and got carried away. Whenever a Lodger gets hurt, it always seems like there conveniently is painkillers, bandages, and disinfectant by them to patch themselves up (or if they, say, gets so hurt that they go unconscious and no one notice, they somehow wake up in the infirmary completely patched up without anyone even knowing that they were hurt). They always feel so much safer and calmer after having gotten hurt because Henry watches over them to make sure they rest properly and take care of themselves. Whenever a Lodger stays up too late, Henry will gently start to nudge them to go to sleep to take care of themselves and just be generally helpful. Plus, him having a major crush on Robert and being absolutely smitten by him. Robert constantly feels watched but not in a scary or uncanny way, it just feels pleasant. Paperwork all being done and neatly documented and stacked and sorted, his office always being clean and neat and tidy no matter how messy he left it, letters from his father that would have upset him to read conveniently goes missing and ahah whoopsies would you look at that it seems like there has been burning paper in the fireplace. Sometimes he will come back and it will look like someone has taken out books or wine bottles from their shelves and started to shuffle through then but he keeps convincing himself that he accidentally left them there. Maybe Henry died because he got infected by a sick patient he treated, and the land where the Society is on is either an old graveyard, an old dock, or a medical ward where he worked when he wasn't out at sea?
Robert getting so accustomed to the supernatural, or him just being born with somewhat of an inherited ability to see ghosts and supernatural (or if the ghost quartet just somehow manage to leave their forms noticeable to Robert when he walks in on them) and Robert realising that the Society is being haunted by not one, but four ghosts while they previously had thought there was only one, if even that. Him having a bit of a breakdown realising he can see ghosts which he definitely shouldn't be able to. Him subtly trying to ask Maijabi-- what if Maijabi already knew but never said anything because he thought it was amusing to see Henry trying to ghostly flirt with Robert and following him like a love-sick puppy? Or if he didn't know because he never bothered to check so he and Robert go on a bit of a ghost hunt. The other Lodgers quickly hearing the rumours and jumping on the opportunity to hold seances and contact the ghosts. Just... Good fucking god I love this so much. Jeks i'm going to platonically kiss you for coming up with this. If you'd ever draw this I'd give you my soul Oh m J gyg dddod,d,d
#ask#thejeksburyguy#banshees au#ghost au#banshees faves#im main tagging this becasue i love it so much im not even kidding#tgs#the glass scientists#tgs au#tgs ghost au#the glass scientists au#the glass scientists ghost au
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The unit beyond Hank Voight: or how Intelligence should look if/when Voight is written out
Finally, part two. This was very fun to write and I'm glad I actually did it before season nine airs (I'm cutting it late I know!!!). I've had how I'd want the show to do this in my head for the longest time-- although, I'll say, I technically get to the root of this further into the meta, after the second header. So if you don't want to read it all and just my general thoughts, you can just skip on down to that! But I hope you read it all!
In this fandom, as a whole, no matter what ship or characters are our faves, we've all be debating whether or not it's right to still have Voight as the lead, or if they should write out his character.
If we break it down, take out all the nuance and the external and internal factors, I say yes. But if we don't, it's much more complicated than that.
I watch Chicago pd primarily for Burzek, that is why I decided to emotionally exhaust myself with a new show. But I liked that it was set in Chicago, and it lent into all the bad/darkness of Chicago, and not just on the streets, but the cops (even if they can and should do better there, because it's still very much on the side of bad cop propaganda).
And like it or not, Voight is a big part of that. People call him an anti hero, and by definition, he is, but I struggle to like addressing him as such. But the way that he is, his characterisation, it is woven into the very essence if the show, into the unit, into their dynamics and group chemistry.
This is why it's a complicated matter, that should Voight be written out is not a simple question with either yes or no as the answer. Or, at least, not just a yes or a no.
Taking Voight out of the unit isn't like taking out Jay or Kevin, or any of the others. The other team members are easily replaced. Of course, their specific dynamics and chemistries will never be replaced, it's a sign of a badly written character and storyline if it is. But they are, in the grand scheme of things, replaceable. It is as easy as having Jay transfer one episode and introducing a new detective the next. (The only other exception, I should mention, is Trudy. You get rid of Trudy and you'll just get a desk sargeant as a replacement, with none of that chemistry in any way).
Voight is different. He's the lead-- and leads are always harder to move out a show without it crumbling-- and he's the literal leader of the unit. Every dynamic within the show is interlinked through Voight's character even if Voight has no impact on the dynamic. And so you can't just write him out one episode and then introduce a sparkling new sargeant the next-- especially if the sargeant is a pre-existing character.
A lot of this fandom wants Voight gone asap and Jay as sargeant immediately after. That's just unrealistic and honestly it would be a bad move on the show's half to do so. In general, I don't want Jay to be sargeant. Not even for the reasons I'm about to list-- well, not just them-- but for personal ones. However, if it's in a few seasons time, I'd be more up for that, if the show gave time to improving his character-- even if I'd still grumble to myself about it!
As I said, removing Voight's character and immediately replacing it would already be a bad idea because of how much the show's dynamics are mixed up in him. Jay being the replacement would fuck this up even more, because he's already got his own dynamics with his unit.
Jay is definitely a leader type character. He was brought in to be. I could see him being a sargeant, and he's definitely the 'big brother' of the unit, even if they're all around his age. He definitely can have a clear head and is tactical and has that aura that people would be comfortable following his lead.
But he's also ignorant, impulsive and selfish. People say he'd make a good sargeant because of his morals-- but they're very much surface level morals. It's actually why I can see what drew him to joining the military, not just that want to leave, but he's clearly got a good-bad black and white line drawn in his head and this is what makes the military attractive to him.
Jay always thinks he's in the right. And technically, on the surface, he is. But he misses the nuance and he gets very caught up in his black and white view. This is what also makes him impulsive. He mentally, clearly, orders people into the good and bad categories in his mind and then he's pretty rigid in them-- jumping to conclusions.
He's got a good heart, but he doesn't take much time to stop, think and learn. Like with the racial issues prevalent and blm, he's only got a surface understanding and he does not make any effort to get a deeper one. Mainly because he doesn't realize-- because he thinks a lot of himself, in his black and white view. He is "good" and he cares that people suffer and therefore he thinks he understands.
He does not.
Say what you want about Adam-- and I'll be leaving my own personal biases out of this-- but even if you say he has a worse understanding than Jay, he's better because he makes more of an effort. He gets that he doesn't understand, and he's brash and vocal when he shouldn't be, but he also listens. And he tries to learn, he really, really does.
Jay doesn't. And Jay's also from canaryville. He went to Catholic school, Catholicism was clearly very prevalent in his life growing up. His father was an emotionally closed off man. He went to war. He's got his own biases but he's got this basic understanding and thinks that's that.
It's not. And it's barely okay with his current position in the unit, and it would be definitely not okay if he was their leader. Especially if he did what the greater part of the fandom wants, and leans on Hailey. Which let's face it, he would, because Jay doesn't think he has anything to learn and what he may think he does he thinks he can do it on his own, that he doesn't need to ask Kevin for guidance.
And yeah, Kevin is "only" an officer (and I'll get back to this point). Jay's got the higher role. But Kevin has been a black man, living in Chicago... Oh yeah, all of his life. That trumps promotions and titles, especially when Kevin has also been a cop for a lot of his adult life and has raised two kids in this racially charged city.
And then there's the fact that-- and most of this is because the show refuses to show the team bonding-- he's actually quite isolated from the team. We rarely get to see his supposed friendships with them, and this would affect how he can lead them and how they can follow. The dynamics would be off and it would be filled with conflict and, at times, be like a herd of sheep without their shepherd.
So, Ree, you ask. How should the show move on from Voight?
The show has been incredibly short sighted when it comes to Voight. He's been a problematic character from the literal start, and now we're reaching a point that a lot of the fans want him gone. And since the most vocal are the upstead and Hailey stans, I do believe the show will be thinking of ways to do this.
In my opinion, this should've been built up from season five, from when the reform storyline began. Instead, the show just shaved some aspects away from Voight's character.
He has changed a great deal, has grown a lot. I don't see what happened with Roy as a sign he can't change, because everyone's journey has back and forths. Especially when Voight likes to have control when people are hurting his family, he sees himself as their protector, but not as a bodyguard, but as an executioner.
And so I think the show will do two things to eventually write him out-- either promote him, or have him retire. But even this isn't simple and needs a lot of build up and work.
The show should've seen that Voight's days are potentially numbered and set up things so it's easy to slot his exit in place. For example, they should've kept consistent with having a captain in the precinct, even a lieutenant. This would have pre-existing roles for Voight to slot into easily, so they can still have his character around but let other characters get promotions or take on more work.
This would also help set up for retirement. Because even if he just retires as a sargeant, we already have other leader characters in the show for the others to bounce off-- instead of just introducing someone new. This would also help a sargeant Jay storyline, because then he'd have bosses to report too, making it very much seem that he is just the next link in the chain and would help balance out those dynamics.
Although, in a way, I don't blame them for not having foresight in season five. For other reasons but also-- because back then we also had Antonio and Al. We had a more layered and diverse unit. Instead, now we have the dad and the five children. Antonio would've made a good next sargeant, especially if we introduced a lieutenant role. Because I can see him aiming higher and helping to groom Jay into his replacement. Especially if Al was still around as a nice wall to bounce off, although it'd still be okay if we didn't.
Antonio would also be a good stepping stone because he had well developed relationships with every member of the unit. Well, apart from Hailey, but if they went down this route, they could've nurtured a dynamic there.
It would've also helped if they replaced their characters when they wrote them out. I get why they didn't. Al leaving made the partners even numbered, Rojas was after Antonio. And I wonder if covid affected their ability for season eight. But it's still the massive problem-- they keep trimming the fat, when it's unnecessary and not believing that maybe they should fix that.
And of course. They're all young. Even when they did bring in others, they're still young. And officers. And that would be okay, if they actually bothered promoting Kim, Kevin and Adam.
The unit's dynamics and feel is already off because of the lack of diversity in characterisation, race and age. And the show is doing nothing to fix this, and Voight should not leave until they have. Especially when against popular belief, history actually shows that Voight doesn't like blank slates, but people whose core characteristics fits what he wants his unit to be.
So: what does life after Voight look like? Well, hopefully, a more racially diverse group, with more age differences, different dynamics and friendships explored, Jay (and Hailey) being called the fuck out on their biases, more out of unit bosses dynamics to stop it being so insular and a happy ending exit for Voight. Because let's be real here-- Voight is not going to be written out by going to prison.
Even if he deserves it because one-- the unit would not survive that and they'd be repercussions for all and two-- realistically, as he was in prison once, the brass would not let this happen because how it would reflect on them.
In this day and age, they'd rather force him to retire quietly than publicly admit they got him out of prison and now is putting him back in. It may not be right, but realistically, they'd cover their ass first.
#ree has thoughts#that no one asked for#chicago pd#hank voight#jay halstead#<- bc i talk A LOT about sargeant jay
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Please Boss?
Day 5? I almost lost track of what day it was today... Anyways, here is the fic for day 5. Now, I will give you all some fair warning; this Eijiro is out of character because lets face it, Mafia Ei isn’t going to be sweet. Please make sure you read the warnings that i slap on this story, I don’t want to cop and shit from people who didn’t read the warnings...
@ikinabi here’s your man, come grab him while he’s not being sweet.
@rinarecommends, you seemed pretty excited when I said I was writing for Eijiro in the Mafia au, so here you go.
~Lesbain Peanut
Word Count: 4663
Content Warning: Contains DubCon and darker themes
“Please Sir, I’m sorry…” Your voice cracked as your body shook involuntarily, tears stinging your eyes as you stepped backwards. “I didn’t want to do this, please forgive me Sir.”
“Forgive you? Give me one damn good reason as to why I should even entertain the thought of forgiving you.” The voice that sounded from the deep darkness of the room was cold and malicious, the man behind it even more so.
Fear, no terror gripped your chest, suffocating your lungs as you stared over into the darkness and red eyes shone back at you. They appeared as though they were two beacons set within the night but you knew better than to expect those beacons to deliver you safely or offer leniency. This man had never been known for his mercy, he ruled the Mafia with an iron fist and crossing him was basically like signing your own death warrant. You were currently on the verge of a death warrant, but that is the sort of thing that happens when you slight ‘The King’.
You found this entire situation to be nothing but unfair, it shouldn’t have been you in this room; it shouldn’t have been you facing this terrifying man. Dedicating labour to the family you had served for years now and this was how they repaid your loyalty, by throwing you to the wolves or more accurately; the dragon! They had forced you to take the place of their only daughter, the woman who was supposed to give herself to the Mafia Boss; the one who had been promised as his future wife. Her not you!
“I’ll do anything, please?” You begged, your legs caving in beneath you and your arse met with the cold hard floor. “Anything you ask, I’ll do it for you.” You guess it was true what they say, people really will do anything to avoid death when presented with the opportunity.
“Pathetic.” His tone was harsh as he sneered out his painfully obvious disgust at your pitiful pleas for your life to be spared. “Had I wanted a rat within my family, I’d have bought one as a pet. At least then when I was done with it and its uses were no longer there, I could give it one final use in life before feeding it to the snake.” Words that almost sounded like a growl abused your ears, the analogy not lost on you as his threat was aired; you were the rat and he was the snake.
“Please, I’m so sorry…”
“Enough!” That singular word boomed across the room, it felt as though it had shaken your brain loose in the process and caused your teeth to rattle. “I don’t want to hear any more of your putrid apologies, I don’t even want to hear the sounds of your pitiful whimpering.” The sound of material shifting and feet sliding over the floorboards reached your ears, your heart rate quickening in response. “Do they take me for a fool? Did they think that I wouldn’t find out what they had been planning all along? WHO THE FUCK DO THEY THINK I AM?!” His voice grew louder and angrier with each question he shot towards you, the sound of his fist hitting something caused you to flinch; a whimper slipping from your lips.
You shook violently as you cowered on the floor, unable to bring yourself to move anymore or even reply to any of his questions. The silence in the room grew, the sense of death looming overhead as his eyes never left yours. You had never seen the man sitting across from you in the darkness, but you had heard more than your fair share of stories and none of them had a happy ending for those involved. Breathe, you needed to breathe but you couldn’t; the air in your lungs had caught in place as you watched those red gems rise into the air. Holy mother of fuck, how god damn tall was this freaking monster?!
“Mouse… rat isn’t a fitting term for you. A rat would at least have the sense to fight or flee, you on the other hand are just like a mouse; frozen in place once cornered by its hunter.” His voice grew louder as he walked towards you, his footsteps silent against the floor and that only served to pile on the terror; unsure if your nerves could handle much more. “A poor, pathetic little mouse thrown into the Dragon’s Den and this is where you will meet your end.”
“Please… I don’t want to die…” You whimpered as your voice trembled, finally managing to remember how to breathe. The man snorted the closer he got to you and you instinctively dropped your head, too afraid to look up at this monster of a man.
“Who the fuck said you could lower your head?” He growled as he came to a stop before you, the ink on his skin the first thing you noticed as he stood there barefoot. “Lift your head and look into my eyes or are you that much of a damn coward?”
Your shoulders stiffened as you took in his words, there was an underlying message hidden in them. He wasn’t just ordering you to lift your head or to look up at him, he was challenging your courage in that moment; seeing if you had what it took to do as he demanded. You swallowed back the saliva that had built up in your mouth, closing your eyes as you took a deep breath and tilted your head back cautiously. Your fingers shook anxiously as you twisted the hem of your dress violently, your heart loud in your ears as you tried desperately not to throw up. Ink and a lot of ink was the first thing you noticed as you cracked your eyes open, your breath catching in your throat at the sight that greeted you.
“Not as much a coward as I thought, I see.”
You flicked your eyes up to his face, heat flooding your cheeks as your hands stilled on your dress. Eijiro Kirishima, the man who was a King and the man who held your life in the palms of his hands; literally. How the fuck was it fair for a man who could instil so much terror in someone’s heart, to be that god damn hot? He was tall, easily more than six foot and it had your stomach doing somersaults. His long black hair was loose, framing his face and his chiselled jawline was jutted out as he dipped his head towards you. Those ruby eyes that had been watching you from across the room, now too close, were narrowed in concentration as he took in your every fibre. He was covered in ink, a little too much if you were being honest; just how much of his skin was covered in it? You trailed your eyes down over his body, saliva pooling in your mouth as you caught sight of that dark hair starting at his navel and trailing down his; HOLY FUCK!
Naked, very fucking naked!
You were pretty sure you weren’t supposed to be feeling the way you were feeling, it wasn’t normal to feel horny while being so damn terrified. You mean, never had you thought that you of all people would get the chance to see Eijiro’s dick; not in a million years. Yet, there it was right before your eyes and it was something for him to be proud of that was for sure. Heat had flooded your cheeks, unable to tear your eyes away from his dick. Despite the heat flooding your face, your skin felt cold and goosebumps formed over your arms. This was dangerous, being this close to him and seeing him like this; you were certain you were going to die now.
Eijiro scrutinised you as he stood there, a smirk pulling at his lips as he reached out a hand. His fingers laced into your hair, twisting it before pulling on it harshly as he threw your head back hard. “Something you can see that you desire?” He ventured, pulling on your hair harder and drawing a whimper from you.
You shook your head violently, wincing as your scalp protested at having your hair pulled about like that. There was no way you were about to tell this man he had you wanting to jump his bones, especially not when he was pissed with you. “N-no… n-nothing. Why would there be something I desire, I’d never even think about doing anything with you.” You babbled, squirming as you reached a hand up for his tangled in your hair.
The snort that sounded from over your head was accompanied by a hard tug of your hair, your head jolting forwards and bringing you closer to his dick. Eijiro smirked as a deep chuckle started in his chest. “What was it you said little mouse?” His voice was calm and steady as he teased, prompting you to think over your conversation.
Your brain stalled as your body locked up, you could wager a guess as to what he was talking about but there was a part of you that didn’t want to repeat it. Your lungs burned as you held your breath, the ability to voice your thoughts no longer something you had. He couldn’t be serious could he, this man wouldn’t actually ask that sort of thing from you, would he? A squeal peeled from your throat as you were pulled forwards, your entire body shifting with the force and you were left with no choice but to grasp at his thighs for stability. You had your answer, yes; he would!
“Anything I ask, you will do for me…” A violent shudder ran down your spine at his words, your eyes flicking up as you peeked up at him. “One should learn to be careful with the words they say to others, some people hold words as a binding force. I’m one of those people, your words are your life and you said anything.” Your stomach twisted at Eijiro’s words as a sickening grin spread over his face and he pulled your head forwards.
Warmth spread over your lips as Eijiro pressed the head of his dick against them, beads of pre-cum seeping from the slit and over your bottom lip. You swallowed down the fear that was clawing its way up your throat in the form of a scream, the last thing you wanted to do was get yourself in further trouble. Your eyes shifted down to take in his dick, veins were already throbbing along the surface of it and he was thick.
“You are going to be a good little mouse for me now, you’re going to do as you’re told.” Eijiro commanded as he gave a harsh tug to your hair, a whimper pushing past your lips. “Open those beautiful lips of yours and stick out your tongue for me.”
Your bottom lip trembled as you parted your lips and pushed your tongue out cautiously. You were scared but there was a sense of curiosity in you as you inched your tongue forwards, closing your eyes in an attempt to settle your panicked heart. Heat met with the tip of your tongue as it pressed against the smooth skin of Eijiro’s dick, rolling your tongue over the head and collecting his pre-cum. It was salty against your tongue, a flavour you hadn’t tasted in a while and honestly you were glad to be tasting it again.
“That’s a good little mouse.” Eijiro praised as he pulled on your hair, less strength behind the motion than there had been before. “Open wider!” He ordered, his other hand coming down and tangling into the hair at the back of your head.
You blinked as you looked up at him, your tongue pressed against the slit of his dick as you stopped his semen from leaking out. “Wider?” you inquired as you tilted your head to the side in a questioning manner.
Eijiro smirked wickedly as he tightened his grip in your hair, his eyes shining with a glint of wickedness as he stepped in closer to you. “Wider.” There was no arguing with this man, you parted your lips and opened your mouth wide for him.
His hands tightened further into your hair, to the point tears were stinging at your eyes and the pain was intense. Your eyes popped wide as he pulled your head forwards, his hands in your hair giving him that extra leverage over you as he thrust his hips forwards. Your throat constricted momentarily before relaxing as his dick slid down the back of your throat, grateful for the fact you didn’t have a gag reflex. Skin broke beneath your nails as you dug them into his thighs, making sure to keep yourself steady as he thrust his hips roughly. Your nostrils flared as you drew in breath, knowing full well it would be your only way of breathing for a while.
Eijiro groaned as his dick was enveloped by the heat of your mouth, your throat tight around him as he thrust his hips roughly. It had been a while since he had last fucked someone and here you were with that pretty little mouth of yours, completely at his disposal until he decided what to do with you. He smirked dangerously as he tightened his hand at the back of your hair and pushed your head forward fully, satisfied when he felt your nose press against his skin. Eijiro looked down at you, laughing darkly as he sheathed his dick completely in the heat of your mouth.
You whimpered around his dick as you tried to pull your head back, your nose was pressed against his happy trail and you couldn’t breathe. Your brow creased as he laughed above you, holding your head against his body and not allowing you to move. A loud crack filled the room as your hand came down against his thigh, a solid slap making contact with his skin as you glared up at him.; unimpressed with his actions. Eijiro blinked as he took in what you had done and his eyebrow shot up before he pulled his hips back tantalisingly slow. You breathed in quickly, your nostrils flaring as you tried to take in as much air as you could.
“Feisty now, aren’t you little Mouse?” He chortled as he pulled roughly on your hair and yanked your head back off his dick. “Get some good lungs full of air while you can, once I put my dick back in it's not coming back out until I’m done!” He growled in warning; a promise you knew he would keep no matter what.
“Fine…” You choked as you wiped at your mouth, breathing in deep full breaths as he had suggested you do before he changed his whimsical mind.
He watched you closely as he stood there, waiting for you to get enough air to be satisfied. There was a stinging in his thigh and he moved his hand to rub at the spot where you had taken it upon yourself to slap him. Eijiro wasn’t sure whether you were just stupid or if in that moment you had actually been brave enough to lay your hands on him. His eye twitched as he pressed his hand against his thigh, annoyed with the fact you were becoming a mystery to him the more time he spent with you.
“That should be enough, open your mouth mouse!” Eijiro commanded as he tangled his hands back into your hair roughly.
“(Name)…”
“What?”
“It’s my name, why don’t you try using it you stupid Dragon.” You spat up at him as your eyes narrowed, annoyed by the pain that was coursing through your head from his rough treatment of your hair.
“Open!”
You dared not push it any further than you already had and once again, you dropped your jaw open for him. You closed your eyes as he pulled your head forward, his dick sliding right down the back of your throat and he picked up where he’d left off. Your nails dug back into his thighs as you shifted your legs under yourself, preventing pins and needles from setting into your extremities. The last thing you wanted to have to deal with right now was pain in your legs because this asshole couldn’t find somewhere better to satisfy himself.
You felt your hair go slack after a while, his grip loosening as his hips moved at a brutal pace and he fucked your throat. Shock came over you as a moan sounded around his dick and your eyes popped wide. The laughter from above let you know that Eijiro had heard your moan and it seemed to spur him on as his pace quickened. Moans continued to slip past your lips as your throat was fucked, his dick constantly sliding into your mouth fully. Your pussy clenched tight and your hips rolled forwards involuntarily, you hated your body for betraying you like it was.
“Look who’s enjoying the rough treatment.” Eijiro laughed maliciously as he thrust his hips harder, the hand from the back of your head shifting around to press against your throat firmly. “Maybe you’d enjoy it if I choked you out, left you gasping for air and crying in a pool of your own fluids.” Your pussy clenched tighter at his words, the vision of him looming over you as he choked you out forming in your brain and setting your body on fire. Holy fuck, that was an imagine you had never thought you’d need let alone be blessed with.
You moaned low around his dick as you moved one of your hands, dipping it below his dick and smiling as you traced your fingers over his balls. Eijiro groaned above you as his hips stuttered, his rhythm broken at the unexpected contact from you. You heard him curse above you before he moved his hips, thrusting his dick further down your throat. You felt it the moment his thumb pressed tighter against your throat, in addition with his dick down your throat there was nothing you could do. Your throat constricted around his dick as you tried desperately to breathe, your nose no longer helpful with your airway black off from both sides. Your head started to spin and your eyes rolled back into your head.
The pressure was gone and you took your chance to breathe in through your nose, your eyes focusing back on the man above you. The wicked smirk plastered over his face was sickening, yet there was a twisted sense of pleasure you found in that sinister look. You flexed your fingers before groping his balls, rubbing them roughly and squeezing them until you heard his groan of pleasure. Satisfied with his reaction, you continued to play with his balls; teasing the spot between them and his dick.
Eijiro groaned as his hips jerked forth, thrusting his hips roughly as he tightened his hand in your hair. Maybe fucking you like this was a bad idea, seems like he might have awakened something freaky in you. He couldn’t stop the smirk that was growing on his lips as he moved his hips relentlessly, fucking your throat and pulling moans from you. Saliva was running down your chin, all the way down until it soaked into that stupid dress you still had on. Groans left his lips as you rubbed his balls, squeezing them firmly in your tiny hand. He was nearing his climax; he had been in an agitated and horny mood for most of the day; fucking you just happened to be his outlet.
“Fuck.” He growled as he pulled your head forward fully, burying his dick right down your throat as he pressed your nose into his happy trail.
His hips stuttered as his seed spilled forth, right down your throat as he held your head tight against his hips. Your fingers left his balls and he felt them brush over his thigh momentarily before disappearing completely. Eijiro groaned in pleasure as he shot his semen down your throat, feeling as it constricted around his dick with each swallow you gave. He smirked as he pulled his hips back slowly, keeping the head of his dick in your mouth as he let his cum fill your cavity and watching as your cheeks swelled.
You felt relieved when his dick finally left your mouth, you were certain you’d be able to spit his cum out of your mouth and be free of swallowing it. Your eyes widened when he pulled on your hair, yanking your head backwards before clamping his hand down over your mouth. Black filled your vision as his head came to loom over your own, his hair curtaining his face and brushing over your forehead.
“Swallow!” Eijiro’s word was absolute as he ordered you to do the one thing you’d been hoping to avoid. “Don’t you dare spill a drop; I want you to swallow every last bit.”
You stared back and forth between each other, hoping that he’d cave if you refused to swallow his load. The hint of a sinister grin pulled at his lips moments before your nose was caught between his thumb and forefinger. Realisation set in as you kneeled helplessly beneath the man, you had to swallow or you would suffocate. Tears pricked at your eyes as you swallowed back his semen, feeling it as it slid down the back of your throat and your cunt clenched needily in response.
Eijiro laughed callously as he released you completely and stepped back away from you. He watched as you slumped forwards, gasping for air as you pressed your upper body against the floor. “This is just a taste of what awaits you, mouse.” He uttered as he turned away from your crumpled form. “You are mine now, mine to do as I please with until I get bored with you. Your life is in my hands, never forget that.” His words rang in your ears as you breathed in deep, tears dripping from your eyes as you tried desperately to compose yourself. You had already known there was no getting out of this, you were trapped here with this man and you knew your life belonged to him now. That didn’t stop you from doing something crazy, you figured if you were stuck here; you might as well make the most of it.
“Wait, please…” You whimpered as you reached a hand out towards him, shifting your position for something better.
Eijiro groaned as he turned his head, his eyes narrowed dangerously as he glared at you over his shoulder. He watched as you shifted your body about, dropping back onto the floor and lifting your dress up over your body. All heat dropped from his gaze as he watched your legs spread wide, he could see the wet patch against your panties but he hadn’t been expecting what came next. His eyes stayed trained on your fingers as they dipped between your thighs, pushing your panties aside as you used two fingers to spread your soaked little cunt open for him. Eijiro’s dick twitched back to life, the sight of you sprawled out on the floor like that for him was working in your favour but he wasn’t about to give in that easy.
“Please, what?” He growled as he turned on the spot, making sure his body was facing you completely and that you’d be able to see his erection.
“Please, help me.” You pleaded as you rolled your hips up, giving the man standing across from you a better view of your pussy.
“That’s no way to ask a favour of your Master.” He iterated as he stepped closer to you, his eyes dipped down to your soaked folds before flicking back up to your eyes. “If you can’t ask properly, I’m afraid I’m going to have to punish you.”
You blinked as you watched Eijiro drop to his knees between your legs, one of his larger hands hooking under your thigh and lifting it up over his shoulder. His eyes stayed locked with yours as he dipped his head in, biting along your thigh and heading up towards your hips. You moaned as he bit and sucked on the sensitive flesh, leaving little marks in his wake. A whimper of disappointment left your lips as he pulled his head back, not going past your mid-thigh before biting his way back towards your knee. He was doing it on purpose, biting everywhere his mouth could easily reach and yet not touching you nearly enough for your liking.
“Please… I just want to cum.” You whined as you rolled your hips, pressing your foot up against his dick and watching him closely. Eijiro groaned low as he grabbed your foot, shooting you a warning glare as he bit down into your thigh. You cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure as you curled your toes. “Please… please…” You breathed as your bottom lip trembled, tears forming in the corners of your eyes before rolling back into your hair.
Eijiro smirked as he pulled his head back, his hand massaging your thigh as he sat back on his heels. “Please what?”
“Please, I just want to cum.” You reiterated as you tried to blink the tears away.
“I don’t see how that concerns me, little mouse.” He muttered nonchalantly as he turned his head, reaching down to lift your other leg over his shoulder.
“What do you want me to do?” You asked finally, unsure of just what it was this man desired from you.
Eijiro’s dick twitched as a wicked smirk pulled at his lips, shuffling himself up between your legs further before leaning down over your body. He could feel how soaked your cunt was, the heat practically radiating from it as the head of his dick pressed against your entrance. “Beg!”
You blinked a couple times as you tried to take in what he had said, finally it clicked and your eyes blew wide in understanding. This man wanted you to beg him for his help, to literally lower yourself in standards and beg him for something he should have naturally returned to you. Your cheeks were on fire as you puffed them up, the tears in your eyes more of a bother now as they stung.
“Beg me to help you. Address me as your Master, beg me to make you cum and then swear your loyalty to me.” Eijiro demanded as he rubbed at your thighs, flashing you a full-blown grin as he waited for your response. He knew you’d never do it; you just didn’t seem like the type of person who would put themselves at someone else’s…
“Please! Master please?” Eijiro’s thoughts were cut short as your voice sliced right through them. “Master please, make me cum. Please? I want you Master; I want you to fuck me until I cum.” You pleaded desperately, your voice cracking as you looked him straight in the eye. “Please, fuck me until I can’t take it anymore. Fill me with your semen and make me scream your name. Please, I’m begging you.” You could feel his dick twitching against your pussy, your words were having an effect on him and honestly; they were having an effect on you. “I promise, I’ll never serve anyone else. I’ll only ever be loyal to you and you can use me as you see fit, Master. Just please, please fuck me and make me cum!”
Eijiro’s head was spinning as a smirk spread over his features, never had he expected you to deliver that so perfectly. “You have yourself a deal then, (Name)” He growled in agreement before throwing his hips forwards and burying his dick into your needy little cunt.
#eijiro kirishima#kirishima eijiro#kinktober#kinktober2020#eijiro kirishima x reader#kirishima eijiro x reader#bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#dubcon#scenario#smut#mafia au#lesbian peanut writer
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Ignore this long rant I’m high as shit but I... can’t take the hero commission oR HONESTLY THE HEROES THEMSELVES, seriously anymore
They’re BRAINLESS they all share one (1) brain cell and it belonged to Crust. THESE GUYS had MONTHS to strategize this attack and what did they do? They fucked it up. They want me to believe this was planned and not written on a chalk board the night before? Sent out to all heroes the next morning at 8am in a CHAIN EMAIL?
Unpopular opinion(?): they sent the worst possible, ill-suited heroes to each location for this PLF raid and I’m mad at them for it and I’m mad at Hori for making me be mad at it even tho he had to do it beCauSe oF pLot but I’m mad.
The MLA’s plans to take on The League of Villains? Spotless. Chef’s kiss. The detail. The one-on-one counters they planned out. Accounting for each enemy’s quirk. Yeah there were like 6 of them to account for but?? Heroes, yall had enough info and enough time to think of ways to go about this raid and I’m supposed to believe that you did, BUT DID YOU REALLY? MONTHS TO PLAN, and saw one electric Sir Crocodile rip-off and immediately threw Kaminari on his ass. Good move. Kinda. But the rest of the PLF? Heroes just gonna make shit up as they go I guess??
To make myself feel better here’s a long ass useless rant on what could’ve damn happened and which heroes should’ve gone where and to make this an epic ass rumble. ugh. Even just doing some of these things would’ve made this arc (imo) feel more... convincing and delicious
under the cut tho bc damn this is too long
In this essay I will—
Edgeshot??? EDGESHOT?? EDGESHOT?? i’M GOING TO GO OFF.
I swear to shit Edgeshot could’ve soloed the hospital but they had him at the PLF mansion for Some Reason like... like they didn’t make him run up on the League’s bar instead of the Nomu factory bc they knew he would take care of shit immediately. Make it make sense. If he was at the hospital eye just—Nomu in the way?? Doctor running off? Say less. Electric slide all the way in there Shinya. DID NO ONE SEE HOW EASILY HE HANDLED KUROGIRI? Did everyone just forget this man can pull a K.O in .3 seconds flat? Heroes didn’t think it might be a good idea to have him there, ready to give Shigaraki the paper cut of his life the second he woke up (if he even did bc my mans likely could’ve prevented the ‘doctor getting away>high-end awaken>rush to get shiggy out of the tank>shiggy wakes up’ chain of events)? Didn’t think to send him instead of this guy X Less just sitting there with That Look on his face?
I get they needed heroes like Edgeshot at the mansion to take out a handful of enemies in one go but COME ON NOW. There were more than enough long-range AOE heroes there. And even if you don’t wanna believe he could solo then STILL, EDGESHOT DUOING WITH MIRUKO, ANYBODY? If anyone was gonna keep up with her happy ass zooming into the lab it could’ve been him. We were robbed of an Edgeshot/Miruko teamup and I’m not okay. Could’ve had a sexy ass panel of the hospital-team hyping up Miruko and Edgeshot as they dashed to Ujiko’s lab, two fast as shit bad bitches, zooming through these Nomu, absolutely obliterating them at lightning speed, watching each other’s backs too, PROBABLY SAVING MIRUKO FROM BECOMING THE PRE-DEATH ORGAN DONOR THAT SHE IS NOW. I know it was hot watching Miruko take on these high-ends but I’d have rather Edgeshot share the spotlight if it meant Miruko was in one piece rn. Hori played her
Anyways the literal dumb bitch energy that went into not sending Edgeshot to the hospital is sending me. Could’ve at least let him just be on the team and on standby while Shigaraki was waking up. With those sharp as shit reflexes of his we’ve seen? Shigaraki would’ve been out like a fucking light the second Edgeshot saw him sit up. X-Less you had a nice thicc upper lip that lip was too shaded for you to die, but F in the chat bitch. Useless plot fodder I’m sorry X-Less. There isn’t a hero there right now (besides Aizawa but like... idk, plot is nerfing him) that could’ve incapacitated Shiggy so quickly and prevented the mess they’re in now like my guy Edgeshot could’ve. Feels like a cop out
In conclusion: Edgeshot sweety I’m sorry they did this. I’m sorry you were nerfed. I’m sorry they didn’t let you deliver Kamino Pizza to this hospital. I’m sorry they ignored you and now everyone’s gonna die bc they didn’t they respect your Ninpo rights
CEMENTOSS??? y’all sent him to fuck up the mansion FOR WHAT??? If I were the hero commission and thought :
“Dang we need to completely ass blast this huge PLF resort to make room for our heroes to run in... but it would also be good if we had someone to do that at the hospital too just in case things get tricky and we need to pave a quick way to Ujiko’s secret hideout... but I’m single-celled and can’t weigh my options logically so ok. Cementoss, to the mansion.”
...................... Ok but can I in interest you in PIXIE BOB? I get the mansion is huge but going by the shit we’ve seen her do?? I’m not about to underestimate ol’ girl. I know she could’ve fucked that place up if they let her, switched her out for Cementoss, who could’ve made THE EASIEST route for the hospital team to get into the secret lab, trapped Ujiko, also trapped a couple nomu/high-ends in cement while he was at it, rearranged some tunnels for optimal tactical movement, probably could’ve done a decent-fucking-job at slowing the onslaught of Decay too if it got to that point (AND IT MIGHT NOT HAVE BC THE WHOLE POINT OF THIS RANT IS TO INSIST THAT A BETTER SELECTION OF HEROES WOULDN’T HAVE RESULTED IN SHIGGY’S CURRENT THANOS SNAP ORdEAL)
I know Pixie’s mostly on rescue operations and that’s what she’s doing at the hospital/surrounding city but WHY?? EVEN IF THEY REALLY NEEDED CEMENTOSS AT THE MANSION—WHY NOT HAVE PIXIE BOB DOING SOMETHING IN THE ACTUAL HOSPITAL BATTLE? JUST A LITTLE? The hospital is built on uh.. oh yeah... EARTH? And considering in the Forest Training arc she was using her quirk from a remote location (to make that Earth golem, or whatever) she wouldn’t even HAVE to be IN Ujiko’s lab to be useful
Can y’all PLEASE put at least ONE of your terraforming heroes at the place where y’all REALLY need them?? And not after-the-fact like y’all just did with Pixie Bob? Because clearly she didn’t do shit this last chapter trying to stop Decay. I’m sorry girl. You may be dead. Terrible.
I would have legitimately sent Snipe to get Ujiko before I sent Miruko and that’s that on that. Where is he even? He was there during the briefing but he’s gone? MIA? Idk. No way Ujiko is getting away from those bullets. Target locked: Ujiko’s hand. Fire. High-end Nomu remote goes bye bye. Then another bullet in the leg. No need to worry about him escaping and waking up high-ends/Shiggy when he doesn’t have kneecaps. Problem solved. No way it would’ve taken that long to break Shiggy’s tank either with a few well-placed pew pews zigging around some Nomu (not that we really wanna break him outta his tank bc look what happened). Snipe’s 6/5 technique stat deserves better!!!!!
Gang Orca did not go off and give a bunch of kids brain damage during the License arc to be so thoroughly ignored here. He’s clearly about to get his shit rocked by some gauged-out ex-Hot Topic employee in the next few chapters and ugh you’re TOO GOOD FOR THAT ORCA. COULD’VE BEEN OF USE AT THE HOSPITAL. PARALYZING SONIC WAVES? WE’LL TAKE IT. Who knows if any of the high-end Nomu would’ve been affected by paralysis but the small fry? Probably. Shiggy’s little twink ass? I would bet on it. Not that it would really stop him from using Decay but still
At the risk of sounding like someone I know who endorses child labor (the hero commission) here me out: CAN I GET A UHHH JUZO HONENUKI??? AGAIN YEAH good that he was at the mansion to do some long-range AOE action but if y’all are gonna force kids to join in on this war anyways, put your strongest and most useful ones at the place you need them. Shit it would’ve been real nice if Honenuki was there to trap some Nomu—uncertain if it would work against the high-ends that show some pretty flexible quirks but who knows—and even at the risk of reaching, maybe in some universe where Shiggy and Honenuki face off, it would be interesting to see Decay against Softening, since Decay’s one big weakness is that it can only work on solid objects sooOooOo? Idk. Would’ve been a cool match up but I hate that the kids are fighting anyways so we’re gonna ignore this Juzo rant. Just know it would’ve been cool
And as for the mess that’s going to be this fucking mansion soon... .. We’re just gonna ignore a whole ass Geten, big destructive power, big fucking threat, and not gonna throw Endeavor’s ass in there? Makes sense. They’re leaving it to Shoto I guess. They said time for you to fucking shine kid. Get in there. I mean really trading Endeavor for Edgeshot would’ve been top tier strategy but...
I MEAN THEY?? Made up a whole ass plan to counter ONE greasy-looking PLF guy by throwing Kaminari in there, but they couldn’t make up a plan to counter Geten? Are they just?? Pulling names out of a hat to see who gets to fight who? Did they spin a bottle to see who it landed on? Did Mt. Lady pull the short stick? I swear on shit when Geten starts going feral soon I’m not gonna feel sorry about it. Unless heroes got a plan and someone’s gonna make a sexy ass top 10 anime entrances to counter his ice then I’m disappointed. We went ape shit over Kaminari countering one of the commanders but are we not gonna get anymore ‘I’m your perfect counter and I’m here to stop you’ moments? No? I’M PISSED.
I would have also settled for my kween Nejire being there to blast away some ice because who tf else is gonna do it? But eh.
Dabi will also be trouble depending on what he decides to do. He only has about 3 good ideas a month and he’s used them all up by now so he’s in dumb slut territory as we speak. But you’d think that a villain as widely recognized as Dabi with such a destructive quirk would urge the heroes to have some plan to take him on but?? So far I don’t really see anyone quick to take on the role. Not that it’d be that hard bc he’s dangerous but also dangerously dumb. Where is Inasa. Maybe he can just blast the flames back in Dabi’s face. I love him but at this point he deserves to have some of his rights taken away
Don’t even get me start on Gigantomachia. I get the heroes had little choice except to attack before Shiggy was full-power but just?? NOT having a plan in case by some little chance Gigantomachia DID wake up? You stupid bastards. You absolute fools. I guess there’s not much you CAN do but FUCK y’all just gonna let him SIT THERE? No counter measures? No ‘Let’s execute this incredibly thorough and thought-out plan we’ve spent months formulating to restrain Gigantomachia in case he does end up waking up, because better safe than sorry’? When he tramples like 50 students I bet that shit gonna hurt
I hate it all. I was really happy about seeing Shiggy go off 272 bc he’s a king but after rereading from like, 258 I feel... weird. Maybe this will be resolved with more chapters but. eh. Now that I’ve thought of this, I can’t go back. I miss the brain power that was behind the MLA fight
#bnha spoilers#bnha 272#i'm mad#bnha#Why did I make this? It’s so dumb#i'm gonna wake up tomorrow and scream#they're 2d bro LMAOOOO#is htis a meta#meta#bnha meta
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Listen Closer - Chapter 2
[ your honour, i simply love him. also this may become my focus for a while so idk if The Walls and Ashes will keep getting semi-regular updates ]
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“Do you ever think about making traps that aren’t iron maidens?” Amanda asked, looking up from her own work to watch Garrett attach a chain to a literal iron maiden.
Garrett glanced at her before scoffing and placing the collar on the chain down on the ground as he went around to the back of the maiden to check the pulley the chain was attached to. “I think about plenty of traps. Iron maidens are just my favourite. Would you rather I-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Amanda cut him off, already knowing he was about to spew some shit on medieval torture methods. “I was just curious. I mean, they work, so I’m not complaining. And it keeps you busy.”
Right. Because if he wasn’t building or designing a trap he was writing, and that would be falling back on what he was trying to unlearn.
When he went to respond, he was cut off yet again by his phone ringing. He answered it almost immediately, since the only people with that number were his Jigsaw associates. “Yeah?” he greeted, tucking the phone under his ear as he got back to work.
“Garrett. I am in the car, outside. I need your help,” came the voice of John through the phone, the way he spoke making Garrett chuckle to himself. “Be prepared to carry a person.” Oh! There was no scheduled game for today?
Garrett once again tried to reply, just for John to hang up. He let out an annoyed groan, but flipped the phone shut and tossed it on the table. “Don’t touch my trap,” he told Amanda, before pulling down his sleeves and jogging outside to help John.
He was ninety percent sure he heard her fucking with his trap as soon as he left.
---
“Who in the FUCK is this guy?” Garrett asked, struggling slightly to keep John’s newest victim standing, his limp body leaning heavily into him. Garrett was the strongest of the three of them, sure, and the second tallest but this guy was HUGE. He had to be at least 6’0, and carrying him was like carrying a brick wall.
John glanced at him, a vague amusement in his eyes but a neutral look on his face. “That, Garrett, is Detective Mark Hoffman. Normally I don’t go after cops if I had no evidence that they’re dirty, but he attempted to frame us, and I cannot tolerate that. Getting caught myself doesn’t matter. Keeping you and Amanda safe does.”
Aww, murder dad moments. Better than the dad Garrett used to have. “Right,” he let out a huff, readjusting Mark as he dragged him through the room, FINALLY dropping him into a chair in the middle of the workshop. “No wonder he’s a detective, the man’s a fucking giant.”
He stood in front of the still passed out detective, giving him a proper look over. He was big, like he’d already said, with short dark brown hair that had looked black outside. He had surprisingly well formed lips for a presumably cis white guy, and Garrett surprised himself with the thought that they looked awfully biteable.
Ah, there’s his gay instinct. He’d been wondering where it had gone, since it hadn’t fucked him over when he’d met that Adam Faulkner guy- who was definitely cute, but also now haunting him, which kind of ruins the appeal.
Moving on from that, Hoffman also had a little bit of scruff on his jaw, which Garrett quickly realized was what he’d felt on his temple while he was carrying him to the chair.
His little inspection was cut short when John began setting up the trap, strapping Hoffman to the chair with a shotgun strapped to his chest, the barrel directly under his chin.
“That doesn’t look very escapable,” Garrett joked, sending a short look to Amanda, who immediately looked away, at least having the decency to be embarrassed about her rigged traps.
“You would be surprised what human beings will do to escape entrapment,” John replied simply. “But this one is not built for him to escape from on his own. I’m going to make him an offer.”
He looked at his two apprentices, gesturing for Amanda to come over to them. “I want both of you to keep working on your games tonight, out of the warehouse. I know much about the detective, but not everything. I’m not going to risk him lashing out.”
Of course. John Kramer was nothing if not protective of his apprentices. Theoretically, Hoffman would fall into this category when the night was over. “Well, my iron maiden’s done,” Garrett said, glancing back at his newest device. “My game could take place soon, if not tomorrow. I know where the player will be.”
John nodded at this. “Good. Run your game then. If all goes as planned tonight, it will be good for our newest recruit to see one of you in action. Maybe he’ll learn something. Now go, both of you.”
Usually, Amanda argued when he dismissed her, but apparently she could see that he was serious, and simply packed her things and left. Garrett looked at Hoffman one last time before doing the same.
He could hear Hoffman begin to stir as he stepped out the door, and he found himself hoping that everything would go smoothly tonight.
Gay ass.
---
“Man, just carrying bodies is giving me a work-out,” Garrett muttered under his breath as he readjusted the woman slung over his shoulder, finally lowering her to the ground of the room her game would be taking place in.
As much as he wanted to do one of those big, multi-room games he’d seen John put on, he just didn’t have enough experience for those yet. So, it was a single room, with a single trap. Since it was small, he’d chosen someone with a small offense.
He’d even gotten to record the tape himself.
The collar let out a satisfying click as he fixed it onto the player’s neck, humming a soft tune as he gave it a tug to ensure it was one correctly.
There was a key for her to get in the middle of the room, just barely out of reach of the chain. She’d really have to get creative with getting to it. He checked the chain itself as well, ensuring it wouldn’t break off. He finished his check-up with a look at the hinges on the doors of the iron maiden, and the pulley attached to the chain.
The player was starting to stir, so he placed the tape recorder next to her and took his chance to leave. After all, if she survived, he really needed her to not see his face.
Soon enough, he took his place in the camera room, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the desk.
“Do you always watch your games like that?” he heard someone speak up, looking to the door that Hoffman had just come through. He tilted his head at the detective, before grinning at him.
“Sure do,” Garrett replied, turning back to the screens. “Well, I would, if this wasn’t my first game. Usually I’m tinkering with something while John’s games are running.”
The player had woken up by then, clicking the tape on and cutting off the conversation.
“Hello Cara. I want to play a game,” the tape said, the voice making Garrett smile. It had been hard work getting his distorted voice to sound similar enough to the original Jigsaw’s. “For years you have kept yourself in a closet of your own creation in order to help others rise above you, allowing them to steal your work.”
“Well, unless you want that closet to become your death, you will rise above that today. Before you is a box, and inside it is the key to your freedom. You will have to work to get it. You have ten minutes. If you do not get to the key in time, the closet behind you will become your coffin. Live or die, Cara. Make your choice.”
The tape clicked off after that, and Cara did exactly what Garrett guessed she would- run straight for the box and find out the hard way that the chain was just barely short of the required length to grab it.
“This is usually the part where they start screaming for help and panicking. I gave her ten minutes because I knew she would, and that’s when a lot of people tend to die. I wanted to give her a fair chance.”
That almost seemed nice, but it was a lie. Garrett liked watching them thrash around and panic. The more time they had alive, the more time they could slowly go insane.
Hoffman had moved closer at some point, now sitting next to him in a chair that he’d pulled over to the desk. This was the first time Garrett had seen him since last night, so he finally got a chance to look at his eyes.
For someone who wasn’t a fan of blue eyes, Garrett thought Hoffman’s were gorgeous. He very, very quickly looked away, turning his attention back to his game.
“Did you build the iron maiden yourself?” Hoffman asked, and Garrett scoffed at the question.
“No, unfortunately. I didn’t have enough time to build one from the ground up,” he answered with a soft, disappointed sigh. “I found most of it from a collector that built replicas of medieval shit, but never got around to completing it. I finished it off, added the extras.”
Hoffman gave a hum of acknowledgement, his gaze glued to the screen in front of them. “How is this supposed to help her? How did it even help you?” There it was. Since Hoffman hadn’t gone through a real game, he didn’t feel the same as Garrett and Amanda. He didn’t understand it like they did.
Garrett readjusted himself in his chair, tilting his head at the screen. “I don’t want to tear every person I see to shreds anymore,” he offered with a shrug. “I don’t feel like screaming for hours on end until my throat bleeds. I’d say it worked pretty well on me. Sometimes you just need that kind of release.”
“For her, she’s supposed to learn her worth. She’s not just the sum of what she can do for others, what’s more important is what she can do for herself. And she needs to figure that out. I don’t want her to die. Why would I? That’s not the point.”
He didn’t notice Hoffman turning to look at him while he spoke, so he almost flinched when he glanced over and made eye contact with him. They held each other’s gazes for a moment, before they both looked back to the screen.
Cara really was trying to get that box, having now resorted to removing her belt and attempting to loop it around the box. It took a few tries, but she finally got a grip on the box and pulled it over to herself.
She scrambled to open it, and Garrett glanced at the timer.
Eight seconds.
“She’s not going to make it,” he realized aloud. He hadn’t even noticed how quickly time was passing, but he didn’t feel anything when the timer went off, or when Cara screamed as the chain yanked back, dragging her into the iron maiden.
Her screams became wet and gurgled when the doors of the maiden closed on her. Blood seeped out of the cracks at the bottom of the door. He just stared at the screen.
“Huh. Maybe ten minutes wasn’t enough time. Shame. I was really looking forward to seeing her get better.” With that, he stood up, turned off the screen, and headed back to the room to leave the iconic jigsaw piece in her skin. Hoffman followed, and watched him do it. “Most important part, if they die,” Garrett told him as he cut the skin with a scalpel John had given him, closing the door again when he was done.
And then he turned to Hoffman, his head tilted to the side in a curious motion. “Will you be the detective on the case? I suppose this will be your first test of loyalty, hm? I’d hate to kill you. You’re very pretty.”
He gave Hoffman a pat on the shoulder as he left the room, leaving him to think on what he’d said. It wasn’t a threat, but it was clear that he would kill him if needed. But he genuinely did not want to.
A smile formed when he heard Hoffman follow him out of the room. It was nice to have another apprentice, and it was looking like they’d get along.
#story tag: listen closer#self ship fic#self shipping#self insert#scrap.writing#scrap.ships#romantic: ⛓🕵️♂️#s/i: garrett whitlock#mark hoffman#chapter 2
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This Hard Truth
Fic prompt: “Are you drunk?”
THIS HARD TRUTH picks up immediately after THIS HARD LIE, an AU that explores the changes to Roswell and Michael if Alex had decided to tell the Air Force to go pound sand. It’s not all roses. Also folks, not sure if I’ve said, but I’ve been writing these each day literally from scratch off an old vague outline I abandoned a year ago, and today’s the first one that I’ve struggled with, so there’s your warning. Once Michael Guerin Week is over, this is going to a beta and will find a home on AO3. Thank you for loving the raw story.
****
The solid black Range Rover parked in front of his Airstream didn’t surprise Michael in the least.
It had been three days since Jesse Manes had succumbed to his terminal cancer diagnosis, those final days silent under a steady morphine drip. The doctors were correct with their less than a month pronouncement which had left Michael with the uncomfortable position of hoping that Jesse was going to defy those odds. It was a win-win of extended suffering for a man who had earned that and it would have kept Alex in Roswell longer.
He had seen Alex exactly seven times since that first night at the Wild Pony, all of them casual spontaneous encounters that became less spontaneous after he’d learned the nursing rotation of Manes brothers and home care staff. He’d shuffled his jobs at the garage to leave openings in schedule and stopped eating at home during the nights he knew Alex would be free, emptying out his dining out jar.
This was a species thing, he had reminded himself as a curl of guilt had started to squirm inside him at the level of low-key stalking he had done to see his ex. Between Max’s somber admission that he still could remember in crystal-clear detail the day Liz Ortecho touched his lip almost eight years ago in high school and the reaction one of Michael’s attempts at dating had to his story of showing up on Alex’s doorstep two years after a breakup with no warning, well he was aware this wasn’t a normal intensity. The date with wide eyes picking up their phone, even though it hadn’t made a noise, saying, “You seem like a nice guy, but I need to take this call, it’s probably work, we can try again some other time-”
That was the proper reaction to his story he learned, not nodding sagely like Max had and encouraging him to go in the first place.
Humans couldn’t calculate within a minute the amount of time they had recently spent with someone the way Michael could. It was a full commitment of energy to stay carefully friendly with Alex, to keep his alien focus under wraps even though he probably tipped his cards that day in Nashville. On his good days he told himself that Alex hadn’t called the cops on him because he’d been happy to see Michael and on his bad days, it was because he didn’t want the press.
With Jesse Manes dead, Alex’s reasons for staying in Roswell were over. It was time to say goodbye to this small interlude of where Michael felt completely himself, brimming in mitochondrial buoyancy with every cell alive and sparking. Back to the cards of Hallmark blandness and the short notes of congratulations after a song does well.
Alex looked up from his casual sprawl in the lawn chair, his phone in hand, and smiled at Michael’s approach, “thought I might return the favor, and show up at your door unannounced. I gotta say, an Airstream at Sanders’ was not what I was expecting as Casa de Guerin.”
Suddenly aware of the dark stain of dirt staining his cuticles, Michael shoved his hands in his pockets as he strolled up to him. Everywhere he looked was a reminder of the divide, from the shiny Range Rover Sport to the smooth manicure and high-end clothing that wrapped Alex’s frame. “What did you expect then, bedroll in my truck again?”
“Whoa,” Alex stood up, pocketing his phone to hold his hands up harmlessly. “Sorry, that’s not what I mean, I was referring to the doctor boyfriend you’ve got. Most doctors I’ve met are about the trappings, it looks like you found a good one that likes you as you.” Alex’s smile wavered, “I’m happy for you.”
Now even more off-balanced, Michael sputtered, “wait, I don’t-”
“I’m less happy it’s Kyle Valenti, but I guess it’s possible he’s changed, or received a personality transplant-”
“Holy shit who have you been talking to?” He finally cut in, looking over his shoulder back to the office at the auto yard, half expecting to see Isobel being helpful. She had never quite forgiven Alex for finding happiness in Nashville, and it would be just like her to spin a version of events to make Alex jealous. As if that was possible, even in a universe where Michael was capable of being a Stepford boyfriend worthy of a doctor, nothing compares to the life Alex has built without him. Not even zero-percent body fat doctors who did know quite a bit of anatomy. The mention of Kyle did remind Michael that he hadn’t heard very much from him since that last night shortly before Alex had rolled into town. “We’ve seen each other a few times now, Alex, I would have told you if I had a boyfriend. Anyway, Kyle has changed, but he’s not- we’re weirdly enough friends.”
A pang of longing shot through him at seeing Alex arch his eyebrow at him in judgment. “That is not what Maria says, or Arturo, or Old Man Sanders for that matter.”
“Well, they are wrong.” Michael said firmly, stepping around Alex leaving a careful amount of space as he flipped open the lid of his cooler for a beer. “It’s not like that okay? I don’t have a Dennis and a dog in my life, it’s casual and fun but nothing more.”
“I wish I was sad about hearing that, but I’m not.”
Michael paused in the middle of popping the cap off his bottle, “Wow, thank you.” That stung more than he was expecting to hear that Alex was happy he was alone. Fame and fortune really did change people. Swallowing the lump in his throat, “Listen, I’ve loved seeing you Alex, and the less said about your dad the better, so thanks for coming by to say goodbye and eh, enjoy Nashville,” he grabbed the knob on his Airstream door to flee.
A hand covered his, keeping the door firmly closed against the frame. Michael cursed his species for the thousandth time as the touch sent waves of weakness through him. Alex leaned in close, too close for just friendly words, “Wait, that came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Yes,” Alex stated firmly. He held onto Michael’s hand, stepping into the space between them to block the retreat into the Airstream. This was the closest they had been to one another in four years, not since that last fight the morning before Alex’s flight east that ended with fucking on a bare mattress after Michael had packed their sheets for Alex to take. “Coming back here, seeing everyone, um, seeing you, it reminded me of who I was before I became this guy,” he gestured at his clothes and back toward the expensive car vaguely. “I’ve got all these things now, useless things, that when I look in the mirror, I see my dad, a guy who cared more about a uniform than he did his own kids.”
“Alex, you could never be him, I don’t care if you become more famous than McCartney, it’s just not possible.”
Whatever Alex saw on his face made him shake his head gently in response, “I don’t get it, you still look at me like you did when we were dumb kids surviving on ramen, like nothing’s changed at all.”
“Nothing has changed for me,” Michael insisted firmly, bringing the open and almost forgotten beer to his lips. A merger shield to employ. It was pretty clear that nothing ever would and that was his reality. It was as true now as it was when he had borrowed a guitar from the music room at seventeen. “But you knew that already, that’s why we broke up, remember? Things were changin’ for you, you were goin’ to bigger places than Roswell, and that’s a good thing. A great thing even.”
“I know. You should know that I’m not going back to Tennessee right now, Michael.”
“What?”
“There’s no Dennis, I mean, not anymore. That kinda fizzled out after your visit, and the dog was his,” Alex kept his hand over Michael’s, slowly moving it up to circle his fingers around his wrist, “I do miss the dog, she was sweet.”
“Your house-” Michael started, his pulse back to pounding senselessly in his ears.
“That was mine but I sublet it to a guy I know who’s doing session work at the studio while I was here. I just let him convert the sublet into a lease.”
“And your agent?”
“Dealing with the fact I’m taking my first sabbatical in four years,” Alex finished smoothly, an answer ready for every disbelieving question that Michael could muster about his house and life. He took a step back, as if he was suddenly aware of how he had crowded him against the warm metal door of the Airstream.
There was just one question left to ask though, as Michael studied Alex’s face intently. The transparent way his eyes kept flickering from the beer bottle against Michael’s mouth and then away. “If you’re not here to say goodbye to me, then why are you here?” he asked challengingly, raising his beer back to his mouth to finish with a full lipped suggestive swallow.
Gauntlet dropped and accepted as Alex surged forward to press Michael against the door and kiss him. The glass bottle dropped uselessly to the ground, glancing off the metal steps as Michael reached behind him to turn the knob quickly. He stepped backward, letting Alex crowd him through the doorway, chasing his mouth hungrily.
The metal door slapped hard against the door jamb, as Michael fell back on his mattress.
Alex gulped audibly for air from the break, pulling back to tug off his v-neck shirt over his head and then stilled as he took in the state of Michael’s small bed. His eyes widened, scrutinizing the setup and Michael had to look away in embarrassment, knowing exactly what Alex had just recognized. “You goddamn liar! When I said I didn’t want our sheets to take with me, you said you were going to burn them!”
“Yeah, well, it seemed wasteful.”
Michael leaned back on the thin mattress, ripping his own shirt off to toss carelessly on the floor. He watched as Alex reached down to unbutton his pants. The yellow light from the trailer window brushed a gold glow of Alex’s half naked torso. He drank in the small, subtle changes in Alex’s body, like the corded strength in his torso that spoke of some sort of workout. Probably yoga or dancing maybe. The playful outrage on Alex’s face slowly changed over to a dawning realization as he took in the details of the small and cramped surroundings.
This was why Michael never brought anyone back here. All around were the skeleton remains of that first apartment together. The same dishes in the tiny sink. The same cheap poster advertising Warp Tour was taped to the back of the wooden built-in dresser. The same stupid classic car clock that Alex had brought home, after Maria had bought the Wild Pony and upgraded the decor, all because the cars reminded him of Michael.
Everywhere in the Airstream was some piece of memorabilia from those three years together. It was as close to a shrine to their relationship that Michael could build without setting out candles and a full altar.
“Holy shit, you really do love me.”
“Uh, yeah,” Michael rubbed at the back of his head ruefully, before laying back to accept Alex’s warm weight over him. He closed his eyes as Alex kissed him, turning his head upward as those long, musician fingers tangled in his hair. Gasping softly, he confessed, “Never did figure out how to stop.”
“My dad was wrong, I mean, I knew he was- but he was so convinced that your species weren’t capable of it-” Alex stopped abruptly, aware almost immediately that Michael had gone rigid under him.
Dimly Michael realized that Alex was still talking but nothing registered after ‘your kind’. It was subterfuge earlier, when Alex joked that first night about his father being a lunatic lost in the ravages of a brain tumor. He believed Jesse, worse he seemed to know that Jesse was right, that Michael was different.
Cool palms cupped Michael’s face, pulling him away from his spiraling thoughts. Any hope of laughing off the response was gone with the serious look in Alex’s eyes. “Hey. I don’t care, okay? You are still the first person, hell the only person, I’ve ever loved completely. Where you came from doesn’t matter to me. I know who you are-”
“And you know what I am.”
“Yes.”
***
Michael stared up at the ceiling of his trailer not daring to look sideways at Alex, who was pressed as close he could get against Michael on the narrow bunk. After a soft acknowledgment that he knew that Michael wasn’t alone, that he’d figured out that Max and Isobel had to be the same even though his father had died believing only Michael was an alien, Michael told him everything.
The crash, the pod, the years in the system, the knowledge that he was different and the fear that came with that knowledge. The fact he has powers, that they all do. The joy he had in finding Max and Isobel again at eleven even though he didn’t trust why he felt that way toward them. Then the vow they had made for absolute secrecy. “Not even Noah knows about Isobel, and they’ve been married four years now.”
“And Max? He never told anyone either?”
“His partner knows Jenna Cameron but that wasn’t planned. They were driving back to the station after a long circuit patrol for speeders and got caught up rescuing some people from a flash flood. The Berrendo. Cam got hit by a tree branch, femoral artery, and yeah, Max healed her. No one saw him because it was a dark night, but healing leaves a handprint. Impossible to deny it.”
Alex ran his hand absently through Michael’s chest hair, soothing them both. “It was a relief when my dad had Flint show me the evidence.”
“A relief?” Michael joked weakly, his mouth twitching upward in the effort. “Low key worried now that learning I’m an alien was a relief to you.”
“I thought the novelty of being with me had worn off. I mean, my choice after telling the Air Force to fuck off was starving to death or splitting expenses with you for rent. I figured after 3 years, you were ready to move on, so you let me go.” Alex reached up to cover Michael’s mouth with his palm briefly. “I know how that sounds, but you have to understand, before you? No one had ever loved me. My mom left when I was eight. I mean, maybe my older brothers did for a bit when I was little and cute? At least until I was thirteen and my dad started singling me out. He would kick my ass in front of them, daring them to protest, and they didn’t. I didn’t even love me.”
“Alex,” Heartbreak was in every syllable. “I never wanted to let you go-”
“I know, I’m just saying, I could finally believe it when Flint handed me a piece of a 70-year-old spaceship.”
“Dropping in on you with no warning a couple of years ago wasn’t a clue?”
Alex pursed his lips together, and laid his head on Michael’s shoulder. “Honestly I had spent two years telling myself that you didn’t give a shit, and then when you showed up, I thought it was because I was making a name. All sorts of people come out of the woodwork when the first taste of fame comes along. Then you confused me, because you left and started sending me these terribly boring greeting cards.”
“Fuck off, I spent forever picking out those cards,” Michael protested with a laugh. “I was trying to show you that I had chill, that I wouldn’t boil a bunny or stalk your social media.”
“Well you succeeded, I did keep all your cards though. It might have been a factor for Dennis moving out,” Alex joked in return before sobering with a tired sigh, “but little did you know, the real stalkers here were my family. Ever since 1947, a Manes man has been tasked in protecting humanity from your kind, starting with my great-grandfather Harlan, and ending with my brother Flint.”
Michael echoed the sigh, tucking Alex closer to him. The idea of the government, especially the United States Military, believing in aliens was enough to send his pulse rattling upward with fear. Every fear made real.
“On the bright side, my dad is dead, so that’s one less Manes hunting you.”
“What’s the other side?”
“I thought my brother was in Germany except he’s been stateside for the last five years working with my dad. He’s a weapons expert, and he’s so important to the project that the military forwarded his mail to Germany for the proper postmarks.”
“Well fuck.”
***
The next day, Michael took a rare sick day from work and guided Alex out to the desert to the cave to show him the pods, where his story had begun according to his memory. Then it was Alex’s turn for show and tell, as he directed Michael to the abandoned air base.
“I don’t know if we’ll be able to get in, but Flint calls it Project Shepherd. It was Dad’s center of operations in Roswell. He tapped into all the traffic cameras and even planted one on the gate to Sanders’ Auto,” Alex explained as he stepped out of his Range Rover. “You fixing cars must have bored the shit out of him.”
Weeds and scrub grass covered the broken pavement of the air base, lending to the air of disuse. The huge metal hangers covered the expanse, the domed tin roofs punctuated the horizon like a scattered group of D’s. Michael scanned the surroundings, a feeling of disquiet and dread filling his veins. It was probably the height of foolishness to visit a top secret bunker with only the company of a musician as back up, even if he did have the last name of Manes.
A dark shadow caught his eye, and frowned as he realized that they weren’t the only ones on sight. A familiar dark blue BMW was parked off to the side, mostly hidden by a building named B unimaginatively. As he crossed the parking lot with Alex a step behind, skipping over the broken slabs of paving markers, he drew to a halt in front of an open door.
Michael started forward, but Alex slapped his hand over his arm to halt him, “you should let me go first-”
“What, no!”
“I’m human, what if there’s some sort of anti-alien trap down there?”
“And you’re human, so what makes you think you’ll trip it?” Michael shot back reasonably, shaking off Alex’s hold. “If there’s a trap, I’m the one with the lock pick in my brain, besides, I think I know who’s down there.”
“This is like every bad horror movie, Michael.”
But outside of that pronouncement, Alex let him take the lead down the stairs of the open bunker into the cool shadows of the underground facility. As expected, he made it down uneventfully and found exactly who he expected at the bottom, spinning around in a slow circle in a leather covered office chair.
“Did you know they’re selling a shirt at Planet 7 that says ‘I’ve been probed by an alien’? I should buy it, because I can wear it unironically,” Kyle greeted as Michael made it to the bottom of the staircase. He shut his mouth comically as he realized that Michael wasn’t alone, “Whoops, did I just blow your secret like I’ve blown you?”
In Michael’s experience with Kyle, working the almost-friends and all-benefits angle, he had seen him in a lot of states. Worn out from a long shift at the hospital, solemn because he’d lost a patient, giggly because of Michael’s tendency toward wild bedhead, horny strangely because of a good football game, and finally tipsy after a pair of IPAs. He had never seen Kyle in this state.
“Are you drunk?” Michael asked, disbelievingly even though there was a mostly empty bottle of bourbon on the long conference table, stretching along the width of the room under the fluorescent lights.
“I am very drunk. That is the only sane response to my dad, I mean my day, actually I had that right the first time, my dad.” Kyle nodded vigorously before looking over Michael’s shoulder, “Hi Alex Manes. I’m sorry I was a homophobic jackass in high school. I have really changed. Ask your ex. Or is it current? Am I the ex now? Are we both Michael’s ex? Exes? Fuck is that plural or possessive-”
“You are definitely an ex now,” Alex answered firmly.
“Holy shit you are wasted,” Michael shook his head, slightly amused in spite of the deep alarm he felt in finding Kyle Valenti deep in the command center of an alien hunting operation. It was hard to feel too afraid considering the words pouring from Kyle’s mouth unedited.
“Listen I changed myself okay? I did the hard work examining my privilege and my toxic masculinity. I did it because I like sucking dick, but also because my dad is a good person and I wanted to make him proud. But I was fucking wrong. Not about sucking dick, that’s great, but my dad, he’s not good, Michael, he is really not who I thought he was.” Kyle pronounced seriously with the heavy emphasis of the inebriated. He staggered over to a computer system to press a key, pulling up a surveillance camera of a nondescript building on the set of command monitors. “He runs an alien GITMO,” the outside image clicked over, showing a line of cells, including an image of an all-too familiar man, “And he had Jesse Manes killed by an alien.”
#mguerin20#guerinweek20#malex fic#michael guerin#malex#roswell new mexico#au after the shed#the lost decade#oh yeah still got a bit of plot to wrap up#alex manes
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this fill is for @rozword and @hargreeeves who both asked for frank castle/jason todd and whose prompts happened to work well together. so here’s the first half of a two-part no superheroes au, in which jason is not red hood and has never been robin, but he’s still getting into fights in alleys. the prompt for this one is: "are you leaving?"
warnings for some canon-typical violence and also some canon-typical bad medical decisions.
---
Jason wakes up on a couch that isn’t his, in a house he doesn’t know, with a dog he’s never met curled up next to him. There’s also something wrong with his face and temple and entire skull region, but he’s not surprised by that, given the facts of the situation.
“Fuck’s sake, Rex,” he says, patting the dog on the head. “Why didn’t you cut me off before I drank the entire bar?”
The dog whines softly and nudges Jason’s chin with its nose. The lick to the face that follows isn’t especially upsetting on its own, but Jason’s instinctive flinch sets off an entire New Years Eve of fireworks behind his eyes.
“Holy shit,” he says, swinging his legs off the couch and accidentally dumping the dog to the floor. When he brings his hand up to the side of his head, he touches something rough and tender, a fresh scab over one hell of a swollen bruise.
He reevaluates the dizzy, nauseated feeling in his stomach. He considers the fact that he isn’t wearing a shirt. He investigates the couch, staring pensively at the smears of dried blood that indicate he was still bleeding a little when he passed out.
His boots are sitting neatly by the side of the couch, socks folded and placed on top. His wallet’s there, too, although his phone is missing. He’s still wearing his jeans.
He cuts his loses, shoving his feet into the boots, his socks into one pocket, and his wallet into the other. After a brief internal pep talk for his stomach and his head, he heaves himself into something approximating a standing position and starts maneuvering his way toward the door.
It’s not so bad, really. If he keeps moving, he almost doesn’t notice the way the floor kinda sways under his feet.
He has his hand on the doorknob when he hears it. A soft shift behind him, the creak of wooden furniture, and then a voice, quiet, clear, deep: “Are you leaving?”
Jason turns his whole body to see. He has no plans to try turning his head again any time soon.
There’s a man across the room, sitting in a sunlit breakfast nook, coffee mug in hand, staring at Jason with what Jason chooses to optimistically classify as resting murder face.
“Uh,” Jason says, fumbling with the stubborn door, putting a bit of weight behind his attempts to get through it. “Yeah. Had a great time. Five stars. Thanks. Maybe next time, when someone says ‘fuck my brains out,’ consider the possibility that they didn’t mean it literally.”
The man’s dark eyebrows pull together. “I didn’t--- that’s not.” He sets the mug down and frowns at him, which is a revelation to Jason, who’d been under the impression that he’d been frowning the entire time. “I didn’t fuck your brains out.”
“Yeah, not for lack of trying,” Jason says. “What the hell even happened? Did I take a headboard to the temporal lobe and you just dumped me out here and hoped for the best? What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with this door?”
“Deadbolt’s locked,” the man says. “And you’re concussed. You’ve been having a lot of trouble with doors.”
Jason finds the deadbolt and shoves it open. “Thank God,” he says.
“That isn’t gonna help you,” the man says.
“Could you sound more like a serial killer please?” Jason asks. “Really. When I relay this story to my friends, I want at least one of them to actually piss themselves.”
The man blinks and shifts back a bit, like he’s trying – from clear across this wide open room – to give Jason more space. “That’s the door to the backyard,” he says.
“Oh,” Jason says. He pushes the door open anyway and stares in bleak resignation at the six-foot fence. “I can jump that,” he says. Just to be clear.
“Yeah, I know you can,” the man says. “I saw you fight yesterday.”
Jason blinks. Now that he’s said it, there is some kind of memory there. Vague, half-formed. When Jason focuses on it, it waves and fades like breath in the winter. “There was a fight?”
The man looks uncomfortable now, glares down at his coffee for a second. “Yeah. You and a few guys. I was walking by. Heard some noises. Some yelling.”
It’s the word yell that does it. Summons a clip of memory out of the inky black swamp of last night. Jason, picking himself up off the ground, blood in his eyes. Shaking his head, blinking, and then catching, in the corner of his vision, this guy taking a brick out of someone’s hand and then breaking that arm, neat and fast. The snap, and then the scream.
“You broke someone’s arm,” Jason says.
“Well,” he says, sinking deeper into the chair, taking a sip of his coffee like he thinks it’s gonna somehow hide his face. “Like I said, there was a fight.”
Jason closes the door and turns back around. He takes a few steps closer to breakfast nook. He can’t for the life of him remember what the hell he was fighting about, but he figures it was probably worth it. He doesn’t get in that many fights anymore. He is learning, slowly, to pick his battles.
“So there was a fight,” Jason says, “and then, what? You were like ‘that’s hot, better bring that guy home?’”
He frowns. “Not like—I tried to call your friends for you, but you kept giving me the number for some pizza place.”
Jason does a quick mental check of the phone numbers he actually has memorized, and he begrudgingly admits that the top three are all fast food establishments. “Well, maybe I was hungry.”
He stares, deadpan and silent for a full beat. “Could be,” he admits. “You did throw up on my shoes.”
“And I’m not fucking sorry,” Jason says, even though he is. Also, somewhat mortified. “Was I giving you a bad number for 9-1-1, too?”
“No, but you had a lot of loud opinions about cops you really wanted to share. Figured it probably wouldn’t work out well if they showed up.”
Jason hasn’t fought a cop since high school. Again, he’s learning. But he’s willing to admit that some of his hard-won character growth might’ve temporarily vanished after the blow to the head.
“Coulda dropped me at a hospital,” Jason points out.
The man raises a single skeptical brow. “I tried.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the expression on his face indicates that the process of his attempt was not an especially pleasant one.
“So you brought me here,” Jason says, “and then--”
“Tried to clean you up a bit,” he says. “You didn’t like that. So I got you some water, and some ice. Checked on you a few times overnight. You didn’t like that either.”
Jason is starting to realize that maybe he’s been something of a nightmare and an asshole to this guy. “I bled on your couch,” he says, just so they can get everything out in the open.
“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “It’s not a great couch.”
Jason blinks at him. “You’re being really calm about this.”
He stares at him for a second and then drops his eyes to the table. After a moment, he shrugs again and looks up. “Combat vet,” he says. “Not the first or the worst head injury I’ve seen. Figured you’d be okay so long as you didn’t get confused and walk off a bridge. Or find another six guys to fight.”
“Six?” Jason asks. Jesus, he must’ve been really pissed about something. Or they were really pissed. Or they were mutually pissed at each other.
“Well, six when I got there,” he says. “Looked like maybe you’d already handled one of them.”
It occurs to Jason that, as shitty as this morning is and as bad as he feels, he’s probably supposed to feel a hell of a lot worse. Maybe he’s supposed to be dead right now.
“I’m Jason,” he says.
“Frank Castle,” the man says.
Jason gets another flash memory. Himself, banging his fist on a dashboard, yelling “Frankie says relax!” at a startled car of clubbers at a red light.
“Oh my God,” Jason says. Very carefully, he brings his hand up to his face. “I can’t believe you didn’t just throw me into traffic.”
“You weren’t that bad,” Frank says. “You only hit me once.”
Jason scans the patchwork quilt of memories he’s built so far. At no point does he remember hitting Frank. “When the hell was that?”
There’s a second where Frank seems to replay the night in his head, like even he’s having some difficulty tracking the madhouse funshow timeline of a concussed Jason. “You couldn’t get in the truck,” he says, finally. “It’s kinda high. You kept tripping on your boots. I was gonna help you. Got too close, I guess. So you elbowed me in the throat.”
“Right into traffic,” Jason repeats. “You coulda just…” He mimes picking up a body and hurling it into oncoming traffic.
“Nah,” he says. “Once you were done swearing at me, you were actually really sweet about it.”
Jason trudges the rest of the way across the room and slumps into the chair opposite Frank. He figures, at this point, he’s given Frank cause and opportunity to murder him. If Frank passed on his chance, he’s probably not interested.
“No sign of my phone?” he asks.
“Oh, found signs,” Frank says. “Looks like you broke it on somebody’s teeth.”
Jason sighs. “Goddamn it.”
“Can use mine,” Frank offers. He slides it across the table to Jason, all his motions so slow and measured that they don’t even make Jason feel seasick when he follows them. “If you can remember any number that isn’t for pizza.”
If Jason focuses past the ache in his head, he can remember Roy’s number. And Dick’s, too, although he’s really hoping it won’t come to that.
Jason picks up the unlocked phone and navigates to the call screen. “Thanks,” he says. “For not killing me. Or letting me be killed.”
Frank looks at him like he has no idea what to do with that. After a second, he stands up. “You want some coffee?”
“God,” he says. “Please, yes. Absolutely. And, like. Seventeen Advil.”
“Three Tylenol,” Frank says. “And you gotta eat toast.”
“Stop trying to save my life, Frank,” Jason says. “I’ve got it from here.”
Frank blinks at him, long and slow, and Jason’s not sure he could look more dubious if he tried.
“Fine,” Jason says. “Three Tylenol and some toast. Sounds great.”
Frank nods and sets off into the kitchen. Jason watches him go, memories shifting and settling in his head of Frank’s hands on the side of his face, carefully tipping him toward a light that hurt. An ice pack pressed gently to his skin, someone taking off his boots.
“You can borrow a shirt,” Frank calls back over his shoulder. “When you go. Yours was ruined.”
“Okay,” Jason says. “Thanks.” The dog sidles up next to him, presses its nose right into his palm. He dials Roy’s number as he scratches behind its soft, floppy ears. “I’m gonna take your dog, too.”
Frank looks over at him, eyes dropping immediately to the dog at Jason’s side and then rising to Jason. That resting murder face is still firmly in place, but Jason’s starting to learn how to see behind it, and there’s something like a smile back there, hidden behind the serious set of his mouth and the furrow between his brows.
“No,” Frank says. “Sadie stays.”
“Relax, Frankie,” Jason says, and Frank full-on rolls his eyes in the single most decisive display of emotion Jason’s seen so far.
“Don’t start that again,” he says. “My neighbors already left a shitty note.”
Jason hopes like hell that all his memories come back. Because while it sounds like there are parts of last night he’s happy to lose, there are other parts he kinda wants back.
Frank does that thing again where he doesn’t quite smile, and Jason grins back at him for a second before his face reminds him that emotive facial expressions aren’t really a good idea right now. He grimaces, and Frank’s smile disappears.
He ducks into the kitchen, and Jason presses ‘Call.’
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Fragments of Skin and Alcohol | JJK
Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader
Summary: You don’t remember much, but you remember them...
Genre: Choose your own adventure, amnesia au, fluff
Warnings: Alcohol and cursing (honestly, it’s really not that bad)
Rating: PG-13?
Word Count: 2k Words
A/N: My inspiration after writing the past four stories every single day for four days straight made my brain flop but also run with more ideas at the same time oh my god. A real mess of a timeline I’ve got going...
Someone tell me why I wrote the aftermath of a breakup before the actual relationship? My timeline writing actually went 7, 2, 1, 3, 6, 5, 4. I know I said I’d publish in chronological order, but I take it back. You guys are smart people.
Header by the talented and amazing @dnrequests
Timeline Place: 6
Other:
Series Masterlist
Masterlist
You were suffocating, swaying amongst the crowd, the bass rattling your bones. The stench of sweat slicking down skin and alcohol burning throats filled the air. The flashing lights left your eyes to adjust over and over, the alcohol buzzing in your veins and making you stumble. Yeah, you were a little buzzed, but not too bad.
You usually didn’t drink away your problems, but you had a big problem. The ending of a long term relationship was always hard, especially when you had been so sure that you loved him. You grimaced at the thought of his face and clutched your cup tighter, taking a large swig.
You made your way to the edge of the room, leaning against the wall to get your bearings. Your makeup was probably ruined and the dress your friends had made you wear didn’t leave much to the imagination.
You had never been a fan of dresses, often preferring a suit, but they had insisted and you had decided to get out of your comfort zone a bit. You were a little jealous at how easily they were able to go out and show off everything they got. Jennie was beautiful after all and so were Jisoo and Rose. How did they meet an ugly duckling like you? Who knew.
You placed your sweaty palms against the wall, dropping your empty cup onto the ground. A part of you knew you should pick it up, but your mind immediately hissed aw, fuck it. It sounded like something your boyfr-ex boyfriend would chastise you about. And fuck him.
But even that was hard to think about because you didn’t hate him. It didn’t even end on a bad note or anything, you both just sort of went your separate ways. While you wallowed in your misery, you didn’t note the figure leaning against the wall beside you. He cleared his throat loudly and you jumped a little, turning to look at him.
The man had doe eyes and his hair was swept to one side, the wave hanging in his eyes. You ogled him with no qualms; alcohol was funny like that. Fear? You hadn’t heard of it since...you once again lamented a lost love. The man, however, was well built, with well shaped muscles and a slim waist. You averted your eyes, regaining a sense of dignity. The man looked like...a literal god.
“Rough night?” He asked gently, his voice softer than you expected for his look. He pulled off the edgy vibe well enough.
“More like a rough life.” You barked without thinking, wanting to slap yourself for how...out of control you felt.
“Yeah, I get that.” He crossed his arms, eyes glancing over the sea of people. Then he turned to you.
“Want to head out? Some fresh air would be nice.” He smiled a little, reaching out to touch your arm.
Your eyes flickered from his face to his arms, to his hand on upper arm. Then you pulled away, the touch and gesture feeling all too familiar.
“Don’t do that!” You exclaimed, out of all the thoughts flying through your head. He raised an eyebrow, backing away slightly.
“I’m sorry.” He said quietly, his voice almost lost in the music. You shook your head, trying to get a grip, trying to think straight.
“No, no, it’s just….don’t try and pull a fast one on me, okay?”
“A fast one?”
“Being all nice and handsome and then turning around, springing a relationship and love confessions all over me like-like-like a...a..” You trailed off, forgetting what you were trying to say. The man seemed amused by this.
“I won’t, I swear.” He held up his hands. You glanced at his calloused hands, rough and worn. “I’m Jungkook, why don’t I just drive you home?”
“I’m Y/N...and Why should I trust you?” You crossed your arms, your common sense not completely null.
“I don’t know, maybe you shouldn’t.” He shrugged.
“That’s reassuring.”
But the twinkle in his eye and the alluring nature of his posture pulled you closer. Jungkook didn’t really give off a threatening aura. You finally just nodded and let him lead you through the party.
“Try anything weird and I won’t hesitate to call the cops.” You clarified. He simply smiled and hummed in agreement.
His hands were strong and elegant. It was a thought that hit you quite randomly as you sat in the car. The low rumble of the road below, the silence making your ears ring in contrast to the music of the club, made for a peaceful moment.
He focused on the road ahead, not engaging in conversation, but you attributed it to him being a keen observer. You weren’t really in the mood to talk, the high of the night wearing off.
“You know, when I was younger, my mother always drove me around when I couldn’t sleep. She’d pack a late night snack, strap me into the back, and just...drive.” The man said, breaking the silence.
You nodded a little, your hair pressed against the window. The yellowish orange glow of the streetlamps passed you by on the highway. The road was almost deserted at this hour.
“You look pretty young still, Jungkook, too young to talk about ‘when you were younger’.” You smiled softly. You heard him shift in his seat slightly, taking a glance at you.
Then he dipped his head. You watched him turn and indicate out of your peripheral vision.
“My point is, I like driving. It calms me.” He stated, his voice light and lilting. Another beat. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“Why?”
“I told you something about me.”
You scoffed but thought for a moment.
“My friend, Jennie, when we were in elementary school, she accidentally fell off the slide and chipped her front tooth. Good thing it was already wiggly, but it still looked gnarly.” You said. He snorted.
“Okay, but that’s not about you.”
“Why do you want to know about me?” You rolled your eyes.
“I just want to find out more about the beautiful stranger I’m driving home.”
“And maybe I want to find out more about the beautiful man that’s driving?”
You watched the corners of his lips pull upwards.
“I’m sorry, I’m not the best at...talking to people, anyone.” He said sheepishly and the car fell into silence. You waited a few minutes, the alcohol beginning to make you sleepy.
“I think you’re doing a fine job so far.” You mumbled, but you knew he heard it.
“Thanks.”
You returned to watching the window. The passing cars lit up the interior every now and then. His black leather seats must be hot when it was sunny. You weren’t quite sure why that was the first thing to come to mind, but you weren’t sure why anything was happening.
The loss of control was exactly what you needed tonight, but it was also such an awful feeling. It made your stomach churn, fearing you might not be able to make the right decisions. You were trusting Jungkook to be an honest man.
He slowly pulled into a residential neighborhood, your house nearby. You blinked, seeing the familiar surroundings. You instantly shot up, remembering self defense 101.
“W-wait, let me out here.” You stuttered. Never let a stranger know where you live.
Jungkook didn’t even flinch, remaining in a calm and level tone. His hands were loose on the steering wheel. His eyes didn’t even strain from the road.
“If you’re worried about me knowing your address, you gave me it at the beginning of the drive.” He said plainly and you let yourself relax.
You just needed to remind yourself to kick your drunk self’s ass later. You leaned back and rested your head against the headrest, groaning in frustration at yourself.
“I really didn’t drink a lot.” You murmured.
“I can see that.” He replied sarcastically.
“Seriously!”
“How many drinks did you have?”
“One...two...three...five...I dunno, lost count.” You mumbled, let your eyes flutter closed. You were feeling awfully sleepy.
He eyed you out of his peripheral and then slowly pulled up to your house. Then, he parked, went around to the passenger side, and opened your door. You remained still. Jungkook sighed, gnawing anxiously at his lip as he looked from you to your front door.
The man tapped his foot anxiously. He could carry you inside, but that would mean he A) had your house keys and B) you would let a stranger into your house. Besides, that kind of thing really only happened in fanfiction, right? You didn’t even open your eyes, knowing what he pondered.
“If you’re thinking of carrying me into my house, bridal style,” You slowly opened your eyes and stretched your arms, your knuckles brushing against the roof. “Then you are sorely mistaken, big guy.”
Then you gathered your things, made your way out of the car, stumbling a few steps, and walked to your front door. You fumbled with your keys before finding the right one. Your frustration only grew as the keyhole kept moving. He watched you, amused.
“Well, little miss, it looks like you’re having some trouble there.” Jungkook swooped in and fit the key to the hole, even helping to turn it. You flushed a scarlet red, and not just because of the alcohol.
The quiet street felt so still in that moment. You didn’t dare move or make a sound, lest you disturb the leaves. The soft ding of the car door alarm beeped across the emptiness. You took a deep breath and then turned to face him, your faces a few mere inches apart.
“Thanks for the ride.” You whispered, voice hushed.
His eyes searched yours and your lips craved his, your hands wished to roam his body. And damn him for being so alluring to your drunken state, Your eyes flickered to his lips and he didn’t miss the action. It had been a while...it was time to move on, even for a brief moment.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, a husky tone to his voice.
You answered by leaning in and pressing your lips to his. Your hands moved to his shoulders and his arms fell to your waist. He pulled your body flush against his, fighting for dominance, which you gladly gave. In an instant, he pulled away, let you catch your breath. Jungkook shot you a small smile, far too timid for someone who just kissed you so boldly.
“The rest will be saved for later, yeah?” He said shyly.
“Later?”
He dipped his head and you found yourself smiling, truly, for the first time in months.
The next morning, you woke up, head pounding. You yawned, watching as the sunlight filtered through your curtains and then across the wooden planks of your bedroom. You carefully stepped onto the cold floorboards, wrapping a soft robe around your body.
With a sigh, you pressed your fingers to your lips. What had you done? Sure, it was a pleasant memory and not unwelcome, the memory of his lips against yours, but was this okay? Moving on, even though it had been months, it still felt like you were cheating.
You slipped on your fuzzy slippers and ran your fingers through your hair. Your fingers caught on the loose strands and the knotted ends. Then, you opened the door of your house with a slow creak. There, on your doorstep, was a note weighted down under a stone.
How about we meet in the daytime? I’d love to get to know you :) - Jungkook
You smiled softly to yourself, rereading the simple words over and over again. Yeah, it was time to move on from your last partner. His messy handwriting and even cuter smiley face had you smiling far too wide for so early in the morning. And they say chivalry is dead.
Want to try another path?
Go Back To The Beginning
#bts#bts x reader#Jeon jungkook#Jungkook#Jungkook x reader#JJK#JJK x reader#JK#jay kaaaaay#gukkie#fragments of you#amnesia au#fluff#PG#non idol au#castlebangtan#bangtanuniversity
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Birthday Sex (Teen Wolf Preference) PART THREE
PARRISH:
“Soo, you don’t wanna role play good cop and criminal this year?” You teased, handing Parrish his warmed tupperware with his lunch inside. He laughed and shook his head at you.
“Work doesn’t turn me on as much anymore, Y/N.” He played along with your joke as he pressed his lips against yours. You sarcastically sighed.
“Guess I’ll have to come up with another plan.” His hand came down from your waist to squeeze your behind slightly.
“You never disappoint.” He whispered in your ear, his tone changing quite fast. Your mouth gaped open momentarily before you shut it.
“You have three more hours on this shift, how am I going to make it?” You asked with a whine. He nodded towards the door to his office.
“Lock the door and you won’t have to wait.” Your mind when from a million things to one, getting Jordan’s pants off. You dashed to the door to lock it and ran back to your husband to engross yourself in his kisses.
“Happy freaking Birthday, Jordan.” You sighed happily as he sat you on top of his desk and pulled your shirt off. He smirked in return and pulled off your pants and your panties were to follow. You paused any further action and took off his shirt. You grabbed onto his back and pulled him close to your body. “I won’t disappoint tonight.” You winked at him, signaling that you came up with something different for when he came home to you. Something changed in his eyes at that.
“If you make it there.” He spoke darkly. Within moments his belt’s thunk sounded, letting you know his pants were removed. It was one of the sexiest sounds your officer could make. Parrish proceeded to cup his hands under your ass and thrust into you. You dug your nails into his skin at the pleasure. His thrusts were calculated and smooth, he dug right into your g spot, knowing that would evoke his favorite girly moans.
“Yes! Right there.” You clenched your legs around his waist, but you weren’t expecting him to lift your body up and walk around his desk to sit in his chair, with your body above him. You had never done something so vulgar in his workplace. He leaned the chair back so it would rest against his desk as his hungry eyes scanned your torso.
“You know how it goes.” He spoke in the same low tone, almost daring you not to start riding him. One hand removed itself from your ass and trailed up to the back of your neck. You began grinding against him, using the desk to balance your movements. The hand on your ass pushed you up and down on top of his growing length. The hand on your neck moved to your hair and pulled on it slightly. Your eyes caught his ass they rolled back into his head.
“Fuck, you look so good, baby.” You moaned out as his hand tangled itself in your thick hair. He pulled even harder, making your eyes meet the ceiling. You yelped when you felt his hand smack your ass.
“Shhh, Y/N.” Jordan warned from below you. You had the overwhelming desire to go faster, because your end would bring so much more pleasure. Your hips stuttered at the thought of cumming. “You wanna go faster?” He knew your ticks.
“Please.” You whined. He removed his guiding hand from your behind and your hair and went to play with your breasts.
“Do it.” He ordered. Your brought your eyes down from the ceiling to watch his face as your skin began clapping against his aggressively. His mouth hung open and his eyes could barely stay open. You loved seeing him so lost in this, compared to when he was lost in frustration of his work. He let out a high pitched whine and thrusted his hips up to meet yours.
“You gonna cum?” You cooed in his ear and kissed his neck. He nodded quickly and forced his eyes to meet yours, through their daze. Within seconds you felt his thumb at your clit. You bit your lip and quickly brought Parrish to his end.
“F-fucking shit.” He grunted, his hands landing on your waist as the feeling of his orgasm shot into you, triggering your own. After you both calmed down you rested your head on his shoulder. You chuckled and rolled your eyes.
“You’re right, I might not make it there.”
THEO:
“You know you want to, Y/N! I mean, just look at him.” Your best friend pointed to the male whom had just exited your pool. Your watched from your sliding glass door as the water cascading from his body accentuated his built figure.
“I can’t! He probably doesn’t even like me like that. People just come to get drunk and high off their asses, the fact that it’s my birthday is just an excuse to do it.” You tore your eyes away from Theo reluctantly. Your best friend took you by your shoulders.
“He’s literally giving you sexy eyes as I speak to you, Y/N. Take this goddamn cover up off and go win you some good dick. You deserve it after everything the whole McCall pack put you through.” You bit your lip in hesitation. You were Deacon’s medical student niece after all and the pack had always stressed you out when your uncle was unavailable. You took a deep breath.
“Okay, fine. I got this, right?” You asked your friend, needing more encouragement. She smiled in satisfaction.
“Hell yeah.” You took off your black silk cover up and handed it to your little hype man. She grinned at you as you opened the sliding door to the backyard. Music flooded your ears and you felt the vibrations in the ground as you walked to the drink table. You grabbed a bottle of Malibu and took a swig of the sweet drink.
“Birthday girl’s getting wilder every second.” You knew it was Theo and you knew he was grinning. Turning to him you caught him looking at your ass, but his eyes quickly drifted to your chest in replace.
“I’d be a terrible example for everyone else if I didn’t. Gotta take risks, right?” You smiled slightly before taking another swig. Theo’s eyes met yours and you felt like you were drowning in the ocean of baby blues.
“Risks are how you truly live.” He spoke in a genuine tone. You held out the bottle to him.
“Cheers to that.” Theo took a swig and walked closer to you, reaching behind you to set the drink down. When he stood straight, you two were very close.
“Mind if I take a risk?”
-
“Lock it, lock it!” You spoke between the kisses Theo brought onto your lips. He turned slightly and locked your door.
“Don’t worry, birthday girl. I only plan to have you for myself tonight.” One hand cupped your cheek and took your bottom lip between his teeth.
“I like when you call me that.” You whispered before untying one of your bikini top’s knots. Theo raised a devilish brow.
“Birthday girl?” You hummed and nodded, moving to the last knot and letting the top drop to the ground.
“Yeah.” Theo’s hungry eyes looked at your bare torso.
“Come here, birthday girl.” He took your hand and motioned for you to sit on the end of your bed. He pushed you softly onto your back by holding your sides. His hands drifted down to your bottoms. He removed them and you couldn’t help but get turned on from how gentle he was being with you. He hadn’t touched you yet. “I can touch you tonight, right?” He made eye contact with you, leaving no room for uncertainty. You nodded. He chuckled and shook his head. “Tonight you’ll learn to use your words. Say it.”
“Yes.” Your body shifted at the tone in his words. He knelt down on the ground, which you hadn’t expected. You leaned against your elbows so you could see what he was doing. He pulled your waist down the bed further, so your heat lined up with his face. Your eyes widened. He noticed.
“I’m going to assume that no one has done what I’m about to do.” You shook your head no and his mouth twitched upward. You forgot.
“I mean, uh, no. No one has.” You spoke sheepishly. His hands gripped your thighs and his thumbs drew circles on your skin.
“What a shame for them. This is my favorite place. You’re going to love this, birthday girl.” He winked and began sucking a hickey on your inner thigh. As the moments went on, you could feel yourself getting more and more turned on by Theo’s word choice and his aura. He was confident and knew his words came with effects. His lips left your hickey and his tongue dragged against the sensitive bruise, making your body shiver. He smiled up at you, making your hand come up and cover your face.
“I’m sorry.” You were as fucking nervous as a virgin.
“Cover your face one more time and I’ll make it permanent. You’ll want to see this, Y/N.” You quickly removed your hand with widened eyes. His threat was spoken with dominating seriousness. His eyes flashed their wolf golden color and you fought not to shiver once more.
“Okay.” You spoke, allowing your body to relax. His head went back to your thighs and you watched as his tongue traced the hickey several times. He enjoyed the shaking of your thighs by his smile. However, the smile wasn’t able to be seen when his mouth encased your clit. He began sucking, nibbling, and pulling on it. “Holy shit.” You squeezed the bed sheets, fighting to thrust against his mouth. His tongue laid against it and moved up and down. You bit your lip and whined.
“Louder.” He ordered and his tongue flicked against you at a fast pace. You couldn’t fight the urge anymore and let your hips buck up.
“Fuck!” You cried out for him. Your shaking thighs threatened to close in on him, but his hands slapped harshly against them before holding them in place.
“I bet your ass jiggles just like them.” He murmured, pausing his actions as he got an idea. “You’re gonna ride my face, birthday girl.” He stood and laid on his back next to you. Your eyes grew wide.
“I, um, I-”
“You’ll move, or I’ll move you.” You licked your lips in nervous habit and sat up. You moved your leg over his chest and looked down at him before moving up closer to his lips. “Just enjoy it. And for fuck’s sake, move, birthday girl.” He smirked before gripping your ass and pressed you down onto his lips. Your sensitive clit made you grind down on him. One of his hands moved yours to his hair. You gripped his hair harshly, which he definitely didn’t expect. But he let out a loud moan into your heat, making you cry out his name.
“Theo, your fingers, I need them.” You begged, continuing your grinding. A moment passed and you felt two of his fingers prodding at your entrance. He definitely felt how wet you were and you knew it. They sunk inside of you with ease and you hummed in pleasure. His hand on your ass came down on it and allowed him to feel it jiggle as much as he said it would.
“Take off my shorts before I cum in them.” He spoke before going back to eating you out. Your eyes widened and you looked behind you to see his hips thrust up into the air, the tent in his swim shorts quite evident. You reached back and slid them down to his ankles. He didn’t ask, but as you faced back to him you left your hands behind you to lean on the bed, and one of your hands wrapped around him. He grunted against you and you smiled as you moved faster for him, both with your hips and your hand. His fingers shot up right into your g spot.
“Fuck!” You cried out. Theo’s moans vibrated against you as he got closer to his end. Before you knew it you felt his cum on your hand. You looked back and watched him finish.
“Watch your pussy cum now. And put those in your mouth, pretty birthday girl.” Theo ordered, making you shoot your head back to him. His tongue flicked against your clit once more as his fingers continued their tummy twisting pleasure. You put your cum covered fingers inside of your mouth, making sure he saw you. He let out a higher pitched moan, that made you absolutely fall head over heels for the man. And it made you fall over the edge as well. You fell next to him shortly after.
“We have to do that again.” You spoke between pants. Theo smiled at you widely.
“Glad you feel the same, birthday girl.”
MALIA:
“Thanks for coming over, babe. This is just so frustrating and I needed a break.” Malia opened the door to her house to you and pressed her lips to yours. Your rubbed her furrowed eyebrows with your thumbs with a smile.
“You need a break from homework, or you’re horny on your birthday?” You asked. Her brows unfurrowed and her lips cracked into a small smile.
“Maybe I was a little bit lonely?” She put her hands up and shrugged. You laughed and shut the door to her house.
“Malia, you know that you’re at risk for not graduating this year?” You tried to lightly say it. She huffed.
“I know.”
“You know that until you do one assignment I’m not touching you, right?” She growled softly and walked up to her room. You couldn’t help but laugh a little, however, as her ass moved in those little sleeping shorts you didn’t think you could help yourself. You knew she wanted to lure you into her trap so she could seduce you as soon as she texted you. You naturally, got a little hot and bothered as well. You didn’t hear her bedroom door shut, so you began your plan.
You discarded your clothes by the stairs and walked up the stairs. At first you wanted to go quietly, but Malia was a freaking coyote and hears everything. You approached her bedroom and she was faced away from you on her computer typing.
“Come to torture me, huh?” She asked, continuing to work. You were so proud at the fact that she didn’t even turn around. However, you remembered that she just wanted to get it done to get down and dirty.
“Or relieve you.” You leaned against the doorway and watched as your girlfriend spun her chair around with a grin.
“Yes!” She cheered and pulled her shorts and shirt off.
“Never thought we’d be the couple that does birthday sex.” Malia pushed you up against the wall.
“I happen to be horny on my birthday. That’s all.” Malia didn’t like the concept of birthdays, but you wanted to celebrate her presence in your life so badly.
“Really horny.” You sighed as Malia’s lips encaptured your breast and her hand played with the other. Your hand trailed down to her heat to do exactly what she liked. “I love you, Malia.”
“Love you too, Y/N.” She paused from her assault and took your hand to toss you onto the bed with her super strength.
“You’re gonna break me one day.” You joked as she parted your knees.
“One can only hope.” She winked and placed her pussy right over yours. You moaned in unison as Malia grinded at a fast pace.
“Fuck.” You sighed and squeezed her ass with your hand, then proceeded to smack it, watching it move and turn pink. “You’re so pretty with a red ass.” You smacked it once more and Malia whined.
“More.” She pushed your knee down so she could arch her ass up in the air. Malia loved that you were obsessed with her behind and always let you do what you desired with it.
“Grind harder.” You ordered and she followed your orders while waiting for you to follow with your intentions. You smacked her ass about six more times before she stopped grinding and took her thumb to rub your clit hard. “Shit! Yes, baby!” You grinded against her thumb while she sucked on the breast she had abandoned earlier. You smacked her behind once more as you came and held onto the flaring red cheek. You ran your finger to her pussy and felt how wet she was.
“Sit up here, Malia.” You gestured for her to sit on your face and she happily obliged. You pressed open mouthed kisses to her heat and poked your tongue out into her hole. You brought your fingers down to her clit and pinched it a few times. Her uneven panting made it apparent that she was close.
“I’m close, Y/N!” She began grinding down onto your tongue as her thighs shook. Soon you felt your girlfriend’s cum hit your tastebuds. You flopped your head back down onto the mattress and stared up at Malia.
“Now get your homework done, birthday lady.”
STILES:
“Why him though?” Lydia asked you. You bit your lip and shrugged.
“I think the wildness turns me on.” Lydia looked at you in disgust.
“That’s called the most annoying anxiety ever! Stiles, is like, overwhelming.” You smirked.
“Nothing I can’t tame.” You laughed when Lydia’s jaw dropped.
“Yanno what? Fine, get it out of your system so I can stop hearing about it.” You shook your head and watched as Stiles walked down the hall to his locker and Scott walked away from him.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to get him out of my system.” You left Lydia to her angry murmuring as you approached Stiles. “Hey.” Stiles closed his locker and jumped when he saw you. You were a lot like Lydia to most of the school, a top dog. So Stiles was rightfully taken aback by your presence.
“Um, hey Y/N. Did you uh-uh need something from me? Or just something? Or like want something?” You thought that his stammering was freaking adorable, but you thought that if he spent enough time with you he’d be able to tone it down. You really did like Stiles...he was truly your type. You didn’t like the big buff guys like Jackson or Theo. You wanted someone rational and someone to balance out your social butterfly lifestyle.
“I was wondering if you wanted to come over later? I need some help with Chem.” You leaned against the neighboring locker. You knew you didn’t need his help, because unlike Lydia, you didn’t let on that you didn’t know shit, you were smart.
“You want help? You need help? From me?” His eyes widened. You pointed over your shoulder.
“You know, Lydia’s not the brightest bulb in the school’s hallway, and I figured you paid more attention than I did today.” You painted your nails during Chem today. You knew you’d pass the class without batting an eye, because your last school was really expensive and focused on making their students the next Einstein’s.
“Sure, um, where do you live?” You handed him your phone.
“Put your number in there and I’ll text you the address.” He typed his number in with shaky hands.
“Thanks, Stiles.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek and walked off.
-
“The mitochondria!” Stiles looked at you like you were on crack.
“That’s not an element, Y/N. You know Chemistry isn’t a required class, right?” You smiled at Stiles’ soft expression.
“I’m well aware. I’m also aware that the element would be Bromine. And the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.” Stiles brows furrowed in confusion and you tossed the text book off of the coffee table.
“What-”
“Truth is, Stiles, it’s my birthday today-”
“Happy Birthday! Shit, I didn’t bring anything.” He looked around like he would be able to find something. You grinned at his sweet heart.
“Stiles. I made a birthday wish this morning. I wished that I’d be able to do some things with this boy I like.” You leaned towards him slightly, making your breasts pop out just a bit. His eyes grew wide as he noticed.
“He’s a lucky guy, Y/N.” You sighed and sat up straight. This wasn’t gonna work if you were too out there.
“I think I’d be lucky if he’d like me back.” You said softly. Stiles shook his head with a small smile.
“He’d be nuts not to.”
“Well, that’s good because the boy I want to spend my night with is you, Stiles.” His eyes almost popped out of his head.
“You’re pranking me, okay, I get it. I’ll leave.” Stiles picked up the book and stood up. You stood up and pushed him onto the couch.
“Stiles, I am not pranking you, okay? I’m being honest. You...you turn me on, like, a lot.” You felt your face begin to heat up. “If you let me, we can have a good time together, and maybe spend quality time together.” You took the book out of his hand and let it drop on the coffee table.
“Like, like what?” He asked, stunned at your proposition. You smiled, knowing he was interested. You bent down to his ear.
“Well first, I can start by making friends with someone in your boxers...you’ll find out what you like, I’ll find out how to make you feel good. Then you can cum inside of me, because I’m on birth control. How does that sound?” You backed up to see his face.
“That sounds like it’ll feel good.” You smirked and knelt down on the ground. Your hands undid his jeans button and zipper. There was a tent forming in his pants as you continued. You noticed how tense he was.
“Stiles, relax. It’s gonna feel good, just like you said.” You pulled down his jeans and boxers after he nodded. He was thicker than you might have given him credit for. “Who would have thought?” You whispered before letting your hand wrap around his member. His fists were squeezed hard on his sides. You took your other hand and intertwined your fingers with his. His hand felt right in yours. “I don’t have a gag reflex.” And you took him inside your mouth.
“Sh-shit.” He spoke shakily. You looked up at him as you bobbed your head up and down. His opposite hand came up to your hair cautiously. You moaned against his dick to let him know that you were okay with it. He thrust up into your mouth at the feeling and gripped your hair harshly. You missed the brief feeling of him so far in your throat so you moaned again, and he began steadily bucking his hips up. “You-you like that?” He asked genuinely curious, not even dirty talk. You wanted to smile at him, but you only moaned once more. “I’m so close” He whispered, looking in your eyes. You slowly came off of him, watching your drool cascade down his length.
“Good, because I need you inside of me.” You stood up and straddled his waist. He tensed up once more. You began kissing his neck tenderly. “Relax, baby. Did you like that?” You asked, before nibbling on his ear lobe.
“Yes. A lot.” You smiled happily and kissed his cheek.
“Can I kiss you?” He nodded and you cupped his face and brought your lips together as you moved your panties to the side and sunk down onto him. He let out a long grunt. You broke away from his thick lips and bit your lip. “Watch yourself disappear inside of me, it turns me on a lot.” Lifting your skirt up, you cupped his chin and tilted it down. You both watched as you slowly rose up and down on him. When you lifted up he was coated in your wetness and your pussy took everything he had as you sunk down.
“You’re so hot.” He spoke in amazement. You smiled and took his hands and placed them on your ass.
“Guide me.” You whispered and wrapped your arms around him. You laid your head sideways on his shoulder so you could watch him take your cheeks in his hands and push you up and down how he wanted. He liked his thrusts deep and slow. He dug so deep at one point he ground right into what you now discovered was your g spot. “Ah fuck, Stiles!” You cried quietly and whimpered as he ground against it again.
“You’re so tight, I’m gonna cum.” He whispered back to you. You began riding him faster, regardless of what his hands decided.
“Cum in me, Stiles. Come on.” You begged him as you purposely clenched around him numerous times. He let out another long grunt as you felt his cum fill you up. The sensation made you fall to your orgasm as well. “You’re so good, you’re so good.” You whimpered against his lips as you rode out your orgasm. When you finally stopped your put your hand against his cheek.
“Best birthday sex ever.” Stiles nuzzled his face into your hand and you fell in love immediately.
“Thank you.” You shook your head.
“No, thank you.”
PART ONE: https://chillassimagines.tumblr.com/post/176975393682/part-one-requested-liam-finally-it-was-your
PART TWO: https://chillassimagines.tumblr.com/post/177544626507/requested-scott-scott-get-up-scott-you
#imagines#preferences#teen wolf#stiles stilinski imagine#stiles stilinski#stiles stilinski smut#malia tate#malia tate smut#jordan parrish imagines#jordan parrish smut#theo raeken smut#theo raeken#teen wolf smut#chillassimagines
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Close Encounters of the Beej Kind (F!ReaderxBeetlejuice)
Uh hi everyone.. K This started as a request but then i took another look at it.. And it didn’t even do what was asked and I was like … i might just post this as a fic.. So here we are! Many apologies to that person, hopefully this could be a bit of a compensation and it WILL be answered I promise!
To anyone asking for a pt 2 to my ghost s/o I definitely have more to do with that one…we got a WEDDING TO PLAN MY DUDES….. Eventually..i'm trying to get these requests done (which are Always Open ;) ) and I want to do a second date to my Dew fic. I’m very a stop and go writer, I like to try and keep these to a 3-4k length...sometimes that can take me 2 days… sometimes 2 weeks. Lol you know the struggle. hope you enjoy this one. Stay lovely out there hotties.
Warning: Beej is a voyeuristic, thieving little trash boi and there’s some swearing… That’s all.
It started out an average day when you officially met Beetlejuice.
Moving into a new place alone was always so much work. The organizing, the packing, the stress. It would be ultimately worth it, you realized. This would be the first time you lived alone, no roommates, no family. You were a real, genuine adult now.
Laughable, you thought, as you shoveled the spoonful of cereal into your mouth before returning to your controller. There might still be unpacked boxes around you, but sometimes video games were just higher on the priorities list.
The whole ordeal was almost over with. What was left was pictures to hang up, you bought a bookshelf that needed to be built… Nothing crazy. Lucky enough there wasn’t too much of a headache.
That came surprisingly after the move-in.
It wasn’t something you voiced out loud, but you were sure the place was haunted.Believing in ghosts was a difficult subject for you. Having had… Things happen to you when you were a child, whispers of your name in the basement where your mom would do laundry. You had an argument once on New Years at a friends house because you were certain you were hearing someone in the house.
Ghosts were like Religion or Big Foot to you: Not a firm believer but definitely had some ‘need more answers’ kind of person. The human mind was a confusing piece of machinery. It came up with all sorts of insanity.
Still, a list was started to be compiled of odd occurrences in the short time of living here.
One day, you had been binging a couple Buzzfeed Unsolved episodes ironically enough when you should have sworn you could hear low-pitched laughing in your living room. Not from an adjacent apartment. Like it came from right beside you on the sofa. Pausing the video you listened for any more sounds. Complete silence greeted you and couldn’t tell what would have been creepier: if you had heard the laughing again or the quiet. Deciding to not finish the episode, you turned the t.v off and sat there in the quiet room for a long time
There was an odd smell in your apartment. You didn’t notice it when viewing the place but every morning you woke up to a pungent, musky odor that almost made you think your neighbours were smoking weed or living in garbage. The smell came and went throughout the day, sometimes wafting over you so unexpectedly you swivel your head to see what was behind you. Nothing was ever there.
Things were disappearing. At first you thought it just got lost in the mix of moving. Some cheap jewelry. Old photos. A hairbrush. It wasn’t until your clothes just started disappearing that you became troubled.
As you were for sure your panty drawer was being raided, you couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on. You checked the dryer to see if you accidentally left any behind, you were a forgetful thing. It wasn’t impossible that your underwear had simply.. Disappeared. You tried to chalk the whole thing up to paranoia. You had been celebrating with the new apartment and was drinking a bit more than usual.
Blame the alcohol. Blame yourself. Anything to not think about the possibility of an actual haunting.
Not until a hot autumn night did you get any actual proof.
Sleeping nude has always been a thing for you. Your parents would scold you as a child for walking around naked. Leaving your windows wide open as you changed. They basically had to force you into pajamas. You didn’t want to be a nudist or anything, there was just something constricting about wearing clothes to bed. Pants were unbearable, anything with long sleeves suffocated you and god forbid if you ever wore socks. Even in Winters.
Living alone meant you slept nude nightly, even had the insight to splurge on some silk sheets finally, it was literally the best sensation you had ever felt. It was still unbearably warm in September and you had not been wearing much clothing since you moved in. You were saving up money for an A/C unit but it would probably be snowing by then. Slipping between the cool covers, you sighed as you drifted as you usually did, that space between sleep and dreams where your brain was beginning to shut off….
In a split second, the desire to open your eyes overtook you. Hovering above you was a large, dark figure. Clear as day. No mistaking it for something else.
Struck still with terror, the intruder didn’t see your wide, open eyes apparently, leaning down over your vulnerable body. In your restlessness, the sheets had been kicked off, leaving way too much exposed skin. Looking horrified, your skin began to break out in goosebumps, perking your nipples. The air to scream wasn’t finding you.
You heard a sound. Growling, like a dog. Vulgar, nasty sniffing noises were blowing from the beast, like the bellow of a forge. This was a nightmare, you clamped your eyes shut. If only you could pinch yourself… Striving to find the will to move your arms, fingers. Anything.
The shadow spoke. It was like gravel hitting the pavement. Striking and rough.
“MMmm.. So sexy...”
That was it. His voice snapped something in you and you felt yourself come alive. Jumping up in bed, you had screamed in panic, stumbling to your light to reveal an empty room.
In the terrified state that found you, pacing, in your robe, in your kitchen. Waay to wired now to return to bed. You had decided that night it was a dream, a type of sleep paralysis. No way in hell did your new apartment have a poltergeist.. Some demon?! No fucking way.
The idea of buying something: smudge the house, a ouija board, had crossed your mind. Before you realized what a terrible idea that was. If this was real, you weren’t communicating with it.
You weren’t thinking about it. Not at all.
Fate was funny, however. Destiny or kismet, whatever you want to call it. With every weird occurrence, it never occured to you that slowly but surely it was getting worse.
Not one week after the whole night terror debacle, did you catch someone in your bedroom.
As you said, average day. Meaning you stayed out in the living room, trying to find the energy to be productive beyond sitting on the couch, playing. Glancing at the clock intermittently, watching as the morning shifted into afternoon. You sighed and put the controller down, compromising with yourself.
Okay, get the boxes out of the closet. Put the shelve up and unpack three boxes then you could return. Sounded fair.
Walking into the room, reaching the closet, you leaned your head in to find the boxes, and heard a bump. Thinking the sound was just coming from something you hit in the closet, you continued reaching further in… Clothes shuffling made you pause. Turning towards the sound of an impulse, you gasped aloud as you took notice of a man opening your dresser drawer.
“Holy Fucking Shit!”
The first thought in your mind was he was a burglar. Afterwards, you had to chuckle at the idea, he was definitely not dressed for a B&E; terror made funny things make sense.
Grabbing the first thing in your reach, the contents of your vanity. You began hurling them at the now stunned creature, hands up on his chest, eyes wide in surprise.
“Get out, Get out!” Practically shrieking in the small bedroom, you backed up to the wall, trying to find the courage to escape. In your hysteria, you failed to notice something.
The items were flying right through him.
Adrenaline pounding through your body, making your head throb. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing there, confusing you through the panic.faintly you looked down and saw what he had in his grip. One of your shirts.
You had broken out in a cold sweat. Feeling like you were going to be sick.
“I’m serious guy, I’m gonna call the cops!” The booming voice you tried was being to sound more wilted, your heart was about to burst from your chest. Tentatively stepping a few more steps towards the door, brandishing the thing in your hand like a weapon, no matter it was just a mascara bottle.
“Uh-....yo-...” He continued to blunder through a breath, like a match striking against sandpaper.
You didn’t notice him pocketing your clothing. You dropped the thing in your hand.
The voice... That deep, dark rasp. You had heard it before. In your living room… In your bedroom.
Great timing, you couldn’t catch your breath. Gasping for air you slid to the floor, clutching at the ground for some balance.
This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening.
Every ration, logical, scientific part of your brain screamed for solid facts. The Afterlife wasn't proven real. Death was unknown. This wasn’t a movie and he wasn’t Casper. This was NOT a ghost. This was a human being, totally alive, uninvited in your home.
Watching with sight blurred around the edges, he was approaching you slowly. Clenching your eyes shut, you cowered in on yourself as you waited for the attack.. This was it, this was how it ended.. You could see the headlines now.
‘Local Girl Found Dead: No Witnesses. No Suspects.’
Family would never know what actually happened to you. Search for answers until they found this creature and the vicious cycle would continue.
The stench got infinitely worse as he approached, and your eyes began to water with more than fear.
“Hey, hey.. Breathe, breather.”
His voice was calm… Forced but calm and you didn’t take the bait. He was just playing with his prey and soon would sink his fangs in.
“You can actually see me?”
His voice was incredulous. A happy tone that made you look up, he was doing something odd. Not acting frightening in the least, not attacking. He was talking to himself. Angled away from you as he gave himself a pep-talk..What?
“Okay calm down… Play it cool….”
His eyes met yours. He rearranged his features to appear to be.. Smoldering.. He looked to be trying for suave.
“Heyyy.”
Not what you expected. In any other circumstance, you would have laughed. The air wasn’t found to make the sound. Instead you choke on your tongue. “..I-...Wh-”
That was all you could get out. It seemed his speechlessness had traveled through the room and now possessed you.
There was a knock on your door. It was the sound that brought you back to reality. The normalcy of a knock meant you had to interact with a human. You raced towards the door, ready to cry out in panic.
Retching it open, your breath caught in your throat.
It was your attractive neighbor. You had talked to them a total of three times including the time the landlord introduced you. In your hyper aware state, you couldn’t even reach in your mind for their name.
“..Hi.” You said breathless, wondering how much of a mess you looked. Attempting to discreetly pat your hair down, the neighbor explained their hearing you screaming, wanting to make sure you were okay.
On the tip of your tongue was ‘No, actually. There seems to be a poltergeist in my bedroom. Do you have the number of any good priests?’ But what came out of your mouth was surprisingly calm and normal. You were so sorry, you were playing and sometimes could get a little loud and competitive, you’ll try and keep it down.
Feeling the back of your head prickle, it seemed now you had obtained the power to tell whenever it’s eyes were on you. Great.
Seeing the ghost peeking from around the corner, not subtle at all in the ordinary background of your apartment, his contrite countenance almost making you smile. The words left your mouth before you could catch them.
“..Can you not see him?”
Your neighbours' confused silence answered. You took a deep breath, savouring this human interaction. Alrighty then.
“Gotcha! Sorry, I get spooky around this time of year.” It wasn’t even October, six weeks until Halloween, but it seemed to do the trick.
Sharing a laugh with the neighbor, you expressed your desire for them to enjoy their weekend, and bid them goodbye, promising to be quiet. Hoping they didn’t notice how fast you closed the door.
You turned back around to regard the ghost.
It.. Certainly didn’t look how you imagined it.
He looked worse.. Dirty and disheveled in a striped suit, you tried to picture how he might have died and carefully watched as he shuffled forward. Wide, yellow ambers glittered at you.
“Listen.. I know we didn’t get off on the right foot, but… You can see me.”
“Yes.” You had to clear your throat, the voice that came out of you was dry and cracked.
“Stop saying that, please. Why can I see you?” He stepped closer to you, head tilting and you had the space to break free into your living room, walking backwards as he stalked you.
“Beats me, sweetheart. Breathers are usually so self centered they never notice the dead.” You plopped down on the sofa, processing that bit of information. So it was all real. Ghosts were among us. Unbelievable.
He began to fiddle with the cuffs of his jacket, you almost wanted to ask him to sit down, the nervous energy you felt from him not helping with yours. What do you offer to a ghost for comfort? Smooth as always you blurted out the first thing.
“So… You’ve been haunting me. You were-”
Sudden, potent anger flushed over your skin. It came together. Your underwear. That night. This pervert!
“Have you been watching me sleep?!” You felt yourself screech before trying to lower your voice, remember the promise to the neighbor. Shooting up from your seat, the ghost floundered under your glare, eyes flickering towards the ground, refusing to look at you.
Lowering your voice to a dangerous whisper, the anger was making you brave. You began to advance on this deviant spectre. Realizing you had the daily source of your misfortune in front of you fueling your fire.
He had been around the whole time, through your daily routine like… He was your boyfriend or something. As uncomfortable as that was, maybe he couldn’t help that, but you drew the line at theft.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?! I don’t care, ghostly apparition or not, that’s just rude! Stealing my clothes?! What do you have to say?”
“Woah-woah.. I-I’m sorry! I just… You’re so…Hey!”
Continuing your pursuit despite his stuttered protests, you found yourself standing up close. The closeness was pungent, but it was becoming kind of bearable as the minutes passed on… Up close he was..
Strangely handsome, your brain chimed in for you. Not the fucking time!
Arms crossed tight, you glowered at him. Unexplained, you waited for his answer. Obviously he wasn’t going to hurt you. This stupid, smelly, handsome ghost had had plenty of opportunity, you thought sourly.
“Look, this really isn’t going the way I wanted it to. You’re the most interesting breather in this hellhole……. I’ve been stuck here for so long, but if-if you want.. I’ll stay away...”
Deciding to proceed with the first bit of what he said: going the way he wanted? You watched as he began to slump away. He was muttering to himself again.
“Probably go down and haunt Mrs. O’Reilly in 2B. Heard she got a new pacemaker...That could be fun”
Viewing the sad spectre slink away, the rage was strangely dissipating. Maybe it was the down tilted head, the kicked puppy expression, the idea of this dude with poor little Mrs.O’Reilly. Something made you call out.
“Wait.”
He perked up almost comically, twirling back towards you, having to bite your lip to keep from smirking. Maybe this ghost wasn’t so bad, he was certainly interesting. Entertaining. Handsome. Shut up brain. Didn’t mean you forgave him yet. He was giving you every piece of clothing back.
“Did I tell you to go away?”
“Yeah.. Earlier..” His fingers twitched together and now taking notice of how open and earnest his expression was, it was making you smile. Right, when you were freaking out. Could you be blamed? Now it seemed implausible you were ever scared of him.
“Okay, well that was then, this is now. Let’s start over, I’m (Y/N).” On reflex you held your arm out, and kept it there before you thought better of it. Why you were attempting to shake hands with a ghost was beyond you, but as this was of course the weirdest thing to ever happen, what else could be done that didn’t make sense?
He, with rapt attention, reached forward and you watched in astonishment as his hand drifted slowly through yours. The sensation was an icy buzz shooting up your arm, tingling through your neck into your brain, even your scalp felt the jolt. You felt like you just been electrocuted.
Both of you shivered at the contact. The air was filled with a growl and once again you were transported back to you in bed and him above you. For the first time.. You felt yourself throb in pleasure at the memory rather than fright. This was slowly becoming dangerous, you could feel it.
“Ooo… That’s different.”
Studying him as he glowed green, he began to lewdly run his hands down his chest...Down his thighs.. Your eyes snapped away, suddenly very interested in your own hand..Certainly different.
“I like it.”
“So…. Have you been here the whole time?” You asked, desperate to change the subject in a strangled voice, turning away so he couldn’t see your burning face. This was dangerous. Impossible. Not healthy. Deciding to let this ghost stick around perhaps wasn’t the best instinct.
“I’m not sure you’re gonna like the answer to that, babes.”
Revolving around to ask him what he meant, you paused at him... Flushing pink. Definitely not.
#beetlejuice the musical#beetlejuice broadway#betelgeuse#beetlejuice musical#beetlejuice fic#beetlejuice x reader#beetlejuice#lydia deetz#charles deetz#delia deetz#adam maitland#barbara maitland#reader x beetlejuice#beetlejuice x you
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More Than Meets the Eye #19- Ambulon and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
We got a major reveal at the end of last issue, and now it’s time to put the rest of the pieces together so we can finally understand the mystery that is the Ultra Magnus situation.
So back when Magnus’ seemingly lifeless body stole a shuttle, fucked off into space and landed on the moon, Tyrest was there to greet him.
And by “greet him”, I mean punch through the windshield and carry him bridal style, as if he weighed no more than a baby bird, into his moon base.
Pharma did his thing with his crazy new hands, Magnus was saved, and he woke up shortly after his lifesaving operation.
Then Tyrest punched Magnus in the face, because fuck the healing process. He’s an engineer, not a doctor, he doesn’t deal with the SOUL and FEELINGS or anything like that.
In the here and now, Rodimus is still trying to comprehend the fact that his SIC isn’t dead, and is also actually another, much smaller guy with a mustache. Minimus Ambus attempts to explain just what the hell is going on, and we get back to our flashback.
After some good old-fashioned face violence, Tyrest showed Magnus around the place, specifically the terminal he’d set up for his on-the-fly, real-time law amending. With how many war crimes the Cybertronian race has committed in the last several million years, I’m sure it was needed.
Dang, wonder who pissed off Big Brother.
Magnus is more concerned about how it is exactly he isn’t dead right now, and also why his boss looks like a swiss cheese party platter.
Turns out that Tyrest isn’t actually mad at Magnus, just disappointed. He went and read his diary while the operation was happening, and in the 18 months that the Knight Quest has been running, Tyrest has deemed the work done to be unsatisfactory. Instead of arresting criminals, Magnus had been handling infractions so minor, most people wouldn’t have even noticed them. Tyrest doesn’t know where he went wrong.
Well, Tyrest, it was probably the anxiety that manifested itself as OCD, because you picked someone without factoring what the end of the war might do to them. Magnus needs structure to flourish, and if he cannot find it, he will make it himself. I mean, look at all this:
No wonder he was struggling on the chaos engine that is the Lost Light.
Still, Tyrest wants nothing to do with someone who’s cracked under the pressure (lack of pressure?) and the deal was that Magnus only got to be Magnus if he did what Tyrest wanted. Tyrest divests him with the literal push of a button.
Good grief, he’s naked!
As Minimus Ambus mourns over the loss of his stature, both literal and position-wise, we get back to the present, in a double-page spread no less, as Minimus tells everyone about the storied history of the Magnus Armor. Ultra Magnus was originally an actual person, but then he died, and Tyrest was kind of bummed out about that, so he decided to make up a lie (lying, while perhaps morally dubious is not illegal, so he’s allowed to do that) that Magnus faked his death, and then built the armor. There were at least a few wearers of the armor prior to Minimus, some of who were even known by the other crew members. Whenever someone got offed, their hand would spasm and press a recall button in their palm, which would bring the Magnus Armor, and the dead body inside, back to Tyrest.
You can tell he’s still real shaken up about losing the Magnus Armor, because he’s truncating his words. Poor guy.
Minimus asks what exactly happened after he got stabbed, seeing as he was too busy dying to really pay attention to the Overlord plot. Rodimus tells him it’s been handled. Brainstorm jumps in, wanting to know about the other things on Minimus’ resume, which leads into Minimus revealing the fact that he is a Point One Percenter, and something known as a Load Bearer. Load Bearers circumvent that niggling little issue that we saw presented in the “Shadowplay” arc, where spark strain due to not being able to handle a different frame type would outright kill you. Minimus doesn’t have that problem.
Tailgate wants to know how exactly it is that Minimus isn’t dead, seeing as he was clearly on his way out prior to his grand theft auto. Tailgate may have a personal interest in that sort of information, what with still being terminal and all.
Everyone’s real handsy this issue.
Minimus lets Tailgate know that Tyrest’s medical equipment is off the hook, and we get a reminder that Tailgate’s got basically a day left to live. Harsh, Roberts.
Back in Minimus’ flashback, Tyrest sort-of apologizes for punching him in the face, and laments on the loss of one of his greatest Enforcers of the Tyrest Accord.
Oh, so you DID know that this was a possibility, and instead of ordering your subordinate to go make that follow-up appointment with the only therapist on Cybertron- which, while being borderline sectioning, would have at least kept Minimus from sending emails to Rodimus about how he was spiraling- you just let it happen. The Vector Sigma pulse wave went all over the galaxy, there’s zero possibility you didn’t hear about the end of the war before Magnus loaded up on the Lost Light and didn’t call for a year and a half.
Anyway, so Tyrest’s got a new Enforcer lined up, seeing as he’s going to retire the Magnus Armor after all the shenanigans Minimus got dragged through while wearing it. Let’s see what we’re working with.
I thought we were supposed to have separation of church and state, what the hell?
In the present, Rodimus has questions, mainly about why there are so many people in this prison cell. Minimus admits that he asked to be put in here, to try and prove Rodimus and friends’ innocence on the charge of harboring a criminal, by recording their conversation and proving that they had no idea what SKIDS deal was.
Yep, Skids did a bad, and Tyrest wants him in jail.
Minimus also drops the bomb that everyone else in this cell is going to get he death penalty for that whole “crimes against creation” thing. I mean, all Tyrest has to do is wait for a little while and Tailgate will be dealt with, no sweat.
Minimus pulls a device out of his hip compartment, uses it to disrupt the electro-bars of the cell (it’s cool, he was an undercover cop for this whole thing and can therefore break out of prison without it being a crime), and goes to have a chat with his boss about all the weird new stuff he’s shoved into the Autobot Code in the last year and a half. Rodimus doesn’t really want him to leave, but there’s no time for that, because the cell just got a little more full.
Uh oh, Swerve’s badge has gone missing again. Rung, why don’t you slap yours on his crotch, that way Minimus won’t try to murder him when he gets back?
While this is happening, Whirl and Cyclonus are standing on the rim of a smelting pool, absolutely not having a dick measuring contest.
Luna 1 said Bi Rights.
There’s a structure built over the pool that looks an awful lot like living quarters, but is probably actually a prison that violates the Geneva convention. Whirl suggests they find some weapons and go hog-wild, but Cyclonus is more concerned about finding something. When Whirl asks what in the hell he could possibly be looking for in this sort of crisis, Cyclonus turns into a moody teenager.
Well, at least he’s respecting Tailgate’s wish to keep his looming demise under wraps. Not that Cyclonus tells anyone anything anyway.
Over in the Luna 1 medibay, Ratchet is being subjected to having his very fucking soul threatened with a paring knife. Pharma’s having what probably an inappropriate amount of fun, especially since he’s realized that Ratchet took his goddamn hands after the shitshow that was Delphi.
It turns out that every single piece of tech that Ultra Magnus ever repossessed is floating around on Luna 1, even the stuff that really ought to have been destroyed. This is why they were able to save Magnus from certain death at the start of the issue. Somehow I’m not surprised that Tyrest kept all those toys for himself. Corruption of an authority figure? In my Cybertronian Justice System? It’s more likely than you think.
Some of the little art quirks in MTMTE are added in by Milne- see Brainstorm holding any handgun ever if you’d like an example- but I know for a FACT that Pharma humping Ratchet’s headless body was specified by Roberts.
Ratchet, unimpressed and likely mildly queasy by the display going on before him, proposes that Pharma’s afraid of failure, which is why he hasn’t taken his hands back. Pharma disagrees, and a wager is set to see who the better doctor is- winner gets to keep the hands.
Over with the fly boys, alarms are going off in a deserted building, as Whirl struggles to open a door with his claws. Cyclonus takes over on door duty, and asks why Whirl hasn’t gotten his shit fixed yet.
Whirl’s worried that if he gets help for his trauma, he’s going to lose a huge part of himself as a person, and then where will he be? Of course, he says it in a much more Whirly fashion, full of vitriolic self-blame, but reading between the lines is fun. Whirl fires the “let’s get into each other’s personal issues even though both of us hate talking about ourselves and also each other” missile right back at Cyclonus. He wants to know about Cyclonus’ facial situation.
Cyclonus doesn’t like this question.
Then he gets stabbed with a sword.
Back with the docs, it’s apparently much later, as Ratchet’s just woken up from surgery and has a body again. He gets up from the operating table and finds that Pharma’s gone ahead with setting up their gentleman’s wager.
First Aid seems less than pleased with the current situation. Ambulon’s arms are long as hell in this panel, and he doesn’t seem entirely present in the moment. Maybe he’s practicing Rungian Re-Experience Therapy.
Pharma wants to cut both of the boys in half to see who can put the pieces together back the fastest. Ratchet tries to deescalate the situation, because he’s usually pretty good at it, but Pharma’s set on using his chainsaw attachment on someone today.
Ratchet attempts to console his coworkers, saying that their Springer-on-Pova treatment be over soon, and they’ll get a nice lollipop at the end for being such brave little robots.
Then Pharma cuts Ambulon in half, in a way that Ratchet hadn’t accounted for.
We’re gonna need a little more than some bandaids and a kiss to make it feel better for this one. It’s amazing what censorship laws will let you get away with when the blood isn’t red.
Speaking of blood, Cyclonus is more or less okay with being stabbed, because Whirl did him a solid and chopped his assailant in half- lengthways- with a super sweet sword he found in the armory they just opened up. Cyclonus pulls the blade out of his midriff and we finally find out what happened to the Circle of Light.
Back in the prison cell, Perceptor’s been given the job of doctor, even though Rung, Swerve, and Chromedome are all here and at least somewhat closer to being general practice doctors than our science sniper.
Seems like Swerve filled everyone in on the situation on the Lost Light off-panel, which is good, because they’ve been in the dark up to this point.
Chromedome hypothesizes that the reason Skids is a wanted man has to do with that mysterious gun he was holding when he fell out of the sky all the way back in issue #2. This is the point where Skids wakes up from his stabbing and admits that this is probably what happened, even though he still has no recollection of ever stealing the gun or even it existing up until he entered the story, but he apologizes for the trouble anyway.
Shh. Someone’s coming down the corridor. It’s Star Saber, and he’s brought yet another prisoner to stuff in this cell.
And there’s something else. Can you hear it?
Is… is that music?
Are those the beginning synth riffs of “Tainted Love" by Soft Cell?
Over with Minimus, we’re treated to a taste of Tyrest’s personal brand of disinterest, then get a quick run-down of the birds and the bees. The forging process is a little more convoluted than originally implied, needing Primus to send out a pulse wave through Vector Sigma in order for the Hot Spots to be ignited.
Then the pulse waves started to slow down, Nova Prime had a little freak out, and cold construction was invented to prevent the Cybertronian race from becoming an endangered species.
Minimus of course knows all of this, because he, like basically half of the cast of MTMTE, is old as shit. What he DOESN’T know is that cold construction isn’t managed the way that anyone thought that it was, because there was a government coverup going on about the whole thing. You don’t splice sparks to make a new one, you use the Matrix to create new life.
I know, it’s crazy.
Tyrest was on the team that fiddled around with the Matrix until it started spitting out robot zygotes, and he’s now convinced that they bled the Matrix dry. Nobody tell him what happened to the thing after the war ended.
Wait. If the pulse waves have stopped, and the Matrix is busted beyond repair, doesn’t that mean they can’t make any more Transformers? Once they finish up on their stockpile of sparks, that’s it. No more. The Transformers are a protected species now, we’ve got to treat them like giant pandas.
One of his team members stole the Matrix and hid it in the black market, so its strange, mystical baby powers could never be used again. Except someone obviously found it later on, because we have half of it on the Lost Light.
Minimus isn’t sure why any of this is actually relevant to the current situation, or why Tyrest feels guilty about pulling a Eugenesis Fulcrum and finding out where babies come from.
Tyrest is convinced that by draining the Matrix, his team somehow corrupted it, and all the sparks made by this corrupted Matrix are straying further and further from Primus. This is why Rodimus and friends have been charged with crimes against creation- some of their party were created in a way that predisposes them to crime. Or so Tyrest thinks.
I thought we were supposed to have separation of church and state, what the hell? This is still the same guy who was appointed as Chief Justice by the space pope because of his levelheadedness, right?
Yes, actually, but this sudden flip in priorities and personality has been induced by the guilt he felt during the Aequitas trials. Tyrest turned to self harm to deal with the weight of it all, and one day tried to go for what in most species would have been a suicide, by drilling with his drill fingers into the spot between his eyes. Instead, he most likely gave himself a lobotomy and became a religious zealot, fully believing that the gods are real, and he can go visit them by using his super-cool space portal.
Outside the moon base, Whirl and Cyclonus have freed the Circle of Light, and everyone’s ready to kick some ass. Both the fly boys have found themselves a Great Sword to play with, further cementing Cyclonus as our replacement Drift. Rodimus will be so thrilled.
Dai Atlas, the leader of the Circle of Light, tells our boys that there used to be a lot more of his group, but a lot of folks ended up being used to build Legislators.
Hm. I’m sure that’ll never be brought up again, and won’t paint future events in a much darker light. Nope. Absolutely not.
Cyclonus thinks that they need to get a move on, because if that sort of horrific shit can happen to the Circle of Light, it can also happen to Tailgate and the others. He does specifically name Tailgate in his dialogue, but it’s not like he actually cares about the guy, right? Feelings are for nerds.
Then the Legislators show up and it’s party time.
Wonder how that’s going to work out for you, Whirl.
Back with Tyrest, it’s revealed that Tyrest’s plan has a small snag- only people completely absolved of their guilt can go to Cyberutopia to hang out with Primus and the gang, and Tyrest is feeling awful guilty. Not about his weird space-eugenics thing, but about inventing cold construction. Now, how in the world is he going to handle this?
By committing a genocide.
Minimus is, understandably, not a fan of this plan. Tyrest had anticipated that the Universal Killswitch wouldn’t be universally appreciated, and has some of the new law come into play.
And that’s a series wrap on Minimus Ambus! Let’s give him a hand, folks!
#transformers#jro#jro punches me in the face#mtmte#remain in light#issue 19#maccadam#Hannzreads#text post#long post#comic script writing
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>need to make our primary CAS aircraft heavier and slower | So it's doctrinal then. >heavier; fair enough it IS a gigantic cow >slower; It's literally faster than both Apache and Viper and if my memory serves well Operation Mount Hope III was motivated largely by that.
Okay, since I’m awake I can say a little more about this. Rotary wing isn’t really my thing but I have some general thoughts derived from a wider familiarity with (combat) aviation, the physics and the engineering trade-offs that result from it to hazard some guesses.
Welcome, to Brainlet Theater. You have been warned.
First off, there is some obvious utility in having attack helicopters with some small passenger capacity, and we know this... because we’ve done it with our own Apaches:
Them dudes sitting on the outside of the chopper? They’re secured to the machine with a short purpose-made strap. This is mainly useful for getting a downed crew out of dodge in a hurry, but it’s also been used operationally and offensively; some Royal Marines (the absolute mad lads) rode into a Taliban compound on Apaches to provide a small ground presence while the gunships did most of the blasting.
So the capability is definitely useful. But, generally speaking, the point of a gunship is to optimize for the guns, not the ship. With that said, however, infantryman are heavy; esp. once you’re done adding body armor, guns, lots of ammo and their packs. Easily 300~ish pounds a man, and you want to lug at least 9 of them in there (the average squad) on one transport, and hopefully more.
So, intrinsically, a transport chopper has a big strong engine and a lot of lift capacity, which means a passenger transport and an ammo/cargo transport are basically the same aircraft, with the difference being a few lightweight bucket seats most of the time.
Now keeping this in mind, consider that one thing every attempt at airborne cav has learned is that inserting while people are trying to shoot you down is very goddamned hard. Because of this, it’s always very, very good to bring as many damned guns as you can to shoot back and cover your own approach and the landings of your wingmen. This job is, of course, ideally suited to gunships... but the nature of combat means that the best gun you can possibly have to return fire is one on your own aircraft. Whoever is shooting at you, personally tends to be very obvious to you, and even in the modern era, with the nascent age of Information Warfare upon us, it is still almost always quicker to point your own gun at the guys lighting you up and hose them down than to call the gunships and hope that 1. they see the dudes without you playing 20 questions while you’re getting lit up and 2. have ammo left and 3. aren’t already busy trying to save someone else’s ass. And the more guns all of you bring to shoot back with, the better - simple as.
This is why the Chinooks that the Special Forces use to insert have a big-ass minigun on each side, and why even the Osprey - which doesn’t really have many good places to put a gun and not much weight allowance to carry one - ended up finally working out an articulated arm to get a machine gun useable from the back ramp, and they’re still working on installing a minigun in a forward firing belly mount for the pilots to use when entering hot landing zones; much like the nose-mounted miniguns found in some LOH’s and Hueys in Vietnam.
In short, between the very strong need for more guns and the extra lift capacity transport choppers require, bolting more guns onto them is something that almost every military ends up doing. And once you have some “defensive” guns on there, it’s not a big stretch to shrug, pull all the troops off, and use that aircraft to build a dedicated gunship out of. Many Hueys in Vietnam were built like this, and in the modern era the Russian MI-8 “Hip” (and the many successor choppers which more or less share an airframe and appearance, but sport vastly upgraded engines) are much the same. The difference between a Hip or Huey transport and a Hip or Huey gunship, in both cases, boils down to - are you using your load capacity for troops, or for guns? The ultimate example of this in practice was the ACH-47A, Chinooks that were modified into very fucking big dedicated gunships.
However - gunship helicopters like the Cobra and Apache exist for a reason. If one looks at the Cobra, you’ll note how very thin a profile it presents from the front - a stark contrast to the w i d e Huey. Then there’s the seating arrangements, the gimballed, turreted gun, and of course the significant change in flight characteristics, maneuverability, and of course efficient use of armoring. A purpose-built gunship is always going to be better at being a gunship than a transport or general purpose chopper loaded down with ordinance.
The point of all the above is this: guns are always good. Troop transport capacity is very useful. So gunships tend to either be general purpose/troop transport choppers that evolve into gunships, or gunships that finagle some way to sling a few passengers if need be.
So - which one do you think the Hind is?
Well, take a look at an early A model and have you a guess:
Compare and contrast this to a civilian MI-8 HIP, the aforementioned ubiquitous general-purpose chopper:
Yeah. In point of fact, the MI-24 was based off a fucking MI-8 (if Wikipedia is to be believed.) The Hind stands out, however, because just from what I got skimming the MI-24′s Wikipedia article, it seems that Mikhail Mil, the Hind’s designer, anticipated that the air cav concept would end up mirroring the armored personnel carrier’s experience - to wit, once one is armoring a vehicle to directly insert troops into a fight, one also discovers that firepower is as crucial as armor in keeping the troops alive until they can deploy. Hence he was thinking of a chopper as a “flying infantry fighting vehicle.” In practice this simply means that Mikhail Mil was smart enough to add some stubby wings and hardpoints onto his design to begin with. America’s air cav concept didn’t have nearly as much focus on armed helicopters to begin with - perhaps not unjustifiably, as US forces knew they could count on some very, very thorough fixed wing air support to cover landings. Once they found out just how hard air insert was, they started taking Hueys and packing them with firepower.
The Wikipedia article says “the early 1960s” so there’s no strict dates involved, but if I had to guess, I’d say Mikhail Mil was going around talking to Soviet brass and pitching his hybrid aircraft - a transport that traded half it’s troop transport capability to carry some boom boom to get them down alive with - at roughly the same time the US Army was packing Hueys full of miniguns to turn them into gunships to cover the troop transports (”slicks.”) Thus, the wisdom of Mil’s tradeoff was immediately apparent.
Hence my comments on the MI-24 before - given that it was based on a transport chopper, and envisioned as a hybrid platform, you can see how dedicated gunships would have an advantage at being a gunship.
H o w e v e r - this is not to say that the MI-24 is necessarily bad.
Let’s take another look at it.
Using the cockpits (and thus the pilots) for scale; compare and contrast to a Cobra:
And the Apache:
You’ll note right away that the Hind is a fucking big helicopter. Empty weight of almost 19,000 pounds to an Apache or Cobra’s 11,000 pounds. This is neither good nor bad; more weight makes your aircraft more ungainly, slower to maneuver and a bigger target, but also gives you more room for guns, missiles, armor and fuel. Wanting more is why the ACH-47 gunship was built, recall.
Now look at our Hind again:
Since it wasn’t just a transport chopper with guns bolted on, but was originally envisioned as a hybrid platform, it has a good, purpose-built seating arrangement for the pilot and gunner, and stubby wings that both provide a place to mount munitions and provide lift in forward flight. The Hind’s excessive size - and the large size of the stub-wings - work together for the Hind; that longcat fuselage and weight will work against it if you want to do helicopter things like drifting sideways and strafing and such, but with those big-ass engines and sizable wings it should handle pretty damn well flying in a forward direction; if you were to handle it more like a fixed-wing aircraft.
Now note, especially, where the passenger compartment is (with the windows.) If you were to redesign the machine with no passenger room whatsoever - what would you put there? Fuel tanks, perhaps? The passenger accommodations don’t actually cost the Hind that much weight; they’re just empty seats and some empty space. The engines are above that compartment; if you eliminated it it’d just look goofy, like a hollow-bellied Skycrane with nothing (much) taking up the space intended for cargo:
To actually utilize that wasted volume you’d have to redesign the entire goddamned chopper to position the engines, fuel tanks, stub wings, etc. To make something skinny and efficient like a Cobra, or a lot shorter and more evenly distributed like an Apache... and at that point, you may as well make the chopper smaller, lighter and more nimble, as well, and make up the difference in munitions by just building a few extra choppers.
In other words, it seems to me that for a chopper of it’s weight class, the Hind doesn’t actually suffer that much from having passenger capacity. The need for that capacity is what determined its weight class to begin with; but once you move into bigger, heavier choppers like that, engineering and aerodynamics considerations means that even a purpose-built gunship isn’t going to get all the advantages that smaller gunships do, but you’ll still be copping some of the disadvantages of a big chopper. IN general, the more mass you are throwing around, the harder it becomes to start and stop on a dime, and if you’re using the extra power from bigger engines to carry as many munitions as you can, you don’t have that power available to course-correct - at least, until you expend that ammo and fuel.
Much like a modified MI-8, the Hind always has the option of leaving the troopers at home so it can carry more ammo - hell, sometimes MI-24s use their passenger compartment for door gunners, helping to compensate for the lower maneuverability! Fire arcs to the rear are restricted a bit by the wings and weapon pods, but given that you’d be handling a big, heavy, fast chopper like that more like a plane - making strafing runs instead of trying to play peek-a-boo from behind ridgelines - that’s less of a concern.
In sum; the defining characteristic of the Hind, to me, is that it’s just a big helicopter; and an integral capacity for more payload is part of a big helicopter’s intrinsic nature, just as limited maneuverability is. And those tradeoffs translate directly to how they do gunship things; bringing more firepower (good) but less maneuverability (bad.) Whether or not that tradeoff is a net benefit or drawback rides heavily on whether or not the operator’s overall force structure and doctrine is suited to take advantage of the platform’s strengths and mitigate its weaknesses. For instance, if you’re a Soviet successor state operating Hinds, you may well purchase some Little Birds; when not being used for Little Bird things, they would very neatly complement your Hinds in combat; being fast, nimble little monsters that can turn and pounce on pop-up threats like Rikki Tikki Tavi on cocaine.
So America doesn’t have a straight analogue to the MI-24 because, doctrinally, we don’t have a need or desire for a big gunship helicopter... but that doesn’t mean that big gunship helicopters are inherently bad.
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Walk Me Home - Ch 3
Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.
Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension.
Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning
Word Count: 3422
Author’s Note: Mega thanks to @mskathywriteswords , @fangirlxwritesx67, and @cracksinthewalls for editing, revision, flailing, and generally knocking sense into me when I’m being stubborn. You all made this story way better than it started it, and I love you. Thanks to everyone who read/reblogged/liked the first chapter. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I do.
@thoughtslikeaminefield , babe, I love you, and I love this story so much.
Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!
Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY.
In Case You Missed It:
Ch 1 | Ch 2
ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist
Chapter 3
“Breathe, sweetheart, take a deep breath and hold it. Watch me, follow my breathing.” Dean’s hands, warm and solid against her clammy skin, hold her face so she has no choice but to look right at him.
His eyes pierce the haze of fear that locks her lungs, and she pulls in her first shaking breath since she spotted the doll. She must have screamed, because one moment she was alone with the damned thing, and the next he was by her side, pulling her out of the room.
“Come with me, we’re getting out of here. Right now.” In a habit that miraculously stayed with her since she first knew him, Kimber stumbles after Dean, her fingers clutching his with a level of desperation that would leave her shamed if she had the thought capacity to care right now.
They’re out the front door, in his car, and speeding away before she even realizes he’s on the phone.
“Yeah, Sam, I saw the doll on her bed. Front door was definitely locked when we got there, but I didn’t get a chance to check the windows or back door. She’s talked to the cops before this, they didn’t do shit then, but maybe now that the bastard actually went in her house. I’m taking her back to the motel.”
He’s silent for a long moment, listening intently, his lips pressed thin and tense. Her face is wet, and she realizes she’s crying. She takes a moment to wipe away the tears streaming from her eyes, discreetly clearing her throat. She has a strange, disconnected moment of panic when she realizes she left her purse in the house and the door unlocked, but she shoves the words back down her throat so fast she nearly chokes.
That horrible...thing...on her bed, and she’s worried about her purse?!
Priorities, Kimber, she scolds herself. Dean is talking when she comes back to the moment, and she catches him mid-sentence.
“-agree with Kimber, I think it’s probably a witch. Gonna check for hex bags, ask her about anybody that might have a motive. We’ll go over her house when you get here, but I’m gonna try to keep her out of sight in the meantime. Don’t have a tail, but I’ll keep an eye on the way to the motel. See ya in the morning.”
He hangs up, eyes flicking over to Kimber then back to the road.
“How you holdin’ up?” The genuine concern in his voice breaks through the worst of her panic, giving her something other than her growing dread to focus on.
“I...I’ve been better. I mean, I know that nothing actually happened, but...Dean, I-”
“Oh, no, I totally get it,” he says, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead. “Fucking dolls, I hate ‘em. That creepy shit absolutely ain’t right. Anyway, we had no idea if someone was still at your place. Better to high-tail it, regroup, and plan than get stuck in a shootout with somethin’ that might not even go down with a bullet or five in it. You heard me talkin’ to Sam?”
She nods, doing her best to hide her sniffling. Without a word, he opens the glove box, pulls out a napkin, and hands it to her. She takes it gratefully, failing in her attempt to discreetly blow her nose while boxed into a moving vehicle.
“Thanks. The thing is, though, as far as I know, nobody has a motive to want to hurt me.”
This time he only lifts one eyebrow. “You, a college professor in a highly specialized academic area that’s typically full of eccentrics at best and nutbags at worst, have no students with chips on their shoulders? No jealous colleagues? Never forgot to tip the barista or leave a Christmas bonus for the janitors? Really?”
Her face heats up. She’s thinking like a scared kid, and she should know better. She may not be a hunter, but she knows the lore, knows the signs, and she really should know better.
“Okay, you’re right, you’re right. I’m not thinking clearly. Just...gimme a sec to get my head on straight.”
She sucks in a sharp, deep breath through her nose, focusing on a droplet of water that’s sliding down her window. She presses air slowly from her lungs, watching the drop gain speed as it joins with more water dotting the outside of the glass, repeating the process until the raindrop slips off the window and her thoughts are focused again.
“I haven’t actually had to fail anyone in my classes lately, but I suppose someone could have held a grudge from previous semesters or just not been satisfied with a lower passing grade. As far as I know, no one in the department is jealous of my position. I’m not really anything special, literally just a glorified storyteller. I’m not on any boards or committees, I haven’t received any awards in a few semesters. No particular nutbags lately, but…”
She frowns as he pulls the car into a motel parking lot. Something is tugging at the back of her mind, an almost non-incident from a few Thursdays ago. She’d dismissed the conversation as random but harmless, but even the smallest details could be life or death. She’s been shown this over and over in her dealings with hunters. It’s about time she learned from other people’s mistakes.
“There was something, a few weeks ago, but I can’t quite remember,” she says, frustrated at how inadequate her memory is proving at the moment. The vestiges of panic still cling to the edges of her mind, leaving her thoughts scrambled and disjointed.
“Think on it. Let’s get checked in, get somethin’ to eat, and you can tell me then,” Dean offers.
She smiles her appreciation at the reprieve and climbs out of the car to follow Dean into the motel office. She uses the time Dean spends, first talking and then arguing with the clerk, to jog her memory, trying to recall everything she can about her encounter at the end of a self-defense class the previous month.
It had seemed so harmless at the time, and nothing odd happened afterwards. At least, not that night. But as she stands next to Dean, straining her memory, she realizes Helen’s accident was just two days later. Her unseen watcher trailed her for the first time a week after Helen’s fall. Then Professor Lawrence a few days after that, and just last week Allen and the stapler.
She feels the heat of shame flooding her face. She’s a researcher by profession. How did she never put the pattern together? People have been hurt, nearly died, because she was too stupid to connect some dots?
“I connect dots for a goddamn living,” she mutters to herself, earning her an odd glance from Dean. He turns back to the clerk, who shrugs.
“Take it or leave, sir.”
“Fine,” Dean growls, shoving a credit card at the man. Five minutes later, Dean unlocks the door to a room with two queen-size beds whose decor calls strongly back to a decade long past and best forgotten.
“I think they decorated this place before we were born,” she murmurs, earning her a tired smile from Dean. “At least it’s clean?”
He nods, tossing his bag on the bed nearest the window. “Sorry we have to share, they’re full up. Some sort of convention in town?”
She hesitates, her stomach fluttering uneasily at the thought of a wall between her and Dean. “I don’t mind. I think...maybe it’s safer this way, in one room. I would offer to get dinner, since you paid for the room, but…” She trails off, empty hands spread at her sides.
“Not a problem,” he says, dropping down on the bed and reaching for the phone. “Know anywhere good that delivers?”
Forty minutes and two cheeseburger combos later, Dean lifts her reprieve and presses her for information again. The food helped ground Kimber’s jittery brain, and she’s thinking clearly for the first time since she spotted the doll.
“A few weeks ago, after self-defense class concluded, a guy came up to me. I’d never noticed him before, I thought he was new, but he said he’d seen me a few times and wanted to know if i would go get coffee with him. I wouldn’t have said yes, regardless, because...I mean, picking up dates at a self-defense class? Feels kinda predatory.”
Dean nods, lips pursed as he listens. He’s stretched out on his bed while she’s opted to sit in one of the two chairs by the table a few feet away. Kimber scrubs her face with her hands before running them back through her hair.
“I just...I got this weird vibe off him, though, Dean. He may have found me attractive, I don’t know, but I seriously doubt it. He didn’t really want to ask me out. I have no clue why he asked; I could tell he wasn’t into me. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, his face was kind of stoney the whole time? Almost like someone put him up to it even though he really didn’t want to?”
Dean frowns, just as perplexed as she is.
She sighs, resting her chin in her palms and elbows on her knees. “I know. He was acting just a little too off. On top of that, I didn’t know him at all, so I turned him down. I wasn’t rude, at least I don’t think I was. He just accepted it, though; he didn’t push or even look upset. He didn’t really look anything at all. He just left. I didn’t see him in class again after that, and, honestly, I’m certain I had never seen him before.”
Dean rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t...I mean, yeah, maybe. A strong maybe,” he conceded. “But we need more information. Even if that guy is our perp, we need to find out more about what’s actually going on. Sam can help me look over your place tomorrow; you and I can search your office. We should check out the other accident scenes. Did anyone else in your class see the guy or talk to him?”
“Maybe the teacher?” Kimber offers, stifling a yawn. She’s weary to the bone and suspects she may still be feeling the after-effects of shock. She stands, intending to hit the shower in the bathroom, when she remembers just how quickly they had to leave her house.
“Um...Dean, I didn’t get to...we left my place so quickly. Do you have anything to wear that I could...borrow?” She doesn’t mean to sound so hesitant and vulnerable, but her emotional filter is fading with her energy, and she doesn’t have it in her to put up a tough front.
His eyes widen, and he jumps up from the bed to rifle through his sports bag. He reaches out, holding what looks like a white t-shirt and pajama pants. She takes a step towards him to accept them just as he moves over to meet her, and they both stop just shy of a full-body collision.
His fingers brush her skin as she accepts the clothes, and she’s annoyed at how her hands tremble from the brief touch. Her eyes flick up to find him watching her, his color high and lips parted. His hands close more solidly around hers, fingers rough and welcome against her wrists. Her pulse quickens, and that cold spot near her heart ratchets up a couple more degrees.
His pupils dilate in response, black circles swallowing the mossy irises. Dean’s tongue flashes over his lower lip as he swallows convulsively, and her eyes track the movement. She wonders for the span of a single breath if he still tastes the way she remembers. It would be so easy to find out; just step in, drop the clothes.
All she has to do, really, is reach out.
…
Her fingers paused halfway between them, hesitating. He glanced up from his plate of pie, eyeing her curiously. Feeling suddenly, deliciously brave, she brushed her thumb over his lower lip, swiping a bit of whipped cream he’d unknowingly smeared there. She sucked her thumb for just a moment, self-consciously looking away as her cheeks blazed red.
She’d never been so forward before, brazen even, and while she was proud of her courage, she was still shocked she’d had such nerve. She risked a peek at him across the table just in time to see him flick his own tongue over the exact spot her thumb had just been. He caught his lower lip under his teeth, grinning at her, somehow looking just as flushed and off-balance as she felt.
“You, uh...taste good,” he murmured, eyes shining. She couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up at his sweet, simple sincerity.
“You do, too.”
They had finished tutoring early, and it was only their second week. Dean was keeping up just fine in class, so she was more than happy to accept his invitation for a snack at the nearby diner. The day was pretty warm for mid-September, and they were technically still supposed to be at the library, so she asked if he’d like to maybe take a walk and talk some more.
“You’re just using me for my stories,” he said with a mock pout as they strolled down the sidewalk. “Is that all I am to you? A source of entertainment?”
“Dean, you’re the best show on. I wouldn’t even skip the reruns.” She felt so light around him, so comfortable and giddy all at once, like he was sucking the oxygen from her atmosphere while giving it right back to her all at once.
Just when she felt like her chest might burst holding all this inside, she reached out and linked her fingers through his. She felt a slight falter in his stride (or maybe she imagined it), and they walked on. She asked him about his family. He told her less about his Dad, more about his little brother, and nothing about his mom, but mostly he asked questions.
What did she like to read? Where was the best pie in town, because that place was not it. Where did she have her favorite birthday party growing up? What did she want to do when she graduated? Favorite family vacation? Favorite holiday? Was it as awesome being an only child as it seemed, or were there actually drawbacks he didn’t know about? What did she really think of his jacket, be honest?
Eventually, they found themselves back at her house, not quite time for her to be home yet. She was reluctant to say good-bye, and if his grip on her hand was any indication, so was he.
“I know!” she said suddenly. She tugged his arm, leading the way around her house and into the backyard. Neither of her parents were home from work, so she didn’t have to worry about their well-meaning interrogation as to why she was dragging the new boy around by the arm.
“Ta-da!” She spread her arms wide, grinning as she indicated the treehouse she and her dad had built together only a few years earlier. “Best craftsmanship, all the comforts of home, minus electricity, heat, air conditioning, and plumbing!”
“You mean it’ll hold us both, and there's some pillows and blankets up there?” He laughed, his grin growing as she glowed back at him.
“You get me so well!” she squealed, grabbing his hand and tugging him forward again. “Come on!”
Though the structure swayed ever so slightly, it didn’t embarrass her by creaking, and there was plenty of room for the two of them to prop up against one of the walls, stretching their legs out on the nest of cushions and blankets she kept up there during good weather.
Rather than settling down, her heart began to beat against her ribs so loudly she was certain Dean could hear it. Her shoulder brushed his, and she could feel every minute shift of his body. Her nostrils flared a little as she steeled herself and turned to meet his intent gaze.
“I would really love to kiss you right now,” he said, his voice low and velvet soft.
“Does that usually work on girls?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes glued to his impossibly lush mouth.
“Why, is it working on you?” The raw want in his voice was unmistakable, even to her inexperienced ears. No boy had ever looked at her the way Dean was right now, as if he’d never seen anyone else he’d rather kiss. He reached up, slid his fingers into her hair, thumb brushing her cheekbone.
“Yeah, it, um...it really is.”
He tasted of cherry pie and coffee. Years later, she would recognize that kiss as the moment her dependency on the caffeinated beverage began, but at the time, she wouldn’t have recognized her own mother. His lips moved gently, so tenderly it stole her breath and made some random spot in her chest clench painfully.
She turned, leaning across him, almost on her knees. Her fingers slid over the impossibly silky bristles on the back of his neck. He shivered under her touch, lips parting from hers as he sucked in a sharp pull of air.
“Kimber,” he murmured, eyes closed. She nudged the tip of his nose with her own, her eyes fluttering shut as she pressed the smallest of kisses to the corner of his lips. Dean’s breath caught, and then he pulled her up into his lap suddenly, tilting her head just so before claiming her mouth again.
She didn’t know how long they sat in the treehouse exactly like that, learning each other’s contours and tastes, trading kisses and caresses but nothing more, until she heard the front door of the house close.
Kimber jerked upright, shocked as if she’d been dashed with a bucket of ice water. She’d honestly forgotten there was a whole world that existed outside the two of them in the treehouse. The sun was much lower in the sky, almost gone in fact.
“It’s almost dark, Dean, I have to go inside.” She spoke reluctantly, the words pulled out against her will. She didn’t ever want to be responsible, even indirectly, for telling Dean he had to leave.
Dean’s chest rose and fell rapidly, one hand holding tight to her waist as the other began to reluctantly untangle from her hair. He leaned forward, brushed her lips with his one last time before wordlessly encouraging her to put herself to rights.
Kimber checked the backyard to make sure the coast was clear before leading Dean down the ladder to the ground.
“If you go that way,” she said, pointing out a thin spot in the hedge at the far side of her yard, “it’ll take you right out to Evergreen Drive. One more block over, and you’ll be on the same street as the school.” He nodded, glancing in the direction before turning back to her.
God, his eyes.
She was frozen to the spot and on fire all at once. In all her seventeen years, she’d never felt anything as intense as Dean just looking at her. How did he do that?
“I think I’m going to, uh...need a few more study sessions,” he said softly. “We might need to really get...in depth with the material.” This time his smile was a little shy, a lot less cocky than the first time she worked with him. And yet there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that let her know Dean Winchester would absolutely be worth every bit of trouble he got her into.
“I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” she said, intentionally not addressing his statement. For one thing, she didn’t think she could match his level of casual innuendo without sounding like a complete idiot. For another, she didn’t trust herself to respond without turning bright red.
She turned towards her house when Dean seized her hand, yanked her carefully back, and caught her face between both of his palms. This time the kiss was blazing, not a trace of the gentleness from the last hour, and when he finally released her, she stood dazed and shaken, staring at him completely unfocused.
“See ya,” he said. He grinned as he released her and turned, loping across her yard with an easy grace before disappearing into the hedge.
...
Chapter 4
#SPN#spn fic#spn fanfic#spn fanfiction#supernatural#supernatural fanfiction#Supernatural fanfic#supernatural fic#dean winchester#Sam Winchester#original character#original female character#teen winchesters#teen dean#teen sam#autumn#fall#more gratuitous hand holding#romance#fluff#OMG THE FLUFF#actual pie#she finally hugged him and fed him pie#hopefully that happens again#i would do it#but i'm not in charge of my own stories#someone tell kimber#continue to save that hug for Sam#we'll see him soon#I STILL LOVE THIS STORY SO MUCH
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