#the scene doesn’t hold much weight without some context
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Thoroughly enjoyed Batman: The Audio Adventures, especially it’s rendition of Harvey.
#🎭#🎭.art#Batman#harvey dent#Hal#Jonathan crane#the scarecrow#twoface#dc comics#Btaa#batman: the audio adventures#Batman: the audio adventures spoilers#Very minor though#the scene doesn’t hold much weight without some context
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So in SSKTJL, the suicide squad gets infected with Fear Gas because of Batman
For context, Fear Gas is a gas created by Scarecrow or Johnathan Crane, and when inhaled, you live through your worst fears until worn off.
And Digger's worst fear is everyone leaving him behind, being unwanted and forgotten. In the scene, George talks to himself, saying they've probably already left him. Calling himself a loser and and a coward and shit. He sees "NOT WANTED" posters of himself hung up around
(I can't do this anymore, bro)
What if Reader's worst fear was watching all of his friends/teammates die and losing them all🥰
Running around trying to listen to Harley's advice (because she knows Scarecrow and the toxin) but he just keeps hearing his friends scream for help and their bodies everywhere but he's literally unable to help them, because they're not fucking real but it's scary asf
And once it's all over, Reader is all over Digger the rest of the night. They're the closest, so it's already not that weird, but he's literally not giving Digger a MOMENT of peace. a hand on that man the entire time, following him everywhere, fucking sleeps on top of him to try and keep him safe
Mumbles to him all night about being scared of losing him and how much he cares about him and Digger's just "🧍♂️wut?" Because he genuinely believes that despite working with the team, he's very easily disposable and they could all replace him but don't because of Waller
Reader ramping up his affection for Digger after that because he's not gonna let him think that shit??
Idk where I'm going with this but I love him so much. Just wanna play with his hair and kiss his face 😞
-🐧
Cw: tooth rotting fluff, x male reader
Okay but thinking about you being unable to calm down even though the gas has long stopped having effect, even though you’re back in your current reality with all your friends where they’re all very much alive and doing well but no matter what they say or do you just can’t calm down
It’s like you’re still stuck in that place, watching all your friends die in front of you without being able to do anything, and Digger being Digger starts joking around, telling the rest of the team how they should just knock you out to make sure you get to sleep through the night.
But his words turn into squeaks as you pull him into a bruising grip, his head shoved into your chest, and your arms locked in an iron grip around his waist.
Unintelligible sounds escape his lips as he tries to push you away from him but you don’t budge an inch, if anything you hold him tighter, nuzzling your face into his honey blonde locks and inhaling his scent, and for once you actually seem to relax.
“Uh hello big guy? cant breathe here,” the sound of Digger’s strained voice sends the whole squad into fits of laughter, with them even making comments about how you’re his responsibility for the night before splitting up to get some rest.
“Alright alright that’s enough” digger says as he finally breaks out of your embrace “jeez I know I’m a lovable guy but even that was a bit too much eh?” Digger says, clearly being sarcastic as he proceeds to prepare his make shift bed.
He doesn’t even get to lay down properly before you’re on top of him, your body weight pinning him in place an arm once again locked around his waist.
“God dammit,” Digger grunts out as his back meets the harsh impact of the ground. “What’s with you tonight eh? Gas scared you that bad? What did you even see?”
And maybe it’s the hint of concern in his voice or it’s the exhaustion from todays events, but you decide to tell you him what you saw earlier today.
Surprisingly enough, Digger listens intently to every word you have to say, at some point you think he’s fallen asleep or spaced out because it’s so unusual for him to not interrupt but when you look up, you see the very much focused look on his face as he continues to listen to you.
Once you’re done speaking you peer up at him - only to be met with the sight of his furrowed brows as he worries his bottom lip.
This time it’s your turn to ask what’s on his mind, digger doesn’t waste a second before he starts to explain, telling you how he can understand why you’d be worried about losing king shark- he was a great asset to the team - or Harley - she was a smart cookie or dead shot - look at his name! who wouldn’t want a guy like that on his team ? but he can’t understand why you��d be worried about losing him.
He doesn’t say it in a self deprecating way, but rather as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as if he’s speaking of the way the sun is bound to rise tomorrow and maybe that hurts more than if he were to say it in a self deprecating tone.
You’re swift to rise up, knocking the air out of his lungs as you go on a tangent about how of course he’s an important part of the team, promptly mentioning the many times he’s saved your ass or saved another member of the team, the many times he’d been the reason as to why they succeeded in whatever mission you were doing.
By the time you’re done you’re all out of breath, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace hands still hanging in the air and staring wide eyed at the Aussie man.
“Alright alright big guy I get it,” he says, now sporting a blush on his face and avoiding your gaze while bashfully rubbing at the back of his neck. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a crush on the ol’ captain” Digger say with somewhat of a forced chuckle , and peers up at you beneath soft blonde lashes.
“Maybe I do,” you shrug.
“Wha-“
“Sleep digger, we have a long day tomorrow no?” You say, suddenly laying down again and pulling him into your arms before he can protest. You can hear him cursing under his breath but he doesn’t do anything to try and get out of your embrace. “Goodnight captain” you say with a smile on your face.
“Goodnight” he grumbles back as he tightens his hold on your waist.
#oh I loved writing this !!#captain boomerang#captain boomerang x reader#captain boomerang x male reader#digger harkness#digger harkness x male reader#digger harkness x reader#x male reader#male reader
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I’ve been seeing so many complaints about Jin not having enough backstory and that he’s too flat, and I’m curious to know your thoughts. I personally think he’s very developed and believe that a character should be able to stand by their current actions without needing flashbacks to explain them.
We know that he is a kind and gentle person who held (and still holds) idealistic notions, and that he effed up real bad with taking the video, and has been feeling guilty and haunted ever since. We know that he develops feelings deeply for people but always makes sure that they reciprocate. We know that he doesn’t like uncertainty when emotions are involved and wants clear communication and has a bit of a jealous streak. We know that when placed in physically dangerous situations, he will jump in immediately to defend and help people. We know that he loves photography and honestly a lot can be explained by his having an artistic soul.
I guess a recent example I’ve seen of a character that’s very developed with absolutely no flashback backstory is Tong’s character Hong from ManSuang. Obviously very different context and character but I loved how much we knew about his essence as a character and person without needing scenes about his childhood and how he grew up.
Anyway sorry for the length, and thank you for your wonderful DFF thoughts and analyses!
Thank you for sending this ask 💕 I've been thinking a lot about this too, honestly. I have some mixed, complex thoughts lol so let me try and explain them.
Firstly, I agree with you that we get a lot of Jin throughout his actions. I fully disagree with people who say that Jin is flat, or that he doesn't have impact on the narrative, or that he's a side character. Jin's always been a very central main piece of the plot. He's the everyman, reacting to the bullying the way most average people would. Acting selfishly and selflessly by turns. He's the catalyst that drove them into the woods. He's the only person who feels guilt and carries the weight of the past (among the bullies). He tries to be a good person, and fucks up bad by turns.
And as you said, we get tons of personality from Jin throughout his actions. He's naive and idealistic. He associates sex and feelings strongly. He falls hard and fast. He lives in a large house but clearly has no one checking on him when he comes home late or brings a boy over to stay the night. He shows signs of emotional neglect and unhealthy attachments. He has fits of anger which lead him to do bad things he feels awful about for years afterwards.
He calls himself a coward but when faced with a weapon he jumps in front of it to try and protect his friends.
There are a lot of shadows to his character that paint a full picture, to me. I don't find his character to be flat at all, in fact Jin is still one of my favorite characters because of all of this.
However, I do understand why people are disappointed. Because while we do see large pieces of Jin's character, when you compare him to characters like Non and Tee, where we see their home lives and motivations in detail, Jin definitely looks flat in comparison. I was also hoping that we'd get insight into Jin's home life and learn why he is the way he is, like we did with some of the others. And we didn't (and won't) get that. And that's definitely disappointing.
Especially since today, in a Space on Twitter, Sammon said she regrets not writing Jin in more detail and she views that as a failing. I think that's one reason people are being so negative about Jin's character right now.
BUT, I personally think people are entirely overblowing it all. Jin is a very interesting, complex, gray, sympathetic character in so many ways, even if we don't get that extra layer of depth. Especially given that one of the reasons we have less of Jin is because he does less terrible shit within the narrative as some of the others, I'm a bit 🤷🏻♀️ about it all.
Anyway! Thanks again for the ask, it was a good excuse for me to actually formulate my thoughts!
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DU Snippet #6
TW: Suggestive themes.
If one could describe them, they are opposites.
Dynamic was the sunshine, bright and forthcoming, pride in every step he took. As the youngest prince, he bore the weight of expectation without complaint, instead using it as motivation. He’s outspoken, he’s brilliant, he’s intense.
Meanwhile, Radiant was the moonlight. His gestures were subtle but on point, his voice an enchanting melody as The Musician. His smiles were to die for, his praise common but not cookie cutter. He’s graceful, he’s enticing, he’s cunning.
One would think they would compete for the greatest public opinion. After all, they were assigned heavy PR roles. The Musician and The Artist were certainly entertaining in their respective areas, so many see their banter as competitive aggressiveness. Even amongst their coworkers, they’re seen as rivals.
And yet…
.
.
.
.
.
.
“You broke the handle on my door!”
Radiant tipped his cap to the ladies he was engaged with before turning to Dynamic with a biting smile. His jade eyes zero in on the door handle The Artist aggressively gestured to. It was, in fact, broken, hanging off the wooden door by a splinter.
“Oh dear… It was an accident,” Radiant replies with that irritating, calm voice of his. “Your door was bound to be replaced with a metal one anyway. You know how conformist [THE SUPREME LEADER] is.”
“That still doesn’t fix the fact that you broke my fucking door handle!” Dynamic outbursts, taking a hard step towards Radiant. “What are you, some robot on steroids??”
“Calm down Dy.” Radiant winks, putting a gloved finger to his lips as he nods towards the staring civilians. “You’re making a scene.”
“I’m making a what---”
“Let’s go inside, have a little chat. I’m sure I can make it up to you.”
He opens the door and holds it open for The Artist. Dynamic grits his teeth, glaring at him with as much annoyance he can muster, but complies. He heads instead, stepping on Radiant’s shoe on the way in. Radiant merely grinned, swoops in after him, and shuts the door. A moment later, the Bookstore’s sign flips to “close”, and a chair is used to “lock” the door by barricading it.
Dynamic whips around as they enter the main area, only to find Radiant just mere inches away from touching him. Despite this observation, he jabs a finger into Radiant’s chest, crinkling the smoothness and pristine order of his uniform.
“You’ve been on my ass for weeks,” Dynamic growls.
“Have I?” Radiant teases.
The Artist’s face colours a pretty red. He knocks a fist against Radiant’s chest, fighting the urge to just. Choke him. Though he wasn’t sure in what context. Radiant can sense this inner conflict and only smiles more in response.
“Dear, if you wanted alone time with me, you should’ve just told me,” Radiant continues. “There’s no need to stage a scene in public.”
“I am not trying to do that. You just do some fucking irritating things that inconvenience me.” Dynamic turns away to march off. “Whatever, just get out of my---”
A hand grabs his arm, and before Dynamic knows it, he’s pulled back to Radiant. He attempts to wiggle himself out of Radiant’s grip, but they’ve been in this situation too many times for Dynamic to know: it’s pointless, and it’s worthless. Radiant wasn’t one to let him go. Once The Musician’s attention was zeroed in on him, there was no turning it away. Those jade eyes wouldn’t leave The Artist for the longest time.
Radiant wraps an arm around Dynamic’s waist and uses his free hand to trail up Dynamic’s arm. The Artist shivers at the motion, but remains angry-faced at the taller. Though, it’s pleasant to note the red colour of his cheeks. Radiant likes that. He likes that very, very much.
“I’m sorry,” he purrs, fingers tracing up Dynamic’s exposed neck. “Forgive me for being this way lately. It seems I’ve been in a mood as of late, and only you can calm my restlessness.”
Dynamic huffs. He consents to leaning into Radiant’s hand, kissing his palm. “You have a terrible way of looking sorry. You have that shit-eating grin on your face again.”
“You love it,” Radiant teases.
“Shut up.”
Radiant chuckles and leans down, placing soft kisses on Dynamic’s neck. Dynamic’s hand instinctively grips The Musician’s fluffy brown locks, pulling his head in closer without thinking properly. A blissful sigh escapes the shorter’s lips as Radiant gives him affection. The anger in The Artist recedes like dust blowing away in the breeze.
They shouldn’t be doing this.
In fact, it’s illegal for them to be this way. To be wrapped in each other’s arms. To be alone in the Bookstore when they should be interacting with civilians.
Dynamic shouldn’t know how soft Radiant’s kisses are or how warm his skin feels against his own. Radiant shouldn’t know what touches set sparks off in Dynamic’s mind, what words can undo Dynamic’s temper and leave him flushed. They shouldn’t spend lazy afternoons in the back room, sprawled on the daybed in tangled bedsheets. They shouldn’t sit on rooftops and have their arms wrapped around each other as they watch the sun set on the city.
It’s not right. They both know what this means, but they don’t care.
“James.. not now, quit it,” Dynamic gently fusses. He has to pull his upper half away to get Radiant to stop. “I have an appearance tonight. I don’t want anything showing up, and I don’t want to be tired.”
Radiant sighs. He nuzzles into Dynamic’s neck instead, holding him close again.
“Not even if I asked nicely?” he attempts.
“Ask nicely later,” Dynamic says, a grin on his face now. “I give you an 80% chance of winning.”
“Mmh… Oh, sunshine.”
Dynamic yelps as Radiant hoists him up all of a sudden. The Artist is now in his arms, subject to Radiant’s whims as he’s carried to the backroom regardless. As soon as they pass the doorway and Radiant shuts the door---the shorter knows it’s the end of the line. He tenses and his face flushes red.
“What’s with the cute face?” Radiant grins down at him. “I’m only asking for cuddles.”
“We both know that’s not the only thing on your agenda,” Dynamic protests.
“Okay, maybe a few kisses here and there.”
“Right…”
The Artist is gently placed on the daybed. He looks up at Radiant, accepting a sweet kiss from the other.
He knows he’ll be tasting vanilla for hours after this.
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Tangled Bonus Marathon - Adventure Is Calling (Tangled: the Series Comic)
Introduction
Here we go... This is the spin-off stuff I wanted to read the most; the IDW comics.
Disney commissioned IDW for a couple of mini-series based off the show. These lasted through the first season before coming to an end. Afterwards, IDW collected all of the the issues into four graphic novels. These not only included the original miniseries, but also a few short stories made for the Tangled Magazine that ran along side it, and yes, I will be talking about the magazine later in this marathon.
For now though, I’m going to be focusing on the first graphic novel Adventure is Calling, Which actually kicked off the mini-series.
The Content
I’m just going to go through reach story on it’s own really quickly and give a brake down for them.
Before Ever After
A heavily abridged comic adaptation of the pilot. It hits all the important beats, but then rushes on to the next plot point as quickly as it can without giving things time to settle. The biggest consequence of this is that some of the heavier emotional moments from the show doesn’t hit the same way. There’s less tension and less payoff. However the art is nice, and I like the framing/staging of certain scenes. Lady Caine also gets a more dignified end. She’s still captured, but she’s not squashed flat like a loony tunes character at least.
Hair Today
Perhaps the weakest offering on hand. This barely qualifies as a story. Rapunzel is getting ready for the day, but forgets to brush her hair. Cassandra gathers all of the handmaidens, plus Eugene, to help. And that’s it. There’s hardly a conflict to resolve, there no jokes to be had, and the characterization is practically non-existent. At only two pages long, I have wonder what was even the point? I mean, helping the princess get ready for the day is like a handmaiden's main job anyways.
Princess Cassandra
However, following from that, we get the best story in the collection.
Rapunzel wants to skip out on her princess duties in order to hang out with her friends the Pub Thugs. They’re holding a talent contest at the Snugly Duckling and she’s agreed to be the judge. Rather than just informing people about her conflicting engagements and rescheduling with someone, she instead convinces Cassandra to pretend to be her and take her place at the royal banquet that evening.
There’s a couple of things here that really help this story to stand out. First off the premise doesn’t sound too far off from an actual episode from the show. Secondly, there’s a lot of attention to detail, like Cassandra needing to keep her face hidden because Rapunzel’s parents would instantly recognize her for who she really is. Then there’s a lot of Easter eggs and hints of dialogue that add more to the story, especially if you’ve already seen the show.
For instance, Hookhand shows up to compete. In the series he’s usually on tour, so this would have been a rare chance for Rapunzel to see her friend again before he leaves. While never stated outright, this context gives weight to why the talent show means so much to her.
There’s also hints towards the wider arc, what with Rapunzel’s fear of confronting her father and simply telling him what’s going on. Which plays both into her agency arc and Frederic being a shitty dad and ruler. I mean all she’s blowing off is an unveiling of a giant statue of herself, which is a complete waste of the tax payers money.
Most importantly however, is that this story managed to make me care about about Cassandra. She’s a complete victim to the royals competing demands and for once I was actually concerned for her well being. Trust me, in this series, getting me to give a shit about Cass is one of the greatest achievements a spin-off story can do.
Greetings
This is another two paged story that doesn’t really have much plot. Yet it fares better than Hair Today because it’s more character driven. Rapunzel learns that not everyone wants to hear her infodump on them randomly every time they meet, and so she puts in more of an effort into having better social skills. She succeeds, but doesn’t really enjoy it. That is until Faith genuinely asks about her day and they bond while chatting.
Why wasn’t Faith allowed to be one of Rapunzel’s actual friends in the series? Why?
Anyways, it was cute, but pretty disposable.
The Perfect Joke
Eugene teaches Rapunzel how to tell a joke. The End.
Once again, it’s cute enough, but at only two pages it feels really inconsequential. I would rather have had a longer six page adventure than all of these mini-episodes quite frankly.
A Hero’s Reputation
Now this story is a full paged comic, clocking in at 20 pages... which has become the standard in recent years. It’s okay. For the most part it’s a well constructed story, but it does have one glaring flaw and that’s how out of character Eugene feels.
In the comic, Rapunzel keeps saving Eugene from accidents and mishaps through out the day. Cassandra starts to tease him for it, and he feels embarrassed when Frederic witnesses one of his rescues because he desperately wants to impress his future father-in-law. After an argument with Rapunzel, Eugene decides to stage a fake rescue with Shorty, only to cause a real accident and needs Rapunzel to save him again. Where a upon, he learns a lesson in humility.
So you see the problem here, right? Why on earth would Eugene be embarrassed at being rescued by Rapunzel? She’s saved him several times before already and that is precisely why he loves her so much! I don't think even Cassandra’s heckling could knock him out of his own personal hero worship for his girlfriend. Eugene has an ego sure, but not once has his insecurities ever been about his bride-to-be being awesome in her own right.
However, if you can get over such a forced conflict, the story proceeds at a nice pace, with some fun scenes here and there.
Caution: Wet Hair
So this is a four page story rather than a two paged one, but it’s still more pointless fluff.
After washing her hair, Rapunzel has a full hour to herself before needing to meet some important dignitaries. Promising Cassandra that she won’t get dirty, Rapunzel decides to play outside. There she spots a rabbit in distress and decides to rescue it, but in doing so she muddies her dress and ruins her hair.
The most interesting thing about this comic comes right the end when she confesses to Cassandra what happened. Rapunzel filches away from her while repeatedly saying ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again. Cassandra reassures her that it’s alright and says, quote: ‘You’re not coming home to Mother Gothel anymore.’
This brief exchange, especially in light of season three, is perhaps the most fascinating Cassandra and Rapunzel interaction I’ve ever witnessed in this series, and it’s just over and done with in three panels.
Man, the comics are a trip!
Lost
The last story is another two paged affair, but it’s possibly the strongest of the mini-episodes.
Rapunzel gets lost in the castle trying to find the kitchen. She returns to her room after failing to obtain the glass of water that she was wanting. Only to find her mother there waiting for her to tell her goodnight. She also happens to have the glass of water that Rapunzel has been questing for.
Why didn’t we get more mother and daughter interaction like this in the show? Why?
Presentation
All of the art work in the comic is really well done and easily the highlight of the book. Everything is consistent, dynamic, and flows really well. There’s also some interesting panel layouts and staging to keep things from stagnating.
I just really like it. All of it, and all of the artists involved should be applauded. Not just the pencils here, but the colors, inks, and even words all come together nicely.
Would I Recommend It
Yeah, I would. Most of the book is pointless filler, and the Before Ever After adaptation is kind of weak. To the point where I would recommend the novelization over it alone. But, there’s enough here collectively to recommend laying down a few bucks to get the full graphic novel. Especially, if you’re a Tangled fan.
Next Up
It’ll be a short review next week. I’ll be looking at the actual journal replica that came with the Before Ever After DVD.
Also, the salt stream will be happening tomorrow night on the discord.
#tangled#rapunzel's tangled adventure#tangled the series#idw comics#adventure is calling#rapunzel#cassandra#eugene
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(for the DVD commentary ask)
Vernon doesn’t want to go in, the first morning he’s been told he has to return. He lingers outside the school while everyone crowds towards the door. It’s impossible not to scour the faces for his sister.
Impossible to go to school without her tugging away from his hand the instant she sees her friends. Bouncing, bubbling, happy.
The reality that he may never see her again settles around him, in a way it couldn’t at home. While the world seemed paused and distant.
Walking through the halls of the school, Alicia’s missing posters flapping against the walls hurts. It feels like she’s watching him like he should have been watching her.
Paired with;
He means it too. Scott cares about him.
It’s a lot to take in. Something he’d wanted for longer than he realizes. It’s nice, but it doesn’t feel like he’d imagined as a lonely child, watching Scott go back to his friends from a distance.
It’s enough, though. For now.
It seems like less later. When the vending machine stalls and Stiles buzzes in his ears. When Isaac has left him and the more familiar friend of loneliness settles around him.
When he hears Alicia’s voice. When her face wavers in his mind. When he smells the scent of Erica’s favorite perfume lingering in the air.
When the memories come flooding in and the guilt renders it impossible to breathe.
When the weight of responsibility crushes his chest, while he drowns in pain and grief.
He’d been watching. He’d been watching like he was always watching. When Alicia disappeared. When Erica took her last breath. When Derek fell to his death. When Scott had almost died to save all of them.
Maybe he’d always been watching and never paying enough attention.
These two passages are also in my fic: From a Distance. Some more context and another passage from that story can be found here. I am not going to cut it- but be aware I will be frankly discussing suicide and suicidal ideation in this answer.
Two of the things I really wanted to explore in this fic were Boyd and Alicia and Boyd and Scott. In the first passage, I'm really trying to wrestle with what it must have been like for Boyd to go back to school after Alicia had just disappeared. Canon gives infuriatingly little about that trauma. And it was impossible not to think about Boyd and Erica's own missing posters ten-ish years later when writing about that.
Most of the time I write in a very chaotic-whee! let's see what happens sort of manner. This was a much more deliberate piece. And I really thought the theme of Boyd always watching but never really feeling like he was a part of anything was important to explore.
I rewatched Frayed, Motel California, and Currents several times during the process of writing this fic. One of the things that really stood out to me in Motel California is that neither Boyd, nor Scott really seem to fight the urge to suicide. Ethan tries not to cut himself, Isaac hides under the bed. Boyd actively participates in his own drowning- going so far as to put a safe no one else could remove on his chest. Scott softy asks "what if is him?" while holding the flare.
In Ice Pick- Boyd clearly states that he wants to be like Scott. And I played on that for Boyd's perspective on the bus scene in Frayed. Boyd really doesn't care if trying to kill Ethan and Aiden gets him killed. The anger is too overwhelming until he realizes that Scott would back his play if he has a plan- that Scott *trusts* him and Boyd hasn't felt trusted in a long time.
And it's a kind of a realization for Boyd that maybe he's done as much to keep himself distant as others have. That maybe he's been sitting alone at lunch by choice. That maybe even though his only friend is dead he belongs in more ways than he thinks. Which, of course, makes it even more tragic when he tries to suicide in Motel California and just so much worse when he survives that only to die in Currents.
I really want to highlight just how tired Boyd is by now and how that also parallels with Scott. Only when Scott tries to suicide he's surrounded by friends and when Boyd does he's alone- rescued only after it's almost irrevocably in motion. But rescued all the same.
Thank you so much for sending this. I really love how this fic turned out so I was thrilled to get two asks about it.
Game
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Blog Post #2
I will never forget the first time that I saw the video “Firework.” I remember watching it for the first time on my parent’s computer, with my Carribean grandmother sitting behind me. I remember watching with baited breath for “the scene,” the one all of my classmates had talked about in various tones of awe and disgust, unsure what was upcoming, unsure how to feel. And then it happens. Two men kiss. And I hear from behind me my grandmother yell out, and say, “Gal! Me ne want to see no batty-boys!
I will never forget not just her tone, the venom in her words, but the words that she used. I tried to look it up later on, but didn’t see anything in Patois to describe queer people other than slurs. Was there no way to be queer and brown in the same breath, to love someone without having to refer to that love in words dipped in hate?
I really loved Picq and Cottet’s piece on the translation of queerness into languages other than English, because it was fascinating to see queerness portrayed in a non-Western context. For an identity that has existed in every culture through centuries of history, we have someone crafted and created a narrative that only the Western, English reckoning of the LGBTQ identity is the right one, and is one that captures all aspects of queerness. I remember thinking of my grandmother’s slurs, and trying to wonder if there was a queer in Hindi or a way to speak of it in Patois, and the article beautifully encapsulated the strife of trying to translate one’s identity into a space it doesn’t belong, like trying to cram a straightjacket onto a person too tall, the fabric ripping at the seams, unable to hold the weight of centuries of culture and identity being compressed into a single fitted and tailored box.
In Edenborg’s piece of Putin, we see yet another example of this same rhetoric, where in the guise of traditional values, queerness is not only supresed but lamented as a weakness, a lacking of character, a bowing of sorts to the Western usurpers attempting to rewrite native histories and cultures.
In coming of age in America, I struggled a great deal with my sexuality, in knowing how to own brownness and queerness in one space, in finding a way where I could be something other than straight in a brown space and still have a place. In radical spaces, we were told that white folks were the colonizers and the oppressors, and that included white queer people. In that same breath, it was the white queer community who I believed was writing the narrative of what it was to be queer in America, and without embracing that within a space, was there ever going to be a way to find a home, a sense of self that was not constantly under scrutiny? What part of myself would I have to erase to finally belong?
Helen Gao’s piece highlights as well the consequences of that suppression, what it looks like to hold back the entirety of a community, to restrain and collar them to the point of submission. What happens when in trying to shun Western queerness, your country and culture creates a queerness of its own, something not othered but revered and adored, something that becomes embedded within pop culture and phenomenon? China’s “little fresh meat” are an example of that - men in makeup, performing artists stars who refuse to be hidden, who popular media is unable to stomp out, despite the best efforts of the regime in power. Even with Jinping banning “abnormal” individuals from television or blurring out earrings on men, the love and support that these performers have received has dwindled little, especially within some of the most important voting groups.
In trying to understand the questions of global queerness, I wonder how much we can impact the narrative if we create space for queerness that is untranslatable? Picq and Cottet highlight within their piece an identity that doesn't fit within the English grouping of LGBTQ, called the Sangomas. They are described as, …”traditional healers who are women with dominant male ancestral spirits, and who choose women lovers.” Rather than trying to ascribe Western ideals of queerness to them, what if we normalize allowing folks to exist within the different, allow their own words to write the litanies of their story? What if we spent less time translating words and instead we began to pepper English and other languages with the stories and cultures around us? Let there be words that have no meaning and no translation, that exist not for our understanding but for the sake of those they define. Let us give those who claim that queerness is a weapon of the West no more ammunition to create hostility for communities around the world, and let us finally work on creating a global identity for the queer community and beyond. My grandmother may not have the words to see or accept me now, but maybe with the right words, we can see that change, and create the space to reconnect all those families who have been lost in translation.
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I already had half a mind to go off about this and then a set of Eliot and Parker came across my dash from the same episode I was thinking of and that pushed me over the edge.
So let’s talk about The Big Bang Job in Leverage and something they pulled off only by nature of being Leverage because it’s practically magic tbh.
The thing about The Big Bang Job is that the climax of the episode is a gigantic, over the top shootout between one of the main characters (Eliot) and a literal warehouse full of goons with automatic weapons. And Eliot not only walks out of it without a scratch, he starts with only his fists to fight back with. I’m talking complete and utter cheese; stormtrooper-like aim from the goons, Eliot never misses a shot, Eliot takes cover behind wooden boxes and doesn’t get hit, infinite bullets, and the scene ends with Eliot sliding on his knees while spinning 360 firing all the while and hitting every single one of his remaining targets.
This scene is objectively utterly laughable, it should flop. It doesn’t.
It doesn’t because this is Eliot. Eliot, who the show is very, very careful to establish “doesn’t like guns”. Not, “doesn’t USE guns”, “doesn’t LIKE guns”. It has been consistent, up to this point and actually after this point, that Eliot before he met the team was not a nice person. He’s a hitter, he’s not exactly the nicest person now, but before the team it is heavily implied that he did some nasty, assassin-esque work for an even nastier guy.
He’s killed people before, for a living, and he was very good at it.
But by the time we meet him, by the time the team meets him, he is out of that line of work. He doesn’t touch guns anymore, not for personal use. Every single time we see him with one on-screen it’s because he’s disarming someone else who had one and unloading it to make it useless in whatever fight is going on at the moment. Eliot doesn’t like guns. Eliot doesn’t use guns. And it is because that character fact is well and consistently established for three seasons before we get to The Big Bang Job that the over the top shootout is dramatically weighted instead of funny.
That scene, which should read as celebration of a gory bloodbath, is instead an extremely grim and serious character moment. This is Eliot breaking an unspoken vow; this is a promise that he made to himself and that we the audience have seen him hold himself to without fail, and we have to watch him go back on it, for the sake of his team. This is watching Eliot be the man, the monster, he believes he is, the person that he will spend the rest of his life atoning for without ever truly feeling he can have or deserves forgiveness.
It is the context of that character, the back story firmly in place and present in the moment he makes the decision, that makes the warehouse shootout devastatingly gutwrenching instead of what it should be.
It is the only reason Leverage gets away with it and significantly they never do it again. This is the only time we ever see this from Eliot and that’s what gives that moment so much weight.
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The Thin Line Between Life and Death (Loki x Mystic!Reader) -- PART 1
Or, That Time You and Loki Saved the World
Request: is it alright if you do a loki x reader fic where reader's got powers like strange and wields one of the infinity stones and almost dies trying to save everyone? -- requested by anon
Warnings: this is darker than other fics i've written so far: descriptions of nausea, mentions of anxiety, and major character deaths (but not Loki, I promise).
Word Count: 4.8k (hooo weeee man, if I didn't split this into 2 parts it would've been like... over 10k omg)
A/N: For context, please read this headcanon first if you'd like to know a bit more about the reader and Loki's relationship as well as to sort of set the scene for this fic -- otherwise, if you're cool with jumping right in, enjoy! This was so much fun to write :)
Also this doesn't follow the events of Infinity War/Endgame at all; this is sort of... my take on it, I guess you could say?
Everything started going downhill when you began getting visions.
They weren't anything concerning at first, in fact they were almost cryptic, really: manifesting themselves in your dreams in subtle -- almost metaphoric -- ways. First it was simply the colour orange, which then progressed to flashes of amber light at random occasions during the events of your dreams, then it became fire. For a while, fire consumed your dreams nearly every night, burning through cities, forests, and even planets.
The Ancient One had told you from the start that dreams carried messages from your subconscious. They weren't something to be dismissed, even the most simplest elements. They were to be respected, listened to, and were meant to encourage you to shift mentally and emotionally in indescribable ways.
You figured the fire was symbolic for the stress and worry you were feeling, with everything moving so quickly over the last few days.
After all, the threat of Thanos was looming more and more. No longer was he a whispered rumour that was occasionally passed around at dinnertime with the rest of the Avengers. He was an actual threat now, and the Avengers were holding meetings twice a day to try and develop a plan of attack.
He had the power stone. It was only a matter of time before he found the others.
Twenty-four hours before everything changed, a vision came to you differently than all the others.
You were in the kitchen preparing lunch for yourself when your ears began ringing. Whispers filled your mind from the inside and spoke to you in a language you didn't understand, yet chilled you to the bone at the same time. There was a blinding flash of light that nearly paralyzed you, and as you strained to focus your eyes, you noticed a small orange stone materialize in front of you.
The soul stone.
It glided closer and closer to you, and as it did so the whispers grew louder. The lives of thousands flashed before your eyes. Their deaths did, as well. It was showing you the cycle of humanity -- birth, life, death, repeat -- almost taunting you that this seemingly inevitable thing could be controlled.
You gasped, dropped the plate in your hands accidentally. It fell to the floor with an earsplitting crash, and as quickly as the soul stone arrived, it disappeared in a swirl of orange smoke.
Your hands were shaking as you knelt down to collect the bigger pieces of the now-shattered plate. A hand on your back made you flinch in surprise and you instinctively curled closer towards the kitchen cabinets in an attempt to protect yourself.
"It's just me." Loki's soft voice seemed foggy and distant as your brain continued to adjust from the voices and the ringing you had just heard. "Are you hurt?"
You shook your head and sunk to the floor, half in defeat and half in relief that you weren't alone anymore. These visions were growing far too intense for you to handle.
You looked up at Loki, who exchanged an anxious expression with you. His green eyes searched your face, seemingly looking for an explanation of what had just happened to you.
"I saw something," you whispered, absentmindedly gripping the plate shard in your hand tighter. "Loki, I think I saw the soul stone."
His eyes widened as he knelt down beside you and gently pried the glass out of your grip, setting it down out of your reach. He replaced the broken piece in your hand with his own, and you sighed shakily as his thumb gently stroked the top of your hand.
"Did it show you anything?" He asked quietly, and you nodded quickly in response.
"I saw life, death... everything." You felt far removed from you own voice, almost like it didn't belong to you. "It's been happening in dreams too, but I've never seen the stone itself before."
You gazed at Loki, who almost seemed to disappear into his own thoughts at your mention of the visions you saw. You knew all too well about the Tesseract, and the way it had tormented Loki once before. The infinity stones were not gentle to humans, or gods for that matter.
"Do you think this has something to do with Thanos?" You asked, your voice trembling as you whispered. "Do you think maybe he managed to get the soul stone?"
Loki shook his head slowly, but it wasn't without hesitation.
"The soul stone is far away on Vormir. It's guarded heavily. I doubt-"
"Hey, you two okay?"
You glanced up quickly just as Tony stepped into the room. His eyes swept over the mess of a broken plate on the floor before landing on you and Loki, huddled together in the corner of the kitchen as if your lives depended on it.
Tony looked as exhausted as you felt. No one had really slept well in the last few days, but you couldn't imagine what it was like for Tony: he had been staying up until ungodly hours of the morning with Steve, Vision, and Rhodey, trying to formulate a plan of attack.
"Yeah," you shook your head as you tried to clear the last of the visions out of your mind. "Sorry, that was an accident. I'm just... really tired."
Tony gave a perfectly-timed yawn as he knelt down and began to pick up the broken pieces of the plate you dropped.
"I feel ya, kid."
You watched as him and Loki exchanged resigned nods of acknowledgement, and you grabbed Loki's hand before he could step forward to help Tony clean up the mess.
Should I tell him? You asked telepathically. About the soul stone?
Loki gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Not yet. His voice echoed through your mind like the whispers from the soul stone moments ago, bringing you warmth rather than fear. Until we fully understand why these visions are occurring, I believe it would be best to not burden Stark with any more details. It would only cause more problems.
You nodded in agreement as you pushed yourself up onto your feet shakily. You stepped forward to help Tony clean up the mess, only feel your head spin violently. You lurched forward, grabbing onto the counter as you tried to stop yourself from falling.
"Hey, whoa!" Tony sprang up and grabbed your shoulders just as you felt Loki's arms wrap around your waist in an effort to keep you standing. "Easy there, kid. Jesus, are you okay?"
"I feel sick." You mumbled, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to keep the room from spinning. Even with two people supporting your weight, you still felt as though you were going to fall over.
"Go sleep, okay?" Tony told you sternly. You made a sound of protest and tried to help him continue cleaning up. Tony shook his head in response.
"Don't worry about this, we'll clean it up." His gaze shifted over to Loki, who still held you tightly. You could feel his hands trembling ever-so-slightly, and you placed your own hand over his weakly as you attempted to silently reassure him that you'd be okay.
"Loki, make sure Y/N gets some rest."
"I will."
Loki scooped you up into his arms in one fluid motion, causing you to wince as spots danced in your vision. You buried your head against his shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to hold yourself together.
Has this ever happened to you? You manage to ask Loki telepathically as he set you carefully down on your bed. He brushed a stray strand of hair out of your face before crawling into bed beside you.
Not to this degree, he replied. You couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped your lips as he gently pulled you close, cradling the back of your head. The infinity stones all have variable levels of energy, but I have never dealt with the soul stone before.
Do you mean their frequencies vary depending on their roles?
Precisely.
You sighed defeatedly, troubled by the fact that -- out of all the infinity stones -- the one that boasted power over life and death itself just had to come find you.
You knew mystics seemed to have some sort of connection to the stones, seeing as Stephen knew the time stone and guarded it with his life. You had hoped, though, that if another stone were to find its way somehow to another mystic, it would be Wong, not you.
Loki nudged your chin up ever so slightly with his fingertips, encouraging you to look up at him. He gave you a warm, gentle smile as he caressed your cheek slowly.
"Rest now," he whispered, placing a kiss on your forehead softly. "I will stay with you, I promise."
You nodded halfheartedly in response. Every cell in your being longed for nothing more but rest, yet at the same time you were afraid to close your eyes in case the soul stone was still lurking somewhere in your mind. Waiting for you.
It felt as though you had only just closed your eyes, when the sound of thunder jolted you out of your sleep. You felt weightless as you opened your eyes slowly, taking in the purple hues of clouds above you. As you felt yourself float higher, you realized with a sickening sinking feeling that your body was still in your bed, far away from where you currently were.
Your spirit had separated from your physical body, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't seem to be able to get back.
You glanced upward as you continued your ascent just as two towering structures came into view at the top of a cliff. The whispers that had filled your mind earlier that day resumed, and you cried out in fear, clutching your head in your hands. It only made them grow stronger.
As flashes of orange began filling your vision, your blood ran cold as you realized where you were.
Somehow, your spirit had found its way to Vormir.
Reaching the top of the cliff, you stepped carefully onto the platform just as a hooded figure glided towards you.
Never before has this stone ever summoned a soul into its presence. A chill ran up your spine as the guardian's voice echoed in your mind, crackling like ice.
Many have sought this stone, but it belongs to no one.
"So why did it bring me here?" You demanded, curling your arms around your middle in an attempt control your nerves. You were vulnerable here. You were powerless without your physical body -- incantations and even the mirror realm would be of no use to you in this state.
The soul stone seems to have taken a certain interest in you. It sees potential... for what is yet to come.
"I don't understand." Your own voice seemed to wrap around you in an endless echo. You instinctively took a step back as your head spun from sensory overload.
You walk the line between the living and the dead, mystic.
"But I'm not the only mystic. There's more out there like me, surely they experienced the same thing? I mean, there's Stephen-"
No. Your breath caught in your throat as the hooded figure raised its head to gaze at you, and your eyes met fiery blood red irises. You turned your gaze to the ground in an attempt to divert your fear and calm your racing heart.
Stephen Strange is already in possession of the time stone, the guardian explained slowly. There are no other mystics who possess the strength -- or courage -- to cross over into the land of the dead.
"But I'm not dead." You protested, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that drew your attention back to the fact that you were currently a spirit on another planet, far away from your body. "I... I've been training in the mystic arts for a few years now. Never in my life has anything like this happened. Why now am I suddenly getting visions?"
There is another who seeks the soul stone as we speak, the guardian replied. To your relief, it kept its distance from you. He yearns to own it.
"Thanos," you whispered, feeling a cold chill run up your spine as you spoke his name.
Yes, mystic, the guardian nodded solemnly. However, there are elements of the soul stone that the Titan has not tried to understand. Just like how life and death are two sides of the same coin, so too does the soul stone have another aspect.
You gasped as the soul stone materialized in front of you, hovering level with your line of sight just like when you were in the kitchen back at the Compound. You watched as it began to spin, gradually growing faster and faster, until it split neatly into two halves.
The soul stone embodies both the physical and the spiritual, and thus each aspect is acquired through complete mastery of its respective lesson.
The guardian's words echoed in your mind as you gazed at the fragments of the soul stone curiously. The fear you had felt in connection with your earlier visions was gone now. In its place, all you felt was awe.
As one of the pieces of the soul stone began gliding closer to you, you reached out your hand in an attempt to touch it. It looked so warm, so inviting. You longed to know what it would feel like to hold a piece of ancient power in your hands.
No.
You flinched, glancing at the guarding whose voice boomed in your head. As if to reinforce his words, the shards of the soul stone vanished into thin air.
"What do you mean, 'no'?" You asked quietly. "You said there's a connection between myself and the soul stone, I don't understand."
You must earn it. It does not come willingly to anyone.
"Then I don't want it." You shook your head, taking a step back. "I don't know why any of this is happening, but I want it to stop. I want to go home."
Very well.
The guardian raised his hand, and you felt yourself being pulled backwards slowly, back the way you came.
I offer you a piece of advice, mystic, the voice in your mind echoed out louder than ever. In order to gain the physical shard of the stone, you must lose the one you love. To gain the spirit shard, you must know the path that leads you back to them.
There was a sharp tug around your middle, and you felt your heart freeze in your chest as you began plummeting down the cliff. You squeezed your eyes shut as the wind echoed like a jet plane in your ears.
Remember this, the guardian's voice was distant now. You had to strain to register the words in your mind. The spirit shard cannot be found on Vormir. The fate of the physical shard is being decided as we speak. Use this knowledge wisely, mystic.
An image flashed in your mind of a titan ascending the mountain, towards the top of the cliff upon which your spirit had just stood. You caught a glint of purple, blue, and red flash from his hand.
You gasped, bolting upright as the heavy sensation that accompanied falling back into your body ran through you. You were trembling, drenched in a cold sweat, and you yelped as two hands planted themselves firmly on your shoulders.
"Relax!" Your heart sped up in your chest as you tried to fight off whoever was holding onto you. "Y/N, relax, it's me!"
Loki came into focus in front of you, his eyes never straying from yours as you tried to catch your breath. His hands were steady, but you caught a flash of fear in his eyes as he gazed at you.
"What happened?" He whispered, pulling you into a protective and firm embrace. Your breath caught in your throat as your mind wandered back to the visions that flashed behind your eyes moments before you woke up.
"Thanos." Your voice felt far away, almost foreign to you, as you replied softly. Your trembling hands reached up to pull Loki even closer to you. You were afraid you'd lose control and end up separated from your body again. You didn't want to be alone once more.
"What?"
"Thanos." You repeated again, glancing out the window into the now-darkened sky to make sure you were no longer on Vormir. You couldn't trust yourself. "Loki, I saw him. He's got more stones. He found the Tesseract."
Loki pushed you away, only to wrap his hands firmly around your arms. The fear he had hidden so well moments ago was dancing like fire in his eyes.
"That's impossible," he said slowly, and you weren't sure if those words were for you, or if they were an attempt to convince himself. "You hid the Tesseract yourself, you took it from me and-"
"I know what I did." You snapped. You winced as Loki recoiled away from you ever-so-slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm just... Look, you have to believe me Loki. Please. I was on Vormir, or at least my spirit was. The guardian of the soul stone was there, it spoke to me, I-"
"I believe you." Loki's soft whisper stopped the rambling thoughts that were pouring out of your mouth, and you nearly cried in relief at his words. His expression softened as he took in your torn, distressed expression, and he kissed your forehead softly.
"I believe you." He repeated again, pulling you close.
"We don't have much time." Your voice felt tight in your throat as you spoke. "Right before I woke up, I saw Thanos approaching Vormir. The rest of the stones are on Earth, Loki. I think he's coming here next."
"We need to tell the others."
"Will they know what to do?"
Loki's gaze burned into yours determinedly as he took your hand and helped you up off your bed.
"All we can do is hope."
The two of you raced down the hall, pounding on every door you passed as you tried to wake everyone up at once. Tired groans of protest echoed from within a few rooms, only encouraging you to knock even louder on the Avengers' doors.
"Everyone up!" You exclaimed. You couldn't ignore the way your voice and hands trembled as you made your way down the hall. "Emergency meeting, now!"
The Compound slowly came to life once more as you and Loki reached the end of the hall, and the two of you were met with numerous confused and somewhat alarmed looks.
"What's going on?" Steve asked, effortlessly keeping up with your strides as you made your way to the meeting room.
"Y/N had a vision." Loki explained, taking your hand and giving it a small squeeze in an attempt to comfort you. "Thanos is coming."
"What!?" Bruce's shocked exclamation echoed out from behind you as he jogged to keep up. "We were monitoring his whereabouts, just a few hours ago he was still light years away from Earth looking for the other five infinity stones-"
"Yeah, well, he's managed to get two more," You answered as you sat yourself down in a chair in the meeting room. Loki sat close beside you, resting his knee against yours in a silent gesture, as if to communicate he was right by your side through all of this.
"He's on Vormir as we speak," you continued as everyone took their seats around the table. "He's looking for the soul stone. That's infinity stone number four. He'll be coming for us next."
"How do you know that?" Natasha's question sounded out from the other side of the room.
"There's six stones in total, right?"
Your question earned slow nods from the Avengers sitting around you.
"I saw his glove. He's got the power stone -- as we know -- as well as the reality stone, and now the space stone too."
"The Tesseract was destroyed along with Asgard." Thor remarked, frowning as he took in your words. You looked over at Loki quickly, the two of you exchanging anxious glances, before you looked back at Thor and shook your head.
"The Tesseract was... misplaced." You answered slowly.
Everyone flinched as Thor banged his fist against the table, his gaze immediately shifting away from you as realization burned in his eyes.
"Loki!"
"I assure you brother-"
"I knew it was a bad idea bringing Rock of Ages here onto the team." Tony interrupted pointing an accusatory finger at Loki. Several other Avengers nodded in agreement.
"It wasn't his fault!" You exclaimed loudly. The room felt silent as everyone frowned at you in confusion. "It was mine. I should've destroyed it but I didn't. I just opened a portal and... threw it in."
"Do you know where it went?" Steve asked you.
"At the time, I didn't. I had no idea Thanos was out there looking for the stones at the same time. I just wanted that thing far away from us. It's caused enough trouble, and we didn't need any more."
Loki squeezed your hand and gave you a soft smile as he heard your reply.
"There are two stones left," you continued, glancing around the room worriedly as you thought about the threat of Thanos looming over your team like a dark shadow. "Stephen is guarding the time stone downtown. Assuming he's kept his guard up as usual, he'll be one step ahead of Thanos and he'll already be taking precautions to keep it out of his reach."
You paused, glancing nervously over at Vision. His eyes met yours in understanding, and he gave the slightest nod in acknowledgement.
"The other stone," you continued quietly. "Is right here in this room with us."
A strange humming sound caused a hushed silence to fall over the Compound. You frowned, straining your ears as you tried to listen.
"Does anyone else hear that-"
Tony's question was cut off by an explosion that took out the entire side wall of the Compound. The force of the blast knocked you to the ground, and your ears rang violently as you tried to orient yourself once more with your surroundings.
"This is too easy. Everyone in one room together, how... pathetic."
You glanced up to see Thanos looming over everyone, an already victorious grin on his face as he examined the aftermath of the blast he had caused.
"I would've thought you'd make it more difficult for me."
The stones on Thanos' gauntlet began to glow, and you felt an arm yank you backwards and into their grasp before a ray of purple light blasted throughout the room. You glanced behind you to find Loki, his jaw clenched as he stared in fear towards Thanos, before casting a protective spell over the two of you.
You tried to pull away, to gather up the other members of the team and bring them to safety, but Loki's grip was firm and unrelenting.
"They need help!" You exclaimed in protest. "Everyone's vulnerable, all our defense and weapons are two floors down-"
"You go over there, and you'll get killed." Loki muttered through gritted teeth. "I can't lose you. Stay here."
"But-"
"Stay here!"
Loki trembled as he tried to keep his shield up. Pressing yourself closer to him, you cast the strongest protective spell you knew and placed it overtop of his. Green and gold magic intertwined together, forming a tightly-knit dome over the two of you.
"I think I can get Bruce," you whispered, nodding towards the corner of the room. "He's not very far-"
Your idea was suddenly interrupted as Thanos raised his gauntlet, and the soul stone began to glow.
You watched in horror as every member of your team outside of your protective dome was wrapped in an orange aura, and lifted off the ground.
"No!" You yelled, stumbling forward and pushing your protective spell further outwards in an attempt to save those closest to you. A spark of energy backfired, burning your hands and causing you to stumbled back with a cry of pain.
"I can't get to them," you gasped, glancing at Loki in horror. "I can't get past the soul stone."
Thanos heard your words, and he shifted his gaze in your direction with narrowed eyes.
"Why are you doing this?" You demanded, watching as Steve and Tony, among others, struggled to be released from the titan's invisible grasp.
"Those who play hero only bring more war," Thanos stated, glancing behind your shoulder at Loki and smiling coldly. "I'm putting an end to this child's play, once and for all."
"Let them go!" You yelled, reaching forward in a weak attempt to save your teammates. Your gesture only earned a piteous laugh from the titan.
"You're choosing to play a bold game, mystic." Thanos continued. "By keeping that shield of yours up, you're creating more pain. All you are doing is delaying your death."
"It'll give us more time to plot yours." Loki retorted from behind you with gritted teeth.
"Bold as ever, Asgardian." Thanos smirked. "But not strong enough. Neither of you are."
You glanced desperately over at Tony for any sort of help, but all you exchanged were helpless glances.
"There will be no more heroes," Thanos boomed, raising his gauntlet triumphantly. The soul stone began to glow once more. "No more martyrs. No more humans. Only gods."
"I believe in you, kid." Tony gasped out. "You can do this."
"I can't." You cried out, your heart racing as you glanced between your teammates and Thanos. "I don't know how."
You managed to catch a determined nod from Tony, before a loud snap reverberated through the room, knocking you and Loki backwards.
There was a gust of cold air as Thanos opened a portal with the space stone, smirking victoriously down at the two of you.
"We'll meet again, mystic."
Thanos pulled a now-unconscious Vision towards him with his gauntlet and disappeared, the portal closing as soon as it opened. You lowered your shield to run for your teammates, who were still hovering unconscious in mid-air, only to be stopped by Loki.
"Look."
You watched in horror as, one by one, each member of the Avengers dissolved into ash and vanished before your eyes. Crying out in disbelief, you lowered your protection spell and raced forward before Loki could protest.
"Tony!"
You tried to reach for his hand, to pull him out of the orange aura that held him captive. As soon as your fingers brushed his, he turned to ash immediately.
You sunk to your knees, the sudden silence that fell over the Compound feeling like a graveyard. You heard Loki run towards Thor, calling his name over and over again, before he too fell silent.
You caught his gaze from across the room, and a cold chill shook your insides as his eyes mirrored the same terror you felt inside yourself.
Unable to find the strength to stand, you crawled over to where he sat and buried your face in his shoulder. As soon as Loki's arms wrapped around you, you were unable to stop the sobs that wracked your body. You felt him trembling and realized that he, too, was crying.
"They're all gone." You whispered, your voice distorted through your tears. "Everyone's gone."
Loki didn't reply. Instead, he pulled you closer and ran his hands in small circles upon your back, almost as if he were memorizing the feel of you in his arms.
The sound of your cries echoed out through the Compound and reverberated back towards the two of you, piercing your skin like little knives. You squeezed shut your eyes, hoping that this was all a bad dream and -- when you opened your eyes again -- the Avengers would be right back in this room with you and Loki, ready to formulate a plan of attack.
When you opened your eyes, however, nothing changed.
There was only one infinity stone left.
Everyone was gone, leaving only you and Loki.
Thanos had won.
END OF PART ONE.
Taglist: @startrekkingaroundasgard @delightfulheartdream @justasmisunderstoodasloki @marvels-mischief @k8obr @pastyoverlord265 @lowkeytesss @levylovegood
Taglist for this fic only: @littleredstarfish @treblebeth @taylordani03
#loki x reader#loki x mystic!reader#loki x gender neutral reader#loki imagine#loki laufeyson#mcu loki#the avengers#infinity war#endgame#loki laufeyson imagine#loki x reader headcanon#loki hc#loki headcanon#loki x reader imagine
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The more I think about it, the more I realize that Mahidevran's "The death of Ibrahim Pasha is a lesson for all of us. Especially for you. Do you know why? Because you're so similar to him." in E84 and Valide's "You once asked me what's the difference between you and Hürrem..." in E55 are the same scene, only that the former was done slightly better than the latter. Both have words which would come out as odd or unusual for the characters that said them, in both cases the words are about comparing two other characters (except that the E55 words are about difference, while the E84 words are about similarity.) and in both cases the words come to a general conclusion about both of these characters that is very obviously hammered in by the narrative itself. All of which reads as a somewhat forced try to prove a point, rendering Mahidevran as suddenly outright hypocritical to one of her biggest allies, somehow discarding that she considered his death completely unjust a while ago and Valide as biased to an extreme for a situation she is retroactively wrong about, while the episode itself isn't rooted in Mahidevran's favor and the scene is supposed to present Valide's turning point, which didn't connect to Aybige all that much.
But what E84's scene does better is that it actually fits the material of the episode and the one before it (the reactions and aftermath of Ibrahim's death) in a thematic way, it's not severely disconnected from the context of the particular episode like E55's scene, which makes it come out in a more fitting time and place. It's not set up as some "victorious", long time coming "realization" through its composition and soundtrack, it's simply the end of a confrontation of two mortal foes that can be seen more easily in an usual antagonistic exchange between them. And Mahidevran's line that it's a lesson to be learned is presented as exactly that: a "lesson", a one and done delivered "message" to the character it's addressed to, nothing else. It doesn't represent a big, apparently consistent change of perspective solely disguised as said "message" that is actually overshadowed by another, more concise scene in the next episode. Of course, both lines contain some truth in them - but it's one thing for that truth to be presented in a circumstance where it ceases to hold any real weight, it's another for that truth to highlight a similarity between two characters that may have the chance to come in handy in the future for the arc of one of these characters, as well. (Hürrem won't ever say out loud that she "tames" SS, even though she can definetly help influence him in some matters, but she has the similar amount of ambition that in turn makes her consider herself "unbeatable" at points, which opens her fatal flaw.) E84's scene doesn't reveal a distinct character perspective by any means; the character uttering these words is literally the mouthpiece for what the narrative wants the audience to hear and it's as far as it goes. (as seen in Mahidevran asking Fidan whether what should be done to respect Ibrahim's memory in Manisa is done by the next episode.) And while both the scenes have a statement or "fact" about the one delivering it that can be instantly taken at face-value by the fandom without any of the nuance, E84's scene has a single narrative purpose and sticks to it. And it's much clearer that it does.
[Even if there is an aspect of it that presents a changed perspective to an extent, it is more strongly tied to the way Mahidevran views death than the way she views Ibrahim, unlike E55 Valide's directly changing opinion of Mahidevran. Despite of her still grieving for the deaths of those she loves, Mahidevran is always more inclined to look into the future (we have this with her insistence not to lean on the past and the actions she took after Valide's death) and additionally, stay strong and give courage to the people who are still mourning. (Mustafa's death) That's why these lines can add to this in that sense and look like natural character development, her moving forward and even learning something from it, but still appreciating Ibrahim and wanting those who had a part in his death to pay. The sudden element is as jarring as E55's scene, with Mahidevran starting to make a distinction between Hürrem and Ibrahim just like that, but I'd take it over the completely unfitting mess of a scene that makes no sense where it's in and comes out of absolutely nowhere any day.]
#magnificent century#muhteşem yüzyıl#muhtesem yuzyil#mahidevran sultan#valide sultan#hurrem sultan#ibrahim pasha#episode 55#episode 84#another Mahidevran post in a row yes I know#but I do have stuff to say here
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“You...chose to stay there...? Were you trying to live out some Witch fantasy!?”
Christ, this scene utterly hurt to watch on so many levels. Camila was willing to be accepting of the other stuff she was told about the Boiling Isles, overall. Although, hearing her own daughter decided on living there must’ve been such a sledgehammer to the heart. Being a parent isn’t an easy thing whatsoever, which doesn’t help knowing it’s heavily implied she’s been taking up the mantle of single parenthood for quite a long time. Camila wanted to send her kid to a camp because she wanted to help Luz find some sort of control for her differing personality, along with actually having companionship. It’s interesting, in a very fucked up way, how Owl House has a similar scenario of a girl protagonist being transported to another world, but the key difference here is Luz chose to stay on the Boiling Isles. Anne didn’t have choice, due to Marcy keeping very important info about the Calamity Box a secret from her & Sasha.
Yesterday’s Lie deconstructs Luz’s choice in showing those consequences of pursuing of a passion she had always daydreamed about, in spite of what her actions could do to a loved one. That’s not to say Luz ever wanted to hurt Camila because clearly it wasn’t outta malicious intent to spite her, obviously. Luz has even showed concern and remorse for secretly staying on the Boiling Isles for too long. I mean, that was like the whole entire conflict of Grom Fright was Luz trying to come to terms with having to one day confront Camila about lying. All Luz wanted was a chance to fit in better where she thought the Boiling Isles was a perfect environment for “weirdos” like herself, but that’s just it.
Luz did indeed hurt mother, unintentional or not, greatly by disappearing like that and instead of returning home made a tremendous choice to stay in a different, while also insanely dangerous, reality all because she wanted to live life similar to The Good Witch Azura. It’s a powerful exploration of a bright eyed kid having to be brought back down to reality of needing to understand just how screwed up it is to make a choice of that magnitude when she already had a good life. Sure, Camila was sending Luz away to a camp that would be hard for her to adjust in, but it wasn’t for the sake of telling the kid, “You can’t express yourself in different manners.”, rather trying to have better control in not going too far with zany antics, such as releasing snakes or spiders around school.
The Owl House’s message of control & being freely unrestrained to do as you please go hand in hand. You can’t have one without the other, as it’s an important two way street to keep in mind. Luz thought she was special because of her serious weirdness and stayed on the Boiling Isles for this reason. Through her eyes, it was a utopia of freedom to be special and had to learn no one is chosen for greatness because they’re “weird” or “misunderstood”. Better controlling yourself is a key part of life, just as it is to have said freedom to find your happiness. Luz has been having to learn that lesson off and on throughout the story, thus far. Yesterday’s Lie is more or less the big punchline for it.
What Ve said about Luz taking for granted the life she had holds a lot of weight, given all that pain and turmoil this poor creature went through because of Belos’ terrifying reign over the Boiling Isles. Luz wanted out of a supposed boring life never really putting it all into perspective, until hearing it straight from Camila about how hurtful it all sounds aloud. Luz’s own starry eyed aspirations for wanting to be free blinded her from a big mistake she was creating.
“Did you...Did you hate living with me that much...?”
Yesterday’s Lie’s greatest strength in what it accomplishes has to be feeling empathy for Camila’s struggle as a parent. She’s a single mother trying her damn hardest to raise a rambunctious kid. Camila even stood her ground for a shape shifting demon she hadn’t really gotten to know, until Luz poured out all the details about what was really going on. Like, serious props to Camila for holding it together as strongly as she did before Luz spilled the truth. That’s what really gets me is how hard she took it, just as Luz had been fearing. Camila contemplating where she had gone wrong as a mother hurt like Hell, even though Luz pleaded to her that it was never for this reason she did that stuff.
Camila had dedicated so much of herself to raising Luz the best she can, so to be told straight from her daughter’s mouth she intentionally stayed in a different place away from her must’ve felt like a drill to the heart. Any parent in their right mind would have a hard time emotionally accepting this scenario. It’s already bad enough when a kid runs away outta state, but for Luz to stay on the Boiling Isles because she didn’t want to get sent away to camp? Naturally, Camila would be heavily distraught over hearing Luz expressing happiness about her choice because it re-contextualizes a lot of things for her. Did Luz ever enjoy living under the same roof with her, as she grew up? Was Camila not understanding enough to Luz’s needs as a person? Is Camila not suited to be a parent at all? I’m sure those questions were running through her head.
This scene may only be a minute or so between these two, but there’s so much dramatic context to peel away from it and I love that.
#toh season 2 spoilers#camila noceda#luz noceda#toh season 2#yesterday's lie#god damn this scene hurt to watch#the owl house
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This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅
Read on AO3
Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.
No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.
It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.
The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.
But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.
Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.
The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.
The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.
Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.
Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”
“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”
Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.
“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”
Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.
“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.
“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”
Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.
“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.
“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”
Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.
In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.
The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.
He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”
Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.
Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.
They do not speak of that night again.
*****
They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.
But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.
It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.
Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”
“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.
He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”
“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.
“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.
“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.
“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.
“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.
Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.
“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.
To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.
Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.
“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.
“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.
“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.
He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.
Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”
Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”
“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”
On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”
“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.
Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”
Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”
“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”
There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”
“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”
“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.
Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”
The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”
“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”
Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”
Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”
The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”
Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”
There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”
And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”
“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.
“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.
With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.
Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.
It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.
“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.
“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?
“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”
Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.
“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.
“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.
Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”
He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”
“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.
It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”
Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”
He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”
Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”
You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3
#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#the witcher#geralt of rivia#Jaskier#geralt whump#emotional hurt/comfort#Guest starring Geralt's egregious lack of self-worth#mentions of blood and injury#In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug#conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one#my fic
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Let’s talk: RUN Episode 131
by Admin 1
I know I’ve probably said this about literally every episode but this one was so fun! Admin 2 and I were honestly laughing almost the entire time while also trying our best to follow along their “debates” and just taking in all the chaos. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Quick recap: in this episode we’re at the pool that belongs to the same hotel at which they had lunch at the end of the previous episode and the objective is twofold--not get wet and win a debate. That’s basically it, it’s like the mint chocolate debate episode but even more hilarious and with the addition of wet Bangtan.
Something I truly love is how it took vmin exactly 57 seconds (which includes the 18 second long intro) to find some kind of ‘reason’ to hold/shake hands behind JKs back. Because of course they did.
After the whole “mess” that ensued after the Titanic preview picture was posted yesterday, I can basically just say one thing--there was literally no need whatsoever to get all anxious and uncertain about the picture, or anything the shippers made out of it. As always the best course of action, which is the one I usually apply, is waiting until we get the full thing so we have context for what we’re shown in the picture/teaser/scene. It’s like that scene at the end of one of the ITS episodes where Jimin goes to JK to tell him about a supposed leak in his room which was taken way out of context and proportions until we got the next episode a week later and the actual events were completely different from anything and everything that was theorized.
So, what’s the lesson? Wait until we get the full thing, dear fellow vminnies, that way we can avoid making each other anxious and unsure.
Anyway, let’s get into it by starting with the ‘warm-up’ which consisted of one-on-one “battles” where the members stood on these floating foamy mats being held by two staff members and having to make each other fall into the water by playing the hand pushing game.
Yoongi VS Jimin -- I like how the two shortest members went against each other, which I’d assume might’ve had something to do with Yoongi’s shoulder and how chances of Jimin hurting him due to his height/size/weight were the smallest as opposed to Namjoon or even Hoseok. Maybe I’m imagining/overthinking things but it seemed like Jimin was a little hesitant/careful in how he approached the game and in the way he touched Yoongi, which honestly is very thoughtful and cute of him if that’s true, considering his shoulder and all. In the end Yoongi, after they basically goofed around more than actually tried to push each other, offers a deal of just doing it once properly, ending in both of them falling in the water since Yoongi leans forward, hugs Jimin and drags him down with him.
Tae VS Hobi -- These two might’ve been the quickest, given how Hobi said he’s scared at least three times and Tae basically use a moment to ‘attack’ where Hobi was distracted by the fact that a moment prior he thought Tae almost would’ve hit him in the face with his forehead on accident. That lucky did not happen, but Hobi did end up in the water and Tae remained on the float and completely dry.
Namjoon VS Seokjin -- Now these two, how can I put my thoughts/feelings into cohesive words and sentences instead of just a long key smash? They were hilarious, and their round definitely took the longest out of all of them, both trying to make the other fall yet simultaneously seeming like they weren’t trying all that hard since neither wanted to land in the water? After all before the game started Seokjin did complain how the RUN crew told him they wouldn’t have to get into the water. And yet, in the end, after a visible moment of contemplation, Namjoon hugs Seokjin (who hugs him back) and they fall into the water together (when I tell you how much I love them, wow).
JK VS Jimin --Here’s where we get the Titanic moment while JK and Jimin stand on the float and are being pulled to the middle of the pool, the members immediately jumping in with Hobi going “Jack, come back” in a breathy voice while Yoongi (?) sings the melody of My Heart Will Go On and everyone is laughing. It was an absolutely hilarious and cute moment. What made me laugh the most during the whole thing were the Jimin heads used to hide whatever, which I as a joke called the “Victoria’s Secret Fantasy Bra (Head Edition)” while talking to Admin 2. During the game itself Jimin and JK are hilarious, slapping each other’s chests and trying different tricks to make the other fall, showing how amazing their core strength and balance is, but eventually Jimin shoves JKs chest and JK falls into the water, winning the game since Jimin “cheated” and thus lost.
Seokjin VS Tae -- Interesting to note is how Jimin remained in the water and close by while these two were playing. Seokjin and Tae though somehow seemed the most chaotic out of all of them, despite Seokjin offering that they should just do it in one go...which didn’t work out. They leaned into each other twice while laughing before starting to “wrestle” until Tae put his arms around Seokjin’s waist and basically threw him into the water while subsequently being pulled after him and falling in as well. Sometimes I think we forget how strong Tae is (though after his BE_log earlier today I doubt we’ll forget that again any time soon).
Once “warm-up” was done, the members were split into two groups of three while one person, the MC, sat in the middle in a glass box (though missing the front glass panel). The rules were established and we basically figured out that there are water canons in front of the seated members and a bigger one releasing water onto the member sitting in the middle. They got words and things they were not allowed to do/say since otherwise they would get splashed.
Safe to say they all fairly quickly looked even more like very wet puppies. I mean look at Yoongi and his cute curly poodle hair, adorable!
The debate portion itself was about “crunchy or soft cereal”, “eggs of peas on jjajangmyeon” and “firm or soft peaches” and truly more chaotic shouting than actually debating. The team members and the “MC” changed for each round, which lasted 11 minutes each. Who debated what was chosen by the crew (or the MC). My highlights for the cereal debate (besides Seokjin cutely complaining how he prefers his cereal soggy and Namjoon equally cutely telling him to just pretend he likes it crunchy) were Yoongi (who was team soggy cereal) and his argument that since Kendrick Lamar eats soggy cereal, that’s basically the winning argument, Namjoon arguing that since “cereal” and “crunchy” both start with a c that’s the only right answer, and Tae arguing that if you eat chocolate cereal it’ll melt and you’ll additionally get chocolate milk so obviously soggy cereal is better. The jjajangmyeon portion had discussions about prices, as well as Hobi (team peas) arguing he doesn’t like seeing animals in pain (which was quickly countered by JK saying he’d just eaten pork before the episode) and Tae generally being appalled by having to argue in favor of peas since he doesn’t like them yet used the argument that his dad likes them so if you argue against them...well.
And finally the peaches debate had Tae and his galaxy brain using their Chilsung Cider ads as argument and how the peaches in it were firm since they bounced and thus they are better, which JK tried to counter by pointing out that those were just CGI to which Tae basically said he’s insulting their beautiful ads, how dare. I also love how Jimin, who was on Tae’s team, went along with whatever nonsense argument Tae came up with as though it was the most logical one in the world. Just lovely soulmate things, we love to see it. Speaking of nonsensical arguments, you have to give points to Namjoon for his ability to sound like he’s making perfectly sensible and logical arguments while doing, well, the exact opposite. Or Yoongi who just bs-ed his way through the entire thing while acting totally serious about it.
Can we please have a quick look at the following screenshot:
And now, can we please talk about how everyone is nicely sitting in their designated place with space between them...and then there’s vmin who are like magnets because “Space who? We don’t know her”.
Admin 2 asked me to add their comment/thought about how it looks juuuuust a little as though vmin may or may not have been holding hands below the table, which, I mean, we’ll never know but, at this point (especially after the BE unit unboxing video) I wouldn’t even be surprised if it were true.
At one point when Seokjin became the MC the water kept on coming and coming and the members were desperate to figure out what was the thing they were doing that caused it. Jimin thought it could be the caps that some of them wore, so without hesitation or question, he took off Tae’s cap (bless Jimin for giving us another view at wet hair Tae, truly) and then, I swear, it looks like he wanted to ruffle Tae’s hair yet just a second before making contact he stops himself and instead turns his hand in like a “I’m presenting some kind of argument” way. Adorable.
A final note goes out to the fact that they are wearing white button downs which, I mean, makes perfect sense I guess? And also how the crew gave them bathrobes so they’d stay warm, I’d assume, yet very quickly those were drenched as well thanks to the water canons so it basically defeated the purpose completely. And yet, despite all the water etc they all look fantastic.
Overall it’s a hilarious episode that’ll give your stomach muscles and lungs an amazing workout. Bangtan were their chaotic, loud, and mischievous selves and honestly, I can’t wait to see what else they’ll debate in the next episode.
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“You make me call your name
Now I gotta have one more taste
One shot of your whiskey kisses all on my lips
I keep coming right back.”
- Whiskey Kisses, Mic Lowry
A/N: hello :D this one shot was intended to just be a blurb of bartender!harry teaching the mc how do body shots (thank you to the lovely anons that suggested the prompt) but then it spiraled and now here we are with a full-on piece! I hadn’t written true, start-to-finish smut in a while and figured it was time for some filth 😌 hope you enjoy!
masterlist : ask : bartender!harry tag
word count: 10.5k
content: friends with benefits, flirty pest!harry, teasing, fingering, and oral baybeeee
preview:
“So,” Harry clears his throat with a light cough, his other hand coming out from behind the hidden scenes with a large lime cradled at its center, “there’s two ways of doing body shots.”
He places down the lime, expertly halving it down the center and then quartering it in another swift cut, leaving the fruit in four even wedges. He wipes the knife off with a dish rag, twisting around to chuck it in the dirty dish tub behind him. He picks up one of the slices between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up proudly for emphasis. “There’s the disgusting college frat party version of body shots, and then there’s the proper adult version.”
Harry’s nose crinkles in distaste as an afterthought, his next sentence clarifying. “We’re doing the latter because personally, I think it’s gross to drink anything out of someone’s belly button.”
A small, feathery laugh escapes Y/N, her teeth then digging into her bottom lip to keep her jitters in check. “Whatever you say, you’re the professional.”
Harry gifts her a satisfied smirk at the minute stroke at his ego. “Good girl— that’s what I like to hear.”
The phrase was said with nonchalant humourous intentions, but it makes the pit of her stomach tighten nonetheless. She can’t keep it at bay, not when she’s heard those same two words come from him under very different contexts— not when he’s panted them into her mouth in such a desperate, needy way, eager tongue lulling across the inside of her top lip as his long fingers had marked bruises along her jaw, hips roughly meeting her sore inner thighs.
It’s ingrained in her head and she can never disconnect it and she has a feeling Harry recognizes that, which gives him all the more reason to bring up such matters as often as possible just to fuck with her.
And he truly is well aware of the effect it has. He damn well knows the way it disorients her when he offhandedly uses pet names and remarks that have made appearances during their sexual encounters; he knows the way it revs her and it amuses him more than anything to see her fidget and fumble to keep composure. He adores having that influence over her and he thrives on wielding it to his advantage.
Y/N swallows down her nerves, feeling them lodge in her throat and refuse to go down. The way he slowly bats his lashes at her suggestively doesn’t help at all.
Harry reaches across the bar, hovering the lime wedge over her face. He taps it gently against the center of her lips, the acidic juice rubbing off and making her skin tingle. “Open up for me, yeah?”
Y/N’s lips part on command and Harry can’t stop the pompous hum that runs along the back of his throat. “Always so willing, aren’t you?”
or Harry teaches Y/N how to do body shots but lime juice isn’t the only thing that ends up dripping down his chin.
///
“I can’t believe you’ve never done body shots before.”
“It’s just never come up!”
Harry snorts in mild, disbelieving amusement, the still atmosphere of the room staining with the sound of his multiple rings clacking softly against tempered glass.
He takes a firm grip around the neck of a Casamigos tequila bottle, dismounting it from its signature spot on the center shelf of the liquor wall, turning back around to face Y/N. He sets the alcohol container down on the waxed wooden surface of his work station, absentmindedly rummaging through one of the clean equipment tubs stored beneath it.
She can’t help the way her lips twitch fondly at the obvious cinch between his thick brows, his mouth slightly down-turned in a pensive pout as he fishes for something out of sight.
Harry comes up fruitful, a black metal pour spout glitzing dully under the muted lights of the closed bar. He unscrews the cap from the tequila jug, carefully fitting the accessory into the neck and turning it tight for good measure. He taps his fingers triumphantly against the crystal clear glass, rings once again filling the empty space with chimes.
Harry’s gaze locks with Y/N’s, brows shrugging in a playfully expectant manner, one corner of his soft lips flicking upwards with sly mischief. “Get up on the counter.”
She rests her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow propped casually on the tabletop to support the weight. She snorts dismissively, shaking her head a tad. “I don’t think so.”
He points at Y/N scoldingly with the tip of the spout, both brows jerking upwards in a deadpan expression. “You’re absolutely fucked in the head if you thought you were gonna confess to a bartender that you’ve never done body shots and leave without doing some. Now hop off it and get up on the counter.”
Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, slumping her shoulders with begrudged annoyance. “No.”
Harry stares at her for a second, reading her body language carefully— the pads of her fingers tapping jestingly against her cheekbone, the tiny crooked grin curling her delicate lips, the way her eyes are half-lidded in amusement, and the taunting rebellious sheen glinting across the glossy surface of her irises. She’s not refusing due to comfortability reasons; she’s refusing in order to purposefully get on his nerves.
He’s not surprised— pushing his buttons is one of her favorite hobbies, usually because the flirtatious teasing and joking defiance spurs into another one of her favorite pastimes: Harry thrusting between her legs.
It’s obvious now that she’s being a pest to get a rise out of him and he’s more than willing to give it to her. Too willing, if he knows what’s good for him, but he can’t ever seem to resist her— can’t resist how much he loves the way she tugs at his strings so effortlessly.
Harry releases his grasp around the long neck of the liquor bottle, setting his palms flat against the smooth red oak of the pub table. He teeters forward on his hands, ducking down until his line of vision is level with Y/N’s, so close to her face their noses unintentionally brush. The distance separating them is nearly nonexistent, so slim that she’s enveloped in a sphere of his intoxicatingly delicious scent as it wafts up from his flexing neck, tingling her nostrils with notes of ocean salt, cedar wood, and vague whiffs of the fresh linen candle that is continuously alight in his flat.
He shackles her into place with unwavering eye contact, the darkened emerald hue around his pupils gleaming challengingly as his fluffy, shiny curls frame his strong jaw so beautifully it’s likely considered sinful. The white tee he’s sporting strains against his broad chest, the blocky, baby blue Enjoy health! Eat Your Honey! text stretching across his pectoral muscles, the doodle of a smiling bumble bee tempting her with the message’s double-meaning. She hates that she can see his nipples printing through the sheer cotton fabric.
The warm breath of Harry’s words scorches her barely trembling lips, his lashes dusting the tops of his high cheekbones with a sultry, domineering air. His accented voice is thick and dark as the syrup he mixes into his cocktails, low in sound but heavy in impact.
“Get on your fucking back or I’ll stretch you out over the counter myself.”
Y/N decides it's in her best interest to oblige.
She currently lays flat across the sleek counter, her hands folded across her tummy, digits tapping nervously at her abdomen.
Harry is off to the side, retrieving a few other ingredients that seem to be necessary for what they’re about to engage in. She sees him shuffling about through her peripheral vision, glancing up at her sparsely and she can just make out the way his lips are cracked into a shit-eating grin at how easily he’d managed to set her in place.
She turns her head to face him fully, cheek pressing along the cold surface below her and causing her spine to involuntarily shiver. Her toes curl in her checkered sneakers as she anxiously waits for him to speak up, watching as he pulls out a black paring knife from below the edge of his bartending station.
“So,” Harry clears his throat with a light cough, his other hand coming out from behind the hidden scenes with a large lime cradled at its center, “there’s two ways of doing body shots.”
He places down the lime, expertly halving it down the center and then quartering it in another swift cut, leaving the fruit in four even wedges. He wipes the knife off with a dish rag, twisting around to chuck it in the dirty dish tub behind him. He picks up one of the slices between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up proudly for emphasis. “There’s the disgusting college frat party version of body shots, and then there’s the proper adult version.”
Harry’s nose crinkles in distaste as an afterthought, his next sentence clarifying. “We’re doing the latter because personally, I think it’s gross to drink anything out of someone’s belly button.”
A small, feathery laugh escapes Y/N, her teeth then digging into her bottom lip to keep her jitters in check. “Whatever you say, you’re the professional.”
Harry gifts her a satisfied smirk at the minute stroke at his ego. “Good girl— that’s what I like to hear.”
The phrase was said with nonchalant humourous intentions, but it makes the pit of her stomach tighten nonetheless. She can’t keep it at bay, not when she’s heard those same two words come from him under very different contexts— not when he’s panted them into her mouth in such a desperate, needy way, eager tongue lulling across the inside of her top lip as his long fingers had marked bruises along her jaw, hips roughly meeting her sore inner thighs.
It’s ingrained in her head and she can never disconnect it and she has a feeling Harry recognizes that, which gives him all the more reason to bring up such matters as often as possible just to fuck with her.
And he truly is well aware of the effect it has. He damn well knows the way it disorients her when he offhandedly uses pet names and remarks that have made appearances during their sexual encounters; he knows the way it revs her and it amuses him more than anything to see her fidget and fumble to keep composure. He adores having that influence over her and he thrives on wielding it to his advantage.
Y/N swallows down her nerves, feeling them lodge in her throat and refuse to go down. The way he slowly bats his lashes at her suggestively doesn’t help at all.
Harry reaches across the bar, hovering the lime wedge over her face. He taps it gently against the center of her lips, the acidic juice rubbing off and making her skin tingle. “Open up for me, yeah?”
Y/N’s lips part on command and Harry can’t stop the pompous hum that runs along the back of his throat. “Always so willing, aren’t you?”
She glowers at him from the side, her grumble strained and therefore lacking any real mass. “Shut up.”
He coos with exaggerated fondness, attempting to stifle an arrogant smirk. “I’m just happy to be your first time, s’all.”
“You’re so fucking annoying.”
“And yet you always end up in my bed. Funny how that works, innit?”
The tendon along Y/N’s jaw visibly tenses and Harry snickers to himself as he fits the fruit slice between her teeth, the peel facing inwards so that the part he actually needs is accessible. He then slides a bit further down the counter until he’s standing right beside her resting hips.
He goes to lift her olive green knitted sweater, pausing for a second right at the hem. His fingers twitch excitedly as he glances up at her for permission, craving the rush that comes with absorbing her body heat. “Can I?”
Y/N jerks her chin once in a nod, teeth biting down harder onto the lime wedge when she feels his cold digits brush along her sensitive belly.
Harry pushes her jumper upwards, bunching it up just under her bust. He can see how anxious she is from the way her lower stomach jolts.
His hand grabs something off to the edge of her scope and when it comes into focus, she sees its a metal salt shaker. He suspends it a few centimeters over her body, tapping out a line of salt that starts just above her navel and ends halfway up her stomach. She does her best not to move; the last thing she wants to do is make a mess over Harry’s freshly swept floorboards.
He sets down the container, snatching a tiny transparent red glass from one of the decorative drying racks, flipping it rightside up onto the table and laxly pouring out a tequila shot.
“This is the right way to do it. Pay attention ‘cause I’m only teaching you once.” His light-hearted tone eases some of the gnawing in her bones.
Harry bends down, the warm air that puffs from his mouth hitting the bare skin above her belly button and Y/N suddenly anticipates the feeling of his hot lips running across her tummy.
Her entire body begins to quake, overwhelmed by the flurry of sensations. The trembling is hard enough that Harry notices, eyes flicking up to meet her’s, brows furrowed in a teasing chastising fashion. “I can’t do this unless you stay still, Road Runner.”
Y/N has a difficult time talking over the citrus slice in her mouth, her words muffled but understandable enough. “Sorry— don’t know why I’m shaking but...but I can't stop.”
One of Harry’s hands squeezes her outer thigh reassuringly. “I’ve had my lips on you in way more intimate places than this. It shouldn’t be that hard.”
Y/N sputters into a round of nervous giggles. “Fuck off.”
Harry gives her a disciplinary look full of faux sternness, trying to defuse the tension with some comedic relief. “Stop shaking or I’ll have to hold you down.”
“Guess you’re gonna have to hold me down, then.” She quips back, kinking her eyebrows with attitude.
What Harry does next she really wasn’t expecting at all.
She’d figured he would pin her hips down against the counter to keep her still, but instead Harry coasts a palm up the center of her barely-clothed chest, fingers wrapping securely around her throat.
She nearly inhales the lime wedge.
The pads of his digits squeeze her jugular with just enough strength to jar her system into reboot, her whole body going deadly still in his dominant grasp. He presses the back of her neck down against the cold wood, coaxing her back to straighten out properly so she doesn’t start quivering again. The whole situation is utterly erotic and Harry knows it. The feeling of her pretty throat straining against his palm is all too familiar— they’d been in the same position not even three nights ago, though it had been on the floor of his bedroom and they'd both been wearing way less clothes.
Harry was confident this would get her in line easily. The shock factor of such a bold, brazen move all out of the blue was bound to distract her enough to rid anything else from her mind, including the anxiety. The image it sketched was just a plus: Y/N staring at him all doe-eyed over the tops of her dewy cheeks, lashes fluttering with that needy innocent aura that makes the underside of his balls ache. It’s the same look she gets when she’s spread out across his sheets, clawing at the sides of his torso and pulling him deeper inside, begging for him to go harder.
She had instinctively choked out a teeny whimper the second she felt his hand enclosing around her throat and he’s ashamed to admit his knees had buckled. It had been such a sweet, melodic sound and the fact that he had drawn it out of her so easily was threatening to pop a stiffy into his flared corduroy pants. Not to mention how good the contrast of his lilac polished nails looks against her supple skin, which seems to be glowing in the dim, bourbon-tinted lighting.
Harry licks over his mouth slowly, bottom teeth tugging at his upper lip. When he speaks, it’s soft and deep, stirring the gravel in his chest. “Better?”
Y/N boggles her head in a jerky nod, eyes flickering down to where her stomach is permanently clenched due to the heavy atmosphere of the room.
“Alright, then.”
He leans down once again, glimpsing at her one last time before he makes contact with the plush mound of her stomach.
Harry’s tongue feels warm and textured as it slides upwards over the salt trail, the wet sensation sending her nerves into a numbed frenzy, a certain prickling washing across her scalp and pinching at the shells of her ears.
Y/N drinks up the picture before her like a tall glass of fine wine, her mind absorbing every detail with crisp awareness.
Harry’s messy auburn ringlets fall across his face due to his angle, the silky locks kissing across his prominent jaw and structured cheekbones. His lashes drop over his eyes in a euphoric stupor, faint pulses of white hot energy traveling across Y/N’s flesh and fizzing every cell of his. The salt burns the damp skin of his mouth, grating against his tongue as he works his way up as slowly as possible, refusing to surrender the sweet taste of the delicate skin that undercuts the bitterness of the ingredient.
Y/N’s hand acts of its own accord, fingers prying away from clutching onto the edge of the counter and trading it for Harry’s roots. Her grip cards into the hair along the nape of his neck, following the curve of his skull right behind his small ear.
The area is one of many sensitive spots she’s become accustomed to toying with since they had developed their unlabeled relationship; the vaguely sensual manner of this entire exchange has her unintentionally falling back on muscle memory.
Harry’s actions pause for an elongated second, the broad expanse of his back visibly contracting under the fabric hugging his torso. His tongue leaves her body— much to her pining disapproval— as a small needy hiss escapes his swollen lips, accompanied by a breathy weak sigh through his nose. “Fuck…”
It’s a sound she’d had the pleasure of hearing before, usually when he was getting close and would try to hold off for the sake of dragging everything out. It’s desperate, it tremors, and it packs a punch like nothing else; it means he’s getting into his head about how she’s making him feel and there’s nothing hotter than watching him space out from how much bliss he’s drawing from her— from this. From something as simple as touching his mouth to her skin.
Her thighs tighten together, the area between them growing uncomfortably warm. She wills her hold to ease up and nearly blacks out when he cradles his head into her palm, silently pleading with her to not completely pull away.
Y/N croaks out an apology for her sudden harsh behavior, bottom lip wobbling as his eyes list upwards to meet her own and she notices his pupils are blown way out of proportion. “S-Sorry. Force of habit.”
His head gives a choppy shake within her frail grip, teeth worrying the inside of his cheek. His voice comes out as an airy, intense whisper, almost as if what he’s about to utter next is something so private not even their shadows should be allowed to hear it.
“Don’t be sorry, minx. Was praying you would. You know how much I love it when you’re rough with me.”
With that last comment leaving her embarrassingly breathless, Harry sticks his tongue back out and laps up at the last couple of granules of salt left on her stomach, planting a sloppy, delicate kiss along the crest of her belly button for good measure.
The way she gasps lightly strokes at his ego, a coy simper bracing against her tense tummy. Y/N holds in her next exhale to avoid giving him the satisfaction of gloating, trying her best to diffuse the bristling at the ends of her fingers and across her slightly damp cheeks.
Harry proceeds to sponge his warm, cushiony lips to the different pressure points he, too, has grown extremely familiar with, talking in between each stop on his trek.
He travels up the extent of her belly and across the center of her chest over her jumper, his words heavy and sticky. “Y’know I can tell when you’re holding out on me, right?”
He pools wet, tender pecks into the groove of her throat and onto the curve of her strained neck, finally reaching her face and gently bumping his nose against her chin, a stipple of his mouth chasing the gesture. He murmurs his thoughts in a low tone, brushing the pads of his fingers across her jaw and trailing underneath in such a sweet, admiring manner. He wanders upwards and halts right where her bottom lip curves the deepest, gluing one more light, lingering kiss to her cupid’s bow as the grip around her throat tightens just a hair. “And you know I’m more than capable of coaxing it out of you.”
The hand that is wound into his velvet curls falls limply down the side of his tanned neck, coasting across the strong build of his shoulder and down to rest flat against his slightly heaving chest, nestled between both of his pecs, the joints of her digits vibrating with his gradually swelling heartbeat.
Harry’s nose grazes over hers as he takes the lime slice from between her teeth, juice spurting and streaming out the edges of her mouth as a result. She instinctively licks across her itching skin, just barely skimming Harry’s lips as he pulls away with the fruit wedge in his mouth. She can feel the way his pulse jumps against his ribs just before her hand slips away due to the distance; it leaves her wondering if he had felt her own thundering against the palm he’d had around her jugular.
Harry grasps the halve between his index finger and thumb, fervently draining it as quickly as possible to get the tough part out of the way, tossing it into an unseen bin. His nose scrunches up at the sour, pungent taste, the buttoned tip twitching as one of his canopy green eyes squeezes shut, head ruffling in a sharp shake as if to regain his bearings. She can feel her stinging lips jerk with the beginnings of a fond smile at the way his loosely structured ringlets bounce to his motions.
Harry talks through a full mouth, hand fumbling for the sleekness of the shot glass. “Fucking hell, that’s the worst of it.”
He finds it when his knuckles accidentally knock across the rim, digits wrapping around the small cup securely and jetting it up towards his face while blindly aiming for the general vicinity of his mouth, hoping to get rid of the bitterness coating the underside of his tongue. He pounds it back without a hitch, Adam’s Apple bobbing grandly as the liquor sears its way down the back of his throat, accompanied by its accessory ingredients. Harry slams the stout glass down onto the counter, mouth pursing and both eyes screwing shut as the curdling aftertaste fades into a dull throb that froths the pit of his stomach with a recognizable warmth.
“You would think you’d be able to handle your alcohol better, being a bartender and all.”
Harry’s eyes fly open at the coy remark that tinges the chilled air of the bar, vision zeroing in on its source as she lays across the wooden table with her sweater smoothed back into place, her intertwined hands resting calmly along the dip of her navel, and her enticing lips curled into a mildly condescending smirk.
His brows jump up daringly at Y/N’s dig as he sets down the crystalline cup, quietly clearing his throat to make sure his voice doesn’t crack. He lewdly circles the tip of his forefinger around the hem of the glass once, twice, and then a third time before finally speaking up. “Someone’s being a fucking brat tonight, hm?”
Y/N’s eyebrows mimic Harry’s, her expression slathered in fake cluelessness, though the corners of her mouth betray her with smug glee. “Who, me? I would never, I’m an absolute dream!”
He pushes the glass as far away as possible— he wants to avoid it falling victim to what their conversation is insinuating. “A filthy wet one, at that.”
Y/N’s knuckles whiten as her grip intensifies, her lashes blinking sluggishly. “Is that so?”
Harry leans down, the hairs along his skin standing up as his forearms make contact with the cold surface of the table. He slinks his head to the side, continuing to dance around the subject they both know this talk is unmistakably leading towards. “Very much so.”
“So was that your plan all along, then? To get your mouth on me just to be a pest about it afterwards?”
He bites into the pad of his thumb to muffle a chuckle, irises twinkling like sea glass, framed by his perfectly sculpted, jokingly furrowed brows. His words are unapologetically blunt, biceps rippling against the flimsy sleeves of his tee as he shifts his weight, pastel yellow Vans squeaking against the polished oak ground. “It truly wasn’t my intention, love. But then you let out that pretty little moan and yanked at my hair so hard I saw stars and, well...quite frankly, I can’t let you get away with that, now can I?”
Y/N swallows heavily, drinking up a deep inhale to replace the oxygen Harry has robbed from her— the way he’s knowingly twisting the rusty golden H ring around his middle finger is doing her in.
Her voice lodges in her lungs, the result being a docile, needy tone and the aching between her legs is too much for her to even attempt to mask it. “What do you want from me, then?”
Harry stops turning his ring, instead walking his first two digits over her hip, picking at the button on her jeans mockingly and scoffing in dark amusement when she squirms. “Beg me for it.”
The word slips past her lips all wispy and eager with no remorse or shame whatsoever. “Please.”
Harry pops the metal clasp of her jeans open, smiling deviously around the thumb between his teeth. “Again.”
Y/N puts more emotion into it, trying to convey how much she wants him so he’ll quit this annoying charade. “Please, Harry.”
He folds the flaps of her pants outwards, slowly tugging down the zipper and purring in pleasant surprise when he sees she’s sporting the pair of maroon lace panties he adores so much. “Please what?”
“Please—” She chokes up as she watches him flirt ominously with the tiny bow on the waistband of her painties. “Please touch me.”
Harry hooks his finger into the dainty material of the undies and pulls it back from her abdomen; the potential of the band snapping down onto her skin has her eyes watering. The pastel purple lacquer on his nail glints teasingly while a demand drips from his lips, thick and leisurely as his sight flickers sideways for a barely existent moment, interested in what lays below her undergarment. “Touch you how?”
Y/N’s self-control is wearing critically thin and it’s taking every fiber of her being not to pounce on him this instant. Instead, both of her hands snap around his wrist, the beaded bracelet he’s sporting stamping into her palm. She clings to him like a vine, guiding his fingers below her panties, lungs stuttering as his icey, chunky rings catch on the hood of her clit. Her voice is dry and uneven as she arches her hips just a tad against his cupped fingers. “Like this— touch me like this.”
Harry stays completely still for a few suspenseful heartbeats, staring at her with the colors around his pupils kaleidoscoping with different hues of muted sage and bright rosemary, the amber specks shimmering with silent power. Then, his hand begins to move, the pads of his digits lulling lazily against her core, bolts of bliss shooting up her spine.
Y/N breaks their cemented gazes, watching in a starved haze at the way his knuckles and jewelry tent the flimsy lace of her underwear as his large hand bobs between her parted thighs. She can feel how wet she is— can feel how it coats his skin and makes his touch glide over her with ease. She can see the way his forearm flexes with effort, bent on infusing pleasure into every crevice of her body until she’s left breathless and quaking. Veins carve their way under his smooth, inked skin, shifting and bulging beneath the intricate rose tattoo and creasing the portrait of the nude mermaid she so strangely fancies.
Harry removes the thumb of his free hand from between his teeth, bite marks indented into the soft tissue from how hard he was working on keeping himself together. He caringly tucks a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, his chaste demeanor heavily contrasting the vulgar scene unfolding a foot away.
This juxtaposition of tenderness and eroticism is so typical of him when it comes to sex and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t live off it. The polarity between his gentle, soothing personality and the absolute filth of his sex habits constantly keeps her on her toes, excited to see what comes next and restless to take whatever he has to offer. There was never a boring moment with Harry and she never felt like her desires went unattended; he always gives her exactly what she craves— both the sweet and the sour.
It’s similar to the incredible drinks he’s so well-known for: an even ratio of top shelf ingredients kept at a perfect balance, mixed thoughtfully to provide a signature cocktail that keeps her coming back for more.
The tang was evident in the way Harry would bend her over the back of his couch, tainting dark bruises onto her hips as he would work himself inside her, gasping broken curses into the shell of her hot ear and grunting at her to continue pushing back against him. It’s in how he would decorate handprints across her ass whenever she’d slow down even the slightest, giving a relentless yank at her roots and scratching down the center of her spine until her back would arch obediently. The honey was in how he would then contradict his dominance by planting a gentle kiss to the back of her tense shoulder and to the nape of her sweaty neck, following the gesture with a tight, bashful mumble of, “God, please don’t fucking stop. You feel too fucking good for this to stop.”
The bite of the liquor was in how Harry was willing to drag her up the metal and glass staircase to his loft during the busy hours of a Saturday evening, shoving her flat across the expanse of his kitchen island and ripping his tee over his head. It’s in how he would stuff the shirt in her mouth to stifle the screams he was hell-bent on weaning out of her, all because he had a full pub just one floor below but he didn’t give a single fuck; he just had to feel her stretching, writhing, and pleading under him. The toothache of the syrup was present in how just before he’d stuff her to the brim, he’d dapple his lips to the tip of her heated nose in a quiet instance of reassurance, accompanied by a teeny boyish smile that would hold more warmth than all the rays of the sun.
The acidity of the lime was prominent in how Harry would tug her into his lap and slam her down against his thighs, hooded eyes electric with greedy satisfaction at watching her mewl and quiver with every deep stroke she’d take of his cock, the bottom of her tummy bulging from its girth and length. It’s in the manner in which he’d snake one arm taut around her love-bite tattooed waist, the hand of the other weighing its first two digits heavy on her tongue until she’d gag and whine. The agave nectar undercurrent in tequila was distinguishable in how after they had both dismounted their highs and she had collapsed into his chest, dripping down her thighs and onto the sheets, he would nurse her jaw with the palm of his hand, thumbing over her swollen bottom lip with dreamy affection clouding his dim green irises. He would kiss at the top of her matted hair, tracing her water-beaded hairline with the bridge of his nose and cooing out a compassionate, “Did so good for me, pet. You always do so good.”
Their relationship was sweet and it was sour and it was beyond anything she could’ve ever hoped for or expected. It was definitely beyond what Y/N had expected when she’d set foot in the bar all those weeks ago, tagging along with a friend simply to appease their insistent request, hiding herself in the booth farthest from the thick of the ruckus to make herself as invisible as possible. Bars weren’t necessarily her scene; she’d rather people-watch than throw herself into the middle of a throng of half-conscious, sweaty bodies. She hadn’t expected that the lanky, built, incredibly attractive bartender with an eclectic fashion sense would even notice her, let alone clamber up onto the bar and yell across the room, singling her out as the chosen candidate for the nightly round of complimentary shots.
She hadn’t expected they’d hit it off so well either, mostly because she had harbored a few traces of resentment towards him for forcing her out of the safety provided by her sequestered nook, and also because he had the most stupidly infuriating gorgeous smile she had ever seen— it was authentic, inviting, and it gave her an odd sense of soothing familiarity, which was unsettling considering he was a complete and total stranger. She hadn’t expected he would stir up jitters in her stomach, but after getting a spoonful of his personality, it seemed to be inevitable. He was sarcastic and giddy, full of inappropriate jokes and endless bundles of heart-fluttering giggles; when he engaged with her, he made her the epicenter of his world, which was so rare to find in people these days considering there was always somewhere to be or something else to do other than entertain some random person that was nothing more than a customer.
But no, he gave her his full and undivided attention, listening to every word that rambled out of her mouth as he propped himself onto the counter on his elbows, chin resting on his knuckles with a delicate, encouraging aura highlighting the edges of his rosy mouth. Harry kept up with the conversation without a catch and returned her energy and enthusiasm tenfold. He remembered small details of the stories she was sharing and actually laughed at all her jokes, despite the fact that half of them came out as a jumbled mess; the way his emerald eyes were sparkling under the starburst design lights hanging above-head was fucking with her ability to form coherent sentences.
Talking with him felt like stepping out into the sun on a canvas-worthy spring afternoon, the warmth of the heat waves running its fingertips along her bare arms and absorbing into her skin, making her bones ache in the best way imaginable. Making him smile felt like the shy caress of a faint draft, the wind smelling of honeysuckle as it wove its way between the ruffles of her clothing and skidded over the apples of her cheeks. Hearing his laughter was the equivalent of sitting in a field of grass, the ground warm under her touch, the blades silky between the creases of her fingers. It was buoyant, loud, and admiringly bold— it lacked the insecurity that tended to hold others back from fully enjoying themselves, scared of looking weird or making an unpleasant noise that might garner them disapproving looks. Harry laughed with his entire gut, a hand resting on his stomach as if to keep himself from bursting open, the ends of his eyes wrinkling and his two blocky front teeth showing. The tip of his nose would even twitch some, which was probably the most peculiar aspect of it all, yet it easily became her favorite mannerism of his.
She was taken by him from the get-go and it’s almost pathetic how fast he’d had her wrapped around his pinky.
Y/N hadn’t expected to feel like that around Harry and she had used the vodka shots as an excuse for her overdramatic thoughts, but there was a frayed wire in her mind that had continued to spark for the remainder of that night, wondering how it was possible to connect with someone so effortlessly and provoke such chemistry so soon.
However, what Y/N hadn’t expected in even the slightest was ending up perched on top of the sticky wooden counter after the bar had closed, her arms wrapped around Harry’s strong shoulders as his hips had rocked between her naked thighs. She’d caught his tiny gold hoop earring between her teeth while she poured cracked moans into the dip of his ear, his tongue stifling the burn of the bite marks he was scattering along the underside of her clenched jaw, the low rumble of his accented voice— dense from the liquor— urging the heels of her shoes harder into the backs of his thick thighs.
“Been wanting to taste your lips all fucking night.”
One night stands were few and rare for her before that blurry, alcohol-induced detour. They were risky, unpredictable, and a right plague to leave behind the following morning— an hour or so of fun just didn’t seem to be worth the probable cost. But with Harry, it was like she was sold on the idea before it had even been an offer. He’d had a mesmerizing pull about him that left her wanting to get to know him better in every context humanly available, whether it be physical or emotional. He had puppeted his pretty face and boyish charm without issue and she had been in over her head long before she’d even realized she was sinking.
What made it that much more appealing was that he wasn’t even trying— he was just being himself. The flirty yet non-overbearing, cheeky yet respectful persona he displayed wasn’t a display at all, it was just who he was and that innocent legitimacy is what propelled her to button their lips together the second he had made a move.
A hesitant bundle of pecks had turned into a deeper, hungrier round of kissing that had been speckled with half-suppressed whimpers. It had then morphed into Y/N clumsily crawling over the counter and toppling into his awaiting arms, her whole body buzzing as he had giggled into her mouth between heavy breaths and feverish whines.
The sloppy make out session had led to her fumbling with the leather belt around his slender hips as he had peeled her jeans down to her knees, his forehead falling against hers while he chewed his lower lip raw with impatience. It hadn’t been too long before he had moved her panties to the side with a tug of his index finger, her palm groping him shyly through his trousers and earning a soft, throaty, “Proper tease, aren’t you?” and then Harry was dipping inside her with a hiss streaming past the cracks of his gritted teeth. The drinks in their systems had acted as kerosine, setting every nerve alight as their bodies molded to one another’s quirks and customs, finding much-needed comfort in learning what made the other tick. She can’t recall how long it had lasted— she had been too lost in his company to care about the hands of the aged bar clock on the wall. When he had finally spilled inside her, it felt like forever and too soon all at once. Y/N had fallen apart right in his arms as the flat of his tongue tended to her racing pulse, blurbs of incoherent praise scraping across the roof of her mouth.
And now here they are, after what feels like decades later, on the very same tabletop that had christened their “no strings attached” relationship in the first place. And here Harry is, lovingly petting at her hair while his fingers work her towards utterly ruining her underwear, his intensely colored eyes reading every jolt of her features like the pages of an immersive novel. And here Y/N is, working her hips to match his rhythm, teeth cutting along the inside of her bottom lip as tight exhales falter past her nostrils.
She tilts her chin up, the back of her skull skidding against the counter, every dent and notch in the wood catching on her scalp and helping anchor her back down to reality. Her head halts when the blots of bronze in Harry’s irises come into view.
His defined features have softened into an expression of doting awe, sculpted brows relaxed with endeared curiosity as his usually prominent cheekbones take on a softer appearance, crimson lips slightly agape. He’s studying her closely, basking in how she responds to his actions and using her body language as a cue. He continues to nuzzle at the baby hairs along her damp forehead, eyes flitting across different points of her face, waiting for her to give him any sign as to what he should do next.
Y/N wills one of her hands to untie from around Harry’s lazily flicking wrist, trembling fingers climbing up to tether around the pearl necklace laying daintily within the dip of his collarbones. The beads are ice cold to the touch as she knots them around her knuckles, her sight sewn to his lips.
The infatuation she carries for them is sad, really. Y/N thinks he has the most beautiful pair she’s ever seen, the softest she’s ever tasted, and definitely the most skilled she’s ever felt. She could gawk at them forever if time allowed, following every ridge, curve, and peak, idolizing all the different shades of pink that are never quite the same.
But lips weren’t created for the purpose of just being seen— not when there’s so many better uses.
Y/N gives the necklace a signifying tug as a quiet, vulnerable mutter betrays her, her interest still plastered to his swollen mouth. “Kiss me.”
Harry swallows thickly, struggling to catch a breath under her hungry stare, ears flaring at how frantic her sentence had come out. The emotion seems to have worn off on his own voice.
“Say it again.”
The pearls pinch at the loose ringlets that tickle the back of his neck, straining against his skin as she beckons him forward more insistently. He poises himself a mere inch from her mouth, her shaky exhales fanning over his cupid’s bow and fuck, he loves the suspense of it all. Loves the dynamic they share of toying with each other until the tension is practically palpable.
The hollow of Y/N’s throat flexes as she grapples with her words. “Kiss me. Please.”
And when he does, coincidentally enough, sweet and sour is all her muddled brain registers.
Harry always tastes sweet. His lips have an inherently sugary quality to them, almost as if he’s dipped them in honey; it’s as addicting as any other part of him. His tongue is sour. It carries the remnants of the lime and tequila he’d just doused down, the flavor trickling through her taste buds and causing an aching throb along the back of her jaw.
Harry’s fingers shift down from her hairline, his thumb settling on her cheekbone as the other four splay across the side of her face. The kiss is gentle at first, yet teeming with need, and it gradually starts to swell into a more passionate tempo. He slots their mouths roughly, turning his head to delve deeper, noses bumping and eyelashes brushing.
Y/N’s so far gone that when Harry suddenly buries his middle finger inside her, she literally screams into his mouth.
“Fuck, Harry— oh my God!” Her hips thrash upwards into his palm as he sinks up to his amethyst lion head ring.
His wet, moany whisper streams directly into her chest. “Christ, you’re fucking soaked.”
Harry pumps the digit into her groggily, savoring the sensation of her squeezing around it as his thumb continues to stroke at the sensitive nub higher up. The soft sounds that drip from her bitten lips, the lusty fog over her glimmering eyes, and the way she’s guiding his hand nearly make him soil his pants.
In any other circumstance, he’d be too ashamed to admit it— to admit that some casual fingering has him squirming— but with Y/N, he won’t even attempt to defend himself. She has him whipped and it’s more than obvious; fighting it is useless. Whether that extends into emotional territory or not…That’s something he’s not prepared to untangle.
Instead, he just focuses on the moment— on what they have right now; on what she has him feeling presently, which is plenty. The confession airs itself without much effort.
“You look so good like that— gonna make me cum without even touching me.”
The remark makes a lightning rod zip down her spine. “Y-Yeah?”
Harry draws back from her mesmerizing mouth, worrying her bottom lip between his teeth and letting it snap back. “You have me making a fucking mess of myself, pet.”
Y/N yanks him closer than before, planting a peck to his chin and then suckling lightly at the crescent along his upper lip. Her voice struggles to keep steady. “Want another finger.”
“Another one?” He slowly pulls out from between her thighs, aligning his second middle finger accordingly, rings clacking together. His typical snark is ever-present in his scoff. “So demanding.”
He can feel Y/N grin smugly against him, her tone mimicking his from earlier. “Always so willing, aren’t you?”
Harry rams her request inside, cooing with faux sympathy when she cracks a yelp.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
He curls the two fingers upwards, hitting a familiar spongy spot that he knows will drive her mad.
“Thought this was what you wanted, yeah? For me to fuck you like this?”
His prediction materializes in the way she claws at the collar of his t-shirt, grabbing at anything she can get as her body starts rocking, riding his fingers. Harry grips her face in a flare of dominance, nudging at her lips with his own.
“Baby just wants me to make her feel good, right? Y’want me to make you cum so hard you can barely walk up the stairs to my flat?”
He’s plucking at a chord at the pit of her stomach, her thighs trembling in response and he furrows his brows into a cautionary expression that warns her not to clamp them shut. It takes every fiber of her being to keep her legs from clenching together.
Harry persists with his teasing, picking up the speed of his thrusts, his thumb relentlessly playing with her clit.
“That is where you’re gonna end up, isn’t it? Same as always— spread across my bed in one of my shirts with your panties hanging off my dresser and my fingerprints bruised across your hips.”
“Harry, I—” Y/N can’t even finish the thought, the words dissolving on her tongue as he bites at the flesh along the slope of her jaw, his own syllables charring her nerves.
“S’not like the underwear matters much, anyways. You won’t need it until around noon the next day, considering you usually spend the entire morning bouncing on my cock. I’m not complaining, though. It’s the highlight of my day, if I’m being honest. You just look so cute pulling at my boxers, half asleep with that needy little pout on your lips, not to mention how adorable it is to watch you crawl across the bed into my lap with your nipples peeking through the fabric of my tee.”
Her hand leaves his wrist and spreads over the back of his, fingers carding between the cracks. She shoves him further inside and his jaw goes slack in aroused shock. She’s so shameless about it all and it makes him twitch in his trousers.
“God, you’re so fucking tight. And, shit, I can’t stop thinking about the way my shirt just bunches around your thighs while you’re fucking yourself on me, thrusts deep and lazy as you beg me to play with your cunt while you use me to get yourself off. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, love? Using me to make yourself cum? Meanwhile I just sit back with my arms behind my head until you get close. Then you’re scratching across my shoulders and panting into my neck, telling me how bad you want me to fill you up because you like how warm I make you feel.”
Y/N’s balancing on the edge as Harry spins a miracle between her drenched thighs and she feels embarrassed for the puddle that’s likely spreading over the bar counter.
“Such a dirty fucking girl. Especially when you grab my hand and place it right here.” He ducks his head and kisses at the center of her throat for emphasis, a conceited hum thrumming deep in his chest when she whimpers. “That’s when you decide to get into the proper filth. Stuff like, ‘You’re so fucking big, H. Already have me sore.’ and ‘Want you dripping down my thighs.’ But there’s so much more than that, though. What’s that one word you fancy so much? Need you to jog my memory.”
He’s switched to using his whole palm to rub at her clit, pounding deeper until his icy, chunky rings continuously thunk wetly.
Y/N abides to Harry’s condescending question, gritting out the answer shyly. “Daddy.”
“Oh, that’s right. Daddy. How could I possibly forget when you always whine it into my mouth? ‘Harder, daddy, please.’ and ‘Want you to cum, daddy.’ and ‘I’m your good girl, daddy.’ And how about what you have me call you? Fuck, you just can’t seem to get enough of it. Your eyes always roll back when I tell you what a slut you can be. There’s that one phrase that you seemed to really enjoy the other day. When I said, ‘You’re such a darling little slut for me, aren’t you, baby?’ and you just melted.”
Y/N feels a familiar spark igniting at the pit of her abdomen, uncontrollably building. “Harry, I’m gonna—”
All his actions immediately stop, fingers going limp between her legs.
The sob she releases is anguished and irritated. “No, no, no— please don’t stop. M’close, H, please.”
Harry looks down at her over the crests of his brightly pigmented cheeks and she hadn’t noticed until now just how much this was impacting him, as well. She’d been so in her head she had failed so catch the way his whole body is trembling.
He speaks so low and delicately it’s hardly audible, but the meaning of it punctures right through her ribs and into her gut.
“Wanna feel you cum in my mouth.”
A few extended heartbeats tick by before his suggestion sinks into her brain and then she’s struggling to sit up onto her elbows, already in the process of swinging her legs off the edge of the pub table.
Harry’s drops to his knees with a hollow thump to the elegant wooden floor, large clumsy hands fiddling with the waist of her jeans, riding them down her clammy thighs. Y/N maneuvers herself into a somewhat upright position, sitting back on her palms, fingers wrapping around the edge of the bar counter for support. He finishes easing her out of the high-waisted denim bottoms, discarding them on the ground beside his calf.
Harry runs his warm touch up her goosebump-ridden legs, groping at her outer thighs and yanking her closer until she’s balancing on the cliff of the waxed surface. Y/N can’t stifle herself from swinging one arm out from behind her, blindly fisting at the curls along the crown of his head, shivering when he mewls weakly. He stipples his hot lips up her knee caps and along her inner thighs, spreading her open wider and wider as he trails upwards. His grip firms around her hips, holding her in place in preparation for the wriggling and twisting he knows she won’t be able to reign. Harry eyes her center with drunken desire, toying with the waistband of her racy lace undies, taking some time to just get a good look at how dark the fabric has become.
Y/N takes this opportunity to ogle at him herself, gnawing the inside of her left cheek raw at how incredible he looks on his knees. His lavender flared pants compliment the polish on his nails, the pastel yellow of his Vans peeking through as he lounges back against his heels. Amidst all the commotion, his white shirt has become half untucked from beneath his belt and the desperate messiness his image paints is nearly enough to finish her off. Especially as her sight wanders upwards, catching on the small silver hoop shining on his right ear and then leveling with his view, his eyes owlish and puppy-like as he leans forward all the way and presses a lingering kiss right over the wet patch of her panties.
His voice is spaced out and distant. “Been thinking about eating you out all day.”
Harry flutters pecks up to the elastic of her undergarment, taking it carefully between his teeth and tugging downwards. Y/N remains as still as possible as he coaxes the article off, one hand massaging at the back of her calf while the other stays secured to her hip.
Once the last bit of material is out of the way and she’s finally bare, Harry straightens himself into perfect posture, hoisting both of her legs over his solid shoulders in one swift motion. Her heels knock against his taut back muscles, digging in with anticipation as he bites bruises into the junction where her inner thigh meets her crotch.
Y/N tilts his head up a bit to get his attention, her tone bleeding. “Need your tongue. Please.”
He nods numbly in her grasp, wetting his lips slowly before answering in a hushed murmur. “Gonna give it to you, dove. Gonna make my girl feel so fucking good for me. Always do.”
And he truly does; Y/N never doubted that. From the first kitten lick he gives, she knows she isn’t going to last long.
His light strokes meld into deep, needy lapping, the flat of his tongue dragging against her clit in long trails, warm and silky. Every time he gets to the hood at the top, he gives a few quick flicks with the very tip, causing her to wring at his curls almost cruelly. He then proceeds to duck down until he’s at her entrance, flirting his tongue around the rim and dipping it inside as far as he can before the back of his throat begins to ache.
He keeps this rhythm going firmly, every now and then allowing himself to wander some, suckling at the outer lips of her heat and gifting the area sticky kisses that make her shudder.
Y/N’s head falls back between her shoulder blades, the weight straining the back of her neck but she’s too high off him to force her joints to comply. She can only muster enough energy to comb her fingers through his satin locks, scratching at his scalp in agreement as broken sounds of encouragement sting the back of her throat and drive his every move.
“You taste like heaven, baby. So fucking sweet, can never get enough of it. Could spend hours on my knees for you.”
Harry prods the bud of her clit with the tip of his button nose, puckering his lips around it and sucking feverishly, grinning into her cunt when her legs clasp harder around his neck. He talks over a full mouth, the vibrations pinballing up the knobs of her spine. “Liked that, didn’t you?”
She adamantly shakes her head yes.
He coats his palms along her outer thighs, squeezing teasingly and prying them open enough to get a better range. He then shakes his face, tongue expertly caressing every nook and cranny.
Y/N’s nails crunch against the wood that runs along the underside of the counter. “Yes, yes, yes— shit, thank you.”
Harry presses his lips together tightly, tugging at her folds for the heightened stimulation, preening at how the digits in his roots spasm. “More than happy to help, minx.”
She manages to crane her neck forward, chin pressing into her heaving upper chest as she stares down at him with so much lust her eyes water. He returns her starved gaze, the lower half of his face utterly drenched, cheeks glistening with her excitement as the corners of his darkened mouth prick his dimples into place. Every ragged breath and every watery moan is inflating his ego beyond reasonable.
“I’m so fucking close, Har.”
He pushes his tongue deeper, head bobbing with newfound purpose as his lashes flutter up at her temptingly. He looks borderline ethereal with the amber lights reflecting off his glossy, cocksure irises, arms flexing with the strength it takes to keep her tethered down, the inking on his tan skin jumping to life.
“Be a good girl and cum for me, hm? Want you dripping down my chin.”
This orgasm is definitely one of the best Harry has ever given her.
It boils over from the bottom of her tummy, a relieving glow surging through every vein and warming her from the inside out. It splinters her bones with unimaginable pleasure, her whole body caving forward as he eggs the climax to its full potential. He continues licking into her tirelessly, brows raised in amused glee as he watches her come undone at the seams, crying out his name as the waves of satisfaction roll out from the bottom of her feet to the very tips of her ears.
When Y/N finally regains her composure from the unrealistic surge, she nearly collapses right off the side of the bar table.
Harry intercepts what otherwise would have been a very unpleasant finish to the experience, mounting onto his feet and wrapping a strong arm around the dip of her back, keeping her upright and safe.
Her forehead plops against his, a dreamy giggle escaping past her marked-up lips as the last currents of gratification fade away. Harry’s own boyish chuckle tinges the electrified air around them, his free arm coming up to use his wrist as an impromptu cloth, wiping away the leftover wetness. It’s a simple gesture but it makes her belly throb.
He then cradles her face with both of his obscenely warm hands, spongeing his lips to the tip of her unfeeling nose in an endeared, affectionate manner, all the lust in his mood replaced by loving concern. “You alright? Wasn’t too much?”
She wobbles her head half-heartedly, mind still submerged in the aftershock. Her throat is so battered she can barely get out her words. “It was perfect— you’re always perfect.”
To her unexpecting entertainment, Harry’s cheeks and neck dye a dull shade of raspberry red. He follows the outline of her plump bottom lip with his thumbs, attitude bashful and sheepish. “You flatter me too much. My head’s not gonna fit through the front door.”
Y/N snorts playfully, kissing softly at the pad of his left thumb. “As if your head isn’t big enough already.”
“Heyyyyy!” He pouts childishly, bumping his brows to hers as a minute show of revenge. “S’not the way to treat the bloke that just tongue-fucked you into nearly passing out.”
His friend rolls her eyes at him grandly, pinching at his stomach jestingly. “Ever so humble.”
“Keep myself grounded, don’t I?” Harry pulls away from their embrace, ducking down to retrieve something from the floor. He comes up with her crumpled panties hanging off his index finger, pressing his lips together to keep from bursting into a round of immature giggles. “I believe these are yours.”
Y/N snags them, giving him a pointed, deadpan glare as she tentatively slips them up her naked legs, shimmying them over her hips.
A comical memory suddenly surfaces into the forefront of her thoughts.
“Y’know what’s funny? If I recall correctly, you said we weren’t gonna have sex on the bar anymore. Something about it being ‘unsanitary and unprofessional.’”
Harry freely splutters into the cheeky laugh he’d been trying to muffle, casually crossing his arms over his broad chest, tongue sweeping over the front of his top teeth coyly. One edge of his mouth flickers upwards into a shit-eating simper. “Well, this technically wasn’t sex.”
“Oh, really?” Y/N flattens her palms against the wooden counter, hopping off smoothly and sweeping her jeans up off the ground. She’s not sure what magic Harry used to get her pants off without removing her sneakers, but she knows she doesn’t possess it. She toes off her checkered trainers and begins easing her foot through one leg. “What was it, then? Meditating?”
Harry scowls humorously at her quip— it’s an inside joke that pertains to the code word he now uses for “masturbating.” It was courtesy of a drunken customer once asking him for advice on what to do when they couldn’t sleep and Harry had said meditating was a good way to unwind. Y/N had been visiting that night—as she did every weekend— and was sitting two seats down from the exchange when she had overheard the conversation, giving him a knowing smirk over the rim of her highball glass and shrugging her eyebrows slyly, her quiet mumble pouring a blush into his ears. “Yeah, sure. I’ve helped you meditate plenty through the phone.”
Harry leans his lower back against the edge of the pub counter, crossing his ankles and giving his wide shoulders a nonchalant shrug. “It was a little bit of touching and some innocent cunnilingus.”
Y/N scoffs sarcastically, shoving her other foot into the opposite pant leg and yanking it up over her bum, buttoning the article with finality and smoothing her sweater down. “‘Innocent cunnilingus.’ The irony of it all.”
Harry kicks Y/N’s Vans towards her with the flat side of his own. “What’s ironic is you mocking me as if you weren’t begging for it a few minutes ago.”
She wiggles her toes into the shoes wordlessly.
“S’what I thought.” Harry taunts.
Now that she’s fully dressed, Y/N slowly drifts closer to him, finding amusement in how his stance straightens in sudden interest. His forearms tighten a smidgen over his pecs, fingers tucking underneath his pits so she doesn’t see them tapping anxiously.
Y/N stops once her chest bumps against the shield he’s built before him, his neck visibly tensing. When she speaks, it’s suggestive and her undertone resembles velvet. “You know what’s the most ironic thing of all?”
Harry jumps when he feels Y/N’s hands wrinkling the fabric of his graphic t-shirt, a harsh tug untucking it fully from below his waistband. Her hands slip below the material, cold, pliant fingers tracing over the toned muscles of his stomach and massaging at the love handles along his torso. “That you went through all that trouble of showing me how to appropriately do body shots, but you don’t really know if I learned it.”
He starts picking up on her hints, his biceps contracting at the feathery sensation of her fingertips spelling out random letters across the wings of his butterfly tattoo. He cocks his head down to get a better look at her, chin pressing into the alcove between his defined collarbones. Her lips are so close he has to force himself to keep from chasing them.
Harry entertains the little game she’s dishing, voice low and heavy. “I guess that is pretty ironic.”
Y/N reaches over his hip for something behind him, her hand coming back with one of the leftover lime wedges nestled at its center. She glances up at him from beneath her thick lashes, luring him in with that hypnotic aura she always works to her advantage. The lime slice ends up between her inviting lips, the rine facing outwards in the same manner Harry had placed his.
Y/N then balances herself forward onto the tips of her toes, the pads of her digits digging into his chest ever so slightly for reinforcement. She stretches her neck until her face is level with his and goes in as if to kiss him, transferring the lime into his mouth, juice squirting out and fizzing over his itching skin.
“Get up on the counter.”
#harry styles smut#harry styles one shot#harry styles imagines#harry styles fanfic#harry x reader#harry x y/n#harry x you#harry styles fic#harry smut#harry styles drabble#harry styles dirty one shot#harry styles dirty fanfic#harry styles dirty imagine#bartender!harry#harry styles blurb#harry styles writing#smut#harry styles#1d fan fiction
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A day on the beach
Pairing: Vernon x Reader
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 1.8k
Summary: You finally managed to organize the much needed day trip to the beach with your boyfriend - and some other friends who would cause some mixed feelings in Vernon.
A/N: Mentions of jealousy
A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I looked out of the window and finally saw the beach. The weather was just right- not too cold, not too hot. Just perfect not to freeze in only a bikini but also not to sweat like a pig under the sun. I was sitting on the passenger’s seat, next to my boyfriend Vernon, who always wore a content little smile on his face while concentrating on the road.
“If it takes us ten more minutes to arrive-”
“If you complain one more time, I’m gonna yeet you out of the car”, Chan groaned towards Soonyoung who was now pouting like the immature adult he was. Vernon just took a turn left and then already could drive onto the parking area.
“Look outside, we’re already here, relax”, the male next to me said in his calm voice.
Minutes later, we were ready to wander to the actual beach, with all our bags and umbrellas. It was actually hilarious how we kinda looked like we were going on a week trip with everything they insisted on taking with us. As we finally decided a spot that wasn’t in a crowded area, Chan took the towels out, I arranged the umbrellas, Vernon got himself something to drink and Soonyoung immediately got rid of his shirt. That man had been whining during the whole ride about how badly he missed the sea and being able to just lay down on the sand or play beach volleyball. It was cute how excited the pink-haired male was and it didn’t take him more than a minute to run into the waves, making us laugh. He clumsily tripped one meter inside the water- falling face first. Chan only shook his head, half ashamed for his friend, but then got undressed as well.
“Are we going in too?”
Within a minute, both Vernon and I were ready to join our clumsy clown and so we all went into the quite cold water. While Chan was very passionate about swimming (just like Vernon and Soonyoung), I was quite respectfully approaching them. Not because of the temperature, but because I was paranoid what might swim around my feet without me knowing. Luckily, they knew that and they didn’t splash me with water to rush me. Vernon was patiently waiting for me, like the gentleman and good boyfriend that he was, even asked if I wanted to hold his hand, which I then gladly took to get deeper. Meanwhile the other two were already dipping their heads underwater or splashed each other.
Although I wasn’t the biggest fan of being in the water, Vernon made sure to always be around if the other two were occupied with something else or too far away. A few minutes in, the three of them started playing with a soft ball while I preferred to watch them being all silly and excited. The sweet thing was Vernon keep checking how far I was away, or if I was comfortable - something I really appreciated him for. His supportive, caring and low-key soft personality made me feel safe in wherever we were and I loved him for that. After a while, I felt my body shivering and I bet my lips were turning purple.
“I-I think I'm gonna lay down a bit”, I explained before seeing my boyfriend approve with a nod. So I left the water and headed to our place, wanting to feel the soft towel underneath me. As soon as I was out of the ocean, I felt myself relieved, the ocean just wasn’t my thing. But lying on the towel with a book and something to drink was so much better. Therefore I did exactly that, casually watching the three friends playing or making challenges who could swim the fastest. It was clear that we all needed this day off. They hadn’t had a free fully day off in a long while, therefore it was a hell to organize this day trip. But here we were and I couldn’t have been happier.
I was on the verge of falling asleep with my open book covering my face, as someone was nudging my leg.
“Whaaat”, I whined and peeked up - only to see Chan with a grin on his face, all wet and his grey hair being stuck to his forehead.
“I was gonna get myself some ice cream, are you joining?”, before I answered, my eyes gazed towards my boyfriend. “They keep coming up with new challenges.”
Amused by them, I giggled and then got up and got my purse. The ice cream stand wasn’t too far away so I didn’t mind getting a shirt over the bikini, why should I?
“One chocolate and one strawberry please”, I ordered, already knowing that Chan would want nothing else but strawberry ice cream, it was always the same. “I still have no idea how you can actually enjoy strawberries.”
“Uh excuse me when that’s the best flavor?”, he scoffed and contently started eating (deliberately using mmmmmmmhs a million times, which made me nudge him). “Not at you coming for me when you’re ordering the most boring flavor. Chocolate- how creative.”
“Aye! I'm gonna give you a brown nose if you don’t stop disrespecting my amazing taste.”
Back on our towels, we sat next to each other and both enjoyed our ice cream. Eventually, my eyes met with Vernon’s and he waved back with a wide smile that made me giggle. Chan leaned back and supported his weight on his elbows.
“From afar, Vernon looks like a stick figure dancing in the water.”
That comment from Chan made me burst out into laughter.
“WHERE did that come from?”, still giggling, we now both observed my boyfriend who definitely looked more handsome than a fucking stick figure. But I kinda knew what Chan meant. Vernon wasn’t the one with the broadest shoulders, not that buff, event that didn’t mean he was exactly skinny. he was perfectly fit. I hit Chan’s chest nevertheless and whined. “Vernon DOESN’T look like that, mister. Just because he’s not as buff as Seungcheol? You’re not that buff either, lil boy.”
That caused Chan to sit straight.
“DON’T call me that, you dwarf. And I am buff! At least more buff than half a year ago, look!”, he then sucked in some air to appear in a more adequate position, flexing not only his broad upper body but also his arms, which indeed have gained muscle weight overtime.
“Well, okay maybe a tiny little bit. But look”, I started poking the faded outlines of abs. “still squishy here.”
Little did I know that Vernon’s expression dropped when he looked over - only to see me touching Chan’s body.
He just wanted to check what I was doing or if I got bored with him still being in the water. But apparently I had very good company.
When Vernon’s jealous, he doesn’t seem like it from the outside. He wouldn’t look too different than when he’d just woken up or when he’s bored. Just staring but being rather silent. However, he stopped playing with Soonyoung for quite a moment, his eyes fixed on me and how I giggled to things Chan were saying. What was that funny? He was very well aware that Chan had been my closest friend and that since a long time. But something in Vernon’s head told him that we were being more than just friendly right then.
“Everything okay?”, Soonyoung asked, impatient with his friend not passing the ball back but Vernon then shook the feeling off as well as possible to continue playing. He was very rarely jealous and even if he was, he mostly was mature enough to know what I was doing, or if I was doing it deliberately or accidentally. He didn’t like being jealous. You were in a strong relationship and he was proud to be my number one safe place, although Chan surely counted as one too. One side of him tried to shake it off and let me have fun with my friend, just like Vernon did with Soonyoung. But the curiosity and slightly anxious feeling of jealousy tingled in his fingertips and he kept sighing when looking over, still seeing us talking passionately, pushing each other or even laying down together.
‘What am I even jealous of’, he mumbled to himself over and over. Literally to the point where he just couldn’t keep looking over.
“Hey sorry, I need a break”, he mumbled and gave Soonyoung a pressed smile before leaving the water. He couldn’t take his eyes off us not even seeing him approaching until he was literally standing infront of my towel. Like that, he was blocking the sun for me, which made me whine.
“Step away, love”, I sat up.
With that, Vernon nodded and lied exactly next to me, on the same big towel which now didn’t leave any more space.
“Soonyoung called for you, Chan”, he said casually, rubbing his nose to not seem suspicious about lying. His friend surprisedly looked at him and then stood up.
“Alright then, see you later.”
Vernon waited until the distance was big enough to lie on his back and wrap an arm around my shoulder. This made me smile and roll towards him. He didn’t say anything for a while, not knowing if he should even mention being jealous. He literally felt unnecessarily dramatic with this feeling, especially cause it was rare for him.
“What was that?”
“Huh?”
“You touching Chan, giggling and having fun.”
It took me a moment to know what he even meant, and why he was pointing it out in the first place.
“Is it bad that we were having fun?”, he sighed.
“Of course not, but...”
“Wait”, I interrupted him as I sat up and looked down at him. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous? Are you?”, now he definitely felt embarrassed about his feeling. Him hiding his face behind his hands proved the whole point, making me giggle. “Babbbyyyyyyy, no reason to get jealous of!”
“I know, I know. Ugh sorry, it’s stupid”, he groaned as he felt my weight now half on top of him as I made sure to cuddle him. Giving reassurance would be enough to calm himself down again. It always helped to kiss his shoulder and explaining the context.
“We .... uh.... he said that you looked like a stick figure in the water. So I defended you by calling him a lil boy and then, you know, he had to flex.���
That explanation already was enough to make Vernon start laughing, he could imagine the scene way too well. We were now just laying there, giggling and making fun of the situation. And like that, Vernon felt lighter.
“Thanks for not calling me a stick figure.”
“I got you, baby! But it’s cute when you’re jealous.”
#seventeen#seventeen scenarios#seventeen requests#seventeen reactions#seventeen one shot#seventeen fluff#seventeen angst#seventeen smut#kpop#kpop requests#kpop reactions#kpop scenarios#kpop oneshots#fluff oneshot#fluff#vernon fluff#vernon#vernon seventeen#chwe hansol#seventeen hansol#jealous#jealousy#kpop writing#kpop request#bts#ateez#kpop reaction#smut
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The Personal Trash
Okay, I needed the catharsis of writing this out, but I am throwing it under a read more because I honestly don’t expect anyone to read this.
Family shit below
I feel like before I start I have to say first I love my husband very much and am continually excited by the life we are and have been building together, and the only goddamn constant in these circumstances is that he is my best friend always.
The second part of this before I jump in is that his mother, my mother-in-law lives with us, and there are parts of this story I can’t tell because it’s her story and I am not that kind of person.
One of the things I love about him is his loyalty to family. I am the same way. Living with elders does not make me bat an eyelid - they’ve taken care of us, it feels comforting that we can take care of them.
But I need to share the context of our home - it’s a 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom townhouse with the three of us, three dogs, with almost every space shared. One kitchen, one living room. It’s a small place. My husband purchased the house in September 2014, and it was around when we started dating. One of our first outings was his housewarming. It was, and still is, a starter home.
So since he’s had the home, I’ve been around - starting with a weekends, back and forth, and finally a moved in in 2017, married in 2019, and now we are here. Four years later.
We’ve talked upsizing, getting an in law place if we can. But the housing market is a sellers market at the moment, and things have been good. For four years.
For four years, the family unit has been the three of us. We’ve all contributed in different ways, and in that time, MIL has retired, husband has switched jobs a few times, and mine has been constant. And I *adore* my job. But it keeps me incredibly busy, overwhelmed often. Work-life balance is a bit of a joke for sure. Like anywhere there are days that I’ve gotten off work and cried. Or, checked out mentally that I couldn’t engage in other things. It’s can be intense, but its rewarding. And there was a period through the past few years where I was the source of income keeping our heads above water. And we were - we were fine.
But it put a lot of stress on me.
In the meantime there have been some health issues - which I will gloss over. Not my story. But MIL has had few different things, on top of us worrying about COVID. We’ve taken her to some different appointments and such.
We had one such scare two weekends ago, and it kind was a catalyst to a bunch of other stuff that I’ve been dealing with behind the scenes lately.
So on Sunday, husband and I went to the grocery store (she was supposed to go on a trip for four days or so) so we were going to use the opportunity to cook a few things together, and we needed to replenish. We were about to grab lunch, and called to see if she wanted anything, and she told him then she wanted to be taken to the hospital. She told us a few days earlier she was having some problems, but only mentioned to my husband that she was worried this might happen. But to me this forewarning was not mentioned, and I was only told because he advised her that she needed to be upfront of what was going on. (For the record, she still was vague).
This ^ will be a theme.
So we skipped lunch, came back home, I unloaded the food and started putting stuff away because he and I agreed that’s what we do and I told him to keep me updated, and she left without saying anything to me or vice versa.
Husband comes home because COVID means you can’t stay with anyone. Also no beds, so it took awhile (F*CKING GET VACCINATED PEOPLE SO PEOPLE WHO DO EVERYTHING RIGHT AREN’T LAID UP FOR YOUR STUPIDITY -alsoyesiknowthereareotherreasonspeopleareinthehospitalforcovidjustgivemethisimfrustrated)
11:30 PM that night we picked her back up. It was late, I was tired.
A few days later she tells us that she had a lot of time to think while at the hospital, and tells us she is going to move out.
First - you know what we did while she was in the hospital? We freaking worried.
Okay - so all of that is facts, details, and I’ve gotten you caught up to the this-happened-then-this-happened. The rest of this is feelings so buckle the fuck up
Husband - immediately lashes out because he doesn’t like the reasons (still doesn’t) and I find out that there was a conversation the day before between the two of them I wasn’t a part of - and he felt because she was not being honest with me, he was forced to have to lie to me, his wife, and didn’t like that feeling.
Me - feeling confused, a little like this is out of left field, and only not completely surprised because this has happened before with husband telling me, and then it never happening, we misunderstanding. and more times than not it never made it from her mouth to my ears. Also it was never for *this* reason. See how this escalates more below.
Husband- “I had to learn to live with strangers, and you just can’t stand not being in control”
Me - so wait I am a stranger now?
Husband - do you even like my wife...
and so on.
So apparently everything I thought I knew about our home changed in the course of this conversation. What I was able to get out of the cacophony of chaos is that I am insensitive because I don’t interact with her the way she expects me to? And she feels like she’s intruding all the time, despite us assuring her she’s not, inviting her to game nights, and in general sharing in the things that you do as a family like vacations and dinners.
And the more we argued, the more little things came out and little clues.
She’s mentioned leaving before, almost on a 6 month cycle, and the last time was this one -
So like... when we got Della, and three days in she was like “If they don’t get along I’m going to take Dino and my own place” and so like... hold up, you can’t just throw away a comment like that. They’ve barely gotten a chance to know each other. (they are fine by the way. Della is a puppy and gets in his face a bit, but she’s still learning. They play, sleep together fine, and we are constantly taking care of the fur kids).
And from what I get from the comments to leave - because shit there’s still so many pieces to this I feel like I am missing -she will rationalize other reasons like the dog example above.
So when this happens it sends my husband in a spiral, he tells me because she won’t say anything, and the one time we did try to have a conversation about it, she shut down and made it sounds like he misunderstood and made him out to be the asshole. Then in the same breath tell him its not his job to fix everything as a stab at me, but like continue to talk only to him when it involves everyone.
I don’t know if that makes sense. A lot happens without me involved.
So then - those clues - the hints that all of this is really about me:
health - i stopped asking because she stopped telling me things, so how am I supposed to know what she can and can’t do. but im at fault for like... not asking. but she’s not telling.
home - apparently my understanding and my husbands understanding about the stuff she does around the house - some cleaning, groceries (we pay for) and loading dishwasher, cooking sometimes,. We thought she liked doing them to help around the house, and she’s never told us differently. EDIT- no, she’s told us she likes to help. Cue - you can stop right there, I am an adult and I never asked you to clean up after me.
I feel like whatever feelings she has for me started a long time ago, and she continued to let them harbor instead of talking to me about it, until it got to the point where it couldn’t really be solved.
I mean, I am not lacking the self-awareness to recognize that, yeah, I can be messy, and yeah, I can be single minded. There are days where my husband is talking me and I just space answering him because I can’t or or I just mentally lose it in processing.
I am seeing this mirror reflected back at me of like - I have all these expectations for you, and you are a problem and, but like.... it kind of goes both ways? And I feel like you’ve made these circumstances yourself? And if you want to leave that’s fine, but its not from our doing?
And so in the end *I* feel like I am the one under scrutiny for everything I do or say and how I interact in my home. And it feels like selfishness, and self-victimizing behavior that I’ve seen time and time again, and I don’t really see a way out.
So husband just wants to keep the family together, he’s taking this to heart - its his mom, and there are feelings there about how they’ve provided for each other. He would feel differently if they got the house and she moved in with him under the notion that she was going to save, get her own place. But it wasn’t, and so he has this weight on his shoulders for it, for failing in some way.
And I - well. I didn’t really realize the family unit we had wasn’t working... at least to that extent and that it stemmed from me and I’m really hurt by it. Aside from the stuff above, I am really easy going - I try to give everyone space, and make everyone happy. I shut down if I am processing something. I’ve never intentionally tried to make her feel unwelcome. I’ve invited her to my family vacations, we’ve all equally enjoyed dinner’s out.
And though I’d be willing to try to do better, i am absolutely livid that this conversation waited until it was at its worst. So now I don’t really want to try to do better because I am mad and hurt, and don’t feel like my sacrifices or contributions are being acknowledged, nor do I think she will do the same thing to be self-reflective and recognize her own part of all this.
And above all things, I truly hate to be misunderstood. And I will completely shut down under that kind of self-victimizing behavior and thoughtlessness to other people. I don’t want to lose myself over this, in my own home.
So neither path is really an easy or right solution. She moves out, husband loses a bit of respect in her and the relationship they have.. She stays, recognizing your own part in lack of communication is a long term thing, and I have to feel this awkward limbo for that whole process.. if it even gets there.
I feel like I am walking on eggshells constantly.
I should never have to question if a “Hello” will be taken the right way and that’s how i fucking feel.
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