#Cheap Hall Dividers

[bryan-writes]

Keepsakes of a hidden heart mammon x reader

Summary: you find a keepsake box hidden under Mammons bed, you find out it’s filled with things that remind him of you <3

Super fluffy, soft mammon, established relationship

Credit to @saradika-graphics for the beautiful dividers :)

Under the gentle flicker of the low-lit room, you found yourself rifling through a small, unassuming box you’d discovered half-hidden under Mammon’s bed. It looked like it had been haphazardly shoved there, but with enough care to keep it safe from the curious eyes of any of his brothers. Immediately interested, you’d pulled it out— completely forgetting about finding your favorite hoodie (of his).

In a house filled with demons and secrets, finding something so personal felt… special. You knew mammon wasn’t one for big gestures, at least not the planned kind. But the box was a testament to something raw and real, with its unpolished appearance and lovingly held keepsakes.

The first item you pulled from the contents was a wrinkled movie ticket. You remembered that night so vividly, the way Mammon had tried to play it cool as he offered to take you out to a movie “just cause he was bored.” But you knew the truth; he’d been fidgeting, sneaking glances, trying to hide the spark in his eyes. It was an action movie— explosions and over-the-top stunts. But halfway through, Mammon’s hand had found yours, fingers fumbling a bit as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. He hadn’t let go until the credits rolled, and was even reluctant to let you go then. Now, as you gently held the ticket in your hands, you realized he had kept it as proof of that little victory, a reminder of the night he dared to hold your hand in the dim light of the theater.

Then there was a small, doodled note with a ridiculous caricature of Lucifer wearing glasses that Mammon had drawn in one of your many free moments in class. It was simple, silly even, but it had been you who had egged him on, whispering ideas as you both laughed quietly in the back of the lecture hall. You hadn’t noticed at the time, but Mammon must have held onto that scrap of notebook paper, like a private joke meant only for the two of you— a memory, immortalized by a poorly sketched Lucifer with eyebrows furrowed and glasses crooked.

”Hey, Y/N!” Mammon’s voice snapped you back to reality, a hint of panic coloring his tone.

Your gaze shot up to see him standing at the door, eyes wide, his cheeks flushed with a shade too bright for his usual demeanor. “What’re ya doin’ with that?” His usual bluster was there, but it sounded thin, like it was more for show than anything else.

You bit your lip, smiling softly. “I… I found this. It’s really cute, Mammon.”

Mammon fumbled, trying to snatch the box back, but you held onto it gently, pulling out a small bracelet made of cheap, colorful beads. It was slightly frayed, as if it had been through a few too many close calls. You remembered it well— Mammon had won it for you at a fair, some human world event he’d dragged you to, insisting he’d win the biggest prize. Instead, he’s managed a small, kitschy beaded bracelet, but the moment he clasped it around your wrist, he’d looked so proud.

“Why… Why do you keep these things?” You asked softly, curiosity and affection mingling in your gaze as you looked at him.

Mammon’s gaze flickered, unsure, like he was debating how much of himself he could afford to let you see. He scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but you. “I dunno,” he muttered, voice a bit rougher than usual. “S’just… they mean somethin’, ya know?”

When he finally met your gaze, there was a softness there, a vulnerability you had only ever seen in fleeting moments. He took the bracelet from your hand, rolling the beads gently between his fingers as if recalling the way your eyes had shone under the lights of the fair.

He swallowed, fingers brushing against a crumpled piece of a napkin. “This… this one from the night ya made me laugh so hard, soda came outta my nose.” A small laugh escaped his lips. “I thought I was gonna die from embarrassment, but… ya made it feel like a good memory. I… guess I wanted ta keep that.”

With every object he touched, another story unfolded. The wrinkled petal of a flower you had tucked into his hair during a spontaneous picnic. A tiny, faded polaroid picture of you two at an arcade, Mammon’s arm slung over your shoulder and you half hidden in the crook of his neck, his grin stretched wide and utterly carefree.

It was like listening to the chapter of a love story that Mammon had never found the courage to tell. In the quiet of his room, among all the bits and pieces of your shared memories, it was as though he was giving you a glimpse into his heart, wholly unguarded.

When he reached into the bottom of the box, he pulled out a little golden trinket— a small, old-fashioned key, polished and well-worn. He looked at it for a moment, a wistful smile gracing his lips.

“This… this one’s kinda stupid,” he murmured, holding it up to the dim light. “Got it ages ago. When I was a kid, I used to think it opened a door to somethin’ special. Kept it with me, hopin’ it’d mean somethin’ someday.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But I guess… I didn’t really find out what it opened ‘til I met ya.”

Mammon’s words hung in the air, weighty and soft. You felt your heart swell, warmth pooling in your chest as you met his eyes. He looked almost nervous, waiting for some kind of reaction, as if he were baring a piece of himself he’d never meant to show.

You smiled, reaching out to clasp his hand around the small key. “Maybe it opens the door to memories, too,” you whispered. “To all these little treasures you’ve collected along the way.”

Mammon blinked, his blush deepening as he realized how closely you held that moment between the two of you. “Ya… you’re weird, ya know that?” He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. But his voice was softer now, and his hand stayed in yours a bit longer than necessary.

You sat in comfortable silence, Mammon’s hand warm against your own, fingers entwined with a gentlest that only he could muster, a soft and unexpected contrast to his usual bravado.

In that quiet moment, you understood. Love was something Mammon held onto in quiet ways— through secret boxes of treasure, hidden smiles, and worn-out trinkets that only mattered because they were tied to a memory of you.

And as he settled beside you, both pouring over every silly, precious item in his “treasure chest,” you knew that you would never really see those little memories the same again. They meant so much more to you now.

[gallifreyanhotfive]

What Stories Are About the Academy Era? A Guide

@zombies-sold-cheap

Context:

Stories set in the Academy Era/Otherwise Early Days are sparse to say the least (even Divided Loyalties only shows you the Academy through a dream), but you can actually piece together a pretty decent chunk of the Doctor’s early life (while it still remaining very mysterious) using the Expanded Universe. I've done a lot of infodumping in my time, so I'll do my best here by typing up my personal reference guide to this era. Anyway:

Theta Sigma and his friends would attempt to climb Mount Cadon. At the peak, you could apparently see all of time, but they never got to the top because of hallucinogenic snow. While attempting such a climb, Vansell broke his leg, and Theta Sigma fixed it with a time bubble he made from a sonic wrench and some twine. (Audio: Devil in the Mist)

Theta Sigma and Koschei traveled into the past of Gallifrey in search of Valdemar. Theta was horrified by the power that Valdemar represented, but Koschei was intrigued. (Novel: Tomb of Valdemar)

Theta Sigma time-locked his dorm room so thoroughly that even centuries after he graduated they hadn't managed to undo it. (Audio: Time in Office)

Theta Sigma also once used the food machine to get mercury for his own science projects and in doing so almost caused his professor to regenerate. (Audio: Time in Office)

At some point, Theta Sigma and Koschei traveled to the planet Machasma and used sonic agitation to get them out of trouble. (Audio: Darkness and Light)

Theta Sigma, Koschei, and three others were part of a band called the Gallifrey Academy Hot Five (see: my username). Theta Sigma played the perigosto sticks, and Koschei played the drums. (Novel: Deadly Reunion)

Millennia came from a wealthy family and was gifted in temporal engineering. She and Rallon had a "thing" for each other (wink wink) (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma once made High Tutor Albrecht regenerate in an incident involving a perigosto stick and a temporal feedback loop. He was reprimanded by Borusa for this. (Novel: The Time Lord Letters)

Koschei was obsessed with the Necronomicon. (Short story: The Nameless City)

Runcible was the hall monitor at the Academy and regularly got into conflicts with the Deca because it was his job to make sure students were in bed after dark. They have mutual hatred of each other. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Indeed, the Master would one day stab him in the back and kill him. (Television: The Deadly Assassin)

Drax built a skimmer and would sometimes use it to take Jelpax home because they lived close to each other. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma attended Ushas's 94th birthday party. (Novel: The Death of Art)

Theta Sigma engineered a dangerous bacteria that rendered all multicellular life that came in contact with it comatose. This was a huge scandal on Gallifrey, and the Academy thoroughly hushed it up and had all samples destroyed. However, Ushas kept a sample and would one day use it in a scheme as the Rani. (Audio: Planet of the Rani)

Koschei taught Theta Sigma hypnosis. He'd also hypnotize others a lot because he thought it was amusing. (Novel: The Dark Path)

Mortimus once asked Ushas out but was so thoroughly rejected that he thought she wasn't interested in dating at all. Unbeknownst to him, Ushas later had a relationship with Magnus. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma and Koschei were bullied by Torvic. Theta was eventually forced to kill Torvic to save Koschei's life, but when Death came to offer Theta to be their disciple, he had Koschei take his place. He forgot about this deal and lived for centuries under the impression that their places had been swapped and that it had been Koschei to kill Torvic. (Audio: Master)

Despite this, he apparently drew pictures of Torvic in his diary. (Short story: The Three Paths)

Theta Sigma was also bullied by Anzor at the Academy. Anzor would use a galvanizer to make Theta do his navigational homework. He also turned another student named Cheevah into a crystal and threw him off a bell tower. (Audio/Novel: Mission to Magnus)

Koschei was in charge of organizing the end of term parties, but the Eighth Doctor recalled that they weren’t good. (Comic: The Glorious Dead)

Theta Sigma and Koschei would sneak out of the Capitol and go drinking with the Shobogans. (Novel: The Eight Doctors)

Theta Sigma was given an avatroid named Badger as a young child to act as his friend, protector, and tutor. He apparently gives bone crushing hugs. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Theta Sigma did not have a good relationship with most of the House of Lungbarrow. Indeed, his first memory is of Satthralope smacking him so hard he could not walk afterwards. (Audio/Novel: Cold Fusion)

Satthralope would also let the drudges attack Theta if he refused to come to dinner. Drudges are basically servants of the Houses, about two and a half meters tall, and strong enough to hold a fully grown Time Lord in one arm. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

One time, those at the House of Lungbarrow wanted Theta Sigma to return home for Otherstide and even sent Badger to collect him. Theta refused, so they contacted his professor Delox, who proceeded to expel him from her classroom after chastising him on his family in front of the entire class. After this, Theta appeared to exhibit many of the signs I associate with a nervous breakdown. Distressed, Theta came up with an idea that would prove he wasn't what they all said he was - he would go after the Toymaker. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Millennia and Rallon were the only two to join him on this trip, the rest of the Deca thinking them mad. They stole a Type 18 TARDIS, and after making it to the Toyroom, Rallon's body was basically immediately taken over by the Toymaker. The Toymaker had Theta play a game of Capture the Flag. He turned Millennia into one of his dolls, and Theta returned to Gallifrey, the only survivor. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Because of these events, Theta was put on trial. The only two to attend this trial to support Theta were Jelpax and Magnus. Vansell showed up but only to reveal that he had been working with the CIA, having been tasked with watching Theta. Koschei and Ushas had been off working on a research project at the time. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

While Theta, Rallon, and Millennia were gone, Mortimus ran away from Gallifrey, which made many think he had gone with them, and eventually also ended up in the Toyroom. (Novel: Divided Loyalties) Other accounts suggest Mortimus left Gallifrey later, so perhaps he returned after this trip.

Theta Sigma was on the same zero-grav hyperball team as Padrac, who he called "Paddy." (Audio: The Eleven)

Theta and Koschei's "kindergarten spat" apparently almost destroyed the planet. During this time, Theta used to call Koschei "Scabby Knees." (Audio: Blood of the Time Lords)

Theta Sigma had no friends in his very early life. Instead of creating imaginary friends, he had an imaginary enemy called Mandrake. Mandrake was actually a dead lizard he pinned to an engine part that Theta would defeat using a stick. (Audio: The Widow's Assassin)

There was a Hermit who lived behind the House of Lungbarrow on the mountain. Theta Sigma once went to him, depressed and full of despair, and the Hermit showed him hope in yellow flowers. (Television: The Time Monster)

Shimmerlings live in the time vortex, but after a storm, they were stranded on Gallifrey and dying. A very young Theta Sigma saw the Hermit throwing them into the Untempered Schism to save them. Theta asked him what was the point because he wouldn't be able to save them all before they died, and the Hermit taught him the value in saving who he could, despite not being able to save everyone. (Audio: Crossed Lines)

Theta Sigma was the Time Tot Hide And Seek Champion for 42 years in a row, which apparently drove Ushas nuts. (Comic: Weapons of Past Destruction)

When Maris - a retired CIA agent - was hired to find out where Theta Sigma, now probably the Doctor, had run off to in the TARDIS, Ushas and Koschei kidnapped her, interrogated her in an attempt to find where the Doctor had gone, and eventually almost killed her when she knew nothing (she was extracted from the situation before she could be murdered). (Short story: Celestial Intervention - A Gallifreyan Noir)

After graduating, Magnus rose quickly in Time Lord society, which Borusa felt threatened by. Borusa had the CIA manufacture evidence implicating Magnus in treason, leading to him fleeing Gallifrey and becoming a renegade. (Novel: Timewyrm: Exodus)

Koschei befriended a professor at the Academy named Salyavin because he wanted access to the restricted libraries. He wanted to find The Worshipful and Ancient Law of Gallifrey, an act which was illegal. Salyavin took the blame for this, was sent to Shada, and stole the book (since he was condemned anyway, he might as well). (Short story: The Legacy of Gallifrey)

Theta Sigma and Ruath, another student at the Academy who was obsessed with vampires, once electrified Borusa's perigosto stick. (Novel: Goth Opera)

After the Academy, Koschei attended a ritual with Theta Sigma and Susan, then likely called Arkytior, in Arcadia. Here, he gave her a toy, which was actually a communication node that he planned to use to find Theta and her if they ever left Gallifrey. (Audio: The Toy)

According to one account, Koschei led students at the Academy in a coup against Lord President Pundat the Third and tried to convince Theta Sigma to join. Pundat died of stress soon after the revolt and was replaced with Chancellor Slann. There was a second coup, but they were overheard by the authorities trying to yet again convince Theta to help. After each coup, there were bloody reprisals against the students, but Theta, who was not involved, had his memory wiped. Koschei assassinated Slann, but the students weren't ready for another go. He ended up fleeing Gallifrey. (Short story: Birth of a Renegade) There are, however, many other accounts of him fleeing Gallifrey.

Koschei and a "friend" were locked in a bathroom of a bar in the Tower by the Time Lords after a prank gone wrong. The two fought, and the friend left Koschei behind in the Tower, where he remained locked in for centuries. (Short story: Rebel Rebel)

Theta called Vansell "Nosebung" and continued to do so for centuries. (Audio: Neverland)

Theta Sigma came in fourth place in the Time Lord Academy Sprint Championship. (Comic: Space in Dimension Relative in Time)

Theta Sigma fed a snapping wart fowl to Valyes's summer project, and Valyes still holds a grudge over this. (Audio: The Next Life)

Flubbles are koala-like animals with six legs. Theta Sigma used to keep one under his bed at the Academy as an illegal pet. He almost got caught when she went into heat and started performing her mating call. (Novel: Island of Death)

Theta Sigma used to chase tafelshrews - a species almost like rodents - through the snow of Mount Cadon. (Short story: The Three Paths)

By some accounts, Theta Sigma was loomed, and by some, he had parents. In a version where he had parents, his father and Mr. Saldaamir were once working in the House and were therefore ignoring Theta. Because of this, Theta, at this point a small child, caught a cobblemouse and set it loose in the House, interrupting their plans. (Novel: Unnatural History)

A cousin of Theta's - Glospin - used to bully him quite a lot. He once claimed to find evidence in the Loom pointing to the fact that Theta did not belong in the House of Lungbarrow. If this was believed, Theta Sigma would have been executed. This caused the two to have a physical altercation. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

During this fight, Glospin got a genetic sample from Theta, allowing him to force a regeneration into a Theta lookalike. Then, Glospin murdered Quences, the Kithriarch of the House of Lungbarrow (basically the head of the family), before regenerating again, thus framing Theta for the murder. This was because Glospin wanted to become the next Kithriarch instead of Theta, but because of this, the House of Lungbarrow buried themself (the Houses are sentient, did I mention that?) for centuries. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Despite doting on Theta (and Theta generally being his favorite), Quences had been convinced by Satthralope to disown him when he announced he didn't want to be a Lord Cardinal. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Some of Theta's cousins include Quences, Satthralope, Glospin, Innocet, Arkhew, Owis, Salpash, Luton, Rynde, Jobiska, Maljamin, Farg, Celesia, Chovor, DeRoosifa, and Almund. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Grandfather Paradox was also of the House of Lungbarrow from the same generation as Theta, but of course, he never actually existed. (Novel: Christmas on a Rational Planet)

Pandad VII issued a Burn Edict on Braxiatel, but Braxiatel killed his would be assassin. As punishment, Braxiatel was forced to take up the mantle of Lord Burner for some time, the personal assassin for Lord President Pandad VII. He was ordered to erase an old man and his granddaughter (wink wink) who were fleeing Gallifrey from history but refused to do so and let them go free. That very same day, Pandad died when a power relay that was in his office overloaded, but an inquiry led by Braxiatel found that this was an accident. Just an accident. Nothing shady going on here. (Audio: Disassembled)

Magnus tried to drain the Artron energy from a giant sphere from the time vortex. Theta Sigma opposed him and used the gun of a member of the Chancellery Guard to stop him from draining the energy because he had learned that the energy was alive. This set the energy free. Magnus never forgave him for this, and their friendship ended. (Comic: Flashback)

Theta Sigma had a great aunt lived in a house high in the mountains. She would sing him lullabies. The Eighth Doctor said she was "terrible." (Audio: Together in Eclectic Dreams)

Anyhow, I'm spent, so I'll post this now. Might add on some more later lmaoooo

Don't forget to check out the next part in the reblogs!

[heliads]

this city reeks of driving myself crazy

Jack Hughes misses his captain. Nico Hischier isn't acting like he misses Jack. Obviously, there are going to be problems.

masterlist

Nico is coming back from the mens’ world championships. Jack is trying not to act as if he has been waiting for this since the moment Nico left. 

The thought occurs to him halfway through physical therapy. Jack is in the middle of fifteen reps of some bullshit exercise involving resistance bands and a great deal of relief that no one can see him like this when he realizes that, soon, a plane will touch down and a man will get off, and that man will be Nico, and maybe everything will be okay again after all. 

Not everything, obviously. Nico coming back does not remove Jack’s shoulder surgery from this plane of existence, though, trusting his captain, it’ll probably make him feel a little better about it. Jack has already heard far too many whispers taking great delight in his absence— all it takes is one injury, and people are throwing words out there like career-ending and out for good. Nico would never say that. He would look at Jack thoughtfully, carefully, and tell him he expects to see Jack out on the ice again as soon as he can. Jack would do it, too. Anything if asked. He is a dog left at home too long, scratching at the door, waiting for the footsteps approaching down the hall to tell him he is not alone anymore. Someone will come for him, and then he will be alright. 

Jack will not tolerate the idea of a career-ending anything. The idea makes him sick to his stomach. He could never do anything but play. Being a spectator just might make Jack lose it once and for all. Imagining his team, his Devils, shooting back and forth across the ice, hearing the clash of the puck against their sticks, and then being separated from it all on the other side of the plastic dividers— it would drive him mad. Watching them win or lose and being unable to do a thing. Knowing he was no better than any of the other fans in the audience. He could wear a cheap copy of Nico’s jersey and jump up in his seat whenever the Devils scored and it would kill him more decisively than a gun to the head. 

So Jack does the stupid PT and he takes his pain meds and he goes to bed early, doesn’t drink, watches himself and his temper. And the door, mainly. Wondering if Nico will take him up on the offer he made a few days before the plane takes off:  Congrats man! U can come by my place to catch up if u want btw. 

He’d sent the text, bit back a scream, hurled his phone across the room to land on the sofa, immediately scurried over to check if Nico had responded (he had not), screamed for real this time, then taken more pills and stared at the ceiling for a while. All in a day’s work. 

And, when he checked back in the next morning, there was no return message. Nor the next day, either. It pisses Jack off to no end. Everyone’s always on their phones. There’s no way Nico hasn’t seen the text, so he simply isn’t responding because he doesn’t feel like it, which is just mean to such a good team player as Jack Hughes.

Stewing in his own self-righteous irritation, Jack intentionally ignores Nico’s text when it comes three days late. He glares at the notification bitterly, hoping that Nico can somehow sense it on the other end. Jack goes on Instagram in the hopes of distracting himself, but ends up seeing a post on how Nico’s plane has landed back in the States.

He’s back, then. Against his best intentions, Jack checks the text. Nico, 3 AM, Yeah, for sure. No date, no time for a meet-up. A pacifying answer that has absolutely no pacifying effect. Jack rages and rambles for two hours before he caves and texts back, was the flight good?

Twenty minutes later, the phone dings. Jack dives for it, immediately cursing his bad shoulder when it starts to twinge, and holds up the phone in trembling fingers only to register that Nico has replied with a thumbs up.

He’s going to slaughter the captain. He’s going to slaughter the captain and become the new captain and never do this to anyone ever again, ever. This is so stupid. Nico is capable of texting. Jack is capable of responding normally to a friendship disrupted by frequent flights and international games and only one of them having a fucked up shoulder. Right now, though, neither of them are acting like it.

He is proud of Nico, of course. Glad for him to have that opportunity and all that. But the ice seems extra cold when it’s quiet, and Jack hasn’t been able to feel his fingers in weeks, too many days below zero. He wants Nico back. Of course he does. He just hadn’t expected the wanting to take over him like this, wrapping brittle bones and surgery scars in a dense web of hurt that not even the painkillers can dull. 

Jack tries not to let the silence bother him, but, of course, it does. He goes to PT again. He calls his brothers one by one and hears them talk. He cleans up his apartment in case he gets a visitor, and maybe karma truly is real, because after several days of being a Good Person, Nico finally texts back and says, I can drop by Thurs evening if that’s cool?

Immediately, a jealous demon in his chest tells Jack that he should ignore Nico, just to get him back. Let Nico be the one waiting on the other line, wondering what he did to deserve the silence. Jack’s super good at being bitter if he wants it, and he feels mistreated enough to lash out.

Yeah. Sounds good.

He sends the text with his eyes closed, as if that makes it better. Like it isn’t Jack who caves but someone else, a doppelganger in Devils sweatpants slumped on the sofa in his apartment. Not his fault. Another thumbs up in response, which brings the anger back in force. Nico, of course, has the time to be casual in his responses. He’s the one who gets to swing by out of the blue. He can do anything he wants to, and Jack simply has to respect that.

When Thursday comes around, Jack finds himself mad enough to bite. It isn’t a good way to greet his captain. It isn’t a good way to meet with his friend. But Jack has been ignored for so long– calls unanswered, texts left on read– and he’s always devoured Nico’s attention far more greedily than anyone else. It’s not his fault that the crushing isolation left him sharp and smarting.

A knock on the door echoes around the problem, temporarily startling Jack out of the acidic monotony of his thoughts. He doesn’t need to check the door to know who it is. Only Nico would drop by like this, unannounced. Only Nico would assume Jack would be there to meet him with the bare minimum of text messages.

He could make Nico wait, and Jack certainly takes his time getting to the door, but then he’s hovering in front of the peephole and he can see a silhouette idling there for him, and it’s been so long since he saw Nico at all that Jack knows he doesn’t have it in him to keep Nico lingering any longer. Whatever happens, happens. But at least he’ll have a good face to look at in the meantime.

Jack’s hand jerks out, heavy on the knob, and then he swings the door open to reveal Nico standing there, hanging back from the threshold. His dark hair has crept out over his eyes, and it hides his face even more than the shadows of the poor high lighting. The contrast from the gasping fluorescents overhead paints dark hollows under his eyes, dramatic on his cheekbones. 

It reminds Jack of the Baroque portraits from the art museum the Devils had visited a while back. The PR agents wanted the players to seem more well-rounded or something. Bullshit. Jack had hated the trip, bored almost to tears with the slow pace of their guide, and he hates it now. Jack doesn’t want perfect art. He wants something real for the first time in months, and seeing his flawlessly posed captain makes him want to dirty that good bone structure with blood or his knuckles. Or both.

Nico raises his tragically beautiful eyes to Jack, waiting for something. Still brimming with bitterness, Jack says roughly, “Good to see you again,” and jerks his chin towards the inside of his apartment.

Nico takes the hint and slides past Jack, somehow able to go without touching him even though Jack had barely left him a few inches of room. Smooth on and off the ice. It’s so fucking unfair.

“Nice place,” Nico says, tugging off his coat and depositing it on a nearby kitchen chair.

“You’ve been here before,” Jack mutters.

Nico glances back towards him, arching a thick brow. “Does that mean I should say it looks like shit, then? It’s still nice even if this isn’t my first time seeing it.”

Jack laughs before he can choke it out. Although Nico hadn’t given any indication of being worried, his face relaxes microscopically. There’s no change Jack can name, nothing obvious like falling brows or slackening cheeks, but he knows the shift in feeling like it happened to himself.

“How’s the injury?” Nico asks, walking back to him.

“How do you think?” Jack spits, looking at the ground.

Nico tsks under his breath. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Jack says out of impulse. “The guys at PT say I’ll be back on ice soon. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not just worried about what happens to you on the ice,” Nico says, voice low. “Off the ice matters too.”

Jack wants to laugh. He doesn’t, this time. Nothing’s funny. “You have some way of showing it.”

Nico does manage to look distinctly embarrassed this time. “I was busy,” he says simply.

It’s a bullshit excuse and Nico knows it too, so he covers for it by tugging impatiently at the thick material of Jack’s shirt. “Show me.”

“What?” Jack asks, tough demeanor seriously slipping for the first time all night.

“The shoulder,” Nico says, as if this is a normal thing to ask after being alone in Jack’s apartment with no one except Jack to ask what the fuck is going on. “Show me. I want to see how bad it looks.”

“It’s a shoulder,” Jack mumbles. “Imagine it.”

Nico fixes him with a look, one brow half cocked. Jack knows this look from practices, from games. It means, do you really want to fight me on this one? Jack usually does, but even this is too stupid a battle for him to pick, so he shuts up long enough to bat Nico’s hand off his shirt like a fleck of dust and do as told. He had meant to pull the top off in one smooth movement, but his shoulder disagrees midway through and the motion ends up being a little more awkward than he’d hoped.

Then he’s standing in front of Nico, shirt off, and under the overhead light of his kitchen, he feels far more on display than he likes. Jack has shown far more bruised and battered skin than this, of course, years’ worth of locker rooms have long since stripped him of any shame around teammates, but it’s different like this. Like this– with no other eyes than Nico’s, which swoop over him with such obvious care that hot embarrassment starts to churn deep in Jack’s stomach. He doesn’t like the feeling, but he doesn’t put the shirt back on, either. Or tell Nico to stop looking.

Nico’s hand darts out again, like he can’t stop himself. The fingers rise to Jack’s shoulder, ghosting over the skin. At first, Nico’s touch is gentle, and then he finds a slow-blossoming bruise and presses, not sharply enough to hurt but enough to make the dull ache bloom again in the precise shape of Nico’s thumb. Caught in the force of it, the air leaves Jack’s lungs in a low groan that seems to catch in his chest, deep in his throat.

He expects Nico to snatch his hand away and start making apologies like everyone else when they find out what a broken little thing he really is, but instead, Nico leans forward, into the sound. He doesn’t press any harder, but he looks like he wants to. And Jack– Jack might want that, too.

Nico’s tongue appears at the corner of his mouth, licking his lips before he continues. Jack watches with the hunger of a famine. “You should be careful,” Nico says huskily.

“Why?” Jack asks, fighting to keep his voice casual. “Going to bench me, cap?”

Nico’s hand spasms slightly, thumb curling further into the dark flower of the bruise before he stops himself. Jack can’t remember if he’s ever seen Nico react to the title like that, but Nico hasn’t had his hands on Jack like this before, either.

“I could do anything,” Nico whispers. Jack isn’t sure if they’re talking about hockey anymore. He isn’t sure that they ever were.

He snickers. “You can’t keep me off forever.”

Nico drags his gaze from the bruise to Jack’s eyes. “You always were the troublemaker, weren’t you? Not even Dawson’s as bad. Not even Luke. Always mouthing off.”

Something shifts indignantly in the pit of Jack’s stomach at the mention of his brother. He’d do anything to get Nico’s focus off Luke and back on him, where it belongs, so he says, “What’re you going to do? Shut me up?”

“Maybe,” Nico hesitates over the word, drawing out the syllables as he trails his hand away from the bruise and onto the thin, puckered line of a scar along Jack’s shoulder. He grazes his nails over the hardened skin, making Jack hiss, not from hurt but something else, something worse and better at the same time.

With Nico focused on the scar and not Jack anymore, he’s free to say something stupid again, no longer pinned under the weight of two dark eyes. So he grins, wide and bold and goddamn brainless, and says, “Make me.”

Nico’s eyes snap up to his again. There is an unwritten rule in hockey, practically a mandate, that the captain is the captain for a reason, and if anyone tries to fight that, it is the captain’s moral obligation to prove why he’s wearing the C and not anyone else. Even if the one causing trouble is an alternate. Even if it’s Jack.

Nico’s mouth is hot and assertive when it collides with Jack’s. Jack was ready for something but not for this, and he stumbles back from the force of the kiss. Nico’s arm whips behind him, catching Jack by the hip and bringing him back in, stopping him from a fall. Jack is reminded vividly of all the times they’re on the ice, one of them crashing into the other; the natural, instinctive urge to latch on and never let go. 

Nico’s eyes are closed and then Jack’s are, too. He lets the kiss swallow him whole, blocking out the shoulder and the games and everything else. Jack thinks he could stay there forever, hooked on Nico like his first drink, but then the older boy breaks away, even when Jack tries to chase his lips, needy as ever. Nico leans his forehead on Jack’s, both of them breathing hard like they’ve run a mile. 

“See? I like you quiet,” Nico says, breath gusting onto Jack’s face with every word.

“Shut up,” Jack says, and kisses him again, biting Nico’s lip petulantly to get him back.

Nico just chuckles, curling his free hand into the back of Jack’s head. Jack actually gasps when Nico tugs his hair, giving Nico more of his mouth, letting the kiss take him apart again and again. 

This time, Jack is the one to pull away first, and in the sliver of space between their lips Nico whispers, “I missed you.”

“You haven’t been acting like it,” Jack mutters, and squirms when Nico knots his fingers in Jack’s hair again.

“That’s what the attitude is about? I forgot to respond to a few texts and you get all stubborn?” Nico asks incredulously.

“It wasn’t just a few texts,” Jack pouts, “You keep ditching me. Thought you didn’t want to talk to me at all.”

Nico pulls away for real this time, leans back far enough that Jack can see his entire face instead of snatches of lips and eyes and red cheeks. The look on his face, it isn’t angry or annoyed– it’s fond. Satisfied. “I always want to talk to you, Jack. Don’t you know that?”

“I didn’t when you were ignoring me,” Jack murmurs.

The hand in his hair relaxes, combing gently through the locks instead of twisting them. “Alright,” Nico says, still painfully enamored, “That’s my mistake, then. Let me apologize.”

Jack lets him. Happily. The offseason is long. If he tries, he can drag this out for a long time, make Nico make it up to him for months. Jack isn’t ashamed to admit that he’ll do it as long as he can. Better yet, Nico will let him, and know what he’s up to the whole time anyway.

That’s the best part about them, Jack supposes. They know each other. On and off the ice. On and off each other. Maybe it’ll be a long summer, but God, it’s going to be a good one.

hockey tag list: empty for now!

talked about this to @faerieroyal ily

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[darkuselesssomebody]

𝕡𝕦𝕡𝕡𝕪 - dark!basil stitt x dark!reader

complete masterlist

words || 𝟛.𝟟𝕜

summary || in which the reader is a manipulative bitch - and basil snaps because of it

a/n || this is really, really dark lowkey eek!! also i don't know if this is too late (it's still 2023 where i am) but this is my entry for @romana-after-dark's dead dove december event! if you're into dark content, they're an s-tier pedro and oscar writer!

➵ warnings for specific content before the divider

➵ i never watched lightningface so if he's ooc excuse me, also, reader is very manipulative and lowkey a bad person too!!

➵ not proofread

➵ comment/message if you'd have a request

warnings || smut/dark (dddne)

➵ unwanted creampie and sex

➵ unprotected sex and cunnilingus

➵ spanking and slapping

➵ manipulation

➵ death threats and some pain play-ish stuff

➵ degradation/name calling

“tell me about it, right?” she giggles into the phone, feet propped up as she lays back on her couch, hearing some tinkering in the kitchen, “yeah, sorry about that, jas, that’s just - i’m getting my sink fixed right now.”

in the bathroom, basil hears that, and smiles a little to himself. she sounded appreciative, right? he’s helping make her life easier, which is what matters.

after a few more minutes, he’s done, and he sits back, sighing in relief. he sits back up, coming out and seeing her on the couch. god, is she gorgeous. her body stretches out, allowing a little glimmer of skin as her shirt rides up. she’s got a big grin on her face, talking to her friend, and she wants to just go over and press a sweet kiss to her lips.

“yeah, he was mental, i swear i’m still sore!” she jokes to her friend, and his face falls. ‘he’? who is ‘he’? basil swallows. it must just be a PT or something. yeah, that was it. after managing to convince himself, his smile returns. maybe she’d like a massage?

approaching her with that grin on his face, she looks up at him with an expectant raise of her brow, “just a second, jas.” she takes the phone away from her ear.

“done?” she points to her bathroom.

“yep!” he responds excitably, and she hums - not in appreciation, but in expectancy.

“good. thanks.” but it’s out of habit, “bye, basil” she forces a smile, shooing him off.

to him, it’s a wave, “yeah, see you! wanna - um, i was wondering if you maybe wanted me to order some food for you tonight? maybe we could eat together?” he suggests, and she has to resist a roll of her eyes.

“we’ll see.” she curtly dismisses him, and he nods, leaving and closing the door of her house, returning to his own just across the hall. returning to her phone call, she scoffs, “god, did you hear that?” her voice lowers - the walls are thin, “yeah, jas, he’s that neighbor i told you about. total loser, but he does whatever i want.” she giggles, “he thinks i’m gonna fuck him. whatever, that’s not my problem. can you imagine, he buys me food, he fixes my shit, i get him to vacuum sometimes. like my own little manservant.”

like her little dog.

basil was painfully in love with his neighbor. she was just so sweet, she paid him attention, and sometimes - when she was a little drunk or was sleepy, she’d lay against him, cuddling. the feeling of her thighs against his own, her breath on her chest, or the way her fingers teasingly toyed with the hem of his shirt - right above his cock.

maybe he didn’t have only holy intentions - yeah, maybe he did want to fuck her - but he’d never be greedy for more than what she gave him, not wanting to ruin their relationship.

and it paid off, that one night she had been wine drunk, and had invited him over, asking for only the cheap gift of thai food in return for her priceless company. as they sat back on her couch, watching tv as she ate and drank, there was a point where her hand had wandered - bored by the movie. her head laid on his chest, a leg hooked around his own, especially touchy because it was a cold night - and he was warm. as basil breathed in the smell of her perfume, he could imagine them to be dating or - if he could imagine a small glimmer on her finger - married. he held her around the waist softly, and she hadn’t yet pulled away, much to his joy.

her hand slowly trails over his chest and then his biceps, before sitting up a little, and pulling his head down to his. her lips find his, as she breathes into his mouth. it’s a lazy kiss, purely driven by the alcohol, and her need for warmth and contact.

his eyes widen in shock, but he wouldn’t let this opportunity go to waste, pulling her closer and - while he let her lead the kiss - his fingers go to her hair, pulling it out of her face to kiss her better. she whimpers softly, arms wrapping around his neck, before finally pulling away. she hums in satisfaction, burying her face in his neck.

“goodnight.” she mumbles, promptly falling asleep on top of him. his head reels, but he’s on cloud 9.

“goodnight.” he kisses the top of her head, laying back as he also lets himself fall asleep.

they never spoke about it again.

she didn’t let herself get drunk with him anymore, and he cursed himself as to how to solve the issue. nonetheless, they still spent time together, and he would still do anything for her, but things were different.

but her mind was working differently. annoyingly, that kiss with basil was getting her disgustingly hot and bothered. this wasn’t the plan: she wasn’t planning to ever actually fuck him, lest she lose all the leverage she had been building by teasing him. that’s why she’d been so strict in not touching him for the next few weeks: reducing her temptation.

but it was getting too much. she spent far too much time with her hands between her thighs, thinking of him (but nothing close to how much he’d do the same for her), and she needed an out. but, she also had to make sure basil wouldn’t become confident, and stay out of line.

she had an idea.

she called him over that night. an ordinary thing to occur, but, when he joins her shortly after, his mouth falls open.

she’s in this gorgeous, deeply hued camisole that just does down to her hips, and as his eyes travel lower, the lacy panties she wears makes his breath catch. she has to bite her lip to stop the smirk that threatens to grace it.

“basil.” she murmurs her name, and he snaps out of it, finally looking up at her.

“what… are you doing?” he thickly swallows.

“you don’t like it?” she teases, and he immediately shakes his head fervently.

“no - no - you… you look…” he doesn’t know how to describe it, “beautiful.” perhaps a cliche - but he doesn’t use it in the standard way. she exactly embodies the word. for once, a genuine smile pulls at her lips. it makes her heart warm, and she almost feels bad for what she’s about to do.

almost.

she gestures him forward, and he stumbles due to the speed at which he tries to reach her. finally, once he does, she points to the couch.

“sit.” she orders, and he agrees, getting on the couch, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “you’re not very subtle, basil.” she murmurs, slowly sitting on his lap. his cheeks burn.

“s-sorry?”

“you know how hard it is when you wanna hang out with your good friend, and you know all he’s thinking about is fucking you?” her voice is vicious, and he swallows thickly.

“i’m sorry.” he whispers, looking into her eyes, an evident begging in them. he’s pleading that she’ll forgive him. her fingers go to gently weave through his hair.

“it’s hard… you know?” she says softly, playing the victim to a tee, “i thought that… maybe that’s the only thing you see when you look at me.” she admits - but it’s a complete lie.

“never, oh - oh my god.” the thought makes basil sick. she - she thinks he sees her as an object?! “i swear, i see you as so much more than that - yes, you’re fucking gorgeous, but you’re so much more than just your body!” he assures, but she pretends to already be hurt.

“you’re just saying that, you know i’ll give myself up to you with these sweet words and-” he says her name softly.

“don’t think like that, please, don’t think like that.” he begs, taking her hands, “how - how can i show you how much you mean to me. please, tell me, and i’ll do it.” he’s holding her hands so tenderly, he wants to lavish her in ways she’s never even thought of.

she goes quiet, and he’s dead terrified he’s lost her.

“i want you to forget any insecurity you may ever have, i want to make sure you never lift a finger, i want you to never yearn and to only be satisfied.” his voice is thin - needy. “i want to worship you.”

that’s what she needs to hear.

“you do?” she murmurs.

“i’m begging you to let me show you how much you mean to me.” there it is. she smirks.

“can i… suggest something?” she asks - in faux timidness.

“anything.” he assures her.

“maybe… so i feel the most… assured… if we have sex, can i take charge?” he blinks. it’s not much different than their current relationship, so he immediately agrees.

“of course, of course. that’s totally fine.” he assures, and she smiles.

“alright, good - that’s good. thank you, basil!” she chirps, and his heart warms.

“yeah, of course.”

but that’s when the switch occurs.

“get off the couch.” she orders, and he blinks, a little shocked by her flip from a shy tone to a commanding one, but he complies, standing up.

she takes his place, sitting on the couch, before looking at him expectantly, “on your knees, c’mon.” his cheeks heat, as his brow furrows curiously, falling to his knees. “you said you wanna worship me, right?” she smirks, when he nods, “take off my socks.” she orders, the woolly socks that he knew she wore as she was always cold felt itchy against his fingers, as he pulls them off. she hums happily, and raises a brow when he presses a kiss to each sole, “fuck, i knew you were freaky.”she giggles, letting him kiss her ankles, “how much have you thought about this?” a small whimper escapes his throat.

“a-ages.” he admits, and she smiles.

“okay, stop.” she commands, and he stops his mouthing of her feet, “come closer.” he places her calves over her shoulders, shuffling closer to her - and, as much as he tried to be respectable about it, his eyes fell onto the small breadth of her covered by her underwear. she held his forehead - almost brutishly - to deter him, “behave. did i say you could look at her?” she scolds him, and he bites his lip.

“no, i’m sorry.” smiling, she lets go of his head.

“what should i do with you now?” she whispers, and he looks at her thighs pleadingly.

“can i touch your thighs? can i feel you?” he begs, and she laughs.

“go on.” she assures, as she pets his hair. he really is like her little puppy.

kissing up her thighs, she inhales her scent, brain going into overload.

“oh - oh, please, let me taste you, please!” she begs, and she smirks. he was begging - just as she wanted.

“take my panties off.” she whispers, and he sighs in relief, as if a massive weight has been taken off his shoulders.

"oh - oh, thank you - thank you," he breathes out, inching closer to let his fingers hook into the sides of her underwear, pulling them past her thighs and down, off her ankles.

when she finally spreads her legs, his mouth waters as the pretty prize between them, biting his lip.

"can i taste you?" he wants to confirm it. his body's buzzing, he needs her so bad.

"how bad do you want it?" she goads, and he bites her tongue.

"i don't think i can explain it." he admits, and her cheeks warm. what a compliment.

"yes, you can taste me." lowering his head slowly to her cunt, he spreads her legs, holding onto her thighs that are draped over his shoulders tightly. goosebumps erupt over her flesh at the sensation of his breath on her skin.

"you're wet?" he asks excitedly, unbelieving that he can coax this reaction from her.

"I'm not exactly feeling patient, basil." she warns, and he swallows.

"yeah, okay." he licks up the length of her cunt, and her breath hitches, catching in her throat as she puts her hand over her mouth, gently biting a knuckle to disguise her moan. motivated by the action, he spreads her wider, licking experimentally and quickly, sucking softly and harshly, making sure to keep trying different things until one finally breaks her dam of willpower, and her back arches as she loudly moans into the otherwise empty apartment.

"oh my god-" she cries out, panting as her hand clutches his hair, pulling him closer into her weeping cunt, desperate for his continued ministrations, "use your fingers." she gasps out, and he immediately obliges, bringing a finger to her hole as he sucks at her clit. he slowly pushes it into her, and - per more whimpered instructions from her - he curls his finger inside her, making her thighs squeeze around his head,

"just like that, keep doing just that." she assures, looking at him with the closest thing to love that she feels for him - desperation and satisfaction, because good lord, is she close. but it can't end like this. she needs to make this last longer.

just as she feels herself on the precipice of her climax, she pulls his head away from her cunt - to both her and his chagrin.

"why?" he whines, simultaneously pulling out his fingers, as she struggles to catch her breath. using him to help herself up, she stands, looking down at him.

"get on the couch." she pants, and he does as he asks, "take your shirt off," the instruction continues, and his deft fingers - one still drenched in her slick - quickly unbutton the shirt, pulling it off his broad frame. she bites her lip, bending so that her fingers can reach his fly and jean button, swiftly undoing them.

"i'm gonna fuck you. and you're just gonna take whatever i give to you, understood?" he nods silently as he looks up at her, and she hums in satisfaction and she pulls down his trousers. seeing his eyes all blown out is a crazy power trip, and it all becomes better as she straddles him. palming his hard cock through his boxers, she notices the way he twitches and how his moans gargle in his throat, all while he desperately bucks until her hips. "keep your hands behind your back." she instructs, and he nods, a whimper bubbling up to his tongue. after his hands are securely behind his back, she sighs happily. truly, she could do anything to him now, and he'd just take it. she wanted to know how much he could handle.

she started by fishing out his - inexplicably impressive cock. it was almost comical - how little sex appeal he oozed while hiding this weapon away from the rest of the world.

then, she simply ghosted her fingers over his tip, owning to a few stuttered bucks of his hips. she returned each of those with a scolding smack on any skin she could find - usually, his chest.

she slowly raised to her knees, lining him up with her entrance as she looks down at him, "don't move without permission." she whispers, and a strangled groan releases from him, making her laugh. finally, though, when he agrees, she sinks down on him, moaning out behind her hand as he does the same - though without the muffle and rather unashamedly.

she doesn’t move for a moment, and he waits.

another moment, and he waits.

another, and he’s done. he starts thrusting up, wanting the both of them to chase their pleasure, and her eyes widen, as she slaps his cheek. stunned, his movements immediately stop.

he dared to go against her word?

she hated that he undermined the power she held over him. pulling at his hair, her eyes blow out in anger.

“who the fuck do you think you are?” she hisses, and he winces.

“i’m sorry-” he tries, but she slaps him again.

“you think we’re equals? you can just pull that shit?” he wonders where all this anger is coming from, almost fearful. she doesn’t want to admit that her rage stems from the fact that she liked the sensation of his thrusts - enough to almost just… let him continue, even against her orders. she can’t lose that power she has on him, “you wanna know how little you really fucking matter?” she growls, grabbing her phone, and thrusting it in his face.

still disoriented, he swallows as he looks at what she’s showing him - a chain of texts. about him. they’re from her, to her friends, all mocking and making fun of him.

his heart, quite literally, shatters. he had thought this entire time, that - though they may be little more than friends - she at least liked his company, liked hanging out with him, appreciated him. but now, to read her stating how annoying and clingy he is, how she hated hanging out with him, but accepted it whenever he came with some gift or food, how she had used him, a heartbreak made his blood pump harshly in his ears. but when he glances at her smug smile behind the phone, it’s not just heartbreak. it’s rage.

“is this real?” he whispers, voice so low she can barely hear him.

“aww, poor puppy, thought i was - what? in love with you?” she mocks, knowing he won’t do a thing in retaliation.

that’s where she’s wrong.

trembling in rage, he grabs her phone, throwing it ferociously onto the floor, breaking it immediately. her eyes widen in shock, but before she can shout at him, his hands wrap around her throat, choking her with such a rage - she’s worried he might break her windpipe.

she claws at his hands, as he pulls her off of him, and slams her, face first, into the couch. her eyes well as she feels her nose smash into it, pained to hell as she cries out, trying to clutch it, but it’s of no help, as he’s already sinking back into her tight, wet, and suddenly rejecting cunt. but his pulling cock gets past the resistance bottoming out with a gurgled sigh of satisfaction. his hands go back to her throat, with a softer hold, as he wants to feel her pulse under his fingers. tearfully, she looks back at him in terror.

“basil, what are you-” he slaps her ass so hard, she wonders if his palm took her flesh with it. crying out, she sobs, giving up entirely, as she looks away, still clutching her nose.

“shut the fuck up, bitch.” he hisses harshly, voice and cadence not only deadly - but lethal, as his fingers flex experimentally on her throat. pulling her up so her back is pressed against his chest, and his other hand palms her tits, something he’d been wishing to do so long. but in his fantasies - he’s delicate, not so much anymore, as he roughly tweaks and pinches and grips her nipples.

then again, she’s a different woman than what he’d imagined as well.

this time, he’s not slow in his thrusts, he’s harsh and mean, thrusting in and out of her cunt to the sweet melody of her cries and sobs, muffled by the hand clutching her now bleeding nose. his moans are loud and gruff in her ear, causing an overlord of her senses, and she’s terrified.

“i should fucking kill you.” he hisses, and she whimpers, sobbing harder, “but you’re too good - of - a - fuck!” he punctuates every word with a thrust, but his voice sounds almost sweet and reassuring - only able to be distinguished as a facade due to the undertone of a growl behind every word.

“i’m sorry, please-” she begs, but he slaps her ass again, thrusting deeper, as he hits her cervix with each thrust, making her cry out in pain.

“did i say you could speak?” he hisses. she shakes her head, terrified, and shutting up. he’s getting close. unfortunately, she is too, “calling me a fucking puppy, saying you’re my fucking master - whose cunt’s the one squeezing my cock, huh? who’s the one begging - for - my - mercy?” he growls, once again, thrusting to each word, and she cums around him - a strange mix of the pain on her nose and ass, her restricted ability to breathe, and his sharp, filling thrusts are the perfect mix for her to reach climax, jolting and twitching as her cunt grips his cock, and her core tightens.

he holds her up even as she slumps in exhaustion, pulling her back by her hair to see her face as he tells her,

“i’m gonna cum in you.” he whispers, kissing her cheek tenderly. her eyes widen.

“no - no, please don’t - please, i’m not on birth control-” she begs, but he bites her earlobe to quieten her.

“shut the fuck up. you’re gonna be my cumdump. say that you understand.” he whispers, and she swallows.

“i - wait, please-” he slaps her again, and she squeaks, “yes, yes - i understand! i’ll be your cumdump!” he growls in satisfaction, finally releasing her and letting her fall forward onto the couch, as he grips her hips pulling her ass to him as he cums inside her, moaning loudly in relief.

there’s a few beats of silence, and afterwards, he looks down at her with a snarl. he’s disgusted, and pulls away - not by his actions, but that he hadn’t lived up to his expectations. she was an evil, and he was a vigilante. that - the cum dripping down her thighs, her perhaps broken nose, her whimpers and cries - that was revenge. it was necessary.

after cleaning up and getting ready, he looks back at her. she’s sitting up, curled into herself as she was turned away, crying into her palms.

she looked like a puppy - scolded for bad behaviors. and in many ways, she was.

he sighs in satisfaction.

it was necessary.

[sofmoth]

Good Men Die Too

DO NOT BOTHER INTERACTING IF YOUR BIO IS AGELESS OR YOUR BLOG IS BLANK.

thank u @strang3lov3 for your editing assistance (as well as the encouragement to actually write this) and thank u @sweetenerobert for so kindly beta reading<3

also posted to AO3 by me (@sofmoth). link here.

divider created by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

tommy miller (the last of us) x reader. WC: 8.5k

18+ ONLY. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED ON SIGHT.

HEED ALL WARNINGS:

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. no outbreak AU, early 2000s AU. reader is an 18 year-old high school senior, tommy is a 20 year-old high school senior (held back twice in 8th grade), football player!tommy, cheerleader!reader. tommy speaks spanish, reader speaks and understands spanish (for translations, click the AO3 link and see ending notes). semi-protected sex (no use of condoms, reader is on birth control), PIV sex, loss of virginity, multiple female orgasms, multiple instances of sex. porn with plot, porn with feelings, the feelings are reciprocated but never said out loud. implied gun violence, gun violence confirmed. tommy is insecure and doesn't want to end up like his dad (not super doing anything to prevent this). relationship is implied but never explicity acknowledged between them. teenagers fuck and if you can't handle that, that's a you problem (play w ur mama not me). once more for the cheap seats, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

You stand well down the hall, leaning against the lockers, slyly peeking the twenty feet up at him. You’re watching him carefully slip something into his locker. You know that shape; it’s the same shape that sent his father to prison. One of his friends saunters toward him, saying something in eighth grade-level Spanish and signaling with his hand. You can see his eyes glow as you watch him deny, vehemently, that he does not, in fact, have what his friend is announcing.

I saw you.

You see he’s chosen once again to not wear the uniform, not the slacks, not even his football jersey. Definitely working after last period. The white t-shirt he wears makes him look smaller at this angle, but when he turns in your direction the breadth of his shoulders obviously matches his brother’s. He slams his locker shut, raises his chin a bit, and his eyes meet yours for one scorching second before he smirks and looks away. You feel your back melding with the steel.

It’s gonna be a long fucking day.

Your face feels hot until lunch. You decide to sneak out to the football field, picking a spot at the top of the grandstands with a clear view of the parking lot. There he is. Hanging around a Ford Taurus with a few other guys, all of whom graduated when he should have. He’s sitting on the hood of the car, smoking lazily. One of the guys sneakily hands a tiny red package of something to someone who definitely does not attend the school, tucks the wad of green into his pocket. You can see him look back at the other guys and shake his head, wave his hand dismissively. Your fingers curl around the chain link fencing keeping you from falling off the back edge, your breath leaves your chest. You don’t feel like going back inside when the bell rings, content to stay up and out of his sight to watch. But he goes back in, so you do too.

You pay no attention the rest of the day, drawing a few scattered laughs when the teacher snaps at you for daydreaming. Last bell finally rings and you hurry out front, rolling and tucking the waist of your horrible plaid skirt up and in twice as you walk. You know when he’ll be walking out, strategically unlocking your bike at that moment. You can feel his gaze on the exposed skin of your thighs, keeping your eyes down as you situate yourself on the seat.

“Tommy! Deja de mirar y métete al mierda auto. Tengo que darle el bebé a Martina.”

“Vete a la chingada, Joel.”

Mission success.

You glance up as you pedal past, making a point to raise your hand to Joel as you cross in front of the car. He nods and waves politely, Tommy pointedly looks away. You remember Martina, Joel’s fiancé. They graduated together when you were in sixth grade, at that point still two years behind Tommy. Joel got Martina pregnant a few years later, and by that time you were in the eighth grade. Tommy had managed to stay in exactly the same place. The baby definitely isn’t a baby anymore. Maybe it’s different when it’s your kid.

You pedal just a bit behind the car, enough to stay out of the way as you watch Joel pull off. You shrug out of your blazer, stuffing it into your backpack and pushing up the sleeves of your stiff dress shirt. It isn’t weird for you to follow them– you live right across the street. Besides, it’s not like Tommy is going to be there anyway. That’s the whole reason Joel picked him up, they’re definitely going to a job. You still allow for quite a bit of distance before you finally begin making your way home.

By the time you do make it home, Joel’s car is still in the driveway. You drop your bike off at the side of your garage, walking slowly around to your front porch. You can hear an argument, a small child crying. You see Joel and Martina hurrying out, Martina carrying the toddler. You can still hear the argument over the engine rumble as they leave.

“¡Nos estás destruyendo, Tomás! ¡Tienes veinte años! Mira a tu hermano, él–”

“¡Nunca seré como Joel, mamá! ¿Cuándo vas a ver eso?”

Your shoulders twitch as their front door slams open and shut again, Tommy storming out past his truck to the other car, jacket in hand. You hurry inside; that argument was none of your business. You gossip. You still peek out your blinds as the beige Mercury roars to life, Tommy whipping out of the driveway in reverse. He’s on his way to find trouble. Make trouble. You’re sure you’ll see his face on the evening news, but you still hope you won’t. Five o’clock rolls around, and you sigh relieved when you don’t.

— — — —

Today you opt not to take your usual spot to stare, instead choosing to patrol the hallways. You see him, leaning against a locker and talking to a freshman girl. You tune in carefully, they’re only talking about her brother getting benched for his grades. Tommy is almost wearing the uniform, khaki slacks fitting his thighs mind-numbingly perfectly. Only God knows where his blazer is. His sleeves are rolled up, his tan forearms seemingly glowing golden in the combination of fluorescent overhead lights and early-morning sun streaming through the huge windows. You make a point not to look at him, instead allowing his gaze to follow your movement. If this is how he wants to do it, fine. You’re good at this game.

You are not so good at dodgeball.

Forty minutes later, you find yourself in the nurse’s office with an ice pack pressed gingerly against your zygomatic bone, and you can feel the bruise forming. You pick at a loose thread on the hem of your gym shorts, sighing through your nose. If it had been anyone else, you’d probably be thinking what a fucking dick. But it was Tommy who launched the rubber ball directly into your skull with far more force than necessary, Tommy who immediately covered his face with his hands and turned away in embarrassment. So instead you find yourself thinking he noticed, he cared. You will get him back, though.

The bell rings and you change back into your uniform in the bathroom, scribbling a short note on some scrap paper before scurrying down the hall. You slip the paper through the slats in his locker, turning sharply around and walking back to the office. You’ll sign yourself out for the day, forge your mother’s handwriting, probably won’t be back for a few days.

— — — —

It’s been three days of Tommy stealing looks at you as you sunbathe in your front yard during the afternoons, lingering a bit too long outside the car before entering the house. Three days of Joel averting his gaze as obviously as he can, three days of you catching a glimpse of Tommy gripping his cock through his pants where he thinks you can’t see. Three nights of you, knuckles-deep in your own pussy, wishing it was Tommy’s strong hands instead. You’re going to make it happen. First he needs to admit it. Whether to you or himself, it doesn’t matter.

You ride your bike to the school in the middle of the day, locking it to the tall fence surrounding the football field. It would be easier if you had bothered going to your classes- you wouldn’t have to scale said fence- but you do it anyway. You climb up in the grandstands, taking the same place as before, scouring the parking lot. There he is.

You press your forehead to the chain links, sighing. You watch him smoke, and this time he’s sitting on the hood of the Mercury. He’s wearing his jersey today, like every other football player on Friday. If you’d come to school today you’d be wearing your borderline-skimpy cheer uniform, and you wonder briefly if you’d have more luck if you were wearing it now. He flicks the butt of his cigarette away, lights another one. It looks like he’s fiddling with something in his other hand, you can see him shaking his head.

He looks up, locks eyes with you as he exhales. You find yourself doing the same, melting into the fencing. He slides off the hood, places his cigarette between his lips and tucks his hand into his back pocket for a moment. Tommy clears the fence in two hops, his bouncing walk carrying him swiftly and effortlessly up the metal stairs to you. You turn a bit, hiding the yellowing bruise as you play with your long sleeves. He sits a few feet away, leaning back into the fence. You can see him looking you up and down and you smirk a little.

“Me gusta todo negro. Reina de la noche, ¿verdad?” You laugh. You can see him smile.

“That’s not gonna work on me. Nice try, though.” He scoots a bit closer, pulls the paper you’d slipped into his locker from his pocket.

“So. You owe me a black eye?”

“It’s only fair.”

“Hm. And I couldn’t help but notice there’s also something about some kissing.”

“Yeah. Why, you come to collect?”

“Maybe.”

You tuck your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them. He flicks his ash away and drops the butt through the fence, eyes scanning your face.

“I really am sorry about the dodgeball. I wasn’t aiming for you.” You roll your eyes.

“That makes it all better, thanks.” He huffs.

He slides steadily closer, close enough to hook his finger through the loops of your shoelaces. He tugs them a few times, all a lopsided boyish grin as you tap him with your toe. He looks so young like this. His grin drops and he swallows harshly.

“You know I suck, right?” His voice is low, you shake your head.

“Not to me.”

“My dad’s a convicted murderer, he’s waiting on death row right now.”

“You’re not him, though.”

“My brother is leagues ahead of me. He’d already started his business when he was twenty. I’m still a senior in high school.”

“Tommy.”

“All I’ve got going for me is football. I’m a liar, I steal, my friends are drug dealers. You…” He laughs softly, looks away and licks his lip. “You’re better than that. I know you get up to shit too but it doesn’t matter, you’re still good. I’m not good.” You rest your hand over his on your shoe, tracing a vein with your pinkie nail. Your voice falls to a whisper.

“You’re the only version of you I’d want.”

He searches your face for a moment, you can’t tell if he came up empty. When he speaks his voice is soft.

“Do I have to get the black eye first? Or is it like an IOU situat–” You cut him off, pressing your lips firmly to his. 

Your fingers rest against his neck, his other hand comes up to cover yours. You can feel him touching your stupid fucking purity ring. You move your hand farther back to the nape of his neck, his soft curls gracing the pads of your fingertips as you thread them in. His tongue in your mouth makes your chest feel hot, your ears fill with the sound of television static as he squeezes your thigh. The taste of his cigarette makes your head feel fuzzy, and you don’t notice until he pulls away that you’d forgotten to breathe. He swallows, chuckles softly.

“So does that count as one or like… ten kisses?” You huff out a laugh, roll your eyes.

“I’ll let you know after you win tonight.”

“What happens if we don’t win?”

“You’ll get your black eye.” Tommy laughs.

“Shit, okay. We gotta win now.”

He cautiously laces his fingers into yours, you close your eyes and lean back into the fence. You sit in silence together for a few minutes, Tommy ignoring whatever bell rings.

“You want a ride home?” Slick motherfucker.

“No thanks. Weather’s too nice. But maybe tonight.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Alright. Just let me know.” You squeeze his hand gently.

“You should get back to class.”

You dodge him as he leans in, smirking as his mouth falls open. You stand and stretch, arms above your head, yelping a little as he grabs your waist and pulls you between his legs. He presses his face to your chest and inhales, hands climbing your back. Your head drops backward and you feel your fingers tangling in his hair. God, you’re weak. You force yourself to pull away.

“I’ll see you tonight.” You turn quickly and practically run down the steps.

You climb back over the fence as gracefully as you can, unlocking your bike and pedaling over to Tommy. He looks down and laughs, shaking his head. You wave up at him as you pass, smiling to yourself as you leave the parking lot and head home.

— — — —

Joel was nice enough to offer you a ride back to the school for the game, but you suspect Tommy had something to do with it. You deny twice, just like you were taught, and graciously accept the third time.

“You managing okay with your mama being out of town?”

“I’m doin’ okay. Fridge is stocked, if that’s what you mean. She’ll be back on Sunday anyway.”

“Alright. If you need anything you can ask any time. A ride, a meal, anything. We’re not hurtin’ and I’m happy to help.”

“I appreciate it, Joel. Thank you.” He pulls up to the locker room and you climb out, tugging your skirt into place. “Tell Señora Miller I said hi.” He laughs.

“¿Cual señora?” You grin, ducking to look at him.

“Tu madre.” You shut the car door and wave as he drives off.

By the start of halftime you’re up two touchdowns and a field goal. He really doesn’t want that black eye. You decide to sneak off to the bathrooms, not sure if you need to piss but definitely needing a cigarette. You’re a bit surprised to see Tommy around the dark corner of the small building.

“Shouldn’t you be in the locker room?” He jumps a little, laughs softly.

“Scared the shit out of me. Yes, I should. Shouldn’t you be sittin’ pretty on the track?” You flip him off.

“Yes, I should. But I needed a cigarette.”

“Fair enough.” You sit down next to him, tucking your legs under yourself.

You pull a half-smushed cigarette out of your bra and place it between your lips. Tommy stares at you, exhaling his smoke slowly. You groan. You’re not sure where your lighter is, but it’s definitely not in the band of your spankies anymore. He flicks open his Zippo, holds it out to you and you lean in, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you inhale. You exhale through the corner of your mouth, looking at your lipstick on the filter. You can hear him swallow, see him ash his cigarette out of the corner of your eye. 

“Me gusta ese color en ti.” His voice is soft.

“Again, that’s not gonna work on me.” 

“Se vería más bonito todo jodido.”

“Ay, para.”

You stub out your cigarette, grabbing his face and pulling him in. He kisses you aggressively, lacing his fingers through your hair. You whimper as he bites your lip and pulls you onto his lap, sliding his hand up the back of your thigh to your ass. You pull away a little, running your thumb over his lip.

“This is so juvenile.” Tommy snorts a laugh, shakes his head.

“Who gives a shit?” He kisses across your jaw and down your neck, your eyelids fluttering.

“Slow your roll, Miller. We’ve only got ten minutes until third quarter and you still have to go put your pads back on.”

You kiss his cheek, climbing off his lap and fixing your skirt. He stands, looking down at you and shaking his head.

“You sure shake that head a lot.”

“Just hard to believe you sometimes.” You scowl.

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?” He holds your face in his hands.

“Cool it. It’s not a bad thing.” Your eyes roll. “I’m serious. Stop tryna tease me or piss me off or whatever you’re doin’. It’s not gonna work.”

You lick your thumb, reaching up to swipe it over his cheek. He swats at you gently.

“Leave it. They’re not gonna bench me for having a little lipstick on my face.”

“Whatever you say. You still oughta hustle.”

“Fine. Hey, you think any more about that ride home?”

“I’m still thinking. Find me later, I’ll let you know.”

You practically bounce back to the track, sitting and tucking your legs. One of your squadmates discretely hands you a makeup wipe and her tube of lipstick.

The end of third quarter proves enough to get Tommy and one opposing linebacker both benched. The linebacker went after Tommy, Tommy didn’t appreciate it. Helmets came off, a few blows landed, coaches pulled them apart. You watch him moping on the bench, an ice pack held to his face the same way you did on Tuesday. He turns to face the cheer squad, lands on you. You wave at him from your hip, one corner of your mouth quirking up as he waves back. One of the junior varsity girls giggles something about him waving at her, you almost tell her to shut the fuck up.

He doesn’t want you, bitch.

— — — —

The game finally ends, and you end up losing by one field goal. You mill around outside the locker room, waiting for Tommy to come out. When he does, his hair is wet from his shower and you see he’s rocking the beginnings of a serious shiner.

“Well, we didn’t win. Guess I’m about to have two black eyes?”

“Nah. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Since we made out earlier does that mean we’re square on the kisses?”

“Only if you want to be.”

“Let me give you that ride and I’ll let you know.”

He wraps his arm around your shoulders and guides you through the parking lot to his truck, opening the passenger door for you. Señora must have needed the Mercury. You climb in, smiling softly at him. He tries to leap over the hood and you laugh, covering your mouth as he nearly falls. Your head tips back against the headrest, watching him as he plays it off and slings himself into the driver’s seat. He looks over at you, eyeing you up and down. You turn your head to face him.

“Like what you see?”

He doesn’t say anything, resting his elbow on the shoulder of your seat. He rests his other hand high on your thigh, stroking the skin delicately.

“You gonna answer me?” It comes out weaker than you mean for it to.

“I think you know the answer.”

He brushes a bit of your hair over your ear, taking a lock between his fingers. You force your shoulders to relax, exhaling slowly through your nose. Tommy squeezes your thigh.

“Let’s get you home.” You can only nod.

He turns in his seat, starting the truck and resting his right hand back on your thigh. You’re on edge the entire way home, your chest feels hot and your hands tremble in your lap. Tommy’s hand slides up your thigh a bit, you feel your cheeks warming. He parks in your driveway, looks over at you.

“Let me walk you up?” You give him a small smile.

“Sure.”

He climbs out, walks around the front and opens your door for you. He offers his arm and you step down, shutting the door behind yourself. He holds your hand as he walks you up to your porch, sliding to your waist as you stop. You lean up on your toes, holding his face gently. You kiss him softly, feel his hand come to rest on your bare bicep. You lean back, look up at him.

“You can come in.” He smiles, shakes his head a little.

“I don’t wanna impose.”

“You should come in.” He chuckles.

“Alright.”

You stoop and pull the key from under the mat, unlocking the door and gesturing him inside. He steps in, looking around as he hangs his jacket on the coat rack. You lock the door behind you, leaning back against it to watch him.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m gonna go get changed real quick, I’ll be right back.” He nods and smiles with half his mouth, kicking his shoes off and claiming a spot on the couch.

You don’t close your bedroom door all the way, leaving it open enough to give Tommy a bit of a view and to see him sneakily looking back at it. You keep your direct gaze averted, only watching him from your periphery. Out of habit you press the play button on the disc player atop your dresser and strip out of your uniform, lingering absently near the door.

God damn, will you grow a pair?

You look at yourself in your mirror, wishing for a moment you had prettier underwear. Something lacy, something sexy. Something that isn’t so plain or simple, something to make him want to want you. The string of dying Christmas lights above your bed casts a splotchy pastel glow over everything, and you’re hoping it ups the appeal. You close your eyes, shaking your head as you sit on the edge of your mattress near your pillows. You thank God your mother had finally caved and bought you a full; your old twin most certainly wouldn’t accommodate the two of you.

Now or never, pussy.

“Hey Tommy, can you come back here for a second?” You yell up the hall, peeking to watch him stand and shake out his hands. He seems almost nervous.

The floor squeaks softly under his steps, the doorknob rattles as he places his hand on it. He pushes the door open, keeping his eyes down. You pull your legs up, tucking them to your chest and resting your arms on your knees. He steals a glance and his grip tightens.

“Come sit with me.” Your voice is soft, much softer than you want it to be. He looks up at you finally and you see him swallow.

He enters fully, shutting the door and walking slowly over to you. He sits, adjusting his legs open a bit. You can’t help yourself, looking down at his crotch and quickly looking back up.

“I let you drive me home. You decide whether or not we’re square yet?” One hand drifts to his thigh, tracing over the inseam of his jeans with your nail.

“Yes I did.” He slips a finger under your bra strap, your breath catches as he tugs it down over your shoulder.

“What’s the verdict?”

“I think you still owe me a few.”

Your legs spread without a thought as Tommy pushes you onto your back. His hands are warm on your bare sides, his rough calluses keeping you from floating away. He slots one of his knees between your legs, you gasp as the denim meets the gusset of your panties. His nose presses to the hollow of your neck, hot breath moistening your skin. You feel lightheaded, reaching up to knot your fingers in his still-damp hair, tugging when you feel his teeth on your shoulder. You can feel his chest rumble against yours, the kissing on your neck growing near-frantic as you grind against his leg.

He pulls away quickly, sitting up and practically ripping his shirt off. He leans back over you equally fast, pushing one of your legs aside. You feel him push his hand down into your panties and everything that follows is involuntary; your back arches up into his chest, your eyes cross. You feel his cheek against yours and you want to cry, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dragging him closer to you.

It takes you a moment to realize he’s following the music, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you steadily in time with the guitar. You feel yourself starting to tremble, breath quickening as your eyes roll back.

“Damélo, princesa.”

You motherfucker.

It feels like you’ve been hit by a train, black and white spots dotting your vision as his pace slows and he shushes you softly, mumbling something you don’t have the energy to decipher. He withdraws his fingers and you can feel him starting to lean back, wrapping your arms around him tighter and pulling him back. He kisses your cheek.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere. Just gotta get this fuckin’ belt off.” He pulls away gently and you sit up.

“Let me.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows, holds his hands up. He sits back on his heels, displaying himself for you. You wet your bottom lip, leaning up and kissing him. You tangle your fingers in the hair at the base of his skull, feeling his hands resting on your neck as your other hand tugs at the leather tucked around his waist. You’re shocked by yourself for a moment, at the ease and speed with which you manage to undo the buckle. Tommy seems equally surprised.

“Now I don’t know for sure, but that little ring tells me you haven’t done this before. On the other hand, you did that a bit too well. You been holdin’ out on me?” You roll your eyes.

“You’d like to shut the fuck up before I change my mind.”

“Duly noted.”

You wrap the buckle up in your fist, winding the leather around your wrist and pulling it away from him. You drop it to the floor; it hits with a satisfying thunk. You feel bold now, resting your fingertips on his fly. He tilts your chin up with one finger, nods in encouragement. You smirk, pushing him onto his back. He folds his arms behind his head, watching you. Pinche vaquero. You unbutton his jeans, unzipping them slowly as he reaches down to pet your hair. His knuckles glide over your cheek and you lean into them, eyelids fluttering.

“¿Te gusta, princesa?”

You gnash your teeth at his hand, gasping as he swiftly threads his fingers into your hair and tugs your head backward.

“None of that now. Need you to be sweet, alright?” He loosens his grip almost immediately, you nod and lean down to the waistband of his boxers.

You kiss his skin softly, smiling to yourself as his chest rumbles. He tangles his fingers back in your hair, seemingly more as an anchor point than for control. Fuck. He smells like Irish Spring, your eyes rolling back behind your closed lids as you slide down and kiss his bulge.

“Carajo, princesa. Either this isn’t your first time or you watch too much porn.”

“Less than you, pendejo. I’ve gotta steal your WiFi to do it.”

“Pendejo? You’re in for it now.” You yelp as he sits up, practically lunging at you and knocking you back.

He pushes you down into your mattress, you giggle as he nips at your ear. He props himself up, off of you, stroking your cheek with his thumb as he looks over your features. His frown lines are soft, already-dark eyes now black in the light. Something hidden deep behind them. Let me in.

“Eres la chica sobre todo hermosa que he visto en mi vida.” He whispers, barely audible.

“I’ve already told you–”

“Es la verdad.” He kisses you slowly, sweetly.

You exhale shakily, mouth opening against his as your back arches and his hand snakes under you. He unclasps your bra deftly and for a moment you feel a stinging in your chest, something like anger that you didn’t get to have him first. You suddenly feel his palm on your bare breast, inhaling sharply at the sensation.

“Take off those fuckin’ jeans.” You feel dizzy, watching as he maneuvers the denim off his legs and onto the floor.

He presses his nose to your sternum, sighing raggedly as he pushes his hips against yours. You cover your mouth with your hand, your attempt to stifle your moan ruined as Tommy moves your wrist away from your face. He pins it to your pillow, his other hand still under you and squeezing your ass. You drape your free arm over his shoulders, his forehead coming to rest gently on yours. He’s almost pulling you in, pelvis steadily rolling into you.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve gotta fuck you.” He sounds close to begging.

“Please.” You will beg, you don’t care anymore.

He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of your panties, raising his eyes to meet yours and you nod. He tugs them down, borderline whining as you’re exposed.

“Dios maldito, princesa.”

He does whine now, dropping your panties and pressing his lips to your knee. He curses under his breath, shoving his boxers off before pushing your thighs apart. He situates himself between them, taking your left hand and inspecting it as he slides his cock slowly up and down through your folds.

“Tell you a secret?” His voice is a whisper.

“Anything.” Your voice quivers.

“Kinda always wanted to do something like this. Sorta fucked up though, isn’t it?” He looks you in the eyes as he removes the silver purity ring, placing it gingerly on your nightstand.

“You know that’s why I want you.”

He drops your hand gently, kisses you firmly. You gasp against his mouth as you feel the head of his cock splitting you open, your breath quickening as he pushes further in. You wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his chest, whimpering into his skin as he holds the back of your head, shushing you softly. He groans as he bottoms out, the sound rippling in your ear as if through water.

“Buen trabajo, princesa. Maldita sea, joder.” He shushes you again as he slowly pulls out, reentering just as slowly.

“Fuck, Tommy. Oh my fucking God.” Your vision is fuzzy, hands cold and face on fire.

You knot your fingers in his hair, legs burning from the distance they’re spread. He rolls his hips into you evenly, keeping a slow pace with the music as Chino Moreno serenades you both. Your thoughts flutter around the idea of giving Tommy road head, riding him in the backseat of the Mercury, him eating you in the bed of his truck. You tug his head back and he whimpers, kissing you roughly as the aggressive vocals suddenly quiet. He takes your wrists in one hand, pinning them to the pillow above you as his pace begins accelerating. You pull experimentally, testing to see how tightly he’s holding you. He eases his grip, doesn’t remove his hand.

“Just tell me to stop or slow down and I will. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I’m okay. You can go faster if you want.”

“I wanna fuck you through this mattress. Do you want it faster?” You nod and he nudges your chin up to look at him.

“Sí o no, princesa.”

“Yes.” He kisses you again, cradling your cheek.

Oh, fuck. He’s been granted permission, now fucking into you at tempo. You gasp, pulling your wrists free in earnest, nails finding purchase on his back. He hisses, biting your lip and groping the flesh of your waist. You pull away, pushing your forehead against his chest and moaning brokenly. You nearly scream as his fingers circle your clit, tears beading in your eyelashes from the stimulation. You feel yourself trembling, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as the rubber band snaps.

“Cosita sensible, ¿no?” He doesn’t stop, teasing the sensitive nerves with his fingertips.

The tears finally fall, your hips jerking into his hand as you’re immediately hit with a second orgasm. Your chest feels tight, cheeks hot. He pulls his hand away, kissing you softly before slowly pulling out. You whine involuntarily at the sudden emptiness, Tommy shushing you as he slides up to lean against your headboard.

“On my lap, princesa. Want you to try something.”

He takes your hand as you push yourself up, focusing on keeping your breath steady as you take your place over his thighs. He kisses you sweetly, his thumb grazing your cheekbone as he strokes his cock.

“I want you to sit on it. Think you can do that?” You bite your lip, looking away and back quickly.

“I can try.”

“That’s my girl. I’ve got you, just take your time.”

My girl.

He holds your hips gently as you shift up, squeezing reassuringly as you begin lowering yourself onto his length. Christ, he’s thick. You whimper, biting your hand as you pause.

“You’re doin’ good, baby. Fuck, you feel good.” He whispers, removing your fingers from between your teeth and pulling you close to his chest. “I’ll do the rest, just relax for me.”

He pushes up into you slowly, moaning softly as you dig your nails into his bicep. You gasp sharply as he snaps his hips once, burying himself inside you. He holds you there for a moment, kissing your forehead before exhaling raggedly.

“You’re okay, just gotta get used to it. Fuck. Gonna move you, alright?” You nod, out of breath and your limbs weak.

He rests one hand firmly on your hip, the other around your waist as he slowly guides you to grind on him. You sigh, eyes rolling back at the sheer fullness. You don’t feel totally conscious, arms snaking around his neck seemingly with minds of their own. You become vaguely aware that Tommy’s hand is no longer moving you, instead suddenly feeling him squeezing your thigh. Your legs are shaking, all sound around you is dulled.

“Hey, come back to me.”

You shake your head, the movement of your hips stopping and you force yourself to focus.

“You still here?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Your voice nearly fails you, your words airy and barely audible.

“I guess now’s a little late to ask if you’re on the pill.”

“I am, sorry. Wasn’t even thinkin’ about it.”

“S’okay. Look at me, baby.” You blink hard, tilting your face up.

God must be real.

He looks beautiful like this. His hair is mussed, the now-dry curls sticking out from around his ears and tipping onto his forehead. The freckles across his nose seem to create constellations. There is nothing hiding behind his eyes anymore. There he is.

“God damn, I’m close. I’m gonna fuck you like this, okay? Just relax, you can take it.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, fucking up into you fast and hard. You yelp, melting into him as he holds your head against his neck, one arm encircling your waist. His breathing is jagged, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder as he attempts to stifle a moan. You can feel his hands twitch, pressing closer to him.

I’ll never get close enough.

He gasps sharply, thrusting hard one final time. You cry out, practically jumping as he holds your hips down to his. He wraps his arms around your torso tightly, dragging his nose up the side of your neck. His breath comes out trembling and heavy, his entire body now twitching against yours. You try to focus on the fading guitar riffs, eyes closed as you attempt to calm your racing heartbeat.

The disc player clicks a few moments later, a soft chhh as the CD stops spinning. You swallow, leaning back to look over Tommy’s expression. He kisses you softly, brushing your hair over your ear before tipping his head back against your headboard. You laugh a little, he raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Either you love Deftones or you only fuck with music playing.” He rolls his eyes, smiles.

“I live with my entire family. The only time I get any privacy is when I have music on.”

He pulls out of you slowly, rolls you carefully onto your back. You run your fingers through his hair as he rubs your bicep with his knuckles. He finally begins to look around your room, taking in the decor and dirty laundry scattered about your carpet. He points at one particular heap on the floor.

“You should wear that tomorrow. Look good with my suit.” Oh fuck. Fuckin’ homecoming.

“Your suit? Or Joel’s?” He rolls his eyes and you smirk. “And how exactly do you know what you’re pointing at?”

“My suit. And I live with two women, I ain’t blind. C’mon. I’ll buy you a corsage and everything.”

“Pick me up at five then.”

— — — —

He kisses you goodbye in the morning, lingering in the front door frame far longer than necessary. Promises he’ll be on time, he’ll probably even be a little early. You giggle at him, kissing him one last time before shutting the door behind him. You watch out the blinds as he backs out of your driveway and re-parks along the street gutter in front of his house, raising his hand to your house as he walks inside.

By 4:30 you stand in front of your mirror, severely second-guessing yourself. You feel like Angela Bettis in Carrie, and you could vomit from the nerves. At 4:50 a knock on your front door scares you out of your stupor, rushing from your room to answer it. You put an eye up to the peephole, exhaling shakily and adjusting your stole. You smooth the fabric of your dress, hoping you didn’t stain it with the sweat from your palms. You pull the door open, greeted by Tommy’s impish grin. He’s hiding his hands behind his back, fidgeting a little. Joel stands behind him with his arms crossed, holding a digital camera.

“Hey. You’re early.” Your voice is soft.

“Told you I would be. I hope it’s okay that Joel—”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Come on in.”

You stand aside to allow them entry, swallowing as you close the door. Joel looks around for a moment, Tommy reveals his hands. He holds out a little plastic box, a corsage of a peony and baby’s breath within. You grin and laugh airily, taking it and turning it around in your hands.

“Told you I’d get you one.”

“Hey now, don’t be puttin’ it on yet. I gotta turn on the damn camera.”

“Hold the red button, pendejo. Told you a million times.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and smiles sweetly down at you.

“Te ves bonita.”

“Tú tampoco estás mal.”

Joel takes a few photos of the two of you, nodding approvingly every other shutter click. He walks out behind you and Tommy, taps on your window after Tommy helps you into the truck. You crank it down, eyebrow raised as he takes your hand.

“He does anything to hurt you, you call me. I know you can take care of yourself but boy would I love to get a lick in, too.” You laugh, squeezing Joel’s fingers.

“I’ll make sure to. Thanks for taking the pictures.”

“Anytime, kid. Y’all behave tonight.”

You look over at Tommy, holding his face in his hands as he rests his forehead against the steering wheel.

“Oye, pinga. Te estoy hablando.”

“¡Lo sé, maldita sea!”

You cover your mouth, holding in your laughter. Joel winks to you, thumping the base of the window and stepping back. You crank it back up, waving at him as the truck roars to life and Tommy pulls away. He rests his hand on your thigh, absentmindedly stroking the fabric with his thumb.

“Hey, you okay?” He blinks hard.

“Yeah, fine.” You shrink into yourself.

You inspect the corsage on your wrist, run your finger over the petals on the peony. You reach the one red light on the way to the school, Tommy squeezes your thigh gently. You look over at him.

“Wait for me in the bleachers, okay? I gotta do something real quick when we get there.”

“What is it?”

“Nothin’ you gotta worry about. Just gotta grab something.”

“Please don’t be dealing tonight.” You look away, covering your eyes with your hand.

“Hey, no. I’m not. Promise. I just left some shit the other day, I’m gonna grab it and put it in the back. Then you can shake as much ass on me as you want.” You huff a weak laugh.

“Not really my speed.”

“Then we can just sit, that’s fine too.”

The light changes, Tommy reaches over and brushes your hair behind your ear as he accelerates. He rests his hand back on your thigh, barely touching it.

“I’m not gonna start anything, just gonna have a good night with my girl.” You nod, placing your hand over his.

“Okay.”

— — — —

It’s nearly midnight. The dance ended hours ago, and as promised Tommy didn’t start anything. Now, you find yourself sitting on the lowered gate of his truck bed in a decent-sized crop circle with twenty or so other people milling around. A few of the underclass girls have proven they can’t handle their alcohol, and you try to tune out their retching as you watch the bonfire someone made. Tommy had wrapped his varsity jacket around your shoulders not long after you arrived, your stole not nearly enough to keep you from shivering. You hear footsteps coming toward you and look in their direction, seeing Tommy coming your way and offering a cigarette. You take it and place it between your lips, meeting the burning end of his and inhaling.

“Havin’ any fun?”

“It’s okay.” You lower your voice. “I know some folks but I don’t really run with anyone here.” Tommy hums.

“We can head out soon if you want?”

“I’m not gonna stop you from having a good time with your friends. We can stay.” He nods, takes his cigarette between his fingers and kisses your forehead.

One of the football players calls him over, he looks at you and you nod. He kisses you quickly, jogging off. You sit alone smoking for a moment, staring up into the sky at the stars. The shuffling sound of a group of drunk tenth-grade girls headed toward you pulls you back. You flick your ash away, eyeing the JV cheerleaders. Same fuckin’ bitch. The one who got it in her head Tommy had waved at her leads them, and she looks pissed.

“You fuckin’ slut.”

“I know you’re not talking to me. Not 27 hours ago I was still wearing my purity ring. When’d you get rid of yours again?”

“Bitch!”

She screeches, grabbing your arm and yanking so hard you think for a moment she must have dislocated your shoulder. You fall, hitting the dead ends of the corn stalks and shrieking. You lay face-down for a moment, eyes closed. You can hear a few of the guys yelling, the JV bitch screeching again as a senior girl grabs her. There are several voices around you, and you pick out Tommy’s, but you can’t quite understand what he’s saying. You open your eyes slowly, losing sight of his dress shoes for a moment before six shots ring out, everyone around you screaming and hitting the ground. He reappears before you, lifting you gently and setting you inside the cab. He shuts the door, his yelling muffled. The driver door slams and you jump.

“We’re goin’ home.” You can only nod; he sounds furious.

You stop in town on the way back, Tommy jumping out to make a call. You watch him feed the dimes into the payphone, watch as he paces around, stretching the cord to its limit. You can’t tell what he’s saying but his free hand moves wildly. He hangs the receiver back on the hook, scrubs his hands over his face before lighting a cigarette. He looks down at the sidewalk briefly, climbing back into the truck.

“What did you do?” You can’t bring yourself to make eye contact with him. He exhales slowly.

“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”

“Tommy.”

“Nobody died.”

You lean your head against the window, pull his varsity jacket tighter around yourself. The two of you are silent for the remainder of the ride, and you let yourself out once in your driveway. You walk up to your front door in a daze, walking into the house and back to your bedroom. You sit on the edge of your bed, looking down and noticing your corsage was crushed at some point. You can feel hot tears stinging your eyes, the mattress sinking next to you. You can’t help yourself, leaning into Tommy’s side as you begin to sob. He shushes you softly, wrapping his arms around you and stroking your hair. You finally catch your breath, wiping your face with the back of your hand and pulling away from him carefully.

“Hey. Look at me, princesa.” You force your eyes up to meet his.

“Tommy, just tell me. What the hell did you do?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, laughs awkwardly.

“The guy who invited that little girl, Liam? He started… mouthing off, calling you a slut and a whore and all that shit.” He swallows. “I shot up his fuckin’ car. Made sure no one would say anything but I swear to God I didn’t hit anybody.”

You flop back, staring at your ceiling. You can feel more tears forming, Tommy leans over you and brushes your cheek delicately.

“Everything’s okay. Promise.” You chuckle weakly, a few tears slide down over your temples.

“Bitch crushed my fuckin’ flower.” He rests his forehead against yours, a cut-off laugh escaping his throat. He kisses you softly.

“That’s what you’re crying over?” His voice is low, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s special.”

You place your hand over his wrist, squeezing a little. You close your eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing.

“You’d thought I sent that bitch to hell, didn’t you?” You laugh, covering your mouth and rolling half away. You wipe your eyes again, reaching over and ruffling his hair.

“Can’t say I woulda been very upset if you had.”

“Damn, tell me how you really feel.”

“You don’t wanna know.”

You sit up, shrugging off Tommy’s jacket and hanging it from the post at the foot of your bed. You toss your stole to the floor, slipping off your corsage and resting it carefully on your nightstand, kicking off your heels as you lean over to rest your head on your pillow. You close your eyes, feeling the bed shift as Tommy scoots up behind you.

“Y’know you oughta cut that hair soon. They’re gonna start dress coding you.” You lean back into his chest as he wraps his arm over you.

“Fuck them. I’ve been thinking about growing it out anyway.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Don’t see why not. I think I’d look good.”

You smile, holding his palm against your cheek as he strokes your arm with his other hand.

“That’s not a dealbreaker then?” His voice is soft, you hum quizzically.

“You’re just growing your hair out.” He snorts, you feel him shake his head.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean… somebody starts talking shit and I— ”

“No.” His lips press to your shoulder blade.

“I’m just like my fuckin’ dad.” His voice trembles..

“No you’re not.”

He pushes his face against the back of your neck, exhaling slowly. You hear a siren wailing in the distance and he tenses, relaxing only as it fades.

“Don’t know how many times I’ve gotta tell you I’m not a good man.” 

“You’re good to me.”

“Ain’t the same, princesa.” You pull away enough to roll over and look at him. “My mom was right, I’m the one tearin’ everything apart. You deserve someone good, someone better than me. God damn, maybe if I was more like Joel—” You shush him.

“No, I already told you. You’re the only version of you I’d want.”

He caresses your cheek, rests his forehead against yours. He kisses you softly, you run your fingers through his hair as he squeezes your hip. He kisses you more urgently, you grab his tie and pull him closer. He moans deep in his chest, palming over your tits and rolling his hips into you.

“God, we’re fucked up.”

“I don’t care.”

He pulls away, frantically unbuckling his belt and pushing up the skirt of your dress. You inhale sharply through your teeth as his tongue hits the fabric covering your pussy, eyes rolling back as he kisses over your thighs.

“Vamos a quitárnoslas, princesa.” You whimper as he nearly rips your panties off, throwing them to the floor and pulling your hips to meet his face.

You gasp, hips bucking into his mouth as his tongue teases your clit. You feel your eyes starting to water, breathing becoming erratic. You could scream when he finally stops teasing, holding your thighs over his shoulders. You knot your fingers in his hair, grinding against his tongue as you reach down to find his hand. He laces your fingers together, you whine as he hums against your skin.

There’s something about finding out after the fact, about not knowing he was packing the entire night. Something about knowing he used it in defense of you. You feel yourself gush against his tongue, he moans and squeezes your hand. He doesn’t stop, kissing and sucking your clit even as your tears begin to fall. He only stops when you pull his hair, tugging his head away.

“God, I need you to fuck me.” He leans up over you, kissing you as he unbuttons his slacks.

You taste yourself mixed with the remnants of his earlier cigarettes and you pull him closer. Your head tips away and your back arches as he pushes into you, digging your nails into his forearm. Immediately his pace is unrelenting, his hand on the back of your neck keeping you from hitting the headboard. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hook one leg over his hip as he fucks you into the mattress.

This is what he needs.

It’s almost animal; his breath is heavy and ragged, the way he holds you is not tender. He holds you like he wants to own you, biting your neck and shoulders like you’re meat.

You don’t care. If you could do the same things to him, you would.

“Joder, princesa. I’m gonna—” You yelp as he slams his hips into yours, biting his shoulder aggressively through his shirt fabric as his chest heaves.

You can feel him shaking, releasing your teeth and stroking his hair gently. He stays over you for a long moment, nose pressed to your throat. He sighs deeply, pulls out of you slowly and lays on his side next to you. You roll to face him, tugging your skirt back down. He smiles, rolls his eyes as he readjusts his slacks. He rests his hand on your shoulder, tracing small circles with his thumb. You lean over and kiss him sweetly, he brushes your hair away from your face.

“You really don’t care that I’m a bad man, huh?”

“Good men die too.”

“So?”

“I’d rather be with you.”

AN: thank you for reading, this is my first tommy fic so i hope you all enjoyed♡

if you like what you read and want to see more, i would be honored if you’d consider stopping by the cafe! if you’re not able or don’t want to commission, if you would like to drop a buck in the tip jar that’s also greatly appreciated (but never required)!

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Fat Gum (Taishiro Toyomitsu) x Fem Reader

As a crime journalist with a chequered past, you find yourself re-located to Esuha City through no choice of your own. Working alongside pro-hero Fat Gum, each new case exposes more of the dark underbelly of the city, and what it truly means to be a hero.

Genres: Suspense, mystery, romance, humour.

Rating: M

Warnings: Violence, substance abuse, adult themes, explicit sexual content in later chapters.

Cross-posted from Ao3.

Title from: "Era Vulgaris" lyrics, by Queens of the Stone Age.

Divider by: @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

It was time.

Your belongings all fitted into a small cardboard box, a foot each way in length and width. First, the framed pictures and accolades that sat around your desk in the tiny, crowded cubicle. Then the other personal items, including the stationery, coffee mug, journal and numerous blank spiral-bound notepads.

In went the small basket of plastic flowers gifted to you by Mrs Honda. They had never been to your taste, even before they faded, but you'd treasured them since she'd handed them over to you after that last appearance in court.

Packing was complete in a depressingly short time. The books stacked waist high against the walls of your cubicle, the archives you'd spent many sleepless nights poring over, the rows of files piled on flimsy bracketed shelving, bowing slightly under their weight, would not be leaving this office with you. You'd signed a non-compete to avoid any issues if a rival news group employed you, and all of this would have to remain.

Not that you had much hope of that happening. Your new posting was in downtown Esuha City, at a small local tabloid, the only kind that would currently employ you.

Once your box was packed with its meager contents, you paused, taking in the cubicle you'd spent the last six years ensconced in, eating cheap, steaming cup ramen, the tinny radio from across the hall on full blast for the evening news, peeling off your wet coat and socks after hours spent standing in pouring rain at some event or other.

This was where your career had been made. This was where it had ended.

All right, so you were entitled to a dramatic flourish, considering your circumstances. Technically, your career wasn't over.

You picked up the box with an air of finality, shrugging away your procrastination of the inevitable. There was still that long walk to the train station to endure, through the halls, past the cubicles and offices of the people you'd worked alongside for years.

A walk of endurance.

You could take doors slamming against the prod of your questioning, the roughhousing of other journalists as you waited outside the scene of a crime, fingers numb with cold. You could withstand a shower of flying spittle as some corporate bigshot screamed into your face, apoplectic with rage. You had even learned to stand silent witness to grief, despair and unimaginable violence.

This, on the other hand, was different. Their stares weren't even disapproving, or angry. Just pitying.

Your pace increased, and even though the box you carried was shockingly light, your breathing was laboured by the time you reached the front doors.

"Reporting for duty, Fat Gum!"

"Nice and early, Kirishima. Good on ya."

Tamaki glanced between the two manifestations of pure sunshine that, unfortunately, made up the rest of his team. His shoulders came up defensively.

"I thought today was going to be admin. Can't you leave me here in the office to handle things?"

Fat Gum's large hand steered Tamaki out the door, and right out of that particular delusion.

"Come on. What have I told you about practicing your 'helping people' face?"

"I've never possessed such a face."

Kirishima slapped an open palm against his chest and flashed a confident grin.

"Like this! See? It's easy."

Tamaki shook his head woefully.

"I can't help it. I look nervous all the time and my smile comes out wrong and I scare people. Or make them feel sorry for me."

Fat Gum stroked his chin in apparent thoughtfulness.

"Guess you're right about that. You do look scared a lot. Need to work on that, 'fore we let you out into the streets again, huh?"

Tamaki's mouth fell open, and he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Fat Gum's face.

"Are you for real? I can actually stay here at the agency and ... "

He received a good-natured, if callous, belly laugh from the BMI hero.

"Nah, just kidding. You're going on patrol with us. Ain'tcha a lucky guy?"

Tamaki retreated into hopelessness once again. For two kind and cheerful heroes, Fat Gum and Kirishima seemed to take some sort of special pleasure in tormenting him. He'd just have to endure.

As they made their way out into the chilly street, Tanaki considered his unique position at Fat Gum's Agency. As much as he still needed to work on himself, he knew, on some level, that he'd made large strides since he'd started his studies here.

His internship had been a success, if harrowing in its social nature. Attached to a hero like Fat Gum, there was no bypassing any form of public interaction, as Tamaki had successfully done in the past. Taishiro Toyomitsu was a 'tender tank' indeed, warm, effusive, generous, always ready with a quick snack and words of encouragement or support, but he didn't hold Tamaki's hand either. There was a rough, tough, independent streak to the man, one that didn't brook wallowing in weakness or accepting one's flaws as part of nature.

He'd made it clear to Tamaki that he'd expect him to improve as a hero, because heroes weren't perfect beings that sprang fully formed into the public eye. They had to actively work on themselves, much harder than the people they protected on a daily basis. Fat Gum himself had steadily climbed the ranks through sheer incremental labour, gaining the trust of the community he had grown up in, effectively working alongside other heroes that people could consider to be far more powerful than he was.

Tamaki raised his head slightly when he realized that Fat Gum was speaking again, words slightly muffled as he popped the steaming taiyaki he'd bought from a street vendor into his mouth.

" ... and there'll be new deliveries coming in for Okita Groceries. Gotta keep an eye on that later. Clover Fields Nursery is also holding a fundraiser some time this morning. Traffic might be a problem if they're taking up the corner across from Gijima Group Building. Hmm. Let's see. Oh, I got a message from Tachibana at Esuha Shimbun. They're getting a new employee today. Someone he wants to talk to me about. I gotta stop by there too."

Kirishima was nodding along earnestly to the listing.

"Where should we go first?"

Fat Gum raised a burly fist, pausing in thought before swinging his arm out towards the south-west district that was crowded with various business enterprises and office blocks.

"The newspaper building. Tachibana gets there pretty early. Let's see what he has to say."

Esuha Shimbun was small and focused enough to be classified a tabloid, but its reputation as a long-established and trustworthy news source for the locals made it worth its salt. Tachibana had been the assistant editor for many years now, his own roots in the community providing him with a network of information (and imformants) that often proved very useful to Fat Gum.

The building was an unremarkable light grey, the sign for the newspaper headquarters half hidden in a shadowed entryway. Tamaki spotted the short, bespectacled man outside, waiting for their approach. He frowned. Tachibana only met them out here when he wanted to pass along confidential information.

Fat Gum raised a hand in greeting as the assistant editor spotted them and hurried over. Tachibana started speaking as soon as they were within earshot, his rapid-fire delivery jumbled and nervous.

"Oh, there you are. She's due any time now. Apparently she took the first train out and she's going to - "

"Hey now, hold on."

Fat Gum raised a quelling palm.

"Who's 'she' and what's got your head in such  spin?"

Tachibana took a small, bracing breath before adjusting his glasses.

"The new columnist, that's who. She's going to be here soon."

"And that's who you wanted to tell me about?"

"Well ... yes. Her. She specializes in crime writing. But ... you see ... she's been involved in reporting on certain types of cases. That's what I wanted you to know about. There was a big court case surrounding that last one. It's the reason she's been transferred here. One of our sponsors also invests in a big Tokyo newspaper where she used to work."

Fat Gum scratched his chin lightly, frowning.

"Sounds like a lotta words for a simple warning, Tachibana. What exactly do you want me to know?"

"Some of the cases she covered don't exactly put heroes ... in the best light. It's why nobody in the big cities wants to employ her anymore. That court case she was involved in was a good example. The hero didn't come out of it looking great at all. One could say ... his career pretty much went downhill from there. So listen."

Tachibana leaned in urgently, voice lowering even further.

"I had no say in her ending up here. Just ... watch your back, okay? Be extra careful with how you handle cases from now on."

Fat Gum reacted exactly the way Tamaki expected him to. He chuckled, fishing a now slightly cold taiyaki from the paper carton he carried.

"That's it?"

Tachibana let out a frustrated huff.

"I knew you wouldn't take this seriously enough. Just ... just be careful. And don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn him about what?"

A distinct feminine voice, calm and crisp, sounded from behind them. Tamaki froze before turning slowly. Tachibana's complexion had lost a little of its ruddiness.

It looked like the subject of their conversation  had turned up at a most ... inopportune time.

You'd done your research on the area, of course. Which was the reason you'd known about him; BMI hero, Fat Gum. Seeing him in person was ... certainly something, though. You'd seen pictures of him, but nothing had prepared you for how tall he was in his current form.

He towered over the two youngsters who were, presumably, his interns or sidekicks, and definitely dwarfed the diminutive assistant editor who was now looking at you as if you'd donned a tengu mask and danced threateningly in front of him holding a spear.

Your eyes met Fat Gum's, the large, tawny-gold irises surrounded by the black material of his mask, disconcerting in their wide, frank appraisal. He grinned and the lengthening of his sizeable mouth heralded a low rumble that then pitched forward seamlessly into a full throated laugh. His belly heaved and he slapped Tachibana's shoulder so hard the smaller man stumbled forward. Fat Gum wiped a tear of mirth away from his eye, completely oblivious, it seemed, to the tension that had permeated the air.

"Now this'll make a funny story."

He waved to you, large hand encased in a worn, red glove of sturdy material.

"Hiya. You must be the new columnist."

You nodded slowly before approaching.

"I am. But are introductions really in order? It seems Mister Tachibana was doing a good enough job before I came along."

The assistant editor sputtered.

"Now, I meant no harm. You have to understand - "

"Ya, he was telling me watch my back 'round you, missy," Fat Gum chirped cheerfully.

One of the sidekicks, a dark-haired boy, moaned slightly before covering his face. The other boy flashed a sharp row of teeth in an amused grin. Fat Gum continued undeterred, now munching on a stick of pocky he had pulled from God-knows-where.

"That ain't gonna change how I work, obviously. You're welcome over at my agency any time! Come see how we do things. Get to know the town. You're gonna need to be familiar with stuff if you wanna get in on the good stories, ya know?"

So saying, he handed you a stick of pocky. You took it. You weren't sure you had a choice in the matter. Fat Gum offered a small salute and a "See ya!" before turning his portly form towards the main road and ambling off, trailing his sidekicks in his sizeable wake.

Tachibana mumbled some half-hearted apology before hurrying into the building, leaving you standing on the street with your satchel slung over your shoulder.

Well.

That was certainly one way to start your first day at work. Your patchy history with pro-heroes had followed you all the way out here, it seemed. Not that you expected any different. This hero, Fat Gum, seemed genuinely unconcerned though.

Raising the stick of pocky to your mouth thoughtfully, you took a bite.

[library-ghoulette]

Under the Spell - Chapter 1/?

Pairing: Mary Goore x f!OC

Rating: Teen and up (later chapters will be mature to explicit)

Tags: first person POV, Sister of Sin OC, he/they Mary Goore, smoking, banter, flirting, Sister Imperator jumpscare

Words: 657

Summary: Mary Goore is spending the summer at the Abbey to assist with the Ghost Project when one of the Sisters of Sin catches his eye. Can they find love--or even just a place to hook up--under the wrathful gaze of Sister Imperator?

A/N: I was supposed to be finishing another fic, but this little chapter struck me like lightning, and I could not bear to let it go unwritten for even one more night. I'm thinking there will be 4 or 5 chapters by the time it's done.

ao3 link

divider by @gothdaddyissues

“Those’ll kill ya, you know.”

I look up from trying–unsuccessfully–to light my cigarette to see them striding across the courtyard toward me. All long legs, knees peeking through torn denim, self-assured swagger, yesterday’s skull paint still smeared across their smirking face. 

“You’d know a thing or two about dying,” I retort, words muffled by the cigarette dangling from my lips.

“Blasphemous rumors, babe. Here.” He holds out a cheap plastic lighter and I lean in, letting him give me a light before he settles next to me on the wrought iron bench.

“Thanks,” I say. “And don’t call me babe.”

They finish lighting their own cigarette and ask, “Well, what can I call you?”

I tell him my name. He holds out a hand to introduce himself, but I cut him off. “Oh, I know who you are.”

“That right?”

Mary Goore. Not clergy for damn sure, not even really Ministry, but summoned into our unhallowed halls on occasion even so. 

Mary fucking Goore, the very picture of “came back wrong,” but who always makes it look so right.

I nod, exhaling a lungful of smoke into the early summer afternoon. All of the Sisters of Sin have been abuzz since his arrival a few days ago. Half of them annoyed by the distraction that he presented, the other half eager to be driven to distraction by him.

“Sister Imperator told us all about you,” I say.

Their eyebrow cocks at my words. “Oh yeah? What did she have to say?”

“That you’re here on important Ghost Project business.” I straighten my spine, sitting up primly. “And that we are not to bother you, or to interfere.”

He snorts a sardonic laugh. “In other words, stay away from the big bad wolf.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, you’re doing a pretty shitty job of staying away from me.”

“You’re the one who came to me,” I remind them.

He grants me a smile, a genuine one, and regards me with a mixture of amusement and respect before conceding, “Touche, Sister.”

A moment passes as we smoke in silence, gazing out over the courtyard–the flowering trees still holding onto some of their spring petals, the sun peeking through the clouds a promise of heat to come. Their knee brushes against mine and I try to ignore the swoop I feel low in my belly at the grazing contact.

“So what brings you out here?” he asks. “Smoking alone?”

I roll my eyes. “Hard Latin lesson.”

“See, that’s what I don’t get about this place,” they say with frustration. “You hear ‘Sisters of Sin,’ ‘Satanic nuns,’ you think they’re having a good time. Then you get here and it’s all Latin classes and rosaries and polishing pews and shit.”

“So why do you stay?” 

“Eh, the Ministry coffers pay pretty well.” He gives me a long, appraising look, up and down. “And the views are nice.”

Before I can think of what to say to that, I hear Sister Imperator’s voice ringing out. “Goore! Get over here!”

“Uh-oh,” I sing-song, looking over to where she stands at the edge of the courtyard, hands planted on her hips. “She sounds pissed.”

Mary stands with a groan, every movement radiating reluctance. “Welp, duty calls, babe.”

They walk a few steps away before turning back to me and saying, “Catch!” as they toss something at me, fast.

“Hey!” I fumble but manage to catch the lighter in one hand. 

“I’m going to want that back, you know!” they call over their shoulder.

“Whatever! And don’t call me babe!”

They wave me off, leaving me in a wake of smoke and dismissive laughter. I watch them disappear into the Abbey, Sister Imperator berating them all the way. 

I’m left holding a rectangle of cheap red plastic that feels heavier in my hand than it has any right to, wondering in spite of myself when I’ll be called upon to return it.

[self-shipping-doll13]

#2 - Warmth | Claws

Spooktober prompt: Warmth | Claws

Wc: 1433

My cloak fastened securely around my neck, I pushed open the great wooden doors, and the Springtime sun’s warmth fell upon my face, gentle as a kiss.

The air I breathed in was fragrant with the scent of loamy soil, freshly tilled and ready for new growth. Winter’s snow had melted away in the change of the season, and tufts of grass bordered the mud I trod on. After last night’s rains, it had moistened into a damp, sucking slush that gave way under my boot.

As I passed by the central hub of the town, I saw the Spring wagons had rolled in and set up shop, drawing in crowds of haggling people. Stalls that sold cheap foraged greens were in abundance: garlic, leeks, radishes, sorrel, dandelion leaves, nettles, and other assorted herbs were in store. Old women traded spools of wool and woven baskets, hardy men showed off leatherworking tools, and young children held out bouquets of colourful wildflowers, tugging shyly at my skirts before fleeing to beg to other strangers. Sheep bleated in pens in the markets, leaning over their rickety fence enclosures in search of pats.

Still, It was calving and lambing season, and most kept their livestock near and dear, to usher in the babies that would grow up into fully formed repayments.

These were not the only newborns causing a ruckus. Near the outskirts of the city, a farmer’s mouser had recently given birth to a litter of a dozen squalling kittens. But there were too many for him to keep himself, he’d reasoned, so it was more profitable to trade or sell them off. Cats were kept to cull the rodents that plagued the crops and the grain stores. But more than that, I thought they made for excellent companions. More than once, I’d felt my ankles rubbed by slinky feline bodies, stooped low, and found those clever yellow eyes pleading for treats.

And so when I invited myself into the light-dappled stable, the recovered mother cat - a pretty striped girl by the name of some foreign fruit - was perched on a wooden fence, bathing herself leisurely. The time for her motherhood had almost ended, and she was ready to go back to her life as an independent woman. I tickled her under her soft white chin as I walked past.

Her kittens were all playing or sleeping together in a cosy little nook filled with hay. Their small, fuzzy bodies were a blur of motion, all batting paws and pointed, twitching tails. For a while I just stopped to take joy in their clumsy tumblings, until I was confronted by a ruddy-faced man with a wooden pitchfork in his hand.

After a brief negotiation, they were placed in my arms.

Both were a cool, silvery grey. One was almost blue. Four honey-coloured eyes stared wide up at me, and stirrings of protection, nurturing, rose up within.

They were still bundled up the folds in my cloak when I swept past the leather divider that separated our chambers from the Great Hall. My cheeks stung from the nipping cold, and must’ve been ruby-red. Ivar was drinking from a horn of mead on a chair by the pit when he raised his brows at my hurried entry. “So these are the cats I’ve been hearing so much about,” he sighed in a long-suffering, affectionate sort of way.

“Yes, here they are.” I lifted them out and put them each standing upright on their paws. They found themselves in the swaddle of an old blanket.

“Huh. They’re… Small.” Ivar said, and leaned forward, squinting, as if he didn’t quite expect them to be.

“They’re supposed to grow up quickly,” I replied, tossing off my cloak. “So they’ll be big soon.”

The kittens were looking around themselves at this huge new world and timidly shivering. The bluer one was silent, and had stopped crying to his mother for milk long ago. The other, a silvery little cloud, was more boisterous and hardy, shouting out in a tiny voice.

We’d made an agreement months prior, when the babies were very recently born. I had been lucky enough to witness it, to observe this blessing from the gods, this miracle of life. The number was too many for the tired mother cat to cope with, and one other patchy female had been introduced so the stragglers might latch on and suckle. Charmed, I had argued my case to take in some of the kittens late one Wintry evening, when the sun had sunken far below the horizon, as slow and ponderous as liquid amber.

“And what are you going to do with a dozen cats?”

“Not all of them,” I clarified, twirling a double-pronged wooden fork in my hand. I was stuffed from Yol, trying to figure out if I could manage another mouthful.

Ivar snorted. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Maybe… Two?” I suggested, a bit slyly, and then explained my reasoning: “So they can keep each other company, and keep me company when you’re away.”

For a moment he thought. He shifted, and the table, suspended by chains from the rafters, shifted with him. Carving up a portion of meat, he suddenly acquiesced. “Two, hm? Two it is, then.”

I trailed off a little, having expected more resistance. “That’s it? Like that?”

“Just keep them off the bed,” Ivar said, chewing his pork leisurely. “I’m not sharing it with a bunch of cats.”

I was unable to keep the grin off my face. With a sudden, girlish burst of delight - one I rarely had the chance to convey until recently - I shot up from my seat and rounded the meal table to shower him in kisses. The iron links shuddered, the whole table wobbling. Ivar was enticed by my unguarded cheerfulness, reserved for his eyes only, and pulled me tightly against him as I settled smugly into his lap.

“Huh,” he accepted the morsel of cheese, listening to my impassioned rant; pushing my luck, mayhaps. “Like Bygul and Trjegul. who pull the chariot of Freyja.”

“Yes, like them,” I said happily.

He’d liked the idea quite well after that.

Presently I watched over the kittens. The quiet one was easy to pacify, his sweet eyes drooping as I rubbed his blue head with the pad of my finger. While he fell soundly asleep in his makeshift nursery, the other rebelled. Soon he broke away from me and was flouncing bravely over to Ivar, who held his mead in his mouth in confusion for a moment before swallowing.

“Are you,” Ivar started. “Coming to me?”

With a kind of uncertain amusement, he stretched out an unusually peace-making hand. In an instant, the kitten backed away warily. Ivar looked almost insulted.

I chuckled at the exchange. “He’s thinking you’re a giant, but he doesn’t want to fight you just yet.”

“Nonsense. He’s going to, whether he wants it or not.”

Ivar discarded the horn, pushing himself off his chair, and stopped at a fair distance to rest on his forearms. He watched curiously, which made me glad. I’d hoped that Ivar would grow to enjoy them, at least passingly, and not find them to be nuisances. But he seemed to be more receptive to the idea than I’d thought.

The kitten was slinking his furry body into the drape of our bedsheets, his tail quivering into a brush. “Where’s he going?” I asked, but received no answer. Ivar was smirking in that mischievous way. Shuffling over, I saw the kitten had dug his claws into the furs like he was climbing a mountain with icepicks, looking unsure, and I began to fret. “Careful, he’s going to fall—“

“Let him, let him,” Ivar waved me off, and brought himself closer to observe him. I held out a hand below the kitten’s rump anyway. Cats in the stories all landed on the pads of their paws, but this baby seemed so tiny and fragile. The ground underneath was hard wood, not laden with soft pelts like the main area was.

But to my relief, the kitten clambered up the fabric quite confidently once he found his courage. I blushed in at how much I’d fretted, just seconds ago. He was sniffing at our bedding, pressing his small paws into the plush furs as if kneading dough. Not in danger at all.

We both sat together in equally as awkward positions, and then, the unspoken words between us: this is not doing a very good job of keeping him off the bed.

Ivar quickly lifted him off by the scruff of his neck.

Dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[irismfrost]

July 15 - Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall, the Grand Hotel, and Shilin Night Market

The memorial hall looks like the Taiwanese version of the Lincoln Memorial. Chiang Kai-Shek was a leader of the opposition in the Chinese Civil War before WW2. He then fought for China in the second Sino-Japanese War. After Japan was defeated at the end of WW2, he continued his fight against the Communist Party in China. Defeated in the Civil War, he fled to Taiwan. That is why Taiwan is officially named the Republic of China (ROC). He made Taiwan into a “little China”. Despite the memorial dedicated to him, the Taiwanese people have mixed feelings about him. On one hand, he represented freedom from Communist China and on the other, he took over what already existed in Taiwan. At the memorial, there are 3 words above his statue that represent what he stood for: ethics, democracy, and science. However, as much as he promised democracy, he changed the constitution to leave him in power until he died. His son succeeded him and built the memorial in his name. Eventually, the US influenced the country into a democracy with a similar system used in the US. The memorial is divided into these two different perspectives. One side shows all of his positive achievements and the other shows all of his less-than-stunning side. He is also not buried at the memorial, and is actually not laid to rest at all. He wished to be buried at his home in China after Taiwan reconnected to China. That hasn’t happened (yet?), so he hasn’t been buried. That is another example of why not all Taiwanese like him, because he never saw Taiwan as his home.

We also visited the capitol building, it is basically the Taiwanese version of the White House, except the President doesn’t live there. Not much to report there. 

Next, we visited the Grand Hotel. This is the largest building in traditional Chinese architecture, where the most important people were welcomed into the country. It was created by madam Chiang Kai-Shek, Soong Mei-ling, who actually lived until 105 years old and passed in 2003. From movie stars to presidents, many important events took place here (and still do). It is located at one of the highest points in Taipei with a killer view. A few people in our group were able to buy some luck charms from a lady in the hotel for really cheap. She really liked us and our team had some fire negotiation skills. We got over 15 charms for about 10 USD. 

Our last stop was the Shilin Night Market. Compared to the Raohe Night Market, it was more organized, had wider streets, and the products seemed a little higher quality. It was also much larger, the largest in Taipei actually. However, there is so much fried food at these night markets, I can barely eat. I had what was basically a mozzarella stick with extra dough around the outside and it was good for the first few bites and then I just felt sick. I also got these grilled mushrooms which looked good and actually weren’t bad, but by that point, the mozzarella stick was not sitting right so I barely ate the mushrooms. 

I have been walking so much recently, and I’ve opted to take the stairs instead of the escalators at the metro station when available because why not, so my lower body is killing me. I definitely need sleep so badly. 

Reflection

Chiang Kai-Shek was a very powerful guy. It takes a strong character to lead a revolution, lose, convince followers to permanently leave their homes, and portray yourself as a savior in the country you are taking over. But he did it. He brought a new culture to Taiwan and is the reason that there is such a strong Chinese influence here. When he first came to Taiwan, China was moving away from traditional styles, so he made Taiwan into what he thought China should be, “little China”. At the memorial, there are two large, traditional Chinese buildings on either side of the square. They house a music hall and a theater. The square is called Freedom Square and modeled after Tiananmen Square in China. Based on the limited knowledge I have, I think he wasted his time making Taiwan into his ideal replica of China. I think that maybe he was never able to accept his loss in the Civil War and he dealt with that by trying to prove to China that he could lead a more successful version. And he had a strong enough character to make an entire country help him with that - a little scary, but also a little impressive. 

I am surprised by the food here. I wasn’t really sure exactly what to expect, but I figured that there would be some nice vegetarian options for me, as about 14% of the population is vegetarian, and I thought the food would be healthier than in the US. I was wrong. Today, I had my first real meal since I’ve been here (aside from hotpot earlier this week, but I didn’t feel like that style of eating was made for a vegetarian). It was good ramen. The soup base was a summer special of pumpkin. It has some great noodles, tofu, egg, mushrooms, and some other veggies. There was so much of it that I wasn’t able to finish it, and when I asked for a to-go box, they boxed it for me. I’ve noticed that customer service is a high priority here. Everyone just seems to care about other people so much. Yesterday, a random man gave me his cold, unopened water because I was struggling with the water dispenser (they all have hot and cold settings). 

It’s strange to think about the contrast between a culture that’s so caring and a founding “president” who created a world for himself. Maybe they are influenced by each other.

[goodlucktai]

I dunno if you’re still doing requests, so feel free to pass! But I started reading your whole page and I’m a little bit in love with your characterization of 2k12 Leo, and I was wondering if you might write something about his dynamic with April? to be clear I do not mean shipping! I just think they’re interesting friends and it’s hard to find fics that do her justice without mary sue-ing her, and I liked seeing them interact in the show. Anyway have a good day!

this is set in 2012—but the turtles are all different ages, like they are in rottmnt, because i love it <3

x

The lair is silent when April lets herself in. The TV in the den is on, down low, but Casey is the only one in there and he’s not even watching it. He’s sitting on the outer lip of the pit, his feet in one of the seats, knee bouncing anxiously. 

“Hey,” she calls over, unnecessarily. She thinks she’s had his attention since before she hopped the turnstiles. Running with a ninja clan has done wonders for Casey’s sense of awareness, and April’s, too. Still, she waits for him to look at her before she lifts the bags in her hands and says, “I got the food. Can you get the guys?”

“You think they’re really gonna eat?” Casey asks. There are shadows under his eyes. 

“They will when I accidentally let them see the receipt,” April says, lifting her chin and refusing to feel guilty about the underhanded play. “Five Guys isn’t cheap. They owe it to me.”

Casey blinks, and then a smile creeps across his face. It looks like it doesn’t know what it’s doing there. “Nice. Divide and conquer? It’ll take me like three business days to extract Don from the lab, but Raph’ll be easy if I lie and tell him we’re going topside to beat down some Dragons.”

“Deal,” April says, bumping elbows with him as they pass each other. 

The kitchen is dark, and there’s a thin layer of dust over the counter and the appliances. It feels wrong to disturb the room, almost like she’s upsetting a shrine—but she squashes that thought down hard and punts it out of her head for good measure. It’s not a memorial to anybody. It’s just a room they’re not really using right now. 

He would want them to eat, April tells herself. The thought lends her courage, because she knows it’s the truth. So she sets the bags down, takes a deep breath, and moves down the hall to collect Leonardo. 

She can hear the steady beeping of the EKG machine before she pushes open the bedroom door. Leo’s cool blue eyes meet hers from his vigil at the side of the bed, and he manages to scrape together a smile for her. 

“Hi,” he says at length. 

“Hi, Bossman,” she replies warmly, stepping inside. 

They moved Mikey into his room so that he’d be more comfortable. Donnie spent a full day getting the equipment set up just right—a blank, mechanic way about him as he arranged the pillows and stuffed toys and blankets until he was satisfied. 

It went unsaid that Mikey might be sleeping for a long while. He hit his head hard during that fight a week ago. He woke up once, very briefly, on the way home, but he wasn’t lucid enough to answer any of his siblings’ frantic questions. His muddy blue eyes skated across their faces, lingering as long as they could, and then closed again. 

His brain activity is strong, his vitals are stable, he just isn’t waking up. 

And poor Leo takes every instance of his brothers’ hurt so personally, but there’s something especially brutal about it when it’s Mikey. The baby. Fourteen years old, next to Leo’s crowning eighteen. Of course it’s hard. Raph and Donnie are miserable, too. 

But the weight of Leo’s imagined failures press him down and down and down until April can’t remember what he looks like with his head held high. He really hates himself for it, every time. 

He’s the leader. He’s the oldest. It’s his responsibility to look after the rest of them, and when he can’t—when he fails—it takes a little more from him each time. It chips away at that shining boy he used to be. April is worried, constantly, of what will happen when there’s no more for him to give.

She sits down next to him and puts her head on his shoulder. She hears his breathing hitch, but otherwise he doesn’t react. At times like these, she misses Splinter so badly it’s a real, physical ache in her chest. His kindness and wisdom is so sorely needed. His children hadn’t had a chance to outgrow him before he was ripped away—not even his eldest. 

“Dinnertime,” April says, her voice a gentle, unyielding thing in the warmly-lit room. 

“I’m not hungry,” Leo replies by rote. “Thank you, though.”

“I wasn’t asking, kiddo,” April says. This draws him up short. He turns to look at her so quickly that he dislodges her head from his shoulder. She doesn’t take it back, though; if anything, she digs her heels in. 

She’s picking up a heavy mantle, but she can’t bear the thought of leaving it for someone else to find. Or worse, the thought of no one else coming along, and Leo continuing on the way he always has—carrying it alone. 

She thought about it on the way over. She should’ve made this official much sooner.

“I’m not a kid,” Leo says slowly, more bewildered than anything. 

“You’ll always be a kid to me.” April folds her arms in all her nineteen-year-old glory, officially the oldest teenager in the room. “And as your big sister, it’s my job to bully you into that kitchen and feed you an overpriced burger. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Here’s a spoiler—the hard way is getting your big brother involved. And Casey’s version of asking politely is dragging you the whole way kicking and screaming. So what’ll it be?”

Leo’s eyes are wide and moonlike. He has no idea how to make sense of what he’s hearing. He’s never once been little-brothered by anybody. He hasn’t been the one taken care of since Splinter died. 

He doesn’t seem to hate the idea. 

But his eyes stray back to the bed like an act of gravity. “I don’t want to leave him,” Leo says quietly. “What if he wakes up by himself?”

“He won’t, dummy. ‘Cause I’ll be here,” April tells him. Of course she’ll be here. This is where her family lives. 

And the whole family is home when Mikey finally wakes up a few days later. Raph’s hoarse voice shouts down the hall, and the rest of them sprint with ninja-grade intensity all the way to Mikey’s room, jostling each other at the door. Mikey looks groggy and disgruntled, and stretches his limbs out like he’s waking up from a halfway decent nap, but he smiles automatically when he sees his siblings. And just like that, the sun comes out. 

Leo plants himself on the edge of the bed, and it would clearly take an act of god to move him. Donnie visibly resigns himself to working around him. That frightening, icy look in Donnie’s eyes has finally thawed back into that familiar blend of wicked cleverness and shy sweetness that his family so adores, and he keeps glancing up from the machines to catch Mikey’s eye like they’re telling a whole host of inside jokes in a secret, silent language. Raph and Casey are talking over each other, trying to catch Mikey up on everything he’s missed, more animated now than they’ve been in the last two weeks combined.

Mikey is still tired and not very talkative, but he soaks in all the attention like a little plant soaking up the sun. When April is able to muscle her way in, he beams up at her, and leans in to the kiss she plants on his forehead.

“Hey sis,” he croaks. He’s often a step ahead of the rest of them, but only those times when they least expect it. April has no idea what she’d do without him. “Thanks for keeping an eye on these jokers.”

“Of course, baby,” she says. She looks at Leo and adds, “That’s my job.”

Leo shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He’s holding his head a little bit higher than before. April will take it.

[leam1983]

Oblivion

So. Tomorrow, we're flying back home.

Seven days. A week spent with a small legion at my beck and call, bending to Walt's every whim, acceeding to Sarah's every request. One massive kitchen divided between four dining rooms, serving up everything from Americano-Mexican tentpoles to recomposed would-be Taino dishes, with a buffet where passable is the order of the day. Mornings were bland Continental breakfast affairs, but the evenings shone brightly, capstoned with the best cigars I've had in the last three years and the best damn Cappuccino in a decade.

Seven days realizing that an army is re-making my bed, giving me clean sheets every morning and fresh towels on the dot, showing extreme deference for my walker-using ass. A little cohort of maids paid Cheap Labor wages to smile, respond to everything with Es mi placer, señor, and pushed into treating USD tips in the single digits like they're Godly gifts.

You can bet that Walt was so appalled by this he starting leaving twenties. "These poor girls - cleaning up people's shit and vomit after the douchebags three doors down the hall spend the evening getting plastered on Mojitos - and not an ounce of gratitude!"

People started asking questions. Our passable Spanish led to us forming basic bonds with the staff, and turned our little bungalow in the Adults Only section into the talk of the resort. People with less manners started asking for drinks delivery and had to handle polite rebuffs, where we got the sense that the Room Service people were starting to network with the Pool Bar guys to figure out our schedule of preferred drinks.

Eventually, what had to happen happened. My feet were so swollen I couldn't put on my closed-toes shoes for the evening, as the dress code requests, but the staff didn't bat an eyelash when i wheeled in, looking like someone's favourite Math teacher, with socks and sandals. A Karen whose husband had completely overlooked the dress code was shocked.

"Why does he get to head inside dressed like this, and my husband can't?"

Yamilet, 23, born and raised in Santo Domingo and using the thankless job of the French Cuisine-oriented dining room's maître d' to pay her way through nursing school when she's not in church, gave her a Crest commercial-worthy smile.

Is un especial guest. Disculpe - see his legs. Mira?

For once in my life, I was happy to be singled out as disabled.

What really emerged from this is how gratitude really is crucial, when you're travelling. Everyone I heard who spouted variations on "having paid for the right to do whatever they wanted" received piss-poor service. Everyone who lowered their voice in a corridor, who showed basic deference and treated the staff like human beings received distinctly improved treatment. It wasn't just us - we noticed several other cultural groups in the resort, and I was actually thankful to draw a clear line between the nice Americans - and the douchebags.

In open spaces like the buffet, it's kind of impossible not to eavesdrop. If you're on vacation and you're still griping about your Democrat neighbours when you're halfway across the hemisphere from your point of origin, you're coloring your entire stay. The Trumptards who demanded service came in pissed off, stayed ornery and left irate. Anyone else, from anywhere else in the world, who politely asked, language barriers be damned, got what they asked for.

The Semester-Enders were hard to miss, too. Sixteen kids in total, barely in their twenties, who'd clearly pooled cash to rent swim-up suites together, and who turned the All-Ages section of the pool into a nightmare. There wasn't an inch of it that wasn't their private Football Toss area, and no resort-provided pool float that they just didn't claim for themselves.

It allowed for a sense of liminality to settle in. On one end of the more or less football-field-length of pool, you had pure chaos. On the other, placid waters, where the Adults Only club and our bungalow was located. I recovered the float I'd bought for myself, one of the Spring Breakers giving me a florid-faced and pleading look.

"Come on, bro!"

I gestured towards the back. "You've got seven other floats, over there, plus an inflatable mattress. I bought this one and brought it here. As it's my possession, I'd like to use it."

He chuckled meanly. "Nobody cares, man."

Christopher, 27, from Bàvàro, gave the guy a level look while climbing down from his lifeguard chair. "Everything okay, señores?"

"Me? Oh, everything's swell, Chris. It's the gentleman over there that's operating under weird delusions."

Chris nodded, his facial language obvious. Another one of those, huh? I nodded.

He smiled. No te preocupas, amigo.

The kid's response stuck with me. Nobody cares. Is this why some people work so much, hustle their way to a therapist and then book a week off to someplace where there's palapas, Afro-Cuban covers of Celine Dion classics and drinks that would make a medicated diabetes sufferer scream in abject terror? You put your ass to the grindstone and your only hope of recovery is to find a place, however theoretical, where nobody gives a shit?

Walt, Sarah and I brainstormed. We planned ahead. We rested aplenty, sure, and napped even more than we do back home - but this place energized us. We were free to create, and spent a week being the best versions of ourselves that we could possibly be.

For other people? It's apparently Adult Daycare. You get up at nine past the breakfast buffet's closure, complain that you can't get any service, throw yourself on yesterday evening's pizza, knock back cocktails starting at 11 AM and end up throwing up in the kiddie pool by 5 PM. You throw a fit because the pool boys had the gall to lift your limp ass out of the wading area before you could drown yourself while passed-out in a puddle-sized expanse of water. Because you're in your twenties, your brush with death is all but forgotten by 8 PM, and you head to the lobby's bar to knock back tequila shots with your fellow jabronis. The wee hours see you treating the public hallways like your personal hangout space, exchanging football huddle cries with equally-inebriated kids with no sense of their own mortality.

To all this should be added the resort's sense of liminality. If you forget your optimal route to your room, you'll end up in an entirely different resort. Pools look the same, everything's connected, and everyone feels transitory, obviously. It's the ersatz of a place. It's as impersonal as a hotel, except the staff are all stuck under a pall of fake-ass exoticism they can't shed. The equator line being so close means days are blisteringly hot and painfully short. By 7 PM, the sun's all but gone - and we're in May.

Nobody stays. Nobody leaves an impression. I've regaled Yamilet and Christopher with tales of La Banquise and of Schwartz' smoked meat or the bagel bakeries on St-Viateur - but I'll forget their faces just as they'll forget mine. We spent a week treating one another like culturally Latin brethren - Québécois deference having always meshed well with Cuban and Dominican confidence - but we won't remember one another in short order.

Single-serving friends, as Pahlaniuk once said.

I might as well head to the gift shop, swallow my pride and see if there's a tee-shirt on offer that reads I went to the Carribbean, and all I got for it was a lousy sunburn.

[parcequecestnotreprojeeeet]

Hello! It's Winter. I am loving everyone's stories lately. Keep em coming!

From down the hall, Emmanuel could hear grunting, cursing and shouting. To the best of his knowledge, his wife was alone in their bedroom. As he moved closer to their door, he started to make out specific words she was saying. Her tone was harsh like she was upset with someone. Emmanuel hoped it wasn’t him. He couldn’t think of anything he was guilty of doing that would have set her off. 

“Cherie?” He lightly tapped on the door before opening it. “It’s me” 

“Come in” she grunted. 

The scene in front of him was perplexing. Brigitte’s beautiful designer clothes were scattered across the floor. Expensive scarves were rolled up into tiny balls and stilettos and boots had been divided into two large piles. She was currently on her knees sorting through a mountain of Louis Vuitton blazers. 

“What are you doing?” 

She pointed to the larger of the two piles. “I’m donating these to charity or to my daughters - if they want them” 

Emmanuel kneeled beside her, rubbing her back. “Why? You love all these outfits”. He glanced at the pile of shoes in horror. “Brigitte! There must be at least 40 pairs here!” 

Carefully he picked out a pair and held them up. “These are your favourite Chanel boots! They were an anniversary gift from me” 

She pointed to a new pair of shoes, ones he’d never seen before. “These will be my new everyday shoes from now on” 

Emmanuel picked the flat-heeled, brown, cheap-looking shoes off the floor with disgust. “They’re hideous! They look like something a grandmother would wear! Where did you even find these? A flea market?” 

She snatched them from his hand. “In case you weren’t aware, I am a grandmother!” 

He scoffed. “You’re not a typical grandma! Brigitte, why are you getting rid of everything? What has gotten into that brilliant head of yours?” 

Suddenly...Just like that, it hit him like a ton of bricks. All the negative articles that had been published recently about her wardrobe, how she dressed too young for her age, the colour of her hair, and the length of her skirts had all been criticized. 

Emmanuel scooped the pile of beautiful shoes up in his arms. 

“Where are you going with those?!” She shrieked. 

“I’m putting them back on the shelf! I won’t let you toss these away because of some stupid people’s bullshit opinions! I happen to love the way you dress, and I know how much you adore your clothes! You look damn good in them too! Please, don’t let these fools change your appearance” 

Lightly touching his leg, she smiled up at her husband. “I don’t embarrass you with my short dresses? Or the blonde hair?” 

He bent down to capture her lips. “Never! You’d embarrass me if you started dressing like a 90-year-old woman. Do not cover up those sexy legs! I don't want you dressing the way my mother does” 

Emmanuel offered to help put everything back in her closet. Once they were done, they stared blankly at the ugly pair of brown shoes on the floor.

“What should I do with those? I paid good money for them!” Brigitte teased.  

“How much were they??” He asked in horror, afraid she paid hundreds of dollars for those awful-looking things. 

She covered her mouth and with a giggle replied, “$10” 

He playfully tickled her stomach. “That’s $10 too much, Cherie! I have an idea  - we can let Nemo chew on them. They won’t go to waste” 

Hellooo Winter! ❤️

Yes Brigitte, you just dress whatever you feel comfortable with and to the hell with the people’s opinions!

In the meantime, Nemo won a new “toy” hahaha

Thank you so much, Winter! ❤️❤️❤️

[kenneth-carson]

Day 2: Family Ties One-Shot - The Demon is Summoned

Warnings: thoughts about religion and twisting it to make sense of their actions.

Baruch was on his way back to the apartment after perhaps the longest shift in his entire life, though he was only able to think this due to being unaware of what the coming week would bring him. He had walked the same path for months now, each step bringing the sole of his foot closer and closer to the sidewalk below as the leather of his shoes wore themselves thin. It was almost winter. The season he dreaded and yet loved all the same. Soon the trees would be bare, their glorious rainbowed leaves lost and snow would dust the earth, making these walks just that much more miserable. 

He would not complain about it. Instead he would smile, get home from work and allow his kids to bring his already weary bones down to the little patch of nothing across from the building they lived inside to be bombarded by snowballs and their little bodies, wrestled down into the freezing ground, warmed only by their laughter. 

There was a worry of what they would eat. This was not new, as this had been his worry for years, but there was always another layer of dread when it came to the winter. Baruch knew they would get through it, he just hated to see his family suffer as much as they did in the cold, hoping for something warm to at least fill them before they could sleep.

The building was quiet as he climbed the steps, one by one, up to the 5th floor where their door lay just down the hall. There were only a few hours left before the sun would begin to rise, but even before then people would wake up and begin the processes of the day. 

His wife was one of those people, which was why he found her in the kitchen as he entered the tenement. At least, that is what it was supposed to be. Buildings like this had not been made with the thought of comfort or accommodation, they had been built cheap and quick to have a place for people to go. Their room, as it was really just one 13 by 15 feet wide area that they had put a divider of sewn together scrap fabric to separate the kitchen from the rest, had no windows or ventilation to think of. The only days it did not smell of sweat and skin was when his wife had enough supplies to bake bread. 

Everyone else was on the other side of the curtain in their beds. Their two children slept in their bed, his 3 brothers had their own sleeping mats that they had scrounged up from around the neighborhood. There was another family that lived with them. Perfect strangers when they had moved in that spoke Italian while they had only known German, but they had both been working on their English to be able to communicate to one another. A man, his wife, their son who was almost a man himself, and his wife’s mother. The Castiglione’s, who Baruch considered family, now, too. He felt that they had to be, living under the same roof and sharing meals with them everyday. If they were not he would be more fearful of where his children laid their heads to sleep every night. 

As soon as Leah noticed he had entered she crossed the room, fussing over him. His coat was torn off his shoulders, body marched to the table where she forced him to sit, hands already tearing at his shoe strings to yank them from his feet. “Where have you been!” 

“English, Leah, English,” Baruch reminded her. 

“Not when I am angry!” she continued to whisper at him in their native German. He was always amazed at the way she was able to express the emotion without the use of volume. In fact, he found her the most terrifying when she said nothing at all, just allowed her fury to be expressed by her body alone. “You have not been home in 2 days, Baruch. I could not understand what Ernesto was trying to tell me and Jakob was no help!” 

“I should hope not,” he chuckled, slumping forward against the table. Now that he was no longer moving and in the warmth of their home, which was always warm due to the oven and shared body heat, he could feel how tired he was. It ran straight through to the bone, his limbs heavy. “He is too young to be going to find work.”

“There are children working all over this city, you oblivious fool,” she scolded him before setting down a steaming mug beside his arms. He felt greedy in his need to grab it between his palms, to get his fingers to warm quicker. The smell of tea was strong, earthy and bitter. He knew he should let it sit for a moment longer but he sipped at it anyway, letting it burn his tongue and the roof of his mouth. 

“Why am I the fool, my love? For not wanting my children to work in those places? They are children. They do not need to be working yet. Give them this time,” he said, concerned. “Why would you want them to go to these places?”

“You are a fool because you do this alone!” A plate was placed in front of him. He couldn’t see what was on it and didn’t care, Baruch ate it blind, happy to eat. “I don’t want them at a place that only sends you back to us 2 days after you have left. I do not want them here, either! In a room where they cannot grow in, surrounded by-”

“Careful,” Baruch warned. The sound of breathing was only just on the other side of a piece of fabric. 

“They do nothing all day when you are-”

“I am sure they do something, you just do not see-”

“-and I am always having to clean up their-”

“-if you ask, I am sure-”

“Enough!” Leah whispered, her hand reaching out to dig her nails into his wrist. They both tensed. It had been a long time since they had touched like that, skin on skin. Rare was it to have a moment alone in such a place and with such a schedule as his. 

Touch was not new for them, it had not been since they had been wed, bound together before God, but it may have been forgotten. He carefully placed his other hand over hers, pulling it free of his arm to bring it up to his mouth. Baruch placed a kiss on her knuckles and Leah took her hand back from him. 

After a moment of nothing but the scattered sleepy noises of their family from their places in the dark he continued to eat until his plate and cup were empty. 

“It’s my job to look after them,” Leah finally broke the silence, presumably because he had settled into his seat and was no longer occupied by an empty stomach. “The home is what I protect, what I run, what I keep. This is no home for them.” 

“I know,” he replied, voice soft. But his voice was always soft. It never held an edge, nothing harsh enough to be sharp. “I have told you, soon we will be able to gather enough to leave the city. We will go where the land is fruitful and trees are plentiful.” 

This earned him a huff of something that he was going to call amusement. “Do you even remember how to make a chair?”

“Of course I do,” he told her. “And many other things, too. I made the one you are sitting in now, did I not?”

“You repaired it,” Leah corrected. “This is not the same thing.”

“Just another skill I can offer.”

This time he could only hear her sigh. In the dark he couldn’t make out the details of her face but Baruch knew it just the same. It was soft around her cheeks, the apples of them going round and rosy when she smiled, yet her chin was strong. Her dark eyes were always searching, always assessing, never trusting. Baruch knew they were on him then, probably seeking out the lines of his own. It made him smile. 

“Their happiness is my responsibility,” he said, like she needed to be reminded. “Yours, too. Everyone in this house’s is. I will take care of you, you know I will.” 

“It is yours that I worry for,” Leah persisted. “Your happiness, your hands, your feet, your soul. It is the laziness of others that will pull you down and leave you with nothing left. Without you, then where will I be?” 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, concerned now. “Why do you think I am so close to death? Do you know something I don’t?” 

“We both know this, you just refuse to acknowledge it,” she gripped at him, slapping away his hands as they crossed the table toward her. “Those people you think are your brothers do not love you as much as you love them.” 

“Leah,” he warned, still gentle, “you cannot say these things.” 

“Of course I can. I am the only one who will! They do not work, they do not help, they do nothing but drag you down,” she whispered. “You have carried them across an ocean and somehow did not drown. You have passed your plate to them too many times so that they would eat while you starved. They have no children because no respectable person would marry a lazy sack of bones like them. You have two of your own, Baruch. Do you want them to grow up without you?” 

“Why do you think I am dying?” 

“Because they are killing you!” she hissed, though her voice seemed to break the shell of anger it had been hiding inside of all this time. “Two days you have been gone! Two days! None of them were willing to even look for you when I asked! I thought– I did not know if you were coming back!” 

He stood, moving around the table, fingers touching the edge to guide him, to kneel beside her chair. His hands found hers clutched tightly in her lap, he cradled them to his chest. “I will always come back to you.”

“You can not say these things, you fool,” she said. “Not here. Not when men do not come home everyday. Zivah lost Tamir not 3 weeks ago to mindless violence. By the hands of a stranger. That is all this place is! Strangers! There is no sense of community here among them. It is every person for themself, uncaring if they strike down someone with a family to go home to, so long as they get what they want. Your life could mean nothing to them! Nothing! And yet it means everything to me. To your son, to your daughter, and so it should mean it to you, too, yet you treat it like it is nothing at all.” 

“I don’t,” he tried. A comfort, not a defense. “I would never leave you or them. Ever.” 

“That choice is not always going to be yours to make. Someone will take it from you,” Leah insisted. “That is what I mean.”

“That is the risk we all must take in this world. You can not let these thoughts consume you like this,” he said, the pad of his thumb running over the knuckle of her hand. “You will run yourself ragged.” 

“You’re one to speak,” she scoffed. It made him smile and stand, pressing himself back up on his feet. 

“Come, let us rest.” 

“I have much to do,” she told him. Baruch tightened his hold on her hands, beckoning her to follow. 

In the end, she did. She had. Always. He had that effect on people, though, not just her. Some may call it a magnet but she had always thought of it like the sun and they the flowers, reaching for his light, wanting to bask in the warmth of him. Baruch always had plenty to share. 

They crawled into their bed, their children needing to be resettled into the middle while they took opposite sides, almost hanging off the edge. She felt him reach across their children to find her hand, fingers interlacing with her own. She sighed, knowing he had heard her this morning but that he would not think the worst of people, let alone his own family. 

Leah did not either, but it was becoming clear to her that the world wasn’t what it had been back home. It was safe there because she knew what to expect, knew how to navigate her way through. Here it was like a black hole outside the door, like it would consume everything and everyone with the never ending money that was needed and the crime people were willing to commit to get it. She had thought they were running away from the worst of it, but that had been an enemy she could understand. Here, in America, in this city of strangers and mystery, she had no idea what they were up against. 

Leah lay awake that night, listening to the rustles and breathing of those around her, and knew what must be done. She wanted security. She wanted her children and her children’s children and everyone else to come after to have that same security. To be able to face down a world unknown without feeling like this every night. 

Restless. Anxious. Tired. Scared. 

Helpless. 

She waited, her lips pressed to the top of Vered’s head, the girl’s hair tickling her chin and neck. It didn’t take long for Baruch to fall asleep. He was exhausted and yet always so at ease. There was nothing to keep him awake, even his own worries because he was so confident that he would be able to tidy them up in no time. Everything bad was only temporary, his focus unmatched. She wished some of it would rub off on her, to steal that easiness right from his shoulders so that she, too, could be optimistic for what was to come. 

Instead she stole the ring he kept on his pinky. A gold band with a dark gem in the middle. A family heirloom that would be passed down to their son as it had been given to Baruch by his father. 

It was the only thing about the Carson’s that was magic. They were Mundus through and through but this keepsake had been given in the times of old to protect a wandering man and his family from the likes of other men, greedier men, that roamed the land freely in return for a price they were more than willing to pay. 

The gem acted in whatever way it was needed, taking the shape of whatever its wearer could think of. Baruch had used it like a shield once, the object just appearing in his hands so that he could protect himself from an oncoming attacker. It had been a wheel, too, on her father’s carriage as Baruch had helped him return from a long journey back to their home. She had seen him use it many times. 

Today, Leah would use it. 

She left the room, locking the door to the apartment behind her, and began her descent. 

Leah went down the steps, one by one, until she reached the last floor. Still, she went lower. The basement of their building was waiting for her, the door to it standing alone at the bottom of a little staircase. She opened it easily, access to it for anyone who tried due to the lack of care from a landlord whose only concern was about the money, not the people living inside of the building. It was dark but she continued down more steps, the air growing colder.

Finally, she reached the bottom and struck a match. Her bag was right where she had left it beside the staircase. She reached for it, hand guided mostly by memory as she pulled the candle out. She quickly lit the wick, letting the match fall to the ground to stamp out under her boot. Leah pulled the bag to her by its strap and stood, facing the basement. 

It was nothing but a series of rooms, like all of those above. The ground was nearly dirt and the walls nothing but rocks held together by cement. There were boxes and tools littered around. It smelled of mold, of wet Earth that would never dry down there in the dark. The middle of this first room was bare. That was where Leah went to stand. 

She set the candle down and got to work, she was going to make a deal. 

A demon deal. 

She had learned of it in a book, a large tome bound by leather and hefty thread. It had been sitting on the edge of their kitchen table when she had returned from the market one day. A buckle had kept it closed until she undid it, having to heave the cover open to see if she could even read its pages. It had been in Yiddish, of all things. 

Gabriel, Burach’s second youngest brother, had said he’d gotten it from an old sorcerer. 

“A gift,” he’d said. Leah thought he had probably stolen it from someone or found it while looking through garbage. She had looked through it and gasped at what was inside. Whoever the book belonged to spoke of demons, portals, tears. Things she did not want around her children. She had spit at Gabriel that she was getting rid of it, and if she saw it or anything like it in their house, she would never let him back in again. She had taken it outside to the rubbish bins with the intention to chuck it as far as she could throw. 

But something had stuck with her from her skimming. Demons, when called, could make a deal for anything. 

Anything could mean a whole lot of things to a whole lot of people. To Leah Carson it could mean a future for her children that did not consist of hunger, of thirst, or terror. They would struggle but they would not be tortured. They would be able to rest. Truly rest, in the way that would give them time to heal when they needed it, to reflect, to give their thanks, and to face whatever it was to come with a calm that she had not felt since she had been a child. 

At first she had been quick to resent the very idea of it. Allowing such an evil into one’s life? Into their home? God had not created demons for humans to go to for comfort or for council in her opinion. She knew that they had been made for a reason, but she couldn’t imagine that God would want humans to rely on such a thing that feasted on their weaknesses. People sinned because they lost God, not because they thought they could find Him in the depths of something from the Underworld. His fingerprints may have been on them but those were everywhere. Just because He made them didn’t mean they were to use them. 

Then she had thought about it more, a gnawing guilt in her stomach. It had consumed her, these thoughts. Every day she would think of what a demon deal could do for her family. She had looked at her children and she had looked at her husband and she had wondered. This was the way of their religion. Questions were encouraged. God had given them ability, and so they would use it. Just because things were sacred did not mean they needed to forfeit thinking for themselves. 

But her questions felt too big. They scared her. Yet she asked them anyway.  

Would God forgive her? 

Did it matter? 

Did it matter if He did if her children could still go to Him and find His love? Did it matter if He forgave her if her husband continued to live and no longer had to tear his body apart at the seams just for the sake of those he thought loved him? Surely God would not fault them for what she had done. 

She knew God loved her but He could not help her now, not when the ring was in her palm, not when she was in that basement. It was not His job to. He had created them with the ability to choose between good and bad, but He had also given them the ability to know when they had chosen wrong. A sin was not necessarily the act of disobedience, it was in missing an opportunity to be what God had wanted for them. 

She knew this was wrong but she also knew letting her children continue to starve and suffer was wrong, too. Leah was not going to wait for her husband to die in order to take action. She would now before it was too late. She knew this desire for good would be deemed bad, and yet continued as the book instructed her, choosing to believe that her love was what was guiding her. 

And what was this life for, if not for love? 

Love for her husband. Love for her children. Love for those that she would never meet but would be there because of her, because she had ensured a future for her children. This love tasted of an eternity, infinite and theirs, so long as she made it happen. 

Leah placed the ring on her finger and began. It was almost easy but this was probably because she was so tired, so willing, so desperate. The ritual required everything of her and she was more than willing to give it. A little blood, a little promise, and a ring. But that wasn’t even hers. 

She read the words of the summoning aloud, her voice clear. She wanted whatever she was calling to hear her and hear her well so as not to be confused. 

At the end of the script the ring on her finger cracked. The gem was no bigger than a few millimeters but the sound of it breaking was like that of a thousand windows popping at once. She threw her hand away from her face, trying to shield herself from it, but her ears were already ringing. Her body crumbled to the dirt floor, knees hitting first, then the palm of the hand without the ring, trying to hold herself up. 

She didn’t notice that the flame of the candle had turned black, the shadows all around her darker, the light dimmer. All she could hear for a moment was her heart hammering inside her chest and high pitched ringing. 

Then it started to come back. The movement of dirt crunching under weight. Her weight. Her fingers. Her knees, skirt dirty, but it had been that way since they got to this country. 

Something cold breathed over the back of her neck, making her turn, movement a snap. 

Nothing was there. 

Except something was different. She could tell. A shadow in the corner of the room was much darker than the others. Leah stared at it, wondering if it was just a trick of the light, her own mind doing something to her after that sound had knocked her from her feet. 

Then the shadow moved. It stretched across the wall, jagged and too fast. 

“Hello?” she asked it, eyes watching it stutter to a halt. 

“Hello?” The voice was deep, an echoing to it that was not natural for the space they were in. It made her shiver, involuntary. “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

“Stop it,” she told it. 

“Stop it,” it told her. Then it seemed to laugh. “I am sorry. This is one I have not heard before.” 

“What?” 

“This language. What is it?”

“German.” 

“Ah,” said the shadow. “Very well. What is your name?” 

“Are..are you–?”

“Tell me your name.” 

“Leah Carson.” 

“Leah Carson,” it said, like it was stretching it out, trying it on for size. “I am glad you called, Leah Carson. I have not tasted such despair in a very long time.” 

It had worked. She had summoned a demon. Her throat felt fuzzy, like there was something caught just at the base where even if she coughed nothing could help her. Leah breathed in, trying to get air past that feeling, voice wobbling when she asked, “Taste?”

“Let’s not get caught up in details, Leah Carson. You called me for a reason, have you not?” it asked. She watched the shadow come closer. It no longer seemed like something stuck to the wall. Something compelled her to push her hand forward, asking the ring for some sort of protection against this other being. 

Nothing happened. 

It laughed again, that horrible hollow gasping. 

“That can no longer help you. Whatever magic it beheld was used up. I am all you have now,” it said and she knew it was right. “I ask again, you called me for a reason, didn’t you?” 

“Y-yes,” she said, sitting up. Her knees felt uncomfortable with all her weight pressing them into the floor, but she didn’t think she could stand up. “Yes. I want…I want to make a deal.”

“And what would you like?” 

“For my family to have money.”

Something like a snort seemed to leave the demon, the sound hollow and echoing. “I could have guessed. Is that all?”

“I…no,” she said. She had read the warnings the book had given her, had thought about how she would ask this. Magic was tricky, apparently, and demons even more so. She didn’t want to be conned into a bad deal and she didn’t want to ruin her family’s life because she got the wording wrong. She just wished her heart would settle inside her chest and that her lungs would get a grip so she could think properly. Fear was coursing through her, making her hands grow cold and tongue feel almost numb. 

“No,” she said again, trying to convince herself that she could do this. “I want to ensure that everyone in my family is comfortable. I don’t just want you to give me money, I want you to give us the ability to get it for ourselves. I want us to have the tools to be ahead of the curve, to know how to use it to get more and to never be without it. I want my children to have this and for their children and their children. Anyone who is or will be in our family.” 

“That is a bit more complicated,” it warned. Her shoulders fell.

“You can’t do that?” she asked. 

“Of course I can!” the shadow seemed to sneer. Later, when Leah was out of the basement and a few years deep, she would laugh at this memory. At the fact she had seemed to offend the demon. “But what I ask of you will need to match such complications.” 

“Like what?” she asked. “Is my life not enough?” 

“No,” said the demon. “You are asking for not only the family of now to have this gift, you are asking for those who are not even born yet to have it, too, yes?” 

Leah nodded. 

“Then I will need help continuing this bargain for as long as your family wants this gift,” it said. 

“But…but how can I–?”

“You can’t,” said the demon. “It’s a gamble. But…if you called me, then something tells me you are willing to take such a bet.” 

“...what will you ask of us?” she asked. “Them?” 

“Just a few souls every year,” it said like this was no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t to a demon. “Five is your minimum. If you give more, I’ll consider it a bonus and your family will prosper even more.” 

“Five souls,” she gasped, having to clutch at the ground below her again. 

“Doesn’t have to be any of yours,” said the demon. “It can be anyone. Someone looking to change their life, too, willing to sell it for something they always wanted. You just need to find those desperate enough to need a demon’s bargain. Like you, Leah Carson. You were willing to give your soul to me, weren’t you?”

The shadow creeped closer. The flame beside her flickered, leaning away from it. 

“Yes,” she admitted. 

“Are you still willing?” 

She went to answer, to repeat herself, but something stopped her. It seemed like that would be the end of their bargaining if she answered, like she would be agreeing to the deal. A deal she didn’t know all the details of. Questions were important. If only she could think of the ones she wanted to ask. There was a cold prickle on the back of her neck, running up through her scalp and down her spine. She needed to think. If this was going to affect her children and everyone after them, she needed to know everything. But what? What was there? 

“What happens if we don’t?” Leah asked. The demon seemed perplexed by this answer, jerky movements coming to a stop across from her. 

“Don’t what?” it asked. 

“Bring you five souls,” she said.  

“Oh,” it said. “Then I will take yours and your family’s as payment instead. Even after you’re already long dead and even those that come after the deal has been broken.” 

“That seems…unfair.”

“Do you trust your family?” 

“Of course.”

“Even those you’ll never meet?” 

Leah hesitated. It was an impossible question. How could she know? How could anyone know? She didn’t even know what her children would grow up to become, but she knew if she told them that their souls were at risk, and their children’s souls, too, that they would agree to procure these souls. If she could give them the love she felt for them to their own children, then they would understand and they would know that their children would understand, too. A connection of love could be passed down from one child to the next. That she knew and no one who loved their family would be willing to break that chain. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“And who might all your family entail?” asked the demon. “For my own clarity. I have no desire to stretch myself too wide simply because you deem everyone nice to you family.” 

“My blood. My husband.”

“And his blood, too?” 

With a sigh through her nose, she nodded. “Anyone with the Carson name who is seen under the eyes of God and law as our family.” 

“Very well,” said the demon. “Your family will be able to get money and understand how to use it to the highest degree of efficiency to gain it. In exchange, you will get me five souls a year to keep this deal going. If this is not met every year–”

“When is a year for you?” she cut the demon off. Leah thought she could feel its annoyance. 

“My, aren’t we picky,” it said. “How long is a year for you?” 

“Twelve months,” she said. 

“Oh,” it seemed satisfied by this answer. “Then you can pick the date.” 

“January 1st.” It seemed like a fine day. It wasn’t their new year but she hardly wanted a deadline during a holiday that was meant to be spent with family. “At noon.” 

“Noon,” it agreed. “If your part of the deal is not met on January 1st, at mid-day, then your family’s souls will be mine as forfeit.” 

“How…how do we…,” Leah had to swallow, to bring herself to say the words. “How do we give you the souls?” 

“Ah, that’s the part I am not quite sure you are up for, Leah Carson,” the demon said. It inched closer and closer. “I cannot stay in this world without help. Not after I extend myself creating this deal for you. If I were to go back to where I’m from, I won’t be able to help you.” 

“How then…?”

“Let me stay. With you,” it said. She felt something ghost across her hand and flinched. “You won’t notice I’m there and I’ll always be there when you want to make a deposit. Easy.”

“I-I don’t understand,” she said. 

“Yes, you do.”

Yes. She did.

In the book, it had said that demons needed a host. They possessed people, stayed with them if they could. 

Except Leah had every intention of dying down there in the basement, her own life the price to pay for the future of her family. Only that had never been an option for what she wanted. It was too small, apparently. The very essence that God had breathed into her, vast and unceasing, was not enough to satisfy this demon. It would feed upon them every year, still hungry for more. 

And it would need to live with her. Inside of her.  

“What about when I die?” she asked. “Where will you go?” 

“To the next Carson,” it said. “Surely if they’re willing to continue the deal, they won’t mind. Just like you, Leah Carson.” 

Just like her. 

“Do we have a deal?” it asked. 

“Yes,” she said. 

And it was done. 

Leah walked back up the steps, crawled back into bed, and hugged her children tight against her. 

[molsons112000]

So I'm down by the University Chicago.If they invest in this area, they will get the money back in real estate appreciation, they own tons.And tons of land and buildings....

So renovating a home. They say a seventy percent increase in value.... So if the universe is Chicago pumps in a billion $, they can get back 1.7 billion.

So if you own real estate firms down here, I would be doing Tom hall meetings and this is good for the banks as well.Because you can take out equity lines of credit and other things that can be there for emergencies... But it's a cheap way tomorrow money....

What is the rate of return on renovations?

On average, home renovations provide a 70% ROI. Home renovations are one of the only investments that can improve the quality of life in your living space and increase the value of your home for the future.Jul 22, 2023

https://www.renofi.com › learn › r...

The 10 Best Home Improvement ROI Projects of 2023 ... - RenoFi

So if the University moves first and doesn't renovation, it brings up the value of all the real estate around and that means the loan-to-value or if you own it outright, the value and you're going to get alone. The loan-to-value is very high and the amount of the loan is very little, so you'll get a very low interest rate.... So if the universe in Chicago does it improvements first brings up all the property value and then the residents can get the renovation loans at a very low rate.And that means they can maximize their money by helping the University.Do the improvements it needs to do..

APRs range from 8.99 to 35.99% and include applicable origination fees that vary from 1.99% to 6.99%.

Also, after the University does, it's improvements.Your real estate goes up in value even if you're not doing any remodeling or improvements.If you have a loan you can refinance that loan at a lower interest rate... So yes you can refinance a current mortgage at a lower interest rate. Why?Because the property value went way up.Because the University improved the area.And oh yeah.Do you know if you get rid of the crime?The risk factor goes down and so does the interest rate... So again you got the University.Improving the area and you reduce the crime rate.You get lower interest rates.That means you can make more money in your pocket. So you get to keep more of your money... So it freeze up the ability to refinance and get a lower interest rate and a lower payment. And in turn getting more money into your pocket without changing anything. Because the University just helped you by you helping the University and then if you do your neighborhood watches and lower the crime rates, the interest rates go down and you get a secondary bump and that helps the University because it makes their improvements worth that much more.. The university gets a bump in real estate value.... So you help the university university helps you and you both win... Just for being good neighbors like all states says..

A loan-to-value (LTV) ratio is a way for lenders to assess the risk of a loan before approving it. It's calculated by dividing the loan balance by the home's appraised value, and it compares the value of the loan to the value of the home. Lenders generally consider higher LTVs to be riskier because they could lose more money, so they may charge higher interest rates on loans with higher LTVs. A lower LTV ratio, on the other hand, could lead to a more favorable interest rate because the lender considers the borrower less risky. For example, if the LTV is more than 70%, the interest rate may increase by about 0.125% for every 5% increase in the LTV. 



Atlantic Bay Mortgage Group

How a Loan-to-Value Ratio Affects Your Mortgage Payment

A loan-to-value (LTV) ratio is calculated by dividing your loan balance by your home's appraised value. Its purpose is to provide a comparison between the value of the loan you are seeking to take out versus the actual value of your home. Your LTV ratio will typically affect the mortgage rate you're able to obtain. - Lower LTV – You will usually qualify for a lower mortgage rate because you're considered to be less risky, since you have more equity in your home. - Higher LTV– You will likely notice your mortgage rate is on the higher end, since you're considered more of a risk due to having less equity in your home.



Investopedia

Loan-to-Value (LTV) Ratio: What It Is, How to Calculate, Example

The loan-to-value (LTV) ratio is an assessment of lending risk that financial institutions and other lenders examine before approving a mortgage. Typically, loan assessments with high LTV ratios are considered higher-risk loans. Therefore, if the mortgage is approved, the loan has a higher interest rate.



Lending Tree

Loan-To-Value (LTV) Ratio: Why It Matters | LendingTree

Mar 11, 2022 — Lenders use it to gauge a loan's potential risk: In general, the higher the LTV ratio, the more likely it is the lender might lose money if you ...



Experian

What Is a Loan-to-Value Ratio (LTV)? - Experian

Feb 28, 2024 — Lenders generally consider higher LTVs to be riskier because their potential loss would be greater. Consequently, lenders often mitigate their risk by charging higher interest rates on your mortgage loan, and vice versa—a lower LTV could lead to a more favorable mortgage rate. Additionally, lenders typically require you to carry mortgage insurance if your LTV is over 80%.



Mortgage Investors Group

Loan to Value Ratio | Mortgage Investors Group

If the LTV is more than 70 percent, you can expect around a 0.125 percent increase in the interest rate for every 5 percent increase. Aim for a Low LTV. The lower your loan-to-value ratio, the more favorably your application is viewed by us. A high LTV is usually reserved for only the most creditworthy borrowers. The easiest way to lower your LTV ratio is by putting down a large down payment. Doing so gives you automatic equity in the home and more vested interest in making your monthly mortgage payments. Aim for getting your LTV as low as you can to get the best rate, as well.

LTV requirements can also affect other aspects of a loan, such as the size of the down payment and whether mortgage insurance is required. For example, lenders typically require mortgage insurance if the LTV is over 80%. 

The easiest way to lower the LTV ratio is to make a large down payment, which gives the borrower equity in the home and more incentive to make their mortgage payments. However, the value of a property can change over time, so the LTV ratio may increase if the property's value decreases. If the value decreases sharply or quickly, the borrower could end up in negative equity, which means they owe more than the property is worth. 

https://www.bankrate.com › loans

Best Home Improvement Loan Rates in May 2024 - Bankrate

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[scottelkartwork]

ARTWORK

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Moulin de la Galette, 1889

At the Moulin Rouge, 1892-95

Chicago Institute of Art

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (French, 1864-1901) was the quintessential chronicler of Montmartre, the bohemian district on the northern edge of Paris known in the late 19th century for its cheap rent and racy nightlife. Along with its dance halls, cabarets, and café-concerts, the local circus —the Cirque Fernando-was one of the artist's favorite subjects. Originally just a series of tents pitched at the foot of the Montmartre hill, this circus was a popular permanent attraction by the time Toulouse-Lautrec attended performances in the mid-1880’s. Its perpetual movement, vulgar color, and wicked sense of fun contributed to the artist's distinctly expressive linear style, and it was also the subject of his most ambitious painting—a vast canvas of a clown, ringmaster, and rider that was probably intended as a decoration for the circus itself. Although this painting is known today only through photographs of Toulouse-Lautrec's Montmartre studio, its eccentric characters reappear in two works in this gallery, which similarly blur the distinction between art and life. Equestrienne (At the Cirque Fernando) once decorated the foyer of the famous Moulin Rouge dance hall, while the painted tambourine Au Cirque: Écuyère may have been inspired by the Café Tambourine, a local restaurant decorated with tambourine tables, chairs, and wall ornaments that was popular with young artists.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec populated At the Moulin Rouge with portraits of the legendary nightclub's regulars-including himself, as a diminutive figure in the center background, accompanied by his cousin, physician Gabriel Tapié de Céleyran. Dancer La Goulue arranges her hair behind the table where Jane Avril, another famous performer, socializes. Singer May Milton peers out from the right edge of the painting, her face harshly lit and acid green. At some point, the artist or his dealer cut down the canvas to remove Milton, perhaps because her strange appearance made the work hard to sell. Whatever the reason, by 1914 the cut section had been reattached to the painting.

With this painting of the dance hall known as the Moulin de la Galette, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec established his reputation as the chronicler of the Montmartre district's famed nightlife. A wooden barrier bisects the composition, dividing the frenzied action of the dance floor in the background from the stillness of the women waiting in the foreground. Toulouse-Lautrec used turpentine to thin his paint and applied it in loose washes, a technique known as peinture à l'essence. The result is a sketchy style that conveys both the immediacy of the artist's observations and the tawdry atmosphere of his subject.

What I connect with…

I've always loved Toulouse-Lautrec, especially his story as an outsider hanging out with people living on the fringes of society in Paris. Makes me think about my own inclination in my twenties to gain a deeper understanding of people choosing to live alternate lifestyles. It makes me even more aware of the way Toulouse-Lautrec feeling's of difference influenced the kind of art work he was making. For me, his handling of paint is a standout, especially with all those artists like Cezanne, Pissaro, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Monet using such thick paint application. Toulouse-Lautrec's paint was used in washes, thinned down with turps resulting in work that maintained that drawing-like, sketchy quality. I am also pursuing similar things depicting a layered history in my paintings.

[thursdaygxrls]

how do you preplan homework I need the tips

this is actually such a sweet question and i am so happy to answer it, i love school and homework…it’s love-hate

my college is a weird modern liberal arts college that doesn’t do school in a normal way?? i only have 3 classes a semester, and instead of big final tests, we write 15-20 page essays and do creative projects. my homework for one class was to talk to trees, it’s fucking wild.

however, i still have “normal” homework and went through 4 years of high school. so, here’s my things:

Materials: before my classes start, i figure out whether i need to buy the materials, and if i do, how to get them cheap. if you can tell from a syllabus that a class doesn’t adhere strongly to the textbook(s) assigned, i would skip it. if it turns out you need it later on, there’s websites like thriftbooks and abebooks, both of which i loveee for purchasing all my books. full disclosure, i don’t know much about them as companies, but they have some cheap ass books. then, i recommend getting separate materials for each class: one notebook for each class, a seperate folder/binder (whether it be physical or electronic). it just keeps it organized much better. extra points for color coding.

Scheduling: i always, always, ALWAYS make a physical list of my schedule as well as my homework. i have found that writing it down sticks it to my memory much better. when it comes to the schedule, i usually write mine down in a notebook then transfer it to a cute outlay in my journal or another piece of paper.

To-Do Lists: another thing you should write out physically. also, i do want to say here that i know using physical notebooks isn’t for everybody, and i totally respect that. for me, it commits it to my brain. i slack a bit sometimes, but i try every day to write down an organized to-do list of homework. i assign a different pen to every class (usually pink, purple, and blue, but you choose as you like) and write down every single thing i need to get done for them, big or small. i tend to write these on a daily basis, but making a mass one with benchmark goals isn’t a bad idea, just don’t overwhelm yourself with the list of work. writing out this to-do list gives me an idea of how i’ll divide my time to get the work done. here’s a special secret of mine: i’ve recently discovered that if i don’t get all the work done, it’s okay. i usually start with the most important tasks (closest deadlines, heaviest projects, assignments that need turned in) and move onto the more minimal ones (readings, note taking). sometimes, you can’t get everything done, and it’s okay!!

Timing: set aside time for everything, meaning both homework and breaks. my friends and i divided this system last semester that really worked for us: on saturday, we wake up around 9:30-10, plenty of sleep-in time, and go get brunch from our dining hall. around 11:30-12, we go to the library and spend 5-6 hours studying, revising, etc. we have each other to keep us accountable as well as help with things like editing essays. then, we get dinner and call it a night. if you don’t study well with others, make it an independent thing. it’s important to give yourself the time you need to get your work done as well as having some down time. don’t overexert yourself, trust me, i’ve been there. in high school, and the amount of stress i put on myself literally weakened my immune system. you have to care about yourself more than the homework.

Notes: taking notes in class can be a big help in doing your homework. i know that sounds like a dumb thing to say, but im so serious. it can be easy to slack off with notes, especially if you’re in an lecture. try your best not to, it’s worth it!! you don’t have to write everything down, that’s not what notes are about. for me, if a professor is lecturing and also has a powerpoint, i write down what the professor is saying instead of what is on the powerpoint. i know that may seem like another obvious thing, but when professors are lecturing, they usually include better info than just the bullet points. your notes are basically miska-mouska tools: a special tool to use later. (also, side info, they don’t have to be pretty whatsoever, they just have to be legible. when i take notes, i take them in random colored pens and doodle everywhere. they’re not super preppy or anything, but they got the info, and that’s all that matters. doodle away).

i really hope that helped. if it didn’t, or you need more specifics, please don’t be afraid to ask me. i’m trained for this sort of stuff from how much i’ve experimented what works for me. please stay in school guys, i swear it’s fun. okay, bye bye 😁