#Foundation Quaking

[fruitmouse]

the earthquake was mad funny btw. i’d been awake for one whole minute & suddenly my house was shaking and i was just like. ok 👍

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Judex, Judicum, Infantem - Chapter 10

(Eventual)Reader x Matt Murdock x Frank Castle

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summary: You confront Matt about his lies and reflect on how you want to proceed with both men and parenting your baby.

warnings: AFAB Reader. Pregnancy. No use of Y/N. Angst and arguing.

w/c: 3,028

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on Tumblr to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platforms I currently post on are Tumblr and AO3. Thanks*

Crash.

The toaster hit the wall behind Matt’s head and crumpled into fragments of metal and springs with a clang as it hit the floor. He barely ducked out of the way in time, not expecting to have an appliance thrown at his head first thing after arriving home from a pointless meeting. He instantly went into fight mode, ready for whatever attack was next. It came in the form of your fists, banging against his chest as he stumbled backwards.

“You bastard. You absolute bastard!” you shouted, not ceasing in your wailing while Matt just flinched back and took it “You knew! You knew where he was the whole time and you lied to me!”

“Sweetheart, I—”

“What did you expect to happen Matthew!? That I’d never find out? That we’d just be a happy fucking family while you held onto this lie?”

Matt licked his lips with force, waving a hand up in surrender as he stammered trying to find the right words. You landed another shove to his chest, agitated by his silence.

“Hey hey, baby. Ease up.” Frank cooed, coming up behind you and taking both of your wrists, restraining you against his chest as you tried to continue your attack on Matt.

Running a stressed hand through his hair, Matt gulped as he attempted to find the words. He hung his head in defeat, face scrunched up as tears began to flow.

“I wanted to protect you.” he spoke, voice tight with remorse

“Protect me from what? I don’t need protecting from anything except maybe your stupid fucking ego!”

“From him!” Matt pointed accusingly to Frank who still had his strong arms around you

“I told you, Frank would never hurt me!”

Matt chuckled, shaking his head.

“No. But, do you think Frank is ever going to stop? Do you really want our daughter in that kind of danger?”

“Oh and Daredevil’s daughter would be safer?!”

“I’m not him anymore.”

The audacity of Matt’s statement hit you like a foul ball at a Yankee’s game— rude, unexpected, and errorus. The lump in your throat remained unmoved but didn’t dare morph into crying. Yet. Only rage came out in the way your voice quaked as you spoke.

“You were last night, even though you told me you were done.”

“I know—”

“You lied to me about Frank.”

“I know.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I do.”

No court room had ever seen him so frazzled, no witness on the stand was ever crossed with such hesitation. The confident lawyer and the vicious vigilante faded away to a broken man who was scared and raw. The real Matthew. The tremble in his voice almost broke you, almost compelled you to forget the anger and hurt and want to reach out and comfort the man you loved.

“I can’t hear your heartbeat Matthew. I don’t know what to believe.���

“We were happy. You said you were happy. You said you didn’t need him.”

“I was.” you replied “We were. But he still deserved to know.”

Frank was thankful he was still standing behind you, unable to hide the way his teeth nearly ground into pieces from how tightly his jaw gripped at your lack of denying that statement.

“You said you didn’t need him.”

Frank knew it was true. You didn’t need him. Shit, you didn’t need Red either. You were brave and tough and fierce and it was why he fell for you in the first place. He wouldn’t have left you if he thought you weren’t capable of a life without him.

So why did those six little words shake his foundation so much? He hovered, unsure of his place in this discussion. Taking a step back so that his hands only brushed the sides of your arms, his calloused finger tips running up and down in an attempt to soothe you or himself, he wasn’t sure.

“You asked me to stop looking for him. And I did.” Matt continued to explain, rambling words falling out of his mouth like a bag of marbles spilling down a staircase “But then Hector was murdered and the bullet casing at the scene had a skull logo on it.”

“So what, you couldn’t find him for weeks as Daredevil, but suddenly the honorable Matthew Murdock Esquire needs to find a vigilante and what? All Frank’s contacts start talking? I find that really hard to believe. Did you even look for him before then?”

“I did. I swear I did. And yeah, New York’s criminals don’t want to talk to the guy who puts them in jail. But a defense attorney starts asking the right questions…” he trailed off

You shook your head in disbelief, unsure what to even say.

“I found him. But, this was after you asked me to stop looking for him. I didn’t know if you wanted— I— There’s no excuse, but I just—”

Your shoulders felt heavy with exhaustion and you thoughts felt foggy and jumbled. While you still had plenty to say, you were just so done arguing. It felt laborious to even hold yourself upright, like you could just fall back and collapse into Frank’s embrace. The tears had finally started to flow as you audibly exhaled while Matt stuttered his lame excuses.

Matt hated when you cried, but the sting of knowing it was of his own making was like rubbing salt into road rash. The burden of disappointing you weighed heavily on him as he listened to your sniffles and the sound of defeat in your voice.

“I wanted to do what was best for you. For us. For the baby.” Matt continued, barley able to whisper through his tears

“And I don’t get a say in that?”

“I know. Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I made the wrong call.”

Finally, an apology. Took him long enough.

Unable to even look at Matt anymore, you turned to Frank, stone faced and somber behind you. It’s like he was staring right through you and seeing the yearning behind your eyes for the version life you had not even 36 hours earlier. Where you and Matt existed in a little bubble of joy and normalcy and ease. But there was no going back. Frank had returned to your lives and Matt had torn down the very foundation of your relationship.

“You’re being awfully quiet.” you commented

“Ain’t my fight.”

His voice came out in puffs, winded and tired from having to restrain you. A reminder of how he came back to you all broken and bloody. A reminder of how much healing he had left to so still. You wondered about the bruises and scars you couldn’t see.

The air in the room felt tight and stuffy and the pounding of your heart in your ears drowned out the sounds of Matt’s sniffling. You skin itched and your tears burned and the only word in your head was “run.”

“I’m going for a walk.” you stated decidedly, pushing past Matt and throwing on the first pair of shoes by the door.

Neither of the men stopped you, letting you grab your keys and slip out the door without another word.

“You gonna follow her?” Frank asked

“Why? Like you said, she’s a big girl. She clearly wants to be alone right now. And I’m in the dog house enough as it is.”

The fresh air on your face invigorated you as you strode down the street. You didn’t have any real sense of where you were going, simply hooking a right as soon as you stepped out of your building. By the time you’d gotten a few blocks, your tears had dried and you were starting to feel better.

Weaving through crowded streets until you reached a busy intersection, the beautiful stone wall of Central Park sat in front of you. You continued onward, feeling the tension begin to melt away as the green trees and the lush park surrounded you.

It was busy on the path as you made your way through. The park was filled with families on a day out and afternoon joggers. You didn’t realize which direction you were headed until you heard the music, abrasive and slightly off-key tones of accordion and a clunky piano playing a nauseating melody. Only when you rounded the bend did you realize where you were.

The Central Park Carousel.

You found an open spot on one of the green benches facing the ride, sitting down with a heavy sigh. You knew it was probably some sign from the universe that you ended up where Frank’s whole world fell apart, your own teetering on some weird precipice itself. There was some grand metaphor or ironic statement to be drawn between the situations, but your brain was too full to even begin to verbalize it.

You wondered if the spirit of Maria Castle was hanging around, hoping to divine some of her wisdom so that she could guide you towards clarity.

“Maria, girl? What am I even doing?” you asked to the sky

There was no answer.

You watched the scene around you unfolding; families all laughing and enjoying a fun-filled day, kids running around without a care in the world, their perfect little giggles cutting through the abrasive music.

This would be your life soon, a little precious face to make memories with, to fill your days with joy and laughter and fun. The thought warmed your heart, filling you with a sense of ease.

Still, there was a heavy presence to your joy, reflecting on the two men who are making this chapter of your life melancholic.

You could do it alone. Send them both packing, get their drama out of your way and handle things yourself like you always have. Maybe Colleen would let you work remote and you could buy a place upstate, raise your daughter in a quiet life. You didn’t need either of them, that you absolutely knew for sure.

“Will you tie my shoe?” a small, squeaky voice cut through your trance as you felt a tug on your shirt.

You turned to see small boy, not even five years old, sat beside you and swinging his feet as he stared up at you. He had a sweet round face, big brown eyes that reminded you of Frank’s, and a broad smile that featured a missing front tooth that made him look like a little hockey player. You looked down when he pointed at his foot, navy shoe lace dangling undone from his left Bluey sneaker.

“Sure thing, kiddo.” you patted the spot between you and he swung his foot up and rested it on the bench, waiting for you assistance

“Are you here alone?” you asked “Where are your parents? Or your nanny? Or?”

“No. My dads are around here somewhere.”

The little boy seemed totally unfazed by the fact that he didn’t know where his parents were. You shook your head with a chuckle, thinking about how you were the exact opposite when you were his age and would wail in panic if your mother even disappeared around a corner for a moment.

“Why don’t we hang out here together for a little? I’m sure they’ll turn up soon.” you commented, eyeing up the situation to make sure he didn’t go too far and get even more lost

“Okay. They said we could ride the horses today!” he said pointing at the carousel and eyeing a particularly shiny white horse statue as it went around

“Yeah? Are you having a fun day in the park with them?” you asked him

If an adult didn’t show up to claim him soon, you spotted two bored looking teenagers in head to toe khaki, emerald green central park logo embroidered on their shirts and hats as they guided families in and out of the line for the carousel. The walkie-talkies strapped to their hips could call in back up and help get this kid back to his parents.

“Yeah! We come to the park all the time! It’s my favorite! They said to find a mom if I ever get lost.” His slight lisp came out as his voice got higher in excitement, you suspected from the missing tooth. It was too cute.

“Yeah?”

Even though you weren’t a mom yet, you were glad he thought you looked trustworthy enough and that it was you he found and not someone with worse intentions.

“Do you like Bluey?” you asked, pointing down at the shoe you’d just tied

“It’s my favorite show! Daddy and Papa said this summer we can get an Australian Shepherd just like—”

“Noah!”

The both of you turned to see a man jogging up the hilly path towards where the two of you sat. Similar to every other parent surrounding you, he looked to be in his-mid forties and wore a simple pair of jeans paired with a neat green polo shirt and very comfortable looking sneakers. The outward sign of panic in his eyes made it obvious he was one of this boy’s parents, but the way he moved his feet gently let you know, this was not the first time this sweet kiddo had wandered off.

“Papa!” the little boy squealed with excitement, running into the man’s arms

“Where did you go bud?” his father asked with concern, scooping him up to hold him “We told you you can’t just run off!”

“You said we could go ride the horses!”

Another man joined them shortly after, also relieved to see Noah found and in one piece, and they walked off as a family to get in line for the carousel. You watched as the three of them laughed together, playing some sort of eye-spy game to keep the boy occupied and distracted from getting bored in line while waiting for their turn.

You swore if you blinked, they would magically turn into Frank and Matthew, just how you pictured each of them would be with your daughter.

A happy family.

Yeah, you could do it alone. But you didn’t want to.

You loved Matt. Seeing the care and dedication he’d given you since discovering your pregnancy gave you enough hope that you could get over his recent transgressions and move forward together to be happy again.

And despite your complicated feelings for Frank, you knew he would be an excellent father to your child regardless of where the two of you stood with each other.

Being a family together and giving your daughter three people in her life who loved her dearly was worth figuring this all out.

By the time you left your spot, now determined and sure, the sun was bright on the horizon as it began to set and cast the city in a harsh glow.

You turned the key gingerly, wondering what scene would be waiting for you behind the door. Someone could be heard moving around the kitchen and the broken pieces of toaster had been cleaned up from the entryway, but nothing else seemed to be out of place.

As you made your way down the hall, you paused just outside the door to the spare bedroom— the one that would soon be transformed into a nursery. Amongst Matt’s braille printer and various items for when he needed to work from home was a pile of blankets and Matt’s pillow, laying on the ground. It shattered your heart, seeing that he voluntarily kicked himself out of your bed and made other sleeping arrangements until the two of you could make up.

When you stepped into the main living space, the most amazing smell hit your nose. Notes of pepper and tomato filled the air and made your stomach growl.

Frank was sitting on the sofa, nose rising from your copy of an Agatha Christie novel he once called “fuckin’ boring” to watch you enter. Looking even healthier than this morning, there was a flush to his face and the bruises that littered his cheek bones were now fading to a warm yellow. He’d obviously showered too while you were out. His beard looked clean and soft as it tickled the top of his clean, grey henley and his hair a little more tamed. Seeing him look so much better sent a flicker of worry through you that once fully healed, he would change his mind and disappear again. But it faded as soon as you saw the soft smile that grew across his face at your reappearance.

Matt occupied the kitchen, the culprit behind the delicious scent that covered the apartment. He didn’t flinch when you stepped into the room, having listened to your heartbeat coming towards home since the last half block. But still, he ducked his head, humbly avoiding your stare with his imaginary tail between his legs. Even as mad as you were, you couldn’t help but notice just how handsome he looked. His hair was tousled, a little disheveled from the rigor and heat of playing chef. Still half dressed from work this morning, his slightly unbuttoned shirt showed just enough chest and cross necklace to tease you. The way his rolled up sleeves perfectly framed his arms would have made your mouth water if whatever he was cooking wasn’t already doing it.

“I made dinner.” he offered with a soft voice “Figured you haven’t eaten yet today.”

He wasn’t wrong and it almost pissed you off how well he knew you.

The heaping plate of spaghetti bolognese he set on the island in front of you was clearly his olive branch. The first of many steps towards making up for the hurt and the lies. It was a cheesy gesture, like a greeting card that cost too much. But still, you wanted to give him the chance to make things better and this was a start.

As you sat to begin eating, Frank joined you, taking the stool next to yours. Matt also passed him a plate, then leaned against the counter to tuck into his own. For a while, the only sounds in the apartment were the scraping of forks against plates.

“So,” you finally spoke up “we need to talk.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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[ruewritesoccasionally]

NSFW Alphabet | Terry Richmond

pairing: terry richmond x black reader

warnings: predominantly smut (18+), some dark themes with a dash of fluff

word count: 5.0K

a/n: let me know if you have a favourite letter 🤭

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

With Terry, aftercare is a non-negotiable ritual - quiet, thorough, and deeply felt. It’s a side of him most wouldn’t believe existed. To the outside world, Terrance Richmond is all hard lines: a stoic man carved by military training, personal loss, and the scorched aftermath of Shelby Springs. Someone who seems more at home in silence than softness, more familiar with pain than peace. So, the idea of tenderness from a man like him might seem… unlikely. But to the woman he loves? It’s as natural as breathing.

Because unsurprisingly, to those lucky enough to know what’s beneath the surface, Terry is nothing if not devoted. And that devotion doesn’t stop when the sex does - in fact, that’s when it sharpens. He’s not the type to rush. He stays close, grounded, watching every tremor in her breath with that unblinking focus of his, waiting to see what she needs or if she can speak at all. If she can’t, that’s fine. He already knows.

There’s a kind of reverence to how he moves afterward. She’ll find herself cleaned up without ever needing to ask, ice water placed on the bedside table, fresh sheets already pulled tight. A bath is drawn, steam curling from the door as he helps her step in, and if her muscles are sore, which, under his hands, they often are - his fingers will find every knot with the same ruthless precision he’d use clearing a weapon. Terry’s love is measured in actions, not words.

She’s lotioned down head to toe with practiced care, her favourite pyjamas waiting at the foot of the bed, a silk scarf gently tied to protect her hair but only after he’s oiled her scalp, thumbs pressing slow and sure like it’s holy work. He doesn’t speak unless she needs him to. But his touch - steady, firm, unrelenting in its care - tells her everything she needs to know.

You’re safe. You’re mine. I’ve got you.

B = Body Part (his favourite body part of his and his partner’s)

His own? It’s his shoulders. Always has been. Not just for how they look - broad, sculpted, unmistakably powerful but for what they represent. They’re where he carries the weight of his world: duty, regret, discipline, loss. And her. Especially her. It’s where she clings when she buries herself against him, face tucked into his neck, arms circling like she’s trying to hold the very foundation of the man together. It’s also where her legs go - flung high and trembling, draped over his shoulders while he locks his arms around her knees and fucks her deep, steady, unrelenting. There’s no part of that position he doesn’t love: the helpless arch of her spine, the ragged pitch of her breath, the quake in her thighs just before she breaks. She never escapes him like that. She doesn’t even try.

As for her body? Where does he begin. There’s no part of her he doesn’t favour. She was made for him. That’s what it feels like, every time he lays his hands on her. Perfectly built to fit into his arms, against his chest, underneath the full press of his weight. Her smaller stature leaves her nestled so neatly beneath his - he never has to try hard to shield her. And he lives for that contrast. Her hips, wide and soft beneath his palms, make for the perfect anchor. Her neck? A canvas for his marks, a place his lips return to night after night. Her breasts - full, sensitive, hers - seem to respond to nothing but him. But it’s her stomach that always stops him. The stretch marks, the give beneath his hand, that faint tattoo that curls from her back and trails over her side - he kisses it every single time like it’s the first. And maybe it is worship, the way his mouth lingers there longer than anywhere else.

He doesn’t just know her body. He’s memorised it. Charted it like a map. He knows her body better than his own weaponry. Better than the sound of his own voice.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Terry Richmond is a traditional man, in every brutal, beautiful sense of the word. He comes inside his woman or not at all. That’s the point. That’s the claim. That’s the ritual. He waits, stays buried deep, unmoving - just to feel her flutter around him, to watch the subtle shift in her features when it all hits at once. Her orgasm. His. The tension between their bodies snapping like wire pulled too tight. He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure every last drop is right where it belongs.

And then the part he never skips - he makes her walk. Shaky, fucked-out legs, body still trying to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t help her. Not at first. He just watches, arms crossed, silent and smug, as gravity takes its course and the evidence of what they’ve done together spills down her thighs. There’s reverence in it. Possession. Filth.

Making her cum is less about pleasure and more about proof. Multiple positions. No shortcuts. No mercy. He doesn’t stop until she’s writhing, the sheets soaked beneath her, and she’s left speechless - not because he demands it, but because she has nothing left to give. Her moans are his favourite sound in the world, but no one else gets to hear them. The room’s soundproofed, his design. No one hears her cry out but him. No one ever will.

And just before she breaks, just before her body clenches tight and drags him down with her - he looks her dead in the eye. That’s the moment he wants her to see it. The shift in his face. The fire in his gaze. The exact second the man she knows becomes the man who ruins her, again and again.

D = Dirty Secret (a secret or unexpected turn-on)

On the surface, Terry Richmond is a man made of command: hard jaw, sharper eyes, voice that never needs to rise above a low register to be obeyed. Every inch of him reads “control.” Which is why it would come as a surprise, to anyone but her, that his dirtiest secret is this: he loves when she takes over.

Not often. Not always. But when she decides to flip the script, to pin him down, ride him slow, leave him begging with nothing but the roll of her hips and the drag of her fingernails across his chest? That’s when she sees it - the man who commands entire rooms coming undone at the altar of her body. It’s not submission. It’s devotion. It’s knowing he could throw her off at any second, but choosing not to. Choosing to be undone. Choosing to give her the same power he wields everywhere else.

It’s not about being topped. It’s about being hers.

E = Experience (how much experience do they have, how good are they?)

He’s not the kind of man who talks about his past - especially not in the bedroom. But if you’re wondering if he’s had his fair share of partners, the answer is yes… and no.

There were women, here and there - more when he was younger, before the weight of the world settled across his shoulders. Most of them blurred together, bodies used more for stress relief than intimacy. He turned down more opportunities than he took, never out of prudishness - just disinterest. If it wasn’t meaningful, if it wasn’t mutual, he didn’t see the point.

But Terry is a strategist before he’s anything else. And strategy starts with observation. He studies her - every twitch, every stuttered breath, every shift in the rhythm of her moans. He learns fast. Remembers everything. And once she’s his? She becomes the only curriculum he’ll ever need.

F = Favourite Position (what do they prefer, and why?)

It depends on the night - on the weight he’s carrying, on how much she needs to forget, on how much he needs to feel.

But more often than not, it’s chest to chest. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her back arching to press them closer, breaths mingling in the small space between them. Eyes locked. Skin slick. Heartbeats syncing. He fucks like he fights: with precision, intention, and focus and he wants to see her come apart under him.

Sometimes he holds her face in both hands as he moves inside her, like she might disappear if he looks away. Other times, he tucks his forehead against hers and stays completely silent, except for the way his hips keep moving and his hands don’t let go. For Terry, eye contact isn’t just a kink - it’s a confession.

Every thrust says what he won’t out loud: I see you. I need you. I’m not leaving.

G = Goofy (are they silly in bed?)

Terry Richmond is not goofy. He doesn’t crack jokes mid-thrust, doesn’t fumble, doesn’t break into boyish laughter when something slips or squeaks or shifts. That kind of playfulness doesn’t suit him, not with everything he’s been through. He’s far too composed, too deliberate. Always in control. Always watching.

But that doesn’t mean he’s humourless.

No - Terry’s version of “play” comes in the form of teasing, the kind that walks the line between cocky and cruel. The kind of low-voiced taunts that make her breath catch and her legs tremble. “Oh? Is it too much for you now?” A tilt of his head. That slow, wicked smile that only ever shows when she’s split open beneath him. “Then you’d better hold on”.

And just like that, he’s nudging her thighs wider with his knees, his palm closing tightly around her throat, the other braced against the headboard as he fucks her deeper and harder, with the same cool precision he uses to handle a weapon.

It’s not humour. It’s dominance dressed in charm. And if she dares to answer back? He makes her regret it… or beg for more.

H = Hair (how well-kept are they?)

Terry takes immaculate care of himself. Always has. From the cut of his beard to the shape of his brows to the way his body hair stays groomed without ever being bare - it’s not vanity, it’s discipline. The kind of upkeep that was drilled into him in the field, refined in civilian life, and perfected the moment he found someone he wanted to look good for.

He doesn’t believe in showing up as anything less than his best, for himself, yes, but especially for her. She deserves to look at a man who knows what pride in appearance looks like. A man who knows the value of presentation - of presence.

As for how she keeps herself? He has no preferences, no requests. Her body is hers. Full stop. The fact that she gives it to him at all - bares herself to him, lets him see her in every state, every angle, every inch. That’s the real honour. And Terry treats it as such. Always.

I = Intimacy (how romantic are they?)

Intimacy isn’t a mood for Terry. It’s his mother tongue.

It’s in the way he handles her like she’s breakable and indestructible all at once. In the way he holds her after just as tight as he did during. It’s in the way he says her name - low, reverent, like it costs him something every time and he’d pay it a thousand times over.

With Terry, love is suffocating. Not in a way that overwhelms, but in a way that fills. Every room. Every breath. Every corner of her body until all that’s left is him. She breathes him in - and he holds her steady when the world tilts on its axis.

He doesn’t speak in flowery declarations. Doesn’t send poems or write long letters. But his love is devotional. It’s adoration in action. It’s in the way he slows down when she starts to speed up. The way his thumbs trace lazy circles into her hips long after they’ve stopped moving. It’s the quiet pride on his face when she melts under his touch like he’s just witnessed something sacred. It’s the blanket pulled up to her chin before she can shiver. The pad of his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, not to hush her - just to feel her. And when she’s half-asleep, limbs tangled with his, skin humming from everything they’ve shared - that’s when he presses his mouth to her temple and breathes the only truth that ever mattered: Mine. Still. Always.

J = J*ck Off (masturbation headcanon)

Yes, but rarely. Some would call it denial. Terry calls it preservation. Why settle for fantasy when the real thing ruins him so thoroughly every time? Still, when the ache coils too tight and the nights stretch too long, he lets himself give in. But even then, it’s never just about release. It’s about her. The way she arches when he grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her hips back to meet his thrusts. The soft hiss she makes when he licks a stripe along her collarbone. The crack in her voice when she moans his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once. His hands move with a mind of their own. Rough. Focused. Ruthless. Fists wrapping around his length, mimicking her grip - sliding, tugging, pumping, desperate for the relief only she truly offers. Sometimes he pictures her watching. Mouth parted. Eyes locked on his. Talking him through it like only she can. His tip flushed, swollen, threatening to spill, he pushes harder. Faster. Until the knot inside him snaps. When the pressure snaps and he spills hot across his own thighs, he just closes his eyes and breathes through the comedown. And still, for a moment, he stays in the silence. Chest rising. Fingers twitching. Eyes closed. Not ashamed. Just imagining how much better it’ll feel when it’s her hands next time. Her heat. Her body. Because waiting for her? That’s not denial. He tells himself he can wait a little longer until he can have all of her again.

K = Kink (one of more of his kinks)

Terry is controlled, but never boring. Experimental, but never careless. A beautiful oxymoron. He’s a man of studied extremes and nothing excites him more than seeing her toe that line. Restraint is a favourite. Ropes, wrist cuffs, the ring loops he’s fitted into their headboard; all to keep her laid out, helpless, and entirely at his mercy. Blindfolds sometimes. Headphones, rarely. But her mouth? Never. He'd sooner carve his own heart out than miss the way she begs, pleads, breaks for him. Because that voice - ragged, raw, soaked in want, is his anchor and undoing both. He doesn’t play for noise. He plays for ruin. And if her voice isn't echoing through his bones, it’s not worth the game.

L = Location (their favourite place)

Nowhere beats their bedroom - the sanctity, the scent, the sweat-soaked sheets that still hold memories in the morning. But the living room? That’s where the devil in him stirs. There’s something about seeing her bent over the back of the sofa, flushed and wrecked, skin marked where only he knows to look. Even better when they have company over. Watching her glide through the room with practiced grace, laughing, offering drinks, hair still damp from the shower he pulled her into after fucking her face down on the cushions. No one suspects a thing. Except her. Because her thighs still tremble. Her voice still cracks. And she knows damn well that when the last guest leaves, he’s taking her right back there and starting all over again.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It goes without saying that Terrance Richmond is a man of order. Regime. Discipline. That control extends into every aspect of his life, including the bedroom. He’s no stranger to want, to need. But he doesn’t indulge every whim that flickers across the battlefield of his mind. Unlike most men, he chooses his moments and that’s what makes him lethal. But then again, not every man comes home to her. A half-drunk glass of red wine, perched carelessly on the staircase. A full bottle at its base. The laundry basket outside their door - a quiet invitation for him to strip off the day, piece by piece. And then: her. Clad in a striking blue lace babydoll, curves haloed in soft lighting, curls pinned into an elegant updo. The sheen of oil catching the light along her legs - the same legs that would be wrapped tight around him soon enough. Lingerie was his undoing. His favourite contradiction. She couldn’t possibly get more perfect and yet she did, every time she walked into their bedroom dressed like sin and sanctity all at once. The lace - intricate, delicate, deliberate - mirrored her spirit too well. He’d started buying two of everything: one to tear off in a frenzy. The other to study like scripture.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Finding a hard limit with Terry is near impossible. This is a man who embodies darkness - the best and worst thing to be alone with in a locked room. He devours fear, spits it back out in flames. He doesn’t just toe the line, he redraws it. But even he has his rules. Anything that leaves a permanent mark? Off the table. Not because he’s afraid to claim her - he already has. But because when he met her, she was immaculate. A masterpiece. And though he has no intention of ever leaving, he’s made a quiet vow to keep her body untouched by time, unmarred by consequence. The bruises and bite marks he leaves? Temporary. Intentional. Because he loves watching them heal - knowing they’ll fade and that he’ll get to ruin her all over again, one careful kiss, one hungry mark at a time.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This was her time to shine. Terry pleased her so thoroughly, so relentlessly, that she always found her way back to her knees - not in submission, but in passion. Because from that vantage point? She led. She saw everything: The way his brow furrowed in restraint. The ripple in his abdomen with every twitch of muscle. The bead of sweat threatening to drip from his temple. The way his stance widened as balance became a fight. The slow tilt of his head as pleasure took him over. And above all else - the way his cock swelled and pulsed against her tongue, weighty and commanding, as she hollowed her cheeks and took him past the point of resistance. She could’ve come from the sight alone. And Terry? He said nothing. Didn’t need to. The way he looked at her in those moments, like he was the one being worshipped and he accepted the praise wilfully.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?)

It’s not that Terry doesn’t have time for romance, he does. He bleeds affection into every corner of their life. But the bedroom? That’s where he leaves the polish at the door. That’s where his unbridled desire runs unchallenged. She can take everything he gives. He fucks like it’s life or death - fast but never rushed. Rough but never reckless. If she still has air in her lungs to beg him for more, he’s not working hard enough. He wants her breathless. Wants her squirming. Thrashing. Wanting. Sometimes he even shoves the sheets out of the way - not to see more of her, but so there’s nothing else for her to cling to but him. The marks she leaves on his back? Better than any medal, trophy, or ribbon. They don’t adorn him. They belong on him. He doesn’t need a crown. He has her nails.

Q = Quickie (opinions, frequency, etc.)

Not a no but definitely not his preference. Terry doesn’t like to rush when he could instead unravel. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s immune to the thrill of public teasing. He plays the long game: A curl tucked behind her ear, knuckles skimming her cheek - not for affection, but to feel the heat rise there first. A hand resting innocently on her thigh under the table… until it slides higher. Two fingers dipped between her folds, her body already welcoming, hungry, slick. If not for the noise of conversation around them, the wet sound of her taking him in might echo across the room. By the time they’re walking to the car, she’s gripping his wrist with more desperation than poise. He whispers that they’ll finish it later - not because he’s teasing, but because they both know the real reward is the slow torture he’ll deliver when they’re home. Quickies? Fine. Delayed gratification? Divine.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks?)

Terry doesn’t take chances - he takes control. He knows her better than he knows himself, and that makes her the safest risk he’s ever taken. So when he wants to push boundaries, it’s never a gamble. It’s a guarantee. He guides. He reassures. He commands. Her pleasure isn’t just a goal - it’s a study, a ritual, a devotion. Yes, he could bend her into obedience. But the real satisfaction? Watching her surrender willingly. Letting her mind go blank and her body follow his hands. He plans. She trusts. And in those moments, she isn’t just a woman. She’s his canvas. His doll. His perfect experiment in how far desire can go when it’s built on faith.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The answer’s almost insulting, painfully obvious. A body like that? It didn’t build itself. It was made, sculpted, trained - almost as if he constructed it just to ruin her. Terry lasts as long as it takes. And then a little longer. One orgasm is simply a warm-up. Two, a tease. Three, expected. It's not over until he sees the signs: — When her clit flinches at the ghost of a touch. — When her legs tremble just trying to close. — When her arms are too weak to cushion the next thrust and instead fall limp around him. — When her back sticks to the sheets, soaked and twisted from the wreckage of too many positions. — When she's gulping air between moans, bruises blooming on her throat from his hand. — When the spasms of orgasm don’t shake her anymore but her body simply gives. But most of all? It's when she can't even say his name. Not a gasp, not a whisper. Just silence. That’s when he knows she’s truly been fucked. He turns her every way but loose, keeps those tired, glossy eyes on him the whole time. Villains can still have superpowers and his is endurance.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys? Terry’s view is simple: collaboration, not competition. They’re tools, not replacements. A means to an end, the same end he always works toward: her ruin. And if a few carefully selected instruments make that ruin deeper, louder, longer? All the better. He doesn’t keep anything for himself, but he’ll watch her choose her weapon: wand, clamp, vibe, plug - like it’s a rite of passage. He wants her to feel in control… before he takes it away. She’s ridden him with a bullet vibrator tucked between them before, the trembling pulse nearly knocking the air out of both their lungs. He’d gripped her hips and thrust up so hard she nearly lost her balance, her spine bowing as she sobbed from the overstimulation. He’d only laughed. “Keep going,” he’d growled, voice dark and low. “I didn’t say you could stop”.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Terry Richmond is a deviant. Plain and simple. Cruel in ways that make her cry and come in equal measure. He mocks. He teases. He degrades. And all of it? Every word, every withheld touch, every dragged-out edge - it’s intentional. He'll stroke her slowly with just the head of his dick for minutes on end - never pushing in, just circling, prodding, taunting. He’ll whisper filth in her ear, not for arousal but to bait the desperation. Tears? He laps them up. And if she thinks that’s enough to earn mercy? She’s sorely mistaken. He has no problem leaving her high and dry, strung out on the edge, legs shaking from denial. Sometimes he’ll even fake the promise of release, only to pull away at the last second - again and again and again. He could let her come. He could be kind. But instead? He’d rather see her beg. Break. Burn. And when she finally does? He rewards her with overstimulation so vicious it feels like punishment until it doesn’t. Until her brain stops knowing the difference.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Terry doesn’t believe in holding back when it comes to her - not in touch, not in feeling, and certainly not in sound. He’s hers in every way a man can be. Mind, body, soul and voice. If she wants to hear how good she makes him feel, she will. No hesitation. No shame. A groan when her mouth wraps around him just right. A deep, drawn-out moan when her walls flutter around his cock mid-stroke. A low, guttural grunt when she sinks down on him without warning. But it's the whimpers that undo her - rare, involuntary things, dragged from his throat when he’s too far gone to hold onto pride. He’s vocal, not just with sound but with language. Praise? Filthy promises? Cruel nicknames that make her drip? He doesn’t discriminate. One second it’s “Good girl, that’s it, fuck, you’re perfect.” The next, it’s “So fucking needy. Bet your pussy’s been aching for this all day.” His voice is always coated in something dark and sweet. Honeyed, but laced with salacity. Whatever the moment calls for, Terry gives. Because she deserves to hear the ruin she creates.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

When Terry’s working late or away on assignment, they fall back on their menu. Code words. Inside jokes. A whole system built on anticipation and shared sin. “#27?” he might text - short, simple. And she’ll know it means a photo from her back camera, her fingers spreading herself open just for him. “#33” means a video in one of his shirts, toy buried deep, his name whispered like a prayer. Sometimes she sends something extra just to surprise him: no warning, no number and it never fails to derail his night completely. He’s ruined in the best way. Hard behind his belt with no time to do anything about it. And when he comes home, he makes sure she pays for every one. Routine isn’t boring with them. It’s just the foundation they build their chaos on.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Terry is the exact opposite of short and sweet. He’s long - intimidatingly so - with a thickness that takes time to adjust to, no matter how many times she’s taken him before. Uncut, flushed dark with blood when aroused, the kind of dick that curves just enough to hurt in the best way. A prominent vein trails up the underside, pulsing against her tongue when she sucks him slow, against her walls when he fucks her deep. He’s heavy in the hand, even heavier on the tongue and when he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed flush against her, she feels every inch. The kind of dick that ruins her for anything else. And he knows it. She’s left trembling and stuffed full, dripping down her thighs, breathless and stretched to her limits and he still asks if she can take just a little more. “You’re mine, sweetheart. Say it with your cunt”.

Y = Yearning (how much they crave their partner / how high is their sex drive)

Terry craves. Not just in body, but in presence, in spirit - in the quiet moments and the ones filled with chaos. He’s a real lover, always has been. Deep, unwavering, and endlessly tactile. He’s not shy about needing her. Privacy is sacred, sure but that doesn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around her waist at the supermarket or slipping his hand down the back of her jeans in the lift. If she’s within reach, he’s touching. Whether it’s her hand, her thigh, the curve of her ass, or a possessive squeeze under the table, it grounds him. At home, she’s his pillow and his prize. He’ll rest his hand under her shirt, palm cupping her breast like it belongs there and it does. His sex drive is sky-high, but never messy. Never careless. She could so much as breathe and he’d be hard but he’s never just horny. He’s needy. Needy for her. When the ache gets too deep to ignore, he’ll brace himself over her with forearms dug into the mattress, hips grinding slow, deep, relentless, pressing his full weight into her so she feels it. So she knows he’s not going anywhere. She’s his. And he’ll spend a lifetime showing her what that means.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It depends on the day, the session, the storm they’ve weathered but she usually falls first. Terry likes to watch her drift. Curtains cracked just enough for the moonlight to kiss her skin, the sheets tangled between their legs, her breathing deep and steady, one bare thigh thrown over his waist like she’s trying to keep him there. Not that she needs to. He’s not going anywhere. It’s in those moments - her soft sighs, the curve of her mouth still wet with kisses, the faint scent of her pleasure still clinging to his skin - that Terry feels something close to peace. He’ll fall asleep eventually. But not before he’s memorised the shape of her in the dark. Not before he’s reminded himself, again and again, just how lucky he is to have her.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @nayaesworld @theogbadbitch

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾

[ghouljams]

have you ever seen going dutch, cuz all i’m thinking about now is the scene where the military protagonist discovers that his ex-wives go on vacation together every year with their (his) kids and call it ‘(his name) family vacation’ and he has a tantrum about them using his name when none of them are together

group of price’s ex-wives shrugging their shoulders being like ‘yeah we were all too stubborn to listen to the last ex, welcome to the family’

It's so difficult to believe the woman in sunglasses and an oversized sun hat, sipping a tall multicolored drink with perfectly manicured nails holding the straw just so, keeping her precisely applied lipstick from smudging, because she looks the part of "ex-wife" almost too perfectly. Even more difficult to believe her when she tells you "Stay away from John, love, he's not the man for you" in that lush but patronizing voice that women over 40 seem to develop every time they talk to pretty young things like you.

So of course you don't take her advice. Especially when John grimaces and calls her "number 2" like she's shit on his heel. He even manages to win you over to his side, makes you resent how much of his paycheck gets paid out in alimony each month, makes you agree that a child might convince the court to lessen that amount. He's so attentive, keeps telling you that he got it right this time. But a weak foundation leads to a shaky structure, and the first quake of trouble sends it all crumbling down.

He'd never serve you, no matter how little he seems to care about you now. So you do what they all did and serve him, take your new baby and demand your fair share of everything, the house (that you'd once scorned his ex-wife for demanding), full custody (you'd once called his ex heartless for the same reason), and a share of his income (greedy, you'd called a woman you didn't know). And you reach out to the woman you'd been told to hate, only to find out she's just one of seven, well eight with you.

Seven other women, some with kids, some without, all with the same agenda: make John Price's life hell and have fun doing it. All headed by a woman with white hair and perfect red lips, her eyes creased with smile lines as she kisses your cheek and coos "poor baby, welcome to the real family."

[zepskies]

UNRAVEL ME - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Finallyyyyy lol. I know I've been talking about this series for months now, but it was genuinely challenging for me to write this prequel for Lost in Translation (which was requested by various Tumblr friends and anons who wanted to see Soldier Boy matched with a woman of color). I think maybe it's because this is now my third Soldier Boy series, and getting this guy to show character growth is hard to do three different times. 🤣 But let's see how it goes with another post-season 3 misadventure! 💜💙 This series also fulfills a hilarious prompt for @jacklesversebingo!

Song Inspo: “Unravel Me” by Sabrina Claudio

JVB Prompt: Accidental Old Person Acquisition

Word Count: 6K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, threats, SB being his typical asshole self, obnoxious flirting, racial elements, Ben drinks Cuban coffee, among other ethnic mini adventures in the future. The reader is a mixed-race Afro-Latina with textured hair. 

💜 Series Masterlist

💙 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 1: Hot Tamale

Vought Tower is falling.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like: the ground trembling like a Magnitude 7 earthquake, overhead lights flickering, a line of rubble falling on your head as you finally manage to squeeze out of the stairwell and into the main floor's reception area. You take in a large gulp of air, breathing past the oppressive clog of warm bodies, sweat, fear, and a hint of piss.

The walls quake along with the tile floor; you spill onto it hard, hitting your knees, though you curl your fingers fast when a woman from Legal almost steps on them in her dagger heels. Fuck!

Fear and adrenaline compel you to scramble onto your feet and claw your way through the gift shop. Maybe you'll be able to cut through the aisles of overpriced Starlight plushies and Special Edition Black Noir Funko Pops to get to one of the east exits.

It's Vought’s very own 9/11. You were told to evacuate over the intercom, and now you're about to find out why.

It’s taken over an hour to try and escape. You’re still trapped in the building, obviously, caught up in the lobby. It's backed up by the clusterfuck of people squeezing themselves through the narrow exit doorways to the garage, like rats clamoring over one another to avoid extermination. Somehow they've broken through the glass to override the security protocols that had first tried to lock you all in.

Just when you make it past the display of red, white, and blue Homelander mugs, a blinding light catches your eye through the tall windows and the growing darkness of the evening. The light falls and falls, what looks like a tangled ball of red and orange and green.

It explodes into the ground, shaking the very foundations of New York City. You cling to the display table and manage to dive underneath it.

You hide there until the shaking stops.

Tears sting in your eyes as the unsteady screams of your coworkers ring out in the lobby, even though you don’t recognize most of them. You suddenly remember your boss; you lost sight of him on the way down the first five flights of stairs. You morbidly wonder if he was one of the ones who got trampled along the way, or blown off the side of the building in the crash.

When the outside world is quiet again, you crawl out from underneath the table. Everyone who still can is slowly getting to their feet, picking themselves up, some of them helping the people closest to them. You don’t know what the hell is happening, but you have a strong feeling Homelander is involved. He’s been playing at CEO for weeks, now that Stan Edgar has been deposed.

Instead of leaving out the front, you continue your plan of going through one of the east side exits. There’s a narrow alley that leads to the garage farther down. You step out into the evening light, made darker in the alley behind what’s left of the Tower. You know the metal door to the garage isn’t too far away, but before you can get to it, you see a man stumbling right toward you.

It's too dark to see him clearly, and even though you back up a couple of steps, the green of his uniform captures your attention.

“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?”

He glances up at you through furrowed brows. The state of him, ragged and soot-stained, his labored breaths, and the way he’s leaning against the wall—it all tells you that he’s been through some major shit.

“Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“I’m fine,” he says, though his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your spine prickle with unease.

In record time, your brain collects what little you know about the ancient relic of a supe that’s mere steps away from invading your personal space. Homelander has been calling him a rogue in the press, but even though your role at Vought barely makes you a blip on anyone’s radar, you know enough about what really holds the company together…which means you know better than to believe even one iota of what that star-spangled prick told the public. 

Your gaze flits over Soldier Boy, now with some concern despite your wariness.

“Are you hurt?” you ask.

“I said I’m fucking fine. Do I look fucking hurt?” he growls tiredly. When he tries to stand a bit straighter, he almost stumbles against the wall.

Part of you twinges with sympathy, but still, your lips purse at his attitude.

“Dude, you don’t want me to tell you what you look like,” you say.

His eyebrow twitches. He opens his mouth to retort, but that’s when a man’s voice can be heard nearby. You turn your head at the sound.

While you’re distracted, Soldier Boy grabs you with more strength than you anticipated and drags you along with him against the wall. You gasp, but he holds a dirty half-gloved hand over your mouth.

Voices begin to echo from down the other end of the alley, closer to the main road. The supe has already turned his head in that direction, but your gaze flicks there next, your eyes wide and fearful.

“I don’t need a fuckin’ doctor,” says a man. His accent is thick as hell, like a Mary Poppins chimney sweep. Cockney? He’s tall, wearing a long black coat to match his black hair. He’s also arguing with a black man and a skinny white guy. A couple of ambulances zoom by, for a moment overtaking their voices and casting their bodies in the red glow of the siren alarms.

“Considering you coughed up blood on my fucking shoes, I’m dumping you off at the nearest hospital within a mile, and then you lose my number for good. Got that, motherfucker?” says the black man. He’s just as intimidating as the other guy, if not more so, considering the way the Brit's leaning against the wall like he might keel over right there.

The skinny guy breaks the tension between them. “Look, we should go. Annie’s got Maeve, and Homelander could be circling the sky looking for us right now.”

Queen Maeve? What happened to her? She was supposed to be in rehab. Who's Annie? Oh shit. Annie January. Starlight broke Maeve out? No. I should've known that rehab story was bullshit too. Who fucking knows what actually happened there. More importantly, what's happening here?!

Your thoughts tumble into one another while your heartbeat pounds in your ears. Your breathing comes out shallower through your nose, considering the big meaty hand covering your mouth.

If Homelander's looking for these guys, then none of this little scene is good. It makes you a fucking witness. Shit...

Soldier Boy tightens his hold on your arm. Slow and quiet, he opens the door to the parking garage with his elbow, since his other hand is still locked over your mouth. He guides you in. 

“Don’t scream, or I’ll start squeezing,” he warns. At least he releases his hand from your mouth, instead, grabbing the back of your neck. “Where’s your car?” 

“Wait, come on,” you plead, your voice shaking. “Whatever you did, I don’t want to know, but I didn’t sign up to be your getaway driver.” 

Ben’s grip tightens a fraction. “All I need is a fucking ride. That isn’t too much to ask, now is it, sweetheart?”

“Depends on where you’re trying to go,” you say. But you decide that not getting snapped in half is good enough reason to lead him to your car. You rarely have cause to drive it, so it mostly just stays parked here in the garage. For once, you’re grateful that you shell out a portion of your monthly paycheck to reserve this space. 

You fish your keys out of your car and unlock the door with shaky hands. Soldier Boy watches you press the button on the small key remote with furrowed brows, but he takes it from you after forcing you in the driver’s seat, so he can enter the car on the passenger side.

The second your tiny blue Kia rumbles pitifully to life, your music blares loud enough to feel the bass in the floor. Soldier Boy smacks the radio buttons roughly until it stops.

You give him a thin smile. 

“Not a fan of Bad Bunny?” you ask.

Irritated, he grabs a hold of the small plushie swinging from your rearview mirror. He yanks it off despite your protest, nearly breaking the mirror, and stares in gruff bewilderment at the white fluffy heart. It has a Dominican flag embroidered on the front and a Cuban flag on the back—custom made on Etsy.

The supe raises a brow, but he dismissively tosses it somewhere in the back seat. When you look at his grumpy face, he just reminds you of Oscar the Grouch. He reaches down and shifts the seat back, but he barely has any leg room for those thunder thighs and combat boots.

“Just fucking drive,” he says, his voice like sharp gravel.

Again, your annoyance sparks at his rudeness. Are all supes assholes, or is it just the ones you’re forced to interact with?

“Okay, but where the hell do you want me to take you?” you ask. “The subway? The airport? The Hudson River? What?”

He thinks about it, drumming his fingers against his leg. His uniform is a bit poppier than military green, yet more classic than Homelander’s with the stretch of that silver-plated eagle across the chest. 

“Too many eyes at the airport. I need to lie low for a while before I get outta dodge,” Soldier Boy admits. Then he sits back in your passenger seat, adjusting the recline until his broad frame is below the view of the window. You think it’s both for his own comfort and so he’s less likely to be seen. 

“Your place should be all right,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Your mouth falls open in shock. “Are you for real?” 

He just gives you a stern look. He’s not fucking kidding.

“Look, you may be a superhero and all, but I don’t fucking know you! And…” Just then, clarity strikes you as you remember what’s been going on in the news for the past week. “Didn’t, uh, didn’t you…blow up a building in Midtown?”

He doesn’t seem to want to answer at first, leveling you with that stoic, bearded face. His gaze eventually drifts away from yours. 

“That was an accident.” 

Your breath gets caught in your throat. “That’s a pretty big accident.”

Again, Soldier Boy doesn’t answer you. You try to focus on the road, but it’s pretty impossible when you have a supe that’s supposedly risen from the dead in your passenger seat, who also exploded 19 people on accident, who tried and failed to kill Homelander.

Speaking of, Homelander himself is looking for this guy…which means you’re helping a fugitive escape. What’s worse, he wants to crash on your goddamn couch.

One of your hands leaves the steering wheel to cover your mouth. You press your hand there until the mix-match of gold and silver rings start to bite into the sensitive flesh of your lower lip. 

“Coño su madre,” you mutter the curse under your breath. I’m so fucking screwed.  

You unlock the door to your third-floor apartment with a heavy sigh. As usual, it gets stuck the first time you try to swing it open. You throw a little more strength in your arm the second time, and the door finally budges. 

You flick the lights on inside and unveil the shoebox that is your home. It’s barely a one-bedroom. The open kitchen lies to the right with a small two-seater table nestled against the wall, while the “living room” lies to the left. There you managed to fit a faded violet loveseat couch from your college days, a bookshelf from Goodwill, and your TV perched on what’s supposed to be a coffee table.

Straight ahead is a narrow hall that leads to your bedroom door on the right side and the one and only bathroom on the other. 

Well, this is gonna be fun. Slumber party with America’s Most Wanted, you think, with no small amount of Jesus fucking Christ weighing your steps.

Soldier Boy’s broad shoulders barely clear the open doorway. He shuts and locks the door behind him and takes stock of your apartment with a slow turn of his head. He doesn’t seem impressed, except for the paintings, funky ‘60s style shelves, and other canvases decorating the walls.

“You some kind of artist?” he asks, giving a cursory glance to each one.

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” you nod. “But most of these aren’t mine.”

On every wall, there’s a cluster of art, from canvases to pottery, glass, burnished clay, and brass. There are replicas of paintings by Salvador Dalí and Frida Kahlo, Picasso and Basquiat, Monet and Amelia Peláez, even a sculpture of a woman that you tried to replicate from Ana Mendieta. It’s meant to represent the suffering of women. Hell if today doesn’t qualify.

You toss your messenger bag onto the couch and throw up your arms at your sides.

“Well, since the police, Homelander, and probably the rest of the government are looking for you, you should do the whole ‘get outta dodge’ thing in the morning,” you say. You clasp your hands together in the facsimile of a prayer and politeness all in one. “But if you really wanna spend a night on my couch, then that’s okay.”

We’ll get through this. Just one night of insanity and then this’ll all be over. 

“That bed looks big enough for two,” the supe says. He nods at your open bedroom door and smiles suggestively, his gaze roaming over your form.

You get that shiver down your spine again, even as you blush. You take a pointed step away from him.

“Uh, how about fucking no,” you snap. “That door will be locked, and I have a taser that I’m not afraid to use on any tender bits.”

He raises a brow at you, but he snorts. He steps toward you, his gait slow and arrogant. You cross your arms while he closes the distance, his hair falling forward across his forehead as he stares down at you with a hint of a sneer. His chin and forehead are still stained with grime, just as his red gloves are scuffed and half burnt from whatever happened in that blast.

Your heart trips up faster. A tremble of fear runs through you, but you refuse to move.

“You do realize that that’s tantamount to flicking me with a rubber band,” he says. His half-lidded gaze runs over you with a note of interest. The corner of his mouth raises in a smirk. “Besides, whatever we might get up to, I can guarantee you’ll enjoy it. Just ask Loni Anderson. Farrah Fawcett. Hell, Molly Ringwald. Love me a fuckin’ redhead once in a while.”

You give him a look that could (proverbially) crumble Empire State.

“Don’t fucking bet on it,” you say.

Yes, your voice is quiet. Yes, you have to work past a swallow. But you don’t ever drop your gaze. You meet him head-on with every bit of stubborn fire you have left inside you.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream," you say, a wary trembling in your chest. "Even if you kill me, they’ll find you that much quicker.”

His smirk falls away. His gaze roams over you again, this time in a different way. Maybe he sees the way your entire body is tense, locked up tight, prepared to recoil and scream if he tries to grab at you. He relents.

“Christ, relax. It’s your fucking loss anyway, sweetheart.” His eyes roll dismissively as he turns away from you. “I need a shower.”

He strides down the hall in search of it. You move quickly to get ahead of him. The last thing you need is him rifling through your bedroom drawers.

“Ah, wait! I’ll get you a towel,” you say. It irritates you to have to treat him like a “guest,” but you don’t know what else to do. The man can literally snap your neck. Even for that big ass bluff you just pulled, you really, really don’t want to die.

You could try calling the police while he’s in the shower, but you don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out. And who’s gonna be quicker on the draw—the human police force, or the literal super soldier?

No, it’ll be more painless to just wait this guy out and see him off in the morning. For now, he doesn’t seem inclined to hurt you. He even took a rejection of you “sleeping” with him pretty well, for a supe. They tend to think they're God’s gifts to humanity. Working at Vought, you’ve been propositioned more than enough times. Though God forbid you say no for a ride on their magical dick. You’d rather not jump on that potential steel trap. You know a guy in Marketing who had his happy place literally frozen and chipped off.

After finding a fresh towel for Soldier Boy, he shuts himself in the lone bathroom across from your room. Soon, the old pipes roar to life. You retreat into your room for a long, slow breath. It’s less steadying than you’d hoped.

You also shut and lock the bedroom door behind you, for whatever good that might do you. 

Not much, you realize warily. 

You sink your fingers into your hair and blow out a sigh of frustration. What even is my fucking life right now?

Tugging on the knotted curls, you loosen them from the bun you wrapped tightly this morning. For all Vought claimed to care about diversity, your boss once commented on your “wild” hair shedding on the tile floor. 

Taking in a few deep, yoga-style breaths before you lose your shit, you dig into the recesses of your closet and dresser drawers. Your most recent ex had left at least one shirt, maybe a pair of boxers. Soldier Boy will have to make do with your favorite sweatpants. They’re stretched out enough from years of wear and washes that they’ll probably fit him. 

Juuuuust great. You're really contemplating this asshole wearing your clothes.

By the time you gather your bearings, shove your soul back into your body and leave your room, Soldier Boy is exiting the bathroom, the fluffy purple towel slung low around his hips. 

“Jesus!” You jolt and instinctively step back. There’s nowhere far to go in the hallway, so your ass ends up bumping against the hollow wall. 

Once again, he wears a smug sort of smile as he stares down at you in amusement. 

“Like what you see, huh, baby doll?”

“Put your tits away, please,” you snap, handing him the bundle of clothing while trying not to look at him directly. You can’t help glancing at his muscular frame out of the corner of your eye. 

Good lord, it’s like he was chiseled from marble. Make that marble with a golden tan, and a patch of hair across his chest that you could run your nails through.

His lips curve with a cockier smile. You quickly look away.

Great. He caught you ogling for one tiny second. And with that moment of human weakness, all that strong talk you accomplished earlier had probably just withered away into nothing. Is he going to take that as an invitation to slide into bed with you tonight while you’re trying to sleep?

Yeeeah. Who the hell are you kidding? You’re going to tape your own eyes open if you have to, but you’re not dropping your guard around this guy. He doesn’t seem to actually want to hurt you. He wants to use you for convenience’s sake. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s dangerous, hunted, arrogant as fuck, and weirdly horny for a guy who just threw himself off a building.

Subtly clearing your throat, you move past him to the living room. There you set up the couch for him to sleep on. He ventures back into the bathroom to get dressed, which gives you a small break. You’re mentally counting the seconds. 

He comes back somewhat fully dressed. The shirt is a bit small for him, as are the boxer shorts. 

“Christ, who did this belong to, a fucking eunuch?” Soldier Boy asks. “Tell me you’ve got a brother. Because if this was your boyfriend’s, then he wasn’t doing shit for you, sweetheart.”

You begin to blush on reflex, shooting him a steely glare. Those clothes did belong to your ex, but that’s none of his damn business. 

“As promised, here’s the couch,” you gesture to the neatly fitted sheets, blankets, and even a fluffy(ish) pillow you so generously laid out for him. “Again, I will be locking my bedroom door, and if you make even a step in that direction, prepare to get tased in the dick. It’s already set on the max setting.”

Soldier Boy smirks. You fail to see how what you’ve said is in any way funny. You’re definitely not laughing, but you do blink in surprise when he takes your hand and brings the back of it to his lips for a kiss. His beard briefly rasps against your skin. He looks down at you, meeting your eyes with his own. The green in them makes you falter. 

“Believe it or not, I appreciate the help,” he says, turning on the charm. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Your lips purse. Does he really think hitting you with that Brad Pitt tone of voice is going to work on you? He fucking kidnapped you, and not to mention, is currently holding you on house arrest.

“Oh, now you want to know my name? After conning me into being your Uber driver and your Airbnb in one?” You try to slip your hand out of his, but his grip tightens. He’s still smiling, amused by your struggle. 

“Come on, what’s your name?” he cajoles.

You sigh. Despite your better judgment, you give it to him begrudgingly.

"What's yours?" you ask, mostly drenched in sarcasm. Though a small part of you is...curious.

He stares back at you for a moment, something almost like surprise flicking through his gaze. His lips twitch at the corners, wry and humorless.

"Ben," he says, finally letting go of your hand.

“Okay, cool. So nice to meet you, uh, Ben," you reply, gesturing at his overall form. You still can't believe he's standing here like an iron lamppost in your living room. Are you about to step into the portal to Narnia now and continue this fever dream, or fall straight down to hell?

"All right, mind if I go now?" you say, crossing your arms as the snark escapes its cage. "I’ve had a bitch of a day and I need my beauty sleep."

Ben raises a brow.

Shit. You bite your lip.

Okay, you know you’re being a bit too hostile to a man who can all too easily snap you in half, but he’s got this way of pushing every single one of your buttons at once. Not in a good way. In the wish I could fucking scratch your eyes out kind of a way.

You're frankly lucky that Soldier Boy just seems amused by your attitude. Silly woman with her silly fits of belligerence.

His green-eyed gaze slides from the curve of your jean-clad thighs to your hips, over your breasts concealed by a red blouse, and finally up to your chin, your lips, your eyes. You can’t help the way your skin tingles at his scrutiny, even as you frown.

“From where I’m standing, sleep isn’t what you need,” he says. He somehow manages to sound both flattering and suggestive. 

Your face flares hotter, and your lips press tightly together.

“Sweet dreams, Soldier Boy,” you say, somewhat sarcastically as you head back to your room. You intend to grab your pajamas and take them with you into the bathroom. You’re going to have to bring your taser and lock yourself in there for a shower, even with the obvious safety hazard. What-fucking-ever at this point, as long as it keeps out Hungry Like the Wolf out there. But his reply makes you pause. 

He snorts. “Good night, sweetheart.” 

You turn to look at him over your shoulder. He spares you one final look, less arrogant and more taciturn, before he turns away and lowers himself down onto the couch.

You sigh, but you can’t help peeking around the corner at the supe sitting in your living room. His broad frame takes up the entire center of the little couch. You’re not all that sure he’s going to be comfortable there, since his long legs are definitely not going to fit across the loveseat, but he’s going to have to deal with it until tomorrow. 

You watch him rest his elbows above his knees and blow out a long, tired breath. He raises a hand to rub between his furrowed brows. For a long beat, he just stares vacantly at the floor between his knees. 

Then he leans back against the couch, crosses his arms, and closes his eyes. He seems…lost. Exhausted.

You wonder if he has anyone in his life worth getting back to. Anyone at all.

Shaking your head, you quietly make your way back to your room.

Ben finds himself watching you the next morning. He sits at the two-seater table while you putter about in the kitchen.

You’re cute, he has to admit, all sleepy and barely awake as you slide around in your fuzzy red slippers. A large Knicks shirt hangs off your body, exposing one smooth shoulder. Your sweatpants are overlarge as well, which only makes him think about the generous curves you’ve got hiding underneath. He took notice yesterday. You had a lot to work with under that little blouse, jeans, and chunky heels.   

Yesterday you were put together, even though you’d clearly had a rough time escaping the Tower. Today you've slunk out of your room with baggy pajamas, your hair a mess of curls running down your back. 

“Want a cafecito?” you ask.

Ben raises a brow. “If you mean coffee, then that’d be good. Something hot to eat would be even better.”

“First of all, this isn’t a bed and breakfast,” you say, turning to him with an edge to your voice. “Look, I’m exhausted. There’s a bakery down the street. I can pick something up.” 

As a matter of fact, your favorite Colombian bakery is right around the corner. You start thinking about all the pastries you’re going to treat yourself with, even though it does make you miss the Cuban bakeries back home. You would absolutely kill for a pastelito with guava and cheese right now. 

Instead of cold-blooded murder, you set the tiny espresso cup of coffee in front of Ben. His face shifts to confusion and bewilderment. 

“I asked for a cup of coffee, black, not this baby doll tea set cup of coffee,” he says. 

“It’s a Cuban espresso,” you inform him. “And believe me, you don’t want it any bigger than that.”

Unless he just wants to spend the rest of the day on the toilet. Maybe he needs to clean out his system. 

“Just try it,” you encourage. “I think you’ll like it.” 

He eyes you with skepticism, but he takes a sip.

It’s sweet, but the rich, robust taste hits him between the eyes. His brows raise high.

“Okay,” he says with a growing smile. “I see what you mean.”

“See? Now you don’t gotta doubt me again,” you nod. He watches you pour one for yourself, stirring in a frankly alarming spoonful of sugar. 

“Where are you from, exactly?” he asks. 

You glance over at him, taking issue with the way he asks the question. 

“New York,” you respond tartly. You're really from Miami, but he doesn't need to know that.

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. What are you, Mexican or something?”

You raise a brow, your lips pursing when he begins to smirk.  

“I do like me a juicy taco,” he says. 

His slutty grin is too much for you. Your hand tightens around your coffee cup.

“Okay, a lot to unpack there, Romeo, but no. Not all of us are Mexican!” 

“All right. Calm down, Chiquita. You should take it as a fucking compliment,” he says. He raises a brow at you. “You’re a real spicy one, aren’t you?”

You gape incredulously. “Excuse me?” 

Chiquita?! What the hell is that? Is he saying you look like a goddamn banana, or does he actually know a few words in Spanish? Is he actually calling you a little girl? And for the cherry on top, did he really just call you spicy?!

Either way, he’s about to get slapped across his pig-man mouth. 

“I’ve gotten with a few Latinas in my time,” he says as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as his thighs splay out a little wider in the sweatpants you let him borrow. “Always with that fuckin’ feisty little temper. But you know what, I got no problem with a hot tamale.” 

“Oooh.” The sound is pure and unadulterated FED UP. You down your espresso like a shot. You’re already contemplating another dose, because you don’t have the energy for this.

But you’re also reminded then, that this man came to fame in the 1940s. He was born, what, before the damn Dust Bowl and the Great Depression? He’s literally an ancient relic, a walking black and white billboard of tóxico, and he acts like one too. 

You fairly slam your ceramic cup on the dining table as you slide into the seat across from him. 

“Just so we don’t have any more conversations like this in the future, here it goes,” you say with a sharp sigh. “My mom is Cuban. My dad is black and Dominican. I’m as mixed as it gets, but I’m in no way spicy. If you’ve got me mad fucking tight right now, it’s because you clearly have no idea what decade you’re in.”

Your insult strikes a nerve, making his eyebrow twitch. Soon, however, his lips curve. 

“I’ve got you tight, huh?” he says, cocking his head. A lock of his hair falls roguishly across his brow. “Gotta say, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had that effect on a woman.” 

You freeze, another hot blush burning in your cheeks. You can feel it making its way down your neck. “That’s…that’s not what you think it means.”

His lazy, arrogant, salacious smirk really makes you want to slap him, but you have a feeling that it’ll hurt you way more than it would hurt him. You get up from the table and ignore the loud scrape of the chair on tile.

“You know what? Forget it! I’m hungry. Don’t follow me.”

You go back to your room and lock the door behind you. You come back out a few minutes later dressed in what he thinks is your way of teasing him—in some ass-hugging jeans and a shirt that clings to your form. Ben watches you cross the room, smiling at the way you give him some narrowed side-eye while twisting your hair up into a wild ponytail. It’s a simple thing women do that’s always attracted him for some reason.

He also likes the shade of red you painted on your lips. 

“You are a feisty little thing,” he remarks, sipping his espresso. “Can’t say I mind.”

“Good. Stay here,” you hotly retort. Or better yet, get the FUCK out of my apartment.

You don’t say that last bit out loud, but he can read it loud and clear in your eyes, filled with that Latina fire. He remembers it all too well.

He grabs your wrist before you slip by him though. He hears the way your breath hitches, your gaze snapping down to meet his. You manage to hide most of your fear.

Maybe it makes some part of him twinge, deep down. You don’t know that he mostly finds you amusing. That he’d rather not hurt you, considering you don’t pose even one fraction of a threat to him. That like it or not, he needs to stay in your rathole apartment until he can figure out how to get out of the city unseen, let alone out of the country.

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” he asks.

You say nothing, but the look on your face tells him what you want to say. His eyes narrow.

“You’re not leaving,” he says.

“Well, I’m not cooking,” you counter. “There’s nothing to cook—”

“Order a damn delivery.”

“You know how expensive that is? Between delivery fee and tipping nowadays, Doordash charges a whole other meal on top of the meal! UberEats isn’t much better. Plus, none of the good places around here deliver like that. Not for breakfast at least. And anyway, I really need to go grocery shopping. What do you expect me to do, open a can of tuna and a jar of olives for breakfast?”

Ben’s not going to pretend he knows what the fuck you’re talking about, but his patience is running out.

“All right, enough. Give me your uh, your phone,” he demands. His tone gains an edge, a warning.

You expel an irritated huff, but you reach into your purse and all but slam it on the kitchen table. He takes it and examines it with some curiosity, but mostly, he retains his stoicism.

“I know for a fact you can get basically whatever you want on this fucking thing within half an hour,” he says. “Do what you need to do to get some grub over here, but you’re not leaving this fucking apartment until I say so."

He raises his brows and meets your eyes in a not so subtle warning.

"Just so you know, I've got a sharper ear than you think," he adds. "If you get stupid and try making a call for help, it's gonna be the last thing you fucking do. You understand me?”

Your teeth grind together, but ultimately, your sense of self-preservation reminds you not to poke the bear anymore. You force your anger and fear to dim to embers beneath your skin, and you nod in agreement. You then lower your gaze, waiting for him to let you go.

When he does, you slip away from him as soon as possible, taking your phone as you go.

For what it’s worth, you lock the bedroom door behind you. 

AN: Aaaand we're off! lol Did you expect him to basically force her into house arrest? 😅 We're gonna have some fun on this one, but there's also going to be a fair bit of action and slow-burn moments.~

Next Time:

You suddenly stand from the table, your chair scraping across the floor. You can tell the sound irritates his sharp ear as he glances up at you with a frown.

“You are a goddamn fugitive. You get that right?” you say, regarding him with an incredulous tilt of your head. “Now you’ve hooked me into this. I could get into serious shit because of you, and you don’t even seem to care! What…what kind of fucking superhero are you supposed to be?”

At the same time, you don’t know why this surprises you. Most of the supes you’ve met couldn't care less about the average person. The entire purpose of Vought’s Legal Department springs to mind.

Still, you thought America’s first supe ever—the one who supposedly fought in WWII, pounded Nazis up the ass, and represented the ideals this country was supposed to be founded on—might actually give a shit. Yet again, it stings to be proven wrong.

Ben’s expression had been verging on apathy, but now, he’s irritated and angry. He pushes back from the table and stands up to his full height. Even wearing your ex’s plain gray crew shirt and some threadbare sweatpants, the man’s frame is intimidating. He makes slow steps closer until he’s looming over you.

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 2

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[someweirdoreblogger]

Burning Spice Cookie is passion ignited, albeit not in the moral side of the conscious spectrum. He is quite affectionate, actually, more than you may give him credit for.

Do not mistake it as humane, as a blind genosity. It comes not from a moral source of obligation or even gerenal priority.

Once the deranged loin-a Beast amongst monsters-the corrupted Lord himself is invested, your scent guiding freely through the droves, to shake him off your trail will prove diffcult. Burning Spice is not so kind to let prey go by unscathed, untouched by his mighty axe; His shadow stalks the trees, quaking, a deafening roar booms in the distance.

The Hunt begins.

You dare infringe upon his heart, you invade his senses, scrabble his thoughts; you really think you can simply crawl back home unscathed?

What home have you to turn too? Who would even think to take you back with the mark of a Beast weighing down your back?

Luckily, this debt can be paid. Paid solely by your own parry and peril. Burning Spice will remember your tracks better than the back of his own hand.

Once he comes, just an arrogant march away, you will know. The world itself will alert, not you, but itself to his sudden existence.

The birds will cease their music, the ground will shake and stumble; struggling to keep its foundation stable and lively. The lakes, far and wide, the sky, the kisses of clouds and weak leaves rip itself apart, dancing in the reflection below. It ripens in sheer unbalanced tension, seemingly frightened; the water will ripple like static, wavering under a wave of immense, exotic shock, and pressure.

The wind is ecstatic, nature's personal enthusiasm; it moans, groans, and sighs heavy in your ear. Desperate to be heard.

You will taste him in the air, a suffocating sulfur and ghastly spice, it threatens to choke weaker beings. Feel him fester like sparks on your crust, hair standing up stiff, dough throbbing. Tingling and blazing hot, a Beast's presence is a neigh-suffocating weight. You will never know peace until he deems you worthy of such.

Burning Spice roams triumphant, forever hungry. An immovable glare in the sky, a blinding scorch to the people's merger eyes, looking down civilization in cold indifference; The same way a god regurds his subjects. Just ants, peasy insects, building their anthills, simply hoping to piece together a safe haven for themselves in a universe far too large to tackle alone.

The Vitue of Change, The Lord of Destruction, will stand tall alone. Boundless from any chain as mortals rise, spoil and fall. A proud witness to the beginning, present, and the end, the natural tides of history sow in the seeds of devastation he leaves behind. He is a slave to his base desires, as all Cookies are; a chaotic harbinger of endless malice and merciless strife.

But he is still yet a man. A heartless monster in a man's skin. A Cookie baked in the same oven as his fellow kin, a great Beast, seeking to completely deprive himself of sheer boredom and simplicity.

All immortals carry the burden, the smooth erosion of time is not lost even to Beasts, as the ocean inevitably swipes a wet hand over the sand. He lives long and simply withstands, and he stares at the lesser mass in a bubbling, volcanic envy, hanging loose like a knot on his shoulders; the deeper things, the pleasant things. The majority of it stems from an infectious curiosity, aching hunger boiling in the depths of a Beast.

An unstoppable force suspended in a space completely at its mercy.

Burning Spice, gerenally, is an incredibly expressive person; entertainment, living life to the fullest drives his very soul off the edge of madness and carnage. His being is a godly sight to behold, and he wears this infernal arrogance in fine silks and peakish sneers. The weak tremble beneath the heel of their superiors, the Beast of Destruction is bloody pride embodied.

And this God, this Beast will strave for your worship; shall rip it from the dying, rotting hands of the torn world.

Carnal, burnt crimson in abhorrent brutality, Burning Spice is honestly an upfront sort. He won’t shy away from confrontation, solemn. He knows what he needs, what he wants, so he will steal it if one ever dares refuse it from him.

What is inevitable is virtue, Burning Spice knows this in his very jam. He does hold some semblance of responsibility and honor, albeit it won’t make him any less immorally stubborn or hot-headed. He approaches a desired interest alike how a lion stalks his prey; the same way he approaches a potential hunt, with fierce, burning determination and endless persistence.

[sand-jam]

WRAYTHHH

My sweet little headcanon for wrayth's backstory is that he was born into a family of bandits and one day during a robbery he was too slow bc of an injury and got caught, his family didn't notice his absence and exploded the place to destroy the evidence, sending him to the cursed realm

more and more under cut \/ \/

I also headcanon him and soul archer are from the same family, since they got the same headpiece and ngl the mask is the shaking and quaking foundation im basing the whole bandit thing on so soul archer simply has to work with me here

He's younger- 18-19ish- since he's morro's friend ( :] ) and having an old ass man be besties with an at most 20 year old would be weird ngl

The whole explosion getting caught bla bla thing I pulled out of the bandages (actually didnt make sense to get bandages AFTER dying so hes already injured when he dies but explosion persists) and chains on his minfig, like he's a literal 'chain master' and chains are yknow yeah he got captured u get it

Ok maybe the explosion I pulled out of my ass but it adds angst with him getting indirectly killed by his fam and gives some context why him and soul archer dont interact much if he's holding a grudge

heres a pic of him so u actually know what im talking about

jesus fucking christ i alr made a tiny sub au where him and Morro meet without dying💔 somebody sedate me this mfer ISNT EVEN A RELEVANT CHARACTERRRRRR

WHAT AM I DOINGGGGGGG

Have barely posted or drawn any of the main ninja after being in this fandom for YEARS i just skipped right to obsessing over side characters istg this fandom is a PRISON LET ME LEAVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

anw ignoring that im actually planning (since almost a year lmao queen of procrastinating here) to flesh out and give backstories to all of Morros ghost crew and actually draw them full

or maybe not im hella busy with stressing over my drivers license and family and friends time spending and work and and and yeah i just dont have motivation to draw rn see u guys in a month when i post again

[dinsbeskar]

Homecoming (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron finds his wife in Eregion when Galadriel is forced to find aid for Halbrand's terrible near-fatal wound, a thousand years after she left him at his coronation

AO3 Link

Soundtrack: a thousand years by Christina Perri (shut up, I know it's obvious!!), If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher, It's All Coming Back To Me Now by my girl Céline Dion, Can't Fight The Moonlight by LeAnn Rimes

Warnings: 18+ only!! Smut!! Tooth rotting fluff!! (Remember to floss!!) Tiny bit of angst (the rest comes later, it's a slow burn!) P in V sex, handjob, Halbrand’s glorious chest hair (I'm amused when we tag for that so I'm joining in 😂), separation anxiety lmfao (no but fr), cuddling, spooning, emotional manipulation (what a mix), tiny bit of rough sex/teeth/biting, praise kink, teasing (the guy is a menace, sorry!), male masturbation, fingering, dom!Sauron (he's a service top, okay?), big dick Halbrand (it must be done, idek at this point)

A/N: hi guys!! So finally, after so many chapters, I have for you: Sauron and Reader's reunion. I wrote In The Dark first, and promised a follow-up, and then ended up writing a bunch of prequels first. But finally, here they are!!

Word Count: 4.9k!

Quick rundown of what to read before this one for context (or don't, I'm not the boss of you!!):

Haunted, where we split them up

In The Dark of The Night, the story that started it all, where Reader fantasises about Sauron and he manages to reach out for her

Evil Will Find Her, Sauron’s POV of the above.

Y'all this is the softest, most candyfloss like fluffy smut I've ever written, what is wrong with me??

When Galadriel is sent to Valinor, you mourn the loss of your friend, of course, but there is a traitorous part of you that is secretly glad that your husband's last hunter will no longer keep you up at night in fear for his demise yet again.

You have not felt him stir in such a long time, you were beginning to give up hope. But one night you swore you could feel him, the ghost of his touch, his comforting presence. And the next night, and the next, until you'd grown entirely accustomed to imagining him beside you, atop you, beneath you.

~

The quaking in the earth beneath Lindon was barely perceptible, but perceive it you did. It must have come from afar, but what could cause the very foundations of the earth to shake so? The rest of your kin brushed it off as some natural occurrence, but you were sure deep down that these stirrings in the earth and in your heart were one and the same.

So when the High King sent Elrond to Eregion, you figured your best bet was to go with him, travelling further east in search of answers. You knew what you hoped for, but would not dare speak it even in your mind, not wanting to dispel the wish before it had even taken flight.

Lord Celebrimbor was a most gracious host, giving you both rooms and leave to stay as long as you wished. It was so different to Lindon, you thought you might stay a while, and with the building of the new forge, a tiny part of you hoped your beloved would seek out a place where he could practise his craft, and what better place to do so.

The last person you expected to see was Galadriel, whom you thought had arrived safely in Valinor, racing through the city gates, another horse in tow carrying a nigh-unconscious man who nearly falls from his seat as they come to an abrupt halt.

"Enemy lance. Six days ago. We rode without rest. Can you help him?" Galadriel's voice carries to your Elvish ears as you run to meet them, a feeling in your gut that your healing was required.

"Come, he needs rest, take him to the infirmary, I will follow." You say to the guards propping him up.

He's filthy, as is Galadriel, and the first thing you'll need to do is strip him off and bathe him.

You thought he was unconscious, but he turns his head slightly to catch your eye, winks, then allows himself to be dragged away.

A sweat breaks across your body, accompanied by wild fluttering in the pit of your stomach.

Mairon.

Your husband. The husband you thought had abandoned you. The husband you thought was dead. That husband.

You can't fight the smile on your face, the utter joy that is about to overwhelm you; even after everything you'd said to each other the last time you spoke, you still missed him, yearned for him with a fiery passion that hadn't dampened in the eons you've been apart. The utter delight of finding the other half of your soul again obliterated your momentary shock at his arrival, and you hasten to be at his side.

"I'll go see to our guest," you excuse yourself, while squeezing Galadriel's hand. "It's good to see you, mellon nin [my friend]."

She watches after you with a strange expression, bemused that in your hurry, you thought to ask no questions as to how she was back on the shores of Middle Earth.

~

"Leave us. I can tend to him well enough without an audience." You nod to the guards standing over your husband; any excuse to be left alone with him.

Thankfully they don't need much persuasion and take their leave, the room filling with tension as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.

The thrill of his presence has not faded; in fact what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder might indeed be the case. However your joy is overcast by the malice you threw at each other a millennium ago.

You have no idea what to say, now that you're face to face with him. Your last words were cruel, and you remember them as if they were yesterday; if he has brooded upon your words, he might never forgive you. You pick at a stray thread on your sleeve, avoiding his gaze, which is suddenly very alert now that you're alone.

"No greeting for me, dear wife?" His voice is different, his cadence of speech is rougher but no less silver to the ear.

"I missed you."

"I know."

You step closer, bringing a washbasin and cloth, placing it beside him. You go to feel his forehead with the back of your hand to check for infection, but he snatches it from its path and holds you in place, studying your face intently. His green eyes pierce your soul, and instantly you feel more at peace than you have in a thousand years.

You reach out once more, trembling slightly with anticipation, tracing his face, learning every new contour in case he is ripped from you again.

He leans into your touch, letting you take your fill of him, before reaching up to grasp your face, pulling you in for a tender kiss that makes you see stars, his rough stubble a sharp contrast to the way his tongue softly delves into your mouth.

He breaks away first, his mortal form forcing him to take a breath, the wound in his torso paining him more than he'd like you to know.

"I thought you'd still be angry with me." You whisper against his cheek, heart racing.

He shakes his head slightly, a tender smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Never, not with you." His voice is so soft, you barely catch it, his words meant strictly for your ears only; in Eregion, surrounded by sensitive Elvish hearing, the walls really do have ears.

"I've had so much time to think about what happened, and I take it all back. Every word. I love you and I'm so sorry, I should have been there for you." You hold his gaze, searching his eyes for confirmation of his forgiveness, that he will not just say what he thinks you want to hear.

"No, that was the only thing that saved me, knowing you were safe, out of harm's way."

"Still, I should have-"

"Hush, my love, I'm here now and I won't be parted so easily from you again." He means it, you can hear the determination in his voice, but Morgoth's curse has plagued you both for centuries, even after he was banished to the Void, and joy makes way for the dread already beginning to build in the pit of your stomach.

Relief rolls through the two of you, and the very air is lighter as you take each other in after so long. You look entirely as he remembers, perhaps more radiant, more lovely, than his memory allowed him to recollect. Perhaps it is just that he can finally touch you.

He, on the other hand, looks entirely different. Not that you're complaining. This new form is just as pleasant as any other you've enjoyed; perhaps a little coarser, rough around the edges, more hair than you're used to... but it is no bad thing, and you find yourself just staring at him until you remember why he is here.

"Oh, would you like healing, perchance?" Your tone is playful but the tiny crease in your forehead tells him you're still worried for him.

He chuckles, wincing as he does so, pain smarting in his side.

"If you'd be so kind, fair maiden." And with that, he lays back to let you work.

You let him away with a fair amount, this being only one thing of many. You know he's perfectly capable of healing himself of such a wound, and he knows you know, but sometimes it is satisfying to care, and to be taken care of. He did always enjoy your attentions.

"I'm afraid I must get these rags off you, my lord. I cannot possibly see the wound through all these layers." You pull out a wickedly sharp pair of scissors, slicing through the fabric in one fluid motion, moving it to the side to examine him.

Your gaze is already locked onto the gaping hole in his side, but you allow yourself to run your fingers methodically up his torso, marvelling in the thick black hair that populates his chest. Certainly different from what you were used to, but not unappealing in the slightest.

His wicked grin reminds you of your work, and your blush grows with your smile, enjoying yourself far too much.

A little cleaning, some herbs and a healing song render him virtually healed, as well as a little of his own power to speed the process along, but you run your hands over him long after the wound is knitted together, enjoying the feeling of your husband beneath your fingers after so long.

"Did you know I was here?" You ask him softly, your head laying on his bare chest as you nestle into his side on the small cot, running your fingers through his hair.

"Of course. I could feel you, in fact, I was on my way here," he pauses, considering his next words; you wouldn't be too happy to hear he'd used the scenic route, instead of hastening to your side.

"But?" You can practically hear the cogs whirring in his mind, trying to come up with some elaborate fabrication.

"Fate pulled me to the sea. And then it brought me back to you." Perhaps he'd regale you with tales of Númenor another time; right now, he was simply content to listen to your heartbeat, fluttering in time to his once more.

"With Galadriel and an army? That must be quite a tale." You ponder aloud, leaving him space to elaborate if he wishes, but not wanting to press him too soon.

"It is." He kisses you again, this time deeper, rougher, tongue demanding entrance to your mouth as he curls his fingers in your hair.

He has to resurface first, letting your lips part reluctantly as his lungs demand air. It's quite charming, considering how he is so used to torturing you with your bodily needs, only letting you gasp for air when you're desperate, if he's feeling particularly cruel.

"Don't get used to it," he chuckles, overhearing your thoughts as always; you muse over how that used to irritate you, but now you're so ecstatic to have him under your fingertips again, you'd unlock every door of your mind for him.

"I'm just enjoying the difference in dynamic, my love, it's delightful being the torturer, not the tortured." You laugh, as a low growl emanates from his chest.

"Don't remind me," he rolls his eyes before pulling you closer, as if that were possible.

"I really did miss you, love, it's been a lifetime and ten since we could last do this." You lift up your entwined fingers to emphasise the point, which he answers with a kiss to each knuckle, as if in apology.

"I won't be parted from you again, you need not worry," he whispers in your ear, and you want to believe him, but fate has always had other plans for the two of you, and you have no reason to assume it might be different this time.

"Besides," he continues, stroking his fingers through the hollows of your knuckles, "it's not as if I was wholly absent, especially recently."

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, confused as to what he could possibly mean. You raise your eyebrows, encouraging him to elaborate.

"Admittedly it was difficult to manifest myself in two places while I gathered my strength, but surely you noticed me reaching out for you? Touching your mind?" He pauses for dramatic effect. "...and other things?"

"Now I really have no idea, my dear husband, you will need to explain." You laugh at his bemused expression, still none the wiser as to how he could have been with you while physically absent.

"I reached out for you, I could see you, feel you, and I swore you felt me too. Did you really not feel me?" He asks, slightly indignant, as if you could hardly have missed him.

Ah. Yes, now it clicks into place; you'd thought you'd sensed something, or perhaps someone, with you on those dark nights alone. You were right. He hadn't abandoned you after all.

"It was you," you breathe, marvelling anew, "I thought for a moment- you found me, even then, even when you were at your weakest, you found me."

He kisses your palm and holds it to his chest, reluctant to ever let you go again.

"Of course, love, I vowed I'd always find you," he murmurs in your ear, his physical being aching with the reunion of your two souls, electric tingles dancing across your flesh as you trace across his unfamiliar form.

You relish in his closeness, unwilling to be parted from him until-

"Oh no! What you must have witnessed-" You go to cover your face, cheeks flushing as you recall exactly what you were up to when you felt his presence.

He takes your hands and chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. How could you still be embarrassed in front of him, your lord husband, after all this time? His heart swells, taking you in as you squirm under his gaze.

"Darling, you are mine, I am yours, we are one soul, one flesh, are we not?" He squeezes your hands, gazing at you fondly; after a thousand years, your hearts still beat as one, and you meet his eyes with relief, cheeks still heated but no longer with embarrassment.

His fingers travel across your body with the practised touch of one who knows you better than you know yourself. Even after all this time, he knows exactly where to be gentle, where to be rough, where to knead your flesh or trace it softly. He knows your body better than his own.

"You're trembling, love," he whispers against your lips, cocking an eyebrow.

"Anticipation, darling, you did always know how to draw these things out." You smirk, already over the foreplay, wanting your husband to fill you in every way he can, mind, soul, and body, each way just as delicious as the last.

"How long it's been, not an ounce of patience left in you," he teases, provoking a groan as he licks a long stripe up your throat.

"I've done my waiting," you groan against him, "I think I deserve my reward."

His grin grows wicked, as he takes you in, laid bare under him.

"And I am that reward? Surely such a beautiful maiden would prefer-"

You press your lips to his, interrupting his teasing, refusing to let him play his games for now, needing him atop you, inside you.

You roll him over, thighs pinned around his hips, gazing down at him fondly, relishing the view that you've been denied for a millennium. He smirks at you, continuing to grope and knead your flesh, grabbing your ass and thighs to steady you, leaving deep finger marks that drive you wild as you rock against his crotch.

"My lord," you chuckle as you attempt to unsheathe him, his belt proving a challenge for your trembling fingers. "There are still too many layers between us."

He sits up, reaching for your lips with his fingertips, humming against your skin, his small laugh breaking the tingles down your spine with a shiver.

"Well, my lady, we can't have that..." he murmurs into your abdomen as he journeys down your body.

His lady. A phrase that never failed to delight you, to send tingles of arousal shooting through you. The connotation of your vow to each other. That you were his and he was yours.

At the moment, you have the upper hand, pinned atop him with your body weight as leverage, but you'd sacrifice it in an instant to have him claim you.

You lean back a little, keening under his touch, wanting your skin on his, your souls already singing in a harmony you could never forget, even after all this time.

Every breath you take is from his lungs, grasping at his thick brown curls, savouring every unfamiliar sensation.

Every movement you make sends shockwaves through him; the only pleasure he has known in this body was by his own hand, but his wife back in her rightful place was far sweeter.

He's fucking desperate for you, and you can sense it despite his immaculate self control. Your favourite thing in the world is seeing Sauron lose his mind for the love of you.

"I cannot possibly continue my work if the patient is clothed. I'm afraid I need to conduct a-" you pause, pretending to consider your choice of words- "thorough examination."

He fucking growls at you, deep and low in his chest, and you can't help but grin. You roll off him, only to release him enough to help you out and shimmy his trousers off. Instead he grabs your upper arm, flips you underneath him, smirking with heavily lidded eyes, his hair falling over his face.

"How did I know you would do that?" You laugh, wrapping your legs around him as he strips bare for you, finally.

"One thing I will not allow-" he kisses your neck softly before baring his teeth- "is being called predictable."

He scrapes his teeth against your throat before yanking your head back with your hair, the pain smarting through your scalp obliterated by the feeling of his other hand between your thighs.

"You're so fucking wet for me already," he gasps, rocking into your thigh, his cock weeping on your abdomen.

"I've waited this long, I won't wait any longer." You moan against him, taking his cock in hand, running your thumb over the head.

"No, darling, wait, no-" his strangled pleas fall on deaf ears as you stroke him once, twice, before you force him over the edge.

He worships and curses you in the same breath, wanting nothing more than to spill himself inside you. But you've foiled that plan, for now.

"Too soon-" he chokes out, his pent-up orgasm pouring out of him, surging through him, but doing nothing to quench the thirst he has for you.

You stroke him through his orgasm, kissing him softly, letting him moan into your mouth.

"It's okay, I wanted you to come, love," you whisper in his ear, tracing his chest, running your fingers through his thick black hair. "You needed it, you deserved it-"

He arches his back under your praise, kissing your neck, grasping at your bare back, raking your skin with his blunt fingernails.

After so long apart, with a new mortal form with which to grapple, you had a feeling he'd need release sooner rather than later, needy under your touch after centuries only dreaming of you. Now, with his first orgasm out of the way, you could tease him for longer and get what you'd been craving during your centuries apart.

You pluck at his pleasure like an exposed nerve, drawing every groan, whimper, gasp from his lungs, until he is hard and aching for you again.

He wants so badly to be inside you, to crawl into the space between your flesh and bones, your mind and your soul, to simply relish in the feeling of being home with you.

Thankfully you have the same aching need, pulling him closer with your legs, still wrapped around his waist.

This new body feels strange under your fingers, between your thighs, wrapped around you, coarse hair brushing your torso every time he rocks against you, never mind the hardening length that presses against your core.

"That feels... different." You gasp against him, feeling his smirk against your jaw.

"Different as in bad? Or good, my love?" He raises his eyebrows innocently, as if he is asking you about the weather.

"I could not possibly say," you laugh, "we shall have to try it out to see for certain."

"My sweet wife. Moments ago, you were embarrassed that I saw you relieve your yearning for me," he groans as he circles your clit with the head of his cock, "and now you speak of me as some kind of object for your pleasure."

His faux-sincerity in his scolding is so carefully balanced that for a second, you're unsure if he is actually offended. But you quickly realise he is teasing you when he spreads your cunt, ready for his new thick cock.

A whimper escapes your throat as he teases your folds with his fingers, gathering your wetness to ease his way inside you, stroking his cock, unhurried now that you've relieved him once. You regret that decision now that he draws out giving you your own release.

"Please, love," you stammer out between shaky breaths, rocking your hips against his hand.

"Please, what? Use your words, my darling, tell me what you need." The glint in his eye is dangerous, full of promises of rich reward, but only if you can play his game to the end.

"I need you," you murmur, eyeing him through heavy lids, desperate for any touch he will bestow upon you.

The expression on his face is positively profane, lips parted, a thin ring of green lining his blown pupils, sweaty brown hair falling in his eyes. He wets his lips as you watch his tongue enviously. Oh, to be those lips, his tool for such pleasure. And pain.

"Need me how, love? Be specific." His tone becomes harsher as he reaches for your chin, to impress upon you that you will not get what you crave unless you beg for it.

You keen and moan under him, but he is steadfast, stroking himself while he gazes down at you with such longing, such fondness that even in the throes of your desire, your heart sings for him in harmony with his.

"Love, please-" you whine, your vehement desire to be one with him again overtaking your senses completely; it has been a thousand years, too many lifetimes, and he teases you like this?

"Please, what? I need you to tell me what you long for." He enunciates every syllable, the cadence of his unfamiliar accent falling like sweet summer rain around you, his silver tongue plaguing you with its sweet promises, if only you can find your words.

"Need you, need to be close to you, need you inside me, need-"

He interrupts you with his fingers at your entrance, forcing a sharp gasp from your lungs at the sudden intrusion.

"Is that better, my sweet? Is that everything you crave?" You'd give anything to kiss away the self-satisfied smirk that graces his lips, but he holds you down with one hand splayed on your torso as he begins to spread you open to his velvet touch.

You shudder as he lightly strokes your folds, delving in with a finger to make you gasp, working his way to two, then three, whilst grasping the flesh under his other hand almost painfully, grounding himself in your body.

If he could just open you up and slither into the space between your ribs, nestled beside your heart, to do nothing but listen to it beat for eternity, he is sure he would be content.

You arch your back into his touch, trying to work yourself onto his fingers, but he pulls away too quickly for you to find any relief.

"Ah, my love, that would be too easy, would it not?" A smile tugs at his lips, but Sauron fixes his expression into one more akin to concern, perhaps even pity.

"Tell me, love, tell me what you crave." He is drunk on the power he has over you, intoxicated by the goddess writhing under his fingertips, so eagerly in his thrall.

After a thousand years parted from you, it is taking so very much self-control to keep from ravaging you, but he wants to savour every moment, wants to hear it from your lips, your sweet surrender to his control.

"Need you inside me, need you, my love, it's been so long, please take me, I'm yours." His eyes blaze as you struggle through every word, as your breath hitches and your legs shake, his fingers unrelenting in his slow torture of your cunt.

"You are mine - and I am yours." His vow is made through ragged breath as he leans down to claim your lips hungrily, your wetness allowing him to rut his cock between your thighs, so tightly pressed together, that he sees stars.

Sauron kisses at your neck, sucking and biting, sure to leave dark bruises that will not be easily covered tomorrow. Claiming what is his, and his alone.

He pulls your hips to his, forcing your thighs apart, laying his cock on your mound. He is bigger now than he was all those eons ago; he is frankly fascinated as to how you will take him, but he knows you'll take it all for him.

You squirm under him, pushing your hips to his, desperate for him to take you, patience wearing thin for his teasing now.

As if he senses you are at the end of your tether, he smirks, adjusting himself to set the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Please... Mairon, please, I need you." You know what you're doing when you use his true name, know that he won't be able to stop himself from ravishing you, breaking any semblance of self-control.

With a groan, he presses his body impossibly close to yours, sliding inside you, forcing all the air from your lungs as you feel his girth fill you so sweetly, so completely. He draws your legs up to press himself deeper inside you, his hips rocking against yours, rougher and more erratic than he has ever been but satisfying every desire in your core.

Running your fingers up his strong forearms, feeling the muscles tense and flex with each thrust, you grind back into him, whimpering and pleading for more. More what, exactly? You're not sure, but you know you need everything he is willing to give you.

And he wants to give you the world.

Centuries apart, thinking of little else but each other, it is hardly any surprise that you are both ravenous in body and soul, your love and lust building to a towering inferno to spite the gods who would see you parted.

When he feels you tighten around him, he pulls back from devouring your mouth to stare agape at your blissful expression as you ride your high, awestruck that he has you in his arms again. It is that awe that pushes him over the edge again, pulsing inside you, clutching at every inch of bare skin he can reach, your torso pressed against his as he holds you both upright, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear as you quake against him.

Breathing heavily, lying entwined in the tiny infirmary cot, the two of you fall into quiet, intimate bliss. Holding each other close, you let the world fall away until it is just the two of you, the calm in the other's storm.

"I told you. Predictable." You chuckle, your laugh reverberating through his chest, sending tingles down his spine.

"Perhaps predictability is not such a bad thing. When it comes to you, at least." He continues to stroke your hair, giving you a tiny squeeze as if to make sure you were no illusion.

One thing that is predictable, even certain, is that he will be parted from you soon enough. It always happens, even after Morgoth’s defeat, and the notion is enough to send a chill down your spine.

He senses your discomfort, knows what you're thinking immediately without needing to probe your mind for once.

"I am here, beloved, let us enjoy what we have now, and worry for tomorrow when fate reveals itself." He hides his trepidation better than you do, but he pulls you closer all the same.

You look up at him, fingers tracing his chest softly, reaching for his free hand. He grants it to you, would grant you anything in the cosmos if you only asked it of him.

His palm at your lips, you breathe him in before looking back up at him, his dark green eyes alight with the love of ages. The words you whisper next shatter his heart, the edges of your souls knitting together more completely with every yearning wish woven into your plea.

"I beg you, Mairon, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, please stay with me."

The way his eyes crease and his face lights up with the widest smile, it wrenches your heart, a pain so sweet and pure you would carry it for a thousand years more to keep him at your side.

"For the love of you then."

[general-yasur]

Egalt and his teaching methods really struck be because they directly contrast Lloyd’s teaching method

Egalt is strict, blunt, and demeaning, he isn’t going to tell you he believes in you the way Lloyd does. Lloyd is the first to pat you on the shoulder and tell you that He believes in you and you should believe in yourself.

Particularly with Arin- Egalt was actually teaching how to do the Rising Dragon technique, while Lloyd let Arin do his own thing because Arin has a Gift/Talent

Egalt would tell Arin he didn’t have enough of the foundational skills and in the next shot Lloyd is there telling Arin he can do it

You realize Lloyd hasn’t bothered to teach Arin spinjiztu and it’s probably because he thinks he doesn’t need to- Arin will just get it

Arin not getting better because he isn’t receiving the right teaching / advice fuels Lloyds fears of not being a good master and fuels Arins fears of not being fit to be a Ninja. It’s a quaking cycle

​Egalt and Lloyds methods are on opposite ends of the spectrum but both ultimately failed at helping him,, they are both out of balance you could say

Makes you wonder where Arin would be if Lloyd had taught him before. Can’t help but wonder if Lloyd being the original “gifted ninja” and the chosen one tampers with how he teaches

[1800titz]

BEWARE THE WATER | merman/siren!Harry x reader

You’ll never forget it— the time when you suggested an outing. You were sitting around in your room with beer bottles on the off hours, you on your twin-sized mattress with your knees tucked to your chest. Skinny dipping. Like a kidhood pastime under the coat of nightfall. A fuddled proposal off your liquified tongue, spurned by the alcohol simmering your veins. You regretted it the moment it slinked from your mouth (the moment the weight of the silence lodged in the rational part of your brain, clinging through insobriety), but you doubled down. “…You’re crazy, rookie,” you remember one told you, eyes listing to the side, over the rubescent smear across the bridge of his nose. “Why not?” Curse of the North Shore, they called it. Call it. An urban legend— but the circles of their eyes shrink into the framing of white when they tell the story of men strewn across the coastline. Skins. Sapped down to the marrow, hollowed bones marred with scrapes, littered across the beach, the patch of rock shed off the cliffside. Spread all over. Eaten from the inside. A fable for grown men to chase, like a monster hiding in the coal-dark nooks under their cots. You stuck the lip of the beer bottle to your mouth and rolled your misty eyes. “Bullshit.”

preview

Your self-preservation scratches up, from beneath the surface of the sea’s hymn settling into your bones. Wrong. Dangerous. Go back. It carves a nick, like a scrape from under a layer of ice across the arctic pelagic, and fractures your mindless audacity. Your foolish gall. Leaves you blinking like you’re batting a haze of smoke off with your lashes, out on the rocks with your lantern swinging in your hand. 

It hits you all at once. Anxiety like storm surge. The sense of impending doom makes your throat tight when you swallow. Dry. What are you doing? Clotting up your lungs, waves slamming against the rocks you’ve trekked. The foundation under you quakes with the hairline fracture of your risk, and something tacky oozes in. Fear. Instinct. The consequence of your recklessness—

A moment too late. Moments. A moment too stupid, too uncalculated, too rash. Ill-advised, when you left the base and stepped out from behind the barricade of the dunes. You take slow, cautious steps back into the direction of the sand across the slippery eigengrau, shaking. Stupid, stupid— counting your steps, reaching for the stretch of land out of fingertip’s length.

(And really, there’s only so long you can dangle a filet out in front of an animal before it breaks and bites. Only so long you can lure something from the sea with a soft, fleshy silhouette over the surface of the water.)

The ocean is humming. Singing. Like it’s lapping in an echo of the word that shatters the calm of the reticence— “Soldier.”

Not quite a bark. No ire. But it’s louder than the water and makes your heart lurch to your throat when your head snaps over your shoulder. Your balance is threadbare, and the plummet of your stomach makes the string ripple. Your heel nearly slips across the jagged stone—

(Not rookie. Soldier. Shedding the moniker feels like molting a worn, second skin that’s started to crackle across the stretch of your appendages.)

Hindsight laughs at your irreparable, full fledged stupidity— you, ignoring every warning they handed out to you in the cup of their palm. 

(You were supposed to cradle them close, heed like the signs told you.)

Your unease is a vicious pulse across your throat, roaring in your ears, mottling the perfect tempo of the waves, when the lantern between your fingers sways to the craggy patch behind you, where you once stood. It casts ochreous light across the slippery tar-black of the stones. 

There’s a man in the water. Your lungs squeeze. Caught. Stuck. In stasis. 

Wet skin. Slippery, slick. Burnt orange catching on sinews, even with a patch of jagged stones between you, emphasizing your distance. 

You’ve never believed in fairy tales, not as a child. Not now. Never chased legends, and myths, imaginary friends and monsters under your bed. But something unspools inside of you. Unfurls in the pit of your belly. Instinctual. Like a sixth sense to save your skin. You still have a chance, a distance, muffled echo behind your skull hisses, you still—

But you’re glued onto the stone. Stagnant. Stalemating, with a chill stinging like shards across your veins, nausea lingering from the sharp bludgeon of being swung off kilter. 

A deer caught in headlights. 

(Game, staring across the plain at the looming predator.)

Fear tastes like heme and crushed ice. Your emotions are a farrago— terror, confusion, apprehension.

Dread. 

“You’re a soldier,” he asks— tells you, it feels like a statement— over the roaring sea, cadence honey smooth. Molasses heavy. A treacle across your ears that ghosts and melts across your earlobes. The scruff of your neck, where the peach fuzz bristles at attention. “Aren’t you?”

Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Bloated up in your mouth. From this distance, you can’t make out his face. Not the details— only the shape, and his gaze. Liquified tar. Glinting, coruscating like the peaks of the waves. 

Uncanny. Wrong. The echo of an urban legend— a mystical beast waiting to swallow you whole. 

You should run. Sprint across the rocks, let adrenaline aid in your coordination and pray for the best—

But you're stuck. Your brows notched, your ribcage rattling with your heart bursting behind it. Bounding, in place of your stubborn feet. 

“You— you’re not supposed to be out here,” you bluster. Ever the pedant (as if you are, mouthy, little hypocrite). Shoulders rigid like the stretch of nightfall limestone, chin high in your wavering merit. A soldier— a mask you wear as a cloak that can’t hide the quake in your fingers, and the burnt orange off the lantern jumps across the waves. 

It all feels pointless. Otiose— there is no warranted explanation when the unimaginable, unforeseen myth, blurs with reality and crumbles your expectations (your rationale) out from under you. 

His arms stretch across the stone. Lax. Languorous. The delineation of ease— and you can’t stop your eyes from roving across the breadth of his shoulders, the heft, the way the musculature there flexes when he moves. The way the water sticks to his skin. Glimmering obsidian roams you. Wanders. Strays. Drifts. Across every inch, every piece. Assessing. Contemplating. Absorbing.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” he says, instead of answering you. 

The purr stuns you. Weaves across your logic, the congeries of your emotions— the fear— in ropework. Ties to an anchor, lugging you, luring you to drift further from the coastline, closer to him. Sediment from the ocean floor dredged under your feet when they nearly shuffle forward over the stone. 

The words sound wrong. Hungry. Like an omen— and the paradox of them, their tone, against your crumbling mettle, jars you back into survival-mode. Your head feels heavy. Clogged. Wading through a mist you can barely shake off—

“How did you get here?” you demand. Your teeth feel tight.

In the lack of immediate response, you know he’s staring at you. Inkblots roaming across your shape like the eyes of a carnivore over a meal. Incisors aching. It spills your resolve across your shoulders. A wave laps across your toes. He hums.

“Givin’ me a fuckin’ toothache, just looking at you,” he murmurs. A sawtooth dodge around your questions, the anger that bubbles off you in a broken defense mechanism— a vicious cat baring its teeth, swiping out with its little claws, backed into a corner. 

[dickanddamianweek]

Prompt Spotlight: Life Lessons

Batman (1940) #688

With Dick claiming responsibility for Damian during their time as Batman and Robin, he takes plenty of opportunities to pass on life lessons to him. One of the first we see between the two is on the training mat with Dick advising Damian to allow for spontaneity on the field, along with an open mind for their future.

Batman (1940) #713 “It was a lesson Robin needed to learn, though.”

Towards the end of their partnership as Batman and Robin, Damian even passes on one of those lessons to kids at a Quake Survivors Benefit held by the Wayne Foundation.

Nightwing (2011) #17

Originally offered as a comfort, Damian reminds Dick to be true to himself despite hardships. This later serves as a life lesson for Dick through his grief after Damian’s death.

While these spotlights describe some interpretation of the prompt, they’re simply here to inspire, and can be translated in any other way!

Prompts list here and the FAQ and Rules here!

[jadegretz]

In the dim glow of a decaying mansion, shadows danced along the crumbling walls as a chilling wind howled through broken windows. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and a sense of impending doom. Roaring thunder echoed outside like a beast prowling the horizon, promising more than just a tempest. It was a harbinger of chaos, a signal for what was about to unfold.

Rogue, known for her defiance and unyielding spirit, stood at the threshold of what was once a grand parlor. Memories of opulence clung to the fragments of faded wallpaper and the shattered remains of antique furniture, now mere specters of a bygone era. She gripped the doorframe tightly, her knuckles turning white beneath the strain. Though the storm raged outside, it was an internal storm brewing within her—part fear, part excitement, and all confrontation.

She didn’t come here seeking trouble—after all, she was a member of the X-Men, trained to face threats that loomed over humanity like storm clouds—yet, trouble had a way of finding her. Carnage was her ever-present companion, and as much as she fought it, the thrill of the conflict surged through her veins. This night would be no different. The whispers of the mansion seemed to echo her trepidations, warning her of the dark presence that lurked ahead.

He was waiting, as always, in the depths of the darkness. The Juggernaut, a titan of wrath and fury, whose name alone struck dread into the hearts of even the mightiest heroes. Bull-headed and relentless, he was a force of nature, a hurricane personified, and Rogue had tangled with him more times than she could count. Each encounter left her reeling, every victory hard-fought, and losses etched into the very core of her being.

At that moment, the flickering candlelight revealed the grotesque visage of an adversary lurking deep within the shadows. The Juggernaut grew larger with every heartbeat, his hulking form accentuated by the flickering light, casting monstrous shapes on the wall. An unsettling grin cracked across his face, but it did not reach his eyes—those were cold and devoid of any hint of humanity.

“Welcome, Rogue,” he boomed, his voice echoing with malice. “Thought you could keep running from me?”

“My legs aren’t weary yet,” she shot back, trying to keep her tone steady despite the unease bubbling in her gut.

The mansion quaked as he took a step forward, the force of his weight causing the floorboards to creak ominously. “You should’ve stayed away. This isn’t a place for little girls playing the hero.”

Clouds rumbled outside and the lights grew dimmer. Rogue felt her heart race in synchrony with the chaos outside. Thunder crashed, momentarily drowning out the chilling words of the Juggernaut. The mansion seemed to resonate with his anger, its very foundation trembling as if it too was afraid of the relentless creature stirring within.

Every fiber of her being screamed to flee, to retreat into the safety of the night, but the X-Men had conditioned her to fight. Run away? That wasn’t an option now. She squared her shoulders, taking a step forward, defiance radiating from every pore.

“Not here for games, Juggernaut,” she declared, emboldened. “You have a habit of making things personal.”

Laughter—a rumbling, thunderous sound—echoed in the darkness. “Personal? Oh, darling, this is so much more than personal. This is about obliteration. And you, my dear, are standing in my way.”

With a sudden surge, he lunged, moving so swiftly it belied his massive form. Rogue evaded the initial strike, springing into action like a coiled spring releasing its tension. Instincts kicked in, and she barely ducked in time, the air from his clawed fist creating a gust strong enough to knock her off balance.

The adrenaline coursed through her, igniting a fire inside. It was fight or flight, as it always had been—but Rogue was no coward. She re-engaged, using her agility to her advantage. Dashing toward him, she looked for any opening, her mind racing with strategies to absorb his strength and turn it against him. A flicker of her own powers surged within her, the energy bubbling like a storm contained.

Rogue reached out, her gloved hand aiming for his muscular arm. If she could harness even a fraction of his brute force, perhaps she could turn the tide, at least for a moment. But Juggernaut was no ordinary foe, and the moment she grasped his arm, his strength erupted as if released from a barricade.

Powerful tendrils of energy cour …(more at https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[mudandmire]

Azris Week Day Two✨

~ Day two of @azrisweek and it's an introduction to the couples therapy fic that I've been working on for a long time, so I'm excited! This fic has been really close to my heart, and so I'm glad I get to share it finally :D

Read on ao3!

The Inevitability of Hello

Eris had left the lawsuit and the ensuing concussion-worthy waterfall of press coverage with nothing less than his father incarcerated for the rest of his miserable life, a settlement of more money than he could comprehend, and a fierce but fleeting sense of victory.  It didn’t last long—none of the victory or the adrenaline that got him on the witness stand in the first place. He crossed the threshold of his apartment, and as if every limb had been simultaneously cut from a string, crashed to his knees.  Three weeks, almost a month to the day, a shit ton of alcohol, a hand gun under his pillow, and less than five hours of sleep—Eris ends up at the house.  Or what’s left of it.  Charred remains. A cracked and sunken skeleton of walls and a foundation that once seemed steady. Everything is soot-stained, rotting under some combination of fire’s teeth and water’s slow desecration. Eris doesn’t remember walking in, holding onto what’s left of the wooden banister.  He doesn’t remember bringing his gun.  Nothing happened—he stands by that even though the rest of the picture in the frame goes a little unsteady. Blurry for a single moment before clarity comes rushing back with the spine-chilling crack that echoes through the fractured house.  The remains of it, like a final shuddering breath, heave under the quake of the earth and Eris has one last desperate glimpse of the sky before it all crumbles on top of him. 

Continue reading!

I keep forgetting to post tags right away 😭

Tag list: @g00seg1rl @mistandmemories @chunkypossum @thesourcabbage @buffy-vanserra @the-darkestminds @fourteentrout @eatsbooks @skies-for-eyes-trees-for-knees @wrraccountant @iftheshoef1tz @ejkreader @talibunny30 @jules-writes-stories @makinglongwordsslutty

Let me know if you want on or off!! I'm terrible at keeping track 🥺

[aghost-writer]

Enough

Chapter 1

This is a Yandere MHA/BNHA x Female Reader Fic!

MDNI!!

The city lay in ruins. Smoke billowed into the ashen sky, turning the once-blue horizon into a smudged canvas of despair. The ground trembled with each deafening explosion, a relentless symphony of destruction. Hours ago, this street had been vibrant, alive with the chatter of vendors and the laughter of children. Now, it was a battlefield. Crumbled buildings lay scattered like the discarded remnants of a forgotten game, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of dust, fire, and fear.

Seven-year-old Y/N L/N huddled behind the jagged corner of a shattered wall, her small body trembling uncontrollably. She’d been playing on this very street, chasing a ball her parents had bought her, just before the chaos erupted. Her parents... They were right there. Weren’t they? Y/N’s memory was a haze of panicked screams and hurried footsteps, their voices shouting for her to run, to keep moving. But now, they were gone. Dust clung to her disheveled hair, and tears carved clean streaks through the dirt smudged across her face. 

“Mommy? Daddy?” she whispered, her voice cracking as she scanned the wreckage for any sign of them. Only silence answered, broken by the occasional distant scream or the ominous groan of collapsing structures. Her heart thundered in her chest, loud enough that it drowned out her shaky breaths. She pressed herself tighter against the wall, as if she could melt into it and escape the nightmare unfolding around her.

The shadow loomed first, long and monstrous, cast by the flickering light of nearby flames. Then came the figure—a hulking villain whose every movement sent shockwaves through the ground, toppling what little still stood. Y/N didn’t know who he was, only that he radiated danger, a living force of destruction.

Suddenly, the building beside her groaned ominously. Cracks snaked up its foundation, the sound splitting the air like a warning. Y/N’s wide, terrified eyes snapped upward just in time to see the structure give way. She scrambled to her feet, trying to run, but the ground beneath her quaked violently. Her foot caught on a jagged piece of rubble, and she fell hard, scraping her knees. She had barely time to scream before the collapsing building sent a massive chunk of concrete crashing down onto her small frame. 

The world went white-hot with pain. Her legs were pinned beneath the rubble, and every shallow breath felt like knives stabbing her chest. She clawed at the ground, trying desperately to pull herself free, but the weight was too much. Tears streamed down her face as her cries for help rang out, weak and desperate amidst the chaos.

“Help me! Somebody, please!” Y/N sobbed, her voice breaking. Her small hands clawed at the jagged debris, but it was futile. Dust filled the air, choking her lungs, and her vision began to blur. Fear coiled in her chest, tight and suffocating. Was this it? Was this where she would die, alone and scared beneath the wreckage?

And then, amidst the chaos, she heard it: footsteps. Purposeful. Steady. They cut through the cacophony of destruction like a lifeline. A voice followed, calm but resolute, commanding attention despite the surrounding mayhem. “I’m here. Stay still. I’ll get you out.”

Through the haze of her tears, Y/N looked up. A man emerged from the smoke, his figure stark against the backdrop of destruction. He was clad in black, his dark hair tied back haphazardly, strands falling into his sharp, focused eyes. His scarf whipped in the wind like a living thing. Though he didn’t wear the polished confidence of a seasoned hero, there was a determination in his expression that rooted her to the spot. 

“It hurts…” Y/N whimpered, her voice barely audible.

“I know,” Aizawa Shouta—Eraserhead—replied as he crouched beside her. His voice was low, steady, almost soothing despite the urgency of the situation. “I’ll get you out of here. I just need you to stay calm for me. Can you do that?”

Y/N nodded weakly, though tears continued to stream down her cheeks. The pain in her legs was unbearable, and her tiny hands shook as she reached out to him. “I-I’m scared…”

“I know you are,” Aizawa said, his tone softening. “But I won’t let anything else happen to you. I promise.”

He wasted no time, his sharp eyes scanning the debris trapping her. His hands moved with practiced precision, aided by the movements of his scarf, which stabilized larger pieces of rubble as he worked to free her. Each shift of the concrete sent small tremors through the pile, and Aizawa paused frequently to ensure nothing collapsed further. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he gritted his teeth against the strain, but he didn’t stop. 

“You’re doing great,” he murmured, glancing down at her pale face. “Stay awake for me, okay? I need you to stay awake.”

Y/N blinked at him, her vision swimming. She tried to speak, but her voice was barely a whisper. “I-I’ll try…”

“Good. That’s all I need.”

The rubble groaned as Aizawa lifted the final piece pinning her legs. His movements were careful but urgent, and when the weight was finally gone, he wasted no time. Blood stained Y/N’s torn clothes, and her legs were bruised and scratched, but there was no time to assess the damage. Gently but firmly, Aizawa scooped her up into his arms. She was so light, her tiny frame trembling against his chest as she sobbed into his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly, his scarf coiling protectively around them to shield her from the falling debris. His voice was a quiet anchor amidst the chaos, grounding her as he moved swiftly through the wreckage. “You’re safe now.”

Y/N clung to him weakly, her small hands gripping the fabric of his suit. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her, and despite her best efforts, her eyelids began to flutter shut. “T-thank you…” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant roar of destruction.

Aizawa’s jaw tightened, and his pace quickened. “Don’t thank me yet. Just stay awake, okay? We’re almost there.”

But Y/N couldn’t fight it any longer. The pain, the fear, the exhaustion—it was all too much. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her breaths shallow but steady. Aizawa glanced down at her unconscious form, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his worry.

As he carried her toward the triage station set up at the edge of the destruction, Aizawa’s thoughts were a whirlwind. This was one of his first major battles as a pro hero, and the devastation around him was overwhelming. But holding this small, fragile child in his arms reminded him why he had chosen this path. It wasn’t about fame or recognition. It was about moments like this—being the person who could make a difference when it mattered most.

He reached the medics, his voice sharp and commanding as he handed Y/N over. “She’s stable, but her legs need attention. Make sure she gets the care she needs.”

The medics nodded, quickly taking her from his arms. Aizawa watched for a moment, his sharp eyes softening as they checked her vitals. Then, with a deep breath, he turned back toward the wreckage. There were still others to save.But as he ran back into the chaos, Aizawa carried her whispered “thank you” with him, a quiet reminder of the lives he fought to protect.

The steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor was the first sound Y/N L/N heard as she stirred from the heavy fog of unconsciousness. Her body felt leaden, as though weighed down by invisible chains. Her head throbbed faintly, and her limbs wouldn’t obey her attempts to move them. Slowly, she forced her eyes open, squinting against the harsh glare of fluorescent hospital lights above her. 

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils, sharp and unfamiliar. She tried to sit up, but a searing pain shot through her side, stealing her breath. Gasping softly, Y/N stilled, blinking back tears. It was then she noticed the wires and tubes connected to her small body—an IV drip in her arm, electrodes on her chest, and a pulse oximeter clipped to her finger. Her legs, swathed in layers of bandages, throbbed with a dull ache, and the skin beneath her torn hospital gown itched where scrapes and bruises had been treated.

Panic bubbled at the edge of her mind. Memories flashed before her eyes—the crumbling building, the deafening roar of explosions, the agonizing weight of rubble pressing down on her small frame. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if doing so might block out the haunting images. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” a warm voice exclaimed, breaking through her spiraling thoughts.

Y/N turned her head cautiously, her neck stiff and aching. A doctor stood beside her bed, clipboard in hand. He looked to be in his forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes framed by thin glasses. His smile was gentle, meant to comfort, though his gaze held a shadow of concern.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he asked softly, pulling a chair closer to her bedside. “Do you feel any pain?”

Y/N swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy. When she finally managed to speak, her voice was hoarse. “My side… and my legs. They hurt.”

The doctor nodded, his expression sympathetic. “That’s to be expected. You’ve been through something very serious, but you’re safe now. You’re a fighter, little one—you pulled through.”

She blinked at him, confusion mingling with the lingering fear in her chest. “What… what happened to me?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Setting his clipboard down, the doctor leaned forward slightly, his tone measured and calm. “You were brought here in critical condition. The rubble that trapped you caused severe injuries, including damage to your liver. You lost a lot of blood, and we had to perform an emergency surgery to save your life. That surgery included a liver transplant.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in shock. “A t-transplant?” she stammered, the word foreign and frightening. “Who… who gave it to me?”

The doctor’s expression softened further. “I’m afraid we can’t disclose that information. Just know that the right donor was available at the right time. You were very lucky.”

Her small hands gripped the blanket covering her, trembling as she tried to process his words. The idea of someone giving her a part of themselves to save her felt heavy, overwhelming. She wanted to ask more, but her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

A tall man in a police uniform stepped into the room, his demeanor professional but kind. He carried a notepad and pen, his face serious but not unkind as his eyes landed on the young girl in the hospital bed.

“Hello, Y/N,” he said gently, walking closer. “I’m Officer Tanaka. I need to ask you a few questions about what happened, but before we start, I want you to know that you’re safe now. The hero Eraserhead found you and brought you here in time. He’s the reason you’re alive.”

At the mention of the hero’s name, Y/N’s chest tightened with emotion. “Eraserhead?” she whispered, her voice small and shaky. “He… he saved me?”

Officer Tanaka nodded, pulling up a chair to sit near her bedside. “That’s right. He cleared the rubble and carried you all the way to the medics. He stayed until he was sure you were in good hands. You were very brave, Y/N, and so was he.”

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and her lower lip quivered. She rubbed at her face with her unbandaged hand, sniffling as she tried to contain her emotions. “What about my parents?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Did he… did he find them too?”

The officer’s expression faltered, and for a moment, his gaze dropped to the notepad in his hands. “We’re still looking for them,” he said softly, his voice measured. “The area where the attack happened is still dangerous, but our team is working hard to find them. Can you tell me the last time you saw them?”

Y/N’s chest tightened as she recalled the chaotic moment when she’d been separated from her parents. “We were running,” she murmured, tears slipping down her cheeks. “They told me to go ahead, and they stayed behind me. Then the building started falling, and I—I couldn’t see them anymore.” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Officer Tanaka’s pen scratched across his notepad as he jotted down her words. “Thank you, Y/N,” he said after a moment, his voice kind and steady. “I know this is hard, but you’re helping us a lot. Do you remember anything else about the attack? Or what the villain looked like?”

Sniffling, Y/N wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. “He was big,” she said shakily, her voice trembling. “And scary. His arms were like sharp rocks, and he kept laughing when he broke things. I—I don’t know what he wanted. He just… he just kept smashing everything.”

The officer nodded, scribbling down her description. “That’s very helpful,” he assured her. “Thank you, Y/N. We’re going to do everything we can to stop him and bring your parents back to you.”

Y/N’s small frame trembled as she clutched at the blanket covering her. “Do you think my mom and dad are okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, Officer Tanaka hesitated, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. Then he knelt beside her bed, his voice soft but resolute. “We’re going to do everything in our power to bring them back to you,” he promised. “But right now, your job is to rest and get better. You’ve already been so brave.”

The doctor placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his expression reassuring. “The officer’s right,” he said. “You need to focus on healing. You’ve been through more than most adults ever will, and you’re still here. That makes you stronger than you realize.”

Though her heart ached with worry for her parents, Y/N nodded weakly. The weight of the day pressed heavily on her small body, and exhaustion pulled at her mind. She clung to the officer’s words and the memory of the hero who had carried her to safety, holding onto the fragile thread of hope they offered.

For now, all she could do was wait.

The hospital room was silent, shrouded in the faint glow of moonlight spilling through a narrow gap in the curtains. Y/N lay in the bed, her frail body resting against the slightly inclined mattress. Though the room was quiet, her mind buzzed relentlessly, refusing to let her drift into sleep. She stared at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plaster as if doing so might calm her racing thoughts. 

Everything felt different now. The world beyond the hospital walls seemed sharper, louder. Sounds she once ignored now demanded her attention. She could hear the soft chirping of crickets from somewhere far away and the low, persistent hum of traffic in the distance. Even the faint rustle of leaves in the wind seemed magnified, pressing against her heightened senses. 

She closed her eyes, attempting to block out the overwhelming sounds, but it was no use. The more she focused on silencing them, the more they seemed to grow louder, filling her mind until her chest tightened with frustration. Just as she was about to let out a weary sigh, a new noise caught her attention—a subtle creak, almost imperceptible, coming from the direction of the window. 

Her eyes flew open, her body jolting upright despite the soreness in her limbs. Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned her head sharply toward the source of the sound. The window, which had been securely closed earlier, now moved ever so slightly, its frame groaning softly as it slid open. A shadow slipped through the gap with quiet grace, landing silently on the floor. Y/N froze, clutching her blanket tightly, her breath caught in her throat.

For a fleeting moment, fear gripped her. Who could it be? But then recognition washed over her like a soothing balm. Her wide eyes softened, and a smile broke across her face.

“Eraserhead!” she exclaimed, her voice a hushed but excited whisper. Relief and joy colored her tone as she relaxed against the bed.

The shadowed figure froze in place, his hand still gripping the edge of the window frame. He looked almost comical, like a child caught sneaking into the kitchen for a late-night snack. Slowly, he straightened and stepped closer, his face coming into focus under the moonlight. His wild black hair framed his tired but watchful eyes, and his scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said softly, his tone carrying a hint of teasing.

“I was trying,” Y/N replied, shrugging lightly as she adjusted her grip on the blanket. “But everything’s so loud now. The world feels… different.”

She tilted her head, her gaze distant as she focused on the cacophony of sounds beyond the window. “I could hear the window creak before you even opened it,” she added quietly, her voice laced with wonder and confusion.

Eraserhead’s expression softened, though his face remained mostly unreadable. He stepped closer, crouching beside her bed so they were at eye level. “Your senses are probably heightened because of the trauma,” he explained, his voice calm and reassuring. “It’ll settle down over time. For now, try not to let it overwhelm you.”

Y/N nodded slightly, though the tension in her small shoulders didn’t completely ease. She glanced down at her bandaged arm, then back at him with a faint, determined smile. “I’m strong,” she declared, lifting her arm as if to prove it. “See?”

Eraserhead’s lips twitched upward in the faintest of smiles, a rare crack in his usually stoic demeanor. “Yeah, I see that,” he said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “Stronger than most adults, I’d say.”

His words made her grin widen, her chest swelling with pride. The hero who had saved her—the serious, intimidating Eraserhead—was smiling and even laughing at something she’d said. It felt like a tiny victory in an otherwise dark and uncertain time.

Gathering her courage, Y/N glanced at the notepad and pen sitting on the bedside table. “Um… Mr. Eraserhead?” she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze following hers to the notepad. “What is it?”

“Can I…” She fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, her fingers twisting the fabric nervously. “Can I have your autograph? Please?”

Eraserhead blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “An autograph? From me?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “Why would you want one from an underground hero? I’m not exactly famous.”

Y/N tilted her head, her expression earnest. “Because I’m your number one fan,” she said simply, as if the answer was obvious.

For a moment, Eraserhead simply stared at her, caught off guard by her sincerity. Then, to her surprise, he let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Number one fan, huh?” he said, his voice carrying a hint of dry amusement. “That’s a first.”

She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining with admiration. “You saved me,” she said, her voice brimming with emotion. “You’re the coolest hero ever! Even if you’re not famous, you’re the best to me.”

Eraserhead shook his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again. “Alright, number one fan,” he said, reaching for the notepad and pen. His handwriting was messy but legible as he scrawled his name across the paper. “But don’t go selling this, okay?”

Y/N giggled, clutching the autograph like it was the most precious treasure in the world. “I’d never sell it! I’m keeping it forever,” she promised, her voice filled with childlike sincerity.

As he stood, preparing to leave, her voice stopped him in his tracks. “Will I see you again?” she blurted out, her words rushed and filled with hope.

He paused at the window, glancing back at her over his shoulder. His dark eyes softened, and he gave a faint nod. “Maybe,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “But only if you keep being strong. Deal?”

“Deal!” Y/N replied, her voice firm and determined despite her small frame.

Satisfied, Eraserhead gave her a small wave before slipping out the window as quietly as he’d come. Y/N lay back against her pillow, the autograph clutched tightly to her chest. For the first time since the attack, a genuine smile spread across her face. The fear and sadness that had weighed so heavily on her heart felt lighter, replaced by a glimmer of hope.

The sounds of the world outside no longer felt so overwhelming. Instead, they became a backdrop to her thoughts of the quiet, kind hero who had saved her. As she closed her eyes, she held onto the memory of his visit, the sound of his laugh, and the promise she’d made.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt safe—and maybe even a little happy.

The hospital room was steeped in an uneasy quiet, the kind that settled over places meant for recovery but steeped in pain. The soft glow of the overhead lights created elongated shadows on the pale walls, giving the space a sterile, almost lifeless feel. Y/N sat in her bed, a child too small for the heavy weight of the world now pressed upon her shoulders. The plate of food on the tray before her sat untouched, its contents growing cold as she absentmindedly fidgeted with the edge of her blanket. Her hands trembled slightly, though whether from exhaustion or the unshakable emptiness that had rooted itself in her chest, she wasn’t sure.

The creak of the door opening broke through the stillness. Y/N’s head jerked up, startled, her wide eyes fixing on the figure stepping into the room. He was an older man, dressed impeccably in a kuro montsuki, the formal black attire strikingly out of place against the drab setting of the hospital. His presence was commanding yet serene, a quiet power that filled the room without overwhelming it.

The man’s face was lined with the marks of age—deep wrinkles etched into his forehead and around his sharp eyes, which seemed to pierce through the veil of her silence. His hair was streaked with gray, tied neatly back, a contrast to his otherwise unyielding aura. When his gaze fell on her, the hardness in his expression softened, replaced by something almost gentle.

“Y/N L/N,” he greeted, his voice deep but warm, its resonance easing some of the tension that had settled in her small frame. “My name is just ‘The Boss’ or 'Pops' for now. I was a close friend of your parents.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the mention of her parents, a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. She straightened instinctively, her small hands tightening on the edge of her blanket. But she didn’t say anything, her lips pressing into a thin line as a shadow of suspicion and pain crossed her features.

The Boss didn’t rush her. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, as if aware that any sudden action might startle her. He pulled the chair from the corner of the room and positioned it beside her bed, lowering himself into it with a quiet dignity. His sharp gaze flicked briefly to the untouched plate of food on the tray. He raised an eyebrow but made no immediate comment.

Instead, after a moment of silence, he said, “You haven’t eaten.” It wasn’t a question. His tone was soft, but there was an unmistakable firmness beneath it. “Why not?”

“I’m not hungry,” Y/N replied, her voice barely audible. She kept her gaze down, her hands knotting the blanket into a tangled mess.

The Boss studied her closely for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Not eating won’t help you heal,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. “Your body needs strength, and you won’t find that strength on an empty stomach.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than the sterile quiet of the room. Y/N shrugged, her small shoulders lifting in a way that seemed to hold the weight of the world. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered.

“It does,” he countered, his voice taking on a fatherly edge. There was no anger in his tone, only quiet insistence. “You’ve been through a great deal, child, but life doesn’t stop because of pain. You must take care of yourself, even when it feels like the world has turned its back on you.”

Y/N flinched slightly at his words, but she didn’t look at him. Her chest tightened, and she blinked rapidly to hold back tears. His voice, though firm, carried a thread of empathy that made it harder to push him away. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his. “You knew my parents?” she asked hesitantly.

The Boss nodded, his expression softening further. “I did. Your father and I shared a bond—a deep trust forged through years of understanding. And your mother…” He paused, a hint of wistfulness creeping into his voice. “She had a light that brightened even the darkest of times. They were good people, Y/N.”

Her throat tightened at his words, and she quickly looked away, biting down on her trembling lip. “Then why aren’t they here?” she asked, her voice breaking as she spoke.

The Boss didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful as he considered her question. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Sometimes life takes people from us before we’re ready,” he said. “It’s not fair, and it never will be. But what we can do—what we *must* do—is carry their memory with us and honor them by living.”

His words hit her like a tidal wave, and though she said nothing, the tears she had been holding back spilled over, streaking silently down her cheeks. She bit her lip harder, trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape.

The Boss reached out, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the bed. His presence was steady, grounding, as if he were offering her an anchor in the midst of her storm. “From now on, I will take care of you,” he said firmly. “You will have a home, safety, and family. I promise you that.”

Y/N turned to look at him, her tear-streaked face searching his for answers. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because it is the right thing to do,” he replied without hesitation. “Your parents would want you to be cared for, protected. And I will honor their memory by ensuring you have that.”

For the first time since the attack that had stolen everything from her, Y/N felt a small flicker of warmth in her chest. It wasn’t enough to erase the pain, but it was something—a tiny ember of hope that had been absent for far too long. She nodded hesitantly, her voice trembling as she whispered, “Thank you.”

The Boss inclined his head slightly, his expression softening even more. “You’re welcome, child.” He gestured toward the plate of food on the tray. “Now, let’s start with something small. A few bites, for today. I won’t force you, but I’ll be disappointed if you don’t try.”

Y/N hesitated, her gaze shifting to the plate. The food didn’t appeal to her, but the weight of his steady gaze and the gentle encouragement in his voice made her pick up the fork. She took a small bite, chewing slowly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step.

The Boss nodded approvingly, leaning back in his chair. “Good. That’s a start.”

Y/N set the fork down after the first few bites, her appetite still nonexistent. But when she looked at the Boss, his expression wasn’t one of disappointment. Instead, there was quiet pride in his eyes, as if her small effort had been enough.

“You’ll find that strength,” he said softly. “One step at a time.”

Y/N lay back against the pillows, a tentative sense of security settling over her. The sterile walls of the hospital room felt less suffocating with his steady presence nearby. For the first time in what felt like forever, she believed that she might be able to keep going. Not for herself—at least, not yet—but for the memory of the parents who had loved her and the stranger who had promised to carry her through the darkness.

[king-candybug-backup]

I saw the coffee post lmaooo. I can only picture Candybug repeatedly saying "TURBO-TASTIC!" over and over again to the point where his voice is literally overlapping itself as he rushes around the room

Meanwhile the foundation of the castle is quaking and the rest of the citizens of Sugar Rush think their having an earthquake when in reality its because the old giant bug guy got the coffee zoomies

IT WOULD BE SO CHAOTIC, HOW TF DO YOU CONTROL A CY-BUG WITH THE ZOOMIES 😭😭😭

[gothicpaperback]

MARKED FOR THE ROLE | PART THREE

{< PART TWO: LIGHTS,CAMERA, DRAMA | PART FOUR: COMING SOON > }

wc: 2,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Dieter Bravo x You | O/B/E Universe

summary: working for alpha Dieter Bravo is like surviving a never-ending ego parade, he's loud, arrogant, and always wearing sunglasses for some reason. I’m his assistant, not his fan club. But everything implodes the day I get tested and find out I’m an omega… and worse, that Dieter is my soulmate. Now I’m stuck between wanting to strangle him and wanting to climb him, neither of which I’m proud of

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described aside from being able bodied, late twenties and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: o/b/e universe, alpha/omega, boss/employee dynamic, bisexuality themes, mentions of mental illness, smut, sexual tension, knotting, enemies to lovers, mentions of blood/needles, mentions of drugs and alcohol. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

MARKED FOR THE ROLE | PART THREE | BEHIND THE CURTAIN

I've been in my bedroom just staring at the wall for the last hour, my head still spinning with the information that was given to me. How can this be possible? How can I be Dieter Bravo's fated mate? 

And more horrifying than that, how is it that I have lived my life and as a beta when I've been in Omega this whole time? The foundation of me is rocked, everything I thought I knew about myself is erased. What's my identity?

And Dieter Bravo's soulmate? Fated mate? Whatever they called it. 

Being a fated mate doesn't mean anything, it's not like he and I could ever be together. Not only is he a huge Megastar, I'm someone who's never even been in the spotlight aside from the events I've trailed after him at, fixing his tie before he goes off to be greeted with flash bulbs. 

It's not what I want for my future. I don't know what I want my perfect match to look like but I do know that being an Omega isn't the life I want. 

I buy a journal that same day and I start scribbling my thoughts down, my anger. My frustration, my fears, my longing. I write about my shock at Dieter being my mate, my confusion about how that's going to work in the future.

How can I be with a man like Dieter when all he does is think about himself? 

Maybe it's unfair to think that. But I'm furious with him right now. He was just as to blame as me for what happened that day and he's been radio silent. 

How will I move on in my life knowing that I can never be with my fated mate? Will I just stay single forever? I fill the entire book up and then I place it under my bed. 

Will Dieter want to pursue something with me? Why does that thought make my stomach bottom out? I have too much to think about, too much to focus on. 

The next morning I show up to my parents unannounced. My stomach quakes as I step up to the door and knock. My mother greets me none the wiser pulling me into a tight hug.  

But she notices that my response is stiff, my smile not reaching my eyes. She steps back surveying me as my father comes to the door.. 

"Come in," he says with a jovial smile. "We're just making waffles. Your favourite."

I can barely even look at them I'm so angry. I won't be staying long. And yet this small pathetic part of me is praying that this is all a mistake. 

"Am I an Omega?"

I inwardly hope that they'll laugh and assure me that nothing could be further than the truth. That I am their beta daughter and the medication really just was for anxiety.

But the thunderstruck look on their faces lets me know that there was no mistake with the blood samples. It's true I am an omega. And my parents have been lying to me for the past 29 years. 

"So it's true," I whisper.

Neither of them speak but they exchange a sad look with one another before looking back at me. My mom is the one to finally answer. 

"We never wanted you to find out." 

My world is crashing down on me. My eyes close, trying to block out the strained look on both their faces. 

"I don't know how this happened," my mother says with tears in her eyes. "Your father and I are betas. Our entire lineage are betas. I didn't know what to do with an Omega child. You were an anomaly."

"A freak you were ashamed of."

"No! Never!" My dad cuts in. "We have loved you unconditionally since the moment you were born."

"Then why did you hide who I was? Why keep it from me?"  

"We were terrified of what this meant for you," my mom says. "You know how terribly omegas are treated in society." 

"So?" 

"So we didn't want that life for you, petal," my dad says with a sorrowful look my way. My father, the man I always thought I could trust. 

"You could have told me," I say blinking back tears. "You could have given me the choice when I was old enough." 

"We thought we were doing what was best for you." 

I feel so betrayed, unmoored, my safe place now demolished. I have nothing left. 

"The medication?"

"The doctor recommended it when you were born," my mom says quietly. "They ran the tests they do on all babies and when it came back Omega he could see how worried your father and I were." 

"But those pills, how could you get them?"

"They're over the counter," your mother says, smoothing her hair and shooting your dad a look. 

Of course they are. With Omegas all over the world suppressants and blockers are common place. I'd just never thought to look. 

"Our family doctor suggested you start them when you turned about twelve. You were acting so strangely, so anxious and... I didn't want you feeling like that." 

"You've had me on drugs my entire life," I say, swallowing a bubbling sob in my throat. "You made me numb."

"We wanted to to be safe."

I know that what they were doing they thought was in my best interest. But I can't get over the betrayed feeling, the now shaken belief that my parents would always keep me safe. 

"I need you to not contact me for a bit," I tell them. 

My mother goes to oppose this request but my father touches her elbow patting her gently. 

"She needs space." 

I leave their home and go wandering through the neighbourhood in a daze. I don't want to go back to my small apartment and I don't want to go to work like this so what else can I do? 

I pass my old neighbours, waving listlessly as I move. My shoes slap against the asphalt, my hairline dampening with sweat. 

My phone plays a familiar melody in my pocket and I answer it, my voice detached.

"Hello?"

"You need to come to the house." 

Is Mel. 

I can feel my throat tightening, anxiety washing over me. "What? Why?"

But I know why. Dieter has clearly learned the awful truth as well. 

"I'll explain when you get here. Can you come?" 

I debate whether or not I should hang up on her. But then I think of the severance she gave me, and the sad look she had when she had to let me go. 

"Okay. I'll be there."

Dieter, Mel, Thomas and Travis, Dieter's agent, are all in the kitchen when I arrive. All of them look grim. 

Dieter is at the table, his palms on either side of his skull, fingers planted in his hair. When he hears me come in he sits up straight, gaping at me. 

"We got a call from Bondline yesterday," Mel explains with an inhale. "Did they contact you too?"

I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. I'm uncomfortable with all these sets of eyes on me. "Yeah."

"So you know...?"

"Yeah." 

Travis utters a soft "fuck" under his breath. I can see Thomas pinching the bridge of his nose. Mel just keeps shaking her head, muttering to herself. 

Dieter just sits there looking shellshocked. He's clearly just as thrown as I am. Probably even more disappointed. I can't help but notice how his nostrils flare as I approach them. 

It takes me back to him pinning against me in the hall. Fingering me. Carrying me to his bed. Whispering the filthiest things. My thighs press together. His nostrils flare again and for a humiliating moment I wonder if he can smell how wet I am. 

Travis motions to a new figure that has just walked in, a short balding man that, introduces himself to everyone with a brisk hand shake. 

"Pleased to meet you. Owen Trask."

He has one of those Hollywood smiles, bright white and far too large. He indicates for me to take a seat at the table. 

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No, thank you."

 I feel like I'm on display in a museum, all of them on the other side of the table and all of them staring at me.  

"As we all know, thanks to Bondline we have discovered many truths. One is that you are an Omega, which I'm sure has been a great shock to you," Owen tells you with the kind of faux sincerity that makes my skin crawl. "And you have also learned that Dieter Bravo is your fated mate, your soul bond, whatever term you prefer." 

I don't say anything to that. But I do sneak a look at Dieter, seeing his dark eyes swallowing me up, watching his nostrils flare. 

"Why can't I smell you like before?" he asks, diverting the conversation from Owen.  

I glance around to feel everyone's eyes on me and I sink a little further in my seat. I can't believe I'm having this conversation in front of a crowd. 

"Back on my medication," I mutter, humiliated. 

Dieter's face is hard to read but I see his lips press together. 

"As I was saying, " Owen says before Dieter can reply, "our team has gone through the data with a fine tooth comb and has deduced that the results are in fact legitimate."

"This explains... What I ran into that day," Mel says with a grimace. "I should have known something else was going on."

My face burns and I have to look at the table to avoid her eyes. Everyone at the table probably knows what happened. 

"Because you were a perfect employee before that," Mel quickly amends. 

I don't say anything. 

"We know that this must be a shock to you," Owen says sympathetically to me. "And obviously we would like to keep the information to ourselves." 

"Sure." 

"We also know there is an emotional distress associated with this experience. You thought you were going to find your soulmate and begin a life with them. Obviously this cannot happen."

Something claws at my chest when he says that and it feels an awful lot like disappointment. Again my eyes flick to Dieter, but he's looking at the table now. 

"Due to these numerous burdens we are willing to pay you the sum of one hundred thousand dollars to help you move forward. And you will need to sign a new NDA attesting to that fact. In exchange we would require your discretion." 

So that's why they wanted me to come here. That makes sense. They're worried I'm going to go running to the press

If I'm honest, I feel humiliated. Not only does Dieter obviously want nothing to do with me, he's actually willing to pay me off to make sure. 

I sit quietly absorbing this information. My life feels surreal, not quite my own. And even though he doesn't want me, my eyes still go to Dieter. 

He's gazing back at me, looking troubled. When our eyes connect I feel that zing. I have a feeling if I weren't back on medication it would be debilitating. 

"This is insane," Dieter informs the room suddenly, jerking to a stand. "My soulmate isn't my fucking assistant." 

Quiet falls over the room. That feels like a slap in the face when he says that, his disgust palpable. It hurts more than I want to admit. 

"I'm not your assistant anymore," I tell him angrily. 

"You were a month ago," Dieter sneers. "I need a drink." 

We all watch as he stands and grabs a bottle of vodka from the freezer. He pours himself a large glass, throwing it back and of course in true Dieter fashion doesn't offer anyone else a glass. 

I can feel myself almost vibrating with anger. Where does this asshole get off? He acts like he's so much better than me because he plays dress up in front of a camera for a living? 

"Just so you know, Dieter, I have no interest in being tethered to you," I tell him sharply. "I'm very happy not having an embarrassing, alcoholic, sex addict for a partner." 

To my immense pleasure, Dieter looks a little stunned by my response. Mel sucks in a hiss as she and Thomas exchange looks. Owen is sweating anxiously and he tries to redirect us. 

"Of course we would also provide counselling if you desired it." 

"I didn't even want to do this Bondline thing in the first place," Dieter says, ignoring everyone but me. "You were the one who said I should!"

"How was I supposed to know this is what would happen?!" I say, feeling my hands turn into shaky fists. "I didn't even know I was a fucking Omega!" 

Dieter throws his empty glass to the floor, ignoring Mel's gasp of surprise and Travis telling him to calm down. 

"This is all your fault!" He says. He's lasered in on me, stalking towards my chair with a predatory gleam in his eyes. 

"If you'd only kept you fucking opinions to yourself," he growls. "None of this would have happened."

He's standing over my chair now, big and imposing. And fuck, I shouldn't want to touch him but I do, even as I feel caught in his glare. 

He's warm, the scent of his cologne and body invading my senses. It's a suffocation mixed with comfort. A pain I want to lean into, like pressing on a bruise. 

"That's enough," Mel snaps from across the table and I finally feel like I can jerk my eyes from his face. 

I suck in a gulp of air, cool and refreshing. I feel tears prickling the back of my eyes and I need to get out of here. I spin back around, taking the pen from the table and scribbling my name on the contract.  

"I'll sign whatever you want and you can keep your money," I say to Owen. 

Owen points at the parts of the contract I need to sign and I do so hurriedly, feeling Dieter staring me down from behind. 

I stand quickly, pushing my chair back into him harshly. He grunts, moving back. 

"Take the money," Dieter says, rubbing at his calf. 

"I don't want anything from you." 

For a fraction of a second I see his eyes go soft and hurt. But he recovers instantly, derision dripping from every word. 

"Then leave." 

"In case you forgot, you're the ones who asked me to come here," I snap at him. "This is the last place I'd ever want to be."

I pivot on my tennis shoe and head for the front door, but not before throwing one last comment over my shoulder. 

"Don't fucking contact me again!" 

Tears are streaming down my face as I make my way to the bike. No, I didn't expect Dieter to sweep me up into his arms and proclaim his undying love. But I sure as hell didn't expect a response like that. 

By the time I ride back to my apartment, my tears have dried and turned into feelings of fury. Dieter is the reason that I had the blood work done, the reason that my life is upended itself. And he's acting like it's my fault! 

And he was so harsh today. Yeah, he could be an asshole before but it was usually in that harmless, spoiled way. Today felt cruel. 

And the worst part is I'll never find another soulmate. You only get one. He was it and that's over. I'll never know that earth-shattering bliss that comes with an Alpha and Omega binding; the sex that is supposed to be out of this world. I'll never know that primal connection I've heard about.  Any man I do find I'll know in the back of my head wasn't really destined for me. 

I've always been somewhat of a romantic and knowing I'll always be with someone not quite The One hurts to think about. 

And I'll have to do it all with Dieter's smug face staring back at me from magazine covers and movie screens. That asshole. He's just landed a role in a DC series and Hollywood is obsessed with him. 

He stole my future from me. One thing is for certain as I lay myself down to sleep that evening. 

I hate Dieter Bravo. 

do people still like this story? or should I focus on my other ones?