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aleksatia · 11 days ago

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🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

Cut Scene (NSFW): 🍎 Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting.

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.”

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him.

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes.

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone.

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth.

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity. But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you.

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag.

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

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frownyalfred · 3 months ago

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Clark: Kon's not my child! I'm not his father! I had nothing to do with the choice to bring him to the world- my DNA was STOLEN.

Bruce: ...Clark, that... doesn't change anything. I would know.

Seriously speaking, how do you feel about that specific aspect of Clark's characterization?

I think he and Bruce have more in common than he realizes, yeah. Both of them had to reckon with a child they didn’t know about. And for both of them, that child wasn’t a baby — Kon and Damian were both older! Already well on their way to being full adults.

But where they diverge is how they step up. I think it was easier for Bruce in many ways, in that he already had raised kids, already had that infrastructure in place both physically and mentally. And while learning so late about Damian was a betrayal by Talia in many ways, they coparent well from a distance — Damian isn’t caught between them often. They are civil. They both want what’s best for him.

Kon is a slightly different story. He was older, his other dad is Lex Luthor and that relationship is absolutely antagonistic. It’s not a betrayal simply because Clark at no point trusted Lex at all. And despite having the ability to do so…he does not react well, in most canon instances, to Kon’s initial appearance. He panics, he rejects him, and he cannot move past the fact that it happened at all. (Again, depends on the canon). Sometimes he recovers, sometimes it takes a while.

But yeah your point about Bruce above is absolutely spot on — it doesn’t matter how it happened, Clark. It just matters that it did. There’s now a kid depending on you. Like it or not. They’re blameless, too — they had no say in the matter either!

I’ve always wanted to write a fic where Bruce talks Clark through that — validates his hurt and still doesn’t allow his best friend to reject an innocent child. But he also lets Clark be human (heh), be vulnerable, be emotional in a space far away from Kon, because that’s important too. He needs to process in order to step up. Bruce had Alfred, and Dick, and other people to help him when Damian popped up. So Clark needs someone too. Expecting him to suck it up and be 100% perfect and accepting about Kon with 0 hesitation isn’t healthy either.

#lex Luthor #kon el kent #conner kent #Connor Kent #superboy #batman #bruce wayne #dc #asks #anon #batfamily #clark kent #superman #damian wayne #talia al ghul #robin #dc comics

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damned-punk · 3 months ago

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Worth The Wait (Law x Reader)

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Content Warning: kissing

Content Description: you and Law are two sillies who have trouble reckoning with your feelings for one another ♡

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You’d heard a lot of things about Trafalgar Law, mainly that he was a Surgeon of Death and that he had rather wicked abilities. He was feared across many island nations but as he sat before you bickering with Straw Hat Luffy, you couldn’t help but wonder if they’d gotten it all wrong. He’d seemed so serious at first but not in a traditional way, he was alternatively authoritative. He’d bark orders to his crew and they’d obey with such an enthusiasm that directly contrasted his demeanor, it was evident that they knew him for who he actually was and the world did not.

Luffy must’ve felt it too, something similar to what you were feeling now. It wasn’t obvious at first, but you’d started catching a smirk crack across Law’s stoic features from time to time. Once when the bubbly Straw Hat’s captain had captured a beetle and chased Sanji around the beach with it and again when Brook slipped in his 75th bone themed joke of the day. You’d even caught him skillfully picking an argument between Kidd and Luffy, a great pretender who wanted to appear far more militant than he actually was.

You’d noticed other things too, the way soft black tufts of hair framed his face and how the sun would glint across the golden metal of his earrings. His tattoos looked cool toned in comparison to his sunkissed skin, the way his toned chest peaked out from beneath the low neckline of his shirts. You’d noticed the way that he was kind to those in need but never wanted anyone to see it, how much he loved and cared for his crew despite giving their affections a cold shoulder. He could be so mischievous at times, Law was a paradox in his own right.

He’d noticed somethings on his own too, the way your eyes lingered on him for far longer than necessary for conversation. How you’d make sure he had a share of whatever everyone else was enjoying whether it be drinks or food, it was as though you were partial to him. The way that you interacted with his crew perplexed him at first, he wasn’t sure what to think with how friendly you acted toward them. He didn’t have a great track record with letting people into his life, but he was beginning to think that he’d have to make another exception.

“Why did you give it to Traffy?”, Luffy pleaded with watery eyes after you’d offered Law the last of your snacks, “I can’t believe this, I always get your leftovers!”

“You better give it to him, (Y/N)-ya.”, Law interjected, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes, “We can’t have the child throwing a fit.”

“I’m not a child!”, Luffy argued back, totally missing the small smile on Law’s face, “You’re the child! Big goofy hat and all!”

“He’s older than you and if we’re being real, your hat is big and goofy too.”, you retorted while shuffling the food into Luffy’s hands, “You’re definitely the child in this scenario.”

“Always defending your boyfriend and not the Captain.”, Zoro remarked while clicking his tongue, totally embarrassing you.

Law’s face went ablaze, you needed to think of something to snap back with and fast. The three sword style meathead couldn’t have possibly sniffed you out. His remark had to have been born from snark.

“You jealous?”, you teased the swordsman, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull at the remark.

You turned to face Law who had already captured you in his gaze, your eyes met and awkwardly parted. For being a former warlord and current supernova, he was not very seasoned in chivalry. You wanted so desperately for him to make the first move, things were quickly becoming painful. One by one and on both crews, everyone had started noticing the strange aura that clouded your interactions. When you weren’t around, Penguin and Shachi teased Law about it relentlessly.

“They’re right Captain, she’s not gonna bite.”, Bepo tried to be the voice of reason.

“Enough!”, Law raised his voice while the two men snickered, Bepo remaining supportive as ever.

Even Ikakku, who almost never partook in Penguin and Shachi’s dumbassery, agreed that something needed to be done about the pair of you. She was tired of waiting for development in what had become a several months long stalemate. Your time with their crew was only ticking close to it’s inevitable end and she just couldn’t let that happen.

“Hey, do you have a minute?”, she approached you nearing the end of the day, leading you to a private area to talk, “How do you feel about the Captain?”

“Law?”, you asked as though you had no clue what she could be referencing, “He’s nice, a lot less diabolical than the rumors I’ve heard.”

“He’s nice?”, she asked in stunned repetition, “Only nice?”

“I mean he’s strong, funny, he’s a cool guy.”, you replied quickly, doing what you could to not slip up.

“Look, I know it might be a little nerve wracking but you’re gonna have to spell it out for him.”, Ikakku attempted to spark motivation in you, “I can ensure you that he feels the same way, watching you two keep this up is starting to make me long for more at this point.”

You took her comments in stride, lingering around him with more intent throughout the remainder of the night. She purposefully wrangled all her crewmates and excluded Law from their activities, effectively giving him all the free time necessary to break through this one last boundary. The two of you had chatted about everything but nothing of consequence, this was so much more difficult than it realistically needed to be.

“So, what was your little conversation with Ikakku about earlier?”, he asked out of the blue, breaking the non-consequential atmosphere that had begun simmering.

“Oh nothing, she just asked a question.”, you lied through your teeth, avoiding eye contact.

“It didn’t seem like nothing, she’s not one for useless conversation.”, he pried more, seemingly knowing what he was doing.

“What do you think we talked about?”, you forced yourself to meet his face, his eyes already fixated on your features.

“It’s hard to say exactly…”, he trailed off his sentence, maintaining eye contact.

You could’ve sworn he leant closer, but maybe it was your imagination. Either way, you couldn’t back down now. This was your chance to stand your ground, if he backed away you’d have your answer. The seconds felt like minutes and the longer you lingered like this, the closer the two of you had become. You flickered your gaze from his eyes to his lips and fought back a giggle as bewilderment crossed his features. He replicated your gesture, prompting you to brush his nose with the tip of your own. This was as far crossed the boundary that you were willing to go without being met, he’d have to bridge the gap from here.

His face looked as stern and analytical as you’d ever witnessed, he was clearly weighing the potential collateral of giving into his desires. So indecisive and for the first time in a very long time, so vulnerable. He finally leant forward and pressed his lips to your own, gently gliding his tongue along your flesh and giving you every opportunity to pull away. Your hands came to rest against his chest, his tattooed fingers dancing along your cheek and hip as he drank you in.

“EW!”, the two of you reluctantly parted upon hearing the expression, “TRAFFY AND (Y/N) ARE KISSING!”

You couldn’t help but giggle at the effervescent Straw Hat Captain. Some would say that he and Law were total opposites but they were more alike than different. This time, Law laughed with you and let himself revel in such a warm moment. It might’ve been a long time coming, but it was certainly worth the wait.

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#one piece #trafalgar law #law x reader #one piece fanfiction #one piece x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar law x reader #heart pirates

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hirayalore · 3 months ago

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this is absolutely nerve-wracking. you don’t even know why you agreed to be on this side of the team in the first place, knowing that you would be better in the field (being an aspiring auror and a good one at that), and is quite perhaps the human personification of the word ‘impatience’ when it came to situations like these.

though yet again, it was GEORGE WEASLEY who made you promise that you weren’t going to volunteer to be a potter duplicate for the said chosen one’s safe travel to the burrow—the place you’re already in at the moment as he reckoned that it was enough that he had to worry about his father and brothers being with him for the task; he didn’t want to be preoccupied thinking about whether his girlfriend was managing herself well too.

“i’ll be careful,” george promised you before the both of you parted earlier, a kiss planted on your forehead, “i’ll meet you at the burrow, safe and sound, alright?”

you only nodded, not knowing what to do or say. you wanted to stop him from leaving, to convince him that it was too dangerous. however, you also knew that it was selfish of you to do so, considering that what he was going to do was not only for the betterment of harry potter himself, but possibly the whole wizarding world.

a loud sound of crashing coming from the front yard pushes you out of your trance and you stand up from your seat to run outside, quickly followed by ginny who has been quiet and pacing around the house in anxiety before she heard the crash too.

it’s hagrid and harry—the real harry you presume as ginny launches towards him so that they could embrace. you let out a breath, relieved that he’s here unharmed, but admittedly not relieved enough as there is still no sign of george.

though as if on cue, two men suddenly appear on the right side of the lawn via apparition and you recognize them to be remus and george immediately, with the latter being supported by the former.

it dawns on you that george is injured, your eyes focusing on the side of his head that is bleeding.

“i’m good, i’m all good,” are the first words he utters to you once you’re close, grabbing his other arm so you and remus can carry him to the burrow together.

you can’t bring yourself to reply. your heart is thumping so hard inside your chest that you feel like you’re going to shut down any second now. the only thing that’s keeping you from going into full panic mode is how he at least has the strength to stay conscious and talk to you still as he’s being led to the sofa, a fact that convinces your brain that he’s nowhere near danger now.

once he’s laid there, remus approaches harry to check on him while you take the liberty to rush to get some medical supplies that could help george’s condition.

molly then tends to him, brushing his hair and whispering thanks that he didn’t arrive in a worse condition, before she goes to you and says that you can be in charge of george as she waits for her other family members’ arrival.

“sweetheart,” george murmurs, staring at you as you kneel beside him and take out a bunch of bandages and some healing potion to help with his blown up ear, “i’m fine, i promise.”

still, no sentence escapes from your lips. you remain busy, just rummaging through the medical kit even though you’ve already got what you needed. annoyance is bubbling inside of you because of what he just said, but you don’t show it, aware that it might be ridiculous to do so as it isn’t like george wished to get himself hurt.

“sweetie,” he repeats, voice hoarse and tone more pleading, “look at me, will you?”

you don’t oblige. you just zip the bag close and place it on the floor.

“____.” he calls your name, stern and demanding now with a hand holding your wrist to stop you from moving too much.

you finally look at him, his eyes turning soft at the way yours started to water.

you’re a strong girl, he knows that, and you don’t like showing vulnerability to anyone or in any circumstances unless it greatly affected you—and judging by how you’re forcing yourself not to cry or show too much emotion because of what happened to him, it’s clear that you’re so affected by this and that he made you worry so much to the point of wanting to sob.

“i’m okay,” he says again, bringing your wrist over his chest, just so your palm can rest on where you can feel his heart the most, “it’s still beating for you, darling. can’t you feel it?”

you inhale sharply, a lame attempt to stop yourself from fully crying, and nod. “i feel it.”

“it’s just my ear that was messed up. nothing to be alarmed about.”

“don’t be ridiculous. this is still worth being alarmed about.”

“but it’s just an ear.”

“it’s still an ear, george.”

“yeah—but i’ve got another one.”

you close your eyes momentarily.

there really is no point in arguing with this man.

“whatever,” you exhale, shaking off the annoyance away once more, “let’s see what i can do for your—”

you’re supposed to pull your hand away from his chest to start examining him thoroughly but he stops you, keeping your palm in place.

“what?” you ask.

he looks extremely serious as he says his next sentence. “give me a kiss.”

“a kiss?” you repeat.

“a kiss, yes.”

you scoff. “george, you’re still bleeding and—”

“just one, please,” he cuts you off once more, the one impatient now. “look, i… i thought i almost didn’t make it, okay? then i kept thinking what if it really was the end of it all, and then i remembered i only kissed you on the forehead before i left, and that would’ve been the last kiss you had from me.”

he truly has a peculiar mind. out of all the possible things to think of when one is perhaps on the brink of death, all he thinks about is that he never gave you a proper kiss on the lips.

“you’re a bloody idiot, darling,” you say, leaning in to give him a peck on the lips like requested, a gesture that he receives with a contented sigh, “and quite literally too, that is.”

you give him another kiss, this one fuller and with george placing a hand on your back to press you further towards him.

it’s only when the both of you hear fred cough that you pull away, glancing behind you to see his twin brother looking at him with worry.

“sorry to steal him away from you, ____,” fred says as you stand up, getting the hint and giving him permission to go to your previous spot. “just have to check on this clumsy git and then he’s all yours again.”

you chuckle, hugging fred quickly too in gratefulness because he arrived fine as well, before going to the kitchen and preparing something for the whole lot to eat with molly.

as you wait for the water to boil for some tea, you lean on the counter and gaze towards george who’s still conversing with fred.

the moment your eyes meet for a brief second, he has the nerve to wink.

you smile.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

୭ৎ ࣪ ׅ ⊹ reposted from my other account !

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley imagines #harry potter imagines #harry potter x reader #weasley imagines #weasley x reader #george x reader #george weasley fanfiction

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rrrrinmaru · 9 months ago

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calculated risk (but boy am i bad at math) (sylus x mc) (nsfw)

wc: 4.3k rating: E warnings: NSFW content, dirty talk, blowjobs, skull fucking, orgasm denial, slight spanking (ass and pussy) brief: you lose a bet to sylus and you have to do whatever he wants for 24 hours // part 2 here

It starts, as most things do with Sylus, an incredibly poor decision on your part.

It can’t be helped—when Sylus smirks at you, one eyebrow raised as he gives you a challenging look, you know it’s only going to end in either one of both ways. You taking him up on the bet, or the both of you in a training room with you trying your damned best to figure out how many bones of his you can break.

This time, he hadn’t even disclosed what the prize would be. “Patience, dollface,” he murmured when you told him to lay the terms out upfront. “Isn’t it fun when you don’t know everything?”

“And I suppose it’s fun for you to keep me in the dark?” Control freak, you thought to yourself, but the bet was simple and there was no way you would lose.

Sylus had shrugged, spreading his hands in a helpless pretense.

It didn’t matter. You were confident. You were going to win.

“I gotta go with A,” Luke says slowly, smacking his lips as he speaks. “I like the spices. No clue what’s in it though—pepper, and er, I’m going to go with cinnamon? Or something similar?”

You could strangle him. Who the fuck puts cinnamon in tomato and eggs? You didn’t even see Sylus go near that section of the spice cabinet.

“Do you even know what cinnamon tastes like?” You can’t help but ask.

Luke licks his lips again. “Yeah, I ate a whole spoonful of cinnamon once because Kieran dared me to, and I was out of it for days. Boss got really mad, haha, remember that?”

Sylus sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He choked,” he says unhelpfully when you look to him for more information.

“He exhaled cinnamon for what felt like hours after that,” Kieran notes from the side. “I wanted to get a scan of his lungs to see how tainted from cinnamon they were, but Boss grounded us.”

“Anyways, it may not be cinnamon, but it’s definitely a c-something,” Luke declares confidently. “I like it. A is the winner for me.”

“Cilantro,” Kieran tells him. You can’t read his expression through the fox mask, but you like to think he’s rolling his eyes. There’s exasperation in his voice that reeks of an older brother forced to reckon with the stupidity of a younger sibling, an unstoppable force crashing headfirst into an immovable object.

Luke snaps his fingers, leaning forward to spoon another mouth of scrambled egg into his mouth. “It’s good. Who made this one?”

“I have to vote first,” Kieran reminds him. “But I’ll go with A too. It’s saltier. I prefer things with a stronger taste.”

“Hm.” Sylus turns to look at you, cocking his head. “It appears we have a unanimous decision. Our fear of needing a tie-breaker game didn’t even materialise.”

You stay silent. Your arms are folded across your chest, and you get the errant thought of whether you could stamp on his shoe hard enough to break his big toe. Probably not, but giving up without even trying is a defeatist attitude.

“Woah,” Luke says, looking furiously between the both of you. “Boss made this?”

Kieran suddenly goes very silent. He brings a fist up to his mouth and starts coughing lightly, but he also resembles a cat attempting to cough up a hairball.

“I did,” Sylus replies, looking quite pleased. “Surprised?”

“Er,” Luke says simply. “Er, congrats. Kieran, do you know how to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre?”

Kieran coughs again. “I’ll do it on you if you do it on me first.”

“Deal.” Luke hurries to stand, his chair screeching against the floorboards from the strength of his push. “Can we excuse ourselves? Our role here is done, right?”

Sylus jerks his head at the exit, and the both of them scramble to the door. As they leave, you think you can hear Luke mutter something that sounds like “I didn’t know I would like soapy eggs, but there’s a first for everything, right?”

Kieran shoves him in the shoulder in response as they both leave. And Kieran goes to great pains to ensure the door is closed, firmly, behind him.

“Let me try that,” you demand, reaching for Luke’s chopsticks left on the edge of the plate.

A strand of twisting red energy wraps around your wrist, yanking it to a stop.

“There are clean chopsticks,” Sylus chides. From across the kitchen, a covered bowl and a pair of chopsticks are brought over by tendrils of red and black energy.

He leans back, hips pressed against the counter as he collects the bowl and chopsticks. The lid lifts of its own accord and floats over to rest on the nearby countertop.

Sylus picks up a piece of egg and holds it out to you.

“… You made a separate serving for me?”

“I had my suspicions. If I won, you would have demanded a taste test to ensure I didn’t rig the competition.” Sylus tilts his head, as if daring you to disagree. “Was I right?”

Instead of answering, you lean forward to take the piece of egg into your mouth. Your lips close around the end of the chopsticks, and you stay like that for a moment, looking up at Sylus from under your eyelashes.

Sylus’ gaze deepens.

You pull off, leaving the chopsticks wet with your saliva as you chew on the food in your mouth. It’s good. Pretty good. Salty, but in a good way. It would go excellently with a fresh bowl of rice.

You’re actually kind of irritated. Why is Sylus good at making scrambled eggs and tomato? Did he pencil that into his busy schedule—illicit trading activities at 10 am, cooking lessons at 12 pm, a shoot out in a back alleyway at 3 pm, and prowling the streets of the N109 Zone from 11 pm to 4 am like some kind of avenger?

“It’s not bad,” you admit mulishly. “But it’s not better than my cooking. I’d say it’s at the same level.”

“Crowd opinion begs to differ. There’s no shame in losing to someone better, sweetie.”

Oh, you’ve just about had it with him. But a bet is a bet, and Sylus won without any obvious cheats. Luke enjoying the soapy taste of cilantro is something you could never have predicted; if Sylus used this fact to his advantage, you can’t even hold a grudge against him. You would have done the same.

“Give me that,” you say, holding a hand out for the bowl and chopsticks. “So, what’s the prize?”

Sylus doesn’t hand you the bowl immediately. He puts the chopsticks into his mouth, licking them clean before dipping them into the bowl again and picking out another piece of egg. He holds it out.

You lean forward, of course, lips parted as you expect him to feed it to you.

Instead, he turns the chopsticks around and places the egg into his mouth. He hums as he chews on it, nodding like he’s pleased at the taste.

You snap your jaw shut. You give him a dirty look, pressing forward to brace your palms against the countertop, on either side of his hips. Like this, he’s trapped.

Your chest is pressed up against him. Your hips align with his. You go on the balls of your feet, forcing him to lift the bowl and chopsticks higher so he doesn’t hit you in the face.

“You think you’re so funny,” you grumble, staring him down. “Bet, reward, now. Tell me what it is so I can be mentally prepared.”

Sylus doesn’t respond at first. He glances down at you, amusement written all over his face, and lets go of the bowl. Strands of energy catch it, bringing it to rest on the counter behind him. The chopsticks are brought along as well, leaving him empty handed.

“You’re standing in a dangerous position.” He puts the knuckle of his index finger under your chin to tilt your head up. “If you offer yourself up like this, I’ll take advantage.”

He tilts his hips forward, rolling intently against your abdomen. The prominent bulge presses into your lower stomach, right above where your womb is, and you flush scarlet.

You move to pull back, but Sylus moves one hand lightning fast, reaching behind to cup the curve of your ass and pressing you even tighter against the hard line of his arousal through his slacks.

He even squeezes, eyebrows rising in a challenging fashion as he waits to see how you’ll respond.

You know he just wants to get a rise out of you. Unfortunately, it’s working. Your insides clench uncontrollably, wanting to cling tightly to something.

Somehow, Sylus always succeeds at making you feel empty.

“As if you don’t take advantage on the daily.” You shift your stance until your thighs are spread around Sylus’s leg. He watches you adjust yourself, that mildly interested look affixed on his face as you straddle his thigh.

Once you’re satisfied, you roll your hips forward, grinding down on the thick thigh to put pressure against your core. It’s a syrupy heat, starting from your tailbone and crawling up your spine. You press further into Sylus’s growing hardness, and he lets out a pleasant hum, tilting his head back to soak in the weight against his cock.

His fingers tighten against your ass. His grip is heavy, holding you tightly enough that you wonder if they’ll leave bruises against your skin. Five pretty bruises, black and blue on your ass.

“Harder,” he coaxes hoarsely. “You can do better than that. What are they teaching Hunters these days?”

Your thighs squeeze threateningly around him. But that puts pressure on your clit, making pleasure surge deliciously inside you and you do it again—Sylus seems to catch on and he pulls you along the length of his thigh with the hand on your ass.

“Definitely not how to ride the unspoken ruler of the N109 Zone,” you shoot back breathlessly.

He lets out a startled laugh. “You flatter me, sweetie.”

“Stop evading the question,” you remind him, even as you steadily roll your hips against his thigh. Slow, regular grinds as you rub your cunt against his pants. You wonder if your pussy is wet enough to leak through your panties. You wonder if your panties are drenched, sticking to your thighs. You wonder if you’re making his pants damp, and whether he can feel it leaking through to his skin.

Judging from the way he suddenly grips your ass with more force at a particularly smooth slide, you think he might.

“Remind me, what question were we speaking of?”

“Bet. Reward.” You slide one hand across his abdomen, stopping right over his belt buckle. The nail of your index finger catches against the metal—this isn’t the first time you’ve wished you had some kind of Evol that involved the manipulation of metal. “Want me to go on my knees?”

The pad of his thumb smooths over your lower lip.

“Should I put this cute mouth to good use? I think I should,” Sylus murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he looks down at you. “But let’s talk about the bet first. The reward is simple.”

His other hand skates lightly along your outer thigh. Light as a feather, his fingers skimming along your skin so gently that it makes you itch. You almost want him to press hard, the same way he’s gripping your ass, instead of this light, itchy sensation spreading across your body.

His fingers creep up, running under the hem of your dress. They trace the edge of your panties, nails scratching faintly against the cotton.

“I get to do whatever I want with you for the next twenty-four hours,” he says, voice curling with satisfaction. His eyes are creased slightly, the smile sinking through his gaze. As if to drive his point home, he pointedly looks you up and down, dragging his gaze over every inch of your body.

He’s lucky. If you were still clear-headed, you would have scoffed and told him to change the bet. Sylus might have convinced you after a while, but it would have taken time. At least half an hour of convincing, you reckon, with lips on your neck and fingers down your panties to get you worked up enough to say yes to a bet as insane as that.

Twenty-four hours? To do whatever he wants?

Now, with your drenched pussy and your throbbing clit, both just begging for attention from him—this plan sounds pretty good. With the way his fingers playfully run across your panties, the tip of his thumb glancing off your swollen clit then darting away, as if it was an accident, as if he didn’t intend to do that, when you both know damn well he’s very acquainted with your clit—

“Go on,” you gasp, chasing after his sly fingers. Pressure, you need more pressure. If he squeezes your clit between his fingers, even through the wet cotton of your panties, it might be enough. “What do you want me to do?”

“Choices, choices. That mouth looks hungry for something, doesn’t it?” He presses his thumb into your clit harshly, making your body jerk at the sudden burst of electricity that surges through you. Sylus rubs it languidly, watching you shiver on his thigh, then he draws that hand away and brings it to his face.

You watch, pupils dilated and mouth open as he lifts his thumb to his nose and inhales deeply. His eyes flutter shut, lips parting as he rubs the pad of his thumb on his tongue. Behind you, his other hand flexes, tightening his hold on your ass.

“Mm,” he hums, slowly opening his eyes to look at you. “Delicious as always, sweetie. You’ve completely wet your panties.”

“Sylus,” you whine, pulling insistently at his belt. “Tell me what you want, or I’ll just do whatever I want to do.”

“How naughty. Thinking of breaking the rules of the bet this early?” His hand leaves your ass and you almost move to slide off, but there’s a sudden sharp sound and a stinging pain—your cheeks turn red at how that spank made your insides tighten up. “On your knees, dollface. Show me what that talented mouth of yours can do.”

You go, the tips of your ears blushing when you see the blatant wet spot on his slacks your greedy pussy left on him.

Sylus uses your mouth like a fleshlight. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty, mouth open and wet, teeth hidden behind your lips as he holds your head in place and fucks into your mouth. Saliva pools in your mouth, your tongue numb from how loose you’re trying to keep your muscles. You just need to be there, fingers locked around Sylus’ ankles, knees spread on the ground and your arousal dripping on the floorboards—

“Good girl,” Sylus croons, head tilting back to expose the long line of his neck as his hips snap forward. “So fucking obedient for me, aren’t you? Tongue out, sweetie, let my cock slide right in—mmhmm, that’s right, you know what I like, don’t you?”

His fingers are tangled in your hair. There’s no gentleness in the way he holds you there—his grip on your hair is tight, your strands circling his fingers at least twice. He’d stroked your hair right at the beginning, when you were sliding to your knees and dragging the zipper of his pants down with your teeth. Then he’d wound your hair around four of his fingers once, twice, twisting his wrist, pulling sharply so you’d feel the strain at your scalp as you licked up the length of his cock.

He’d told you to clean it up, so you did. You flattened your tongue along the thick line of his cock and you dragged it up, eyelashes fluttering as you traced the fat protruding vein under the head of his cock. You got his cock nice and slick, shiny from spit and precum.

And now he’s fucking into your mouth, salty precum dripping down your throat as your cunt clenches around nothing. He grunts, a low punched-out sound that makes your clit throb. You’re the reason he looks so disheveled, sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows, slacks pulled open just enough for you to slip his cock out and suck on it—

The worst thing about Sylus, you think in a haze, the heavy weight of a fat cock in your mouth so all-encompassing that you don’t have many brain cells left for clear thought, is that he loves to talk. He can’t keep his fucking mouth shut, especially during sex.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice gravelly from arousal. His thrusts are becoming more haphazard, losing the regularity from seconds ago. There’s a familiar stutter and his cock pulses on your tongue, the fat head going so far down your throat you almost seize up, but you hold it back. You can take it. You want to take it. “Do you want it in your throat or on your face?”

You make a noise, the sound muffled from Sylus’ cock. He laughs, a breathless sound, and the ache in your scalp intensifies. Oh, he’s close.

“You’ll have to speak up, dollface.”

The whine that leaves your lips is louder this time, your fingers tightening around Sylus’ ankles. If your nails dig into the skin, leaving trails of scratch marks, all it does is make Sylus groan, hips jerking as he slams into your throat.

“Hm, I can’t hear you,” he notes, eyes glinting as he looks down at you. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? You have to take whatever I give you, sweetie. Open that throat up for me, nice and pretty—ngh, fuck—”

You bare your teeth just enough to scrape the underside of Sylus’ cock. He’s not afraid to mix his pain with his pleasure, and the sting of teeth biting at his sensitive length while he fucks into your face is something he’s told you is addictive. You know he likes it. You know it makes him tremble, and you see it in his crimson eye when he hunches over, abdomen tightening as his cock twitches.

“Close,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Suck on it, sweetie. You have to work for the reward you want. I don’t—haaah, fuck, I don’t give handouts.”

You obey, eyes closing instinctively as you suck on his cock. His cock is leaking badly, precum sliding down your throat. You swear you can feel the head of his cock all the way down, right to the base of your throat, right at your clavicle. It truly feels like he’s hitting it that deep, bruising the insides of your mouth and throat until you won’t be able to eat right or breathe right for days.

You swallow desperately, throat working furiously around the head of his cock, that tight wet heat that drives him crazy, and he bites out a curse as his hips jerk forward, cock throbbing as come spills into your mouth.

He doesn’t let up. He keeps fucking into your mouth, hips pumping as he slides his cock back and forth on your tongue. You suck at his cock, swallowing mouthful and mouthful of come down your throat. Your entire world narrows to a pinpoint, to the grounding weight of his pulsing cock on your tongue, the ache in your mouth, the sting of your scalp—there might be tears in your eyes, or sweat from overexertion, but your vision is blurry when you look up and watch Sylus watch you.

Sylus watches you with hooded eyes, mouth open as he pants for air. His lips curve up when he sees you open your eyes, looking down at you with a pleased expression while he rides out the aftershocks in your wet mouth.

“How obedient,” he says, breathing heavily as he lets one hand go and moves to stroke the side of your mouth with his thumb. He cups your jaw, wiping away a trail of spit from your lips, then reaches down to follow the outline of his cock in your throat. “Swallow.”

You swallow, and his eyes darken as your throat bobs around his cock. He must be able to feel it on both ends—his cock, trapped in that endless wet heat; his fingers, feeling the movement of your muscles under your skin, feeling his heartbeat in his cock through your throat.

He continues fucking your mouth until the spurts of come finally taper off. Even then, he seems content to let his cock stay in your mouth, rubbing along the textured roof of your mouth and against the scrape of your teeth.

Eventually, he pulls back. Sylus’ cock leaves your lips, inch by inch, until his back is against the counter again and only the tip of his cock is left in your mouth.

You can’t help it. Now that there’s more space, you move your tongue instinctively, curving it along the over-sensitive head of his cock and licking into the slit.

Your eyes are trained carefully on Sylus’ face as you do this. He shudders, lips spreading in a smile even as his grip tightens in your hair.

He gives you this look, half-lidded eyes and a lazy, satisfied smile as you mouth at his cock.

“Good girl,” he says hoarsely, pulling your hair until your mouth slides off his cock. It bobs in front of you, still half-hard, and you risk your luck with lapping at the fat cockhead.

Sylus stops you by yanking your head back even further. He pulls up, forcing you to your feet, then he unwinds his fingers and smooths your hair down.

You pant lightly, trying to get your breathing under control. Your mouth feels like one big bruise, and you clear your throat before even attempting to speak. Your voice is going to sound completely fucked, you know, and some part of you revels in it. That you’ll walk around sounding like someone just brutalised your throat, because someone did.

Sylus doesn’t do anything. He just stands there, the long line of his body stretching out before you as he drops one hand to cup your waist. You eye him, then eye the slowly growing stiffness of his cock—when you look back up, he has that familiar, smug challenging look on his face, like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

Oh, you know what you want. You take his free hand and bring it under the rucked up hem of your dress. Your panties are sticky with arousal, and you’re certain you leaked enough fluid for his cock to slide in without any stretching, but you like fingers in your cunt. You like Sylus’ fingers in your cunt, specifically.

Thick and callused fingers, broad enough that two of them feel like four of yours. You like the way they can hunt down that sensitive spot inside you with deadly precision, and you like the way he taps insistently at it like he’s pulling a trigger on a target. You like it when he crooks his fingers inside you and finger you stupid while his thumb flicks insistently at your clit.

You even pull your drenched panties to the side so Sylus can slip his fingers in. You’re being so accommodating, so sweet and nice and obedient, all hopped up on endorphins from having a cock in your mouth and watching Sylus come—

He runs his index and middle finger through the seam of your pussy, gathering up your sticky wetness. He reaches up to pinch your clit, finding it with shocking accuracy even though his hand is hidden beneath your skirt, and you let out a surprised moan, your knees shaking from the pleasure that bursts inside you. You are going over the edge the moment he sinks those clever fingers inside you, you just know it.

But he draws his hand away. You’re so shocked that you let him do it, let him pull his hand away and bring it to his face again, almost an exact copy of what happened earlier. You watch, pussy clenching around nothing as he presses those two fingers together and pulls them apart, letting thin silvery strands of your arousal stretch in between the fingertips.

Sylus rubs them together again, then puts those fingers in his mouth. He looks at you, holding your gaze as he sucks on them, throat visibly moving as he swallows.

“Sweet,” he notes, nodding in approval. “A sample before the main course.”

You stare blankly at him. Your clit is throbbing, desperate for attention. “Sylus,” you demand, reaching for his hand again. “I want—”

“I know what you want.” His hand cups your exposed pussy. His palm is hot, heat radiating off his skin as he rubs slowly along your slick cunt. “But for the next twenty-four hours, you’re at my mercy.”

He slaps your pussy, so suddenly that it makes you yelp, both hands reaching out to grip his bicep in a bid to stabilise yourself. It stings, so pleasantly that it makes your clit tingle—you want more of it, more of everything and anything, as long as he makes you come. You’re so close it’s not even funny. One more slap could push you over the edge, as long as he does it hard enough and right across your twitching, swollen clit—

“Go take a shower,” Sylus suggests, eyes dark as he stares you down. “I’ll find you when I want to, dollface.”

“You—!”

His smirk just makes the heat in your gut flare up. You want nothing more than to push him on his back and straddle that face, wipe that smile off with your cunt and force him to eat you out until you’re shaking from overstimulation and crying over his tongue.

But a bet is a bet. And you respect the sanctity of a reward, even if it frustrates you to no end.

“You are infuriating,” you hiss, and stalk off to find a change of clothes.

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #恋与深空 #러브앤딥스페이스 #恋と深空 #秦彻 #rin writes l&ds #sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace smut #lnds smut #sylus smut

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turbo-virgins · 4 months ago

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Sorry, but I just don’t buy the whole “actually Mythal decided after centuries of wandering Thedas as Flemeth that modern people deserve a chance” thing. Because the fragment of Mythal we’re talking about is the jaded old swamp witch who

-Inhabited the body of a woman betrayed by her lover(s) because they found common ground in their suffering and the injustices done to them. (“Once I was but a woman, crying out in the lonely darkness for justice.” - DAI)

-Resents that betrayal to the point she views men as disposable playthings that she can lure back to her hut, have her way with, and then… murder? I think? (Based on Morrigan’s own account in DAO)

-Abused her daughter under the guise of tough love in an attempt to prepare her for a cruel uncaring world. (Again, Morrigan’s account, DAO)

-Says during her appearance in Inquisition that she will have her reckoning.

-Spent centuries consolidating her power as well as cycling through different human women’s bodies via questionable means for the sake of bringing about said reckoning. (“I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her.” and about the Inquisitor: “A Herald indeed. Shouting to the heavens, harbinger of a new age.” - DAI)

-During her scene with Solas at the end of Inquisition does NOT say ANYTHING about disagreeing with Solas’s plans, just that she considers him and old friend and is sorry things are going the way they are. (Seriously, is the dialogue in that regret scene in Veilguard supposed to be from a mental connection they had? Because that dialogue just isn’t in the Inquisition scene.)

And I’m supposed to believe that in her last moments, Flemythal backed off and went “actually I think we need to maintain the status quo”????

None of this paints a picture of someone who has gone soft over time. At least not to the degree that is presented in that regret scene in Veilguard. Sure Flemeth wasn’t all bad, she had some tenderness to her. She shows some genuine care for Morrigan and Kieran (if present) and seems hurt when Morrigan implies she was trying not to be the kind of mother Flemeth was to her.

At the end of Inquisition, we can’t tell for certain to what degree she approves of Solas’s methods. But it seems like a step in said methods was to absorb her power and doom her, an embodiment of Justice, to take a passive role once more. And we know what happens when a spirit is denied its purpose. Justice denied its purpose could turn to Vengeance. Which, to me, feels like it would better echo the themes of Solas’s pride/wisdom duality, inquisition’s themes around what it means to become a god-like force of nature, DA2’s question of whether violence is necessary for revolution (which literally has the Justice/Vengeance duality in it with Anders), and DAO’s theme of sacrifice for the greater good.

#datv spoilers #datv critical #bioware critical #mythal #Flemeth #datv #btw I’m not saying upending the whole world and screwing over modern peoples is the RIGHT course of action #im just saying I don’t think Mythal would necessarily think of it that way #and I wish the game had been more about exploring the nuance of revolution and sacrifice and debating the consequences of losing the veil #instead of the writers just TELLING you over and over and over what the correct ‘solution’ is #where is the reckoning we were promised

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needanaccount2readarcaneposts · 4 months ago

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like you guys know warwick is supposed to be a metaphor, right?

and by 'you guys' I am talking to the writers of Arcane S2 (2024), who appear to have forgotten this.

like warwick, in a strictly plot sense, is something that is done to vander. but warwick, in a narrative sense, is supposed to be a metaphor. you understand that, right?

it's a metaphor for the monster within the man?

the hound of the underground?

the way suffering breeds cruelty breeds monsters - the uncaged wrath of zaun?

the sins of his past come back to haunt him?

the violence he tried to leave behind, but never could?

"i knew you still had it in you."?

Sometimes, as he fed in dark alleys on stray gangers, the flash of knives would remind him of an old blade covered in blood. Blood passing from the blade to his hands. From his hands, to everything he touched. Sometimes, he remembered the girl again. And still there was blood. It had always been there, he realized, his entire life, and nothing he did could wash it off. He'd left so many scars that even if he didn't remember his past, the city would. When he peered into the eyes of Zaun's criminals - the gang bosses, murderers, and thieves - he saw himself.

that's the warwick we should have gotten in S2. vander the grey, not vander the unproblematically whitewashed. vander the revolutionary who brought his gauntlets to that bridge to fight for a future; the base violence necessary for change. vander with blood on his hands, just as much as the partner he scapegoated for it; tried to bury in the pilt along with his own guilt; not just vander who felt aw shucks real sorry about the attempted murder that one time. vander the complex. vander who sold out zaun's resistance to ease his own shame. vander the reckoning with his own complicity; his own violence; his own original sin. vander whose murkiness helps vi unpack her black and white worldview, and let go of the rose-tinted past to which she clings; understand jinx, even understand silco; understand that it's not just about Individual Bad People doing Individual Bad Things to Individual Good People, and Individual Good People who have to defeat the Individual Bad People, but that this is something far bigger and far older than any of them, a whole rotten system of misery and oppression that turns people into monsters. that the thing that turned vander into a monster, METAPHORICALLY, happened long before he met singed.

vander the monster, as well as vander the man.

instead, we got whatever this shit is:

#arcane #arcane critical #vander #warwick #LET VANDER BE FUCKED UP AGAIN #BRING BACK MY MORALLY COMPROMISED BEAR WITH AN UNDERCURRENT OF VIOLENCE STILL RUNNING BENEATH THE SURFACE #HAUNTED BY THE SINS OF HIS OWN PAST #THE BLOOD ON HIS OWN HANDS #how did the writers forget what made vander such a good character in S1 #(spoiler: it's because they need to jettison any lingering notion that active resistance is valid)#(and double down on the idea that u just gotta FORGIVE! u just gotta walk away. u just gotta get out of that oppression MINDSET u guys!)

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verstappenverse · 5 months ago

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From P17 to You

Request by anon: “Could you maybe write something about the win in Brazil?? I'd love to se something like friend to lovers, maybe even Max confessing he's got feelings for her 🥰”

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After a legendary drive through the rain in Brazil Max realises that some things are worth risking, and this time he’s ready to risk it all.

Author’s note: Been working to get this out before Vegas so hopefully you're all still riding that Brazil high! Hope you enjoy anon 🫶🏼

1.9k words / Masterlist

The thunderous roar of the crowd echoed around the paddock, the energy still electric. You could barely keep up with Max as he wove through the sea of people, his hair damp, sticking to his forehead, his fireproofs and suit clinging to him like a second skin. He looked invincible—untouchable, even. The entire race had been nothing short of miraculous, the kind of drive that people would tell stories about for years. No one could quite believe what had just unfolded at Interlagos.

It was a win that would go down in history as one of the most legendary drives Formula 1 had ever seen. Starting from P17 and managing a breathtaking, near-miraculous climb to P1 in rain that hadn’t let up once, silencing every critic in one afternoon. Max had won against all odds, and not just won—he had dominated.

You’d been there, every lap, every heart-stopping turn, watching from the pit wall with your fingers practically digging into the table. When he finally crossed the line, pulling a lead that had almost made you laugh in disbelief the paddock erupted. And so did you.

Max Verstappen was a force to be reckoned with. You’d known him long enough to see that. From his early days in karting, to the whirlwind of his rise through Formula 1, and through it all the two of you had been inseparable. You were more than just friends - you were each others constant in a world that never stayed still.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears inside the motorhome. The team was in a frenzy of celebration, and you couldn’t wait to congratulate him. Finally, the doors swung open and Max appeared, drenched in champagne his eyes lighting up in that way that always seemed to make everything else fade into the background. He looked wild and alive, hair still wet and tousled, his suit clinging to him, adrenaline still pumping through him like an uncontained storm. His eyes caught yours almost instantly, softening from the adrenaline-fueled excitement to something more private, a kind of warmth he reserved just for you.

“There you are,” he said, his voice hoarse from exertion, he was laughing as he wiped his face. “Did you see that?” he asked, as if you might have somehow missed his generational drive.

“Max,” you said, breathless. “That was insane. You were incredible out there. I—I don’t even know what to say.”

He grinned, the same boyish grin you always loved. “I was just doing what I do best,” he teased.

In one swift movement, he pulled you into a tight hug. You could feel the dampness of his suit against your skin, but that wasn’t what made you shiver. You could feel his heartbeat thundering through his chest as he held you close, his hand lingering on the small of your back, and when he pulled back there was something in his eyes, a kind of restless energy that had you rooted to the spot.

You shove at his shoulder, “You’re unbelievable, Max. Do you have any idea how many heart attacks you gave me?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “What can I say? I don’t like to lose.”

There's an energy between you that you can’t quite shake off, a tension that’s lingered for months, maybe longer. The air feels thick between you, and your heart races as you search for something, anything, to say that will defuse this tension. Before you can one of the Red Bull crew sweeps him up again, pulling him back towards the crowd.

You spend the next hour caught up in the celebration, in the noise, the laughter, the congratulations that echo around the garage. The afterparty spills over into one of the hotels, with everyone recounting Max's drive from their own perspectives. The energy is high, and the drinks are flowing freely. Max, for his part, looks like he’s on top of the world surrounded by friends, his smile relaxed, his energy magnetic.

But you can’t help but notice the way his gaze keeps flicking back to you, even as he laughs and talks with everyone else. Each time your eyes meet, there’s that pull, that spark that’s been simmering for what feels like forever.

Eventually he finds you, catching you by the arm and tugging you into a quieter corner of the party. The background noise dims and it’s just the two of you sitting together in the soft, golden glow of the dim light.

“Enjoying yourself?” you ask, a grin teasing at your lips as you tilt your head to look at him.

Max chuckles, his eyes crinkling in that familiar way you’ve always loved. “Trying too. My adrenaline’s still through the roof.”

“You deserve it,” you say, and there’s no teasing in your tone this time—just sincerity.

He glances at you, his grin softening. “It’s been a crazy day…but it’s not just about the win you know?”

You raise an eyebrow, caught off guard by the shift in his voice. “What do you mean?”

Max shrugs, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he looks back at you. “I guess… I had something to prove today. To everyone. To myself.”

“Max…” You paused, unsure of where to go with that. “Today wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. You’ve already done that.”

“Yeah, maybe…but I- ” His voice was lower now, more serious, his gaze locked onto you. “I had to prove it to myself. And—” He hesitated, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were deciding how much to say. “And maybe to you, too.”

The intensity of his gaze made your heart pound as if you were the one who’d just raced through that rain-soaked track.

“Max, you don’t have to prove anything to me. I hope you know that." Your voice came out softer than you intended. “You mean more to me than you probably realise.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and your heart twisted with vulnerability. “You’ve always been completely yourself, Max. That’s what makes you… you. That’s why people love you. Why I—why I’m so proud of you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, as if really trying to understand what you’d said. And then he took a deep breath, reaching out to brush his fingers against yours, tentative at first.

“You have no idea what it meant to me to see you there today. To know you were watching. That you’re always watching.”

“Of course, I’m always watching,” you say, swallowing hard. “You’re a lot more than just a driver Max. You’re… you’re my best friend.”

A flicker of something crossed his face, something you couldn’t quite read. “Best friend,” he echoed softly, as if tasting the words, considering them. There was a faint, bittersweet curve to his lips.

The quiet stretched between you, heavy with unsaid words. You were about to laugh it off, make a joke, say anything to fill the silence, but then he spoke again.

“I’ve never really thanked you for that. For everything.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to thank me. You know I’d do anything for you.”

Max’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Maybe. But sometimes…” His voice faltered, and he took a deep breath before continuing, “Sometimes I think I should have said something earlier. Said thank you in a way that actually meant something.”

You looked at him, your eyes meeting his. “What do you mean?”

His hand moved to your waist, his touch now bold, yet gentle. “I think I’m saying this all wrong.” He let out a small, nervous laugh, his thumb brushing the sliver of exposed skin at your waist. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You know, after the race. And I couldn’t focus on anything else. Just you.”

He looked down at you. “I didn’t want to tell you before because I thought it might mess things up. But… I’m done waiting.” he said, his voice lower. “I’ve tried to say it a hundred times, but every time, I just… I couldn’t.”

“Max, are you—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, his gaze intense. “I am. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but every time I thought I might, I… well, I was scared I’d lose you if it didn’t work out. But today, I thought if I can pull off something I thought was impossible, then maybe…maybe, I can tell you how I feel too.”

Max let out a low, almost frustrated laugh. “I think about you all the time, This—us. I’ve never felt like this with anyone else. It’s always been you. I know we’re friends, best friends, and I never wanted to ruin that. But I… I think about you all the time. I can’t help it. And today made me realise that I don’t want to keep waiting. You’re worth taking the risk. I want more. I want everything…with you.”

The world seems to tilt. You’re left speechless, his words tumbling over you, breaking down every carefully built defence you’ve put up. And it feels terrifying, this openness, this risk, but it feels exhilarating too, like stepping off a cliff and hoping someone will be there to catch you.

So you take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you reach for his hand. “Max… you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that,” you admitted, your voice raw.

He lets out a slow breath, his expression shifting to one of pure relief, a grin spreading across his face. “So we’ve been two idiots, both waiting for the other to say something?”

You laugh, and it feels freeing, like a weight lifting off your shoulders. “Yeah, two idiots. But now we’re here so… what are we going to do about it?”

Max’s smirks, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. His lips brush against yours, soft and tentative, as if he is giving you one last chance to pull away. But you don't. Instead you lean into him, pouring every unspoken feeling, every hidden moment of longing into the kiss.

His hands are on you in an instant, gripping your waist, pulling you closer as his lips move against yours with an urgency that makes your head spin. Soft yet insistent, his hands framing your face. The kiss is slow and desperate, holding you like he can't bear to let go.

When you finally break apart, breathless and aching for more, Max leans his forehead against yours, his hands still resting on your waist.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he mutters, his voice hoarse.

The space between you is still charged. “You’ve been waiting for me, huh?” you tease, your hand moving to rest on his chest,

Max’s gaze drops back to your lips, his chest rising and falling with each breath, “You have no idea.”

His hand slides up to your neck, pulling you in for another kiss. Your body feels like it's on fire as he kisses you harder

He pulls back again, just enough to look at you. “I can’t believe winning wasn’t even the best part of today,” he murmurs.

You laugh softly, running your fingers through his messy hair. “If you’re not careful Verstappen you’re going to make me fall in love with you.”

He smiles, that boyish, confident smile that always managed to knock the wind out of you. “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 #f1 x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen masterlist #max verstappen x you #f1 imagine #max verstappen fic

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kumkaniudaku · 7 months ago

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Stay A While

Summary: Terry's back home and trying to make amends with an old friend.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3,944

Part: 1 of ??

Warnings and Notes: None. This one's a safe for work slow burn. Enjoy.

Drunk minds speak sober thoughts. Or at least Terry hoped that was the case as his thumb hovered over a familiar name in his contact list. A dingey hole in the wall became a haven on the tail end of his journey back to some sense of normalcy. He was down a bike, a truck, and a piece of his heart but continued to press on until fatigue forced him to stop for rest. The owner, a small woman with a big voice noticed his rough appearance as he passed by on foot and invited him inside to duck an incoming storm. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, even when he repeated that he had ground to make up before nightfall.

When she asked if he needed help he politely and foolishly declined all but a glass of brown liquor and access to an outlet. That same whiskey and a sprinkle of Motown-era love songs playing on a rickety jukebox had broken a grown man down enough to reach out to the one person who might still be willing to take him in. Even if only for a night.

Searching for extra courage, Terry took another sip of lukewarm Jack Daniels before tapping his phone screen. The line rang once, twice, and then a third time before a short pause signaled the call had connected.

The silence on the other him was loud, forcing him to speak up first.

“Hello?”

Fading voices and shuffling in the background were the only indicators of a presence on the other line, making Terry feel embarrassed for starting a call in the first place.

He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Hey, look… if now’s not a good time I ca -”

“Terrence? Did you mean to call me?”

“I, uh…yeah. I did. I’m sorry. I should’ve -”

“Are you okay? It’s loud wherever you are. You good? You hurt?”

“I could tell you if you would give me a chance to answer,” he chuckled. His amusement made her kiss her teeth in annoyance. “I’m okay. I’m a little banged up, but I’ve seen worse. I’m somewhere between Charlotte and home. Stopped in this spot for a drink and somewhere to sleep for the night.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

Terry took another swig of whiskey and sighed. “Nothing, really. I was hoping I could see you, though. You know, when I make it back tomorrow.”

“You staying anywhere when you get here?”

“Not yet, but I’ll find somewhere. I know how to survive.”

“TJ…,” More silence. Thick. Long. Full of tension and years of baggage that they had yet to discuss. The other voice sighed before answering. “Come on by. I’ll have the back room ready for you. You need toiletries?”

Terry’s face softened into a near smile at the invitation. “Yes ma’am. A meal would be nice, too.”

“Okay. I’ll have you something if you can get here before dark tomorrow. Please be safe, Terrence. I mean it.”

Before he could attempt to extend the conversation, the call ended, leaving her contact photo in full view. Terry allowed a slow grin to spread across his face just as a short text with her address came across the screen.

“Another round, brother?”

Terry looked up from his phone to find an expectant expression on the bartender’s face. He shook his head and reached for the wallet in his back pocket. “Nah, but thanks, man. Think I’m gonna close my tab, actually. I gotta see about a bus ticket before it’s too late.”

“If you heading to her,” the man started, pointing toward Terry’s phone. “you need a cut, man. A lineup. Something. You look like what you been through. If you got $20, I can get you right.” A slight frown and knitted eyebrows in response made the bartender shoot his hands up in surrender. “I don’t want no problems, big dog. I just know what it’s like to see your lady after a hard time. Let me help you.”

A quick look into the black mirror of his cell phone screen forced Terry to reckon with his appearance. He couldn’t remember his last haircut and his mustache was starting to dwarf his upper lip. He sighed and reached into his back pocket.

“Extra $10 and you can get the face too?”

“Extra $20 and I’ll get you where you going myself.”

------

City noise had long been replaced by suburban quiet by the time Terry’s destination came into view. His friend back at the bar was true to his word and arranged transport that turned a 6-hour journey into 2 hours of UGK on the speakers, a little privacy, and AC on the hottest summer day so far.

After exchanging pleasantries and cash, Terry stepped out of the cramped Honda onto the smooth driveway pavement. Every house, street sign, and front yard looked exactly as he remembered them, bringing mixed emotions forward.

The short journey to her front step felt arduous for his tired legs, but he persisted until he was mere inches from the front door. He lifted his arms and prepared to knock but stopped short when it swung open unexpectedly.

“Knocking when I can hear those heavy feet from a mile away is courteous but unnecessary.”

He chuckled and rubbed a hand down the back of his head. “Good to see you too, Treece.”

Patrice greeted him with a half smile as she studied his appearance from toe to head. A few years and a little extra weight had done wonders. She settled on his eyes and softened her gaze. “You look good, TJ. Come in here and cool off.”

Stepping inside her home felt like walking into a time capsule. He’d spent so many after-school days and summer nights here that it felt like his childhood home not too far up the road. Photos from yesteryear lined the walls on the way to the living room where nothing had changed except new furniture and a bigger television on the TV stand. The heat from the oven mixing with a slight chill from the air conditioning unit kept the room comfortable enough to nap if he could settle for more than a few minutes.

Terry’s eyes drifted from his surroundings to Patrice as she led the way. Long braids covered the back of a high school t-shirt and jean shorts. Her brown skin had become golden under the North Carolina sun, making her glow a little in the morning light. Grown woman weight had settled onto her once thin frame, transforming her into a more of a mini version of her mother than before. All the changes he’d imagined when he had a free second were ions better in person.

Patrice gestured toward the leather recliner in the corner without speaking, inviting him to take a seat and settle in on her way to the stove.

They existed without words for a few minutes while she took fresh biscuits out of the oven and arranged them next to sausage patties and an omelet on one of her good porcelain plates. Terry trained his attention on his shoes, trying and failing to find a way to break the ice. He wanted to apologize. Confess his wrongs and desires in one grand speech designed to erase nearly ten years of absence. But the words wouldn’t form in his throat and the moment came and went.

Balancing a dinner tray in one hand and orange juice in the other, Patrice carefully made her way to his spot in the living room. Seeing her kind eyes calmed his nerves and set his chest ablaze.

“No more pork for you, right? This is chicken sausage from my Nana and them in the country.” She asked as she sat the tray on his lap.

He nodded in appreciation. “Yeah. You remembered?”

“You ain’t been gone that long, TJ. I still know who you are and what you like. That orange juice don’t have pulp in it either.”

“Thank you,” he said sheepishly before hanging his head to pray.

“Any time.”

A re-run of A Different World became the only sound in the room outside of an occasional content sigh from Terry as he tore through his breakfast. Patrice watched in amusement until her broad smile caught his attention. He slowed in embarrassment and returned the stare long enough to induce loud laughter from both of them.

“I look crazy, huh?”

“No,” she assured with a sweet smile. “You just look like you're happy to be back home, is all. Fayetteville missed you.”

“All of Fayetteville or someone specific?”

“Don’t start, TJ.”

“I’m only asking a question.” He answered without making eye contact. “You know you’re the only one who still calls me that?”

“What? TJ? That’s your name.”

“Yeah, but…you know. It’s not 2010 anymore.”

Patrice shrugged and settled deeper into the couch. “Considering that’s about the last time I saw you in the flesh, I guess it stuck for me. But, I can call you Terrence if you like.”

“Nah, TJ’s good. I like it. From you…specifically.”

The pair exchanged equally bashful looks, both too shy to say anything that would incriminate themselves. Instead, they watched the television in silence and stole looks until a commercial break took away their distraction.

Without speaking, Terry began to gather dishes and stand, prompting Patrice to rush over before he could move too far.

“Treece, I can do it.”

“I know,” she answered in a sing-song voice while sliding the tray from his grasp. “But I haven’t done this for you in a while. Let me love on you a little bit.”

His eyes tracked her every move until she was behind him at the kitchen sink. Boyish nervousness made him twiddle his thumbs until words came rushing out like water from a burst pipe as he sat back down.

“So, how you doing? How you been?”

“I’ve been okay. Mostly work and no play, you know. Thankful to be out of that classroom for a few weeks and get some peace.”

“Yeah? Kids driving you crazy?”

“Baby, the kids, their parents, and my parents are driving me to drink,” she laughed. “I can’t catch a break.”

“What about your man? He driving you crazy?”

Patrice scoffed and shook her head. Her mama and his mama talked too much. Terry chewed his bottom lip, hoping he didn’t offend.

“We…aren’t together anymore. Hard to build a family together when he’s off building one across town.”

Terry craned his neck around the armchair to make sympathetic eye contact. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that part. I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s alright. I gave it to God a long time ago. Maybe I’m not meant to be anybody’s wife yet.”

“Maybe you weren’t meant to be his wife.”

“Well, it’s not like any suitors are knocking down my door for my hand in marriage.”

“Probably because you keep swinging it open before anybody gets a chance.”

Patrice rolled her eyes and flashed her middle finger in Terry’s direction. “Ha-ha. I see you didn’t lose your jokes at Lejeune. Only your ability to keep in touch.”

Her retort left a shallow cut in Terry’s ego, making him turn his attention back to the television. He knew he’d broken a decades-old promise and that atoning for his sins would take time. But he also knew that, at any moment, Patrice could send him back into the world with nothing more than a full belly and a swift kick in the ass. He had to tread lightly.

Taking the lull in conversation as his opportunity to lick his wounds in private, Terry stood and gathered his belongings in both hands. Patrice watched him from her spot with an apologetic expression.

“You don’t have to leave. Got a couple errands to run so it’ll be quiet in here. Take the whole couch if you want.”

“That’s alright, but thank you. Figure I can make myself useful and cut the yard. Maybe unpack some of this stuff if that’s alright with you. You got a mower?”

“Yeah, it’s back there,” she answered, gesturing toward the backyard with her head. “Will you be here when I get back?”

Sensing the hidden motivation behind her question, Terry dropped his bag to the ground and made his way into the kitchen. Cautiously, he leaned down to press a short kiss to Patrice’s forehead before using his index finger to tilt her head upward and meet his eyeline. “Yes. I promise. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Her eyes fluttered closed for a half second while she nodded her understanding. A wave of relief made the hair on her arms stand at attention but she quickly bit back any urge to engage further.

“You looked tired when you got in,” Patrice started, turning her back to Terry to conceal her flustered face. “I cleared Junior’s old bed back there. It’s a little small but sturdy. The sheets are fresh. Let me know if you need more blankets. I like it cold at night.”

“I’ll survive, girl. I’ve slept in worse places than a full-sized bed. Thank you.”

A split second of hesitation kept their eyes glued to one another until Terry ended the stalemate by backing out of the room and disappearing down the hallway.

Patrice took his absence as an opportunity to compose herself. Busy hands and racing thoughts fueled a cleaning marathon until tasks that had long fallen to the bottom of her to-do list were crossed off.

For hours they co-existed without many words exchanged. Occasionally, Patrice would steal glances at Terry while he meticulously tended to the lawn and bushes. When he could, Terry made a point to brush up against her when he walked past and agree with each of her many suggestions. Being in her space was enough for him and he dared not upset the natural harmony.

By the time dinner rolled around, they had found a groove. A quiet dinner led to an even quieter cleanup shift and quick good nights exchanged after watching Jeopardy together.

Terry left Patrice to her own devices while he fought to acclimate to such cushy surroundings. Try as he might, he couldn’t get used to the soft mattress below him or the near-frigid temperature in the house. Tossing and turning left him unsatisfied. The walls felt like they were converging. Flashbacks were turning into night sweats. He needed to escape.

Slowly, he slid out of bed and into a pair of slippers Patrice had gifted him earlier in the day. Measured steps help him sneak past her bed bedroom, out of the back door, and down into the backyard without causing a disturbance.

The early June air was balmy, clinging to the skin beneath his t-shirt. In the distance loud bass from someone’s car speaker vibrated until it was out of earshot. Dogs barked and howled to salute the moon worked in tandem with the faint smell of charcoal cooling from a night of backyard barbecues to remind him that he was far from the trouble of Shelby Springs.

It’d been a while since he could enjoy the night without being on high alert. The last week was a special kind of hell that he feared he could never shake. The urge to flee was beginning to creep in like the tide, threatening to wash away what little progress he’d made.

After a few deep breaths and mumbled prayer, Terry retreated to a porch swing to rest his weary legs. His shoulders relaxed as soon as his backside met the aged oak and, almost instantly, he felt safe enough to close his eyes. One deep breath turned into another until he was drifting into his first peaceful sleep in weeks.

Minutes passed like seconds. Thoughts slowed to a halt. His heartbeat regulated. Near bliss was upon him.

Inside, a single lamp flipped on to illuminate Patrice’s path as she searched the house for her guest. His room and bathroom had turned up empty results with almost no sign that he’d been there throughout the day. He wasn’t on the couch or in the kitchen raiding the fridge like she half expected. Worry had all but made her pass out until she heard the slight creak of her swing on the porch, making his head appear and disappear from the window above the sink.

She couldn’t fully open the door before Terry opened one eye and looked in her direction. She froze and he smiled.

“Feet not as heavy as you thought, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah. If I’d known you trade in a bed for this old thing I wouldn’t have wasted my time on laundry.”

“Hey, I built this old thing, remember?”

Patrice chuckled at the memory and pointed at the metal chain keeping the swing in place. “Damn near lost a finger behind it, too.”

“Would’ve been worth it knowing you were happy.” Patrice nervously shifted her weight from left to right under Terry’s intense gaze while he took his turn to look her over. Finally noticing her awkwardly standing between the screendoor, he motioned to the spot beside him. “Sit with me for a second.”

Patrice visibly wrestled with her decision but ultimately joined him. They maintained a careful distance, being sure to keep their individual limbs from connecting for fear that the mere sensation would set them ablaze. They played a childish game of cat and mouse until Patrice spoke.

“I was rude earlier,” Patrice confessed while fiddling with the hem of her t-shirt. Terry closed his heavy eyes to cure the burning sensation growing by the minute but acknowledged her statement with a confused grunt. She continued. “I never asked how you were doing. The whole thing about my ex sort of brought up old feelings.”

He frowned, hurt by her revelation. “You know I wasn’t trying to hurt you, right?”

“You never are. Same ol’ honorable TJ. Terry, I mean.”

“TJ for you.”

Again he popped one eye open and paired it with a grin that disamered Patrice and made her giggle like her high school self. The sound had him resolve that he’d spend his whole life making stupid faces if it meant she’d get some joy from them.

“You ready to tell me everything I missed or are you content with popping up on my porch? And how long do you plan to be here eating all my food, anyway?”

“I don’t think you wanna hear that,” he answered in an attempt to dodge the loaded question. Patrice persisted.

“No, I do. I see the tattoos and the fresh haircut. TJ turned into a man while he was gone. At least let me get to know this new person.”

“I grew up,” he sighed after some time. “Gained some. Lost a lot. Still trying to pick up the pieces.”

“What’d you lose?”

“Lately? Money. Family. Shit, my mind.”

“Why?”

“Mike died.” An abrupt interruption of an already complicated conversation brought forth a long pause. He waited for an interjection but found none, prompting him to offer more details. “He was killed. In jail. I tried to get him out and bring him home but I was too late.” Terry answered without making eye contact. Shame wouldn’t allow him to meet her potential judgment.

Patrice mentally cycled through names and faces until she realized the gravity of Terry’s statement. She reached out to breach their unspoken barrier and grabbed his hand which he accepted with no pushback.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” he answered before squeezing her hand and finally returning her eye contact. “I handled everything. It’s over for now. I’m here with you. We can focus on that.”

“Even though you keep skipping how long you’ll stay.”

Patrice’s warmth was starting to take a backseat to her cold nature. Old wounds had started to re-open and rebuild a wall they both thought they’d successfully hurdled. Despite her attempt to pull her hand out of his grasp, Terry stayed put. He eyed her for a moment, picking up on a thin veil of tears threatening to form at her water line.

She watched his normally steely blue-gray eyes soften into something that mirrored the softness he carried when they were kids. She couldn’t find the gumption to look away as he brought her knuckles up to his lips for a set of short kisses before looking back up at her. Pleading. Begging for any indication that she had softened her heart toward him.

“Treecey, I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to say it. You meant more to me than the way I left and I pray every day for a chance to make it right. We crossed a line that night and I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t handle that like a man should have. I’m sorry until I’m blue in the face.”

Sincerity was thick in his voice despite his low, even tone.

Patrice listened without a word. A single tear cascaded down her face despite her valiant attempts to keep her emotions at bay. She swore she’d never cry about Terrence Richmond again. But old habits die hard.

Terry used his free hand to swipe away that tear and the next one sitting at her lower lash line with the pad of his thumb.

“Say something,” he pleaded. “Anything. Tell me you hate me.”

“You know I don’t hate you,” she whispered, too choked up to continue without a deep breath. “I…I just feel like you took a piece of me with you, you know? And you never wrote back. You never called. You shut me out like we were never friends. We could’ve gone back to how things were.”

“I fucked that up.”

“I’m aware. But that doesn’t mean that I trust you won’t do it again. No matter how much I don’t hate you, I’m not eighteen anymore. My patience is thin. I can’t allow you to turn my world upside down again.”

“Hand to God I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Yeah. I hope so.” Though she whispered, Patrice’s words sliced through Terry like a hot knife through butter.

He hung his head in defeat as she pulled her hand from his grasp and made quick work of standing from the bench. Her footsteps retreated past him and to the back door until she paused.

He looked over his shoulder to find her eyes closed and chin pointed to the sky in contemplative silence. This was it. The final blow.

She took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. “Stay as long as you want. Junior’s living with his girlfriend now, so nobody’s coming to make you leave. Tomorrow, we can go get you some new clothes. I’m tired of looking at those raggedy t-shirts already.”

Terry took her jab in stride and gave her a half smile as a sign of compliance. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

“Mhm. Lock the door behind you when you come in.”

“Good night, Treecey.” His farewell came in an annoyingly sweet voice as a last-ditch effort to drag some loving words from her. Patrice stopped and gave him one more once over and a dismissive eye roll.

He waited for the ghost of a smile that disappeared before he could blink. She shook her head and took a step inside the house.

“Shut up, Terry. Go to bed.”

Terry hid his amusement until she was out of sight, leaving him alone to grin at how even her rebukes felt like love letters.

“Shut up,” he repeated to himself as he closed his eyes to doze again. “Hm. I’ll take it.”

TAGS: @planetblaque

Happy to tag whoever is interested.

#terry richmond #terry richmond x oc #rebel ridge #aaron pierre

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hotheadedhero · 6 months ago

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Daft Pretty Boys

AN: I was going to try and get something Halloween-like out but it's been busy lately. Have some fluffy angst with Raph, instead :D

Raphael x Reader

Warning: kinda angsty, soft-hearted Raph ahead :)

When you blessed the turtles with your bright presence and inevitably befriended them, Raphael didn’t realise just how much of an emotional rollercoaster it would be. As a person, you are amazing. You always make a point to engage with him and his brothers, even for the small things. Other than April, they’ve never felt more welcomed by human company before. The thing is, if he were to put one fault on you, it’s your taste in men.

You fall fast and hard, and it’s not because of their looks. It’s the ones who have this idea that they know they look good: the confidence they exude, sharp-witted flattery on the end of a hook that you can’t help biting into. You get caught, pulled in, they have their fun, and then you’re chucked back into sea awaiting the next juicy-looking cast of bait. One would think you’d be smart enough to not fall for the same routine tricks over and over again but here we are.

Each time you say, “He’s really sweet,” followed by a “This one is different,” but he never is. You’re always taking that chance, betting on the next guy being Mr Right, only for it to end in heartbreak, and every time Raph’s at your aid when you come crying to him. That isn’t said with any malice for you. He will always be there to pick up the pieces. Maybe broken pieces of these stupid shmucks if he just had five minutes alone with them.

You grasp so desperately to hope. Raph would commend you for your optimistic persistence if it didn’t break him to see you in tears. There’s only so much one heart can take. He doesn’t want you to become some calloused husk of your sweet self, too afraid to take another chance. He doesn’t want you to end up like him. Raphael knows he’s unloveable. Regardless of his appearance, he has a temper - one that he keeps as far away from you as he possibly can. His feelings for you never seem to pass despite how much he tries but he isn’t meant for love. That isn’t how this world works. You, on the other hand, should be cherished and he’ll beat the next sorry sucker who does any less than that.

How? How can someone be so foolish to drop you like these men have? He doesn’t get it. Were it him, he’d spend every waking moment appreciating you, letting it be known just how precious you are and how lucky he is to be the one to call you his. But he isn’t. The same daydream can play as many times as it likes, it’s never going to go in that direction. He needs to keep reminding himself of that.

You just deserve so much more than the cards you keep getting dealt. You’ve probably got to be the sweetest person he’s ever had the luxury of meeting. A little bubble-brained at times but that’s in part what makes you so cute. It’s also why you end up in and out of these short-lived relationships, he reckons. Much like now, for instance. It’s almost routine, weirdly systematic in a way, how you waddle into the lair glassy-eyed and red-faced wearing that grey sweater - the one he calls your breakup sweater - that’s two sizes too big for you. So much for the macho man with the green eyes. Making it to one month is a record, so there’s that at least.

Raphael doesn’t say anything, just holds a hand out whilst the other cradles the back of his neck. By now, he’s learnt that there’s nothing he can say. It’s better to wait on you until you manage to find your words. You slowly trudge towards him and smack your forehead into his chest. All he can do is stand there and stare at the top of your head whilst he battles the urge to pick you up and take you away from all this frivolous bullshit. His arm falls to his side as he watches you, and you just about say what he would expect you to.

“I really thought this one would be different,” you whimper quietly and the hiccup in your throat makes his chest burn. “He seemed so genuine.”

Raphael’s heart clenches. He wants to scream that he’s the one who’s genuine, that he’s the one who’s been here through every heartbreak, every tear. But instead, he swallows his words, feeling the weight of his own unspoken feelings pressing down on his chest.

He pats the top of your head, almost awkwardly, and sighs, “I know.”

A pained laugh muffles against his chest. “I’m the problem, aren’t I?” you ask rhetorically, playing it off as some joke at your own expense but it only angers him further.

“It’s not you,” Raph replies, a hint of a growl edging into his tone. “They’re the ones who don’t know what they’re missin’.”

“But there’s a common denominator here. It feels like it’s me.” You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. “Like, maybe if I was just different-”

“Stop right there,” he interjects, his brow furrowing. “You are not the problem. They are. Trust me on that.”

You always say the wrong things about yourself: the things he thinks about himself on a daily; if he was different. You are such an honest person and yet you lie so frequently when you talk about yourself. A nasty bi-product of those worthless scumbags treating you the way they do. You want to believe him on his word but you also can’t ignore the facts. It’s always the same song and dance. You stupidly cling to hope, searching for the silver lining that never seems to come, and end up in this sad mess of a person.

Raphael watches as you pull away, the warmth of his body replaced by the chill of reality. It’s painful to see you so vulnerable, so exposed. He wishes he could shake you out of this cycle, snap his fingers and make you see what’s right in front of you. But he can’t. All he can do is stand there, the silent sentinel, while you cry into the fabric of your sweater. The moment lingers, heavy and full of unsaid words. He wants to tell you that you deserve better, that you should never settle for the likes of those clowns who don’t recognize your worth. Yet, the words stick in his throat, tangled with his own fear of inadequacy.

He clears his throat, trying to break the tension. “Tell you what, let’s grab a couple sodas and a slice. Sit up top for a bit, yeah?”

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. “I don’t know if I can eat right now, Raph.”

“Doesn’t matter. You need to get outta this gloom. Plus, I’m starving,” he responds with a half-hearted attempt at humor, but the grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Finally, you yield. Begrudgingly, he might add, but food and the fresh night air is what you need right now, especially seeing as you’ve been cooped up in your apartment all day crying. He takes whatever pizza he had leftover - it’s only lasted because Mikey has luckily been out - along with a couple cans and leads you through the sewers. Whilst he’s essentially forcing you outside, he goes at your pace, never pushing you beyond that. Sure, it takes longer than it should but you get to a nice rooftop eventually, and before you know it, he’s already got you venting with a slice in your hand.

“And then he pulls out the classic ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ shtick,” you say and Raph follows with a quiet “Of course, he does,” before you continue, “and I swear, I could’ve just slapped him.”

“You should have.”

You hum shortly against a bite of pizza and shrug. “Ah, the moment’s long gone, anyway.”

The two of you glance at each other with a small laugh before returning to the view ahead. This feels better. Much better. Once again, your knight in shell-y armour has helped you bounce back from your foreboding. If you had it your way earlier, you would have loved nothing more than to curl up on the couch and watch some bad reality TV to cheer you up. Not where Raph is concerned. He’s soft-natured when you need that shoulder to cry on but knows when to crack out a bit of that tough love, too. You’re always thankful for that - him - and you hope he knows just how much of a difference he makes.

"Hey.” He nudges you with his elbow and you look up, noting the light smirk on his face, though the seriousness behind his eyes isn’t something to be ignored. “Next asshole that breaks your heart, you just point me in the right direction.”

"And be an active participant in murder? Not a chance," you laugh and playfully swat him, earning a low chortle. You think you know what he’s getting at and it’s sweet in weird kind of way. With a perma-smile now glued to your face, you rest your head on his arm and speak more gently, "Thanks, though."

He glances down at you and tempts the idea of stroking a hand over your head. His fingers clasp into a fist and he looks ahead again, taking a gentle breath before responding quietly, "Yeah... don't mention it."

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theorphicangel · 8 months ago

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Sukuna told you to stop pinching his cheeks.

But you ignored him.

So Sukuna did what all King of Curses would do...

...he killed you.

joking...

in a blink, Sukuna has you pinned beneath him. Two of his arms lock your wrists above your head whilst his remaining arms are secured by your waist.

His grip is light, fingers barely digging into you yet it's enough to keep you from moving and most importantly...from pinching his cheeks.

"will you quit it!" his tone is rough, filled with frustration yet there are obvious gaps which keep it lighthearted to play along with you.

"or what?" you tease, not shying away from looking the king of curses in the eyes.

"I'll get Uraume to cook you next." he warns.

"bluff." you scoff. "plus they like me too much to get rid of me."

"I never bluff and Uraume is under my orders so they will do as I see fit."

"you like me too much."

"you're a pain in my ass."

"just one more," you pleaded attempting to wriggle out of Sukuna's grip yet it was to no avail." just one more pinch and I'll leave you alone forever."

"Now who's bluffing?" his eyes stared into you, a dead set of black pupils.

"please, I'll stay away from you forever" you whine, "so far you won't even see me."

Sukuna scoffs again, gritting his teeth. "even if we were parted by whole universes I think you would find some way to get to me and be a pain, a true nuisance in my life."

you tilt your head in consideration. That's probably the nicest thing he's said all year. "that's pretty romantic don't you think, 'kuna?"

"I do not. It is an inconvenience to me."

"I reckon you'll keep me around just like you do in this universe."

"I wouldn't count on it."

With the subject change, you don't fail to notice Sukuna's loosened grip. With all you can muster you attempt to wriggle against his body but as soon as you move you're pinned down again.

A small grin (most would have missed) appeared at Sukuna's lips whilst witnessing you stuggle.

"please, please, please, please, please-"

"no. Do you not know the definition of no?"

"just once, I swear. You won't see me for the rest of the day."

A deafening silence fills the room and Sukuna's eyes never leaves your own. There's pleading and desperation written in your eyes, so much so it makes him sick.

annoying brat.

"fine. but only once, you hear me?"

his tone is thick with warning and you nod obediently. "loud and clear."

Sukuna removes his restraint on your wrists before allowing you to reach up and cup his cheeks. You coo to yourself as your index finger and thumb pinch the fat of his cheek.

"so cute, 'kuna."

Sukuna growls and you feel his chest vibrate, almost like the purring of a cat. You'd never say it aloud (as you value your life) but you truly like to compare Sukuna to a cat. he loves the affection deep down, that's why he always comes back to you.

"s'enough."

Sukuna swats your hand away but before doing so, your free hand comes up to his other cheek and repeats the action. "one more."

a loud gruff comes from Sukuna in frustration as you pinch his cheeks again, yet it's only for a mere second before your wrists are caught in his large rough hands.

"you said one more, you insolent brat." his dark eyes pierce into you. For a normal person that glare would be enough to stop their heart but you merely glance back with a cheeky smile across your lips.

"You should know by now that I don't stick to my words, 'kuna"

"get out of my sight."

#he is so cat coded #catkuna #or something #angel writes #i loved this anon!!!!#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader fluff #sukuna fluff #jujutsu sukuna #jjk fluff #jjk

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cooneyscross · 8 months ago

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Baby Fever

Leah Williamson x reader

Summary: you'd always heard your friends talk about how much they wanted kids but had never felt the same until now

You'd never thought much about having kids, it just had never been one of your big dreams in life.

When all your friends at kinder would dress up as mum's holding toy babies on free dress days when the theme was dress up as what you want to be in the future days, you would always come dressed in an oversized football jersey with a ball constantly at your feet.

Or whilst people would play mums and dads and you'd instead run off and kick a ball around on your own for the whole lunch.

You didn't not want to be a mum, you just would've preferred to focus on your football career for now, you were still young.

But all this changed whilst you were walking around after the game against Leicester with Katie.

The two of you had your sights set on the area not to far away where most of the other girls were standing.

You spot Leah holding a little boy in her arms whilst talking with Beth and Lotte. When you're closer to the group you speak; 'who's this little one?'

Leah beamed at your sudden appearance next to her, 'go on and tell her your name sweets.' your girlfriend urges the small boy in her arms, and you grin seeing how Leah's interacting with the small kid.

'Henry.' The little boy said in a soft voice, his British accent breaking through, as he shyly buried his head into Leah's neck.

'It's nice to meet you Henry,' You smile slightly lowering yourself so you were at a closer height to the blonde boy

'Are you Leah's friend?'

'She's my girlfriend,' Leah's corrects 'I've told you about her before,'

Henry nodded , then slid down Leah’s body and scampered over to a man calling his name. You watched with a smile as he ran off, his little feet pattering on the ground. Leaning your head on Leah’s shoulder, you said, “He’s absolutely adorable. Is he your nephew?”

Leah’s face softened as she watched Henry. “No, he’s my cousin’s kid,” she explained. “But I do love spending time with him.”

You smiled at Leah, feeling a warmth in your chest. 'You played great today baby.'

Leah only hummed in response, moving her body so her head was leaning up against your chest 'yeah but I missed you.'

'I haven't seen you for 10 minutes, we just played a full 90 minutes of football together babe.' you chuckle.

'That's ten minutes too long.' she whined, squeezing you tight and only letting go when Henry shouted her name and waved something above his head to show the English defender. 'He's the sweetest.'

You silently agree, ever since you'd seen Leah with Henry your head had been clouded with thoughts of your future and what it would look like with children of your own running around your house. 'You're going to be a really good mum one day.'

'to our kids?' she quirked an eyebrow a cheeky smirk breaking out on her face.

'yeah, to our kids.' your smile grew as you saw the huge grin that spread across your girlfriends dace as soon as you confirmed it.

'reckon we should get started soon?' She leaned closer, if that was even possible, to whisper. 'I want enough to make a full football team.'

you laughed and teasingly pushed her away. 'you'll be the one pushing them out if you want that.'

she quickly grabbed you in her arms again, pulling you closer just like how she always wanted it to be. You'd always been very affectionate together and even though you'd tell her to tone down the pda in front of all the 60,000 fans, she just always had to be close to you somehow. 'I can't wait for our future together.'

'Yeah? when are you going to propose to me then?' you grinned cheekily.

'That's a secret! don't you give me those eyes.'

#woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso x reader #lionesses #arsenal wfc #arsenal #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson fanfic #awfc #arsenal women

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fluffydeoxys · 20 days ago

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My Sanford and Deimos designs, with an analysis of Sanford, Deimos, their dynamic and what they represent to me, and the thoughts behind how I designed them!! It's quite long, but even then I feel as though I'm only scratching the surface of what I think. I skimmed over Dedmos and MC12 for brevity's sake as I genuinely think it would have doubled the already very long preamble. I hope you enjoy it!

A heads up: A lot of my analysis is predicated on personal headcanons of Sanford/Deimos and Madness Combat as a whole. While I like to make my personal interpretations adhere as close to canon as reasonably possible, there are nonetheless elements I will speak about that don’t really “exist” in the series itself. I try to integrate everything that we do see in canon, however, so I hope there is still something worthwhile for you to read in here!

So. There aren’t really friends in Nevada, are there? A broken, splintered world marred by madness and violence that bloodies the very earth. Disparate grunts are forced to calcify and adapt to the harsh landscape, and thus forging social bonds has likely become a risky practice. Who’s to say your ‘allies’ won’t turn on you? With the prospect of death always so close, why be attached to someone you could lose so easily? Living communally or working together is feasible and even wise, but beyond that? I doubt anyone gives a second thought to the personal lives of one another. There’s just not enough “brain space” and “normalness” to reconnect with these mundane ideas.

Furthermore, the existence of S3LF and clones also complicates things further when it comes to individuality and existence. It’s remarkably easy to store and then copy an individual's memories and experiences - the things that arguably define and distinguish a grunt - into any other body. Are you who you say you are? Or were you never someone at all, merely an idea propagated from a file? Are there social or cultural divides between grunts and clones? Could a clone ever hope to experience the fullness of life with such a minuscule, fragile S3LF that they don’t truly ‘own’?

It’s quite evident that many facets of Nevada are almost designed to erode humanity, to prevent it from being fostered and nurtured. From anywhere between its harshness to its brutality, to the unintentional cruel designs of the S3LF. It’s a cruel, merciless world that is inhospitable to kindness, friendliness and camaraderie.

That is merely the beginning of why I find Sanford and Deimos so fascinating as characters. Even from MC5.5 alone, they are so incredibly interesting in a setting like this, demonstrating a bond that is practically never shown anywhere else.

In their debut alone, there are multiple instances of them showing mindfulness and awareness of one another. At 0:34, you have Deimos looking back at Sanford for a moment, and again at 1:09, you have the two looking at one another after clearing the room. Then at 1:16 Sanford bandages Deimos’ head while he slices through Agents, and at 1:30 Sanford boosts Deimos up to get the jump on yet more Agents. And throughout the entire episode, Deimos and Sanford almost always fight with their backs to each other, covering their vulnerable spots.

MC5.5 strongly demonstrates how well they work together and how they look out for one another when so far, the series has only shown Hank’s effectiveness on their own. While Hank and Sanford/Deimos are worlds apart in strength and aren’t really meant to be directly compared, it does establish that Sanford and Deimos, together, are a force to be reckoned with.

Then, of course, Madness Combat 6.5 only further builds on these ideas, finally giving Sanford and Deimos their signature appearances. When Sanford is shot in the torso by an Engineer, he is rendered very vulnerable and slow, and this would be the right time to drop any dead weight. A train just rocketed through, and more enemies are undoubtedly around the corner, but Deimos helps Sanford up. He has to watch over Sanford and protect him as he slowly hobbles through rooms and eventually recollects himself enough to keep fighting and patch himself back up. If anything, also a testament to their hardiness and adaptability.

Then the scene in The Rift. It’s silly and the intent of it is to be silly, especially in the context of Madness Combat and how murder-hungry everyone is, but it so wonderfully demonstrates the bantering and lighthearted demeanour between the two. Deimos seems to care about Sanford’s opinion, tossing aside things he disagrees with and happily accepting what he encourages. And Deimos is who gives Sanford his signature glasses, completing the exchange in an honestly quite charming manner.

None of this behaviour is really shown in such a positive light anywhere else in Madness Combat. Maybe Church and Jorge at best, but even then. Sanford and Deimos banter with one another, hang out with each other, say silly things and generally show a level of care and interest in one another that extends beyond just fighting. When Sanford asks Deimos if he can hack them through in MPN, Deimos replies with “Can I hack us through… C'mon, man. How long have you known me?”, a simple yet sweet line that indicates their long-standing familiarity. Then there’s the classic big kielbasa and turkey dog conversation, a very silly exchange and one that Sanford seems rather bewildered by, given by his replies. But note, Sanford never demeans or berates Deimos for his “antics” (aside from Deimos wearing an Engineer mask in MC9, but hey, there was a genuine risk of Sanford potentially shooting him there). Furthermore, it’s probably only meant as a surface-level joke, but thinking of Sanford as a big kielbasa “often” sort of shines a light on how they genuinely think of one another in silly, small ways. When you realise that’s in the context of Nevada, you realise how incredibly remarkable that is.

Further than that, you have an exchange where Deimos asks why the Nexus Core members won’t give up, and is unable to reply when Sanford says, “Would you?” It’s not either of them dismissing questions or blindly following orders. They trust each other's opinions, look to each other when reflecting on matters, and they don’t always have the answers for each other.

And lastly, at the end of MPN, where it’s just the two of them talking about a problem on a scale far larger than them. Just two guys talking about what they think, and what they could do. No world-breaking power or insanity or inhumanity. Just Sanford and Deimos.

So you have a long string of showing the bonds between Sanford and Deimos spanning across several years and a game. Then Madness Combat 9 rolls around and, well, the moment they’re forced to split because the Auditor-enhanced Engineers show up… everything is changed forever.

Deimos is gone and forced to reckon with his death through Dedmos Adventures, and while he reemerges with the help of Doc, he is no longer the same. Conversely, Sanford has to tag along with Mag Hank as they struggle in Auditor’s Hell, and Sanford ends up on his own in 12. He is pushed to the very limits of what he can endure, visibly frustrated and barely containing increasing intensities of rage. There are no more quiet moments, no more slowing down, no longer someone at your side hyping you up, making you laugh, knowing your hobbies, your history.

Sanford and Deimos were separated, split into life and death. If you consider the real world time, literal years spent apart in the worst places they’ve had to endure yet. But they came back together. Different, changed, but together once more. That final moment in Madness Combat 12, the simple act of Deimos grabbing onto Sanford’s hand before he slips, forms into such a powerful scene that shows that they would defy ANYTHING to find each other again. That their unbreakable bond will help pull each other back from the depths, even paralleling 6.5 with how Deimos helps and protects Sanford after a near-fatal injury. It’s a perfect and very moving representation of their relationship. Their bond is so incredibly remarkable and one-in-a-million and so human. All the mundane things we share with other people in our world are hardly ever seen in Nevada, and for good reason, yet Deimos and Sanford share that with each other.

The fact that Deimos and Sanford exist in a world like Nevada is so truly special. It inspires hope for what can be possible despite harshness and brutality, that there is something worth living for, that you can find strength and meaning in the grand and the mundane.

So! Onto what I currently have mangled together for my headcanoned backstory as to how Sanford and Deimos met, because it helps set the stage and give context to the meaning of some things I’ll talk about later. At some stage, Doc recruits Sanford into his cause in the early years, maybe a year or two after Doc dissents from the AAHW. He’s a very effective and useful member, as Doc often used Sanford to pry information out of grunts using whatever method was possible. Doc pushed for him to use more extreme methods at times, as Doc was still in the early stages of beginning to understand the machinations of this world. He needed any piece of information that he could get, especially if it meant getting one step closer to understanding Hank’s disappearance. Doc saw it as a necessary period in their journey, but Sanford holds a repressed but deep resentment for Doc, because it warped and traumatised him immensely.

It resulted in him becoming extremely tense, paranoid and harshly pushing grunts away. Subsequently, Sanford didn’t get along with anyone else that Doc paired him up with. Putting the trauma aside, Sanford was already a serious and withdrawn individual who disliked banter. Not the most approachable or likeable grunt. Others would quickly lose their patience with him and were more prone to desertion or disobedience. While Doc could ignore it for a while, it gradually worsened as more and more jobs required a second hand, especially when Doc needed information retrieved from computer terminals - a skill Sanford distinctly did not have.

So, recalling someone he briefly knew in the AAHW, Doc got Sanford to round up some dissented AAHW members to assimilate into their ranks. One of these members was Deimos, whom Doc recognised and personally hand-picked to work alongside him to better foster and integrate his hacking skills. Deimos was exceptionally useful for Doc despite having a pretty rocky history in the AAHW, and if anything, Doc was pretty surprised he was still alive. Regardless, Doc paired him up with Sanford after a while, and Sanford did not enjoy it. He found Deimos rather annoying and just another dumbass in a long string of grunts Doc has picked up. Yet Deimos seemed different somehow. His unflinching and incorrigible charm slowly worked its way into Sanford’s mind, especially when he realised he actually enjoyed the guy's company. Deimos showed an interest in the hobbies that Sanford was usually mocked or looked down on for, and while he was a little careless, it felt nice to watch out for someone rather than watch another self-important idiot rush ahead.

Deimos further garnered Sanford’s interest when he learned a bit more about his insecurities and doubts, learning that clones exist. Sanford has questioned his existence in certain ways, regarding his own blood-stained hands with conflicted contempt and satisfaction, but this? Deimos telling Sanford that he isn’t sure that he’s alive, that he’s actually a ‘person’? That he’s lost, scared, clueless, alone? Sanford’s never cared for much before, living in this half-dissociated, emotionally distant state, but something stirs when he tries and kind of fails to comfort Deimos in that moment. He… cares. For something. For someone. A cold fortress that Sanford has built for so long, slowly opening itself to the idea of wanting someone. The pain and trauma remain, and it will never go away, but there is a new reason to get up in the morning. To look forward to something.

From that day on, an understanding began to form between the two, bringing them closer and closer together. To the point that Deimos starts glimpsing the cracks in Sanford’s facade, worming his way in closer and closer, chasing the rare smile and laugh that Deimos can elicit from him. Sanford is the first time he’s ever felt stability, kindness, patience, acknowledgement. But he realises it's not just that, it's not just chasing something to fulfill something he’s always wanted but never got, it’s because he likes Sanford. Roaming the wastelands of Nevada alongside Sanford has given him joy like he’s never known. Knowing that Sanford has got his back, and that Deimos can help, and truly mean something… It’s like something clicked one day.

Summarising/simplifying it, Sanford is like stability. Serious, steadfast, put-together and a leader. The trauma of doing what had to be done and hating yourself for it. For the kindness you could have had. The peace you lost or perhaps never knew. Forced to adapt and harden yourself, but the stress never truly went away. The fear and worry you have for your loved ones. The paranoia of losing them, witnessing the mortality of those dearest to you. But finding love and joy again in the people around you, letting someone touch the part of you that you swore you’d never let be hurt again. And you feel kindness and love and joy in the silly things again, thanks to Deimos.

With Deimos, it’s smiling despite how the world has hurt you, set you up to fail. The vices you adapt to cope, but there remains a desire to do better, to be better. The yearning to be something more, to be someone else, but you can only ever be the best version of yourself. Wanting to be loved and yet not loving yourself, neglecting your body and mind. But having someone so patient and steadfast in their love for you just makes you feel so thankful. I’m sorry I relapsed again. Do you still love me? And Sanford does. He always will. The passion and joy you hold close to your heart, that you will never let anyone take away from you, living carefree and silly.

Okay! Now to the actual. Design talk, jesus christ. Let’s begin with the general shape language of the two and how they’re specifically designed to contrast and complement one another.

Deimos is comprised of rounder shapes, is on the smaller/shorter side compared to Sanford, and is a little scruffier and messier in appearance. He’s lean but not skinny, well-defined in the legs and in generally decent shape considering his lifestyle (a lot of snacks). This is paired against Sanford’s much broader and larger stature, sporting well-muscled arms and the repetition of more rounded square shapes. He’s tidy, well-groomed and maintains his body and scars very well. While I didn’t push their poses too hard here, they also further establish and contrast their personalities. Deimos has a more open and overconfident pose while Sanford stands a little more rigid and alert, and is the only character to be looking to the right rather than the left.

Sanford has heavy-set, thick eyebrows that help convey a stern seriousness to him, but when his expression looks gentle and warm, they accentuate a certain charming quality that I think he has. While his face can look grave and even frightening, Sanford can also look quite gentle and sweet, and I think the eyebrows really help with that.

Sanford has a lot more scars because he’s been employed and working for Doc a fair bit longer than Deimos, and he ends up fighting hand-to-hand more often than him. Deimos is longer range, handles hacking/communications and is usually doing more runner-esque jobs. He sometimes trips and scuffles, especially because his bag is so heavy, hence why he’s got all those little bandages on him. I like to think Sanford is the one who patches him up.

I ended up not integrating every scar into their designs because a lot of them are incurred around MC9, which is sort of like the “cutting off point” for when shit goes south. Deimos becomes Rockmos, and Sanford becomes owww my eyes! So it doesn’t make a ton of sense to have them, so I only kept the ones from before MC9. Besides the stab wound on Sanford’s torso, I just liked how that one looked.

When it came to designing their clothes (or well, designing my take on them; this time I’ve not really added anything that didn’t already exist for either of them) my main philosophy was that Sanford was more practical and uniform-esque in his attire, whereas Deimos is more sloppy but radiates a lot more individuality.

Everything that Sanford wears has a specific purpose, from the belts on his pants acting as anchor points for his hook to the bandolier on his chest and his thick, heavy combat boots. The only real “personal” details are his bandanna (which I use to accentuate his expressions), his teashades (which were more or less given to him “by” Deimos), and his hook (which is a weapon, but nonetheless one he seems attached to/is a recurring tool for him). As well as the tattoo on his back, but I’ll touch on that later. When it all comes together, it illustrates Sanford as someone who is prepared and capable, but very serious and with few personal touches.

Conversely, Deimos is covered with various bits and pieces that are personal to him, whether modified by himself or simply worn in a particular style to reflect what he likes. Smaller examples of this are his uneven socks and his untucked shirt that has a few stains and rips.

His shoes were directly based on the live-action design, as I think this is a fantastic portrayal of Deimos’ personality. From the little artistic doodles to the likely bored number markings, to the silly labels distinguishing the right shoe from the left shoe. The cigarette at the heel with the clusters of grunts and Jeb feels oddly endearing, like Deimos was inspired by a moment in MPN and wanted to draw it. The fire drawn along the base of the shoe is adorable, and the EAT IT at the front with BYE BYE at the back is so wonderfully vindictive and mischievous it’s amazing.

And the star of the show, at least to me, is Deimos’ radio backpack. One thing I think I could have done better is add more charms onto it, but I’m sure I can add a ton more down the line when I get some ideas, cus annoyingly I don’t have too many. I always imagine the bag as going clink clink clink whenever he walks, and I dunno, it's cute and I think Deimos would cram as much as possible onto his bag to reflect both his interests and so he doesn’t get bored.

Regardless, the backpack is like his lifeline of usefulness to SQ, but leaving it the way it was when Doc gave it to him was so lame. Deimos wanted to give it his personal flair, attach pieces of his life to it, make it truly “his.” Many of the little buttons and stitches were done by him and reflect members of the SQ, like the smiley on Hank’s shirt and the fishing lure for Sanford. Where’s Doc, then? Well, I would like to think I can design something specific for him on Deimos’ bag, but he actually helped with the big patch on the backside of the backpack. If you look closely, it has the same stitch markings as the ones on Doc’s jacket. Deimos really struggled with getting it on, and Doc came over like, you made this? And Deimos replies with a stilted, uneasy “yeah.” When Doc hands the bag back to him, he goes, “It’s pretty funny. Not bad.” and I like to think rare praise from Doc makes him feel warm.

Krinkels has said Sanford’s tattoo doesn’t have a specific meaning, and I would like to give it one, but I haven’t gotten any ideas yet. Despite that, Deimos’ tattoo actually does, although it's not super complex or deep. I personally enjoy the headcanon that clones are coded with a tattoo-like marking that usually appears on the neck, but sometimes can appear on arms or legs. But Deimos didn’t want Sanford to remove or draw over it entirely; instead, he retained it as a reminder of who he was and how he wouldn’t hide from that reality, but he would move forward from it. To that point, the arrow underneath. To fly forward, guided by the sturdy bowstring, carefree and unbound by the wind. And the red bolt? Well, that’s a personal detail I’m a little shy about explaining, but I at least think it adds a nice little accent of colour.

Smaller notes:

Deimos’ thumb gradient is darker because he specifically lights his thumb more than any other digit. I think he could light other digits, but it takes more effort and focus. He generally thinks doing a thumbs up is funnier, and it’s easier to light a cig that way.

The multiple bullet scars on Deimos’ stomach are meant to parallel his injuries in MC9, but they’re not the same for the reasons I mentioned earlier. This similarly applies to a scar that Sanford has on his right hand, referencing when he was shot in MC9.

I removed the front belt from Deimos’ backpack because I liked his shirt and coat being unobstructed, and it let me properly show the drawstrings. I also liked the idea that he can remove the heavy bag in dire situations. While Doc probably thinks the tech inside Deimos’ backpack is more valuable, perhaps it has a self-destruct function that Deimos can remotely activate. Retrieving someone from the Other Place is also probably more resource-demanding and time-consuming anyway. I might change it, but for now, I like this version.

I quite like mist-lightning-snap’s paw and claw headcanons for grunts, so I applied the same principle to Deimos. As to Sanford? Who knows… maybe those black nails can pop out into claws?

#madness combat #_myart #_text #madness combat sanford #madness combat deimos #i think i could have spent more time on some aspects but i've been working on this for much longer than what i'm used to #my brain needs a palette cleanser but i'm really glad i got this completed and that it mostly summarises my current thoughts #arghh im die okay thank you for reading you are awesome

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