#Ruins of Marr

[the-tomato-patch]

Darth Marr and Rhia from KOTET: Wrath & Ruin

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Among their shanties were Blue Ruin and The Gigantic Swindle, but D'arcy's haunt was The Dead Finish. None of these rough roadside huts were licensed but the owner of The Dead Finish was never troubled by the authorities.

No police ever came his way, unless it was the officer in charge of the native black troopers, when returning from a "dispersing" expedition, and he way only too glad to get to the "Dead Finish," where he would make some such excuse as "knocked-up horses" in order to remain a few days enjoying Brooks's brandy. It was not his business, he would say, "to trouble as to licenses; that was the duty of the common constable. He, thank goodness, was not sunk so low as that. He was a sub-inspector in charge of native police," which occupation he interpreted as a license to shoot down men, to capture women and children, to burn mi-mi houses*, and to destroy native property in general whenever met with.

* A version of mia-mia, a temporary shelter.

"Killing for Country: A Family History" - David Marr

[tenth-sentence]

One day, Jones bumped into the ruined merchant Alexander Spark in George Street.

"Killing for Country: A Family History" - David Marr

[kingkatsuki]

Old man Bakugou (who isn’t even that old, but god I want him)

Warnings: 18+, retired!Pro-Hero Dynamight, Bakugou is 50, reader is like half his age or more or less idc but Bakugou is older.

Bakugou retires at fifty. It’s much younger than a lot of other heroes that have paved the way for him, and yet he’s accomplished so much that it’s time for him to step aside for the future Pros. The ones that still have so much drive and energy, and are ready to conquer their dreams just like he was.

It gives up a place in the top five rankings for another younger, keen Pro-Hero to take his place. But of course Dynamight is still popular, and he’s still got a loyal fan base that continue to adore him even into his retirement.

Bakugou is still recognised when he goes out to restaurants and coffee shops, full of people trying to grab his autograph or share stories of how they grew up with him and watched him reach number one.

And then there’s you— he meets you one night at a bar when he’s nursing a beer, trying to adjust to having a free schedule instead of protecting the city. And he can’t help but notice the way your eyes glisten when you notice him, leaning against the bar beside his stool as you tilt your head inquisitively.

“No way, you’re Dynamight? My mom used to love you.”

And once again Bakugou is reminded of just how old he is, his blond hair now mixed with wisps of silver, the thick stubble that frames his jaw well on its way to being a beard, his muscular chest now curved with soft pudge and blond hairs and his back aches as he sits on the barstool.

“She had the biggest crush on you when she was younger,” You take a seat beside him as you sip at your own drink, “Had posters and figures up of you and everything.”

Bakugou doesn’t know how it happened— or why a pretty young thing like you wants anything to do with him. He’s gotta be twice your age, maybe more— but the casual conversation continues and you’re practically leaning into him now, pretty eyes glazed over as you stare down at his lips.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fuck an old man,” You tease, but you should be careful what you wish for, “Can you even still get it up?”

Bakugou reckons he should have you over his knee for that comment alone, but that’s all it takes for him to have his beer bottle slamming down onto the bar as he grabs you by the wrist.

Barely ten minutes later Bakugou has your knees pushed up to your chest inside the dingy dive bar bathroom. Your knickers bunched around them to keep your thighs together as he rams his thick, hard cock inside your tight cunt. The ferocity of his thrusts unlike anything you’ve felt before and you’re certain you can feel him in your lungs. Your naive hole squelches around him, your essence leaking out of you and soaking his heavy balls as the only words that leave your lips now are incoherent babbles. Your hands cling to him for some semblance of reality, painted nails leaving crescent-shaped moons in his forearms. Your grip rough enough to break his skin and join the multiude of scars that already marr his body.

Your head knocks against the mirror with each cant of his hips but you could care less. The pleasure surging through your veins has your mind hazy, his hulking body practically folds you in two as he looms over you, burying his cock inside you to the hilt as you feel so full.

You’re positive you look debauched. Your pretty lipstick ruined as it’s smeared across your lips and cheeks, certain you’re drooling down your chin as he fucks you within an inch of your life. It’s nothing like the inept men around your own age you’d been with before. With age comes experience, and you’re certain you see heaven when a calloused thumb slips between your bodies to press against your puffy clit.

“Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” He groans, “This old man’s gonna have you gushin’ all over his cock.”

[revasserium]

BEGGING u to write switch!xavier x fem!reader friends to lovers smut i am obsessed with this man 🙏

hunter and the hunted

xavier; 1,661 words; nsfw!!!, fem!reader, nickname usage ("bunny", "miss hunter"), piv sex, switch!xavier, pwp

summary: after the photoshoot, you decide to reward xavier for being a good bunny butler. or, in which xav calls you "bunny" during sex.

a/n: im sorry i didn't do the friends to lovers thing anon but i hope this still scratches the switch!xavier itch???? based on the bunny!butler card :)

There’s always been a startling, stirring purpose to the way he does things.

And this — you keen, head tipping back as Xavier leans down to mouth at your exposed collarbones — you think, is no different.

“Hm… that’s a pretty sound… I think I’d like to hear it again, bunny.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath hiccuping in your chest as you feel Xavier pulling back inch by excruciating inch before snapping forward, his head cocking to one side to watch you moan. His eyes are dark, darker than you’ve ever seen them, his pupils blown wide as the heart of dying stars —

“X-Xa — vi — vier — please —”

You flush at the way his name breaks on your tongue, at the way the tip of his cock kisses your cervix every time he pulls back and thrusts back in, at the way he angles his hips to hit just the right spot. It’s almost cruel, the way he watches you — his light-scattered eyes searching your face for something you don’t have a name for.

“Mm…” he leans down again, trailing warm lips along the line of your shoulder blade, biting down gently when you clench down around him, making his hips stutter. It’s the only tell that he’s just as affected as you are. But the next second, he’s pulling back to tug at your legs, fingers hooking behind your knees to press them up and up and up — till they’re shoved against your sweat-slicked chest.

“Oh bunny… look at you…”

You try to turn your head, try to look anywhere but at the hunger that marrs his face as his eyes flicker down to where he’s fucking into you, straight and steady, to where you can feel your own wetness slicking down the backs of your legs till it collects on the freshly laundered sheets below. Faintly, you wonder if there’s another set of sheets you can use for the night because this set is surely already ruined.

You can feel the thickness of him as he fills you, the weight of him dragging against your inner walls, the incriminating schick of wet skin against skin.

“I — I can’t —”

There’s a recklessness to the way he ruts down into you, a building, wind-wild abandon to the pace his hips keep, snapping quicker and quicker against yours, his thrusts going shallow as he lets out a soft breath, pushing your knees together with a tight groan.

“T-tell me, Miss Hunter…” he says, a bead of sweat trickling from his forehead to the tip of his nose as he rucks down into you, making white-hot stars explode behind your eyelids, the heat in your abdomen twisting tight, and then tighter — “didn’t you promise — you were going to show me something — special?”

You feel his thumb draw down between your bodies, tracing along the lips of your bruised labia before circling your clit once, twice. You gasp as you feel your climax cresting through you with almost no warning, and it’s all you can do to clutch at his arm, nails digging into his skin as you come.

“X-Xavier — c-com-ing —!”

“Nngh — that’s right… that’s… a good bunny…”

His hips stall as he watches you come undone around him, the way your whole body goes rigid, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat, the sweet pink indents of his teeth blossoming along your shoulders as you fall back, gasping for breath. He leans down, breathless, brushing his lips by your cheek.

“Good bunny…” he repeats, shushing you as you whimper, “there you go…”

Your vision tunnels, the heat washing over you now in waves as your body twitches through the aftermath of your release, even as Xavier pulls back and fucks forward with a soft groan, as if to chase his own high. Finally, finally.

Your eyelids flutter shut and you recall the events of just half an hour before, when you’d been the one on top, with him begging beneath you —

“A-ah… a-are you — what are you —” his voice is sharp, but you’re relentless as you tug at the waistband of his black slacks, sliding them off his thin hips, ghosting your lips over the dips there just to hear his breath hitch.

“Don’t worry, this is a reward, bunny!” you glance up at him, grinning at the pair of soft white bunny ears clipped into his hair, now a little lopsided as he blinks down at you, his hands dutifully bound in his lap with his black silk tie.

“Re-reward? I — ah —” he hisses as you ghost your lips over the obvious bulge in his boxers, grinning to yourself as you inch your fingers up his thighs, teasing the sensitive skin there.

“Yep! For being such a good ‘bunny’ today at the photo booth!”

“That was — j-just for —” he swallows, head tipping back as you mouth at the waistband of his boxers, glancing up, feeling heat pulse between your legs at the sight of his flushed cheeks and wet, parted lips.

“Just for…?” you tease, even as you slowly peel off his boxers, your mouth watering at the sight of his cock, the tip straining pink, dripping with precum. You can’t help the way your throat tenses as you wrap your fingers around the base and give it an experimental pump.

The strangled sound Xavier makes ripples over your bare skin like warm water.

“Weren’t you the one that asked me… if I’d like to unwrap my present earlier today? Well…” a quick kiss to the head of his cock is the only warning he gets before you lean down and lick a thick strip up, tracing the pulsing vein along the bottom of his shaft with your tongue, from base to tip and back down again.

“Mm — ah —” you hear the sound of his head thumping back against the headboard just as his hips kick up. You hum, pressing them back down with a firm hand.

“Naughty bunnies won’t get to cum,” you reprimand, to which he lets out a noise somewhere between a whine and a grunt, peering open one helpless eye, his fluffy white bunny ears now knocked painfully askew. You flash him a cheeky smile, the sight of him lying there, splayed out beneath you, his clothes tugged haphazardly open, wrists bound and cock straining, sends a rush of adrenalin through you, heady enough to make the room spin.

“N-not even if I say ‘please’?”

And really, there shouldn’t be any reason for him to sound so ruined already, not when you’ve only just started, but you bite your lips and swallow down a moan at his words. Your knees press as you run an idle finger along his twitching cock.

“Maybe… if you ask **really, really nicely…”

You don’t give him a chance to start begging properly before you lower your lips again, running your tongue along the underside of his rim as he gasps.

“O-Oh!”

You moan, loud and deliberate, relishing in the way he shivers at the way your voice thrums through his skin, and when you lower your head and feel him hit the back of your throat, Xavier keens — helpless and high and you think you feel his fingers in your hair as he fights between the urge to press you down and pull you back up. He settles for simply resting his hand there as you hollow out your cheeks and suck him down in earnest. A trail of broken little moans and gasps trickle from him as you work your mouth around him, pressing the flat of your tongue against him just to feel him jerk beneath you.

“If you’re good… I’ll show you something extra special,” you say after a few minutes, pulling off him with a loud pop and making a show of licking your lips.

“You… you really are ruthless…” he sounds breathless, but there’s a teasing note to the underbelly of his voice that sends tingles thrumming through your body. You can’t help the excitement that gathers in your gut at the thought of just what that tease might bring.

You drop a sweet kiss onto his hipbone before pulling yourself up the length of his body, rolling your hips down, groaning at the friction, your breath catching at the way his cock teases against your already-drenched pussy.

“Please…” Xavier’s teeth digs into his bottom lip, and you reach back to guide his aching cock toward your center, sinking down slow, relishing in the sting and the stretch.

It doesn’t take long after that — not with you sitting astride him, riding him with your palms planted on his chest. Not with the way your tits bounce and the way your thighs smack down over his hips with your every move.

It doesn’t take long, but far from being embarrassed, Xavier only hisses, before blinking a few times, almost sleepy as you ride him through his release. Then, he wiggles his wrists free from their constraints and plants his palms on either side of your hips, flipping you over with a single, fluid movement.

“Mm… that really was something…” he hikes your legs up over his shoulders and rolls his hips almost thoughtfully down against yours. You’re helpless to do anything but gasp as he brushes against a spot inside you that has you seeing stars.

“I learned a lot,” he says, grinning as he plucks the bunny ears from his ruffled hair and presses them gently into yours, “so… what do you say, bunny?”

You whimper as he drops a hand to thumb lightly at your clit, “Xavier — wait, what —”

“C’mon Miss Hunter… let me show you… what a good student I can be.”

lads reqs are: open

[lackadaisicallizard]

Sundays

Growing up, Regulus hated Sundays. 

Sundays were mornings spent in church, pretending to the world that they were a perfect family. Sundays were stuffy clothes and tight ties wrapped around throats spouting nothing but lies about the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. 

Sundays were carefully coordinated games disguised as family lunches, the entire extended family coming together to outdo each other in just how well they were doing. Sundays were masterclasses in manipulation, lies and deceit. 

But now, fifteen years later on the most ordinary of all days, Regulus can hear voices coming from the kitchen. 

“I think that’s enough eggs, Haz, why don’t you add more flour now?” 

“How much do I need to add?” 

“I have no idea, just pour until it looks right.” 

Sliding on his slippers, Regulus makes his way out of the bedroom and down the hall, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen. He leans against the doorframe for a moment, watching the scene in front of him. 

“How’s it going there?” His husband peers into the mixing bowl that seems to have more eggs in it than any hen could feasibly lay in a year. 

“The flour won’t come out of the bag,” Harry says with a frown. 

“Try banging on the end of it,” James suggests and before Regulus can even consider stepping in to stop him, their son does just that. He is far too much like his father for his own good sometimes. 

Flour ends up everywhere. 

“Papa’s going to kill me,” Harry groans through a layer of white dust. 

“Papa doesn’t have to know,” James says, “you finish the batter and I’ll clean it up.” 

Harry stirs it, a puff of flour rising into the air. “I think it may be beyond saving now, Dad.” 

“J’en ai marre,” their heads whip around at the sound of Regulus’ voice, both faces a similar mask of concern. “You two are useless.” 

He steps into the kitchen now, holding out his hand for the bowl, which Harry passes him with a guilty expression. “I love you?” 

Regulus’ own expression softens completely at that and he places the bowl on the counter before holding out his arms for his son. Harry moves into them without hesitation, being pulled into a warm embrace and leaning into his father. “Tu es la lumière de ma vie,” Regulus says, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s soft curls before pulling back and looking at him in the eyes. “That doesn’t mean you can get flour all over my kitchen though, compris?” 

“Oui papa, désolé. We were just trying to make you breakfast in bed.” 

“It’s true,” James cuts in, a smile pulling up the corner of his lips, “we know you’ve had a long week so we thought we’d make some pancakes.” 

Regulus smiles back, he can’t help himself. “I’m not sure which one of you thought you could pull that off considering the great scrambled egg fiasco last month.” 

“Those eggs were delicious and you know it!” 

“I had to go to the store for more and make them myself.” 

“… my comment still stands,” James says with a grin and Regulus rolls his eyes at his husband. 

“Harry, go and fetch the chocolate chips from the cupboard and I’ll attempt to salvage this.” 

Harry disappears into the pantry and as Regulus starts to decanter as much flour as he can from the very floury bowl, he feels arms wrap around him from behind. 

“I’m sorry about the flour,” James’ voice is low in his ear. 

Regulus hums. “I would say I’m surprised, but I’m not.” 

A soft chuckle followed by lips against his hair. “I’m also sorry for ruining your Sunday, love. I know it’s the first day you’ve had off in a while.” 

But the thing is, he hasn’t. 

Because Regulus knows what a bad Sunday feels like. They’re ingrained into his brain. 

But this right here? Making far too much batter to even out the mountain of flour that he can’t salvage from the bowl. Allowing his son to add almost an entire bag of chocolate chips to the mixture. Watching his husband smother a tower of pancakes with syrup and whipped cream. Cleaning up an incredibly messy kitchen together as a family after they’ve done. 

Well, this is what Sundays are now. They’re not perfect, or proper, or in the least bit civilised. 

And he loves every one. 

[http-shield]

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: angst, childhood memories, bucky as the winter soldier, eastern european/slavic heritage reader, does not follow the canonical timeline after bucky is arrested in romania, deviates from canon, childhood memories, implied SA, post war trauma, ~ wc:5.4k ~ not proofread Your grandmother has the gift so why couldn't she see the man in your future?

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

It is said that you must not utter the name of the wolf. Use any other word to describe the beast for its name and title will summon it from the depths of hell. 

1993 Nižepole, FYROM

A clump of wet tea leaves stares at you from within the porcelain cup.

"I see a rock," you answer honestly, pointing a tiny finger at the lump as you swirl it in the leftover liquid. 

A wrinkled hand reaches out and slaps yours, and a harsh voice begins to berate you. "Stop! You're ruining it." 

Your grandmother sits across from you on her wooden stool. Her shoulders hunched and covered tightly in a tartan shawl, a matching headscarf tied beneath her chin in a knotted bow. The years of farm life had worn on her, freckled marr her skin like stars on a clear night sky, lines and wrinkles embedded deep from all the years of love and laughter, stories so woven through her very being that they manifest in flesh.

Her eyes crinkle up as she smiles and gently takes the cup from your hands, knobby fingers like a birch tree cradling the porcelain as though it were a baby chick. She holds it up to the light, trying to discern the pattern from beneath. From where you are sitting, you can't see any light coming through, but Baba is magical—always has been—so maybe she sees something you can't.

She hums, lowering the vessel to eye level and taking another peek. 

"You're going to move away from here—far, far away," she says wistfully, closing one eye to garner a new perspective on the future. "I see a cat." She flits her gaze from the prophetic cup to you and then back to the cup. "There is a tall man, but I can't see his face." 

Your nose wrinkles at that.

Tall man? Moving away from home? Unlikely. There has never been a desire to get away from your farm. Your home's rolling hills and endless sky are enough for you, and you doubt you will ever want to be anywhere else.  

A cat, maybe. You've always wanted one. 

"There's something else, something sooner, but I don't know- I can't see it." Her voice dissolves into a whisper as your attention shifts.

With your head slung back against the chair, you bask in the mid-spring sun. Heat kisses your exposed skin, and the warm breeze does naught to cool you down, but you enjoy it. You have longed for the heat all winter, wished that the months would be shorter so the sun would come around quicker, and now that it is here, you never want it to leave. The farm is its usual springtime uproar, with birds chirping and bugs humming as they flit from flower to flower. Cowbells ring from the neighbouring field as the cattle graze for lunch, chickens cluck in their roosts, and the dogs across the road bark as a newcomer drives by. You hear the rumble of an engine; the sound of rubber under gravel fills you with excitement at the possibility of a new face or delivery from the main town. 

The dogs bark louder as the car draws nearer, but their howls have a sharper edge, and their snarling is grittier and lower. Fear begins to settle in your chest.

The air shifts, the wind suddenly stops, crickets no longer hum, and birds are eerily quiet. The sound of the engine ceases for a moment, and then there is the crunch of boots on gravel. Your grandmother reaches out to you; her bony fingers wrap around your wrist and tug you forward. Her words are hushed, spat out at a speed you can't understand.

"Listen to me," she tugs on your wrist, and you look at her face.  Terror lies in her furrowed brows, thin lips pursed as her jaw clenches. 

"You need to get inside. Go hide in your cupboard, and don't leave until I get you. I don't care what you hear; stay inside until I come for you." Her words are grave, a direct warning not to disobey her instructions. 

"What's happening?" you whisper, panic rising in your throat. 

She spares a glance at the front gate; the sounds of footsteps are replaced by howling dogs. 

"The wolf is here." 

2015 Bucharest, Romania

A wolf can smell its prey from two-point-four kilometres away. This is a fact.

That is the distance between you and your apartment, exactly two points four, or no more, no less, as stated by the map on your phone.

Your location pings as a small red dot being shared with your friends, who can easily open the application and see that you are almost home, almost safe within the confines of your apartment walls, but you don't know if you will make it home tonight, for there is a wolf standing on the street corner. 

Cloaked entirely in the blackness of night, the outskirts of the streetlight do little to illuminate much beyond the silhouette and glint of canine eyes. It is crouched over in the street, claws digging into the freshly fallen snow as it hurls its guts up, spewing its latest kill into the gutter. Terror slices through you, a sharp winter wind following suit and turning your blood to ice. You need to move, to step back into the darkness before the beast takes notice and begins its hunt. The snow is soft beneath your feet, and the wind is loud enough to cover any sound you make; you might make it out alive. Might cheat death once more. Potentially be more than just a number on a spreadsheet, so you take a step back, gently, carefully, ohh so tentatively to avoid arousing suspicion. Still, as your shoe crunches on powdery snow, the wolf turns. 

In the low light, the beast begins to shift. Standing from the crouch emerges a man as he rises on two legs and stumbles forward, sputtering unintelligible sentences as he lunges through the snow. The creature paces forward, his steps sloppy and belligerent, but he is tall, his gait wide and lengthier than yours, and though you have turned, tried to make a break for the street beyond, a hand clamps down on your wrist. There is no fur, no claws, nothing to resemble a beast beyond the look in his eyes as you are yanked forward. The nauseating stench on him fills your nose; sweat and beer, vinegar and cigarette smoke engulf you as he shoves his face into yours. You attempt to pull back, the bag on your shoulder having slipped off and down to the earth below. 

"Let me go." You grit through clenched teeth, the lump in your throat turning to bile as you breathe in more of the putrid scent. "Get off me." 

The beast smiles, teeth rotted and missing, and you try desperately not to gag. "Where are you going? Do you need someone to take you?" 

"Leave me alone." You tug on your arm, but his grip is locked. "Please." 

You curl your fingers into a fist, nails digging into your palm in a sharp sting, but that is nothing compared to what could come, what you could be facing if you do not make some attempt to fight back.

The beast stumbles forward, his chest pressed against your arm, your hand being placed over the seam of his pants. A scream builds in your chest, your throat tightening painfully against the tears that begin to line your eyes, but before you can make a sound, neither a whine nor whimper, the beast is ripped away from you. 

A second pair of hands is tugging at your shoulders, pulling you back into the shadows of the building as your assailant slides through the snow. 

"It's okay. You're okay." another man's voice fills your head as you are pulled further back. "Just keep walking." 

You shouldn't follow the instructions; for all you know, this was planned. Have someone scare you, then use a second man to lull you into a false sense of safety before you are finally trapped and carted off to where they had planned, but you do as he says. You lean into his hands and let him guide you away, leaving the beast in the snow. 

The hands veer you in the opposite direction, towards the light and sound of a busier street. You want to turn, to face the person who had just pulled you from certain death and thank them, to offer them some kind of reward for the deed they had just committed, but the hands on your shoulders keep pushing forward.

"My bag!" you exclaim, suddenly aware of the lack of weight dragging down your right side. It feels silly to worry about such a thing, but you had your wallet, keys, and phone in that bag; your entire life was in that bag.

"Got it." Your hero mutters, and you spot the white canvas bag swinging at his side. 

When did he pick that up?

The light of the street stuns you as you step out of the alley. You still, for a moment, reorientate yourself as you feel the pressure of his hands leave you, only to be replaced by the weight of your bag on your shoulder.  Whirling around, your vision blurring momentarily at the sudden spin, you face your saviour. 

"Thank you so much," you whisper, voice shaky as you take deep breaths, the ice-cold air burning your lungs. "Thank you, thank you." 

Another gulp of air stabilises your vision, subsides the tingling in your hands, and begins to even out your heartbeat. 

"I'm so sorry." Apologies are quick to be thrown. "I don't know what would have happened if you- thank you" The words fly out of you as you speak, not pausing to breathe. "I owe you so much. A drink or food or money, I'll give you money." 

You reach into the canvas bag, searching for your wallet, to offer money as a thank you, but a gloved hand on your arm stops you. 

"Are you okay?" the man asks. 

The question gives you pause to truly understand what just happened. Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightens once again, and you begin to feel your bottom lip shake, but now is not the time. You will break down at home, in the sanctity of your own bathroom, not in front of another strange man. 

"Yeah, I think," you swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the tears, your shaking hands wiping your cheeks in case any had fallen free. "Thank you." 

"Do you need to call someone?" 

The offer has you looking up at your hero and are stunned by his appearance. He is handsome, scarily handsome. Chiselled features of sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, piercings blue eyes framed by locks of dark brown hair hidden beneath a scruffy baseball cap. His brows are set in a concerned furrow, his mouth following suit. You stare, unable to make sense that a man so perfect is standing before you and not the leading man in a painting by Eugene Delacroix. 

"I can wait with you?" He presses, dipping his head so as to not seem so imposing. 

You shake your head. "No, I—I don't have anyone to call." A frown tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I can walk home; it's just a block away." 

The man shakes his head. "I'll call you a cab, " he says, raising his hand to signal a taxi. 

"No, no, please." you begin, waving your hands in protest. "I'm fine!" 

A car pulls over as the man flags him down. "I'll pay for it, please." 

"No, I can't accept that-" 

"No. Ma'am, please. Let me get you home safe." His insistence shuts you up, and you find yourself following his instructions as he opens the door of the car and motions for you to get in. 

The taxi is warm and smells of tobacco. The driver is an old man who looks vaguely like an uncle you haven't seen in years. He smiles at you and turns back to your saviour for directions. The man stands on the sidewalk, one arm slung over the top of the car as he leans in and nods to you in the back seat. 

"Take her wherever she needs to go." a gloved hand slips him a decent amount of bills that could cover three of your trips. 

"Ohh, that's…" You're once again shut down by a look from the strange man. You sink into your seat, suddenly feeling like a child being scolded. 

"Please, just get her home safe, " the man implores, glancing at you once more before he pulls away. 

The driver tips his hat with a small "yes, boss" before he pockets the money and pulls away from the curb. 

You turn in your seat, staring out the back window to catch another glimpse of the strange man, but as you look back, you see that the spot he once stood in is empty. Nothing but the swirl of snow. You sink back into the leather, inhaling deeply as you run through the events of the last ten minutes in your mind. Who the fuck was that and why did his eyes look so familiar? 

---

Bucky hates snow—always has and always will. His mother had always scolded him for using that word, her soft voice reminding him that hate is such a strong word that he should use softer, kinder words. That there was no room for hate in his heart. Bucky detests snow. 

There is nothing magical about frozen rain as it pelts against raw skin, covering the world in a dangerous icy slick, freezing the ground so nothing can grow, and turning everything into a white wasteland devoid of any sign of life. He didn't like it as a child and certainly does not like it now. 

His breath is puffs of air into the frozen morning,  the street glowing yellow beneath streetlights, shopfront displays of Christmas trees, and twinkling fairy lights. Bucky thinks for a moment, trying to recall the months of the year and how many of them he had spent in this city if it was almost Christmas. His mind is a jumble of days and weeks, and he cannot pinpoint the exact moment he had come to Bucharest; it would be on a ticket somewhere in his apartment. He should get a calendar and start marking days off. That would be normal. It could lead to the healthy habit of timekeeping, grounding him to the present day whenever he felt the world got too soft beneath his feet. Timekeeping is good, something he wasn't allowed to do back then, and he was never given a chance. 

Bucky scrawls his to-do list of buying a calendar in the top margin of his notebook, followed by a simple 'food; right under it. He had been paid yesterday. Cash in hand for his work as a handyman, carrying supplies up and down stairs on a construction sight. Easy, simple, achievable work. There was no thinking or conversing, simple yes's and no's to even more straightforward questions. It hadn't been hard to find that type of work once he settled into his version of a normal life post-Hydra. There is no shortage of under-the-table work. Employers want to avoid paying benefits and taxes to their team, so they hire drifters and passersby, undocumented people who overstayed visas and travellers looking for some extra cash. Bucky had fit right in, his quiet demeanour hiding him from prying eyes as he worked, head down and mouth shut, just making enough to eat. Never more. There is no need. 

The weight of the notes sits heavy in his pocket, and he knows he should have gone into the market yesterday to blend into the crowd, but as the day wound down, his anxiety did the opposite. The racing in his chest at being recognised spun him into a frenzy of shortened breaths and darkening vision. The roaring in his ears as his blood rushed through his veins became all too similar to the machines that had been used on him, the pressure in his mind building and building until all he could think about was smashing his head against the wall until he cracked his skull, the blood spilling and tension easing but as the minutes passed, the cold tiles of the bathroom soothing his clammy skin, did his heart return to normal, breathing intense and laboured but even, the roaring dulling until he felt like Bucky again. A very blurry and fragmented Bucky, but Bucky nonetheless. His stomach begins to growl, his hunger becoming nausea as the time between meals stretches further, and he is reminded why he had decided to face the world. 

Food. 

---

"I need you to watch him." your manager whispers as she passes behind you, her arms full of boxed muffins. 

"Who?" you follow her as she rounds the corner of the bakery department, throwing the stock on the silver bench. You quickly scan the area around your workspace, spotting no one other than your coworker who is busy decorating a cake.

"There's a guy in the bread aisle; he looks weird." is the only explanation as she begins to scan each small box, the scanner unit in her hand chirping after each successful read. 

"Why me?" you groan, fingers working on tightening your apron strings. "I don't wanna watch some creepy guy." 

Your boss stops, places her hands flat on the counter and fixes you with a look of mild annoyance. The muscles in her jaw twitch as she takes in a breath. 

"Just go. Pretend to fill stock, readjust tags, just make sure he pays for whatever he takes." 

You wait a moment, debating whether or not to turn this into an argument and whether the subsequent unpaid overtime you might have to do would be worth it to not watch a potential shoplifter. But you value sleep and time alone, and doing unpaid work is not worth the mild inconvenience it would be if you had to talk to the guy, so you sigh and throw your head back dramatically, resigning to the orders of your boss. 

She shouts a sung thank you as you walk away; your only acknowledgement of her gratitude is a raised hand as you walk into the aforementioned aisle. 

The shop's bright white fluorescent lights reflect off the grey linoleum with a harsh glare, smothering the cavernous warehouse in a mildly offputting, ever-present light. Smooth, bulbous black security cameras hang over the ends of each aisle, deterring most thieves; however, some still try to push their luck. Towards the end of the aisle, the suspected man stands in front of the packaged loaves. Oh. You've seen him before, a few times, actually within the past few weeks. He had become a frequent shopper, always quiet and polite, and never once struck you as someone who would try to steal, though his current ensemble did scream thief! Dark jeans, heavy black boots, a green jacket, and a black baseball hat slung low over his eyebrows. You watch as his gloved hands trace over the labels, mouth moving as he silently sounds out the vowels. He turns the bread over, weighing it before his head snaps towards you. 

Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden movement. There have been very few moments in life when you felt as though the ground would crumble away beneath you. Honestly, you can count them on one hand, but so far, the man in front of you has been present for two of them. Those familiar blue eyes stare back at you, and you cannot move. 

It's not fear but something so remarkably close that freezes you to your spot. It is not an emotion you can name. It is something you haven't felt before, but the tightness in your throat has you categorising it with the bad emotions, the ones that make you want to curl up in your bed and hide from the world, the ones that make you feel small again. 

The man takes a tentative step towards you—just one, no more—not as if he wants to get closer, just open up his body for conversation. You swallow, knowing he is about to speak, but the rock in your throat makes it impossible. 

He holds up the loaf of bread in his gloved hands and asks, "Do you know which bread keeps the longest?"  There is a hint of an American accent you had not heard a few nights ago. 

You shook your head. "I can ask if you would like?" the Romanian strangely formal on your tongue. 

He shakes his head, a tight smile appearing briefly before he turns on his heels and walks out of the aisle. 

A shaky breath escapes you as you fold over. Hands on your knees as you open your mouth, gulping air down and down into your body, the oxygen chasing away the static slowly creeping along your limbs. A nervous response your body has enacted for as long as you can remember, but it always goes away with a few deep breaths, the electricity turning back to blood and rushing through your body usually. When you were younger, you often panicked that if that static got to your heart, it would override your entire body, turning your muscles into electrical wires. You would become part robot, part human, and that fear had only been exacerbated after witnessing the man in your barn. His metal arm glinting in the low light sent shivers down your spine at the genuine fear your young brain conjured up, but that had to be a dream; there was no plausible explanation for that. Who has a metal arm? 

Another deep breath has your body relaxing, the tightness in your muscles easing away, but it does not stop your mind from racing. You hadn't had a moment to sit and think about that man from the other night; the second you got home, you had been bombarded with emails from your aunt, unanswered calls from your manager and an inbox from a friend you had not spoken to since moving away. There was not a single second where you sat and processed the events and the possible outcome of what could have happened, and if you are being honest with yourself, there never will be. You don't want to open that, to tear a small hole open to inspect inside, because if you open that gash, it would undoubtedly undo the rest of the hastily sutured wounds you have, and there is no time for that. No time to think about your home, your parents, your grandmother, the life you left behind, no time for anything other than moving forward. To keep pushing, to keep living. 

"Are you okay?" your boss asks, her hand sliding up your back to rest between your shoulder blades. 

Another deep breath in. 

"Yeah, just tired." You lie and stand, your vision darkening temporarily at the sudden movement. "Just saw someone I thought I knew." 

---

You see your hero two more times in store before you work up the nerve to say something. 

The original plan was as follows:

Step one: Introduce yourself.

Step two: Say thank you for the other night and apologise for taking so long to say thank you

Step three: Ask him out for coffee as a thank you (and not because he is possibly the most stunning man you have ever seen) 

However, like all good plans, yours goes to waste the second you see him standing in the bread aisle. 

"This bread is really good even if you keep it in the freezer." you slide up to him, a loaf of bread in hand, an attempt to be smooth and start a conversation. 

A side glance is spared your way. His jaw is clenched, but upon seeing you, it relaxes. He turns his head, his eyes finding yours for a split second before glancing at the bread in your hand. 

"Sorry?" 

Oh. 

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Have you got the wrong guy? Is this not the man you have thought of for the past week? The man who had saved you from certain doom? 

"The last time you were here, you asked which bread would keep the longest, and I didn't have an answer." You hold the bread up a little higher. "But now I do." 

Should you mention the incident in the alley?

Confusion furrows his brows, but he accepts the loaf nonetheless. "Thank you."

But there is no sincerity in his words. He is cautious about avoiding touching you despite wearing gloves, his fingers digging into the paper bag with gentle strength. He takes a step back, eyes squinting as though trying to figure out your motive behind the gesture and continues to back away before swiftly turning for the register, not another word spoken. 

A heavy sigh leaves you. All the air in your lungs had turned to lead for the duration of the conversation. 

Yes, You should have mentioned the incident in the alley. 

---

"Thank you," a smooth voice says from your left. You quickly turn to find the source, unsure if it's a customer or coworker, and are pleasantly surprised to see your illusive hero standing beside you.

You stand, brushing your hands on your apron, suddenly aware of how grimy and dirty your uniform is. "For?" the question comes out a little harsher than you intend. 

He shifts uncomfortably at your tone. "The bread, earlier in the week." 

"That's okay. I'm just doing my job." You're quick to correct the bitterness you had just spilt with a quick smile. "I'm glad it worked out." 

There is an unusual jitteriness to him. Usually, he is still and calm, like a man made of marble, as he analyses the stock, but today, he is fidgety. His fingers twitch at his side,  and his eyes search for something in the space between you. You think he is going to speak as he parts his lips, but he doesn't. 

You fill the gap. "You probably don't-"

"I just wanted to" 

The two of you awkwardly talk over the other as you realise you both want to say something. 

"Sorry. You finish what you were saying." He holds out his gloved hand as a gesture to keep talking. 

"It was nothing, I just—It's not important." You quickly dismiss yourself, not sure if you want to open that can of worms. If he has yet to mention it, surely he doesn't remember. 

The man looks like he wants to say something but stops himself and takes another direction. "I just wanted to say thank you. I'm Bucky." A gloved hand is extended, and you take it without a second thought. The leather is warm against your frozen fingers as you introduce yourself. 

Maybe you'll just let it go and start afresh. Close that wound completely and get the healing over and done with. 

"Lovely to meet you, Bucky. If you ever need anything, come find me." You've made this offer to many customers and thought nothing more of it but as he lets go of your hand and bids you farewell, you hope that isn't the last you see of him.

---

It's not.

Bucky becomes a frequent shopper. Having been seen maybe twice a fortnight, it is now once a week, with increasing conversation each time your paths cross. 

It starts with small hellos as you stock the aisles he is in, both of you watching each other as you navigate the small space; then he starts to ask about your day, comments on the weather, and the busyness of the square outside. Small talk to break the ice and ease him into conversations. He wants to talk to you despite every cell in his body telling him to run and hide from the potential threat; he can't stop himself as he smiles at you. 

"Do you like fruit?" he asks rather abruptly one day as he watches you stock the apple display. 

The question gives you pause, and he worries he has said the wrong thing or made a mistake, but your smile eases his anxiety. 

"I like fruit," you nod, attention on him but hands still working to stack. "Why?" 

Bucky is still determining why he asked the question. He has been looking at foods that increase memory and brain health, so that could be where it came from, but there is another part of him, something smaller and buried a little deeper, that wants to get to know you. He knows of you, has seen you in the store and saved you from that freak that one time, but other than that, you are just the pretty store clerk who he can't seem to forget about. 

"I've read that fruit can help with memory and was going to ask if you had any favourites I might try."  That works.

"Well, watermelon is my favourite, but I don't think that helps the brain a lot, so I think after that, it might be rasp-ber-ry?" you struggle to pronounce the word in Romanian, your tongue slipping over the constants. 

"Raspberries?' Bucky answers in English, having already known your native language just by the way you pronounce certain words. 

"Oh, you speak English?" you turn towards him, eyes wide as the familiar language catches you off guard.

"Better than Romanian." a small chuckle escapes him before he can help it. "We can stick to it if its easier."

Your eyes narrow as if trying to figure out who you are talking to. Bucky wants to laugh at that and encourage you to try. Let him know if you work it out so he can figure it out, too. 

"I've heard plums are pretty good, too." he watches as you bite down on your bottom lip, pulling the flesh into your mouth for a second. "You know-" 

Bucky stiffens, heart beginning to race. There are too many variables as to where this conversation is headed. 

"I know you, " you say, brows crinkling ever so slightly. You helped me that one night. I'm not sure if you remember." 

A huffed breath leaves Bucky as his muscles relax. Not the direction he dreaded. Good. He nods and leans against the stand. 

"I know, I didn't want to say anything in case you were…I didn't wanna scare ya."  

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you turn back to stack the apples in your hands. The silence has his heart racing, this time for an entirely different reason. 

"Can I take you out as a thank you?" you ask suddenly, staring at the produce under your hands.

Bucky jolts, the fruit beneath his elbow shifting at the surprise, but he quickly catches them. The mechanics in his arm whirs, and he hopes to God, you didn't hear it. 

"Me?" 

"No. The other man who saved me." you joke, and Bucky notices the blush that begins to creep along your cheeks. 

Bucky laughs. "Uh, sure."

"If you want." You are quick to amend. 

"I want to," he reassures you, not wanting to cast doubt on his desire to go out with you. "I just haven't gone out in a long time," 

"Me neither," you shrug, leaning on the plastic create. "It's just a thank you. You don't have to dress up, I swear." 

Bucky wets his lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth as he deliberates. "Sure." 

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "I can give you my number?" 

"I don't have a phone." 

"I can meet you here?" The offer is sincere and you don't look too perturbed by the fact he doesn't have a phone. 

There are a lot of things missing from Bucky's life—a phone, a proper house, friends, family, his sane mind. However, something is pulling him towards you. He isn't entirely sure what it is, where it has come from, or what will happen if he starts a friendship with you, but there is something so deep within him—the same gut feeling he had when he saw Steve on the bridge all those months ago—that is pulling him towards you now. 

He squares his shoulders before asking. "What time?"

[elly-grace]

The love of my life

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Warning: idiots in love

Word count: 1234

Disclaimer: just pretend that’s how the championship game went idk how it actually went lol.

LSU 2020

The Tiger stadium had never been so packed before. The atmosphere was the best it’s ever been. You could tell the players were definitely feeding off the vibes of the stadium.

“Burrow steps back looking for an open man down field. And he found his man Chase. He’s at the 40, 30, 20, 10. TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!”

The roar of the crowd is deafening. This was it, all that stood between them and the championship was 2 minutes.

Two minutes of amazing game play, two final minutes of being in a LSU tiger jersey for some. Two minutes of watching your best friends play on the field together for the last time.

Tears stream down your face knowing that your best friend led the team to an undefeated season. There was no doubt in your mind, he’s going to the NFL.

You're pulled out of your thoughts by your other best friend Myla elbowing you. As you come to your senses you feel someone stare at you. On the sidelines not paying any attention to the game was Joe Burrow. He looked at you concerned.

You motioned to him to turn around and pay attention to the game with a stern look on your face. He didn’t listen, he kept looking at you.

“How can two people be so oblivious?” Myla said in a sing-song voice.

You rolled my eyes at her and started walking to the fence of the bleachers where Joe could see you.

“Hey Burrow, pay attention to the game. You can’t ruin your perfect record. What if you need to go back out there?”

“You're crying?”

“I’ll tell you later. Now pay attention to the game.” You said then started walking back to your seat. By the time you made it back there were only 30 seconds on the clock.

The Tigers won the game. You were so happy and proud of your friends. But you were also sad Justin and Joe are going to the NFL draft. Tears start to stream down your face again.

“You seriously need to stop crying.”

You have Myla a dirty look.

“So you're not at all sad that Justin just played his last game with Joe and Marr? You’re going to have one sad boyfriend for a little bit.”

“Keep saying that’s why you're crying, I don't believe you.”

You just ignore her and run down to the tunnels to meet the boys. When you hear a voice call out to you

“Y/n wait up.” You turned around next to the tunnel to see Josh, a boy from your history class.

“Hey Josh, how are you?”

“Good, so I was wondering if maybe you want-“

He was cut off as you felt strong arms wrap around you.

“No she wouldn’t. Bye now.”

“Joseph, what if I wanted to go on a date with him?”

He scoffed, he was shocked by what you just said. You have never been one to accept date offers from men. He’d never admit it but he liked that, because that meant he still had a chance.

“Now tell me why you were crying.”

You couldn’t believe that this man just cockblocked you and is now making demands. You just scoffed, seeing Ja’marr walk out you ignored Joe and ran to Marr.

“CONGRATS MARR!” You gave him a hug. And he picked you up and spun you around.

Joe's heart broke a little at the sight. Justin saw the exchange between You and Ja’marr and walked over to Joe.

“You need to tell her.”

Joe looked up at Justin in shock.

“Tell her what?”

“Man we’re not oblivious, you’ve clearly got feelings for her. Tell her before someone beats you to it.” He said and Joe sighed he knew Justin was right but he didn’t know how to convey his feelings for you.

LSU February 2020

History lecture couldn’t go any slower. The lecture hall was small and stuffy, it was meant to fit 20 students tops. But this lecture was with 42 students. Sure, cram this lecture in the smallest lecture hall.

At least Myla and Ja’marr were in this class. The three of you are paying partial attention to the professor. You loved history and obviously were the one paying the most attention out of the three. Jotting down notes occasionally that undoubtedly Myla and Ja’marr were going to copy.

When the hour and a half was up you gathered your stuff and left. You didn’t hear the voices calling after you. Finally a hand reaching your shoulder startled you.

“Hey Y/n how was lecture?”

You turned around to see Joe, you’ve been avoiding him since he cockblcoked you. You rolled your eyes and started walking away again.

“Y/n I’m sorry. How many times do I need to say it till you forgive me?”

“Please leave me alone Joe.”

“Y/n please you’re my best friend.”

“Maybe I’m tired of being your friend.”

“You. You don’t mean that.”

“I- I can’t be your friend Joe.”

“Y/n stop. Tell me what’s wrong”

“I have to go.”

You walked away as tears started to stream down your face.

“I THINK I LOVE YOU Y/N.”

You froze, too shocked to move. Finally you pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. You’ve wanted to hear those words out of his mouth since last year. When you met it was love at first sight. You finally turn around and see tears on his face as well.

“I-I, have feelings for you Joe.”

“Then please stay even if we’re just friends. If we date and things don’t work out. I can't lose you.”

“Why would you date me?”

“Because as I stated I think I have feelings for you. Hell, I think I love you. Please let me take you on a date. One date is all I ask.”

“One date if things don’t go well l then friends.”

“Deal”

A smile appears on both of your faces.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a while”

You stared at him dumbfounded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid you didn’t feel the same. But seeing you almost walk out my life I knew I needed to tell you. You deserved to know at least.”

“Joe, how could you have thought I didn’t feel the same? I’ve been falling for you since Marr introduced you to me.”

You both laugh realizing you could have been together since last year.

“Let’s get out of here. Also you owe me an answer still.”

He grabbed your hand as he dragged you out of the building.

“Of course you’d remember.”

“The girl I'm pretty sure I'm in love with was crying, of course I remember.”

“I was crying cause that was the last time I’ll ever see you in a tigers uniform. The last time you and Marr will play together. The last time you and Justin will play together.” You paused. “The last time I might ever get to see you do what you love. At least in person because you're going to the nfl.”

“Y/n I’m not leaving you! I’m going to call you every night from wherever I’m drafted to. You’ll be at some of my games I know, I’ll even save the tickets for you Ja’marr and Myla.”

“Okay I am totally in love with you.”

Joe leans in.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes”

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🐈‍⬛ Queer Witchlit for Spooky Season

✨ Witch please (add these witch reads to your TBR, perfect for spooky season)! Posting this from my first Pride!!

🧹 Spells to Forget Us - Aislinn Brophy 🧹 Reverie - Ryan La Sala 🧹 The Witch Boy - Molly Knox Ostertag 🧹 Carry On - Rainbow Rowell 🧹 Practical Rules for Cursed Witches - Kayla Cottingham 🧹 Spell Bound - F.T. Lukens

✨ This Spells Disaster - Tori Anne Martin ✨ All the Bad Apples - Moïra Fowley-Doyle ✨ Her Majesty's Royal Coven - Juno Dawson ✨ A Marvellous Light - Freya Marske ✨ Runaways - Rainbow Rowell ✨ Mortal Follies - Alexis Hall

🐈‍⬛ Blood Debts - Terry J. Benton-Walker 🐈‍⬛ The Scapegracers - H. A. Clarke 🐈‍⬛ So Witches We Became - Jill Baguchinsky 🐈‍⬛ Three Dark Crowns - Kendare Blake 🐈‍⬛ B*WITCH - Nancy Ohlin and Paige McKenzie 🐈‍⬛ Remedial Magic - Melissa Marr

🧹 Witchlight - Jessi Zabarsky 🧹 The Dark Tide - Alicia Jasinska 🧹 Coven - Jennifer Dugan & Kit Seaton 🧹 Payback's a Witch - Lana Harper 🧹 These Witches Don't Burn - Isabel Sterling 🧹 Toil & Trouble: 15 Tales of Women & Witchcraft - Various

✨ Mooncakes - Suzanne Walker & Wendy Xu ✨ Summer of Salt - Katrina Leno ✨ The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea - Maggie Tokuda-Hall ✨ Basil and Oregano - Melissa Capriglione ✨ The Once and Future Witches - Alix E. Harrow ✨ Spell on Wheels - Kate Leth

🐈‍⬛ An Academy for Liars - Alexis Henderson 🐈‍⬛ Over My Dead Body - Sweeney Boo 🐈‍⬛ Wild and Wicked Things - Francesca May 🐈‍⬛ A Sweet Sting of Salt - Rose Sutherland 🐈‍⬛ The Last Sun - K. D. Edwards 🐈‍⬛ The Witches of New York - Ami McKay

🧹 The Midnight Girls - Alicia Jasinska 🧹 The Witchery - S. Isabelle 🧹 The Spells We Cast - Jason June 🧹 Now, Conjurers - Freddie Kölsch 🧹 Cemetery Boys - Aiden Thomas 🧹 That Self-Same Metal - Brittany N. Williams

✨ The Honey Witch - Sydney J. Shields ✨ Wild Beauty - Anna-Marie McLemore ✨ The Invocations - Krystal Sutherland ✨ Improbable Magic for Cynical Witches - Kate Scelsa ✨ Flowerheart - Catherine Bakewell ✨ Snapdragon - Kat Leyh

🐈‍⬛ Labyrinth Lost - Zoraida Córdova 🐈‍⬛ The Witches of Silver Lake - Simon Curtis 🐈‍⬛ Sweet & Bitter Magic - Adrienne Tooley 🐈‍⬛ Witches of Ashes and Ruin - E. Latimer 🐈‍⬛ Edie in Between - Laura Sibson 🐈‍⬛ When We Were Magic - Sarah Gailey

[necros-writing-stuff]

Hi Necro I’m the anon that sent the ask abt the batboys and JayTim to Inky and I love that you just now posted that lil JayTim snippet about them being horny and unhinged 🫶 It could not have come at a better time bc I was also just reading another trans!Tim JayTim fic where they’re banging to the point of busting Tim’s stitching and making him bleed :)

Needless to say this is a wonderful night, you and Inky are glorious, more unhinged JayTim (or other batcest) pls? 🙏🥰

Hehehe hello friend, of course we can have more.

Summary: Tim feeling out of place in the Batfamily but Jason's affection fills him with a deep "selfish" need. No smut, just Tim's mental illness making him think he's bad for wanting a place and affection.

'Did the Lazarus Pit only heal his mind or did Jason get vivisected after?'

A common thought had by any Bats who see him in a medical cot, half delirious on fear toxin with bandaged broken ribs he got after falling torso first onto a fire escape railing.

The scars are so angry, the Y shape looking more like a claw tore through the former Robin's skin rather than a scalpel smoothly separating each layer. It is not the only scar, no. The ring finger on his left hand is twisted and gnarled, the fingernail missing and nailbed ruined. A blade had knicked his lip, healing so that the scar pulls it up into a sneer. Lash marks marr his back.

Tim can't look at Bruce right now. Can't look at Dick or Alfred. He's thankful that Babs isn't here, too. He can't handle the guilt weeping out of everyone's pores - the continued grief for a boy gone when there's a man laying before them. He's handled their grief, Bruce's especially, for years now. And he's tired.

Damian is the only one who seems unaffected, though whether it is because battered bodies were common in the League or he and Jason 'forgot' to mention that they already know each other due to Talia, no one can say.

He should leave. Tim knows he should leave, give the family some room to help the lost son in his time of need. They don't need the cuckoo chirping for sustenance, even when the balm he craves is to comfort the lost son, too. Not that Jason would accept comfort readily.

He can't leave. Not when, right at the moment he pulls away, Jason's hand flies out and clings to his wrist almost hard enough to break it. It's a sight to see, the big bad Red Hood clinging to Red Robin's arm as though he'll disintegrate if he lets go.

Tim sits on the edge of the cot. He lets Jason's arms draw around his waist, his head on his lap as incoherent muttering is muffled by the fabric of his armour.

Over a decade ago, Tim had snuck into the night with a camera and a beating excitement in his chest. He'd spent his nights hiding among the shadowed places of Gotham's rooftops, snapping photo after photo of Batman and Robin. Dick's Robin.

When Robin stopped flying, he had felt a note missing in those heart beats. When a new Robin lept over him, he briefly thought that he should hate him. Instead, his heart only beat harder. His lense focused on the bird more and more, leaving Batman to the unfocused shadows once again. A distraction. That's what Robin does. And he did, Jason distracted Tim so well.

Jason was Tim's Robin. His chosen favourite. Here, in the cold medical bay of the cave, Jason has chosen Tim. Not his dad, not his big brother, not his grandfather, not the blood son, or the daughter, not any other. Tim.

Tim knows that he is selfish. He knows he's the fake in the family portrait, the false son. Yet, maybe it's okay for his fingers to card through Jason's hair, to feel beneath the greasy locks for even more hidden scars, and ease those panicked mutters into whimpered murmurs.

He almost forgets everyone else is sat at that bedside. Almost forgets wide-eyed glances that flick over to him. To his neck, his scar, that the very man he comforts gave to him.

He almost forgets to disguise the prideful smile drawing his lips up into a softer, more caring expression.

He'll have to get into the caves security cameras and save the video of this after.

[soft-girl-musings]

An Unexpected Proposition (pt. 1)

based on this prompt from @imaginexhobbit, previously submitted under @jawn-i-made-coffee

cross-posted to ao3

part 2

Kíli x fem!Reader

tags: mentions of blood/injury, Reader is described as tall (by human standards), Y/N is used

wc: 1,615

fic summary: An injured dwarf appears on your doorstep. Do you grant him sanctuary on this stormy night?

A/N: posting this is totally self-indulgent and very out of left field for this blog but idc, we just reached 800 ao3 hits on this bad boy (some days we blog for the younger self anyway). I submitted this from my high school blog and revamped it in 2020, might flesh it out beyond pt 2 if the muse strikes.

Thunder and lightning seem to battle for superiority in the storm, chasing heavy torrents North. The evening is dark and damp, but you don’t mind. Your cottage is as safe a haven as any. You sit before your hearth, fire blazing as you bury yourself beneath several blankets, a mug of tea warming your lap. Nothing could ruin your cozy evening alone.

As if on cue, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminates the windows. A bloodied man’s face is pressed against the glass, his lips moving incoherently. You stifle a scream. In an instant you have your sword in hand and cloak about your shoulders, ready to face your intruder. Throwing the door open, you strike a defensive stance and scan the property. To your right, you see that it is no man at all, but a dwarf bleeding out in your garden. Dark hair clings to his face, bruised and battered. Blood marrs his complexion as rainwater drenches him. Before you can speak, the dwarf doubles over and begins to heave into your prized rose bush. You grimace.

"Please," he rasped, "please, I ask for sanctuary." His knees give way with the last syllable. You manage to catch him before he falls into the mud.

"I’ve got you, sir dwarf." Propping him up, you guide him inside. "Poor thing, you're soaked to the bone."

His small frame would not have been so heavy if not for his copious belongings. The dwarf seemed to have packed for a long journey, which had somehow led him to your door. You stumble over to the kitchen and deposit him in a chair, his head lolling to one side. You pour a cup of water and help him drink.

“Thank you,” he manages to rasp after downing a second glass. Life seemed to be returning to him already. “I do not mean to be a bother.”

You tilt your head quizzically. “If anyone’s bothered, sir dwarf, it’s you. Come, let me help you--” you assist him in his efforts to remove his belongings from his weary shoulders. He shivers fiercely, but does not refuse your help.

You notice how cold and pale he is. “Best not to strain yourself… let me start a bath for you. Your wounds need to be cleaned before they are dressed.”

You hand him a blanket and lead him to a partition in the next room. “Here, you can wrap yourself in this while I start the water.” The dwarf removes his outer layers and complies, his dark eyes never leaving you as you begin the tedious task of hauling numerous pots of hot water to the tub.

“Why are you helping me?” he finally asks, his face growing more puzzled with each trip you make.

You stop in your tracks, offering a shrug. “Because you asked.”

With that, you leave him to his bath.

You gather the dwarf’s wet clothing and lay each article in front of the still-warm stove. On the other side of the table lay his daypack and weapons. You hadn’t taken the time to inspect them before: the dwarf had been carrying archery equipment, numerous knives, and a shortsword. You examine each piece with reverence. The dwarves were renowned for their craftsmanship in the forges, but you had never seen proof of their handiwork until this moment. The blades were smaller than any you were used to, expertly fashioned with intricate detail.

"Like what you see, then?"

You jump at the sudden voice, dropping a knife. The dwarf had come out dressed in the shirt and trousers you had laid out for him. He stands by the fire, drying his hair.

"I was just admiring your weapons, sir-"

"Kíli."

You nod. "(Y/N)." You notice the color has already returned to his skin and his cuts were clean. He had looked much worse before; in the light of the fire, he was almost handsome. "Feeling any better?"

"Oh, loads. I cannot thank you enough for taking me in." He grins, and you can’t help but follow suit.

"What were you doing out there? Facing that storm as you were seemed like a deathwish."

"I had the misfortune of running into some bad company at your tavern." His body fell heavily into a chair by the fireplace.

"I'm afraid the locals do not take kindly to dwarves," you say with an apologetic smile, standing to join him in your earlier seat. "What are you doing so far West? Your people are native to the mountains, I was led to believe."

You realize how young the dwarf was when his face breaks out in another eager grin. "I'm on a quest. I was on my way to Hobbiton."

You lean forward, intrigued. "The Shire? What kind of quest concerns the halflings?"

Kíli tells you of his Uncle's plan to reclaim Erebor for the dwarves. He makes sure to highlight how dangerous the task may prove to be. You try to hide your amusement, but your shaking shoulders and involuntary simper do not escape your companion's eye.

Kíli crosses his arms. "Is something funny?"

You wipe a tear from your cheek. "I'm sorry, but you look like you've seen nary a battle in all your days."

"What, like you have, lass?" he scoffs, nodding toward your sword propped by the door. "I'll bet you've never laid a hand on that weapon of yours until tonight."

Your expression darkens. "Watch your words, sir dwarf. I have seen and spilt more blood than you would care to believe."

Kíli shrinks back in his chair. "Y-yeah? When?" Even under correction, his excitement could not be diminished.

You tell him of your past days as a soldier. Having always been tall for your age, you had cut your hair and enlisted in a male disguise when you were barely sixteen. You regale him with tales of the lands you had seen and battles you fought as a young woman among hardened men. The fading storm is the perfect backdrop for your stories; in truth, it had been a long time since you'd been able to talk about your fighting days, and you revel in the drama of the moment. Kíli clings to your every word, apparent awe and admiration dancing across his features. Many hours and cups of tea pass between you before you conclude your saga, the fire having long since died down.

You yawn. Dawn was but a few hours away. "It's late. You must leave in the morning, I assume?"

"Yes, I have to get back on the road."

You stand and stretch your aching muscles. "We should both get to bed, then. I have an extra room you're welcome to." You hold out your hand. "Goodnight, Kíli."

Kíli rises and takes your hand, but instead of shaking it as you intended, he leans forward and kisses the back of it. Your face grows warm at the surprising softness of his lips. "Goodnight, (Y/N)."

He turns to leave, but stops and looks back at you.

"(Y/N)?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave that kind of life? You spoke so fondly of your time in service."

You give a sad smile. "Let’s just say it wasn’t by choice." You begin to walk to your bedroom, but Kíli grabs your hand as you pass.

"If you had the chance, would you go back?"

You squeeze his hand and wink. "In a heartbeat."

__________

"What's all this, then?" You laugh. From the looks of it, Kíli had been cooking a small feast since before dawn.

"Good morning, my lady!" Kíli wipes his hands on a cloth and bows with great bravado. "I hope you don't mind me raiding your larder. I wanted to express my gratitude for your generosity." He takes your hand and leads you to the head of the table, fixing your plate once you sit down.

"You really didn't have to do this."

"Ah, 'course I did! I'd have drowned if it wasn't for you."

You spend the morning laughing and eating your way through the meal with Kíli, realizing how much you will miss his company in the days ahead. He’s been a refreshing change of pace for the simple monotony you’d build for yourself. As you wash the dishes after your meal, you notice he is dressed in his clothes from last night, weapons and bag secured to his back.

"All set, then?" You know your face betrays you, but you don’t care if he knows how sad you are. You had gained a friend last night.

"Not quite." He practically bounds up to your side, that familiar grin plastered onto his features. "I have something to ask of you."

You set down the plate you had been scrubbing. "And what's that?"

"Will you join me? On my quest, I mean?" His face is radiant with expectation and excitement.

You busy yourself with another dish, shaking your head. “Kíli, I’m not quite sure what to say-"

"Say yes! (Y/N), you told me yourself that you missed your old life. This would be the perfect chance for you to reclaim it!"

Despite all logic, you realize how right he is. Some small but powerful part of you had longed to be on the road with him when he spoke to you last night. You knew it was rash, but your heart was already pumping from the mere mention of excitement, aching to get out in the world once more. The quiet life you had been leading was nice, but it paled in comparison to the journey Kíli now offered. You craved adventure. When else would you have the opportunity to taste it?

"I'll have my things packed within the hour."

__________

A/N: you ever feel an old hyperfixation staring you down, threatening to return if you look at it too long? that might be happening again. only time will tell.

tysm for reading!

[di-writes-stuff]

Sad Beautiful Tragic

Phillip Graves x Reader

A/N: I need to write more angst in a way I can’t quite describe.

TW: References to Graves betrayal and all that entails. War stuff, canon typical violence, suggestions of smut but no real descriptions. No happy end.

Summary: In which you look back on your relationship with Graves during his court hearing.

“Hang up, give up, and for the life of us we can’t get up.”

I hate him.

You’ve been forcing yourself to remember that for the past few hours. Watching that damn bastard, the sly smirk on his face every time he knows he’s winning the case. The same one you used to find endearing, now just puts a pit in your stomach that makes you wish you hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning.

You could scream. You want to scream, about how it’s not fair, about how you could’ve loved him, how you did love him. You want to pound your fists against the ground, throw the cup clenched in your hand at his stupid, handsome face. Marr it until you don’t feel that nagging, instinctive affection every time you see him.

The one that quickly fades—for the most part—when you remember what he did. That he prioritized being Shepherd’s little bitch over his comrades.

Over you.

Anger’s powerful. It’s a great, if not the greatest motivator in the world. But coupled with passion? With a love so fierce you would have died for it?

That burns. Drips through you like hot acid at any reminder of betrayal from the trusted.

And that is exactly what you feel when you look at him. The hurt comes first. The shell shock from what he did that still hasn’t quiet faded. Then the anger, and then the melancholy. The kind of animalistic need to get back to how it was before he ruined it. The clawing, desperate kind of fight you’re waging everyday just to believe the lie you think yourself to sleep with.

I hate him.

And yet, it always seems to end the same. The glaring correction at the end that you can’t admit to anybody around you, or yourself.

I miss him.

Overwhelmingly. Painfully. It keeps you up at night. It exhausts you in the day. It separates you from every other member of the task force. Because they can do it. They can hate him for what he did without a second thought.

It’s not as if they don’t see it. The tears that pinprick the corners of your eyes every time his name comes up. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise. From the very start, he’d been chasing you, and you were standing still.

For what felt like the hundredth time today, you were laughing. Smiling. Happy, really, truly happy. All thanks to Phillip Graves.

From what everybody said, you’d really hadn’t thought you’d like him very much. Cocky, horribly flirtatious, stubborn, and risky as all hell. All true, of course. Although, from where you were standing, it seemed like the whole “flirt” part was understated, extremely.

A smirk played on his lips as he stood just too close to you at the control panel of the helicopter, breath fanning over your neck as you drop yet another bomb onto the currently empty base. The mission was simple enough, bomb the enemy base, wipe all their supplies, intel, everything. Without anybody around to retaliate.

Well, it was supposed to be simple. You’ve found focusing has become quite difficult with constant flirtatious praises falling from the lips of the man behind you. “Atta girl.” His voice is husky behind you, a soft chuckle leaving him as you exhale shakily at his comment.

You’re sure you’ll get plenty of shit for this back at base, after all, you aren’t trying very hard to disguise how much you’re enjoying this. At the very least you manage to respond to this comment rather than the breathy laughter he’s been receiving. “You wanna take over? I wouldn’t wanna take all the credit.” You force yourself to meet his eyes, ignoring the way your stomach flips when he smiles at you.

“I think I’ll let ya have this one, doll.” The pet-name sends you snapping your eyes back to the control panel, trying to calm the vivid blush spreading across your face. The self satisfied smirk on his face only growing wider at your response. You clear your throat, your words coming out a bit shaky. “Very generous, Commander.”

He leans in a bit closer, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Oh, I always am.” The suggestion held in those words sends heat pooling in your stomach, the skin he barely even grazed burning after his touch. Later, he’ll give some proof to that statement.

And God, he was telling the truth.

Your attention is suddenly brought back to the court in front of you, and you’re back in reality. Snatched away from the pretty memory you’d allowed yourself to live in for just a moment. From before he did what he did. Before he ruined everything.

The judges question sends a hush over the room, the one everybody had been waiting to hear Phillip’s answer to. “Did you act on those orders, Mr. Graves?”

Your breath hitches in your throat as you remember that night. Those orders, the ones to kill you and every other member of the 141. The warnings he’d tried so hard to give you, without ever really telling you the truth. Phillip Graves was not the pleading kind, but for you? He’d do it. He did do it.

“Please, baby, I’m begging you. Don’t do this job.” He asked for what felt like the millionth time, trying to keep quiet as to not be heard through the thin walls on base.

When he’d asked to come over, you’d thought it was for the normal reasons. Apparently not, because rather than tangled under bedsheets, you two were fighting over his strange request that you didn’t understand in the slightest.

“Phillip, I have a job, I’m gonna do it.” Your voice is stern, unyielding to his pleas. You can’t help but feel unnerved by the look in his eyes that looks an awful lot like terror. Pure, unbridled fear that he refuses to explain to you.

He takes your hands in his, kneeling down to be eye level with you as you sit on the edge of your bed. His eyes are bloodshot, supposedly from crying. Something you’d never seen the man in front of you do. “Please, sweetheart.”

“I can’t have you on this job.”

Except you were on that job. There to see the horror in his eyes as he realized that along with everybody else, he’d have to betray you too. That he’s have to ruin everything you had.

You still remember the way you’d screamed at him that night, as Ghost dragged you away into the temporary safety the city provided.

“I hate you.”

The words that were ripped from your throat by him, the ones you never wanted to say, but you did. The ones you couldn’t convince yourself of anymore. You’re not even sure if they were true then. Although, you think you come close to it as you hear him answer the judge.

“No…Absolutely not, sir.” Gasps and whispers sound throughout the court, but the only thing you hear is his words repeated over and over in your mind. You try to find the lie, to find some loophole to make his claim false.

But the worst part is, he’s telling the truth. He didn’t kill you, nobody in the 141 was dead, or even seriously injured. Soap walked away with a few new scars, but that was about it.

He didn’t act on the orders.

It should make you feel better, that technically, he refused. That maybe, you could forgive him. But you know you won’t. You know you can’t. Not after all this. Not after the things he made you feel in such rapid succession.

First, love. Burning hot passion that took over your every thought. Then hatred, feigned or otherwise. Then grief as Soap came back with the news that Graves was KIA. Everybody still remembers the way you’d sobbed, animalistic gasps for air coming up from your throat as tears poured from your eyes. They’d heard it all from the closet you locked yourself in. But at the very least they’d had the decency to pretend they didn’t.

Now, you don’t even know what you feel towards him. You can’t exactly say you don’t still love him. Not honestly, at least. A part of you hates him, but not enough to make it true. Not enough to deny the relief that flooded you once you saw him in front of you that day, breathing, whole, alive.

It took every bit of strength in you not to react as he walked into view on the call with Shepherd. That same smirk on his face that never seemed to leave fully, but faltered a bit as his eyes landed on you. You, who stood seemingly emotionless, you who prayed he couldn’t see the tears forming in your eyes over the call.

You, who couldn’t take it anymore as he cracked the same kinds of jokes that used to make you laugh as he whispered them to you in the middle of the night, your head laying on his chest. Everybody noticed the way his smile dropped for a second as you stormed out of the hangar. Because despite his own ego, despite his constant need to please, the only approval he ever wanted was your own.

It’s the same reason now that he risks turning around to look at you, to see if any hint of approval, or even love still lingers in your eyes.

The same reason his heart shatters as he sees what he’s been dreading this whole time. Hatred, written all over your face as you stare him down. Of course, he’s oblivious to the war being waged inside you just to keep your expression still. To the way his eyes locking with yours still sends shivers running down your spine. Memories flooding back of his hands on your body, his eyes locked with yours as hushed, strained whispers fall from his mouth in between groans.

You don’t even think he realized he’d said it that night, too focused on the feeling you gave him to even notice the words he was saying. It wouldn’t be outlandish to think he hadn’t meant it. To think it just slipped out in the midst of his euphoria, triggered only by the high you were both so rapidly approaching.

Although, now that memories are all you’ll ever allow yourself to have of him, you like to believe he meant it. That deep down, those whispered words were true, unlike the ones you’ve been trying to convince yourself of.

“I love you.”

A/N: Sometimes I’m writing and it’s just like lalalala silly little angsty fanfic 😇✍️ and then all of a sudden this deep, grumbly little demon voice pops up out of nowhere, a single word accompanying it.

👹dick👹

digital footprint goes wild.

- di <3

[the-tomato-patch]

Darr Marr from KOTET: Wrath & Ruin

[missycolorful]

there is silence after the storm (the silence isn't all that quiet)

Hello! This is my my gift for @xexpaguette for the @technoblade-gift-exchange !!! I really hope you enjoy! :D It's also available to read on Ao3!

----

The air is bitter cold and electric, tinged with the remarkably copper-esqe scent of blood.

Another body folds and collapses onto the ground with a resounding thud. Towering over the fallen soldier, Technoblade shifts the weight of his ax from one hand to the other. Grace with a lull in the chaos, he tilts his head and lifts up his cape. Blood of the enemy stains the fabric, and—

Techno clicks his tongue in disdain. "Aww, what—bruh, I just stitched this this morning,” Techno complains to the lifeless corpse at his feet as he gestures a new tear that swipes through his cape. “Next time, can your buddies aim right and not ruin my stitch work? Kay, thanks.”

A gust of wind brushes across his back in a way that feels more like a reassuring pat on the back. Laughter rings through the sky, delighted in a sick way given the gruesome remains of the battlefield. Philza lands with a graceful flap of his wings.

“They fuck up your cape already? You worked so hard on it, too,” Phil laments, though with a teasing look on his face. Behind him, a man sprints toward the pair, but neither of them flinch. In swift motions, Phil tightens his grip of his sword handle, and strikes in the space under his armpit without even turning around. The sword pierces through the soldier’s abdomen. Phil’s smile doesn’t waver, and he continues to speak over the last blood-filled, guttural noises of the soldier in the snow, “Really inconsiderate of ‘em.”

“Exactly. See, these guys had it comin’.” 

Over a hill in the fair distance, Technoblade watches a crowd of men rallying, waving a banner that certainly does not proclaim the Antarctic Empire . Thereafter, the men descend down the hill, but the remains of the army splits slightly, attempting to take on the emperors in opposite directions. They look like ants from this far. Fitting. 

Phil casts a glance at the approaching armies. He clicks his tongue. “Alright, I'm just gonna say it. I’m almost glad these fuckers invaded us. There were, like, five meetings in a row planned today, and man, would that have sucked!”  

“Yeah, I dunno what we were thinking then, aside from ‘Ah, that’s future Technoblade and Philza’s problem!’,” Techno mutters as the faint roar of the crowd grows nearer. Their shoulders tense up, postures straightening. “Yeah, no, this is way more fun.” 

“Though the cleanup, not so much,” Phil says, lips pulled back in a grimace. Surrounding them is a macabre arrangement of corpses. Most of the snow has become a spectrum from pink-ish to the darkest of reds from the blood spilt like the rainfalls of hell. 

The battlecries of the approaching enemies has become thunderous, though Technoblade is not deterred for even a moment. The co-emperors bump shoulders, backs against one another. Phil’s wings spread wide, visible even in Techno’s peripheral, as black as the void Itself. Bloodstains that are most certainly not Phil’s marr the angel’s otherwise pristine feathers. They look as sharp as blades, ready to slice through delicate skin. Though their sharpness can only be matched with the ax in Technoblade’s clutches paired with Techno’s boundless strength.

One of the soldiers approaches, brave in the most foolish of ways. He screams, a sword raised to spear through Technoblade’s heart. Over his shoulder, he can hear the horrific screams of men falling at Philza’s behest. The man in front of Technoblade never makes so much as a dent in Techno’s armor.

Technoblade stands tall, intimidating to anyone who hasn’t seen him grumbling and with bedhead in the early morning. The soldier freezes, paralyzed like a prey caught in the clutches of a ruthless predator. 

Technoblade raises his ax, ready to strike into the poor man’s skull. He heaves it over his head in an arc and —

And Technoblade strikes the earth with his somewhat rusted hoe. He carves into the freshly raked dirt, dragging his tool until it forms a single neat line. The harsh sun beats down as he works, his head and face veiled by a sunhat the woman at the accessory shop in town offered to him on one of their first visits.

After quickly watering the freshly picked area, Techno kneels onto the grass. He picks out the tomato seeds he recently bought and sets them in a straight line down the drill. The earth is cool against his skin as he buries the seeds a bit. Dirt catches on his hooved appendages. It's refreshing, in a way. With a final pat, he flattens the dirt over the seeds, soothing over the coarse lines.

With the seeds prepared for growth, Technoblade sits back for a moment. He wipes the sweat dripping over his brow. There’s a serene warmth in the air, comforting but something he still needs to adjust to. The colder environments, the arctic, the tundra, they always called to him, like an instinct that leads you home. But here, the spring and summers are warm. The change is good, he thinks.

He brushes his dirt-caked hands over his patched up work pants. The rest of his crops are gradually growing, this early in the summer. The orange heads of the carrots are beginning to reveal themselves from the depths of the earth. The zucchini will take some time, as well, just planted earlier this week. Soon enough, though, the garden will thrive, and the thought alone is satisfying.

As he begins to stand, there’s a strain in his back. He arches his body to crack the tense muscles. As he stretches, somewhere in the corner of his vision, there’s a flicker of movement. He stiffens, and the voice immediately soar through his skull. Danger, danger, someone’s here! His heart thuds, blood pounding in his eardrums.

Before he can retrieve his ax, however, the sight of a small creature trotting across the top of the fence quells his nerves. He groans into his hand. A cat roams over his front yard so casually, without a care in the world. Like it owns the fence.

“Hullo,” he greets it automatically, despite never receiving a response back. 

It flicks its tail in response. Rude. 

He grabs a bowl from inside the house, fills it with water, and places it on the ground close to where the cat now comfortable sits. 

This same stray pops up now and again, just wandering the outskirts of town or sneaking inside buildings within town, as well. No one ever minds, as it never causes trouble. Though no one has laid claim on it yet, apparently.

It has black and white fur. Its front paws are pure white, and pure black for its back paws. 

With a slight pang in his chest, he wonders how Ranboo is doing. 

He hasn’t gotten the chance to see the kid since he was revived. All he knows is that Ranboo now lives in the depths of the Nether, living peacefully with his son.  I need to visit sometime, Technoblade silently declares. There’s a lot he needs to say, he feels. And maybe a hug or two is in order. 

But that’s for another day. For now, the rest of his plants call to him, begging to be watered lest the sun dry them up. He grabs the watering can and gets to work. 

❁❁❁ 

Among the swirling rational thoughts telling him against otherwise, despite the reminders from Technoblade, Philza still looks at the woman in her fifties standing on the other side of the counter with a sneer, and he thinks, I could take her in a fight.

Hey, it’s not his fault that the woman selling quality bread is scamming this town. Three loaves of bread for four emeralds! He’s certainly not going to put up with any of that. Even if she refuses to budge on her pricing. Even though no one else in town seems to have the same thoughts as he. 

But the market is crowded today, with many eyes ready to lock on if Phil starts anything. So he bites his tongue, and he keeps his arms to his sides. He takes the deal, grabs the bread, and walks away before she decides to raise the prices on him once more.

The bread was the last thing on their short list of food to grab from the market today. So it is when the town’s market is thriving most, crowds gathering to take great advantage of deals on food and trinkets, that Philza looks at the filled basket in his arm and thinks, Alright, I’m getting the fuck outta here before I get us banned from the market.

He was never one for crowds, never will be. His wings remain tightened against his back. Restraining them is like a chokehold sometimes, but he eventually maneuvers through the crowd of people. He just wants to go back home, in the middle of the woods with his best friend and with enough space to spread out his aching wings. 

Philza only stops when he comes across a cart selling pastries. The lady who owns the bakery stands behind the cart with a bored countenance. He forgets her name at the moment; he’s always been kind of shit at remembering names. Fresh looking muffins and pies, the sort, are sitting on the cart, begging to be sold.         

Every time he passes by the woman’s shop, he can’t help but think that Niki would enjoy the place, maybe even make improvements here and there, ever the determined. She’d have liked it here, maybe…

“Tilly, mind your manners!” 

Phil blinks. Behind him stands a sheepish little girl, who scurries behind the pastry counter. Before he can voice his confusion, the pastry woman clears things up. “Sorry, lad, we don’t see a lotta winged folk ‘round these parts, so she’s very interested in ya.” She shakes her head. “Not that that means you can grab a person’s feathers like that, Tilly. ‘S rude.” 

“S-Sorry!” a soft voice calls out.

And as the realization of what happened crashes down, Philza brushes it off with a wave and a laugh, trying to hide the disappointment settling in his stomach. Before, he had always been on top of watching over his back and everywhere else around him. No one ever approached his back and made it out alive unless he allowed it. And to think, now a kid can simply come up, pull at the feathers of his ruined wing, and he would’ve been none the wiser if her mother didn’t pipe up. 

It’s just a damn kid, relax, he tries to tell himself, because this is merely a mole he’s making a mountain out of, isn’t it? It’s nothing. It’s whatever.

At least the woman, who perhaps sensed his discomfort, offers him a deal on her treats if he buys anything, which he does. Some blueberry muffins and some danish pastries. Sweets weren’t on the list for today, but, well… fuck it.

“Saw you ready to deck it out with Beatrice earlier,” says the pastry woman with a smirk as he turns to leave. “Careful, she packs a mean punch. I’m not saying she could take you in a fight, but…”

“Oh, my god,” Phil says, losing the fight with himself to contain a grin. He snickers. “Please don’t tempt me. We wanna make a good impression around here. You know, not cause trouble or anything."

The woman’s smile becomes more genuine. “Don’t worry about that. You and the pig lad seem like good folk. Town’s certainly talkin’ a bit, but rest assured, it’s plenty of good word bein’ spread.”

The assurance isn't needed, but Phil gives her a kind smile anyway. With a nod, Phil leaves with an overflowing basket, and he walks out of town just before the sun begins to set.

Down the road, a crow soars by, calling out with a low caw, calling out to him. He slows to a stop and watches the bird glide by. It flaps its wide yet dirty feathers as it flies toward a nearby tree for landing… only to smack directly into a branch with a much louder thud than Philza thought possible.

“Jesus christ!” Phil exclaims, hiding his shock-filled laughter behind his fist. 

The bird catches itself in the air before it can fall to the ground and further add to its embarrassment. Philza approaches to the bird and offers his arm for perching purposes, rather than letting the bird risk another rough landing. 

“Dumbass,” Phil mutters to it with a teasing glint to his eyes. Upon latching its claws on Phil's cloth, the bird’s feathers fluff up, but the bullying is cut short. There's a note tied to its leg. Phil meets its beady little gaze. “What’cha got there?”

Unsurprisingly, its caws give him no helpful answers. He takes the note without another thought, opens it, and immediately stills when he peeks at the bottom. The name of the writer sits clear in the corner, in messy, cursive scrawl.

Wilbur. 

A nervous smile catches on his lips. A tense feeling settles in his gut, his stomach twisting like he had taken in an expired meal. He tries to swallow it down, tries to reassure himself. After all, the letter doesn’t start out with anything like Fuck you or Never talk to me again, asshole, so that’s good, right? Things are better now. There's no reason to assume the worst. 

“You talked it out,” he reminds himself out loud. The crow chatters, as if in agreement. “Things are okay between you again.” Well, they’re starting to be, Phil mentally adds. Still, he collects his breath. 

He’s still a bit away from home, but he can’t even think of letting this letter sit in his pocket unread for even a bit longer. So he begins to read the letter proper.

Hey, Philza. Dadza. Father Minecraft!

Anyway, I wanted to write just to (there’s some unintelligible words scratched out in pen) I don’t know. Catch up, I guess? It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it? It doesn’t feel like it. My sense of time’s become a bit fucked since limbo, I guess. Haha

I’ll be honest, not much has happened since we were last in touch. It was nice to have you visit, by the way. Still working the same job, still friends with the same people. Nothing extraordinary going on. A part of me can't stand it. Like, I want to do something, you know? B ut I think this is what I need. Somehow. I can’t explain it. Maybe some day it’ll make sense. 

I hope you’re doing alright. Technoblade, too. I’d like to visit in the future. Not soon, but I don’t know, whenever I’m ready. I got to know where the two retired Syndicate members are hiding out this time. Hopefully Techno will stick around long enough for me to visit. I’d like to speak with him. I never got the chance to before shit went down on the server, after all. We got to make amends, but it doesn’t feel like enough, you know? 

Wilbur

Phil sighs and folds the letter back up. He’ll need to grab a pen upon his return home. Though he knows it’ll take him all night to come up with the right words, not wanting to step over any invisible lines or say something stupid that will ensnare around Wilbur's mind like barbed wire. But this is better than he had expected. At least he wants to visit, right? That’s a good thing. 

Hopefully Techno will stick around long enough for me to visit. 

It had always been a joke between them, when Wilbur was younger. Technoblade would stay in town for a few months, then vanish come next morn when he was lured by the need to crush tyranny underneath his worn out boots, or even some espionage a nearby country asked of him. Wilbur had always expressed some form of disappointment when Technoblade was gone for weeks on end, traveling and finding adventure and fun elsewhere, but Philza in turn always reassured his son that he’d return soon. And he always did.

That didn’t make his absence any less disheartening. 

And maybe Technoblade will hear those calls again and go running. Philza can't blame him one bit. How long is Technoblade meant for retirement, after all? It’s just a shame that Phil can no longer trail alongside Technoblade, should he find adventure calling to him once more. No longer could he follow like his friend’s shadow, ready to lunge like a monster unleashed. His wings have become more of an obstacle, more of a distraction, than a favored weapon. His right leg aches when storms arise. He even relies on his cane to hold him steady on the worst of days.

Philza is not suited for the battlefield. Not as well as he used to. And he has accepted this, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

With a somber huff of breath, Phil scratches the top of the crow’s head. “Thanks, mate,” he says before heading back home. He needs to hurry. He’s got a letter to write back, and of course, dinner is soon.

⛯⛯⛯  

Technoblade is finishing moving the extra bale of hay into the horses’ stables that they built on Phil’s side of their set up when Philza makes his presence known. The fence gate creaks as he enters the stables, the basket clutched in his arm filled to the brim.

“Hey, mate,” he says, pushing the gate shut and walking up to his horse. There’s a gentle smile on his face as he pulls out an apple from the basket. His horse snatches it up within seconds, churring noises of content. On the other side, Technoblade’s horse lets out a haughty snort. “Yeah, I’ll get to you, too!”

“Don’t let him feel left out, Phil. I hear horses carry grudges.”

Phil lets out an amused snort and walks over to Carl’s stable. His wings are fully extended, though dragging a bit against the ground. Surely he’ll complain about the dirt that has caught in his feathers the next time he preens. Though, thinking back on their time in the Dream Essempi, Phil had almost always kept them locked securely to his back as if they were chained up, all tense and hidden away from the rest of the world. Too easy for enemies to grab and use to their advantage, Philza had said at one point. So it's nice to see them compared to those days, messy or otherwise. 

“You’re right on time. Food’s just coolin’ off. Made salmon with potatoes and broccoli,” Techno says, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. The window is open, letting the scent of the cooked food drift into the air.

Phil’s face splits open with a smile. His fingers brush through Carl’s mane. “Niiiice, man, smells incredible,” he says. He pats the top of the basket. “I got extra sweets while getting everything else. They weren't on the list, but hey, I was definitely needing this after today.”

“Oh, no, what’d you do?”

Phil sputters. “Bruh! Why’re you assumin’ I’m the problem here?” he asks, feigning offense at the statement. His smile gives him away. “For all you know, I could be the lowly victim in this situation.” 

“Alright, so was it Beatrice again?” Technoblade asks without missing a beat. 

And the way Phil’s nose scrunches up gives Techno the answer he needs. “Honestly, most of the trip was fine. Great, really. But no, I didn’t start a brawl with her in the middle of the market or anything—”

“I literally didn’t even accuse you of that. That just sounds like a self-admittance, really—”

“Okay, so I almost wanted to start a fight with her today, but I didn’t! But the woman who makes the pastries says that she has a mean right hook or something, so maybe it’d be a worthwhile fight,” he finishes with a shrug, as if to say, Why not?

To which Technoblade, well, he can think of at least several reasons.

But still, Techno snorts in amusement, despite his best efforts to keep it in. How Philza, the Angel of Death, has found an opponent in an elderly bread woman, he’ll never know. “Phil, ya tell me some iteration of this story every week, and at this point, I’m expecting her to snap one day and stand by your bedroom door with a chainsaw. Maybe don’t ban us from the bread lady’s market stand, if you can help it. She makes good bread. We like the good bread.”

“Dude, she tried to sell me three loaves of bread for four emeralds! What is that shit?” Phil exclaims in defense of himself. “I’d expect the bread to start doin’ tricks if they’re that expensive, holy shit. She’s puttin’ on a big fuckin’ scam here. If she starts shit again, I’m starting a riot. Savin’ this town from overpriced bread.”

“You’re a true hero, Philza Minecraft,” Technoblade says as they begin to walk back inside his house. He pries through Phil’s basket for a blueberry muffin for a quick bite before dinner. They're a bit too sweet. 

Phil snorts, but as a thought seems to cross his mind, the laughter builds. His shoulders tremble in tandem with his laughter. “Ohhh, my god…” he breathes out between fits of giggles, a hand brushing over his face and coming through his messy hair.

“And oh, how the hero falls into madness so quickly,” Techno narrates with dramatic flair, hand over heart and all.

“Oh, fuck off,” Phil waves him off, his laughter dying down. With a drawn out sigh, he holds open Technoblade's front door. “Just, y’know… retirement’s weird, mate.”

Techno briefly shoots him a look. “You’re telling me,” he whispers in agreement. 

It’s only been a few weeks, not even two months, since they arrived in the outskirts of this insignificant town. It doesn’t feel real sometimes. He swears some days that he’ll wake up the next morning, and when he looks through the window, a permanent winter will embrace the area, and across the way will be a country ruined by his hands. 

But there’s not a country or even a simple town in any nearby vicinity that has been the victim of his destruction. He hasn’t brought any countries to their knees since L’manberg. And it has been well over a year since then, though it feels like lifetimes ago. He feels like a different person since those days. Everything feels different. And that can be a good thing, right?

“How’s the muffin?”

Techno hums. “Good… but they’re not as good as Niki’s, though,” he says, because nothing could compare to the firestarter’s skills. Last they had heard from her, she had found a place to call home on another server, not anywhere near here. But she had sounded content, at peace despite their prior circumstances. Though the Syndicate has been scattered across worlds and landscapes, they’re all happy.

“... Yeah,” Phil says with a forlorn smile. 

At least, he hopes they are.

❁❁❁ 

The chair creaks under his weight as he sits. Phil hands Technoblade a thin blanket as his own sits comfortably across his lap. It’s not terribly cold out, even this late in the evening, but it’s such common practice between them, to sit outside in the middle of the night, warm drinks in hand and swathed in blankets to keep warm. Who is he to break the tradition now, even if they have found shelter in newer, warmer lands?

“Thanks,” Techno mutters, and in turn, hands Phil the cup of coffee he requested.

He never teases Phil for his choice of drink when the sun has long since set. After all, the answer has always been the same:  sleep still doesn’t come easy to Phil anyway. Hasn’t in months (years, really). So with a silent nod in thanks, Phil cups the drink in his hands, the warmth curling into his fingertips.

In the distance, the lights in town are dim. Most of the town is in deep sleep with the exception of a few buildings, likely a tavern or your common night owl working among the resting. Above the, crows perch atop both of their roofs, muffled caws breaking the silence.  

“Wilbur wrote me earlier,” Phil says. He takes a sip of his coffee. He can feel the caffeine already kicking in.

“Oh, yeah?” Techno asks, interest piqued. They left on okay but still uncertain terms, after all. “What’d he say?”

“Ahh, y’know, he’s getting used to living in Utah again. And he’s wanting to visit. Not right now, but in the future, he’d like to.” Phil opts out of mentioning a few details from Wilbur’s letter for his own sake, though he does add, “He mentioned you, actually. He wants to catch up with you.”

Techno pauses, eyebrows furrowed slightly. “You know, that’d be nice, actually. Though, uh, you think he’s actually coming by, hoping to find out that we’re secretly still committing war crimes under the guise of retirement?” he asks, a tiny smirk twitching on his lips. 

Phil snorts behind his fist. “You know, he did mention the fact we’re Syndicate members, so that’s not off the table. ‘S not like we even have anything to hide, so he won’t come up with anythin’!”

“Nothing but vegetables and you feuding with the elderly in town.”

Phil bursts out laughing, because the truth is a funny one. After finding a new home to reside in, they had planned to do just that:  retire. There were no secret conspiracies hidden in their pockets, no destruction blueprints spread out in a table in the basement. Nothing of the sort. The ex-emperors of the Antarctic Empire, the co-founders of the Syndicate, have essentially retired.

Silence settles after a moment, allowing Philza a chance to really take it all in. Even after a few weeks of taking up residence outside of this nothing town, the realization still throws him off at times. They survived the worst parts of the other server, scarred and broken and a bit sleepless. And now they’re just… here. And Techno tends to a garden that will prosper with time. And on his side, he keeps their horses stationed in a safe stable, and the horses are sleeping soundly. Maybe he can start planting flowers in his yard, liven up the place. 

There are no thieves in the night, no greedy hands pilfering Technoblade’s hard work. No, this town seems to mind its own damn business so long as you mind your own. It’s a simple town, with simple people who simply want to enjoy life day-by-day.

Everything is so fucking… simple. 

It’s jarring. 

“You ever feel like you’re just… waiting for something to come and… ruin it?”

Spurred from his thinking, Phil casts Technoblade a concerned look, a brow raised. It seems that they were sharing the same train of thought. “Like what?” Phil asks anyway.

Technoblade shrugs, not meeting his gaze. “Call it whatever. Karma, revenge, what have you. Just one person showing up—”

“Not like they’d do anything. Not against us,” Phil interrupts him, though not unkindly. He sits cross-legged in the chair. The next drink of his coffee soothes his soul. “What, they gonna take a knife and stab your rutabagas?”

“Not the rutabagas, Phil. What’d they do to you?” Techno asks, feigning an aghast look.

Phil grins. “Don’t worry, man, we’ll get used to it. The whole retirement thing. We-we’re fine out here.” His thumb feels over his cup. “Though I gotta say, I’m a little surprised you’re embracing it so much. Just a little.”

One of Techno’s brows rises. “I dunno, man, you’ve always been the more antsy type. You and your bird instincts.”

“True, true,” Phil concedes with a nod, “but look, loo, you’re always off, traveling and fighting off evil governments and shit. You’ve always had a busy schedule. For fuck’s sake, you missed the server exploding cause of a mission someone gave you!” When he looks down, his coffee cup is empty. His brow twitches, and he forces out a chuckle. “I'm just saying, I’m sure you’ll be gone, beheading shitty corrupt assholes by next month.”

Technoblade doesn’t answer right away, humming as if in thought. Phil internally cringes. What if Techno already has plans to leave soon, even as early as next week? He'll encourage his friend to take the opportunity, but Phil, selfishly, would rather not endure retirement alone... 

“I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon,” Technoblade finally says before Philza can spiral and think over the worst case scenario. When Phil looks at him, Techno stares far off into the forest that looms over the town. His posture slouches. “I’m kinda tired, y’know? And I’ll never admit it to anyone else, but I’m getting older, Phil. Not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon, but I can feel it some days.” He rolls his shoulder. “Definitely can’t swing the ax like the olden days. Not as cool as I used to, at least. ‘Cause, wow, did I love showing off a lot.”

“Aww, mate, you’re still cool,” says Phil, bumping his shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re still terrifyin’ with that ax.”

Techno’s smile grows, but it doesn't match the far off, thoughtful look in his eyes. “I mean, sure, I enjoy traveling sometimes. But really, I like the quiet, the peace, and, you know, being able to breathe without a knife at my neck if I turn the wrong corner,” he finishes in a quieter voice, scratching the nape of his neck. He clicks his tongue. “The voices aren’t even as bloodthirsty as they used to be, I think.”

“Really?”

“Ayup—okay, okay,” Techno retracts with a swift gesture of his hands, “there’s, like, a few smaller voices that sometimes go, ‘Bruhh, go back to the violence, we’re getting bored of this arc here!’” He shrugs. “But I just ignore it. It’s gotten easier to ignore, actually, ‘cause y’know, it’s not what I really want.” He distractedly pulls as a loose string of his sleep shirt. “Maybe I’ll go back and kick the face of some dumb politician, buuut right now, I just wanna relax.” 

“Yeah, you deserve it, after all the shit you went through,” Phil says with a quiet smile. 

Techno’s hand cards through the fur atop his head, but Phil can see the way his appendages freeze momentarily over the gold-lined scar striking down his skull like lightning. “Yeah, looking back… wow that was a lot.” Though Techno manages to belt out a chuckle, it sounds forced, almost like an afterthought.  

Phil, too, lets out a nervous laugh. “Dude, shit was fucked in there.” He weighs his empty cup from one hand to the next. The feeling of the feathers on his back is more prominent. “Got my fucked up wing, my fucked up leg. I can’t fight like the old days, but you’re way better off than me there, so at least you have that,” he adds with a snort, nose scrunched. “I dunno if I’ll be able to join you if you ever leave. Fuck, man, I’d just drag you down—”

“Nooooooo,” Techno cuts him off, placing his hand over the top of Phil’s head, which gets a snort-filled snicker out of Philza, “Stop. You’re doing that thing, Phil. Just stop talking—”

With a smirk, Phil smacks Techno’s hand off of his head. “Fuck’s sake, Techno, you know I’m right—”

“Actually, it’s me who’s always right. But you’re getting old, so I can see where the confusion lies—”

“You really think I can stick by you in battle nowadays without something going to shit? Really?" Phil asks, voice ripe with doubt. 

Technoblade’s face lights up as an idea strikes him like lightning. “We haven’t sparred in a while. We got too busy settling in. I’d hate for us to be rusty, so…” And he’s already standing up, drawing back his shoulders to stretch the muscles with a slight crack. “And maybe then I can convince ya that you’re still good enough to join me on the battlefield.” 

“Right now?” Phil asks with a surprised scoff, but his smile widens. He begins kicking the blanket from off of his lap, discarding it to the floor. “In the middle of the night?” 

“Eh, sure, why not?” Techno response, and well, Philza has nothing to retaliate against that. 

In the end, Technoblade and Philza stand in front of their yards, swords at the ready. Light bleeds out from the lanterns hanging over the fence doors, casting yellow over the dim area. Though the rest of the world lays quiet, the silence is about to be devastated by the sounds of battle and laughter. 

When they lunge and weapons clash, there are genuine smiles on both of their faces.  

[bardicbeetle]

sitd snips - poor timing

He’s in the process of ruining pancakes. It’s not his fault, it’s very clearly the pan, he’s used to non-stick and this is stainless and who the fuck makes pancakes in stainless steel—it gets too hot too quickly and it won’t cool down and the butter keeps burning and the batter keeps sticking—

—but this is a blissfully normal frustration.

So he doesn’t mind.

“Raes, you’re a human disaster.” Carrie chuckles beside him, nudging him gently out of the way with an elbow so she can get at the tray of bacon in the oven.

Isaac smiles back, leaning into the counter to give her space “Well aware of that, thanks. At least I’m still human—for now.”

It’s a joke.

He means it as a joke.

Probably.

Almost definitely.

He’s not thinking at the moment. He’s making terrible pancakes and not thinking about the gaping hole in Alex’s chest upstairs.

And how that is entirely his fault.

It doesn’t matter.

It was a joke.

Carrie still draws her arm back and punches him square in the hip while she’s bent down. She doesn’t even look over from where she’s flipping bacon with a fork. More focused on not getting spattered with hot grease. Aiming only out of the corner of her eye. It lands despite this, and it fucking hurts.

“Christ, Verona—I was kidding—” Isaac’s leg almost wants to buckle from where she hit it, and he makes a mental note not to antagonize his friends now that he’s given them combat lessons. It’s not worth the bruises.

“Not funny, jackass.”

@cjjameswriting / @falling-rivers / @maabonwrites / @blve0 / @inexorableblobb / @blueberrypoptart / @betwixtofficial / @drowsy-quill / @ezwriting / @ofinscriptions / @vaguelyhumanekid / @meatandboneasmr / @h-faith-marr-writeblr / @necros-writings / @poetinprose / @flyingbananasaur / @oldestenemy / @multi-lefaiye / @dotr-rose-love / @abalonetea / @albatris / @incandescent-creativity / @revenantlore / @vampireposter / @outpost51

[m-ilkiee]

Layla I wonder what is your opinion on mikey and izana. Who do you think is more cruel and why

Oh I've actually never been asked this before.

If I want to be honest, I think they are both cruel in their own way on equal terms.

Mikey for example, intentionally drove reader to a secluded spot to assault her. That was his plan all along. But that's not the end of his cruelty. Mikey gaslit reader into assuming she wanted him to assault, without directly telling her it was her fault like Izana does. He did that to mess with her psychologically and effectively took off all the blame and shame associated with his actions from himself and put it on her to carry that burden alone. She lost her job and has insonmia because of Manjiro, to the point she can't even fathom he was at fault. All because he was jealous of her.

Izana is on the other end of the spectrum. Coupled with the blind item, Izana was already hell bent on ruining reader's life no matter what to make her dependent on him. Everything he does is an act of cruelty and anger, especially directed at reader. He wanted to show reader her "place" and destroy her completely by reminding her of her past, as well as marr her purity with filth, to make her feel like human trash until she's a ghost of herself. He did it simply because he wanted to indirectly teach Emma a lesson by punishing her object of interest.

Eventually, both Mikey and Izana will show how cruel they can be in subsequent chapters. But for now, I think the fact they're really hellbent on hurting an innocent person for no reason makes them on equal terms.