#because the building actually used to be an old place of the dead that had to be abolished

[blackkatdraws2]

They like to visit their favorite human every once and a while. [Original Characters]

The building is haunted, but the ghosts get attached to the workers [specifically the older ones who work there.]

The new workers are afraid of encountering them [most probably don't even know they exist and think it's just a rumor] while the older workers are used to them.

They're especially fond of this one guy in particular. He's been working here for 30+ years. They treat him like your indoor cat and he leans into their affection because he's a lonely starved old man who everyone sees as strict and indifferent.

[Note: This affection only extends to the older workers of the haunted building. (New workers have been reported fainting around their presence.) Others will not be treated as nicely. Please keep your distance and notify guards during an encounter.]

[theoxenfree]

IMPOSTER

possessed scholar!husband x reader |3.9k| 18+

In an unforeseen act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family, to a reclusive and reticent scholar who provides you little affection. He is suddenly called away for the handling of his late uncle's final will wishes and estate. He returns to you not himself, and with unquenchable lust.

warnings; dead dove do not eat; extreme dubon, explicit sexual content, mentions of (not explored, not described): orgies, heatplay, robbing a mortuary & drug use, masturbation w/ metal dildo, mirror sex & masturbation, hypnotism, power imbalance, murder, body horror, gruesome imagery, classism, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a concept piece, possibly preluding a full story! if you have any interest in having me build a larger piece out of this concept, PLEASE reblog + interact and let me know! I'm only going to go forward with it if folks express interest!

read to the end for author's notes!

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows.

In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them.

Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe.

She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them.

But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall.

The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; this is heavily inspired from me reading the exorcist, recently. the section with the maid's head swiveled around was a nod to the scene with director having "fallen" from a height and dying similarly. a lot of my most recent reads have been extremely graphic, so my writing has been reflecting that and it's been interesting!

quick q&a!

is father marius dumonde the same father marius from your vampire priest fic? yup! if I go forward with writing the longer story, father marius will be a central character later on, and father shaw will make a reappearance as well.

what would the main differences be in a full story vs just this piece?

a) the husband would be given a more solid identity, appearance, and name. he'd have more depth to build an emotional rapport with his character.

b) existing scenes would be expanded, smut scenes grittier and more graphic, more development between mc and the husband, the maid would have a more important part and given an identity. essentially, most elements from this price would be fleshed out and expanded.

c) I intend to add a "mystery" element to this where mc tries to unveil what happened during the husband's stay at his uncle's estate.

d) I would open up multiple polls to help influence different aspects of the story such as the husband's name, appearance, overall disposition, whether the majority would vote for a happy ending with the husband vs the ending with the demon.

if you're interested in seeing a full story, make sure to reblog and share your thoughts with me!! I'd love to hear feedback on this to know what you'd like to see in the future!

[talekinesis]

I need Stan and Ford to see their mom again

Like let's say she's still alive and in her 80s, she's in a wheelchair (ambulatory, she has customized canes) she still lives in their old home because a part of her hoped Stanford would come back, and she didn't want to leave their home, so he'd know where to go back to.

She wanted to stay put in case Ford came back.

So imagine her shock when both her boys come back home to her

Obviously Stan immediately starts apologizing for faking his death, putting her through grief, her arranging and attending his funeral, but she stops him like "I'd much rather it be fake than real." That's her baby boy, back from the dead, something most people don't get, so to her it's a miracle.

Her Jersey accent is thick, and it actually brings out the twins' accents that had faded over time (Stan's sounds natural to him since he always retained it a little, but everyone finds it funny when Ford's accent comes back because he just doesn't seem like the type to speak like that)

THEY MOVE HER INTO THE SHACK

The boys wanna take care of their mama and keep her around since it's been so long, and Caryn is delighted to be moved out of a loud city with rough memories and into a quiet little town where the people are odd but nice. Ford and Stan both work together to make the Shack accessible for her. Ford actually sat in her wheelchair to test everything and make sure she could get around on her own.

They catch her up on everything, and at first they don't think she'll fully believe them but she's like "Stanford built an international portal and got lost for 30 years? Stanley took his place and turned his home into tourist trap? Yeah, that seems like something my boys would do."

When she learns Stan taught himself engineering to re-build the portal, she's obviously very proud of him. "You were never dumb, Stanley, ya just learned different. Honestly, I always thought ya had A-D-H-D but Pa never wanted ya tested. But look how smart and creative ya turned out, son! I think ya did good." And Stan is definitely not crying.

Personal headcanon: Caryn was also really smart and picked up on things quick. The boys had to have gotten it from somewhere, and it wasn't Filbrick. He just took the credit because 1) he was the worst, and 2) times were different back then and no one would have really taken her seriously. But she's the one who would fix things around the house since she taught herself how to keep the place together and running since Filbrick wouldn't pay anyone to come and repair anything.

Imagine little Stan standing behind her with a flashlight while she fixes the wiring in the wall because an outlet stopped working. Both of the boys helping her while she fixes the car for the third time that week because it keeps breaking down. Mama Pines taught herself how to keep things up and running because no one else would or could.

Caryn meets Mabel and Dipper when they come back in the summer, and Mabel is THRILLED

She's technically met them before but they were still newborns at the time so they don't remember her, and she hadn't gotten a chance to see who they'd become

Mabel makes her a sweater and she wears it with pride. And I really think it would go like that scene from Elemental

Caryn: You made this?

Mabel: Oh, yeah, it's nothing-

Caryn: Nothin? Babygirl, my designer dresses were made by 'nothin.' Oh sweetie, you have got to do somethin' with this skill. And to think, I have an original 'Mabel Pines.'

And don't think I'm leaving Dipper out of this, he gets his great-grandma's attention too. She loves talking to him and listening to him tell stories about the monsters they've encountered in the past. She sees a lot of Ford in him, but she also sees a lot of Stan in him in other ways.

I think Dipper's love for "girly" music is something Stan used to share before Filbrick "disciplined" him for it. Child Stan used to sit in the kitchen with his Ma and sing along to the radio, usually listening to whatever she had put on.

Now all three of them sit in the kitchen and listen to the radio while Stan cooks.

Ford feeling like a failure for putting everyone in danger, and Caryn just goes, "Come talk to your mama." And he does. He goes and talks to his mama, like he always has in the past. She's in her 80s and they're grown men in their late 50s, but she's still their mom, and you never really quit being a mom.

I might actually write a short fic about this, I love it so much.

[itneverendshere]

Just saw the new popular movie ’’This ends with us’’ and I beg of you to draw from the actual beautiful love story, so pure! So same concept of the love story: Pouge!Rafe has been kicked out by his mom and her abusive boyfriend, Kook!Reader sees him homeless & hiding. Reader does small acts of kindness, which builds up to a romance but they separate for whatever reason (could be because they get discovered, he joins the military, like the movie, or something different). It could also be reversed with Pouge!Reader instead being homeless, you pick! Years go by, Reader meets an abusive partner, she bumps into a now grown up Rafe. Lots of angst, lingering feelings and longing, he sees the signs of abusive and gets protective. But without the movie plots of reader getting pregnant and married) I adore and worship your writing skills, truly have a gift to make you feel all the emotions!! <3333333

INVISIBLE STRING - r.c series (one)

i loooove this request because pogue!rafe so i decided to turn into a mini series (two or three parts). im personally not a fan of it ends with us, but i love your requests bc it's still very different from the original plot.

pairing: pogue!rafe x sweetheart!kook reader. chapter warnings: domestic violence; absent parents; angst; fluff.

Rafe was born rough around the edges.

There was never any sugar-coating about it; with his hair always messy, sun-bleached and salty, and his hands perpetually stained with the grime of whatever job he'd taken up that week, Rafe Cameron had never known peace. He moved like a stray dog that had learned to fend for itself, his eyes always scanning for trouble. 

Most people kept their distance, and he liked it that way.

There wasn’t much softness in his life. His mom tried her best, he supposed, but that wasn’t saying much. She had a new boyfriend every few months, and they were all the same — mean, drunk, and looking for a fight. Rafe learned early on that if you couldn’t fight back, you were nothing. So he fought. A lot.

He fought the men who walked into their house at night, stinking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. He fought the kids at school who called him trash, who mocked the way his clothes never quite fit or how he always seemed a little too hungry. But mostly, he fought himself — every time he looked in the mirror and saw his father’s eyes staring back at him. The man who left and never looked back. 

Another piece of shit. 

He kept his head down, kept his hands busy, and kept his mouth shut unless he had something to say. He wasn’t nice. Nice got you nowhere; nice got you used, broken, and left behind. He had seen it too many times to believe otherwise. The world wasn’t a kind place, and he wasn’t a kind guy. 

Most days, he’d finish work covered in sweat and salt, with just enough money in his pocket to get by. He'd dropped out of school years ago and head to the docks, sit on the edge, and smoke a cigarette while the sun dipped below the horizon.

The only real moment of peace he had.

Rafe took what work he could find — fixing up old fishing boats for the few Kooks who’d dare come down his side of the Cut, pulling shrimp nets in the dead hours of the morning, his back aching and his muscles screaming at such a young age, but at least it was better than being home. If he could call it that.

Home, where his mom was probably passed out again, where the latest loser she'd dragged in might be passed out on the couch or looking for a fight.

He could hear them shouting before he even got to the door. His mom’s voice screaming her throat out, and he could hear something crashing inside — a glass, maybe, or a plate. Then came the matching scream of the new boyfriend, Tony or Tommy or something — they all blurred together after a while. Rafe paused on the porch, his hand hovering over the door handle, debating whether it was worth going in at all.

Inside, she was standing in the middle of the living room, her face flushed, her blonde hair a mess. Tony stood over her, fists clenched, his face red and veins bulging in his neck. 

Rafe knew that look. 

He’d seen it before — seen it in a dozen men who thought they could push their weight around, thought they could break whatever they wanted.

“What the hell’s going on?” 

Tony turned, eyes narrowing. “None of your damn business, boy.”

Rafe took a step forward, his fists balling up instinctively. “If it’s in my house, it’s my business.”

His mom spun around to face him, her eyes wild and desperate. “Just stay out of it, Rafe. You always have to make things worse!”

He felt the sting of her words. He should be used to it by now. “I’m not the one who brought this piece of shit in here.”

That was all it took. Tony lunged at him, shoving him hard against the wall. Rafe felt the air rush out of his lungs as pain flared in his back. “You watch your mouth, punk,” Tony hissed, his face inches from his, his breath a disgusting mix of beer and god knows what.

“Or what?” Rafe shot back. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was how to keep his anger in check — at least most of the time.

Tony’s eyes flicked to his mom, like he was making a point, and she just stood there, watching. He’d lost his faith in her a long time ago but it still blew him away how she never lifted a finger to help him. 

“Get out,” she said finally, hand moving to point towards the bust-up wooden door.

“What?” Rafe blinked, caught off guard. He must’ve heard her wrong.

“You heard me. Get out!” She was shouting now, her voice high-pitched and desperate. “I can’t have you here, always stirring things up! You make everything worse!”

It had to be a fucking joke. He was the only one bringing in money to pay the rent, the only one who kept the house clean enough so it wouldn’t look or smell like someone died in there. Paid the hospital bills when they hit her too hard. He did everything, always. 

Tony shoved him again, harder this time, toward the open door. “You heard her. Get the hell out.”

Rafe stumbled backward, catching himself before he fell. He looked at his mom, his chest tightening in a way he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. “You’re really gonna choose him over your own son?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Just go, Rafe. I can’t do this anymore.”

He forced himself to nod. He almost wanted to laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, pushing past Tony and heading for the door. “Don’t call me when he sends you to the hospital again.”

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The moment he stepped outside, the wind hit his face like a slap, the kind that made his eyes sting and his heart pound. Things had never gotten to this point before. He would’ve rather taken a beating then get kicked out. 

He walked, hands stuffed into his pockets. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he couldn’t go back. Not now. Not ever. He’d die before he begged his mother or Tony to let him in that shithole again. His feet took him along the edge of town, past the marina and the fishing docks, and eventually, he found himself in the wealthy part of town, near Figure 8.

It was ironic, almost funny.

The Kooks lived here, the ones who wouldn’t give him the time of day if they saw him on their streets. And here he was, a beat-up pogue, walking right through their territory, angry and suddenly so damn tired.

He spotted an old, abandoned house, sitting at the end of a street where the mansions stood tall and proud. He had walked by it a few times before and noticed it had been empty for years, the paint peeling off in strips, the windows boarded up, and the grass overgrown. He crossed the street, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, and pushed the broken gate open. The hinges squeaked loudly, proving just how long it had been since someone had been there.

The front door was unlocked; it opened with the slightest push. Inside, it smelled of dust and mold, but it was dry, and it was quiet. It was enough. He made his way to a small room in the back, what must have once been a kitchen. There was an old sofa left behind, covered in a dirty sheet. He pulled the sheet off, threw it in a corner, and sank onto the sofá, finally breathing properly. 

He stayed there, staring at the cracked ceiling and the empty walls, wondering how the fuck he was going to get himself out of this one. 

For the two next days, he moved carefully, quietly, in and out of the house. He didn’t want anyone to know he was staying there. He wasn’t getting his ass thrown into jail again. He found a way in through the back window, kept to the dimly lighted areas, and avoided the main roads. He didn't have much — a few changes of clothes, some cash from odd jobs, and his dad’s old pocketknife, the only thing he had left of the bastard.

It was on the third day that he saw you.

He was sitting on the front steps, having a cigarette, when he heard the sound of a bike chain clicking. He glanced up, and there you were — riding a yellow bike, hair pulled back, and eyes glued to him as you pedaled down the street.

He stiffened, quickly stubbing out the cigarette, his heart rate picking up. You were one of them, a Kook, from one of the mansions just a block away. He’d seen you before, always biking around town, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone.

He didn’t know you, didn’t even know your name, but he knew the type.

You saw him, too, and slowed your bike. His first thought was to get up and disappear back into the house, but he knew that would look suspicious. So he stayed put, trying to look casual, as if he belonged there.

You stopped a few feet away, still on your stupid bike, one foot on the ground to steady yourself.

“You live here?” You asked, not in a mean way, just curious.

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he lied, “Why?”

You shrugged, “Just… didn’t think anyone did. Looks pretty empty.”

He tensed, waiting for you to say something like, “I’m going to tell someone,” or worse, to start asking more questions. But instead, you just gave him another curious look, nodded, and biked away.

Weird girl.

The next day, you were back. This time, you had a bag with you. He watched you approach, wary. You stopped in front of the house and took something out of the bag — a sandwich, wrapped in paper, and a bottle of water.

You held them out to him, a gentle smile on your face, “Figured you might be hungry.”

He thought maybe you were just trying to make yourself feel better, some Kook guilt thing, like feeding the stray cat in the alley so you could pat yourself on the back for being such a nice person.

And he hated that. Hated you for even thinking he needed your stupid charity. So he gave you every reason to leave him alone.

When you handed him that sandwich, he barely even looked at you.

He just grabbed it and then turned his back, heading into the house without another word. But the next day, you were there again. And the next.

He started making it obvious he didn’t want you around. He’d grunt when you said hello, roll his eyes when you tried to make small talk.

One time, you offered him an apple, and he snatched it out of your hand without a word, just to see if you’d get annoyed enough to leave. You didn’t. Like some fucking saint.

Instead, you kept coming back, like some sort of annoying, persistent fly he couldn’t swat away. Every time, your smile was a little nicer, your eyes a little more curious.

He didn't get it. Why the hell were you still trying? Didn’t you get it? He didn’t want you here. Didn’t want to talk to you. Didn’t need shit from a Kook.

“What’s your problem?” he muttered one day when you showed up with a bag of groceries.

You blinked, “What do you mean?”

“You keep coming back here like I asked you to. I didn’t. I don’t need your charity.”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow, still not leaving. “I’m not doing charity. I jut figured you could use a little help.”

He scoffed, turning his back on you again. “I don’t need anything from you, princess.”

You hesitated, then placed the bag on the steps anyway. “Well, it’s here if you do.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes again. “Great. Another pity gift from the rich kid. Thank you so much,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You clenched your jaw, but still didn’t leave. He expected you to finally get the hint, but you just shook your head and walked away.

The next day, you there you were. And the day after that. Always bringing something, always with that same annoying, stubborn smile.

By the end of the week, he was done. You rolled up with another bag, and before you could even open your mouth, he let out a loud groan, throwing his head back. 

"For fuck’s sake, don’t you have anything better to do than bother me every damn day?”

That was it — you snapped.

Your eyes flared, and you stepped in closer, voice getting louder. "Will you just eat the damn food before I throw it in your face?" You shouted, cheeks going red with frustration.

He blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t expect you to clap back.

You’d been silent and too sweet for his liking. Most Kooks would’ve run back to their fancy houses by now, but you were still standing your ground, fists clenched, breathing heavy. Cute.

He almost laughed. Almost. “What’s your deal? You think you’re some kind of hero bringing food to the poor pogue? You think you're gon' save me or something?”

You glared at him “I’m not trying to save you, jerk! I’m just trying to be a decent human! Maybe you should try it sometime!”

He stared at you, face set in a deadpan, but he felt something— something he hadn’t felt in a while. Respect, maybe? But for some reason, he didn’t tell you to get lost.

Instead, he snatched the bag out of your dainty small hand. “Fine. I’ll eat your stupid food. But don’t think this changes anything,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “Oh, trust me, I don’t.”

You both stood there in this weird silence for a minute, glaring at each other. Then you shook your head, and smiled like you hadn’t read him to filth ten seconds ago. “See you tomorrow, Rafe.”

What? You knew his name?

He watched as you rode away and he realized he was grinning, just a bit. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel completely alone.

And somehow, that pissed him off even more.

Days turned into weeks, and you kept showing up, like a plague.

No matter how much Rafe grumbled, no matter how many times he rolled his eyes or muttered under his breath, you just kept coming back. It was always something small — fruit, a bottle of water, a warm meal in a container. Every time you showed up, you had that same stubborn look in your eyes, like you weren’t going to back down no matter how much he pushed you away.

He hated to admit it, but he started to look forward to your little visits. He hated even more that he noticed things about you. Like how your hair fell in your face when you leaned over to hand him something or how your laugh sounded when he said something sarcastic. He noticed the way you seemed to care, even when he made it clear he didn’t want you to.

One day, you showed up with a duffel bag. Rafe looked at you suspiciously as you parked your bike and slung the bag over your shoulder.

“What now?” he grunted, eyeing the bag like it might bite him.

He could tell you were nervous and that weirded him out even more. Since when could he read your mind? 

“I was thinking… maybe you’d want to come to my house. Just to shower and get some real rest. My parents are out of town, and y’know, you could use it.”

He stared at you like you’d grown another head. “You want me to come to your house?”

You nodded, looking a little unsure now, hands tightening around the bag’s strap, “Yeah. Just for a bit. I thought you might like a break from this place.”

He scoffed. “And why the hell would I want to do that? You think I’m gonna be some charity case you can parade around to make yourself feel good?”

You sighed, clearly getting frustrated. “No, Rafe. I just thought… I just thought you might want a hot shower. But if you don’t, that’s fine.”

He usually cleaned himself up near the docks, but the water was freezing during this time of the year. Every time it felt like his balls were going to drop to the floor. So yeah, a hot shower in a big mansion sounded tempting.

Even if he didn’t want to give you that satisfaction.

A hot shower… a real bed, even for a little while. He hadn’t had that in what felt like forever. He looked at you again, trying to figure out if this was some kind of sick twisted plan, but all he saw were those stupid glowing eyes staring him down like he’d be dumb to refuse you. 

“Fine,” he muttered, standing up. “But just for a shower. And if you try anything weird, ’m outta there.”

Your nose scrunched up, “As if.”

Your house was everything he expected from a Kook — big, clean, and way too fancy. He felt out of place the moment he stepped through the gigantic door, like he was tracking mud on a white carpet. You led him upstairs, pointing out the bathroom.

“You can use this one. Towels are in the cabinet, and I’ll leave some clothes outside if you want them.”

Rafe grunted in response, still unsure why he was even there. He went into the bathroom and locked the door, leaning against it for a moment. The place smelled like lavender or some other fancy soap he couldn’t name. He turned on the shower, and the hot water poured out instantly, filling the room with steam.

He stripped off his dirty clothes and stepped under the water, hissing as the heat hit his skin. But then he relaxed, letting the water wash away the grime, the salt, the exhaustion he’d been carrying for so long. He stayed under the spray longer than he should have, almost losing track of time.

When he finally got out, he saw the clothes you’d left outside the door — a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, nothing flashy, but clean. He put them on and headed back downstairs, finding you in the kitchen, making coffee.

You looked up when he entered, “Feel better?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

You handed him a cup of coffee, and he took it reluctantly, still waiting for the catch. But you just sat across from him at the kitchen island, sipping your own cup, not saying anything.

He found himself watching you, noticing the little things again.

The way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way your fingers tapped against the mug when you were thinking. He hated that he was noticing, hated that he found any of it interesting. He took a sip of the coffee and scowled when it tasted good, because of course it did.

“You do this shit for everyone?” he asked, breaking the silence.

You looked at him, “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured around. “Invite random guys to your house, make them coffee, act like you care.”

You laughed, a light sound that made his chest feel weird. “No. Just you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just looked away, taking another sip of coffee. He didn’t do nice. He wasn’t used to nice. This was weird.

You kept doing these little things for him — small acts of kindness he didn’t ask for and definitely didn’t deserve. You’d leave extra food by the house when you knew he’d be there, sometimes even a blanket or a pillow you said you didn’t need. You’d offer to let him use the house again, and every once in a while, he’d accept, hating how much he craved the simple comfort of a shower or a bed.

And all the while, he stayed the same — gruff, sarcastic, always trying to push you away with his attitude. But you didn’t go. You took his crap and came back.

One night, after a particularly rough day where everything seemed to go wrong, he found himself standing outside your house again. Your parents were out of town again, and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He hated that he was here, hated that he needed this, but he knocked anyway.

You opened the door, your face lit up with that familiar smile. “Rafe,” you said, voice warm. “Come in.”

He liked the way his name sounded on your lips.

He hesitated, but he did. You led him to the living room, and he noticed a few things this time — the family photos on the walls, a vase of flowers on the table, the soft throw blanket on the couch.

Your home was nothing like his, but it felt… safe.

They sat in silence for a while, and he noticed how you didn’t bother him with questions, didn’t try to fix anything. You just sat there, close but not too close, letting him breathe. He found himself looking at you more, catching the way your lips curled up at the corners, how your eyes seemed to soften whenever they landed on him. He felt something strange, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He sat on that big couch, staring at his busted-up hands, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded in his chest. You were just a few feet away, eyes flicking over to him now and then, like you were waiting for him to speak. But he didn’t know what to say.

He felt… uncomfortable. Not because of the place, or you. No, never because of you. But because of this strange feeling that kept crawling up his spine, making him feel restless.

You were sitting on the arm of the chair, legs tucked under you, looking at him with that familiar, gentle expression that made him feel like maybe he wasn’t such a screw-up. He didn’t know what to do with that. You were the kind of girl who should have nothing to do with him. Yet here you were, again and again, showing up, like you didn’t know any better.

He cleared his throat, trying to push back whatever weird tension was building between you. “So… your parents,” he muttered. “They’re out of town a lot?”

You nodded, sighing, “Yeah. They travel for work. I’m used to it.”

“Must be nice,” he said, but his voice came out rougher than what he was going for. He didn’t know how to do gentle and he was still half-convinced you were going to kick him out or tell him you had enough of his crap.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “But it gets lonely, too.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He glanced at you trying to read you. He knew you weren’t looking for sympathy; you were just stating a fact.

He wasn’t sure what made him ask, but he did anyway. “Why do you keep helping me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I— I don’t know. I guess… I just see something in you. Something good.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “There’s nothin' good in me.”

“There is,” you insisted. “I see it. Even if you don’t.”

He felt his chest tighten, and he had to look away. “You’re wrong.”

“Maybe,” you said quietly, “but I don’t think so.”

He feel your eyes on him, could feel the way his pulse was racing under his skin. He hated it. Hated that he wanted to believe you, wanted to feel whatever it was you seemed to see in him.

“You’re too good,” he muttered. “Too good for someone like me.”

You laughed softly. “You don’t know me as well as you think, Rafe.”

He glanced up, surprised by the boldness in you. You were so soft most days it always threw him off when you took the reins. You were closer now, leaning forward just slightly, eyes fixed on his. He felt that breathtaking tension tightening again.

Before he could think better of it, he spoke, voice coming out meeker than what he was going for, “You really think there’s somethin' good in me?”

You nodded, not taking your eyes off of him for a second, “Yeah, I do.”

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what possessed him, but before he could stop himself, he reached out, his hand finding yours. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch in fear or scrunched up your nose in disgust.

Instead, your fingers tightened around his, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Why?” he asked again, desperate.

 “Because I just do.”

Something snapped in him then, something he’d been holding back for too long. He moved closer, his other hand reaching up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your delicate skin. You didn’t pull away again, only leaning into his touch. 

He hesitated, just for a moment. “I’m not— I-I’m not a good guy,” he murmured.

You smiled again, softer this time, the way he hoped you only did for him, “I don’t need you to be.”

He didn’t get it, but he didn’t have time to figure it out.

He leaned in and kissed you. It was clumsy at first — just a touch of lips, a bit hesitant. But then you kissed him back and suddenly he understood those stupid cliché novels his mom used to read when he was younger. He’d never kissed anyone before. 

He was too aware of how inexperienced they both were, of the way his lips barely brushed against yours. He felt stiff and unsure, like he didn’t know if he was doing it right. But it felt right. It wasn’t smooth or perfect — there was hesitancy and uncertainty, but it was real. He felt your hand touch his cheek, your fingers warm and trembling just a little.

His hand slid from your cheek down to your neck, pulling you closer, fingers curling into your hair. He couldn’t get enough. It was messy, frantic, his heart racing like it was trying to break out of his chest, and for once, he didn’t care. He felt your breath hitch against his lips, the warmth of you pressing into him, and all the walls he’d built up, all the reasons he’d given himself to push you away, disappeared. 

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his old shirt like you didn’t want to let go, and that did something to him. Made him feel more alive than he had in a long time. Every time he kissed you, it was like he was drowning in you, like nothing else mattered except for this — your lips, your skin, the way your body pressed against his.

He pulled away, just for a second, eyes wide and breathing heavy, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

He looked at you, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet from the kiss, and damn, you looked beautiful. More beautiful than he ever let himself admit before.

But then you smiled, that same heart-shattering smile, and it was like you were pulling him back in, “You don’t have to be afraid,” you whispered.

“I’m not…” he started, but even he didn’t believe it. Because he was. He was terrified as hell of this, of you, of the way you made him feel like he wasn’t a complete mess. But before he could say more, you kissed him again, and this time, he didn’t hold back.

He didn’t think about what he should or shouldn’t be doing, didn’t overanalyze the way his hands moved from your waist to your back, pulling you closer until there wasn’t any space left between you. You melted into him, your body warm and soft, like you belonged there and he felt like he was burning up from the inside out.

His hands roamed, exploring, memorizing the curve of your waist, the way your body fit so perfectly against his. Every little sound you made, every breathless gasp, made him feel like he was on fire.

You broke apart again, both of you panting, and he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath.

“This is crazy,” he muttered, his voice all shaky.

You giggled, the sound making his chest tighten in the best way.

“Maybe. But I don’t care.”

He opened his eyes, staring into yours, and he knew you meant it.

You didn’t care about the Kook vs. Pogue thing, about the stupid rules that had been drilled into them from birth. You just cared about him. He didn’t know how to let himself want something good, something real. But he wanted you. God, did he want you.

From that night on, everything changed. 

You started seeing each other in secret, meeting up when your parents were out of town or sneaking off to some hidden spot by the beach at night where no one would find you. Every time he saw you, it was like a high he couldn’t get enough of. You’d kiss, talk, hold each other like you were the only two people in the world, and he’d forget about all the shit in his life. Forget about the fact that he was supposed to be a screw-up who didn’t deserve someone like you.

You sat side by side at the dock, feet dangling just above the water, the tips of your shoes barely touching the surface. Something was calming about the sound of the gentle waves lapping against the dock, the world feeling small and distant for once, like it was just the two of you.

He leaned back on his hands, staring out at the horizon, not saying much. He’d been quiet today, more so than usual. You nudged him lightly with your shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He snorted, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t want ‘em. They’re not worth much.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him again. “C’mon. You’ve been quiet all day. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He hesitated, glancing down at the water, his fingers curling into the wood of the dock. He was biting back whatever was eating at him. He wasn’t the type to open up easily, you knew that, but he wanted to, for you. You wanted to know him, all of him, not just the fake exterior he put up for everyone else to see.

“You ever think about… like, how different your life would be if shit didn’t go so sideways?” he asked, his voice low, almost like he wasn’t sure he wanted to say it out loud.

You frowned, turning to face him, “What do you mean?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair.

“My mom, she… she used to date these losers. Real pieces of shit, y’know? Guys who’d roll through, thinking they owned the place, treating me like I was some kind of burden just because I was around.”

It wasn’t easy for him to say it, but he was doing it anyway, like the words had been stuck inside him for years.

“She didn’t really care what they did. As long as they paid for her booze, she was cool with whatever. They’d knock me around sometimes, tell me I wasn’t worth shit. But she never did anything about it.” He paused, swallowing hard, his gaze fixed on the water because he couldn’t look at you. “One of ‘em got real bad. Fucker hit me so hard one night, I thought I was gonna pass out. And when I told her… she didn’t care. Told me I was a liar. Said I probably deserved it.”

“Rafe…” you whispered, reaching out to take his hand. He didn’t pull away this time, just let you hold it, his fingers squeezing yours a little too tightly.

“I tried to stick it out,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Tried to stay for as long as I could. But one day, she kicked me out. Told me I was too much trouble, and she didn’t need me around anymore.” He laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “I guess I wasn’t worth the space I took up.”

You were quiet. He liked that about you, that you didn’t try and get his thoughts out of his head, just let him do his thing, on his own time. There was nothing that could make up for the kind of pain he’d been through. You just squeezed his hand tighter, and he just knew you wished you could take some weight off his shoulders.

“That’s why you were in that house?” You brushed your lips against his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

It was hard for him to talk about this stuff. Hell, it was hard for him to talk at all when it came to anything real. You just sat there, holding his hand, being there. That was what made you different. Most people didn’t wait for him. They’d get frustrated, give up, move on.

You just... stayed. And that scared him almost as much as it comforted him.

“You didn’t deserve that.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

You shifted closer, your knees touching his now. “It matters to me.”

He didn’t understand how you could look at him like that, like he was worth something.

“You knew my name.”

You nodded, “You delivered fresh seafood to the house once.”

His eyes nearly popped out from their sockets, “I was fourteen.”

“Yeah?”

“And you remembered that?”

Your brows shot up like he’d said the dumbest thing ever. “Obviously.”

His breath caught, and before he could stop himself, he reached out, pulling you into his lap. His hands found your waist, desperate, almost frantic, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"You shouldn’t—" he started, but the words died on his lips because you were already kissing him, and it was like everything stopped. The world, his thoughts, all the shit that weighed him down. It was just you, your lips, the way your hands tangled in his hair, and the soft sounds you made against his mouth.

He kissed you harder, more urgently, like he was trying to prove something to himself — that he could have this, that he could deserve this. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips moved against yours and he felt like he was falling apart and putting himself back together all at once.

When he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his chest was heaving, and you were looking at him with that same softness that made his stomach twist.

"How—How the hell did I get this lucky?" His voice cracked, just a little. He hadn’t meant to say it, but the words spilled out anyway. 

You smiled, brushing your thumb across his cheek, and he realized then that his face was wet. He hadn’t even noticed the tears slipping down, hadn’t noticed the way he was trembling.

"You deserve this" you whispered. 

That was it.

That was the breaking point. A choked sob escaped him, and before he could stop himself, he crashed his lips against yours again, kissing you so hard it hurt, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t hold back the way he felt like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. For you.

His hands cupped your face, fingers trembling as he kissed you again and again, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he stopped. 

And as his tears mixed with your kiss, he realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn’t running.

He wasn’t pushing you away. He was falling, hard and fast, and he didn’t care. Because for once, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

new beginnings

pairing: Tyler Owen’s x f! reader

Tyler pushed his grocery cart down the cereal aisle, his mind wandering to the endless list of storm reports and data he needed to compile. Living in Tornado Alley kept him busy, but today was his day off, and he intended to make the most of it. His mom had called earlier, asking if he could pick up a few things for her, so here he was, navigating the grocery store with a list in hand.

Y/N walked into the store, her mind preoccupied with the upcoming shift at the hospital al. Being an ER doctor was demanding, but she loved it. As she moved through the aisles, her thoughts drifted back to her childhood in Topeka. She had left so much behind, including her best friend turned rival, Tyler Owens.

Tyler and Y/N had grown up together, inseparable until their teenage years when a series of misunderstandings and hurt feelings had driven them apart. Now, years later, they both lived in the same town, yet their paths rarely crossed.

Lost in their thoughts, they both reached for the same box of cereal at the exact moment. Their hands brushed, and they turned to look at each other.

“Tyler?” Y/N’s voice was filled with surprise.

“Y/N?” Tyler’s eyes widened, taking in the sight of her. She looked effortlessly beautiful in the grocery store lighting, her long hair cascading over her shoulders, freckles scattered across her nose, and those familiar dimples appearing as she smiled.

They stood there for a moment, frozen, before Tyler recovered and stepped back. “Ladies first,” he said, gesturing to the cereal box.

“Wow, chivalry isn’t dead after all,” Y/N replied with a raised eyebrow as she picked up the box and placed it in her cart. “Didn’t think you’d still be in town.”

“Ditto,” Tyler shot back, crossing his arms. “Guess we both had the same idea to stick around.”

“Guess so,” Y/N said, a smirk playing on her lips. “Still chasing storms, I see. Figured you’d have grown out of that by now.”

“Still saving lives, I see,” Tyler retorted. “Figured you’d have moved on to something less dramatic.”

“Some things never change,” Y/N muttered, shaking her head. “You still think you know everything.”

“And you still think you’re always right,” Tyler countered.

An awkward silence stretched between them, filled with the unspoken tension of their past. Finally, Tyler broke it. “Want to grab a coffee? Catch up?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Sure, why not?”

They finished their shopping and met at the small café inside the store. As they sat down with their drinks, the conversation flowed more easily than either had expected. They reminisced about their childhood adventures, laughed about old pranks, and shared stories about their current lives.

“Remember that time we tried to build a treehouse in my backyard?” Y/N asked, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

“How could I forget?” Tyler chuckled. “We got halfway up the tree before your dad caught us and grounded us for a week.”

“I think that was the last time I tried to build anything,” Y/N admitted, shaking her head.

Tyler smirked. “Yeah, you always were better at bossing people around than actually doing the work.”

Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically. “And you always thought you could do everything better than everyone else.”

“Maybe because I usually can,” Tyler shot back, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Oh, please,” Y/N laughed. “Your ego is still as big as ever.”

“And your sarcasm is still as sharp,” Tyler retorted, grinning.

As Y/N rolled her eyes again, Tyler felt a surprising surge of attraction. He’d forgotten how feisty and sassy she could be. He found himself admiring her spirit, the fire that had always made her stand out.

“You know,” he said, his voice softening, “I never really understood why we drifted apart.”

Y/N sighed, her expression turning serious. “We were young and stubborn. I guess we both thought the other had changed, and neither of us wanted to admit we missed our friendship.”

Tyler nodded, reaching across the table to take her hand. “I’m sorry for my part in it.”

“Me too,” Y/N squeezed his hand, her smile returning. “But maybe it’s not too late to start over.”

Tyler’s heart skipped a beat as he looked into her eyes. “I’d like that.”

They finished their coffee and left the store together, walking side by side. The tension of their past was gone, replaced by a sense of hope for the future.

As they reached their cars, Tyler turned to Y/N. “How about dinner sometime? We can catch up properly.”

“I’d love that,” Y/N agreed, her dimples deepening as she smiled. “It’s a date.”

Tyler stood on Y/N’s doorstep, holding a bouquet of tulips, his heart pounding in his chest. The door swung open, revealing Y/N in a sundress that hugged her curves perfectly. Her cleavage sat enticingly on her chest, and Tyler felt his breath hitch.

“Wow,” Tyler managed, handing her the flowers. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” Y/N replied, a blush coloring her cheeks as she took the bouquet. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Their dinner date was filled with snarky banter and playful sassiness. Tyler couldn’t help but be drawn to Y/N’s sharp wit and fiery spirit. Every eye roll, every sarcastic comment only made him more captivated.

“You still think you can outsmart me?” Tyler teased as they finished their meal.

“I know I can,” Y/N shot back, a challenging glint in her eyes.

Tyler watched intently as Y/N lifted her glass of wine to her lips. The way the deep red liquid touched her lips, glistening as she took a sip, made his heart race. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, her cleavage mesmerizing in the soft lighting of the restaurant. The scent of her perfume, a delicate mix of floral and something uniquely her, filled the air around him, making his senses swim.

“Enjoying the view?” Y/N asked, a teasing smile playing on her lips as she caught him staring.

Tyler smirked, leaning in closer. “Absolutely. And not just the view.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but Tyler saw the blush spreading across her cheeks. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” Tyler shot back, his voice low and filled with promise.

As the night drew to a close, the tension between them became palpable. They walked to Tyler’s truck, the air thick with unspoken desire. Once they were parked in her driveway, neither could resist any longer. Tyler leaned in, capturing Y/N’s lips in a heated kiss. She responded eagerly, her hands tangling in his hair as their mouths moved together with a desperate intensity.

Tyler’s hands roamed over her body, feeling the soft fabric of her dress and the warmth of her skin beneath. Y/N’s fingers worked at his belt buckle, her eyes locking with his, filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability.

“May I?” she whispered, her doe eyes searching his face.

Tyler could only nod, unable to form words as his heart raced. Y/N undid his pants, her fingers brushing against his growing arousal. She looked up at him one last time before lowering her head, her lips closing around him.

Tyler’s head fell back against the seat, a low groan escaping his lips as Y/N’s mouth worked its magic. She moved with practiced ease, her tongue swirling around him, her lips creating a perfect seal. The sensation was overwhelming, and Tyler’s hands gripped the edge of the seat, trying to anchor himself.

Y/N teased him, her mouth moving slowly, her eyes flicking up to watch his reactions. She let her lips travel along his length, peppering kisses on his V-line, causing Tyler to shiver with anticipation. She licked the pre-cum off the tip, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she took her time savoring him.

“Y/N,” he groaned, his hand moving to tangle in her hair, urging her on. She responded eagerly, her mouth and hand working in perfect harmony.

Tyler felt himself nearing the edge, the tension coiling tighter within him. “I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained.

Y/N didn’t slow down, her determination clear in the way she continued to pleasure him. With a final, shuddering gasp, Tyler came, his release flooding Y/N’s mouth. She swallowed, her eyes never leaving his, a satisfied smile playing on her lips as she pulled away.

Tyler was left breathless, his heart pounding as he looked down at Y/N. “That was… incredible,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

Y/N grinned, her dimples deepening. “You’ve been driving me wild since we were kids. .”

Tyler reached out, pulling her into his lap, capturing her lips in another searing kiss. “I can’t wait any longer,” he whispered against her lips.

Without breaking the kiss, Tyler carried Y/N into the house, his hands sliding up her thighs, feeling the smooth skin beneath her dress. They barely made it through the door before Tyler’s desire overcame him. He set Y/N on the kitchen counter, his hands moving to pull her dress over her head.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you like this,” Tyler murmured, his voice rough with desire. “Since we were teens, I’ve imagined this moment.”

Y/N’s breath hitched as Tyler’s hands roamed over her body, his touch sending shivers down her spine. “Then don’t make me wait any longer,” she whispered, her eyes dark with desire.

Tyler didn’t need any more encouragement. He pulled her dress over her head, revealing her in all her beauty. His eyes roamed over her curves, taking in the sight of her bare skin, her breasts exposed and enticing. “You’re perfect,” he breathed, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, causing her to arch into his touch.

Y/N’s hands moved to his shirt, unbuttoning it with trembling fingers. She pushed it off his shoulders, letting her hands explore the muscles of his chest and back. Tyler’s mouth found her neck, kissing and nibbling along her skin, eliciting soft moans from her.

“Tyler,” she gasped as his mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down her chest. His hands slid down to her waist, lifting her slightly to pull off her panties, leaving her completely exposed on the counter.

Tyler took a moment to appreciate the sight before him, his breath hitching with anticipation. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe and desire.

He kissed her again, his mouth demanding and hungry. Y/N responded eagerly, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. Tyler’s fingers found her wetness, teasing her entrance, making her gasp and cling to him.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice desperate.

Tyler didn’t make her wait any longer. He positioned himself at her entrance, pausing for a moment to look into her eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice tender.

“Yes,” Y/N replied, her eyes filled with trust and desire.

With a groan, Tyler entered her, the sensation overwhelming them both. He moved slowly at first, savoring the feel of her around him, but soon their need took over, and he began to thrust harder, their bodies moving together in perfect rhythm.

The kitchen filled with the sounds of their lovemaking, the slap of skin against skin, the mingled moans and gasps. Tyler’s hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he drove into her, each thrust bringing them closer to the edge.

Y/N’s nails raked down his back, her head falling back as she gave herself over to the pleasure. “Tyler,” she moaned, her voice breaking.

He could feel her tightening around him, her body trembling as she reached her climax. Tyler followed soon after, his release crashing over him with a force that left him breathless.

They stayed like that for a moment, clinging to each other, their breaths mingling as they came down from their high. Tyler gently lifted her off the counter, carrying her to the couch, where they collapsed in a tangle of limbs.

“That was…” Y/N began, her voice trailing off as she struggled to find the words.

“Amazing,” Tyler finished for her, a satisfied smile on his lips.

Y/N chuckled, resting her head on his chest. “Yeah, amazing.”

They lay there in comfortable silence, the past forgotten, the future filled with promise. Tyler knew that this was only the beginning of their story, and he couldn’t wait to see where it would lead.

As he held Y/N in his arms, he whispered softly, “I’ve missed you.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with emotion. “I’ve missed you too, Tyler. More than you know.”

He kissed her gently, his heart full. “I’m not letting you go this time,” he promised.

“And I’m not letting you go either,” Y/N replied, her smile radiant.

They fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the past finally put to rest, and a new future stretching out before them, filled with love and endless possibilities.

[veganineden]

On the Evolution of “Happily Ever After” and Why “Nothing Lasts Forever”

A reflection inspired by Good Omens 2

One of my favorite Tumblr posts on the second season of Good Omens 2 was actually not about the series at all, but our reaction to it, primarily the ending. @zehwulf wrote, “I think a lot of us—myself included—got a little too comfortable with assuming [Aziraphale and Crowley would] work on their issues right away post-Armageddon.” We did the work for them through meta, fanfiction, fanart, and building a plethora of headcanons. Who among us AO3-surfing fans didn’t read and love Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm?

In the 4 long years since season one was released, we did more than seek to understand and repair rifts between two fictional beings: we were forced to reckon with ourselves too. We faced a global pandemic, suffered traumatizing losses and isolation, and were forced to really and truly look into the face of our atrocities-ridden and capitalistic world. The mainstream rise of Diversity, Equity, Inclusion and Justice work, and our participation in this work, showed us that the systems in place were built to oppress and harm most of us, and they are. 

So, what does this have to do with the evolution of “happily ever after”? 

My friend put it best in a conversation we had following the season finale, when she pointed out a shift in media focus. The “happy end” in old stories about wars and kingdoms used to be “we killed the evil old king and put a noble young king in his place and now citizens can live in peace” and we’re transitioning into a period of “we tore down the whole fucking monarchy.” 

If we look at season one, written to follow the beats of a love story, it comforted us by offering a pretty traditional happy ending pattern: you get your fancy dinner with your special someone, the romantic music plays, and you have a place to call your own. Season one’s finale provided a temporary freedom for Aziraphale and Crowley, the “breathing room,” but it didn't solve the problem that was Heaven and Hell, or the agendas belonging to those systems of oppression. 

Is it good enough to keep our heads down, pretend the bad stuff isn’t happening, and live our own personal happy endings until we die? Moral quandaries aside, if you don't die (or if you care about the generations after you), then, like Aziraphale said, it “can’t last forever.” There’s a clear unpleasant end to the “happily ever after” that’s based on ignoring our problems– it’s the destruction of our relationships, and humanity. 

Ineffable Bureaucracy can go off into the stars because they do not care about humanity. 

You know who does?

Aziraphale. 

And Aziraphale knows that Crowley cares about humanity too. (He knows because Crowley was the one who proposed sabotaging Armageddon in the first place, who only invited him to the stars when he thought all was lost, because Crowley would save humanity if he thought it was possible, and Aziraphale knows Crowley has survived losing Everything before, and he will do all in his power so that Crowley does not need to experience that again.) 

In season one and two, we see how much they care about humanity, beyond their orders, to the point The Systems begin to frown at them. Aziraphale hears Crowley’s offer to run away together in the final episode of season two, to leave Earth behind, and just like the first time that offer was made in season one, he declines. He knows choosing only “us” is not a choice either of them can live with for the rest of eternity.

I believe season 3 will provide an opportunity to “dismantle the system,” but I don’t know how it will play out. I worry that Aziraphale has put himself in the now-dead trope of the “young noble king.” (I wish Crowley had told him why Gabriel was dismissed from his duties.) I worry that he would martyr himself as a sole agent for change. I worry that he doesn’t actually know how to dismantle anything by himself: because you can’t. He needs Crowley. He DOES. He needs Crowley, and Muriel, and other angels and demons and humans without fixed mindsets to help him. Only by learning to listen and making room at the table for all can they (and we) move past personal satisfaction to collective liberation. 

Crowley was right when he said that Aziraphale had discovered his “civic obligations.”

So, I think we will get our modern-day happy ending– and it’s going to involve a lot of pain and discomfort, communication, healing and teamwork– and in the end, it’ll all be okay. There will be a time for rest and a time for “us.” 

And most likely a cottage. 

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

 - Maya Angelou

Support the SAG-AFTRA strike and other unions. Trust @neil-gaiman. Register to vote if you haven’t yet. Hold yourself and others accountable with compassion. Read books. Keep doing the work. Rest. Then watch Good Omens 2 again.  

[revelboo]

Possibly more of My Favorite Accident? Please, and thank you!

Sure

My Favorite Accident Pt 5

TFP Knockout x Reader

• “Nothing should surprise me anymore, but here we are,” he mutters, pulling into the lot you’d indicated. Shifting on his shocks as a man bends over the railing on the porch of the building and retches noisily in a bush. Nearly falling into the same bush. And he can’t decide if he’s more horrified or furious. The lock clicking firmly down when you try to open the door. “This is the part where you admit to messing with me.” Because this has to be a terrible joke in poor taste. Every second he sits here, the closer to furious he’s getting.

• “Sorry to disappoint, but I work here.” Aware that you’re not getting out until he lets you, there’s nothing to do but wait. Situated on the outskirts of town, the bar had been a small motel at one point and had been several other failed businesses before settling firmly on its current iteration. Because no matter how bad the economy is, alcohol always sells. Actually growling at you, he unlocks the door and you get out. Freezing when you spot that stupid holomatter avatar glitching into existence and pretending to get out of the passenger side. Apparently deciding to take his uncanny-valley freak show of a fake human for a test drive. “Where are you going?”

• “Might as well get the full experience,” he sneers as you shudder at him. “The avatar is fine.” Even if its expression is stuck in a perpetual blank stare. It looks human and he’d already found out racing that humans have an amazing capacity for ignoring anything that doesn’t perfectly line up with their conception of reality. If his avatar glitches out of existence for half a second, it’s fine. Humans will just refuse to acknowledge anything weird happened, preferring to second guess themselves instead. Their wet, little brains seeing the impossible and just going ‘nope, not today.’

• “It looks like a body snatcher in a B movie.” Striding toward the bar, you’re aware of him following you. And that unlike your boots, his feet make no sound whatsoever. The drunk leaning on the rail slides down to an awkward sit, staring blearily at you both as you ignore him. Inside, the stink of cheap cigars and the acidic reek of vomit compete to be the most offensive. Mostly empty aside from a couple of old men sitting at the bar nursing beers as you go around the bar. And still managing to convey his utter disgust for your life even without being able to change that creepy, dead expression, Knockout slides onto a barstool. You can feel his glare behind those stupid fake sunglasses.

• Trying to decide if the old men are annoying flirt drunk or will be fighting in an hour drunk, you grab an apron to relieve the older woman with her frizzed out perm. Watching her eye Knockout before heading to a corner to smoke. “You take me to the nicest places,” he mutters as you start wiping down the counter, aware that one of the drunks is leaning forward to watch you. Trying to gauge if he’s drunk enough to try and grab whatever’s in reach, while you ignore Knockout. It’s not like you asked him to camp in your apartment parking lot like a creeper. You had asked him to drive you here, though. Leaning drunk makes a clumsy fumble for your wrist and then goes tumbling from his barstool when it’s pulled back. Knockout’s avatar blurring slightly as he moves too quickly to track. “This is ridiculous.”

• Watching you fight a smile as the human stumbles to his feet and looks around belligerently, Knockout stares him down until he gets back on his stool. Keeping his wrinkled hands to himself this time at least. And keeping an optic on you, because he can understand why you’re all attitude now. Why you carry that pitiful little knife. Because you’re scared most of the time, but you’re used to it and know that if you let it show, you don’t stand a chance. And something about that, about how you live bothers him. Rubbing him the wrong way even though he shouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t matter. Your attitude you hide behind, that impulsive mouth that only gets you in trouble, that stubborn determination he almost admires. None of it should mean a thing to him.

Previous

Next

[psin314]

some dead and missing characters from murat's backstory. translated bio is under the cut.

his toyhouse page

At the age of 6, Murat was given to the Crows. He was taken under the care of a young but skilled master assassin, Esteban. Murat has no memory of his childhood until he was 12, and his mentor never said anything useful about it. He only said that Murat was an unbearable crybaby. Esteban taught Murat everything he knew. He taught strictly, punished him for any mistakes, but Murat still enjoyed being around him, because Esteban was funny and caring. When Murat was 20, Esteban was brutally murdered while on a contract.

The next 10 years of his life were not particularly interesting. He carried out contracts flawlessly, and spent the money he received on carousing. He spent everything on expensive aged booze and gifts for girls with whom he could not build long-term relationships, although he truly fell in love with each one. So once he fell in love with a girl from his own house, Layla, who was not interested in him. He did not lose hope and continued to try to win her over. One day, she finally reciprocated. It was strange, but Murat, in love, did not notice the trick.

Murat's 30th birthday was approaching, but he was not destined to celebrate it in a warm place. Murat, for no apparent reason, was grabbed by what he thought were his friends, and they threw him at the feet of the de Riva house talon. As it turned out, Murat is a traitor who has been sabotaging his own house for years, and there is irrefutable evidence of this, which Layla provided them with a heavy heart. Murat did not understand what was happening, he was definitely slandered and was not guilty of anything. No one listened to him, even Layla stood in tears. Murat should have been killed right here, but Layla stood up for him. She explained that Murat had done all this only because of his own stupidity. He was a good liar, but an incompetent crow. All this time, she had been correcting his mistakes for years, but she had failed to keep track of them all, and this is what it had led to. She was ashamed that she had covered for him for so long, but death for him was too much. As a result, Murat was kicked out into the street and ordered not to approach the faction again.

Murat tried to get through to them, but no one listened. He didn’t know what to do now. The Antivan Crows were everything to him. So he simply decided to get drunk on cheap beer in a tavern. For the next 10 years, he did nothing but that. For the first few months, other crows were watching Murat, but nothing suspicious was noticed, only his binge-drinking. A couple of years later, one of Murat's old friends came to him with good news - Murat was not guilty, everything was actually set up by Layla, who had currently run away and was hiding. That is, he can return. Murat attacked his old friend and sent him far far away. Nobody visited Murat again.

Until he was almost 40, Murat lived in a vicious circle of "no money - work - get money - drink." There were attempts to break it, but he always returned to the beginning. He made friends in the port with a fisherwoman, Paula, who helped him find a job. She sincerely wanted to help Murat with his problem, since he reminded her of her lost son. She was rude to him, but tried to help anyway. Paula had health problems, and one day her heart just stopped beating. Murat could have gone on a bender again, but he decided to try to change his life.

By the age of 40, Murat finally stopped drinking and returned to the Crows. Here, it was as if everyone had forgotten him. And his old friends no longer trusted him as much as before, although that situation was resolved long ago. Murat is passionate about the idea of ​​at least partially solve the problem of betrayal among the Crows. How - he has no idea, but he will definitely come up with something.

The rest of the story is familiar.

[morverenmaybewrites]

The Pizza Delivery Girl's Survival Guide to Gotham City Update

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Newest chapter

AO3 Link

Summary:

People who lived outside of Gotham City would most often think of it in terms of its heroes and villains. About Batman and Robin, Joker and Harley Quinn.

People who actually live in Gotham City would only think of one thing: surviving.

Who cares about the people in costumes when your house has been bombed for the fifth time, or your wife has been taken hostage just because she worked in a bank?

Or, in your case, when you have to make regular deliveries to places where even Batman feared to tread?

Because let's face it. In a world full of superheroes and costumed villains, the real heroes are the ones who make sure that people get their pizzas in forty-five minutes or less.

Chapter Preview:

You paused on the bridge that hung high above the Burrow, and for the first time in your life, you felt a terror was so great that it made your throat close.

Gotham City had never looked so beautiful. From such a height, the burning neon lights looked like stars. 

But above your head, the sky looked pitch black. It made you think of the bodies that would sometimes wash up on Gotham Bay’s shores, black and bloated with rot. It made you think of  the shadows of inmates in the asylum, their voices like the skittering of insects, rising and falling as you passed them by.

It made you think of the night Timothy Young died, and you wondered that if, back then, there had been light enough that he saw the shadow of a monster fall over him. 

You wondered if he had time to understand what was happening, before he started against the concrete below. And then decided decided that it didn’t matter: you would understand If Francine Langstrom came for you, you would know. 

You would understand what was happening to you before you hit the ground. 

Your skull splitting open, the pink-grey ropes of your brain scattering on the concrete. And the thousand pictures that follow. Your death turned into a spectacle and a profit.

Just like Tim Young’s.

The thought made you freeze. You were standing in front of one of the many wooden bridges that connected the rooftops of abandoned buildings. The Burrow’s infamous floating night market. Set up by dusk and torn down by dawn, only to rise up again the next night, the floating night market was one of the Burrow’s main attractions. A bustling collection of kiosks made out of cheap plywood and tarpaulin, it was said that you could find anything there, so long as you didn’t ask too many questions: cheap phones, likely stolen from someone off the street, fake licenses, a sample of Bane’s Venom for impatient bodybuilders. It was set high up in the air, amidst the rooftops of many abandoned buildings, connected by a series of rickety wooden bridges.

But now the rooftops were empty. The bridges were falling apart, its wooden planks dangling precariously from their ropes. The empty kiosks had been left to rot in the constant rain. You could even see some of the abandoned merchandise, left behind  in people’s haste to pack up: an old, broken phone, children’s toys hanging forlornly on strings, obviously meant to be prizes in a game, now swelling with rainwater. Mold grew on their cotton bodies like new fur. 

Timothy Young’s death had transformed the Burrows’ floating night market into a ghost town. The thought made you feel a little lonely, picking through the bones of a dead market, looking to find a monster. 

Francine, The voice in your head sounded like Professor Langstrom’s. Her name is Francine Langstrom. 

The buzz of static cut through your thoughts as cleanly as a falling blade. And then Jason’s voice was in your ear.

“Last chance to back out of this.” 

His voice was rough, even taking into account the poor connection and the voice modulators he used. Maybe he was scared, too. The thought eased you somewhat, to know that you were not alone. 

Even through the poor connection, you could hear the strain in his voice. You cast a glance at the direction where he was supposed to be, tried to look for even a hint of him: the faint glow of his helmet, the hulking figure of his silhouette. But you found no sign of him. Still, knowing that he was there made you feel better. 

You raised a hand and hoped that he would not see the way your fingers trembled.  

And waved. 

Read more on AO3

[goodlucktai]

What if I said 10 & 20 as portal duo thanks so much

dialogue prompts

10. “I don’t care. I’m not leaving you.”

+ 20. “Get away! You’re hurting them!”

for my beloved meeks

x

They weren’t supposed to be here. It’s stupid, but it’s the first thing that springs to Mikey’s mind. 

Leo had only recently graduated with honors from those initial grueling physical therapy sessions that usually ended in tears (not always Leo’s) to daily exercises that got easier and easier until he was breezing through them the way he used to breeze through everything. 

If he went farther than two steps away from his arm crutches Donnie appeared out of thin air looking ready to breathe fire at him, and Raph was in the habit now of holding Leo out at arm’s length immediately after every hug in the manner of scruffing an unruly kitten to double-check he was wearing his leg brace and compression sleeve, and Mikey had learned the hard way what everyone meant when they said medics make the absolute worst patients. 

But for the most part Leo was doing really good! He was hitting all his marks and only driving everyone a tiny bit insane—well within the allotted Leo amount! 

So when he had smiled that crooked, conspiring smile at Mikey the minute the coast was clear and said, “There’s no better strengthening exercise then sneaking out with my favorite little brother for a past-due victory smoothie,” what was Mikey supposed to tell him? No??

It did occur to him, a tiny little guilty whisper. Leo was healing. He’d been so badly hurt. Even Splinter, who spoiled Leonardo rotten, hadn’t given into the slider’s constant pleas to rush the recovery process along. They were going by the book. Literally, since Donatello had stepped up as team medic in the interim. Don and Raph and April and even Casey were all very good at not bending an inch no matter how many tragic looks got sent their way. Mikey wasn’t very good at that at all. 

And anyway, joy had drowned out that whisper with a shout. He lit up with it, that newly-discovered supernova inside him curling up like a happy cat in a patch of sunshine. There’s a very big part of him that will always be what it’s always been, no matter how old he gets, or how powerful his mystic arts become—he’ll always be Michelangelo, and Michelangelo will follow Leonardo absolutely anywhere. 

So he said, “I’ll get my hoodie!” and darted out the door with zero ninja stealth, clipping his shoulder on the frame and almost crashing into the table in the hall. Leo laughed behind him, and the unrestrained sound made Mikey feel like he could float. Maybe he actually did for a second or two. 

He’ll never forget those horrible minutes after the portal closed, after Leo’s comms went dead, when he had wondered if he would ever hear his brother’s voice again. When he wondered what, exactly, his last words to Leo had been—they almost certainly weren’t I love you or please don’t leave so they didn’t count. 

To make up for it, he wanted to tell Leo everything every chance he got. He wanted to make him laugh all the time. He wanted to crowd into the little twin-size infirmary bed to watch movies or do art projects that got glitter everywhere. He wanted to sneak out for smoothies even though it would get them in big trouble, because that was literally why he helped save the world in the first place. 

And now he’s standing in a dim sidestreet, an orange streetlight buzzing dully above him, two smoothies melting in his hands. It’s their usual shortcut home, through a bunch of foreclosed apartment buildings and a dead end road. Leonardo is in front of him, shoulders stiff, ninpo humming weakly beneath his skin like a tired little beetle that shouldn’t be up from hibernation just yet. 

Across the road are half a dozen humans in what looks like riot gear labeled TCRI and a man in a black suit. The man somehow looks more dangerous than the people in police armor. 

“Leo,” Mikey says in a small voice. His brother doesn’t answer, but he does shift his weight to put Mikey more firmly behind him, which is answer enough. 

And Mikey thinks, We weren’t supposed to be here. No one knows where we are. 

The man in the suit starts talking into the bulky earpiece he’s wearing, but Mikey can’t make out what he’s saying over the buzzing of the streetlamp and the pounding of his own heart in his ears. All he hears is Leonardo murmur, “Mikey, go.”

“No,” Mikey’s mouth says automatically. It doesn’t even need any input from his brain to say it. Because no. 

“Mike,” Leo says, in his best leader voice. But his tone is urgent in a way that borders on being scared so closely it must mean he’s actually terrified, or he would never have let Mikey hear even a hint of it. “I’d go with you if I could. I’m sorry I can’t.” 

His hands tighten on his crutches. He can’t run. He’s still healing. He should be at home, doing his exercises with those little pink dumbbells in the warmth and safety of the lair, complaining the whole time in between tossing out ideas for dinner. 

Mikey should have said no to sneaking out the way Donnie and Raphie would have instantly said no. He should be better at taking care of Leo the way he needs to be taken care of, the way everyone else does so easily. 

The armored people start to shift to the side, moving around Mikey and Leo in a wide formation, hands on the guns holstered at their waists. Containing them. The man in the suit is still talking, face inscrutable behind the tinted glasses he’s wearing, but his face hasn’t twitched away from their direction even once. 

“Hey,” Leo says, bringing Mikey’s attention back. “Don’t look at them, look at me.”

He’s smiling over his shoulder like it’s any other back-alley brawl with the mutant of the week or a handful of those Foot soldiers who never know when to quit, and not a horrible high-stakes situation in which Mikey stands to lose one of the most important things in the entire world if he makes the wrong move. 

“Just get home and get the guys, okay? Then come right back for me. You can outrun these goons without breaking a sweat. You can do anything.”

Mikey drops the smoothies and the cold wet soaks through one of his sneakers instantly but he needs his hands free so he can clutch the back of Leo’s stupid hoodie. He needs to hold on tight and make sure whoever tries to take his brother away knows exactly what kind of knock-down drag-out fight they’re in for. 

“I don’t care,” Mikey says, too loud in the stillness. “I’m not leaving you.”

He wishes he were a snapper like Raphie. If he was big and strong and had a shell that was as good as bulletproof armor, he’d scoop Leonardo up and shield him from the guns and run them both away. 

If he was a genius like Donnie, he’d have one or a dozen gadgets on his person that would have saved them. 

But he’s just Mikey, who isn’t big and strong, who isn’t a genius, who isn’t one of the people Leonardo is willing to step down and be weak in front of and depend on. Just Mikey, who Leo saved all his best jokes for during painful rehab, like it mattered to him that Mikey didn’t see him struggle. Just Mikey, who Leo always lifts both arms for the second he sees him coming and squishes into the world’s best hug, even if he’s pissed off at everybody else. Just Mikey, who Leo wants to get better for, be the best for, be one of the constant things on this planet Mikey never needs to doubt, like gravity and sunrise and overpriced street food. 

Because there’s a very big part of him that will always be what it’s always been, no matter how mature he gets, or how accomplished a ninja master he becomes—he’ll always be Leonardo, and Leonardo would do anything to make sure Michelangelo keeps smiling. 

Leo is also very stupid, because he doesn’t seem to understand that Mikey will never smile again if his big brother goes away. 

When the TCRI agents explode forward at some signal Mikey missed, and grab the brothers and drag them apart, Leo stumbles and falls when his crutches are wrenched away. He’d probably be making a smart-ass comment if his jaw wasn’t clenched, the sudden fall probably radiating pain all the way up his spine, distress making his gold eyes burn neon yellow. 

Like a flip was switched, all the panic inside of Mikey evaporates into a red-tinged mist. 

The supernova inside him sleeps most of the time, because he’s not big enough to contain its multitudes yet, and it doesn’t want to cause pain. It only wants to shine light in dark places, it only wants to help. But it wakes up with a fury and fills every inch of him to the brim and the overflow spills right out of him, lifts him right off the ground, makes his voice a resounding thunderclap when he yells, “GET AWAY! You’re hurting him!” 

Staggering back and shouting in alarm, the agents begin firing, because humans in a panic are trigger-happy creatures, even well-trained ones like these guys must be. Every round fired disintegrates the second it meets the glow pouring out of Mikey, disappearing before it can do harm. 

“Holy shit,” Leo says, eyes wide. It’s the way Mikey imagines he probably looked at Leo, when everyone else feared Raphael was a lost cause but Leo put his hand on Mikey’s shoulder and told him, I’m not giving up on him. I’m not leaving him behind. A sailor lost in a storm and their first glimpse of the lighthouse in the dark, close enough to save them.

“Hold your fire!” the man in the black suit barks suddenly, his voice viciously angry. “I did not clear any of you to fire!” 

Mikey doesn’t care who the scary Men In Black guy is, or what reason he has for tracking Mikey and his brother down, or why he’s calling the dogs off now. He cares about helping Leo get back on his feet, scooping the crutches up off the ground and getting Leo’s arms in them, and staring right into Agent Sunglasses’s stupid face while the supernova burns and burns and burns inside him. 

Try it, he doesn’t say. Just try it. If the Krang couldn’t take my brother from me, what hope do you think you have?

He feels Leo’s arm slip around his, locking them together at the elbow. Leo’s ninpo, a soft breeze instead of the playful gale it’s supposed to be, weaves through Mikey’s own to lead it. 

‘Like this,’ the wind tells the sunburst, guiding it through the process it wants it to take the same way bigger hands used to guide a smaller Mikey through katas, readjusting his arms and poking him playfully on the beak when he scrunched it in frustration. The golden portal that opens beneath their feet costs him nothing, appearing as effortlessly as Leo’s spinning blue ones always do. 

The agent’s face goes slack with shock the second before the turtles disappear. 

They land on the sofa with enough force that it almost collapses, and Leo makes a pained noise, hands pressed to his plastron like he’s trying to contain a full-body ache with sheer willpower. Mikey scrambles off of him and falls off the sofa for his trouble. His clothes are prickly, like he’s covered in static electricity. A magazine left on the coffee table begins to move, pages flipping as if in a breeze. One of the beanbag chairs lifts up slightly, like gravity has gotten lighter in that specific spot. 

He feels too big for himself. There are multitudes inside him, a million different things that are all true at the same time. He’s still so angry, and he’s still so afraid, and he’s still just Mikey, who couldn’t be what Leo needed him to be until the last possible second. 

Just Mikey, who Leo saves his best smile for. Just Mikey, who Leo hugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world to bring another person that close and trust them right next to his heart. 

“You’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Leo says, like it’s another truth Mikey can keep for as long as he wants. Forever, even.

There will be hell to pay when their brothers get home. There’s a brand-new danger their family needs to be made aware of. Leo tried to leave him behind again and it reopened a wound that was still raw and healing.

But for now that wild star in his heart doesn’t need to burn so bright. It can put all the furniture that began to float back down and go back to sleep. And Mikey can press his face into the cracked print of Leo’s favorite Chappell Roan hoodie and say, “Hope you enjoyed your last taste of freedom for the next hundred years.”

Leo laughs, but doesn’t let go of Mikey right away. He clings extra hard for an extra long minute.

He would have left, Mikey realizes, but he didn’t want to go. When he was alone on the Technodrome, staring down a monster and a portal and the truth of how to save everyone, he didn’t want to go. If there was any other choice, he would have taken it. He would have come home. 

Mikey isn’t Leo, who will do what he has to do no matter what it costs himself. Mikey isn't Raph or Donnie. Mikey is and always has been the spoiled baby of the family, who will do exactly what he wants to do and damn the consequences. He’ll tear a thousand holes open in the universe if that’s what it takes to keep his family together, and if the Hamato ancestors don’t like it then they can come and take their ninpo back. 

They can try, anyway. 

[mokulule]

Take Out for Dummies - Part 2

Ship: Dead on Main Previous | Masterpost Note: So I was planning on sitting on this until I was about done with part 3, but then @yeetyeetedyote, who tumblr doesn't allow me to tag, did a meme for part 1 and I couldn't help but post it. So hope you enjoy. Jason did not know what to wear. It was Red Hood who had a date, but going in his full uniform seemed very excessive somehow. But there was also no way he was going unarmed. He pondered his closet with a frown. What clothing did he even own that were suitable for a date? He’d never had to ponder this before. What level of formality was expected? Probably not formal, considering there would be no dinner. Also he was Red Hood, there was no way he’d do formal, he had an aesthetic.

He finally settled on jeans, a red henley and the brown leather jacket he used as Red Hood. He held up the jacket and inspected it critically for blood spatters, that at least he felt certain wasn’t appropriate.

One hour later saw Red Hood rolling up to the curb in front of the building. Only one person was leaning against the brick wall there, absorbed in their phone; it had to be Danny. The rest of the people there were just walking past. It was Crime Alley, Red Hood barely got a glance of interest. Gotta love Gothamites.

Jason had not been able to really get good visual on Danny in the dark, aside from the fact that he was rather short and had dark hair, the night vision in his helmet could only do so much. He had not been prepared for how he looked up and the wide blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. Nor the way the button down shirt and the jeans hugged close to broad shoulders and slim waist in a way the hoodie he’d worn previously had clearly not.

Somehow in all his musings about how this would go Jason had never considered the possibility that Danny would be hot.

“Hi,” Danny said still smiling as he came up to him. He raised his arms out from his sides a bit helplessly before letting them fall back. “So how do you want me?”

Jason’s brain screeched to a halt as those words brought a decidedly not appropriate image to his head. He was so glad he was wearing his helmet right now. Jason must have stiffened or given away his embarrassment some other way, because Danny’s cheeks flushed as he too realized how his question could have been understood.

“I meant on your bike.”Jason hunched over, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. Because that was not helping at all.

Wordlessly Jason held out the extra helmet. Danny took it gratefully and stuffed it over his red face.

“Front.” Jason said over the radio connection between the helmets.

Jason had to give Danny a hand to get him situated in front. He had to hold on near the center of handlebars and he didn’t really have good place to place his feet and had to hold them curled up.

It was neither safe nor legal, but Jason was not about to have a potential assassin at his back and besides who was gonna arrest Red Hood for traffic violations? The small hitched gasp when Jason curled around Danny’s back to reach the handlebars had his lips quirking up, and he might have pressed him just a bit further forward just for that.

“Where to?”

“Sommerset.”Jason raised an eyebrow at that as he kicked off the curb. Carefully, as he got a feeling for the different weight distribution, he drove them in the direction of the Trigate Bridge.

“If a tour of Old Arkham is your idea of a date, I think I’m gonna have to shoot you.”

Danny scoffed.

“I promised you fun, didn’t I?”

At Jason’s lack of response, he slumped further.

“There’s a traveling carnival on the fair grounds at the edge of town.”

“Huh.” Jason was trying to think of a time he’d actually visited a carnival as a visitor and not a vigilante to stop some villain plot. He was coming up short. There was a feeling in his chest he had a hard time identifying, an uncertain thing, but it wasn’t bad. If nothing else he was gonna have an experience? Oo o oO

They parked the bike in the attached gravel parking lot near the fair grounds. Jason had to step off the bike first and then promptly had to catch Danny as his legs refused to carry him when he stepped off the bike.

“Oh wow, my legs fell asleep there.” He laughed and stepped away on wobbly legs as he pulled the helmet off. He handed it to Jason who put it into its compartment.

He took another wobbly step forward and Jason couldn’t help the way he reached for him to steady him. Instead Danny grabbed his hand firmly. Jason was baffled at the action looking from Danny to their hands, uncertain how to react, but Danny just smiled and changed his hold so their fingers were twined together.

He looked mightily satisfied about it too as he tugged Jason forward toward the fair grounds. A fair bit of the rides were visible because of their heights and Jason could easily imagine how the place would light up with multicolored lights once evening came.

Once they entered the fair grounds they drew quite a lot of attention. Lots of people stopped and pointed at Red Hood and his companion. Phones were pointed in their direction and Jason found himself tensing.

Danny leaned closer and spoke lowly, “Don’t worry, nobody will believe them. Regular digital cameras are odd around me, so they won’t get usable footage.”

Jason’s mind raced, what did that mean? Did he have some sort of jammer? Was it a meta ability? Was it related to his ability to sneak up on vigilantes on Gotham rooftops?

“And,” Danny continued, “if anyone asks, we can always say you’re a cosplayer.”

Jason grimaced. Danny slapped his chest as if he could see right through the mask.

“Hey! Cosplay is a great creative hobby.”

“That’s not- I’m a former crime lord. I don’t understand why anyone would dress up as me.”

“Pffft, don’t sell yourself short. Also you have a cool recognizable thing going on with the helmet. It will be especially funny if someone critiques it for not being accurate.”

Jason couldn’t help his chuckle at how gleeful Danny looked at the prospect.

“This is the real reason you want me to claim I’m cosplaying?”

“It would be so funny, admit it!”

Jason huffed. It would be pretty funny.

“Ha! I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, time to show off some of those shooting skills and win me a plushie.” With that statement Danny pointed towards a game booth with truly ridiculously large unicorn plushies hanging from it and tugged Jason forward. It was only at that moment he remembered they were still holding hands. It was…

It was nice.

Danny glanced back at him and he was smiling, warm and excited. Jason didn’t remember the last time someone had smiled that much at him. Jason found himself smiling back, and he was suddenly grateful he couldn’t be seen behind the helmet.

The shooting booth operator eyed Red Hood warily until Danny broke the tension in a voice that carried, “my friend’s cosplay is pretty awesome right?”

The operator’s shoulders fell and he chuckled, “pretty brave of him to wear that this close to Gotham proper.”

“Sure is! But not to worry if there’s any trouble I will protect him,” Danny said seriously, with a glance and a wink at Jason.

The man took in Danny’s skinny and less than imposing appearance and burst out laughing, and just like that any remaining tension was gone.

The operator explained the game. There were different tiers with bottles lined up on shelves and flat rings of different widths balancing on top. You got points if you knocked the ring down over the bottle neck. The slimmer rings offered more points.

It was a pretty simple game.

Danny put down cash for the game and looked at Jason expectantly. “Show us some of that Red Hood skill.”

The operator chuckled. Jason rolled his eyes and stepped up.

Immediately, as he picked up the air gun it felt clunky in his hand. It was sharp-edged where it should be smooth and was weighted all wrong especially with the pressure cable attached to it, but that was not going to stop him. He loaded it with one of the five cork stoppers the operator handed him. He seemed to be enjoying Danny’s teasing as much as Danny himself.

Out the corner of his vision he saw Danny lean forward expectantly as he took aim.

He pulled the trigger.

The cork stopper was ejected with a loud pop and promptly hit the edge of a shelf bouncing backwards to land on the floor where it rolled around three times before stopping.

Danny looked at him wide eyed before bursting out in helpless snickers. Jason shoved him in revenge, but he couldn’t help smiling. There was just something refreshing about how despite knowing he was the real Red Hood he was so completely unafraid of him. Not even his family was that relaxed around him.

He didn’t want to bring his mood down contemplating that, so he reloaded the clunky gun and took aim again. He considered the points on the rings and the available prize tiers. Four shots left, with a bit of luck he could still do decently.

Aiming higher and slightly more to the right of how he would aim a real gun he shot the first maximum point ring down around the bottle neck. Three more fell in rapid succession.

Danny cheered, pumping his fist in the air.

“That’s four hundred points, that gives you the choice of a large prize,” the operator said impressed.

He pointed at a large unicorn plush, it wasn’t quite the extra large ones that hung on the outside of the stall, those required cumulative points from at least two games, but it was still a very decent size.

Danny was the very opposite of disappointed when Jason handed it over. He squished it in his arms and absolutely beamed up at Jason. Jason looked away, embarrassed for feeling so satisfied and warm just for winning a silly game.

The operator snorted giving them a knowing look. “Have a nice evening boys.”

“You too,” Danny replied, sidling up close and entwining their fingers again as he pulled them away and off towards the various rides.

Jason eyed their once more joined hands in bemusement, not really sure what to think, but he’d already allowed it once. It sold the appearance of a date, made it all the more likely to the bystanders that Jason was just some cosplayer with a death wish, so it was smart to keep holding hands. And Jason found himself reluctant to give it up.

It was an easy illusion to give into.

He squeezed Danny’s hands and he turned his head to look at him, smiling like this was a real date and not one of his odd jobs. Jason nodded towards the bumper cars and Danny’s grin turned into feral delight as he dragged him in the new direction. It was so easy to pretend Jason was just here to have fun with a friend who was maybe just a bit more.

That was something he could have had maybe. If he hadn’t been Robin. If he hadn’t died and come back wrong. If he wasn’t a former crime lord just trying to find his footing with a family he wasn’t sure wanted him and not just the dead boy he’d been.

But for just a little while he could pretend.

Until Danny turned out to actually know he was supposed to kill him, until everything crashed and burned like usual, he could allow himself a little fun.

Like ignoring every sign saying the bumper cars were not meant for driving into each other. The bored teen operator certainly didn’t care to uphold that rule. The bumper car ride was a war zone, a giant free for all and yet Jason managed to have only eyes for Danny. He was a tricky driver to catch. Jason had no idea how he managed to maneuver the car like that, it was verging on supernatural.

They were both laughing when they exited their cars after Jason had finally managed to bump into him proper instead of the earlier glancing blows.

“Remind me to call you if I ever need a getaway driver.”

Danny snorted knocking their shoulders together. “Only if I get part of the cut.”

I’ll give you more than a cut, Jason was about to say, but thankfully didn’t. Because what did that even mean? Instead he knocked his shoulder back.

They continued on towards another ride, a small rollercoaster, and as they queued Danny started telling him about how his dad’s driving was so infamous in his hometown that the local news included a segment to warn for it when he was on the roads. Because of that nobody had wanted to give Danny driving lessons and that’s why technically he didn’t have a license, but he’d once landed a space shuttle, so that should count for something. The story verged on so impossible it had to be true, but Jason was sure if a civilian had actually landed a space shuttle it would have been all over the news or at least known among superheroes - it was entertaining nonetheless.

Jason wasn’t sure when they’d started holding hands again only noted the absence when Danny left him by a bench several rides later with stern instructions to protect the princess with his life, aka the unicorn plushie.

The lights had flickered on a while ago and bathed the darkening grounds in multicolored lights. Jason leaned back relaxing against the bench. Taking in the lights and the happy atmosphere as people passed him by. There were a few people who pointed and snickered as they walked by, but clearly the unicorn plushie was just as good as Danny to convince people he was just a guy in a costume.

“It’s a pretty good costume.”

Jason turned his head to find a man with a superman shirt had stopped. He stayed silent waiting for him to elaborate. He obviously wanted to, there was something in his drawl.

“The casual look is pretty well put together while remaining recognizably Red Hood.”

“But-“ somehow there was a but- “if you were actually from Gotham you’d know that the real helmet is matte and the brow section is more slanted giving it an angrier expression.”

Jason stared incredulously at the man in the Superman shirt accusing him of not being a Gothamite. Never mind the helmet thing, that was just ridiculous but accusing him of not being a Gothamite, now that was an insult he wouldn’t be taking. Jason stood up to his full six feet and saw the way the man shrunk as he realized he might have made a mistake.

“There you are, babe,” Danny inserted himself smoothly into the situation snaking an arm around his waist and pressing close. It was distracting. “Come on let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Jason snorted as he let Danny move them forward. He didn’t need the intervention, he wouldn’t have attacked the man or anything.

He couldn’t help but pull them to a stop however as they passed him.

“Your information is outdated, this is the current helmet.” He spoke lowly and ominously only made more ominous by the voice modulation.

The man eep’ed and scrambled to get away.

They watched him go with no small bit of amusement.

“I thought we agreed to keep it on the down low.”

Jason shrugged, “he asked for it, besides you said it yourself, nobody will believe him.”

“Alright then.” Danny left the place beneath Jason’s arm, he had only a moment to feel bereft however until his hand was grabbed again and pulled in the direction of the parking lot. “Speaking of proof, do you mind me taking a selfie of us so I can prove I took you out?”

Jason frowned. “I thought you said cameras didn’t work around you.” “They don’t, I’ve had to modify it to be able to take any pictures.”

“You gonna tell me what kind of meta ability you have?”

Danny chuckled. He pulled their joined hands up and pressed a kiss to Jason’s scarred knuckles. Jason was so distracted by the action he almost didn’t hear the, “I like you Hood, but that isn’t a first date conversation.”

There was a pause in their conversation as Jason contemplated the absurd idea of there ever being a second date, the fact that this one was nearly over and how he’d actually had a lot of fun.

“So, selfie?”

“Uh sure.”

Danny juggled the white plastic bag that Jason only noticed now onehanded as he pulled out his phone. It was a broad phone with actual buttons and Jason would believe it was modified alright. Danny smiled and leaned close as he raised his hand, a small flash went off and Danny looked the picture over in satisfaction.

“What’s with the bag?”

“Huh, oh this is food. Our next stop, if you’re still willing, is the ice rink, but I figured we could take a break on the roof and eat back to back or something, what with the whole-” he indicated the helmet by waving a hand in front of his face.

So it wasn’t over yet. Not if Jason wanted to continue. It was an easy out, Jason could just chose to drive Danny to wherever he wanted to be dropped off and he could go home and still make it easily in time for patrol - or he could prolong the evening.

Jason popped open the compartment under the seat of his bike and took the warm bag of food from Danny to put in as he considered. Danny had already put on the extra helmet.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Jason could practically hear the smile in his voice even if he couldn’t see it through the opaque helmet.

“Okay,” he confirmed.

The small fist pump was kinda adorable. So first part of the date, it was getting a bit long so I cut it in two, but hey that's the only reason I could even upload it. Jason is in trouble, he's just not quite realizing it yet XD I enjoy hearing your thoughts on the story, so please continue to share &lt;3

Subscribe to the masterpost here Next

[justjudethoughts]

Lessons in Divine Mercy

Necessary Context: Very early on in my journey with Religious OCD, extremely well-meaning mentors would often tell me the story of the Prodigal Son, and end it with "you just need to trust in God's mercy! He wants to forgive you!" But you see, for me, that was never the problem. 14-year-old me KNEW God wanted to forgive her. She also knew that if she committed a mortal sin, she was supposed to go to confession. And, well, um, she thought everything was a mortal sin. Literally skipped brushing my teeth once and thought it was a mortal sin. What scared me the most was the realization I couldn't literally spend 24/7 in confession. And if I was committing a mortal sin every few minutes, then how was I ever supposed to stay in union with God? To me, absolutely none of this had to do with trusting that God was merciful.

I was wrong.

It took a while to come to this conclusion, but I eventually realized that trusting in God's mercy had more to it than simply trusting He wanted to forgive me. It meant trusting that He knew me better than I knew myself. That He saw my heart and my mind and the absolute agony I was going through, and more than that, that He cared. I had to trust that His mercy was bigger than my illness. That He wasn't scared of my scruples. In practice, that meant I had to trust that even if I somehow managed to

— 1) Commit a mortal sin 2) Convince myself afterwards that it wasn't a mortal sin and I was just obsessing and 3) Forgo going to confession in an attempt to not perform a compulsion— that God would not hold that supposed mortal sin against me. Of course, now I realize how unlikely that entire situation is to even happen in the first place, but at the time it was my reality. It was my fear every single day, and that leap of faith was a terrifying one to make. But when I did, I could finally begin to do the things I needed to heal (aka, avoid compulsions, trusting that God is going to take care of it even if I mislabeled and avoided something I actually should have done as a compulsion).

You see, what I hadn't realized at the time is that God's mercy doesn't just mean He forgives your sins— it means He has a tender, bleeding, broken heart for you. For you and for everything you have been through. For you and for every hurt stored in your chest. For you and you alone, as though you were the only one to ever exist. His mercy does not simply say "go and sin no more," it stoops to write in the sand, and while doing so, finds you at eye level. Looks you in the eye, takes your hand, and raises you to your feet. Calls you by name. The Jesus who meets you in the confessional is the same Jesus who wept when Lazarus died. Whose heart was moved with pity for the crowd. Who dropped everything to raise a little girl from the dead, and the first thing He said when she was awake was to make sure she was given something to eat.

Divine Mercy means that God sees where you are, knows where you are, and pursues you there. Meets you there. Why else do you think He came down to earth as a baby? We got ourselves in trouble by trying to build a tower to heaven because that was never what we were supposed to do. God stoops to us. The confusion of Babble was undone by the descent of the Holy Ghost.

He sees you. He knows you. And He cares. Oh, how it hurts His heart to see you hurt! And how much more it hurts to see you scared of Him. Do you not think the Hands that crafted you know every crevice of your heart? Do you not think that the God who became a baby, whose heart was pierced for love of you, could hold anything inside that heart beside tenderness at the thought of you? For all of eternity He has had a simple wish — to wash your feet and kiss your wounds. Will you trust Him enough to let Him?

[firelxdykatara]

I have a weird question: When I talk about kya and bumi’s childhoods, I’ve had a lot of people saying to me “Aang tried SO hard to teach his culture to Kya and Bumi but they weren’t interested and ignored him”

Is there any episode of TLOK that I’ve missed where that’s stated? I’m so confused

No, there isn't. It's purely headcanon, in an attempt to make it seem like Aang was portrayed as less of a neglectful father to his non-airbending children, which wouldn't necessarily be such a huge problem.... except that a) Aang fans are extremely invested in making it out as if this is somehow canon to the text of the show, and b) it requires ignoring things that are actually stated in the show itself.

Such as Aang taking Tenzin--and only Tenzin--on fun vacations to places that have no Air Nomad or airbending significance, but do in fact have great significance to the gaang as a whole. What, exactly, was he teaching Tenzin about airbending, or even Air Nomad culture, when he took him alone to Kyoshi Island to ride the elephant koi, or to Ember Island to build sandcastles?

Kya says it herself:

"Bumi and I weren't on those great vacations. It was always just you and Dad."

In fact, Bumi says they never saw the place, meaning that it isn't even a case of "Well, Tenzin was the youngest, so maybe they got taken on vacations of their own and by the time he was old enough to go they had other fun things to do."

Imagine, never taking fully two thirds of your children to Ember Island, because... what, it never occurred to him that maybe his wife might like to reminisce about the past with him and their children?

Because that's the other implication here: he never took Kya or Bumi on these great vacations, they were left home with their mother, who presumably had to figure out how to explain to them why their father didn't think to take them to fun places as a family that didn't involve telling them outright that they just weren't as important to him because they couldn't bend air. (Now, yes, that is editorializing on my part--but the difference between this and 'but he tried to teach Kya and Bumi about their Air Nomad heritage, they just weren't interested!' is that my supposition fits perfectly within canon, while their attempted justification is contradicted by the show.)

And if that weren't enough, we also get explicit textual confirmation that Aang never even talked about having other children to the people whose entire purpose in life was to idolize the Avatar and attempt to revive his nearly extinct culture. The Air Acolytes assume that Kya and Bumi are Tenzin's servants at first! And they are shocked to discover the Avatar had other children--and then disappointed when they realize those other children were not airbenders. And Bumi himself has to tell a statue of his dead father that he hopes he's finally proud of him... because he was granted airbending, entirely outside of his control, not because of any of his actual accomplishments, which we have no indication Aang gave a shit about.

There's just really not a lot of room in there for 'the kids were just a little jealous that Tenzin got extra airbending teaching but he wasn't that bad' when the actual text of the show gives us this.

Now, I don't know if the comics tried to retcon it with some nonsense like that, but even if they did, it is not remotely indicated in the show. And given how bad the comics are right now about trying to like, retroactively fix things because of criticism, I am not particularly inclined to give canon grace here.

[churino]

Design for Astoria Carlton-Ritz and powerglide

She's our leading lady for the autobot's human allies. He's a niche extranet micro celebrity

After the death of her father Astoria is the CEO of the to the hybrid technologies company. She's spent most of her life in physical comfort, but emotional distress, being very lonely, she wonders if she can find someone that actually likes her, let alone love her

Astoria desires above all to be free from this corporate world she's been tossed into after her father's death and when she meets the autobots she quickly falls in love, first in a sense of admiration but later romantically, and uses her vast resources to help them in secret

But that leads her to question where those resources are coming from

With Nightbird's disaperance her proprietors grew desparate to find her, turning to the aid of any rich folk that would hear them out, they all refused out of knowing the greater purpose of nightbird's creation or having something to grain from the company's downfall, except for hybrid technologies, led by an absent minded woman that didnt even want to be there, she allowed them to use her company's satellites to search the world without really reading the contract, just wanting to end a day of work without more hassle.

When nightbird found out about the satellites, she blew the things out of the sky, which alerted autobots in space to investigate the earth once more, many years after the disappearance of the first expedition to the planet.

After the destruction of hybrid technologies' satellite, nightbird's forces targeted their owners next, tearing down their leadership quite literally, luckily due to runamuck and runabout's incompetence their attack only left humans injured rather than dead, (but of course leadership in such places tends to be quite old so we'll have to see how it goes down in the hospital)

Except for astoria who came out unscathed, rescued by the autobot powerglide as he literally descended from the sky, they remained in hiding till powerglide discovered the wereabouts of the apex bomber and joined up optimus' team, being assigned to join the trottlebots in scouting out the earth, and take astoria with him so she can be on the run and outside of nightbird or the decepticon's reach

Born gifted with the incredible ability to fly, throughout his early life, powerglide was incredibly popular and looked up to, which resulted in him becoming an immature show off. He loves adventure and freedom but is actually really fond of people with sheltered upbringings because they get impressed easily, since he likes making people happy with his stunts. But he never questioned where the power to do these stunts came from,

Having heard of the lost rescue mission to earth led by optimus prime, he was hovering around the planet to record his exploits to his followers when a satellite behind him exploded and took his screen with it, enticing him to go down to earth and explore, taking on the shape of a passing plane, he witnessed the vehicon's attack on a human building and being raised an autobot he came down to rescue the humans in denger where he met Astoria.

Eventually meeting up with the autobots on earth he was tasked with protecting Astoria as she was put in a journey around the world with the trottlebots to keep her out of enemy hands, their relationship eventually turning romantic during this mission.

As he was exposed to more walks of life during this task, powerglide began to wonder where his power came from, the awnser turning out to be, he wasn't actually a transformer, rather the menber of another race of machines, powerglide was a go bot, and, wanting to learn more about his heritage, he left earth for a time, discovering the plight of his people, and powers he never knew he had, by the time he returned to earth he had grown into a more complete person, ready to take the next step with his relationship, as the autobots simultaneously rallied to free the enslaved, with him and Astoria becoming symbols for the worlds coming together, personally financing the creation of the EDC (earth defense command) a joint organization of transformers and humans, working to foster unity between earth and the greater universe

In the time powerglide was away, the trottlebots began unearthing more of earth's secrets, discovering the transformers had been on earth even before the autobots ever stepped foot on planet, and had remained hidden not out of their own choice but out of a conspiracy to keep them hidden that had it's web around every major human group in history, including astoria's own company hybrid technologies, humanity's misterious benefactors, the six clan had ensured the rise of certain peoples and companies by granting them cybertronian technology harvested from transformers that stepped out of line and interacted with humanity, in exchange for supplying the six clan and aiding in their mission to keep the transformers a secret,

upon learning the truth of where her money came from, astoria decided to take matters into her own hands. Meaphotically of course, the autobots still act as muscle(cars)

To take down the conspiracy leaders and their operations, learning in the process that even outside the conspiracy, companies and big money constantly engage with exploitation, realizing her quest to "take down the bad guy at the center of all this" was a little childish and wouldn't magically fix things only after sundac and lord zarak had seen "the light" in their own very diferent ways (lord zarak died)

She took back control of her company and restructured it to be more humane, even though she knows exploitation is a societal issue and neither her or her company can solve it alone regardless of how many changes they personally undergo, she knows she can change the world for the better with the power she does have and that it's her duty as someone from a gifted background to do so. In her old age she's become a pillar for the community of transformers on the earth, hybrid offering housing and jobs for maximals and predacons alike and funding the EDC

[lanadelnegan]

Wildest Dreams

Jeffrey Dean Morgan x Reader

Song inspo: Wildest Dreams by Taylor Swift

Summary: Y/n's celebrity crush, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, makes her dreams come true when she meets him at a bar after the walking dead comic con.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, *Jeffrey is single*, plot, smut, sexual tension, cursing, sex, oral, daddy-kink

This is my first attempt at fanfiction ever, ahhh! Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

This can't be happening right now. I can't believe he's actually right there. I'm about to touch him.

"Well hello there." Jeffrey's smile widens as I approach his open arms. "What's your name, darlin'?"

"Y/n...Hi" I smile and let him wrap his arms around me.

"That is a beautiful name, y/n. You ready?"

"Yeah, but can we pose a different way though.. maybe looking at each other?" I ask, hoping he can't hear the nervousness in my voice.

"Absolutely, doll." He turns his body facing mine and gently places his fingers around my jawline, looking directly into my eyes and lifting my chin to meet his gaze. "Relax." His tone is soft but demanding.

The photographer counts to 3 but it feels like 10 because Jeffrey's hazel brown eyes are burning flames into mine. I swear this man is staring into my soul as if he can read every thought I've ever had about him. Including that one, because the left side of his mouth suddenly raises and he lets out a "negan-like" chuckle that only the two of us can hear.

I'm the first one to break away from our embrace and I can feel my cheeks redden as I take another glance at him. I make a mental note to never forget what he looks like in person and let my stare linger a little too long on his chest hair peeking out from his white t-shirt. His smirk grows wider and he leans down, putting his mouth next to my ear. "You... are adorable."

When he leans away, the smell of tobacco, leather, and sweet mint fills my lungs.

Even now as I sit in my car, his scent is burned into my nose and the front of my shirt.. I'll never wash it again. My eyes close and my head falls back against my driver's seat.

The rest of my evening is spent binge watching The Walking Dead -season 7 of course - and ordering too much room service. I should go out. I drove 3 hours to Austin, TX.. by myself, which is a big deal for me. I should at least explore the city while I'm here.

I shower and throw on some jean shorts and a cute top, pretending I'm not bothered by the fact that I just washed any trace of my parasocial boyfriend off of me. At least I have this. I hold the picture we took and study it for the 48th time today.

After google searching "nightlife in Austin", Sixth Street seems to be where it's at, so I head that way and although it's only 7 minutes away from my hotel, it takes me 30 to find parking. I have no clue where exactly I'm going or what I'm doing, but hell - I met Jeffrey Dean Morgan earlier. If I could do that, I could do anything. I apply some lip gloss and tell my anxiety to go fuck itself before climbing out of the car.

Bright neon signs from every building light up the street and I smile to myself at the couples holding hands walking past me. I browse around at my options for drinks - not food - because I destroyed $70 worth of room service earlier - and make out the faint sound of Wildest Dreams by Taylor Swift coming from one of the pubs up ahead as if it's calling my name. "Shakespeare's." the old sign reads, and I know that's the one. I make my way into the mildly crowded pub, find a seat at the end of the bar, and don't waste any time ordering a drink.

I bring up the picture of Jeffrey and me on my phone and study it.. for the 49th time today. I'm lost in my thoughts when a deep voice fills my ear. "Shit. That is one handsome dude." He takes a seat next to me and orders himself a drink while I stare at him wide-eyed and unable to speak. Oh.. my god.

Jeffrey orders his drink and turns his body towards me slightly with that signature grin on his stupidly handsome face. He breaks the silence since my lips seem to be paralyzed at the moment.

"Tell me what you're thinking, y/n." ... he remembered my name.

"I'm thinking that there is no way this is real life right now." I grin and look around, trying to mentally focus on suppressing the redness in my cheeks.

He laughs as the bartender places his drink down. "Want me to pinch you?"

"You can do whatever you want to me." I say under my breath as I sip my drink, surprised by my liquid courage. If he heard me, he ignores it and I internally cringe at myself.

"Cheers, darlin'." We tap our drinks and I throw my head back to finish mine completely. I sense his gaze on me and turn to face him completely. "So.. What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" He fires back.

"Apparently having a drink with my celebrity crush." I laugh and cringe again. I need to stop.

"Crush? Me?" sarcasm drips from his smirk as he sips on his whiskey. "Would have never guessed.. not with the way you were blushing like hell during our picture."

My mouth drops open. "I was not!"

"No? Lemme see then." He nods towards my phone in my lap.

I pause hesitantly before handing him my phone and unlocking it for him. Bad idea. Instead of looking at our picture, he clicks on the camera button and turns it to selfie mode. He raises my phone in front of us and leans into me. I'm caught off guard but quickly lean into him, our faces touching and I smile as cool, calm, and collected as I can be in this moment.

He snaps a couple pictures of us and looks at them. "We are fucking cute as shit." He shows me and I laugh.

He pulls some glasses out of his jacket pocket and slides them on his face while holding my phone. I watch him in awe as he takes it upon himself to browse through my phone. My heart drops when he goes to the home screen and sees himself as my wallpaper with cute little hearts and cherries surrounding him. Fuck.

I wait for his reaction but it doesn't faze him. And if it does, he says nothing. He stares at the screen a little longer then finally glances at me with a smirk before turning his attention back to my phone. His thumb presses the tiktok icon and I watch curiously. He's not seriously about to suggest we make a tiktok together. Ick.

Worse. Instead, he clicks on my favorites and multiple squares of his face pop up - edits of him. I almost reach for my phone, but part of me likes that he sees it. What is wrong with me.

He looks at me and raises his brow. For the first time all night, I don't blush when he looks at me and it seems to amuse him because he chuckles and looks back at my phone. He clicks on one of the edits and watches himself on top of another woman kissing her passionately. I watch it with him unashamedly. Before it ends, he suddenly clicks my screen off and hands me my phone back.

"Why did you save that?" he asks with a serious tone.

"Uh, I jus - I liked it." I shrug.

"You like watching me make love to women?"

I laugh to myself. "Uhhh. Yeah, I guess so."

He pauses and stares at me, this time with a serious expression. "Do you wish it was you?"

My eyes widen and I open my mouth to answer but no words come out.

He stands and puts his jacket on. Oh great, I scared him. Good job y/n.

"Let's go." He throws a $100 on the bar and motions for me to stand up too.

I'm obviously not going to question this man. If he tells me to bark, I'll bark. I almost faint when I feel his big palm firmly placed right above my backside as we're leaving.

We exit the bar with our heads down as we quickly walk to his car. He opens the passenger side and I get in, waiting for him to appear on the other side. Leather, mint, and tobacco fill my lungs and I'm gone once again.

I'm so lost in my head that I don't even notice that he's already in the driver's seat. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"Don't ask me that. I don't even know anymore." My answer amuses him and he drives a few blocks away to one of the "rich" hotels. The entire ride over is awkward silence with the exception of Jeffrey blowing puffs of cigarette smoke towards the crack in his window every few moments.

"Y/n." He puts the car in park and turns towards me while flicking his cigarette out the window and rolling it up. "At any point tonight if you want to leave or.. you.. want me to stop, I need you to tell me, okay?"

I look at him and his face is the most serious I've seen it all day.

"Okay." I whisper.

"Come here." Is all he says before I'm leaned towards him over the middle console and so close to his face that our noses are touching. I wait for him to make the move but he doesn't. He looks down at my lips and sighs. "Fuck. I'm not going to kiss you."

I back away a little, feeling embarrassed before he continues explaining. He brings me back closer to him and his hand caresses my cheek. "I need you to understand that tonight is a one time thing, y/n. You.. you can't catch anymore feelings for me than you already have, okay? I'm going to make you feel good, but I'm not going to break your heart in the process."

The smell of his minty cigarette breath tempts me and I have to mentally restrain myself from not crashing into this man's lips. But I just nod instead.

"Good girl." Is all he says before he gets out of the car and comes around to open my door.

The way up to his room is quick and discreet. It's 11pm so we only pass two people on the way up and they didn't seem to recognize him. Even his hotel room is already filled with his signature scent, minus the tobacco.

"Would you like to stay the night with me, y/n?"

"Um, obviously. Are you kidding? ..Yes, I'd love to." I laugh and look around his room.

The lights are off, but the room is bright enough with the city lights shining through the windows. I fall into the bed dramatically on the side closest to the window.

"I'm gonna take a quick shower. Make yourself comfortable, okay?" he grins before closing the bathroom door. I stare back at the closed door and imagine what he looks like getting undressed behind it.

I glance around the large room and notice his phone sitting on the nightstand next to "his side" of the bed. He went through mine.. so it's only fair if I -

I reach over and grab his phone. 042266. I type in his birthdate and the phone locks. I laugh to myself. Too easy, old man.

There's a recent text message from.. my number? I click it and the picture he took of us at the bar pops up. And another one - our picture we took at comic con. He sent them to himself.

I don't want to intrude on his personal business too much, so instead I open his camera and take some goofy selfies. The bathroom door opens while I'm mid tongue out. He stops and stares at me as I slowly set his phone down on the bed. I shrug at him and he shakes his head a little and laughs. He appears in nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist. I turn my gaze away before I get carried away and my eyes get permanently glued to his torso.

"It's okay, y/n. You can look at me. In fact, I want you to."

I look back at him and don't even bother hiding how hard I'm checking him out now. I observe every hair on his chest and my eyes travel south until I'm imagining what he looks like under the towel. A lucky water drop runs down his flat stomach and disappears and I'm hoping the drool I just felt run down my chin was just my imagination. He walks slowly over to my side of the bed and stands next to me.

"You ready to find out what my cock looks like, y/n?"

If I was drinking water right now, I would have just spit it out all over him. I nod and he drops the towel. His cock springs free and I stare at it in awe. He's about 7-8 inches of thick perfection and I've never seen something so hot in my life. He looks down at himself, a proud smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Tell me one of your fantasies, y/n. We're not doing anything tonight that you haven't already thought about."

"I - well, one of them is.. putting it in my mouth." I look up at him innocently.

"What are you waiting for, then?"

I get up and push him gently for him to sit on the bed, then get on my knees in between his legs. If I weren't still buzzing from the drinks earlier, there is no way I'd have the confidence to do this.

He leans back slightly with his hands on either side of him on the bed and looks down at me through lust filled hazel eyes.

"It's all yours baby." He smiles and tucks his bottom lip under his teeth.

I slowly take him into my mouth, savoring the taste of him - like man and fresh leather soap. I groan around him as I take him further and the growl that escapes his throat encourages me to take him as far in the back of my throat as I can.

"Fuuuck baby." His deep voice strains and I watch as his head fall back with pleasure. I continue steadily sucking him and stroking where my throat won't reach. His moans grow louder with each time he hits the back of my throat.

He suddenly thrusts his hips up slightly, causing me to gag and jolt back a little.

"Goddamn it, y/n. You are not making me cum yet." He hanks my hair back and his cock pops out of my mouth and stands strong against his stomach. It's big and wet and throbbing, and my legs clench together and the sight of him.

I stand up and take my shirt off, then my bra. Then slowly slide my shorts and panties down while facing away from him. A satisfied moan escapes his lips and he wastes no time grabbing me and throwing me on the bed. He positions me until my head is on the bed and my ass in the air before I feel his cock press against my soaked pussy from behind. He rubs himself against my wet slit until I'm whimpering and begging him to put it in me.

"Beg for me, baby." He slaps my ass and the sensation causes me to jump a little.

"Please, Jeffrey. I need you. Please."

"Baby, now I know that's not what you call me in your fantasies, is it?" Another slap to my bare ass makes me yelp.

"Daddy.. please!"

His dark chuckle fills the room and every one of my senses is on fire. His scent, his voice, his dick all surround me until I'm crying and pleading for this man to ruin me. "Please daddy, I need you. Please."

"Sorry, princess. I'm taking my time with you." He flips me over suddenly until I'm laying flat on my back. His knees push mine apart, signaling me to spread open for him until he positions himself above me. He leans over me until our faces are inches apart.

My hands roam over his lean body and scratch his back lightly as his lips travel down my neck. His hard cock slides back and forth between my slit and it feels too good every time it brushes my sensitive clit.

"Goddamn, you are soaking my fucking cock and I haven't even put it inside you yet, baby." he groans and bites my nipple gently before taking it into his mouth and sucking so hard it hurts.

He finally leans up, sitting on his knees, and positions his cock right at my entrance.

"Was I or gentle or rough in your fantasies?" He rubs the head against my clit before sliding it back down. My pussy is weeping for him at this point.

"Rough.. please." I choke out.

"Please.. what?" He growls.

"Please daddy!"

He chuckles. "You want it rough baby?" I nod and a tear runs down my cheek at how bad I need him.

"Be careful what you ask for." In one motion, he enters me fully, causing me to scream out at the sudden sensation. My body feels like it was just completely ripped in half, and I wouldn't want it any other way so I cry out for him to do it again. He smirks before pulling out all the way and ramming himself back in.

He starts thrusting at a steady pace and I concentrate on the way his balls feel slapping against me.

Even more tears fall from my face from the extreme emotions he's making me feel. Horny, desperate, obsessed, in.. love.

Fuck.

"Baby. Why are you crying?" He slows his pace and leans over me, assessing my eyes.

"I - I don't know. I - I just.."

"You want me to stop?" his voice is filled with lust and concern.

"No! .. No, don't stop. I just.."

I love you.

"I want it slower." I lie.

"Y/n.. I know you better than that already." He says gently as he thrusts into me deep and agonizingly slow. His lips brush over my ear. "Tell me, baby." He kisses my neck before grabbing my jaw firmly and looking for answers in my eyes. "Tell me, y/n, or I'm stopping."

I close my eyes and blurt out before I can stop myself. "I - I think I love you."

Jeffrey's expression falls serious and he looks back and forth between my eyes while slowly releasing my jaw. His head drops and his eyes close as if he just got slapped, but he continues fucking me.

"Goddamn it, y/n... I told you.. I told you not to catch feelings."

I just stare at him and cry. "I'm sorry."

He closes his eyes again tightly as if contemplating what he should do next. Before I can say anything else, his lips crash against mine. I kiss him back passionately and his tongue slips into my mouth. He picks up the pace with our kiss and his hips and I moan into his mouth.

"Fuck, baby. What am I gonna do with you?" his breathing grows faster and heavier with mine.

"Jeffrey.. fuck, I'm - I'm."

"Cum for me, baby." He growls and quickens his thrusts again.

I scream out for him and he moans into my neck.

"Jeffrey.. you know what else I fantasize about?" I ask him while trying to catch my breath.

"What's that, baby?" His balls slap against me over and over and over.

"What you taste like when you cum."

He lifts his head to look at me and paints a devilish grin across his face. "Yeah? You want me to cum in that pretty mouth, baby?"

I nod without question. I've dreamt about what this man tastes like for so long. If this is our one and only night together, I need to know.

"Fuck." He pulls out of me and leans back on his knees, bringing my head with him as his fingers tightly grip my hair.

"You ready, baby? Open up." His voice is deep and hoarse as he moans out and I swear I've never heard a man sound as sexy as he does right now.

His warm, salty cum fills my throat and I greedily swallow every drop of him, licking his tip until he's completely drained.

"Holyyy shit. Look at my dirty girl." He grins down at me and strokes my hair like he's proud.

He drops down in the bed and holds his arm out for me to lay next to him. I lay my head on his chest and listen to his rapid heart beat. A few minutes pass and I'm hoping he forgot about my little comment earlier. Well - big comment. I can't believe I told him I love him. I mean, I do love him and I think I have for awhile now, but why did I have to be a psycho and tell him that.

He finally breaks the silence. "Y/n.. We have to talk about it."

I sigh. Here it goes. "I know.. listen.. I didn't mean it. Obviously, I barely know you. I was caught up in the moment and I was just.. emotional. I promise I'm - I'm not crazy. I know this is a one time thing and I'm okay with that."

"Hmph." I feel his chest rise a little and he sighs. I lift my head up to look at him and he smiles wide at me before kissing my lips.

"That's too bad y/n.. Cause I was thinking we could do this again tomorrow."

The End.

If you read this, thank you so much. This is my first time writing fanfiction, so pls be nice. If you hate it, I'll cry. :') Xo,kb.

[sollis-occasum]

there is a light that never goes out - anakin x queen!reader x sith!obi-wan (part 1 of 5)

summary: When your first love, Obi-Wan Kenobi, gave in to the temptations of the dark side and joined the Sith Order, you thought there was no hope for your people. However, a message from a friend you thought was dead would reignite the fire of rebellion in your heart.

warnings: angst, no use of y/n, unrequited love, blood, mentions of execution, mentions of death, mentions of biological weapons, reader is a corrupt politician (actually this is a little bit complicated)

word count: 4.2k

a/n: My story takes place in an alternative universe where Obi-Wan has turned to the dark side and Anakin has formed a resistance with the Jedi who survived Order 66 (I know Obi is a comfort character for most of us but sith!obi-wan is too attractive to not write about. What can i do? I'm just a girl) He will be in story in part 2. Also, as i said before, English is not my first language. I'm sure i made many mistakes. I hope you don't mind guys. I love you ♡

If there was one thing your people and your friends in the Imperial Senate knew for sure about you, it was that you had no intention of wasting your precious time rebelling against Lord Sidious, perhaps the most evil being the galaxy had seen in thousands of years.

Of course, it wasn’t because you had sympathy for the ugly old man or supported his fascist ideas that favored the human race. In fact, even during those unfortunate times when thousands of senators from all over the galaxy were ready to worship the Chancellor and the Separatists were on the rise, you were secretly proud of yourself for not falling under his influence—something you would rather attribute to your own intelligence than to the other senators being fools blinded by their lust for power.

Yes, deep down you didn’t recognize Palpatine’s empire and still held onto your loyalty to the Republic, but in your situation it didn’t matter. As a queen, you were one of the best at understanding how dangerous a game politics is, and you played by the rules for the good of your people. Up until that day, you had given the Emperor everything he asked of you without even bargaining. You had allowed him to change your government and install his own men, accepting the heavy taxes he demanded, and allowing him to build the weapons factories and experimental laboratories he wanted, even if it meant destroying the entire ecosystem of your planet. You had made all the sacrifices expected of you, until there was nothing left to sacrifice.

You knew that when your people looked at you, they saw not their beloved queen but one of Palpatine's puppets. To them, you were nothing more than a traitor who had betrayed the great royal family and the glorious history of your planet for thousands of years. You ignored the misery of your people in order to protect your crown and continued your luxurious life in your palace.

If only they knew how wrong they were...

You never had the courage to oppose the emperor until that day because you knew what fate awaited the people who opposed Palpatine's rule. You had seen systems falling apart, planets being invaded, and senators being executed mercilessly in front of their people. You couldn't let the people under your protection face this fate! The Emperor might have carelessly destroyed everything beautiful on your planet, but he wouldn't be able to destroy your people.

For this purpose, you would play the role of the corrupted politician your people had assigned to you in the most professional way, and you would make all the sacrifices you had to make to protect your people from Lord Sidioud's wrath until the end of your life. You didn't have the luxury of playing revolutionist. At least, that was what you believed to be right at the time.

However, in dark times, people change, and so do beliefs. A message sent to you by someone you least expected, at a time you least expected, had also initiated this change.

Using the information in the message secretly delivered to you by an old and neglected droid, whichg you had no idea how he had entered your palace, you managed to open a communication channel, allowing a hologram very close to a human size to appear in front of you.

The man had wavy hair that almost reached his shoulders, and his shoulders were slumped as if he were crushed under the weight of carrying the responsibility of the entire galaxy. He was wearing an old cloak with blood stains on it. The parts of his body that you could see were also covered in blood and wounds. He stood determined and upright, but there were traces in his eyes that even the static hologram image could not hide. Traces of sadness and despair. The owner of this hologram was someone you knew very well: The man in front of you was your old friend Anakin Skywalker.

Thank God, the droid resisted opening the message on the holoprojector in your throne room. Otherwise, you had no idea how you would explain this reaction to those around you. You started to walk back slowly, as if there was an assassin ready to kill you, not a hologram in front of you, and eventually you tripped and fell in your seat. Even though you covered your mouth with your hand in terror, your eyes could not hide your fear and surprise. You took deep breaths as if they could comfort you, but no matter what you did, you could not slow down your rapidly beating heart.

"But how is that possible?" you muttered in a voice you could barely hear. "That's impossible! You-you were dead, Anakin. Obi-Wan killed you."

Anakin, who somehow managed to hear you, smiled sadly and protested, "No, your majesty." "As you can see, I'm still alive. I would love to tell you about my experiences, but..."

"Shut up!" you shouted with a deep anger that came from deep within you to stop the man in front of you. Deep down you knew you were being irrational, but wasn't this situation you were in already irrational enough? Besides, the fact that an old friend you had been mourning for years suddenly appeared before you as if nothing had happened should have given you the right to act however you wanted, at least for a short while.

"Shut up! You can't be real. I know that the real Anakin Skywalker was killed by Obi-Wan Kenobi on Mustafar. Padme Amidala couldn't have lied to me! Who are you and how dare you use Ani to play such a vile trick on me?"

Anakin opened his mouth to explain himself to you again, but you raised your hand to stop him. A light flickered in your eyes as if you had solved a great mystery.

“Of course,” you said sarcastically. “Who else but Palpatine would dare do such a thing? You are one of his men. This droid must belong to the Empire. How could I not have thought of that?”

You ignored the desperate sounds of the ambassador droid and Anakin’s objections as you walked towards your desk to grab the small blaster from the drawer.

“That old man knew I would accept the agreement he wanted anyway. Did he really need to play such a dirty trick on me? Besides, what did he think he was going to achieve by doing this? That I would give him everything he wanted without even holding a meeting? Couldn’t he have sent one of his incompetent ambassadors who is just as ugly as he is?”

You quickly turned the gun on the droid. The small, metal astromech tried to move back and forth in fear, but it couldn’t get very far from where it was, partly because of the hologram’s loyalty to its owner and partly because the metal parts that made it move had rusted.

You turned to the hologram one last time and said in a language unbecoming of a queen, “Now fuck off and tell your owner that I will accept the deal he is offering and that he doesn’t need to play such cheap games because when I am done with him, your stupid droid will not be able to do it.”

The astromech started to make hissing sounds of protest again, and Anakin’s voice joined his. He raised his hand as if he could stop you from where he was and shouted, “Don’t you dare do that.” There was no trace of the respect in his voice when you first started talking. “This is my only chance to talk to you. If you shoot the droid, it’s all over. And for God’s sake, are you so blind that you can’t even recognize Artoo?”

You looked at the astromech again with a jerk. You hadn't lowered your weapon yet, but it was a fact that the hologram's mention of Artoo aroused suspicion in your mind. Yes, you could tell with a single glance that the droid in front of you belonged to one of the older models of the R series, and its advanced intelligence, the sounds it made, and its hasty attitude were also the same as Artoo's. But how could you be sure that this droid, whose paint had peeled off, was not oiled, and was damaged in many places, belonged to your old friend? You turned your gaze to Anakin with an irritated expression.

"I have no reason to believe that this droid is Artoo. It could be any model of the R series. And let me tell you right now that you know about Artoo's existence doesn't mean anything to me. Your owner's pet Obi-Wan Kenobi may have also told you about Anakin's astromech."

Artoo let out a sad hiss as Anakin began to angrily ruffle his hair with his non-mechanical hand. "Is he my owner?" he asked, disgust evident in his voice. "Is Palpatine my owner? Don't you dare say that again. That scumbag is nothing to me. How can you think I'm working for him when I've lost everything and everyone I care about because of him!"

"Then prove it!" you cried. You could feel the anger and pain beginning to consume you. "I beg you," you muttered quietly as you sank to the ground in front of the holoprojector. "I'm not asking for you to give me a reason, I'm begging you to give me a reason." Maybe you needed to believe more than he needed to be believed.

"Convince me that Anakin Skywalker is still alive."

You could see Anakin smiling at you, though it was blurry from the tears welling up in your eyes. It was a warm, affectionate smile that he rarely showed to anyone, perhaps even a little embarrassed.

He moved slowly and cautiously, as if you were a wounded convor who would run away if he frightened her. He reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a delicate bracelet with a round, shiny stone in the center. Even the fact that it was reflected in a poorly-made hologram didn’t stop you from recognizing it at first sight.

“Do you remember this?” Anakin asked softly. “You gave me this bracelet ten years ago, on the edge of the Nara swamp. It was my last day before i left your planet, and we got into a fight over some stupid reason I can’t remember now. I think it was something about Aiwha rights. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Aiwha rights are stupid, I’m just saying it was stupid that we got into a fight over this on our last day.”

Even though you were in a crappy situation, you couldn’t help but curl your lips. You had always been very sensitive about the rights of non-sapient species (Tusken raiders were not among them, of course; they were a whole other story), and you found it funny that the man who was talking was afraid to upset you even after all these years. The times when you fought with all your might to defend the rights of other living beings seemed so distant to you. Especially now that you can barely protect the rights of your own people.

"You were so angry with me that I thought you wouldn't come to say goodbye before I returned to Crouscant, but you sent a note to me with help of Artoo asking us to meet at the edge of the Nara Swamp. You didn't want anyone to know about this meeting."

Artoo made a noise of agreement, glad that his part in the story hadn't been left out. Everything the man who claimed to be Anakin had told you so far was true, and the bracelet he showed was a great proof. You knew that your heart was starting to believe him, even if your brain resisted it, but you didn't let your guard down. Because if the man in front of you was really a liar, you knew that your heart would be shattered again and this time, unlike what you did in the past, you wouldn't be able to put the broken pieces back together. "Go ahead," you said coldly.

"We met at the place you wanted just before sunrise. At first, you were very quiet, no matter what I said, I couldn't convince you to talk. Then you suddenly started crying. In fact, I gave you the nickname softy back then. To be honest, even today, when the entire galaxy calls you queen and bows down to you, I'm proud to be the only one who can mock you like that. Anyway... Even though it had been a month since we met, that was the first time you told me about your past. You told me that you weren't very close with your family, that you were always taken care of by the maids and nannies in the palace, that you didn't have any friends growing up. You told me that I was your first and only friend, that no one could understand you like I did, and you asked me not to go, that I should stay on your planet with you."

"But you still left." you said in a low voice. While Anakin was verbally explaining, you were so immersed in replaying that memory in your mind that you hadn’t realized that by addressing him as “you,” you were indirectly acknowledging that he was Anakin Skywalker. “You knew I had to go,” he said with a sad smile, thinking of both of you, those two innocent children who were unaware of their unfortunate and painful future at the time.

"When I told you that I belonged in the Jedi Temple, and that I had to go, you asked me for a favor."

He took the bracelet in his hand and squeezed it as if he were drawing strength from it. "You asked me to come find you and give you this bracelet if you ever ascended to the throne and become one of those stupid, self-centered, incompetent politicians. You said it meant a lot to you and would bring you back to your senses."

The bracelet in Anakin's hands was truly precious to you because, ironically, there was nothing else that made it valuable. When expressed this way, it might seem contradictory, even a little absurd, but it had a very meaningful story for you. When you were only 15, when your people saw you not as a traitor but as their beautiful and elegant princess, you had left the palace to greet your people and tried to blend in with them as if you were a common citizen and not a member of the royal family. While you were deep in conversation with a little boy about his favorite snack, an old and poor woman had timidly approached you and tentatively handed you the bracelet. According to what she told you, the woman made her living by selling jewelry in her small shop, and the bracelet was the most expensive and valuable thing in that dilapidated shop.

"Even if it's not worthy of you, please take this, my noble princess," the woman said with an embarrassed face as if she had said something very rude. "I don't mean to disrespect you by giving you such a cheap bracelet, but it is the most valuable thing I have. I am a person who is devoted to the royal family with all my heart. You have no idea how honored i would be if you accept this little gift of mine and wear it."

To be honest, even the barrette in your poorest maid's hair was more expensive than that bracelet. It was not your style at all, and it didn't even match your clothes.

But that day, in front of that old shop, you had taken that bracelet from her wrinkled hands, put it on, and never taken it off until the day you gave it to Anakin. That bracelet was more than just a piece of chain and a small stone to you. That was a symbol of your loyalty to your people. One day, when you inherited the throne from your father, you would protect everyone who was disadvantaged, find a way to end income inequality. Now, those dreams you had as a little girl made you laugh.

You may not have been able to bring justice to your people, but you had managed to become the most hated member of the royal family in the thousands of years of your planet's history. Well, that was something, wasn't it? At least you knew that one day your name would not be buried in the dusty pages of history, but would continue to be in the history books for years to come. Even if you were to be remembered as a failed leader and a traitor...

You were so lost in memories of the distant past and self-criticism that it took Anakin's cough to bring you back to your senses. You didn't have to be a Jedi to know that he was getting impatient.

"From what I've heard, it's time to return this bracelet to you, but that's beside the point. Now, if I've convinced you that I'm Anakin Skywalker, can I get to the point?"

How could he dare to come back after all these years and criticize how you governed your people as if nothing had happened? On the other hand, speaking without thinking was so typical of Anakin that you couldn't even get angry. You shrugged your shoulders irritably.

"I can't say I believe it, but I decided to at least listen to what you have to say before I smash your droid. If you want to convince me, you have to explain where have you been and what have you been doing all these years. Padme told me before she was executed that you were killed by Obi-Wan Kenobi on Mustafar. If you were alive, why didn't you come to me all these years? Why didn't you let me help you?"

Actually, there were hundreds of things you wanted to ask. You wanted to know where he has been all this time, how he escaped from the Imperial soldiers, what did he do in order to survive? But you couldn’t do it because your voice had started to tremble. It was like that whenever you mentioned him. Your throat would tighten and your voice would shake. Obi-Wan Kenobi, the once Jedi Master and the ruthless Sith Lord of your time, or Darth Whatever. You couldn’t bear to say that dirty name given to him by the Emperor, or even think about it. The years had taught you to get used to everything, but you couldn’t get used to his new identity. He was the man who had once taught you love, mercy, and compassion. He was your first love and your first heartbreak. How could he have turned into such a hateful, savage beast? How could that wise man accept being Palpatine’s puppet?

After a few seconds of silence, Anakin spoke up again. “It’s actually a little hard to explain.” You could see he was having a hard time remembering and recounting the past. But you didn’t stop him. You wanted answers to your questions, and you were going to get them. Right away.

“It’s true that Obi-Wan and I fought a duel at Musatafar, and I lost. But contrary to what my former master thought, I didn’t die there. Padme saved me shortly before she was executed.” He pulled up the pants under his cloak to reveal his mechanical leg. “Here’s a souvenir from that duel. After being treated by Senator Organa’s personal doctors on Alderaan, I traveled to a planet I won’t name for security reasons, and met up with some allies I won’t name.”

“You’re turning into a droid, huh?” you asked, pointing to his leg. Even though there was sarcasm in your voice, your expression couldn't hide your true feelings. “You’ve always loved them.” You knew what he was talking about was extremely serious and traumatic, but you had to say something right then, and that was the first thing that came to mind, no matter how meaningless. And Artoo had made a more lively sound than he had since he had come to you. You had no idea what the little astromech had understood from what you had said, but he was clearly excited to imagine his master as a droid.

Anakin rolled his eyes, "How funny," he said, but you noticed that he was smiling.

"So why did you reach out to me now, Anakin, after all these years of disappearing? What do you want from me?"

"I haven't reached out to you all this time because I've seen the sacrifices you've made to protect your people. I know what Obi-Wan did to those he thought were organizing against Palpatine. And I learned from Senator Organa back then that the emperor was watching your every move. Knowing I was alive would bring nothing but destruction to you and your people. Frankly, I wouldn't be reaching out to you today if I didn't need your help so badly. One of our friends who has managed to infiltrate the Imperial engineers recently gave us some information that Palpatine is making moves to build a new weapon."

"A weapon? Is he trying to build a new one, as if he doesn't already have every weapon in the galaxy?"

"This is a different kind of weapon. Palpatine plans to use a parasite that lives on your planet and secretes its toxic substances to create a bioweapon. It's also much more deadly than any other bioweapon he has. By our calculations, just 10 grams of it released into the air would be enough to kill 2 million people, and up to 5 million for some life forms."

You put your hands to your mouth in horror. You could imagine what it would mean for Palpatine to have such a deadly weapon of mass destruction. And was he going to do it on your planet, using your resources? "B-but how is that possible?" you asked Anakin. "If something like that happened, i would definitely hear about it..."

Your words were cut short by the sudden realization. "Of course..." you mumbled to yourself. "How could I not have figured this out until now?" You were just beginning to understand why Palpatine was so insistent on setting up a lab on your planet. You were already aware that you didn't have the most reliable intelligence team in the galaxy, but you were trying very hard not to go and punch them all. How could they not have known about this beforehand and warned you? And you were angry with yourself. After being deceived and betrayed by Palpatine so many times, how could you have believed that the lab he had set up was for medical purposes? “Good God,” you said, as if seeking strength. Because only divine power could make you endure the horror of what you were hearing.

You turned to the droid next to you with a sudden decision. You would have plenty of time to be angry with yourself and the people under your command later. But right now, you had to be strong and find a solution as soon as possible. Just like a queen. "You have the coordinates to Anakin's location, don't you, Artoo?"

The astromech confirmed you with you. "Give them to me right away. I have to go to Anakin."

Your old friend raised his hand and reached for you as if he could stop you, but the hologram passed through your body. "Don't do something stupid like that," he objected. "If you get caught, they'll kill you."

"Then I won't get caught." you said with great determination. "I can't leave you there like that, Anakin. Besides, I don't think you're in a position to object to me. Your whole body is covered in blood."

"It's not my blood, actually."

"If you think that makes me feel better, Anakin, I'm sorry, but you're very wrong."

You slowly reached out to Anakin's face. This move had done nothing but scatter the hologram, but your emotions were so intense that you wanted to reach even his reflection.

"Wait for me, Anakin."

After you turned off the holoprojector, you called one of your loyal servants over and asked her to prepare your ship. "Make sure to oil this droid," you added as you lovingly patted Artoo's head. "You have no idea how smart and special this little one is."

This was the message that lit a light in your heart 3 years ago, giving you hope that everything would change. Your old friend might have reached out to you for help. But he was the one who helped you by putting the broken pieces of your heart back together. Fate had brought you and Anakin Skywalker together once more, never to be separated again..

tags: @circe143 @snowtargaryen