#despite the longing he still makes me happy you know?

[mmhtastywhump]

One Shot/Outer Banks/Whumpee JJ Maybank/Caretaker John B

The sun was glistening on the snow outside, making the day bright despite the freezing winter cold. A few birds were picking at the mantle in search of food, here and there a few flowers pocked their heads up through the snow.

Inside, the Pogues were preparing the Chateau for Christmas. A playlist of upbeat indie rock was playing in the background. Kiara and Pope were dragging a long garland of Christmas lights across the living room, discussing where to attach it first. JJ and John B, in the meantime, were in the kitchen preparing drinks.

„You know, I‘ve always hated Christmas“, JJ said while rummaging in the kitchen counter for a couple of clean glasses. Christmas was a day for happy families. For everyone else, it was a testament of how fucked up their home lives were, really rubbing it in. Ever since he was little, JJ had always tried his best to have at least a colloquial Christmas with his dad. Trying not to upset him, trying to keep the mood in the house stable. It had always failed and left him disappointed, knowing that other families somehow made it work. Yet, JJ always fucked it up. JJ would always be a Maybank.

„I know, Jayj, but this year, it‘ll be different. Just us here, all together“, John B looked at JJ with determination in his voice, „it will be fun“

JJ scoffed. „My old man probably won‘t even notice I‘m not there, all passed out and stinking of booze“

John B thought for a moment, unsure of what to say. He was missing his dad, too. Big John had been gone for more than a few months already, and it was becoming more and more unlikely for him to suddenly show back up. John B‘s throat clogged up at the memory of his father.

„Shit, John B, I‘m sorry“, JJ started, realizing his mistake, „I didn‘t mean to-“

The glass simply slipped out of JJ‘s fingers. It shattered on the wooden floor.

As the crack of the glass reveberated in JJ‘s ears, time seemed to freeze. His heart was hammering in his chest, a feeling of nausea overwhelming him. He felt a sudden stabbing pain in his forehead. Reacting on pure instinct, he fell to the floor and started to gather the shards in his hands as quickly as he could. Almost instantly, he cut himself.

John B turned around just to see the scene play out in slow-motion. He found his voice in a rush, „No worries, JJ, I‘ll get the-...JJ?“

But JJ didn‘t hear. Instead, his ears were thrumming with the memory of his dad‘s deafening shouts as he stumbled towards him, ready to take a swing at his clumsy child, for breaking things, for being noisy, for being-

John B rushed over, dropping to his knees beside JJ. "Hey, you okay?" he said, gently pulling JJ's trembling hands away from the broken glass. Blood mixed with the shards of glass on the floor, but JJ barely noticed, too focused on the mental video playing in front of his inner eye.

He tried to swallow, clumsily picking at the shards and gathering them in his bleeding hand. „I‘m sorry, I didn‘t mean to-“ His head was ducked between his shoulders as if expecting a hit. It was as if his mind had left the Chateau and had instead ended up somewhere else entirely.

„Hey, JJ“, John B started, concern lacing his voice, „it‘s just me, we‘re in the Chateau, you‘re safe“

Tears began to sting in JJ‘s eyes, yet he wouldn‘t let them spill. He stilled. It took him a long moment to answer. „John B?“, his voice was hoarse.

John B’s eyes softened. "It’s okay, man. We’ll clean it up. You’re okay."

John B gently placed his hands over JJ’s, stopping him from reaching for the glass shards. He could feel JJ’s pulse racing beneath his fingertips, tremors shaking his hands.

"JJ," John B said quietly, his voice steady, "Listen to me. You’re not back there. You’re here, with us. In the Chateau. You’re safe."

It took a few moments for JJ to even register the words, his mind still tangled in the echoes of the past. When he looked up, his hazy gaze was met by green eyes.

John B held his gaze, offering him a small but genuine smile, before grabbing a towel and gathering the broken shards from JJ‘s hands carefully. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You deserve a Christmas without this crap. Just us, alright?”

JJ nodded, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He didn’t say anything at first, just allowed himself a moment to breathe, to feel the warmth of the Chateau. It was just him and his people here. He was safe.

John B helped him to his feet, leading him toward the sink. "Kiara and Pope are probably wondering why we’re not helping. You know Kiara—she’s going to want to do everything perfectly." He tried to lighten the mood, and it worked, just a little.

JJ let out a small laugh, the sound soft and bittersweet. “Yeah, I can just imagine her yelling at Pope for putting the garland on crooked.”

“Exactly,” John B chuckled, “Now let’s go make sure Kiara doesn’t string up the whole place with tinsel. We’re definitely going to need more eggnog for that.”

They walked back into the living room, where Pope and Kiara were in the middle of decorating. The festive chaos of Christmas was in full swing, and even though things weren’t perfect, in that moment, with his friends around him, JJ knew it was as good as Christmas could ever gonna get.

i will never ever get tired of this trope 🙏

[strwberri-milk]

Hello I hope you're doing well.

I swear your Fics get me through the day❤️

I love the way you write about the boys!

I have a (sort of angsty I think) request:

How do you think each of them will handle/what they're gonna do if they aren't exactly the reader's/MC's type? Like, they're not in a relationship with MC yet, and they're in the stage where they're starting to court MC, and then they find out that MC's type is like their exact opposite, and that's where they sort of notice MC doesn't really consider them as a potential partner because of this

Zayne has never really thought that his feelings for you have been reciprocated. Somehow, it slips his mind to think that you could ever like him, especially since he's seen the types of people you had crushes on growing up. He'd never ask you on a date because of this, happy enough to stay your friend. That's why he was so surprised when you asked him on a date, the happiness in his chest dissipating as he began to realise that you simply didn't seem to have it in you to love him as much as he loves you.

His response is simply to break things off. He tells you not to try and force yourself onto him, that if you don't like him you don't have to pretend you do to fulfill some sort of perceived expectation you think he has. He doesn't really let the conversation progress further than that, moving past it. The two of you end up never really being the same, still able to be friends and hang out together but there's always something just bubbling under the surface.

Xavier doesn't realise what's wrong until he sees the way you look at other people. You do your best not to stray while you're sort of with Xavier but you also haven't had a conversation about exclusivity yet, despite the fact that he is wholly devoted to you. He doesn't entertain the idea of breaking things off, not thinking that things were that bad.

You end up breaking things off, telling him that it's really nothing he's done to you. You just didn't know how to feel, struggling to move into more romantic feelings for him. He takes it surprisingly well you think, acting as though things are totally normal. You don't realise that he's become even quieter than usual, not really taking team missions anymore and going out of his way to avoid you. He doesn't know how to cope with his feelings for you and a desire to make you happy, ending up further into avoidance.

Rafayel is devastated. He can tell immediately that you don't really like him, not in the same way you seem to like other people. A part of him wants to delude himself into thinking that maybe it's just a phase, that you'd eventually fall for him the way that literally everybody else seems to. The other part of him is angry, incredibly so. He doesn't like the idea of you messing with his feelings, being cold to you before you can reject him.

The two of you just end up drifting apart. He doesn't return your calls or messages anymore, internally begging for your attention but also being too irrational to consider that maybe if you two talked something could be figured out. He thought that being by your side would be okay as long as he could touch you but your rejection did nothing but make him spiral.

Sylus doesn't take your denial well. You aren't fully aware of it right away, but he's known from the start that you don't really care for him as much as he does you. He doesn't want to do anything about it, seeing if he could slowly encourage you into accepting him in further. He'd do everything he can to try and convince your relationship to progress further but things just seem to remain stagnant.

You'd have to tell him that things just aren't working out. The two of you struggle to maintain a cordial friendship afterwards. That's not to say you can't depend on him - just the fact that it's hard for him to act as comfortable around him as he used to be. He still aims to keep you safe but you lack that camaraderie that the two of you had.

[missingininaction]

alright, friends, i might say something you don't like but i think it's important. not just to defend a character, but because i think this is literally making people's experience and relationship with this game worse.

give jimmy like two seconds to exist.

by hating jimmy so much you refuse to even say his name, and judge real, living people for liking him, you are cheapening your experience by boiling down the main character to the most ~yuckiest~ moments. and, by not making a seperate space for hating on him, you are drowning out the voices of people who actually have nuanced things to say about his character. you know, the skilled writers and artists that feed the fandom? limitation is what kills fandoms, you have to know that.

is jimmy a good person? no. is he a good captain/companion/worker? Absolutely Not! he crumbles like dust under any pressure and he immediately shifts blame off of himself, he is an actively harmful individual and it's right to be upset by his actions. i literally had to stop myself from saying "man FUCK jimmy." multiple times because i didn't want to spoil how terrible he got to my friends when i showed the game to them.

but you have to understand; people are more than their actions. thats part of the entire point of the game. thats why its so abstract. you are meant to think about the nuances of their situation.

we can agree that anya was way more as a woman than what happened to her and what she did as a result of it, right? that despite her best efforts, she was a victim of circumstance, and she deserves to be understood and analyzed fully?

then why, seeing a fictional man who has done immoral things, are you so disgusted you won't even draw, write or discuss him outside of hate? what is that doing for you, to ignore literally the main character of the game because of his actions?

now, this is not to say people can't hate jimmy. i understand it! as someone who has been a victim of s/a and abuse, i understand if you hate him and are even triggered by him to the point of avoiding mention of him. (but...why are you in this fandom? ((not aggressive im genuinely asking)))

you can feel however you want about any character, my goal is not to control people. but i thought it was common knowledge to not hatepost about someone in their tag? over actual insight into his character and, you know, the main themes of the game?

jimmy is a man who has struggled his whole life. both him and curly confirm that in the game. he's unable to control his emotional outbursts, and he likely had no idea what to expect from being in fucking SPACE for over a year with people he probably didn't even know before that trip. and pony express and their corporate safety corner cutting certainly didnt help, did it?

for one reason or another, he most likely was never actually taught how to manage his emotions. that's just how it is sometimes, growing up as a man. and it would make sense if he was forced to deal with everything himself, no? he always complains, but he still says he'll handle it. because that's what he's always had to do. and this is just the start of what i could say about what made him the way that he is.

he's a victim too, not only of his own actions.

surprise surprise, people who do awful things can also be victims.

honestly, this entire situation baffles me. how are you going to avoid one of the main characters of the game, let alone the one you play as ninety percent of the time? mind you, curly is also guilty, and i am happy to see at least some people giving him space for nuance. because he is also a victim!!! why is it so impossible to see jimmy as nuanced, when literally every other character also has incredible depth to them??

you're tarnishing and spitting on the beautiful writing of this game just because one character is too icky for you to feel comfortable thinking about for too long. it's horror, you absolute morons. it's supposed to make you uncomfortable.

if you hate jimmy, i dont blame you. but please, please, make your own space for it. be kind to people who want to explore jimmy and the darker themes, and like him for what his character represents. this is a video game fandom, not a witch hunt. and please, learn some fandom etiquette while you're at it, okay? okay. thank you

also just say his name. its not a slur youre not gonna go to hell if you say jimmy. like this isn't as important but still it just feels like a microcosm of this whole thing.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 92 (Conrad's First Love)

cw: Conrad getting pretty spicy 🌶️🌶️🌶️ and not with Heather; references to human and drug trafficking (not depicted).

Follows the events of this post.

As she passed him to put away her gloves, a stunning redhead at Pappy Murphy's Boxing Gym caught Conrad's eye. Though he'd been deep in another bout of anger and self-pity over the death of his mother years earlier, he stopped his workout. Every inch of his being compelled him to talk to her.

She turned with a smile before he could stammer a single word. "Hi, handsome. Did you want a better look?"

He nervously introduced himself and she told him her name. "Ximena." The word floated from her lips like a song. He was instantly smitten.

"Ximena, could I buy you a drink?"

They spent the day in a local pub. He told her everything about his mother's death and his distance from his father in the years since. She listened, but she had a lot less to say about herself. "I live here with my brother. I'm a student, and I'm the only caretaker he has. Our parents aren't around anymore, and it's been just Rafa and me for years."

He could hear an accent when she spoke, and most people in Britechester weren't locals, so he made an assumption. "How long since you moved from Selvadorada?"

Surprised by his guess, she turned defensive. "I don't talk about Selva."

He liked her too much to press and push her away, so they spent the rest of the day flirting and discussing their interests until Ximena invited him back to her place. "You make me laugh, Conrad Gordon. My brother's still at school and I want to get to know you better without all this noise. I hate the music they play in here."

Once Conrad followed her out of the bar and back to the small home she shared with her kid brother, Rafa, he started following her everywhere.

He lost his virginity to her a week after they met. That night, she told him why she left Selvadorada.

"I was going to die or they were going to kill me. I wouldn't let them sell me to anyone anymore, so I made a plan and left with my brother in the middle of the night to come here."

She showed him the scars left by the cartel, and a resolve to keep her safe coloured his already steadfast affection. He let her cut his hair when she said she wanted to show him how freeing it felt to change his look. "It's nice not to recognize the person in the mirror, sometimes," she said.

She told him she was a student, often meeting him at Larry's Lagoon to study but usually distracting him into other activities. One afternoon, she introduced him to an old friend, Jimmy Stefano. "Can you help him out around campus? You're in the same major."

Something about Jimmy Stefano rubbed Conrad the wrong way, but he assumed it was jealousy. Despite this, he would already do anything for Ximena and agreed to take Jimmy under his wing.

He called his father to say he planned to stay at school for Spring Break. "Sorry, I know I said I'd come home to see you."

Stephen Gordon laughed him off, but masked slight disappointment. He had no idea whether his son was flourishing or floundering at college, unsure how he'd been coping so far from home. "Don't worry, son. I'm just glad you sound happy. You're making me and your mother proud."

He skipped classes to spend time with Ximena, but made no mention of this to his father, of course. He spent time with Rafa when Ximena said she had late-night classes, taking him to the park to play pirate captain versus sea monster, and talking endlessly with him about video games.

Rafa wanted to become a pirate captain in Sulani or a game tester in San Myshuno. He had almost no memory of life in Selva before his sister left, but he knew it was "the bad place." He liked spending time with Conrad because he said his sister was too strict. "She just loves you," Conrad assured him. "Parents have to set rules, and she can't just be your sister. She has to care for you like a parent, too."

He realized then how important it was to be a model for Rafa, who needed guidance as much as anyone his age. Conrad had always had his father, but who did Rafa have besides Ximena?

Conrad discovered how she paid for an entire house for her and her brother by accident, stumbling on an argument between her and Jimmy Stefano near the campus fountain. "The deal was thirty pounds for three grand."

"They said if I didn't have five grand they'd only give me fifteen. They had guns, Ximena."

"They all have guns! Knives, too. Get your own and figure out how to use it. Watcher, please, don't screw this deal up for me, Jimmy."

"Who has guns?"

"The cartel," said Jimmy, so nonchalant, yet it still hit Conrad like a missile. His stomach turned as he read Ximena's expression. Every lie she'd told him unravelled with a look.

"Are you really a student here, Ximena?"

"No. They're my customers."

He'd had his suspicions, but he'd always told himself he was wrong. Ximena was supposed to be perfect. Hoping against hope, he still tried to play the fool. "What do you mean?"

She dragged him back home to tell him the truth - how she'd bargained with the cartel to escape a life of servitude to the men who ran product all over Simlandia. She refused to serve them, but her way out was to join them instead.

Conrad was angry, but he couldn't stay mad at her for long. As they lay in bed that night, she asked, "Are you going to break up with me because of what I do?"

"Not a chance. I love you."

"I love you, too." She smiled, resting her head on his chest as he ran a hand through her newly blonde hair. "You look nice without glasses, Conrad."

"You already gave me a haircut, Xime. You don't like glasses?"

"Conrad, you're very sexy. But you hide it and it's silly."

"If you're going to give me a makeover, what should I get you?"

"Are you asking me?"

"Ximena, I want to give you everything you could ever want."

She blushed. "I want you, Conrad. But since I already have you, maybe...jewelry? Like a ring."

"You don't wear any rings."

"Because none are special enough, Conrad."

He smiled. "Alright, that's one idea. But say I wanted to surprise you, what else did you want?"

"You could join me running product for the cartel. Our lives would be made, and we'd always be together."

"I don't want to run product for the cartel, Ximena. But I'm not going anywhere. I'll always be there for you. Rafa, too."

"Right, but what if I go? Rafa loves you, Conrad, almost as much as me. But what if the cartel moved me somewhere else? Would you come with me? Maybe you could be, like, my security. No running, just keeping me safe. Always with me and Rafa."

He'd do anything to protect her, but he didn't answer her that day, refocusing on his studies until he returned to San Myshuno at the end of the semester.

He'd missed his father more than he expected, and they went for walks in warm sunshine by the Spice Market. They talked about school, and Conrad talked about Ximena - leaving out details of her career and focusing instead on her relationship with her brother. Conrad rarely asked his father about work, but Stephen hinted he was inching closer to retirement. "Chester's daughter Nancy is ready to take over the company, but Chester's not quite ready to retire. I think she's plotting a coup, but you didn't hear that from me."

"What happens to you if she pushes out her own father?"

"Hopefully, a retirement package. Chester may not be ready, but I think I am."

On one of their walks, they passed a jewelry store, and Conrad made a beeline for the ring counter. A confident salesman smiled as the Gordon men walked inside. "Welcome. What are we shopping for today?"

"I'm just looking," Conrad said. "What rings do you have?"

The salesman beamed. "Are we thinking of an engagement?"

Stephen eyed his son carefully, but Conrad shook his head. "Not right now. Just like, for an accessory."

"I don't know, son. A ring says you're ready for forever."

Conrad took his father's words to heart, considering what forever with Ximena might look like. He wanted to be with her, but he wasn't ready for a ring. He left that day with a nice bracelet for her, instead.

"Even leaving with a bracelet as nice as that one...she must mean something. I'd love to meet her."

Conrad nodded. "She might be able to visit this summer, if she's not too busy with work," he said.

Stephen smiled and the Gordon men continued their walk, strengthening the bond nearly severed by grief before Conrad returned to Britechester for another semester. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOT FUN FACT: Conrad got crab lice from Ximena when they slept together for the first time, which is gross but also fitting I guess. And yet I didn't make it canon because it didn't quite fit the vibe. Plus, he wasn't supposed to find out that early on that Ximena was problematic.

WCIF Poses Used? Various from packs Old Souls Love Differently by @simmireen (when Ximena is blonde), Our First Time by @eclypt0sims (redhead), The Kiss by @simmerberlin (black hair) and Nights Like These by @sakurasims-world (also redhead).

WCIF Jewelry Store? Jewelry Store by Guinifere on the Sims 4 Gallery. Very elegant interior and comes with crafting tables, a vault, charging stations - very nice lot! Needs dressing up with completed jewelry on the counters and in displays to look really spectacular (and I of course went the lazy route), but I wouldn't if I was playing a retail career, and this is a great lot for someone who wants to be a jeweler!

[gladiiator]

like an act of god

warnings/tags: 18+, dark themes, DUBCON/NONCON, woc!reader, emperor!lucius, dark!lucius, possessive behavior, forced engagement, implied forced marriage, ignoring a lot of logistics for the sake of the plot so rip, these tags are not exhaustive

wc: 5.4k

summary: An emperor’s favor is no favor at all.

believe it or not this was a writing warm up 😗 next up is hopefully childhood friends to lovers but let’s see where the plot bunnies go 🙂‍↔️

please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!!

This is the fourth time in a mere week the emperor has called you to his chambers.

The guard looks vaguely uncomfortable as he stands outside your room. The flickering flames cast shadows underneath his helmet, making the sympathetic curl of his lip all the more severe.

Ink smudges the paper as you place down your pen. The letter to your brother will have to wait it seems.

“My lady.” The guard dips his head as he motions for you to step ahead of him.

The strained smile on your face wavers as soon as his eyes are on the back of your head. It is tough to keep your back straight as you make the short trek to the emperor’s room. Too short one can say but you keep those words tucked under the roof of your mouth.

You are a favorite of his, garnering his favor through virtue of your family or so they say. Your status allows you many liberties but these constant calls have crossed the line of propriety and rumors you may not recover from have begun to spread.

It is a fool’s wish to hope his eyes may stray but you cling to it despite his doglike loyalty.

The man of the hour sits with his back turned and a glass of wine balanced on his lips. His head twists when he hears your quiet footsteps enter his domain, softening when he catches a glimpse of you.

Your stomach twists.

You do not miss how the servants scurry out of sight and out earshot when he turns his formidable gaze towards them. You wish you could grab onto the frail wrist of the girl nearest to you. Your fingers flex as she hurriedly walks past you.

“It is late,” you say when the room is cleared.

“It is,” he agrees, a small smile on his handsome face. “Sit.”

Movements stiff, you take the seat across from him. He’s stretched out on his seat, robes rucking upwards to expose the strength hidden beneath his royal garb. Scars pucker the meat of his legs and there are faint white lines crisscrossing the skin as if depicting a linear story.

You swallow.

You have heard the tales and have determined what is far-fetched and what is truth.

And Lucius is made up almost entirely of truths.

The moment you cross your legs, he is upright and leaned over the minuscule table separating the two of you. Rather than reach for the half-full bottle of wine, he aims for the water, sharing a secretive smirk with you.

Your attempt at mirroring his playfulness is weak. A vague nausea begins to brew in your gut and you fear even water may be too heavy for you.

“Whispers will begin to spread.”

Lucius pauses. His features harden before he forcibly relaxes his face. “I do not see why that matters,” he says. His smile dims and the jug of water in his hand is quickly abandoned.

Sweat dampens your palms. You smooth them over your dress, wincing as the fabric catches on your peeled skin. A few months in Rome and you still have not adjusted to the weather.

“Lucius.”

His name is unnatural and stiff on your tongue. You long to revert back to his formal title but he refuses the honorific.

“It matters because you must marry wisely,” you say gently. “You know this. Let us not waste our breaths on the obvious.”

“Is it obvious?” he parrots back.

His voice takes on a cool tone. He’s not quite combative but you sense you must tread carefully lest his ice be thinner than it looks. But your brother was not made General because your bloodline bowed at the first sign of danger.

You tip your chin up. “It will not do for your senators to suspect you are looking inwards rather than outwards for your alliances.”

It is quiet for a moment before Lucius huffs out a laugh. He shifts his weight, balancing an elbow on his thigh to better cup his chin. Amusement lightens the blues of his eyes. “And if I am?”

You are not nearly as oblivious as your reputation suggests nor are you as great an actress as you believe yourself to be. You know when it admit defeat. There is only one way this conversation will go after all.

But this understanding does not mean you have to go quietly.

“Then I recommend Decima,” you say dryly.

He nods slowly, hiding his mouth behind his palm for a heartbeat before fixing you with a blandly curious look. “The daughter of the richest man in Rome,” he drawls. “Clever.”

He pops a grape into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “But not as clever as marrying the sister of my most loyal general.”

No one refuses the emperor. Try as he may to be benevolent and fair and kind, his status means there are certain words he has not been accustomed to since his rise to power.

“I suppose not,” you say finally.

Tilting your head, you fix the way your dress hangs over your legs. His eyes follow the ripple of the fabric but you pretend not to notice how he searches beyond what he can see.

“Is that why you have called me to your chambers so often? To flaunt your cleverness?” you ask, a touch sharply.

Lucius can’t help his grin. He ducks his head and it’s such a genuine display of the boyishness your brother feared his emperor lost, your stomach rolls at the sight.

“Do I not seem to enjoy your company?" he asks with faux surprise.

To your surprise, he slides down onto the ground and shuffles forward until his hands rest upon your knees. The cloth is so thin it feels as if his bare hands are against you. You suck in a breath at the warmth pooling underneath his palms.

“What are you—get up!” you hiss, casting a furtive glance behind you.

He blinks up at you innocently. “I am apologizing for misleading my betrothed. I have done a disservice if you think I call for you for the sake of a ploy.”

“And you will be doing me further disservice if you think I will believe this to mean anything.”

He moves his hands upwards until they lay upon your thighs. His fingers dimple your skin as he squeezes you. “I do not do things I do not mean,” he says firmly.

You lean down, placing your hands over his. “You want a family,” you say.

The words are shards in your mouth. It is not a simple matter of children. Lucius wants a home. The losses that haunt him have made his longing a physical thing. And your stubborn devotion lead you across an ocean you had no business crossing. What is a greater showing of love than that?

“I want you,” he corrects softly.

You almost wish he’d tell you he loves you. That would take rationality out of this equation.

But he wants you.

How do you reason with someone who knows exactly what they’re doing?

-

It was not meant to go this way.

The new ruler of Rome should have been of no personal concern of yours. He existed as a potential threat to your homeland, a story to fear, but not as a real person in your mind.

This remained true until a letter found its way to your family’s home.

It was written in your brother’s familiar scrawl and voice. He regaled to your family how he found himself across the world, omitting the worst of his ordeal, while promising his present safety.

With palpable regret, Kahlil declared himself unable to leave Rome, not while she remained under such uncertainty. The new emperor, Lucius Verus, had earned his loyalty having freed him from the clutches of the tyrannical twins and pushing him towards a path of glory.

And you knew at once what you must do.

You had to leave.

You had to feel his heartbeat underneath your hands and see that his blood was the same shade as yours. You refused to move on with your life as it was only knowing your brother existed. You would never be at peace without confirming that mortality ran through his veins.

The journey was brutal. It veered into the territory of being something you could not handle but you had no other choice than to handle it. Days stretched into weeks and weeks stretched into months but soon, you were touching down onto Roman soil.

The months at sea had been beneficial however as the language, while unfriendly to your ears, was familiar enough for you to navigate your way to the city. Hope permeated the air of the reborn city and whispers echoed the streets about a new age of peace.

Frankly, you didn’t care.

You asked around for your brother, eyebrows grazing your hairline as you learned of his newfound fame amongst the people. It took less than a week for you to scrounge around for a way to informally meet the beloved general.

It was rather anticlimactic.

There were a handful of places the general frequented with his men and none were easily accessible. Luckily, the innkeeper’s daughter took a liking to you and directed you to whose pockets were light. And so, you found yourself ducking underneath a curtain and into a plume of opioid smoke.

Your nose wrinkled at the acidic scent but paid it no mind as you searched the back room. Feigning confusion as some soldiers called to you, you darted around as each man you ran into did not resemble the one you knew.

On the cusp of marching back to the inn and declaring Caelia a liar, you found him. He was leaning over the balcony, melancholy stretching across his side profile.

His name left you as a breath, carried away by the slight breeze. But somehow, he heard you.

Kahlil lifted his head, a painful sort of resignation weighing down his shoulders, until he made eye contact with you.

In a matter of seconds, he stood before you. And he was okay.

He hugged you. His arms, muscled beyond your imagination, crushed you against his chest but it was a welcome pain, cracking your chest open and burrowing straight into the fragile meat of your heart.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered against your hair. The admonishment is nonexistent, more a reflex to say rather than something from the heart. “But I am glad to see you.”

You pushed against him. He allowed you to pull back just enough so you could look up at him, vision blurred from your tears.

He was nothing like you remembered and you mourned this. Scars decorated his skin and callouses roughened his hands. But it was him.

His smile was still slightly awkward and the shape of his brows framed his eyes as perfectly as they always did. The kindness you feared was taken from him in his years of fighting remained in the crinkles of his eyes and the softness of his features.

“I missed you,” you said, voice catching in your throat. A fresh set of tears burned at your waterline. “I am so sorry we could not find you.”

His expression crumpled and Kahlil shook his head. “There is no one to blame but those who took me,” he said firmly.

You shut your eyes, swallowing down the sob that threatened to break free at his forgiveness.

He wiped the stray tears dripping from your face, laughing as if he did not look as foolish as you did. “You are still a crybaby.”

You laughed, more a hiccup than anything.

Kahlil was kept from saying more when someone uttered his name from behind.

“Highness,” Kahlil said, standing tall.

He wiped your remaining tears and his own before turning the both of you towards the voice.

A handsome man stood in front of you. His hair was dark and his beard thick. His arms were corded with muscle, similar to your brother’s, but there was a predator type of strength lurking underneath the surface in which Kahlil lacked.

The title registered in your mind as you stared and with an embarrassed look towards Kahlil, you dropped your head in deference.

The man quickly dismissed the formality and motioned for you to lift your head.

“I am Lucius,” he introduced. His gaze flicked to your brother in question.

You gave him your name, voice raw from your tears. He asked you to repeat it and you did so, watching as he rounded his mouth over the syllables.

“My sister,” Kahlil interjected. “The one who thinks no consequence too severe to keep her from making reckless decisions.”

At this, he pinched your ear lobe.

“You talked about me?” you asked, blinking up at him. So many years had passed. It was a wonder he remembered any stories of you to tell.

“Yes,” Lucius said, drawing your attention back to him. He stared at you, an unreadable look in his too blue eyes. “Quite favorably too.”

He took in the circles staining your under eyes and how you clutched at your brother as if he were an apparition brought to life. Your hand ached with how tightly you held the fabric of Kahlil’s clothes between your fingers but you could not make yourself relax. You worried you would wake and find yourself back on the boat and under the throes of that fever once more if you let go.

“You traveled far.”

The observation managed to sound impressive off of Lucius’ tongue as if he found you admirable. It made you squirm.

Memories of the journey flashed through your mind, bringing forth echoes of the anxiety you suffered for months on end. But you shrugged as if it was easy. Because in a way, it was.

Kahlil was at the end of the journey. There was no easier path to take.

“And I would have gone further had it been necessary,” you said. “Luckily, it was not. I might have thrown up my stomach if I was stuck on that ship any longer.”

Kahlil made a face. “The waves are a punishment,” he said sympathetically.

“You must be tired,” Lucius said. He had not taken his eyes off of you. “Come.”

And that was how it began.

You had a few uninterrupted weeks with your brother before he departed in search of allies for Rome. Kahlil promised you a home wherever he was and Lucius was all too happy to uphold such a promise.

Your quarters were moved to be closer to Lucius’ in Kahlil’s absence. It did not take long before you replaced time spent with him with Lucius.

In the instances you were alone with him, you forgot he was the emperor. His smile was infectious and he had a clever wit about him that kept you on your toes. The stories sprung from his lips kept you enthralled and you found yourself prolonging these moments with him.

Charisma was a necessity for leaders and Lucius had it in abundance.

Slowly, he began encroaching into your space. A hand on your lower back, a brush his fingers against your waist, lingering hugs that involved him burying his face in the hollows of your throat.

He was too close too often.

People began to take notice and sly comments were whispered under breath.

Once the rumors circulated close enough for you to hear, you began to pull back. You ignored the informal requests to see him and found reasons to decline the formal requests to his chambers.

Lucius did not take well to your sudden reticence and the rumors worsened as his demand for you grew.

If you knew being friendly with Lucius would lead to this, you would have made your room a jail in Kahlil’s absence instead.

-

Lucius becomes bold in the days after your engagement is announced.

He pens a letter to your brother of the news. You sign it without reading it. Lucius purses his lips but sends the letter without much complaint.

You write your own letter, minimally mentioning the engagement, and praying Kahlil reads in between the lines and slows his journey back. As your father resided an ocean away, your brother will have to make do and you fear his loyalty for Lucius will override his love for you.

Congratulations are heartfelt and plentiful from the people and ring insincere from the upper echelon. But the pushback is minimal and so, Lucius gleefully goes forward with the wedding planning.

It will be a grand affair, one you know he does not care for in the slightest. If it not for the fact that it would be the greatest showing of ownership, you believe Lucius would have dragged you in front of seven witnesses to declare the union.

The first time he presses a kiss against your temple in front of the most gossipy of his senate, you nearly buck your head back into his nose. His hand rests against your side and he murmurs something against your skin, sealing whatever it is he has said with a gentle kiss.

The sound of your blood rushing is all that fills your ears so you do not know if Lucius requested something of you. It does not matter.

He has made his point.

His affection worsens after that.

The engagement permits him to seek you out as he wishes. His men roll their eyes lightheartedly when he stops what he’s saying to call you over during training. He is quick to leave meetings or lunches if he senses they have turned into leisure rather than productive discussion to make his way back to your quarters now that you rebuff his.

No matter where you are, he finds you.

In the rare moments you are left to your own devices, you find yourself with no friends nor hobbies to keep you occupied.

You notice men do not raise their heads when they see you. Any conversation you try to hold with one ends with excuses as to why they suddenly find themselves too busy to speak to you.

A guard follows you around the clock. You manage to wrangle his name out of him—Scipio—but it is for nothing as a fortnight later, you do not see him again. From then, you have a new guard every day.

The women, few and far between in the palace, are sweet. But it is clear whatever comes out of your mouth goes directly to Lucius’ ear. So you busy yourself with fictional hopes of your future and dabble in petty gossip when you find yourself in their presence.

It is suffocating.

“There you are.”

The corner of the garden you’ve taken a liking to darkens as Lucius blocks the sunlight seeping in through a window.

He’s angelic under the golden cast of the sun. A man more than worthy of his position.

“Ah, Highness,” you greet, offering him a nod.

There is a pinch between his brows.

“We are to be married,” he reminds you, crouching down. He runs a gentle hand through the flowers you are observing. “You are my equal.”

“But we are not husband and wife quite yet, Highness.”

His hand leaves the flowers to cup your cheek. He turns you to face him, thumb brushing against the softness of your lips. Unconsciously, you swipe your tongue over the trail of warmth left behind. A slightly salty taste permeates your mouth.

“You are my equal,” he repeats. “And I expect you to treat me as such.”

The skin around his eyes is dark. Exhaustion makes him look pallid. Your avoidance is the last thing he wishes to deal with, this you are sure, and it tugs at your heart to see him so tired.

“You should go to bed,” you say.

“Will you join me?” he asks.

You jerk back. His hands falls off your cheek.

Lucius laughs at the stunned look on your face. He moves closer into your space, looking down at you.

“You are annoying,” you say hotly. “And I am busy. Obviously.”

He hums. “With thinking of ways to delay our wedding, yes?”

“Please. I have better uses of my time.”

Besides, he has made it nigh impossible to find a loophole. An emperor’s word is law and he has used his to shackle you to him.

“So you do not conspire to find a way to break our engagement?” he surmises mildly.

A fissure of fear opens within you. Hadrian had promised you discretion but clearly, a bit of luck is needed to escape the ever watchful eye of Lucius. But you have not been informed of any ports closures and so, you choose to hold your cards tightly to your chest.

You twist a petal between your fingers. “How can I conspire when all I know are these walls,” you motion towards said walls, “And the people you install in my circle.”

He watches you for a too long moment, scrutinizing the unnatural stillness of your expression. “The sense you hope your brother will impart on me will not change anything,” he says eventually.

It takes considerable effort for you to not show any sort of relief at his warning. The more pleading your letters became, the more Lucius clung to your side so you had eased up in the past few weeks. It does not come as a surprise he is actively reading whatever it is you write.

“Is he a confidant in name only, then?” you retort.

“He loves me,” Lucius says instead. He’s softened, bearing the weight of a man who knows it takes only a word for blood to be spilled in his name and for it to be spilled gladly. “But he loves you more.”

Pursing his lips, he fingers a stem. He doesn’t flinch when a thorn splits his skin. A droplet of blood runs from his finger and drips into the soil.

“But he loves Rome more?” you guess, peeking at him from under your lashes.

He watches the blood continue to spill into the soil. Just when you think he won’t answer you, to give weight to the truth you fear more than anything, he says, “Kahlil thinks I am a good man.”

And that is a sentencing all on its own, you suppose.

-

The bath water practically scalds your skin as you sink into the tub.

It is refreshing in a way. The slight sting keeps your thoughts from straying.

Kahlil’s recent letter leaves you with no choice but to hasten your escape. Any ship will do for you need to leave before the week’s end if Kahlil’s timeline is to be trusted.

You allow yourself a few more minutes in the bath, a few more minutes to act as if you are as any other, before you drain the tub and dry off.

You exit the bathroom, towel tucked loosely around yourself. Smoothing the left over oil onto your lips, you pause when you notice a shape out of the corner of your eye.

Lucius lays atop your sheets.

A strangled scream leaves your throat and you’re throwing a candle at him before you recognize it is him in your bed and not some stranger come to make true of your worst nightmares. Though, this is not a much better sight.

He catches the candle with one hand and deposits it on the floor, eyes wide in bemusement.

You hitch the towel higher, fisted fabric at your throat as you take him in. He’s stretched out lazily, hair wet and skin shiny with cream. The sheet covers his lower half and you force your eyes to rip away from the dark trail of hair on his lower abdomen. For all intents and purposes, he looks ready for bed.

“I brought you a gift,” he says, sitting up. He gestures to the box on top of your vanity. “Come here. Let’s look at it together.”

While said lightly, this is clearly an order.

You stand, shifting your weight. You are hyper aware of how naked you are underneath this flimsy towel. “I need to change, Highness.”

Annoyance flickers across his face. “Come here.”

Shuffling to your vanity, you heft the box as best you can with one arm and make your way to Lucius. The second you are within arm’s reach, he shoots out his hand and wraps it around you. He drags you forward and forces you to sit nestled between his thighs.

His cock is a heavy weight at the base of your spine.

You immediately straighten up and try to scoot forward but he doesn’t allow for this. He settles the box on your legs and brackets you with his arms.

“Open it,” he murmurs against your ear, resting his chin atop your shoulder.

Your fingers shake as you pry open the lid. All you can focus on is how the room feels as if it ends and begins with Lucius.

When you get the box open, you don’t know what you are looking at. And then Lucius pushes a finger against the object until a set of familiar brown eyes stare back at you, unfeeling and condemning all at once.

You shove the box away from you, turning into Lucius before you can see Hadrian’s head roll onto the floor.

He allows the change in position, letting your weight guide him back down to the bed before he hooks an arm around you and reverses your position. The towel slips and he follows the line of your throat and downwards.

He brings his hand down to push away the towel pooling at your hips. Instinctively, you grab at his wrist, tears beginning to line your eyes.

Lucius stills.

“Did you think I would let you leave?” he wonders.

He sounds genuinely confused and somehow, that little slip of sincerity allows a frigid wave of fear to crash over you. Rationally, you know your skin to still be warm to the touch but you shiver, ice replacing the blood flowing in you.

“I thought you would find me more work than I am worth,” you say quietly. Your heart strains against your rib cage.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Did you now?”

He easily breaks free of your hold and you can do nothing as he makes quick work of your towel. Lucius slowly runs his thumb along the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of warmth.

“Lucius.” His name is torn from your throat, a plea wrapped up in a warning. “*Don’t*. We are not married yet.”

He laughs, dropping his head down until his forehead lies flat against your collarbone. His breath is hot against you, sending the chill inwards.

"But we will be,” Lucius promises easily. “And I will wait no longer.”

He’s kissing you before you can make an attempt at delaying what is seemingly the inevitable.

His lips are hard against yours, impatiently slipping his tongue into your mouth and finding purchase against your teeth. Lucius is uncharacteristically sloppy, betraying the desperation he’s kept so carefully hidden.

You put your hands against his chest and curl them into fists when pushing only results in him tightening his hold on you.

Recalling what the other women said about their first time, you push down your fear until it settles underneath the acceptance you forcibly yank over yourself like a veneer.

His fingers caress your soft, bare skin as he trails his hands up your thigh. The coarseness of his chest hair against your overly sensitive skin sends static skittering across your nerves.

You stifle a whine when he pulls away from you just enough to let you pant against his mouth. Your stomach gives a sickening lurch when there’s pressure between your bodies, a dull ache at the apex of your thighs.

He slips his finger into you inch by inch and tears wet your cheeks when he adds a second one. Experimentally, he stretches you out until you’re left with no choice but to let your legs fall open, inviting him in.

The longer he presses into you, the more you feel yourself relax, noting your loosening muscles as if happening from an outsider’s perspective. Wetness drips down his wrist, pooling in the crease of his elbow and he grins, eyes pointedly going down. You refuse to follow him.

“Not as shy as you like to come off, hm?” he murmurs, circling his thumb over you and drawing out a high pitched moan.

You bite your lip immediately, a harsh breath ricocheting in your chest. You try to stamp down the pleasure beginning to curl into a coil in your belly. It tightens when he digs his teeth into your fluttering pulse.

It is when you are on the brink of *something* that he eases up, slipping his fingers out and bringing them to his mouth. You almost clamp down on his hand when he pulls out but resist the urge by the skin of your teeth.

You shift, drawing your legs closer in the hopes of chasing that mounting high he’s taken from you. A dizzying sort of heat has set your blood aflame, akin to a fever.

You must be sick, you decide. It must be a sickness that has not yet been discovered that plagues you and leaves you feeling empty where Lucius does not touch you.

He cants his hips up, lining himself up. Your eyes widen when you feel him prod your entrance. The sheer size of him terrifies you because it won’t matter if he doesn’t fit as you hysterically believe he won’t.

He’ll find a way.

“Lucius, wait,” you hiccup, swallowing down the anxiety thrumming alongside your arousal.

He grinds himself between your thighs, slicking himself with you. He doesn’t bother acknowledging your mindless babble and instead, licks away a wayward tear on your cheek.

Lucius sinks in an inch, your name a wrecked sound. He sounds different from what you’re used to, strained and roughened around the edges.

“Please kiss me,” you beg, curling a hand around the base of his neck. His curls are wet, the space between them almost humid from the heat emanating from him.

His hips stutter and he braces himself against the mattress.

“Kiss you?” Lucius repeats hoarsely, peering down at you with his pupils blown wide with a haunting desire.

You nod weakly, urging his face closer. The stretch of him burns and while not entirely unpleasant, it makes your heart quicken and your belly flutter.

He sinks in deeper and catches your gasp in his mouth. You part your lips instantly as he bears down on you, pushing deeper and deeper until he’s seated inside you. Numbly, you wonder if you’ll ever be whole again, if Lucius has carved out a space in you only he can fill.

Lucius lets you adjust to him, running a soothing hand underneath your chest. He traces circles around your nipple and it’s a searing heat that takes the edge off.

He kisses you gently. It’s almost too sweet to bear but you respond in earnest, angling your hips upwards to give the okay. The discomfort has loosened into something you handle and the knot noosed around your heart untangles to leave a bloodied heap in its wake.

He thrusts into you as if to test your resolve. You whimper as pleasure seeps into your core. You break away from his greedy mouth and soothe yourself with pressing kisses against his strong jaw. You nip at the bone as you catch your literal and metaphorical breath. It’s hard to tell if it’s the lack of air or Lucius himself making you lightheaded.

The thread of restraint he’s meticulously maintained snaps at the strung out noise. Lucius fucks you hard and deep, perhaps a little deeper than intended if the guttural noise that leaves him is any indication.

The pleasure in your belly ratchets up and a strangled moan is gutted from you when his cock brushes against some part of you that sends sparks right up your spine.

Immediately, he’s thrusting into that spot over and over again and doesn’t stop until he stiffens with a groan.

He spills into you, cock twitching as you milk him for what he’s worth.

Your name is on the tip of his tongue and branded across his heart.

Lucius chants it, peppering kisses all over your face as he collapses carefully on top of you. Fatigue wears at you and you close your eyes, hating yourself for finding comfort in how he immediately presses a kiss against your swollen eyelids.

“I love you,” Lucius whispers.

It is the worst thing you have ever heard.

this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!

[silverskyeline]

ੈ♡˳ 'birthday cake' - logan howlett x wade wilson

summary: logan buys wade a cake for his birthday and tries to convince himself it doesn't mean anything. (900 words) tags: kinda fluffy, kinda angsty, set a year after the movie, references to losing the x-men, feelings realisation, animal metaphors for logan, cussing, logan x wade. a/n: happy birthday deadpool!

birthdays. running a calloused hand across his stubbled jaw, logan eyes the cakes in the bakery aisle with disgust. when's the last time he celebrated a birthday? not since. . .

well.

not since.

he's not sure why he's here. except he is. yet he won't admit it. can't admit he gives a damn about that stupid red leather-wearing freak. isn't that what he's doing right now, though? a birthday cake, an admission of sorts?

logan grumbles, a deep rumble in the back of his throat. why was this so hard? why couldn't he just pick up a cake and go? or better yet, forget about this whole damn thing and go home?

home.

a word that still feels so foreign in his mind, a long-lost concept that's only recently begun to take root again despite his best efforts to weed it out. that's the thing with wade, he's persistent. fuck, he's extremely fucking persistent to a highly annoying degree. but it's funny how the things we want to deny the most are the things that turn out to be the best for us in the end.

there's a unicorn cake that catches his eye. an imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of logan's lips, a reluctant grin quirking up without permission. he can't help it. "god damn it," he mutters, letting out a soft exhale that could possibly be perceived as a laugh.

it isn't too late. he could back out now, snuff the candles out and toss the cake so hard into the garbage can that it explodes on impact, leaving no evidence behind. that'd probably be the best thing to do. because what the fuck was this?

the unicorn cake sits on the dining room table, a few candles placed carefully (yet still somehow messily) into the pink icing, thoughtfully avoiding the unicorn decorations and rainbows.

logan shuffles nervously on his feet, hands clasped behind his back. he can already hear wade's annoying squealing in his ear, fussing and yelling and talking and just always fucking talking.

he'd made a deliberate effort to ignore all of wade's incessant reminders, 'it's my birthday month peanut, gotta be nice to me', 'i made sure to cancel everything on your very empty calendar for my birthday'. but in reality, logan had it memorised from the moment he learned the date.

a key enters the door, and logan stiffens up, then forces himself to relax in an attempt to look nonchalant. he looks anything but, head tilted down with dark eyes glued to the door - watching, waiting, anticipating.

"holy fuck balls that traffic is ridiculous!" wade whines, closing the door and rolling his neck as though he'd been worked to the bone, "i swear, it's like none of those careless fuckers know it's my birthday - can you believe that? i was thinking about getting a tattoo, the date on my forehead, y'know, so that when anyone asks they-"

wade stops, finally looking into the open room, eyes landing on the flicker of the candles. then to logan, eyes softening. "you. . . got me a cake?" wade whispers in the softest tone logan's ever heard from him, voice thick with emotion. it hits him unexpectedly.

logan puffs his chest out, "don't make a big deal outta it, bub." he says firmly, eyes straying from wade's gaze. feels like his eyes are boring into him, he doesn't like it. doesn't like the way wade looks at him, really looks at him. that kinda look is dangerous, could make a man believe he deserves to be forgiven for all he did or didn't do. could make a man believe that he's allowed happiness, however strange or unusual that source of happiness may be.

when logan's eyes trail back to meet wade's, he's already in front of him, arms wrapping around him in a tight hug as he rests his cheek against his broad chest. logan huffs, making a sound of disapproval initially, yet makes no effort to move or push him away. instead, he settles, allowing it.

he knows wade must hear his heartbeat, the fact that it's fluttering in his chest. but wade only squeezes his arms around him tighter in response.

for once, the merc with a mouth is silent, basking in this moment the other has allowed. he's almost in disbelief. to some, and hell, maybe even logan himself, it looked like. . . well, just a cake.

but it symbolised so much more than that.

if wade has had his hand outstretched all this time, approaching the skittish animal threatening to lash out in learned survival instincts - then this is the gentle nudge from the animal's snout into his palm. a curious, tentative step forward. a willingness to let someone in, let someone help.

and god, wade won't mess this up, won't disappoint, despite the fact that it's all he thought he was good for, for a long ass time. if logan's taught him anything, it's that life is so much more than what you boil yourself down to. it's what others see in you, too.

wade's eyes pop open when he feels logan's firm hands hesitantly rest upon his back, giving a gentle pat. he bites his tongue, a mirage of sex jokes slinging through his filth-riddled mind. perhaps in a way, that was his own defense mechanism, push him away with just enough jokes to keep him guessing.

but not today.

because today logan bought him a cake. the same day that logan realised that he's hopelessly, ridiculously, disgustingly, annoyingly. . . in love.

[foodtruckery]

I've been having crazy Stancest brain rot thinking about an AU where they don't have the portal incident and instead have crazy marathon hate sex instead (Inspired by some amazing art by @CoreArde on Twitter) and I thought it'd be fun to share that with you.

They start off arguing in the lab and then oops they're fucking on the lab floor, and they really should be thinking this through but nope now they're upstairs fucking on the kitchen table and okay maybe now they'll finally talk about it nah, they're fucking in Ford's bed now.

It starts off as rough hate sex getting out years of frustration, but by the time they make it to the kitchen its become insanely desperate and cloying because they missed each other, and their bodies fit so well together, and GOD how could they have not been doing this all time? They're going at it so long that they basically end up passed out in Ford's bed by the end, and Stan's not going to be sitting down for a while after this. He's probably just happy to be sleeping in a bed, but Ford is trying to figure out how he got so far from the initial plan.

Even better if the two of them have been harboring feelings for years and never acted on it, because they get the one-two punch of all the weight of their time apart and processing the fact that OH GOD I JUST FUCKED MY BROTHER (which of course they both wanted to do but still).

I have no idea what would happen after that, but both of them waking up sore, sweat soaked, sticky with cum (some still inside Stan because of course Ford didn't use a condom this wasn't supposed to happen) after having gone at each other like rabbits in heat despite never having expressed their attraction to each other before is a hilarious and hot idea to me. What do you think?

HI THERE ANON. i am so fucking sorry that i left you waiting for so long about this, but i need you to know it's because i was FUCKING OBSESSED with this. like just absolutely beside myself over it, and i refused to respond until i had a chance to sit down and respond PROPERLY.

cause uh YEAH FRIEND i know the exact fucking piece of art (explicit) you're talking about, because it's INCREDIBLE. and in case you didn't know, the artist is over here too and shares some fucking fantastic writing and headcanons also! (seriously, go check out @/cartoonsinthemorning if you haven't. and cart, i hope you don't mind that anon and i both kinda lost our minds about your art over here! i genuinely have no idea what tag etiquette is on this site and didn't wanna bombard you, but you did this. again.)

i'll be honest, anon, this kinda got away from me (fucking shocker) and i am too tired to do any legit editing of it right now, so please forgive any typos or weirdness! i'll try and clean it up before it eventually goes up on ao3. but thank you for such a LOVELY ask because this was so hot, and so inspiring, and i hope i did a little justice to your idea and cart's gorgeous art!

--- Ford isn't entirely sure how it had started. His memory, his perception of time, his ability to follow a linear order of events -- all if it is less than reliable at the moment, so he can't entirely blame himself for losing track of things here and there. But the jump between trying to wrestle his journal out of Stan's hands to trying to wrestle Stan out of his dingey jeans is a jarring transition to lose in the dull static that's been edging around his awareness for weeks now. 

Not jarring enough to stop him, though. 

He thinks, vaguely, while he's blindly tugging at Stan's denim, that there's a concerningly high likelihood that he's hallucinating. His head is swimming in so much caffeine and adrenaline that he doesn't even feel the rough concrete of the lab floor under his knees -- maybe that isn't where he is? Maybe he'd nodded off without realizing. Maybe he's going to come to with another lapful of polaroids and a new humiliating tattoo. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe -- he can reckon with a probability model later. For the first time in what feels like months, the stability of his perceived reality is not actually at the forefront of Ford's mind.

Pressing in on him harder than the doubt, harder than the disassociation from his physical body, and harder than the threat of the creature lingering in the depths of his subconscious is anger. It feels like a beacon in the muddled, fuzzy mess inside his head, something bright and real and his. It's searing through him, slicing away all the frayed edges of his paranoia and doubt like a hot blade through so much butter. 

Ford clings to the sharp edges of that anger and feels more alert than he has in weeks. 

He can't remember how their bickering had taken this particular turn, but if he's liable to lose his eyes and his life in the next few days, Ford will be fucking damned if he squanders the opportunity. He knows he's made a mess of things, that he's made the sorts of mistakes that can't and frankly shouldn't be forgiven. 

But he also knows with blinding, white hot certainty that he's only here, now, because of Stan's mistakes.

Ford may not deserve absolution, but he does deserves this. 

Laughter cuts through the lab, rough and mocking, and Ford's attention finally falls, properly, on Stan. He has a bruise blooming on his cheek and a snide smirk twisting his lips. He's also on his back, his jeans and a threadbare pair of boxers bunched in Ford's fists and pulled so low he can see the tight curls of his pubic hair and the root of his cock. 

"What's wrong, Poindexter?" Stan asks, mocking, and it's only then that Ford realizes he's paused halfway through stripping his twin's lower half. The bite of the cold concrete under his knees still feels far away, but the rough material in his palms, and the heat of Stan's body so close to him are sharp, clear details. "No hands on experience with a dick that ain't your own? Afraid you might actually be bad at somethin' for once?" 

Ford narrows his eyes, feeling the hot point of anger cutting through him, steadying him, and he jerks Stan's clothes hard enough that he gets the material past his knees in one tug. Stan laughs at him again, but it stutters into a little 'oof!' when Ford flips him onto his stomach. 

He doesn't care that Stan's pants are still caught around his calves and his boots. He doesn't care that Stan hisses something that sounds like pain when he's yanked onto his knees and dragged backwards several inches across the concrete. He doesn't even care that, once upon a time, he'd dreamed of this, of crossing this line with the only person he'd ever really loved in any way that mattered, and it's nothing like the softer, sweeter picture he used to imagine. 

Stan's hips are soft, and the skin gives easily under the iron grip Ford has on them, holding him in place as he grinds against his ass. Even through his slacks, the heat of Stan's body is intense, addictive, and he grinds forward again, harder, watching the friction rub a pink  patch against his skin. 

Stan, shameless and selfish as always, pushes eagerly back against him. Ford has barely done anything beyond rocking the outline of his cock against his hole, but he can hear Stan panting against the ground, can see his hands curling into fists. He remembers how many times Stan had called Carla McCorkle "easy" in high school and thinks, now, that the easy one had been his brother. 

"You gonna keep humpin' me, or are you gonna fuck me?" Stan demands, rocking as firmly back as he can with the bruising grip Ford has on him. 

"What makes you think you deserve that?" Ford bites out. It would serve Stan right, he thinks, if he got himself off exactly like this, no different than grinding against a particularly firm couch pillow. Just a conveniently warm object for Ford to release some tension with. 

Stan looks back over his shoulder and flashes teeth at him. It isn't a smile. "Oh, I get it. Cold feet? Well, we can just chalk it up to one more thing ya promised and then backed out of as soon as you actually had to make a choice. Good to know some things never change, Stanford."

He's being goaded, and Ford knows that. But the anger boils in his chest, and he thinks, why should he care about what Stan does or doesn't deserve from him? This is about what Ford deserves.

And what Ford deserves is to have his dick so far up Stan's ass he'll be able to feel it in the back of his throat. 

"Do you ever shut up?" he snaps while he releases one of Stan's hips to yank his slacks open. The bruise of his fingerprints already forming against Stan's skin thrills him, almost to distraction, if it weren't for Stan laughing again. 

"'Course not," he says, shifting his center of balance to dig into the pocket of his dirty red coat. The little packet he tosses over his shoulder bounces off his own ass to land by Ford's knee, the word LUBE printed in large, bold letters across the front. He should be surprised to see it, and part of him is. The word "easy" comes to mind again. 

Ford rips the packet open with his teeth. 

"F-Fuck!" Stan curses, turning his forehead against the ground when Ford presses his slick cock into him a moment later without warning. 

Ford grabs him roughly by the waist when he twitches forward and yanks Stan back until his ass hits the open fly of his slacks. He makes a choked sound at that and turns his face into the crook of his own arm when Ford pulls back and rocks hard back into him. 

"What's wrong, Stanley?" he parrots. He pistons his hips at a punishing pace, watching his cock pumping in and out of the greedy, grasping ring of Stan's hole. "Nothing to say?" 

Stan makes a noise that's too muffled by the sleeve of his coat to understand, so Ford reaches down to take a fistful of his stupid mullet instead. The hitching gasp that escapes his twin when his head is forcefully jerked up makes him groan. "What was that? Come on, Stanley, use your words." 

"F-Fuck off," Stan says, his voice strained, almost whining. 

"I see you haven't gotten anymore eloquent since you left," Ford scoffs around the breathlessness in his own voice, feeling the anger and pleasure coiling harder in his gut. "What was it you said? Good to know some things never change." 

When he pulls Stan's hair again, just because he can, Stan moans. And when he shifts his hips, driving in just as hard at the new angle, Stan shouts. With his own knees bracketed on either side of his, Ford can feel the way his thighs tremble when he clenches around his cock, and he can feel the sweat beading up under his palm where he's digging darker bruises into Stan's side. 

Ford feels like he's on the edge of delirium again, consumed by every sound Stan makes, every twitch of his hips, every ounce of his heat. He thinks, a bit wildly, that Stan may have been made for this, made to take his cock, for how well he does. 

It isn't until Stan jerks under him, going hot and tight around his cock and making a strangled noise in the back of his throat, that Ford realizes he may have said part of that out loud. That Stan came over it. 

He groans low in his throat and thrusts half a dozen more times into Stan's clenching hole before he comes as well. 

It's quiet for a few minutes other than their ragged panting, but it's Stan who eventually reaches back and swats at Ford's hand until he lets go of his hair. He takes the hint and pulls out, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as his come trickles down Stan's thighs. It strikes him suddenly that he wants to follow the wet trail back up with his tongue. It's enough to make his cock give a feeble, appreciative twitch. 

He isn't sure if he's just terribly distracted or if he loses time again, because when Ford next lifts his head, Stan is on his feet, pants pulled up around his waist but still open, and he has his journal in hand. This might be more jarring than the last transition he'd lost. 

"What are you doing?" he demands, shoving himself back onto his own feet. He doesn't bother to tuck his cock back in, and he spots the moment Stan's eyes flick down. It's brief, but he'd seen it. 

"What does it fucking look like I'm doing? I'm taking your stupid diary and disappearing like you begged me to," Stan says. His voice is still a little raw, and Ford has a moment to realize how much he likes that, before the words catch up. 

He scoffs. "Oh! So now you want to actually help?! Is it always this easy to fuck the sense into you?" 

Stan's expression does a few things Ford doesn't understand before his brows ultimately slam down and he turns his back, storming towards the door with Ford's journal still in hand, and Ford himself hot on his heels. "You're fucking unbelievable, Stanford, you know that?!" 

"Me?! You're the one who came all over my lab floor and then decided he was ready to be reasonable!" 

Stan jams his thumb against the call button for the elevator several times in quick succession, despite the car already being on their floor and the gate sliding open. "Most people would just say thank you when someone agreed to help them out, but not you! What does Stanford Pines have to be grateful for? We're all just fucking lucky to get a task from ya, huh?" 

Ford crowds into the elevator with him before Stan can try to pull the gate or call the doors shut behind him. He punches the button to take them up himself, before making a grab for the journal, snarling when Stan leans back and holds it up above his head. 

"You're the one who threatened to destroy my work twenty minutes ago, Stanley! Why would I trust you with it now? Hell, I can't figure out why I trusted you enough to bring you here in the first place!" 

"Oh really? You can't?" Stan sneers, leaning in close. And when Ford takes a step back, Stan follows, backing him into a corner of the car. "I don't think you fuckin' trusted me to do shit, Stanford. I think you were all outta options cause nobody else could stand to put up with you anymore." 

Stan doesn't so much as hit a nerve as he takes a sledgehammer to it, and as soon as the elevator dings, Ford shoves him as hard as he can out into the study. Stan yelps when he stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and it's only knocking into a cluttered desk that keeps him from falling on his ass. 

Ford doesn't give him any time to right himself, storming in after him and grabbing him by the front of his jacket. Stan flinches, like he'ex expecting a punch, but Ford yanks him in and crushes his mouth against his instead. 

There's a dull thump that Ford only realizes was the journal being dropped when he feels both of Stan's hands on his shoulders. They curl briefly, grasping at him, and Ford feels his mouth starting to go soft and slack. But as soon as he presses in, runs his tongue along that loosening seam, he's suddenly being shoved backwards. 

If he weren't so damn confused, Ford would probably appreciate the picture Stan makes, lips slick and pants open, leaning back against one of Ford's desks. 

"What are you doing?!" Stan demands, like he's the one who doesn't know what day it is, and keeps losing track of events. 

"I would think even you could figure that out after what happened downstairs, Stanley."

Stan flushes, visible even in the low light of the study, though Ford isn't sure if it's embarrassment or anger. The scowl on his face doesn't help clear things up, either, though the fact that he isn't actually looking at Ford is...telling.  

"That ain't happening again," Stan states, and there isn't anything convincing about the way he says it at all. But when Ford steps forward, Stan sidesteps him and the desk. He makes a wrong turn in the dark, in a house he isn't familiar with, and flinches when Ford flips on the light in the kitchen he's walked into.

"I don't know how you expect to leave and hide my journal after leaving it in the study," he points out, frowning at the back of Stan's head. 

He isn't surprised when Stan whirls on him. He is, however, stunned still when he realizes Stan's eyes are wet. 

"What the fuck do you want from me, Stanford?!" Stan shouts, his voice cracking over his name, and it makes something feel like it's cracking inside his chest. 

Ford has to wet his lips when he finds them and his throat dry. "...I told you what I wanted," he says.

"Yeah, you did! And when I finally agreed to do it, you threw a fucking fit about it! And now you're pissy because I'm not?! What do you want?" 

The anger sparks sharply inside him again, and Ford grasps at it like a lifeline, willing to bloody his hands for that bite of stability. 

"You tried to burn it! My life's work! And you only decided you would help me after we--"

Stan cuts him off, looking towards the cabinets while he raises his voice and waves his hands. "Jesus Christ, I'm sorry about the fucking lighter, all right?!"

Ford frowns. He takes a step forward and, still without looking at him, Stan takes a step back. It's the elevator all over again, but this time Ford is pressing in, backing Stan into the cabinets. He grabs the counter on either side of his hips when he tries to side step him again. 

"Stanley, look at me," he demands, frowning harder when Stan sets his jaw and stars determinedly at his shoulder. "Stanley--"

"What do you want, Ford? Just...just fucking tell me and I'll leave, all right?" Stan says, his voice tired and soft as he reaches up to rub a hand over his own face.

He wants a lot, honestly. And hasn't that always been the problem? He's always wanted -- to be normal, to be respected, to be the best, to be special. 

To be wanted. 

To be enough.

To fix things. 

"You," he realizes, watching Stan jerk his head up. His lashes are still wet, and Ford can't stop himself from reaching up and pressing his palm to Stan's cheek, skimming his thumb gently under one of his eyes. 

When he leans in to kiss him again, Stan makes a small, wounded little noise under his mouth, but he parts his lips for Ford's tongue this time. Stan's lips are chapped and he tastes vaguely of stale cigarettes, but Ford is still struck by how soft and sweet he is. 

More than anything else that had happened that evening, this is the moment that Ford knows he should suspect most of all. The way Stan relaxes between him and the counter, the almost tentative way he lifts his tongue to meet his, the careful fingertips touching the edge of Ford's coat and brushing against his loose tie. It's tender in a way Ford didn't think either of them were capable of, and it should be setting off warning bells and red flags in every part of his mind. 

It isn't. 

Ford is more certain of  the reality of this single moment, the gentle slip of Stan's lips against his own, than he's been of anything in a long time. 

And then Stan sighs between them and murmurs, warm and hopeful, "Ford," against his lips, and he's done for. 

It doesn't matter that they just fucked, that Ford's come is probably still drying between Stan's thighs -- he can't keep his hands off of him. Ford is suddenly frantic and desperate in a way that he hadn't been downstairs. He needs to relearn the new, wider shape of Stan's shoulders and pecs. He needs to feel out every new scar and take stock of all the old ones he remembers Stan collecting for him as kids. He needs to be surrounded by him again, soaking in the warmth of him. 

Ford doesn't deserve absolution, but he thinks he may be able to find something close to it in the low, shaky way Stan moans his name. 

And there's familiarity in the way Stan grabs at him in turn, tugging at his jacket and tie and surging into another, harder kiss. Ford thinks he may not be the only one looking for expiation. 

Then Stan drops to his knees between him and the cabinet, and Ford stops thinking so much. His cock is still out, and Stan wastes no time in getting his fist around the shaft and his lips around the head. He suckles and swirls his tongue, and Ford shoves the beanie off of his head to get his hands in his hair. 

"Stanley," he gasps, stroking his fingers along his scalp and fisting the strands between them. 

Stan moans around him and shuffles closer, sliding the seal of his lips further down the length of Ford's cock. All he can do is groan and try to keep from rocking his hips as more of him is greeted by the warmth of his mouth and the wickedness of his tongue. 

He keeps waiting for Stan to reach his limit, to back off and give himself room to breathe. He doesn't. He keeps leaning in, keeps taking him, and then Ford feels his cockhead slip into Stan's throat, sees his lashes are wet again, and he has to put one hand on the counter to keep himself steady. "Fuck, Stanley, you're so good at this."

Stan makes a horribly sweet sound around the girth of Ford's cock and reaches up to hold his hips as he swallows, and Ford is suddenly afraid he's going to embarass himself.  His hips twitch despite his best efforts to keep them still, but Stan simply relaxes his jaw and his throat and tugs a little to encourage him to do it again. He does, of course, how could he not? 

Despite the heat clawing its way through him and the pleasure mounting dangerously high, Ford almost feels outside of himself again. The picture Stan makes, with his eyes damp and heavy lidded, his lips wet and stretched around Ford's cock, his hair fisted in Ford's fingers and his own clinging to Ford's hips -- it's lewd, debauched, and so horribly sweet that it makes Ford's chest hurt. 

Stan gasps raggedly when Ford pulls him off. "I was go-gonna...I mean you can--"

Ford kneels down to kiss him, tasting stale cigarettes and himself, cock throbbing over the rough state of Stan's voice. "Not done yet," he manages, before tugging Stan onto his feet. 

They lose clothes and time on the journey upstairs, tripping over the steps and Ford's discarded pants, and stumbling into his wreck of a room. If Stan notices the state of things, he doesn't comment, mouth latched onto Ford's shoulder and hands all over his back and hips. 

The back of Ford's legs hit the bed and he sits hard on the mattress. Stan doesn't hesitate to crawl up into his lap. He'd lost his boots in the kitchen and his jeans and boxers somewhere on the way to the stairs, giving him ample opportunity to rub his bare cock against Ford's. 

Cursing, Ford rolls his hips and only belatedly remembers to reach up and tug the hideous red coat off of Stan's shoulders. 

"Oh, fuck, hold on. I think I have another one," Stan says, panting softly as he digs into the pockets of his coat. Ford takes the opportunity to run his hands across Stan's thighs and ass, squeezing whatever skin he can until Stan makes a triumphant sound and pulls another little packet of lube free. 

Only then does he let Ford toss his jacket aside and tug him further up the bed with him. He doesn't protest when Ford takes the packet from him, lowering his head to work open mouth kisses up Ford's throat instead, and he rolls his hips distractingly while Ford fights to get the damnable thing open. He ignores the snickering against his skin in the process. 

It stops anyway, hitching into something warm and startled when Ford sinks two slick fingers into him. 

"Oh, fuck," Stan breaths, reaching up to grab Ford by the shoulder, holding himself steady. "Y-You know you don't have to do that, right? Pretty loosened up already."

He is, to be fair. His hole is still soft and loose and fucked open. But Ford enjoys petting his fingers against the tender muscle and stroking them inside anyway. He likes watching Stan bite his lip and push himself back onto his hand. When he slides a third in after the first two, Stan's thighs tremble on either side of his own, and he makes a low, throaty sound. 

When Ford curls his fingers just right, Stan yells and grips his shoulder hard enough to hurt, and it makes warm satisfaction curl in his middle. So he does it a few more times, alternating between spreading his fingers and rubbing the tips against Stan's prostate until he's squirming in his lap. 

"I-I'm gonna come if you don't knock that sh-shit off," he gasps, slumping a bit when Ford chuckles and slides his fingers out. 

"I think I'd like that," Ford says, squeezing his slick fingers against Stan's thigh. 

He snorts and straightens back up, finding the discarded lube packet to squirt the remainder onto Ford's cock. "Yeah, I bet you fucking would," Stan agrees, but there's no malice in his voice, just warm amusement. 

His fist is warm and wonderful when it curls around Ford's cock, spreading lube, and then Ford is being held steady, Stan adjusts himself on his scuffed knees, and there's nothing else to do but hold on as Stan lowers himself into his lap. 

It feels as good as it had earlier to be inside of him, and Ford squeezes the thigh under his hand tightly, fighting against the need to buck his hips. Stan is panting softly, his head tilted back and a pretty, pink color is crawling up from under his t-shirt to flood his neck and face. 

Ford groans and leans forward, finding a nipple through his thin shirt to get his teeth and tongue against.

"F-Ford!" Stan gasps, fumbling the hand not clawing at his shoulder up into his hair, and Ford sucks hard on the firm nub,  rubbing spit-soaked cotton against it with his tongue until Stan rocks in his lap. 

Fuck, he likes that, the way his name sounds in Stan's voice, especially warm and rough after fucking his throat earlier. 

He squeezes Stan's thigh and his hip, giving him a little tug, and that's all the encouragement Stan needs before he's bouncing on his cock. Ford has that thought again -- that Stan was meant to be filled by him, that they're a perfectly matched set. But it isn't just feeling good and hot while Stan fucks himself in his lap. It's feeling like he's been missing something and he finally has it, like he's finally complete again. 

He's missed this, Ford realizes. 

Not the fucking his brother part. He'd fantasized about that for years but it still feels like a dream that it's happening, like something that's too good to be true. 

But being able to put his arms around him? To be this close to him again? 

Ford rocks his hips up, hard, and Stan says his name. He wraps his fingers around Stan's cock, and he gasps his name. He bites the same swollen, pink nipple through his shirt, and Stan shouts his name. 

He snaps his hips up to meet him a few more times and rubs the sensitive glans under the head of Stan's cock, and then there are teeth digging into his other shoulder and his fist and stomach are being striped in Stan's come while he shudders and jerks overtop of him. 

Stan goes easily when Ford rolls them over and pins one of his wrists to the bed. And despite the way he squirms and how his spent cock twitches and leaks, blatantly overstimulated, he hooks his ankles behind Ford's back and urges him on. 

"C-C'mon, give it to me. Fuck, just like that, Sixer!" 

The nickname hits him with all the subtlety of a truck and all the heat of a volcanic eruption. 

He doesn't even remember coming so much as he remembers every synapses in his brain trying to fire at once. Coming back down to reality is a little clearer, with his head spinning and pulse racing as he flops onto his back, but it still takes several long minutes before he feels fully cognizant again. 

Something makes the bed shift, and he looks over to see that Stan has rolled onto his stomach. Ford wonders if he looks half as fucked out as Stan does, with bruises blossoming across his body, his shirt rucked halfway up his stomach, and come staining his ass and thighs. Ford realizes Stan still has his socks on, and he can't figure out why that makes something twinge, hot but exhausted and halfhearted, in his gut. 

"Gonna...gonna get up in a minute," Stan says, his voice slurring and his eyes already closed. Ford watches him rub his cheek against one of Ford's pillows, and the soft sound of snoring follows soon after. 

The reality of the situation starts to settle in shortly after that, and Ford stares wide eyed up at the ceiling as if he'll find some sort of answers there. Unsurprisingly, there are no secrets etched overhead for how to reckon with the fact that he had just fucked his brother, twice, while the fate of the world was still very much hanging in the balance between his fraying sanity and Bill's looming threat. 

".....Fuck," Ford murmurs.

When the adrenaline finishes seeping out of his system, Ford expects to crash. The exhaustion certainly climbs back into his bones, but he's surprised to find himself still clear headed. Focused. 

The sound of Stan sleeping soundly beside him is as soothing as it is mocking, but he doesn't want to separate himself from it even though he knows he needs to get up. There's soft, gray light starting to creep in through the windows, and distant birdsong calling for the start of the day. He needs to readjust, to come up with a new plan, find some way to explain to Stan what's going on so they can buy themselves a little more time. 

Against all odds and his better judgment, there's a tiny, optimistic voice in the back of his head reminding him that there's strength in numbers. He isn't surprised that it sounds like Stan.

[scudismystud]

You’re on the right track but I think there’s more to it than that though. Spoilers under the cut.

Gale was told from a very young age that he would be a great wizard so he has to shoulder the expectation that he has to become one again after his falling out with Mystra (which I am of the opinion they were both wrong it wasn’t him just messing up with her- she was also using him but that’s a whole other conversation). Gale believes his only worth is if he is a great wizard and that is so heartbreaking. This is why he is so willing to sacrifice himself at the drop of a hat. He believes that if he can’t be as powerful as he was with Mystra and heralded as a great wizard instead of a great disappointment that he might as well give his life in a heroic way. He desperately wants to be great - like he views Mystra to be.

The reason he talks about her so often is because he wants to be her. This is clear when you reach Act 3 and he starts talking about the idea of becoming a god himself. Gale has megalomaniacal tendencies and will either pursue them if left to his own devices by the player because he just wants to be great. It isn’t until the player chooses options to tell him that he isn’t defined by his magic or grand power that Gale starts to realize he has worth just being himself outside of magic and Mystra. Yes he will always love magic but he becomes aware that it’s something he can enjoy without having to idolize Mystra in the unhealthy way he does through the first act of the game.

Relating back to your analogy, I think this is more of a case where Disney had all of the legal software to draw and you show talent from a very young age and everyone says you’re going to be the next great artist so Disney CEO hires and then starts sleeping with you when you’re of age. As you get older and your relationship is getting closer (at least on your end you believe the relationship is equal) you start asking for better software you know the ceo is using but they keep telling you that you aren’t good enough.

You then find out there’s a hidden software online that you’ve been told is an altered version of Disney software. You download it in the hopes of bringing it to Disney ceo thinking they’d be happy you found upgraded software for them but then they’re mad at you. They cast you out of their circle.

You then get a virus from that program that is going to slowly kill your computer if you don’t keep letting it eat your files and even though you can still use your other programs from Disney they don’t work like they used to so you can’t make art as great as you once did. You then are told by that ceo that they can stabilize the computer temporarily but you should get rid of your computer which would also kill you in the process.

On top of that you also find out the software you had downloaded never belonged to Disney to begin with. You find out other software has always existed but the public cannot be trusted with it according to Disney CEO. You find out you’ve been misled by the CEO for years and there’s so much more out there you could sharing with the world. You then start to pursue making yourself a CEO convincing yourself you’ll be different than Disney CEO.

I do think comparing Mystra to a CEO is very fitting because she does have a horrible power imbalance to the relationship she has with Gale so he sees her in a good light despite all the things she does wrong for way too long. I don’t think Mystra is evil but I do think that what she did to Gale was wrong and warped him into the man who thinks he needs to be a god to be worthy of being alive. To reiterate again this is why he is constantly talking about her. He wants to be her. He wants infinite knowledge and magic.

At least that’s what he wants if left to his own pursuits. If you romance him, he then starts to think of a future with you. He still talks about Mystra but it isn’t in the idolizing way it was before (“you make me forget my goddess” line my beloved). He comes into his own as a character who could see himself being happy as Gale Dekarios the man instead of Gale of Waterdeep the great wizard.

I feel like people don't grasp that Gale keeps talking about Mystra because (among other things) he's obssessed with magic.

I think it's hard to understand because in our world, any skill is an existence in and of itself but for a rough example,

Imagine if Disney had a monopoly on drawing. They were in charge of all of the drawing softwares, they own all of the art supply companies and hell, maybe they even own paper.

Now imagine you royally mess it up with the CEO of Disney. You love to draw but anytime you draw, it's ultimately seen or controlled by Disney. It must be rough. I feel for him, I really do.

Mystra isn't just some goddess connected to magic. Since most people can only safely access through the weave and Mystra manages the weave, as far as Gale is concerned, Mystra IS magic.

[breakyourrxles]

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟜

𝐞𝐠𝐨

↳ A risky company decision meant to catapult your new and emerging group into the limelight also has the unique side effect of launching you straight into the crosshairs of something that will change everything.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [7,0k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

"I was there, yeah, and I saw what I saw," Sunwoo interrupts. "We're close, you don't have to lie to me. You're interested."

You meet silence upon walking into the entryway of the apartment.

There are signs of life still; quiet bumping and movement behind closed doors further away from you. An ambiance of questioning and unsureness mingling in the air despite no one being there to grace you with it. A heavy breath escapes you finally now that Sunwoo has left and the door stands between what was once you and him, relieved that this portion of it all has come to a tentative close.

But you know it will be short-lived.

One of the doors to a bedroom eventually cracks open, slowly drawn apart as if the person standing on the other side is carefully checking for safety. Your attention perks up and your eyes find Miyoung's through the sliver she has made, and once the surroundings have been adequately surveyed, she finally steps out and into the living room.

The expression on her face gives you little to ascertain from it, but what you can find is a slight, barely-there frown digging into the corners of her lips.

"He can't come around here like that," Miyoung says.

"I know." Your shoulders slump immediately, and you easily give in to the fact of the matter. "I… didn't know he was coming. It won't happen again."

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if attempting to find something deeply laden within your words and yet completely unspoken. Miyoung is kind but attentive—perfectly capable of picking up on the nuance around her—and right now, that fact frightens you.

She chews on her bottom lip just a bit and then says, "Look, we're going to be in this for a very long time together, at least, that's what I hope. I don't want to pry and I don't expect to know every detail about your personal life but…" Miyoung pauses, and it feels suffocating between you. "But… Is there anything we should know about you and him? I know the history and all that but the way you two act together seems different."

"No! No, of course there's nothing!" you're quick to say.

"If you're like, seeing him, or interested in him or something, I just think it'd be better for all of us to navigate the situation if we know about it."

"I'm not! We're not like, involved, or anything like that! We just… met, and I guess we get along and the fan-idol thing is kind of humorous to him so he has taken a bit of a liking to me but it's not anything like that. We're really just friends." Already, you feel as though you've given away too much by saying that word, despite the lies previously riddled within the explanation. So, you make an effort to correct the stance and go forward with a far more simplistic "Friendly. We're friendly."

"Do you like him?" Miyoung asks, plain and simple and out there in the open, impossible to ignore. 

The question just about bowls you over. It is so firm and left with no room for misinterpretation that your anxiety spikes, especially as it is coming off of the back of a very strange conversation only just had with the exact man in question.

"What I mean is," she adjusts, "is there any chance that whatever is going on between you two now, could eventually turn into something more?"

You tell her no, but for some inexplicable reason, it does not feel good to do so.

Two months down, two more to go.

During what becomes clear to you as the final conceptual meeting between your members and the team directors, the remaining questions that have been hanging in the air in relation to your group's future are finally answered.

Thankfully, it is all good news. You will debut as ten, with no further cuts to the line-up being made. Yourself and the girls all share bright, relieved smiles and caring physical gestures; the fear of more loss no longer dampening the promise of a stage that is soon to come.

The group is called MVNE, and though it is somewhat strange, it fits the current landscape of active and debuting groups in your overall space. It is pronounced as moon, and conceptually, your appearances will match it rather perfectly. A dark and mature concept—and with no underaged members on the team, you're able to breathe a sigh of relief—because the next round of mood board ideas shown to the room certainly does lean into something a bit more edgy and sex. Cutting edge and immensely risky for a newly debuting girl group, but rather fitting of the vibes in relation to your labelmates.

You are promised that it will all start off rather slowly, and that the group will not be pushed into shock-factor choreography and revealing outfits straight away. The directors are honest and upfront about the fact that there will be many risks, and they have every intention of turning away from what is more commonly looked for and accepted in the public currently. This will make your life and job harder, and the comments that are posted online may not be as kind as if you were to debut with a softer, more demure essence. However, you are not looking to take a simple road, and thus, the challenge is more than accepted.

In fact, this is hardly news. The auditions were fairly obvious in what they had been searching for, and though the concept had at the time been very much into its infancy, the casting directors had spoken openly about what it was that at hopeful may or may not have been signing up for. Naturally, anything can change in the journey between then and now; you're thankful that it has not.

Spirits are high by the end of the meeting, and though there is another schedule waiting just after it, all of the girls wear wide smiles as they make their way out into the hallway. Woori finds you immediately as your managers shuffle you down the hall, and slings her arm around your shoulders.

"It's happening," she sing-songs. "I'm so excited! Really glad we didn't get stuck with doing a cute concept after all, I had been hearing rumblings…"

"You know as well as I do that the cute concepts will come, nobody sticks to one thing forever."

"I know, but I think it's promising that the company is willing to take a different path rather than the one of least resistance. I think this will be good for us. Not easy, probably much harder, but good."

You hum at that, agreeing with the thought behind it. "Well, we have a great leader, so no matter what happens, we're gonna be okay."

Woori's eyes narrow, scrutinizing you playfully. "Already buttering me up, are you? Trying to be the favorite? Or are you hopeful that the shippers get a hold of us and run wild."

Laughing, you purse your lips towards her as if with the intention to kiss her and say, "Ooh, now wouldn't that be fun?"

"Aren't you a little wrapped up already?" she replies, a particularly suspicious inkling dripping from her tone. "What's the boy-toy going to think about it all?"

Hearing Sunwoo being passingly referred to as your boy-toy is something of a fascinating development, alongside of him and your relationship to him being discussed with such ease. You reel ever so slightly, though you make an honest attempt to force any reaction back.

"My what now?"

"Oh, come on! You think I didn't hear about him coming by late at night to see you?" Woori says. "I hear about everything now and I will continue to hear about it in the future! Though I will admit, it's a little messy to have a well-established idol coming to the trainee dorms. Who knows who might be following him."

Yes, I agree, but unfortunately trying to tell Sunwoo anything in regards to logic is something of an impossibility. You can't say it, but you think it just as strongly and instead you settle on a simpler response of, "He should know better, but I told him he can't come around like that. It won't happen again."

Woori snorts at that, seemingly disbelieving of your words just as much as you are. "I don't know a lot about him, but based on what I've heard, that sounds incredibly unlikely," she says. "Sunwoo has something of a reputation of… well, just sort of doing whatever he feels like at any given moment, and maybe he'll think about it later."

Spot on, you think.

"Are you excited about the photoshoot?" she asks then, comically rubbing her hands together like a cartoon villain. Woori will be popular amongst the public, for sure. Impossible not to love. "I think it's going to be really interesting, groups don't really get to do things like this. When the directors said they were going to take risks, they sure meant it."

"Yeah, I don't think I'm going to be surveying the reception online for a few weeks after it's all released," you say.

In fact, you have done your best to put the whole thing out of your mind ever since hearing about it a few days ago. Sunwoo had messaged you with some excitement in relation, and though you feigned matching his intrigue, all you could do was stew in the worry that the thin veil that stands between you and him may quickly come to an end.

Co-ed group engagements are rarely done, for the obvious reasons pertaining to idol-fan relations and the image that idoldom is meant to sell. Idols don't get into relationships with anyone but their fans, and they certainly don't make any efforts to express a romantic or physical interest in someone working within their same space. 

Today, you're going to pretend to do both.

"Sex sells, whether idol fans want to admit it or not, and someone out there is going to be incredibly intrigued by the chemistry between us and them. It's a long shot for sure, but I'm looking forward to it."

You cannot, under any circumstances, be paired up with Sunwoo.

Hilariously (to him,) this outcome is precisely what he is hoping for. You had received paragraph after paragraph on your phone about all of the fun little ideas that he has for the shoot; hands on thighs, lips edging just close enough to the flesh of your neck or face. He had seemed delighted by the whole thing, while you screamed until passing out silently inside of your own head.

Then,  ideas of your own begin to trickle through despite your best efforts to avoid them. Even now as Woori revisits the topic, images of Sunwoo's hand pressed against your hip, or warm breath feathering lightly across your lips has the tiny hairs across your skin prickling and standing at anxiety-ridden attention.

Anyone but Sunwoo.

The room for the shoot is up a few levels where the much larger staging offices are located. Twenty-one bodies are meant to fit in here—not counting staff—and thus the need for space is of the utmost importance. The door is already pried and held open by the time your group arrives, and before you turn inside, you hear voices that are all too familiar to you already in attendance.

Your heart races. His group knows the truth, but yours, does not.

As expected, the staff is friendly and professional, and though it is going to be an incredibly long day stuffed into this studio for shooting, you're very much aware of the fact that it could be far, far worse.

There are beverages and snacks set aside on a long table off to the side, and ahead of that is a massive pile of electronics; lighting and photography equipment litter the vast, open space, and further ahead of that is an incredibly massive and elaborate set.

Make-up is done in the same room and off to another side, but fittings are set into two of the other rooms just next door to this one. MVNE outfits are simple and sexy but far from revealing. A lot is left to the imagination but everything fits just right and frankly; you and the girls look fucking amazing. When Woori, Miyoung and Kaia turn into the hallway from the fitting room you've left not long before, your jaw drops. They all look stunning.

"Wow." The single word is all you can muster up at first, eyes wide in amazement. "You look incredible. Whoever gets paired with you three are going to be the luckiest guys of the day."

"Funny you should mention that," Woori says, her index finger jutting into the air and demanding attention. "I have received information! We're all going to cycle through a few different potential pairings, take a bunch of photos with each based on, I don't know, probably visual vibes or whatever, and then whichever pairing looks best in post is what's going to be going up for the world to see." One eyebrow perks up as she looks at you specifically, and then she says, "Even better odds for you."

Your eyes flicker between Woori, Miyoung and Kaia, but quickly you land back on the first. "Are you all in on this, or something? What am I missing here?"

"No, if I had my way that man would not be coming around, much less having his little delusions fed by you," Miyoung says. "Woori likes it, though. She thinks it's cute, for some reason."

Kaia shrugs. "I'm fairly indifferent so long as you don't blow up the group."

"It's romantic!" Woori whines, seriously displeased by being the only person in attendance not willing to succumb to the whims of the alleged fairytale at hand. "What a cute story! She was his fan and then an idol at the same company and they fall in love? How could the public not love that!"

"Very easily, if history is anything to go by," Miyoung reasons.

"You guys are no fun. No whimsy."

"Right," you interject, hopeful to move the topic away from your personal involvements. "Then do we know any information about what the staff has in store for us?"

Woori shrugs and says, "Beyond me and Sangyeon—on account of both being the leaders of our groups—no, I've not heard anything else."

This is worrying, if the intent is to pair based on potential similarities in group formation. You are a dancer, as is Sunwoo—though his position is perhaps more closely tied to that of a rapper. A coldness rushes down your spine at the thought, your hope in being spared dwindling fast.

"Only one way to find out, I guess," Kaia says, "Shall we meet our fate?"

The girls walk ahead of you, and as you linger just behind you inhale a deep, sharp breath and are left with little more than hoping for the best.

Standing in front of the set, it's only now that you're really able to take in the full display of it.

The vibe is something akin to a sultry, romantic bar. Dim lights sprawling over gold accents on dark wood furniture and deep burgundy upholstery. The kind of place that a man might take a woman that he is not meant to be seen in public with; it's sort of genius, all things about this concept considered.

The shoot director calls for you then, and walks with you to the set and where he specifically wants you to be. Nestled inside of a corner, there is a half-moon shaped booth with a table and faux-alcoholic drinks immaculately placed atop. The seat is not comfortable—hell, it's hardly even real—but it gets the job done and looks good enough to the eye that no one who looks at the photos will be at all aware that you can feel a plank of wood poking painfully at your thigh.

"You might have an easy day," the director says in passing as he begins the finishing touches for the lighting and the cameras. "We're fairly certain of who we want to go with for you."

Oh god.

He steps away to take a spot behind the line of equipment, and you are then surrounded by two stylists sent to add some additional finishes to your own look. Your line of sight to the outside world is cut off by the bodies, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching and the director telling whoever it is that you are already set in place. Your heart pounds so hard inside of your chest that it seems impossible that neither of the women can hear it; echoing inside of your ears and making your stomach churn. It's stiflingly warm under the lights, so hot. Too hot. A waft of dizziness finds you, but you cannot pass out during your first major shoot leading up to your debut, and especially not on account of simply having to take photos with a man. No matter who he ends up being.

The women lean back to get one final look at you, and with a smile and a nod, they send themselves on their way and disperse.

It's the moment of truth, and once your eyes fall upon him, you're not really sure what to think.

There he is. Standing in front of you with his hands shoved into perfectly ironed black slacks. All black everything, in fact; save for the burgundy tie loosely hung around his neck as if it has already been found by the hands of a woman hopeful to undress him.

A small smirk sits perked into one side of his lips, his eyes dark and sharp. Black hair messy with intention, all a part of a detailed look.

He is not Sunwoo, but you have spoken before.

Fansigns have a funny way of ensuring that you have engaged in some form of conversation with all of them at some point in time. You realize only now that during those years, your sights had been so firmly set on Sunwoo that you'd never given yourself time or space to acknowledge any of the rest in the same sort of intricate, specialized way.

Taking slow, thoughtful strides towards you, Juyeon slides into the booth beside you and greets you with a wider, more inviting smile.

"Probably not what you were aiming for," he says, lightly jesting. "Hopefully you're not too disappointed."

"No, not at all!" You don't mean to sound so eager, but truthfully, it is the best case scenario and you find difficulty in masking how absolutely relieved the sight of him makes you feel. "It's nothing like that, really."

"Good then, easy work for us. Make sure you let me know if you're uncomfortable with anything, work like this can get a little…"

"Strange," you say, finishing the thought. Juyeon smiles and hums an agreement.

You knew what the shoot was, and what the creative direction of it had been aiming for, but being in it is a whole different experience, you are soon to discover.

The first handful of poses and motions are simplistic; a closeness to your bodies that might allude to something more being behind it all but moderately expressed to truly drive the point home. With little time, however, Juyeon's body finds further closeness to your own at the direction of the talent on the set. His palm finds your knee; large hands that practically dwarf it in size, a careful lean of his face closer to your own, an arm draped over your shoulders to hold you closer into him.

He smells very faintly of some fragrance, but mostly all you are able to catch is the cleanliness of his hair from being freshly shampooed. Juyeon's touch is so thoughtful; confident but wholly in-tuned to any potential reaction to him that you may have. As his face creeps closer, the feeling of his body near to your own begins to spread an unanticipated warmth through your form. He has always been attractive—impossible not to take notice of such a striking appearance—and now that he is here with you like this, for the express purpose of selling the exact thing that you find yourself to be personally experiencing, your stress in relation to it all but melts away.

You turn to face him, lips only centimeters away from making contact and his eyes fall immediately to look at yours before crawling back up to revisit the lost gaze.

Juyeon's breath is soft but warm against your mouth, and though you are so close to him that your sight is severely impaired, you do see the slow and slight upturn to one corner of his lips.

His hand offers a light squeeze to the top of your knee, and before you have a chance to take proper notice of it, the pressure is gone.

The director howls something from behind the lines of equipment and it practically startles you out of your skin. You realize then, in that moment, that you had completely forgotten that you are in the company of onlookers whilst wrapped in Juyeon's presence.

He creates space between the two of you, and with a smile Juyeon says, "See? Easy stuff. Sort of figured it'd be a quick wrap-up when I found out it was you I'd be shooting with."

Your head cocks to the side inquisitively. "Is that so?"

"Of course. No one better I could have possibly been paired with."

A slow smile edges onto your lips no matter how much you aim to fight it, and as the staff hustle about to ready themselves for the next shoot, your attention begins to wander at the feeling of being watched; and being watched you are.

Tucked into the back of the room, though not so far away that you are unable to ascertain his expression, stands Sunwoo with arms crossed over his chest and eyes fully locked on you.

For a moment the eye contact remains firm, that is, until he rolls his in a rather unimpressed manner and slinks off completely out of sight.

The response is shocking.

Baffling would be your word of choice, though you opt out of saying as much upon being pressed about it. Debut for MVNE is now only a week out and the days are ticking by both painfully slowly and with unfathomable velocity. The photos are out, and though you had previously told yourself you would not succumb to the interest of public perception, you find that knowing of it is going to be utterly impossible.

It's good. Really good.

On the way down to the company cafe, even the regular staff throughout the halls are on their phones and mingling amongst one another to collectively ooh and ahh at the sights to behold. You haven't seen the pictures—not since the day, and not after retouching—so really, you have no idea what it is that everyone seems to be making a fuss about.

Today is dance, like so many other days for you. Good is never good enough, and you severely doubt that there will ever come a time in the future where you are content with the progress you have made. Just like any other art, there is always room for improvement. It never finishes, never finds an end, is never truly completed; this is no different.

Your thighs are a little sore on account of going at the choreography especially hard in the weeks leading up to the final date. Logically, you know that you must take it just a bit easier on yourself so that you can maintain the health required for the amount of schedules that you are soon to be thrown into. Early mornings and late nights will come, and come and come again. You have to be able to weather the storm.

But, your condition is fairly good, all things considered, and with a coffee and a croissant soon to be consumed, you will be ready to take on the day.

You walk through the doors and at a table just to the side, Woori and another one of the members—Nara—are sitting with an ample display of food items and much like everyone else around here today, completely glued to their screens.

Woori's attention pops up at the sudden intrusion of your being there, her expression lights up and a hand rips towards you to tug you down to the chair beside her. "Look!" she says, and nearly demonic she sounds. "Holy shit, this turned out amazingly!"

"People really like them," Nara interjects, and the disbelief in even her tone is evidence of the fact that none of you could have predicted this outcome. "Lucky me getting paired with Younghoon, a fan favorite, that guy is."

"No kidding," Woori says, and though she is in agreement, her head is shaking as if she isn't. "I just can't believe it, I thought for sure we'd be getting eaten alive in the comments."

Your eyes narrow questioningly. "Are we… not?"

"No! Not even a little bit!" Woori tips her screen towards you and scrolls through all of the comments, most with a large amount of upvotes considering the newness of your team, and now the shock catches you as if it is contagious from the others. "I mean sure, there's the stray hating ass bitch here or there, but mostly it's being well-received, and the best part…" She pulls her phone back to her, does some more scrolling, then typing, then scrolling again, before showing you what is there once more.

It's numerous entries about your photos with Juyeon, in particular.

"Seems like your spread is the most popular. Would you look at that."

"What? Seriously?"

You snatch the device from Woori as if it doesn't belong to her at all and take on scrolling for yourself. You said you wouldn't do this, but now that the initial layer of doubt has been shoved aside, it's free range for your viewing pleasure. There's posts—a lot of posts—of people praising your shoot with Juyeon. Comments often talk about how your aesthetics pair well and how the chemistry is through the roof, how good you two look together, and even some stray comments about shipping this moving forward.

You're in a particularly interesting spot where you know more than most of Juyeon's popularity among the fandom, and even outside of it. Easily, being paired with him could have landed you in a precarious and uninviting place, yet somehow; that couldn't be further from the truth.

"I'm genuinely shocked," Nara reiterates, words that have likely been said over and over again today already. "Somehow, we all stuck the landing."

"They're really good photos," Woori says, and yanking her phone back, she scrolls to a snapshot taken during that brief, single moment in which Juyeon's eyes fell down to your lips. She turns the screen to face you with your demons and then says, "This one is especially good, maybe Sunwoo is out of the running after all."

"Running for what?"

The words startle you, because the voice is not one you are expecting to hear. You lurch to the side, because it comes from behind and above you, and turning back to look, Sunwoo is standing just above you and seemingly none too amused about whatever it is he has had the misfortune of eavesdropping on.

"Look!" Woori, all too delighted to show off these photos and their reception to any and everyone with a second to spare in appeasing her, shoves the phone up to Sunwoo's face.

Watching him intently, Sunwoo's expression does not change. He does not smile, he does not falter in any evident, explicit way. His eyes linger on the screen in front of him, he blinks a few times, and then with complete, statuesque stillness he simply says: "Cool."

"Oh my god, that's it?" Woori says, beyond disgruntled by the response. "You know, your photos with Serri are getting a lot of love too, if you even care!"

"I saw this morning," Sunwoo says, with no emotion present in his tone. "I don't think she and I had as much fun doing it as some other people might have, though."

That comment grabs Nara's attention, happy to voice her dissatisfaction in any situation, at any time. Her lip twists into something akin to a snarl and looking at Sunwoo she says, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Easy," Woori warns, because they are in no position to be talking down to him regardless of the reason.

"Just glad everyone had a good time," Sunwoo says, and though there is a perkiness to his tone now, you know him well enough to notice the fakeness heavily embedded within it. His attention falls specifically to you then, and with an equally phony smile he continues the thought with, "And hey, Juyeon is single, so feel free to go for it!"

If your surroundings were different, this conversation would not be unfolding the way that it is. Sunwoo is taking full advantage of the fact that because of your current company, you are unable to offer any pushback in relation to the way that he is behaving. While not completely unlike him, you haven't ever been on the receiving end of his expressive and sometimes emotional outbursts, and though you do not feel as though you are deserving of it, the conversation previously had at the dorm all those weeks ago now sits unignorable at the forefront of your mind.

Is he… jealous?

Obviously, and regardless of what he may say when pressed, the answer is emphatically a yes. This fact is foreign to you; something that you are not at all equipped to maneuver given the current state of affairs not only in your own professional life, but in conjunction with his own.

And more than anything else: you thought you were both in agreement.

For a few long moments, you and Sunwoo stare at one another, and once he appears satisfied with your inability to question his motives, he bids your table farewell and makes his way across the room towards where Eric and Changmin are waiting.

You let out a heavy exhale, but you are far from out of the lion's den just yet.

Woori and Nara are both staring at you, something you do not have to confirm by actually looking at them, and thus, your eyes remain closed in thought as you attempt to make sense of anything that appears to have been brewing unbeknownst to you.

"What the hell was that about?" Nara asks, breaking the silence that hangs in the air.

None of this makes any sense without context, you think. If you just tell them about your history, it could be easier. They would understand. 

"He's…" You begin to say it, the rest of the confession sitting on the tip of your tongue, but as your eyes open slowly and the weight of their gaze becomes all too apparent to you, once again you become frightened by the possibilities that could be awaiting you. 

"He's nosy, I've come to find, and a little worried about doing co-ed work, so I think even when this is received well he's concerned about the next time. If there's a next time. I don't really blame him. It's a risky line we're all walking."

Nara rolls her eyes, but seems relatively placated by the explanation. Woori, however, remains fully fixated on you.

"Is he worried about doing co-ed work," Woori asks, "or is he more worried about other people doing co-ed work?"

She presents it as a question, but based on the look on her face when she does and the way her heavy eyes are locked upon your own, you know she isn't really asking one.

Nights where you stay far too late are becoming much too commonplace, but the jittery drive of debut hanging just around the corner often leaves you with a restlessness that nothing can seem to quell. Nothing except more practice.

The rest of the girls have long since left to go home, and though Woori had messaged you about dinner waiting for your return, it's going to be cold now, so there is little reason to hurry back. You're a little sore and covered with a sheen of sweat by the time you call it quits, and carelessly shoving your belongings into your bag, you head out into one of the many empty hallways of the company building.

Not so empty, as you are soon to find out.

You aren't anticipating finding anyone sharing the space, lingering there leaned against the wall next to the doorway and so when you do, you nearly shriek from the start.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

Sunwoo pushes himself to an upright position, arms crossed and an accompanying roll of his eyes as if bored with your theatrics. "Who else would be here?" he asks.

"Well, no one. That's kind of the whole reason that you just scared the shit out of me."

"Ta-da." There is no exuberance behind the expression he gives.

His hood is tugged down—a rare occurrence—and so all of that fluffy hair and sharp features are fully on display. Sunwoo makes no effort in displaying anything but precisely what he is feeling, and what he certainly appears to be feeling is abject annoyance at something. 

"What?" you say, "What is wrong with you? And while we're at it, what was that back there earlier today?"

His eyes narrow as he looks at you, surveying what stands before him in a way that you cannot quite parse through. He doesn't reply immediately, but irritation he harbors is plainly evident without so much as a word.

"So," Sunwoo begins, "Juyeon, huh?"

"Oh, god." Exasperated, your shoulders slump and eyes roll comically exaggerated. Rather than engage in this, you shove past Sunwoo and throw a hand in the air as you walk. "I'm not doing this with you!"

"What? I'm wrong because it raises some interesting questions?"

You wish you could keep walking away from this, let it lie precisely where it is and allow Sunwoo to stew in whatever bizarre jealousy he seems to be wading in. However, you stop, and with your back still turned to him you say, "And what questions are those?"

"Like, what's the difference between him, and me? You've been jumping through all these hoops to make sure nobody ever finds out about us but Juyeon is perfectly up for grabs? He's an idol too, you know, and one exceptionally close to me in ways that wouldn't look as simple as you might think they would." Your head snaps back to look at him, and Sunwoo shrugs as if the gesture is meant to drive the point home. "He might not be me, but he's too close to not have to worry about what people might say, especially since at least some of our history is now common public knowledge," he says.

"It was a photoshoot," you say pointedly, desperate to reason with him and airy exasperation heavily laced through your words. You turn fully, somehow finding your way back towards Sunwoo in firm, serious steps. "A photoshoot. We all did it. You did it, too. I don't know what you think is happening but—"

"I was there, yeah, and I saw what I saw," Sunwoo interrupts. "We're close, you don't have to lie to me. You're interested."

You throw your hands into the air, the only way you can think to expel the excess energy from this conversation bubbling up inside of you.

"I guess! What do you want me to say? It was a photoshoot with a theme and I was paired with someone that I'm attracted to. The chemistry was there—sure—it doesn't mean anything, though. I'm not going after Juyeon." You take a pause to collect your thoughts, and the next thing that comes to you, you blurt out without the kind of consideration that it most certainly requires. "And besides, so what if I was?"

That piques Sunwoo's interest, because his eyes widen in a kind of shock that is less telling of his not expecting it, and more akin to that of someone surprised that a type of truth has finally come out.

"Right," he says, "You can just be honest."

"There's nothing to be honest about, nothing is happening."

"Yet."

The anger that you feel starts to become unbearable, along with the continued dancing around a subject that is obviously, in some way, tormenting the both of you. Somehow, somewhere along the way, something had changed and you'd apparently not had your wits about you in the necessary ways to notice it. You get it, you've been busy, but the lingering sense of you missing a rather large piece of this puzzle that exists between you and Sunwoo has now reached its limitations, and with a deep inhale, you allow all of the acting, all of the shrouded veil that's meant to stand between yours and his relationship and plainly say: "What happened? I thought we were both on the same page about this."

The next couple of moments linger between you two in silence, a matched gaze that never shifts away as if either of you are waiting for the other to break. Eventually, Sunwoo huffs a laugh and shakes his head. You easily recognize it as disbelief.

"Were we on the same page, or did you just write the page?"

Sunwoo isn't a planner, and is hardly even that of a rule-follower. The reply released something of a floodgate of history and conversations shared between the two of you in your months as friends leading up to your trainee period, and you wrack your brain for the moments in which Sunwoo himself laid out the terms and conditions for which the two of you are meant to abide.

But all that comes to memory is them being laid out by you.

"It's always just been about you, and what you want, and what you think is best for the both of us navigating this," Sunwoo says. "And you know, admittedly, that's probably for the best in reality. I accept that, that's why I've always just been happy to go along with it because hell, I'm not really in the market for potentially blowing up my career, either."

Chest tight and heavy, you watch Sunwoo as he gently admits to this fact, as well as the underlying admittance that you are now left to believe lies buried deep underneath it. A rule you decided upon, a conclusion that you had forced yourself to remain held strongly to: Kim Sunwoo is firmly and decisively off the table.

Regardless of how much you may have wanted otherwise.

He gives a noncommittal shrug, lifeless in its effort and then says, "I've seen how women get around Juyeon, I get it. And you know what? He's great. But…" Sunwoo's voice drifts away for a bit, as does his eyes from you before eventually returning and continuing on to say, "It's not that different. It'll be the same kind of headache in the long run. Maybe you think it'll be better—easier—just on account of him not being me, but it won't."

Your heart pounds in your chest, nearly dizzyingly aware of what this means for your future and your past. Everything from then leading up until this very moment now must be viewed through an entirely different hue. All of those meetings; every smile, every shared secret, and every gentle offering of physical affection—though few and far between—now uncovered to be the one thing that…

You had sort of always really hoped for.

But more than anything else, this fucking frightens you, and as a result the only thing you can say in response to it under the warm hallway lights and Sunwoo's expectant, hopeful gaze is: "The history makes it different. You'll look…"

"Like an idol who preys on his fans, I know, I get it," Sunwoo says, though there's little care in his voice for the fact. "I've sat with that for a long time, I've had no other option than to do just that, but what am I supposed to do? Just…"

There's another pass of silence between you.

"Do nothing? Pretend forever? Hope it goes away even though from here on out I'm going to have to see you even more, probably work together even more." He chuckles under his breath, turning his head away as if the next thought is utterly comical to him and says, "Watch you date my bandmate, then pretend I don't care about that, either?"

"You've really got to let this Juyeon thing go," you say, lightly joking in an attempt to bring up the mood.

"What I'm saying is there's no path of least resistance here for me. All of the options are shit, so I figure if they're all shit then…"

Sunwoo's hand finds the sleeve of your jacket, and before your wits are able to find you, your back is pressed into the wall that previously stood right beside you. Your breath catches in your throat, unwilling to release a breath in fear that doing so may break the immersion of this single, brief moment in time. The skin across your arm crawls, the little hairs raising from the light, tantalizing feeling of foreign fingertips ghosting across your jawline. His body boxes you in place, warm breath feathering ragged and stuttering over the flesh of your face, and when you're finally capable of gathering yourself enough to take in the sight of Sunwoo's face so close to your own; his eyes fall from yours, to your mouth. Those fingertips at your jaw smooth down to your neck, the other hand holding firmly at your waist in a way that he has never touched you before—as if unwilling to ever let go—and it feels like fire being pressed against your skin.

His lips take yours, and the kiss is confident and sure in ways you cannot begin to fathom. Sunwoo does not waver, does not shy away from gentle nips of teeth into your bottom lip, or the way that he quickly takes more once your head cocks, your mouth parts, and you invite him to take even more.

This feels right, and yet, it cannot ever happen again.

end of act 1! happy to hear if you're enjoying it thus far 🩵

[robinsegghead]

Danny's Daycare Part 19

Masterlist Shortly after Danny and the boys had left everyone gathered in the cave. Those who hadn’t known about the Phantom/Danny situation were filled in so they could discuss what they’d learned that night as well as summon Phantom to tell him what they’d found. Dick was listening intently. Despite reading the files shortly before their company arrived, Dick wanted to be sure he had all the facts.

“So,” Steph frowned. “We’ve got a ghost king who’s claiming a branch of the American government called the GIW has been trying to experiment on and kill his people, a law called the Anti-Ecto-Acts which means it’s legal for them to do said experimenting and killing, and Danny who supposedly knows the ghost king and is affected by the law that makes him legal property of the government?”

Bruce nodded. “We are still trying to understand Danny’s connection to all of this and how it is that he’s affected by this law- as far as we can tell he’s entirely human. We aren’t sure how he would have come into contact with enough ectoplasm to deem him a ‘ghost’ but-”

Jason cleared his throat, effectively cutting Bruce off and silencing everyone in the cave. “I… may have left out… some details.”

“Oh no,” Tim cuts in. “Tell me you didn’t know.”

“Know what?” Bruce sighed, already clearly tired of this back and forth.

Tim crossed his arms and glared at Jason. “That Danny’s died before?”

That set everyone off. Dick himself didn’t know what to do with that information. He’d watched all night as Jason smiled at Danny, thinking no one would notice, and then he’d watched as Jason scolded the family for prying (he was right to do that they could obviously see Danny didn’t want to answer their questions) and chased after Danny when Santiago had dragged him off. They’d spent a lot of time outside before coming back in and everybody could tell something had changed. 

They were both more relaxed, stood slightly closer together, their eyes lingered on each other when they thought no one was looking, and Jason was actually laughing along with the family! It had been a long time since he’d seen little wing so happy and he wasn’t ashamed to admit; he’d gotten emotional about it. He didn’t want to think anything was up with Danny, he wanted to imagine Danny had a nice normal life, a good family, and a personality that would bring some happiness and normality to Jason’s life.

“What do you mean, Tim?” Bruce asked, cutting through all the other raised voices.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “When Kon came over he- well he wanted to see if Danny was hiding anything on his person. I’d filled him in a bit about the situation and he’s heard me trying to figure out what Danny’s deal is for a while now so he used a bit of X-ray vision and that’s why he dropped the pie. ‘Cause Danny’s got an autopsy scar.”

The cave was silent, everyone that’d been looking at Tim promptly looked towards Jason, waiting for an explanation. Jason swallowed visibly. “I… didn’t know that.”

“That he died or that he had an autopsy scar? ‘Cause it sounds like he’s got a lot more scars than that, Kon was… Kon said he’s only seen scarring that bad on people like us- vigilantes.” Tim pointed out.

Jason sighed, sitting a ways away from the family- a habit he’d picked up after coming back and needed to physically distance himself from them when he got overwhelmed. Dick had always hated how far his brother kept himself from them, tucking himself away behind an immovable wall, keeping his real feelings and thoughts blocked off, for his and their protection.

But instead of remaining apart, staying at the table he’d first sat at- that they’d all avoided in order to give him space- Jason stood and moved closer, closing the circle the family had formed. “I’m friends with Danny in and out of the mask.” He started, crossing his arms to protect himself from the closeness. “He’s told Jason some things and he’s told Hood some things and I…. didn’t feel right telling you all of it.”

“We need to know everything you know about him Jay-”

“No. You don’t.” Jason says firmly. “I will tell you what I’m comfortable telling you and then we can summon Phantom. Maybe he will tell you more, maybe he won’t. Maybe if you show up at his apartment in your tall, dark, and gloomy costume he’ll tell you what you want to know- but I’m not telling you everything he told me in confidence just to satisfy your curiosity. Didn’t you learn anything from dinner tonight?”

And- yeah, that was fair. They hadn’t been as nice to Danny as they should have, and while it was obvious in hindsight that they’d backed him into a corner, Dick really had just wanted to get to know the man. Danny was an enigma. Someone who’d befriended Damian, who’d brought down Jay’s walls, who’d expressed interest in Tim and his life, Danny was a good guy. Dick wanted to know everything he could about that man.

Bruce sighed, relenting, and Jason started talking. “I don’t know about the scarring. I do know he… died a long time ago.” The room tensed, Dick tensed. “He came back different- like me. But not- not like me. He was confused when I asked about Pit rage stuff. After coming back he did the whole teenage vigilante for a while to protect his town. He gave that stuff up a while back, traveled for a while, and ended up in Gotham.”

“Do you know who asked him to come here?” Tim interjected, getting the room's attention. “He said he was here as a favor. He said a friend asked him to come to Gotham and help out and that’s why he’s here. Do you think it was Phantom?”

Jason shrugged. “Phantom said they knew each other, he’s the ghost king and Danny was an undead kid vigilante who fought ghosts to protect his town. It’s possible I guess.” 

Tim had returned to the batcomputer, typing quickly and looking for something specific. Dick noticed Jason’s hand was shaking, clinging to his bicep in an effort to stop it and keep people from noticing, but Dick saw it. He was no Bruce- certainly no Tim- but he was a good ass detective and he noticed a lot more than some people thought. Especially when it came to the emotional state of his family members.

(Call it being an empath, call it a trauma response to Bruce’s emotional constipation his whole life, whatever, Dick could read emotions in others almost as well as Cass could read body language. He couldn’t always interpret exactly what it meant, but he noticed the little things. Jason’s hands shake he’s angry- usually when he’s pit ragey.)

Clapping his hands together, Dick tried to bring the mood up a bit. “Well, should we all change and get ready to summon Phantom? Where better to get our answers than directly from the horse’s mouth?”

“And then he asked Jason on a date!” Santiago finished.

“Come onnnnn.” Miguel groaned, smacking his head against the headrest dramatically. 

Danny wasn’t sure why Miguel seemed so upset by this news or why Santiago was so happy about it but he tried not to think about it too much as he pulled the car onto their street and felt a pulling in his gut.

“I don’t know what you see in him, Danny-” Danny felt Miguel’s eyes on him as he cut off. “What’s wrong?”

Concentrating on staying where he was and getting the boys home safely, Danny began to sweat. He could refuse the summoning if he wanted, push it away entirely and get rid of the sickening tug, but he really needed to figure out what Hood had gotten done concerning the GIW. So instead of outright refusing, he delayed, speeding up the car. “‘M getting summoned.” He managed, turning another corner sharply.

“Now?!” Santi shrieked as the car took one more sharp turn into their parking lot and came to a sudden halt.

Shutting off the car and hopping out, Danny gestured for them to follow. “Come on, quickly.” The tugging in his gut was starting to hurt and he wondered why he hadn’t just given Hood his Phantom number the last time they’d spoken. Tucker made you a Phantom phone specifically for this purpose! 

Once he’d ensured the boys were in their apartment safely, he allowed his transformation and the summoning to sweep over him. Relief washed over him as he felt his body be swept away before settling into a dark cave. Looking around, he found computers, weapons, vigilante gear- was he in the Batman lair?

“It’s called the Batcave.” Hood snorted. “Hey Spooks, mind turning down the light show?”

Oh, right. Letting the bright light that appeared every summoning, Danny floated closer to the ground and took note of all the vigilantes around him. He hadn’t exactly expected… well, all of Gotham’s vigilantes to be there during his next summoning. “Anything for you, Hood.” He winked towards the crime lord, earning him a scoff from Robin. 

“King Phantom-”

“Just Phantom.” Danny cut Batman off- Ancients he interrupted Batman. “I’m not really into the whole formality thing.”

Batman dipped his head subtly. “Phantom, Hood informed us of your situation and to say I was shocked was an understatement. I have a meeting with the Justice League scheduled for tomorrow to relay everything we know and figure out a plan to repeal the Anti-Ecto-Acts as quickly as possible.”

Danny nodded slowly. “I must admit, I’m surprised at how quickly you’ve acted. Nevertheless, I and my people extend our gratitude.”

“Why wouldn’t we act quickly?” Nightwing asked.

Pursing his lips, Danny crossed his arms. “Batman is paranoid, untrusting, and hates metas in his city unless they’re Signal.” He pointed at the yellow hero lazily. “And technically? Ghosts aren’t even metas, we’re other. Different. Wrong. Wasn’t sure how you’d all feel about that.”

“Batman would never allow such crimes to continue!” Robin snarled.

Danny’s lips quirked up, he liked Robin, despite the kid's snark. It was part of the appeal really, he had strong opinions and wasn’t afraid to share them. He’d quite enjoyed sassing his rogues throughout his vigilante career.

“Robin.” Batman scolded.

Shrugging, Danny leaned back, still floating, hands behind his head. “I don’t mind, I like a kid who speaks his mind. But how would I know that? I’ve never met Batman before. I must do what’s best for my people.” He frowned, losing a bit of the lazy look and growing more serious. “Keeping them confined to the Realms is no longer the best course of action. And unfortunately, Scarecrow’s little stunt the other night has lit a fire under my ass so to speak.”

“Language.” A couple of the vigilantes chimed in, almost like it was a habit.

Danny frowned. Hadn’t he just heard that-

“Why has Scarecrow’s attack moved things up?” Spoiler asked.

How much did he want to tell these people? For now, he wanted his identity to remain a secret, too risky to reveal himself, but he wanted the GIW gone and for that he’d need to be as honest as possible. “Danny Nightingale,” he started, catching the shift in the cave’s atmosphere. “Is a… personal friend of mine. He’s been in hiding from the GIW for five years now. The attack has unfortunately… alerted the GIW and others to his location.”

“What reason does Danny Nightingale have for hiding from the GIW?” Batman asked.

Had… Had Hood really not told them? He knew Hood was a good guy, but to keep private the things Danny had shared with Hood even after everything that had happened… It warmed his cold heart. “Hood… did not tell you?”

Red Hood crossed his arms. 

“Danny died when he was fourteen.” Phantom tried for nonchalance. He hated talking about it- all ghosts did- but he didn’t want them to know he was uncomfortable. “He was brought back to life when, during his death, his body was flooded with ectoplasm. His body was killed and brought back until neither side won and he ended up half dead half alive.” He let that sink in.

“How the fuck-”

“That’s not poss-”

“Nightingale-”

“Enough.” Batman stated. Once everyone quieted down a bit, he turned to Phantom. “How is that possible?”

Phantom had touched down to the ground at this point, standing between Red Hood and Signal. He shrugged. “I don’t really know, it just is. The… electricity killed him but the ectoplasm kept him alive and afterward he remained alive and dead at the same time. Schrodinger’s boy if you will.”

“You know Shcrodinger?” Signal breathed, not really asking Phantom but more himself.

Phantom intended to answer the question, maybe with a joke or maybe just plainly, but he was stopped in his tracks by Red Robin’s next question.

“But what about his autopsy scars?” Red Robin said seemingly before he could stop himself.

Danny’s head whipped in his direction. “What?” He snarled.

Red Robin glanced at Batman, swallowed, and looked back at Phantom. “Um- a- a friend of mine- superboy, he accidentally used his X-ray vision and he… saw…” He trailed off, possibly noticing Phantom’s less than friendly air. 

He’d risen again, floating a couple inches off the ground and crossing his arms to hide the shaking in his hands. Maybe if he… if he told them… they’d understand just how bad the GIW was. The final nail in the coffin. He’d met a lot of these vigilantes before, they seemed nice enough, besides, how long did he really think he could hide the truth from them? As long as they didn’t know he was Danny, as long as Danny didn’t have to look them in the eye and pretend he didn’t know they knew, it’d be fine.

“It is not an autopsy scar.” Phantom managed to say.

Red Robin frowned. “But he said it was-”

“It is NOT an autopsy scar.” He said, pressing his eyes shut tight, voice commanding. Waiting for his rage to settle a moment, he continued. “It is a testament to how far the GIW will go to get what they want.” He looked each vigilante in the eye (sort of), waiting for it to sink in. “Autopsies happen after you’ve died. I assure you,” He inhaled sharply. “Danny was very much alive- and awake- when that happened.”

“What the fuck.” Red Robin breathed. Phantom waited, unsure of what was about to happen. Red Hood was frozen, his toxic ectoplasm signature flared as his fingers stretched for his guns.

Spoiler gasped. “That’s fucking-”

“Vivisection.” Robin finished coldly.

Everyone’s reactions were similar; anger, despair, confusion. Batman pinched the bridge of his nose, Robin lowered his katana, jaw dropped slightly, Red Robin was clearly having some kind of inner war, Signal and Spoiler looked between each other and Black Bat who had been staring at Phantom since he’d arrived, and Nightwing- was he crying? It was subtle, barely noticeable, but Danny was sure he heard a sniffle from the man’s direction.

“When-” Batman growled, clearing his throat. “When did this happen?”

Phantom considered him. Why did it matter? They couldn’t go back and make it unhappen. “Shortly before his eighteenth birthday.” That was all he needed to say. So why did he find himself continuing? Saying more than necessary? “He was discovered by some local ghost hunters, drugged, restrained, and experimented on for-” he caught his breath, hesitating only a moment, but Black Bat seemed to catch it. “For almost two months. The-”

“FUCK!” 

The group startled as something shattered across the cave. Startled, Danny turned to Hood who’d grabbed the nearest thing and thrown it across the room- hitting a glass window around what seemed to be a med bay. The man breathed heavily, his toxic ecto-signature continued to rise. 

“Hood-” Batman started.

Phantom cut him off. “Hood. Relax, Danny’s fine.” He pushed as much Safe-Protected-Healed-Calm-Relax into his words as he could and it seemed to work, the man’s shoulder untensed a bit and his hands stopped resting on his guns. Phantom could feel everyone’s eyes on him but he didn’t want Hood to feel them so he continued. “I’m not going to let anything happen to him, and if you lot do your job right, the GIW won’t be able to try anything ever again.”

It was touching that Hood was angry on Danny’s behalf, but he didn’t need it- not really. He wasn’t as naive as he’d been five years ago- wouldn’t let anyone close enough to trick him again. He’d warded the apartment he lived in heavily, no one with ecto-weapons could get inside, he’d warded it against specific people as well- Jack and Maddie, the GIW agents he knew of, Vlad, the list went on. 

“Who were the ghost hunters?” Red Robin asked, typing on the batcomputer furiously.

Danny wanted to be mad about the question (how dare he ask about them, the people who’d ruined him, who’d  taken all his trust and cradled it close to their chest with loving smiles only to crush it under their boot and cut into it and-) but it effectively took everyone’s attention away from Hood, allowing the man to calm down without anyone staring at him. Phantom closed his eyes and took a deep breath before admitting to a truth he’d run from for years. “His parents.”

~~~~~

Damian was having a good night overall. He’d invited Nightingale- well, the Nightingale’s, he supposed, over and got to spend a great deal of time with Miguel and Santiago. Santiago was a bit younger than Damian and  they didn’t have much in common, but the boy's love of animals allowed them to maintain conversation throughout the night. Todd had been acting strange throughout dinner and in the barn, but Damian had shrugged it off, it was Todd after all. He was fine.

Later in the night Drake’s paramour was also acting strange but Damian did not care. He’d enjoyed showing Miguel and Santiago around his home, introducing them to his animals, and talking with them extensively about the concept of vigilantes, heroes, and anti-heroes. 

When they’d all been called into the cave and he’d been filled in on the conversation with Nightingale at the dinner table, he’d felt confident that Phantom would be able to answer their questions. Nightingale had an aversion to talking about his past before Gotham, specifically his hometown and his parents, and while Todd made an excellent point about all of them having complicated relationships with parents, it made them all curious about what could have caused Nightingale’s complicated relationship with his parents.

After all, it was unlikely his parents were assassins, or circus performers who’d been murdered, or a supervillain, or had sold him out to the Joker who killed him so-

“His parents.”

Okay so the likelihood that his parents were in fact supervillains and had sold him to someone evil was actually very high. Throughout the entire conversation Damian had felt his blood pressure rising. Nightingale was one of the few respectable people he’d met since moving to Gotham. He was intelligent, kind, good with animals and kids, and respected those around him.

Who in their right mind would hurt Nightingale intentionally? He heard his sentiment echoed around the room as his family processed what exactly Phantom had just admitted. Drake’s incessant tapping on the keyboard had stopped, his jaw clenched tight in a way that mirrored father’s expression. And yet, despite how upset everyone looked- Richard’s expression made him wonder if the man might be crying- Cassandra looked sadder than them all.

Her ability to read body language was one he’d long coveted, but in that moment he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Phantom’s body language was saying. 

“You can look, but you’re unlikely to find anything about them.” Phantom continued. “I’ve had my best people wipe anything about Danny’s hometown from the internet. They built his new identity and he is here under my protection.”

“So you are the friend who asked Danny to come to Gotham and help out?” Brown asked.

Phantom gave a strained smile. “As a matter of fact, I am not. Danny does whatever he wants, I simply… gave him a new identity to do so. Not that I did the hard work, Technus and a friend of Danny’s did that.”

Damian wanted to know everything about Nightingale. He didn’t want to know anything about Nightingale. Two sides of his desire warred inside him. His desire to know everything about everyone at all times fought his side that wanted to believe someone as kind as Nightingale had never suffered such hardships.

He knew that sentiment was childish, he wasn’t a child, but why must every kind person he meet go through unimaginable pain? 

“We must bring his parents to justice.” Damian gritted out.

Phantom gave him a sad look. “Unfortunately, everything that both his parents and the GIW did, are completely legal. Due to Danny’s death he both produces and consumes ectoplasm. Until the Anti-Ecto-Acts are repealed and Ectoplasmic beings are protected, nothing can be done.”

“But once we do, we must bring his parents to justice. Who are they? What are their names?” Damian demanded.

Giving the same sad smile, Phantom shook his head. “Until the Acts are overturned and protection is given to all ectoplasmic beings I will not be giving out that information.” Damian started to speak but Phantom spoke over him. “I really must be going- I was in the middle of something when you called. If you give me your phone Hood, I can give you my direct line instead of my summoning line.”

Todd, who’d calmed down from his earlier tantrum, handed his phone over immediately and watched as Phantom typed in his number presumably.

“If you have more questions, message me.” He directed to Batman, handing Hood’s phone back. “And if you ever need something handsome, call me.” He winked before a swirling green portal opened behind him and he sank back into it as it swallowed him.

Once the portal had disappeared, Damian looked to his father who was deep in thought. Typically the entire family would start talking, petering, asking questions, all at once, but for once, they were all quiet, waiting for Batman to say something.

“I have a meeting with the Justice League tomorrow, we will discuss all of this including what we’ve learned tonight. Hood, if you wouldn’t mind giving me Phantom’s number so I can invite him to the meeting, I would appreciate it.” Father moved towards the computer where Drake was still working. “I want everything you can find on Daniel Nightingale’s original identity, where he’s from, his parents, everything.”

“B, I’ve been working on this for months I can’t-”

“Red Robin.” Father spoke lowly. “Do what you can. I want tabs kept on Danny Nightingale at all times, we have no way of knowing how fast the GIW will work to get him back. No one goes alone, we patrol in pairs until this is sorted, understood?”

Everyone nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Damian had to agree with their sentiment. He had no desire to be held back from patrolling his own route solo but knew there was no getting around his father’s paranoia. 

“Uh- I work alone.” Thomas said, raising his hand uncomfortably.

Batman considered this for a moment. “Check ins with Oracle every fifteen minutes- no exceptions.” 

Thomas sighed, nodding in agreement. “Yeah okay.”

“Father, this is ridiculous. Surely the GIW is not such a danger to us?” Damian understood caution, but this was a bit much- bordering on how he behaved when Joker was loose.

“Actually-” Todd scratched the back of his head, his helmet held under his arm. “Technically a lot of us probably fall under the GIW guidelines. I definitely do with the whole ‘dead then not’ thing, and you and Cass grew up around the pits- it’s pretty likely we all have a bit of an ecto signature or whatever.”

Father grunted. “Patrol in teams. Check ins every fifteen minutes. Do not approach unknown’s alone. Understood?”

“Yes, father.” Damian replied emotionlessly.

He’d find whoever had done this to Nightingale and he’d make them pay for it.

~~~

“Miguel? Santi? I’m back!”

Danny had portalled back to his apartment, changed into comfier clothes, and made the short trip across the hall to the boys’ apartment. They’d given him permission after the incident with their bio dad to walk into the apartment without knocking but he still made sure to announce himself when he did.

Something in the apartment was different though- colder- and dread settled in his stomach when he received no response.

“Boys?” He turned the corner into the living room. “I’m ho-”

“Oh hey, Danny, you look young- it’s like looking into a mirror. Ten years ago.”

Prev. Next

[brighteststar707]

Set towards the end of V's route, after the explosion at Mint Eye. Seven asks questions he doesn't want the answer to.

Circling the Drain

“Will you please tell me about him?”

He tries, really tries, to not sound desperate. He’s not sure if he succeeds.

This is the first time they’ve broached the subject so openly. Ever since he connected the dots (and finally addressed the growing elephant in the room), he had been grasping for every shred of Saeran he could hold on to.

She swallows visibly and she starts to fidget with the stack of papers in front of her. They’re all scraps, things he was using to jot down sporadic notes on earlier now left over in a heap on the table.

He isn’t sure he’s ready to hear it, truth be told. He is fighting the urge to simultaneously grill her for every little detail she has and also cover his ears and start humming. Having to let go of that image of the smiling, happy boy he had clung to for so long feels like pulling up the anchor and letting himself be carried by the waves. That memory was the only thing that kept him grounded for so long.

The result is this badly-hidden desperation that he can tell she’s pretending not to notice. A small kindness.

It hangs in the room for a moment too long. He can see her assessing, maybe cutting and polishing some pieces for him so they won’t slice into him when she tells him. Or, maybe, she’s just trying to make it all fit together in her head too.  

He doesn’t fill the space. He doesn’t know what else to add. He doesn’t know how not to sound like he’s begging.

They’ve been talking for less than two weeks, but when she looks at him, he knows that she can see straight through him, down to the bone. If it’s because he’s hiding his own feelings badly for once or if she just knows him well enough already, he’s not sure.

She clears her throat. Then, voice shaky, tries to start.

“Ray… was kind.”

He notes her use of the past tense and tries not to move. Not to scream or run or bash his head against a wall.

“He was gentle and sweet. And timid. He was always worried about my wellbeing, despite the fact that I wasn’t doing anything.”

She purses her lips together. A small crease forms between her eyebrows, and Seven can see the gears turning.

“Yet he had somehow rationalized kidnapping me and holding me hostage. He genuinely believed he was keeping me safe. It’s strange, because it was obvious that Mint Eye was hurting him, even if he never said it.”

Seven flinches.

“I mean – not in front of me but it seemed – ” And her voice cuts. There is no recovery. They both know it.

“I never saw him eat properly. Or rest. He seemed to always be awake; I mean, you saw that too. And…”

A breath.

“He was scared. He pretended not to be in front of me, but he was. Of the outside, but also of Mint Eye itself. As if it was going to hurt him again.

Towards the end, he was so… desperate. It scared me, but I still can’t stop thinking about the fact that he was there till the end. Alone.”

Oh. No polishing for him then. It slices clean through him and he’s grateful for the sting of it.

He sits there, knotted around himself, waiting (hungering) for more. There has to be more. She was there, with him, in the flesh. He wants to wring her out for every little detail. Maybe, if they can remember him properly, they can bring him back somehow.  

“I’m sorry, Seven.”

He shakes his head. “No. Thank you.”

He tries to unwind himself, piece by piece. She watches. It feels like his whole being is shifting to accommodate this new information. The brother he once knew. The stranger he fought for hours.

He stands upright, unmoored. The waves toss him back and forth and he doesn’t know which way is up.   

“I’m going for a walk now.”

He will ask her again. Once the DNA results come back and he is reduced to a chasm, he will beg with a lot less composure. He will hear the good and the bad and the ugly and the scary and will spend many hours trying to piece a person back together.

But for now, he will walk until day breaks and refuse to believe the worst.

[daryltwdixon]

The Heart of Us: Chapter 12

warnings!!! this chapter contains smut!!!

wanted to give it a try and see how everyone liked this, but I'm also thinking of taking it out and keeping it clean as usual. lmk your thoughts please!

Daryl

Daryl walks with Y/N along the wall of Alexandria into the early evening, the shadows of the massive steel panels stretching long across the ground. The quiet hum of the community buzzes faintly behind them— people chatting on their porches, working in the gardens, kids running around and dogs barking. The noise still feels weird, but between the two of them, it’s just asphalt under their boots as he tries to steady your breathing.

He feels her cast a glance at him, his shoulders hunched slightly, his crossbow slung lazily across his back. His hair falls in messy strands that catch the last bits of light as he trudges alongside her, every step radiating irritation. He can tell that she's not much better off—her hands flexing and curling into fists at her sides as if trying to physically wring out the tension still humming through your veins.

“You gonna tell me what the hell happened out there?” Daryl asks suddenly, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the thick silence. His eyes dart to Y/N, sharp and searching.

She exhales heavily, her jaw tightening as she pushes your hair back from her face. “It was stupid,” she mutters, not quite meeting his gaze. “Aiden and Nicholas thought it’d be a good idea to tie up walkers. As some kind of... ritual. A ‘pregame,’ they called it. Then they lost control of one.”

His pace slows slightly, his head tilting as his expression darkens. “They what?”

“They tried to tie it up again,” she snaps, irritation lacing her voice. “And when it broke loose, the asshole practically threw it at me. Glenn backed me up,”

Daryl stops walking, turning to face her fully. His mouth opens as if to say something, but instead, his hands flex at his sides, his jaw working as he grinds his teeth. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, dangerous as he looks back in the direction they came from, “Should’ve broken their damn arms.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s not worth it,” you say, though the words feel hollow. “I don’t want to deal with them. But... Glenn, Tara, Noah—they’re stuck with those idiots if I’m not there. I don’t want to leave them hanging.”

Daryl narrows his eyes at her, his irritation shifting to something sharper. “You think I care ‘bout them bein’ stuck with those pricks? I care ‘bout you, alright?” He takes a step closer, his voice rising slightly. “You almost got killed. That ain’t happenin’ again.”

Her lips press into a thin line, the annoyance bubbling back up. “Daryl—”

“No,” he cuts her off, shaking his head. “You ain’t goin’ out on those runs anymore. Not with them.”

She crosses her arms, glaring at him. “So what, I just sit here? Watch everyone else deal with their shit while I hide behind these walls?”

“You ain’t hidin’,” he growls, his gaze locking on hers. “You’re keepin’ alive.”

She exhales harshly, the fight in her dampened slightly by the look in his eyes. It’s not just anger—it’s fear, the kind that ties knots in stomachs. He doesn’t back down, though, his stance firm and unyielding. She rubs at the back of your neck, glancing at the ground. Maybe she's realizing she'd feel the same way if it happened to him.

“Fine,” she finally mutters reluctantly, “But you better believe I’m not happy about it.”

“Didn’t think ya would be,” he says, his voice softening just slightly. “But I ain’t losin’ you ‘cause of some damn fools who don’t know what they’re doin’.”

The silence stretches between them, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. After a moment, Y/N glances toward the gate, then back at Daryl, “Let's go hunt.” she offers, and his eyes find you again, “Clear our heads–it felt good to be out there, despite everything.”

He nods, his lips twitching in what might’ve been the start of a smirk. “’Bout time.”

Together, they make your way to the gate. Sasha stands nearby, leaning against the wall with her rifle slung across her chest. She glances at the two of them, her expression sharp and unreadable, but she doesn’t say a word. Instead, she just gives a slight nod, her gaze lingering as they slip through the opening and into the woods beyond.

The quiet of the trees greets him like an old friend, the tension in his chest easing slightly as the forest wraps around them. Daryl walks ahead, his steps lighter now, more deliberate. She follows close behind, the sounds of Alexandria fading with every step, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds. For the first time since stepping back inside those walls, he starts to feel like himself again.

➳

The woods stretch out, quiet and still, as Daryl keeps his pace steady. The golden light from the setting sun filters through the canopy, dappling the ground in warm hues. The air feels different out here—cleaner, freer—and the irritation that had been simmering in his chest since the scene at the gate begins to fade, little by little. The crunch of leaves under his boots and the faint dampness in the air feel familiar, grounding, like slipping back into an old habit.

He glances over his shoulder, just to check. She’s there, walking a few steps behind him, her movements lighter, more measured now that the tension of Alexandria is behind her. The sight of her out here—away from those walls, those people—makes something in his chest ease. She belongs in the woods, same as him.

Daryl keeps moving, scanning the ground and the edges of the trees for any sign of game. It’s not just about the hunt—it’s about shaking off the day, the frustration still buzzing low in his blood.

“Y’think you’ll get anything?” she asks after a while, her voice soft enough not to disturb the quiet.

He doesn’t look back this time, his eyes sweeping the forest floor. “Dunno,” he mutters, keeping his tone low. “‘Least I ain’t stuck in there listenin’ to their bullshit.”

She huffs a quiet laugh, and he catches it, faint but sharp enough to pull at the corner of his mouth. His pace slows as he spots a clearing up ahead, and he veers toward it, scanning for signs of movement or fresh tracks.

The ground tells the story first. Daryl stops and crouches, his fingers brushing over a faint trail in the dirt. Hoofprints. He studies them, tracing the edges with his fingertips, feeling the soft crumble of the soil. Fresh. He frowns slightly, piecing together the direction and size as he gauges how far the deer might’ve gone. It’s a good trail—something to focus on, something to quiet the irritation still simmering low in his gut.

But then he glances up, and the thought disappears like smoke.

She’s leaning casually against a tree, her arms crossed over her chest, more comfortable than he’s seen her the past few days. Except she’s not wearing the flannel he’d made her throw on earlier—the one he’d pulled from her hips when she’d said goodbye to him before her run. No, now it’s just her damn tank top, damp from the heat of the evening and clinging in all the wrong—no, all the right—places.

His jaw tightens as his gaze flicks over her quickly, like he’s trying to look without actually looking. But it’s damn near impossible not to notice the way the sweat beads lightly on her collarbone, catching the fading sunlight. Or the way the fabric molds to her chest, perfectly outlining what he’s trying so hard not to think about. Braless. As fucking always.

She’d be the death of him.

Daryl curses under his breath, looking back down at the tracks like they’ve got the answer to his problems. They don’t. Not even close. He shifts his weight, adjusting his crossbow on his shoulder and trying to get a grip on himself.

“Find somethin’?” she asks softly from behind him, her voice cutting through the quiet and slicing through his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he mutters, not looking up this time. “Tracks. Fresh.” He stands, brushing his hand on his pants and glancing to the side, deliberately avoiding her gaze. But when she steps closer, right into his space, his breath catches despite himself. He should be used to this by now—the way she affects him so deeply, how just a little skin showing has his pulse hammering in his ears.

He can feel her eyes on him, curious and unbothered, like she doesn’t have the faintest idea what she’s doing to him just by standing there. His fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening as he swallows hard, forcing himself to focus.

“You okay?” she asks, her tone dipping just slightly, and it sends a ripple through him he’s not prepared for.

“’M fine,” he grunts, his voice harsher than he means it to be. But he can’t help it—can’t help the way her presence makes his pulse race, the way the heat from her skin seems to reach him even though she’s not touching.

“You sure?” she presses, stepping even closer now, her brows furrowed slightly, like she’s trying to read his thoughts.

He doesn’t answer, just looks at her finally—really looks—and it’s a mistake. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat, a few strands of hair sticking to her neck. And that damn tank top. His eyes flicker down to her chest again, just for a second, and the sight sends a jolt through him, making his heart thunder and his body tighten in ways he can’t ignore.

“Ya shouldn’t’ve taken off that flannel,” he mutters, his voice rough and uneven as he looks away again, his ears burning.

She raises an eyebrow, and he can see the faint smirk pulling at her lips. “Why not? It’s hot.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, shifting uncomfortably, “you’re gonna get scratched up or somethin’. Ain’t safe.” He’s rambling now, and he knows it, but it’s better than admitting the real reason.

She doesn’t let him off that easy. “Pretty sure I’ll survive,” she teases, her voice soft but pointed, and she takes another step closer.

Daryl tenses, every muscle in his body coiling tight. She’s so damn close now, close enough that he can smell the faint salt of her sweat mixed with the woods around her. He clenches his fists at his sides, the effort of keeping his hands to himself almost painful.

“Y/N…” he growls low, a warning he doesn’t even know how to finish.

Her smirk widens, and she tilts her head, like she’s daring him to finish the thought. “What, Dixon?” she asks, her voice dipping into something that sends his restraint snapping like a twig underfoot.

He catches the glimmer of her wedding ring on her finger in the fading light peeking through the trees. His wife. His.

Without thinking, he stands and closes the gap between them, his hands finding her waist and pinning her back against the tree behind her. He makes sure to keep her head from ricocheting against the harsh bark, one hand cupping the back of her head as he leans her back. She lets out a soft gasp, her eyes going wide for a split second before they darken, her lips parting in a way that damn near ruins him.

“You,” he mutters, his voice rough as gravel, “You drive me fuckin’ crazy.”

Daryl’s hands then grip her waist tightly, his calloused fingers rough against the bare skin peeking out beneath her tank top. His body presses her firmly against the tree, chest pressing against his, and he feels her hardening nipples against the fabric of his shirt, making him groan against your lips as he catches them with his own. He’s near desperate and unrelenting– kissing Y/N like he’s been starving for it, even if he’d had her all to himself just yesterday. Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and a low, guttural sound rumbles in his throat. His hips press into hers, the hard line of him against her hips and stomach, causing her to gasp against his lips.

But as his lips trail down her neck, his stubble scraping against her soft and trembling skin, he hears her whimper, her voice coming out breathless, “Daryl... we can’t. Not out here.”

His head snaps up, and his eyes find hers, dark and almost feral, “Why the hell not?” he mutters, his voice low and gravelly as his thumb brushes her hip bone, dipping just under the waistband of her pants.

She glances around the woods, her breaths coming quick. “We’re out in the open,” she hisses, your voice wavering, his mouth returns to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “What if someone, what if walkers—”

“Then you better keep quiet,” he growls into her ear, his voice rough and commanding, and he feels her shiver against him.

Before she can even argue, his lips claim hers again, silencing whatever protest she might’ve had. His hands move with purpose, sliding under her tank top, fingers brushing over the bare skin that’s been driving him crazy all damn day. When he cups her breasts, his thumb and forefinger twisting hardened nipples, and a low groan escapes him. He kneads and grips at her, rough but deliberate, as if he’s been holding himself back for too long.

Her back arches into him, and her mouth parts instinctively, letting him push his tongue between her lips, exploring and tasting. Spearmint. The flavor hits him, sharp and unexpected—a change from the days on the road when brushing your teeth was a luxury. It’s new, fresh, and he ravages the taste of it as his hands keep working her, his rough palms skimming the soft, plump curves of her chest.

The way she presses into him, her body moving perfectly with his, sends heat rushing through him, and his lips move to her neck, his teeth scraping along your skin before his tongue soothes the marks. Her hands fall to his belt, fumbling with the buckle as his hips grind into hers, the rough bark of the tree biting into her back, only amplifying the heat of his body against hers.

His breath is hot against her collarbone, and he mutters, voice thick with want, “C’mon…” His hands slide lower, gripping the backs of Y/N's thighs and hoisting her up slightly. She clings to him, her legs tightening instinctively as he pins her more firmly against the tree. “Ain’t no one out here but us.”

Her head falls back, exposing more of her neck to him, and he takes full advantage, his mouth trailing lower. His teeth nipping just below her collarbone before his tongue sweeps over the skin, soothing the sting. Her breath hitches, and when she bites your lip to stifle a moan, it nearly undoes him.

“Daryl…” she groans, your fingers digging into his shoulders, her voice shaky and strained. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he mutters into her skin, his lips quirking into a smirk as he pushes the tank top higher. It was the second time she'd said it to him today, and he was starting to think she might only be saying it to feign your reluctance. His mouth trails along the curve of her chest, taking a nipple between his lips, tongue lapping at the hard bud, leaving heat in its wake. “And you love it.”

She doesn't bother denying it, and he doesn’t need to hear it. The way her nails pull at his hair, scraping his scalp enough that the tug makes him groan, and the way she presses into him, needy and desperate, tell him everything he needs to know. 

Every touch, every kiss, snaps the tension between them like a live wire. His head comes back up, eyes wild as he looks at her, his breath ragged as he growls low in her ear, his voice dripping with arousal. “You gonna stay quiet for me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “or do I need to remind you how?”

She whimpers, nodding frantically, her lips parting as she tries to catch her breath. The look on her face—needy, pleading—nearly makes him crumble, but he holds it together, driven by the way her body arches into him, asking—begging— for more. His pants fall to the forest floor, his rough hands letting go of her perfectly taut and heavy breasts to push her shorts down next. His hands move to her waistband, yanking her pants lower with a roughness that makes her gasp, his calloused fingers brushing her skin, leaving trails of heat that seem to burn right through her. He doesn’t bother with finesse, taking only one leg out of the pant legs before hoisting it up around his waist.

Daryl’s hand moves down, his thick fingers brushing against her slick center, and he groans, low and guttural, when he feels how wet she is for him. The sound comes from deep in his throat, more animal than man, and his head drops to her shoulder for a moment as he savors the feeling of her arousal coating his fingertips.

“All this fer me?” he rasps, his voice low and gravelly, barely audible through the heat and tension thrumming between them. His words are almost a growl, the disbelief and desire in his tone making her body tremble. She clings to him, panting as she nods, her nails biting into his shoulders now, silently pleading for more.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice shaking, and the word pushes him closer to the edge of control.

He pulls his hand back, his fingers curling around himself, fisting a few times as his forehead presses against hers again. He lines himself up with her, the tip teasing at her entrance, and then he pushes in, slow and steady, letting out a ragged breath as he feels her take him in, inch by inch. Her head falls back against the tree, jaw slackening as a soft, stifled cry escapes her lips. The tight, wet heat of her around him nearly undoes him, and it takes everything in him not to lose himself right then.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice strained as his hands grip her hips, holding her steady. “You feel so fuckin’ good, girl.”

She bites your lip, her hands gripping tighter at his shoulders as he starts to move, his hips rolling into her slow and deliberate. The friction sends sparks through both of them, every thrust drawing a muffled gasp from her lips as her nails dig into him again. He fights the urge to speed up, to let go completely. He knows the woods aren’t safe enough for him to let her scream the way he loves to hear when they're alone, but it’s hard to hold back when she feels this good.

Daryl leans in, his lips brushing against her neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “Gotta keep quiet, remember?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as his hips grind against her a little harder, making her shudder against him. “Can’t have the dead hearin’ how good I’m makin’ ya feel.”

Her breath hitches, and she nods again, her thighs tightening around him as he thrusts into her deeper, harder now, his control fraying with every muffled sound she makes. His lips trail down to her collarbone, sucking and biting lightly, leaving marks he knows he'll see later. Marks that’ll remind everyone that she's his and no one else’s. His grip tightens on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he drives into her with a rough, deliberate rhythm, every thrust making her body press harder against the bark of the tree. His lips brush against the curve of her ear again, his voice a low, gravelly growl.

“Ain’t no one ever gonna touch you but me,” he mutters, her hair tickling his lips. He feels her clench around him at his hot breath against her skin, the words he growls, “Those fuckin’ pricks think they can control you, swing at you… they try anything like that again, I’ll break every damn bone in their bodies.”

He takes her soft earlobe between his teeth, his words laced with raw possession and need. “You hear me? You’re mine. Always been mine.”

Her nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to sting, but it only pushes him further. The way she clings to him, her breath coming in soft gasps against his neck, makes his chest tighten and his hips slam into her harder. The sound of her voice—breathless, desperate—is a damn drug, and he’s too far gone to hold back.

“They don’t get to touch what’s mine,” he growls, his lips now traveling down her jaw, “Don’t even get to fuckin’ think about it.” His words come out rough, thick with everything he’s feeling—anger, possession, need.

He pulls back just enough to look at her, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming in short, hot bursts. Her eyes meet his, hooded and hazy with arousal, and it drives him insane, “I’ll make sure they never forget it.”

He slams into her harder, his hands rough as he holds her hips, his lips crashing into hers again. It’s messy and all-consuming, and his words keep tumbling out between ragged breaths and kisses.

The way she shudders against him, the way she whimpers in response, almost brings him to the edge once again, but he's not done. His hands grip her even tighter, his thumbs pressing into her skin hard enough that he knows it’ll leave marks. The thought of it—his marks on you, his claim—elicits another growl from his chest.

Her lips part, and the sound of his name falls from her mouth like a prayer. “I’m yours, Daryl,” she pants, hanging onto him with desperation. “All yours.”

She cling to him, your her arching as he can feel her nearing close and closer to her finish. His growls mix with her muffled cries, the two of them moving together in a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

“My wife ,” he breathes, his voice breaking, and he presses his lips to hers again, rough and hungry. She's his, and he’ll do anything—hurt, kill anyone—to keep it that way.

His hand slides down to the back of her knee, lifting her higher, adjusting the angle just enough to make her gasp sharply into his mouth. He takes advantage of the sound, swallowing it with another deep kiss as he thrusts into her harder, deeper. The friction between them is electric, every roll of his hips drawing a muffled cry from her lips that makes him burn hotter.

“That’s right, baby,” he mutters against her lips, his voice rough and raw as his hips snap into her again. “Take it. Take all of me.”

She clings tighter to him, her body arching and moving with his in perfect rhythm, every inch of her responding to him like she was made for this—made for him. The tension in his gut builds sharp and fast, coiling tighter with every muffled sound she makes, every time her nails rake over his skin.

Her thighs tighten around him, and he knows she's close, feels it in the way her body shakes and clenches around him. He buries his face in her neck, his lips dragging along her skin, his breath hot and uneven.

“C’mon,” he growls into her ear, his voice breaking as he thrusts harder, faster, losing himself completely. “Cum with me. Let me feel you, baby. Let me fuckin’ feel it.”

Y/N's body responds, tensing and arching into him as she cries out his name, her release hitting her hard. He clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the cries, but he can hardly control himself. The way she flutters around him, the way her nails dig into him as she falls apart, is all it takes to send him over the edge. His hips stutter, and he buries himself deep one last time, his own release crashing through him like a tidal wave.

He groans low in her ear, his arms wrapping tightly around her as he holds her against the tree, both of them shaking and breathless. For a moment, the world is quiet except for the sound of her ragged breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat pounding in his chest. His forehead presses against hers again, his eyes slipping shut.

“You good?” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, his hands still gripping her thighs, letting both of them catch their breath together, intertwined in more ways than one.

She nods, fingers brushing lightly through his damp hair, and he lets out a breathy laugh, rough and low in his chest. “M’sorry,” he breathes, his lips ghosting over your skin as he opens his eyes. “Get a little…”

“I loved it,” she chuckles softly, cutting him off, her voice filled with warmth. “I’m yours. I love you.” Her breath wafts over his face, and his eyes darken at the admission, as if it’s the first time he’s hearing it. “But you know I can handle those pricks, don’t ya?”

His lips twitch, curving into a faint smile as he gently sets her back down, his hands steadying until her legs find balance. He lingers, his thumb brushing her waist before he lets go, watching as she readjusts her clothes. “Yeah,” he says finally, tugging his pants back up and fastening them. “But I ain’t gonna stand and watch ‘em try to throw punches at you, neither.”

She huffs out a soft laugh, grabbing the flannel she'd tossed aside earlier and shrugging it back on. As she buttons it, his fingers catch her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. The lazy, hooded smile on her face makes his heart skip, and the heat in her eyes stirs a flicker of something that hasn’t quite settled yet.

His lips brush hers again, this time soft and unhurried, savoring the moment, drawing it out. When he pulls back, his rough fingers linger on her jaw for just a second longer than necessary. “‘nd I love ya too,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

Releasing her face, he steps back and adjusts his crossbow back onto his shoulder. “Now,” he says, the familiar gruffness returning to his tone, “let’s find dinner.”

She smirks, smoothing down her flannel as she glances around the quiet woods. “Sure we didn’t scare it off?”

He huffs out a dry laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “If we did,” he mutters, his eyes trailing over her one last time, “reckon it was worth it.”

[ibit3u]

Skylar didn’t have time to react nor defend himself. One minute he was standing, mouthing off to the elder vampire. The next, his back collided with brick and he let out a hiss of pain as something cracked. Red eyes glared at James as the younger vampire attempted to break free of the hold, to retaliate. But it was no use. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, James was stronger.

The grip on his throat was like a vice, and while Skylar didn’t need to breathe, he felt himself panicking. Though, James had successfully found a way to silence the kid and allow him room to speak. All Skylar could do was listen and struggle within that grip. Yet those eyes spoke for him, glaring the elder to death. There was so much rage, so much anger and frustration in those eyes. It was clear he wasn’t used to being scalded like this, nor expected to be when he ventured out tonight. Meeting an elder was one thing, but for said elder to be Homelander’s puppet was a whole other can of worms entirely.

A growlhiss left Skylar as he felt that knee to his stomach, nails clawing at that hand around his throat, trying his best to break free. Oh, how he wanted to make James regret his actions, get his own back. He wanted nothing more than to beat the arrogance out of him. He met those eyes dead on with a mirrored look of fury. James may have the upper hand but Skylar was standing his ground…as best he could until his feet were dangling in the air. He squirmed like a caught feline, feral and hissing at the elder in response to the threats and warnings. However, his face fell at the mention of being taken to Homelander.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! I’m not going anywhere near him! I want nothing to do with him except put him six feet under.” Skylar growled, struggling as he was dragged, doing all he could to make it difficult and frustrating for the elder. A true brat indeed. “Actually…on second thought, sure. Take me to your master, dog. I’ll be more than happy to drain him dry. I’ll even let you watch.” He laughed, cruel and mocking, returning the tone he’d been given. “What, you think I’m scared of him?! I despise him with every fibre of my undead being. He’s a narcissistic prick, all show, all glamour. He makes me fucking sick.” Skylar spat, knowing his words got to James, but he didn’t care. He was that frustrated, that angry, he was running his mouth without really thinking.

Skylar still struggled, making things as awkward and difficult for James as possible while he was pulled toward the tower. Despite his efforts, it didn’t stop the inevitable and before long Vought Tower was right in front of them. “You have no idea how satisfying it would be to burn this goddamn tower to the ground with your precious boy scout inside. This is like a modern version of Dracula’s castle. God, I hate cliches.” He huffed, lip curling at the sight of the tower up close. Given it was a public building, he knew he wouldn’t need permission to enter. Even if he did, James seemed fairly set on him meeting Homelander whether he liked it or not.

Of course, just because they arrived at the tower didn’t mean Skylar didn’t stop being awkward and struggling. Oh, no. He was fully set on making James’ life hell, still pulling against that grip, dragging his feet, gripping and holding onto anything he could. Sure, he might be making himself look like an idiot by causing scenes, but he didn’t care. Even as they walked past visitors and employees, Skylar ran his mouth at them. “What’s so special about Homelander anyway?” and “Don’t you think Homelander is getting a bit too old to be doing this sort of thing?” and “Y’know, there’s definitely more to that Flight 37 thing than they’re telling us. Funny how things always fuck up whenever Homelander is involved!”

The instant James answered the phone it was obvious who it was. Skylar had taken a few steps, distancing them both. He was oh so tempted to leave and merge with the night. It would’ve been the perfect opportunity to considering the elder was very much distracted. Except it was the complete change in demeanour that caught Skylar’s attention, made him stop, listen and watch.

His senses could pick up the deep authoritative tone on the other end of the phone. His jaw clenched in disgust and loathing, hating no one more than the fucking Homelander. It made him sick to see the effects he clearly had on the elder vampire. The way he stuttered, cut himself off from speaking. The way he shrank into himself, became unsure. Far less confident. Frankly, it was embarrassing to watch, yet Skylar was frozen in place unable to look away.

Homelander had this vampire wrapped around his gloved fingers so much so that, frankly, it was quite pathetic. What did a vampire have to fear against a mutant Supe? Surely James could end his life if he wanted to. The problem was that by the sounds of things, that’s the last thing he wanted. Skylar’s brow furrowed in confusion. None of this made any sense. Vampires were superior, deadly predators. So why on earth was James rolling over and allowing himself to be ordered around? Questioned?

He shouldn’t care. It was none of his business. He should just leave, take off and find some peace and quiet for the rest of the night. Leave James to lick Homelander’s boots all he wanted. …Yet he needed to know why. Why an elder was reduced to a bumbling, anxious mess at just the voice of Homelander. What was there to fear?

That confused look remained when James ended the call and took a moment to gather himself. And then he couldn’t help but scoff laugh. “No, no, no. You can’t possibly expect me to take you seriously after that. Where were we? I was just leaving actually. Seems you’ve been tasked with a very important fetch quest, little doggy.” Skylar taunted, no longer intimidated by the elder vampire.

The young vampire took a few steps before pausing to turn and glare at James with a look of disgust. “You’re a sorry excuse for a vampire. You give us a bad name. The way you roll over for that…fucking maniac…for a human! It’s pathetic. You’re supposed to be stronger, wiser. Yet you let him order you around?! No. You’re not a vampire. You’re a goddamn lapdog licking at his boots.” Skylar all but spat, shaking his head. “We’re done here. Perhaps one day I’ll meet an elder who has a goddamn fucking backbone.”

[valeovalairs]

You can pry girl dad Mark Winters out of my cold dead hands.

[therealbeachfox]

Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

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So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

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Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

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We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

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They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

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There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

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It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

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When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

[malcriada]

TIME SENSITIVE, PLEASE HELP BILAL

We want to extend our deepest gratitude and thanks to all the people who came out in support of Bilal‘s campaign and shared and donated. 

I‘m really happy to announce that not only have some of the funds raised benefitted his family in Gaza, but it has also helped Bilal find a new place to stay, away from his terrible ex-employer and landlord, and has enabled him to extend his residency for another month. He  is no longer at risk of deportation right now. It’s only thanks to your incredible support that all this was possible.

But despite all these good news, we need your help again. 

There is currently no option to transfer funds from Germany to Gaza, as bank transfers to Gaza are being blocked by the German government. This means Bilal has to first transfer the funds to a bank in another country, and then from there to Gaza. The funds currently take a very long time to reach his family, and require Bilal to pay a high fee for the transfer as well. 

On top of that, his ex-employer and landlord had extorted a large sum (€4800) from Bilal – a sum he claimed he still owed him from the time he was employed under him. With no other source of income at the time, Bilal saw no choice but to pay it using some of the money from the campaign. 

Bilal feels extremely conflicted to be asking for help so soon again after reaching his last goal. But he unfortunately sees no other option due to the aforementioned problems. 

We need your help in fighting the repression from the German government and also making sure that the funds you helped Bilal raise also reach his family in full. 

This is why we need to raise €8,850 by the 15th of September i.e within the next 2 weeks. he currently has raised €101,150 of €110,000

This amount will help make up for the funds that were extorted from him by his landlord and help him pay the fees for multiple international bank transfers.

Please help Bilal reach his goal in time. You have gotten him this far, please don't let him down now. his campaign has been verified and can be found on @/el-shab-hussein’s and @/nabulsi’s list of vetted fundraisers here (#132, line 136) so PLEASE don't hesitate to share and donate.

[ID: a gfm link with a picture of two small children sitting in the sand in front of a cooking pot. they are looking up a the camera, eyes half-closed. the title reads "Donate to Help Evacuate My Family from Gaza to Safety, organized by Bilal salah" End ID] tagging for reach under the cut, please let me know if you'd like to be removed:

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