#i was in a kids ward and there were so many other kids who had way worse experiences

[captainadwen]

"Okay," said Steph, pulling her cowl off and sprawling back on the debrief room couches. "Who bet for 'interdimensional beings'?"

"I said aliens," said Dick, through the comms. He was back in his Bludhaven apartment and, by the sound of it, burning pancakes at 3 am. "I think I ought to get at least some of the pool - "

"Perfect guess or bust," retorted Steph and Tim simultaneously.

"There's a death portal," said Jason, his voice crackling over the comms. "I get brownie points."

"Before or after you failed at asking Jazz Fenton out for the third time?" Steph shot back.

Jason scoffed. "Like you had any more luck? At least I got the fucking words out."

"I was working myself up to it!"

"We'd all be in the geriatric ward by the time you accomplished anything," said Damian.

Steph flopped her hand at him. "Shut up, puppy crush."

Damian scowled at her. His hair was sticking up hilariously, so Tim discretely angled a camera at him to snap a picture. Bruce caught him, but was a mark of the many screaming fights and occasional crying sessions this family had that Bruce only twitched at this rather than retreating to the rafters to brood over his many kids whilst they pretended to not have stabbed each other, repeatedly, in places that hurt. Tim sipped his coffee and turned back to monitoring the multiple cameras they had set up.

The one outside Danny and Jazz's room crackled with erratic static. It was actually an infirmary, in Leslie's clinic, because that was as close to medical care as a Danny's paranoid snarling had allowed them to provide for Jazz, who kept alarmingly sinking through solid objects and passing out and twitching from electrical burns. It said something that Danny's glowing green eyes and sharp canines did not make him less attractive, but Tim was nothing if not a champion of assessing his own mental state and moving the fuck on. After growing up surrounded by aliens and demigods and ghosts, a little inhuman snarl putting him off would be insulting to his friends and various previous paramours at this point.

Which meant: "I win," said Tim. "I did put down 'another dimension'."

"The fuck you did," said Steph, finally pulling out her phone to find the betting pool.

Tim swiveled his chair around dramatically to find his entire family scowling at him. He crossed one leg over the other and lounged back. "My evidence: their knowledge of history and pop culture is inconsistent, occasionally wrong, and if you trace the camera static that follows them long enough you find their early attempts at learning more about our dimension through library visits and setting up their false identities." How exactly that had been accomplished was still to be determined. Tim's bet was 'mind control' or 'magic' or 'both'. 'Both' was usually a fair guess.

"That fits for savvy aliens too," protested Dick, followed by the sound of his fire alarm turning on.

Duke lifted his head from a pillow to mute Dick's comms. Then he put it back down, huffed, and said, "Now that we aren't in crisis mode, I also win because they are, in fact, meta humans."

"No they aren't," said Jason. "Have you all forgotten the interdimensional death portal? It's right there. If they have the meta gene and aren't some fucked up pit demons I'll pay for the shitting betting pool."

"You're the one who volunteered to watch it," said Steph, throwing her phone down the couch, which meant she did not want to announce her loss. "Cass, just muffle him if he's going to freak out over the interdimensional death portal."

"I think he should get a pass for that one," said Duke. "I think we should all freak out over the interdimensional death portal."

"We are," Steph assured him. "In like, one business day."

Bruce let out a disapproving grunt.

"Don't take that tone with me," said Steph. "We were all understandably panicked about Jazz nearly dying and turning purple - "

"I thought she looked more blue, actually," said Tim.

"- and Danny pulling out the usual glowing green eyes of doom and anger and Jason having a freak out over a pit portal - "

"Fuck you," said Jason.

"So B, you can handle the usual logistics freak out, and I am going to just be happy we managed to get them medical attention for now and Jazz is not actively dying anymore."

"Already dead," said Cass, quietly, over the comms. "Danny too."

"That's a two business day's from now type problem," said Steph, but her expression was as grim as the rest of them.

"Is it though?"

"We have programs for this," said Bruce, broodingly.

"We know, B."

"They did not need to make a hole in the fabric of reality," continued Bruce, even more broodingly.

"B, all your wellfare programs and 'beings stuck on Earth get home' initiatives with the JL don't mean shit if people who need them don't know about it."

"They do know about it," said Bruce, downright morose. "It's always filled with prank calls."

Damian perched besides his father and tentatively patted his back. Tim snapped another picture and sent it to the Young Justice group chat captioned 'murder gremlin attempts to comfort progenitor, exhibit D'.

"Maybe they did send in an application," said Barbara over the comms. Her voice was filled with extreme exhaustion; like Tim she was pushing twenty-six hours of being awake. She was just worse at hiding it than he was because she did not drink her bodyweight in caffeine. "Maybe it just got mistaken for a prank."

"Or lost in the queue," said Tim. At any given moment on Earth there were at least three wayward aliens, one time traveler, and two beings from not quite this dimension looking to go home. The aliens were usually the easiest of the lot to fix, the time travelers were a hit or miss depending on whether their version of this reality still existed, and the interdimensional beings were often a JLD problem.

Which meant --

"'The ripples of dimensional weakness have been felt and must be investigated'," said Bruce, obviously quoting someone and hating every word. Steph started muttering under her breath 'please be Zatanna, please be Zatanna, please be Zatanna - '

"Constantine is coming," declared Bruce, with all the drama he denied possessing.

Everyone groaned.

Jason said, "He is not coming into Crime Alley."

Danny: Ugh, they're back again

Jazz: Don't make that face at paying customers. Do you want to make a portal back home?

Danny rolling his eyes: Yes

Jazz: Then we need to get enough money to buy the parts. If that means waiting tables at a barely legal dinner, where idiots hit on us, then we wait those stupid tables. Now go over there and get the Waynes to leave us a 200 tip.

Danny: Fine, but only if you do too!

Jazz: *Tighten her apron straps into an hourglass figure* Way ahead of you.

Danny: *Rolling eyes but does the same*

Meanwhile with the Waynes

Bruce: It's so nice to go out to eat with you all

Alfred: Indeed. It's a nice change, don't you agree, children?

Wayne kids: *hyperventilating*

Bruce Not looking up from his phone: The Fenton siblings?

Alfred: Indeed, sir. It seems like Master Dick, Master Jason, and Miss Cass are going to attempt to speak to Ms. Fenton today. Master Tim, Master Damian, Master Duke, and Miss Steph don't seem mentally ready to look Mister Fenton in the eye. Bets?

Bruce: Dick chokes on his fork again. Tim face plants on the table, and Steph once again speaks in gibberish after forgetting the entire English language.

Alfred: Very good, sir.

[wandixx]

Seriously chaotic fashion misadventures

I realized I posted a teaser and never really followed up on it, so here is some more of that

“Hey, Dami?”

Boy hadn’t looked up from the kittens he was bottle feeding but let out a hum indicating he listened.

“I'm thinking about trying out a more girlish style. Do you think it would suit me?”

Well, Damian had no idea but if Dani wished to give it a chance, then, well, the only proper reaction was to offer his aid.

*-*-*

“Father, I require access to your rouge gallery.”

Bruce almost choked on his breakfast when his youngest made this announcement.

Rouge gallery, as his children playfully called it, was vast collection of lipsticks, which he collected to uphold his Brucie persona. Famous playboy with head constantly in the clouds couldn’t not show up with discreet signs of scandal from time to time. And it couldn’t always be the same shade. Or scent when he choose more subtle approach and used one of his more feminine perfumes.

In all honesty, he enjoyed this.

But that’s not the point, point was that Damian wanted to use it and Bruce needed to know what disaster would fall upon him if he agreed.

“Mind telling me why, chum?”

Dick, who visited Manor for a weekend, barely stifled his laughter while Tim stared at his empty coffee mug like it personally betrayed him. Cass just wore her usual knowing and mischievous smile.

Damian shifted in his chair, hands clenching on butter knife. He was nervous and suddenly Bruce dreaded the answer he was about to hear.

“I don’t see how me sharing this information would change anything. It won’t be used to cause harm to anyone but it’s necessary in the extracurricular project I just started.”

“Dami, what project?” Dick asked, voice oozing with genuine curiosity and excitement. He was almost bouncing.

“I don’t want to disclose it.”

“Is this a hero or civilian type of deal?”

Damian didn’t look any of them in the eyes, both hands clenching on his seat as he kept shifting. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was his youngest… flustered?

“Civilian”

“Alright, great” Dick swung back with single clap, almost tripping his chair over “I think B won’t have anything against you using his rouge gallery, will he?” Man knew his oldest son well enough to recognize his ‘don’t you dare to disagree’ tone. He was confused but there wasn’t any harm so he nodded with affirmative hum.

“Thank you, Father”

Boy practically inhaled rest of his food and rushed outside. Despite all his training and all his efforts, they clearly saw his excitement. Tim pinched himself and returned to staring at his mug.

“Cass, have you seen what I’ve seen or am I overreacting?” Dick asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Girl nodded eagerly, shoving more crumbs into her mouth. Young man cheered, throwing his hands up.

“What have I missed?” Tim mumbled, frowning a little.

“BABY BAT HAS A CRUSH!”

Cass nodded again with wide smile.

Oh.

Oh no.

Who were they? What did he know about them? Was Protocol 3r0s started? Did someone run a background check already? What could they do if they somehow hurt Damian? Was this person a risk to their identities? Oh gods, oh no.

He probably will have to do The Talk™.

He always dreaded having The Talk, with any of his kids. He felt The Talk with Damian would be even worse. Understandably so.

“Also sleep in at least three da-”

“Fuck off, dick.”

“Was this insult or-”

His children remained obvious to how much work it meant, cheering and sassing each other like they often did.

*-*-*

Damian did not know how it was possible but he lowered his guard enough to get caught.

"What are you doing?" Brown choked out after they stared at each other for a long moment.

"It does not concern you–"

"You're rummaging through my wardrobe, not many things concern me more and also, that's frickin creepy don't do it to anyone outside of the family"

She did have a point however he was not convinced it would be the correct approach if he shared his plan. Father's wards (even unofficial like Brown) tended to make assumptions and overreact based on these conjectures. Dani wasn't easy to scare off but he didn't want to check if his family would manage. They often did things thought to be impossible.

He tried to get away but the blonde stood fiercely in a door, leaving the window as the only way out. He wasn't this desperate. Yet.

Girl looked more and more angry at his silence. He had to give her some answers.

Now that he actually considered it, she could be a useful asset. She was far better versed in women's fashion and if he phrased it correctly, he wouldn't even need to bribe her. Question was, how should he phrase it?

"I have an acquaintance- I have a friend," he corrected himself "from the animal shelter I volunteer at. She mentioned wanting to try out more 'girlish style' and asked for my opinion. I wanted to see if you had any clothes that would fit her. She is smaller than me so I thought that whatever I take, it wouldn't be missed." 

Brown grinned with an unsettling gleam in her eyes. He suddenly regretted opening his mouth if not coming to this room in the first place. 

"Say no more, I have a plan Demon Child"

[revelboo]

A silly little thing,, but I’m an Optimus Prime girlie & happen to also be an ‘exotic dancer’ lmao, so when I was reading Gravity….you can imagine the actual surprise & joy I felt when the reader revealed she was (or used to be one) too, like 😭😭😭 what are the ODDS?? Must be his aura….I love him, your honor

It’s meant to be!

Gravity Pt 12

Optimus x Reader

• Staring at the screen long after Megatron’s little message ends and his fellow Autobots that had seen it start speculating, all he can think of is that he’s not alone. And it’s a relief. Leaving the warmth of you to report for his duties had been difficult. Especially since you’d woken up first and had straddled him. Even deep in recharge, his body responding to those soft hands touching him. Definitely not the worse way to come to alertness and even though he’d hit the washracks, he swears he can still scent you clinging to him. But then it really sinks in. That the Decepticons are taking humans and using them. Because that’s an atrocity that hadn’t even occurred to him.

• Stretching to touch your toes, you idly run through a few stances to limber up because you’re bored out of your mind. As much fun as playing with Optimus is, as soon as he leaves, you’re alone with your thoughts again. Remembering the look on his face before he’s schooled his expression into neutrality. Like a big, lovesick puppy, hurt that sex is all you want. Blowing out a breath as you spin in a slow circle, head tipping back, you know you’d lied to him. But then, you’d lied to yourself to. Saying you don’t want more, when deep down, you do. You’re just afraid to hope, to let down your defenses knowing you can get hurt again if you do. That love is just a pretty lie used to reach a goal.

• Sliding into his seat, he steeples his servos as he listen to the bits of gossip and conversation around him. How many humans are in the Ark at this point? Honestly, he’s not sure anymore. But he does know one thing, he’s probably not the only one who’s gotten attached to their ward. Who’s crossed that particular line. And it’s out there now for all of them, the fact that their species are at least compatible that way. Dropping his head into his hands, he stares at the floor. Because someone’s going to need to have that conversation with the Autobots keeping humans. On the ethics of taking advantage of a much younger species. And how is he supposed to do that when he’s interfacing with you?

• Head lifting when he finally returns, your smile wavers when he just stares at you. “You look like the other kids were bullying you, babe.” Venting he sits on the edge of the berth and then just slumps backwards, hands over his face. Oh. Well this is new, usually he’s so calm and serious. Climbing up his arm and over onto his chassis, you drop to straddle his neck, arms crossed on his chin. “Want me to beat up someone for you?” When his head tips to look at you, you lift an arm to flex your nonexistent muscle for him.

• Your mischievous expression twists through him as he lifts a servo to slide against your spine. “When we- er- interfaced,” he says, ignoring when you cheerfully interject ‘fucked like bunnies.’ “I didn’t pressure you. Right?” Because he can’t imagine what those poor humans captured by the Decepticons are suffering and can’t help but wonder if you’d let him have you out of intimidation or fear.

• “Oh, you are too sweet for words. If anything I seduced you, big guy.” Laughing as he frowns seriously at you, you push up to stand on his neck and drape yourself against his chin, tapping a finger on his bottom lip. “Don’t worry. I promise you didn’t corrupt my innocence.” More likely, you’re corrupting his.

• “I could have,” he says, joking as some of his worry eases and you grin, brows lifting. Expression giving away how much you doubt that. “I can be a bad influence.” His protest just makes you laugh, that warm sound stroking over him. How can this be wrong when you feel so much like home? When he wants to lay beside you and exchange stories. Ask about each other’s day and spend his free time in your arms, listening to you laugh with him. Wants so much more than your body. “The Decepticons are taking humans.” Unable to say to interface with.

Previous

[iam-the-wild]

.

[a-story-teller]

Had another dream story idea and it's BAD out here y'all. My subconscious said "you don't go for sad old white men yaoi? Well here's one and you have to care about it so much. Good luck"

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

big question. i'm cis (afab) and my gf is trans (amab) and i'm sorta having a hard time reconciling something. i've been a hard line feminist since i was about 8, by 12 i was a practical library on everything and anything womens lib. i'm spending a lot more time around trans people especially my gf now and i'm sorta struggling to reconcile the trans experience with my feminism. like- i'll see trans women being like "i hate my body :(" "my voice is awful" "i need [x thing to try to pass] ugh" and like my first thought is always "NO! THATS HOW THEY FUCKING GET YOU!!! THE PATRIARCHY WANTS YOU TO HATE YOURSELF SO YOU ENSLAVE YOURSELF TO CAPITALISM AND LIVE IN A CONSTANT STATE OF NEED FOR NEW PRODUCTS TO WARD OFF THE EVER PRESENT SELF HATRED BROUGHT ON YOU BY SOCIETY" and they go "well then how do i pass/transition?" and i honestly don't know and i also don't know how far it goes before its no longer dysphoria but instead the intentional subjugation of women by patriarchy for profit. i wanna help my fellow ladies but i honestly don't know how to like- apply the feminism i was taught as a child to trans women and i want to learn as soon as possible so that i can start doing it like yesterday

hi there,

I'll be honest: if it feels hard to apply the feminism you learned as a kid to your trans friends, that's probably because the feminism you were taught didn't have trans woman in mind.

luckily, the answer to this is something that I consider to be feminism 101: what a woman does with her body is, ultimately, her fucking business.

listen: I agree with you that the beauty industry(TM) is evil. it's misogynistic, it's exploitative, it thrives by making women feel bad enough about themselves to make them spend money on shit they don't need, etc. we all know this.

now, having said that: women who like makeup or wear heels or get laser hair removal or whatever other asinine thing are not my oppressor, nor are they my enemy. dare I say, we have bigger problems.

we also need to consider that many trans women are coming to these choices from a VERY different place than many cis women are. while I think my fellow cis women really benefit from reminders that they're allowed to stop shaving or wearing eyeliner or dieting or whatever, that's because most of us have had those actions forced on us from very young ages and may genuinely need a hand to feel secure breaking out of those behaviors.

the majority of trans women are not coming from a background where they were encouraged to partake in the same personal grooming habits and modes of presentation as cis women; many of them have, in fact, been ostracized, bullied, threatened, and otherwise hurt because of forays into forms of presentation that are considered feminine. no matter how good your intentions may be, approaching your advice indelicately can, unfortunately, make you come across as no different than any transphobe on the street trying to enforce cisnormative societal expectations. it also must be said that, for many trans women, the ability to "pass" is a matter of security - for having their status as women recognized at all, and to avoid harassment and abuse in public spaces. if you live in America, like I do, politicians in power currently have an extremely explicit anti-trans agenda that can make it harrowing to be visible as a trans person, and trans women in particular are frequently targeted for violence.

there are absolutely critiques to be made the way the many trans women are expected to perform hyperfemininity. the notion that someone is duty bound to drastically change their appearance in order to transition at all is itself extremely rooted in cisnormativity, and "passing" is often contingent on being young, thin, able-bodied, reasonably wealthy, and hewing as closely to Eurocentric standards of beauty as possible. that's not awesome! but that's also not the fault of any individual; no trans person asked to be born into a world where gender norms are so narrow and failing to pass can come with a very real risk of physical danger.

also, if I can circle back to this: again, women who participate in aspects of the beauty industry are not our enemies. there are always going to be some number of women who enjoy doing their makeup or like spending time fussing over their little outfits or want breast implants or whatever. some of those women are going to be trans. my official feminist stance on this is that I don't give a shit, because I believe in bodily autonomy even when it involves things I would not do personally and the choices that individual women make about how they want to style their little meat body don't even crack the top 100 things that I'm worried about right now. it's actually kind of vitally important, politically, that trans people be able to safely pursue their preferred gender expression; while it's not particularly revolutionary for a cis woman to go outside all dolled up, whether a trans woman can do that safely is a pretty basic litmus test for how safe a given space is for queer people. it's a ridiculously low bar, and many places will still fail to clear it.

so, yeah, I don't know, dude. be there to talk to your trans girlies if they want to start unpacking some of the pressure they feel to conform to a very rigid idea of womanhood, but whether or not they can walk down the street in your neighborhood safely is a WAY bigger issue than whether they decide to do voice training or not.

if you really want to cut to the root of the insecurity and vulnerability that the beauty industry thrives on exploiting, your time is much better spent working to ensure the trans women in your life feel safe and supported and have a community where they can find support regardless of how they look.

necessary disclaimer I'm a cis girl, any transfemme folks please share your voice here and feel free to clap my ass if I've said something out of line.

[inbabylontheywept]

Weird Grandpa Story #2

I remember asking my mom once, if her dad had gotten ornerier as he'd gotten old. I'd heard about that happening, and it would've made sense for him. He was already the orneriest old cuss I'd ever met. Couldn't even imagine him being grumpier than he was.

Instead of answering the question directly, she told me about what it was like going to church with him as a kid. Their church was a small Mormon ward out in the sticks of Colorado, and he served as their Bishop - mostly by virtue of being the only one willing to do that much unpaid work. He was also the ward pianist. He actually liked playing piano, and he liked having an audience, so it was more or less understood that he was willing to be the bishop in exchange for being the pianist. 

Which could've been a good trade, but there were a few problems.

The first problem was that Grandpa Dale played every song at about triple speed. He was a deeply impatient person, and that extended to how he played music. The second problem was that he had a bad habit of cursing under his breath. That would've been a scandalous  enough habit for a Mormon bishop, but was made much worse (and also much funnier)  by him being pretty damn deaf. So what he thought of as "quiet" cursing under his breath was more of just a verse hoarse way of yelling. I only visited him for a week or two every summer, and I still learned most of my bad words from him. 

So every Sunday would start with a quiet prayer, and then Bishop Grandpa Dale would go to the piano, sit down, and play the nightcore version of Praise to the Man. He would occasionally play other hymns, but he really, really liked that one. This would continue until he hit a wrong note, which was basically inevitable because his music philosophy was that if he could play a song flawlessly, it was time to play it faster. So he'd play until he hit that wrong note, at which point he would scream-whisper SHIIIIIT and, because he did not actually read music so much as memorize it, the only way he'd be able to get his rhythm back was by going back to the start. 

If it was a good Sunday, he could get it in two tries. Some Sundays took as many as five. 

I learned two things about Grandpa Dale from this story. The first was that he could play piano. I'd never actually seen him do that before. Still haven't, come to think of it. Second was that the man that I visited once a year, who always seemed on the verge of exploding, who scared the absolute dickens out of me, was actually the chilled out version of the man my mom grew up with.

And it helped knowing that, actually. I'm actually a pretty anxious person, and my mom is, also, a pretty anxious person, and as a teenager we'd sometimes get in these doom loops where we'd wind each other up until our springs cracked. She'd be worried about me growing up to be happy, and I'd be worried about letting her down, and my worrying would make me unhappy, and my unhappiness would make her unhappy, and we'd just kind of dissolve into these anxieties like cotton candy in the sea and become totally unbearable to be around for a bit. Then my dad would sit us both down and very politely tell us that we were being crazy. He had this quote how being sad that someone else is sad that you're sad is the emotional equivalent of being a Klein flask and that at some point you have to just say I am allowed one (1) single layer of emotional recursion, at most, and ideally zero. 

And it was always kind of embarrassing and silly, but when I was tempted to be more upset with my mom about it, I could remember the piano story and go: Sheesh. She has more of a right to be anxious that I do. For me it's really just genetics, but she grew up with the Cactus-Killing Gopher-Smasher. A whole 18 years of that. I spent two weeks every summer with that guy, and I love him, but I always came home feeling like I'd survived something. She's a trooper.

[rafesplaymate]

Hi! It's me again, Request!! Stepdaddy!rafe x naive!sweetheart!reader, rafe marrying readers mom because he realize his age ain't going down so he eventually would have to settle down (late 30s!rafe) and he thought he found the one to settle down with. Until, she introduced her daughter to rafe (she's basically every man's dream and woman's envy) and rafe falls HARD.

Suddenly, he's taking the reader out for a shopping spree, buying her jewelries, shoes, designer clothes, bags, and anything she wants. At first, the mother thought he was just being nice to her daughter until words got around on how he acts around her compare to how he acts around his wife (or not, could be married or just live in). And she started getting sus abt them and so on....

HOPEEE YOU'LL GIVE THIS A TAKE/CHANCE, IF NOT THEN IZZ OKAYYY LOVE YOU STILL 💌🩷!!

absolutely. ABSOLUTELY. GAHHHH!! ILY!!

* ੈ✩‧₊˚ navigation. ੈ✩‧₊˚ masterlist *ੈ✩‧₊˚ series masterlist

Older!Rafe Cameron x Stepdaughter!Reader

warnings: eventual infidelity. eventual pseudo / stepcest. eventual smut. eventual toxic / abusive / violent behaviors. dark themes.

a/n: this is so hot idc im sorry. going to make this into a couple parts.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Rafe felt like the clock was ticking, that time was fading away and him along with it. He was in his late 30s now, just as handsome as ever but not getting any younger. His father was pushing him to settle down, have some kids. He needed to make a life for himself and build his own little family. So that’s exactly what he did, he went out and found himself the most primmed and proper Kook and made her his wife.

Rafe’s wife was beautiful, stunning even. She was just a couple years older than him but he didn’t mind. She was a socialite with a taste for status and luxury, both of which he could provide. He won’t lie, he actually really likes her. He loves her even. Not just physically but she can make him laugh, has a taste for the high-life like himself and the sex was good, satisfying. He immediately knew he could settle down with her so he decided to, and it didn’t take much convincing on his part. She loved how handsome he was, his acclaimed status in Kildare and fuck was he loaded. In just a few months the two were quickly throwing an engagement party and a small beach wedding attended by their closet friends and family which happens to be the other Kook’s of Kildare. They were happy together, and love was quickly building.

The newlyweds quickly settled into Tannyhill which Ward left to them as a wedding present and began their new lives together. Life was good, he was flying high with a beautiful wife that was ready to build a legacy and family with him. Rafe felt like everything was going smoothly until she dropped a fucking bomb on him. “A daughter?! You have a fucking daughter?!” He shouted, shock evident on his features as his face reddened with anger and betrayal. Why the fuck would she keep this from him? “I’m sorry Rafe, listen-“ she was quickly cut off by him storming out of the room, following him along like a scorned puppy looking for validation from their owner. Her lips downturned at his attitude while he scowled sitting on their couch, laying his head in his hands as he breathed heavily.

“She’s 19. I had her when I was a teenager when some tour-on came. I-I quickly gave up the rights to her father which is who she’s been living with since she was a baby in Los Angeles.” She spoke calmly, moving stealthily as she gently sat next to him. She took his hands in hers and forced him to look in her eyes as she continue to speak. The two staring each other down as she continued on, “I’ve sent her child support and a card every year. But.. she just told me her father passed away. She’s got no one Rafe, he was her only family and now I’m her only family. I’ve neglected my little girl for so many years and now that I’m in a situation where I can fully help her out I want too. My family was ashamed of her, I was ashamed. But I’m almost 40 an-and I don’t want to regret not knowing my daughter or my daughter not knowing her mother. Please honey, she needs me. She needs us.” She finished, tears streaming down her cheeks as she moved to cup his face. Looking at him with despair as Rafe sighed and shut his eyes tightly, opening them back up with resolve swirling in them.

“Okay,” he sighed, cupping her face in his hand and give her lips soft pecks as she moved to curl her hands into his white button up. Relaxing into him immediately and looking into his eyes with love as he told her, “she can come live with us.” Joy sparked in her eyes as she gripped him in a tight hug, a series of ‘thank yous!’ falling from her filled lips as she jumped up and reached for her phone. “I’m going to call her, she’ll be so excited. Oh honey, you won’t regret this! I promise!” She bent down to give him one last big smooch as he smiled at her and watched her scurry away with the phone to her ear.

Little did she know he wouldn’t regret it, but she would.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

a/n: i know this is so short but i want to build it aup! if i should continue this on let me know! also if you’d like to be added to a taglist pls also lmk! ENJOY!!!

[eu-nicola]

never enough

summary: Rafe and you share a connection that has always bordered the line between friendship and something deeper. Despite knowing that loving him is a game of risks, you cling to the intensity of his company. Rafe makes you feel alive, even when his love arrives with scars.

warnings: idk

word counter: 2862

author's note: english is not my first language

tags: @rafegf-real

The sun was streaming through the curtains in the room, illuminating the messy edges of your bed. It was a new day on the Outer Banks, but there was something different about the air, something you could only describe as a whisper of what has always been between you. You and Rafe Cameron.

For as long as you can remember, Rafe has been a constant in your life. You were no stranger to his fame on the island: the troubled boy, the son of the powerful Ward Cameron. But, to you, he had always been something more. There was a complexity to him that few bothered to see, an invisible pull that always brought you back to his side, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

That morning, your phone vibrated on the nightstand. Rafe’s name flashed on the screen, a reminder that even when you tried to keep some distance, he always found a way to get past your defenses.

“Breakfast at the dock?”

It was his usual way of starting the day with you, as if you both didn't have a history full of moments that neither of you wanted to name. Moments like the time when, after one of his most intense arguments with his father, he appeared at your window at midnight, seeking comfort. Or that time when his hands lingered a little longer on your waist while you were dancing at one of the many parties on the island. Neither of you mentioned it afterwards, but the weight of what was left unsaid always lingered.

You arrived at the port, and there he was, leaning against his motorcycle, with that arrogant smile that only he could effortlessly sport. Your steps slowed down, but your eyes couldn't help but search for his. There was always something in his gaze, a sparkle that he only reserved for you.

"I thought you weren't coming," he said, although you both knew that you always came when he called.

"And letting you have breakfast alone, who would you take it out on then?" you answered, trying to keep the lightness in your tone.

He laughed, that kind of laugh that felt like an escape, and walked over to you. There was something about the way he closed the distance between you that always made you hold your breath. There was nothing particularly romantic about that gesture, and yet, every time he did it, you felt like the world became a little bit smaller, leaving room for just the two of you.

“Come on,” he said, taking your arm with a familiarity that bordered on intimacy.

Breakfast was like any other, filled with jokes and sarcastic remarks.

After breakfast, the two of you headed to his bike. As you climbed onto the back of his bike, the familiarity of the contact with his back hit you. There was something addictive about the feeling of being so close to him, the engine roaring beneath you, the wind blowing away any rational thought. You gripped his shirt tighter than necessary, as if that could keep you anchored in a world where he wasn’t always a storm.

Rafe led you to a secluded path near the beach, a place you had both frequented since you were kids. No one would find you there, which made it perfect for those moments when neither of you wanted to face the rest of the world.

Upon arriving, he got off the bike and leaned against a large rock, lighting a cigarette. You watched as the smoke rose in spirals, his sharp features bathed in sunlight.

“You know being with me isn’t going to get you anywhere good, right?” he said suddenly, his tone low, almost a whisper.

You stepped closer, crossing your arms as you looked at him. You knew there was truth in his words. Loving him was like walking a razor’s edge; one wrong step and everything could fall apart. But you also knew that the intensity of his love, of his presence, made you feel alive like nothing else.

“I know,” you finally admitted, your voice firm. “But I also know that I prefer that to a life without feeling. And you… you make me feel.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, it was like time stood still. There was a weight in his gaze, a mix of desire, pain, and something deeper that he’d never been able to put into words.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I do anyway,” he said, throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his foot.

You moved closer, your body now just inches from his. You could feel the tension in the air, the electricity that always seemed to exist between you. You lifted a hand and placed it gently on his cheek, forcing him to look at you closely.

“We all have scars, Rafe. Mine don’t scare me,” you whispered. “But I don’t want you to keep running away from what we feel.”

His lips curved into a half smile, though his eyes were still filled with uncertainty. Rafe had always been good at hiding his emotions, but with you, it was different. You could see the cracks in his facade, and every time you did, you found yourself wishing you were the one to save him, even though you knew he didn’t want to be saved.

Suddenly, his hand moved to your waist, pulling you towards him. His fingers pressed lightly against your skin, and for a second, everything else stopped mattering. Rafe looked down at your lips, as if he was weighing whether to cross that line once more.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmured, his voice husky.

“I don’t care,” you replied without hesitation.

And then, as if finally giving in, he leaned his head down and kissed you. It wasn’t a soft, delicate kiss; it was a clash of pent-up emotions, of desire and desperation. His lips were insistent, almost possessive, as if he wanted to mark you, to make sure you knew what you meant to him, even if he could never put it into words.

Your hands found his hair, tugging lightly as his arms wrapped around you tighter. Everything about him was intensity, as if he wanted to absorb every part of you in that moment. But there was also a vulnerability in the way he held you, as if he was afraid you would pull away.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily. Rafe rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as if trying to hold on to the moment.

“This is what scares me,” he admitted in a whisper. “I don’t know how to not screw this up.”

You took his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you again.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Rafe. You just have to be you. And I’ll be here, even when things get tough.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, you thought that maybe, just maybe, this scarred love might be worth it. Because, despite everything, Rafe Cameron made you feel alive, and that was a risk you were willing to take again and again.

There was something in the air when you were with Rafe. A raw, intense energy that made you feel more alive than anything else had ever managed. When you were with him, every emotion was amplified; every brush of his skin against yours ignited a fire that consumed you completely. But that love, so fierce and visceral, also came with scars.

That night, he had come home late, stumbling slightly, his eyes red and a trace of regret marked in every line of his face. You knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, stopping in the doorway of your room.

His words were familiar, as were the promises that accompanied them. “I’m sorry” was always followed by his need to fix it, to make you feel like you still loved him, despite everything. You looked up at him, your eyes filled with mixed emotions. You had cried before he arrived, silent tears at the way he always found a way to hurt you, whether it was with sharp words or the shadows of other women. And yet, there he was, begging you to forgive him.

“Why do you always come back here?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “Why do you come back to me, Rafe?”

He didn’t answer right away. He took a step toward you, his gaze catching yours, as if he were looking for a way to explain something that even he didn’t fully understand. Finally, he said,

“Because you’re the only thing that makes me feel real.”

Your chest tightened at those words, that naked confession he would never make to anyone else. And you knew, with every fiber of your being, that it was true. No matter how much he ran away, no matter how much he sought comfort in others, he always ended up coming back to you, as if you were his only refuge in a world that he himself had turned into chaos.

He moved closer slowly, his shaking hands finding yours.

“I know I hurt you,” he said, his voice cracking. “But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to love you without scarring you.”

His words were like a knife, but also a promise. There was something about his vulnerability that completely disarmed you. You felt each of his flaws, his mistakes, like a shared burden. But you also knew that, despite the pain, you couldn’t walk away from him. Rafe was both your storm and your refuge. A love that lifted you up and consumed you at the same time.

“I don’t hate you for what you do,” you finally said, your voice firm though your eyes shone with unshed tears. “I hate you for how you make me feel, even after everything.”

Rafe lowered his head, his lips brushing the back of your hand with a tenderness that seemed almost impossible for someone like him.

“Let me fix it,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “Let me prove to you that I’m still worthy of you.”

Your breathing quickened as his hands moved to your waist, gently pulling you towards him. You felt the urgency in his touch, the desperation of a man who feared losing the only thing that gave his life meaning.

“Rafe…” you murmured, but your words were caught in your throat as his lips found yours.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was a storm, a hurricane of emotions that left you breathless. His mouth moved against yours with an almost desperate intensity, as if he wanted to etch you into his skin, to make sure you knew how much he needed you. Your hands found his hair, tugging lightly as he pressed you against the wall, his body enveloping you in searing heat.

Every touch, every kiss, was a mix of love and penance. Rafe knew he had crossed boundaries, that he had hurt your heart in ways that might never fully heal. But he also knew that, in moments like this, he could redeem himself, at least for a while. And you, despite everything, let him.

His hands slid down your back, caressing your skin with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity of his kisses. He lifted you slightly, whispering your name as if it were a mantra, as if that could repair every crack he had caused. And in those moments, when both of you were wrapped in the purest intimacy, all the pain, all the scars, temporarily faded.

Rafe loved you with the same intensity with which he consumed you, and although you knew it was a dangerous love, you couldn't help but surrender to him. Because, despite the scars, he made you feel alive. And in a world full of shadows, that spark was all you needed to keep going.

Weeks passed, and though each night Rafe slipped by your window felt like a new beginning, the cycle never changed. During the day, he was the same again: the boy who moved from girl to girl, who sought in others what, deep down, he knew only you could give him. You saw him at parties, his arm around some new conquest, and you felt a part of you break every time his eyes didn’t seek you out in the crowd.

But he always came back. At the end of the day, when the world was dark and silent, it was your name he whispered, your window he knocked softly. And you, despite the pain, always let him in.

That day, after one of those parties where you’d seen him with another girl, something inside you finally gave in. You were in your room, the dim light from the nightstand illuminating the space as you sat on the bed, your hands shaking with frustration and sadness. You didn’t want to open the door for him this time. You wanted to scream, to break something, to make him understand how much it hurt you.

But when you heard the knock on the window, your body reacted before your mind. You walked over to it, your steps slow and heavy. When you opened it, Rafe was standing there, his hair messy and his eyes downcast. There was a trace of guilt in his expression, but also something deeper, something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You didn’t say anything, just stepped aside. He walked in and stood there, looking at you as if trying to find the right words. But there were no words that could fix what you were feeling right now.

“I can’t go on like this,” you finally said, your voice cracking.

Rafe looked up, surprised by the harshness in your tone.

“I’m tired, Rafe. Tired of being your refuge when the world turns its back on you. Tired of seeing you with others and pretending I don’t care. Tired of loving you more than you love me.”

Tears began to roll down your cheeks, and this time you didn’t try to stop them.

“I want you to love me, Rafe. I want you to need me, not just in your worst moments, but always.”

Rafe took a step toward you, but you held up a hand, stopping him.

“I’m broken, Rafe. Every time you leave, you leave a part of me behind.” And I don’t know how much more I can take.

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then Rafe slowly approached, ignoring your raised hand. His eyes were filled with something you hadn’t seen before: fear.

“I need you,” he said, his voice shaking. “I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone.”

His words hit you hard, but they didn’t stop hurting.

“It doesn’t seem like it, Rafe. Every time I see you with someone else, I wonder if I’m enough for you.”

Rafe shook his head, his hands finding yours with desperate urgency.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice firmer. “There’s not going to be a time in my life when I don’t need you. You’re my constant, my only refuge when everything else falls apart.”

His words made your tears flow harder, but this time you didn’t stop them. Rafe pulled you to him, enveloping you in a hug that was both comforting and heartbreaking. You could feel him trembling, his own eyes wet as he rested his forehead against yours.

“I know I hurt you,” he admitted quietly. “I know I’m a mess and you deserve better. But I can’t imagine my life without you.”

You clung to him, your hands gripping his shirt tightly. You wanted to believe him, you wanted to think that this time it would be different. But the pain was still there, a constant reminder of the wounds he had left behind.

“I don’t want to be your refuge if you can’t be mine too,” you whispered.

Rafe nodded slowly, as if he understood the magnitude of your words.

“I want to be. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to prove to you that I can be.”

Silence filled the room again, but this time, it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was a silence filled with unspoken promises, with hopes that you both knew would be hard to keep.

That night, when Rafe kissed you, it was different. It wasn’t the kiss of someone seeking comfort, but of someone willing to fight for what really mattered. And as his lips moved against yours, a small spark of hope began to burn in your heart.

Maybe this time, the scars could start to heal.

[infamousbondagemurder]

DUCK! THE CARBINE HIGH MASSACRE - EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW!

Hello!!!! i’m very autistic and I wanted to put my effort into something I could share with you all, so without any more unnecessary ranting here’s all you need to know about duck! the carbine high massacre. please comment anything I should add or any mistakes I may make, beware this is my first post like this so im a newby go easy on a gal!

Full film:

https://youtu.be/UScvX4bjExg?si=Cohq29YGoYCsOtBY

Trailer:

https://youtu.be/zNtUviDpyQg?si=23nQgFQo75OQ-RC_

Film soundtrack:

https://youtu.be/2ky9FrEj8Fk?si=DqRVcTdFQEtJ6owC

Website archived:

https://web.archive.org/web/20040815013848/http://www.duck2k.com/docs/carbine_comm.html

Other interviews unrelated to specifically this film:

https://youtu.be/gEbZVXdsX-U?si=cG5bTGb41ee-1fFh

https://youtu.be/WUjqIoDidr4?si=sDMMUzzKhIWImuL5

https://youtu.be/W04lj1BdK0o?si=DHRIixDEpn39KBne

Filming:

Duck! the Carbine High Massacre was a spoof about Columbine that was made soon after the massacre, infact only 6 months after. It was created by Joey Smack (Joseph Miller) and William Hellfire (William Apriceno) two (at the time) collage aged film makers. A lot of viewers received it as this as distasteful and terrible, but others find this to be one of the greatest movies of all time. Smack and Hellfire mainly made a living on creating fetish content for their small but loyal cult following, but unlike most of Smack and Hellfires other films this one was based on true events and NOT made for fetish content. (it only had a few titties here and there ;-D) A lot of people who had starred the movie had received a lot of back lash including piles of death threats.

Duck, along with most other Factory 2000 films was edited in Adobe premier and shot on VHS cameras including a broadcast Super VHS camcorder, a handheld RCA, and another unidentified camcorder.

The films first dvd release was in 2004, along with minor color corrections.

The whole budget was about 3,000$ along with inexperienced actors, most of them being Hellfire and Smacks friends taking some time off work.

On Columbines anniversary they had a showing of the film at CBGB’s where an interview with Court Tv was held and they had stated some of the reasons behind making the movie, what they would say to the parents at Columbine, and the reasoning behind making the movie.

It was here where they explained they were *not* making fun of the victims but instead the media in America’s portrayal of all the victims and the shooters on the news.

Interview:

https://youtu.be/QjPlPsGUuKI?si=gel6kBCbpzmUmiDE

The producers had gotten arrested for creating this film, not because of the crude nature but because they had brought fire arms onto school property .

Court Tv producers getting arrested:

https://youtu.be/i7LiNTkksJs?si=C8IbynDgwj9oP9YE

The film racked up $6,034 in the box office and the film was said to have helped pay Hellfires legal fees.

Experiences on set:

William hellfire stated that he did remember filming and creating most of duck because he was so drugged up on pain killers he was using to treat his cancer pains. He had no remorse or regret for making the film

Chris Perez hopped on reddit to describe his experience “Fun and loose. Everyone was really laid back and chill and we had a good time with the filming. There was a script, but we also improved a lot of stuff. Sometimes, Bill, Joe, and Todd would just give us a general idea of what they wanted us to do and say and we'd work off that.” He along with many others would receive blowback from the incident.

Misty Mundae said that the film was a "crappy little movie" which "has permanently staked its place in underground cult cinema"

Cast:

Derick- Joey Smack (Joseph Miller)

Derwin- William Hellfire (William Apriceno)

Retard- Henry Krinkle

Bible Girl- Misty Mundae (Erin Brown)

Play Girl- Lilly Tiger

Car Kid- Chris Perez

Spam Jock- Michael Ovum

Benchpress- Ryan Trimmer

Afro-American- Kendall "Shorty" Ward

Song Girl- Mazur

Goth Boy- Mike Roser

Goth Girl- Liz Bathory

No Info Boy- Michael Lema

The Principal- Larry Wellman

The Janitor- Rodney Sleurtols

Policeman- Karl Pitt

Plot:

With a running of 101 minutes Duck! the Carbine High Masscre was about spoof about the events that took place at Columbine on April 20th, 1999. The movie took place at Carbine high school where two bullied, neo-nazi, trenchcoat wearing high-school students, Derick and Derwin fail at a double suicide attempt. While walking home Derwin gets attacked by jocks and misses school the next day. After school it is then the two high schoolers plan a massacre against their school. The pair then bought several guns from a black market dealer. The next day the two boys bid farewell to their parents for the last time and head to school with the guns in arm. Once they get to school they head to the cafeteria trying to get the student’s attention, when yelling failed Derwin got onto a chair and yelled “What’s for lunch?” before the two began shooting. The two kill several people in gruesome manners before heading down to the basement and sharing a last cigarette before shooting each other.

Other films:

William Hellfire and Joey Smack typically made fetish films and soft-core porno flicks, some notable ones include (but are not limited tooooo!) Erotic Survivor, Silk Stocking Strangler, Vampire Strangler, TITanic 2000, and so many other underground gems. I, infamousbondagemurder sincerely urge you to watch these movies, buy the dvds, and support the living William Hellfire.

Here’s a link to watch more movies by William (unfortunately not ALL his movies are on this keep in mind. i also did not create this link so credits to the creator, which i’m not sure who the creator is)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-2iH0WjcolYtbat61F2zLs8SSw5dbMy15mnCnuq4suE/edit

What most people don’t know is Joey Smack starred in the semi-popular film Where the Dead go to Die, where he voice acted as the characters Ralph Stanley, Tommy’s father, and The legless war veteran. He dropped iconic lines in this movie such as: “You fuckin’ dog! What the fuck are you some sort of faggot cannibal! Aggghhh! Your eatin’ my dick!”

Dvd:

Hello! so I am basing this off of the DVD that I personally own, these details may differ from DVD to DVD so if you own a different sort of DVD, please comment anything extra that you have on yours.

Dvd includes:

* Deleted scenes

* Behind COURT TV- cbgb’s screening

* PRODUCER/DIRECTOR interviews

* TODAY is the DAY LIVE in Hoboken NJ

* KING GHIDORAH! LIVE in Hoboken NJ

* Original trailers

* Shooting gallery

* Film soundtrack

* And of course, this wonderful shitty movie :-)

Rest in peace Joey Smack:

On Saturday June 29th, 2019 Joseph Robert Miller, better known by many fans as ‘Joey Smack’ passed away. The circumstances are unknown and a mystery to all fans. There are rumors of suicide but there are no confirmations. I advice you to read his obituary and donate to catholic charities, diocese of paterson, the charity which paid his brother joshua's medical bills after his passing in 1998.

Joseph was loved by many and passed at the age of 41. Fans, family and friends all mourn him to this day. He was described by friends as a kind hearted true and utter weirdo, who had lived in his own world. he didn’t talk to many people but if you had been let into his select group, he would go out of his way to make friends laugh and smile with his warped sense of humor.

His memorial services were held Tuesday, July 2nd, 2019 from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m. at Browning-Forshay funeral home on Lafayette Ave in Hawthorne.

Rest in peace Joey Smack, a truely great man who loved what he did and put so much love into all of his creations. Well wishes to his surviving family and friends:

Joey Smacks obituary:

https://emeto.neocities.org/joeysmack

CREDS:

Mainly wiki like a chud

Actors themselfs

The dvd

I’m dumb

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hi, can I please get Wally West x trans reader? Maybe something where the reader is feeling dysphoric and he comforts them, and also some dry humping?

Wally West x FTM reader

Headcanons

Readers vaguely based off of Daredevil, since I like that guy a lot. And the mental image of Wally and his gritty boyfriend is fun to me. Don’t correct me on if keystone city is right, idc.

Nobody could really tell when you and Wally started dating. You just happened to be a vigilante in Keystone city before Wally showed up after being kid flash and all that. His presence really messed up your mojo.

You were the devil incarnate, ready to break as many bones as it took, but you didn’t kill. That didn’t stop you from maiming folk though. Having Wally swoop by to bring people to the hospital and then be back to try and lecture you, really hurt your image.

You were there first though, so there was no way Wally was gonna stop you from doing what you had to do. In the beginning it was kind of like a new tomcat showing up in someone else’s territory.

You didn’t have the speed to be all over the city like Wally, so it was kind of accepted that hed take care of everything else when you were busy. People started begging for Wally to be the one to catch them doing a crime, since you’d break their kneecaps, and then nail them in the head with your billy club.

The relationship between you two was kind of a running joke in the league, especially in the Titans. They all knew that Wally thought you were hot in your own broody, horned way. Someone, probably Garfield, would joke about your suits matching, since you both were red. And yellow, if you wear the yellow and red daredevil suit.

You two were kinda like Batman and Superman, in a way. With you being broody, growly, the night, I am vengeance and will make you suffer the consequences. And Wally being easier going and lighter, full of jokes and hope.

That didn’t mean Wally couldn’t snap and get down and gritty if he needed to. That was probably when you started feeling attracted to him in return, when he couldn’t go easy on somebody who deserved it.

Up until this point you’d have picked up the changes in his pheromones and body heat, as well as his heartrate, which made you understand that he liked you. But it was after you smelled the blood on him and heard his blush rushing through his veins from an almost animalistic adrenaline that you started returning the feelings.

You guys probably date for months, if not a year before the league and the Titans figure it out. Wally would say something about needing to get back to the city since he had to make it in time for your anniversary dinner, and that’s when everyone would figure it out.

The two of you a very much opposites attract. Someone is gonna try to use your relationship with Wally to make you join the league, but he wards them off before you can break tall their teeth for even asking.

You being trans doesn’t matter much to Wally, outside of how it may affect your relationship. And by that I mean, if you for example don’t want him touching your torso or specific areas of your body, what wording to use, helping you with your T injections, so on and so forth.

Hes more perceptive than people think, at least after you guys have been dating a while. Hed start noticing the different signs that point at you feeling dysphoric. Like you going out for longer patrols because being the devil makes you feel more masculine. Or you wearing your binder for too long, if you need one of those.

I don’t think hes just gonna appear and demand answers, instead Wally has tried to figure out overtime what might help. He knows you aren’t the type to just talk about all your feelings and what can be done about it, so Wally would try to find other ways to be supportive and helpful.

You can always tell what he’s doing, since Wally starts going on about how handsome his boyfriend is, how manly you are and smell, how good your muscles look. Even if he’s buffer than you, you better expect him to drool over your muscles.

If you are fine with being touched, Wally would also just cuddle you when you have days where you struggle to look at yourself or even being in your own body. Hes always ready to talk or make changes if he can do anything to help, or just lay in silence if that’s what you need too, even if laying still for a longer time is difficult for a speedster.

Having a speedster boyfriend also means it’s easy to sense it’s him. Having the abilities you do, means you can point out any hero or villain you’ve met before, even in a crowd of a thousand. But the speedster’s connection to the speed force makes them so easy to point out.

It becomes a comfort for you, to feel the buzz that’s seemingly always present around Wally. It’s different around each speedster, but Wally is the most special out of all of them, to you anyways.

Having a speedster boyfriend also means you have access to something very few do, a boyfriend who can vibrate and who has close to no recovery period. This just means Wally is all over you on days where you are fine with that.

And if its one of those days where you want to get off to deal with dysphoria, you barely have to say anything before he’s on you, or beside you, or behind you.

Dysphoria means you don’t want to be touched skin on skin sometimes, and on days like this, good ol dry humping is just as good as anything else Wally could think up. Hes especially a fan when its him laying down and you on top.

It makes you seem so strong and in charge, even if your eyes can’t meet since well… you cant see like the average person. Wally is just giddy and almost buzzing out of his skin as you guys grind together, his hands shaking where they’re holding your hips.

Your heightened senses let you notice just how much he starts buzzing when he gets close. Other people would never notice until he’s just above to fall over the edge, but you can almost taste how his scent and pheromones start buzzing in the air when he’s turned on.

Hearing his heart race and his blood rushing through his body becomes a turn-on in its own way, just as much as grinding down on him and listening to him moan. Wally is also the type to kiss when you guys grind together, his tongue almost fizzy feeling against your own.

It becomes a lot easier to forget your dysphoria with a boyfriend like Wally, who does everything in his power to distract you from it, especially when he gets to rut against you and moan into your ear or neck. Just watch out for small sparks that might come off him, and that your senses don’t get too overwhelmed thanks to the speed force.

[daddychi-01]

Batman Headcanon

Give me a 9 or 10-year-old Dick Grayson who has been Robin for a little bit but is still figuring out his relationship with Bruce Wayne. They are more than a guardian and his ward but not quite yet father and son. They both want that but neither of them have gotten up the courage to say it.

Now give me a hostage situation, during some kind of gala or charity event for the school. One where a lot of rich people and their rich kids are present so it’s very important for Bruce and Dick to be selling the whole secret ID thing, so they have to looking just as pathetic and scared as the other people around them.

The bad guys immediately recognize Bruce Wayne and his brat, and they pull Dick away from Bruce. They threaten Dick’s life, saying that Bruce better cooperate or he’ll have to find a new orphan to to take care of, not like it would be a problem since Gotham has so many.

Dick thinks the fear in Bruce’s eyes is an act. That’s not just Bruce after all, it’s Batman. The Dark Knight. He’s literally not allowed to be afraid, so that look can’t be real.

But it is.

Bruce hasn’t been this terrified since the night he lost his parents. His heart is racing and he has to physically push down a panic attack because that isn’t going to save Dick right now. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t fight these people, not when he is Bruce Wayne. Without the cape and cowl, he has to be a helpless playboy.

So he does the only thing he can think of: he begs.

Bruce Wayne drops to his knees and he pleads with the masked goons to spare Dick’s life. He’s just a boy. A boy who has already lived through enough trauma. Bruce understands if these people hate him and if they want to hurt him instead, that’s fine. But he begs them not to hurt Dick.

He promises to give them anything. They can have his fortune, his life, whatever they want. Just spare Dick. That’s all he asks.

And a masked woman steps forward, leaning down in front of Bruce with what he knows is a sick smirk. The air around them thins and Dick feels himself shiver fifteen feet away. He hadn’t been expecting Bruce to say any of those things. Sure they were close, they had to be as the Dynamic Duo. But he thought after his parents died, there wouldn’t be another adult who would speak about him like that.

That would care enough to swallow their pride and beg, just for him.

Dick’s ears perk up when he hears the woman speak.

“Anything?” She asks. She sounds delighted, almost like she had won some sort of bet at a bar and not that she was leading a hostage situation.

“Anything.” Bruce confirms.

“Okay.” She stands, pointing her gun in Dick’s general direction. “I want your Mommy’s pearls.”

Bruce’s body freezes in shock.

Dick closes his eyes now resigned. Bruce may have been willing to say he would give anything but those were just words. It was one thing to say it, it was entirely different to actually do it. And Martha Wayne’s pearls were too high a price.

Dick can’t blame Bruce either. He imagined being asked to give up his mother’s wedding ring and felt his stomach turn. No, he wouldn’t begrudge Bruce for changing his mind—

“Done.”

Dick’s head shoots up, eyes wide with surprise. He had to have misheard. Bruce didn’t. He wouldn’t…

“Give me a phone. I’ll call my Butler and he will bring them here.”

And Dick cries. Not because someone is holding him hostage, he doesn’t care about that, but because a wave of realization crashes down onto him with an unforgiving strength.

He isn’t an orphan anymore. He has a dad. Bruce loves him.

Bruce ends up calling Alfred and Alfred, being the badass that he is, gives the Gotham PD a heads up but drives there anyway just so he can sucker punch the woman who demanded his late mistress’s pearls just to psychologically torture his son while holding his grandson hostage.

He then takes the pair home. There’s a small tin of cookies in the back for them to share on the drive back.

[adelar-plays]

halsin said that he hibernates until the thaw, and i can't stop imagining how nice it can be now that he has you and the children

he can avoid hibernating if necessary, but he becomes restless and a bit irritable when depraved of his winter nap. even though he still treats everyone with kindness, if you know him well enough, you notice that many things make him less happy and he gets irritated mainly with himself, so it's kinder to not demand him to stay awake and just let him sleep

you anticipated his awakening ever since you first sensed the change in weather. this unmistakable earthy smell of spring – thawing snow, waking up soil and roots and worms in it, all fills you with impatience and joy

so maybe today

you’ve been waking up early for the last few days to be the first one to know. to be there waiting for him, being happy to see him

maybe today

he wakes up in a pile of... well, everything that definitely wasn't here when he went to sleep

while he was sleeping, children brought him all their plushie treasures that helped them ward off nightmares when they were alone and didn’t have you and each other. they’ve put their owlbear toys around halsin so he wouldn't be lonely and scared in his dreams, someone put a blanket over him, someone even half managed to put a pillow under his head – not a small feat, mind you. more mischievous kids have been piling their toys atop him just for the fun of it, to see if it would wake him up, and giggling when it didn't

it's so much better than waking up alone and in the same empty room. the mess kids created around him is an evidence that he's now loved and cared for

and he has his suspicions about who might’ve brought him this blanket

he stretches his muscles, feeling his heart rate quickening*, and slightly unsteadily from a long sleep comes out

the smell of a bear who just spent months curled up in a cave is... well, not exactly exquisite, he knows it and lets out a slightly embarrassed chuckle when you put him in tight embrace, noticing that he's a little easier to hug now than when you did it kissing him goodnight**

the kids are sleeping yet. they demanded to know immediately when daddy halsin is back, and even tried to take turns staying awake and keeping watch – none of them lasted past 2 am, and you had to bring them to their beds. you don’t wake them up just yet, because you want to have some time for you two

you make him his first in this year huge mug of herbal tea with honey that you secretly stashed away and saved for him, and he fills his pipe, while you knead his stiff shoulders and untangle his hair

and, honestly, this moment is so worth waiting the whole winter for

*bears’ heart rate drops to 8-10 beats a minute while they hibernate **bears lose up to 33% of their weight while hibernating

[hanasnx]

that girl

PART ONE ✩ PART TWO WORD COUNT: 0.9k WARNINGS: f!reader | suggestive | fake relationship | love triangle

Ever since you'd first started hanging around JJ MAYBANK the other Kooks of Figure Eight have voiced their concern. Every word and every insult has been thrown around to describe him so as to convince you not to "waste your time with him." The mouth of RAFE CAMERON is especially foul. "I'm jus' looking out for you, that's all." he'd insist, and he's shown his concern by towing you along with a harsh grip on your upper arm.

It's no secret that Rafe's interest in you is selfish. He's told you in many ways that you belong with someone from your side of the island, not a delinquent who'll end up just like his slum father. Of course, he hasn't explicitly specified who exactly you should have you eyes on in Figure Eight.

There's something about the way Ward pushes you together, as if you're good for Rafe. Not just Ward, but Sarah and Wheezie love you. They cling onto your arms and tell you about how they wish you were part of the family already, grossly misinterpreting your relationship with their brother. Sarah rolls her eyes at how Rafe talks when he's around you, how he's on edge and slightly more neurotic because he "likes you so much it's embarrassing." Playful and innocent, yet they put you at unease, teaching you to suspect Rafe's oncoming confession.

It's gotten to the point where you're afraid to be alone with him. That he'll confess his feelings for you, or respond poorly when you reject him. Actively avoiding him whenever you're in the same vicinity because the pressure is just too much. However, he's determined, and when he corners you inside at the Midsummer's, you run through a list of excuses at a record pace.

"... and I just think it's time we go out—"

You interrupt him with possibly the worst option on the wheel your brain had spun. "Rafe, I have a boyfriend." Blurting it out in a flinch, readying for his inevitable meltdown. He's not known for being stable. An indignant, knowing glint flashes in his eyes as he refocuses on you, taken aback at the prospect of you belonging to someone else.

"Well, who?"

You're reminded of the back of JJ's head when you'd spotted him sneaking in earlier. "C'mon, you should know already." In an attempt to be lighthearted, you push at his arm but he's immovable and unresponsive, glancing at your contact as if it's unwanted. Embarrassed, you drop your arm, and give him a shrug, "It's JJ." you say in a forced laugh. The silence is killing you as he processes your words, lips pressed into a thin line. Tentatively, you crawl across the wall, inching out of the space he caged you in. "I should... get back to him. Excuse me." your tone feathers out, and you escape, power-walking back to the outside where people are. You leave him staring at the wall with his knuckle to his mouth in thought.

You crane your neck, searching bobbing heads for the one of familiar blonde hair. Miraculously, you spot him on the dancefloor, rounding Sarah. Hiking up your dress, you hurry to his location, and usher him aside. "Sorry, Sarah, be right back." you assure her.

"Hey, easy, you'll get it crinkled." JJ scolds you, straightening out his waiter get-up indignantly. Without thinking, you hand claps over his mouth and he furrows his brows at you, scanning your figure.

"I don't have time to explain, but I need you to be my fake boyfriend—"

The crease in his brows deepen at the notion, minutely shaking his head under the pressure of your palm. "Uh-uh!"

"Please, JJ, I need your help—"

He smacks your hand off, "Are you kidding me?" he questions, too loud for comfort, and to evade making a scene you drag him further away while shushing him.

"You don't understand, just for a little bit!" you beg, clutching onto his clothes as he continuously pushes you off, intent to back up and away. You chase him.

"No, no way, princess. You know what the white knights of Figure Eight'll do to me if they find out a dick from the Cut is your sweetheart? I've got enough heat on me as is." If it were under different circumstances, maybe, but his friends have assured him the less attention on him the better. Not while they're in the middle of a treasure hunt, and less eyes means less competition. Certainly not something he can disclose with you, and you hound after him as he furthers from the centroid of the party. A door opens, and Rafe comes into your view. You jump into overdrive, diving onto JJ to pull him out of Rafe's peripheral. "The hell—?"

"That's Rafe, that's Rafe. God, please, JJ. If you just pretend you're my boyfriend in front of Rafe maybe he'll leave me alone?" You upturn your brows, begging him while his back is to the wall. Bewildered, he stares at you a second before looking around the corner. He licks his lips. The chance to get back at Rafe psychologically sounds pretty good right now, and the way you throw yourself at him ain't bad either. He locks eyes with you again, giving you a once-over in your pretty Midsummer dress. "Please?" you sigh. "JJ. Please?"

His nostrils flare when he sucks in a breath, pursing his lips. "Damnit. Damnit, alright. Enough with those eyes, are you kidding me? I'll do it."

You expel a breath in relief, tossing yourself at him to wind your arms around his neck. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you,"

"Alright, alright." He peels you off of him. "Don't get all happy with me, you've gotta remember I make the rules here."

You shouldn't have agreed to his rules so readily. Like an idiot, you had told him you're down for whatever it takes and he took that seriously. Now you're subjected to his every whim. A small part of you deems it's worth it, especially seeing Rafe's face after JJ made out with you and grabbed your ass for the first time in front of him.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War (6)

Author's Note: This came out angstyyyyyyyyyy, I'm sorry idk what happened. It's gotta get worse before it gets better, I guess.

Content Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Azriel using Truth-Teller, Mentions of Abuse/Death

Chapter 5/ Masterlist

-------------------------------

I can’t breathe. The walls of the tent close in, the dark leather pressing in closer and closer. If the ground were to open up and swallow me right now, I wouldn’t even have the presence of mind to scream. The fall would be a welcome reprieve from the roaring of my heart in my own ears.

What does he mean our fathers killed each other?  

It’s wrong. He’s wrong! He’s lying. He has to be lying!

I roll over so I can face him, so close on this small mat that our noses brush. His violet eyes glow in the darkness of the tent. “What do you mean?” The panic that edges my voice makes me sound shrill, even in my own ears.

I don’t want him to answer, but I desperately need him to tell me everything all at once. The wine threatens to come back up in a rush as his hand skims up my side to cup my cheek, “Tamlin didn’t tell you?”

How dare him touch me while we have this conversation; what is so broken and wrong inside of me that I let him? I know that I am shaking in his grip and when he starts rubbing calming circles into my cheek with his thumb I lean into that touch like it might give me one last life line to cling to.

“He said you killed my father.”

He stills, wings fluttering; I feel it pass through him like its own little draft, skittering across his wings. A dark mist follows, seeping from his skin. 

I know we’re not supposed to be talking about this, but the words are already out, whether from the wine or by the sheer desperation I feel crawling beneath my skin. I need to know! I need to know that everything I had believed was true. That all that I was doing this for was not based on a lie. 

He brushes his nose over mine, lips ghosting over my forehead. “When I see what they have done to you, I wish I had killed them both.”

My stomach twists. No. No. This can’t be happening!

“But no, it was my father, in retribution for what they had done.”

But I saw him holding the sword! I saw him leave the tent! I never saw his father’s body and Tamlin had always said he arrived too late to save any of them, that all he could do was fend Rhys off to keep him from slaughtering what was left of us. 

The confusion must be evident on my face, because he asks, “You really don’t know, do you?”

It’s more than a little patronizing but I don’t even have the energy to be angry about it, because my whole life is a lie! I’ve spent decades hating him. I just offered up my body and possibly my future to destroy him for nothing? For something his father, who’s long dead, did?

“Maybe we should talk about this in the morning,” he suggests and it’s definitely because I’m crying now and not because he’s trying to avoid it. 

My throat feels like it;s closing. “No!” And it’s then that I feel the faintest prick of fangs growing behind my lips. “Please just tell me.”

His thumb soothes over my cheek again, like he can feel the sudden shift in my being. I don’t know where that rush of power comes from. Maybe it is some sort of effect of being so close to him while he repairs the wards. 

“Rhys!” It’s always Azriel that interrupts us somehow, the shadowy male hurtling into the tent with that wicked looking dagger in hand. “We’ve got movement in the hills.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Now? Of all the Cauldron damned times for Amarantha to show herself, it has to be right now?!

Rhysand is on his feet in an instant, reaching for my discarded chest piece and ushering me into it, our conversation forgotten. “How many?”

I wish I could say I possess his ability to compartmentalize tasks, but despite the worst possible danger knocking on our unguarded and unwarded doors, all I can think about is how desperately we need to finish this conversation. 

“Five, a scout and four chargers. I’ve got Nox and Avos on their trail, but I don’t see any marks yet.” Azriel continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

Rhysand slings my quiver and bow over my shoulders again, checking all the straps to ensure they’re in place. He’d never taken his own armor off, only the belt for his sword, he uses a tendril of shadowy darkness to strap it into place while he finishes with me. “Stay with her.”

Azriel eyes me like I’m a pile of shit he accidentally stepped in, but I’m too busy trying to wipe my eyes on my sleeves to care. “You might need me out there,” he protests.

“Might,” Rhysand counters, stalking out of the tent in search of his horse. “But I definitely need you here more.” He grabs the reins on his horse, the mount still saddled, just in case we’d needed to leave in a hurry. Dinner threatens to come back up as I watch him slide into his cloak. I’ve spent my life hating that triple star pattern that will sit over his eyes, cursing his existence, wishing him every pain and misery imaginable for ruining my life and it wasn’t even his fault?

The ground is unsteady beneath my feet, I feel myself stumble and sway and I can’t tell if it’s the wine or the reality of the situation that makes my legs feel like jelly. 

I want to go home! I want this to be a bad dream. 

For a moment, I think he might simply toss the cowl over his head and mount up, leaving me to sit here in the misery of our half finished conversation, but he comes back a moment later, hand sliding into my hair as he tilts my head back and kisses me swiftly.

He should taste as bitter as the wine we’d shared. I should feel nothing but misery when he slips his tongue behind my teeth, but when he has me like this, nothing else matters. There doesn’t have to be anything between us. I do not feel like some broken, wretched thing.

“Don’t leave Azriel’s side,” he says as he pulls away. “We’ll finish our conversation when I return, I promise.” Then he mounts up, calling for half of the men as he goes. The thundering sound of the horses hooves as they race down into the grassy hills beneath us makes it feel like we’re standing in the center of an earthquake.

There’s enough moonlight to watch them go, their mounts and flowing capes in the wind making them appear like wraiths racing towards the enemy. 

With half of the men gone, and two scouting, that leaves Azriel and four other men to guard camp. None of them look too happy about it, least of all Azriel, who keeps watching me out of the corner of his eye like he thinks I might disappear at a moment’s notice. I remain next to him, anxiously shifting my weight from foot to foot, hoping the chill on the wind might wake my dull senses up.

Shadows drift off Azriel’s shoulders, but unlike Rhysand’s that always stay curled around his body, Azriel’s drift off like inky tendrils, testing the wind around him. Some slither along the ground like snakes, searching through patches of grass for an unwanted scent, others drift away, testing the wind for him. One remains perched over his ear, and I hear the faint sound of whispering like the shadows are reporting what they find. 

We can no longer see the others, and I spin slowly around in a circle, taking stock of my surroundings. We’re a little higher than the base of the mountain, perched on a cleft in the rock for a better vantage point. The ward remains behind us, I think, without the trail of Rhysand’s magic, I still can’t see or feel this one. To the left and right, the rocky base of the mountain is dotted with ancient trees, some thicker than a house, but the coming winter has stolen their leaves, no vantage point for archers to be had there without being sitting ducks. Beneath us, the rolling hills of grass stretch far out of sight. If Amarantha brought an army behind those first five riders, she’s hidden it well. Still, the thought makes a chill run up my spine and I keep a hand around the hilt of my dagger, just in case.

Azriel does nothing to quell my nerves, just stands there, still as a statue, listening to his shadows, eyes glued to the horizon. I can’t help but wonder if his shadows show him things as much as they tell him. Can he see Rhysand right now?

My stomach twists at the thought. I can’t see him. I can’t hear if he’s ok. There’s nothing in my arsenal to tell me that he’s coming back. And Cauldron boil me, I want him to come back. If he dies without finishing our conversation, I might never learn what happened. Whether it’s the truth or not is yet to be seen, but Tamlin’s account and his account are different, and I will be damned if I don’t get some answers from someone. 

The hand not holding my dagger reaches up to rub at the scar above my ear, hidden under my hair. Tam and I had been fighting that day, he’d been on edge about something and when I’d pushed too hard he’d shoved me right into the corner of a table. I’d been in the healer’s tent getting stitches; all these years I’d thought it was the Mother looking out for me, that little accident might have just saved my life. But looking at it now, I can’t help but wonder if it kept me from seeing the truth. 

I shift my weight again and Azriel’s gaze flicks back to me once more, irritated, like I’m somehow distracting him. 

“Sorry,” I mutter, locking my knees.

I can stand still, it’s fine. I force myself to focus on my breathing, but in the silence there’s one nagging thought that eats at me: Do I really believe Rhysand is telling the truth? I take him to bed one time, accept a couple gifts from him, and what? Believe everything he says as truth? Are claims of a mating bond really enough to make me believe he’d be open and honest with me? A mating bond certainly hadn’t saved my mother.

I close my eyes at the thought of her, chest aching. Did I believe Rhysand was right about that too? That my father had used her powers to try and breed powerful sons, not because he’d loved her? I’d certainly never seen my parents be affectionate towards each other, not even in the way Rhysand was with me. They’d never held hands, never ridden out together. He’d kept her clothed and fed, sure, and entertained her obsession with fairytales when it suited him. My mother told me, on one of her days of clarity, that he’d carved her rocking chair for her when he’d found out she was pregnant with Tam. But I never saw him be warm with her. I’m not even sure I ever saw them kiss, even on the cheek. But a lack of affection in public didn’t mean he cared so little about her he let her, supposed, powers drive her insane, did it?

“A scout’s coming back,” Azriel says, breaking me out of my thoughts. 

My eyes snap open as the rider crests the hillside and comes into view. Illyrian mounts really are beautiful, all sleek muscle and rippling midnight black manes. Together they make a lot of noise, but alone, they’re pretty damn quiet until their hooves hit rock.

Azriel motions me to follow him as he goes to the edge of the cleft in the rocks and waits as the scout approaches. “Well?”

“Not Amarantha,” the scout says and I let out a breath of relief. 

“Who the fuck would come out here then?” Someone behind me challenges. 

“Spring,” the scout says and all the blood drains from my face.

Azriel glances at me, but there’s pity in his hazel gaze this time. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. Not now, I’m not ready to see them yet! 

“What do they want?” I’m having a hard time processing that Tam would waste resources looking for me, especially when we’ve barely had horses to spare to move camp, let alone ride all the way out here.

“Proof you’re alive,” the scout says, holding out his hand.

It’s Azriel that smacks his hand away. “She only rides with me or Rhys.”

The mount shifts beneath the scout, his hood falling even lower down his face. Something feels off about it and I glance at Azriel for confirmation I’m not alone. He nods at me as he steps closer, hand on the small of my back as he leads me to where his own mount chews on a dying patch of grass. 

“Be ready,” he says in my ear.

The scout fidgets in his seat like he’s not used to riding in one and it’s that more than anything that has Azriel’s shadows flying off his shoulders to grab the rider by the wrist and yank him out of the saddle. He slams into the ground with a scream, the sound of bones crunching against rock so loud I wince as Azriel hoists me up into his saddle. 

I grab the reins to keep the horse steady, trying desperately to remember where Rhysand had held his hands when I rode with him. 

Azriel stalks over to the male, wings flaring as he knocks the back of the hood back with the tip of his dagger. Even in the moonlight, I know what swatch of dark hair and golden eyes. One of Tamlin’s Wolves, Andras. Of course he wouldn’t know how to ride, we’d survived a lot of skirmishes over the years because Tam had used his shapeshifting powers to change the men into beasts to fight. 

Azriel crouches in front of him as Andras grips his clearly broken shoulder. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Andras’ gaze flicks to me first. Thankfully, Azriel’s horse is a lot more patient than the others and my own nervous energy hasn’t caused it to run off. If anything, I think the animal cares less about my presence than its usual rider, because it goes back to eating.

“Your whore of a warlord-” that’s as far as Andras gets before Azriel slams the hilt of his dagger into the other male’s throat.

“Start like that again and I’ll make sure you never use that shoulder,” Azriel threatens with so much venom, I shiver. 

Andras coughs, good hand reaching for his throat and Azriel slams the blade clean through his forearm, pinning him in place.

I look away as Andras screams. He is not my friend, I can do nothing. I have always done nothing. The males have their fights and their quarrels and I have always stood on the sidelines waiting for the violence to pass like a good girl. 

“Ok! Ok!” Andras rasps. “I had orders to get into the camp and get Y/N, that’s it!”

But wasn’t being tired of standing on the sidelines that prompted me to stay here in the first place? Wasn’t I trying to make things better for my people? How was sitting here helping them?

“What about the others?” Azriel questions. 

“I don’t know! Lucien was supposed to handle that.” Andras replies through gritted teeth.

Do I even want to help them? If Rhysand was telling the truth, whose side am I even on? My head hurts from the questions, my stomach still churning end over end. I don’t know what to do.

“Where’s Tamlin?” Azriel asks as he rips the dagger out. 

Andras screams, the sound echoing off the rocks. “There’s only five of us! Tamlin never left camp.”

Of course he would send Lucien and not risk coming out here himself. That would put him face to face with Rhysand and he’d lose. And looking at it now, I realize that he knows it. He’s always known it. I rub a hand over the scar on my hand. Did he know about the bond too? Had that been why he was always so sure that I knew Rhysand was the enemy?

Azriel raises the dagger to make another cut and Andras screams, “I swear I’m telling the truth!”

“Azriel,” my voice is steadier than I feel and all eyes suddenly turn to me. I need to get answers. I need to do something. “Take me out there please.” 

“No.”

I tighten my grip on the reins. I’ll go out there myself if I have to. “If it’s Lucien, then it’s not a fight they’re having. Let me diffuse this.” I’m not sure I mean those words; I’m not sure I have the power to do anything but watch horror after horror unfold around me, but I know that I have to try. I have to attempt to put my life back together. I have to find some bit of order or I’ll go insane. Besides, this is Lucien we’re talking about! Surely he could see reason, right?

Andras is looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. 

“Tie him up,” Azriel says to one of the others as he stands and wipes his blade on a cloth that hangs from his belt. “I’m not done with him.”

“But I don’t know anything!” Andras protests as two men haul him to his feet, wrenching his broken shoulder in the process. Blood drips from his forearm, down his fingers. Regardless of the confusion I feel swirling around inside me, he’s still a part of my people. Lucien is still family. If I can keep any more bloodshed from happening between our two people I will. 

“I can work this out. Not everything has to be a bloodbath.”

Azriel swings himself into the saddle behind me and steals the reins. “If I so much as hear an arrow being fired, we’re turning back around.” He snarls.

“Fine,” I concede, because at least it meant I tried. 

“Rhys is gonna kill me for this.”

----

I’m not convinced Azriel’s horse isn’t a wraith. It’s almost completely silent, save for the softest hint of breathing imaginable. When it breathes, little wisps of shadows escape out its nose. I wish I had time to ask him about it, but there’s none, not as we race over the hills, fast as the wind. 

No arrows rise up to meet us, so at least I’ve been, so far, correct about Lucien not leading an ambush. Their scout must have taken down one of Rhysand’s and stolen his mount and cloak to look presentable. At least, I tell myself it was just that and not that Lucien ordered a man killed to try and get to me. Lucien, who would sneak me snacks and who secretly taught me how to fish; Lucien who used to braid my hair for me while we sat on the creek bed, making jokes. Lucien who had always been a spot of sunlight in my world, who looked after me like a brother, and promised to scare away any suitors who made me uncomfortable. Lucien was a good male; the best of us, even, the thought that he might be capable of such violence makes me nauseous. I have had too many life changing questions hurled my way tonight, I cannot bear another one, especially not about him.

We crest a particularly large hill and finally get a glimpse of the Illyrian riders. They’re not fighting. In fact, they’re just standing there, in formation behind Rhysand’s horse. The warlord himself stands in front of it, shrouded in that heavy cloak, facing off against Lucien and his three dismounted riders. They’re all armed, but no one is actively fighting each other, I take that as a good sign.

Though Lucien doesn’t look particularly pleased to see me riding with Azriel, nothing but unbridled horror crossing his scarred face as we approach. 

When we get to the bottom of the hill, I jump off the horse, much to Azriel’s dismay. 

Lucien takes a step towards me, but growling, Rhysand steps in front of him. “Touch her and you’re dead, Vanserra.”

The men move to let me pass through and I focus all my energy on breathing evenly as I walk towards them. Does Lucien know? Did he hide this from me too? Or was he just as blind as I was?

“Y/N, are you all right?” Lucien asks, his metal eye whirring as he looks me over. 

My chest feels like it’s gonna rip right down the middle and spill my heart right out onto the floor. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t know who I want to believe. This is Lucien we’re talking about, he would never willingly hurt me. He comforted me when my entire world fell apart, he helped Tam and I bury them. I want so desperately for all these onlookers to leave, so it’s just the three of us and the truth, but the way they all stand there, armed and ready tells me that’s not happening. There hasn’t already been bloodshed here, because Lucien was waiting for Andras to give him some sort of signal that it wasn’t necessary. Because he was expecting to be able to just kidnap me.

Why do all these males constantly treat me like I’m just an object to be snatched up on their whims?

Rhysand’s hooded head is angled in my direction, watching my approach through the stars in his cowl. I don’t like that I can’t see his eyes. He doesn’t look like the Rhysand who’d just been holding me. He looks like the male I remember from my nightmares.

And Lucien looks like someone I don’t recognize at all.

How am I supposed to make sense out of any of this? Seeing them doesn’t make it easier. 

The Illyrians shift behind me, horses snuffing in agitation, kicking up loose strands of grass. I feel their unease as easily as I can see it in the males behind Lucien. Maybe this isn’t the time for answers, maybe all I can do right now is keep them from killing each other. Regardless of who’s right here, I don’t want to see either males hurt.

“I’m fine,” I lie as I come to a stop at Rhysand’s side. His gloved fingers brush mine like he might take my hand, but he doesn’t. 

Lucien stares back and forth between us. “I wouldn’t call being kidnapped fine.”

Rhys growls again, the sound skittering over my spine, “But you’d call letting her starve to death on a solo hunt fine?”

Lucien’s mouth pulls back in a grimace. “Tam made a mistake, he admits it-”

“He admits it?” His wings shake behind him, darkness drifting in waves from beneath them until it shrouds him more than the cloak. There’s so much of it Lucien retreats a step. “How brave of him to admit he fucked up and yet he still let it go on this long before someone came looking.”

Lucien keeps his gaze on me. “It won’t happen again. We’ve talked about it. Trust me, next time-”

“There is no next time,” Rhysand snarls. “She’s not going back with you!”

Lucien’s hand falls to his sword hilt, but his gaze remains on me. “Let her come home. Let this be settled and done. Tamlin sent money-”

A whip made of starlight appears in Rhysand’s hand, knocking the bag of coins Lucien pulls off his belt from his hand and scattering it across the grass. All of the men with Lucien draw their swords, even as the redhead tightly grips his own. Rhysand can easily kill him here and he will if Lucien keeps talking. I need to diffuse this, I need them all to leave each other alone. I’m not done here, and even if Lucien won’t understand it, I can’t bear to see him get hurt.

“He’s my mate,” I say and the words taste like a betrayal.

Lucien’s face twists in a mixture of horror and disgust.

“No one is keeping me here against my will.” Well, mostly. It’s not like I’ve put that to the test, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“That can’t be true,” it comes out like a whisper, as if he doesn’t want to believe it. I suppose, if our places were switched, I wouldn’t want to either. “You did something to her.”

Rhysand huffs, “I didn’t and I wouldn’t.”

“Like you didn’t slaughter thousands for Amarantha?” Lucien snarls.

Rhysand freezes, still as death beside me.

Azriel, silent in the grass, has come up behind me, his presence a steadying energy amidst the chaos I feel swirling around us. What does he mean he killed for Amarantha? Isn’t he trying to kill her?

“That’s enough,” Azriel hisses. “The lady told you she doesn’t want to go back with you. Respect that and go.”

Lucien doesn’t move. “He didn’t tell you that, did he, Y/N?”

“Leave!” Azriel snarls.

“I’m sure he didn’t tell you how he whored himself out to her either. Why do you think the Illyrians have so much land?”

Azriel steps around me, shadows swirling, dagger in hand, but it’s Rhysand, who’s now almost wholly surrounded by a dark mist, that puts out a hand to stop him. “Everything I did, I did for my people,” he says in a voice that’s so low I almost can’t hear it over the wind. “Everything Tamlin is doing now is for himself.”

“How noble,” Lucien snarls. “If your intentions are so pure, let her go.”

Rhysand turns to look at me, pushing the cowl off his head so I can see his face. The moonlight doesn’t hide the shadows under his eyes, or the weight I see crushing down on his shoulders. It’s impossible to miss the way his wings droop behind him. My chest aches at the sight of him, something clawing in desperation beneath my skin begging me to find a way to take that burden from him. 

“Do you want to go back with him?” He asks.

I don’t know if what he’s said tonight is true or a lie, but I know here and now that if I said yes he’d let me walk away. No strings attached, if I took Lucien’s hand and got on that horse, he wouldn’t fight me.

I don’t know what I want any more. I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything I have built my life on feels like it's crumbling beneath my feet. And everyone is just standing there watching it happen. 

No one has ever offered me a choice like this before. My whole life I have been told where to go and who to be and given one taste of freedom I had still followed exactly what was expected of me, hoping that it would finally make me feel at peace. But I haven’t felt a moment of peace in all of it, except when I was in Rhysand’s arms. It’s impossible that he of all people could make me feel like that. It shouldn’t be this way. 

And Lucien, who I always considered another brother, who shared food at my table and always made me feel like I wasn’t a waste of space, was now someone I didn’t recognize. There is no sign of Rhysand’s missing rider among them. I don’t know if he’s dead or not, probably, judging by the way Lucien keeps looking at Rhys like he’s an animal. 

It’s a startling sight, not because I would have looked at him like that myself a couple days ago, but because that’s how Tam always looked at me. Like I was some thing that was so inherently wrong; some creature that needed to be tamed and bridled. Those pointed tips of the fangs I felt try to make an appearance earlier have come back, poking into my lower lip. I feel something shifting beneath my skin, a beast awakening from some deep slumber. My hands open and close reflexively at my side. The stirring feeling is strongest in my chest, right where I sometimes feel that weird pressure that’s somehow tied to Rhys.

“No, I don’t want to go back with him,” the words are steadier than I feel, my chin raised. I do not cower from them, or the fact that I mean them. Even though Lucien looks like I’ve punched him in the gut. I can’t go back. Not until I have the truth. Not until I can make sense of all this mess I feel in my head and in my heart. 

“Tamlin won’t take me back anyway,” I pull the gaps in the arms of my sweater down, so he can see the stars inked across my skin. “Nor do I feel like being tossed out again.”

“Y/N…” Lucien shakes his head, auburn hair flying around his tan face. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Rhysand won’t stop staring at me. I think he’s waiting for me to change my mind. 

“Please leave, Lucien,” I say, only looking at Rhys. I’m a terrible person, because there is so much unbridled hope in his eyes, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, waiting for me to take my chance and run; I’d been playing games this whole time, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t been playing games. 

I’d used him, taken what I needed, and had planned to throw him out when I was done. Even if he had killed me father, I was still… I was still just like my own father. The realization nearly knocks me off my feet. What have I done?

“This isn’t the end of this,” Lucien hisses as he backs up, never leaving himself exposed, even as he reaches for his mount. The horse is old, it’s mane patchy and unkept, I’m not sure how it carried Lucien here, let alone how he expected it to carry the both of us. “Tamlin will consider this a breach of your agreement.”

“We agreed not to kill each other,” Rhysand returns. “If he comes at me now, then he’s the one that broke that agreement, not me.” 

Lucien swings into the saddle with ease, mount shifting slightly beneath him. “What of my scout?”

“What of mine?” Azriel returns.

“Food for the vultures,” Lucien snarls and my heart sinks even further. What if I’ve been wrong about everybody, not just Rhys?

“Then so is yours,” Azriel returns.

Lucien leaves with the remainder of his men, no further fight for Andras life to be had. Rhysand watches them go, wings still drooped behind them like they are impossibly heavy. I should try and comfort him, as that thing in my chest demands, but I can’t. My limbs refuse to move, feet rooted in the grass. What have I done? Where did I go wrong in all of this? I was just trying to do what I thought was right, but I’m not sure I know what that looks like anymore.

“Are you all right?” Rhysand asks once they’re gone. On instinct, he’s throwing his cloak around my shoulders again, cocooning me in that blissful pocket of warmth that smells like him. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of his kindness. 

“I don’t know,” the words slip out of me. I can’t think past the roaring in my ears. What have I done?

His hand falls to my back, gently leading me back to his horse. 

“For the record-” Azriel starts, but Rhysand cuts him off, “I know, Az. Thank you for staying with her.”

I think, even as we mount back up to return to camp, we would have all been better off tonight if this had been a fight with Amarantha.

------------------------------

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[morphids]

Enmies to lovers hange zoe

Pls🤗🤗

the worst neighbour, hange zoë

i love enemies to lovers, it’s probably my fave trope of all time—ty anon <3

nonbinary, they/them hange.

summary: hange moves in next door and ruins your peace, until a storm forces you together.

warnings: not many so idk storms?? very sfw—a bit silly and fluffy really, minus some suggestive themes throughout, and a heavy makeout sesh at the end. poc friendly!! weed smoking- stoner!hange. r has autism but its not an integral part of the story. hange is also a lil mentally unwell.

wc: 5.7k of pure yap, enjoy.

—

When you first moved into your own place, away from the helicopters that are your stringent and unpleasant parents, you were so relieved that you could've levitated. Thinking you'd finally have a safe haven of your own. To decorate, eat, dress and generally live life on your own terms. Bills be damned! It was that - for maybe a few weeks? Until you spotted the 'For Sale' sign on the lawn of the semi-detached connected to your own. When exactly did that get put up?

Internally groaning, you already were catastrophizing— what if it's a family with five kids and two twin newborns? What if they're a crazy dog person and the dogs bark every hour and set each other off? What if it's a group of college kids who party every night?

So imagine your relief when you see a single van pull up, and only one, very tall individual lifting boxes into the building attached to yours. Quite an attractive person, at that. Hair messily pulled back, glasses framing their face, clad in a tank top underneath an oversized blazer and some loose pants. You had been stalking observing the new arrival through the gaps in your blinds. Praying that your silhouette wasn't spotted from the outside. I mean, look.. we all have to be wary of our surroundings, right? Lest there be a creep move in next door and you're none the wiser.

A few hours later, the big van outside had already left its spot on the side. There was a knock at your front door, revealing the very hot neighbour on the other side, holding a plate of some homemade stew.

You made your introductions, Hange was incredibly friendly, you couldn't deny, a wide smile stretched on their lips as they almost pushed the stew into your hands, saying, "I read that this is a good way to greet new neighbours!" It was a short, courteous greeting. You both returned to your homes soon after. You wanted to kiss the stars that you got so lucky with a pleasant hot neighbour. The stew ended up being delicious, by the way, saving you the effort of cooking your own dinner for the night.

That relief very quickly dissipated once you realised just how loud Hange was. It drove you insane. If you were maybe four years younger, you probably wouldn't have minded so much, but as a working adult with a regular 9-5, you found yourself seething at how incredibly absurd it was. You had no idea what Hange did, mind you, and you cursed the architect's firstborn for connecting your bedroom wall to Hange's. It was as if you lived next door to a busy night cafe, the buzzing whir of what you'd assumed was a stupidly designed, industrial-sized coffee machine. Grounding coffee beans together, followed by bangs of metal against the counter as they'd dumped the old ones into the trash. The walls were so unbelievably thin you could almost feel their exact movements. Every night. At three in the damn morning. Who drinks coffee that late?

The whirring seemed to vibrate through the entire structure of the house, reverberating through the walls as you laid your head against your pillow. You had taken to banging against the wall as revenge once, not so nicely letting them know they were keeping you up. Crashing out by yourself in the solitude of your bedroom. If there had been cameras installed you would've looked so unhinged and probably been sectioned to a ward to live out the rest of your days. A part of you was so aggravated that being sectioned felt like it would be a gentle kindness. You tried getting ear plugs—didn't help. The noise-cancelling headphones that you used when you were experiencing sensory overload? Nope, didn't help, it was like it was in between the walls vibrating your floor, even if you couldn't hear most of it, you still felt it.

After a few nights of not so passive-aggressive banging against the wall, Hange seemed to get the hint. Well, that and perhaps also the way you glared at them when you made your way back into your house after your shift. You weren't the greatest at verbal confrontation, you'd probably rather die than actually go and confront them in person. So, the nastiest glare you could muster was enough. Hange had been mowing their lawn, white tank top tight against their well-sculpted torso as their built arms glided the lawnmower over the grass. Lifting their hand up to wave at you as you ignored their advance for a conversation, scoffing as you quickly entered your house. At least they weren't cutting grass at night, too.

Not to mention the smell of weed that travelled through the walls, almost thickening the air with a haze. Look, you didn't care what people did in their spare time, wasn't like you were gonna call the cops over a joint but... Hange had already pissed you off so much, to the point where this was just a rotting cherry on top of your least favourite cake. It clung to your clothes, for god's sake! You wouldn't have even noticed if it wasn't for one of your coworkers cheerily asking you if you were holding any because they hadn't smoked in a while, creating a very awkward, "I.. don't smoke?" on your part and an even more awkward realisation from your shocked co-worker. Embarrassed that they had accidentally outed themselves to someone who could potentially report them to the bosses. You would never, but they didn't know that.

That night, you got home and washed all your laundry, deciding to keep them in a different room where the smoke remnants didn't reach, not wanting to go through a similar situation with someone else another time.

Did I mention that they were apparently a guitar player, too? It's just hit after hit. Strumming strings late into the night and you wondered how someone could have so much nocturnal energy. They weren't unskilled, in all honesty, they were just incredibly annoying.

Fortunately, the coffee machine incidents had ceased. The relief returned as you settled yourself for the first good night's sleep in three weeks, finally feeling well-rested the next morning as you got ready for work. You should've known it wouldn't last long, though. How naive of you to think your neighbour would become reasonable overnight. This time, at around midnight, you heard drilling and the subsequent falling of wood against the floor. Perhaps Hange was doing it out of spite, unpleased with your glares every afternoon. You hadn't exactly been the nicest, but it wasn't like it was unjustified. This had been building up for almost a whole month, you had grown sleep-deprived and irritable, disgustingly moody.

Huffing to yourself, you lifted your body up off the seducing comfort of your bed. Throwing on a jumper that had been left discarded on the chair, and some slides. Mentally amping yourself for what you were about to do, trying to script how you were going to politely yell at them and burst all your inner feelings about their inconsideration.

You rapped a fist at their front door, noticing how the lights were on in each room through the window. There was silence at first, then you spotted the silhouette coming closer to the door. Revealing Hange, with a dark green woollen cardigan hanging off their slender shoulders, grey sweatpants that didn't quite cover their toned midriff. Hange puffed on a joint, leaning their weight against the doorframe.

"Wha-"

“I swear to god, if you make more noise at night, ‘m gonna set your house on fire.”

Well, you hadn't quite scripted that particular sentence. Apparently, arson had been on your mind! Great, now you look insane and actively threatened your neighbour!

Hange's eyes widened, shock falling over their features as their mouth opened and closed.

"But...wouldn't that burn yours, too?" They half joked, half didn't. At your lack of response, and clearly unimpressed face, Hange sighed, continuing.

"Alright, I'm sorry, but you don't need to be such a bitch about it," They brought the joint to their plump lips again, trapped between their ringed thumb and index finger, huffing on it before blowing it out, directly in your face. You would've kept staring at Hange's nice hands as they gracefully held the joint, if you hadn't just been disrespected by the amount of smoke that invaded your nose, and been called a bitch added on top of that. You were stunned into silence  for a solid moment before your anger reignited, scoffing at their audacity.

"Are you serious?"

"It's not been that bad..."

"Again—are you serious?!"

Hange didn't answer, looking at you blankly, which doubly pissed you off even more.

"You've kept me awake for the past month! Are you aware that people need sleep or d'you just not care?"

Hange ignored the pangs of guilt, although not really wanting to explain their inner workings to a pretty stranger. Initially, Hange thought there'd be a good friendship built upon that first meeting, it'd been cordial— thinking you were a cute, inviting person, even thought they lucked out with a pretty neighbour right next door. Unfortunately, Hange quickly realised you both definitely weren't on the same page as they felt the wrath of your glares every afternoon. Maybe they were more oblivious than they thought.

Hange didn't truly realise the walls were so thin and you heard everything, honestly they thought your banging on the wall had been… something else entirely. In hindsight, they now felt a bit silly with the realisation that it was a painfully obvious noise complaint—but it's not like they didn't have their reasons.

"Relax, man," Hange sighed, lifting themself off the doorframe and reached their arm out to offer you some joint, "You need some of this,"

Unbelievable, you gaped. Honestly, if you had to sit on a court stand to explain what happened next, you'd say you blacked out. Before you could even stop yourself, you plucked the lit joint from their fingers and let it fall down on the floor, making sure to aim for the small pool of water collected on the pavement from the rainfall earlier that day. Situation was made worse by the small hiss as the water murdered the flame, effectively soaking and ruining the entire zoot. You would've felt bad, realising they must've only sparked it a short while ago, as there was a considerable amount left— but if this was your one crime against a plethora of theirs, then so be it.

"Was there any need—"

"You're a dick, you know that?"

"I'm a dick? That was a peace offering 'n you thre-"

"Fuck your peace offering, keeping it down is the best gift you could ever give me."

Hange’s brows tilted up in mild amusement, blended with a healthy amount of irritation. That was the remainder of their stash, the very last zoot that they had saved until all their tasks were done, and no dealer would be active this time of night.

Hange studied you for a moment, your arms crossed and viscerally annoyed— your lips curved to the side as you blew out a single strand of hair away from your face that kept falling into your eyes. Undoubtedly, adding to your frustration. Still cute, they thought, even though you did just absolutely desecrate their last zoot. Hange paralleled your body language, folding their own arms up to match yours.

Now, Hange definitely knew better than to say something like this, knew this had a 99% chance of making the situation worse. Yet, could they help it? Evidently not. Words slipping from their lips before they could withhold it.

"Yes, mama."

Silence.

At their words, Hange's amusement grew as the hardness in your face fell. You seemed to be going through all the different stages of grief. Trying to mask the evident flustering that overtook your features, caught off guard by the sudden switch up of energy that hung in the vacant space between you. Hange would've regretted it, would've expected you to curse them out even more— deserved it, even, had it not been for the softening of your voice and the confusion glazing over your eyes. They could've sworn there was something else lurking in there, something subtly dangerous.

"I-I, you—"

"Won't do it again, dear," Hange muttered, ceasing, "You have my word,"

Hange seemed to have a proclivity for stressing you out, it seems. A crooked smile etched on the corner of their lips as they watched you, deep, brown eyes boring into yours— almost challenging.

"Right—well, I'm...gonna go home now,"

"Alright, then."

Stepping down from their front porch, you let out the breath trapped in your ribs. You had been geared up for a confrontation, not that. What the hell even was that? Hange's voice broke out from within the silence again, in almost a mockery of friendly neighbourhood conduct.

“Always lovely seeing you,”

—

From that point, the noise had considerably decreased. You were thankful that at least something positive came from that conversation. Though, it didn't exactly simmer the annoyance lingering in your heart for Hange. You thought they were an incredibly inconsiderate asshole. Yes, they may have stopped the noise, but you couldn't simply forgive and forget the way they spoke to you. Arrogant and disrespectful. Not to mention the cocky way they ended the conversation, you hated that you had faltered at their words. Cursing yourself for your lack of a quick response and staring at them dumbly. The grudge had remained, no hatchet buried. Even if they did look like that.

You were currently all wrapped up in your fuzzy blanket, burrito style as you layered up on fabrics. The weather had been harsher than most this winter—we have the rich and wealthy to thank for shitting all over the planet and ruining the climate. Winds had been howling, trees shaking trying to stand firm against its force as you threw on the local news on your television.

You managed to catch the late part of an announcement.

"—severe weather warning, as dangerous winds from the storm expected to strike around the area. It is advised that people stay inside their homes, charge their devices and stock up on canned food. Single-person households are heavily advised to house together during this time, to account for any potential casualties—"

The television cut out with a soft click, as the lights and electricals in your house switched off simultaneously, leaving you in total darkness. If there was ever any way to freak someone out, this would definitely do it. You gaped through your window at the heavily falling rain as it splattered against the glass. Shit.

Sighing, you blindly made your way to the drawers in your kitchen. You were a bit of a candle enthusiast, so at least you had some way of illumination. Lighting the wick with some matches, you filled the darkness with a candle in each corner. It was a bit of a haunting vibe, but you could manage for the night. What was worrying you more, was the way your phone was almost out of charge. You thought of a lot of things for times like these, yet a portable charger always seemed to evade you. It was one of those, i'll buy one next time, except next time never came.

Your thoughts went to Hange, you were both considered single-person households. Perhaps, it would be safer to band together. Maybe they have a portable on hand. Battling yourself, you considered the consequences of making your way over to Hange's, asking if they had any charge to spare. Would that be embarrassing? Technically, it's for safety, humans have an evolutionary tendency to stay together in times of crisis— it's the smart thing to do. Yet, you couldn't bite back the pain of succumbing first, they might use it against you. You made your peace with the fact that if life was a survival of the fittest, you likely wouldn't make it very far.

A decision seemed to be conveniently made for you, though, as a quick repetition of knocks blasted on your door. More eagerly than you'd like to admit, you stood and answered.

Hange was stood shivering, totally drenched in the five seconds that it took to travel from their door to yours, the rain had clearly won the fight. Glasses splashed with raindrops. Their slackened hair was sticking on their forehead and cheeks, no doubt lost the fight against the wind, too.

"You can say no, but can I borrow a blanket? Turns out houses get cold with no central heating,"

You bit back a chuckle, they were just now realising that?

Hange was stood pathetically at your door, the contrast of their drenched figure against your completely dry one, was almost funny. The expression plastered over their face wasn't, though, dark eyes held a seriousness you hadn't seen in them before. Almost fearful.

"I have a few you can take."

"Thank you,"

Hange took the cue to enter your space, feeling a sense of safety with the candles brightening up the room. Grabbing some from a pile on the arm of your couch, you handed them over. Hange gratefully taking them from your grasp as they made excruciatingly slow steps towards the door. They didn't want to go back into a dark house, embarrassingly unprepared for a situation like this, they hadn't anticipated buying some candles— heck, not even one blanket.

Noticing how slowly they were walking, you spoke,

"You could dry yourself off here? Maybe get warm again before you leave?"

A look of hope flashed across Hange's eyes, as you continued, trying to blurt the invitation out into the air as quickly as you could.

"The government says that.. single occupant households should stay together—so it's the smarter choice, anyway, really."

"Well.. if the government says so, right?"

"Right! Who are we to disagree..." You say this like you ever believed the government. No one needs to know the truth, definitely not Hange. It's not that you particularly fearful of storms, but the announcement had spooked you.

There was something intuitively nipping at your gut, that there was more to Hange coming over in such a panic for just a blanket. You didn't press it.

Snuggling into the plush fabric of your couch, right in the comfortable corner, you motioned your head to indicate that Hange could also take a seat. Seeing the awkward, stiff way they were stood against the wall in your living room, even made you feel uncomfortable.

Thunder cracked in the atmosphere, booming outside as the sky lit up briefly. You didn't miss the way Hange's shoulders jerked up before they hurriedly made their way to sit down, placing a fair distance between your bodies. As one would with someone they had an altercation with only a few weeks before.

"You alright?" You couldn't help but ask, feeling like an energy absorbing rock with how obviously uncomfortable Hange was. They grabbed the pillow they had sat on and nuzzled it between their legs, wrapping their arms around the soft fabric, fiddling their fingers around the cotton tag.

"Yup.."

Heavy silence filled the air amidst the thunder and rain, the wind filling the gaps in between.

Droplets of water dripped from Hange's loose strands of hair, splashing on the pillow, leaving wet blobs seeping into the dry.

"I'll get you some dry clothes,"

"You don't have t—"

"No arguing, I'm not letting someone get hypothermia in my house."

Hange nodded, their attention back to the tag in their hands.

You quickly came back from your room with a change of clothes. Hange being slightly taller than you, you weren't sure what was best for them, or what they'd feel comfortable in. Opting for a long pair of loose shorts you usually wore for working out, and an oversized tee with a faded Hello Kitty print in the middle.

"Here, I'll leave you to get changed."

"Wait!" There was that panic again, "Could you, uh, maybe, stay? You can just turn around or something.." Their voice lowering into a whisper as they muttered the last part.

Slightly odd, you thought, but you silently nodded and turned yourself around to give Hange some privacy. Only facing them again once they gave you a 'Okay, I'm done,"

"They alright for you?"

"Yeah—thank you, they're perfect,"

Nodding again, you placed yourself back on the couch, where Hange was already comfortably placed, legs crossed with a blanket thrown over. They looked pretty cute with your Hello Kitty shirt on, cozied in your living room, perhaps it was the warm flickers of candlelight on their skin.

The air was a little awkward, neither of you quite knowing how to interact with each other. Hange was antsy, shaking their leg beside you, causing the couch to slightly rock with their movements. They seemed to catch themself doing it and ceased the movements, glancing up at you to check if they had annoyed you with the rocking. They hadn’t.

"You've been really kind to me," they muttered, "Thanks,"

"Crazy what a good night's sleep does to someone's psyche," You joked, trying to lighten the mood, hoping it came across the way you intended.

Hange cringed at your words, face twisting, "I am sorry about that, I really didn't think the walls were that thin,"

You chuckled, looking down and plucking the balls of fluff that wear and tear does to a blanket, "It's alright, I appreciate that you stopped."

"Just a little confused why you came here, though, when you dislike me so much," Thinking about the way they called you a bitch, at the ease with which it escaped their tongue, perhaps you were acting like one and it was deserved, but you couldn't deny that it struck a nerve. Hange gulped, looking down at the wooden flooring, raising a hand to scratch at the nape of their neck.

"I don't dislike you," They answered,

"You called me a bitch." You stated, straight-forwardly, wanting to clear the air and actually communicate like an adult should, instead of running from confrontation like you usually do.

"I did, and I'm sorry for that, too." Hange didn't meet your eyes, sighing, "You were right about the noise, calling you that was uncalled for."

"Thank you," You let out a breath, a weight lifting from your shoulders, "I'm sorry about your throwing your zoot in the water,"

Hange laughed, rubbing their face at the memory, "I get it, I'd probably have done the same, so, y'know."

"So we good?"

"Yeah," Hange chuckled, "We're good."

Hange reached into the wet pocket of their damp jacket, left in a pile on the floor, feeling around for something.

"It might be too soon—I don't wanna ruin your hospitality and you can say no, but can I light up? I-it helps me calm down,"

You did consider saying no, perhaps in any other circumstance you probably would've. If Hange hadn't been so visibly on edge, their shaking leg and twitching shoulders with each crack of thunder, you would've said no. Yet, with the meekness in their voice and bashful look in their eyes, you couldn't find it in yourself to.

"Yeah, go ahead," You weren't sure what to make of the feeling in your stomach when Hange's eyes glimmered up at you at your response, "I don't have an ashtray, but I'll get you an old cup,"

Hange eagerly thanked you and pulled out a small tin from their pocket. Pulling out paper and some card to roll the contents ground inside of a grinder.

Sitting back down, placing the cup on the coffee table, you watched as they rolled the bud into the paper, folding it neatly into a tight cone with nimble, lean fingers. You couldn't look away as they brought the sticky part to their mouth, tongue poking out to lick at the residue to glue the paper down. You glanced away quickly as Hange caught your gaze, breaking eye contact as a wave of shame hitting you like you'd been caught doing something bad.

Clearing your throat, you took a look at your phone, checking the time, 9:08p.m with only 3% left on the battery. Great, you dropped it back into the couch, looks like you won't get much use out of that tonight. At least you were off work the following day, the weather deemed so bad that forms of transport were stopped, halting most workplaces.

Hange hesitantly brought the lighter up to meet the tip of the joint tucked between their lips, looking up at you as if to check if you had suddenly changed your mind before they sparked it. That's kinda sweet, you thought, that even with your permission, they still double checked.

Feeling satisfied that you didn't change your mind, Hange lit the joint, inhaling a few drags before releasing it out into your room. The thick smoke whirling in the air. They rested their head against the back of the couch. Allowing you to gaze upon their neck and the small exposed part of their collarbone poking out underneath the shirt collar.

Hange seemed to feel your eyes on them, tilting their head slightly to meet your gaze again with a curious expression.

"You wanna try?" Thinking that's why you had been staring.

"Uhm— I've never done it before," You rasped, truthfully you've never been against it, but living with your hard-ass parents, you'd had a pretty straight edge life, doing things most teenagers do whilst they grow their own— drinking with your friends in a park, clubbing when you were of age. The opportunity for a smoke hadn't ever come up, so you just didn't really think about it.

"No pressure, but the offer's there if you want,"

You nodded, mulling over it. Maybe you'd like to try, after all. It probably felt nicer than being drunk and messy.

"Maybe a little?"

"You sure?" Hange hummed, the zoot clearly taking effect, they were more relaxed, less jittery.

"Yeah, just don't laugh at me if I cough,"

"Oh, you definitely will cough," Hange chuckled, "But that happens to everyone, so, 's alright."

Hange passed the joint over to you, carefully placing it between your fingers so it doesn't get dropped on the couch, and ruin your blankets.

You looked at it for a minute, bringing it closer to your mouth, "Do I just breathe it normally?"

"Pretty much, just make sure you hold it in your lungs for a sec,"

So you did, pulling air through the roach as the weight of smoke hit the back of your throat. You tried to follow their instructions, holding it in for a few seconds before you couldn't anymore, letting out the smoke into the room with a few coughs. Hange muttered a gentle, there you go, saying that's how you know you did it right, before passing you some water.

"Ouch," You grumbled, feeling a hot wave in your chest and a slight burn at your throat, "It tastes like ass,"

Hange laughed, wholeheartedly amused at your baby lungs, "It does."

It didn't deter you enough, though, taking another drag and managing to hold it without coughing this time. You saw a proud look on Hange's face, that's it, they said, you blamed the weed for making your stomach twist at their praising words.

After a few hits, you began feeling lighter, joining Hange with your head rested on the couch. Hange looked at you, the white of your eyes bloodshot as they glimmered with the candlelight. You looked pretty, eyelashes curled upwards, casting shadows on the lids as you blinked up at them.

"You never answered my question," You hummed, fiddling with the blanket, rolling it into shapes. Hange took off their glasses, the weight of them becoming uncomfortable so they placed them on the coffee table.

"What question?"

"Why you came here, you were...scared." Your question was tentative, not wanting to ruin the amiable mood.

Hange took a second to answer, choosing to puff on the remaining amount of joint instead of answering straight away, plugging it against the ceramic cup to make sure it was dead.

"I'm—uh," a pause, "imscaredofthedark." They mumbled, timid voice coming out like they were speaking underwater. So barely audible, you couldn't hear a damn thing.

"Huh?"

"I'm... scared of the dark, okay? Storms, too, i-it freaks me out." Hange shyly huffed, crossing their arms over their torso, avoiding eye contact like the plague. Even in the minimal lighting, you could see the embarrassment tainting their cheeks.

"Oh."

There was a taut awkwardness that hung in the air at their admission, and you found yourself feeling slightly bad for them. Unsure of what to say back, not wanting to make them feel worse.

"Look—'s not a big deal, okay? But.. the darkness and the howling winds, thunder—together, doesn't help..." Hange tried to save themselves, try to make it seem like they hadn't been close to quaking in the pitch black rooms of their house. Their electric bill each month was ludicrously high, lights in the hall or the bathroom staying on each hour of the night until the sun finally came out enough to shine through the windows each morning. Their bedroom always illuminated with lamps and decorative Christmas lights all year round. Hange and their parents thought they'd grow out of it as an adult. That didn't end up being the case.

"Okay," You breathed out, "Well, I've got a lot of candles." You pointed at the flickering wicks placed in each corner of the room. "So we're not totally in the dark, thankfully."

Another momentary pause, Hange hadn't responded, so you added, "It's not embarrassing, you know?"

"Yeah—thanks."

"Is that you're always up at night?" That had been bothering you for a while, surely it wasn't healthy for someone to stay up so late each night. You wondered how often they slept.

"A little," The muttered, covering their mouth with a loose part of the blanket, "I've had insomnia since I was a kid, and frequent night terrors, doesn't mix the best, I guess." They chuckled.

"So I try to keep myself busy at night with tasks, drink coffee, anything to stop from falling asleep and have another one. Most people grow out of it—I just…didn't."

You hummed, the admission making you feel bad for having such a one-sided problem with Hange the last couple of months. You wouldn't have been so angry if you had known there was more to it.

Placing your palm over the back of their hand, you squeezed, Hange looked at you, the blanket shield falling down to their chest as they lifted their head, revealing their face to you once again.

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't have been such a bitch if I knew,"

"'s okay, I didn't exactly tell you, so."

You smiled at them, and attempt to be reassuring and maybe even comforting, Hange's lips quipped up, and you looked at each other longer than usual. Hange flickered their gaze to your lips, then back up to your eyes. You felt yourself doing the same. Chest growing heavy as the air fell tender, yet apprehensive.   Hesitation outweighing want, as you realised how close you both were. Barely inches in between, lips almost meeting.

You wondered how a friendship with Hange would've developed had it not been for the mess in between. The attraction to them was undeniable, you were intrigued as soon as you set eyes on them the day they moved in.

"I really wanna kiss you," You muttered, a fleeting moment of boldness, glancing down to their lips again, they just looked so kissable. 

"What are you waiting for, then?" The corners of their lips breaking into a soft smirk, challenging you to do it first.

"Fuck," You bit the bullet, fingers threading the hair at the back of their head as you brought your heads closer, connecting your lips together. Hange sprung into action, grabbing the back of your neck closer and humming with satisfaction into the kiss.

Lips melded against each other, you sighed as you felt how soft they were. Soft and plump. Tugging at their hair, you gently nipped Hange's bottom lip, jutting it out slightly, swiping your tongue against the reddened skin. Taking the hint, Hange's mouth split open, allowing you access to enter. Hange groaned as warm tongues connected, breathing heavily at the sensation.

Pulling the blankets off—they didn't need the extra heat anymore—their hands then wrapped around the supple skin of your thighs, placing you into a straddle over their lap as they held your sides firmly. Fingers digging into your skin as you placed kisses below their ear to the bottom of their throat, their head tilted back. Hange shivered at the contact, skin raising into goosebumps as your lips touched, soft moans from their lips with their eyes shut.

Hange lifted their head, chasing your lips to meet once more, one hand placed tight at your hips, the other coming up to rub the back of your neck. Kissing Hange was delightful, you discovered, finding that you would do this forever if it was physically possible. Eventually, your lips disconnected, forehead resting against forehead as you both breathed heavily, catching breath.

Hange gazed up at you, eyes almost doe and full of mirth. Holding on to every ounce of restraint they carried in their veins, to stop themself from acting impulsively and taking you right there. You were in a similar way, but you pecked their lips again, before nuzzling your head into the crook of their neck. A silent agreement that you both should stop, perhaps do things the right way instead of acting on instinct. Sighing as Hange wrapped their strong arms around your waist, pressing a kiss into your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other's embrace until you found yourself slipping into a sleep, the weed had suddenly made you feel tired and sleep was the only way out. You mumbled a quiet, "Sorry.." before falling asleep on them. Hange chuckled as they realised they were trapped in place until you moved, but it didn't matter too much as the thought of sleep was growing more enticing.

After a few minutes, Hange fell asleep, too, arms still wrapped around you—the storm was still raging on, thunder still thundering, but it was the first night in years Hange slept without a nightmare.

—-

AHHHH anyway— hope u guys enjoyed <3