#im fucking terrified of going near certain lines

[moonlit-orchid]

Does anyone else's mothers have a problem with them staying in their rooms all day when sick or is it just mine?

[pumpkinsy0]

Ok this might seem stupid but hear me out, perhaps we could get some headcanons of papercut in the events of the book but instead of Johnny it was Curly who stabbed the soc and him and Pony had to run away together? It would also be cool to see what the Curtis AND Shepard gangs reactions are

this aint stupid,,,,ur onto something here,,,,

•ok look, not REALLY related but curly woulda loved that white trash w mustangs and madras line, this white on white violence gotta STOP💔💯

•ANYWAYS, i think he’d put up more of a fight, he’d try to get to pony but they were outnumbered so he gets cornered, HOWEVER, he always carries some weapon on him, or maybe he picked up a coke bottle, POINT IS, bob still died lmao

•i dont think curly and pony would stay around that area as long as johnny and pony did, curly would want to leave as soon as he could so nobody could see them, so ponys forced to just get it together in under like 2mins so they could leave, so ponys disassociating badly

•theyd go to tim, curly doesnt like dally and tim IS his older brother, then tim would tell dally, and they still end up at the dirty ass church</3

•now curlys shaken up too, like hes not trying to show it to look tough, but hes never done THAT before, never flat out hurt someone that badly before, but he still doesnt regret it bc it was to defend pony, however considering hes black in the 60s in TULSA, hes so certain a judge will not gaf that it was outta self defense, so actually hes disassociatin too, they both a lil fucked up rn

•back at home, dally didnt tell darry or soda where they were but tim sure as hell did, he gets what darrys goin through cause theyre both older bros worryin over their younger bros, darry doesnt know HOW to react at all to it, he doesnt tell soda nor johnny, or anyone really, when two bit says he’ll go to texas (i think it was,,,) to look for him, darry says not to bother, so they all feel like darry knows where pony is and they dint know wether to be happy or terrified bc why isnt he tellin em or getting him??

•when it comes to the shepard gang, tim did tell some of em whats going on, only his trusted guys tho, theres basically nothing they CAN do to stop word from spreading about it bc the socs who were there already went to the cops, so they all have to lay low for a while, stay in line cause tim quite honestly cant handle anything more rn

•angela’s pretty much losing it too, shes drinking more, way more irritable, if one of the shepards is gone, ALL of em r losing it dawg

•in the church, curlys trying to act like his normal self but u can tell that he’s damn near close to losing it cause this could mean prison or the death penalty, hes so sure hes done for and pony wants to reassure him but holy fuck it aint lookin too good, they do their normal banger but u can feel this somber tension between the two as if this is gonna b their last moments together

•curly is NOT talking about turning himself in at all, he’d rather kill someone else to NOT go actually, on top of that tims telling him to stay hidden, dallys tellin him to stay hidden, so thats how he knows hes GOTTA stay there

•NOW THE FIRE, just like dally, curly dont care that much bout those kids im ngl, but bc ponys running in there, now HE has to help, boooooo👎🏽👎🏽👎🏽👎🏽

•curly aint like johnny, hes grabbing those kids and pushing them out, whatever injuries they get outta that they gonna have to deal w later, its better than them being dead id think, when the church falls, honestly??? i think my main man curly gettin outta there in time, he lowkey DID push pony out the window cause he was taking too long and then jumped out bit aye, hes livin

•its either that or he risks it and takes the longer way out if like, the wood fell where the window was

•he aint livin without some injuries and scars tho, he did definitely break SOMETHING and got some burns on his hands and wherever else, but hes relatively fine, a part of the reason y is bc he wears a leather jacket, unlike johnny who wears a jean jacket, and jean jackets r more flammable, and as seen w pony, the leather jacket did help him a bit in that fire, he still is banged up tho

[ambrosialdesire]

how many driving lessons do i need in order to pass my DL test 😭 i have to take all my college courses online because i just BARELY got my permit and im too scared to drive 😭 - 🎀 (non horny post??? who is this???…)

advice pls 🙏🙏🙏

HELPPP????

bow anon you should not be asking me fr cause i failed my driving exam 4-5 times and it took like maybe 1-1.5 years for me to get my license LMFAO (my dad taught me and he's fucking SHIT at driving also he kept yelling and getting mad at lil ol me so every time i drove with an instructor, i kept panicking and blanking out 💀 I OBVIOUSLY DON'T DO THAT ANYMORE I AM A VERY SAFE DRIVER YALL 😭😭)

BUT WITH MANY FAILURES COMES MANY LESSONS TRUST LMAOO

since you're an adult, you don't technically need to record your hours and be monitored by someone who is like 25 and has a license (which, if i remember correctly, was like either 60-70 hours in all but 50/60 had to be in the daytime and 10 had to be in the night) but if you have anyone like family or friends that does have their license and is actually good at driving, i would recommend asking them for help and actually doing the hours even if you don't need to do it.

alright below this line is a whole lot of rambling about driving shit lol

when i started driving, i mostly practiced around my neighborhood since the speed limit is slow but you gotta try going into the freeway/highway a few times to get used to the speed and how everyone else drives. I WAS TERRIFIED DRIVING IN THE FREEWAY don't get me wrong, i literally couldn't go on it for months without either of my parents with me or my sibling cause i ain't dying alone (joking) but it's pretty easy since everyone else is literally only going straight until you need to exit lmao four way stops is probably the most stressful part of driving cause everyone is fucking ass at driving in them and moving every which way trying to get to their destination (prolly bc my city is the absolute worst when it comes to traffic).

15 mph for parking lots + some schools, 20-25 mph for some neighborhoods and schools (AND MAKE SURE THAT THERE'S LITERALLY NO KIDS BC I GOT IMMEDIATELY FAILED FOR THAT SHIT EVEN THO I SAW NO KIDS 😒), 30-35 mph in some roads (could be near non-gated housings or certain areas of the city, always follow what the construction sign's mph is but it's usually around this limit), 45 mph for most roads in general, 65-70 mph for most highways/freeways/rural areas (idk if i'm remembering the rural one right lol). the instructors always check for your speed so make sure you're reading your speed limit signs for the area you're in.

never speed and i'm being so serious about this, i've always hated speeders especially in the city where i live. you don't get to your destination faster, you only inconvenience everyone else, you could endanger your life and other's, and it's just a stupid fucking thing in general to lose your life over. i rarely go above 5 mph above the speed limit and depending on your city's laws, it can be allowed/tolerated. but for the test, don't go above the speed limit.

make sure (AND THIS IS IMPORTANT WHEN YOU'RE TAKING THE ACTUAL DRIVING TEST) that you COMPLETELY stop behind the big ol white line in stop signs and traffic lights. they'll dock you a lot if you make "california" stops. make sure that when you change lanes, ALWAYS SIGNAL, and visibly turn your head to check for your blind spots (i check from side mirror to back window to the furthest back window (not the trunk window but if your car has a third mirror, that's what i'm referring to)) cause the instructors eat that shit up (i still do that even tho my car has sensors cause sometimes they don't immediately sense the other vehicles when they're at a certain point).

how i remember signaling with the knob thing is right is heaven (like right hand of god so up) and left is hell (left is usually associated with the devil so down, sorry to my lefties i'm not calling you demons that's just how i remember it 😭). when you signal, push it completely up/down cause there's a mode (if you have it in the car) where you can briefly tap it and it'll signal for like 3 clicks, but i recommend during the test to push it completely up/down and to stop it, you just pull it back up (but don't do it to a force where you're gonna signal to the other side again). and when you signal, make sure there's no one there and then move in carefully and accelerate back to the normal speed. if you're in-between two cars and the one behind you slows down, make sure you slow down a little to not hit the car in front of you but fast enough to not hit the car behind you.

also make sure that your seat, driving wheel, and mirrors are completely adjusted to your liking cause it helps with visibility and safety (i'm pretty sure that the wheel has to be like 10 inches away from your body and you can adjust it to have it be closer/further from you or up and down). don't ever hard brake during the test (unless you're in danger of hitting someone/something), think of that spongebob episode where he puts his toe down on the brake gently (he ain't even a good example of a good driver LMAO), but you gotta make sure that you are braking at a distance where you're not gonna whiplash you and your passenger(s) if you press down on it too hard.

idk in your city if you have arrows that signal left turns in traffic lights, but when it's blinking yellow, YOU MAKE SURE THAT THE OTHER CARS ON THE OTHER SIDE ARE FAR AWAY ENOUGH FOR YOU TO MAKE THAT TURN BUT DO NOT WAIT FOR THEM TO BE TOO CLOSE ENOUGH TO WHERE YOU END UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSECTION WITH THE YELLOW ARROW TURNING RED!!!!! it's good to be cautious, especially since you have a random person in the car with you, but sometimes you gotta make critical decisions. if the cars on the other side are starting to clear up to where you can safely make a turn, you can slowly inch forwards towards the middle of the intersection to make your turn. make sure that when you turn into a new lane (right or left), you turn into the lane that follows into the lane. i might have to draw like a diagram of this but never go into the furthest lane from where you turn cause that's technically dangerous in the instructor's + the law's eyes.

in freeways/highways/general roads, the furthest left lane is usually for like people driving higher than the speed limit. don't know why it's legal but they're the ones that want to get to their destination quickly. don't go in this lane if you're going to drive the speed limit cause they'll get pissy and overtake you. middle lane(s) cause in my city, there can be 4-5 lanes, it is like the transition lanes. you can drive the speed limit here but it's mostly used for switching over to the exits and the fast lane. then there is the right lane, which is used for exits or slow vehicles, pretty self-explanatory. i usually go into it when i'm either a mile or two away from my exit/turn bc i still panic a little trying to get into the lane and no one is letting me in.

make sure you're always on the look-out while driving, don't stare directly forwards and don't constantly wander your eyes cause you could get into an accident. just continuously glance here and there in your front and mirrors to make sure you're not gonna hurt someone. when it's night and there's an asshole with bright lights coming towards you, try focusing on the bottom right of where your windshield is/the headlight of the car to make sure that you're not flashbanged (but be careful until that bright light car is out of sight). night driving is not too bad, just make sure your headlights are on if it's not auto and make sure you aren't tired while driving. my driving instructor in high school said that if you're tired while driving, you can park in the side of the road and do little exercises to pump up your blood again but like that's so fucking risky esp if you're a woman and it's night 💀💀

uhhhh i think that's it? if you have any more questions, i can try my best at answering them but i'm not a professional, i'm just sorta experienced in both my failures and my current driving. ALSO it took me until like 6 months to start driving by myself cause my dad got sick and i had to learn how to drive by myself to college ����

[jangofctts]

Anything at All (boba fett x fem!reader) (part one) (part two) 

Rated: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: smut, even mORE thrONE fucking, oral sex (f receiving), boba’s a biter, unprotected sex (dont be silly, wrap thAT wiLLY), vaginal fingering, explicit language, boba is a grouchy dom kwjhgjh       

a/n: anyway I think yall forget im a writer and not just a Certified Clown, but anywAy here we be. HAPPY NEW YEARS ya FILTHY anIMALS im so thankful for all yall and im glad I can provide you with some entertainment kaejhejhr

  You haven’t seen Boba Fett in days. 

Called away on business you’ll never be included in or know the fine details about. It’s not kept away from you because he doesn’t trust you, or thinks you’re a mindless idiot—no—he’d rather keep his princess occupied with prettier things. No need to concern yourself with the the underbelly of what he now rules. 

You’re not upset about it—you’re not really a fan of watching petty squabbles that’ll result in someone’s chest being imploded by a blaster. You’ve seen enough of it in the cantina, and while you were never the one tasked with clearing the bodies out—it was still mildly traumatizing. Eh—no need to dwell. 

You’ve got other shit to do anyway. 

There’s a seemingly endless zigzag of secret hallways and dusty rooms within the palace, teeming with strange knickknacks and ancient artifacts that are more than likely cursed. Definitely haunted—but it doesn’t stop you from exploring or sorting through the useless junk. Besides—Fennec stayed behind, acting as your glorified babysitter for the past few cycles—ensuring your safety from both whoever dared step foot into the palace and the ghosts. What a lovely woman. 

Speaking of which—you hear her sigh and shuffle, shifting her weight onto her other foot as she leans back against a dusty crate. She picks at the dirt beneath her fingernails, lazily glancing up every now and then to check that you haven’t eviscerated yourself on a piece of scrap metal or something. Lucky for her, all you found today was an abandoned crate of old datapacs shoved in the back corner from what you assumed to be some sort of office. Yesterday you found a sword that was promptly confiscated.  

“I’d be careful snooping around in those,” Fennec warns as your fingers find the on switch. “You never know what sorta data the Hutts were keeping here.”

You shrug and wave away her concern, reading over the information that flickers across the screen. “I think I’ll be ok…See?” You pointedly wave the datapac in her direction. “This one is about the finances. Spooky.”    

Fennec rolls her eyes followed by an amused smirk that ghosts over her lips. You toss it aside and root around some more, pulling out another datapac. The blue hologram flickers to life and as you decipher the little lines of text your face falls. Each line is a name, previous and recently bought or traded people that crossed the threshold of the palace. Fennec was right. This isn’t fun anymore.    

“These are…slaves.” Your lips curls in disgust. “How is this still not outlawed? It’s barbaric.”      

“You’re not from Tatooine, are you?” Fennec asks as she meanders over and wrestles the datapac out of your hands. She switches it off and tosses it back into the dusty crate. You huff and cross your arms over your chest.  

“No,” you agree. “Im from Arkanis. But even there we don’t have slaves.” 

Fennec squats beside you, her elbows resting over her bent knees. She playfully taps your shoulder with the back of her hand and quirks a brow. “What’d I tell you—snooping doesn’t do anyone any good.”

You roll your eyes and shrug, a frown still etched on your lips. Fennec sighs, rubs her chin and then reaches out to push a stray hair behind your ear. A flush blooms up your cheeks at the gentle touch. 

“You have a sensitive soul, Kitten,” she chuckles, poking at your cheek that you’re certain she can feel the heat emirate from. “You said you were from Arkanis—tell me about it. Why come to Tatooine?”

Your lips quirk in a tiny smile as you bat away her pointer finger, saving your cheek from another poke. “Hey—not everyone likes rain ok?” You huff. “Besides, Tatooine wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

She nods. Unsure what exactly to tell her--a silence ensues. It’s not terribly awkward but it’s enough that makes you jumpy and itching to move on from this room now stained with information you weren’t prepared on finding. You stand suddenly, brush yourself off and mutter under your breath about finding something less…heartbreaking. 

Fennec jumps up as well and when you leave the room her hand clamps over your shoulder. She spins you around and levels her gaze onto you. “You’re free to leave whenever you like. You know that right?”

Your brows furrow. “I know—don’t worry, I want to stay.”

Her head bobs with a satisfied nod. “We’d miss you if you left. You’re nice to have around.”

You blush again and mumble out a thank you, shooting off into another unexplored location to escape Fennec’s knowing smirk. Maker—you’re embarrassing.  

                               -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Boba returns later that afternoon—the shadow of his familiar figure stretches around the curved stairway, the purposeful stomps of his boots against the carved steps following with it. Your heart flutters within your chest, like a distressed creature with wings as you jump from your makeshift seat.

You come face to face with Boba. Or, helmet rather—whatever. 

The smell of hot metal and dry air sticks to him as he paces closer, closing the small gap that separates him from you. You’re frozen beneath the heavy weight of his stare behind the void like black of his visor as he plants himself firmly before you, close enough that his cuirass could brush your chest if he puffed out his own chest.   

“Hi…” You smile, a fragile vale of uncertainty blanketing the pair of you—still attempting to feel out his mood, sort through the general gruffness of his personality and gage wether or not you could reach out and touch him. The helmet is a tricky thing to read and his body language gives nothing away. You swallow your nerves take a leaping risk.   

“Let me see your face.” You murmur. You move your hands up to the edges of his helmet at a snail’s pace, giving him ample time to slip through your fingers—wedge a sharp thorn between whatever it is that you’ve built and name it for what it is.

He doesn’t choose that option. 

With a low hum, Boba dips his helmet closer to your outstretched fingertips instead. The metal is cool under your palms as they fold over the sides of the helmet and pull up. The metal whispers against his skin like wind through tall grass as the point of his chin peeks out, followed by his lips, his nose, and finally those golden brown eyes. They glitter with amusement as you release a shaky breath, the helmet the only thing acting as a barrier as you clutch it near your sternum. His mouth quirks when you blush and glance away—focusing on the little silvery nicks the green paint refused to cover. You rub your thumb over the blaster pockmark that dents the metal—you frown. You hope that wasn’t recent. 

Boba gently pries the helmet out of your hands and sets it onto the armrest of his throne. He purrs your name and pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, leading your attention back to him. Your eyes flit up his scars—your breath catching in your throat as he smiles.

“Hello, princess,” he says—the grit and timbre of this new nickname jumpstarting your heart to skip and choke on its own tireless beat.

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth and shake your head. “Boba, I’m not—“

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence—

Boba spreads his fingers over your jaw, tilts your head and swoops down to meet your lips in a dizzying kiss. Hard, hungry, victorious, breathless—like he’s spent years fighting and only now takes a moment to slow down—drown in the softness of your lips and skin. His hands claw at your arms, your clothes, your hair—like you’re the spoils of battle and he fears losing you to the shadows of his past and some hidden horror that nips at his heels. He kisses like a man terrified that this will be brief, intangible and something that’ll abandon him.

He trails after your lips when you break away—your lungs heaving for precious air. He doesn’t let you go far, ensuring your positioning by tangling his fist into your hair at the nape of your neck and scraping his lips up your cheek, enticing you into another kiss. You tilt you chin to meet him with equal fervor, whining as his warm tongue curls sweetly into your mouth. His existence fills your veins with liquid silver—evokes the bloom of crackling star fire beneath the cavity of your ribcage. Every thought starts with him and ends with your heart aching to burst into a million tiny shards.   

The next time you part,  Boba is the first one to pull away. He cups your cheeks between his weathered hands and plants a tender kiss just below your hairline. You swear you can feel the skin buzz from the touch—like every atom in your being was solely created for him to command and conquer. You sigh and lean into his palm. 

“I missed you.” You admit with a small smile. 

Boba leans closer and presses another kiss to your forehead. “And I you, little one.”

“I got worried, y’know,” you continue, your fingers tapping a trail up the front of his chest plate. You trace the repainted insignia with your fingernail and flash him a coy smirk. “You never called—thought maybe you found a new pretty thing.”

He grunts, shakes his head and sweeps a rogue strand of hair behind your ear. “Hilarious—my hands are full enough with you hounding me every five minutes.”

You puff out your bottom lip and feign offense, mumbling some lame whine like a petulant brat. Boba snorts and crowds closer. He presses his gloved thumb between your furrowed brows, smoothing out the wrinkles and then cups your cheeks between both palms. You freeze as he carefully knocks the crown of his forehead onto yours—it’s sweet.

An excited smile splits when he moves his head to your right, the syllables of each word rolling off his tongue sweeter than spiced honey. “I’ll make it up to you, pretty thing,” he whispers by your ear, his warm breath disturbing the fine hairs there. “How does that sound, hm?”

That’s not even a question you would ever dream of denying—you quickly nod. “I’d like that.” 

Boba drops his hands from your face and peels himself away. His eyes trickle down your figure—calculative and analytic—planning out each move to pick apart the entirety of your being. “Take everything off.”

You comply without a second thought—slipping free from the breezy cotton and scratchy poncho you stole from a storage room. The fabric pools at your feet in an unceremonious pile—leaving you bare for him. Despite the sickening dry heat that pollutes the air and causes beads of sweat to gather at your hairline—goosebumps rush up your arms under Boba’s piercing stare. 

Boba’s eyes flicker to the throne. A feral grin tugs at his lips. “Sit.”

This time you hesitate. Did he…? No—you must’ve heard wrong— 

He quirks a brow and gestures to the throne. “Well? Are you going to listen?”

Your tongue slides over your chapped lips. “O-ok..I just—never mind…”

Scrounging up some courage, you gingerly seat yourself onto Boba Fett’s throne. Chills race along the entirety of your body as the freezing metal seeps into your warm flesh. You squirm and beat away the urge to wrap your arms around yourself—he wouldn’t like that—probably would take it as some sort of insult anyway—

All your current discomforts melt away in a fraction of a breath as Boba Fett lowers himself to one knee, and then the other. A king kneeling before his very own throne for someone like you. Someone who’ll be lost to the pages of history and the endless swirl of galaxies and supernovas—you’re nobody to the world, but to him you’re everything. You inhale a shaky breath as a strange stroke of pride alights through your body as he peels off his gloves and maneuvers himself flush against the edge of the throne and between your thighs.    

Boba bows forward and slips his calloused hands around your ribcage to tug you closer. His lips land over your collar bone, slides his tongue over the protrusion then sinks his teeth into you there. You gasp as he slides lower, leading a trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake. Boba moves his palms, up and in to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples. A whimper escapes past your lips as he catches the pebbled bud between his lips, the hard enamel of his teeth scraping over it—meant to tease. Your nails dig into the fabric bunched around his neck as he moves on to suck your other nipple, the cooling saliva sending a chill down your spine as it dries.

You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core. You’re already wet—worked up and impatient. You roll your head back onto your shoulders and bite your lip. If you complain and tell him to hurry up you’re scared he’ll leave you like this—deny you that pleasure you’ve been craving for days.  

It feels like ages before he moves on from your breasts, now smattered with bruises and his saliva, and carves out a blinding path down your sternum, your belly, then your navel with his tongue. Boba circles your bellybutton—you force down the ticklish nerves and stay still for him. 

You don't mean to jump as his rough hands drop over your knees. You barely get out the first syllable of an apology when his hands slip up your bare thighs, curl around the swell of your ass and yank. You squeak as the edge of the throne bites into your tailbone, the majority of your lower half forced to lean on Boba’s shoulders and his greedy hands. He kisses the inside of your knee—you jolt with an airy gasp. 

Boba picks up his head and smirks. “Look at me when I taste you, little one.”

Mouth suddenly drier than dust, you nod dumbly. 

He hums, satisfied with your weak response and continues on.  

Boba’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver. They sweep up towards the apex of your thighs, settling close enough to reach your aching center. You know he’s there—it’s impossible to ignore him—but you curse anyway when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They steadily work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. 

“Patience, princess,” he rumbles, shifting his weight to better reach your cunt. “Maker—you’re dripping already.”   

There's a moment just before Boba commits, his face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, hot breath, anticipation gripping your chest. And then he licks a broad stripe from the base of your pussy all the way up to your swollen clit. 

His mouth Is searing, his tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his head. He grunts against you as you drag him closer—greedy for everything he deems you worthy of. Boba’s mouth pinpoints around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter—it’s a struggle not to shut them completely. He asked you to watch after all… 

He then trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your entrance, skips over it completely to lick at the wetness dripping lower that threatens to pool onto the throne or the floor. He opens his mouth wide and hums in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. 

“Fuck—Boba,” you cry, canting your hips into his mouth. 

It's perfect. So fucking good. 

The tips of his thick fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the fluttering ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The two digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness, glinting in the low light. With a smirk, Boba thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that he refuses to stray from. It leaves you just hovering along the sharp edge of oblivion, the catch of his knuckles and calloused skin along your walls pure torture. Stars—he’s going to be the death of you—

Your hips arch into him, trying to urge him to go faster. Instead, he slowly retracts his fingers and removes his mouth. You gasp in frustration as your cunt clenches around thin air. It almost hurts. 

“I told you to be patient,” Boba chuckles, massaging a warm palm along the outside of your thigh. “You’re behaving like a brat.” 

“I’m—I—I’m sorry—“ You wheeze, trying to rope in some self control that fled a long time ago. Your wits are scrapped thin as you throw your hand against the back of the throne. You don’t care that he’s rendered you to a begging mess, your words slurred and hardly understandable. You're so close to diving off the edge—so near to those plush lips and weathered hands that’ll surely become your salvation. "Please! P-please—I need..." 

You're babbling as he drags his fingertips over your thigh, skims over your cunt, and traces a pattern into your opposite thigh. "Boba. Fuck. I pro-promise to be better—I can do it. Please—“

He complies.

Two fingers are thrust up into your dripping cunt, curving so deliciously into something that feels like unrefined plasma bolts. His mouth dips down and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight. 

You're flying off you’re high, faster than a fucking speeder with tampered gears. You cum onto his tongue with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Boba keeps licking you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Stars implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jetfuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Boba, and feel the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 

Your brain swims in hazy bliss and fuzzy pleasure as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it hurts. You're too sensitive. Your nerves are rubbed raw and you're still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. He takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a blade against flesh. Your thighs quiver around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves that wrenches a cry from you. Your orgasm floods through you veins, bursting and rupturing every cell in your being. This one is blistering—charrs all the way to the fucking bone. Your core pulses around Boba’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease into a dull throb. You whimper and push at his forehead because he's still licking at your cunt. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. 

Boba leaves absolutely no time to completely float down from your high—you squeak as his hands shoot up to grab at your hips, wrenching you off the throne and all but throwing you onto the same floor he kneels on. You flash him a dopey grin, letting your legs fall open for his enjoyment—

“Such a filthy princess,” he chuckles, extending a hand to cover your knee, bending it further out to expose more of your flushed cunt. “You taste sweeter than star cherries.”

You preen at his compliment. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

It earns you an amused huff. Boba scrapes the hand resting on your knee to the apex of your legs, thumb and forefinger gently parting your delicate, slick folds. You bite back a keening whine, utterly exposed to him as he slips the hood back from the throbbing knot of nerves at the top of your slit. Too raw. Your pussy clenches involuntarily, causing everything from your toes to your hips stiffen. Boba hums in delight at his handiwork. 

“Stars, Boba—please…” You beg, voice breathy and soft like whips of spider silk. Boba makes a sound that oozes with smug pleasure, teasing your sore clit with unadulterated glee. “Please,” you hear yourself whimper over your pounding pulse, shifting in his grasp and praying he’ll put an end to this sickly sweet torture.

“Pretty little thing, begging for my cock…” He rasps, darkly threaded sin and the husky scrape of the gray sea licking up jagged, black rock. You’re certain he could talk you into unraveling at the seams, untouched and putty in his hands for him to mold and shape. Boba’s other hand sweeps up your sternum, his fingertips dancing along the mythosaur pendant coiled around your neck. He then curls his thick fingers around the base of your throat and ever so lightly squeezes. “Poor baby—all worked up after a few days…I’ll fix that for you.” 

Before you can fully process, he grabs the swell of your hip and flips you onto your belly. The air from your lungs is knocked out of your chest, the abrasive sandstone bitting into the points of your elbows and patches of your skin and no doubt leaving behind irritated scrapes. You hear the shuffle of fabric and then Boba suddenly seizes your hips and arches them into his crotch, grinding the deliciously hard length of his cock through your wet folds. Throbbing and just as desperate as you are, Boba refrains from flinging you into another bout of teasing. He slicks himself up with your arousal and drags the tip of himself to your clenching center and sinks that first, glorious inch inside of you. 

With a low groan, Boba pushes in deeper, watching your tight hold flutter and accommodate his thick length. It’s the same as before during that night in the cantina—dreadfully full and all but bursting at the seems. The gentle rocks of his hips and gravelly praise eventually allow him to finally bottom out, his sharp hipbones resting against the swell of your ass as you shudder and groan. Fuck—

You can feel him in your fucking guts. 

Boba grants you a brief moment to settle and then—it’s catastrophic. 

Your jaw drops in a silent scream when he pulls back, all the way to the tip and slams back into your tight heat. Boba’s hand tangles into your hair at the nape of your neck and and pulls, forcing your back into a sharp arch. The action leaves more of you open, somehow pressing in even further. He hits so deeply within you—stars it feels like he’s splitting you open and laying you bare. 

His dark chuckle resonates above you—a bit breathy as he tames his own frazzled nerves. “Shit—that feels good. Doesn’t it, princess?”

Your incoherent babble makes him laugh as he gives your hair a playful tug, all the while he never stops thrusting in and out of you. You wiggle your hips, the slight shift makes it ache, and the sharp downward thrusts put delirious pressure on that patch of nerves that renders you dizzy. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s a tightly spooled cable, fraying and an inch away from snapping. Your gasping breaths pitch into airy squeaks as the fist twisted in your hair tightens, tugging your head back just a bit more.

Boba lurches foreword, the nip of beskar a frigid shock to the bare skin of your back when he lays over you, his elbows caging you in close. His head drops onto your shoulder blade, pressing sloppy kisses over the arch of your throat and slope of your shoulder—without warning he sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck. Maker save you—

The feral drag of Boba’s teeth digging into your sensitive flesh skin makes you squeeze around his cock—Boba answers with a soft growl that vibrates against the skin of your shoulder. Somehow he fucks into you harder, his pace becoming brutal. Your nails scrabble against the floor, searching for some sort of anchor as you wail under him.

It’s too much—fuck, you’re gonna implode. Pinned between the rough sandstone and the hand in in your hair, mixed with the sharp pain of his teeth marring your skin—you loose it. Sensing your peaking orgasm, Boba’s fingers wedge between your legs to toy with your clit. He rubs quick circles with two fingers as he purrs words of filth into your ear—how good his pretty thing is for him, how well you came for him, how tight you are. 

“There you go, little one,” Boba says, his words like a tendril of dark smoke. “Cum for your king.”   

His efforts are quickly rewarded as you shudder and lock up harder than durasteel beneath him. A blinding surge of vicious heat, knocks you clean off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs as your nails dig into the sandstone—trembling and grappling blindly for a foothold in your own head. The cold chest plate is a much needed anchor for the overwhelming intensity that threatens to drown you and bury you six fix under.   

He bites down again when he cums, his hips digging into you with short, rough jabs. “Fuck—you take me so well.” You squirm, feeling his cock throb and spill into you, making the mess between your legs smear over your thighs. His thrusts stutter to a stop as he sighs deeply and pulls out, a mixture of his cum and your arousal spilling onto the floor. Boba huffs above you, drags a finger through your swollen folds and pushes it back inside of you. “Good girl.”

You shiver—reduced to a useless puddle with no intent from moving off the floor as Boba’s weight moves away. You could sleep here—that’s something completely plausible you think. Nice, warm dirt—

Boba purrs your name—the sound piquing your interest enough that you overcome the heaviness that’s settled in your body and move your head. He’s returned to his throne, cheeks a bit flushed and his chest rising and falling to recover precious air. You watch as Boba peels off his cuirass with practiced ease, and lays it with care onto the floor. He murmurs your name a second time and pats his lap, coaxing you off the floor. 

You happily slither onto his thighs, exhausted and all too eager to be swept up into the warmth of his arms. He grunts as you tuck your head under his chin and cuddle into his chest, relishing the rough scrape of his palms folding over your shoulder and the outside of your thigh. His soft breaths tickle the top of your head paired with the quiet, but steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath your fingertips and ear pressed onto his sternum. Your eyes flutter shut and though a hushed silence falls over the room, there’s nothing to be said. 

Boba tucks his nose into your hair and you smile, the slow speak of your heart unraveling into a lush garden of something new and brittle—like flakes of frost in the early morning sun. He’s more bruise than bleed nowadays—a wound closed then reopened and he promises nothing of a future beyond what you have in these moments. And yet—

You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. 

taglist: @goldafterglow @djxrxn @velvetmel0n @steeeeeeeviebb      @stargazingcarol @ohiobluetip @anxiety-riddled-mando @absurdthirst @thesoftdumbass @huliabitch @max--phillips @silverfish-kingdom @krissology @teaofpeach @pettyprocrastination @nelba​ @beskars​ @jango-fettish​ @corrupt-fvcker�� @cobbvader​ @maybege​ @clonewarslover55​ @auty-ren​ @legally-a-bastard​ @bigdickdindjarin​ @thesparkleslugs​ @cryptid-candy​ @mandowhorian​ @pascaliprincess​ @mitchi-c​

[quirkle2]

HC's for Warriors during the War of Eras? Please? :)

HMMMMMMMS please forgive the late response my head is made of Hollow Rocks . and also my memory of the happenings of hw is bit fuzzy so sorry for any inconsistencies or incorrect stuff

i personally headcanon that everything during the hyrule warriors dlc/legends parts never happened. meaning he never met toon/wind there; nor mask/time; doesn't know marin, tetra, ravio, etc. this isn't rly anything to do w an actual problem w the dlcs i have, it's just that i generally dislike time travel shenanigans (it is a Miracle i like lu in general actually, now that im thinkin abt it). it makes everything confusing and it's VERY hard not to create paradoxes and paradoxes make me so . sosossoso os [explodes]

basically anything past the shining beacon scenario is Not In My Head and therefore has not been experienced by our dear boy warriors linked universe

it makes it a bit less confusing for me, rly, and it also means that wars didn't let two children (toon, mask) fight in a war . i don't think he'd Ever do that if he could help it (unfortunately wind is not spared from a journey w him later .... even then, wars wishes he could've prevented him from the physical/mental harm lu may have brought on. he may be a damn good hero and very capable, but that doesn't mean wars doesn't regret letting all the trauma seep into him)

other than the many, many (many) scars and burns he gets throughout the war, it obviously deals a great amount of damage to his mind as well. he was fucked up Before the war in a sorta different sense (terrible father, stifling home, forced to dedicate all his time into being smth he didn't want to be, conditioned to overwork himself, fear of abandonment). but the war brings a lot of new stuff:

paranoia is a big one. every time he enters a room his eyes dart to all the exits. he is Never unarmed and always carries at least his dagger w him. sometimes he gets days where the Dread is too much and he's jumpy and easily startled and keeps looking over his shoulder. there's been times where somebody taps him to get his attention and he Whips around and has his dagger to their neck in a second (he always feels terrible abt it afterward and apologizes profusely)

^ that extends to the paranoia he has abt people not actually being who they appear to be. a wizzrobe during his game could shapeshift into other people and be nearly indistinguishable from the real deal. sometimes when his friends/allies have an off day where they don't quite act like themselves, he can't help but be wary of them and watch them closely. he doesn't mean to not have faith in his allies, he just,,,has trouble thinking of anything else

i've mentioned his big fear of fire. in the future, any moment he's ever w the chain and they visit the deku tree he can't look at it without seeing it up in flames. after his final fight w volga and having the memory of a giant dragon pinning him down and shooting fire at him at point blank range, he's likely . never going to get over that fear

ohhhmy god he is FUCKED UP!!!! FROM THE GREAT FAIRIES!!!!!!!!!!

bad claustrophobia 100%. but the great fairies also just like . straight up take him out of the bottle they trap him in and just . torment him. it's Fucked Up actually. they slash at him w swords, rain Giant Bombs down on him, summon Levias to Fucking Strike Him with Lightning Several Times. literally WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!

in the future Anytime the chain goes near a great fairy wars just . stays near the back. or better yet he simply waits outside/a very very far distance away. he's terrified of them for numerous reasons

i also like to think that most of his men adore him and think he's a damn good captain. and during the war there was a certain lil band of em who would dare stray out of line to simply ask him if he's Okay. it may seem,, rude, to speak out of line and out of turn, but wars was never the type to gripe about little things like that anyway. and he ? rly appreciated the fact that they bothered to ask. especially when they thought they might've gotten in trouble for it

and lastly, when he was younger wars was !!! a bit naive. and while his mother had always taught him that the world was good and there was sm good In It and so many reasons to love it, it might not have had the desired effect on him in the long run. he grew up thinking that everybody was simply . good. and that made it all the more challenging for him to identify whether or not he was being used or played or even abused. he's told that everything is good and he should be good too, and then he's immediately thrust into an environment that is decidedly Not Good, but he's 9 years old and who is he to think his mother wrong ? mom Must be right. This must be good

aaalllll the way up until he's 18, he's sorta convinced that the world would never need this many soldiers to defend their land, bc who in their right mind would kill people just for the sake of power ? it's a very innocent way of thinking, and it isn't until literally his First mission out in the field, right before he's revealed to have the triforce of courage and he's promoted, that he learns that not everybody is good. he's ripped from believing such nice, tame, wonderful things and immediately faced with literally some of the most horrible sights a person could ever witness. sure, his father prepared him for a war, but his mother had prepared him for a world that's much softer than this. and he tended to take his mother's advice much more to heart than his father's

[silkylious]

Limbo (Bakugo Katsuki x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: bakugo katsuki x female reader warnings: heavy angst, eventual tiny bit of fluff at the end

omf this request is so nice i feel so bad that my writing is literally garbage in this, but thank you sm for requesting this!! <3 and im so sorry if i didn’t do your request justice (i legit hate my writing here :’))

To say the state of your relationship was unbearable would be the euphemism of the century.

Your thoughts often ran amuck, always hopelessly crawling back to that one despaired curiosity; wondering if he shared the same sentiment about your wishy-washy “friends” status as you did. He probably didn’t. That’s the seemingly unshakable brick wall that would inevitably dead-end your lovesick daydreams, each and every time. Though when his roughed-up hands linger on your skin a millisecond too long, when his steeled stare melts, hard rubies morphing into blazing lava pits, threatening to mar your very heart and soul with their scorching intensity –you’re not exactly certain you’d mind that– that’s when a flicker of something ignites within you. Hope, longing, doubt. Whatever it is, it terrifies you. Because you’re agonizingly aware of what that entails. He’s got you hook, line and sinker, but torturously he refuses to do anything with that. Almost like pulling someone in for a hug then abruptly and without explanation stopping midway, he keeps you at arm’s length. Not too far, not too close. And how that cycle destroyed you.

Katsuki was the type to jump into action and ask questions later. Except a lot of the times when these questions pertain to his own emotions, he didn’t even try to answer them, opting to shove them to the corners of his psyche, collecting dust, steadily accumulating until they become too much to ignore and he (sometimes quite literally) explodes. It’s a vicious loop that he could never break away from, he’d even come to find a sordid comfort in it. His coping mechanism was by no means healthy, far from it, but he’d grown familiar to the toxicity.

Katsuki couldn’t make heads nor tails of his feelings for you. Whenever he impulsively threw himself into the lion’s den that was your affection, caught in the moment, in the glimmer of genuine adoration in your eyes, he never came back the same. A piece of his heart would irreversibly split off and reside in the palm of your hand, he was scared that nothing would be left of it, that he wouldn’t be able to regain his bearings until it was too late. You so effortlessly juggled with his feelings, all with a single smile, it scared him that you had so much power over the fluttery sensation in his chest and yet, in the moment, it felt good. It felt so good to indulge in whatever fucky feeling was messing with his head, to let you hold him in the depths of obscurity with all prying eyes shut and what little words exchanged hushed. It felt so alleviating to feel skin on his own (for once not in battle), gentle, comforting but not coddling. It was unspoken between you that you were both more than friends. You knew it, he knew it. Neither of you ever mentioned it. What neither of you knew, however, was how far the other’s feelings ran.

But as high as your silent love made him feel, he crashed back down into the concrete when he was left to his own devices. Without your intoxicating scent, distracting touches fogging his rationality, Katsuki had all the time in the world to overthink. And overthink he did. His pride picked apart the delicate flowering in his heart, ripping it petal by petal until nothing was left but a garden of beautifully withered leaves, a condemnation to what he considered a weakness.

Katsuki was a taker by every sense of the word. Basking in your wispy adoration, only to brush you aside in favor of focusing on academics once he’d had his fill of your love. It was sickening.

Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t outright confessed to him, maybe that’s what soothed the overbearing guilt that crawled up his throat whenever he saw that dejected face of yours, the one you made because of him. If your feelings for him ran deep, surely you would have said something by now, at least that’s what he thought. Or more precisely, that’s the excuse his mind conjured up in hopes of easing his conscious, trying to convince himself that self that yes, he was hurting you, but at least he wasn’t hurting you that bad. He was infinitely aware that this doesn’t put him in any sort of moral high ground, nor does it justify his actions, but, again, it was a last-ditch effort to relieve his anguish if just by a little bit, even if he knew that excuse was bullshit.    

Surely he knew, there’s no way in hell someone as hawk-eyed as him didn’t notice the tyranny he held over the porcelain pitter-pattering of your heart, didn’t notice the fleeting, love-filled glances you sent his way. This was getting ridiculous, you were starting to believe he was taking some twisted sense of pleasure from your heartache, but he wouldn’t do that, right? He didn’t derive some sick kick out of having you indefinitely under his thumb, at his beck and call… right? A few months ago, you would have answered those uncertainties with a resounding “No!” defending his cruel behavior till the bitter end. But now…

Now you weren’t so sure.

And yet you still found yourself in his dorm, on his bed. It was supposed to be another study gathering, but one thing was glaringly missing. Y’know… the gathering. Kirishima was out training and he hadn’t bothered to invite the rest of his brain-dead, self-proclaimed squad. And that’s how you found yourself alone. With your best friend and secret crush. Just dandy.

Your hands were restless. Pulling at the seams of his blanket, cracking your own fingers, picking up your pencil for a brief moment of concentration, answering one or two questions only to drop it back on the mattress again and fidget some more. Katsuki wasn’t fucking blind, and your unease was ticking him off. Though he surprisingly hadn’t said a thing about it just yet, he was clearly nearing his wit’s end. His silence didn’t prevail for much longer, the meek sigh and not so subtle glance you chanced his way being his tipping point.

“What.” It came out as a statement, a demand rather than a question. What was he demanding? He hadn’t thought of that yet, his temperamental limbs already taking the wheel and pressing on the gas without a destination in mind, just being short fused for the sake of it. Was it even his place to be making demands in this situation? Katsuki knew the answer to this one like the back of his hand, a solid no.

“What…?” You really had no idea what Bakugo was expecting with a question like that. He still had the audacity to roll his eyes.

“The hell’s got you so jumpy?”

“It’s nothing…” It was a lot more than nothing, that’s for sure.

“Don’t lie to me, (name). What the fuck is up with you?” Ah, there it is again. That look. His words were as cut-throat as ever, and his mouth was still pulled into that seemingly permanent scowl. But his eyes conveyed something that was whole worlds asunder from his harsh tone. Golden brows furrowed as they usually were, though unusually upturned just the slightest bit. You despised that look. It ensured that you’ll forever be caught in his grasp, forever there for him when he never spared you the time of day.

Your lungs constricted by a force of gorgeously wretched agony. Katsuki wasn’t fair when he bared his soul to you like this, it filled you with such fervent euphoria that torrefied its way through your being, singeing your veins with luminous infatuation. And it hurt. Because you knew he’d cage himself right up as soon as the moment of vulnerability perished.

A crystalline sheen permeated your vision. This wasn’t going to end well.  

“I said it’s nothing,” Your voice raised. You hadn’t meant for the words to be as frosty as they came out, but it seemed like your subconscious was utterly done with the tedium of heartbreak he keeps putting you through.

“What is fucking wrong with you? I was literally just asking why you were being so goddamn obnoxious today and then you go and make a big fuckin’ deal out of nothing!”

“Well, maybe I’m just fucking tired of giving you everything I have and getting nothing in return, Katsuki!”

Your chest rose and fell with each scalding breath that entered your lungs. The blood through your veins was pumping. Never had you been confrontational, and your sudden outburst wasn’t exactly welcome to your system. You wanted to vomit. This was not how you wanted things to turn out, you absolutely needed to leave, distance yourself from the emotional strain he was inflicting on you.  

Without taking notice of the panicked glint in the cherry red of his irises, you bolted out of the suddenly claustrophobic room, leaving Katsuki to stare at his agape door before flickering his unfocused attention to your supplies still laying on his bed.

Katsuki erupted time and time again, with you being as patient as a receiving end could ever be. It’s specifically because of your godly patience that he never considered what he would do once you erupted.

With your back sliding down your dorm room door, and little friction stopping your descent, you wondered and maybe even wished he’d call after you, come banging on your door with bristling apologies on the tip of his tongue. However, the jarring reality was very clear to you. You’d decided on that day, with your head buried in your tear-stained pillow, that these were the last tears you’d ever shed on him, that you were going to put him through the same wringing hell he’d put you through.

You were going to ignore Bakugo Katsuki’s existence just like he’d periodically ignored yours.

The following week had been bleak at best and excruciatingly bitter at its worst for the both of you. It was so strange having to adjust to the absence of the other, even if your company more often than not had been a quiet one, it was company nevertheless. The most grueling part though, was your shared friend group. They’d noticed that something was obviously awry, but since neither of you said a thing about it, they decided it would be best if they didn’t either. The awkward dead silences during lunch were still purgatory to behold. But after a few more slow paced days, the sun seemed to shine bright again. For you, that is.

You didn’t realize how much of your schedule revolved around Bakugo until he was completely out of it. How much time you spent with him, dreading him, thinking about him… him, him, him. He’d consumed your thoughts from the first sparks of dawn till the hallows of dusk. You had so much free time now that he was out of the picture, it was crazy. The more time you spent on yourself, on your hobbies, getting to know other classmates outside of your immediate friend circle, the duller the ache in your chest. Until it was but a static buzz. Yet you couldn’t deny that, with time, your fury had mellowed out, leaving behind a cold loneliness you couldn’t elude whenever your aimless stare landed on him, almost like it was drawn to him by muscle memory.

He was the exact opposite.

You’d think the throbbing within him whenever you finally gazed his way then instantaneously looked in the opposite direction would knock come modicum of sense into his stubborn head. But nope. And seeing you thrive without him only cemented what he already knew. He really was no good for you. So much so that it barely took anytime for you to readjust to the lack of him in your life, and not only did you adjust, you were the best he’s ever seen you both mentally and academically. In the first week of you ditching him completely, his bruised ego kept him for reaching out to you, but now, seeing that elated grin on your face –the one that had been gradually dwindling over the past few months– he didn’t want to take your newfound happiness away, he’d figured he’d done you more than enough harm already.

Heart heavy with reluctance, Katsuki made the decision to give up on your relationship. Deciding to wordlessly cheer you on from the sidelines and watch you bloom, flourishing into the person he robbed you of being for a chunk of your life, though whenever your spring hit, it would be without him. Until some day in the future where his pride wasn’t as suffocating, where he could genuinely, wholeheartedly repent his grievances and only hope for your forgiveness.

Kirishima never took Bakugo for a quitter, hell would freeze over before he even thought such a thing. So this was certainly a shock. What was even more shocking ­– and overwhelmingly concerning– was the fact that Katsuki had willingly, on his own accord confided in him, and he’d, in his own roundabout way, taken accountability for being a gigantic douche to you. As much as the redhead respected his friend’s decision to stay clear of you, he couldn’t help but wish you’d just talk to one another for once. Kirishima really was a saint, having to listen to two idiots ramble about how much they miss the other.

“Listen, man. I know you feel bad and all that, but maybe you should just talk to her? I’m sure she’d like some closure on this just as you do, even if that doesn’t mean things will go back to the way they were.” Eijirou tried to reason, praying to whatever higher being out there that Katsuki would just get the fuck over himself and communicate with you.

“Fuck no. That’s not fucking happening, shitty hair,” Kirishima rolled his eyes at the oh so affectionate nickname, thoroughly done with his best friend’s melodrama. Welp, I guess there’s only one thing left to try. He heaved internally, mentally and physically preparing himself for Bakugo’s tantrum.

“Well, you know that if you won’t talk to her, others will, right? I heard some guys saying they’re gonna ask her ou–”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t give a rat’s ass who asks her out!” He definitely did. Eijirou hid his smile. Checkmate.

“Whatever you say, dude.”

Later that day, three distinctly powerful knocks woke you up. Needless to say, you didn’t think that night would end up with you and Katsuki staring each other down, seated on your bed at one in the morning. Words got stuck in his throat, so he just… noiselessly watched your face, as if trying to telepathically ram his constipated emotions into you, in hopes that you’d make sense of them. Obviously, that didn’t work.

“Did you come banging on my door at one in the morning just to stare at me, Bakugo? I mean I know I’m pretty but still–”

“Shuddup.” Not really the best thing to say to you after weeks of radio silence. You were about to make another salty remark, but he opened his mouth first.

“I fucked up,” The fact that he was acknowledging he was at fault was… something. But that wasn’t nearly enough to pay off the debt off turmoil he’d caused you.

“No shit.” You replied without missing a beat. The ice that tinged your words caught him off guard, but he really shouldn’t have been surprised. He sighed, knowing he’d have to strip himself of everything, including his pride (especially his pride) down to his very core, to have a go at a second chance.

And so, he did.

He poured his everything out for you to observe, without an ego film distorting his words. Syllables reeked of muted agony, he really had rid himself of anything and everything that wasn’t his deepest soul. He finally offered you himself just as you had done countless times before. Katsuki swore that his heart would –and always has been– explicitly yours, he’d roar that fact at the constellations above if you so wished him to. And while it would take a while to heal from coruscating blisters he’d inflicted, you were more than content mending and welting your heart with his.  

[vivdunye]

present day, present time

and you don't seem to understand

fabled adages of science

so i was watching the snyder cut of justice league the other morning, i couldn't really begin to tell you why other than i needed 4 hours of background noise . but i tuned in at one point when the fictional super Israeli, wonder woman, narrated a scene explaining an alien technology "that was so advanced that it almost seemed like sorcery", and wouldn't yknow, that's a real concept actually, i recognized it immediately as clark's third law:

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

it's perhaps the most well known and oft quoted of the three, but i always felt like arthur c. clark's first 2 laws don't ever get quite enough love . i've been thinking heavily about the first law lately:

When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong.

i've been thinking about it in relation to this one quote from wernher von braun that i always liked:

Nature does not know extinction; all it knows is transformation. Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, strengthens my belief in the continuity of our spiritual existence after death.

many people are afraid of death; of ceasing the awareness of life, because they don't know what will happen to themselves after, where do they go if anywhere? it's much more nebulous in the secular sense if you haven't a construct for the afterlife already . i've been thinking about death more and more often lately to a worrying degree . however, scientific thought for all its clinical detachment from all things spiritual has strangely enough always felt like the perfect module for contemplating the metaphysical . so i decided to do some research .

i want to recall right now thomas edison's first intended use for the phonograph . edison had originally envisioned the phonograph primarily as a means of preserving the voices of loved ones after death . he later went on to try and develop a "ghost box" or "spiritphone" . this device would allow humans to communicate directly with the dead . he was unsuccessful .

if hauntology has taught us anything, we technically do have ghost boxes now, but maybe not in the way edison intended or even predicted . we carry them everywhere and can check them anytime, channeling messages through them constantly . we actively become digital ghosts, online we are both present and absent . the present implodes with the past, we've over-documented everything so now we can experience an instant nostalgia . today's future becomes archaic, we live in the archive to try and remember what the future once was .

'haunted' and 'futuristic' become one and the same .

by this token i'm reminded also by transhumanism . as the technological singularity fast approaches, as progress charges forward at a constantly increasing speed, current estimates posit the 2040s as the point in which technological improvements will occur at a constantly self-replicating rate . in the time between now and then, transhumanism and the eventual merging of human consciousness with machinery are theorized outcomes of technological progress . one day we might be able to leave the shackles of our human bodies and transcend our physical forms as a joined digital consciousness .

and in relation to this i also think now of clark's second law

The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.

through the wired

this is the stage on which the anime Serial Experiments Lain is set . a story, that while constructed on the patchwork of fiction, is nevertheless symbolic of certain phenomena based in reality .

also i apologize if it wasn't apparent that this post was going to be about Lain . im lainposting boys

the first few episodes exist to misdirect the viewer right from the beginning . and only by returning to these episodes having thought through the rest of the show, does their purpose become clear . the first episode, aptly titled "Layer 01: Weird" , is meant to show us exactly one thing, that lain is fucking weird . we can't tell what she's thinking, we can't tell what she's doing, and that's exactly how everyone around her feels . lain is totally and completely disconnected, she doesn't keep up with current events at school, she doesn't communicate with her family, near as we can tell she has no actual interests besides her stuffed animals and totally phasing out of reality. the inciting incident of the series happens when someone tries to make a connection with lain, and that person happens to be dead...

or at least there body is dead, their consciousness seems to have escaped into the wired . lain's decision to pursue this connection is what lead's her to ask her father for a new navi (the series' name for a personal computer) and that's all that really happens in this episode . coming back to it from later episodes we know that lain is probably thinking a lot throughout this episode . the decision to not entreat us to any of her thoughts is intentional, it is to make us feel distant from her as viewers, the same way that the world around her is distant . as lain forms connections throughout the series, so too, will we form a connection with her .

we do not know how much time has passed since then and the second episode, but whatever has happened lain has already developed a significant presence in the wired . this episode is tricky in its presentation as it doesn't make us privy to which things lain is lying about and which things she's honest about . in it we have lain talking to someone on her navi, she types sporadically in an encrypted language, and someone who looks just like her appears late one night in a night club downtown . while lain won't admit it to her classmates it's apparent at the end of the episode that it was her at the club all along . the key to understanding her actions throughout the episode is to realize she is trying to keep her existence in the wired and her existence in reality as separate entities . the realization she has by the end of the episode, which she uses to terrify a gunmen into suicide is that there is no escape from the wired, no matter where you are you are always connected .

made in the late-90s, Lain was quite ahead of its time . it predicted not only how in the early 2000s the internet would be regarded as a separate world where anonymity and personas reigned—it also predicted how the internet would eventually and inevitably overlap with the real world, once people in the real world realized that the internet is the real world . people have a tendency to see one part of themselves as their "true selves", whereas the parts they show to others are personas, they think of these things as separate when in reality a person is an amalgamation of all of their personas . lain tries to change her personas by dressing and acting differently from when she's in the wired-mode and in normal-mode, but she doesn't realize how people have been doing this way before the wired existed . her classmates are all 15 but they all pass for adults when they've dolled up and hit the club . if the characters in the show seem a bit young for their attitudes then you may not have met enough tech-savvy teenagers before . the purpose of this episode is to ultimately to prove to lain that the so-called real world and the wired are merely two layers of one reality, which couldn't be more true of the world today .

let there be light300pMTK. .

in mythology, psyche was the mortal princess who fell in love with and, eventually, married the god cupid; in religion and classical philosophy, psyche came to mean the human soul, and in the modern, literate world, it retains that meaning as the human spirit; in freudian analysis, psyche refers to the totality of the human mind: the id, ego and superego .

every meaning of psyche is distinctly human: a human princess who achieves godhood, the soul or mind of an individual . if previous episodes introduced the blurring of the real world with the wired, then episode three; "Layer 03: Psyche" is the episode that starts to blur human identity online and offline . one doesn’t even have to venture into the wired to ask what is human .

by this point we know that lain is definitely up to something . at this stage it's hard to tell what, but all we get are little glimpses into her actions . she still seems to be hiding a lot from the world around her and from the viewer in turn . ironically, lain's blank-faced silence and response to the questions of those around her it's own incrimination . when a police officer tells her to speak up (regarding the gunman's suicide) even if she had nothing to do with it, he doesn't realize she's being silent precisely because she does have something to do with it . but her deer-in-the-headlights persona gets her out of it .

the lain of the wired and the lain of reality are slowly starting to mesh into one whole . it remains difficult to interpret the physical existence of "other lain" so to speak, and the show refuses to outright show her playing that character . at the least, we do get to see lain access the wired in all its chaotic glory and she does begin to take an active interest in expanding her knowledge as she learns about and installs the "Psyche drive", a computer circuit that lain procures in hopes of it enhancing her computer's processing power . on the smaller scale, when lain applies the psyche processor to her navi, she is installing a spirit or soul, an animating element, to her machine . notably, the psyche does not replace the main processor; psyche augments the main processor, interpreting the data that flows through it . the soul is not simply the brain, it is an elevated consciousness or meta-self. by this point in the series lines become blurred and the lains begin to merge (hehe) . all of this is set against the backdrop of lain trying to decide if she should remain in the physical world or fully integrate in the wired . she hears one voice telling her that death feels amazing, and god exists in the wired, that there is nothing left for lain in this world . however, lain begins to establish a connection with her classmate alice, saying her name out loud and commiting it to memory for the first time, alice asks why her friends are not more shaken up after watching someone shoot himself in the head the previous day . it's almost as though lain is clinging to alice as an excuse to stay in the physical world out of fear for changing over . this all sets the seeds for what eventually grows throughout the series .

i want to recall the final meaning of the word “psyche". that the word also meant “butterfly,” which is how the greeks imagined the soul to appear . no doubt the symbolism of a creature that begins as one thing and transforms into another is not lost on us here .

every event serves to emphasize the existence of one's own personal reality, and as individuals from all others, we desire a place to belong . however that too is an egotistical concept . in order for there to be a mutual understanding, it is necessary to recognize here and now, like the brain synapses, we are all—in a logical yet chaotic manner—connected .

each is seperate—yet they are one . by connecting, humanity gains first awareness of its function as a seed . and by connecting a human no longer remains a mere endpoint, a "terminus", but becomes a junction to another point, having won the right to continue itself . in a sense, the ability to connect is the ability to continue . this not only applies to the connection of axial coordinates but temporal coordinates as well . therefore, at the time when a conscious, intentional connection is made, surely the dead will rise from there intended place, appearing at the time coordinate of the connection's origin .

in that moment, the realization will dawn that the time in which we inhabit our physical bodies is but the starting point of the connection, and the very meaning of possessing a physical body might be questioned .

we recognize we are connected .

serialize thyself .

[felicityfiction]

[bulletproof glass part 4] part 3

a/n: its 5am. i needed a study break. this is terrible. im very disappointed in myself but also not sure if i can put anything out thats better. i have failed, please dont hate me :(

god, do they even teach them how to shoot?

san smirks, easily dodging a badly aimed bullet from a poorly hidden sniper. not really a sniper at all, if you ask him. just someone too cowardly to come down and face the action on the ground.

weakness.

in the chaos of a building carpark, there are guns blazing and shouts echoing, the occasional yell of pain or shattering of glass as these terribly trained excuses of henchmen hit a car instead of their intended human target.

it’s music to san’s ears.

to his left, he registers seonghwa, barrelling towards him with a wholehearted intention to get him into a car and to safety, but san is just starting to have fun.

he takes down two guys who have at least a foot on him, but he barely breaks a sweat. adrenaline is pumping through his veins, and he thinks that maybe he doesn’t have to smoke tonight to be able to get high.

this is his drug. san is addicted to the danger of it all. it’s messy and wonderful, a dance that is ingrained into san’s brain and burned into his muscle from years of first hand experience. choi san is talented, and he’s about to show it.

he sees seonghwa veer sharply to his right, and he spares a glance in his direction. just in time to see seonghwa gun down two guys who were surrounding hongjoong, trying to take him down. the leader was to be captured alive, no doubt, to be used as leverage. if his father was here, these guys would be all over him like hyenas to a carcass. but he isn’t, content to let san and seonghwa handle tonight’s minor matters.

he’s mine.

the words thrum in his ears, fuelling his slightly fatigued muscles to keep going until all their enemies were down. he was the next in line to inherit the choi name, and he sure as hell was going to make his name known to everyone in the underground.

and perhaps the child in him still preens under his father’s praise, and he’s greedy for more.

but san is amused by the sight of seonghwa fumbling in his attempt to get to hongjoong, his usual grace lost in his worry. he almost reaches out to hongjoong, then freezes and recoils like hongjoong at shot him. san feels a stab of pity, but also a brief inkling of scorn

this is what affection does to you.

hongjoong had come with few guards, despite knowing that there was a high chance that this deal would go south. perhaps he trusted san more than he let on, or he thought that san had a bigger target on his back, and he would be able to escape unscathed if it came down to it

or, san thinks, maybe he knows someone here will die to protect him.

a hand comes flying out of nowhere, barely missing san’s face, and san whips around faster than lightning. he grabs the wrist, and is about to twist and snap it when he registers the face in front of him. a smile curls onto his face.

“we’re allies here, did you forget? how can it be acceptable to try and take me out?”

“wasn’t trying to take you out. distracted. person shooting. wanted to get your attention.” yunho is speaking in breathless pants, sweat beading on his forehead. he grabs san and tugs, and san finds himself going willingly. he lets himself get pushed behind a pillar, as yunho scans for more aggressive men in black.

there’s a feeling san can’t pinpoint blooming in his chest, and he shoves it away, letting his god awful flirtatious nature come up as a defence.

“so sweet of you, darling. but you look more tired than me. i’d have been perfectly fine, but i appreciate the sentiment.”

yunho doesn’t realise he’s stilll holding san’s wrist, too busy being on the lookout.

“shut up.” he scowls

san sees a brief release of tension in yunho’s shoulders when he spots hongjoong safe, a few meters away surrounded by the remainder of his guards.

“you should go join them, sweetheart. it’s time for you to flee.”

yunho’s eyes snap towards him, and he angrily spits, “we’re not fleeing, you bastard.”

san wants to laugh again, because infruriating yunho is so, so enjoyable. “i didn’t mean anything. they’re all gone, anyway. we won. no point staying around for the cleanup.” he lifts his wrist to yunho’s eyes, and they widen exponentially. yunho drops his wrist and steps back, putting some distance between him and san. san decides he preferred it when yunho was pressed against him.

yunho makes to walk away towards a gesturing hongjoong, but san’s the one to reach out this time.

“thank you, yunho. i appreciate it.” yunho seems surprised by the sincereity that laces san’s words, but he quickly reminds himself that san is more than a proficient liar. he pushes san’s hand off his wrist, suddenly wishing he hadn’t tried to help.

stupid, stupid yunho.

“and don’t worry, baby. you always have my attention.”

and there it is, classic san. can’t have a conversation without dropping some kind of comment that made yunho’s skin crawl. yunho flinches, and walks away. san is staring after him, his lips upturned.

yunho picks his way through the bodies littered on the ground, trying to ignore both the vast amounts of blood, and the way that his ears are burning.

if hongjoong notices how red he is, he presumes that it’s from the physical exertion. he’s scanning yunho for injuries, relieved to find none. regardless, he pushes yunho towards the car, ready to take him away from everything and shelter him as best he can.

he shouldn’t have brought him here in the first place.

hongjoong can’t help the deep tug in his gut that compels him to look around once more before stepping into the car.

seonghwa is rushing towards san, and san is smiling so broadly it disturbs hongjoong. he’s certain that san is a psychopath, or at least someone who enjoys witnessing pain. or maybe he’s so desensitized that this has all become a game for him.

either way, hongjoong darts his eyes down and gets into the car. he pretends that the relief flooding his chest is for himself, for yunho and for his other men. not for the bodyguard of his rival gang leader, who just so happened to perhaps have saved his life.

fuck this.

hongjoong is absolutely fucking screwed.

yunho spends the same car ride trying to forget the deep voice echoing in his ears and the hand around his wrist. he’s all too aware that he was frantically searching for san the entire time the fight was happening, barely registering his members. he should feel guilty, he knows, and he berates himself fiercely.

why yunho, why? he’s a sadistic monster, he could have killed you and called it an accident!

but somehow, yunho can’t bring himself to regret that he threw himself in front of a guy that could very well be holding a gun to his temple in the near future.

yunho is also, absolutely fucking screwed

“he tried to help me, hwa. isn’t that so cute? i could’ve taken all of them blindfolded, but it’s still adorable.”

seonghwa purses his lips, a sharp pang striking a chord in his heart.

san is sitting on his desk, swinging his legs back and forth as he recounts the night to him, nevermind that seonghwa was supposed to be the one delivering the report.

“that’s the first time someone besides me has done that for you, san.” seonghwa says quietly, more to himself than to san. but his charge, his friend, hears it anyway.

“i’m attractive, hwa. what can i say? you tried to play hero too. good job on that, by the way.”

seonghwa flinches at the reminder. it was too close for comfort, the way hongjoong had been a split second from being overpowered, and seonghwa had moved before he had time to think.

“i’m sorry for getting distracted.” he had failed. seonghwa was supposed to protect san, yet he had some kind of messed up tunnel vision and sixth sense that led him to jump to the defence of someone he isn’t even supposed to associate with-

“don’t apologise. i’m a better fighter than you, or him. i didn’t need it.”

i forgive you. i understand. don’t worry, you did the right thing.

that’s how they communicate. with hidden meanings and the hope that the other party understands.

in spite of everything that went down, seonghwa’s frantic about one thing, and one thing above all.

it absolutely terrifies him how choi san is whistling a happy tune from his lips recounting the way jung yunho had tried to press him into a wall for his own safety. san chalks it all up to nothing, but seonghwa sees more. san isn’t just amused, he’s happy.

he’s happy that jung yunho had tried to save him.

it’s mortifying, seeing this unknown emotion on san. seonghwa knows how to deal with an angry san, a drunk san and an indifferent san. seonghwa knows san.

but seonghwa has never seen san care. and it sure as hell feels like san is starting to care.

“would you have done it?” he whispers, and san trails off, narrowing his eyes at him.

“what are you talking about?”

“would you have jumped in front of a gun to save him?” seonghwa bites his lip. please, please say something snarky and cocky and arrogant.

“i’d just shoot the source of danger, hwa. have you lost your touch? can’t protect someone if i’m dead, now can i? remember that next time, i doubt hongjoong would want to see you die in front of him.”

seonghwa’s ears are ringing.

protect someone? san, since when have you ever wanted to protect someone? everyone is disposable to you, no? why him? why now?

but seonghwa swallows all his words, and san continues on his painfully oblivious humming. he can’t even tell that this emotion is new and different. he can’t tell that his mind is drifting to a hand gripping his wrist, and the pressure of another body pressed against his.

word of the day: endearment. maybe san would do good to learn some new vocabulary, so he can put a label to that weird sensation in his chest, and his burning desire to see jung yunho again.

maybe, san would come to his senses. seonghwa can only hope.

[chungledown-bimothy]

Lost Ourselves in the Bright Lights

Hello hello hello! About a month ago, a LOVELY anon gave me a multitude of prompts. One of which was “Virgil and Logan are at a concert. Virgil cause he loves the band and Logan because he brought his brother (Patton or Roman) and at first Logan Hates the whole thing but then he sees Virgil and Virgil is singing along and he thinks virgils beautiful and that’s how they meet”. 

Here’s to you, Prompt Anon. <3

Warnings: some swearing, some sexual innuendos/suggestiveness, but nothing anywhere near explicit. 

Pairing(s): analogical, logince as brothers, patton is logan and roman’s dad. very brief virgil and remy as friends.

Word Count: 3701 (a Big boy)

Tag List: @ren-allen @ilovemygaydad @ccecode @emo-sanders-sides-loving-unicorn @bloodropsblog @funsizedgremlin @raygelkitty @roxyfox23 @thomasthesandersengine 

"I understand that you want to go, Roman, but what does this have to do with me?"

"Because, Logan, dad says I can only go if you come with me 'to keep me out of trouble,’" Roman begged.

Logan sighed. "That's not fair to either of us. Aside from the fact that we graduate high school next month and are capable of keeping ourselves safe, now I must choose to either suffer through an evening of mediocre music played far too loudly to be safe or prevent you from seeing your favorite band."

"That's what I told dad, but he wouldn't budge! Please, Lo? I'll do your chores for the next two weeks if you come with me."

"Okay, I will. Don't expect me to have fun, though."

"I have a feeling you're gonna have a better time than you think, little brother."

"How many times do I have to tell you? Not only are we twins, but I am taller than you!" Patton stood in the doorway with a soft smile, listening to his sons bicker. He knew full well that Roman would have been just fine at the concert by himself, but something told him Logan should go with his brother, and all of the best things in Patton's life had started with that same feeling.

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

"Why is it already so loud?" Logan complained.

"It's called hype, calculator watch!"

"It is obnoxious. Enjoy the concert; I'll be at that table. Come find me when it's over."

"God, you're such a nerd. Did you even listen to the playlist I sent you, so you knew what to expect tonight?"

"Are you referring to the playlist entitled 'Mayday Parade Owns My Sad Gay Ass'? If so, no. All of this genre sounds alike, and the name itself is absurd, bordering on oxymoronic."

"You're absurd and bordering on oxymoronic!" Roman cried.

"I'm certain you don't know what that word means. Regardless, you're wasting your time here with me; it appears that what is colloquially known as the 'mosh pit' is filling up, and I know how much you wanted to be there."

"Good looking out, Lo! Mayday's going on soon anyway. I don't know how you think you're gonna be able to read once they start playing, but I hope you enjoy your book."

"Go have fun. It's what we're here for, after all." Logan smiled briefly before turning to the e-reader he brought, loaded with the newest Song of Ice and Fire novel. It wasn't long before the band started playing, and, loath as he was to admit it, Roman was right. Between the flashing lights and the ear-splitting volume, focusing on a book was simply impossible, so he decided to indulge in an exercise in observation, or 'people watching'.

Logan Sanders did not believe in fate or kismet or providence or any term one could use for that sentiment. He believed that the universe is cold and indifferent, and that even the most serendipitous events are simply chance. But, for a split second, after about fifteen minutes or so, he believed all of it when the spotlight paused its sweep over the crowd, illuminating the most beautiful man Logan had ever seen. He was a lost Bernini sculpture brought to life, soft lines belying a quiet grace and strength. Lost in the music, he was swaying and singing along, and he was radiant- purple hair and sharp features glowing in the light.

Logan Sanders certainly did not believe in love at first sight; he didn't even believe in love at all. In that moment, however, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he needed to meet this man, that he was special.

And that absolutely terrified him.

He tried to keep his eyes off of him, he really did, but it was impossible to look away for long. So when the band took a break and his mystery man went to the bar to get a drink, Logan knew it was his chance.

"I apologize if I'm being too forward, but I couldn't help but observe you in the crowd tonight, and you are stunning."

"I wondered if you were going to come talk to me. What were you trying to read, before it got too loud?"

"I- I'm sorry, what?"  The man was even more handsome up close; dark eyeshadow and lipstick contrasting what Roman would call 'killer contour and highlight'. The overall effect was truly striking, leaving Logan speechless for the first time.

"A guy dressed like a teacher at a Mayday concert trying to read and clearly wanting to disappear into the walls? I'm sure most people, like you wanted, didn't notice you, but I'm not most people." He smirked, looking Logan up and down.

"Clearly." Logan replied, returning his 'elevator eyes', if he remembered the colloquialism correctly, and finding his voice again. "My name's Logan."

"Virgil. You obviously don't want to be here, so why are you?"

"Correction- I didn't want to be here. My brother loves the band, and our father insisted I accompany him."

"Past tense? What changed?"

"You're an intelligent man, Virgil. You tell me."

"You've licked your lips twice while we've been talking, and your breathing is uneven and shallow. And I'm fairly certain that if I do this," Virgil stepped forward, getting as close to Logan as possible without touching. "Your pupils will dilate and your breath will catch. Just. Like. That." He finished, whispering.

Logan looked up at him and noted the same physiological responses. "That's not what I asked, now, is it?"

"No, it isn't. What do you want, Logan?"

"Once again questions you already know the answers to."

"Once again, you're not answering them. Maybe I just want to hear you say it."

"Maybe I don't want to give you the satisfaction."

"Now that's just not true. If satisfaction wasn't on your mind, you wouldn't still be standing so close to me." Virgil leaned in and tilted his head, daring Logan to make the next move.

"What do you want, Virgil?" Logan whispered, eyes locked on his lips.

"You. All of you," Virgil confessed.

"Then take me." He barely got the words out before Virgil closed the gap between them.

Logan was no blushing virgin; while he hadn't had a relationship per se, exploring one's sexuality is a traditional part of the high school experience. He'd never been kissed like that, though. Like the answers to the world's most profound questions lay between their lips, and then oh. Virgil's hands were on his hips, pulling him even closer.

Logan broke the kiss, panting slightly. "We… we shouldn't be doing this here."

"You're right. Come back to my place? It's not far from here."

"I want to say yes, but…"

"You can't." Virgil stepped back, and Logan's heart metaphorically dropped when he saw the sadness in his face.

"If I were here alone, I absolutely would, but I promised I'd keep an eye on my brother."

"I get that, and I respect the fuck out of you for it. Here, put your number into my phone, and then come dance with me."

"I'll gladly give you my number, but I can't dance."

"Well, you're in luck, then. There's only one rule when it comes to dancing."

"What, pray tell, is it?" He asked, not looking up from Virgil's phone.

"Pick a partner who knows what he's doing." With a wink, Virgil took his phone back and led Logan to the dance floor.

The rest of the night was a blur of pounding bass, stolen kisses, and hands everywhere.

All too soon, the show ended, as all things must. With great reluctance, Virgil and Logan parted ways with a promise to meet again soon. Logan wasn't above admitting that while he didn't want him to have to, he enjoyed watching Virgil walk away.

"Ooooh, who was that, Lo-Lo?" Logan jumped, not having heard his brother's approach.

"Oh, that was, uh… that was no one."

"Falsehood, as you say so often. You were all over each other! I'd never seen you like that before. You like him!"

"Preposterous. I don't know him. And, as you said, my behavior was entirely uncharacteristic. I don't know what came over me."

"You stopped thinking with your big brain, and apparently your little brain has game. Please tell me you got his number."

"I don't understand; I only have one brain, and it is the average size for an 18-year-old male. Regardless, I did not get his number, but I gave him mine."

"You're gonna have to look that one up yourself- I'm not explaining it to you. Going off of how he was looking at you, I guarantee he'll call, and soon."

"I… honestly don't know if I want that or not."

"Trust me, you do. Come on, let's go home."

"That is the most rational thing you've said all day. And please don't say anything to our father about this. He'll be insufferable."

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

Virgil woke up the next morning with dreams of dark eyes and a sharp tongue dancing through his mind. Some of them, though, were memory, not fantasy, and that realization brought his thoughts to a grinding halt, leaving just one behind: oh fuck.

In an instant, the night replayed in his mind's eye. The music, the dancing, the cute guy looking miserable and trying to read, the flirting, the kissing, the proposition, being turned down, the dancing. The only things he didn't remember were what possessed him to be that bold and the guy's name. He grabbed his phone and saw that the guy put his name, Logan, in with his phone number. One mystery solved, and he knew he wouldn't be able to solve the second alone.

[V]- 911 im fucked

[Rem]- i assume not in the good way?

[V]- no, im texting you with a dick in my ass.

[Rem]- 1) we both know you aren't a bottom 2) watch the attitude, babe. you sent the 911. what's up?

[V]- well i met a guy at the concert last night

[Rem]- FINALLY. was he any good?

[V]- we didn't fuck

[Rem]- no offense doll, but why are you telling me about him then?

[V]- i have his number, but i wasn't really me last night. i was smooth and confident. what happens if we meet up and he hates actual me?

[Rem]- then he can fuck off? i don't get why you're buggin about this

[V]- because im me and need a common sense filter sometimes

[Rem]- you're welcome, girl. now hit him up and lmk how it goes, mmkay?

[V]- ofc

----

Logan's alarm went off the next morning at 7:30 as usual, but, for the first time in years, he was tempted to turn it off and sleep in. A single thought, however, floated to the front of his mind, and he was wide awake. Virgil. The handsome stranger who, with a smirk and a kiss, made Logan question everything he thought he knew about love attraction as well as himself. What happened to me last night? I'm never that bold, that impulsive. It was completely irrational, not to mention possibly dangerous if I'd taken him up on his offer like I wanted to. Dear Newton, I wanted to. Well, I'm not going to solve anything just laying here, and Crofter's helps solve any problem. Breakfast time.

A few minutes later, Logan was in the kitchen with his Crofters-smothered English muffin and a steaming mug of his favorite tea when Patton came in.

"Hey, kiddo! Did you have fun last night?"

"Erm, yeah. More than I initially anticipated, in fact."

"That's great! Did you make any new friends?"

"I don't know what Roman told you, but it was nothing, and nothing will come of it, so there's no point in dwelling on it."

Patton chuckled. "I haven't seen Roman since you guys left for the concert. He's still sleeping." Logan blanched, realizing he'd given himself away. "Now, kiddo, wanna tell your old pop about this 'nothing'? Seems like it's weighing pretty heavily on your mind; maybe we can talk it out."

"It really is nothing, dad."

"Hmm. Well, if you don't want to talk about it, how about I guess, and you let me know if I'm right?" Realizing he wasn't going to be able to avoid the topic, Logan nodded. "Awesome. Okay, so, you're all out of sorts and insisted 'there's no point in dwelling on it', so it's a problem you don't think you can solve. The last time I saw you like this, you were 14 and had the biggest  crush on that boy… what was his name?"

"Gabriel," Logan muttered, embarrassed.

"That's it! I knew he was no good for you. Anyway, I think this is about a boy you met last night. Now, you're my little boy, and I've been to enough concerts to know that I don't want to know the details, but to throw you for a loop this big after one evening, there must have been a real connection. Am I on the right track?" Logan nodded, impressed and embarrassed by how accurate his dad was. "Thank you for being honest with me, Lo. I know feelings are messy and can be scary. I was absolutely terrified when I met your mother."

"Dad, we don't need to- this isn't-"

"It's okay, Logan. Yes, she's gone, but she's still part of us. I know how much it changed all of us, especially you, but you can't shut out all possibility of love because ours didn't work out. I won't pretend it didn't hurt like heck when she left, but I wouldn't trade what happened for the world; that pain was nothing compared to the love I have for you and your brother or how happy you both make me every single day." Patton reached across the table and wiped a tear from Logan's cheek. "The boy you met last night. He's special, right?"

"Y- yeah, I think so. He brought out a side to me I didn't know existed."

"Then go for it. Take a chance."

"I… I think I would if I could."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't have any way of getting in contact with him. I gave him my phone number, but didn't think to get his."

"He really did a number on you, huh? Well, look at it this way: it's out of your hands. What happens next is up to him. I know it's hard, but really all you can do at this point is to try to put it out of that brilliant mind of yours. Hey, do you wanna watch that Sherlock show you love so much with, uh, what's his name? Scratch-and-sniff Cabbagepatch?"

"It's Benedict Cumberbatch, and you hate BBC Sherlock. I've been trying to get you to give it another chance for the last year."

"That's what I said. Bumblebee Anglerfish."

"Getting further away. Benedict Cumberbatch."

"Burgerking Capncrunch."

"Never mind. You're clearly trying to distract me from the Virgil problem. Thank you, dad. I love you too."

"Virgil, eh? Nice name."

"Oh sh-"

"Language!"

"Sorry, dad."

"It's alright, kiddo. Come on, let's see what all the fuss is about Bandersnatch Cuttlefish."

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

As difficult as it was to decide that he was going to message Logan, actually typing and sending a message was infinitely worse. "Hey" was too vague. "Is this Logan? It's Virgil from last night" implied that he thought Logan gave him a fake number, which he didn't. "This is Virgil. What's up?" could be interpreted as a booty call, which it wasn't. After an hour of staring at his phone, he took a deep breath and sent a message.

[To:Logan?]- Hey, Logan, this is Virgil.

Now all he could do was wait. He hated waiting.

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

Patton and Roman, worried about Logan, did all they could to keep him distracted, but nothing could stop him from checking his phone at least once every 5 minutes. It was shortly after 3pm when it lit up with a new message.

[Unknown Number]- Hey, Logan, this is Virgil.

"Umm... Roman?" Logan called across the house.

"Yeah?"

"Can you come here? He just messaged me." He'd hardly finished his sentence when he heard a thud and Roman's footsteps, running to join him in the living room.

"I told you he would! What did he say? What are you going to say?"

"That's why I called for you. Here, take a look and tell me what I should do. I don't have any experience with this, and reading the message gives me an odd feeling in my abdomen."

"Those are butterflies, calculator watch! Wow, you really like him, huh?"

"I assume you mean metaphoric butterflies referring to the influx of dopamine, norepinephrine, and testosterone released when one is experiencing attraction, as it is impossible for any lepidopteran to survive, let alone reproduce, in the human digestive system. And yes, I believe I may have... feelings for him that are far stronger than the briefness of our acquaintance should allow."

"Oh my god, you are insufferable. Now, let's look at the message. Simple, to the point. He's as nervous about this as you are, Lo."

"How could you possibly know that from just 5 words?"

"Science is your thing, love is mine. I also literally just got a 5 on the AP Psychology exam. You want my advice, here's what I've got."

"I apologize. I asked you for advice; questioning that advice was bad form."

"Thank you. Now, as I was saying, he's nervous. I think your best bet is to match his tone. Don't try to pretend you aren't nervous, too. I won't tell you what to say, just that you should be completely honest. In any relationship, but here especially. You're afraid he won't like you; if you keep your messages legit, he'll get to know you, and I'm sure he'll love you."

"You can't know how he'll feel about me, but I appreciate the advice, and will certainly take it."

[To:Virgil]- Hello, Virgil. I wasn't sure you'd reach out, to be honest. The reply came almost instantly, which he wasn't expecting.

[Virgil]- I wasn't sure I would, either. Do you… wanna get coffee or something some time?

"Oh my god, I ship it so much! Y'all are so cute I can't even!!" Roman shrieked, scaring Logan so much he fell off the couch.

"E equals mc scared! Why did you feel the need to scream like that?"

"You guys are so precious. Clearly, you aren't the only one who was uncharacteristically bold in the face of new love. You're going to say yes, right?"

"It would be foolish of me to decline, given the emotions I've felt over the last..." he checked his watch, "approximately 21 hours."

"Take him to Jimin's cafe! Now that he's got a boyfriend, it's all domestic and cute. The perfect romantic location for a first date!"

"You mean the cafe where the barista put salt in your soda?"

"Okay, technically, yes, Jimin did that, but I was flirting with Taehyung. I deserved it, really."

"Despite my better judgment, I'll propose we go there, but only because I'm at a loss for an acceptable alternative."

[To:Virgil]- Coffee would be excellent. My brother's friend runs a cafe downtown- Bulletproof, I believe it's called. I've been reliably informed that it is a common first date location; are you available tomorrow, by chance?

"Oh my goodness, Logan, you are a disaster. It's obvious that you need me to teach-"

[Virgil]- haha yeah, I know Bulletproof. Really good coffee. Would 11 tomorrow morning work?

"Never mind. Clearly, he's into your nerd vibe, for some reason. Alright, I've gotta leave before dying of loneliness. Good luck in your romantic endeavors, brother dearest."

"Clearly you are not distraught enough to abandon your propensity for hyperbole. Thank you for the well wishes, and I truly hope that you will find someone to satisfy your romantic inclinations soon. You certainly deserve it."

"Ew, gross. Mushy Logan is weird. I'm leaving." With that, Roman stood up and left the room.

[To:Virgil]- 11 tomorrow would be perfect. I look forward to seeing you again.

[Virgil]- same. See you then :)

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

It was 10:55, and Logan was sipping an Americano, so lost in his thoughts and anxieties that he didn't hear the bells on the door jingle when someone walked in. He was startled back to reality by a barista's cheerful "annyeonghaseyo!", the cafe's standard greeting for customers, and looked up to see him. Virgil. His heart started racing as he took in the more casual look, leather pants and tight t-shirt swapped for ripped skinny jeans and a hoodie with purple plaid patches and no makeup, except for some dark eye shadow.

As Virgil got closer, Logan stood to meet him.

"Hello, Virgil. It's, it's nice to see you again." Logan's heart, already beating faster than was strictly speaking healthy, started pounding when Virgil smiled and blushed.

"You too, Logan. I, um, I'm gonna go order a drink. I'll be right back." Logan tried not to stare as Virgil walked away, but it was an exercise in futility.

A few minutes later, Virgil returned, drink in hand.

"May I ask what you're drinking?" Logan asked, internally cringing at the banal attempt at conversation.

"It's a caramel macchiato. Usually I'm an Americano kind of guy, but that barista recommended it and made it sound really good, and he was totally right."

"In that case, here's to finding pleasure where you don't expect to." Logan raised his mug in a half-toast. Virgil raised his in return and smirked; only then did Logan realize the double entendre and blush.

"So we're back talking about pleasure, eh?"

Logan cleared his throat. "Perhaps this is not the appropriate venue for that conversation. May I suggest space as an alternative subject?"

"VIVA LA PLUTO!" Virgil shouted, immediately looking down and blushing. "Sorry. Impulse. I'm clearly still bitter about some things."

"No, no. I completely agree. August 2006 was a dark, dark time. Viva la Pluto indeed."

They spent hours in that cafe debating, joking, and flirting. This time, Logan accepted Virgil's offer to go home with him.

[amoristt]

appetence. 

nathan prescott x reader

a/n: for the requesters who both wanted soumate AU’s, i combined the enemies to lovers request :3 it jus makes it easier on me . the au i chose is ‘shares the same injuries’! it’s super short, so sorry for that. i have another one coming out that it’s as... aggressive lol

disclaimer: i know nathan is not a good person. i am not putting a blanket over his actions in this fic. i, the writer, understand he’s not an innocent character and has made many terrible choices. im just answering people’s requests as well as appreciating the complex character he is, please dont put me under the fire for it.

thank you.

reblogs + tags and replies will make my entire day as i put a lot of effort into this !!!

Warning: language

Never in your life have you been the type of person for physical violence.

Never in your life have you had to hold yourself back from reaching out, taking someone by the collar of their jacket, and wringing their neck. Every part of you wants to see it through- reach out and tear them a new one with a certain primal rage you don’t know how to digest. It’s uncomfortable, it makes you restless. Never have you reached such a new level of absolute indignation.

Yet, here you stand. Hours after class has ended, atop the grass, secluded just before sunset.

Balled fists, narrowed eyes, bared teeth. You feel like an monster.

He stands before you, smug as all hell, and the look in his fucking eyes drives you crazy. He looks at you like he knows he’s better than you.

Arcadia Bay’s spoiled fucking brat.

He’s followed you all the way out here like a shadow. The obsession he has with pissing you off is criminal. It took one mistake of tripping him in the hallway because he wasn’t looking where he was going, but of course it was your fault. Of course it painted you as a target. First, it made you fear him, but much like a cornered animal, that terror turned into anger.

That anger festered, and festered, until you could no longer bear it.

Everyone has a breaking point. 

“What the fuck do you want?” You spit, and you can’t recognize your own voice. It makes you shiver. You just wanted alone time.

Nathan has the raw nerve to scoff and shift his weight. “Whatever I want.”

“You think I have shit for you?” The anger in your voice is so apparent that you think it might take him back as well. He’s silent, just for a moment, the arrogance falters. If not for the rage eating away every layer of kindness within you, you may have recognized the facade. But, you don’t. “Stop following me around like some freak. Don’t you have a father to disappoint?”

Low blow, but everyone knows Sean Prescott is just as bad, if not worse, than Nathan.

He grunts and straightens his back as if that makes him scary. It’s his personality that worries you- a dangerous mixed drink of white hot anger and ego. There’s so much of it inside him that he reeks self-importance. God, it drives you insane. But at least looking at him right now, one on one, you don’t fear his body. Those wiry limbs- he’s got height but it means nothing when he can barely keep himself up right as much as it is.

That’s the only thing that urges you on.

“Better watch your mouth, hoe.” He snaps.

You snarl. “Or what?”

The wind blows and something is about to happen. Something is finally going to happen.

He makes the first move. Up close, you can see the hue of his eyes.

His bony fingers catch your neck and you react violently, hands jutting out, pressing to his chest and throwing him back. He falters- you strike. Another shove to his chest, following by one more, and he falls to the ground flat on his ass. You can’t stop yourself when you meet him at the floor, fist colliding with his cheek, knuckles grating against his bones. It feels like there’s acid under your skin, and the way he looks up at you, shocked at your outburst, makes you realize this is just how you like it.

“Did you really fucking think you could just grab me?” You hiss, and when he tries to get up you lose your composure again. You rise, kick him- drive your heel into his back when he scrambles to his hands to knees to find purchase. If he get’s to his feet it’s over- you know that, so you keep him down. For good measure you deliver another blow to his see and the way he rolls has you satisfied. There’s so much blood- it spills down his face and onto the floor.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” He grunts, grabbing his stomach. You laugh sadistically.

“Oh yeah?” Boldly, you crouch. He’s still reeling and you’re proud at just how hard you struck him. “I know you’ve got this school wrapped around your little finger, Prescott, but leave me the fuck alone.”

“Fuck you, bitch,” He growls. There’s fire in his amber eyes and if you hadn’t been drugged on adrenaline you’d fear him all over again. He seeths. “Just you fucking wait.”

You stand and glare down at him, triumphant. “I look forward to it, prick.”

It’s only when he looks up at you from the floor does something change in his demenager. His eyes grow wide, breath stops in his chest. It looks like fear and you love it. He’s the rabbit, he’s the fucking prey and you’re the hunter trapping him in his place.

Seeing the bridge of his nose split is all you need to know it’s over.

“Don’t ever come near me again,” Your warning is nothing short of terrifying. “Or else.”

And it’s just that easy. Months of torment shattered by just a moment. By just the right force. 

His silence is your favorite sound, and it gets even better when he stays silent. He just watches you wide eyes, propped up on his elbows like you’ve finally taught him you aren’t fucking around. He’s not your friend, he’s not your enemy, he’s not even your bitch. He’s nothing.

No blackmail, no photos or snark, just fury and a warning you do intent on fulfilling.

You don’t give him a chance to redeem himself. Pivoting, turning your back to him, nothing stops you as you go.

The image of Nathan Prescott floored and cowering, looking you in the face and afraid to make a move, feels like a five course meals. It weighs so perfectly on your stomach, truly a meal for a champion. You’re so fucking satisfied knowing his reign has ended, knowing that even if he tries again you can take him down. The win isn’t even flashy- it’s just fulfilling.

Walking home, you feel like you don’t have to look over your shoulder anymore. Maybe you made a mistake, maybe you just made it that much worse for yourself, but in that moment, you don’t care. As you enter your dorm, you smile.

You’re proud of yourself- you took him down and left without a scratch.

Or so, you thought.

The mirror you pass by makes you halt. A line of red sticking out like a sore thumb. You eye it, step closer, and your heart picks up. This adrenaline doesn’t feel right. It’s anxiety- oh god-

“No,” You breathe, eyes frantically wide. “No, no, no.”

Reaching up, you swipe your fingers across the bridge of your nose. No blood comes back on your fingers- it makes you cover your mouth.

“Fucking- No! Not him!”

Suddenly it connects with you how quickly Nathan’s explosive anger dissolved into not fear, but shock. Absolute disbelief. You can’t picture him as the prey anymore. You can’t see yourself as the hunter, or as the cornered animal. You can’t see the satisfaction splayed out just for you. 

All you can see is the bridge of your nose.

And the gash spread across it.

All you can hear is your teachers throughout your life, all remarking the same phrase, drilling it deep into your skull since the day you were old enough to know what the word ‘soulmate’ meant. 

Soulmates, after touching for the first time, will bear the same inflicted wounds. 

You cover your entire face, horribly defeated. 

That’s how they will know they’re meant for one another. 

[samingtonwilson]

Comforting Kisses

continuation of first (and second) kisses but can be read on its own.

next part: morning kisses

Summary: comforting kisses prompt- B takes A’s hands first, kissing their knuckles and palms. Then B reaches up to hold A’s face, pressing soft kisses around their cheeks, their lips, murmuring “it’s okay” and “you’re alright” and “I’m here” in between.

Pairing: bucky x reader

Warnings: language, slightly angsty, slightly fluff, sad bucky

A/N: that gif has nothing to do with the fic but he’s sad in it and he’s sad in this fic so. it works. also i love him in that gif bye. ALSO this is likely my favorite fic i’ve ever written n if it doesn’t do numbers i’ll be angry. im sorry if the read more break is acting up, but it’s on there.

The clear plastic binder sat open in your lap, laminated script pages barely readable in the dim lighting of your bedroom. Only the six-foot tall standing lamp beside the velvet loveseat upon which you sat and the far-too-expensive Jo Malone lime basil and mandarin candles constituted your sources of light, the soft chimy music you’d asked FRIDAY to play pouring through the overhead speakers as the only sounds aside from the calming voice you spoke in.

The air smelled divine and you were tempted to stop your scripted speech to tell Sam as such, though you were still unsure as to if the candles were worth their hefty price tag. But you stayed on-book— Sam needed the guided meditation and you promised to deliver.

“Now focus on your breathing. Notice each breath but only observe. Do not try to change your breathing in any way.”

You looked up at Sam when you paused. Smiling at the slow rising and falling of his chest as he sat perched in the center of your unnecessarily plush and large bed, you took a deep breath of your own before continuing. “If any thoughts arise, acknowledge them and let them go softly and calmly. Return your attention to your breathing.”

You did this for one another often. Sometimes Sam would sit in the exact place you were with a similar script, ocean soundscapes emitting from the speakers as he read and you focused on your breathing, on imagining the mist of waves sprinkling across your skin soothingly, on the wind and salt tangling your hair and making your eyelashes dewy.

Other times, such as this very moment, you would read lines to Sam with the intention of doing away his anxiety. You would tell him to focus on his breathing, on the feeling of the wind washing over him as if he were flying— but without the carbon fiber wings, without the red-tinted goggles and the itchy tactical trousers. Without the pressure of a mission, without the tension of a mission, without the voices and grunts and screams shaking his eardrums as they droned from the comms.

Of course, the two of you never told the others. Though you knew it was far from likely that any of the universe’s mightiest heroes would poke fun, something about your deepest insecurities being broadcasted to a large set of super-people, even super-people that would understand, burrowed itself under your skin and made you feel itchy.

After all, as an Avenger, you were expected to behave a certain way, look a certain way, feel a certain way— and while each of you deviated from that media-enforced norm, you kept up the image. For your own sanity’s sake and for everyone else’s, you weren’t going to be the reason Steve Rogers lost his hair after a hundred years and Natasha Romanoff lost her cool for the first time in thirty.

You’d known Sam a while, however. You knew about Riley, about the nightmares that sometimes still kept him up at night, about the heartbreak he repeatedly experienced at the VA— he knew he couldn’t save everyone as the Falcon or Sam Wilson, but somehow he still expected himself to. He knew about your demons as well, about the scars that lay scattered over and under your skin, and was the only person for which you’d allowed such a thing.

He’d told you countless times to allow Bucky the same courtesy, especially now that the two of you were… whatever you were. He assured you that Bucky cared for you just as you cared for him, that Bucky would want to hear what you had to say, that Bucky would want to help you in any way he could.

But he never pressured you. He knew Bucky was busy working past the shackles that may have no longer physically restrained him but were still digging sharply into every one of his cells, and he couldn’t imagine what it must have taken Bucky to allow you to come so close. Obviously he was not knowledgeable on the finite details of your… whatever you were with Bucky, but he had an inkling of the limits each of you had set from just knowing both parties. Both stubborn as fuck, scared as fuck, touch-starved as fuck but terrified of the outcome of trying to change that parties.

You thought Bucky’s hands and lips alone almost broke the dam— and the inclusion of anything else, of having him literally bury himself inside you, would desecrate it. You knew once you’d crossed that line once, it would never be enough. But you also knew that, for him, it likely would be. After all, he looked pained enough after every single soft kiss. You couldn’t imagine his agony, his fear, his utter misery at even the prospect of anything more.

It was when you seamlessly flowed into the lines about soaring through a perfect night sky with stars and glittering far-off planets that a scream cut through the calm atmosphere.

After a brief and painful squeeze, your heartbeat immediately picked up so the tired organ slammed against your ribs hard enough to make your bones shake. You swallowed over a dry throat and narrowed your eyes at the pages.

You didn’t speak for some time as another scream was torn the floor above you. You found yourself unable to read the pages— blurriness occluded your vision and you were unable to blink or will it away.

Sam said your name softly and you jumped, eyes wide as they met his. He offered you a small smile that glowed even in the limited lighting. “Go.”

Staring at him for a moment only led to shaking your head. You cleared your throat and squinted at the pages. “The, um— The stars surround— The—”

“FRIDAY, lights, please. Dim,” he requested gently. As the lights came up slowly, he tilted his head and he inspected your expression. “Baby girl, go upstairs. He needs you.”

Incredulously, you shook your head. “He doesn’t want me there.”

“He doesn’t wan—” Sam scoffed. “He wants you there, he wants you wherever he is.”

“He recoils when I touch him, Sam. That first kiss is all I’ve gotten out of him that’s made me feel remotely wanted.”

Sam offered you a disbelieving, dry look of his own. “Trick, get your ass upstairs.”

Your laugh was borne of a gasp, your smile easy as you shut the binder and climbed off the loveseat. “Blow the candles out and put them away before you leave.”

You heard him hum curtly and saw him wave a dismissive hand as you walked out of the room, socks sliding across sealed concrete floors to the stairs.

You nodded once in greeting at a visibly shaken Wanda, her emerald eyes wide as if she’d given into temptation and looked for even a millisecond into Bucky’s mind as he whimpered from behind the door she stood beside, the screams done and over but the heartbreak of the softer sounds not any less.

You set your hand on her shoulder and winced to yourself when she jumped. “Wan, angel, I can handle it from here.”

Glistening eyes, still disoriented, met yours and she nodded stiffly. “He’s— There’s so much.”

“I know there is, I know.” When she leant into your touch, you wrapped her in a hug, running a smooth hand over her back. “Will you be okay?”

She nodded a little more fluidly. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just— Take care.”

You smiled at her retreating figure. “I will.”

A steadying breath filled your lungs and you pushed Bucky’s door open, limited compound ground lights streaming through thin, gauzy drapes and bleeding across his sweat-soaked skin.

He sat, shoulders hunched, in his bed with the blankets pooled at his waist and his legs outstretched before him. You could remember Steve telling you something about Bucky’s internal thermostat. Though his temperature ran warmer than the norm, he always felt too cold— as if still trapped in the nightmare of cryofreeze— so he rolled himself in a few blankets and the comforter when he tried to sleep.

You shut the door behind you and Bucky looked up from the hands in which he’d dropped his head. His features were grief and fear stricken, a weight you couldn’t imagine pulling at the corners of his bitten lips and it seemed to only grow heavier as you neared him cautiously.

You sat at the edge of the bed, folding one leg atop the mattress and saying quietly, “Bucky, —”

Something inside of him seemed to break at the mere sound of his name on your tongue, features crumpling and eyes leaving yours only to find you again as tears fell and rolled down his cheeks.

As he lifted his flesh hand to reach for you, you reflexively moved to kneel beside him and took both his hands instead. Your thumbs brushed across vibranium and his skin as you brought them to your lips, lightly kissing his knuckles and palms.

You knew the kisses you pressed to the metal wouldn’t feel the same for him, you knew he could only perceive the pressure and the relative temperature, yet his heart seemed to break even more at the gesture.

This was the person he’d been pushing away, the person he’d been deathly afraid to show his heart to, the person, that in all honesty, his battered heart belonged to. And because you held whatever power there was to wield, it was overwhelming that you were using that power, that influence and dynamism to express warmth. It made his mind grapple with his previous definition of power, of influence that was only used to torture, to pick apart his senses and toy with them like he was disposable. His tears came quicker, it made him fall back to Earth.

He occupied his body now, that disembodied existence subsiding for a single, addictive minute. Still, a broken voice asked, “You’re here, right? I’m— I’m here, with you?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. Yeah, you are.”

Reluctantly, he let go of your hands and fisted either side of your shirt to pull you closer, coaxing you to straddle his lap so his arms could wind tightly enough around you to make your breathing difficult. But you didn’t seem to mind, hands holding his face to brush your thumbs against his skin again.

You then leant forward to press soft kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his temples, whispering placatingly, “It’s okay, Bucky. You’re okay, you’re alright.”

His arms tightened further as a result, an almost bruising strength in the fingers that sat below your ribs. You thought fleetingly that if he needed a reminder of your presence, of his own, you could show him the marks.

“I’m here,” you continued between each kiss, feather-light kisses now pressed to his lips. “You’re okay.”

Your fingers combed through his long hair and nails lightly scraped his scalp— it seemed to help him relax in your arms. You sighed out almost inaudibly as he turned to bury his face into the crook of your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your skin after what felt like hours but was likely a few handfuls of minutes, hands adjusting your legs to wrap around his waist so you sat more comfortably and as close as possible. “I’m sorry.”

Your fingers stopped and Bucky winced to himself. “Why are you— There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

He let you sit back so you could look at him and he could look at you. Slate blue eyes with a degree of weakness you wished you could alleviate stared at you openly, the hands on you in stark contrast to anything you’d experienced with Bucky over the last few weeks.

You took his hands in yours again, lacing your fingers through his so your palms sat against his. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“You’ve been so—” he took a breath. “You’ve been so patient with me.”

Shrugging a shoulder, you frowned in consideration briefly. “You’re worth that.”

There was a renewed tightness in his throat as he looked at you. A groan rumbled in his chest as he surged forward, catching you from losing your balance with his palms at your back as he claimed your lips with his. He seemed to want to pull you closer, to assimilate you even more as you tongue tangled with his and you crossed your ankles behind him.

His lips stayed upon your skin even as you broke the kiss to fill your lungs, kisses pressed to your cheek and jaw before his teeth, tongue, and lips marked the skin you would have tattooed his traces onto if he ever needed proof again.

Tongue against your pulsepoint, he felt your fluttering heartbeat and thought he might have imagined your quick breathing that matched his.

Part of him wanted to flip the two of you over so you were beneath him, tear the t-shirt and leggings from your skin after doing away with his own shirt and boxers so heated skin was pressed to heated skin. He wanted to taste every inch of you, hear every reaction from you, see you as you came undone.

But he knew this wasn’t the time.

Now was a time for him to hold you and for you to hold him, to ground him in the moment, to anchor him to Earth.

Now was a time for him to feel blanketed and to wrap you in that warmth as well, still turning both of you so you lay facing each other.

Now was a time for him to throw a protective arm made of vibranium over your waist, to pull you into his chest and rest his chin atop your head.

Now was a time for him to love you, but to hide just how much.

[bloodycalligraphy]

multi-purpose-tool-guy replied to your post:

im just gonna.... scoot in here and uh..... enable you..... scoot scoot....

OK hear me out. Here’s some TLJ-based Kylux mpreg thoughts.

I think Snoke always knew Kylo was the knock-off brand of what he really wants. That Kylo is broken by the fact that he FEELS SO MUCH and he lets his feelings drag him around even though he clearly wishes he wasn’t like this. He was probably always like this. 

And Hux? Hux is useful but Hux lacks the sort of power that Kylo has by birth and breeding. Also he’s an absolutely sucking void of a human being with bile where other people have blood. He’s easy enough to control, but mostly exactly as you would a dog — reward it when it’s good and make sure it knows you could beat it if it’s not. Watch the teeth. Don’t take your eyes off it.

They’ll be steps to power, but are they really going to be heirs to his vision? Or are they the tools he’ll use until he can get better, shinier, less buggy and broken ones?

I’d like to thank the Rlos who want Rey to “continue the Skywalker line” because that sure sounds like the exact sort of shit you could feed Kyle Ron to make him do some Fucking Weird Shit and well, General, just lie back and think about the Empire. Kyle has probably never seen junk that wasn’t his own and the one Knight that he kissed once got sent out by Snoke to some planet acid-spitting worms and came back with their lips melted shut by scar tissue. And frankly I’m not sure anyone has ever in his life taught Hux that sex is about anything other than Power and Pain.

Anyway, Kyle over here’s like literally twice as wide as Armie, so obviously he’s got the space in that refrigerator-size torso for whatever demonspawn comes out of this.

Throw in some Force garbage about how if Kylo doesn’t spend a certain amount of time around Hux regularly he feels like he’s gonna puke his kidneys out because this INCREDIBLY FORCE SENSITIVE fetus would like to vibe with whatever weird vibes Hux gives off. Actually they’re probably very chill. Since he’s only got one (1) emotion: Hatred. And he’s got a boss and a PAIN IN THE ASS who can read his mind, I’m sure the inside of his brain is WMD blueprints and elevator music most of the time.

So they chill. They don’t... like each other? But maybe they realize that they’ve made some misjudgments and now they’re actually even better prepared to murder each other.

Hux starts researching weapons that a lightsaber can’t block. Force-resistant materials. He starts packing a couple extra energy blades on his body at all times. He buys a slug-shooting rifle and starts carrying it damn near everywhere.

Kylo is still gonna be killing his dad and getting gut-shot by a wookie and finding the true power of hatred after THE ANGRIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD hands him his own ass on a platter, obviously. You could stuff a whole watermelon in that boy and it would not slow him down. But it’s fucking with his head. Are his priorities... right? What does it all mean? Existential crisis with a side of his body literally doesn’t belong to him and he didn’t choose this at any point and WHY IS HE DOING ANY OF THIS AT ALL

Things explode. Things still very, very much explode.

And that’s going to be rather important, really, because Hux knows he can rebuild a planet-sized weapon and he can buy a new warship and he can train a hundred thousand more child soldiers. Every life except his own is replaceable and it always, always has been.

And Kylo is thinking obsessively about family, about his parents, about his childhood, about his life and where it has lead him, about right and wrong, light and dark. 

But all things must come to an end? And the boy sith who would be supreme leader doesn’t have enough time to telepathically tell Rey NOT to swing by really not a good time right now. 

Kylo gets his guts excavated by unfeeling, uncaring medical robots because this is a hideous dystopia of reproductive rights or something. Hux is there because, well, he’s a little bit of a sadist everyone knows that. That’s the only possible reason he could be there, isn’t it?

Haha no. He’s gonna make eye contact with that blue-eyed, screaming creature and all the crazy in that heavily hair-gelled head is gonna skew in exactly the expected ways. Because, well, he can BUILD another weapon. He can BUILD another army. But he can’t BUILD a fucking baby. Or well, he could, but it wouldn’t be this exact baby, now would it? And honestly, honestly? Why would he build any other? This one is PERFECT. He made that and it’s his and he would rather drown in his own blood than let anyone hurt it. 

(See? He’s not his father after all. He cannot even understand his father in this moment. He has always known himself to be weak and sought to protect himself. Now here is the weakest imaginable version of himself and he feels that same urge. It’s his and he will protect it or he will die. That has always been the only two options.)

And Kylo wakes up with his internal organs rearranged and stapled back together to see a fucking armed sociopath holding HIS CHILD and nearly kills Hux right then and there except if he died then he would definitely drop the baby and if Kylo sits up too fast his spleen is gonna pop out probably. 

They don’t even have to talk about things or lie to each other because they have spent a stupid amount of time with one another and they know. The fear in Hux now is the same fear that is swallowing Kylo up like a howling cyclone.

So they go to Snoke and it seems very much like Hux will betray Kylo like the untrustworthy dog that he is and Kylo will stay the loyal and steady servant of the darkness, but Kylo is a nest of serpents held together by medical tape. And all of Hux’s research? Well, if you want to blow the most powerful Force user you’ve ever met’s head off his ugly shoulders? You might need a real firearm and some Force-resistant bullets.

Cue a very different fight against the Praetorian Guard. Rey shows up twenty minutes late with Starbucks to a room full of corpses and fire and Kylo “Ben Solo” Ren trying to hold his torso together while Armitage “General Hugs” Hux looks increasingly red-faced and distressed at a very small and screaming baby.

No lightsabers explode.

No one’s around to sign the paperwork on DJ’s deal so he fucks off on the first ship he can break into while Phasma’s calls keep going directly to Hux’s voicemail.

The Resistance makes it to Crait safely and Holdo does not explode anything and Rose does not have to contemplate kicking 500,000 stormtroopers to death with her own two feet. (I mean she doesn’t, but she still DOES.)

Phasma’s call goes through. 

“Hey I’ve got two big Resistance morons and a soccer ball.”

“Cool. We killed the Supreme Leader and also it’s a girl.”

“Congratulations, sir. Does she have a name?”

“Not yet, I was a little busy.”

Rey watches Kylo get increasingly pale. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” he says.

Hux remembers that someone helped MAKE this baby and she’s probably fond of him or something. Maybe Hux is fond of him. He’s not sure yet exactly. But he would probably shoot the scavanger girl if she hurt him. Of course, he would probably shoot her anyway, y’know? Just because.

Chewbacca is sort of waiting for Rey to come back.

He does not expect her to come back in the company of the First Order’s three most powerful leaders and also Rose, Finn and a VERY ANGRY BB-8.

Also there’s a baby? It’s a very cute baby. She’s got Ben’s nose already.

“What’s her name?” he asks.

“Haven’t decided,” Kylo Ren says at the same time Rey says, “I don’t know.”

They glare at each other. Chewie does not smack Kylo upside the back of his head simple because it looks right now as though a stiff wind would knock him over just as well. Also, well, he wouldn’t have helped Rey with this COMPLETELY INSANE PLAN if he didn’t think Ben Solo could still come home.

He can’t. Really. This is not Ben Solo going to his mother. This is Kylo Ren going to General Organa with three and a half hostages and a burning desire to get some war criminals off the hook.

(Maybe DJ does a nice thing and leaves something explosive behind when he goes. Or he gives the whole First Order a computer virus or something. They’d deserve it.)

Anyway, Hux probably is still set on handing his daughter the whole known universe and does something incredibly stupid like pull a gun on Leia and gets every blaster in the room pointed at him while he’s holding the infant Skywalker scion. Kylo forcibly (haha) disarms everyone in the room and gently sets Hux on his damn fool ass and not so gently shuts his jaw so tight he can barely breathe. But he can still breathe.

This still unnamed baby is going to be a princess in a world where everyone won’t be trying to kill her all the time, isn’t that good enough for you? (It isn’t, actually, but Hux can make world domination a back-up plan for at least the next two hours.)

Phasma refuses to take off her helmet. Or talk to anyone.

Rey is going to loudly insist that they’re not that bad — and they have a baby! They can’t be bad? At least the baby is probably not bad! 

Leia is going to call Kylo “Ben” and so everyone else is going to follow suit as he bleeds internally and hates them all. He would still stab his uncle if he saw him.

(MAYBE HE DOES HAHA.)

Does Phasma particularly care if her life’s work is sacrificed on the altar of peace? Uh, as long as she still has her LIFE, not particularly. 

Empires, warships, armies can be rebuilt. The universe is always going to be there to conquer. Right? And "princess” doesn’t seem like such a bad title, really, when it’s his baby girl.

Kylo is still an angry, bitter sack of vipers. Hux now has two emotions and they’re both terrifying and involve firearms. Not saying they “fall in love,” but they do practice kissing and trade insults that are maybe affectionate? Hux kills more than one person who tries to get at Kylo with his bare hands and a energy blade. They try extremely hard to be good parents.

Phasma takes her immunity and fucking RETIRES to make LOTS OF MONEY doing what she’s GOOD AT which is fighting and not dying.

Anyway they name the baby Padme. She has a COMPLETELY HIDEOUS temper and blue eyes like her great-grandfather.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

[untitledpseudonym]

The Director’s Cut

“ANNNNND CUT” 

A loud click and a gruff voice smelling of smuggled cigars and bourbon fills the set of director Randy McCullahan’s horror film studio. 

He steps out of his director’s chair, setting aside his glass of Eagle Rare, and starts walking

 to his star. She is currently laying on the ground of the kitchen dining room set, and covered in latex intestines and scarlet red theatrical blood.  

“What is it now, Mick?” the beautiful raven actor says, raising her hands up in confusion. Randy ignores her briefly to acknowledge his 7 ft star looming over the annoyed, fakely mutilated actress. 

“Chet, just wanna say, you’re doing a great job. Really embodying the killer vibe. Make sure you go back to makeup artists to get your mask refitted, it really seems to be slipping off.” Chet looks at the director, emotionlessly, his Ice blue eyes making it’s way past the thin film that covers the eye holes of his goat mask, piercing the director, and walks away towards the makeup crew.

“Heh, truly a method actor.” he says

“Uh, hello!” says the annoyed, actress. Randy sighs, displeasingly. 

“Ah, yes of course. You.” He says pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Whaddya mean me?!” she says standing up. Letting the fake guts and blood spill and drip of her. “That’s just it, Eve! It’s you! You’re not truly terrified. Your performance all day has been absolutely dreadful! You have shown no emotion in your death scene in 60 takes! We’ve burnt through 2 and a half hours of valuable film time just because you choose not to act! Like what am I even paying you for?!” Randy says yelling at her. Eve puts her hands on her hips. “I have given you my all for the entirety of this production! I talked to the other producers and crewmates and they all agree I've done the scene right the first 15 takes AT LEAST!” She spits back. Randy looks back at the crewmates and back at her. “Is that right?” he asks softly. Eve crosses her arms. “That’s right.” 

Randy nods and walks over to his director’s chair, softly repeating to himself: “uh-huh, that’s right, huh? Uh-huh, that’s right, huh? Uh-huh, that’s right, huh?” over and over until he gets to his chair and grabs the half drunk glass of Eagle Rare, and launches it, gently grazing the ear of the once righteous, now fearful actress. “This is my fucking set!” Randy bellows. “My fucking production! We will film until you all say your lines in sleep fucking paralysis! I don’t give a fuck how right you think it is, bitch! As long as i’m paying for your shit, you will deliver! Let me reiterate for all of you, since according to your ring leader Eve, you all support her claims.” Randy reaches under his directors chair and pulls out a M1911 pistol and fires off two bullets into the studio warehouses ceiling. Everyone shouts and ducks,some flee the set, clearly afraid of the director’s rant. “AS LONG AS IM PAYING FOR YOUR SHIT, YOU WILL FUCKING DELIVER!.” Randy shots above the petrified chaos he has commenced. He glances over at the terrified faces of his cast and crew and notices chet in the distance standing looking at him, fearlessly. Randy points his gun over at Chet. “See! True fucking actor right there, EVE! Take note.” Randy glances down at his watch and back at the terrified film cast. “Well, Chet earned you all the right to take five. See you all on set soon.” Randy waltzes off the set, but not before giving eve a death stare. 

“I fucking hate that creep.” Eve said to her friend Caroline, who was laying across from her on the italian leather couch.  “Eh, you get used to it. I mean, hell, I’ve been placed damn near every one of his casts and it’s basically the same song and dance. No matter how hard you try, he will make you repeat takes, Over and over again. You do the same things and he gets the same result. Personally, I think he does it until he gets tired.” She says looking at her. “Don’t let it get to you.” 

“That’s the thing Caroline, it does get to me. Everything was the complete opposite since my first day shooting. He was vibrant, likable even, but now he somehow managed to turn not only himself, but the entire cast and crew against me. You’re legit the ONLY one who will talk to me.” Caroline blinks twice and yawns. “Well, I’m not talking to you. I’m your fucking dog, you fool.” Caroline says.

“Oh.” Eve says. 

“As the designated therapy dog for everyone in Randy's movies, I’m used to having to listen to my master’s bullshit, over and over again. In the end though, it’s the same result. Always.”

“...What’s that? I didn’t hear you.” Eve said, focusing on removing her makeup in the mirror. 

“Oh, haha. Very hilarious. Maybe I should give Kevin Hart a call and tell him he has some new competition.” 

“Oh, Puh-Lease, shouldn’t you be sniffing your asshole or something?” 

“Well maybe you should--” 

A loud knock banged on the trailer door. A deep gruff voice spoke. “Eve Kraken? Are you decent?” the person on the other door said. Another voice spoke a bit more quietly. “Why don’t we just kick that bitches door down. She’s probably busy talking up her next toy for the evening anyways.” Eve gritted her teeth and slammed down the makeup wipes she had in her hand and marched to the door swinging it open with force. It was one of the producers. “Miss Kraken, we need you on set like right now.” Randy stepped in front of the producer. “You stupid fucking bitch.” he said angrily. “You took off your goddamn makeup, didn’t you?” 

“Well you said take five, so I was gonna re apply the makeup for the next scene we are gonna do.” she said, honestly.

“The next scene? The next scene. Davis, you hear her? The next scene. Bitch, We are still on the scene that you can’t fucking get right in the first fucking place.” Randy said sternly through closed teeth and clenched fists. “Just put on your fucking makeup and get your tight ass back on set before I give you two black eyeshadows that will take fucking weeks to get off. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise.” His Rum and Cigar breathe spread out on her face like a wave of pure disgust and hatred. She felt numb. All of his words had invoked a certain fear and rage inside her. This wasn’t just today, you see. This was everyday for Eve. She HATED randy. She FEARED Randy. The check she would receive every week for this treatment, seemed not even worth it. She gulped. “Yes, Randy. I'll be on set in five, please just, five.” Randy gruffed and walked away. The producer shuts the door, before briefly saying “Way to go, retard. Now we’ll all pay.” Once she can hear their footsteps fade away from the trailer, Eve screams. A trail of tears drip down her face as she punches her makeup desk over and over under her hands are bruised and bloodied. A small knife rumbles and tumbles off the desk. And onto the floor, making a slight, but noticeable clunking noise onto her hard wood floors. Eve looks down at it and kneels down at the small blade. 

“Take it.” Eve looks up at Caroline who was now sitting across from her. 

“What?” Eve said.

“Take the fucking knife and kill the fucker.” Caroline said to Eve. 

“Your mouth, it’s moving..” Eve said startled. 

“I know. Get the knife. Now.”

The knife that once sat between the now talking canine and distressed girl was now neatly tucked in Eve’s hand. It’s settled. 

**********************************************************************

“Come in.”

Randy said after three knocks on his office door.  He put down his cigar and pencil, drawing his attention away from his notepad to the disheveled Eve. Her knuckles were bloody and bruised. Her eyes were puffy and red from the tears she shedded. She had a knife in her hand. 

“The fuck are you doing in here. I told you to get your tight ass on set.” 

“Why?” Eve said calmly walking towards his desk. 

“Bitch, why? We have a fucking movie to shoot and you can’t get a fucking simple scene right. That’s why. Now get out of my office.” 

“Why do you act so cold hearted towards me?”

“What? Listen either get out of my office or I will make you get out.”

“Oh I'd like to see you try.” Eve whips around and shuts and locks the door and slams her bruised hands on his desk. 

“Now, tell me now. Before I do something, I am going to regret it.” 

“Bitch I don’t owe you a goddamn thing,” Randy sits up staring her dead in the face. “Now, go back on fucking set or so help me g--” Eve’s hand whips up and send her knife straight under the directors chin, slicing his throat. The adrenaline sends her into a fit of rage and she leaps onto his lap over the desk and continues to stab him repeatedly in the shoulders and head, crying and screaming. “IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU”. Eventually she ceases. Now covered in her tormentor's blood, she cries in his lap. She sniffles and starts to walk towards the door. She knows she’s going to jail. She knows that her life is over. But jail is no comparison to the hell she had to endure from him.  She notices on Randy’s Desk a yellow notepad with her name etched at the top. The color and font of the blue ink pressed on the pad was old and it cried out to the girl, begging her to read it. Eve wiped her hands on Randy’s pants and picked up the notepad and started reading it’s contents:

EVE

The Art of filmmaking doesn’t oftentimes require the effort put forth upon the actors cast and crew. It’s also the director to get their actors to put in their best efforts. Eve was my ultimate test to this new philosophy I created. I didn’t pick her for her acting talent alone, no. I picked her because she grew up well. Two loving parents, upper-middle class lifestyle in Los Angeles, plenty of friends etc. Knowing this and her talent in horror movies, I understand that there may be a grey area when it comes to achieving true fear and paranoia and capturing it on film. So, much rather than encouraging her to undergo method acting, I am going to be doing  a little bit of acting myself. I must belittle, hurt, bully, and cut her down to my best of efforts. She will HATE me. This however will develop a true sense of fear. She will no longer be acting because chet is chasing her character. She will be acting because she will be in fear of me causing more harm to her. This publication will be proof to other directors to follow my footsteps to really push their actors to their limits. I will continually be posting updates on this project of mine during my time filming my horror film. 

Eve covered her mouth in shock. He wasn’t the villain in this story. He just wanted a genuine reaction out of her. To capture a real piece of human terror on film. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t know what to do. She teared up as she began to tremble in fear. Her eyes darted back and forth between Randy’s corpse and the Notepad. She just killed a man. The blood was on her hands. There are knocks on the door. Fuck, What should she do. She can’t run. The office is blocked off. They’re calling for Randy. Shit, Shit, SHIT. She’s trapped. This is her first of many cells. Her room to sit in her regret before the mental regret of her actions. The door is barged in and Chet walks in still in his killer costume. He glances over at the body and over at her.

Motionlessly looks at her.

It’s all over for her.

“AAAANNNNNNNNNNND CUT”

“Eve that was fantastic work, your reaction was fucking perfect.” Said the director. 

Eve helped up Randy, who had trouble getting up after she sat on his lap.

“Do we have to do that again, since it was perfect?” Randy said whinyily 

“Unfortunately yes. Over and Over again.”

[takadasaiko]

72 for Bobo del Rey holy fucking tomatoes

FFN II AO3

Summary: Wyatt Earp gets a first-hand experience at just how much his friend Robert has changed since he last knew him.

Notes: One of the reasons I haven’t buckled down and written a multi chapter spec fic is that I have to many ideas. One of those is where Wyatt comes back and the team finds him. I was discussing part of that idea with someone and realized how well this little part would fit the prompt. So here we are. I don’t intend to have a resurrected Wyatt in any future one-shots (maybe? You never know. An AU to a little series of one shots that will eventually be AU?). 

Writing Prompt #76 “You deserve so much better”

Deserve Better (Fallen Series)

They’d found him locked away in what was little more than a dungeon. How long he has been there, Wyatt really couldn’t say. It had been a blur of time. The one thing he was certain of was that it was Clootie’s doing. He would never forget that demon’s face.

Everything had happened so fast he had barely had time to process it. Three men had appeared at his cell door, one of which had been Doc Holliday. Wyatt had felt relief sweep through him as he pulled his old friend in. He was alive. How didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not after everything.

The second man in - a deputy marshal by the name of Dolls he found out - had hurried Doc along in getting Wyatt free. The third spoke in a low, almost strained voice when he announced that they weren’t alone and to get Wyatt out of there. He would meet up with them later. It hadn’t been until they had gotten out that they had explained that their third was a Revenant himself. The other Revenants couldn’t kill him even if they tried, so he was the one that got to buy them time. Wyatt never saw the Revenant’s face and he didn’t recognize the name that Doc called him by. Funny, he thought he remembered each of those that had been caught up in the curse.

Bobo Del Rey had kept tight control of most of the Revenants in Purgatory, so Wyatt learned. He had lost a lot of that when Clootie was resurrected, but he’d struck a deal with the current Heir and those still loyal to him were willing to help them put Clootie down in return for a free pass when all of this was over. Seemed like a fair enough deal. Or it would have been if they were still men and not demons.

And that was what had brought Wyatt Earp to this strange place with its high gates, guards armed with guns very different than the ones he was used to, and glowing red eyes side-eyeing him even as they let him in. He held his hands up as a sign of what he hoped was good faith. “I’m here to speak to Bobo Del Rey,” he declared. He just needed to know for himself who this creature really was. He needed to make sure his great great granddaughter wasn’t making a mistake that would cost her her life.

He made them nervous, that much was obvious. They wouldn’t make eye contact with him and answered any questions he asked in short sentences. He finally caught one Revenant’s eye, a thin smile quirking his lips at the way he shifted away when Wyatt called him by name.

Their mood seemed to change as another approached, and he looked about the right height for the Revenant that had been with Doc and Dolls earlier that day. Wyatt hadn’t gotten a good look at his face, but he would now, and hopefully he’d have a better idea what to expect. There were half a dozen outlaws he’d come up with that might have changed his name and taken over, and none of those former men instilled any sense of trust in him.

“Wyatt Earp,” that same deep voice from earlier greeted him as he approached. He was a sight with most of his hair shaved off his head except the strip of stark white hair, a single strip of black in it. He wore a heavy fur coat with buckles and straps, his shirt torn beneath it and his boots an odd style. Nothing like what Wyatt was accustomed to, but the world had certainly changed in the last ninety or so years.

It was those eyes that Wyatt recognized, and it felt like someone had dealt him a hard blow to the middle. He couldn’t draw a reasonable breath in as he stared. “Robert,” he managed with what remained of the air in his lungs and his friend stiffened a little at the name.

“Take a walk, boys,” he instructed the Revenants around them.

“But he-”

“You think I don’t know who he is? A man doesn’t forget the one that killed him.” Robert’s voice was cold. Somehow those blue eyes were sharper when they weren’t hidden behind his spectacles. “Plans haven’t changed tonight. Get to work.”

The Revenant Robert had directed the order to looked over to Wyatt. “You gonna have him take Carl over?”

Robert snorted. “Wyatt Earp? Wouldn’t want him to dirty up that conscious of his. I said I’d do it myself. Nothin’s changed.” The expression he wore looking so foreign on his features. Everything looked… off. It left Wyatt feeling a little sick. Like a monster wore his friend’s face. A demon.

The Revenants moved away to whatever business they were being sent on and Robert waited until they were out of earshot to turn back to meet Wyatt’s eyes. “Let me guess, Holliday sent you here without telling you who I was, hoping you’d catch me in the middle of something you’d hate.”

The words threw the gunslinger a moment. “I don’t think that was his intention,” he managed after a moment, but even he wouldn’t have believed himself and it certainly didn’t look like Robert did as he chuckled, flashing white teeth in a way that made him look strangely dangerous. He was, Wyatt reminded himself. He hadn’t escaped the curse.

“Oh, I think you and I both know better than that,” he murmured, something like amusement colouring his voice. “Hank gets his blows in where he can, and fighting for the same cause does limit him on the ones he can get away with these days.”

Wyatt had always known that the two men wouldn’t be close, but he’d hoped on some level they might be able to get past their differences. Apparently not.

He cleared his throat. “Well, at least I understand now why you were willing to side with Wynonna. I… I’d hoped that you might have escaped this curse-”

“Did you?” Robert tilted his head in question. “Because the good ol’ padre got me a set of letters you left for me explaining everything. Sure as hell looked like you knew I’d be caught in it.”

Wyatt closed his eyes, gathering himself. Robert was angry with him. It wasn’t like he’d meant to wrap him up in this mess. He hadn’t meant to get his friend killed. “I’d hoped,” he repeated sternly. “I am sorry, Robert. Truly I am, but if this had to happen… at least we can face this together.” He watched as Roberts expression melted from a sort of shock at his words to a laugh that chilled him to his core.

“Sure,” he growled, the word harsh and biting as he turned.

Wyatt reached out, catching hold of the coat. “Robert, please. Nothing I can say can put this right, but we’re both here now. What were you talking about earlier? Something that needed to be done.”

He watched the man he’d once been close with close his eyes, a low snarl escaped him that was so very, very different than the Robert he’d known. He turned back though, his eyes flashing briefly red. “You wanna see what’s happening here? Keep up.”

Wyatt hesitated only a beat before following Robert’s quick and determined pace through the collection of… homes? He wasn’t sure, but he did see pairs of red eyes watching him as they moved, hell’s own brand marking the scattered faces. He kept up with Robert until they made it to a circle and he saw those faces had followed them to the opening where a fire was building in the middle, a man chained there. He looked terrified and Wyatt looked to Robert for some sort of clarification as to what was happening.

“Don’t interfere,” was the only warning the naturally dark haired man growled as he took center stage.

The man chained near the fire started to whimper loudly. “I didn’t have a choice, boss! Bulshar, he made me-”

Robert flashed forward with an unnatural speed, snapping the nearly weeping man up by the hair on top of his head and hauling him till he was standing. “You’re not doing yourself any favours, Carl, calling that name out here. You think he’s going to save you? Protect you? No. You’re expendable. That’s why he sent you in. I would have protected you, but you turned. I told you what would happen, didn’t I? I warned you.”

“Bobo, please,” the Revenant - Carl - begged, but there was no mercy in those blue eyes.

“I warned you,” Robert answered icily and straightened, eyeing the others. “Take this as yours. Clootie will be put into the ground permanently. He can’t and won’t save you. Not from me.”

Wyatt watched as Robert reached down, unhooking part of the chain and the other Revenants murmured. “What will he do to him?” he asked the one closest to him and the demon blinked.

“Bobo warned us that if any switched to Clootie’s side he’d haul ‘im over the line himself.”

“The line?”

“For the Triangle. Outside.”

Then it clicked. They were stuck inside of it. “But he can’t leave. None of you can.”

“Without hell on earth, yeah.”

That’s why they’d asked if Wyatt was going to do it. He wasn’t a Revenant. He wasn’t bound to the Triangle like they were. “Won’t that do the same to Ro- to Bobo?”

The Revenant shrugged. “Sure, but ain’t nobody gonna cross him again. Not being willing to go that far.”

Don’t interfere. Now he understood, more than he might have been able to before. It had been nearly a century since Wyatt had passed away and the curse had truly begun. Robert hadn’t had a choice in what happened, but there he was still fighting the fight. It was terrible and it was ugly, and it was impossible for someone to come out of that whole. The fact that he’d retained his loyalty in any shape at all spoke volumes. It was…. so very Robert, despite the changes.

The screams sounded in the distance they crossed the boundary. Wyatt could see the way the smoke was rising from both Revenants, but Robert remained stoic, fastening the chain and bending to speak directly in the prisoner’s ear before starting back for the line.

No one moved to help him and somehow he was still on his feet. He swayed very slightly as he crossed back over, but kept right on going without a word, the screams of the one he’d left on the other side echoing. The other Revenants began to disperse, the show over, and Robert stalked in what looked like a particular direction.

Wyatt followed him to one of the tin homes that were scattered. “Robert?” he called softly.

“You wanna talk it’ll need to be in here,” Robert grumbled and Wyatt barely caught the door before it swung closed in his face.

He stepped in and home was a very loose interpretation of the sparsely decorated space. If he lived there, it didn’t look like he stayed there often. Robert moved to a cushioned bench and all but collapsed into it, his arm wrapped around his middle and his face screwed up in pain. “Shut the door and lock it,” he managed and after a moment of looking Wyatt found the latch to do so. When he looked back over he saw Robert struggling out of his coat, patches of skin showing to be red and angry once his arms were free of it. He grunted as he pull something wrong.

“Hey, take it easy,” Wyatt murmured, moving to help him, but he found himself startled to a stop as a snarl left his old friend, blue eyes shifting to red and the skin around it darkening. Interesting. No brand showed on his face like the others.

“What do you want, Wyatt?”

The response died in the other man’s throat. He wanted to help him, yes, but that really didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He had done this. This was his fault, and that realization was becoming more real with each passing second.

Robert grimaced and leaned back. “Can’t you save whatever judgement you have to deal out until I’ve healed?”

Wyatt cleared his throat. “I have… no room to judge you, Robert. I think you and I both know that. You wouldn't….” He paused, not accustomed to being at a loss for words. Best just to be honest. “I did this.”

Blue eyes blinked, pained expression giving way to confusion. He sat up a little straighter and he turned his attention briefly to the marks on his arms before long fingers started working at his shirt, pulling it up to inspect what was being hidden by it. Angry, red burns that looked like they went a lot deeper than any burn should - almost like he’d been burned from the inside out - stretched across his torso. They ran below and all along his ribs and up above where his shirt still covered them, some lighter marks appear above his collar line. “I told you to take the shot,” he said after a long moment, his voice still gruff, but much less defensive than it had been before.

“You didn’t know what would happen.”

There was a sigh and he reached up to massage the bridge of his nose, a habit that even Wyatt knew. “Neither did you.”

Wyatt set his jaw. “Don’t you hate me for it?”

“Oh yes,” Robert drawled out.

Well, that stung more than he’d expected.

The Revenant loosed a long breath and eased the shirt back down, finally meeting his eyes. “And no. It's….” He shook his head.

“Complicated,” Wyatt murmured.

“Yeah.” He reached up and ran his hand along the strip of hair on top of his head, flattening it down a little. “I didn’t mind dying for you, Wyatt. I was ready to ride to hell and back if that’s what you needed, and I have. I…” He closer his eyes. “Just woulda been nice if I’d meant as much to you too.”

He felt abandoned. That’s what this was. “Every letter you wrote back said you were doing better.” The argument felt hollow even to him.

Robert snorted. “I lied.”

“Obviously.”

“What was I supposed to say, Wyatt? Come sit with me as I die? By the time I’d pushed it too far…. It was too late all the way around.”

There was a beat of silence between them and Wyatt took a seat across from his newly injured friend, their eyes meeting. “I am sorry. I’d have come back if I’d known. I never meant for you to be alone.”

“You always did love John Henry,” Robert murmured and he sounded like he was echoing the words from someone else.

“And you,” Wyatt promised softly. “You were my dear friend, Robert. For me, that hasn’t changed.”

“I’m a demon.”

“You’re Robert Svane.” Blue eyes flickered up and Wyatt sighed. “I ain’t saying you’re the same as you were then, but that doesn’t change your core. You’re a good man, Robert, always have been.”

Robert gave a mirthless chuckle. “Death made you delusional.”

“And it made you a bit more of an asshole than I remember,” Wyatt answered with a smirk of his own. “Lost that damnably polite tone of yours along the way, didn’t you?”

His old friend’s expression eased just a little. “First thing to go.” He shifted, the amusement fading. “We should head back into town.”

Wyatt nodded and stood, offering Robert a hand up. He saw the way that he looked at it funny for just a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he should take it or not. “You deserved better than all of this. So much better.”

“Yeah,” he said roughly, finally accepting the hand and letting Wyatt help pull him up to his feet. “But now we’re gonna give Clootie exactly what he deserves.”

[hiraethstill]

Hey hey hey!! Could I get KuroKen with Kuro helping Kenma through a panic attack or a depressive episode??

Unknown Number

Kenma could feel himself shaking long before he managed to find an empty stall. But the real panic only started to set in in full force as he slumped against the wall, sliding into a sitting position and wrapping his arms around his knees– shuddering, shallow breaths and the blurred lines of the stall door, the wall, the toilet next to him, the crush of anxiety on his chest forcing the air out of his lungs, disconnecting him from his surroundings. It seemed as though he was looking at everything through the wrong end of a smudged telescope, but even more sickening was the cold familiarity of the feeling.

It took him at least half an hour of using any method he could think of to calm down before he trusted himself to uncurl his body and sit upright. Blinking, he rubbed at his eyes weakly, willing them to focus on something, anything. They eventually landed on the inevitable graffiti covering the wall, trailing along the crude “Fuck this shit,” which he silently agreed with, a drawing of a penis, which he did not appreciate, and a few Your Mom jokes, which he didn’t bother to read fully. It was only when his eyes skimmed a small message near the bottom that he paused.

Aside from the elaborately drawn chemistry diagram, there were five words.

Ever just need a friend?

Right under the message was a number.

He stared at it for a long time, like if he touched it, it wouldn’t be real. Finally, his hands moved on their own, taking out his phone. The rational part of him told him that it was a complete stranger, might even be a practical joke. The rest of him was too done with being alone and terrified that it worked on its own, taking a blind leap of faith.

His fingers stopped over the call button, however. It would be much harder to call the person and hear their voice while having to respond with his own weak one. A text would be much easier, safer.

Exhaling slowly, he exited out of the current screen and opened the texting app instead. His fingers already seemed to have memorized the number, typing with quick efficiency until he pulled up a chat box for the unknown addressee. Before he could second-guess himself any further, he let himself go, typing out exactly what he was feeling, all the words he wanted to throw in his teachers’ and classmates’ faces but could never bring himself to voice aloud.

Kenma: yes, i need a friend. because im so damn tired of myself and my inadequacies but no one will listen farther than a few times including my parents and do you know how hard it is just to get out from under the blankets in the morning and know that no one will truly want to see you or ask how youre doing and youre too anxious and withdrawn to ‘just go out and talk to people’ which you absolutely hate but cant do anything about except retreat into your shell and socially regress every single day when all you want is for someone to just. listen.

He took a deep breath, realizing he’d been holding it the whole time, and let it out, sagging back against the wall and letting his head tilt back toward the ceiling. There was a strange sense of calm creeping in at the edges of his mind and chest, almost a sort of relief. The truth was out there now, at least with one person, and even if whomever it was blocked him or never replied, he felt lighter.

What he didn’t expect was the chime of his phone about a minute later.

Blinking, he tilted his head back down to the screen. A new message had popped up from the unknown number. And another.

Unknown Number: I’d be more than happy to listen

Unknown Number: Maybe we’re strangers, but you can talk to me, tell me how you’re doing, about your day - I’ll keep listening, or uh, reading, oops

Despite himself, Kenma found the corner of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile. Every part of him that felt dragged through the mud felt as if it were reaching out, trying to grasp onto something. It was strange how he was gravitating toward a chance at hope when everything was so hopeless. There was only one thing to say.

Kenma: thank you

**********

Kuroo knew to turn off his phone during class, or at least silence it so the teacher wouldn’t know. Recently, it had been more of the latter since his mom had been in the hospital and had no qualms about texting him at all times of the day.

So when he looked down at the silent notification, his eyes didn’t register that it had come from a different number at first. It was only when he saw the long paragraph that he paused. Instinct told him to look up at the teacher to make sure she wasn’t paying attention to him, and he subtly tilted his head down so he could scan the screen.

Something in his chest clenched, and he checked the sender’s information. Unknown. But this unknown had reached out to him. The person had no other option, and that tugged at him inexplicably.

He wanted to help.

Quickly, he typed out a reply one-handed, pretending with the other that he was taking notes, and sent another just in case. Then he went back to the chat box for his mother just in case the teacher decided to question him, heart picking up.

When he checked again, there was a short answer. Just two words.

Unknown Number: thank you

Kuroo smiled to himself. He’d made a difference, no matter how slight, and he knew that could mean the world.

Kuroo: No problem

Kuroo: Are you in class right now?

Immediately after he’d send it, he pursed his lips in distaste. He had no way of knowing how old the person was, much less if they attended school or not. He probably sounded like a fool.

Unknown Number: no

Unknown Number: dont worry about it, ill go to class or home soon

Kuroo: Ah, okay

Kuroo: Just wondering where you got my number

Unknown Number: werent you the one that wrote it on the bathroom wall

Oh. Oh. So it was a kid that went to this school. Kuroo had almost forgotten writing it out on the wall, but some vague memory resurfaced from the previous year involving a 2000 yen bet, a squirrel, and a certain bully’s underwear.

Kuroo: Right, I did, sorry

Kuroo: Glad it was put to good use

It took a while for the next response, enough to let Kuroo fill at least a third of the page with actual notes.

Unknown Number: i still can’t believe it

Kuroo: Believe what?

Unknown Number: that youre still here talking to me

Kuroo: You’re kind of stuck with me now (-u0)

Unknown Number: …youre a dork

Kuroo had to smile at that. It really wasn’t far off the mark, and he was pleasantly surprised at how perceptive this person seemed to be. Intrigued, even.

Kuroo: Can’t argue with that~

**********

The daily conversations became less about anxiety the longer they went on, and more about daily life. Even the silences were companionable, not oppressive like before, as Kenma slowly learned that the other person didn’t expect anything of him, didn’t silently demand what others did. He stuck to his phone longer, but now it wasn’t completely because he was withdrawing from others. Now he had something to look forward to - someone to look forward to - and it was a comfort in so many ways.

Unknown, which was what he’d dubbed the person, was smart, he knew that, and cared a lot about his mother. He was also confident, which Kenma envied slightly, being uncomfortable in his own skin. Or maybe Unknown had just stopped caring what others thought.

Either way, he found himself checking his phone constantly, and while he still had panic attacks, still couldn’t bring himself to talk to people, still let the negative thoughts creep in often, he had this Unknown, finally had a constant.

It was a few months before he checked his phone one morning to more of a decision than a message.

Unknown: Hey, I was wondering since we’re in the same school and all, would you like to meet? Totally fine if not, I don’t want to pressure you into anything

It took him a few minutes to completely register that message. Texting was one thing, but face-to-face interaction? He still got anxious whenever he even passed people in the hallway. How could he willingly…

He stopped, took a deep breath. What was he really scared of? Unknown had done so much for him, and here he was, scared of something so simple. In fact, if they could meet in person, it might be even better, for the both of them. They could actually spend time together in person, do all the normal things that friends did. Unconsciously, his fingers were already replying, typing out a quick affirmative and asking when and where. It didn’t take long to receive a reply and sort out the details.

Saturday. Only a few days away.

**********

It was only as he was pulling on an acceptable shirt on Saturday morning that Kuroo realized he had no idea what to look for. They hadn’t talked at all about how they looked, so he could completely pass by the other and not even know. Hurriedly, he sent a text.

Kuroo: What should I look for?

Unknown: ill sit at the table closest to the door with my psp

Kuroo: Okay, see you soon

Gathering his wallet and keys, he stood and made his way out the door and toward the train station. A short ride and a quick walk found him standing in front of the cafe. He didn’t hesitate as he pushed his way inside, immediately looking around.

There, with a PSP clutched in his hands and knees curled up to his chest, was a boy who couldn’t be much younger than himself, sitting at the closest table as he’d said he would. The hair spoke of laziness or just apathy, brown roots showing through the dyed blonde. Luminous amber eyes flicked up toward him, and seemed about to flick right back to his game, but Kuroo held them there as he stepped up to the table.

“Are you…?” he started, then stopped. The eyes seemed to grow even wider, blinking rapidly. “Are you okay?” he finished, coming to sit across from him.

The other nodded slowly and ducked his head, seeming to be trying to swallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, uninflected.

“You’re… taller than I thought.”

Kuroo was slightly taken aback, but broke into a grin and took the seat across from him. “And you’re smaller than I thought, but hey, both are okay.”

The blonde paused his game and set it carefully on the table, looking up. “Your name…?”

“Kuroo Tetsurou.” He reached out with a hand slightly, but stopped himself. No contact, right. Instead, he settled for a smile.

The other’s voice seemed be softer and stronger all at once. “Kozume Kenma.” Kuroo was surprised when he reached across the table himself and touched his palm to the taller male’s in a sort of half-handshake.

“I’m…” Kenma hesitated. “Well, thank you for coming.”

“I’m the one that invited you,” Kuroo pointed out.

“Yeah, but…” Kenma shrugged, and Kuroo understood, he really did.

“Hey,” he said, softer. “It’s alright. I know.”

The immensely grateful look in Kenma’s eyes made it all worth it.

Just goes to show, sometimes I get extremely carried away. This was almost 2K on google docs, and first written on what was supposed to be scratch paper after state testing. Oops.

[mushmeyers]

being gay in the 1800s

thanks to @moonlightorpoetry​ and @wear-it-like-armour-bastard​ for the help with this!!! 

so, there’s been some conflict in the newsies fandom about gay people and if they existed publically/were too scared to act on their gayness. here’s a post about notable known gay people, acts, places, and literature that were public. i tried to keep this post centred around New York only- for the literal reason that if i did all of america, i would be literally overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people, events, places, etc. remember, a hell of a lot more gay stuff happened in private that will never be known to the public. so let’s get started

IF YOU DON’T READ ANY OF THIS POST, PLEASE READ THIS PARAGRAPH:

i’d like to open this post with information found by @wear-it-like-armour-bastard​ (bless yr soul). City of NY University Professor David Naws, author of Children of the City: At Work and at Play, the book that inspired the 1992 Newsies film, says that he is convinced some of the news boys were gay. The guy who wrote the history book Newsies was based on thinks there were gay newsies. I mean. what more do you need as evidence that “gay news boys” are literally not only possible but existed

KEEP IN MIND IN THIS WHOLE POST: the newsboys strikes happened in 1899. some of these dates are SUPER close to them- including a lot of scandals.

so this is split into a few sections:

gay people

gay laws/happenings

gay places

gay literature

conclusion

1-4 are all just evidence, and conclusion is my personal thoughts.

gay people

Walt Whitman - There’s a lot of debate over this, but it’s mostly agreed on that he was either bi or gay. And yes, he was open about it, he published a lot of literature that was controversial and explicit about being gay. He arrived in NY in  1841. 

Deborah Sampson Gannett - Enrolled in the army as a man (Robert Shurtliff- shurtliff. Shirt lift. A common term for gay men was shirtlifters.) She was known for hitting on other women. She gave public lectures in 1802.

Oscar Wilde - Yes, he wasn’t in America. However, his trials had huge influences. Young Griffo, who lived in NY from 1893-1927, was accused in 1895 of “Oscar Wildeism” with a boy. Basically, having a relationship with another boy. Being accused of this included going to court, as reported in Columbus Press-Post, in May 25, 1895. Therefore, we see that Oscar Wilde had a direct influence on NYC in the 1800s.

Horatio Alger

Look at this list on wikipedia. Go through each letter, and sort by year- you’ll find a lot of people from the 1800s, many from NYC. It’s 6am Im not going to list every famous LGBT person from NYC in the 1800s for you because, believe it or not, there are too many.

gay laws/happenings

Three revisions to the laws on sodomy were made between 1881 and 1892. Yes, you may take this as evidence for people hiding- but actually think about it. When do people make revisions to laws? When the law is being broken a notable amount of times, to include more and more cases of it. Plus, we see trialed cases of it (evidence that people continued to do it) and plenty more evidence of gay people existing throughout this entire post, so?

Aforementioned Young Griffo case.

Havelock Ellis wrote in Sexual Inversion in 1897. This is about the huge amount of gay people living in US cities. 

In 1901, yes after the strike but only by two years, politican Murray Hall dies. It was revealed, upon death, that he was “a woman”. He was most likely a trans man.

Here are some non-NY but still America happenings, from this source:

1886 - La Presse reports on the gay nightlife in the city of Montreal

1896 - For the first time on stage in America (Florida), two women kiss

gay places

The Slide - A notorious gay bar. It was one of the ones that was known very publicly. Now, here’s where it gets interesting. This bar was often written against in newspapers. Particular “The New York Evening World”. Yes. The World. Joseph Pulitzer’s the world. The newspaper that the newsies you’re a fan of were selling. In fact, here’s a picture from The World, on this gay bar.

And this wasn’t the only bar that was written about- other bars in the area were slandered in the paper until closing. 

Excise Exchange- Another notorious gay bar. Also slandered in The World, in 1892. Before the strikes.

Now, note that these two bars- and many others, like Columbia Hall, and six saloons/dance halls found in 1899 (the year of the strike, if I must remind you) that were noted for being popular with gay people- were located in Bowery. A place that was also known for having a huge gay subculture that was much more obvious than most parts of NYC (source: George Chauncey, historian on gay people in NYC.).

Bowery might sound familiar to you. If it doesn’t, it should, because it’s mentioned in Newsies- the Bowery Beauties, in Medda’s theatre. I would take this as strong evidence that Medda’s theatre is in Bowery. If you disagree for whatever reason, tell me, but honestly I think it’d be a reach to say otherwise. So parts of Newsies take place in NYC’s biggest hub for LGBT+ people in the late 1800s. And the World, the newspaper that these kids were selling, reported on these gay bars in the Bowery. Jack Kelly painted in a theatre next to multiple gay bars. 

There were also many gay men found in certain parks, public baths, the docks, and some bars and dance halls- who were known to catch the attention of Walt Whitman. (source: Towards Stonewall by Nicholas C. Edsall)

gay literature

Song of Myself - Published in 1855, by aforementioned Walt Whitman. Describes the soul through fellatio. Let me repeat: Describes the soul through blowjobs. Someone has literally compiled all the explicitly gay parts for me here, so give that a read. If you’re too lazy, here’s a line that’s pretty fucking gay: “The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)”

Literally just loads of Walt Whitman’s poems. Including:

Native Moments, 1900 (literally says  I share the midnight orgies of young men)

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, originally published titled Sun Down Poem in 1856, republished in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass.

Basically just look at all editions of Leaves of Grass.

Joseph and His Friend: A Story of Pennsylvania - Often referred to as America’s first gay novel.

Here’s a book on gay books in America in the late 1800s. Congrats.

conclusion

No, this isn’t just about shipping. This is me being angry that you have implied that we, LGBT people, did not exist in the 1800s. This is JUST talking about NYC, with a few mentions of other areas in America only. LGBT people existed then, and not only that, consistently had relationships with members of the same gender even during times when being gay was “considered bad.” 

I’d like to note that being gay is still frowned upon. There are many, many LGBT teenagers who are terrified of their parents finding out they’re gay. But, this doesn’t mean that they all suppress or never act on their feelings- yes, some do, but a large majority act on them in secret. Humans have never been the kind to stop doing something because it is illegal, they have always done things secretly because they’re illegal.

So in conclusion, not only did gay people exist as openly as they could in the 1800s, but gay newsies existed, and newsies existed in a time where gay people were discussed and near many, many gay bars.