#that or banshee. honestly sounded like a banshee

[abyssopelagicstar]

Sometimes you hear a fucked up unidentifiable animal noise outside in the middle of the night and are like yeah okay this is why people believe in demons

[tarantula-pop]

Need to see another Gene Loves Jezebel fan who loves and appreciates Michael Aston like I do 😔

[theorist-fox]

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

Summary: Simon has to lie low and go dark for an undefined period of time. While trudging along the unbearably long, dark alley that's his life, he finds the light at the end of tunnel, and it's shaped like you. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun. 

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his. 

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin. 

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him).  His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required, or needed. Wanted.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this. 

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday. 

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking. 

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream. 

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere. 

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight. 

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole. 

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

[mashupgenie]

me, literally about to fall sleep in my own bed:

The friendly neighborhood fox:

[jillianallen14]

Dear Baby Bats - Goth Band Recommendations

As a middle sibling goth (I’ve been in the subculture for 10 years now, so not a baby bat but not an elder goth either), let me turn you on to some bands because we do not gatekeep in this house!! Also, if you want consistently good lesser-known & brand new goth band recs, go follow Awfully Sinister on TikTok and Instagram. He’s a DJ & has great recs. I've found so much music through him because it's really hard to keep up with all the new bands cropping up every year. You want to avoid the goth subreddit because they are extremely gatekeeper-y and argue over labels constantly. It’ll just confuse you, and they are not nice over there.

If you’re very new to the subculture, and you haven’t yet listened to all of Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Sisters of Mercy, Christian Death, Cocteau Twins, Clan of Xymox, Joy Division, and Depeche Mode, go do so now. You'll want to know which of them you really enjoy the most because it will help you know which sub-subgenre(s) of goth you want to watch out for, and it'll tell you what to look for to find it. For example, Sisters of Mercy is the gothic rock subgenre, Christian Death is deathrock, Cocteau Twins is ethereal wave, Clan of Xymox is like the original darkwave, Joy Division is classic post-punk, etc. I haven’t included industrial, despite its proximity to the goth subculture, just because I actually don’t really know that many industrial bands beyond Skippy Puppy, Ministry, and Throbbing Gristle. Some other goth/goth-adjacent staple bands (that are very popular and very influential) that you should listen to if you haven’t already are The Damned, Killing Joke, The Cult, and Adam and the Ants/Adam Ant). I didn't know where to put She Wants Revenge or London After Midnight either, but they're also great.

I’ve bolded some of my absolute must-listen to goth bands, and I've put monthly Spotify listeners for each band so you know which ones deserve WAY more love. And in my pre-list ramblings for each OG band, I've given you some key terms to look up so you can more easily find music that's similar to what you enjoy. Okay, here we go:

If you like Bauhaus:

Bauhaus is a hard one because honestly, nobody really sounds like them, and they aren't really that closely associated with a specific sub-subgenre of goth. They were post-punk, they were art rock, they were experimental, they were sometimes very punk and at other times very gothic rock. They liked to call themselves “dark glam rock” (all four members are massive Bowie, T-Rex, and Iggy Pop fans), but you’re gonna have a hard time finding bands that sound like them if you look that term up. They probably have one of the most unique sounds of all-time. They’re my favorite band (I even have a tattoo for them, like I am devoted lol), but even I have a difficult time finding other bands that scratch their particular itch for me. These bands I’ve listed are as close as you’re gonna get to Bauhaus’ general vibe imo.

Virgin Prunes (80’s band that is technically deathrock but has the same absolutely unhinged, danceable sound that Bauhaus has, so they’re going here; one of my favorites; no one else does it like them and no one else ever will; I would actually give my left foot to see them live); 13.2k monthly listeners (this is actually physically painful to me, how is it this low!!! don't walk, RUN to go listen to them)

Alien Sex Fiend (80’s classic unhinged goth); 77k monthly listeners

Sextile (modern band that has some very Bauhaus-sounding guitar work at times but with heavy industrial influences); 147k listeners

The Danse Society (80’s unhinged goth; has similar experimental vibes to Bauhaus imo; one of my fave goth groups); 36k listeners

Sex Beat (80’s); not even really on Spotify

Ritual Howls (modern band; I don’t know why it gives Bauhaus, but it does; one of the few modern bands that scratches that particular itch for me); 45k listeners

The Agnes Circle (modern band; one of my favorites; they have the right Bauhaus-like atmosphere for me); 52k listeners

Traitrs (I can’t explain why they remind me of Bauhaus, but they do; another one of my fave modern bands; they make me want to start levitating and doing the Ian Curtis dance in the same way Bauhaus does lol); 239k listeners

Paralisis Permanente (underrated 80’s; they have a lot in common with Bauhaus’s sound actually, def give them a try!); 54k monthly listeners

The Birthday Party (80s band, totally unhinged; they’re less dark and atmospheric than Bauhaus, but if you take one listen to their album Junkyard, you’ll know exactly why I put them under this category haha; Nick Cave is the vocalist, which is amazing); 54k listeners

Tones on Tail (80s; Daniel Ash & Kevin Haskins of Bauhaus formed this group; I’d put Love and Rockets as well, which is all of Bauhaus’s members except Peter Murphy, but Love and Rockets weirdly bears little resemblance to Bauhaus’s music; but if you just generally want more of Bauhaus members' work, Love and Rockets is great, too); 81k listeners

Dalis Car (80s; collaboration between Peter Murphy and Japan's bassist; their music is extremely weird, so only listen if you really love the batshit insane Bauhaus songs or if you really live and breathe Peter Murphy like I do lol; their description on Spotify is so fucking funny); 7k listeners

I'd also recommend listening to Daniel Ash, David J, and Peter Murphy's solo work. They're all great!! Peter also did some amazing collaborations with Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails); the version of Reptile that they did together is better than Nine Inch Nail's original version imo, and you can find that entire session on Youtube!

If you like Siouxsie and the Banshees:

Siouxsie is another one that's hard to pin down sound-wise because again, they don't really fit into one specific sub-subgenre, so all of these recs are just goth bands with female vocalists who have the same kind of powerful vocals that Siouxsie does.

Second Still (modern band, one of my faves; singer sounds a lot like Siouxsie to me at times); 69k listeners

Skeletal Family (80’s band; has the same “women in punk” vibes that Siouxsie has); 55k listeners

Xmal Deutschland (80’s band; has the same powerful vocals that Siouxsie has; makes you wanna go stupid go crazy the way the Banshees do); 73k listeners

Secret Shame (modern band w/ woman singer; has the same rage that Siouxsie songs have to me, especially early Siouxsie); 6k listeners (let's get those numbers up, folks!!!)

Rosegarden Funeral Party (modern band w/ a woman vocalist); 57k listeners

Mephisto Walz (90s & 2000s; sounds so much like the Banshees at times); 56k listeners

The Creatures (80s; a Siouxsie Sioux & Budgie side project); 34k listeners

Madhouse (listen to Repulsion! 80s group that’s technically deathrock, but I put them under this category because the singer has Siouxsie-like qualities); not really on Spotify

Strange Boutique (90s; vocalist is Monica Richards of Faith and the Muse & Madhouse; this is probably my favorite project of hers); 112k listeners

If you like Depeche Mode:

For Depeche Mode enjoyers (which DM is kind of on the fringes of what’s considered “goth,” but they’re so entrenched in the subculture that I included them anyway), you’re gonna want to delve into goth playlists and modern goth that leans towards synthpop/synthwave. So those are the kinds of playlists you’ll want to search up for similar sounds to DM.

Nuovo Testamento (modern band; combines post-punk and pop elements in a way that’s very similar to Depeche Mode; lots of fun live, and they have a good sound); 25k listeners

Boy Harsher (modern band; relies heavily on synth; feels like it should be playing at every goth club); 558k listeners

ULTRA SUNN (modern band; singer sounds like Dave Gahan); 217k listeners (they just blew up on tiktok recently, which explains why this just skyrocketed since the last time I was on their Spotify page lol; good for them, good for them, they deserve it)

Ministry's first album (called With Sympathy), which was synthwave/synthpop before they went industrial (this is one of my all-time favorite albums)

French Police (modern band); 252k listeners

Closed Tear (modern band); 152k listeners

Night Sins (modern band); 33k listeners

Panic Priest (modern band; vocals sound decently similar to Dave Gahan & there is a lot of reliance on synth; In All Severity is a gorgeous song); 5k listeners

Fad Gadget (underrated 80’s; I just feel like if you like DM, you’re also gonna like Fad Gadget); 58k listeners

Martin Dupont (underrated 80s cold wave/synth pop; Inside Out is one of my favorite 80s songs); 26k listeners

If you like The Cure:

You'll be hard-pressed to find a goth band that wasn't influenced by The Cure, so I really can't give you any key terms for what to look up lol. They also changed their sound so frequently that it entirely depends on what era of The Cure's music you're looking to find similar music for.

Vision Video (modern band; combines post-punk and pop elements like The Cure does; one of my fave modern goth bands; they are INCREDIBLE live); 52k listeners (I'm gonna need y'all to get a song or two of theirs to blow up on tiktok expeditiously lol)

Urban Heat (modern band; great live); 36k listeners

The Chameleons (80’s band; very underrated; they are also very good live); 167k listeners

House of Harm (modern band, very new; also very good live; has pop elements); 44k listeners

Deceits (modern band, another very new one); 28k listeners (it's crazy how much this number has grown the past two months because it was in the single thousands not that long ago; everyone say thank you, tiktok)

Drab Majesty (modern band; their instrumentals remind me of The Cure); 172k listeners

Double Echo (modern band, one of my faves; their instrumentals also remind me of The Cure); 15k listeners (let's get these numbers up!!!)

The Bolshoi (underrated 80’s band that combines new wave and goth elements in a similar way to The Cure); 114k listeners

The Essence (underrated 80s band that sounds so much like The Cure it’s actually insane, but they’ve got their own sound too; they’re like a perfect blend of all of The Cure’s different sounds); 25k monthly listeners

The Glove (80s; a Robert Smith side project with Steven Severin from Siouxsie and the Banshees); 25k listeners

Crimson Ivy (80s band; singer sounds so a lot like a more yelly version of Robert Smith sometimes); not on Spotify

Miss Teen America (brand new band from NYC! They only have one single out right now, and it’s well worth listening to); 940 monthly listeners (y’all know what to do!!! Let’s get those numbers up, up, up!) link to their single: https://open.spotify.com/album/4nvdZeUVLLrMv3tEziCqm7?si=2WVS7-eYQLGR7Id3wLiKhg

If you like Clan of Xymox:

Most of these bands will be modern ones because Clan of Xymox was honestly way ahead of their time. (They are also amazing live, so go see them before they eventually call it quits!) For playlists that are full of their vibe, you’re gonna want to look up “darkwave” playlists. Clan of Xymox pioneered darkwave, so any darkwave band you listen to is gonna be influenced by their sound in some way or another.

Harsh Symmetry (modern, very new; very heavily relies on synth); 29k listeners

Ssleeping Desiress (modern band; instrumentals similar to Xymox); 55k listeners

Twin Tribes (probably my favorite modern goth band; they are fucking incredible and so good live!); 276k listeners

ACTORS (modern band; heavily relies on synth); 86k listeners

Mareux (modern; heavily relies on synth); 4.8 million listeners (this is wild!!!! everyone say thank you, tiktok)

Sixth June (modern); 23k listeners

Plastique Noir (modern); 40k listeners

Rendez Vous (modern); 160k listeners

Minuit Machine (modern); 97k listeners

The Frozen Autumn (90s & 2000s); 31k listeners

If you like Christian Death:

All of these recs will be deathrock recs or goth bands that heavily leaned on punk sounds. So if CD is the OG goth band you’re most fond of, you’re gonna want to delve into deathrock playlists for similar sounds.

Asylum Party (80’s band); not on spotify

45 Grave (80’s band); 47k listeners

Voodoo Church (80’s band; probably my favorite out of this bunch; I actually like them more than Christian Death); 7k listeners (let's get these numbers up immediately!!!!)

Ausgang (80’s band); 2k listeners (WHAT; they deserve so much more, damn)

Corpus Delicti (90’s band; they are very good; they sound the least like Christian Death on this list imo); 26k listeners

13th Chime (80’s band; very underrated); 6k listeners

UK Decay (you know, I actually don’t know what era they’re from; unhinged sound); 1k listeners (omg)

Super Heroines (underrated 80’s band; Eva O formed it); 2k listeners (you see what I meant about underrated?)

Specimen (80s band; this one could have just as easily gone under Bauhaus tbh, but the vocals are generally higher pitched than Peter Murphy’s, so I put them under this category); 102k listeners

Sex Gang Children (80’s band; just so unhinged & I love them for it); 27k listeners

Suspiria (90s, I think? I don’t actually know); barely on Spotify but 27k listeners

Theatre of Hate (80s); 7k listeners

Bloody Dead and Sexy (2000s, I think); 44k listeners

Mescaline Babies (2000s); 3k listeners

Acid Bats (2000s; Mexican band with Spanish lyrics); 2k listeners

Altar de Fey (80s band; formed in San Francisco!!); 23k listeners

Twisted Nerve (80s band; classified as “gothic punk,” so I felt this was the best category for them; they’re great; their sound also reminds me of early Siouxsie and the Banshees and Killing Joke); 2.5k listeners

Play Dead (80s); 8k listeners

Limbo (underrated 80s; if you like Bauhaus & Virgin Prunes as well, you’re gonna like this band); 413 listeners

If you like Cocteau Twins:

Cocteau Twins’ early sound is usually categorized as “ethereal wave” goth, so those are the playlists you’ll want to look up if you enjoy their early sound. If you like their later sound, you’re gonna want to lean more towards shoegaze for similar vibes. Admittedly, ethereal wave is one of the goth subgenres that I know the least about, so I’m not gonna be much help here.

Dead Can Dance (80’s band; NO one, and I mean NO ONE, was doing it like Dead Can Dance; so fun to dance to in the goth club); 332k listeners

Lycia (90’s band; their music is very transcendent); 20k listeners

Linea Aspera (modern band; gorgeous woman vocals; honestly, their music is just very beautiful); 67k listeners

This Mortal Coil (formed in the 80s; some songs feature Elizabeth Fraser & Robin Guthrie from Cocteau Twins, but even the ones that don’t still have an ethereal vibe similar to CT; Sixteen Days/Gathering Dust is just like the best song ever); 310k listeners

Autumn's Grey Solace (2000s); 62k listeners

Faith and the Muse; (90s); 22k listeners

This Ascension (90s); 4k listeners

Strawberry Switchblade (80s); 400k listeners

If you like Joy Division:

All of these bands will be ones that sound very classically post-punk, so those are the playlists to search out; emphasis on "classic" because post-punk is a very broad term that gets applied to a lot of music. I would argue that Joy Division has had the most influence out of all the OG goth bands on the current goth sound/goth renaissance we're going through right now, so there are a LOT of bands out there for you if you’re a JD fan.

Molchat Doma (modern band); 2.5 million listeners (wow lol, they've grown so much over the past two years, it's actually insane; good for them)

Soviet Soviet (modern band); 152k listeners

Fearing (modern band; very good live); 30k listeners

Ploho (modern band); 146k listeners

Pink Turns Blue (criminally underrated 80’s band; they are SO good live); 98k listeners (this is an actual travesty, this band is way too good to not even be in the hundred thousands)

The Sound (another incredibly underrated 80’s band); 119k listeners

This Cold Night (modern; has the deep vocals of Joy Division and the driving bass but more stripped back than JD); 150k listeners

Bleib Modern (modern; has very similar vocals to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry, which is a band listed under the Sisters of Mercy section of this post, so if you end up liking this band, you should also listen to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry & vice versa); 36k listeners

Lebanon Hanover (modern; has the existential angst that Joy Division always ignites in me but more stripped back); 936k listeners (this is crazy, holy shit!!!!!! go, Lebanon Hanover, go!!)

She Past Away (modern; deep vocals); 226k listeners

Belgrado (modern; woman vocals!); 18k listeners (they deserve better than this!!)

Leonora Post Punk (modern; Mexican goth band w/ Spanish vocals! They’re amazing! They have those deep vocals you want when you’re looking for a similar sound to Joy Division); 56k listeners

O. Children (modern; has the deep vocals & interesting bass lines that Joy Division was known for; great band); 29k listeners

If you like Sisters of Mercy:

This is one of my least favorite goth subcategories, which is odd because I actually love Sisters. But if you’re looking for a lot of music that sounds like SoM, I’d suggest delving into the 90’s and early 2000’s goth music scene. Search out those playlists. A lot of the 90s and 2000s goth bands were very derivative of Sisters of Mercy.

Rosetta Stone (90’s band); 54k listeners

Miazma (modern); 10k listeners

Red Lorry Yellow Lorry (another criminally underrated 80’s band; one of my fave goth bands); 40k listeners (THEY!! DESERVE!! BETTER!!)

Dreamtime (modern); 65 listeners (ouch lol, please go show them some love)

Fields of the Nephilim (80’s, I think; if you’re a metalhead, you’ll probably appreciate this band); 95k listeners

The Merry Thoughts (80s); 19k listeners

The March Violets (underrated 80s; might be a controversial opinion to put them under SoM, but I’m standing by it); 69k listeners

Horror Vacui (modern; it’s kind of a stretch putting them here tbh, but I couldn’t figure out what other category to put them under); 44k listeners

The Sisterhood (spin-off Sisters of Mercy group that was formed by goth king Andrew Eldritch himself); 3k listeners

The Mission (formed by former Sisters of Mercy members; Wasteland by them was actually one of the first songs to get me into goth music); 180k listeners

Eyes of the Nightmare Jungle (late 80s & 90s; every time a song by them comes on, I’m convinced it’s a Sisters song until the singer starts singing lol); 13k listeners

Ex-Voto (formed in 1982, but most of their albums on Spotify came out in the 2000s; this band is like if Fields of Nephilim had a baby with Clan of Xymox & then sprinkled some industrial techniques in); 6k listeners

Also, if you want a 1500-song, 105-hour goth playlist that’s constantly growing, here you go. The name of it is a dig at my ex lol: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6jCV530pMmOEmDHj4CLNka?si=cEVKiyAwQpaieGiV2pMyqw

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: What A Great Freakin’ Way To Start The Day

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When you decided to work with Butcher and his merry band of supe hunters to take down Homelander, you never expected to be saddled with a sullen, grumpy, jerk like Soldier Boy when the job was done. The more you’re around him the more you hate him, but you can’t help but wonder, is he really as big a jerk as you think? Reader is a supe with plant powers. This takes place in an AU about a month after the end of The Boys Season 3, in which Butcher has let Soldier Boy continue to work with him on his team. (I'm real bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers (Not in this chapter), Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy,

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), swearing, mentions of sex, sexual innuendo, sexual tension. Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Spotify Playlist 🪴

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

The morning begins the same way it always does, with your neighbor Mike blasting "I Will Always Love You" in his apartment at exactly 8 am just as he had each day since you met two years ago. It was the only constant in your life, but at least you didn't have to use an alarm clock anymore. The sound of Mike belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs was enough to wake everyone in the whole building, including the people on the eighth floor, five stories above him.

But because Mike bought the super’s probably illegally made cologne and because the super was dating Mike’s mother, something that made you regret supe hearing very much, it never stopped despite the numerous complaints.

Then again it was Annie's favorite thing about sleeping over, she liked to scream the lyrics back at the wall and jump on your bed like a crazy banshee. Honestly you hoped that it would stop after Ben had pretended to be your boyfriend, that Mike would finally figure it out and give up.

Guess not.

You sit up in your bed, stretching your hands over your head while humming the chorus under your breath, but you were more of an ABBA fan. If Mike had decided to serenade you with "Take A Chance On Me" or even Aretha Franklin's "You're All I Need to Get By," you might have looked at him differently.

The memory of the dream of his mullet smothering you in your sleep momentarily passes over your mind, causing a shudder to travel down your spine. Or maybe not.

Your bedroom was similar to your living room, covered in plants. Trailing jasmine and bougainvillea blanketed the wall behind your bed in deep red and white, budding lavender, lilac, and honeysuckle sat in pots along the top of your dresser, and a blush colored rose bush, that never went out of bloom, stood proudly in the corner. The only difference was that there were two large piles of books almost as tall as your ceiling, some old some new, braced beside the rose bush like Roman columns. You kept trying to remember to buy a bookshelf, but each time you thought about going to pick one up, Butcher usually called and asked you to help out. Both piles were covered almost completely in pothos and more hung from the brick walls above your only window, that opened the floor length pale yellow curtains with a flick of your hand.

An annoyed purring sound greets your ears as the honeyed light from the now open window wisps over your covers. Bean, your cat, stalks up from the end of the bed, his yellowed eyes narrowed with annoyance at being woken up so early while his charcoal gray coat turns lighter in the brilliant sunlight. Last night he had been in your bedroom when you got home, which meant that he hadn't been around Ben when he came in.

A good thing, because Bean hated just about everyone except Butcher, which you thought was weird. But whenever Butcher dropped by to talk to you Bean always came over to look for rubs, while hissing at anyone who tried to interrupt them. Hughie was actually afraid of Bean, and because Bean was a cat he immediately picked up on this and purposely would jump on the couch next to Annie so Hughie couldn't sit there, Bean also followed after Hughie to the bathroom and waited outside the door to swipe at his ankles whenever he would come out.

But you didn't love him any less.

He puts his paw on your thigh lightly extending his claws to get your attention.

"Oh are you talking to me now?" You smile, rubbing him behind the ears. "I thought you were angry because I woke you up?"

He purrs and pushes his chunky gray head against your hand, but startles when the song switches to "My Heart Will Go On" which causes Mike's mother to join in to his karaoke session.

I'd move if my apartment wasn't so damn cheap.

"Maybe they should take the show on the road. Huh buddy?"

Bean purrs his response while pushing his head further into your hand.

His mom wasn't that bad of a singer, in fact, you thought that you remembered eavesdropping on a conversation between her and the super when she talked about a career as a cabaret singer a while ago.

"Come on, let's see if Gramps killed any of my plants." You smile down at your cat. "If he did I'm going to turn him into a tree."

Bean purrs in agreement.

You get out of bed, adjusting your shirt back down over your shorts before walking to the door with Bean following behind you. You step out into the cool hallway, with more enthusiasm than usual as you try to escape the butchering of the Titanic's soundtrack and collide into something warm and wet.

It takes you exactly seven seconds to realize that the warm, wet, thing that your face is currently stuck to, is in-fact Ben's chest, his shirtless chest. Why he's standing in the hallway outside your door, soaking wet and wearing a towel you have no idea. All you know is that your face is physically laying against the warm flesh of his pectoral muscles.

"Why are you NAKED?" You scream as you peel yourself off of him and turn your gaze away. Your face felt so warm that it was like you'd been standing in front of a volcano for too long and you were sure that you had blushed to the roots of your hair.

You'd only seen him without his shirt on once, when the door to his bedroom was cracked at the apartment he shared with the rest of the group. But it was from the back and you had been walking by to go to the bathroom, and you hadn't looked…

Well, you may have stopped for a second to admire the powerful muscles on his muscular back and maybe thought about waiting for him to turn around so you could see if the front was as good as the back… but you hadn't.

And he certainly hadn't been soaking wet then, and it made you hate him more now, because no one should look as good as he does soaking wet. You personally knew that you looked like a drowned poodle whenever you stepped out of the shower, but him? Soldier Boy looks like he just finished filming a shampoo commercial.

You could see it in your head, him standing under a crystal blue waterfall with the water splashing against weathered rocks before running through his soft brown hair, curving around his broad shoulders, down his toned stomach straight down to his-

NO. Not gonna go there. You could feel your skin heating in embarrassment, almost as if you thought he could read your mind.

"I'm not naked doll, I mean I could be if you wanted me to." He smirks as he hears your heartbeat begin to pick up and reaches for the end of his towel. The towel that was almost too small to wrap around his waist and left very little to the imagination.

"NO!" You shout holding up a hand to stop him, but again brush the front of his chest.

Fuck, you could zest a lemon on those abs.

"Are you sure?" Ben smiles wider, taking a step forward. He's so close that you can smell your grapefruit mint shampoo on him and feel the humidity and warmth of his body as he stands there. For some reason the fact that he used your shampoo, and smelled like your soap, made you feel warm and tingly. It was almost hypnotic. You hated how much you liked it. "Because you're turning that cute little red color you always do whenever I'm around, and your heartbeat is kinda fast."

"No. I don't." You grit your teeth together. "Why are you standing outside of my door naked?"

"Maybe I was waiting for you to come out." His hand presses against the doorway next to your head. "You know, I already took a shower, but if you wanted I'd be happy to get back in with you."

"No thanks. I don't need a shower and I wouldn't shower with you if it was the last shower on earth and I hadn't bathed in forty years." You purse your lips. "Oh right, that happened to you."

Ben frowns at your mention of his time in Russia. You didn't often tease him about being trapped in a lab, you knew that it was a sore spot for him. Plus you'd seen the footage of exactly what those doctors did to him and it was enough to make you want to book a one way ticket to Russia and personally show them what happened when a tree got shoved up your ass.

You open your mouth to apologize.

"I was going to ask if you have any other clothes here. Mine are still wet from last night." He raises an eyebrow, but the humor is gone from his eyes.

"Oh. Um. I can take a look." You turn and walk into your bedroom, trying not to feel awkward about bringing up the lab.

He was a jerk, but he didn't deserve a reminder of how shitty the last forty years have been.

Truthfully, you weren't sure if you had anything that would fit him. Ben was a lot bigger than you, taller and broader. You usually did wear things that were a little big for you, but you didn't think that Ben would fit in any of them.

Maybe I have something from when my brother was here last time.

Darren often dropped by when he was in the city visiting his friends or had a new "business" venture. The ones that never seemed to last and the friends that always seemed happy to spend the moan you "loaned" him for his "best idea yet" as he always phrased it. But he hadn't been by in at least a year.

"It's really green in here too." You hear Ben say under his breath.

You didn't think that he was going to follow you into your room, you thought he was going to stay in the hallway, but no, he had followed you. And he made the room feel even smaller than it was with his broad shoulders and over six foot stature.

The sunlight from the window glinted off his still wet chest and it made your throat uncomfortably tight. For the love of chocolate pudding, WHY does he look so good all the time?

"You can wait in the hall-"

"Wanted to see your bedroom." He smirks. "Though I think that you wanted to show it to me last night-"

You ignore him and turn back to your chest of drawers while Mike and his mother switch to "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction. You wince as they begin.

"Do they always do that?" Ben asks.

"Yep. Since I moved in." You sigh, shuffling through your t-shirts.

"He's really got it bad Sweetheart. Maybe you should throw him a bone. Kinda seems like the poor guy needs to get some ass-"

"If it's any of your business- which it's not- I do not like him that way."

"Well they're a little loud." You feel Ben take a step closer to you. "But I bet you and I could give them a run for their money. We are in your bedroom after all, might as well make the most of it."

"I didn't know that you liked Karaoke. I'll keep that in mind for you 105th birthday party."

"What? No I meant-"

Bean purrs loudly from his position on your bed and you wait for the telltale sound of Ben shooing him away when Bean tries to puncture Ben's impenetrable skin with his claws, but it doesn't come.

You glance over your shoulder. Are you kidding me?

Bean is sitting on your white plush comforter, rubbing up against Ben's hand, purring while Ben scratches him behind the ears.

Traitor.

"Didn't know you had a cat." Ben says continuing to stroke his hand down Bean's spine, who stands up and turns so Ben can have a better angle.

"I didn't peg you for a cat person. Kinda ruins the whole all-American Man image you have going on."

He shrugs. "I like dogs more, but I don't hate cats. Usually they don't like me very much."

"I wonder why that is." You grumble watching Bean lean into Ben's hand again. "His name is Bean."

"Bean? Why?"

"Because when I got him I was trying to grow green beans in the linen closet and he would sit outside the door and screech until I gave him a green bean to play with."

"You were trying to grow green beans in the linen closet?"

"Yeah. Seemed like a good idea, but they like the bathroom more-" You finally find the oversized Led Zeppelin shirt your brother left the last time he crashed at your apartment and a pair of jeans. "A lot of my plants like the bathroom more actually."

"I was going to ask you why the bathroom floor and wall was squishy."

"It's moss. It thrives in humid environments." You hold out the clothes for him.

"Uh-huh." He frowns at the clothes for a minute. "So you're saying you wouldn't want a guy to serenade you like that?" Ben nods his head towards your bedroom wall, just as Mike and his mother begin to belt out the chorus. "Thought girls liked sappy shit."

"I'm not a fan of One Direction."

"Right. You like ABBA more." Ben turns towards your door to go back to the bathroom to change.

Shock momentarily spikes in your chest. "How did you know that?"

He freezes as if you caught him doing something bad, turning slightly towards you. "Um- well, you hum their songs a lot."

"When?" You cross your arms over your chest.

"Whenever you're on stake outs. Sometimes when you're reading those files or waiting for Annie at the apartment." He shrugs. “When you were walking last night you were humming ‘Fernando.’"

He noticed that?

"How long exactly were you following me?"

"Long enough." He raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to keep me talking because you want me to change in here? Because I would be more than happy to drop this towel and show you what a real man looks like Sweetheart."

"Don't flatter yourself Gramps. If you drop that towel the only thing that'll happen is Bean will think you brought him a green bean to play with." You roll your eyes. "Now get out of my room. I have to change."

Ben begins to say something, but the vines hanging above the door push him out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

That felt good.

After you put on a white t-shirt, your favorite pair of jean overalls and your dark green converse, you make your way out into the living room. Ben is there, lounging on your couch like he owns it. He’s wearing the jeans and t-shirt you gave him, but you can't help but notice how the clothes are just a little too small for him. The way his muscles pull at the t-shirt, the way the jeans hug his thighs and butt-

He's getting way too comfortable here. You think to yourself to avoid the thought of how good he looks on your couch. How it almost feels natural that he's sitting here in your living room, inhabiting your space.

"So what's for breakfast doll face?" He leans his head back to gaze at you with a mischievous smile that makes a warm tingle travel down the length of your spine.

"Well, I'm going to have oatmeal and you're going to have whatever you want I guess?"

His eyes darken. "Whatever I want?"

"Calm down Gramps I meant that there's cereal in the cabinet." You roll your eyes to avoid thinking about the kiss last night and then thinking about how it felt for your body to be pressed against his in the hallway when you ran into him.  Which inevitably leads back to the waterfall fantasy and-

No. No. Not going to do that. Not with him. He's just good at getting women into bed, he doesn't care about you. You think about how he remembered that you liked ABBA. That doesn't mean anything. He doesn't see me as anything more than a conquest and he probably remembered that because he's changing tactics and trying not to act like a creep.

“You’re not going to pour me a bowl?” His smirk pulls down in an attractive pout.

“I think it’s simple enough for your little brain to do.” You don’t turn around from the kitchen cabinets, grabbing a raspberry from the refrigerator and popping it in your mouth. For some reason you noticed that whatever you grew tasted better than anything you bought at the grocery store. You hoped that it didn’t mean that your powers supercharged whatever you grew and that it was actually radioactive or something. 

Because that’s exactly what I need, to turn bright green. 

“There’s nothing little about me doll.” 

“Can’t you ever have a conversation with someone without it revolving around sex?” You grumble banging around in your cabinets to find your instant oatmeal. 

It was a valid point and you were tired of getting whiplash every time Ben acted caring and then flipping back to horny manchild.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ben laughs. He stands from the couch and makes his way into your kitchen.

It was hard not to notice how small each room in your apartment looked with him in it. His head was only a foot below the ceiling, not to mention the kitchen was only composed of six cabinets, a small sink, a microwave shoved into a corner, a stove top, and a refrigerator that only came up to Ben’s shoulders. Your bathroom was worse, sometimes the shower was small even for you and you didn’t know how Ben fit in there. 

He probably had to duck down to stand under the shower head. 

And then as you thought that, the image of Ben standing under a waterfall comes creeping back, making the strawberry plant on top of the fridge, the raspberry vines, and the blackberry vines covering your refridgerator burst into bloom.

Thankfully Ben didn’t notice, because he was rooting through the white top cabinet in the corner for one of the cereal boxes. 

I’d never hear the end of it if he saw that happen. 

You glare at the plants in question, eyes shifting to a deep green as the flowers develop into fresh fruit to cover your slip. 

Ben pulls out a box of Lucky Charms, but frowns at Lucky on the front cover, who is throwing a handful of marshmallow charms into the air around him. 

Guess he's not a fan.

 “If I’d known you were going to sleep on my couch I would have gotten Bran flakes and prunes for you.” You smirk as you pour water over the oats in the bowl before placing it in the microwave to cook. “I know people your age need that kind of thing sometimes. Gets the bowel moving.”

“Make fun of my age all you want.” Ben steps around you to grab the almost empty bottle of milk from your refrigerator. “One day you’ll be happy to find out just how experienced I am.”

“Keep dreaming.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “You’re all I dream about baby.”

You can feel his breath on the side of your neck from how close he is to you, the kitchen seems smaller than it ever has, and he leans forward, sensing your hesitation. One of his hands goes on the kitchen counter to your right, the other places the milk down and then braces on the counter to your left caging you against him. 

“Do any of your lines actually work?” You say, throat tight.

“You’d be surprised.” He smirks wider, green eyes sliding up and down your body. 

 The air in the kitchen electrifies, something passing through the air between the two of you that makes you feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest. His eyes are softer green now, reminding you of the color of fresh leaves on an oak tree in spring, bright, strong, and full of life. His body is pressed gently against yours, the strong muscles of his abdomen laying on your hips, muscular arms making sure that you don't walk away.

You try not to think again about how good he looks in your apartment, how calm and relaxed he seems when he’s away from Butcher and not wearing his uniform. 

Standing here in your apartment, he looked normal, human. Sometimes it was hard to remember that you were, when you could do what you did, when you saw him get hit with a car and shove it away with one hand. 

He was still ridiculously attractive, the kind of attractive that you’d read in romance novels and in classic Roman literature, the kind of beautiful that people wrote poetry about, the kind of ruggedly handsome that made smart girls stupid. 

You were really feeling that last one. Because you were desperately trying to hold on to your dream of being with someone that understood every part of you, but Ben was making it hard.

It wasn’t that the idea of sleeping with him was terrible. It wasn’t. It was far from terrible it was the idea of having sex without feelings that you didn’t like. You didn’t want to sleep with him because you knew that he only saw you as something to be possessed not as an equal or someone he cared about. Soldier Boy only cared about himself, that was apparent.

He’s only interested in you because you haven’t given in. You think to yourself. It's all about the thrill of the chase, nothing else. I'm worth more than that. I'm worth more than one night.

“In fact, I think it’s working on you doll.” Ben leans down towards you so close you can feel his words in the air between your faces, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say no.

That made you pause. Ben didn’t seem to be the type of man who was patient. You’d walked in on him making out with numerous women on the couch back at the apartment he shared with the rest of the team, saw how he took control, saw how he didn’t seem to wait for them to say no or really say anything at all. Not to mention one time when you walked into the shared apartment and could hear Ben with one of his "dates" in his bedroom. Nothing about that seemed patient at all.

But this Ben standing in your kitchen was different. He was almost smiling, dark hair still damp from the shower curling on his forehead, the t-shirt damp around the collar, jeans a dark blue, and the smell of your shampoo fills your senses again all over again. It made you wish for this person all the time. The one that you could see yourself falling in love with, not the racist, sexist, and inappropriate jerk that seemed to dominate his persona at all other parts of the day.

Funny, the only time you’d ever seen Ben like this, was when the two of you were alone- well sometimes- other times he annoyed you without end and made you want to jump out a window. 

But why? Why only around me?

The feeling in your chest grows. It jumps from synapse to synapse, pulses along your skin, buzzes in your blood, tangles through your hair, and radiates through the air like a sound wave. Your eyes drift down to his lips remembering exactly what it was like to kiss him last night. How he seemed to consume you whole, how everything else fell away, how Ben curled himself around you, how he-

Your cell phone rings, breaking through the moment, and making you remember exactly why you didn’t want to give in to Ben and remember the kind of person he was. 

You push him away and pull your cellphone out of your pocket. Butcher's photo and name appear on the screen.

Shit.

"Hey Butch, what's up?" You look away from Ben, forcing yourself to calm your racing heart.

Ben perks up at the mention of Butcher’s name.

“Do you have any idea where Soldier Boy is?”

“Soldier Boy?”

“Seems like our blunt smoking man out of time has vanished. Been trying to text him all bloody morning.”

At least he doesn’t know that Ben is here. That’s good. I’d never hear the end of it if-

Ben snatches the phone from your hand and holds it up to his ear. “What the fuck do you want?”

The softness was gone, his eyes had hardened again, and the spell was broken. Ben was no longer relaxed, his shoulders were tensed and guarded, jaw set.

It didn’t take a genius to know that Ben didn’t like Butcher. Sometimes you wondered why Ben decided to stay.

Probably because the alternative was being frozen like Han Solo next to his son.

When Ben had knocked Homelander out, you hadn’t believed it, and despite Ben’s arguing Butcher wanted to keep Homelander a supe, and just put him on ice. You had no idea why, especially since Butcher had been gunning for him forever, but had the sneakiest suspicion that it was because of Ryan.

But you didn't blame Butcher for that, watching your father get killed in front of you seemed traumatic, not to mention Ryan was still reeling from watching his mother die.

You turn back to your microwave to pull out your bowl of oatmeal with a groan.

Now Butcher’s going to mock me endlessly about going home with Soldier Boy. We didn’t do anything! Well…

Your mind flits back to the searing kiss you shared and to five seconds ago when whatever the hell just happened.

“You want me to meet you in fucking Jersey?” Ben laughs.

You choose not to eavesdrop on the conversation, instead you busy yourself with sprinkling brown sugar onto your breakfast and plucking a few more raspberries from the vines.

“Fine.” Ben almost growls before holding out the phone to you. “He wants to talk to you.”

Of course he does. Maybe I can pretend to lose the signal with a piece of paper or a candy wrapper.

“Hello-“

“You crazy wanker.” Butcher chuckles into the phone. “Guess your night was a little more exciting than mine eh? Oi Hughie, you owe me a tener!” He shouts to Hughie who you can guess is sitting nearby.

“What? He’s with y/n! No way!” You hear Hughie shout back, muffled but there.

Damn it he’s gonna tell Annie. She's going to start sending me pictures of babies photoshopped in supe suits.

“You guys were betting that he was here?!” You shout making eye contact with Ben who only smirks before he busies himself with getting a bowl for his cereal.

“He left about two minutes after you did. Said some bullshit about a smoke break.” Butcher is smiling and you know it. “How was he? Was he as good as all the girls say?" Butcher coos on the other side of the line.

“Nothing happened-“

“Sure it didn’t Cherie!” You hear Frenchie crow. “Hopefully you got to relieve some of that tension no?”

“I hate all of you.” You grumble, and before Butcher can say anything else you hang up the phone and glare at Ben. “This is your fault.”

“What do you mean sweetheart?”

“You just had to follow me home!”

“You shouldn’t have been walking out there alone.”

“I do it all the time!”

“Not anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not going to let you walk around alone in the middle of the night.”

"Like hell. I don't need a babysitter!"

"I think you do-"

"No I don't. In fact why are you still here? Why haven't you left?" You shout, snatching your bowl of oatmeal before moving to the wobbly kitchen table that you smooshed up against a window that looks out onto your fire escape.

"Because I tend to like morning sex. It's a great way to start the day. Thought you'd be interested." Ben winks as he sits across from you, barely fitting in the wooden chair.

Your phone buzzes where it sits on the table beside your bowl. When you flip it over, you see the text from Annie.

Annie: YOU SLEPT WITH SOLDIER BOY?!!!!

You: I'm not going to dignify that with a response.

Annie: That's a yes. TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!

You sigh and shovel a spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth, eyes drifting up to the top of your phone screen focusing on the time.

"SHIT! I'm late for work!" You shout before shoving as much oatmeal as you can into your mouth.

"Work?" Ben looks up from his bowl of cereal confused as you begin to run around the room.

The half-eaten bowl of oatmeal falls into the sink with a resounding crash, Bean's cat food lands haphazardly in his bright green food dish, and you practically run to your tote bag that hangs on a peg by your front door.

"I told you. I work at a plant shop." You glance back at your barren coffee maker mournfully. The thought of trying to get through the day without coffee seemed impossible, not to mention you didn’t have time to grab one on the way to work from your favorite shop just around the corner.

"I thought you were joking."

"No. Some of us have to work for a living." You run your fingers through your hair quickly pulling it back in a loose ponytail.

"You should leave your hair down." Ben says from the table watching you.

"What?"

"It's prettier when it's down."

"I don't have time for your misogynistic comments. Come on let's go."

"What?"

"I'm not going to leave you here in my apartment alone. You don't have a key."

"You could give me yours-"

"HA. No that's not going to happen. Come on." You tug on his muscular arm, trying to get him up out of the chair, but he barely moves.

“You know you could call out of work and we could spend the day in bed.” He smiles, eyes tracing your figure. “I mean you look good baby, but I think you'd look even better naked. Plus, Butcher and the rest of those fuckers already think we slept together so we might as well-“

“Not a chance Gramps. Either get up out of the chair and leave through the door or leave through the window. It’s your choice and I have no qualms with throwing you down to the street. But please don't make me do that because I can't afford a new window."

Ben rolls his eyes, but finally gets up to follow you. He actually tries to open the door for you, but you place your hand on his chest.

“Nah uh uh. Bowl in the sink. I’m not going to clean up after you.”

Ben sighs and mumbles something under his breath that’s lost in Mike’s inhuman screech of “Love on Top.”

Yeah. What a great fucking way to start the day.

Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist for this series let me know :)

(Photos for series picture found on Pinterest)

Taglist: @roseblue373 @mrsjenniferwinchester @corruptedcruiser @winchesterwild78 @the-super-who-locked-wizard

@criminalyetminimal @52ndstreeet @bitchykittenconnoisseur @anna6307 @libby99hb

@faephoria @possiblyafangirl @jqtaro

[takemetomyfragiledreams]

This is a wip about banshee!Tim gradually adopting all the bats and keeping them alive. It has the possibility to be an eventual Robin pile but I haven't fully decided on where it'll go. The original intention was to eventually have it be damitim but honestly it could go jaytim, dicktim or just robin pile. If you have a preference I'm all ears.

Talia becomes aware of her father’s shadow at the age of five. A boy with skin so white she half expects him to be translucent and eyes so frigid they put the winter sky to shame. He lingers in shadows and darkened corners, ever silent and ever watching. Her father never mentions him, not even when he perches on the arm of his throne or steals bits of meat from his plate. She half thinks she’s crazy for the first thirteen years of her life but doesn’t once dare to ask. Secrets get you killed in this world and this is one she’s not willing to die for.

He never speaks to her. Never seems to speak to anyone. He’d be an afterthought if his presence wasn’t so alien. 

At the age of thirteen, the night before her first solo mission, she wakes to find him sitting on the edge of her bed. No scream comes; she’s learned the only one she can depend on is herself. 

He touches a finger to his lips and she remains silent as the guards outside walk past. When the lights from under the door fade, he speaks for the first time. 

“Tomorrow, you’re going to die.” 

Talia’s hand curls around the blade beneath her pillow. “Is this a threat?” 

“A fact.” His face is cold, emotionless. It’s like looking into the depths of a still pool; all she sees is herself staring back. “You will die many times in this world and you will pay dearly for your return.” 

“The pit,” she understands. 

“If you’re smart, you’ll start saving what pieces of yourself you have left. You’ll need them one day.” He stands. Instead of opening the door, she watches as he finds tiny handholds in the stone of her wall and begins to climb to the ceiling. There’s a small hole six meters up, where the smoke of her fires can escape. It’s barely big enough for his head.  

“Who are you?” She calls as loud as she dares. 

“When the time comes, I will scream for you. Follow the sound back.” 

He vanishes out the hole like smoke, body contorted into impossible shapes. Talia lays down and stares up at that dark maw of space until her eyes blur and droop. 

Three days later she can’t stop the sword from cutting through her chest. She slices through her enemy but it’s too late. Her knees fall out from under her as her mouth opens in a silent cry. 

Across the room, she sees a boy’s eyes turn from icy blue to black as his mouth contorts into the shape of a horrific scream; the sound rings in her ears long after it’s over. 

It’s the last thing she hears as she dies and the first she hears as she comes gasping from the Pit, naked and shaking as her heart restarts in her chest. 

He stands in the shadows when her father holds a hand out. Always watching. Waiting.

This repeats twenty times in the span of a hundred years. Twenty times in which she dies to a scream and returns to one. And then it stops. 

He’s sitting in front of a machine, eyes big as he presses his palms to the glass. She feels something sick in her stomach but cannot place just what it means. Motherly instinct? The desire to whisk her growing child out of sight and away from this creature no one ever seems to talk about. 

“His name,” he says, “what will you call him?” 

The last thing she wants to do is tell him. Still, she cannot stop herself. 

“His name is Damian.” 

“Damian,” he sighs, croons, growls. “Damian Wayne-al Ghul.”

She never told him who the father was. 

The day Damian is born is the day she loses him, if she ever had him in the first place. It’s in the way he looks past her to stare into the shadows; the way his nose scrunches and his lips curl in delight; the way he waves his grasping hands and the way she cannot stop him from leaving her arms. 

“Tim,” he babbles up at the monster that has dogged her life and death. She didn't even know he had a name to give.

Damian giggles and pats at a pale cheek with his own colored fingers. “Tim!” 

Tim smiles a ghastly, jagged sort of smile down at him. It’s like watching someone learn how to feel for the first time; unnatural, yet impossible to look away from. There’s color in his face for the first time, a light in his eyes like the first thaw of spring. 

“Damian,” he says like it’s something reverent, something holy. It’s the level of devotion a prince deserves but she cannot find it in herself to be pleased. 

It’s then that she acknowledges the bitter truth: Tim scares her in a world where she is not meant to be afraid of anything. He’s the only being she fears save perhaps her father and he’s looking at her son like he hung the stars.

What bitter irony. 

For the first time, she comes to him. He’s standing just outside Damian’s room, looking in like there’s nothing he wants more and less than to go inside. 

“Normally you’re inseparable. What is it?”

He’s silent for so long that she half convinces herself he’s an illusion. 

“I’m leaving.” 

Talia blinks. He’s never left once; not that she’s aware of. “Leaving?”

“If I stay, he won’t turn into the boy he needs to be to survive what’s coming.” Tim turns almost human eyes on her. He looks drawn and tired. “I won’t be able to let you hurt him.” 

“I would not—"

“You would. You know nothing else.” 

They stand together, staring at the closed door in mutual contemplation. Finally, Tim sighs. 

“You’ll do your best to kill the good in him, but remember death is never permanent. Not for an al Ghul. Do more than that and I’ll come for you. I don’t care what destiny says.” 

Talia’s hands itch for her knives, but she does not reach. She knows better. “When will you return?” 

“When I’m needed.” He turns to meet her eyes, small but oh so fierce. “Teach him well, Talia. Show him what he needs to know to survive.” 

He’s gone before she can respond. They both know she will do nothing less. 

(Still, he scares her; Talia al Ghul is not meant to be afraid of anything.) 

[itsnevercasual]

Sweet Creature

harry styles masterlist

pairing: kinda dark!harry styles x reader

summary: harry’s mother finds a girl on the side of the street one day while harry’s away. he hears about her for months, until he finally decides to see for himself. expecting her to be an undercover rat, he is surprised to find a girl more similar to a deer in headlights.

warning: kinda dark harry kinda alludes to him doing illegal, mafia type stuff but it isn’t specified. third person writing instead of second, READER DOESN’T USE HER REAL NAME!!! she will eventually just not yet.

—

harry had been hearing about some girl non-stop. by who, you may ask?

his mother.

his sweet, kind mother somehow found a girl who was living on the streets, took her in (gave her his room!), and is obsessed with her.

“oh, harry, she’s just the sweetest! gemma says she’s like a kicked puppy, but she’s just so sweet. this morning, i woke up, and she’d cleaned the whole house! and i asked her why, because i obviously didn’t tell her to, and she said she figured she should. you’d love her. proper sweetheart.”

and honestly, it was sweet. he probably would like her if he wasn’t the way he is. because the way he is, he thinks it’s a trap. he thinks she was never really living on the streets, and it’s a ploy. someone found his family and is trying to ruin it.

but, of course, he’d never let his mother know of the way he actually is and thinks, or what he does for a living.

“she sounds lovely, mum. what did you say her name was?”

“she says it’s belle. she’s always singing some french song. i think she lived in france before she got here.. i’m not sure. she isn’t very talkative.”

“she got an accent?”

“a little bit of everything, hazza. when will you come visit? i think you have to be the one to tell her that your room is hers now. she keeps saying ‘harry’s room’ and ‘your son’s room’. i feel horrible!”

“she’s probably just weary mum. if she was on the streets before, she probably just doesn’t want to jinx it.”

“you’re right.. gosh, she won’t even let gemma and i buy her things. she just borrows gemma’s clothes and apologizes a bunch for it. i’m not sure what to do.”

“i’ll come visit soon.”

—

and he did. a surprise visit in the middle of the night, because he was convinced he’s find this belle girl doing shady things .

except when he snuck in the front door, the house was quiet.

alright, he supposes, she’s stealthy.

so he goes upstairs and quietly opens his bedroom door.

and that’s when it’s a little louder. a girl is twisted and turning and mumbling in her sleep on his bed.

all she is saying, from what he can hear, is no. no, no, no, no, no. please, no.

and he feels a little bad, so he walks over to tap her. when that doesn’t work, he shakes her.

her eyes snap open and she has probably the worst reaction possible in this situation.

she fucking screams. like a goddamn banshee.

and sure, it lasts for maybe five seconds, probably four, but she definitely woke his mother up. and it’s so loud, he backs up to the doorway.

gemma was probably still passed out. she would sleep through the world ending.

“hey! it’s just me, calm down!”

she squinted at him through the darkness before yanking the chain on the lamp, turning it on.

he could hear her practically hyperventilating from the doorway.

she let out a sigh of relief when she recognized him from the photos in the living room.

“you really are jumpy, huh?”

“i woke up to a random man hovering over me,” she deadpans.

he almost laughs.

“it’s my room.”

and it’s like a fucking switch. her breaths are staggered and labored, but she still rushes out a whole ass monologue. kicked puppy, indeed.

“oh, my god. i am so sorry. i forgot. i can— i can take the couch— you probably want to sleep in your bed. i’m sorry, anne didn’t say you were coming by or else i would’ve cleaned up—“

the room is spotless, probably cleaner than when he stays in it, but harry doesn’t say that.

“i’ll just.. grab my blanket and stuff and go to the couch. i’m so sorry, i didn’t know—“

“relax,” he finally says. “i knew you’d be in here. i was just.. grabbing a pillow. didn’t realize mum was serious about you being jumpy.”

“oh.. uh.. are you sure? i can take the couch—“

“belle— belle, right?” she nods. “go back to bed. i have slept on plenty of couches. i will survive.”

“i feel bad.”

“well, don’t.”

he should feel bad. she is very clearly not dangerous unless she is a phenomenal actress.

“you’re not mad, are you? because i can sleep on the couch—“

“jesus, are y’gonna cry?”

“i can’t help it! i’m sorry!—“

“what on earth is going on— harry! what did you do!” anne asked as she rushed through the doorway, moving to sit next to belle.

“i didn’t do anything!” he defends.

“he didn’t do anything, anne,” she repeats. “just.. frightened me, is all.”

anne gives her a look before pulling her into a hug, and she just flips another switch and instead of watering eyes, she sobs.

who the hell is her acting coach? maybe he could take a few lessons.

“h, go get her a cuppa.. and there’s those baby yogurt melts in the cupboard.”

he doesn’t comment on the fact that belle is at the very least 19, and probably shouldn’t be eating baby food.

—

the next morning, belle made her way downstairs quietly. she was surprised to see harry making a cup of tea this early, but she didn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb his peace.

she adjusted her earbuds in her ear (anne offered to buy her better ones, airpods or something, but she was fine with her earbuds, even if the wire was a pain in the ass), so they didn’t fall out as she walked.

once she made it into the kitchen, she walked into the pantry, grabbing some random granola bar.

when she turned, she jumped. harry was right behind her. well, in front of her now.

“sorry,” she mumbled, moving out of his way.

he muttered something she didn’t understand.

“um.. sorry about.. last night. i’m kind of jumpy.”

“i noticed.”

he was very short. he didn’t seem to like her much.

“you can.. uh.. take your.. room back.. if you want.”

“it’s yours. i’m fine.”

“are you—“

“i’m sure.”

rude. why was he so rude? what had she done to him? well, besides scream at him, but in her defense, he was just hovering over her! that’s weird!

—

harry still didn’t trust her after a week of being there. she kept to herself for the most part, although he was pretty sure he heard her and gemma giggling in the middle of the night.

he just couldn’t figure out who sent her. why she was here.

his mother explained her freakout when he showed up eventually.

“you gotta be careful with her, h. she’s like.. a bunny, in a way. if you aren’t careful in how you approach her and speak to her, she bolts. first day she was here, i asked her what happened, because she had this horrible cut on her cheek. locked herself in your room for a week. i think whatever put her on the streets is a sensitive topic, and was difficult for her.”

“i jus’ dunno if i trust her, mum.”

“well, i do. she’s sweet, she just needs to warm up to you. she warmed up to me and gemma after about a week or two.. and she’s been more jumpy when gem brings michael around. so.. she might just need a minute.”

“the whole thing just seems.. shady.”

“she’ll tell us when she’s ready. and until then, you’ll make her feel welcomed. speaking of, i’m gonna go wash her clothes. poor girl won’t let us buy her anything. she just has these same clothes she had and a few things gemma convinced her to use.”

—

a/n: little thing i wrote on a plane, part 2 soon-ish maybe

[starry-bi-sky]

Cannon Danny, Danyal Au and CFAU met, waht does each other think of the other and do they get along?

I'VE TALKED ABOUT THIS BEFORE WITH FRIENDS IN DMS! WOOO I'M GLAD YOU ASKED! beCAUSE.

Cfau Danny and Canon Danny get along, but Danyal and Canon abso-fucking-lutely do not. It's hillarious. Danyal is appalled that this fucking white boy is another version of him -- that Al Ghul arrogance and pride really shines through here, you can’t get rid of all of it.

Cfau Danny is a sleeper agent, honestly. I'm putting all three of them around the 15 age range because any younger and CFAU won't be as Sleeper Agent. Him and Canon get along pretty well because they’re both pretty similar to each other when CFAU's not in active grief. CFAU is a bit rough around the edges, and canon is surprised by his smoking habit and sharp tongue, but he’s a relatively friendly dude. Just snarky and no-nonsense at times, and intolerant of bullshit.

However the moment a ghost fight starts?? BAM. he shifts into a house of horrors who can and will rip out your throat with his teeth. Banshee boi haha. Canon is floating there all “???? HUH???” watching as Danyal and CFAU full on tackle the opposition.

Canon Danny watches in 4k as Danyal hunts Skulker down mercilessly and tears open the “damn poacher’s” suit with his bare hands. Vlad is only safe because he isn't showing his face (yet).

Frankly all of canon’s rogues are gonna have a blast meeting CFAU and Danyal. They’re both two different flavors of unhinged violence, and they’re on the opposite side of the spectrum. One is an elegant storm of blades with years of fine-tuned practice, and the other is the brutality of the backstreets and Gotham’s cruelty; messy, bloody, and merciless.

Canon and Danyal will eventually start getting along, but they’re pretty — well, correction, Danyal is pretty hostile to canon at first. Its a combination of tension, stress, and frustration with canon and what Danyal perceives as canon’s incompetence. Danyal struggles to understand how canon is anyway a version of him beyond the name and halfa status. He starts understanding better when he sees Phantom fighting and sees his resourcefulness and quick thinking.

I have this funny mental image of the three Dannys all in the quad at school (with Sam and Tucker). Danyal is sitting on the table giving off Major Gargoyle vibes, warding off Dash and other bullies through pure "Little Orphan Tom Riddle" Energy alone, while CFAU is standing off to the side with Canon showing him how to throw a proper punch. Sam and Tucker are staring at Danyal, or they're just casually eating their lunch.

Dash isn't going near Danyal with a ten foot pole, but he'll try his chances with Sleeper Agent CFAU who, despite the "edgy" smoking thing and more alternative style, acts and looks almost the same way "Fenturd" does. He gets socked in the jaw the moment he goes over and grabs CFAU's shirt, and CFAU releases the full verbal force of Crime Alley's fist down unto him.

----

To properly answer your question:

Canon Danny: Thinks CFAU is pretty cool, and views him as kind of like a cooler, terrifying version of him. He's off-put by the smoking thing and totally thrown off by CFAU being a banshee. He's only heard from word-of-mouth about them, and it sounds like a shitty existence to be in permanent grief. He's glad he's never had to fight one.

If this is purely canon Danny and not DPxDC adjacent-canon Canon Danny, then he's glad that Gotham doesn't exist in his world because holy fuck that place sounds like the home of nightmares. But he also kinda wishes there was a Jason in his world, the guy sounded like a really good friend if CFAU is to be believed, and Danny needs more of those in the world. He's infinitely more grateful that Dan is nothing like how Rath sounds. Because Rath sounds like something straight out of an apocalypse movie. (Granted, Dan could be argued to be the same, but he gives off more 'generic supervillain' vibes.)

He thinks Danyal is an asshole at first who needs to get that stick out of his ass, along with his head. But once they start getting along, he finds him rather funny and enjoys his dry wit, along with CFAU's. He's unnerved by Danyal's willingness to kill if necessary, but he admires his dedication and love for his little brother (if Danyal brings him up). He knows he'd be in the same boat with Jazz or Ellie if he was in Danyal's shoes. He recognizes that their core fundamentals ring the same, even if the both of them tend to show it differently.

CFAU Danny: Thinks Canon is pretty cool too. Is thrown off and very unsettled by the idea that Jason might not exist in this world, and that he and this other Danny aren't friends. He genuinely just. cannot comprehend the idea that well, and if he thinks about it too hard he's going to go into a Banshee-Grade Level Grief Spiral and nobody is gonna wanna see that. Soothes his own nerves by telling himself that this other him will meet Jason eventually.

Kinda thinks Danyal is also a jerk, but he recognizes that it comes from a place of fear and general self-defense. He's seen other kids do similar stuff in crime alley where they completely close themselves off from other people -- hell, he does it. It's a safety mechanism, so he's more empathetic with him. They're not buddy-buddy with each other at first, but they're certainly not hostile like Danyal is with Canon. Is entirely baffled and thrown off by the fact that Danyal is related to Bruce fucking Wayne when Danyal tells them about his brother Damian. Can't help but ask about Jason and if he's alive, and is insanely jealous but so happy when Danyal confirms that he is.

Danyal Al Ghul: Homie hates this fucking white boy at first. Canon Danny's general playful behavior and inexperience drives him up a wall because he's incredibly tense and in an alternate dimension. He unintentionally slips back into a League Training mindset, and criticizes Danny's every move during a fight. He eventually apologizes, but just like his father, it's like pulling teeth because he's emotionally constipated. Canon asks Danyal if he was in pain while saying anything, Danyal readily admits to yes, he was. But not because he wasn't sincere about it. Afterwards, Canon still kinda annoys him, but once DAnyal reframes his mindset into viewing him more like a civilian and being more like Ella, rather than being an alternate version of himself, his mistakes become easier to bear.

likes CFAU! They both took one look at each other and thought "wow there is something Fucking Wrong With You" and instantly shared solidarity in that. CFAU is still a sloppy fighter in Danyal's eyes, but he recognizes his own bias, and at least CFAU is ruthless and swift with it compared to Canon. He silently.. mourns??? pays respects?? He Has Somber Emotions about CFAU being a banshee, and offers him basically the Danyal Equivalent of "that's rough, buddy". He's very weirded out about how neither of these Daniels are related to his father, and are not Damian's brother. Has no idea who this "Rath" and "Dan" are because he doesn't (to his knowledge) have an alternate evil self.

[maculategiraffe]

so I know I said from (the TV show) was just lost (the TV show) again but I take it back. it is lost times banshee. of the long and honorable "makes no damn sense! compels me though" genre of television serials. also (with the exception of one extremely wooden child actor) everybody generally looks and talks and acts like how an actual person might. the one thing that's getting me hopping mad is how crisp and clean and freshly ironed everybody's white blouses are and honestly it's bugging me the more because generally the show looks fantastically dingy. like it's good enough that when it's not good it's noticeable and jarring, but it's not good enough that there aren't times when it's not good. if you see what I mean

anyway this one girl was crying because she had been manipulated by sinister forces into doing horrible things and she said something like-- and again, it sounded like something a person might actually say in real life:

"they destroyed the only person I ever get to be"

and man. that line. really got me. I don't know. the only person I ever get to be

what will you do with your one wild and precious life. who do you want to be the only person you ever get to be.

[nelkcats]

Not an Atlantean

Since Clockwork informed him that his wail had evolved, Danny decided that he should try it. But he couldn't do it on land since he would destroy the whole place so he flew to a desolate place in the sea. He was sure that he could test it without destroying anything there.

When he finally decided to use it he noticed that his wail had sung to some sort of cry of suffering. Which wasn't much different from before but it made him sound like a wounded animal. Danny frowned wondering if that meant the old ghost with "Banshee".

To the citizens of Atlantis, Danny sounded like a wounded merman. But while some features fit right in as soon as they peeked out of the water (the fangs, the green eyes, and other features), they noticed that he had no tail...maybe he was only a descendant?

Arthur, excited to teach the human about his true ancestry, came out to congratulate him. The halfa was very confused when they led him to Atlantis. Noting that the boy could perfectly survive underwater, the citizens of Atlantis "confirmed" their suspicions. The boy was a descendant of their people, but how could they ask him without bringing back bad memories?

On his part, Danny was very confused, but everyone was extremely nice (he didn't notice that his ghostly features could easily be mistaken for another creature). Honestly, the halfa was more interested in asking how the stars looked like from the open sea.

After a while Danny noticed that something weird was going on (everyone was too shy??) and Arthur kept talking about letting him stay in the palace and learning directly from the King. Well, the halfa still didn't know where he was or what was exactly happening but seeing a King would surely help him when he was crowned so what could go wrong?

[atwoodsfemalefantasy]

master list of female bands/musicians that write + sing about feminism!

(i've been cutting the vast majority of male musicians out of my listening habits bc i want to support, uplift, and center women in my life. these are some great bands + artists if you're also looking to do that)

-Bikini Kill: Riot Grrrl band, frontwoman is Kathleen Hannah aka the love of my life. very angry, messy, garage girl punk. openly man hating.

-Banshee: banshee described her music as fairy metal. she does that heavy metal whisper-screaming on top of these fairy-like mystical melodies and instrumentals. has some very manhating songs, amazing female rage

-Beach Bunny: doesn't focus as much on feminism, but has a lot of feminist songs. hard to describe the genre, but kinda garage-punk/pop? highly recommend

-Bratmobile: another Riot Grrrl band! i love them!

-Delilah Bon: metal, scream-y, female rage. very good for releasing anger, very angry at men, so so powerful. my favorite song is Dead Men Don't Rape

-Dreamcatcher: this one is a bit different, it's my favorite Kpop group, but they're technically Krock. i like other Kpop groups, they have a lot of freedom. no one controls what they wear or sing or say, which a lot of popular Kpop groups are victims of. they speak out for what they believe in, queer rights mostly, and they also spoke up after George Floyd. they're big advocates against the fan hate female idols receive, and their latest releases have all been concept albums about fighting for equality against a corrupt government

-Fiona Apple: most people know about my girl Fiona, but she's amazing, and obviously needs to be included. songs about her rape, against male violence. very girlhood, like if you took all my girlhood emotions and put it into music

-Halsey: ik what you're thinking, i'm not talking about cursive singing Halsey. i'm talking her last two albums, If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power, and The Great Impersonator. specifically The Great Impersonator. Lonely is the Muse, Life of the Spider, Dog Years, Letter to God (1974), Arsonist, and I Believe in Magic are so fucking good it makes me scream.

-Kesha: (not Ke$ha, i'm saying Kesha after she got away from her rapist at her label). she has a lot of songs about her rapist, angry songs, healing songs, etc. honestly, she's one of the strongest female celebrities i know, the way she bounced back, found herself, and healed.

-Le Tigre: another Kathleen Hannah band, more upbeat than Bikini Kill, still angry, but more upbeat. takes stands for feminism + black rights.

-Maggie Lindemann: not as feminist, but a strong woman with a strong voice singing powerful songs about her mental health, healing, and finding herself

-Marina: used to be Marina and the Diamonds, her old stuff is sooo good, and her new stuff is very outspoken and feminist. i love her.

-Mitski: strong female voice + strong female words. angry, sad, everything. i adore her.

-Scene Queen: metal/scene genre. her goal as an artist is to make spaces in scene where women are safe and centered and prioritized because scene is a pretty misogynistic culture right now. she sings about hating men, not feeling safe, amazing female rage. also very very gay.

-Sofia Isella: very powerful female vocalist, sings about feminism, fantastic female rage songs. very creepy sound as well

obviously there's a million more i'm forgetting, but here's a start, a pretty decent list

[transformersandturtles]

I made another fic! This one is solely Wolverine centric. This is darker than I normally write so please keep in mind the warnings! Also a bit of this fic is the movie, but just from Logan's side of it.

Inspired by This Post by Midnightdrag0ns ( @midnights-dragon ) on TikTok!

Word count : 6,848 words (my hands hurt)

CW : ⚠️Alcoholism, ⚠️mentions of SH and thoughts of s-side, survivor's guilt and heavy grief, swearing, hurt/angst (very little comfort at the end), possible spelling errors (not reviewed)

edit : Forgot the title woops

---

Guilt isn't always a rational thing. . .

Guilt is a weight that will crush you whether you deserve it or not.

- Maureen Johnson

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔

No sleep for the innocent.

Logan's head was spinning, his thoughts all a blur as his throat burned from the familiar liquid he had become so dependent on.

Not for you.

A little voice rang in the back of his mind, a bitter sound that haunted him. His own thoughts, an awful reminder of what he still had. A functioning conscious. How miserable. The calloused finger tips of his index and middle fingers tapped the wooden surface of the bar. Another drink. As his healing factor started to clear his liver, his blurry thoughts were almost clear once again. And he heard it.

"Logan!" The familiar voices rang out his name. Voices he longed to hear once again. Voices he didn't want to hear in his head. He wanted to hear the sounds against his ears, feel the touch on the shoulder or the face. The comforting scents, the comforting caresses. Everything he lost, he wanted again. To make things right. . . But it was one of God's best jokes that he couldn't die. No matter what he did. No matter how hard he tried. His body would always recover, and the cycle continued.

Did you forget?

You have blood on your hands.

As Logan was given another drink by the bartender, he paid no attention to what was said to him but he knew. He wasn't welcomed here. He wasn't welcomed anywhere. A blight. He'd failed everyone; his people, his team, his friends, his family. All because he went out one night and got shitfaced. He left when they called for him. He always walked away. . . And it was his biggest regret.

On your lips.

Logan's lips found the rim of his glass, drinking down another cup. His tongue tingled, taking down the flavor of the bitter drink. His throat burned once more and his stomach churned. The booze in his gut sloshed ever so slightly as he started to sway a little in his seat, but the affect wore off so quickly he could barely remember the feeling. He wanted to he numb in every sense of the word. To be deprived of feeling, sensations, responsiveness. He wanted nothing more than to feel nothing. But maybe it was life's way of punishing him. Keeping him alive as some sick joke. To remind him that he walked away with his life, and his companions. . . Not so much. His eyelids felt heavy as he closed them for a moment, the memories of what happened replaying like a broken projector, stuck on the same movie.

"Come on, Logan, stay! We have beer in the fridge, if that's what has you so preoccupied." Jean spoke with a gentle tone, trying to convince him to stay.

"Honestly, Logan, you should cut back." Scott pestered, as always.

"Spend dinner with us, Logan. You always run off." Ororo tried to persuade him.

"Why didn't you stay?" Charles's voice echoed. That's not what he said. Logan knew that, but he knew that Charles thought it when the mansion was attacked.

"Logan! Help us!" The collective voices got louder and louder, screaming for him. The begging and crying grew louder, like a choir of banshees ready to attack. The anger, the hate. It was all at him. And that was justifiable for what he did. A drunkard monster, abandoning his friends for booze and they're left to die by the hands of humans. No one to help them. To help him.

The guilt was heavy on his shoulders. On his chest, his mind. He should have stayed. Why didn't he stay? Why was he so stubborn? He had nothing now. Nothing but the suit under his coat to remind him of everything he once had. That stupid yellow suit everyone always used to bother him about wearing. Why? He wasn't an X-Man. He would never be an X-Man. That was long gone, long over.

On your teeth.

Logan opened his eyes, the heavy tiredness pushed back by the rushing thump of his heartbeat. The glass in his hand was now empty once more. He grimaced, and soon tapped the bar again to get the bartender's attention. This time his focus was on the full bottle as it was brought over, and when the bartender told him that he was no longer welcomed, Logan just rolled his eyes with a scoff. As the man continued, he wasn't welcomed anywhere and to get the fuck out, Logan's tired expression remained.

"Jus' give me one more drink an' then I'll leave. . ." His words were slow and surprisingly quiet compared to his usual gruff and bark-like tone. He didn't have anything to do or anywhere to go. Like the man said, he was welcomed no where. The night he lost everything, he really saw red. He had been the judge, the jury, and the executioner. Everyone was guilty in his eyes at the time. Every human, every person who stood in his way. Man, woman, anyone he saw a threat. He took down. It's been a while since then, but he still saw the blood on his hands every once in a while. The holes in his knuckles that held his claws. The weapons he used. To be what he was created for. Destruction. To fall so hard from the expectations held up for him. So much hope, so much care, love. He had so much, and it was gone from him in the blink of an eye.

"That's not how it works." The bartender spoke firmly, eyes still narrowed on the mutant drunkard. Out of the corner of his eyes, Logan spotted something. . . Odd. A scent caught his attention. A familiar scent, but also so foreign to him. His nose twitched a little, trying to pinpoint the scent, which fell unto the masked figure in red next to him. Great, what a clown. Who the fuck was this guy? Here to poke fun at the oh-so-great Wolverine? Fantastic.

"It does now." The stranger spoke, the white eyes of the mask focused solely on Logan, which only made him agitated. His life was already shit enough, he didn't need some dude dressed up playing hero to bother him. Logan was no hero. Not anymore. He was a monster. "Leave the bottle." The man's tone was much more serious, head tilted towards the tender for just a moment, before right back at Logan. What a fucking joke.

"I know you, bub?" Logan eventually spoke, eyes half lidded with a slight hint of confusion, but also hidden agitation. He wanted no part of this. He just wanted to drink. And drink. And drink until he couldn't remember his own goddamn name. But life just had to make him live to see 200 and over.

"Nope," The man in red spoke, the 'p' punctuated under the mask, "but I know you. . ." He spoke calmly and lowly, which just made Logan more annoyed. No one had spoken to him like this in a long time. It was foreign to him at this point. Every conversation was hate and anger. Not gentle. This stranger must be a foreigner or a goddamn moron.

"Everybody knows me. . ." Logan murmured in a bored, almost defeated tone as he gave a lazy nod to the man in red, looking away from him. "I'm the Wolverine. . ." He was almost bitter about it. . . Almost. The tags tucked under his suit, a reminder of his past that he long forgot. The only names he knew written on it. But he didn't feel like Wolverine suited him anymore. That was the name of a hero. He wasn't a hero. Heroes don't kill innocent people. Heroes don't go in a blind rage and attack on sight. And heroes don't let their family die all because they wanted to get wasted.

"Yes you are. . ." The stranger continued, his tone of voice sounded like he may be smiling under the mask, but it was really hard for Logan to focus at all on that. He just wanted to drink still, to be left alone. He was better off alone. Better off dead, if he really thought about it, but he knew better than to think like that. Nothing would give him that mercy. It was wishful thinking. "And I'm gonna need you to come with me right now." The man continued on, still focused on Logan. The old mutant was almost flabbergasted. Almost. But he felt annoyed, and almost insulted. Who was this fucker to come waltzing over and make demands for him to go somewhere? He looked the man up and down, not exactly disgusted but he definitely had a look on his face that showed he didn't seem too keen on that.

"Look, lady. . . I'm not interested." He stated firmly and boredly, not wanting to entertain this conversation any longer. He held his hand a little to wave off the man, shaking his head as he looked back at his glass.

"Really getting into your cups --" The stranger started to speak up, but was almost immediately cut off by Logan who really didn't want to have this chat any further.

"-- Why would I go with you?" Logan grumbled, clearly still under the affects of the alcohol he's drank, but it wasn't enough to silence the voices in his head. His left hand went up, index finger pointed out to poke the masked stranger right between his eyes, with just enough force to push the man's head back with a small thump. That probably would have hurt or been uncomfortable for any other person due to his metal bones. But the red man didn't seem too bothered by it. At least in the moment. Logan's gaze was still on him, almost looking dumbfounded with his head tilted to the side like a confused dog.

"Because, unfortunately," the man began, "I need you. And even more unfortunately, my entire world needs you." He continued almost firmly, still talking gently however with a lowered voice so no bystanders heard, but this bar had a few people in it, and they were all staring at the idiot in red. The moment was quickly interrupted by voice piping up from behind the bar, in a jestful tone.

"Are you two gonna fuck or fight?" He snickered as the bartender approached the two. The man in red turned his attention to him, almost like he was insulted that someone dare interrupt their important conversation. Logan, however, could care less as his gaze went away to the countertop of the bar, his hands still on either side of himself on the bar, glass still empty in front of him.

"You gonna take that from him?" The red man raised a brow under his mask as he asked the question, as if curious to know who the ex-hero would react to such a thing said to him. Logan didn't care, he rarely cared. That was nothing compared to the other things that have thrown his way. Insults, slurs, threats. You name it, he's heard it for sure.

"Yup. . ." Logan mumbled as he glanced at the other man before away once again, he was used to this after all. Why would he fight back now? It was nothing. But the man in red found it humorous apparently. With a snort and small chuckle, he shook his head a moment and sighed.

"I can tell you sort of have a 'don't get too close, I'll only break your heart' vibe going here," the chatter box continued as he waved his hand by Logan to address his whole 'vibe' going on, "BUT, every other Wolverine would have really hurt me by now and I'm sort of on the tick tick," he gestured to his wrist and tapped on it, but Logan couldn't care less as his gaze was on his empty glass once again, ignoring the gaze of the stranger in red. Man this guy was super annoying. "So," he stood up and moved behind Logan to get him up off the seat, "Upsy daisy!" Was this guy STILL talking? Logan barely had time to react, his body still reeling with the affects of the alcohol he's drank. Before Logan knew it, he was lifted up which did startle him a little but he was mostly confused by it and really agitated. How the hell could this guy get him up so easily?

"Woah, woah. . . Hey, hey-! " Logan tried to protest as he was moved up and off the seat he had gotten so comfortable on that now left him almost cold and his legs a little tingly from sitting for so long.

"I got you big guy!" The man sounded like he was smiling under his mask. Logan managed to pull away from him in annoyance, glaring at the stranger as he stumbled a little when an all too familiar snikt came from his hands. Logan staggered a bit as him and the stranger looked down at his hand where his claws just barely poked through the knuckles. Logan grumbled a bit, of course his mutation would be affected by his drinking, no shocker there. The pain shot through his arm, but he was so used to it that it didn't even bother him at this point. No gloves or slots to correct the path his claws went. The man in red looked almost. . . Amused? Disappointed? It was really hard to tell when his face was covered up and his eyes didn't give much away.

"Oh!" He seemed surprised at first, having to do a double take as he looked at the small claws then up at Logan, then back at the claws, noticing the small bit of blood drip down from the healing wounds. "Whiskey dick of the claws. . . It's quite common in Wolverine's over 40." The man seem to joke, he definitely had a smile under his mask at this point. He snickered a bit, deeply amused by the whole situation, that was for sure.

"You don't want this. . ." Logan murmured with a frown, shaking his head ever so slightly as he looked at the stranger, still a bit staggered on his feet, out of his mind at the moment as he could barely stand straight while looking at the other man. However, before he knew it, the man in red pulled out a pistol from his holster and pointed the end of the barrel right at Logan's face. Logan, even in a stuper, could hear the familiar sound of a click as it was held up. His ears twitched a little, and the man in red spoke once more.

"You're right. . . And you don't want this." He spoke seriously, a stern look was probably on his face but it was hard for Logan to imagine. This guy acted like a circus clown, and not the funny kind. As Logan looked at the barrel, his blurry eyes managed to focus on the engravings.

Smile. Wait for the flash.

It took everything in him NOT to laugh at that as he still staggered on his uneven footing. That was almost priceless, if he was going to be honest. Now he REALLY couldn't take this guy seriously at all. What a fucking joke.

"Unless you want to take a deep breath through your fucking forehead, I suggest you reconsider. . ." The man threatened so casually like he was used to saying stuff like this. Like he did this for a living or something of the sort. What kind of idiot gave this moron a gun? "Let's go, Peanut." He said sternly with a small huff. Logan couldn't help but snort a little, amused by it all as a smile slowly came to his face, sharp canines bared to the man as he leaned against the barrel of the pistol, showing no signs of backing down or leaving with him. He looked tired, that was for sure, and that grin seemed strained yet also slightly genuine. Maybe a shot to the head would put him out of his misery. But he doubted the holder would actually ever pull the trigger. How unfortunate for him, the immortal freak. But Logan couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips as he looked at the red man.

Smile for the camera.

His grin remained as he held up his index finger for a moment, still chuckling like he had actually been told something funny by the circus clown.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on. . ." Logan peeled away from the gun, and his focus turned to the bar and grabbed the bottle of alcohol from the counter. "Watch this." As he grabbed the bottle, he moved back to the red man, the whole attention of the bar was now on them. As he turned back to look at the gun, he grabbed it with no hesitation and no fear or worry for his life or wellbeing. "Alright, that will-" His hand was still on the gun, his movements staggered and words a bit slurred as the man pointed the gun right back up at Logan. "Easy." Logan huffed, still amused by this little game that had come to be. His grip was firm on the barrel as he tilted his head back and started chugging down the contents of the bottle, ensuring that he was being watched the entire time.

"Good god. . ." The stranger seemed surprised and a bit exasperated. Logan grunted slightly as he continued to nurse the bottle. He tried not to laugh as he did so, breathing through his nose. "Thirsty little honey badger, aren't ya?" He tilted his head to the side with an amused grin, chuckling. Logan's nose flared as he breathed heavily while taking down more and more of the bottle with no break, still focused on the almost empty glass. He had become so engrossed in the beverage that he eventually let go of the gun, his arm falling to his side as he kept drinking it down. "It's okay, keep going. . ." The stranger continued to watch, amazed but also a bit concerned for this guy cause holy shit, this was not a normal thing people did. Logan continued to gulp down the drink, still breathing through his nose and grunting a bit. Logan began tilting his head back further with the bottle as it neared empty, no longer focusing on whatever the man was rambling about now. Once it was finally done, Logan let out a satisfied groan and looked towards the man in red. With the bottle still in his hand, his vision got very blurry and his eyes started to roll back as he fell unconscious, no longer aware of his surroundings as his heavy body hit the floor with a thud, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

* * *

In the middle of nowhere, the red and yellow duo drove the the void, somehow now in a forest. Logan hadn't been paying attention, he's just been driving the Honda him and Wade, - the stranger that held him are gun point at the bar -, had gotten from a nicer counterpart of Wade's. Nicepool or some sap shit like that, he didn't care. He just wanted to get back to his universe and get everything fixed like he'd been promised. He was deeply annoyed with Wade, this bastard came into his life and had to flip it upside down for no reason other than to save a universe that had nothing to do with him. Also, the music in the car was starting to drive him nuts. This music sucked. Even after drinking the rubbing alcohol at the abandoned diner, he really wished he had more booze. He hated being sober, his shoulders and chest heavy once again as he sat in the drivers seat, agitated with Wade. The voices were getting to him again, voices he'd longed to get over but knew he'd never get the peace. The blood was on his hands, the souls weighed his conscious. And his mood only got worse as Wade tried to talk about his suit. The suit that he never wanted to wear until the people he cared about were ripped from his life by a bunch of selfish assholes who couldn't accept that they were different, and had to snuff out their flames. He didn't like the negative connotation Wade was getting at about the X-Men. What the fuck did he know? Wade dropped the X-Men, his X-Men. But that didn't mean the Merc with a Mouth could talk about his X-Men like that. Not his team. Not his friends, his family. Wade had no fucking right. But soon something caught his ears.

"If they fix--" Logan didn't bother listening to the rest of that sentence. The fuck did this guy mean if? He promised his world would be fixed. That he'd get the ones he loved back. That he'd get to see Scott, Jean, Ororo, Hank, Charles, everyone. Alive. That he'd get a do-over and fix his mistakes. To never leave his loved ones again. Logan's emotions got the best of him, as always. And he slammed on the brakes with little to no warning. Words were said, and claws found their way into Wade's thigh quickly. There was heavy tension in the air, and Logan was at his wits end. He had enough, he couldn't take this idiot seriously any longer. A wish? A fucking educated wish? It felt like his heart and soul were ripped out of his body all over again, and what little hope he had to fix things was gone.

"You know what?" Logan started with an agitated tone, clearly upset that Wade had lied to him, in the most ridiculous way possible. Maybe he was the fool for believing in this idiot. "You're a fucking joke," he continued on, "No wonder the Avengers didn't take you or the X-Men, and they'll take fucking anyone! I mean, you are a ridiculous, immature, half-wit moron. I have never met a sadder, more attention-starved jabbering little prick in my entire life, and that says a lot because I've been alive for more than 200 fucking years, and I'll tell you, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never save the world!" His words were harsh and bitter, and maybe a little projected onto the other Canadian that had genuinely pissed him off. Logan was definitely an outlier in the 'nice Canadian' stereotype. Then again, he's been through hell and back and barely remembers half of it sometimes. "You couldn't even save a relationship with a goddamn stripper! Motherfucker, I wish I could say you'll die alone, but it's one of God's best jokes that you can't die, except that's on ALL OF US!" As Logan got more heated, more angry, raw with pure emotions as he hit the roof of the car, his breathing was heavy. For a moment, just a sliver of a second, there was a moment of regrets to his words. A moment of remorse, but it was gone just as fast as it came and the man snarled a bit, canines bared to the other. "Well, you got nothing to say, Mouth?" He was pissed off and it showed, face contorted in anger as he waited for a response from Wade, and as the silence went on, his breathing got a little softer, almost like a pant from a dog, but it was short lived when the other finally spoke up.

"I'm gonna fight you now. . ." Wade muttered. It was hard to tell if he was being serious or not, and honestly Logan couldn't tell. Nor did he care. He'd never be able to take him seriously, not after that lie. But Logan couldn't hold back a laugh, ready to call his bluff.

"Oh? Are you?" He raised a brow with a snort, ready for this to be over already until he was met with a hard fist to the face. He was stunned by this, shock in his eyes as he stared at the other blankly as he felt an almost unfamiliar feeling in his nose. He hadn't been punched in the nose in a long time. That couldn't have felt good to Wade either, a fist straight to the metal skull. A warm liquid dribbled down from Logan's nose, and as Wade had stated, a fight was soon in pursuit.

* * *

No sleep for the innocent.

Not for you.

Did you forget?

You have blood on your hands.

On your lips.

On your teeth.

Smile for the camera.

The voices rang in his head, he couldn't escape. He'd carried this pain, this guilt, for so long. He let everyone down. His universe, his family. He let everyone down. All for a drink. A fixation he couldn't break. Because of him, he was left alone, to walk the miserable world with immortality. No matter how man gashes he gave himself, no matter how hard he tried to disembowel himself, every method he could possibly think over, he couldn't end it. But the pain still lingered. He always felt the pain, even when his healing factor took affect. He always felt the pain, and felt like he deserved it. He knew the others would be disappointed in what he's become, but what could he do? He was exhausted. He sat on his knees, in the darkest parts of his mind. The grass was tall, a breeze going past as a white shirt clung to his figure. He sat there, feeling completely defeated as the voices rang out. He left them all behind. He walked away. He always does.

"Trust me, kid. . . I'm no hero. . ." Logan murmured, nursing down a bottle of whiskey as Laura accompanied him at the fire, against his wishes.

"That suit says different. . ." She spoke calmly yet firmly, her eyes going from the fire then back to Logan. Logan let out a small huff, almost a sound of amusement at her words.

"You like it?" He asked as he raised a brow, looking at Laura who seemed to give a small nod of acknowledgement. "Scott used to beg me to wear it. . . So did Jean. . . Storm. . . Beast. All of 'em. . .They wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn't. . ." His voice shook a little as he spoke,his gaze falling to the half empty bottle in his hands. He knew they'd be ashamed of what he's become. "Told 'em they all look fuckin' ridiculous, an'. . ." He trailed off a little, glancing to the side for a moment, then to Laura once more. "I couldn't have 'em thinkin' I wanted to be there. . . And one day, while I was off on my own, the humans came and went mutant huntin'. . ." His voice broke ever so slightly, head down as he remembered the events that fell. Nothing got rid of the bitterness in his heart, and the regret that ate at his soul. Would things have been different if he were there? Maybe. . .

"Whoever you think I am, you got the wrong guy. . ." He remembered speaking to Laura, a girl who had been saved by a better version of himself. He could vaguely see the resemblance; she was strong and fierce and mouthy. But she knew what to say. From the little time he got to know her, she was better than he was, and he was damn sure that his variant would be proud of the person she was.

"You were always the wrong guy. . . Until you weren't." She had told him at that campfire when he was drinking himself to memory fog. Those words definitely hit something in him.

Even as Nova tried to 'sympathize' with him, to entice him to join her so she could make the voices go away. To get the screaming to stop. To stop all the sounds, all the pain. He didn't trust her, not one bit. But it was part of the plan. When the area went quiet, he felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders, like he could breathe easy again. But he knew it wouldn't last. He didn't deserve the peace. It was too quiet. . . He couldn't handle it, but he had Nova right where they needed her. And it was only a matter of time when Wade finally got that stupid helmet on Nova, that she finally got out of his head, and Logan felt the rush hit him like a train. The pain, the voices, the screams that fell upon deaf ears when he was in a blind rage, it all returned to him. It was a bitter comfort. Silence was unbearable for him. He closed his eyes, and when he returned to reality, he got to his feet quickly as Wade seemed about ready to let Nova die in the Juggernaut helmet.

"This suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. . . . And what I did. . ."

What he did. . . The biggest fucking mistake of his life, and he's made lots of mistakes over his 200 years of living on this goddamn rock. He's been through hell with experiments for a shitty government. He's forgotten most of his life, and what little bits and pieces he had to remember were only in his nightmares that would always fizzle from his mind the moment he was conscious and in a mess of his torn bedsheets and blood. The blood was on his hands. It always had been. Their faces, God their faces. Always haunted him, always made him feel even worse. The faces of his team, and the faces of those he took his anger out on. He couldn't fix his world, it was doomed from the start. The least he could do, with what will he had left to keep fighting, he had to make sure at least someone remembered who they were. The real X-Men.

"For the first time in my life. . ." Logan's eyes felt wet as he spoke, fighting back the shakiness in his voice. "I am proud to wear this suit." He states firmly, still fighting back tears as his voice wavered, his emotions pure and raw in the moment. "It means I'm an X-Man. . . I am THE X-Man!" Saying those words felt odd, but. . . Needed. Like he'd lifted a heavy weight for his lungs. He could breathe easy, despite the fuzzy vision he had in the moment. With pride, and confidence he had long neglected, he was happy to call himself an X-Man. As much as his life sucked hell, he couldn't let their memories go.

* * *

After the party and saying by to Laura, Logan stepped away from the door so Wade could talk with his friends as they left down the hall. It was. . . Different. And this whole thing would definitely take some getting used to. He helped clean up the small apartment, putting dishes in the sink and trash in the bin before making his way to the couch. He took off the blue-green flannel he wore that evening, taking a deep breath as he laid down, his white T-shirt clung to his figure, dog tags draped over his collarbone with a small jingle. He closed his eyes, flannel over the armrest of the couch as he used it as a pillow, arms crossed over his midsection. He didn't plan on falling asleep yet, just to shut his eyes and wait for Wade. He wasn't really paying attention, not even realizing he was dozing off until he heard a voice.

"Logan!" The voice sounded. . . Happy? It sounded like Jean.

"Wake up, you overgrown Chihuahua!" He could practically hear the snarky grin on Scott's face.

"You always love to keep us waiting, don't you?" Beast scoffed, the sound of fur against fabric could be heard from him shaking his head. He grunted as it sounded like someone elbowed him.

"Cut him some slack, he's had a long day." Ororo could be heard next, a small chuckle escaping her lips. Logan slowly opened his eyes, greeted by a bright light. Was that the sun? How? It was 8pm, he was sure the sun was down by now. His eyes adjusted to the light, and his heart almost dropped at the sight before him. It was everyone. Scott, Jean, Beast, Storm, Kitty, Rogue, everyone. Even the man himself, with that familiar sound of the chair.

"Professor. . ?" He didn't understand. Where was he? This had to be a dream, right? A sick dream his mind made to torment him further of his past misdeeds.

"Logan. . . It's good to see you again." Charles Xavier spoke sincerely, a small smile on his face. He could see the confusion, the uncertainty. "This isn't a dream." He tried to reassure, but knew that those words could only go so far.

"Well, if it's not a dream. . . Where am I? What is. . . All of this?" He sat up from the tall grass, soon standing. He'd never seen it so bright here before. So full of light.

"You know where this is. . ." Charles spoke calmly yet firmly, knowing that Logan knew. When it finally clicked, Logan stepped back.

"Why are you here. . ?" He asked, a bit hesitant. He didn't know if this was real or not, and if it was, he was struggling to hold himself together. Jean and Scott moved close, and Jean was the first to touch Logan, her caress gentle on his face. Logan felt like he was hit by a tidal wave, the rush of warmth he had missed so much from his companions. He relaxed into her touch almost immediately, the familiarity there. Then he felt Scott pat his shoulder. He remembered the bickering and rough housing, how they were always at each other's throats. He was trying not to cry, but it only got harder.

"You know why we're here, Logan. . ." Scott spoke surprisingly softly to him, squeezing his shoulder a bit. Jean smiled warmly.

"We're proud of you. . ." She tried to comfort him, but it was clear that time had not been so kind to Logan after all these years. Slowly but surely, everyone made their presence known by physical contact, and the dam broke. Tears started to drip down his face, like someone had turned the faucet all the way on and broke the handle. It wouldn't stop. He'd never cry in front of his teammates, never in a million years. Yet here he was, shaking before them. He hated being vulnerable in front of others, normally it was his biggest weakness. But right now, he couldn't stop it. Faces he'd thought he'd never see again, never see smiling. Let alone smiling at him of all people.

"You're a damn good X-Man, boy. . ." Hank let out a gruff compliment, patting his back. Logan felt awful, he didn't deserve any compliments or praise.

"I. . . I'm sorry. . ." Logan's voice finally broke and cracked as he mumbled out an apology. The others were confused at first, but all their expressions softened.

"Logan, listen to me. . ." Charles spoke up once more, moving closer to him as the others moved carefully. "Look at me." He requested. Logan was hesitant, which was unlike him, but he slowly lifted his head, looking at the old man. Charles smiled softly, hands in his lap. "You were. . . By far one of my most difficult students. . . Some days I didn't know if you would stay or truly run off and never return. . . You were a wild card, and sometimes you still are. . . Even now. Despite what you may think, or how you perceive yourself. . . You're a good man at heart. No one is immune to mistakes, hell I've made my fair share of mistakes in life. . . But you are as stubborn as they come. You cared not for rules and you could be very troublesome. . . But you are not what they made you. . ." He states, a warm yet tired smile on his face. Logan still had tears running down his cheeks.

"B. . . But I. . . I left. . . I walked away and--" Logan was trying to keep it together, but he was very emotional right now.

"You didn't know it would happen. . . No one did. . . It's not your fault, Logan. . ." Jean tried to comfort him again, smiling gently at him to assure him. But Logan didn't buy it, how could he? Because of him, they were all on their own. He could have done something to help.

"Stop focusing on the 'what-ifs', Logan." Beast scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's been done is done, the past cannot be changed. . . All we can do is learn from it, and ensure that it never repeats again." For once, Logan thought, for once that big blueberry of a mutant finally said something that made some sense to him.

"You've been so caught up in your mind and the world before. . . But you've been given a new chance, Logan. . ." Charles spoke once again, the sun shadowed by a few clouds now. "You have a chance to make things right. What happened is in the past. . . You must move on, and pave a bright future. . . Not just for yourself, but for those around you as well." He moved back a bit, and so did the others, the talk grass shifting from the breeze. Logan looked around as everyone backed up, he rubbed his eyes as he sniffled.

"I. . . I can't move on. . . I can't forget you guys. . . What I did. . ." Logan looked down at the grass, fists clutched.

"Moving on isn't forgetting. . . It's remembering and no longer hurting. . . Missing someone just shows how much they meant to you, right?" Jean smiled, humming softly as she stood with Scott.

"One of the biggest steps in healing is acceptance, Logan. . . It's okay to let go." Scott held Jean's hand, those ruby red shades covering his eyes, but they had a gentle look to them.

"It's not goodbye forever. . . Just a see you next time." Rogue spoke up, smiling softly towards Logan, hands at her sides.

"Yeah, we'll just. . . See you another time." Kitty smiled softly, hands in her pocket. Logan was quiet, besides the small sniffles as he tried to keep himself somewhat together still. Acceptance sounded like a curse. But he couldn't continue to drown himself in anger and hate and guilt. He had to work to improve. The past could haunt him, could haunt his nightmares, but he'd never forget the best people that had ever entered his life. He took a deep breath, and he nodded.

"A. . . Alrigh'. . . I uhm, think I'm ready. . ." Logan was a bit hesitant, but knew that this is what he had to do. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in. He opened his eyes with a tired grin. "I may have never said it before, or really shown' it. . . . But I love you guys. . . You meant a lot to me. . ." He mumbled.

Sure, not everything was perfect all the time. There were disagreements, fights recklessness, lots of stuff. Both good and bad. But Logan didn't regret meeting the X-Men. He just wished he had more time with them. His gaze was on the grass, and when he looked up, everyone was gone. But in their place stood new foliage and fauna. Plants of different colors and different arrays of beauty where everyone once was. Peter Pears grew tall and entangled with Red Orchids. Garden Grape-Hyacinth grew a few feet away, White Roses too. Platycodon Grandiflorus grew where Kitty once stood, and so many more floura grew, overtaking the tall grass to be a meadow, no longer an empty space of trees and stones and pain. Logan was heartbroken, but the sight brought him comfort, in an odd way. Knowing that now, they were never too far away. They were still around, even if he couldn't see them, smell them, or hear them. They were there, and that brought him ease. He took a deep breath of the fresh air and soon closed his eyes as the sun got brighter. When his eyes opened again, he felt. . . Lightened.

"Logan?!" Wade was right in his face, not exactly a pretty sight to see first thing. And definitely not something he needed to see right when waking up. His heart jumped in his chest, and he quickly sat up, his forehead smashing into Wade's as he moved. Wade winced and stumbled back a bit, but soon laughed loudly, relieved that Logan wasn't dead. Logan rubbed his head for a moment, before feeling something drip down his chin. He touched his face, and he felt tears. Had he been crying in his sleep? He turned to look at Wade, which was when he also noticed Althea with a bucket of water.

"Well, is he dead?" She stood there, ready to throw it on Logan like Wade had originally planned for her to do. Wade grinned, taking the bucket from her.

"Nah, he ain't dead. Just a heavy sleeper. Guess that's to be expected if he hasn't slept properly, Wolverines sleep in three to four hour cycles regularly. And this one clearly doesn't." He snickered with a big grin. Logan rolled his eyes, smirking a bit as he shooke his head and snorted.

"Ah, go fuck yourself, bub. . ."

[rokishimizu4]

Orphan almost breaks a Bat rule

(I’m gonna focus more on my second blog when I’m done with Cass, Bruce, and Damian, because I’m in a TMNT faze and want to write some 12! Casey x Turtles) I do ship Cass and Steph and in my AU they act like they are married, but Steph treats the Wayne brothers like her brothers-in-law)Mostly because they are fucken cute together and honestly, Steph isn’t adopted by Bruce. (Cass is because her and Damian, Jason, Dick, and Tim are sister and brothers, don’t @ me)

It wasn’t uncommon for Cass to people watch and targets a certain person, either because the person in question was a BatFam villain, just a threat in general, or did something to her family.

But, the person in question checked none of the marks and she found it almost strange with how often she finds herself following the person in question when she is not on patrol, spending time with family, or on her dates with Steph.

Cue Cass silently following a woman that reminds her of a field of flowers and trees on a warm summer day, with bees and birds relaxing, just listening to the songs that the wind writes.

She keeps the target’s car in sight as she jumps from roof top to roof top, in her full Orphan outfit when she notices that something else was tracking the same car as her from across the street.

The other person seems to notice her, but focuses on the car and even jumping onto the moving, at full speed down the busy street, car without hesitation.

Cue Cass jumping onto the same car and hanging onto it along with the stranger, only to realize that the person is wearing a dark red/purple oni mask with glowing gold horns, and a screaming mouth full of white tiger-like teeth.

However, before she could figure out if the person is a human, demon, spirit, or something else, the car jerks to a full stop and threatens to buck the her and the other person off.

Four armed men pile out of the car and starts trying to shoot at her, in the middle of the still very busy street with a shit ton of innocents to protect.

“Get the kids and take off!!” One man screams at the people still in the armored car as the masked men surround the outside of the car with guns pointed at Orphan and the strange person.

Orphan quickly jumps off of the car and attacks the first man with a batarang and hitting another man’s gun out of his hands with a kick.

However, as she focuses on the men around her, the guns going off near her and the innocents around her, that she barely notices the car trying to speed away from the scene. At least until the car splits in half, horizontally.

The battle freezes for that moment as the strange person slowly pulls a razor sharp electric guitar out of the severed armored car, that was built like a smaller version of an armored bank truck, with ease.

The person then plays a few cords the electric guitar, which was not plugged in anything, and the front part of the car starts to crumble onto itself like a paper ball.

The men surrounding Orphan drop their guns and put their hands up, begging for the person to stop, to let the two men in the car go, that the two men were the only ones of the group to be forced into kidnapping the kids.

The men start to crumble under the invisible forces of the stranger’s playing as Orphan watches in shock and growing horror as the people around her start to crumble as well, grabbing at their ears and begging the person to stop.

But the stranger continues to play, playing note after heavy note until the bad men ears’ start to bleed from the sound.

Orphan slowly starts to hear the music from the stranger’s electric guitar, like first a soft whispering that continues to grow in volume and tone until it starts to sound like a banshee’s song on full blast.

Orphan silently screams in pain as she uses one hand to cover one of her ears, and uses the other to pull out her katana and rushes the stranger, unconsciously aiming for the middle of their throat.

However before her blade could make contact with the stranger’s neck, a black/purple goop rushes out of the severed back end of the car to quickly cover the two of them completely.

Next thing Orphan/Cass remembers, she wakes up on the roof of the Gotham City Police Department with Stephanie shaking her awake and crying her eyes out.

“Cass! Cass wake up!!!”

After returning home with Steph not leaving her side, she learns that the kidnappers and around 50 people were hospitalized for ruptured eardrums, and at least two of the six kidnappers suffered from broken legs as well as ruptured eardrums.

”Oni, Banshee song, ears hurt. No more electric guitars, please.”

[local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti]

So proud of Myx for winning Best Junior Courser and earning her Junior Courser (JC) title today!

She won food and $20 so it’s great that she can finally help pay the rent! Honestly what a Girl Boss for winning money by Running So Fast and Good.

Also the reason she won is because there were plovers in the field and she still wanted to murder the plastic bag instead of the birds. I was kind of amazed we were awarded Best because I missed the “Tally Ho” twice due to Myx yelling for plastic bag murder in my ear.

The judge asked if I was hearing impaired in the nicest way possible and I was like “yes” because of my sensory issues. But anyone would be hearing impaired with the sound of a whippet banshee scream in your ear.

Just god’s perfect princess goblin living her best life 😍👍👑

[pythi-the-drawing-writer]

Welp here we are I guess... @nitpickrider requests a sacrifice of a penny's worth of thoughts and the appropriate amount of digital ink spilled in exchange for the knowledge I have been gifted and who am I to turn down a fair trade. So come one come all to witness my first full effort into the world of Comic Books and without further ado

Let's Talk About:

Giant-Size X-Men; Issue #1

This is... not at all gonna be structured, I'm just gonna ramble off with some summaries, thoughts and pictures soooooooooo.

We're starting off with individual introductory bits to various X-Men. First with Kurt Wagner chased around town by a fairly classic angry mob, pitchforks, torches and the like. The chase leads to them burning down a whole building to try and kill him and in response he stops running and well

Leaps right into the mob, ready to brawl for his life. Which... Might be something to note later. He's got the superior movement, he could probably just run far enough out of town to the point they won't bother chasing him. But instead when reason fails he leaps straight in. Is it recklessness, adrenaline, an attempt to die on his own terms maybe? Once again might be something to note.

But anyways, the fight goes on and Kurt is pinned, the civilians full on plan on using a stake on him like he's some kind of vampire which... Maybe got a morbid chuckle out of me. Although they are quickly halted through psychic power by Charles Xavier. And this is a small bit that very quickly caught my attention

This tiny part of the exchange just kinda hits me as someone who has a few disabilities under my belt. The very first question of "can you help me be normal" is.... Far too familiar to me personally. And Charles quick response essentially being "look at what 'normal' people do to people like us, would you truly want to be like them?" And then of course followed by that conviction of "then how do I be Me" it's just... Something that's very familiar and really really caught my eye. And maybe I wanna bring some attention to that too.

But next up we move on to Wolverine, comic doesn't even tell us his actual name, just Wolverine. This one's honestly fairly straightforward. Xavier just shows up to the secret military base they have Wolverine stashed away in and says "hey wanna join me where you can be free?" "Sounds cool sure" but there's two details that caught my attention, and I'm a sucker for details

Wolverine uses his claws on the guy that tries to stop him from leaving, however no cuts are made. If you look you see he used the back of his claws, the blunt side. Which is a really cool detail to me and it just makes sense. Dude knows his way around these claws and this one panel and detail is a swift little demonstration.

And the other

Xavier is obviously moving, there's motion lines and everything. But his hands are still on the arm rests and obviously no one's pushing him. So he just uses psychic powers to push his chair around I guess. And I think that's pretty cool.

Next up The Banshee, no real name given yet again.

And here it is

I'm not even kidding. It's just these two panels. Not even half a page which is just humorous to me.

Next up is Ororo. This one's interesting because it's something I probably wouldn't at all think of but it makes so much sense. In her homeland Ororo is Revered as a literal god

And it makes sense, with total control over the weather itself what could you call an ability like that other than godlike. And for her we get to see that on display in full force, lighting, wind and rain crashing down as she commands so effortlessly yet with tremendous force. And then... Xavier makes an offer

And once again my eye was immediately caught. I think a lot of us can relate to the whole escapism of fantasy and all. Hell it's part of why people would read comics like these after all. And it's especially appealing for people who just aren't "normal" the fantasy of a world where not being "normal" puts you above everyone else, makes you important, makes you loved. And this little exchange is such a simple and efficient comment on that, the fantasy is captivating but limiting and it can blind you to the wonder of the world that truly exists.

Next up is Shiro Yoshida... Who's also only 2 panels long. Nothing really special here other than he's the first one so far who we learn both the real name and the superhero name, Sunfire, immediately.

Next up is Peter Rasputin and tbh the first thing I have to say is damn what a look

I adore the way they draw his metallic body like this, the harsh white light reflecting off of it, contrasted by the equally harsh shadow where the light doesn't quite reach. Just damn.

But anyways for the recap. Peter's working on a farm near lake Baikal in Russia (btw I accidentally went down a whole rabbit hole on that lake a bit ago, it's a weird ass place). A runaway tractor threatens to flatten a child playing in the field and he runs in front of it, the tractor smashing into pieces against his seemingly indestructible body. Xavier of course shows up and makes the same offer he always does. But this time Peter decides to ask his parents what he should do, his heart tells him to stay on the farm but his conscience says that he needs to go. And this has very quickly endeared me to his character. Sure others have already had more interesting little relatable or thought provoking moments but something about Peter's short bit just speaks to me.

And finally for our introductions, John Proudstar.

There's really nothing special to comment on here. Tbh I'm not even sure what John's mutant power is supposed to be ^^; sooo yeah... But this marks the end of chapter one

Chapter 2 will be it's own post because I'm hitting the image limit oops