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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 months ago

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Like her or not, we're now on the same side and this woman knows what she's talking about. She suggests actionable steps steps we must take to win ourcountry back from the fascists.

From Liz Cheney

Dear Democratic Party,

I need more from you. You keep sending emails begging for $15,while we’re watching fascism consolidate power in real time. This administration is not simply “a different ideology.” It is a coordinated, authoritarian machine — with the Supreme Court, the House, the Senate, and the executive pen all under its control. And you? You’re still asking for decorum and donations. WTF. That won’t save us. I don’t want to hear another polite floor speech. I want strategy. I want fire. I want action so bold it shifts the damn news cycle — not fits inside one. Every time I see something from the DNC, it’s asking me for funds.

Surprise. Those of us who donate don’t want to keep sending money just to watch you stand frozen as the Constitution goes up in flames — shaking your heads and saying, “Well, there’s not much we can do. He has the majority.” I call bullshit. If you don’t know how to think outside the box… If you don’t know how to strategize… If you don’t know how to fight fire with fire… what the hell are we giving you money for? Some of us have two or three advanced degrees. Some of us have military training. Some of us know what coordinated resistance looks like — and this ain’t it. Yes, the tours around the country? Nice. The speeches? Nice. The clever congressional clapbacks? Nice. That was great for giving hope. Now we need action.

You have to stop acting like this is a normal presidency that will just time out in four years. We’re not even at Day 90, and look at the chaos. Look at the disappearances. Look at the erosion of the judiciary, the press, and our rights. If you do not stop this, we will not make it 1,460 days. So here’s what I need from you — right now:

⸻

1. Form an independent, civilian-powered investigative coalition.

I’m talking experts. Veterans. Whistleblowers. Journalists. Watchdog orgs. Deputize the resistance. Build a real-time archive of corruption, overreach, and executive abuse. Make it public. Make it unshakable. Let the people drag the rot into the light. If you can’t hold formal hearings, hold public ones. If Congress won’t act, let the country act. This isn’t about optics — it’s about receipts. Because at some point, these people will be held accountable. And when that day comes, we’ll need every name, every signature, every illegal order, every act of silence—documented. You’re not just preserving truth — you’re preparing evidence for prosecution. The more they vanish people and weaponize data, the more we need truth in the sunlight.

⸻

2. Join the International Criminal Court.

Yes, I said it. Call their bluff. You cannot control what the other side does. But you can control your own integrity. So prove it. Prove that your party is still grounded in law, human rights, and ethical leadership. Join. If you’ve got nothing to hide — join. Show the world who’s hiding bodies, bribes, and buried bank accounts. Force the GOP to explain why they’d rather protect a war criminal than sign a treaty. And while you’re at it, publicly invite ICC observers into U.S. borders. Make this administration explain — on camera — why they’re terrified of international oversight.

⸻

3. Fund state-level resistance infrastructure.

Don’t just send postcards. Send resources. Channel DNC funds into rapid-response teams, legal defense coalitions, sanctuary networks, and digital security training. If the federal government is hijacked, build power underneath it. If the laws become tools of oppression, help people resist them legally, locally, and boldly. This is not campaign season — this is an authoritarian purge. Stop campaigning. Act like this is the end of democracy, because it is. We WILL REMEMBER the warriors come primaries. Fighting this regime should be your marketing strategy.

And let’s be clear:

The reason the other side always seems three steps ahead is because they ARE. They prepared for this. They infiltrated school boards, courts, local legislatures, and police unions. They built a machine while you wrote press releases. We’re reacting — they’ve been executing a plan for years. It’s time to shift from panic to blueprint. You should already be working with strategists and military minds on PROJECT 2029 — a coordinated, long-term plan to rebuild this country when the smoke clears.

You should be publicly laying out:

• The laws and amendments you’ll pass to ensure this never happens again• The systems you’ll tear down and the safeguards you’ll enshrine • The plan to hold perpetrators of human atrocities accountable • The urgent commitment to immediately bring home those sold into slavery in El Salvador You say you’re the party of the people? Then show the people the plan.

⸻

4. Use your platform to educate the public on rights and resistance tactics.

If they’re going to strip us of rights and lie about it — arm the people with truth. Text campaigns. Mass trainings. Downloadable “Know Your Rights” kits. Multilingual legal guides. Encrypted phone trees. Give people tools, not soundbites. We don’t need more slogans. We need survival manuals.

⸻

5. Leverage international media and watchdogs.

Stop hoping U.S. cable news will wake up. They’re too busy playing both sides of fascism. Feed the real stories to BBC, Al Jazeera, The Guardian, Reuters, Der Spiegel — hell, leak them to anonymous dropboxes if you have to. Make what’s happening in America a global scandal. And stop relying on platforms that are actively suppressing truth. Start leveraging Substack. Use Bluesky. That’s where the resistance is migrating. That’s where censorship hasn’t caught up. If the mainstream won’t carry the truth — outflank them. Get creative. Go underground. Go global. If our democracy is being dismantled in broad daylight, make sure the whole world sees it — and make sure we’re still able to say it.

⸻

6. Create a digital safe haven for whistleblowers and defectors.

Not everyone inside this regime is loyal. Some are scared. Some want out. Build the channels. Encrypted. Anonymous. Protected. Make it easy for the cracks in the system to become gaping holes. And while you’re at it? Stop ostracizing MAGA defectors. Everyone makes mistakes — even glaring, critical ones. We are not the bullies. We are not the ones filled with hate. And it is not your job to shame people who finally saw the fire and chose to step out of it. They will have to deal with that internal struggle — the guilt of putting a very dangerous and callous regime in power. But they’re already outnumbered. Don’t push them back into the crowd. We don’t need purity. We need numbers. We need people willing to burn their red hats and testify against the machine they helped build.

⸻

7. Study the collapse—and the comeback.

You should be learning from South Korea and how they managed their brief rule under dictatorship. They didn’t waste time chasing the one man with absolute immunity. They went after the structure. The aides. The enforcers. The loyalists. The architects. They knocked out the foundation one pillar at a time — until the “strongman” had no one left to stand on. And his power crumbled beneath him. You should be independently investigating every author of Project 2025, every aide who defies court orders, every communications director repeating lies, every policy writer enabling cruelty, every water boy who keeps this engine running. You can’t stop a regime by asking the king to sit down. You dismantle the throne he’s standing on — one coward at a time.

⸻

Stop being scared to fight dirty when the other side is fighting to erase the damn Constitution.

They are threatening to disappear AMERICANS. A M E R I C A N S. And your biggest move can’t be another strongly worded email. We don’t want your urgently fundraising subject lines. We want backbone. We want action. We want to know you’ll stand up before we’re all ordered to sit down — permanently. We are watching. And I don’t just mean your base. I mean millions of us who see exactly what’s happening. I’ve only got 6,000 followers — but the groups I’m in? The networks I touch? Over a quarter million. Often when I speak, it echoes. But when we ALL speak, it ROARS with pressure that will cause change. We need to be deafening. You still have a chance to do something historic. To be remembered for courage, not caution. To go down as the party that didn’t just watch the fall — but fought the hell back with everything they had.

But the clock is ticking.

And the deportation buses are idling.

* * * *

UPDATE AND NOTE:

I have received (what seems like) several hundred copies of a document allegedly authored by Liz Cheney entitled, “Democrats, I need more from you.” The “letter” was not authored by Cheney, but by someone who does not appear to have a readily identifiable profile as a pro-democracy activist. The purported author, “Dr. Pru Lee,” may not be the real identity of the author.

Setting aside the mysterious source of the letter, it has struck a chord with many Democrats. Indeed, many of the copies forwarded to me are accompanied by emails that express some sense of satisfaction that the author has criticized the Democratic Party for its failures and laid out a sensible plan for a path forward.

I suspect the letter was written by a Democratic consultant or insider who is upset with the progressive wing of the party and/or the grassroots movement. The author says, in part,

Yes, the tours around the country? Nice. The speeches? Nice. The clever congressional clapbacks? Nice. That was great for giving hope. Now we need action Don’t just send postcards. Send resources.

Many of the “recommendations” in the letter aren’t realistic—either in a reasonable timeframe or ever. For example, the letter demands the Democratic Party

Form an independent, civilian-powered investigative coalition. Deputize the resistance. Join the International Criminal Court. Fund state-level resistance infrastructure. Stop campaigning. You [the Democratic Party] should be publicly laying out: • The laws and amendments you’ll pass to ensure this never happens again • The systems you’ll tear down and the safeguards you’ll enshrine • The plan to hold perpetrators of human atrocities accountable.

I endorse the author’s passion and understand how the author has managed to channel the anger of rank-and-file Democrats toward their party. But it simply isn’t productive or helpful during this moment of crisis to devote our resources to attacking the Democratic Party.

Here’s a thought experiment: If you have forwarded the above letter to your closest one hundred friends and relatives, try drafting a sequel that begins, “Dear Republicans, I need more from you . . . .”

The virtue of the “Dear Republicans” version of the letter is that it shifts the focus to where it belongs: On those who are enabling Trump, rather than on those who are resisting him.

Is the resistance perfect? No. Is the Democratic Party perfect? No. Are congressional Democrats perfect? No. But compared to their Republican counterparts, Democrats look like heroes of democracy, warts and all.

Democrats aren’t the problem. They are the solution. Be part of the solution. We can sort out the credits and debits after we reclaim democracy!

[Robert B. Hubbell]

#Liz Cheney #resist #Hands Off #Robert B. Hubbell #political #Dr. Pru Lee #pro-democracy #save our republic #No Kings

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wetdarkprincess · 14 days ago

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Burn the City for Me- Jay Park

✦ CONTENT: nsfw! smut, mafia au, dom!Jay, cuffs kink, power imbalance, intense makeout, bloody rescue mission, guns & violence, possessive behavior, deep emotional tension, unhinged love, clothes still on sex, chain kink, aftercare, blood-stained kisses, criminal lovers, dangerously in love

✦ WORDCOUNT: 2k (English is not my first language, so forgive any grammar mistakes or weird phrasing)

✦ NOTES: mdni. adult content. don’t like, don’t read. this is dark romance dipped in gasoline and kissed by fire. unhinged love story between two people who would literally kill for each other. soft hands and hard crime. you're not ready.

We’re not innocent. We’re not clean. But we’re real. And we’re together. And that’s enough to burn everything else.

The white lights of the interrogation room burned my eyes.The cuffs dug into my wrists, and my face stung from the blows.I was exhausted. My legs ached from running from the police.Everything had gone wrong.I just wanted a new dress.I was even going to pay cash.

Agent Olinsky walked in with that superiority complex of his, a file under his arm.He threw it onto the metal table with disgust and leaned in with both hands.

—Miss… welcome back.

I looked up and smiled as best I could, lips cracked. —Hello, Mr. Suit. What brings you here?

—Besides your never-ending record? I want you to give him up. You could get a reduced sentence.

—You think I’m going to turn in my fiancé?-I lifted my cuffed hands to show him the most expensive diamond on the market, still shining on my ring finger.—We’re a promise. We’re a pact.

He frowned in disgust.Ripped the ring off without hesitation.

—Hey! —I shouted, trying to stand, but he shoved me back into the chair. The metal dug into my spine.

—Stay put, you damn rat. No more talking. You’ll give him up, and you’ll both rot in separate prisons. You don’t deserve to be happ-

He never finished the sentence.A bullet ripped through his skull.His body hit the table, bleeding all over my Chanel outfit.

The alarms blared.The lights flickered.The door opened.My fiancé, Jay, stepped into the room like a god of war.

—Hello, gorgeous —he whispered.Dressed all in black, bulletproof vest hugging his torso, the gold chain I gave him gleaming like a promise.And that smile.That smile that could take down governments or make my legs shake.

—Baby… —I stood as best I could, thighs trembling, heart pounding.

He rushed to me, reading the pain in my body like scripture, and wrapped me in his arms.His mouth met mine, and time shattered.He kissed me like he had just saved me from the end of the world, like I was his home after chaos.When we pulled apart, our foreheads touched, breaths mingling.He reached for my hand and frowned.

—Where’s your ring, baby?

—That idiot took it —I glanced at the bloodied corpse on the table.

Jay walked over, silent.He spat on the body and kicked the man’s head.Snatched the blood-soaked ring and slipped it back on my finger with brutal tenderness.

—Let’s get out of here. I’ll leave the cuffs on you... might use them later.

A gasp escaped me. My panties were already soaked.

Jay swept me into his arms like a groom, and we ran through the shadowed corridors of the station beneath screaming alarms. Sirens exploded like cursed fireworks in the dead of night.

Red and blue flashed against the walls like someone had turned hell into a nightclub. Jay carried me like I weighed nothing, dodging bullets, officers, and shouts like this was all part of some deranged choreography. His grip was a vow: You’re not slipping away now. Not after this.

Rain poured as we burst into the courtyard. Hot, thick, mixing with gun smoke. Two black cars smashed through the front gate. A dozen of our men jumped out with rifles. It was a dance of chaos and gunpowder. Concrete shattered beneath our feet. The sky roared like it approved our madness.

—Cover her! —Jay yelled, laying me behind an overturned car, his whole body shielding mine, every muscle tight, every heartbeat screaming protection. Glass exploded. Blood painted the asphalt. An officer charged and Jay shot him without hesitation. His face didn’t flinch.

I watched him move —shoot, duck, reload, scream orders.

My king.

My damn hero.

A black car slid to our position like a loyal beast. Jay threw open the door, pushed me inside, and jumped in after. The tires screeched. We left behind a symphony of death and freedom. Bodies fell like raindrops. I panted, soaked in sweat and adrenaline.

My wrists burned from the cuffs. My thighs burned from the bruises. My chest burned from being alive. He didn’t speak for a while. Just drove.

Fury, desire, and devotion burning in his eyes.Until finally, he reached for my hand.

—Got you, baby. It’s over. He pulled me into his lap, and I buried my face in his neck.

His scent. His skin. His promise that everything would be okay.Outside, it was still raining, but I didn’t care. The world was behind us.

The drive to the safehouse was short and silent, heavy with the buzz of fading adrenaline and unspoken desire. The property was surrounded: armed guards, armored vehicles, men stationed at every corner. But to me, the only thing real was that he was still here. Alive. Mine.

He carried me inside like I was breakable, precious. We climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, where our trusted doctor was waiting.

Jay laid me down on the bed with hands that lingered. He looked at me one last time.

—I’ll be back soon, baby. Let him patch you up. Don’t take off the cuffs —he smirked, and I burned.

He left without a rush, but his presence stayed thick in the air. His scent. His fire. I let them tend to me. The doctor worked fast. They cleaned the wounds, helped me change. I couldn’t move much—not with my wrists still cuffed in front of me. But I didn’t care. He did this for a reason. He always did. Then I heard him return.

The doctor nodded and left. Jay closed the door slowly, deliberately. His eyes roamed my body like I was a map he’d memorized and still couldn’t get enough of. He was barefoot, shirtless, the gold chain gleaming over his chest like a vow.

—Look what they did to you —he murmured, stalking forward. I sat on the bed, wearing his shirt, wrists still chained, lips swollen from the earlier kiss.I tried to say something, but his eyes stole the breath from mine.He knelt before me, resting his forehead on my knees .—I thought I lost you, baby. Five fucking hours not knowing if someone was hurting you, yelling at you, touching you — His voice cracked as his hands brushed my ankles.—I swear to God, if I hadn’t made it in time...I cupped his face with my shackled hands and forced him to look up. His eyes burned.

—But you did —I whispered, smiling through the cracks—. And I always knew you would.

He rose, eyes locked on mine. Pushed me gently back on the bed, knee between my thighs, mouth crashing against mine like we were still running. He kissed me with rage, with devotion, with promise.

He pulled the shirt over my head and looked at me like stolen art.Untouchable by all, but his.

—Look what you do to me —he growled, voice low, vibrating in my chest—. I’ve never been this fucking hard. You looked so damn beautiful, blood on your face, fire in your eyes. So mine. So perfect. His mouth claimed my chest, slow and reverent. His hands, possessive. Starved.— Seeing you in those cuffs… so helpless, but your eyes still ruling the room. He dragged a finger along the chain.—You’re staying like this all night. Got it? I want to remember you like this. All mine. Can’t touch me.

—And if I want to touch you? —I whispered, breathless.

—You can’t. Not until I say. Tonight, I’m in charge —his fingers slid between my thighs, making me tremble—. I’m going to break you until you beg me to take the cuffs off.

And even then… I might not. His mouth lowered.nAnd the rest of the night was fire .Time blurred. His hands. His mouth. His voice. Each kiss was a mark. Each command, a sin. He stripped the rest of his clothes, ripped me open with reverence, stared at me like I was a treasure chest and he was starving.

—I keep thinking you can’t get more beautiful. And then this.His fingers moved inside me with perfect memory.I moaned, cuffed, powerful despite being bound —because he looked at me like I was invincible.—You’re so wet you’re gonna make me lose my mind —he muttered—. I don’t know if I deserve this. But I swear I’ll give you everything I have.

He thrust into me slow, deep, then harder. Each movement a brand.Each breath, a prayer. Each fuck, a promise. l begged, called his name, pleaded. The cuffs stayed on. And it only made me crave more.

We were sin.

We were fire.

No one else could love me like this. No one else could touch me like this.Only him. His rhythm broke, wild, and he kissed me with his teeth, with his tongue, with his soul. He tore me down. Built me back up.And when we came, we did it together—like fugitives outrunning the world with nothing left but love and ruin.

The silence after was intimate enough to hurt.He unlocked the cuffs, kissed the red marks.—Sorry, baby —he whispered—. I won’t do it again… unless you ask me to.

I laughed, still trembling. He held me like we were teenage lovers and not the country’s most wanted. I buried my face in his neck. He smelled like gunpowder and luxury. Like home.

—Are we safe?

—For now. Tomorrow we vanish. New names. New city. New life.

—But together

—Always together, baby.

And if the world tries to tear us apart again,I swear I’ll burn it all down.We stayed like that.Marked by love, sex, blood. The gold chain on his chest catching the light.My wrists still burned.And outside, the night fell over the city like a promise.One we were going to break.

Together.

#enhypen smut #enhypen jay #park jay #jay x reader #enhypen jake #jungwon smut #heeseung smut #enhypen scenarios #park jongseong #lee heeseung smut #enhypen moodboard #jay x you #jay x y/n #yang jungwon #enhypen #enhypen reactions

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petertingle-yipyip · 3 months ago

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DADDY ISSUES - KAZ BREKKER

Pairing: established Kaz x Reader // Word Count: 2,989

Summary (request): Hello… I hope you are doing well… I wonder if there could be any chance I can request Kaz Brekker x wife reader, where reader comes from really shitty background (her mom hanged herself, her father is abusive) and she never talked about it much and always helped Kaz build himself back before her, but now it kinda turns around… maybe make it a little angst, like they get in fight about it and the reader just breaks down thinking Kaz will left like everyone else did… hope it’s not to complicated… thank you <3 // couple slight tweaks (forgot it was a wife!request tbh). hope you enjoy! and the title was simply for the vibes, idk

Life in the Barrel was its own hellscape. You never denied or argued that point. Instead, you tried to find your own little bright spots.

You had friends, a crew that’d go to war for you. And lucky you, that crew turned out to be the most feared and respected in Ketterdam.

Not that you knew that when you joined. In the beginning, it was just a way to find a new life. You weren’t even looking for safer or better, just new. Your mother, Saints rest her soul, had been through the ringer. Your father, may he rot in Hell, was as vile as they came. He lost money on gambling, spent nights upon nights upon nights at the Pleasure Houses, drank himself stupid, all to come home and beat down you and your mother. The night your mother tried to fight back and protect you both, your father made a scene. He played innocent, ran into the streets calling for Stadwatch and that your mother was hysterical. The next night, your mother found herself on a short path to the end of a rope.

Your father called it a warning. You called it a threat.

That was when you ran. You packed whatever fit in your bag and ran. You ended up meeting another runaway, a criminally smart boy named Wylan. He didn’t speak much at first, but you two roomed together for a little while during your stint at the dye factory. He was called upon by the Crows first.

You lingered around the Club after that, wondering if they’d take you in too. One of them must’ve took pity on you because when you went back to your musty little lodging, the Wraith was waiting with an offer.

Your life seemed to turn around after that. You turned out to be quite the strategist. Within a few months, you had worked your way to being Kaz’s go-to for when he was mentally stuck. You saw things differently than he did and it made for good conversations and optimal plans for jobs. Whenever you two put your heads together, you were unstoppable.

Naturally, you two drew close and ended up together. You also learned the hard way that Kaz was his own brand of crazy. It took digging and prying and more patience than you thought you had, but he eventually told you everything. It was so much more than you expected and explained a lot of why Kaz was the way he was. But with some not-so-gentle coaxing, you managed to get him to agree to baby steps which grew to strides which grew to leaps and bounds.

With careful feints and evasions, you managed to keep the details of your childhood away from everyone. Even Kaz. When they asked about your parents, you simply said Mom was dead and Dad was long gone. Where were you from? Here, there, wherever the wind blows in from.

By some miracle, you could touch Kaz in practically any sense and he would hardly react. He could touch you willingly, and he did often. Loosely hooking his fingers through yours, a lazy arm around your waist, his chin atop your head when you leaned against him in your booth at the Club.

Inej said he smiled more after you arrived. Nina said she’d never heard an honest laugh until you. Even Jesper said you softened Kaz’s rough edges, not all but enough to notice.

Admittedly, it was nice to be needed. To be wanted. It was so blessedly refreshing.

Until one night, you were suddenly a little kid again, cowering in your mother’s skirts.

You recognized his voice before you saw him. His deep, angry voice rumbled through the Crow Club and you immediately tensed in the booth. You believed he was dead. You used to pray for it. It seemed the Saints didn’t offer you that mercy after all.

Miraculously, Kaz was too enthralled in his debate with Jesper to notice.

Your eyes frantically scanned the crowd, looking at every table for the culprit. When you had checked everywhere, you thought you had imagined it. Someone else with a similar timbre had to be there instead. You sucked in a deep breath, counting off numbers in your head as a distraction, until he practically fell onto the table.

You flinched hard and it instantly drew Kaz’s attention. You stayed frozen, as if your father wouldn’t notice you if you didn’t move. You saw Jesper draw a pistol on reflex and Wylan shot you a worried look.

Wylan was the only one who knew the extent of your childhood trauma, and that was only because he came back to your shared room to you sobbing on your mother’s birthday one night. You spilled your secrets and he hesitantly shared his.

“I can’t be here.” You squeaked, trying to scoot out the booth. Your chest was growing uncomfortably tight and your blood was rushing in your ears.

“I’ll walk with you.” Wylan stood.

“No.” Kaz said firmly. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was giving the back of your head that calculating, suspicious look. “I’ll go. Jesper, get rid of him.”

“Yes, Boss.” Jesper answered.

You tried to make yourself scarce as you heard Jesper telling your father to move. A small clatter later and a large hand, too large to be Kaz’s, locked around your upper arm and yanked you back. You stumbled over your own feet and were pushed against the table’s edge. You closed your eyes tightly, your head dropping immediately. All you wanted was to be as small as possible.

“All this time…” Your father sneered. You could smell the liquor on his breath. “You’ve been here?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You had no voice. All you could think about were the tears burning behind your closed lids. You simply shook your head, but it wasn’t good enough.

“You’re a coward then, hmm? What happened to all the giggles and flirts these men got, huh? Just like your tramp of a mother.”

Your father shook you and you let out a panicked whimper. You tried to pry his fingers loose but it was useless.

“I suggest you let her go.” Jesper said firmly and you heard the hammer of his pistol. “Before this gets ugly.”

“This doesn’t concern you.” Your father spat. “It’s between me and my daughter.”

“Daughter?”

“What? Can’t see the resemblance?” Your father’s hand tightly gripped your cheeks but you jerked your face away.

“You can’t grab on her like that!” Wylan argued and slammed his fist against the table.

Bless his heart, you thought. Saints, don’t let my father hurt them.

“My friends are right.” Kaz spoke calmly. “Seeing as this is my Club and that is my Crow you’re harassing, I’d very much say this concerns me. If you don’t want to lose that hand, remove it. Now.”

You forced your eyes open but couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on his cane. His shoes. You itched to reach out for him, to fold yourself into the safety of his embrace. An embrace that only you had the privilege of experiencing. But your father’s bulky frame was firmly in the way.

Had he gotten fatter? You had half a mind to say so and laugh, but you knew that was a quick way to a broken nose. You’d never forget the crack of your mother’s when she made an off-hand comment about his waistline one night.

“Mind your own, boy.” Your father spat at Kaz’s feet.

You gasped slightly and Kaz simply chuckled. That delightfully ominous sound was your saving grace. Most men would have apologized, begged forgiveness and swore some sort of penance, but not your father. No, he was stupid and stubborn. He was going to get what was coming to him, albeit less than he deserved in your opinion.

“Oh no..” Wylan said quietly.

You struggled in his grip again. You hoped it was enough of a distraction, but you were wrong. A familiar strike hit your cheek and the force threw you to the side. A pair of arms caught you but you couldn’t focus on anything beside the pain in your cheek.

That trademark back-handed slap, seemingly reserved for you and your mother. The slap that had split your cheek wide open when he had used his ring hand before. The slap that made you feel eight years old again. You had the thought to hide under the table but shook it quickly.

You weren’t a child anymore. Your mother couldn’t help you. You focused back to the current moment, the pulsing sting in your face and the tears in your eyes. You opened your mouth, unsure what you intended to say, but no sound came out. Instead, Kaz swung his cane with enough force to make your father sway on his feet - you thought you saw a tooth go flying - and Jesper was eagerly climbing over the table to join in.

You had half a mind to laugh as they landed strategic blows against your father.

‘Serves you right!’ you wanted to yell but your voice was still missing.

But Wylan was already leading you out of the Crow Club. You didn’t protest the escape. Wylan didn’t say anything until getting to your room at the Slat. You sat on your bed after kicking off your shoes and pulled your knees to your chest.

For what felt like the first time that night, you took a real breath. The adrenaline had faded, leaving your body tired and heavy.

“Do you want to talk?” Wylan gently tried, sitting at the edge of the bed.

You simply shook your head.

“Okay… Do you want something cold for that?” He gestured to his own cheek.

Gingerly, you prodded the tender area. You winced but felt no cut or blood. You shook your head again.

“I’d like to go to bed, I think.” You spoke. Your voice was so small, so far away. That couldn’t be what you sounded like… Was it?

“Of course.” Wylan nodded. He stood and patted your head, making you laugh weakly.

It was the same gesture he did the first time he saw you crying when he didn’t know how to help. Since that first night, it was just what you two did.

“Thank you for sticking up for me.” You offered a grateful smile. “You got the other guys going, too.”

“We’re always gonna be there for you, Y/N/N. And hey, if it helps any, I’m sure Kaz beat the hell out of him.” Wylan offered.

“I’m not convinced anything’ll help anymore, Wy.” You shrugged before laying down.

Not until he’s dead, but you didn’t dare say that part out loud.

You waved goodbye to Wylan before you took your pillow and put it over your face. You held it there and screamed as loud as you could. You screamed until you were out of air, then sucked in a deep breath just to do it all over again. Once the screams were gone, you cried. They were ugly, likely snot-filled and red faced cries, but who the hell cared?

You cried until your throat was raw, your breaths were shaky, and your eyes were dry. You had nothing left in you except childhood pain, so you did the only thing you could. You let sleep take you.

It wasn’t long until the door creaked open and you shot up. You blinked the sleep out of your eyes quickly, reaching in a panic for the small blade on your nightstand.

“It’s alright, Dear.” Kaz spoke calmly. “It’s just me.”

“Oh…” You sighed in relief, pushing your hands through your hair. “Just a bit jumpy, I guess.” You tried to laugh it off.

“That man in the Club...”

“Kaz, I don’t want to-“

“You never mentioned your parents.” He kept on going.

You groaned to yourself, understanding that Kaz was going to be stubborn about the topic. With a sigh, you ran a sleeve across your face. You folded your legs and Kaz sat in the now open space of your bed. He kept his eyes on his cane, tapping it as he spoke.

“Those things he said about your mother, what he did to you…”

“Yes, my father is an ass.” You conceded. “Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want me to say, Kaz? My family was broken. Hardly a family at all, nothing more to it.”

“Seems like there’s much more to it.” He countered.

“Oh, for Saint’s sake.” You ran a hand down your face. “What do you want me to say?”

“You completely shut down, Y/N.” He said firmly. There was concern in his voice, but it seemed smothered by the anger still looming. You blamed your father for that, too. Was there anything that man couldn’t ruin? “He put hands on you and you did nothing.”

“I’m well aware.” You bit out. You placed your hand over where your father’s had been and it was as if the skin was burned by his touch. You shivered slightly but said nothing else.

“I’ve never seen that happen to you.”

“Let it go, Kaz. I’m begging you.”

“Convenient, isn’t it?” He scoffed slightly. “When you wanted to know of all my pain and torment, I had to lay it all bare for you to scrutinize and study. Yet when it comes to facing your past, you don’t have words?”

“I don’t have words.” You rolled your eyes. “If you believe that’s the case, then just leave me be.”

“I’m not leaving you.” He sounded near offended that you’d suggest such a thing. “Not until you talk to me.”

“What difference will it make?” You nearly screamed. “You’ve seen the truth. You know that I’m a fraud and I’m weak and pathetic. Feel free, Kaz, to cut your losses and go. I don’t expect you to stay after that fiasco.”

“You think so little of me?” He didn’t bother hiding how your words hurt him.

“I think the world of you.” You corrected quickly. “But I also know you. That whole thing made a mockery of who everyone knows me to be, and that reflects on you and your choice. My father has the infernal talent of breaking me down as if I’m nothing. He had always been able to break me and he enjoyed it. I’m sure he looked very high and mighty doing it again, didn’t he?”

Kaz didn’t answer.

“So now you know. Now you know that I’m not at all what I pretend to be around here, and I won’t blame you if you walk right out that door and never acknowledge me again.”

“Is that what you want, my dear?” He asked quietly.

His gloves were abandoned on your nightstand, you hadn’t even seen him take them off, and he gently took hold of your hand. With minimal force, he removed your hand from your arm and slipped his fingers between yours.

“Do you want me to go?” He asked. His voice was quiet, so uncertain. You had never heard such a tone from him.

“No…” You confessed. “But I know-“

“Then tell me.” His eyes met yours and in the dim moonlight from your window, you could’ve sworn you saw…

Tears?

Well that couldn't be right. You didn’t even remember him crying when he told you the story of his brother. Why would he be crying now?

You reached your other hand for his cheek, smiling to yourself as he leaned into your touch.

“This isn’t your burden to carry, my love.” You answered softly. He sighed slightly but had no argument yet. “You wear so many hats, balance so many titles and jobs. You bear the weight of so much pain as it is… I can’t ask you to bear mine.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” He corrected, gently taking your hand off his cheek. “Y/N, you are the only thing in this world worth having. Every breath I take is because of you. Every day I wake it is because you are beside me. To know that this has haunted you, to know that man exists in the same city- same country- same universe that you is a crime that I will personally make him answer for. He threw away the privilege of your love and your protection the first time he dared to put his hands on you.”

“Am I protecting him?”

The question wasn’t meant to come out. The look he gave you was so close to pity you felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“You offered to carry my pain as if it were yours so long ago.” He spoke gently, so gentle that it made your heart ache. “You carry everyone’s pains and gripes without a word… Let me do the same for you.”

“He’s the reason I lost everything…” You nearly whispered. “He’s the reason I had nothing. What if he’s the reason I lose you?”

“It’s going to take more than that to scare me off, Darling.” He gave you a small smile. “I swear to you, Y/N, he will never hurt you again.”

You sniffled and threw your arms around him. He was quick to return your embrace.

“I love you.” You mumbled against his shoulder.

You managed a better sleep with Kaz beside you. The next day, you two stayed cooped up in your room and you answered every question you could manage.

Admitting to the extent of your father’s abuse was more difficult than you expected. Several times during your conversation, you found yourself shutting down and trying to change the topic to whatever you saw out your window.

Yet Kaz was ever so patient.

You knew then, beyond any sort of doubt, that you and Kaz would be together for a very long time.

191 notes · View notes

alive-gh0st · 1 month ago

Text

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you survive in a silence that doesn’t feel neutral anymore. he’s gone. or avoiding you. maybe both. you try to stay unbothered but absence has a shape and it looks a lot like him. and when he finally shows up, he doesn’t apologize. you argue. quietly. like you always do. and for a moment, he almost stays. almost reaches. almost tells the truth. but the door still closes. and this time, you’re the one who whispers after him.

❤︎ contains: sfw. emotionally repressed war criminal x emotionally repressed divine being. omni!invincible (barely). cupid!reader (tired). slow burn agony. mutual silence as mutual yearning. isolation. exile. ANGST. dinner avoidance. return of the stupid orb. jokes to cope. watching the sky like an idiot. protective body language. quiet returns. the ribbon. proximity tension. hand brushing. voice cracking. flash of vulnerability. him not staying. not yet.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. abandonment themes. unresolved trauma. exile (ongoing). past violence (vague). mutual denial. hurt/comfort (but mostly hurt). soft things framed as dangerous. unresolved grief. being wanted by someone who doesn’t think they’re allowed to want. someone who leaves before they’re left. parent issues. childhood disappointment. unhealthy expectations. crushing silence. villain origin foreshadowing.

❤︎ wc: 3959

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: did it seriously take me this long to write anything—just for it to turn out to be heart-crushing angst? hell yeah. also, i’m actually sick. rotting in bed. you’d think that means i had more time to write—wrong. turns out illness doesn’t make you productive, just dramatic. anyway, if i suffer—you suffer. that’s the deal. enjoy the emotional damage 💔

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You notice it in the quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the kind people write songs about or daydream into.

No—this kind is sharp around the edges.

Suspicious.

It hums under your skin like a sound you’re no longer hearing.

There’s no faint gust of wind against your bedroom window tonight—brushing past your cheek like it belonged to someone. No shift in the air. No flicker of motion behind your shoulder.

No faint static buzz to warn you that someone with a God complex and boundary issues has landed nearby again.

You wait anyway. Still. Like muscle memory.

But nothing comes.

Not the red-and-white blur at your window. Not the too-loud sighs echoing from the hallway… neither the hovering silence above your bed that you used to pretend not to hear.

So you breathe.

Roll your eyes at yourself. And mutter something stupid like, “Guess even war machines need days off.”

You tell yourself it’s normal.

That he’s probably just busy.

Invincible things.

World-ending, time-sensitive, bigger-than-you things.

Maybe the government kidnapped him for a diplomatic mission. Maybe he got distracted by a meteor or—

Or maybe—just maybe—he’s doing this on purpose.

The thought comes uninvited.

You don’t like it, but it lands hard anyway. You try to laugh it off. Try to play it cool.

You’re Cupid, after all.

Happy, fearless, emotionally unbothered. That’s the brand, right?

So you crack a joke under your breath as you slam a cupboard shut.

Something biting and dumb, like, “Sorry if emotional vulnerability was too radioactive for you.”

Besides, it’s not like you miss the eye-rolling. The grunting. The barely-there don’t touch that whenever you got too curious around his weird anti-people gadgets.

And then pretend you’re fine again.

You last a full twenty minutes before you’re watching the sky like an idiot.

Head tilted just enough to catch movement if it comes. You lose track of how long you sit like that—waiting for a shadow to ripple through the sky.

It’s pathetic.

You hate it.

Hate how often you’ve been pacing the apartment, checking the time even though you know he doesn’t live by clocks.

How you keep catching yourself listening for wind—like you’d somehow hear him land if he didn’t want you to.

The worst part?

You miss him.

Not just the awkward hovering, or the overbearing “do not touch that” energy, or even the weird way he always acts like you’re two seconds from stealing military secrets.

You miss his presence.

The unshakable, unyielding weight of it.

Like gravity had favorites and his name was first in line.

And now—it’s just empty.

The food still appears. The lights still auto-dim when you yawn too loudly.

But the air feels different. Hollow. There’s no sound. No tension.

No one breathing down your neck like you’re one bad day away from becoming an interdimensional threat.

No him.

You almost call out his name once.

Almost.

You fall asleep curled on your side, curled into the blankets, with the soft, fluffy fabric up to your chin, barely blinking at the ceiling.

The hallway beyond the room glows soft with distant light—the one that still smells like ozone and blood and—him.

The same hallway Invincible always appears from.

Or used to.

Your throat tightens. Just a little. Just enough.

It slips out before you can stop it. So quiet you almost don’t hear it.

“…Where the hell are you?”

And this time, even the silence feels like it’s avoiding you.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Days stretch like bad dreams.

You work, sort of.

Fiddle with the medkit on the counter. Try not to break anything else in Invincible’s Very Important Anti-Everything Home.

You almost knock over some kind of vibrating green orb again.

You don’t even try to guess what it does this time.

You just offer it a stiff little bow and whisper, “Apologies, Supreme Orb of Probably Nuclear Consequences.”

Mature. Dignified.

Cupid-coded.

The food still shows up.

You don’t ask how. You stopped trying to figure it out after the third day when a perfectly toasted croissant and imported guava juice appeared on the kitchen table with no sound, no fanfare—just mocking normalcy.

You’re pretty sure it’s him.

His version of still taking care of you.

As if feeding someone counts when you’re not there to look them in the eye.

You try to leave the apartment once.

Just once.

You reach the front door.

Twist the handle. Push.

Nothing.

You’re locked in again.

Great.

You stand there for a second, staring at the door like it personally betrayed you. Debate flipping it off. Maybe slamming your fist against it.

Maybe calling him a tyrannical tin can with trust issues.

But you don’t.

Cupids don’t flip.

They flourish.

(Still. You do mutter something spicy under your breath in ancient celestial. That counts.)

You try to change the dressing on your back later that day—wings still torn, bones still not bones anymore—but it stings in a way it didn’t used to.

It’s not the pain.

It’s the absence.

His hands always knew how to avoid the worst spots.

Always a little too gentle for someone who calls you a security risk.

You stop halfway through and leave the bandages loose.

Everything feels… off.

Too quiet. Too still.

Like you’re living in a version of the world that got paused while you weren’t looking.

Even the light feels wrong. Too golden. Too soft.

You’ve been counting the ceiling tiles just to stay grounded. 142 of them. One of them’s cracked in the corner. You stared at it for six minutes today.

You sit by the window again that night.

Legs tucked up, forehead resting against the glass. You’re on your 18th sky-watch of the week.

Something moves overhead.

Your heart skips, stutters.

But it’s not him.

Just a bird. Or a plane. Or—whatever.

Not him.

You let out a breath that feels like it was holding something inside it.

And then you laugh. Bitter. Too sharp. Too tired.

“What, did I short-circuit him that bad?”

The words echo around the room. Bounce off the high ceilings. Come back quieter.

You shake your head. Stretch. Stand.

Tomorrow, maybe you’ll try to escape again.

Or maybe you’ll just learn how to break the stupid green orb and hope for the best.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You don’t hear him land.

No sonic boom. No shift in air pressure. No warning.

You just turn—and Invincible’s there.

Standing in the middle of the living room like the past—almost 2 weeks—hadn’t unspooled you at the seams.

Same suit. Red and white, spotless. Same red cape and those black goggles hiding too much.

Same sharp, unreadable posture that always walks the line between calm and coiled.

Your heart stutters.

But your face doesn’t move.

He doesn’t say anything for a second.

Just watches you from across the room—like you’re a mission he forgot he accepted.

Then—

“Have you eaten?”

You blink.

Seriously?

You stare at him. Just… stare.

And he just stands there like a statue with an attitude problem.

Like this is normal.

Like this is how people re-enter each other’s lives after vanishing into the sky for a week with no explanation and locking them in a floating apartment.

“Have I—?” Your voice cuts off. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“No, actually. I’ve been too busy playing twenty questions with your security system and writing apology poems to radioactive looking things.”

A beat.

He tilts his head slightly. “So… no.”

Your eye twitches.

He walks past you toward the kitchen, like nothing’s happened. Like this is any other day.

You don’t follow. You don’t move.

You just stand there.

Stuck in place.

Like your body is waiting for him to say something that sounds like the truth.

He doesn’t.

You hear the fridge open. A drawer slide. The soft clink of utensils.

Normal sounds.

Fake sounds.

You lean against the doorframe and let out a breath through your nose. “Are we gonna talk about it,” you ask, voice flat, “or just skip to pretending again?”

Invincible doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t answer, either.

Just keeps his back to you. Steady. Untouchable.

And it’s almost impressive—how someone that powerful can shrink a room with silence alone.

You cross your arms.

Wait.

The air feels too still again.

You hate it.

But you don’t leave.

Not yet.

Because maybe, just maybe, if he’s here—then this means something.

Even if he won’t say it.

Yet.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

He shouldn’t be here.

Mark knows that the second he steps into the room and hears the way your breath stutters—soft, surprised, hurt.

He doesn’t need super-hearing for that.

You’re sitting on the couch, a fuzzy blanket tangled around your legs, eyes already narrowed like you knew he’d eventually show up and were preparing to hate him for it.

You don’t say anything.

And he doesn’t either.

Because if he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what will come out.

An apology? A reason? A lie?

No.

So he asks if you’ve eaten.

It’s stupid. He knows it.

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to claw them back. Wants to say something real instead.

Something that sounds like the weeks he spent avoiding your voice.

Your eyes.

Your touch.

But you just blink at him.

Then roll your eyes and say something about radioactive objects and apology poems.

And he almost smiles.

Almost.

Instead, Mark turns away.

Retreats into routine.

Opens the fridge. Pours juice. Makes sure the knife hits the counter at the exact right angle—controlled.

Detached.

The longer you stay quiet behind him, the harder it gets to breathe.

And he doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to see the way you’re watching him now.

Because you always look like you see too much.

The second night back, Mark catches himself hovering near your door.

Listening.

Hoping you’ll say something first—anything that would make it easier.

But you don’t.

Not until day two. Not until he’s walking past the living room and you stop him with four words that slam straight through his chest.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

He freezes.

Doesn’t face you. Doesn’t blink.

You keep going. Calm. Cold.

“You disappear. Then act like it never happened. Like I imagined the part where you locked me in a weaponized apartment and didn’t show up for almost two weeks.”

He exhales slowly. Still doesn’t turn around. His fingers curl slightly at his sides.

You wait.

Then—

“Say something, Invincible.”

His alias name sounds strange coming from you now. Like something old and soft being scraped clean.

Mark turns—finally.

And the look in your eyes almost makes him wish he hadn’t.

You’re not mad.

You’re disappointed.

That’s worse.

His voice is too quiet when he speaks. Too raw.

“You touched me like I was human.”

The air shifts.

He watches your expression crack—just for a second.

“Why?” he asks. “I’m not. You don’t know me.”

That’s the part that’s supposed to hurt.

That’s the push. The thing that gets you to stop trying.

But you don’t flinch.

You step closer instead. Just enough to make the space feel too real.

Too fragile.

“Then show me,” you say. “Or don’t. But stop blaming me for seeing more than you want me to.”

It’s too much.

Mark scoffs. Shakes his head.

Tries again, sharper this time.

“You think this is a storybook? I’m not some tragic hero. I’ve torn entire cities off the map. I’ve made this planet kneel.”

You don’t move.

Just blink.

“Cool,” you say. “So did half of my love targets back when I was a Cupid. Try again.”

He almost laughs.

It sounds like a broken thing in his throat.

And then, finally—his voice cracks.

Just for a second. Just enough.

And you catch it.

Of course you do.

You don’t say anything. Don’t press.

But your eyes stay on him. Steady. Soft.

Like you’re waiting for him to stop lying to himself.

Mark looks away.

And for the first time in years—he doesn’t feel invincible at all.

The silence stretches.

This time, it doesn’t feel empty.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The night stretches long after the silence settles. The dinner has been served. But—

Mark doesn’t leave.

He thought he would. Thought he should.

But his feet never move.

You don’t say anything else. You just go still—arms crossed, back straight, watching him like the quiet might shake something loose.

He should go.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Mark lingers.

At the edge of the room. At the edge of something else he won’t name.

The floor feels too loud under his boots.

And when he finally steps closer—it’s slow.

Careful.

Measured like a threat.

Not close enough to reach you. Not far enough to pretend he doesn’t want to.

Just enough to feel the heat of your presence again—without letting it swallow him whole.

His gaze doesn’t meet yours. It hovers somewhere near your shoulder.

Safer that way.

Less lethal.

You’re still watching him. Quiet. Waiting. Not demanding answers.

Just existing in that unbearable way you do—like you see everything and won’t say a word until he says it first.

He stops when the space between you is thin enough to feel. Not touch. Just feel.

You shift.

Your fingers move. The air does too.

And then—your hand brushes his.

It’s accidental. It has to be.

But it’s real.

Skin to skin. A second. Maybe less.

Mark tenses.

Instinct coils fast in his spine, in his jaw, in the base of his throat.

His body reacts like you hit a nerve.

He jerks—then stops.

Doesn’t move away.

You notice.

Of course you do.

But you don’t look smug. Don’t say anything clever. You just breathe out steady and say—

“You think I don’t see it. But I do.”

His jaw clenches.

His eyes flick to yours. That’s a mistake.

Because you’re looking at him like he’s not made of blood and violence. Like he’s something worth staying for. Even now.

Even still.

“You’re not what you think you are.”

The words settle between you like a secret.

And it’s not a declaration. Not a plea. It’s just truth—quiet and solid.

And that makes it worse.

Mark doesn’t answer.

Just looks at your hand like it’s a flame and he’s not sure if he deserves to burn or not.

His own hand lifts.

A little.

Halfway to yours.

Then—stops. Folds.

Drops.

And the distance stays.

But something else lingers there too.

Something unsaid.

Something unfinished.

Something he doesn’t push fully away this time.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You don’t chase him.

Not when Invincible steps back.

Not when his hand drops like it never meant to reach for yours in the first place.

You don’t say a word.

You just breathe through it—through the ache in your chest and the way your fingertips still hum from almost touching him.

Because you felt it.

Even if he didn’t say it—you felt it.

That split second of want. Of weakness. Of maybe.

The silence after feels louder than anything he could’ve said.

It presses against your ribs, makes your pulse ring in your ears.

You’re alone again, technically.

But not really.

Because his silence is still here. Sitting beside you like a ghost with perfect posture.

You don’t look back as you leave the room.

Your feet carry you into the hall, down toward the shadows and the softer light and the quiet that doesn’t try to explain itself.

Each step feels heavier than the last. Not because he’s gone.

But because he almost stayed.

Your hand curls tight at your side.

You shouldn’t feel like this. You know better than this.

You’re a Cupid.

But still—your heart pounds.

Loud and uneven. Like it wants to remember the almost instead of the nothing.

You pause in the doorway to your couch.

The table beside it is different.

You notice it immediately.

Something small. Familiar.

A ribbon.

Not just any ribbon. Yours.

One of the ones Invincible stole.

Or borrowed. Or kept. You never figured it out.

You stare at it.

It’s been placed there deliberately—neat, centered, soft in the low light.

Like an apology that can’t speak. Like a note without ink.

Your throat catches.

You reach out, pick it up gently.

It’s light.

Lighter than the silence, at least.

But it folds over your fingers like it knows how tired you are.

You hold it like it might bleed.

And then, too quietly, like a secret just for the walls to hear, you whisper into the night.

“…Why do you always leave me with the soft parts?”

No one answers.

Not that you expected one.

You clutch the ribbon tighter. Like it means something. Like he meant to leave it. Like that matters.

And then—you turn.

Climb onto the sofa. Curl in on yourself without thinking.

The blankets wrap around you easy, familiar.

Like they know how this part goes.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just go still again.

Like maybe if you’re still enough, he’ll come back and finish the gesture.

But Invincible doesn’t.

So you pretend it doesn’t matter.

Again.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark almost makes it out without waking you.

Almost.

The apartment is quiet. Dim.

Lit only by the lazy gold haze spilling through the windows. The kind of morning that pretends it’s softer than it is.

You’re still curled on the couch where you fell asleep.

Blankets half-kicked off. Cheek pressed against your arm. Breathing steady, unaware.

He stares too long.

Lets himself pretend, for a moment, that you’ll stay asleep—that you’ll never know he was standing there.

That maybe if he leaves without the goodbye… it won’t count.

Won’t hurt.

His fingers hover over the door panel.

Ready. Close.

Mark doesn’t mean to linger.

He meant to be gone before you woke up. Quiet. Clean. A clean cut never bleeds as much.

But you shift before he can actually open the door.

It’s soft—barely a sound. Just the faint rustle of blankets against fabric. But it slices through him anyway.

Your eyes flutter open. Groggy. Unarmored.

That makes it worse.

You sit up slowly, couch creaking beneath you. Hair sticking up in the back. One of your sleeves has slipped down your shoulder.

It shouldn’t make his breath catch.

But it does.

He turns before you can speak—like maybe if he just leaves now, you’ll forget he was ever here at all.

But your voice stops him.

Low. Still half-asleep. But steady.

“…You were really gonna leave without saying anything?”

Mark doesn’t answer at first.

The door in front of him hums softly.

Unlocked. Open. Waiting.

His black goggles gaze at it like it might do the leaving for him.

“I thought it’d be easier,” he says eventually.

His voice is flat—hollow. “If you didn’t see.”

You exhale. Slow. Careful.

“Easier for who?”

Silence.

It stretches again, thin and tight, wrapping around the both of you.

He closes his eyes.

“You always look at me like you’re waiting,” he mutters. “Like I’m gonna be something I’m not.”

Your feet hit the floor.

“You mean something you don’t think you are.”

That makes him turn.

Slowly.

You’re standing now, wrapped in the same blanket you fell asleep under. You don’t look angry.

You just look tired.

And soft.

And a little hurt.

Mark hates how much he wants to stay.

His fists clench by his sides. Then release.

“I’m not what you see,” he says. “And I don’t want to watch your face change when you realize that.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t have to.

Because Mark knows the truth.

You already see him.

Somehow—

You’ve always seen him.

You just won’t say the thing he’s not ready to hear.

So instead—you smile.

It’s faint. Barely there. Almost cruel in how kind it is.

But it doesn’t break.

It doesn’t beg.

Just waits.

Mark exhales once. Sharp.

Then—

He turns back to the door.

Hand reaches for the control panel.

And just before the metal peels open, he says it. Not loud. Not soft either.

“Don’t wait up.”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You let the door open.

Let the wind rush in, colder than before.

And just before he disappears into it, your voice finds him—light as thread, soft as knives.

“…I will.”

But he’s already gone.

And the door shuts behind him like it always does.

Too loud. Too final.

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˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌A long time ago, before he knew what leaving felt like.

The living room is too quiet.

Too clean.

Not a single cushion is out of place.

The floor gleams. The air smells like whatever the Graysons use to wipe down glass—chemical and lemony, with an undertone of sterilized order.

But Mark’s standing in the middle of it like it’s a battlefield.

Barefoot on the rug. Chest puffed.

A red bedsheet draped around his shoulders—safety pinned in the front like a real cape.

He tugs it tight with both fists. Stands taller.

He even spiked up his hair a little with water so it would fall the same way his dad’s always does after a mission. Sharp. Heroic.

Omni-man.

Mark grins at his reflection in the mirror near the hallway.

It’s a little crooked because of the missing tooth—leaving a gap. It’s also a little too small, but it does the job.

He flexes once. Poses.

Then rushes back to the couch and grabs the sheet of printer paper he left there—crayon scribbles in red and white and blue.

Their family.

Mom. Dad. Him.

Except—this time, he drew himself with the cape.

Not his dad.

Just him.

He hears the door.

The front lock shifts with that signature mechanical click—the one Omni-man’s key always overrides.

Mark freezes, heartbeat picking up.

The good kind. The kind that means he’s home.

A second later, Nolan steps in.

And he’s not alone.

Blood streaks his arms. His cape is torn, ripped at the edges. His face is shadowed—tired in a way Mark doesn’t quite understand yet.

But he’s here.

Mark lights up. Practically launches across the room with the drawing in hand and cape trailing behind him.

“Dad! Dad—look!”

Nolan doesn’t say anything.

Just closes the door behind him. Slowly. Methodically. Drops his keys on the table without looking up.

Mark rushes forward anyway, breathless. Holding the paper up like it’s gold.

“I made this—I made us! But like—if I was a hero too. Like you.”

The little boy spins once, proud.

“I’ve been practicing my landing pose. You know. For when I can fly.”

Finally—finally—Nolan looks.

His eyes scan the cape. The safety pin.

Then the drawing.

He doesn’t blink.

And something changes.

Something behind his tired eyes shift—something Mark won’t understand until he’s older.

“…Where did you get that cape,” Nolan says, voice low.

Mark startles.

“It’s just a sheet,” he says quickly, adjusting it. “Not a real one. I just thought—”

“You don’t get to wear that.”

The words hit too hard.

Too sharp.

Not loud. But not soft.

Mark’s mouth stays open. Drawing still in his hand.

Nolan steps closer.

“Not yet. Not until you’ve earned it.”

Mark’s arms drop.

He doesn’t ask what earning it means.

He just looks down.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Right. Sorry.”

Nolan doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look angry—not really.

Just… detached.

He walks past Mark without another word.

His boots thud once against the hardwood. Then he disappears down the hallway.

Mark’s left standing there.

Cape slipping from his shoulders. Drawing creased in his fingers.

He looks down at both.

Then lets the paper fall.

The cape slides off. Pools on the floor.

He stares at it for a long time.

Doesn’t cry.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes.

Then—quietly, like it’s a vow—he bends down, picks the cape up, folds it in half.

Presses it to his chest.

And whispers—

“Then I’ll earn it.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @pumpkin-toffee @aloflapse @helloimamistake @brokeaesthetic @mileskisser @lonely-entity @coquette1core @w-starshine @demonsvessel @feminii @marinefreaakk @moleannan @amidrinksti @irlandajacquelinne-blog @beep-boop-baby @flowerwithnomind

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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raikirikiri · 2 months ago

Text

obito who somehow survives actually and makes it back to the right dimension. he immediately finds kakashi and kakashi goes bugged eyed and silent because no way his teammate died and came back to life a second time. but he's really real and this time he's not going to commit insane war crimes for the sake of infinite delusion. kakashi who's about to become hokage and knows obito needs to face justice but he's a little warped now AND he's hokage so he hides obito until he can freely pardon people.

people start to get suspicious because the next in line for the hat is suddenly acting really shifty.... he's usually pretty quiet but now his neighbors are making noise complaints every other day. they hear muffled yelling, a lot of crashes and bangs, and strangely, their walls start shaking almost every night...

word spreads fast and soon the rumors start. oh he just got a new puppy to train, that's all...

he's remodeling and the remodeling company is giving him a hard time....

he's practicing new jutsu...

those are the innocent theories but of course, no one loves drama and horror quite like a shinobi and soon enough, genma and the rest of the surviving jounin of that era are taking bets.

kakashi is actually a secret serial killer and is torturing his victims openly and since he's about to be hokage, he's about to make murder legal

he's taking part in weird masochistic rituals to safeguard konoha

he's a follower of jashin now, hidan has been talking to him in his dreams

he's a witch

all of these start spreading around until the konoha 11 get their hands on it and they, in all their infinite nonsense and skill, actually try to figure out what the hell kakashi-sensei is doing at night and why he's being so weird and offputting—more so than usual, that is.

sakura and naruto make a silent pact. they know kakashi better than anyone, if anyone can figure it out, they can. and boy do they. they catch a glimpse of obito one night and both of them, jaws dropped and fuming, march right up to kakashi apartment door and start BANGING because what do you mean KAKASHI'S war criminal boyfriend gets to walk free and THEIRS doesn't... quite frankly, it's disgusting and they will get retribution.

kakashi answers and of course tries to brush them off but they are having none of it. not while sasuke is rotting away in a cell, docile as a lamb. sakura bodily moves kakashi out of the way so they can search his apartment. "you're not going to find anything," kakashi insists. he sounds urgent and frantic. because he's hiding something.

"oh we know he's not here," sakura acknowledges, tapping the corner of her eye with a vicious sneer. "but you can't hide traces of him."

they search and search but they only find circumstantial evidence. until naruto catches a hand, it's groping around the kitchen table for something. kakashi sees it coming. he sees obito's glasses on the counter and he wishes he could enter kamui and hit him over the head. instead, he can only watch as naruto silently gets closer until he snags the hand and yanks, demanding the bastard leave his little hidey hole.

obito comes tumbling out, crashing to the ground in a pathetic heap. kakashi lets his head drop and soon, the cacophony of complaints and demands start up from the peanut gallery that his students make up. when they finally die down and wait for an explanation, all kakashi can do is promise them he will immediately pardon sasuke.

sakura and naruto pause and watch obito who's looking at the floor with a grimace, a hand loosely holding onto kakashi's jounin shirt. with twin groans, they collapse to the floor and relent. fine, they'll keep kakashi's secret but he has to pardon sasuke IMMEDIATELY even if it means he loses the hokage title.

"done."

kakashi has no qualms. he's almost hoping it gets him to lose the hat.

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feveredvisions · 3 months ago

Text

Doubt

(Tommy Riordan Conlon x Reader)

Here's my Masterlist if you want some more filth or some fluff. I'm open for requests too. Just drop by an ask xxx

Summary: No one can hate a job faster than you can. Just three weeks in, everything wrong was unveiled. A toxic scheming cheapo boss, overworked and underpaid managers and other employees, being a newbie who trains the tenured managers on a new software you googled the manual for, disorganised system that makes you strangle yourself every shift. Your boyfriend, Tommy Conlon, catches you in the middle of strangling yourself. You spiral and he lets you until you drop another break up bomb to which he takes his time to unwind you and remind you who you are and what you're capable of. And that breaking up is never an option to solve a problem that can easily be chucked down to hell. Author's Note: I dedicate this imagine to anyone who hates working and only does it for the paycheque and to settle their debts and build their savings. Fuck this job and fuck y'all, *I mutter my mantra as I log in on the dot.* It's been a rough ass week y'all. Needed me some Tommy for comfort. I'm dropping an emo Harry Da Souza x Jan Da Souza blurb next xxx Also tysm @saradika-graphics for the cutesy dividerss Pls forgive any grammatical errors. Your author is deprived of sleep and freedom from the corporate shackles and intense hormonal imbalances. But fuck it;s finally the end of the week. My suffering ends. It makes me happy that I get to share my writing with y'all. I hope you enjoy this one. Would love to hear your thoughts and everything in between.

Three weeks into her new job (actually three days in, she's already had a bad feeling,) and she already feels like she’s swallowed something rotten. The shine of working at her new job had rusted, souring her stomach.

At first, it was oh-so perfect. She gets to work at home, not having to wake up hours earlier to prepare for the commute, and no office politics to deal with everyday. Or so she thought.

The delivery day of her shiny brand new equipment was like Christmas day. Her boyfriend, Tommy helped her haul everything inside the house and turn the spare room used for storing unused seasonable clothes into a cosy li’l office. Unboxing and peeling off the protective plastic seal from the fresh equipments felt like opening gifts on a Christmas morning.

“Look at you,” Tommy teased you with a cheeky grin as he ruffled your hair. “Fancy corporate shit.” You swatted him away, laughing

Now, the same room felt…disgusting. As if she were a corporate war veteran stepping into the familiar landmines of corporate bullshit, mixed with the ghostly stench of coffee breath and the musky damp air conditioned smell of the room that’s as cold and empty as a corpse’s. She tried to change it a bit and make it better in her own home which she shares with Tommy. Opened the windows to let fresh air in. Letting the sunlight in where like a cat, she liked being under. Even brought in a little succulent desk plant that came in robust and fat, but was now already dying because she kept forgetting to water it. She thought it was self-sufficient like the seller said and didn't need to be watered too often as it could drown.

Apparently, no, the rot was deeper. She'd probably sucked the life out of it.

Seven months of unemployment had felt like an eternity. Her five years at her last corporate gig which filed for bankruptcy? Gone in a blink. Now here she was, back in the trenches, except this time, the battlefield was in her own damn home.

And her new boss? A fucking small business war criminal in a stupid polo shirt.

Tommy noticed the changes before she could say anything. He always did.

At first, it was little things—her griping about the eight-hour workday so passionately she could be in a BBC live interview, the way she’d passionately flip off at her monitor with both fingers almost every five minutes. Then come the muttered cuss under her breath (“yeah go fuck yaself, buddy”).

Today, after his rigorous training, Tommy caught his girl mid-performance. Fresh off a call and faux-strangling herself with both her hands wrapped around her neck, eyes rolled back and her tongue stuck out grotesquely as she let out a guttural whine, "Guh— just fucking diiiiieeeeee."

Tommy wasn't sure whether to laugh or be actually concerned. He walked to the doorframe leading to your office and leaned beside it with a curious frown on his face. A white towel wrapped around his neck, his shorts hanging low on his hips. His hair and body were drenched and glistening in sweat. White sando soaked and stuck to his skin. "The hell was that?"

She froze, hands still locked around her throat. Slowly, she peeled them away like she’d been caught mid-crime. Tommy had seen her do far worse shit than this even in her sleep. Nothing could embarrass her in front of this Adonis sculpted by the gods. "...Stress relief?"

Tommy’s mouth twitched. "Looks like a bad porno gag."

She groaned, slumping back in her chair and rubbing her temples. “Forget you saw anything, babe."

But Tommy didn’t move. He just studied her—the way her fingers drummed too fast on the desk, the way her knee bounced like she was revving for a fight. He wasn't letting this shit go anymore. "You’ve been like this for days," he said. “What’s goin’ on?"

“Nothing. Just work shit." She waved a hand, forcing a laugh. "The usual."

“Uh-huh." He pushed off the doorframe and walked inside until he was standing before her.

She could feel his radiating body heat on her face and his delicious post-workout masculine sweaty musk mixed with a hint of Irish spring filling her nostrils. God, she adored how good he smelled after fighting the heavy bag for an hour. It was the smell of heaven on earth which worked better than any calming sniffing stuff.

"Try again." He challenged. His tone was a low, steady I’m not fucking around tone—made her chest tighten. And like a dam breaking, it all pours out.

“My boss—” Her voice cracked. “He’s trying to fire this woman he introduced to me as ‘Bitch,’ told me to watch her on Zoom and document if she cusses so he can ‘build a case.’ So I called her instead. Know what she said? Poor woman has had four heart attacks, Tommy. Four. Last one landed her in the hospital with a bill she couldn’t pay because payroll held her check.” She dug her nails into her palms. “And that’s just the warm-up. He’s canning the entire senior staff to outsource cheaper labor, had me train managers on software I Googled and watched on YouTube yesterday, and now he wants my five-year plan because I’m ‘ambitious’ which just means he’ll work me to death for half what I’m worth.”

Tommy's jaw twitched. "Jesus."

"And get this,” she grins emptily. “Exactly a day after he laid out his grand plans of butchering up his company, his wife miscarried their baby.” She clapped her hands together like a magician. “Talk about karma biting him right in his anus. Who would want to have a father like him who exploits people for CHEAP, anyway?!" She choked on the guilt, hands flying up to cover her face. “I fucking celebrated his tragedy, Tommy. I'm a fucking monster!”

“Nah. Makes you human, babe.” Tommy gently peels her hands away from her face and puts them flat on his chest as he squatted down to her level.

She barrels on, voice cracking. “It’s a disaster, Tommy! The managers I ‘trained’ are supposed to train me now, except it’s been delayed for a week because they’re too busy doing payroll, HR shit, dispatch, and setting up hardwares for his three other failing businesses. There is nothing in between to fit me in for training. I'm fucked. And I actually have no faith left that it's ever gonna get better. This is a newly bought company, and he's handling everything so poorly. Expecting people to work on what's lacking and outsourcing manpower when he can't even pay proper professionals to get work done.”

Tommy stared. “That’s not a company. That’s a pyramid scheme.”

“I know!” She nearly screamed it. “But I can’t quit. Seven months of rejections. Seven. Now I’m here, and I wanna vomit every time I log in, but walking away means admitting defeat to every smug asshole who said I was too picky.”

Tommy continued to listen. He lets his girl spiral, lets her rant, lets her self-destruct in front of him like a building collapsing in slow motion.

"Maybe I should just snort ashwagandha up my ass, you know?”

Tommy's brows furrowed, “The fuck?”

“Numb myself to submission just until the year ends and I've settled my financial goals for this year. Suck it up and take it in the ass. For a fucking year. Just a year.” She ends up mumbling to herself as if she was brainwashing herself.

Her heart was pounding in her chest wildly. Thoughts completely scattered. Running like a Tasmanian devil without a sense of direction. Vomiting her words. “And I'm thinking that, maybe if this doesn't work out, then maybe I should be on my own and really focus on figuring things out myself, you know? Without inconveniencing others. Just me. Maybe that's what I need.”

Tommy stared at her like she’d just spat in his face. The rest of her rant he can take but bringing up another breakup over a stupid job that pisses her off? Hell fucking no.

"You done?" His sharp tone cut clean through her rant like a blade. “You really think you’re a burden to me?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Her jaw clenches to keep herself from crying like a kid.

“You don’t get to bail on us over some fuckin’ sleazebag CEO with a power complex. You’re smarter than that. Stronger than that.” His hand curled gently but firmly around the side of her neck, not squeezing, just holding. Steady. Keeping her head straight. “You’ve kept me alive, remember that? You held my drunk ass together after Iraq. You dragged me outta bed when I couldn't fuckin' move. So don't you dare act like this ain't worth my time.”

“I just—” she started.

He moved his hand from her neck to squeeze her cheeks lightly. Little puffy rabbit throwing a tantrum, he thought to himself. Resisting the urge to laugh and squeeze your cheeks some more and play with it.

“You just got your head so far up this job's ass you forgot who the fuck you are. My girl doesn't break up with me 'cause some fuckwit can't run his company."

She averts her eyes away from him, lightly pouting as she listens to what she already knows but somehow always manages to go over her head.

“Look, babe. You want money? We've got our savings. And I'm winning that damn fight and laying you down on our winnings. You want purpose? I’ll help you find it. But you don’t get to act like I picked the wrong girl. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’ll be damned if I let you forget who the fuck you are.”

She looks up at him, her brows furrowed, eyes thickly glazed with tears about to pour down her face and her mouth quivering until a tear spills. The fuck was she thinking she'd be better off without him?

Tommy thumbs them away. His girl slightly leaning into his calloused touch against her warm soft face. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You think I don’t know what it’s like? To hate yourself for needin’ help?”

She shakes her head, but he doesn’t let her look away.

“After Paddy died,” he says, “I drank ‘til I couldn’t stand. You remember?”

It still stings her heart as she remembers. The nights she’d find Tommy slumped against the bathroom door, the way he’d snarl at her to ‘leave him the fuck alone’ right before he’d collapse into her arms.

“You stayed,” he says simply. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Her throat burns. “That’s different.”

“Bullshit.” His grip tightens on her face just enough to make her focus. “You think I give a damn about your paycheck? I slept in my car for two years before us. We’ll survive.”

Her heart warms.

Then he chuckles as one of his many favourite memory of theirs surfaced his head. “You remember how we met?”

She blinks. “Yeah. The office parking lot. You in your rusted-out Charger and me always parking my Honda near yours just to take the chance at you finally robbing me, then slashing me to death before I make it inside the building.”

-----

Flashback:

It was an ungodly hour past midnight and it was cold as hell and lightly snowing. Her fingers are numb. She rushed to her car which was the only one remaining at the parking lot along with the other banged up Charger that lives on the same spot. She turns her in the ignition which only gave her—ticktickticktick—but the engine won’t catch.

She banged her forehead against the steering wheel out of frustration—“Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck!”—just hard enough to feel the poking sting in her already pounding head, but not hard enough to deploy the airbags. A knock on her window nearly launched her into orbit.

The hobo, the one who lived in the rusted-out Charger two spaces over, was crouched beside her door, his scowl visible through the glass. Up close, he was younger than she’d thought. And bigger.

Jesus Christ, those shoulders...

She rolled the window down a millimetre. “If this is a robbery, I’ve got $12 and a granola bar.”

He blinked. “Your battery’s dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Fuck my fucking life.”

“Pop the hood.”

She hesitated. “...Are you gonna harvest my organs?”

“Lady,” he deadpanned, “if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t see me comin’.”

Fair point. He sounded smart and experienced enough for it, so there's always a chance then...

Ten minutes later, after expertly jury-rigging her battery cables, her car roared to life. She stared at him over the hood, snowflakes catching in his dark hair. “Thanks,” she muttered.

He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Get a new battery.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” she simply said, and drove off before she could say something stupid.

The next morning, she woke up extra early to prepare and pack breakfast for two with a thermos of coffee. She drove to work and parked across his car. Wordlessly handing him through the driver's window her offering and token of appreciation in the form of a bag filled with packaged homecooked meals for the day on his windshield the next morning. He drinks and eats them all and doesn’t say a word but that evening.

Her wipers are cleared of snow when she left the office building late at night.

-------------------end of flashback-------------------

His thumb traces her jaw. “Then you started leavin’ cooked meals in my car. ‘Accidentally’ buying two coffees. Naggin’ me to get my shit together like a pissed-off fairy godmother.”

She snorts. “You hated me.”

“Yeah and you didn’t give up.” His grip tightens. “So why the hell would I?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off with a kiss. Hard and tenderly scalding. Her heart grew tender as she kissed Tommy back. Too tender that it ached. She questioned if it was possible to love someone too much.

Indeed, it was.

“Quit the job. Or not, but always keep the fight.” He pulled away, his forehead pressed against hers. “Just stay, okay? Don’t act like I’m doin’ you some favor by toleratin’ your ass. You’re it for me, baby.”

For a moment, she settles. Slumping towards him, letting out the heaviest sigh she's ever let out in a while. It felt good to lean onto Tommy's unit of a body and have him hold her. Warm and strong. All hers. "God what the hell was I thinking saying all that shit. I'm sorry, baby”

Tommy exhales through his nose, the fight draining out of him as she slumps against his chest. His fingers thread through her hair, blunt nails scraping lightly against her scalp in that way he knows settles her. Her eyes rolling back from the hypnotic sensation.

“You weren’t thinkin’,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

She lets out a muffled weak laugh. "Oh really? I must’ve made all of my meltdowns up for fun then."

“Nah. Just somehow always forgettin' who the fuck’s in your corner.”

"I hate that you're right."

"I know."

------original end but here's an extended cutie pie version--------

She tilts her head back to look at him. Admiring her past, her present, and her future. “These thoughts got mean hands sometimes. Or I might be two days away from my period. God, I haven't even checked my calendar.”

Tommy’s mouth quirks. “I'd give it an early jumpstart if you want.”

She snorts, swatting his shoulder. “You’re disgusting and a freak.” Then she leans in to plant a brief kiss on his mouth. “And I'm the luckiest girl to have you.”

Tommy doesn't let the kiss end. He deepens it, biting her lower lip just hard enough to make her gasp, then sweeping his tongue against hers like he's chasing the taste of her guilt and turning it into something sweeter. When he pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes glazed with sweetness. It made Tommy's heart ache too in the most pleasant way. All that he sees and holds right now-- all his. Forever his.

"Shower," he orders, already hauling her up by the thighs.

She yelps as he tosses her over his shoulder, her office chair spinning away behind them.

"No!" She kicks halfheartedly. "Put me down, you sweaty caveman! I didn't even get to properly sniff you!”

Tommy barks a laugh, swatting her ass as he carries her toward the bathroom. "The fuck's wrong with you?"

“You smell good," she grumbles, nose pressed against his damp shoulder blade. "Like... salt and violence and man."

"Yeah?" He kicks the bathroom door open. "Tell me that when I'm elbow-deep in your pussy. Fuckin' weirdo.”

“Oohh now we're talking.”

—FIN—

A/N: OOOHHHH DAAAAMN CAN I HAVE THIS SHIT TOO PLS T_T sooo anyway I've got a smutty alternative of this bc Tommy after training is charged to the heavens and he's got a lot to give especially to his girl. Lots of discipline and lots of load. I'll publish it a bit later for the freaks xx Just gotta sleep first.

Thanks so much for reading my stuff <33

#tommy riordan conlon #tommy conlon #warrior #tom hardy #tommy riordan x reader #tommy riordan x you #feveredvisions SFW #warrior tommy conlon #tommy conlon x reader #tommy conlon imagine #tommy conlon fanfic #tommy conlon fluff

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