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thevampiremarie · 1 year ago

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Heartless, Chapter 9

🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience

Ghost makes it up to you with a dance. SMUT. Tags under the read more.

Sorry about the wait. Stuff has happened. Surgery. Really bad autoimmune flares. My back has been bad. I'm depressed. I haven't been doing well at all. Thanks for being patient. Smut tags: cowboy hat stays on, exhibitionism, public sex, heavy degradation/humiliation, minor bratting, squirting

Ghost POV

This place is a shithole. Ghost has spent time in a few shitholes, and your chosen pub ranks marginally better than that dingy karaoke bar in Sasebo where Roach caught food poisoning from bad sashimi.

And there you are.

In the middle of the fuckin’… wood-paneled floor, your shorts riding low and your shirt riding up.

Some American bloke sings about “country girl twerk,” whatever the hell that means, as you dance. Your cheeks are red, and you have one of the widest smiles he’s ever seen. Fuck phantom pain - phantom happiness coils in his stomach, seeing you so full of joy.

You stomp, scuff your boots on the floor, and keep one hand on your dinky hat so it doesn’t fall off. The hat looks squished and stained like it already has.

And your round, delicious, fat arse… you’re grinding and shaking and doing shit you should never do outside of your bedroom. His mouth goes dry as he watches the recoil. Goddammit. He’s only a man, with a man’s appetites. Your plush, full tits bounce in time-

Ghost tucks himself in a corner without a second thought, the drunk crowd flowing past him like he isn’t even there. It takes a second before he’s as composed and unflappable as always. You’re far too skilled at rattling him for your own good.

He’s so enamored by the show that he almost doesn’t notice the fuckers swarming you like wasps. Tipsy, ugly, bloated wasps, the worst specimens of the Londoner species.

Your little bitch fit isn’t worth the court-martial for murder. Although, he might consider it if that one man’s hand gets any closer to your arse.

Ghost sends them scurrying with nothing more than a look. Pathetic.

“What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?” He murmurs, his hand reaching for your waist like you’re a magnet dragging him into your forcefield.

The glitter looks…

Ghost is bad at this. The ‘describing’ thing.

The little flecks of light dance across your face and surround your eyes like fireflies late at night.

Eyes that are currently glaring at him like you’re trying to set him on fire. “I’m not talking to you right now.”

He’s never seen anything more lovely in his life.

“Where’s the Colonel?” Ghost knows exactly where Alejandro is. When he walked in, he saw the other soldier carefully monitoring your situation from a table two meters away.

Awareness prickles down his spine, that extra sense that comes with fighting and (almost dying) with someone. That’s the sound of the Colonel’s stride.

“Behind you,” You grumble sullenly.

Ghost doesn’t flinch when Alejandro clears his throat. “Lieutenant.” Simon turns to meet Alejandro’s tanned, outstretched fist with his own gloved knuckles.

The colonel scrutinizes the visible parts of Simon’s face. It’s like a test.

At last, the colonel smiles and nods, and Alejandro’s tense shoulders fall into a more relaxed position.

That’s when Simon knows he passed. “I got it from here,” He murmurs.

The fuckin’… demented squirrel feeling with claws in his lungs starts to dissipate. You’re safe. You were safe this whole time. And the Colonel was gonna protect you from everything, even Ghost himself.

He should get the fucker a potted plant or some shit to thank him.

Alejandro tips his ridiculous straw hat. “Copy that. Good luck.” The other man melts back into the crowd, no doubt for one last drink before clearing the premises. Alejandro has no interest in witnessing what Ghost has planned.

Simon understands. He almost pities you.

There’s something shiny and slick on your lips. It distracts him when you pout. He wants to take your bottom lip between his teeth and leave marks. He wants to see if that gloss is flavored vanilla or peach. You wear peach-flavored lip balm sometimes - it drives Ghost mad.

“You weren’t answerin’ your phone. Why do you have it if you ain’t gonna use it?” He says roughly. Fuck. Your expression falls, and your cheeks flush red from anger and the alcohol he can smell on your breath. He’s messed up already.

You sway on your cute little boots, and he wants to reach out to steady you, but Ghost is afraid you’ll push him away. “Go fuck yourself,” You hiccup.

“You made me come all the way out here to find you.”

You scared me shitless. I missed you.

That hat finally slips from its perch as you tip your chin down in a sulk. “You didn’t have to. I was fine.” Simon catches it in his gloved hand on instinct. Obviously, you care about the damned thing.

Far more gently than he thought he could, he sets it back atop your head and then smooths a few stray strands of hair behind your ear.

Reader POV

It is so not fucking fair that Ghost gets to look so intimidating and handsome when you’re supposed to be mad at him.

And it’s also not fair that the simple act of giving you back your cowboy hat makes your teeth ache and sets drunk butterflies flapping in your stomach.

Everything is so hot. You’re covered in a fine layer of sweat from the dancing, and your husband watches a bead of it drip down your throat past your collarbone.

“Yeah? Three blokes grinding on you is ‘fine?’” When Ghost’s eyes glitter menacingly in the low light under his mask, your heart rate picks up, and your clothes feel too tight.

You gather up the hair stuck to the back of your neck without thinking, inadvertently flashing an even-more generous handful of cleavage.

“They were showing me a better time than you ever could,” You snap, one hand over your boobs to keep them from spilling out of your uncomfortable underwire bra entirely.

That was the wrong thing to say.

Ghost growls, shaking his head like an aggressive dog after a wounded bird. “Got half a mind to take their hands off for touchin’ you.” No, that was the right thing to say.

You like knowing you can make him jealous. “As delightful as that sounds, that isn’t an apology.” You can’t let him off that easily, though. Nope. Never.

“What do I have to apologize for?” He asks, looking away at some random mysterious dot on the floor.

The list is long. But first on the list, above all the other shit, is that he needs to apologize for making you want him to apologize. And for the large hand he’s wrapping around your wrist like a comforting weight anchoring your floaty, tipsy self.

You’re not supposed to lean into Ghost’s touch and long for him to draw you into his arms.

Falling into his orbit is as natural as breathing. “Ghost. You are the most insufferable, rude, miserable pig I have ever had the misfortune of knowing-“ You rant, your voice rising louder and louder over the music.

You never thought he’d be so horrible as to come here and feed you some bullshit, just to watch you pant and debase yourself for an apology that Ghost seems to have no intention of giving.

When you try to hit his chest, Ghost grabs both of your hands.

“‘M sorry,” Simon whispers so quietly that you almost doubt what you hear. The pink spotlights whirling across his mask make his eyes look painfully soft.

“…What?”

Ghost clears his throat. “For not dancing with you. For… for being so… rude. I- I shouldn’t have treated you that way. You deserve better.” His hands slide down your arms until they’re resting on your hips, tight enough to leave you with zero doubt about his intentions but not so tight that you can’t push him away.

And then it’s like he doesn’t need to take the mask off at all for you to see his expression. That’s how well you know the shadows of his face. You could map them in your sleep.

If your hands were free, you’d bring one up to his cheek to feel his remorse under your fingers. “Oh,” You murmur. You don’t feel drunk anymore. You’re stone-cold sober as you gaze into his eyes and find something sweeter than those lemon drop shots lurking in the darkness.

Ghost furtively glances around to ensure everyone else is too wasted to look twice before lifting your hand to his masked mouth.

The painted cloth is soft as it brushes your knuckles. “Would you… uh… may I- may I have this dance?” He asks, stumbling over the words a few times.

Fondness melts your anger faster than a snowflake would in midsummer, and it’s a better rush than any whiskey they sell in this place. It goes straight to your head and makes you grin from ear to ear. You tuck your hands into the collar of his jacket and pull him down because the couple of inches between your bodies feel like too far of a distance.

He’s here. He’s really here for you. “You’re not dressed appropriately,” You tell him, half-teasing, half-serious.

Ghost immediately shakes his head. “Limited time offer.” But he doesn’t pull away or grow stiff. His hands brush your waist, and then his gloved fingers slip between the waistband of your shorts and your sticky, heated skin.

“That’s not very nice,” You say with a coy smile. This close, you’re sure he can smell the peach-flavored lip gloss painting your mouth.

Ghost grumbles performatively for a second. “You are welcome to… do whatever the hell you want.”

It comes to you in a flash of tipsy inspiration. “Here.” You let go of him long enough to pluck the hat from your head and settle it neatly atop his balaclava. “Looks better on you than it did on me, baby,” You murmur appreciatively.

Oh yeah. Fuck yeah.

Your mouth goes dry as you take in the view.

Ghost looks like this incredible tower of muscle and brawn and cowboy swagger that you want, no, need to climb all over. This man is straight out of a calendar of hot male models. You want him to do disgusting, explicit, horrible things to you in the alley outside. His skull balaclava is as menacing as always, and you feel drunk on its glory. The cheesiness of the hat ties everything together.

By God, does Ghost pull it off.

His gloved fingertips grind into your skin, deep enough to leave rapidly-fading red marks. You want more than that. You want bruises.

“Yeah?” Ghost asks, a little touch of amusement softening his gruff voice.

You want it so bad that your eyes flutter just thinking about it.

Your husband catches it and pulls you towards him until there isn’t any space left between you.

You melt into his chest, wrap your arms around his neck, and look at him through your eyelashes. “Mmhm. So cool. I can’t stay mad at you, not when you’re so,” You trail off, suddenly distracted by the slick dampness of your underwear and your nipples pebbling under your bra. “Pretty! Like a regular Clint Eastwood. You here to arrest me, cowboy?” You tease as you rock your hips toward his.

Then he’s palming your ass with a deep, muffled groan, squishing the flesh like a man obsessed, bouncing your cheeks in his hands.

His tight, possessive grip lights a fire in the bottom of your stomach. “You’re drunk, love,” He tells you as you coil around him and push your tits into his muscular chest.

Ghost is trying very, very hard not to look down your almost-nonexistent shirt. “No, I’m- I’m pleasantly tipsy.” Your mouth moves without you even realizing it. “You do look fine as fuck. God. You know I love those jeans.” Maybe you’re still a little drunk, but you’re not mad about it.

Ghost is totally blushing under the mask. 100%. His eyes dart to the side, and he clears his throat. He’s so cute when he’s flustered.

“We’re in public,” Ghost murmurs. That’s the least effective, least sincere protest you’ve heard in your whole life. At last, your husband miserably loses whatever internal prudish battle he was fighting and takes in your cleavage like he’s taking in a masterpiece.

“I’m not even joking when I say I would, like, crawl, like on my hands and knees to suck your dick right now. With the hat on. Please.”

You’re not like this. You’re never like this. But Ghost wants you. He came out here for you. And you need to show him exactly how much you appreciate it.

He coughs. “Woman.” He sounds so scandalized as if he hasn’t literally cut your clothes off your body and fucked you stupid before.

Ghost tilts his head so you can lift the edge of his mask and kiss his throat. “Pretty please. If you like me at all, you’ll let me? I’ll give you the best head of your life. I can’t believe I’m fucking begging a guy to let me blow him. God, look what marriage has done to me,” You whisper.

One of his hands reluctantly leaves your ass so it can tangle in your messy, sweat-soaked hair.

He tugs your head back. “Look at me,” Ghost hisses, his eyes a beautifully wound up pitch black. “Hey. Behave. Be a good girl.” Your scalp aches but fuck, does that feel amazing. Especially when he slides his knee between your thighs, mixing the pain with pleasure as he forces you to grind.

“Or what?” You gasp.

His other hand grips your chin. “Or I’m not going to let you suck my cock,” He tells you slowly, deliberately.

So blowing him is still on the table tonight.

Ghost tightens his grip bit by bit until your lips part.

“…Fine.”

He releases your hair to shove his mask down long enough to kiss you. There’s his teeth nipping your lips, his tongue insistent against yours, a shared, breathy, drawn-out moan echoing from your throat and his. “So bratty tonight,” Ghost whispers into your mouth. With one last kiss, he draws back.

The brim of his borrowed hat knocks into your face as he does, and you giggle as he straightens it.

For all you know, the rest of the world has gone to hell. Everything is Ghost and his warmth, filling up the cavern in your chest left by his earlier rejection.

The smile drops from your face. “You only care when I act up.” Is this going to be a habit? Do you have to throw tantrums, scream, and cry so he looks at you twice?

No. No. Your marriage won’t be like that. You’ve got years of experience watching your mother pant after your father’s approval, and she didn’t even love him. The thought of living it makes you sick.

Especially because-

Because one day you might love Ghost, and it would kill you to know he didn’t feel the same, yet could still command you like a dog. And out of that hypothetical, alleged, not currently existent love, you’d obey.

“That’s not true.”

You hope the tears welling in your eyes leave your fake lashes intact. “Is to. I just- I just want you to look at me like this all the time. I want you to care all the time. Is that too much to ask? And dance with me because it’s important and, fucking, I want you to take me out for coffee like normal people-“

“What kind of coffee?” Ghost stops your anxious, tear-filled ramble in its tracks.

Suddenly, pink lights silhouette him. They shine around his hat in a delicate, flushed halo, a shade you often see in fresh sunrises and beautiful sunsets.

There’s a sticky sweet center under his prickly exterior, like a mean cat once it gets used to you. And you might not be in love with him yet, but you love how sweet he can be.

When you were younger, you would empty every Halloween candy bowl into your bag while trick-or-treating. You learned how easily people could take things from you unless you were greedy and grasping, unless you dug your nails in so deep that it left marks.

You should do that to Ghost. But in a healthy way. “I like fancy lattes with long names and ridiculous price tags,” You say. “And foam hearts on the top.” You refuse to share his sweetness with anyone else. You’ll protect it - one day, Ghost will learn you’re trustworthy. Just like with Soap, you’ll protect Simon.

“Tomorrow, if you’re not too hungover… we’ll find somewhere with fancy coffee.” He starts rubbing at your cheek as he speaks. It takes you a second to realize that Ghost is picking at the specks of mascara left by the few tears that did fall. He navigates deftly around the glitter and touches you like you’re holy.

“And you’re gonna let me put your dick down your throat.”

His laugh is deep and throaty, a little rough from disuse but plenty warm.

The song playing switches to something slow and easy. A man croons in a low, smooth voice about a last night and the girl he’ll spend the rest of his life waiting for.

“First… we gotta dance.” Ghost takes you by the hand and pulls you toward the center of the dance floor.

Ghost POV

It takes every bit of Simon’s concentration to focus on you in his arms and the even pace of his breaths.

Inhale, exhale.

Your pretty eyes glow happily as you look up at him, flickering like opals in the low light.

The drunk on the corner isn’t reaching for a knife. He’s just finishing his drink.

This close, he can smell the coconut scent of your shampoo mixed with salty sweat and a deep, mouth-watering musk. Your hair is a mess of tangles, and the blush staining your cheeks is hibiscus pink.

You’re the most beautiful thing Ghost has seen in his whole life.

That red flicker in the corner of his eye isn’t a sniper dot. The raised voices are friends arguing over who’s paying the tab, not the specter of his father following Ghost even here.

His dad hated music. Fuckin’ hated it. He broke every radio they owned, smashed them into bits in various fits of rage. Once for playing music too loud, once for not being loud enough. And forget dancing. Forget flowers for Mum or family drives on Sunday, or any of the things fathers are meant to do.

Ghost should get you flowers. You’d like them. It would be the sort of gesture that would make you smile as you’re smiling now, like he’s your hero, like you think you’re the luckiest girl in the whole world.

He tugs you closer to knead the soft flesh of your hips and feel your body moving in perfect sync with his. Ghost isn’t half good at dancing, but you have enough grace for the both of them.

Back and forth. Back and forth. He counts the steps in his head.

“Look at me,” You whisper as you tighten your arms draped delicately around his neck.

He watches you sway, and the glitter on your cheeks sparkle with the movement. The flutter of your long, curled eyelashes makes him dizzy. He wants to take this mask off and kiss you, right here, right now, like a regular guy with a gorgeous woman on his arm.

Like in the movies - the ones with happy endings.

The air grows muggy with heat from the people moving and grinding on the floor. They talk, they grin, they take selfies. Nobody shies away from him in fear. He’s part of the crowd.

You rest your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. You’re doing great.” The kiss you press to his jacket goes straight through the fabric and into his bones, warming him like good bourbon.

Ghost feels bold enough to try twirling you. He worries he might be too uncoordinated or awkward, but you take the hint and effortlessly glide away and then back toward him. Your hair fans out behind you as you turn.

Beautiful.

“If you say so, love,” He murmurs.

Reader POV

This is a wonderful, amazing, and tender moment and everything…

But when Ghost adjusts his borrowed hat atop his mask, you’re a goner. He’s too busy being perfect and remarkably romantic to notice how you feel like you’re in fucking heat.

“C’mon, babe. I want another drink,” You drawl as you tug him off the dance floor.

You make a beeline for the friendly bartender, dragging your husband through the crowd like you’re parting the Red Sea. His hand tenses in yours, and you stop just long enough so Ghost can move in front of you, away from the people bumping into him.

The bartender winks once she spots you. “Hey sweetie, back already?” She asks as she waves away the bachelorette party trying to order from her.

Next to you, you feel Ghost stiffen and place his hand on the small of your back.

You lean forward so she can see down your shirt and keep one eye on Ghost’s mask the whole time. “Oh, you know me. I can’t stay away from your gorgeous eyeliner and excellent drinks,” You say with a coy smile just bordering on flirtatious.

His hand slowly makes its way up your spine, stopping to snap the elastic band of your bra against your skin to get you to quit it.

“It’s my pleasure. What can I get you, sugar?”

Ugh, that’s so immature of him. “What do you recommend?” You ask before sticking your tongue out at Ghost and crushing his toes under your boot heel.

He responds by resting his hand on the base of your neck where even the bartender can’t miss it.

As the bartender thinks, she taps a manicured nail against her lip gloss. “Pretty girls should have pretty drinks. Isn’t that right, Mr…”

Ghost squeezes your neck slightly - a gentle reminder of who you belong to. “Her husband,” He says curtly.

The bartender makes a show out of raising her eyebrow and looking at your ring finger. “Oh, I didn’t know you were married. What a shame. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. ‘Her Husband.’” She’s not even looking at him when she speaks. She’s only got eyes for you.

Being admired by anybody feels good. It feels even better to know that Ghost stews in silence as you preen. You wonder how far you can take the bit before his self-control snaps and he drags you out of here.

A shiver of pleasure goes through you at the thought.

Ghost exhales through his nose. “Put her tab on that,” He orders as he tosses a credit card on the bar.

She pulls out a chilled shot glass and a variety of colorful liquor bottles. You recognize Kahlúa and Bailey’s, and there’s some sort of vodka. Amaretto might be the fourth mysterious liquor.

“The other fellow with the other hat has her tab covered. But I can definitely put this drink on your card,” She says as she layers the liquors one after the other with a bar spoon to keep them from mixing.

Then she swipes Ghost’s card at her register thingy before handing it back, along with a crisply-layered shot. “There you go. A Screaming Orgasm for the lady. Receipt?” Her smile is as alluring as it is gloating.

He shoves his card back into his wallet like he’s loading a gun, each movement tense with fury.

You feel him forcefully wrap his arm around your waist and pull you into him. “G-Ghost, what’s wrong?” You ask, pretending like you don’t damn well know what’s wrong.

Ghost boxes you in with his legs on either side of yours and both arms around your waist. “Drink that. Now,” He mutters as he rests his chin on your head.

The bartender has made herself scarce by now. That was a good choice on her part.

His grip tightens until the rough material of his gloves bites into your sides. You take your time with the shot, stopping to tap the bottom of the glass on the bar before throwing it back.

The literal second after you put the glass down, Ghost hoists you away from the bar and the bartender trying to steal you away. “We’re going. Come on.” He puts you down only when he can intercept any attempts to return to the bar for more torment.

His rough treatment melts away momentarily when someone almost bumps into you. Ghost’s reflexes kick in and hold you back half a second before the drunk man stumbles, and then he sweeps you past the dude before you realize what’s happening.

You stumble out into the brisk night air. The London light pollution has chased away the stars, leaving a flat, dull black sky behind.

“Where are you-“ Ghost interrupts you by shoving you back towards the brick covering the outside wall of the pub. Your head spins, the inside of your mouth tastes like sugar and alcohol, and your knees grow weak from Ghost’s casual display of strength.

And then he practically tears the fabric of his mask away from his mouth so he can fucking ravage you.

He kisses you repeatedly, one hand fisting in your hair and the other clamped around your hip, helping him grind his dick against your clothed cunt.

Ghost groans with pleasure when he tastes the sweetness from the shot, and you sink your teeth into his lip to extend that beautiful, desperate sound.

Here, pinned between the wall and his broad, muscled torso, you’re absolutely, utterly helpless. You squirm and plead in small, whining noises, your combined saliva drips out of your mouth, and your tongue loses the battle for dominance against Ghost’s tongue.

Just when your eyes start to roll back and your muscles slacken, he moves away. “You want it that badly, eh? You little slut?” He kisses messily across your cheek, then down your throat.

You tug at his shoulders, trying to force him closer, and you can feel your arousal leaking through your shorts. “Yeah, I’ll give you a fuckin’ screaming orgasm,” Ghost swears into your sweat-soaked skin before biting down hard.

You tremble and shake, he bites harder, the pain goes straight to your hard, aroused nipples and the fire burning low in your belly.

“Yeah?” You moan with your head thrown back and eyes shut.

As people leave the bar, Ghost shoves his thigh between your legs, so you have something to rock your aching clit against, then clamps his hand over your mouth when you cry out in pleasure.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe you’re into this. There’s something wrong with you,” He hisses cruelly in your ear.

You moan louder with your tongue out as your hands untie your top at record speed. Your clothes are too tight, unbearably clinging to your skin, and you need them off right now. You work on the fly of your shorts next, hastily unbuttoning them so you’re almost completely exposed.

Ghost shakes his head in disapproval and slides the hand covering your mouth down until it encircles your neck. He tightens his grip, carefully cutting off your blood flow and forcing you into that peaceful, floaty place where you’d beg him to do whatever he wanted.

You let out a low, choked gasp, drool already beading at the corner of your kiss-swollen lips. “Aw, you going dumb already? I just gotta put my hand around your pretty throat, and you’re moaning like a whore?” Not content with being the only one undressed, you scrabble for his belt and unbuckle it with single-minded determination.

“Think the whole block can hear you yet?” Then Ghost kisses your temple sweetly in sharp contrast to his low, ice-cold tone.

He makes no moves to stop you from clawing at his jeans. If anything, he eagerly thrusts his hard-on into your palm as soon as the only barrier between you is his boxers.

You feel him, heavy and thick and warm through the cloth, and smile like a cat who’s got the cream. “You love it, Ghost. Admit it. You fucking love this. I can feel how fucking hard you are, yeah? Is that for me?” You retort, wrapping your hand around his dick and pumping it a few times for good measure.

In the dark of night, you can barely make out his clenched teeth and eyes shut tight as he fucks your hand. “It is, love. It’s all yours. Now are you gonna be a good girl and suck my cock?” Ghost purrs, grabbing your face by your jaw and forcing you to look straight at him.

“I thought you’d never ask.” You sink to your knees eagerly, ignoring the gravel biting into your bare legs.

But just when you move to pull his underwear down, Ghost stops you with his hands manacled around your wrists.

“Hey, now hold on,” He chides.

Your brain fucking short circuits. His dick is right there. In your face. So close. Saliva gathers on the back of your tongue. Why is he fucking gatekeeping you? Do you have to beg?

You see a mean light shine in his dark eyes when you look up. Oh yeah, he wants you to beg. His hand slides into your hair, then pulls your head back until your mouth hangs open.

Someone laughs in the background. Footsteps crunch over gravel.

London will watch you beg on your knees for your husband’s dick.

Yeah, you’re game.

You pout your lips. “What? Why? Please? Please? I know you want me to. I can be so good to you,” You beg, your eyes round and dewy with want.

Ghost tsks. “Yeah? But you’ve been so bad, love. You’re acting like a common slut, pawing at me in public. Right here, where everyone can see? Are you sure you deserve it?” His thumb slips between your lips, and you give it the treatment you’re trying to show him; sucking, licking, your eyes fluttering, loud, explicit, over-the-top moans.

“Please. I- I literally, I am desperate. I am begging. I want- let them know, let them see, just- I-“

Ghost takes his thumb back with a satisfied smirk. “Look at you, can’t even make a full sentence. What a stupid, dumb, adorable little princess. Go on.” Then he shoves his boxers down, revealing an angry, mean, painfully-stiff erection, the mushroom tip red and beaded with precum.

You need no further instruction.

You viciously spit into your palm and then draw his shaft into your mouth.

In your first attempt, you get a little less than half of Ghost’s thick cock down your throat. Then you pull off to take a deep breath, your eyes watering from the unexpected intrusion.

Before Ghost can do something annoying like ask if you’re okay, you take him in your mouth once more and bob up and down.

He grows harder with each stroke of your wet, sloppy mouth, you can fucking feel him twitch and strain against your cheeks. Ghost’s hand tightens painfully in your hair, and you hear him gasp and groan when you use your tongue on the sensitive underside of his bulbous tip.

Ghost gazes down at you as if you’re the answer to his prayers, like he believes that he’s the one who should be on his knees. “That’s it, there’s my bitch. Your mouth looks so good sucking my cock, love.”

Your senses fill with the musky, salty taste of him running down your throat with the excess spit and dribbling down your wrist as your hand works the part of his length you can’t swallow completely.

“Fuck. Your mouth- fuck…” Ghost curses, unable to control his hips rolling against your face, pushing himself deeper and deeper in.

You look at him through your lashes and hollow out your cheeks, sucking long and slow.

Under the eye black, his face is flushed red from arousal, and sweat gathers in the hairline you neatened up. “Ahhh, shit, c’mon, you can do it. Take all of it. Attagirl.” You’re trying, really. You’re doing your absolute best.

When the tip of his dick hits the back of your throat, your eyes roll back, and you cry out. Your gasp makes your throat muscles quiver and vibrate around him.

Your jaw aches, and all you taste, smell, and feel is Ghost cracking your mouth open, Ghost fucking your throat, Ghost tearing away your thoughts and your air and replacing it with him.

He growls, spitting out curses like he hates your guts, his grip on your hair trembles. “Is it too much for you, princess? Are you crying? Fucking dumb whore, crying like you weren’t begging me for it. Goddammit, you’re so fucking good at this.” The praise fucking melts you into a malleable pile of mush. You love it. You’re his princess, his whore, and now, everyone knows.

Everyone is watching. You need to be good for him, you want to be perfect.

Your throat muscles relax, allowing him to slip in another inch further.

You gag and retch around his thick, swollen cock. “Christ. Yes, fuck, keep going,” Ghost pants. He’s breathing fast through his nose as if he’s beating someone into the ground. “You are so- fucking- gorgeous when you choke. Do it again.” His command bounces around in your empty, cock-drunk mind and, after a couple of seconds, fully registers.

Just when you pull your fist away and try to touch your nose to the wiry hair above his dick, Ghost forces your mouth open just that tiny bit wider and slips- all the way in.

Your eyes widen with panic, and your hands try to push him back, but Ghost tugs harder on your hair until the sting reminds you who you belong to.

He’ll let you breathe when he wants you to, you just have to trust him. You’re just a warm, wet hole for him to ruin. “No, no, no. Don’t try to run- shit- run away,” Ghost warns as he fucks your throat with a messy, uncoordinated rhythm that picks up. His thick, salty precum gathers in a pool on the back of your tongue, and you gulp it down greedily.

Your tears fall in earnest. They blot out your vision until all you can see is the silhouette of his hat, dark against the dim street lamp.

You brace yourself on his thighs to stay upright.

“It’s yours. All yours. Take it. Take- me-“ His moans are almost as loud as the sound of his cock sliding between your lips, wet and slick, combined with your wordless begging for air, for more, for his cum.

Come in my mouth, you pray deliriously, practically insane with need. You can’t keep up with the pace Ghost sets and struggle weakly to move your head in time. You’re helpless in his capable, dominating hands.

His swollen cock twitches, and he shudders.

He’s going to come soon. Is Ghost also picturing his sticky, salty cum in your mouth and on your cheeks, and how you would look flashing him your messy tongue before swallowing it? He’s practically biting through his bottom lip with how badly he wants that. Your aching, leaky cunt clenches in time with your racing heartbeat.

Ghost shoves your mouth back on his dick one last time. “No,” He tells you as he pulls out.

Wh- what?

You’re stunned into silence. He was fucking your face, but then he stopped but… but why?

You sit there and look at him without a thought behind your hazy, languid eyes.

As bits and pieces come back to you, your brow furrows. “But I want it,” You whimper in the most pathetic, hoarse little voice.

Without realizing it, your slick hands drift back up towards his erection, which hasn’t softened one bit.

Ghost merely shakes his head, entirely unmoved by your pleas. “You ran off without saying a word. You don't deserve for me to come in your mouth. Get up.” His voice is ice-cold. Underneath it, you hear how worried Ghost was. How you frustrated him, how he missed you.

A rush of shame goes through you, dousing some of the burning under your skin. How could you do that to him?

When you don’t move, Ghost reaches down and hoists you up by your elbows with a huff. “Off the ground. Up,” He barks. He still hasn’t taken the gloves off. You can feel a couple of strands of your hair caught in the Velcro wrist buckles.

Ghost efficiently strips you out of your soaked shorts and ruined, filthy panties. You stare blankly at him, so aroused and on the edge that your brain and vocal cords can’t put a complete sentence together.

He pats one of your gravel-bruised knees, then the other. You lift your feet accordingly until you’re naked from the waist down, other than the cowboy boots.

Without the cloth to hold it back, the slick dripping from your bare folds makes a shining trail down the inside of your thigh.

When Ghost pushes you up against the wall and hooks his arms under your knees, holding your plush thighs open and ready for him, you comply in a daze, hardly able to put two words together.

Your back arches as his teeth catch in your throat, alternating between bright pain and his tongue lapping at your skin, soothing away the sting.

Then Ghost gets one of his arms under your ass, carrying your entire weight with ease. “Can’t do that to me again, doll. I almost lost you so you could fuck around with some random blokes at the pub? Nah. I think you need a reminder of who you belong to.” With his free hand, he shoves your bra aside to take one of your swollen nipples into his greedy mouth.

The man fucking feasts on you, growling into your sensitive tits, sucking red hickies everywhere, and insatiably tonguing your nipple. “Ahhhh-“ You moan with your head thrown back and your nails clawing at his hoodie, trying and failing to mark up his back.

Each suck and lick and kiss goes straight to your clit, aching in the cold night air; tension builds in the base of your spine, and you can’t think, can’t hear, or see.

Once he gets his thumb on your clit, rubbing tight, furious circles, your eyes shoot open. “Good girl. Dumb baby,” Ghost taunts as you struggle and writhe, you bite down on your lips to hide your shrieks, and your arousal soaks his glove.

At first, you think he will warm you up, take those messy gloves off and stretch you out on a few thick fingers, but he doesn’t. “‘M gonna fuck you so good that you forget about them. You are going to be a dumb- speechless- brainless fucking mess once I’m through.” He grabs his hard, fat cock, hoists you up a little higher, and rubs the head against your folds.

Your cunt flexes, keeping him from sinking inside you as if your body instinctively knows it’s too much.

He huffs out a frustrated laugh and then lifts you onto his cock despite your protests. “No- Ghost, please, you’re too big. You won’t fit, you’re ruining me…” You sob, helpless, as he slowly feeds his dick into your hungry, needy pussy. Your eyes roll back, and you almost bang your head on the wall.

Gravity- gravity is not your fucking friend right now.

In this position, your body weight forces you down onto his shaft, and every inch feels like it goes on forever. Slowly, Ghost begins to rock his hips back and forth, molding your cunt around him.

Your thighs quiver as you cry out. Your juices drip down the base of his dick that he hasn’t managed to shove into you yet, covering him in slick.

“Aw, it’s okay, doll. Don’t worry. Shhhhh. Relax. You’re okay,” He reassures, his voice steady despite his fingers clutching your legs hard enough to bruise.

Then Ghost does something. He stops holding back and forces your thighs back a little more until he’s almost folded you in half.

When the tip of his cock thrusts into that sensitive spot deep inside your pussy, your eyes cross, and you jolt, strung out, absolutely fucking gone. “Fuckkkk-“ You pant, pleasure tightening in your tummy. Your hands tug on his face until he leans down to kiss you, his tongue slipping between your lips.

In a single smooth motion, Ghost slides home. “Oh shit. Shit. Your poor cunt, you’re so sensitive. I can feel you- clenching- and twitching every time I-“ He cuts himself off with a moan, his heavy balls brushing your ass every time he gently grinds into you.

Your limbs seize and twitch, tingles echoing and building through each muscle.

Overwhelmed, blissed-out whimpers flow from you as he fucks you deeper, faster. “Ghost, Ghost, fuck, you’re stretching me open, I can’t take it-“ You beg, practically feeling his dick in your guts.

His pupils blow out, he has a look in his eyes like a predator subduing prey, and you’re more than a little frightened. Ghost towers over you, and you’re completely at his mercy. He could do anything he wants to you.

He is doing what he wants to you, precisely as you need from him.

Your mind shuts off once you realize it, and you sink into a thrilling, primal, feral state of being a bunch of nerves and trembling flesh for him to use and torment. Ghost pins you in place with so much giving, loving, possessive adoration that it makes your teeth ache.

He gasps when your stretched core flutters around him, sucking his cock in as if your muscles are trying to trap him in your body. “Poor doll, look at you. You can’t take it? You can’t take it?” Ghost mocks your whining while focusing the rest of his attention on fucking your brains out.

“Fuck, fuck, right there, yes,” You wail as your sloppy cunt drenches the front of his jeans.

He hoists you higher in his arms so he can nail your g-spot. “Feels good?” This is how you’ll die; pleas and curses dripping from your lips along with strings of saliva, sweat coating your skin, and webs of ecstasy threading through you like lightning.

You want to feel like this forever; it’s purer than any high and so good that your nerves short out. “Yes, yes, please. More- I need more…” Your plump tits bounce and jiggle from the force of Ghost rutting into you.

Seeing your red cheeks and mouth hanging open and your breasts heaving drives him insane with desire. Somehow, his cock pounds you deeper, even harder, and he finds a way to grind his jeans against your puffy, swollen clit.

Ghost gently presses his lips to yours, a complete mockery of the wreck he’s making of you. For a long moment, it’s just the two of you, breathing the same air, and the slick squelches of your fluttering, sopping-wet folds as he buries his veiny cock balls-deep.

You’re pretty sure your thighs have small cuts from the rough edges of his gloves, and your neck hurts from the manhandling, but you’re too busy focusing on each breath as everything around you goes fuzzy to care.

Ghost tells you something, his tone low and commanding. It’s his fault you can’t answer - if he wasn’t ruining you for anyone else, thrusting into you with a brutal, punishing pace that’s too much for your sore pussy to keep up with, you might have been able to respond.

Each time he bullies his cock inside, you almost feel like you’re coming. The pleasure is a knife laying you bare before him, and you trust him, you need him, and you want him to destroy you and put you back together. “Who’s fucking you? Use that smart- damn it- mouth.” Ghost slows down, switching to a deeper, gentler rhythm, just enough to clear the fogginess clouding your senses.

Your pussy weeps around him, constricting and spasming as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.

“Ghost,” You wail, strung out, your cheeks bright red and your forehead damp with sweat.

Your husband kisses it away, then peppers your cheeks with little pecks. “Who’s making you feel good?” He presses you back into the wall, covering your almost-naked, debauched body with his own.

When your hands seek out the edge of his balaclava, Ghost tips his head so you can get under it and claw the shit out of his neck.

The sight of the hat, still somehow on his head, makes you clench even tighter. He’s just so fucking hot and beautiful, and oh fuck, Ghost is fucking massaging your cunt with his cock while kissing your breath away.

“Ahhh- you- you are, shit.” It’s all him, his dark eyes, and his pale skin flushed with exertion. You flail in his arms, trying to somehow ride his dick while being held aloft.

His voice rumbles in your ear as he growls, his breaths labored as he nears his own orgasm. “Rub your clit, doll. Go on. Make yourself come. Good girl, my perfect, perfect girl,” Ghost encourages you before speeding up again, unceasingly notching the fat tip of his dick against your g-spot, basically helping you use him to get off.

Reluctantly, you remove one of your hands from where your nails are carving bloody furrows into his skin to slip between your arousal and precum-soaked bodies.

It’s like a fucking slip ‘n slide down there, your combined juices trickling into your puckered asshole and all over his balls.

The moment you shakily press the pads of your fingers against your clit, your spine jolts and bows as euphoria rushes through you.

It feels like you’re desperately clinging to the edge of a cliff, trying to maintain sanity and presence of mind, but your oncoming orgasm burns in your veins, the pleasure crawling up the back of your throat and constricting your lungs.

“You’re so fucking beautiful when you take my dick.” Ghost sounds like a man unhinged, in total awe. You keep circling your hypersensitive clit, giving up words in favor of animalistic, high-pitched noises and wails.

The brim of the cowboy hat bumps into your cheek when he buries his face into your neck, biting and sucking hickies in time with his deep, shuddering thrusts.

You squirm, bouncing your hips on his dick, and your wrist cramps. “You close, love? I can feel it.” Tears stream down your cheeks, and drool sticks at the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you clenching around me. Do it. That’s it. Come for me.” You feel Ghost’s eyelashes wisping over the skin of your throat.

That’s it. That’s all it takes.

You come screaming at the top of your lungs to the stars, the night sky, and anyone listening.

Your cunt gushes and gushes as you tremble in Ghost’s arms, making a fucking mess with your come, your muscles milk his dick, rippling, squeezing, and pulsing with the waves of bliss drowning you.

Your nails rip little holes into his mask. Ghost fucks you through it, of course, dragging it out even while your eyes shut because it’s too much. “Fuck fuck fuck Ghost! Aaa- fuuuuck.” It doesn’t subside or die away; your orgasm grows stronger, shaking you like a fucking earthquake, your hips jerk uncontrollably, and you pull your fingers away from your swollen, tender clit, too sensitive to keep going.

You choke and sputter as your mind goes blissfully, perfectly blank. Electricity blooms in your veins, lighting up your guts like the fireworks on the Fourth of July.

You try to catch your breath, but the shocks won’t let up. Fresh wetness coats your thighs when you squirt again, this time weakly.

It’s supposed to end. Why isn’t it ending?

Ghost is laughing at you. It’s not a mean laugh. It’s frenzied, he’s on the brink of shattering. “That’s fucking right. One more. You have one more in you.” He’s so close to coming, but he needs that extra push.

His cock stiffens inside you, and you swear you can feel every prominent vein against your pulsing walls. “Say- hngh- ‘please,’” You moan, a determined, devious look on your fucked-out face. You give as good as you get, and fuck; if Ghost is going to drag this out, you’ll make him work for it.

A cold midnight breeze picks up, sweeping cool air across your heated skin and taking with it the scent of sex and sweat.

He messily kisses your cheek, sweeping his tongue along your tears. “Please? You want me to beg? Please come for me again. Pretty please.” You love the moments before Ghost comes because he always tears away the mask and the bullshit for you, like he finds something worth honesty in the depths of your body. “Need you to come again. Need it so bad.”

Well, how can you resist when he asks so nicely?

You come softly, gently. As your eyes roll back, you gasp, and your swollen, overstimulated core shivers. The sensation ripples and shakes you, then slowly dissipates, leaving behind nothing but clean, pure pleasure, like taking a shot of vodka and sinking into the resulting mindless stupor. Your senses are too overwhelmed for anything bigger.

Ghost comes with you. He hides his long, low moan in his forearm as he grinds into your depths, filling you up with pulses of come only to fuck it back inside. The white spend that doesn’t fit inside your swollen, stuffed folds joins the droplets of squirt blanketing your inner thighs. His spine goes slack, and he almost stumbles backward, drunk on the pleasure of finally coming.

Ghost rights himself before he tips over, reluctantly removing one arm from your hips to brace it on the wall.

Before you know it, he’s placed you back on your weak, shaky legs, completely ignoring his own state of undress to tend to you.

He gets your underwear and shorts back on without letting go of you once. Ghost is rock-solid, taking on all your weight and holding you upright without faltering or asking anything of you. Once you’re covered, he even ties your shirt back together. Ghost is a regular Boy Scout with knots, and he accomplishes it better than you did in the first place. Now, he tucks himself into his boxers and zips up his jeans.

It takes a couple of seconds for you to realize that the thing he’s doing with his arms around your waist is checking your back and seeing if you’re in pain. “Stop it. I’m fine. I highly enjoyed myself,” You scold languidly, a soft, exhausted smile on your face. You are in pain, unfortunately.

Most of the time, you can just tune it out. The pain simmers under the surface as a dull ache promising future consequences. But it’s not anything Ghost needs to worry about right now.

You make this trade-off constantly. A night out at a club for a few days in bed, going to the beach and needing to use a cane the next day. What can you say? It’s worth it. You’ll end up bed bound permanently one day, whether you have fun or not.

Ghost raises an eyebrow, making it plain what he thinks about your statement. “Mm.”

Tonight turned out to be such a lovely night. You don’t want to sour it again with talk about your back.

You wrap your arms around his neck, successfully distracting him and dragging him down for a kiss at the same time. “Thank you for dancing with me. It- um… it meant a lot,” You whisper against his mouth shyly, as if he wasn’t dicking you down in public not five minutes earlier.

When you release him, you gaze at the ground, hoping to hide from Ghost’s knowing look.

“You’re never getting this hat back,” Ghost quips, taking a different tactic instead of calling you out. Then he peels a glove off to nudge your face towards him with his fingers curling under your chin. “I was happy to do it.”

Tagging (please let me know if you want off the list by shooting me a message):

@abbiesxox @thedevillovesflowers @averyyreads @lialacleaf @backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @strvqtt @pinkwigonmytv @almightywdm @discowizard88 @castielsangelsx @jaymicrosoft @rengokulover96 @copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld @idesofarch @teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan @deadpoetsandhoney @crowsjourney @vanevafu @devcica @xxghostyx @rafaelacallinybbay @akaotv @chibijusstuff @wasteland-babe @anubiseqq @lilpothoscuttings @soapyghost @maliceex59 @valdemarismynonbinarylove @confuseddipshit @sanfransolomitatm @johfaam0 @loser-alert @vantae-tea @cj-theyoungling

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j2spntranscripts · 3 months ago

Text

☆ 2008 LAcon Jensen Solo

Official name: Creation Entertainment's SALUTE TO SUPERNATURAL (Jensen Ackles on stage) Location: Marriott Los Angeles Airport, Los Angeles, Cal Time: Sunday March 30, 2008, 12:00 PM-12:30 PM (GMT-7) Panelists: Jensen Ackles Last episode: 3x12 "Jus in Bello"- 2/21/2008 Next episode: 3x13 "Ghostfacers"- 4/24/2008

Question Index: 1- fav episode; 1x01, 2x20 2a- Future Projects; side gigs; Guitarist, Singer🔮 2b- Craziest accomplishment 3- Future Projects; plays and acting aspirations 4a- 10 Inch Hero distribution 4b- Future Projects; Summer projects 5- Non-acting interests; guitar, golf 6a- 3x11; story location; Broward County, Florida 6b- most missed s3 character/actor; Jeffery Dean Morgan; Sterling Brown, Malik Whitfield 7a- Fan Request; Blue Steel impression 7b- 2x15; ACT ONE, INT. CRAWFORD HALL – NIGHT, (SAM POV); Caramels 8- 3x11; fav Dean death; worst Dean death 9- Character aspirations 🔮 10a- Dark Angel 2x11; Alec playing Chopin’s Etude in E; Jensen playing 10b- Future Dean singing 11- Phobias; 2x02, 2x11 12- Thoughts on DOOL FR1- Thoughts on Dean FR2- Closing

(video playlist/links and transcript below the cut)

(*if you notice any mistakes in the video transcripts or found more video or audio coverage of the con please point them out, thank you*👍)

Fan reports: [insomnia_geek] • [bardicvoice] • [sarah_p] (*warning: Fan reports as a source can't be fully verified unless video or audio of the con can confirm it. Be mindful not to take Fan Reports as the unquestionable and unbiased truth.*)

◘Jensen in LA: favorite episode by BabyBlueSteel◘ (0:33-3:15)

◘Jensen's entrance in LA Supernatural Con Q&A by IY◘ (0:28-1:50)

•(0:33 BBS, 0:28 IY) – Introduction

Jared leaves behind the curtains. Jensen puts down the photos, looks towards the curtains, then holds up his hand to the audience.

Jensen: Alright, he’s gone. It’s cool. (waves hand) (audience laughs) (sits down) You guys can (Jared makes a fart noise into his mic) all rel- (freezes)

Jared: (from behind the stage) Sorry, sorry, sorry. (audience laughs)

Jensen: (to audience straining) I’m sorry. (flaps his shirt) It’s an early morning. (?Breakfast sandwich?). (audience giggles)

How you doing? (audience cheers and screams) Alright, see you later. (mimics leaving) (audience laughs)

Audience member: Come back!

Jensen: I always do that.

◘Jensen by clockstopper◘

Umm, (looks up at the hanging vinyl posters to his left and points) wow we got, uh, Ugly (Jared’s). And, uh.. evil (Fredric’s). And, (turns to the other side) um, Chad (Chad’s). And, (creation assistant hands Jensen a water bottle) uhh, (nods) and there he is (Jensen’s). (audience laughs) Yeaah. Right on. (audience laughs)

◘Jensen LA SPN convention-17 Jensen Panel 01-04 by DW&DW◘

(tries to lay down his water bottle) Ohh, (but his chair is too high and has to stretch) Ughhh. Ahh. (finally succeeds then sits back up and laughs) I’m sorry this is.. really unprofessional.

Hi, how’s everybody doing? (chuckles) Uh, I know I just put my arm around (gestures) basically everyone in this room. (audience cheers and claps)

Soo, uh, yeah. Let’s, uh- let’s talk. I- I see- (points to his left) Is this the line up? (points to his right) We got, uh- Ooo. (gestures to himself) Do I get to choose? (audience laughs)

Adam: Be my guest.

Jensen: Alright, um…

Audience member: Not that hard. (laughs)

Jensen: (to audience member) It’s always the simple things that get me.

(points to his left) Alright, we’ll start here. How are you?

•(1:53 BBS, 0:45 DW)- LA08JA;Q1- fav episode; 1x01, 2x20

Fan: Um, hi. How are you?

Jensen: Good.

Fan: My name’s Michelle. (Jensen: Hi, Michelle.) I just wanted to know what has been your favorite episode of all time and why?

Jensen: Hm, uh, ha-hmm. What’s a good episode. I mean, we’ve done, like what? Over fifty. Um, soo, best episode. Best episode. I don’t know. You know e- ther-there’s always a- there’s always an affinity towards the, uh, the “Pilot” simply because it- it gave us the characters. Umm, a-and it kind of created this whole.. mess.

Uum.. (audience chuckles) And, uh.. beyond that I-I probably have to go with, uh, the one Kr- er, Eric Kripke directed last season, uh, “Things That Are and Things That Should Never Be.” (audience cheers and claps) Um.. I’d say simply for the fact that it just completely took me out of my element. So, I was like, you know, (snaps fingers) uhh, felt like I was a fish out of water. ‘Cause it stripped away all the things, all the crutches I use to- to play Dean, um, because he was thrust into this- this- this altered state of reality.

And it was challenging and I-I think that I kind of.. I like challenging things, because if-if-if- (waves hand) You know I said this earlier to somebody, um, if you’re not challenging yourself, you’re not evolving. And I think that as a- as a character and as an actor you- you- you kind of want to continue to evolve, um, all the time, so… That was a good episode.

Fan: Thank you.

Jensen: Thank you.

◘Jensen in LA: will he pursue a music career? by BabyBlueSteel◘

(turns to his right) Hi.

•(2:07 DW, 0:02 BBS)- LA08JA;Q2a- Future Projects; side gigs; Guitarist; Singer🔮

Fan: Hi, Jensen. I’m Candy.

Jensen: Hi, Candy. (?Candy?).

Fan: Hi. Okay, so, um, I heard that you play guitar and then I think you sing, correct?

Jensen: Uhh, I-I-I do both.. moderately. (audience chuckles)

Fan: ‘Cause I just wondered if you’re gonna-

Jensen: Not well.

Fan: Okay. (laughs) I just wondered if you are gonna pursue that in any way or as just more of a hobby?

Jensen: Uh, no. I-I-I don’t think so. Um, you know, uhb, (nods) the gig I got right now keeps me pretty busy. (audience giggles) Um, and, uh, you know it’s- it’s- it’s funny because I.. ii-I have some- some really very talented friends, uh, here, who are musicians who I think.. uh, have played recently.

Did you guys s-see Steve last night? (audience claps and cheers) And, uh, I think Jason played the night before. Um, and also those are two very good friends of mine, (nods) very close friends of mine. And-and-and so, to have kind of those talents around me.. really puts me in my place. (audience chuckles) (laughs) As far as the musical aspect of it goes. (Fan: yes.) So, uh, I have no problem playing second fiddle to those guys. And-and I’m very content with where I’m- where I’m at and what I’m doing now.

•(3:10 DW, 1:04 BBS)- LA08JA;Q2b- Craziest accomplishment

Fan: Okay. One other question. (Jensen: Yes.) What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?

Jensen: The craziest thing I’ve ever done? (Fan: mhm.) (gestures to the audience) This. (?) (audience laughs) This is nuts. If you would have told me when I was like, fifteen years old, “Hey, by the way, you’re gonna be on stage by yourself, talking to a room full of adoring.. people.” (audience laughs) I would have been like, “That’s nuts.” (audience laughs) “That’s crazy.” (shakes head) I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Fan: (laughs) Okay, thank you so much. (Jensen nods. Audience cheers and claps.)

Jensen: (turns to his left) Hi.

•(3:39 DW)- LA08JA;Q3- Future Projects; plays and acting aspirations

Fan: I just wanna know, uh, do you ever have anyone come up and ask you to do plays? And what future acting projects would you like to (?be involved?)?

Jensen: Mm, uh, well I heard Jared (thumbs back) touched on, um, Western, which (shakes head) he totally stole from me. (audience laughs) Um, but, uh- uh, No. No plans to be on stage any time soon, as-aside from the one I’m on right now. (audience giggles)

Um.. aaaand, as far as, uh, future projects, I- you know.. iii-I think, I- I want to play- I just like the characters- (to audience) You know, what I think is great- is a great character is, uh-um, John McClane. Uum, (audience woos) you know, and.. and I think there’s a little bit of that in Dean as well. Because, he’s kind of this, you know, tortured.. hero that’s kind of grew- you know, he- he.. (shakes head) he’s just constantly getting.. beat to hell. And- but he gets back up for more and he keeps going and he preservers. And it’s like, it’s the average joe that-that turns into a hero. (to fan) I-I really like that. I really like those kinds of characters. Um, and I think that they, uh, you know, they speak volumes to-to a lot of people as oppose to like, you know, some giant superhero with superpowers. I mean, this is, uh, an average guy, but in an incredible situation and he rises to the occasion. So, I-I like those stories (nods).

Fan: Well, I wish you continued success.

Jensen: Thank you very much. (Fan: Thank you.) Yeah. (audience claps)

(turns to his right)

•(4:54 DW)- LA08JA;Q4a- “10 Inch Hero” distribution

Fan: Hi, Jensen. (Jensen: Hi.) I’m Sue.

Jensen: Hi, Sue.

Fan: What happened to “10 Inch Hero”? (audience woos)

Jensen: That’s a great question. Um, I- I don’t know. You guys probably more- know more than me. Uh, I- I’m kind of in a locked box in Canada most of the year. Um, I don’t know. I-I-I know that they’re still, um, trying to get distribution and-and things like that. But, you know, it’s a- it’s a tough (?roader?).

◘Jensen in LA: the status of Ten Inch Hero by BabyBlueSteel◘

There’s a lot- a lot of movies out there that- (shakes head) that never see the light of day for whatever reason, because it’s a crazy industry, so. Um, you know, you just- you just do your work and you put it out there and you hope that somebody, you know, responds to it. (shrugs) And that’s.. y’know, that’s all you can do.

•(5:31 DW, 0:26 BBS)- LA08JA;Q4b- Future Projects; Summer projects

Fan: And are you gonna be doing anything in- in the summer?

Jensen: Um, there’s a few things that- that arrre possibilities, but, you know, I don’t want to jinx myself. And-and call ‘em out, so. Um, but yeah, it’s- it’s a possibility. (nods)

Fan: Okay, thank you.

Jensen: Yeah, thank you.

(turns to his right) Hi.

•(5:48 DW, 0:44 BBS)- LA08JA;Q5- Non-acting interests; guitar, golf

Fan: Hi. Um, what are your other interests other than acting?

◘Jensen LA SPN convention-18 Jensen Panel 02-04 (Golf BlueSte by DW&DW◘

Jensen: (smacks lips) My other interests. Um, well, like I said earlier, you know, fiddling on the guitar is-is- is kind of fun. Um, I like to play golf. That’s, uh, I-I- I got into that a few years back.

And- and it’s, you know, it’s funny, because, you know, there’s the old- there’s the old joke, the guy’s at the driving range with his little daughter. And he’s-he’s out there and he’s hitting the ball and he’s like, (jerking his head around) “Dammit! God! Sonna of-!” (audience laughs) He hits another one and he’s like, (throws his hand up) “That’s it! Come one!” (audience laughs) And he hits another one and he’s like, (shrinks into himself and grips his hand tight) “Guruuhhh!” (audience laughs) And the daughters like, “Dad, why do you play golf?” And he’s like, (turns his head) “It relaxes me!” (audience laughs and claps) (to fan) I’m that guy. (audience laughs, claps, and cheers) (nods)

I tried to do that without cussing and it’s very difficult. (audience laughs)

(turns to his right) Hi.

•(0:53 DW)- LA08JA;Q6a- 3x11; story location; Broward County, Florida

Fan: Yes. Hi. got two questions. Um, I asked Eric this yesterday and he didn’t know, but maybe you did?

Jensen: That’s impossible. He knows everything. (audience laughs)

◘Jensen on Mystery Spot location by IY◘

Fan: Um, I was actually born in Broward County and I was wondering if you had any idea why “Mystery Spot” was set in that particular location?

Jensen: Are you kidding me? The writer didn’t know, you think I’m gonna know? (audience laughs) (laughs)

Fan: Literally Caver knew the answer and he didn’t, but maybe they told you on set or something.

Jensen: (shakes head) Absolutely not. We are- we are strictly voices for the writers is, uh, yeah. (Fan: Okay, um-) Ah, yeah, if he didn’t know (shakes head) and then he just- like I- he does know everything. That guy’s a genesis.

•(1:27 DW, 0:27 IY)- LA08JA;Q6b- most missed s3 character/actor; Jeffery Dean Morgan, Sterling Brown

Fan: And the second thing is, of the characters that have, uh, died recently which one, um, are you gonna miss the most? Whether it’s the character or the actor that’s playing them.

Jensen: (looks up) Hmm.. Well, I think that’s- I mean, for me it’s an easy one and it’s Jeff. Um- (audience claps)

◘Jensen in LA: favorite dead guest star? by BabyBlueSteel◘

Fan: Well, he dies last season. (Jensen: Who?) What about this season?

Jensen: Oh, you mean recent- (Fan: Yeah.) You mean this season?

Fan: Like, I mean.. I know we- a lot of us are gonna miss Henriksen and Gordon. They were both great characters.

Jensen: (nods) Yeah, Gordon. Sterling, uh, is, uuh, I think that he’s, err, destined for great things. Um.. I know he was leaving (smacks lips) our set while we were filming.. to go and shoot a scene with Al Pacino (nods) and Robert De Niro (looks at fan with eyebrows raised) simultaneously. (audience woahs) So, uh, you- you will definitely be seeing more of him.

Um, and, uhhh, yeah Malik, Henriksen, (shakes head and looks at fan) also great charact- I mean, there’s so many great chara- That’s the great thing about the show. (nods) It’s also, uhh, you know, (smiles then chuckles) it’s kind of the tough thing about the show is that we have all of these great guest stars come on, you know, week to week, and (swipes hand) put in these great performances.

Um, unfortunately we don’t get to see them the next week or the week after. So, it’s, uh.. you know, me (points to Jared’s hanging vinyl poster to his left) and Goofy (audience laughs) all day long.

Fan: Thank you.

(smiles) Thank you. (points to the fan’s mic on his right) I think this mic might be down.

(turns to his left) Hi.

◘Jensen in LA: (baby) BLUE STEEL!! & caramels in Tall Tales by BabyBlueSteel◘

•(2:46 DW)- LA08JA;Q7a- Fan Request; Blue Steel impression

Fan: Hi, Jensen.

Jensen: How are you?

Fan: Good. You?

Jensen: (nods) I like the hat. (audience chuckles)

Fan: (giggles) Thanks. Okay, I have- actually I have two questions. (Jensen: Alright.) Okay, my favorite ep-

Jensen: Let’s go with number two.

Fan: Okay, can for all- for all of us can you do the Blue Steel.. impression? (audience laughs and cheers)

Jensen: (smiles to himself and then scratches his cheek) (audience woos and claps) (holds hand out) I mean, honestly is it that- (looks around the audience) (audience yes’ and catcalls)

◘Jensen LA SPN convention-19 Jensen Panel 03-04 (fave death) by DW&DW◘

Fan: It’s cute, right?

◘Jensen does Blue Steel by IY◘

Jensen: (looks back and forth) It’s just an impersonation of another movie. I mean…

Audience memberA: Do it for us, come on.

Audience memberB: Come on!

Audience memberC: We love you!

Audience memberD: Do it!

Fan: (to audience) How many of y’all want to see him do it? (audience cheers, raises their hands, and claps)

Jensen: (rolls eyes and shakes head) Alright, I’m gonna do it for one second. (audience laughs) (raises his head and smirks) (laughs) God, cameras are (?amazing?), like this.

Jensen mimics the fans with their cameras. He slowly raises his hands holding an imaginary camera and opens his mouth exaggeratedly and then pretends to shake hair out of his face. The audience laughs. Jensen lowers his hands and looks down. Then he looks up and sucks in his cheeks and purses his lips. Camera flashes go off. The audience laughs, screams, and claps.

Jensen: Yep. (squints and holds out a hand) It’s not even good, like- (shakes head) Not even- (Christopher Walken accent) It’s not even good. I don’t know why I’m talking like Christopher Walken. (audience laughs)

(to fan) Uhh, (Fan: Okay.) And-and the first question?

•(3:54 DW, 1:09 BBS, 0:50 DW)- LA08JA;Q7b- 2x15; ACT ONE, INT. CRAWFORD HALL – NIGHT, (SAM POV); Caramels

Fan: The first question? Okay, on season two-

Jensen: Or the second one, (shrugs) ‘cause I don’t know which one you had. (audience giggles)

Fan: On season 2, um, “Tall Tales,” (Jensen: mhm.) there’s always this one part that’s always bugging me, what are you eating?! (Audience member: Caramels or something.) Are you eating caramels in that?

Jensen: (nods) Um, caramels. (Fan: Okay.) (to audience) They were real. (audience chuckles) They were not sugar-free, (audience laughs) or fat-free, or any of that. And, (full body shiver/cringe) (audience laughs) I can never eat one of those again. (audience laughs) I think at any given time- and we did it probably seven takes. (audience ohs) I think- I think at any given time there was anywhere from twelve to fifteen in my mouth. (audience aughs) Um, (looks up and nods) that’s a lot of sugar. (audience giggles) (gestures to his mouth) So much to where my mouth was starting to, like, go numb. And I- I-I just- I- I was an idiot (?after nine times?). So, yeah.

Fan: Thanks, Jensen.

Jensen: You’re welcome.

(turns to his right) Step right up. Is that mic workin’?

•(1:46 DW)- LA08JA;Q8- 3x11; fav Dean death; worst Dean death

Fan: Hello?

Jensen: Nice. (audience chuckles)

Fan: Okay, question for Mystery Spot. What was your favorite Dean death? (audience laughs and claps)

◘Jensen in LA: favorite Mystery Spot death by BabyBlueSteel◘

Jensen: (laughs) Um.. I’ll tell you what my- my- First off I’ll tell you th-the, uh, my most unfavorite.. I guess, is- was the, uhm, (smacks lips)- Uh, (sits up) well, I guess it wasn’t death. It was just a scene where I was gargling the- (audience laughs) ‘Cause they actually gave me real Scope. Well, when you do that twelve times (audiences aughs) (shrugs) again you can’t feel your mouth. (numb tongue accent) And then I’m talking to Jared like this. (audience laughs)

Um, but my favorite death, um, (sucks on teeth then laughs) I like when the (swipes down) piece of furniture fell on me. (audience cheers and laughs) ‘Cause he’s just cruising along and (swipes hand) no more. (audience laughs)

Um, the (nods) car hit was pretty cool. (a few audience woos) Um..

Audience member: Tacos!

Jensen: Tacos? Yeah, but you didn’t actually see it. You just- you know, it was just like, (rubs fingers) “Do these taste funny to you?” (gestures) and then boom he wakes up.

Audience members: Shower!

Jensen: (nods) Shower. (to fan) The electrical shaver, him shaving then (mimics electrocution) “Bzzzzt”. (audience laughs) I don’t know there’s- there’s a lot. I enjoyed it.

Fan: Thank you.

Jensen: Yeah. I had a lot of fun doing that (?shit? or ?shift?).

(turns to his left) Hi.

•(3:04 DW)- LA08JA;Q9- Character aspirations🔮

Fan: Hi. I’m Tiffany. (Jensen: Hi.) Um, I just wanted to know what you’d like to see for your character in the next couple of seasons, what you’re hoping for?

Jensen: Umm…

Audience members: Not die.

Jensen: Life on earth? (holds up hand) (audience laughs) I mean, it’s obvious. Um.. You know, I-I- I like to, uh- I like to see the guys thrown into some really, really sticky situations, um, like they always are. But, uhh, I like, you know, I like it when they kind of get taken out their element, (smacks lips) um, like I touched on with, um, (smacks lips) with the show from the second season. Uh, I kind of like it, you know, where.. you can- you can take these characters, but still functioning as those characters, and put them in a situation that they’re just completely not used to.

Um, so, I, you know, mor-more of that is-is kind of what’s-what’s excites me. So, we’ll see what the whi-writers come up with, I don’t know.

I do love the fact that I see- I did see recently in a magazine that, uh, Sera Gamble, she was quoted as saying, um, “You know, sometimes I write lines and they just seem so vanilla to me, but instead of sitting there and thinking about them all the time, I’m just like, (waves hand) ‘Jensen will make that work’.” (audience laughs) (tilts head back and forth with a squinting smirk)

Fan: And did you?

Jensen: And I- Well, and I thought about it and I was like, “Well, thanks a lot Sara.” (audience laughs) “Makin’ my job twice as hard.” (tilts head with a smile) No, she writes me great. So, I’m very, very fortunate to have her.

◘Jensen LA SPN convention-20 Jensen Panel 04-04 (Paino in DA, by DW&DW◘

Fan: Thank you for coming.

Jensen: (nods) Thank you.

(turns to his right)

•(4:26 DW, 0:09 DW)- LA08JA;Q10a- Dark Angel 2x11; Alec playing Chopin’s Etude in E; Jensen playing

Fan: Hi, Jensen. (Jensen: Hi.) Um, I’m a musician so I appreciate that you’re like a musical- (Jensen: [bull horns hand sign] Rock and roll!) (audience laughs) And uh, I just wanted to, uh, ask two things.

One was in Dark Angel you played Chopin and I-I understand that was really you? Is that true?

Jensen: Yes.

Fan: Can you do (?that next breakfast?) (audience woos, claps, and cheers)

Jensen: It was two weeks of piano lessons, I don’t remember (swipes hand) a lick. (audience laughs) Yeah.

◘Jensen in LA: more singing for Dean? by BabyBlueSteel◘

•(0:35 DW, 0:09 BBS)- LA08JA;Q10b- Future Dean singing

Fan: And the second question is, uh, are we gonna get to see Dean sing again? Because, I think we’re looking for some new ringtones. (audience laughs, cheers, and claps)

Jensen: (looks up) Um… (looks at fan and shakes head) No.

Fan: There’s nothing to see (?in the room?) right now probably.

Jensen: I don’t know. There’s nothing in the script. (shrugs) So, yeah, that’s- that’s not up to me. (fan sighs) That would be- (Fan: Adlib.) that would be at Eric.

Fan: Adlib.

Jensen: Adlib? (audience laughs) Sure, (shrugs) I’d just bust into, like, some Albert Opera or something like that? (audience laughs) (Fan:?that’d be something?.) Right.

Fan: Thank you. (Jensen laughs shaking his head then turns to his left)

•(1:07 DW)- LA08JA;Q11- Phobias; 2x02, 2x11

Fan: Hi. (Jensen: Hi.) I’m Hedi. Um, we know that Sam and I are both afraid of clowns and Dean’s afraid of flying. What are you afraid of?

◘Jensen in LA: what Jensen is scared of by BabyBlueSteel◘

Jensen: What am I afraid of? I actually share you’re- you’re fear of clowns. (audience giggles) Um-

Fan: They are freaky.

Jensen: They- Well, there was- it was the stupid (gestures) Steven King movie the “It”. (audience oos, cheers, and claps) (shakes his head then shrugs) And it just- it ruined me. It just ruined me. And it-it- and to this day, you know, clowns in the gutters. (audience laughs) I just don’t like them.

Fan: Thank you.

Jensen: So it was funny because in that- in that episode, you know, Sam was the one being affect, but I don’t think Jared is actually afraid of clowns. He might be, I don’t know. Um- but, uh, I was the one going, (tenses) “Man, I’m freaking out.” (audience laughs)

(points) That and, uh, “Playthings.” The episode with all the dolls with no eyes. (audience aughs) (shakes head) I didn’t like that at all.

(turns to his right then back to his left) Thanks. (back to the next fan) Hi.

◘Jensen in LA: on Days Of Our Lives by BabyBlueSteel◘

•(1:55 DW, 0:00 BBS)- LA08JA;Q12- Thoughts on DOOL

Fan: Hi, Jensen. I’m Ronda.

Jensen: Hi, Ronda.

Fan: Hi. Um, how did you like working-

Jensen: (to audience) I could have busted out (nods) into song right there. (audience laughs) I with- I withheld.

Fan: (laughs) How did you like working on Days of Our Lives?

Jensen: Um.. I-I loved it. It was, (Fan: Good.) uh, yeah. I mean, it was, uh, kind of really my first.. um… llike.. time I really got to, like, dive into a character and like really kind of get my feet wet.. in the- in the industry.

Um, it taught me a lot of stuff. You know, the- the- especially the technical part of acting, you know: finding your camera, finding your light, not blocking the, you know, knowing your lines, not blocking cameras for other people. Just being spatially aware of, uh, the-the set. And I-I think that kind of training is, uhm- is hard to come by, just, like, in acting class.

Um, you know, I mean, acting class and theatre class you kind of.. break down scripts, break down characters, and really try to feel that character out. So, it helps performance. Um, but doing that performance while also keeping in mind (points to head then down) you have to hit your mark, and (points to his left) find your light, and make sure (points forward) that camera can see you, and (points to himself) know your lines, and (waves hand) you gotta do all this other stuff. It’s- It’s really difficult.

You know, um, there’s- we have some actresses and there- or actors and actresses and they come onto the show and they’re-they’re fantastic.. performers.. but a lot of times they just can’t- they can’t find their mark. They’re not comfortable, like, standing at, you know, they-they have to do- They were taught to do what’s natural. Or- Well, (shrugs) doing what’s natural may not.. include hitting your mark (hand chop), or finding your light (hand chop), or, you know, (waves hand) doing all that.

So, to- to have that kind of (pine cone gesture) training ingrained in you is, uh- was valuable. And I got a lot of that from them, so. (Fan: Yeah.) Yeah.

Fan: Well, love yah in both. (giggles) (?who said? Or ?just in?) that.

Jensen: (nods) Thanks. (Fan: Thanks)

(turns to his left) Hi.

(missing coverage *fan reports could be incomplete and/or erroneous)

•(insomnia_geek •19 bardicvoice para. 41)- LA08JA;FR1- thoughts on Dean

“How does he reconcile the contradictions in Dean's character? Life in general is a contradiction. Dean can play both sides, as he's complex and layered. He's real, and the writers write him very well. He just hopes he plays it off as well.” – IG

“Asked what aspect of Dean he finds most challenging and most fun to play, he said that what he really likes is that Dean plays both sides – that he gets very angry, and he lives with a lot of grief and sorrow, but while he isn’t really a happy guy, there are also things that bring him great joy. He said that he loves that slice of life mixture and that it makes Dean a real character. He said that what he most wants is to capture that and do him justice, to play Dean well.” – B

•(insomnia_geek para. 2, bardicvoice para. 42, sarah_p para. 30-31)- LA08JA;FR2- Closing

“That's when Jared came back onstage. Apparently he'd been mainlining Skittles backstage, didn't bring any out for Jensen. They talked quietly to each other for a moment out of mike pickup and joked a bit. Jensen said that they speak in code.” – IG

“Jared reappeared in that moment, bragging “But not as good as Jared plays Sam!”” – B

“Somewhere around this, Jared came back out, and he was EATING SKITTLES (which totally made me think of him offering to buy Papa Ackles Skittles at the AFGM intermission ;)), and didn't bring any for Jensen. I was ALREADY IN LOVE WITH THEM. AGAIN.

He and Jensen were talking really quietly to each other for a minute (Basketball scores, maybe? Can someone who was sitting closer confirm this?), and then they finished, and Jensen laughed and told us that they speak in code. Which, really, I would NOT doubt--they are just SO attuned to each other, it's fantastic.” – S

J2 panel starts.

#spn #supernatural #jensen ackles #spn con #spn transcript #lacon 2008 #2008

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auckie · 7 months ago

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Finished my boys back panel for his new apartment. After it cures more I’m gonna install it, then the drainage layer (which I absolutely don’t need) and then the substrate. I was gonna make the bottom water proof but decided to just go with a protective mat instead. I don’t think I’ll be able to take it apart later but maybe it’ll be like. The last thing I ever move idk. Then Ill put up the UVB, his lamp, I miiiight have a heat mat on the bottom just in case but probably won’t ever use it idk, and finally his giant fucking water dish and ugly bottom hide. Then I’ll see if I can fit some of the roof/side climbing limbs I had planned. Was gonna drill them in but I don’t think the pvc will allow for it. I might try more foam/silicone *and* a bit of drilling, but we’ll see. Then the top leaf coverage (silk plants lol), and finally his giant cork log. I was also planning on putting some tiling over his ugly hide, or just replacing it completely bc he has the wall one plus the log. I also gotta test the weight capacity of the wall log tomorrow after curing. It’s resistant to heavy tugging, and he really doesn’t weigh *that* much but you never know the kind of stress he might put on it. It’s low to the ground so it wouldn’t be catastrophic but it would be difficult to fix. Eventually I would like to go full naturalistic and add plants and bio active substrate. Moving water is beyond my skill capacity/willingness to learn or spend so the static dish will have to do, but I am interested in a mister even tho I know it’s not necessary. He’s been doing well with my humidifier and just some sprays, wet corners, and the dish, but if I do pursue plants it may be crucial. Granted I know scale rot is something people warn about but I figure if I keep it high then I can avoid laden substrate. Plus the drainage layer would help.

I even bought a kitchen scale to weigh him. I was gonna get a temp gun too but that’s kinda absurd since I got like, two different humidity gauges and a temp regulator + thermometer. if I have room I may also try a slight rock border at the bottom of the back panel but I’m not really like. Interested in using foam again, either panel or expanding. Bc it sucks and i despise it. Silicone too honestly, even the aquarium rated stuff which is easier (imo) to get off skin. My dad REALLY wanted to use caulk but I was like hell no. I’ll resort to shelf pins/rivets for support before I try that lol.

I just scrolled up and realized the pic is so dark bc I just turned the overhead light off and didn’t have flash on but I’m so tired and sweaty I don’t care. It’s a cork bark/spanish moss/sphagnum moss back wall but it does just look like a mess of leaves and shit from the pic. I started really clean and then got progressively sloppier as time went on

Here’s a before progress pic SORRY for foot

And here’s snoopert head. He’s getting upgraded from 60 gallon to 120. Tbh if I had the room and money I’d totally have gotten the 240 one

Fuck snoopy

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makerofmadness · 2 years ago

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I am once again tagging @umbrarkzoo

for some incorrect FNAF quotes under the cut

Fritz Smith: I’m gonna mix a can of Red Bull with seventeen shots of espresso in a fishbowl and then chug it while Kids by MGMT plays in the background so I can perceive twenty-three spatial dimensions and fight my own soul.

Michael Afton: Someone care to explain why we have 6 dogs in our house? Ennard: They're golden retrievers, dude. They retrieve gold. I did this for us.

Freddy: Seriously, Cassidy, how many people would you have killed if we’d asked you to? Golden Freddy: That’s not important Freddy: I DISAGREE.

Glamrock Chica: Without ugly, there would be no beauty in this world. Roxy: Thank you for your sacrifice, Gregory

Gregory, T-posing in the doorway: Greetings, Vanessa. Vanessa, not looking up from her coffee: Good morning, problem child.

Michael Afton: Kill me nowwwww. Elizabeth Afton: Sorry, no can do. I need your help with my homework.

William Afton: I am not a lunatic. I have the psychiatric report to prove it. A slender majority of the panel decided in my favour.

Gregory: What? I'm not aggressive! Monty: Last Tuesday, you wacked me with a pair of crocs and stole my chocolate chips? Gregory: Survival of the fittest, bitch.

Gregory: Though I admit I don’t know much about you, I am feeling pretty confident in my assessment that you are probably some sort of sick deadly fuck. Burntrap: Who told you my secret? -

Jeremy Fitzgerald: Are you ready to commit? Fritz Smith: Like, a crime or a relationship?

Jeremy Fitzgerald: I'm a nice person, but I'm about to start throwing rocks at people.

Michael Afton: Where did you get that tomato soup? Ennard: It’s actually a bowl of ketchup I just microwaved. -

Henry Emily: *Gives a bouquet to William* William Afton: You know I'm allergic. Henry Emily: That's the point.

The Puppet: Night Guard, fuck off. The Puppet And by "fuck off" I mean "fuck off right back here and listen", you insufferable prick.

Michael Afton: Life is like my brother. It's short.

Henry Emily: Why are you burning our marriage certificate!? William Afton: Good luck trying to return me without a receipt.

Michael Afton: I'm naturally funny because my life is a joke. -

Funtime Foxy: We either die free, or die trying! Ballora: Are those the only choices?

Toy Bonnie: *slams books down in front of Bonnie* Toy Bonnie: Boil up some Mountain Dew. It’s gonna be a long night. Bonnie: You could have said literally anything else. Toy Bonnie: Cauldron boil and cauldron bubble, Baja Blast to fuel my trouble. Bonnie: I’m going to just stop challenging you when you say random shit. I won’t win. I realize this now.

Henry Emily: How the hell are you still alive? William Afton: Honestly, I’m just as confused as you are.

(Alternatively: Glamrock Freddy and Burntrap because I am a Glamhenry enjoyer-)

Gregory, holding in his laughter: Hey, how do you ask a glass of water what it’s doing? Glamrock Freddy: A glass of water is an inanimate object. Therefore, it's incapable of having a thought process or understanding basic human language. Gregory: Gregory: Water you doing?

William Afton: When I see initials carved into a tree with a heart I think it’s so romantic. Two lovers on a date... one of them carrying a knife for some reason.

Golden Freddy: Do you care if I take the skin off this Furby? Golden Freddy: I want to make him a god. Once he is free of his sinful flesh, he can begin a path towards enlightenment. He will take care of us. Golden Freddy: I also want to softhack his circuits. The Puppet: I literally could not care less but never say anything as frightening as that ever again.

Fritz Smith: Don’t worry, I have a permit. Jeremy Fitzgerald: ...This just says “I can do what I want”.

Glamrock Chica: Yo! I heard you like reptiles, got any fun facts? Monty: If a crocodile eats your dad, they become your new dad.

Toy Freddy: I will beat all of you in Rock, Paper, Scissors. You go first. Toy Bonnie: Rock. Toy Freddy: Paper.

Nedd Bear: You spent all our money on THIS?? Orville, putting tiny raincoats on ducklings: They live outside. They need this.

*Bite of 87 happens*

The Puppet: I hope you have an explanation for this. Toy Chica: We have three actually- Mangle: Pick your favorite.

#fnaf #incorrect quotes #incorrect fnaf quotes #jerefritz #<- mild

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skelebonecentral · 9 months ago

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sun lovin'

this is the web show sun not game sun btw

words under cut

Sun swallowed thickly as he opened the door, “W-well, here’s the bedroom…don’t mind the posters and things, they’re glued on from before we bought it.”

He was embarrassed about it, but glad he had his own bedroom. Moon was working overnight with Solar on some portal things, so he’d taken the chance to have the house to himself and brought his…his partner. God he was so glad he’d finally found someone. She was so nice, didn’t interrupt him, didn’t talk down to him…who knew a human could be exactly what he needed?

The light was dim since the only thing he turned on was his salt lamp, a gift from them for valentines day, actually, so it was a warm pink glow all over the room.

She sat on the bed and smiled, looking around, “Well, you know I’m a bit of an 80’s nerd, so I’m cool with it if you don’t mind. You could always cover it up with your own stuff if you don’t like it.”

“right. Heh,” Sun sat next to her and his rays slipped in a bit, shy, “if I can find anything…anything that’s mine.”

Turning to him, she used one hand on his cheek to make him look at her, “I’m yours.”

His rays popped back out to spin slowly as his cheeks felt warm, “Can…can you say that again?”

“I’m yours,” she was looking up at him so tenderly, warm hand on his cheek, stroking over it with her thumb, “If nothing else in this world belongs to you, I do, Sun.”

“M-mine?” his internal fans kicked into gear, own hand starting to gently stroke through her hair while the other trembled near her shoulder, unsure of touching there. “You sure? Moon’s the smart one, y’know.”

“I’m not in love with your brother, Sun,” she leaned up, touching her forehead to his as both their eyes closed. “I love you, I want you, and you’re exactly what I think of when I think of who I want to be with.”

His body felt hot and he couldn’t help wrapping his arms around her waist as she leaned into him on her knees. Being so much taller than her was good for his ego, and it also stirred some protective feelings in his chest. “Even with everything you know? What I did to Blood Moon…?”

“All of you, Sun. I want all of you, good bad and ugly. Even if I don’t find anything about you less than good. You’re so dedicated, and patient with your loved ones…good with the kids…funny…” with every compliment, she pressed sweet kisses to his mouth, each lasting longer till they both were locked together.

Sun groaned a little as the warmth in his body shot straight between his legs, making him feel ashamed of going that route but…he was in his own space, safe at home, with his partner…why was anything wrong with that?

Cause who would want to make love to HIM? That’s why.

Pulling back, she cooed softly, “Your back tensed up. Bad thoughts?”

“Y-yeah…I’m…kind of worked up a little, eheh…sorry.”

“You’re upset because you’re turned on?” she smiled at him questioningly and he nodded, not able to meet her eyes. “sunny…why would that be bad? I love you. I’m yours…”

He felt his tendril twitch about that. She was HIS and she wasn’t upset…but the unsettled part of his mind whispered that she would be when she found out…

“I’m okay with getting more intimate if you are, Sun,” she seemed equally as shy about it, but held his hands, “and I kind of want to show you how much I love you. All of you. Can I?”

“I…” Sun knew he was going to regret it, but he nodded, “y-yeah.” Might as well get it over with, after all.

“Alright,” she got up and quickly began to disrobe, showing him her back and all the little marks on it. That mole in the center of her shoulders, scars from childhood accidents, the warm expanse of skin as the bra straps were taken away, god he loved her.

When she climbed back on, she gently tugged on his pants, “your turn, handsome man.”

The praise flooded his cheeks with blushing and made him squirm loose of his pants quickly, even if he was expecting to instantly hear yelling or disgust afterward.

She looked at him, his modesty panel long open, and instead of the sneer he expected, a slow smile spread over her face and she cooed softly, “Sunny, you’re so sweet…look at how lovely you are.”

The way his tendril squeezed in on itself matched the squirm in his body, “Y-you’re not upset?”

“No, can I touch?” she said, and he nodded, letting her softly run her finger around the soft folds of his entry under his shaft, the slick gathered there already making it easy. “Sun, you’ve got such a pretty little flower here…and I love how different your dick is from a human’s…much nicer to look at.”

He whimpered and covered his face, rays spinning as his legs curled upward, “D-do you really think that? You’re not mad I have both?”

“Why would I be mad? It’s your body, Sun, I only care that YOU are in it. It just gives me more ways to please you, including one I know better.”

He gave a soft giggle, flustered tears gaterhing in his optics, “So…y-you still want to make love?”

“I’m going to make you see how gorgeous you are, Sun, and yes, I’m going to make crazy love to you for as long as you want me to,” She let her hand curl around his shaft and began to gently swirl their fingers around it. “My good and warm little sunshine, all mine as I am yours.”

He covered his mouth with one hand and moaned into it, gripping the sheets as he lay back and let her work him up more, “K-keep talking, please. T-tell me you want me…”

“Oh, I will,” she sounded so happy, almost blissful as she murmured to him. “I want to hear your sweet voice feeling so good, I want to feel this slick little thing writhing inside me.”

“Y-yes, please…” He panted as she kept going, curling his toes, “please let me in.”

“I will, Sunshine,” she tapped on his stomach to make him look at her as she slid her finger up his pussy and took his own slick to lube up his dick, “and while you’re in me, I’ll use my hands for you. I want to feel the inside of your cute little hole with them. And if you don’t get off first, I’ll even taste you once I’m done.”

He gasped and nodded, tears finally flowing as she slowly slid herself onto his tendril, letting it wriggle up inside the heavenly softness of her body. His heart was just too full, gratitude, love, and desperate need for touch were all pouring out of it as she gently began bouncing up and down on him and using one hand to curl into his hole and rub the soft spot underneath his shaft that served as a clitoris. Her firm circles on that little spot, the moment her fingers found his tender place inside, with the bouncing on his dick all made Sun begin moaning out and babbling.

“P-please, please, be mine, just mine, please just want me! Nobody else!”

“No one, Sunny,” her own voice was thick with arousal and effort, “You’re my everything, you’re my only. Oh stars, Sun, you’re perfect and so so good in me. My sweetest sugar…” She was gasping and grunting with the work of taking both his genitals as her project simultaneously.

“J-just let the hole rest, I just want to please you first, please,” Sun begged, and she did as he asked, leaning forward to use both hands to support herself over him until he lunged forward and switched their positions, plunging into her and becoming very focused, “Making you mine, just mine, MINE!”

“Y-yes, yes! Yours! Always!” her arms were now around his neck and he growled as he possessively shoved his head into the crook of her neck, kissing and nipping everywhere he could reach as he began thrusting at a blistering pace.

“Nobody’s taking you from me,” he mumbled as his mind hazed with lust, “mine, can’t have you, mine mine mine!”

She cried out under him and that snapped him back to reality, even if it was just to quickly follow after her in climax, shuddering all over as he filled her cavern with his load while his pussy clenched on air. When they both seemed to be over the peak, he carefully rested on top of her and felt his motors purring.

“a-are you okay? I just…I lost control.” He admitted it, very shamefaced at sounding so…domineering.

“You did so good, though, Sun,” she huffed, beaming up at him. “I’ve never felt so wanted…you want me all to yourself and I love that about you.”

He shivered and leaned down, kissing her with all the love he was feeling. Even now, he could feel himself revving back up to go again, not able to get enough of her but…he hadn’t actually charged very well, and he could see the warning lights popping up even behind his closed eyes. “We have to stop, though…”

“Why?” she whined, and he lay back with a huff.

“Because I’m only on ten percent battery.”

“oh…” he felt her get up, so he did as well, flinging the dirty sheet out from the bed and letting her put on a new one while he got some wipes to clean them both up. “Rain check then on me going down on you. I was excited, too…you look so tasty…”

“Stooooop,” he laughed and blushed, “I’ll only do that if you let me do the same for you when we do. And it has to be after I charge.” He cleaned them both up, wiping off any schmutz that had gotten into odd places as fastidiously as he did any of his cleaning.

“Alright, I’m good with that deal,” She was happy to lay down next to him and pull his fresh blanket up over them both, snuggling into his chest. “then let’s rest and we’ll have breakfast in the morning.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sun was overjoyed to pull her soft warm skin against him after he’d plugged himself in. “I love you…”

“I love you, too, Sun. Goodnight.”

#enswif

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jackzillanyanut8008 · 2 years ago

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Star Wars Force Awakens Rewrite

Author’s Note:

This rewrite is completely fan-made. I ,Stone CL Williams, am not the creator of these characters. They belong to George Lucas, Lucasfilm Entertainment, Lily and Mikaila Orchard, and Disney+ Entertainment. I am not claiming any of these properties of my own. In the event that I do otherwise, I will take full legal responsibility for the misuse of these characters. Please support the official creators and there content. Thank You

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Chapter 1: Prologue

Jakku. A sand covered graveyard of destroyed star ships from the battle that ensued roughly 20 years ago. Varax looked out along the desert atop his speeder, the sun beating down on him like a wave. As he stared out amongst the lifeless desert, he noticed a starship fly overhead. The ship was roughly the size of a star freighter, and looked very similar to the ships used by the First Order. “Damn fascists” Varax mumbled under his breath as he hopped onto the speeder and headed towards Niima Outpost.

He sped through the desert, eventually reaching the settlement where he headed to Unkar Plutt’s to give him a heads up about the ship he’d seen earlier. But, oddly enough, Plutt’s top scavenger was there negotiating a deal with the ugly bastard. “For the last time girl one quarter portion, or nothing at all” Unkar said with a grunt. As Varax walked up to Plutt however, a woman stopped the scavenger and offered a better deal. Much to Unkar’s dismay. As the two walked off, Unkar scoffed and returned to his work “Hey boss” Varax called out “Ah Varax, finally something good can come out of this damn hellhole” Plutt said as he walked out of his shop for a smoke break “You usually aren’t back this early, what’s the occasion?” He asked, taking a puff from his pipe. “Caught a freighter outside the outpost. Looked old and beat up, and Imperial too” Varax said as he sat down next to the dealer. “Imperial? Obviously the desert’s fried your brain kid. The only Imperial ships here are derelict wrecks of an age gone by” He says with a laugh and a cough.

“Fair. What’s the deal with the girl anyhow?” Varax asked as he took a drink from his canteen. “Who, Rey?” Plutt asks as he exhales a thick cloud of smoke. “Yeah, she’s usually pretty loyal to ya since she’s started living on the old walker in the desert” Varax explains wiping some sweat from his brow. “Beats me” Plutt says as he takes another puff out of the pipe “The Dantoonian Girl though, she’s trouble” Plutt says with an exhale “Rumor has it she works with Lord Niima and the other Hutts in the cartel as a bounty hunter called ‘Darth Amorosa’” he says with a laugh. “She’s got guts pretending to be a Sith” Varax says “I’m gonna head out, thanks for the chat Plutt” Varax says as he cowls up his hood and walks off

First the ship, now a possible Sith here… I’ve got a bad feeling about this…

Chapter 2: An Unlikely Ally

Varax sped through the desert until he’d seen it: A Sith Interceptor. He’d only seen them in holodocs after leaving Luke’s order, it looked familiar but he shrugged it off as he docked his speeder in front of the ship as he saw Rey walk out with a bag of rations. “Uh Hi?” She says to Varax as he inspects the ship. He was right, it was old. REALLY OLD. Older than most ships he’d seen since… No, forget the past, don’t let it consume you he thought to himself before he walked up to Rey “Sorry if it looks like I’m tailing you. Wanted to make sure this old tub isn’t First Order” Varax says as he hits a panel before it hits the desert floor…. Directly onto his foot “Ah Kriff! Fucking ship!” He cursed under his breath. “Smooth Scav-boy, what’s next you’re gonna plant your head in the sand like a senator?” A voice says from the ship. Varax looks up and realizes it was the girl from the market. She looked like she was from Dantooine, based on the tattoo on her lips. “Yeah yeah” Varax says as he winces in pain “I just swang by to check on the ship, not everyday you see a Sith Interceptor…”. The girl chuckles as a 2V Droid exits the ship “Lady Amorosa if you don’t mind me asking, who is this” he says pointing at Varax. “My thoughts exactly 2V, who are you stranger?” she asks as she exposes a lightsaber hanging off her hip.

Varax sighs and removes his hood, his black hair blowing through the desert wind. “My name is Varax Koslov, former Jedi Master” he says as he pulls out his lightsaber and ignites its dual cyan blades as they crackled like lightning in his hands. Amorosa tensed up a little, as if a ghost had passed through her. But before she could say anything she and Varax felt a shift in the Force as the three of them looked up to see a First Order Dreadnaught appear out of hyperspace. Dropships and a Flagship headed towards a village to the east. “2V prime the ship!” Amorosa orders the droid as he races to the cockpit to start the vessel “Right away Darth Amorosa” he chimes as the ship begins to lift off. Rey accompanies them as they head to the village

Varax knew who was here, he knew who was on that flagship…

The Grandson to Darth Vader…

And Luke Skywalker’s former apprentice…

Kylo Ren.

Chapter 3: Hope Within Death

As the crew landed outside the village, Rey was sickened to her core. Bodies littered the village left and right, homes were in flames, and a Rebel X-wing was blown to pieces. “Who could’ve done this?” Rey asked the 2 Force sensitives as they looked for survivors amongst the dead and burned. “The First Order” Amorosa says as she turns over a corpse expecting something besides death. Varax nods in agreement, Rey is still confused, “First Order?” she asks not knowing of the tyrannical group. “Leftover parasites of the Empire, a bunch of fascist, racist, power hungry bastards who only wish to spread pain and suffering all over the galaxy” He says angrily. Rey lowers her head, “Is there anything we could’ve done?” She asks her strange friends. “No” they say, almost at the same time.

Suddenly a BB droid comes running at the trio, sounding of a battle cry of beeps and whirs as it charges at Amorosa. “Oi! Watch it you metal bastard” she reprimands the droid before it pulls out a shock stick and zaps her leg. “WHY YOU-” Amorosa says as she tries to kick the little droid before being cut off by Rey and Varax “Ali stop it! He’s obviously angry at someone else, don't hurt him!” Rey says as she kneels down to the droid. “I’m sorry about my friend, she can be a bit temperamental, my name is Rey. And this is Varax and Aliana” she explains to the BB droid. The droid gives out a series of beeps and whirs. “He says the village was attacked by the First Order, and that a warrior named Kylo Ren took his friend, a pilot named Poe Dameron, his name is BB-8” she translates as she looks back to the droid. “Listen, it’s too dangerous out in the desert at night, especially for a droid like you, how about you stay with us for the night and we’ll go after your friend in the morning?” she says, talking to the droid as if it's a little child. BB-8 looks down for a moment before giving an affirmative beep as he rolls to the Fury.

“Rey will take the guest room, Varax you get the couch” Aliana explains as the 4 of them enter the ship. Varax was thoroughly impressed by how well the ship was maintained, especially for its age. “How long have you had this thing?” Varax asks as he plops down on the couch as BB-8 rolls next to him “It’s a family heirloom, 2V and I have lived here for as long as I can remember” she says as she presses a button on the dining room table, revealing a huge family tree of humans, the earliest dating well over 1000 years ago. “Damn, this must be some heirloom, either that or that family tree is WAY off” Varax says as he kicks off his boots as lies down on the couch. The padding feeling like a 6 star hotel mattress on Canto Byte. “Ah that's the spot” he says as he closes his eyes and drifts into unconsciousness.

Chapter 4: Finn or Foe?

Varax tossed and turned as he dreamt. He was walking through a great hall on a forest planet. Endor’s Moon? Kashyyyk? It didn’t matter what he did see was the mask of Kylo Ren and the hum of his lightsaber before waking up in a jolt.

Rey and Aliana were eating stew of some kind as BB-8 was pacing around the ship. “Morning” he says as he gets up and grabs a bowl of stew from the pot. The scent of spices and meat made his mouth water “made it myself” Aliana says as she grabs a spoonful for herself. Varax gives her a look of doubt “A Sith cooking for a Jedi and a scavenger? I’m either still dreaming or dead” he says as he sits down and starts to eat as he looks over at Rey, whose cheeks are nearly bursting due to how full they are. “Ali’s the best cook ever!” Rey says as she swallows the mass of stew with a grunt. “Easy their Rey, no need to make yourself sick” Aliana says as she grabs the 2 empty bowls in front of Rey. Rey chuckles “Yeah you’re right” she says as Aliana sets the dishes in the sink and heads to the cockpit.

As the 3 enter the cockpit, a TIE fighter whips past them and collides with a sand dune and lands next to an old Star Destroyer. “What was that!?!?” Rey says as she grips the door frame as the ship shakes from the turbulence. “Looks like we’ve got us a First Order TIE Fighter” Varax says looking down at the wreckage. “Should we check it out?” Rey asks “It could be Poe” she adds. BB-8 gives out a series of supportive beeps before the ship gets swallowed by a vortex of desert sand.

“Well, if that Poe guy’s in there he’s dead… sorry little buddy” Varax says to BB-8 sympathetically. BB-8 lowers his head and beeps sadly. “Hang on whose that?” Rey asks, pointing at someone next to the wreckage. The crew look at the camera footage of the wreck and its lone survivor: A dark skinned stormtrooper carrying a brown leather jacket. BB-8 gives out a series of angry beeps as he takes control of the Fury and sets it on a collision course. “What the hell are you doing you idiot!?!” Varax yells at him. BB-8 responds with a series of beeps. “He says that the jacket belonged to Poe!” Rey exclaims trying not to fall on any controls as BB-8 recklessly flys overtop the Stormtrooper and lowers the landing gear, rolling out of the ship and charging at the survivor. Shocking him and running him over while giving out the droid equivalent of a raging war cry.

“BB-8 Stop it let ‘em go!!!” Varax yells as he grabs the droid before pulling a blaster pistol on the Trooper. “What's your name Buckethead?”

(Chapters 5-9 are coming soon)

#star wars rewrite #star wars #the sith resurgence #lily and mikaila orchard #disney #lawrence kasdan #j. j. abrams #Michael Arndt #George Lucas #rey skywalker #ben solo #finn sw #poe dameron #kylo ren #aliana beniko

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silverjetsystm · 1 month ago

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Soldier drove. The body’s folded in rear passenger's side, Ray-Ban New Caravan sunglasses and clear earplugs taking the aggressively bright day down a couple of notches. Staring would imply they are drilling holes in leather. A better description would be their slack face pointed towards the direction of shotgun’s seat. Nobody’s at the door.

Bonedust, moondust smeared the black and white checkered yellow/gold cab humming across twisty turny desert road. Bright headlights shine a yellow moon on ancient stone darkly disappearing into the star studded velvet sky. The Temple was the place Marc retreated in black moods. ‘Not healthy,’ Jake and Steven and Dr. Sterman and Dr. Wilk agree.

That putz haunting Spector is sewer rat shrunken, helium squawking high and away. Jake’s boot squishes him like a cigarette, tired chuckle echoing off hieroglyphic carved walls, the – what’s the word, stone carved coffin placed in front of the fuggin statue over at Grant’s. Work boot sends the sarcophagus cover, crescent moon, straight beard face flying.

Marc’s inside. Five point bound, dressed in white scrubs not tachrichim, tallis wrapped.

Jake’s used to placing bodies in simple pine boxes for the final rest, not waking them up. This doesn't count. “Y better not jump me,” he advises Marc, the traveler’s enamel gritting, boiling freezing blood, convulsions, each cell a star winking out into the black, no he can’t rely on mask forever, he was, he had been Ab-

Last restraint clanks against stone.

Marc jumps him. It's a fight between brothers in the dust, the cabbie Embracing a rattling, restless all over merc.

White car idled in front of the valet, Soldier’s finger up. 1 sec. “Boss.” Turned around, couple of panel knocks. “Mr. Grant.” Prepping to circle and circle until Boss (Grant or Spector. Jake’s not Boss but Jake would also be someone) stirred. Valet telling them ‘hurry up.’ Reese had a trick for this; Soldier can’t match her. All Soldier’s got is hometown colored firefight urgency a bomb in the enclosure, “YA GOT WORK!”

It’s in his name.

Ocean breath, sharpening dry eyes, is a tell someone(‘)s up. Good L-rd, I’m up! Long legs navigate foul-like, jerky foal-like into sunlight, stained index finger rubbing stained thumb, aching nose and dry eyes towards his timepiece, rapidly blinking away the back. Navy statue idled beneath the gray canopy. Soldier handled getting the car tucked away logistics to the tune of keys and cash tip. Gray suited shadow falling in a few steps behind and to the left.

Names and identification are careful currency for a – technically two, technically four – that isn’t funny, Steven! -- visitor’s badges and point in the right direction. Away from the masses, tucked above potential nosy prying eyes, big violating camera lenses, hot mics.

112 Divided by 16.

Vultures circling a Cathartidae family member. Human versions cannibalize. Grant isn’t sure about the animals.

All up, Grant autopilots, Jake leaning on co-con on the edge of Grant’s awareness. Sure strides business brother to Spector’s, Soldier’s, military bearing. Demanding space, move, from the lost and stressed. Green lenses, gold framed Ray-Bans temporarily pushed on his forehead until they get where they’re going. Long hallways in ugly soothing colors, scrubs and white coats with destinations in mind. Heavy doors opening automatically. Large elevators with two sets of doors. Skin prickles beneath summer weight navy wool, white linen shirt. Static breath. Fishbowl mirror in the moving box distorts sharp faces into sludge.

2 [_] 1 [_] 6 [_] 6 = 38

So focused on the door number, he misses a woman leaning against the door to his destination, feathered bob giving serrated knives as she turns into Spector’s brown polyester tie with the baby blue square dots, wet lips matching wet raccoon eyes. The Rachel, Grant presumes. “Sorry,” he reflexes, taking several steps backward, heart quaking, sweat pooling against collar.

The Rachel at the end of her line is no Cassandra. Her astute observations are based on handling. On being crew instead of talent. This is not a conversation. Her accent, nostalgically homey in ways Grant would never admit, bringing up hard strawberry flavored candy in strawberry shaped wrappings, talks at him.

“Pawse!” Scarred eyebrow arches, shoulders in no need of padding stiffened. Soldier recoils, hand out for the offending phone, receding from a curt shake of Boss’ head. Boston Fruit Slices, grainy sugar peel, in five flavors, this one cheap blackmail like she could see Ben’s hand oils, pick smoothed out polyester crumples apart from faint floral paisley pattern. Getting out with insurance for life events far more important than another ‘work problem.’ Money and the gig is good until one missed thing too far. One thing far too real. Steven’s voice mumbles, “Mazel,” Grant’s half-steamed Midwest polite smile.

Financier and former bonehead’s gaze turn to heels clicking, French tip stabbing finality. Look communicated between lifers. Go on, beer bottle eyes say. Got your ticket to freedom. The City eats her children. Everyone climbing on each others backs to touch the sky. Didja hear Hart Island’s gotta pak now? White stone tombstones sticking up from the earth like giant’s teeth.

Soldier doesn’t have a life to interrupt with life events. Soldier’s the Boss’ man for life because the Boss won his loyalty. Not everyone’s got a ‘good’ Boss.

Elevator doors shut, seeing Rachel to other places which may be initially warmer but lacking the view, the salary. Obscurity. One marker per mass grave.

Grant introduces himself to The Humming Nurse. “I’m --” stuck smile. Stuck words. Safe tumblers turn, fingers firm against steel. One pattern, one number. There’s no nice, neat title selected in HIPAA or emergency contact forms. Not the five or so different terms for romantic partnership. None of the familial terms obviously fit. ‘We’re working on a project’ too much. Trembling hand gestures towards the shut door. “-- Here to see him,” is simply the truth, swapping left for right outstretched hand to shake.

Click. She’s delighted. She looks like a hugger; his shoulders tense again. He’d almost take hostile or bored. She gets a head start to the door, is overcompensating in syrupy sweet simpering to Ben. ‘Hon’ to Grant, taken the same way he does with other pet names where they don’t belong – polite indifference.

Soldier stands outside, door swinging shut. Close as he needs to be.

2 x 1 + 6 x 6 = 38

Ben is twisted, melted marble statue, shaggy black dog fur, tangled feathers, green and gold sunlight doing nothing to warm corpse pale cheek on starched linens covering him from shoulders to socks. Steven hovers in the doorway. Blink-click, handful of seconds distant in shoving the update, including the whiteboard marker care team and etc., to the back.

“Can’t be good for you.” Wind from a cracked door, through the keyhole. Steven wants to put his ear against it. What a redundancy. “Place like this.”

Steven wants to laugh at truth but can’t get it up. “No. It’s not.” He shucks the jacket, visitor badge clatters, letter sleeps stuffed in the inside pocket, drapes it over the creaking visitor’s chair taken up by the tall frame occupying it. Sensitive brown trace constellations on vellum. “Rest assured, out of the three of us, I am the best choice.”

Artificial and sun light illuminate slight skin variations, sleep deprived crows feet eyes scanning blinds slats for shooters, the crooked Jewish boxer nose box breathing, headache stabbing, receding. On nothing but himself. A sea churns in his stomach. Left hand reaches towards shroud, thumb cuticle, hard nail plate cracked and inflamed. Palm presses into firm mattress, curling linens.

Ray-Bans drop over his eyes, a protective shield from desert glare highlighting thin veins in Ben’s shut lids. “We wanted to. I wanted to. I didn’t want us to make trouble.” Proximal nail fold and surrounding skin flake. Always had to run the numbers. Risk Analysis for personal and professional. What is projection from Steven, from Marc, from Jake. Are they true mirrors, reflecting infinity? “This isn’t good to go through….”

Desert dizziness, financier shotgun in Jake’s cab, hard mercenary could be hunched, shivering arms around suit middle.

‘Nuh uh.’ Rewind it. Dumb slate clap. Taxi door slams. Everyone where they should. Proper meds shaken in front of Marc’s nose. A sigh. Pop. Swallow. ‘Didja really?’ Marc sticks out his tongue, opens his mouth wide. Lifts tongue. Nothing sticking to the lower surface. ‘Okay. Let’s go to Gena’s.’

… Seconds? Minutes? Jaw relaxes.

Smudged hand straightens disgusting tie. Midwestern continues, “alone.” Or with Help. As sure as an addict knows another, this was going to happen eventually. At some time.

The front mirror is often half-silvered. Matching scars. Divide the inch, average HEX colors, white powder purity.

Grant won’t leverage certain things that they need. Their recovery. Perpetually considering large differences. Solitary guiltless shark talent. Three/One guilt drowning, giving and giving until the cup is damp. It’s in their names. Solo act. Grant perfect healing, of body and of soul to.

Chair creaks once again. Glass shoved to his forehead, bloodshot whites. Chewed lips press against flat black locks. Forehead brushes temple. “You will live,” he demands in Ben’s right ear, wishes, hopes, defiant of the insanity of building on saltwater promises. “This doesn’t change. how we --”

Adam’s apple bobs, saltwater brimming, Grant so far off the table, Steven feels anchorless. Despite the nos radiating white off Ben, despite the rawness in Steven’s chest, clawing that isn’t Jake nor Marc through his throat.

“--feel about you. How I feel about you. Nor your and I’s project.”

1(3) + 1.

Childishly simple.

Sitting back in the chair, he crosses a leg at knee, hands folded. Seeing without seeing. Listening to sore, crackled plastic breaths, limbs tapping hospital windows. Saltwater glass lingers, freezes, without dripping down his cheeks.

@kylo-wrecked

His mind is a flat black mirror casting back the silence in a well’s depth—a silence he can see but not savor, a silence that dampens and weighs down the bones.

This is his brain on quetiapine. These are his veins and esophagus flushed with saline. This is starched linen thrown over a dead CRT. These are flat sheets wrapped and fish-tailed around safety mirrors drilled into spalling green cornices. Surface body bags. Nuts, bolts, and feet hospital cornered.

This is Ben Solo, a name. Hollow and alone. Tag it around his big toe.

There’s a Greek word for this hollow, synonymous with vagabond, obscure, deaf, mute, blunted, and noiseless. A word that remarks upon so much, the letters taste like a sentence in absentia. After all, the word was echoed at him in the Boiler Room by a brief knifing of a Cretan transfemme, who told Ben he was empty.

Maybe he should have asked her what to do when people become mirrors. Face them, all rays and noise? Invent and invert, turn them into corpses and ants? Take their names like a coin from behind an ear.

Nurse Ant becomes Nurse Racket when she starts talking, and only Nurse Glassman after the good doctor cashes in his nine minutes—eight on Ben, one pondering the ghost CRT—and because Rachel uses names like black market currency. Buys a fresher body for the shutterbugs to swarm, a better room for the boss, and wouldn’t Nurse Glassman look nice with a rose-red lip? Like a prettier Ethel Mertz? So, tickled, Nurse Glassman returns with armfuls of white cloth, bedcovers to waste on Ben’s ‘theatrics’ and ‘the dramatics.’

The oaks outside tremble but there’s nobody to see them.

“Gawd.” Rachel’s bob slashes her upper shoulders. She aims her small, sharp nose and microbladed brows at the hanging light fixtures, crushes her nape and Marc Jacobs collar back to keep her mascara from running. She says, “Gawd, I should’ve listened to Nan.”

Warding streaks off her Glossier cheekbones, she says, “I can’t push back Detroit. You can’t make Detroit happen while this is happening.”

Blinking tears back over her eyelines is a talent she picked up at Stonybrook.

“This is happening, Ben. I’m missing my baby sister’s ceremony f’this. Gawd.”

‘This’ is code for the last hour and a half. ‘This’ is code for a long broken promise. ‘This’ is code for annihilation.

She pushes the chair back, brisk as her bob, with an expression as tart as the orange slices tipping her French gel manicure, and the legs scream on the scratched wood vinyl. Rachel rises. Pressing her purse to her chest, she makes lemons at a ghost mirror, then Ben.

“I’m not sitting shiva f’you.”

The weak, flickering neon in Ben’s smile flashes, ‘No Service, Just Severance.’

And Rachel knows that is a golden promise she could break her teeth on. And the wind spins leaves into the gutters, where they become damp, saturated irrelevance like just about everything else.

—

In the time it takes three angles to meet and loop a knot, Rachel makes a million phone calls. She archives Signal and sends WhatsApp messages until her fingers lose joints. She reroutes fifty thousand emails by blessed automation. Time finds Rachel with raccoon eyes anyway, hives boiling up her Liberace-style shirtfront, pressing herself against the heavy green door as if trying to keep the lid on a haywire rice cooker. When she turns, she’s jumpscared by a polyester tie that greets her at about eye level.

Cripes. Two stiletto clicks clockwise, and she agnizes the sensitive eyes—to the sun—color of bleach inlaid in a sett and rough-hew jaw, growing out of the neck it’s strung around. Fluffing her caramel layers back into shape, Rachel rewets Chanel-flavored lipgloss and simpers.

Forget the black hand making a fist.

“Y’re fucking my salary,” Rachel tells the tie.

Forget the ambling and humming ‘Nurse Racket,’ Steven Grant’s glum ‘varsity skinhead,’ and Rachel’s ‘subway token thoughts’ about how Ben has nasty little nicknames for just about anything, how she misses Henry Street and should have gone to Fordham Law.

“Pawse!” she chirps. Slipping Holly Golightly’s sunglasses over mascara bruises, she snaps a quick, covert pic of the navy suit jacket clenching tense shoulders, the dour bald head in the background. Call it insurance. Sleeves the phone; echoes.

“I got one better: You stchupped my salary—wearing that tie. What I’ll tell Miss Ariana Huffington either you Hollyweirds draw out my day.” Tap-taps the face of the Piaget clasped around an aching wrist. “I gotta make the last ten minutes of my baby sister’s graduation.”

Click-clacks down the desolate hallway, stabbing the elevator button with a French tip until it dings.

“She’s starting at LIU in the fawl! Like a normal person.”

Normal until the nursing program roiled and spat Rachel’s baby sister into a hospital resort, and the best part of her day, after wiping some rich schmuck’s ass, would be the compliment she receives from a woman who needs bedsheets for mirrors.

The elevator doors wheeze, and at that moment, Rachel and Soldier exchange a glance in which lives the silent acknowledgment that they were born in this city, in the mythology of making it here, to make it anywhere, and won’t be laid to rest in temples, buried with riches, immortalized in street signs and sun-faded smiles on diner walls. Destined for a world’a dead leaves. Gutters.

—

His mind is a flat black mirror, like a dummy scrivening device.

“Kophos,” Ben croaks, his vision swirling with sun motes, heat filtering through split blinds, oak stars blearing in his peripheral vision.

Tree-rich green—it reduces cortisol. All those stress hormones, Rachel says, wresting the blinds. Rachel, he thinks. The whole fucking level’s green.

After Rachel leaves, the mirror paint starts cracking, and his mind’s flaking obsidian.

“Kophos.”

Ben says the word again; doesn’t know why; perhaps one last hold out for magic. It’s a corvid cry, evoking crows that have learned how to become car horns, or dogs, or women, hanging on telephone wires. A mimic. An echo. Black mirror showing blunted, noiseless futures on a cracked pane. There’s a long pause between the closed door and Rachel’s voice, and Ben discerns footsteps, slow and measured, and he feels criminally hungry. Something he craves is imminent, looming—something he wants and doesn’t want, on the other side of that door now.

There’s no magic word for when the door opens again. Nothing Ben can do but watch it open with a semi-craned throat, washed-out profile half-submerged in sterile cotton, and nose bent against stuffing. Eyelids heavy as wet wool drooping over blown marbled pupils. Lungs full of water, stomach a dark well, bottomless as empty.

Nurse Racket drops a coin in him: he has another visitor. Now, isn’t that nice? To him, she says, he’ll feel better in no time now, part of the world again. To the visitor, she offers simplicity, saying only, go on in, hon. Like Ben doesn’t know who she’s racketing, like he should be surprised and overjoyed.

Maybe he is surprised, in a way. Surprised by the tricks people play on themselves, surprised by his reduced authority. Without Rachel here to gas things up, he’s a bad liver with a one-year warranty. Surprised by the taste and color of his fear—surprised at how fear crawls up from the well of himself, spidery and white as a moon. Conspicuously bright.

If Ben called the crow word three times, he could have disappeared, folded in on himself like a black hole. But even if there were magic words, they were too late. He typed sorry; he typed never mind.

Ben twists helplessly, rolling a grafted lump of shoulder on its side, neck and head following in kind, the word no an alarm ringing in his skull. The IV is gone, yet he remains tethered, amp-eaten muscles in massive arms splayed in impossible directions, shipwrecked. Where’s the rest of his body. If he can’t feel it, can it be seen?

He groans, pleas inaudible.

No, please—not like this. Not Steven’s cologne mixed with an indeterminate cold sweat trespassing inches. Triune sense of proximity. Outline of a dark suit that could belong to any of them. Weight of three shadows over the bed. Not like this.

“Can’t be good for you,” he hacks. Tang of blood or plain regret. “Place like this.”

Is that his voice? That brittle, red plexi you could punch through with a sheet-wrapped fist? Ben’s neck snakes away toward slatted daylight and the oak branches. It hurts too much to laugh; he wants to, just—he’s got a scooped-out stomach. Squeezes his eyes shut.

“You…”

Shouldn’t have come.

Ben still has a heart, and it’s beating him.

@silverjetsystm

#kylo-wrecked #mental health cw #drugs cw #v: an empty sky | modern #grant | gentle dr jones #we are mk | system #// fuck it system effort

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pastelpaperplanes · 3 years ago

Text

Big Ol Ask Post Pt. 5

Crusade goes by they/them! And you’re right it is a very well loved plushie :D

The buttons for eyes are both gone and it’s missing a leg or two, but Stuffie the hand-made scraplet plush still lives!!! Like most childhood toys that even make it to their keeper’s adulthood—it’s hardly recognizable but again it’s a priceless item.

Crusade has it tucked away in their habsuite, they’re a bit to old to cuddle with it now so they claim so Stuffie just kinda sits on a shelf with some other mementos! It will need some serious TLC should anyone hope to put it to good use for someone again

Yep! Most if not all of the TFA helmets are detachable. I fuckin CHOKED when Bee got scalped. good lord my boy I’m sorry but it’s an UGLY look

We’ve seen two different times w comic Megs without that helmet—both versions had sensory crowns/panels/crests, whatever you wanna call them, so why not continue the trend:

not too sure which version I like better 🤔🤔 those big flat panels look wonky but almost make him look like a frilly lizard, not too sure how I feel about that akskaksjka but!! you can TUG ON EM!!! what a plus. be still my beating heart

now version two I’m digging. not,,because,,it looks eerily similar to osmosis jones thrax or anything,,not that it’s my sole reason for liking it,,why would say smth like that. Definitely looks a more ‘composed’ look despite this obviously being a very vulnerable and sensitive part of Megatron

and to answer your last question: yes Optimus has seen Megatron without it—but it was by total accident and both very quickly shut up about it,,,especially after Meg’s voice reached an unholy octave when Op got a bit too curious and gutsy and touched one of those crests

The panels are unique to say the least—it’s not often Megs willingly removes his helmet so only a few know about them or have even seen the odd panels. Seeing truly ‘exposed’ bits of a mecha’s general protoform (where the bio lights are visible) is a bit taboo—not unmodest per say, but the vulnerability would definitely cause a double take outside of a medbay

Pseudo Gma and Gpa vibes I’d bet >:3 Megs is in denial but the titles do kinda fit—they’re respectable enough Nickel more than Hook LMFAOO and Crusade could use a few friendly faces in the faction :’( so he allows the (occasional) coddling

Even though Megs—being as high-strung and difficult of a patient and a parent as he was, made their checkups a bit frustrating, they got to play with the sweet little byte every now and then :D More than worth it despite the overly dramatic Warzone Megs often made the Medbay.

Kiss received!!

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bushdivingbushranger · 3 years ago

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What was going to an all girls school like, if you don't mind me asking? :)

OK anon im so sorry this is so long and so convuluted I actually got so carried away jdbKJBGKSDBGH. i'm not even sure i properly answered your question i just got overwhelmed with Love for my same-sex schooling DHGKJSDFBHG anyway, if there's anything more you want to know lmk and I will try to be concise next time 💀

Essentially, my own experience at a single-sex secondary school was fantastic—however, I know my experience isn’t universal, especially since my school was a little bit different to most, I think.

That being said, I still think that sending your daughters to female-only secondary schools is something every parent should strive to do if they can. No other learning environment will ever be as good for girls as a same-sex school.

In terms of school staff, mine was about 95% female, and 5% male. The few male teachers we had were genuinely competent men and decent teachers, they were also watched like hawks. Our principal was female, all leadership positions in the school (such as House Leaders, Year Level Co-Ordinators, Department Heads, even the chaplain) were held by women. Our school psychologists, our nurses, our library technicians, our café ladies, our career advisors, our tutors—all were women. Our school houses (think like Harry Potter houses) were named after important women in our country’s history.

I went to a co-ed primary school. And whilst at twelve you might not have the words to describe it, graduating from a co-ed space, into an all-female space is really a giant weight off of your shoulders. You don’t realise how suffocating co-education is until you’re no longer having to bear it. It feels so much more natural, so much more free! You are welcomed as you are. You can be loud and unashamed of it. We joked frequently with each other and our teachers, laughed loudly and cared not whether our laughs were ‘ugly’. I found that teachers were far more supportive than they were in my co-ed school. For example, in a co-ed school I had been told frequently to ‘pipe down’ or to ‘reel it in’ from teachers, and more vexingly to ‘shut up’ from boys due to my boisterous personality. In high school? My teachers encouraged me to audition for the play because I had ‘great projection’. In every school programme (more on those later) that I was involved in, I was the one asked to give speeches about them at assembly. I was asked to be the lead of our house chants during our sports festivals. I was asked to join the debate team because of my passionate nature, which in primary school, had me known as ‘difficult’.

Likewise, I had a friend who was by nature quiet, and loved to draw. In primary school she’d doodled on the back of a work booklet, and when her teacher returned it, she’d taken off two points and had written a comment saying something about teachers in high school not accepting work that was drawn on.

Do you know what happened when she got to high school? Our English teacher had seen the eye she’d drawn on the back of our Romeo and Juliet test and had written, ‘beautiful!’ above it. The next test, she drew a two-headed cat with witches’ hats on both heads (I remember the left head was called Turpentine and the right head was called Esmeralda). Our teacher wrote, ‘wonderful!’ above it, with a smiley face.

The next day she got an email from our art teacher that had a PDF flyer of information on both in-school and local art competitions.

Anyway, she had questions and that teacher answered every single one of them. She also personally helped her select the works she wanted to submit. She ended up having two pieces shown in the school gallery, along forty pieces made by other girls. About five years later for our final year, on that art teacher’s recommendation (and tutelage!) she took all of the visual art subjects on offer. When she graduated, her final piece was shown at a public exhibition in our state’s capital city, that honoured the best pieces done by select graduating students in the state.

So yeah. Our teachers were pretty amazing. Of course, there was the odd teacher or two you would butt heads with but that’s just a universal school experience. Our humanities classes, like history, for example, often had a unit that would focus on the female experience of a certain time period. For example, when learning about WW2, we did projects on female resistance fighters et cetera.

We had health classes that were actually focused on female health. We learnt about female anatomy (even the clitoris! Though we were all about thirteen/fourteen at this time so we found it incredibly awkward to talk about), as well as symptoms of PCOS during our menstrual unit. We learnt about contraceptive methods and devices (however, as a Catholic school they did have to tell us that whilst these methods are available, the church-sanctioned method is of course, abstinence).

Whilst the majority of the girls shaved their legs and wore makeup, as someone who did neither of those things I rarely felt judgement about it (albeit, I think there was a little for my lack of makeup, but this only lasted the first two years). A good portion of our staff also did not wear makeup, I don’t recall this ever being commented on. And, by the time we’d reached about our third year, a good portion of my year level and the ones above did not wear makeup on a daily basis. Leg hair was not looked down upon by any of us I don’t think by this year either. In fact, if you were particularly hairy often your hairless friends asked to rub your legs!

We were never short of female role-models, our staff made sure of that. We had multiple days per year when guest speakers would come and talk to us, mostly these were women who were experts in their fields—whether that be neuroscience or computer science, linguistics and literature or mathematics, politics, et cetera. The only times we really had male guest speakers was when police officers (one male one female) came to give us an assembly about sexual peer-pressure and laws around sharing nudes that was basically, “these are common (male) manipulation tactics used to pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do, don’t fall for them”.

We were encouraged to take STEM subjects, and those of us that had taken interest in computer programming were sent to coding programmes in the city during school hours! That’s how keen our teachers were to get more women into the field! This was the same with the girls interested in politics, who got to go to Model UN events, as well as mock parliaments in the country’s capitol.

We had a lot of programmes generally. A few overseas ones for girls who were in LOTE (languages other than English) classes. A few interstate ones, too. And of course, local programmes and excursions. Most of them (aside from the LOTE ones which focused on immersion) were volunteer programmes aimed at helping women and girls. The rest were about furthering our own skills or learning new ones. Majority of these were year-level based, but a few depended on the clubs/groups/classes you were in. For example, I was part of the Writer’s Club, and we took an excursion to the state Writer’s Festival and listened to female writers as well as feminist panels. We also had self-defence programmes every year.

In terms of peers I generally found everyone to be quite amiable by the time we’d reached our third/fourth year. There’s a common myth about all girls schools being filled with ‘catty’ girls who are constantly bitching about one another, but I really did not find that to ring true. There were a few fights and arguments in the earlier years, I was part of quite a lot lol but that’s honestly… just something that happens at school, at any school. Largely, we were good to each other. If someone was crying there was always someone who’d ask her what was wrong. If you missed the notes on the slide, there was always a girl willing to share her notes with you.

I think going to an all-girl’s school, and not having that much interaction with the opposite sex generally for that six-year period truly does something, I think, to your psyche. We are socialised to look down on our fellow woman, socialised to look down upon ourselves. But actually being constantly surrounded by women, and almost ONLY women, really helps to undo that. Even now I could not describe the fierce love I have for all those women and girls I came in contact with during my time there—even the ones I bickered with. Each and every single woman I met there enriched my life in some way or another. I think that is the effect of consistently spending time in any female-only space: developing a true appreciation for women. It is the only reasonable conclusion to come to.

I have been out of high school for two years, and in university for one. Among the many men I have met since, none of them have even been able to hold a candle to the any women and girls I know.

Anyway. TLDR: it slapped, send your daughters to same-sex schools!!

#this is so long sorry #long post #radfem safe #separatism #radfem

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years ago

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may i gently request perhabs a continuation to the one with the hero waking up in the hospital with the villain after they fought in a burning building? by no need do u have to ive just been thinking abt it a great deal and very much loved it

Thank you so much for the ask blue fren! I loved that series so so much, and I’m glad to continue it. I hope you like this! I got another request for this one, too.

Thank you too, anon! 🥺🥺🥺

Continued from here. All fluff, this time!

CW//Hospital setting, pill mention, therapy mention

“So, how has your day been?”

The question caught Villain off guard. Of course, it had been spoken in the same tone, the same cadence as the rest of Hero’s ramblings. But, they’d gotten so used to the melodic droning of their words, they’d almost forgotten that this was supposed to be a two-sided conversation.

For a long moment, Villain simply sat. Blinking, as though startled by the sudden flash of a bright light. The visitation room fell into silence, all aside from the ticking of a brightly-painted coo-coo clock upon one wall. It would not be long before it struck its next hour mark.

“My day?” They stammered out.

“Yeah, your day!” Hero replied warmly. Villain couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen the do-gooder without a bright smile on their face. It never did seem to drop. “Come on, I’ve been babbling on about mine for ages. How have you been?”

They should have known how to answer that. Of course they should’ve. After all, it was the same question that Hero had been asking, as though by rote, every day since Villain had been brought into custody. Into recovery.

Yet, still, every time, it startled them. Hero, their foe, their nemesis, their greatest enemy. Hero was asking them how their day was. Beforehand, they would’ve scoffed. Given some witty one-liner, something about how it was good until Hero had shown their ugly mug. But, now, they felt no ounce of hostility.

“It was good.” They eventually spoke.

It hadn’t been a lie, of course. The carpeted hallways, wood-paneled walls, and kindly doctors of the Supervillain Memorial Villainous Recovery Center had treated them well, just as they always did.

Too had the visiting room, with its soft-colored table and comfy chairs, not to mention the wide windows that allowed the slightest warm breeze to catch the room aflutter.

“Good.” Hero repeated with a confirming nod. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhm.”

“Food good?”

“Yeah.”

“What was for lunch today?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Mmm, one of my favorites. The chefs here are great.”

“Yeah.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Villain watched Hero frown. It wasn’t an expression of disappointment, nor or frustration. Just a sad, little frown.

“Do you know how long you’ve been here at the Recovery Center for, now?”

Villain tried to think on that. The days tended to get all mixed up in their head. They didn’t have time to come up with their own answer, as Hero supplied it for them:

“It’s been two weeks, now, since you were brought in. That’s a long time.”

“Two weeks?” Had it really been that long?

“Yeah. Two weeks.” Hero’s tone was quieter, now. Softer. More parental than friendly. “Just over two weeks ago, I was chasing you through a burning building. We both almost got killed in there. Now, look at you!

You look so much better. You’re clean, you’ve got fresh clothes on, and you aren’t so much of a skeleton anymore. You look great, but you still seem so sad all the time. Is something wrong?”

Villain... Villain didn’t know.

They didn’t think they were sad all the time. Far from it, in fact. The first of their two weeks at the RC, the Recovery Center, had been spent in medical isolation, spending their days reading books, taking pills, and sleeping away the ache in their lungs. It was at the end of that first week that they’d been given a physical, and been cleared to enter the general population at the center.

Even then, though, like always, Villain had been given a choice. The doctors at the facility never forced them into anything they didn’t want. They were given the option of staying isolated, or, they could join the rest of the recovering villains.

They had decided upon the latter, albeit hesitantly. To be quite honest, they had expected a prison. Expected to be picked on, beaten, thrown around. But, the RC was nothing like that. If anything, it felt more like a hotel. They had their own room, there was a cafeteria serving three meals a day, along with snacks. Some of their old villainous buddies had been shy, at first, but they’d opened up quickly, and cracked some old inside jokes.

Yes, Villain was happy. They were eating well, recovering. Their therapist said that they were doing fantastically, that their mental health was on the up-and-up. Their days were spent comfortably, eating, chatting with friends, and catching up on some nighttime reading before settling into bed.

They were happy.

Yet, they couldn’t help but stare at Hero blankly, as though they were staring right through the do-gooder’s skull.

“No.” They shook their head, at long last. “Everything’s fine. I love it here.”

Hero’s frown deepened as their eyebrows furrowed.

“Is it me, then? I won’t take offense if it is. I understand completely.”

Villain didn’t know the answer to that one, either. Did they dislike Hero? Certainly not. They had made a point of visiting, every single day. And, every day, they would tell their stories, make jokes, ask Villain about how their day had been, how they were finding the place.

So, why was it that they could only stare on like this?

No. They knew the answer to that one. It was the guilt.

Hero had risked their life. Chased them all the way into a burning building, suffered just as much smoke inhalation as their foe. All because Villain had been distrustful. All because they’d been stupid and stubborn. They’d nearly gotten two people killed, all because of that.

And, still, Hero came to visit.

“I never said sorry.” Villain spoke softly. They knew that, if they spoke any louder, their voice would break out into shattered sobs.

“Sorry?” Hero sounded perplexed, before letting out a nervous little laugh. “Sorry for what?”

“For-” Didn’t they know? “For leading you into a burning building? For almost getting you killed?”

Hero quirked a brow. “Oh. I almost forgot about that.”

“You... You forgot?”

“Not forgot, no. I remember it. I just haven’t thought about it in a while.”

“But, but- But you almost died! I was running, and you chased me into the fire! You could’ve been killed!”

Hero shrugged.

“It happens.”

“It... It happens?”

The hero stopped for a moment, before speaking, slowly:

“Have you been nervous around me this whole time because you thought I was... Upset with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well...” They still seemed utterly perplexed. “I’m not. At all.”

“You’re not? But-”

“I would chase you into that burning building a thousand times over if it meant saving your life.” Hero countered. “I could’ve been killed. But, if I hadn’t intervened, you would’ve been killed. It was worth the risk. And, look! It turned out. We’re both here. And we’re both fine.”

Villain’s eyes widened as the fact dawned on them.

“So, you aren’t mad at me?”

“Not even a little.” Hero sat up in their chair-- they did tend to slouch. “But, I think visiting hours are just about over. What do you have, after this?”

“Group therapy.”

“Sounds fun.” It was spoken with a genuine, lighthearted chuckle. “Here. Share these around.”

Hero shoved a hand in their pocket, taking out a handful of brightly-colored, cherry hard candies. They were pushed across the table.

Villain frowned once more, taking the candies in their palm. Every day, Hero visited, and every day, they brought sweets. Cookies and candies and brownies and fudge. And, every day, they threw them away. They didn’t deserve sweets, not after what they’d done.

“Don’t throw these away this time.” Hero spoke jokingly.

Villain’s gaze shot up.

“You- You know about that?”

“I caught on after the doctors started complaining about perfectly good cookies in the trash. I get it, though. I do.” Hero stood, stretching their arms above their head, causing their shoulders to crack and pop. “But you don’t have to do that, anymore.

You aren’t guilty of anything, Villain. The only judge convicting you is yourself.”

As Hero left the room, Villain looked down at the cherry candies in their hand. Usually, now would be the part where they tossed them, but...

Instead, they popped one in their mouth.

It tasted like forgiveness.

#villain whumpee #hero caretaker #doctor caretaker #environmental whump #hero villain whump #whump #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #whumpblr #hero x villain #whump community #hero villain scenario #whump writing #whump scenario

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makeste · 3 years ago

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i don't get it tbh. the apology shouldn't have been here. it was in the middle of everything and it had basically no impact on deku whatsoever? this was sooooo no what i was expecting and tbh i'm kinda mad about it ngl lol also ngl times twice but if whatever ochaco says does reach him instead of the kacchan apology that's been built up as the emotional climax for the entire series i'm just flat out gonna drop this manga lmao. but this was barely an emotional climax at all, i really don't get it

2/2 like we get just a few pages? shoved in there like "okay everyone talked now kacchan disappears from the chapter, that's over and done with, moving on" the apology itself was great, but the placement and brevity undermined its emotional resonance. deku remains the exact same after hearing it, doesn't think about katsuki at all. just about his earlier "can't keep up" words? then we go on to ochaco whose "saving heroes even though that's what everyone has been doing" i guess is more important?

3/3 (last one promise) like i'm sorry but there was time for several chaps of endeavor ugly crying, for mineta's anal beads and pervy romantic trope non-confession, for overhaul to pop up being his usual piece of shit self for no plot-relevant reason, for adult top heroes to stand around for chapters like "huh everything we're doing is awful. let's keep on trusting this smelly kid" and. a few panels for kacchan apology. no reaction. shoved among "idk u well mido but stay!" + ochaco making faces

4/4 (i lied) and all this after katsuki's distress and emotions were once more made into jokes at the hospital, emotional consequences of the war ignored, w all might probably dying and the last thing he did to this kid was ditch him leaving us to guess he maybe gives a shit abt him and maybe he bothered to visit in the hospital cuz they sure didn't show shit. i honestly feel like all katsuki stuff was shoved into the background: krbk friendship for mina, dkbk for ofa, name reveal for jokes...

okay, so I have talked in the past about fandom reacting like Miette whenever this stuff happens, and tbh this is basically what I mean by that anon. there is no reason whatsoever to assume that this is the one and only reaction we'll ever get from Deku regarding the apology and that it will never come up again. this is 100% going to be revisited. and tbh I think it's a smart move on Horikoshi's part, because if he gave us everything in this one chapter then what further development would there be to look forward to? he's gotta hold something back so that we have that one last milestone to anticipate in the rebuilding of their relationship. I've often said that for me me, Deku and Kacchan's story is the most important part of BnHA. and so it makes sense to me for Horikoshi to not completely resolve it until close to the end of the series, if not the very end.

I think this is a pretty good compromise honestly, because I wasn't even sure if we were going to get the apology itself before the finale. but this way we can head into the final battle with Kacchan having put all of his character development out there and not holding anything back, and it's nice to have that, and to have that reinforcement of just how far he's come, and how serious he is about his atonement. and so his feelings are finally all on the table now, and now it's all Deku.

and he deserves to have some time to work out how he feels about this and not be put on the spot to deliver a reaction, honestly. but to say it had "no impact whatsoever" is a huge overreaction imo. first of all, we saw the shock on his face -- he was absolutely floored. this was something he clearly never expected from Kacchan (which is why it was so important for Kacchan to actually say the words, in addition to taking action as he's already done -- because Deku needed to hear them, because he genuinely had no idea that Kacchan actually cared. and he deserves to know that, because Kacchan is one of the most important people in the world to him). not to mention that Deku kind of has a million other things on his mind right now. like we just had a whole entire arc about that lol. the apology isn't supposed to be for Kacchan's benefit; it's supposed to be for Deku's. so let him have the time to absorb it before he settles on what to say. Kacchan had all the time in the world to figure out his part of it, after all.

to me this is like a promise that there will be at least one last great, emotional, and deeply personal moment between the two of them. because when Deku finally does forgives him -- not that he hasn't already, imo, but once they finally have that conversation -- that shit is going to be so fucking cathartic, and tbh I'm glad Horikoshi didn't try to cram that into this chapter along with everything else that's currently going on. besides, I'd rather see that part of their reconciliation happen once Deku is more back to his normal self again; I feel like it would be more meaningful that way. right now he's too exhausted to be able to come up with any words. but he already has shown the best possible reaction I could have ever hoped for -- complete and utter relief and trust. Kacchan is the person he trusted enough that he could finally let go of his fears and anxieties -- if only for a moment -- and give into his exhaustion at long last, and that moment where he collapses and Kacchan runs to catch him has instantly become one of my favorites in the whole series.

so yeah, my apologies anon, but absolutely nothing is gonna spoil that for me, and I can't join you here in being even remotely disappointed with this chapter. well aside from the lack of hug lol (but I can be patient for that as well).

#bnha 322 #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bakudeku #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #asks #anon asks

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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

Text

World's Best

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: Not every day is easy. Frankie makes it better.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 2.2k~

Warnings/tags: smut, vague-ish descriptions of depression/mental health, hurt/comfort, fluff

Notes: Do y'all ever get into a funk and then attempt to write yourself out of one? Well, this is the v self-indulgent product of said instance heh. I have tagged a random assortment of potentionally interested people but obvi no pressure? idk? :) Sending so much love and well wishes to you guys. x

Masterlist | Read it on Ao3!

A sea of knotted sheets spans between you—as tangled as your legs—too tired, too leaden to unweave. The fan rotates in the corner, blowing stale air your way every few clicks. You dangle a foot off the bed, skin prickling as the weak breeze sweeps over you and a bead of sweat licks from your knee to slope down your calf. Morning sun leaks through the window— the finch perched on the tree just outside it chirping once, twice, before flitting off.

You’ve been reading the Sunday paper for a solid twenty minutes—which, in all honesty, is an overstatement; you started and quickly abandoned the Sudoku after a measly ten, and you’ve been staring at the same sentence in the local section for the other half, blinklessly hovering over the fine print.

You’re not here today. Not all of you.

There’s this sinking feeling, hollowing you out and unmaking you. It’s as if something unseeable is oozing over you - dripping - something treacle, something thick. You’re far away from yourself—far from the cornflower blue walls and the framed photos hanging on them—the happy faces in the pictures smiling back at you— far from the plants basking in the tines of filtered light by the sill, far from the body lying beside you.

You’re not always this way. Not every day drags like an inky smear, your mind meandering sluggishly in circles, holding you hostage in a prison of your own making; but you can’t say it’s foreign to you either. It’s old, familiar—like that sweater in your closet you’ve had for centuries and rarely wear, but can’t bring yourself to get rid of. You know it well, this slog—you have unwillingly memorized it’s sodden intricacies, and today you feel it. You feel every single one of your days—each grey hour— weighing heavy on your very bones.

heavy heavy

heavier, still.

If you’re not careful, you’ll sink straight through the mattress. You’ll nestle deep into the springs and make a home in the down. You’ll sleep there until you become it. Comfortable. Catatonic.

Frankie sips his coffee. He doesn’t look up from the email he’s skimming. “What’s wrong?”

The baritone of your boyfriend’s voice sucks you back to the present—to the tick of the clock marking the seconds, the whir of the fan. The paper crinkles as you lay it to your chest—big eyes feigning ignorance as you blink up at him, chewing your lip. “Hmm?”

“Baby, I know that face.”

“What face?”

“The one you’ve got on,” he replies, “that’s your ‘I’m-upset-and-I’m-trying-to-hide-it’ face.’”

“I-” you frown, “no it’s not.” Gingerly, you pat a hand around your temple, your cheek, as if you could see your expression through touch.

“Uh huh.” Frankie rolls his digit upon the mousepad, clicking and scrolling down the webpage, and your vision glazes over again—ugly thoughts fogging up the panels of your mind—

“You gonna talk to me about it?”

You blink, swallowing, “nothing to talk about.” You flap the paper, ironing out the pleats, and scan for that pesky paragraph you never managed to finish.

“Mhm,” he replies absentmindedly, bringing the mug to his lips and drinking with an all too obvious slurp.

“Really, I’m fine,” you say weakly. You’re not that convincing—you barely convince yourself.

“Sure, sweetheart. If you say so.”

He’s too casual; he’s letting it all go too easily and God, he’s gotten good at this—at coaxing the truth out of you. He doesn’t even have to try any more. He’s so kind and open and sincere, all he has to do is crack the door ajar—tempt you with an inch of space, with only a sliver of leeway—and immediately you want to plunge through it and chase after him, like a dog and a bone.

He makes you want to share; not because of what he says, but by everything he doesn’t—the welcoming gaps he leaves you with, the gaps you’re urged to fill. This happens every time—it’s pretty damn annoying, actually. You’re so miserably predictable. After three and a half years together, sometimes you think Frankie might know you better than you know yourself.

A scary thought—wonderful, too.

“I’m just-” You run a hand over your face, pressing into the bridge of your nose and you grunt, frustrated. Exhausted. “I’m just tired.”

Frankie settles his coffee cup on the hill of his sternum, closing his laptop quietly. He swivels his head to you, hair mussing into the wall.

“Of anything in particular?” he asks, linen soft.

“No, yes—I don’t know,” you heave—an errant thing fluttering around in your chest as you fold the newspaper, letting it float to the floor with a splat. “It’s just-” you worry the inside of your cheek raw, fumbling with the blur of your emotions. You shake your head. “It’s just a bad brain day.” Your voice is small as you slump into him, letting your body go limp.

“I’m sorry I get like this. I’m okay—I’ll be okay,” you mumble, face burrowed into his arm. He smells summered, like sweat and heat and the promise of long days fading into even longer nights, and you take a heady drag, inhaling his scent.

You hear him sigh, stretching as he sets the mug and computer down on the side table. He shifts back to you, snaking an arm under your body as you coil your own around his center, hugging him close.

“You know, it’s alright if you’re not,” Frankie murmurs into your hair, planting a kiss at the crown of your head. “And you know you don’t have to hide from me when you aren’t.” His thumb finds your arm, the chewed nail bed scratching soothing circles along your skin.

Your gut somersaults, flipping and purring, and all you can do is press your lips to the cottoned shoulder of his tee shirt—the one with the holes in the collar and motor oil stain on the hem; all you can do is tighten your grasp, wringing around his cozy waist.

“And you know that nothing you say is gonna scare me away, right? I’m always going to be here for you.” Frankie gives your forearm a reassuring squeeze.

God, this man.

You nuzzle further into his chest—snuggled and swaddled in the safety of his warmth—and you mumble something incoherent, muffled against his relaxed body. His beard catches on your fly-aways as he dips to hear you better. “What was that honey?”

“I said,” you crane your neck, lifting out of his side, “you really are the ‘world’s best uncle’.”

A ripple of confusion twists over his features before you bat your eyes up to meet his, shooting a glance over to that exact phrase wrapping itself around the ceramic cup beside him.

You got stuck with it at some terrible white elephant exchange last Christmas. It’s fucking tacky and aggressively large—not even you - you, in all your caffeine dependency - can chug that much coffee fast enough in one sitting without it going cold— and neither of you have any nieces or nephews to speak of…

Naturally, it’s become your favorite mug.

Frankie barks out a laugh, his stomach flexing against your grasp. “Oh yeah? Is that all I am?” he smirks, a glint of mischievousness reflecting in his irises as he bores down at you.

You quirk an eyebrow, a coy tug blooming across your lips. “I dunno,” you drawl sweetly, “you going to prove me otherwise?”

His face is split into a grin now, wide and aching and unnecessarily endearing. His hair is a mess, wavy tufts jutting out every which way, and his eyelids are still puffy from what little slumber he was lucky enough to get in your hot, cramped apartment.

You really can’t keep putting it off—you need to buy an AC unit.

His focus dances from your eyes to your mouth, breath hitching as he watches you skip your tongue over the plush mound there. “I just might,” he growls playfully, maneuvering you onto your back with one broad swoop, pinning you to the bed.

He makes love to you like a man unburdened - untouched - by time. He fucks into you slowly, unhurriedly—at a pace that’s mind numbingly measured and patient. Frankie devastates you, dragging himself through your walls from head to hilt, letting you feel every ridge, every vein of him; filling you up so impossibly well—his thick cock sauntering in and out, and in and out again. Each roll of his hips makes you gasp, his blunt tip brushing against that deep, uncharted chasm within you that tempts you into oblivion. Your legs are locked around him, crossed at the ankles, and the perspiration at the pits of your knees slicks his sides.

Frankie’s palms dimple the fitted sheet as he brackets your head, burying himself into the crook of your neck. He moans—hot breath ghosting over the prickled skin there, babbling disjointed strings of guttural praise into your ear.

Fuck baby—fuck you feel good

How’d I get so lucky, how’d I-

God, you’re a— fuck

You’ve got the perfect pussy—made for me

Made for me, made for me, made for-

You turn your head and capture his mouth with your own, whimpering into him as he nips at your bottom lip and bites. You scrape your fingers through his scalp, pulling at his locks, and Frankie whines a tortured noise—giving an especially hard thrust that pries a yelp from your throat. He rears his head back, catching your gaze, a concerned line creased into his brow. “Y-You okay?”

“No- nono, yes Frankie. Again, right there,” you beg, lashes fluttering.

He darkens—the timbre of his voice made husky and raw as he drinks in the sights and sounds of you mewling for him, splayed and needy. “You like that?” Frankie drives into you again, sharp and searing as he bottoms out, the smattering of curls at the base of him soaked with your gloss. “You need it hard, baby? You want it rough?”

You whimper, clawing desperately at the nape of his neck. “I just—I just want you, all of you,” you pant as you hold his stare—the gorgeous, chestnut gleam of it—and the wordless expression that crests over his features makes you want to cry. The precious indent in his cheek, the stubble littering his jaw, his sculpted nose and clever lips, the sad rings under his eyes—the grooves he thinks you don’t notice, the grooves he tries to mask by always taking care of you, always putting you first, even when he shouldn’t.

Fuck, he’s so beautiful—he’s so beautiful you could weep.

“You have me,” he rasps breathlessly, bowing to meet you in a messy whirl of tongue and teeth before breaking away—forcing himself up off his hands and back onto his shins. He hooks an elbow under your knee, letting the other frame the outside of his hip. “I’m right here—you have me, you have me-”

Frankie’s hips are frantic now, pulsing in short, strong bursts as he grinds into you. He dips a hand to your center, pad of his thumb working erratic, sloppy flicks over the sensitive nub of your swollen clit. Your feet arch, the muscles there constricting as the tension in you mounts.

“Babe.” You’re whining now, vulnerable and shaking and fuck, you’re going to come apart—any moment now, any unbearable second, you’ll snap. “F-Frankie, baby oh god—”

You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes screwing shut as you shatter. Like a vase crashing onto kitchen tile, you break into a million jagged fragments. Your cunt seizes, legs spasming against him as he fucks you through your orgasm, and it doesn’t take long for the tight contractions of your heat to yank him right off that same ledge. The both of you—tumbling and fracturing into terrible, perfect shards—to be intermingled and scattered among each other’s glass pieces.

Indiscernible. The same.

When you glue yourself back together again, you will find parts of him there - here, within you - filling your jigsawed cracks like golden ore.

Frankie slips out of you with a squelch and a huffed groan, collapsing to the mattress in a panting heap. His cum dribbles from your apex and you shiver at the feeling of it—at the feeling of him, warm and wet and lingering inside you. He rests his cheek on your breast while you both catch your breath—rising, falling. Waxing, waning. Two pitter-pattering hearts beating in time.

The sheets have been sloughed, lazy and forgotten, to a crumpled pile on the wood floor and the steam once rising from the mug on the nightstand has long since disappeared. It’s too muggy for you two to be this entwined—his leg draped over you, a big arm slung across your belly—but neither of you dare move. Neither of you have the energy, never mind the desire.

The clock whispers in the morning quiet.

A new bird claims the branch the finch left—she sings now, roosting there in the birch.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur sleepily, drawing patterns into the valley of his spine, mapping out his freckles and moles and scars. “Thank you,” you say. Thank you for putting up with me, thank you for understanding me, thank you for listening even when I cannot speak. “I love you so much.”

Gently, silently, Frankie tilts his head, bristled hair peppering your flesh as he mattes your skin with his lips; laving along your breasts, across your clavicle and up the plain of your neck—each kiss a response, each kiss a truth.

You don’t have to apologize

You don’t have to thank me

I love you

I’m right here

I love you

tags:

@pedros-mustache @roxypeanut @frannyzooey @djarinsbeskar @read-and-rec @keeper0fthestars @krissology @greatcircle79

#frankie x reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie x you #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fic #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #pedro pascal #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfic #hurt/comfort #triple frontier

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crispyjenkins · 4 years ago

Note

Jangobi. After Melida/Daan Obi-wan comes back to the order but qui-gon doesn’t want him anymore so one of the council members jumps at the chance to apprentice him. This leads to him being encouraged to pay attention to his visions and feelings from the force because THEYRE REAL AND YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GIVE THEM SOME ATTENTION OBI-WAN. Obi gets a vision and a feeling that he needs to follow and tells his master. This leads to them finding Jango while he was still a slave and them freeing him.

(*gonna start putting translations up here like i do on ao3*

cw: drug use, cw: non-consentual drug use. basically second-hand highs from working with spice, nothing graphic but is mentioned a few times.)

Mando’a: kad’au — “lightsaber”, used here intentionally in place of jetii’kad, “Jedi’s saber” “Vor’e te Manda” — “Thank the Manda”, with Manda meaning “the collective soul or heaven - the state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit - also supreme, overarching, guardian-like” (mandoa.org) “Tion’cuy?” — “Who’s that?”, “Who are you?” confrontational urcir’ijaat — “honor duel”, lit. “honor meet” – look me in the eye and tell me the mandalorians don’t settle more than just elections with trials by combat “Tion’ad hukaat’kama?” — “Who’s watching your back?”, “Where’s your backup?” osik — “shit”

Even completely fucked second-hand on the inch-thick dusting of spice on every surface of the slave transport, Jango knows the kid hadn’t been on Galidraan.

Wide brown eyes blink at him through the ray shield keeping Jango and six other slaves in the cramped space barely big enough for two of them, and Jango had thought he’d burned through his rage years ago, but seeing the kid with a kad’au held at their side in a reverse grip ignites something in Jango that he’d thought long dead.

They’re not dressed like a Jedi, instead decked in spacer’s rags that hang too-loose from lanky limbs that have yet to hit their last growth spurt, and the chain marking them as a padawan is tucked up into a soft blue cap that clashes rather horribly with the little ginger hair that pokes out the front. They look human, but then, so had Jaster; every Jedi Jango has met before had been human as well, though he knows they’re as diverse as Mandalorians.

“Vor’e te Manda,” the baby Jedi breathes, and Jango is far too high to tell if he had imagined it or not. He had not thanked the Manda in many years.

He pushes shakily to his feet, needing to lean on the wall until his head stops feeling like it’s going to float away, and the other slaves skitter as far back into the cell as they can. “Tion’cuy?” Jango hisses, four years of venom dripping from the demand (Who are you?), but the baby Jedi just extinguishes their ’kad and hits the panel next to the door to power down the ray shield.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I’m here to rescue you.” They smile at everyone hiding behind Jango’s fury, and take a step back to gesture them out of the room. “If you follow this corridor to the starboard side of the transport, you will find a shuttle waiting with nine other freed prisoners,” they say with an obnoxiously-High Coruscanti accent that was completely imperceptible in their Mando’a. “I will not hold it against you if you take one of the escape pods, but my teacher is waiting on Concordia to reprocess your identities back into Republic systems, and we will do all we can to find and contact your families or peoples, if you so wish.”

Teacher. Not master. And freed prisoners, not slaves.

Jango growls under his breath, not trusting this Obi-Wan Kenobi as far as he can throw them, but the promise of freedom hangs heavy in the air, and it only takes a moment for his cellmates to decide the risk is worth it, scrambling and shuffling past Kenobi with murmurs of thanks in four different languages.

Jango doesn’t move.

He watches Kenobi’s throat bob nervously, as they make no move to follow their “freed prisoners” down the hall.

He asks again, “Tion’cuy?”

“Naas’ad jaon’yc.” No one important. “I was simply in the right place at the right time.”

Banthashit. “Banthashit,” Jango snarls, and Kenobi has the good sense to actually flinch.

“Look, I know the last thing you want right now is another Jedi, and if you were to demand urcir’ijaat on behalf of your people, I would accept with honor; but, no offense, in the state you’re in, it wouldn’t be much of a fight.” They hook their ’kad on their belt, and nod to the corridor once again. “Now, as engaging as this conversation is, I believe one of the smugglers was able to get a distress call out before I could stop him, and I would really prefer not to meet whoever picks up the signal.” Raising a single brow expectantly, the child gestures for Jango to follow. The kid’s right, of course, Jango couldn’t fight off a rat at the moment, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Growling, Jango shoves off the wall and somehow keeps both his balance and his feet underneath him, out of pure spite for the arm Kenobi offers in support.

He had fully intended to take one of the escape pods and jettison towards Mandallia instead of Concordia, but halfway across the slave transport that seems even smaller than he'd remembered, Kenobi throws out their arm again, this time to stop Jango just before they turn a corner.

“Oh, that’s not good,” they mutter and barely manage to duck under the blaster rifle swung at them like a bat, and Jango feels himself be shoved down to the floor against the wall.

Above him, Kenobi ducks away from a hulking human with a rather unfortunate receding hairline, and all at once, the Jedi seems like a completely different person. Something shutters behind their eyes, expression dropping to a blank indifference that’s belied by the warrior’s ease with which they dodge both vibroblade and swinging blaster, dancing backwards down the hall and leading the yelling smuggler away from Jango.

Dizzied by his sudden drop from standing to sitting, Jango doesn’t try to get back to his feet, instead watching Kenobi play the other human like a particularly ugly hallikset*. They don't even pull out their kad’au, remaining weaponless as they bounce and weave like they have all the time in the world; were Jango not stoned out of his mind, he’d probably be impressed.

Then something flips a switch in Kenobi, and without telegraphing a single twitch, they dive forward instead of away, using their whole arm to knock the blaster to the ground. In the same breath, Kenobi rams their head into the other’s chest in a move that would make most Mandalorians proud, relieving the stunned smuggler of his vibroblade before driving their knee into his chest.

The smuggler drops with a muffled clang, and Kenobi steps cleanly out of the way to watch him land face-first on the durasteel floor. Kenobi picks up the rifle, discharging the clip onto the ground, and chucks the whole thing through the nearest open door. They leave the smugglers’s body right where it is.

“Sorry about that,” Kenobi murmurs, coming back to Jango and helping him to his feet. “I must have missed one of the guards near the back.”

Something about the phrasing unsettles him, but it takes another moment of forced concentration to put his finger on it. “Tion’ad hukaat’kama?”

Kenobi grimaces. “I’m not fluent in Mando’a.”

“Who’s watching your back?” Jango growls, getting right up in their space. “Where the fuck is your backup if your master is on Concordia?”

The kid —who’s really more of a teen, almost a young adult— winces and tries to start herding Jango towards the shuttle again. “I’m here alone,” they say, almost apologetic, “but I can handle myself.”

“Your magic wizard mentor let you stage a spiceminer slave rescue on your own?” It goes against anything Jaster had taught him about the Jedi, about an apprentice’s master being as close to a buir as the Jedi will allow; not to mention the galaxy-wide understanding that, if you mess with a padawan, make kriffing sure the master’s dead first.

Yet, Kenobi’s deepening grimace tells Jango all he needs to know.

“He doesn’t know?”

“Look, I didn’t have a whole lot of time, alright?!” Done with being patient, Kenobi grabs his arm and starts dragging Jango quickly through the ship. “We got separated and were going to rendezvous, but if I had waited for him, the spicers would have already moved on!” They yank him down one more hall before they reach the promised shuttle, docked directly to one of the transport’s exterior hatches. Out the nearest viewport, there is indeed another ship approaching, but Jango can’t tell if it’s friendly or not.

Kenobi doesn’t give him time to figure it out, pushing him into the shuttle and immediately closing the boarding hatch behind them.

The other slaves stand around the small cargo bay in various states of drugged-up panic, and if Jango is counting correctly, only one had opted to take an escape pod.

Far more carefully, Kenobi pushes Jango to the nearest bench, and then goes around the room coaxing the rest into seats as well. Even while gentle about it, murmuring words of assurance in as many languages as they know, Kenobi still moves and speaks with urgency — part of Jango wonders if they’re mind-tricking everyone into compliance.

He waits until Kenobi has detached from the transport and properly started their course to the nearest planet, a swirl of grays and browns that can only be Concordia, before following the Jedi up to the absolutely tiny cockpit.

There’s barely room for the two pilots’ seats, and the ceiling is so low that even Jango's hair brushes the roof, yet Kenobi looks right at home before the wildly overcomplicated controls.

They say nothing as Jango drops into the other chair, merely glaring sideways at him until they’re a good ways away from the spicers’ transport.

“I do ask that you don’t kill me before we get everyone settled,” Kenobi finally sighs, and Jango almost laughs at them: did they think he came up here just to shivv them?

“I’m not going to kill you, Kenobi.” At least, not yet. “You knew who I was.”

Kenobi winces and flips a blinking switch over their head. “I have a Jedi answer for that, and one where you’re less likely to use that vibroblade in your boot. Which would you prefer?”

Jango considers them for a moment, and he’s certain now that Kenobi is younger than Jango had been on Galidraan, but not by much: they have one of those faces that eternally makes them look younger than they are, but if he’s over twenty standard, Jango is a Kryze.

“Both. I want both.”

“Right.” Visibly steeling themself, Kenobi swallows and adjusts their course slightly; wait, when had they gotten away from that second ship? Had Jango imagined it? Then again, he barely knows up from down at the moment, only grounded by Kenobi’s infuriatingly calm presence. “The easy answer is that I saw your name on the freighter’s manifest when it was docked on Mandalore, and recognised it. I’m on an extended mission in Mandalorian space, and, well, my master thought it would be good to catch me up on the recent history, as I had only briefly learned about the Civil War while in the Temple.”

He’s pretty sure that makes sense, a logical A to B, an almost maddeningly ordinary explanation for the space-blown panic Jango had felt on first seeing them, on first hearing their relief at finding him.

“And the Jedi answer?” he prompts quietly, fingers twitching at his lack of a weapon.

They glance at him briefly, at his hands, before facing back forward. “I only knew to check the manifest because I had a Force vision, and I couldn’t knowingly leave you, or any of the others, to this fate. I knew what you looked like not from my lessons, but from what the Force showed me.”

“What the Force showed you.”

“Like I said, the first answer is easier.”

“I’m too high for magic osik.”

They wince again. “Yes, I suspected. My master has a spice specialist waiting for when we land, if any of you choose to detox immediately. She’s Old Clan, though — um, Vau Clan, I think.” The Vau Clan did not follow Jaster, but they certainly didn’t follow Vizsla either, and were unlikely to have sided with the duchy. Now, why Kenobi found that important...? “We couldn’t find any medics who used to follow Jaster Mereel,” they explain, as if reading his mind. “At least, not on such short notice. Obviously we wouldn’t trust anyone from Death Watch, or the New Mandalorians, or the mercenaries controlling Concordia, not with the Mand’alor.”

Jango laughs before he can stop himself, but it’s a bitter thing. “I’m not the Mand’alor. I have no people to lead.”

Kenobi’s frown only deepens as they steer the shuttle into Concordia’s atmosphere. “Perhaps we should discuss this when you’re not spiced burnt.”

He can’t but agree. “None of this explains how your master knew to arrange all of this, if you hadn’t rendezvoused with him.”

“Ah, well, I sent him a coded communication before um... finding this shuttle, and he only got back to me while I was searching the cells for you.”

“You stole this?”

“Listen, I was on a time crunch! I was going to give it back!”

Despite his better judgment, Jango lets himself go boneless and laughs, the reality of the situation maybe finally hitting him. The disgruntled pout Kenobi sports as they contact the nearest spaceport only makes him laugh harder.

Master Windu is waiting for them when Obi-Wan lowers the shuttle gangway, along with a flock of medical personnel and an Arconan with a datapad that reeks of Republic Judiciary.

Everything Obi-Wan had told Jango had been the truth, except that his master had been able to comm him after he had nicked the shuttle and left atmosphere; he’d had no doubt that Windu would come through, of course, even on Obi-Wan’s rather strange and specific request for Dr. Vau, but, well, Obi-Wan still disembarks with the freed slaves expecting a swift dismissal from the Order.

It’s worth it, he tells himself, watching Vau make a beeline to Jango Fett and knowing he’ll be in good hands. It’s worth it, Obi-Wan repeats to himself on loop as he slides his soft hat from his head and fixes his Korun padawan chain back behind his ear. This is far from the first time Obi-Wan has gone off script, has let his emotions get the better of him and acted against the wishes of a master, but it’s worth it, he tries to convince himself as he meets Master Windu in the middle of the flurry of activity of the hangar.

He twists his hat in his hands and immediately bends forward into a bow. “I’m sorry, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan says quietly, and means it: how many padawans could say they had disappointed two masters thoroughly enough to be kicked out of the Jedi thrice?

None, he knows.

“I acted without thinking, I—”

“It seemed to me that you acted with quite a bit of thought, padawan,” Master Windu says smoothly, a large hand settling on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Your communication was most thorough.”

Obi-Wan wets his dry lips and keeps his gaze firmly on his boots. “I know I’m not supposed to lose myself in my feelings, to act as if they are fact, but there wasn’t time, and I—”

“Obi-Wan.”

Snapping his mouth closed, he braces himself for the disappointment, the dismissal, but instead, Windu just sighs, and Obi-Wan only gets concern and apology from their training bond.

“Obi-Wan, can you look at me?”

He tries, he really does, but something seems to lock Obi-Wan in place, terrified of seeing that disappointment on the face of a master he’s only had for two years, after Master Jinn had dropped him.

Despite his fear, Windu isn’t angry when he doesn’t raise his head. “Padawan, the Force is not trying to catch you in a lie. For all that it tests us and pushes us, it would not show you things —past, present, future, or, yes, just feelings— if it did not deem them important. It is how you act that decides the future, not just what you see in visions.”

“Mas... Master Jinn always said to focus on the now,” Obi-Wan mumbles, remembering the sorts of mantras he would meditate on while Jinn’s apprentice.

Windu hmms. “And, in some facsimile, he was correct. No, let me explain myself,” he says, holding up a hand to halt Obi-Wan’s confused protest. “There is danger in getting lost in visions, Obi-Wan, of focusing so much on the future that one forgets to live in the present; this is what Qui-Gon refers to. As I’m sure you realised, Qui-Gon is exceedingly strong in the Living Force, yes?” Obi-Wan nods hesitantly, and Windu smiles at him. “The philosophies he subscribes to, on top of not being particularly prescient himself, puts awareness of the world around you above all else; you can see why it would be difficult for him to understand how those like you, like myself, could give that awareness up for even a moment.”

“But isn’t letting go...”

His smile turns rueful. “Ah, and now you see the Council’s frustration with him, for all that he is a magnificent Jedi.”

Shuffling awkwardly, Obi-Wan resists the urge to tug on his padawan chain like he would his braid, and settles for wrapping it loosely around his finger. “You are not upset?”

“Not with you,” he is quick to confirm. “You saved fifteen people’s lives today, Obi-Wan,” he gestures around them, “and allowed the arrest of several notorious spice runners. Yes, perhaps you acted rashly, but as you said: there was hardly time to hesitate. What matters is that you learn to discern when to act, and when to slow down.”

“... I shouldn’t ignore them?”

Windu blinks down at him, surprise quickly smoothing into something too tense to be entirely serene. “Ignore your visions? No more than I should attempt to ignore shatterpoints: the Force would not make us strong in abilities we couldn’t learn to control. I find I must apologise, padawan, I did not realise Qui-Gon... worked with you so little on your prescience; such an oversight is not one you should have had to worry about.”

Obi-Wan swallows, floundering for words, and absolutely does not know what to do with Windu’s easy acceptance and understanding despite Obi-Wan having spent the last few years hiding his visions and lying about his dreams.

“But now is not the time to delve into this, nor worry about how we will move forward.” Unfolding a brown cloth from over his arm, Windu holds out what Obi-Wan realises is his robe, that he had thought lost when he was separated from his master. Windu waits for him to put it on to gently start herding him towards the ship they had first come to Mandalore on, and quietly starts catching Obi-Wan up on all that he had missed.

He doesn’t know what to make of feeling Jango Fett’s eyes on him from across the hangar; nor the intensity with which they follow him until the ship’s hatch closes behind him.

(this took four iterations to write and i’m still not quite satisfied, but i’m very attached to obi-wan having a chain/beads instead of a braid after Melida/Daan; the lil wish-you-would-write snippet happens a few months before this!

thank you for the prompt and y’all’s patience! obi-wan has brown eyes now because you can’t stop me)

*hallikset a seven-stringed instrument that i think is just legends now. but cal plays one!

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