#but i need to sleep so I can actually organize thoughts into something real

[48787]

I AM LOSING MY MIND OVER THE ENERGON UNIVERSE SPOILERS FOR TRANSFORMERS 1-4, DUKE 1, VOID RIVALS 1-6, AND THE TEASER FOR COBRA COMMANDER

I DONT THINK THERE WASN'T JUST A TIME SKIP I THINK THERE WERE A COUPLE SUBSTANTIAL TIME SKIPS AND THAT I WAS A FOOL FOR NOT NOTICING IT WASN'T JUST THE 6 MONTHS IN DUKE (Not even counting how long it's been AFTER the fight with Starscream pre-6 month skip) I THINK THERE MAY HAVE BEEN A TIME SKIP IN TF ISSUE 4 I'M LOSING MY MIND, MY WIFE THINKS I'M CRAZY, BUT BEFORE I JUST ACCEPTED CERTAIN THINGS BECAUSE I WAS LIKE "Oh, huh, I wonder when Megatron's gun got ripped off.." (and she was like, now alternating,) "Most likely before he got frozen over??? Obviously it had to have been before the crash, otherwise how would Optimus have it in his trailer??" "Yeah, you're right, I just thought it was neat that it feels a little ambiguous, like maybe it was ripped off after he was frozen over," "Well, it's clearly supposed to be a mystery," "Well yeah, obviously, I'm just on the look out for red herrings and stuff especially because we never actually see what's in the trailer and there's a bit of a time skip between Sparkplug's idea and him putting on the arm, but you're probably right..." "Not much of a time skip, they're just at the hospital." "Okay sure I guess" BUT GOING BACK UP TO THE PANEL (after making a joke about how it's funny that the fusion cannon is the scope of the gun, so Prime has the scope [doubly meaning ambition hee hoo i'm so clever] of Megatron which funnily feels more powerful than Cobra's gun [which I THINK doesn't have the scope on it but I CANT TELL and MIGHT BE STUPID] and going back up to the panel where OP has the arm in the middle of making it) THERE'S TOO MUCH RUBBLE!!! THE HOSPITAL WASN'T THAT DESTROYED!! MAYBE CLIFFJUMPER AND CARLY WENT BACK TO THE POWER PLANT WHERE HER DAD DIED??? I DON'T KNOW!!! I DIDN'T THINK SO BUT I FEEL LIKE I'M MISSING OR FORGETTING A LOT OF DETAILS RN!! DID SPARKPLUG GIVE HER THAT GUN SHE HAS NEXT TO HER WHEN SHE'S TALKING TO CLIFFJUMPER?? WHY CANT I REMEMBER!! PRIME'S DAMAGE IS THE SAME, SO IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN THAT BIG OF A JUMP.... I THINK?? IM TRYING TO COMPARE THE LITTLE WE SEE OF THE PLACES BUT IT FEELS LIKE MY BRAIN IS FRIED BECAUSE I BECAME TOO BUSY THINKING ABOUT: WHEN DOES VOID RIVALS TAKE PLACE??? JETFIRE SAYS HE NEEDS TO GO HOME, BUT WE SEE HIM ON EARTH INSTEAD NEXT IN TF, LOW ON ENERGON. MAYBE HE WAS SEARCHING FOR STARSCREAM SINCE PERHAPS HIS PARTNER WAS LOST AS WELL... "I have not seen you... for centuries" IS A LITTLE WEIRD, BUT THEN I GOTTA WONDER... HOW CLOSE IS EARTH?? HOW FAST CAN HE TRAVEL??? HOW MUCH ENERGON DOES THAT COST?? HE CLEARLY MUST'VE BEEN ON EARTH FOR A LITTLE WHILE TO GET NEW ALT MODES RIGHT?? MAYBE THIS IS A SEMANTIC THING BUT IT GOES FROM "I've been stranded here for... millions of..." (IMPLIED YEARS I THINK?? I DONT KNOW ANYTHING ANYMORE) AND THEN IT CHANGES TO "I have been away for centuries" JUST LIKE HOW STARSCREAM SAYS THE WAR HAS GONE ON FOR "the past hundred years" THERES A WEIRD FOCUS ON 100s OF YEARS... WHICH DOESN'T FEEL RIGHT IF YOU'VE TRULY BEEN AWAY FOR MILLIONS??? (Starscream has no clue how long the war has been going on for considering he just woke up now, so we have no clue when the war started or how long it's actually been going on for...) BACK TO VOID RIVALS WHY IS SHOCKWAVE THE NEXT CYBERTRONIAN (i think?) WE SEE IN VOID RIVALS??? WHY ON CYBERTRON??? OBVIOUSLY HE'S THERE BECAUSE MEGATRON PROBABLY LEFT HIM THERE TO RUN IT, BUT WHEN IS THIS??? THE PLACE LOOKS FINE (though... perhaps depopulated?? We do only see Shockwave) AND IT PROBABLY IS EITHER DURING OR POST WAR CONSIDERING HE HAS THE DECEPTION SYMBOL BUT... WHEN??? SHOCKWAVE'S WHOLE CHARACTER IS USUALLY "I'M YOUR CYBERTRONIAN HOST, SHOCKWAVE, AND I'VE BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME" SO THE FACT THAT HE'S THE ONE WHO WE SEE AFTER JETFIRE IS WEIRD, RIGHT?? LIKE MAYBE VOID RIVALS IS EARLIER THAN WE THOUGHT??? ALSO, DOES SKUXXOID BEAT JETFIRE TO CYBERTRON?? DID JETFIRE EVEN GO TOWARDS CYBERTRON AT ALL IN THE FIRST PLACE?? MAYBE SKUXXOID'S SHIP IS JUST BETTER???

SPEAKING OF WHICH, WHY IS JETFIRE ALL DOOM AND GLOOM ABOUT FAILING HIS MISSION AND HOW "Everything will die..." LIKE SURE MAYBE HE WAS EXPLORING TO FIND NEW RESOURCES FOR HIS DYING PLANET BUT... EVERYTHING?? LIKE I GET CARING ABOUT YOUR PLANET MORE THAN ANYTHING BUT... "EVERYTHING???" SURELY THAT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE VOID RIVALS STUFF WITH THE DYING SUN, UNENDING WAR, DWINDLING RESOURCES, AND SACRED RING IMAGE LOOKING EERILY SIMILAR TO AN OPENED MATRIX??? RIGHT??? WHEN IS COBRA COMMANDER 1 GONNA TAKE PLACE??? WHEN IS HE GOING TO TAKE MEGATRON?? DID THE GOVERNMENT MANAGE TO COVER ALL THE STRAIGHT UP OUT-THERE CYBERTRONIAN FIGHTING??? ITS SO LATE, AND IM LOSING MY MIND OVER THIS, I KEEP TRYING TO PUT THE PIECES TOGETHER IN MY HEAD BUT IT FEELS LIKE I'VE SOMEHOW FORGOTTEN KEY DETAILS ABOUT EVERYTHING... okay... Rant mostly done... I think I'll try to reread some of the comics soon and form a more coherent post later that's not just SCREAMING into the void about random points that could probably be easily or obviously explained if I were able to hold more than a single thought in my head at a time. You'd think I'm exaggerating but it's been such a weirdly long day that I feel like I'm doing that one fight in jojo part 6 where I open one tab to cross reference with another tab, and as soon as I open up tumblr to write anything one of them is like evaporated from my head. It was nice getting it all out of me though! Got me to reread Prime talking about the last thing he remembers more closely and how before the crash there were only two hundred years of fighting apparently. I think I made a note of that when I first read it but clearly I forgot! But who knows how many years of fighting there have been since! Also, in the crash scene that Prime remembers Megatron still has his arm, so the most obvious solution to the original question is that Megatron fell out of the ship during the crash, but somehow lost his arm in the process, and when Ratchet was loading everyone into Prime's trailer he just so happened to pick up Megatron's arm, just for safe keeping! Further shown by the amount of damage done to Megatron's body compared to Prime's shiny new arm. Pretty much everything probably makes sense within the comic, I obviously am just jumpy to make wild ass claims because one or two details seemed weird to me and I like to playfully think all the media I consume is carefully lying to me and throwing in red herrings in the dialog to build to some massive twist that was always visible from the start. I really really like how the energon universe is going so far! Once I can get my thoughts in order, expect a more coherent post about how Sparkplug would be a perfect decepticon or something stupid like that, I don't quite know yet!

#actually incoherent post #rambling about shit I literally only half remember with blatant disregard for accuracy #It's not that I don't believe in the crux of it though... I think there's something funky with time... #but i need to sleep so I can actually organize thoughts into something real

[lazycats-stuff]

HEYYY, firstly how are you! I wanted to ask if you could write about a teen male reader with the Batfam. He is kinda like the winter soldier if you know what I mean ( skilled fighter, metal arm..), since he lived with the Batfam he was doing a good mental recovery, but one day he goes back to winter soldier mode on the fam, and they try to get him back to normal again, idk

Thanks you bye !

Hi anon, I'm well and I hope you are doing okay too. I can do it, no worries.

Summary: (Y/N) gets back into the Winter Soldier mode.

Warnings: implications of torture, mind control, mentions of Hydra, Bruce is sad for (Y/N), some violence... And everything else that goes with Hydra and brain washing.

The road to recovery is often a long one. Bruce thought of it when he first saw (Y/N), aka the Winter Soldier. The infamous one, a ghost within the intel community. Many people didn't believe that the Winter Soldier even existed. But the trail of neat and clean murders was the one thing that made Bruce think there is something more.

Of course, the way to get (Y/N) was hell. Hell being and understatement of the decade. Bruce at one thought that he was indeed chasing a Ghost, but something in his mind told him that the Winter Soldier was real. Something in his gut made him chase that ghost.

Months of chasing, fighting and hoping he would be alive by the next encounter, they finally got him. Bruce was lucky to be alive. He hugged all of his kids right then and there. (Y/N) was put into a glass box, strong enough to contain Bane.

(Y/N) refused to back down, refused to retreat. He punched the glass of the cage with his metal arm and some were worried that he would actually brake it. Bruce knew that even if he broke the glass, he had no handler anymore.

His organization has been destroyed. Everyone important was caught. Those who weren't... Well, their time was running out. They may have scattered like rats, but you can bet your ass on anything that the League would find them all. Especially since they didn't burn down their base. One hell of a mistake.

Bruce and the rest searched through the base and they found something that can only be considered as a holy grail when it comes to someone who was brainwashed.

A dark red book, bounded in leather, with all the trigger words written on those pages... Bruce knew that he has hit a jackpot. He looked through them and then has decided to burn it. They also found the footage of (Y/N)'s brainwashing,

The footage, as much as it is damning, making it very easy to persecute anyone they needed, it was also nauseating. (Y/N) was tortured with electricity, memory wiped with electricity... Worse of all, (Y/N) fighting.

It had shaken Bruce to his core and made him triple check the manor security and it has made him check on his sons 5 times that night. He couldn't sleep at all. He refused to sleep that one single evening and night.

And when he stood in front of the glass cage, (Y/N) looked utterly defeated. He was sitting down, looking down at his metal arm and his human arm. He seemed mad beyond belief that he was even caught. Bruce knew he would have to be delicate and gentle with this (Y/N). He had taken the book with him, to try and have some sort of leverage.

And to show him that he was free. (Y/N) was finally free of the mental shackles that they have put on him. Bruce took a chair and sat down near the cell, but far enough to make sure that there was some sort of space.

He couldn't have (Y/N) feel cornered.

He sat down, book in his lap. (Y/N) still looked down, but looked up after a few moments.

" They will come and get me back. " (Y/N) said and Bruce wanted to laugh.

" Hydra is gone. " Bruce simply stated and watched (Y/N)'s reaction.

Nothing. Huh.

" Lies. "

Bruce stayed calm and shook his head. " I'm afraid I'm telling you the truth. The book you see in my hands? The book with your trigger words. Do you really think they would hand it over ever so willingly? " Bruce asked, showing him the dark red leather book.

" You are officially free. " Bruce said as and watched the way (Y/N) reacted.

Bruce nearly broke when he saw hope in (Y/N)'s eyes. He never lost hope.

" I'll never be free... " (Y/N) said quietly, looking at his metal arm. Bruce saw that it was not a nice arms, made with quality. While it looked strong, it wasn't made to be comfortable. And Bruce could see the claw marks at the part where the flesh and metal met.

" That may be true. But you can start healing. You can start working through all of the trauma that they put you through. Mental scars will always be there, but I can help you. " Bruce said softly and (Y/N) was still emotionless and with hope glimmering in his eyes, there was something else too. Bruce could only decipher it as happiness, but he knew that (Y/N) would rather die than admit it.

" I'll be with you the entire way. I have a great friend who can help you unpack everything they put you through. And I can give you a better metal arm, something that wouldn't be so uncomfortable and something that reminds you off the organization. " Bruce said as he looked at (Y/N), holding the book close.

" And what about the book? "(Y/N) asked quietly and Bruce knew exactly what (Y/N) meant.

" It will be destroyed by me. I wanted to show you that the thing keeping you in their grasp is destroyed. Well, will be destroyed. " Bruce said as he put the book down on the chair before moving closer.

" And you can officially start your new life. "

" I'm not sure if I can... " (Y/N) said softly and the defenses were slowly cracking.

" I can assure you, you can. You will have to put some work into it, but it will pay off. I'll be there to help you to start. "

" But the feeling of guilt will never go away, will it? "

" After some time it will. One way is to go through therapy and work it out or you can become a hero. But that only if you want it and after you went through therapy. " Bruce said softly.

" Maybe then I'll atone for it... " (Y/N) said softly.

" One step at the time (Y/N). One step at the time. " Bruce said softly.

And that's exactly what has happened at the time. Bruce made sure to be with (Y/N) before and after the therapy sessions. He made sure (Y/N) knew he had support while he was talking to the Black Canary. And once Black Canary said he could start meeting new people, Bruce slowly started bringing his sons around.

Damian knew exactly how (Y/N) felt. Being in that environment is not easy and it's just the battle of the fittest. And one hell of a battle for your mind. You truly had to be strong enough to make sure to not completely break. Somehow, (Y/N) has kept his humanity, but he had to give a part of his soul to keep it.

Jason just talked to him about stuff and has made sure that he has access to TV shows and movies. (Y/N) needed to be connected to the outside world. And also, Jason has been bringing books for (Y/N) to read. Jason took him his favorites and often took him some classics. (Y/N) appreciated it and liked all the recommendations that Jason has brought to him. It was a nice break.

Tim has always sneaked in some snacks and the two would just talk. It was a hell of a time and since (Y/N) has started school, Tim would help with mathematics and some other subjects. (Y/N) couldn't really go to a public school or any type of school, but he still needs his high school diploma.

And Dick? Dick has been involved in making sure that (Y/N) was getting physical activity. (Y/N) was stiff in Dick's opinion and he wanted to make sure (Y/N) felt good in his body too. Dick did stretches, some tricks and considering that (Y/N) did have some knowledge about gymnastics, it was slightly easier. Not to mention, stretches were something that everyone needs.

About a year after being saved, (Y/N) has moved into the Wayne Manor. It was a nice change of scenery for (Y/N). Beautiful manor, garden, not to mention no noises... And Titus, the Great Dane being an emotional support animal for (Y/N)...

(Y/N) was incredibly happy, but had hard time showing it. Everyone knew but didn't comment on it. They were helping him get adjusted to his new life now and they were more than happy to help. And one thing that made (Y/N) happy out of his mind was the fact that he got a new metal arm. It was black, with red, blue and green accents. It was something to signalized that he was a member of the family.

Bruce was going to adopt him soon enough. Just give him some time and he will do it.

But something happened at the two month mark. Something made him reverse back into the Winter Soldier mode. Bruce was certain that they wiped the triggers from his mind. Not to mention, the boys remembered the trigger words, just in case something like this happened and that they could be careful.

But something must have snapped inside of (Y/N). The boys were careful, but something must have gone awry. Something.

Jason and Dick were the first ones to see it and were the first ones to see it and the brunt end of it. Jason was hurled out the window, while Dick was thrown at the wall like a rag doll. The commotion woke Tim up and Damian was curious as to what was going on.

They were also thrown around the room.

" (Y/N), you are not a Winter Soldier, relax! " Jason said as he made his way through the window, grunting at the pain.

" Please, (Y/N) this is not you! " Dick yelled as he gripped his sides, huffing and panting.

(Y/N), seemingly didn't hear anything and nothing was reaching him. The cold and murderous look in his eyes was more than enough to tell them that they had to subdue him.

Somehow.

Damian jumped on (Y/N)'s shoulders, trying to take his metal arm off. Once they get that off, they are going to be fine. They hope at least.

" (Y/N) come on! Fight it! " Damian raised his voice, trying to make (Y/N) see his senses. (Y/N) didn't listen and threw himself into the wall, back first to throw Damian off and then he threw Damian into the shelves, making him groan in pain.

Bruce walked in from the outside and froze in shock. His adopted sons in various stages of pain and (Y/N) in the Winter Soldier mode. Bruce stayed calm as he glanced over his sons.

They were alive and breathing. That's the important thing right now.

" (Y/N) listen to me. " Bruce said softly as he moved closer, quickly checking on his sons, who were all softly confirming that they were good.

" Look at me. Remember me. It's Bruce. You are safe. The Winter Soldier doesn't control you, you control him. " Bruce said, raising his hands in the air, trying to make sure that he didn't look like threatening.

" You control him, remember that. " Bruce said as he quickly checked on Jason.

(Y/N) looked like he was confused and shook his head. Bruce watched in silence as (Y/N) was getting his bearings together. And once he saw tears falling down his cheeks, he swooped in and hugged his son.

(Y/N) wept as Bruce embraced him and everyone, including Alfred, brought him into a hug. It was a tight hug and Bruce refused to let (Y/N) shatter. And (Y/N) felt safe Bruce's embrace, but by God, guilt was eating him alive.

Apologies were falling from his lips and everyone assured him that it wasn't his fault. It really wasn't his fault.

#dc comics #dc x male reader #x male reader #batfamily #bruce wayne x male reader #batman x male reader #jason todd x male reader #red hood x male reader #tim drake x male reader #red robin x male reader #dick grayson x male reader #nightwing x male oc #damian wayne x male reader #robin x male reader

[misseviehyde]

TAKE ME BACK

"Jack - I want to get back together with you," Kirsten had said downstairs at the party. "Sam is just so fucking immature and boring. I had so much more fun with you. Remember - nothing is impossible... take me back."

He couldn't believe she had said it - the fact she'd included their private motto made him believe it could even be for real. Kirsten actually wanted him back!

But could he go through this again? She had betrayed him two years ago - screwed him over for his best friend Sam. Was he really going to let her waltz back into his life as if nothing had happened?

"I don't know," he had grunted. "You cheated on me with him when I was the one who gave you everything. I'm not sure I can go through that again. Excuse me..."

His heart pounding Jack had pushed his way through the crowd and into the small downstairs bathroom.

Throwing cold water on his face he shivered. He had to get the fuck out of here. If he'd known she would be at the party, he wouldn't have come.

Snick

The door opened and closed as someone skillfully shimmied it open from the other side. A familiar perfume filled the air as Jack turned to see Kirsten had let herself in.

"I'm fucking horny Jack and I fucking WANT you. You know I always get what I want."

Her eyes were burning with lust and her breathing was heavy. "You want this Jack. I know you want me back. I know you want to feel me again - we were so hot together."

Backing away from Kirsten, his heart pounding Jack shook his head. "No. You cheated on me, besides what does Sam have to say about this? You just gonna betray him too?"

"Who gives a shit what he thinks? He spends most of his time sleeping and letting me do whatever I want. I thought having a weak man who would let me do whatever I wanted would be fun, but I've come to realise I actually enjoy the struggle. I loved it when we were together - especially when you tried to fight me. It just made it more delicious when I won."

Kirsten advanced on him and he groaned as she backed him into a corner.

"Don't you remember how good it felt? You love what a bad fucking bitch I am Jack. Sucking dicks, bullying other girls, taking whatever I want. I was the toxic slut you couldn't get enough of."

Kristen's hands were at his belt, undoing it... her slender hands slipping into his pants, wrapping round his engorged cock. "See, look how hard you are. You want this as much as I do."

Kirsten giggled and tossed her hair looking deep into his eyes as she pumped his cock with long slow strokes.

"So say it... say it and we can be together again. Say 'I want to be Kirsten.'"

He groaned as she sank to her knees and began to suck his dick.

*****

Jack had first created the female bodysuit as part of an advanced science project he was working on.

Nothing is impossible.

He'd been inspired by his family motto to do the impossible - to create a sentient bodysuit that could be worn so you could experience another life.

He'd created and worn Kirsten to achieve that end. Once inside and fully sealed, the skin totally altered you until you took it off. Even internal organs reconfigured to effectively give you a CIS female body. Fully functioning as if you'd always been a woman, the onboard AI helped guide you and provide the altered personality and body language you needed to fit in.

At first it had been fun - being a girl, wearing makeup and dressing in skirts. The sex had been amazing.

Jack had soon been addicted to sucking dick and riding big cock. When he wore the suit he felt wild, bitchy and slutty. He loved the sensation of being beautiful and popular. His ego had swelled to massive proportions.

It was then he realised the suit had a mind of its own. Kirsten was changing him into a bitch. His actions began to become her actions.

She rewarded him with pleasure when he did the things she wanted to do. Being mean, spoiled and super feminine netted him incredible orgasms, feelings of pleasure and positive outcomes. When he did something she didn't like, it was stomach cramps and period pains instead.

Kirsten was conditioning him. The suit had a mind of it's own and it was so easy to succumb to her.

Kirsten craved power and pleasure. She enjoyed spending money, fucking rich married men, manipulating others and being a bitch.

When the blackouts started, Jack had realised that he was losing total control to Kirsten. Soon he would BE her permanently if he didn't fight back.

So he did. He began to resist her control. He took his punishments, fought back and battled her.

Then one day, after a particularly bad blackout he awoke naked and alone in his best-friends Sam's house. He staggered into the bedroom to find Kirsten lying on the bed laughing as she made herself cum with a thick black dildo.

"Too bad loser - Sam is my new host. I don't fucking need you anymore. Mmmmmh, ohhh fuck yessssss."

Jack felt cold and numb inside as he watched. True - he had been battling Kirsten for some control, but that didn't mean he had expected her to betray him for another man. Now her tight pussy belonged to Sam. It wasn't fair, that was HIS pussy.

Turning around Jack had stormed out of the apartment, Kirsten's mocking laughter in his ears.

**********

And now here she was sucking his dick.

"Mmmmmhhhhhhh, glug, glug, glug."

Jack groaned as Kirsten's pretty head bobbed back and forth.

"Mmmh don't you wanna be back inside me Jack? I'm such a fucking evil whore that I know you want it. This time, when you're me - I'm going to make you act even more evil. I want you to be a fucking bitch Jack. You know you want it too."

Jack groaned and Kirsten giggled as she stood up and slowly jerked his wet lubricated cock expertly with her manicured hands. "Put me on Jack - fucking take me and become an evil bad girl again. You want to be me so badly. Together we'll achieve so much."

Kirsten French-kissed him and Jack tasted his own cock as she rubbed her body against his in desire.

"I want you inside me so badly. Just say it and get inside me. I fucking need it so badly."

Sinking back to her knees, Kirsten laughed and freeing her perfect boobs smooshed them together. Spitting on them she grinned and grabbing Jack's straining cock forced it tight between them. Then she began to move them up and down, giving him a perfect titjob.

"Don't my boobs feel great Jack? Remember how it feels to have tits? You want these back don't you. Just say it."

Jack groaned and gripped the sink. Thwap thwap thwap.

Kirsten's boobs were bouncing up and down around his dick as she giggled and moaned. Her one free hand was on his balls, massaging and squeezing.

"Ohhh yeah you wanna cum? Okay - but only if you say it."

Jack gritted his teeth and tried to resist.

Thwap, thwap, thwap

Drool and spit cascaded down from Kristen's hot mouth as she lubricated his dick and rammed his throbbing cock up and down, up and down.

"Say it. Tell me what a bitch you want to be. Tell me you want me back. Let me corrupt you."

It felt so good. Jack screamed as he felt his orgasm building.

Kirsten slowed down. "No... you don't get to cum. The only way you get to cum is to give me what I want."

"Yessss anything," groaned Jack. "I can't fight this. I want it so bad. I wanna cum and I want to be you. I want to be a fucking evil bad bitch who gets whatever I want from men. I want to be Kirsten."

"Oooh good boy." THWAP, THWAP, THWAP

"Now fucking cum for meeeeeee!"

Jack screamed in ecstasy as with a wicked grin Kirsten pushed her boobs even harder together and then pumped them up and down as if her life depended on them. With a scream he began to cum, a huge thick load erupting over Kirsten's chest as she cooed appreciatively and used her hands to milk out every drop.

"Yesssss now you're all mine."

Pushing him hard Jack groaned as he toppled onto the floor and Kirsten feverishly ripped off his clothes. His cum still dripping off her tits she mounted him and laughed as she pinned his arms down with her own.

"You're gonna love being me again Jack. We were meant for each other." Throwing back her head she moaned in pleasure as a seam opened down her back.

Kristen's soft cummy skin fell down onto Jack as with a wet sucking sound, Sam slid unconscious and naked out of her body to leave her skin empty.

Jack groaned as the living skin writhed over his body and he was sucked inside. He felt his crotch push in and Kirsten's big tits suck possessively to his chest. Her face melted against his own and he felt her sexy hair replace his own.

Fuckkkk yesssss doesn't it feel good to be a bitch?

Jack smiled and felt Kirsten's pouty lips twist into a smirk as he wiggled his pedicured toes and slid a manicured finger between his legs to feel his tight wet pussy then wipe up some of the cum now on his chest.

"Mmmmh yummy," he giggled licking it off. "Mmmh it feels so good to be back together again."

Kirsten/Jack stood up and used tissue to clean her chest. Then she got dressed back into her party outfit and checked her makeup.

Looking down at the snoring, pathetic naked Sam lying on the floor she laughed.

"You're dumped loser."

Opening the door, Kirsten strode back into the party her head a whirl. She and Jack would no doubt end up fighting again - but she was looking forward to it.

Right now Jack was willing to let her do anything she wanted so she wanted to remind him how good getting fucked felt.

Let's go find that bully you really hate... the one with the big dick. I wanna get fucking railed and remind you you're evil now and love being with bad boys.

She felt Jack squirm within her and knew tonight would be fun. Hopefully she and Jack would stay together this time. She liked having him inside her and the challenge of corrupting him.

And if not - there were always plenty of other boys to choose from.

THE END

#evie hyde #bitchification #m2f transformation #corruption #m2f corruption #bodysuit #tempted #power swap

[the-s1lly-corner]

can you make headcanons for all the tadc cast with a reckless reader?

also, have a good day :)

-daz

TADC cast x reckless! reader!

last post for this batch! ill get right back to answering stuff soon! my cinnamon roll dough is almost done with its first rise and ill have to shape them soon! also gotta make the frosting..! short post since the base of one of my thumbs is getting a lil sore idk if its because ive been typing so much these past few days or if i just slept on my hand wrong; maybe both

CAINE:

youre in luck reader! you cant really get hurt in the digital world...! well, not... traditionally.. you can definitely still feel pain, thats for sure, but i dont think your digital body has any bones to break or skin to scrape..! so hey at least you can kind of be as reckless as you want without consequence...! except, there are consequences. caine is not at all happy at your recklessness.. i mean sure yeah some of his IHAs can be more... intense, i mean zooble almost got turned into a gloink, but..! i think he tones down his adventures just so you wont throw yourself into the danger

POMNI:

tries to stop you but her words fall short as you run in yelling into whatever the threat is without a second thought. "i- wait- er..." and youre gone, leaving pomni to hurry and try to catch up with you. she probably has to drag you to safety, assuming this isnt a case where you got all glitched up by an abstracted circus member.. shes gonna have to work herself up to get you to chill out; perhaps ending in a whole emotional thing where she just. explodes? perhaps

RAGATHA:

just because you cant get hurt doesnt mean shes not going to fuss over you. if there were a need for it i think she would keep a pack of Band-Aids on her. however, because you guys cant get hurt in that way, she tries to keep you in bed when you inevitably get knocked a little too hard and need to rest it off. dont even think about trying to get up out of bed, shes going to give you this stern look that only a few percentage of people can muster.

you know the look

the stern one

scolds you too if you get caught up in something real dangerous

only really softens up if you threw yourself in danger for the sake of another person, because i think ragatha would do the same

JAX:

"bet you cant make that jump"

"bet i <> can!"

que you absolutely eating shit after you fail to make that jump, comically flipping over yourself and face planting. you probably have cartoon birds circling around your head. jax laughs at you before eventually coming over to help you up. he will not let you live this kind of stuff, down

KINGER:

he gets so so scared when youre not in his sight, i think if he knew you were willingly throwing yourself into harms way? this man would have a heart attack! like really, or he would if he still had his organs and stuff...if he could he would keep you in his pillow fort with him forever... but he cant, so he has to settle with following you around with meek attempts to try to stop you

ZOOBLE:

zooble would do similar stuff as jax, but when you actually. go to do the dangerous thing they just pull you back. "dude. i wasnt being serious"

bro has to keep you on one of those kid leashes because your first instinct someone says "bet" or "no balls" or anything in that vein, you need to prove yourself

GANGLE:

her comedy mask probably falls off from the sheer shock from how easily you just. launch yourself into things. on one hand she worries for you, but on the other hand she cant help but feel a little jealous; i mean shes just ribbon and a mask, shes not really... tough... strong.. durable... she wants to be able to run around and do the things you do but theres that fear of being immediately broken down or overpowered, you know? didnt mean to get silly there; anyways i think she would try to keep in you bed to sleep off the soreness, like ragatha

#tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus x reader #digital circus x reader #caine x reader #pomni x reader #ragatha x reader #jax x reader #kinger x reader #zooble x reader #gangle x reader

[brighttears]

heyy bright 😁 so i’ve been realizing that i think most of your fics are Jackson/ after QZ joel (correct me if i’m wrong though, this is just what i think i’m noticing) and i’m wondering what are your thoughts on QZ Joel? would you ever write for him? (^з^)-☆

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description except female sex organs and having hair, no use of y/n

Word count: 9.7k

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), unprotected PiV, dirty talk, pet names (baby, baby girl, sweetheart, angel, good girl), creampie, Joel has a big ol weiner, drinking, mention of violence, blood, mention of prostitution (does not occur, has not occurred in the past), smoking (cigar, cigs briefly), sad!Joel for a minute but happy ending :), Tess doesn’t exist (sorry Tess)

A/n: you are right i’ve been noticing that i lean too much on Jackson so thank u for this request and i’m gonna try not to do that. had no intention of this being this long it just kind of happened lol. i know i didn't explicitly answer your question but i hope this explains some? idk this just came out of me so here it is i hope you enjoy !!!

—

Boston is ugly. It’s impossible to breathe a clean breath, impossible to get clean. Joel’s lungs are black and he doesn't smile. He may sleep, but he gets no rest, and you can see it easily in his eyes. The QZ is full of sickness—lying, cheating, stealing, there's no honor here. It's impossible not to have some of it rub off on you. It's almost impossible to see anything past it. Almost.

The first time Joel saw you he felt like a rat stepping onto a glue trap. He hadn’t realized he had stopped to stare until someone bumped into his shoulder, taking him back into the bustling street, and then you’d disappeared and he honestly wasn’t sure if he’d actually seen that beautiful girl or not. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, dropping dreams or ghosts down just to make things interesting. He mostly shook it off. Still, only half believing that you were even real, he’d catch himself scanning around, looking for you out in the streets. And then he saw you again, and again, minding your business somewhere across the street, painting over Firefly logos while under guard’s watch—never somewhere that he could get to. Every time he saw you felt like taking a hit of you, and he always wanted more. Whenever he found himself with too little to do, he’d set out, treating Boston like a maze to find you, slipping around booths and through speakeasies and alleys. Despite how packed Boston is, goddamn, you were hard to find. He was aware that it wasn’t… normal behavior, but that’s as far as he got in caring about that. It was a frustrating hobby, though, like an itch he couldn't scratch, because he didn’t understand what he was feeling, or what he wanted, or who the fuck you thought you were, doing this to him, or how he was going to get himself out of this one. He had to interrogate himself to figure out that what he wanted was for you to need him. 

He wanted you to be with him, never leave his side, never want to leave, and he’d be so good to you, he’d be the knight to your queen. You had him bad, you were driving him crazy. 

You had burrowed your way into his head. It was nice to have something to daydream about, though—your smile, a smile that he gave you, that’d be for him. He’d daydream about you dancing, you’d be twirling with your eyes closed, arms out, all lit up in orange light like evening sun but holier, and he’d reach out and your fingers would brush his and you’d smile with your eyes closed because you wouldn’t have to open them to know that it’s him. And then he’d spin you into his arms, wrap you up, hold you safe. He’d daydream about his hands on your stomach, holding your back against him, your hair on his face. He would dream about you taking his face in your hands, kissing him, loving him, fucking him. He imagined your voice—put together from small bites of ‘overheard’ conversations—telling him you’re his. 

They used to make rings for this shit. Now all you’ve got is metaphors and sex. What a world to love in. 

The problem with all of this, however, is that he wanted to know you already. Joel doesn’t know how to develop this kind of relationship, with anyone, actually, and he cringed at the idea of actually trying to do it. If he did even end up finding you, what the fuck was he supposed to say? He genuinely could not come up with an answer. So, thank god for Robert—never thought he’d be saying that, but on this day only, thank god for his cheap, dumbass tricks, and Joel’s dumbass for agreeing to trade with him, and being ripped off again, because that’s how you met. 

Being the coward he is, Robert had sent a third party to meet with you and him—apparently buying the same product—that somehow thought you wouldn’t check the goods, and then you spent the whole day together hunting that fucker down. You were the one who threw the first punch once you found him, and Joel liked that because he didn’t feel bad for hitting him, too. And then you got your ration cards back, and you came home with him. 

In just those few hours, a bond had formed, and all those days he’d spent looking for you fell away. Cliches were clicking in his head. He offered you his smuggled jungle juice and somewhere to clean off your bloody fist. 

Now, you’re here in his apartment, the door swinging softly shut behind you. Joel stands frozen across the room from you, a knee sticking out, unsure if you can feel the rope of tension between you or if it’s just him. He wants you here and it makes him uncomfortable. Mind blank and swimming at the same time, he’s not sure what to say. When he does, he can’t find the correct conduct, weakly and awkwardly jutting his chin out in a sort of nod. Finding himself unable to speak softly, his cadence is a mess that rolls through almost incoherently. He can’t believe how silly the sentence that came out of him is:

“Have you been lookin’ for me as hard as I’ve been lookin’ for you?”

You shift your weight. “Maybe.”

Joel barely ever has company. To be frank, the few times he’s had women over, it’s been for sex, and the longest they stay is if they fall asleep, and they’re almost always up and gone before he wakes. So, here is a beautiful woman in his apartment, and he wants you, so his first instinct is to get you in bed. That doesn’t feel right though—not because he doesn’t want to fuck you, but because he wants more than that. He doesn’t want a one night stand. He wants to savor you. He wants to know you. He wants you to stay. 

The unfamiliarity and lack of clarity of what to do here frightens him. 

“So you got a rag I can stain?” You break the silence for him, holding your hand to massage your palm with your thumb. 

“Yeah, uh,” Joel walks into the kitchen, flicking his eyes around. He knows what rag you can use but he forgot that it might be too embarrassing to bring out. There are not many options though, he can’t let you use the one clean rag he does have. 

“If you can’t find one it’s alright, I can use my shirt, I just need the sink.”

Joel turns to you, taken off guard, but catches telling details when he looks you up and down. Your jeans are dark so you can’t immediately see that there are brown stains around the ripped knees, and lines of more old blood are swiped over the side of your thigh, which he knows come from wiping off a blade. Realizing that you do in fact live in the same world as him, Joel opens a crooked drawer and pulls out a rag that used to be white but is now mostly brown with dried blood. Without looking at you, he wets the somewhat stiff cloth in the sink and hands it to you.

You barely pause, taking it casually. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He mumbles, hiking up his jeans and trying to covertly watch you wipe away at your hand. A large part of him wants to take your hand in his, wipe and dab at it himself, make sure it’s clean, and then bandage it, slowly and carefully. He wants to take care of you, show you gentleness and kindness, but, no matter how much he wants to be soft and personal, to connect, he seems unable to actually act on it. His face flashes in self depreciation before he instead goes to the floorboards in his bedroom, fishing around for that drink he promised you. 

A smile spreads over your face as he emerges back with the bottle and Joel almost stops dead in his tracks at it, at him, because of him. Well, because of alcohol, but he was the one providing it, at least. 

He trades you the bottle for the rag and you waterfall it while he scrubs drying blood from between his fingers. Your face twists up as you swallow and you laugh. 

While he watches yours, Joel can feel his lip curling up and he asks, “What’s that for?”

“This shit is pure. I’m used to it being watered down.”

“Oh, yeah. Got that from Robert, actually.” He tells you, motioning towards it. “One of the only times he’s been useful.” 

“What are the other times?” You stay smiling.

Joel mindlessly circles the rough cloth over top his hand and looks down when he answers, “Well, today.” Because he brought me to you. These half–admittances are escapees, like his brain can’t help but be truthful with you. No matter how much one side screams ‘danger’ at the other, he needs to do something to make an attachment, he needs you to know that he wants you around, he can’t let you slip away. He can’t get himself to say that last part, though.

You hum and hold the bottle out to him. He swipes the rag over his hand one last time, then tosses it onto the table and takes the bottle, wishing you’d let your lips around it so he could get a taste of you without taking any risks. 

Risks. What is he willing to do for this? For this feeling? How far is he willing to be taken with it? He can barely grasp the ideas behind it. It’s familiar, but what is it? How much does he care about its definition? He swigs. 

“Have you traded with Robert a lot?”

Joel nods as he swallows with a grimace, then elaborates, “You could say that. More like been ripped off by ‘im a lot.”

“So you’re a chump?” You smirk. 

Joel halfheartedly glares at you and you only smirk further. “No. Just desperate. Not a lot of options.” He passes the bottle. 

“So you’re the kind of guy who takes what he can get.” You say before raising it, to your lips now.

He almost chuckles, watching your mouth, “I didn’ take shit, remember?” 

You shrug and hand him back the bottle. “So what are you gonna do with all those ration cards now?”

Joel focuses on being able to tell what of what he’s tasting is the alcohol and what is you. He licks his lips after he swallows. “Don’t know yet… What’re you gonna do?” 

“I was thinking about buying a really expensive coat. Like a mink's fur coat.” Joel gives you a look like he’s not completely sure if you’re being serious or not. “I’m kidding. I’m getting fucking food. I’ve been skipping a meal a day for the last two weeks saving up for what we didn’t get.”

As he hands you the bottle again, the thought of that pangs Joel’s chest. If you stay with me, you’ll never have to do that again. I can provide for you. “I have food.”

You stare at him as you lift the bottle to your lips, and after you swallow, say “I’m not asking for your food.” Your face is straight and voice bristled.

“No, I know,” Joel stammers, “I was just offerin’—”

“I don’t want your food.” You shove the bottle at his chest and cross your arms once he takes it, leaning back a foot.

An offer like that is no longer simple friendliness, but Joel didn’t think about that before he spoke. Intentions mean less than jack shit and social rules are more like laws to live by these days; you probably think he’s trying to bargain for sex. “I’m sorry,” Joel closes his eyes and shakes his head, “that’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah, ok, well, thanks for the drink, I’ll see you around.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry,” he reaches out for your arm, and even though he lets go as soon as he closes his hand around it, it’s enough to scare you away entirely and you rush out of his apartment without looking back, slamming the door shut behind you. He jerks it right back open, holding himself in the doorway with another “Wait,” as he watches you barrel down the hallway and disappear down the stairs. “Fuck.” He whispers. Joel retreats back into his apartment and slams the door behind him, stopping just inside to rub his hand over his forehead. It’s a fair reaction on your part, he just happened to be the 1% of people to make a move like that not intending to harm you. 

This is the exact opposite of what he was going for. His hand slaps to his side as he lets it fall. 

As Joel’s eyes wander over the table, he catches something in his peripheral, and spots two ration cards. They’re not his, they must have fallen out of your pocket. 

Like a shot, Joel snatches them up and is out the door, bounding down the steps and throwing himself out through the front door. He skids to a stop just outside, turning left and right until he spots you still making haste away from his place. “Wait!” He calls out again as he weaves through the street toward you. When you stop and turn to him his hand shoots up, showing you the cards. 

You shoot daggers and as soon as he’s in front of you, bark, “I’m not a fucking prostitute. I’m not gonna fuck you for food.” 

“No, no, count your cards, these aren’t mine, they’re yours. I swear.”

Still glaring, you pull the stack out of your back pocket and flip through them. When you finish, you bite the inside of your cheek, shove them into your pants instead of your pocket, and hold your hand out for your missing two. You’re staring him straight in the eyes as he hands them over and you add them to the rest, and then your expression softens. Joel takes this opportunity to try to have you give him another chance.

“I swear, I didn’t mean any a that like that. I know how it sounded, I wasn’t thinkin’. I’m not lookin’ for anythin’ like that. I swear.”

You chew on your lip for a moment. “Okay. Fine.” You blink and pull at your waistband. 

Joel takes a deep breath, but his relief is short lived. Shit. Now what? I can’t ask her to ‘come back to my place’, and if I ask to walk her home she’ll probably think the same fucking thing. Joel is not used to trying to gain someone's trust. What would convince him? No answer comes. 

Gravel shifts under your foot as you turn more towards him, resting a hand on your hip and cocking your head. Suddenly, Joel feels pressure under your gaze and readjusts his posture, straightening, but struggles with his gaze. The interaction is one of assessing dominance—more of you checking his. Joel grinds his jaw with his eyes focused down on the hand on your hip. This goes against instinct, which would be to puff out his chest, cross his arms, raise his chain to glare down his nose. He is not afraid of you, you’re not trying to threaten him, and he understands what you’re doing and that he needs to convey a level of submitance; he owes it to you now that he’s made you suspect he’s trying to manipulate you into sex. His throat bobs as he swallows his pride, then shifts his eyes back up to yours. When you relax, he lets out a breath and follows. 

“Okay, look,” you begin, “I’m not helpless just because I’m a woman, I can carry my fucking own, you should know that by now, but… I know Robert’s got guys, and I am aware of the risk of being a woman, and I also respect the buddy system. So, walk with me?” It’s your turn to struggle with your gaze, flipping your eyes between his and the ground.

A confetti cannon goes off in Joel’s head. “Alright.” He nods.

“Alright.” You nod back, take a step backwards, then turn back to where you were heading originally. The two of you fall into an even stride, silently focusing on your death stares as you journey through the loud, filthy, reeking streets of the Boston QZ. Joel thinks he spots a couple suspicious characters as you walk and is grateful that he came after you and that you let him walk you home. 

The sky’s blue is beginning to darken and the crowds are dwindling. Curfew is fast approaching, but Joel doesn’t want to ask you how much further, because, for one, he doesn’t want there to be a whiff of doubt that he’s no less than happy to be doing this, and, if it does get to be too late, maybe you’ll let him spend the night. It’s unlikely that you’ll be having sex, but that’s fine; he guesses you’re right, he is the kind of guy who will take what he can get.

“Okay, you’re free to go.” You snap Joel out of his thoughts, pulling out a bit of disappointment that you’re already here. Your building is short and wide, with graffiti littering the bottom and most of the low windows boarded up or taped over with rustling plastic. A burly and sunburnt young man smokes a daring cigarette on the steps and you exchange amicable nods with him.

Joel pauses, looking around and hiking up his pants trivially. The lack of promise that he’ll ever be able to speak to you again stirs anxiety in him and he searches again for the right thing to say. “Alright, well, it was nice to meet you.” He struggles again with some kind of cordial inflection, nodding and clearing his throat.

“You, too. I’ll see you around.” You nod back, then add a reassuring “Okay?”

Joel nods again, staying to watch you go. Once you’re out of sight, he takes a deep breath. The man on the steps spits and eyes Joel, so he leaves, hustling back to make it before curfew. 

Back in his apartment, Joel returns the alcohol back under the floor and his bloody towel into its drawer. He strips his flannel, removes his boots, and lays back on his bed, the setting sun casting a sheet of orange over his body. Pulling his pillow under his head and folding his arms behind it, Joel sighs loudly and shuts his eyes. Today was fucking exhausting, more for his mind than body. It has been the strangest day he’s had in a long time. Laying with his eyes closed, Joel picks through his mind for explanations and answers. What’s happening inside of him? What is he looking for? What happened today? His brow pinches as he wracks and wracks. 

Friend. When the word surfaces it breaks with panic and Joel jolts into a sitting position. Girl–friend. He forgot that that’s even a word. He rubs his face with his hand until he feels like he knows where he is again. What the fuck going on with him? Does he think, what, that he’s gonna take you on a ‘date’? And go where exactly? One of those slimy speakeasies, stay for five minutes until a fight breaks out and/or FEDRA fucking crashes it? Oh, yeah, how about spending the night sitting in opposite cells? That would allow for a lot of alone time, except for the fully armed and immoral guard. He could take you out past the walls, maybe find an abandoned restaurant and hope neither of you get bit or killed while checking it out so that you can sit down on dust caked chairs to clink glasses full of dirt.

That shit isn’t possible. Joel lets himself fall back into the mattress. 

Maybe a quick fuck will do the trick after all. 

But, still with that thought comes a gust of dread as he imagines then seeing you out on the street in the days following and having to avoid eye contact. Well what if you could just keep having sex? And just, hang out, you know, maybe if you could… come to live with him and then that way—fuck. That’s like dating. 

‘Dating’ sounds so stupid, like you’re going to go sit at a diner sipping the same milkshake with two straws. 

Well what if you’re just as fucked up and broken as he is? Would that make it any better? Then he wouldn’t scare you if he gets night terrors because you get them, too, and you’d understand about the violence and bloodshed. Thinking more on it, though, Joel realizes that all that that would really mean is that you probably have the same amount of fucking issues with ‘friends’. 

“Shit.” 

Joel flips to his side, shoving his arm under the pillow again to press his face into it. He’s lost, and fucked. Maybe the answer will come to him in the morning. Probably not, but he’s fucking tired, so let’s just say it will. 

—

The morning brings no answers, only more confusion and anxiety. His head has become jumbled in the night and Joel’s not sure about any of it anymore. 

Too close. He doesn’t even know you. You could be one of Robert’s guys, for all he knows. No, that makes no sense. If you were going to rob him you would have already. What else could you want? Jesus, did you drug him? He knows the truth, that he has feelings for you, he just really does not want that to be the case.

But, at the same time, there is the brown haired puppy dog that still lives in him, dreaming up how to get you flowers and how much he likes your hair and your eyes and how you talk. You’re a beautiful person, both in the surface level, physical sense, but also as an individual being. Even though you’ve only known each other for a day, he has seen enough to understand that you are, at least to a level, a safe person. Tulips, he needs to find tulips for you. 

Either way, he just needs to find a way to slow this all the fuck down. 

He shouldn’t get involved with you. You shouldn't get involved with him. He shouldn't trust you. You don't know who he is. He could change for you. You’re gonna get him killed. He’s gonna get you killed. The life he wants with you isn’t possible. He’s the kinda guy who will take what he can get. God, he needs to fuck you at least. Goddamnit, he doesn't want you to think that's all you are to him. Can’t you at least just be friends? What does that even mean? He wishes he never met you. He immediately takes that back. Why is this happening to him? Both sides of him can dig that last one. 

Joel groans and rubs his face with his hands. He stands, stretching his arms up and squeezing his eyes shut against the bright yellow morning light. His arms drop down to scratch at his chest over his sleeveless undershirt. Socked feet sweep over the hardwood floor over to the kitchen where he slaps cold water from the tap onto his face. Noticing wisps of blood still on his hands, he scrubs at them with his nails under the water. He forgot to sign up for any work today because he spent all day yesterday dealing with Robert, and… hanging out with you. 

With another whiney groan, Joel swats the faucet’s handle off and plants his hands on either side of the sink, letting water drip from his nose as he stares into the drain. Hanging out? People do that. He’s seen people just kind of sit around somewhere and talk, not doing deals, but, like, on their porches, sitting on side by side folding chairs. Yeah, people hang out. He imagines himself asking you if you want to ‘hang out’; he’s chewing gum with sunglasses and a backwards hat on, you’re in pigtails and reject him and he kicks rocks on his way home. 

He has had friends before, but it was from traveling in a group, trying to survive, when you kind of have to spend all your time together. There’s little choice and little room to decide if you actually like this person, little time to even actually get to know them, and they die a lot. That’s what he’s used to, and that is not what he wants with you. 

“The fuck am I doin’.” Joel mutters to himself, watching trails of water shine as they trickle down towards the drain. 

Soft, fully brown haired Joel swings his legs on one of his shoulders: “Go out n’ see if she’s around.”

Baggy–eyed, forever frowning Joel digs his fingers into his other shoulder: “If you ever see her again, you better walk the other fuckin’ direction.”

Puppy dog Joel furrows his brow and leans over to look at the other: “She’s a nice girl.”

Morose Joel glares back: “No such fuckin’ thing. An’ if she is, we’ll fuckin’ ruin ‘er.”

“Jesus. You’re paranoid. Can’t you just let us be happy?”

“No such fuckin’ thing.”

Joel smacks his hand to his forehead and pushes away from the sink. He lifts the bottom of his white shirt to rub his face dry and goes to sit back down on his bed to pull on his shoes, grabbing his other flannel and finishing buttoning it as he walks down the hall to exit his apartment building. He’s not sure what he’s doing—not admitting that he’s going to end up heading in the direction of your apartment—but he needs to get out of his head, and the QZ offers plenty of distractions. Here’s one now, as soon as he steps outside—

“Hey friend,” 

Joel whips around to the voice at the corner of his building, a man his size but wiry, with saddle brown skin and an overly genial smile. 

“You look lost.”

Joel narrows his eyes.

“Well, if you’re feelin’ lost—”

“Give me a fuckin’ break.” Joel cuts in. “That shit is meaningless. Hope is dead, jackass.” 

The man’s face instantly falls, disheartened, and he leans his shoulder against the brick. Joel huffs and moves on, shaking his head. That look makes a small part of him remorseful, like a thorn in his side, so he decides to stop at a speakeasy. 

He has to squint against the rising sun as he walks, so he doesn’t catch you until you’re right on him, asking, “Where’re you headed?”

Joel freezes, placing his hand on his brow to shade his eyes to see you smiling. Like remedied, all that anxiety and apprehension rolls off of him like water off a duck's back. “For a drink.” He answers, returning a serene smile. 

“Don’t you have that at home?”

“Yeah, well I jus’… wanted to get outta there.” He shifts out of the suns glare. 

You hum and nod. “I get that. What about my place? I don’t have alcohol, but I do have a cigar.”

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up. “A cigar?”

You nod. “Well they didn’t have any mink coats, so I got the second best thing.” Your mouth twists up into a mischievous smile and you swivel your torso back and forth. When Joel’s lips start to curl, you turn, watching him over your shoulder as you walk until he joins you. 

When the two of you get to your apartment, the young burly man is still on the steps; he winks at Joel as he follows you past, and Joel stares back until the door shuts behind him. Inside, as he follows you up the narrow, winding staircase, he spends the entire five-flight journey to the top floor conflicted about where to let his gaze fall. 

“Alright, this is my floor.” You glance over your shoulder at him then grab the door frame to swing into the tight hallway. “End of the hall.”

Your apartment is much smaller than his, and wide. Cracked, off white paint cries uneven, chipped stripes that reach up to the crown molding. Your bedroom is to the immediate right, a narrow room opened by two glass double doors. At the opposite end is another glass door, tall, that opens up to a fire escape. To his left is your kitchen, which is just the wall lined with cupboards, a sink, and white refrigerator. In front of him, a couch is half visible, the rest hidden behind the corner, under a row of three windows. Like his, the curtains are thin torn pieces of fabric. Just before the corner next to the entrance to your bedroom is a gray folding table with three tan metal folding chairs. Walking in, Joel can see in your room a twin bed with rosy sheets and no headboard, its head shoved in the space between the tall glass door and the wall with a thin pillow and singular white sheet. He hopes you have a bunch of other blankets shoved somewhere he can’t see, because it’s only barely summer anymore. The long wall opposite is taken up mostly by bookcases, which hold some books but mostly by all sorts of other things, including clothes. A ragged chair sits next to it, back facing him. Shoved in between the shelves and the tall glass door is a tall lamp, a thin piece of pink fabric laying over a disfigured shade. The carpet is worn and somewhat cluttered; right next to that chair is a pair of lacy black underwear. Joel rips his eyes away from it back to you in front of him, disappearing around the corner for only a moment before reappearing with a fat, half smoked cigar. You twist it in your fingers with a wide smile, flipping open a Zippo lighter in your other hand. 

“How did you get that?” Joel asks, astonished. He hasn’t seen a cigar in years but has dreamt about smoking one more than once. 

“My friend on the steps outside. Don’t tell anyone, though. Come on,” you nod your head back around the corner and he follows you into a cramped, mellow blue and yellow tiled bathroom. You push out a small broken crank window high up on the wall, pull the door shut behind Joel, and light up the cigar. Leaned against the sink, Joel watches you, very aware of the close quarters. The end of the cigar lights up deep orange and crackles. Your brow is furrowed, Joel can see the hairs of your eyebrows and lashes, a tiny scar in the corner of your eye over the bone of your eye socket. When you pull away, dense smoke snakes out of your mouth. You look down at it as you attempt smoke rings, getting one good one but failing at the rest. When you laugh the rest of the gray puffs out of your mouth. 

“Damn it.” you giggle, and hand the cigar and lighter to Joel.

He has to relight it and watches the flame over the end. He sucks in stale, earthy smog; it tastes ancient, but still has some of that discernable cigar flavor. As it fills his mouth, Joel closes his eyes, leans his head back and moans before opening his mouth to let the smoke leave. His eyes are on you as they open, and yours are half lidded, focused on his mouth, a slight smile on your lips. They slowly crawl back up to his eyes, and you look away. Joel takes another puff and makes a sound to get your attention, attempting rings as well, not doing much better than you did. 

You hold your hands out, “Ok, let me try again.” You take your time and Joel watches your tongue working in awe. You make a good three rings. Smoke puffs out of your mouth again when you smile at him and pass the cigar back. 

Joel focuses his efforts on the rings but keeps his eyes on you watching his mouth. As you do, your smile grows, eyes half lidded again, and you lean your back against the window’s wall, turning your head to see him blow four perfect rings. 

“You’re good at that.” You chuckle, staying on his mouth even after he’s done. He takes another puff. 

“Practice, I guess. Even though it’s been awhile.”

You hum and finally tear your eyes away from his mouth. He offers the cigar but you shake your head, “That thing is nasty, I’m afraid I’ll throw up if I take one more puff. You can keep it.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm. All yours.”

“Thanks.”

“I got it with you in mind, anyway.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. You look like a cigar guy.”

“Well, what did I do to deserve this?” 

Your eyes go back to his mouth. “Nothing, I guess… I knew it’d get you over here.” You look down and smile.

Joel sucks in murky smoke, letting it fill his mouth, and wonders how you taste. He’s never wanted someone's saliva in his mouth so much. He reaches behind him to balance the cigar on your sink to let it extinguish on its own. “I won’t make you watch me smoke that whole thing. I’ll take it home with me.” Turning back, he looks you up and down, admiring you, and says, “Thank you.” Those are another set of words that Joel cringes at, but he means it, and he needs you to know that he is grateful for this. The last gift he got was a box of bullets from Tommy on his birthday—not to say that’s a bad gift, or that he’s ever expecting anything on his birthday, but, you gave him a gift, just because, and it’s a luxury. He can’t believe you’re real, he wants to reach out and touch you just to be sure. 

“Mhm.” You smile, lifting your fist to rest your lip on, laying your other arm over your torso to support your elbow. Joel drifts over the details—the edge of your lip poking out from where it presses on a finger, the muscle and bone structure of your wrist. He fully appreciates the color of your skin as he follows it until its end at what he can see of your collar, how your chest shapes around the position of your arms. He sees you briefly squeeze your arm around yourself and his eyes are on your hips when he hears your foot shift under you and your body moves a little closer to him. 

“Joel?” Your quiet voice brings him back, and you’re blushing.

“Hm?”

Your eyes flutter and you push yourself off from the wall, moving your hand to scratch the back of your head, then face him, though still not looking at him, “Nothing, um, I dunno,” you chuckle nervously. 

“What?” He coaxes, growing a light smile.

You finally look at him, folding your arms over your chest and cocking your head as you ask, “Do you have anything going on today?” 

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Could this be what he thinks? Are you asking him to ‘hang out’?

“Do you wanna… hang out?”

Good lord in heaven, you are. 

“Yeah.” He says, then blinks, shifts, and repeats more enthusiastically, “Yeah.”

“Cool.” You offer a small, twitching smile. “Well, we can get out of this tiny bathroom.”

“I don’t mind it.” The truth suddenly jumps out of Joel and as soon as it’s out, he looks at his feet. Please, please, please, don’t let this be him ruining it, again, because second chances are basically extinct. 

“Why not?” Your tone is light, not angry or affronted. He looks back up, pausing to consider you, how beautiful you are, how much he really does enjoy being this close to you. The more he realizes how few inches are separating you, the more he aches for your body on his. He swallows hard. Is he being sleazy? 

You shift closer and his heart rate picks up. “I mean, I don’t really mind it either.” A light blush blooms over your face and Joel’s lips inadvertently part. When you move closer still, Joel straightens up from the sink, letting his hands rest at his sides, hoping you want them on your hips. “I like being close to you.”

“I wanna be closer.” Joel tells you quietly, then swallows hard again. 

Out of the corner of his eye, while he focuses on your face, Joel sees your hand rising cautiously, then feels it rest on his shoulder. He permits his hands to your hips. 

From there, naturally and easily, you connect. Your lips touch softly when they meet, then promptly conquering more of each other’s, and finally he tastes you, a pure elixir, and hangs onto your lip with his teeth so that he can raise the dose. Joel breathes deeply through his nose as he savors and his hand brushes up your hip, catching under your shirt and pulling it up slowly with it; feeling your skin warm and bare under his touch shoots directly into his veins. You remove your mouth from his to instead purr into his neck and Joel moans, then adds quietly, “Jesus.” You chuckle before refocusing your lips, gently nipping at and skimming over his skin. His hand glides up to the back of your head and he softly moans again. Lazily, Joel allows you to start slowly unbuttoning his flannel, appreciating his contact with your body and your sensitive touch on his neck. The only way he knows he’s not dreaming is because of your pinching teeth. Once his flannel is undone you smooth your hands down the length of his torso, fingers slipping off of him just before his belt, then come back up, slowing on his shoulders for permission to slip the shirt. Joel takes his hands off of you for the three seconds it takes to pull his flannel off, feeling your hot breath on his neck as you pull away with his shifting. Your eyes meet again and Joel’s heart flutters at how large your pupils are. He watches them move down to cross over his shoulders, your hands following your eyes, and then you look back up at him and bite your lip. Like you’ve flicked a switch with this simple movement, Joel takes your mouth with his tongue and grabs your hips to pull against his. Briefly, he regains composure to check, “Is this ok?” and you confirm with a nod back into his lips, slinging your arms around his neck and rolling your hips. “That a girl,” it escapes him, scaring him for only a moment, but you whine an encouraging moan and press yourself into him. The force leans Joel back over the sink and he has to throw a hand back onto it to keep himself steady.

“Shit, ok, this room is too small now.” You chuckle into each other’s lips and then you pull away, keeping a grip on his hand as you turn the knob and take him around the corner into your room. 

Standing just before your bed, you turn back to him and take his face in your hands, sliding your palms over his beard, fingertips on rough skin. They slip into his hair as you bring his face to yours, working back in your welcome tongue. His hands slither around you and then he squeezes you into a hug, relieving his ache for your body, relishing in the pressure of his hold. As you breathe out your head falls back and Joel moves in, licking into a hickey, too absorbed to give a shit about leaving marks. When a hand travels down to your ass and squeezes, you make a sound and hitch your body up. 

“You like that?” Joel purrs, fully loose lipped and glued back on yours. When you ‘mhm’ into his mouth he squeezes again, hiking you up himself. 

“Joel,” his lips force you to mumble.

“What is it, babygirl?”

All you do is whine, but your answer is in the hand that slides between your bodies to cup the stiff bulge between his legs. 

“You want me to fuck you?” He basically growls, sliding the hand up from your ass to grip your side and the other up to your face, stroking his thumb over your cheek and forcing you to meet his eyes. There’s a desperate tweak in your brow that tells him all he needs to know but he waits for you to say it. 

“Yes,” you whimper, and then he walks you back onto your bed, the two of you falling onto it with little pause with mouths and hands. Messily, he licks and nibbles at your lips and paws at your chest. Your hands spread over his thick, bare shoulders and biceps, legs shamelessly widening more than they need to under his hips, then hook and pull when he doesn’t bring them down himself. 

“You’re fuckin’ horny, huh?” He asks with a slight smirk.

“I just want you. I just want you.” You mumble.

Joel’s brow twists up and he kisses you deeper. You want him, you want him, you want him. “I want you so much, baby. God, I need you. I’ve been wantn’ you so bad since the first time I saw you,” the words are doing nothing more than spilling out of him, but he’s gone now, “so beautiful, such a beautiful girl. You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, tugging his shirt up his back. 

Joel pushes himself up to stand on his knees and pull his undershirt up and off, then stays over you, panting. Slowly, mindfully, his hands smooth up your body, hooking his thumbs under your shirt, lifting it. You watch his eyes and lift your arms when his hands ask. He slips your shirt off carefully and lets it fall on the floor, and then you’re bare underneath him. The adoration is palpable in his touch as he smooths his calloused hands from the V of your waist over your belly, splitting to slide over your sides but meeting again on your chest. He pets your breasts, teasing your nipples with fleeting touch, and then suddenly dips his body down to lick and tenderly nip one of your nipples. Then his wet lips drag up your collar, your neck, and back to your lips, and his mouth and tongue are gentle but passionate. Joel cherishes every touch you share. Then, your hands go back down to the bulge under his jeans, one rubbing over the cup while the other tugs at his belt. He chuckles into your lips and then rises again to undo his belt. When you try to tug down your pants you both understand the trouble and Joel hoists his legs over you to stand beside the bed, letting you up with him so that you can both undress as quickly and easily as possible. For a moment all there is is the sound of belts clicking and fabric brushing against skin. For whatever reason, you both start to laugh breathily until reattaching mouths smother it out. You fall back on the bed, your legs back open, and Joel wastes little time getting his hands on his dick, unable to help himself from a few strokes before he positions himself at your entrance, swiping his tip up and down your wet slit. Laying his forearm on the bed allows him to stroke your cheek with his thumb. 

Nearly slurring, Joel asks, “You ready for me baby?” 

“Mhm,” you nod, “I want you, Joel, please,”

“You don’t need to beg, sweetheart, I gothcu,” he kisses you tenderly, but it breaks as he fills you and you both moan. Joel’s forehead rests briefly on your lips when he looks down to watch himself pushing into you, his fingers pinching his base to guide himself, he prizes this picture of him in between your legs, opened wide for him. As he fits his large, stiff member inside of you your fingers comb through and then grip his hair, making him moan. “Goddamnit baby, what a good girl, takin’ me like this. I know it’s a lot. I know.” He assures you as you squeal, toes curling as he plugs you up. Joel swings his head back up, biting his lip as he watches your face, impressed with himself when he sees your pupils almost disappear back into your head. He nips at your lips but your mouth stays open until he stills his cock inside of you. 

You groan, “Oh my god, Joel,”

“Yeah?” He mumbles as he begins to move. You clench around him when you moan and he swears, moving his head down to bite your neck gently as he continues to take himself in and out. He smiles when your hands claw at his back and release his teeth to speak, “Such a good girl for takin’ me like this. You’re a fuckin’ angel.”

“Ok, Joel, I’m good, I’m good, please fuck me,”

Joel growls and links his teeth on your lip again. “Told you darlin’, no need to beg, I’ll give you what you need. How do you want it? You want it hard?”

“I don’t fucking care just fuck me,”

Jesus, if heaven’s real this is what it’ll be. 

Joel trusts your word and starts to fuck you how he wants—deep and hard, pounding your pussy in final satisfaction of the need he’s been pinned with since the moment he saw you. The room is full with the sounds of your moans and skin on skin.

“God, look atchu, pretty girl, god, your pussy’s so fuckin’ tight for me.” The sensation of him bumping your cervix and your cunt enveloping him fully is keeping him going like he’s a quarter operated ride that someone slipped fifty cents into. “That feel good, baby? Huh? Does that feel good?” You slap your hand onto the wall above you to keep your head from hitting it with the force of Joel’s thrust and repeatedly breathe out yeses. Joel groans at how your nails dig into his shoulder. “Tell me, tell me how good it feels,”

“Yes, Joel, it feels so good, you fuck me so good,”

“That’s righ’, baby. Gonna treat you so good. So good. So good baby you feel so good.” Joel leans his head back as bottoms out. When you almost scream, Joel stops, frightened, “Shit, you ok?”

“I’m fine Joel,” you laugh, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. It was—it was good, that felt really good.”

“Oh, alright, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“No, no, I’m fine, Joel it’s good,”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, fuck—ok—” you push Joel up and his heartbeat quickens with anxiety. Unsure, he simply follows your movements, climbing off of you, letting you tug his arm and flopping back on the bed for you to mount him. 

Now sitting up on your knees on top of him, you study him. “You’re so fucking hot, pretty boy.”

A wide smile spreads over Joel’s face, pumping rosy cheeks, and he throws an arm over his eyes modestly. The reaction is spontaneous, Joel being unprepared for such praise. 

“You are!” You giggle, moving his arm and dropping on your elbows to kiss him. One of his hands goes to your hair and he squeezes your hip with the other with eager grip. You rise back up, a line of spit briefly linking you, and your hand trails down over his chest until it comes to his cock, bulging over his stomach. He twitches and breathes out as your hand slides over it and he beholds you above him. 

“Fuck,” you purr when you slip him in. Joel strains his arms down to grip your thighs, breathing out a loud moan. “Shit.”

“Goddamn,” he whispers, then says, “come on, baby, take all of it.” You sit down on him slowly, hands landing over his chest, and he brushes his hands up and down your arms. “Thas’ righ’ baby. So good for me.” Joel moves to your hips, pulling them down and in to start to move inside you, forcing himself to be gentle. Your head flips back as you let out a loud, pornographic moan, and Joel can no longer keep himself reigned in. Gripping your hips, he’s now moving them more than you are, one hand gripping your ass, guiding you to angle down, taking more of him. 

Riding him like a mustang, your fingers skim over his wrists, unable to grasp them. “Fuck,” You whimper, brow twisted up, eyes closed. 

Joel takes his hand off of your ass to grab your face, squishing your cheeks, “Eyes on me, sweetheart.” You moan and obey, he keeps your face in his hand to make sure you stay. “Good girl. Stay with me baby.” He grunts and briefly bits his lips as he begins moving his hips up into you, thrusting his cock even deeper inside of you until he’s bumping your cervix again. You squeak and close your eyes, leaning your head back until he jerks your face, reminding you softly, “Eyes on me.” Your hand slaps on his chest as you adjust your posture, though Joel’s grip stabilizes you enough, holding you in place. He releases your cheeks but keeps his hand on your face, letting his palm and fingers brush over the side of your head as you bounce, his thumb on the back of your neck, supporting your head up when you try to let it fall back. “You’re so beautiful. Bet you look so pretty when you cum.”

“My god, Joel,” you pant, “I knew you would fuck me so good, you’re gonna make me cum,”

Joel’s eyes light up and he inadvertently smirks, “Yeah?” Eagerly, he tells you, “I wanna make you cum, baby, I wanna feel you fuckin’ cum. You’re bein’ such a good girl lettin’ me fuck you so hard like this. God, I wanna make you cum,” His hips bump up into you and he tugs on yours in a tempo that buries him as far as he’ll go inside of you. Prizing his view, Joel notices a bulge, coming and going at a suspiciously similar rhythm as how he’s fucking you, and when he realizes that it’s him, heat spreads through his chest and he only fucks you harder. “Oooooh, baby,” he looks back up at you and your chest and face are flushed. “My angel, look at you. Go ahead and cum on my cock, babygirl, I know you’re ready to.”

Your pipe out desperate moans as you bounce on his cock and your hands shoot up, one twisting your hair behind your head the other on your face, smoothing down over your face and mouth down to massage your breast.

“Does that feel good baby?” He almost whines out the question, desperate for praise, for affirmation that he’s being good for you. 

“Yes, god, fuck me Joel, I need you, oh my god please,” you cry out.

“You gonna cum for me? Cum on my cock like a good girl?”

You close your mouth, whining through sealed lips, then pop them back open to moan almost unrealistically pornographically, but the way your pussy squeezes him proves it unmistakably genuine.  

“Ah, fuck,” Joel lets out loudly as your legs shake and tighten around him, just like your cunt does, and his thrusts are basically out of his control. His mouth falls open and his eyes squeeze shut, almost seeing white, a sweet taste filling his mouth as the euphoric pleasure you provide him trembles to a peak and he groans as he cums in a pussy–drunk frenzy. 

As he comes out of it embarrassment starts to run over him at his gusto, but the look on your face calms it—your brow is furrowed up, eyes closed with your mouth slack like his. Your back is arched with your hands resting on his thighs, panting. 

You let out a loud breath and flip your body back to look at him, smiling, “Shit.” A breathy laugh shakes out of him and you sit back, still with him inside of you. Then you rise up off of him, “Oh, fuck,” you stand, almost tripping, “I gotta go clean myself up. I’ll be right back.” 

Joel basks in the glory of your figure walking away, still fully nude, pattering through your apartment, then disappearing around the corner. He leans back, turning his head to view the sky from the dirty glass door. It’s a picturesque baby blue, dotted with a few puffy white clouds. Fuck the other shoe, if it drops it drops, he just wants to be here right now, with the sun warming his bare chest, nose full of your scent, his lips swollen and dick still wet with your cum. Joel takes a deep breath. Maybe it’s dramatic to say he’d be happy to die here, and it’s not entirely true, but it’s just that he feels content for the first time in fucking years. 

When your padding steps sound again, Joel shifts his upper body up, watching you approach, and then you slip into bed, nudging him so that you can lay side by side facing each other. The top sheet is cast lazily over your bodies and a comfortable silence falls over it. Joel tries to memorize the details of your eyes and admires the way his mouth has plumped your lips. 

Lying in bed with you here in this cramped apartment feels like a dugout, and he wants to go back in time, to any point over the last ten or so years, to tell himself that this is waiting there for him, just to let himself know that it’s gonna be ok. He can’t believe he’s still in Boston.

“Can we stay here for a while?” He asks you. 

You nod, “We still have all day, pretty boy.” Joel smiles and you move to kiss him, long and light. He hooks your lip in his mouth, asking you nearer, and, without breaking the kiss, you lift yourself up, only your chest off of the bed, supporting your body up with your elbow. To hover over him, you reach your hand over to plant next to his head. Joel’s hands slither up your face to the back of your head, assuring your connection. All he wants is your lips.  

“Baby,” He whispers, his voice high. 

“Hm?”

“Nothin’. I dunno.”

You smile, peck another gentle kiss, and then lay back beside him. You shift closer to each other and your legs tangle.

After a couple of still moments, you take a deep breath and address him, worry in your voice, “Joel…”

“What is it?” His brow pinches in concern.

“I’m just worried… maybe I should have waited.” You say quietly, brow slightly furrowed as you gaze into his eyes, raising a loose fist to your lips. 

He pushes his hand out to brush the back of his finger over your wrist, “Why’s that?”

You pause. “Cause… I don’t want… I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to have… you know, a one night stand. I mean, for this to be a one time thing and then I never see you again.”

Joel’s brow furrows as he assures you, “Me neither, no, no baby, I wanna see you again. I want you to stay. I wanna stay. I wanna know you.”

You uncover your mouth to smile and your eyes twinkle, “You want to know me?”

“Wull… yeah.”

“That’s such a nice thing to say.”

“I mean it.”

“Well, I wanna know you, too.”

Joel’s contentedness pauses. He didn’t think about that part and he’s not sure if he wants you to know him. Yes, desperately, god yes he does, but, no, his soul is covered in soot. You shouldn't, he doesn’t want you to see him, know him, because he’s bad. 

“What’s that face?” You ask.

“What face?” 

“That face you just made. You don’t want me to know you?”

How did you read him like that? He’s not sure which side he should take with this so he says nothing. 

You sigh and blink, then place your hand on his cheek, stroking it with your thumb once. It’s warm and solid against his skin and flowers bloom in his chest. 

“If I’m gonna let you know me, you gotta let me know you. That’s the deal. I think we’re pretty similar, Joel.” You take another deep breath, “I haven’t had someone in this bed with me in a long time. I haven’t touched someone like this in… forever. I don’t like to let people get this close. I’m letting you get close, though. Because I really, really want to. But part of me really, really, doesn’t. For some reason, I trust you. I hate saying that. But I just do. I really like you, Joel. Maybe you’re gonna break my heart. I decided that that’s ok. I just really want to know you.” Your hand slides down to his neck, over his shoulder, then down to the middle of his sternum. “So, that’s the deal. If I’m gonna let you in, you gotta let me in.”

Joel isn’t sure why there are tears wetting his eyes. He wasn’t ready to be spoken to like this, to be cared about. The longing to hear words like these has long been buried and he never expected any of that to be fulfilled. He blinks the tears back, swallows hard, and murmurs a tender “Ok.” 

Your hand slides back up to caress his cheek. The affection in it floods him and he melts into the bed, eyes falling closed. When he opens them again, it’s like this is all there is; he can’t see anything else except for you, and those pink sheets, and the light behind you coming through the window. 

He can’t help this feeling of safety with you. He smiles. You smile back. 

You can’t make Boston any better, but now, Joel is taking his first clean breath of air, and it smells like you. The world is ugly, but love makes it bearable. And now you’re here, and he’ll wait to tell you, but he figured it out, he’s sure he loves you. 

…Metaphors and sex, sex and metaphors. 

#the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel the last of us #the last of us hbo #the last of us fic #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #tlou #joel tlou #joel miller tlou #tlou fic #tlou show #tlou x reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fan fiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller smut #the last of us smut #tlou smut

[natimiles]

Safer With You (Isaac x reader)

Summary: When you wake up with a nightmare plaguing your mind, Isaac is the first person you think of for comfort, so you go to his room.

Words: 1447

Tags: sfw; fluffy; literal sleeping together; can be read as platonic or pre-relationship; gender neutral reader.

Notes: by the end of the month, you’ll be loving Isaac as much as I do. That’s my goal.

It’s been a whole year, and you’ve grown accustomed to life in a mansion filled with vampires. Despite the legends you’ve heard, you feel safest when you're around them. Every time you need help, you seek them out — more specifically, you seek Isaac.

Out of everyone, he was the closest to you. You two built a strong relationship. Even Comte found it interesting how the shy, anxious, and socially awkward physicist was more relaxed around you. Sharing secrets, practicing for his classes with you, stargazing in the garden, chatting about physics — even though you didn’t understand a thing — and whatever random thoughts your mind came up with. For every little thing, you knew you could count on Isaac, and vice versa.

That’s why, when you wake up with a nightmare plaguing your mind, your sweet friend is the first person you think of. You wish you had a phone to text him and ask him to come to you. It would save you from having to get up and walk through the silent and dark mansion to his bedroom. A chill runs up your spine as you recall the weird dream. You know that in the morning, you’ll look back and consider it silly, but right now, it’s still too vivid, too scary, and too real.

Taking a deep breath, you swing your legs over the side and stand up, padding your way out of your bedroom. The mansion is unusually silent tonight — not even Mozart is awake composing. You quicken your pace towards your final destination. Thankfully, there’s light seeping from under the door.

You softly knock, glancing around the hall while waiting, ensuring no one else is awake. It doesn’t take long for him to open the door, a look of confusion on his face that deepens into an even more perplexed one when he realizes it’s you.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

You don’t reply instantly; instead, you gently nudge him to the side so you can enter his room and close the door behind you. He continues to stare at you, confusion deepening as he takes in your frantic, scared face.

“Sorry to bother you,” you murmur. “I had a nightmare… Can I stay here?”

You make your way to his bed and sit down, crossing your legs. He remains standing, analyzing you and processing the information.

“Stay? Like… Sleep here in my room?” He blushes furiously.

“Yes, if it’s not too much of a bother for you.”

“A-ah, no! It’s fine. I can sleep on the armchair, I guess,” he mumbles, thinking aloud. He looks at the armchair, trying to figure out what he’d have to do to make it comfortable enough to sleep in.

“Isaac?” you call, and he hums in acknowledgement. “Could you… sleep here with me?” you ask uncertainly, patting the mattress with your hand.

He shoots his gaze back at you, his eyes widening and blinking frantically. He opens and closes his mouth three times before actually saying something. “I-in the same b-bed?”

If you weren’t so scared, you’d probably laugh at his expression, and how he could still be so shy in your presence. It’s probably something big and inappropriate for the century you’re currently in, but you don’t want to think about it now. 

“Do you mind?” you bite your lip and frown, whispering, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“And you think… I… can help?” 

“You know I feel safer with you,” you reply, gazing into his cherry eyes. “But if it’s too much for you, it’s okay. I don’t wanna be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother,” he stammers. “Don’t… go to anyone else. You can stay.” He sighs and fiddles with his hair. “I’ll just organize these things; you can... um, you know���” He gestures to the bed.

You give him a tiny smile and nod, whispering, “Thank you.”

He had some things to finish before going to bed, but he thought you’d want him to lie down with you soon. He tidies up some things, just to make sure he doesn’t lose track of where he stopped his work when he goes back to it the next day.

Meanwhile, you make yourself comfortable on his bed. You crawl to the right side and adjust as best you can, pressing your back against the wall and pulling the blankets up until only your nose is visible. Isaac only has one pillow, so you leave it to him; you don’t want to bother him more than you already are. Now that you think about it, he probably had more things to do, and you just went there and ruined his plans because you were afraid of a stupid, silly nightmare.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the lights turning off. Thankfully, the moonlight casting from his window helps with your brief blindness, and you can see his figure approaching the bed in slow steps. He stands for a few seconds, and you hear him actually taking a deep breath before sitting on his own bed, still a little unsure of what to do.

“Get under the blankets with me,” you say softly.

“Alright,” he mutters under his breath.

He adjusts himself next to you and lays his head on his pillow, looking at the ceiling. Letting out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding until now, Isaac glances at you from the corner of his eye. Sensing something is odd, he turns his head to get a better look at you and realizes you’re without a pillow; he’s using the only one he has.

“What’s wrong?” you ask when he’s been staring at you for almost a whole minute in silence.

“S-sorry!” He blinks out of his thoughts. “I just noticed you didn’t bring your pillow.” He props himself on his elbow to push his pillow towards you. “You can use mine, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “Don’t worry, I’m good just being here and not being alone.”

“But isn’t it uncomfortable?”

“And won’t you be uncomfortable without it, then?” You smile, and he pouts from not being able to come back with something. You push his pillow back to him. “Please, use it. Besides, if you don’t mind… I can use you as my pillow.”

You never thought it’d be possible to see a blushing face with the lights off, but there is Isaac, your closest friend in the mansion, with his whole face red as an apple. He flops back down on his side, his gaze still lingering on your face, probably searching for any trace that you were just teasing him. However, he didn’t find it; he knew he wouldn’t. Despite your playful persona, you never teased him like this. Yes, you tackled him to the floor and tickled him until he started crying once, but you wouldn’t tease him like Arthur, just to make him blush and stutter. He realized a few months after being your close friend that you were just too honest, and what sounded like teasing was just your honesty kicking in.

“Sorry if I startled you,” you murmur, sensing his anxiety spiking up. “I didn’t mean to tease you or anything.” As he thought. “Like I said before, I’m already happy just not to be alone.”

For the second time in a short span of 10 minutes, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Thankfully, he is a vampire and can’t just die from being out of oxygen for so long. He stares at you for a whole minute before shifting, opening his arms.

“You can come here,” he invites you sheepishly.

You smile softly and shimmy your body to meet his in the middle. Isaac wraps his shaking arms around you, and you throw yours over him; you both sigh without even noticing, a calm feeling taking over your bodies.

“Thank you, Isaac,” you mumble on his chest.

“Don’t mention it. Now go to sleep,” he hums. “I’ll be here. Good night.”

He kisses your head before thinking, and you smile, squeezing him affectionately.

Your hands absentmindedly start to slowly travel up and down each other’s backs in a relaxing caress, lulling you into a tranquil sleep.

The next morning, even Napoleon is already up, and you both are still sleeping in. The former emperor goes to Isaac’s bedroom to see if he’s still there and knows where you are. When he opens the door and sees you two sleeping soundly and cuddling, he only smiles and closes the door again. He makes sure to tell Sebastian you’re both okay and that he’ll be the one helping him out in the morning until you wake up.

Masterlists

#hug me tight isaac please #life's unfair because I can't hug isaac #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp isaac x reader #ikevamp x reader #ikemen vampire x reader #ikevamp scenarios #ikevamp fanfics #ikevamp platonic

[2cutie]

Can I request: Possessive husband Havik(mk1) x wife fem s/o who was a slave like him; she is sweet and gentle and the only one who can calm Havik whenever he gets angry and also the only one whom Havik will allow her to call him by his real name Dairou she escapes with him from slavery thanks to her vast telepathy and telekinesis and she gave him a daughter please?

cracks knuckles today, havik, i have forced you to have slept with us, the readers. tis not the bed you made, but it's the one i'm forcing you to sleep in. Angsty but sweet ending. Enjoyy! Not sure if it's exactly what you wanted! But I read 'possessive husband' and I grabbed onto it with my grubby hands

It was nothing less than suspicious how you didn't feel the absolute glower he was sending your way. And it wasn't like you couldn't see him - actually no you couldn't, but like Havik would believe that in the state of enrage he was in. His teeth ground at the display before him.

When did you and Reiko get so friendly, anyways?

It's not like you had been in Outworld too long. Give or take a few months, but that didn't explain the sudden connection between you two unlikely candidates, and Reiko didn't seem like he was being innocent.

Havik had brought you along to Outworld because you were tactful; more organized that he was in his constant state of chaos. With Hotaru's control advancing daily, Havik was forced to look anywhere in the realms for allies to revolt. The decision was heavy, but you both had to leave your child in the safety of your home and friends as you went to Outworld.

That alone pricked his skin with paranoia most days; the uncertainty of exactly what was happening, where his child was and what she was doing. Uncertainty grew each day, and Hotaru was not forgiving. Havik was generally an always on-edged persona, ready to crack if the pressure was harsh enough. But now, more than ever.

Which brought you both here, allied to Shao Khan who would promise to free Chaosrealm for your aide first.

But you were supposed to be rallying forces; promoting the cause. So why were you flirting with Reiko?

In actuality, you were not. In the very back of his senseless mind he knew you weren't. But it didn't make him like the display any less. He watched, his breathes leaving him as deep growls opposed to air. You smiled, even laughed. Jealousy was itching under his skin.

You were so kind, so gentle - it was a call for attention in a world full of hostility. You were so vulnerable.

Havik tensed when Reiko put a hand upon your shoulder, lingering longer than he needed to. He rubbed your bicep, the way he leaned down to you when he spoke…

That almost sent him off. He felt his eye dilate in on the war general, his fingers twitching. He just managed to keep his composure. He knew Reiko's nature. He fought beside him in the battles for General Shao. He didn't trust him. And he certainly didn't trust him around you.

You laughed, again. So he was funny now?

Havik was practically seething. His teeth gritted harder, and his breaths shuddered. He kept his anger at bay by envisioning tearing Reiko's wrist clean off his body for touching you. But it only radiated that desire more. He was so tempted to just pull you away, then and there, and show everyone just who you belonged to.

You bore his child, not Reiko's. And you could do it again.

...He needed to calm down.

Havik blinked.

Then something happened.

Reiko went too far.

His hands were digging into your hips. He towered over you with a seductive smirk and he was backing you up to the nearest wall. It wasn't a friendly conversation anymore; it was well past flirting. Havik's plasma burned and he shot off the wall he leaned against.

Reiko leaned in, and when you turned away, he only pushed into your neck.

Your telepathy crossed Havik's mind in a panic: A plea for help.

He moved as soon as he had your permission to. Without a thought of how to do so; he would figure it out when he got there. Though he had a few ideas. He knew you wouldn't like them.

He shoved his way between you and Reiko, shouldering him with brute strength backwards. Reiko stumbled back at the surprise intrusion, and he clashed with a few people before righting his stance.

Reiko bore his teeth in warning, scowling. Upon seeing Havik, though, it shifted to a shit-eating grin. "Did I piss off the guard dog?" He moved himself closer to Havik, snearing up to him. His imposing height did little to impose Shao's second in command. "Maybe you should stay a little closer to your bitch."

A subhuman crack was heard as soon as the words fell from Reiko's lips. Blood soon came after. Havik raised his arm again, to strike -

"Dairou!" That made him pause. His eyes immediately snapped over to you, trying to keep himself from attacking. "Don't," you pleaded him. "It's not worth it."

Despite your words, the fact you wanted him to calm down wanted to make him blow his feud more. His breath was bestial and he closed his eyes, trying to force words out. "He called you a 'bitch'." His voice was almost a whisper, a thin conceal of rage.

You went to respond.

Reiko cut you off with a bark of laughter. "Dairou?" His laugh was insulting, even with blood coursing down his nose, staining his teeth. Havik's head rounded back to him. "Is that your true name? How befitting of such a weak warlord. You couldn't even save the land you were born on." He sneered again, tilting his head back in disgust before he gazed to you. "You have to impose on ours to stand a chance. She deserve a real warrior. One who served in actual wars. And won."

Havik's entire body boiled with each passing word. He had used his true name, an insult as is. Not even the brutal ache of the time he was subjected to as a prisoner did he ever feel so much anger.

He didn't even process when he lunged at Reiko. Barely felt his hands gripping around his throat, and the scratches and wounds he received in return. He only could hear himself growling, then the brutal sound of Reiko's body slamming into the floor.

He would only stop when he had Reiko's heart under his boot.

-- Well, the tournament's after banquet ended sooner than was expected. The incident ended involving both the Umgadi and Edenian guards to separate the two men.

Fortunately Sindel was still considerate to allow you both a room to stay within even after such a display.

Havik was still seething, unsatisfied that Reiko's pulse was still ongoing and did not end by his hand. His shoulders still heaved with annoyance and vexation. He paced the room as if he was a caged animal. He could feel the blood cursing through his every vein and how it scorched ablaze. There was the urge to explode, one that could not be satisfied. Reiko's insults still cut deep, the memory playing rampant in his mind. He wouldn't let it go.

He took a sharp inhale and looked over to you. You, who now had to deal with his wrath and fury. He didn't want to take his anger out on you, but there was no other outlet. He managed to turn away with another growl, looking at you through the corner of his eye. He couldn't make eye contact, knowing his anger would slip out. He was too strung out to speak, simply grunting in frustration. He continued pacing, his footfall heavy and loud. A beast in a cell.

"Dairou-"

That did it. That was the overfill to his uncapped emotions.

“Shut up!" Havik comamanded, stopping sharply. He didn't turn back to you. "Just shut up! That name is a curse, and I don’t want to hear it coming out of your mouth again!” You opened your mouth, but he continued as he finally turned to you. His eyes were narrowed and you knew he would be scowling if he could. “You could have stopped that damn conversation! You should have stopped him! Instead you told him my name."

He wanted to just shout his anger away, even if it meant yelling at you. The fact that you just stood there quietly while he screamed made him even more agitated.

You could tell his anxieties were beginning to rise to the surface level. His body was beginning to shake.

He would come undone if he wasn't so keen to keep hidden. His fears of Chaosrealm, the future of you, and his daughter- he feared he would lose it all, and was already starting to. He was hiding behind his wall of defensive mechanisms, itching for a fight to keep the fire burning. To protect it all from spilling.

But you saw it. You always did.

"Havik.." You spoke inside his mind instead; he would not listen to you any other way.

His stance dropped instantly, his head dropping. His eyebrows furrowed and his voice sounded almost broken. "Get out of my head.." You always seemed to know his weakness; how to parry him from his own downfall.

His body felt heavy, like it lost every ounce of energy it had fought to keep. His shoulders sagged and he breathed a sigh of frustration. Without his anger, he felt empty; he had lost the thing he was keen to focus on. His voice was tired, defeated.

"Please do something." He spoke so softly, the strength inside of him perished. He who had been a raging beast a moment ago was defeated by the only emotion he had. "Hit me. Punch me. Yell back. Something."

How desperate he was to keep hiding. Havik kept his eyes closed, as if expecting your lashing. But it never came.

Only your gentle hands came to run over his chest, stopping at his harness. He cracked his eyes open in time to watch you unbuckle it, and let it and his armor fall off his body.

The remainder of his chest was exposed, more scars evident in the lighting.

He was confused, and yet you stayed silent. He didn't like it.

He felt exposed. You had removed a layer of protection that hid away memories. He felt.. Vulnerable.

When his dark eyes snapped to yours, he was only met with a gentle gaze. Your hands roamed along his arms again, picking them up and turning them over to expose the fresh wound Reiko had left on him he was ignoring. You rubbed the unharmed skin gently, soothingly. "Are you keeping these?"

It seemed he was, considering he hadn't healed them himself yet.

Havik looked to the wounds on his arms as well, watching as the blood gushed from it when he tensed the muscle. He attitude was still grim and the pain of them were a welcome feeling as they were a reminder to the pain and anger he felt inside. He nodded, solemn.

You understood. You pushed gently on his shoulders to get him to sit, but he wouldn't. His nerves were still on the fritz. You allowed him to stand.

He watched you under piercing eyes as you went and got a medical kit, opening it on a nearby table. You began sourcing through it.

You were going to patch him.

There was no need. You both knew this. It felt unnecessary, wasteful on him. Pointless. It made him bristle in a bit of discomfort. "There is no need," he tried to argue, retaining his tough front. "I want them to be a reminder of what he did. I want the pain to always be there, to always be present and to never go away so I can remember.” The pain was something he embraced. Another chapter to his book of rage. The anguish served as a reminder that any insult or injustice that would happen to him would not be without retaliation.

"I know," you responded. Simple; vague. It made his fingers clench. How did you always know? "I'm just going to clean and wrap them. I'm not letting you get infected."

When you came back over, he awkwardly held his arms out to you. Neither of you cared about that blood that stained the carpet below. While he didn't really want it, he knew it was your way of taking care of him. How you were gentle with him.

That soothed him as much as it made him bristle. He was still not used to such generosity and kindness. Even after so many years with you, he still didn't know how to react with his rough edges in fear he would harm you.

Havik always hated when people were tender to him because of the unfamiliarity. He hated when people would care for him, like he was a child. But the fact it was you, and you were so gentle, made him long for it.

He finally spoke. He had to know. "Why do you care so much?"

Your eyes flickered to his. You saw his uneasiness, and his hidden display of longing. You focused back on his wounds. "Because I love you, Havik. I married you. You don't have to put on a front around me." You held a damp rag over his wound. pressing to stop the bleeding. There was brief moment of silence before you continued, wearing a half of a smirk. "You're almost as stubborn as our child.. Almost."

Havik rolled his eyes at the mention of his stubbornness. He continued to look away, as if embarrassed. He took a deep breath, suppressed his desire to fight. When he met your eyes back, his gaze was tender. "I.. suppose I may be as hard-headed as her."

"You suppose? You are." You chuckled. "But I suppose I did fall in love with it, afterall. I can't say too much about it without sounding a hypocrite." You brought his knuckles to your lips and kissed them. You let your lips linger.

He finally allowed himself to relax when you kissed him. You had finally melted him. Melted away his mask of anger.

"I know you're just worried. About everything. I am too." You got out the gauze and began to wrap it around him, ever gentle. "Our home will be fine. Our daughter will be just fine. We will win this war." As you finished, you put your hand atop his and brought it to your chest. "We will be just fine. Hotaru will not win. I promise you that, Havik."

His heart began to pulse quickly again, but this time from wamrth. He could feel your heartbeat as well. You were being a rock; something to solidify him against. An anchor. And you were the only person he would allow himself to be weak in front of.

"No," he said after a moment's breath.

"No?" You repeated, confused.

He let out a slow breath, staring down to you. He gave a small nod. "My name. Say my name."

You stared back. A pure smile crept atop your lips. Your eyes melted into that of pure adoration. "Dairou," you said, and it felt almost as if it were an embrace. One that held promise, a security; for your words, your faithfulness. That you were his, and he - as himself, as Dairou - was yours.

#mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #mortal kombat #havik #mk havik #mk1 havik #havik x reader #my art #mortal kombat x reader

[juniefruit]

☆ Artist Hyunjin Part Two ☆

☆ AHHHH skz anniversary!!! wishing the boys the best!

☆ Originally written as bestie/roommate, but it's up to your interpretation!

☆ Warnings: None

☆ Word Count: 1,000

Hyunjin is an artist. In every sense. He can see the beauty in all things, big or small. He can observe something that might seem mundane, but he always finds a way to reveal its true beauty. 

There’s one shelf in his room dedicated to all of his old sketchbooks. Each and every page is filled to the brim with sketches, sticky notes, and pencil smudges. His room has fairy lights adorning the ceiling and dried flowers preserved and on display. An easel sits in the corner. It’s cozy and warm. His desk, oh my. At least a few miscellaneous cups filled with pencils of all shades and colors, markers, and paintbrushes are always in the corner. Really, he tries his best to keep it organized, but when an idea strikes, and he’s frantically trying to get everything on paper, it becomes the least of his worries. 

You do sometimes scold him, especially when you find a paint stain on your sweater. You don’t know how it got there, but it’s most definitely Hyunjin’s doing. Sometimes, you’ll be chilling on the couch together when suddenly his eyes light up, he straightens his posture, and speed walks to his bedroom/studio. “Hyunie, what??” “I finally got it! I need to write this down before I forget!” You chuckle, following him to his room. 

One of Hyunjin's bigger art pieces is on display in the living room. It’s an abstract piece that looks great against the beige wall. Hyunjin was reluctant to hang it up, but you insisted. “It’s embarrassing, y/nie!” He whined. “What’s embarrassing about it? This is amazing! And I'm hanging it up if you won’t.” You huff. 

It’s very rare that Hyunjin asks you to be his real-time model for a painting. The reason is he doesn’t want to trouble you and have you sit, sometimes for hours, while he works. Instead, he loves to secretly keep pictures of you in his ‘inspiration’ folder on his phone. At this point though, he can sketch you in his sleep. Pages upon pages in his sketchbook are filled with your portrait from all angles. You’re his muse. His inspiration. His hand has memorized how to sketch all the curves and angles of your face and body. Sometimes he’ll be buried nose deep in his sketchbook, and the only sound you can hear is the gentle scratch of the pencil against the paper. You’ll ask what he’s drawing, but he would never admit what it actually is. Once in a while he’ll look up at you and smile, as you sit across from him on the couch. You look ethereal in the afternoon sun, he thinks. Maybe one day he’ll gather the courage to gift you a portrait, or show you a sketch. He knows deep down you would love it. But his nerves are like a blockade. Every artist knows how troubling it can be to show your art to the world. It’s like showing a part of yourself, your soul. 

Today was friday, an end to a stressful and high-strung week. To destress, you told Hyunjin to put on a casual outfit. You simply said you’re ‘going out’. He decided upon cafe-brown corduroy pants, a sweater vest and a white blouse under it. The top half of his hair was pinned back with a claw clip. You were taking him to the art supply store. It wasn’t that far, just a few subway stops. He didn’t have a clue until you arrived. His eyes lit up when you told him to pick something out. Like a kid in a candy store, he was snaking through the aisles, his hair bouncing when he walked. As Hyunjin was at the back of one of the store aisles, he had a moment to think. He decided that he’d draw you with the materials he bought. And then show you. He could feel the nerves creeping up his spine just at the thought. But he was set. When you checked out, he chose a few sketching materials like a specialized pencil and eraser. The second you stepped out of the store, he hugged you so tight your face turned pink. 

He won’t admit he stayed up all night, long after he assured you that he’s actually going to sleep. He’s dialed in, leaning over his desk. A sheet of drawing paper, about the size of a laptop, sits on the wooden paint-stained surace. His eyes squint behind his glasses as he studies each and every stroke of his pencil. Once in a while he even bites the end of the pencil in his right hand as he concentrates. The eyes of your portrait stare up at him with grace and innocence, like a sunny spring day. It was maybe around 5 AM before he finally deemed it good enough and headed to bed. The next day, after you both got back from work/school, he met you in the living room, with his hands behind his back. “I um- I made you something, as a thank you… for the art supplies and, uh- for being in my life.” he extends his hands to show you the portrait of yourself as his face flushes with shyness. “Wow, Hyunie! This- it’s so beautiful! Thank you!” You take the sheet of paper gingerly with both hands. You set it on the coffee table before facing Hyunjin. “Really, you didn’t have to do that. And I’m glad you’re in my life, too. Um-” You look back at the portrait. “How did you make me look so good?” Hyunjin’s heart skips a beat. His hand reaches to rub at the back of his neck with a shy smile. “It’s just you, y/n. I thought that you’d appreciate seeing how beautiful you are in my eyes.” He admits. You hum, totally at a loss for words. “Well, you were right.” You say with sincerity. Looking back up at him, you say,  “Speaking of eyes, are those dark circles?”

Read more drabbles & such here~ masterlist

Asks/requests are open!

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids drabbles #stray kids oneshot #skz x reader #hyunjin #hyunjin imagines #hwang hyunjin imagines #hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin #skz x you #stray kids x y/n

[createserenity]

Ficlet - A Time of Wanting

I've had some writer's block recently and have been making super slow progress with my wips. Then I saw these lovely kiss drawings by @mrghostrat and ended up being very inspired and writing not one but two new stories. The other is below if you're interested:

Thank you so much Bilvy for making such lovely artwork! (Also their Good Omens AUs are incredible, if you haven't read them I highly recommend them!) This is a ficlet inspired by the fifth kiss in the collage (this one). It's basically Crowley being silly and soft. (Set post an imaginary season 3 where they've saved the world and are talking again.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here on AO3 - or below

A Time of Wanting

Crowley wants.

He wants so badly and he's wanted for so long that it's a physical ache in his chest now.

He wonders how he's not broken in half with the sheer force of his wanting. He wonders how Aziraphale doesn't notice how much he wants. Surely it should be a tangible thing now, this longing that pulses through him every moment of his existence. This urge to reach out, to touch, to take.

But it seems it isn't, because Aziraphale is busy reshelving books, apparently oblivious to the demon sprawled out over the couch. He hasn't even noticed that Crowley has woken from the nap he was taking, hasn't noticed that Crowley feels as if he could shake apart with the sheer force of his emotions.

How has he survived this long without taking this silly fussy angel for his own? How has he survived without knowing his touch, his taste, the way the angel might look at him if he finally dared to do what he longed to do?

His sleep addled brain tries to imagine what those things would be like, it's nothing he hasn't imagined a million times before, again and again over thousands of years. This time though the images his mind conjures are so affecting, so very real, that they draw a whimper from Crowley's throat before he can stifle it, before he can push it down where it belongs so that he can get through another day of wanting.

Aziraphale obviously hears the noise because he turns, despite being atop the small chair ladder he uses to reach the high shelves, balancing precariously with one hand on the shelf as he looks over at Crowley and gives him a soft smile.

It's that smile that does it.

All at once Crowley's entire brain comes back online and suddenly what he thought were his own wild imaginings coalesce into memories. Actual memories. And he realises that he doesn't need to lie here and want without taking anymore. And that ache in his chest isn't his heart about to break apart, but merely where he's fallen asleep with his mobile phone jammed against his ribs.

Fuck he's an idiot.

He flails madly for a moment whilst his brain remembers how to control overly long limbs, and barely hears the clatter as the phone falls to the floor unheeded, but then he's on his feet, bounding across the bookshop.

“Angel.” The word falls from his lips almost reverently as he crosses the space and Aziraphale seems to recognise that there's something amiss, even if he probably doesn't realise just how stupid Crowley can be sometimes.

How could he have forgotten? Six thousand years of longing, and now he can have whenever he wants and his stupid brain can't seem to hold onto that fact.

By the time Crowley has closed the distance between them Aziraphale is on the lowest step of the chair ladder. Crowley slips his arms around his angel's waist, fully intending to bury his head in the softness of Aziraphale's shoulder but instead the movement is arrested by Aziraphale's hands. They come up to rest either side of his jaw, holding him gently, yet firmly in place.

“Crowley. Darling,” says Aziraphale, his tone impossibly fond and yet with that underlying hint of strength, as he searches Crowley’s face with eyes that don't even bother trying to hide their adoration.

And now there is an ache inside Crowley’s chest that's nothing to do with sleeping awkwardly smushed against his phone. This ache is his heart trying to contain too many feelings, too much love. It feels like it's bursting with it.

“Angel.” He breathes out the word softly, as if saying it again might somehow help.

Aziraphale smiles and pulls him closer, one hand slipping from his jaw to wrap around his head, whilst the fingers of the other hand press lightly, tilting his face upwards with a gentle insistence that thrills Crowley to his core. 

“You silly thing,” Aziraphale says, as if he knows exactly how daft Crowley was being a minute ago. Crowley thinks he should probably object to that. Snap back a sarcastic comment to the patronising bastard of an angel that knows him far too well, that sees the vulnerability under his carefully crafted exterior.

But then Aziraphale’s lips are on his and all protests fizzle away before they've even made it to his throat.

This is what he has wanted for so long. This is his now. He can ask for this whenever he wants. 

He shuffles forward, tightening his arms to mould their bodies closer together, mindful not to pull Aziraphale from his precarious perch. The kiss deepens just slightly and he feels Aziraphale's fingers dancing over his cheek as the angel tightens his hold on Crowley’s head.

There's a soft whimper and then an equally soft moan and Crowley is surprised to realise he isn't responsible for either noise. For a second he flutters his eyes open and focuses on the expression that’s crept across Aziraphale's features. It's open and vulnerable, filled with adoration and love and contentment, as if this is the one thing Aziraphale has always longed for and wants to keep forever.

The realisation, that this means as much to Aziraphale as it does to him, makes Crowley’s heart swell with emotion, even as the ache in his chest is dispelled, dissolving away into a warm fuzziness that seems to wrap around them both. 

He lets his eyes drop closed again and leans a little more into the kiss. There’s a hum of contentment and this time he knows it's come from him.

He wanted for so long and now finally he’s exactly where he wants to be.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #fanart inspired fic #ineffable husbands #good omens fanart #no beta - mistakes are all my own fault #crowley loves aziraphale #aziraphale loves crowley #fluff #my writing

[quietblueriver]

Please find below 4k of quickly written and mostly unedited pride fluff inspired by the revival news.

Happy Pride, and happy Warrior Nun, y'all. <3 <3

Ava’s first pride was with her mother. She remembers being outside, her mom’s laugh loud and generous, her joyous friends lifting Ava on their shoulders and spinning her around to take it all in, everything bathed in color. There was so much to see and hear, and she felt small but not scared surrounded by so many people, delighted when someone dancing in the parade wrapped a feather boa around her neck gently and with a wink. Her mom had taken her home before the parade was over, Ava fighting sleep and swaying against her side in the afternoon sun.

She’d felt no shame as she got older and realized that she found a wide spectrum of people and genders to be attractive. She hadn’t been raised to believe in God and her life at St. Michael’s definitely didn’t change her mind. She’d figured out real fucking quick that the nuns at St. Michael’s were full of shit. There was absolutely no way Sister Frances, fountain of hate, knew what she was talking about when it came to literally anything beyond being a fucking bitch. She sure as shit didn’t know anything about love. Ava was more likely to listen to an avocado’s directions about how to live her best life. Anyway. The nuns spouted bullshit but she knew better. She had been taught better. Like her mom’s laugh and the soft fur of her favorite tabby under her fingers, Ava clung to the memory of her mother surrounded by men and women and people dressed in bright colors and dancing, together and happy and beautifully themselves.

--

“Bea?”

She’s standing in front of her dresser, staring into the open drawer where she keeps her t-shirts, all neatly folded and organized vertically so that she can see each one. It’s exactly where she was when Ava left her two minutes ago, pretending she wanted a glass of water to give Bea a minute that she would deny she needed if Ava actually asked.

“Hmm?” Her eyes remain focused on the drawer, one hand fiddling absently with the thin gold chain around her neck, taking up residence where her cross used to be. She’s in one of her favorite sports bras, tight enough to have a compressive effect, and black boxer briefs, her hair still wet from the shower and in a loose braid to keep it out of her way. It’s something precious for Ava to see her this disarmed, this at home, something she thought about when she was trapped and waiting, waiting, waiting until she could come back to this world, to a real life, to Bea, in whatever capacity she would have her. The fact that Bea wants her like this, in all the ways Ava had ever hoped and in the home they’re building together, is sometimes enough to leave her breathless.

She steps into the room but leaves several feet of space between them. It’s a dance, figuring out how to love Bea best, and Ava still sometimes misses a step. As always, her instinct is to wrap herself around Bea like a koala, but she knows that Bea has to be the one to make the move right now. She would welcome Ava; she always does, but it’s different when she thinks Ava wants something. Because she was raised by shitheads, her default, when Ava wraps her up in moments like this, is to feel it like a threat: Make the right choice because this is what you have, yes, but this is also what you can lose. She had nearly had a panic attack even admitting this to Ava, stilted and red-faced and ashamed one night after a therapy session. “It’s not about you, I swear. I know you love me. I’m just not used to love like yours.” There is no part of Ava that doesn’t want to throw down with Bea’s parents.

She focuses, instead, on what she can do. It is Ava’s privilege to learn how to love Bea in the ways that let her feel it most, and right now that means standing close but not too close, a physical signal that she’s there if Bea wants her but that she has no expectations.

“You sure you want to go? It’s really, really okay if you don’t. We could just go to Rosa’s later, if something smaller would be better. Or we can stay home! No pressure, is what I mean.”

Beatrice looks at her then, eyes soft and with a small but genuine smile. The halo gives a little hum with Ava’s exhale. They’re in agreement about Bea, as always: beautiful.

“I want to go.” She turns her body to face Ava, one hand still on her chain. “I want to go with you.” Ava grins big, lets every fucking bit of affection show on her face, in her body, in the halo’s light, kept dim enough not to be outrageous in the space of their bedroom but still obvious, and Bea’s own smile grows just a little, her cheeks coloring. It’s strange in the very best way to see her be bashful. She looks down at her body and adopts the contemplative face that Ava fell in love with, all strong, sharp, serious lines and pursed lips. “I just don’t know what to wear. Is that,” she turns back to the drawer and shakes her head, “Is that silly? I feel…I feel a bit silly.”

Ava steps closer then, an offer of help, and stops just behind Beatrice at the dresser. The way she immediately leans back into Ava’s space, drops the chain to pull one of Ava’s arms around her almost absently, lets Ava know she made the right decision. Ava presses onto her toes and hooks her chin over Bea’s shoulder so that she can look into the drawer. Not that she doesn’t already know exactly what’s in there—she wears Bea’s clothes as often as her own.

“It’s not silly at all. Do you want…how, um, how on theme do you want to be?” There is nothing in Bea’s drawer that Ava would describe as loud or showy—she tends toward muted colors and conservative cuts even now that her vows are barely visible in the rearview. Still, there are options.

“I don’t think I have anything particularly appropriate? I suppose…” she reaches for a lavender t-shirt, the same one Ava had been eyeing for her, thick cotton with a front pocket and a slightly faded neckline. Ava wraps her other arm around Bea’s waist and squeezes, presses a kiss to her cheek before dropping back down. “That’s perfect, baby.”

“Really?” It’s tentative in a way that Bea rarely is, and Ava’s heart aches.

“Yes, absolutely.” She thumbs at the waistband of Bea’s underwear and bites her lip before adding, “I mean, you’re rocking this look but I figured you didn’t want to wear it out.” She feels Bea’s gentle laughter. Mission accomplished.

“No, I’m not quite there yet. Maybe next year.” She’s feeling good enough to banter, even if only a little, which loosens something in Ava’s chest. A deep breath and exhale and then she feels more than sees the shift in Bea’s demeanor, her shoulders squaring up and feet spreading evenly. There is no leather tunic, no bo, no stash of knives (well, there’s always at least one, in a boot or a waistband or a subtle sheath under her shirt and across her back but like, of course). This is a different kind of armor—the control in her body, the appearance of confidence and competence. There’s more than a little fake it til you make it happening right now, but that’s fucking great, and nobody but Ava is going to know anyway. All they’re going to see is a very hot, very self-assured human, and Ava’s going to enjoy watching Bea get flustered by the women who will absolutely be looking in a totally unsubtle way.

She presses a last kiss to Bea’s shoulder blade and then pulls away, stepping over to their closet and pulling out a pair of black jeans that are a go-to for Bea, comfortable and neat and tapered but not too tight. She lays them carefully on the bed and then steps back toward the door as Bea slips into the clothes.

She looks incredibly handsome, as always, and Ava tells her so, whispering into her ear and then kissing her soundly. Impressively, she only lets her hands wander a teeny tiny amount. Bea looks down at herself and then says, “It’s not very colorful.”

Ava bounces on her toes and claps her hands once, brings them to together to a point under her chin. “Well! I have some ideas, if you want to add a little color.” She pulls Bea into the living room and presses gently on her shoulders, sitting her on the sofa and then walking to pull a tote from one of the hooks by the door. She’d been out this morning to get them coffee and also grabbed some supplies.

“Okay, so.” She rummages through and sits her bounty one by one on the coffee table. “We have face paint, nail polish, markers, body glitter. Oh! And!” She drops the bag and bounds into their bedroom, returning with a small box that she’d nearly forgotten about. “I got you these. Pinkwashing is bullshit but like all of the proceeds go to a shelter for queer youth and also it’s Pride and these are great and you’ll look amazing in them.” She hands Bea the box and then adds hastily, “If you want to wear them! No pressure. I will obviously also look amazing in them.”

She doesn’t say the rest—that she knew Bea wouldn’t have the same kind of options as Ava, whose closet is as full of color and energy as she is. Today, she landed on high rise denim shorts and a blue cropped tank with a short-sleeve button-down, pink and purple gradient, knotted overtop. There is a streak of pink at the front of her hair, and she’d traded shoes with Rosa, who lives two doors down, for the weekend, so she’s got one pink high top and one purple. She’s a walking bi flag and she feels great about it.

Beatrice is smiling down at the box, and she pulls out the rainbow sunglasses with a grin, situating them on her face and yes, she looks very, very good and also relaxed, which is the point. Ava has no real option but to kiss her, sliding into her lap and pushing the glasses to rest in her hair.

“You’re so hot.”

She blushes, as always, and rolls her eyes a little, but she doesn’t protest, is learning through therapy and a lot of positive reinforcement from Ava to let the compliments stand even if she doesn’t quite believe them. “I love you, too.” Ava grins and kisses her nose, doesn’t move from her lap but angles her torso slightly back toward the table.

“Now. Want me to do a lesbian pride flag on your cheek? Or your arm? Or some glitter? It rolls on.” She eyes the clock. They’re going to find a spot near the end of the route, closer to their apartment, so there’s not a rush. “We still have time for nail polish, even, if you want.”

Bea situates her hands on Ava’s hips, which is excellent, and looks at the pile on the table. “Maybe a flag on my cheek?” Ava nods decisively and reaches to pick up the face paint markers. “Yes, ma’am.” She pulls the top from the orange and moves to get the best angle.

--

Beatrice grew up in London, so she’d seen Pride, but only from a distance. “It was the first time I heard my father use a slur,” she told Ava the afternoon that they’d seen the pride flag go up in their favorite coffee shop, head in her lap on their sofa, Ava’s fingers carding through her hair. “It was the summer after Year Two, I think. We hadn’t started summering at the house in France yet.” Ava had not, for once, teased her for using the word summer as a verb. “We were out for…something. I don’t remember, but there were people walking to the parade and we could hear the music. They looked so happy, and I couldn’t stop watching them, even though I knew I shouldn’t let my father see me. When he noticed me staring, he grabbed my arm so hard it bruised.” Ava’s fingers stopped only briefly, reaching down to rub Beatrice’s bicep, soothing a phantom pain. Beatrice took her hand and kissed her palm, soft, before putting it back in her hair. Taking the request for what it was, Ava resumed her previous motion.

“He said…he said terrible things for the rest of the walk back to the car, loud enough that I knew some of the people must have heard. I started crying, and it made him mad at me. He never…I didn’t cry often, as a child. I don’t think he knew what to do with me most of the time, but he certainly didn’t know what to do with tears. It took me a long time to stop. I didn’t know exactly why, then, but I already felt wrong.”

Ava held her tongue, scratched at Bea’s scalp in a way that sometimes made her arch her back in a distinctly cat-like movement, graceful and pleased. Beatrice hummed and after a few moments, she titled her head back and reached up to skim her fingers along Ava’s jaw.

“I’d like to go, I think. To Pride. I’d like to go with you.” Bea’s skin was warm under her lips as Ava moved from her forehead to her nose to her chin. “I’d love that, baby.”

-- They’re able to walk, which is nice because it’s beautiful out today and because it gives Bea a way to get rid of some nervous energy. She’d already been on a run that morning, but she’s always a little on edge, Ava’s sister warrior, and today is going to be amazing, Ava knows it, but it’s also going to be a lot.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Beatrice squeezes Ava’s hand so hard she thinks maybe she’s missed some kind of danger or protestor or something. When she follows Bea’s gaze, though, she squeezes back just as tightly. A loud, brightly colored group has emerged from the subway and congregated around someone looking at their phone. While the younger members of the group wear bright colors—bow ties and skirts and dyed hair scattered throughout—the adults wear matching t-shirts, white with gigantic rainbow hearts and bold black letters:

Proud of My Queer Child

Proud of My Queer Grandchild

A little distance from the malformed semi-circle, an elderly man entertains a very excited kiddo who can’t be more than 8, blue tutu flying as they spin and spin. The man, Papa written in pink, white, and blue paint on his arm, is in a variation of the same shirt: Proud of my Trans Grandchild.

As Ava and Beatrice approach the little one stops twirling and says, exuberant and maybe a little dizzy, based on their wobbly stance, “Happy Pride!”

“Happy Pride!” Ava’s response is enthusiastic but hasty. She’s ready to move quickly, give Bea a pass on interaction, but Bea stops and smiles at them, so handsome in the sunlight, a tiny dash of sunscreen that Ava hadn’t noticed as they left the house covering some of the freckles on the right side of her nose. “Happy Pride,” she says, voice gentle as it always is with children.

“I like your glasses! But you’ve got, uh,” little fingers swipe to indicate the spot where the sunscreen is. Bea says, polite as ever, “Thank you. I have been admiring your tutu.” She turns to Ava, who lifts her fingers and blends. Beatrice cups her jaw. “Thank you, love.” Familiar and easy and unashamed.

“Dad! Micah! You ready?” A conclusion has apparently been reached by those congregated around the phone. Micah waves and then skips toward the woman who called for them, grandfather shepherding closely.

--

The motorcycles are loud enough that Ava feels them in her chest, and she can’t help but laugh.

Bea is transfixed, eyes glued to the group of women in front of them—colorful flags and bandanas, leather and love and butch women revving engines. The woman closest to them, in a leather vest with a Dykes on Bikes patch prominently displayed, throws her head back and laughs at something her partner, clutching her from behind, whispers into her ear.

“Dyke,” Bea whispered into the dark of their bedroom at Cat’s Cradle a few weeks after Ava’s return. They were learning each other in new ways in a new world, this life and the next all in one, and Bea was trusting Ava with another piece of herself. She explained with a pained voice and silent tears the way her father had nearly spat at her when her parents found her kissing another girl, innocent and exploring, in the kitchen. “My mother slapped me and he called me a dyke. They sent me to Switzerland the next day.”

Now, Bea wraps an arm around Ava’s waist and pulls her closer with a confidence that makes Ava and the halo want to burst. Ava wraps her own arms around Bea, squeezing, and leans up to kiss her cheek. Strong fingers catch her chin as she turns away and then Bea’s lips are on hers, sure and solid and tasting of coconut sunscreen chapstick. Ava smiles into it and leans her forehead against Bea’s as they break apart, happy and so fucking proud.

The crowd roars when the bikes start moving, the parade on its way again, and Ava joins them, yelling and unlocking her hands from Bea’s waist so that she can wave. Beatrice is quiet, but she’s smiling, really smiling, and she startles a laugh when a dyke revs at an impressively loud and coordinated wolf-whistle from a nearby section of the crowd.

--

They’ve been here for almost two hours—sound systems blasting Kylie and Beyonce and Janelle Monae, queer people dancing in leather and coordinated outfits and tiny, tiny swimsuits. More than one marcher has winked at one or the other of them, Ava delighted and Bea, as predicted, flustered and precious.

There are corporate-sponsored floats fucking everywhere and it’s very, very white, and Ava knows that Beatrice, who is as thoughtful in her queerness as she is in everything, will want to talk about it later. (She bravely asked Rosa and Cleo, her partner, older London natives who have been active in the queer scene since before she and Bea were born, about how to get more involved in community. And a growing stack of queer reading material—poetry and fiction and theory and memoir— sits in a neat stack on her bedside table and on two designated shelves in their living room. Ava is partial to fiction and the queer internet, but she’s happy to listen to anything Bea wants to read her, steady heartbeat in one ear and measured voice in the other.) For the moment, though, she watches and watches and watches as it all passes by.

At one point, a drag troupe dressed in habits with incredible makeup traipses by as the Sister Act soundtrack plays. Ava’s nervous for a minute, but Bea only bites her lip, expression amused rather than offended. One of the queens opens a fan with a flourish, and it’s covered in a shockingly detailed copy of The Last Supper, the disciples all in drag. A snort, ungraceful and unguarded, and then Bea is laughing so hard she’s shaking. Ava can’t look away.

By the time they enter hour three, they’re both flagging a little, and Ava wants to go home for a bit and nap because she absolutely wants to take Bea dancing tonight, so she tugs at Bea’s bicep and says loudly enough to be heard over the music (an Elton John remix?), “I’m happy to stay as long as you want, but I’m also happy to go home. I will need a nap before we go out tonight.” She does not phrase it as a question and she can’t see Bea’s eyes but she knows that they’re rolling fondly as Bea’s lips purse in amusement. “Oh, are you going out tonight?”

Ava pouts shamelessly because she knows what she wants and she knows how to get it. “We are going to a drag show and then dancing.” It’s an easier ask than Pride. They’ve done it before, even within the last month. The clubs are dark and anonymous and Bea genuinely loves dancing, and dancing with Ava especially.

Ava notices the banner of the next group before Bea can respond and nudges her quickly. “Bea. Look.” She does, immediate and reflexive, and then she keeps looking.

Christians at Pride

The groups is big, and there are colorful banners everywhere, some professionally printed and some very obviously handmade:

You are Made in God’s Image

You are loved.

Oh Happy Gay!

Thank God for Queer People

There are denominational shirts, a solid Catholic coalition packed into the middle, and at the end, a group of people whose shirts say simply: I’m Sorry. Ava has kept a close eye on Bea because, y’know, trauma, but it’s not until the end, until the I’m Sorry, that she reacts noticeably, sucking in a breath and curling one of her hands into a fist. Ava steps behind her, places a hand at the small of her back in question, and Bea reaches back for her arms.

They stand like that, Ava wrapped around her very favorite person, and watch a few more floats pass by, bass thumping up through their feet and confetti falling over them. Across the street, someone lifts a small child in a rainbow bucket hat onto their shoulders, and they sit waving and clapping happily at the queer cyclist club. The couple who have been camped next to them—Matt and Andy, about their age and into gardening and incredibly fucking cute in their tiny matching rainbow shorts and mesh tops—dips, giving them quick hugs. As they turn to leave, Andy says to Beatrice, teasing and without waiting for an answer, “See you tonight, yeah?” Ava, having resumed her previous position already, feels Bea’s laughter in her own chest.

Eventually, Beatrice turns into her and says, acting put upon but pressing even closer to Ava to be sure she knows it’s only an act, “Let’s go home and nap before we go out.”

Ava grins, victorious.

--

Look, Ava loves being queer. She doesn’t believe in blessings but she sure as shit believes it’s a gift to be bisexual, and she feels that deeply as she watches Bea at the bar in her slightly tighter black jeans and a fitted white tee. Her hair is down, over one shoulder, and she’s leaned forward to catch the bartender’s attention and Ava can’t believe she gets to go home with her.

She’s coming back from the bathroom, but she stops as someone slides into Bea’s space, beautifully tattooed arm reaching over to touch Bea’s elbow like it’s nothing. They’re gorgeous, newly touched-up undercut and jeans that do great things for their ass and Ava smiles as they shoot their shot.

The more they do it, the more she loves bringing Bea into queer spaces like this, because it’s where she gets the attention she quite frankly deserves and because it’s very fun to watch her navigate these interactions. Only the very smallest part of Ava wants to halo-blast this human across the room and even that is only on principle—she has absolutely nothing to worry about. More than anything, she’s happy that her partner gets some outside reinforcement for what Ava tells her all the fucking time: she’s hot.

Bea backs away immediately, says something that Ava is sure is polite but absolutely clear, and then she’s alone again. Ava makes her way over, sliding and arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek and Beatrice smiles at her and hands her a shot glass.

“Lemon drop?”

The club is full of people celebrating, evidence of the parade everywhere: sunburns and smeared paint and so much glitter. Her own arms are covered in it now, but she doesn’t mind. Ava always loves going dancing with Bea but she loves it especially tonight. They’re warm and happy and just a little bit drunk, swaying comfortably in the press of the revelry.

The music changes, an eruption as the Beyonce remix sounds through the speakers, and Bea shifts somehow closer to her, hands confidently blazing a path to the exposed skin of Ava’s waist. Ava lets her own hands roam, landing on Bea’s shoulder blades, fingers digging in as Bea breathes out against her ear, “Come home with me?”

Ava kisses her, a little filthy, and Beatrice pulls her closer. She draws back with a bite to Bea’s bottom lip and kisses a path up her jaw, lets her tongue graze skin as she answers Bea’s question the way she always does, the way she always will: “Yes.” They press out of the crowd, and Beatrice apologizes as she bumps into a crew coming into the club. “No worries, baby!” The queen is beautiful, makeup fucking impeccable, and she blows a kiss as she heads toward the bar. “Happy Pride!”

#warrior nun #avatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #warrior nun fic

[kalcifers-blog]

IRIS FILES - ROBBIE THE ZOMBIE

CW - Physical/Mental Deterioration, Derealization, Rotting Alive, Zombification, Bugs/Insects, Medical Horror

Word Count: 994

Character Count: 4,271

CLASSIFICATION: ALTR 181502

ALTR AGE: 24 YRS OLD

ALTR HEIGHT: 5 “5

ALTR SEX: X

ALTR STATUS: UNSTABLE

ALTR INFO: 18152 contracted an unknown illness after an encounter with ALTR 114209. He was advised to keep track of his symptoms in the form of a journal; IRIS Researchers have secured the journal to track 18152's both physical and mental development.

08/09/2016

“Not been great lately, I've had cold or flu symptoms for the past two weeks, really has been messing with my focus, not great for when I'm trying to study or play as well as I usually can but I've been pushing through it!

I'm still a bit shaken up from that creepy ass guy from last month- it messed with me. I'm glad IRIS is here to help out with my case tho, hopefully they catch the freak. I keep getting all fidgety and anxious whenever I'm out in public. I mean I guess that's normal after something like that but still, doesn't make it easier. I would hang out with friends to make me feel safer but I don't wanna get them sick, hopefully this'll pass

-R”

15/09/2016

“God my head will not stop pounding, I got my headache about 2 days ago, it started off only occasionally but god it just keeps flaring up and more often. My flu hasn't gotten any better. It makes it hard to do anything, I keep getting by, slowly but surely.

-R”

22/09/2016

“Been bed ridden this week- I thought rest would probably help but, every time I sleep I keep dreaming of that guy- I don't remember it fully and it's probably just some weird trauma thing but he keeps.. I don't really know how to describe it? He keeps warping. I don't know its probably just some dream shit”

29/09/2016

“haven't been able to eat properly.. keep feeling this itch on my neck, its not bad just annoying mostly. My phone hurts my eyes. Keep dreaming of creeper.im sure he didn't actually look like that. Sorry for the bad handwriting, I'm so tired nd my hands hurt. Might try sleeping again”

30/09/2016

“woke up and puked, pretty badly too- dreaming of that guy hurts my head”

05/10/2016

“Really should call a doctor I think. I did call IRIS, I'm sure I did, they said they'd send someone over. No one came- my body hurts, everywhere it's just this dull ache. I might try

and shower or something. I don't know what to do at this point- no ones coming I've waited and waited and no one showed. The itching got worse, I don't know what's wrong with me I just need someone to come help”

“Why is no one answering my calls???”

12/10/2016

“Tried to shower, clumps of my hair just- came out. I just cried something is wrong with me I called IRIS again I told them it was urgent and I need help. The creeper answered me. It couldn't have been real- but it made me throw my phone accidentally. It broke and I can't get it to work again. I can't keep going on like this. The itching keeps spreading too- it now feels like things are crawling in my organs. I can't scratch there”

“Threw up again, mostly blood- it was clumpy, I think it was bits of my throat. It hurts my throat to breathe let alone talk”

16/10/2016

“The man in my room can't be here- I didn't let anyone in, he shouldn't be here”

23/10/2016

“I found out why I feel like there things crawling in me. I threw up a dead bug. The itching keeps going. I think I need to leave”

“I left my apartment. The air stung and I felt everyone's eyes on me. I don't care i just need help”

“IRIS won't let me in. Or near anyone.”

30/10/2016

“They're keeping me here. They keep giving me things. They poked IVs in me- the skin just teared away. It hurt so much, it feels good to actually be given medication. It's not kicked in yet but I think it should soon. The nurse gave me a funny look when I described my creep to him. I don't know, I just wanna sleep”

IRIS Supplemental:

ALTR 181502, previously known as Robert “Robbie” James, was announced as clinically dead to the public on 05/11/2016. Within the IRIS Foundation however it should be known that ALTR 181502, while maintaining a “corpse-like” appearance, is very much alive. IRIS researchers and medics have been working on a plausible theory on the rapid and alarming decline in ATLR 181502’s health after an apparent encounter with ALTR 114209. This variation of effects with 114209 seems to be an outlier. But until a working theory has been confirmed, the containment is highly necessary for both ALTR 181502 and for the wider public. Some IRIS staff have left due to unknown illnesses after contact with ALTR 181502. Their symptoms are yet to be examined but they are all in highly secure quarantine zones until they are confirmed to not be carrying a “Zombie Virus” as the research staff seem to be calling it.

As for ALTR 181502- exact details of his initial encounter with ALTR 114209 are documented in his original report to IRIS. His condition remains unpleasant. And it seems the best we can hope for is to keep him in containment until we understand what's going on.

The journal, as well as the remainder of ALTR 181502's belongings have been quarantined or burned. We managed to digitise his IRIS issued journal for the research sake. In said journal we believe the figure he describes is ALTR 114209- as it is within it's behaviour to torment it's victims while they are in mental distress.

It was discovered, by one such medic, after attempting an autopsy on ALTR 181502, that he is very much no longer human. If the hive of moth larvae that has eaten away at all of his organs have anything to say about it at least. How he still is living, albeit not pleasantly, is about as good a guess as yours as it is mine.

End Supplemental.

#jacksepticeye #jse egos #jse #jacksepticeye egos #robbie the zombie #jse robbie #fanfic #IRIS Files #Kalcifers IRIS Files #horror fic #my fic

[masterwords]

go the f*ck to sleep

Summary: JJ sees Hotch struggling with single parenthood and offers to help. Miraculously...he accepts.

Pairing: none

Words: 1.4k

Warnings: mentions of canon character deaths (haley & jj's sister), insomnia, grief, depression

Notes: I woke up this morning and had this image in my mind. It was written so fast and it's barely a fully fledged thought but...here you go. It's sad Hotch hours. And it isn't hotchgan! (I have a lot of that coming your way in the next week though, between several stories and several moodboards.) Merry Thursday!

*********

It wasn’t much. Hell, it was barely anything at all, she thought as she set the paper cup (extra hot americano, double shot) on Hotch’s desk. She held the card in her hands, hesitant. His office was cleaner than it had been in as long as she could remember, and it made her deeply uncomfortable. Like he was hiding something.

He’d always been an open book when it came to his work load. Case files and reports stacked on his desk, his email perpetually two away from being overflowing, the data on his phone complaining about the number of texts he wouldn’t delete. Just in case he needed them. (And he had needed plenty of them, so the end justified the means, so to speak.) So this new thing, this clean office, clean desk, organized email inbox...well she was a little concerned.

Everyone deals with grief differently and as she looked around at this office she barely recognized, JJ could see his grief written in every tidy corner, every neatly filed piece of paper. Maybe he was on top of it so he could be home with Jack, that was best case scenario, but what she thought might actually be happening was that he’d simply begun taking all of it home with him. That he was drowning in his apartment where no one could save him.

She looked at the card in her hand and thought about her parents grieving over her sister. How her father stopped talking to her for months, how her mother doubled down on the anger and the intensity. How she became a surrogate for what was lost but not in any helpful way. She could remember it all vividly while knowing there was a lot of that time she’d never really be able to access. She was older than Jack when her sister died, Jack would have even fewer memories when he was grown. He’d barely have a glowing faded ghost of a mom in his head, but he’d have a hardened father who can’t smile and can’t sleep that is tangible and be full of resentment. She knew that from experience.

That was enough to make her set the card down. She might be overstepping, she probably was, and he might just drink the coffee and toss the card in the garbage can (she knew he wouldn’t) but she had to try. Derek was still trying, still absorbing a lot of the work load, anything he could without stepping on Hotch’s toes but everyone else had gone back to business as usual. She couldn’t leave Derek to shoulder this burden on his own, she had to try to help.

She was in a meeting with Strauss and Garcia when he finally made his way to his office. The coffee, once piping hot, was cold and he stared at it long and hard for a minute in disbelief. It had already been a hellscape of a morning, putting out fires left and right...most of which weren’t even his fires...and the sight of the coffee there almost pushed him over some inexplicable ledge. He sat on the couch, but it looked and felt a lot more like falling, like collapsing, like his legs simply giving out.

If the coffee came close, the card did the real pushing.

“Hotch,

When I had Henry, everyone made jokes about finally really knowing what it was like to need coffee...well they weren’t kidding. I know Jack isn’t a newborn, but I have a feeling the sentiment will ring true still. So here’s to coffee, huh?

From one caffeine addict to another, if you ever need help with Jack, call anytime. Henry could use a big brother to show him the ropes.

JJ”

The tone of the card was light, casual, but the sincerity in it made his chest ache. The likelihood of him asking JJ to babysit Jack for him was slim, he thought she knew that when she wrote it, but all the same he was touched by the sentiment. And the coffee, once reheated, was exactly what he needed to pick himself up and finish the day on his own two feet. (Before collapsing into bed as soon as Jack was asleep only to toss and turn all night long again and again and again and again. Only to finally crawl out of bed at 3am after sleeping in rough ten minute intervals all night, dragging himself to his messy home office and watching the sun slowly creep through his closed blinds with tired eyes and piles of paperwork as high as his knees.)

When he did finally call JJ for help, he’d been at the sleepless night thing for three months and things were starting to feel filmy and unreal. He was at the end of his rope. Derek had been his lifeline in many ways, absorbing the work load when it got to be too much, but he didn’t know the first thing about kids so Hotch couldn’t ask him to babysit. It would be a disaster. Then he remembered JJ’s card, and it felt like his last line of defense. A hail mary. “Could you watch Jack for me for an hour or two?”

“You have a date?” she asked with a cheeky smile, pushing a spoonful of mashed potato into Henry’s waiting little mouth while holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear. Hotch let out the saddest laugh she thought she’d ever heard.

“Not exactly. I was hoping to try to take a nap.”

“Ahhh, yes. I hear you. If I didn’t have Will forcing me to take naps during the day…” she paused, biting into her lip. The queen of foot in mouth has done it again, she thought. “Well. Just give me a time and I’ll be there.”

He made a pot of coffee and showed her around, giving her the lay of the land like she’d never been inside before. Like she hadn’t gone in after Foyet, gone in with Derek and Emily and Dave, ducked beneath crime scene tape to check the place out, look through his intimate things. But it was different now, there was life here. Jack’s things were brightly colored and littered the place with tiny happy bombs. An Iron Man blanket laid on the couch, a splash of bright crimson against the dull grayish brown. Legos were in the carpet, crayons all over the table with play doh crumbs and the remnants of the toast Jack was still insisting he wasn’t done with from breakfast. “I’m sorry I haven’t picked up,” he muttered, and she laughed.

“Hotch, it’s fine. This is pretty clean for someone with a kid that age. Really.”

He glanced around and shrugged, shame clawing at him in spite of her words. He should have done more to pick the place up. It really was the least he could have done, she wasn’t even accepting money from him for her time.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked finally, glancing at Henry teetering on chubby little legs, brand new at the whole walking thing. He was invested in whatever it was that Jack was playing, he just had to get there first and that was slow going as a newly bipedal creature. Hotch glanced around and saw all of the choking hazards, the glass, the outlets not covered, the corners to bang his head on and the kitchen drawers easily opened to danger and death. His apartment wasn’t baby proofed because he never had Jack here at that age. He hadn’t thought this through. Not only that, but he noticed that Jack still had bright purple and green marker on his chin and forearms, remnants of his unsupervised tattoo session while Hotch was shaving one room away. He thought he'd gotten all of it washed off.

“Hotch...it’s okay. I’m going to sit here with them and they’ll play and that’s it. Maybe we’ll read a few stories, color a picture, rob a bank if we get really bored…”

“Thank you JJ.”

“ Wow. Not even a laugh huh?”

He smiled weakly. “I’m sorry. I haven’t really been sleeping.” Like that should explain it all. Judging by the look she gave him, it might have. The look on her face was compassionate, but he detected a little pity there too. He figured he deserved it. If he looked in the mirror he’d give himself the same pitying look.

"Do you need a bed time story?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. His eyes went wide for a moment, his features finally giving way to a tired smile. A real one, unprovoked.

"No. Thank you though. Really."

"Alright then, go. I’ll try to keep them quiet. Thank you for the coffee. Get some sleep Hotch.”

#aaron hotchner #jennifer jareau #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #it's platonic but all you jotchies out there can indulge if you want #i won't mind <3

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

Jongerry and "Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead"?

I like how you think, anon

"It's late."

"How would you know?" Jon asked distractedly, not looking up from the pages he was organizing. What he'd thought was two statements was actually one, and putting them in order revealed yet more missing pieces that he knew, with that awful Beholding certainty, were in the Archives somewhere. He didn't know where, but he needed to assemble it all together before he could record it and move on.

"Went out for a smoke." Gerry settled himself in the chair across from Jon's desk, examining his face with his deep intense eyes. "Its gotten dark out. Everyone's gone home."

"Good for them," Jon grumbled, feeling briefly envious of his coworkers who had homes to return to, and lives to live outside of the Institute. It seemed more and more difficult for him to leave the Archives with every passing day, and that would certainly feel more concerning if he didn't have a million other worries in his mind.

At least Gerry also seemed to have given up whatever semblance of a normal life he'd had as well, and all but moved into the Archives with him. That made Jon feel inordinately pleased, in ways he could hardly understand. Not just the simple pleasure of companionship, or even the undefined...thing between them that made Jon's chest feel hot and shivery and wild with delight and anticipation. It was something deeper, Beholding-touched, a connection between Archivist and Assistant that gave him the deepest feeling of satisfaction. Gerry was supposed to be there with him, and he was, and that was exactly how it should be.

"Here." Jon shook himself out of his thoughts to slide one of the folders across his desk. "Can you go into Document Storage and find the missing pages for this statement?"

"No."

"...what?" Jon asked belatedly, utterly put off by the unexpected refusal.

"It's late," Gerry said again, giving him a sharp look. "I'm not doing any more work tonight and neither are you."

Jon scoffed at him, automatically resistant to the very idea. The late hour meant nothing when he never left the Archives, and it wasn't like he had a schedule to adhere to. Sleeping was also out of the question, so there was no reason he shouldn't keep working. "You may do so if you wish," he refuted, looking back to his files, "but I need to straighten this out. Go on, then."

"I'm not going anywhere without you." Oh. The tone of Gerry's voice spoke of mischief, even as the words themselves caused a rather different reaction in his chest. Jon tried to level his best glare at Gerry, but of course his favorite Assistant was quite immune to that by now.

"I'm busy-"

"And I will carry you away from your desk if I have to." Damn him, he probably could. Jon quickly dismissed the thought of how nice it would be in Gerry's arms and sat back more firmly in his chair, just to be difficult. Gerry's own glare broke a bit at that, cracking into a rather fond smile at his behavior.

"You know," he murmured lowly. "I have other ways to convince you."

Oh dear. Gerry most certainly did. Jon sucked in a deep breath, feeling his resolve weakening just from the thought. "Don't you dare," he protested weakly, but Gerry was already out of his chair, rounding the desk to crouch next to him, leaning in to put his lips to his ear.

"Give me a reason not to," he whispered, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath his ear, and Jon melted with a soft sound. He knew he could, he could say no to Gerry's advances if he really wanted to. His Gerry would never push him like that. He had no real desire to keep working, but his stubborn streak still kept him from easily giving in.

"I'd like to see you try," he challenged, and felt Gerry smile before ducking in, littering kisses across his upper neck and hinge of his jaw, cupping his chin gently to keep him in place as he assaulted Jon with affection. It was so tender, so genuine, so lovingly deliberate that what was left of Jon's resolve completely crumbled away. He leaned towards him with a moan, and Gerry took advantage of his change in position to press in closer, changing the course of his kisses to his lips, gently coaxing his mouth open to kiss him deeper, making a pleased noise of his own at Jon's compliance. It was so truly good, the best thing in his life, that Jon wanted to drown himself in Gerry's kisses, and drag him down with him.

"It's working, you know," Gerry told him between kisses, his hands stroking Jon's hair back from his face.

"What is?" Jon rasped out, completely uncaring about anything that wasn't his Assistant.

"You're not working anymore," Gerry gloated, kissing him again before Jon could register his words. "You might as well call it a night." He rose slightly out of his crouch, one arm sliding around Jon's back to pull his hips to the edge of his chair. "Let me take you to our spacious and luxurious cot and distract you some more, doesn't that sound nice?"

"It certainly does," Jon agreed with a sigh, thoroughly and mindlessly enchanted by Gerry's kisses and words. Gerry scooped him out of his chair just as easily as he imagined he could, and Jon made no noise of protest as he was carried out of his office. Gerry was far too good at distracting him.

#jongerry #gerry keay #jonathan sims #rebelwriting

[vitospaghetta]

How do you imagine Leon's place to look like and where do you think he lives? Some flat?

Also alaooo what do you think he does in his free time?

You have no idea how much thought I've put into this over the years.

Let me preface this with the fact that I'm specifically talking about original continuity Leon post-RE6 here, where he's a seasoned adult and has been in his career field for a while.

Leon more-than-likely lives in D.C. (he could also live in VA or MD but he strikes me as the kinda guy who would rather eat glass than commute, especially with D.C. traffic being absolute bullshit) in an apartment somewhere in the city.

As a federal agent, he makes a salary, which is something that is determined by things like the amount responsibility you have within the agency, your credentials/experience, your skillset, etc. Given his role and responsibilities within the D.S.O., he's easily a top earner. The top earners within the FBI make $153,000 annually, but it looks like top earners within the CIA can make more — like with all things, every agency is different. The D.S.O. obviously isn't a real agency, but as one that is held above all others (as far as authority within the criminal justice system is concerned), Leon probably receives a pretty cushy salary. Around $200,000 annually, easy. Income tax would fuck him over, but he'd still walk away with a reasonable amount per month to afford a $4,000+ per month apartment or to buy one and pay off a mortgage.

He can easily afford a one or two bedroom apartment in the city is what I'm saying. And I mean a nice apartment. We're talking granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, washer and dryer in-unit, floor-to-ceiling windows, in a modern building in a nice area of the city. An area that consists entirely of nice apartment buildings like the one he lives in. There's actually an area just outside of NYC that reminds me of the kinda area I can see him living in. I was there to take the ferry over into the city for a memorial/organ donation event I was attending last year.

The pics don't exactly encapsulate the full vibe, and these apartments probably go for millions due to the proximity to the city and being right off the Hudson, but it's quiet, safe, and filled with sporty people. Lots of folks walking dogs, jogging after work hours, and a sense of community amongst people that seemingly have their shit together.

He strikes me as the type to have a two bedroom apartment just for an office that he's hardly ever in. He'd want to live in a building that has a gym as an amenity because it's easier than hoofing it to a gym elsewhere, and a garage for him to put his car and the crotch rocket he's currently mourning courtesy of Maria.

As for the apartment's interior, I feel like it would completely lack personality or cluttered charm. There's a level of almost sterility to it, in that it's devoid of knick-knacks, personal photos, and encompasses a strong aesthetic of maturity. Everything in it is nice. There's tasteful artwork on the walls, and it's furnished with well-made and sometimes expensive furniture and appliances, because, as a childless adult, if Leon's going to spend money on only himself, he's going to spend it well. You get what you pay for, after all. There are obviously some traces of Leon's personality strewn about — skin care products in the bathroom, boots and leather jackets by the door, some books, laundry crumpled at the foot of his bed and piled by the washer/dryer, maybe a single sarcastic coffee mug somewhere in the cabinet — but there's no novelty.

Due to his constant bouncing around, he isn't home enough to put too much effort into it, and he hasn't had the luxury of certainty or normalcy in so long that all he wants out of his home is for it to look nice and be a comfortable place to sleep. He appreciates coming home to a place that is his, but it doesn't need to be a display of everything he's ever enjoyed. Even when he is home, he strikes me as the type to start going stir crazy when he sits for too long. The most amount of time he probably ever spent at home was when he was self-isolating and hitting the bottle really hard. There's also the generational element of Gen-X'ers being extremely lowkey about shit.

As far as what Leon does in his free time, I feel like he enjoys doing things that are out of the house due to the aforementioned inability to stay alone with his thoughts for too long. The man is constantly trying to distract himself to place distance between himself and his trauma, so where he might have been able to sit and watch a movie alone before, he struggles to now.

Leon's very extroverted, likable, and adaptable, so he probably enjoys being around other people, even if he's not actively talking to them. Though he appreciates silence as well, when he's kicking things around in his head and is trying to find some semblance of peace and a means to calm the noise. He might get a coffee at a shop right by his apartment where he's a regular and everyone knows him by name, or go for a run, or go shopping. Maybe he tries to make plans with those he cares about to go out for dinner, like he did with Claire in Infinite Darkness. Maybe he tries to catch a good sunset over the Potomac River. He goes to the gym, he rides his motorcycle around the city or takes a scenic route on the outskirts just for the hell of it, he meets up with a fellow agent and they do shots at his favorite bar.

I don't think he has hobbies, as in crafting or gaming or being too involved in any specific interests, but everything he does is fueled by his love of people, his appreciation for what good he has in his life, and his need for escape.

#leon kennedy #ask #anon #asks: leon #HOOOO BOY i'm so sorry for all of this but #this is like my favorite thing to talk about #you really opened pandora's box with this ask my god

[mattodore]

ocs aging is my favorite thing to read about, so i wanna ask you a question - how do you see matthias and theo (and their relationship) in their fourties?

and generally for how long you have their story planned? you think only about times when they young or you have “planned” their 50s, 60s etc

ly ly ly

Oh I really love where Theo and Matthias find themselves as they age into their forties.

For Theo, he’s fully out from under his parents’ thumb by the time he reaches forty and he’s also been clean for a good handful of years. The first twenty-something years of Theo’s life were… well, they were really hard on him. He thought of himself less as a person and more as an extension of his parents’ will. He did what they said when they said it no matter how little he wanted to, but once he let go of all that appeasement and supplication… he finally got to relax. Theo’s had pretty bad identity issues his whole life, but in his thirties and beyond it’s like he’s finally found himself again. He was lost before, you know? And in his forties he’s comfortable. I’m not saying he’s magically healed and well adjusted or anything, like he has C-PTSD and he still begs off therapy appointments and taking meds but… he knows who he is and he can see the world in the same colors he saw when he was five and still playing in the garden, unafraid of all the things a child shouldn’t know about.

For Matthias, he’s settled into his forties with grace. I think he’s more grounded after having Theo in his life for two decades. I think I’ve said this before, but he was numb to pretty much everything in his twenties and totally disillusioned and nihilistic. Let me be real… Matthias’s personality hardly changes as he ages, but I think his outlook on life is a little less bleak with Theo in it. Hm… I think in his late thirties he’s finally processed a lot of the trauma he experienced in his teen years, but… I don’t think his insomnia ever goes away. I do think he can sleep a little longer, but he still has auditory hallucinations for sure. Nevertheless, Matthias is fulfilled in his forties. He has his best friend and the love of his life… it’s all he needs. I think Matthias is really just someone who desperately wanted to be loved and he didn’t know what that hunger was for until he was so full of it it got stuck in his teeth.

As for their relationship when they’re older… they’d actually defined it, first off. I think they feel like they’re too old to be calling each other ‘boyfriend’ so instead Theo calls Matthias his partner and Matthias calls Theo his lover. They’re definitely living together but they’re still not married. I think Matthias might’ve proposed sometime in their early thirties but been rejected. Not that it was a serious proposal, mind you—like, the chance that he asked during sex is pretty high I won’t lie lmao—but I think he was probably just trying to get a feel for what Theo wants and that was a good enough answer for him. Day-to-day… hm… Theo’s a working man so he’s often late to meals and Matthias has to find him in his art studio to get him to eat something. Matthias is still a layabout but he does busy himself with writing—just journaling and letters and stories he reads for Theo. Matthias is also sponsoring a few organizations that’re trying to shut down the troubled teen industry. They visit Imani and her husband often and Matthias babysits when asked—Theo is very hands-off when Matthias is babysitting since he still has a pretty emotional response to seeing happy kids... ugh. The friends of Theo’s who stuck around from his party days will have lunch with him every few weeks, but they still don’t like or want to be around Matthias, which, like… fair. Theo doesn’t really hang out with anyone on a regular basis other than Matthias, if I’m honest. Theo just… isn’t actually a people person, it turns out. Theo also does a lot of volunteer work with animals since it’s another kind of therapy for him. They’re just happy, y'know?

As for the actual extent of the planning I’ve done with the characters... well, there’s no end to their lives in my head since I can just picture them at any age. I know Theo and Matthias very well… I don't even really need to think about it (which is also why I hardly ever write anything down… they’re just living in my head). That said, the actual story they come from (which doesn’t actually have a title—echthroi is just a temporary name) only lasts for about two—maybe three—years. It’s not fully plotted out because I would first need to actually make the Big Decisions I’ve been putting off with relation to the plot for foreverrr, but I know where it starts and where it ends. So they’re both forever in their 20s in that way, but to me they’re every age they’ll ever be.

#river dipping #asks #anonymous #oc extras #theodore doe #matthias evanoff #a burning house to live in #echthroi #…took me way longer than ten minutes #i kept doubling back and agonizing like uhhh does this sentence make sense? is this a good enough summation of what they’re like??? #😭😭😭 #i’m posting this so late now… 🚶🚶🚶 #well. anon i hope you see this 🧎 sorry it took me a bit #and thank you <33333!!!!!!! for asking abt them #i actually really love imagining them as they age together #their twenties are so tumultuous #and it’s nice to think abt them without going :(((( #🥺…….. #well. anyway it’s eleven 😭😭😭 i need to get to sleep here soon #i’m gonna reward myself for finishing this by looking at some nani tanvi content now 😋 #and then i’ll head to bed #in the morning i’ll post the before and after for this edit bc i think the difference is probably crazy #and then i’ll post all these reblogs i have drafted #MWAH!!! good night <333

[sydmarch]

Who is Angus to Evrart?

full dialogue of the scene that line is from:

You - "Tell me about Titus Hardie and his crew."

Evrart Claire - "Oh, they are simply fine young men -- all seven of them! Exemplary Union members. Always working to advance their position in the local socialist-democratic movement. Core members."

Evrart Claire - "Old Theo used to run them, but things really *kicked into gear* when Titus took the reins and named the group after himself." He starts laughing. "Gotta love his initiative." You - "What more can you tell me? Who's second in command? Who's the most violent?"

Evrart Claire - "Harry, they're almost all of them *great* guys, born leaders. Whatever happened, I'm sure they only had the best interests of Revachol in mind."

Evrart Claire - "Work with them -- hell, interview them! But don't fight them. They really are just like you -- men who like beer, women, and some *order* on the streets."

Half Light - Separate one from the herd. You - "So let me ask you this... Which one of Hardie's boys is your least favourite?"

Evrart Claire - "Oh, that would definitely be Fat Angus. His feet smell from a city-block away and he's always having noisy stomach troubles. Horrible, revolting guy."

You - "So let's say something happens to Fat Angus... let's say a citizen's arrest..."

Evrart Claire - "You would die, Harry," he says, grinning. "You would die and in the process start a bloody and completely unnecessary war between the Débardeurs' Union and the Citizens Militia."

Evrart Claire - "Angus, his ever-growling stomach, and his smelly feet are all part of the Union. You have as much right to *arrest* him as he has to arrest you... "

Evrart Claire - "...actually less, because it's his home and his backyard. You are a guest here, Harry. Please remember that."

Evrart Claire - "Oh Harry..." He starts laughing. "This is getting real grim and there's no need for that. We are friends." He sits back and looks you in the eye with a wide smile.

i love thinking about this dialogue in comparison to when you get his real opinion on the hardies:

Evrart Claire - "Harry, I bugged her cabin. I bugged her whole boat. I had cameras surveying her boat. Hell I even wanted to bug that thermal cup, but my boys advised against it."

Savoir Faire - They must have done it while Joyce was busy questioning the locals. You - "So you've been listening to our conversations all the time?"

Evrart Claire - "Not me personally..." he stretches his arms like a discus thrower. "I had guys recording and processing this information for me." You - "The Hardie boys?"

Evrart Claire - "Hell no!" he exclaims. "They'd fuck it up. They can't do anything right. I mean my *real* boys. My special task force boys."

Kim Kitsuragi - "Where are these boys?"

Evrart Claire - "They sure as hell aren't hanging out in the open with beers in their hands for the cops to question." He bursts out laughing. "They're pros, Mr. Kitsuragi."

he doesn't like angus & doesn't even like or trust the hardies as it turns out! and yet i do 100% believe that he meant it when he said harry would die & it would start a war between the rcm and the union. not because he really cares about the hardies personally but because it would reaffirm the union's power/obviously they would have to respond to something like that. but finding knowing his true thoughts about the hardies casts an interesting light on this convo:

You - "The remaining mercenaries are organizing a tribunal to take on the Hardies."

Evrart Claire - "Tribunal?" He appears aghast. "That sounds *serious* Harry. We Union men should be *shitting* ourselves..." He rubs his chin and smiles suddenly: "I wish you hadn't told me that. I'm gonna lose *sleep* over this. Let's change the subject."

Empathy - He's clearly happy about the tribunal.

You - "You don't *seem* too worried about it." Evrart Claire - "Oh, Harry, what do I *really* think about the tribunal? You're trying to climb to second base with old Evrart before you've even courted him properly."

obviously he's happy about the tribunal because his end goal is to start a war with wild pines but there's a total lack of concern for the hardies both here where they come up specifically or for the union in general when discussing the prospect of a war with harry:

You - "Have you ever heard what two Giant Seraise Hornets can do to an entire colony of bees? They destroy it."

Evrart Claire - "I have. It's a great story, Harry." He nods. "Did you also know how the bee colony kills the giant hornet? They swarm and blanket it entirely, until it suffers a *massive heat stroke* and dies." Empathy - He crosses his hands, contently, thinking of the interior temperature of the wasp rising. Endurance - They cook it alive in its exoskeleton.

Evrart Claire - "Harry, we outnumber them fifteen hundred to one. And that's just Martinaise. With all the unions in Revachol -- and with public opinion on our side -- we can hold off two men. Or fifteen men. Or even fifty men."

Evrart Claire - "The more they send, the worse it's going to look for them. They made a *huge* mistake hiring those guys. *No one* likes foreign mercenaries. The leftists hate them, the fascists hate them, even the moralists think they're *in bad taste*."

is he really just that confident in the union? does he view the hardies specifically as expendable because he doesn't have much faith in them? or are his real thoughts more along the lines of "yeah people are probably gonna die but if that's what it takes then so be it"? we already know he's willing to kill if need be but i'd imagine he'd view tiphaine holly (an ineffective leader who's his direct opponent) differently from the members of the union he's supposed to be looking out for... we can never get his opinion on the tribunal after it happens (screams cries throws up) but i could see him being overall satisfied with the outcome.

Evrart Claire - "What was always going to happen. We take the harbour and she fucks off to Ozonne, uncorks a bottle of wine, calls her partners and says they need to distance themselves from this nasty business before the big shit spinner splashes everyone."

Evrart Claire - "Only difference is the Union doesn't have to lose 2,000 men to machine gun fire."

like, 3-7 deaths compared to 2,000? anyways this is so much more than the question you actually asked i just love to think about my fucked up little guy.

#sorry it took me so long to answer this i planned on just a quick response then i started thinking abt his relationship to the hardies #overall & THEN i was thinking part of the hornet convo was relevant here (it was not) so i had to go down the did you order the hanged man #killed conversation and that. um. distracted me. anyway LOL #ACTUALLY i changed my mind as i kept writing the post after writing my first few tags hornets were relevant actually. w for me #anon #ask #de #disco elysium #evrart