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kodared · 1 year

Note

Oh dearest heart. I love your howdy Angst.

And since I'm a sucker for pure angst. Could I request idk some more? If you don't mind that is! Romantic or platonic I would just like to cry over this caterpillar

I actually really love these requests you all have! And ill also be combining this ask with a previous one I received Because I like meshing prompts together for a good plot,

This can be either Romantic or Platonic!

!! CONTENT WARNING: BLOOD AND HOME HOLDING YOU HOSTAGE !!

Howdy x GN!Reader

Angst/Comfort

Word Count: 3123

Hope you Enjoy! ~ ʕ　˵·ᴥ·ʔ

You had finally moved into the town of your dreams, it was a small village just out of civilization and it seemed perfect for your dreams of being a gardener. As you drove down the icy highway your car felt as if it was gliding while you bobbed along to your songs, thoughts of sunshine and warmth circulating your mind as you daydreamed what your neighbours would be like.

One thing you didn't notice was how your wheels seemed to take on a mind of their own. You tried desperately to correct it, your hands shaking as adrenaline took hold of your veins with its icy grip.

It did nothing to stop your car from shrieking off the road, rolling down the ditch before finally crashing into the forest, your vision fading before you could process what had happened.

It would take a miracle to save you.

Your brain felt like it was underwater as you felt something firmly grasping your shoulder, your vision fading in and out repetitively, you were unable to lift your head from the wheel as you tried to piece together the passing conversation.

… “Hol..i.. got.. ‘Em!..”

The loud noise that proceeded after led you to mumble incoherently in protest, not realizing the sheer extent of the damage you had done to yourself.

“Shh.. you… Oka…”

Your head again tried to lift itself off the airbag to get a view of who was talking to you, but your head felt sticky... ‘Where am I?’

That was your last thought before you passed out cold. Finally succumbing to the darkness that wrapped a warm blanket around your self conscious.

—-------------------

You woke up coughing, your head lolling to the side on the pillow it rested on. Since when were you home, was it all a bad dream?

As your vision cleared, the mustard yellow walls assured you that this was not your house or even your room.

You tried to elevate yourself with your elbows before collapsing again as your head pounded in protest, clearly not keen on allowing you to get up, so you opted for looking around from your spot on the bed for clues as to where you were.

All you saw were framed pictures… of a bug? Or was that a man?

Whatever medicine the hospital had you on where seriously making you trip absolute balls you thought as your head hit the pillow once more, letting out an exhausted sigh while you shut your eyes.

You heard footsteps approaching the door after a few minutes, and you sat up again trying to compose yourself to greet the doctor...

…What you saw certainly wasn't a doctor.

He was without a doubt tall, like not tall for your standards, he was tall in a way that made him definitely not human. Not to mention the second set of arms and legs accompanied by his green skin, he looked like the bug in the pictures.

Then it all made sense, you were kidnapped by a bug man and most definitely going to die.

You pushed yourself off of your elbows and sat up completely, pulling your legs up ready to run at a moment's notice, he raised his hands in surprise.

… At least the hands he could hold up, his second set where holding a bowl of... Soup?

“ah! Calm down, you’re alright’, I mean you no harm... Mx..?”

He gestured his hand as he pondered your name, he seemed to be honest so without moving a muscle or breaking eye contact, you responded,

“Y/..!”

You broke out in a fit of coughing before you could finish, however, Curling in on yourself as your lungs felt as if they were lit on fire.

The bug man made a startled noise before setting the soup down on his dresser and moving to sit beside you. You made no protest as he soothingly patted your back, the final cough left you shuddering in relief as the burning went away for now.

“You were saying?”

“my names Y/N..”

You didn't quite trust him yet. But what choice did you have? He wasn't exactly threatening even if he was tall with multiple limbs. The apron he was wearing only cemented this sentiment, it was a baby pink with the lines ‘Kiss the Luv’Bug!’ Embroidered across the hem.

Needless to say, his outfit didn't exactly make him come across as threatening.

His hand still rested atop your back as shudders proceeded to wrack your spine, a cold chill making you chitter your teeth softly, moving to pull the blanket back over you.

If he was going to hurt you he definitely wouldn't have made you soup or brought you to his house, so you decided to give him a pinch of your trust… for now.

He offered you a warm smile as you eased back into the bed, he moved to give you space as he walked back to the soup and grasped it with his upper arms, his lower moving to unfold a bedside table as he spoke,

“Pleasure to meet you Y/N, my names Howdy, Howdy Pillar owner of Howdys Goods and Services!”

‘His name certainly matched’, you thought as he set the table down beside you, setting the still-warm soup on top of it.

“I found ya’ a day ago, you were certainly banged up,”

As he straightened up after setting down the soup, his head cocked to the side as his eyebrows made lines appear in his skin..? Or was it fabric, you didn't know the proper term anyways.

“Speakin’ of which, What exactly were ya in Y/N? I aint never seen anything like it,”

…Did he not know what a car was?

It made sense to you, he might as well be an alien with how different he was from you, you were shocked you both even speak the same language.

“Oh, that's a car, I was driving to my new house and it spun out of control,”

Your hand would have raised to smooth your hair down but your arm burned as it moved, With one glance you saw you had been stitched up and all the glass was removed from your skin. The only way you could tell glass had been there were the small indents it left in its wake.

“..Speaking of which where is here?”

Howdys eyebrows went back to their usual relaxed expression as he spoke fondly of where you were located at the moment. From what you could gather you were in the middle of a town just not the one you were aiming for.

“Ah.. Is there any way for me to get home? I spent a lot of money moving and I would hate to lose my deposit.”

Not to mention your friends and family would certainly be concerned as to where you are. Your mom was supposed to meet you with the moving truck today to move the rest of your furniture in, your car could only hold so much after all.

“I'll see what I can do to getcha home, for now, you need to rest, your wounds aint gonna heal themselves”

Howdy was made of fabric so you didn't correct him on the fact they literally did heal themselves, focusing more on his warm expression as he handed you a spoon from his Apron pocket.

You had no complaints as you ate, Howdy left to give you privacy and once you finished you collapsed back down on the bed, curling on your side and looking out of the window Howdy had in his room.

Was it always so colourful outside?

—-------------------

It took a lot of time to heal and settle yourself down into the routine you had adapted to. After intense research with one of the fellow townspeople named “Frank”, even after all these months, there was still no sign you could ever return home.

The thought concerned you to your core, of course, you often worried about your mom and friends that were left behind. Howdy however never relented in his hospitality and always offered you a place to stay in his Shop, and who were you to decline?

You've grown to be rather fond of the man after all these months, he even helped you make your garden on the side of the shop, which is where you found yourself now.

You were currently occupied with a suspiciously stubborn carrot that just wanted to stay underground it seemed, the warm air practically suffocated you in the summer heat while you tugged at the carrot.

You thought you were never going to get it out until finally with a final tug it popped out!

…And hit one of your yellow neighbours right in the head.

You ran over to Wally, flustered out of your mind as words of apology tumbled out of your mouth. Wally was practically the mayor of the town, so you treaded on eggshells around him to stay on his good side, not that he seemed particularly evil.

“Ahahah don't fret y/n, this carrot did no damage to me,”

His relaxed cat-like smile extended as he picked up the carrot and handed it gently back to you,

“Sorry again Wally! I don't know what made it so stubborn..”

Once more he looked at you, if he had eyebrows you could tell he would be worried, evident by the way his normally droopy eyelids lifted up just a tad.

“say y/n why don't you take a break? you seem exhausted, me and home could make you some cold lemonade!”

Lemonade honestly sounded like a godsend you thought as you vigorously nodded, Wally noticed your enthusiasm and laughed along, his laugh wasn't creepy but it certainly was unique.

“alright! meet me and Home in a few minutes, it will be ready soon!”

With one final wave he was off, the heat must have even been getting to him because as he left he unbuttoned his top slightly and fanned at his face, you didn't even know puppets could get hot but here you were.

You walked back into the Shop after gathering up what you could harvest today, Howdy as always greeted you from behind the counter, his head shooting up from under the table and hitting the corner.

THUMP* “Ow…! Hey Y/N!

A giggle left your lips before you could stifle it, Howdys face turned a dark blue-green as he blushed, clearly embarrassed.

“So! What did ya gather today?”

“Just some carrots and tomatoes, One carrot flung up and hit Wally as he walked past,”

Your bashful smile returned, Howdy was very accustomed to it by now and thought it was adorable, you had the tendency to be clumsy after all.

“Anyway, he offered to have me over for some lemonade so ill be back soon!”

You set the basket of crops down and gave Howdy a wave as you walked out, Howdy made quick work of sorting the food with his second set of hands, his upper moving to wave you goodbye.

As you walked your hands found themselves resting atop your scars from the car crash. Goosebumps travelled up and down your arms as you felt where your skin had mended itself and left a bump in its wake, you still remember Howdys amazed face as you explained how your skin healed itself.

As you approached the affectionately titled “home”, something felt wrong. The eyes that normally rested in the house's windows were now gone, replaced by curtains as black ink spilled from the bottom of the sill.

You paid no mind to it, however, shaking off your paranoia as you approached and walked up the steps, moving to knock at the door,

Before you could though it swung open, a black window curtain taking hold of your raised arm and pulling you in.

You were met with darkness surrounding you. Wally was no were in sight as well, his chair sitting empty in the center of the room, your hands desperately holding onto the arms of the chair for leverage.

You tried your best to calm your breathing, frightened and scared.

“Ahah... This isn't funny Wally, where are you?”

You were of course met with silence as you felt something taking hold of your ankle and pulling you up, dangling you above the floor. Your sense of gravity altered as nausea made its way into your system, the feeling of acid rising in your throat very evident.

All you heard was the squeaking of hinges. You knew this as a sign of home talking, Wally however was the only one who could understand the building, so you hung in confusion.

“Look! I don't know what you want but put me down!”

Your legs kicked as you tried to desperately free yourself, Home did what you asked though.

You hadn't realized how high up you were.

—-------------------

Howdy was idly restocking his shelves as you left, paying no mind to his surroundings as the methodical task of organizing took over, his antennae twitching and moving to the beat of a song he had stuck in his mind.

He enjoyed having you around but even when you weren't he could manage his time well, he had a shop to still run after all.

…Even if he was daydreaming of dancing with you to the beat of the song in his head…

But that ‘wasn't his main task’ he reminded himself as he moved quickly around the store, placing things in their usual spots.

As the sun went down he was still surprised to see you were gone, he had grown to know you a lot over the months and knew you enjoyed hanging out with people, but you enjoyed your alone time more.

You had called yourself an introvert he recalled, so without much thought he flipped his sign to Closed, hung up his hat and Apron, and walked out of the store, travelling to check up on you.

Howdy hadn't expected to hear the sounds of his friend's panicked yelling as he walked down the sidewalk, he took off in a sprint towards Wally's house.

Wally was one of the first people he saw outside, along with Barnaby, Poppy, and Frank.

“Wally?! I thought you were with Y/N?!”

The smaller puppet looked up at Howdy, if he was capable of it he would be crying as he spoke, his voice wavering.

“I just left to get lemons.. Home doesn't like y/n..!”

Howdy felt his metaphorical blood run cold. He turned to look at home and realized what Wally meant.

“Well we need to get them outta’ there! They could be hurt!”

…Or worse. As Howdys mind went to the worst he realized what that could mean.

You had told Howdy what could happen if a Human sustained too many injuries, Humans couldn't be stitched back together after their heart stopped.

Howdy felt his fists clenching as the sounds around him stopped existing in his ears, if his friends were saying anything he didn't care.

He wouldn't let you die.

—-------------------

Your arms popped as Home pulled you once again in the air. You had no idea how long this went on, but by now you could feel the bruises already forming on your joints.

“Home.. just let me go..”

You had pleaded and begged with the house for hours by now, your hands weakly grasping onto the curtains that held your wrist. You knew you couldn't escape, so you could only hope to hold out until someone noticed you were gone. If they ever did.

Just as you felt the curtain loosening its grip and you braced for impact once again.

The window shattered.

You were dropped on the hard floor once more. Your ankle cracked unpleasantly as you let out a scream of pain, you heard a very familiar voice shouting through the shattered window.

“LET THEM GO!”

It was Howdy. He had come to rescue you. Your heart fluttered with relief, your eyes opening to look out of the broken window, seeing his angered face as he fought the curtains holding his arms back from causing any more damage.

You couldn't let him get hurt for your sake. You stood on shaky feet as you tried to run towards him, the curtains letting go of Howdy and refocusing their attention on you.

Home tried to fling you against the wall once more, Howdy though was quicker and grabbed your hand, successfully pulling you from home's grasp and out of the window.

He tried to be as gentle as possible, trying to not strain your already damaged muscles, the sight of you almost made him burn home to the ground.

Your skin was littered with bruises and scratches where you had once healed, your body had worked so hard to mend and resew itself only for home to damage you and ruin it.

If it wasn't for you desperately clinging to his shirt, begging incoherently to go home, he would have done more damage to home. But without a second thought, he picked you up from the ground and sprinted back to the shop.

You and Howdy made it back to the shop, Howdy walking into the back room of the Bodega to set you on top of your shared bed, frantically moving around looking for a first aid kit.

“Howdy’m alright, I just want to lie down.”

Howdy stopped moving around as your voice shook, your body shaking like a leaf as you curled desperately under the blanket for warmth. You knew you were hurt, but you desperately wanted comfort.

He seemed to know this too as he walked to the bed and lowered himself to lay beside you, his arms wrapping around you in a firm hug while you sobbed into his chest.

Howdy was worried for you, but if he could provide you comfort that would come first.

“Y/N.. I'm so happy you're okay..”

He tried his best to steady his voice as he craned his neck to look down at you, your face was flushed and tears freely ran down your face as your body shuddered with every breath.

“I am too.. Thank you Howdy. Words cant even begin to describe-”

Your breath went frantic again as you sobbed into his shirt, his arms wrapping tighter around you, he knew anxious humans liked pressure from you, and he tried his best to apply his knowledge to help.

He could feel your heart beating as he rested his hands on your back, it was a sign you were alive, and it made Howdy comforted.

It would take a long time to recover, and Howdy knew this.

But he would be there every step of the way to help you.

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

Hope you Enjoyed!! As always keep the Requests coming! I'm also open to Headcanons and other Drabbles!

Upcoming Prompt! : - Howdy x Dog Groomer Reader! Fluff <3

Till next time ! ~ ʕ♡˙ᴥ˙♡ʔ

#Howdy pillar #howdy pillar x reader #gn reader #hurt/comfort #angst #mentions of blood #wally darling #welcome home #asks #requests #i love howdy #favourite bug<3

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snixkers · 2 months

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Back to You

Pairing: Alex Blake × GN!Reader

Hurt/Comfort

For: Anonymous Request

Content Warnings: Mention of a nightmare, fear of partner dying, mentions of death

Summary: Alex comforts you after a nightmare.

Author's Note: Ugh, I love her. She's amazing and perfect.

Feedback is always welcome!

Requests are OPEN

She wasn’t a profiler for no reason. A doctorate and years of experience had made her well qualified for the job. Which is why when she woke up, she could immediately tell that something was wrong. You were tossing and turning in your sleep, which wasn’t unusual, but the tears certainly were. Your breath was shaky as you clutched the sheets and held them tight.

Alex considered her options carefully. She could either let you sleep, and hope the nightmare went away on its own, or she could wake you up and risk startling you. After a few more seconds, she couldn’t bear to see you so scared. She quickly rubbed your shoulders, trying to sit you up.

You slumped forward, your eyes still filled with fear. She brushed your hair out of your face, trying to get you used to your surroundings.

“Hey, it’s just me, okay? You’re in our room.”

You nodded slowly, starting to come around and snap yourself out of whatever terrible dream you had been having.

She rubbed your back, pulling you closer.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You just sniffled in response, burying your head in the crook of her neck to reassure yourself that she was still there.

After a few seconds, you spoke up, voice filled with tears.

“You were gone. You got killed in a case.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she struggled not to get choked up herself. It was a real possibility, one that was always at the back of her mind, but she never let herself think about it for too long.

“I won’t do that to you, I promise.”

You nodded again, still silently sobbing into her shoulder.

Alex rubbed your arm, holding you close as you just sat there in silence. There was not a single word in any language for how determined she was to always come back to you.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fandom #alex blake #criminal minds fanfiction #writers on tumblr #alex blake x reader #fanfic #hurt/comfort

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rand0mfangurlstuff · 26 days

Text

I'll Look After You - Part 4 - Bucky x Y/N

I just had to write more of this! It's always going on in my head I had to type it out. Thanks so much for all the likes on the previous parts. This is my first time writing so I'm nowhere near as good as most writers on here. Anyways, here we get the moment I'm sure you've been waiting for.

Bucky knew, with absolute certainty, that he was dead. When people spoke of Heaven they mentioned warmth, relaxation, peace. They talked about soft clouds and a feeling of bliss. If that was all true, then Bucky was certainly in Heaven. In which case; John 'Bucky' Egan, for all intents and purposes, was dead.

The last thing he remembered before his death was the sweet sound of Y/N's voice and the taste of vanilla frosting on his tongue. What had happened after that? Did the gods finally say 'It's time John.' and call him home? What would they tell his Ma? What about Buck? He couldnt think too much on that right now, he was basking in pure and utter bliss. There he lay, in his small bed in the infirmary, with Y/N's head on his chest as she slept. Yes, this is Heaven. He thought. With the slightest turn of his head he could smell her hair. Just like the fowers in Ma's garden. He did his best not to move, not to even breathe too much, incase he would disturb her and burst his perfect bubble. He wasn't a fool. He knew Y/N certainly did not intend for this to happen. Tiredness clearly overtook her before she had the chance to move to her quarters or somewhere else more appropriate to sleep. But here she was in his arms, head on his chest. If someone came in here right now and shot him in the head; he would die happy.

When she started to wake, the first thought in her mind was that whatever hard surface she was lying on, it was not her pillow. No, this hard, chisled, impossibly warm surface was not her pillow at all. Confusion filled her brain until she slowly opened her eyes, looked up and were met with two blue eyes staring back at her. 'Oh my God!' She lept from the bed suddenly, the harsh movement hurting Bucky's ribs. 'Easy doll, its just me.' 'What am I doing here? What time is it? Oh my god I'm still in last nights clothes!' She was panicked. She was to start her shift in an hour, and she hadnt even made it to bed! What would her roommates think? What would the other nurses say? If anyone saw her in John Egans cubicle wearing last nights clothes... she may as well find the nearest river and jump. 'Relax, you just fell asleep thats all. I think it was a rather lovely way to end our date.' She spun on her heel. 'It was not a date! I was just wanting to help you sleep.' She put on her shoes as fast as she could. 'Well it worked, I slept like a baby.' He was teasing her, wanting her to tease him back. Wanting that beautiful smile of hers to appear and take the worry from her face. 'I never should have slept here. I have work in an hour!' Bucky couldnt help the teasing smile on his face. 'Well good thing you work here.' 'I'm in last nights clothes! I cant be in work in last nights clothes!' 'I don't mind what clothes you wear darling. You look lovely regardless.' That drew a small smile from her. Success. 'I have other patients other than you you know.' 'But I'm your favourite.' He smirked. He liked this. He liked teasing and flirting and having fun. 'I wouldn't go taking any bets on that Major.' she teased him back. 'Well why else would you leave a dance to come see me?' It was then she remembered that she had never told him she was going to the dance. 'How did you know I was at the dance?' His cheeks went red. He panicked. 'You told me yesterday.' 'No I didnt, I was going to, but then you were being cranky. How'd you know?' 'Well I, I may have overheard you speaking with Croz..'

It was like a lightbulb turned on in her brain. He heard her and Harry speaking. He heard Harry ask her to the dance. That's why he knew she was going. He knew she was going with Harry. A second, brighter lightbulb. Thats why he was in such a bad mood yesterday. She tried, really and truely tried, but the laughter was too much for her small body to contain. She burst into a fit of giggles. She tried to speak in between fits of laughter. 'You,... oh my god, you were.... you....jealous!'

The red in Bucky's cheeks spread to every other part of his body. She knew. She knew his bad mood wasnt due to physical therapy, it was because he knew she was going to the dance with Crosby. Bucky almost wished someone would shoot him in the head. How could he live with this? She knew he was jealous, meaning she knew of his feelings for her, and she was laughing at him. Bucky should have known she wouldnt never see herself with him. The thought of him thinking he had even the slightest chance had her struggling to breath through fits of laughter. Still giggling like a schoolgirl, she said to him, 'Harry is a lovely guy...' Yes, he was aware how lovely Croz was. 'But I don't see him in that way.' What? Hope flickered in his chest. 'Oh, then why did-' 'Because he's a nice guy. And I didn't have anyone else to go to the dance with. Nobody has ever even asked me to a dance before.' She tucked her head as to avoid eye-contact. Embarrased by the confession. Bucky was certain she was lying. 'That's impossible. You're stunning. Anyone would be glad to take you anywhere.' Her smile was so wide it almost split her cheeks. 'Well, Harry is the first person to ever actually ask. So I said yes. It was a bad idea though, I was a terrible date for him.' 'I doubt that.' 'Well, it's not much fun being on a date with someone who is thinking of someone else the whole time is it?' Bucky felt his heart race, he didnt want to be too optimistic; but he couldn't help the fluttering butterflies in his stomach. 'And who might that be?' She smiled, and slowly made her way back to his bed. She sat on the edge of his bed.

She knew it was unprofessional, but she passed unprofessional three nights ago when she first slept in that chair by his bedside. She was nervous. Her hands were shaking and she could hear her heart racing. As she sat next to him on the edge of the bed, she felt a magnetic force pull him towards her. She was crossing a lot of boundries, and there was still and chance he would reject her, but she had to do this. She had to do it because she could barely breathe and words were failing her. She leaned closer to him, looking at his perfect ocean blue eyes and his soft lips. Leaning closer and closer, but at a pace slow enough that he could reject her if he wanted to.

This had to be a hallucination. She was moving towards him in a way that could only mean one thing, she was going to kiss him. He couldnt speak, couldnt move, couldnt breathe. He just sat there as her lips found his. It was soft, gentle, like she was afraid of hurting him. Her soft lips like a whisper against his own. He was intoxicated by her. She overcame every one of his senses. Her touch, her smell, her taste. It was all he could think about. He finally was able to snap out of complete shock and kiss her back. Moving his hand to her soft cheek, Bucky deepened the kiss. Still soft, still slow, still absolutely amazing. After god knows how long, they came up for air. Foreheads touching, they smiled at each other lovingly. 'There's only one man I want dancing with me.'

#masters of the air #callum turner #john bucky egan #john egan #mota #masters of the air fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan x reader

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strawberriesinbloom · 11 months

Text

Cake Heist

MC/Mammon

Summary: Mammon tries to steal a cake.

Word Count: 1682

This is a tickle fic btw

~🍓~

Mammon tiptoed across the House of Lamentation, careful to avoid any creaky floorboards and the like. He didn't want to wake any of his brothers from their slumber. He made a beeline toward the kitchen, where he knew his prize was being kept: a bloodberry cake.

Leviathan had brought it home this morning, blubbering about how it was an exact replica of some sort of dessert featured in this manga he liked and that he wanted to eat it with you tomorrow during some sort of anniversary of its release. Honestly, it went through one ear and out the other, but Mammon did remember how Leviathan specifically called him and Beelzebub out. He made both of them promise not to eat the cake or else he'd unleash Lotan on them.

While Mammon would normally be more than happy to honor his baby brother's request, that cake looked really good, so…yeah. One itty, bitty taste wouldn't hurt, right? Leviathan would barely notice one missing slice, right? Right?

Mammon was going to eat that cake no matter what.

He poked his head through the doorframe of the kitchen, and his blood ran cold when he saw you placing a bowl into the microwave. You pressed a few buttons until a low whirring sound filled the quiet.

Mammon wasn't sure how you noticed his presence, but, before he knew it, you were staying directly at him. You grinned, and his heart raced.

He was about to make a hasty (but dignified) retreat when you said, "Hey, there, Mammon. Up for a midnight snack?" Your voice sounded hoarse and a little deeper than usual. You must have just woken up, unlike Mammon, who had been biding his time in his room until the perfect time to enact his heist.

Although you had caught him red-handed, it wasn't like you knew he was going to steal Leviathan's cake. All Mammon needed to do was grab a plate, take a slice of cake from the fridge, and make a mad dash back toward his room. He could still win this. Ignoring his trembling hands (for some inexplicable reason, they always did that when he was near you), he waltzed into the kitchen.

"Yeah, I woke up and came here lookin' for a bite to eat," Mammon responded as nonchalantly as he could. He stood in front of a cupboard filled with dishes that was right next to where you were.

You pulled out your D.D.D. "Same here," you said, leaning against the counter, "I got this random craving for soup in the middle of the night." You jerked your head toward the microwave before starting to mindlessly scroll through Fab Snap.

The conversation was over, but he couldn't help but look at you for a second longer in hopes that you'd continue talking. When it was clear just how engrossed you were in your device, he shook his head before turning toward his main objective.

Mammon reached up to open the cupboard only to screech when something poked his side. He flinched, shooting his hand down to cover where you had certainly touched him.

He spun his head toward you, intent on giving you a piece of his mind. He faltered when he saw you still glued to your D.D.D. "What…what was that?" Mammon swallowed thickly.

You absentmindedly shrugged. The microwave beeped, but you turned it off without looking up for a moment. Whatever video you were watching must have been pretty intriguing to keep you like this.

But…if you hadn't poked him, who did? Mammon searched warily around the kitchen. Nothing seemed to be amiss, at least, nothing at first glance.

Hesitantly, Mammon returned his attention to the cupboard. He opened it up, revealing the plates…that were all on the top shelf. He growled and stood on his tiptoes. His shirt slipped out of his belt, which he wouldn't have noticed if something hadn't spidered along his bare stomach.

It happened too quickly for Mammon to suppress the embarrassingly high-pitched giggle that tumbled out of him. He jumped back, slightly curling up to hide his torso from anything trying to touch him.

Once again, you were glued to your screen, but you weren't completely tuned out to the world. "Nice squeal," you said.

"Somethin' keeps touchin' me!" Mammon shouted. His cheeks were beginning to burn.

You typed something into your D.D.D. "Really…? Well…that…" You scrunched up your nose for a moment. "...is interesting."

Gah, you were too invested in whatever you were doing to care about him: the Great Mammon. Admittedly, this did sting a little.

Okay, it stung a lot, but, at least he would have his cake. Mammon stepped back up to the cupboard, casting a couple more skeptical glimpses your way. You didn't look up from your D.D.D. at all, and Mammon let out a quiet sigh. He was being way too paranoid.

He raised his hand and shot it back down when your arm moved out of the corner of his eye. He pressed his limbs against his torso, but you were just scratching your cheek. You put your hand back down, and he relaxed, sending you a sheepish smile that you didn't even get to see.

Outstretching his hand to reach the plates, Mammon managed to rest his hand on the edge of the top shelf. There was a single plate within reach, and he was so close to touching it. He was only able to poke the porcelain dish until something started touching his armpit.

He screamed and clamped his arm down, but it was too late. Mammon shook uselessly for a second to try to stop himself from laughing. He pressed his lips together but was too ticklish for that to last any more than three seconds.

"Stahahahap!" Mammon suddenly shrieked. His entire body grew unbearably hot. He had no idea he could make that sort of sound. Though, out of everyone who could have heard him, Mammon was glad that it was you.

The sensations were soon getting to be too much for him to handle. Mammon grabbed the hand that was so intent on tickling his underarm and pried it off of him. He took in a few sharp and heavy breaths before squeezing the wrist of his assailant.

You pull your hand out of his grasp. "Wow, breathless already? I had no idea you were that ticklish."

Mammon pouted, the tips of his ears heating up. He crossed his arms and chose to stare at the counter. "Ya were doin' that on purpose!" He couldn't believe you were only pretending to be distracted by your D.D.D.

"Duh."

You slipped your D.D.D. back into your pocket, a smug smirk plastered on your face. Wiggling your fingers, you stepped closer to him. That dangerous grin only grew as you came closer and closer.

Against his will, a small smile of his own broke through his expression, except it was more giddy. Mammon bounced around from foot to foot until you were face-to-face with him. An adrenaline rush coursed through him, but instead of following his fight-or-flight instincts, he stilled. Mammon had ample time to sprint out of there, but he decided to stay rooted in place.

You took note of this with a cocky eyebrow raise. "Don't look too excited, now," you teased before pouncing on him.

Your fingers dug into the soft flesh of his stomach. Mammon doubled over and staggered back, but made no effort to get away. "Hehehey!" He wiggled in place as your arms wrapped around him.

"You know, it's not exactly a punishment if you're enjoying it." You prodded at the area just below his ribs. It made Mammon jump and squeak.

He shook his head, desperately trying to ignore how strange you were making him feel. "Whahahat punihishment?" he managed to scream out before falling back into a cascade of laughter.

You shook your head. "For trying to eat Levi's cake. He was saving that."

"H–how did ya knohow–? Mammon interrupted himself with a loud snort when you suddenly squeezed the soft part above his hips. "Ehehehe! Ehehe!" It was humiliating how squeaky his giggles were.

"You're not in your pajamas, so it's pretty obvious you didn't wake up for a midnight snack.” You drilled your fingers into Mammon’s sides, which made him thrash about in your arms. “You were looking for something in particular, and what could it be if not Levi's cake?"

Dammit!

The pads of your fingers scribbled rapidly along his waist, concentrating on his most sensitive spots. "D'AHAHAHA–" It tickled so badly that Mammon couldn't get a word in.

Mammon broke out of your grip and stumbled away from you. His chest heaved as he blinked away the tiny warm tears that pricked the corners of his eyes. The ghost of your wandering fingers still remained, sending tingles all across his stomach. He let out a few residual chuckles.

You placed your hands on your hips. "Are you still going to try to take his cake?"

He puckered his lips, trying to weigh the pros and cons. If Mammon did attempt to steal the cake again, then you'd just resume tickling him. But, if he gave up now, then that meant he wouldn't get a chance to even taste that cake. What a tricky situation...

"Mammonnnn?"

Nevermind! The choice was actually really obvious!

He kicked the ground. "Okay, okay, fine! I won't try to steal Levi's crummy cake again.

The way your face brightened up made Mammon's head spin. "Good! Now, go to bed." You went back to the microwave and pressed a couple more buttons to reheat your soup. He wasn't sure why, but Mammon lingered in the kitchen. You rolled your eyes playfully. "Unless you want me to tickle you again?"

Mammon perked up but played it off as a flinch. He shook his head rapidly. "I-I'm fine!" he squeaked as darted out of the kitchen, leaving your laughing figure behind. Mammon tried not to think about the excitement that had bubbled in his chest.

#obey me tickling #ticklish!mammon #tickler!reader #tickle fic

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pickledpascal · 5 months

Text

Lover

Chapter Three: Invisible String

Warnings: Innuendos, lots and lots of pre-wedding nerves, sexual situations (kinda)

Word Count: 5.2k

Lover Masterlist

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Avery and Jensen's wedding day.

She had a floaty feeling inside her when she woke up. Earlier than usual. Last night, it was hard for her to go to sleep. She was way too excited. Anxious, even. Avery glanced at the man by her side and smiled. Jensen was happily asleep, snoring every now and then.

As planned, Avery would go over to the cabin where Elena and her boyfriend stayed to get ready with the other bridesmaids. Before that, Avery wrote down a little note on the paper provided by the venue for when Jensen woke up. She knew he'd want to see her one last time before he was busy with the groomsmen so she thought she'd leave him a little something to show her remorse. But also happiness. They were going to get married. And Avery couldn't be more ecstatic.

When Jensen did wake, he frowned when he felt Avery's side of the bed was cold. He pushed a hand through his hair to get it out of his face when he noticed the note on the nightstand.

Good morning, mon amour

Jensen’s eyebrows furrowed. Avery knew French? He learned something new about her every day. He loved it.

Today's the day we're bound together by law. But I think we were always bound together by fate. I feel as if I always should have known you. Or maybe we simply met at the right time, right place. You certainly are the right person.

I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. Wedding traditions and all that shit about bride not seeing groom on the morning before the wedding or else bad luck !! But I promise, when you do see me, you won't even know why you were upset about it in the first place.

Have a little fun in Misha’s cabin. Or whatever you do with your friends.

Love you,

Avery <3

Jensen let out a small laugh. He quickly put on some sweatpants and a T-shirt. He and the groomsmen planned to get ready in Misha's cabin which he shared with Rob and Rich. They were also going to order breakfast before he got there so they could have it ready. He grabbed some sneakers and slipped them on to make his way over.

Misha’s cabin wasn't too far away but it made for a nice walk. Jensen looked at the trees surrounding him on the trail. Morning sunlight peeked through tall leaves and branches. The mountains were beautiful. Jensen took a deep breath of the crisp air. He couldn't help the smile that made its way onto his lips. The day was already perfect. And he knew it was just going to get more perfect from there.

“Someone's already glowing,” Misha commented as he answered the door. “Did y'all have a quickie last night or something?” He teased.

Jensen gave Misha an unimpressed look as he entered, being hit with the smell of freshly made bacon and eggs benedict. “I wish. But no.” He grabbed a plate and hummed once he started to dig in at the table.

Rob and Rich already sat there, an empty plate in front of both of them. “You have to give us something. What's Avery like in bed?” Rich asked with a wave of his fork.

Jensen shook his head with a laugh as Misha sat at the table as well. Rich’s inquiry was harmless. Mercer was by the kitchen counters, sipping coffee as he tried to will away his ability to hear. If he projected his thoughts louder, maybe he would be so distracted that his brain wouldn't be able to comprehend what he was hearing.

Rich awaited his answer. “She's… good. I'll give you that.” Jensen relented.

“That much is easy to tell.” Misha commented with a chuckle.

“Oh, c'mon, you can give us more than that. You trust us, don't you?” Rich pressed with a teasing frown while Rob snickered next to him.

Jensen let out a breath and stared at his friends, a disappointed look in his eyes. “You really think I'm gonna explain to you how my wife dicks me down?” After the words left his mouth, he realized what he had done.

Rob pumped a fist in the air. “Yes!” He laughed as Rich reluctantly handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

“I can't believe this.” Rich sighed.

Jensen looked between Rob and Rich before he glanced at Misha. “They had a bet going on.” He explained with a shrug. He already knew the dynamic of Jensen and Avery's sexual relationship. However, the way he found out was not by choice.

The groom finished his meal and let out a sigh as he leaned back in his chair. The ceremony wasn't for another few hours but nervousness started to bubble in his chest. Jensen didn't want to be late. If there was such a thing as being late on his wedding day. “Where's Josh?” He asked as he set his plate in the sink. Jensen felt like he needed his brother, just to have some familial support. His parents were likely on a hike so he wouldn't know where to find them.

“Taking a hike with your parents,” Misha answered. Shit. Jensen let out a shaky breath. “Hey, c'mere,” Misha guided Jensen into his room. Their suits hung up in the corner of the room on a rolling stand. “What's up?”

Jensen sat at the end of the bed and buried his head in his hands. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm so in love with Avery but it's like it just hit me that I'm going to marry her. I'm… afraid.” He shook his head, lips forming into a thin line. He was a mess. He knew it. Why did Avery choose to marry him again?

Misha sat next to him, rubbing his back. “You don't want to mess up. That's understandable, Jay. But I don't think Avery or you are gonna fall out of love anytime soon.” He soothed softly. Seeing Jensen like this hurt him. The man was usually very confident and collected. He knew what to do all the time. It was strange to see Jensen not know what to do.

Jensen let out a deep breath. Misha was right. The anxiety was just eating away at him. In reality, there was nothing to worry about. “Okay,” He drew in breath. His heartbeat was starting to calm. “Okay.”

After his mini-breakdown, Jensen decided to get ready. Avery had specifically packed Jensen a bag of products she knew he liked. His favorite cologne, hair product, a few face masks, a tube of mascara—it was the only makeup product he knew how to properly use—and a single blush palette that came with a brush.

As an extra way to calm himself down, Jensen did the facemask first. It said ‘relaxing’ on the label and he sure needed some of that. It felt a little weird on his beard but he ignored it. The rest of his skin started to tingle, signifying it was working the way it was supposed to.

Mercer let out a small laugh when Jensen made his way out of Misha's room to grab something to snack on. “Finally opened up Avery's bag, huh?” He asked with a smile at the edge of his mug. He switched his coffee in for tea.

“Yeah,” Jensen murmured shyly, popping a handful of trail mix in his mouth. The saltiness paired with sweetness was exactly what he needed. Avery packing Jensen a bag of self-care essentials started to become a thing after he got his apartment in Columbia and he had to leave for his first convention she couldn't attend with him. “Even when she's not here…” He glanced down.

“She knows how to calm you down?” Mercer finished for him, chuckling softly.

Jensen nodded, shaking his head slightly. Sometimes he hated how easy he was to read. Jensen finished up his light snack and went into the bathroom, throwing the mask in the trash and turning the knob of the sink on. He cupped his hands in the water, washing his face. He grabbed a nearby hand towel and dabbed it against his face to dry it.

Afterward, Jensen grabbed his suit and got undressed. He spritzed a bit of cologne on his neck, styled his hair the way he wanted, and put on the makeup Avery provided him with, trying his best to remember how she did it. He lightly brushed his cheeks with blush and pursed his lips as he brushed some near his hairline and forehead. Then came the mascara which he was a little scared about. Jensen's mouth dropped open as he flicked the mascara wand across his lashes. He hissed when it accidentally got in his eyes and a few spots of black appeared underneath his eye.

In a panic, Jensen tried to wipe it off but that just made it worse. He reached for his phone and clicked on Avery's contact. She picked up after a few rings.

“Wassup, honey?” The sound of her voice, even if it was a little teasing, made Jensen feel a lot better.

“I, uh, I got mascara on my face. How do you get it off?” His disheartened voice made Avery concerned, if a little delighted that he felt so alarmed about messing up his makeup.

Jensen could hear her shifting a little on the phone, assumedly cussing someone out in the background. Likely Elena because she wanted to know who Avery was on the phone with. “Sorry about that… Uh, let it dry for a few seconds. Depending on how much you got on there, I just lick my thumb and rub it off. Easy peasy. No one’ll notice.”

Feeling reassured, Jensen nodded. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He did as instructed, using the pad of his thumb to wipe at his cheekbone. Sure enough, the little drop of black disappeared.

“No problem, honey. Now, I gotta get this dress on or Elena might do it for me. Love ya.” Avery hung up before Jensen could respond.

He sighed as he set his phone down on the bathroom counter. “Love you too.” He knew Avery was busy getting ready too but a part of him felt a little dejected. Jensen glanced back at the suit hanging on the door.

As Mercer advised, Jensen went with a black double-breasted suit that had narrow gray pin-stripes. The button-up was a simple white color while his tie was a deep navy color, almost black but light enough it was recognizable to be blue. He pulled the pants up his legs and zipped them up, appreciating the way they fit. Jensen wasn't sure why he was surprised, it was made specifically for him. He tucked the button-up underneath the waistband of his pants and sighed.

It hit Jensen all over again. He was getting married. His heart rate picked up. Jensen smiled to himself as he fastened his tie around his neck, folding his collar over it. And then came the blazer. Jensen shouldered it on, buttoning it up. Only one. He breathed as he saw himself in the full-length mirror in Misha's room. It was the first time he saw himself in the full suit. The other times were just for fittings. The blazer hugged his waist in ways Jensen knew Avery would go insane over.

He let out a small chuckle as he pushed his hands into his pockets, mind running wild with ideas. Jensen adjusted the navy pocket square in his blazer before he made his way back into the living room.

Misha whistled at the sight of him. “No wonder Avery likes you.” He teased. He wore his designated suit. It was a solid navy color with a vest and a black tie. He and the rest of the guys changed in Rob and Rich’s shared room. He was the first to get done changing.

Like a weight off his chest, Jensen let out a laugh. One he needed. “Yeah, well… She's pretty hot too.” He hummed as he leaned against the table.

“New hot celebrity couple alert.” Misha joked softly. But was it really a joke?

Avery's popularity was quickly skyrocketing and not because of Jensen. A lot of people talked about her book and she admitted she was working on another one, an original story this time.

And then, of course, Jensen. He was breaking into the mainstream with being in The Boys and a slew of other shows he wouldn't have had the opportunity to be on if Supernatural was still going. Contractual obligation did that to an actor.

As Jensen stood at the end of the chapel he took in a deep breath. Most of his friends and family sat in pews for the second time but that didn't make it any less nerve-racking. Hell, it made it more nerve-racking. He tried to focus more on the decor of the chapel. The wooden arch to his side had vines with blue and purple flowers hanging off it. The chapel itself was built similar to the cabins but far more grand with exposed beams holding up the high ceiling where a few chandeliers hung to light the whole building.

“If you break down now, I'm sorry to say I'd laugh.” Misha whispered behind him, patting his shoulder. Jensen laughed softly.

It was the only reaction he could muster before “Here Comes the Bride” started to play. Their wedding was going to be traditional—mostly—their reception, not so much. The bridesmaids started walking down the aisle until Elena and then Avery with Jacob.

Jensen drew in a sharp breath. His eyes dilated at the sight of her. Her makeup didn't differ too far from what she wore regularly—winged eyeliner with a neutral shade of brown in the sockets of her eyes—but this time she wore a vibrant red lipstick. A string of pearls wrapped around her neck. And then there was her dress. Fuck. Her dress. God, he wanted to worship her. Have her tell him what to do to worship her properly. He could easily make a religion out of her and he'd love to be her most devoted follower.

When Jacob and Avery made it to the end of the aisle, Jacob set her hands in Jensen's. “Don't fuck it up.” Her brother glared at him and then made his way to the pews. He sat next to the only other blood relatives of Avery’s that were invited to the wedding. Her cousins, Grace and Noah. Jensen hadn't met them before but Avery said they were from Chicago so that was part of the reason.

Jensen looked into Avery's eyes and smiled, feeling happy tears well in his eyes. She simply smiled back. She had a feeling he'd get emotional and she was more than okay with that. They weren't listening to the minister, a little too caught up in admiring each other's eyes. Avery wondered if the bayou of Louisiana was of similar shade to Jensen's eyes while he thought about if he was on the Titanic and the shards of ice from the glacier looked like the ones in Avery's eyes, he would have happily stayed on the boat.

“Jensen, have you prepared any vows?” The minister asked, breaking the pair out of their trance.

Jensen let out a cough to choke down his emotions as much as possible. He nodded, grabbing a crumpled piece of paper from inside his blazer. He held onto Avery with one hand as he took a breath and started to read. “I really don't know how to… put how I feel into words so I thought I'd share when I knew I was going to marry you.” He could hear Elena let out an ‘aww’ which made him and Avery laugh softly.

“It was November 8th, a few days after I moved and we were lying in bed in my apartment. You were watching some video essay on Skyfall, paused in the middle of it, and tried to express how much you thought it was the best Bond movie of all time. I say ‘tried’ because you never completed your sentences. At least, in a way I could understand.” The people in the pews let out a laugh. Jensen glanced up from his vows at Avery. Her eyes were shining with tears underneath her glasses. Even on her wedding day, contacts were the bane of her existence. “Then you ranted about how much of a masterpiece the song was. Which devolved and devolved until you started to talk like Benoit Blanc.” Avery let out a flustered laugh. “I simply listened. I love nothing more than to hear about what you love. And I want,” Jensen rasped as he pushed his vows back into his blazer. “I want nothing more than to hear you talk like that every night for the rest of my life.”

Avery wasn't sure how she'd top that but she'd try. After an applause from the pews, it was time for her vows. “Jensen Ackles, am I right?” She joked to the crowd which earned her laugh, easing her nerves. Not by much. She didn't have anything written down and thought she'd wing her vows but that proved to be a bad idea. She was at a loss for words. “I kind of… didn't write anything down.” That earned an amused look from Jensen.

“But, I—uh—do want to talk about you. I mean, of course I do. You're you. You're so loving and affectionate and open and so fucking hot and I can't grasp I get to have you for the rest of my life. I felt so… weary of straight cis people I didn't already know.” Avery admitted softly. Jensen nodded. It was for good reason and he knew that. “You're the most accepting man I've ever met in my life—besides my brother—and you were so prepared to throw away your entire family if they didn't like me for who I am. Like it was nothing. That, in itself, made me feel special. And then you stood up for me in front of my parents,” Jensen's jaw tightened at the mention of them. “And I couldn't believe how much it made me love you that much more.” His eyes softened, still brimming with tears. Avery held his hands tighter and smiled brightly at him.

The minister gave Jensen and Avery identical silver rings. “Do you, Jensen Ross Ackles, take Avery Selena Cairo to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold? In sickness and in health? Till death do you part?”

“I do.” Jensen said softly, slipping the ring onto Avery's finger. His pulse started to hasten again. But not because of nerves anymore. He was excited. Extremely happy.

“Do you, Avery Selena Cairo, take Jensen Ross Ackles to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold? In sickness and in health? Till death do you part?”

Avery nodded eagerly, “I do.” She slipped the silver band onto Jensen's finger. For once in her life, she hadn't taken her eyes off him since the start of the ceremony. How could she? Jensen looked drop-dead gorgeous.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the groom.” The minister smirked.

Jensen let out a small laugh before Avery cut it off with her lips. Her hands found their place on his waist while his naturally gravitated to her shoulders. Avery pulled him as close as her dress would allow and poured every emotion she felt into their kiss. It made Jensen dizzy in the best way possible.

Avery tried to pull away, not wanting to give the audience more of a show then they already had, but Jensen chased after her eagerly. She couldn't deny him that easily.

“That's enough, cowboy.” Avery whispered against Jensen's lips after a few seconds. He sighed as he looked into her eyes.

Jensen took her hand and looked at the people in the pews. He held up their interlocked hands and couldn't help but brag. “I have the fucking hottest wife!” Avery’s lips formed into a thin line, embarrassment flushing her cheeks with a mix of happiness at his pride.

bluejay.hills: caught mere moments after the ceremony

comment on bluejay.hills post by DAR3DEVILS: HES SO REAL FOR THAT

comment on bluejay.hills post by lesbiandean: WDYM THAT'S AVERY ?? THATS A GODDESS

comment on bluejay.hills post by swiftiedean: omg… jensen better know how to fight

Before the reception, Avery and Jensen had a few moments to themselves in the back of the venue. It was much needed since Avery had the feeling she needed to isolate herself after being around so many people for so long.

“You're my husband.” Avery whispered, caressing his jaw gently. She wasn't sure when it'd sink in but it wouldn't be anytime soon.

Jensen leaned into the touch. “And you're my wife.” He said dreamily. This whole ordeal felt like a dream that he didn't want to wake up from.

“No, no, no, I don't think you understand.” Avery argued softly, shaking her head. “You, Jensen. I used to watch you on TV and here you are… with me.”

Jensen thought it would feel unreal for Avery. And he was right. Their whole relationship was dreamlike. “Karma is the guy on the screen coming straight home to me.” He sang softly as he intertwined his fingers with hers and placed a kiss on her jaw.

The universe worked in mysterious ways and Jensen genuinely believed Avery deserved some light in her life after all the shit she'd been through. That just so happened to be him. And, well, Jensen wasn't having the best time either before they met. He must've done something good to deserve Avery in front of him, loving him.

Karma is a two-way street after all.

As the reception officially started and guests filtered in, Elena found the time to introduce her boyfriend—Mark—to Jensen. They hadn't met before because Mark lived in upstate South Carolina and when he visited, Jensen and Avery intentionally scheduled date nights at the same time.

“This,” Elena nudged Mark's shoulder and smiled. “Is my boyfriend.” The man next to her looked to be around the same age she was and his eyes were horrified.

Jensen stared down at him. Mark was only a few inches shorter than him but Jensen was built and broad whereas Mark was lanky. Any twenty-year-old in their right mind would be intimidated by him, even slightly. But Jensen was as close to a father figure as Elena could have without him being her biological father so that added to the feeling of dread in the back of Mark's mind.

Jensen stuck out his hand for the younger man to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

Mark obliged, hand sweaty. “Yeah, uh, you too.”

Like she was in her own little world, Elena led Mark to their assigned table with a bright smile on her face.

Avery laughed next to Jensen, shaking her head. The look on Mark’s face was priceless. “Y'know Mark had the same face when we met for the first time.”

“Did you ask what his intentions were with Elena ‘cause I was about to ask the same thing.” Jensen joked softly as he wrapped an arm around Avery's waist.

Food and drinks started to be served after that. A chunk of red meat, potatoes, and spears of asparagus, swimming in some sort of red wine sauce that Avery had to stop herself from drinking. And then there was the cake. Black frosting with four tiers that had blue roses on the edges of each one. Similarly to Avery's birthday, the flavor of the cake was chocolate but, instead of strawberry filling, it was cream cheese.

A bunch of phones and cameras started flashing as Avery and Jensen fed a piece to each other.

Then came their first dance as husband and wife. Their shared slice of cake sat at their table as Jensen guided Avery to the middle of the dancefloor. A crowd gathered around them to watch. He set a hand on her hip as she set one on his shoulder, their other hands were intertwined off to the side of their bodies.

We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January

And this is our place, we make the rules

And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear

Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?

Avery's choice. And Jensen couldn't help but let her make it.

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home

You're my, my, my, my

Lover

Jensen looked into Avery's eyes, trying to memorize every single detail of them through her glasses. The outer rim of her irises that were darker than the rest of her eyes, the little shards of color that looked like glass, the way her pupils were so large when they looked at him.

We could let our friends crash in the living room

This is our place, we make the call

And I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all

Avery adjusted her hand on Jensen's shoulder, feeling more emotional than she expected. She would've expected to have felt it earlier but, no, this felt like she had finally sealed her fate with him.

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

You're my, my, my, my

Lover

A few drops of liquid happiness rolled down Jensen's cheeks, a crease between his eyebrows as a wide smile graced his lips. Avery shared a similar look. She pressed her forehead against his as they swayed together. Jensen happily breathed in her space.

Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?

With every guitar string scar on my hand

I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

All's well that ends well to end up with you

Swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover

And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me

And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover

It was strange just how accurately the lyrics described their relationship. Jensen and Avery had done so much in such a short amount of time. They moved in together and had a whole life planned in front of them. But Avery wouldn't mind a few bumps in the road or stops at different attractions, that's what made the journey so fun in the first place.

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

You're my, my, my, my

Oh, you're my, my, my, my

Darling, you're my, my, my, my

Lover

As the last few notes rang out through the speakers, Avery brought Jensen closer for a kiss. She wiped at his cheek to wash away the droplets from his skin.

After their dance, it was free for everyone else to go onto the dance floor. Jensen and Avery still held each other, an identical smile on their faces. She cupped Jensen's jaw and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling so hard. Her jaw would hurt in the morning.

“I think I understand what Taylor meant by invisible string.” Avery hummed once they sat back down.

Jensen cocked an eyebrow, amused by the admission. “Oh? Share with the class.” He teased softly.

“Fuck, you're turning into me.” Avery laughed, eyes screwing shut as her shoulders shook.

“I don't think that's a bad thing.” Jensen planted a kiss on Avery's temple before he planted another on the back of her hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elena and Jay dancing together. They looked to be having a ton of fun. Sammy had found one of Jensen's cousins to dance with while Jacob and Mark stood awkwardly next to each other. Misha had opted to dance with Tessa and Mackenzie interchangeably.

Avery wiggled a little in her chair. “This dress is so beautiful but I can barely fucking move. It's so damn big. I should've had an outfit change or something.” She complained softly. She wanted to dance more with Jensen or Elena. Or Misha. Or in general.

“Just makes it all the more fun when I take it off you tonight.” Jensen whispered into her ear, arm draped over her shoulder.

Avery let out a breath. “That a promise?” She challenged softly before she took a sip from her champagne flute.

“One I intend to keep,” Jensen nodded, hooking a finger underneath Avery's chin. “If you'll let me.”

Avery smirked into her glass and let out a small chuckle. “Good to know you know your place in the relationship.” She winked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Jensen raised an eyebrow. As if he hadn't the whole time. “I think it started when we made out at the edge of my pool, sweetheart.” He admitted as he thought back to their first kiss. It was rough and heated and perfect. “You were on top of me and I–” He swallowed, stopping when he remembered Avery was there too. Of course she would have remembered it.

“And what?” She pressed.

“And I knew I was fucked. The good kind of fucked.” Jensen finished with a fond smile.

Avery watched Jensen intently. He had changed so much in the span of a year. Even just physically. Painted nails, mascara, eyeliner that one time, blush, and a few new tattoos. Then there was his newfound fierce allyship. She didn't know why but she always assumed Jensen would be like any other straight guy she found on the street. Sure, she'd heard stories that he was nice and accepting toward queer people but actually doing something was a different story.

Jensen was a lot more vocal than Avery expected him to be. Maybe she had a part in that, being trans and all.

Avery pursed her lips, glancing back at the party happening in front of them. “I think… maybe we should christen the Impala tonight.”

They could easily sneak out of the reception and park the Impala in the middle of nowhere and no one would notice until the crowd started to dwindle. But Avery thought it'd be better until they waited for the reception to properly end. And so she could change into something else. She had a feeling, that even with how much space the Impala had, it would be a hassle to take it off.

“Yeah,” Jensen swallowed, “Yeah, okay.” It was like he'd been waiting for those words for months. Ever since he brought the Impala to Columbia.

------

taglist: @nancymcl

taglist open here !!!

#oc #oc: avery cairo #jensen ackles x oc #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles imagine #jensen ackles #supernatural #spn #queer #wedding #misha collins #rob benedict #richard speight jr #transgender #wedding fluff #fluff #the boys series #soldier boy #beau arlen

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braceletofteeth · 8 months

Note

☀️🌙✨ tarot questions ✨🌙☀️

Strength l,

Death and

Temperance

Strength: what is your dream occupation?

Had you asked me that a few years back, I'd definitely say writing. It was my passion and the thing that brought me joy the most in the whole world. But university took its toll on me, and I lost that. I can't really write anymore, and ever since I realized so, I've been looking for other things I'd like to do, but so far haven't come up with much.

I certainly like to learn new languages, though. I wish I could occupy myself just studying them, and entertaining myself with whatever I feel like it the rest of the time.

However, the word "occupation" makes me think of "job". And, in that case, I'm always considering what would be most ideal for me. At the moment, I'm enamoured with the idea of being the caretaker of a vacation house of some rich family that can afford an extra house where they only spend one month of the year. OR caretaker of tombstones. It felt good to clean them when I visited the city's oldest graveyard last year, despite my family judging me from a distance. I don't think they get that this is how I show my respect to the dead.

This occupation would be perfect if public graveyards weren't so insecure nowadays, with robbers and what not. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, it would be reckless for a young lady such as myself to wander there alone.

Anyways. Abandoned places. That's what I've dreaming about. I like the idea of tidying things up, fixing what's broken, and not having anyone around to tell me how I should do my job.

Death: what are three things you want to do before you die?

Live in a house of my own. The house must have at least one window from which I can see the color of the sky, but other than that I'd just be happy for being able to choose what I'm going to eat and for not feeling unsafe at home.

Visit faraway places to see things I've never seen in person before, like snow, a bear, and a sky so full of stars you can barely see the pitch black darkness of the void.

Fit in. Not anywhere, not with anybody, but beside a person or between people with which "fitting in" takes no effort. As if we're parts of the same machine, in harmony and/or working towards the same goal. I want to find my people and I want them to recognize and accept me.

Temperance: can you describe a strange dream you’ve had?

Oh god... The most recent one that I can remember in details was actually a nightmare.

It would go back and forth between past and present. In the present, I was following the story of two women. One of the them was a lawyer; the other, with the lawyer's help, was trying to bring justice to long deceased women who had been experimented on decades ago.

The experiment had happened in a swimming club/school. There was psychological torture and physical abuse that would come from the instructors, and also some kind of toxic gas (?) that would induce violence between the swimmers. It was... gruesome, to say the least.

Back in the present, the indignant pair of women fighting for justice were paying a visit to one of the people responsible for the experiment. The director of the swimming club/school. An old lady that didn't seem to ever display any emotion in her eyes. The women felt anger and repulse in her presence, but were also terrified of her. They tried very hard not to show that, in case she could sense it and take it as weakness.

There was a long discussion about human rights or something like that, and I woke up after. The strangeness of the dream comes from me not knowing why tf would my subconscious inflict such horrifying images and gut-wrenching feelings on myself when I was supposed to be resting :)

#ask game #this is a fun game 👍 I don't know why I cried #I'll click in post before I start regretting being so open and honest in front of everybody #thank you for sending them @ Bask 💛

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supernovafeather · 2 years

Text

Rules Breakers

First Order!Poe Dameron x F!First Order!Reader

Content : reader is hierarchical superior, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, mention of war, sexual tension, sexual innuendo, mutual pining, slow burn, fluff

Words ~3600

For someone that woke up in a terrible mood today, this smile on your face is extremely bright. Fortunately for your credibility your head is hidden from the rest of your squadron thanks to your TIE. In your hand is a little flower freshly bought at the local market, the freshness of its blue petals unbothered by the dry air of this huge desert you landed on. The few droplets of water on its shaft are already evaporating and its beauty will be gone by the next hour but for now you let your heart beat at this gift.

You know who bought this for you. One of your men, Poe Dameron. He is the only one being cheeky enough to do such a thing and also the one never hiding that he doesn't care that much about some rules. The most talented pilot of your squadron is known for his outgoing nature and you would be lying to yourself if you thought he wasn't an attractive guy. Obviously he does think you are an attractive woman as he tries to flirt with you whenever he can. At first you considered him it to be some kind of asshole newcomer thinking he could do whatever he wanted under your lead but you found out early that he had no difficulty to obey you. No he was just a flirty guy not even intimidated by your ranking difference. You being his Commander ? No problem for Dameron.

You keep this lonely flower in the pocket at the front of your shirt, right by your left breast. At least it adds some color to the blackness making this heat worse than anything else. You have a few remarks to address your own superiors about this choice. Who can be stupid enough to make you wear all this black in such a place ? The base is barely starting to get built, droids are buzzing everywhere like hundreds of bugs. There are barely any organic living being here other than your squadron, another one and a battalion that isn't even complete. The politics of "always advancing, never slowing down" from the strategists is too premature in such hostile environment.

As you inspect your TIE already covered in sand, you hear this distinct voice behind you.

"Good morning Commander." Dameron says as you turn around.

"Good morning soldier." You reply as you grin at his sunglasses covering his eyes. "I see the suns are too much for you to handle."

"Well. You know the actual cause I guess," he laughs, "but at least it was fun. It could have been good for you to come over. You're always on your plans and machines."

The alcohol scent is not too strong, he certainly took a good bath at the only spot with water in the base, the temporary fountain then washed his teeth in it and got out. His clothes are not in a bad state, his black pilot uniform with a beige veil that moderate the heat by covering his head and most of his body. You should do the same it could save your life. Even in those conditions his curled and dark hair looks good and healthy. His skin got a bit more tanned than usual, and a stubble found its way on his sharp jaws. It looks... exquisite. A surprising mix of the strict First Order uniform and his relative nonchalance. He's lucky you're not on a mission and there are no superiors around yet. His lips are cracked due to thirst but their shape is still perfect. Obviously genetics got generous with that guy.

"It's the fate of a Commander." You say proudly as his smile widens. "You'll see it when you get promoted. No party in the middle of a recently conquered desert. Only orders. You'll realize that complaining about the lack of quarters won't be your priority anymore. At least you have your TIE to sleep in."

"Sure. But it could have been great to have you around. I know you're fun when you want to, ma'am."

"Maybe." You admit half-heartedly. "But I would have to contact our previous base with a hangover and no way the others see me like that."

"Even without alcohol. Or with just a little bit you know." He says as he puts his hands in his black pants pockets. "I see you got a flower ?"

"Dameron. I know it's you." You say with a smile.

He tilts his head to the side and his joy gets replaced by surprise.

"What ? No, no it doesn't come from me ma'am."

"Huh ?" You say while blinking, "what are you saying ?"

"I was just kidding, of course it comes from me." He says with a boyish smile showing his white teeth and a shrug. "I hope you like it."

He is just so casual about all of this that you can only be impressed. He is unlike anyone else you encountered in this Order. It's a great change. He's fun for a talented pilot in his thirties.

"I'm surprised you find the energy to cross the base to a local market and come back with your hangover just to bring me a flower." You say as you repress a smile.

"I didn't go there for that reason to be frank with you ma'am. I was hoping for some painkiller." He says as he rests against your TIE, his covered eyes wandering towards the trail of dozens of droids heading to the base. "But I saw that flower, found it pretty and thought it would be great to bring it back. You complain about the sand all the time so why not try to give you some vegetation to think about ?"

"I can't plainly realize how bold you can be sometimes Dameron." You half scold him with your hands on your hips. "A First Order soldier with a hangover that could get kidnapped by a rebel spy ? Doesn't that sound like a potential outcome to you ?"

"No, I know you would chase us down to kick his ass." He replies with another bright smile as he lands his gaze on you. "And mine too but his first and harder so I don't have anything to be afraid of."

Well he's not wrong, so you close your mouth, shake your head and go back to your TIE, noting all the micro damages inflicted to its outsides during the last sandstorm.

"So did you like that flower ?"

"Dameron, as much as I appreciate your dedication to what's important to you, I'd love to see you being as dedicated as you should to your duty." You scold him firmly without turning to him.

"Oh. Alright, yes ma'am." He says in a disappointed voice. "Sorry for annoying you."

It's painful to have to act like this and you can't stop yourself from staring at this man walking away. In all honesty you would have given up your respect for the rules if you were his equal. But you just can't. This kind of predicament is already extremely difficult to deal with in a squadron and you are not willing to feel guilty if anything had to happen to him during a mission. You would already feel extremely bad if this had to happen today. He's a good guy, really passionate in everything, or almost everything.

Covered in sand after spending your day outside, you take a quick stop at your own personal access to water in your quarters i.e a sink that hot broken during its travel to this part of the planet. So instead of washing yourself standing by it, you make the water leak down a bucket, and wash with a sponge you found to be unused. You weren't expecting it to be so aggressive to your skin but at least your epidermis is as soft as the suns are hot in the afternoon.

Once your hair got cleaned as well you go to the newest area of the base : the bar. No drink other than water for now, the boring white, grey and blue paint still fresh and horrible to your nose. Still good to relax.

"Our favorite Commander." Dameron greets you with a perfect military salute contrasting with the awful state of his clothing. "Welcome to our hellish heaven. Stinks but fun."

"Maker, what happened to you Dameron ?" You ask in genuine disbelief.

He changed his uniform for a beige pair of pants and a white large top hanging here and there where he didn't tuck it in his pants. No sunglasses on his face, and his hair is now just a mop of dark curls. His boots look clean at least. This is not nonchalance, more like the lack of self care.

"Heat made me go crazy so I came back in the base, took a shower and ran back here. I was wearing clothes by the way I haven't ran down the hallway naked." He explains deadpanned.

"You... you..." you start without much knowing where you're heading to as you keep eyeing him up and down critically. "You are lucky no supervisor has arrived yet, soldier."

He answers something with a cheeky voice but now that you just noticed the bump down there you feel confused. Well it's not in the man-happy-to-see-you mode, but more in the there-is-a-lot-to-pack-and-unpack and you don't know what to do with that information. It's not that obvious but now that you started to watch him due to his outfit...

"Maker I don't care go change your outfit." You sigh as you pinch the bridge of your nose.

"What ? Commander I can just tug that back in don't worry, the restroom are really far you know." He protests as he already starts to readjust his top.

You just turn around to walk away, sitting on some couch fixed to the wall. Other soldiers are arriving and of course, Dameron is back by your sides.

"Here we go ma'am." He says as he turns around himself with a proud gaze, arms extended. "Is that better ?"

"Get out of my way soldier." You spit suddenly as you hit the counter with your palm.

It's your fault, you leave him too much space and now everyone watch you all the time. They all say things you don't hear clearly as you don't spend time with them, too busy with your duty to find time to do anything else. Poe Dameron is a sunshine for you but today it's just too much. So you let him walk away, his good mood vanished just like yours. He shouldn't act like a teenager. He is a grown up, a killer just like the rest of you all, everyone's life depends on his as well. Here it's a new base, with new people as well. You can't let him spread this image of you letting your favorite pilot dictating his own rules. It wouldn't be good for your squadron.

Poe is nowhere to be seen around the base for at least ten hours. You don't run after him and don't ask for help from your men as they are free to go wherever they want but now you are starting to feel guilty. You could have handle it much better, after all all of your soldiers depended on your unity. But after a few hours spent at talking at your fellow Commander from the second squadron present on the base, you notice this familiar mop of dark hair appearing in the crowd of the bar. You don't leave your seat, too busy with this boring Commander yet keep an eye on what Dameron is doing. An outfit matching the minimum required by the rules, his usual charming face taunting random people of different genders, his beautiful lips drinking from a glass and... wait there is something else than water available now ? Since when ?

After a quick excuse you go to the bar to ask for something as strong as possible and with no surprise you see this same Poe Dameron resting his elbow on the counter, his cheeks already heated from the alcohol he took the time to absorb.

"Good evening Commander." He says with an exceptionally intense gaze. "Does my outfit fit better for this occasion ?"

"Good evening soldier. It does." You confirm as you sit down by his side.

It is merely better than what he was wearing before, similar colors but at least without you getting distracted by all the things being obviously a part of his crotch. Yet you can't forget them now as you get to have a sip of your first alcohol beverage in ages.

"Finally something acceptable from you. Should I empty a whole bottle for this occasion ?"

"Go ahead ma'am." He smiles.

With all the loud laughs and conversations around you you still manage to focus on his face. For your defense it is hypnotizing, especially his eyes. They are so expressive, so rich in subtle nuances of brown under this intense artificial light.

"Are you defying your superior ?" You ask him with a raised eyebrow.

"The woman behind it." He admits with a smile. "I'd love to measure myself to her. Who knows what hides behind this title. The most talented Commander of the First Order being the best drinker of this part of the universe. The ruthless killer emptying both Rebel bases and bottles."

"Stop playing the poet Dameron. You're a man of action."

"Can't I be both ?"

You empty your first glass as you feel this bound thickening between you, this defiance you send him and that same defiance he sends you back. He is not afraid. You defy him, he defies you back, and this interaction creates this chain of sexual arousing you both feel. It never ceases, gets in your mind over and over again.

"You? A poet ?"

"You know I offered you that flower Commander, I wrote the poem from a while ago." He adds as he rests his head on his fist, his gaze dreaming. "I may not be a poet with words but I know how to make someone understand how I feel."

"You are bold and stupid. I'm your superior."

"I do think you are the one sending me the most obscene glares I have ever received."

You hope he is right as you order another glass, just like him. You do hope this glare shakes him to the bone as you eye him up and down.

"I am evaluating your outfit, soldier." You remind him with a grin. "Keep your arrogance out of this please."

"I am afraid I can't. How are you going to keep your eyes on me without it ?"

You laugh at his question. He knows perfectly well how handsome he is and how to play with it. You saw his eyebrows overreacting to make people laugh, his seductive glares, his fake sad faces morphing into some else in a conversation in a matter of seconds. He is skilled.

"I am confident you are going to find another way, Dameron. Like by doing some mistake for example."

"Would it still be a mistake of I do it on purpose to hear you scolding me in my helmet ?"

"You really have nothing to lose anymore ?" You ask with a chuckle as you get another drink just like him. "Now you are about to admit you used to love it after you arrived in this squadron."

"I did love it in a way. I just regret we don't make it sound more productive."

You raise an eyebrow as he empties his glass before ordering another one immediately after.

"Sound ? How do you want to make it sound more productive ?"

"Well from your perspective I look like the useless fun guy annoying you. I'm not a useless fun guy and I know you know it but after hearing it dozens of times it's... it's tough." He says with a grimace directed at his freshly refilled glass. "Like... for my mood you know. I know I could do better with you and the squadron and just obey. As I should, after all I enlisted to get more disciplined that if I had to end up in some spice or living being trafficking. And I love the adventures we get as pilots. Uh... sorry I forgot what I wanted to say."

You melt at this man already losing his composure, his fingers running through his messy hair as he excuses himself with a shy gaze. It's rare to see him losing his composure to let the actual Poe Dameron appearing there, more fragile.

"I'm sorry for hurting you soldier, but I am your superior. I lead our squadron at war. You have to follow the rules. You do it wonderfully in space and in the air but you disobey on purpose once on land. You're my best element but you waste your own potential just to try to impress me when you know it does the opposite."

"I like getting your attention." He says with a soft smile as you avoid his gentle eyes. "It's stronger than me. The first time I saw you I knew you were beautiful but didn't think much of it I was actually focused on our training. But the more I listened to you giving orders I just... I couldn't help myself."

You empty your second glass slowly under his intense gaze, your heart starting to beat faster than anticipated.

"Dameron. You are desperate."

"I am. I am." He confirms with a scoff. "I mean who hadn't noticed it yet ?"

"It's dangerous for you. What if we lose someone in the squadron ?"

"Like... one of us or another pilot from our crew ? In any case we risk our lives. This idea may make you be afraid of living your life fully, but personally I only want to live it more intensely."

This is it. That is what motivates him to no end. The fear of dying without enjoying his life. It stucks something in you and you keep your gaze on your glass as he orders another one for the both of you.

"Dameron you're going to empty the whole bar at this rate."

"Did you like that flower ?"

Finally you cross his gaze again. He wants his answer and his dreaming smile is both infuriating and charming. He is a desperate man. A hot one.

"I did." You finally admit as he regains his full confidence. "It was a beautiful one and as you said, it changes from sand. Sorry for harassing you with my hatred for that desert."

"You're even cuter when you don't scream at me."

It shouldn't affect you like that but you chuckle at this as your neck and face start to burn slightly. You can't control this smile forming by itself.

"How bold Dameron. How bold."

"I do think much bolder things than this Commander." He mutters as he stares at you. "You would definitely keep your attention on me."

You raise an eyebrow at this, your interest showing as this time he is the one eyeing up and down. Now animated by this curiosity and will to push limits further, you turn fully to him on your sit which doesn't stop him from undressing you with his eyes. He nibbles his bottom lip a bit as you spread your legs the slightest, your pants not stopping him.

"I have my attention on you soldier, as requested." You say with a smile as his pupils set back on your face.

"Are you going to punch me if I tell you I love how hot you look when you're confident ?"

"I'm always confident."

"Exactly. I aspire to be like you one day. But with more love for life than for rules."

"You won't remain a Commander for long then."

"If it's the price to pay, then I agree to pay."

You let him glaring at you without any embarrassment, curiosity and slight arousal replaced with full lust as he empties his other glass, his glare begging for anything. His forehead is covered in sweat due to alcohol and you dodge the flames he sends you by grabbing his wrist as he's about to order something else.

"You drank more than you should Dameron. Order some water you need it."

"Yes ma'am." He whispers with a hoarse voice and still turned to you.

This time he is the one spreading his legs as he gets more comfortable turned to you. As his attention is back on the droid serving him three glasses of water you see again this bump between his thighs. Still the a-lot-to-pack-and-unpack and nothing more lewd from him. It's been so long for you, maybe it would be good to get such an interesting guy and set your squadron and responsibilities on fire ? You like him, he's good-looking, he respects you, he's not too drunk and you neither... but maybe he's too much into you ? You don't want to hurt him he's a guy you appreciate for real.

"Something interesting Commander ?" He scoffs.

Maker you don't care much about getting caught. Not at all even especially when you see this hope and anticipation in his dark eyes.

"Follow me Dameron."

He does.

"Where ?" He asks eagerly.

"My quarters."

- - - - -

Thank you for reading, please comment and reblog if you liked it ! 😊

@salome-c @stevenngrant @lavenderluna10 @one-hell-of-a-disappointment @thecursivej @lady-targaryen @general-latino @harrys-tittie @whoyousworld

#first order poe #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you

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gemsofgreece · 1 year

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I mean, but "Byzantine" is peak Western appropriation of the Roman Empire, so why spread its use? It's not what the Eastern Romans called themselves, it was meant to separate them from the Classical Rome around the time Rome got "hip" with the Western Europeans, its origins are also Western European, and it followed the trend of refusing to call the Roman Emperor with his actual title, instead calling him "King of the Greeks" and using "Roman Emperor" for a Germanic King. That's of course, if

I don’t know if I am missing a part in between but that’s all the mail I got.

If you are saying that Roman history as a whole is part of the eastern heritage then I disagree. I believe the Roman Empire pre-split is either part of the western heritage or both. I also find inaccurate the perception of Ancient Greek heritage as purely western. To my understanding, the Romans were the westernisation of the Greeks but that’s my personal take on it.

Because of that, I find the conundrums created by the use of the Roman label both for west and east and for people of different origins, ethnicities, timelines, language and religion to be expected. Conundrums are the best conditions for appropriation to do its work.

If you mean the Roman empire is heritage of both west and east and thus we shouldn’t be excluded, which is what I think you were saying, I get your viewpoint. The new danger however is that more and more western people will claim Byzantine history as part of the Roman therefore western heritage and, you know what, it really wasn’t. The original Roman might have been inclusive or ambiguous but the East Roman almost certainly wasn’t.

We should never forget that when the Ottomans were approaching Constantinople it was often heard in the streets “Better the Ottoman fez than the Pope’s mitre”. We should never forget that the East Roman Empire would perhaps not have been defeated by the Ottomans (according to many recent historian estimations) if it hadn’t lost almost all its lands, treasures and fighting men after the Crusades the Pope, the Latins and Francs had unleashed against it. Perhaps a few Greeks wouldn’t have internalised so much an ahistorical distaste for the name Greek or a false concept of Byzantine debauchery if they weren’t repeatedly told so by the Western Europeans. Maybe we wouldn’t still hear Protestants say how the Eastern Orthodox Church is straight out paganism and offensive to real Christianity (despite being much older than Protestantism but whatever).

In short, I would rather keep them separating me / us / our ancestors from the inclusion to the western heritage than see them trying to appropriate the eastern heritage as western now that the tables of historical research are turning.

I don’t even care for the whole Western civilisation concept, to be honest. It wouldn’t be the first time west Europeans pat themselves on the shoulder for the bare minimum. Western civilisation is just eastern civilisation that moved west. Greeks did not wake up one day and said “now we are gonna create ‘Western Civilisation’ out of thin air’’. In truth there is just human civilisation and nothing more. The western civilisation is a concept Western Europeans came up with to distance themselves from people they considered inferior, who however had developed advanced civilisations far earlier than those westerners’ ancestors. You see?

So I’d rather be excluded from this western concept rather than be included so that they can claim that stuff they once fiercely hated and trash-talked is now theirs too.

As for telling them, “yes they were Romans, no they weren’t part of your history, do not appropriate” as if they are going to heed us Anon. A person who does not want to understand is simply not going to understand, especially when the issue is objectively perplexing. The woke revisionism of Greek mythology is a perfect example. They suddenly pretend they don’t understand what a mythology is so that they can shred it to pieces freely.

That’s how I feel about this, IDK, I might be wrong and I might have not explained this as eloquently as I would like to but this is something that bothers me so much. The harsh truth is that you can’t get it the right way. Either they will just appropriate Ancient Greeks (i.e it’s a common thing said among N.Europeans that they are closer to Ancient Greeks than Modern Greeks are, a German academic professor told that to my dumbfounded friend) or they will appropriate everything. So I am thinking, better just the ancients than freaking everything. I don’t know.

#cultural appropriation #west vs east #opinion #history #Greek history #Byzantine history #east Roman history #anon #mail

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rj-anderson · 2 years

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Am I the only one who doesn’t think That Show is actually expecting us to cheer for everything Galadriel does? I see her as a damaged and tragic figure who is not wrong to be anxious about Sauron returning, but who is being driven by an obsession and bitterness that makes her behave quite recklessly and even unwisely at times. She’s certainly an active protagonist, but not a paragon: she has a lot of growing and learning to do.

As for Galadriel’s physical prowess being unrealistic, here’s Tolkien:

"Her mother-name was Nerwen (‘man-maiden’), and she grew to be tall beyond the measure even of the women of the Noldor [193cm]; she was strong of body, mind, and will, a match for both the loremasters and the athletes of the Eldar in the days of their youth." - Peoples of Middle-earth, Shibboleth of Feanor There’s certainly lots of freedom to debate exactly what kind of fighting and athletic feats Galadriel actually did in her early days, but I don’t think it’s implausible given how Tolkien described her, and I also strongly suspect that if Galadriel were a male elf nobody would be talking or quibbling about this at all. They’d just see it as cinematic shorthand for her being a seasoned warrior now. Just like her being bullied by the other elves in Ep. 1 is cinematic shorthand for a) the elves are not all good and perfect, and there is darkness coming; b) little Galadriel has a gentle soul and we should feel sad for her (especially as this scene also shows what a close relationship she had to her brother before he was killed). Neither one of these scenes is insidious, unless you’ve already gone into the show predisposed to expect something insidious.

Anyway, I’ve read a couple articles today that complain about the “Hollywoodizing” of the series, and I’ve dutifully looked at all the points they bring up. But all I can do is marvel at how completely opposite and even baffling these critics’ interpretation is to what I’ve been seeing as a viewer, and how dishonestly (IMO) they reframe and misrepresent certain details of the show to fit their bias.

I did not expect to like this show. I didn’t even particularly want to like this show. And for all I know I may still wind up disliking it by the end. But I think I’m just going to block the tag after this point, because I’m already tired of being sneered at for not thinking it’s a piece of Woke Liberal Feminist Propaganda, or whatever other buzzwords its critics are slinging around.

#it is totally fine not to like things #it is totally fine to talk about why you don't like them with people who feel the same way #but I would like to be allowed to like those things in peace if I want to #so if you want to sneer at them could you please use a tag I can block from now on

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storyofwhoiam · 1 year

Text

IMPORTANT HEADCANONS TO CONSIDER

tagged: @shieldretired tagging: @aluthornotamonster @ricochetingtears @wynterlanding @knowseverythingaboutyou @shcftingpieces

Amy Cameron:

CAN THEY USE CHOPSTICKS: yes. she isn’t perfect by any means but can certainly handle them plenty well enough to not have any issues.

WHAT DO THEY DO WHEN THEY CAN’T SLEEP: listen to music. work. stare at the ceiling. really depends why she’s awake and whether she’s alone.

WHAT WOULD THEY IMPULSE BUY AT THE GROCERY STORE: something unusual that she’s never seen or tried before. bonus points for if it’s an ingredient that she would have to actually research what to do with once she got it home.

WHAT ORDER DO THEY WASH THINGS IN THE SHOWER: hair first, then body from top to bottom.

WHAT’S THEIR COFFEE ORDER: either just a black coffee or a latte. it depends on where she’s getting it from (if it’s somewhere with decent coffee, she’ll be more likely to stick with black coffee), and whether she’s having it on its own or with food.

WHAT SORT OF APPS WOULD THEY HAVE ON THEIR SMARTPHONE: an assortment of messenger/social media/news. linkedin. rideshare apps. various music/podcast streaming apps. puzzle games. sometimes some dating apps. duolingo (that never gets used). headspace (that gets used even less often most of the time).

HOW DO THEY ACT AROUND CHILDREN: amy works with kids most days in work, and more often than not it’s under far less than ideal situations. she’s pretty confident with kids of most ages and if you’re friends, will happily offer to babysit for you so that you can get a break.

WHAT WOULD THEY WATCH ON TV WHEN THEY’RE BORED AND NOTHING THEY REALLY LIKE IS ON: movies – usually action on thriller – it doesn’t matter how crappy the movie itself is. that or re-watch a classic like btvs.

Justino Rosa:

CAN THEY USE CHOPSTICKS: yes. he uses them well.

WHAT DO THEY DO WHEN THEY CAN’T SLEEP: what doesn’t he do. justino rarely gets to sleep at any reasonable time, largely because he is much too easily occupied by some new hyperfixation. if it’s that he can’t sleep when he’s actively trying to, he’ll generally just get up and carry on with whatever he was going to do when he woke up normally – he can catch up on the lost sleep some other time.

WHAT WOULD THEY IMPULSE BUY AT THE GROCERY STORE: to be honest, most of his shopping is done purely on impulse – he’s really not one for lists and planning ahead of time. that being said, the most likely additional impulse by would probably be some kind of sour candy.

WHAT ORDER DO THEY WASH THINGS IN THE SHOWER: there is no routine. whatever he reaches first gets washed first.

WHAT’S THEIR COFFEE ORDER: it depends entirely on what he feels like in the moment. it could be anything from black coffee (which isn’t actually a favourite, he just tells himself it is), to a cappuccino, to any kind of sugary, syrupy, favoured monstrosity.

WHAT SORT OF APPS WOULD THEY HAVE ON THEIR SMARTPHONE: so many (he’s also one of those people who almost always has one of the most up to date phones, and is always running out of space on it). shopping apps. creative sorts of drawing/colouring apps. endless games that he goes through phases of playing obsessively or ignoring.

HOW DO THEY ACT AROUND CHILDREN: justino is basically a big kid himself at least half of the time. he’s in his element and both himself and the kids are likely to have a great time. plus, he has a child-friendly dog as well (his cat is much more skittish around new people).

WHAT WOULD THEY WATCH ON TV WHEN THEY’RE BORED AND NOTHING THEY REALLY LIKE IS ON: he can get invested in a storyline fast enough that he’s pretty happy with anything fictional. when it comes to non-fiction watching, he’d prefer a cool documentary (science, animals, history, etc.) rather than topical news-related things.

#m: amy #m: justino #h: justino #h: amy

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thatforgottenbasilisk · 3 months

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tie a bird to a cage like a dog to a fencepost

Words: 2817 (AO3)

Originally Posted on 2/5/2024

Summary:

Hawks is pretty sure that if he died tomorrow, nobody would care. Nobody would care on a personal level, at least.

Dabi would probably notice, and care a little bit, considering the lack of info drops and an inability to jerk him around for no good reason. He'd probably be upset for a reason that isn't everybody else's, "oh, he was so young, what a good hero he was!"

For Febuwhump 2024 Day 5: Rope Burns

Keigo's day is already bad and he just woke up half an hour ago.

To be fair, he had to wake up at two in the morning, so not a great start right out the gate. Dabi's expecting him for a meeting in fifteen minutes and he's running on about forty-five minutes of sleep, a can of the disgusting too-thick too-many-espresso-shots canned coffee, and a dream.

He's flying at full speed- because of course the meeting isn't even in Musutafu, and of course Dabi didn't bother to tell him until he texted at two, why the hell should he tell Hawks that, certainly that couldn't possibly be pertinent information at all whatsoever- and his back aches. His everything aches, if he's being totally honest, but his back is the main concern considering that every time he moves his wings a whole mess of muscles back there scream in protest.

He loves the Hero Commission. He has to love the Hero Commission. They bought him, they raised him, they made him what he is now, so he's obligated to love them. He's sure that if they could put it in a contract, they'd have signed his name on it a long time ago.

He doesn't always love the Hero Commission's "extra training." It's not really training, it's torture, it's punishment for whatever mistake he's made this time, but that's what they call it and Hawks isn't one to fight about what words are used for what. The point is, his jacket's rubbing against his arms and the back of his neck really uncomfortably and irritating his already irritated skin.

His heavy flight jacket is usually great, it's not too soft and it's not itchy or anything, it's the perfect kind of thing to put on and forget about- unless, of course, he's injured. Then it's suddenly both the best and worst part of his costume, because it feels like it was designed to irritate even a cat scratch, let alone real injuries, but also because it's very effective at hiding anything that could possibly be wrong with him. He could have one arm out of its sleeve and holding his organs in, and the bulkiness of the jacket would still be able to let him play it off so long as it was zipped shut. It's like being friends with someone who nags him about his bad habits but enables the shit out of them anyway.

Hawks doesn't have anyone like that. He doesn't tell anyone about his bad habits. He has to be perfect, and nobody who's perfect has anything to enable. There's no such thing as a perfect flaw.

He tries to fly just a little bit faster, because maybe if they're both early then they can get the meeting over with faster and Hawks can get back to Musutafu in time to get another ten minutes of sleep before his next shift. Maybe he'll even have the luxury of lotion and another nasty coffee.

Hawks touches down on the outskirts of the city that Dabi directed him to, although 'city' is a very bold word for the quiet-looking town he's landed in. Is this some new level of trust? Is this where their real hideout is, squatting or even paying an innkeeper in a little town in bumfuck nowhere- a little place in the mountains, whose nearest major city is Deika, which is quite possibly the most "bumfuck nowhere" place that has ever qualified as an actual city- instead of bunking in the kinds of cold, abandoned warehouses that Hawks is used to?

To get to the address, Hawks needs to make the rest of the way on foot to avoid being recognized, although in all honesty that might be a moot point, considering that there's not a soul around.

He ducks behind and between buildings anyway, hesitant to go on any main roads considering that he'd worn his costume so that he could play the "hero" card if he was recognized, but that would only arouse more suspicion in a town like this; Dabi could've told him that when arranging the damn meeting, but of course that's not important enough to share.

Thankfully, the place isn't hard to find; it's a simple two-story building, with an open window on the upper floor. There are no lights on inside that he can see from the back, but that doesn't mean much when trying to figure out what kind of building it is, considering that most businesses are closed and most people are asleep around now. Is he supposed to go in the open window, or wait outside?

Does it matter? He asks himself, and quickly shuts that train of thought down. Of course it matters; he's on a mission right now, and Dabi is effectively his Handler, though he probably doesn't see it that way. The Hero Commission has told him that he must do anything and everything to please his contact in order to delve deeper into the League, so if Dabi says "jump," the only correct response is "how high?" He's lived like this for long enough he should be used to it. No reason for him to start thinking otherwise.

A hand sneaks its way out of the open window, and makes a coy little "come hither" gesture; there are pinpricks of reflections being cast on the ledge of the window, and the black nail polish is more chipped off than not, so Hawks knows that it can only be Dabi inside. He debates for a moment on climbing inside, but figures nobody but Dabi will see him fly in anyway, and climbs into the window that way.

Dabi's taken a few steps back, and Hawks takes a moment as he's climbing in to take note of his surroundings; the whole place is so covered in dust that Dabi's footprints from the stairwell are visible, but there's light emanating up from said stairwell, so the place hasn't been completely abandoned. Since Dabi made entrance in the more obvious way instead of by scaling the wall or something, then there must be allies of the League or even League members themselves on the ground floor. There's a bit of junk up here with little sense for style or cohesion; this must be used as a storage space by the current owners of the house. There are a few cardboard boxes with faded writing, an exceptionally ugly rug, and an old couch with a jagged tear running through one of the back cushions, as far as Hawks can see in the immediate area.

"Well? Got what I asked for?" Dabi asks without preamble, one hand in his pocket and the other flicking a lighter with a tempo so consistent he could substitute for a metronome. At least the Handlers bother with pretenses, usually. Dabi never does.

Hawks sighs, because he does have what Dabi asked for and at least this meeting seems like it's going to be over quick. "Yeah. Lady Nagant is on subfloor 9, left wing, cell number 9-B-12." He doesn't know what they want with his pseudo-sister Kaina. He doesn't care to know, either, because if they kill her then he doesn't want to know about it, and if they free her then he needs his plausible deniability so nobody decides to kill him over it. Hawks would very much like to need his plausible deniability, but that's between himself and his feathers.

"Good. Here's your prize, Pretty Bird." Dabi takes his hand out of his pocket and flicks something at Hawks in a single smooth motion; Hawks catches it in one hand without even looking at it, only noticing that it's a flash drive once it's actually in his palm.

Hawks doesn't know if that nickname bothers him or not; on the one hand, he is a pretty bird, thank you for noticing; on the other hand, he doesn't like that Dabi's the one who's doing the noticing- more precisely, he doesn't like that it's a mass-murdering villain who's saying that and maybe meaning it.

On the other other hand... Dabi. Jump. How high.

He has to like it. He has to love the Commission. He has to obey his Handler, no matter what they do, no matter what they say.

Dabi came up closer while Hawks was spacing out- do better, Hawks. Can't let anything sneak up on you like that, that's how you'll get civilians killed. Never how he'll get himself killed, of course. He's disposable, just like Kaina.

Is he going to go to cell number 9-B-12 when this is all over? 9-B-13? Or is he going a little less deep underground, at a much more reasonable six feet below?

Dabi snaps his fingers in front of Hawks' face and he snaps to attention. "Damn, I thought I lost you there. You really like it when I call you that, Pretty Bird?" Dabi asks, his voice slowly shifting to a tone that Hawks knows from movies and parties, the tone that means it's time to go home now or else the Commission's going to get real ugly about it real quick.

... But the mission dictates that Dabi is effectively his Handler. Dabi's asking him to jump here, right?

"So what if I do?" Hawks asks, letting a blush creep up his neck in response to the proximity. He doesn't really care about the name, he's neutral about it, because the two arguments about it canceled each other out. Mostly.

Dabi hums, and lets his ever-present smirk widen ever-so-slightly. He moves his hand so it's no longer in front of Hawks' face, but is instead cupping his cheek. The hand is unexpectedly cold, the tips of Dabi's fingers feeling more icy than his quirk should allow. Bad circulation due to poor health, or else a different component to the quirk that was unknown before now, but probably the former- Hawks is getting distracted, he can't be doing that, not when his mission has taken an entirely new turn and he needs to pay attention.

He should've had more coffee.

"Why don't we find out just how pretty you really are?" Dabi whispers lowly in his ear, sending chills down his spine. He's so close, almost too close, and he doesn't know if he minds all that much. He doesn't know if he should shove him away or not. Dabi seems almost entirely oblivious to his inner frustrations, instead taking the time to nibble lightly on Hawks' ear.

His breath hitches, and Dabi must see that as a clear signal to keep going, because he starts kissing down Hawks' jawline, traveling to his neck and lingering at the collar of his flight suit. He stays there for a moment, and Hawks hesitates- he could take his jacket off, pull away the flight suit, and let this happen; or he can pull away, and risk everything he's built up so far, risk the trust that Dabi's placed in him, risk any further information on the League. He's sure that if he backs away, Dabi won't do anything drastic- he may be a villain, but he's not that kind of villain. Is it bad that Hawks trusts him like that? Probably. The point is, he technically does have the option of backing away.

Does he want to do that? Or does he want to stay, and just keep on jumping?

"Just so you know," Dabi says, almost conversationally, from where he's just finished planting a hickey just above the collar of Hawks' flight suit, "I'm not the kind of guy to mix business and pleasure. The League is business, and this doesn't factor in one way or another."

Hawks doesn't know what Dabi means. He knows what he means- this doesn't affect his standing with the League- but is it out of suspicion, or out of kindness? Is Dabi offering him an out, or is he accusing him of being a honeypot? There's no way he can be certain, there's no way that he can know for sure if stopping this- whatever this is- is going to make Dabi more suspicious of him in turn.

"You ain't gotta do this, Birdie." Is said even quieter in Hawks' ear, and now he's made his choice.

The flight jacket lands on the decrepit couch, and Hawks raises his arms to undo the clasp of his flight suit at the back of his neck- but Dabi catches one of his arms and stops him. Dabi's grip isn't very strong, and he's sure that if he wanted to, he could keep moving, but Dabi wants him to stop, so he'll stop. He owes him that, for the choice that he offered, so he's not going to put up any kind of fight.

"The hell is on your arms?" Dabi sounds angry now, and Hawks had nearly forgotten the evidence that the Commission left of their so-called "training." They used ropes today, and they leave rope burn on his skin pretty easily, hence the reason he was wearing the flight jacket today along with the rest of the uniform. It wasn't the only reason, obviously, but it definitely factored in- it's always best to hide these things to avoid unwanted questions.

... The pragmatic thing would be to hide it. To back out, to say "ah, I've changed my mind, bye!" and never do this again. To lie about it, to say it's from work. To hide the shame of the Hero Commission, because he loves the Hero Commission. If he loves them, then he can't say that they hurt him, because that would cause a whole hell of a lot of problems.

But Dabi is functionally his Handler, and Dabi is telling him to jump.

"Mandatory HPSC training. They tied me up, tested my pain tolerance... nothing unusual." Even to himself, Hawks sounds distant. Dabi doesn't move, instead going stone faced and somehow handling his arm even more lightly than before.

"That's not a Number Two Hero thing." Dabi says it like he knows it for a fact, like it's a truth he's held for longer than Hawks has even been Number Two, instead of what's probably no more than an educated guess. He's right, of course, because Dabi may be a villain but he's usually not wrong about the Pro-Hero business, but Hawks shouldn't tell him that. Technically, it's a betrayal to the Commission, and even though he was told that he should do everything in his power to get that in with the League, he's pretty sure that Madam President would not authorize the disclosure of this particular piece of information.

But Madam President isn't here right now, and Dabi is functionally his Handler. Dabi is telling him to jump. Who is he to refuse?

"No. They own me. They can do whatever they want." Hawks still sounds like he's talking from far away. The only thing reminding him that this is real is Dabi's hand loosely wrapped around his forearm. Is it wrong to not want him to let go?

Dabi's saying something, but it sounds like he's talking underwater. Hawks wants to hear him, really he does, but he's tired and everything hurts and he is done for today, thank you very much. He glances around and sees his flight jacket, and walks towards it almost like he's in a trance. Dabi's still holding onto him, trailing along behind like he's the one being held, and Hawks doesn't know if he hates it or not.

He grabs the jacket and swaps himself with it in one movement. The couch, despite the tear in the back, is comfortable, and his jacket is pretty soft now that his rope burns aren't really bothering him anymore. The jacket is thrown on like a blanket, and Hawks' head hits the armrest easily.

He needs to go home, technically. He needs to go on his next shift. People will be worried without him, he's sure.

Dabi lets go of his arm, and Hawks reaches out to grab his hand. It's warmer now than it was earlier, is that a figment of his imagination or is Dabi doing it on purpose? Either way, it doesn't matter, because Dabi stops in his tracks, hesitates, and sits on the floor while leaning against the spot where Hawks is lying.

"We'll get you out of there, Pretty Bird. I promise." Dabi says it with an intense sincerity, the kind that he's never heard from anyone before. That kind of sincerity is the kind that levels mountains, that stops and starts wars, that keeps his hope alive for another day at a time.

Hawks doesn't believe him, not really. What can the League do? What do they have that Madam President doesn't?

But Dabi wants him to believe him, and Dabi is functionally his Handler. Dabi is telling him to jump.

Hawks thinks he can jump one more time, just for him.

#tie a bird to a cage like a dog to a fencepost #tie a bird to a cage like a dog to a fencepost fic #my writing #mha #mha fic

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opedguy · 1 year

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Huckabee Sanders Gives GOP Response

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), Feb. 8, 2023.--President Joe Biden, 80, delivered a clever State-of-the-Union speech Feb. 7, working the joint session of Congress like skilled impresario at a three-ring circus. For anyone listening, Biden exceeded all expectations reading short lines on his teleprompter often mangling words or grammar but nothing really mattered. Biden showed, beyond any of former President Donald Trump’s descriptions of Biden’s impaired, that he knows how to throw red meat to an audience. Biden benefited from a brilliantly written speech, allowing the president to play folksy Uncle Joe to a largely receptive audience. Whatever outbursts took place by Rep. Majorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.), Biden’s State-of-the-Union was a campaign speech, in effect, announcing that he’s running for reelection in 2024. Nothing in Biden’s speech delivered any factual accuracy, only a self-congratulatory personal sales job.

If you listened to Biden, the U.S. economy and foreign policy have never been better, touting U.S. alliances overseas to battle the evil 70-year-old Russian President Vladimir Putin. Biden didn’t admit how the U.S. proxy war, using Ukrainian troops, has fueled the worst inflation in 40 years, all because Ukraine defends European democracy against an existential threat from Putin. Much of Biden’s speech was a hodgepodge of platitudes, far from even the most partisan reality. Biden said that backing Ukraine helped save European democracy, the same malarkey said by Ukraine’s 44-year-old President Volodymyr Zelensky to a joint session of Congress Dec. 21, 2022 that Ukraine was not a charity case but an investment in preserving democracy. Biden said the same rubbish knowing that Ukraine’s war-torn, bankrupt government only fights for its own survival, certainly not Europe’s.

Delivering the GOP rebuttal, Arkansas Gov. Sarah Huckabee Sanders went over the deep end talking about Biden pandering to “the woke mob.” Whether that’s true or not, ordinary voters, those tuning into the State-of-the-Union, don’t know what she’s talking about. “Whether Joe Biden believes this madness or is simply too weak to resist it, his administration has been completely hijacked by the radical left,” a fashionable term in conservative circles. Most voters want to know what the GOP plans to do to fix the ailing U.S. economy. What, if anything, the GOP plans to do about the proxy war in Ukraine against the Russian Federation. How the White House plans to stop a war with China over Taiwan or some other useless dispute. “Everyday, we are told that we must partake in their rituals, salute their flags and worship their false idols,” Huckabee Sanders told a largely bewildered audience. Uncle Joe spoke to the working class voters, looking for government to bail them out of their financial woes due to runaway inflation and economic problems. Huckabee Sanders grossly missed an effective rejoinder to Biden’s utter nonsense, delivering his announcement that he’s running for reelection in 2024. “Americans want common sense for their leaders, but in Washington, the Biden administration is doubling down on crazy,” Huckabee said. Huckabee tried to say Biden squandered the prosperity and peace of the Trump administration but, somehow, got lost in translation. When 58-year-old House Speaker Kevin McCarthy (R-Calif.) kept telling Greene to pipe down, what kind of message did that send about “crazy?” Huckabee-Sanders had the perfect chance to call Biden out on his nonsense about the economy and foreign policy, when the U.S. is in the worst place in decades.

Huckabee-Sanders talked about Biden’s failure on the border, violent crime, while Democrats ask to de-fund the police, all because African American lobbying groups have a stranglehold on the Democrat Party. “Despite Democrats’ trillions in reckless spending and mountains of debt, we now have the worst border crisis in American history,” Huckabee-Sanders told her audience. Instead of offering propose GOP fixes, Huckabee-Sanders on complained about what’s not going right. Most voters like Biden’s profligate government spending because they benefit from more outlays of cash. Instead of going after Biden’s disastrous foreign policy, Huckabee-Sanders highlighted how Democrats and Republicans are on the same page when it comes to Ukraine. Only former President Donald Trump, 76, has had the guts to question Biden’s proxy war in Ukraine, telling the public the war must stop.

Biden played Uncle Joe, working the crowd like circus impresario, selling the American public a bill of goods. Trump was dead wrong about Biden’s cognitive deficits, proving he can work a crowd like the best of him. Watching Joe laugh when he accused the GOP of trying to gut Social Security and Medicare, shows that Joe knows how to gaslight the crowd. Joe managed to get applause from both sides of the aisle, even from McCarthy, who, like other Republicans, have fallen into the Ukraine trap. Biden has no plan in Ukraine other than a perpetual blank check, pouring billions in tax dollars down a rat hole. Huckabee-Sanders talks about the “woke mob,” but she doesn’t call Joe out on his reckless foreign policy that has the U.S. dangerously close to WW III, possibly nuclear War. Where’s the GOP when it comes to Biden’s abysmal relations with Russia and China?

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news. He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma.

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bookshelfdreams · 4 years

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things i love about Carnival Row (non-conclusive, no particular order) (slightly spoilery)

It’s grimdark(tm) but in a way that actually works. It isn’t just dark and gritty for ~~realism but because the setting demands it. This is, after all, a story about colonialism. The setting shapes the characters, not the other way round (like, how often does grimdark just mean “populated entirely by assholes because good people are boring”) - also, characters aren’t randomly killed for shock value.

Mainpain-ridden male protagonist with a Tragic Backstory who is actually....quite sympathetic. Also, his backstory is genuinely horrifying. Also, although it is explained to some extend, a lot of it is shown through his characterization and how other characters interact with him - there’s never a moment where he sits down Love Interest to have the talk - “here’s how x terrible thing happened to me, please let me cry all over you and then reassure me which will make my trauma go away”. Which is nice.

m/f romance that is actually sweet and alluring and doesn’t make me want to claw my eyes out at all

respects sex workers

respects women’s bodies

the title cards. Vintage anatomical collections are one of my favourite things in the whole world.

The costumes. Honestly, the production design in this is so great. Not in all cases, there are a few things that don’t really work, but overall? *chef’s kiss*

Use of prosthetics. I’m always a sucker for practical effects.

Knows its politics and doesn’t shy away from making its point. Takes the Fantasy Racism analogy to actually make the point “racism always bad” instead of it being a covert justification for white supremacy (or certain parts of it, and that is so prevalent in urban fantasy). Granted, it is not very subtle or sophisticated in making that point, and comes across as performative at times, but at least it has something to say and then says it, instead of shying away just when it gets serious.

actually interesting use of that age-old Prophecy trope. Interesting, in that no one takes it seriously (except 1 character), and it serves more as a catalyst than a plot template. Also, it is pretty generic, which is a nice touch of realism.

Subtle character growth. Some big changes happen, but all gradually, and all believable, without the need to have a character stop and explain their motivation.

Good worldbuilding. This is a fun sandbox to play in, just the right amount of detailed to make the prospect of exploring it further seem exciting.

Rewatchable. Knows its story and is only interested in telling it well, doesn’t feel the need to be clever or surprising.

Relatively low stakes, all things considered? Like, there are no chosen ones or evil overlords to defeat. This is just about people trying to survive in a horrible world. Who also happen to be faeries.

Honestly, “x genre but with faeries” is all I ever want from media anyway

#carnival row #its certainly not perfect or Woke or whatever #but at least it takes its own premise seriously and that alone is a breath of fresh air #its just a nice show ok

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babblydrabbly · 3 years

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Never Enough (Dark!Rick Flag x Reader) Smut

Pairing(s): Dark!Rick Flag x F!Reader

Characters: Rick Flag, mentions of Amanda Waller.

Word Count: 4k

Rating/Warning(s): Darkfic warning!! Language, violence, dubcon/noncon smut. Facefucking, humiliation, cunnilingus, fingering, penetration, handcuffs, cream pie. Descriptions of past abuse/conditioning.

A/N: Ex-Prisoner!Reader. No notes 😳 Just dark vibes.

Your five year stint in Belle Reve unfolded with little to no fanfare— until you caught the attention of Colonel Rick Flag. Now out and free, you thought you’d seen the last of his obsession with you.

But it’s just your luck. You’ve end up on ARGUS's radar with something they want. They send their Colonel to come collect.

The set up hadn’t even been for you. But it certainly looked like two birds with one stone in this case. When that fucking squad broke down the damn door, you knew— You were fucked. They stormed your crew's base, eliminating everyone who took up guns and fired back. But not you. You weren't loyal to this crew— These piles of shit who couldn't see a losing fight when it punched them in the face. So you booked it, abandoning the rest of them and already thinking of a new one to join on the way out. The cliche thought crossed your mind— You’d die before you got dragged back to Belle Reve.

When you had gotten your hands on some private militant corporations’ encrypted files, you couldn’t wait to find someone to sell them to. But now you knew— Someone had sold you out. And you wished you’d unloaded the files sooner.

It’s Flag who tackled you before you made it to the harbor—Your one getaway— his weight sending you crashing to the wet asphalt and your head straight into blackness. You woke up back at your crew’s base, the bodies already cleared and the rest of the Task Force nowhere in site. You stirred at the sound of his voice speaking to someone else. As you tried to focus, you watched and listened as he signed off over his comms. He tossed the small earpiece onto one of the work benches your now-deceased boss had up for the base's repairs. The entire room was covered in repair deluge— Thick layers of plastic tarp and equipment hanging from closed off areas made a perfect space for Flag to chain you up in. In the corner, the shine of a flood light in such a tight enclosure would've blinded you if it hadn't been aim toward the ceiling. The loud bang of something startled you, and you see Flag smashing the earpiece with a hammer from off the tool rack. Off off the record for this one, then.

“You finally awake over there?" He called casually, removing his fingerless gloves. The sound of his voice was visceral— Fear and loathing and arousal washing over you all at once. You hated the way your skin pricked up in response.

You already knew what he was here for. And if Waller wanted more of the information you had access to, you just might get out of this one alive. You just weren't sure how intact yet. Not when you hadn’t seen him in months.

Finally, Flag made his way over to you, and you expect the first punch, the first slap, the first blow in a series of many. Instead, the colonel grips your jaw in both strong, calloused hands, crowding you firmly against the wall.

He kissed you, rough lips leaning down to snag yours. You couldn’t help the whimper that squeaks its way out of you. The familiar sound made Flag grin against you as you grimaced away from him in return. You yelped when he took your bottom lip between his teeth and bit you sharply.

"What are you going to—" You gasped as he reached down, cupping your sex through your pants. Your thighs squeezed together, trying to startle away from his touch. He brought the back of his arm up to push it against your chest.

"Gonna do whatever the fuck I want tonight." He said casually in your ear. He invaded your space even closer— Making you feel small as he towered over you. "I've got you til dawn."

He seemed to like your confused expression. You gasped again when he tightened his grip and you tried to shake him off. His other arm came up then, slamming you back into the wall and sending your vision whirling.

With his free hand, Rick snaked his fingers through your hair and yanked your head to the side. You felt his searing hot breath before he's biting down on your neck roughly. His teeth and tongue worked over your flesh as he sucked an angry red welt onto you. He pulled away, the sound his lips make as they slurped over your new mark causing you to whimper.

Flag growled. He turned your head to the side so he could look at the purple and red bruise. His mark. He ran his thumb over your spit slick skin, and you felt your burst blood vessels burn at the touch.

“I know you missed me like I missed you, [Y/n].” He crooned. You turned your head away from him even though you knew it would get you in trouble. Like you expected, he grabbed your face, made you look him in the eyes. “Say it.”

“I missed you.” You whispered, trying to gulp. Rick relaxed his grip at your submission, his cupped hand trailing down to close gently around your neck. He delighted in the way the knot in your throat bobbed up and down nervously beneath his touch.

“Knees. Now.” He instructed slowly, in that low, deep voice.

A flash of something crossed your face. Defiance. Flag’s lips twitched, a frown threatening to form.

You’d been away from him too long. Forgotten how to follow his orders. You cried out when a boot comes around to kick the back of your knee in, your body falling down onto the cement. Flag caught you by the back of your hair to stop from you from falling on your face. You stayed there like that for a moment, crouched over, your breath shaking. You squeezed your eyes shut when you felt that hand release you— Tried not to whimper again when his fingers run through the strands at your crown, almost tenderly.

“You’ve been out too long.” He chided, brushing some of your hair behind your ear. “Should’ve came and found you sooner.”

You knew it. You knew it wouldn’t just end when your sentence was over. He had the resources. The hunter in him that had picked you out of a crowd had locked on like a wolf’s jaw clamping down on a kill. There was no way he would have just let you go. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he kept tabs on you since before you had gotten your hands on what Waller wanted from you.

It’s why you tried to keep moving. Kept doing these shitty freelance jobs with open crews in any big city that would hide you. You steered clear of D.C. and Louisiana— Gave yourself a wide berth between you and him. But it wasn’t enough.

The hard grip on your hair returned, Flag’s free hand coming up to undo the zipper on his suit.

You jerked away, a sudden burst of fight in you taking over your limbs again. But he expected it this time; You saw another a flurry of stars when he yanked your head back, slamming it against the wall behind you. Your shackled hands brace yourself on the floor as you will the room to stop spinning.

Rick tutted. He dragged a thumb over the fresh new cut on your temple now, making you wince. “Why would you go and give yourself a headache like that, huh?”

Your hands flew up to push against his thighs as Flag dragged you back to kneel before him. He’d taken his cock out by the time you were seeing straight.

You shuttered when Rick pried your lips apart with his fingers. You tasted the salt and blood on his touch. Then, without warning, the head of his hard cock was pushing past your lips. You inhaled sharply before you breathing was cut off. He doesn’t hesitate to push his thick length to the back of your throat.

Flag released a deep groan as you gagged around him, your mouth so fucking wet and tight. You watched from your knees as his head falls back above you, his hand combing through your hair gently again. “There you go, baby.” He breathed. “Fuck, that’s it.”

You whined. Between your thighs, you felt the unwanted coil of heat beginning as muscle memory took over. You felt the tears prick your eyes— From the pain, from the humilitation of falling back into this. You pulled your face away to drag your tongue up the underside of Rick’s cock, flicking at the bundle of nerves where his head met his long length.

“Fuck, [Y/n].” He said. The low sound that leaves your throat seemed to wind right up the colonel’s spine. Gripping the back of your head, you’re not prepared when he suddenly thrusted into your mouth again, his cock slamming into the back of your throat. He didn’t leave you any room, not an inch of space as he started fucking your face in earnest. Your breathing quickened, desperate to get enough air in to keep going for as long as he’ll make you.

You shut your watering eyes. He alternated between short quick thrusts and hard, sudden stops, burying your nose against the patch of hair at his base as he made you take him in his entirety. You felt yourself stretch around him, your cheeks hollowing out as you sucked Rick’s cock.

“You missed this, [Y/n]? Missed me fucking this pretty, slut mouth of yours?” He ground out. You betrayed yourself with an eager whimper, a tear falling down your flushed cheek as you looked up at him again. He’s watching you in return, watching the way his length disappears down your throat.

“Shit.” He groaned.

You gagged around another sound of agreement, you fingers twisting into the fabric of his pants as you gripped him tightly. He was going to come down your throat. The thought happens at the same time the wetness blooms between your legs. He continued thrusting, his hips bucking in their familiar way— He was close. You moved your head back and forth to meet each shove of his cock into your waiting mouth.

“Good little slut.” He commended. God, you were. That’s all you were now again, wasn’t it? You willed him look down at you again so that you can see him coming, see his face when he paints your throat with thick ribbons of his cum.

Your muffled sob is garbled by one last, hard thrust; His hand pinned your face there right up against his pelvis again as Flag finally climaxed with a string of curses. You started swallowing before he could even finish, his warm cum filling up your mouth, dribbling down your lips.

“Fuck,” He panted, thrusting once more for good measure. You gagged again. “Can’t get enough, can you?”

You shook you head like you knew he wanted you to, licking your lips when he finally pulls out of your sore mouth. Your jaw ached as you took a gulp of air, his spend still spilling from the corner of your lip. Flag reached down to wipe at it, pressing his thumb back into your mouth for you to suck clean. You did so, your soft tongue laving around it til it was shining. Guiding your head back down to his length, you obediently begin to lick the rest of his cock clean too.

His hips stuttered against your face as you worked over his sensitive skin. When you finished you look up at him for approval. Your eyes fluttered shut when he cups your chin again softly.

“That pussy wet for me yet?” He didn’t have to ask. He knew the answer. When you opened your eyes to speak, you jolt instead. Rick was pressing something unfamiliar to your nose and mouth. A sharp pain stung your eyes. You tried to scramble away again, fight or flight finally kicking in again, but it was too late. In your surprise, you inhaled a deep whiff of the chloroform soaked cloth in his hand. He shoved it in your face some more, until the room was tilting and the world around him turned black once more.

- - -

You can’t describe the throbbing ache that wracks your skull when you wake up again. Half in and out of consciousness, you try to move around, try to drag your hands over your tired, sore face.

Your hands stop short as you yank the cuffs clamped firmly around your wrists. Your eyes fly open.

They’re caught on the bedrail behind you, keeping your hands above your head. You glance around blearily, what had happened earlier almost forgotten. Almost.

You jump when a pair of hands grip you by the thighs, fingernails digging into your bare skin.

That’s when you feel it, the swipe of something warm and wet lapping at your exposed sex. You cry out when Rick dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance again; You feel a different ache wash over you— that hot pleasure/pain that’s throbbing in time with your beating pulse. You look down to see Rick, face buried between your spread legs, his arms keeping them pried open as consciousness returned to you. You writhe, try to squirm away from him. But between the bed and his iron grip, you have nowhere to go.

You’re naked. Bare and entirely exposed. Your nipples stand stiffly against the cool air of the room, goosebumps prickling your entire body. But it’s not just the air of what looked like some seedy motel room you were in— Rick doesn’t relent as you shake the handcuffs against the rails some more.

He doesn’t bother glancing up at your face either, but he does let go of low growl, pleased that you are awake again. He continues laving his tongue up and down you wet slit. You feel yourself involuntarily clench your cunt as a moan escapes you.

When he nips at your inner thigh, it hurts more than it should. You strain to look down between your breasts, past the curve of your belly to see your thighs riddled with bruising welts. As if to show you his handy work now that you were awake, Rick leans down to suck another red bite onto your flesh, making you go rigid. He runs his tongue over the spot again when he’s done, finally looking back at you.

You freeze.

“I wanted to apologize.” He says. You press yourself down into the mattress as he makes his way back up your body, his own figure pressing down heavily onto you. He frames you with ease, large thighs pinning you down into the bed. You make a scared sound, you knees pressing together.

Flag brushes your hair from your eyes. “Think I used a little too much chloroform back there. Your head must be killin’ you, darlin.” You flinch away from his touch.

A hand wraps around your throat in an instant.

“Don’t be like that.” He warned. Pressing down on you, you think he might just crush you like this. Instead, you feel his lips wrap around your earlobe, his tongue going to work again down your neck, your collarbone. The pressure atop you relents, and you exhale with relief.

Flag must misinterpret the sound as a sigh. You feel him smile against the skin between your breasts. He lets go of your neck, trailing his touch down your chest until he’s cupping your breast in his palm. He massages it while he mouths at the other, teeth scraping over your already-hard nipple. You arch against him. When he bites down, a sudden sob tears from your throat.

He hums his approval against your chest.

“Flag… please…” You hear yourself saying faintly. Rick is back between your legs, pressing his lips to your swollen clit before you can beg him to stop. Let me go. I’ll give you anything.

But he’s already taken everything from you. Could have taken the encrypted flash drive from you, but he won’t— I have you til dawn.

You arch again when he sucks on that hooded bud between your folds, your breath hitching. You feel the tears well again, feel them trail down into your hairline as you laid there prone for Rick Flag. He pushed your legs open wide again, and like old habits, you spread your weak knees apart. You keen when two finger sink into your soaked pussy.

He takes his time, scissoring and pumping his fingers in and out of you like he’s playing patiently.

“Look at me.” He demands when you try to keep you glazed eyes on the ceiling. You bite back a small sound when he uses his teeth on your clit, your body jolting again. He crooks his fingers inside of you, bending them until they brush over the soft, spongy flesh inside of you. You let out a deep moan, throwing your head back against the pillow before you remember to keep your eyes on him. You stare back, helpless under his touch.

The flame inside your gut burns until you can’t help it anymore. You cant your hips, press your cunt toward his face so that he can just bring you over the edge already. Your mind slips back into that addled state of submission, that place where you can only want what he gives you.

A flame burns behind Rick’s eyes too. He lets them flutter closed as he fucks you with his tongue and fingers. Your walls pulse around his touch, making the stiff arousal trapped between him and the sheets twitch achingly. Your breathing begins to pick up, a high, needy sound accompanying every little pant.

“You’re gonna come from just my fingers, aren’t you?” As if to punctuate how you’ve been away from him too long.

You nod, your lip quivering. You pull at the handcuffs as your back arches off the bed. Rick scoffs like it isn’t exactly what he wants— like it’s not exactly what gets him off— you, a quivering mess beneath him, already ready to come for him, You feel your skin start to burn, your face and ears flushing red as the tight coil in your abdomen builds more.

“Flag— Rick— Oh fuck.” You cry. “Oh please.”

“Please what?” He grinds out.

You try to bite back how easily the words come to you. But you can’t even hold your breath, your panting filling your own ears now. You whimper when he adds a third finger, sending a spasm through you. It stretches your wider, pulling at your muscles until every stroke is hitting that red hot spot inside you.

“Please, please make me come, Rick. Oh— oh. Fuck! I’m going to— I’m— I— I—” Your hips stutter as you fuck yourself on his fingers now, and Flag is content to watch you. He splays his tongue flat as you drag your clit over it again and again, until suddenly your back is lifting off the bed, your body pulling taut again the handcuffs. Your cries fill up the room until you’re a crumpled mess, panting and sweating under him.

Rick smirks as he pulls away, licking his glistening lips. You bury your face in the crook of your arm as the shame washes over you— it always did after he made you come undone so easily.

You hear the rustle of clothes, the sound of a heavy belt dropping onto the carpet floor. You know what comes next. Still, you yelp when Rick is taking you leg and flipping you over like you weight nothing at all. You land with your wrists crossed under your chest, and you try you best to get back on your elbows.

Behind you, Flag is already nudging your knees apart. You wobble on them over the mattress, your legs still shaking from coming moments ago. You feel the drip of your wet pussy inch it’s way down you inner thigh.

The movement behind you stops. Rick takes a moment to enjoy the view, his hand sliding up your sweat slick back. You arch under his touch, peering behind you warily to see his lust-filled face, head tilted as he stared back. Rick’s cock bobs heftily between your thighs.

“You look so damn sweet like this. Presentin’ that pretty cunt just for me.” He murmurs, his drawl thick and rough in his throat. Your pussy clenches again as a shiver runs down your spine, squeezing more of your own juices out. Rick presses his thumb between your folds with a teasing grin, running it over your pink clit. You jerk, hips bucking.

Not able to wait any longer, Rick is taking the flesh of your thigh in one hand, dragging your back to meet his hips. He lines up the head of his cock with your entrance, rubbing the bead of precum dripping from the very tip onto your sex. Finally, he exhales as he pushes his length into you.

It’s slow— Agonizing— The way he takes his time, fully hilting himself inside you until you feel his pelvis press against you. Your walls stretch even more than you expected. Your time away from him was obvious to you now— You think you might just burst like this.

You use your arm to muffle your sob again. It’s the wrong thing to do.

He yanks your head back by the hair until you’re gasping, hands flying up to grasp back at his merciless grip.

”What’d I say about hidin’ from me?” He snarls. You lose your balance, face falling onto the bed. He keeps you there, hand pressing the side of your face into the sheets as he starts fucking you. Staying there, bent and sobbing, his thrusts pushing you up the bed as he doesn’t hold back. Rick fucks you fast and hard, drilling you until you’re knees can’t part beneath him any further.

“Oh fuck, Rick. You’re fucking me,” You babbled mindlessly. The more you spoke, the more you begged and whined, the sooner you knew he’d be coming inside you. You cry out when a hand comes down to slap your ass roughly, leaving a ringing in your ears.

You feel him bend over, feel the way he covers your body posessively with his. The hand pressing your face into the bed releases you; It reaches around to grab a handful of your throat again. He noses at your ear from behind, hips still knocking into you as the sound of slapping flesh mixes with his deep, feral voice. “You’re fucking mine. Mine.”

“Yours!” You echo, gasping. You fuck yourself on his thick cock, pulse around it like your pussy was made for him. Your hips move on their own while you moan louder for Rick like a good little slut. The handcuffs dig into your wrists, and you cant even remember why he needed to put them on you. You were already his.

“I’m coming again.” You whined, turning your head around. Rick snarls again as he captures your lips, biting and sucking as another orgasm rips through you. Rick moans around your tongue while your walls clench his cock in a vice grip. By the time your legs give out, Rick is thrusting into you one more time, his hot come filling your pussy until its seeps out onto the sheets.

Rick collaspses on top of you, his softening cock still buried deep inside your cunt. You try to breathe beneath his weight, gasping to catch your breath again. A pair of arms come around to wrap you up in them, his body finally shifting after a moment to lay you both down on your sides. You twitch at the feeling of your walls still stretched around Rick’s cock. He presses his back to your chest, his breath heaving too.

“You’re never fucking leaving me again.” He growls in your ear.

You bite back your sob, nodding obediently.

“You're mine.”

You hear your own voice somewhere far away— a distant, broken thing as darkness swallowed up your vision again. He waits for you to whisper it back to him.

“Yours.”

#kinktober continues #Rick flag x reader #Rick flag x you #Rick flag smut #dark!rick flag #dceu smut #mywords*#Rick flag fanfiction #AGAIN- DARK FIC #cannot emphasize enough that this is a dark fic!!!

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

Text

A gentle touch.

[Strife/Reader]

Summary: Set three years after humanity is resurrected. Strife shows up unannounced in your bedroom in the middle of the night, which would have been rude enough without him getting blood all over your cream-coloured carpet.

Tags: Blood, injury, PTSD, knife, protective Strife, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sharing a bed ;), bandages and cleaning wounds, how not to administer first aid.

-----

You have the apocalypse to thank for turning you into such a light-sleeper.

Even though the nights of sleeping with one eye open are far behind you and Earth is back on the road to a long and arduous recovery, you'll still jolt awake if your unconscious mind hears something scuttle beneath the floorboards of your freshly-restored home, and God forbid a tree branch should happen to scratch at the bedroom window...

Waking up with the feeling that your heart is three beats from bursting right out of your chest is exhausting, to say the least. And it isn't just you who suffers from the onset of hyper-vigilance.

It was a decidedly cruel consequence that the resurrected humans were able to recall their lives before the end of the world. Crueller still, they woke up to remember exactly how and where they eventually kicked the bucket, and of course, nobody knew that a significant chunk of time had passed at all since the end of the world and its rebirth.

They thought they were still in danger.

In one moment, all they knew was immense and excruciating pain, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they woke up again, screaming and writhing in the echoes of phantom pain that had occurred almost a century ago.

Three years down the line since ‘The Great Waking,’ and there isn’t a human alive who could claim that they’ve slept through an uninterrupted night.

------

The alarm clock on your bedside table has just ticked over to read '2:36am' when your eyes suddenly snap open and you fling yourself upright in bed, your spine ramrod straight and your ears ringing with a sharp, tinny note.

It isn’t a nightmare that wakes you. At least, not this time.

Worse.

It’s a sound.

An out-of-the-ordinary sound that isn't in keeping with the normal ambiance of your bedroom.

But where...?

....It's coming from your window.

Tired eyes swivel to the curtains whilst your hand immediately flies out to blindly fumble with the drawer of your bedside table. Once your fingers find the cold, metal handle, you rip it open and plunge your hand inside, rummaging around until you feel the reassuring grip of your most precious possession.

Your trusty bread knife. Serrated edge, nine inch blade, perfect for cutting slices of toast in the morning and for tearing through the toughened hide of a hungry demon.

Peace between the Universe’s species had been declared once humanity was fully introduced to the connected realms, a decision that suited a vast majority of Creation. Hell, however, had offered up a fair amount of opposition to the notion before eventually conceding and agreeing – albeit begrudgingly – to honour the peace treaty alongside angels, makers, undead and the rest.

Even demon-kind knew not to incur the wrath of humanity's strongest and most ferocious protectors, the Horsemen.

But... there are always exceptions to the rule. Some demons just... hadn't gotten the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had tried to make an assassination attempt on humanity’s envoy.

Heart in your throat, you grasp the knife securely in your dominant hand and peer through the darkness towards the window.

Only a sliver of moonlight peeps through a tiny gap in the curtains. In another blink, the light suddenly disappears, and you know better than to assume that the moon has simply ducked behind a cloud.

Something is standing at your window, blocking out the light.

You think you might actually be sick when you hear the sound again, claws scraping on wood – a sound you know all too well – well enough to send your head spinning into a panic.

Swallowing back the nausea in your throat, you brace yourself, instincts flicking between running for the door and knowing never to turn your back on a demon.

Sadly, the decision is swiftly taken out of your hands. Through the darkness and the deafening roar of blood rushing through your ears, you can make out the distinct sound of your window sliding slowly open.

The knife is a comforting weight in your hand. But it’s less than useless if you don’t calm down and try to remember the lessons that Death has taught you. If the eldest Horseman were here, he’d probably have berated you seven ways to Sunday by now for freezing up and missing an opportunity to better prepare yourself for an attack.

A dark silhouette pushes the fluttering fabric of your curtains aside and pulls itself halfway into your bedroom.

Whatever it is, it’s big.

Breath catching in your throat, you clasp a handful of your duvet and get ready to fling it at the intruder as a distraction, hoping that it’ll be enough to buy you a precious few seconds to gain the upper hand. You've learned that humans are inherently weaker than demons, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Death, it’s that strength isn’t necessarily the deciding factor in any battle. You still have your wits. You only hope the demon has less.

Two luminous, golden eyes turn in your direction and you press yourself backwards into the headboard.

Several seconds drag by in perfect silence.

Then...

“Hey.”

And just like, that tension leaves your body like a balloon deflating of air and you heave the loudest sigh you can muster, dropping the bread knife into your lap.

“Damn it, Strife! You about gave me a heart attack!”

With a 'whump,' you flop back against your pillows and take a second to breathe whilst one of the Four Horsemen drags himself the rest of the way through your bedroom window.

Strife.

It's only Strife...

Whilst certainly a dangerous being in his own right, you know you have nothing to fear from the Horseman who had all but appointed himself as your friend three, long years ago, all in an attempt to irritate his brother, Death, of course.

At least, at first.

Death was the one who pulled you from the dying Earth and preserved your life-force as you journeyed together on a quest to resurrect humanity, but after he made the jump to introduce you to his 'little' siblings, it had been Strife who'd taken a particular shine to you, and it had everything to do with a compatible, if terrible sense of humour.

That first meeting sparked what was sure to be an interesting friendship between the pair of you.

-----

“So, my brother went and got himself a human, huh?” Strife had teased, pointedly ignoring the withering look he received from Death to add, “Gotta say, I'm impressed, Kid. Didn't think anyone would have the inclination to willingly travel with my brother. But then, I guess...” He trailed off and you could almost see the smirk growing under his mask. “Deathperate times and all that, huh?”

At once, his siblings all groaned out varying noises of disapproval. Fury, the loudest, cocked her hip and shot Strife a frosty glower. “You are singlehandedly ruining our reputation, brother."

“She's right, you know,” you spoke up, trying not to flinch when all eyes snapped onto you once more, “That pun was pretty deadful.”

The brief, startled second of silence was soon blasted apart when Strife threw his head back and barked out a triumphant laugh, while Death slowly turned to look at you, utterly betrayed.

“Ha!” Strife's eyes positively gleamed with mischief, “You're right, human. Guess I should'a considered the reapercussions of a joke like that, huh?”

“I ought to have known introducing you two would be a mistake,” the eldest Horseman grumbled, earning a sympathetic look from War.

“Sorry, Death,” you said with a perfectly straight face, “You want us to get out of your scythe so you don’t have to look at us anymore?”

Strife had howled.

Death, however, merely heaved a long-suffering sigh. Fury's eyes all but rolled into the back of her skull and War just stood there, struggling to keep his lips from twitching at their corners.

And you had looked around at all of them, a little proud and blissfully unaware of what you'd just unwittingly signed yourself up for.

You'd had Strife's attention from that day on.

-----

Shaking off the fond memory, you tiredly will your mind back to the matter at hand.

You reach across your bed and drop the knife back into the drawer before leaning down and skirting your fingers over the wall in search of a switch. The next moment, there's a 'click!' and the room is illuminated by clustered fairy lights that you've draped around your ceiling, forcing you to squint blearily against the intrusion of light as Strife hauls his leg into your room.

“Honestly. How many times have I told you to use the door?”

“S'locked,” he grunts.

You're in the midst of rubbing your eyes to try and stimulate a little life back into your bones, so you miss the way he stumbles a few steps away from the wall and presses a gauntleted hand to his abdomen.

“Yeah, it’s locked because it's-” You take a quick glance at the clock next to you. “-Two thirty in the morning! Strife, I’m supposed to be up at six to meet Ulthane! What do you need so badly that you'd-... Hey.. Are.. are you okay?”

At last taking a long, hard look, it suddenly occurs to you that the Horseman is... not entirely himself.

He's hunched over, his shoulders pulled in around his neck and his chest rising and falling in long, languid motions. The tattered cowl he wears around his neck hangs loose around his collarbones and it faces the very real threat of slipping off to the floor. At last, your eyes drop to the hand that's clamped over the left side of his abdomen and you blurt out a startled gasp.

In the paltry, pink glow of your fairy lights, you spot an unmistakably crimson liquid dribbling between his fingers, starkly contrasted against the steel-grey colour of his armour.

The next few seconds pass in a blur as you frantically begin kicking off your duvet and scramble out of bed, flying across the room to the Horseman's side.

“Strife! What'd you do!?”

“Oh, that's real sweet,” the Nephilim chuckles wryly whilst he collapses back against the wall and slides down it with a strained grunt, “Why're you – ung... assuming it's something I did?”

Without missing a beat, you snap, “This would hardly be the first time you got hurt because you're a wise-cracking jokester with a big mouth! Now tell me who you pissed off?!”

You drop onto your knees next to him and reach out, fingers hovering tentatively above his stomach. With your focus directed away from his helm, Strife doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dart from left to right before they settle back on the top of your head.

“Ah, it was... just some demon, caught me slackin', that's all,” he shrugs, letting you carefully grasp his wrist and lift it away from his torso.

At once, fresh blood gushes from a deep gouge cut into in the dark, leather under-skin he wears beneath his cuirass and you yelp, slapping a hand over your mouth in abject horror.

The sound draws Strife's gaze to you and once he spots the shocked despair on your face, he gives himself a mental kick.

He hadn't meant to... He... doesn't like it when you’re scared because of him.

"Hey, no, no – I'm okay!” he rushes to reassure you, “Don't worry about this. I've had worse!”

“That's not the point, Strife!” you argue, dropping his wrist and carding your hands through your hair, “You're hurt now! And I don't – there's so much blood, and you-” Cutting yourself off, you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply through your nose, willing your pulse to ease so that you can rationally address this situation.

Another lesson Death had taught you - stay calm in a crisis. Panic kills.

Releasing a long, hard breath, you peel your eyes open again and nod, jaw set. “Okay. All right. I need to.. I need water. A-and I need to see the wound.”

The interrogation can come after you've dealt with... this.

“There's a bowl and flannel in my bathroom,” you announce, getting to your unsteady feet and gesturing towards Strife's cuirass, “Think you can get that off so I can have a look?”

Huffing out a breath of laughter, the Horseman winks at you suggestively and drawls, “An' here I was doin' things the hard way to get your attention. You know, you didn't have to wait till I got myself gutted before you asked me to take my armour off in your chambers.”

A wise-cracking flirt with a big mouth.

As exasperating as he is though, you don't mind it in the slightest.

This is your usual rapport, after all. A friendly back and forth interlaced with the occasional, flirtatious comment. At first, Strife had only initiated it because it drove an over-protective Death up the wall. The eldest Horseman had almost threatened to 'remove Strife's libido' until you'd up and flirted right back, distressing the old reaper even further.

It's funny. It's innocent. But right now, it's reassuring, if only somewhat, that Strife is behaving just like his shameless, old self.

Besides, you can give back as much as you get.

“Well, I had to wait for a good enough excuse,” you retort, “Couldn't come on too strong and risk scaring you off, now could I?”

In response, Strife just chuckles fondly and watches you turn and speed away to your ensuite, oblivious to the warm, soft glow radiating from his eyes.

In less than a minute, you're briskly striding back into the room, a dripping flannel in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he suddenly remembers that you'd asked him to remove his cuirass.

Mission failed.

But you don't even bat an eyelid to find it still in place, assuming that the Horseman can't get at the catches on the sides in his current state.

In one, smooth motion, you drop down beside him once more and set the cloth and bowl nearby. “Here, let me help..”

The Horseman's pulse sputters when your tiny fingers reach around his torso and fumble with the buckles and straps that keep his armour securely in place. It doesn't pass his notice that your hands are trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, catching your eye for a moment before you go right back to fiddling with the cuirass, “This is nothin’, you know that, right?”

You only press your lips together and hum, clearly skeptical.

You're working fast and in almost no time at all, the straps have been released and you carefully take the Nephilim's broad shoulder, giving it a tug, guiding him to lean away from the walls so that you can start to peel the bulky armour off.

“Nng, hang on,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you sit back to let him tug his chest piece loose before he simply drops it onto the carpet next to his legs with a dull 'clang.'

Exposed to the soft glow of your lights, your eyes are instantly drawn to the gaping wound that stretches in a horizontal line across the left side of his abdomen. It seems that something really has tried - and nearly succeeded - to gut him. Several inches long and goodness knows how deep, even against the iron-grey colour of his skin, the gash is alarmingly obvious and the blood far, far too noticeable for your liking. It still comes as something of a shock to learn that the Horsemen, barring Death, can actually bleed.

Wordlessly, you pick up the flannel and wring it out into the bowl of water, wondering if he'll mind that you didn't wait for the tap to get warm before you soaked it. It shouldn't surprise you that the Horseman doesn't protest or even flinch when you gently press the wet cloth to the bloodied skin around his wound, nowhere near the gash itself, not until you've cleared away some of the mess around it and determined its real depth.

You don't notice that his eyelids flutter closed once you press the cloth to his skin, nor do you see when their golden light fluctuates in contentment as the fingertips of your other hand press gently to his stomach, the pressure barely enough for him to feel, but enough to keep you steady whilst you daub at his drying blood.

It takes a formidable effort to suppress the shudder that nearly races up his spine. This is the first time he's felt your skin against his without a single piece of armour standing between you.

Creator, you're so soft! Just like he always imagined you would be.

“Jeezus, Strife,” you whistle, abruptly snatching his focus away from the soothing strokes of your silky fingers,“You've made a real mess of yourself. Why on Earth didn't you just go straight to Death? I thought he was the best healer in your family.”

The warm skin underneath your fingertips jumps as the Horseman puffs out a quick laugh, gazing dopily at your temple whilst you wipe at the edges of his wound with small, careful touches.

“He is,” Strife readily agrees, “But the moody bastard wouldn't be nearly as gentle with me as you are.”

You blow an unimpressed huff from your nose and glance up at him in time to catch his lazy wink. “I can always press harder if you like?”

“Nah.” The Horseman settles himself more heavily against the wall, knocking his skull back against it and mumbling, “Just keep touchin' me all gentle like that. S'nice...”

Quite abruptly, the chatty Nephilim goes silent and the glow from his eyes that had illuminated your face only moments ago suddenly disappears.

“Strife?”

He doesn't respond.

“Hey, Cowboy! Don't you fall asleep on me, you hear?”

There's a long stretch of silence, then, “Won't,” he mumbles, cracking one eyelid open to peer down at you.

Harrumphing, you promptly turn back to the gash in his stomach and wipe the last of the dried blood off his skin, still far from clean, but at the very least, better than it had been.

“Right,” you declare, pulling away to stand up and drawing a decidedly petulant whine from the Horseman on your bedroom floor. “I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from downstairs.”

There’s a shift in his expression and something that hinges on alarm suddenly whistles through his blood.

“I won’t be long,” you promise, "Be right – Hey, woah! What're you doing!?”

Darting forwards, you hastily place your hands on each of Strife's broad shoulders, trying to push him back down as he grabs the window sill behind him and begins hauling himself up to his feet.

“What's it look like ‘m doing?” he answers gruffly, slouching forwards as if the weight of his own head is too much to keep aloft, “Comin’ with you”

Sputtering out a few, incredulous noises, you try to make him see sense. “I’ll bring the first aid kit to you! You need to rest! It's bad enough that you already climbed in through my second storey window!”

But Strife, stubborn as a mule and much, much stronger than you, isn't deterred by your protests. Grunting, he curls one arm over his stomach and takes a step forwards, ducking beneath your light fixture and standing to his full, imposing height.

Even with three years of companionship behind you, you’re still frequently taken aback at how effortlessly the Horseman can make you feel small and fragile when you stand close to him.

Knowing full well that you’ll never be able to force him down again, you allow your hands to slip from his shoulders and fall against your sides like lead weights. You aren’t sure why he’s suddenly so hellbent on following you, downstairs, of all places, but you don’t dwell on it, especially given that you’re far more preoccupied with the fresh blood that has already begun trickling out of his wound to replace the stains you’ve painstakingly cleaned away.

Puffing out your cheeks, you raise a hand and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Strife, please sit down?” You aren’t so proud that you won’t resort to begging, tired as you are and exasperated with his obstinate behaviour. “I’m worried about you...”

All at once, the Horseman stiffens. ‘Oh, now she’s fighting dirty,’ he muses to himself.

Gradually, you lift your eyes to meet his and try your very best to glare up at him, pinning him down with all the stern authority you can muster. For several, slow heartbeats, the Nephilim peers right back at you and you’re almost certain that you’ll lose this battle of wills, which is why it comes as such a shock when his fiery gaze falters, wavering slightly before it promptly drops to the floor near your feet.

It's... rare for Strife to be looked at by someone who isn't ashamed to show that they worry about him.

But the way you're looking at him now? Hell, the way you've been looking at him since he clambered through your bedroom window? You're practically broadcasting your concern.

Strife just... isn't used to seeing that. So he glances down instead, finding the fibres of your carpet particularly exhilarating tonight. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, heavy enough that the frame creaks and groans under the weight of a fully grown Nephilim and he has to hold back a contented sigh at the softness beneath his legs.

From the corner of an eye, he can see that your jaw is hanging ajar and remains so until you give yourself a little shake and throw him a satisfied nod. “Thank you,” you huff before turning on your heel and striding purposefully from the room.

Strife listens raptly to your footsteps disappearing down the staircase, unaware that his hands have curled into tight fists around your duvet.

'It's fine,' he assuages the insistent voice at the back of his head, 'She's fine.'

He took care of the threat. That demon asshole isn't coming after his friend.

You’re only downstairs. He can already hear you pushing open the door to your little kitchen whilst the rest of his senses remain trained on the sounds and smells of the night.

It isn't as though something bad might happen just because his eyes aren't fixed upon you...

Frankly, he thinks he’s being more than generous to allow a full, Earth minute to pass as he taps his heel impatiently against the side of your bed.

Didn’t you say you’d be right back?

...

“Fuck it...”

-------

Perhaps, in hindsight, keeping your first aid kit on the top of the fridge hadn’t been one of your brightest ideas, given that you need a chair to reach it. Then again, securing immediate access to bandages and plasters hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind when you were rebuilding your old home from the ruins it had been left in.

With a grunt, you drop your rickety kitchen chair next to the fridge and clamber up onto the seat. “I have got to find a better place for you,” you grumble at an apathetic first aid kit that sits gathering dust near the wall. Stretching your arm out, you manage to snag it by the handle and drag it towards you-

“The hell're you doing!?”

The violent jolt that shoots through you like lightening nearly sends you toppling off the chair. You let out a yelp, just barely catching yourself on the fridge with your free hand before you whip about to see none other than Strife silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“Wh- the hell are you doing!?” you retort, knitting your brows into a frown and clutching the first aid kit against your heaving chest, “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

The Horseman’s glowing eyes are fixed unsettlingly on the chair beneath your feet and rather than answer the question, he ducks under the doorframe and thunders towards you in a few, short strides, leaving you with no time to protest before he suddenly sweeps you up off the chair and into his arms, caging you against a solid chest.

At once, you begin to struggle. “Strife! Your wound! Put me down, you'll hurt yourself!”

But the Nephilim is hardly paying attention. His glare lingers on the flimsy, wooden chair legs for a moment before he flicks his gaze towards the large window above your sink, noting with no small degree of distaste that it isn't even shut.

It’s like you’re inviting danger in.

If you had any idea of the fate he and his siblings are currently trying to protect you from, you might just try a little harder to take better care of yourself.

“Hey!” you continue to protest against his hold but manage to refrain from jostling about too much, mindful of his injury. “For god's sake! What's gotten into you?!”

He offers little more than a noncommittal grunt in response and begins trailing back towards the staircase, casting brief glances at the french doors leading out onto your patio.

'Structural weakness,' he registers, 'Perfect point of entry for anything smaller than a Trauma...'

Shaking his head, he turns sideways to fit you through the kitchen door and takes the stairs up to your room.

After a second, he lowers his eyes to meet yours and finds himself meeting a highly unimpressed scowl. “What?” he asks, the very picture of innocence.

Raising your brows, you snap, “Don't you 'what' me! The hell is all this about? I told you to stay put!”

“You were takin' too long,” he shrugs.

“Too long!?” Indignant, you flick your wrist and rap the first aid kit against his collar bone, “I was gone a minute, max! If you were so worried about me taking too long to fix you up, then why are you moving around and making your injury worse!?”

The light of Strife's golden gaze dims and he turns his head away, staring up towards the top of the stairs and your bedroom door beyond. “S'not me m' worried about,” he mumbles.

It's such an about-face from his usual demeanour that you can do little but blink dumbly up at him and fall still against his chest, your mouth hanging agape.

In silence, the Horseman ducks through the door into your room and sidles over to the bed where, hesitantly, he lowers you down until you're sitting safely on the edge.

In the next moment however, just as Strife drops heavily onto the bed next to you, you slip away and settle on the floor instead, placing the first aid kit beside his boots and fumbling with the latches.

Despite blowing out a rough grumble of disapproval that sounds entirely too much like War for his liking, he lets you go.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the contents for a moment before snatching up a pack of antiseptic wipes, tearing one out and bringing it up to his stomach.

“You want to tell me why you just exacerbated your injury to rescue me from my kitchen chair?” you ask him, adding as an afterthought, “This might sting a bit..”

When he doesn't reply, you glance up and quirk a brow at the underside of his chin, only to catch him peering back at you from behind heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, he sags forwards and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, looking sheepish, of all things.

Unable to dispel your frown, you blindly begin brushing the wipe underneath his bleeding wound.

He doesn't even wince.

Strife tips his helm towards the bedroom window and slumps further backwards into your mattress, seeming so entirely out of place amidst the colourful duvet cover and frilly cushions.

“Okay,” he mutters, “I uh, I got a confession to make.”

Interest piqued, you make an acknowledging sound at the back of your throat and return your attention to his abdomen.

“Death didn't want us to tell you about this,” he continues quietly whilst you toss the now ruined wipe over your shoulder and pull out a fresh one, “And, to be honest, neither did I. We didn't want you to have to worry, y'know?”

You don't know. And you nearly ask him what you should be worrying about, but you soon let your mouth fall shut and settle for humming curiously instead, trusting that he'll tell you soon enough anyway.

There's a long pause, during which you find the courage to bring your fingers close to the edges of his wound and immediately have to withhold a gag when the motion sends another spout of blood oozing from the cut and dribbling down your wrist.

After a moment, Strife huffs and forges ahead, “Course, War and Fury did want to tell you-”

He's stalling, you realise belatedly.

“-War thinks you have every right to know. And Fury said there's nothin' for you to worry about anyway, cause we've got your back.”

“Fury said that?” you ask distractedly, dropping the wipe and rummaging around for a gauze pad. In response, Strife exhales, a tiny, hidden smile creeping onto his lips. “Fury says a lot of stuff about you that you don't know about.”

Gently, you unroll the gauze and press it against his wound. “Wow, you sure that's your sister? Sounds like she might've been body snatched.”

“Ha!” The Horseman suddenly throws his head back. “Well, if she has been replaced, I sure as shit ain't going lookin' for the original. This Fury is... she's...”

He pauses, tipping his head in thought before eventually settling on, “She's learning.”

You blow out a long, impressed whistle and he nods his agreement, adding, “Yeah, s'weird for all of us too.”

The room lapses into silence once again as you stretch the gauze across Strife's abdomen and mutter, “Hold this,” before your hands are retreating and the Horseman's slide down to keep the bandage in place.

Reaching into the box once more, you take some bandages and begin to unfurl them gingerly over the top of the gauze. “Not hurting you, am I?”

You miss the soft expression he aims at the top of your head. “Never.”

You're more than aware that he probably won't tell you you've hurt him even if you were to stick your fingers in the wound twist them.

“Sooo~....?” you prompt.

Peering down at you, Strife cocks his head to one side and echoes, “Soooo?”

“What did Fury and War think I should know?”

“Oh. Right...” His reluctance is as painfully obvious as a slap to the face but you're slightly more focused on plunging your hand back into the first aid kit and rooting around for a roll of adhesive tape.

He observes you for a moment, growing more and more certain that despite your curiosity, you aren’t actually paying a great deal of attention to his words. Quite abruptly, he asks, “You listening?”

Emitting little more than a vague hum, you finally snag the tape and run your fingernail along the smooth surface, searching for the ever-elusive end.

“You sure?” Strife grunts skeptically, “Kid, this is kind of important.”

Without missing a beat, you nod your chin towards his injury and reply, “Yeah, well, you're kind of important too, buddy.”

Oh.

Oh, that's...

Strife wracks his brain, trying to pluck an appropriate response from amidst his tumbling thoughts. Part of him wants to scoff – of course he's important! He's Strife! The best, damn marksman who ever walked the realms of existence.

But then, there's another part of him that lurks deep behind the walls of hubris and brass he's been building meticulously for centuries, and it gives a little leap at the sound of your words, delighted beyond measure.

Averting his gaze, Strife lets out a chuckle. “You're getting soft.”

“Ah, I've always been soft.”

His heart thrums. “Wasn't talkin' about you, kid.”

You shoot him a smirk as you stick a piece of tape over the bandages covering his injury. “Well, if you're talking about yourself, then you're wrong again. You aren't getting soft. You've always been soft.”

The Horseman mutters something incoherent, but it's his distinct lack of an articulate response that speaks volumes to your ears.

The slight pressure of your fingers as they prod at the tape with tentative care leaves him mourning the centuries he's gone without knowing such a gentle touch. Rolling his eyes down to you, his smile droops and he sighs, sagging forwards to rest his elbows on his knees just as you attempt to place another strip of tape.

“Strife!” you complain, leaning back, “I need to put more tape on!”

He merely blinks at you languidly and says, “Later. I want you concentratin' on me right now.”

“I've been concentrating on you all night,” you huff, though you eventually concede and sit back on your haunches, peering up at the Horseman expectantly.

Studying your face for another moment, he breathes a long sigh and gestures to his stomach. "I told you a demon did this..."

“Uh huh...”

Solemnly, Strife continues, “So more specifically, it was a Shadow Caster. Been on her trail for a couple of weeks now. Finally caught up with her on some farmlands west of the city...”

“Okay?” you nod, digesting the information, “And why were you on her trail?”

He hesitates, flicking his eyes between you and the window a few times before he quietly admits, “She was comin’ after one of my friends...”

“Who?”

The look he throws you is so pointed, you suddenly feel like a fool for missing the obvious.

“Ah.” Understanding, you slowly nod your head.

“Yup.”

“But, she's dead now, right?” You gesture to his wound. “You came straight here after killing her.”

Strife's eyes darken further and each time they try to land on your face, they seem to slide right off again and drop to the carpet. “Uh, yeah. She's dead.”

You heave a sigh. “She wasn't the only one who's after me.”

“... No..”

“I see.” Inhaling long and slow through your nose, you tip your head back and slap your hands on your thighs, rubbing at them anxiously as you gaze around the room. “So, do we know how many there are?”

The Horseman eyes you for several, silent seconds. Eventually though, he speaks up. “Got wind of a small group of about four of 'em. Demons mostly, one undead. You and I've got a mutual... uh, friend, who's been keeping his ears to the ground, and he reckons they’re aiming to provoke another war between Hell and Earth by killin' the human envoy.”

“Wow. Talk about sore losers,” you scoff humourlessly, “So, who is this mutual friend?”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Strife's posture once he notices that you haven't immediately flown into a panic. “C'mon kid,” he snorts, “You know I can't expose my source. He doesn't want you know that he cares about you. Thinks you might start askin' for discounts if you thought he was getting' soft.”

“Discounts, huh?” Your lips quirk up at their edges and Strife smacks a palm over his mask in mock distress.

“Ah, hell, I gave it away, didn't I?”

“I bet his name rhymes with Shmulgrim, doesn't it?” you laugh.

Chuckling, Strife leans back on his hands again and replies, “Hey, you came to that conclusion on your own. Technically, I never told you who my source was.”

With the atmosphere in your bedroom gradually becoming lighter and lighter, you follow the Horseman's lead and relax backwards onto your hands, stealing a surreptitious glance at the bandages adhered to his torso.

It's no longer as surprising as it used to be that Vulgrim is invested in the well-being of his 'valuable asset.' The Horsemen are perhaps his best clients, hence the vested interest in keeping himself in their good graces by looking out for their human ward.

Shaking your head with a knowing smirk, you push yourself up onto your feet and glance down at yourself, brushing off your pyjama shorts, only to grimace when your hands do nothing but smear Strife's blood all over the fabric.

“Sorry... for the mess.”

You raise your head at the sound of the Horseman's voice and find him glowering down at the stains he's dripped onto your carpet, his eyes hooded and glum.

Heaving a sigh that you hope conveys both exasperation and affection, you reach out and place your comparatively tiny hand on his shoulder to give the pauldron a reassuring squeeze, drawing his gaze back up to your face. “I don't care about the mess, Strife” you tell him matter-of-factly, “The carpet's just here to stop my feet getting cold in the morning. You're my best friend.”

Ever so slowly, his luminous eyes grow wide with wonder and he lets his jaw drop open to speak, but before he manages to utter a soft, 'what?' you give his shoulder a friendly jostle and add, “So long as you're okay, pal, that's the main thing. Now...”

Trailing off, you move back around the bed and let your fingers slide off the Horseman's arm, stepping up to the bedside table containing your pyjamas, oblivious to how swiftly and easily you've just swept the rug out from underneath Strife's feet. He twists himself around on your mattress to watch you, his eyes as wide as than dinner plates.

Did you mean to say... best?

He – well, he always knew that you considered him a friend! Hell, he'd even go so far as to say the two of you are close friends.

But best?

Best implies that there's nobody – nobody – that you hold in higher regard than him...

'How did I miss that!?' his psyche all but screams at him, 'When the Hell did I get so important!?”

You aren't even looking at him, too busy rummaging through your drawers, as if you have no idea that you've just pulled his heart right out of his chest and now you have it cradled in the palms of your hands.

You could crush the life out of him with hardly a word.

“So, you never did say!” you call out to him as you duck into your ensuite bathroom and flick the light on, hiding yourself from view whilst you change, “How does the master of marksmanship get tagged by a Shadowcaster in the first place? You’re not usually the type to get up close and personal. That’s more War’s thing, right?”

All at once, the threats that demon witch had made against you ring like klaxons in Strife’s head and he has to make a conscious effort to ignore his instinct to leap off the bed and barge into the bathroom just to be sure you’re safe. He hears the shuffling of fabric against skin as you pull off the bloodied shorts and begin to pull on the new ones.

Grinding his teeth, he spits out, “She just.. got me mad, is all. Made me wanna have the satisfaction of wringing her neck with my bare hands instead of filling her with bullets.”

“Wait, seriously?” Your silhouette suddenly appears in the bathroom doorway and and strife glances up, briefly enraptured by the halo of light glowing at your back. A fellow human might have likened you to an angel. Strife, however, knows that none of the feathery bastards could hold a candle to you.

Garbed in clean shorts that smell distinctly of you, and not copper, you step out into your bedroom. “How’d a demon manage to make you mad? You’re like, the champ of not getting mad. It’s like your superpower.”

“Yeah, well..” he mutters, turning his helm away, “This time, she went too far.”

You’re quiet as you flop down onto the bed next to him, your eyes flicking between his downturned head to the fists that are clenched like vices at his sides, metal claws gripping fistfuls of your duvet so tightly, you’re worried he might end up poking holes in the cover.

Whatever had been said to him must have been bad if he’s this riled up.

Biting your lip, you let out a pensive hum and lean backwards, your fingers brushing over a soft lump near the headboard. At once, your eyes grow wide and your lips stretch into a sly grin as your hand closes over something fluffy and familiar.

Strife is still busy stewing when he’s suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a face that’s shoved promptly into his line of sight. He blinks, drawing his head away to properly see what you’re holding up in front of him.

He can’t contain a chuckle once he realises that it’s none other than your old, toy horse, dangling in front of him with its little, black ears flopping forwards to cover a pair of button eyes.

Allowing a smile to grace the edge of his mouth, the Horseman wordlessly relaxes his grasp on your duvet in favour of reaching out to gently take the soft toy out of your hands, lowering it down into his lap.

“I thought David Hasselhoof might make you feel better,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his companionably.

The Nephilim simply smiles, stroking his palm over the horse’s fuzzy mane.

“Hey, Strife?”

“Mmm?”

You fiddle with your fingernail for a moment, dropping your eyes to the bed and taking a breath before you ask, “What did the demon say that made you so angry?”

It isn’t as though you want to pry. But having your friend turn up at your house in the dead of night with his stomach torn open warrants a couple of questions, in your honest opinion.

The Horseman’s brows knit together underneath his helm and he shifts slightly, twisting away from you further until you can’t even see the lights of his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost dare to say that he looks shy. An impossibility, frankly.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, a far cry from the normal, strident tone you’re used to hearing. “She, uh, she might’ve made a couple of threats about you.. Bad ones.”

You wait for him to elaborate, but for some time, he doesn’t utter another word, prompting you to ask, “And?”

You very nearly reel backwards into your headboard when Strife whips around to face you. “And?!” he echoes, incredulous, “The Hell d’you mean ‘and?’ Isn’t that enough of a reason?!”

Taken aback, you lift your hands in a placating gesture and stammer, “Woah! I - I just meant... Well, it’s not like I haven’t been threatened before? Just seems like a weird thing for you to get so angry about.”

Without warning, the enormous Nephilim lurches to his feet, the cuddly horse left to tumble, forgotten out of his lap. “Did you not hear me?” he snaps, “She. Threatened. You!”

“A-and that... made you mad?”

“Did - Of course it did!” he all but howls, his voice cracking as it raises in pitch, “She made me listen to all the god damn, sick things she wanted to do to you when she found you! She said - she said, I’d never see you again!” Roughly, he drags his clawed fingertips through his spiky, black hair and exclaims, “Next thing I know, I’m droppin’ Redemption and Mercy, I’ve got her heart in my fist and I’m... I’m...”

He trails off, knocked out of stride by his own admission. You remain silent, pressed up against your head board with the blankets clutched to your chest.

When he notices you staring up at him, small and wary amongst the sheets, the frustration saps from him like water circling the drain. “So... so yeah,” he huffs, his shoulders slumping and a great wave of shame crashing over him, “I got a little mad! I got a little pissed off. Cause I didn’t like hearin’ someone say they were gonna hurt my friend.”

And with that, he just... deflates, not unlike a punctured tyre. All the hot air inside him is dispelled with every heave of his mighty chest whilst he peers down at you, feeling the weight of your stare upon him.

Guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth, rancid and acidic.

You look so..

...scared.

Sometimes Strife forgets that to you, he’s an unassailable figure from biblical legend, a bringer of the end days and an ancient gunman with a body count higher than there are grains of sand on the earth. Of course you’re going to be scared of him when he’s raising his voice at you and towering over you like this. And all because he’d had the life scared out of him in the first place.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to -” The words die on his lips and he sighs, defeatedly casting his eye over towards your bedroom window. He doesn’t want to leave you, not without knowing that his siblings have dealt with the remaining threats to your life. But... “I’ll just.. I’ll go.”

Turning his back on you, the Horseman bends to retrieve his discarded cuirass and takes a step towards the window, but a voice, thin as the cobwebs in the corner of your room, stops him in his tracks.

“Strife.”

The Horseman doesn’t move. he just stares at the darkness through your curtains.

Minutes pass without another word said between you. He remains stubbornly silent, hardly daring to breathe let alone respond to his name, until eventually, he hears a soft huff and rustling behind him.

Footsteps pad across the room and your scent grows stronger as you draw near, wafting over him like an intoxicating aroma before your hand places itself into his palm and he instinctively curls his fingers around it, shuddering at the feel of your soft skin pressed like silk against his roughened hide.

Your tiny, fragile hand... Creator, he really is just a beast standing next to you, isn’t he? The last time he felt this monstrous was..

No. Strife abruptly slams the shutters of his mind down around any thoughts of the Animus. Now is not the time to let dredge up old memories.

Luckily, your voice breaks through the haze and keeps him grounded. “Come on, big guy. Stay here, please?"

“You want me to stay?” he chokes out a laugh, “Even after I scared you?”

“Scared me? What?” It’s your turn to sound confused. “You didn’t scare me Strife, you shocked me. I’ve never seen you this serious before.”

The Horseman half turns to face you, giving you a glimpse of his warm, golden eyes. “And, I’ve never had a best friend before.” he admits slowly, hearing a soft intake of breath behind him.

“Wait?... I’m your best friend?”

With your hand still in his, Strife steps around slowly to face you, shooting you a quizzical glance. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t exactly have a plethora of friends to choose from, so the competition isn’t that fie- Oof!”

He’s violently interrupted by a soft, squishy body colliding with his.

You fling your arms around the stunned Horseman’s waist and bury your face into his chest, momentarily forgetting about his injury. Strife, meanwhile, has to employ every molecule of willpower he owns to refrain from flinching, fearing that you’ll let go if he does. He can’t ignore how high his heart just jumped at the feeling of you pressed against him, nor the way his soul soars after realising that you still trust him enough to get this close.

It’s something that both he and his siblings are all having to get used to, these impromptu hugs.

Fury had almost flipped you over her shoulder and onto the ground the first time you came at her with your arms open wide, assuming you were going in for an attack.

War had pulled the most remarkable face, a mixture of alarm and wary delight that caused Strife to keel over in hysterics when you threw your arms around his broad stomach.

Death... Well, Strife hadn’t been around to witness your first hug with his oldest brother, but he imagines it must have been like hugging a block of cold stone.

And Strife? Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first hug you gave him. It was so tight and comfortable, and for all of a moment, the only things that existed were the two of you. Inside the binding circle of your arms, his troubles couldn’t touch him, the anguish of his sins took a backseat and he became convinced that he could live happily and peacefully until the end of time trapped in your silent embrace.

The sentiment hasn’t dulled with frequency either. Every hug he receives is as powerful and intoxicating as the last.

This one is no different.

Strife's large, thickset arms carefully raise to your delicate back and shoulders, where he simply folds himself around you, pushing the nose of his helm into your soft, messy hair and drawing in a long, deep breath, earning your snort of amusement.

“You a big fan of coconut, then?”

“Is that what that smell is?” he mumbles, feeling the world settle around him as his eyes slip shut, “S'different from last time...”

“...Setting aside the fact that you remember what my hair smelled like last time we hugged.. I ran out of apple shampoo.”

“Mmm.” He trails off, humming into your hair, a sound that rumbles straight through you and leaves the top of your head tingling.

It takes your brain another few seconds to recall the injury on his torso.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, leaning back and instantly finding your progress blocked by the Horseman's sturdy forearms. “I'm sorry, I didn't think -”

“- Eh, s'fine,” he cuts you off.

“It's not! I forgot, you need to be resting it!”

Strife grumbles his displeasure when you suddenly become very wriggly. “Strife, let go. You should be resting, not standing.”

Cracking one eye open, he roves his gaze over towards your bed. “Resting, huh? …. Not a bad idea.”

Without warning, he stoops down, and for the second time tonight, you find yourself suddenly swept up off your feet, bleating out a garbled squawk of alarm. “Stop picking me up! You'll start bleeding again!”

Smirking to himself, the Horseman takes two, loping steps towards your bed and lowers you down amongst the folds of the duvet, taking great pleasure in crawling over the top of you to get to the other side, armour and all. It isn't the first time he's rested in your bed, usually following a long night of playing your video games and catching up on all the human things he's been missing out on, and it likely won't be the last.

The bed springs creak despondently as he lifts his corner of the duvet and flops heavily onto his side next to you, grinning at the unimpressed glare you're shooting him.

“I like your bed,” he announces, burrowing himself deeper beneath the duvet, “You got a lot of pillows. And-”

His hand rustles beneath the covers for a moment before he winks... and slowly draws out David Hasselhoof, wiggling him back and forth in front of your eyes. “There's room for a threesome.”

“Oh my god. Goodnight, Strife!” Your lips quiver until you give in and crack a genuine smile, grabbing a pillow and whapping it softly down onto his helm. You get no resistance from the Horseman at all in retaliation. He merely lays there with his head hidden, black tufts of hair sticking out from behind your pillow as his shoulders bounce around a throaty chuckle.

Leaving him where he is, you roll over, turn off the fairy lights and plunge your bedroom into cozy, unassailable darkness.

A thick silence falls over the two of you, and the back of your neck begins to prickle, sensing without a shadow of a doubt that the Horseman's eyes are open and watching you. Sure enough, you peel your eyelids apart and find that your far wall is faintly illuminated by the golden light that emanates from his gaze.

Rolling your eyes, you resign yourself to a long night of fighting for your covers and kicking a wriggling Horseman back over onto his own side of the bed. And yet... if it's him, if it's Strife, it most likely won’t bother you in the slightest.

The alarm clock on your bedside table steadily ticks over to the three o'clock mark and you finally feel sleep crawl up behind your eyes. Just as you think you might nod off, however, the bed shakes ever so slightly, and behind you, there's the sound of shuffling sheets. It stops just as suddenly as it starts and you snort, chalking it up to a certain, restless Horseman trying to get used to the human-sized bed.

Several more minutes pass.

The shuffling starts up again, then it stops.

The same thing happens again a few more minutes later and your eyes snap open when something cool and solid nudges gently into the back of your head and you hear a quiet sniff before the whole bed shudders as the enormous Horseman laying upon it releases a monstrously low rumble of contentment.

-----

Strife leaves his helm right behind you all night, not that you'd know until the morning however, when you jerk awake to your bedroom door suddenly slamming open and Death thundering inside. He takes one look at his brother laying at your back and promptly begins a lecture that you're fairly certain will be the favoured topic of neighbourhood gossip for some time to come.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #Strife #reader #fluff #sharing a bed!#monster boyfriend #interspecies relationships #blood #injury #whump

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