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grugruel · 5 months

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Let the Light in

Pairing: priest!Bucky x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: On the day of your wedding, you excpect to love your husband, not fall for the priest.

You'd never been a believer. But when your marrige spiraled into darkness, you had to find light elsewere. So you asked the Lord for help, and He answered.

Ironically enough, He gave you a most devout follower, the priest.

Word count: ca 4k

Warnings: fluff, angst, blasphemy, soft!priest!bucky, pinv sex, oral sex (f receiving), passionate sex, fingering, thigh-riding, adultry, praise (m receiving), priest kink.

AN: its been proof read! I dont understand how yall read it before the fact, my misspellings were crazy. I also edited it a bit, gave yall about 200-300 words more.

I stod silently on the sidewalk, with my back to the road. Numbly observing the scene in front of me as I waited. Cars were rushing past behind me, slowing as they noticed the crowd.

The chilly autumn winds blew my coat off of my stocking clad legs, revealing them to the elements. I couldnt be bothered to care.

The cold did not affect me anymore, I was strung out on feeling.

I watched my husband struggle, and the guests scramble to help him. They got him on his feet, and his best man slung an arm around him to keep him from falling again. My eyes brimmed with tears, ready to fall any second now.

I felt a hand touch the small of my back in silent support. A palm pressed firmly into the arch below, fingertips curling, rouching the fabric of my dress. I closed my eyes and all my troubles were wisked away for but a second, until I heard the guests approach and the hand left me. I opened my eyes to a grim sight.

We met in college, my husband and I. He'd been lovely and attentive when we first met, he made me fall in love with him. He proposed to me on our graduation, and i'd never been happier.

Unfortunately though, it didnt last that long.

As we were fresh out of school, both with stellar scores and brand new degrees. We got our dream jobs, and bought ourselves our dream home.

Everything was perfect, until he got fired. Why? He wouldnt tell me, he left me in the dark, refusing to tell me himself.

Naturally, I grew suspicious.

So I called his former boss, who told me that they'd caught him with his secretary bent over his desk. They said he'd gotten a reputation within his business and would be experiencing difficulties in finding a new job for himself. My crying increased gradually through out the call, this was the first time hed let me down after all. His boss was very apologetic and so was my fiancé.

He found me sat on the floor with phone in hand, a complete mess of tears and running mascara. Immedietly showing worry, 'Whats going on, whats happened?' He asked, thinking somebody died. But when I glared at him, repaying his silence with my own, he understood. He stuttered an apology, his words a flurry of explanations and sorrys, sounding truly regretful.

So I forgave him, silly me.

With time, bitterness manifested within him. Resentment over the fact that I was well liked and did good work at my own job. It led him down a pityfull path, finding solace in alcohol, resentment turning into lousey drunkeness. I should've left him, but chose to forgive him. I loved him, despite all.

Eventually he found a new job, nowehere near the prestige of his old one. But it calmed his drinking.

When he sobered slightly, he apologized continously. Telling me he promised to get better and told me he wanted to have our ceremony, because I deserved it. Foolishly, I belived him. He stayed sober several weeks before the wedding, and I thought it could be a new start.

But here we are now.

I stood behind the doors of the nave, inhaling and exhaling big shaky breaths, trying to gather strength for what I was about to throw myself into.

The priest, father Barnes. The one who would be marrying us, came to me before I walked down the aisle.

'Miss.' He began, his eyes pleading as he took my hands into his, 'Its now my place, I know. But your betrothed-'

'Youre right, its not.' I cut him off, the idea of discussing my fiancés indiscretions with the priest was not appealing. 'I apologize father.' I sighed and met his eyes, 'Hes drunk isnt he?'

The priest tilted his head to the side, realising I was already well aquainted with the vice, 'Well, yes. . .' He said, sounding apologetic.

I nodded my head, deep in thought, 'Alright, lets not waste anymore time then.'

'You're still going ahead with the wedding?' He asked me, an incredulous expression shaping his face.

I looked down, studying the intricate details of my wedding dress. Id picked it myself, my favourite flowers covered it. That man of mine doesnt know my favourite in anything, nor would he notice them on my dress.

A melancholic smile covered my lips, 'You must think me foolish father.' I whispered under my breath, chuckling quietly.

He shook his head and moved one of his hands to my chin, tilting my face to meet his. The other grabbed my hands, and squeezed them, 'I think youre strong.' He told me, a reassuring smile on his lips.

'He promised me he would get better.' My voice was meak, a tear streaking my face.

'You're a good woman.' He breathed, letting go of my hands to cup my face. He leveled his head with mine, his tall stature forcing him to hunch as his eyes locked with mine, 'Too, good.' He whispered, 'And, Its not my business, thats true. . .' Another tear fell, and he gently stroked it away with his thumb, 'But he does not deserve your kindness.'

My cheeks burned hot, a blush crept up my face. I had not heard such kind words in a long time. I could not controll my crying any longer, unstoppable tears came rolling down my cheeks, 'I have to believe him, father, I have to try.' I told him quietly, hating how desperate my voice sounded.

'I love him.'

He cringed at the words, furrowing his brows 'I admire your devotion.' He said gently, 'Do you want more time? Im sure we can wait a little longer.' He tried, but I shook my head.

'No, I dont want to keep the guests waiting.' I took a deep breath, 'Do I look ok?' I asked him.

He nodded, but pulled the cuff over his hand and dabbed my cheeks dry.

His eyes flickered over my face, studying my features, my wet eyes and rosy cheeks. He leaned in, kissed my cheek and whispered 'Angelic.' His hands fell to my bare shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

He turned around and as he was about the leave I grabbed hold of his wrist, carefully tugging him back. He faced me and I let go of him realising that perhaps it wasnt appropriate of me. 'I just-' I began, but my voice broke. He met my eyes and pulled me into his embrace, 'Thank you, father.' I whispered against his chest.

He rested his head on your shoulder and rubbed your back gently, holding onto the fabric of your dress, rubbing it between his fingers. Studying the beautiful pattern. He slid his hands up your arms, feeling a sudden urge to kiss the bare skin beneath him. He pulled back hastily, clearing his throat as he silently rebuked himself.

'I must take my place dear.' He said, stroking a piece of hair behind my ear. He gave me a last smile, then left, taking his place by the altar.

I heard the music starting and the muffled sound of the crowd standing up. I sighed, steadied my breathing, and opened the doors to the nave. Everyone turned around, looking at me. Whispers rumbled through the crowd as I began walking, their stares were making me nervous.

Through the gloom of the church, light shone through the windows at the altar. I looked at him for comfort, handsome as he was, I met his eyes and found it within them.

He could not tear his eyes from you, you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, courageous and proud, you walked down the aisle. When your eyes met his, he smiled proudly. Hoping you would find some comfort in it, and you found it.

As I approached the altar, I tore my eyes from his and looked at my fiancé. His best man holding him upright, otherwise slumping over. He smiled sloppily at me, I gave him a strained smile back.

The ceremony was over quickly, my husband stumbled through his vows and his kiss tasted of smoke and whiskey. In fact, the entirety of him was drenched in the odor.

I smiled and thanked everyone as they congratulted us, and carefully, tiptoed around the subject of my husband.

I hurried to change into my reception dress, it was all black. Black coat, dress, heels and stockings. Fitting, I thought. As this felt more like a funeral than a wedding, burrying the woman I once was.

People were drinking, laughing and dancing. The reception was doing a wonderful job of keeping everyone cheery, everyone except me. I sat silently by our table, watching my husband as he kept drinking and his men trying to calm him down. He had barely spoken a word to me, he was to drunk to stand, to drunk to have our first dance. I felt myself sinking into oblivion as my polite smiles and thank yous were running out.

But someone approched me, snapping me out of the darkness. I looked up, and the light returned.

He reached his hand out to me, 'May I have this dance?' He asked, his white collar stark against his black shirt.

'You may.' I smiled, the first genuine smile I'd given anyone since the night begun.

I laid my hand in his and he led me to the edge of the dance floor, somewhere we could be at peace. In our dark colors we went unseen, tucked away from prying eyes.

I snaked my arms around his neck and his arms circled my waist, pulling me tightly against him. A bit unorthodox perhaps. But I didnt mind and neither did he, it seemed. I leaned my head against him as we swayed to the music, basking in eachothers prescence.

He sensed that you werent interested in talking, but rather needed a shoulder to lean on. Someone to hold you up, as your ungrateful husband couldnt even do that for himself.

For several songs, we just held eachother. Until the evening began winding down and we had to depart.

'I think this was a mistake.' He whispered.

'Which part?' I asked, and he sighed.

'Dont hesitate to come to me if you need anyhting.' He said quietly, 'Please.' he pleaded. I nodded, thinking id never take him up on his offer.

Now, I stood on the street. Still feeling the priests hand on my back although he'd already taken a few secure steps back.

I watched as my husband being carried to our car, as we were headed for our honeymoon. Two weeks in rome, I wish I could truthfully say I was excited. They shoved him into the back, and once again congratulated us with cheapish smiles. I walked around the car and opened the door, about to sit down when a hand slid into mine. I looked up and my eyes met his beautiful blues once again. He assisted me into the car, lending me his strong arm for support as I sat down. His hand slid out of mine, and a note was left in my palm, reflexicely I closed my hand around it. 'Anything.' He whispered and backed away, closing the door gently.

Our car drove off as the guests were waving us of, but all I could think about was the priest disappearing in the distance.

I opened the note, written down was his number and adress along with a few intricately drawn flowers.

I smiled to myself, quickly stashing it away in my pocket, afraid my husband would see. But as I looked at him, I realised. He was dead asleep, snoring even.

I opened my hand, tracing my fingertips along my palm. Trying to recreate the feeling of his hand in mine, his gentle, yet firm touch on my skin. I sighed, feeling my tears returning.

I cried silently, afraid to wake him. The driver looked at me through his rearview mirror, I met his eyes and quickly averted my gaze, crying even harder, but I couldnt even do that in peace. God, what had I done. I leaned my head against the seat, closing my eyes. When suddenly, I felt fingers on my knee. I shut my eyes harder, begging for it to be my imagination. But it wasnt.

'My, beautiful wife.' He drawled, tracing a finger along my jaw as his hand slid up my thigh. He sat forward, leaning towrd the drivers compartment and shut the hatch.

I opened my eyes and faced him, 'Aw, crying of joy sweetheart?' He asked, he was so delusional it was scary. I nodded, and feigned a smile which he returned lazily, then leaned in to kissed me.

I closed my eyes again, canceling out the taste and smell of liqour, shutting my ears to his voice.

And when his finger reached under my dress, It no longer felt like him. My husbands face was no longer my husbands, his voice and touch was someone elses.

All of a sudden my core was aching for more.

His kisses on my skin felt like heaven, his touch like fire and when he pulled me on top of him. I opened my eyes, and was met with blue, black and white.

Weeks went by and my thoughts never left father Barnes, whenever my husband made love to me, I made love to a priest.

Eventually his drinking subdued and he started taking care of himself, but grew more distant by the day.

It did actually make my existence bareable.

But there came a day, when I got home from work early and things were not as they should. The were heels in the doorway and clothes strewn on the floor. As I followed their trail, I found my husband and his secretary at the end of them. Naked, sweaty and monaing, in our bed, in our home. I was quiet, lost for words, but they mustve noticed my presence.

Because they stopped and threw the sheets over themselves, covering up. 'Sweetheart, its not what it seems.' He managed, struggling to clme up with an excuse. God, the stumache on that man. I felt like screaming, like cursing him and his entire bloodline. But he wasnt worth it.

I turned on my heel and he scrambled out of bed, dragging the sheet with him as he followed me out of the house, apologizing prefusely.

I shut him out, rage filling me as I got in my car and drove away. I drove to the only adress that came to mind.

I walked up to his house and knocked on the door, a few moments passed and he opened.

With wide eyes he looked at me, unable to hide his surpise. 'I uhm, I-' I stammered, my own surpise catching up to me. I hadnt had time to think this through, I acted on pure instinct. 'He cheated on me.' I got the words out, finally taking a breath as I finally understood their meaning. Misery overtook my rage, and my eyes welled as I tried to explain myself. 'I apologize for barging in on you father.' I started, 'Ive been thinking about you and I-' rambling, all my thoughts and feelings poured out of me. In the doorway of this poor mans home.

He reached out to me and pulled me into a hug, backing away from the door and let it fall shut behind me. He rested his head on top of mine as one of his hands held my head against his chest, stroking my hair. The warmth of his home embracing me.

'Can I confess something father?' I asked him as I laid my arms around him, much like our dance a few weeks ago.

'Anything.' He answered, kissing the top of my head.

'Ive sinned.'

He pulled back with a confused look on his face, but didnt let go. 'Lets hear it.' He ordered patiently.

'Ive. . . Been thinking of another man.' I whispered, looking deep into his eyes. 'During actions that should only take place between husband and wife.' I told him quietly, and his face grew pale. 'Ive had an emotional affair with this man, unbeknownst to him.' My breathing turned heavy, as my gaze switched to his lips, 'But, me and this man. Were both bound by vows you see.' I said and let go of him, understanding my words as I said them, and stepped back. Suddenly regretting coming here, as I felt rejection was imminent. 'Mine are already broken, but his are not and he cannot break them. He would not.'

'You should let the man speak for himself.' He said, serious in tone. His gaze locked in on me, as he stepped closer. 'I havent been able to stop thinking about you, no matter how hard I've tried.' He whispered, laying his hands on my hips. 'Ive never seen a woman so beautiful walking down the aisle, god himself mustve blessed you.' I snaked my hands around his shoulders, burrying them in his hair. 'Im hoping he would bless us, too.' Leaning in, his lips were a ghost over mine. 'I would care for you, in a way your husband never could. He does not deserve you.' He leaned his forehead agagaist mine, 'I'd work everyday to deserve your love, your kindness, your presence.' He said quietly against my lips, planting a gentle kiss on them and pulling back slightly to give me room. But I chased his lips, returning the kiss feverishly. Grabbing a fistful of his hair as I pulled him impossibly closer. His hands roamed my back, reaching under my shirt to undo my bra. It fell to the floor and he pulled my shirt over my head in one quick motion, making me gasp.

I removed the collar of his shirt with my teeth and ripped his black shirt open, burrying my head in the crook of his neck, 'Youre not a beginner, are you father? I asked, between kisses. Breathing heavily as I latched onto his skin, sucking at the sweet spot between his neck and collarbone.

He moaned, a smirk shaping his lips, 'Saints also sin from time to time.' he breathed, his hands falling to my ass and lifted me into his arms. I chuckled, letting go of his neck and circled my legs around his hips. I pushed my bare breasts against him and he burried his face in them, in turns taking them into his mouth. 'Where?' His voice came muffled by my skin.

'Everywhere.' I answered.

I could feel his grin against my skin, as he nipped my nipple with his teeth, making me yelp. He walked us toward his bedroom, and laid me down on his bed. He stood back, studying me as he took his shirt and pants off. I unbuttoned my own pants and shimmied out of them, raising myself onto my elbows, watching him as he took me in. His eyes roamed my body, thighs, hips, stumache, breasts. He loved all of me, 'Youre perfect.' He said, lust in his eyes as he climbed on top of me. 'I need you.' He whispered.

'You'll have me.' I told him and flipped him over. Positioning him against the headboard as I stradled his thigh, grinning wickedly and leaned forward, kissing his jaw. 'But first-' I whispered against his ear, 'I want to test your self control.' He looked confused, and I began grinding my clit against his thigh, a whimper escaping me. His hands flew to my hips to help me along, but I grabbed them and led them up to the headboard. I leveled my face with his, ghosting my lips over his as I had him hold onto the board, 'No touching.' I whispered and pecked his lips. I leaned back and my grinding resumed, I grabbed his thighs for support as the heat from the friction was making me swoon. I leaned my head back, biting my lip from the pleasure and when I looked back at him, he was holding onto the board for dear life. The muscles in his arms and jaw clenching as he fought himself to stay still, his eyes were running up and down my body.

The way your hips swayed and breasts bounced, it was sucking all the restraint out of him. His hands were itching to touch you, to just feel your skin under his fingertips for a moment. It would keep him fed for the rest of his life.

I hummed, 'Im- im gonna-' I stammered, my breaths frenzied as I was closing in on my orgasm. The crazy in his eyes made me smile devilishly, I felt evil, in the best way. My hips stuttered against his thigh, my ruts becoming faster and shorter as I was approaching my release. When I looked at him, his eyes were pleading, begging for permission, but it was to late. I rushed over the edge in a second, collapsing onto him, panting hard as I was catching my breath.

'May I?' He asked, his voice strained.

I kissed his chest and answered, 'Yes, please. You did so good.' He grunted at the praise, surprising me. He grabbed my ribs and threw me under him, hurridly kissing his way down my body until he reached my thighs. Spreading them, he kissed his way up the inside until he reached my panties. Without a second thought he ripped them apart and burried his face in my cunt. Tasting me, licking my juices, sliding his tongue through my folds and kissing my clit. A string of curses fell from my lips, as he pushed a finger inside of me, carefully sliding it in and out. Then adding another, and eventually a third, he thrusted them into me, my moaning telling him he was on the right track. He curled them into my spot and I nearly screamed.

'Just like that, good job.' I breathed and he moaned against my clit. What fun. He reached into his boxers and stroked himself, the sight made me mad. And for the second time, I came tumbling over the edge. He was not far behind, coming into his own hand, drenching himself in his seed. I grabbed his arm and pulled his hand closer to me, licking a stripe of his hand. He grunted at the sight, spurring me on as I took his fingers into my mouth. Sucking him clean as he watched, furrowing his brows, he became plagued by lust.

I pulled him closer to me, meeting his lips in another kiss as he pulled off his boxers. I reached down, stroking him as I lined him up with my entrance, 'You did such a good job, father.' His head perked at the praise, like a puppy being told hes a good boy. Gratefully pecking my face, cheek, chin and jaw, below my ear and neck. He put his weight on me, we couldnt possibly get any closer to one another. 'I need you in me father.' I told him bluntly, and leveled his head with mine, sliding inside. Kissing me mean while and I moaned into his mouth, sharing my breath with him. I laid my hands on his hips, telling him to move by pulling and pushing. Helping him set a gentle but firm pace, he lowered his head to the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. 'Let me hear you father, dont hold back.' I whispered and appreciatively he grunted against my skin, moaning in my ear. It was fiendish, it was fantastic. 'Deeper, please.' I asked, pulling on his hips to drive him deeper and using the weight of his entire body he thrusted into me, in rythm with his grunts as our bodiess moved together.

'Tell me im good, please.' He begged, nuzzling his face into my neck.

I smiled, 'Youre being so good for me father.' I whispered into his hair.

'Thank you.' He whimpered, putting even more force to his thrusts as he traced my collarbone with kisses, all the way to my shoulder, repeating "Thank you." Over and over again inbetween his kisses. His thrusts were coming faster as he was closing in on his orgasm, driving me over the edge with him. 'I- im- im close.' He stuttered faintly.

'So am I, almost there father.' His pace hastened as his hand slithered between our bodies, finding my clit and circled it. 'God' I moaned, spots specking my vision as the priests thrusts became frenzied. He pinched my skin in warning, reminding me not to take the lords name in vain. Then we came together, and he collapsed on top of me.

'Im sorry for swearing, father. You bring it out of me.' I whispered.

He chuckled, 'Youre forgiven.' Throughout the night, we made love on the couch, the floor, the kitchen table and shower.

Eventually, we got back into bed. Holding eachother tightly as we drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up late the next day, there was a vase of flowers on the bedside table with a note under it, the letter "-B" was written on it.

I unfolded it and he had written me a message, "I had to go to church, but didnt want to wake you. I hope on seeing you later, please stay if you want to. Id love to come home to you. -PS, Your favourites."

I smiled happily and smelled the bouqet of tulips, a soft, warm feeling spreading throughout my body.

For a long time love had felt dark to me, it had felt cold and lonely, but now. . .

I had let the light in, he was my light.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky #bucky smut #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfiction #bucky imagine #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst

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deancaspinefest · 14 days

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Congratulations to all of the incredible artists and authors who participated in the eighth round of the Dean/Cas Pinefest!

Over the past month, 34 authors and 23 artists teamed up to share a collective 1,420,869 words of pine-filled fic and 117 works of art. The talent and artistry of this fandom absolutely floors us every year, and we're so happy that you're all still here sharing your wonderful creations with us 🌲

With that in mind, we'll definitely be back for more! An official announcement for the 2025 Pinefest -- our ninth year -- will come sometime in July. Follow us here on Tumblr to make sure you don’t miss out on any details!

Under the cut, you’ll find links to every fic & art masterpost from the 2024 round, and you can also check out the collection on Ao3. Make sure to let the authors and artists know how much you enjoyed their creations with a like, kudos, or best of all, a reblog, rec, or comment!

following the light

One Drop, when What You Need is the Ocean

Of Dust, Gunpowder and Holy Water

Books, Pies, and Roommates

A Fairy Tale Cliche!

All in Honesty

Another Kind of Memory

Not our kind of thing

Different Currencies

In The Dog Days

Whatever Makes You Happy

Significant severe

all that we intend

Something Happening Somewhen

Two Princes

Broken (The Worst Is Over Now)

Well, I Never Been To Heaven

The Reel Deal

A Fabulous Evening's Apocalypse

Foxfire

Super Double Bus

Suddenly I See

Lavender Fireflies

Heartland Flyer

Something Blue

Wouldn't It Be Nice

If Only You Return to Me

all out to sea

Dear Father

Opposites Distract

Faking It?

Given to Fly

Take The Long Way Home

A Glacial Pace

All caught up on this year’s crop of pine? There are 694 more works of art and 219 more fics to be found in the previous seven Pinefest rounds -- and if you're into numbers, you can find a full breakdown of this and past year’s stats here!

Until next time… happy pining!

#destiel fic #deancas fic #destiel art #deancas art #deancas masterpost #destiel masterpost #deancas pinefest #pinefest 2024 #dcpf 2024 #destiel challenge #deancas challenge #deancas fanfic #destiel fanfic

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joojconverts · 10 months

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TSM to TS3 Conversion of Random Medieval Garments

A TSM to TS3 conversion compilation of several previously unconverted clothes for all your Sims! I finished this project about two months ago but wanted to save it for a special occasion... and what's more special than a followers' gift? lol. Hope you like it!

This is part ONE of my 2000 followers' gift. Yes, there is more, and it’s coming very soon! :)

💖 💖 💖

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Based on my testing, I haven't found any issues with the clothes. They mostly use the same bone assignment system, and the only difference is how TSM handles skirts, which I adapted for TS3. If you come across anything, please let me know!

LIGHTING GLITCHES ONLY APPEAR ON CAS! (THE BURNT PAJAMAS LOOK ESPECIALLY BAD THERE)

* Note that teens and elders have neck gaps. This is sadly the price for having them available! For teens, try using this and this slider by gruesim! I might convert these for those specific age groups someday, but for now, I just activated them!

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ALL OG CREDITS GO TO EA AND MAXIS! IT’S NOT MY MESHES, AND IT’S NOT MY TEXTURES, I JUST CONVERTED THEM TO THE SIMS 3!

+ @aprilrainsimblr FOR THE EXTRA TEXTURES ON SOME CLOTHES & FOR DOING MOST OF THE WORK IN THE COMMONER WHITE DRESS! THANK YOU SO MUCH APRIL!

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NOTES (PLEASE READ):

As mentioned before, April played a significant role in this project, not only with her support but also with her contributions! The Commoner White Dress was primarily converted by her, and it comes in two versions: the regular one and one with a floor-length skirt! She also added extra presets to certain clothes, such as the Flowing Dress (purple), which has three lace variations! Once again, thank you, April!

IMPORTANT: Except for the burned pajamas for female Sims, you'll need to use the invisible shoes mesh by @danjaley, which you can find here! This is because TSM clothes have feet/shoes attached to them!

In the "Making Sims 3 Medieval" server, I saw an idea for making the Altar Necklace outfit (the one with the cross necklace and purple details) more historically accurate, along with directions on how to do it! So, for those who enjoy super realistic medieval gameplay, I included an edit aiming to achieve that, as shown in the preview! It's only available for male Sims. Hope you enjoy it!

The polycount for all the clothes is relatively low, as they were made similar to TS3's clothes. So don't worry about that and use them without hesitation!

All the clothes have 3-4 recolorable channels! They have many overlays, but I hope that won't bother you because I made everything I wanted to recolor recolorable!

These conversions have a different thumbnail style! I wanted to retain the original TSM thumbnails but added my logo to let you know these are mine! Here's an example thumbnail + the collaborative dress between me and April:

Now, to the download!

SimFileShare | Dropbox

☕ buy me a coffee or become a patron!

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Credits and Special Thanks:

@aprilrainsimblr for the extra textures, mesh work, and overall support!

Everybody at the “Making sims 3 medieval” server for the support and idea for the alternative version of the Altar Necklace outfit!

@danjaley for the circle braid hair and the headscarf - here and here

EA and Maxis - The Sims Medieval

💖 @katsujiiccfinds @simsmedieval-fantasy @kpccfinds @xto3conversionsfinds @emilyccfinds

#ts3cc #s3cc #ts3 cc #tsm to ts3 #sims 3 medieval

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cvlutos · 1 year

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“A Natural Purple Suits You Best”

| 02.23.2022 | 1.2K | Mature Audiences |

Vil Schoenheit X GN!Reader

Summary: Vil works a lot, you know that cause you work for him. But it seems that even the man you work for has his own little secrets. [Pre-read and Idea From: @v-anrouge & my friend, Coco]

Work. Work. Work.

You’ve come to terms that Vil Schoenheit will always, always be a busy man. One who’s has several meetings, several photo shoots, several movie scenes, always moving and always working. Most of those things don’t pertain to you, you simply manage his wardrobe. He tells you the exact outfit needed and you have to prepare it. Make sure that his large walk in closet is organized and categorized correctly, that his clothes get washed perfectly and each item ironed. It’s a taxing job, always having to make sure he’s closet is in order when it seems he buys clothes every single day.

Today, is no different.

Your knees ache from resting on them, organized his multiple pairs of shoes, in alphabetical order, shoe type, and brand. Making sure each are visible and clean. You move easily, having done this job several times before, yet as your placing his newest pairs of heels on a low rack, you accidentally knock over a thick box. All the contents spilling out and scattering across the closet marble floor. Cursing under your breathe, you move to pick clean it all up, before your eyes land on a unfolded deep red lace material. You pick it up, completely unfolding it, it was a lingerie corset, with two flimsy satin straps.

You automatically check the size, and it matches with Vil’s. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head, staring from the corset to the other items. Black garter belts, sheer black stockings, and lacy panties. You knew that Vil had not problem wearing women’s clothing, but to this extent.

You nearly jump out your skin when you hear a familiar voice clearing their throat. Your neck nearly snapping to look at your boss, towering over you with a deep scowl. No words need to be exchanged, simply giving a ‘what on earth are you doing in my stuff’, he’s still clearly on the phone and makes no effort you speak, only ordering you to clean it up with a wave of his finger and leaving his closet speaking to his manager.

You wish you could say that was the last time. But it wasn’t.

From a simple accidental secret to now, a weird common occurrence. Him making no effort to his newest shopping habit. Always making sure you knew how to clean them and maintain his new collect of lingerie. It was embarrassing, the mere thought of Vil trying on the clothes in private, right before bed to do lords knows what.

He calls your name, sending your flying from your thoughts as your stare blankly at his collections of shirts. Having been trying to put on the same button up on the same hanger for the last 10 minutes. You glance at your watch, it’s late, only 9pm and you’ve spent the majority of your day organizing. You hang the shirt up and stiffen a yawn, slipping out the closet into Vil’s bedroom. You don’t look in his direction, blindly answering him as your stack your arms with more shirts that need to be hung up.

“You agree that this looks well.”

“That wha—” Youre voice trails off, staring wide at through the large floor length mirror. Dressed in a lacy deep purple once peice, that clipped at the base of his neck and revealed the entirety of his back, stopping right above his ass. With long thigh length stockings, with frilly skin tight ends that dug lightly into his flesh, kept up by black garter belts that wrapped around his waist. His hair is down, grazing lightly over his shoulders, with a stray stand resting across his face. You’re sure it was purposeful.

“Well?” He turns to face you, waiting for you to answer, and when you can’t find the words, but also can’t look away he takes it as a good sign. “That’s all. You can finish up.” A lazy dismissal as he fiddles with his outfit, making adjustments as your waddle back into the closet.

How are you supposed to work after that.

You don’t.

That’s the answer you settle with, face burning as your try and focus on the straps along his ankles, he seemed lost in thought, leaning against his cushioned chair, with his black heel dig into your thigh as your fingers grazed against his ankles, fixing and adjusting the small silver buckles. You feel like fainitng, even as his own personal fashion, closet caretaker, whatever your damn job is, it has never been this—intimate. Sometimes your do the rare back zipper, maybe do his buttons while he’s focused on something else. But.. to be kneeling before him. You keep your head down, hands dropping your side, mummering a soft ‘done’. Vil doesn’t respond. Merely clicking his tongue, using the toe of his heel to lift your chin, gently forcing your you to look up at him.

“I don’t like when you mumble. Speak clearly.” A shiver runs down your spine, suddenly hyper aware of your own breathe as Vil leans back, hands gently resting along the arms of his hair, and legs crossed, a silk robe covering his body, but loose around his shoulders, revealing his collarbone and a portion of his chest, and with his legs crossed, you could see his bare thighs amd where it meets the skin tight black lingerie. Your eyes shift back to his, and he told his head. Waiting for you to speak.

“I’m done.”

Your voice is shaky, and you feel his shoe leave behind a searing touch as he moves away, ushering you up as he stands. Leading you towards his mirror, his hands gliding over your lower back to where you stood infront of him. Hands clasped together and trying to keep your breathing under control, he stands slightly behind you, eyes moving over your form, inspecting you, before deciding he liked whatever he saw. “I’m certain you’d look amazing in red and black, maybe white,” He’s speaking to himself, his elegant fingers graze over your arms, before moving to place them on your waist, the edges of his fingers, pulling at the ends of your shirt, slipping beneath it.

“Maybe a more natural purple?” There’s a teasing edge, and your sure he doesn’t mean any piece of clothing in his extensive wardrobe. You hold back a hot gasp, eyes flutter as he creeps higher, before resting on your chest. “Is that alright.”

…. Of course it is.

#t.manor.erotic.stories #vil fluff #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit smut #vil x you #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit fluff #twst x gender neutral reader #twst fluff #Twst smut #twisted wonderland smut #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fluff

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hometoursandotherstuff · 2 months

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The 1960 Xanadu in Chatsworth, California is a mystery property. The 7bd, 7ba property has 11 distinct parcels measuring 11.30 acres. There are caves to explore, and interesting buildings. It needs a buyer who will bring it back to life, although at least parts of it are livable while reno is in progress. Asking $6.2M.

The home is made from wood, lots of rocks and even trees.

You'll find walls made of stone, cement floors and wood beams. There's a water feature in the entrance that needs rehab.

On the left is a niche. Ahead is an open space living area.

Work has definitely begun in the main residence.

It looks like the trees come up from the ground and go thru the roof. They've begun to work on it, but I hope they're not covering the stone walls with drywall.

Here's a nice room.

This bedroom has painted brick walls. It's pretty, look at the chandelier.

Here's a large open area. The floor needs attention.

One of the caves. They're pretty big caves.

Inside one of the caves.

There are all sorts of buildings and things around.

More work in progress. It's hard to tell what they're actually doing. I hope they're making it modern with gray and white.

Don't know what that is. Is it a stage?

This is a huge piece of land, and there are several different buildings.

This step says "Heaven And Earth Express For Us Pure Love."

It's so expensive, that I can't imagine how much more would have to be invested in the buildings to rehab them.

This looks like a weird little house.

Entrance to another residence looks like a salvage yard.

Here's another cave entrance.

I wonder if this a garden stand.

The road leading up to the property is scenic.

Very rocky terrain.

There are 11 parcels of land, measuring 11.30 acres, but the description also says that the entire plot is about 16 acres, all totaled.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/585-Box-Canyon-Vall-Chatsworth-CA-91311/2056118994_zpid/

#mountain homes #compounds #fixer uppers #unusual homes #unique homes #houses #house tours #home tour #stone homes

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caffeine-clouds · 1 year

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Sonic Characters At Parties

In the spirit of the fact it's my birthday, teehee -wanted to make a headcanon post about what the characters do/how they they act at parties (not necessarily birthday ones!)

Sonic: This man is the life of the party (Pt. 1) - in the wise words of Kesha, the party don't start until he walks in. He's loud, he breakdances, he belts in karaoke, and he shovels food in his face. Get him on the music because he's about to play the sickest beats. However, this comes at the cost of Sonic needing a total 'me' day to himself after. He fucks off and runs to spend time all day by himself in nature to recharge his social battery.

He's a professional troll when invited to fancy gatherings - and will find a way to play innapropriate music on the speakers.

Tails: A lot more muted compared to his friend, but he tries to get involved with the party in every way he can. He'll join Sonic on the dance floor and somehow can do a robot dance better than Omega can (everyone is still trying to figure out how that works). He won't sing karaoke unless he's singing in a group though, and in the case of birthday parties - this fox WILL find a way to sneak an extra slice of cake. Will also help Sonic in his music antics at fancy gatherings.

Knuckles: In most instances, he stands awkwardly by the snacks like an NPC in the corner not knowing what to do with himself until he's dragged to the dance floor by his more extroverted friends. Sonic drags Knuckles into a dance battle and they become the centre of the attention because these boys can DANCE. Somehow they end the night on the karaoke stage singing a duet of Breaking Free from High School Musical - screaming the lyrics to each other off-key, but pouring their souls into the performance.

Amy: She planned the party - without her - there isn't a party. She knows everyone's favourite snacks and everyone cheers when they see her reveal whatever cake she made for their birthday. She's a fellow life of the party (Pt. 2) - getting herself involved with the dancing and while not the greatest singer- gives her all in karaoke. She's also insanely good at party games and you know for a fact that she's going to find a way to incorporate truth or dare into the night.

Rouge: Girl has a mission, okay? And that's to stir up as much chaos as possible. She's life of the party (Pt. 3) - and uses the opportunity to get as much gossip as possible. She causes trouble and has so much fun doing it - last time, she managed to make a food fight break out and it was the time of everyone's lives. She basically wins almost any party game she joins but that's usually because she's shamelessly cheating. Either way, she also enjoys dancing and singing in the karaoke - and has got a pretty decent voice actually.

If she's ever invited out somewhere high class, girl is leaving that party several times richer.

Shadow: He warps in, takes a slice of cake, and leaves. Rouge signed his name in the happy birthday card, that's enough right?

He made one exception to this on Rouge's last birthday party where he actually joined in on things. He spent the first half brooding in the corner with a plastic cup of punch until the Sonic and Knuckles dance battle broke out. Sonic taunted Shadow to get involved - and get involved he did. No one could have been prepared for how fucking good Shadow was - putting Sonic and Knuckles to shame. Was that the end of the surprises? No, because he busted out broadway vocals during karaoke. Perks of being the Ultimate Life Form.

Silver: In complete contrast to the above hedgehog, Silver has a great time at parties - but he sucks ass at dancing. He's giving it his all but he's totally off time and his movements are just... very bizzarre, or they're just giving nothing. They're the equivelent of the "go white boy go" meme. But he's trying his best and he's having such a good time that no one can fault him. He also doesn't mind giving karaoke a try but isn't amazing at it either, but nothing can kill this man's vibes.

Blaze: She's a lot more reserved in parties compared to her friends and tends to stand off to the side a bit while everyone else is being loud and wacky. She CAN dance... but her dancing style is more ballet than anything else. She joins in a bit but usually goes off the dance floor after a couple of dances, happy to linger by the snacks. However, she has beautiful vocals in karaoke - and the party takes a moment to slow down as Blaze treats them to a soft ballad.

Omega: Doesn't even wanna be here, but hey - Rouge drug him to it, what's a robot to do? He doesn't care if it's someone else's birthday, HE'S the one who gets to destroy the pinata. He might join in a dance or two with enough coaxing and his hidden bluetooth speaker function often comes in handy. But overall, would much rather stay at home with Shadow.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sth #sonic headcanons #sonic shitpost #tails the fox #amy rose #knuckles the echidna #rouge the bat #shadow the hedgehog #e 123 omega #silver the hedgehog #blaze the cat

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sigritandtheelves · 8 months

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All Along, Like Fire (Part 7)

FINAL PART!

Mature | 3.4k words | MSR, AU

—

October 13, 1995

Mulder sat alone in his apartment, head in his hands, staring at the floor and thinking. Diana was gone—her things gone, most of the furniture, even the crock pot his mother gave them for their wedding. He wanted to believe that all of this wasn’t his fault, but he felt like a failure for the way their marriage had ended. And for the decisions he’d been forced to make because of it. At his feet was a lone cardboard box of photocopies, the most important documents he was able to salvage. It was the all he had left of the X-Files.

His clothes were also boxed up, along with his books, his trophies, his diplomas and knickknacks. Tomorrow morning, a moving truck would arrive, and he would say goodbye to this place forever. He wasn’t sorry. Just sad, a little ashamed. He’d let Diana make a fool of him here, let her seduce truths out of him while he was blindly manipulated for years. He’d planned to sulk alone until it was time to load the truck, but a knock on the door startled him. He opened it to three familiar faces.

“Well well well,” Frohike said. “If it isn’t the spooky birthday boy on Friday the 13th.” The little man shoved a bottle of Jack Daniels into Mulder’s chest and pushed into the apartment.

“Happy Birthday, man.” This from Langly who toted three pizzas, which he tossed onto the coffee table. Byers echoed the sentiment, carrying a mysterious white box under his arm.

“What are you guys doing here?” Mulder asked, not unkindly.

“Couldn’t let you sit alone on your birthday, could we? We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

“We do?”

Frohike was digging around in the kitchen cabinet for glasses, but they were almost all packed away. He settled for a quartet of coffee mugs and plastic novelty cups. “Yes! Imminent divorce and new beginnings! Fighting the good fight!” He carried the dishes in and passed them around.

“We’re gonna miss you, Mulder,” Byers said. “But we all agree this is a good step. You can do some really good work this way.”

“Then why do I feel so crappy?” Mulder poured shots of the Jack Daniels into the mismatched cups.

“When’s the last time you saw Scully?” Langley asked, flipping open the first pizza and digging in for a slice.

“Last week.” Mulder frowned.

“Well, there’s your answer. Cheers.” Frohike knocked mugs with Mulder and threw back a shot. “All in good time, my man.”

Mulder downed his shot with a wince and reached for a slice of pizza. “What’s in the box?”

Langley waggled his eyebrows. “Goodies,” he said.

“Open it up,” Byers tapped the lid of the unmarked container.

Inside were several gadgets, one of which looked like a large gray brick, and at least two bulky phones with fat antennas.

Byers explained, “Those are hacked satellite phones that will connect from anywhere. They’re essentially untraceable and should hold their battery for several days between charges. Good for off-grid work.”

Langley was too excited to wait for him to ask about the brick. “And this one’s a hacked satellite modem. You’ll have internet no matter how remote you are. New tech, definitely not consumer hardware.”

“So you can stay in touch,” Byers added.

At the bottom of the box was a new laptop, which Mulder was sure had a range of nonstandard additions and upgrades.

“And we’re gonna come out to visit,” Frohike said. “Soon. Maybe this winter if that’s okay.” If Mulder didn’t know better, he’d think the man was choking up. He was touched, and another wave of sadness washed over him.

“Thanks guys,” he said, voice thick.

—

San Diego, CA

The warm California air made Scully think of her childhood—fond memories with Melissa on base housing, sticky summers when freckles appeared on all the Scully children’s noses. She drove up in front of a small house that was so like the one in which she’d spent those years. She double checked the address against the one on her paper; it was right, though she couldn’t imagine this unassuming abode as the site of any secret research. There was a small garden out front, wind chimes hanging from the porch roof. She breathed in deeply. There was no reason not to go in now except the terrifying thundering of her heart and the sense that there was no going back after this. She opened the driver’s side door and got out.

On the porch, she was greeted by two unsmiling men—not hired muscle, she thought. Maybe doctors in plainclothes to blend in with the suburban atmosphere. They wore khakis and polo shirts and the looked around, suspicious, before letting her in. Beyond the foyer, the inside of the house couldn’t be any more different than its outside. It was sterile, white, and filled with beeping machines and medical equipment.

“This way,” one of the men said. He led her up the stairs to the second floor landing, where a woman in scrubs was backing out of a room, closing the door behind her. The man led Scully to the left, to an open bedroom door that was just as sterile, just as white as the downstairs. Here, though, a crib sat in the corner—also white—with a mobile of farm animals hanging over it. In the center of the room stood Diana Fowley. Scully’s eyes ping-ponged between the crib and the woman she didn’t trust at all.

“Agent Scully,” Diana said.

“Not anymore.”

The other woman’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Right, of course.”

“Where is she?” Scully’s heart was pounding, and she wouldn’t allow herself to think about what—or who—was behind the other doors of this nightmare suburban experiment.

“In the crib,” Diana said, stepping aside to let Scully see. “She’s sleeping.”

Scully took three steps closer. She couldn’t breathe. As she approached, she saw a tiny figure in a onesie covered in stars, little fingers curled into fists on either side of her auburn head. “Oh my god,” she whispered.

The child looked perfect. She moved her lips into a subtle dreamy frown, and her long lashes lay against pink cheeks. Scully bent over to lay a hand on the baby’s chest, to feel the movement of her steady breathing and the tiny flutter of her heart.

“You can pick her up,” Diana said. “She’s yours now.”

Tears were blurring Scully’s vision. She tried to blink them away, but one slid down her cheek. She swiped it quickly. “And she’s well now? She won’t get sick?”

“She’s healthy,” Diana confirmed. “But she’s chipped. Like you are.”

A brief wave of anger flared through Scully, but she swallowed it down. She knew what she’d bargained for. She’d accepted the price. She brushed a finger against the baby’s cheek, and the child turned into it, as though seeking out comfort. “Does she have a name?”

“The nurses were calling her Emily, so that’s the name we put on the paperwork. You could change it, but that might take some time.”

Scully shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I like Emily.” She couldn’t imagine giving up a single minute with this baby for the sake of another hoop she’d have to jump through. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, then reached both hands into the crib to scoop the child up. Emily wrinkled her little nose and let out a whimper, but didn’t wake. Scully held the baby against her chest, buried her nose in the impossibly soft skin of her neck, her downy head.

“Hello Emily,” she said, and closed her eyes against the enormity of it.

—

Traveling with an infant was a new experience for Scully, and not easy while alone. She was terrified that the baby would stop breathing in the back seat while they drove, that she’d be too hot, too cold, too hungry. But little Emily seemed happy enough, and slept for much of the first day’s drive. Scully had bought a pack-and-play, formula, bottles, and diaper packages in two sizes. Instant motherhood was even more frightening than leaving the job she’d worked so hard to prove herself in.

At a rest stop in Santa Rosa to change the baby and get some caffeine, Scully discovered something hard buried in the package of clothes Diana had sent with her. It was a small cryo-package containing three vials. One was clearly blood: Emily’s, she thought, dated July of this year. Before she’d been cured. Another was mysteriously green and unlabeled. The third looked familiar, an amber liquid she’d seen before. It was labeled Purity - 3.9506. A dated code: the current iteration of the vaccine. She almost didn’t notice the note tucked below the package:

To get you started.

- DF

Scully wanted to hate Diana, but she found herself unable to conjure the same fury she’d felt last year. This was a gift that Diana taken great risks to provide. Whatever bargain she’d made to keep herself safe, it was clear that the woman was still ensnared by the Syndicate’s poisoned grasp. Scully allowed herself to feel grateful to her, despite everything she’d done. Scully placed the vials back in the chamber and made a note to store them with her own recovered ova. Emily had woken up when the car stopped moving, and was beginning to fuss. Scully shoved the clean onesie into the diaper bag and unbuckled the baby, hushing softly to her and humming.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she murmured.

Scully was unaccustomed to the number of strangers’ smiles that greeted them. An elderly couple stopped to coo over the chubby infant, to remark how like her mother she was. Scully’s smile was tight-lipped and nervous. They weren’t wrong—the child did look like her. She had the same blue eyes, the same fair coloring. She tucked Emily’s warm little body against her chest and nuzzled her head.

“Let’s get you some food, hmm?”

By the third and final day of driving, fear had turned overwhelmingly to love. When the baby woke in the morning light, she greeted Scully with a wide, two-toothed grin. She sat up in her pack-and-play and pushed at the mesh sides.

“Good morning!” Scully laughed and felt a flood of warmth accompany her own smile. The little girl babbled a steady “yah yah yah.”

They had six more hours on the road, and then a whole new life ahead of them.

—

Lummi Island, WA

October 20, 1995

Beyond the mainland, the salt air reminded Mulder of chill mornings on the Vineyard. He could go fishing here, or watch the sunrise from a boat, every day if he wanted. Though the coastline and the island were different from the ones where he’d grown up, the place felt like home. The closer he drew to his final destination, the more the melancholy that had clung to him in the last two weeks melted away. He was nervous, but it felt more like excitement than anxiety now. He fiddled with the radio—there wasn’t much signal to pick up on the island, but he needed something to fidget with. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

He rounded a grove of trees and finally caught sight of the little house up a short driveway: blue clapboard, a tiny porch, a brown shingled roof over the cozy two-story cottage. He pulled up alongside a white fence—honest-to-god picket—and climbed out, stretching his limbs with a massive heave of his chest outward.

This was it. This was home, now.

The front door of the house opened, and he felt his heart stutter, then swell. There she was. There they both were. Dana Scully walked toward him with an impossibly cute baby on her hip, smiling broadly in jeans and a woolen sweater.

Mulder couldn’t help the grin that broke out over his face. He pushed through the waist-high gate and walked up onto the porch.

“There are my girls,” he said.

Scully blushed. “You made it.”

“I did,” he said as he reached them. He leaned down to kiss the woman he’d ached for over two long weeks. Her lips were soft and sweet, and her eyes dropped closed at the contact. He cupped her cheek, curled his other hand at her waist, and felt the pull of her middle toward his. “I missed you,” he said into her mouth.

Scully breathed deeply, eyes still closed for a moment, and nodded. Then he turned his attention to the baby.

“And you must be Emily.” The infant eyed him curiously and reached a finger out to touch his nose. “Hi baby.” She pulled the hand back and tucked two fingers into her wet mouth. Mulder booped her own nose in return, which earned him a shy half-smile as she tucked her head against Scully’s neck. “She looks just like you said. Just as perfect.” Mulder palmed the baby’s downy head, where blonde hair was growing in soft and fair. The little girl didn’t pull back or object, just watched him with something like awe.

“She’s been really good,” Scully explained. “I think she’s only cried twice since I brought her here. I mean she fusses, but…” Scully shrugged.

Mulder tickled the baby’s belly, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a tiny stuffed fox about the size of his hand, and Emily’s eyes went wide. “You like him? That’s Mr. Fox.” He handed over the toy, which Emily grasped with both hands. “He’s like me.”

Emily pressed her little fingers into the fox’s button eyes, her tiny fingernails scritching at the plastic. Then she brought the fox’s head toward her mouth and bit down on the pointy nose.

Scully laughed. “She likes it.”

Mulder bent to kiss the top of the child’s head, then added another to Scully’s head for good measure. “Let’s go inside, hmm? I can’t wait to see how it looks in person.”

—

Later that night they lay facing each other on her bed—their bed now, Scully realized, and the thought made her heart beat faster. They were tucked under quilts and printed flannel sheets against the autumn chill. Emily slept in the second tiny bedroom next door, warm and safe with a mobile of colorful planets and her little fox beside her.

Scully felt the momentousness of this night, now that it was just them, now that they were really together. She found herself watching Mulder for doubts, for guilt, for regret. She held her own small sorrows: leaving her mother, leaving her job. But she feared most that Mulder would come to resent her for the loss of their work in D.C., their resources, their allies inside, as it were.

Mulder pursed his lips in a frown. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Everything, everything. Her mind was spinning: What if we fail? What if we lose her? What if they take back the bargain and come for us all in the night? What if you never forgive me? But Scully just shook her head. It felt like too much to talk about now. “It’s nothing. It’s okay.”

She knew he wouldn’t believe her, and he didn’t. He moved his face closer to hers on the pillow. “It’s not nothing.”

Scully’s fingers fidgeted under the blanket. She heaved a deep sigh, and decided not to begin their new life by hiding things, by keeping anything bottled up. “I know we have a plan,” she said. “I know we’re not giving up and that our work will just be different here, but… it’s pretty enormous change—all of this. You must have doubts. I just don’t want you to… regret this. Because of me.”

Mulder was quiet for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “I understand why you might think that,” he said finally. “I know that in a lot of ways, this feels crazy.”

It did, Scully conceded. Two months ago, they woke up in their separate city apartments and put on suits to go to work for the government. Mulder was married to another woman. Now they were on a remote island off the west coast, with a baby for god’s sake, planning a resistance to a global colonization in secret. Their lives couldn’t be more different.

Mulder reached an arm across the space between them and took hold of her hand under the blanket. “It’s hard for me to explain why, but this feels right.” She could barely make out his features in the dim light, but she sensed how serious his face was, how intense his look. “Scully, all of this started for me, because my family lost a little girl, and it ripped us apart. I lost her. I lost my family. I needed something to fill that emptiness, and I did it with work, which I thought might help me find her again. I wanted so badly to fix what happened to us.”

Scully nodded. She felt her chin wobble at the profundity in the pause between his words.

“But the same evil that took my sister also gave me another little girl. And it gave me you.” He squeezed her hand. “I still need to know what happened to Samantha after my father used her as a bargaining chip. And I will find out. That hasn’t changed.” He swallowed hard, and Scully wanted very badly to lean over and kiss comfort into him. “But this,” he motioned between them, “is a real chance at family, and that’s something I never thought I could have again, not even with Diana. I don’t know what kind of father I might make, if that’s even what you want from me. I didn’t have a good role model. But… I want us to try.”

Tears were dripping down Scully’s nose now into the flannel pillowcase, and she found it hard to speak. She sniffed. Nodded. Bent her forehead to touch his. “I want that too,” she managed to say. “And I want… Emily to think of you as her father. If that’s okay, I mean. If you want it.” She shook her head at her nervous rambling. “I just know you’d be a really good dad.”

Mulder nuzzled her nose with his own , unmindful of the damp. Then he tipped his chin to kiss her lips, sliding his arm around her middle and pulling her toward him. They held each other tight in the near-dark. “Yeah,” he croaked, and Scully realized he was on the verge of tears, too. “I want that.”

Her head fit perfectly, tucked under his chin. Her face pressed against his t-shirt where she could feel his heart beating, and she pressed a kiss there. She pushed one knee between his and breathed deep, letting the smell of him, of them together, fill her with warmth and need. God, she loved him so much. It was like she’d been holding her breath her whole life, and now she was gulping in oxygen. She knew, then, that they would make this work.

“Well,” Mulder said, his tone lighter now, “if I am any good at it, we’ve got all those little frozen uber-Scullys in storage. Maybe we’ll just make a whole tribe, huh?” His hand was on her waist, and he slipped it between them to poke her belly.

She laughed through her tears, nodding. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

And then he was kissing her and she was kissing him back and it was getting too hot under the blankets for all these pajamas. They were hungry for each other. He touched her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted, like this was the only thing that mattered. They made love in tear-streaked desperation: clutching, dizzy love—though they were quiet and mindful not to wake the baby (their baby) with too much noise. After, when they’d slept an hour or so, he woke her gently with more kisses. This time their lovemaking was slow and gentle and reverent—like they had the rest of their lives.

— END —

A/N: I had many ideas about what their big plan was to save the world, how they’d build a network of allies through the Hosteens (and the Lummi people that they are so close to now), because who better to help them survive colonization than the people who have already survived it? But this ending also felt right and I think I’m happy with it. Thank you so so so much to everyone who has read and left hearts and kudos and comments. This was supposed to be a one-off little thing. It’s no novel, but it’s more than I’ve been able to write in a while.

#a thing i wrote #xf fanfic #msr #au #all along like fire #part 7 #FINAL PART!#it's done y'all

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blue-eyed-cutiepatootie · 1 year

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who will take care of me

established destiel, kid!jack, single parent castiel

wc 780

Castiel is ignoring his ice cube toes when he hears the front door open. He burrows further into the blankets. Covering his face, he wills the shame away.

It's been building all day. He hears boots hit the floor and keys jangle on the table.

Jack woke up cranky and it all went downhill from there. He had forgotten to buy more blueberries for the oatmeal. Jack refused bananas as a substitute and Cas couldn't blame him. Wrong texture. Looking for Jack’s other Thomas the Tank Engine shoe put them late to preschool which in turn put Castiel late for work. Jack was in tears as he walked away. Castiel tried not to cry as he called his boss.

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Work was a steady stream of students and coworkers in sour moods as the cold and rainy Friday stretched on.

And on.

The water runs in the kitchen.

Who will take care of me? Castiel used to wonder as he juggled single parenting with a full time job.

Jack was at least in a better mood when Castiel picked him up on his lunch break. Fridays were always half days at the preschool and it was Anna's turn to watch him. His sister's house is always a favorite of Jack's. Lots of craft supplies and an old dress up trunk keep him occupied for hours. Castiel is forever thankful Anna works from home.

And that she knows him so well.

Why don't I keep him overnight? I'll take him to the library in the morning and you can pick him up there?

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. He knows he can't do everything on his own but the shame at being relieved to have a night to himself engulfs him.

He's not even making use of the time.

His bedroom door creaks open. Clothes softly fall to the floor and then Castiel is enveloped in strong arms. His toes come in contact with warm shins and there's a yelp in his ear.

"Shit, Cas! Would it kill you to put some socks on?"

In response, Castiel turns in his arms and buries his face in Dean's t-shirt. He inhales the smell of coffee and baked goods. Hands come up to stroke his hair, followed by a kiss.

"Rough day, huh?"

Castiel nods, tears finally leaking down his nose.

"Jack still with Anna?"

Another nod.

"You in the mood for pizza or chinese?"

Castiel taps Dean's bicep once.

"The Two Towers or Star Trek Beyond?"

Two taps.

"Excellent choice. Today really was crazy. Is it a full moon?" Dean claws his fingers and gently scratches circles on Castiel's back. Castiel doesn’t believe in the full moon affecting people’s behavior but he’s starting to rethink that. His phone pings several times on the bedside table, most likely videos of Jack from Anna.

After a few moments Dean says, "Alright, I’m gonna go order the pizza."

Dean starts to pull away but Castiel clutches at his t-shirt. Dean makes a wounded sound, "Baby, c'mon I’m starving and I can hear your stomach growling."

Castiel lets Dean roll out of the bed. He hears Dean open a drawer, probably for some sweatpants, and is also greeted with clean socks in his face.

"I hear the couch calling your name!" Dean says in a sing-song tone as he leaves the room. Cas grumbles, but after watching the videos Anna sent, he’s shuffling down the hall, wrapped in the comforter. The sight greeting him in the kitchen nearly makes him weep. Again.

They’ve only been dating a few months, but Dean has already made himself at home. He's great with Jack and always helps out with chores that Castiel can never seem to catch up on. Like, right now Dean is tackling the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink. Castiel flops onto the couch in the front room and draws the comforter tightly around him. Maybe it’s time to ask him to move in.

The sound of Dean’s singing lulls him into a doze that the doorbell ringing tears him out of. Dean plops the pizza, sodas, and paper towels on the coffee table before lifting up Castiel's legs to sit on the couch. He presses play on the DVD menu. Subtitles already on. They've both seen this movie too many times to count and Dean says half the lines along with the movie.

Castiel is in the middle of his third slice when he reaches out for Dean's hand.

"I love you." His voice breaks as he interrupts Dean's running commentary.

Dean smiles tenderly, pulls Castiel into a hug, and says "I love you most."

Castiel doesn't have to wonder anymore.

#destiel fanfic #destiel ficlet #kid!jack #liv wrote a thing #liv writes #tuserpris #userjactingjoices #deancaskiss #spncreatorsdaily

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asecretvice · 4 months

Note

Hey. I just really want to thank you for “And This, Your Living Kiss”. I’m guessing you may be a bit tired hearing us talk about it, what, 4, 5 years after you published it? I just need to express some gratitude. Your poem “Perfect” was probably the first poem ever to make cry, and I still read it occasionally when I’m down. It’s honestly probably my favorite poem ever. For me it captures this delicate, still very anchored kind of happiness that just hits so deep. Kind of like the opposite of melancholia. I hope you get what I’m saying and that I’m not just talking out of my ass, and if I am, I was hoping you’d share some of your thoughts about this poem?

Also, this story is truly my favorite story ever. Has been for a very long time. A question I have for you is, is there any place where we can read more of your poetry? And if not, I was also wondering if you’d be willing to share with us some of your favorite poets/poems?

Firstly, thank you for your patience; sometimes it takes me a while to get to asks.

But mostly, thank you so much for these kind words. Do not ever doubt yourself when taking the time to extend your positivity to others; I—and I daresay the vast majority of people—do not get tired of receiving these small kindnesses. It’s a reminder that life can be full of connection, a reminder that when I send a little bit of my heart out into our raging, grief-filled world, there are those who accept and understand and, hopefully, keep passing that love forward. And thusly we make the world a better place. So please receive my gratitude for reaching out.

That you love “Perfection” means so much to me. It was the first piece of the fic I wrote, you know, and pretty much became the basis for who Dean is in the fic thereafter. I don’t feel you’re talking out of your ass at all. Dean is such a complex character, and I think that’s why so many of us relate to him; we see our own complexity and contradictions reflected back at us through him. There is of course happiness there among the rest—a boy/man who is at his happiest when with his family (blood or no). Underneath it all is that deep thread of love we (and Cas!) admire and strive toward within ourselves.

Unfortunately I don’t have poetry published anywhere else. Maybe someday.

Several of my fav poets/poems appear in the fic already, though they’re among many others. However because I’ve been thinking about her lately, I hope you’ll indulge me if I talk about Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her masterpiece Sonnets from the Portuguese.

In the modern day EBB’s words most often show up in the guise of “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” It sounds a bit hokey, doesn’t it? I know I always thought so; especially to my teenage ear it was sickly sweet if not downright simpering. Spoiler: I was wrong. Context changes everything.

Do you believe that some books or stories come into your life at just the right time? Fast forward to when I’m 18 or 19. I’m in a town I’ve never been to before, visiting people I barely know. My host needs to work and offers to drop me off in the town center to explore. I agree because the weather’s fair and I’m desperate for a break from polite company, as it were. Happily it’s a pleasant area, full of green and not far from a large canal. After wandering along its edge for a while I aim back toward the local stores and window-shop up and down the streets. At last I stumble upon a used bookstore right next to a gelateria! Well you couldn’t have put two things together that more matched my taste if you tried. Naturally, I resolve to find a book and then go next door for some gelato and spend my time enjoying them both.

The bookstore is in an older building, for sure, with hardwood floors and the type of wainscoting that make me think it’s from the early 20th century at least. It’s split into multiple rooms and connected by open doorways; I wonder if it used to be a home. Many, though not all of the bookshelves are built into the walls and painted a pleasant white, stuffed to the gills with books in every color. The only other soul in the building is the man behind the front counter, and aside from a swift exchange of polite smiles I am left alone. I start by going to the left and poking around the shop and its little book-filled rooms counterclockwise, determined to choose at least one thing before I leave. What type, what genre? What length, what mood? I don’t know, but am sure I’ll know it when I see it. I’m free to choose whatever I like, you understand, because rarely had an English teacher in my past convinced me I couldn’t teach myself better, and I’d resolved never to take a class in the English department in college if I could help it (and for better or worse, I never did).

I take my time twisting in and out of the treasure-filled corners, no rush and no fuss. Yet no book sings to me. At length I near the back of the shop; on the far side beneath a window is a short, two-shelf bookcase. With waning hope I crouch in front of the shelf and begin reading spines. Aha! It’s filled with poetry. Perhaps there is some hope after all…then there it is: Sonnets from the Portuguese. Definitely faux-fancy binding, but still pretty. It looks like this:

I flip through, and every sonnet is accompanied by a different piece of silhouette art. It’s lovely, and it sings to me. A small pencil mark on the inside indicates it only costs a couple bucks, so I rummage in my wallet, stop by the front desk, and leave the store with the book clutched in my hands. With the rest of my cash I go to the gelateria next door and pick a couple of unusual flavors and again, alone, I choose a rickety metal table outside and sit with nothing but birds and sunshine for company. I skip the introduction and open the book immediately to the first sonnet:

I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair, And a voice said in mastery while I strove, . . 'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said, But, there, The silver answer rang . . 'Not Death, but Love.'

What do you glean from the poem? It is slow and sad, a bright mythologized ideal set against a woman sunk deep in dark grief, a darkness that swiftly shifts into horror as a Shape appears behind her, physically pulls her from her weeping, and demands a response. She is so sure that her own death has at last come upon her, except what’s appeared…is love? Love, of all things? Love?

This is not at all what I am expecting to read. I fill up with another spoonful of gelato and eagerly turn the page.

And turn, and turn—Reader, I’m hooked. I’m strapped into a rollercoaster and freefalling down the first slope, on a wild ride built by a woman who’s been chronically ill since childhood, who’s lived through the death of her mother and beloved brother, whose father keeps her in his house and firmly under his thumb even long into her thirties, who still manages to write and get published and yet still lives lonely in her dark room…Sonnets from the Portuguese is an epic journey via the most astonishing set of 44 sonnets about how love completely changed her life, sonnets which her husband later touted to be the best in English since Shakespeare (and I agree). If you haven’t read the sonnets I encourage you to do so before reading on, link here, but if you’d rather I walk you through…

Even reading them again now I am in awe. How baldly and boldly she talks about how she and Robert, because of course it’s about her famous courtship with Robert Browning, are not meant to be. Not just her circumstances at home, not just her poor health, not just the fact that she thinks herself so below him and his worth, but also her grief. The darkness that lives in her! So many lines from these poems are woven into the tapestry of my life, like from sonnet V: Behold and see / What a great heap of grief lay hid in me. She warns that it could ruin him. Stand further off then! go! it ends.

And yet the next one (VI) begins: Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand / Henceforward in thy shadow. It is too late. She’s already been changed. The world and her perception of it are already shifting. Read how the beginning of VII illustrates this:

The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.

She was sinking into oblivion, death her companion, until he stood between them and she was caught up into love, no longer to go through her days sitting simple and still in her room, content to wallow in the sorrow she’d been given. Yet…that still doesn’t matter, because how can she reciprocate? And, crucially, does it make her a bad person that she can’t?

am I cold, Ungrateful, that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all? Not so; not cold,—but very poor instead. (VIII)

Have you ever been there? Found yourself wondering if you’re even capable of love and kindness toward others given all you’ve been through, and how horrible it feels to think that ability’s been stolen from you? Is what little you can eke out even worth anything in comparison? Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass. (IX)

But she continues turning the idea of love over in her mind. Could it be that love is fully worthy, no matter where it comes from? There’s nothing low / In love, she reasons, when love the lowest (X). Still it does not seem that she herself could be worthy—and if this is worthy love, anyway, would she have even known how to do it if she’d not first been shown by him?

And thus, I cannot speak Of love even, as a good thing of my own: Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, And placed it by thee on a golden throne,— And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!) Is by thee only, whom I love alone. (XII)

It seems that Robert persists in his own love, because then an earnest plea: that he love her for love’s sake, because people change in time. She herself is changing now because of him! Do not even love her because he loves taking care of and comforting her, because his love could lessen her need for that comfort! (XIV)

Regardless she is not without feeling, as sad and calm as she outwardly seems. She’s just not like him. But…could his love and his will be strong enough to overcome all these obstacles? Why, conquering / May prove as lordly and complete a thing / In lifting upward, as in crushing low! With such success, she says, I at last record, / Here ends my strife. (XVI)

But of course, nothing can be quite so simple. Her first question is how she can be useful to him. This does not feel like a full partnership:

How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose. (XVII)

That theme of death, too, is still ever-present. Even as the next couple of sonnets talk about how they’ve exchanged locks of hair she speaks of it. In XX a sea-change is further revealed, however, when she compares her life before Robert to the one after knowing him, how link by link, [I] Went counting all my chains but now, in contrast to VII’s cup of dole, she drinks from life’s great cup of wonder! She begs him to keep saying that he loves her (XXI), continuing the theme that his love will teach her, lift her, allay her many fears. But the next again ends with the death-hour rounding it.

Robert’s response? That her death would harm him. She admits to marveling at this revelation. If it is to be believed,

Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range. Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me! As brighter ladies do not count it strange, For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee! (XXIII)

So first we learn that it is Love, not Death that has grabbed her; then we know that she feels Robert’s soul has slipped between her and the brink of death and thus she begins to question her constant sorrow; she is changing by his love; she will stop worrying about her worthiness and be of use to him and bask in what love he is willing to give her; but only now, finally, does she give up death itself in order to live her life. She is choosing to live!

The next few sonnets double down on this, about how all her hope had become despair, about how for so long she only had visions for company, and didn’t know they were mere shades in comparison to a reality of actually living, how Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well. Also important? His saving kiss (XXVII).

We’ve come far, but progress isn’t an even trajectory. The rollercoaster dips again: now that she wishes to live, she wishes to live in his presence. She is both touch-starved and starved for company. Because their letters—one of, if not the most famous set of love letters in the English language—are to her all dead paper, mute and white! She speaks of how they fixed a day in spring / To come and touch my hand…a simple thing, / Yet I wept for it! (XXVIII) So we got the first mention in the last sonnet of his kissing her, and now a memory of when he first touched her hand. She goes on to write about how thinking of him is no longer enough; she needs to be near him. She then wonders, when he is gone, if she has embellished his feelings for her. Can you blame her? I certainly can’t. Her dark thoughts are now manifesting in these doubts about her perception, rather than her abilities.

But upon his next visit, she admits, I erred / In that last doubt! (XXXI). His presences reassures that all is real, not dream. And while she has always found it unlikely that their bond could have formed so fast (Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe, XXXII), now that she knows him she knows it was wrong to think that of him. She then brings up her childhood and draws parallels between the bright happy love she felt then with the love she feels now…even though, given the life she’s lived, the love she feels really can’t be the same. Her thoughts are no longer that of a child’s, which can be lightly turned aside, but for him she can and will turn from her dark, lonely thoughts when called.

This all decided, that their love is deep and true and as real as the loves she used to feel, and that she wants to be with him, an important question remains: If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange / And be all to me? Simply reading the poems and knowing their time period (Victorian) it could be enough to assume that it’s a regular leaving of your childhood home to create your own. But remember what I said at the beginning? The control her father exerts over her? She knows he would never approve. Hell, it was difficult enough for her siblings to make lives for themselves within his shadow. Going with Robert would mean truly leaving everything. She knows it won’t be easy: For grief indeed is love and grief beside (XXXV).

This great fear invites more doubt. She admits she has grown stronger and more confident, but that doesn’t make her troubles disappear. She knows she does their love a disservice in so doubting and in so fearing, but she can’t help it. But then…she returns to the physical, to his presence. In XXXVIII she speaks of their first three kisses: the first on her hand, the second for her forehead, but half-landed on her hair, and the third upon my lips was folded down / In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed / I have been proud and said, “My love, my own.”

She goes on in the next sonnets to say how grateful she is that he truly sees her and knows her beyond all the layers of sorrow and sickness she labors under. It should also be noted that, uncommonly for their time, he at 33 or so was courting her at 39/40. And so she is grateful, too, that he thinks it soon when others cry “Too late.” (XL). She then thanks all who had ever loved or listened, but again thanks Robert for listening to her even when it was difficult. She doubles down, now, on her decision to live:

I seek no copy now of life’s first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future’s epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world! (XLII)

And then—only now, as the rollercoaster shoots us upward and onward in joy and hope for a good, loving future—does she begin sonnet XLIII with How do I love thee? She asks this, not as some young girl with no life experience about a boy she’s seen across the room (I mean, how else was I supposed to interpret it, given how it’s used in the modern age?). She asks this as a woman full four decades into her life, a life full of chronic illness, an authoritarian home, and familial grief. She asks this after months of courtship during which she fought for every inch of belief, and hope, and joy. Where she at last came to know her own strength of heart and of will. Because she does leave her home, dear Reader. She elopes with Robert Browning, gets married in France, and lives out the rest of her life in Italy, where death finally catches up to her at 55. Keep all this in mind, as you read the sonnet in full:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday’s Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

There is one more sonnet, where she brings back flowers, a motif I didn’t spend time on in this post, to talk about how their souls are intertwined down to their roots. I bring it up now not just because flowers end this glorious cycle of forty-four poems, but because I think of her grave.

A year or two after I fell in love with these poems I was lucky enough to be in Italy myself. Some friends and I were walking around Florence and I insisted we had to find the English cemetery. I remember it as being this island of a hill in the middle of some busy streets, all fenced in with a little building at the entrance. When we scurried across the street and inside, there was a nun there who greeted us warmly. I told her I was looking for Elizabeth Barrett Browning and she lit up. She motioned for us to follow as she told me that they do their best to take care of her grave, and have always done so (I don’t know if she means just those who work there or Italians in general, as EBB was loved by Florence in her time). But, she said, they did not look kindly upon Robert, because he spent all this money on a beautiful tomb but he never, ever came to visit. She said this with the authority of someone who had witnessed it herself, though of course that was impossible. This was clearly a story deemed important enough—or perhaps simply so full of strong feeling—to stand the test of time.

The tomb is indeed beautiful. The pictures when I did a quick lookup on the internet do not do it justice; forgive me for not having the energy now to dig up where I’ve saved the old files of the pictures I took myself. At the time it was absolutely surrounded by tall, enormous roses, deep red in color. After I had my fill the nun was kind enough to take us on a tour of the rest of the cemetery, which was lovely. But I’ve never been able to shake the memory of that story, the one where the nuns lived and died resentful of an absent Robert.

It wasn’t until about a year and a half ago, when I read Fiona Sampson’s recent biography Two-Way Mirror: The Life of Elizabeth Barrett Browning that it finally made sense. Robert often avoided grief in this way, it seems, afraid to travel back to England when family members were ailing until it was too late. Whether you agree with his actions or not, his absence we can at least hope is from his great love turned to great grief, rather than a lack of feeling on his part. He himself died in Venice; their only child died in Italy also. Robert is, however, still separated from Elizabeth in death: he is buried in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, London.

If you’re hoping for a neat bow on the end of this post, there isn’t. I think of her often not just because I love her poetry but, I suppose, because each year is slowly, inexorably bringing me closer to the age she was when she decided she would live her life again, and though I haven’t found a soul-shaking love like she has, I am trying, trying, trying to live, too.

#opal replies #living kiss #anonymous #poetry #elizabeth barrett browning

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afreakingdork · 7 months

Text

Weak Spot - Chapter 36

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love, AFAB Reader, Vaginal Sex, Sex Rough, Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Teasing, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Marathon Sex, Somnophilia, Intercrural Sex, Bondage, Feral Behavior, Feral Donatello (TMNT), Mating Cycles/In Heat, Public Sex

Synopsis: A love story of villainous proportions! Though it hadn’t come easily, as these things rarely do, you found yourself in a whirlwind romance with a handsome and mysterious mutant. His idiosyncrasies had been easy to ignore as attraction grew into something more. However, will love endure when the unknowns about him end up being far darker than you ever considered?

Another chapter as requested by tumblr! May I present: the drunk chapter!

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

“There!”

“You’re ridiculous!”

“’Bite my neck and suck my butt!’”

“He does not say tha’!”

“Yes, he does!”

“You’re-“ Your gossipy coworker got choked as his tongue swelled thick.

Snorting, you downed your glass and slammed it down on the bar as you had seen in many movies.

Instead of screaming for another, you pouted as no one seemed to even notice over the ambient roar.

“There’sh-!” Mouth minorly obeying, your gossipy coworker shot an index finger out from where it was wrapped around a glass. “Tha’sh a thing!”

“Sucking butt? Yuh!” You bobbed on the final syllable.

“No!” His pitched warbled next and he screwed his nose up at the sound. “I mean yes, but no!”

You hummed an agreement, your eyes traveling elsewhere.

“It was’h on Friends!”

“On basic ca-cab-le?! Tha’ was not allowed!” You feigned a gasp.

“Not butt stuff!!” He screeched and swatted at you while missing by a mile.

“Wha’ then?!” You giggled, as he failed to reel his arm back in.

“Wha’ then?!” He mimicked before freezing. His digit then extended and curled around the glass several times before both of you burst out laughing.

Holding onto his arm to keep from falling over, you were struck by a sudden wave of nausea. Bowled over, your gossipy coworker took an unaware swig which knocked you away from him. It bobbed you back upright and the sickness passed. “Woah.”

He didn’t seem to hear you as much as see you.

He stuck his tongue out and you imagined he must have tasted the crowd.

“Stop!” He whined, rolling his head and losing his balance where he was simply standing.

“What?!”

Laughing again, your throat felt dry.

The song changed, but you could only sort of tell.

The beat was different or it wasn’t.

There were so many people in the bar.

It was so loud.

Maybe it was just them?

“Who…?!” Had you always been off to the side like this?

Oh, you were in a bar.

“Tony Dan’sa!” Your gossipy coworker cheered as if that was the answer to the universe.

No, there was something else.

There was a reason.

It was elusive like a fly.

Did you need a swatter?

“Stu-pid, stu-pid!” His glass set onto the counter, it freed his hands up to scrub his face. Leaning too far back, he hit someone behind him who then pushed him toward you. He overcorrected and you had to shove back to keep from being a human domino.

“You two are trashed!” Someone complained.

Loud.

Everyone was so loud.

Oh, you knew the offended person.

They worked on your floor.

Or you had seen them there?

Or maybe that was a meeting?

When were reports due?

“And jus’ how many have you had, Sadie?!” He spit her name like a curse.

She puffed up and you had to giggle at whatever spell was cast.

He was good at that.

He’d been a witch for Halloween once.

Or had that been a dream?

“I-!” The hex faded and what was left couldn’t hold a form. “-don’t need to answer that! What matters is I can annun-anun-ci-ate and you’re stumbling!”

There had definitely been green make-up involved.

“For your-!” He looked lost for a moment before finding his drink. He then used it to point his index finger once again. “For your infor-ma-tion, I had a eur-eru… Ure.. a realiz-ation moment so I was indulgin’ in a little…!” His head tipped and marked the halt of his thoughts.

Someone behind you patted your back.

You turned to see a person standing there.

Who were they again?

“There you are!”

Well, they knew you.

That was something.

“I’m… here!” You responded.

Nailed it.

Why were you here?

Oh, yeah.

That’s what you were wondering.

“We already toasted, but check this out…!”

A toast?

They must be another coworker then.

Probably.

His clothes said he was, but who wasn’t wearing business attire?

About half the bar, but that wasn’t important.

What was important is who was.

Probably.

A woman beside him snickered like a cartoon dog.

What was his name?

He was like S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. in a way.

You needed to watch cartoons with him.

An ice cold shot entered your hand and you looked up to find you were in a huddle of five people.

“Dynamite!” One shouted before kicking it back.

The others followed like a wave at a sporting event and you were the last one almost out of sync.

Instead of burning there was a tropical sweetness to it.

“Congrats, Amira! Heading up the floor!”

“Three to be exact!”

“G-great job!” You added before the next person clinked empty glasses with the woman across from you.

She must have done something great.

She looked great.

Moving up floors was a literal sense of upward mobility in your company.

How’d she do her hair?

Promotion.

She’d been promoted.

You’d worked alongside Amira before the restructuring and now she was moving into marketing.

That was it.

You wanted to pass your newfound knowledge along when the back of your collar got tugged.

“Tell Sadie-kins where to shove her nose!” Your gossipy coworker was suddenly by your side.

No, you had backed up.

Into the bar.

There was a bar.

Why was there a bar?

“Ugh, you know wha’?!”

“What?!”

You and your gossipy coworker cracked up while Sadie slunk away.

At least, she wasn’t there anymore when you came to.

She had freed up a space and your gossipy coworker filled it in a slide.

You shuffled towards him with your own titters leaking from your ears.

“Oh, wait, I like dis one!” Your coworker bobbed to a song.

Straining, you didn’t seem to be hearing the same thing because his movements were way off. “No, like this…!” You gave your own head bob, but that wash of nausea took it away.

“Ew, not again!” He complained a little too close with alcoholic breath that stung your nostrils.

It receded and left you feeling woozy. “What?!”

“What!?” He quacked straight up to the ceiling and someone else echoed him across the bar.

There was a sudden cheer and everyone was tipping their drinks back.

Where had yours gone?

Oh yeah, the bar.

You turned towards it.

There was no drink there.

Where had your drink gone?

“You should go home!” Your gossipy coworker shot an index finger out from where it was wrapped around a glass. “’Fore you puke.”

“I’m not gonna!” You sulked, looking forlornly for your drink.

“Get beau to dote on you! Wrap you like a burrito! Snuggle you or whatever shit romantic sacks do!”

“Ball sacks!”

“What?!”

You were laughing again; this one hurt.

“I lost my glass!”

“No, you didn’!” He was pointing again.

He needed to trim his nails.

“A’least there’s something on your stomach!” He tipped to the side, but it didn’t stop him. “Oh! Water, you’re de-hydrated. Wow, I said that one in one-one go.”

“Something wha-?!” Before you could finish the thought you saw a reel of photographs in your mind’s eye.

In the third person, you saw a cake being presented to Amira and you were standing three people off to the side.

Like animatic clips, three slides showed a cheer.

A gaggle of you hit the elevators.

Someone ran out from the pack and pointed to a bar.

The first round of drinks had been shared as a cohesive group along with appetizers.

Then more drinks.

Then, another round.

Merry go round.

Each had less people.

The bar sort of looked different afterwhile.

Blinking out of the view-master, your gossipy coworker was mid-sentence. “-and that’z when I figured out Catherine spiked the punch! The boss!? Can you believe!?”

You didn’t.

You had no idea what he was talking about.

Was your boss even named Catherine?

A murmur ripped through the crowd and all your gazes were tugged like a predator encroaching on a herd.

Amira had her hand up in the air and a glass to her lips where she was trying to drain it as quickly as possible.

Beside her several people were moaning.

Or was it groaning?

Was there a difference?

Glass empty, she came away with a refreshed gasp. “Sorry, y’all! Love you, but my ride’s here!”

“Amira!”

“Congrats!”

“This was so fun! I’ll see y’all at company events! I’m not dead! Francis, I’m looking at you!” With scissors she pointed out a man who threw a paper up to his face.

He lost.

“Party on, dudes!!!” She gave an accent and stuck out her tongue.

“Gross!” Your gossipy coworker made a repulsed face.

Amira began hugging down a conga line.

By the time she reached you, you did your best to return it as you were the last one almost out of sync.

She blew kisses and cheered as she exited with another girl in tow.

“Watch.” Your gossipy coworker was right in your ear and a shiver ran down your spine at his bad English accent. “As now, that the life of the party has left, the pack will slowly break apart without its alpha.”

You were about to tell him off when two people feigned yawning.

Looking particularly fake, another stretched and a new ripple of groans appeared.

It had to be ‘groan.’

A pair of men with arms slung around each other exited with goodbyes chasing them.

Someone else was on the phone.

Yawns were growing in size and engulfing people whole.

“The pack is no more.” With a bow and flourish that nearly hit your shoulder, he removed himself.

You turned to scowl. “Ya nasty!”

“Thank you!” With a point, he drained his glass and waved at the bartender.

“Another?!”

“I’m closing my tab!” He shot you a look at the corner of his eye before said man approached and he said the same sentence again. “You should do the same!”

“Tab… Wasn’t that a soda?!”

“You’re not tha’ drunk!” He screamed.

You didn’t realize you were squinting until his squished image had become too much for your facial muscles to bare. Relaxing was a relief. “Only a question!”

“Fine, it was. Everyone is on a mission tonigh-” The bartender reappeared and passed something off.

It distracted your coworker long enough so that the bartender could address you. “And you?”

“Same?!” Your voice echoed in your eardrums.

The beat was off.

The man left.

“Call beau!” Your gossipy coworker stabbed his receipt.

“Tha’s not his name!” You grouched and turned to lean against the counter.

“Wait, don’t tell me!” He tried to snap, but only succeeded in making a delicious sign with his thumb and second finger.

“I’m not gunna!” You rustled up your phone and flicked over to the contacts list.

He was leaning into your space, but only your head moved away.

In a flick, you went down to ‘D.’

There, at the top of the list was an outlier.

‘Da Vinky.’

You strung out a confused syllable, knowing full well your coworker was staring at your phone as well. “You’re right, I’m not drunk! What does this say?!”

Leaning straight over your shoulder and squinting as if he’d forgotten his readers, he was slow to register the entry. When he did, he recoiled away before roaring with a puff of his chest “Alright, that’s enough! I won’t have this!!”

You turned to him in alarm.

“You!” His finger was in your face and you subdued the urge to bite it off. “I’ve had juz about enough of all of you! You and everyone else keep trying to make me feel ancient! Do you know how old that meme is!?”

You did not.

“It’s not even the right artist!!”

“It’s not the righ-?”

You were struck in a very literal sense.

Da Vinky.

Who painted the Mona Lisa?

“No! That would be-” He huffed, bitter.

“Leonardo.”

It must have cut through the bar banter because the deadly quality to your voice shut your gossipy coworker right up. “Uh… yeah….”

Holding up your other hand to say you needed a minute, you began to step away.

How was that possible?

Your thumb appeared and clicked the contact.

There was no history.

No calls.

No texts.

The number was an outlier.

Your stomach bottomed out.

It was somewhere in your heel when you hit the phone icon.

Against the hum of the bar, you heard the percussive sound of the ring as slow motion brought the phone to your ear.

It rang exactly three times before there was an audible clicked answer.

“Y’ello?” He sang.

It was him. “How.”

“Oh! Ho ho!”

That laugh.

You needed to hear it again.

Confirm.

You had to be sure.

Everything was too loud.

Had it always been that way?

You shouldered past a group heading toward the back of the bar.

“What a surprise!”

Pushing, you breached a hallway.

There you had to kick open the bathroom door.

“Hot Friday night, I hear.”

With another full body motion, you were enclosed.

The silence was deafening.

“How is this possible?!” You hissed.

As if burned, you coiled against the sound of your own voice.

How long had you been shouting?

Ages by the burn of your throat.

Alcohol would soothe that.

“Hm? Excuse me? One, you called me, and two, I don’t know your life.” Leo snided.

You gave a stomp and resisted throwing out a finger much like a certain someone. “Stop playing stupid, Vorso twin!”

Ears adjusting, you heard the exact way Leo gave a single chuckle.

Sharp.

Sardonic.

Done with you.

When he began again, it curdled milk. “I mean, honestly I figured you’d text first what with it being the 21st century and all, but I already knew you were a forward one.”

“Cut the shit!”

“I slipped it into your phone at that little soiree.”

In a blink, you were on the dance floor.

“If your phone wasn’t bugged then I thought you might need a lifeline.” There was a rustle as if he was adjusting something. “Took you long enough. I’d forgotten all about it.”

Lids lifting, you were in a dirty bathroom.

Vertigo caught you from the rapid lash whips and you stumbled.

Catching a dirty sink, you refused the mirror. “Lifeline.”

“Mhm.”

“You left me to die saying you’d forget my name.” Your head pounded.

Would you ever get used to your own voice?

“Eyysssh.” You could hear his grimace. “In recap that sounds terrible, but can you blame me? I had to be tough to get through to you and I did. I saw it. I broke through that thick skull of yours. Since your phone wasn’t bugged can I assume good things?”

“He only-” Bugged it once.

That wasn’t quite right.

What were you saying?

What were you admitting?

“He…?” Leo drew out the phrase, leading.

“We’re still together.” Hand coming away from the counter, there was a tacky quality that clung to you.

“Gross.”

Could he see you?

You spun around.

Vertigo vetoed that option after two twirls.

Zeroing in on a paper towel dispenser, you activated its sensor.

Empty, it whirled uselessly and produced nothing.

It felt like watching your brain.

“What is your problem!?” Your eardrums vibrated the room.

“It’s patently gross!” You heard another scuffle, but this one you could see him standing up. “Also, no, shut up, I’m getting mad. Are you kidding me right now?!”

You could not take him yelling as well.

“Obviously!” You hiccuped. “I called you because I wanted to! Because there wasn’t a stupid contact in my phone by someone who touched it without permission while, double standard, is bitching about someone else who hasn’t.” Needing to move, you hobbled with a heavy leftward tilt.

“Hasn’t!?” He scoffed so loud the receiver bit it.

You had to pop your ears.

“Now I know that isn’t sarcasm because that’s the biggest load you’ve tried to serve yet.”

“Be shit, eat shit.” You snarked.

Leo groaned loudly before sighing. “No. Yes. Okay. As I’ve promised…”

You folded your free arm across your torso.

You had to keep yourself together.

This was a serious conversation.

About shit.

Important shit.

You were focused.

Steady.

Not about to run into a wall so you did a 180 just in case.

Only as a precaution.

“You… did not hang up.” His voice warped in what was clearly him checking his screen. “Why?”

“I don’t believe your excuse.”

“That I care?!”

“Yes!” It was like he was siphoning his share of your inebriation.

“You-!” He growled and then blew out an audible air to the side. He held it there for several beats before a sharp breath said he’d start fresh. “Are a perfect match because you are infinitely annoying. No!” There were several rhythmic thumps that you identified as stomps. “I was going to be cool! I was going to be better… No, shit! Can I ask a question? I have to ask a question before I can move on with this.”

Nearing the sink, you steered away from it and nearly ran into a stall. “What’s stopping you?”

Why not hang up?

Curiosity?

Really?

That couldn’t be it.

That got a cat.

Or did it bring it back?

Like a milkshake.

No, that was boys.

“Your phone is totally bugged. He’s listening right now. In fact, I bet he’s in the room with you! Say hi for me!” Skewed with mania, Leo’s sarcasm took a haunting edge.

“That’s not even a question! He’s not-!” Here.

You almost just admitted that.

To Leo of all people.

What was wrong with you?

You had to be serious.

You could do this.

How did it go?

Heel.

Toe.

Heel.

Toe.

You just had to walk a narrow line.

No one said it had to be straight.

You tried again. “It’s not bugged.”

“You…” Leo made an abrupt sound as he seemed to remember something. “Wait, are you in trouble? Are you okay?! Say something about ordering an angel shot. It’s code for help and won’t raise suspicions. You’re at a bar right? I could tell by the buzz.”

He was intuitive.

Hadn’t Donnie mentioned he was the leader?

Was that your buzz or something else?

“Leo.”

“Don’t say my name, stupid!”

“Ugh, would you quit?! It’s not bugged. I know for a fact!”

“He’s not there.” This time he said it with conviction.

He knew now.

Figured it out from your stupid delirium.

You were stupid.

You pulled your phone away to smack your forehead.

You needed to hang up.

“He let his pet out-Are you serious!? That-that makes no sense! None… none of this makes any sense! The phone is obviously bugged. You’re obviously lying. You’re being followed or he’s in the other room or this is all an elaborate set-up, with the guys in a dark room with their shady computers and their listening in and the longer you keep me on the phone, they track my location! Shit!”

Staring dumbfounded from where your phone had gone back to sleep, you could only bring the receiver back up to your face. “Are you okay?”

“No!” There was a loud bang followed by an equally pitched curse as Leo had clearly run into something. “Fuck!”

“Not okay…” You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

“It doesn’t make sense.” His voice sounded far away.

That was true.

What was happening?

“He’s really not there.” He repeated, this time with clearer revelation.

You listened to the thin sound of electricity on the line.

It felt like it was singeing.

Burning up the alcohol in your system the longer it sizzled.

“You can answer.” His voice quieted and took on what felt like an honest tone. “I’m not going to do anything.”

You looked around the bathroom.

Had anyone come in?

You’d been so absorbed in the call that you had no idea.

You were alone if not.

He had a power.

What did you have?

Swimming.

Not him, you.

Not swimming, your mind.

Trying to shake the haze away, you took a deep breath of tinged air. It made you nearly gag and it must have relayed on the line.

“Y/N?”

You could do this.

Orange chains was Mikey.

That was burned into your mind first hand.

What was left?

Leo was blue and so were the portals.

That means he could make those.

What was Raph again?

Red what?

Roses?

He was pretty spikey.

He needed a trim.

“He’s…” You blew the gross away as best you could. “No, he’s not here. I’m out with some coworkers.”

“That doesn’t mak-“ He caught himself from repeating what was rapidly becoming his catch phrase. “He…?”

“He doesn’t let me do anything. I do what I want.” You huffed.

Dead air hummed.

You felt the need to explain, but squashed it.

“There’s no bug?” Leo’s voice was quiet.

“No! There’s no-!” Your other hand clipped your view.

Your tech gauntlet.

There wasn’t a bug.

There was a bot.

You paled.

Had you said his name?

You had.

“Shit.”

“Y/N.” Leo pressed.

“No, not shit-! I mean…” You just had to say that out loud.

“Uh…”

“I called you, did I not, Leo?” Your voice was too loud.

Who were you kidding?

You were a joke.

A comedic version of a human being.

A cartoon character.

And Leo twirled his mustache.

“That… sounds exactly what someone who is trying to beat a bug would say.” Leo sounded suspiciously.

Or put on a dunce cap.

“There’s no bug! How many times do I have to say it?! You’re so annoying!” You were about ready to flush your phone and start fresh with a new one.

Donnie would buy you one.

He could also make one.

Probably.

It still wouldn’t have a bug.

“Alright, alright! Calm down!” You could see Leo shaking his palms to usher you.

“Me?!”

“Yes, you! You’re stressing me out!”

“I’m stressing you out!?” You scrubbed a hand over your head. “Stop! Stop, stop, stop! Stop turning this around on me!”

“You started it.”

“I’m hanging up!”

“Why haven’t you already!?”

“Because-!” It’s weird.

All of this was so strange.

You felt like you were floating.

Swimming.

That made sense.

Finally, something did.

“There’s no bug.” Your anger evaporated into metaphorical waters. “There’s no trouble. There’s no trick. I was about to call Don and I saw your stupid contact. I hit call… I don’t know why. I guess… because I didn’t want to believe it was you.”

Silence was cut by someone opening the bathroom door. You mumbled an apology and stepped away even though there was nowhere to go.

They disappeared into a stall.

“Don, huh?” This time his distance was in his tone and not proximity.

That wasn’t what you expected. You wrapped your arm around yourself from where it had come away.

The pieces were coming together bit by bit.

“Yeah.” You could just envision Don’s face.

“You shared, I’ll share. Good will and all that. I… talked to the guys and they told me I was being an ass. Technically, they said a bunch of worse stuff that I won’t repeat, but basically, I promised them I’d be better. I… should be better. Should have been better. I’m not. I’m still not. I got caught right back up in the same shit, but it's been… How… long have you two been… together?” Leo sounded defeated.

Was that okay to share? “Just over a year.”

“That… that long, huh?”

Again, there was that dumbstruck note.

Was it that unbelievable?

You would say it never felt like it, but it always did.

You just had a very different reason to think so than him.

If only Leo knew.

Is that why you were still on the line?

“You have a year, I have a lifetime. I’m not saying I know him better. I don’t know the jackass at all. I’m just saying it’s a little harder for me to see any other perspective than my own.”

“Is that why Mikey came by?” What were you asking?

Was that the question?

Leo sucked in some air.

You wondered what his was like.

Surely it wasn’t shit filled like yours.

“For the record, I didn’t sanction that. No one did. Guy went out on his own. Fessed up after when I was asking him if he picked up those little wax wrapped cheeses I like, you know? Well, you wouldn’t know I like them. Well, now you do, I guess. They’re just so cute and I love how you peel the strip, it’s so satisfying and-” He cut himself off and you heard a poof that sounded familiar, but you couldn’t place it. “Point is, Mikey went by because he’s worried about you… I guess… we all are in our own ways.”

How did you respond to that?

Was there a point?

Did any of this matter?

Was it even happening?

Maybe you’d blacked out at the bar.

Maybe you were already home with Donnie.

Maybe this was all a dream.

“There are other forms of surveillance.” Leo noted. “No bugs, yes cameras. At the apartment at least.”

That had a new tone.

This revelation was sharp.

His probing had returned.

Or it had never left.

Careful.

You were supposed to be careful.

No.

He knew that.

He’d been raving about a bug.

Was he trying to psych you out?

You didn’t have the facilities to deal with all these scenarios.

At least you could see them happening now.

“You already knew that.” You tutted.

Leo chuckled. “After he confessed, I laid into Mikey about it. Yeah.”

“I get why Mikey would worry.” You held that resentment tightly.

“Right!? Thank you!” You could see Leo throwing his arms up. “I was the jerk? When he almost threw you into a building? Multiple times?! As if!”

You couldn’t help but give your own puff of laughter.

The person emerged from the stall and strolled right back out without washing their hands.

“Ew.”

“What? What happened? Hit me!” He sounded more gossipy than your coworker.

“What?” Déjà vu came on, but blew it away with a raspberry. “Oh, people not washing their hands after going to the bathroom.”

“Repulsive. Disgusting. The worst. Now let’s say, and I’m not talking about me, that someone were to do that on a regular basis, but it was just around their own home, lair let’s say, and it’s not like a wipe movement, if you know what I mean?”

You choked on a laugh. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Me? Nothing! We are talking about a hypothetical person and not a giant turtle man. I feel attacked right now, if I’m being honest.”

“So threatened.” You rolled your eyes.

Leo hummed and a bout of silence chased you.

You turned and glanced in the mirror.

You looked about the same as when you’d last glimpsed yourself at work.

Certainly not as wrecked as you felt.

“Any crime?” He tested, coy.

“You’re not even trying anymore.” Your expression went humorless.

“I’ve never tried anything.”

“Let’s talk about you.”

“Perfect. My favorite subject. My social security number is-”

“Leo!”

“I wasn’t actually going to give it to you! What do you take me for?!”

“I was trying to drag you, but I guess I’ll save it.”

“No, go back! I miss our witty banter.”

“Because we totally had that.” You shook your head.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why you’re taking my call on a Friday night.”

Even through the line, you could hear his mouth snap shut.

“I told you it was going to be a dig.”

“You did.” He chuffed. “You caught me.” He groaned as if stretching. “All alone. No hot date. Just me and a big ole’ bag of spicy chips that are totally going to give me heartburn. Were you having fun?”

“I was, my coworker got promoted.”

“Good for them!”

You had a bare smile on your lips. “Yeah, she’s great.”

Leo quieted and you could tell he was processing.

The need to defend Donnie rose again and you instead acknowledged it. That forethought gave you the ability to let it wash at your feet. It rose no higher than the ankle and you could stand with the soak. It gave you an odd clarity and the need to chance something. “Murders way down, like way down.”

Leo audibly choked.

You bit down on your lips to keep from cracking up.

“But not zero!? I’m not hearing a zero!?”

You hummed as if thinking it over and hoped the line would help cut off the giggles in your voice. “Zero is tough… Depends on the date…”

“Holy-!” There was a sharp stuffed noise that you identified as Leo flinging himself out of a chair of some kind. “Yeah, I’ll say! I need a fucking date!”

“Gosh, I knew you were alone on a Friday, but I didn’t know you were desperate...”

From where he’d clearly been moving, Leo sounds like he came to a dead halt. “Wait.”

A few squeaky giggles warped in your throat.

“You’ve got to tell me if that was a get. It was good if it was, but you’re legally obligated to tell me!”

“I am not.” You tried to put on authority to keep the juvenile statement from sounding that way.

“Miserable! You’ll give me an ulcer!”

“It won’t be me.”

“Stop! You’ve done enough!” You heard the crinkling that was distinctly a chip bag.

“Oh, I hear your date. I don’t want to keep you!”

Leo groaned so loud the phone cut out for a moment.

You finally gave into laughing.

“You’re really okay.” There was a sobering quality to his voice.

It was infectious. “Yeah, I am.”

“I gotta ask.”

You hummed an annoyed note for him to go on. He’d said that more than once.

“How?”

You tapped your foot. “We’re dating.” You looked toward the door. “We’re happy.”

Silence.

“Look this was… something, but I have to go.”

“Yeah…” He sounded almost sad.

“You… good?” Did you care?

“Just…” He seemed bewildered. “Dating. Dating? Dating…?! I was still pulling for the tech company kid thing.”

You sort of remembered that. “Guess you lost the pool.”

“Guess I did.”

“Night, Leo.”

“Y/N.” He called out.

“What?”

“Keep my number. Since he hasn’t erased it, he really… must not have seen it. Just… I…”

You waited.

Something was mounting.

“I get it. I mean, I don’t. I really fucking don’t, but I get that from your perspective, you wouldn’t like me or Mikey or Raph, but you don’t know us and I guess you know him and that is… something, but I’m still asking. Just keep it where it is, just in case and I get by asking, I’m raising the chances of you deleting it the second you get off the phone or whatever, but maybe… I don’t know… Maybe you won’t and for that I have to ask.”

You held out the line for as long as you were able. You then put on what you hoped was a clear voice. “What you think is going to happen, isn’t, Leo.”

He said nothing.

“It’s the same way you get it.”

Still.

You sighed. “Good night.”

“Night, Y/N. Be seeing you.”

Alarm bells sounded in your mind, but the phone went dead with an innate tone.

Why had he said that?

Standing in the empty bathroom, you turned.

You needed to get home.

Pulling your phone away from your head, it blinked alive for you. You slammed a finger down against it and navigated to the texting app. There you slammed the call button and wondered why on earth your more drunk self hadn’t done the same. It was why you had never seen the contact until now.

Who the fuck goes to their contact lists anymore?

Donnie picked up on the first ring. “Donatello, at your service.”

“I need you to pick me up.”

“What’s wrong?” There was a sudden urgency in his voice.

Was it urgent?

You weren’t sure.

Your voice must have sounded like it.

You rushed back out into the bar where it was still full of patrons.

People.

You needed to be around people.

Their thrum thinned the little mental processes you had been able to stir back up.

“Y/N.”

“How do Leo’s powers work?”

“Where are you?” He growled low.

“He’s not here! I don’t think at least…! Donnie!?”

“He would need to know where you are and how to get there.”

“Then he shouldn’t…” You flew to your old spot at the bar, but your gossipy coworker was gone.

“Permission to track your location.”

“The bar!” Not finding the man, you pulled your phone away to see if he’d left you a message. There, Donnie marked the last text chain and it revealed something else. “The bar… that I didn’t tell you about…!” You groaned and looked around. Not only could you not remember the name of this place, you were sort of aware that this was a second location. “I’m dropping a pin, one sec.”

Why had you drank so much?

Weren’t you allowed to cut loose?

“Received. En route.”

“Okay, yeah… I don’t-” The bartender made eye contact and translated he had something. You lowered your phone. “Yes?”

He nodded to his last customer before coming over to you. “Your friend had to go.”

“Oh…” Your shoulders dropped.

Were any of your coworkers still here?

Were you alone?

No, there was a packed bar.

“He paid your tab and left you a message.”

“He… What?!”

The bartender ignored your exclamation and rustled under the counter. He came up with a little ripped page from a notepad. “Nice guy, he was worried, but something came up I guess.”

“That… does not sound like him…” You picked up the note and shuffled it with your phone.

You could feel the bartender watching you.

There was a simple scrawled sentence that said your explanation would be payment enough.

“This sounds like him.” You sighed and folded up the page for later. “Thank you.”

The bartender nodded, waiting.

“Oh, yeah, uh…” Again juggling, you found your wallet and passed over a hefty tip. “Thank you.” You clarified.

The man nodded before giving some hesitation. “Are you alright?”

“No.” The sound popped out of you and you gave a horrified look before trying to translate that wasn’t what you meant. “I’m really stressed out. My boyfriend is coming to get me.”

The bartender searched you before giving a faint nod. “I’ll keep an eye out. Just stick around there.”

“I will.” You nodded, grateful you slapped down the extra tender.

Someone hailed him and he moved on. You watched him go for a moment before bringing your phone back up. “Sorry, Don… It’s been a whole night.”

“What happened?” There was a static that meant he was airborne.

“I…” Where you clutched the note, you saw your tech gauntlet. “Leo called me.”

A lie.

You could not believe you lied.

You lied to Donnie.

You lied to S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.

The latter of which would very well know as much.

How could you explain it?

Shouldering your phone, you put a hand over the piece of tech as if he could feel it.

He couldn’t.

Still, you gave a squeeze and could faintly hear Leo’s voice.

Keep my number.

Why?

If you told Donnie, he’d surely delete it.

Why keep it?

Was it because Leo didn't know?

None of them knew.

It was the same reason you’d stayed on the line.

Donnie’s silence grew furious.

“He got it from the… villain gala, whatever it was called.” At least that was a half-truth.

Again, you listened to rushing air.

“He doesn’t know where I am.”

There was a sudden cut and you brought your phone down to see it was still ticking. It then hung up and you turned in time as the door opened.

Donnie looked surprisingly poised for having made it across the city in only a couple minutes. Honing in on you, he approached in two long strides and his arms extended. Holding yours out to meet him, he surpassed your hands to grab your forearms. There you felt the shake of anxiety and his head came down onto the shoulder with what you were now considering your mating mark. He rubbed there, as if to ground himself with it before coming up to search your face. “Full explanation.”

“I was a little drunk-”

Donnie nodded, clearly taking in your scent from the many others.

“I was about to call you to pick me up because people were calling it a night and… he called instead.”

There was a violent squeeze where Donnie had a grip on you, but he got hold of it before it became too much.

You pecked his cheek. He was doing surprisingly well, considering. “We mostly talked about how he thought there was a bug.”

Donnie’s face twisted up with revulsion. “Why bother?”

“Right?!” You gave a nervous exclamation and then dropped your gaze. “I barely told him anything. We… barely talked about anything. I made fun of him for being alone on a Friday… and it was all… so weird.”

Donnie nodded slowly.

“You’re not… mad?” You tilted your head.

He lit up as he registered your words and then softened. “I can name a hundred emotions I am, but mad is not one of them. Not at you.”

“But I answered… I talked to him… I-”

“You’re allowed.”

You stared at him, vestiges not allowing you to understand.

He finally let go to brush your cheek. “Trust, but if you’re concerned, what did you tell him?”

“That…” Flooded by his warmth, you turned slightly as the guilt of the lie nibbled at your conscience. “... there wasn’t a bug. That…” You chuffed and shook your head. “... I’m not some captive, we’re dating, and we’re… happy.” You turned to look at him, your heart feeling very much exposed.

Donnie took the information in with a calculated stare before he gave a tight nod. “If that is all, then there is little concern.”

“He didn’t… know…? Or believe me, I guess… That we’re…”

“I can’t imagine anyone who’s known me that long would.”

There it was again.

“It’s hard to imagine.” Your gaze dropped again and this time you stepped into your boyfriend.

He released your other arm as you pressed into his plastron.

“You’re… you…” You turned your head to lay an ear against his plastron and ruminated on how that didn’t explain much.

“I haven’t always been this version of me.” He spoke above you.

You nodded.

These variables weren’t something you were up for.

“Can we go home?”

“Of course.” One of his arms slung around you and the other did something to the bar counter.

“I already tipped him.”

“I doubt he’ll disagree to more.”

You snorted as you turned to leave with Donnie hovering close. Exiting the bar, the sticky near summer air clung to nightfall.

“The car is nearby or we can fly.”

“Let’s fly.” You mumbled, looking up and down the street.

“Did you leave something out?”

“Not… on purpose.” You forced your gaze back to Donnie as he led you over to an alley. “The rush, the nerves, asking about his powers… I’m antsy because of the weird way the call ended.”

“Which was?” His battle shell shifted to flight form.

Coming closer, he took you into his arms. “’Be seeing you.’”

A car drove by just outside the alley and, as it passed, its light threw an animalistic sheen to the outright rage in Donnie’s eyes.

Oh and check it: Leo did indeed get his tiny cheese!

By @thepinkpanther83 who is THE BEST FOR BEING BOTH A BETA BOSS AND DRAWING THE BEST PIC OF WEAK SPOT LEO!!!

HUGE SHOUT OUTS to my betas @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83 (MORE MORE) because they really went through it with re-writes! Love y'all!

#weakspotfic #rottmnt #rottmnt donnie x reader #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt x reader #donatello hamato #donnie x reader #rise donnie #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt donnie #me #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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samkat10423 · 3 months

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Some more lots

Didn't get much done yesterday, since I'm lazy. And the weather here has finally left the minus digits and is semi-warm. Plus - our furnace which died right at the beginning of our Artic Winter phase - was finally replaced. Took 2 weeks to get one, but it works so no more freezing our tuchus off.

Anyway, I decided to work on a beach lot to replace that one over by the Wolff house. Recurve Strand - or something like that.

This is another Lili lot that I altered. Where that scuba shop is, she had a bar and some picnic tables. I got rid of that and built the little shop. Then I placed a lifeguard chair and awning - so my stupid sims don't drown. I really don't care if they do - gets rid of the stupid gene from the DNA gene pool - but the local sims all seem to care. Inside those 3 little builds, I made them more functional - as is: I got rid of all the unnecessary crap that was inside and made them into actual changing rooms. Later on, I'll add that surf thingie that EA sold in the store, so my stupid sims can surf. And maybe some yoga mats so they can channel their inner zen. But for now, this is it.

Then I hopped over to where that Lofty Cerulean pool was. My whiney sims complained that they were breaking out in rashes whenever they took a dip - like my city council cares. The local doctors - who attended the meeting - reminded them that they could treat their rashes for an astronomical fee. All they have to do is come to the ER, but they insisted that the pool needed to be upgraded. After all of 30 minutes of deliberation - 25 of which were spent on bathroom breaks - the council came back with their answer. NO. After all - as they told them - if you can come all the way to city hall to picket and throw temper tantrums, you can walk to the town pool.

With that, they bulldozed the old lot and built some tennis courts. They did leave the old building - where they sell booze, because they can. In an effort to save some simoleons, they recycled some old street signs and made some cheap tables and chairs out of them, and used some old crates to make a bar. Plus, they used some old jars and made lights. Progress as Promised! (That's their campaign slogan).

Then I decided to get rid of that live show venue the game automatically loads. This little bar was made a gazillion years ago by someone over on MTS - before the Seasons ep. I don't think he's active anymore since he threw several rants about EA over there. Anyway, it had a fake "glass" domed roof that just let the weather in. So, I got rid of that and added a new frieze to the roof. Then I kicked out the back and sides - so I'd have room for the stage. Plus, I added that roof stuff, used some different plants and added a parking lot. Plus, I gave it some actual doors. (He just used arches).

Inside, I got rid of everything. I think the only thing I kept was the wall and floor finishes. I used Sandy's tropical bar set, then recolored dive bar counters to match it. Those totem poles I just recolored. I think they came with that Island Paradise set. Where the pool table is, there were a couple of arcade machines, but I have an arcade, so I got rid of them. Then I placed some showtime seating so sims actually watch the acts. I mostly used the Tiki sets to do this build. I'll go back in and use the invisible dance floor later to replace the game one. (I just wanted to make sure I had room for a dance floor).

Outside, I used stuff from Island Paradise for the patio. You can't see it, but there is that Late Night bubble bar - probably the only thing I kept from the original build. I also used that smaller stage for this build. I really didn't go crazy with stage decor. I have an acrobat in town, but not much else right now.

Then I went back to Agnes's house to finish taking sims into CAS. This house was built by plumbob for their updated SV save. I have always hated the original, and this one still has a modern vibe without looking totally stupid. They did get rid of the nursery inside, and replaced it with a large guest room. But I fixed that by dividing the room and adding an unfinished space with baby stuff. It's roped off using that roping from Late Night. I moved her niece into the semi-finished area. I figured Agnes was originally going to hire a live-in nanny to help with her baby, which is why the room was so large. I decided to keep the niece at the child phase instead of making her into a teen. Right now, Agnes doesn't like her much - and her father (my town acrobat) even less. But since she is an attorney, she sued for custody. And won. As in RL, simoleons talk.

#sims 3 #Sunset Valley lots #more drama in town!

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ccohanlon · 7 months

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how i live

I woke at midnight, last night, to a hard sou’westerly and the floor moving in three directions at once — pitching, rolling, rising-and-falling. Now, six hours later, the wind has moderated. Everything is still. The rest of the world is obscured by grey mist and sporadic showers, as if the sky has fallen across the shore.

I climb up a short ladder to the companionway to check that all is well on deck — it’s the first thing I do every morning — then I return to my bunk to download email and read a couple of news sites on a laptop before my wife wakes and we have a cup of coffee together across the varnished teak table that separates our bunks.

We talk about what we want to do today and waste a minute or two trying to agree a time-table before giving up. For half a decade, we have scraped by with a minimum of routine or planning. We are singularly unadept at making lists or coordinating diaries. We end up doing most things together. Today, we will pick up some paint and shackles at a chandlery and find a local metal fabricator to repair or replicate a damaged stainless steel stanchion. We also have to buy some groceries. But first I want to repair our rubber dinghy.

My wife and I live on a 32-foot sailboat. It is a life-raft of sorts. It is also an island on which we are trying to regain an unsettled but sheltered freedom after several years of being homeless. Most days, we feel like castaways, with no hope of ever being rescued.

It’s hard to explain how we ended up here. Moving aboard was not a ‘lifestyle choice’ but an act of quiet desperation. We had dropped out of a life in which I had somehow ended up running two well-known, medium-sized companies, one of them publicly listed — before those roles, I had been a musician, gambler, seaman, smuggler, photographer, magazine editor, and governmental adviser — and we had taken to wandering slowly across Europe, the UK, and North Africa. After a year holed up on the southern coast of Spain, a few miles east of Gibraltar, riding out the worst of the pandemic, we moved to southern Italy, where we acquired, and set about restoring, a small ruin, part of servants’ quarters attached to a 16th century Spanish castle, in a village not far from Lecce, in Puglia. We had just completed the work, two years later, when the local Questura, the office of the Carabinieri that oversees Italian immigration, rejected our third application for temporary residence and issued a formal instruction to us to leave Italy — and Europe’s Schengen zone.

The boat was not something we thought through in any detail. I had spent a lot of time at sea in my youth and had lived on sailing boats of various sizes on the Channel coasts of England and France, as well as in the Mediterranean. Which is to say, I had an understanding of their discomforts. But the prospect of resuming a life that, before we ended up in southern Italy, involved moving every three months — not just from one temporary accommodation to another but from one country to another, so as not to contravene the terms of our largely visa-less travel — had exhausted us. I made an offer on a cheap, neglected, 45-year-old, fibreglass sloop I had come across online and organised a marine surveyor to look it over for me. He gave it a cautious thumbs up.

I won’t forget my wife’s dolorous expression, a month later, when she saw the boat for the first time. It was in an industrial area of Southampton, on a dreich morning in early spring — bitterly cold, windy, and raining. Around us, the Itchen River’s ebb had revealed swathes of black, foul-smelling mud. Raised far from the sea, on the plains of north-eastern Oklahoma, my wife told me later she had been praying that our journey to this glum backwater was part of some elaborate practical joke.

There is a whole genre of YouTube videos created by those who live on sailboats full-time and voyage all over the world. The most popular, the so-called ‘influencers’, are young(ish) couples or families with capacious, often European-built, plastic catamarans or monohulls. Their videos focus less on the gritty, day-to-day grind of boat maintenance and passage-making and more on sojourns in ancient, stone-built harbours in the Mediterranean, white, sandy beaches and palm-fringed cays in the Caribbean, or improbably blue lagoons and solitary atolls in the South Pacific, where they barbecue fresh fish, paddle-board, kite-surf and practice yoga and aerial silks for the envy of hundreds of thousands of followers. My wife’s and my life aboard together is nothing like any of this.

We are both in our sixties — I am just a year away from seventy — and we have spent more than a decade on the move around the world, at first following eclectic opportunities for employment then, when those opportunities receded, in search of somewhere we might be able to settle with very little money. Four months after moving aboard our boat, we still think of ourselves as vagabond travellers, our boat a shambolic, floating vardo that we haven’t yet managed to turn into a home. We’re not really ‘cruisers’, despite the sense of community we sometimes find among them, but we are seafarers — historically, a marginal existence driven by necessity. A recent, 150-nautical-mile passage westward along the south coast of England was a shakedown during which we learned how to make our aged, shabby vessel more comfortable and easier to handle and to trust her capacity to keep us safe at sea.

She bore the name Endymion when we bought her — after my least favourite poem by John Keats (“A thing of beauty is a joy forever…”) — but we re-named her Wrack. Depending on the source, ‘wrack’ describes seaweeds or seagrasses that wash up along a shore or the scattered traces of a shipwreck, either of which might be metaphors for my wife and me in old age. It is certainly how we feel when we’re not at sea. Life aboard Wrack is spartan — fresh water stored in a dozen polyethylene jerry cans, no hot or cold running water, no refrigeration and when the temperature drops, no heating either — so, from time to time, we concede the cost of berthing in marinas to gain access to on-site laundries, showers, flushing toilets, and wi-fi. Whether we’re berthed or anchored somewhere, we shop for food once a week — mainly vegetables, fruit, bread, pasta, and rice but little dairy and no meat — and eat one meal a day, cooked in the mid-afternoon on a two-burner gas stove.

The days we spend in close proximity to others’ lives ashore remind us how disenfranchised ours have become. We were homeless before we acquired Wrack, but now we are without a legal residence anywhere, even in our ‘home’ countries. We enter and exit borders uneasily as ‘visitors’, our stays limited to 90 or 180 days, depending on where we are. We have no access to banking, insurance, social services or, with a few exceptions, emergency health care. Even the modest Australian pensions we have a right to can only be received if we have been granted residence in countries with which Australia has reciprocal arrangements — and we haven’t. It’s hard even for other live-aboards to understand how deeply we are enmired in this peculiar bureaucratic statelessness. It’s harder for us to deal with it every day.

But life afloat provides consolations. We are ceaselessly attuned to the weather and our boat’s responses to subtle shifts in the sea state, tide and wind even when we are tethered to a dock. We appreciate the shelter — and surprising cosiness — the limited space below decks affords us but the impulse to surrender to the elements and let them propel us elsewhere is insistent. Our best days are offshore, even when the conditions are testing; the world shrinks to just the two of us, our boat and the implacable, mutable sea around us. Whatever problems we face ashore become, at least for the duration of a passage, abstract and insignificant. We sail without a specific destination — ‘towards’ rather than ‘to’, as traditional navigators would have it — and without purpose. Time drifts.

At least half of every day is spent maintaining, repairing, or re-organising the boat, an unavoidable and time-consuming part of our days, especially at sea. When we’re at anchor or berthed in a marina, we do what we can to sustain ourselves. Most afternoons are spent prospecting for drips of income from journalism and crowd-funding — a source inspired by those younger YouTube adventurers — or adding a few hundred words to a manuscript for a non-fiction book commissioned by a Dutch publisher, whose patience has been stretched to breaking point. Because of our visitor visa status, we can’t seek gainful employment ashore, and we have long since lost contact with any of the networks that once provided us with a higher-than-average income as freelancers. Our existence, by any definition, is impoverished and perilously marginal, we have little social life, yet we make the effort to appreciate our circumstances, even if it’s just to sit together in silence and absorb the elemental white noise of wind and sea, to do nothing, to not think.

Our precariousness burdens our four adult children, who have scattered to San Diego, Sydney, Berlin and Rome: “Where are you now?” our youngest asks. “How long will you be there?” We speak to each at least once a week. Not all of them long for fixedness but they do want desperately for us to have a ‘real home’, somewhere we can assemble occasionally as a family. We will be grandparents for the first time, soon. Like our few friends, our children worry that we might become lost — in every sense.

My wife and I are uncomfortably aware of our financial and physical vulnerability but at our ages, we can no longer cling to the faint hope that there’s an end to it. We have committed to an unlikely, reckless voyage. All we can do is maintain a rough dead reckoning of its course and embrace the uncharted and the relentless unexpected.

First published in The Idler, UK, 2023.

#life #living #poverty #sea #seafaring #memoir #theidler #uk #vagabondlife #liveaboard

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sataniccapitalist · 4 months

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#thewaronyou

Another winter of death is now unfolding in the United States and across the Northern Hemisphere as the JN.1 variant of the coronavirus continues to surge globally. Wastewater data from the United States released Tuesday indicate that upwards of 2 million people are now being infected with COVID-19 each day, amid the second-biggest wave of mass infection since the pandemic began, eclipsed only by the initial wave of the Omicron variant during the winter of 2021-22.

There are now reports on social media of hospitals being slammed with COVID patients across the US, Canada and Europe. At a growing number of hospitals, waiting rooms are overflowing, emergency rooms and ICUs are at or near capacity, and ambulances are being turned away or forced to wait for hours to drop off their patients.

According to official figures, COVID-19 hospitalizations in Charlotte, North Carolina are now at their highest levels of the entire pandemic. In Toronto, Dr. Michael Howlett, president of the Canadian Association of Emergency Physicians, told City News, “I’ve worked in emergency departments since 1987, and it’s by far the worst it’s ever been. It’s not even close.” He added, “We’ve got people dying in waiting rooms because we don’t have a place to put them. People being resuscitated on an ambulance stretcher or a floor.”

Dr. Joseph Khabbaza, a pulmonary and critical care specialist at the Cleveland Clinic, told the Today Show website: “The current strain right now seems to be packing a meaner punch than the prior strains. Some features of the current circulating strain probably (make it) a little bit more virulent and pathogenic, making people sicker than prior (variants).”

Indeed, two recent studies indicate that JN.1 more efficiently infects cells in the lower lung, a trait that existed in pre-Omicron strains which were considered more deadly. One study from researchers in Germany and France noted that BA.2.86, the variant nicknamed “Pirola” from which JN.1 evolved, “has regained a trait characteristic of early SARS-CoV-2 lineages: robust lung cell entry. The variant might constitute an elevated health threat as compared to previous Omicron sublineages.”https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/1MGIQxPf0Ig?rel=0An appeal from David North: Donate to the WSWS todayWatch the video message from WSWS International Editorial Board Chairman David North.DONATE TODAY

The toll on human life from the ongoing wave of mass infection is enormous. It is estimated that one-third of the American population, or over 100 million human beings, will contract COVID-19 during just the current wave. This will likely result in tens of thousands of deaths, many of which will not be properly logged due to the dismantling of COVID-19 testing and data reporting systems in the US. When The Economist last updated its tracker of excess deaths on November 18—before the JN.1 wave began—the cumulative death toll stood at 27.4 million, and nearly 5,000 people were continuing to die each day worldwide.

The current wave will also induce further mass suffering from Long COVID, which has been well known since 2020 to cause a multitude of lingering and often debilitating effects. Just last week, a pre-print study was published in Nature Portfolio showing that COVID-19 infection can cause brain damage akin to aging 20 years. The consequences are mental deficits that induce depression, reduced ability to handle intense emotions, lowered attention span, and impaired ability to retain information.

Other research indicates that the virus can attack the heart, the immune system, digestion and essentially every other critical bodily function. The initial symptoms of COVID-19 might resemble those of the flu, but the reality is that the virus can affect nearly every organ in the body and can do so for years after the initial infection. While vaccination slightly reduces the risks of Long COVID, the full impact of the virus will be felt for generations.

The latest winter wave of infections and hospitalizations takes place just eight months after the World Health Organization (WHO) and the Biden administration ended their COVID-19 public health emergency (PHE) declarations without any scientific justification. This initiated the wholesale scrapping of all official response to the pandemic, giving the virus free rein to infect the entire global population ad infinitum.

A virtual blackout of any mention of the coronavirus in the corporate media accompanied the swan song of official reporting. From then on, if illnesses at hospitals or among public figures were referenced at all, it was always with the euphemism “respiratory illness.” The words COVID, coronavirus and pandemic have been all but blacklisted, and the facts about the dangers of the disease have been actively suppressed.

Summarizing the cumulative results of this global assault on public health, the WSWS International Editorial Board wrote in its New Year 2024 statement:

All facts and data surrounding the present state of the pandemic are concealed from the global population, which has instead been subjected to unending lies, gaslighting and propaganda, now shrouded in a veil of silence. There is a systematic cover-up of the real gravity of the crisis, enforced by the government, the corporations, the media and the trade union bureaucracies. Official policy has devolved into simply ignoring, denying and falsifying the reality of the pandemic, no matter what the consequences, as millions are sickened and thousands die globally every day.

In response to the latest wastewater data, there have only been a handful of news articles, most of which have sought to downplay the severity of the current wave and largely ignored the deepening crisis in hospitals.

The official blackout has given rise to an extraordinary contradiction in social life. The reality of mass infection means that everyone knows a friend, neighbor, family member or coworker who is currently or was recently sick, or even hospitalized or killed, by COVID-19. Yet the unrelenting pressure to dismiss the danger of the pandemic means that shopping centers, supermarkets, workplaces and even doctor’s offices and hospitals are full of people not taking the basic and simple precaution of masking to protect themselves. Every visit outside one’s home carries the risk of being infected, with unknown long-term consequences.

As the pandemic enters its fifth year, it is critical to draw the lessons of this world historical experience. The past four years have demonstrated unequivocally that capitalist governments are both unwilling and incapable of fighting this disease. Their primary concern has always been to ensure the unabated accumulation of profits by corporations, no matter the cost in human lives and health.

The real solution to the coronavirus is not to ignore it, but to develop a campaign of elimination and eradication of the virus worldwide. To do so requires the implementation of mask mandates, mass testing and contact tracing, as well as the installation of updated ventilation systems and the safe deployment of Far-UVC technology to halt the spread of the virus. The resources for this global public health program must be expropriated from the banks and financial institutions, which are responsible for the mass suffering wrought by the pandemic.

All of these measures cut directly across the profit motive and the real disease of society: capitalism. As such, the struggle against the coronavirus is not primarily medical or scientific, but political and social. The international working class must be educated on the real dangers of the pandemic and mobilized to simultaneously stop the spread of the disease and put an end to the underlying social order that propagates mass death. This must be developed as a revolutionary struggle to establish world socialism.

#the enemy is strong #protect yourself #protect your family

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