#one fuckin day to mourn the people in my life in my own way

[altraviolet]

Oh man now that I've seen TWO asks this day about Soundwave dying, is that the inevitable conclusion to this fic? Did I miss this big spoiler somewhere or all the clues to it? I don't remember seeing a "Major character death" tag, either.

Or is this people speculating and doing "what if"? ...not that I'd be adverse to it, especially if it made sense to do so!

Also I completely understand about work sapping all creative juices. While I don't write (I've dabbled in the past, but little 3k words or less things for OC's way back in the LJ days), I used to sketch, draw, paint nearly every day for hours before I ended up in a corporate 9-5, full time job. Even doing customer service jobs, I was able to sketch on napkins and scrap receipt paper and sticky notes.. and now I just.. can't. Its unbelievable how mentally draining full time jobs can be. Every now and then I'll get the sketch pad or watercolors out,but it's maybe once or twice a year now.

I've seen writers who do ko-fi for tips or writing commissions for certain stories (I remember a tf author I used to follow did this - where a story was only continued if the chapters were commissioned) - or even patreons, where they set up an early access to the newer chapters, and the cut scenes, additional content - have you thought about those? I think you've got a big enough following where it could be feasible to go part time! And maybe fund a self publishing of an original work sometime down the road!

>is that the inevitable conclusion to this fic? Did I miss this big spoiler somewhere or all the clues to it? I don't remember seeing a "Major character death" tag, either.

The major tag on the fic is "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings." You haven't missed a big spoiler or clues. The influx of "WHAT IF HE DIES" was puzzling to me, too, but I rolled with it.

I'm curious why people think Soundwave is going to die, when one of the major themes of the fic (at least to me, inside my head) is bringing people back from the dead. Not literally, of course. But... but did they see the whole point of what Rodimus is doing? Trailbreaker, Ambulon, and Mirage? Skywarp? Literally pulling Soundwave from the shadow zone, where life is not worth living?

There's actually a lot more I want to say on this, but I don't want to spoil the story. I have a FAQ planned for when the fic is done and I address death in it, and my approach to writing it vs JRO, and the aforementioned major theme.

I'm guessssssssinnnnnnng people are going the doom route because of the Scavengers, and because Soundwave keeps getting injured and can't be healed, and because... ? I feel like stakes have been high in the past, so maybe that's part of it, too. I won't say anything else for now, though.

This post got long so I'll put the rest under a cut.

>Its unbelievable how mentally draining full time jobs can be.

good god, yeah. low key, I used to be an artist (mostly hobbyist, a few pro jobs). I gave up and went back to writing because it's much easier/comes more naturally to me, and that's all I have energy for. I fuckin' mourned stopping art, to be honest. but you know what, I'd rather have Echo Garden than slog through commissions. I learned I'd rather create my own things than do things other people want me to do. so I guess learning that about myself was ... good. it's absolutely unbelievable how draining a 9-5 job is. I will admit I am jealous of people who have spouses or understanding parents that allow them to do art full time by providing a safety net in the form of housing and health insurance. jealousy is very human, you know :D surely there is a better balance out there for us ;A;

>I remember a tf author I used to follow did this - where a story was only continued if the chapters were commissioned

oooohhhhhhhh you know... I get it. I get people need money. but that doesn't sit right with me. I would not withhold fic like that.

>patreons, where they set up an early access to the newer chapters, and the cut scenes, additional content - have you thought about those?

I've thought about it only in the fanciful sense. To be honest, unless I was getting enough support to quit my job, it's not really going to change my life. Like, how do I say this. I won't have any more additional time in the week to write if I make $50 extra/month through patreon. I'll still be doing my full time job AND I'll have an obligation to write for people. Does that make sense? Unless a patreon offsets the actually draining thing in my life, it's just another thing I have to do.

Although 'early access to chapters' sits way better with me than denying future chapters UNLESS funded. Though paying for fic is a huge gray area and I don't think it's wise to poke that beast...

>I think you've got a big enough following where it could be feasible to go part time!

thank you, I appreciate your kindness here :D I don't think my following is big enough, though. I think the readership is maybe 1400 people? and a bunch of those are minors and most of the adult fandom is fucking broke, lol. (the tf fans with the money tend to be the major toy buying ones, not the fanfic reading ones. Stereotype, but that's my observation)

and part of the problem is my place of employment. I asked, years ago, if I could go part time (so I could practice art) and my boss said no. it's a full time only position ;A; which is why I say, unless patreon can fully support me, it's not really feasible. freelancing incurs a higher tax rate and you don't have any health insurance, so I'd actually have to make more than I am now... and given the number of absolutely fantastic fan artists I see struggling to make it with patreon, I know I can't (since fan artists make more than fan writers)

I hope that my answers don't sound dismissive. Thank you very much for your empathy and kind ideas. I don't think the fandom can support me monetarily in the way I would need, and I think their interest in me will drop as soon as Echo Garden is finished. I base this statement on the fact that TEG has exponentially higher stats than any of my other fics.

The people clearly want only one thing, and it will eventually end xD

If you or anyone else thinks I'm looking at this wrong and there may actually be a way I can write without dying, please let me know. I've thought about this for years and the above is what I've concluded.

Thank you again for the kind ask! <3

#long post #ask #creepygoth666 #on writing and the reality of the day job #maybe I'm too pessimistic #if only I had a sugar spouse... lol

[writing-good-vibes]

Bo Sinclair is one of the only people that Corey knows who would start making out with him as soon as he confesses to murdering Joan

they're so fucked up 😈

bo and his brothers have built a grotesque and crumbling shrine to their mother. the forever-funeral, the wax museum, the empty shell of a town where trudy was the queen; it all serves as a reminder of what she did and what they -- what bo -- had to do to survive.

corey has something similar, his momma will always live in a dark and dingy corner of his mind. his whole life he was trying to get away from her, gnawing desperately at the apron strings, and death became the only option he had left. his, hers, for a while he didn't care which one it was, but knew that one day something was going to have to give.

corey doesn't admit what he did out loud for a long, long time. he drops details here and there -- bo knows he's on the run, knows he's killed someone -- but he can't bring himself to talk about momma. not yet anyway. but one night, months after he first set foot in ambrose, he wakes up and find bo isn't there.

corey wanders the house looking for bo -- in the kitchen, the bathroom, the study -- but has no luck. he makes his way down the empty lane into town, checks in the garage and the basement and the museum, but he can't find him. there's only one place left to look -- the church. corey hasn't been in there since that first day, he'd heard bo and vince talk about it though. he knows what it means to them, understands why they have this tableau set up. he knows bo killed his own mother, or at the very least didn't save her. he sees the scars on bo's wrists and he understands.

bo is praying, or something like it; knelt before the open casket with his hands clasped. corey is quiet as he walks up the aisle, he drops to his knees next to bo and looks up at the stained glass window. corey doesn't believe in god, not in the traditional sense anyway.

bo's startled when corey sinks down next to him. he unclasps his praying hands, hastily wiping away a stray tear that he'll swear was never there.

"i get it," corey says, nodding towards the casket.

"do ya, now?" bo snaps. he's irritated his mourning has been disturbed. irritated corey would dare intrude where he has no business being.

corey hums affirmatively, then, "i know how you feel."

bo grunts in annoyance. no one knows how he feels. he's lived his whole life and never met anyone who could come close to understanding him. corey's no fucking different, he's just a pretty face trying to run away from his problems who ended up in bo's bed.

"i tell myself that momma loved me, in her own way. but she loved me so much that i... i wasn't even a person anymore. i remember the first time she hit me. she never said she was sorry, but she held me in her arms while i cried about it."

"i don't need your fuckin' pity," bo seethes.

"i don't pity you," corey shrugs. "my momma was all i had for a really, really long time and all i wanted was to get away from her. no one was coming to save me, so i had to save myself."

bo was never known for his patience, "stop fuckin' around and just make your fuckin' point."

"i killed my momma too."

a heavy silence falls over them. the musty air feels uncomfortably still.

"i killed her and i don't feel bad about it, but i miss her sometimes. so i understand why you do --" corey gestures around them, "-- this."

bo looks over at the younger man, "felt good, right?"

corey's eyes are wide and wet, but he nods, pulling in a breath with a shudder. a slow smirk tugs at his lips.

"nothin'll ever come close," bo says, and it sounds like a promise.

bo's kisses are always rough, all tongue and teeth and a hand twisting in corey's hair, then pulling at his clothes. the gritty, unswept floor is cold against corey's knees, his hands, his cheek when bo pushes him face down-ass up. there's a desperation in the way bo grips corey's hips, the way he keeps such a tight hold on him. this is like a promise too, that even though corey and bo will never feel as good as he did with their mommas' blood on their hands, their fucking will make up for it. their fucking will give them the control they need and satiate that desire for understanding and violence born from always wanting more.

corey's moans and bo's grunts are loud and disembodied in the silent chapel.

#bo sinclair x corey cunningham #bo sinclair #corey cunningham #house of wax 2005 #they're the worst couple (affectionate) 💗 #make each other worse type deal #they are the 'victims of terrible moms' club founding members

[whatsnothappening]

well happy new years/valentines day

So i totally meant to keep up with this and continue to document my feelings and accomplishments and failures. I feel that you have to be accountable for both. I guess let me go ahead and fill in on what we have missed. 2022 ended with a moderate and boring thud. There was no loud bang. There was no crazy thing happening in my life. Im in my 20s and i am just so depressed and down on myself with how lame my life is at the moment. My problems and issues and drama are just so depressing. There is nothing juicy or interesting anymore. Was last year the end of my juicy life style? Last year i had so much going on. I had so many details to life. Now i feel that i sit here just existing. Not doing too much with myself. Which is completely my fault. I could get up and say look, we are going a different direction with all of this. But its not just me anymore. I almost feel that im grieving. Last year i got married to my best friend. By all means this is not a "oh what have i done" scene. I am 100% happy with my decision and this man is my best friend until the end. For some reason i am just mourning my last name? Is that weird? Its not like my last name had any higher power or was something special. Part of me believes that im using me mourning my last name as reason to be terrified of growing up. Granit, i fully understand i am now an adult. I am aware. But i am still terrified. When i was in high school i didn't believe i was going to make it past 18. I thought that was it for me. I couldn't picture myself as a 25 year old. I couldn't picture myself going to college. I was never the young girl that pictured her self in a wedding dress, walking down the ile. That exact moment, was an eye opener. I feel that i spent the first 5 years of my life just doing what ever the fuck i want and not thinking of the repercussions of my actions because i thought i would be young for ever... Im sure everyone has seen it on tiktok but the ones were they play a video from the past and then the next clip is them waking up years later. yea, im feeling that so hard. But hell, im awake now right? Well, im awake so here is me saying i am going to change my way of life and add some spice. Well back to saying that we ending the year a mediocre bang. We had absolutely nothing going. Shouldn't i be happy about that? Well im not lol. I dont know why, call me toxic i guess. The only thing that was going on that was interesting was our friends drama, that was a mess to try and keep up with. I guess my issue with the drama is that me and my husband let it consume our home life. We disagreed on how things were handled IN OTHER PEOPLES LIVES and we let that get ahold of us. I mean i got to a point where i didnt even want to look at the mother fucker. I couldn't bare to stand next to him for more than 5 minutes. But hey, we push through. We're fine now. I mean i will say that it is definitely not perfect. I dont think we have had sex or made love in 4 months. I dont even remember what his fuckin dick looks like to be real. I just have a wonderful relationship with my girlfriends from hustler.... Well at this moment in our life. i am kind of doing my own thing. continued-

[badface]

....

#writing all that genuinely made me emotional #thinking too much about this sort of thing makes me want to cry #can i just have one day #one fuckin day to mourn the people in my life in my own way #without people outside my culture nitpicking the things they want to use from it #do not reblog #i wont even argue if someone tries to clown on that post that shits too personal and i dont care anymore. #Andi.txt.

[artdev]

I’m probably gonna get attacked for this lol

Tommy Character Analysis

From a sane yet angry child

The character of Tommyinnit is one of the worst characters on the entirety of the Dream SMP. Yes, the other characters have their flaws, and they have all done some very horrible things, but Tommy has continuously made bad decisions. These decisions have done nothing good for himself and have caused suffering for the other members of the SMP. In this essay I will provide reason to the fact character Tommy fucking sucks and every other character, yes including Dream, are so much better and have redeeming qualities to their characters. I will give a disclaimer: this is about THE CHARACTERS not the CONTENT CREATORS

Tommy’s First Days on the SMP

Tommy’s first day on the SMP was the last day of peace that server would ever see. From the get-go Tommy did nothing but cause nothing but problems for the original people on the server (Dream, George, Sapnap, Bad, Sam, Ponk, Callahan, and Alyssa) which resulted in a ban from not only from Dream, after refusing to obey under his exile he was put in, himself but also from George. The bans were lifted but everything spiraled from that point on. Tommy was the spark that started the disc war. This was a war that spanned over a series of months because Tommy would not stop killing Dream, so in return Dream confiscated tommy’s discs as a punishment, it was Dreams server, so he was not going to let Tommy go around causing problems without consequence.

Quick history

L ’Manburg

L’ Manburg started out as nothing but a drug caravan, started by Wilbur and tommy, would grow into a large country separated by large black walls keeping everyone out and let only a select few in. After a war Tommy did the only selfless thing, he would ever do in his whole time on the SMP. He gave up one of his discs for L’Manburg’s independence, after losing a dule with Dream. In all this tommy keeps up his thieving and antagonizing ways.

The election

The election was Wilbur’s attempt to regain power and respect within his country, there were multiple parties, POG 2020 (Wilbur and Tommy), SWAG 2020 (Quackity), Schlatt 2020 (JSchlatt). POG 2020 was the overall winner but was beat out by 1% by Schlatt and Quackity who had formed a coalition. With Schlatt as the president and Quackity as the Vise President the country is changed to Manburg, the walls are torn down, and Tommy and Wilbur have their citizenship is revoked and are banned from Manburg.

Pogtopia and Manburg v Pogtopia

Pogtopia was the ravine that served as a base for Tommy and Wilbur after the election. This is when techno (my fuckin beloved) had joined and sided with Tommy and Wilbur with the promise of chaos and war. With techno on their side, they start to build up and prepare for war. The war between Pogtopia (with the old residents of Manburg) and Manburg (pretty much everyone else on the server). The war ended with Schlatt having a heart attack in the remains of the destroyed drug van, Tubbo becoming president of Manburg, followed by Wilbur blowing up the country, with assistance from techno, and his grand death at the hands of his father.

Exile

Tommy was sent into his third exile by Tubbo after Tommy once again was causing problems for Tubbo and the new L ’Manburg. Tommy was sent thousand and thousands of blocks away from the greater SMP and he was not allowed to return unless he wanted to die. After spending months in exile with Dream coming by every day and taking Tommy’s things, and tommy almost taking his last canon life, tommy had escaped exile and went to the closest place he could go. Tommy set up a base under Technoblades retirement home and was soon discovered by Techno. Despite Tommy stealing Techno’s items and just being a annoying ass bitch, Techno let Tommy stay. With the help of techno tommy was able to sneak in and out of L’ Manburg.

Final L’ Manburg War

After a confrontation in the remains of a now destroyed community house, Tommy had sided with Tommy, another declaration of war, with Dream and techno going to blow up L’ Manburg. Tommy planed with the other members to gather resources to face off the most powerful people on the server. In the end L’ Manburg lost and was destroyed with nothing left but a sizable crater in its place.

The end of the disc war and drams imprisonment

The end of season two of the SMP was the end of the disc war, after tommy and Tubbo meet up with Dream at the top of a large mountain, where the three fought to get the discs. Dream eventually leads the two brits to a bunker where Dream had been collecting the attachments on the server, like Tommy’s cow henry, Ghostbur’s sheep Friend, and open slots for other pets and Skeppy. While Dream was going to kill Tubbo he was stopped when the entirety of the SMP, lead by Punz, came through the nether portal that led into Dream’s base. They surrounded Dream and caused him to surrender, and landed him in pandoras vault, a large prison built by Sam under Dreams request. Whist Dream has been in prison Tommy has visited a few times and has done nothing but was nothing but an annoying child to an already suffering man. During what was supposed to be Tommy’s last visit he ended up being locked in the cell with Dream due to a potential security breach in the prison, meaning tommy was stuck with Dream for what was only supposed to be a week. Tommy was stuck with Dream for more than a week, like was stated in the terms and conditions of the prison, this extended time alone with Dream was bad for the both of them and it led to tommy losing his last canon life. Tommy was revived by Dream three days later and was freed from the prison shortly after, now out and full of fresh trauma.

Present events

After being revived and released back into the world tommy swore that he would kill Dream. As of tommy’s most recent lore stream there was an attempt. Tommy armed with invisibility and fire res pots, under the cover of Ghostbur paying Dream a visit, snuck into the prison to kill Dream. When tommy finally go to Dream’s cell, he got to trigger happy and took out the axe to soon which ended in tommy being caught by Sam and left Ghostbur stranded with Dream on the other side of the lava. Now that Dream had Ghostbur he would be able to bring Wilbur back and that exactly was happened, Wilbur is now back and as crazed as ever with 13 and a half years of isolation on top of that.

Tommy and His Trauma

I will not ignore Tommy’s trauma, nor will I downplay what he’s been through, cause truly been through a lot. That being said his trauma should not be used as an excuse to blow off what he’s done, if one is going to do that you better danm well not go around and ignore others trauma. Tommy has been through some horrible things, his exile, Dream’s manipulation, being beat to death in prison then being revived, losing not only a brother figure but also a place he called home, as well as the manipulation from Wilbur, these things can really do some damage to a kid or an adult. Tommy though uses his trauma to excuse any wrong thing he does. There are characters on the SMP with similar trauma, Jack Manifold was the first character to come lose all his canon lives but he came back out of spite, both Tommy and Jack went through something similar. Jack, however, doesn’t use this trauma to make excuses for being a massive prick. Jack uses what he’s been through as motivation, while it’s one of his motivations to do something bad, but he doesn’t use it as a hindrance. Now let’s look at someone has experienced the same things as Tommy, Tubbo, Tubbo went through almost everything Tommy went through plus more. Tubbo was manipulated by Dream, saw his country get blown up TWICE, hell he had to mourn the death of his best friend on TWO SEPREATE OCCASIONS, he was killed by someone he thought he could be trusted, was manipulated as well as verbally abused by Schlatt when working in his cabinet. Tubbo has gone on to build his own little town, start a family, he had run a country pretty danm well and created NUKES. Tubbo doesn’t let what happened to him hold him back from doing great things or keep him stuck in his old ways, Tubbo was able to break from what he originally was, a side kick, and has done wonders.

Tommy and His Relationships

Keep in mind this is not about whether Tommy cares about people it’s about how he acts and how that affects others. Tommy cares people so I cannot shame him for that, but despite that he still causes problems for said people.

Tommy and Dream

Tommy and Dream have never gotten along, anyone with fuckin eyes can see that from a mile away, they are always at each other’s throats and always butting heads. Dream is normally pretty levelheaded, until Tommy comes around. When Tommy was trapped in the cell with dream that was bad from the start, but the extended time was even worse. Tommy has always been an aggressor towards Dream, during the war for L ’Manburg when Dream was meeting with Wilbur, Tommy lashed out at Dream and put the independence of this new nation on the line to try and fight Dream. Now on to more recent examples, Tommy’s death. When Tommy was trapped with Dream in the cell Dream was pretty stand offish, if anything he was excited at first, being stuck in a cell with no one to talk to is pretty fuckin lonely. That excitement was sure to be short lived. Tommy is quick to start antagonizing Dream, hitting him, hurling insults at him, and just being all around unpleasant, Tommy would also take things like Dream’s clock and books and throw them into the lava just to upset him. Tommy also killed the one thing in prison that Dream had, a cat that he named hope, another thing Tommy took away just to show “what happens to things you care about”. All these things would build up over time which lead to Dreams burst of anger and caused Tommy’s death.

Tommy and Technoblade

Time to get absolutely PISSED. Techno was never a person to Tommy, he was just the Blade, a weapon to be used till he was not needed. Ever since Techno first logged on Tommy though he had scary dog privileges, getting mad at techno for when he went and assisted Wilbur in the destruction of L ’Manburg when techno had made it clear he was not a fan of government. After Tommy had fled from his exile he went to hide under Techno’s home without Techno’s knowledge, before he was discovered by Techno, he would steal from him and use them in useless ways, such as decorating his hidey hole with gold blocks or how he stole Techno’s gapples and ate them when he didn’t need to, practically wasting them. Once he was found by Techno, Techno let Tommy live with him despite being a leach, he let tommy eat the gapples, and even assisted in getting tommy in and out of L ’Manburg, he even hid Tommy from dream and lied to one of the most powerful people on the server to keep tommy safe. Techno was very patient with Tommy and what does Tommy do? He goes around and goes back to Tubbo, the man who exiled him in the first place, actively backstabbing Techno, and when him and Dream team up and destroy L ’Manburg for the second time he has THE GULL to get mad and shame Techno for it, it’s fucking awful.

Tommy and Tubbo

Tommy and Tubbo are great friends, I can’t lie about that, but he still manages to make shitty decisions that affect him. When Tubbo was president of the New L ’Manburg Tommy started causing trouble, all starting when he (and Ranboo) burned down George’s house, forcing Tubbo to put his vice president under a probation. Even after being put under the probation, he still caused problems. Tommy made Tubbo choose between the safety and freedom for his country or his best friend staying, in the end it was tommy’s fault for being casted into exile, he just wouldn’t behave and follow the rules. He also constantly pushed Tubbo’s trauma to the side to put a spotlight on his own, making him the center of attention, ignoring someone who’s supposed to be his best friend. Now, I will say, he did do something good for Tubbo, during the final disc confrontation he gave Dream the disc’s they were fighting so hard for in return for Tubbo’s safety, I have to give credit when credit is due.

To The C!Tommy Apologists

I know people are going to come after me for this, to any Tommy apologists reading this, please just can it /nm. In canon tommy is about 20 something? You can’t keep using “Oh HeS a ChILd!’ CC!Tommy is a child. Yes, I understand he’s traumatized, so is every other character on the SMP, he isn’t special. Also, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LEAVE US DREAM APOLOGISTS ALONE. All your arguments are so similar and you all thing dream, who is obviously mentally ill, deserves the everyday beating which is incredibly fucked up. Now I know not ALL Tommy apologists are like this but it is a lot of them, regardless of what dream did, he does not deserve to be rarely fed and he does not deserve the constant torture. Also please stop wit the whole ‘dream is obsessed with tommy’ shit, I can’t remember the tag for it at the time of writing this, but it is the creepiest thing I’ve seen and everyone portrays dream to be some yandere stalker and its just not poggers to be honest, and it comes off as very predatory which is ALSO not poggers. To any tommy apologists friends I know IRL this is not directed at you and just know I love y’all.

#dsmp fandom #c!tommy #c!tommy negative #dream smp #dream apologist

[murderdaddymayhem]

Trapped - Mark Hoffman x Reader [NSFW]

Hoffman has feelings for Strahm's fiance. Now that Strahm is dead, you struggle with returning those feelings just for the night.

Set in between Saw V and VI. Please visit the ao3 link for full tags.

“Hey. You left something by the coffee machine.”

You look up, and see Detective Hoffman holding your engagement ring. “Oh,” you smile. “How do you know it’s mine?”

“I guess I look at your fingers a lot,” he jokes, tossing it to you. You slide it back on.

“Do you? How’s this one look?” You playfully flip him off, and he manages as much of a chuckle as the stoic man ever could.

“I’ve sure seen that one more than the others.”

You return the ring to your finger, sliding it on and sitting back down at your desk.

“We’re going out for drinks tonight,” Hoffman mentions, “Wanna come?” You normally wouldn’t join the rest of the officers after hours, but you had been making more of a solid effort to go out and enjoy yourself now that the initial sting of Peter’s death had subsided for you. You tilt your head. 

“Is Lindsey gonna be there? Matthews?”

“Yeah. Sing, Tapp. Everyone’s going.”

“Sure. I’ll be there,” you nod.

“Great.” He looks like he wants to say something else, and eventually closes with, “Don’t work yourself too hard.”

You look down to the paperwork on your desk, and back up to return with a quip, but Hoffman’s gone. You spend longer than you should looking out your door, mindlessly counting the number of steps it takes him to get back to his own office as if you hadn’t already memorized it.  

Mark sits down at his desk. He’d always had a thing for you. He’d been jealous of Strahm, not only in his stellar reputation with the guys, but of his pretty wife and his perfect life. Mark may have seemed like the handsome hero everyone dreamed of, but in reality, he was a pitiable alcoholic whose sole personality trait was mourning.

If you ever did return his feelings, it would probably be because you pitied him for the loss of his sister, which hurt more than the bindings John had put him in that first day of initiation. He only wanted one thing, really. Maybe two, the first being justice. True justice. As for the second, it's not viable to have you in the position he's in, but his tendency to run from his emotions is being put to the test by your acceptance of his invitation. 

 When you get to the bar you and everyone at the station frequent after work, Hoffman’s sitting there. Within a half an hour, it’s become apparent the others aren’t coming... and were never coming.

“You invited me out under false pretences,” you say, accepting your drink of choice from the bartender with a nod. “Why?”

“I told you, the others didn’t show.”

“I work for the FBI, and you’re a detective. You’re honestly trying to lie to me?”

Hoffman considers this, purses his lips. “Not very well thought out on my part, I guess.”

“What, did you want to talk to me about a case?” you ask. “Something about today’s paperwork?”

“You know I don’t want to talk about that crap. I wanted to ask you how you were,” he corrects you, taking another generous sip of his second double vodka of the night. “All these months later. Treat you to a night off.”

“Oh,” you nod. “Right.” You’re quiet for a moment. “I’m okay. I haven’t really said it out loud yet, but I think I am.” You debate opening up, but you know he’s also lost someone, so you take a chance. “I feel bad when I forget him.”

“Yeah. I know how it feels to forget. My sister was a huge part of my life, and I never thought I could. And I can’t. Difference is, I try to forget.” You stay quiet, ruminating on the reminder of Mark’s dead sister. He didn’t talk about her often for that reason you suppose, but everyone who knew Hoffman knew he was the way he was because of her death. “You’re not wearing your wedding band,” he mutters, starting in on his third drink.

“I lost it,” you whisper.

“Like you lost it by the coffee machine today?”  

You avert your eyes down to your lap. “Maybe you’re not the only one who tries to forget.” Silence passes between you as you explain. “Looking at it opens up old wounds. Keeping the past in the past is my way of dealing with it. He’s gone. If I think about how awfully he died, how scary his last seconds were, it’ll be like it happened yesterday... and I’ll have to start the process again.” You shove your hand down into your pocket, unwilling to study your bare ring finger any longer. “The past is as tangible as the future, detective. If I can’t feel it, it’s not there.”

“You think denying it’s gonna help you in the long run?”

You frown, looking up at him. “Nobody’s denying anything.” Blinking as if in slow motion, Mark gets up and tosses money down for the two of you. He takes your arm and leads you out of the bar, into the cool night air. Confused and more than a little angry, you jerk your arm away. “Why did you invite me for drinks?”

“I wanted to offer my condolences. Again.”

“Bullshit. It’s been 4 months and you haven’t once said you’re sorry he died in one of John Kramer’s sick traps. I know you two weren’t close, but why wait this long? What do you really want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Look me in the face and tell me one thing tonight that isn’t a lie,” you demand. Mark turns to you fully.

“Okay. I want to fuckin’ kiss you.”

You hesitate. That was the opposite of what you were expecting. You try and find words as Mark stares at you with that dark gaze, those eyes that seemed to linger in your mind now that you were lonely and no longer trapped under the weight of a lacklustre partnership.

“So? What’s stopping you?” You can never tell what’s going on behind those eyes; he guards his feelings and he guards his secrets. You know he has more secrets than the average man, but he’s a detective. How bad can they be?

“You want me to kiss you?” he murmurs. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.” He advances, walking you back against the brick wall of the alley no doubt filled with the scum John had him abduct for his games. “Huh? You want me to kiss you how you’re used to? Kiss you like it’s an obligation? Like it’s what people expect me to do?” Your eyes start to prick with tears as Hoffman brushes your hair out of your face. “You want me to tell you I love you like a man who’s only true obsession is a serial killer he couldn’t begin to understand?”

“Hoffman, Peter—”

“Don’t say his name,” he mutters, “You’ll cut the wound wide open again, sweetheart.” He presses his lips against yours, and you feel your body release all of its tension. He kisses like Strahm’s antithesis—like he knows what he’s doing. He’s rough and he’s present, nothing like how you’d imagined the cold detective would. Peter had tried, but as much as he wanted to be, he hadn’t loved you as much as that damn case. Hoffman adversely seemed to care about anything but, even though he was in charge of it. You used to think everything was a façade for Hoffman, that appearances were everything. Façades have to crumble sometime.

  By the time you had arrived at his apartment with him in the passenger’s seat, the full effects of the detective’s four double vodkas had set in. He tries to maintain his sense of self until the elevator, then down the hall and into his place.

“Shit,” Mark grunts, sliding your jacket off, “I want you.”

“No you don’t.”

He licks his lips. “Wanna bet?”

“You’re drunk, and we’re colleagues,” you mutter. “You’re gonna walk into work tomorrow morning and you’re not going to be able to look me in the eye.”

“What, after taking you on every surface of my apartment?” he mutters, lips dipping dangerously close to your neck. “Your pussy isn’t gonna shock me. Yours isn’t the first I’ve seen, but it’s sure as hell on my list.” You try once more to push him off, and he tries to stand wearily. His brown eyes blink a few times, and he shakes his head. “Fuck. Sorry.” He lets go of you, backs off. You realize your mistake, and take him by his lapels.

“Are you?”

He looks back up at you, and through your shared gaze, he sees his own arousal reflected in your eyes. His lips are back on you, finally touching your skin, and his hands roam under your top, up to cup your breasts and paw for the hooks of your bra.

“Around the back,” you whisper against his lips. In his drunken state, Hoffman misinterprets this to mean you want to be turned around, and you find yourself pressed against the wall as his hands massage your ass. A moan slips from you as you try to reach back. “I meant the bra.”

“Fuck,” he repeats again, slightly slurred, and reaches up to take it off of you. It drops down one arm, and Mark turns you around again to take your top off and release the garment from your sleeve. “This is what I’ve been fuckin’ missing?” he mutters, half to himself. “God damn gorgeous.”

“Tell me more?” you ask coyly, wrapping arms around his neck. He growls, picking you up by the ass so your legs can wrap around his hips.

“You don’t even wanna know the shit I fantasize about with you,” he mumbles, grinding himself between your legs.

“Wanna bet?” you volley back his line with a grin, and he scoffs, working down your panties as you reach a hand forward to tease him through his business casual pants. The feeling of his bulge grounds you in the reality that yes, Mark Hoffman does want you back. He wants to fuck you in his apartment, and he wants to do it now.

“I’m drunk, but I’m not drunk enough to tell you that, honey.” He presses a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw and slides your panties off, dropping them and rubbing his fingers back up your thighs and beneath the plush seat of your ass. His fingertips are oddly rough, for a detective who hasn’t seen field work in three months.

“What’s your secret, Hoffman?” you ask, and he uses one hand to stroke up the column of your neck.

“Gonna have to fuck me to find out.”

The two of you move over to his couch, Hoffman attempting to lift you over. His state tells you this is a bad idea, so you just pull him by his tie over, and push him down on the couch. He seems to like your show of control, eyes roaming up and down your body as you stand over him. “This feels a little unfair,” you whisper, lifting a hand up to squeeze your breast. Hoffman tears his eyes away from the action.

“What does?”

“Look at you,” you gesture to his fully clothed form, “And look at me.”

“Oh, I’m looking,” he nods, reaching down to squeeze himself. You get between his legs on the couch with a huff, and take over, unzipping his pants and giving him a better squeeze through his boxers. You can feel how hard he is, how large his bulge has grown. He grinds up into your hand, makes no move to undress himself any further.

“You’re selfish,” you mutter.

“I never said I was a nice guy,” he replies.

“You’re a detective.”

“Gray area.”

“For what?”

“My hobbies.”

“Which are?” You sit back on your heels for a moment. Hoffman seems to realize he was about to let something big slip, and your curiosity only grows as he cuts himself off.

“Shut up, will you? And kiss me.”

“That’s my line,” you groan, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out.

“I stole it.”

“You steal a lot?” you probe, hoping to uncover that elusive secret.

“Like I said,” he mutters, face still stone cold. “I’m not a nice guy.” You moan as he pulls you down against him, and moves his hand down to uncover his cock in a smooth movement of his hand. He groans as it grazes against your thigh and up to your pussy, and you lean down to kiss him again. His large hands reach up to your smooth naked back, clutching your body to his as he deepens the kiss. Your breath mingles as you pull away, vodka in his and the mint of chewing gum in yours.

“Condoms?” Mark reaches beside him to the coffee table, and pulls open a packet. Reaching between you two and keeping you held up with the ease of a strong bicep, he doesn’t break eye contact with you as he rolls one onto his shaft—the feeling alone of his own hand on himself is enough to make him moan, but he keeps it together. You lift up to position yourself.  “You’re sure you want to do this?”

 “I’m ridiculously hard for you,” he replies, eyes half lidded and lips parted. “I think if you left me now, it would be the first time in my life I’ve cried.” You roll your eyes, and he sits you down on his cock. Your eyes roll back. He looked big when he first took himself out, but it was nothing compared to the feeling. He’s stretching you all the way to the base, hands tightening on your arms. He rocks up once, and you whine his name softly. “Can you move?” he whispers, slurring his words.

“Yeah.” You start to rock down, and his breath hitches. After a moment, he reaches his hands further back, feeling your ass and groping it before sliding them up to your lower back to guide your movements.

“So good,” he mumbles, “Never knew I wanted you... this fucking bad.”

“When did you figure it out?” you smirk, gasping as he hits deep.

“Today, at the office.” His eyes slip shut. “I looked at you sitting there, and wished your picture was on my shelf instead of all the bullshit awards I don’t fucking deserve. One thing that means something to me, that I don’t have to tempt fate to get. That’s all I want. That’s all I need. Just someone else. Just someone else.”

You can’t think of a response. To save him embarrassment in the morning if he, by some miracle, remembers this conversation, you don’t reply. You’re afraid you’ll scare him off if you reciprocate the sentiment, and you’re terrified you’ll offend him if you coddle him. Then again, he could mistake your silence for apathy. Even in his impaired state of mind, Mark seems to realize what’s running through your head. He pulls you down against his broad chest again to put all these thoughts you had no business thinking while getting fucked to bed.  

Still, he offers no tender explanation of his confession, no further apologies or bashful take-backs. He only increases his pace, grunting as you start to feel your climax build.

“I wanna feel you cum all over me,” he growls, “Fuck. Fuck, let me feel it.”

“Hoffman.”

“Use my name. Use my fucking name—”

“Mark.”

“Ah,” he hisses, trying to make himself last. “Good girl. Good girl...” You squeeze around him, riding him back and forth, your clit grinding against his pelvis and your ass slamming down into his thighs. He lets out sharp puffs of air, wrapping one arm around you and tightening it. You feel as though you’re as close to the distant man as you’ve ever been as he breathes your name into your hair, burying himself in it as he buries his cock the deepest it will go inside of you and stills.

You’re both almost there, and the formality between you dies.

“Mark—I’m gonna cum,” you breathe desperately, “Don’t stop!”

True to character, Hoffman doesn’t offer any verbal encouragement, but his body language is worth a thousand words. He bites your earlobe, reaching down to rub your clit in circles. The action makes you gasp, and you brace yourself on his chest as your orgasm finally hits in waves. His hips convulse inside of you as he finally lets himself finish with you, and your grunts and groans meld together into a harsh symphony of panted out breaths.

“You moan so pretty, babygirl,” he sighs. A warm flush rushes through your body at that, and you’re not sure why. This needs to stay a one night’s stand, not some workplace romance the two of you can giggle about behind closed doors. It would only be a liability to both of your careers in the force,  and you know Mark will agree once he sobers up in the morning.

“Stop thinking,” he groans. His voice is gravelly, sated. “Hey. Stop. More importantly, stop guessing what I’m thinking.”

You stare down at him, eyes dancing between his. Your voice comes out barely louder than a whisper. “What are you thinking?”

“Absolutely nothing. Which is what you should be thinking of too, after we both fell into bed together.”

He seems to grow uncomfortable with the close eye contact, feels as though you’re reading him like a book. He moves your head down, where you lay there on his softly rising and falling chest. His steady breathing makes you think he’s fallen asleep, but his eyes are wide open. He stares up at the ceiling as if he was staring up at Peter Strahm again, watching the walls close in on the agent and crush his bones as he himself sunk into the ground safely entombed in glass. He swallows, imagining how your bones must have crunched in on themselves as you crumpled to the floor receiving news of your husband’s death.

His fault.

John’s fault. Jigsaw's fault.

No.

His fault.

He thought acting on his feelings and sleeping with you would make him forget Strahm ever existed. Instead, it felt like Strahm was the one in that box, watching the walls close in on Hoffman as every shitty thing he’d done in his life came closing in on him. Hoffman feels his heartbeat pick up desperately, but talks himself down as he did every night. He listens to the rhythm of your breath, tries to meditate to it.

You don’t have the problem of hyperactive thought at the moment—you had taken Mark’s advice, and calmed down. It’s okay that you had moved on. It’s okay you had found comfort in someone else’s arms, and it’s okay that it’s Hoffman. Despite this, one singular question seems to bounce back and forth in your head as curiosity digs its nails back in.  

 Your finger traces a pattern in the rug below the couch... the pattern of a puzzle piece.

#mark hoffman #mark hoffman x reader #hoffman x reader #detective hoffman #detective hoffman x reader #saw #saw v #saw vi #saw 5 #saw 6 #costas mandylor #saw franchise #saw movies #slasher fandom #slasher fanfic #slasher x reader #saw fanfiction

[boognish-worshipper]

ok so like i had this idea for a while n it took me MONTHS to finish bc i was nvr content w/ my writing n whatnot yadda yadda yadda anyway,, this is basically a what if thing about the triads shooting trevor in ludendorff n michael realizing how dumb he is

(my apologies that it’s so fuckin looooooong but I didn’t wanna leave it on a short note that felt incomplete. hope y’all like it !!!!! sorry for any grammatical errors or if the formatting’s funky)

//

Why didn’t he realize it sooner? Was he stupid? No, no. He was just blind. Blind for the past 10 years. Who knows. Maybe even longer than that. Fucking Michael. It always came back to that venomous shithead, constantly ruining everything for him. Did he just... forget? Was he so focused on that bloodsucker when he was “dying” in front of him he completely forgot Brad got shot first? That Brad died first? He didn’t even really think about him when shit went down. Or care much about Brad in general for that matter. The guy was a dick who just worked with other dicks back in the day, eventually joining their motley crew. A fading memory more than anything. His primary focus had always been Michael, who he thought was his right hand man. Trevor always knew that there was something different about him. As frustrating as Michael could be, it still didn’t change how he felt deep down. Michael wasn’t like the others. Or at least, that’s what he had thought. The night he found out that Michael’s lie ran deeper than he led on was one he wouldn’t forget.

He arrived at Michael’s house in a short amount of time. Hopping up the steps he made his presence known, standing in the entrance of the living room. He plopped down next to Michael, who scooted away from him slightly, still not ready for close contact from Trevor.

“Family ain’t back yet, huh?”

“Nope.”

“She’s a Goddamn fool, man.”

Trevor was never one to hide his jealousy towards Amanda. The two had been going at it for years, and it was always regarding Michael. Catty behavior between two people who had complicated relationships with the man, in their own unique ways. Amanda was scared of Trevor, but was never afraid of talking shit to his face. It was never any serious threats whenever they shot petty quips at one another anyway. She knew Trevor would never kill or harm her, all thanks to Michael, who spoke up again.

“Despite all the chaos of these last few weeks, I think I finally figured it out… I know, it sounds ridiculous-“

To Trevor, the thought wasn’t ridiculous. He knew Michael would never change. He would always be a killer, a man of action through and through. He was wasting away on a couch, rewatching classic Vinewood every night. To him, it only seemed right for Michael to keep taking scores.

“You’re back man!” He proclaimed, emphasizing his next line, “We are back!”

With excitement in his eyes, Trevor went on to boast about the little clique they had formed, and how they only needed to bust Brad out to fully reunite. Michael looked solemn, shaking his head slightly.

“That’s not it. I got money, it just makes you miserable-“ Now it was his turn to have excitement shine in his eyes.

“I wanna make movies.”

“Great. That’s great… and uh, so where exactly does this leave me in the second act of your life?”

He felt his stomach sink somewhat, regretting having asked that question. Michael would always tiptoe around it, avoiding the inevitable. But he couldn’t run from the past anymore. It would always catch up to him.

“This is not a game to me! Alright? This is a fuckin’ way of life.”

“I got a fuckin’ family!”

“Yeah, well, I got nothin’! No one gives a fuck about me!”

There was a pause. A hesitation. Amber eyes looked sorrowfully yet savagely into pale blue ones.

“I do.”

Something in Trevor snapped hearing those words. He couldn’t stand the audacity of Michael saying that to him. Because to him, Michael didn’t seem to give a fuck about what happened to Trevor. No matter how many times he lamented to him about everything he went through.

“Oh… Fuck you.”

Trevor rose from his seat, beginning to pace around the room, stabbing a finger in Michael’s direction. He did nothing but stare between his feet, not bothering to look up at Trevor.

“I saw your grave. I mourned you. And then it turns out that everything I fucking thought about you was wrong. Everything! You’re not dead, and you’re not a man.”

Michael shot up from his seat, cool demeanor abandoned in a fit of anger.

“Well, what the fuck are you?”

“I’m your fucking nightmare!”

“Yeah, enough with your Goddamn threats!”

Trevor did nothing but scoff at him, backing away like he was about to leave the room. Instead, some kind of alarm went off in his head, urging him to stay and ask the question he pushed far into the back of his mind. The inevitable was happening, and he couldn’t ignore the need to ask anymore. If Michael himself stood before him alive as ever, then who the fuck was in Michael Townley’s grave? Then suddenly, and ultimately, it clicked for him. Fucking Brad.

“You treacherous piece of shit! You’re fuckin’ dead! You’re fucking dead!”

As it clicked for Trevor, it clicked for Michael.

“Oh, fuck! Trevor! Hey, T!”

He peeled out of the driveway in Michael’s car. God, it smelled just like that fucking prick. It made him want to cry.

“Fuck!” He screamed out to no one in particular.

He slammed on the gas and wiped away any forming tears. His phone began to ring and he saw an all too familiar photo appear. Michael. What the fuck could he possibly say or want right now?

“Fuck you.” He spat out.

“Hey, come on. Where you going?”

“You know where I’m going, fuck you!”

The fucking nerve of him to ask that. What was wrong with him? The rest of the conversation wasn’t any better. It sounded like some stupid break up between two teens, as if Michael had cheated on him with some hooker instead of lying about the past decade or so.

“Trevor, come on!”

“Fuck you Michael! Soon enough, I will.”

He was on his way to the air field, and dialed up Ron as soon as he could. He needed to get out of here before Michael could stop him.

“Trevor? It’s great to uh..”

“Is there a plane I can use? Get me across country?”

“Sure! Sure. We got one fueled up for a trip south of the border.”

“I’m taking it.”

“Is everything okay, man?”

“Everything is not okay. Nothing has ever been okay but I’m going up there to see it for myself. I’m going to see an old friend alright? If you’re where I think you are buddy...”

Trevor gripped the steering wheel harder until his knuckles turned white. Tears stung his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it out.

“I don’t know why I didn’t see it. I guess.. I guess I didn’t want to. Fuck!”

He clutched his phone tightly as he spoke, cracking the already shattered screen more. His voice was faltering, and it became harder to speak clearly.

“Maybe I knew all along. I’m gonna find out for sure and I’m gonna... do something about it! God there was always something wrong with that job, what went down after I guess I-“

The tears made their way down his face. His voice trembled and threatened to crack.

“I guess I wanted to believe- Fucking.. Fucking flea circus!”

He couldn’t hold it in any longer. Too many things began to resurface. Seeing red, he just cried out to Ron, still on the phone patiently listening to him rant.

“Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!”

“I’m sorry Trevor...”

He slammed on the gas as he approached the airfield. Running over to the plane, he hopped in and began his journey to Ludendorff. As he left, storm clouds poured in and darkened the sky. A thick rain accompanied by the thunder and lighting combo shook the small plane he was in. He braced himself for the rest of the trip there and kept going.

Ludendorff was just like he remembered. Cold, empty, and super fucking depressing. Why was the midwest like this all the time? Sure, living it up in Sandy Shores wasn’t the most ideal but for fucks sake, at least it was warm. He pulled up to the cemetery shortly after landing, and hurried off to find that God forsaken grave. After glancing at each passing gravestone, there it was. The late great Michael Townley’s place of burial.

“Who you got in here..?”

He scoffed, knowing his answer.

“As if I need to ask...”

It took forever to reach the coffin. The wood was brittle, which meant it would be easy enough to pry open and see who was actually in Michael’s place. He had been so caught up in his digging he didn’t notice a set of steps coming at him.

“You’re wasting your time.”

Trevor was wasting his time? No, he was making perfectly good use of it. Michael was wasting his if anything. Flying all the way out here for what? No, don’t say it... Was it finally gonna happen? Was Michael waiting for the opportunity to finally take a pop at him and leave his carcass for good? To toss him right into the grave with Brad? He didn’t want to believe so but hey, it’s Michael. Who knows what he’ll do. He couldn’t bear to listen to another word that came out of his mouth, and knew he needed to get the jump on him.

“You reptilian motherfucker!”

How did it end up here? Why was he pointing a gun at Michael? What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t want to kill him. He never did, even if he had a million justifiable reasons to.

“I didn’t want it to have to come to this.”

There it was again. The fucking lying. That same exact fucking lying that got them here to begin with.

“Yes you did! You just don’t have the fucking balls to do it! But I do!”

But Trevor was also a hypocrite. He didn’t have it in him to ever go through with killing Michael. No matter what the son of a bitch did to him, he meant too much to Trevor for him to ever consider killing the man himself. He didn’t want to think about being the cause of him dying for good.

“I’ve got more to lose than you!”

“Never a truer word has been spoken, brother.”

He said that with as much malice as he could muster. Michael was the farthest fucking thing from being a brother. This was a man he had loved. Hell, still loved, despite it feeling more and more like a stranger before him with each encounter they had.

“Now.. pull the fucking trigger.”

The air was too still. It was choking him, making him feel frozen. Sure, weather played a part in the feeling but this... was different. His blood felt like ice. He couldn’t do it.

“You ain’t got the guts.”

Neither of them could do it. Even if he fired he knew he’d miss. Michael had the upper hand here.

“Take the fucking shot!”

Wait. Was Michael... crying? No. No way the great Michael fucking Townley was actually crying over this. That motherfucker. He’s such a fucking fraud. A coward. Always running. Running from Trevor, his past, his problems, his family and his fucking emotions.

His train of thought had been interrupted when he heard snow faintly crunching not too far from them.

“What was that?-“

A noise shot through the tense air that surrounded them. Woosh. Fuck. No. It couldn’t be- Ow. No. No fucking way. He looked down in awe and there it was, a distinct bullet hole, pierced through his torso. It nearly missed his heart, but was most certainly in a spot to do enough damage to him. He looked back up at Michael, mouth slightly agape leaking with the blood that began to pool in his mouth. Peaking behind him, he saw two figures lingering far behind. The fucking Triads. Of course, how could he forget? It’s not everyday you slam the head of a Chinese mobster’s son into a post. Fucking shit. If only he hadn’t messed with Tao…

He was fucked, and he didn’t know what to do. All he knew was that he felt himself wanting to collapse on the ground. Michael looked at him in pure disbelief, eyes wide enough to pop from his head. Normally Trevor would giggle at the sight, but any noise from him would be a gurgle of blood in place of it.

“…Trevor?”

That was enough to knock him to the ground.

“Mr. Phillips! Mr. Cheng wants a word with you!”

Michael whipped his head back, and began dragging the two of them to cover. Was that supposed to be a fucking warning shot?? The one who shot Trevor spoke in Chinese to the other gunman, then spoke in English to the duo.

“Phillips! You and your boyfriend cannot hide from us!”

Michael grabbed his gun and started firing back, clipping the two in the front instantly.

“Trevor… what the fuck did you get into?! What are they on about? I… I’m not…”

Trevor couldn’t speak. He could only murmur at the man beside him.

“Trevor, seriously, you better answer me because I’m pretty fucking lost here-“

He angrily turned his head back to find Trevor on the verge of slipping out of consciousness, his face dropping at what was before him.

“Ah, Trevor! Shit!”

Before Michael could help him out, a van burst through the gate to the left, and more yelling ensued.

“Get out the van! Go find them!”

Michael panicked, pushing his gun into Trevor’s limp hands so he could grab the dead Triad henchman’s sturdier gun. He fired and clipped a few more men, trying his best to keep an eye on Trevor. His breathing was shallow, and he attempted to prop himself up so he could fire at them too.

“Trevor, what the fuck is going on? Who are these guys?”

“It’s the fucking,” He winced, pushing himself onto his knees so he could grab the side of the grave they hid behind. He spit out some blood that leaked from his mouth, staining the snow beneath them.

“The God damn Chinese, sugar tits.”

“Why are they-“

“Ask questions later, I’m fucking bleeding out here.”

Trevor forced himself to fully stand, his legs wobbling slightly. He fired a few more rounds, face contorted in pain. Another bullet flew by him, grazing his side.

“Fuck! Ow!” He growled.

“T, what in the hell are you doing?! Get down!”

“Fuck off you fucking leech! I can-“ He spit out more blood.

“I can handle this myself!”

He groaned, keeping his aim as still as he possibly could, which wasn’t very still at all. Stubborn as ever, Trevor went in guns blazing. He used not only the gun Michael had forced into his hands, but also the one he had brought with him. Several more shots fired at him until he felt a hand yank him back to the ground. He fell with a slight thump, and pain jolted through him again.

“You crazy bastard! We’re getting the fuck out of here, but that can’t exactly be accomplished if you’re dead!”

“Oh please! You already want me dead you fat fucking snake!” He wheezed out.

“Jesus Christ- Trevor. I already told you-“

“Shit, Mikey-”

Before either one could do anything about it, a Triad that had snuck up on them pistol whipped Michael in the back of the head. Trevor scrambled backwards and attempted to get on his feet, but to no avail. In a last minute effort, he lifted Michael’s gun and fired. For someone who was labeled a lousy shot by his partner, he felt that Michael would’ve been proud of his aim at that moment in time. A clean shot, right between the fucker’s eyes. He grinned slightly, adrenaline still coursing through him. He barked out a laugh, forgetting how much of a chore it was to allow any noise to escape him. It caused him to break into a coughing fit, spitting up more blood onto the snow. He looked from the small circle of blood that formed in front of him, back to Michael’s limp body. He shoved him slightly, trying to nudge him back into consciousness.

“Mikey. Michael. Get up. We gotta go like you said-“

He heard another van pull up. Then another. Fuck.

“You gotta be shitting me..”

Trevor, disregarding his wounds weakening him to the point his vision grew spotty, swapped his handgun for the gun Michael grabbed. He tried his best to prop the other man up against a grave, well out of the Triad’s line of sight. He pushed through any pain he felt, still riding his adrenaline high, wiping the rest of them out one by one. He rushed back over to Michael, who was stirring awake.

“Michael, for fucks sake get up already! Jesus I’m still fucking bleeding and I have to save your ass right now? Come on!”

He was finally able to stand, and Trevor slung Michael’s arm around his shoulder, helping him regain his balance. They helped one another walk through the mess of snow, blood, and bodies to get to the rental car, which surprisingly was still in alright shape. Across the train tracks, one more van started to pull up, right before the nightly train passed through town.

“Haha! Thank you train for being useful this time!”

He forgot how much it hurt to laugh, clutching his side and muttering curses under his breath as the two raced over to the car. Michael hopped in the driver’s seat after placing Trevor in the passenger’s side. Trevor’s adrenaline rush began to die down along with the rest of him. Michael raced out of the cemetery, narrowly escaping the left over henchmen. Glancing over at Trevor, he realized how shit of a shape he was in. Despite not living in North Yankton in close to 10 years, he still remembered where all the nearby hospitals were. It wasn’t ideal, considering what they were doing up there and who they were and what not, but it was better than having Trevor die on the spot.

“Hey, don’t you fucking die on me right now buddy. There’s no way you ain’t surviving the shit show we just went through, which only happened thanks to you.”

Trevor asked himself why Michael was still giving him snide remarks about his unruliness. He figured now wasn’t the time to really argue, but still tried nonetheless.

“You… fuckin’ snake.. you think you’re so..”

“I’m so what Trevor? No you know what- Don’t speak right now, but try to stay awake, please?”

“Mmph..”

The ride out of Ludendorff was quiet. The radio was off, and neither one chose to speak. Michael of course was driven mad by the silence.

“…Look. Trevor I- I fucked up. There’s nothing I can do now to fix it, no matter how many times I apologize. But you do- You do know that I cared about you then, and I care about you now…”

Trevor did nothing but grunt in response, eyelids heavy. Michael sighed.

“We’re almost to a hospital. They’ll fix you up good, and- and you’re gonna be fine. You ain’t dying on me yet. I mean- you’ve survived worse? You.. I…”

He huffed out a breath, gripping the steering wheel tight. The rest of the ride was silent, save for Michael making sure Trevor was still alive and conscious. They made it to the hospital, with Michael carrying him fireman style, seeing as Trevor was very lanky compared to him. He called out for someone to help, using his gift of lying to say that Trevor was just shot by a random mugger, so the report back wouldn’t seem too suspicious. He patiently waited for word back from a doctor, eventually seeing someone come to him with a clip board.

“Are you… Franklin?”

Michael had been smart enough to give them both fake names, but he just blurted out the first two names that came to mind. Right now, he went by Franklin, and for all they knew Trevor was Lamar.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Your friend is in critical condition, but you got him here just in time. Any later and he wouldn’t have made it.”

The last sentence caused Michael’s ears to ring.

“He’s going to be out of surgery soon, the bullet wound was pretty deep.” The doctor narrowed their eyes slightly, getting ready to write the report down.

“You said that he was mugged?”

“Yeah. The guy fired at him and ran off. Didn’t get a good look at his face.”

“Hmm… well alright. I’ll let you know when your friend is ready for visitors.”

The rest of the night was painfully slow. By the time Trevor was out of surgery, he was still hopped up on morphine, allowing him to rest properly for the first time in forever. Michael sheepishly walked in, careful not to be too loud. He made his way over to Trevor’s side, sitting in the seat next to his bed. He hadn’t seen Trevor look so content like that in so long. Not since... those days. He spoke to himself, seeing as Trevor was fast asleep.

“You worry me so much you dumbfuck… why do you pull the shit you pull? I mean.. shit. I… I love you, man. I do. But what if you died without ever hearing that from me again? Is that the reason why you get like this? Shit. Right. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Besides everything about Ludendorff, it angered Trevor to his core that Michael could never admit he loved Trevor unless he was drunk or alone. In this instance, he technically was. Trevor was peacefully dreaming, while Michael felt restless. He proceeded to fumble around for his cellphone to reach out to Franklin, who had been wondering what happened to them. He knew Franklin would probably be up anyway.

Yo Mike, where u at? Trevor too, Lamar n I gotta do one last job wit him.

F

Currently in North Yankton kid. Trev found out about Brad. Some Chinese gangsters rolled on us, T got shot. Be home soon hopefully.

M

Oh shit. Stay safe out there homie. See u soon ig.

F

Michael let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, looking back up at Trevor. He tried to think about what he would do next. Knowing that visiting hours were limited, he felt a twinge of guilt knowing he’d have to leave Trevor alone for a night after what happened. But it was late, and he couldn’t stay there overnight. He figured he’d have to bunk in some cheap motel for the time being. Just until Trevor and him were ready to leave North Yankton. He spoke to the doctor from before to let them know he would come back the next morning. When he arrived at the nearest shit motel, he still couldn’t find it in him to sleep. He was tired, sure, but his mind wouldn’t allow him to drift off. Even if he did, he would find himself jolting awake, the scene of Trevor getting shot playing over and over in his head. He’d almost been responsible for Trevor’s death once, he couldn’t let it happen for real. What would he do anyway if he did die? He quickly brushed the thought off, not wanting to consider the possibilities.

He returned to the hospital the next morning, half awake from the lack of sleep. Visiting hours were early, and he wanted to get them both out of here as fast as he could. Walking to Trevor’s room, he saw the man sitting upright looking out the window. North Yankton may have been cold as a bitch, but from time to time it had real pretty sunrises. He knocked lightly on the door, and Trevor turned to face him.

“Hey, T…”

He couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“I thought you left.”

“Visiting hours are limited, T. You should know that by now.”

He didn’t say anything in response, facing back towards the window instead. Michael sat down in one of the chairs across from him.

“You.. you worried me. I thought-“

“You thought what, cupcake? That I’d just die on the spot, and you could just leave my dead body there-“

“Trevor! For the last time that wasn’t my fucking plan!”

Their voices steadily increased above the normal level it should’ve been for a hospital setting.

“Then why did you have a fucking gun, huh Mikey?”

“I could ask the same for you!”

“Oh of course, turn the situation onto me again-“

“You brought a gun for what, Trevor?!”

“That’s not the issue at hand here!”

“Yes it is!”

A voice chimed into their argument.

“Excuse me. You,” A nurse who walked in pointed at Trevor.

“You need to rest. And sir, I’m not sure who you are, but if you want to stay as a visitor I suggest you lower your voice and behave.”

The two men looked at each other angrily before sitting back down. The nurse exited, most likely wanting to return later so Michael could discuss discharging him. Silence filled the room briefly.

“T… I meant what I said.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

Trevor didn’t look him in the eye. His arms were crossed, and he just looked out the window.

“I could’ve lost you.”

The other man still said nothing.

“I could’ve lost you and you would’ve died not knowing I..” He trailed off.

Trevor turned back to look at Michael while speaking.

“Knowing what? You hiding something else from me, porkchop?”

“I…”

“Spit it the fuck out Mikey or I swear to God-“

“I love you.”

His felt his stomach twist uncomfortably, and his hands became clammy. He finally forced the words out, sober.

“I love you.” He repeated, shutting his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Trevor while saying it. He chose to look at his feet instead.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. And I just.. kept thinking that you could’ve died not hearing that from me ever again.”

He didn’t notice it at first, but tears brimmed his eyes. Trevor’s scowl fell and his face softened.

“What?” Was all he could choke out.

“Don’t.. don’t make me say it again.” He said, face flushing red.

“You..” Trevor didn’t finish his sentence. He shuddered in his seat, ready to cry himself. He buried his face in his hands, muffling something incoherent.

“What?”

He lifted his head up, tears streaking his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Michael.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For.. being like this.”

Trevor was a lot of things. You couldn’t just describe him in only one word. Michael tried sifting through the options of what he meant.

“I pushed you so hard back then I.. I thought I was losing you. I didn’t want to. All it did was make you want to leave even more.” Trevor kept sniffling.

“Trev…”

“Why Michael? Why do you do this to me?”

He wanted to ask him “Do what?”, but they both knew the answer. Michael never let his feelings be more than surface level. He was repressed and Trevor hated it. Trevor continued to cry, and the tears that Michael held in spilled.

“Hey.. don’t… don’t apologize, T. Please.”

“I..” He hiccuped.

“I’ve loved you for so long. Why couldn’t you have done the same?”

Michael kept his head down. He didn’t want to see the heartbroken expression on Trevor’s face. It only made him feel worse.

“You left me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“But you still did. Telling me that doesn’t change anything. You became another person in my life that I loved and then you left. Same as always for me.”

Everything Trevor loved was always out of his reach. Flying, his mother, Michael, Patricia… He could go on. Nothing was ever gonna be permanent for him.

“But I’m here for you now, T. I’m not going anywhere.”

He finally looked up to see Trevor’s sad eyes burning a hole right through him. His silence told him it’d be a long while before he could believe his words.

“Now.. uh. Let’s get the fuck outta this place.”

It didn’t take long for Trevor to be discharged. The doctors had told him he should stay for another day or so, but only got an irritated response from Trevor. Figuring the duo wouldn’t budge on wanting to leave, he was signed off for clearance. They eventually found the plane Trevor flew in on, and made their way out of the state. Neither one knew if this would change anything between them, but Trevor felt more at ease around him. It would still take time and effort for any left over wounds to heal, but for right now, Trevor was content.

#gta v #michael/trevor #trikey #fanfic #this is my first fic #i’ve never done this before #i really hope you guys like this despite how fucking long it is #sorry for any errors #or typos

[quietmyfearswith]

new year’s day ; andy barber x fem!reader

status — completed oneshot

word count — 3,960 words

warnings — swearing, mentions of active sex life, SMUT, degradation, sir kink, choking, oral smut (receiving), fingering, unprotected penetrative sex (pls use protection), slapping, name calling, drinking champagne off of one’s body, fluff at the end?? porn without plot lol

pairing — andy barber x fem!reader

a/n — HAPPY NEW YEAR! im still high on my andy feels so yeah,, lmk what yoou think!

masterlist

“Fuckin’ hell my eyes hurt,” Y/N groaned out as she rubbed her palms on her eyelids, as if she was massaging the stress away. Rose could only chuckle at her friend’s distress, “Well I did warn you about how you shouldn't have gone to work today; you deserve to take a break once in a while you know?”

Cracking her knuckles once she was done rubbing her eyes, Y/N retorted, “Well it’s not like I had any New Year’s Eve plans so I decided why not go to work?” As she continued to torment her eyes with the light emitted from her desktop. Being her only real friend at the workplace, Rose took it as a responsibility to look after her; for she knew how she wasn’t really close with her family and her other closest friends were on the different side of the country. “Hey, I invited you to that party me and Agnes are going to!”

Tearing her straining eyes away from the screen, Y/N gave the brunette a pointed look, “You mean to say you invited me to party where I don’t know anyone but you and your girlfriend; which definitely guarantees that you’ll both leave me alone so you can fuck.”

Rose didn’t find it in herself to deny her allegation or defend her and her girlfriend’s active sex life; instead she could only give her a sheepish look as she joked, “Guess you’ve been spending too much time with Mr. Barber since you’re incredible at drawing conclusions and noticing patterns huh?” Seeing how much time she had spent with the mentioned lawyer over the past year, Y/N couldn’t help but nod and agree with her.

The soft chime of Rose's Favorite song rang and a cocky, “See! Can’t even wait an hour before you two get to be together,” was quickly being hushed by her friend. “Okay you have a point, we have a high sex drive — but can you blame us? And I need to leave early, stupid bitch burnt herself as she was baking.”

Chuckling without tearing her eyes away from the documents in front of her, Y/N greeted, “Yeah, yeah; don’t need to rub it in. Happy New Year’s Eve, babe.” Before heading to Mr. Barber’s office to sweetly ask to leave early, Rose went to where Y/N was seated and let their cheeks touch as their way of bidding adieu.

Andy was more than generous to allow Rose to leave the office early, “Go ahead and enjoy, you deserve it for being one of the few ones who chose to come in today,” He told her smiling form. Once she left his office, he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his button down shirt and let out a loud groan. Usually, this time last year he would be rushing to go home — if ever his work demanded his presence — in order to celebrate the New Year’s with his family. But now as he mourns the family he once had and lost it as his son was brutally killed by his ex-wife that had gone insane in disbelieving her son’s innocence was now serving prison for her crimes, he had nowhere to be.

After a couple of hours filled with silence and burying his head with paperwork, Andy noticed how there was a soft, melodious hymn coming from the other side of the office. The lawyer wasn’t necessarily alarmed, but he was curious about who was left working since there had only been 7 other people who decided to come in to work today; and to his knowledge they should have left by now.

He decided to check out who was left — but it really was an excuse to stretch his long, lean legs as he felt them cramping up a bit from being seated for too long — and was surprised to see the most diligent employee he’s ever met in his years of practicing law, “Ms. Y/N, what are you still doing here?”

Hearing his deep voice snapped her out of her concentration; seeing her boss in his less than organized state had her taken aback, “Oh Mr. Barber, I’m just doing some work on the Richards case.” Looking at the watch on his left wrist, he took note how it was a mere 15 minutes before the new year dawned on them. “No plans for the new year then?”

Deciding to test the waters she cracked a joke, “Are you talking about the holiday or the actual year? Because I have no plans for both.”Covering up her remark with a nervous chuckle, she was glad to see the older man wrinkle his eyes as he laughed out loud, “Well that makes the two of us; why don’t we grab a drink in my office?”

Eyes going wide and gasping silently, Y/N was pleasantly surprised at his offer but nevertheless nodded in agreement. Quickly shutting off her desktop, she moved out of her chair and decided to leave her footwear and floral kimono by her desk as she somewhat felt restricted by the light cloth. As she entered his post, she settled herself on the gray sofa he had placed near the office’s wall. Grabbing a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses, Andy sat beside her then poured them a drink.

“Never pegged you as a champagne guy, Mr. Barber,” She thanked him as he handed her a glass which she took a sip of; letting out a small moan of appreciation at the taste, the  sound causing Andy to cross his right leg on top of the left in an effort to conceal his erection. “Please, call me Andy,” He cleared his throat as he took a sip of the liquor, “And whiskey and bourbon are my usual choices of poison; but since it’s the New Year, figured this was more appropriate.”

Y/N surprised the man beside her by drinking all of the champagne in one go and placed the now empty glass on the coffee table in front of them before turning to his gobsmacked expression and giggled, “Sorry, really need that one.” With his hooded eyes watching her intently, he drank some of his before answering, “Don’t be Y/N, it was quite a show.”

She could feel her wetness dampen the panties she wore with how good her name sounded as it left his lips, “Don’t think I ever heard you call me by my first name before.” Worried he crossed the line he was quick to fumble out an apology; but quickly stopped as he felt her hand on his thigh, “It’s okay, I’m not mad or anything. I really like it, actually,” She trailed off once she noticed how he seemed to have let out a quiet, but aroused purr. Tilting her head to the side with an amused expression plastered on her face, “You alright, Andy?”

Years of practicing law and appearing in courtrooms taught him not to lose composure; but with a simple touch and mention of his name had Andy forgetting how to remain calm and collected. But can you fucking blame him when the girl who walks around with so much grace and confidence — who also happens to be the subject of his filthy fantasies — is so close to him that he can almost feel her warmth piercing through his long-sleeved shirt. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if it was a wise or dumb decision to discard his suit jacket, but as their arms touched and he felt a surge of electricity run through his veins, he thought of himself as a fucking genius.

“I am, yeah,” Deciding to test the waters, he grabbed her hand that rested on her thigh and intertwined their fingers together; when she made no attempts at removing her hand from his he smirked, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but something tells me you want more than just this champagne I offered.”

Feeling her inhibitions disappear, she gave him a smirk of her own as she untangled her hands from his, “Well, I do want some more champagne,” Her finger was now tracing his lips as she moved to sit closer until she was now straddling his lap, “Maybe taste it from your lips?”

Silently, Andy brought the glass to his lips and downed the remaining sparkling drink; his free hand settled itself on the back of her neck, pulling her close to him until her lips touched his. As he bit her bottom lip, she opened her mouth and moaned out loud as she felt the alcoholic beverage enter her mouth. Both her hands caressed his bearded cheek as she drank up every last drop that he offered her. Groaning out loud when his mouth was now devoid of the drink, he let his tongue enter her mouth and asserted his dominance; something she willingly conceded to him. His hand on her neck traveled lower and rested on her bum, squeezing the soft flesh which emitted more moans from her.

“Been dreaming about this for so long,” His staff silently, mindlessly let out as she kissed him desperately. “Is that so?” He asked once he broke away their kiss, Y/N whined at the loss of his lips and confused with his question. Chuckling at her groggy state he squeezed both her cheeks with one hand, forcing her to focus on him and answer his question, “You said you’ve been dreaming about this, baby. Is that what you daydream about at work? Me fucking you so hard your dumb brain can’t even think straight?”

Letting out a pathetic whine, she could only nod her head enthusiastically, “Want that so fucking bad, sir.” He felt his cock harden even more at the title she called him; but he wasn’t even done with teasing her yet. “And that fantasy will come true; but first, stand up and strip for me, baby,” With a soft smack on her cheek, she stood up quickly and unzipped her dress. Andy watched her present her body for him as he poured another glass for himself.

Resting on the arm rest was the hand with the sparkling champagne, while the other was palming his erection as watched her push her dress down to the floor. “No bra? Just that poor excuse of underwear?” He moaned out as he observed the fabric that parts at the middle, teasing the paradise that awaits for his cock.

Lowering her gaze, as if bashful, at his filthy remarks before resuming her previous position of sitting on his lap with her hands moving to unbutton his button down. “Such an impatient little thing, aren’t you?” He clicked his tongue at her; to which she pouted as she stared at him with want written on her face, “I’m sorry, sir. What do you want me to do?”

“Ride my thigh like the slut you are, baby,” He commanded her without even thinking about it, which turned her on even more. Situating herself on his thick, lean thigh she moaned out loud as the fabric of her thong added even more friction. She began to ride him with slow but sharp movements, throwing her head back when she felt her wetness taint the fabric of his slacks, “How does it feel, baby?”

“Good, so good,” Her broken cries turned him on even more as he sipped on the champagne, enjoying the tingle it left on his tongue. “Do you trust me, baby?” Surprised at his question, she opened her eyes to look at him, her hip movements not faltering one bit. Upon seeing how serious he was she answered, “I do, Andy. I trust you.”

With a smirk, he then tipped the glass just above her breasts, allowing the liquid to run from her collarbones and down to her breasts. Gasping out loud when Andy runs his tongue on her skin, following the trail that the champagne took, “Don’t stop grinding on me, love,” He reminded her as his lips drank the liquid that landed on her nipple — subsequently sucking on the pebble-like flesh. Seeking purchase on his dark hair, Y/N continued rubbing herself on his thigh — his assault on her breast encouraging her to ride him even harder and faster.

“Time to drink some more,” Andy huskily spoke out as he poured some more of the beverage on her opposite breast  causing the girl to stiffen a bit as she was taken aback by the sudden coolness on her breast. His tongue flattened against her skin, now more focused on kissing every inch of her skin instead of drinking up the liquor. His hand held her breast firmly, raising it a bit so he could suck on it and slurp the booze.

“Fuck, the champagne tastes even incredible on you, baby,” HIid praise got her flustered and she could only whine as she felt herself getting closer. “I’m so close, sir. Can I cum, please?” She fluttered her eyes at him sweetly, hoping he’d show her mercy; but his wicked smile and wink got her thinking she’d be shown the opposite of it. “Not yet, baby,” He was quick to shut her wails up with a smack on her breast, “Sit down on the sofa, baby.”

Even though she denied him her release, she followed his orders without a complaint — working with him provided her a clear picture of what happens when you don’t follow Andy’s orders, and it didn’t end well for everyone involved. As she sat down, she watched as the lawyer placed his glass on the table and reached for the bottle; poured some on her pussy. Y/N watched closely as Andy licked her clit, down to her hole. Without tearing his eyes away from hers, he inserted his tongue in her and tried to reach as far as his long tongue can go. “So good, Andy,” She grabbed onto his hair, pushing his face closer to her. The man was quick to smack her thigh, causing her to press her thighs more into his frame, “You know what to call me,” He warned.

“Sir,” She panted out, “Feel so good, sir.” Pleased with that, he rewarded her by rubbing his right thumb on her clit, making her moan even louder. Loving her blissed out sounds of pleasure, Andy began licking her ferociously; he drank up all of the champagne he poured and all the juices she had to provide. He inserted his left pointer and middle finger in her, taking her aback with the sudden simulation. Her thighs were shaking with how good he was making her feel, too weak to even grab onto his hair and her arms were now limp on her sides, “Sir, please! I’m so fucking close, please let me cum.”

Without tearing his mouth and hands from her he replied, “Then cum on my fucking tongue, you slut,” The vibrations adding more to the pleasure she felt. After a few more thrusts of his fingers, kitten licks of his tongue, she felt apart with a scream. Her thighs wrapped themselves around his shoulders, squeezing him so tight that she felt his beard tickle her delicate skin. Andy pulled out his fingers that were in her, replacing them with his tongue so he can gather all of her juices and drink some of them in. “You taste like fucking heaven, baby,” He groaned as he parted from her pussy, his fingers pushing her juices back inside her so he could use it as lube.

“Wanna kiss you, sir,” Her fingers touched the patch of facial hair above his lips, surprised with how it had her juices. Andy complied, giving her a brief, but sweet kiss. “Want you on your hands and knees, baby. Hold on to the back of the sofa okay?” Y/N couldn’t help but feel mushy with how gentle he was bossing her around — when she knew his next actions would be far from gentle.

Holding on to the back of the sofa, she used it to steady herself on her knees, bending slightly so she could arch her back to accentuate her ass. Andy quickly discarded his clothes before rubbing her pussy again and pushed some of her juices in, before entering in her pussy in one go. His forehead rested on her back as he groaned out, “Fuck baby you’re so tight. Been a while huh?” Anchoring himself on her hips, he slid in and out of her at a steady pace.

Y/N moaned out loud as she felt the back of her thighs meet Andy’s hips; he was thrusting into her with no remorse. Her hand travelled to her breast, switching between pinching the nipple or pulling on it. Grabbing her hair with one hand, the bearded man pulled her so her back was pressed firmly against his chest. You’d think that this would give Andy a difficult time to rut into her but it didn’t; instead it just made him drive his cock in her harder and faster, falling into a drum-like rhythm.

“Why are you fucking touching yourself, slut?” Feeling his breath on her ear turned her on more than she cared to admit and she couldn’t even string together a coherent response since the tip of his dick pushed into her g-spot, causing her to moan out loud. “You’re such a fucking mess that you can’t even think straight huh?”

Nodding pathetically was all the response Y/N could offer as she clawed on to Andy’s toned arms; the lawyer then decided to go all the way with his fun by wrapping his big hand around her neck, applying gentle pressure. “You don’t mind this do you, sweetheart?” Shaking her head no, Andy then smiled as he put more force on the sides of her neck as he rammed his cock in her until the tip of his cock repeatedly hit her bundle of nerves that made tears leave her eyes with how good everything felt. The other hand that wasn't wrapped around her throat then lowered itself on her clit, rubbing the hardened nub.

“If only you knew how hard you got me every time you came to work with a tight skirt or pants,” He breathed out against her ear, tickling her with his breath, “Giving me a perfect view of the shape of your ass,” And to emphasize his point he thrust so hard until his cock was all the way in and spanked her ass. “Walking around the office with so much fucking confidence,” He recalled the time wherein she called out an officemate for talking lewdly about her — that caused him to jerk one off in the office bathroom. “But now you’ve been reduced to a dumb cock hungry whore for me,” She wailed out in agreement as his hand squeezed her throat so tight to the point she was now gasping for breath as his other hand wrapped around her tit, loving the weight and feel of it on his hand, grabbing onto it to move it up and down his hand.

“Are you gonna cum again, baby? Gonna cum around my thick cock?” He could feel her walls clinging on to his cock even more, making it difficult to thrust in her but he was determined to keep on sliding his cock in and out. “Yes, so close, please let me cum,” She trailed off as he abandoned his hold on her tit and throat and returned to her hips so he could maneuver her and ram his cock swiftly and harder. “Cum then you, slut. Let me feel you milk my cock,” Was all the permission she needed before she dug her nails into his forearms as came with a scream, “Thank you, sir!”

Even as she was cumming, Andy thrust in and out of her; though his thrusts weren’t as powerful and quick. Once he felt her spasms die down, he slid all the way inside her and came with a groan. They both could feel his cock twitch as it released his load inside her, filling her up with his hot semen. Littering kisses on her back, Andy could feel his regular breathing return — as was hers.

Carefully, Andy pulled out of her, “Can you stand up for a bit, baby?” She nodded and stood up from her position, the lawyer guiding her to sit by the arm rests. Still stuck in her post-orgasm haze, she watched as he moved the coffee table away and transformed his sofa into a bed. Grabbing the spare bed sheet, blanket, and pillows he kept in the office — in case he had to spend the night in the office — he quickly made the bed before he helped Y/N to lay down with him, wrapping the blanket over their naked bodies.

“How you feeling?” It was amazing how he had a quick change of demeanor; Y/N was lazily tracing over Andy’s face with her finger, making the most out of this intimate moment. “Feel good, really good. Always wanted someone to fuck me the way you did.”

Her curt response had him chuckling, loving the way she was being open with him and the way she traced over his features. “Well I’m glad I fulfilled this fantasy of yours.”

Suddenly, Y/N felt small and insecure; was this a one time thing? Just something to release his frustrations and a fantasy of hers that's been fulfilled? Furrowing her eyebrows, she failed to mask her worry as she wondered, “So this is just a one time thing then?”

Hating what she just said, Andy kissed the wrinkle in between her eyebrows as he spoke, “I don’t want it to be. I really want to be with you; if you’ll have me, of course.” A small smile rested on her lips as her eyes brightened up, “I’d want that and you. You’re so amazing, Andy. I admire your strength, resilience, and determination. For someone who could easily give up in life you choose to carry on and look forward to what the future holds. It’s just a bonus that you have a thick cock and know how to use it.”

Her small speech had him chuckling and kissing her nose, pulling her close against him, “What I said earlier was true; I love how you walk around the office like you own the place. You take no shit from people and do your job damn well. Plus, I love your music taste as well.”

Grinning at him she jeered, “Wow can’t believe you still sweet talk your way even if it’s not in a courtroom setting.” Andy laughed at her retort and just grazed his fingertips on her sides, tickling her so he can hear her giggle. Once both their laughter died down, their lips met for a sweet, passionate kiss. “We have quite a mess to clean up tomorrow, Andy,” Y/N reminded him as she referred to the champagne bottle, glasses, their clothes, and his sofa bed — their whole situation, really.

“I don’t care,” He whispered as smiled at her, feeling so much lighter and better having been haunted by his personal demons for so long, “I don’t mind doing anything as long as it’s with you.”

Her heart fluttered with his simple statement; she was then reminded of the new year countdown. Reaching out for his wrist, she checked the time and noticed how a few minutes had passed 12. “Happy new year, Andy,” She greeted him with a peck on his lips.

A short, sweet kiss was returned to her as he planted his lips on hers again — quickly getting addicted to her, “Happy new year, baby. Can’t wait to spend this year with you by my side.”

#quietmyfearswith #andy barber fanfic #andy barber angst #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x reader #andy barber x reader #andy barber x female reader #andy barber x fem!reader #andy barber smut #andy barber fluff #andy barber x reader smut #andy barber x reader fluff #andy barber x reader angst

[mooniefics]

— quietly (it was told to believe)

pairing : connie springer / reader

word count : 2.4k

tags : heartache, hurt / comfort, friendship / love, mourning, first kiss

summary : life has been unkind to connie springer, and you've been there every step of the way.

— originally posted 1 / 24 / 21 —

"connie.." you tugged at the reins in your right hand, guiding your horse over to trot beside his, "are you alright?"

the sun had just set below the horizon, barely lighting the navy sky enough for you to see the thin clouds stretching out over it, the torch in your non-steering hand providing the best illumination over your friend's face. he looked almost dazed before you'd caught his attention, staring off into the distance at what seemed to be the castle ruins your group was making its way towards, but they were unfocused, blank, eyes filled with something so unfamiliar and sorrowful.

he righted his expression instantly when he turned to you, smiling wide enough that his cheeks puffed and his lids squeezed shut, cocking his head to the side as he spoke. "yeah! but today has been so long, i'm honestly just ready to get some sleep."

you knew that couldn't possibly be true, not after what you'd witnessed in ragako. he'd been calling out for his family, tears in his eyes, just to find his home completely crushed, ruined under the disfigured body of a titan. and though reiner had reached him first to offer comfort, you had caught the way connie's voice wavered, alarmed words spilling out of his as he pleaded with his friend to believe him, that the frail looking abomination before him had spoken and welcomed him home. and while you didn't believe that had really happened, you were sure that such a jarring sight couldn't have been good for him, that maybe in his hysteria to find any sign of life his mind had begun to play tricks on him.

and you'd been worried all throughout your team's trek, how his face had gone from tight with fear and adrenaline to resigned and despondent, then weighed down into the expression you'd seen before he put on a mask of bravery and enthusiasm. he looked so tired, entirely overwhelmed with the reality that his entire family may be dead—were most likely dead—and you couldn't imagine that you or anybody else would fair much better in such a situation. but you simply nodded at his false reassurance, cognizant of your comrades flanking you, not wanting to pry into such a fresh, vulnerable wound and humiliate him before the people he wanted so desperately to be strong for.

so you allowed the silence to fall around the two of you on the remainder of the journey to the castle, air filled with the soft pops and snaps of your burning torches and the dull clop of hooves on the dry ground. it was after you'd all tied up your horses, stretched out your sore legs and backs and barely explored the decrepit space before convening for a brief moment on the bottom floor to take inventory, that everyone had begun to drift off in their own directions. ymir declaring she would look for more food, the veterans taking up the mantle of titan watching on the lookout of the tower, reiner eventually taking off after ymir, christa disappearing down a hall with a gleam of curiosity in her eyes—and suddenly, it was just you and connie alone, sitting in silence beside each other around the small, crackling fire.

"connie," you tried, quietly, hesitantly reaching out to settle your hand over his on the cool stone floor, "you know i'm here.."

he didn't reply, vacant eyes gazing into the flames licking at the darkened kindling, and you could see how the tears glimmered on his lashes, bottom lip wobbling before he pressed his mouth into a thin line. "i just— i don't understand." he whispered weakly, "what did the people of my village, my family.. my mother.. what did they do to deserve this?"

you inched closer, fingers curling around his palm, feeling a twinge in your own heart as you replied. "nothing. they didn't do anything. it was just... a terrible accident."

you hated that you could only offer him such a lame explanation at the moment, but you were as much in the dark on the matter as he was. and though your words may have not comforted him, your touch seemed to make up for it, allowing him to turn him your shoulder and squeeze your hand tightly in his own, just barely trembling, feeling the light drip of tears wetting your shirt.

"it just hurts, you know?" he murmured in your shirt, voice fraying at the edges with sadness.

"i know, connie." you took a deep breath, "one day, things will be better."

he sniffled, swallowing thickly, pulling away to wipe his free hand down his face, hopeless hazel eyes blinking at you. "do you really think so?"

you didn't, you never had, not even on your best days, not when you were lying in bed staring up at the dark in the dorms, not when you were fighting for your life and watching the people you'd come to know be struck down for no good reason, their screamed last words and snapping bones and splattered blood as they disappeared forever into the stomachs of titans.

you could feel that pity, that empathy weighing down your heart heavy even further as you gazed at him, eyes stinging with your own tears as you told him, quietly. "we just have to believe."

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

you didn't know what hurt more in that moment—the heat still lingering over your skin from the steam of your gas tank, the way the belts of your harness were digging uncomfortably into your chest and thighs, mikasa and armin's broken screams as they kneeled on the ground beside sasha, paying no mind to how her blood was seeping into the fabric of their uniform, or connie's face as he staggered to his feet, taut with horror and such an indescribable grief as he stumbled into eren's holding quarters.

you were paralyzed, staring down at your friend, pale and still on the floor of the airship, your breathing so fast that you barely felt like you were getting any air in, heart a few frantic beats away from bursting in your chest. every part of you felt almost entirely numb, falling to your knees and unable to do nothing but gaze on at the scene before you. you couldn't believe that this was how it had all ended for sasha, after surviving three years of cadet training, four years in the scouts, countless expeditions outside the wall, even trips across the ocean—you couldn't believe that this was where sasha met her demise, on an airship away from home, at the hands of a child, still wondering about food until the very end.

visiting her grave was a dreary, surreal affair, and finding niccolo, the man who'd brought her so much joy through his cooking, so confused and anguished as he mourned despite having only known her for such a short amount of time. but even after he'd left with jean's arm around his shivering shoulders, and mikasa had murmured her soft goodbyes when she caught sight of the sun beginning to sink below to horizon, connie still remained, and you stayed behind with him.

only after everyone else had left did he allow himself to cry, trembling as he kneeled before her grave, head resting forward against the engraved headstone, tears dripping down onto the flowers that had been lain before it. he sobbed and cursed, clutching his hands to his chest, letting out the occasional strained whisper of "sasha.. y-you idiot.. why did you have to go and l-leave me behind so soon..?"

and you turned away to give him his privacy, letting your own tears roll freely down your face as you stared out into the orange sky. but eventually he fell silent, and you slowly knelt down beside him, gingerly placing a hand over his back. "connie, it's late, we should get going." you tried not to let your voice waver for his sake, forcing a small smile as you added on, "dinner'll be served soon. sasha wouldn't have wanted us to miss it."

he let out a wry chuckle, lifting his head to gaze at you with teary, wistful eyes. but they flickered back to her grave for just a brief second, and any semblance of a smile on his lips faded, features instead expressing such a raw, incessant sorrow. "things will get better one day, won't they? maybe sasha won't be there, but we'll live to see for her, won't we?"

you bit at the inside of your cheek, forcing down a sob threatening to shake you as you nodded, settling your other hand over his on the ground just as you had at the ruins of utgard.

"we will. i believe in us. i promise we'll see it for her."

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"connie locked himself in his room again."

that was all jean had to say before you were up on your feet, walking briskly down the halls to find him. your first few knocks at the door went unanswered, but you persisted, rapping at it more forcefully. "connie, please open up. it's me."

after a moment, you heard heavy footsteps staggering toward the door, uncoordinated hands wrestling with the knob's lock before it unlatched, the door swinging open to reveal your friend, eyes low and face flushed with intoxication, red cheeks gleaming with tears. but before you could say anything, he was tugging you in by the wrist, throwing the door shut behind you and locking it, stalking back over to his bed and seating himself on the edge of the mattress, balancing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

"don't want anyone else t' see me.." he faltered, and though you couldn't see his face, you could hear in his voice that he'd begun to cry again, "like this."

you felt your heart clench in your chest, taking in the state of his quarters. his sheets were messy and twisted, like he'd been thrashing about in his sleep, and the bottle of liquor that lay forgotten on the floor was completely empty, the only light being provided by the dim oil lamp burning in the corner.

"connie.." you sat beside him, arm curling around his shaking form.

"i just don't understand," he slurred, nails digging into his scalp, "i don't fuckin' understand what they did to deserve this! my m-mom, my dad.. sunny an' martin.. s-s-sasha... they were all good people.. why does everyone keep leaving me.. why does everybody keep dying..?"

you didn't know what to say, what could you possibly say to someone who had lost so much that hadn't been told to them a thousand times before? i'm sorry? it'll be ok? things will get better eventually? you didn't even believe that assertion yourself, despite having told him for the last four years over and over that the happiness he deserved—the happiness he'd earned through so much hardship—would come someday if he just believed it would.

"i don't know," you whispered, a hand gently coaxing him to sit up, settling on his warm, wet cheek to guide his gaze onto your face, "but you're still here for a reason. we both are. and i know that everybody we know who has died deserved nothing more than to live a long happy life free of all the shit that's going on now, but now it's our job to make sure everyone who has been lucky enough to make it this far will be able to see that happy ending we've all been working so hard for."

you couldn't help but cry alongside him with the way he was looking at you, with such admiration and sadness shining in his eyes, a trembling hand rising to rest over the one at his face. "do you promise?" he croaked, leaning into your touch, "do you promise that you'll live to see the end with me?"

"i promise." you said without hesitation, "i'll be with you every step of the way."

there was death looming over your shoulder just about everyday now, whether it was the thought of your own demise, or that of your remaining friends, or the nightmares of your fallen comrades that haunted your dreams, it was always there, ever-present, clinging to you like a dark shroud. but for now, in the flickering light of his room, his slender fingers threading between your own, his presence warm and comforting beside you despite the despair you shared, you felt like you could truly, honestly promise him that you two would make it.

and you didn't pull away when he leaned forward, eyes hazy, shining and full of more emotions than you could possibly discern, then gone as his lids fluttered shut. his kiss was tender, almost bittersweet, brackish with tears and sharp with the taste of alcohol on his lips, hand trembling as it squeezed yours. and for the moment, you relished in the feeling of him, in all his agony and adoration and steadfastness, every bit of him that you'd loved in so many ways for so long. and though you wished to stay as you were all night, you remembered the empty bottle at your feet, thinking about whether if you managed to put him bed now if he'd be able to get enough rest to sleep away the majority of the hangover he would be sure to have tomorrow.

so you pulled away, smiling at him, patting his cheek affectionately before you pulled yourself to your feet. "you need to get to bed soon. think about how much of a headache it'll be if you don't sleep this off."

"fine." he had sobered up enough to resign to your logic, standing with huff to join you, stooping low to snatch the bottle off the ground and dump it in the small wastebasket by his door as you flapped out his sheets.

you proceeded across the room to the lamp, pleased with yourself when you heard him clambering into bed behind you, moving to the window to shut his curtains before making your way back over to him.

"g'night."

"goodnight, connie." you bent down to plant a chaste peck over his forehead, able to see his face flush with the thin beam of moonlight peeking through the gap in the thin drapes, "i'll see you in the morning."

you left his room, making sure to quietly shut the door behind you, wandering back down the now darkened hallways to your quarters, an odd, but definitely not unwelcoming optimism for the future fluttering about in your chest—a future you could really believe in for the two of you to share.

#connie springer #connie aot #connie springer x reader #connie springer angst #connie springer x you #aot x reader #aot x you #snk x reader #snk x you #shingeki no kyoujin x reader #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction

[corseque]

Since you played those three’s routes, which one would you suggest if someone wanted the most the thematic ties, without romancing Solas? Blackwall’s feels the most obvious to me, but I’d love your thoughts. Also, how would you rank those romances personally?

BLACKWALL yeah BUT ALSO IRON BULL? And CULLEN too actually?

They’re all so related it’s wild. All 4 are monster husband romances. 

Bear = Blackwall

Lion =  Cullen

Dragon = Iron Bull

Wolf = Solas

In different ways, moral monsters with regrets who are trying to change their life, or are failing to do so. All of them are about the identity of the character, and who they want to be or decide to become. Names, and names changing. Titles and roles in society. Deception and shame.

Hissrad/Iron Bull, becoming tal-vashoth

Blackwall/Rainier, the concept of a “good man”

Cullen as a Templar or a free man

Solas (obvious)

Failure to live up to their promises or their responsibilities to their roles, and generally stories about weakness or faltering

Iron Bull and his responsibility to the Qun but also his men

Blackwall and his responsibility to his men

Cullen and his responsibility to the Inquisition

Solas and his responsibility to the people

About finding faith or strength or trust in those outside themselves

Iron Bull’s shift from the Qun to the Chargers

Blackwall’s shift to the Grey Wardens or the Inquisition

Cullen’s shift from the Templars to the Inquisition

solas’ failure to do this :’(

All of them are about these men trying to transform and heal after experiencing incredible trauma that just breaks you

Blackwall’s deep moral injury, having to live with yourself afterward

Solas’ indescribably deep moral injury that even Cole can barely catch the edges of, it’s so big and horrible

Iron Bull’s deep moral injury, when he lost himself fighting the Fog Warriors, and the tension dividing himself from his people

Cullen’s deep trauma after the Circle collapsed in DAO and Kirkwall collapsed in DA2, and the moral injury of how he contributed to what happened to the mages in Kirkwall, recognizing that and wanting to do better than Meredith

And actually, Bull, Blackwall and Solas in the game fully talk to each other and judge each other and relate and help each other process their traumas because they have such closely related experiences. It makes me so sad that Solas deeply projects onto the others negatively but at the same time is particularly good at helping and comforting the others over these moral injuries. I put their (spoiler) banter under a cut at the end, for reference to show they really do talk to each other about their traumas, and compare themselves to each other. I kind of wish Cullen could have had banters with them too.

As for ranking them, I think they’re all very good. Solasmance is bestmance lol

Blackwall: You haven't said much to me since... well, you know.

Solas: There is little to say. I assumed we were alike. We'd seen war, knew its terrible costs, but understood that it was necessary. But there was nothing necessary in what you did. You did not survive death and destruction. You sowed them. To feed your own desires.

Blackwall: I know that. I see it every time I look in a mirror. I try to make up for it.

Solas: By wearing another skin. You ran away rather than face what you had done. You wasted your time.

Solas: I wish to apologize for what I said to you, Blackwall.

Blackwall: You were right, though. I deserved it.

Solas: My people had a saying long ago - "The healer has the bloodiest hands." You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it. You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better. You have taken the first step. That is the hardest part.

Solas: So, you and the Inquisitor are together.

Blackwall: Yes. Is that a problem?

Solas: Far from it. People should seize any chance for a moment's respite in times such as these. I am glad you've allowed yourself some happiness.

Blackwall: I expected you to think that I should keep punishing myself.

Solas: I would be concerned if you forgot your past, but that seems unlikely. Beyond that, guilt is a distraction. One we can ill afford.

Blackwall: What of you, then? Have you found someone to share a moment's respite?

Solas: I find my peace elsewhere.

Blackwall: You sacrificed your own men.

Iron Bull: I'm Qunari. We don't flinch from duty.

Blackwall: Your men trusted you. You betrayed that trust when you left them to die.

Iron Bull: No.

Blackwall: No?

Iron Bull: Two key differences between you and me, Rainier.

Iron Bull: First, I didn't kill a wagon full of kids.

Iron Bull: My men were holding a position to secure an objective. I mourn their loss and honor their sacrifice.

Iron Bull: And second, I'm proud of who I am. I hope that's not a problem for you.

Blackwall: Not unless you ask me to hold a hill, Qunari.

Blackwall: So, Bull, how does it feel to be Tal-Vashoth?

Iron Bull: Feels a bit like I've been living a lie, and now it's coming back to bite me in the ass. What's that like, Blackwall?

Blackwall: Calm down, I meant no offense.

Blackwall: As you say, I know something of being cut off from a past life, having to find a new way.

Iron Bull: Well, you could've just led with that.

Blackwall: In any event, you have the Chargers. You haven't lost everything.

Iron Bull: Yeah, I think I'm good.

Iron Bull: Now, isn't this better? Getting the burden of that lie off your chest?

Blackwall: And exchanging it for the burden of everyone hating me? Yes. So much better.

Iron Bull: Hey, I don’t hate you. You and me? We’re good.

Iron Bull: Now that you know who you are, you can stop doubting yourself and start hitting crap again.

Blackwall: Why don't we hit a few bottles first, huh?

Solas: You fought the Tal-Vashoth for a long time, Iron Bull, did you not?

Iron Bull: Every day.

Iron Bull: I'd kill some of them, they'd kill some of my guys, and then I'd kill them some more.

Solas: No man can kill so many people without breaking inside. To survive... those you fight must become monsters.

Iron Bull: The ones that kill innocent people, yeah. The rest... I don't know.

Solas: The mind does marvelous things to protect itself.

Iron Bull: Nice job in that last fight, Solas. You really kicked the crap outta that guy.

Solas: I suppose.

Iron Bull: What, you don't think so? You ripped him a new one. It was great!

Solas: Unless the fight is personal, violence is a means to an end. It isn't appropriate to celebrate.

Iron Bull: I don't know. Gotta wonder about anyone who fights as much as we do and doesn't have some fun with it.

Solas: We have fought living men, with loves and families, and all that they might have been is gone.

Iron Bull: Yeah, but they were assholes!

Iron Bull: So, you going to let me have it, Solas? Or do I get to wait and wonder.

Solas: What do you mean?

Iron Bull: We've got the alliance with my people. Given how much you love the Qun, I figured...

Solas: I might scold you? Berate you for your decisions?

Iron Bull: Hey. The Chargers died as heroes for the good of the mission.

Solas: I never said otherwise.

Solas: The truth is, Iron Bull, you are Qunari. I cannot be disappointed in your decisions.

Solas: As a mindless, soulless drone, you could never make any.

Solas: You are not Tal-Vashoth, Iron Bull, not really.

Iron Bull: Well that's a fuckin' relief.

Solas: You are no beast, snapping under the stress of the Qun's harsh discipline.

Solas: You are a man who made a choice... possibly the first of your life.

Iron Bull: I've always liked fighting. What if I turn savage, like the other Tal-Vashoth?

Solas: You have the Inquisition, you have the Inquisitor... and you have me.

Iron Bull: Thanks, Solas.

#Dragon Age #Inquisition spoilers #monster romance #SO MUCH MONSTER ROMANCE #Solas #Iron Bull #Cullen Rutherford #Blackwall #I love romance #these are so good #Anonymous

[ectonurites]

for the character headcannons ask game, jason and cass?

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT im putting this one under a cut because it got SUPER long bc i cant shut up ever

lets start w jason

A (realistic headcanon): 

ok using the ‘realistic’ category here loosely but GOD i love the idea of Damian & Jason having interacted while Jason was staying with the League before getting dunked in the Lazarus Pit. like. this obviously would need to be set more in preboot and following the Lost Days & Batman Annual 25 version of Jason’s resurrection, but god the idea of it just makes me scream in a good way. Like... these are things Jason likely doesn’t remember very clearly once he’s brought back to life more fully by the pit because he was uh pretty catatonic, but Damian being a little kid and knowing about the boy that his mother keeps around the base, that she’s trying to help bring back to health. Damian not even knowing that’s his big brother, just that he’s a presence that shares his mother’s attention. Jason again being unresponsive but like, ok god you know that part of lost days where Talia shows the others observing him that he only fights back at those he perceives as genuine threats trying to hurt him, 

Because Jason can perceive that she’s safe, she’s not actually trying to hurt him, he trusts her because she saved him? thinking about lil child Damian who is ya know already being trained in fighting stuff and like the idea of him trying to provoke Jason just to see what happens but Jason not fighting back because on some level be it his connection to Talia or even little baby Damian visually reminding him of Bruce, he knows that Damian is safe too 🥺 

and then when Jason and Damian meet again in Gotham as Red Hood & Robin respectively, Jason not really remembering because there was so much going on back then for him, but Damian realizing that oh... that was Him

B (hilarious): 

alright so if we are looking at comics currently, in modern stuff jason is what, like 22? hes old enough to drink in the US but still definitely early 20s so around my around my age, thats what im using as a basis here. if we adjust timeline and still consider his death having happened when he was 15, that puts it around 2013. and then coming back to like interacting with people about three years later if we still kinda base things off of the preboot timeframe (since we never got a super solid retelling of the timeline of death -> resurrection -> training -> tries to get revenge aside from knowing he went to the all-caste instead of the lost days version of the story) making him reenter the regular world and stuff around age 18 in 2016. meaning a solid three years of pop culture that he was entirely missing, and like im sorry but he really doesn’t strike me as the type to bother looking into what he missed, he’s kinda busy focusing on other stuff. lets take a quick look at some major things from those years. 2013 gave us ‘what does the fox say’ and ‘the harlem shake’ . 2014 had that time U2 just put a fuckin album on everyone’s phones, The Fault In Our Stars movie came out. 2015 introduced the phrase ‘Netflix and Chill’ and the whole blue & black vs gold & white dress debate happened. imagine any of the other batkids (or even arguably roy during rhato stuff) bringing these things up and jason’s ensuing confusion. thank you for your time

C (heart-crushing): 

so. there are two specific instances from rebirth era Jason i want to bring up here and much like a lot of these it’s less a headcanon and more of an inference based on observations, but i wanna take a sec to discuss Jason’s relationship with other people’s death. early in rebirth, Tim ‘dies’ from that whole thing in detective comics. he didn’t actually die, we as readers know, but in-universe they all very much so thought he was dead. frustratingly a lot of the batfam wasn’t really shown mourning him aside from in the Detective Comics Rebirth title itself (which just. when a major character dies even if its temporary- that should have a ripple effect) BUT an exception to that is in RHATO 2016, where we get this offhanded comment in Jason’s internal monologuing

similarly later when Roy, who like, had an incredibly close relationship w Jason that had just gotten mended before Heroes in Crisis, gets fuckin murdered in that whole thing... Jason doesn’t go to his funeral either. He leaves a dramatic voice mail and then visits the grave on his own later, choosing to instead keep working on the mission they’d started rather than going and taking the time to mourn properly.

Jason’s relationship with death is incredibly complicated, obviously. He has died, he has come back, and he now is willing to cross the line most other bats won’t and will kill people when he deems it necessary. I think thats something important though- he doesn’t just like... go around killing for fun (usually, some writers preboot made him a little murder happy but even then usually this still was vaguely followed) he kills people he thinks deserved it. Like, even looking back at the mess of Morrison’s Jason during Batman & Robin 2009, Jason was still trying to bring a sense of justice with who he was killing (”punishment that fits the crime”), it wasn’t killing for the sake of killing. He sees things in this kind of almost black and white ‘people who deserve it’ and ‘people who don’t’ way, and he has no problem dealing with death when it’s with the people he thinks deserve it. 

but when someone who doesn’t in his mind ‘deserve it’ gets killed? i think he just goes into total avoidance mode. throws himself into other things he’s doing, tries not to dwell on it too much no matter how much he still thinks about it (this is especially evident in him consistently telling people “i’m fine!” after what happened to Roy, despite bringing Roy up literally like every few issues for a WHILE after he died and very clearly still struggling with it, Artemis is the only one who gets through to him on it a little bit) 

but yeah, I just think that from Jason’s relatively unique situation of having been murdered, he knows what it’s like and he is perfectly fine wishing that on people he thinks are bad and deserve it, but it crushes him to imagine the people he loves and cares about having to experience something as painful as what he went through. not to mention the whole “I came back, why do I get a second chance at all this when they, who are a much better person than I am, probably won’t” mindset we get some implications of him having 

D (canon is a coward and won’t) 

hello DC i am once again insisting a batfam member is bisexual

CASS TIME

A (realistic headcanon): 

ok so we know cass likes ballet. thats canon. however i think we also should in general explore cass experiencing other types of dance/performance as well, be it herself as a performer or even just watching. like... god imagine her & like my brain just automatically for group activities puts her with tim steph and duke but also for this in particular I feel would be a Jason embraced activity, but like them going to see a broadway show or some other professional theatre or something, and her just being enthralled by the reading of body language of the performers! like again by any point in current stuff cass does have like, the ability to speak fine (reading still hard tho) but even so I think like. okay im a theatre kid if that’s not obvious from the Everything About Me but one thing I always do after seeing a show is ya know spend dinner afterwards discussing it with whoever i saw it with.

I just think that like, bringing those people i just mentioned to the table to discuss seeing a show after would be so FASCINATING because cass would bring this whole perspective of critiquing their acting on a whole different level- not based on how well they delivered lines out loud, but by what their body language was saying as they moved on stage. like im very amused by the idea of cass getting a totally different picture in her mind about what a character’s motivations were because she was paying way more attention to what their physicality was saying vs the words that were written and how they were delivered. i think the debates her and the others would have would be EPIC there. jason defending the text as it was written adamantly and cass being like ‘ok yeah sure but thats not what they did’

B (hilarious): 

cass having no concept of money because why would she bother? is SO funny to me. like it’s not that she couldn’t be reasonable if she wanted to, but like, she knows that the Waynes are well off so it’s not something she actually needs to be concerned about, so she just goes hog wild. takes steph out to fancy dinners and makes steph order for them since cass ya know doesn’t really read the menus, and steph’s like ‘jesus christ this costs-” “don’t worry about it” “but cass-” and she just holds up one of bruce’s credit cards and steph’s still like “but you don’t even know the range-” “it is fine”

bruce does not have the heart to tell her to stop

C (heart-crushing): 

i mean this is pretty much canon but especially now after death metal where she’s remembering, not just being told by a guy using weird alternate timeline technology, that she used to be an adopted member of the Wayne family... like that hurts so bad. To look at these people who have ya know been kind to her, Bruce has still been a father-like figure to her (i mean literally from the moment they met in New 52 canon during the flashback in Batman & Robin Eternal, where he’s telling her that she’s not a monster just because of what people forced her to do.... that she’s a hero... that hug.... dad behavior), and they do to some extent treat her as family... But to then really know, to feel and remember that she was actually adopted! She was a part of their family. To look at how she’s been calling herself Orphan while working with them this whole time... that’s so heartbreaking! I have cried about this idea so much! I want so badly a conversation between her and Bruce now where he offers to officially adopt her again, I need it so bad and if it doesn’t happen at some point in the next year or two I will be so distraught.

D (canon is a coward and won’t) 

i want an in-depth exploration of cass’ relationship to her own gender. being raised without language and you know with so much of her life being independent (remember: CASS RAN AWAY AROUND THE WORLD WITHOUT REALLY KNOWING ANY SPOKEN LANGUAGE) and outside of an organized society impressing too much of gender expectations on her, i feel like the way she experiences it would be very unique! like sure she’s so far been fine with being assigned ‘girl’ (ya know that comes with batgirl, and how people just automatically treated her based on how she looks) but in terms of gender expression and like her actual relationship with ‘traditional femininity’ etc like... because of how she was raised I just think she’d have a really different perspective on it that could be cool to explore, and I think she’d fall outside of the binary after she really thinks about how she identifies.

tldr on that: she/they nb cass is what i’m getting at here

#onwater #jason todd #cassandra cain #sam writes

[nalgenewhore]

With My Life - Chapter Seven

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter

warnings: (all graphic) violence, guns, blood, smut, implied PTSD

an: hmmm.....hm. enjoy !

Elide didn’t know how to ask the question that had been bothering her ever since Lorcan had been back. 

She thought she knew the answer, but asking him might ease her worries, might soothe her frayed nerves. 

Lorcan was downstairs, talking with his lawyer on the phone. Manon was decidedly unimpressed with him and Elide had laughed when she heard the golden-eyed woman berate him for his ‘big, rutting mess’ that she was now tasked with cleaning up, so to speak. 

There wasn’t a doubt in either of their minds that Elide would stay in what was now their apartment. Neither Elide nor Lorcan were keen on living apart now or ever. 

With a steadying breath, Elide walked downstairs, determination in her every step. Lorcan glanced up at her and paused, his eyes narrowed as he read her posture and expression. His shoulders tensed slightly and he said to Manon, “M, I don’t really have to be here, right?” 

He winced and Elide smirked at what was surely a severe beatdown from Manon, but eventually, Lorcan sighed and nodded, “Yeah, yeah, I know. No more disappearing and being assumed dead, I get it. Thank you, really.” He choked slightly, “Well, fuck you too, Blackbeak, you’re useless. I never want to see your face again. Bye.” 

“Fun talk?” Elide quipped, crossing the floor to the island and taking the seat opposite his. Lorcan huffed a halfway amused laugh and tossed his phone on the counter, bracing his elbows against the marble and dropping his head in his hands. 

“Nobody ever tells you that coming back from the dead is a pain in the ass. So much paperwork,” he muttered, sighing through his nose once before he stood up and walked over to the coffee pot. Elide hummed and propped her chin in her hand, smiling at him when Lorcan walked over with a mug for her and placed it in front of her. 

He kissed her forehead before sitting down on the barstool next to hers and taking a sip of his coffee, “So. What’s going on?” 

Elide shrugged, wrapping her cold hands around her mug and sighing softly. Her dark-haired love laughed and put his cup down, then took her hands and cupped them in his warm ones, “Still got the cold hands, huh, princess?” 

She smiled and nodded, her heart fluttering when he rubbed heat back into her digits, waiting for her to speak. “E, I know you’re thinking about something,” Lorcan murmured, glancing pointedly at the furrow between her brows. “What is it?”

 Elide glanced down at her bare legs, pale skin dotted with purple marks and tender fingerprints. “What are you gonna do now?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“For work,” she asked, her voice so quiet Elide half-wondered if Lorcan had even heard it. 

But he had and Lorcan sat up, unconsciously drawing back to protect himself. “Same job. I’m going in for testing tomorrow, seven o’clock.” He knew what her reaction would be. He knew why she was sitting up, her posture immaculate and frozen. He knew why she pulled her chilled fingers from his. 

Tears were already caught in her lashes, her slender eyes filling with them. Lorcan saw the way she tried to stop her lower lip from trembling and he ached to reach out, to warm her up, just so that she would stop shaking, but he didn’t. He restrained himself, to let her have this lost moment, where nothing made sense. 

“You’re going back?” she whispered, voice aghast and cracked. 

Lorcan breathed in deeply, feeling helpless as silver tears slipped down her cheeks and dropped onto her thighs. “Yes.” 

Elide shook her head, dismissing it as false. So quickly, she switched, becoming the detached scientist she was in her work. She wiped her cheeks, sniffling once, “No, that doesn’t make any sense, Lorcan. You got hurt.” She said it bluntly, as if ripping the band-aid off would make it less scary, but it didn’t. “I thought- we all thought you were dead and we mourned for you.” 

“I met my family there, Elide. The people I love and people I would do anything to protect,” Lorcan stated calmly, his voice a touch too even. “They’re my family.” 

“What about me then. Am I not good enough to be your family, do you not love me, not want to protect me as much?” 

“No. No,” he said, his brows lowering fiercely. Lorcan gripped her chin, gently tugging her face upwards until she met his gaze. “Princess, you mean the fuckin’ world to me. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone and ever will love.” 

Elide cried, her face crumpling, “I’m scared.” She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his shoulder. “Please, think about it. I can’t lose you again.” 

“You won’t lose me,” Lorcan murmured, rubbing her back slowly. 

“I want you to quit,” she mumbled, feeling small and pathetic. 

“I can’t do that.”

Elide would never make him quit something he loved, so all she could do, when her heart was raw and sore, was climb into his lap and hold onto him tightly. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

She looked so peaceful, sleeping in what was now their bed. Sprawled across the mattress, the deep black duvet twisted around her from her erratic sleeping pattern. 

Lorcan silently punched in the pin code for the hidden compartment in the back of his closet, wincing at the click and hiss as it unlocked and popped open, revealing an array of weapons. They were all neatly laid out in foam, perfectly fitting in the padding. 

He pulled out two Berettas, having lost his preferred Glocks on the day he was shot. The tribe women had never told him where they had put them, but Lorcan knew they would’ve been ruined by the river anyway.

Elide was still sleeping as he slid them into his holsters and grabbed two sheathed blades, pulling them out to test the balance. He smiled at the perfectness of it all, putting one on the tip of his finger and watching it remain completely flat. 

Lorcan put the knives into the holster next to each gun and then pushed the compartment shut. He stood, buttoning his suit jacket and grabbing his overcoat after seeing that it was raining again. 

He checked his watch, noting the time of 5:36AM and deciding he should leave within the next ten minutes if he wanted a chance to warm up and tape his shoulder before testing. 

Lorcan walked out of his closet and crossed over to Elide’s sleeping form. 

The city lights played across the smooth curve of her regal cheekbone and the pert button of her nose. Elide rolled onto her back, murmuring something low. 

Lorcan knew he should have woken her up to tell her he was leaving, but she looked too peaceful, so fragile that all he could do was kiss her forehead and walk away. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

He rolled his eyes as he stalked through the hallway, narrowing his gaze at the boys. “Boys, fine morning we’re having, is it not?” 

Vaughan snorted and jerked his head at Rowan, “It’s his fault.”

Their leader of sorts scowled at the back of Vaughan’s head and pushed him out of the way on his path to Lorcan. “We always come in early.” 

Lorcan stifled his laughter and walked into the changeroom, making a beeline to his locker. As he unlocked it, he commented, “For a spy, you’re a really shit liar, Ro-Ro.” 

They all laughed as Rowan groaned at Lorcan’s use of his dreaded nickname, crossing his arms over his chest and muttering, “I play truth or dare one fucking time. And I told you wankstains we were wasted.” 

Connall snickered and they bickered as Lorcan changed into a pair of shorts. It was Fenrys who noticed his wound first and the man’s demeanor dampened, shame flicking over his eyes. He cleared his throat, “I, uh, I have to do something.” Without another word, he made to leave, but Lorcan stopped him. 

“I need someone to tape my shoulder and I don’t trust any of them to do it right.” He picked up the roll of athletic tape in his locker, holding it out to Fenrys. 

The room went dead silent and it was almost comical, watching Connall, Vaughan, and Rowan swivel their heads back and forth to see if Fenrys would accept it. Lorcan had no grudge against him - he was doing his job and something went wrong. 

Fenrys took it and motioned for Lorcan to sit. The others gawked until Fenrys shot them a hard look and they quickly found other things to be interested in. Lorcan stretched his shoulder, grimacing at the strain, most likely from the weekend’s… activities. “So, Ro, you’re gonna be a dad.” 

Rowan choked at the bluntness, obviously nervous, “Y-yeah.” 

Lorcan arched a brow, batting Fenrys’ hand away from his head. “Well, you seem excited for that.” 

The silver-haired man swallowed, raking a hand through his hair so that it stuck up in every which way. “I never thought it would be this hard.” 

“Her being pregnant?” Vaughan asked, moving on silent feet - he’d always been best at the noiseless approach - to stand behind Lorcan and fix his hair. Lorcan trusted Vaughan with his hair more so than any other being on the planet after having been raised together and calling him his brother since before they could talk. 

Rowan shook his head and sat down heavily on the bench opposite Lorcan’s, his elbows braced against his thighs. “Not being able to tell her.” 

They all froze, except for Fenrys, who started to tape Lorcan’s shoulder as if nothing was wrong. 

“You’re not thinking of telling her, right?” Connall asked, words dripping in horrification. The things that could and would happen if a civilian, no matter who, were to find out what they did, how many times their jobs had saved people’s lives would ruin the country. 

Rowan didn’t answer. 

“Ro–” 

“I’m not gonna fucking tell her! Just, fuck, you guys don’t get it–” Fenrys shook his head, but he bit his tongue. Rowan glared at him, “Something you wanna say, Marama?” 

“Rowan, shut up. You’re not the only person in this room with someone they love. You aren’t the only person keeping secrets either, so stop acting like you didn’t know what you were signing up for,” Fenrys said, words clipped and his brow lowered. “We have the same job, Rowan, and lives of our own.”

Rowan’s mouth dropped open and he looked to the others, trying to garner sympathy or support in his opinion. No one dared to meet his eye except for Lorcan, who cocked his head to the side and sucked on his teeth. 

Just as Rowan was about to say something he’d come to regret, the door opened and they all whipped their heads to the side, their postures easing when they saw Nehemia. 

Her smile froze and she narrowed her eyes, her gaze landing on Rowan and staying. “We have an assignment, boys. Are we prepared for that?” 

They all mumbled their assent and slowly got up, dutifully exiting the room under Nehemia’s disapproving glare. She had obviously picked up on the tension and the cloud of uncomfortability that had settled over them. Knowing them as well as she did, the cyber analyst wouldn’t put up with their stupid bullshit and whatever childish entanglement they were caught in. 

Lorcan pulled his shirt on and closed his locker, pausing when he looked over his shoulder and saw his friend standing there. “What is it?” 

Nehemia couldn’t hide the apprehension in her eyes as she said, “She wants you there too.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

They were all dressed in full tactical uniforms, standing at attention as Maeve read the report. 

“Erawan and his cult are a much larger threat and we have reason to suspect they are receiving a shipment of arms within the next week. This man,” Maeve gestured to the man on the screen behind her, “has the specificities and your task is to acquire the information.” She cast a glance towards Lorcan, “Salvaterre, I suppose with your injury, you’ll be surveillance.”

She snapped the folder shut and slid it across the table to Rowan, who picked it up, a quizzical look on his face. “Apologies, ma’am, but are you expecting Salvaterre to be on this mission as well?” 

Maeve looked up, her manicured brows raising as she clasped her hands on the desk, “Is there a reason he should be exempt?” 

Lorcan clenched his jaw, but refused to meet her mocking gaze as the rest of the room opened their mouths. Rowan spoke up for them, “Ms. Nathair, Salvaterre has been gone for the past six months. Protocol states he needs a physical and psych exam before he’s cleared as a field agent.” 

“Protocol? The five of you have the most dangerous job in the world and you’re hung up on protocol?” she mocked them, a cruel smirk curling her thin lips. “Salvaterre.” 

“Yes, ma’am?” 

“Are you in need of an exam?” 

Fear coursed through him and still, Lorcan shook his head, “No, ma’am.” 

“Are you able to do your job?” 

His shoulder said no but Lorcan nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. I’ll schedule your exams for tomorrow if the mission goes well. That is all.” 

They turned and walked out of the room, going down a complicated set of hallways and stairs to the prep room. Lorcan picked out surveillance equipment as Rowan and Fenrys changed into street clothes. 

Connall and Nehemia sat at their desk, typing on their computers and instructing their teams. Vaughan approached Lorcan, speaking in their mother tongue, “Lorcan, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

His brother sighed, unease clear on the sharp features of his face, “I don’t like this.”

Lorcan could only shrug. Vaughan muttered something, knowing he wouldn’t be able to convince Lorcan otherwise. He made to leave, stopping when Lorcan asked him something, “Did you name me?”

Vaughan looked at Lorcan over his shoulder, too many emotions swimming in his eyes for Lorcan to discern them all. “Yes.” 

“What was it?” 

“I named you Ohitekah.” 

Lorcan’s throat closed and he nodded once, pride for their people glowing in his chest. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Lorcan stewed silently as he nursed his weak coffee, holding back his grimace at the grainy texture. 

He kept his eyes on Fenrys and Rowan as they walked down the street, tailing their target as he ducked into a grocery store. 

Connall’s voice came over the comms once in a while, but nothing was directed to Lorcan. Fuck, he was so bored, sitting in the diner and watching. 

Reasoning with himself, Lorcan decided he had stayed in the diner long enough that it aroused suspicion, so he got up, paid for his coffee, and left. 

“Salvaterre, where the fuck are you going?” 

He responded calmly, “There’s an alley next to the grocery store.” Lorcan looked up and down the street before walking across. He subtly checked behind him to ensure nobody was following him and that he could slip into the alley. 

A pile of pallets hid him from the back door of the store and Lorcan leaned against the wall, fishing out his phone to pretend he was taking a call as he watched. “In position with clear sight of back exit.”

Rowan’s voice crackled in the radio, “I lost him. He’s heading towards the back - I’m in pursuit. Fen, meet L in the alley.” 

Lorcan pocketed his phone and made sure he had clear access to his gun. Time ticked by slowly and every second had his spine straightening just a bit more, until it looked like he would snap. 

The door burst open and the target ran out, fearfully looking over his shoulder and not paying attention as Lorcan stepped into his path and the man crashed. 

His reflexes were quick though, and he didn’t let Lorcan have the advantage as they fought. Lorcan’s shoulder immediately protested, shooting sharp pains down his arm. Despite that, the target was no match for him and just as quickly as it had started, Lorcan had him on the ground, a hand holding his face against the rough asphalt and a knee keeping his hands behind his back. 

Lorcan felt his nose drip blood, courtesy of the punch he’d received in the short scuffle, and he breathed past the pain in his body, cursing Maeve for all she was. 

Feet pounded against the road and Fenrys ran in, giving Lorcan the chance to stand up and stumble back, startling when Rowan appeared in front of him, steadying him with a hand on his right shoulder. “You good?” 

“Yeah, just a little blood. Don’t worry.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

He was close to blacking out as he walked into his apartment, his vision blurry and breathing shaky. Immediately, he saw Elide sitting on the couch, her short hair clipped up to keep it dry in the shower, he assumed based off the fact that she was wearing his housecoat. “El.” 

She whipped her head around, a deadly glare on her face, “Oh, you’re back? You didn’t die?” 

He really, really should’ve woken her up that morning. Lorcan closed his eyes, leaning against the wall, “Princess, I’m sorry, but I need- fuck, I need help.” After returning to headquarters, Lorcan had gone to the bathroom and discerned that miniscule pieces of the bullet were still lodged under his flesh. 

Elide’s eyes widened and she hopped up, hurrying over to him. His skin was clammy and cold to the touch, “Anneith above, what happened?” 

“Bathroom,” he breathed, leaning on Elide as he stumbled into the bathroom and sat down on the floor, his back against the sink cabinet. “Get the vodka.” 

He hadn’t realised she had even left before Elide returned with the bottle, taking her own sip before handing it to him. “L, what happened.”

He chugged for a solid five seconds, pausing to say, “I was shot six months ago,” and drinking again. Lorcan’s limbs felt fuzzy as he ripped off his jacket and shirt, throwing them into the corner. “Bullet’s not all out and,” he swallowed, taking her hand and gripping it tightly, “I need you to do it.” 

She gaped at him, eyes wide like saucers. “Lorcan, what? Why didn’t they fucking take it out the first time!” 

“I don’t- shit, I don’t know but I can’t fucking take it and I can’t go back there,” he whispered, head falling back against the cabinet door. “Too many questions. I’ll fucking talk you through it, just please.” 

Elide didn’t look convinced as she glanced between his face, eyes glazed in agony, and he tried again, “Please, baby, it hurts.”

She nodded, pressing her hand over the scar, “Yes, just- tell me what to do.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

“Do it.” 

“I’m doing it.” 

“No, you’re not.” Lorcan was watching her carefully, like she wasn’t holding a knife over his skin. “I told you - I trust you with my life.” 

Elide snapped her head up, glaring, “There is a difference between a straight razor and cutting bullet fragments out of you, Lorcan.” 

He somehow had the audacity to chuckle and lean forward, pressing his lips to her forehead in an effort to soothe her. Elide had to, begrudgingly, admit that it worked a bit. “You got this, yeah? I can barely feel a thing.” 

Elide nodded and took a deep breath before turning back to the task. With the tip of the knife, she made an incision, pressing white gauze against it to soak the blood that dripped down. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she used the tweezers to pick the metal bit out. Lorcan hissed, biting his lip to stop his groan of pain. 

She blinked her tears back, wanting to run away from this. Elide carefully put the piece in the plastic bag and continued, cutting and tweezing until every part was out. 

Lorcan was barely conscious when she cleaned the wounds and sealed it. Elide brushed his hair back from his forehead and let him be as she tidied up the supplies and dumped everything in the garbage. 

Elide turned back to Lorcan, who was looking at her with a proud expression, his lips pulled into a small smile, “C’mere, princess.” She rolled her eyes at the nickname, but went to him, sighing in relief the moment she was curled up in his arms, head tucked beneath his chin. “You did good.” 

“Mm, really? Beginner’s luck?” 

He laughed drily, “We’ll have to see about that next time.” 

Elide shook her head, suddenly feeling like the bathroom was the only safe space in the world, “I don’t want there to be a next time.” She pressed her face in Lorcan’s neck, her tears dripping down her cheeks. “Promise me there won’t be a next time.” 

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Elide,” Lorcan murmured, dragging his hand up and down her thigh in a soothing pattern. “All I can give you is my honesty.” 

Elide wrapped her arms around his neck and cried silently, wondering if there would be a day when honesty wasn’t enough.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

@mythicaitt @tinywolfofeyllwe @schmlip-scribble @the-regal-warrior @empire-of-wildfire @rhysands-highlady @ttakeitbacknoww @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse e @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere @queenofxhearts @maastrash @mynewdreamwasyou @cursebreaker29 @empress-ofbloodshed @b00kworm @hizqueen4life @silversprings98 @amren-courtofdreams​ @minaidss @superspiritfestival @lovemollywho @queen-of-glass @jlinez @sleeping-and-books @ireallyshouldsleeprn @verypaleninja @januarystears @magicalunicorngypsy

#with my life #wml chapter seven #elorcan #elide x lorcan #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #isa writes #nalgenewhore #oooohhh shit's getting real boys #omg but actually we're almost at the PLOT plot u kno

[howdoyousleep3]

you lean into me like you know

A/N: Hi so I’m feeling super wack right now and it’s really hard for me to write or to even get to that point, but this is something I wrote a while back and didn’t have the courage to share and then never finished it entirely to the extent I wanted to. There isn’t explicit smut but it’s implied or glossed over. The vibe I had in my head was very retro, not modern day, “The Outsiders” vibe. It is very different than what I normally post but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I’d love to hear your thoughts. 

After his second year of college Bucky comes home for the summer. His heart desires to stay in the city, yearning for the chaos, but he acknowledges how important it is to come home for his Ma. It’s a mild June morning, air already growing sticky, and it’s the first time Bucky sees Steve Rogers. 

Seeing Steve makes him realize he’s never seen sunlight before. Looking at Steve makes Bucky hopeful again, makes him want to smile, makes him want to be a good person. He’s the most beautiful thing he has ever set his eyes on and Bucky wants to fucking break him. Perfect little Steve Rogers with his rosy cheeks, golden blonde hair, his seemingly-always broken glasses, his full-ride scholarship, and his perfectly-keen artistic eye.

 It’s disgusting.

 Bucky’s pretty sure he’s in love. 

The sight of Steve makes Bucky short of breath and that isn’t even because of the cigarette between his lips. He sucks more nicotine into his lungs to shove down the growing ache in his chest and throws it to the concrete so he can stomp on it like he wants to do his own heart.

Once Bucky sees him coming out of the library that afternoon he sees Steve Rogers everywhere. He most definitely doesn’t blame that on the fact that Steve takes up every empty space in his mind, fantasizing about every which way he can make Steve cry. He sees him in the grocery store, walking down the road, at the local diner; Bucky sees him everywhere and it feels like he is drowning. 

He’s never been in love, not even close, never wanting to do more than fuck and move on. The foreign feeling in his chest and brain makes him comprehend why history is full of people who go mad over love, spend their days mourning, harm themselves, even die, for love. Bucky’s a tough kid. No one messes with Bucky Barnes. But one Steve Rogers is slowly cracking him open and Bucky’s doing what he can to protectively keep all the pieces of himself together.

The first time Bucky talks to Steve is a critical moment. If he’s shattered inside without even having heard Steve’s voice, he can’t imagine what hearing it will do to him. It isn’t planned. Bucky has no warning. He is standing outside the diner sucking down another cigarette, his date for the night (Sherry? Sarah? Stacey? Shit.) waiting far too patiently inside. It’s a decent summer night aside from the rain that’s been meandering down from the sky nearly all day. Bucky registers the bell on the door signifying the entrance or exit of someone, but he has no intention of lifting his head to acknowledge them. People usually like it more when Bucky doesn’t notice them.

“You know those things are awful for you,” a deep voice says to him and he’s ready to square up with the person who belongs to said voice when he looks up and—

Ah fuck.

He’s looking over at Steve, perfect little Steve Rogers. If Bucky felt like he was drowning before, he’s dying now, hanging on by a thread. Bucky opts to not immediately respond and instead takes in the kid and savors the moment. Steve is so small up this close and Bucky wants to squeeze him, wants to hurt him, wants to touch him. He swears he can smell him but that’s incredibly unrealistic given the distance between them and the humidity. 

He can see a smattering of summer freckles starting to form across the bridge of Steve’s proud nose and he aches inside at the sign of youth. He just knows that that smooth creamy skin would bruise like a peach, all sweet, under Bucky’s chaotic grip. Bucky’s palms begin to sweat and once again he finds himself flicking the butt of his cigarette to the ground, blowing out smoke into the heavy air between them, smashing and grinding what’s left of the cigarette unnecessarily into the pavement beneath his feet.

“No shit, kid,” Bucky manages to bite out before heading back inside the diner, narrowly avoiding brushing shoulders with Steve, bell ringing, hands shaking, breaths rushing. Bucky’s core, his equilibrium, have completely been compromised. If Bucky imagines that the body beneath him later that night, the one he’s fucking into, is comprised of bony joints, a strong jaw, and eyes that take him to oceans he’ll never in his life visit, he can’t be blamed. This is Steve Roger’s fault.

The next time Bucky talks to Steve he is more prepared. He knows it’s coming because he is the one who initiates the brief conversation. He needs to get his feet back under him, needs to be the one with the upper hand, needs to hear Steve Rogers’ disproportionately husky voice hit his ears again. 

He finds himself at the local market indecently early all because his Ma wants fresh green beans from Mr. Walter. He is very aware of the fact that Steve sells his art at a rickety old table, simplistic and pure, sitting behind it all in a near-broken wooden chair. He’s so compact that the splintered chair sees no strain and Bucky’s heart does that achy pull when his eyes land on him. He swears to himself he’s in one of those romance films they show at the drive-in on weekdays for cheap. It makes him nauseous.

He pretends to pick and sort through a barrel of peaches, fingers barely detecting the fuzziness of their skin, eyes trained on the soft blonde. Steve Rogers looks just that, so soft, so gentle, plain white t-shirt and faded jeans, knees tucked to his chest to balance the worn sketchbook on them. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to feel pain, to counterbalance the warm twinge beneath his ribs but it barely works. Bucky realizes with a wave of panic that he could watch Steve Rogers draw and sketch and focus for the rest of his life.

Bucky has a plan, knows what he is going to say, can only hope what little Steve Rogers replies with. Thick shaky legs take him right up to Steve’s table and before his lips can even part the wind gets knocked right fuckin’ out of him. His words die on his tongue as his eyes rove over the worst thing he could have ever seen—himself.

Amongst all the sketches and drawings, even a painting, there to the left lies a rough sketch of Bucky. He’s standing outside the diner, the point of view of the sketch drawn from within it, and a cigarette hangs between his lips. He looks brooding, dark on the paper, side profile gutting. He’s never seen these emotions splayed across his face before and how dare Steve Rogers, of all fucking people, showcase it to the world.

His brain tries to catch up with his limbs and mouth as he listens to himself mumble, “What the fuck, Rogers?”, fingers reaching to touch at the paper reverently. That wasn’t what Bucky was supposed to say. Bucky’s supposed to make Steve Rogers blush and stammer, conceal an erection, think about Bucky when he closes his eyes at night. He gets the blush and stammer, cerulean eyes wide as he damn near falls out of his seat in an attempt to snatch the sketch from Bucky’s reach and view.

“Fuck, I didn’t…Bucky…” he mumbles and a noise bubbles up in Bucky’s chest at Steve saying his name. Steve is quick but Bucky is quicker, pulling the sketch out of reach. Steve’s small arms are no match for Bucky’s longer ones. Bucky takes a second to appreciate the sketch up close before blinking over at Steve who looks like he is about to burst into tears. He’s fidgeting where he stands, arms crossed over his wisp of a chest, both face and neck a splotchy red mess. His eyes are downcast and Bucky can actually hear Steve wheezing. Bucky wants to wrap him up in his arms and kiss his cheek, to press his lips right there on Steve’s temple like he’s almost damn sure would make him blush. Bucky has absolutely not ever done that or felt this way before. His fingers twitch.

“How much?”

Bucky watches as Steve’s head shoots up, a look of sheer surprise and embarrassment flowing over his features. He stammers and chokes on his words, the strong crease between his brows prominent.

“Fucking Christ, Rogers—how much?” Bucky says in as much aggravation as he can muster, which is a miracle considering his veins feel like thick honey full of adoration. Steve quickly shakes his head feverishly.

“No, it’s…no. Nothing, s’free.” He still won’t look up at Bucky, picking at the hem of his shirt, and Bucky already wishes he could see those eyes again. How can he long for something, someone, when they’re right in front of him?

“I-I usually sell them for like…t-twenty dollars. It’s cool though, I—”

Bucky raises his hand dismissively, Steve snapping his mouth shut with a click, and he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He tugs out a fifty-dollar bill and tosses it on the table. Steve doesn’t look up at him. Bucky wants to cradle the sketch close to his chest, to show it to the world, to frame it in glass and get it signed. Instead he turns and says, “See ya later, kid,” and walks away. 

He walks away a fluster of emotions. 

He’s still uneasy and off-balance, angry, but his entire being feels like it’s letting out a sigh of relief. Bucky refuses to think of why his thoughts are forming the way that they are and instead folds up the sketch and places it in his back pocket with shaky hands. He’ll keep it on the table next to his bed and smooth out its creases as he looks over it every night before he sleeps. Bucky doesn’t think about how it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him. 

#stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #steve rogers and bucky barnes #fanfiction #AU #howdoyousleep

[asterekmess]

(I was gonna save this for tomorrow, but FUCK IT) Eyyy, still being salty over here. Pls block the tag ‘rant’ if you don’t wanna see anymore of these. Or maybe ‘anti-scott mccall’ though, tbh, I’m not sure how much fun it would be to follow me if you aren’t anti-scott mccall. I’m pretty vocal abt disliking him.

ANYWAY.

I wanna talk about the concept of Derek being a ‘creeper’ because of all his wandering around the lacrosse field, at lydia’s party, etc. And by talk about, I mean ramble about incoherently. By which I mean, please know that I’m not trying to insult or fight anybody who makes this joke or uses this concept in fic or whatever. I’m just ranting bc I love this boy and his trauma makes me sad.

ANYWAY. (This is insanely long, so I’m adding a “Read More”)

I just have a lot of feelings about people seeing Derek as a stalker/creeper because he keeps showing up at lacrosse practice and in Scott & Stiles’ rooms, etc. It gets mentioned in loads of fics (I see a lot of “Creeperwolf” which I think is supposed to be an endearment?) (And there’s lots of fics that talk about how ‘you used to be/are really creepy, following us around’ Again, not judging) (Dude it’s even a whole tag on AO3 ‘Creeper Derek Hale’) and it’s joked about a lot in fandom (the vine with the ‘every step you take’ song and the swans on the building comes to mind). I see it a lot, and dude, it hurts me.

Let’s look at Derek’s current mental state and what he’s been dealing with, going all the way back to Paige. (Or, tbh, his birth) Derek is a werewolf. He was born a werewolf, to a family of werewolves. He grew up within the supernatural world, in a whole different culture to humans (honestly, my fury at the lack of werewolf culture/history/worldbuilding is worthy of its own post. Let me know if by some ungodly chance, you actually wanna hear my thoughts on it.) and presumably the number one rule in all of werewolfdom is “Keep the Secret.” Now, Derek’s fuckin’ 14/15 (I put his birthday on Christmas, like most of fandom, and if his house burned down when he was 16, in the spring, and he was dating Kate for a while before, he would’ve dated her when he was 15, and we don’t know how long there was between paige and kate, but let’s give him a summer of mourning. So. 14ish with paige) and he starts dating this human. He’s kinda shit at keeping the secret, implying that either he’s only dated werewolves before, or she’s his first girlfriend ever (also implying that maybe some of the people on his basketball team are werewolves, bc they don’t seem to notice his weird way of talking [pack members maybe? fuck, my heart]) and he’s maybe not as careful as he should be. (More implications arise, and we begin to build our own history. If Derek was never taught not to say dumb shit like ‘i caught a scent’ then was he even in public school before freshman year? Were the Hales all homeschooled before high school to help keep the secret? How soon do wolfy abilites arise? Do they hit with puberty? Fuck, I digress.) He says some dumb shit, and Paige gets suspicious. Of course, he doesn’t know that, and he has some kind of meltdown about her eventually finding out his secret. We hear from Peter (who’s villainized, so we’re not supposed to necessarily believe what he says, but what we see in the flashback doesn’t make a huge amount of sense either so *shrug*) that he enlists Ennis to bite Paige, believing that if she is bitten she won’t spill the secret and she’ll be more inclined to accept that Derek is a werewolf. Now, she fucking dies. Paige dies in Derek’s arms because of this, and he finds out at the last second that she already knew the secret. He feels guilty enough abt getting her killed but now he’s got a whole new batch of guilt from finding out that apparently he’s so bad at keeping the secret of his ENTIRE SPECIES that she found out he was a werewolf. She could’ve exposed them all at any time. He had to be terrified. Next, he’s 15/16 and he meets a gorgeous older woman who presumably showers him in affection, and all the horrors that go with that whole situation (I don’t wanna go into detail, because obviously). But again, whether Derek tells her himself or she just knew or she finds out, whatever it is, Kate knows Derek and his family are werewolves. AND SHE KILLS THEM ALL. Derek has no clue what the fuck is going on. All he knows is he is the only link between Kate and his family, which must mean that it’s his fault she knows about them. Once again, he’s revealed the Big Secret and people Died. He and Laura bolt to NY for six years, where presumably they live in hiding thinking the Argents are coming after them to finish off the Hales. Then Laura gets sent a funky letter and goes back to Beacon Hills. Now, we have a lil more confusion (i’ve got a whole buttload of issues with the timeline, but let’s not get into that now) because he says he came looking for Laura, but later he mentions that he knew she was in Beacon Hills and was searching for...whoever burnt down their house...that whole plotline confuses the shit out of me (derek knew kate did it. he blamed All the argents, but he knew kate was involved. So why was Laura looking for the pendant. and if he didn’t tell her then why was he looking for the pendant?? And what did the pendant have to do with the deer and the spiral?? Halp.) but whatever. He shows up and finds his sister dead, the hunters arrive in town the next day, and suddenly there’s an angry alpha Attacking Humans.

We’re finally in the present. Derek has lost what little family he had left, except for a catatonic uncle. He already has two instances in his past where the worry of keeping werewolves a secret has caused deaths. And now there’s this teenager. No, actually, two teenagers. One who was bitten, and one who shouts out “You’re a werewolf!” in the middle of the preserve, instantly figuring out a centuries-old supernatural secret. Derek is fucking terrified, and things are only getting worse. This kid who got bitten? Derek follows him to see if he’s really a wolf, to find out if he knows what’s happening to him, if he believes the other teen. He finds the kid JUMPING OVER PEOPLE’S HEADS in broad daylight in front of everyone. Derek might’ve had a couple verbal giveaways but this is just ridiculous. Then, even better, the kid goes on a date on the FULL MOON with THE YOUNGEST ARGENT. There’s about a billion reasons to follow Scott to the party. It’s a FULL MOON, for one. HE’S WITH AN ARGENT for another. And of course he can’t just walk into the party. He’s fucking 22 for fuck’s sake. This is a high school party. He’d get arrested. And of course he doesn’t introduce himself to Scott beforehand. He has no way of knowing if this kid is on the Alpha’s side. He’s the Alpha’s Beta, it would make perfect sense for him to be obeying the Alpha. OR since he’s with the Argent, maybe he’s working with them. Maybe he’s a plant of some kind. a hunter pet. Laura was used as bait to catch Derek, why not Scott too? But he sees quickly that Allison has no clue what’s going on, at least with Scott, and he takes her home and steals her jacket to lure Scott into the Preserve where he can’t hurt anyone. Then, when he sees Scott get chased by the hunters, with no Alpha coming running to protect him, he decides “Alright, guess this kid’s my ally. Gotta protect him.” Yeah. He says some weird shit. But the evidence points to Derek not knowing much about bitten wolves. He tells Scott that he doesn’t know how to train a bitten wolf, but he does know how to help Scott recover memories (the memory loss appears to only happen in the early days of shifting, which lends more credibility to the possibility that born wolves don’t start shifting properly until later in life [puberty being the most likely milestone] and he therefore has experience with that, but not with the kind of control Scott needs, that he’s known his whole life). Born a werewolf, he’s never considered the bite anything other than a gift. He also just lost his entire family, so sue him for trying to find some kind of connection between them. (It honestly makes total sense for him to use the term ‘brothers’ bc he KNOWs Scott won’t understand the concept of ‘pack’ yet) So, now that’s decided to help Scott, to protect him, he goes back to the school. SURELY now that Scott knows what he is and how dangerous he is when stressed, he’ll reign himself in during lacrosse, or even just back out of it altogether. There are lives at stake here, be them human, or if Scott exposes the secret, werewolves. SURELY this kid wouldn’t put everyone in danger over a fucking game. But no. Not only does he keep flaunting his abilities, but he SHIFTS ON THE FIELD. If Stiles hadn’t Dragged Scott out of there, the entire supernatural world would be EXPOSED by this ONE KID. Derek passed Terrified about a hundred miles back. He’s gotta be fucking out of his mind with fear. I don’t blame him even a little for threatening Scott. If Scott’s not gonna do the right thing on his own, then threatening him is worth it if people don’t DIE. Then, bc Scott’s a pissy baby and goes to shout at him and be a fuckwad, and Stiles is nosey and neither of them have boundaries (I love Stiles, but fucking seriously, digging up a grave?) Derek gets ARRESTED. He pleads with this lanky teen who is brave enough to climb into the cruiser with a WEREWOLF. Who’s FRiends with a Werewolf. Who figured it out so quickly. He pleads with him to understand how dangerous this is, to stop his friend. And Stiles looks like he’s gonna, but Scott bolts bc of the wolfsbane (Which...listen if I’m being really salty, a deep bitter part of me genuinely wonders if he was that freaked out, or if he overheard Derek beg Stiles not to let Scott play, and Scott ran away from Stiles so he wouldn’t get told no, bc he wanted to play.) and by the time Stiles finds him he’s already dressed for the game. And DEREK WAS RIGHT. Scott DID lose control. He DID shift on the field. At LEAST one human saw him shift, and the coach for the other team knew something was up too. He DID expose them, and he did it further bc Jackson is suspicious now. Now, I’ve reblogged a gifset of it before, the moment when Derek shows up at the lacrosse field and finds Jackson standing in it after Scott’s run off, staring at a glove with a claw hole in it. He is watching his worst nightmare come true. Scott has exposed them and Jackson is going to figure out werewolves, just like Stiles did. He knows right that instant that people are going to die. I’ll reiterate what I said in the tags on that gifset. It’s extremely likely that Derek bit Jackson out of self-preservation. Jackson had been threatening to tell the hunters and the entire world if he didn’t get what he wanted. The safest thing to do was give Jackson the bite so that at least he would be putting himself in danger too if he exposed werewolves. He forced Jackson to have to keep the secret for himself because he knew Jackson wouldn’t do it for anyone else. (And he knew Jackson had some self-preservation, compared to Scott, and wouldn’t want to expose himself.)

Listen, I just. I just get so sad watching Derek sneaking into people’s rooms and standing on the edge of the field and showing up in the locker rooms. He’s trying to help. He’s trying to protect. He wants to be there in case Scott does something stupid (which he does, again and Again) to protect him, even after Scott REFUSED to help him stop a SERIAL KILLER because there wasn’t anything in it for him. Even after Scott fucking blackmails him by leaving him hanging on a grate with wires plugged into his side and his abuser on their way back to hurt him, he still helps him protect Allison (who watched him be tortured and did nothing. [He still has the capacity to acknowledge that it’s not her fault. That she couldn’t save him. He doesn’t blame her for it and he certainly doesn’t want her to die.]) He wants to keep his Betas safe. He stands in the parking lot waiting for them to test Lydia because he doesn’t want them to have to go through with killing her alone (and he only tries to kill her because she DOESN’T pass the test [although I admit it’s a dumb test] and because the kanima is KILLING people. More people have died and I don’t know how the fuck Derek manages to keep standing, let alone having such capacity for empathy and optimism and sarcasm after everything he’s dealt with. He’s constantly being hunted by hunters or humans, or fuck even Scott himself, since every time Scott gets upset he blames Derek for everything (I’m still fucking disgusted that he turned up at Derek’s place and accused him of murdering his own sister.) And STILL he shows up. No matter how many times he’s shoved away and ignored and yelled at. He shows up and he stands on the fringes and he waits for the chance to help.

And what’s creepy about that?

#personal #rant #Fuck i love Derek and I'm so fucking sad #i have a lot of feelings okay? #like I said #i'm not judging people who use the concept in fics or who make the jokes or whatever #i'm just talking about my own feelings #anti-scott mccall #Meta Ramblings

[aj-the-cat]

Lawless

~ Chapter 2 ~ Masterlist

Word Count: 1683

Scorpion's Roost

Solidarity, Texas

(Dedicated to all 100+ followers. Enjoy!)

Undertaker left the saloon that afternoon utterly confused. What whas that cowboy doing? He didn't understand humans, ever since he turned immortal he forgot all about being one. All memories left him except one particular one. Why it stayed, he had no idea. It tormented him.

Eventually his walking led to him being inside the comfort of his funeral parlor. His gathered up thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind as he took off his hat and overcoat. A large black cat met him at the door. It was pudgy, and the look on its face resembled one an irritated human could pull. Its face was also very pudgy, and a shrill meow left its mouth to gain the attention of the tall man.

"I just got home, Paul. Settle down please. It's been a long day." Another shrill meow. "Who cares if I've been drinking?! I'm immortal, it's not gonna hurt me. Now leave me be, I want to be alone." A scoff-like noise came from the cat, then he left, his pudgy paws padding on the floorboard. "Ever since he put himself in a cat, he's been more annoying than ever, I swear." Undertaker told himself.

Sighing, Undertaker pulled off his shoes and threw them somewhere. He'll find them in the morning. His socks, belt, vest and shirt flew off somewhere as well, leaving him in just his slacks. His pale skin glowed in the moonlight from a window, as well as the mysterious patterns on his arms. Intricate demonic designs littered his arms like sleeves, stopping at his shoulders. They appeared the night he turned immortal.

Undertaker staggered a little, the whiskey in his body finally taking effect. His head buzzed. He took slow and steady steps to his bedroom, careful not to bump into any precious coffins he made. Blueprints littered the countertops everywhere, with all sorts of designs for coffins.

His staggering journey took him to his wanted destination and he flopped facedown on his bed, inhaling the scent of his own cologne and a hint of cat. 'Paul must've slept here', He thought.

Deciding not to get up, his mind wandered back to the small cowboy at the bar. He didn't understand humans and their frivolous ways. Always rubbing themselves against each other for pleasure just to end up sad and lonely afterword. Letting out a yawn, he turned himself over to stare at the ceiling, eventually falling asleep from the large amount of whiskey in his body.

*~*

Light snores escaped Undertaker's body. He seemed peaceful, until his occasional twitches turned into thrashes. Fire was all he could see. Orange flames swallowing up a house. Screams. All he could do was watch in horror as the house he grew up in was swallowed by bright flames. "Mother! Father! Kane!" His mouth moved on its own. The screams died down, until all you could hear was the crackling of the fire. Undertaker fell to his knees, helpless. He just watched his parents and brother die in a fire caused by his foolish hand.

A scream left the lips on the undead man and he flew up from his bed. Sweat and tears dripped down his body and cheeks as his breathing staggered. Undertaker gripped his head in his hands and slowed his breathing to a normal rate. He hated falling asleep. This nightmare plagued him.

After calming himself for a few minutes, Undertaker slowly got out of his bed and found his scattered clothes one by one. He placed them in a basket and went back to his bedroom. Paul, the cat, sat on his bed. "I don't need to hear anything from you." Undertaker growled out. The cat just shook his head and jumped off the bed, heading to another part of the parlor. Sighing, Undertaker grabbed clothes from his dresser and a towel and headed to the pond behind the parlor.

He stripped his pants and undergarments and padded into the cool water. The cold temperature didn't bother him. There was a bucket with cleaning supplies at the other side of the pond, but Undertaker didn't bother to grab it for right now. He wanted to relax.

*~*

After sitting in the water for a while, Undertaker decided it was time to wash himself so he moved towards the bucket. He quickly dunked his head underwater to get it wet and grabbed the shampoo, but stopped when he heard voices. 'What the fuck? This is my private pond!', he thought.

The voices grew louder and Undertaker panicked and dipped his head underwater until only his eyes and top of his head could be seen. Who needs to breathe anyways?

The cowboy and his partner appeared from the bushes surrounding the pond, followed by two other guys. They were both big and burly, but the darker haired one was just a bit shoter than the bigger blonde.

"Voila. Found it a couple weeks ago while me n' Scott were running from a sheriff. Been our secret pond since." The bigger of the four said. 'Except this is my pond and I made it myself, dick head.', Undertaker narrowed his eyes. The small cowboy scanned the pond and smiled. "Last one in is a rattlesnakes lover!" He shouted and started stripping.

Undertakers eyed widened. 'No, no no no no!' He watched in horror as the four strangers stripped to their undergarments and jumped into his pond. 'And I thought I would have a good day...' He thought. The cowboy started splashing everybody, getting lots of water on the bank and dirtying up the clean water with dirt and debris.

'That fuckin does it.' Undertaker's eyes became black. The rest of his head emerged from the water, and he focused in on the cowboy from yesterday. 'Want to intrude on my life? Fine.' His horns started to sprout, but the cowboy noticed him.

"Hey! Its the man from the bar yesterday! What are you doing in this pond?" The three other men looked to where the cowboy had pointed out. Undertaker quickly averted his eyes back to green and the horn nubs desappeared. He said nothing.

"Shawn, who's that?" The cowboy's original companion asked. The two other men stayed silent. The cowboy- Shawn -chuckled. "Just some hot guy from the bar yesterday. Surprise seeing you here! How'd you find the pond?" Shawn asked. Undertaker narrowed his eyes. "I live in the building right in front of this pond. I own it." He spat.

Shawn's eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion. "But Kev-"

"GET OUT!" Undertaker yelled. His eyes turned back to black and he stood up fully, exposing his muscular torso and marked arms. Shawn blushed.

A growl started in the throat of Undertaker, and the four outlaws panicked and scrambled over one another to try to get out and away from the demonic man in the pond. They grabbed their stuff and jumped the fence, the taller of the four accidentally knocking over Shawn's original companion in the process.

Undertaker sighed in annoyance, and his eyes slowly turned back to normal. His bath was ruined, the pond probably contaminated, and he just exposed himself to the cowboy from the bar. He mentally slapped himself and finished his washing.

*~*

Grabbing his new clothes and towel, he quickly dried himself and put on black slacks, grey dress shirt and black dress vest. He would ditch the tie and overcoat today, he planned to spend the day inside his parlor working on coffins.

He walked up the path to his parlor, making sure Paul's food bowl was filled, as well as the flower garden not trampled or littered with bugs. The daisy's were nice and fragrent, the roses with beautiful colors, snapdragons at attention, and the peonies-

"What the hell happened to my peonies?!" Undertaker exclaimed. Dirt and flowers were scattered. Boot prints led a trail to the other side of the parlor. "Somebody dug up my peonies..."

Paul stalked up and sat his pudgy body beside Undertaker. His shrill meow didn't faze Undertaker, he was too busy mourning the loss of his flowers and plotting ways to kill the flower murderer.

Undertaker kneeled down and palmed at the dug up soil, finding tiny roots from flowers and scattered petals. "I'm gonna kill whoever did this." He growled. Paul meowed and licked one his paws. Undertaker still didn't bat an eye.

Sighing, he stood back up and walked through the back door of his parlor, Paul hot on his heels. Or however fast a fat cat can keep up with a 6'10 zombie.

Inside, Undertaker threw his dirty clothes and towel in a nearby room and walked to the front doors of his parlor. 'I really don't want to open today but I guess I have to.' He thought as he opened the doors, letting mid-morning light flood his front room.

He looked around, and noticed pink on the ground. He looked, and a bad bouqet of pink peonies messily thrown together sat on the ground. The roots were still intact. Grunting, Undertaker bent down and picked up the bouqet. A messy note was attached.

'Sorry for playing in your pond. I hope these make up a good apology. - Shawn'

"I'm gonna fucking kill him." Undertaker growled. He resisted the urge to hold the flowers close, as he was in broad daylight, but he did when he turned to go back in his parlor. "Of all people, why did HE get invloved in two days worth of my life?!" He thought aloud.

Paul padded up to Undertaker and gave another shrill meow. This time, Undertaker noticed him and rolled his eyes. "No, I don't even know him. He just came up to me in the bar yesterday and tried to fraternize with me." Undertaker replied. Paul meowed harshly. "Shut up! Not like you can do anything, you're just a cat." Paul huffed, and swiped at the mans ankles.

Undertaker pulled his leg up just in time and shooed off his pesky human-like cat. Paul ran off, leaving Undertaker with his peonies and murderous thoughts.

#lawless!au #fanfiction #wwe

[pinknerdpanda]

Sunset

Word Count: 2,649

Characters: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Language, feelings of abandonment and hopelessness (but it gets better!!)

SSB Square Filled: “The man on the bridge, who Was he?” (bolded and italicized below)

A/N: This was written for my beautiful Name Twin - @amanda-teaches​ Writer + Reader Challenge (prompt bolded below) and also @captain-rogers-beard​ Flex Your Writing Muscles Challenge (photo prompt in the title graphic is from 6/4). It also fulfills a square on my @star-spangled-bingo​ card. This began as something rather therapeutic for me, and it became a whole lot fuffier than I expected. So...yay?

Beta’d by: @shy-violet-soul​ who always encourages me and showers me with love, and @princessmisery666​ who has helped me with this fic in more ways than I can even describe. Everytime I hit a wall, she was there with help, support, love and ideas and I am so thankful for her. 

It felt wrong.

The sunset was spectacular - fiery hues of crimson and amber evening kissing the brilliant blue of the fading day; ashen shades of violet and lavender the only evidence of their embrace. The last remnants of sunlight danced across the rippling surface of the water, painting the gentle waves in warmth as they lapped against the shoreline.

Salt hung heavy in the air as it whipped loose strands of hair around your face. The taste lingered on your tongue like a lovers’ kiss as you tried in vain to brush the wayward locks from your eyes. 

So wrong.

Soft laughter punctuated every dull crash of the tide upon the sand. You watched the dwindling groups of people hold onto what little remained of their peaceful beach day. Though as the warmth of the day vanished, so did the people.

Being here was supposed to be a homecoming; a celebration of the person you were and the life you’d lived. It should have been a gasp of oxygen after surfacing from a deep dive; sustaining, energizing and life-giving.

Instead, the tranquility of the scene before you only seemed to underscore the pain boiling deep behind your ribs. Even as the sky turned to ink and the stars blinked down at their reflection in the water, the anguish seared your lungs and stole your breath.

It was unsettlingly unexpected. 

A fresh wave of tears prickled the corners of your eyes and you clenched them shut in an attempt to keep them at bay. It might have worked, if you hadn't been immediately met with the vision of him behind your eyelids.

It wasn't his fault. Not really. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell. Seeing him today - even from a distance - was like pouring salt on a wound. The elation on his face as he'd grinned up at the little girl perched on his shoulders felt like a dagger straight to the chest. 

The soft sound of bare feet on sand caught your attention. You sniffed, shifting to pull your knees up to your chest as the footsteps stopped beside you. 

"You want some company?"

The gruff voice was soft and despite wanting to hate your new companion for lacing his words with such obvious pity, you couldn't. Your pain had been dealt by hands less sure than his, so you shrugged instead. There was something warm and comforting in his presence and your soul cried out for more. The feeling multiplied exponentially as he dropped to the ground beside you, his knee grazing your thigh as he folded his legs underneath him. 

"'S'pretty here."

You nodded once, weakly. Even a broken heart couldn't make you think otherwise. Once upon a time this spot had been your own, personal oasis. Well, as much of one as a public beach could provide. But you didn't need much. Life had been simple, then. Now? Now, 'simple' sounded like a fairytale. Another on a long list of things you dreamt about, but didn't dare hope for.

“The man on the bridge,” Bucky began, his voice gentle. “Who was he?”

Brass tacks. It was one of the things you admired most about him; his ability to cut straight to the heart of the matter without poetry or pretense. It wasn’t a question borne out of irritation or obligation; instead patience and comfort reigned in his words. He could read body language and facial expressions better than 99% of the planet, but you knew even the other 1% could have plainly seen the pain in the heart so cruelly branded onto your sleeve. 

“This was,” you cleared your throat as best you could with your heart taking up space there. “I used to live here. I always wanted to live by the ocean, so when I lost my job due to budget cuts, I decided ‘what the hell?’. Packed up, cashed out my savings and started driving. As soon as I hit the city limits, it felt like home. Had a hell of a time finding a job, but I did eventually. I met him there.”

You sniffed, stretching out your legs and leaning back with your palms in the sand behind you. Without having to look you knew he was watching you; waiting until you were ready to continue. 

“I never believed in love at first sight; still don’t, because that’s not what it was. He was sweet, funny,” you smiled despite yourself. “Kind to a fault. The type of kindness that infuriates you because it makes you realize how selfish you actually are. But he loved me. I don’t know why, but he did. He loved me fiercely; even when I couldn’t return it and sure as hell didn’t deserve it.”

Bucky’s breaths matched the roll of the tide; calm and gentle and unwavering. You felt him shift, his shoulder grazing yours as he matched your position.

“What happened?”

The air between you vibrated with the low timbre of his words. Not that you noticed - not really. Remembering was always the worst part; remembering just how easily you’d been forgotten. 

“The blip.” Your voice was so faint it barely registered in your own ears, but you knew he heard it. You knew from the way he inhaled deeply as he shifted; from the feel of vibranium fingers sliding gracefully across your own.

“I don’t blame him. He couldn’t know we’d all come back. I couldn’t expect him to live out the rest of his days mourning my ashes.”

The tightening in your throat and the tingling at the corners of your eyes cut off any other words you might have said. If the roles had been reversed, you wouldn’t have known what to say to yourself. But true to form, Bucky did. Brass tacks and all.

“Still hurts.” Not a question, because he knew. His words were meant every bit for himself as they were for you. 

A humorless chuckle broke from your lungs and you nodded. 

“It still fuckin’ hurts,” you agreed.

"So that's why you wanted to come here." Not a question, but an acknowledgement.

Biting your lip, you narrowed your gaze at the calm waves. "I guess I just wanted closure. I missed this place. Missed the memories I made here. I knew seeing him was a possibility, but I'd hoped.." you trailed off. 

Bucky hummed in understanding of words you couldn't find. 

You looked at him then, the sliver of moonlight above casting him in a sort of macabre splendor. Chestnut waves rendered a dozen shades of grey and gaze focused on the heavens. Trying to ease some of your burden while still obviously saddled with plenty of his own, he looked peaceful; tranquil in a way that felt contagious.

You sucked in a breath, hoping to provide him the same respite he offered you, willingly or otherwise.

“Coming back from that place - that state of nothingness - was jarring enough. But then having to face the five years worth of reality you left behind? It’s a wonder any of us are still alive today to mourn it.” Shifting again, you crossed your legs and turned to face him, his hand enveloped in both of yours. “But we are. You, me, Sam...all of us. Finding the love of my life had become a husband and father without me; it was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. But I did - face it, I mean. And in some fucked up way, it led me to you.”

Bucky tilted his head toward you, his gaze narrowed and his eyebrow raised.

“You’ve been watching too many Lifetime movies, sweetheart,” he deadpanned, though his eyes sparkled with affection.

You shrugged. “S’true.”

Even if you’d had a second to process the mischief in his expression, you still would have been startled by the quick tug of your hands as Bucky pulled you into him. You squeaked, landing with a muted thud beside him. He caught your hands just as you tried to flick sand at him, and held you close instead. 

“You’re getting sappy, ya know that?” He sighed, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You rose enough to see his face, blinking sweetly down at him.

"I’m sorry, what were you saying?” You purred, in feigned innocence. “I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

Bucky grumbled, his grip on you tightening as he lifted you both off the ground. “You’ve done it now.”

You giggled as you twisted away from the ticklish prodding of his fingers, though it was no use.

“Put me down, you neanderthal.” You shouted in mock protest, trying and failing to wriggle free.

“Oh you don’t have to worry about that, doll,” Bucky crooned seconds before tossing you - rather ungracefully - into the shallow water. 

Scrambling to your feet, you couldn't help the giggle that escaped your lips. You kicked at the water, aiming for Bucky's face, but he anticipated it. Of course he did. He dodged deftly out of the way before grabbing your waist and pulling you both into the waves.

Coughing and sputtering, you shoved half-heartedly at his shoulder as a genuine smile bloomed on your lips. Neither of you seemed bothered by the water that lapped over your still entangled bodies.

"Thank you, Bucky."

"For what?" He scoffed, an incredulous but warm look moulding his features. 

"For this," you waved a hand in the air. "You didn't even ask why I wanted to be here, you just offered to come with me. Never asked for details or tried to pry. You could be off saving the world...again." Bucky rolled his eyes. "But you're here saving me, instead."

Bucky's eyes dipped to your lips as the air began to crackle with unspent energy.

"You say that like it's two different things, doll."

The heat you felt under his careful gaze only intensified as the weight of his words settled on you.

Bucky stood before you could respond, holding his hand out to help you to your feet. He didn't let go as you strolled away from the water, instead he laced vibranium fingers with your flesh ones. Just as you reached the boardwalk that would take you back to the hotel you’d rented, Bucky glanced sideways at you before redirecting his steps. Smiling, you allowed him to lead you further down the beach, unwilling to let go of the bubble of peace you’d found just yet.

“Ya know,” Bucky murmured, his thumb stroking your knuckles gently. “It took a long time for me to reconcile my past with my expectation of the future.” He paused, noticing your questioning look before continuing. “What I mean is, my past is so…” Bucky shook his head and stopped walking. 

You wrapped your free hand around his bicep reassuringly, encouraging him to continue but you waited patiently until he was ready to go on. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “For a long time, I believed my past dictated my future. It’s full of so much pain and regret and things I can never undo. I always figured my future would be more of the same; a kind of comeuppance for everything I’d done.”

“Bucky…”

His lips curled into a half smile as he squeezed your hand gently. “I know. It’s taken a lot of therapy and literal reprogramming, but I know. It wasn’t me. Not really. Even accepting that though, I still always wondered how it would frame my life going forward.”

“Your past is just that, Bucky. It’s in the past,” you cocked your head to one side. “Your future is what you make of it.”

Bucky’s smile grew and he reached out to brush the damp hair from your face. “Yours is too, ya know.”

There he was, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, with as few words as possible. Again.

As your steps resumed, you kept your grip on his arm, snuggling in close as the temperature dipped slightly without the sun to warm the air.

“When I first met you, I had no idea what to make of you,” Bucky chuckled. “Honestly, you were a little intimidating.”

You scoffed. “You were intimidated by me?”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky sighed. “I was so irritated that Sam signed me up to be part of that support group - without telling me, mind you - but then you were there. You were funny, gorgeous and kind. You were so quiet, but there was this fire behind your eyes, and I wanted to know why you kept it locked up.”

The memory of that first meeting made your stomach twist. The plan had been to bide your time in silence so you could at least tell your therapist you’d gone. You’d wanted to be anywhere but there, until he walked in. The whole room had recognized him - if the quiet gasps and whispers were anything to go by - and it had been painfully obvious how uncomfortable that had made him. 

Bucky laughed. “I’ll never forget the way you plopped down in the seat beside me, threw a bottle of water at me and glared at Frank and Donna until they stopped staring.”

“They were being rude.” You shrugged.

“They’re nice.” Bucky countered.

You shrugged again. “They are, but that night they were being rude. Nothing screams ‘Welcome to our blip support group’ like oogling the new guy.”

“Alright, well my point is,” Bucky stopped again, this time turning to face you, his hands gripping your shoulders gently. “I knew from the moment you shot icy death glares at them, that whatever my future held, I wanted you to be a part of it.”

Blinking, you opened and closed your mouth a few times before frowning. 

“Remind me again who’s been watching too many Lifetime movies, Buck?”

“I’m serious,” Bucky chuckled lightly. “But, I get it. The wounds are still fresh, and I don’t expect anything, but I just want you to know that I’m here. And I’ll continue to be - in whatever way you’ll let me - until you send me away. This place?” Bucky waved a hand. “This is your past. But just remember that it doesn’t get to decide your future. You do.”

You bit your lip, allowing his words to envelop you with peace and warmth and - for the first time in a long time - hope.

“I think,” you paused, furrowing your brow, “Sometimes our wounds stay fresh because we keep picking at them. I think I’m ready to leave the past where it belongs.”

Bucky hummed, thumbs rubbing circles against the balls of your shoulder.

“And for the record, Barnes? I don’t plan on sending you away any time soon. So it looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Throwing his head back, Bucky barked a laugh before sliding his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. You felt him press his lips to the top of your head as you snaked your arm around his waist, relishing his warmth.

“Well, lucky for both of us, doll. There’s no place I’d rather be.”

As you continued walking down the beach you’d once considered home, wrapped in the arms of the man who wanted to be your future, it struck you. The beauty of the setting sun had felt wrong because you’d been looking at it through the warped lens of your pain. The resplendence of the day drawing to a close wasn’t a mockery of the life you’d lost, it was a crimson and amber colored reminder that every day draws to a close and there will always be beauty to be found in the ending.

But the hope of the morning - when the sun will begin it’s reign once again, overpowering the darkness with it’s warmth and light - is where the true splendor is found. 

You glanced up at Bucky - the man offering you the same promise of the rising sun, and for the first time in a long time everything felt right.

Like what you see? Want more? My SPN Masterlist is here, and MCU is here. Thanks for reading! :)

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