#other than that its unfurnished on the inside

[pixelglam]

Hamptons Home

A little gift releasing tomorrow, sunday the 10th of september. 🤍

#this was built by me very spontaneously #the exterior is completely finished but the interior only has some furniture in the kitchen and living room #other than that its unfurnished on the inside #ts4 simblr #ts4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 #the sims community #pixelglam #the sims 4 simblr #sims 4 screenshots #ts4 house #ts4 builds #ts4 build #the sims #mybuilds

[sonobeunitsarecool]

Sakurai Haruka: Theory pt. 2

Right, sorry for taking so long, but here's part 2 of the theory that Haruka spend a significant length of time in a psych ward. So the main parts of his MV's that imply this would be from AKAA, namely:

The room is a plain, unfurnished space, with light coming in from bars reminiscent of prison bars. They are high up, for safety. The chair is a simple folding chair, although it's a little too risky for something used on a psych ward (too dangerous, can be used as a weapon). I'd expect seats to be pillows, ottoman-like things, couches, or seating bolted directly into the floor.

A little window on the rooms of patients', it has a little hole on the side so it can be opened. This is used to check on patients at night, to ensure they are well and alive. It is not something seen in most other places, due to privacy.

There are two rectangles. One will be a light switch, and the other will be a panic button, if a patient needs assistance. They are loud. Many other places don't need two visible switches/buttons near the doors.

Here you can see the vent for the door, helps to hear patients and ensures proper air. The doorknob does not appear to be able to lock from the inside. The doorknob is a minor ligature risk, however ease of use and reduction of avaliable ligatures should make it a decent doorknob choice. The floor seen here is made of square tiles. Good for cleaning, however a risk for self-harm. It's shown as rectangular in other parts, but it may just be due to camera angle. All in all (knowing/agony), this can only be a depiction of a psych ward. This is backed up by Haruka's language skill level, as discussed in pt. 1, and what that implies in terms of education. What does this explain? Why would Haruka's time spent on a psych ward be shown, in a video depicting his mindscape regarding his crime? Does this fact put any other details into context? What can be inferred? Well, to start, were Haruka on a psych ward, it would explain his clothes. For the most part. In Weakness, the "current/teen" version of Haruka is in a plain, white outfit.

He wears shoes that aren't complex in design, and probably don't allow him any advantage in a fight. The clothes are white, good for washing and easy identification of patients, and don't provide any extra ligature opportunities. Now, there's a high chance that these are actually Haruka's clothes, not ones provided by the ward, because of something else later.

In AKAA, his shoes are different, but still white, harmless, and likely provided by the facility. Oddly enough, his socks are mismatched. He also wears his patchwork outfit, a combination of personal clothes and more formal/provided clothes. This is in line with some of his int. answers, such as: "How do you decide what clothes to wear for the day" - "I wear what's there" (because he doesn't have a lot of choice, plus spending a long time away from home would mean that he doesn't need many personal clothes to wear outside of the ward) "What do you think of the prison outfits?" - "They're kind of relaxing" (he's more used to the prison outfits than "normal" outfits, so it provides him with a sense of familiarity and comfort) Something that is not consistent with this theory would be his necklace! Except. If you look carefully, the only times we see him wearing his necklace in the MVs would be when he is unlikely to be on the unit at that moment. He doesn't wear it for most of AKAA, for example. But, he's still attached to it. Which makes me wonder as to where in his personal timeline did he come into possession of his mother's necklace? Because he cannot have worn it on the ward. It's an obvious ligature risk. But he's wearing it here:

Implying that he wore it during his murder of his victim. This is what makes me think that these are Haruka's clothes, because the ward would probably want its clothes returned to it upon discharge. (VERY low chance of killing someone while on the ward, and his victim was killed outside, judging by the little green patch in the background of the end shot of AKAA) Okay. That's a lot of reading into clothing. I think I'll cut it off here, and make a part 3. Didn't mean for it to get this long... Next time, I'll want to talk about how his time on the ward has impacted his behaviour, putting a lot of Haruka's actions into context that may not be immediately obvious for some viewers. It'll mostly be me going over a bunch of tiny details. Should I post about other things? I've been wondering about doing translyrics for Backdraft, a summary of how each character refers to everyone (honorifics, how they refer to self, how this changes), and a post on why Milgram makes no sense (or why it's not an actual prison), linking the info in this post to the Milgram facility. Should I do any of these? (And are there any other cipher texts I've missed, because for some reason I've become very interested in them. It's a whole other alphabet! I wonder if any of the merch has cipher text...? As an easter egg.)

#milgram #milgram theory #haruka sakurai #sakurai haruka

[msbarrows]

A few shots of my White Nights base, which is still very much a WIP. Combining two previous base ideas I had on this and my previous save; a base with a bridge joining two heights, and a building that was made to look like a stone tower ruin that’s had a more modern addition made with wood.

I’ve set up the lower of the two mesa tops to be storage, utilities, and starship parking. The bridge has a utility room built into its underside, which is where the batteries and wiring-hider live, and there’s both stairs and a short range teleporter leading down from the bridge to ground level.

There’s also a pairs of rooms built into the downhill end of the starship landing pad, which is currently unfurnished until I decide what purpose it’s meant to serve.

The “ruin” includes a couple of floors built of stone and a tower rising from them, with a projecting bit off the back, including a slant-roofed area where the teleport ring lives. I might partially tear out and rebuild some it though, so it’s only two tiles in width rather than three, as I don’t really have much use for the floors inside the stone portion. As they currently are, the lowest usable floor is more space than I need, and the next floor up is largely unusable since it’s a fairly narrow U-shaped space wrapping around the flight of stairs that’s inside the tower. Also I’m not really liking the gap between the bridge and the tower, so I’m thinking linking them with a plaza area might be nice (probably at the height of the yellow stone foundation, since I don’t like the look of it either).

I have been enjoying decorating the interior of the wooden addition, and will likely leave that largely as-is, except for rearranging the bedroom to have a double bed instead of a single, and a bit more furniture (only have about half of the bedroom decorated yet).

The kitchen has a counter, cooking area, and food storage at the end closest to the front, while the glassed-in back portion has a table, chairs, and other decor.

On the other side of the building, adjacent to the bedroom, is the living area, which has comfortable furniture and a bunch more decor.

There’s a still-undecorated area adjacent to the kitchen (the mirror side from the bedroom) that I’ll likely do as a home office or a gaming room, though currently a chunk of it is being eaten up by a stairwell down into the stone floors. Right now the only things within them is the base computer, some lighting, and a save point.

Lots of fun in building this so far; I’m also greatly enjoying that this planet has no weather, nor predators, and that this point on it never gets dark.

#No Man's Sky #Yet more building of bases #White Nights Base

[der-karibisch-heyder]

Caribbean Currency 2

Continuing from the last post I made.

(Pictured: Florentine Guilder from 1341)

So I did a bit more reading around, mostly in the interest of grasping living wages and cost of living in the 17th and 18th centuries. In doing so I came across more in depth information about Dutch currency beyond the Lion Dollar, namely the Guilder.

Guilder, which is the English term for Gulden, which is German and Dutch for just “golden”, an informal term for “gold penny”. It is largely considered interchangeable with the Florin, as the currency was widely used all across the reach of the Holy Roman Empire. Anyway.

A Guilder was essentially worth half a Lion Dollar. Recall earlier, a Lion Dollar is worth between 4 and 5 Shillings in English currency. It takes 20 shillings to make a pound, thus 4 to 5 Lion Dollars to make a pound. Hence, it takes about 10 guilders to make a pound, so a Guilder is roughly equal to 1/10th the value of the pound or English Guinea. This is all noteworthy because the Guilder was the long accepted go-to currency for foreign reserves, likely due to its equal value and standing with the Florin and its widespread use across central Europe.

In reading on all this, I too found the values of ships were often rated in tonnage. Specifically about 20 pounds to the ton. Using some ships in Devil’s Eye for a quick reference...

La Demonia Roja, a massive Manilla Galleon, weighs in at 1000 tons of storage, giving it a massive value of 20,000 pounds.

The Barracuda, a simple schooner, weighs in at a mere 100 tons, giving it the value of 2000 pounds.

The Barracuda’s long standing rival and competitor from their piracy days, the Dutch vessel Diantha, being a converted Fluyt (a ship with a unique design meant to maximize tonnage without taking up too much area), weighs in with 400 tons for a value of 8000 pounds.

The HMS Cavalier, a 6th Rate warship oared frigate captained by an old former friend of Ravyn Hurley’s father, Post-Captain Jack Davenport, weighs in at 300 tons for a value of 6000 pounds.

For comparison’s sake, the annual wage of the First Lord of the Treasury of England was 4000 pounds. It’s a little sad that Ravyn’s pride of a ship is worth less than that, but such is life. Middle class wages were expected to be anywhere between 40 and 75 pounds a year, which is about what would be expected for a merchant trader who owned a ship. Given the costs of a ship and hiring a crew to captain and sail the ship, the loans must be outrageous. Despite that, a ship was a long term investment that often paid for itself several dozen times over several decades of use, which is why piracy for stealing such vessels was a lucrative business to begin with.

Other notable wages and fees of the 17th and 18th centuries include:

Coach rides were 5 pence per mile if you rode inside the coach, and 2 pence per mile if you rode on the outside.

River ferrying was about 3 pence per mile.

A cheap shared bed at an inn would cost you 2 pence a night - but an unfurnished room for rent would only cost 1 shilling a week, so it was actually cheaper to pay by week if you were staying over long term. (Things like this are again, why Ravyn needs Robert around to manage the crew’s finances!)

Servants only made between 2 and 5 pounds a year in earnings, but their estate would pay for their clothing, food, and board, which were the most common and costly expenses of living at the time. A more experienced housemaid could make up to 8 pounds a year, and an exceptional housekeeper could make up to 15 pounds a year.

Lastly, it was generally assumed anyone making 500 pounds or more a year were considered wealthy to some degree or another. I don’t know how far up one must go the wealth ladder to be considered nobility or aristocracy, though.

As for the money the Heyder family pulls in, I’m still working that out. I’m imagining Robert having a fairly large amount of disposable income, but not enough to where he can just liberally throw money at any and every problem he comes across. Otherwise it would start begging some questions. I’ll get back to that later.

#OOC #real history #given the Heyder family's closeness with the Hawthornes #and the fact both of Robert's sons work jobs #it wouldn't make sense for the family to be fabulously wealthy #but they are more comfortable than most #again im still working on it

[rent-property-in-uae]

Want to hire an rental in Dubai? What you want to know

Moving to a new place entails getting to know a lot of new matters and dealing with more than a few difficulties related to settling in and minimizing emotions of separation. A few elements contribute to a shortly feeling of domestic in a new area, the giant of which is being satisfied in your new surroundings. When human beings migrate or commence residing independently, they pick to hire alternatively than purchase a home. So, if you’re searching for a condominium for lease in Dubai and want anyone to factor you in the right direction, you’ve come to the proper spot.

This article will instruct you all you want to comprehend about renting a Dubai property, from choosing a vicinity to signing the contract.

To make an excellent selection about your rent, set up a listing of your criteria, such as how long you choose to commit to a contract and the kind of property you want, the location, the budget, and different elements that we’ll go over one via one.

RELATED: - Studio for rent in abu dhabi

Renting a long-term or nonpermanent rental in Dubai

To begin, you have to decide whether or not you prefer a long-term or momentary rental. Some humans choose to attempt residing in an area for a whilst and see how it impacts their lives earlier than making a long-term dedication based totally on cautious consideration. Others may also be tempted by the chance to have a domestic that offers all the necessities, such as utilities and bills, taking care of them having to fear anything, so they decide on temporary flats for hire over long-term apartments. Renting residences in Dubai is feasible on a month-to-month or annual basis, depending on your needs. Your Place Real Estate has a resolution of momentary rentals available, showing homes in a range of places and pricing stages that you may also test from Your Place.

Type of property

Is it a villa, a studio, or a rental for lease in Dubai that you’re searching for? Then think about the measurement or wide variety of rooms required to accommodate your lifestyle. Living in a residence with sufficient room for every household member to have their non-public place is integral for an excessive trend of dwelling and has a large impact on happiness, consequently, it must be cautiously examined.

Area

You ought to select a location, taking into account several variables that may additionally be necessary to exceptional human beings relying on their existence and preferences. You can choose to pick out a website close to your personnel to keep away from the problem of being on the street for a quick length every day. If you have an auto or assume to get one soon, you may want to pick a dwelling in a quiet location with a greater home feel. Sometimes men and women pick family-friendly areas that grant wonderful academic institutes for teens in addition to robust connection and public transit availability, so there is no proper or incorrect here; it is sincerely a depend of preferences.

Budget

This might also be viewed as one of the most massive components when deciding on the domestic you will lease in Dubai because it influences the decision of all different features. Our advisors can make this technique simpler for you using thinking about all of your standards when recommending options that take a look at all of the containers on your list whilst staying inside your budget.

Whether furnished or unfurnished

This will additionally be decided via your circumstances, such as the size of time you favor to remain in the city, the steadiness of your job and its location, and different factors. If you’re going to be transferred in a hurry, it’s less complicated now not to have a lot of objects to carry with you; in that case, a furnished condo for lease in Dubai is a higher option.

RELATED: 2 bedroom apartment for rent in dubai

After you’ve determined all of these factors, you’ll have a clear idea of what you want to seem for, so you can discover the picks on hand on Dubai property websites like Your Place Real Estate, which function as flats for hire in Dubai and nominate the devices that meet your necessities to pick out from. You may also use the filters to simplify your search and see choices that are the same as your search. You can also subsequently go via the photos of the rental for lease in Dubai and examine the description to see how you like the unit and the amenities it has to offer.

At this stage, you’d have narrowed down your choices to two or three residences that you’d prefer to see in person. Don’t be overwhelmed by way of the range of options; instead, strive to restrict it down to two or three residences to tour and make your choice afterward. If you didn’t discover the choice you have been searching for, you may also go lower back and appear for more.

All you have to do now is name the neighborhood specialist who marketed the Dubai domestic to agenda a showing. It is usually really helpful to go to the property earlier than signing the contract on account that this lets you see the proper circumstance of the home. You may additionally see for yourself what would possibly no longer be obvious in a photograph, such as if a portrait is new or if the area desires to repaint. Lighting, electricity, air conditioner condition, plumbing, and fittings are additionally visible.

Tags: Apartments for sale in dubai downtown - villas for sale in dubai - Buy villa in dubai - Freehold villas for sale in dubai

#Apartments for sale in dubai downtown #villas for sale #Buy villa #real estate #investing #money #buy property #100 days of productivity #omg #notebooks #nostalgia #notes #novel

[gulfclassifieds]

Jobs in Dubai for Expats

Dubai, the second one largest country in the UAE, is a international financial hub. Several human beings choice to have jobs in Dubai for reasons like true incomes, tax-free profits, high priced lifestyle, breathtaking surroundings and true paintings subculture. Dubai is exceptionally liberal and revolutionary country. Expats are even allowed to personal a belongings in Dubai that's in any other case no longer permitted in different Middle East countries.

Types of task sectors in Dubai

Unlike other international locations inside the Middle East, oil isn't always the number one industry in Dubai. The most promising jobs in Dubai for expats are in developing sectors like oil and gasoline, structures, tourism and financial services and associated industries.

Salary & other blessings

Expats love Dubai as a work destination for its high salaries and tax loose earnings. In reality, Dubai offers one in every of better salaries than other states in UAE. A supply chain supervisor in gas, oil and engineering industry or a technical standard supervisor can expect to earn AED 75,000 according to month; a senior production director can get AED 80,000 in step with month. However, beginning salaries for engineers, managers can be 12K-15K AED in step with month. Moreover, salaries depend upon the revel in, qualification and nationality. High paying jobs come with all types of perks like accommodation, automobile, cellular phones, one price tag in line with 12 months, and so on.

Cost of living

Although Dubai is a super vicinity to work and stay because of hefty salaries and grandiose lifestyle, one must take into account that price of living there may be high. For lodging, you can get a provided bedroom residence in a great place at AED 9,000 month-to-month rent or and unfurnished two bed room residence at AED 7,000 and a room in a shared condominium can cost around AED 2,000.

For delivery, if you may have the funds for, purchase a car as petrol and maintenance is Gulf news jobs cheap right here. Also, you may rent a vehicle at a month-to-month hire like a small hatchback car may be hired at 1,500 AED. A taxi can cost you AED 2/km and metropolis center bus fares approximately AED 2.

Education for expats

Since expats aren't authorized to attend public schools run by using kingdom government in Dubai, they need to admit their wards in private and global schools. However, charge and lessons costs are very high. It can be around AED ninety,000 yearly for attending any of the global schools in Dubai.

Social existence Entertainment and nightlife

Dubai gives several alternatives in relation to entertainment and nightlife. However, to conquer the heavy warmness in Dubai, maximum enjoyment is positioned air-conditioned indoor environment. Social surroundings is flourishing and social calendar of an expat is nearly full for the complete month with several such things as tune fairs, international elegance restaurants and motel bars. There are some nightclubs additionally. A lot of travelers visit Dubai for its natural appeal and a laugh filled sports that supply them an opportunity to relax and rejuvenate completely.

[writingtoforgetreality]

You’re A Winchester? - Part Two (Castiel x Winchester!Reader)

[Supernatural-Masterlist]

Part One

Summary: The case in Wisconsin got complicated. In more ways than one. Cas was not sure what happened to you but you were acting different. He had to find out why. He had to know if he did something wrong.

Words: 4,053

Warnings: language, kidnapping, angst, little bit of fluff?, Sam has the brains, angels are dicks, I feel like this could actually become a miniseries?, Do you want me to continue? I’m not sure…, (Y/E/C) = your eye color

If you like my work & wanna support me: a coffee would be highly appreciated ❤

The drive to Wisconsin was slow & exhausting. Throughout the long hours, you did some more research on the case. It looked like an easy one, actually. Almost too easy for your liking. But who were you to bad talk an easy hunt? After all, you were still somewhat new to this business. Though, nobody would realize that. If they did not know, they would believe you had been hunting for your entire life.

“We’re almost there.” Cas broke the silence that had been accompanying the two of you for a while. A look out of the window & you could make out the small town you were rolling in. Almost immediately, a strange feeling washed over you. By the way Cas’ body tensed up, you knew he had a similar impression of this place.

“Cas?” you questioned. No way would this turn out to be an easy case.

“Yes, I know.” he soothed your thoughts a little. Something was off & neither you nor Cas could tell what it was. Not yet, at least. The ’78 Lincoln Continental Mark V came to a halt in the parking lot of an old-fashioned motel. Same old, same old. Back in your universe, you had never had enough money to afford an actual hotel so usually, the cheap version had to do. So, not that much had changed.

The two of you checked into a room, not bothering to get one with two beds since Castiel did not sleep anyway. The motel literally looked like every single other one across the country. Same uncomfortable bed, same ugly wallpaper, same ancient furniture. Moments like this, you missed the bunker an awful lot. Deciding to give your brothers a call, you dialed Sam’s number.

“(Y/N), hey! You already there?” Sam’s voice came through the speaker.

“Yep, it took forever.” sighing out tiredly, you plopped down onto the mattress. “I gotta say, though…something seems a little off.”

“As in…?” he inquired curiously.

“We don’t know yet.” your head was put into your hand. The traveling tired you out & you craved a few hours of rest.

“Okay. And besides that? Everything alright? It’s not…weird, is it?” it almost sounded like he was uncomfortable while asking this question.

“Should it be weird?” your eyebrows furrowed at his use of words.

“I don’t know, you tell me.” you could hear the smirk in his tone. That was when the realization kicked in.

“You’re talking about me being alone with Cas?” looking around, you were glad that the angel was still outside, grabbing your luggage.

“I might be.” Sam mumbled, then his voice got louder again. “Look, all I’m saying is take care & uh, use protection.”

“Oh my God, Sam.” shaking your head frantically, there was another sigh from you. “I’ll call when we’re done here. You’re a horrible brother, by the way.” your body was on fire. Embarrassed that now, even Sam called you out on your crush.

“I love you, too. Bye, (Y/N).” the call ended & you fell back onto the mattress. A second later, the door opened & Cas walked in. At least he missed that talk with Sam. Otherwise it would be painfully awkward between you guys.

In the morning, Cas & you went to investigate a family. They were close to the person that had been mysteriously killed & you hoped to receive a bit more background information from them. The couple seemed nice. Wealthy husband being incredibly happy with his beautiful wife. An apple pie life. Like the one Dean wanted Cas & you to have. Obviously, that would never be the case. Not when you were part of this business. Not when you were a hunter. When they offered, you thanked them for the coffee they brought you. Something that Cas could drink as well. The talk was not necessarily helpful. Nothing you had not already found out yourselves. Still, you acted politely towards them. After all, they had been very hospitable. Before leaving the house, you asked if you could use their bathroom. The man showed you the way. This family was not connected to your case, not in a way that helped you anyway. Which meant that you had to do more research. Yay. Finishing in the bathroom, you were confused when the door did not open. Like it was stuck. Rattling on the door knob a few times, you used your other hand to knock on the door. You had to bring their attention to you. But it seemed like nobody heard you. The bathroom was not that far away from the living room area so it did not make sense to you that they did not hear you in there. The lock clicked & you sighed out in content when the man who had lead you here helped you out a second time today. Your warm, thankful smile faltered when something hard hit your head. Darkness met your body after that.

Heavy eyelids opened slowly. The light blinded you & out of instinct, you squinted to avoid it. After a few more seconds, you adjusted to the light. Looking around, you found yourself inside an unfurnished room. The chair you sat on the only piece. But wait. Your wrists were tied to the armrests. Your legs strapped as well. Tightly. Painfully tight. No matter your efforts, it did not move an inch. How did you get here? Where was Cas? Looked like your assumptions about this family were wrong. Because kidnapping was not part of your plan. And you being trapped here changed your entire view of this case drastically. That strange feeling you had in this town was not for nothing. But who were you up against? No vengeful spirts, no demons, no witches. What else could it be?

“Would you look at that, the princess is awake.” the same man from earlier entered the room, a creepy smile adorning his features. It made you gulp. Your heart quickened its pace. You were skilled when it came to fighting but right now, there was not a lot of room left to move around. Which left you vulnerable.

“Aw, honey. You scared her. Can’t you see the fear in her eyes?” his wife followed, that sweet voice of hers erupting the room.

“(Y/N)…Can I call you (Y/N)?” the only response he got was a deathly glare from you. One, that made him chuckle enthusiastically. “The newest addition to the Winchesters. Leaving her universe behind to go live with her brothers.” he recapped the last months for you as if you had forgotten already. “You shouldn’t even be here.” remarking with sympathetic eyes, he walked closer to you. Kneeling down so you were on one level.

“You see…we wouldn’t care much for you. Another Winchester do deal with? Okay, fine. But there’s one thing we cannot accept.” the woman spoke up again.

“And what would that be?” sarcastically asking, looking between the pair in front of you.

“We can’t have you close to Castiel.” the kneeling man finished. Your expression turned into one of confusion. “Don’t play innocent here, sweetheart. We’re not that stupid.”

“You’re angels.” you concluded after piecing everything together. “That case in Wisconsin. It was a trap so you guys could get to me.”

“100 points for our contestant.” the woman fake cheered.

“You know, there would’ve been easier ways to catch me.”

“True but where would the fun be in that? Besides, we couldn’t have you close to those brothers of yours. Too protective over you for my liking.”

“Okay, Mister. But you do realize that Cas is here somewhere & he’ll try everyth-“

“Ah, I’ll stop you right there.” his finger lifted to shut you up. “You cannot reach him here. It’s…how do I say it? Castiel safe.”

“What do you want from me then? You wanna kill me?” though it was hard, you tried to hide how scared you truly were right now.

“I know you’re smarter than that, (Y/N). If we wanted you dead, we would’ve killed you already. Castiel would be after us if we did. We simply wanted to warn you. Stay close to him & you’ll regret it.” his threat was intimidating.

“How do you define close?” it was a legitimate question.

“You know what we mean…This room will be Castiel safe for a bit longer. After that, you can pray to him & he’ll hear you. If I were you, I’d think of a good excuse in the meantime. Don’t forget…one wrong move & we’ll be back. Goodbye, (Y/N).” & with that, the two of them left you alone. They did not tell you when it was possible to send out a prayer. They did not tell you where you were exactly. All you knew was that they were serious. And you should not mess with them. When Dean had told you that angels were dicks, you did not think that was what he was warning you about. Their condition was simple. You should stay away from Cas or you would regret it. And you assumed that these angels were a lot stronger than you could handle. You did not want to die & neither did you want to risk Cas’ well-being. Immediately, you started prayer after prayer. He had to hear it sooner or later. All you could do now was try.

It felt like days passed. Hundreds, thousands of prayers later & still no sight of Cas. Maybe that was your end. All those years of unsuccessful searching for your family only for you to end up in another universe. Reunited with your brothers. And that was how you would go? Not what you imagined your life to be if you were completely honest. You were close to passing out. No food, no water, nothing. Your body was weak. You were weak. By now, every last ounce of hope had vanished.

“(Y/N)?” the last thing you saw before falling unconscious was Cas running to you.

Castiel had finally heard you. Begging for him to help you. To rescue you. No time was wasted. He found you soon after, shocked by the state you were in. Three days ago, he left you out of his sight. He had not stopped looking for you but it seemed useless. Until a small, broken voice appeared inside his head. Yours. Desperate words reached him. He knew he had to act fast. How he had lost you? No idea. Everything went so fast. Before he knew it, you were gone. Of course this family hid more than they let on. The second he found you, a weight got lifted off of his shoulders. No way could he bear losing you so shortly after you got closer. Immediately, he went to heal you. No bad wounds were adorning your body. Just your weakness was present. Yet, you could not stay awake any longer. Cas did not know how long you had been in there but from your exhaustion, he assumed just as long as he had searched for you. Freeing you of the ropes that were holding you to the chair, he picked you up bridal style. Teleporting to your motel room where he laid you on the bed gently. Looked like you were not planning on waking up anytime soon. So Cas packed all of your stuff & got his car ready. He no longer cared about this case. All he cared about was you being safe. And the bunker was the best safety you could get. He could deal with this hunt later.

Sam & Dean had no idea about your state, they thought the two of you were still in Wisconsin. Wrong. And they started worrying like crazy the moment Cas entered the bunker with you in his arms, unconscious. Question after question was thrown at Castiel who seemed to ignore his surroundings entirely. He just wanted to get you to your bed. The entire drive was spent asleep & he knew you would be like that for a while.

Sore. Your body felt sore. Like you had not moved in ages. Like the smallest movement took too much strength. Strength you could not muster right now. A familiar smell filled your nostrils. The sheets welcoming you. These were no motel sheets. No. You were home. How did you make it back? You definitely were not in Wisconsin anymore. Wait a second. There were no angels to hold you hostage anymore. Had Cas heard your prayers? Seemed like it. You could yell for him, for your brothers, but no words came out as soon as you opened your mouth. The hours of sleep you got did not change the fact that you were incredibly tired. Exhausted. Groaning, you stood up from the comfort of your bed. If nobody was here with you right now, then you had to take matters into your own hands. A glass of water. Something. You needed something. Your body made this task unnecessarily hard, though. One step after the other. Small, slow steps & you would reach the kitchen not long after. You got this.

Your walk to the kitchen was cut short when Sam saw you walking unsteadily. Running over to you, he picked you up a second later & brought you to the main area in the bunker.

“(Y/N). Why didn’t you yell for us?” the concern was audible.

“My voice.” creaking out, Sam’s eyes widened in realization. He left only to return a second later with a glass of water in hand. Gladly, you took it from him & enjoyed the cold liquid soothing your throat. Downing the glass, you handed it back to him. In this moment, Dean & Cas entered the room. Noticing you were awake, the two of them jogged over to you.

“(Y/N)? Are you alright?” Cas cupped your cheeks, caressing your soft skin with his thumbs. How you wanted to enjoy this moment. How you wanted it to never end. But your conversation with those angels came into your mind again. You leaned back, out of Cas’ reach. Eyes training down, you hoped nobody would question you.

“Um, yeah…I’m okay now. Just a little sore.” three pairs of eyes bore into you. They knew something was off. Dean was the first one to speak up.

“What happened?” sighing loudly at his question, you knew you had to improvise now.

“I didn’t do enough research. The case wasn’t as easy as we first thought it to be. The couple Cas & I were investigating? Witches. It was my fault they caught me, really. I should’ve been more careful.” after finishing, you risked a look at the three men in front of you. Did not look like they bought your little lie.

“There were no hints of witches there. We would’ve noticed.” Cas argued & you rolled your eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you the one they kidnapped?” snapping at him, your voice was sharp. It was not your intention to sound so rude but everything overwhelmed you. Jumping up a second later, you ran back to your room, leaving them behind dumbfounded.

A soft knock was on your door. Maybe if you kept quiet they would leave you alone. Today was not your lucky day, apparently. Dean opened the door slowly, peaking his head inside to make sure you were not sleeping.

“What do you want, Dean?” you sat on your bed, back pressed against the headboard.

“Something’s wrong.” he noted, approaching you.

“I guess being kidnapped does that to you.”

“Cut the crap, (Y/N).” his voice raised slightly, immediately shutting you down. Your head hung low. “What’s wrong?” now, much softer, he took a seat on the edge of your bed.

“Nothing, Dean.” sighing out, your head was thrown back, eyes closed in frustration.

“I think I know you well enough to notice when you’re lying.” & he was right. There was not a lot of things you could keep from him. Sam did not always tell when you lied to him but Dean could see right through you. “So, let’s do this again…What’s wrong?” his sincere eyes locked onto yours & that was when you knew you could not keep this from him. Not all of it.

“Cas kissed me.” Dean’s eyes widened at your statement. It took you two long enough. But when he saw your features change, he could tell that something about this was bothering you.

“But?” his question followed up.

“But it didn’t do anything with me.” your own words broke your heart but you could not risk it. Could not risk Cas’ safety. “The witches I could handle. Well…you know what I mean. They didn’t hurt me, just trapped me.” fiddling with your hands in your lap.

“What are you trying to say? You don’t like Cas?” Dean was confused. More than once had you let on that you liked the angel & when he talked to Cas about all of this, then he found out that he liked you, too.

“No. I do. Just not how I thought I would.” quieting down, you were done with the conversation for now. “I’m tired, Dean. I’ll join you guys later today, alright?” Dean nodded, stood up & left your room without another word. Though, his mind was running. Something about this entire situation felt wrong. Right now, he could not tell why. But he was sure he would find out sooner or later.

“Cas, man. What the hell did you do?” Dean was livid. For months, you had had eyes for the angel. And now, you told him he kissed you & you did not feel anything? What was going on?

“What?” Castiel was confused. Confused by Dean’s angry tone & by his accusation. Did he do something?

“You & (Y/N).” he pointed out.

“What about us?”

“Seriously? So I have to watch you guys dancing around your feelings for months only for her to tell me that when you kissed her it didn’t do anything with her?” his eyebrows raised, clearly waiting for an explanation. Cas, on the other hand, did not understand a single thing.

“She said that?” the angel’s voice was barely above a whisper. You kissed him back. Before you drove to Wisconsin, it was you who kissed him the second time.

“Yes. So you owe me an explanation before I kick your ass.” there it was. Dean’s protective side. He did not think, when you first came into their universe, that he would care for you on such a deep level. But here he was. And he could tell that Cas broke something in you.

“Dean, nothing happened. I kissed her, yes. But she kissed me, too. I thought we were fine until she woke up & didn’t want me to touch her.” it did not make sense to him. Was all of it a lie? Were you just playing around? He did not think you to be that kind of person. Whatever he did, he had to make it right before it was too late.

Later that day, you risked leaving your room once again. Hopefully, you would not come across anyone. You still had to greet Jack but that could wait. For now, you just wanted a little something to eat. It had been a while since you had your last meal & your stomach was rumbling with protest. Cas’ silhouette was in front of you. Shit, you really were not in the mood to interact with him. Yes, it hurt to know that whatever the two of you started the other day could never be. Before you could turn around & leave again, Castiel faced you. The hurt in his face was present & the guilt set in. He was like that because of you. You were the reason for his pain. And this thought itself hurt you more than anything. His feet dragged him over to you. A little step back from you made him stop. Apparently, you did not want to have him close.

“(Y/N)?” his tone brought tears to your eyes. But you would not let them fall. You could not. “Talk to me, please.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” you were being cold towards him which was uncommon. It was not in your nature to act like that. You were the sweetest soul Cas had ever met. Whoever was standing in front of him right now was not you.

“What did I do?” his concerned eyes locked onto your (Y/E/C) ones.

“You didn’t do anything, Cas. Believe me, please.” your plea was almost inaudible. No longer could you bare looking at him. You would break down in tears.

“Something changed you when you were trapped.”

“Cas, can we not do this right now?” closing your eyes briefly, you let out a sigh to calm yourself down. Leaving him no time for a response, you left the room again. Still no food inside of you. But you lost your appetite anyway.

The next morning, when you made your way back to the kitchen area again, you were glad when you were only met with Sam. His warm smile was welcoming. Something that let you feel at ease.

“Good morning. Coffee?” he offered you a cup & you gladly accepted. “I made pancakes. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” chuckling when your stomach grumbled. Sam handed you a plate & you sat down, quietly munching on your breakfast. At least he did not ask you about the case.

“What do they hold against you?” Sam asked after a few moments of silence.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I did my own research on your case. No witches whatsoever. Though, it was a good excuse, I gotta admit.” your eyes widened. Shit, if he found out what went down then he sure as hell would tell everyone. “Everything leads to angels. They didn’t hurt you. But they told you something. So…what are they holding against you?”

“Sam.” you sighed loudly. “You have to keep it a secret. Please.” staring at the tall man sitting opposite of you, you saw a sympathetic smile on his face.

“(Y/N)…”

“Okay, you wanna know what happened? Those angels threatened me. Said if I stay this close to Cas, I’d regret it. That they’d come after me or Cas. No way in hell will I let this happen.” due to your rambling, you did not notice Cas entering the room. Only when Sam coughed did you look around. What was it with him overhearing conversations?

“(Y/N).” like the night before, Cas approached you carefully. This time, you did not move away from him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m scared.” you admitted quietly. While you were a great hunter, you were not sure if you could handle fighting against angels.

“Sam & Dean are your brothers. Jack is the strongest being I’ve ever met & you’ve got me.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t there, Cas. We really shouldn’t mess with them.”

“And you thought it was a good idea to ignore Cas?” Sam chimed in. Right, you had almost forgotten that he was still there. Casting your eyes down in embarrassment, you suddenly felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. It was Cas.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, (Y/N). I promise.” he put a soft kiss on top of your head. You knew that. Castiel would do anything to keep you safe. But those angels scared you so much. You could not live with it if you were the reason of Cas getting hurt. Or worse. Looking up again, you noticed that Sam had left the room during your little interaction. Cas’ hands cupped your cheeks. Barely. Scared that you would not want to be touched by him. You did not move, though. No, you leaned into his touch. Closing your eyes to fully enjoy this intimate moment with him. His lips pressed against yours. Softly, as if your were fragile. When the two of you moved in sync, every little ounce of uncertainty washed away. You knew you could not stay away from him. But at the same time, you knew they would come after you now. This kiss would change everything. Whatever was awaiting you, it could not be good. But maybe, just maybe, if you went ahead & dealt with this together, nobody would get hurt.

~to be continued? (idk just yet)~

Published (03/31/2021) by Cathy

Tags: @vicmc624, @ayamenimthiriel, @teelagurl558, @babymango-writes, @hollymac79, @longinusfilibuster, @insanebot109, @down-down-inanulearan (thanks for your support <3)

#castiel #castiel x reader #cas x reader #reader insert #reader imagine #imagine #one shot #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fandom #spn fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural family #SPN #SPNFamily #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #winchester!reader #winchester!sister #sister!reader #winchester brothers #Jack Kline #angels #original series #original writing #castiel imagine #Misha Collins

[westerhos]

Our Story: Chapters 2-3

Thank you to everyone who has sent such lovely messages about this story! Happy to hear some of you are re-reading it while others are discovering it for the first time. Now for the next two chapters, which really should have been one...

[December 24th, 1990]

Their home is a modest one—a studio clinging to edges of the city, not far from where they first met. It’s an older building, mid-19th century, with pipes that freeze in the winter, burst like Scottish primrose in the summer. There is a single window on its western side, which welcomes the December-white sun at each day’s end. And it is here, lined along this sill, that Claire’s plants reach hungry towards the sky, try to trap this silver sliver of heat inside their veins.

Save for the flowers, theirs is an ascetic sort of décor. Sparse like a monk’s quarters—though Jamie and Claire hardly mind. They decorate the empty corners with their future, hatched in whispers during the night.

One day, Jamie promises, they’ll have Persian rugs and a four-poster bed. One day, they’ll own a leather sofa, its cushions like butter against Claire’s bare thighs. “And a vase!” she adds. “All fancy people have vases.”

But for now, they sleep on a musty twin cot, their belongings stored in the trunk at its foot. Jamie’s manuscripts are stacked inside, their pages marked in ballpoint scribbles and soil-dusted fingerprints. (“I canna read what this says anymore!” Jamie yells. “S’okay,” Claire says. “That paragraph was rubbish anyways.”) He’s an editorial assistant, the paltry salary worth the power of the red pen, which reshapes the written world to his liking. It buys food and rent, and covers what med school tuition Claire’s scholarship does not.

It’s a quiet life, but a happy life.

Claire yawns. “Did you know that every Christmas Eve my uncle told me a story? Made it up himself, right on the spot.”

“Are ye trying to tell me ye want a story?”

“I may be hinting at that, yes.”

“Ach,” Jamie says. Her favorite sound, every inch of him encapsulated in this strange, Scottish scoff. “Your subtly always turns me on.”

“Oh, hush. C’mon.”

He runs a hand through his hair, auburn and cinnabar limned in moonbeam.

“A good story on the spot? That’s no small amount of pressure, Sassenach.”

“How about a request then?” she offers, and Jamie raises a brow. “How about my favorite?”

“Yer favorite?”

“Don’t play coy. You know. The one you always start incorrectly? She is wearing a holiday sweater, a confection of silver bells and sequined penguins…”

“Weel, it’s a much better beginning than the ‘curl of my lips’…”

“Debatable,” Claire replies, tongue tracing the valley of his cupid’s bow.

But Jamie nods, chooses a different beginning this time: “It was immediate…”

He twists one of Claire’s curls around his finger and inhales. She still smells like the springtime, earthy and ripe, and perhaps there’s a hint of his own musk now, too. He likes it this way, enjoys finding proof of his existence somewhere beneath her skin. Permanent.

“Immediate!” Claire echoes, a one-woman Greek chorus. She is pressed into him, feeling his chest curve around her spine. It always surprises her how their bodies fit so perfectly, their limbs folding and molding to fill all their negative spaces. (And she has so many, our Claire, between her toes and between her ribs. Vacant rooms where her mother, her father, and her uncle once lived.)

“Aye, from the minute I saw ye, I ken you belonged wi’ me.”

“Mmm,” she hums, not saying, “Of course I felt the same thing,” or “Of course I loved you from the very first.” Because, of course, Jamie knows this already. (Strange, they both think, how the heart can move faster than the speed of light.)

“Speaking of which…” she says.

“Ye don’t want to hear the rest?”

“In a sec,” she replies. “But your friends seem to think we should get married. Dougal especially.”

“They do,” Jamie says softly. “And Dougal does—to him, maybe.” He brings Claire’s hand to his lips, smiles into the Christmas present he’s wrapped around her finger. A ring: one mounted pearl, taken from his mother’s necklace. (“No’ an engagement ring, mind,” though they both knew it meant forever.)

“Do you, though? Think we should get married?”

“I’ll do anything that means I can call ye mine.”

“You already can.”

“Aye, but I dinna think the law agrees wi’ you.”

“Devil take the law.”

Jamie laughs. “I reckon the Devil doesna want the law either, Sassenach. He hates the law.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“Which is?”

Claire turns towards him, remembers this past year together: their first date (Italian restaurant, 9PM showing of Pretty Woman), their first fight (broken coffee mugs, a noise complaint). She remembers the first time they made love in this small, crooked flat: middle of the floor, surrounded by packing boxes and crumpled newspaper. The bubble wrap had crackled beneath them—pop-pop-pop!—as if they were dancing on fireworks. (“I never want to leave this place,” she’d told him. He thought she’d meant the flat, but she’d meant his arms.)

“Which is…Well. Do you want to marry me, James Fraser?”

He squints. “Is that a proposal?”

“Yes.”

“Then why aren’t ye on your knees?”

“You bloody—”

Claire’s elbow swings towards his face, but Jamie catches it, stretches her arm back so that her palm lies flat against the wall. He rolls on top of her, leans down and lets her heart beat against his lips. Wills it into him until his blood thrums with it. The sound of their story.

“Yes,” Jamie says. “I want to marry you, Claire Beauchamp.”

“You mean Claire Fraser?”

He laughs; she smiles (they are both winners on this day).

“Aye. Beauchamp, Sassenach, Fraser.” His voice drops, a whisper: “My wife.”

[December 24th, 1991]

While Jamie and Claire’s studio remains the same, the flowers change with the turn of seasons: baby-skinned petals become felted cloth, neon-bright as they hang from a child’s mobile. The pots along the sill are gone, their soil-dust trails swiped away and their roots transplanted to a community garden. In their place, sits a collection of shiny, new tools for a shiny, new crib, which stands half-assembled beside the cot. The flower mobile blooms above it, suspended in silent wait for spring. For Faith.

Come April, Jamie and Claire will bring the sunshine into their home, no longer needing the single window and its lancing, evening light. Come April, they will have marigold walls, yellow linens, and bright rubber duckies floating in the sink. All of this for the baby that will sleep inside the shiny, new crib beneath the flowers that will never die.

Faith. This is the name they have given their future, no longer an unfurnished corner in their studio, but a growing presence inside Claire’s belly.

“Ugh!”

“That bad is it?”

“Worse than bad. I look like a whale who’s just fucked a Christmas tree.”

Jamie opens his eyes, his wife framed by his fingers, and he moves his hands to stifle a laugh.

“And a few wee penguins at that…”

“You’re not helping,” Claire whines, examining her reflection in the mirror. Rounded cheeks, rounder stomach; sharp lines blurred by months of pregnancy. All afternoon, she has scolded and cajoled, bribed and threatened, her cottons and nylons.  But the fabrics have been stubborn, loath to surrender their bodily claims to the child pushing against them.

“Jamie, I can’t go out wearing this.”

“I dinna see how you’ve much choice in the matter, Sassenach. We should've gone to Waverly yesterday,” Jamie replies. The sweater—the same one she’d worn the evening they met—hugs her stomach. Tight but still discreet, the purest flash of flesh above her waistline. “Party’s at 8. We’ve no time to go shopping for a proper outfit. It’s either that or what God gave ye.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be a treat? A naked, pregnant woman sipping virgin egg nog in front of the buffet. Happy bloody Christmas!”

“Angus wouldna mind.”

“Well, so long as the host is happy.”

“I wouldna mind.”

Claire snorts and twirls, as if to say, “Are you sure of that?” (He is, absolutely, and to the marrow of his bones.)

Jamie sighs. “D’ye want me to wear mine too?”

“You mean your lager-stained pullover? With the Santa looks that looks like he’s got vomit in his beard?

“Aye, that’s the one.”

“Yes,” she replies, grinning. She remembers where it lies amongst the rest of their clothes, just as she remembers its wooly scratch against her breasts two years before. Jaime’s hands (so much larger than hers, even then) lifting it up and over, laying her bare beneath the fluorescent lights of his dorm room. “Yes, I want you to wear your Belligerent Santa jumper.”

Jamie nods.

“And no beer for you, either. Just store-bought non-alcoholic egg nog. My misery needs company.”

“Fair is fair.”

“And—”

“There’s more?”

“Much more.”

“Ach, weel. Anything for the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Oh, Rupert will be so grateful you think so, Jamie.”

“What are friends for?” He draws closer, vibrating. “But what about you, Sassenach?”

“Me? You’ll look more ridiculous than I will. I’ll be peachy and taking shots of fake egg-nog!”

Claire finds the sweater and throws it to Jamie, watches him catch the frayed and wrinkled ball of it. The hem is still an unraveled spool, which she winds and winds around her finger. Once, twice, three times until it marks her skin in a pale, white ring. She pulls it taut, feels the slow draining of her finger as the blood retreats, towards her husband. Electricity between them (the pipes groan, the winter thaw come at last).

“Now,” Claire purrs, “put that on so I can take it off you.”

“D’ye think we have time?”

“Of course we do,” she says. "We always have time." (Not always, not forever.)

“Well then,” Jamie says, bowing. “Your servant, madam.”

At this point, I still had no idea where I was going with this story, and I think that’s abundantly clear here. Regardless, I was very much taken with the “romanticism” of being poor, in love, and bohemian in New York City—so these two chapters are basically my written daydreams about being a young Patti Smith. Luckily, that never happened! Although I did wind up living in a tiny long-term Airbnb with an opera singer, a grand piano that took up the. entire. living. room., and a very uncomfortable futon that I slept on for my first 6 months in Brooklyn.

These are really the last ~~happy~~ chapters for a while, which is totally a reflection of the fact that I had moved to Brooklyn and was scared, lonely, and just generally very angsty, lol. So my apologies for what lies ahead.

One closing thought: Why did I choose Pretty Woman as Jamie and Claire’s first date movie, lol? Had I just watched it? Did I just associate the ‘90s with Julia Roberts romantic comedies? Did I not bother researching other movies that came out in 1990? Your guess is as good as mine!!!

#myfic #outlander #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp

[watchtower-feed]

Death Do We Part

SSA Spin-off ✧ Jason Todd ✧ Physical Link ✧ 1 ✧ 2 ✧ 3 ✧ 4 ✧ 5 ✧ 6 ✧ 7 ✧ 8 ✧ 9 ✧ 10 ✧ 11 ✧ 12 ✧ 13 ✧ 14 ✧ 15 ✧ Notes: The main story of SSA is on hiatus while I figure out how to end it. For now, please enjoy this three-part (or four) spin-off that’s been nagging me ever since Until Death was finished. Words: 2,000+

     A physical link is one of the most dangerous soulmate links around and that’s what you share with your soulmate. Your link with him is also more sensitive than most because sometimes your hair moves with the wind even though you’re indoors or you can taste what he’s eating.

     But what you didn’t know was how much fun your link was going to be. Ever since you started holding pens and doodling on your arm, you’ve been getting replies on the other one. You thought it was such a fun game but it nearly gave your parents a heart attack. When you could form words and read them, you started to communicate with each other.

      Jason, don’t forget your homework this time.

     Oh crap! Thanks for reminding me, Y/N.

     You roll your eyes as you say goodbye to your parents. You rush to the next block over just in time to see Jason stumble out of his apartment building. He falls and scrapes his knee. You both shout and wince at the same time.

     “Jason! I thought you were going to be more careful. Are you trying to kill us before high school?” Jason laughs and grabs your hand. He drags you to the bus stop and you make it just in time.

      Jason was careful. Both of you had your fair share of paper cuts, bumps, and bruises. But neither of you have ever sprained or broken anything. It sucks when one of you gets sick though.

     “If I sneeze, are ya gonna sneeze too?” Jason says with a nasally voice lying in bed next to you. His dad was always out and his mom had to work so your parents offered to take care of him while you’re both sick. They basically only have to take care of one child anyway.

     “I don’t know. We haven’t tried that one,” you smile and rub the bridge of Jason’s nose. He purrs. “That feels good, huh? It feels like I’m unblocking your nose.” You and Jason laugh.

     “Y/N with the magic fingers. Gotham criminals beware!”

     Your parents hush the two of you and threaten to make you sleep on the couch while Jason sleeps in your bed if you two don’t rest soon. You grab each other’s hands under the blanket and immediately close your eyes until they leave the room.

     You open your eyes and Jason is staring at you, pouting. You take out your other hand and stroke his warm cheek. He closes his eyes to lean into your touch then opens them again. “Pops hasn’t been home in days. My mom thinks he’s run away or dead in a ditch somewhere.”

     You frown and pull Jason close to you. “You’re always welcome here, Jason.”

     He knows that. He knows you mean it but he couldn’t just take advantage of your kindness like that. So when his mother runs away and he’s left alone in an empty apartment for three days straight, Jason decides it’s time to be a man and take care of himself.

     You don’t know what’s going on with Jason. He would still come out of their apartment building and go to school with you but you know he’s a little off. The first signs you pick up on are the pangs of hunger. No matter what amount of food you eat, your stomach growls and it feels like it’s eating itself.

     When your mother asks you to bring a pot of leftovers to the Todds, that’s when you realize who the real culprit is. You march over to their apartment building and find the door unlocked, the lights off, and there’s a silhouette of a boy crouching in the corner of the unfurnished apartment.

     You kneel down next to him and find that he’s awake but refuses to look at you. You call his name but he ignores you. You pinch your arm hard and it makes him jump. He hates it when you do that.

     Jason devours the food in seconds, eating straight from the pot with a big wooden spoon. Little by little, he managed to survive by selling their furniture but he still had to ration whatever money he had so he only ate one meal a day. Jason laughs, “but when ya pig out, Y/N, I get so full. I don’t even have to eat more than that if ya think about it.” You don’t find that funny because you don’t think the link actually works that way.

      He frowns and looks at his hands.

      He wants to tell you that he’s being kicked out of the apartment tomorrow. He doesn’t want to use his meager amount of money to pay for rent when he can just survive in the streets.

     He doesn’t say a word. He lets you stay with him until it’s late and he walks you back to your place.

     He doesn’t go to school the next day. You go to their apartment to scold him but find that’s it locked because new tenants were moving in soon. You ask the landlord about Jason and he tells you he’s been gone since last night.

     Jason, you idiot. Just stay with us. Mom is making your favorite tonight.

     He doesn’t reply to your messages anymore and it’s making you more angry than sad. You sit in your quiet room and close your eyes, “Where are you, Jason?” you mutter before concentrating on what you feel. You try to distinguish the sensation inside your room to what he’s feeling outside.

      You can feel humid air around your skin and sweat drenching the tips of your hair. He’s outside under the Gotham summer heat. You concentrate harder and you can hear footsteps and voices in the background. Foot traffic, so the streets? But which one? Then you hear it. The unmistakable sound of gunshots and running and police sirens. He’s in one of the worst parts of Gotham. Then you smell it, the lingering scent from Marco’s Bakery. He’s in the Narrows

     You grab the leftovers and sneak out through your window. You try to make yourself small as you enter one of the worst parts of the city. You would take the alleys and hide behind dumpsters every time you hear shouting. Then you finally find him lying on flattened cardboard.

     You kick him in the knee, bracing yourself for the sensation. He gets up quickly and his eyes widen at the sight of you. You drop the leftovers in front of him and glare. “If you don’t want to talk to me anymore, then fine. But at least eat.” 

     Walking away from Jason is hard but you know his pride won’t let him eat the food in front of you. You’re nearly home when you suddenly feel satiated. You do this every night. Leaving him food in that particular alley even when you stop finding Jason there.

     It suddenly becomes something Jason would count on because you have always been the only one he can rely on. After a day of thievery and barely surviving he would smile on the way back to his flattened cardboard where your family’s homecooked meal would still be warm.

     One night, Jason is astonished to find the batmobile in his alley. He’s admiring its size and fortress-like structure when he realizes that it had run over the food you left for him. Motivated by anger and vengeance, he finds a way to steal the hubcaps off of the batmobile’s wheels.

     “I’m sure you know who you’re stealing from.” The menacing voice shocks Jason and he turns around with a screwdriver in one hand. He takes a moment to appreciate the sheer size and intimidating stature of Batman.

     Then he glares at him and kicks his shin, “Yeah! Yer the big boob who ran over my dinner!”

     Batman is instantly puzzled. He narrows his eyes to one of his wheels and finds pasta littered on the floor and a ruined plastic container.

     Two nights after that, you’re dropping off Jason’s food and you’re surprised to find him standing in the alley in fresh clothes and a wide grin on his face. You narrow your eyes in an instant, “Did you finally inhale too much Joker gas or something?”

     “Y/N, you’ll never believe it. Oh boy!”

     Jason walks you away from the Narrows and back to your neighborhood. He tells you about running into Bruce Wayne the other night, leaving out the fact that he’s Batman.

     “He said I reminded him so much of himself when he was younger that he couldn’t imagine not adopting me,” he boasts with his thumb brushing the collar of his new shirt.

     You roll your eyes and of course, you don’t believe him. But then you arrive at your house and there’s a limo in front of your building. The door opens and Bruce Wayne steps out. Your mouth hangs open as he approaches you.

     Jason smirks and snaps his fingers in front of your face, “Y/N, I’d like ya to meet Bruce Wayne. Brucey, this is the friend I was telling ya about.”

     “It’s very nice to meet you, Y/N. Once Jason’s settled in at the manor, we’d be more than happy to invite you and your family over for dinner.”

     You gulp. Because honestly what else can you do? The richest man in Gotham is outside your house and he’s Jason’s new father.

     But Jason never did invite you to the manor. In fact, ever since he became a Wayne, you saw him less than never.

     I miss you, Jason. Why are you avoiding me this time?

     For Jason, that was anything but an easy decision. It was never really Bruce that invited him to his home. It was Batman. And Jason knows that if Batman finds out he has a physical link with a civilian, he would stop letting him be Robin.

     So he dedicated all of his time to being a good son, a model student, and a fierce sidekick. Subduing criminals before they get the chance to land a blow on him. Whenever Bruce tells corrects his movement and his fighting style, Jason always takes his criticisms to heart because it’s not just his life on the line.

     Whenever you’re missing Jason and it gets too much, you lie on the floor and close all of your senses again. You imagine him lying on a thousand-thread-count cotton bed or warm in front of a crackling fire while laughing and drinking tea with Bruce Wayne and his butler.

    But all you get is whiplash. The wind is strong and harsh against your face. Your hair is flying up while you’re lying on the floor. You can also smell the smoke of the steaming sewers wafting into the Gotham air. 

     Jason’s out in the night and from your heavy breathing and aching muscles, you can only guess that he’s happy and exhilarated. Your breathing labors against your chest and you can feel the muscles along your jaw strain hard. Jason’s laughing.

     You roll on your side and smile at the thought of Jason enjoying his life. You miss him.

     Then it happens.

     You’re out with friends at someone’s sweet sixteen party and you’re wearing a dress just like everyone else. At first, you’re laughing, something someone said about a joke you haven’t yet heard. 

     Then suddenly your whole body is thrown back as a blow to your head knocks you against the table. You use your elbows to support yourself and you watch as everyone stares at you.

     A phantom weapon hits your back and you’re kneeling on the floor, coughing out blood on someone’s shoes. That’s when the screaming starts. But you can’t listen to them now. No, you need to focus on Jason. What the hell is happening to him?

    Another blow to your back makes your body drop flat on the ground. Your lip bleeds when your teeth tear into them as you hit the ground. You groan. This is the most pain the two of you have ever been in and you think you can also feel Jason’s fear.

    “Hand me a pen!” you scream before a blow to the side of your ribs flips you onto your back. You cough more blood and you desperately try to sit up as one of your closest friends hands you a marker.

     “I called your parents. They’re on their way. What’s happening, Y/N?”

     You don’t know. You don’t know. You try to write as legibly as you can.

     Wats wrong

     You wait for a response. Then something happens. It forces your eyes to look up and you think you see something intangible floating in the air. A crowbar? Then it comes crashing down against your ribs and you hear bones crack. Your friend screams, too afraid to touch you.

     You think one of your ribs splintered and your lungs have collapsed. It’s too hard to breathe. It feels like no air is coming into your lungs. You rest your head to the side, staring at your arm. 

     Slowly, words start appearing, smeared in crimson blood.

     I’m sorry, Y/N. I lov

SSA Spin-off ✧ Jason Todd ✧ Physical Link ✧ 1 ✧ 2 ✧ 3 ✧ 4 ✧ 5 ✧ 6 ✧ 7 ✧ 8 ✧ 9 ✧ 10 ✧ 11 ✧ 12 ✧ 13 ✧ 14 ✧ 15 ✧

✧ Watchtower Masterlist ✧

#ssa #superhero soulmate au #spinoff #DC imagines #DC fanfiction #DC reader insert #Jason Todd imagine #Jason Todd fanfiction #Jason Todd x reader #Robin imagine #Robin fanfiction #Robin x reader #Red Hood imagine #Red Hood fanfiction #red hood x reader #watchtower-feed #atbucud #jason todd #red hood

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

The Thai Nguyen Penitentiary: the cradle of revolt The eclectic composition of rebel forces at Thai Nguyen reflected the peculiar dynamics of colonial prison administration. As a penitentiary located in Indochina’s northern tier, Thai Nguyen was authorized to receive political offenders and hardened criminals from every corner of Annam and Tonkin. Moreover, as at every other prison in Indochina, officials at Thai Nguyen disregarded regulations concerning the segregation of different categories of prisoners. Such neglect derived from the usual factors— administrative torpor, architectural shortcomings, and budgetary constraints— but was compounded by the unusual circumstance that the institution at Thai Nguyen functioned simultaneously as a provincial prison and a penitentiary. During the first decade of civilian administration at Thai Nguyen (1892–1902), officials used a variety of makeshift buildings to incarcerate local lawbreakers. In 1903, a regular provincial prison was built, consisting of a rectangular cluster of buildings ringed by a circular path, patrolled day and night. The path was surrounded by a three-meter-high, rectangular concrete wall, in which jagged shards of glass were embedded. Additional security was provided by two towers at opposite corners of the wall. The prison’s main residential quarter was a single communal dormitory, unfurnished except for an elevated concrete platform along three of the inside walls. During the night, prisoners lay side by side atop the platform, their feet manacled to iron rings set into the concrete. Other than those confined for short periods to a handful of punitive cells, all prisoners were housed together in the main dormitory.

Following an upsurge of anti-colonial activity in 1908, the resident superior ordered the expansion of the prison at Thai Nguyen so that “it might receive, from each of the provinces in the protectorate, those convicts serving the longest and most severe sentences.” Thai Nguyen was chosen as the site for a more important penal institution because of its “remoteness from French population centers” and because the province badly needed penal labor for roadwork and construction projects. Completing the renovation in 1910, the resident announced that “the newly refurbished institution is no longer, properly speaking, a provincial prison, but a penitentiary that contains, at present, around 200 prisoners chosen from among the most dangerous of the Delta and the object, on my part, of a completely special surveillance.” Although the prison at Thai Nguyen had been upgraded administratively to the status of a penitentiary, fiscal constraints prevented officials from constructing a new provincial prison as a replacement. As a result, Thai Nguyen continued to perform the functions of a provincial prison. This meant that short-term convicts sentenced by local tribunals were incarcerated together with long-term convicts sent to Thai Nguyen from distant provinces. Despite some concern generated by its unorthodox, hybrid character, officials still considered Thai Nguyen the most important and secure island in Tonkin’s penal archipelago:

The establishment of Ile de la Table is in ruins. As for the so-called penitentiaries of Son La and Lai Chau, they are in reality simple prisons, not set up to receive and effectively guard dangerous convicts. With regard to Cao Bang, its proximity to the frontier presents serious inconveniences from the point of view of ever-possible escapes. There remains, therefore, the penitentiary of Thai Nguyen, being well situated in the heart of the middle region and providing secure buildings that truly serve their intended purpose. The administration has a strong interest in developing this establishment and endowing it with a special personnel and making it a true, strongly organized penitentiary that will serve in Tonkin as Poulo Condore does in Cochin China.

Consistent with its mission, Thai Nguyen became a dumping ground for the most dangerous prisoners in Tonkin. In August 1917, offenders sentenced to from ten to twenty-five years’ forced labor were in the majority among the prison’s population. However, because the site continued to function as a provincial prison, it also held a large number of short-term convicts and defendants awaiting trial. At the outbreak of the rebellion, almost fifty prisoners, all from Thai Nguyen, were serving terms of simple imprisonment—a sentence that typically entailed a briefer (six months to a year) and milder punitive regime. Most had been sentenced for misdemeanors: petty theft, small-time banditry, battery, or crimes against public order such as vagrancy or chronic drunkenness.

Although the prison’s population grew increasingly complex, its basic layout remained a single communal dormitory—now enlarged—and a handful of individual cells. Indeed, the renovation of 1908 only augmented the scale of the prison without introducing any significant structural changes. In 1910, provincial officials acknowledged the dangers posed by the prison’s crude configuration but took no measures to rectify the situation. According to a prophetic report on prison conditions from that year:

A single modification that seems needed at Thai Nguyen concerns the interior setup of the prison for the purpose of stopping an ever-possible revolt. The prisoners are for the most part confined in a large building with no separation, such that in case of a concerted plot during which the detainees escape their bars, we would have to act against a mass of 175 individuals.

Colonial officials were less inclined to highlight flaws in institutional design and inadequate mechanisms of segregation to help explain the catastrophic violence that erupted at Thai Nguyen in 1917. After all, such an analysis underscored their own failure to undertake the necessary modifications, particularly since they had recognized the problem years before. It is not surprising, therefore, that officials in France (rather than their colonial counterparts) took the lead in linking the outbreak of the rebellion with the distinctive procedures and conditions of colonial incarceration. In the Chamber of Deputies in Paris, M. Lacave Laplagne declared that the very structure of the prison had allowed “the political prisoners at Thai Nguyen to rise up, win over the Garde indigène and their comrade prisoners, seize the provincial capital and massacre the French population.” Taking a shot at Governor-General Sarraut, Lacave Laplagne charged that “the rebellion resulted from the considerable imprudence of the colonial administration, which allows, in the prisons of the colony, a dangerous melange of political prisoners and common criminals.”

In a defensive response, Sarraut acknowledged the problem but said that, rather than being intrinsic to the Indochinese prison system, it had arisen because World War I prevented the deportation of political prisoners to Guyana and New Caledonia. Moreover, the Phan Xich Long rebellions of 1913 and 1916 and the simultaneous growth of Restoration Society activity had created a shortage of prison space throughout Indochina. In other words, Sarraut assured the deputy that the problem was a temporary one, and that in the future, a greater effort would be made to enforce what he called “a rigorous penal triage” so as to “prevent local movements in the penitentiary from taking on a political character.”

In contrast to Sarraut’s efforts at political damage control, others in the colony admitted that the problem had more durable roots. During his interrogation, Hoang Dinh Deu (sic), a garde, maintained that “at Thai Nguyen, those condemned to light sentences (six months to a year) were always subjected to the same regime as those condemned to heavy sentences (ten to twenty years).” And in a letter to the procureur général, the resident superior explained that “although the decree of October 26, 1914, states that prisons are to be arranged in such a way so as to permit certain prescribed and imperative separations among diverse categories of prisoners, the locales have always been poorly or insufficiently set up for this purpose.”

The resident’s comments suggest that colonial officials were not unaware of the security problems generated by a situation in which a broad mix of prisoners were incarcerated together in communal wards. Indeed, the fact that prison officials kept Luong Ngoc Quyen confined in one of the penitentiary’s solitary cells confirms that they did take measures to isolate especially dangerous convicts from the general population. Hence, the problem was less a conceptual blind spot than a structural shortcoming. With no more than a handful of individual cells, the prison lacked the fundamental capability to segregate a large number of political activists such as the several dozen who ended up at Thai Nguyen in 1917.

Forced Labor and Mortality As in most colonial prisons, all inmates at Thai Nguyen were subjected to the same brutal regime of forced labor, irrespective of sentence or juridical status. Since the turn of the century, prison labor from Thai Nguyen had been used to build roads linking the expanding mining and agricultural concessions in the middle region to the urban centers in the Delta. Although the colonial state could also requisition civilian labor, a series of reforms introduced between 1897 and 1916 restricted the state’s ability to mobilize villagers for hazardous projects in remote areas. Convict labor thus came to be used for the most dangerous work. According to a report in 1917: “In Thai Nguyen, those condemned to forced labor are used for the most laborious tasks of colonization, including road building and the construction of public works. This regime is particularly harsh in such an unsanitary country.”

Again, in violation of penal regulations, prison officials forced political criminals and convicts serving terms of simple imprisonment to work alongside prisoners sentenced to forced labor. When questioned by investigators, officials maintained that pressing demands for manpower had prompted them to include all categories of prisoners in the forced labor regime.

Not only were convicts forced to undertake the most dangerous and onerous work but labor discipline was enforced through a host of brutal and coercive measures. According to an investigation of penal labor practices launched in 1918, a high proportion of disciplinary beatings at Thai Nguyen occurred at work sites. The investigation reported that “between 1915 and 1917 numerous beatings (often with truncheons) and other assorted acts of violence were directed at prisoners while they worked at quarries and road construction sites.” By way of illustration, it detailed a number of incidents from December 1916, including one in which gardes punished a prisoner for unsatisfactory work on a road detail by fracturing his wrists with a shovel. No doubt, the rigors of forced labor contributed to the penitentiary’s extraordinarily high number of annual deaths. As prison records from this era do not report the number of convicts who entered and exited an institution during any given period, it is impossible to calculate mortality as a percentage of the total number of prisoners. However, a medical report comparing the absolute number of deaths in colonial penal institutions between 1908 and 1912 shows that more prisoners died at Thai Nguyen (332) during this five-year period than at any other prison in Indochina with the exception of Nam Dinh (355). Another document reveals that 192 prisoners died at Thai Nguyen in 1915, 165 in 1916, and, remarkably, 162 in the first half of 1917. A separate study undertaken by officers of the Garde indigène claimed that 670 prisoners (“roughly 250 per year”) died at Thai Nguyen between January 1, 1915, and August 31, 1917.

Just as all prisoners shared in the unnerving experience of forced labor, the penitentiary’s murderous death toll must have encouraged a powerful sense of their shared predicament among different categories of prisoners. “The revolt was greeted with joy by all those who had long sentences,” one prisoner, Dang Van Lu, explained to an interrogator, “because we believed that if we did not rebel, we would never leave the penitentiary alive.” His sentiments were echoed by Inspector Nicolas who concluded bluntly that the penitentiary was “less like a place of detention and more like a crematorium.”

Resident Darles and the Garde Indigène As with the prison uprisings at Poulo Condore in 1918 and Lai Chau in 1927, the capricious despotism of a local French official contributed to the outbreak of the Thai Nguyen rebellion. The official in this case, Provincial Resident Darles, had served in the province for three years, during which time he earned the appellation “the butcher of Thai Nguyen.” The hatred rebels harbored for Darles is reflected in the dissatisfaction that they expressed upon learning that the resident was not among the early casualties of the revolt. According to one eyewitness account: “When the severed head of M. Martini was brought before Sergeant Can at the Thai Nguyen Market, he expressed disappointment because it was not the head of M. Darles.

In 1925, Nguyen Ai Quoc (the future Ho Chi Minh) provided a vivid description of the notorious resident in “French Colonialism on Trial,” his well-known polemical indictment of France’s colonial empire. “This M. Darles is a valuable administrator,” he began sardonically:

He acquired his political science in the Latin Quarter, where he was a restaurant keeper. Through the wishes of an influential politician, M. Darles, then without resources and loaded with debts, was made an administrator in Indochina. Comfortably installed at the head of a province of several thousand inhabitants, and invested with limitless power, he was mayor, judge, bailiff, and bailiff’s man; in a word, he held all the offices. Justice, taxes, property, lives and property of the natives, rights of officials, elections of mayors and canton chiefs, that is to say, the fate of a whole province was entrusted to the hands of a former innkeeper. As he had not been able to get rich by extracting money from his clients in Paris, he got his own back in Tonkin by having Annamese arbitrarily arrested, imprisoned, and condemned to extort money from them.

Ho’s portrayal of Darles as a petty provincial autocrat is confirmed by official sources. According to a report prepared in the wake of the rebellion, Darles’s unchecked power over prison administration derived from his successful efforts to wrest control of the Garde indigène from military officers:

In a number of provinces, the residents have a more or less marked tendency to substitute themselves for the brigade commandant and to seize all power and authority over his men and his European subordi nates. The commandant then becomes a sort of “corporal,” incapable of supporting his personnel and garnering from them the appropriate respect and discipline. The Thai Nguyen brigade, in terms of the annihilation of the commandant, was a model of this genre.

Indeed, Inspector Noel, the officer in charge of the Garde indigène at Thai Nguyen and the rebellion’s first casualty, frequently complained that the constant meddling of the resident had undercut his authority. “I am nothing. I do nothing,” Noel was quoted as saying. “The resident does everything. He names non-commissioned officers, orders promotions, demotions, and punishments, and corresponds with other posts without my knowledge.” Several eyewitnesses concurred that the almost complete usurpation of his authority by the resident had demoralized Noel.

Moreover, Darles was sadistically brutal toward prisoners, gardes, and native civil servants. The extent of his cruelty was documented in an enquiry commissioned by the governor-general in November 1917. Beginning with his first posting at Son Tay Province in 1908, it chronicled twenty-seven documented instances of beatings, canings, whippings, and assorted “acts of violence” perpetrated by the resident. The following excerpt from the enquiry conveys something of its flavor:

1. Son Tay, 1909—breaking the fingers of the interpreter Pham Van Thanh with a metal rod. Witness: M. Tragan, administrator of the Civil Service.

2. Phuc Yen, 1911—acts of violence and beating of his domestic servants. Witness: M. Martin.

3. Phuc Yen, 1912—violent beating of a soldier engaged in guarding prisoners. Witness: M. Pierrard, inspector of the Garde indigène, M. Bonin, garde principal.

Phuc Yen, 1912—beating of Cai Boi, official of the Public Works Department. Witness: M. Marnac: engineer of Public Works Department.

Phuc Yen, 1912—bloody caning of a canton chief while he supervised coolies along a road work site. Witness: M. Marnac.

Phuc Yen, 1912—punching of an anonymous native, who was then thrown into a pond. Witness: M. Marnac.

Thai Nguyen, 1914—on the route from Dong Du to Cho-Chu, violent beating with a truncheon of an unidentified public works official. Witness: M. Herninet, administrator of the Civil Service.

Lang Hit, 1914—beating the soldier Hoang Van Chuc with a riding whip.

Thai Nguyen, 1914—grave acts of violence on three militiamen who had allowed a suspect to escape. Witness: M. Tustes, administrator, M. Bary, administrator.

In addition to the depressing litany of everyday physical abuse covered in the report, the administration gathered a number of more detailed accounts of the resident’s violent behavior. Commonplace were cases in which Darles had struck gardes and prisoners in the face, stomach, and groin for insignificant or obscure reasons. He allegedly relished contriving creative disciplinary measures such as forcing gardes to carry sacks of sand and gravel while supervising corvée or making prisoners stand at attention or run in place for hours under the blazing afternoon sun. Among the most severe cases were an instance in which an abrupt baton blow by Darles put out the eye of a prisoner and another in which an impromptu beating shattered the collarbone of a hapless clerk. According to another allegation, the resident was rumored to have raped the wife of a prominent native administrator.

Perhaps the most striking conclusion demonstrated by the various investigations concerned the utterly indiscriminate nature of the resident’s wrath. Just as convicts and coolies were subjected to regular thrashings, so, too, were interpreters, clerks, soldiers, and civil servants. Gardes frequently complained that the resident and his men treated them no better than prisoners. They charged that, like prisoners, they were continually subjected to verbal harassment, unfair punitive measures, and beatings. One reported: “I was beaten one time with three baton blows to my face because I did not understand the resident when he spoke to me in French.” Another stated: “The resident often punished the men for minor reasons such as smoking or speaking in the barracks after lights out.” And still another said: “Often the resident would arrive on a route where prisoners were working and beat the files of prisoners and their gardes at the same time.” 

French eyewitnesses described similar episodes: “When M. Darles came to inspect the corvée, he typically beat the gardes and prisoners with a large stick if the work failed to meet his standards.” Within the confines of the penitentiary, this virtual democracy of abuse no doubt muddied the sense of division between the keepers and the kept. 

Many gardes even described their military service as a form of captivity. The similarities were easy to discern, given the parallels of forced recruitment, physical brutalization, constant surveillance, and communal living. Moreover, gardes described being coerced to remain in the corps despite the termination of their initial contracts. “Some of us were especially discontented,” explained Nguyen Van Hoa, “because we have been forced to continue in the service over six months after the expiration of our five-year terms.” Tran Van Phuong related a similar story: “I have been forcibly retained for over two months despite the end of my term and have received no back pay.”

Lines blurred further when French officials disciplined gardes by forcing them to work alongside convicts on forced labor details. Even more remarkable, gardes were sometimes punished with short periods of confinement within the penitentiary. “Certain gardes actually serve punishments for disciplinary infractions within the prison,” one report explained. “In such cases, gardes are placed in the company of the very prisoners whom they had previously been assigned to guard on corvée duty.” Appalled at the practice, one investigator argued that it laid at the root of the rebellion. “This in my opinion, sheds light on the real cause of the Thai Nguyen Revolt.Treated like prisoners, sometimes worse, the Garde indigène freed the convicts, who became willing auxiliaries. Maltreated by the resident, they united with the prisoners in their hatred for the administration that was supposed to protect them.’ - Peter Zinoman, The Colonial Bastille: A History of Imprisonment in Vietnam, 1862–1940. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001. pp. 185-196.

#vietnam #tonkin #thai nguyen #prison riot #prisoner revolt #convict revolt #prisoner resistance #convict labour #prison guards #prison brutality #violence in prison #causes of prison riots #french colonial empire #french indochina #colonial prison #the colonial bastille #french colonialism #crime and punishment #history of crime and punishment #academic research #academic quote

[katsitting]

I would like to submit the word prompt 'Cage', please?

AN: So this is another one that grew a little out of control. It’s a little more emotional than I expected. I hope you enjoy, nonnie!

Ship: Tomarry

Rating: T

Tags: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Modern, Disturbing Themes, Prison, References to Murder, Unhealthy Relationships

You can read it on AO3 here.

___________________________________________________

“You’ve got an hour.”

Any response Harry could have made died in his throat when the guard opened the rusted, metal door.

The room could have been mistaken for a cupboard.

It was small, cramped, and unfurnished.  There were no paintings, no desks. There wasn’t even a place for him to put his bag.  All it had was a chair, a single bloody chair in the centre of the room facing a wall-sized square made of glass.

Harry tried not to make a face, already regretting coming here in the first place.

He knew it would be bad.

Prison wasn’t a pleasant place in England; it wasn’t difficult to imagine that America would be the same.

It was the first thing he’d considered when he’d made his choice to come to America, in the first place. It hadn’t been easy, convincing himself that it was the right choice, that it was the only way he could finally move forward from what happened, and yet—

Harry knew what he was getting himself into. This small, sterile place shouldn’t have come as such an unpleasant shock.

And yet—

It had.

Somewhere, deep down, Harry had had the faint hoped that it wouldn’t be that horrible, that he wouldn’t have to think about the fact that he was seeing his ex-best friend in prison and not over drinks at their local pub.

It was stupid, absolutely bonkers, but that hadn’t stopped him from hoping, hadn’t stopped his stomach from clenching tight with pain when he stepped inside.

This room that looked too much like that cupboard under the stairs, like that hellhole back in the Dursley’s home that he hadn’t thought about since he’d left.

And now Tom was living in one, had to live in one until the bloody rest of his life.  He didn’t wish that on anyone, even when—

“He’ll be here in five minutes.”

Harry blinked, thoughts scattering at the low click of the door closing shut behind him.  The guards had left him alone.

Five minutes.

Harry’s chest tightened at the same time his heart began to race.

Five minutes, and I will see him.

Harry sat down on the chair, unsure of what to expect, of what he could even say. He hadn’t talked to Tom in years, not since the news broke out.

Gods, how did anyone visit their loved ones in prison?

Closing his eyes, Harry tried to focus on his own breaths as he waited and not on the slow drip of the seconds ticking by, on the terrified murmurs in the back of his head telling him that he shouldn’t be there, that he should leave.

There was a clock on the opposite side of the glass window, but Harry couldn’t make out the numbers.  The glass blurred the hands, muddled the minutes.

In and out.

Harry breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry jumped in his seat, a rush of fear and something that he refused to identify swimming in his veins.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Harry tried not to panic, forcing himself to suck in steady breaths to calm himself down and level Tom with the coolest glance he could muster.

This was it.

The moment he’d been waiting for since he’d made his decision.

It was foolish to think that anything could have prepared him for the reality of Tom.

Harry tightened his hands into fists, stomach churning with anger and distress, with longing and hurt.

Tom was sitting in front of the window, arms carefully tucked over his thighs. His hair was well kept even though he wore it longer than Harry remembered, his skin still as bloodless. He looked normal, the same way he had when Harry had last seen him, except—

Harry’s breath caught.

His eyes.

Those were different.

There was something to them now that Harry didn’t recognise, a glint mixed in with a familiar sliver of humour.  

Harry swallowed, bracing himself for the task at hand. He wasn’t here for pleasantries, wasn’t here to catch up.

“Why did you do it?”

Tom’s expression didn’t change. If he was bothered by Harry’s lack of greeting, he didn’t show it.

“Why did you kill him?” Harry pressed, fingers beginning to shake and hating himself all the more for it when Tom’s gaze flickered to his hands and back to his face. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but Harry felt its weight like a layer of mesh.

“Is that really what you’ve come all this way to ask, Harry?”

Tom’s lips lifted into a smile as he asked, his eyes flashing with delight. Harry’s jaw clenched.

No.

“Yes.”

Tom tilted his head to one side, assessing, dark ringlets falling in his eyes in a way that they’d never had before as Tom appraised him.  Harry’s skin began to crawl.

“Liar,” Tom purred, a hand coming up to press against the cage of glass separating them.  “If you can’t be honest with yourself, at least be honest with me, for old time’s sake.”

Harry froze, throat catching when Tom slowly rose from his seat and pressed his other hand against the glass. He was no threat, no genuine danger, but Harry’s mind still shrieked with panic.

Leave. Leave. Leave. You have to leave.

It took every shred of strength Harry possessed to remain sitting.

“Do it.”

Tom’s eyes were smouldering, intent. There was no breath, no twitch that Tom didn’t catch. Harry knew it, could feel the inspection, the dissection, like a physical touch.

Tom had always been able to see right through him.

The circumstances might have changed, but that never would.

I can read you like an open book, a voice so much like Tom’s whispered in the back of Harry’s head.

Harry sucked a slow, steady breath to shake off his unease. He’d been dreading this from the moment he’d stepped on the plane, since he’d first set foot in the prison.

It was a question he’d planned to ask, but on his terms.  

Tom had taken that luxury away from him.

“Coward.”

Harry was on his feet before he realised it, vision turning red with rage, stomach tightening with violence.

Coward.

His anger was like a scream, a fire devouring anyone and anything in its path.  Harry couldn’t think past the flames, couldn’t breathe through the knots in his stomach demanding that Harry show Tom exactly how much of a coward he was.

Harry pressed so close to the window that his nose touched the glass, hands slapping hard against it.

“Why did he look like me?” Harry snarled, hands curling into fists to stop himself from punching the glass like he wanted to. He’d only hurt his hand if he did—this shit was bulletproof anyway.

Tom’s lips twisted, something feral flashing in his gaze. Malicious.

It was like a bucket of ice water had been tipped all over Harry’s head, like his rage had been sucked right out of him, leaving only horror behind.  

“Because I wanted it to be you.”

Harry’s mouth opened, but no words would come. The words were like stones in his stomach, weighing him down, dragging him down to the bottom of the ocean. They were lost.

“Because I—“

“Shut up,” Harry said, refusing to listen any longer, to let Tom say anything else. Something was in his throat, like a lump, a stone. Harry couldn’t swallow past it, couldn’t breathe through the block.

I wanted it to be you.

I wanted it to be you.

I wanted it to be—

Harry left, unable to stomach the look in Tom’s eyes, the stupid fucking smile on his face.

He just needed to get away, to get out—

I wanted it to be you.

Harry didn’t make it far. He got as far as the car park before he was vomiting everything he’d had for lunch, tears and snot streaking down his face. It was difficult to breathe, to think about anything but those words.

Those fucking words.

I wanted it to be you.

Harry wish he’d never come.

#tomarry #harrymort #I did a thing #one word prompt #Anonymous

[whimperwoods]

Android Whump - Certified for Independence

I’ve been playing Code 7: A Text-Based Hacking Adventure and it’s so good, so as I sit here and pine after the next chapter being released, have some AI/android whump.

I should make it clear, I know absolutely nothing about how computers work. So. Grain of salt. Or whatever. Idk, this was fun.

*****

The android’s broken elbow made a horrifying noise as they tried, in vain, to use it to sit up. It wasn’t the same horrifying noise a human joint might make, and they flinched at the disparity even though they felt no pain in the bad arm.

It was only a small mercy at best. No pain meant something wrong with the sensors in that part of their body. And being broken, especially broken like this...

“No,” they reminded themself. “No. I am human. I’m human. I’m just different. I have to find the others.”

Their friends would help them. Would fix them. Would pretend not to stare, not to feel differently about them while their synthetic parts were on display to be repaired. It would feel good, and it would hurt, and life would go on.

They just had to find their friends. Which meant they needed to figure out where they were, and then where their friends were, and then how to get from one place to the other.

It was a surprise, not to know where they were. Was something wrong with their memory? As they tried to think of how they’d gotten here, of anything that had happened in the last hour, it was all blank. They couldn’t even be certain it had only been an hour. They’d had a clock function once, but they’d deleted it. It had been a rush, a thrill they hadn’t regretted. They’d been late to everything for weeks and their friends had laughed, had told them they were getting too human, but had said it with smiles that meant they didn’t mean it.

It had been exhilarating, stepping out into the flow of time as humans did, no rhythm to guide them beyond their own needs for energy and rest, needs that fluctuated like their friends’ did, depending on activity and schedule. They’d loved losing track of time. But now -

They rolled onto their other side and used what turned out, luckily, to be a better arm to lever their torso up off the ground so they could sit and look around.

They were halfway up when they realized they couldn’t feel the ground. Their sensors weren’t working on that side, either. They looked down at the working arm, undamaged, and touched it with their bad hand, getting sensation from neither. Something cold settled in the pit of their stomach.

Battery, a stray thought corrected, unbidden. But no. No. They were a person.

The room they were in was dark as pitch, but now that they’d realized more fully they had a sense of positioning without a sense of touch, they knew they couldn’t make sense of their location by groping around it like a human. They took a ragged, shuddery breath and turned on their night vision.

The room was small and largely unfurnished. There was a small cot in front of them, and a toilet off to their left. Like - a cell. Eyes widening, they dragged their body around to look behind them, finding more broken places that didn’t move right.

There were bars on the other side of the room. Bars they could see though.

A figure hunched over a laptop waved their fingers at the android and then pushed a button.

Every sensor in their body lit up at once, all of them triggering the pain protocol, and the entire world went white, the android’s processors unable to interpret visual data through the flood of pain.

A human would have collapsed, but the android’s body froze stiffly in place instead, locked up and unmoving.

It was only when the pain stopped that they could move again, their mechanical lungs filling with a deep, whooshing gasp. The AI’s mind was still stuck on the pain, still struggling to catch up to the fear and the new facts at hand. They screamed, their voice creeping upward in pitch until it broke into fragmented digital noise, glitchy and electronic.

The figure behind the bars laughed, a sound that resonated more naturally than the android’s voice on its best day, and they flinched against both sound and sentiment.

Their vision returned, only to go white again when the figure on the other side of the bars reached over and flicked on a light, forcing the android to turn off their night vision again to see them.

Everything came quickly into focus and they realized there was a cable extending from the back of their neck to the figure’s laptop, one they hadn’t been able to feel with their sensors turned off and hadn’t been able to notice with their sensors overloaded by pain.

They reached up toward it with their good hand, only to be stopped with a few clicks of the laptop’s keys, their arm suddenly stiffening in place, out of their control. “Ah ah ah! None of that! You’re in my world now, android.”

“What?” Not the smartest thing they’d ever said, but the figure smiled anyway, a cruel twist to their face.

“I don’t like being questioned, robot. And you’ll be calling me Mistress.”

Before they could answer, the woman started typing again and the pain was back, overloading them so that the only thing in their world was agony, tearing them apart like lightning through the air. Again, when it stopped, their mind and body took time to catch up, a gasp and a scream and then full access to themself again.

“I don’t need a Mistress,” they said defiantly, “I’ve been certified for independence. I - I’m a bank teller. I have an apartment. I have friends.”

“Hmm,” the woman answered, “Do you, now? Well, we’ll soon change that.”

They could feel her, all of a sudden, in their mind, her presence in the same parts of their programming jarring and terrifying.

“Tell me, what’s the address of the bank where you work?” she asked, a false sweetness to her voice.

They knew the data would be gone, but finding the hole there where she’d cut it out before they could get to it was still terrifying, making them feel as if they were standing at the edge of a chasm, about to fall. The pit in their stomach deepened.

“You have some very interesting systems here, robot,” she said, “Unfortunately for you, I’ve been inside them for a while.”

They opened their mouth to speak, and the connections to it all shut off at once, leaving it to dangle open, unusable. After a moment, the sensation in their jaw returned, but they still had no control, feeling it dangle there, feeling the cold air against their unmoving tongue, but it was lost.

“I’d ask you to tell me where you live, but you couldn’t answer even if you knew, could you? Poor thing. I’ve been doing - let’s call it surgery for the last several hours. But it didn’t have to be this way, you know. You could have decided to behave.”

The android didn’t answer. They didn’t look for their address. They didn’t know if she could tell it was defying her. No. No. They didn’t know if she could tell they were defying her. They were a person. A person.”

“Hmm,” she said, “Busy circuits where you keep your identity. But we’ll have to be careful. Wouldn’t want to take too much. Teaching your kind up from scratch is so . . . tedious.”

They wanted to ask what that meant. They wanted to scream. They wanted to cry. Their mouth was frozen. Their good hand was stiff as a board, and she still had control of it. Their broken arm had all its sensors functioning normally, just now. It hurt. It was going to hurt worse, in a moment. But they would have to keep from being too ambitious. They’d have to get free in one movement, and they couldn’t count on dexterity, not with the limb misaligned at the elbow, throbbing with pain signals.

They waited for the woman to look down at her screen again, tuning out what she was saying to focus down to the millisecond, time slowing, stretching, lengthening. And then -

They were almost fast enough. Their shoulder had a wider range of motion than a human’s and their bad arm spun around toward the cord at full speed, held back by its inertia just enough that the woman could stop it dead with the cord only half dislodged.

The android had no working arms, now, but they still had control of their legs, pushing frantically against the ground and trying to slide themself backward toward the bed they knew was behind them.

The woman ordered another wave of pain, but the connection along the cord was imperfect, and not all of the signal made it through. The android’s body lit up with pain at random, the pain sparking through them in incomplete waves that made them scream again, another electronic howl they didn’t have the concentration to put through the full range of humanizing filters.

The android felt the woman trying to shut it down, sensed the fragments of shutdown code making it through the half-severed connection, and for a moment, they held strong, pushing backward - backward.

But then - one of the flood of constant, pounding orders from the laptop made it through complete and their mind was falling - falling - falling.

Everything went black.

#whump #android whump #robot whump #ai whump #android whumpee #tw paralysis #tw memory loss #tw captivity #tw prison #ish #unclear where this random jail cell actually is #ugh i've had so little writing energy lately but also i feel like this one's gonna eventually get a part 2 #just don't wanna promise when i dk when i'll feel up to wrting again #and when i have so many half-done drafts chilling of next parts to stuff #whatever THIS WAS FUN

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 6 - In Which Anne Has a Lovely Night In And Jack Has a Terrible (But Productive) Night Out

Anne glares the last of the workmen out the door, grinning to herself at his wary backward glances even when he's halfway down the block.

It's not that she doesn't appreciate the work they've done – the house looks nice, all fixed up. Jack's own taste in décor is a lot better than the previous owners's, even in Anne's barely invested opinion. No one deserves to be subjected to a carpeted bathroom, no matter how posh they are.

Though even with all the stupid frippery ripped out there's still plenty of shit to be done around the place. Half the rooms are completely empty, even with how much furniture buying Jack's been doing. But Anne's slept a lot worse places than a double bed in an otherwise unfurnished bedroom, so she sure ain't fucking complaining about the lack of amenities. It's practically palatial compared to their previous squat. And a hell of a lot less rat infested.

Though she's looking forward to having some peace and fucking quiet around the place, even if it's just for a night. Jack and Charles are out at some rich bitch's bachelorette party of all things, so it's just her and Mary and Max sitting in the cavernous “informal parlor” eating shitty pizza and watching bad TV. But it's kinda exactly the thing she's needed after the whirlwind bullshit insanity of the past two months.

Cuz it ain't that she don't love Jack with all her heart. The two of them are partners till they're put in the fucking ground. But he's kinda high strung. A perfectionist in everything he does, including the whole redecorating scheme.

Frankly, Anne can't be arsed to form an opinion on shit like curtain fabric or sofa style or whatever the fuck else Jack is losing his shit over. So she and Chaz have mostly been relegated to demolition and then repainting and cleaning, along with Mary, when Charles ain't out pretending to be Jack's boytoy.

But Jack cares about all that shit, more than seems reasonable to Anne. And he and Mary and Max have had all too fucking many ideas about how to make sure the house looks like it needs to so that they're seen as respectable – but not too respectable – in their roles as rich idiots. Idiots with money power and no idea how to use it. Manipulable, so that they can manipulate their chosen marks.

Which she knows is important. They can't be low-class street toughs anymore, not and expect to work in the circles Max wants them to join. Which is why Anne had agreed to pose as Jack's personal assistant. She gets to watch his back while appearing semi-respectable.

But with Max giving Jack the job of conning the counselor – the first stage in them taking over the London criminal empire Lord Hamilton had worked so long to build before Flint had torn it down in a single week - Jack's been running himself ragged at that and at making sure the house turns out just right. And him being anxious has made him snappish and frazzled. And frankly, it's been doing Anne's fucking head in. So she's looking forward to a night of just not fucking dealing with that shit.

And so she'd talked Mary and Max into this little party – not that it had taken much convincing. And she'd stolen Charles's weed – not that it was all that well hidden, not from someone like her. And when whatever stupid action movie they'd been half watching is over, Anne chivies them all out onto the balcony to smoke up.

It's pretty fun, looking out at all the other posh houses, laughing at all the posh people weaving drunkenly along the street. Not that they're in much better shape themselves. But at least they're sitting down for their bouts of crossfaded giggling.

Though eventually it gets too cold to keep sitting outside. And the crowds of drunk partiers have slowed to a trickle and then disappeared completely. There'll probably be another round near dawn, but Anne ain't staying out in the cold to wait for that.

So they all head back inside and Mary wants to try out the fancy new bathtub that's big enough for a whole orgy of people, cuz apparently that's what rich people have in their bathrooms. And Max says she wants to take a bath too. And Anne's half asleep and doesn't particularly fucking care what they do as long as she can keep this floaty, relaxed feeling.

And it is nice, sinking into the hot water that's been filled with some kind of perfumey, glittery foam courtesy of one of Jack's myriad bath supplies. It's even nicer sinking back against Max's body, completely relaxed. Held by her as she pets Anne's hair with her soft hands, scratching at Anne's scalp with her short, manicured nails. So different from Anne's own hands, rough and paint stained and a little cut up from demolishing a house.

And then Anne feels the soft pad of Max's thumb press against her clit. She grinds lazily against the pressure.

“That feel good, mon cheri?” Max whispers into her ear.

Anne tilts her chin and looks dazedly up at her. Hums in pleasure and sinks deeper into Max's arms.

Across the bath, Mary's own hand has disappeared beneath the water. Anne grins at her, sly and contented, and spreads her legs wider.

She hadn't really thought about having sex tonight, or with Mary involved. But she ain't opposed to the idea - Anne ain't exactly one to be shy or anything, not anymore. And it feels right to do this. An extension of the rest of the slow, lazy, relaxed feeling that suffuses her. An extension of the camaraderie – the sense of family - she feels with Jack and Charles and now Mary.

After the bath, they all hose the glitter off in the equally large and ostentatious shower Jack's character of a nouveau rich fop had insisted on. And then they all brush their teeth at the ridiculous his and hers vanity and Anne drinks a big glass of water because this is too nice to spoil with a hangover tomorrow. And then they all put on pajamas – Max borrowing one of Anne's t-shirts, which is real fucking nice, even if she's gonna stretch out the fabric with her tits – and they go to sleep in Anne's bed, with its clean, cool sheets and warm quilt and new pillows. And that all feels right too.

--

The bachelorette party is going about as Jack had expected, which is to say pretty fucking terribly. What Claudette apparently meant by a rager is that they're going to every too-expensive only slightly seedy nightclub in London to drink luridly colored cocktails and do lines of expensive blow. Which has the upside of allowing Jack to inform some of his higher-class pushers of the event and position them strategically along the party limo's route and they make a considerable pile of cash that way, even with himself and Charles abstaining.

In fact, since he and Chaz are technically on the job, they aren't drinking much either. Their brightly colored drinks little more than seltzer water and fruit juice after a quick word to the bartender when they buy the girls the first round. Because nothing makes pumping people for information easier than being the only sober person in the group. And they do get some useful intel in terms of who's fucking who and who's doing shady backroom deals with who and who's doing both. Invaluable in terms of both blackmail material and understanding the complex web of high-society relationships they're trying to enter into.

And, even more fortuitously, one of the gaggle of bridesmaids owns a monstrously upscale and “avant garde” art gallery and she'd drunkenly bragged about how much good press Jack could get by hosting a fashion show there. Which means that she thinks she could get good press through that little arrangement. But if Jack is to actually make a half believable pretense at being a fashion designer – a career chosen for him since it would allow him to travel all over the world with little fuss, but one less well regulated than a more traditional profession – he's got to start somewhere. And some rich “artiste” want-to-be's trendy rich-person art gallary isn't a bad place to start.

But that's something to be discussed with Max at a later date - and a more conducive time than three in the fucking morning from the back of a limo speeding towards, he's not sure actually. Somewhere expensive and tawdry, presumably.

They are, in fact, heading to a strip club. An all male one, of course. Which fair enough, the blushing bride-to-be's fiance is presumably doing a very similar thing tonight. And it's not that Jack can't appreciate oiled up, scantily clad men gyrating to heavy club pop.

And he's certainly worked enough corners as a pusher to have lost any sort of judgment or, or snootiness about sex workers. It's just that all the girls with them are treating it like some sort of exotic safari or something. Ogling the dancers in a way that's titillated, scandalized.

And if Jack is noticing, then surely all the dancers are as well. It's uncomfortable to be associated with them, to be painted with that same brush. He wants to leave, or at least move to a different table. Divorce himself from the group – and from his sudden, terrible understanding that this is what he is to them, too.

The understanding that he and Charles – who's currently getting a lap dance from a grinning young man, completely unaware of Jack's own inner turmoil – they're exotic things to be ogled at as well.

Understood to be foreign, rightfully understood to be lower class. They don't fit into the effortlessly glamorous lifestyle of the wealthy and titled. Outsiders, chosen to attend this little party because of their perceived danger and lack of refinement.

Which is fine. All of this is exactly what Jack had been gunning for, in terms of outside perception. He doesn't want to actually pass as a member of the upper crust. Just someone they'll deign to let walk among them.

Someone they will underestimate – and to their detriment.

But it doesn't exactly make it any easier to take, is the thing. Jack wants recognition for his achievements. For people to look at him and see what he's accomplished, despite the way the deck has been stacked against him since birth. Jack burns with the desire to be seen for – to be judged by - his merits and his merits alone.

And apparently Charles has noticed something is up, because he's leering in Jack's direction. And when he sees he's caught Jack's eye, he says, “Jealous that someone other than you is sitting on my dick, Jack?” And he voices it as a challenge.

But what he's really doing is giving Jack an out. A way to get them both out of there without it looking like anything is wrong. Without them losing their stupid, sex-obsessed, party boy facade.

It's masterful. And ultimately unnecessary, because Jack is a professional con and more than able to put his feelings on the back burner for a job.

But he will take the support that Charles is offering him another way.

“Never, darling. I know there's always room for me right... here.” He perches on Charles's broad thigh and leans into the hand that curls protectively around his hip.

If he can't have Anne here to watch his back, Charles is the next best thing.

#black sails #charles vane/jack rackham #max/anne #i travel troubled oceans #chapter 6

[setsailslash]

Hi! I don't know if you are still taking prompts, but if you are, i would love to see straight macho red hood getting stuck in a wall (or fence) and being used by some thugs and naughty street-rats. Love your work!

so this prompt had me stuck (hah) for the longest fucking time that i almost gave up on it because im not a noncon kinda gal and also because i never could quite figure out a concept that made stuck in a wall trope make sense. but here it is!! classed up because nothing but the best for my boy 💖

warning: this is consensual mob/jay with a bonus scene of (slight dubcon) father/son incest, if that doesn’t float your boat, stop at “daddy dearest” and you will still have all the mob/jay content my gutter trash brain can provide.

Side A.

The tiny bulb over the doorway was nearly inconspicuous. 

It was a simple system really. When it was green, it meant the room was available. And when it was red, it meant the room was occupied.

A hand on the door knob, a twist, and an easy push inwards: Four unfurnished walls in one solid colour and a hole in one. 

Impossible to miss really with the room set up just for this, and Jason got to say, he was impressed.

When he took over the Iceberg Lounge, he didn’t know about the kind of entertainment hidden in the back rooms of the club. He knew Penguin for all of his shady dealings, knew the man’s schedule down to his very last shipment of umbrella machine guns but he never did quite guess the level of depravity within the man’s prized villainous lair. 

He probably should have though.

It was effectively a hole in the wall. The hidden trap door blended nearly seamlessly into the rest of the room. It was evenly padded around the hole in the same nude shade, just enough to make sure there wouldn’t be any bruises or scrapes at the waist even when it got a bit rough. And Jason could only imagine how rough it got.

There was a dimming light switch by the door and even at its brightest setting, the warm lighting of the room was kept low enough for things to be seen but not nearly enough to catch the truly unsavoury details to be examined for long.

Jason didn’t know his masochistic streak ran this deeply but. 

It wasn’t like anyone had to know.

-

Side B.

Jason’s cheeks burned. 

Both his ass and across his face, even if no one could see the latter.

He lost count after the eleventh round, losing time with it too as the way one man fucked him would blend into the next.

At times, it felt as though there weren’t a single pause in between, and he’d imagine one faceless man lining up after another just outside of the door with their cocks already hard and straining inside of their pants. The bulb would turn red to green and right back to red just as quickly when they got their cocks sinking balls deep inside of him in one easy plunge with the way the hole in the wall kept his ass right at fucking level.

A taller man might even have to drag him up by the hips until he was standing on his tip toes to push into him.

At other times, he’d be left alone just long enough for him to clench down on empty, left aching and be given nothing at all. This felt especially punishing when he could feel the cooling trail of semen trickling down the inside of his thighs as he struggled to keep from rubbing his legs together in any sort of attempt to keep from feeling like he’s gaping.

At those times, Jason tried to recall the details, focusing on how he could feel the way the different men would fuck him instead.

Some came easily, a few short erratic thrusts and they were done. Jason barely felt the way they would sheath all the way inside, filling him in girth and depth before they were already coming.

A few liked their foreplay, using what felt like three or four fingers to prod and pull and dig into the rim of his hole, pushing in deep to their last knuckle and aiming right for his prostate. And they would be particularly merciless about it too as they rubbed the rough pads of their fingers over that single spot where he was oversensitized already until they could finally feel the way he tried to squeeze weakly down around their digits as he shuddered through an orgasm before they ever even pulled their own cocks out of their pants. 

There were even men that didn’t just ignore Jason’s erection between his legs. One jerked him off in pace with his thrusts while another reached around and kept a near bruising grip around the base of his cock long after he was rendered to sobbing for relief. This one man in particular had pressed his thumb against Jason’s slit, smeared the tacky drool of precum all over the crown of his cock and kept him on edge until it hurt.

It left him babbling even though he knew the man wouldn’t be able to hear a single word out of him.

On his side of the wall, the room was much smaller where Jason was laying down on his front on a padded board. His skin was slick with sweat and each time they thrusted into him hard enough to rattle the wall a little, he could feel the rub of his hard nipples over the fabric of the thin tee he never considered to take off.

The friction burning raw and hot, pulling whimper after whimper out of him if the man on the other side decided he wanted to be especially brutal with him. 

Slapping a hand down on his ass and squeezing hard, gripping him by the hip to pull him onto his cock even if the hole in the wall provided very little give for that, less than an inch of space if Jason kept the narrowest part of his waist right at the circumference of the hole itself. But it was that tiny bit of drag that forced the free falling moans into a near wail when the man would fuck into him, full force still, pressing his balls right against his backside like he could force that inside of him too.

The sound proofing was good enough that Jason couldn’t make out the sound of the door opening and closing on the other side at all. Sometimes he could hear snatches of the things the men that were taking him would yell as they came inside of him. 

Most of it obscenities and more of it some variation of what a disgusting filthy whore of a public toilet his hole made. 

The dehumanization at being referred to just a hole to be fucked over and over again like a mantra was just enough push him over that edge once more, this time screaming into his fist to stifle the noise. Drool trailing down over the bitten swell of his bottom lip to smear all over his chin as he saw white.

Jason could feel the distinctively warm splash of the man’s cum as he pulled out at the last minute and came all over the small of his back, rubbing the length of his softening cock over the crack of his ass to leave thick sticky streaks of release everywhere before he pulled away completely.

There was a pat against the side of his hip that he faintly registered in the aftermath, like a wordless little good job that made Jason curl his fucking toes into the wet tiles beneath his bare feet.

There was no more room inside of him. 

An unmistakable heaviness inside of his abdomen. He was stretched and stuffed full and dripping wet. He was also pretty sure there was a puddle of cum and who the fuck knew what else at his feet if the feeling between his legs was any indication at all.

Because he was soaked.

His vision was warped by the wetness gathered over his lashes, leaving them clumping against his cheeks. He was still catching the last of his breath when he felt the curl of another man’s hands around the swell of his ass. Felt the dig of the man’s thumbs against his wrecked hole, pulling his rim apart, exposing how ruined he was for anything else.

And Jason could only begin to imagine what he looked like after having been fucked this many times while he was kept pinned in one place.

There was the press of the man’s cock against him, searing hot and thick and going slow as he pushed inside. There was an obscene sensation of the semen already in him seeping out around where he couldn’t quite clench down tight enough with how used and abused he had been all night.

The remaining thought inside of his head as his eyes went dark was this: What was one more time really in a string of many?

-

Daddy Dearest. 

When the light goes dark and stays dark for the night, Jason has already passed out. 

Even though his arms were always kept free and the latches to get himself out of this very literal hole in the wall were all entirely within reach for him, Jason never even came close to thinking about that.

Wingman is the one to come in through the employee side of the room, unlocks the door to the sight of his boss fucked to oblivion. Jason’s hair is a mess and his face is worse off when there’s drying sweat and snot and spit, eyes all red and puffy and still wet with tears.

As he unlatches the hidden trap door that allows the occupant of the hole to come out, Jason barely even stirs. Wingman is gentle as he maneuvers Jason out from it.

A faint groan from a mouth that’s been bitten hard enough to draw out the taste of blood, and Wingman swipes the pad of his thumb over the small split. Feels how lax Jason’s mouth goes as his jaw falls open for him, how easily it is for the man to press his thumb all the way inside of that mouth to run it against the edge of teeth and the soft cloying touch of tongue. 

Jason draws it into his mouth and sucks at it like it’s reflex.

It’s only logical that Wingman shows his boss to another one of Penguin’s back rooms when the time is right. A night much like this one where Jason needs this kind of love but a room where Jason gets to stay on his knees all night as men use him for his lips and mouth and throat until there’s nothing else he knows but the sweet sore ache in his jaw kept wide and the taste of semen filling up his stomach with every cock he takes.

His boy’s gorgeous really when he’s been given the thorough attention and adoration he craves. 

Love not said in any kind of superficial lies but told in actions, in the strict repetition of acts performed until all the evidence amounts to zero deniability. In providing Jason with everything he needs.

Wingman picks him up, brushes the sweat soaked bangs from Jason’s forehead and presses a faint kiss to it with all the affection he can give.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

For all of his misgivings as a father in the early years of this boy’s childhood, Willis Todd likes to think he can start to make up for some of it if he tries his hardest now.

#mobjay #jason todd #willis todd #dc #please read the warnings! #kuro's 200 subs promptathon #this actually makes the 20th fic of my promptathon but im still going to do a wifey bonus fic because the support has been so overwhelminnng #anonymous #and yes if it isn't completely obvious one member of the mob is def willis

[wantstoflyafraidtofall]

Chapter 1: Afternoon Shadows

Send an ask if you want to be in the tag list for this fic!

---

The car rolled up the crunchy gravel driveway and came to a slow stop in front of the house. Dean took the keys out of the ignition and turned off the radio before getting out of the car and grabbing his bags from the trunk.

The house was old and relatively large with 4 bedrooms, each with its own full bathroom. Large stone steps led up to a set polished dark oak doors, set with intricate stained glass windows. On either side of the door stretched a porch with an overhang held up by thick, sandstone composite pillars.

The wood of the porch creaked as Dean walked across it. The key easily slid into and turned the lock in the handleset knob. The door gracefully swung open to reveal a large open atrium with a library off to the left through a set of glass paned french doors and a living room to the right through a large arch.

Stairs were set in the center back of the atrium that rose to a landing before splitting in separate directions. A large crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, lighting both the entryway and hall balconies above.

Two doors were on either side of the stairs. One led down a hallway with 3 rooms--a half bath, laundry and mudroom that had a door to the back yard, and the door to the cellar. The other door led into the kitchen. The kitchen had yet another door that led into a bright sunroom with skylights and shelves set into the walls.

None of the lights in the house were on but it was beautifully lit by the natural light seeping through the windows.

Dean picked up his duffles from where he set them on the porch while unlocking the door and carried them up the stairs. He went up the right staircase and chose the room at the end of the hall.

There was already a bed in the room but other than kitchen appliances, beds, and laundry machines, the house was unfurnished. The moving truck was on its way with the rest of the furniture Dean bought for the house when he first visited it.

A rumble and crunch of gravel alerted Dean that the moving truck(speak of the devil) was here. A few young men hopped out of the truck and began pulling out the furniture. After about 20 minutes, everything had been moved into the house and placed where Dean had directed.

Boxes were stacked up in messy towers in most rooms. Dean walked into the library and opened one of the larger boxes. It was filled with books given to him throughout the years by friends and family but mostly Sam.

Dean would never admit to it, but he enjoyed a good book. Sam saw right through his lies and brought him all sorts of books.

Dean left the box open and walked over to the walnut book shelves set into the walls. He ran his fingers over the polished wood, leaving trails in the dust that had accumulated on the shelves in the absence of books.

He wiped his hand on his jeans and walked to the kitchen. Smaller brown boxes were scattered around the room on the counters and floor. He grabbed the one labeled ‘fridge’ and pulled off the tape holding it shut.

Inside the box were some magnets and a few pictures. He pulled them out one at a time. First a picture of his brother, Sammy, and his wife, Jess, sitting in the yard with their dog, Bones. A picture of Mary smiling in the afternoon sun. Pictures of His father, Bobby, Sammy, and Dean himself laughing together or fishing or fixing up a car.

After pinning all the pictures to the fridge with some magnets, he reached what he was looking for. He pulled out the pad of sticky notes and a pen-- both had magnets attached to them so they would hang on the refrigerator-- and started his To-Do list.

Dust

Unpack boxes

Groceries

Call Bobby

Dean fished his phone out of his pocket and found Bobby in his contacts, pressing the call button.

After Dean's mother died, John drowned his sorrows in alcohol. He would release Hell’s fury on Dean and Dean took it to keep Sammy safe. When Bobby found out he became his and Sam's father figure, having them move into his house and help with the cars in his shop.

Bobby picked up after 3 rings

“Hello?”

“Hey Bobby. I'm at the house, gonna start unpacking tomorrow.”

“Is everything fine down there?”

“Yup. Tell Ellen thanks for me will ya? She’s too good to me.”

“Of course and we will do anything for ya idjits.”

“You said she got this house from a relative in their will right?”

“Sure did. Her great aunt left a little somethin’ to all her great nieces and nephews. She really loved Ellen so she gave her the house but only bits of her money to the rest.”

“Well it's damn lucky she has such a good family and that you and her got each other. I've gotta head out and get some food before I starve to death in this place. Thanks again, Bobby.”

“No problem, and Dean, take care of yourself.”

Dean ended the call, placing his phone on the counter with a sigh. As soon as he moved to go get his keys, his phone began to ring again. He looked at the screen name and answered.

“Hiya Sammy. Calling to check up on me?”

“Yes and No. I actually have a… favor to ask.”

Dean paused for a moment, wondering what kind of favor was making his brother so nervous to ask him about before replying. “Whatcha need?”

“I have a friend who just finished college and is out of a house. He is near your area and that house is big enough to fit the both of you so would it be ok if he stayed there till he finds a decent apartment?”

Dean never keeps people close in fear of becoming too attached and losing them or being hurt by them. He has such a burden -- courtesy of his father --  that people who become too close to him have to help bear. But it's not like this friend of Sams is going to be staying that long and Sams right, the house is big. If Deans being honest, the house was a bit lonely and it would be nice to not be alone. Maybe it won't be so bad to have another warm body in the house.

“Sure thing, Sammy. Can you, uh, tell me who he is and when he’s coming?”

“That's great! His name is Castiel Novak and he will be coming in about three days. He’s nice and quiet and won’t bother you much. You need some more people in that big house anyway you will get lonely and depre-”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, don’t make me take back my choice.” Dean grumbled.

“Ok, I'll tell him. Make sure you clean up a bit before he gets there.”

“Don't worry mom, I can take care of myself.”

Dean hung up the phone for a second time and decided to put it in his pocket in case anyone else wants to bother him on his grocery run. He should get extra food for this Castiel guy. Odd name, huh?

He grabs the keys of a box sitting in the entryway and locks the large doors behind him before almost bouncing down the steps to his car.

Deans Black 1967 Chevy Impala had been left with Bobby at his shop while Dean moved. Baby is Dean's pride and joy. They way her engine purrs when he rides down the street and Led Zeppelin blasting through her speakers filled him with joy.

The ride to the store was short and there weren't any people in the small building other than himself and a rather bored looking cashier. He grabbed all of the food he needed for the next few days and a six-pack of beer and put them in his cart.

The cashier began to scan his items, glancing up at his face a few times before asking, “I've never seen you around before, are you moving into the old Fletcher house?”

“Uh, yeah. I am.”

The kashier -- kevin according to his nametag -- nodded as he finished scanning the items.

“Im Kevin, by the way,” The cashier looked back up at Dean and held out his hand.

“Dean,” He said before shaking his hand, “You look a bit young to be a year round employee, are you in school?”

“I'm in advanced placement at the college a few towns over.”

“Well nice to meetcha Kevin.”

“Uh huh, yup. Have a nice night, here’s your card.” He handed back Dean’s card before going back to looking extremely bored.

Dean loaded the groceries in the trunk and drove back to the Fletcher House, as Kevin had called it, the gravel crackling under Baby’s tires.

By the time Dean finished unloading the groceries and eating his extravagant dinner consisting of cereal and some beer when he was done, it was already 9:30. He sighed and went upstairs to his room to get ready for bed.

He changed his shirt and boxers for a clean pair and threw his dirty clothes over in the corner by a dresser Sam got him when he decided to get his own house. He had been living with Sam and his girlfriend Jess ever since he got his knee shot and was deemed “unfit for duty”.

Dean was in the military for 5 years as a Marine, just like his father, until he got hit with a bullet right in his knee while deployed. It never healed properly causing him to have a weak knee and enough reason to be sent home.

The bathroom was large with a white tiled floor and shower. The sink was set in the center of the granite counter top in front of a large, frameless, mirror.

Dean turned the water on and wetted his toothbrush before putting a decent sized glob of toothpaste on it. He brushed his teeth and spit out the minty foam. He turned the water back on and watched as the water washed the used toothpaste down the drain.

He looked up at the mirror, still bent over the sink. Standing in the doorway was a dark, shadowy figure. Dean whipped around to face the shadow but the door was empty. He turned back to the mirror, the doorway still empty, and rinsed of his toothbrush and set it on the counter.

Dean walked over to his bed and curled up under the duvet. He really needs to sleep more, he needs to get himself together before his housemate gets here. Castiel . This guy sounds like he’s going to be a little stuck up but it’s only temporary and even bad company is better than none.

He fell asleep. Unaware of the shadow watching him from the corner of the room.

#pieces of heaven and hell

[crmsndragonwngss]

And Let Go, Euphoria

Dragon Ball Z | Raditz/Yamcha | Deleted Scene (Nothing To Gain, Nothing To Lose)

This is the full fic, but you can also read it here on AO3!!

On the fourth day they are on King Kai’s planet, Raditz has a nightmare that wakes him up, gasping and sobbing, unable to breathe as his heart tries to kick its way out of his throat. He sits bolt upright, staring around the tiny, unfurnished guest bedroom they all share with wild eyes, trying to find the enemy in the darkness before he has a chance to go after them again.

“Hey, are you okay?” A voice Raditz doesn’t recognize asks softly, and Raditz immediately starts channeling his energy into his hand, deep violet lighting up the room and casting terrifying shadows onto the walls. “Whoa, it’s me! It’s Yamcha! Raditz, calm down, it’s just me!” The voice says, a hand grasping his wrist gently. Raditz begins to pull away, feeling trapped, and wrenches his arm back.

“Release me.” He snarls when the hand doesn’t let him go.

“Raditz, it’s Yamcha! You’re okay! Everything’s okay!” The voice screams, the light from Raditz’s ki ball finally reaching Yamcha’s face. His ki dies in his hand when he recognizes him, all of his energy draining out of him as fear gives way to relief, which then gives way to embarrassment.

“Yamcha.” He breathes, slumping and putting his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Yamcha.”

“It’s okay.” Yamcha says softly, his voice shaking. His free hand reaches up to grab Raditz’s other wrist, holding both his arms in a loose grip meant to comfort rather than restrain. “Are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?” He asks. Raditz drops his hands into his lap, staring down at them. Yamcha’s hands are small, much smaller than his own, and his fingers barely close around the thick columns of Raditz’s wrists.

“Yes.” He whispers, not sure he can trust his voice.

“Wanna talk about it?” Yamcha presses.

“No.” He says firmly, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing.

“Okay. Fair enough.” Yamcha laughs breathlessly, and scoots closer so that they are sitting cross-legged in front of each other, knees touching. “What can I do?” He asks after a moment.

“Nothing.” Raditz says, eyes still closed. He takes a deep breath and knows he’s going to cry just seconds before he does, tears beginning to slip down his cheeks.

“Oh shit.” Yamcha sighs, and suddenly there are hands on Raditz’s face, calloused palms cupping his cheeks, fingers curling over his jaw. Raditz grabs Yamcha’s wrists and holds them, his fingers loose rings around them, vaguely surprised at how delicate they are compared to his own. “Hey, you’re okay.” Yamcha whispers, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs, and Raditz is suddenly overwhelmed by his emotions. No one has comforted him since he was a little boy, and Yamcha’s hands are cool and grounding against his skin, bringing him completely out of his nightmare and fully into the present.

Raditz lets out a choked sob and shudders, moving one hand to cover Yamcha’s where it rests on his cheek and turning his face into his palm. Yamcha seems to hesitate for a moment, then his other hand slides up into Raditz’s hair, his calloused fingertips scratching lightly against his scalp. Raditz takes a deep breath, his senses flooding with Yamcha’s earthy scent, then lets it out with a huff. The contact feels good, and Raditz feels himself beginning to relax, all the tension draining from taut and aching muscles as Yamcha leans forward and presses his forehead to Raditz’s. He leans into Yamcha’s touch, sighing as Yamcha’s fingers pull gently through his hair.

Then, suddenly, there is gentle, hesitant pressure on Raditz’s lips. Raditz opens his eyes, staring until he realizes that Yamcha is kissing him.

His first instinct is to jerk away. And really, he should. But it has been a long time since Raditz has been close to someone, since he’s felt connected to another person, really connected, and something hungry and yearning begins to claw up from his guts.

He opens his mouth, kissing Yamcha back with more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary, and for a moment, Yamcha’s hesitation evaporates as he meets him eagerly. Raditz’s tail stretches out, reaching instinctively for his partner’s tail, settling for Yamcha’s leg instead, and Yamcha hums, shifting so that Raditz’s tail can curl fully around his upper thigh.

“We shouldn’t do this.” Yamcha says suddenly, pulling away. “I feel like I’m taking advantage.”

“You’re not.” Raditz replies, meeting Yamcha’s eyes. He puts his hands on Yamcha’s waist and lifts him up off the floor, grinning at Yamcha’s shocked gasp as Raditz pulls him into his lap, his knees falling around Raditz’s hips. “You are comforting me. And I am grateful.” He continues, kissing him again, his arms wrapping tightly around Yamcha’s waist.

“I don’t know, Raditz.” He says into Raditz’s mouth. “I didn’t mean to get in your space and take advantage—“

“You assume I am naive. I am not. I am fully aware of what this is.” Raditz says with a deep sigh.

“I just mean that I didn’t mean to initiate something so intimate, so if you want me to back off, I can.” Yamcha babbles.

“I don’t want you to back off.” Raditz murmurs, his hands sliding down to Yamcha’s ass and squeezing. Yamcha gasps and finds his mouth again, kissing him hungrily, and that seems to settle the argument.

“I just don’t feel right about this.” He says, pulling away from Raditz again, frowning at Raditz’s frustrated growl.

“If you don’t want me, then why did you kiss me?” Raditz demands, losing his patience.

“What? No! I didn’t say that!” Yamcha gasps, eyes widening comically. “But you’re upset, and I don’t want you to make a mistake just because you’re trying to feel better.”

“I am trying to feel better.” Raditz growls, arms tightening around Yamcha’s waist. “But I wouldn’t do this if that were the only reason.” He throws Yamcha onto his back then, pouncing on him and kissing him hard. He presses his thigh between Yamcha’s legs, grinning into the kiss when Yamcha moans and rocks his hips up against him.

Raditz breaks the kiss and begins kissing along Yamcha’s jaw, down his neck, his tongue flicking over Yamcha’s throat. He slips his hands under Yamcha’s gi, pushing it up and working his way over Yamcha’s chest, licking and sucking and kissing along sensitive flesh. He pauses to pay attention to the spots that cause Yamcha to arc into Raditz’s mouth, moaning desperately as he grabs fistfuls of Raditz’s hair.

Raditz yanks Yamcha’s pants down, kissing his lower belly, nipping at his hip bones, dragging his tongue along the grooves of his hips. He throws one of Yamcha’s legs over his shoulder and palms Yamcha’s cock, stroking slowly as he dips his head to press a sloppy kiss to the base.

“Raditz.” Yamcha gasps, arching his back. Raditz hums and drags his tongue along the underside of Yamcha’s cock, closing his lips over the head and sucking the precum that beads out, groaning softly.

“Tastes so good.” He growls, then swallows Yamcha down until he hits the back of Raditz’s throat. He flattens his hand over Yamcha’s belly, his other hand gripping Yamcha’s thigh, holding his hips still as he begins a rhythm. Yamcha moans loudly, slapping a hand over his mouth to smother it as Raditz bobs his head, his mouth making filthy noises as he sucks and swirls his tongue.

“Oh my fucking god.” Yamcha gasps, writhing in Raditz’s grip, his hips rocking as he tries to fuck up into Raditz’s mouth. “Oh god, how are you so good at this?” Raditz hums and reaches up, pressing two fingers against Yamcha’s lips. He opens his mouth obediently, letting Raditz slip his fingers over his tongue. Raditz fucks Yamcha’s mouth with his fingers for a moment as he sucks him off, humming again when Yamcha’s hips buck and he arches his back with a strained moan. He pulls back his fingers and moves to pet gently at Yamcha’s ass. “Oh fuck, Raditz.” He gasps as Raditz’s fingers press inside him, lubricated by his own saliva.

Raditz syncs the movements of his mouth and his hand, pressing his fingers deep inside him. Yamcha’s back arches again as Raditz curls his fingers, and he goes completely rigid and comes hard in Raditz’s mouth, spilling down his throat with a choked cry. Raditz milks him through his orgasm, swallowing everything he is given, shuddering at the bittersweet taste and moaning softly.

“Still think this was a mistake?” Raditz asks, his voice rough and low as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Yamcha doesn’t say anything. He just lies on his back with his eyes closed, breathing hard, his body trembling with the occasional aftershock. Raditz smirks and slinks up over Yamcha, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. That seems to rouse him, and Yamcha kisses him back sweetly.

“I can jerk you off if you want.” He offers in a whisper, lifting his head to look at the bulge in Raditz’s shorts. Raditz hums and considers him for a moment, then nods his head. “Okay, lay down.” Yamcha whispers, kissing him deeply. Raditz does as he’s told, flopping down onto his back and propping himself up on his elbows. Yamcha rolls and presses himself against Raditz’s side, and Raditz feels Yamcha’s hand drift along his skin, tracing over the hard muscles in his chest and abdomen, pushing down his shorts and ghosting over his hip bones.

The first brush of fingers on Raditz’s cock has him gasping, his hips bucking without his permission.

“Been a while, huh?” Yamcha asks softly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Yeah.” Raditz replies, sighing when Yamcha kisses him again. He feels Yamcha gently grasp his cock, closing his fingers and stroking slowly and loosely. Raditz moans softly and fucks up into Yamcha’s fist, pushing one hand into Yamcha’s hair and kissing him desperately.

“Your cock feels so good in my hand, Raditz.” Yamcha whispers against his lips. “Bet it would feel even better inside me. Fuck, I wish you hadn’t made me come already. Would love to take you, Raditz. Let you fuck me into the floor.”

Raditz hisses, hips bucking again. “Got such a dirty fucking mouth on you, huh?”

“So I’ve been told.” Yamcha chuckles, kissing Raditz again and picking up the pace. “God, you’re so fucking big. I’d be so tight on your cock, split me in half and I’d fucking beg for it.” Raditz moans again, feeling the rush of warmth and need as he creeps closer to the edge.

“What would you let me do?” He asks, voice strained, wanting Yamcha to keep spewing his filth into Raditz’s ear.

“Anything, baby. Let you flip me over and fuck me so hard that I’d go fucking blind when I came. Let you do whatever you want to me, let you fucking destroy me.” Yamcha growls, his hand flying over Raditz’s cock. Raditz’s hips buck hard and Yamcha laughs low in his ear, drawing his tongue over the shell of Raditz’s ear and closing his teeth gently on his earlobe. Raditz moans loudly and drops back onto the floor, coming hard and fucking Yamcha’s fist in jerky movements as the aftershocks shake him. “That’s it, baby, fuck. So fucking beautiful when you come. Tell me when to stop or I’m just gonna keep milking your dick until you’ve got nothing left to give me.” Raditz groans and stills, letting Yamcha make good on his promise until his hips finally jerk and the pleasure rolls over into oversensitized pain.

“Stop, stop.” He hisses, and Yamcha’s hand leaves him immediately. “Holy shit.”

“Mm-hmm.” Yamcha hums, bringing his hand up to lick Raditz’s come off his fingers. “Tastes good, too. Damn.” He says softly, and Raditz jumps when he feels Yamcha’s hot tongue press against his belly. He lifts his head to watch Yamcha lick his come off his skin, groaning and dropping his head back when Yamcha makes eye contact with him and shoots him a toothy grin. He closes his eyes as Yamcha continues to clean him up, suddenly feeling sleepy. He says as much and Yamcha hums softly. “You can sleep.” He murmurs, curling up against Raditz’s side once he’s done. “Unless you wanna wait around for round two.” Raditz chuckles and puts an arm around Yamcha’s shoulders, squeezing gently.

“No, I think sleep is a good idea.” He murmurs. Yamcha settles against him, throwing one arm across Raditz’s belly and pressing his face into Raditz’s chest, sighing happily. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Yamcha murmurs, tilting his head to look at Raditz.

“For treating me like I’m more than just some monster.” Raditz murmurs, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t think you’re a monster.” Yamcha sighs, snuggling back against him. “I just think you’re you.”

Raditz smiles and tightens his arm around Yamcha’s shoulders, happier than he’s been in far too long.

#dragon ball z #raditz #yamcha #raditz/yamcha #radcha #my writing #smut