#this is him post prison so hes all sorts of fucked up

[llitchilitchi]

me and @oduvany binged Redwall together a little while ago so I decided to doodle a DSMP/Redwall crossover feat. mice c!DTeam, fieldmouse c!Tommy and dormouse C!Punz

#ert #sketchbook #dsmp #c!dream #c!George #c!Sapnap #c!Tommy #c!Punz #this is just some very simple sketches with a light one to two layers of watercolour on top for colour #i didnt bother painting dxd #dream's tail-dagger is inspired by cluny's very similar weapon #this is him post prison so hes all sorts of fucked up #the tommy-dream interaction is supposed to be the season finale at the prison #the 'take off your mask dream' moment #please watch redwall its such a good show and its up on youtube For Free #these are from forever ago if Im entirely honest but then every single controversy happened at once so i hesitated posting it at all #this is for all my c!dre mouse enthusiasts

[chirpsythismorning]

📝 💐 🛼 💔⏪️💭🧊🌄❤️‍🩹

I Know There's Something's Going On by Frida

previous ⏮️ now playing ⏭️ next back to playlist

Special Features

El's Not Stupid

#byler #stranger things #bizarre love triangle playlist #el hopper #el's pov #for all the 'el know's something's going on' truthers out there #this one's for you #i'm sort of 50/50 on it #mostly because i think it's less that she knows what's going on literally and more that she senses that something is going on #i made a post about this a while back where i go over all the times el has overheard things (link in special features) #most moments involve mike and when you look at it all together it's hard not to think el is starting to connect the dots #'i can see that it won't be long. you grow cold when you keep holding on' #that second part is so fucking painful but also true #mike is trying to act like he's in love with el only to keep coming up short. and then when the act ends he's suddenly treating her coldly #aka he grows cold when he keeps holding on #mike resents himself for feeling obligated to be with el because she told him she loves him and it's the least he can do #and we all know obligation can be a prison... #'you know you've changed and your words they're lies. that's something you can't deny' #'if you want to leave then why don't you say it? your love is gone anyway.' #'i know there's something going on' #the shot choice for the gif is less about el literally in this moment sensing that something is going on #and more just the imagery itself hitting us over the head with this concept #again it also reminds me of all the times she's overheard things bc the imagery itself seems like she's spying/thinking about these two boy #but in s4 specifically she's overheard several things in regards to will and mike #so it's really not gonna take much at this point for her to figure out just what is going on... #all it will honestly take is her seeing will's painting and finding out it was for mike all along #if and when that happens? #it. is. over. #4x09 #gif

[netherfeildren]

Meet Me in the New Year

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary:  “We’re havin’ a baby this year,” voice boyish and shy and full of excitement and love. 

You peer up at him, cheek smushed against the ball of his shoulder. “We are.”

“Ready?”

You nod, slow, pulling his head down for another kiss. “Happy New Year, Joel.”

-OR-

The New Year's Eve AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; New Year's Eve AU; Devoted Joel Miller; Established Relationship; Ringing in the New Year with your baby daddy like God intended; More fucking in your childhood home shenanigans; Pregnancy sex; Needy behavior; Older man/Younger woman; Daddy kink; Unprotected PIV; Creampie; Meet me in St. Louis is the best Christmas movie ever; Breeding Kink; Pregnancy Kink; Size Difference; How does one tag fingering?; Fluff and Smut; Praise Kink; PWP

A/N: One last post for 2023, and of course, I had to do a few of my favorite things; daddy Joel, creampies and pregnancy sex, yeehaw. Here's to a new year of more of the same, but WORSE and nastier.

I should be put in prison next year probably like omg but whatever. Have fun, I love you all lots!

This is a sort of follow up to Evermore

Word Count: 2.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

MEET ME IN THE NEW YEAR

“Joel, what time is it?”

He looks down at you, tender look in his eye, dragging that big hand of his through your hair. Tresses slightly sleep damp and warm at the roots and gradually growing cooler towards the ends. Your parent’s living room is dark, only the warm shine of the Christmas tree coming from the front hall peering in around the corner into the comfortable, warm den. Meet me in St. Louis plays on mute on the flatscreen, Judy Garland rushing over to give John Truett a piece of her mind on Tootie’s behalf. “Look who it is. Thought I’d lost you for the night.” 

You groan, stretching your legs as far as the couch allows, knees popping hollowly, little toes splaying wide within the sweaty confines of the fuzzy Christmas socks he’d put in your stocking and which you’d been sporting for the past six days. You yawn wide, nose scrunching up at him and turning to nuzzle your face into his lap where you’ve been on and off dozing for the evening. Dinner had been so, so good, browned butter steak and baked potatoes and heirloom tomato, mozzarella salad, and you were so full and so warm and so content beyond imagining. “No… I’m awake,” you mumble against his thigh. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight, I reckon.”

You turn to look up at him, giving him a scrunchy faced smile, “Didn’t miss it, ha. Knew it.”

“Oh, did ya?” His palm moves over the bowl of your skull to cup and squeeze the tender nape of your neck, big fingers gently kneading the fine, tight muscles there. “Gonna ring in the New Year with me, sweet girl?” Mhmm, you moan, nuzzling further against his sweats and the thick heaviness of his half hard cock. 

“You’re hard, daddy,” you whisper up at him while his fingertips slip beneath the neck of your pullover, running down the notches of your spine to reach your waist. He pauses there, his hand curving over the growing swell of your bump. 

He groans, head dropping onto the back of the sofa, and brings his other hand up to rub across his whiskered mouth. “Don’t fucking start.” You know it makes him crazy when you call him that, but you’d told him that you now have the excuse that he is actually going to be a daddy again, and so it’s only nothing but the truth. 

You press your fingertips to your mouth, hiding away your laughing smile. Your first Christmas as a little family of three. Sarah was away with her mother this year since she’d gotten Christmas with the two of you last year, and so the two of you’d decided to come to your parents house again, like you’d done for Thanksgiving last year. You’d been here for a week now, and Joel was starting to lose patience. The lack of alone time was needling as evidenced by the now fully hard and slightly pulsing erection digging into your cheek. 

He rolls his head to peer down at you, mock, chastising frown as he drags his hand over the small swell and up to your naked breast, squeezing gently. “We’ve been here too fuckin’ long.” And you moan, hiding your face against his thigh as he pinches your nipple, rolling it softly between his fingertips, thumb dragging around the sensitive puffiness of your areola. Your whole body had been, for the past several weeks, a coiled tight ball of nerves, everything swollen, everything wet, everything needing him. Like your skin knew, knew he’d been the one to do this to you, and wanted it more, wanted it again. 

You squeeze your thighs together, legs shifting and sliding against each other to relieve the knot of want he’s spin, spin, spinning with his fingers plucking at your breast. He switches to the other one, hand sliding beneath the heavy weight to lift it into his palm and squeeze. You turn to look up at him now, eyes wide when you can’t control the sound of the moan he forces out of you, mouth falling open, panting. Your breasts, going all tight and hot, needing his sucking mouth. “Joel–”

“What?” He teases, pulling his hand from beneath your sweatshirt and shifting to sit you up and press you back the opposite way on the couch, crawling over you to settle between your thighs he pushes open for himself, slightly to the side and sure to not crush you. “If your father catches us,” he whispers with wet lips moving across your throat, that same hand sneaking its way back under your sweatshirt, tongue against your pulse, “he can’t be mad, sweetheart. Already fucked you full’a my baby. Damage s’already done,” he snickers, mouth latching at your carotid, pulling hard enough you know he’s purposely trying to leave a mark. 

“You’re so bad,” you moan, arching up into his hand on your breast, his hot, sucking mouth. You want it on your cunt, you want that thick cock he’s rubbing against you, inside. He’s right, you’ve been at your parents house too long, too far into your first trimester to pretend at civility. You need your husband. 

“Not,” he huffs, damp against your collarbone. “Gonna give it to you so good, baby.” He wedges one hand behind your neck, holding you in place, while the one fondling your breast moves down between your legs, center gusset soaked slick already, and you flush at the flutter of muscles wrapped around his jaw when he finds you pantiless beneath your soft sleep shorts. And so what? Pregnancy had made you sensitive and achy. You need to be free, you tell him with an airy laugh. 

He clicks his tongue down at you, fingers slipping beneath the soft cotton to pet at the soaking wet tuft of curls with the back of his knuckles. “Pretty cunt’s all wet and hungry for me, isn’t it, baby?” And he’s all teasing grins and sparkly, self satisfied eyes as he searches gently for your clit, parting your folds to pet there slow and steady. 

Uh huh, you moan, hitching your foot up higher on his back, little heel digging into the padding of muscles over his ribs to find purchase. You let your other leg slip off the couch with a dull thud, socked foot rolling up on your tip toes so that you can cant and rock your hips against his too light touch on your cunt. 

“More, daddy, please,” you provoke, all breathless sighs as you roll your head in the cup of his palm, the heat of him seeping through the mantle of your messy hair, against your scalp. You feel him flex his fingers, tugging lightly at the sweaty roots, and he finally gives you more. Thumb sliding down to your weepy entrance, pressing there lightly, petting and circling, moving back up to press against your clit at the same time that he starts to feed you two fingers at once. 

You groan at him, scrunching your nose, but he just clicks his tongue, tutting you into submission and silence. “Take it,” he says gentle and low. You scratch at his shoulders, slipping your fingertips under his ratty t-shirt to get at his skin, using your bracing foot to rock your hips against his palm, rough callused palm catching a little painfully at your clit. You’re going to come so fucking fast like this. 

And fingers hooked forward inside of you, he jostles his hand a little, rattles your cunt so that all your wet rings loud in your parents dead silent house. “Hear how sloppy this cunt is for me?” He’s grinding his cock against your inner thigh, fat, blunt tip thrusting against the crease in your thigh over and over and you want it inside of you. You don’t care if you get caught, if someone comes down stairs. You want to soak his hand and then soak his cock and then have him carry you to bed and do it all over again. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Gonna come.” Your lashes flutter shut as he lowers his head to bite your tit, hard and mean, over your sweatshirt, fingers fucking fast and loud, and your cunt goes tight, tight like a knot and then wet and loose and even sloppier. You’re so wet for him. Always. 

Fucking Christ, he groans against your breast, sucks harder, darkening the grey cotton so that the hard tip of your nipple is left molded and obvious beneath the soaked fabric. “That’s it. Come just like that, sweet girl. You’re so fucking wet.” And he doesn't’ gentle his fingers, pressing in a little harder, palm grinding against your clit and shaking his fingers up and down inside of you so that he’s jostling another tiny, almost painful, orgasm out of you. The wet sound of your pussy is so loud and so obvious, if someone were to come down the stairs, the sound of it would be unmistakable. “Gonna soak your mother’s nice couch, and then what’ll she think of you? Everyone’s gonna know exactly what you let me do to you down here.”

You’re pretty sure that’s what gets you over the edge that second time. The thought of everyone knowing.

He nuzzles at your breast, your neck, sucking and kissing, fingers still stretching your pussy, while he makes his way up your throat, mouth against the tip of your chin, and then finally to your mouth. Kiss, slow at first, all tongue and hunger, and then soft little pecks. The corner of your mouth, the bow of your top lip, the other corner. Open, he orders, and licks behind your teeth. Bossy man. You love him.

He pets gently at your G-spot, slow and careful because he knows it’ll be too much soon, letting your slick spill out and gather in his palm, drip down his wrist. “Pretty girl,” he says real quiet, “Keeping my baby so nice and warm in this little cunt. Aren’t you?” You whine up at him, bringing your foot up off the floor, trying to toe his arm away. He clicks his tongue at you again, but finally pulls his fingers from you, wet, sucking sound as he leaves your cunt. He brings his hand up to his mouth, fingers slick sticky and sweet, shiny in the dim light and licks himself clean. You watch him as he teases you, all eyes and laughter, wrapping your fingers around his too thick, hairy wrist, not meeting around it, and holding him there as he eats your wet out of his own palm. When he’s done, his mouth is shiny and glossed in you and he presses another kiss to your lips, forces your jaw open, hinged wide and eats you like you know he wants to eat your cunt instead. Later, he says, like he can read your mind because you’re pretty sure he actually can.

When he pushes the loose waist of his sweatpants down over his erection, no underwear either, you roll your eyes at him, and tell him old men aren’t supposed to be this slutty. But at the sight of that too thick cock nestled in his neatly trimmed bed of hair, the wide root leading up to the happy trailed covered belly, you concede that easy access is highly to your benefit. And when he wedges that said thick cock inside of you by way of an answer to your brattiness, fat head stretching your well used, wet hole, he slides in way too easy because you want him way too much. 

You moan open mouthed for him, and he presses your sweatshirt up over your bump, your swollen breasts, and finally gets his hot mouth on your bare nipples, teeth grazing lightly, pushing you into a higher, hotter level of desperation. You rock your hips up to meet his thrusts, close your eyes and listen to the slick sound of his cock fucking your cunt. “Lemme see this sweet belly,” he murmurs, cupping the small swell. The changes he’d incited in your body had made him a specific flavor of hungry you were going to miss when this was all over. “You’re so fucking beautiful, carrying my baby. You know that?”

And you’re all soft sighs and whimpers and his name as nothing but a moan, hitching your knees as high as you can to open yourself further to him. “Fuck, you’re gunna come again. Gettin’ tight as a fist,” he grits, hips swinging back and then forward, pelvis grinding so that he’s pressing on your clit and then pressing you into another full blown orgasm. It throbs through you, an almost unbearable heat stirring in your pelvis, walls of your cunt pulsing and milking the too thick, sometimes too big, weight of his cock inside you. It always hurts just a little and you always like it too much.

He pulls out suddenly, tiny flutters still moving through your muscles and sits back on his knees, turning you on your side and shoving your thigh up, pulling the now ruined shorts aside to line up and shove back inside. He braces his foot on the floor, one hand on the back of the couch, the other holding your thigh up and open for himself and drills down into your spasming cunt, mid orgasm, and there are tears in your eyes and you gnaw and slobber on the edge of your mother’s couch as your husband fucks you into one last orgasm. The previous one not even fully over. “Told you you’d fuckin’ take it,” he growls, balls slapping against the curve of your ass, temples shiny with sweat, throat all red and splotchy. “Fuckin’ shame I can’t knock you up again here in your parents house like I wanted to last time. We’re gonna have to try harder next time.”

“Told you, you’re so bad.” And you can barely speak as he starts to pump you full of his load, hot and thick so that you can feel it being forced out of your cunt while he continues to shove inside. 

When he’s finished, cleaned you up and tucked you back into his side, both of you choosing to ignore the wet spot on the couch you’d left and agreed to plead the fifth tomorrow if anyone asks, the movie is just finishing up. Judy and her beau are finally at the World Fair together. The clock below the TV rings midnight and Joel presses a soft kiss at the tender spot behind your ear. “We’re havin’ a baby this year,” voice boyish and shy and full of excitement and love. 

You peer up at him, cheek smushed against the ball of his shoulder. “We are.”

“Ready?”

You nod, slow, pulling his head down for another kiss. “Happy New Year, Joel.”

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#vic fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #Joel miller smut #the last of us AU #joel miller fanfiction

[kingofthe-egirls]

EXHIBITIONISM: LUFFY x Y/N

original idea by @thevirtualvalentine 💕 thank you so much for letting me play with this scenario! it sparked something sexy in me and i dont think im the same after ☠️

(cw: exhibitionism, sex, dirty talk, slut/whore/bitch, dom!luffy, handcuffs/chains)

(a/n: hhhnnngggg im sooo normal so normal)

Songs: "Sexy Villain" by Remi Wolf

words: 1.5k

“There she fucking is,” Luffy pants, marveling at the sounds you’re making, his hand around your throat. “Thought ya’d never speak up.”

You whimper, moaning against the bars of your cell. Your hands are cuffed in front of you, like Luffy’s, but he’s using the chain of his to pull your hips back against him as he fucks you. The iron digs into your stomach, your torso left bare for all of Udon to see. Jeers come from the neighboring cells.

“No fair! Why don’t we get to see her!?”

“Yeah, make some noise! We wanna hear ya cum!”

“Scream for us, girlie!”

And other profanities are shouted your way. Even the guards are palming themselves at their posts. Your blood boils, anger fighting with lust as the infamous Mugiwara no Luffy fucks you like a toy.

“Ah, fuckin’ listen to them,” Luffy moves from choking you to playing with your tits, pinching harshly at your sensitive nipples. You cry out, and immediately bite your lip. A roar of encouragement comes from your fellow prisoner audience.

“S’hot, isn’t it baby?” He leans forward to lick the shell of your ear. His tongue is hot and strong, just like the rest of him. He sucks at your neck possessively. “‘M takin’ ya home with me,” he murmurs, palming your tits before sliding his hands down to grip your waist. His pace quickens. “Every pirate needs a whore, hah? And the king deserves the best, dontcha think?”

His pace is rapid, now, approaching the first of many climaxes for the night. This has become a sort of routine, with you two. It had started as just flirting, both of you skipping hands over knees, pressing elbows into sides, as you passed each other doing “chores” for the guards.

Then kissing started, snuggled together as much as you could be on the cell floor. And then fucking.

When Luffy fucks, he fucks loud.

It wasn’t a secret for very long, before the surrounding cellmates heard you two going at it like hungry wolves.

And then the cheering started.

It’s a nightly show, almost, kept under wraps by the guards who are too horny to get the two of you to stop. If anyone gets near the cell bars anyway, Luffy fends them off with a wave of conqueror’s haki. And he never lets them touch you during the day. Devil fruit or no, there’s no way he’s letting them get their disgusting hands on you.

Oh, they can jerk off and jeer, for all Luffy cares, but they’re not allowed to touch you. You’re his whore, he decided the first moment you brushed your knuckles along the back of his hand, passing by him in the dusty path. He had felt an electric jolt of want course through him, and one touch of his haki told him you felt the same. It wasn’t long before the two of you started fucking every night.

Now, he slaps your ass with the flat of his hand. Somehow still flexible in his cuffs, he lands another slap, and then another. He lets the dogs outside watching call out a count: all the way to ten. Your ass cheek is tingling. Luffy leans forward again, caressing the spot that now bares his handprint. “Ready for the other side? Hm?” He grins, biting at your ear. “How ‘bout ten more this time?”

You whimper, wiggling your hips back against his pelvis. He slows his pace, just for a bit, letting you fuck yourself back onto his cock. You’re so desperate, for this.

“Yes, sir~!” You moan out, already drunk on the attention. He grunts.

“Hear that?” He asks the crowd, raising his voice enough to be heard, “She wants the other side, now!”

And Luffy spanks your ass twenty times for them. He’s not cruel: he doesn’t hit the same exact spot twice in a row, but god you’re gonna be sore tomorrow. “And it’s captain, bitch,” he murmurs in your ear.

“Yes, captain!” You moan almost immediately, closer to cumming than you’ve ever felt in your life. Your blood is running hot—hotter than fire—and Luffy’s chaotic thrusts are only bringing you closer and closer toward your delightful, little death.

“‘M cumming! ‘M cumming!” You manage out, gripping onto the sweaty bars in front of you. “Thank you Luffyyy!” He cackles behind you, speeding up just enough to tip you over the edge. Your eyes roll back, rocked to your core by a violent, sucker punch of an orgasm.

“Good girl,” he soothes, slowing down for you, “Such a good job for me, pretty,” he turns you around, cupping your face softly in both hands. He presses your back against the bars, cold metal stinging your exposed skin. You’re flushed, panting, and Luffy is grinning like the sun. His smile stretches halfway across his face, and you have no choice but to meet him with a soft smile of your own. (He’s too handsome for his own good).

It doesn’t take you long to figure out Luffy knocked out the surrounding voyeurs. There’s nothing but snoring, now. He laughs, running a hand through his hair as he backs up away from you. You lean back against the bars, yourself. Your legs feel like jelly. You meet his eyes from across the room, hazy and dark like glinting jewels. You cock an eyebrow.

“So, when are we getting out of here, captain?”

He grins.

****

It turns out to be tomorrow afternoon, in fact.

He scales the sheer cliff face with ease, having knocked out any potential threats with a sophisticated blow to their energetic awareness. Several guards slump over beneath you, spears still loosely grasped in their clumsy fists.

Luffy starts snickering almost immediately, your arms wrapped around his neck as he carries you like a backpack. “Was just waitin’ for the right time,” he tells you, cheeks flushed with exertion. You hop up another few feet, bouncing on his back a bit as he scales the cliff.

Your chest is pushed up against his back, with your legs wrapped around his thick torso. His build is sturdy, his strength immeasurable, and you feel almost at peace—like a baby koala.

You tell him as much, and he laughs.

“S’cute,” he huffs, reaching up to grab another jutting handhold in the rock face. “Ya like being my baby?”

You grin, tucked between his shoulder blades. Your lips move against his skin: yes. Your ratty t-shirt presses into him, absorbing his heat and warming you through. The night air sends chills down your spine, but only just. Luffy’s like a radiator, climbing with you on his back. He hums.

“Like having ya as my baby,” he continues, jumping upward several feet. You gasp, but he lands with both feet firmly planted against the rock face. His hands scrabble for a landing, loosely grasping at stone, before you start to tip backwards.

You shoot out your hand before you can think: gravity pulling at your stomach and twisting harshly. “No,” you hiss, gripping the stone in front of you so hard your fingers bruise. You grit your teeth against the sharpness of the stone, holding your weight long enough for Luffy to get a hold on the cliff face himself. Three quarters of the way there.

He pants. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you mutter, and hide your face between his shoulder blades.

He climbs the rest of the way, and neither of you have another problem scaling the sheer wall surrounding Udon’s base. Luffy sighs, landing on his stomach once he pulls both of you up onto the ledge. You unwrap your limbs from his sweaty, shaking body before crawling off to collapse on your own.

“Cmon,” he croaks, grabbing your hand, “Can’t stop now.”

So you get up, and start walking.

All the way back to his ship.

****

After the war (which you sorta help with, in your injured, post-prison state) he takes you back to his ship for good.

“Here she is!” Luffy laughs, collapsing on the deck of his warship. “Our new crewmate!”

Usopp eyes you warily, slingshot clutched in his fist. “Wh-what’s her job?”

Luffy sits up, smiling. “She’s my girlfriend!”

You stare at him, blankly. He’s never mentioned that to you, nor has he ever used something so sweet to refer to you. "Whore" is usually more like it.

He stretches out a rubber arm to wrap around your waist. He brings you over onto his lap, grinning like a monkey. “She’s got the best—“

“Okay,” you slap his arm, cutting him off, “They don’t need to know the specifics.”

He stops, but only just.

His eyes are glimmering with mischief.

****

It’s not long before he’s pounding you into the mattress of his sweaty bed.

You’re crooning out sounds you never thought possible, with his monstrous speed and elongated rubber cock. He’s better than a vibrator, you think.

Luffy slaps your ass. “Atta girl,” he preens, “Let em hear ya.”

He’s an exhibitionist outside of prison, as well.

So are you.

So you scream and cry on his dick, letting Captain Luffy know just how much you need it.

#dumpster dive #my writing #one piece fanfic #fav #luffy fanfic #kitty speaks #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy smut #one piece fic #luffy fic #luffy x you

[fcthots]

hear me out.. tattoo artist! jason

Ok think Jason w tattoos is UDHFH STEP ON ME. AND TATTOO ARTIST JASON? EVERYTHING. but I have such a fear of needles that this is the only way I could do this one. I will return to it later if I become any less of a a coward.

Also this somehow turned into a full fic, don’t ask me how. I just looked down and there were words typed in the post. I don’t know what possessed me. And before I forget: it’s not really relevant so far if the bats are still bats in this AU, but the batfamily is still at the very least, a family.

Jason works at a tattoo parlor and that’s where you two meet. It’s love at first, well, first day? Anyway, you come in wanting to get your ears pierced. You know you’re scared going into it so you call ahead and ask for the nicest, most gentle, and most patient person there and you book a stupidly long appointment with him so you have time to have a panic attack and freak tf out.

You were not expecting Jason to be over 6 feet tall and be the most menacing person you’ve ever seen (and you saw batman one time!!). You also weren’t expecting him to be so stupidly fucking attractive. You sit down where he gestures for you to, and hug your arms close to yourself. He gets everything ready while you start trying to control your breathing. You can see Jason continuously turning to look at you out of the corner of your eye as you fidget with your ears wondering how bad this is gonna hurt.

“You okay?” You look up at him. He’s staring at you with concern in his eyes. Ok, so maybe you weren’t as good at controlling your breathing as you thought, but you still needed to respond.

“Mhm.” Your words were sort of failing you right now so that would have to do. You attempt to keep your tears in.

“You ready?” You look down and see the needle in his hands. Absolutely the fuck not. Your breathing gets worse, your tears are starting to make it out of their prison, and you are about to have a panic attack.

“No.” It comes out too fast. You shake your head wildly to make sure you get the message across.

He immediately puts down the needle and shows you his open hands. “Can I sit?” You bring your knees to your chest and nod before you hide your face. “You’re scared of needles?” He sits next to you, keeping a respectful distance.

“Phobia,” you mumble as you slightly lift up your head. You see the equipment on the table and you attempt to cover up the way your heart spikes. Jason follows your gaze. He gets up and puts a clean towel over the needles before he sits back down.

You were very clearly crying now despite trying not to. Your adrenaline was kicking in.

He held out his hand. “Do you wanna hold my hand?”

You jerked. “Do you mean like while you stick me with the needle? Because I’m not ready. I’ll be ready soon. I swear I’ll try and get myself together, I just need a minute-”

“We’re not piercing your ears right now. You can hold it then too if you would like, but I was asking if holding my hand would help you right now. We have all the time in the world for the needles later. I just wanna help you through this for now.”

You grab his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry for all this. I don’t mean to make your job harder. Also I might be here for a long time. I’ll try not to, but I’m scared.”

“Don’t be sorry and don’t worry about me. Let’s help you right now. I can be content here all day. You’re just helping me slack off.”

You smile and wipe your tears with your free hand.

You sit in silence for about 5 or so minutes before Jason pipes up. “So why are you getting your ears pierced if you’re scared of needles?”

“People keep telling me I need to. Also I have a friend’s wedding coming up and I was told my dress needed to have earrings.” His hand is warm and huge. You really don’t want to let go.

“But if it’s causing you this much stress, who cares about earrings?”

“Most other people apparently.”

“That’s fuckin stupid.”

You laugh and finally meet his eyes.

He starts talking again. “Well what about clip-on earrings?”

“They don’t really make those much anymore. Super hard to find.” Jason looks thoughtful at that.

“Didn’t you book out the rest of my day?”

“…yeah sor-”

“Respectfully, don’t finish that sentence. My brothers ex-girlfriend makes jewelry, and I know for a fact that she makes clip-ons and fake piercings. Steph, her name is Steph by the way, used to make them for my brother before he moved in with us and was able to get them pierced. I’m 99% sure she’s home right now.”

You feel a huge weight lifted off your chest. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. How did you get here?”

“I walked from my apartment. It’s not all that far.”

“Alright well, if you’re comfortable with it, we can take my bike to go see if she can make you some if you want to go now. It’s not a walkable distance really. And don’t feel pressured to-”

“Let’s go.”

“What?”

“Let’s go. Anything to not jam a needle into my ears.”

Jason leads you by the hand to his bike and takes you back to Wayne manor. There are so many people there that barely question why you’re there. Jason walks off to go find Steph and you get nervous until a dog approaches you. A child follows shortly after.

“Titus can tell that you are upset. He is trained to help with such things.”

Jason comes back to find you with Steph in tow only to see the dog literally laying on top of you while you discuss animals with Damian.

What a weird ass fucking day, but a good one.

Part two

#let me know if anyone wants a part 2 bc I really enjoyed this one lol. it was a good vent #fun fact: I hc main universe Jason has a phobia of needles too lol #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader fluff #jason todd fluff #red hood x you #red hood imagine #red hood x reader fluff #red hood fluff #saph’s love letters #saph’s thots #fluff #cw: needles #TattooArtist!jason #tattoo artist!jason

[thesummerestsolstice]

In my post about the strange residents of Rivendell, I mentioned a Feanorian die-hard and an old bodyguard of Thingol. I recently hit a thousand reblogs– which is amazing! So in honor of that, I'm writing their stories out. This is part one, I'll get the rest out over the next couple days.

The Feanorian Die-hard: Hrivossa

Maedhros' right hand at Himring, a dedicated captain with an axe and a burning hatred of Morgoth

Laiquendi former thrall, captured during the First Battle of Beleriand; when the Laiquendi king Denethor was killed

Was refused entry to Doriath after escaping from Angband– at this point, most escaped prisoners were thought to be sleeper agents sent to get information for Morgoth

Wandered for the next few years, mostly alone, occasionally finding Elvish towns that feared her because of the marks of Morgoth's torture and thought her one of his puppets

Ended up stumbling across one of Maedhros's orc hunting parties in the Early First Age, and jumped at the chance to actually fight Morgoth

Maedhros was also one of the only lords willing to help former thralls at that point; he gaze Hrivossa a new home and purpose, fighting alongside him against their shared tormentor

It's not hard to understand why she became so loyal to the Feanorian cause

This is also when she took the Quenya name Hrivossa, "winter wall," because she was as frigid and unbreakable as Himring's walls

(her original Nandor name is mostly for her close friends)

Between Denethor's death and hiding in Doriath with Melian instead of doing anything about Morgoth, Hrivossa absolutely hates Thingol

She's generally a cold person around strangers, but she warms up around her friends, and her wits and tongue are as sharp as her sword

Part of the general morbid humor culture that built up in First Age Himring

She does not have a soft spot for the Sindar claiming that the Silmaril belongs to them now

She does have a noticeable soft spot for small half-elves who keep pestering her for stories about what life was like in Beleriand before the sun and moon

She fought with Maedhros until the bloody, bitter end, being forcefully brought into the custody of Valinor's forces late in the War of Wrath

She was the leader of the Feanorian faction who chose not to submit to the Valar's judgement, or to willingly go to Aman to do penance

They generally made themselves trouble while in custody

To avoid any more ugly conflict, Elrond eventually took responsibility for this faction, becoming their lord (though Elrond did NOT become Lord of the House of Feanor) and promising to keep them from committing any more violent acts

Hrivossa and the others, all of whom had lived in Amon Ereb and helped raised Elrond, found this agreeable

All of these elves are still very much see Elrond as their Lords' child, who must be protected at all costs, so there's that

And that is the story of how Elrond became responsible for the remaining Feanorians, but only the really fucked up ones

Seriously, they don't do any other murders, but they do cause all sorts of other trouble

Also, how Elrond inherited one (1) extremely determined bodyguard

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #feanorians #morgoth #angband #maedhros #elrond #elrond peredhel #rivendell #himring #war of wrath #silm oc

[sarah-yyy]

Jie jie are you going to do a rec post for SOKP?

aight!! i got this ask two?? three?? weeks ago, but never got round to doing this because work has been fdjkhdsghskjf, but here y'all go

what: period cdrama // completed // 38 eps, roughly 40 mins each (+ one bonus epilogue ep, about <10 mins) where: iqiyi (standard disclaimer that i don't watch with subs so i don't speak to the quality of eng subs)why: villain (of sorts) reincarnation fix-it, what's there not to like?? incredibly attractive cast.

this is jiang xuening. she is, as you can probably guess, the empress. there's been a coup. it's headed by her ex-best friend (who was in love with her until his family got massacred and she chose to leave him to pursue her dream to be empress) who resents her + a bloodthirsty advisor to the emperor. the only man she's ever loved (not the emperor ofc) hates her and is in prison because of her. her life is hell. she knows she has no way out. she trades her life for her imprisoned lover-

-and wakes up 18 again.

because jxn is not stupid, now that she's got a chance to do things again, she immediately decides this time she's going to do better!!

firstly!! she's going to be good to her bff yan lin!!

yan lin's family was massacred before?? not this fucking time!! not on jxn's watch!! she's got a few months to get her shit together and fix this for him!!

"this sounds too easy, sarah, it's a reincarnation fix-it, she's got cheat codes," you say? you're wrong. did you expect jxn to pay attention to anything in her first life beyond clawing her way up to the position of empress?? hell no. she knows the what, the when and the how - she's missing so much of the whys, which is probably important if she wants to stop it from happening.

in the meantime!! my girl's got other problems to deal with!!

in her first life, she died a really goddamn tragic life in the palace. when she was rebooted into life #2, she made the decision to stay tf away from the palace and everyone associated with it. no jxn in palace = no jxn dying in the palace. easy peasy!! foolproof. no way she can mess this up.

she ends up in the palace as the princess's study buddy 🥰 ofc she does, because jxn just can't get a goddamn break. thank you yan lin and co for meddling. 😊

while she's there, she accidentally seduces befriends the princess.

princess was in love with a crossdressing jxn in life #1 and got Really Pissed Off about it when she found out jxn was in fact not the man of her dreams (or a man at all). she made jxn's life in the palace hell in life #1.

jxn: this time around i just won't dress as a man!! no male!jxn = no princess falling in love!! princess: fool. this time i'll love the female you 🥰

ykw? works for jxn. as long as she's not dying, everything is fine. girlfriend +1 it is then!!

while we're on the topic of sorting out her relationships while she's in the palace, let's talk a little bit about zhang zhe, aka the only man she ever loved in life #1

this is zhang zhe, low ranking officer in the ministry of justice. as straight-laced as they come. excellent cheekbones. in life #1, had a Soft Spot for jxn and did some stuff against his conscience for her. in this life, she's determined not to ruin him!! he's like her 白月光

ANYWAY these two meet again in the palace when he saves her life when she's being framed for treason. immediately, jxn is all 😍🤩 over him again. why would she not!! he was her biggest regret in life #1!! she literally died to save him!! (for those of y'all who expect to have SL syndrome over him, prepare to be WELL-FED, these two have a long arc)

alright y'all know how i said jxn was in the palace to be the princess's study buddy? well!! let's meet their teacher:

xie wei. advisor to the emperor. resting bitchface 10/10. petty af. occasionally feral and murderous 🥵. they were sort of briefly acquainted way back when they travelled to the capital together and jxn saved his life when he was having an Episode (long story short, bb boy is Unwell). the last face jxn saw in life #1 when she took her own life. you guessed it, he's aka the bloodthirsty advisor who staged the coup in life #1.

jxn is (rightfully) quite afraid of him. she tries her best to stay out of his way, but he's trying to sound her out (because she knows his ~secret) to see if she's friend or foe, so they end up in each other's paths more often than not, including important times such as these:

when jxn is trying to thwart a plot to frame yan lin's dad for treason

when xie wei is committing murder

when jxn is heart broken over zhang zhe

they kind of form an alliance!! in jxn's mind, xie wei and yan lin staged the coup together in life #1, so their interests must sort of be aligned!! plus!! xie wei is hella smart!! he'll know what to do to stop yan lin's family from getting masacred!!

ANYWAY that's the gist of the story - i've avoided most of the spoilery parts i think.

there's also the typical cdrama villains you'd expect in a show like this: evil empress dowager, power-hungry prime minister, spoiled brat daughter of the prime minister who is also scheming to be queen, evil uncle of the king trying to usurp the throne etc etc. all the things you need to prop the Palace Evil Schemes up.

i've seen some people say this is a 低配 version of love like the galaxy, which, ykw? fair. 😂 lltg is written better. sokp was a fun watch, though!! y'all know i am into reincarnation plots, and am basically predisposed to liking most of bai lu's dramas. and!! this show ends on such a good note!! i've been tricked into so many ~vague endings this year that this was so so so good to get <3

some of the parts dragged a bit for me (i am p meh about zhang zhe, i mean i get the appeal, but he's not doing it for me), but it wasn't bad! i liked xie wei's character enough to sit through a lot of things. could've done with like 300% more yan lin and the princess, but we can't always have what we want!!

#story of kunning palace #sokp #宁安如梦 #cdrama #tv rec

[batmanschmatman]

It’s interesting to me to see how many people have been saying they feel like [character’s] death was too sudden or too early, and while I agree from a writing standpoint we didn’t exactly have a lot of time with him and they COULD have framed the show differently to give us more, I also think it’s sort of The Point that his death is sudden and kind of out of nowhere.

The air war was incredibly fucking brutal. I’m not saying it was more or less so than what the BOB or TP guys went through because they’re all awful, but it’s a well accepted part of the WWII experience that anything to do with flying planes might have seemed glamorous and cool but was actually terrifying and had a sort of uniquely horrible flavor to it when it came to facing the death of your friends.

(And this isn’t even getting into the stuff happening on the ground when cities became viable targets, but that’s for a different post.)

When Hoobler dies, the guys are there, they see it happen, they can try to help him, and then they know after a point that he’s dying. They can sit with the body afterward and take his stuff to send back to his family. Even in the more fast paced deaths like Rob Oswalt, Sledge and the others can look at his body and have a moment - however brief! - to say goodbye. There’s often no mystery of what happened, you’ve seen the wounds and know they’re dead. And you also HAVE to push it down because you’re being shot at and need to keep yourself alive. 

All of that is real important in the grief/mourning process. Guys in the 100th usually didn’t have that unless someone on your bomber died. You’d go up with your friends, you’d see their planes get hit, there’s nothing you can do besides watch for chutes and hope they survive to be taken prisoner. And then you come back, and your friends are gone, there’s no body to bury or sit with or touch. Their stuff is all still in the barracks like nothing happened. Sometimes you’re not even immediately sure if they are dead or not! You don’t know who those chutes belonged to, or if they made it safely to the ground instead of dying on impact or immediately being caught by the Germans and executed. But your friends are gone and you were powerless to do anything to help them.

And then you get to do it all over again knowing it’s going to happen to other friends or to you and there’s basically nothing you can do about it. How do you cope with that? What does it do to you to feel like your friends just literally vanished into thin air even though the last time you saw them, they were healthy and young and alive? And then new guys replace them, and you have to decide if you want to make friends with them or close yourself off, because these guys are going to die too.

(Oh, and if a member of your crew got badly wounded? You could have HOURS before you got back to base, and you have some first aid training but you’re not a surgeon, you don’t have plasma or whole blood to give a guy to help keep him alive until you make it back. So another horrible traumatic thing you get to deal with. Wounds that could’ve been treatable if you’d been at Carentan or Guadalcanal could be fatal.) 

I’m not saying this show is a masterpiece in storytelling by any means, but… You’re supposed to feel shocked and angry and robbed of the chance to get to know these guys? Because that’s literally how their friends felt. It’s a point Miller makes a lot in the book, and a really vital part to understanding why being in the AAF (or other air forces) was such a meat grinder physically and psychologically for these guys. 

#masters of the air #masters of the air spoilers #history stuff

[precious-little-scoundrel]

| Ida’s Law

Introductory Part

Summary: The American War Effort had conceded to the enlisting and commissioning of women into the Air Force at semi-integrated status. Deemed a more reliable if not safer combat post, the going rank of officer in the Air Force was intended to secure fair treatment and combatant status for these women, as it had for their male counterparts. Like most things in war -or life, if one is a woman- such recognition must be fought for.

Warnings: disturbing content- if you made it through last one this one should be a breeze, however it picks up where we left off so expect mentions of war, wounds, illusions to past rapes, Nazis being racist fucks, possibly some internalized misogyny about it all and some hopefully very 🥹🤧 reunions

A Note Going Forward: With this part now published, I am happy to open this series up for prompts. Ideally I’d like this series to end up being exclusively prompt-inspired and will be putting out prompt lists accordingly. I think that will be a fun way to keep the interaction going, stretch my own skills and explore all the different scenarios that may intrigue y’all. You’re welcome to come up with your own prompts, too. All are welcome, none guaranteed but let’s be real -I’m obsessed with this AU so I’ll likely do it. For now I’ll be keeping all writing to POW Camp and Liberation and Post-Liberation timelines.

“Well, what do we know?” Ida Brady asked the first officer out on the other side as they began to filter through the laborious processing of the camp. She counted them down, one familiar face after another appearing through the doorway again with no worse indignity than the new identification tags hanging from their necks.

“I hate a guy named Johann, and I like a guy named Fritz, and the lieutenant guy wasn’t bad.” Maureen declared, straightening her precious cap atop muddy auburn tresses. “Who went and named their son Fritz after the last war? I mean really? Who does that to a kid? It’s like he’s making up for it now, though, awfully nice.”

“Mm, I thought so, too.” Ida hummed, “Might keep an eye on that one, work on him a bit. You think, Kendeigh?”

“Work on him yourself, Ida.” Maureen scoffed.

“Not much to work with.” Ida retorted, the first general reference to her disfigurement she’d made. “What do you know? What’s up?” she left off to inquire after Tallulah Smith who came out the other side of processing looking more than exasperated.

“Know? They don’t know squat.” she said, “Never heard of a Cherokee.”

“I’ll be.” Maureen was grinning sharply. “Wasn't enough being a woman for ya Smith, ya had to go and be a brown one.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” She griped, “They kept insisting I was a fighter pilot. That’s what all the ‘dark ones’ are, according to them. Told them I’d rewire their insides and maybe then they’d take my engineering degree seriously.”

“I’d like to see that.” Maureen murmured, drowsiness beginning to take over at the comparative calm of their new surroundings.

“Looks like we got everyone, yeah?” Ida peered over the heads of the crowing room and counted out her charges in a silent tally.

“Looks like.” Smith agreed. “Got billet assignments?”

“I do. Colonel Clark, most senior prisoner here, said the combines are strict but the rooms aren’t. Let’s try to behave until we feel our way, then we can swap, if they allow.”

“It’s going to smell like feet no matter where and who we share it with.” Smith pointed out and Ida heaved a great sigh as if that were the hardest prospect she’d yet encountered.

“Mm.”

“Buck is out there!” Maureen suddenly cried out, grabbing at Ida’s arm, pointing out the window at the muddy yard.

“How nice. Gotta get this sorted first, eyes in, Kendeigh.”

Maureen reluctantly tore her eyes away from her dearly missed pilot. “Yes sir.”

“All right,” Ida’s voice carried as well as it ever had, commanding immediate quiet and attention, “those in the 350th, 419th, -the hundredth!- on me. Gather ‘round. That’s it, come on. Alright, well, we made it, well done. Truly, well done to all of you. Now I know you well enough to not accuse any of you of being pure idiots, just because we made it to where we wanted to go doesn’t mean any of what’s ahead is going to be easy. Be wary, don’t let your guard down, you don’t know plenty of these men and they don’t know you, I’m sure there are measures in place for spying already. Be sensible. I am certain we can rely on the kindness of those in the hundredth, but even then keep in mind, if you are cold, they are too, if you're hungry, you best believe they are hungrier, the last thing we need is a crisis of chivalry in here. Rely on them, except their help, but don’t ever take from them. Understood? And one more thing, since the human spirit is irrepressible I feel it’s warranted to make one more housekeeping note. None, and I do mean none, no inner relations at all are allowed. I don’t care how cold you are, how sweet he’s been, or how much you’ve missed him. The Red Cross aren’t sending rubbers, and don’t ever take the promise of a pull out. Do you want a one-way ticket to a death camp or a bullet to the head? Get pregnant. Simple as that. You think the Jerries think poorly of you now for being female? Try being a matron. The point is to blend in as much as possible, keep that in mind. Whatever you do, keep that in mind. Understood?”

“Yes sir!”

“Colonel?” One voice demurred, raised hand and respectful title only forerunners for an obvious objection incoming.

“Yes? Sanchez, isn’t it? You’re not one of mine, I think.”

“No, sir, 55th -fighters.”

“Yes, well, welcome. What’s your question?”

“No offense sir but- what about the guards?” Sanchez asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Brady replied with typical candor, “I believe so far we’ve seen a mix here. I’m sure our friends can give us tips on who to watch out for.”

“No sir, sorry I meant-“ Sanchez kept her teeth clenched until her thoughts seemed to form better, “-you said no relations. What about the guards? No disrespect meant colonel and I don’t know about yours, but mine -they weren’t pulling out.”

“Mm.” Maureen thought that if Ida smashed her lips together any tighter they’d turn whiter than her skin, the bent aviators she had managed to preserve this entire time did a remarkable job of masking whatever feeling was stiffening her spine to the current degree, but all the same, her spine was stiff, “no offense taken, an excellent point. I’ll inquire about any possible…remedies. Anyone else?”

A multitude of hands shot up and Ida Brady scanned them with bewilderment until she realized her lapse in specificity. “Anyone else with questions, I meant! Saints alive. No? Good, let’s claim our bunks and see about a wash.”

After the dark interior of the building, being processed for hours, the hazy late afternoon light of outside glared painfully against Ida’s bloodshot eyes as she stepped out, leading the way down the three wooden steps to the muddy yard. Monochrome, this place, brown wooden buildings and brown earth and a muddy sky and brown flight jackets one after another.

And there in the midst of it, waiting for them with ever constant patience and thinned stateliness was Gale Cleven and his lost blue eyes and an alarmingly symmetrical set of facial scars.

“Major.” Ida felt her face soften into an odd expression she realized was likely that of relief. Cleven had that way about him, it was better suited to her preferences than Egan’s blustering warm hearted concern, Colonel Harding’s gruff joviality or her John’s perpetually intense concern. Her little brother was, oddly, nowhere to be seen now and that was a comfort in this wide open, highly observed space.

“Colonel.” Gale Cleven’s eyes weren’t a lost blue anymore but a pair of stormy seas and Ida steeled herself for pity. She found smoldering rage in his face instead. Another relief.

“How was it?” he was nodding to the command hut.

“Fine.” she assured.

He was searching for something in her face and Ida was sure it was easily found skin deep along her puffy, purpled left cheek, but if she had anything to do with her expression alone, he’d be kept guessing for ages. “Good.” he decided at last but his smile was tight, “Made John wait in the combine, he’s in there pacing like a madman. They make a note of who’s attached to whom, Colonel,” he explained, “a more discreet reunion seemed in order.”

“We’d appreciate all the direction you—“ Ida had begun but was cut short by Lt. Kendeigh who broke ranks from the processed group and came out of the hut behind Ida like a bat out of hell, running up to Cleven and tackling him in a hug, rather like a dog with their long lost master.

The Major’s lanky frame staggered under her surprise attack, perhaps more from shock and ill preparedness than poor rations and a weakened constitution. Or at least Ida, hoped that was the case.

Well, there went all intentions for discretion about partiality on their part, five seconds had gone by and Maureen still hadn’t let go, her valued cap about ready to knock off her head and his too. Seeing the gig was up, Cleven even belatedly brought an arm up to hug her shoulders, his pleased face bashfully pacifying her intensity. “If it isn’t my favorite bombardier.” Cleven mumbled, his lips failing not to tug upwards in the tiniest of smiles, and he gave her a pat on the back.

“Buck!” Smith was coming in hot behind Kendeigh and knocked Ida’s shoulder in her haste to get around her and join in. “Thank Jesus you’re here.” she grunted as she squeezed him and Kendeigh both, “I mean -we’re sorry you’re here but since we’re here-“

“Glad you’re here, too, Smith.” he assured her gently, another pat on another back and Ida watched Cleven’s composure began to flake as he took stock of their roughened appearances. “It’s gonna be ok now.” he offered, and coming from someone else that statement would’ve sounded a great deal less impressive than it did coming from him. It also sounded hollow without Bucky’s typical parroting of the upbeat sentiment. “Let’s get you girls sorted.” he nodded at Ida who fell in alongside him, if only to distance and displace Kendeigh and her over familiarity just a tad.

“What’s your Kommandant like?” Ida asked by way of conversation as Gale directed them in a trudge along the brown paths towards his specified hut.

“Think I know him as well as you.” Gale admitted, “Tried to stay low, been no reason for socializing. Wouldn’t advise a trip to the camp doctor though.” He added the last part after a beat.

“Why?”

“Your Johnny says he’s got an experimental mind.” Gale smiled wryly but there was a grieved look behind it that made Ida’s pulse pound in alarm, “If you go in with a cold, you might come out with a radioactive arm instead.”

“Noted.” Ida muttured with a shiver, wishing to god her jacket hadn’t been taken off her a couple stops ago, the sun was waning in the dull sky and the breeze was frigid without it. “Speaking of doctors,” she decided to go for it, “is Johnny -my John- is he alright? At the gate it was such a racket, was he…standing?”

Gale paused in his step up into the combine, brows knitted in surprise and she noticed along with him that their little march had drawn quite a little audience from the fellow inmates. Females in a Stalag -what a novelty. “Yeah, John’s fine. He’s fit.” Gale still had that quizzical look on his face.

Ida swallowed hard and gave him another curt nod, one she wanted to come across as grateful but wasn’t sure it did, her battered cheek was responding less and less to her mind’s commands. “Right. This us?”

“Yeah. Figured we’d try to keep as many close as possible.” He explained, “Welcome to paradise.”

“What did y’all name this shack?” Maureen asked him as she stepped over the threshold, it was dark inside and smelled of lumber and smoke.

“We haven’t.” Gale admitted, forlorn at the realization that things like that didn’t occur to people like him. If Bucky had been here, he’d have had it named in an hour, and something awful, too. Something that would make them all laugh.

“Damn oversight, Gingerale.” Maureen teased merrily but Cleven noticed the dimming light in her eyes as she took in the cramped, uninspired utility of the place. One wooden doorway after another.

“Talked it over with Colonel Clark during your processing,” Gale said, “decided it were best if we mingle you all among the men we know. Boys from your squadrons, friendly faces. A few of you in each room.”

“I call dibs on yours.” Maureen unabashedly grinned up at Cleven but Ida saw how a heartbroken look of protectiveness skittered across his features.

“Alright.” he muttered without a fight for once.

“Mm, Smith, Sanchez, Tong, you in here.” Ida decided and having snapped her fingers she was moving on to the next stuffy room. Asking Cleven at each about their current occupants, and with the precision of memory required of a woman who had to memorize her opponents on the promotional ladder, chose their new bunk mates accordingly.

“And where’s Johnny bunked?” she asked him in a low tone as she watched the next set settle in from the doorway.

“In with me, further down the hall, Demarco, Hambone, a few others.”

Ida seemed to hesitate as she eyed up an extra bunk in the current room that the last of her girls were settling into.

“Don’t be a stick, colonel,” Maureen spoke up gently, a surprising liberty even for her, “you need friends right now. Bunk with us. Everyone’s going to be fine. Can’t be all places at all times, ya know?”

Ida didn’t reply but after a moment she admitted, “I should go see John.”

Gale and Maureen exchanged a look and then moved in unison to catch up to her as Ida Brady walked, brisk as if she were back home at Thorpe and about to pick a fight with Jack Kidd, down the long hall to one of the last rooms. “In here?” she asked Gale, pointing at the closed door -they liked to keep it so for warmth and privacy, and to acclimate the guards to it being closed when the radio was out.

“Yeah that’s us.” Cleven replied, reaching out and snagging Maureen back a step as Ida turned the handle. “Let’s give ‘em a minute.” he suggested, referring to the Bradys.

He held her jacket sleeve for a brief moment before turning it to grab her hand, he’d missed those hands. To his horror their usual calloused elegance was a swollen paw of bruises. “The hell, Maureen?” he whispered in shock, turning it over to examine it, grip strong around her wrist before she could pull away. “Who did this?”

Maureen did her best to shrug, “Some bitch stood on them.” she said simply, and surrendered the other hand for a similar heartbroken inspection.

Kendeigh was indeed not as visibly marred as Ida Brady or a few of the others, but still, Gale kept turning her crushed hands over and over, recalling with vivid agony the way he’d admired them at all manner of work before. To hurt them that way, to restrain her so meanly- “Maureen,” she’d never heard his voice dip so low, and his eyes were simmering where they cataloged her hurts, “what’d they do to you?”

“What’d they do to your face?” she shot back, perhaps more perturbed by the immaculately symmetrical scars on his once porcelain face than her own condition. Women expected the treatment they’d gotten, in some twisted way, but this on the other hand, it disturbed her.

Gale looked taken aback by her question and quickly dropped her hand to touch his right cheek as if to remind himself the scar was obvious to everyone. “Flak.” he replied a beat too late.

“Awfully precise.” she snarked.

“I asked you first.”

“I told you, a bitch stood on them.”

“I’m your superior officer.”

“Who it looks like someone had some fun with,” Maureen snapped back, “who did this?”

“What happened to you?” He hit right back but his voice quavered.

“I’m fine now. I wanna go see the boys. Come on.”

“Just- give them another minute.” Gale insisted, pulling her back away from the doorway again, “It’s a lot.” He reminded, “For a brother to see his sister like -that.”

Maureen couldn’t argue with that, besides Gale looked so sad and more fragile than she’d ever seen him, and the gentle hold he had on her jacket was as needy and scared as a child’s. “I’m glad we’re in this together.” she whispered.

“Me too.” he admitted, guilty and sad over how true that was before letting her press her lips to his.

Ida Brady didn’t know what she expected when she opened the door, not much she supposed, just a living brother with any luck. It was a decently tidy room, plates stacked on a rough hewn board at the far end, eight bunks lining the walls, stacked three tall. A table was in the middle and there sat dear old Crank and Hambone too, Murph with Benny. A card game was ongoing.

They looked so fine, quite normal, all in all.

All motion in the small room stopped upon her entrance. Cards were dropped and cigarettes forgotten in open mouthed shock.

“Holy shit -colonel?” Demarco didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, and his disbelieving horror over her appearance came through loud and clear in his greeting. She hadn’t seen him at the gate.

The same for Hambone’s face, one that had never bothered to be discreet in pleasant circumstances, much less in shocking ones like seeing a notorious superior officer come in looking about as battered as a body could get -although his torn cheek was one to talk. Crank recovered first, in his mild, stammering sort of way, glancing at the lean figure who still stood looking out the lone window.

“Well, if it isn’t Ain’t Pretty Brady.” Crank clapped uneasily, summoning her nickname from basic just to cut the tension, it served to startle John.

He turned from the window abruptly, blank faced and unblinking as he realized the sister he had been watching for had already arrived. If their ole nan from the motherland had suddenly materialized before him he could have hardly looked more haunted or aghast, wide fringed fox eyes and that straight fold of a mouth -always so very held together, her little brother. Even after his third belly landing.

But those startled unblinking eyes...

Ida wanted to tell him to blink, that it was all alright now, that they were both alive and that it was good enough, it had to be. But she seemed to have fully lost all power over her throbbing cheek at last, she could feel her lips move in a motion she realized with supreme panic was likely a wobble of emotion. She ripped her aviators off, as if seeing her eyes might help his to come alive.

“John John?” she croaked in greeting, oblivious of the childish endearment tumbling off her lips in a room full of soldiers. If it were something their family was in the habit of doing, Ida Brady might have rushed him like Maureen did her pilot, or held out her own hand to be held, asked for a gesture from him -after what she’d gone through, surely it couldn’t have been weakness to want a clap on the shoulder, a flick to the bicep, a little “well done” for staying alive.

But she just stood there and watched him clock her shame. She could feel her swollen lip splitting in real time as the swelling and incessant trembling tore the taut skin apart, they’d passed around a single canteen in processing and it wasn’t enough, the walls of her throat felt collapsed together. Maybe she should have asked for a mirror first, maybe Cleven or Kendeigh or Smith should have told her she’d bring a whole room to a frozen standstill by her looks alone. They’d seen her at the gate -were these meager lightbulbs really so much more illuminating?

“Eye-eye.” Johnny let it out in a breathy rush as if he’d suddenly come to, and then he was in front of her, hands cradling the sides of her neck, thumbs hooked gently under her bruised jaw. A calloused pad swiped away the ticklish trickle of blood sliding the crease of her mouth.

Eye eye -his onetime baby babble for Ida, and she’d never let him forget it.

She could have wept at the useless sentimentality of it, of the gentle familiarity of familial hands, at the seething loyalty storming across his face.

“The fuck did they do?” he articulated at last, voice gravelly as shit but also reminiscent of the squeaky olden days when his castrato role suddenly no longer served one Sunday in choir.

“You’ve got legs.” she answered instead, sounding maniacal in her happiness.

He looked at her like she’d gone fully crazy as well as beat, “Yeah? Yeah I do.”

“They said, they said you didn’t.” she chuckled, a bizarre merriment trying to take hold in her relief, “During interrogation, that bespectacled cunt told me you had your legs crushed when you crashed.”

“No? No- no I jumped.” He insisted, then let go of her face to step back and gesture to two fit legs, as long and lanky as she remembered, as long and lanky as her own. “I jumped, I’m fine. They told you that?”

“Yeah.” Ida said, “Told me the longer I didn’t comply the longer you were without medical attention. I -I’ve been so…uneasy…about you.”

“I’m fine.” He repeated, hands back on her shoulders and she was grateful for it despite the bruises he was gripping, grateful for the way he kept touching her like he was going to hold her together with his own two hands, same blood, same flesh, same memories, maybe whatever she’d lost he could supply back like a blood donation. “Those sons of bitches.” he cursed them.

“Plasma for planes.” she agreed.

He kept looking at her, at her cheek and at her ragged hair and at the missing buttons, “You didn’t tell them anything did you?” he suddenly asked, wide eyed. “You know i’d rather die than have you tell.”

Ida scoffed, and gave him a grin, the best one she could manage with her cheek and split lip, “What do you take me for, Johnny?”

“A cold hearted bitch, I hope.” he returned the small smile but his voice cracked, still that hint of something long gone and juvenile.

“That’s what their Lieutenant called me.” Ida confirmed, a little proud, and sensing a renewal of his inquiries, Ida chose to take the offensive and call out for a conspicuously absent Kendeigh, “Candy! Didn’t you want to tell Johnny about your charming admirer? The Lieutenant?”

Kendeigh came round the doorway hastily, her lips puffy and cheeks oddly red. Cleven followed after and matched her, and his blush did nothing but highlight those scars of his. “Brady.” Maureen greeted, boldly hugging Ida’s very stiff brother without care —due to his red cheeks and rigid shoulders Ida concluded Cleven had given his own inner-relations talk to the men—, “Yes, I wanted to -oh hello Crank, Benny you son of gun- wanted to tell y'all about my ticket outta here -hell Hambone, how’d you manage to get uglier? -see my integrator, he found me fairly fetching. I think one of these days he’s gonna roll up in his shiny car and take me away from here and you’re all gonna wish you’d taken time to learn a little know-how about Alligators and their hibernation tactics in the winter. He was enthralled.”

There was an awkward silence hanging in the room, Crank grimaced a smile out of sheer generosity of heart and Benny Demarco still sat with his cigarette neglected on his open lip. Cleven, used to her preening brazness kept a tight lip, though a thousand questions seemed to swirl in his eyes.

“He the one who stood on your hands?” John Brady asked her without hesitancy.

Maureen whirled round then, comedy hour over and an angry flush creeping up her neck at his directness. “No.” she snapped. “Can’t some of them be alright?”

“A German’s a German.” he countered.

“There’s Fitzs and then there’s Johanns.” she disagreed nebulously and only Ida got her reference.

“And a shower is a shower,” Ida butted in before this became an experiment in an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force “which we need, badly. We’re…filthy.”

“We’ve got working sinks, trough sinks.” Cleven clarified with an apologetic look as if it were his fault the showers only ran once a week and poorly at that, and the water they had was frigid already in autumn.

“Water is water.” Ida reasoned in return, wondering when Johnny was going to finally let go of her arm.

“We’ll clear it out for ya.” Cleven said.

“And we’ll guard the entrance.” John added emphatically.

“Thanks.” Ida muttured, “Some of us could use to mend our uniforms.” she added, refusing to blanch at the subtle inventory of her jagged tears and crusted blood being made by every man in the room.

Maureen at least had her jacket intact. Her cap, too.

“Here, you can have my trousers while I stitch yours.” her John decided and was unbuckling his belt before she even registered the hand gone from her shoulder.

“What?” Ida balked, “You’re going to go ‘round in your skivvies?”

“Not as uncommon around here as you’d think, Ida.” Gale said, a small smile on his face. “I’m afraid order and decorum has gone to shit without you.”

“Well I’m here now.” she replied sternly but didn’t stop Johnny as he stripped.

“And so am I.” Kendeigh grinned and all Ida could do was to bless the saints for having let only one terror into the camp, were Bucky Egan to be here too, things would become intolerably lax. As soon as she thought it she repented it, sending up a prayer for the poor, absent bastard.

“Say Benny, you’re shorter, can I have your pants?” Maureen pleaded.

“Why mine?” Demarco protested, only offended at the height implication.

“Because Cleven’s too tall and I’ve already been in his pants.”

“Maureen!”

“Ida, order somebody to give me their pants.”

“You can have mine.” Crank offered kindly, and then stood up and bashfully began to unlayer. It left him in skivvies, a snuggly sweater and his flight jacket.

“It’s a good look, Crank,” Maureen grinned at the finished product as he handed the trousers over. “I’m seeing you in a different light.”

“Maureen!”

“Just sayin-“

“Take the pants with you to the washroom!” Brady interjected desperately as Maureen looked ready to strip right here and now. “Jesus, Kendeigh.”

“Touchy, touchy.” Maureen ribbed him, out for blood in her tired state and if she couldn’t have that of the Germans she would of her friends’.

“Alright let’s - let’s settle down.” Gale implored, a tired expression firmly etched onto his face and Ida herself considered giving up on the wash altogether and tumbling into the available bunk to court the oblivion of sleep. Were it only blood and dirt she just might, her usual tidiness be damned.

As it was -it was, there was…the filth was so much worse.

And if Ida thought on it too long she’d go mad and want to pour boiling lye on herself to wash herself clean and to kill the shame of it. She’d have to scrub the pants before she gave them to Johnny to be mended, it was bad enough for a brother to see the blood and busted seams.

“Yes, settle down for God’s sake.” she echoed Cleven, and something about her hoarse voice compelled Maureen to temper herself more than any direct order could. “A wash, come on, let’s get the girls. Oh and one more thing, Cleven-“ Ida turned to Gale and found him alert, eager to help. She was afraid she was only setting him up for failure but she had to make an effort to find those “remedies” she’d promised Sanchez. “There any lemons around?”

The incredulous look on his face suggested he thought she knew better, but he was ever polite in his reply, “No, colonel. No lemons.”

“Mm. Nutmeg?” she tried to recall each wicked trick she’d heard condemned when a girl got herself in the family way without the needed family in place.

“No, no nutmeg.”

“Mm.”

“Nothing but potatoes and cigarettes, ma’am. Do you- why?” he asked.

“Nothing.” she assured, “Just, a hot toddy sounds good right about now. You know?”

“Uh,” he floundered, half in suspicion and half in genuine confusion, “never had one.”

“Well then,” she grinned as she passed him, “that’s something to add to our to-do list for when this is all over. Jameson, though, none of that Kentucky stuff.”

“Yes ma’am.” his tone was vacant, smiling concern brittle, “You uh, you alright, Colonel?”

Ida gave him a withering look and then Gale too, had cause to be repentant.

“Come on Kendeigh, let's get the rest.” Ida gestured as she followed Gale back into the hall, aware of Johnny’s eyes still on her, still taking stock, “They better not be in bunks without a wash. Come on, showers, everyone! Out, come on out. You can sleep afterwards. Out! Would one of you be so kind as to wake us up in time for roll call?” she inquired of the male officers straggling behind her in the hall.

“Course! Yeah, for sure.” about five offers went up.

“You wake Me up.” she clarified coming to a full stop, wary of the enthusiasm, “I’ll wake up the rest.”

“I’ll get you up.” Her John said.

He’d probably sit and watch her sleep, too, needle and torn pants in hand, like a creepy little owl but that was one of those things she figured make or break a family, you either find it endearing you have a brother who rarely blinks or you go mad. Today, after all of it, she didn’t mind having a guardian Angel. Or a watchdog. Speaking of-

“Hey,” she asked him, “you two flew out together, where’s Bucky?”

But no one had an answer for that, not even Little John.

💋Hope you enjoyed AND REMEMBER -prompts are now open.

Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mota oc #Intergrated au #those who can #john egan #john brady #gale cleven #benny demarco #gale cleven x oc #john egan x oc #john brady x oc #Maureen Kendeigh #Ida Brady #Tallulah Smith

[the-final-sif]

actually i think cdreamza would be kinda healthy like unlike the others options i think they would end up okay if they we're together

Oh I agree, I actually think their relationship would be the healthiest for the two of them out of c!dreambur / c!dreamza / c!fundywastaken

Like, realistically c!Philza can give the sort of pushback and "no, that's dumb and will get you hurt" that c!Dream would probably need in a partner while c!Dream provides a lot of excitement (tm). They'd balance nicely.

Now, they would be fine, I do think that c!Dreamza wrecks everyone else around them. Like, just to go down the list.

c!Tommy finds out that Philza Minecraft is fucking c!Dream and I think he just fucking quits. He's so fucking done with everything and everyone and he's going into the woods to scream. That's fair.

c!Wilbur finds out the dude he had a weird kismesis thing going on with is now fucking his dad. He's furious but also has no leg to stand on because he only started fucking this guy AFTER the dude had almost married his son. So like, turnabout is fairplay and all that.

c!Fundy is so miserable. He's in hell. First c!Wilbur and now this. Literally what the fuck is he supposed to do?

c!Sam post prison is so weirdly jealous because he's a freak and also kinda spooked because he really doesn't want to fuck with Philza and he's kinda watching his back now.

c!George is FURIOUS but he can't do much about it particularly because c!Technoblade already proved he can and will murder him if he tries to start shit.

Meanwhile I think c!Quackity is torn between 100% fearing for his life on account of the whole torture thing, and also absolutely enjoying c!Wilbur's misery. This is so fucking funny, he just wish it didn't come with such a risk to himself.

#c!dream #c!dreamza #c!philza #c!tommy #c!wilbur #c!fundy #c!sam #dsmp #dream smp #Anonymous #c!george #c!quackity #sif answers #sif speaks

[howlinchickhowl]

It's posting day for my @gallavichthings Gift Exchange gift! I got @rayrayor and I wrote a little something for their prompt about Mickey being a 'straight' patron of Ian's gay bar. Happy gift exchange, I hope you enjoy it!

(There's no warnings and it's fairly PG)

You're Like In Love With Me - a gallavich a.u. fiction 🫶

Someone at the brewery has it in for Ian, he’s decided. They’ve assigned him the world’s weediest delivery guy, who manages to shift one keg for every seven Ian hauls off his truck, and always gets to Ian ‘after lunch’, which, tends to be closer to dinner than lunch in Ian’s opinion, and leaves him very little time to get everything stocked and inventoried and get a break in before the evening rush starts.

He’s sweating buckets as he waves the guy off and staggers back out into the main bar for some ice water. He rounds the bar and snags a dishcloth from Joni who wrinkles their nose up at him as he swipes it over his forehead and the back of his neck.

Joni doesn’t sweat, it’s a point of pride for them. Ian isn’t sure if they actually aren’t capable of sweating, or if they just avoid any activity that could possibly cause them to perspire.  If he was at home with his siblings, Ian would shake his head like a wet dog, sending droplets flying all over every surface and into the faces of any person standing close enough. But last year when he took over from Gigi she made him sit through like thirty hours of online health and safety and food hygiene training, and there is an open container of cut limes on the back bar that he can’t in good conscience condemn with his bodily fluids. So he holds himself back and focuses on getting himself a drink and trying not to be too obvious about checking out his favorite regular.

Mickey Milkovich has been coming to The Scratching Post since before Ian’s time, before it was ever even a gay bar, according to the man himself. When he was a kid, before the neighborhood ‘went to shit’ – Mickey’s colorful way of saying got gentrified by the u-haul lesbians and professional gays – it was something of a slum. And Mickey grew up a regular little slumdog. Before The Scratching Post was The Scratching Post, it was The Alibi Room, and the way Mickey tells it, it was basically his dad’s office. He’s told Ian stories about how he used to sit in one of the booths and watch his dad take book or make deals, how he got his first tattoo from the owner’s cousin who was trying to rustle up enough bail money to get her boyfriend out of jail after he shot up their apartment during a bad trip. How his older brother lost his virginity in the upstairs room when it was a short-lived brothel. How the whole fabric of his life is tied up in this place, like he’s just as much a part of it as the stains on the carpet that they’ve never bothered to change.

So now that Mickey is out of prison (attempted murder, but according to Mickey it was a trumped up bullshit charge and if he wanted to murder someone he would fucking succeed) and back living in the house he grew up in, he likes to drink in his neighborhood bar, even if it’s turned into some sort of haven for the L-G-B-T-Q-Whatever (his words). It’s home.

Ian doesn’t mind. Mickey’s a fast drinker and he can hold a lot of booze, and it never hurts to get some steady business during the day. And he likes Mickey. Kind of really likes him, actually. Sort of wouldn’t mind licking the inside of his mouth or tasting the sweat on the back of his neck. And that’s where he gets into a certain amount of trouble. Because Mickey Milkovich? Is straight.

Straight as a ramrod. Straight as a ruler. Straight as the day is long. Capital S Straight. So Ian tries not to think too much about how soft his lips look or how good he smells, and he also tries to keep it under wraps exactly how much he likes to look at the guy. He’s not gonna not look at him. But he doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable in, from what Ian can gather, one of the only places he feels comfortable. And he also doesn’t want to get his ass kicked by a guy he has a crush on. He had enough of that kind of fun in high school.

So he grabs his pint of ice water and wipes his forehead with his stolen rag and he limits his glances to two seconds long with twenty second intervals. Or at least he thinks he does until Joni rolls their eyes at him and announces they are going on a smoke break, since he’s clearly gonna be there for a while anyway. He’d be annoyed but honestly, they’re right.

Mickey always sits in the same spot, on a high stool at the bar just where it’s curved around enough so that he can easily see the door but not so far that he can’t see who’s coming and going from the restroom or the back. His vigilance is quiet, but noticeable if you know what you’re looking for. Or if you just spend a lot of time looking.

He’s in his spot today, left hand curled loosely around his beer like he likes to be ready to drink at any moment, and he’s smiling down at his phone in a way that has Ian’s tummy start to fizz with little sparks of jealousy. What’s got him smiling like that? He’s desperate to know.

He doesn’t always talk to Mickey every time he comes in, he tries to show a respectful level of interest, though if you polled his employees they would probably say he fails at that. He does some quick math in his head while grabbing another rag and starting to wipe down the bar top, making his way down toward Mickey’s end. Today is Wednesday, Mickey didn’t come in yesterday, on Monday Ian kept his distance, and he hadn’t worked Sunday. That meant that their last interaction had been Saturday. Four days. That’s a decent interval, he figures, and he carries on wiping over the bar, trying to come up with a subtle way to find out what has made Mickey smile.

“That your girl?” Is what he’s got by the time he’s stood in front of Mickey, and it may not be subtle but it’s all he could think of.

“Huh?” Mickey asks, looking up.

“You uh, you look like something in your phone is making you real happy, I thought maybe it was a girl.”

“Oh, Uh.” Mickey looks down at his phone and then back up at Ian, his lips tugging down into a half frown. “No.”

He closes his phone and shoves it in his back pocket, eyes shifting around the room as he takes a sip of his beer. There’s something kind of shifty about it, like Ian’s made him uncomfortable somehow, and if Ian had more self-control he’d call this one a loss and find an excuse to leave him be. But his discipline only extends to his exercise regime and diet apparently because he finds himself unable to walk away, quietly desperate to know what Mickey had been looking at.

“So what d’you win a bet?”

Mickey huffs a laugh and sticks hi phone in his back pocket, Ian wipes a spot on the bar that he’s already wiped clean three times.

“Naw man, just a picture of my sister looking fuckin’ dumb in a squirrel hat.”

Ok. Not what Ian had been expecting.

“A…squirrel? Hat?”

“Yeah it’s for her job or whatever, she looks like a fuckin’ idiot.”

His words are harsh, but the smile that’s spreading over his lips is kind of soft, like he is actually kind of fond of his sister. Ian’s never seen him smile like that before. His smile is always kind of dirty, or wry, or sometimes bordering on a grimace, this is different, and Ian feels like he’s unlocked a new Mickey nugget. He wonders if he can get some more.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Two brothers, one sister.” He takes a gulp of his beer and then does a thoughtful little shrug. “That I know of. The way my dad was though, wouldn’t be too shocked if I got a bunch more I don’t know about.”

There’s that wry smile that Ian’s used to, with a half an eye roll that belies a lifetime of dealing with a parent who never stops disappointing you. It’s an eyeroll Ian has performed many a time himself.

“God yeah me too. I got at least one half-sister who showed up out of the blue a few years back, but I could be related to half the city for all I know.”

“Half the redheads at least.” And there’s the dirty smile. He’s mentioned Ian’s hair a few times, most people tease him about it a little, it’s no big deal. He imagines Mickey would have terrorized him if they’d known each other as kids, chasing him around calling him Carrot Top or Little Orphan Annie. This is kind of a gentle tease though, something warm, accompanied with a squint that could almost be a wink, if Mickey Milkovich was the kind of guy who winked, and it spurs Ian on.

“I knew this girl in high school, her dad had so many kids running around that she had to ask people for their family tree before she would hook up with them.”

Mickey almost chokes on his beer.

“Fuck me, should I be doing that?”

“I don’t know. She had a close call once, and her dad literally had like, thirty kids.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, so, next time you’re lookin’ to hook up with someone, just, ask for a DNA screening first I guess.”

Mickey nods, and then the air sort of drops out of the conversation, like it has nowhere left to go. Mickey gulps the last of his beer in one huge mouthful that puffs his cheeks out and sort of makes him look like he’s chewing it, and the only thing Ian can think to say is to ask him if he wants another.

“Nah I’m good, gotta get back.” He throws some cash down on the bar to cover his tab and is out the door with his arms still shoving into his jacket before Ian can even say syanora.

And then he doesn’t come back for three weeks.

It’s not like Ian’s moping, Joni can fuck off for implying that. The bar is busy and he has a lot to do and employees to manage and siblings to deal with. But in the afternoons sometimes he’ll find himself staring at the empty space where Mickey would normally be and wondering, kind of forlornly, if the guy is ever coming back. Trying to figure out what he did or said in that last conversation that pissed him off so bad he would forsake his childhood bar.

Ian misses him. His expressive face and his disgusting sense of humour, and the way he makes Ian feel, like on edge and at ease at the same time. It just sucks, not seeing him, and not knowing why.

And then one day, three weeks and four days since The Scratching Post had last seen hide or hair of him, he’s back, sitting on his regular stool when Ian gets done mopping the bathrooms.

It gives him a jolt, a little shiver of excitement running down his spine as he shoves the mop in the corner and rounds the bar.

“Haven’t seen you around here lately.” He greets Mickey, as casually as he can, and Mickey looks up, kind of startled, and then looks down at the bar. Or. There’s a white envelope sitting there, and he seems fixated on it.  

“Everything ok Mick?”

Mickey nods, a quick little jerk of a thing, eyes fixed on the envelope. He doesn’t even have a drink in front of him.

“You want a beer?”

He shakes his head, brings his right hand up to lay his fingertips over the envelope and slide it across the bar toward Ian.

“What’s this?” Ian picks it up, there’s no name on it, no details, it’s not sealed but he’s still not sure if he should open it. Mickey’s looking up at him when he’s done inspecting it.

“It’s uh.” His bright blue eyes flick away and then back again, are they wetter than usual? They seem so shiny when they finally rest back on Ian. “It’s a DNA test.”

“A DNA test?”

“Yeah. We um. We ain’t related. So.”

He raps his knuckles on the bar a couple of times in a short sharp knock that he must think serves as a suitable stop to this most bizarre of conversations, and clambers off his stool, heading for the door.

“Wait Mickey—What?!”

“Just. Read it.”

The door has barely had time to swing shut before Ian is practically tearing the envelope in his haste to look at the paper inside. It’s exactly what Mickey said, a DNA test, comparing Mickey’s DNA to his own, which, he’s gonna have to talk to him about where he got a sample of Ian’s DNA from, and confirming that there’s no overlap. In the top right corner, in a chicken scratch of a hand, Mickey has scrawled the words ‘just in case’ and then a phone number, and Ian almost drops his phone in the ice trough in his rush to pull it out of his pocket and send a text.

[2:34pm]         I thought you were straight?

The reply buzzes through almost immediately, like maybe Mickey’s stood outside looking at his phone waiting to see what happens.

[2:34pm]         Good.

It’s a very Mickey text, and something about it makes Ian feel warm, like he’s being trusted with something Mickey doesn’t trust a lot of people with.

[2:35pm]         Where did you get a sample of my DNA??

[2:35pm]         That really what you wanna be asking me right now?

[2:35pm]         I’ve got a lot of things I want to ask you.

[2:36pm]         So come outside, I don’t got all day.

It’s possible that Ian knocks over a stool and drops his dishcloth on the floor, he’s got bigger fish to fry.

#gallavich fic #ian x mickey #fic #GGE2024

[mybrainisrotted]

Gojo/gn!reader, established relationship. Post Shibuya incident spoilers. When our man returned.

Read on Ao3.

"I mean this respectfully Ijichi, please get the fuck out of my way."

The metal examining table under Gojo's thighs is cold and uncomfortable, but it's a different sort of cold and uncomfortable and for that he's grateful. But the voice that echoes in the hall outside the medical room sends a rush of warmth through him that makes it feel like his heart has been restarted when he didn't even know it had stopped. For a moment--a second stretched indefinitely--he forgets where he's been, what he's seen, what he's felt, who he's lost.

The door slams open, bouncing off the wall hard enough to make even Shoko wince a bit as she takes a drag from her nearly ever present cigarette. Smiling softly, she joins Ijichi in the hall, closing the door behind her.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't wait anymore."

Gojo's already on his feet when you come barreling into him, arms open and ready to catch you. Your body molds to his, arms wrapped tight around his middle, face pressed against his chest where he's sure you can hear how his heart has picked up pace, slamming against his ribcage. He folds himself around you as best he can, squeezing you a little too tightly because he knows that's how you like your hugs. You take a deep breath and let it out with a pleased hum, nuzzling your cheek against him.

"You smell like you. Like home."

The corner of Gojo's mouth ticks up, and he presses his own nose to the top of your head, letting the faint but familiar scent of your coconut shampoo take over his senses. It triggers memories that are uniquely coded to you; smoothing fingers over your shoulder as he ghosts his lips over the back of your neck in bed, and steam filled showers that you always begrudge him for taking with you even as you lovingly massage that shampoo into his hair (which he bought to keep at his place specifically for this purpose), humming softly under your breath as your nails gently rake over his scalp.

Gojo's favourite part was smelling you on his things. Rolling over in bed, alone, and burying his nose in his pillow and smelling you. Drying his hands on his towel, sitting on his couch, pulling on his clothes and having that faint scent of coconut suddenly tickle his nose. You're with him even when you aren't. And in the Prison Realm, with nothing to do to pass the infinite looping of time except dive inward into his own mind, he'd tucked his chin into the collar of his shirt and--smelled you. Lingering within the fabric and threads was the simple essence of you and suddenly he hadn't felt so alone.

"I'm sorry I've been gone," Gojo murmurs, mouth at your temple and fingers smoothing nonsensical patterns up and down your spine. Now that he's got you in his grasp again, when the likelihood of that had begun to seem like a fleeting possibility, he doesn't want to let you go. "It won't happen again. I promise."

You squirm in his hold, placing both hands on his chest to push him back slightly so you can look at him face to face. You don't think you've ever seen him on school grounds without his blindfold or sunglasses. The nineteen days without him makes you realize between the sky and the ocean there isn't a shade of blue that could possibly capture what you see swirling in his irises.

"You don't need to apologize for something out of your control, Satoru," you say with a slight frown. You bring your hands up to cup his cheeks, committing him to memory all over again, warming when his expression softens under your touch. "You have no idea how happy I am that you're back. That's the only thing that matters."

Something in Gojo's eyes flickers, and though he smirks it doesn't carry his usual lightheartedness. The coil of tension in his stomach twists uncomfortably. "Missed the strongest sorcerer, huh?"

You shake your head again, smoothing the pad of your thumb over his lower lip. "I missed your corny jokes. I missed your surprise mochi deliveries. I missed our late night hot chocolate talks on your balcony." Your fingers trace a gentle path upward, over his sharp cheekbones and soft brows, smoothing a lock of silky white hair over his temple and then settling at his nape. "I missed your morning bed head. I missed your laugh. I missed your touch. I missed the way you said you loved me. I missed my sweet Satoru."

The love you give him, have always given him, is free of strings and expectations. Gojo doesn't know what his future is going to look like but he knows he wants one with you. By your side. His smile wobbles as he gently swipes away the tears at the corners of your eyes, that knot in his stomach loosening with your words. He kisses you on the forehead, on each damp cheek, the tip of your nose, and finally your lips, once, twice, three times, before he taps his head to yours.

"I missed you too, sweetheart."

#satoru gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #my writing #my brain rots

[bonefall]

Honest question, how do you think Clear Sky would react if he got yeeted to the Dark Forest upon death. I've been thinking about this for an AU and I have how I'll do it, but I'm super curious how you'd approach it because I like hearing you talk about the worst man ever

Oh he'd build an empire. Like. Immediately. First couple of cats that fall in with him would end up getting turned into his lackeys.

I lean into the Christian coding a lot but like, unironically, Clear Sky is the sort of dramaturge who could deliver lines out of Paradise Lost without breaking a sweat

Paradise Lost is about how Satan's ego lead him to oppose God, how he justifies hanging onto his anger at having had his ass kicked, and how he rallies all his demons to continue to fight for a lost cause they can't possibly win. Milton basically wrote it to connect that theme to humanity itself, exploring the various ways that Satan and humans aren't so different.

It just feels so right with Clear Sky in mind. Everyone knows the "Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven" line that the speech in Book 1 ends with, but the CONTEXT of Satan's words there is that he's looking at all his fallen allies doing the family guy death post at literally rock bottom, all these people who lost everything by following him, and he's giving them a pep talk.

"Ok yes. It smells like a sulphuric fart, the lights keep flickering, and everything is on fire," says Satan, "But maybe this is a you-problem. I'M this funny little thing called an ✨optimist✨ and you know what? Maybe God never built a minecraft base here because he's the real loser. YOU can say it's hell but you know what I call it? Free real estate babey. NOW LET'S GO FUCK WITH HIM!!!!"

And that's honestly the EXACT way I see Clear Sky reacting to something like that. Like he'd ever just lay down and die?? HELL no. He'd be PISSED that StarClan was SO UNGRATEFUL to him, that they did something so spiteful and unfair. Sure, he Made Some Mistakes, but he had to make HARD choices, and he was NEVER WRONG, and deserves his place being honored.

He might briefly have a moment of self-pity, woefully consider just giving up... but in the end, his damning would make him so mad. He'd want to get back at them as soon as his brief pity party is over (just like he did with One Eye), and he's absolutely incapable of ever NOT bossing other cats around. He just needs one or two goons before he's got a little base of power, and you KNOW that cats like Petal would do anything to go fight by his side again.

So yeah. If you're asking me, sending Clear Sky to the Dark Forest would unironically just result in the devil. And you'd have a great opportunity there, because StarClan SUCKS.

Both sides would be terrible options and you can really expand on the unfairness of WC's afterlife system, and the way that banishing a person like Clear Sky to an eternal prison with other desperate cats just ends up enabling and empowering his worst impulses.

#bone babble #He also reminds me a ton of Father homunculus in the flask from Fullmetal tbh. Especially his ending speaking to Truth #How in the end he's begging for his life and falling into the emotions of humanity that he had previously tried to reject #Showing that at no point was the creature fully able to stop BEING some flavor of human. It was part of him all along. #The way that he hated himself for that. But how he falls back on those things as a plea when he's truly helpless for the first time in year #''What was I supposed to do?!''

[film-in-my-soul]

Oblivious | 10,166 | Stevieschrodinger / @stevieschrodinger

Summary: Everyone knows that Steve and Bucky are a thing. Everyone, that is, except for Steve.

dark into the heat | 10,247 | Nonymos

Summary: Steve breaks everyone out of Azzano, then goes back for one last prisoner who might not be quite human. Everything is going to go just fine.

Circularity | 11,724 | dharmashark / @dharmasharks

Summary: Steve runs his underground cybernetics shop with two rules: 1. Don’t get involved with HydraCorp. 2. Don’t get personal with clients. But when a mysterious cyborg shows up at his front door, Steve decides that some rules are worth breaking—especially if you can take down a big bad mega corporation in the process. (And if said client just so happens to be unreasonably cute.)

Say it louder for the people in the back | 14,864 | redhook

Summary: Steve operates a glory hole. One of his regulars starts to get under his skin.

Please see below for more recommendations!

The Run and Go | 14,960 | lupus (khaleeseas) / @khaleeseas

Summary: When Bucky Barnes first meets Steve Rogers, Bucky's standing half-naked in their apartment complex's laundry room. It's 2 a.m. on a Friday night (or is it considered a Saturday morning?) and for once Bucky is way too sober for all of this. The next thing Bucky knows, Steve is everywhere. Being hot and sarcastic and nice and overall perfect and Bucky is kind of totally and completely screwed.

Caramel Macchiato | 15,450 | littleblackfox / @thelittleblackfox

Summary: "You ate my bees," Bucky says. Because his own tongue fucking hates him.

wipe the blood from your face and your hands | 15,735 | AustinB / @cornerficus

Summary: It’s weird. The whole fucking thing is weird. Steve’s sitting across from a vampire in a diner under harsh fluorescent lighting, and he still looks like a fucking GQ cover. Steve wonders if biting creates some sort of bond like it does on T.V. Maybe he should’ve asked that question before consenting to it. “Do you have some kind of telepathic connection with me now that you’ve drank my blood?” Bucky snorts into his coffee. Steve finds it oddly endearing.

imagine being loved by me | 20,247 | spacebuck / @spacebuck

Summary: Just after 1am - a few hours after he posted today’s photo - he hears the tell-tale sound of a twitter message. Bucky grabs his phone, not checking who it’s from as he opens it because it’s probably one of his mutuals yelling at him as per usual. When he actually looks at his phone, though, it’s not Natasha The ‘verified’ check stares back at him for a long moment before he can even bring himself to process the name on his screen. Steve Rogers is messaging him. Or, he reasons, a very good fake. The handle looks right though, not that Bucky knows. Not that Bucky has Captain’s America’s tweets set up as notifications, or that Bucky’s own display name is set to captain america’s bitch. Not at all. Hey, the first message says. It’s Steve.

Paper Tree | 21,391 | Ellessey

Summary: Bucky just laughs and shoves another bite of egg in his mouth, giving Steve a shrug and a full-cheeked smile. He's so damn cute Steve wants to shout at him, but he can't seem to say any of the right things. "Shoulda got you a comb for Christmas," is what he comes up with instead. "What did you get me?" It's Steve's turn to shrug now, and if he looks more terrified than cheeky as he does so, he can only hope Bucky doesn't catch it before Steve hurries out the door.

Controlled Release | 21,836 | steebadore / @steebadore

Summary: Bucky's just having a little trouble...finishing. Completing the mission. He can squeeze the trigger but he can't make the shot is what he's saying. Which is why he's here, loitering outside a nice brownstone in Park Slope, trying to find the courage to knock on Captain Come Control dot com's door for his three o'clock appointment. You know, just normal Thursday things.

I Just Want to Love You in My Own Language | 22,436 | agetwellcard / @agetwellcard

Summary: Bucky Barnes is Captain America and uses terrible pickup lines. Steve Rogers is Captain America's nurse and is not impressed by the aforementioned terrible pickup lines.

During Business Hours: A Filthy Coffee Shop AU | 25,116 | samanthahirr / @samanthahirr

Summary: Unemployed artist Steve takes a job managing the worst coffee shop in Brooklyn, where the floors are greasy, the coffee beans have expired, the espresso machine’s been sabotaged, and the owners might be Russian Mafia. But the job comes with a few perks, like a generous paycheck, reasonable hours, and one super-hot customer whom Steve can’t resist having dirty, filthy, bad-idea sex with in the bathroom. Steve is pretty sure this job is going to kill him. But what a way to go....

One Caress | 26,160 | fuck_me_barnes / @fuck-me-barnes

Summary: Steve's rarely been touched in a way that didn't equate to some kind of hurt. The cold metal of a stethoscope against his frail chest or the sting of a needle drawing yet another blood sample, when he was a sickly child. The bone-shattering punches thrown by the neighborhood bullies on the playground, or by his own father at home, drunk and wild. His mother, weak and clutching at him as she grew more incoherent with the drugs as the cancer ate away at her insides. Touch was something he shied away from, something he told himself he just didn't want. Except...he did. He just didn't know how. Until he finds a flyer for a local "affection and intimacy services" program.

Season of all things | 26,466 | Claudia_flies / @claudia-flies

Summary: Steve really isn’t sure about sharing with an Alpha but he is starting to run out of options. There are only six Omega boarding houses in the city and Steve has been kicked out of four of them.

Trust Enough | 27,374 | geneticallydead

Summary: “Saturday. Yeah, that’s good,” Steve says, and actually scuffs his shoe at the ground. Like a ridiculous shy superhero damsel. “Say eight? I live-“ “Yeah, big building with the A on it,” Bucky says, and can’t help a big stupid grin. Steve stares at him, looking a little dazed, and after their whole conversation it’s only now that Bucky’s brain catches up and realises Steve finds him quite attractive. So. Win for Bucky. “Let me get your number,” Steve says finally, after they’ve stared stupidly at each other for about three hours, taking out his phone. So they exchange numbers, and then Steve says he should go, and Bucky agrees, and they kind of stare at each other for a bit more, then Steve actually does go, but not before taking Bucky’s hand and squeezing it warmly in a way that makes Bucky want to shiver all over. Then Steve is gone, and Bucky is standing alone in the alley, grinning to himself. Right up until the moment he remembers that Steve thinks Bucky is an escort he’s just hired. Well fuck.

How To Embrace A Swamp Creature | 27,625 | littleblackfox / @thelittleblackfox

Summary: Steve washes his hands with the sliver of soap left by the sink, and takes a long hard look at himself in the mirror. The cut on his brow has scabbed over, and the bruises around his eye are blotchy red and sore to the touch. Stupid. His hands are no better, and he grips the edge of the sink to keep them from shaking. The scabs on his knuckles open up again, blood welling up starkly against his bone white fists. He holds them under the running faucet and watches the water circle the drain before pulling himself together. Just a little bit further, a little bit longer

Through The Open Window | 28,661 | 74days

Summary: Steve Rogers gave up on joining the army and worked for Stark Industries writing policy letters by hand. It's a dull job, right up until the office across the fire escape is given to an attractive stranger with one arm and no personal boundaries. Was going to be PWP but then there was like... a little plot? Steve and Bucky if Steve & Bucky never met as kids, I guess.

Agent Rogers | 31,348 | Stevieschrodinger / @stevieschrodinger

Summary: The Winter Soldier has been captured and is being rehabilitated. Steve Rogers really likes his job in the Shield archives.

The Daily Rogers | 32,154 | Nonymos

Summary: College AU. May contain exchange students, a Starbucks addiction, daddy issues, anger issues, closets and how to get out of them, the ever-ominous influence of social networks, various levels of betrayal, awfully poor life choices, but also, ultimately, real chunks of love.

miles to go before i sleep | 34,079 | obsessivereader / @yetanotherobsessivereader

Summary: Vietnam vet Bucky is just trying to get a hot meal, and maybe a job, in the small town of Hope, but the local law enforcement has other ideas. When their brutality triggers a flashback, Bucky snaps and escapes from their custody. Hunted, exhausted, injured, he finds shelter for the night next to a cabin in the middle of the woods. He means to be long gone before the cabin's occupant awakes. Things don't turn out quite the way he expected.

we are the things that we do for fun | 35,585 | Nonymos

Summary: Going to a professional Dom may be one of the weirdest things Bucky’s ever done. Especially since this skinny Steve Rogers guy doesn’t really look the part. But hey, they might just find a way to make this work.

The Devil's Acre | 40,636 | littleblackfox / @thelittleblackfox

Summary: “I’m sorry, you want me to what?” Steve sits back in his chair and tries not to glare at Hill across the conference table. “Track down a cryptid.” Agent Hill repeats, tossing a dossier onto the table. Steve has to stretch out an arm to reach across for it. “A cryptid,” Steve repeats doubtfully.

only one my arms will ever hold | 41,561 | wearing_tearing / @wearing-tearing

Summary: Like most stories about Bucky Barnes and his questionable and sometimes terrible life choices, this one starts because he decides not to listen to Natasha’s cryptic and mostly annoying advice. He decides not to listen, and he hunts down and kills a deer during that month’s full moon run with his pack and leaves its dead body on Steve Rogers’s front step. Steve, the man Bucky kind-of-possibly-maybe-absolutely is in love with. Bucky would try to smother himself after that one, but he’s learned that werewolves are hard to kill.

Karma's A Fake Orgasm | 51,637 | daisymondays

Summary: There’s another abandoned mug, festering with mould in the living room — Steve offically has the world's worst roommates. And complains about them. Often. Bucky, tired of his lack of action, decides it’s time to avenge Steve's sleepless nights and unsanitary conditions once and for all. They’ll pretend to be the world’s most annoying couple: excessive PDA, loud fake sex, and general repugnance. The plan sounds easy enough; it will be strictly platonic. Or will it?

Like the Tide | 53,950 | Deisderium

Summary: There's no SSR anymore. It's SHIELD, now. The worst part is, it's named after him in some way, Peggy's idea of a memorial to honor his sacrifice. He hates the thought of it, because it makes him feel like a hypocrite. His shield was only ever a prop, not something to base an agency around. But he's been mythologized differently. They give him files to read on this thing that Peggy and Howard built, and his story is a part of it—or anyway, the story that Peggy and Howard chose to tell about him. It shouldn't matter; they thought he was dead. They never thought he would see what they turned him into.

Catchweight | 56,418 | notlucy / @notlucy

Summary: For the most part, Steve’s life is fine. Sure, his job is tedious, he lives with his mother, and he can’t quite get over thinking he’s wasting his potential, but maybe that’s just part of being twenty-three. Then, one day—one totally dull day—the archetypal cliche of a tall, dark, and handsome beefcake walks up to his counter, bringing with him more questions than answers, and a duffel bag full of cash.

Through The Woods | 64,082 | VenusMonstrosa / @venusmonstrosa

Summary: There’s a legend in Mansewood, nearly as old as the town itself, about a pack of werewolves that once lived in the forest. They say only one survives; a monstrous and snarling beast with fur like a blizzard and fangs the size of daggers. They say it guards the lands and all creatures in it, and no hunter has faced it and lived to tell the tale. Steve doesn’t care about any of that. He only wants to know if it prefers T-Bone or ribeye, and would it please stop tracking dirt through his house? He just mopped the floor.

Master Reclist · Personal Masterlist · Blog Nav.

#stucky #steve/bucky #stucky reclist #reclist #fanfic reclist #mcu reclist

[hopefulstarfire]

Do yall wanna know my actual favorite butterfly effect?

Two people fucking on a mountain indirectly lead to my favorite comic of all time, Under the Red Hood.

Let me explain.

Joseph Hugo married a woman named Sophie Trébuchet in 1797. He was a general in Napoleon's army so they moved around quite a bit. In a letter he would later write to his son, he and his wife had been on a trip on June 24th 1801 to get from one post to the next and he believed this, on the highest peaks of the Vosges Mountains, is where he believed they conceived their son, who would later become the Ocean Man and famed author Victor Hugo.

(Fun fact: Jean Valjeans prisoner number, 24601, is absolutely in reference to his believed conception date)

Victor Hugo grows up and obviously is responsible for many works, such as Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and was never one to shy away from political commentary. Thus, he was exiled from France and sent to living on the Channel Islands. It was here that he wrote a novel titled The Man Who Laughs.

Like many of his works, this one does have different adaptations. One in particular came out in 1928 starring Conrad Veidt as the character Gwynplaine, or the Man Who Laughs.

Fast forward about a little over a decade later in 1940. A comic book writer comes into work to be greeted by two artists he worked with, one who did significantly less work than the others. These three men were Bill Finger, Bob Kane and Jerry Robinson.

Now the details of this meeting are...well, up in the air. Each man had their own account to it, and Bob Kane especially is the most unreliable given that he took credit for literally everything and we went over 70 years without Bill Finger getting any sort of credit to actually creating Batman. But what we do know is that there was a drawing of a playing card and a face for the joker card; and Bill Finger said, "Hey, that looks like Conrad Veidt in the Man Who Laughs."

They pushed further with that angle in making the character, a new villain for their hero; the obvious, Joker.

Some years later we get a little bit of an origin story in 1951, in the comic The Man Behind the Red Hood! (ALSO written by Bill Finger) Some college students are trying to solve this decades old case of a burglar in a red pill helmet that was called the Red Hood and trying to figure out who it was. Teaming up with Batman and Robin, they find out that the Red Hood was in fact Joker's old alias. He used to be a lab worker that was stealing from a playing card company with that alias. He was caught by Batman and threw himself into some chemical waste to escape, thus becoming the Joker.

This origin has stuck around in some form ever since. The moniker was unused for quite a long time after this, but would eventually find a new home in a different character.

See, in the 80s, Batman's second sidekick, Jason Todd, was killed off in a very brutal fashion after a fucking poll that people could call two different numbers to decide if they were going to save him or not. I will get into why I have so many frustrations with everything surrounding this story another day, but the important thing to know here is that the Joker killed Jason while Jason was trying to save his mother.

And for a good period of time there, Jason became a character that you did not bring back to life. Until they did.

A storyline running from 2005 to 2006 came into life, called Under the Hood. In it, Batman has to fight a new foe taking on the mantle of Red Hood, only to discover its Jason Todd, brought back to life from the Lazarus Pit, and taking on the mantle of the man that murdered him to go fucking murder the Joker and take control of crime in Gotham and do what he believes Bruce couldn't, all while dealing with trauma and feeling replaced.

So yeah. We wouldn't have my favorite character or story if it wasn't for Victor Hugo's parents fucking on a mountain and conceiving him there where "The elevated origin seems to have had effects on [Victor Hugo] so that [his] muse is continually sublime". That is a quote from that letter. Victor Hugo's mountain conception where he got a great muse is the reason for the Joker and Red Hood. Thanks for coming to my Ted talk.

#kenz musings #dc #dc comics #red hood #jason todd #batman #bat family #joker #victor hugo

[suniloli]

BOILING POINT p1

12 Dec 2023

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (and a bit of Rick Grimes x fem!reader if you so interpret it that way)

Word Count: 1.76K

Warnings: Swearing, sexual innuendo

Setting: Prison

Summary: Your tumultuous relationship with Daryl has come to a head. You try to internalise why things have changed between you two. Will things go back to the way they were?

Author Note: This one sort of came to me out of the blue. Wanted to change it up a bit and challenge myself…was also thinking of starting a series, but I’m pretty sure I won't be able to keep up with regular posting etc because I procrastinate a fair bit. Anyways, there’s a lot of dialogue, and not a lot of Daryl x reader interaction yet. Hope the progression of things makes sense!  - Sól

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’! You’re just a good fer nothin’ bitch!” 

“How DARE you!” You screamed back at Daryl. “Get the FUCK out of my face!”

“FINE!” He spat as he stalked towards the prison’s gates. 

“What a prick…” you angrily rumbled. You could feel your blood reaching its boiling point. Your body felt like a furnace.

Clenching your fists, you resorted to murmuring not-so-nice things while pacing the prison yard. “He’s such a fuckin’ asshole…always like this…what the fuck….”

In the distance, you could hear Daryl’s motorbike roaring to life, a bit of a venomous back and forth between Daryl and whoever had to cop his attitude at the gate, and he was off on the run without you. Hearing his bike only fuelled your anger. 

“Why’s it always like this?” Glen asked Maggie with a hint of annoyance. “I mean, they’re assholes to each other all the time now…”

Maggie furrowed her brow, pondering the situation. “What happened between them? Y/N hasn’t shared anything about it…”

Putting his arm around her shoulders and squeezing them, Glenn gently kissed her cheek. 

“She probably doesn’t even know what’s going on herself…I mean, they used to get on like a house on fire!” Glenn exclaimed. Adjusting his rifle against the watch tower’s railing, he waved his arm in the air and pointed at you in the distance. “And look at her now…a literal walking ball of flames.”

Maggie sighed. Grasping the hand on her shoulder, she leaned her head against her husband. 

“I just hate seeing her in pain like this….she’s hurting…” Maggie said sadly. “I always thought there was something between them...makes me want to smack some sense into Daryl”.

“Yeah, same” Glenn commented, his gaze following you walking towards the prison. “Guess she’s cooled off a bit…wonder when Mr Cranky's gonna be back...”

All eyes were on you as you stalked back through the courtyard and prison. You knew they all probably heard your public spat, but you ignored their judgment and made a beeline for your cell. 

Once there, you threw your bag into the corner with a loud, muffled bang and sat on the edge of the bed with your head in your hands. 

Realising how bad the state of your relationship with Daryl had become, the waterworks opened and you started to sob. 

So many thoughts were running through your mind. The argument itself was so ridiculous! You accidentally knocked his crossbow off the bike seat and the string snapped. It was easily fixable! You were going to apologise, but you turned around only to be faced with Daryl's expression twisted in anger and something else unreadable. 

“Are you fuckin’ stupid?” Daryl growled. Taken aback, you were immediately riled up. 

“Uh, excuse me?” 

He dropped his eyes to the crossbow on the ground. As he bent down to snatch it up, you took a step towards him, gesticulating wildly. 

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed? You on your period or something?” You snarked. 

“Always screwin’ around ain’t ya!” He yelled back. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You retorted. There was something else in his eyes at that moment.

“Jus’ shut up woman!” Daryl gnashed. The rest is history.

He was callous with you regularly now. The two of you were constantly in some sort of argument. If not, he was staring you down from across the way. Everything he said was cutting you into two, and you felt ashamed that you were affected by it. 

Admittedly, you weren’t being so nice back, but who was Daryl to speak to you like that? How dare he! 

You wanted it to go back to the way it was. The tension between the both of you had reached its peak. On multiple occasions, you tried talking with Daryl about his unreasonableness, but every time he would cut you off, leave, or divert the conversation altogether. 

You hated his stubbornness. You hated his unwillingness to listen. It seemed as if Daryl was content with having things never go back to how they were. And that is what made you feel upset. 

It was unknown why he was treating you with such disdain. It was wanting to know why he never smiled that little smile at you, brushed your hands with his anymore, or why he never gave your waist a friendly little pinch. He was being so unfair. 

What was wrong with him? You were starting to think that there was something wrong with you…

You could feel tears pooling in your hands and snot in your sinuses. Giving a couple of rich, flavourful sniffles, you lay down on the bed with your legs hanging off. Somehow, even with the crying-induced headache that you now bore, sleep found you. 

You woke abruptly to the early evening sunlight filtering into your cell. Headache much worse than before, you carefully brought yourself up onto your elbows and realised that you had gone to bed with your gear on. Moving to your side and dragging your leg up onto the mattress, you wiped your swollen eyes of any sleep and yawned. 

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. 

You wondered if they’d give you shit for not going on that supply run. 

You wondered if Daryl had gone to retrieve what you needed from it. 

You wondered if he was back yet. 

Trying not to let any thoughts of him bubble to the surface, you slowly got up from the bed and noticed a small plate of something on your makeshift bedside table. You were so discombobulated that you didn't even notice that someone had left you dinner. 

Carefully balancing the plate on your left hand, you fully pulled the curtain across the doorway and decided to eat in the beautiful evening sun. 

Settling into the grass and watching the sun set below the horizon, a blanket of peace wrapped around your shoulders. Savouring the rich gamey flavour of what tasted like freshly prepared venison, you observed the oranges and yellows mingle with each other in the sky. The soft chill of the breeze helped soothe the puffiness of your face. You looked around and saw some of the  kids kicking around a soccer ball. Their laughter and boisterousness made you smile. 

“Mind if I join you?”

You turned around to find Rick smiling at you. 

“Yeah, of course,” You grinned back. He settled in the space next to you and leaned back. It was quiet for a few minutes. It seemed Rick was observing the beauty around him at that moment too. 

“You know, I never thought we’d be this lucky…” Rick started. He was still looking towards the open field and the activity there. “It still amazes me. After everything we’ve been through”. 

“I know…it’s so beautiful to see kids be kids again” you replied. “Speaking of, where’s Judith, that little cutie?” 

“Beth’s with her now. You know, Daryl’s very good with her — ”

“Seriously?” You sassed. “Are you trying to talk him up?”

Rick laughed. “Nah, ‘course not…” Rick looked away from you sheepishly and picked at his gun holster. “Just tryna’ see if you're still mad at him…”

“Well, now that you’ve reminded me, yeah. I am” you stated. He puffed some air from his nose, placed his hand on your knee, and squeezed it gently. 

“You know, it’s not only affecting you two. Everyone feels uneasy. I think it would be better for both of you if you trusted someone enough to share what’s going on. If you trusted me enough…” 

You paused to look at him. There was pure concern in his eyes. Feeling the weight of his gaze, you looked down at the hand on your knee. You gently placed your hand atop his and pondered for a moment. 

“You know, back at the farm, I remember this one time Daryl and I came across a stash of alcohol from the main house...”

Rick hummed. 

“And…that night we probably had one too many…”

Rick gave you a quizzical look. “And?”

“Uh…” You tapped your other finger against your lap. “We ended up behind the barn somehow, and then he kissed me…” you murmured. The memory confuses you. “But then he pulled back abruptly and left…I don’t remember much else. I’ve never told anyone about it.” You looked away. It was embarrassing to say out loud. 

Rick removed his hand from yours. Stretching his legs out, he leaned on one of his hands and turned to fully face you. 

“Y/N…”

“And I don’t even know if he remembers because he’s never said anything about it…I mean, who cares now right? We treat each other like shit.”

“Hey,” Rick said. He placed his other hand on your shoulder to attract your attention. “I remember how it used to be between you two, even at the quarry. If he decided to pussy out, then he’s the one who messed up, not you” he smirked. 

You considered his words. “I just don’t understand how we went from being so close to being at each other’s throats. He hates me now…”

“He doesn’t hate you…I think he’s just going through a lot with Merle being gone, and dealing with all the change that’s happenin’…”

“That’s such bullshit…” you muttered. 

Rick moved closer to you and wrapped his arm around yours. You leaned your head on his shoulder. 

“Well, luckily I’ve got this handsome cowboy to distract me” you snickered. Rick gave you a hearty laugh and kissed the top of your head. 

“Don’t think your boyfriend would appreciate that…you know, you don’t see the way he looks at you sometimes.”

“I don’t know who you’re looking at Rick, but that’s not Daryl at all…definitely not now.”

“I think there’s more goin’ on than you think…just trust me. If it never works out, this handsome cowboy’s a couple of cells away” he joked. 

“Cute, Rick” you smirked. You hugged his side and thanked him. The sky was now littered with stars, and moonlight shone across the courtyard. It was beautiful. 

As you bid each other farewell, the peace was disrupted by the resounding slam of the prison door, the harsh sound of metal reverberating across the field. Squinting for just a couple of seconds, you accepted the fact that the night sky didn’t offer a clear view that far away. Sharing a glance, you both brushed it off and parted ways. 

However, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you saw something orange glowing on the ground before it snuffed out.

Part 2 / Part 3

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