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godmadeaterribleerror · 6 months ago

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More Than You Could Ever Know - Part 1

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: On god they're about to be so cute. This was going to be one chapter but they can't stop fucking and I can't stop writing. Enjoy!

Title from All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey

Word Count: 8.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: A No Love Lost Christmas Special! Takes place about five months after the end of No Love Lost, sort of an epilogue to the main story.

The Boys start Secret Santa, Ben pretends to do his job. Usual Warnings, plus smut. Much fluff and smut.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, tooth rotting fluff, smut (fingering, oral f receiving, p in v sex), established relationship, Christmas Special

Part 2

Read on A03!

Doing this in Butcher’s apartment was a terrible idea, because the asshole only cleans when it’s his weekend with Ryan, and you’re right on the wrong end of that. Doing it immediately after work was a worse one, because you’re in heels and a too tight bra that you’re not allow to rip off, throw in Ben’s face, giggling when he all but tackles you into bed.

Doing it without Ben here to smile and pout and snark at might be the worst idea you’ve ever had.

And you’ve had a lot of remarkably fucking terrible ideas.

You’re not really paying attention to your friends around you, because you’re staring at your phone. Turning it around between your hands, waiting for Ben’s text to let you know Ryan’s home from school. That he’s not being bullied, and he’s doing his homework, and his powers didn’t cause what the principal had referred to as structural damage to the school’s foundation, and what Ben had correctly said was just a fucking accident. It’s not Ryan’s fault you pussies put the baseball field right next to the goddamn building.

There haven’t been any incidents since then—Ben had taken Ryan to a large, empty field and helped him figure out how to not turn a ball into a genuine weapon—but it’s still a delicate situation. It took a lot to get Ryan into a public school. A lot of promises of Ryan won’t hurt anyone, you fucking pussies, he’s not a damn baby, and bargains of Ben and I will donate, and go to all the fundraisers, but you’re not allowed to explicitly advertise that Ryan’s here, and many, many thinly veiled threats of if you don’t treat our son like a proper fucking human, I’ll let my wife yell at you. And she’ll rip you to fucking pieces.

You wouldn’t have ripped anyone to pieces. Literal pieces. Emotional pieces had been on the table, as had reputational pieces. It was one of the very few advantages of being so highly and strangely regarded as the woman who killed Homelander and the founder of the Soldier Boy Relief Foundation. People respected you and your opinion, which was an interesting choice on their part, but served you well. Ryan had gotten into the school, and he seemed to be liking it, so you hadn’t even been that mad at Ben for threatening the superintendent.

But you also don’t really get mad at Ben. Not ever. You whack his arms and wrinkle your nose and elbow his gut, but he always feels that you don’t mean it, and you never fight him when he tugs you into his arms and kisses you breathless and dizzy. When he mutters promises about fucking you stupid later, and calls you a brat, and chuckles when you grind onto his thigh in the middle of the office, and you miss him so much-

It’s barely been six fucking hours, Sunshine.

You scowl into the air, even as your whole body sings from the feeling of Ben, strong and deep and flaring in your chest. Shut up, you’re supposed to be picking up Ryan-

Already got him. We’re home.

You were supposed to text me, Benjamin-

Why, I’m telling you right fucking now-

Because Singer’s still on our ass. You sigh, tapping your fingers on the back of your phone. And the Ben’o’phone isn’t admissible in a court of law to prove we’re well-suited parents.

Singer can shove it up his fucking dick-

Ben, please- You cut yourself off as your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a message.

Benjamin; Stupid fucking handsome asshole husband

Ryans hoem

R u fuckingg happy sunshine

You smile, typing back Yes. Thank you, grumpy.

Shut the fuck up, Ben grumbles in your head, and all his adoration flares in your chest as you smile into the air like an idiot.

I love you, you massive fucking man-child.

I love you too, brat. Why the fuck aren’t you home yet.

You can almost picture his half-pouting scowl, feel the warmth of his body around you and smell pine drifting through the air. Meeting with everyone.

Everyone.

Yep.

Why the fuck is everyone meeting without me-

Because you’re picking up Ryan.

We could’ve made fucking Butcher do that-

Butcher doesn’t have a super awesome wife who’s going to tell him everything when she gets home, my love.

There’s a pause, and then Ben mutters between the low words of your friends talking around you, Be fucking fast.

MM says your name, looking between you and the bowl on the center of the table. “You put Ben in there?”

I always am. You nod to MM as Ben moves back to a quiet, warm hum in your chest, and tuck your phone into your pocket. “Yeah. I’ll give him his name when I get home.”

“And we’re sure Ben knows how Secret Santa works?” Hughie scratches the back of his neck with a sheepish expression, and you sigh.

“No. But I can explain it to him.”

“Old cunt ever even celebrated Christmas?” Butcher mutters, his feet kicked up on the table. “He don’t seem like the spirit of givin’ type.”

You flip Butcher off, your words short and firm. “He’s not a million Butcher, he’s celebrated Christmas before.”

Ben seems to love Christmas. Or at least grumpily acknowledge it with a soft, easy glow over his ribs and a relaxed face, which is the closest thing he gets to loving something that’s not you or Ryan. He’d told you, at the beginning of the month, that it was the only time his father didn’t drink as much. The only time his mother got to love him and not be caught between he and his father’s fights. The only time he got something as a child that he wasn’t expected to feel sorry or wasteful for receiving.

You wish there was some sort of supe that could communicate with ghosts or raise the dead. You’d mimic their powers, bring Ben’s father back, and then kill him again.

“Alright, Love.” Butcher raises his hands up in mock surrender. “Just makin’ sure.”

“Suck my fucking dick-“

“Can we, um,” Annie gives you an apologetic look as she cuts you off. “Can we draw? Now? Everyone has work tomorrow, and I would like to go home and eat my weight in sushi.”

Hughie nods, grinning down at Annie. “And watch Love Island.”

“Love Island?” MM raises his brows, and Annie blushes.

“It’s fun-“

“Names, cunts.” Butcher leans forward, pulling his paper, and looks around at the rest of the group. “Before time get’s all our sorry fuckin arses. Except yours. Love,” Butcher winks at you. “You’re stuck ‘ere till the sun goes out.”

“Eat me, Butcher.”

“Oi, I’m not above tellin the Gov you said that-“

“Ben would kick your sorry ass if you said that, Butcher.” MM’s voice is flat as he interrupts, leaning over the table to draw his paper. “You might be a supe now, but that motherfucker would beat up a mountain if it insulted her honor.”

You snort as Butcher’s sour expression, and give MM a grateful nod. Everyone here knows you don’t really have honor—at least not in a way that matters—but they also know that Ben doesn’t really care about that. His notion of your honor is subjective. You’re, apparently, above killing and straining labor, so he does that for you, but he also threatens congressmen and rude parents of Ryan’s classmates with his wife. You don’t lie to him, but he’s flat out encouraged you to commit perjury. He’d threatened a journalist who said you spread your legs for any powerful supe, but then shoved your knees apart to bury himself inside you and fuck you until you were a slurring, whiny mess under him.

It seems to mostly be about what you think of the insult. If that mountain called you a slut and you laughed, Ben would just glower, standing tall and ridged at your side. If it said the same thing and you stopped talking—cold spreading through your body and a ringing in your ears—Ben would make the mountain regret being born.

You miss him so fucking much.

Once everyone has a name and you’re sure no one’s pulled their own name, you leave Butcher’s apartment with grins and half-goodbyes. You, Annie, MM, and Hughie will all see each other tomorrow, and Frenchie, Kimiko, and Butcher will do the same.

It’s a short drive home from Butcher’s apartment, but that’s by design. For Ryan. Butcher lives in the city, and you and Ben are in the outskirt suburbs. You’d say Ben’s benefitting more from this arrangement—Butcher lives right above their office, while you have to drive to downtown for yours—but you’re the one who fought for this. The one who convinced Ben that Philadelphia would be a good place to live, because there was enough to not get bored, not enough that you’d never have peace, and it was halfway between New York and Washington. Most of the supe cleanup contracts that Ben, Butcher, Frenchie, and Kimiko got contracted for ended up being in New York—you’ve called Ben a murder maid several times, and he always rolls his eyes, kisses the top of your head, and mutters we don’t fucking murder people, we just get them in line when they’re being damn idiots—while a lot of your work is in DC, dealing with the more technical side of the post-Vought mess.

Ben hadn’t wanted you to call it the Soldier Boy Relief Foundation. He’d scowled at you as you’d told him and MM the idea, and their glares had been almost identical.

“There’s no fucking way you’re calling it that.” Ben had snapped, and MM had shot him a look of surprise.

“I mean, not that I don’t agree,” MM had said, scanning over Ben with a frown. “But why the hell do you think that.”

“Because Soldier Boy’s fucking dead. You,” he’d bumped his shoulder with yours, rough affection spreading over his ribs, even as he continued to glower. “Fucking killed him, Sunshine. Don’t use that name.”

You’d wrinkled your nose at him. “First of all, that’s very romantic, Pretty Boy. I’ve always wanted to metaphorically murder my husband.”

Brat-

“But,” you’d continued, kicking Ben’s shin as he’d started to smirk. “I have reasons to name it that.”

MM had scoffed. “There is not a chance you’ve got reasons to justify using that name-“

“It will draw attention.” You’d raised your fingers as you listed the reasons, using a bored, plain tone. “The whole point of this is to get as many victims of Vought and Homelander as much help as possible. Labelling it with Soldier Boy’s name will put it on people’s radar-“

“So would calling it the Starlight or Anomaly relief Foundation-“

You’d shaken your head, giving MM a flat look. “Annie’s supe name is already tainted in the public eye. Mine is controversial. If people hear the Anomaly Relief Foundation, they’ll form an automatic opinion based on the trials and news stories they’ve read. Soldier Boy will get people to actually look at what we’re doing. Older victims will be more likely to come out of the woodwork, supes that admired Ben growing up will be more willing to see what we’re offering them, and congress is full of old white assholes who will love it.”

MM had frowned, but nodded for you to continue, and you’d raised a second finger.

“Vought’s copyright on Soldier Boy expired last year, but Starlight and the Anomaly won’t be available for public use for another forty. Even if Vought goes down, they could drag us with them on petty litigations and technicalities, and we don’t need that right now. Finally,” you’d raised a third finger. “I think it’s poetic, and funny, and rubbing how we won in Homelander stupid dead face.”

You’d won that argument. And the argument about where to live. And the argument about letting Butcher have alternate weekends with Ryan.

That last one had been the easiest to win. For the name debate you’d had to convince Ben and MM, and for the city debate you’d had to convince the whole team of stubborn assholes you called your friends, but for the last one you’d only had to convince Ben. And you always convince Ben. He puts up a grumbled argument, and you tear down his points with teasing, loving words, and he gives in with a grunt. But you always see his small grin, and feel all his love and care and affection bursting from that piece of him near your heart, and he devours your face and neck and cunt until your knees get weak and you almost fall over.

You might love him more than life.

He’s waiting for you when you get home. You barely open the door before he’s on you, sweeping you into a long, deep kiss and groaning down your throat.

Hi, Benjamin. You mumble between your heads, and his chuckle rolls through your whole body.

“Hi, Sunshine.” He grins at you as he pulls away, hauling you up his chest as you gape at him a little stupidly. It’s not fair how he somehow keeps getting more handsome, how a domestic, peaceful life looks so good on him it might drive you insane. How his shirt under your hands is clean and soft and easy to tug on, to pull him back onto your mouth. How, when you finally get your shoes off, they’re on a mat right next to his, and that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. How his beard is so well-trimmed because there’s nothing to rush for, and the whole house smells like pine because of Ben’s constant presence, and when he carries you up the stairs he doesn’t bother to look where he’s going because he already has the path memorized.

“Wait,” you push up on Ben’s chest, dropping your chin on his shoulder. “Ryan-“

“Hi!” Ryan calls your name from downstairs. “I’m doing homework!”

Don’t know how the fuck he’s my blood. Ben mutters in your head, never breaking his pace. He’s all damn smart and good at homework. “You know the drill, Kid?”

“Dinner in forty, only bother you if it’s an emergency!”

Smug pride inflates in Ben’s chest, and when you lean back he’s already grinning at you with darkened, blown out eyes, his half-hard cock already poking at your thigh.

You wrinkle your nose at him. We are not fucking with Ryan in the house.

We fuck with Ryan in the house all the damn time-

When he’s asleep, or watching TV, or has his headphones on. Not when he can hear it.

Then we’ll have him put headphones on-

You are not asking Ryan to use his headphones so we can have sex. You give Ben’s borderline pout a sweet smile, and lean forward to kiss over his beard. But when he goes to bed, I’ll let you do the thing.

Ben’s hunger grows white-hot and ravenous in your body, and when you meet his eyes, they’re darkened and peeling you apart. You have to squirt.

I can’t control that-

Whatever. Ben kicks open the door to your room, shooting you a wink. You have to let me make you fucking squirt, beautiful. No holding back.

You snort. When have you ever held back during sex.

I managed not to fuck you for six goddamn months. His voice is almost a growl in your head, and it’s not help your resolve to not have sex in the slightest. That’s some goddamn restraint, brat. He drops his mouth to that one spot on your throat, sucking and biting until your fingers curl in his hair. You’re fucking hot.

Thanks. Your voice is breathless, even between your heads, and you give a weak pull of Ben’s hair that only spurs him on. Wait, Ben, I need to talk to you-

That makes his pull away in an instant, his attention vigilant as he scans over your face, your skin suddenly wrapped in his concrete resolve. What the fuck is-

Nothing’s wrong. You take his face between your hands, giving him a soft smile. It’s about the meeting with everyone.

The one that you didn’t fucking invite me to.

The one, you swat at his arm, sticking your tongue out. That I’m trying to tell you about now, you big baby.

Fine. Ben grumbles in your head, watching you expectantly. What.

Have you ever done Secret Santa before?

Once. Vought party in the 80s.

You raise your brows at him. Really? How did that go?

I don’t fucking remember-

Well, it was forty years ago. You hold his face between your hands with a mock pout. Is your memory going, Benjamin? Do Ryan and I have to put you in a home-

Shut the fuck up, brat. Ben moves you flat on your back, kissing a very distracting line along your jaw as your finger curl in his hair.

Ben- You tug him back up—because if he keeps that up, you’ll never get around to telling him anything except more—and the asshole rises up with his hunger covering your bones and muscles, his body big and warm and strong over yours-

“Yes, darling?” Ben drawls, smirking down at you, and you scowl.

“You’re such a fucking cunt-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, still hovering over your body. “Tell me what the fuck the meeting was about to so I,” he pushes his knee between your thighs. “Can focus on this.”

Not with Ryan in the house-

You’ll just have to be quiet. He presses his knee up, bumping right over your clit, and grins at your small whine. Tell me about the meeting.

We’re, fuck- You grind pathetically against him, and Ben drops his weight to down to trap you against the mattress stilling the movements. You dick-

I’ll give you my dick. He kisses you once, long and slow, guiding your arms fully around his neck. Just use your fucking words, beautiful.

It’s a miracle you remember how words work, let alone say any of them, because Ben dives back down to your neck—keeping you pinned down as he works you into a gasping, writhing mess under him—and everything becomes very simply Ben in your mind and body.

“I, um,” he nips at your throat, and you have to swallow a moan. “Kimiko wanted to do something, for the Holidays, and Hughie suggested Secret Santa, so we’re, fuck, Ben, we’re doing that-“

Ben rises back up to frown at you, and you whine at the loss. “Doing what.”

“Secret Santa,” you whisper, taking the moment of his distraction to wrap your legs around his torso. “I put your name in, and, um,” you let go of him for a second, fumbling around in your pocket for Ben’s paper, folded neatly while yours was crumpled. “I grabbed yours.”

Ben wraps an arm around you as he sits up, pulling you to fall over his chest and curl in his lap. “That,” he nods to the paper, still in your hand. “Is who I have to get the gift for.”

You nod with a hum, passing it into his hand. “I didn’t look,” you say, watching him un-wrinkle it. “So don’t-“

“Butcher?” Ben looks up at you with a scowl, a hot, stinging itch spreading over his skin and sitting in his fingers. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with Butcher.”

You sigh. “Tell me. Don’t tell me, Ben.”

“I had to fucking tell you,” he snaps your name, glaring at the paper. “I can’t get a gift for fucking Butcher, all he does is fucking work and pussy around, fucking asshole probably doesn’t even want anything like a normal damn human-“

“There has to be something.” You mumble, tapping your fingers on Ben’s arm. “We’ll figure it out, Ben. I’ll help you. But you can’t tell anyone I did, and you have to pretend you don’t think this is stupid-“

“I don’t think it’s stupid-”

You give him a flat look. “Benjamin-“

“I think Butcher’s a fucking ball strainer.” Ben shrugs, fisting his paper into a ball and tossing it onto the floor. “But I’ve got you, Sunshine, so I’m good.”

You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Ball strainer’s a new one. I like it.”

“Good,” Ben mutters, relaxing under your hands, the glow returning in his chest. “Who the fuck did you get.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why the fuck not, I told you mine-“

“Which you weren’t supposed to do.” You give him a flat look, and he rolls his eyes. “It’s Secret Santa. You’ll find out with everyone else.

“What’s the fucking point of being married,” Ben grumbles, pulling you a little further up his chest. “If my wife won’t tell me all her secrets.”

“You already know all my secrets, Benjamin.”

“Not fucking all of them-“

“This isn’t a secret.” You smile at him, and the glow spreads up his spine. “It’s a surprise.”

“Whatever.” He grumbles. “Sounds like a fucking secret.”

You kiss his cheek with a soft hum. “Grumpy-“

Your words die in a yelp as Ben flips you over, crashing his mouth into yours with a fervor, his hands squeezing and kneading at your waist.

“Brat,” he growls, and you have to bite your tongue to hold down a loud plea of his name. “I’m going to fuck you stupid, Sunshine, make you fucking drool and beg.” He bites on your lower lip, his knee pushing back to your core, and you whimper. “But you need to keep quiet.”

You will not be able to keep quiet. You’re grinding desperately against him, your mouth slack and open, and your whole body warm and sensitive and buzzing with Ben. Leaving wet, open kisses down your neck, replacing his knee with a broad hand cupping your pussy, groaning onto your skin as he twitches against your thigh.

“Ben-“

“Do you need some fucking help?” He drawls, crawling back up over you with a smirk. “Can’t keep that smart, pretty mouth closed?”

“Fuck,” you gasp as he pushes your panties to the side, running one finger between your folds. “God, Ben, fuck you-“

“I will.” He winks at you, his whole body still filled with adoration and hunger as his tone becomes stern. “Just ask real fucking nice, and I’ll fuck you all you damn want, Sunshine.”

“Ben, please-“

“Think you can keep it the fuck down?”

You nod frantically as Ben’s thumb moves to your clit, rubbing around it but never on it. A metallic tang sits in your mouth as you chew through your cheek, and Ben must see the tint of red or feel the sting of pain, because he pulls back suddenly, and you can’t stop your moan of protest.

“Not going to let you fucking hurt yourself.” He mutters, raising your legs up as he pulls off your underwear. You can talk here, he balls up the cloth, rising back up over your body. But that’s it. Got it?

You glance at the underwear in his hand, and swallow as you realize what he means, your mouth falling open without a single other thought.

Fucking words-

Got it. You smile up at him, curling a hand in his shirt to tug him down into a deep, easy kiss, pulling his tongue between your teeth. Fuck me.

He rises back up, scanning over your features with an attentive, rough care that pulls you apart and makes your whole body molten. There’s a sharp, sore ache over his skin and in his muscles, his free hand trailing slowly over your thighs, and God, if he doesn’t fuck you right now you might die.

Please, Ben. You grind up into the air, letting all of your love and thirst for him leak out of your body and into his. Please.

You can see the moment it hits him. His eyes flash, his nostrils flare, and if there was anything holding him back from just fucking you it’s gone. He presses his thumb on your lower lip in a silent request for you to open, and when you do he looks almost feral. He groans as he stuffs your panties into your mouth, tracing broad fingers over your cheekbones and squeezing your waist as he draws back.

Going to go slow, he mutters in your head, angling your hips up into the air so your ass is resting on his thighs, your dripping pussy is fully at his mercy. Take my fucking time.

Ben-

He slaps your pussy once, and your moan is muffled as your eyes roll back in your head.

So fucking wet, he says your name in the silence, smirking at you as he repeats the movement and your hips buck into the air. And fucking needy, already whining and I’ve barely damn touched you-

Please, you widen your eyes at him, your fingers curling in the sheets when he drags his thumb up, over your slit, and presses hard on your clit. Fuck, Ben-

What do you want, darling. He presses his thumb down, angling it so he can tease your already fluttering cunt with two forefingers. You want my fingers? He shoves them deep into you, crooking them as they hit that deep, soft spot that makes everything in your body sing.

Fuck-

Or, he kisses a sloppy path down your chest—pausing only to flick his tongue over your nipple and smirk at your high, muffled noise of need—and moves one hand back to your hips, adjusting you further upwards as he buries his face between your legs. My mouth?

His beard brushes and tickles your thighs as he tongue-fucks you, his nose bumping your clit, and God, it’s everything. Ben’s everything. Just the sight of him—in all his stupid, handsome glory, all of it just for you—makes you dizzy. And he’s touching you like you’re holy and grinning against your cunt as you make high, muffled sounds, and you’re so close already and he’s so good-

Ben. You don’t have to the strength to push up on your elbows and fully look at him, and he’s holding you still with big, warms hands that pull and rub at your skin, so all you can do is moan into the mock-gag and arch your back when he licks a rough stripe up your cunt. Fuck, Ben, I need you, please-

He hums against you, flattening his tongue on your clit as one hand snakes back under your ass, playing and teasing around your cunt, never pushing in. You like this, darling? Like getting my mouth and fingers the needy fucking miracle you are, like it when I fucking worship your perfect pussy-

Yes, please-

He shoves two fingers back into you, pumping and scissoring as he flicks his tongue over that bundle of nerves. Tell me how good it feels, Sunshine, talk to me-

So good, you whine, and he chuckles in a way that rolls right into the tight coil near your gut. Fuck, Ben, fuck me, please-

That what you want? He rises back up with one last suck of your clit, leaving you whining and empty and fuck, he’s so handsome and all yours and looking at you like you’re some sort of god-

Benjamin-

His cock slaps on your clit—you don’t even know when he took off his pants, because everything is just a haze of warm and pine and Ben and good—and you fucking squeal.

You want my fucking cock, beautiful? Want me to make you squirt all over my fucking dick, fuck you like you deserve, fuck you until that smart, pretty mouth is fucking drooling and screaming my name-

Please, you hook your legs around his waist, trying to guide him inside you. Want you-

Beg.

I did, you asshole- The gag barely muffles your moan as Ben teases the head of his cock inside you, and you almost fly off the bed. Fuck, please-

More.

Please, Ben, please fuck me, please-

Good girl. He pushes himself inside you without further warning, primal satisfaction glowing over his ribs and abdomen as ghosting, iridescent fire covers your skin. So fucking beautiful, he growls your name between your heads, dragging himself out and slamming back in with a bruising force. Fucking perfect. So tight and wet for me, Sunshine, always so fucking good-

Ben groans as you squeeze around him, but he doesn’t pick up the pace. He just moves your hips a little higher, towering over you as he slowly thrusts in and out of your aching pussy.

Fuck, you’re a goddamn marvel, beautiful, feel like fucking heaven, could die here-

Ben, you whimper around your underwear, somehow finding the strength to reach up to him. Please, faster-

It’s all he needs. Ben’s praise becomes slurred as he fucks into you at an inhuman pace, his skin slapping sinfully against yours and his cock bumping your cervix with every thrust.

Christ, fuck- He falls over you, kissing over your collarbone before sucking on your neck, his movements becoming jerking and uncontrolled. You’re- fuck- Such a good girl, taking my cock so fucking good, fucking made for me, best fucking pussy I’ve ever seen, fucking love you-

You’re so close. Everything in you is alight and desperate for release, and you’re only a split second from begging for it when Ben groans against you, rising up to watch you with a devout, starved focus you can feel pounding in your heart.

You’re perfect. His voice in your head is deep and so fucking hungry, and you whimper. Cum, Sunshine.

Release rips through your body, and Ben rips your underwear out of your mouth, slamming his lips over yours and kissing you into the mattress. You scream down his throat as he fucks you through your orgasm, and when something warm and wet flows out of your pussy, Ben’s cock starts to jerk and spill into you. It’s so warm and blissful and made of Ben’s ardor and pleasure, and it sends you over the edge once more.

Neither of you try to move for a minute, Ben’s brow dropping to yours as you sit in his safe, certain warmth.

“We’ve got dinner.” He mutters, kissing the space between your eyes as he pulls out of you. “Go shower, beautiful.”

“You need to shower as well-“

“I’ll shower after.” Ben shrugs, rubbing on your thigh as he sits on the edge of the mattress. “You’re a bigger mess than me, darling.”

“Then I,” you mumble, and he rolls his eyes, jagged affection flaring in his body. “And I’m only a mess because you’re a tease, Pretty Boy.”

Ben snorts, leaning down to give you one last, soft kiss. “You love it,” he mutters onto your lips. “See you downstairs.”

You don’t move for a while after the door closes behind him, and you don’t know how long passes when Ben sparks in your chest, his words low in your head.

Move, Sunshine. Dinner’s almost ready.

Shut up. You smile at the ceiling, because he’d known you would still just be lying, fucked out, in bed. I hate you.

No you don’t. You fucking love me.

I’m allowed to feel two things, cunt.

But you don’t, brat. Say it.

You roll your eyes, pushing up on the bed. I love you, you dick.

I love you too. You feel him glow in your body, and you shuffle to find where Ben had tossed your pants. See you in ten.

You nod mindlessly into the air, and pull your own paper out, smiling easily at the name. See you soon, my love.

—————

Ben worked in a fucking office. He did a goddamn commute every weekday, got dropped off at a fucking office, received a paper bag and a kiss on the cheek from his wife, then worked from nine to fucking five.

In a fucking office.

At a fucking desk.

Ben had a fucking desk. With a computer and stupid chair that spun in a circle and a mug that his son had gotten him. It said World’s Greatest Grandpa, and his wife had almost fallen over laughing when Ben showed it to her.

You think that’s fucking funny, Sunshine-

I know it’s funny, Benjamin. She’s kissed him, alive and beautiful in his arms, leaning into his body like she’d never want to be anywhere else. And they were out of Dad mugs, so it was either that or you being the World’s Best Mom.

Ben had rolled his eyes, then kept that mug where he could see it all the time. At his desk.

In his fucking office.

His office with a horrible fucking paint job, and lights that barely worked, and a printer that he had no damn idea how to use. It was why he made Kimiko print out photos of Her and Ryan, and he spent most of the day just fucking staring at them and bothering Her through the brain connection while she worked.

Because Ben was—as She’d call it—being a dramatic fucking man child. He only actually went in once or twice a week, for briefs on new missions and paperwork on old ones. The worst part of the whole fucking thing was that he still couldn’t figure out the fucking computer, and every few weeks he had to sleep at a hotel in New York for a case. In reality he got paid damn well, woke up next to the most beautiful woman in fucking history every morning, and picked his son up from school every afternoon. He got to do work he didn’t hate, and work with people who he—against his fucking will—liked enough not to kill.

Butcher was calling it a Private Military Company. She called it Supe Cleanup. And murder maid, but most supe cleanup.

She was fucking right. In all the jobs Butcher had found for them, exactly two had been non-supe related. And whatever She said was the goddamn truth anyway, because no matter what Butcher claimed, they worked for Her. She got Neuman to give them all their damn cases, was the one who funded a lot of their fucking bullshit, and She dealt with most of the aftermath. Butcher wouldn’t say it because he was a pathetic fucking pussy, and She wouldn’t say it because she was too kind for her own damn good, but everyone else knew.

She was the fucking boss. She called the shots, and looked damn hot doing it. She was the one who killed Homelander—all Butcher had done was shoot a fucking gun, any asscuck with eyes and hands could’ve done that—and the one who built this shit up in a matter of months. She had the ideas for the supe reform programs, and employed all the lawyers who represented the countless victims of Vought and Homelander. Christ, She even got Butcher the damn license to be a private contractor, and convinced that Defense Secretary pussy to hire them the post-Vought efforts. She was the one with a real damn job.

Ben, Butcher, Frenchie, and Kimiko sat around until someone told them there was work to do, and then they damn did it and went home.

She testified before congress. She dealt with all the fucking press idiots, and offered the supes second chances the pussies didn’t deserve, and made sure everyone got their reparations. Ben wasn’t really sure what the fuck the actual mission statement of Her whole thing was—She’d explained it, tits pressed together as she crossed her arms, and he hadn’t remembered all her big, fancy fucking words—but he knew she was doing something good. She ran a real company, not a group of four fucking assholes.

“It’s not a company, Benjamin.” She’d told him, straddling his torso and pouting down at him as his hands kneaded her skin. “It’s a non-profit.”

“What’s the damn difference,” he’d grumbled, and she’d sighed, tapping her fingers on his chest.

“Well, if it’s a company I don’t get any government funding. And as a non-profit we get exempt from certain taxes, and it lends us a certain credibility, which is important because a lot of people aren’t going to trust us. Which I understand, this is a mess, but we also can’t give the media or public anything that might lend to confirmation bias-“

Ben had pulled Her down as she started to spiral into a fucking overdrive, and kissed her until she relaxed in his arms.

Don’t fucking hurt yourself, Sunshine. He’d muttered. You had me with ‘well’.

That was- She’d let out a small gasp as Ben nipped on her upper lip, her voice breathy in their heads. I hadn’t even started talking-

I know. He’d smirked against Her, rolling them over so he could look down at Her beautiful face, how it was open and easy and all his to keep joyful. You have me all the damn time, darling.

Good. She’d smiled up at him, Ben might have drowned in how fucking perfect she was. Because you have me as well.

He didn’t have Her now. Ben had Her everywhere in the world, except in his arms. She was in the flicking, golden light of the office, and the off-key, horrible fucking humming Butcher was doing across the room, and wallpaper of his phone. Both She and Ryan were in pieces all over Ben’s desk as well. Not just in the pictures, but the little paper guide She’d made him to the internet. It told him how shit like URLs and emails and incognito mode worked, and it was in Her handwriting because She loved him enough to help him with this. Ryan had contributed, and drawn a little fucking smile on the corner of one of the pages, and Ben kept it open to that section all the damn time.

Ryan was mostly in that stupid damn mug that Ben kept on his desk every moment, even when he wasn’t using it.

She was mostly in the ring on Ben’s finger. Matching Her’s, the only thing he ever owned that he gave a shit about. He’d had houses and trophies and diamonds and stupid fucking crystal plates that barely damn worked, but they’d all been replaceable. This ring wasn’t. It was made of all the stupid scrap Frenchie had found in the pawn shop, and fireproof because his beautiful, perfect wife was a fucking menace.

And She wasn’t fucking replaceable. The ring proved that Ben had Her—alive in his body and consuming his every damn thought—and he’d never fucking lose Her. He simply fucking refused to, because he’d never, ever be able to find someone he knew how to love half as much. Christ, he’d never had a goddamn chance, because loving Her might be the only thing Ben had ever been a natural at. He’d learned how to do it without effort, like it was something he was born for, and he’d never want to do anything else again. He was the only pussy in the world who was worthy of it, as well.

Ben was worthy of Her, because he fucking understood that She was priceless and holy. That loving Her was a task, but fuck it was worth it. Every nightmare and hollow, glassy stare when she retreated back into pain—the feeling like torture in Ben’s body, making him feel fucking sick until she smiled again—was well worth it to love Her. Worth how he might not be the only one who got to see all Her damn perfection on the surface—beauty and kindness and smart words that came with a smarter fucking brain—but it was Ben alone who got to see everything. The whole picture of this insane, infuriating, perfect woman.

And fuck, She was a masterpiece. And She was all fucking Ben’s. All his to tend to and hold, all his to throw around and fight besides, all his to grin at and care for and really fucking love. All Ben’s to give the whole damn world, and then reduce it all to a moan of his name when he fucked Her. When he buried his head in Her pretty pussy that tasted like a heady, slightly bitter, powerful fucking drug and rubbed Her clit until she squirted all over his fucking face. All Ben’s to trace with worshipping, firm hands, all Ben’s to get fucking high on.

Because sometimes he’d have his hand braced near Her head as he fucked her, and she’d be a needy fucking mess under him, and he’d trace fingers over Her lips and cheekbones before brushing the hair from Her face.

And his ring would catch the light through their blind shades.

And Ben would lose his fucking mind.

He’d hit a pace that was inhuman, and kiss Her everywhere he could fucking reach. Breathing would feel pointless, because he had his wife under him, screaming his name and being the only thing in the whole world that mattered. All of Ben’s existence would narrow to his mouth on her own, or kissing at Her breasts, or sucking on her clit. His hands would be for squeezing and pulling Her skin, or tracing and teasing over her perfect body, or thrusting fingers in and out of Her pussy. Shoving them deep enough his ring would come out covered in her arousal, crooking them until she was pleading and whining under him, and tasting Her when he pulled them out, leaving Her ruined and whimpering on the edge.

And he’d split Her open on his cock, make Her say his name like a prayer, and fuck Her until she squirted all over his cock and he could pump her full of his cum-

Stop distracting me, Benjamin.

I didn’t fucking do anything. He drawled Her name between their heads, smirking into the air. You’re the one who’s distracting me, brat.

Shut up, you’re probably at your desk watching baseball. And you know what you fucking did.

Ben rolled his eyes, turning off his monitor, and with it the MBA game. I don’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about, Sunshine, you spoke first-

Because you started getting horny and loud in my brain, and I’m at work. I can’t start masturbating while I talk to MM and Hughie, they’ll never look me in the eyes again.

Tell them to fucking leave.

I’m not kicking them out of our meeting so we can have mind sex.

You’ve kicked them out so we can have real sex-

Ben could almost see the wrinkle of Her nose. That’s not the same, you looked like you were going to kill them if they didn’t leave-

I hadn’t seen you in a fucking week-

Three days, don’t be dramatic-

And, Ben ignored Her, pushing on. Those pussies chose to leave, it’s not like I fucking threatened them-

They could see your boner, my love. Her voice was bored and amused in his head, and Ben wanted to fucking eat the sound and turn it into a moan. And you almost broke down my door demanding we go on a date, and I quote, ‘right fucking now’-

We should go on a date-

Ben-

Tonight, darling, keep your damn head on. You can stash Ryan at Butcher’s, the asshole looks fucking lonely anyway-

Don’t call it stashing, Ben-

Fine, drop him there after you pick him up-

I was actually, um, I was going to- She paused, and Ben could almost hear her nervous swallow. I wanted to ask, and you can say no, but I-

Words, darling-

Could you pick up Ryan today? I have to go do something.

Ben frowned into the air. Something.

Her voice hummed in his head. Yeah.

Are you going to fucking tell me-

No. It’s a surprise.

It’s a fucking secret-

Ben. Her voice was soft and gentle in his head, and that alone made his frown drop to what She called a pout.

What.

If it was a secret, I would’ve told you I’m working late, or going out with Annie and Kimiko, or something else stupid. But it’s not a secret, I just can’t tell you right now.

She was right. She was always fucking right, and Ben had an idea what this was, but he still missed Her. Wanted to touch her and walk with her and make Her bury her face in his arm when he teased her. You’re going to fucking tell me.

I promise that, by the end of the month, I will have told you. And we can do that date on Christmas eve. Whatever you want.

You don’t have to damn bribe me-

I know. She sighed in the silence, and something in Ben ached as Her own guilt clouded over his eyes. But I want to go on a date with you. And I really want to tell you what I’m doing-

You’re getting a gift. Ben said between their heads, and there was a brief silence before She responded.

Shut up.

Ben drawled Her name, grinning at the air. You’re going to get your gift for the stupid fucking Santa thing-

No, I need to go to the mall for that. Actually, She paused, and Ben felt a smile tug at his lips as he pictured Her pretty face starting into the air, her fingers tapping her desk or leg. Could you take Ryan to the mall? Help him get his gifts? And maybe new pants, I think he grew again-

You have to go with us to get the tree.

If Her nose hadn’t been wrinkling before, it sure as fuck was now. I thought I didn’t have to bribe you, Pretty Boy-

It’s not a fucking bribe, Sunshine, it’s a deal. You go do your secret shit-

My surprise shit-

And I’ll get Ryan and do the fucking shopping. But we’re doing that date, and you’re coming with us for the tree.

Okay. Deal. Ben?

He grunted Her name between their heads, and something warm spread over his whole body at the sound of Her sweet, sharp, infinitely adoring voice.

I love you. She whispered. Thank you-

Don’t. Ben muttered. I love you too. But if you’re not home by midnight I’m finding you and carrying you back.

Her giggle was soft in the silence of the office, and Ben didn’t bother to fight the wide grin on his face. Promise?

Brat.

Cunt.

She faded back into a quiet, perfect presence over Ben’s skull, and now he actually had to damn work. But then he’d get to pick Ryan up—Ben didn’t fucking know how shopping worked without Her there, and he didn’t think Ryan would either, but they’d figure it out—and kiss Her dumb when she got back from whatever the hell she was doing.

She’d tell him. Ben didn’t have a single fucking doubt She’d tell him, because they didn’t keep secrets from each other. Ben could feel Her all the fucking time, and knew exactly where she was across the city, and he didn’t have a single damn desire to keep anything from Her at all. He didn’t see the point in it. That’s what fucking marriage was for, Ben giving his everything to Her, while She gave every part of her right back.

It’s why he was so fucking ready for the holidays. Ben hadn’t had a real Christmas since he was fucking six or seven. They’d either been spent at boarding schools or in military camps through his youth, or at drug-fueled parties through his career. Or just fucking alone. When everyone had people to go to that they cared about more, and Ben didn’t have a single fucking person who saw him as their person.

He’d told Her that, and something soft and pained had flashed over her beautiful face as she held his face between his hands. He’d expected an age joke—So in a hundred fucking years, Pretty Boy?—but all he’d gotten was a gentle, slow kiss and loving words.

You’re my person, Benjamin. She’d mumbled against his lips. And as long as you’re stuck with that, we can do whatever you want for Christmas.

I’m not fucking stuck with it, he’d grumbled, hauling Her up his chest. I love you, Sunshine, you’re not getting rid of me until I fucking die.

She’d hummed, smiling at him. So in like a year, old man?

Ben had rolled his eyes—there She was—and kissed Her until she was squirming above him, then fucked up into her as she screamed his name.

And he didn’t really fucking want much else. There were to many damn traditions for this shit. Activities he didn’t understand, and mistletoe he didn’t fucking care about—he didn’t need a damn plant to tell him when to kiss his wife—and cards that were fucking pointless because they had six friends who they saw every damn day.

He wanted to do some of it though. Ben wanted to eat all the food, and watch whatever movie She told him to—he didn’t understand how a movie about the Grinch could be the best Christmas movie ever fucking made, Benjamin, but he’d watch most anything if She sat with him —and he really wanted to do the tree. To get a big one that made the whole house smell good, and he could cover it in stupid lights.

It should be rainbow lights. She’d fucking love rainbow lights, so Ben should get rainbow lights.

Ben should get them a lot of fucking things. He should get Ryan whatever the hell the kid needed to be a kid, and Ben hadn’t been a kid since the fucking 20s, so he’d have to ask Her and see what that shit looked like now. Probably sports gear, and a real phone that wasn’t a damn brick, and a trip to some museums because Ryan was like Her, and they both liked smart shit, and museums were full of smart shit.

She should get a trip to a museum as well, just Her and Ben. She should get twenty more houses, and a massive library that was just for Her to be a genius in, and as many breaks and vacations as Ben could drag her on. Back to their villa in Rome every summer, and up to Boston to visit Her sister, and every other beautiful place in the world.

She should get the fucking world. Ben should be able to drag the sun down from the sky for Her to hold, and break of a piece of the moon for Her to touch.

But this—a normal, easy holiday where Ben could buy find Her something as perfect as she was for a gift—was going to be damn good place to start.

End Note: It was bold of any of them to think Ben would be able to keep any sort of secret from Her.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask! (Separate from main taglist)

Taglist

@manicjk @lordofthunderthr @artemys-ackles @brtodd @ej13928

@deansbbyx

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redsrooftopprincess · 3 months ago

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Falling

RaphaelxReader (one fem pronoun)

Warnings: explosions, falling, near death experience, shoulder trauma, needles, emotional turmoil, I think that's it? If I missed any let me know?

You scream and plummet six feet before a hand wraps around your forearm. There's a ripping pain in your shoulder as you feel it dislocate, and you scream again and slip, dropping again before he grabs your hand.

You watch your shoes tumble down the steel framework of the future bank and corporate office center, and disappear in the mushroom cloud of dust concealing the first three floors. The acrid smell of motor oil coats your tongue and the inside of your nostrils sting as the C4 continues to burn away. You choke, and his hold tightens.

Balancing himself on a cross section of steel girders, his other hand is braced against the corner of a concrete platform, as what remains of the supports for the roof on this side of the adjacent building are making craters in the packed foundation eighteen stories below.

He growls through gritted teeth as the structure shudders again, and the screams of the civilians on the platform above add to the cacophony. His body is burning, the support of a rooftop bar full of panicked patrons resting on one arm.

One of Vern's "Beautiful People Parties," and apparently Karai was upset The Foot weren't invited. One small brick of C4 and the Southern wall of the top floor of the swanky apartment building came tumbling down. You'd been on the roof when it collapsed, and had managed to grab hold of a waiter before the poor kid took a dive, but the stool you'd been holding on to broke and Raphael barely caught you in time.

Your gaze shifts back and forth between the platform and him, and he can see the gears turning, see you working out the logic, and his eyes are screaming at you to stop.

Please... He begs silently, Live the lie with me... Believe there's no way to save them... Believe it isn't them or you...

Reality settles like a block of ice in your stomach. Raphael is the strongest person you've ever met, but even he has it's limits, and bracing over 6000lbs on one arm is likely one of them. It's you, or the 40 odd people above and whoever else might get hurt on the platform's trip to the ground.

Drawing a shuddering breath, you try to speak, but no sound comes out, "It's okay..."

"Please..." He chokes on the word, bile rising in his throat, this can't be happening.

"It's okay..."

He shakes his head, eyes pleading. He attempts to say your name.

You smile up at him, you hope bravely, and squeeze his hand. You can't say it. You can't speak. You look into his eyes, teary and terror-wide, you can't let him choose you, and you know he knows that.

You let go.

The scream that tears from Raphael's throat shatters the night, and the building shudders again, almost making him lose his footing before he braces his now empty hand against the platform above. He squeezes his eyes shut, praying to whatever God might listen that he would wake up, and screams again.

You're falling in free space. There are several thick moments where all that exists is the wind rushing past you. Or you rushing past it. You have the gruesome thought that if you can land head-first, maybe you won't feel it, and you limply attempt to shift your body in a direction, but your body won't respond, as if it's already accepted the landing.

You take one last deep breath, you're not sure if that's the right move, but you imagine in a few moments it won't matter, when there is a heavy impact against your side. All of the air rushes out of you and you're... still falling. A thought drifts by that hitting the ground should have hurt a lot more, and you wonder for a moment if you're dead, before you feel another softer, impact, and you're set safely down on the packed earth foundation.

Michaelangelo grabs your face, physically pulling your gaze to his with a serious expression.

"This is gonna hurt and I'm sorry." He says in one breath.

White fire shoots through your shoulder as he resets your arm with no more warning, when it's over you collapse into him, whimpering and breathing hard. He holds you, rubbing your back with one hand as he fishes around in his backpack with the other. Pulling out a small syringe, he uncaps it with his teeth and injects the local anesthetic into your shoulder.

In seconds a warm numbness envelopes your arm, and a strangled sob of relief, pries itself from your throat. You're grateful Mike knows not to give you too much warning when he needs to do something like that. Processing what's about to happen first is sometimes worse.

The night air is filled with another anguished roar and both of your faces turn skyward.

It takes almost fifteen minutes for everyone to move into the safety of the building, and another ten for Donatello to brace the platform enough that emergency crews could safely get to fixing things once they arrive. Raphael is present for none of them.

Running on autopilot, the world seems apart, separate from him. Vision hazy, sound muffled, as if he's watching his body interact without any real input. His head is spinning. None of it feels real.

You... fell.

No.

He dropped you.

No.

You let go.

He watched you fall.

But the roof fell too, sending tables and chairs plummeting down after you.

And he had to grab it.

There were so many people.

He'd watched you fall into a cloud of dust, the ground obscured.

He's too afraid to look now that the dust has cleared.

He hears sobbing and prayers of gratitude from within the building, and he hates them. He's never regretted saving lives before, and the feeling turns his stomach.

He would have let them die.

You would have never forgiven him.

He swallows down the sick as he makes his way to the ground slowly. He'd have to... collect you. He can't just leave you there.

It feels wrong. It feels... normal. He sees the reflection of passing emergency lights in wet asphalt and it's almost comical.

Shouldn't it all be over?

Ending?

Shouldn't the universe be raging? Tearing itself apart? The fabric of reality falling to pieces?

You're...

This... isn't.. normal.

Why does this feel normal?

Why is everything okay when everything is so not okay?

His hand slips, sending him tumbling down two floors of the steel framework before he catches himself. He holds tight to the beam, trying to slow his breathing. He hadn't realized how hard he was shaking.

He grits his teeth and chokes down agony. He has to get to the ground. He has to find you.

If the humans found you they'd take you away.

--You're already so far away.--

Somewhere he couldn't get to you.

--Would it really make a difference?--

Releasing the girder, he ignores the warping of the metal where he'd gripped it, and continues scaling downward.

He'd bring you home.

--Why?--

It's getting cold out.

--She's already cold.--

It's supposed to rain again before morning,

--You don't have to do this.--

and he knows how much you hate being cold.

--Please don't do this.--

His phone fell when the supports did,

--You don't want to see this. You don't want to see her.--

and Donnie was making sure the building was safe for everyone else,

--Not like this.--

so he'll have to do this himself.

--Please.--

He touches down on packed earth littered with glass and concrete and splintered wood, looking only at the rubble beneath his feet.

He doesn't want to look.

He doesn't want to see you.

Broken.

Lifeless.

Staring into nothing.

Odd angles and empty eyes.

He doesn't want to have to put you back together enough to carry you home.

Every breath is a war in his chest and he closes his eyes, squeezing them shut and gritting his teeth, steeling himself for the task ahead.

"Raph!"

His eyes fly open wide and he looks around wildy.

"Raphael!"

He turns just in time to catch you as you "totally didn't jump into his arms right after getting my shoulder reset, Donnie, I don't know where this other tear came from."

He catches you without a thought and pulls you into him. "Fuck," He sobs, burying his face in your shoulder and holding you probably a little too tightly. His whole body is shaking with relief and it's all he can do to remain standing. He pulls back and looks you over frantically, "are you okay?"

"Yeah," you half-laugh, half-sob, nodding and grinning up at him, "Mike caught me."

He looks over your head for a flash of orange, finding him in conversation with April and Leo. Mike looks up and catches his eye, smiling warmly at his brother's grateful expression before blowing him a kiss and a wink, and earning a snort and an eye roll in return as Raphael's snout returns to the hollow of your shoulder, and his arms wrap probably a little too tightly around you with no intention of ever letting go.

....

I haven't decided. Will there be a part 2?

Tag List:

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @daedric-sorceress @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @milykins @sacred-holy-light @celeste-clearwater-06 @pheradream-15

#tmnt #tmnt bayverse #tmnt raphael #bayverse raphael #bayverse tmnt #raphael x reader #bayverse raphael x reader #tmnt raphael x reader #raph x reader

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ourscala-project · 1 month ago

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Our Missing Link

Missing Link as we knew it may not be officially made… but that does not mean we cannot make it ourselves!

Perhaps it won't be an actual game, but compiling what we have and building on top of it into what it may have been is entirely possible- but it is not a task I am capable of undertaking alone.

I want YOU to help me make Missing Link!

I already have a basis down for potential plot and the structure and foundation of Scala and the Societies, but I need likeminded people with to brainstorm and truly build this world with me and write it all down, to organize everything together and run this project so that keykids may join us and create an entire interactive community, and bring Scala ad Caelum to life.

What this is: a fanmade project intended to recreate the experience of Missing Link, now that the game has been canceled. This project intends to stick as close to canon as reasonably possible.

What this is not: a fanon group for headcanons- those are fun, and have their time and place, but this is a serious project.

This will be the very beginning of the project the era that will be forgotten, so we shall be building from the ground up. The quality and size of this project will depend on how many people can help and what skills any volunteers may bring to the table. If you are able, any of the following would be incredibly welcome:

all canon lore so far

knowledge on related mythology (norse, roman)

ripped game assets

organization skills (able to compile information into google docs)

ttrpg creation knowledge

lore speculation

brainstorming and engaging with the text

If you want to contribute something to this project, please: message, ask, submit, or join our discord.

#kingdom hearts #khml #kingdom hearts missing link #fan project #kh lore #ttrpg #help wanted #khux #kh brain #ephemer #kingdom hearts union x #khux keykid #keykid #kh player #kh player2 #scala ad caelum

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bellamioneotp · 1 year ago

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Most Famous Bellamione Fics

This fic list got voted on my poll, so here it is! The fics that the Bellamione nation was built on.

All fics are on Fanfiction.net as it was the OG site for our Bellamione foundations.

Those Gilded Chains we Wear- This fanfic was published around 2012 and basically launched the Bellamione fandom into the stratosphere. The popularity of the ship began to pick up and more long form fics began to be published. It's considered a cornerstone of Bellamione culture and has inspired countless fics no doubt.

Impossible- This fic predates Those Gilded Chains and is very well written as well. It leans a bit more heavily on Hermione and Bellatrix not getting along at the start but still presents growth in their relationship. I feel this fic does not get as much recognition in the community despite it being one of the rare long fics in 2011 for the ship.

The Dark Corners of the Earth and Murder Most Horrid- Both written by the same author, this writer is still present in the Bellamione community today and writing more. The first fic presents eldritch horror in it and the second one is detective story. Both stories are long and include much worldbuilding. They kept the Bellamione community fed for long stretches of time.

Fractures, Fractures The Last Champion, and Turn Time Series,- All written by the same author, the first and second one feature the OG professor Bellatrix and student Hermione relationship that was fully fleshed out. Their back and forth was always a treat a read, as was the competition and the plot around it. The Turn Time series is also a fun read and though it can be confusing at times trying to figure out what is going on with the plot in connection to all three fics, that is part of the appeal.

Our Mercurial Selves- No longer up, RIP.

No Good Deed- No longer up on any site, this story was intense and very well written. There was always a lot of interaction between the characters and the story unfortunately cut off at a really good climax point.

Lotus Flower- A soulmate AU that sadly is not finished. But it had a good amount of tension in it that would made seeing it unfold fun to read.

Metamorphosis- A fic that has similar vibes and shares story beats to Those Gilded Chains in a good way. It is completed. Not as super popular as the other ones but still worth a read because the reveal of Hermione dating Bellatrix is satisfying.

Future Shocks- Very action based and not much Bellamione until the end, but it still packs quite a punch when reading it. A good example of how to write the horrors of war.

Reign Down- I consider this the dark au fic of all dark au fics. The world building is fantastic and reading the story unnerves me which means it's doing a great job with how it's unfolding. It has not been updated in a while but if you're looking for how a dark au should be structured for Bellamione, this is it.

Time Heals All Wounds- This fic utilized Time Travel in a way not seen in Bellamione fics before and popularized time travel fics as a way to help redeem the relationship between the two of them.

#bellamione #harry potter #bellatrix lestrange #hermione granger #bellatrix x hermione #helena bonham carter #emma watson

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yansurnummu · 4 days ago

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Critiquing the Construction of Cipher's Midden

AKA "Why Can't Hermaeus Mora, In His Infinite Knowledge, Teach These Poor Nerds Some Basic Joinery Techniques"

Being back in Apocrypha replaying these quests after what, 2 years now? Got me actually looking around and looking at some details in a few houses (for fic purposes, of course) and then once I started doing that, being a woodworking aficionado with some construction experience myself, I couldn't help noticing a few things.

(Disclaimer that this is just for fun and not meant to be ripping on the actual ESO devs who did a great job of creating some really great environments and set pieces)

Unsupported beams: Putting beams across an otherwise open roof situation like this will add rigidity to the structure, but uh. They've gotta actually be attached to the frame. To have it just stuck to the interior panels like that is concerning. Honestly, from this point on, I'm just assuming any circular beams are purely a decorative choice because they just don't make sense otherwise.

Mystery Gaps: This is only the beginning for these particular beams. They will become a recurring theme. it's actually fairly common in modern-day construction to have multiple thinner pieces of wood (like 2x4s for example) stacked together like this to create support beams as this is usually a more cost-effective option than something like 4x4 hardwood and isn't really significantly less strong. but having 1-2 inch gaps between them is ???? not that bad I guess but just why? You're only making more work for yourself.

Missed Connections: If we're assuming these beams are carried over from the outside, then these oddly-spaced, doubled-up beams are likely what's supporting the eaves of the roof. That's not good! Leramil, your study's gonna blow over in a stiff breeze! Always carry your load-bearing beams across the frame!

This is Fine: well, it's not fine, it's probably not helping with insulation in here, but structurally it's not a big deal, just a bit baffling. It looks like their roofs are built in 3 layers; the boards visible behind the broken parts would be laid down first over the frame, and then the shingles on top, and then this broken shiplap (using that literally here lol) is the interior layer. Note how they don't quite meet up where the frame is.

I have no idea what that metal brace is holding up. Or the ropes. I guess the Ciphers are all just really into shibari or something.

Here we can see that someone among the Ciphers has the skills to actually cut proper joinery. From the look of it, that beam is supported by this round log, which has a joint cut into it to keep it in place. Good job!

And here we can see the ends of those doubled-up beams from the interior.

Decorative Protrusions: So, there is a historical precedent for details like this, but typically they would be supporting the floor of an attic. On the opposite side of this, there's just... wall.

After the nightmare that is the interior, I was interested to see how bad the foundation would be, but honestly? It's pretty solid, assuming the beams are lap jointed (cutting blocks off the beam on the outside and cutting a corner off your beams on the inside so they then fit together and sit flush without the need for nails) Evenly spaced 4x4 beams about a foot apart, this would be great if not for the floorboards running parallel to the beams themselves, and then the odd connections of the posts that serve as the foundation not actually sitting on the frame. So close!

So, canonically, I believe that the Ciphers get most of their material salvaged from Fathom's Drift, which makes things like this doorframe actually make a decent amount of sense. These long, curved beams could feasibly have been part of a ship's hull once, and I think that's a pretty cool touch.

Now, onto the walkways:

a suspension bridge without a railing is just a springboard for co-workers you hate. bonus points for the tripping hazard to make extra sure you faceplant on the ground below.

I have no words for this railing. the nice thing about it is, assuming all those rods are dowelled into the boards beneath them, this could actually work out if they properly connected the rail itself. which it doesn't seem like they have, if the mix of nails and rope is anything to go by.

Before I finish this, I just wanna take a quick look at some furniture:

(Yes, I know these are technically the rustic High Isle set, but I'm doing them anyway)

Really the only issue I have with this table and chair set is that the seat of the chair is covered in nails. Don't do that. You've already used dowels on the back, just use them to connect the seat as well. Or if you have to use nails, you can sink them down further and then plug them with something. (I'm sure there's a tamriel equivalent of wood filler, it's basically just sawdust and adhesive) Otherwise these are both pretty solid and well built.

The chair back is a little interesting though. It's pretty common for chairs to be built with tennon joints (basically the vertical pieces have niches carved into them, and the horizontal slats either have the ends tapered, or carved away entirely to sit flush with the other piece) but the visible dowels are a little weird and probably not doing anything structurally. I guess it could be an aesthetic choice.

TL;DR:

Most of this place would absolutely not pass a building inspection. These choices vary from dangerous to just kind of weird, and the Ciphers should probably find a new carpenter.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk <3

#yans writes #elder scrolls online #this is such a niche topic that only I'm sure very few ppl have thought about but I had a lot of fun LOL #I hoped to make this like equal amounts roasting and educational #if u enjoyed this and want me to do another zone let me know!#also disclaimer that I am not a professional I'm just a hobbyist who's lived around woodworkers and stuff my whole life #and I mostly build furniture but know way more than I would like to about house construction due to events

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zeroseuniverse · 5 months ago

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Dance Of Familiarity II

Word Count: 1.7K Summary: “You... should’ve let me die,” he managed, his voice rasping with pain. “Not a chance,” She said, her hands working quickly to apply pressure to the wound, staving off the worst of it. “You’re not getting off that easy.” Pairing: Hyunjin X Fem Reader

Disclaimer: Please be aware that this is apart of the from the ashes series. This series will have aspects of violence, weapons, angst, blood, injuries, killing, and will heavily focus on oppression and segregation of mutants, Look after your mental state if any of these make you uncomfortable please.

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The woman hissed in pain, clutching her bleeding shoulder, but her smirk never wavered. "Clever," she admitted, staggering back a step. "But not clever enough."

Before she or Hyunjin could react, she pressed something on her wrist—a small, discreet device that let out a sharp, digital beep.

The warehouse lights flickered. Then, in the distance, an explosion erupted.

Her heart lurched as she realized what was happening. "She’s collapsing the damn building," she growled, already pulling Hyunjin towards the nearest exit.

Hyunjin, still weakened from his wound, struggled to keep up, but his grip on her arm was strong. "She’s not just trying to kill us," he said through gritted teeth. "She’s covering her tracks."

Behind them, the woman had already disappeared into the shadows, slipping away as the structure groaned under the force of the explosion. More detonations followed in rapid succession, shaking the very foundation beneath their feet.

Chunks of metal and debris rained down as fire erupted in the distance, painting the night in hues of orange and red. The warehouse was coming down.

She made a split-second decision. "Hyunjin, we need to move—now!"

Hyunjin didn't argue. Together, they sprinted toward the exit, dodging falling beams and flames licking at their heels. The entire building groaned like a dying beast, the roof beginning to cave in.

Then—just as they reached the entrance—another explosion rocked the structure.

The shockwave sent them both flying.

She barely registered the pain as she crashed against the pavement outside, her breath ripped from her lungs. The taste of smoke and blood filled her mouth. Her vision blurred for a moment, but then she forced herself up, coughing.

"Hyunjin!"

He was a few feet away, trying to push himself up. Blood smeared his temple, and his breathing was ragged. But he was alive.

"Still here," he rasped, shaking off the impact. "Not dead yet."

She exhaled in relief before scanning the area. The warehouse was now an inferno, flames licking at the sky, the heat pressing against her skin even from a distance.

But the woman was gone.

"She got away," she muttered, fists clenching.

Hyunjin wiped the blood from his brow, his expression dark. "She won’t stay hidden for long. Not after what she just pulled."

She turned to him, searching his face. "She knew you. This wasn’t just a job for you, was it?"

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he was silent, as if debating whether to answer. But then, he met her gaze.

"I wasn’t just dismantling crime lords," he admitted. "I was going after her. She’s the one behind it all—the real power keeping the underworld in check. And she doesn’t just kill people."

She frowned. "Then what does she do?"

Hyunjin’s eyes darkened. "She owns them."

The weight of his words settled between them.

She had spent her entire career believing she worked on the edges of the underworld, untouchable, uninvolved. But now, for the first time, she realized she had never been on the outside at all. She had been playing in someone else's game.

And now, she was in too deep to walk away.

"Looks like we’re in this together," Hyunjin murmured, glancing at her with something that almost looked like amusement, despite the wreckage around them. "Think you can handle that?"

She smirked. "Guess we’ll find out."

Hyunjin’s lips curled into a knowing smile. "Then let’s get to work."

The fire raged behind them, but they didn’t look back.

The city lights blurred past them as she weaved the stolen motorcycle through the empty midnight streets. Hyunjin sat behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other pressed against his wounded side. His body was warm against her back, his breath slow but controlled.

"You’re losing a lot of blood," she said, voice even despite the way her pulse quickened at their proximity.

"I’ve had worse," he murmured near her ear. His voice sent a shiver down her spine—not from fear, but from something else entirely.

She clenched the handlebars tighter. Not the time.

Their escape from the burning warehouse had left them with nothing but questions and a common enemy. The woman had played them both, and now she was in the wind. If they wanted answers, they needed to move fast.

She pulled into a dimly lit alley, cutting the engine. The silence settled between them as she swung her leg over the bike, turning to face him.

"We need to get you patched up," she said, nodding toward his side. "You’re not as invincible as you think."

Hyunjin smirked, his gaze flickering over her face. "You worried about me?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. I just don’t want to be dragging your half-dead body around when we go after her."

"Liar." His voice was low, teasing.

She opened her mouth to retort, but he suddenly swayed, his smirk faltering. Instinctively, she caught his arm, steadying him against the alley wall. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and despite everything, the closeness made her heart stutter.

His eyes met hers, something unreadable flickering behind them. "You’re different from the others," he murmured.

"Yeah? How so?"

Hyunjin hesitated. Then, softer, "You didn’t take the shot."

She inhaled sharply. He was right. She could have killed him back in that warehouse. She had every reason to. But she didn’t.

She forced herself to look away. "Maybe I just don’t like wasting bullets."

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something almost... fond in his expression when she finally glanced back at him.

She shook off the moment, slipping back into business mode. "We need to find out who she really is. If she’s controlling the underworld, she won’t be easy to track."

Hyunjin straightened, his usual sharp demeanor returning. "I know someone who might have answers. A hacker. Goes by Raven."

She arched an eyebrow. "And you trust this Raven?"

Hyunjin’s lips quirked. "Trust is a strong word."

She sighed. "Great."

Despite the weight of the situation, she couldn’t ignore the awareness crackling between them—an unspoken tension lingering in every glance, every touch. They were two hunters forced into an alliance, walking a razor’s edge between survival and something much more dangerous.

And deep down,she knew: the closer they got to the truth, the harder it would be to ignore the pull between them.

She followed Hyunjin through the back alleys of the city, her senses on high alert. He was still bleeding, but he walked like he wasn’t—a practiced deception, one she saw right through.

"You sure you can make it?" she asked, her voice laced with doubt.

"Are you offering to carry me?" Hyunjin shot back, smirking even through the pain.

She scoffed. "I’d drop you halfway just to shut you up."

His laugh was low, amused. "Knew you liked me."

Before she could fire back, Hyunjin stopped in front of a seemingly abandoned building. The metal door was tagged with graffiti, but a closer look revealed a subtle symbol worked into the design—one only someone in their line of work would recognize.

Hyunjin knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice more.

For a moment, nothing. Then, a voice crackled through a hidden speaker.

"Tell me this isn’t another 'I got stabbed and need a favor' visit."

Hyunjin smirked. "Good to hear your voice too, Seungmin."

There was an exaggerated sigh. "One sec."

A series of locks clicked, and the door creaked open, revealing Seungmin—known in the underground as Raven. He was younger than most expected, dressed in an oversized hoodie, his expression equal parts unimpressed and exasperated.

His sharp eyes landed on Hyunjin’s bloodstained shirt. "Seriously? I should start charging you for every time you stumble in here half-dead."

"Nice to see you too," Hyunjin said breezily, stepping inside.

She followed, shutting the door behind them. Seungmin’s gaze flickered to her, curiosity flashing across his face.

"And you brought company," he mused. "Is she your handler, or just here to make sure you don’t bleed out on my floor?"

"She’s the one who was supposed to kill me," Hyunjin said casually.

Seungmin blinked, then turned to her with a slow, deadpan nod. "Respect."

She raised an eyebrow. "Thanks?"

"Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble," Seungmin added, already walking toward his desk, which was cluttered with monitors and half-eaten snacks. "But I guess that means you’re both in deep shit now."

Hyunjin slumped into a chair with a wince. "We need intel on a woman. She's pulling the strings behind the syndicates, setting us up from the start."

Seungmin cracked his knuckles, already typing at lightning speed. "Describe her."

She did, recalling every detail—the way she moved, the glint of her blade, the cold amusement in her voice. Seungmin hummed as he worked, the screens flashing too fast for her to follow.

"So," Seungmin said after a few minutes, not looking away from his screen, "when exactly did you two start making heart eyes at each other?"

She choked. "What?"

Hyunjin, to his credit, didn’t look as flustered—just smug. "Told you, she likes me."

Seungmin snorted. "Right. And I’m the king of the underworld."

She crossed her arms. "Can you focus?"

"I am focused," Seungmin said, pointing at the screen. "See? Got something."

Both of them leaned in. On the monitor was a grainy surveillance image—of her.

"Well, well," Seungmin mused. "Looks like your mystery woman isn’t just pulling strings. She is the string. Name’s Elise Song. Ex-intelligence. Went dark five years ago. Official records say she’s dead, but obviously, that’s a load of crap."

She exhaled. "She planned this whole thing. We were just her pawns."

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened. "Not anymore."

Seungmin leaned back, stretching. "Well, whatever you two decide to do, you better do it fast. If she’s really running things from the shadows, she won’t let you walk away alive."

She exchanged a glance with Hyunjin, a silent agreement passing between them. This wasn’t just survival anymore. It was a war.

Seungmin sighed, rubbing his temples. "You’re both gonna drag me into this, aren’t you?"

Hyunjin grinned. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Seungmin gave him a flat look. "That’s exactly what you’re doing."

She smirked. "Welcome to the game, Seungmin."

Seungmin muttered something under his breath, but he was already pulling up more files. "You two owe me so much coffee for this."

Hyunjin leaned back, wincing slightly as he shot her a look. "Guess we’re in this together now."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at her lips. "Try not to get shot again before we take her down."

"No promises," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her a little longer than necessary.

And just like that, the tension between them thickened once more.

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redux-iterum · 9 months ago

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So I’m curious about Goldenflower’s reaction! We’ve seen how aggressively she reacts when kits or young cats are put in danger (ie. Fireheart being left out alone). So I was surprised she allowed the ceremony to proceed. Is Bluestar’s failing mental health the reason why she didn’t react more strongly and shut that shit with Aspen/Ash/Cloud down? Also where do the clans draw the line in regards to someone like Bluestar when they’re not stable enough to really be held accountable, but they are putting other clanmates in danger through their actions?

There's a couple things going into this, so bear with me.

This whole situation is extremely difficult for everyone in a position of power, let alone the average warrior. Ideally - that is, how the Clans imagine stuff like this to go in stories - the leader can be disobeyed and disregarded by their followers, no questions asked, the instant they fuck up or do something dangerous. The matriarch has all the power over kits, the deputy can step in as the proper head of the Clan, the elders will be looked to and the seers have all of StarClan to give out judgements and commands. This is a sort of checks-and-balances type of society! It's going to be so easy to handle if it ever does happen!

Realistically, though, Clans are hardwired to obey their leaders above everyone else. It's why Brokenstar got away with everything for so long, it's why Tigerclaw would have been so much more dangerous if he'd gotten there, and it's what's allowing Bluestar to keep her position even though her mind is visibly failing. Leaders aren't untouchable, theoretically, but it is so very hard for a Clan to look at the cat who's so important to their society that they have an entirely unique suffix just to denote their rank and tell themselves "I refuse to honor them and do as they say", even if they have a good reason, or several. Even at this point, ThunderClan will obey their leader over their matriarch, and the matriarch will be forced to go along with this, not knowing what else can be legally done.

To disobey says so much about the warrior and the Clan as a whole: they made a mistake placing such massive responsibilities on this cat's shoulders, they have nowhere to put the demoted cat that will go smoothly, they're threatening the unity and structure of the Clan by shaking the very foundation of what they've grown up and lived with. It's so hard for a cat, let alone a warrior, to adjust to severe changes like that, especially ones that imply something at fault within themselves - which, inherently, following a bad leader for any length of time will shine a light on. Sometimes it's easier to keep silent - or, at the most, mutter complaints to your friend while doing nothing.

There's another aspect of this botched apprentice ceremony: the apprentices themselves. Changing from a kit to an apprentice is such an important, valuable, special thing for everyone; it's the biggest change in your life so far and it marks you as ready to serve your Clan and grow up to be someone great. To go through with the ceremony and then rip away that gift from cats so young and new to the world is a particularly cruel sort of disappointment, bordering on punishment in the eyes of that kit. Can you imagine being a grade schooler, about to enter middle school, and then being told you have to go back to kindergarten because someone else fucked up your paperwork? How awful would that be?

Speckletail made about as good of a call as she could in that moment, taking the apprentices' ages, their mentors and the Clans' culture into account. Let them be apprentices until they prove they're not ready, and if they aren't, they can go back to being a kit. This sort of solves the problem in a way - the apprentices will be eager to prove they can keep their -paw's and will work hard to do so, and if they fall behind...well, maybe they can just stay in camp for another month and then come right back to training with some experience already! It's not ideal, but it's the best Speckletail could do.

As for the final question... did you know that it was believed that planting an elder tree by your door would keep the devil away?

#ask #anonymous #i speak #charred legacy ask #leaders #apprentices #queue #textwall

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animatedjen · 8 months ago

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17 BBY - Zorşa Edan, City of Zelvahn, Inner Rim

“Do I know you?”

The man froze. Tayala often ran into friends while out on errands– Abla joked that she was on a first-name basis with half the town. But this man, towering over the market in a maroon coat and threadbare hat, was both familiar and foreign. She shouldered her groceries and joined him at the stall, trying to place his dark hair and furrowed brow.

The man shook his head. “I’m really sorry. You’re thinking of someone else,” he said, dismissing her with a wave.

She was thinking of someone else. Embarrassment flushed across Tayala’s face. She mumbled an apology and stepped back into the midday crowd as the stranger moved on, rounding Qurna’s place at the end of the street. Tayala adjusted her headscarf and collected the wayward topato that had fallen from her bag. It’d be a good story for the clinic tomorrow, Doctor Akuna finally meeting someone she didn’t know.

She let herself glance once more at the man. He had stepped off the road to avoid a passing speeder, and paused only to roll out his shoulder, reaching a hand to where the Separatist had stabbed–

Tayala did know him. The Jedi.

“Boone.”

His gaze snapped up, and in a breath the man disappeared. Tayala darted forward, skirting the customers and idling hovercraft scattered around the city inn. Someone yelled, and she knew she’d get an earful from RN-8T after this; the droid prided itself on keeping the establishment free from “riff-raff” and “excitement.”

The streets narrowed here, ancient stone walls covered with generations of dirt and memory. New Imperial signage had been drilled into their crumbling foundations: updated trade regulations, identichip requirements, directions to the nearby recruitment office. Tayala passed a group of vagrant Neimodians and cut through a side street, then paused at the next intersection. How far could he have gone?

Something cold pressed against her back. “I don’t want to do this,” the Jedi said softly. “But you’re making it very difficult.”

A blaster. Tayala’s heartbeat thundered over the hum of the charged weapon. “There was an insurgent group based here during the war,” she whispered. “You were sent by the council to flush them out.”

Boone (she was sure of it now) adjusted the blaster slightly, his eyes scanning the nearby alley. “I was one of the local informants,” Tayala continued, “feeding them false leads. I gave you a cheffa cake the night you left.”

“With dewberries,” Boone murmured. He stepped forward, moving both of them further into the alleyway. “Did you also bake cakes for the Imperial patrol heading this way?”

“Their garrison is behind the old city,” Tayala said, panic rising in her throat. She twisted in his grasp but couldn’t see any patrols. “They’ve been clearing out the area over the last few days. Preparing for something.”

Her sandal caught the edge of a drainage grate, and dust drifted into the empty tunnel below them. The system hadn’t been used in years– either the Empire hadn’t noticed or hadn’t bothered to close it off yet. Tayala dropped her bag and carefully raised both hands, then turned to face the Jedi.

“But I know a way out. Somewhere safe.” She gestured down at their feet.

Boone stared at her for a long moment. Then he swore, holstered his blaster, and ripped the grate from the ground.

—

“They’re saying the old city is ‘structurally unsafe’ and have restricted all non-Imperial use. Qurna is giving them hell about it, for good reason. Most of his customers only stay at that inn because of its backdoor access.”

“Everyone needs a way to disappear these days.”

The rooftop of the Akuna home boasted a small patio designed for water tank maintenance. Any hope of a view was obscured by the surrounding buildings, but hazy daylight filtered through the open space above. Tayala found room for two cups of tea amidst the half-built equipment and weaponry scattered across the table. “You’ve been busy,” she noted.

“Haven’t had time to do much repair work lately,” Boone replied. He had stripped to an undershirt, his coat piled into a makeshift bed in the corner, and chimney soot had settled across his bare shoulders. A vibroblade scar cut across the base of his neck.

“...and salvaged material is never as reliable as stolen. But I can’t risk anything with a locator on it,” Boone was saying. Tayala pulled her eyes away and dropped into the other chair.

“That’s not how you normally operate, I assume,” she said.

“It wasn’t,” he sighed. “But it is now.”

The local spaceport shuttle rumbled overhead and temporarily blocked the light. When it returned, the Jedi was staring at her, his dark eyes stained by sleepless nights.

“Do you believe what they say about us?”

Tayala hummed softly. The reports had been scattered at first, disparate accounts of the traitorous Jedi Order. An attempted assassination. The end of the war. Zorşa Edan had known peace for the first time in years, and neither Republic nor Empire could change that relief.

“I heard that Jedi can sense a person’s emotions,” she said. “Know your every thought, even before you think it.”

“Not every.” Boone sipped his tea.

Tayala smirked. “Then you tell me.”

Boone rubbed his thumb against the rim of the cup. From above, the evening call of Zelvahn echoed faintly from the city center.

“Everyone has a presence in the Force,” he finally said. “Like an invisible tapestry. All the different threads, connecting all living things. Those who wield the Force can recognize patterns in the tapestry, sense individual people and their intentions. Some patterns are filled with light, others with darkness.”

The components on the table rumbled, as if summoned by an unspoken command. Tayala watched them rise into the air, swirling around in a pattern beyond her understanding, until the familiar shape of a blaster appeared. It lowered itself into her shaking hands.

“So you tell me,” Boone said. “Is this worth the risk?”

Tayala swallowed. She hadn’t held a blaster since the war, and had hoped she never would again. The Jedi set his cup on the emptied table, leaned back in the chair, and waited.

Another shuttle passed overhead. In the moment of shadow, Tayala saw a crack of light pouring from the doorway behind her.

The blaster was in hand and aimed at the door by the time the sky returned. There Abla stood, slack jawed, with a roll of bread tucked under one arm. Tayala choked out a sob and dropped the weapon, rushing to her sister’s side.

—

“The ship leaves in an hour.”

“I know.”

Boone had spent most of the last two weeks on that windowless patio. Imperial presence in Zorşa Edan was only growing, now that a training facility had been built over the old city. One night he’d risked a dinner with the Akuna family, a small affair with pulled curtains and quiet voices. Still, he admitted to her later, it was the best meal he’d had in years.

Tayala wrapped the last of the provisions (dried meiloorun, and a small piece of cheffa cake) in a thick cloth and added it to the knapsack. The Jedi’s former clothes had been replaced, and she’d trimmed his overgrown beard the night before. Still, it didn’t feel like enough.

“Is this everything?” she asked, heaving the bag onto the table. Boone whistled at the show of strength, and Tayala laughed, flexing. He smiled and took her hand.

“Can you practice for me, once more?”

She scrunched her face, eyes bright, then relaxed and let her thoughts settle into a sort of stillness. It didn’t come naturally– there was no tapestry or patterns she could discern. But she softened her breaths anyway, letting her eyes close and emotions fade into some unknown space, like waves on a distant shore.

“Good,” Boone whispered. “That’s really good.” He slid his thumb over her knuckles, and she matched her breathing to his movement. “I can still sense you, but your presence is much quieter. I- I hope this helps keep you safe.”

Tayala met his gaze. The Jedi was staring at her with those same deep eyes, framed by dark hair and a constellation of freckles. “Boone,” she said. “You can’t stay.”

“Sure I can,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I won’t be Boone. I’ll be someone else.”

“Who else would you be, Jedi?” she whispered.

And Tayala Akuna didn’t need the Force to understand his answer.

–

“Tayala met someone,” her sister would later say. “While visiting our cousins on Birrin. Some tall, handsome man. I think he’s a teacher.”

Then, much later, Abla would receive a hologram of a tiny, round-faced baby. Kata’s portrait was given a place of honor on the mantle, framed by other keepsakes of the Akuna family, where it remains to this day.

#tayala akuna #bode akuna #jedi survivor spoilers #this idea SLAMMED into my brain yesterday and i had to do something about it #told you i was gonna write bode's backstory #had to add a boone easter egg b/c who knows how many names this man has had #if you made it to the end THANK YOU this is so long #jedi survivor #star wars jedi survivor #jen writes jedi stuff

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jay-grayves · 3 months ago

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When you're fried, call on Freid.

I'm fried.

There's no dancing around the truth. I'm burnt the fuck out and I have been for awhile - long before this fascist coup actively began.

But I also know that is likely true for you as well, in addition to the folks within your own circles.

We're all fried.

So, I'm turning to Freid.

Freid is Wudan's partner, his wife. She holds down the fort while Wudan is out on his travels. She keeps the house orderly, stable and safe. The cosmic roller coaster rides that Wudan embarks on must be balanced by a solid home base. Order combats disorder.

But let's not just relegate Freid as the housekeeper of the Urglaawe pantheon. Let's not diminish the importance of a safe and stable home.

I'm a millennial, born in 1991. Growing up, my home was physically stable. The structure was sound and not falling apart. We did not live in squalor, but it certainly was not glamorous either. My dad, a carpenter, had a habit of ripping a room down to the studs and then taking an extensive time to put it all back together. Our bathroom didn't have a sink and the shower was lined in plastic to keep the crumbling wall tiles in place. My mom was a stay at home mom until my sister and I were in our late high school/early college years.

Emotionally, the house was unstable. Everything revolved around the whim and mood of my father, who was prone to fits of unprovoked rage, often referring to his own wife and kids as "you fucking people." My parents had intense screaming matches all hours of the night and morning. Their marriage is built on the foundations of toxic co-dependency, something that is incredibly unstable. Neither of them expressed their love of my sister and I in any kind of meaningful or impactful way. They provided food, clothing, shelter and medicine for us. In their mind, that was enough. That was love.

Instability. Uncertainty. Back and forth. Seesaw. Rollercoaster.

Flash forward to now.

I'm married. I own a modest house in the city with a small porch and backyard. I have steady employment, and I feel fairly secure in my job (as secure as one can feel in these tumultuous times). I don't have kids, but I live with two roommates, who are essentially my brothers. We don't have screaming matches in this house til all hours of the night. If we have issues with each other, we talk about it like adults or learn to accept each other's nuances, quirks, and habits.

Stability. Safety. Sanity.

But now, outside forces, particularly this active and open authoritarian takeover of the American government, threaten the stability I have worked so long and hard to achieve. In addition to working 45+ hours a week, serving my local Pagan community, maintaining my commitments to my kindred and joining my voice in organized protest with my fellow Americans, I also cannot let the orderliness of my house fall to the wayside.

It may sound crazy to some folks, but for me, my brain can't form thoughts to organize the next Philly Pagan Pride board meeting if I have weeks of laundry piled up in my bedroom. I also have a difficult time focusing on anything else if there is something broken or malfunctioning in my house. I forged this life for myself out of chaos, luck and determination, and I cannot let it slip from my grasp if I want to stick around in the fight for a better future.

In heathen lore, there is a lot of focus on the travels and acts of Wudan, and rightly so. He is the All-Father. He sacrificed himself for the runes and shared them with us. We cannot forget that. We will not forget that.

But where did Wudan go to rest after that? Home. With Freid.

When Wudan returns home, Freid is not caught by surprise, for she spins the material that composes the web of Wurt that links us all together - gods, spirits and humans. No one is exempt from the influence of Wurt. We are all in the web. She is the goddess of the home, but also of time. And we all know that anything worth building will take time.

Freid is our hearth goddess and rightly so, for she is strong and stable. She knows that gods and humans alike need a sanctuary, a place to rest and recover for the travels that lie ahead. She is the Keeper of the Keys. She knows where every door leads and can provide you with the correct key to get you through. Through rest, recovery and regrouping, we are able to see new pathways, new possibilities, that we didn't see before in states of chaos and turmoil.

I've been out of tune with my house and regular house-keeping duties, which have contributed to me not being able to fully engage with the various Pagan groups, efforts and initiatives that I'm a part of. Yesterday, I called on Freid for some extra support.

In a whirlwind of divine influence, Aries determination and neurodivergent hyper fixation, I plowed my way through our entire backlog of laundry and did a thorough sweeping, dusting and organizing in my bedroom.

Today, it took awhile for the caffeine to hit my brain, but I feel much more refreshed and focused now that I tackled that project looming over my head. Finally, after what feels like the entirety of winter, I'm back in my study/workshop in the basement, focused and actually writing words again.

I have a large skeleton key, bigger than all the others I have available in the shop, hanging above my altar in my study. Today, I offered and dedicated the key to Freid. With her support, I was able to complete the task I needed to return some stability to my home and my mind. With that task completed, she gave me the key I needed to unlock the door that was holding back my desire to write and engage with the groups, projects, and initiatives that I'm a part of.

Hail to Freid, Lady of the Hearth and Keeper of the Keys!

#urglaawe #freid #keys #wurt #heathenry

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posttexasstressdisorder · 1 year ago

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If you want to see what the GOP has in store for the rest of America, visit the Old South

Thom Hartmann

June 27, 2024 5:42AM ET

Photo by Miltiadis Fragkidis on Unsplash

Today is the first Biden-Trump debate and many Americans are wondering how each will articulate their ideas for the future of America.

Republicans have a very specific economic vision for the future of our country, although they rarely talk about it in plain language: they want to make the rest of America look and function just like Mississippi. Including the racism: that’s a feature, not a bug.

It’s called the “Southern Economic Development Model” (SEDM) and has been at the core of GOP economic strategy ever since the days of Ronald Reagan. While they don’t use those words to describe their plan, and neither did the authors of Project 2025, this model is foundational to conservative economic theory and has been since the days of slavery.

The SEDM explicitly works to:

— Maintain a permanent economic underclass of people living on the edge of poverty, — Rigidify racial and gender barriers to class mobility to lock in women and people of color, — Provide a low-cost labor force to employers,

— Prevent unions or any other advocates for workers’ rights to function, — Shift the tax burden to the working poor and what’s left of the middle class while keeping taxes on the morbidly rich extremely low, — Protect the privileges, power, and wealth of the (mostly white and male) economic overclass, — Ghettoize public education and raise the cost of college to make social and economic mobility difficult, — Empower and subsidize churches to take over public welfare functions like food, housing, and care for indigent people, — Allow corporations to increase profits by dumping their waste products into the air and water, — Subsidize those industries that financially support the political power structure, and, — Heavily use actual slave labor.

For hardcore policy wonks, the Economic Policy Institute(EPI) did a deep dive into the SEDM last month: here’s how it works in summary.

Republicans claim that by offering low-cost non-union labor and little to no regulatory oversight to massive corporations, they’re able to “attract business to the region.” This, they promise, will cause (paraphrasing President Kennedy out of context) “a rising tide that lifts all boats.”

Somehow, though, the only people who own boats that rise are those of the business owners and senior executives. The permanent economic underclass is key to maintaining this system with its roots in the old plantation system; that’s why Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Tennessee, and South Carolina have no minimum wage, Georgia’s is $5.15/hour, and most other GOP states use the federal minimum wage of $7.25/hour and $2.13/hour for tipped workers.

It’s thus no coincidence that ten out of the 20 Republican-run states that only use the federal minimum wage are in the Old South.

Anti-union or “right to work for less” efforts and laws are another key to the SEDM; the failed unionization effort last month at the Alabama Mercedes factory was a key victory for the GOP. Unions, after all, balance the power relationship between management and workers; promote higher wages and benefits; support workplace and product safety regulations; advance racial and gender equality; boost social mobility; and have historically been the most effective force for creating a healthy middle class.

Unionization, however, is antithetical to creating and maintaining a permanent economic underclass, which is why, as EPI notes, “while union coverage rates stand at 11.2% nationally, rates in 2023 were as low as 3.0% in South Carolina, 3.3% in North Carolina, 5.2% in Louisiana, and 5.4% in Texas and Georgia.”

Unions also make wage theft more difficult, essentially forcing government to defend workers who’ve been ripped off by their employers. That’s why Florida doesn’t even have a Department of Labor (it was dismantled by Republican Governor Jeb Bush in 2002), and the DOLs in Alabama, Delaware, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, and South Carolina no longer bother to enforce wage theft laws or recover stolen money for workers.

Another key to the SEDM is to end regulation of corporate “externalities,” a fancy word for the pollution that most governments in the developed world require corporations to pay to prevent or clean up. “Cancer Alley” is probably the most famous example of this at work: that stretch from west Texas to New Orleans has more than 200 refineries and chemical plants pouring poison into the air resulting in downwind communities having a 7 to 21 times greater exposure to these substances. And high rates of cancer: Southern corporate profits are boosted by sick people.

Between 2008 and 2018, EPI documents, funding for state environmental agencies was “cut [in Texas and Louisiana] by 35.2% and 34.8% respectively.… Funding was down by 33.7% in North Carolina, 32.8% in Delaware, 20.8% in Georgia, 20.3% in Tennessee, and 10% in Alabama.”

To keep income taxes low on the very wealthy, the SEDM calls for shifting as much of the taxpaying responsibility away from high-income individuals and dumping it instead on the working poor and middle class. This is done by either ending or gutting the income tax (Texas, Florida, and Tennessee have no income tax) and shifting to sales tax, property taxes, fees, and fines.

Nationally, for example, sales taxes provide 34.4% of state and local revenue, but in the SEDM states that burden is radically shifted to consumers: Tennessee, for example, gets 56.6% of their revenue from sales tax, Louisiana 53.3%, Florida 50.9%, Arkansas 49.6%, Alabama 48%, and Mississippi 45.5%. Fees for registering cars, obtaining drivers’ and professional licenses, tolls, traffic and other fines, and permits for home improvements all add to the load carried by average working people.

Republicans argue that keeping taxes low on “job creators” encourages them to “create more jobs,” but that old canard hasn’t really been taken seriously by anybody since Reagan first rolled it out in 1981. It does work to fill their money bins, though, and helps cover the cost of their (tax deductible) private jets, clubs, and yachts.

Another way the SEDM maintains a low-wage workforce is by preventing young people from getting the kind of good education that would enable them to move up and out of their economic and social class. Voucher systems to gut public education, villainization of unionized teachers and librarians, and increasing college tuition all work together to maintain high levels of functional illiteracy. Fifty-four percent of Americans have a literacy rate that doesn’t exceed sixth grade, with the nation’s worst illiteracy mostly in the Old South.

Imposing this limitation against economic mobility on women is also vital to the SEDM. Southern states are famous for their lack of female representation in state legislatures (West Virginia 13%, Tennessee 14%, Mississippi and South Carolina 15%, Alabama and Louisiana 18%), and the states that have most aggressively limited access to abortion and reproductive healthcare (designed to keep women out of the workplace and dependent on men) are entirely Republican-controlled.

Perhaps the most important part of the SEDM pushed by Republicans and Project 2025 is gutting the social safety net. Wealthy rightwingers have complained since FDR’s New Deal of the 1930s that transferring wealth from them to poor and middle-class people is socialism, the first step toward a complete communist tyranny in the United States. It’s an article of faith for today’s GOP.

Weekly unemployment benefits, for example, are lowest in “Mississippi ($235), Alabama ($275), Florida ($275), Louisiana ($275), Tennessee ($275), South Carolina ($326), and North Carolina ($350)” with Southern states setting the maximum number of weeks you can draw benefits at 12 in Florida, North Carolina, and Kentucky, 14 in Alabama and Georgia, and a mere 16 weeks in Oklahoma and Arkansas.

While only 3.3% of children in the Northeast lack health insurance, for the Southern states that number more than doubles to 7.7%. Ten states using the SEDM still refuse to expand Medicaid to cover all state residents living and working in poverty, including Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, Florida, Tennessee, and Texas.

The main benefit to employers of this weak social safety net is that workers are increasingly desperate for wages — any sort of wages — and even the paltriest of benefits to keep their heads above water economically. As a result, they’re far more likely to tolerate exploitative workplace conditions, underpaid work, and wage theft.

Finally, the SEDM makes aggressive use of the 13th Amendment’s legalization of slavery. That’s not a metaphor: the Amendment says, “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.” [emphasis added]

That “except as punishment for crime” is the key. While Iceland’s and Japan’s incarceration rates are 36 for every 100,000 people, Finland and Norway come in at 51, Ireland and Canada at 88, there are 664 people in prison in America for every 100,000 people. No other developed country even comes close, because no other developed country also allows legalized slavery under color of law.

Fully 800,000 (out of a total 1.2 million prisoners) Americans are currently held in conditions of slave labor in American jails and prisons, most working for private prison corporations that profitably insource work and unfairly compete against normal American companies. Particularly in the South, this workforce is largely Black and Hispanic.

As the ACLU documented for the EPI, “The vast majority of work done by prisoners in Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, South Carolina, and Texas is unpaid.” Literal slave labor, in other words. It’s a international scandal, but it’s also an important part of this development model that was, after all, first grounded in chattel slavery.

The Christian white supremacist roots of the SEDM worldview are best summed up by the lobbyist and head of the Southern Committee to Uphold the Constitution, Vance Muse — the inventor of the modern “right to work for less” model and advocate for the Southern Economic Development Model — who famously proclaimed in 1944, just days after Arkansas and Florida became the first states to adopt his anti-union legislation, that it was all about keeping Blacks and Jews in their places to protect the power and privileges of wealthy white people.

So, if you want to see what Republicans have in mind for the rest of America if Trump or another Republican becomes president and they can hold onto Congress, just visit the Old South. Or, as today’s MAGA GOP would call it, “the New Model.”

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