#Graves is in his 40's

[tara-the-quiet-bookworm-2016]

Sweet Like Candy (Yandere! Graves x Female Reader fic.) Chapter One)

Summary- You were just a normal young woman, living your life, going to school and work, spending time with your friends, and completely unaware of the man that had been watching you for months. A man that will do everything and anything to make you his...

Authors Notes- Been a hot minute since I wrote anything Yandere on this site. And now I'm dipping my toes in the COD MW 2 pool with a Yandere! Graves' fic. Now the first chapter in kinda vanilla nothing over the top so yeah. But I hope you enjoy. Now on to the story.

Chapter One.

It was a warm summers day, and you lay curled up on your nice comfy bed, absolutely refusing to leave it. However, your alarm clock had other plans as the moment you think of drifting back to sleep it begins to blare, making you jump and grumble. Time for work, and god you are so tempted to just call in sick to work. But you know you can't one you promised your friend Sara you'd take her shift for today, and two you need the money. And honestly though you might bitch and moan you really did love your job at the cafe down town.

Sighing you rolled out of bed, and on to the floor with a groan before getting to you feet and heading to where your bathroom was, intent on getting ready for the day. Stepping into the shower you turned on the water as hot as can be, your fingers running through your hair. as you let your thoughts go. Telling yourself that after work you would need to focus on your homework knowing it was due in a few days. But that seemed to be easier said that done these days and not because of work leaving you burned out. You could never put your finger on it but lately you've constantly felt like you were being watched.

Of course at first you had brushed it off as exhaustion and the fact that you had just moved into your new one bedroom apartment. A small, some what cramped apartment that was...okay. Considering it was your first apartment and rather small, but the rent was cheap and it was also close to your work as well. And commuting to school would be easy as well. But that didn't stop you from feeling like someone was constantly watching you, perhaps it was paranoia considering you lived alone?

'Or perhaps it's just your mind playing tricks on you.' You thought, as water cascaded down your naked body. 'This is your first time moving out on your own. So of course you're a little nervous.' Nodding to yourself you turned off the water, wrapping a towel around yourself as you stepped into your bedroom, moving to your closet you picked out your outfit for the day, and tried in vain to shrug this feeling off. 'Of course it would probably help if you had curtains in your apartment.' You told yourself, as you looked to your bedroom window that looked out at the street, watching as people went about their lives unaware that you existed.

Giving your head a shake you turned away from the window and walked off, heading to the living room you grabbed your purse, making sure you had your phone and keys on you as you headed for the door. And as you descended down the stairs and out the door of your apartment unaware of the person lurking in the shadows, watching you.

***

From the shadows Phillip Graves watched as you walked down the street. A wide smile on his face. There you were right on time, as always. Graves pushed himself off the wall of the building he had been leaning against as he waited for you to leave the safety of your apartment and head to the cafe you worked at. The place Graves had first saw you, and where Graves found himself fixating from the moment you looked at him, a bright smile on your lips as you greeted him.

And for Graves it was at that moment time seemed to stop for the man. Remembering standing in the doorway of the cute little cafe Graves had thought to try out after constantly driving past it on his way to and from work. After all a man in his position wouldn't be able to get half the stuff with out caffeine and your cafe happened to be the only one close enough after the cafe he used to frequent closed down for some reason.

But the cafe you worked at soon opened up, and for Graves it must've been fate as the moment he stepped through the doors of the little cafe was the moment he had met you. Graves smiled remembering how you looked went the bell chimed above the door, and you greeted him. And for Graves it seemed like time stopped as he stood in the doorway. His heart skipping a beat as he moved closer to the counter you were sitting behind.

Graves remembered how his heart skipped a beat when you smiled brightly at him as he somehow managed to get his order out. Black coffee with sugar. And if he was at any other place he would have paid for his drink and gone about his day. But for some reason Graves had decided to stick around, finding a seat with his drink, eyes glued on you. And every once in a while you would glance in his direction as you went about your day. And since then Graves decided to make the cafe you work at his new favorite place, and not because of the coffee or baked goods it sold.

In fact just seeing you had become the highlight of Grave's day as time went on and he managed to strike up a conversation with you. And during those times he found out that you were a bit younger than him and in school, studying to become a vet, your hobbies included video games and hanging out with friends. Now while YOU didn't think that anything you told Graves was overly interesting. But Graves hung on to every word, a small smile on his lips.

And then from then on Graves found himself frequenting the little cafe every single chance he got. Eyes fixed on you as you worked, he knew he shouldn't be so focused on you, told himself that you were too young for him. But despite that Graves found himself fixating on you. Hence why he constantly found himself lurking outside the shithole apartment, constantly waiting for you as you headed for work.

Pushing himself off the wall of the building he headed for his truck. Intent on heading him. Thoughts of you filling his mind, a faint on his lips. He didn't know what it was about you, but Graves hoped as time went on that you would finally see him.

Getting into his truck he drove home.

Authors Note- Yeah, sorry this isn't the greatest first chapter I've ever written. And like I said it's been a while since I wrote anything Yandere. But I assure you things will pick up in the next chapter or two.

Also you can find this fic on my AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YandereQueen1987

[talion-graves]

A father and son chat in Labyrinthos.

Yes, I did indeed make Tal's dad Atticus as much of a dilf as I could. I think I did a pretty good job.

[frogchiro]

I think slasher graves might be the kinda guy who, once kissing you is an option, takes advantage of it every. Single. Time. you don’t know how to kiss? That’s fine, he’ll teach you. You just want a pec? You get a million and a lil nibble on the ear in front of scandalized old ladies and jealous wives

(I also think it’s be really funny if you didn’t think Graves was being serious when he’s courting(?) you, like you think he wants a fling with the new girl and you indulge him because he’s weird and you’re into it but he’s also so, so fine only to later be confused when he asks about meeting your parents)

When Graves started to show more and more interest with you, he would start showing up at the orchard where you work, 'accidentaly' being in the same store as you and helping you with carrying the shopping or 'well look at you darlin'! We're both looking at flowers huh :)' while you're picking up a bouquet at the local florist. To say it weirded you a bit out would be an understatement but you never said anything, just politely smiled and thanked him for the help.

You never took Philip's advances too seriously mostly because of the rumours that you overheard at the local farmer's market; that he had quite the...reputation when he was younger and judging that now even in his 40's he never settled down, nothing really changed from his 'casanova' days except that he was probably more sneaky.

To be honest Philip kinda weirded you out with his strong advances and you sometimes would get more annoyed than anything; probably just wants a one-night fling with 'new girl' and then toss you out the next morning, fuck no.

The breaking point for Graves to amp up his courtship would be overhearing your talk with old Marjorie with whom you stay and work for, talking about you refusing to be a cheap fling for a bored and rich man. That honestly was...painful for him to hear, with you Graves feels many things for the first time despite his age and genuine heartache is definitely on the list. You thought that he'd use you? That you were a night of fun then dump you? But...But he was already imagining late at night a nursery for your baby and you with a bump in your belly and a pretty wedding ring on your finger :(

He knew that he needed to turn up his game, that he needed to treat you like a lady, his future missus and not some cheap whore at the bar.

But Graves was anything if not determined. He would make you his if that's the last thing he did♡

[buckysmith]

What would they prefer their so to be (military/ non military)

Warnings: Mention of gùns violence (I mean it’s mw) stereotypes, slight toxic behavior

(Music has nothing to do with the Headcanon i just listened to it while writing)

Alejandro:

- it's 50/50 with him

- he would love to fight along with his S/O

- but he would also love to have that stereotypical house s/o

- but wouldn't mind if you work somewhere, like in a store or as a educator

- to come home with you already waiting for him with a fresh cooked meal and if u're not already married, he would marry you within in a heartbeat

- but also to fight side by side with you against all the evil is something he loves

- He would be able to see you all day (ofc u're in a team with him) instead of seeing you every evening or maybe just once or twice a week

- he knew you would be able to defend yourself to any treat, he would be very proud of you (but don't u dare and have more muscles than him)

- but the idea of keeping you save, hidden and that he's the one who's strong and can protect you, would fill his heart with pride... cough his ego cough

Graves:

- No, when he comes home he wants nothing to do with the government or military

-he's a stereotypical man so for you to stay home and to take care of it and your family (if you have kids/dogs/ any animal) would be normal for him

- he earns enough money so you wouldn't have to work and yeah, he wouldn't want you to work either except housework and stuff like that

- that he's the one who can protect you would really play into his ego

- definitely the one who tells you how weak but cute you are, how he will protect you from anything and that your his pretty little S/O

- don't worry, even when he's not with you your not in any danger, you have two guard dogs, and he  trained them

Ghost:

- I think he would want a S/O that has nothing to do with anything that includes guns, violence or death

- he wants a normal life (besides his abnormal one) so your life with him would be pretty stereotypical

- he wouldn't want you to work somewhere unsafe

- he's isn't really at home so he would know that it's important for you to do something while he's away

- he isn't the one who talks much about his job, just because he wants his s/o to be save

- and he wants them to stay innocent, he doesn't want his s/o to know what horror he has to see every single day and what horror he cause to others

- but on the other hand this man has his hands full of work, so to meet his s/o while working isn't that unrealistic

- but he would prefer his so to be a normal human being (he's already constantly worried about you, so if u're in the military this man is more than worried)

Soap:

- He wouldn't mind his s/o being in the military, I think he would find pride in it

- if you're good enough for the team he would want you to work with him so he could see you every single day

- he would brag about your military skills and your title (positive)

- he would find it hot if you know how to handle a bad boy (he's your bad boy)

- but he wouldn’t mind you being a normal civilian

- he definitely would show you too his good friends (ghost, price and some other )

- he would tell them about your cooking/ baking skills

- but to know you're able to defend yourself would ease his mind and fill his chest with pride

- so you’re going to work with him on that

Price:

- 40/60 he would like it to do missions with you, but to come home to you and you being that stereotypical house wife/husband/ partner would fit him more

- he likes his job, or at least he most of the time likes the persons he works with, but to have something besides his job that isn’t about guns, violence, betrayal and all that nasty stuff, is something that means everything to him

- but if you’re a member of the military he would worry about you, it’s not that underestimates you he knows exactly how good you are, no, it’s that he knows how god damn dangerous that job is especially if the bad guys would find out that the two of you are dating

Valeria:

- No, just no.

- she worked with the military long enough to know that she doesn’t want to date anyone from that ever again

- she would love to be the bad big guy in your relationship

- she’s dominant as fuck, she can handle enough bad for both of you and she will protect you so you don’t have to do anything but be a good little one

- she would make fun of you though or at least she would tease you about "how weak you are“

[deathbecomesthem]

Second Chances | ~2K

Older!Eddie Munson x Fem!Older Reader

A/N: This was originally written for @bettyfrommars on the old blog. At the request of @somnambulic-thing, I'm putting it here for ya'll. Just a short and sweet little scenario about life and love later in life.

---

A mirror doesn’t lie. That’s what your mother told you, and that’s what your ex-husband reinforced for all those lonely years. Every day that passed added a line, added a divot. Every week - month - year, the circles under your eyes got a little darker, your hair lost its color and turned white strand by strand. It was easy to get lost in those changes, to see them as a slow crawl to the grave. It was easy to look at yourself and see an old woman beaten down by unhappiness. 

It was a Sunday morning when you got your reality check. A week before your 45th birthday, and your grandmother passed. She was 93 years old when she went to bed on a Saturday night and never woken up the following morning. A quiet death after 70 years of marriage. She walked every evening, all the way up until the last one of her life. The tear filled call from your mother did what it was supposed to, it made you sad and nostalgic. It made you think of her and your grandfather. He had passed less than a year ago - his death was caused by a stroke.

When you hung up the phone, you turned your damp eyes to Jim laying in the bed next to you. He slept through the call, you couldn’t fault him for that. There were no loud outbursts of grief from you. It gave you a moment to look at him, and think about another 40 years with your lives entangled together. It was then that you knew, you’d rather die alone.

So, you left. Those first days in your new apartment across town, you realized you’ve been fed lies for years. 45 years old - that’s nothing. In fact, as a divorce gift, you bought yourself your first vibrator. Those nights alone in your dark room, you found yourself. You let yourself explore your body and mind. What you found out was this - you are beautiful and worthy of love. Even if that love only comes from within yourself.

–

The shop is busier than ever. Eddie’s hands are grease-soaked again, but he’s happy to get dirty if it means that business is good. After Mel sold him the shop, he spent the first year obsessing over numbers. Frantic and sure he made a terrible mistake. He’s Eddie Munson, not a business owner. But, he was wrong, and happy to admit it. The guys respect him, and the customers happily throw his name around when they have friends and family in need of a respectable mechanic. That’s where you come in. 

Eddie’s face is deep in the engine of some piece of shit clunker that had to be towed in when he heard it. He can tell by the sound of the beast rolling in that he’s looking at a muffler issue. His guess is that the thing is either hanging on, or it’s laying on the side of the road somewhere. He has to see who’s driving the thing around.

He makes his way over to the open bay doors and sees a Bronco pulling into the parking lot with its muffler scraping the asphalt under it. He snorts to himself and waves you into an empty spot inside the garage before you can park it in the lot out front - there’s no question you’re here for some help. A lot of help, really. He prepares himself, he’s sure he’s about to come face to face with one of the local yokels.

At the same time, you’re bracing yourself for impact. You hate this. You need your vehicle, the public transportation out here is unreliable at best. You expect to come face to face with a grease monkey that’s going to scold you for ignoring a very obvious issue with your car. And then he’ll look at you and see dollar signs. An easy target. You do your best to harden your features, as unnatural as that is for you, and remember that “no” is a perfectly acceptable response when you think you’re about to get fucked over.

“So, what seems to be the problem?” Eddie’s voice is immediately teasing, which puts you at ease. 

“Well, I’m sure you heard me coming from 5 miles away. That’s when I heard a loud pop and then metal dragging underneath my feet.” You answer his absurd question flatly, and take him in. He’s an older guy, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail is threaded with silver. A wicked smile on his face shows lines that tell you he wears it often. 

“Well, let’s put her up so we can take a look, hm?” Eddie’s hands reach out for you to give him your key. You make a move to sit on the bench around the corner, but he points to a chair at the back of the bay, “Stay. We’ll look together and see what we’re dealing with, ok?”

So you do. You sit and watch the car lift up into the air while the mechanic talks. He speaks to you as if you understand the words he’s saying. He looks back to you and nods. He points at a large metal piece that’s barely hanging onto the framework under your vehicle. That you recognize - you can practically see the dollar bills floating through the air and away from your grasp. 

“How much?” You don’t want to beat around the bush. You need to know how much it’s going to cost you to get your car back on the road. You need to know what it’s going to cost you to be able to get yourself to the office every day so you can pay your goddamned rent.

Eddie sighs. He scratches at his chin, apparently forgetting that he’s got grease under his fingernails. There are lines of dark brown to accompany the stubble. “I need to price out the parts before I can say.” You can tell by the stilted way he speaks that he knows exactly what the cost will be. This is bad.

“Just tell me, rip off the band-aid.” 

“My guess is you’re looking at about $550 when all is said and done.” You see the mechanic wince a little while he delivers the news, and again you find yourself smiling. It is what it is, and you know it could be worse. The rainy day fund will disappear, but you’ll still be able to pay your rent and buy groceries. You’ve been through worse.

You let out a sigh through your nose and slap your thighs, “Well, it is what it is. She’s not worth much more than $500, but I also need to get to work on Monday morning. How long will it take, do ya think?”

You rolled your car into the shop at 5:55 on a Friday night, and you’re sure now that you take in the empty garage that it’s past closing time. What a nice man. And pretty. You bite back at that thought and focus on what he’s saying again.

“...so, I can let you know in the morning.” You realize your mind was elsewhere while he was answering your question, but the gist of it is that he won’t know until he talks to someone at a part’s warehouse tomorrow. You nod your head in response and look out to the street in front of the garage. Your apartment is 2.5 miles from here, you’re wearing impractical shoes, and you have to lug your oversized briefcase with you. The man in front of you seems to read your mind.

“I can’t do much with her right now. I was about to close up for the night anyway, can I take you home?” 

This is how it starts. A ride home from a kind man, and  you’re suddenly a teenager again with all the butterflies in the world beating against your ribcage. 

—

“Kismet.” Eddie loves to say the word when you talk about that first time you met him, as if the universe decided to slowly drip water into your exhaust system over the course of months just so you’d have to stop at the first mechanic you saw on your way home from work.

“Mmm, so you say.” Your face is resting against Eddie’s bare chest. He’s so warm, a burning furnace lives inside of him, all smokey and full of fire. “If I’m ever enlightened and find out what brought me to you, I’ll worship it until my dying day - probably into my afterlife, if there is such a thing.”

“Here’s what I know,” Eddie takes a drag of the joint he’s holding between his fingers before bringing it down to your lips. He holds it while you take a hit, your lips brush against his rough fingers that are permanently stained by shadows of oil stains. “I worked late, which I never do anymore, and the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen  came roaring into my life with a busted ass Bronco. That’s fate, Sweetheart. I believe enough for the both of us.”

“Was it fate when you barrelled your way into my apartment with a bucket of fried chicken the same day?” You hear Eddie’s scoff through his chest, and make your move. Your fingers dive into the soft flesh at his side, not a pinch, but enough to trigger the tickle response. He’s so easy. Eddie writhes under you, kicking away the blanket that covers his waist so you can see the black and gray hair peeking out from below his belly button.

“You evil minx, do not make me drop this joint.” You can’t take him seriously, not while he’s giggling like a little kid under your touch. But, you relent, afraid that he might burn himself. It’s moments like these when you thank yourself for trusting your instincts. For believing them when they told you, this is something. Let it happen.

You pull him closer to you, wishing you could climb inside of his chest to rest for the night. You want to be engulfed in his embrace and shut out the outside world. Eddie strokes the skin of your shoulder with the back of his thumb, and pulls you fully onto his chest. He likes that, having you lay flat against him. He likes to touch the soft places, he likes to run his fingers along the lines on your skin where it stretched to accommodate the added weight of the years. 

“The kid is coming tomorrow.” Eddie whispers into the top of your head before kissing against your hair. “I know we usually have plans on Saturdays -”

You stop him before he can apologize. He never needs to, especially not when it comes to spending time with his child that just stepped foot into the adult world. She needs her dad. 

“Oh, of course. We’ll see each other another time.” It sounds lame, as if you’re rescheduling loose plans with an acquaintance instead of talking to your boyfriend of 2 months.

“Well, uh,” Eddie’s arms wrap around you even tighter before he continues, “she wants to meet you. She told me if I don't bring you with me tomorrow, she’s going to punch me in the dick.” 

You both giggle for a beat before you turn and rest your chin on his chest, taking in his face. You have tears in your eyes, but are wearing a wide mouthed grin. “She wants to meet me? Wow.” 

“Yes. And it’s ok if you’re not sure about it, but she’s threatening my manhood. I thought you should know.” Eddie’s voice is playful, but hesitant. It’s still new, this thing. Fast moving, but the length is short. 

“Oh, I would very much like to meet her. Her dad is my favorite guy, she has to be something special.” You kiss his chest where that demon face sits, a relic of his past. 

That small taste of his skin is flint against stone, a spark lit behind his dark brown eyes. He reaches out and pulls the small metal bead cord on his bedside lamp. When his lips travel along your skin, teeth nipping across your stomach, you believe in the kind of love that only comes in the form of a second chance.

[larluce]

If all the Arthurs I created met each other

There's already a post with my Merlins meeting too here ➡︎ LINK

Arthur from "The Dragonlord's son series"🐉: I'm just saying, my Merlin is better than yours.

Arthur from my "Merlin as a familiar/shapeshifter falcon AU" 🦅: No, mine is better! He can shapeshift!

Arthur from my "Time travel AU" 🕐: (laughs) They all can shapeshift, boy. Don't believe yourself special.

Arthur 🦅: Don't call me boy! I'm 18! 😡

Arthur 🐉: So? We're in our 20's (pointing himself and Arthur🕐). We're older than you.

Arthur 🕐: I'm actually 40.

Arthur 🐉: What?!😨 But you don't look like 40.

Arthur 🕐: Well no, my body is 20 but my mind is 40. It's a long story.

12 year old Arthur from "From the grave to the cradle" ⛏️: (enters) Sorry, I was milking the cows. What did I miss?

Arthur 🦅: (pointing at Arthur ⛏️) See! That's a boy! (happy) I'm not the youngest anymore! Wait... (looks at Arthur ⛏️, confused) Did you say "milking the cows"?

Arthur ⛏️: Yes, I'm a farmer.

Arthur 🐉, Arthur 🦅 and Arthur 🕐: (shout, very surprised) A FARMER?!😱

Arthur ⛏️: (defensively, crossing his arms) Yes, and I'm very proud of it! 😠 What are you anyway?

Arthur 🐉: The prince.

Arthur 🦅: Me too.

Arthur 🕐: We're all princes, little one.

Arthur ⛏️: (shocked) I'm the only one who isn't royalty? (pouts) Awww, that's not fair. ☹️

Arthur 🐉: (kind of sad) Wait, does this mean Merlin is never going to be your servant?

Arthur ⛏️: (shouts, escandalised) Merlin is your servant?! 😨

Arthur 🐉: (relieved) Oh, so you do know each other. Good.

Arthur ⛏️: It is not!😠 How can you have your friend as your servant? That's horrible!

Arthur 🦅: Well, tecnically, in my case he isn't my servant, he's my pet.

Arthur ⛏️: WHAT?! 😱😡

Arthur 🦅: I mean... half-animal friend companion? 😅

Arthur 🕐: (To Arthur 🦅) You're not helping your case. (To Arthur ⛏️) I'm really curious, how did you became friends with Merlin?

Arthur ⛏️: (smiles) Oh, we've been friends since forever. We live in the same village.

Arthur 🕐: Which is?

Arthur ⛏️: Ealdor.

Arthur 🕐: (realising what happened to this Arthur) Oh, boy...

Arthur 🦅: (still confused) But... but you're from Camelot.

Arthur ⛏️: (ofended) No! I'm from Essetir. I would never associate with the likes from Camelot. They kill people like Merlin for sport! They are murderers!

Arthur 🐉: (starting to understand, increasingly disturbed) Arthur... Who are your parents?

Arthur ⛏️: Hector and Adeline from Ealdor, why?

Arthur 🦅: Those are not-

Arthur 🕐: (covers Arthur 🦅 mouth quickly)

Arthur ⛏️: (a little sad) I know they are not really my parents, but they adopted me when the real ones abandoned me as a baby. So I love them as if they were. (smiles brigthly) I wouldn't change them for anything, even if they are not royalty as yours. So the king of Essetir adopted you instead? That's so cool! Even if you have your friends as your servants.😊

Arthur 🐉: ...

Arthur 🕐: ...

Arthur 🦅: I'm going to tell him.

Arthur 🐉 and Arthur 🕐: Don't you dare! 😡

....

I reached 300 followers today, guys! Thank you so much! 🤧 I love you all 💕

[konigsblog]

GRAVES BABYTRAPPING HIS CONTROVERSIALLY YOUNG WIFE :(((

he knew he always wanted to have a child but the timing nor the women he ever was with seemed right plus he wasn't really one to settle down and he only realised that when he was nearing his 40's that he never commited and he's getting too old to have a baby :((

But in comes you!!! A beautiful young thing, wide eyed and so so sweet and oh so willing♡ he's in love from forst sight, he KNOWS that you're the one to be his wifey and the good girl to give him babies :(( sure you're like in your early 20's but that just means that he can take care of you!!

he knows it's wrong, but he can't imagine being without you. wanting to see you swell and form babies, his seed fucked inside you, that it knocks you up.

glaring at others when they stare, their eyes lingering and burning through your skulls. fucking you against his desk, his hands gently holding your stomach up - removing the weight and pressure off your back whilst he rams his hips into you, feeling your tight ass when his balls slam against you. :((

[starlit-crossing]

Lost in Foster (Working Title) Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Flying Solo

---

Danny had lost track of the time quickly after beginning to fly, his stress ebbing away with the landscape that spend by. He tried to focus on the grass, the roads, the horizon, anything but what had just transpired. Every time his mind wondered; he would be reminded that he needed to not feel. His friends' face as he took off — nope, not thinking about it. How worried Jazz would be — what a really cool tree I just passed. His parents’ confusion and not getting to say goodbye to anyone — that is a lot of white vans up a head. Wait… Danny stopped midair above a state highway. Similar to a police barricade, white vans, jeeps, and motorcycles were stationed in the middle of the street. Guys in White were stopping the passing cars, scanning them, then letting vehicles through the state border. Lines were beginning to form and angry honks floating up to him. This isn't good… Danny fished for his burner phone, feeling for the metal at the bottom of his backpack. Digging it out, the clock read 12:45. He had left Casper high during lunch, which had been around 11:30, and he had left Amity around 11:40. Good to know it takes less than an hour for the Goons in White to make a move. He floated closer to the cars to see if anyone had a Wi-Fi spot open. I should've grabbed the Fenton GPS from the emergency OPS center, finally a Wi-Fi signal popped up under the name __Not_The_FBI__. Danny choked on a laugh as he pulled open his map app. He was going to need to avoid every joke and pun on this trip, or he was a dead man. Well, a deader man… wait! Bad brain! He yelled at himself. He had to be less than a five-minute flight from Chicago. Zooming in, he looked for a train station or a ferry… and there was a train station used for hauling cargo from the US into Canada.

“Perfect!” Danny exclaimed, pumping his fist into the air, only to hit something metal. Turning, Danny watched as a pristine white drone steadied itself in the air. Its camera focusing on him.

“Shit.” Danny turned to watch as the men below froze, then look to the sky. Spotting him immediately, he just waved as they began to take aim. Turning invisible and speeding away as round after round of ecto blasts lit up the sky. Nice going Fenton, he berated himself flying towards Chicago; I have two things I can't do: express emotion and use powers publicly. I've already done both! Like he thought it hadn't taken long to reach the station, gravely rails and signs directing conductors were sprawled throughout. He found an empty car, checked for any passerby, and phased inside. A flash of light leaking through the cracks as he returned to his human self. The darkened car was cold, with metal walls and doors. The floor was a kind of embossed metal, a crisscross pattern embellished the sheet metal.

“I should've brought a book or something.” he laughed tiredly to himself… “Damn it!” Danny yelled, banging his head on the car wall. It's probably best if I just sleep, I'll be over the state border by the time I wake up. He thought to himself, settling into a corner. Propping his backpack to use as a pillow, the cold had no effect on him as he drifted to sleep.

---

It had been a little over an hour since Danny had gone on the run. Sam and Tucker had decided to skip what was left of school and head straight home. It would be difficult to catch up with him, but they had to at least try, and every second that passed was a second wasted. They didn't have anything in mind for Danny being tracked so easily, but they would figure something out. They had to.

When Sam got home, her house was surrounded by GIW agents. Her parents stood at the door listening to a panicked Jack and Maddie. As she pushed her way to the front, she was able to make out some of what Danny's parents were saying.

“Please! Just let us make sure Phantom didn't leave anything here. Anything could be a clue to where he took Danny!” Maddie cried, Jack stood by her as she pleaded, an arm around her shoulder. Her parents shared a pained look as they tried to decide what to do.

“Maddie, we know your situation with ghosts is important. To your career and with your family,” her mother started softly, remaining in her polite and cheery tone. “But we can't risk involving Sammikins more than your son already has.”

“Not to mention when we let you search our home earlier during that wild goose chase! Left a large mess that our house cleaner had to pick up.” Her father chimed in, annoyed.

“We understand that, but we need every clue we can! Sam!” Jack shouted, seeing her as she entered the path leading to the door.

“Sammy get inside! You don't need to be pestered by agents as well.” Her dad called, ushering her inside the large house.

“Same, please! Have you heard anything from Danny? Is he with Tucker?” Maddie called, fighting the door as her mother tried to close it. Sam tried to calm down, closing her eyes and slowing her breath. Key word being tried.

“No! I haven't and neither has Tucker! So just leave the two of us alone and don't you dare try storming his house too!” she hollered, shoving the door fully closed. She sighed back sliding against the door.

“That's right Sammikins! Just because they risked their family with ghosts doesn't mean they can risk ours!” Her mother cheered.

“And sorry, Sammy, the house cleaner couldn't get to the second floor today, so your room's still a mess.” Her dad added.

“It's fine, dad. I'll clean it myself. Can I… Can I just be alone for a bit? Stressful day and all.” Sam mumbled, making her way upstairs.

“Of course, sweetie!” they answered, leaving Sam with herself. Once her parents were out of sight, she ran up the stairs. As she entered her room, she looked at the damage caused by the aforementioned goose chase. It looked like a storm had blown through, her bed and desk had their contents thrown about. Anything related to Danny had been pulled out. Ignoring the mess, she pulled over a chair to her closet and felt for the backpack taped to its ceiling. Once down she poured out its contents mentally checking everything was still there. Her clothes? Check. Money? Check. A letter? Sam pulled out the simple envelope that made an appearance in her bag. It was addressed to her, the whole thing crisp and clean. Inside a piece of notebook paper full of Danny's handwriting, nothing looked rushed, and it seemed he had prepared these in advance.

*Ring* *Ring*

Tucker’s face lit up her phone's lock screen, she answered the video call while reading the letter.

“Sam! Did you get home safe? I heard the GIW were swarming your house. Did you find a letter?”

He blurted, the room behind him burring as he moved.

“I'm fine, and I did. Did you get one too? Why would Danny write these?” She flipped the page to see if there was more, a hint to what he was thinking.

“I did, that was why I called you. Does yours say the same thing. Well, maybe not the exact same.” He rambled, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Shut up, Tuck! He wants us to stay in Amity? To abandon him and protect the town that barely cares he's here?” She exclaimed. Tucker nodded along from the camera.

“I know right? He's our best friend, we can't just let him be on the run!” Tucker ranted, “Can we? I mean, I know where he's coming from. We can't really trust his parents or the GIW to keep ghosts out. Valerie can handle her own, but she still hates ghosts. It will be hard for her to leave the neutral ones alone.”

“I don't know, Tuck, Danny even said we could tell Valerie his secret if things got out of hand and became too much for us and Jazz. I don't think he plans on coming home, at least not anytime soon.” she contemplated; there had to be something they could do. “What about other heroes?”

“What? What would they do?” Tucker asked.

“I'm not sure, I know we don't really keep up with stuff outside of Amity, but the Justice whatever works with the government, right? We could tell them our local hero is being unjustly hunted.” Sam suggested pacing the room.

“Sam, what will they find when they look into Phantom? That he's a wanted criminal, robbing banks, and threatening mayors? The media doesn't shine Danny in a good light.” He countered.

“But those can be explained, the GIW have files on Freakshow.”

“Didn't Danny wipe his memories with the Reality gauntlet? They couldn't get the whole truth, or they would learn his brain has been messed with through magic or martians.” They went back and forth.

“Then what do you propose we do? We can't track him down without others noticing.” Sam huffed in defeat.

“We'll just have to do what he asked of us. We'll watch over the town, if Valerie gets out of hand, we'll offer our help first. Say we helped Phantom with ghosts, Danny included. We can say Danny is protecting Phantom even now, and it will buy us some time to see if she can handle Danny's secret.” Tuck finished.

“She trusts Danielle, right? We might be able to convince her.” A moment hung in the air between the two friends. The reality settling in that they may never see their friend again. “Where is Danielle? She might get caught in the crossfire of this, being a clone and all.” Sam wondered.

“She's in Italy last I checked, I'm glad I gave her one of my old phones before she left the US.” Tucker answered.

“That's good… Which of us is telling Jazz?"

---

The train started to move shortly after Danny fell asleep. Four hours passed before Danny's body forced him awake, ghost hunting had ruined his sleep. He could hear Jazz's voice in his head talking about the importance of sleep for teens today. He checked the burner for the time and saw the numbers 6:05 glowing back at him. Pulling open the map he saw he had made it to Indiana, finally.

“Time to get moving, I guess.” As he spoke, he focused on keeping his voice even. The events of earlier, still fresh in his mind. The sound of the car's rolling wheels echoed in the empty car as he stood. Stretching to pop his back. He stuck his head invisibly through the train door, seeing the cargo station grow closer. Bringing his head back in, he readied to slip off the train. Steadying himself as the train arrived, opening the door, and running through the train yard as fast as he could without getting caught. It had been easier than expected, no one cared, as the teen bolted through the gravel-filled rails with ease. Once outside, he went searching for food. A mini mart was on the corner and a King Burger across the street. He couldn't risk lingering, so he made way for the minimart. The convenience store felt dated with white walls and neon signs, the floor was black and gray checkered tiles. Grabbing some water bottles, bags of jerky, and some premade sandwiches. The many sweets and freezy drinks were tempting, but the longer the food could last, the better. The place was deserted, only the clerk scrolling on his phone could witness he was ever there. After finishing his resource gathering, Danny went on the hunt for a gray hound bus stop, it would be the easiest way to get around without drawing too much attention. Looking for the longest possible route to the East Coast, he was left with two options: Gotham or Metropolis. Both had international ports and superheroes that protected them. He had always meant to look into other heroes more, find some inspiration or role models for hero work, but with ghosts constantly attacking the town and homework, he just didn't have time. Mr. Lancer tried to keep class interesting by referencing the things happening on the global news. Now if he could only remember what he had said about the heroes protecting the cities. Danny had actually perked up when Lancer mentioned that one was an alien with super hearing and other abilities. Aside from that, all he could remember was their names, Batman and Superman. I'm feeling a lot better about my hero name. He would have to give Amity News a break about Invis-O-Bill. Between the two, he was pretty sure Superman was the alien. Sam had done a report on meta-human rights and had gotten very passionate when she discovered that they didn't reference the ecto acts whatsoever. She had been so sure that someone would shed light on the act, accounting it to being unknown meta-humans being unjustly removed of their rights. A point she got stuck on was that Batman had all but banned metas from Gotham. Stating they should seek sanctuary elsewhere due to the antics of his villains. It had something to do with gas, scarecrows, and clowns? So, he could either go to the city where no powers were allowed, or the city protected by a super-hearing alien. The GIW might expect him to go to an alien for sympathy or to overshadow him in a power grab. Gotham seemed like the safer choice, even with the high amounts of criminal activity they seemed to have. He would be able to fight off most thugs without causing serious damage, humans can't normally through a guy through a brick wall like ghosts can. No one would question him being alone and sneaking around, he'd use his powers to get on a boat for Europe and keep a low profile while he searched for Danielle. He'd fill her in on what was going on, send a message to Sam and Tucker that he was safe, and wait to hear what was happening in Amity. So, Danny waited in line and got his ticket for Gotham. The bus was crowded full of people trying to do the same as him; to take a bus as far from one's old life as possible. He was able to grab a seat towards the back, settling into the stained fabric seats. His backpack between himself and the wall of the bus window. Settling in for the longest stretch of his journey out of the country.

Hello and welcome again! I hope everyone is enjoying the story. It’s been very exciting getting to see everyone’s comments and enjoyment for the fic. Don’t worry about the lack of Bat family, I am getting their as fast as I can. I wanted to revisit Amity a little bit to wrap up a few loose ends. I’m not sure at what point in the DP timeline I am placing this, but it will most likely either be prefinal of the show or post A Glitch in Time. Two very different time periods but both work with the general DC timeline I am using. As for the Bat family I’m more familiar with the characters themselves than the canon timeline. So, I’ll primarily be referring to the Batman: Family Adventures for the family and Young Justice for world events such as meta-humans.

I spent a lot of my time working on this listening to the Epic: Underworld Saga musical concept and got stuck on the song No Longer You. It’s so good and feels like it could fit Danny in some aspects if you go for a post A Glitch in Time ghost king Danny. Might draw something if I got time.

See you next week, byee!

Master post - Chapter 2 Prev. <<< Next >>>

[redladydeath]

Some Vox human life headcanons that have been developing in my head over the past few weeks

He was born Vaughn Oxright in the late 1910’s/early 1920’s to a well-off, show-biz couple from Philadelphia

Was a child star from the ages of about 5 to 9, mostly doing live dance acts at mid-sized theaters across the US. That phase of his life was ended by a leg injury that never healed properly (neither he nor his parents wanted to slow down long enough for it to fully heal and he kept dancing on it until long-term damage was done), and his family had no choice but to settle back down in Philly.

First realized he was interested in men at age 11 when he became super attached to an older boy in his church’s youth group. He became very clingy and started sending the boy dozens of increasingly intense totally-not-love letters, which made the boy uncomfortable and got Vox switched out of the group. The fact that this was obviously a crush went unsaid, but not unnoticed by those involved. The rejection was devastating for Vox, and he swung hard into homophobia and petty displays of masculinity afterward.

He stayed out of show-biz during his teen years, but still participated in dozens of events and competitions— any opportunity to perform and receive praise.

Was drafted into WWII as a young man. Never saw combat on account of his old leg injury, but was instead assigned to work as an electrical engineer, building radar tech and other telecommunications materials. It was outside of his intended field of study, but he took to it quickly and became very close with the other men on his team. It was the last time in his life he could remember feeling truly happy.

Realized he was really, embarrassingly into BDSM (or at least the 40’s/50’s equivalent) via pulp novels, plus how excited he was made by the head of his team being cold/condescending towards him when he first joined. Took this secret to the grave, but always kept a stash of retro-style erotica wherever he was living.

After the war, he decided to get back into show business. Started dating and quickly married a girl from a wealthy, well-connected family. Things started off okay, but only took a few years to devolve into simmering animosity. He was self-absorbed and inattentive, she started using pills to cope. Neither of them had any interest in getting a divorce though, given the times and the damage it would do to both their reputations. They had two kids who were basically raised solely by their nanny. Their parents both loved them in their own ways, but were too wrapped up in themselves to pay them very much mind.

Vox quickly got involved in the television industry, using his good looks and charm to rapidly climb the ranks and land a job as a presenter. He was a pain to work with for anyone he deemed beneath him, but he was a great networker and could schmooze with the “important people” like nobody’s business.

Despite running in some pretty elite circles, his TV career never quite reached the heights he wanted it to. He was, objectively, quite successful, making good money and being the face of his own show, but he wanted to aim higher. He managed to finagle his way into a film role, hoping it would kick-start a new phase in his career, but despite being a great performer, Vox just wasn’t an actor. The film bombed. He didn’t take it well.

When he walked into the studio one day in the mid-50’s, ready to shoot another show, he had no idea it was to be his last day on Earth. He was just supposed to introduce a musical performance alongside his co-anchor, that was it. But for whatever reason, the crew decided that this time, they wanted them to do it using standing microphones. However, due to a mistake by one of the tech guys, Vox’s microphone was not properly grounded. When they started counting down and Vox put his hands on the mic, several hundred volts of electricity went coursing through his body. His heart stopped almost instantly. He didn’t have time to even register what had happened to him, just the sound of screams and the faint smell of burning flesh.

[cherubispunk]

UP IN YOUR ARMS (CHAPTER ONE) -Noir!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: The Canary Club. Illicit. Underground. Dangerous too. But nowhere near as dangerous the affair you and Joel start there.

a note from Lucy: chapter one! I'm digging my own grave here. thats all im saying. i promise it is focused on joel and the reader later in the chapter. im just setting the scene for differnt relationships in the series.

playlist

wc: 6969 (haha lol) Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! 1940s!au, no outbreak, no use of y/n, age gap (reader is in her early 20’s and Joel is in his 40s), smut. p in v sex, oral - f receiving, oral through panties, choking, groping, sexism, mentions of racism, touch starved joel, me being back on my bullshit, drinking, ,smoking, throwing fists because men are stoopid and cant talk things out, cheating on the readers part, but joel knows this and still fucks her like the horny bastad he is. *sigh*, use of pet names such as doll, cursing, ww2 references, an unhealthy relationship between reader and joel, mentions of blood, let me know if ive missed any warning out that should be tagged. 6969 words of unedited bullshit because im piss drunk and cant for the life of me edit.

series m.list | m.list

The jazz band was one of the finest groups in the city. ‘Only the finest for The Canary Club’, as Johnny had put it. 

Johnny Boy Finnick. 

Now he was a man. Played sports in college, muscular, strong arms that pinned you to the wall or mattress or table. Hands that shuffled playing cards with ease and had you screaming far after the night was over. Deep blue eyes and blonde hair that never fell out of place from its slicked back style. Not even after he had crushed someone's jaw under the weight of his pummeling, bloodlusting fist.  

Johnny made a name for himself bootlegging liquor, too young to fight in the first world war. Took over as The Boss of Boston. It’s how he got his name. Johnny Boy. Fresh faced but the heart of a ragged old man. Lost it all after the second world war, gained it back not long after. A killer with a bone deep yearning for blood, money, violence, and you. 

He sat in his pressed suit, legs parted as he leaned over to display his full flush to the table, flashing a killer smile when he collected the money off his right hand man and three more of his boys. You smiled from the bar, beads of your dress twinkling in the low light of the speakeasy, ready to waltz over with another old fashioned and drape yourself in his lap.

“Thanks, Henry.” You smiled at your oldest friend, taking the drink he had placed down in front of you on the bar. Henry was your age, 25. A boy from Hartford, Connecticut, grew up in Kansas, then moved here looking for work in a big city. Honest, hardworking. Sweeter than cherry pie. And his little brother Sam was just the cutest pip you'd ever seen. 

“No problem, Doll.” He teased, which deserved a roll of the eyes from you. 

“How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”

“This would make it…” he glanced up for a second, as if calculating within his mind, “one too many times to count.”

“Funny.” You gave him a quick bitter smile. All in good fun, clearly, for he took no offence. He just shot you a smile, running a clean rag over the bartop, collecting two glasses and wiping the rings of condensation they left upon maplewood. 

“Your man looks thirsty. Might wanna take him his drink now. Before he gets the wrong idea about me talking to ya.” You sighed, craning your head slightly to look back at Johnny who scanned the place with a scowl. It made your skin crawl the thought of his temper snapping again. Despite it, you left Henry with a playful wink his way before swanning back over, placing Johnny’s drink in front of him and a vermillon kiss to his cheek. 

Johnny sneered at the affection, wiping your lipstick stain from his cheek. All the confidence you had fell to the floor and shattered miserably. Liquid courage sloshed on the cured wood floor.

“Fuck’s sake, Doll. What you do that for?” He demanded of you, the disgust in his cruel cerulean eyes sending a chilling, agonising jolt down your spine. 

“Sorry, Johnny.” You shied away, folded your hands together, eyes on the floor.

“Ain't you gotta powder your nose or something? Go on. Piss off.” 

He was right. You’d be on soon. Drenched in the spotlight. Under the scrutinising, side cramping glare of everyone's eye. You could do with the quiet. So you shuffled off to your dressing room without a word more, holding back tears with your breath. 

In the mirror, you mourned the girl you were. Mourned the life you had before it all turned upside down. Mourned the man you fell in love with. And the monster you had no choice but to stay with. 

—

Joel was fuming. If you touched his skin you'd reel back with a scorched yelp because his blood ran hot, fast and thick under his flesh. Trust Tommy to catch himself in the web of underground crime. Always a joiner. Always a deserter too when things got heated. And who was left to untangle him from its intricate, venom snared weave? Joel ‘Gubbins’ Miller. He might as well have ‘mother to my brother’ branded on his forehead. Because that's what he was now. 

The war ended four years ago and ever since Tommy had been searching for his purpose. Preached about it round the dinner table in their grimy, mildew inhabited apartment like a preacher would his sermon. And every time it set Joel’s teeth on edge. Because he knew what came after the downfall. The pickup. 

Now, however, Joel was determined to nip this lunacy in the bud. Tear it up from the soil by the new roots. 

The Canary Club was one of the few remaining speakeasies around in Boston. To a cop it was practically a ghost of an establishment. Might as well not be there. But to a man like Joel, whose brother never stopped babbling on about the next best thing he had cooking for himself, it was as easy as pie.  

A shroud of cloud hung just above Boston’s looming buildings, teaming with the early moon to create a murky gloom over the dim city’s sin. It seemed to fill the hollow, smoggy air as they cast dark, taut shadows over the slick, grimy roads. The sky threatened rain for the third day in a row. A place that reeked of underground crime, drug rings and watered down, once bootlegged alcohol, laced with what one can only assume to be illegal too. All of that was washed down with the constant sour smell of new rain upon dirty tarmac. A city plagued and tarnished by its own rejects.The promise of work bought them in. But the lifestyle spat them back out. Chewed up and ruined by their own humanising hope.

He and his brother came in search of work. They were getting nowhere down south in Texas. On the dole and barely able to afford a loaf of bread between the two of them. Even their own mother hardly recognised her boys after the war. Said they were empty shells of men. Husks of the boys she raised. Killers. 

The woman was a pacifist at heart. And it was a trait that Joel not only saw as weak, but typical of women. Or that's what his father had socialised him into thinking. He didn't know where his father’s ideals ended and his started. As the days went by he saw more of the violence his father harboured in himself. Grimaced at the lug in the looking glass. 

Joel was no pacifist. But he didn't storm through the doors either. No gun was in hand ready to send people screaming bloody murder. That was stupid. A mistake that he knew could wind him up on the concrete in the flooded gulley with a bullet in his head where blood and water could finally mix. Instead he stole in quietly in the ambience of playing cards and a Jazz band, ordered himself a drink, and sat at the far corner of the bar where it was dimly lit. Just enough for him to see his drink and the room, but his face still remained shadowed. 

While he sipped in ponder, he took the chance to people watch. Scan the patrons for any uncanny resemblance of dear Tommy. But nothing. He seemed distracted by the careful and steady hand that polished glass after glass, though each of them were spotless before touching the rag. 

A pointless task. Some may say sisyphean. But the boy doing so knew when eyes were on him. It was a very rare occurrence if not related to his race. People of any darker colour were ogled often in these parts despite it being more accepted within the north of America. There was still divide and segregation. However, this new patron wasn't looking for Henry’s skin colour, rather contemplating how on earth a boy such as him had ended up in such a place. What connection he had to the gang. Was he like Tommy? Roped in at the side of the side of the road and choking on his remaining pride. Or in a sticky financial situation? All these questions seemed to circle like the rag in the crystal glass Henry held. 

“What’s your name, kid?” Joel asked him with an ex-smoker's voice, brow dark in the shadow. The boy looked up, eyes youthful, but they'd seen things no man should have to. 

“Henry.” He said after a beat, quick to refill Joel’s glass when it was empty besides a drop circled thin and amber in the bottom. “Yours?” Joel lifted his head, taking a sip before placing his glass back on the bartop in furrowed brow contemplation. 

“Joel.” He leaned forward on his forearms, haunched over the bar, before looking around again. “Whatcha doin’ here, Henry?” 

Henry laughed slightly, looking down at his feet before back in Joel's eyes. And what he was met with was the hollow ache of a man scarred by war. Henry’s face fell flat. 

“Working.” 

“No…I mean in Boston.”

Henry cleared his throat at the sudden, and even brash way Joel approached his question. So much that it took him a second to frown and then reply. 

“Came from Kansas. Hard for a black kid to find honest work there. Especially with a family to look out for.” His words were solemn and reflected a truth Joel knew all too well growing up down south. Even if he never lived it in his own white skin.

“You look a little young to have a kid.” 

“I don’t. I got a brother.” Joel nodded as he listened, waiting for him to go on. Which he did after a beat of silence. “Bright kid. Bright future too. He’s deaf though. Got a lot stacked against him in this world. Mom can't bring in enough to fund education for ‘im. So I stepped up.”

“No Daddy?” Joel asked and Henry shook his head. “How’d you end up here then?”

“A girl.” The look Joel gave Henry was sceptical. But the young boy was soon to put a stop to it all. “Not a girlfriend. Just a girl. We grew up in the same building. She moved up north for a life and I followed a few months later. She met a guy. A wealthy guy. And she wrote to me often of how swell Boston had been for her.”

Joel wasn't the questioning type. Neither one to beat around the bush. But Henry intrigued him. Reminded him a lot of Sarah. The challenge she had faced with the colour of her skin that he, as a white man, would never understand. He felt a guilt about it every day that flared up in the dark of night before his eyes closed for restless and futile sleep. “And this guy?”

“Him.” Henry nodded subtly over to the table of men playing cards. Poker. A game Joel knew well in the frontline and in Egypt where he fought. Him and a few others often huddled together in their own game. Nothing but the last pair of intact socks to bet on, or a single cigarette to get them through the night. Joel quit smoking the moment he got back. Knew it was something that made him unpredictable and jittery in the best of situations. “Johnny Boy Finnick. A big name in these parts.” 

Joel followed Henry’s gaze, but his attention was snagged by the unmistakable head of dark curled hair facing away from him. He knew his brother anywhere and his blood began to boil as he threw back his second drink and slammed the empty glass on the bartop. 

“Hey, man-” Henry tried, shoulders straining as he stood to attention. Joel didn't pay him any mind. Merely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before his bar stool sharied upon the varnished wood floor. He cared not for the noise. Only the feeling he would get once his closed fist met the bone on the bridge of Tommy’s nose. 

Trumpets flailed to a stop and drums failed mid blow. The room fell silent after a chorus of gasps. 

He loved his brother. Deeply. So much it caused a chasm of a rib cracking hole in his chest every time Tommy slipped up. But he saw red now it all caught up behind his lids that blinked once. That split second of not seeing and before he had a chance to second guess, he was gripping the back of tommy;s collar and wrenching him up to his feet to deliver a shiner to the face. 

Tommy staggered back, and everyone at his table stood up with the intention to harm. Yet no one but the brawling brothers fought. As he gained his footing again, he also gained his senses, recognising Joel anywhere. 

“Joel, what the fu-” He was hardly able to finish before another shooting pain split his bottom lip open and Tommy’s mouth was filled with the taste of his own bitter blood. Blood he and Joel shared and were now shedding in a futile fight of nothing but testosterone. That was enough to send the same foul blow to his kin. Joel winced, knowing the crescent of a bruise that would bloom on his cheekbone overnight. One of Tommy’s many rings sliced his skin. He felt warmth in crimson dribble from a fresh flesh wound. 

“Hey!” One loud and bellowing voice that had the power to command a whole unit of men boomed out before neither Joel or Tommy had the chance to throw another fist. It was for the better. Any more and Joel’s knuckles would have bruised purple. A colour of shame. 

It was Johnny. And his face was stoic as he stared each brother down with a burning gaze that had even Joel’s hairs stood on end at the nape of his neck. Like an army stood to attention before the first charge. Except he didn't move. Joel knew now where he stood in the food chain of this speakeasy. And it was right at the very bottom. “You!” He pointed at Tommy. Go clean yourself up.” And Tommy went as pale as a funeral sheet before nodding meekly. His face melted from shock to shame in the blink of Joel’s very eye before he grumbled something under his breath and passed Joel with a sharp clip to his shoulder. 

It's his turn now. 

At this point you'd come out to see what the commotion was for. The walls, while thick upstairs in the printer's press, were thin in the basement. And you;d heard silence and the spit of a man as his blood splattered with spit on the floor in the doorway. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doin throwin’ fists in my god damned club for?!” He roared. And Joel had to take the duration of both inhale and exhale to get his lips and tongue to work. But the scowl on his face said it all. “Huh?!” Jonny’s nostrils flared like a spanish thoroughbred bulls’. 

“That’s my brother you got workin’ for ya. I ain't havin’ him in some shady drug ring you got goin in. I aint!” 

Jonnly was no stupid man. Hr was smart. Quick minded and knew a man with balls. But Joel also knew very little. So this one time, he took the approach of calmness, and used his usual lying tongue for truth. Any other time it would she forked like Lucifer's serpent form. But now he was a man of coolness. “Right.” Johnny nodded at him, his tone was one that could soothe a ravenous bear. But with an edge as sharp as a knife. So sharp it could slice skin in one swift swoop. “Sit down.” He commanded calmly. “Let’s get you a drink.” 

With a wave of his hand a cha was pulled out. Two heavy handed brutes shoving Joel down into a chair, an old fashioned presented to him by Henry in front of him on the maplewood table. Then Johnny addressed the room gently. Set its patrons at ease. The music played its jazzy, jolly tune once more. People spoke again.And Johnny took his seat opposite Joel. 

“Look here…” The gangster waited for Joel to give him his name. Which he did. “Joel, I appreciate a strong swing as much as the next guy. But I don't appreciate it in my establishment.” Joel nodded in understanding. His temper ashamed him. How it ran hot under his skin. Fizzled white when provoked until he saw red in rage and swung. Never blindly though. He wasn't a loose cannon like the  broken soldier stereotype enforced. Just a fractured man. 

“You’re a soldier aint ya?” “Was.” Joel said gruffly. Curtly and he brewed a stare across from Johnny.

“Oh, nah.” Johnny shook his head, swirling his drink in the crystal glass, “Once a brother in arms, always a brother in arms. The war sticks with ya. You’re a soldier.” “Fine. Yeah, I'm a soldier.” 

“I know the war. I served like you. Left a boy and came back a shell of a man. Now look at me.” Joel took a moment to calculate his motive here. Johnny’s arms stretched wide with a smirk of pure pride as he gestured to the heart of his Boston crime empire. “I got money. I got birds.” He held up his glass to Joel, “I got liquor.” then leaned forward and spoke in a grave tone, "What you got?” 

Joel swallowed harshly, unable to answer because he had nothing in reality. 

“You got a job?” He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. “No.”

“Figured. Hard finding work when all the women are competent enough to do it themselves. Fight for your country. End up on the streets. You don't die a hero like you thought you would. No one knows your name.” He scoffed, holding fingers up in air quotes around competent. It left a bitter taste of disgust in Joel’s mouth as the father of a daughter. Curled the edges of his tongue distastefully. Made him kiss his teeth to hold back the insult. “Well, people know my name.” Johnny paused again, the air grew thick between them and smouldered on their shoulders. He was squinting at Joel opposite him, sizing him up. Joel was rugged. A strong build and most likely a strong character too. Something Johnny could always do with having in abundance. And so when the devil's own smirk curled at his lip, Joel felt a question brewing at the very tip of his tongue. One that would change his life for better or worse. Regardless of it he declined or accepted. “And they could know yours too.”

Joel didn't want to admit it for the sake of his crumbling pride, but the man had it all. Even a good five years his junior, the man made a living for himself. Picked himself up from the dirt and used bloodshed and bodies for the foundations. 

“I could use a guy like you–”

“No.” Joel put his offer down flat before it had the chance to meet the air. 

“Hear me out.” He said calmly, and held up a hand, “A roof over your head. A steady income. A little extra dough in ya pocket?” Johnny rubbed his thumb and index finger together in the older man's face. An action to which Joel’s nostrils flared. It was embarrassing to even mull over. “Come on,” Johnny smirked. “Give it a go.” 

The southerner’s lips pursed, as if he was thinking it over. Which he was. But to what lengths would he go? Sure, Joel was conditioned in a short few months to kill. He was good at it. Mowed down men on the frontline like clockwork. And his trigger finger twitched at the thought of holding that power once more. But that didn't mean he was a man without morals. The men’s blood he;d coat his hands in had families. They were someone's son. Probably someone's husband or father. Joel knew the hollow ache loss left. The imprint of a shadow it left. The chasm ripped in your chest. Loss felt like an agonising, deep, helpless pit. But here was Johnny, throwing him a rope 

“You know, you’re right. This ain't the time to talk this over.” Johnny held his hands up and leaned back in his seat before they clapped back in his lap. Now you were at Johnny’s side once more. But the figure of Joel in his chair had something jumping in your bones. Tongue curling to taste his very words.  “Dollface here will patch you up.” 

You raised a brow, giving the two of them a dirty look. “Excuse me? Do I look like a nurse?” You shut up when Johnny glared. Swallowed your pride, and sighed inwardly. You both hated and loved the power he held over you. As much as you despised it at times, Johnny had your being wrapped around his finger like a puppeteer holds his strings. And tightly. You felt his tug at the strain in your limbs. 

“And you come back here tomorrow. We’ll talk in my office over a drink and a cigar. A good fucking drink.” 

—

Joel swallowed harshly when he saw you. Eyes, wide and decorated by dark mascara lashes, white liner on lower waterlines, face of a doll like Johnny’s nickname for you suggested. The red lipstick you had re-applied moments prior was glossy, inviting him to stumble over velvet words he would hear you speak. Lean closer so the blood red could graze the shell of his ear while you would whisper a dirty joke at him. 

He followed as you led him down a corridor off to the other side of the bar. Your dress seemed fit for hypnotising him into your bidding. Surely you were a siren who climbed the strats of a pier of the east coast and arrived here. Something about the beauty you wielded was not the everyday sort. It was the type you see women bend over backwards to achieve even a glimmer of for their man who came back after work. He could see himself now. Loosening his tie, hanging up his coat and hat. Leaving his briefcase and sanity at the door to see you in a pinafore and pin curls. Pretty gingham dress. He’d sit at the table and either be presented by you or a meal for his satiation. He’d prefer to devour the sweetness between your legs. 

Your hand in front of his face had his attention now. Fingers snapping. Nails manicured and painted the same shade as your lipstick. 

“Hey, you listening?” You asked, face set into displeasure. Joel straightened as he cleared his throat.

“What?” His tone was gruff and he mirrored your expression to you. His southern accent catching you off guard, but is intriguing. 

“I said sit down.” 

Joel looked over at the chair set at a vanity mirror you gestured to with an extended arm. The second time he had been asked to be seated. The second time he obeyed. 

You took your time to wet a washcloth in the small basin in the corner with warm water. Took the bottle of whiskey you stashed last week from the bottom of a rickety chest of drawers. Joel watched you in the mirror, eyes narrowed a fraction to make sure you were of no threat to him. He knew he could take you easily. In more ways than one. The power imbalance had his length twitching in his trousers. 

Your hands weren't gentle as you sat on the vanity between his legs. You took his stubbled chin in your grasp and jerked his head up into the light, tilting it to take a closer look at the gash. 

“Stay still.” You said curtly, holding the rag to the opening of the bottle and wetting it. You then pressed it over the pad of your finger. The initial touch made his teeth bare at you and a hiss to escape his mouth. His large wrist enclosing around yours to make you stop. “I said,” And you yanked your wrist from his hold, “stay still.” 

He did as he was told again. Silence setting his between the odd hiss from him and twitch of muscle under weathered skin. The crows feet at the side of his eyes were old. He clearly had lost his smile to something in the past. But you didn't ask, only wondered as you wiped the dried blood clean from his wound. “Fuckin grown man and you cant take a little sting of a cut.” You mumbled under your breath to yourself in amusement. Followed by a small huff of dry laugh.

“Maybe if you weren't digging your fingers into a fresh bruise I wouldn’t be wincin’.” You shot him a look and let go.

“All done.” And you held up your hands for good measure. 

“What are you doing here anyway?” You asked, tossing the rag aside and crossing your arms. He reached for the whiskey and took a large gulp, pursing his lips at the slow burn in the back of his throat. 

“None of your business.” 

“What’s your name?”

“You know my name.” He stated lowly. He was right. But you found a sick satisfaction in having any man you liked bend to your will. Answer any question you so pleased to hear the answer to. 

His bones groaned as he stood up from the chair. Your coat draped over the back of it fell to the floor and you swiftly got up to swipe it from the floor and hand it on the hook on the back of the door before pressing your back to it and facing him. Blocking his exit.  “Move.”

“Tell me your name.” You crossed your arms, jutting your chin up at him. 

“Don’t make me move you, princess.”

“Tell me your name.” 

Joel bit his tongue, the vein in his neck starting to pulse visibly under his skin that once again went hot. 

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Because I’m nosy.” You smiled, sarcastic and saccharine. “And i want to know the name i’ll be moaning tonight as i touch myself under the covers.” 

“Fuckin-” His jaw ticked, nostrils flared in his disdain. You kept your smile as he pinched the bridge of his nose with a small guttural noise from the back of his throat. A headache was starting to coil behind the strain of his eyes. “Joel.” And he looked back up at you. It still wasn't enough “Miller.” Your smile was genuine this time, just as sweet. You uncrossed your arms, standing up straight from the door to hold out your hand and give him your name in return. He rolled his eyes, reaching for the handle and swerving you. He pulled the door but you used your body weight to slam it shut with your back again. A loud slam and a creak of protest from its hinges.

“Where are you from, Joel?” 

“Is this a game to you, girl?” Joel growled. 

“Yes.” The smile you had was sly. Foxy. A  single finger ran down his chest and dared to slip just under his shirt’s collar. “I like games.”

“You don't wanna do that.” He warned, dark eyes burning you up inside from your very core. It was the look of a man’s lust that had been left untouched, unloved for quite some time now. It strained at his morality. But who were you to give up the warning and keen hand of a man who so desperately needed a release to the coiling tension of his shoulders. You saw it. Felt it in the rhythmic yet chaotic hammer of his heart against his ribs. As if it were trying with all its might not to break his own bones clean in two and lurch from its enclosure of flesh and bone. 

“And why not?” This was a devils game of chess. Careful calculated words from loose tongues and taking each other's moves in as you exhaled a counter. And oy had him three moves from checkmate. His king weak in defence, your advances stronger  by each word that fell into his eras from your red painted, enticing lips. He could feel his limbs being string up for you to pull at like a puppeteer in an advanced level of her craft. But he was no kind man. His words were even less forgiving than his disposition. 

“Because I aint a kind man. Haven't been for a long while. And I know types of things a man like me would wanna do to a pretty girl like you.” 

“I doubt it would be anything new.” You cooed, watching your finger as it traced a line lower over his buttons,  stopping at the top of his belt buckle and just shy of teasing at the growing bulge in his trousers. 

The tension between you was thicker than molasses. And it seeped through the cracks of his better judgement to the part of him that hungered for touch. That was ravenous for a single one of your fingers. 

“I don't think Johnny would like that.” 

“And I didnt like the way he spoke to me earlier.” You pouted. The way a child would when dined a sweet treat before dinnertime. 

“That aint a good reason to start an affair with me. Because when i get my grubby hands on ya there ain't no going back, doll.” 

His words were enticing you more. To have a man obsessing over your body. Your curves. Your voice singing his name as he fucked you dirtier than anyone into anything. Joel was that man now. He knew it in the very marrow of your bones that you were trouble. His new little minx. So it was no surprise when his lips crushed yours under the full weight of his sexual frustration. 

It was needy. Heated. A clashing of tongues and teeth as he pressed you with his entire simmering being into the wood of the door. His bulge grinding desperately into your thich that parted his legs. 

His tongue swiped your lower lip before drawing it back between his teeth for him to suckle on until it tingled deliciously. He was jealous with his touches. Groping your hips as the sating of your dress that crumpled to the floor. It revealed sweet sweet skin. Skin Joel wasted no time in delving in for the first damning lick. A pleasure to every sense. Sight, taste, touch, smell, sound. 

Heavy breaths were exhaled into the dewy skin of your clavicle, tongue languidly sliding over the high points of your collarbones and enclosing in a sharp suck over the skin just above your right breast. It sent a chorus of heavenly sinful, light and airy monas from your mouth and floated into his ears. His lips were chapped and weathered in contrast to the silk smooth of your skin. It was delightful. 

He went lower, got to his knees as he drank up the sense of a woman's skin for the first time in years. This was the taste of true damnation. He was past the opening of hell's gates and somehow found heaven in the parting of your thighs down the newly trodden path of your navel. 

He pressed his open mouth to your clothed cunt, tasted the seeping slick you gave him on his tongue and gluttonously inhaled your musk right at the apex of your thighs. Your fingers tangled into the curls of his messy, wind wrecked hair. Keening your hips up to press into the curve of his aquiline nose, and riding the burning in the pit of your belly starting to grow. Your head fell back against the door. Your mouth unhinged and letting out moan after sigh after mewl of his name. His face buried between the meat of your thighs as his hands gripped your asscheeks and spread them so he could push his face deeper between your folds. Your underwear drenched and ruined from your wetness and his spit while he tongued your hole through the flimsy lace. 

You pulled him back, smirked at the wreck he was with his lips sticky and shiny in the light of your dressing room. To then pull him up to your lips so you could curl your tongue into his mouth and taste yourself on him. It’s where the taste belonged. Among notes of whiskey and chewing tobacco and drugstore gum. 

His large hands pawed at your hips once more, listing you so your legs could wrap obediently round his waist. That's how it worked now. He wanted, you gave. And willingly like the sounds that fell into his motu like sweet, freshly harvested honey. Ut had the feel of money. Powerful and green like spring leaves. But with the warning of rotting when summer meets its tragic and fatal end. It was like trying to cross a canyon with a broken limb. Near impossible. The last sip of a drink that would ensure drunken and slurred movements. It took even the nest of a man his entirety to deny you, But deep down, Joel was a weak man. Strong in body, maybe mind too. But weak in soul. And he gave in with the cashing of your back against the vanity mirror. 

He had his faults. He knew that. And you did too. It had you wondering how a man like Joel loves. Did he change for his chosen lover? Or was he just as rough a callus as he was with everyone else. Would he destroy and ache and leave you wondering when your body would be at his whim next and how he would bend it to his will. Or would he let you lean into his embrace as he kissed down the column of your throat to the holy entitled epiphany between your thighs. The glisten of your hot cunt aching to be touched by anything. His everything. 

So you reached for his belt. So you undid it along with his buttons to touch his heated skin, To feel the blood flow beneath as the strain of each of his muscles. You ran a hand across his chest and he let his head fall back as a woman touched him for the first time as a man of war. A veteran.

He felt like he had been cast in gold by the sun for the first time in his life. Shed his skin for a new layer reserved just for you. As if he was thanking whatever resided up there for you. He was no believer in god, but, Jesus Christ, he was starting to believe in some form of higher power. You were proof that there was a blessing for him to steal away from the world. It was in your sound. Your taste. Your touch. It beckoned him the way your finger did, curling into the collar of his shirt to clash your lips with his and let. He had no autonomy over the moan that fell into his mouth where it festered at the back of his throat and was swallowed with a desperate and heady inhale. 

You trod roads into his skin with your touch. Ones he knew he would follow later that night in an erotomaniac’s pleasure. And you finally pulled his length free from his trousers. Your underwear was soon to follow and your slick aided the way he managed to sink so smoothly into your sopping heat. A squeeze he would commit to memory and savour like the taste of fresh and ripe fruit. Because you were. Fresh and youthful in age. Ready to be devoured to the core as a gleaning red apple would be. The very same one that even took in the garden of eden. Temptation. Fruit flesh to signify sin. 

He took his first bite out of you with a satisfying crunch. And keep devouring until there was nothing left but the remnants of your birth, ready to be resurrected, grown again in the form of a new tree. 

He stilled once he bottomed out, letting himself bask in the moment. The first time he was nestled deeply in the walls of your cunt. He heard your quiet whimpers for him to move. Felt the way your pert nipples brushed his sweat slicked skin. It was a ghost of a memory the last time he felt this. The heat of someone in the throes of intimacy. And it was all over him. It was the very air he wes starved of. The past was all paled in comparison because of the way your hips bucked pathetically to feel his thrust inside you. To get him going. No one had needed him this rawly, this undignifying before. 

A single hand clamped over your mouth, stilling your movements. He felt the tickle of your exhale against the pinky finger. 

“Stay still…” He commended with a swallowed down groan when you clenched around him, ironically repeating your words from earlier.

You looked at him. The glazed over, far away look in his eyes. His voice low and laden in a gravelly tone that came from the very back of his throat. You pulled him forward to lick it out again with your tongue when his hand fell to your throat. It gave a warning squeeze. And you once again canted your hips in protest. 

This time he moved. And it was like poetry as it hit that toe curling spot inside you. Made your eyes close in blissful ignorance of what this would do to you. YOu slick drooling from your cunt onto his shaft until it shined at his very base and dripped down his heavy balls. 

His hand squeezed your throat tighter. Had you yelling for him in a suppressed squeal. His other hand clamped around your mouth for you to moan into. Your words of praise lost on his ears, listened to by his palm instead. Every devil was fuelling this act of infidelity. This act of carnal sin you both needed. Ut unwound your bones, but had the coil in your belly cramping with each swift buck of his hips. 

You met his swift thrusts in a desperate attempt to be of use to him. Finding it hard to breathe, yet alone Your cunt spasmed delectably. Searching for a new feeling. A feeling primal and dirty as the streets of Boston. Your eyes rolled back in your head as your legs trembled while he went on, giving you something you would remember from this day forward, A sentence of being binded to him.

You were in the arms of the devil himself. St his ,ercy. Nsd nothing felt more thrilling than the pleasure that rolled at a landslide's power and pace down your spine into your core. 

Another squeeze round your throat. Another unhinged moan into his hand. He snarled, baring his teeth at you before pressing his face into the crook of your neck and biting down. Your eyes closed and painted a picture of stars. You were close to seeing angels by now and the deep ache of pleasure grappled your flesh and had goosebumps flicking up to attention over your flesh.

His chest heaved with each curl of his hips. Your exhales heavier by the second while you moaned his name like a mantra to his hand. His teeth imprinted on your back like a randhishing. A mark of the sin that was witnessed by the two of you that day. Your voice was shrill. A repeated ‘Joel! Joel! Joel!’

“Fuck, yeah, sing f’me doll. Sing f’me. Let em know who’s doin’ this to you.” He panted in vain. “Tell me.” “Feels so good–”

“Again.” He demanded. 

“Feels so good! Too good!” 

And it was. He had you burning white hot at the end of an illicit teather. You gripped his back with talons of hellbirds. Clawing at his shirt clad back. The wings of hi shoulderbales. The snake length of his spine. 

“That’s it. Tell ‘em. Tell me! Tell me in making you feel fuckin’ good.” 

“You are. Harder Joel.” His pace was like poetry. Ripped you in tow and had you displayed to him. One knee was hooked over his hunched shoulder, spine curled as his forehead pressed to yours. `The new angle had you singing like a songbird. High and melodic in tune.  Your kitten heel slipping off and clattering to the floor without a second thought. The head of his cock nipped your cervix. The lewd wet sounds of your pussy smothering him in your slick and your shared moans filled the room. Everything of you was his now. You couldn't even think of giving this up to Johnny. Yes, he fucked you dirty. But Joel fucked you like it was his sole purppose of living. Like it was what gave him life. 

You fell. You fell as soon as you hit your climax with a mewling moan that ended Joel right there and then. Coming together with heavy breaths and shaking, trembling chests. His release inside of you, strings of his come smearing you in him. Marking you for later. Well and truly ruined for any other warm body that dared to slip into your sheets. 

But falling was not the problem. Only when you hit the ground is what causes all the grief. And the look you shared once the gold haze of afterglow faded was what confirmed this. 

What have you done? How would you live without this?

[obsolescent]

Ok so I wanted to add to that anon. Personally, I’d see that Leon scrambles for answers. He tries to keep himself together. He really does. But as time goes on and he bottles and bottles, he just breaks.

I’m talking he has been at 99 for a long time, but he did well hiding it so everyone sees him at like 20-40 before he hits 100. When he hits 100?

Catatonic. He becomes still from the depression, the trauma and the exhaustion. He might repeat words spoken to him but that’s not *Leon*. He’s completely shut down. His brain physically can’t handle it anymore and goes into a literal crash/power down mode.

The other problem is that he’s extremely vulnerable in this state. So his anxiety is sky high. It’s just he’s unable to react to the world properly. He’s frozen and he’s scared.

If he has an s/o or friend or something, they’ll need to step up and make sure he’s at least drinking water. And they’ll need to be close by when Leon manages to get out of his catatonic state. One of the rare times he’s cry is ‘waking up’ from catatonia.

Content warnings: discussion of mental illness and disordered behavior. This may be distressing for some, you have been forewarned.

Apologies for the delay in this one but I saw this when it was first sent in and…It made me so sad I teared up. Just thinking of him isolating and closing himself to all who care for him... (I had to write a scene to make me feel better because this about did me in.)

He would be hanging on by a literal thread for years and try everything he can find in books and online until that one time that just unravels it all. He’ll know he’s on the verge, he wouldn’t know what would exactly happen but, to be sure, he’d cease all contact with anyone and take PTO.

It would be very hard to reach him in that state once things fall apart, it would send his friends into a panic because they would have no idea what’s happened to him.

Thankfully you would have a spare key to his place and you would wait until your nerves are absolutely frayed before you go and let yourself in. You’ll respect his privacy until it gets to the point that you’re worrying for his safety. Afraid of what he may have done to himself.

Bracing yourself for what you might find, thankfully you find him on the couch, alive though disheveled, staring at the ceiling. Approaching him cautiously, you softly speak his name. The sound of your voice has him lurching upwards, gasping in surprise at your presence.

He hadn’t heard you come in. You knew then that something was gravely amiss.

You stare at each other for a tense moment before he crumbles.

Head in his hands, sobs releasing tremors through his body. You rush around the side of the couch and pull him into your arms. You rock back and forth with a gentle rhythm, his form abuts yours. No words exchanged between the two of you, Leon’s mouth wouldn’t have been able to form sentences at that moment, regardless.

The sour scent of body odor would not be subtle, his hair oily from lack of care. You don’t care, you’re actually glad to smell it, to feel his body sagging against yours, the dirty locks pressed against your cheek. None of that matters, what does is that he’s breathing.

You’re not sure what’s happened, uncertain you can fathom what he’s been going through. The knowledge of his job leaving him battered and bruised, some days where he’s bed ridden in recovery is brought to the forefront of your mind.

You’ve pulled him closer as your thoughts run rampant, and his hands move. Away from his face, he embraces you and pulls even more. Your bodies would fuse together if there was any more grasping to be done.

Leon tries to find words, though they’re not much other than soft murmurs, which is stopped with a “Shh,” and a caressing of his back.

“Don’t need to speak, s’alright. I’m not going anywhere,” whispered against his head.

None else needs to be spoken. They’ll be time to listen, to speak once more once he’s convalescent.

He lets you guide him through the space. Even with his mind muddled, he knows you mean the best.

The lights remain off to beget as little distress as possible. Your mind knows the geography of his home, letting your body usher the two through the darkness, to his room.

You help him find purchase against the bed, and once settled, your bodies coalescence.

The day and time are lost to you as Leon is enfolded against your self. You will give him all that he needs.

[mikeila-iriell]

More Graves headcanons (sorry I love this man)

-He is approximately 40 years old

-He give me that vibes like he was born at lates 70's or earlys 80's

-The scar on his face looks like a bullet (or maybe a knife) but because of the depth I think whatever it was was a hand-to-hand combat or at very close range

-He is not married, and no, I am not just saying this because he doesn't have a ring but, think about it, he lives in the combat field and enjoys the adrenaline. Knowing that it is a full-time job, could I really have time for a marriage? I don't believe it. He is a workaholic who has had sporadic relationships but nothing more, he is not looking for a serious commitment.

-I feel that being from Texas (BTW I'm not from Texas but from a city and province in Argentina that is quite similar) he could have an apartment in the city but also a country house/farm where he would actually spend more time

-He enjoys country music a lot but more rock. And he loves band's or music from 80s (queen, guns and roses, kiss, that type you know what I mean)

-He drinks but he doesn't smoke (or don't do it at long time ago)

-Likes to ride a motorcycle, car or horse

-Knows how to cook although he doesn't consider himself a chef

-Eat whatever, doesn't matter. Not a picky eater

-He has his own collection of guns but he doesn't use them to hunt or kill but rather they are "in case" of emergency"

-Beyond his character and arrogance, he is actually someone who is quite calm, although he always makes jokes or comments that are funny (or that he thinks are funny)

-He likes to read, the type that when he is calm before going to sleep he has a book in his table next to the bed. Night reading you now.

-He likes to exercise of all kinds but most of all he goes to the gym, weights and goes running for many kilometers and for hours (daily and strict exercise routine) (Me parece que esto es bastante real por como se le marcan las venas en los brazos ufff🔥🔥)

-He is a dog man (big dogs like German Shepherds, Golden Retrievers, Dobermans, Rottweilers, those types of dogs) but he doesn't dislike cats. In general he likes most animals.

-After the missions he makes sure to ask all his men how they are back at the base AND ASKS THEM ONE BY ONE TO EACH SHADOW

-He is a very available person, whenever a shadow has a problem or something urgent he will make sure to address the matter as soon as possible.

-Takes good care of and trains the younger shadows, whether for the reasons they have decided to join, he will make sure that they know what they are doing and he will keep a little more eye on them or put someone he trusts in to keep an extra eye on them you know if they are young or more inexperienced

-It is not about having long-term relationships, it is more about casual relationships if there is time left after a mission

-THIS MAN definitely LIKES WOMEN MUCH YOUNGER THAN HIM

-I would be more like a sugar daddy

-He's not much of a social media person, he tries to understand it and trends or those things, but sometimes he doesn't understand the most modern jokes. But if you explain it to him he'll do his best to understand the joke (and he'll laugh if that makes you feel better)

[looptroupe]

HI GORGEOUS!!!!

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL US ABOUT YOUR WIPS AND AUS IM REALLY INTERESTED 🙏🙏🙏

Foams at the mouth

I’m in the middle of writing up a whole HC post for someone asking about a highschool AU but I’m gonna take this opportunity to sidetrack the conversation towards something I’d love to genuinely see from the series… a HEAVY (film) noir lean. Think: Bogart, Framed, Gilda, Vertigo… probably pushing the era back 40’s, 50’s way (Maybe even some 30’s lean in there, if I could get away with it) instead of the general 60’s vibe Lupin has going for it.

I think there’s a TON of potential there. I mean, I’m aware something like this was pitched (and never picked up, sigh…) so there IS sentiment there, and the idea has been thought about, but instead of TWCFM’s ‘serious Lupin’ I’d love to see a true noir ‘serious Lupin’. I think you can put these characters into a serious setting without making them straight up evil, and I’ll be honest, I think it would be way more appealing than the stuff they’ve been releasing lately (besides Zero. I have to admit that I loved Zero).

I’d want the gang to actually feel like criminals, though. Cutting shady deals in illegal bars, Lupin running his mouth to big players about whatever new heist he has up his sleeve. I’d take them back to being Miyazaki-esque ‘living paycheck-to-paycheck’ rather than ‘insta-rich Lupin funding his hedonistic spirit’ because I think that would work better in this universe: Lupin is constantly getting them in hot shit with the big leagues because he can’t keep his mouth shut. Jigen has shot ten guys this week who have come knocking at their hideout’s door looking for trouble. Goemon’s sick of digging graves and is antsy to finally be who he dreams of being. Fujiko’s got her eyes on a bigger prize, like always.

Zenigata’s an underpaid beat-cop-turned-inspector who has been trying to climb the ranks for a long while. He’s ambitious, but a little too soft for his own good: he’s hopeful in a way that most of the guys in his squad aren’t, and that makes him the perfect candidate for when the commissioner has to shill a shitty 9-5 case on an unsuspecting worker. A file lands on his desk, and he flips through it with this eager fire, like he’s just been asked to take on the world, and Lupin and his gang smile up at him from the pages.

Lupin is a crook, he learns. Part-time petty thief, full-time smooth-talker: a man with a legacy to live up to and not a whole lot to show for it besides a reputation as a lady-killer and a particularly long unpaid tab at the seediest bar in town. His sticky fingers have landed him in more trouble than they’ve gotten him out of, and recent reports say that he’s managed to get under the skin of the most notorious once-criminal-now-film-director in town… the very criminal that underhandedly paid Zenigata’s boss to start an official investigation in the first place.

Jigen is a gun-for-hire. Babysitter, bodyguard, hitman… whatever you need, he’ll do, however begrudgingly. He’s not a guy you mess with: and his reputation is actually pretty good in criminal circles. He’s well-respected and well-liked. Or, he was, until the monkey-faced man at the bar implicated him in a crime he didn’t commit. Now, he’s babysitting without pay, and he’s starting to get a little sick of having to put bullets into the faces of old friends who decide his bounty is worth more than his loyalty. Figures.

Goemon’s a man slightly-less-out-of-time. A famous Japanese-American film star, he’s known world-over for starring in Samurai flicks alongside his leading lady, Fujiko Mine. The thing is, Goemon is classically trained in swordslinging, and when Lupin offers him an opportunity to be the very person he’s been portraying on screen, he’s more than happy to throw his reputation away. He never cared much for fame, anyway. There’s just this one little hitch: he’s enamoured with the sword he last used on set, and he won’t take no for an answer when he asks Lupin to retrieve it for him.

Fujiko has her eyes on a prize a little more exciting than Zantetsuken: the film empire she’s helped build herself. The tabloids can’t get enough of her, and she knows that a marriage to the most famous director the world has ever seen might just secure her a place in history. The thing is, the man she’s trying her best to seduce has stopped paying her attention since his beloved priceless-antique-turned-prop-sword went missing, and she’s determined to get it back for him. Because what would make him fall quicker? Ah, there’s just one catch: Lupin is kind of charming, and the life he’s living is… exciting. Tempting. Fujiko likes playing with fire, but she’s starting to get a little too close to this one particular flame. The heat has her cheeks burning… Or maybe that’s Goemon’s doing.

They’re a strange little bunch, the Lupin Gang. But man, do people have a habit of underestimating them. Zenigata included. Because what he thinks to be a simple case of theft soon turns into something more sinister as the layers of movie-magic veneer begin to peel away. Maybe Lupin was onto something, targeting this guy, and maybe this hotshot director isn’t quite as reformed as he says he is.

He went to court recently, after all. Say, how much did he pay the judge to overturn that guilty verdict? Zenigata would like that sum as a pay rise once this has all blown over. That, and some fresh smokes.

((Mmm someone should hop on board and help me develop this I think. Could be a fun little exercise on the side… if it’s up anyone’s alley >:) ))

[kookaburra1701]

Khemor gro-Skaven

(Portrait by @thana-topsy, full version here)

Race: Osh Ornim (Iron Orc) Sex: Male Birthdate (given): 1st Morningstar, 4E 161 (40 years old in 4E 201) Birthdate (actual): Unknown Birthplace: somewhere in the Dragontail Mountains. Places of Residence: Skaven, Hammerfell > Water's Edge, Cyrodiil > Windhelm, Skyrim

Former factions: College of Whispers Current factions: Stormcloaks, Thane of Windhelm and the Pale

Khemor’s story will be told in my Homeric Orcs Series.

Early life in Hammerfell

The Iron Orc who would eventually be known as Khemor gro-Skaven was barely five years old when he was stricken with Rockjoint. ("Common in little orc children." --Murbul) Although he survived the disease, it left one of his legs atrophied and partially paralyzed. His clan, a particularly brutal group of Osh Ornim, intended to abandon him in Dragonstar in Craglorn as they did not want to waste the resources of the stronghold raising a permanently disabled child.

Whether it was fate, the hand of the gods, or just coincidence, Khemir at-Arlimahera, a wizard from a prominent Crown family in Skaven was traveling through the area and encountered the abandoned child before any harm befell him. The wizard sensed Khemor had a deep well of magicka and even though he was completely untrained he was manipulating the ebb and flow of ambient magicka in the world.

From Nostos, Khemor's central fic, set after the Main Quest and conclusion of the Civil War:

“My master was a once-in-ten-generations intellect when it came to the ebb and flow of magicka, delving into the secrets of the arcane, and uncovering the mysteries of Oblivion. But he was at a loss when it came to choosing a name for an Orsimer foundling.”

Khemir brought Khemor up as his apprentice: while Skaven was more magically inclined than most places in Hammerfell, Khemir's studies focused on various forms of Mysticism that intersected with Necromancy. Thus Khemor learned to be very circumspect and discreet from an early age.

Because of the reputation of Iron Orcs as particularly brutal and unintelligent, Khemor views his heritage with a deep sense of shame, and was brought up almost completely divorced from larger Orc culture, even more so than most "city Orcs" as he lacks any connections to anyone living in a stronghold. Most non-Orcs or people who are not from the Dragontail mountains do not pick up on the indicators of his heritage, and most who do clock him are too polite to mention it.

However, he does have a particular fondness for unusual rocks and minerals, and picks up pretty ones whenever he finds them. He also prefers to use un-faceted Soul Gems.

The Great War came to Skaven in 4E 173 when Khemor was twelve years old:

In Hammerfell, Imperial fortunes took a turn for the better. In early 4E 173, a Forebear army from Sentinel broke the siege of Hegathe (a Crown city), leading to the reconciliation of the two factions. Despite this, Lady Arannelya's main army succeeded in crossing the Alik'r Desert. The Imperial Legions under General Decianus met them outside Skaven in a bloody and indecisive clash. Decianus withdrew and left Arannelya in possession of Skaven, but the Aldmeri were too weakened to continue their advance.

--Legate Justianus Quintius, The Great War

Despite "only" lasting two years, the Empire's abandonment of Hammerfell and subsequent Thalmor occupation of Skaven was very formative for Khemor. Both he and his master were able to weather the occupation, but it took a toll on both of them. Khemor especially was not able to recieve chiurgeons' services for his leg during that critical time, which meant that his leg was unable to make a complete recovery like they had hoped, and so he’s used a cane to walk for his entire life.

From Katabasis, the story that details Calder the housecarl's adventures alongside Khemor during Skyrim's MQ:

Khemor sighed. “To say that I was ‘in’ [The Great War] would be a grave misstatement. I was only a child. Rather, the war came to Skaven. I was living there when the…order for the Legions to abandon Hammerfell was given.” A look of immense sadness passed over Khemor’s face. “Many of the Legion, mostly Nords and native sons of Hammerfell, refused to abandon Skaven, and deserted to continue protecting us. It was futile, of course. They were overrun and the Dominion occupied the city for two years.” He looked again at Calder and said quietly, “I am well-acquainted with the cruelties the Thalmor visit upon the populace of the places where they have control.”

While Khemir's social position and influence protected their household somewhat during the occupation, it was not easy, and Khemir's health never truly recovered. Before he died in 4E 187, he helped Khemor secure a position in the College of Whispers in Cyrodiil, despite neither of them being particularly inclined towards the Empire. In appreciation for his loyal service to and care of Khemir during the final, ailing years of his life, Khemir's family gave Khemor several of his former master's magical heirlooms before he left for his new life in Cyrodiil.

One of Khemir's grandnieces currently runs the family estate, and she and Khemor are on friendly terms and communicate somewhat regularly.

Life in River's Edge

(Portrait by @thana-topsy, full version here.)

With his command of languages, he was able to perfect his chosen sub-field of necromancy: spirit-calling and speaking with the dead. After all, what is the use of summoning the shade of a long-dead person to answer your questions if you won't be able to understand each other? This ability led to Khemor rising quickly through the ranks of the College of Whispers, and his calm and pleasant demeanor meant he was often chosen to lead delegations to advise the Elder Council or other political entities in Cyrodiil.

It was because of this role that in the year 4E 201, when word came to the leaders of the College of Whispers that the Synod and the Thalmor were scheming to gain influence with the College of Winterhold in Skyrim, Khemor was chosen to travel to the far, frozen north of the Empire and attempt to establish a line of communication Archmage Savos Aren.

Because of the unstable political situation in Skyrim, once he was through the Pale Pass Khemor changed his Legion escort for one comprised solely of Fighters Guild mercenaries. His entourage left Helgen for Riften on the 14th of Last Seed, 4E 201. Khemor noted the unusual number of Legion soldiers stationed at such a small outpost, but thought nothing of it.

When the escort arrived in Riften, they learned of Ulfric's capture and escape and hear the first rumors of dragons returning. However, it isn't until a dragon is sighted flying over Lake Honrich into the Jerall Mountains that Khemor takes the reports seriously. For safety, a larger group of travelers gathered in Riften to travel to Windhelm, leading to a significant delay of Khemor's itinerary. During this time, he composes what will end up being his last piece of correspondence to his superiors in the College of Whispers, detailing what he has heard about the return of the dragons to Skyrim before the ad-hoc caravan sets out for Kynesgrove…

[saintmeghanmarkle]

NGRID SEWARD: Prince Philip will be turning in his grave after Harry disregarded his wishes and effectively abandoned his family name by u/Von_und_zu_

NGRID SEWARD: Prince Philip will be turning in his grave after Harry disregarded his wishes and effectively abandoned his family name Not only is Harold abandoning something that Prince Philip fought very hard for -- Harold does not even seem to know it is his surname.Seward has no problem with Harold and Madame using Sussex as a surname but takes exception when it comes to the putative children.But it is different for the children, four-year-old Archie and Lilibet, two. Their family name is Mountbatten Windsor – and should remain so. ‘Sussex’ is not correct. It is not even a surname.Few Americans will be much troubled by all this – and it is hard to avoid the suspicion that the US is the only place that registers with Meghan.Yet the Royal family does care about these things and so does the British public.Moreover, the Mountbatten-Windsor family name has a particular significance. Philip had been dismayed to find that when his wife Princess Elizabeth became Queen in 1952, their children - and their children’s children – would not bear his surname, Mountbatten. Rather, they would be Windsors, named after the family of the Queen.Philip was both furious and wounded. The decision was felt to be emasculating and cruel. ‘I am the only man in the country not allowed to give his name to his children,’ he protested.‘It hurts him,’ recalled Countess Mountbatten, the wife of Philip’s uncle and mentor, Lord Mountbatten of Burma, at the time. ‘He had given up everything for his wife and how this, the final insult. It was a terrible blow.’It was elder statesman Winston Churchill who found a solution, one encouraged by the young Queen’s private secretary, Tommy Lascelles – a wise head some 40 years her senior.Together, Churchill and Lascelles forced Elizabeth’s hand – she lacked the confidence to do it by herself - and it was agreed that all descendants of the royal couple down the male line would be named Mountbatten-Windsor, aside from those who were princes and princesses.A tactful compromise. How sad, therefore, that only three generations later, Harry should so blatantly disregard his grandfather’s wishes and effectively abandon the family name for which Philip had fought.https://ift.tt/7QOhsLt to add this from the royal family website:​https://preview.redd.it/7jm93gu8qzic1.png?width=1507&format=png&auto=webp&s=a5f7eaa12f4edd4402644016cd4c7e3467b4f969​ post link: https://ift.tt/ONJ1hcV author: Von_und_zu_ submitted: February 16, 2024 at 07:15PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[riverofjazzsims]

Season 4 THTH entrants

@havenroyals Single Parents you say.. I got you !

Hudson Sidestep 44 Exploring Recently Divorced 1 son just turned 3

Hudson was a no holds bar, going to my grave bachelor, that was until he met HER, She was 20 to his 40 and made him crazy in all the right ways. Now he is just crazy. Crazy still about her, in lust with her, maybe even still in love with her BUT they just keep exploding around each other and with a child in the mix he had to call it quits, So what's a 40ish man to do to re add the spice back in that no longer exists since his divorce.

A BC of course. Lets do this and see how Hudson comes out on the other side when its all said and done

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Anoushka Doll-Sidestep 24 Hudsonaholic Newly Single Parent

Anoushka may be a wee bit self absorbed and materialistic, chaser of whims and come across a lil like a Diva. That's cause she is and she wont make up a story to cover it up either but one thing she never thought she would be and LOVE, is a mother. Her saving/redeeming quality is how over the moon she is about her boy(s). She loves both her boys hard and since her Dunce of an ex cant see what they have - here she is playing the game and while he is trying to regain the spice he CHOSE to let go she is here to see if she can get her family back So if making him bat shit cray jealous as she gets hit on by the house is what it takes… she is all in because she knows something he doesn't ..🤰🏾

PRIVATE DL IF CHOSEN