#and then ask why you never talk to me or your father and also why your sister doesnt talk to me either

[saphronethaleph]

I'd Have Two Credits

The field was silent, and Mara Jade Skywalker was almost invisible.

She would have been completely invisible, hidden in the long grass, but her red hair was sort of a giveaway… still, it was close enough.

Then she shifted slightly, and fired her blaster rifle.

The skeet she was shooting only appeared after she’d pulled the trigger, and skeet and blaster bolt converged before vanishing in an explosion.

“Not bad,” Kyle said. “What does Luke think about this kind of thing, by the way?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked that before agreeing to help?” Mara replied, firing again. A second target flew across the range and exploded, and Mara smirked slightly.

She was sure her husband wouldn’t have a problem, not really. He’d grown up a farmboy using a blaster to protect himself, after all.

“Aunt Mara?”

“Safing the range,” Mara declared, flicking the safety onto her rifle.

“Confirmed,” Kyle agreed, from inside the bunker, and Mara rolled over onto her back.

“Hey there, Young Ben,” she added, smiling up at Ben Solo. “What brings you out here?”

The teenaged trainee Jedi looked serious.

“Aunt Mara, I’ve got a problem,” he said. “I… don’t know who to ask, but… can you help?”

Mara picked up her comlink.

“This sounds private, Kyle,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Copy that,” Kyle agreed. “I’ve got some training of my own to do, anyway.”

Mara flicked the switch off, and sat up.

“Okay,” she said. “What’s the problem?”

“I’ve got… suspicions,” Ben answered. “I feel like people are keeping something from me.”

“Yeah, probably,” Mara agreed.

Ben blinked.

“Huh?” he asked.

“You don’t know everything about my past,” she pointed out. “That’s because some of it is private. You don’t know everything about Kyle’s past, either. I don’t know if Kyle knows everything about his own father’s past… but what you’re actually saying is that you think people are keeping something important from you. Is that right?”

Ben nodded agreement.

“It’s something to do with me,” he said. “It’s when… Uncle Luke is talking about me. When my parents are talking about me.”

Mara frowned, thinking.

“I do know what it is,” she said. “And I also know why you haven’t been told yet, Ben… and it might have been a mistake, but here’s why you haven’t been told.”

She patted the grass next to her, and after a moment Ben sat.

They looked out together towards the skies of Ossus, and the Jedi Temple some kilometres away.

“It’s because they don’t want to put too much pressure on you,” she said. “There are some things which are too much strain to comfortably put on a child… and I say that as someone who had too much strain put on them as a child.”

“You turned out all right,” Ben muttered, almost accusingly.

“Eventually,” Mara conceded. “Eventually. But it took a long time, kid, and it’s an ongoing process too. I still wake up sweating in the night, because of the person I used to be… because of the weight that was put on me, by someone who wanted me to be a tool. Rather than to grow up as a child.”

“I still don’t think it’s fair,” Ben said. “I’m old enough to know.”

“Maybe you are,” Mara allowed. “But maybe you aren’t – and once you know something, you can’t unlearn it. Your family is keeping this from you, but it’s out of love… and Luke didn’t take it well when he learned something similar, and he was over twenty at that point. So it’s partly about making sure you learn in the right way.”

She shrugged. “But, hey. I’ll keep a close eye on you, and see if I come to a different opinion, okay? You are my favourite nephew.”

“I’m your only nephew,” Ben objected.

“Makes it an easy choice, doesn’t it?” Mara asked. “Doesn’t make it wrong, though.”

They sat in companionable silence for another minute or so, and an insect buzzed past with wings that droned deeply and resonantly.

“You’d never know there’d been a supernova blast hit this place thousands of years ago,” Mara said, then saw Ben’s expression.

“Aunt Mara,” the teen began, sounding like he wasn’t quite sure if he should ask. “What should I do if I hear… voices?”

“Voices how?” Mara asked.

“Talking to me,” Ben answered. “Suggesting things. Telling me things.”

“Well, in my experience, a voice in your head is usually Emperor Palpatine,” Mara told him. “Persistent bugger, too. Took five years after he died to finally get rid of that voice… but, fortunately for you, Ben, I’ve got experience in how to deal with that kind of voice.”

Ben didn’t say anything, but his expression looked relieved.

“If it’s about something horrible happening,” Mara began. “Like, an injury, or hurting yourself, you just think… yeah, that would suck. And then you keep going. If it’s telling you to do something, you think… do I actually want to do that? Will I still want it later?”

“And if it’s telling you something?” Ben checked.

“Then… best thing you can do is ask someone about if it’s true,” Mara replied. “But, you know, Ben… if a voice in your head tells you something that’s true, something you didn’t know, you know what that means?”

“...no?” Ben replied, frowning.

“It means you have every reason to think there’s an actual person, trying to manipulate you,” Mara said, her voice suddenly firm and her eyes very much like her maiden name. “And if it turns out that someone is trying to manipulate my nephew, I would very much like to know about it so I can ask them to stop. With a lightsaber.”

Ben was silent for about fifteen seconds.

“Is my grandfather Darth Vader?” he asked.

Mara promptly stood up.

“Right,” she said, and flicked the comlink on. “Kyle!”

There was a crash sound.

“What?” Kyle asked, sounding distracted. “I was getting the skeet shooter into position for testing my defence, and dropped it!”

“Never mind that now,” Mara replied. “Contact your friend Jan, we’ve got a force-user to track down and kill.”

“Right, right, on it,” Kyle replied.

That done, Mara crouched down again.

“Yes,” she said. “I wish you didn’t have to find out this way. Like I said, Luke didn’t take it well and he was over twenty at the time…”

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Fateful Love in Motion

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies.

➼ Prologue

One day, some time after entering the Ooku.

Mai: "Excuse me."

I visited Ieyasu's room to learn about mixing medicines.

Ieyasu: "You came again. You really are a weird one."

Mai: "Yes, but knowing about medicine is useful, and I enjoy talking with you."

Ieyasu: "That’s what makes you weird."

(Even so, you never kick me out.)

Feeling his subtle kindness, my cheeks relaxed into a smile.

Our current relationship began a while ago when I called him to my room.

------------Flashback-----------

Ieyasu: "What do you want? I'm not interested in you."

Mai: "Sorry for the sudden request. I heard you know a lot about medicine."

Ieyasu: "So what? I'm here because of my archery skills."

Mai: "I want your help to treat an injured sparrow!"

Ieyasu: "Huh? Why should I?"

Mai: "The court physicians won't take it seriously, and I couldn't think of anyone else to ask."

Mai: "Please, help me."

Ieyasu: ".........."

Ieyasu: "Where's the sparrow?"

Mai: "You'll help!?"

Ieyasu: "If I ignored it, I'd be the bad guy."

After that, he mixed medicine for the sparrow and treated it carefully.

Ieyasu: "You should be the one asking for help. You're such a goody two shoes."

While waiting for the medicine, Ieyasu listened to my story about being forcibly brought to the Ooku, and he sighed in exasperation.

Ieyasu: "Well, I'm in a similar situation."

Mai: "You're also here against your will?"

Ieyasu: "Your father pressured me to be here."

Mai: "I'm sorry."

Ieyasu: "It's not something you need to apologize for."

Ieyasu: "Anyway, if you have no one to rely on, you should at least learn to prepare your own medicine."

Ieyasu: "If you watch my work closely, you'll learn whether you like it or not."

Mai: "You mean you'll teach me about medicine?"

Ieyasu: "If you're willing to learn, yes."

Mai: "Thank you, Ieyasu!"

---------Flashback Ends--------

Since then, I've been receiving instructions from Ieyasu.

Ieyasu: "Hey, that’s too sloppy. The medicine won’t work properly like this."

Ieyasu: "For a princess, not being able to make an antidote is like asking to be poisoned."

(He still speaks bluntly, but I know he's worried about me.)

I came to understand his indirect kindness, which made my heart race.

As we spent more time together, I found myself drawn to him.

(But he’s also a victim of my father. I have no right to express my feelings.)

(I'll keep these feelings locked in my heart for the rest of my life.)

That's what I thought, but...

Ieyasu: ".........."

(What should I do?)

A few days later, we were in the bedroom, sitting silently across from each other.

Ieyasu: "Why did you call me? Are you underestimating me, thinking I wouldn't do anything to you?"

Mai: "That's not it! Rather, I wouldn't mind if you did anything to me."

Ieyasu: "Ha?"

Mai: "Crap."

(There's no turning back now.)

Mai: "I like you."

Ieyasu: "----!"

Mai: "Today at noon, my father pressured me to call someone to the bedroom tonight, and the only person I could think of was you."

Mai: "I know it's only a bother for you, but... Ah."

I felt his hand grip my shoulder, and our lips met.

Mai: "Mmm..."

As the soft sensation left, Ieyasu's eyes, filled with heat, met mine.

Ieyasu: "Don't misunderstand. I never thought of it as a bother."

Mai: "Eh?"

Ieyasu: "The day you called me to help the sparrow, I was dazzled to see you living straightforwardly, even in a place like this."

Ieyasu: "I was irresistibly drawn to you from that moment."

Mai: "Ieyasu."

Ieyasu: "I'm not one to share my love life with others, so if you choose me, you'll have to run away from here. Are you ready for that?"

Mai: "I am!"

Ieyasu: "Then, let me say it again. I love you. I'll make you happy, so live with me."

Mai: "Okay!"

We clasped hands and kissed again.

➼ Collection Events Masterlist

[pestsarecallingmeagain]

Let me braid your hair

(A child hood memory for my most hated OC)

(To the peeps who hate him, but I tag you guys anyways: @kijimha @city-of-c0rpses @oscarsgallery @doakarma @myluckymoon @fyyodor-d @joanbarrie )

(Why does this guy get something cute and none angst? Because this was before he was evil. He's a child in this yall.)

I could never really have time to myself as a young boy. Time was spent either doing chores, studying, or helping father. No time for me to really have time to myself. Can no one just give this 6 year old some time to himself to relax in read?!

Apparently not! Not when my godsister Elora comes in, visit, and hang out with my older sister. Elora knew me since I was a baby. She and my sister were 11 at the time I was born. Elora would always try to hold me and carry me around as if I was her brother or something.

So the moment I heard her yell out my name from my sister's room, I groaned and dropped my book on my face. Rolling out of my bad and carrying my book with me, I dragged myself to my sister's room. Inside her room was pastel pink walls, posters for her favorite bands, stuff animals on the bed, and of course her and Elora were sitting on the floor, doing their names.

Elora smiled and greeted me once she saw me. Bright shiny blue eyes that sparkle like a clear ocean, blond hair that makes her look like a angel, and a big smile that puts any other smile to shame. I rubbed my eyes as I came in.

"What is it?" I mumbled, still holding onto my book. I came closer as Elora gave a little happy clap.

"Xavier! Sit sit, I want to braid your hair." She said excitedly as she gently pulled me over to sit down on the floor as well in front of her. "Your hair has gotten so long, I want to braid it. Can I?" She sweetly asked.

I felt my cheeks redden. This is stupid, I don't want to be involved in a girly activity. I was going to say no, but she gave me those pleading eyes and I sigh. I opened my book again. "Go ahead." I mumbled as she gave a happy cheer.

I sat there, letting her play with my hair and style it into a braid. While my sister and her also talk and gossip about the latest highschool drama at the time as well. Topics I wasn't interested in, I was too absorbed in my book. But I must admit, I kinda like it when she was playing with my hair. Something I never admitted out loud.

I sat there, so out of the zone that I only snapped back to reality when I felt that my hair wasn't being played with anymore. Elora was just holding me now as she continued to talk with my sister. I kinda preferred her arms instead of my own sister's, something else I never liked to admit.

I don't remember much afterwards. Sorta blanked out and then woke up tucked in my own bed, the braid still in my hair. I guess I fell asleep.

I was going to take out the braid, but I decided to keep it in for a while longer. I'll take it out next time Elora visits. Just so she can braid it again.

It's not like I like her playing with my hair. I simply appreciate her company. The braiding is just a bonus. Though I do miss the braiding to this day.

Kinda wish she did it again one day.

[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (6) - the trouble was always here - part two

pairing: biker!roman reigns , biker!cody rhodes (mentioned) warning: mentions of violence and explicit descriptions of blood. dialogue and descriptions pertaining to guns. roman talk to someone without being a jerk challenge. slight non-con moment but turns consensual quickly (its a kiss)! authors note: if ya'll ever watch sons of anarchy... you’ll know, im stealing little pieces of plot lmaooooooooo. imma give yall a spicy little flashback after this, i promise. will also attempt to not make the following chapters as long. just so that they remain relatively digestible. i'm working on being more precise with words. all the medical stuff in this chapter is half done research and my own brain. this chapter picks up where i left off in chapter 5. ALSO… if you want or dont want tags on this fic let me know! word count: 3k tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

-wednesday night. the first week in june-

that marriage of ignorance and bliss did not last long. having to suffer as a lone soldier amidst silent dinner table battles. displeasured dispositions and their eyes performing like the greatly sharpened edge of well smithed daggers. and then came compromise, toiling through the thick of it to wave it's white flag. a surrender of a promise. your mother and fathers union holding as much sanctity as a soon to die vehicle's tank, holding its last dregs of oil but whose fuel gauge reads empty. running still, a quick speed into the darkness, wheels tired and the road too coarse to bare. an abrupt end of the engine as it slips against the asphalt at full speed. a collision terribly par for the course. their rings fettered to their fingers, pretty diamond but a prison, making forever impressions upon the skin. that marriage of ignorance and bliss did not last long. dying with the useless wear of wedding rings, and redeclaring itself with the overwear of leather kuttes. 

because there was more to the life than just that simple enthusiasm for motorcycles. your father transforming before the eyes. leather slipping over his shoulders, not so dissimilar to the tough metal, shrilly chime of chainmail. custom rings taking their homes over the marred skin of his knuckles. fingers worn and always just barely healed. scarred from one brutal splitting open after another. his eyes working to harden. the keys to his bike clutched in hand. 

"should i be worried?", your mother asking right on time. examining his pace. the work in and change over of his demeanor. 

and he never answered. never dignifying her question enough to speak to it. because then the trouble would be true, so much so that it would live, breathing well to make room in their home. no. KG, your father, only ever lingered by the door, a slip in of hesitation before he turned to kiss your mother gracefully. the small appearance of a forever ago passion. an i love you without the weight of words. and then he went, heavy steps leading out the door. 

so its almost second nature. those faithful coming together of words. cody slipping on his leather near the door. shoulders squaring as the material adjusts to his body. demeanor unsoftened. the ease of the words as they leave you filling your stomach with a burdening weight. memory working tedious and so terribly true. 

"cody, should i be worried?" 

he sighs. cold blue eyes hesitating enough to take the time to commit your face to memory. his palm warm as it cradles your cheek. kissing you firmly before he leaves. 

-early friday morning. first week in june-

there was, is, and will never be a time too early or too late for violence. for blood and that faithful nerve warp of adrenaline. and maybe that's why the hospital is so easy. old, early moments in your youth, piercing your fathers skin with a needle, sewing together split skin as he washed his tongue with the burn of his favorite liquor. a warmth in his belly till the pain from the prick of your fixing turned numb. a simple pressure in the skin there at his arm, turning inevitably, to pressure in his leg, a slit at his thigh from a brawl with which he gave no further information. bruises and gashes and deep cuts to him, more by the day, by the year. near quiet grunts and the emptiness of the house loud enough to swallow you both whole. cleaning his marred skin and bandaging the area's as best you could. the slow to ease push and pull of his breaths. his hands smelling like iron as he cradled your face, mouth kissing your forehead. "thank you", but a whisper, before falling into sleep. 

maybe that's why the hospital is so easy. the color of blood and caked earth, the silver of knuckle rings and the black of over worn leather more familiar than summer green trees. 

text message | cody r: in an emergency. need your help. 

it shouldn't come as a surprise, but the sudden rush takes you all the same. a deep plunge of the heart in your chest, something odd creeping beneath the skin and fevered steps. making to call cody quickly. a ring, and then a second, before he's answering. breaths labored some as he goes. "can't say much about it but it's medical. how soon can you get to the clubhouse?" 

you assess the long hallway. the trauma unit, quiet. a squeak in your sneakers that makes you cringe as you move to collect things. only minutes from the end of your shift. "uhm, in like twenty minutes". a series of grunts and yells that indicate the messiness of a situation he's all to willing to abruptly rope you into. "cody what's going on?"

he sighs. his patience a thinning thread. "what did i say before about becoming an accessory?" 

"you gotta give me something", you stress. continuing an awfully secretive journey to where you could gather some other helpful supplies. "i can't just show up not knowing what for". 

"think the worst". 

"that doesn't help-"

the call dropping on his end. the angst sticking to your skin making room for an easy to settle in frustration. like you were an early twenty something again. attempting too diligently to remedy that divorce of ignorance and bliss. a tedious washing away and stitching together, performing so well now that the pungent smell of iron threatens to stain your skin again. and here does the soldier pay the price for wielding a double edged sword. for pensacola was home, is home, and forever will be home, the desire to return running too wild beneath the skin not to act on it. but there are things here. vicious rumblings above sunburned asphalt and the bitter steeping of blood between the cracks. the dross and the dregs that stick so loyally to the air and the skin just after a brutish performance of chaos too commonplace to live without it.

trouble taking up permanent residence, riding in over the clouds and rolling in with the heat. 

and the clubhouse looks haunted amidst the beginnings of the friday summer sunrise. the dark colored build of it dreary against the beauty of the sky. the heat yet to reach its full potential but your scrubs and the exhaustion of a twelve hour shift do all too well of making you live with that thin sheen of sweat breaking over your cheeks. your car parked not too far from the clubs neat line of stationed bikes. true in how they've always done well to remind you of the clubs presence. after so long, living here and far away, that grimy power behind the roar of an engine, ever inescapable. 

the clubhouse doors swing open as you make to leave your car. a small bag of supplies in hand as you rush up. cody's hand slipping at the low end of your back to guide you in. a small "thank you", leaving him breathy as you make way to pass through the double doors of the "church". a room that never seems to lose its luster from the looks of it. the sanctity of their meetings as important as the shine of a new chrome fender finish. men and their worried eyes flitting over your entrance as you approach the church table. seth laid out face down, with his pants at his ankles. his skin wet with sweat and an awful paleness. bloody cloths surrounding him and randy's finger lodged in where all the blood could possibly be spewing from. a small metal tin cup resting in the corner, holding the whole of a bullet. 

dean taps seth's cheek. waking him up a little less than tenderly. "look alive sweetheart, the doctor is here to see you". 

"nurse", you correct, to which dean just winks. 

cody and a host of club members file out through the double doors much to your pleasure. 

initial shock of your current state of affairs rolling off your shoulders as you settle into the routine of caring for the wound. gloves slipping on before you're tossing the box to dean. his take up of them swift and unquestioning. because it was never unusual to spend a night—especially in their youth—caring for cuts and bruises and wounds, before turning to do the same for another. a task as regular as breathing air. 

seth groans. the drawl of it stressing the pain in his leg. "i don't know if you've noticed but i went to some extreme lengths to see you", he jokes. his little laugh coarse and overworked by the weariness of getting shot. 

you laugh. an attempt to break the over work of tension in the air. "what an interesting way of saying you love me seth". sliding up to stand next to randy. his demeanor as quiet now as it was during richie's funeral. 

you look to dean. "once randy removes his finger, you're gonna help me pack the wound, and then i want you to keep pressure on it till i'm ready to wrap it". 

"you know what you're doing?", randy asks. the dark color of his eyes disrupted with little slivers of worry. 

"no randy, i just wear the scrubs for fun". peering up at the hard set of his face. older now but his visage still holding that silent menace to it.  

"can we banter when seth isn't bleeding out by the pint?", dean asks. so obviously done with the whole situation. 

"on my three", you start. the both of them coming to a shared focus. "one...two...three". 

thick blood springs upward, randy's finger dislodging quick. dean rushes in with your guidance, packing the wound as instructed. your hand taking the reins of the procedure as you allow dean a moment of reprieve. the little levee of seth's composure rupturing as his body goes taut, his mouth loose and lax as he curses his fill into the shined up wood of the church table. groaning wearily as dean holds the pressure against his legs, randy lifting it casually, allowing you to wrap the middle of his leg with a fresh dressing. a dead silent relief settling the room then after, before you're moving again. running on the extra dose of adrenaline. 

you discard your gloves, peeling them off your fingers. picking through your bag to give dean a bottle of pills. "vancomycin, it's an antibiotic", you start. "give him two now and another two later tonight. keep going with that dosage for no less than a week". 

"our lovely little savior". dean's boots heavy as he closes the distance to kiss your forehead. "thank you. go get cleaned up". 

randy gives a quieter acknowledgement. a simple nod of appreciation that does you just fine. the double doors of the church room creaky as they swing with your exit. all the worried faces you'd met upon your arrival, taking up every inch of the clubhouse. their bodies drowsy and torn through by the chaos of an oh so terrible possibility.

your feet mindless as they walk down the infamous hallway gallery of framed photos. your last walk through of the area filled with a particularly horrible play of strife. twisting the knob of one of many of the little dormitory rooms to access it's bathroom. a deep breath releasing as you make to wash your hands, a slow thorough trail up over your arms to rid your skin of seth's soon to dry blood. your scrubs somewhat ruined and your shoes showcasing nasty little streaks of red. 

but it is only exhaustion that takes you so brazenly. a sleepy sinking feeling in the body and nothing else. hands used to providing all the remedy's it can. 

well maybe not nothing else. a fast to slip in weariness amidst the quiet. because he couldn't be too far away, lurking to siphon what he could again of the air about you in a means of suffocation. that faithful ability once upon a time, a favorite of yours for how sweetly it sought to consume you, now possessing a quality that unfurls something disdainful in your belly. a prick of a man seemingly beyond reproach, what with his positioning among all the others. surely it was never your simple exit making him this mountain of hubris, that streak of his character impossible to climb and overcome for the sake of reasoning with him. or even for the lesser sake of some cordiality. it was so obviously everything else—the grime and the chaos—giving the once duller edge of his pride a sharper corner. enough to will him into an endless keep of a grudge. 

heavy thudding steps strip you clean of wandering anymore into thought. it seems even thinking of the devil causes him to appear. his disposition reminiscent of some weeks ago. shoulders squared and seeming too tall for you now to bare without feeling small. and he says nothing, attempting to take his kutte off without the inconvenience of pain but he grunts regardless. grimacing as he rids himself of his shirt as well. 

a gash running against his naked arm, almost like it's purposefully found a heap of muscle to tear into. wanting to humble the strength of him. blood caked and running down tawny skin. 

"i got grazed". 

voice tired but oddly delicate. like the weariness of it is making him just that more fragile. 

you point to the bathroom, eyes never really having the courage to part from him. "sit over there". 

and your feet rush. tunnel visioned as they make to gather whats left of your little collection of supplies. fingers feeling less sure, and your body teeming with something akin to an unworkable angst. a realization long ago understood, and buried for the sake of a then wanted peace, unearthing itself to bring about a renewed sense of understanding. for he has always been the manifestation of this double edged sword. of home and of violence. wielding itself always but never one without the other. the slip of his skin over familiar in its warmth. doing your resolve the greatest amounts of violence as you clean his wound tenderly. the double edge of him piercing so well that you feel the damning effects. his eyes sharp, cutting over your face in a silent means to examine. like the appraisal of a curious stranger attempting to settle within themselves the validity of your existence. 

the soft tender pads of your fingers remember him well. gloves and all. slight throbs that liven the nerves. 

"you came straight from work", more like a statement than a question. 

"i did". 

he flinches. his arm flexing as he bares the pain. "thank you for being here", he gives. “for seth", like a thankfulness that includes him would hurt his pride too much to be made known. 

"i'm sure that took a lot to say", you joke. feeling light in your head. drained of the will to keep up a proper guard. "you’re welcome though". 

a hum of an acknowledgment is the only thing he gives you. and in an effort to savor the easy going nature of the moment you keep yourself occupied with dressing the wound splitting his skin open. your work of caring for it doing well enough that the bleeding has stopped. memory faithful as it nags, the wound of a forever ago accident pulsing to life about your hand. the scars there still, though faded, serving as a reminder of the former things. the heat of him, then, different as it sought to consume. brazen in how it dared to bring about affection. not like now, this flame threatening to flare, to show the lengths and widths of its destruction. 

you finish. gloves in the waste basket. making tedious work of washing your hands. to rid the skin of such an indicative sensation. 

his body does well in blocking the bathroom door. the whole of him bigger than the last time you saw him. scrutiny set some in his gaze. trailing over the ink that lays permanent at your neck. 

"you still have it"

"it's a tattoo". feigning nonchalance as you dry your hands. "you never really plan to get rid of them". 

he smiles mirthless. "well y'know, i figured a cover up, for you, would be worth the pain". 

as in, forgetting him would be worth the pain. which couldn't be more further from the truth. 

"and here i am doing a nice thing", laughing tired. "still gettin hit with the bitterness", a slow easy step that leads you closer to him. the own brazen make of your actions suffering you to fall into the scent of him. the note of it strong even as it lives amidst the pungency of blood. "you got some audacity too though, considering i could've half assed that clean up enough for a little infection to settle in". 

"but you didn't".

"and why do you think so?" 

creaks against the floor. the weird pitch of it roughing up against your bones. his body closer, forcing your back against the wall. his thumb reaching to graze against the ink tattoo at your neck. pulse thrumming harshly at the play of his touch. 

body outdone by history. 

and the way he holds you here, cradling your neck just at your nape. keeping you where he wants you to be. his eyes falling over slowly—at your nose and your cheeks and your lips—lingering as if he's gone down the path of a deep remembering. 

"for the same reason you still got the ink". 

unable to ever let yourself part with it, with the history staining your skin. the prick of a needle and the pain of it made simple for a full and the most earnest performance of devotion. your breaths shallow, overwhelmed by the thought and the domineer of him. 

his thumb running to sweep at your skin. hot with an intention you can't place. 

you make to warn him. “roman-”

but his tongue is quick, works with a faraway familiar passion as it curls between the soft seam of your lips. exhaustion and adrenaline, an effortful pair as they go about the task of stripping away your resolve. a return of this sudden fever of a feeling as your tongue makes to snake against his. lapping lazily, a mindless seduction as you fall into old ways. his throat groaning, surely taken by his own bout of reminiscence. nails racking dull over his naked skin, over the taut muscle at his belly. his palms cradling your face to deepen his kiss in spite of the pain. leaving you little room to breathe, his body fastening you harshly to the bathroom wall. making to suffocate you with the flick of his tongue and the fire of his touch. 

his teeth prick you mean, biting into the supple flesh of your lip. suckling the pain with the tender pull of his mouth. 

the harshness of it causing a whimper to break. instinct taking hold. subdued in an instant. 

and it is only when he breaks for breath that you remember where you are. pushing at his tired body enough for a full separation. 

you leave saying nothing. out of the bedroom, down the hallway and through the clubhouse doors. letting the silence of it speak for you. 

lol we might need a roman pov after this huh… smh

[mahs-dumpster]

"Happy 100th Anniversary."

a/n: this was SO FUN. But also. Floyd was incredibly hard to write. I hated every second of it. So it was fun but also not? Anyway. Also no oc x canon content can you believe this?? I didn't mention Kalim ONCE this feels wrong man

cw: maybe OOC Floyd but I did my best! Poor attempts at making this look like a translation post from a vignette

Template for the frames can be found here

Words: around 900

Jeanne: Ah… this place is gigantic, I feel like I'm never reaching the end of it. 

Jeanne: and I’ve yet to see any pictures of the– oh!

Jeanne: there it is! I’ve been looking all over for this one! 

Jeanne: it’s just as incredible as I’d imagine… 

???: Geez Codfishie, I didn't take you as the type to like art.

Jeanne: …and there's only one person in NRC who’d call me by such an irritating nickname.

Jeanne: Floyd. Do me a favor: stop with that habit. Either choose another nickname or just call me by my actual name, is that too much to ask?

Floyd: Who’s this guy? He has a funny looking face.

Floyd: Oh, look, he’s even got a hook just like you!

Jeanne: And now you’re ignoring me. *Sigh* That’s a pirate i’ve admired ever since I was young.

Jeanne: He’s been fighting a fae kid for ages, wanting revenge from the day he made him lose his hand. That’s why he uses a hook.

Jeanne: I know him because my dad used to tell me stories of this pirate, if I made a good job helping him out in his business he’d even give me a children’s book talking about him.

Jeanne: After I lost my hand, I’ve grown attached to his story. I related to his sense of justice, of wanting to make that kid pay for what he did.

Floyd: You never really told me how ya lost your hand, not that I care.

Floyd: But most importantly…

Floyd: A KID? SERIOUSLY?

Jeanne: H-hey! I said the little bastard was a fae!! He was probably years older than he looked!! 

Floyd: Right, right. Codfishie, I had no idea you admired such a loser! Losing his hand to a kid? What is he, an idiot?

Jeanne: Don’t speak that way about my childhood hero!! I’ll cut your throat open with my own hook if you keep that up!

Floyd: Oh? Codfishie wants to fight? Come at me!

Jeanne: You..! Ugh, whatever. When we go back to Octavinelle we will, just so I can make you swallow your words, dumbass.

Floyd: But that’s no fun…

Jeanne: Don’t look at me like that. If Azul catches us fighting in the museum it’s over for me and you so get over it.

Jeanne: I’l beat your ass soon enough.

Floyd: Oh, look at this one. The lighting is pretty intense, I like it.

Jeanne: It looks very pretty, yeah. Isn’t that the mermaid princess from the legends? Who’s the old geezer?

Floyd: I think it’s her father. This is probably depicting when he broke all her stuff.

Floyd: I think she was pretty dumb to go into a deal without knowing the consequences, but i guess she was desperate to leave after this. Doesn’t change the fact that she’s super stupid for that.

Jeanne: No, I get that. Desperate times call for deperate measures.

Floyd: That’s very uncharacteristic of you. You pity her or something?

Jeanne: I don’t, ok? But I was in a similar situation so I understand the thought process.

Floyd: Hm? You were? Why’d you let them detroy your stuff? Ya should've just squeezed them instead.

Jeanne: It was a punishment. I did something an authority figure didn’t like and they destroyed my toys in return.

Jeanne: I’m over it at this point, it’s been years since that happened. But I understand that, wanting to escape that situation. It’s hard to have a father like that.

Floyd: So it was your father?

Jeanne: …

Jeanne: Hey, look! It’s a painting of that warrior who saved her country!

Floyd: Where??

Jeanne: I’m so glad he has a short attention spam…

Floyd: This looks kinda cool. I like how the blade goes right in the middle.

Jeanne: Right? She looks so cool!

Floyd: You’re awfully excited for this one. You a fan of her too?

Jeanne: Hm… I wouldn't say I'm a fan, but she's super awesome, don't ya think?

Jeanne: She pretended to be a man to fight in the army in place of her father. Just the fact that she managed to make people believe she's a guy is incredible, and for so long too.

Floyd: That's not really hard for you.

Jeanne: Did you decide to wake up today and irritate me or something? 

Floyd: She also defeated that dude who tried to invade her country too, huh? Pretty bold. Who would’ve thought such a small thing like her could do all that.

Jeanne: That's because she's got something you men don't have: a brain.

Floyd: Hey now.

Jeanne: In comparison to men, us women have a biological disadvantage. Well, at least with actual humans, beastmen are a totally different story.

Jeanne: In terms of strength, she’d never defeat him, but in terms of wit… unfortunately for him she's incredibly smart.

Floyd: Stop, you're sounding like Azul now.

Jeanne: It’s the truth, physical strength isn't everything. At least one thing Azul got right.

Floyd: Ah, that sucks. Codfishie got boring all of a sudden.

Floyd: I’m leaving. 

Jeanne: Already? You get over stuff to quickly.

Jeanne: Don't lose yourself in the museum.

Jeanne: Ah, another painting of the pirate captain! And he’s fighting that kid too…

Floyd: Piss off.

Jeanne: he should’ve thought twice before he messed with a pirate. I'm sure he’s gonna make that brat pay for ever crossing his path.

[ideasarestuckinmyhead]

Is it bad that I crave your writting for Boo's childhood/backstory(including teen years, that shit gets crazy) just pack with layers upon layers upon layers upon layers upon layers of gut wrenching and sole crushing angst?

And Boo is telling Al and Seth all of this horrific tragic story and at the end of it they're just sitting there like:

"Sugerboo, wtaf?!"

lol don't mind me, just need to feel things tonight! And by that I mean pain! 🥲

-🪷 anon

Fucked life.

TW: Drug use, gambling, bad parents, domestic abuse (won't go into it), manipulation, shitty childhood and in all just wow. If I write anything wrong please tell me!

‼️This is just for the ask not giving Boo an actual background.‼️

"My childhood was of drugs, screaming, and fighting behind walls." Sipping the alcohol in the cup they got. Sugarboo leaned back on the chair they were in, nonchalant about what they just said. The boys were silent waiting for them to continue, not to disturb the comfortable flow they got themselves in.

"My dad wasn't and still ISN'T a good man. He would beat my mom, screaming at her why did she give birth to a defect of a kid. One that couldn't even shut the fuck up when he was mad." Hissing out Sugarboo grabbed the cup a bit tight. Seth felt his hands clench, and Alphonse looked ready to kill someone.

"But my mom wasn't a Saint either in this shit. She'd be like 'I took that beating for you and you can't even try to better yourself? What kind of child doesn't try for their mother?' She'd also say that me giving her money for her drug abuse would help her." Looking into the flames of the camp fire Sugarboo got lost in thought. Memories of needles and white powder on the table flashing through their mind.

"I had to lie to cps so, so many fucking times. Saying my mother was just tired because she worked two jobs, which she did. But got fired every time because she kept stealing food from the kitchen and taking alcohol from the gas station she worked at." Chugging the rest of their alcohol they reached over and grabbed a bottle of whatever. Cracking it open they didn't want to look at the stares of pity drilling on the back of their head.

"After my dad finally cracked and left my mom because of her drug addiction he took all the money we had. I was uumm, 16? Had a job at this Cafe in the city we lived in. The owner was this old man that knew what my mom did." Smiling solemnly SB thought back on that man. He was the father figure they needed desperately, he was a short Mexican man in his late 40's.

"Francisco, let me stay at the Cafe if I needed too. Made sure to squirrel away money for me so I can get away from my druggie mom....." Whispering SB wiped some tears that fell. It was hard talking about this shit, how their live was a mess and now they can't really talk about it. Not without the looks of pity.

"My mom found out when Francisco was talking to another coworker of mine. About how it was almost $200 dollars saved up for me. I've told him as soon as I graduated I was skipping to a different town. I wanted to be a baker, but my mom told me I needed a real job." Hissing out the last bit Sugarboo chugged the rest of the second cup. Starting their third as they slurred out more words.

"The bitch tried to hurt him! I never....got so fucking angry before. I grabbed a bottle and smashed it over her head. My mom didn't like that, so she, who was on a withdrawal of two days, began choking me." Moving their collar, flashing the scar they got from her nails. Alphonse remember asking about them before, Boo just shook their head and said 'For another time.' He felt like shit asking about it now.

"Francisco, worried grabbed a gun he had incase of a robber....shot her. There was witnesses and everything, so he wasn't charged. It was ruled as self defense. But I didn't have anywhere to go, as shitty as it was I had to be pit in a foster home." More tears pooled in their eyes as they left them fall. They wanted to stay with Francisco, but the Judge's words were final.

"I still worked there at the Cafe. But I wanted to stay with him! My Foster parents were nice I guess but they didn't get me. Mostly left me alone because I was older." There was older kids there but, SB didn't make friends with them. It was clear they didn't want another teenager with them.

"When it was the summer before or was it after? I turned 18....Francisco, he....he died." Sobbing out Seth and Alphonse got up. Each boy holding a hand as Sugarboo curled into themselves and cried.

"He left me everything. His grandchildren tried to get shit from me but they couldn't. They never tried and connect with him, even though he tried so desperately. I didn't budge or nothing I told them to suck my dick and kept the promise I had with Francisco. To run and live my life. How I wanted it, no shitty dad's, my druggie mom was dead and I was 18 with $24,000 dollars that Francisco left for me." Sitting up proud Sugarboo laughed as they remembered the old man telling them they better do good with he money. How he wanted them to be better than their parents, to use the hate they build up to make it useful.

"And here I am now! My own bakery in a small town that loves my goods. And two amazing men in my life! So yeah I'd think I'm living my life right now." Smiling at the two men who were still silent. Sugarboo got smiles back as all three hugged, this was nice.

"Boo, holy shit." Was the inky words they got as a response. Laughing at that Boo leaned to Alphonse and gave him a kiss. He always did have comedic timing.

"Sugar, I'm glad we got to meet you. And I'm glad you stayed strong through out all of this." The sad eyed man had tears saying those words. Sugarboo started frowning as they wiped his tears softly.

"Awe, don't cry hon..." Whispering as Seth was being held by them. Alphonse started crying too, wishing he meet then sooner to help them. But they can't change the past, it's already done.

"Wanna make stores and drink this night away?" Giving a cheeky grin Sugarboo held up their cup. Seth gave a watery laugh as he sat back up and nodded.

Alphonse cracked open another bottle of the disgusting sugary drink he had. And the three began drinking, telling happy memories they held close to their hearts. Stories made them stronger, helping them better understand where one of the trio was.

Sugarboo, for a moment paused looking at Seth and Alphonse argue over who won the wresting match when younger. And they started giggling like a maniac seeing their boys being so....them. Even after what they told the boys they still wanted them.

[sammygender]

YALL ARE NOT SERIOUS PEOPLE no way i’m looking at the tumblr tag for spn 7x03 aka the sam centric flashback episode dealing with his childhood trauma and how he feels like he’s a freak and everyone is just posting about DEAN. dean and his stupid fucking pie. dean winchester used to be my guy! genuinely! s2-3 i truly thought i was a deangirl! But you people (plus this show atp lmfao) are making me hate him😭

[katierosefun]

just got emotional thinking about what hjw might've had to go through in the year away from manyang, he was probably pestered by medias, having to deal with the trials and all the talks and whispers behind his back or even straight at his face. If i got the context right betraying his father was abig deal, yes many would praise him but many would shame him for being disrespectful and not filial. I'm sure hkh had big supporters in the force, corrupted people that wanted influence, power and wealth, they probably got mad at hjw for cutting short their connection and the future career advancement. All this might have reminded hjw how his life was before everything happened (my god something like "good things aren't bound to last") but after the time spent in manyang he changed, he got to experience love and closure, a found family and going back to his old habits might have felt so alienating now? he'd realize how cold and lonely that life was and struggling all the more due to it. I'm so glad he managed to fight his anxiety and fear and return to manyang + I'm fairly sure that once he saw that the people there still love him and welcomed him with open harms, he'd go back to stay. sorry if i wrote a lot but i wanted to share my feelings with someone who could understand and loves hjw too❤️

yeah, i was always incredibly fascinated by what might have happened in that year han joo won was away, and why i also just. think that han joo won probably really couldn't show his face not just because he probably felt a lot of shame, but also like. i dunno. my personal thought is that he was a fuckign mess for a little bit--like, the man you're in love with is also the man that you arrested, and the little community of people who cared about you can't possibly still love you now, not when you're the reason why their favorite person is going to go away . . .

and i feel like there definitely were a lot of people who probably looked askance at joo won to be like "how could you do that to your own father" or maybe other people who tried to swoop in and promote joo won for the sake of saving face, and i like to think that joo won was just like. blank-faced through it all. and just like, the thought of him running away from seoul and trying to go to a place where no one knows him is. yeah.

and also, i forget who might have said it, but there's also some speculation about whether joo won's the one turning down promotions or maybe joo won just never gets a promotion because maybe his name's also lowkey blacklisted since everything that happened with his dad. i like to think that it's joo won who keeps turning down promotions--maybe he's terrified that he'll ever really turn into his dad, because i don't think he ever will, but i do think that a small part of joo won will always still think about what greed and power can do to people, and he probably doesn't want even the littlest taste of that. (granted. han ki hwan was always a bad person, i think--you don't clamber up to the top with that kind of attitude unless there's already something broken inside of you, but i think. joo won would still. try to run from it.)

(especially since like. i think a lot about joo won hearing han ki hwan's conversation, what with han ki hwan being like "oh, joo won wants to think he's like me, but he's actually more like his mom", and seeing the fury but also the genuine pain on joo won's face because. yeah. as much as joo won scoffed at the mention of his dad even in the beginning, i think. it's the curse of certain children--the only child, the eldest child--to be like the father, especially when the mother is deemed weak or just out of the picture. little boys and little girls want to be the behemoth of a man that their father is; they want to be cold, logical, infallible. and i think as much as joo won hated talking about his dad, i look at how, esp. in the beginning of the show, he tried so hard to project that kind of attitude, with the whole "i don't need friends / i don't trust anyone / you have to be logical" when we so clearly see. how lonely he is and how he. still trembles a little bit when his dad yells at him and how he peers in through the windows of the shop like he's an alien. or maybe a very curious, kind of timid cat.)

so all that to say: yeah, i feel you anon. i love han joo won so much, and i love how beyond evil is just as much a story about joo won learning to fall into this beautiful (but slightly broken) community, and how i think. he must have healed along the way :'))

[revedetendresse]

[acaciapines]

Sometimes I am just Looking At Things. Anyway pls tell us abt the alternate history of the Boiling Isles :)

......okay so it turns out that like all of the fun stuff is a huge massive spoiler so i cant actually say like. anything. this is devastating.

so instead you get what is the funniest thing in the world to me but is also 100% not explored at all in the fic itself so i dont think it counts as a spoiler:

when luz-mari travels back in time in elsewhere and elsewhen, and runs into philip/belos. due to the fake story they tell him about their past and their ability with glyphs. philip is 100% convinced that luz is the child caleb had with a witch <3

he doesnt realize this was a lie until he meets luz in the present of the show fgkdkjgdf. and even then hes like. hm. hmmmmmmm.

[naomiknight-17]

My mom knows that pasta makes me sad because it reminds me of the hardest, poorest times in our family's history

But the last two family dinners she's invited us to, she made pasta as the main dish. Two weeks in a row

Come on, man

[todayisafridaynight]

i think i would have gone loco if jo and aoki got to meet up just once after ichi breaks through to him like. the damage to my psyche id have wouldve been immeasurable, irreparable even

[pepprs]

in my despera (despair era)

[thesunsethour]

if i have to be in the same room with my father for one more minute i’m going to lose it

[quff]

my mom back-pedaled on her agreement to help me through college right before I graduate, so that's fun. That's so awesome incrediblesauce

Now I don't know where we're going to live. This is so fucking great. amazing. Love you mom!

[keets-writing-corner]

Thinking a LOT about Lucifer in the latest Hazbin episode. Idk what I was expecting but not this??

As I was watching my immediate thought was just "huh... Lucifer is kinda of weird..." but as the episode went on I realized the issue

the dude is off the chain depressed, like he says it as a joke but holy cow it is SO BAD

He's manically just creating rubber ducks cuz his daughter really like it that one time but it's empty, it's never good enough but he keeps doing it, maybe cuz he doesn't know how to pass the time otherwise.

like I get the feeling he HAS better things he SHOULD be doing than making rubber duck after rubber duck. At first I was like, "Bruh why isn't the king of hell doing anything?" aaaaand then it became clear...

The dude is disassociating so bad he can barely hold a conversation let alone remember information. He clearly WANTS to, he wants to be involved with his daughter so bad, he wants to care about the things she's doing so bad, but his depression keeps interfering. It's like he can only hear every other word and he grasps onto the ones he does hear semi-out of context. Like you can see every time he catches something that he hadn't before and he just "well shit I didn't catch that part"

and that's why he reacts so weird when people talk to him. He is struggling so bad to engage with the conversation he's only getting 50% of it

does that look like the face of a man who knows what the hell the conversation is even about??? he is STRUGGLING

like Charlie spent so long telling him about the hotel, and he STILL didn't understand what she wanted. Yeah it comes off as ditzy but literally I've been in that position where your brain just "nope, not doing this right now" and nerfs your conversation comprehension. So as someone who's BEEN in that position, to me it feels exactly like what he's dealing with. He's sorta engaged with the conversation, but only as much as his brain will allow

For example, when I'm dealing with this, this is what someone talking to me feels like this where the crossed out parts are what I missed and bold is what I catch, "Hey! You know I was thinking for dinner we could either make some chicken with rice? But if you don't feel like cooking, pasta is super easy and you love that right? What do you want to do?" you can kinda get that someone is trying to talk to you about dinner, and towards the end you get the impression that they asked something that needs your input so you can decently put 2 and 2 together and try and pass off, but crucial bits were left out, I would have no idea that either chicken or pasta is in the conversation only having heard "rice". When someone is just talking at me, I can decently pass off as being engaged but the second I'm required to participate in the conversation I'm screwed. Seem familiar? At which point I have 2 options, try to give a bullshit answer, or admit that I missed what they were saying and ask them to repeat

Lucifer, unfortunately, is trying so damn hard to hide that he's dealing with like 24/7 dissociation, so he can't admit that he's missing entire chunks of the conversation, hence his really weird replies. He does eventually get the full picture and then he and Charlie start having the real conversation

Also, the Alastor/Lucifer rivalry was hilarious but also really indicative of more of what Lucifer is dealing with

Alastor is, unfortunately, really good at picking up people's insecurities, and thanks to Charlie's description earlier and watching Lucifer clearly trying to overcompensate, he immediately picks up on the fact that Lucifer KNOWS he struggles to be a good dad (we know cuz it's cuz of the depression, hard to be engaged when your brain keeps turning off) and decides to rub salt in the wound by pretending he's been acting as a surrogate father to Charlie. Now why Alastor decided to pick a fight with the king of hell is beyond me, I do not understand Alastor (and I LIKE IT) (maybe it's cuz Alastor thinks he's hot shit and was expecting Lucifer to at least have heard of him but Lucifer just treats him like a nobody? who knows)(why would Lucifer listen to radio anyways when he can't even pay attention to a conversation it'd just be white noise)

But yeah I just was expecting someone who oozed either charisma or presence and instead I got a depressed dad who's dissociating so bad he can barely function and be present in his life. The only thing it seems he CAN do is make rubber ducks cuz his daughter really liked it that one time

Idk Lucifer is tragic to me. Whatever the full details of what heavan did to him absolutely broke him and he can't deal with it. He's aware of it, and he doesn't know how to fix it, so he tries to over compensate and sorta makes an ass out of himself but no one says or does anything cuz this guy is supposed to be THE king of hell

Suddenly it's making a lot more sense why he just rolls over and lets heaven do what it wants and even told Charlie to go in his place the start of the show. He's not in any headspace to hold a basic conversation let alone negotiate! He didn't even know who Alastor was, he's been so out of touch

idk I like him, he seems sweet, I hope Charlie brings some light back into his life. He really needs to get out of that rubber duck room