#i will have zero recollection of this in the morning

[itsza]

so...

there might be a thing happening

tagging @yeetlegay cuz their kp wlw has literally rewired my brain

[mobius-m-mobius]

DANIEL CRAIG as JAKE LONERGAN in COWBOYS & ALIENS (2011)

[mysteriesmuse]

Pro-Heroes New Years Livestream Q&A Featuring Katsuki Bakugou / Dynamite

The next morning you couldn’t help but find yourself reflecting on years past — and not just the previous one!

You’d gotten out the box full of your childhood yearbooks that your parents made you take to your new apartment. Ironically, using the wobbly stool you’d stolen from your parents house in order to grab the dusty stack off the top shelf of your closet.

And now you sat on the floor by your coffee table coughing and sneezing as you flipped up all the yearbooks labeled with: Musutafu Middle.

You flipped through them all. Laying each book out in front of you as if you were some kind of detective with a red string to connect; and honestly, you kind of did because for the life of you. You. Could. Not. Remember Katsuki Bakugou. You had absolutely zero recollection of him from your time in middle school.

The worst part about it was that none of your friends could really remember him either. Like you knew he was rich, and snobby, and sporty, but that’s just because it was a small middle school. The way that you still remember a lot of other classmates, except that was all you could recall about Bakugou Katsuki. I mean, you don’t think you knew each other well enough for your name to be the one uttered by a ProHero in a nationally televised talk show?!!

You’d watched that video over and over and over again until you could practically see him on the talkshow repeating himself behind the red folds of your eyelids. And now you��d embarrassingly see him behind your eyes every time you blinked. But besides the video corroborating the fact that you had to be the girl Dynamite was speaking about you and your bestie couldn’t figure out how he’d encountered you in middle school? Because at the very least you never ran into him. Like you knew he was there and who he was in the small town sense, but you don’t recall having met Bakugou.

At least, not in the way that your eyes light up and you cause a charming boyish grin on a man whose reputation is just THAT. That devilishly handsome, incredibly chiseled Adonis looking with the cheekbones and jawbone that may injure a person, incredibly smoldering eyebrows and sharp intellectual eyes, kind of way. Not to mention, a top ten hero at the tender age of 23.

The past few days yours and your classmates photos had been circulating through various social media platforms as the general public tried to piece together the puzzle with their own detective work.

Meanwhile, you’d managed to hide out in your little apartment as the internet took Dynamite’s childhood crush by storm. You were immensely grateful that the public hadn’t picked up on it yet. Watching the internet frenzy from afar was enough for you.

Dynamite had already released a statement that he would not confirm or give up your name for the sake of protecting your own privacy. And as quoted by @dynamiteoffical, “absolutely fucking not. that’s low shit to do to anyone you know, especially to someone you don’t know very well yet.” If the revelation in itself did it have you swooning, then the public defense, and the mention of yet did. but still? ProHero Dynamite?? A guy you’d apparently known as children and harbored a small celebrity crush on for the past year and a half, it just didn’t feel real. It didn’t make sense, why? What did he see? You dragged the final yearbook off the coffee table and much like the others you’d blown off the dust and immediately gone to find Bakugou Katsuki.

Your fingers traced around the corners of the pages. A delicate finger around the generic blue background that framed your pictures. There you stood smiling back at yourself your red kerchief matching the ribbon your mother had put in your hair. You touched the back off your head. The same hairstyle that you’d never quite grown out of: a braided ponytail; just like ProHero Dynamite had called it.

Frantically, you’d pushed your way through the filler pages of clubs, ceremonies, and school events that had occurred throughout the year. The ones that always separated the graduating class from the rest of the student bodies pictures. So many clubs and event were put on — including the semi-annual quirk emergency training. That was coordinated through the Mustafu Police Department. They canceled all club activities for one afternoon and divided up the school in half; 1st year and 2nd years together, and then 3rd and 4th years. Which according to your calculations meant that you’d been in the same safety seminar as Katsuki for 2 years. And that only explained how you did remember, and meet, ProHero Deku. They always split off the kids with quirks capable of self-defense and gave them some small group training. Meanwhile the rest of you stayed in the gymnasium learning self defense moves with partners. — You always paired up with your best friend.

You flipped past more stuff. Fondly remembering the Battle of the Books win that year. As well as the Middle school Medieval themed dance with the inflatable sword duel with the Student Body President and Vice President. And especially the Battle of the Bands an event you participated in every year til high school, much to your parents chargin, and finally that final year you’d placed top three. In the photo you stood clutching the neck of your guitar to your chest with the golden microphone in your hand. How you ever left the house in that outfit you’d never understand. You smiled fondly tracing over the trophy with your hand, a relic that your parents ironically kept in order to show off to their friends still.

Finally, you’d flipped to the grade below you and spotted the elusive head of blonde hair. In a frustrated sigh you asked, “seriously Dynamite how on earth do you know me? Like actually?” Because honestly how could a ProHero like you when you were sooo cringe.

[payasita]

Speaking of fic stuff: The Lamb and Nari wake up one morning covered in bandages, surrounded by empty bottles. They have ZERO recollection of the night before. Now what?

He awakes to a taste like bile and rust, and with one hand wrapped in at least twenty layers of gauze.

Narinder takes a second to stare at it, wiggling immobile fingers and contemplating the mechanics of sitting up with a head somehow filled with both cotton and lead. He drops the hand and decides against it, rolling over and pulling a blanket over his head. The movement does absolutely heinous things to his stomach.

A slow minute passes before he realizes he is not under a blanket at all. It's comfortable regardless, so he cannot summon the effort to care. Far softer than anything yet available in the commune. The familiar scent doesn't hurt, warm and securely claimed with his own, and indeed does a good job in blocking out the currently unmanageable stench of the outside world.

Until it's nearly pulled away from him. He clutches onto it with a hiss, and instantly regrets moving so quickly.

"Oh good, you're alive." The Lamb gives it another tug. "Give me back my fleece."

Narinder vaguely remembers having lost a battle against them while at his full divine potential. He'd even had both hands available to him and everything. He cannot truly imagine the odds are with him now.

"Thank you," they huff when he unlatches his claws. He searches for something else to cover his face while they clothe themself. His skull appears to be imploding.

"I am dying," he declares. There's a few seconds of silence. Contemplation on the Lamb's end. Abject suffering on Narinder's.

"Nope. Not sensing it."

"Your competence with the Crown is dubious at best."

"You're not dying," they assure him, lightheartedly, "It just feels like it."

He groans, rolling over and hitting himself in the face with the large gauze lump in his attempt to throw his arm over his eyes. He snarls, and begins blindly picking at it with his free claw to find the edge.

The Lamb snorts, leaning over him. They have an armful of empty bottles under an arm, and are looking infuriatingly chipper.

"How'd you go and do that to yourself?"

He glares at them, pointedly.

"I clearly cannot have done this on my own."

"What, you don't remember?"

"...No," he admits. "What happened, then?"

"Oh, hell if I know," the Lamb laughs, and is saved from having that smile shorn off their face by his vertigo alone.

They move around him and pick up another bottle, inspecting it. "I was at the same feast you were, y'know. And if you'd had all this yourself, you probably would be dead," they gesture to the bundle under their arm, already five or six strong and slipping a bit.

"... Actually, we should probably both still be dead," they tut. "I don't even know what the flock puts in this stuff, 'sides from berries. But wow, they're good at it. Hey, actually, do you think maybe we have the makings of something worth exporting to the outside world? Plimbo's always making trips back and forth to who-knows-where, I bet we could--"

"Lamb."

"Mm?"

"Your chattering is causing me physical pain."

"Oop. ...Guess I should be grateful for the divine healing factor, huh?"

Narinder ponders the irony of wishing Death incarnate to choke, and finally finishes unraveling his hand. He squints at it. He sees no damage whatsoever that might have compelled anyone to waste medical resources on him. Not a strand out of place. He inspects his claws, and finds a bit of blood under them. Odd.

"There must be, like, a dozen bottles of wine in here. Do you think I drank most of it? I remember everyone in the temple cheering when I started chugging one. ...Or, uh. Three," the Lamb recounts, setting the pile down on a nearby table. Narinder watches them, scanning down their body for any abnormalities. No claw marks or stab wounds remain, but they would be gone by now. Still. The fact that he feels metal when he pushes his hand under his pillow is probably worth noting.

"You have a basket around here?" the Lamb asks after a point, "I need somewhere to put these."

Narinder says, "I do not live here."

"...Whuh?"

"This is not my hut."

The Lamb pauses. They glance around, newly curious. Narinder grasps at the bit of metal under his pillow, and retrieves a dagger. It is smeared with blood. He eyes it, vaguely toying with the way light plays off of the dull blade.

"Did I attempt to kill you last night?" he asks idly. The Lamb looks over. They see the knife.

"...Nnnno?" They try, not even attempting to sound certain.

"I believe," Narinder mutters, hardly feeling bothered to spare the focus, "I might have killed someone."

The Lamb looks at him, having the grace to at least look troubled. Narinder, on the other hand, remains far more concerned with the roiling in his stomach.

"... Okay, wait. Wait, I think I remember-- yeah," the Lamb snaps, and points at him. "Yeah! You lost your hand privileges."

"What," Narinder says.

"Yeah! You were doing-- something," the Lamb waves off vaguely, "Yeah, I think I remember-- I had to take the claws away? I mean. That would explain the bandages?"

Narinder glances over. It certainly sounds like the sort of logic they would act upon, in the event of his own uninhibited violence.

"...So I did try and kill you, again."

"Iiii, dunno? I mean. Maybe?" Again, they don't sound remotely sure. The "divine healing factor" does not, it appears, account for episodes of alcoholic blackout. Good to know.

So, trying to kill his spouse was one possible explanation. Admittedly, it wasn't even a far-fetched one. But the ambient stench of this hut offers another.

"Lamb," Narinder sits up, winning a valiant battle with his own vertigo, "Whose shelter is this?"

The Lamb pauses. They look around again at all the bottles strewn about. They look up. At the same time they do, a droplet of blood plops onto their cheek.

"...I think his name was Bremar," the Lamb hums.

"You think?"

"I mean, the Crown can only tell me so much. 'Specially when the corpse in question has somehow been reduced to... uh... streamers."

"Ah."

"So, uh, we should--- we should go."

Narinder growls. His stomach does not agree with the prospect of standing up anytime soon.

"Ten more minutes."

"Nari," the Lamb deadpans, "You eviscerated a guy."

"...Five, then."

[pretty-toru]

within his reach┆toji fushiguro

୧ genre: fluff

୧ wc: 1.1k

୧ synopsis: the handful of times toji has broken into your apartment.

Toji Fushiguro has many notable bad habits. Gambling in between jobs to pass the time, beating men in broad daylight, and spending his entire paycheck in one transaction, just to name a few. His most recent one that he picked up? Breaking into your apartment at the most unexpected of times and nearly scaring you to death as you're rooted in place with your hands clutching your chest to calm your racing heart.

"Toji?! How did you even get in here? It's the fourth floor??"

Behind his smirk lies a hidden amusement at your cute dumbstruck expression and he thinks it's more fun to keep you guessing. "Can't tell ya that. I might need to do it again." He says almost too casually and walks around your place too comfortably, but you don't question him further because if there's one thing you know about Toji is that he has a way of getting what he wants.

"Sure, make yourself at home why don't you," you say sarcastically, and Toji's notorious for mooching off you as he strides past your gawking stare for a cold beer in your fridge. "But next time, please use the front door."

As you have guessed his intentions, Toji keeps you company long enough for him to recuperate then he suddenly and completely disappears for many weeks, even months. You're often left feeling empty adjusting back to your boring routine when there's never been a courtesy goodbye or any information about where he's going. But you found that he always returned back to you when you were starting to believe that he wouldn't.

You think Toji could work on his unannounced visits, but it certainly wouldn't be yours and Toji's special custom if he doesn't meet you again in the most unconventional of ways in the same manner he used to enter your apartment. He caught you once when you're just getting out of the shower wrapped in your bath towel with an improvised curling wand for a weapon because you heard a strange noise but quickly realized it was none other than Toji.

"Toji, you need to stop sneaking in like this! I could've killed you!"

"With a metal rod, sweetheart? Really? That's cute you think you could hurt someone considering your size."

Another incident was when you were coming out from your stupor as the golden rays gently coaxed your eyes to flutter open, and you had zero recollection of going to bed with a presumably half-naked man beside you. What was supposed to be a peaceful morning jostled you awake and you covered yourself with your comforter out of reflex. The motion caused the intruder to shift around and when he turned to face you with a glimpse of those emerald hues, you were able to identify that it was Toji all along.

"When did you even get in?? I swear I'm gonna die from cardiac arrest someday because of you."

He merely responded with a hoarse and sleepy chuckle before mumbling, "Last night. I even gave you a heads up this time." Then returned to a more comfortable position to get his much-needed rest.

Despite the flustering situation, you reached for your phone on your nightstand and saw his text message with the timestamp of 3:47 a.m. What the hell was he even doing at three in the morning? Your gaze would flit between the screen and Toji snoring softly. For all you knew, he led a mysterious and dangerous life that you're better off not knowing the details to. And maybe you're content with being blissfully ignorant.

You eventually found out that Toji's been climbing in through your window that has a broken latch after the first few times. You never felt the need to rush and fix it because you enjoyed his presence when he was around, but it still befuddles you how he manages the height from the ground up. You have your suspicions that he has a non-typical profession that allows him to leap from one balcony to another, and the curiosity is always there but you just never bothered to ask.

Toji smells mostly like petrichor and metallic from the fresh wound on his torso when you meet him again. The clothes on his back and ends of his tendrils are slightly damp as he's slouched against your sofa in the surrounding darkness. And you'd never know he was there until morning if you hadn't gone to your kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water. You're stunned to say the least because it's Toji and he looks terribly hurt.

"Toji, I don't mean to cause for an alarm." You start, doing your utmost best to remain level-headed. "But you're covered in blood and it's staining my brand-new couch."

He cocks an eyebrow at you as though he wasn't already aware of how he sustained such an injury. "Is that observation for me or for you?"

"M-mostly for myself. I think you need to go to the hospital and get that looked at."

You're unsurprised when you feel a sense of urgency to help him yet he's unconcerned about the seriousness of the situation and gives you a shrug of his shoulder. "Jus' a lil scratch, doll. Nothin' to get worked up over."

You deflate with a sigh and retrieve your first-aid kit to patch him up since he refused proper medical attention, and you couldn't have someone bleed out in your living room. (How would you explain that to your landlord?!) As you're cleaning the dirt around the narrow laceration along his abdominal oblique, you knew that it was going to leave a scar. Like the other ones that you sometimes trace your fingers over under the moonlight, and Toji can feel your eyes on them. All scars came from something painful so you never asked Toji to explain something if he's not ready.

"Go ahead and ask me about them."

Your movement stills as your head tilts upward to meet his gaze because you always knew that he kept parts of himself hidden that he considers shameful. You'd never punish him for being honest and how he chooses to live because you get the sense you both come from different worlds. And so you offer him a sweet smile and a gentle touch to the scar marring the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe it can wait just a little longer until I finish this up."

The last time Toji breaks into your apartment is when you paid a visit to the locksmith and have a copy made of your key. It's almost comical how long he's been using your window as an entrance when he reappears back in your life again. So, you're hoping that the key will save you the embarrassment of having to explain to your downstairs neighbors why the man you're seeing likes climbing buildings and can't use the door like a normal person.

[sleepysnk]

a/n: hey guys! sorry for the long wait. i haven’t had much motivation to write for the beach recently, but i had this finished so i am finally updating! it’s hard to believe that the story will be finished soon. i can’t believe it lmao. i hope you guys enjoy and thank you for your patience!

pairings: obito uchiha x fem!reader

warnings: modern au, college au, mentions of anxiety, some angst, mentions of alcohol consumption (?), protective konan (as per usual).

The Beach: Chapter Thirty

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Disoriented.

That’s the only word that felt appropriate at the moment. Hell, it was the only word that could describe how you were feeling. 

When you finally awoke the next morning, you were lost. You weren’t sure as to why you felt so.. anxious? Your stomach felt like it was in knots, and your heart was racing rapidly inside of your chest. However, you had zero recollection of the previous night. You didn’t know why you felt so sick, but it alarmed you. There were so many questions you had asked yourself. How did you get home last night? You had no idea how you ended up in your bed that morning. You were even wearing the same clothes you had left in. Did you get drunk?

You sat up in your bed. The light from the outside was basking into your room, leaving a soft glow to it. You wondered what time it was, but you couldn’t find your cell phone. Deep down, you were hoping that someone didn’t take it or something. 

However, you soon realized that it was in your back pocket. 

Reaching backwards, you pulled out your cell phone. The screen lit up, causing your eyes to squint from the harsh blue light rays. The time on your phone displayed that it was ten o’clock in the morning. You were probably hungover or something. You only really slept in if you drank the previous night, but you wondered what you had to make you blackout like that. Maybe you had some Pink Whitney or some extra shots. What you did know was that you were still very tired.

Though, there was something else that was odd to you on your phone. 

You had an immense amount of notifications. It ranged from missed phone calls to missed text messages. There were even a few voicemails you had, and it confused you. If you were drunk, surely someone made it known that they had taken you home, right? 

Then why the fuck was Konan in those missed messages?

It started to panic you. There were many questions starting to appear inside of your mind. Who took you home last night? How did you get here? What happened after you left the party? It made you feel sick, because you had no answers for any of them. You were certain Konan was at the apartment, so you’d have to ask her what happened. Frankly, you had no idea what was going on here, but you knew you’d have to message all of your friends to ease their worries about you. 

You quickly stood up, heading towards your dresser to change out of the clothes you were wearing. You needed to find something more comfortable, because you were so over the one you had on now. 

You pulled out a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. It soon hit you that you still had your makeup on from last night. It made dread rush through you at the realization. You weren’t exactly in the best mood to deal with the possibility of a breakout, so you’d definitely have to clean yourself up once you sorted out this issue with Konan. 

Once you were changed, you opened the door to your bedroom. 

The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet. It made you wonder if Konan was even awake yet. She always had the worst experiences when it came to hangovers. Maybe you’d make her some breakfast and a nice smoothie to make her feel better. After all, she had been dealing with your mess for the last couple of weeks. It’s the least you could do to make up for all of those late night conversations and tear filled evenings she had dealt with. You wondered what she might be in the mood for. Eggs? No, that’s a little too nauseating. Maybe some fruit and some toast would be good. 

You turned the corner and almost jumped out of your skin when you saw Konan sitting at the dining table. She had a cup of coffee in front of her and her phone in her hand. She seemed to be mindlessly scrolling through her apps, because she didn’t notice you at first. 

“Hey..” 

Your voice broke her out of her thoughts. Konan’s eyes left her phone and were placed onto you. You weren’t expecting her reaction, but she suddenly rushed towards you and embraced you into a big hug. “Jesus, (Y/N).. you scared the shit out of me last night.” she sighed with relief, her hands caressing your back smoothly. 

Your arms went to wrap around her waist. You were kind of confused by her reaction, so you figured that you’d ask her about it. “Konan..” you started, “Of course I’m fine, why is everyone so worried about me..? Did I get too wasted last night?”

She then pulled away, her eyebrows knitting together almost immediately. Her facial expression started to worry you. Why did she seem like she was pitying you? “Do you.. not remember? You worried me like crazy last night! I didn’t think he’d be there, but he was!” she replied, placing her hands onto your shoulders. 

The mention of a he made your blood turn cold. It hit you all at once, and the memories from the previous evening suddenly flooded into your brain. You understood it all now. You knew why you felt so anxious when you woke up, and it made you sick knowing that this happened all last night. How could everything go so south within hours? All you wanted to do was have some fun with your friends to get your mind away from the thoughts you had been having the past few days. However, it didn’t seem like anything could go right for you these days. 

You weren’t even sad anymore. If anything, you were more frustrated at the fact that Itachi was back and trying to make a move. You had spent so much time trying to rebuild yourself from what he had done. For him to come and destroy that made you so upset. You could never forget what happened that night he cheated on you. He made you feel so insecure and you practically despised every aspect of yourself. It was hard for you to trust any man who wanted to speak with you on a romantic level. That’s mainly why you chose to make this semester about you and you only. However, things didn’t exactly go your way, and now you were dealing with two different issues. 

Though, Obito wasn’t the biggest problem now. It was Itachi, and you had to figure out what to do with him. 

Your eyes settled on Konan who was genuinely worried about you. She lost you that night and she later found out your ex-boyfriend was there. It made her sick knowing she wasn’t there to intervene. “I remember now..” you muttered, “You have nothing to feel bad about, Konan. I didn’t think he’d be there either, but I’m fine.”

Konan stared at you with disbelief. How could you feel fine with all of that on your plate? Seeing your ex-boyfriend at a party after all he had done must have sent you over the edge. “(Y/N).. please, don’t lie to yourself. I know how much Itachi bothers you and it’s okay to not feel okay with him being around.” she stepped towards you, her eyes seeming serious. 

You let out air through your mouth. All of this didn’t feel real at all. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do. You didn’t know what to feel or how to react to this sudden intrusion in your life. Itachi had been MIA for months since your breakup. Why show up now? You wanted to know, but you could never face him. The thought of his face in front of you made your stomach twist with knots. “I’ll be okay, trust me.” you tried your best to sound confident, but Konan could sense the uneasiness in your tone. 

She was about to respond, but the sound of a knock on the door made her pause. 

Who the hell could be here? 

You and Konan both exchanged glances with one another at the sudden arrival of a stranger. You decided to go towards the door to see who it could possibly be. There was a chance that it could have been Deidara or Sasori. The two were both at the party that previous evening, so maybe they were stopping by to check in on you. You weren’t opposed whatsoever, but they usually gave you both a heads up if they were going to come by. 

Stepping towards the door, you shifted the small metal peephole cover that was on top of the hole. 

Your eyes grew wide when you saw who was behind the door. It wasn’t Deidara, nor was it Sasori. It was actually the exact opposite. The sight of him standing outside your door caused your heartbeat to spike rapidly, and you had no idea what you were supposed to do. Many questions began to surface inside of your mind. How did he know where you lived? Why was he here? What was he going to say? Should you open the door? Fuck! This was going to tear you apart!

“Konan..” you said. “Someone’s here.”

Konan’s eyebrows knitted at your words. She didn’t like the tone of your voice. You sounded worried. She wondered if it was possible that Obito was here. He knew where the two of you resided, so it wouldn’t be much of a shock if he was standing right outside the door. 

Only question was.. who was there?

[georgiapeach30513]

More Than You Know, Part 2

Summary: your date with Jax

Pairings: Jax Teller X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut, PIV sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, degradation, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 2.2K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*Divider by @firefly-graphics​

Biker!Ari Levinson edit by nix-akimbo

Jax gulps looking at Ari, his blue eyes following your body down the hallway, but he shakes his head, “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She loved him, you know. Was madly in love with Reyes,” Jax doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes away from Ari.

Ari’s body straightens up when you walk back into the living room, giving him a knowing look, “Don’t believe anything he says,” you warn Jax. “Lifelong friends, and he lies to protect me. Angel’s bedtime is eight.”

“Eight?” Ari asks quickly. “Eight? Like ten thirty-eight?”

“I mean, eight zero zero. He’s four Ari. No sugar after six, and Felipe and EZ usually FaceTime him around five thirty. I’ve got pizza coming at five, and…I think that’s it,” you stare up at him almost ready to stay here. The thoughts of leaving Angel terrifying you.

“He’s fine. Remember what I said,” you stand there a bit confused when Ari looks more at Jax than you, but you go with it.

Placing a hand at the small of your back, you squeal a bit in delight when you see his bike. “So we’re taking the bike?” you ask.

Even though Ari rattled him a bit, he gives you a nod, and you skip towards the garage getting your own helmet. He watches as you walk by the green Harley. Your hand quickly runs over the long scratch and dent, as you head back out to Jax. Closing the garage, and Jax feels his first pint of guilt.

Almost coincidental that he and you even met. He did not know that Angel had an old lady, or even a son waiting for him. Not that it matters anymore. He holds out a hand for you to take, before you crawl on the back of the bike with him. Naturally your arms go around his waist and your legs tighten around him. Jax almost hates how easy this is for you. Almost.

As invigorating as riding was, you feel a tiny bit of guilt, when you realize it’s not actually Angel that you’re holding. It had been nearly five years since the last time you saw Angel, and you still missed him everyday. Every morning looking into your Angel’s eyes, it reminds you of what you no longer had, but worse, what you would never have again. Punishing yourself for too long.

“You okay?” Jax asks, putting down the kickstand, he looks all around your face, searching for an answer.

You hobble off and wait on him, before walking into a diner. “I’m fine, just…”

“When was the last time you rode?”

Loaded question, you think, sitting across from Jax with a pained grin, “Uh, the day before,” you take a deep breath, realizing you never talked about Angel’s death. It was just an accepted thing that happened.

“Angel, he was my best friend first. Ari was the reason we met. We fell fast and hard, as people do when they’re young. We’d rode all day, and I was just happy to finally have him back in my life. He promised to see me that evening, but he didn’t.”

Jax’s bright eyes stare unblinking at you, as you recollect that day. “Ari came and told me it happened. I didn’t even care how it happened, just that…he was taken from me.”

“Did he know what you guys were going to have? I mean the baby?”

Your hands go to your neck, as you rub the knots that have been forming for years. “I didn’t know I was pregnant. Didn’t find out until a few weeks later. I was ready to leave Santo Padre, but I couldn’t, not with EZ and Felipe still living there, and I had the last part of Angel growing in my belly. He’s perfect. I’m sad for him, but he doesn’t know what he’s missing. He’s never met his dad. We always tell him about Angel, but he doesn’t understand.”

“Oh,” Jax answers, furrowing his brow, “He never knew that you were even pregnant?”

“It just happened,” your voice blurts out, and you look away taking a drink from your beverage.

“How…I can’t ask that, I’m sorry.”

“How did he die?” Jax gives you regretful nod, and you shrug. Reaching over the table you run your fingers over the president patch on his cut. “You get it. He was in a MC, too. The life killed him.”

“And yet you’re still here with me,” there is an almost boyish quality about Jax. That cute little crooked smirk, and the both of you know, he’s up to know good.

“Yeah, well, I tried the housewife life. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Angel, for instance, had his issues. But I always knew what he was thinking. I enjoy the predictability of it. So tell me about SAMCRO,” you ask leaning back into the booth. Your own smile on display.

“You pay attention.”

“A sexy man in a cut, nice Harley, and he comes to pick me up? Yeah, I paid attention,” that same crooked grin returns, but you notice how he looks down at the table. “So what’s your story Mr. President. You’re young. What kinda club are you in? Drugs? Guns?”

“Shh,” Jax whispers getting your voice to quiet down. “We don’t do dealings with the cartel, if that’s what you’re asking,” something you’ve heard a thousand times before. You didn’t care. You knew your place as an old lady; don’t ask, don’t tell, and keep your eyes and mouth closed.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

“Did I mention that Angel was in the Mayans?” Jax doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch doesn’t move. “You’ve heard of them?”

“A bit.”

“You know them?”

“You could say that.”

The two of you in a battle of who looks away first, you try and read him. Clearly he knows about the Mayans, and he doesn’t care. Should you? Sons of Anarchy is not a club you heard of, but you never asked.

“Let’s go,” you tell him, standing up quickly.

“What? Where?” you don’t see the slight worry in Jax’s eyes or even what they mean. All you know is it’s been nearly five years. That’s a long time to be alone.

“To your place.”

“Why?” he asks as you wait for him to get on the bike. Crawling in behind him, you lean into his ear, giving him a sweet little kiss to his neck.

“Because, I’m tired of being alone. Maybe this is a one time thing, and I’m okay with that. Or maybe, we’re talking too much, Jackson Teller. What I do know, is tonight I don’t want to be alone. You make the choice. Either you drop me off at my house, and I spend another night by myself, pleasuring myself. Or we go to your place, and you take the lead. Your choice.”

It’s not even something Jax has to think about. Nearly speeding through traffic to get you to his house, and the two of you all but sprint to his door. Hands and mouths roaming over each other’s body. Not even making it past the foyer before you end up on the floor. Struggling to take every bit of clothing off of each other, because all you want is touch.

Needy for him doesn’t even begin to describe your feelings. His hands roughly begin to jerk down your pants, “Your cut,” you remind him. He gives a growl onto your heated skin, but nothing more. Feral in his need to split you open.

Once your legs are free, his hand slides down your body, just to make sure you’re ready to take him. His hands glide through your drenched cunt, and he lets out a wanton moan. While his body is still mostly clothed, he frees himself enough. Bringing his hardened member up at your entrance, he gives one more look to your face, “Your sure?”

“Yes,” you pant out, wrapping your legs around him, you bring him closer into your neglected core. His bulbous blunt head breaks through quickly, and your head throws back on the floor.

Jax doesn’t give you anytime to adjust, just roughly thrusts into you before he’s just as quickly pulling out. His body stabbing into your heated core mercilessly, and you keen at the raw intrusion. This isn’t sweet, it isn’t love; this is making your body feel used, and deliciously so.

His hips pound into you forcefully, and you’re unsure if it’s you he’s trying to give pleasure to, or he’s just taking what he needs, but you don’t even care. Your hands go under his shirt, needing to feel his skin. That bullet necklace around his neck swinging over your body, and it’s overwhelming.

Your cunt clenching down on him quickly at how stimulated it’s becoming. But you have a deep desire to feel every part of him of your body. Leaning back, Jax holds his hands on your inner thighs. Pressing down on your legs, so he can gaze at your count sucking him back in. The way your body accommodates him so easily, and he lets out his own moan.

“Fuck!” he shouts into his house. “It has been awhile, this cunt has got me in a vice grip again. You just needed someone to treat you like the slut you are, huh?”

Your eyes roll in the back of your head at his words, coupled with his movements into your body.

Jax can’t help but smirk at how pliable you are. How easily he made you a withering mess. For the first time since talking to Ari, his brain isn’t buzzing, and you’re absolutely stunning to him. Whimpering your pretty sounds up at him.

His pace picks up, added to more harsh pumps into you. Your voice echoing up the pleasure he’s pumping into you, and the way your pussy hugs his cock is a dream. “Jax…Jax!”

“That’s it! Give it to me one more time. I’ll even give you a sweet little reward. This pussy wants it. She’s begging for it. Go on, Darling, show me what a slut pussy you have.”

You mewl looking up at him, he’s got a delectable mouth, and you were curious to know what else it could do. “Right there!”

“There?” he asks before making sure to hit that spot over and over again. Crashing into your heat. And when you grab tight to him, he feels his seed paint your walls. Your pussy milks him dry, and those bright blue eyes stare down at your spent body.

“What am I gonna do with you?”

“I need to get back to my kid. Gotta relieve Ari of babysitting duty.”

“Right,” Jax answers softly. He pulls himself out of you, and watches his spunk leak out of you. He stands up, offering you a hand, thankfully. Laughing when you stumble a bit. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…it’s been awhile.”

“I could tell. That was almost like a virgin cunt,” he loves that you give him a playful smile, not at all offended by what he said. “I should probably stay away from you, but I’d love a repeat of that.”

“Oh, you mean you liked this pretty pussy?”

“And the company,” he adds in. Throwing you, your pants, and he gives you that crooked smile when he shoves your panties in his pocket.

“Hmm, maybe we could make it a regular thing then?” there is a bit of butterflies blooming in your stomach when he answers with a yes. Maybe living in Charming wasn’t going to be so bad.

Jax walks in from dropping you off, throwing his keys on the counter before he walks towards his bathroom, “You definitely need to wash that Mayan skank off of you.”

“What do you want Gemma?” Jax groans turning to look at his mother, who sits angrily on his couch. “Glad we didn’t make it to the bed.”

“Get rid of her.”

“Nope. She’s too good.”

“There’s other pussy out there. Get rid of her. You’re letting her into club business”

Jax scoffs at his mother, continuing to walk into the bathroom, “I let her on my bike. I let her in my house, and she let me in her pussy. No club business was involved.”

“She’s still got contact with the Mayans.”

He turns around to glare at his mother, pushing her up against the wall. “She has contact with Reyes. Her son is his nephew. She has no part in Mayan business, just like she has no part in SAMCRO’s business. You understand? She knows her fucking place.”

“Laying underneath a president?”

“Keeping her fucking mouth closed.”

“And what if she finds out who came after the Mayans? What then, sweetheart? At least she has a weakness. A kid you say? Mothers would do anything for their babies.”

“Gemma!” Jax growls at her. His eyes blazing with fury. “You leave her kid out of this. She knows nothing except the life. She doesn’t know anything about SAMCRO, and she knows nothing about what happened or why. We weren’t wearing our cuts. Now get out of my goddamn house, so I can fucking shower.”

She turns quickly. Her heels clicking on Jax’s floor, and he rolls his eyes. He should let you go, but for some reason, he can’t.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @spnaquakindgdom @capswife @peaches1958 @berberriescorner @nunya7394 @raging-panda @thedarknessilove @nana1000night @pono-pura-vida

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '23 ⸺ 「 10 / 31 * NUCLEAR 」

July 16, 1945

When the countdown reaches fifteen, a hush as silent as death immediately falls over the crowd. Conversations grind to a halt mid-sentence and everyone's eyes drop, almost in-sync, to the ground. Emmett tenses on the towel he's laid out for himself, his muscles seized by equal parts fear and anticipation.

This has to work.

This can't work.

It's a dizzying thing to stand at such conflicting odds with one's own invention, to know that your hands have touched and constructed and breathed life into something that, if it works, could rob others of that same life in a heartbeat on a scale that had never been achieved before.

Should I breathe? Should I hold my breath?

What if six seconds is all they have left until the world ignites and burns itself to ash thanks to the hubris of man? He had thrown his lot in with the crowd that believed it wouldn't, but non-zero was still something.

Emmett feels like he ages a year for every second he's trapped in limbo, not knowing whether or not the past several years of hard work will have yielded the results they so desperately hoped for.

He believes it will, because he has to. Otherwise, what was this all for?

When the countdown reaches zero, the bomb is not the only thing that drops.

So, too, does Emmett’s stomach.

The light of an artificial sun paints the sky with a brilliance he has no words to describe and Emmett screws his eyes shut for a second, blinded. Bodies shuffle around him, his fellow scientists all let out a collective breath—they, too, must have held it—and Emmett comes back to himself, twisting and fumbling for his protective lens to get a proper look at the culmination of all this time and energy.

And when the shockwave finally hits, twenty seconds or a minute later, he's not sure, whipping Emmett's wild red mane of hair around until it becomes a secondary flame ignited by the blast, all he can see is Pandora’s Box being blown wide open for all eternity, releasing horrors that can never be sealed again.

The blast sounds like a beast roaring in his ears, but it pales in comparison to the pillar of flame climbing higher and higher into the air, glowing with a radiance that puts their sun to shame.

He’s never put much stock into stories of magic and fairytales. As a man of science, there was no place for such things; all science once was magic, unexplainable phenomena they had not the skill yet to understand. Everything had an explanation once studied and picked apart, but right now, his mind can only grasp at stories.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. He must have spoken to people, because he’s been clapped on the back and thanked and lauded, but what he might have said eludes him. Most of the others around him are celebrating, and maybe he is, too, somewhere.

They did not destroy the world. With this, they can put an end to the war. Brothers and fathers and sons will come home, the fighting and bloodshed will cease, and humanity can move on.

Maybe they won’t have to use this weapon after all.

But what if we do?

With this successful test, even though the future of the device was still up in the air—will they or won't they?—it was clear that the world would never be the same. The tower where they'd hoisted it up had been vaporised. Nothing of it remained where, not an hour ago, it loomed in the distance, holding the weight of their hopes and dreams.

If it could do that to a structure that normally would be unshakeable, what would it do to the land? To humans? The data—the data said one thing, but numbers and figures did not prepare him for actually witnessing the detonation; it should stand to reason that it would be exactly the same in practise.

At some point between the rising of the real sun and the ride back to Los Alamos, Emmett has the vague recollection of being invited out for drinks; a celebration, they'd said, now that they've finally crested that daunting hurdle. He'd declined, wanting nothing more than to sit in his room to give his spinning thoughts the attention they deserved.

He had far too much to think about, and he was never too partial to alcohol in the first place.

When he can no longer suffer the suffocating feeling of the walls of his room closing in on him, Emmett steals out into the night, grateful for the cool desert air even in the summer.

A solitary figure leans against one of the buildings and Emmett would recognise that silhouette anywhere.

❝Emmett,❞ Oppenheimer says by way of greeting after taking a long drag of his cigarette, ❝I take it I don't have to guess at what brings you out here at this hour?❞

[ireallydolikeyou2]

Back in December, I thought that maybe making voice memos (right before passing out) would be the way to go (rather than having to be burdened by physically writing in my journal/typing in my notes)... I attempted this one time, & one time onlyy,.. because I woke up the v next morning with absolutelyy zero recollection of my recording anything the night before,.. / just so happened to see that I had texted myself a 31 sec. voice message .. & wowwie ... .

@sidirabmut it's still the cute "okiee byeeee..." (as if ending a phone call) at the v end 4 me... .

[therealsaintscully]

saintscully fic outtakes

I'm not sure exactly why I'm doing this, but I feel like sharing some things I found today in my Google Drive while looking for a file I was sure was there. I found a few documents with stories and ideas for stories that I never ended up writing and was just a little surprised. I completely forgot about writing some of those. Reading them is like reading someone else's stories. So, I thought I'd share some snippets, paragraphs that put a smile on my face, from stories I won't finish.

The longest one (2K+ words I forgot about!) is called After Life. Here's the description I wrote for it: 'This is a companion piece to I Have Not Lingered, told from John’s POV; it is set in Ricky Gervais’ After Life universe. This story is a canon divergence for both shows.'

Now I can look back on this and realize I ended up writing a variation of John's POV to I Have Not Lingered in Life and Death in Sunderland, which I love dearly. I'm shocked that I planned for this to be a crossover with Ricky Gervais' After Life. I have zero recollection of how I was planning to do that. Imagine that awkward reunion for David Brent and Tim Canterbury.

(TW: Suicidal ideation)

He’s counting up until he hits a number that would stand out as the number of days appropriate to wait before he joins Sherlock. Join where exactly, he doesn’t know. He’s been an uncaring agnostic his entire life. Calling Sherlock an atheist would be nothing short of an understatement. Sherlock would have berated him at the mere suggestion of a romantic afterlife reunion (“The only place to meet me after my death would be inside my coffin, John, but I’d rather not be so cramped for eternity, if you don’t mind.”).

So that's the reason he's counting: the number of days since and long enough until. Until he finds no reason to stop settling for watching the waves break against the shore. Until he decides to finally step into the water and walk, and walk, and walk until the water takes him. This morning he woke up thinking, "210 days since, 0 days until."

This isn’t the first time the counter had been at "0 days until." It almost happened before, but only almost. It was seven days after Sherlock died. That was the day John discovered that his gun wasn’t in the flat anymore. He tore the place up looking for it before he understood what had happened; someone had confiscated it. He would never know who or when. It was definitely there a fortnight earlier, but it certainly wasn’t by the time the count hit seven. It could have been Mycroft’s people. It could have been Lestrade. It could have been Sherlock, he realized back then, a wave of nausea taking over. Sherlock could have, would have planned his own suicide while John was being his oblivious, idiotic self. Sherlock would include confiscating John’s gun in his pre-mortem checklist. But that would mean… that would mean Sherlock had an inkling of just how much he’d meant to John. That he fathomed just how much John cared about him, loved him. But he didn’t, did he? No person in their right mind would jump so theatrically off a building in front of a man who loves them. No, Sherlock never knew how John felt. Or maybe he knew but it just didn’t compute in his brain, not enough. Not correctly. No. It must have been Mrs. Hudson. She knew. She knew everything. She caught every single one of John’s longing glances and heard every beat of John’s yearning heart. She’s a smart lady, tougher than he and Sherlock put together. She must have been the one to take the gun. She sensed John’s death wish well enough; she begged him to get rid of it by begging him to not leave Baker Street.

Next is Marrakech, which was supposed to tell us what John and Sherlock did in Morocco before they chased Mary down. I realized, after reading it, the idea of the story was for John to complain about not knowing anything about Mary, her childhood and her life, and ends up interrogating Sherlock about his favourite childhood books because that's what he really wants to know. I then I realized that I incorporated that long conversation into chapter 12 of Turned, nearly verbatim. I had no recollection of writing it in such detailed form for Marrakech.

They took a red-eye flight, hoping to bring his tempestuous wife back home this time. She has been gone for months. Sherlock, his sense of duty reaching new heights, had been waiting for a good opportunity to chase her down in a country that would turn a blind eye should anything go wrong or become incredibly illegal. They landed four hours ago. Not having had the chance to pack properly or book a hotel, they crawled into the first taxi at the airport and simply blurted out the word ‘hotel’ to the disinterested taxi driver. It took them about ten minutes to get here; they booked two rooms, but Sherlock, being Sherlock, was upgraded to a honeymoon suite due to a last-minute cancellation. John had never laughed so hard in his life as at the moment he saw a confused Sherlock scanning a king-sized bed decorated with swan-shaped towels and pink rose petals. "Congratulations, Sherlock," John giggled as Sherlock blinked wordlessly. The honeymoon suite had a fruit bowl and a steaming, minty tea cooking in a Moroccan teapot, so John saw no reason to venture out to his own room. Five minutes later, he found a deeply exhausted Sherlock spread like an octopus over bedspreads and petals, his phone nearly falling from his hand. Four hours later, Sherlock is still asleep, and John surveys the city streets through the screened window, wondering where his wife is and how it is that, despite his best attempts to always do everything right, he ends up watching men fly off roofs and wives running away from him.

The Guestroom was supposed to be a sweet post-S4 friends to lovers, with Sherlock babysitting Rosie at John's house for a week sleeping in the guestroom because John's due for a conference. By the end of the week, thing become... consummated, lol. At the guestroom, of course. These are the first (and only) couple of paragraphs:

He stares at the floor as he walks toward the hotel's car park, the entire lobby filled with doctors, all half-drunk, still willing to mingle on their first night of the week-long medical conference. Most of them will be staying at the hotel. Not that he has anything bad to say about Novotel Ipswich; it’s that the other choice of driving back and forth each day seems less threatening than spending a mind-numbing week with his mind-numbing GP colleagues. He clocks the long ride home in just under two hours, his mind mostly working out the logistics for the rest of the week. It's been a roller-coaster ride, making sure this week is somehow survivable; Rosie’s favorite minder agreed to the extra work at first, then cancelled last minute when her boyfriend (soon to be fiancé?) surprised her with a trip to Thailand. After scrambling last minute, he thought he’d found another minder who, unbelievably, was hospitalized with appendicitis on Saturday night. For a few hours on Sunday, John even considered taking Rosie with him and finding a minder in Ipswich when Sherlock came to his rescue. Yes. Sherlock. “She needs to be picked up from nursery and then there’s the whole evening routine, Sherlock,” John said. “Yes, I know, John,” Sherlock replied and rolled his eyes. “I’ve been watching you do it for months now. Nursery, tea, dinner, bath, book, sleep.” John stared at him. “I can take care of Rosamund,” Sherlock said, his face contorting in a way that only John would ever notice or understand. He was offended. “I know you can,” John said apologetically. “But… why would you want to?” “Would it be helpful to you?” “Yes, of course.” “Then that’s why,” Sherlock said, sealing the argument with his unshakable rationale. There was no arguing with that, really. He had to quietly persevere through several more eye rolls as he made sure Sherlock understood that means a) no taking Rosie on a case and b) not bringing a case to Rosie, and of course, their long-since established c) no explosives, period. Eventually, Sherlock dropped a large pile of cold case files in demonstration of how he’s planning to spend the week.

The End of the World was clearly supposed to be a nod Millenium, The X-Files episode. If you know, you know. I might actually write this one, one day lol :)

The room is just another hospital room, one of hundreds John has seen in his lifetime. The day, just another day with Sherlock: chaotic, unexpected, and ending—as so many of them usually do—with a concussion and far too many stitches. The only reason John managed to manhandle Sherlock into the A&E in the first place was because the suspect, a janitor at the hospital, was running for cover in the tangled web of the hospital’s expansive basement floor. Sherlock had chased the culprit down through emergency stairs and dove headfirst into a mangled hedge of roses and, well, here they are.

What do you think? I hope you like them :)

[trans-lykanthropie]

It's so funny that I got some anon hate this morning over that post of mine that broke containment, but seeing as I deleted it whilst still half asleep I have zero recollection what it said

I hope whoever sent it is furiously refreshing my blog awaiting my answer, and I hope they enjoy my usual output of bullshit about werewolves

[jeysbvck]

apparently i changed my twitter name last night/this morning.

i have zero recollection of this, but i like it so it's staying.

[restforthe-burdenedsoul]

Therapy tomorrow! I’m excited

Just needed a quick processing before my zoom training. I’ve been feeling very emotionally stuck in the past again regarding my ex. I’m really not sure why my brain keeps jumping back there. I’ve just been feeling very unsafe lately and I don’t know why.

Anyway, we have this training today with one of our umbrella agencies. I’ve been battling with them since 2019 to get my last name correct. They change it and then every new training that comes out (about 2-3 times a year) there they go with my previous married name.

I’m not trying to be the drama, but it’s really bothersome seeing that name. Usually it’s just annoyance, I send an email to my boss, she tells me to email someone and cc her, she has to cut into them, and they finally change it.

This time it hasn’t rolled off my back so easy for whatever reason and I ended up having some elevated anxiety last night and honestly I think a flash back? M and I were messing around in the living room and he was trying to throw my socks at me (I leave them EVERYWHERE in the house bevsue I take them off wherever I take my shoes off. I know it annoys him I just forget! Haha) at one point he went to stuff them down my shirt (this was all playful by the way. Also they weren’t dirty haha. I wear socks for like 1 minute to take the dog outside and then I take them off immediately) but I went into instant flight mode when he grabbed my shirt. I was never explicitly physically abused (to my recollection) by my ex, there were definitely some questionable moments at the end, but my brain went instantly back to one of those questionable moments.

I went upstairs and tried to shake it off and the rest of the night was fine. Before falling asleep, I was feeling pretty anxious and when I closed my eyes, that scene with my ex kept coming into my mind. I ended up crying myself to sleep because I couldn’t get my brain off it. It was more so just feeling really sad that I went through what I went through and somewhat me questioning/processing that night/memory in 2018.

Fast forward to this morning, our tech president emailed back and said he is not able to change the name with this agency today. He told me to see if I could myself but I don’t see anywhere I have access to do that. He said to bring it up in the training.

I’m going to email my boss because I don’t know that I want to ask that question out loud. Not that I’d have to go into details but idk. Am I being over dramatic? I did not expect so many years later to have have that intense of a feeling regarding my ex. Writing this post is making my cry a bit.

I know that this other agency (and mine, except my boss) know the abuse that went on but it does upset me every time I have to see that name again

I know he holds zero power over me these days. I am states away from him with zero connections. I know that I am safe. But I’m definitely struggling today.

[starspatter]

Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 21

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 1,333 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20

Also on ff.net and AO3.

But just go to bed now you crazy kid You'll be alright I know come morning time Just let the moon rise and the sun go down Don't let the hard times make you feel alone

-Family of the Year, "Find It"

————————–

Between.

Gotham cemetery.  A place of mourning and memory.  A young man exited out from a taxi cab after paying the driver’s fare, watching its tracks roll away through faintly falling snow before facing the metal gate.  Winter had set upon Gotham early this year, and he idly adjusted his scarlet scarf – a single splash of color amidst the gray.  …In his hands he held a similar sign of vibrance, in the form of a ruby bouquet of blossoms.

With a sigh, he steeled himself, and creaked open the steel spokes, trudging up the hill towards his destination.  On his way, he passed by a huge headstone that bore the unmistakable marker of a single surname carved in bold: Wayne. He paused, uncertain, as he silently bowed his head for a minute to pay polite respects, before moving on.

When he reached his real objective (coincidentally located not too far away), he lamented a little with gnawing guilt at the sight of brown and overgrown weeds shrouding the spot, enduring despite choking chill.  There was no marble slab, no erect monument of honor to stand proud the test of time – but a single plate embedded in the earth.  He bent down and parted the plants, brushing off a light layer of white dust to reveal its ephemeral epitaph, running his fingers solemnly over the minimal inscription:

Steven Drake

Husband and Father

19XX – 200X

There was another grave beside it with an analogous engraving.  He dutifully swept it clear as well, before gently laying the flowers down between the two.  Stepping back, he shoved his palms in his pockets, breathing out in belated greeting.

“Hi, Mom.  Hey, Dad.  It’s been a while.”

He rubbed the back of his hair awkwardly, overwhelmingly aware of just how long it had been since he’d given his own kin any kind thought, having made zero effort to dig up the dirt of an even more distant past.  Per his own personal request, Mr. Wayne had spared him any fancy funeral proceedings, employing but a simple ceremony and privately hired preacher.  Burying his father’s bloated, barely recognizable blue corpse in a closed casket after importing it back from Metropolis, in order to let his body’s spirit rest in Gotham hallowed ground at least – at “home”.  …Bruce had held his hand the entire time though, and the long overdue tears from that day threatened to descend now at the recollection.  He shook his head though and swallowed firmly, struggling to find a way to broach conversation, make up for lost time.

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited often.  I guess I’m still mad at you for a lot of things,” he grudgingly admitted, mostly addressing the male side of the equation.  “But… I know you did what you felt you had to in order to support Mom and me, all on your own.”

He focused on the paternal plaque by his feet – not quite in forgiveness just yet, but understanding sympathy at least.  Having seen and experienced how truly horrible a “parent” could be firsthand, he had a better appreciation now for some blessings, however small.

“I don’t know if you’ve been watching from… wherever you are.  So I guess I’ll just start at the beginning.  After you left, Bruce Wayne found me and took me in.  You know, the big-shot billionaire?  He… gave me a job.  The best job in the world, I thought.  I… was really good at it too.  Things were great, for a while.  I was honestly happy.  And…” He hesitated.  “You would’ve been proud of me, I think.  …If you’d only been there to see.”

Glassy eyes masked in mist, lifting a lugubrious look to the clouded, crying sky.  Dull and monochrome.  Monotone.

“But… I messed up.  Bad.  I mean: really, really screwed up.  I made the biggest mistake of my life, and it cost everything and everyone I love.  I… did something terrible.  Something you never even had the guts to do.”

His knuckles clenched tightly, reminiscing.

“Before you disappeared, you said something to me.  You probably thought I was asleep, but I heard you.  You… said that I’d be ‘okay’. That I had ‘something special’, something you ‘never had’.”

He lowered his gaze, returning resentfully to reality.

“You were wrong though. I’m not special,” he spat in hindsight, acknowledging the full irony of the forecasting statement.  “And I’m sure as hell not okay.”

Biting his lip, he exhaled, letting it go.

“But… I’m doing better now. Since then anyway.  Things have changed.  I’ve got a new job – a legit one, that’s not breaking any laws,” he almost laughed in mocking jest at the notion.  “-with decent salary and benefits, can afford a fairly nice place of my own; a ‘stable’ income life and all that normal shit.  In general, I suppose you could say things are… pretty ‘all right’ at the moment.  I’ve even made some really good friends, who helped me get back on my feet after that.  And I… met a girl: Her name’s Stephanie.  You’d like her, she’s got what you’d call ‘spunk’.”

He smiled softly.

“We’re getting married soon, in the spring.  I… wish you could be there.  Both of you.”

A beat, before quietly adding:

“All of you.”

…He whispered.

“I want you to know: No matter what, you’re still my Dad.  Bru- Mr. Wayne could never replace you.  …He tried though, he really did.  I… don’t blame him for that.  So, please – try not to hate him too.”

His fist tautened in determination.

“Even so, I won’t be like you.  And I won’t be like him either.  I’m… gonna find my own way from now on.  Stay straight, stay clean yada yada.  Stay ‘strong’ – gold and all that crap.”

Reflecting back, he mused.

“In the end, maybe that’s what you were trying to do too.  The right thing.  Show ol’ Pukeface who’s boss, protect me and this whole goddamn city.  And paid the price for it.  …Or maybe you were just trying to save your own skin.”  He shrugged.  “Guess I’ll never know at this point.”

Scratching his scruff again through the scarf, he found himself running out of things to say.  He thought there’d be a lot more mean and angry words to let out, finally get completely off his chest; cruel criticism for all the accumulated sins committed by every contributing party involved, more bitterness built up after all this time…  But somehow it didn’t seem worth it anymore.

“I suppose that’s all I wanted to come to talk about, for now.  I’ll stop by again.  And… I’ll bring her with me next time, so you can meet her.”

Bidding farewell for the time being, he turned and trekked back through the gathering slush towards the entrance.  Crunching through ice and frost as he walked purposefully past cracked, pious structures and beneath the barren branches of trees, limbs stripped of life and leaves but still surviving – clinging on desperately by the roots.  So too were the touchstone memorials, the ones still being devotedly cared for by loved ones left behind.  (Like hidden trophy cases submerged just as deep underground, concealed in cold storage – frozen stasis – within a closeted cave.  …Maybe, it might be more accurate to refer to it as a “mausoleum” than a “museum” at this stage, given the curator’s penchant for creeping about at night, as if a wandering ghost himself.  Maintaining appearance as a haunting host for no one, no reason other than to selfishly serve his own death-seeking crusade – grimly reaping what he’d sown.)  …So as not to forget where they’ve been and where they came from – a permanent, palimpsest reminder that someone was, in fact, ‘here’.

He didn’t get very far though before he came upon another fresh set of slightly larger prints beside his own, trailing to a stop before the towering tomb he bypassed earlier.

…

Blooming like budding drops of blood at its shadow’s base was something that wasn’t there before:

It was a pair of red roses.

————————–

I say goodbye as it fades away Out past those trees I'm gonna find my way Please don't be scared for me I'm big and I'm strong You had to know that I would leave all along

[arcplaysgames]

You're not my dad, bro

I think Nanako is maybe everyone's dad though, lmao. "Are you causing trouble under my roof, father? Are you starting shit? 'Cause I'll end it."

Thanks for the assist, Nanako. She is singlehandedly going to keep this investigation going just by providing cover for me and my dipshit crew who bring fucking full sized katana to the food court.

uh.

holy shit

It is after dark. I just went up to my room to sleep. and my homeroom teacher is calling me and asking me to meet him at a gas station.

right sure okay i'll just go do that, that seems normal and not likely to end in a third fucking murder, yep sure, just gimme a sec to run up to my room and jot down my final will and testament, i'm sure nanako knows where the nearest notary public is in inaba and is willing to get it signed for me, mmhm

BRUH WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME AFTER DARK AND MAKING ME COME OUT TO GIVE ME THIS, IT IS A SUNDAY NIGHT, SCHOOL IS TOMORROW, YOU WOULD HAVE SEEN ME

breathe

its fine. okay.

anyway. after that brush with death, yosuke and chie talk about their shadow selves and note that Reverie didn't have one before attaining his Persona. Now, Yosuke thinks Reverie got his persona outside the TV!Saki Liquorstore, but we know from being the player that Reverie had Izanagi in a dream the first night after arriving in Inaba.

Which. Yep. Pretty weird. Metatextually, we could be Shadow Reverie, but that doesn't seem MegaTen's style. I hasn't known one to tap on the fourth wall in that specific way yet.

Whatever, I'm not going to guess this from the start. As long as it's not Ryoji again, I'm fine with it. We can literally only go up from Ryoji.

Chie's the Chariot. That tracks. Forward momentum at all costs. The Chariot is meant to learn to wield the reins, unifying conscious and subconscious to gain more control. I'm cool with this.

Velvet Room. The spoiler-free walkthru I'm using (I heard a suggestion to use it for the first month just to learn about various mechanics bc P4G has a LOT) had me leave and re-enter, and Marie seems just thrilled to bits to see me. At this point, I am becoming inured to the fact that literally no one is nice ever in this town. SIGH.

Marie is... not of man. Okay. /blinks

What is the Velvet Room... Margaret says everything that occurs in here is tied to our destiny and specifically the contract we have to fulfill. In P3P, no one but FeMC could see the Velvet Room, and in P4G, same case.

Nngh this is the kind of thing I wanna crack like an egg but the answer genuinely might be "this place is a vehicle of the story (pun intended) and exists to facilitate it."

So the Velvet Room is Atlus. There, I solved it. Quod erat demonstratum.

Because Marie is "not of man" (a term Margaret pointedly refuses to elaborate on) I should take her out to explore the world outside, apparently. Like my dates with Elizabeth in P3P.

Please don't blush, you're a bit too tsuntsun for me right now.

Margaret also calls me the next morning to talk about quenching my heart's yearnings, so I think she wants me to go find Akihiko and cry into his ample pecs until he hugs me because I am SO ALONE in this town.

But first I have to join a sports club. And culture club? I have zero recollection of these. I think I may have even skipped a sports club in my initial PS2 playthru bc I'm petulant and hate sports. Buuuut I need S-Links.

So:

do you know akihiko gives good hugs? i mean that's why he spent three years in boxing club, right? to give better hugs?

you know who i know gives good hugs? Mitsuru. she'd pull a whole jennifer lopez "come into my coat" thing, i bet you

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus & Magnus,

After a whirlwind of a day at the children's water festival, we packed up as fast as we could, left Will to catch an Uber to the Colorado Springs Airport, and Bryan drove me and Darla to the Denver Airport to catch a flight home. The decision to fly out of Denver vs Colorado Springs was a tough one, but ultimately Darla and I made the right call because Will's flight was delayed. He didn't make it home until after 1am. Darla and I landed in Little Rock around 9pm, at which point she told me she'd left her phone in the Denver Airport bathroom (right before I took this picture of us walking across the tarmac to board).

As we walked to the parking lot at LIT, I said, "I have zero recollection of parking my truck here." And then it hit us that my truck was at the Signature airplane hangar because I caught the Garver jet to Harlingen on my way to Denver earlier this week, so we had to get an Uber to the other side of the airport, and then I gave the driver an extra $25 to take my phoneless friend to the warehouse to get her car so I could go straight home and see Mom before she needed to go to bed because she'll be at the hospital at 6:30 in the morning.

We're keeping it all together, but not without significant effort.

Dad.

Denver, Colorado. 5.19.2023 - 5.09pm.