#it kinda ran away with me

[asha-mage]

Rand/Mat/Tuon, judicious

[Send me a character or pairing, and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!]

Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag stood at the edge of her chambers, luxuriating in the feel of silk curtains brushing against her bare skin. The faint salt twanged breeze that came up off the River Eldar had mostly dried her of the left over water from her bath, and she could at any time, retreat back into her chambers to be dressed and begin hearing the day’s reports. But for the moment she was content to simply stand, hidden by the fluttering of the curtains and observe the garden below.

Inarian laid sprawled out beside one of the ponds there, where she had left him the night before, a sheer silken blanket covering his naked form. His hat, coat, scarf and other effects she had ordered returned to his sleeping chambers, but his ashandarei and his medallion she had ordered to remain untouched. If he wanted to depart, he would do so inconvenienced but not seriously hindered. A fine line to walk, but a necessary one, now more then ever.

She had acknowledged him officially as Emperor Consort, which made him Lord of the Tower and, in theory, her most important councilor and ally, as it was supposed to be with every Empress and her consort, though it had rarely been so in truth. Even Lothair Paendrag had kept a Favorite to shower with his affection and love, while marrying for the good of his budding Empire, as was practical and necessary for a ruler.

Yet the common folk required some illusions and romantic notions to take away the sting of harsh truths. A nation existed as much because people believed in it, as for anything done with a soldier’s blade or an official's pen, and to believe required the sorts of stories that made children starry eyed. That the Seekers never erred in their quest for the truth. That the army was truly always victorious in the end. That the Empress loved the Emperor.

She had never expected to find truth in the illusion, anymore then she had expected to be stolen away by a dashing hero.

And yet…

A silvery slash of light appeared in the garden and lengthened till it was tall an archway. From where she was standing that slash seemed to widen and part, becoming a silvery haze in the shape of a solid rectangle, before snapping back into a slash again and winking out.

The man who had stepped out of the gateway walked with all the confidence of a member of the Deathwatch Guard, as if he where not an intruder in the heart of Seanchan power and violating so many laws by his mere presence that he could, at the least, expect to be condemned to the Tower of Ravens for the rest of his life.

If he where anyone else that was.

Fortuona watched the man cross the garden, the blades of grass seeming to visibly grow greener, the trees more full in branch and flower, by his mere presence alone, and stoop down to where Inarian was laying beneath his blanket. She knew he was pressing his mouth close to Inarian’s ear to whisper to him. Fortuona watched her husband stir, coaxed by his lover’s voice to wakefulness, and she did not need to be near enough to hear to know that there would be soft laughter in both their words, anymore then she needed to see them to know that smiles would be painting both their faces.

The name Inarian would not be muttered, nor would whatever name that man was using these days. To each other, like this, they would simply be Rand and Mat, nothing more or less, no titles or burdens or barriers between them.

Inarian insisted that Fortuona call him Mat as well- in private at least- and she no longer minded doing so, no matter how much her skin itched from the bad luck of it. (In her friskier moods she even went so far as to call him Toy again, which he seemed to not mind at all.) She saw it now as a symbol of their trust, their connection.

Yet it still rankled something in her, that he rejected the honors and accolades she so freely bestowed on him. He was not ungrateful, not really, and he had understood the import, once she explained it. Yet he still did not regard the name she had gifted him with anywhere near the reverence as the one he had as a mud footed farm boy. And a part of her, the part that was still the petulant angry girl who had needed more switchings then any Imperial Princess in memory, couldn’t help but wonder if it was because that was the name Rand al’Thor had known him by.

For a moment Fortuona considered retrieving one of the hidden crossbows she kept secreted about her room- the one inside the tea table would be closest, loaded already with a single short bolt and tipped in powdered peach core already for a fatal blow even if it missed any essential organ- and firing down at the man who presumed to make her husband laugh. With the curtains fluttering around her still she was the next thing to invisible, and it would be easy enough to explain away: Inarian and his lover had not been as discreet as they should. A Deathwatch guard had assumed the Emperor Consort was being threatened, and acted in zealous protectiveness. She could even offer the life of one of her Guards to Inarian’s satisfaction, knowing full well her soft hearted husband would never claim such, would be horrified the very idea. It would be clean, brutal, and final.

Fortuona let the thought roll about in her mind for a bit, as she always did, and then as she always did, she set it aside firmly. It would be a misstep in the long run she knew, cracking something between her and Inarian that would not be easily mended. Cracking him maybe, in his heart. And for what? Silly childish notions like affection and love? She was a woman grown, and arguably the most powerful woman on the planet at that. She could not afford the silly indulgences of children. Her world was bitter reality. It always would be.

She would do her part in the dance instead. Inarian would listen to the sweet whispers to the man who had once been the Dragon and vanish for a few days, and she would hold back his hat and his coat, his scarf and his bag of oddities and keepsakes, to keep a tie to him that he would neither feel nor be able to break. She might burn something, perhaps the coat, to punish him in the meantime (she liked the hat and the scarf on him to much to destroy them) but when he returned she would act as if he never been away. She would not acknowledge his dalliance with his lover in any way, and instead let his guilt and anxiety prick him for her.

Inarian was suspended she knew, between her and the man who had once been the Dragon, each of them holding him by equal force, and with equal gentleness. He was like a fox between two dens. He would run this way, then that, as he willed, answering her call and then his lover’s, divided always between two masters, each playing the game to keep him enticed and entranced, each tempting the attention of dark glittering eyes. Fortuona knew not how the game would end, only that the surest way to loose would be to try and trap him, bind him in some way where he could feel the cord. He would bolt against which ever hand, hers or anyone else’s that tried to do that, and be lost forever.

The only thing worse would be letting him know how much of a claim on her heart he had. He would never take advantage of such- that was not her Inarian, in character or nature. Yet it would frighten him she was sure, if he guessed even half of the depths of her affection for him. The love that burned in her breast for her clever trickster of a husband.

An Empress was not supposed to love anything but her people. Love for an individual was a dangerous madness, a sickness of hot passion that had broken a thousand kingdoms. It made people value one life above the lives of the masses, one person’s opinion over the well being of an Empire. She had not believed it to be real for most of her life. What could one person’s opinions matter more then the fate of nations? The blood of thousands? It was a thing for stories, not bitter realities. Not her reality.

And then she had been stolen away by a fox that made the ravens fly.

So now she walked her fine line, of gentle push and pull and twist and turn. Never showing her hand, never letting the mask break. Never letting her fingers quite leave Inarian’s neck, while never pressing down so hard as to make him bolt.

She kept the secrets of Rand al’Thor, once the Dragon, and she said nothing when Inarian vanished from her life for days or weeks or months, smothered the ache in her rib cage as surely as she smothered the pain from knife wounds and cross bow bolts. The alternative was to loose him forever, or else reveal her weakness, her childishness, the defect within her that should disqualify her from sitting on the Crystal Throne. Neither outcome could ever born.

Better, more prudent, more judicious, to keep her cards to chest, and to play the game for as long as she could manage.

The Empress of Seanchan loved her husband, and their was maybe no greater danger to the Empire in all the world then that.

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #61 part 1

Danny didn’t like thinking about his old life. He was born to a family of assassins and as soon as he was out he never looked back. He had to fake his death and he changed his name, as far as anyone knew Damian Al Ghul had died on a mission to America. He was determined to keep this secret to the grave. Of course he knew who his dad was, Bruce Wayne was a prominent figure and he knew if we went there his secret would get out and he never wanted to be forced to be an assassin again. Once was enough. 

Danny knew he had a soft heart, his adoptive parents, the Fentons and Jazz had told him so. Jazz knew he didn’t have the greatest childhood or past but she never pried, she understood his business was his and wouldn’t let her own curiosity get the better of her. The only issue their family had was their parents obsession with ghosts. Damian never believed in ghosts, the entire thing sounded like a hoax. He probably never would have believed in them but then life happened. 

Danny believed, but it was kind of hard not too after everything that happened. When he had turned 14, his parents finished their biggest project yet. A portal to the ghost zone, of course it doesn’t work at first and his parents were very disappointed. Danny felt conflicted about the whole thing. On one hand he wanted his parents to succeed and he wanted them to be happy, on the other the portal was the reason he ate alone with his sister at night. He wanted a normal family life, something he was never allowed back at the league. 

He did something so stupid that night.

After his parents along with his sister were asleep, he crept down to the basement and stood in front of the empty hole in the wall. He looked around the outside of it first but nothing seemed to be out of place. Then he stepped into it and before he got too far into it something happened. He knew there were a lot of cords on the floor and thought he had avoided them all, but as he realized he was quickly being acquainted with the floor, he out of instinct held his hand out to catch himself on the wall. Right onto the ON button.

He didn’t remember much but pain after that.

A lot happened in the year after the portal was turned on but Danny thought he was taking things well. His sister found out about everything sooner than he liked but having someone to help him was something he didn’t realize he really needed until then. The ghost attacks were frequent and Danny was having trouble finding the time for school, friends, and fighting ghosts that the assistance helped a lot. 

Danny sat at as desk in Mr. Lancers class, who was going on about the play Hamlet. Danny was only half paying attention, he was preoccupied thinking about the latest conversation he had with Clockwork. Danny was recently crowned prince after his victory over Pariah Dark. He didn’t want the crown, ancients knew what Grandfather would do if he ever found out, but he had no other option but to accept. The conversation left him rather drained and it felt like every word his teacher spoke bled together. 

He eventually made his way to lunch and before he could make it to his destination a blue mist wafted out of his mouth. Sighing he ran out of the room to find a place to transform. Once he was Phantom he wasted no time finding the ghost. Of course it was Boxie. 

Before he had time to even fight though a portal opened up right besides Danny and he was kicked in by the Box Ghost. The world seemed to swirl around him until he landed harshly onto some pavement. The pavement was a roof and he appeared to be in a city. 

Not just any city he soon realized as he looked over to a bank that had the words ‘Gotham Bank’ brightly plastered on the front.

Shit… Danny wanted to avoid something like this, unfortunately the portal was already gone. 

After taking a moment to think about his predicament he decided the best course of action was to call Jazz.

He took a look around the rooftop he was on and when he didn’t see anyone he transformed back. 

Pulling out his cell from his pocket he pulled up his sister's contact on it and hit the call button. 

His sister took a bit longer than usual to answer but the hesitation in her voice caused him to pause, “H-hello?”

“Jazz, it’s Danny, we’ve got a code green,”  he knew setting up code colors with his sister would come in handy. Red meant he was gravely injured, yellow meant the ghost got away and he was in pursuit, blue meant he caught the ghost, and green meant he fell through a portal or something similar. 

There was silence on the other line for a moment and Danny was almost going to say something else but she spoke, “How do you know my name?”

Master Post:

Next:

[tsukinoshinjiu]

The Goddess Hylia Reborn

[keferon]

Hi there! First I wanted to say bless you for feeding us good food with your transformers arts and headcanons, I get excited whenever you post art XD and since I don't think anyone asked but how have you been since you've gotten bitten by something venomous a few days ago? I hope you have been recovering well!!

Thank you jfkkg><

Yeah mmm whatever bit me it wasn’t like…deadly venomous so when I got to the hospital they vaguely said that I need to just ignore the pain and wait. Now I have instant suffering button on my leg lol. On the bright side I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine in a week or something 👍

Upd

@ratica I don’t have any pictures with me rn but she looks like this haha :D

[flowercrowngods]

based on this concept of steve and mike coming out to each other

🤍 also on ao3

The sun is setting in beautiful hues of pink and purple, tinging the town of Hawkins, Indiana, in a light of serenity and beauty it doesn’t really deserve. Steve’s hands are gripped tight around the steering wheel as he carefully scans the road and the houses he passes.

He almost misses the bike where it’s lying on the curb, carelessly discarded by the looks of it, and a tinge of worry shadows his frown. Worry that doesn’t quite dissipate when he spots the figure sitting on the roof, almost black against the lilac colour of the sky, but he breathes a sigh of relief. He considers grabbing the radio to let the others know he found Mike, but decides against it. Something tells him that maybe they’ll take a while. Something tells him there’s more to Will’s stunned silence and Mike’s sudden departure from where they were all hanging out at Steve’s after another successful Hellfire session. 

With a sigh, Steve cuts the engine and gets out of the car, keeping his eyes on Mike the whole time — ready for him to take off again, ready to go sit a while and wait for him to come back. But Mike doesn’t move, even after he shuts the door and approaches the Wheelers’ house. He doesn’t acknowledge Steve when he pulls himself up to the roof, easier this time than the first time he did this. 

There’s a snide comment in the air between them, a version of Mike that would have lashed out at him, made fun of and insulted him. But this one just sits there, hands in his lap, frown on his face, and stares ahead. 

“What do you want,” he asks eventually, though it doesn’t have the kind of heat that Steve expects. He barely even sounds like a teenager. Just sort of… dejected. Steve aches for him; just a little bit. 

“Just making sure you’re alright,” Steve says, shrugging, looking ahead as well so Mike doesn’t feel watched. Or seen, maybe. 

Because the thing is, Steve does see him. He sees the way he looks at Will sometimes, and the way his eyes fill with something that can only be described as yearning, or aching, followed by regret and fear. Which always, always turn into anger. Into frustration. Into snide comments and rolled eyes and walls that keep getting an inch added to them each day. It’s never directed at Will, that anger, and rarely at the rest of the Party, but Steve still sees it. Gets the worst of it and takes it, because he knows something about how that feels. 

He knows something about looking at someone like that, about feeling that fear, that regret, that worry that come with it. He knows something about never really daring to meet someone’s eyes for fear of what they would see. 

“I’m alright,” Mike says, sounding anything but. There’s a bitterness in his voice. Frustration in the way his thumb is picking at the skin of his fingers. Confusion in the tension of his shoulders, and Steve feels like he only needs to make one wrong move, say one wrong word, make a single sound that’s off key to the melody of this moment, and Mike will jump off the roof and take off again with his bike. 

So all he says, after a moment’s consideration, is, “Cool.” Like he believes him. Giving Mike room to breathe, room to pretend. He knows something about that, too. 

He knows and he sees and he feels. 

And suddenly he wants to say something he’s never said before, something he didn’t even get to tell Robin because she knew and saw and felt, too, taking something from him that he hasn’t yet been ready to reclaim for himself. 

And maybe it’s because he sees something of himself in the way Mike holds himself, in the way he snaps at anyone willing to listen, in the way he frowns in regret and barely meets anyone’s eyes except when it’s in challenge — and, most of all, in the way he never, never meets Will’s eyes. In the way he looks away when the other boy turns to him, and in the way his eyes will snap back and take in everything about his best friend when he’s not aware of it. 

Maybe it’s because the sky is pink and lilac and purple above them, allowing for a certain magic to happen, allowing for a bravery that doesn’t come easy to him; but as he sits on the roof next to Mike Wheeler, the only one of the Party he never really connected with, he closes his eyes against the breeze that catches in his hair and opens his jacket a little further, slithering beneath the fabric as if in a brief embrace, a nudge, a sign to take this leap, and takes a deep breath. 

His heart is picking up its pace inside his chest, taking this leap along wit him, and pulls up one of his legs to wrap his hands around it — just to have something to hold onto. 

He opens his mouth once, twice, three times, but the words never really come out. They don’t know how, and he’s beginning to tremble a little with it, tension building in his chest where the words are still locked away, hidden among layers of truth. 

Mike looks over with a frown and eyes him warily. It makes Steve want to laugh, this sudden change of pace, but he just keeps staring ahead; even when Mike asks, “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. And then then dam is broken and breaking further, and with another deep breath, still not meeting Mike’s eyes, instead focusing on the tree tops in the distance that shine in hues of purple, he finally says, “I’m kind of dating Eddie Munson.” 

And just like that, it’s out. He’s out. 

He doesn’t know if the world still spins, if time still passes, if he still breathes, because for a moment there is only silence. Mike stops picking at the skin of his fingers, Steve stops trembling, and neither of them moves. 

It’s both anticlimactic and momentous, this silence between them when their eyes meet. When the words unfold and grow wings, when Mike understands, his eyes growing big with something that Steve can’t quite read with how tense he is despite his best efforts. 

The silence stretches between them, surpassing comfort and overstaying its welcome, and suddenly it’s Steve who feels like he’s about to take off if Mike so much as twitches his brows. 

“You… What?” 

Forget it, Steve wants to say. Nothing. 

But also, I’m in love with Eddie Munson. And I used to be in love with Nancy. And that’s okay. Both of that, it’s okay. 

He ends up repeating his words, though, because they know what it’s like to be spoken now. “Eddie. I’m kind of dating Eddie.” 

“But…” It’s Mike now whose mouth is opening and closing without saying anything. Mike who’s blinking, trembling a little, twitching, picking at his skin again, moving further along his hand this time to pinch the skin between his thumb and pointer finger. Steve almost reaches out to stop him, but he doesn’t really dare to. 

“But?” he prompts after a while, not quite comfortable with this loaded kind of silence. 

“Eddie’s a boy.” 

But Tammy Thompson is a girl. 

“I know,” Steve says, his tone carefully neutral, wanting to see, to wait where Mike takes this, to hear what’s on his mind, to watch the wheels turn and the gears shift. He feels awfully raw and open, vulnerable with someone who hasn’t been treating that with care yet. But there’s something about this moment that feels bigger than his own fears, bigger than the light nausea settling in his gut; far more important than the way he wants to run and hide, away from the scrutiny. 

“And…” Mike continues, still battling the words inside his head. Steve wonders if there are too many or none at all. “But you… You loved Nancy.” 

Ah. Smart boy. “I did,” Steve says with a small smile. “And it was never a lie. But I found that… Yeah, I can kinda like boys, too, y’know? And that’s, like, okay.”

A beat. A frown. A confused, hopeful, small, “It is?” 

Steve just nods, smiling in reassurance and relief at equal measures. Silence settles once more, now that the sky has darkened into a deeper, darker blue; but it’s not as loaded this time, not as tense. It’s an invitation. An offering. A promise of I’m here, I’m with you, you can take as long as you need. To get down from the roof, to come back, to come out of wherever you think you need to hide from the world. 

Mike takes it. He stays, pulling up his leg, too, mirroring Steve’s pose and staring ahead, but not as far away. He seems alert, seems to be thinking rather than dwelling, seems to be gearing up for something. Steve watches and sees and knows, remaining patient beside him, his chin resting on his knee as Mike learns to deal with this new world that has been presented to him. This new world that comes with opportunities and chances and possibilities that are scary and big and difficult to make. 

“Y’know,” Mike starts at last, interrupting the silence, playing with it, his voice hushed and quiet to keep it from disappearing completely. “Lucas, when he had that championship game? He told us, Dustin and me, that we didn’t have to be the losers this time. The nerds. The outcasts. Different. And all I wanted was to scream at him, because…” 

Mike swallows his words, keeping them from tumbling out of his mouth, and Steve aches for him again. He wants to reach out, wants to say it’s okay, tell him it’s alright, to take his time. But he waits in silence, lets Mike find the bravery he needs on his own, and waits. 

“Because how could he say that, you know? How could he, when… Will wasn’t there. And all I did, all I ever did anymore, was miss him. And I loved El, I knew I did. And she was gone, too, but…” 

He trails off again, and this time Steve picks it up. To let him know he’s not alone. To let Mike know he understands what he’s saying. He understands. “But she’s not Will. You needed Will.” 

“But I shouldn’t!” Mike explodes suddenly, riled up because Steve adds fuel to the fire, because Steve has that same fire, too; and because they are so, so similar when they want to be. “And now he’s back and it should be fine, I shouldn’t be feeling like this, it doesn’t even make sense! How can I…” 

Steve looks at him, at his expression that is nothing but lost — completely and utterly. He’s seen it on the bathroom floor at the mall; high out of his mind as he was, he’ll never forget the way Robin looked at him, the sheer crestfallen expression. All that confusion, all that fear and frustration and, in the end, resignation. He’s seen it in the mirror, and he’s seen it in those pretty brown eyes that he just can’t get out of his head anymore. 

He offers, gently, “How can you need him when he’s right there? How can you love him when a year ago you loved El?”

And Mike just looks at him before he deflates completely, his shoulders falling along with his face. He nods. Shrugs. Looks away and hides his face behind his leg. 

Steve sighs softly, watching the boy and speaking the words he wants to say the sixteen year-old version of himself. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I really don’t, and it sucks sometimes, having this need to, like, decide. Or understand. Or stop and be like the rest of them.” Like Robin and Eddie, or like the rest of the world. “But I like to think, sometimes, that maybe it’s a good thing. That there’s just… I don’t know, it sounds corny as hell, but like, there’s just so much love to give, we can’t even stick to only boys or girls, y’know.” 

“That does sound real corny as fuck, man,” Mike says, and back is that long suffering tone of his, back is that eye roll and the twitching elbow, ready to nudge Steve in the side. It’s still tinged with that vulnerability, not quite Mike yet, but it’s an offering.

One of many tonight, it seems.

Steve grins, a bit lopsided and raw, shoving Mike gently as he remembers something he overheard once. “Sorry, mister Heart of our group, but I don’t think you have any leg to stand on here.”

That makes Mike freeze, though, and he stares at Steve wide-eyed; caught. Exposed. Reminded.

“What did you say?”

“Uh,” Steve falters, not sure where he went wrong — or if he went wrong at all. “I overheard Will calling you that, talking about you to, uhm. Someone. I don’t know. Why, what’s— What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mike says, way too quickly, pulling away again with everything he has, hiding behind those walls once more, and Steve feels whiplash from it.

“Mike,” he says, his voice quiet and gentle as he turns to face him completely.

“No.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says. Promises, as much as he can.

“Shut up!”

“You’re not wrong or bad or broken. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“I said, shut up, Steve.”

“You should see the way he looks at you, too. You should go talk to him. You—“

Mike lashes out, finally coming out from behind those walls again, only to shove at Steve, to push him away — hard enough for him to lose his balance and almost fall off the roof, clenching one hand on the edge, the other in the rainwater gutter with a bitten-off curse.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” Mike reaches for him immediately, snapping out of whatever anger Steve caused, and pulling him back until he’s safe again, apologising over and over, dead to Steve’s promises that it’s alright. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Steve, I’m so—“

He pulls Mike against his chest, finally reaching out to hold the boy who always pushes people away when they get too close — quite literally, too.

But he doesn’t shove this time, doesn’t move out of Steve’s grasp as the mumbled apologies become heaving sobs.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, you’re so okay, Mike,” Steve tells him over and over as he holds him. The sky above is almost black now and Steve lets Mike cry into his chest.

It takes a while for Mike to calm down, but Steve just holds him through it, ready to let go whenever Mike wants to pull back and snap out of it again — but he never does, and Steve feels a certain kind of affection for the boy that is usually reserved for Lucas or Dustin.

At last, when he’s calmed down, Mike pulls back a little. “Do you really… Does it… Is it really okay?”

Can it be okay? Can I really like both? Is that not just me, being broken and wrong and bad? Will I get the chance to not be alone?

Steve swallows hard, and his voice is hoarse when he says, “Yeah. It’s really okay. ‘N’ I’m with you, yeah? If someone gives you shit for it. Or if you need a reminder.”

And Mike — puffy eyed, snotty nosed, so, so young — looks at him with those trusting eyes and nods, like he believes Steve. Like he trusts him. Like he hopes.

“Just don’t fucking shove me off your roof again.”

Ans just like that, the spell is broken, the tension is lifted, and silence has left them, as Mike almost chokes on a laugh and shoves at him again, lightly this time, before jumping off the roof so Steve can’t retaliate.

“Asshole,” he mutters, shaking his head as he, too, jumps off the roof, dusting off his pants as he watches Mike grabbing his bike. “Hey, Micycle,” he calls, cackling when Mike flips him the bird. “You want a ride back?”

Mike stops, considering as Steve casually flicks his keys into the air and catches them expertly. “What kinda music do you got?”

“The Clash, ‘cause Eddie hates them.”

“Yeah, that’s because they suck!”

Steve snorts, opening the driver’s side door. “Y’know, they’re one of Will’s favourites, actually.”

He watches Mike freeze with a grin on his face, knowing there’s no way the boy would take the bike.

“You’re so annoying,” Mike sighs as he brings his bike close to the garage and carefully lays it on the grass this time before hurrying over to Steve, getting in on the front, rolling his eyes when Steve cackles. “I don’t know why Eddie would date you—“

His words are drowned out when Steve turns up Train in Vain, drumming along on the steering wheel with a shit eating grin. Though the atmosphere is wildly different now, the spell broken and the bubble burst, it’s undeniable that something happened between them. Something big, something important.

Something that makes Mike’s annoyed, long-suffering expression be broken by the smile he’s trying to hide. It makes Steve laugh, elated and feeling something that’s much, much bigger than he himself ever could be.

It’s going to be okay. So, so okay.

Before they know it, they’re pulling up to Steve’s and he turns off the car, is about to get out when Mike makes him still again.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Hm?”

“I think it’s cool. You and Eddie.”

He smiles, relief and fondness washing over him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” He reaches over and ruffles Mike’s hair — a wild mane these days, but they could make it work with some care and some products. “Now go get your man, lover boy.”

“God, you suck so much, you’re so annoying!”

Steve’s cackling again when the passenger door slams shut and Mike lets himself into his house.

He spots a figure in the dark, their face lighting up when they take a drag of a cigarette — and Steve’s heart stumbles in his chest. He scrambles to get out, attempting to look calm and collected, even though Eddie always manages to see right through him.

“Hello, stranger,” he says, leaning against the wall beside Eddie, hiding away in the dark, where the world won’t see their shoulders touch, or their fingers tentatively playing with each other before they can’t take it no longer and lace their hands, holding on tight.

“Hi,” Eddie breathes. “How’d it go?”

“Fine, I think. But, uhm… I told him. About me. About us. That, uh. That okay?”

Even in the dark, Steve can feel eyes on him, but he just stares ahead, opting instead to give his warm hand a squeeze. He smiles when Eddie’s thumb begins to draw patterns on his palm.

“Hmm. Very. You think they’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, stealing Eddie’s cigarette from his mouth and pulling it between his own lips. “Yeah, I think they will be.”

[doesromandoart]

“did you hate living with me that much?”

[ryllen]

Look what came through the mail today! The letters & ( •̀ω•́ )σ 3 little gremlins from letterstoear.

Just wanna say i adore the flower stickers on the letters too much, they are that much worth mentioning.

[ghostofreach117]

Seeing all these more realistic and interesting interpretations of the Mondstadt cast drawing more from actual Central European culture, it would kind of be interesting to see the Mondstadt adventurers (Fischl and Bennett) have a more Landsknecht style of dress.

Like, adventurers=mercenaries, and being allowed the most colorful and outlandish clothes because they might have a shorter life than others.

YOU ARE SO GOATED FOR THIS IDEA….omg. Bennett definitely hogs all the bright colors while Fischl has the more dramatic silhouette.

Had to give Fischl a bit of French influence bc I feel like she would love Fontainian theater.

[butchcarmy]

he would baby you so much on your period just wanting you to feel okay again holding you close when you nap and low-key just worried sick coz the thought of you in pain just hurts and since he caht take the pain away he’ll do everything to make you feel better

BRO Carmy just wants to take care of you SO BAD.

He’s such a restrained person when it comes to himself, but when it comes to you, he thinks of anything he could do to make you feel better and does it. He doesn’t want to leave anything unintended. He is a perfectionist about anything he truly cares about! Including you!

“Just lemme know if there’s anything else you need,” he’d say. And this is after he gets you ibuprofen, food, water, fresh pajamas, tea, kisses, chocolate, kisses, and more kisses…

“I think you’ve gotten quite literally everything I could think of.” Carmy’s sitting on the edge of your bed, tenderly looking down at you tucked in. He brushes the backs his fingers against your forehead to sweep the hair falling into your eyes. His eyebrows furrow at your response.

“If you think of anything…” He sighs through his nose.

“Well, there is one thing…”

“Yeah?” You resist a laugh at how quickly he perks up. He’s so eager to please.

You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close to you. He flops on top of you with a surprised, breath laugh.

“Need some cuddles, baby?” He turns his head towards your cheek and leaving little kisses. “I think I can do that.”

That’s how he ends up cuddling with you in bed for a couple hours. He tries to get a couple times to get you things, but you cling onto him. You don’t wanna let him go.

[bi-focal12]

MHA tweets pt.10

[slyvester101]

Club au where the reds and blues work at a club that Carolina owns and totally doesn’t use as a cover for the undercover work she’s doing in the city with the Freelancers to take her corrupt asshole of a father down.

Church, being Carolina’s sister, hangs around the club basically every night since he gets free drinks and has become the official unofficial manager and recruiter for the place since Carolina and the Freelancers are usually too busy going on missions to take down warehouses or gang members working for her dad, planning missions in the rooms upstairs, or acting as innocent members of society that totally aren’t plotting to kill the Director and tear his illegal operations down.

The first of the reds and blues he hires is Sarge and Lopez, who are the club’s cooks. Sarge haphazardly tosses ingredients into a bowl and it comes out edible somehow? He doesn’t even toss in the necessary ingredients for the food; he put a chicken, a bag of chips, a whole bottle of garlic seasoning and a watermelon into the oven and out comes a beef burger with loaded fries. Lopez is in agony trying to figure out how he does it. But it always ends up good. In fact, it’s so good that it ups the club's foot traffic and creates a much better cover to all the cartel members coming in and out to talk with the Freelancers.

Grif and Simmons come next, Grif being the no nonsense bartender who gets to listen to all the juicy gossip going around the club as well as the annoying drama that gets dragged to his bar. He makes a damn good drink so the bar gets a little crowded when he’s clocked in and he complains endlessly to Simmons.

Simmons is a waiter/occasional assistant cook who can guess a person’s order just by looking at them (something about statistics and body language and a bunch of stuff that Grif calls him a nerd for) as well as know their intent and reason for being there with just a couple words. He weeds out a lot of undercover cops. They both get scolded since they constantly get distracted while flirting talking at the bar.

Tucker was next, a dancer with enough spunk and spite to fill the whole club and moves that leave everyone jaw dropped and star stricken. He loves dancing and loves entertaining the crowd even though he has to deal with a lot of shit (he can split-kick a sucker unconscious if they even think about touching him because unfortunately, people think they have the right to touch you when you show off a little skin and dance in front of a crowd. Sometimes people think they have the right to touch you just because you exist and they’re an asshole). But it pays well and he gets the freetime to spend with his son, who is the main reason he works hard for those extra tips to support him, so it makes up for the less favorable situations.

Caboose and Donut were hired one right after the other; Caboose being a bouncer who knows every patron by name (not always the right one) and can carry three full grown men over his shoulder with a smile on his face; Donut being a DJ/event planner/decorator extraordinaire and is basically just an assistant manager at this point with how much work he does with Church to keep the club up and running, but he refuses to take the title because it doesn’t “fit his vibes”.

All the reds and blues know some kind of illegal shit is going on with their bosses, but they stay willfully ignorant about it and only get involved when they think something will put the club at risk. They all love the club and all the people who work there so they work hard to keep it from being shut down by cops or blown to hell by a rival gang or whoever the fuck their bosses are fighting.

That being said, they’re all rather wary of the Freelancers despite Church’s insistence that they’re not bad people (mostly) and wouldn’t bring any harm to them (probably). Things are civil between the two groups, especially since the Freelancers are the one writing their checks, but there’s this underlying tension and nervousness that no one can seem to break.

The Freelancers are kind of disheartened that Church’s friends aren’t really keen to talk to them more than they have to, especially the dancer who hasn’t said more than a word to any of them and will literally get up and leave in the middle of a conversation to avoid talking to them.

This changes with the addition of Caboose and Donut, the two balls of sunshine giving the club a bit more energy, a lot more color, and a bit more balance.

No one is willing to anger the giant bouncer who can easily lift a table with one hand and the feisty DJ who can get you banned for life with another. There’s a lot less creeps roaming around and the whole club seems to relax at the changes Donut makes to the club and the safety Caboose brings.

Carolina seems to lighten up around Caboose, which in turn makes the reds and blues feel less on edge since she doesn’t look like she’s gonna murder one of them. York and North are finally able to get some more friendly conversation outta Grif and Simmons after Donut gets York and Simmons on a rant about hacking as North and Grif snicker at their geeky counterparts. (“I am not a geek! I am a nerd! There is a difference!” “The fact that you know the difference between a nerd and a geek makes you a geek.”)

Maine, who would sometimes work as a bouncer when not on a mission, finds Caboose rather companionable and likes to stand with him outside and listen to him chat during downtime. South comes by a lot more because Donut has somehow started a passive aggressive off between her, himself, and Tucker (and occasionally Church but he’s more overtly aggressive so he doesn’t really count). It’s a lot more fun than it sounds. Connie likes chatting with Donut and adores the gossip sessions she can get outta him, Grif and Simmons. There is a lot of tea to be shared around the bar.

Everyone agrees to keep Wyoming and Florida from meeting Sarge. That is a war crime waiting to happen.

Wash isn’t at the club often (none of the Freelancers are) and instead drowns himself in work with Carolina, planning and plotting and mapping and debating. He’s a bit more standoffish, a bit more gritty and a lot more like his Recovery One counterpart in canon. He’s cold, he’s calculative, he’s bitter, but he’s also patient and knows they can’t rush their takeover of the Director. It worries the other freelancers, seeing how mean and withdrawn he’s become, especially after knowing him as the upbeat, if nervous and oblivious rookie who did everything he was told with a smile and a lot of puns.

But he’s still convinced to come out for drinks to relax after a particularly stressful mission that went off without a hitch. For as distant as he’s become, he’s still a softy underneath and caves at York and North’s insistence that he needs to let loose a little after spending so much time under duress.

Wash hasn’t looked around the main level of the club since Tucker, Caboose, and Donut have been hired and is rather surprised by how lively and joyful the club has become. Caboose greets him with a smile at the door, happily introducing himself to the “new friend” coming into the club. He calls Wash “Mister Washingtub” and helpfully tells him that it’s performers night, so be nice and respectful to everyone who goes on stage or be kicked to the curb. Wash doesn’t doubt that with how massive the guy is.

When they walk in, he gets an armful of bright pink and a chipper blonde man guiding him and the other Freelancers to a reserved seating area near the front of the stage. York and North laugh at his face as he’s dragged by the hand of this upbeat man.

The whole club has changed since he was last there, much more open and welcoming, the decorations not as drab or outdated and the bar and stage have been renovated into something Wash can only describe as glamorous. Even the patrons and workers have changed, more smiles and jovial laughs echoing over the music, more people dancing on the floor or chatting at the bar. It’s so full of life and excitement that Wash is half convinced he walked into the wrong building.

He reacquaints himself with Simmons, the no longer skittish waiter with clumsy hands. He gets a polite smile from him before he rushes back to the bar to chat with Grif, the much more relaxed and not quite as grumpy bartender.

Wash is still reeling a little by the time the music stops and the man in pink is up on the stage starting up the event of the night. Singer after dancer after comedian go on and on throughout the night, entertaining the crowd and adding to the high spirits of the place.

It all comes to head during the final act, a dancer who has the whole crowd applauding before he’s even on stage.

Lavernius Tucker.

Wash is just as hypnotized as the rest of the crowd as Tucker swings and dips and spins around the pole on the center stage, showing impressive feats of strength as he pulls himself up and flips around with poise and precision. It’s beautiful and artistic and you can tell how much love and work has gone into the man’s routine.

The dance ends with thunderous applause and Wash sits there in awe at this graceful dancer taking bows and tips at the front of the stage.

Maybe he should come to the club more often.

[se-agapo-skywalker]

The Old Man and the Sea

Flashbacks are italicized

CW: age gap (dilf!Luke Skywalker), oral sex (f!receiving), penetrative sex (p in v), unprotected sex, usage of petname "master," mild degradation

WC: 4.4k

"You are no Jedi... nor am I." Luke's back faces you, his solemn eyes cast upon the sea. "I cannot train you."

You reach out to touch his shoulder. "Master, please-"

He flinches away from you, almost recoiling in disgust and shock, all the while keeping his face away from yours. "I already told you. That title no longer means anything to me."

"Then what should I call you? Sir?"

He sighs and shakes his head. "No, I'm not that old..."

"Mr. Skywalker?"

"Too formal."

You pause to think, considering your words carefully. "...How about just Luke?"

Finally, he turns his head to look at you. His eyes reflect a strange vulnerability, sadness and fondness all mixed into one, emotions he tries to keep as hidden as possible. He isn't doing a very good job.

Luke nods, silently, once again casting his eyes down to avoid your gaze. "Just Luke."

Snuggled up into Luke's side, you twirl a lock of his hair around your finger and sigh. His head is leaned back against the pillow, eyes closed, breathing slowly and quietly. You smirk to yourself at the sight of him laying there so peacefully--he's spent to the point of appearing fast asleep.

For a man of his age, his stamina is quite impressive--pinning you beneath him, driving into you at a pace that has you moaning his name over and over--but once he's out, he's out. It's rather cute, to be honest... yet you can't help but wonder if he drifts into sleep so easily because he can't stand to be awake.

You've found that when he isn't doing menial chores, Luke spends most of the day either staring at the sea, walking along the cliffs, or doing who knows what inside of his hut. Perhaps he's meditating, or sleeping, whatever an old Jedi does to pass the time when he so clearly hates his life--you almost feel sorry for him. Almost, as every attempt you make to connect with him is met with disdain or rejection. Usually both.

Still, the Temple Island isn't big enough for you two to ignore each other entirely, no matter how hard he might try. Your paths intercept too frequently, much to his chagrin and your delight. There's something strangely magnetic about him--beneath his gloomy exterior lies the remnants of his grace and discipline, the dignified power of the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order.

It's something you're determined to bring out again.

Luke stirs a bit, shifting in the bed slightly. With confirmation that he's indeed still awake, your hand wanders to his face, delicately stroking his beard.

"One more round?" you ask, voice sweeter than honey. You already know the answer--most likely a no--but it doesn't hurt to try.

He groans softly. "I don't know if I have it in me, starlight." Blue eyes squint open to meet yours, a smile growing on your lips, and he scowls. "What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing, I just think you're cute," you laugh, and he furrows his brow.

"Sweetheart, calling me cute is like calling the sky red."

"But it is red, during the sunset!"

"You know what I mean."

Knowing there's no reasoning with you, Luke relents to your will as you lean over to kiss him. He must think you're impossible--you're certain he does--but that's what keeps on drawing him back to you. At least, that's what stops him from turning you away.

Knocking on the door of Luke's hut, you wince. What were you thinking, coming to him like this, drenched in rain during the middle of the night? He's sure to think you're crazy, if he doesn't already. You shiver as the water continues to pour down, making your hair and clothes stick to your body like a wet tooka as it positively soaks you to the bone--you don't even know why you're here, if you're being honest with yourself.

Finally, the door opens. There stands Luke, your reluctant teacher, the man who's been avoiding your friendship for all this time, looking upon you with annoyance and confusion.

"Why are you here?" is all he says, eyes flicking across your wet form. You scratch the back of your neck self-consciously.

"I... I needed you," is all you manage to say in response.

"For what reason?"

"I don't know." You look down at your feet guiltily. "Something in the Force is telling me to be here."

He scoffs, clearly not believing you, but shakes his head and beckons you over. "Well, come in before you get sick," he grumbles, and you follow him inside as the door shuts behind you.

His hut is simple, not far from what you'd expect the living space of an old Jedi hermit to look like. Old sacred texts are scattered about, and so are his robes; he's currently dressed in simple nightclothes, ones that you briefly find yourself staring at.

No, no, you shouldn't look at him like that--especially not when he's standing right in front of you. But you could've sworn earlier that he looked at you the same way when you stood outside his door, wet clothes clinging to your body... You didn't mean to, well, approach him like that. But here you are, standing in his room and shivering before him as water dripped from you onto the floor.

Seemingly reading your mind, Luke finally breaks the silence--"You know, you should probably change out of those clothes and warm up."

"And change into what?" you ask, cheeks starting to burn.

A quick flash of embarrassment crosses his face, but he quickly conceals it. "I, um... something. This," he says, tossing his cloak to you. "I'll turn around."

You keep your eyes on him as he turns around and awkwardly goes to sit on his bed... and you swear you see him take a pillow into his lap. Slowly, you start peeling off your wet clothes; it's quite the thrill, being this exposed near him, something you'd never anticipate you'd do. If you were in your right mind, you wouldn't--but you aren't, and here you are.

After stripping out of the last of your clothes, you wring your hair out a bit and drape Luke's cloak around your shivering, nude form. It's quite warm, made of thick bantha wool, and it smells like him, although you manage to fight the temptation to bury your face in it. He's right in front of you, anyway.

"I-I'm done," you manage to say.

"Please, tell me... why are you really here?" Luke responds, not even turning around to look at you. "You're welcome to stay until the storm dies down, but if you're here to torment me, don't."

You grab onto the ends of the cloak, keeping them secure to preserve your modesty as you move to sit next to him. Startled a bit by your boldness, he finally looks over at you, and there's something in his eyes you can't quite recognize.

You take a deep breath and exhale. "Look, I don't know why I'm here. I don't know why it's storming, and frankly, I don't know why I'm naked, but here we are. But I think we've both noticed how we can't exactly stay away from each other, no matter how hard we try--how hard you try. I'm not here to hurt you, Luke, I only came to Ahch-To to find you, to see that you're still alive. And now that I know you, I..."

In a move that nearly knocks you off his bed, Luke slowly reaches out with his flesh hand to brush a wet strand of hair out of your face. "I know."

By some strange string of fate, or perhaps by the will of the Force itself, you find your lips meeting his. His beard is rough, scratchy. You wouldn't have it any other way. His lips, apprehensive at first, move against yours rather sloppily, either out of desperation or out of inexperience--although you wouldn't fault him for either. It's not like you're particularly experienced, you never quite had the time, and you aren't opposed to the two of you learning together. The student becomes the master, the master becomes the student...

"Master," you breathe out, "please."

Luke's lips trail from your lips to your jaw, and then to your neck, pressing plenty of ticklish kisses in his wake. His hands move to gently grip the side of your face and back of your neck, careful not to mess with the cloak. Part of you wonders if he ever will, if he's willing to go that far, perhaps even in this sitting. A Jedi would show restraint; yet he is one no longer.

In what can only be interpreted as him sensing your thoughts, Luke stops his advances to look at you, lustful eyes now showing with worry. "Are... are you sure you want this?"

You grab his mechanical hand--you quite like the feeling of the flesh hand on your neck--and bring it to the fastener of the cloak, not undoing it, but letting him know it's an option. "More than anything."

Luke's change in demeanor from grumpy to surprisingly gentle is intoxicating, shocking you in the best way possible--you knew this side of him was still there, you just knew it, and you're so glad you finally have confirmation of it. Peering over, however, you try to get a glimpse of the other confirmation of his affection that you seek...

Just as Luke begins to fiddle with unfastening the cloak concealing your body from him, you slip your hand between the two of you, first to carefully grip his thigh as you lean in to kiss him again, moving your hand further and further until-

"Stop," he interjects, grabbing your hand.

"I-I'm sorry, Master, I-"

His gaze softens, guiltily. "No, it's not you. I'm not ready for that--not yet." Flesh hand reaches up to cradle your face. "I want this to be about you. I want to make up for how cruel I was."

You bring the hand to your lips, kissing the palm, silently accepting his proposal to apologize. The Luke you first met on that cliff all those months ago is near unrecognizable--never before would you have expected him to ever apologize to you, let alone be this communicative with you. Well, communicative by Luke standards. From what you’ve heard of his past reputation as a Jedi, all those stories and legends about his vast accomplishments, he had always been quiet, guarded, only now amplified by his guilt in exile. But he’s trying, that much is clear to you.

“Do you want me to continue?” Luke finally says, breaking the silence with a rare show of humor. Smiling and nodding into his palm, you give it one last kiss, relinquishing your control over it.

Hands return to the fastener, and you feel your heartbeat increase as you're finally hit with the realization that this is going to happen. You have no reservations about it, you've fantasized about sleeping with him for quite some time now, but you must admit the actuality is a bit frightening--and absolutely thrilling.

You want this. Luke does, too, if the totally unsubtle tent in his pants has anything to say about it. But something tells you he's just as nervous as you are--perhaps he's worried about being out of practice, or, if he had previously pursued the path of celibacy, he's worried about having no practice at all. Either way, you don't mind, truly. All you want is him.

Finally, in one swift motion, the fastener is undone. Letting out a shaky breath, Luke begins to pull the fabric of the cloak from your shoulders, ever so slowly, exposing inch by inch of your bare skin to him. As the fabric pools at your waist, you shiver at the feeling of the cool air hitting your slightly damp skin. He notices, instinctively reaching out his hand to touch you--the sudden contact and warmth makes you jump.

"Sorry," Luke whispers, unable to look anywhere besides your face.

"Don't be... please."

Now is his chance to ravish you with his eyes, finally gazing upon--and practically devouring--the beauty that has been hidden from him for far too long.

"Stars, you're... you're incredible."

You blush, both out of pride and bashfulness, as Luke's eyes continue to trace your figure. He stares at you for quite some time, not daring to touch you aside from the hand he has gently caressing the flesh of your waist. It isn't until you grab said hand and move it to the swell of your breast that he finally gets the nerve to actually feel you.

Fingers trace around the soft skin of your nipple, coaxing the little bud into a hardened peak as Luke pinches it ever so slightly. He squeezes your breast, firmly but not painfully, and before you can even register what is happening, his mouth is on you. Beard hair tickles your skin as he plants an open-mouthed kiss at the center of your chest. Kissing, licking, and sucking, he marks his journey through the valley of your breasts by leaving your skin raw and marked--claiming you as his own.

You let out a high-pitched gasp as Luke's lips attach to your nipple, alternating between sucking and flicking with his tongue before switching to do the same to the other. He does this multiple times, only stopping when he leaves them visibly puffy and swollen, with you shuddering and moaning softly at the loss of his touch. As he had worked on you, your hands had found their way into his hair, carding your fingers through and tugging at it softly--he nearly bit you in response, and given the effect on him, you swore he almost liked what you were doing more than you liked what he was doing. Almost.

Your hands move from Luke's hair to cradle his face. He looks up at you nervously, waiting for your reassurance or your approval, hoping he hasn't done anything to upset you.

In a moment of boldness, you say, "Oh, I like that... there's just another place I think I'd like it even more."

Icy blue eyes widening, he nods slowly, taking in a deep breath as he prepares to obey your command. Gently pushing you back, he lowers you onto his bed, laying your head on his pillow--and he pauses.

"Are you sure you want this?"

Your first instinct is to pout, but you don't. He's very likely entirely new to this, and nervous about the fact, so the least you can do is have some grace. Reaching out for his hand, gently ghosting your fingertips over his, you tell him, "I want this. I want you."

With nothing more than a silent nod, Luke finally lifts the remainder of the cloak off you and pulls your thighs apart. His breath hitches at the sight of you--so tight, so wet, glistening in anticipation for him. Him.

Reading his emotions--you're becoming a lot better at that under his tutelage--you smile at him coyly through your eyelashes. "It's for you, Master. All for you."

You flutter and clench at the way Luke breathes out, groaning slightly. After a moment of just staring at you, piercing blue eyes locked onto your beautiful, beautiful core, he ducks his head to get closer. Whatever nervousness he had before has almost completely melted away, starting with light kisses to the inside of your thighs as he pries you open even more. You squirm ever so slightly beneath his touch, one that starts out hesitant but grows more and more eager, the rough hair of his beard nearly rubbing the skin of your thighs raw.

Luke pulls away, just for a moment, his voice deep and gravely. "Let me take care of you."

You shudder at the feeling of his breath on you. But you aren't prepared for what follows--the feather-light poke of his wet tongue, slowly licking a preliminary stripe from hole to clit as he slicks you with a combination of your own wetness and his spit. You had wondered, dreamed when this day would come, and now that it's here, you find yourself melting so readily at his every move.

Noticing the effect he has on you, Luke tentatively wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to his face so he can taste you more deeply. The new angle has you situated to where you could very well begin grinding on his face, and you have no doubts that he'd let you. This is what he wants--to be needed, to please, to do something, anything right. To have you spread out so beautifully before him is a miracle of the Force itself. He'll do his best to prove he deserves it, as much as he thinks he doesn't.

Alternating between gently probing you with his tongue and languidly exploring the contours of your folds, Luke's lips finally make their way to your clit, where he gently begins sucking. For a man who most likely has no idea what he's doing--although he would never admit it--he sure seems like he does.

Your hand instinctively makes its way to his hair again, albeit this time with far more urgency. Arching your back into him, you pull unapologetically on his greying locks, eliciting a deep groan from him.

An idea enters your mind.

"You like this, Master?" you moan, maneuvering to look at him working between your legs. His eyes flick up to meet yours. "You like finally being useful to someone?"

Your words seem to ignite a fire within him. Without even giving you a moment to process what's happening, Luke's mouth leaves your clit--drawing out an absolutely pathetic mewl from you--and he pulls your legs around his waist, lifting your hips off the bed. Using the Force, he swiftly pins your hands above your head, leaving you fully exposed and at his mercy.

"You think I'm finally useful, huh?" Luke practically growls, "Who are you to judge?"

You can feel his hardened cock brush against your sensitive core from beneath his nightclothes, and, desperate for friction to satiate your hunger, you try to rock your hips against his. But he won't have it--holding your legs still, he keeps you in place with an iron grip.

"Before I show you how useful I can be, you must learn patience. Now be still."

Luke's stronger mechanical hand--still gloved, which only adds to the allure--keeps a hold on you as his flesh hand moves to free himself from the confines of his pants. After a brief moment of fumbling where you pretend not to notice, he manages to pull down his waistband, and out it springs.

And it's... a lot. A lot more than you expected. Where you were eager to take him before, desperately aching for him to be inside you, you can't help but feel a bit nervous. Still, you can't take your eyes off him--large, thick, nice and veiny with a pink tip...

"Is this alright?" Luke asks, his voice low and husky, already starting to slowly drag it across your folds. Your body jerks slightly when the tip bumps into your still-swollen clit, but he's too busy lubricating himself with your wetness to notice. "Well?"

"Y-yes... I need you, Master, please," you practically beg.

Smirking to himself, he finally grants your request. Aligning himself with your entrance, he ever so slowly presses in, eyes screwing shut in the process as a low grunt escapes his throat.

"Maker, you're tight..."

You throw your head back and whine at the stretch. Luke is so much--almost too much--filling you in a way you never thought was possible. It stings slightly at first, but it's such a delicious feeling, one you never want to go another day without.

After giving you a moment to adjust, Luke's eyes meet yours--gently questioning, but still clouded by his need for you--and you signal for him to start moving. Slowly drawing himself back out, he starts a steady pace of deep thrusts, although they're a bit shaky at first. Amidst your ecstasy, you forgot that this may very well be his first sexual encounter--something he's doing a very good job of hiding.

In truth, it doesn't bother you at all. Luke sure keeps you on your toes--the more the night progresses, the more you learn so many seemingly conflicting things about him... and the more you realize you never really knew him at all. Perhaps no one did. He can be stubborn, and gentle, and firm, and vulnerable, a million different things all wrapped into one. And, slowly and surely, you'll peel back those layers to reveal who he truly is.

In the meantime, what Luke does show you is just how pent up he is--he isn't even fully out of his clothes, and he's already fully erect and fucking you into his mattress. The noises are borderline obscene, both the creaking of his bed and the squelching of where your bodies meet, with him loudly sliding in and out of you. While he was rather slow at first, he's since picked up the pace, snapping his hips against yours with a bit more fervor. If you hadn't known any better, you'd say he's just about as virile and libidinous as a juvenile fathier.

You moan and write beneath Luke, your hands still pinned above your head by the Force. After all his talk about its sacred rules and how one must respect and fear it, you truly never expected him to utilize it in such a way--but, knowing your Master, you doubt he cares. He looks down at you with those heavy eyes, his gaze filled with emotions you can't quite describe or even begin to understand. He's quiet, oh so quiet--you can't exactly say the same about yourself--that if it weren't for his borderline frantic rutting, you might not have been sure of his enjoyment.

Catching on to your concern, Luke reaches down with his flesh hand to reassuringly stroke your skin, gently tracing from your thigh to your hip, across your stomach, and all the way to the swell of your breast. Your nipples are still puffy and sore from his relentless sucking and pinching, skin covered in the evidence of where his beard had scratched you. He feels a bit guilty, having marked you up so thoroughly like this, yet he also has a strange sense of pride at how you let him. If things go your way, you'll let him again and again and again--until your hunger is satisfied, which you're sure it never will be.

For as much as Luke is thoroughly attracted to you, however, he can feel his hunger start to reach its peak. Whether it be through the Force or your own pleasure, you can sense this, too, and it only serves to bring you into the early stages of orgasm as well.

"M-Master, I-," you whine, not even able to finish your thought as Luke brings his hand back up to rub your clit. He may be stubborn, and grumpy, but he is by no means selfish, especially not as a lover. Like with all things, he's determined to do this right. And he does--each thrust of his hips and tight circle rubbed by his thumb pushes you closer and closer, until finally you're pushed off that cliff and engulfed by the force of your orgasm. Twitching and spasming, legs shaking, you cry out as it overtakes your senses so spectacularly.

Luke watches you, completely in shock that he actually managed to do this--although you knew he would. Feeling you clench around him so deliciously is enough to motivate him to follow suit. Speeding up his pace one last time, positively hammering into you, he chases his own orgasm sloppily, desperately. Perhaps he hasn't had one in a long time, hasn't even had the desire to touch himself, so having you here to offer him some much needed relief truly is a godsend.

You're too blissed out and trembling in the aftershocks of your own orgasm to notice the way his hips stutter, finally stilling as he spills thick ropes of his seed inside you. In that moment, neither of you really care about the consequences--you don't think anything could happen, anyway--nor do you even really pause to contemplate them.

Luke stands before you, panting and slightly dazed, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. Lowering your legs and pulling out--hot, white liquid spilling out of you as he does so--he adjusts his clothing and finally collapses beside you.

"That was, I..." you start, covering your face with your now-freed hands. "What are we now?"

Luke sighs. "We're something, I guess... something the Jedi of old wouldn't approve of." A glimpse at his old humor appears as he winks at you. "But they aren't here now, are they?"

You open your eyes to the sight of Luke asleep in your now shared bed. His hair is sprawled out on your pillow, long-lashed eyes still shut as he snores ever so lightly. The morning light bathes his sleeping face in a surprisingly lovely way, illuminating the soft, vulnerable side of an otherwise stoic and dignified Jedi master. His arm is still around you, mechanical hand resting at the small of your back--he still prefers to touch you intimately with his flesh hand, but by instinct, he'll use his cybernetic. You don't mind one bit, and he knows this. It brings him peace. Hence where he is now: entangled with you, beneath your covers, mind somewhere off in the realm of dreams.

"Oh, Skywalker..." you whisper, careful not to wake him. You can't tell whether you're talking to him, or really just talking to yourself. It isn't important. Taking a moment to pause, to think, you take a deep breath and say it--"...I love you."

Luke stirs, and you wince. Was it too soon? Is that not how he sees your relationship? He could wake up any minute and reject you and-

"Love you, too," he murmurs, not even opening his eyes, face still buried in his pillow.

Relief washes over you, but so does a strange new feeling... surprise? Excitement? Fear, even? No, no, it can't be anything bad... So you decide to accept it for what it is: something you can't explain, yet something that brings so much hope, so much meaning to your life. And, for the first time in a long time, you're happy--and he is, too.

[amiizuki]

it will be forever funny to me how the flashback portraits of Wittebrothers made Caleb seem like he's had packing peanuts for a brain

(this post ended up becoming quite lengthy, and so did the tags somehow, because I kinda devolved into a rant closer to the end of writing this whole thing, so bear with me here)

so we know that Philip and Caleb became orphans when both of them were still kids. after that, they ended up in Gravesfield and, to fit in with everyone else who lived there, picked up witch hunting and started thinking that witches are pure evil. Caleb knew perfectly well that he's the only family Philip's had left and that he even may be his his only friend, since, judging by the portraits, they've only ever hung out with each other and we don't know if those two ever made any other actual friends.

until one day, during a witch hunt he and Philip were both a part in (something Caleb seemed happy to do, judging by his smirk there), he met a witch – Evelyn – someone he's been taught to hate and want dead by the townsfolk. someone who, again, in his mind, should be evil.

but he just suddenly does a 180 and goes "damn, you can make fire with your hands, you're actually pretty cool"

and then a few days (?) of talking to her later, he's running off to live with her in the Demon Realm, while simultaneously not giving a single fuck about the brother he's abandoning.

(he even runs off with a smile, with a literal :D face, I fucking can't lmao)

Philip ends up seeing Caleb get dragged off through a weird portal and later follows along, thinking something like "no, my brother wouldn't just up and abandon me without saying anything. he probably got captured by that witch we saw together that one time! she probably used some demon magic to bewitch Caleb and took him through that portal to kill him or worse! I gotta go save him!". and, after spending god knows how long in that realm, searching endlessly for his missing older brother, he eventually finds him. but he also finds that Caleb is not only perfectly okay and not hurt in the slightest, he's also peacefully walking together with the same witch who "captured" him, even holding hands with her.

and when enraged Philip tries to attack Evelyn, to protect Caleb from the witch who took him from his home, from his brother, still thinking that Caleb's under her control, Caleb just... gives him a hug and goes on to introduce the witch as his new wife to him (I'm assuming that portrait is the same day as the other three, if not the same scene), also adding on top of that that they're having a child. all as if nothing happened. treating the whole thing like everything's perfectly okay and just another normal day, fully ignoring the fact that he threw his brother away with no care or thought, leaving him completely alone, a full orphan, now with zero actual family left (in TTT, during their backstory, it's said that "Caleb did his best to take care of his younger brother", meaning that either they never got adopted in Gravesfield, or whoever adopted them didn't give a shit about the two, so they still mostly had to fend for themselves), all to go smash some random 5 out of 10 witchussy he talked to, like, 3 times. no fucking wonder Philip killed him!

(btw, jokes aside, it didn't seem like he intended to kill Caleb, because in that portrait where he's ready to kill with a knife in his hand, he's facing forward, while Caleb is actually to his left. so it just looks to me like Philip was gonna try to kill Evelyn again, and Caleb either jumped in front of her to protect her and got accidentally stabbed or he attacked Philip back, to, again, protect Evelyn, and Philip ended up winning that fight. but that's just my theory)

my brother in literal christ and literal titan – why in the FUCK are you just hugging it out with a smile on your face??? you ran off while giving absolutely no warning to anyone, especially your younger brother! why do you think he's here and actively trying to attack you and your new wife? you're not even trying to address the fact that you left him! at least when Luz ran off to a different realm without warning, she had a "I'm still at the camp" cover, so Camila wouldn't worry that much about where her daughter is, and even then she still felt bad for leaving her mother and planned to go back home once summer was over. this chucklefuck, on the other hand, just permanently portaled away to the Boiling Isles, knocked up a witch and fully settled down there, walking around with a big ol' smile and no care in the world. "Philip who? never heard of him"

the only thing that would sorta make this situation seem better (as in, not make Caleb seem like an overly naive ignorant brick), in my opinion, is if they added one more portrait – after the one where he meets the witch, but before the one where he leaves. in that portrait, Caleb would look like he's trying his best to convince Philip that witches aren't actually evil, and perhaps even try to get him to go live with them in the Demon Realm, all the while Philip's looking at him with either disagreement/disappointment/disgust or just rolling his eyes and full on ignoring him, while sharpening his witch hunt tools or something. then it would look like Caleb at least tried to make his brother change his mind, like he tried to offer him a chance to go with them. but no. with the way the portraits look in the final version it just seems like Caleb was fully on-board with killing witches since he was young, even pulling his younger brother along to think the same way, Philip also thought that Caleb was perfectly fine with killing witches, but once he actually meets a real witch (assuming they've never met one before) he instantly pulls an uno reverse card and just runs off with her, without so much as telling his brother beforehand.

I'm not trying to say that "Belos should've been redeemed, because he's the victim here and Caleb is bad and it's all his fault". he still murdered his brother and went on to manipulate everyone on Boiling Isles for centuries, with his end goal being the death of all witches, while simultaneously being stuck in the loop of "denial" and "bargaining" stages of grief – repeatedly trying and failing to recreate a perfect copy of Caleb, but also killing each one that came out wrong or went against him. Belos not being redeemed in the end was the right choice (ignoring the "Belos was always le bad" from King's dad), I agree with that. frankly, if he actually got redeemed in the end, I'd probably be seething for the next 3 to 5 years, like how I did after the Diamonds' "redemptions" in SU (yes I'm still pissed about that lol). I'm just saying that, from what was shown to us, Caleb didn't seem like that good of a person either, not as bad as Belos ended up being, but still not that great. and, once again, seemingly had a raisin for a brain.

(off topic, but during Masha's retelling of Wittebane's backstory, their "sounds like big bro got a hot witch girlfriend and little bro got upset" line was so fucking cringe, it gave me a fever for 3 days the first time I watched the episode)

k, rant over, I dunno what else to add

TL;DR: I think Caleb was dumb as a brick, because, from what was shown to us in their backstory, he seemed to have run off to Demon Realm and abandon Philip without telling him anything beforehand. when Philip came to BI to look for his brother, who he assumed was under control of the witch who "took" him, since he thought his last living family member wouldn't just abandon him, and when he eventually found him, and it turned out he wasn't in any danger at all, Caleb just brushed the whole "I left you for witchussy" thing under the rug and pretended everything was and is perfectly fine, even though it clearly isn't. rip bozo

[enthyrea]

got it bad, got it bad, got it bad

im hot for teacher

ive got it bad, so bad

im hot for teacher

-jake hangman seresin (canon)

[frobby]

one of my favorite senarios to imagine to put yukio in is sending him 10 years into the future (with the exwires usually) and everyone from their class are like chill adults including himself working their boring ass exorcist job and hes trying to assert dominance over them as the teacher™ but they're all like bro why so serious?

[purplecatghostposts]

Sometimes (not often and not referring to the proxy versions bc that’s its own thing), I’ll see someone call Masky and/or Hoody a killer and I sit there like. But they aren’t though. They tried to kill one (1) guy and technically Tim did later but that was purely self defense.

Their actual crimes ARE attempted murder, breaking and entering, theft(?), assault, and stalking, with maybe a few more, but 80% of the murders were caused by Alex. You can lump Tim’s kill count with Masky if you want (which brings him dubiously up to 2 if you count Hoody falling) but Hoody has a kill count of exactly zero.

They ARE very intimidating figures and highly important to the story but I definitely wouldn’t label them as killers!