#proper fic post for this thing!

[xenon-demon]

only one (1) coherent thought in my skull right now and it’s domestic steddie with Steve washing Eddie’s hair after he’s discharged from hospital post-Vecna.

I’m imagining Eddie’s being discharged to Steve’s house, because Steve is but a simple man with a saviour complex (and also a crush on Eddie) so he’s letting Wayne and Eddie stay with him. Partly so they have somewhere to be while the government sorts out some new housing for them, but mostly because Eddie needs support for these first few weeks out of hospital and Wayne is away at work a lot. Having Steve around as well means Eddie won’t end up in a situation where he needs a hand but is stuck home alone for hours.

Eddie’s recovered enough for discharge but still requires a lot of physical therapy, and one of the things he still can’t do is raise his arms above his head. He can’t wash his hair pretty much at all, and while the nurses washed it for him in hospital, they didn’t do it frequently enough for Eddie’s standards. His hair has been driving him insane, as the limp, greasy feeling against his face, neck and scalp makes him want to claw his skin off. When he’s told how long it’s expected to take before his arms have full range of motion again, he makes a joke-that’s-not-really-a-joke about going back to his buzzcut days just to avoid dealing with the feeling.

Steve is horrified at the suggestion, and immediately offers to wash Eddie’s hair for him. He also divulges that part of the reason he styled his hair the way he did in high school was because he played a lot of sports, and couldn’t stand the feeling of sweaty hair against his neck and face. Sure, he genuinely did want his hair to look good, but styling it up so it was out of his face was an added bonus.

Eddie’s hair is driving him so crazy that he says yes, especially once he realises Steve might actually get where he’s coming from.

Cue an emotionally tense shower, where both Steve and Eddie are stripped down to their boxers because they don’t want to this fully clothed but they sure as fuck don’t want to do it naked, either. (Spoiler alert, they’d both actually love to have a naked shower together, they’re just both too nervous to bring that up at this stage!)

But then Eddie slips while in the shower, still unsteady on his feet and learning to adjust to his bad leg, so Steve makes an executive decision to switch over to the bath. After a bit of manoeuvring they find a comfortable position to do this; Eddie sitting in front of Steve in the bath, Steve’s legs stretched out either side of him. Between the physical intimacy of having your hair washed by someone else, and the way they don’t have to look at each other’s faces as they do this, they end up talking. They get a lot more personal than they were able to in hospital or during Spring Break, and it’s such a nice experience that they’ll each happily put up with the sensory hell of waterlogged boxers.

Eventually - after Eddie and Wayne have moved into their new place, but Eddie and Steve are over at each other’s houses often enough that they might as well still be living together - Eddie can move his arms enough to wash his hair on his own. He’s gotten more used to his bad leg and can stand long enough to even shower if he wants to. They go about three weeks with Eddie washing his own hair, both of them desperately missing this little routine they’d built but not wanting to admit it. One day, however, Eddie feels so lonely and so tired from physical therapy that day that he asks Steve to wash his hair for him. Steve accepts in a heartbeat, almost before Eddie’s even had time to say the words.

It feels different that time. The energy between them is charged, everything feeling more intimate somehow. It’s so palpable a difference that after Steve runs the conditioner through Eddie’s hair to let it sit for a few minutes, Eddie turns around in the bath to face Steve. He takes a breath, trying to steel his nerves, and asks: can I kiss you?

Steve doesn’t answer him; he thinks the way he leans in and slots his lips in between Eddie’s is answer enough.

[witchspeka]

It's always "Shou and Ritsu need to blow stuff up with their minds for mental health reasons" or Ritsu and Teru or even Shou and Teru!

But what about Mob? When does he get to blow stuff up with his mind for funsies? For shits and giggles? He didn't go through all of those meltdowns and character development for nothing, let him go ham on a junkyard car or something smh

I believe in Mob's narrative given right to fuck shit up sometimes

[sibylsleaves]

some things fall when they're meant to fall

11k (so far) | rated T | read on ao3 Eddie’s gaze drop to Buck’s lips—pink, like his birthmark. Eddie wants to taste those lips, and he wants it with a fierceness so sudden it shocks him. “I’m, uh,” Buck stammers. “Last night. When you saw me and Tommy…we—we were on a date.” Everything inside Eddie goes still. If his heart is a kite, then this is the moment it plummets back to earth.

or, Buck tells Eddie some news. Eddie has a realization and breaks up with his girlfriend. Not necessarily in that order.

written for @burnthatbridge

Chapter 2/4 now up on ao3

Eddie is happy for Buck. Obviously. It goes without saying that he’s happy for him.

And look, it’s not like it’s hard. Not when Buck’s been walking around like the LA sun shines specifically for him. He’s got this shimmering halo of excitement around him these days, and beneath that, a kind of deep relief. Like some of the heavy weight he’s dragged around with him his entire life has been lifted.

More than anyone Eddie’s ever known, Buck has spent his life searching for something. And finally, he’s found it.

Not Tommy—although Buck does get a particular blushing grin on his face whenever he talks about him. What Buck has found is something bigger than that. A truth about himself. An answer to a question he never knew to ask.

So yeah, Eddie’s happy for him. How could he not be? This whole year, when he hasn’t been worrying about Chris, he’s been worried about Buck and how he’s been dealing with the aftermath of the lightning strike.

He’s not worried anymore.

And as for Eddie’s own revelation…the realization that for him, all roads lead to Buck, well…

He’s not thinking about it. He’s doing everything in his power to act like nothing’s changed, to act the way the Eddie Diaz of two weeks ago would act. The Eddie Diaz whose brain hadn’t yet caught up to his heart on the matter of Evan Buckley.

“So, there’s a Dodgers game this evening,” Eddie says, jiggling his car keys nervously while he waits for Buck to finish changing after their shift. He rests his gaze somewhere to the left of Buck's bare chest. “I was thinking about inviting Tommy over to watch. And I know you’re watching Jee so Chim and Maddie can work on wedding stuff—”

“Eddie,” Buck tugs his shirt over his head and looks at Eddie quizzically. “We’ve already been over this. I was never actually mad that you were hanging out with Tommy without me. I mean yeah, I guess I felt slightly excluded, but it was more about—”

“Yeah, yeah I know, the giant crush you had on the guy,” Eddie says with a fond eye-roll. There. That’s something two-weeks-ago Eddie would’ve said, right?

(read chapter 2 on ao3)

taglist:

@remembertheskittles @myao3library-blog @sorryimlatecapt @swiftiesisters14 @bewitchedbewilderedbisexual

@myphilomena @neuromagpie @fleurdebeton @daffi-990 @crysty-rp-2023

@confetti-cupcake @pixelmator5 @fabgirlll @evansbuckkley @lyricfulloflight

@daisievalentine @crazyfangirlallert @bucklavaa @torturedpoetdean @smallandalmosthonest

@notalwaysdead @anatargmova @marmottion @flavored-soda @thebirdling

@tulipfromtheinternet @takemebythehand-andsetmefree @sunshinediaz @thatsveryood @devirnis

@messyhairdiaz @skies-below @actingcamplibrarian @dirundmir @stagefoureddiediaz

@wh0rebehavi0rmain @dancy-nrew @eddiebabygirldiaz @screamatthescreen @organizedstardust

@leothil

[magnusbae]

Hi! What about "Can you stay with me?" (and if you'd like it my bonus prompt is "drunk") 💗

The initial draft was written while I was quite literally fainting late at night & the second one fully rewritten while I am dazed and out of it. I would say that I was method writing Obi-Wan who is indeed very much drunk in this one, dearest anon. Thank you for the prompt~ 😊💖

+++

Obikin || 4,004w || Drunk Obi-Wan is agonized by the prospect of his freshly knighted Padawan leaving him behind— and more. 😌 Some flavors of gentle lime in this drink, very light, very sweet. 🍋💖

▾▾▾

"Can you stay with me?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi sounds properly pathetic and he knows it. Grasping at Anakin’s Tabards as he is, mind swirling in hazy circles around the notion he was doing his very best to avoid thinking about for the past few months. It is not long now that Anakin would look at his Master and see him for what he really was. Perhaps even today. Inebriated as he is, he makes for a good serving of disillusionment. All Anakin needs to do is look, and see, and then…

It seems inevitable—his Padawan will leave.

Former Padawan. Anakin is no longer his Padawan, and that is the heart of it, isn’t it? The severed braid was the firs step. Them having each a battalion of their own, stationed light years away from each other with only the occasional joint mission, a second. The third and final step would be for Anakin to finally open his eyes and look, and see.

It won’t be hard to unveil the carefully crafted Jedi Master facade Obi-Wan had cultivated for the past decade. No, it won’t be hard at all. If Anakin were to stop glorifying him, stop shaping him to be what ever form of idol he had needed for while growing up, if only he were to take an unbiased look at him…

There will no longer be, Kenobi and Skywalker.

For the naked truth was, Anakin had outgrown him, had become more powerful and capable than his Master. There’s little left that Obi-Wan could still offer, still teach. He should be proud. The only one still refusing to see it, is Anakin himself. Once that revelation comes to pass however, it will be complete. A true break, as befitting the Jedi way. Obi-Wan finds no peace in the thought, no completion nor satisfaction in the successful completion of his Padawan’s training—a symbol of his own Mastery.

Not when it means losing him. Not then.

Given his state of drunkenness, words slurred and feet unsteady, he thinks that it’s worth putting to question whatever or not he was a good Jedi at all, least of all a Master. Try as he might, he finds it hard to ponder further. His choice to look inward is as always an avoidance, an escape. An easy detour from looking outward, from looking at Anakin. Anakin who’s eyes he can feel like a physical touch, boring into his very soul.

Obi-Wan’s avoidance is nearly as strong as Anakin’s natural magnetism. One is counseling him to avoid looking, save himself the pain of witnessing the exact moment in which the realization dawns upon the boy. The second, stronger still, demands his undivided attention on him, demands him to look. Demands him. 

Obi-Wan looks up, he meets those eyes, his demise.

Anakin’s eyes widen and he blinks, endless blue clearing as if coming out of some sort of shock.

“Can I—” Anakin splutters “—Obi-Wan, even if the council explicitly ordered me to go save the entire karkin universe just now, I wouldn’t be leaving your side— stars you’ve any idea what you look like right now?

Obi-Wan’s tongue is heavy but he parts his lips to answer, something clever to be sure, he always finds something to say.

“No, never mind.” Anakin cuts in before he could speak. There’s such decisiveness in his tone, such confidence. His former Padawan stands tall, his arms are strong and sure as he handles Obi-Wan closer, making him lean more of his weight against his chest. It’s broad and firm. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things, should not be aware of those things. It is a further evidence that his Padawan is well and truly grown. Further evidence of his own failing as a Jedi, as a Master, as a…man. Obi-Wan should not be inhaling and smelling home. Should not be leaning closer, itching all over for more, more.

“You’re so wasted that I am surprised you’ve even recognized me at all.” Anakin continues talking, as if the universe is not shifting beneath Obi-Wan’s feet as it is him who finally looks with his gaze unbiased. “The drunken messages though, those you will be seeing tomorrow” there’s dark mirth in that dear voice. “I bet you wanted to send them to— someone else.” Anakin glances at him, eyes narrowed.

Obi-Wan’s offenses at Anakin’s assumption he could ever not recognize him dies over under his gaze, dark and rich, his eyes are captivating. Before Anakin, he did not know that a blue can hold such multitudes. Both the clear morning sky, and the moon lit sky. Beautiful. They loosens his tongue as well as any truth serum would. That or the bottle he had finished on his own finally soaked through.

“I will always—”  His voice comes out so thick that he coughs, starting Anakin from his dark contemplations, whichever those might be. His eyebrows furrow and he quickly snatches a cup of something clear off of a passing robo-waitress’s tray. Irritated with the distraction, Obi-Wan accepts it and drinks if only to make way for the words to follow. He will not let it go. Not now that he’d started. “I will always recognize you, Padawan Mine, drugged, beaten, or otherwise preoccupied— I will always—” “Drugged?!” Anakin cuts in again, arms tightening around Obi-Wan and strangling the annoyed huff at being cut again “You did not mention anything about being drugged, what the kark’ Obi-Wan?!”

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry, similar to how being drugged would feel. His mind swims and all he sees is Anakin. There’s warmth in his chest, there’s a burn in his gut, there’s a tug in his— 

“It’s hard to tell” he says sheepishly, embarrassed, eyes straying away from Anakin’s strong jaw and up, up to the lights on the ceiling. He should not be thinking of how Anakin’s proximity is enough to replicate a strong drug. How out of orbit he feels around him as of late. “They all start the same, so…” 

Anakin is hardly listening. Instead he is surveying the club with a look of fury that is bordering on homicidal, freeing one hand to rest it on his lightsaber. There’s the distinct feeling of Anakin stretching his force signature out, covering the room, no doubt attempting to locate anyone within their proximity who might have dared drug his former Master. Oh if only he knew that he was the culprit all along. 

Obi-Wan snorts, finding an odd sense of humor in it.

Anakin’s gaze darts back to him, sharp and accusing. He looks so handsome under the colorful, dim lights. He looks so… 

“Ah-nakin.” Obi-Wan sighs out and shuts his eyes lest his spinning head forces him to sober up in the most un-jedi manner.  

“Stay with me,” the request comes so easy, what was it that he was so afraid of? It’s so easy, too easy. Frighteningly so, to reach and touch Anakin’s forearm. There’s skin beneath his touch, warm and human, tense muscles beneath. “Ah” Obi-Wan sighs out in realization. Anakin had rolled the sleeves, so very unofficial for a Jedi and yet so very Anakin of him.

Master Windu would have hated it. It wouldn’t surprise Obi-Wan if this was exact reason why Anakin did it to begin with, after all, he was most adept to handling heat and was not bothered by it even while all else were. Obi-Wan really should have reprimanded the boy more often, should have stopped Anakin from executing all those harmless little vendettas of his while growing up.

If only he did not find them to be so endearing, so amusing. If only he was a better Master, a proper Master. He would have. 

His brain is foggy and he had already forgotten what was it it that he had hoped to achieve by touching Anakin, only that his fingers are circling his wrist and touching the spot at which he can feel his life pulsing. What a terrible habit it is, being intoxicated while negotiating. You should only ever drink enough to appear drunk, never more. How is he to get what he wants, when he has no ideas what it was? 

Obi-Wan’s eyelids are heavy when he tries to blink them open and focus on Anakin. There’s the signature frown, so familiar Obi-Wan can’t help but smile. Anakin is chewing his lips, a compulsion he had never managed to rid himself of. He looks torn between the need to locate and deal with the ‘enemy’, and…. Obi-Wan. 

The way Anakin looks, that should not be reminiscent of the targets Obi-Wan opts for charm as the main form of negotiation with. Should not stir the excitement of a hunt, of a game to be won. Obi-Wan should not use his looks to achieve his goals, he should not use them to get what he wants, he should be a better man than that.

Obi-wan is not a better man. 

Licking his own dry lips, he let’s go off of Anakin’s wrist and reaches for Anakin’s cheeks. There’s a tremble in the touch, his, Anakin’s? He is not certain. 

“Dear One, you can chase your enemies tomorrow.” He speaks in a hushed murmur, he hopes he sounds soft and alluring “Tonight, will you guard this drunk Master of yours?” he looks up, through his lashes, breathing shallowly, feeling hot, hot, hot all over. 

Anakin let’s go off of the lightsaber. It’s an answer enough to what he had picked. It still is deeply gratifying to feel the boy’s hand cover his own, guide it until he wraps his arm around Anakin’s shoulders. It’s an awkward angle, with Anakin being taller than he— he cares very little for it when Anakin wraps an arm around his waist. 

“Let’s go.” He is tight lipped and determined, guiding Obi-Wan out and into a speeder that is parked not far off. If Obi-Wan was even slightly more aware, he’d realize just how much attention the pair of them had draw, how all of the eyes had followed them out. Sometimes he forgets, how famous they had become during this accursed war. Sometimes, he is glad to not remember. 

Anakin is terribly efficient at getting them to the Temple. One blink of an eye they’re flying through the busy highways of Coruscant, the next he is tossed unceremoniously onto a bed that feels and smells familiar. His bed.

They’re in his quarters. Their quarters until very recently. He is breathing harder and he does not dare to think of why. If he does not think, it does not exist. He is self aware enough only to feel how disheveled his robes feel on his body, how messy his hair is, how hot his skin feels all over. He is a mess. 

“Dear one?” he questions. He refuses to acknowledge how his own tone drops, refuses to admit he is rolling his vowels in a way he knows thickens his accent in the most attractive of ways. He doesn’t know why he is flirting with Anakin Skywalker when the boy is barely out of his knighthood and is Anakin. His Anakin, his Anakin on whom he just looked in a way he really should not be looking at, through his eyelashes, with a heavy, wanting gaze. 

The redness of Anakin’s cheeks is evidence enough that he hears and understands the situation well enough. That he is very much aware of what his Master is doing. That he is… perhaps affected. 

Obi-Wan swallows, trying to push himself up to his elbows. He needs to sober up, he must tell him that he is merely jesting, that it is all a little tease, a little laugh, nothing more, just….

Anakin cuts him to it. Before he can excuse, or joke, or explain.

“Not while you’re drunk.” Anakin bites, sounding frustrated, lips swollen red from biting. Obi-Wan startles, surprised. 

What did Anakin just say? Imply?

Blatantly threw straight into his face, more like. 

Yes, but not while he is drunk.

Absurdly, a swell of pride fills his chest to the brim. Anakin’s manners and chivalry surprises him, pleases him. He had raised him well after all, he did not fail him, at least not in this.

His pleasure must bleed into the Force as Anakin regards him with a dark, baffled look. It’s so dark, most would find it intimidating, but for Obi-Wan it’s… dear. He can see the gentleness in that look, the care. There’s warmth in the force when Anakin insist on tucking him in, fingers methodical in the short, careful gestures. Tucking him in as if he was a child. Him, his Master. Former. 

Obi-Wan was tucked in only once in his lifetime, at least as far as he can remember. His first night in the Jedi Temple. So tense he was, so out of his depth, that the he was taken pity of, tucked in with a quiet promise of everything making sense soon. It helped.

It had never happen again. 

“Ahnakin.” he tries to protest, tries to pull a face of offended indigence. It’s hard to do when he is practically shining within the force. A single look from his apprentice is enough to quiet him down. 

“Master.” Anakin replies, and there’s a little eyeroll there. His cheeks are still flushed but he seems as determined as Obi-Wan to not address the Bantha in the room. “You really should be more careful” he lectures him in a way Obi-Wan can distinctly remember doing a few years back, when Anakin had gotten drunk for the first time. 

He leaves then, without a word. Obi-Wan’s throat closes and there’s a pang of pain in his heart. No this. He remembers now. Him. Leaving. That was the whole reason, that was why—

“Master?” Anakin sounds concerned, a glass of water and a container of what looks to be painkillers in his hands. “Are you sick?” a few strides and he is by Obi-Wan’s bed again, placing he glass and container at the bedside table. He looks well and truly worried. 

Unthinking, Obi-Wan sits up. So sudden that he does feel sick from the motion. He ignores it. He reaches for Anakin’s face with both hands, cupping his cheeks with a grip that is too strong, too desperate. A Jedi should not hold onto things with such fervor. 

All it takes for him to lean is to Anakin, is to stop resisting if only for a moment. Anakin’s pull was always there, stronger and stronger until it had become a daily challenge to ignore it, to pretend he does not feel it. All it takes is to stop resisting and his lips find Anakin’s, pressing against that plush softness, inhaling his exhale and finally, finally feeling anchored, inside the orbit he was always meant to circle.

He tilts his chin, leans in, knowing his beard will scratch pleasantly against the smooth jaw, kisses in deeper—

“Mahster—!” Anakin gasps into the kiss, a pang of shock and uncertainty clouding the force around them, sipping through the open nerves of their broken bond.  He does not want to take advantage of his Master, does not want him to end up hating him, does not want him to wake up and be disgusted, appalled— but he wants, he wants so badly. 

“Oh, Anakin.” Obi-Wan breathes out, unsure if it’s endearment of relief that fills him up with warmth, with lightness. One thing he is certain of, no one had ever been, or will be, as sweet, as kind, as dear as Anakin is to him. “I could never hate him.” There’s a drunken lisp to his voice, he needs a moment to correct himself. “You.” He manages, meeting Anakin’s eyes and not blinking, not wanting to miss a single moment. Wanting to see the exact moment in which Anakin realizes he is serious, that he is the most honest he’s been in years. 

Anakin seems to be realizing it too, his eyes widening and cheeks coloring a deeper red than before, he bites his lip.

“I might be…” Obi-Wan’s gaze drops to Anakin’s lips and he thinks about… “intoxicated…” he forces himself to look up, away from temptation, away from sin. “Drugged, possibly.” He is still not fully certain if he is, or it truly is just Anakin with a touch of alcohol. “But I am very much aware that…” he smiles before completing the sentence, it widens so much further with the words to come “…my Padawan simply cannot take advantage of his Master…” there’s really no need to be using this many terms of belonging, especially when they are outdated and irrelevant, but he just cannot… “On the contrary, I am the one who should be deeply ashamed for…mnnn-” 

Anakin’s lips quiet him up, he was never a patient listener, never could hear his Master finish a thought. This is the most effective he had ever been at cutting Obi-Wan’s line of thought, by far. He kisses him in a way Obi-Wan would have never guessed him capable of— it’s soft, sweet, patient. A tender thing, careful, loving. Obi-Wan gasps. Thinking, dazedly of how Anakin will grow to be an amazing lover, so attentive, a beast holding back his fangs in favor of gentle lips… 

The thought sets a burning coil of arousal deep in Obi-Wan’s gut.

Not good. Beyond not good. He should…. 

The thought is present and yet he licks at Anakin’s lips, asking for permission. He is granted one without resistance, without hesitance. Anakin’s lips part and he can taste him and oh, oh. Obi-Wan groans, muscles tensing as he shifts to sit straighter, moving a hand to Anakin’s nape and pulling him closer.

He nearly chokes when the boy sucks on his tongue, arousal shocking him into near soberness. 

“Anakin…” he knows, there’s not enough alcohol in the universe to convince him that this is not going too far, he knows and yet… 

He kisses Anakin again, a little hungrier, a little more wanting.

He must stop this madness. To think that he had started it, to think that he had taken advantage of his trusting, sweet—

“No, Master.” Anakin answers, and Obi-Wan wonders just how much of his shields is truly left if his thoughts can be read so easily, so plainly. “You’ve asked me to stay, and I will stay.” That assuredness is back, firm and leaving no space for argument. This is the same man who leads men on a battlefield, who commands, who leads. Obi-Wan finds it impossibly, undeniably, devastatingly attractive.

“You will sleep.” Anakin decides then, tearing his eyes away from Obi-Wan long enough to gesture at the lights, turning them off with the force. “And I will stay with you.” His eyes land back to Obi-Wan, dark mirth dancing in what Obi-Wan can still see of him. “To keep you safe, Master.” He is teasing him, the little devil.

“How will it even…” Obi-Wan doesn’t want to mention how narrow the bed really is, Anakin would know, with his constant complaints about how leg room and… 

“Don’t worry about that.” Anakin answers, confidence so cocky, so boyish that Obi-Wan huffs a surprised laughter, breaking into giggling when Anakin practically falls on top of him. They struggle like that, laughter mixing, limbs tangling, hair in a mouth and fingers against sides— Anakin captures him then, they’re on their sides, Anakin’s back is firm as he pulls Obi-Wan all the way to himself, forming….

“Absolutely not!” Obi-Wan’s voice raises and breaks a little, attempting to wriggle out of the trap he inadvertently fell into. There’s still some pride life in him. He will not permit this Jedi Knight, his former Padawan no less, big spoon him, 16 years his senior and former Master. Force be his witness, he will not allow it.

Anakin makes a suffering, exasperated exhale when Obi-Wan manages to slip out of his grip— only to be yanked back by the force. All he manages is a choked gasp of protest before the air is knocked out of him, his back hitting a firm chest a little too hard. There’s a vindictive sort of satisfaction in hearing Anakin chokes out a surprised exhale too, clearly, he did not account for the impact being this strong.

“Karkin’ hell…” he hears the boy muttering and snorts out, laughing even while Anakin wraps his mechno-arm around him, pulling him back into the not-as-offensive as before little spoon position. Fine, he thinks. He’ll allow it, just for this one night…. 

His eyes close and he shudders when Anakin’s nose press against his nape, he can feel the slow, deep inhale— can feel the content exhale that follows. 

“Finally.” Anakin breathes out, as if he was waiting for this moment longer than the few minutes  just now. Like he needed it, himself. Like it was not Obi-Wan, pathetic and alone, messaging his former Padawan while drunk beyond reason that led him here, but his own needs, own wants. Like he needed this too, him. Like he needs him. Obi-Wan. 

“Oh Force…” Obi-Wan calls upon it without realizing, without meaning it. Only the force can stand witness to this moment, judge it, measure it. Guide him, tell him right from wrong. “Force.” His voice trembles with it, realizing for the first time that Anakin does see him, in truth, does and still…

“It’s fine with it.” Anakin remarks, nonchalant, amusement coloring the timbre of his voice. “You don’t have to shout at her, I don’t think she like it very much” Anakin refers to the Force differently every time, Obi-Wan suspects he does it simply for the joy of throwing off the younglings.

It unsettles Obi-Wan as well, he will not admit that much, though. Anakin’s connection with the force was always stronger, always different than anyone else’s. If he’s saying that the Force is not finding this offensive…. Obi-Wan will trust him. Anakin enjoys messing around at times, stretching the truth about how the Force works, but he’d never lie about this, not to him. 

Obi-Wan’s body relaxes so completely that he practically sags into Anakin, relief, so much relief. It feels…. Good. There’s rightness to it that even without the Force humming pleasantly in his ears, he’d recognize. Like sharing a sleeping cot in the war zones, minus the blood and gore and pain… it feels secure, it feels…good…. 

He feels himself being lulled to what he suspects will be a long and restful sleep. Such a luxury as of late. “Mnh..” He jolts a little when a hand moves across his side, resting at his hip bone and then back up to his side. He should not permit Anakin this much leeway with him and yet…. He likes it… oh he likes it.

So he doesn’t comment it, allowing him to continue, to stroke him and care for him, and hold him. He is not leaving. 

Sleep comes ease, as easy as an inhale. One moment he is aware of all that surrounds him, the scent and warmth, the weight and touch. The next he is sinking into the open embrace of rest. Distantly, he feels the touch of a Force Signature he knows as well as his own. It is the only half of it, after all. Accepting it, is as easy as breathing too. 

There’s a distant shift, even in sleep he can feel the bond snapping back into place, like moons falling into a familiar route, circling a singular sun. Maybe it was not Anakin who was the sun around which Obi-wan was revolving all along, but their shared….

[thetarttfuldickhead]

Fic: Roy & Jamie & and that time when Jamie was NOT in a car crash

With ten minutes left until training officially began and still no sign of Jamie, there were a few raised eyebrows and murmurs and Isaac telling Will to put the player down for a 100 quid fine, but no one thought to be worried. People ran late, sometimes. Not usually Jamie, no, but Colin figured there was a first time for everything. Besides, he was busy listening to Bumbercatch explain the intricacies of post-Brexit labour shortages and the way it served to reproduce notions of capitalist realism, none of which Colin understood, but Bumbercatch was at his fittest when he was passionate and mysterious so Colin hung on to his every word all the same.

When Roy stepped into the dressing room a little while later and noticed the distinct lack of number 9 and rang Jamie to demand where the hell he was only to receive no answer, a slight sense of unease settled over the room, though Colin suspected that had more to to with the sinister look on Coach’s face rather than any real fear that Jamie might be in danger (at least not until he showed up and had to deal with Coach anyway).

And then they heard about the car crash.

---

It was Sam who – always eager to play peacemaker, bless him – checked his phone to see if Jamie had left any messages in the group chat to explain his absence, and Sam who went very quiet and stared at his screen in silence for so long that everyone else fell silent too and turned to stare at him. Never a good sign, that sort of silence in the dressing room.

“Yo, bruv, he write something?” Isaac asked when it became apparent that Sam was not going to volunteer whatever information he had found.

“No, nothing,” Sam said. “But… “

“But fucking what?” Roy demanded, words sharp and jagged like broken glass.

“There’s been a car crash,” Sam’s voice was quiet and slow and reluctant. “A big one, not far from Jamie’s house. At least two people are dead, and several injured. It doesn’t say anything about Jamie,” he quickly added into the collective intake of horrified breath. “I’m sure he’s perfectly fine.”

“Yeah,” Thierry agreed quickly. “He probably just got delayed because it caused a traffic jam or something.”

Eager nods around room, and Colin found himself nodding along because of course that was the most reasonable explanation, of course Jamie hadn’t— he wasn’t—

“But then why didn’t he pick up his phone?” Bumbercatch asked. “Or call to say he’d be late?”

A relevant question, and as with most of Moe’s questions, without a ready answer.

“We would have heard, wouldn’t we?” Nate suggested uneasily. “I mean, they would have called, if— “

He didn’t finish the sentence. No one else spoke.

Trying to distract himself from the quickly growing pit in his stomach, Colin turned his gaze on Roy, who had gone so still that he didn’t even seem to be breathing. His face was a blank mask, utterly devoid of any emotion, but his fists were clenched so tight that Colin’s own hands twinged in sympathy.

“I’ll go talk to Higgins,” Beard said abruptly, breaking the fraught silence.

“Yeah, no, that’s a great idea,” Nate quickly chimed in. Like Colin, he’d been eyeing Roy nervously. “He’ll know what—“

The door slammed open. Jamie rushed inside. “Sorry, sorry I’m late,” he called as he dumped his bag on the bench by his cubby and started pulling his vest off, “been this massive car accident, was stuck for ages and then the road was closed off so I had to go round and— Eh?“

Cockburn, by virtue of being closest, had pulled Jamie into a tight hug, and the rest of the players immediately closed in to follow suit, Colin among them. In his relief he wasn’t sure whether to kiss Jamie or smack him on the head for worrying them, and in the end he settled for briefly squeezing his neck. Jamie grinned at him, at all of them, looking a little bemused but very much delighted by the attention.

“Fucking hell, lads,” he laughed. “Thought I’d be getting a fine, not a fucking group hug. Realized how dull training would be without me, huh?”

“You are getting a fine,” Isaac told him, even as he put his arm around Jamie’s shoulder and shook him gently. “But we’re fucking happy you’re here, yeah?”

“We thought you had died in the car crash,” Jan explained.

“Sí, amigo, we were so worried for you!”

“Oh! Yeah, no, I’m fine, I’m fine. Not fucking Colin, am I? I don’t get into any car crashes.” He caught Colin’s eye and winked, sticking his tongue out like the utter tosser he was and Colin rolled his eyes and was so, so stupidly happy the idiot was there to be annoying.

Eventually, after everyone had gotten to hug Jamie or pat him on the back or ruffle his hair (to his loud but clearly half-hearted protests), the team drifted back to their own cubbies, happily chatting amongst themselves—

— leaving Roy standing on the middle of the floor, staring at Jamie with a look on his face that had Colin take an involuntary step backwards. Their gaffer did not look relieved. In fact, he looked absolutely murderous.

“Why the fuck,” he intoned, emphasizing each word, “did you not fucking call to say you were fucking late? And why the fuck did you not answer your fucking phone?”

The tone of voice would have had anyone with even an ounce of self-preservation running for cover if directed at them, but Jamie just blinked. “Oh, er, left it at home, didn’t I? Already had it in me black bag, right, only I realized the tan one went better with this outfit so I grabbed that instead, but I forgot about the phone ‘cause I was in a bit of a rush, yeah?” He shrugged a little sheepishly. “It was stupid. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, you’re sorry about that, are you? Do you have any fucking idea—“ Taking a step closer, getting right up into Jamie’s face, Roy launched into a dressing-down of such volume and viciousness Colin was convinced it had the walls vibrating. Even by Roy Kent’s considerable standards, it was a lot and it lasted for well over a minute until Roy growled, “If you’re not out on the pitch running laps in two minutes you won’t have to worry about getting into any car crashes going home ‘cause you’ll be here all night, running ‘til you fucking drop in your own puke, got it?”

Initially, Jamie had seemed slightly taken aback by Roy’s furious remonstration, but then something that looked strangely like understanding passed over his face and he settled into a determined stoicism, neither talking back nor looking cowed. By the end of it, though, there was definitively barely suppressed anger glinting in his gray eyes, leaving Colin worried he might snap and then they’d have a full-on brawl on their hands, just like back in the bad old days when Roy and Jamie well and truly hated each others’ guts and wouldn’t that be exactly the sort of fun they all wanted on a Tuesday?

He gave a sigh of relief (and could hear Richard do the same just next to him) when Jamie just offered a curt, “yes, Coach,” and set to getting changed at an appropriately hurried speed.

“And fucking apologize to your teammates for delaying training!” Roy barked.

“We’d be out there already if you hadn’t spent the last hour shouting at me,” Jamie muttered to the boot he was tying.

“The fuck did you say?”

“Nothing, Coach. Sorry, everyone.” He looked up. “Really am,” he added, sounding quite sincere about it. “Didn’t mean to hold you up or, you know, worry you or nothing.”

---

Training was an awkward and quietly tense affair. Once Jamie had finished his laps and was allowed to join the rest of them, Roy pointedly and resolutely ignored him, refusing to so much as spare him a glance while the team muddled through the day’s exercises and scrimmage.

Jamie, for his part, seemed utterly determined not to give a shit. He went through the drills as diligently as ever, dribbled and passed and shot with his usual flair, shouting encouragements and slapping Colin’s butt after a particularly good free kick. For all intents and purposes, it was just another day at the job for Jamie Tartt – but Colin saw the looks he kept shooting Roy when he thought no one was watching, and he noticed how Jamie didn’t just play well but played brilliantly, stubbornly lining up one little footie miracle after another on the pitch. He wasn’t being a prick about it either, prompting Colin to mutter to Isaac: “Looks like Jamie’s trying to get back on Roy’s good side by going for player of the year.”

Isaac glanced over at Jamie, then shook his head in dismissal. “Nah, bruv,” he said. “He ain’t trying to appease the gaffer. Sticking it to him, innit.”

“Oh. Okay.” Colin frowned. That… didn’t make a lot of sense, really, but Isaac usually knew what he was talking about, and it wasn’t like Colin begrudged Jamie a little bit of pushback, not after the way Roy had chewed him out in front of everyone. It was just that, if this escalated and the two of them got into it properly, the way they used to back when Roy was still the captain rather than the coach… Well. It’d be a shit time for everyone. Colin could do without it. They could all do without it.

Not that that sort of consideration had ever stopped either Roy or Jamie before.

On the other side of the pitch, Jamie threw himself down in a bicycle kick that saw the ball soar right past two defender’s and Thierry’s outstretched hands.

“Whistle,” Roy snapped. “Training’s fucking over.”

---

“Oi! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Colin, with Dani, Jeff and Jamie in tow, had almost made it out of the dressing room, freshly showered and changed and very ready to put the training session behind them, when Roy’s bark brought them to abrupt heel. Dani stopped so suddenly that Jeff almost walked straight into him, and Colin himself accidentally elbowed Jamie when he startled at the sudden roar.

You’d think they’d be more than used to Roy’s yelling by now, Colin thought. Then again, he supposed it’d been a strange day and they were all a little on edge. Jumpy.

“We’re going to my place, Coach,” he quickly offered, hoping to stave off another round of shouting. “To play some FIFA.” He briefly considered inviting Roy to join them, it would only be polite, right, and could be good for morale maybe, but he was held back by the notion that the gaffer might say yes.

“Tartt isn’t,” Roy informed him curtly.

Jamie cocked his head to the side. “I’m not?” Definitively a hint of challenge in his tone, and Jesus, this was all going to go straight to hell, wasn’t it? And after they’d almost made it out of here, too.

Roy was unmoved; unyielding as stone. “No, you’re coming with me so I can keep an eye on you since you’re too much of a fucking child to be trusted on your own.”

For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other, both faces shadowed by stubborn scowls. Colin realized he was holding his breath, and glanced over at Isaac getting ready for dinner with his parents in front of the mirror to check if he, as captain, was maybe planning to step in and deescalate the situation. How he was going to do that Colin had no idea; he wasn’t the captain.

Isaac said nothing, though, just watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. Figures, Colin thought a little sourly; his friend was utter shit at keeping secrets but could pull inscrutable like nobody’s business when it suited him.

“Fine.” In the end, Jamie relented with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m taking me own car, which I have, what with me not actually being in a car crash today and all.”

Roy looked furious at that, as if Jamie’s lack of fiery death in a burning inferno was somehow a personal insult to him, but then he pressed his lips together and jerked his head in a sharp t nod. “Fine.”

He spun around and stalked away, leaving Jamie rolling his eyes and muttering Jesus fucking Christ you overdramatic grumpy fuck under his breath. Then he turned to the rest of them and shrugged. “Sorry, lads. Another time, yeah?”

Dani made a small, unhappy sound. Colin exchanged a look with Jeff, who looked about as unsure and uncomfortable as Colin felt. Over on the other side of the room, Isaac was still quiet, potentially a sign to the others to keep out of it as well, but in spite of that Colin found himself compelled to ask: “Boyo, do you want us to… talk to Coach?”

It was a mildly terrifying idea, and it very much went against the unspoken agreement that nobody interfere with the continued absurdity that was Roy and Jamie’s relationship these days. But, today had been weird in a way that seemed to have little enough to do with training, extracurricular or otherwise. A particular kind of weird, even for these two. Besides, his whole idea of an impromptu game night had been, at least in part, a bid to cheer Jamie up after all that, and it seemed a shame that he’d miss it for more of the same.

Jamie, however, waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, mate, it’s fine.”

He looked like he meant it, too. There was a frown on his face, sure, but as far as Colin could tell it spoke more of mild annoyance than actual upset or worry.

“But forgetting your phone was a simple mistake, and it is not your fault you were late. It’s not right that Coach should keep punishing you for it.” Sam, who had declined FIFA in favour of being a responsible restaurant owner (“and bad fucking flirt, it’s been almost a year mate, why haven’t you asked her out yet?”), had walked over from his locker and was eyeing Jamie with customarily earnest concern.

Jamie just shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and off their worried stares added, “He’s not going to do anything bad or anything. It’s just, I fucking scared him, right, and he’s being a twat about it ‘cause he’s an idiot who doesn’t know how to have feelings properly and he’s only been in therapy for like three months and it’ll probably take a year for anything Dr. Sharon says to go through his big stupid head, yeah? That’s all.”

Which. Okay. Colin could see how the prospect of Jamie actually dying might scare even Roy, but on the other hand… it was Roy. Roy Kent. And besides—

“I don’t know, man, he didn’t seem scared,” Jeff ventured.

“No, amigo, he seemed like he wanted to rip your head off,” Dani helpfully filled in. “And maybe use it as a football.”

“Yeah, because he’s a twat,” Jamie said. “But it’ll be fine, I promise. Probably just wants to make me dinner or something.”

Colin blinked. That… was a leap. Even by Jamie’s particular kind of logic, that was definitively a leap.

“He’s right.” Oh, so now Isaac decided to speak up. “Roy’s not mad at Jamie, he’s mad because he was frightened.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows meaningfully and pointed at their captain. “Yeah, that. So don’t worry.” Adjusting his cap he shot Colin a cheeky wink. “Whoever plays me better score a fuckton of goals tonight, yeah? See you tomorrow, lads.”

And he was out the door, fucking humming as he went. Doing that Jamie Tartt thing of untouchable and unshakeable confidence and you think you can get to me? Nothing ever gets to me and even now that Colin knew Jamie wasn’t quite as invulnerable as all that, some of the old awe and jealousy stirred, mixed with concerned incredulity.

“Is it just me,” he asked after a protracted moment, “or are those two getting even weirder?”

“It’s not just you,” Jeff muttered.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Dani promised brightly, “I will play Richmond tonight and score a fuckton of goals and I will crush you for the sake of our amigo Jamie.”

Colin sighed. “Fantastic.”

At least he’d have the comfort of knowing that getting trashed by Dani Rojas was still far, far better than whatever cruel and unusual punishment Roy had planned for Jamie.

---

Jamie leaned back against Roy’s surprisingly comfortable couch and let out a small sigh of contentment. He wondered whether he ought to be still annoyed with Roy for being a massive wanker or pleased with himself for how utterly he’d called this. He settled for alternating between the two; he was complex like that. People didn’t know it, but he had depths.

Roy hadn’t tried to make him run a marathon or do a million burpees or whatever Colin and the rest had imagined. He hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t said much at all, really, since Jamie stepped through the front door without knocking; mostly he’d glared and grunted and used those funny little head jerks to communicate that Jamie should sit down and be quiet and drink the water Roy put in front of him.

Jamie had sat down and drunk the water. He had not been quiet. He’d watched the Spurs game on the telly last night and he had opinions relevant to their upcoming match against them, which by rights should interest the gaffer and if it didn’t, too fucking bad.

Roy hadn’t told him to shut up.

Instead, he’d made them dinner (fucking called it), a nutritionist approved salmon pasta with saffron and fennel that Jamie was particularly fond of, and then sent Jamie off to the couch while he did the washing up. He hadn’t said a word about Jamie’s choice of entertainment either, when he appeared a little while later with two steaming cups of tea and found the telly turned on to an old episode of Doctor Who. The show had been a staple of Jamie’s early teens and remained a nostalgic comfort; just a bit of silly fun, really, and so naturally something Roy fucking loathed, sad old fuck that he was.

Normally even the suggestion of watching it (or anything else even halfway interesting) would have been met with foul-mouthed refusal and something about Roy’s house, Roy’s rules, but tonight Roy just put the tea down wordlessly and sat down next to Jamie, as on the screen Martha, Jack and the Tenth Doctor (fittest of them all, although Jamie had a soft spot for Eleven) narrowly escaped an exploding flat.

Jamie smiled to himself. For all Roy was utter shit at saying stuff, he could be fucking transparent at times.

It had been dead obvious when Roy’s anger finally and fully faded, and guilt started trickling in to fill the void. It was right there in the way Roy went all the way quiet and started shooting him little looks out of the corner of his eye when he thought Jamie wouldn’t notice throughout dinner; there in the way he sat down far closer to Jamie than he normally would on the couch now, their legs all but touching.

It was as blatant an invitation as you could ever expect from Roy Kent, and tempting, but Jamie stubbornly held himself to himself, upright and with his arms crossed over his chest. Roy had been a right proper arsehole today and he hadn’t even said sorry so if he wanted a cuddle he could fucking ask for one, or he could wait until Jamie felt inclined to indulge him.

Eventually, though, after what Jamie deemed an appropriate amount of time (which may or may not have amounted to two whole minutes), he relented and allowed himself to lean against Roy, casual like, and tipping his head to rest Roy’s shoulder.

He smirked at how Roy not only failed to ask what the fuck he thought he was doing but also was very quick to put a tentative arm around his shoulders, the grip growing firmer when Jamie didn’t shrug him off or ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

For a while there was only that; the warmth of Roy’s body pressed into his; the sounds of the television. I love it when you say my name, the Master declared.

“I’m sorry about today,” Roy said suddenly. The words came haltingly, reluctantly. Still, he pressed on. “I … fucking overreacted.”

Jamie snorted. “Little bit, yeah.” Then he added, not bothering to conceal his smugness, “All the lads think you were dead mean to me.”

He glanced up at Roy who was determinedly staring at the telly while his eyebrows were doing something complicated and seemingly painful. “I think that… maybe… I got a bit… fucking worried, when we thought you’d been in that car crash.”

He offered like it was some great admission, a grand fucking reveal, and Jamie rolled his eyes. “Uh, yeah, mate, I know.”

Roy’s eyes snapped to his face at that, all disbelieving like, so Jamie rolled his eyes again, even harder. “Come on, man. Pretty obvious, that.”

For a long moment, Roy didn’t respond. He looked away from Jamie again. Then finally, “It wasn’t obvious to me.”

And the thing was, Roy sounded so fucking unhappy about it that Jamie clamped his mouth shut around a reflexive no, but you’re an idiot.

“Maybe something for Dr. Sharon, yeah,” he suggested instead, noting with some satisfaction that he was being really mature about all of this.

He’d have liked pointing that out to Roy, too, but had a feeling that maybe that would take away from the maturity a little. He’d mention it to Keeley later instead.

“Yeah,” Roy said after a moment of looking like he’d rather let Isaac kick a football straight at his head. “I’ll talk to her.”

“And maybe fucking apologize to my teammates for delaying training,” Jamie added innocently, feeling a smirk tug at his lips and then blossom into a full-fledged grin when Roy pulled back a little to stare at him, seemingly trying to gauge whether he was serious or not.

“You’re a prick,” Roy said eventually, relaxing again and sounding right fond about it.

“Mmmhm,” Jamie agreed happily, pulling his feet up on the couch and curling up closer to Roy. It was nice, this. Worth all that, maybe. “And here you are, fucking glad I’m not dead and all.”

Roy sighed. His arm around Jamie’s shoulder was warm and solid.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly enough that they might both pretend it wasn’t meant for Jamie’s ears at all. “I am.” 

[artgroves]

young Joyce and Jim Hopper for what a lucky man he was by @nnocres

for @strangerthingsreversebigbang

[weirdoughnut]

Chapters: 1/38 Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan, (fractionally; see the authors note)

(All 38 chapters are written! Updates will come every 1-2 weeks. You need to have read up to HoO for this; ToA, TSaTS, and MCGA are optional.)

HELLO pjo fandom. Did or do you:

lose your shit when Reyna took the oath?

miss the funny chapter titles?

want to see the Hunters written without the focus on their anti-boy shtick?

enjoy fanfics that makes breadloaves out of canon’s crumbs of detail?

prefer to read works written by someone on meth (as opposed to Uncle Rick’s crack (i don’t mean this. thank u rick))?

remember to drink water?

forget to drink water?

want Jason back?

gay?

If you answered “yes” to at least one of these (even the water ones; the bar is low), then The Daughters of Rome is up your alley! Read more if you still need convincing, hit the link if you don’t, and please go away if you somehow answered “no” to every single question. I am scared of you.

DoR picks up a few days after The Sun and the Stars but diverges from several things established in ToA. Some of these divergences are handwaves (like Reyna relinquishing her aegis), but others hugely impact the story (like Jason’s death). This fic is pretending to be the latest instalment to the Rickverse; many characters are OCs, including Reyna’s co-narrator. We get a whole new set of prophecies and pick up on ToA’s loose threads.

The writing aims to be wholeheartedly queer, multicultural, and ““taboo””—because it’s fun and we’re sexy and I like to eat people’s yummy food. DoR isn’t a grittier/dirtier/whateverier version of canon, it’s just a fic that let me write about what I know and begin to learn about stuff I didn’t.

Essentially: Rick has a diverse cast; that fucks, make it louder. Just because!

That said, I wanted to have fun writing a story. There isn’t a letter in this final version that I didn’t enjoy putting to paper. If you wanna know what “fun” looks like to a yapping literary nerd with chronic hangnails and a bottle of methylphenidate, DoR is feverishly symptomatic. please read or i’ll cry like this 😢

[ratmonky]

his hand slides down and inside your pants, you struggle but he's got one hand wrapped tight around your neck, you can feel your own pulse on your temple, everything feels so hot and you squint your eyes shut in frustration.

you want to scream but you're losing your strength with every passing second, you don't want to lose consciousness... yet.

he cups your pussy, rubbing his fingers along your slit and speaking in monotone, "playing dead won't work."

you open your eyes, glaring at the man with sideburns. he glares at you with his lips slightly curled upward. he pushes his fingers inside your cunt without breaking the eye contact.

your brows furrow and you part your lips in surprise, his fingers are long and rough.

"this is what happens if your daddy doesn't pay his debt," he says, forefingers drumming on your walls while his thumb is pressing on your clit. "you'll get humiliated and overpowered. "

your fingers try digging under the hand he has wrapped around your neck, you're getting lightheaded now, he's too strong and he's incapable of realizing how weak you are.

you try moving your legs and it pisses him off, he curls his fingers inside you and forces his knee between your legs on the wall, he spreads your legs wider and looks at you with rage.

"stay still," he warns and you look at him helplessly, wanting to beg him to let you go, to at least stop using this much force but he's large, he's brute and he is a yakuza. you know he wouldn't mind killing you and you are okay with doing whatever he wants as long as it doesn't cost you your life.

his fingers start moving in and out of you at an achingly slow pace, he's watching your face closely, eyes devoid of any emotion. you aren't sure if he's aroused or curious or enjoying how ashamed you look. it makes tears fill your eyes and you refuse to cry, you press your lips into a thin line and sniffle.

he raises a brow at your reaction and his hand around your neck loosens. you feel the blood rushing to your head and suddenly your vision is better and you can think again. but not for long.

the man grabs you by the back of your head and wraps his hand around your hair to keep you in place this time. your hands go to your hair this time, and you cry in pain.

"tell your dad to pay the debt," he says and forces you to look up at him from an uncomfortable angle. his eyes are half-lidded now, and a faint smirk tugs at his lips.

"we've got no money," you tell him, voice shaky. he rubs a short circle around your clit and you bite back a moan to continue talking, "please mister..." you look up at him with your puppy eyes, begging for mercy.

that strikes a chord but not the one you wanted.

he clashes his lips onto yours and his fingers move quickly in and out of you. he presses you into the wall while rubbing himself on you.

he bites your lip hard enough to make you bleed and when you open your mouth in pain, he pushes his tongue in yours, forcing you to savor his taste with your blood.

your hands go to his chest, and you try to push him away, that makes him angry.

he reaches a certain spot that makes you powerless again and you clutch on his leather coat instead, you feel him smile into the rough kiss before pulling away to focus on fingerfucking you hard enough to make you hold onto him for support.

then his thumb presses on your clit and his fingers start massaging your walls until you're a mess, his crotch rubs on you hard, and you can feel his large bulge throbbing in need despite that he's waiting patiently until your legs start to shake uncontrollably and you lose all of your strength to stand.

he unwraps your hair from his hand and wraps that arm around you, holding you up.

he removes his hand from your panties and brings it up to his face. his fingers are coated with clear fluid, it's shiny and inviting. he opens his mouth to have a taste but he stops when his phone rings.

he knows that it's his grandpa from the ringtone itself.

he quickly wipes the clear gold on his pants and grabs his phone out of his coat's pocket. he answers the call while you're still trying to collect yourself.

"yes. i'll be there. yes, i'm done. yeah, i warned them. okay... no, i'll come myself. okay. see you."

he hangs up the phone and puts you down on the floor of your apartment. he stands up and fixes his clothes, looking at himself in the mirror of your tall shoe cupboard at the entrance.

you watch while still swimming in bliss, you're not sure why he stands there to look at you, maybe he's admiring how much he humiliated you this time. you can tell from the faint smile on his face that he's satisfied.

"i won't be as kind next week," he warns, his scary expression returning as he grabs the stack of money you have on the cupboard, the same one you were going to give to him before he forced his way inside instead of talking at the door. "make sure to have the money ready next time."

he doesn't wait for your answer and leaves your apartment. you hope you can give him the money before he assaults you next time.

[lenakluthor]

tiny pieces (inspired by this post) word count: 1,675 words read it on ao3

Today is the day. Kara is finally going to tell Lena she’s Supergirl. She’s just arrived at Lena’s apartment for a movie night, and she knows she can’t waste any time. She’s gotta rip the bandaid off. Kara greets her best friend, hangs her coat on the rack, and takes a deep breath. “Lena, I need to tell you something.”

Lena cocks her head, her brows furrowed. “What is it?”

“I should’ve told you this a long time ago, but I didn’t because I was scared of losing you. I told myself I was protecting you but I wasn’t protecting you, I was hurting you…” Kara trails off and takes another deep, shaky breath.

“It’s okay, Kara. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Nerves flood Kara’s system. This is it; it’s now or never. She’s brought it up, there’s no way Kara can back out now, even if she wanted to. She can feel the words forming in her mouth, begging to come out. She’s hid for so long– out of fear, out of doubt, out of self preservation. All of it melts away when Kara looks into Lena's eyes. She’s looking at her with so much care and concern, Kara can barely stand it. Her heart constricts at the sight and– “I love you!” she blurts.

Kara's eyes go wide in shock as the words leave her lips. Her hand flies over her mouth. Kara gasps quietly, a short intake of breath someone could easily miss, but Lena notices. Lena always notices. She stares at Kara for a moment trying to gather her thoughts. “You–” she cuts herself off, afraid that if she asks Kara to confirm, she’ll tell her it’s not like that. Before she can dwell on it, though, confusion sets in. “Why did you think keeping that from me would protect me?” Her voice is small and her eyes well with tears. How could Kara possibly think that loving her would hurt her? “I– that’s not–” Kara takes a steadying breath before continuing. “That's not what I was trying to say.” Lena nods slightly at Kara, her lips pressed together in a thin line, pain written all over her face. As a result, Kara’s next words come out in a rush– a flurry of a confession born out of desperation. “No, no, no Lena, please don’t think that means I didn’t mean it! I did... I do. I’m in love with you, and I knew if I told you that I’m Supergirl, I'd lose you. I couldn't bear the thought of a life without you in it. I convinced myself you’d be safer if you didn’t know, but it was really myself I was trying to protect.” Kara steps forward and reaches for Lena's hands, but thinks better of it and lets them drop to grab the hem of her shirt instead. This is definitely not going the way she wanted it to. She looks down at her feet. “But I can’t hide in fear anymore. About any of it. I'm Supergirl and I'm in love with you.” She takes off her glasses and looks back up at Lena. Lena stands there, unmoving, her eyes locked on Kara's. Her emotions overwhelm her– shock, anger, love, relief, happiness, pain. It's too much. Lena just got everything she’s ever wanted in the same breath as the worst thing she could imagine. Kara is Supergirl. She lied. But she also loves her and Lena can’t reconcile both truths in her head. Kara can’t love her if she’s spent the past four years lying to her face. It’s impossible. “Please say something.” Lena responds with the only thing she knows is true. “I love you, too.” All of the tension leaves Kara’s body as relief washes over her. She reaches for Lena's hands again, but this time it’s Lena that pulls away. “No. That doesn’t mean you get to do that to me, Kara." Lena takes a step back. She can feel her hands shaking and she doesn’t know if she’s going to be able to keep her composure. Admitting her feelings to Kara broke something inside of Lena. “You don’t get to manipulate me with your warmth and your earnestness and your love any more. Because the truth is, you can’t love me. There hasn’t been a single honest moment in our friendship. You lied to me for years. You violated my trust. You knew how much it hurt me to have everyone I've ever cared about lie to me and betray me, but you did it anyway.” “Lena, please! I–” Lena holds up her hand before Kara can continue. “You betrayed me, and you claim to have done it because you’re in love with me. That's not what love is, Kara. Trust me. I would know.” Tears spill from Kara’s eyes as Lena talks. She can’t argue; Lena's right. She hasn’t been treating Lena the way she deserves, and the guilt has been eating her alive. She knew it was wrong, knew it would break Lena's heart, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Lena, I'm so sorry. Please believe me when I say I never wanted to hurt you.” Lena scoffs at that, but Kara pushes on. “I wanted to tell you so many times, but the more time went on, the more I fell in love with you. And then it just felt impossible because losing you– hurting you– would be worse than the strongest kryptonite.” Lena can feel her anger start to falter; she knows how seriously Supergirl– Kara– takes kryptonite. She’s looking at her with so much pain in those gorgeous blue eyes and Lena knows she means what she says. It doesn’t make her hurt any less.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, trying to center herself. Her chest aches, she’s shaking, and Lena doesn’t know if she’d rather scream or cry. Everything in her is telling her to retaliate, to make Kara hurt the same way she’s hurting now. Lena has spent her entire life fighting the legacy her last name holds, and she thinks this might be her breaking point. She doesn’t know if she has it in her to keep fighting against decades of Luthor conditioning. Not when the pain of this betrayal has her feeling so shattered.

“You just broke my heart, Kara.” Lena’s voice is impossibly small, barely above a whisper, and every word is laced with grief.

Kara looks at Lena, sees the way her hands shake, hears the pain in her voice, and she doesn’t think anything has ever hurt her more. Kara has been beaten into a coma, shot with kryptonite, blasted with countless bombs and missiles, and none of it even comes close to the pain of seeing what she’s done to Lena. “I’m so sorry, Lena. I was selfish and scared. I kept making excuses because I didn’t want to hurt you like everyone else, but it just made it worse.” She takes a shaky breath. “I wish I had told you sooner. I wish I could make you believe that everything else between us was true. I lied to you about who I am, and that was the biggest mistake of my life, but the feelings were real. Everything else was real, Lena.”

The ache in her chest only grows as Lena struggles to hold onto the last shreds of her anger. Being angry is safe. She can let it build and grow and wrap around her until it forms indestructible armor around her heart. Kara can’t hurt her if she doesn’t have access. But no matter how badly she wants to cling to it, Lena knows it isn’t something she can keep. Not when it’s Kara. Not when she loves her. 

The silence hangs between them. Lena tries to untangle her conflicting emotions while Kara fights against the panic that threatens to swallow her whole. Still, the quiet grows.

Lena doesn’t know how long they stand there, but when she looks back to Kara, she sees that she’s crying even harder. Silent sobs wrack through Kara’s chest and Lena can’t help but want to comfort her. The light catches on a tear rolling down Kara's cheek, and before she even registers what she’s doing, Lena steps closer to wipe it away. Her hand lingers on Kara's cheek and Kara’s eyes flutter closed. She leans into the touch like it’s a life preserver and she’s drowning. Lena's resolve crumbles.

“I can't tell you that it’s okay, but I believe you.” Lena drops her hand from Kara’s cheek. “I wish I didn't. Hating you would be easier,” she pauses and her eyes dart between Kara’s, searching for something– anything– to make her stop loving her. When she comes up empty, Lena sighs and continues. “But I can’t.”

Kara’s eyes shine with tears and her lips form a small pout. She crinkles her brow. “What does that mean for us?”

Lena feels like her heart was broken into a million tiny pieces tonight. She also knows the only person who could put it back together is standing right in front of her. “I don't know, but if we’re in love with each other, it’s worth fighting for.”

Kara smiles at Lena through watery eyes and Lena feels one of those tiny pieces click back into place.

Lena smiles back and Kara feels like she can breathe again.

Taking a step closer, Kara tentatively places a hand on Lena's neck, her thumb gently running along her jawline. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Lena breathes. “I think that might be the only thing you could do to make this feel any better.”

Lena can feel Kara's smile against her lips as Kara crashes hers into them. Another tiny piece slides back into place. She kisses Kara back and thinks, eventually, her shattered heart won’t feel broken at all. It’ll just feel whole.

[babe-heffron]

chapter one of my luztoye post-war oneshot just dropped.

[aeolianblues]

the real fiction in a lot of band AU fics is the amount of time bands seem to have on the evening of a show!

[officialrhysandweek]

A Long Night by Anonymous

Acotar AU where Rhysand's sister survived. Anonymously submitted to @officialrhysandweek on AO3 for Rhysand week day 7

CWs: mild gore, violence, angst

Read Here

[sanderssidesthehouse]

Ok, so hear me out. She Doesn't Sleep by Anthony Amorim is Remus talking about Roceit and Janus talking about Dukexiety and they're besties.

[sugarsnappeases]

Hello, can i rate your micro fics

only if you give them all five stars and absolutely no notes cxxxx

[ofmermaidstories]

Mermie, do we ever find out how Weeds and Bakugou's Halloween went? 🥺 It's sooo cute that Deku notices that he's in a good mood the day after!

It’d be very quiet! A Sunday; the shop’s open on Sundays, so Weeds will go into work even though Bakugou has the day off. Neither of them will realise it, but they’ve been making the upcoming date worse for themselves by worrying about the other. Trauma is trauma and Bakugou’s had his fair share of them, so in some ways he’s better at weathering it than our Weedsie-Woo—but also he was there for the fallout in a way that Weeds, being knocked out, wasn’t. Like, he had to deal with all the horrible what-ifs and the realities—what-if Weeds and the kid are dead, what-if Weeds is dead, what-if he can’t find Weeds, what-if he never gets the chance to get over himself and say how he feels? And with the current case being on-going, Bakugou’s already going to be extra vigilant—Weeds would know, would’ve seen first hand just how much of his time and his energy it’s taking, and a big worry of hers would be the that maybe he’d be mirroring whatever anxiety she has, and adding it to his own load.

‼️📍 18+/MDNI — vague (and i mean vague) smut.

Because!!! Weeds wouldn’t be immune to the anniversary; very few of us would be. And like, maybe the lead-up to the date is worse than Halloween itself, you know? Like it’d be small things—Weeds being reluctant to have her back to the shop door. Keeping her hearing aid in, whereas before she might’ve been laxer with it. Being reluctant to stay over at Bakugou’s apartment—not because she doesn’t like it, but because she’s worried about the coming back to her small home, and the staleness of air and the reminder that there had been a chance she might not have at all, once.

Haru too isn’t unaffected—Weeds goes with him and his grandmother to the Silent Disco the Deaf Association hold again that year, during the week, but throughout the night he stops when he’s among the other kids and darts back, making sure Akane and Weeds are still there (they are—talking to Haru’s JSL tutor, who’s still friendly and still warm and still makes sure Weed’s pockets fill with sweets, to take home). Haru and his mum leave the city for the weekend—go to the seaside, maybe, or somewhere with a cool open-air museum where Haru can run around and be miles and miles away from the shop street or big, overhead concrete buildings.

(He facetimes Weeds early that Saturday night; Bakugou’s making dinner, keeping an eye on the conversation, Weeds on the couch as she and Haru share about their days and some new video game that Haru wants his mother to buy him for the handheld console he’d gotten for his birthday that year. Neither of them talk about Quirks.)

Saturday night is quiet. They eat dinner and watch something mundane and ignore the spooky movies that are playing. Sunday morning is much the same pace—they sleep in, they wake up. They languidly touch each other in some kind of silent reassurance until they’re both surer; Bakugou teasing Weeds, teasing himself with the warmth between them as he bites at the swell of a breast, a strong hand holding Weed’s face in place.

Later, showered and fresh, he makes them breakfast—egg over rice, fried spam, avocado that he scoops with a melon-baller. Neither of them mention the significance of the day, and Weeds doesn’t dress for it. He walks Weeds to the train station under the guise of an errand. When Weeds is at work Bakugou returns to the apartment and does some housework—laundry, moping, vacuuming. There’s a cake waiting in the fridge—that morning’s errand, something Sato baked—small and perfectly sized to share. Bakugou eats lunch and reads up on a few things and preps what he can of dinner and then, with the sun still up in the sky, he goes to meet Weeds at work.

The flower shop has been warm, even in the October cool. Akane has been in and out, and extra loud next door—for Weed’s benefit, for her own. Other shopkeepers in the street wave to Weeds or come over to gossip with Akane and at one point Kirishima comes by on patrol, the old aunties of the street surrounding him like school girls. Weeds cuts flower stems and sweeps the floor and clears out what she needs to from the fridge and orders new ribbon (red and black, she’s running low) and looks over her orders for the coming week and what she’ll need to buy from the markets—and then the afternoon comes and Bakugou’s there and she smiles at him and they both ease up; just a little.

The shop closes early on Sundays; he helps Weeds bring in plants and buckets of flowers and the shop sign and gives Weeds space as she’s locking up the shopfront. They make their way back to Bakugou’s apartment, across the other-side of the city, stopping only to pick up a couple of things from the supermarket, bickering over which drinks to get and green-tea chocolates (“Got you some sweet shit back at home,” he says, disgruntled, though the chocolates make their way into the basket regardless). They walk past a Halloween display that includes an inflatable Grim Reaper and don’t think anything of it, though Bakugou bumps his shoulder into hers on the way out, their bags in hand.

They make dinner together and eat it to a view of the city and Bakugou will pull out the little cake for dessert and Weeds will almost, almost make a joke about this being a Congrats You Didn’t Die cake.

She doesn’t, though, and after dinner, after the cake, when they’ve cleaned up everything, Weeds will go to kiss him—surprised instead by the force he accepts it with, the way he kisses back, pulling her to him.

It’s his own fear, his own relief. The only way he can think of to express these things. He spends a long while lingering over her, his hands warming the longer they stay on her, Bakugou concentrating on feeling her fall apart against him. He bares his teeth against the pulse of her neck and pants fuck and s’okay against her wet skin and she pulls him into a kiss that’s barely a whisper, promising against his mouth, s’okay. It makes him shudder, and afterwards in the safety of his bed, his room, his home, he holds Weeds tight.

(They spend the night like this; entangled, entangling, and the next day at Riot Ground Kaminari cheers Izuku with his waterbottle, when the other Pro walks into the agency’s kitchen.

“I like Kacchan way more when he’s getting laid regularly,” he says, causing Izuku to sputter and almost drop his own drink.)

[cozymochi]

Jamilio

OH OKAY THEN you just want THIS image too don’t you⁉️⁉️