#something something judge jury and executioner whatever

[timblrdrake]

Batman can keep his "No Killing" rule, but I'm different, like if I found Joker I won't hestite to just kill him or at least brake his bones or something, you know

i don’t want to face the lecture that’d come with commenting my opinion on this so i’m just going to give you a

👍

[femmehaljordan]

I think the way people villainize jason is so interesting considering that at his core jason embodies true empathy for victims of both violent and non-violent crime more than any of the bats.

Like you can't cut addicts off cold turkey, that only causes more harm. So he'll make sure your drugs are clean and you get clean needles. And when you wanna get clean he'll help. He'll kill your abuser, your rapist. Not JUST for you, because he will do it for you. But not only for you, but for anyone else that person could hurt.

Also ppl in fanon make it so that cass would hate him (and she probably might but not for what they think), but i think he'd despise her moral code just as much.

Her empathy for (1) singular individual has eroded her ability to empathize with any victim of any crime of any magnitude hereafter to ease her own sense of guilt.

Jason's entire moral code rides on doing whatever it takes to make sure that victims are safe and comfortable. Sometimes you aren't comfortable until the monster that stalks your nightmares is dead.

But they won't let him or other victims have that. They let people live in that nauseating perpetuity of "will they hurt me again?" And their only moral leg to stand on is that they don't kill. Like a prolonged death from extreme violence is any better.

I think cass would hate him for the moral dilemma he presents FOR HER. How does she grapple with the fact that the lives taken/hurt by the persons she CHOOSE to let live, is infinitely more than it would be if she killed like jason. (Didn't she break into a prison to free a serial child rapist on death row??? I cannot remember the exact comic but feel free to correct me)

Also people act like jason kills indiscriminantly, which he doesn't. We know he targets persons who target women, children, and people who enact sexual violence.

Idk i think the way people view jason moral code is a direct reflection of how they see real victims of crime and bad circumstances. They're quick to say violence isn't the answer but sometimes it's the only option between life and death. And its not wrong to want to live

- 🪼

!!!!

You can tell that some people have no fucking clue what harm reduction is based on the way they talk about Jason. Like “he was a crime lord he dealt drugs!!” BUDDY HIS ENTRANCE ONTO THE SCENE WAS “DON’T DEAL TO KIDS”

There’s something to be said about Jason doing anything to make a victim comfortable vs Cass doing anything to prevent death

I do find it interesting that people are always like “Cass should hate Jason” but never addressed the fact that Jason would hate her right back.

Aoughhhhh something about Cass only viewing herself as a murderer and Jason being a victim of murder and how it shaped their ideology in different directions is soooooo.

I also think that Cass’ moral code is one of the most fascinating. Because it goes beyond not playing Judge jury and executioner. Cause like you said, she broke that guy out of prison. He was on death row. Aside from my feelings on the death penalty. (Abolish it) the judge, and the jury had made a decision. And it wasn’t even like she went to the governor and beat him up until this guy was given a stay of execution. She took justice into her own hands like Jason is condemned for doing just in the opposite direction.

Like Cass’ no killing goes farrrrrr beyond Bruce’s and I don’t see that talked about enough

I do wanna say that I fact checked with my Cass friend, the guy she broke out just killed someone he was not a rapist.

But you’re so right about how people like to view Jason through real world lenses. It’s insufferable sometimes.

All that is to say honestly? I fear Cass’ moral code is not the bastion of purity people treat it as.

[helluvapoison]

Save Me

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

warning: violence n blood but happy ending

“Summon your blue blood master, whore.”

The demon carelessly drops your phone into the cage and it lands at your knees. You don’t remember if this was a ransom or a hit on your beloved. You can’t bring yourself to care because you know the minute he sees you in this state, none of it will matter.

Your tongue darted out and swiped over your cracked lips, gathering the copper taste of your own blood. The chuckle that you let out is dry, cut short by a cough that worsens the state of your throat. It highlighted the bruises littering your skin, especially those you couldn’t see.

He would.

“This is gonna end real badly f’you.” You tell the demon hoarsely, offering them the biggest, meanest smile you could muster.

Your thumb hits the call button without hesitation.

You hadn’t even uttered a single word.

Immediately the energy in the warehouse shifts. An undeniable chill crept in suddenly and seemed to chase off any light the windows provided. Someone may as well have thrown a blanket over the building. If not for your phone providing a faint glow, you wouldn’t have been able to see your labored breaths leaving your lips. Simultaneously, the shitty bones of the warehouse trembled, quietly at first then ramping up to a deafening sound that surely meant it would collapse at any moment. It wouldn’t. Not while you were there. Even if it was only your body for him to collect, no damage would come unto you by his doing.

The demon’s eyes narrow in suspicion, like whatever was happening was your fault and yours alone. Your crooked smile widens into a malicious forewarning for what’s to come. The grin pulls and tears the cut on your lip that had only just stitched itself together, stinging you in retaliation. You’re certain the light illuminating you from below, combined with the blood, has you looking positively mad.

“Told you.”

Lucifer was more than a king; he was the judge, jury and executioner for his subjects. It wasn’t often they forgot it but should they do something drastic, such as stealing his beloved, then he would make an example out of as many souls necessary. You knew this and you knew it well— you’ve been around every century or so when the newer sinners needed a refresher. This just so happened to be your first time being directly involved in why.

It must be then that the harrowing realization finally sets in. They’ve bit off more than they could swallow and now it was going to choke the life out of them. Or, more accurately, he would.

Apparently determined to get in what would surely be their final reprisal, they reached into the cage and yanked you forward by your neck. Your forehead quickly meets an icy bar, sending pain ringing through your skull in greeting. Trapped, a mangled cry rips through the room that you don’t recognize is your own. You writhe in the demon’s grip, struggling to claw at their wrists and face. Tearing at their skin, trying to make them even in wounds more than you’re trying to escape, you manage a particularly good swipe at their eyes that makes them reel back. In their stubbornness, they refuse to release you and your face is squished against the cage as they stumble and crash.

No, you realize. They were flung clear across the room like an unwanted doll, landing in, what was now, a pile of wood. Familiar eyes of ruby and gold steal your attention from the groaning demon. You blink furiously, forcing your vision to tell you true. Of course you knew he would come for you, that was never in question, but whether you would be alive or not for that rescue did cross your mind. Your body had already begun to relax, melting with the comforting warmth of your beloved’s presence. Lucifer’s gasp is rigid, his voice trembling in disbelief and rising fury but he manages a soft tone just for your sake.

“Oh, angel. My sweet, sweet dove. I’m here now, I’m here. I’m so sorry.”

Metal creaks under his palms but it takes less effort than opening a jar of marmalade. He’s obscenely gentle while plucking you out of the cage, acutely aware of the way your breath hitches at his touch. Those aforementioned bruises pulse with vigor, spreading a dull ache all over your body. Just as you suspected, Lucifer's eyes roamed all over counting each and every one. He’ll return the favor tenfold.

One minute Lucifer’s holding onto a fraying thread of mercy, studying your precious face and stealing the apple of your cheek. The next he feels tears slide under the pad of his thumb, swiping them into nothingness like he wished he could do your pain. Your relief is palpable in them, he can taste it on his tongue with hints of your fading fear. His golden pupils get smaller and smaller until they’re consumed entirely by red.

Logically he knows you’re right there in his arms but your weight isn’t grounding enough for him. He can’t see you anymore. All he can see is the ugly blotches that some pitiful excuse for future kindling dared to taint you with. Clearly they knew who you were and how important you were to the King of Hell, so the consequences of taking and hurting you had been glossed over but accepted nonetheless. An act against you is no less treasonous than an act against Lucifer himself; to spit at your feet would be to do the same to him.

“You’ve got guts to pull off a stunt like that, huh?” A terrifying grin cracks unevenly across his face and is shot over his shoulder at the demon that was struggling to pick themselves up. “Let’s see ‘em.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shield your face from a gust of wind. Upon opening them you realize you’re sitting on the ground alone. Lucifer unfurled his wings and launched himself over to the demon. They made it to their feet only to be launched into the wall and leaving a them-sized crater behind. Horrified and paralyzed you could only watch as Lucifer hovered over them, cocking back both fists and hurling them forward one at a time.

“I think there was one there, there— oh can’t forget here!”

Even while knowing what was to come, it still made your stomach lurch to see it firsthand. Teeth clattered to the ground in one punch, another and the demon’s eye was swollen shut. You were positive what Lucifer blocked with his body, the savagery you couldn’t see, was much worse. It shouldn’t bother you, not with how long you’ve lived down here but having blood on your hands, no matter how indirectly, made your stomach lurch.

“Luci—“ You croaked, your throat closing in on itself when you tried to speak. It was as if your body had sided with your beloved’s vengeance.

However the tiny sound managed to put a stutter in Lucifer’s next blow, his knuckles halting just before the demon’s face. A frustrated snarl rips from him and cracks through the silence like thunder, but the storm in him quiets before he turns to you. Wracked by guilt more than rage, your beloved can’t fully face you.

You try again, “Can we—“ only to be cut off by a cough.

“Stop—stopstopstop,” Lucifer whispers, voice getting closer, louder, “I’m here, I’m here. Don’t… don’t hurt yourself.”

True to his word, he’s right there. All it took was a blink and he’s kneeling before you, hovering his hands all over as if he’s not sure where to touch you. How can he comfort you when you’re bruised all over? You force yourself to continue, knowing he’ll keep his focus with you if you do.

“Jus’ wanna go home.”

Lucifer’s demonic features flare, hesitation on the tip of his tongue. Unfinished business never seemed like an issue before. With the bewildered look he gave you, you may as well have asked him to throw out his entire duck collection. The thought of using your voice again made your throat itch so you beseech him with your eyes, pinching your brows together and turning them up.

Scrunching his face once more he sighed heavily, seemingly defeated as his horns shrunk back into his skull and his tail retreated. Then your Lucifer returned to you at last, smiling softly, though guilt and regret swam in his crimson eyes.

“Home it is. Agh, I hate when you use your secret weapon against me. It’s not fair, I mean, how am I supposed to resist this face?”

You try to keep your own smile from spreading too far, opting instead to squeeze the man close to you to share in your joy. Lucifer was starving to do the same, holding you as close as he could without stressing your wounds. You could feel him inhale against your neck like you were air to him, filling him with relief and the ability to carry on.

When he pulled away you grew worried, especially when his smile dropped and he turned ever so slightly to the bloodied and battered demon.

“Congratulations, peasant, you’ve been pardoned. Courtesy of the King of Hell and his angel— who you will never ever even think of again. Right?” There was a pained groan from the demon that sent a dark chuckle bubbling up from Lucifer’s chest, “I thought you might agree. Do me a favor and spread the word? I’d rather not do this again. You know what I mean?”

There was a sharp edge to his grin for a moment too long but it faded by the time he eagerly returned his attention to you. The portal below whirred to life with a faint hum and sent pulses of warmth up into the air. You were completely and utterly wrapped up in your beloved that you hardly noticed. Lucifer mumbled into your hair how he would kiss your “boo-boos”, get you bandaged up and in pajamas in no time.

Hearing that, it was a liiittle hard to believe he was the same man that was seconds away from slaughtering someone for you.

~

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ thanks for voting everyone!

[terrestrialnoob]

Okay! How to get Team Phantom (+Valerie) onto a DC Superhero Team?

Danny: The usual ways. They just asked him to join because he's already a superhero, he's saved from an angst-basement and has nowhere else to go, his parents/sister sign him up for a superhero internship - whatever, there's already a thousand ideas for Danny out there.

Sam: Goes full plant witch: chloromancy, herbalism, and potion arts. She's mostly a support hero... because she got caught doing an eco-terrorism and being part of a "superhero youth team" works as a Community Service option for underage meta-human criminals. Most of the heroes agree with her fundamental ideals, but they can't let her run around being judge, jury, and executioner on people who don't necessarily deserve the blame, who haven't had the opportunity to learn and change, or important people who, alive can and deaths will, start WW3. She gets told "The solutions to these problems are more than just killing the "right" people, Miss Manson." on an almost daily basis. She's more convinced to behave more like a hero because she finally finds people who do think the way she does and have more options for social change than just "break the thing that doesn't work" (and she can get a clearer list of the real people who deserve the blame for social injustices and how to more sneakily effectively remove deal with them until the world is fixed).

Tucker: An ancient Pharaoh and master sorcerer, who interacted with previous incarnations of the Hawks. They low-key adopted him, and he learned reincarnation magic just so he could spend time with them again. And since Katar and Shayera are soulmates, they call Tucker their soul-son, even though they're not necessarily the kind of people who would go out of their way to be parents, they still deeply value their relationship with this teenager. Tucker also evolved his magic into technomancy - because the core of his soul just really loves learning whatever the highest, most advanced field of study his current incarnation has access to. Also, imagine he gets giant, gold, prosthetic wings made of Ancient Egyptian magic and Ancient Thanagairan technology that his Pharaoh self made centuries ago.

Valerie: Has a Crisis of Loyalty - does she stay loyal to her ideals? stay loyal to Vlad as, essentially, his henchman? or does she find something better to be loyal to? She ultimately decides to throw away the high-tech battle jumpsuit Vlad gave her and Technus upgraded, then asks Danny for his parents' tech so she can keep being a ghost hunter. Danny's on the fence, he wants her to stop trying to kill him, but also doesn't really trust her - she's already chosen killing one of his identities over having a relationship with the other, and getting kidnapped and tortured will affect your ability trust someone. So, he passes her off to Pandora who can do a literal magical Test of Moral Character. Valerie has to essentially choose what she's actually fighting for, if she's still hunting all ghosts for the mistakes of two, if she's still working off the lies she was told by Vlad, what does she really want? When she proves that she's in it to to keep people safe and not for her own selfish vengeance, she gets sent to Pandora's old home, Themyscira, for a training montage. She comes back, looking very Wonder Woman but completely unrelated to Wonder Woman. However, Diana recognizes the Acolyte of Pandora and helps her find a nice, teenage superhero team to join up on... wait, why is the rest of her friend group already here?

[starlightshadowsworld]

Concept: Port Mafia member Doppo Kunikida.

Doppo Kunikida was what some would call a dreamer and many others would call a delinquent.

A boy with such promise and skill but chose to squander it. He’d be a top lunch tables preaching the cruelties of the world. All while the world turned a blind eye against him.

Kunikida was a name known to teachers because that boy got many a fight here and there. Having no hesitation to throw himself in hands first if someone was in danger.

They told him to pick his battles and he looked at them confused.

Why should he? How could he just stand by and watch as others get hurt? When he had the power and the strength to help him.

He understood the world but it did not understand him.

They say he cared for nothing but the truth is Kunikida cared too much. He might’ve been destined for the life of an outcast rotting in prison cell.

If not for a chance meeting in the underbelly of Yokohama when Kunikida, brazen and brash boy that he was got his arse handed to him by a bunch of thugs.

A lowly doctor found him on his afternoon walk and let him come to his clinic.

Kunikida expected a scolding but to his surprise the doctor, Mori was more intrigued by his actions than anything else. And so he explains that those thugs were messing with a friend of his.

“So I took his place. I told them my ability would give them anything they wished. I got proof of their crimes just as they caught me.”

“A valiant effort but what if those weren’t just any thugs. What if worked for the Port Mafia and have surely paid the police off. Would that change anything?”

“Not to me.”

“Not afraid of any consequences are we? But is it because you hate this place to its core…or is it because you care?”

Bingo.

“I love this city and I know it could be better than it is. I don’t care who stands in my way of realising that dream of an ideal world.

If people are suffering those that hurt them must pay for it. The Boss of the Port Mafia could kick my arse instead and it’d change nothing of my goals.”

To Kunikida’s shock Mori simply chuckles.

“On that, we agree.”

“We do?”

“Of course, I love this city. I even love its dark side but parasites like that must pay dearly for plaguing it with their filth.”

The aura around Mori gets darker but rather than feel any fear all Kunikida only feels relief.

He finally found someone who understands him.

Little does Kunikida know that Mori feels the same way.

The boy has promise.

He could become something great if given the right guidance.

And oh they meet again quite frequently. Sometimes Kunikida’s hurt and other times he’s fine. His desire to protect only grows and Mori only serves to fuel that fire.

When the day comes where Mori lays out his plans and asks Kunikida to join him. Kunikida does not hesitate too accept the offer.

The old boss needed to go after all, he was only serving to poison this city. And now they could finally have the reach to do something about it.

There’s tales among the lower ranks of the Port Mafia of a boy with fire in his veins and the temperament to match.

Of one that obeys no one regardless of their rank if he disagrees with them. Unless they’re the boss who he follows unquestionably.

To be whatever is needed, judge, jury or executioner. He’s punished his own men for defying orders and saved the lives of innocents caught in harms way.

He doesn’t shy away from death or brutality but he does not relish in it either.

No one’s truly certain what his moral code or his intentions are.

Only that he serves the city above all.

And the boss is the only person who he could ever follow. His blood flows as black as the night while his eyes shine with a light that can only be found in darkness.

He is Doppo Kunikida.

And you’d do best to never cross him.

[soaringcomets]

ꜜ﹒﹒DRIVERS SEAT

Josh Washington/reader

SUMMARY - You could always pull Josh out of the holes he found himself in, until you couldn't.

A.n - First post and it's angst, let's go. this is ass but we BALL

February 2, 2014.

The night the girls had gone missing it was almost undeniable that something in Josh had as well. How could it not? He was Joshua Washington ‘Hannah and Beth’s big brother’, a title he wore with unmistakable pride. If you knew about Josh, you had to know about his sisters and vice versa. It had even become a joke that they were actually triplets in the womb before the two kicked Josh out a year too early. They were a part of him, and not one of the ugly parts he felt the need to hide. To shove under rugs and at the bottom of medication bottles.

 Josh viewed himself as the girl’s protector, their sword and shield whenever they needed. Placed himself on such a high pedestal that it’s no wonder he had the farthest to fall. 

So no, he didn’t hide Hannah and Beth, they were violently ripped away from him. By people he thought he could trust, in a way few could ever imagine, could understand. Not even his partner, not even you. 

Not that it didn’t affect you, of course it did. You had known his sisters long before you two had started dating, before the name Josh Washington was even something you secretly wrote down in your diary in middle school. You’re forced to recall dusty memories of Hannah teasing you over the pinning before you shut her up with a reminder of her own escapades with Mike,or Beth creating excuses for you two to be alone. Though you’re forever grateful for the pushes the two gave you, since it all culminated in your happily ever after with the man himself. 

Or what had been your happily ever after for almost an entire year before that annual trip, that cursed fucking trip. One that, for the first time, you rode up to with Josh, Hannah, and Beth. You four had been all smiles, childish bickering, and questionable music options. Beth had sworn that on the way back she was revoking Josh’s CD’s privileges, something about his taste being trash. If you had the energy, during the silent car ride to the station, you’d find the irony in it. But no, your body was so exhausted you could only find more tears needing to fall. 

The police questioning had been brutal on your psyche, the retelling you were forced to give felt like an admittance of guilt regardless of how much involvement you had in their disappearances directly. As though that alone was damning enough to warrant your conscience being its own judge, jury, and executioner. Despite that you had done your best to explain your version of the night. Your throat, tight from crying, the only thing keeping down any bile that threatened to make an appearance 

Josh was drunk, truly out doing himself this year really, slurring his words and wobbling in his chair so harshly you worried he’d pass out right there on the kitchen counter. It didn’t take long for everyone to split off and do their own thing, Beth taking Chris to sleep on one of their many couches while everyone else seemed to group together in the living room. At the time you just assumed they weren’t drunk enough to fully enjoy Josh’s rowdy behavior and envied their escape a bit. It took a lot of sweet words and a soft hand in his palm to drag him into his room but you made it happen. You always had this uncanny ability to drag Josh out of whatever hole he found himself in, though it was usually at the bottom of a bottle. 

“Are you trying to take advantage of me while I’m drunk?” The slurred words that came out of Josh after you pushed him onto his bed pulled a laugh from you, the smitten smile he gave in response made you think he did so for that reason alone. He rolled onto his stomach as you pulled the blankets over him, his face resting in his crossed arms as he stared at you like you hung the moon and stars. 

You crouched down beside the bed, copying his pose before answering, “Do I really need you drunk for that?” The mischievous grin that grew on his face was infectious. “Hell no hottie, but if you’d like to try you won’t hear any complaints from me.” 

You placed a fist under your chin, as though truly contemplating the offer with a grin of your own. “Is that so handsome?” “Scout’s honor madam!” The voice that came out of Josh is just goofy enough to have you laughing again, before you stand. “I’ll have to take a rain check, I want to make sure you’ve got plenty of sleep for the drive tomorrow. Beth and Hannah in the morning are your monsters to deal with mister.” The statement had Josh groaning into his pillowing, a dramatic tantrum. Though it’s questionable whether it was from the refusal or reminder. 

Having turned to leave Josh tries once more to convince you into his bed. “You can’t even stay just till I fall asleep?” In that moment you were reminded just how clingy Josh could get when drunk, “I’ll still be here in the morning, ya know?” and how easily you gave into him given how quick you were to hop beside him, with only a quick “No funny business, mister.” of defiance. 

And of course, that ‘just till I fall asleep’ was anything but. You were down for the count the moment your head hit the pillow. Resting comfortably in Josh’s arms as you left Hannah and Beth to the wolves. To die. 

You didn’t need any police investigation to force you to replay the night, you had done almost nothing except that since you had been woken up to police sirens and hysterics. The what ifs had formed this pit in your stomach that threatened to swallow you whole. Would things have gone differently if you hadn’t gone to sleep in Josh’s room? Would Beth and Hannah not be missing if you just refused him one more time. Would Josh have been able to stop them if he was still downstairs? How scared were they in those last moments, lost and alone in a forest while you were tucked into bed safe and sound? It made you sick. 

You had quickly been separated from Josh and everyone else by police once you’d arrived, though you wanted nothing more than to stay by his side. The look in his eyes was gut wrenching as Sam tried to explain what happened through her own panic. The lights were on but suddenly no one was home, a haze over took him and you knew right away that Josh was far away. Possibly somewhere in the back of his mind reliving a memory of his family playing baseball in their yard, anywhere but there, anywhere but in the reality where his sisters were missing. 

There was a moment where you tried to grab his hand, ground him, pull him out the hole he was in but nothing came of it. His hand remained limp and it wasn’t until the police were ushering him away into a cruiser that he even moved. You would have thought him incapable of thought entirely if not for the words that continued to tumble out of his mouth. 

“This isn’t real.” 

It’s only when an officer of your own asked you to follow him that you're snapped out of your trance and do your best to comply. Thinking about Hannah and Beth the whole ride and how scared they must be right now, thinking about Josh and how far away he is. Alone with his fear, alone with himself. 

You tried. You truly tried to be there for Josh. At points forgetting to be there for yourself. It seemed so easy to pour yourself into Josh and his healing in an effort to ignore your own, as though helping him would somehow make up for what you’d done to Hannah and Beth. You had left two Washingtons to die, your heart couldn’t take the guilt and pain of another. 

For the first few months after their disappearance you foolishly convinced yourself that you two would somehow make it, that you would both take as much time as you needed but at the end of the day, you’d find the strength to heal and collect enough pieces that’d fallen to somewhat resemble the people you once were again. 

You kept in contact with mostly Chris and Sam, not being able to stomach the thought of speaking to the others. They seemed to be doing the best they could, and even visited as often as they could. It was different than before, obviously it’d never be the same, but being with the two had your heart leaping. As though if you could just replicate the way you guys used to be, that’d somehow make everything better. It didn’t to no one’s surprise. But with each visit, some even with Josh. It hurt a little less. 

It never got easy, it would never be. But it got easier, and your doctor had taught you to celebrate the small victories. For them, for yourself. It was the fourth month without the sisters that you finally laughed and didn’t feel that familiar guilt in your chest that you weren’t doing it with them. 

Josh seemed to be adjusting, as well as he could. Or you thought he was. The times he would drift away became fewer and far between when he found the right medication, he even smiled at you again. Not like he used to, but you wouldn’t ask him for that, things would never be like they used to be, but as long as you had Josh you could accept that. When you visited Hannah and Beth’s graves, the coffins buried beneath empty, you told them how things had progressed, and of your hopes that it would continue.

In a cruel sense of fate, it wasn’t long after when you and Josh had the conversation. The one that would snatch that false sense of security you’d created out from under you. 

“What did you say?” The words are spoken in such a way that it seems you’re hopeful you heard wrong. “I think we should take a break from seeing each other for a while.” Josh’s tone is flat, as though he’s not saying something that has your stomach tearing in two, the hand running through his hair the only sign of anxiety he shows. 

“Why?” Your voice is breathless, true confusion written across your features. You two had been fine, not perfect but fine, happy even, weren’t you? Had you only convinced yourself that was the case? “You’re too painful.” 

Josh’s answer feels like a knife has been stabbed through your chest. “I need to do something, to truly heal, and I can’t–” He stops himself to take a deep breath, steadying himself for what he’s about to say. The decision he’s about to make. “I can’t do it if we’re still…” He trails off the answer obvious even without him voicing it. 

Your brain tries to process what’s happening, chest beating so hard you hear it in your ears. You’re doing your best to stop any tears that may come, stable enough to not want to make this any harder for either of you. You were too painful? He couldn’t truly heal with you around? You’re taken back to that night, that dark february night when you dragged him to his room and into bed. Directly out of the path Beth would have gone through to chase after Hannah. Did Josh…blame you? Did he think if you had left him in that kitchen his sisters would be alive?  

The mere thought has you doubling over, head in your hands as they rest on your knees. The room spinning too fast to continue looking, fuck being stable your lungs feel like they’re collapsing into themselves. Your body’s on fire, as you struggle to keep your breaths steady. 

Even through the panic you’re able to feel disgust towards yourself, Josh had lost his sisters, his trust in his friends, and had to deal with you being a constant reminder of that night. That life he once lived. You couldn’t even be upset that he might blame you, you’ve spent plenty of nights blaming yourself as well. But hearing it from him, having him say you were too painful to heal with, god it was ripping a new hole in your heart before you’d never completely closed the first one. 

You had to get out of there before you had a full on collapse, you couldn’t do that to him, you couldn’t force him to sit through your grief when he had so much of his own. You were being selfish holding onto Josh like you had, using him to pretend you could even somewhat be normal again. Just waiting for him to heal like if he had you could return to being the couple you were before, the couple that in your mind had killed his sisters. What was wrong with you? 

You had left Josh’s house that day with an understanding between you two. One that you weren’t upset despite the pain, and would do anything if it meant he could heal. He deserved that much at least. 

“I’ll still be here once you’re ready. No matter how long that takes.” You said, your soft hand leaving his limp one for what could be the last time. 

This was one hole you couldn’t pull Josh out of, not from lack of trying but he was so convinced that only one thing would do so, only something he could do. His therapist didn’t approve, and he was sure of two things. Neither would you, and he wouldn’t be able to go through with it if that were the case. So he just wouldn’t give you the opportunity to.

He doubted your offer would still be on the table after he was finished, but maybe that's what josh wanted. Pushing you away, pushing everyone away. Maybe it's the least he deserved for what he'd done.

[manias-wordcount]

Dabi quirkless reader - soft/fluffy/comfort wet dream

Hes been dreaming of reader his dreams are of his better nature.

in short dabi remembers his dream; It wasn’t even very sexual.. and yet he melted when he remembers “your my hero”

Aka im back in your ask. Please and thank you for the content! 🌸 i just really like the idea of being on a guys dream girl hehe.

Even in His Dreams (Dabi/Touya Todoroki x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗼! 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆!

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚!! 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘂𝗽 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 (𝘄𝗲𝘁 𝗟𝗢𝗟) 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

It’s stupid.

He can’t remember how long it’s been since he’s been like this. It must have been years- almost a whole decade even- since this has happened to him. He thought he had grown past this a long, long time ago. He thought that this was something that every man except for the most pathetic of them all would grow out of. He thought he was above this. He thought he was above this feeling.

He thought he was above seeing a girl and falling for her so hard that she starts to haunt his dreams.

This isn’t him. It’s not- It’s not him. This is not him. His name is Dabi. He has hunted and killed who knows how many people at this point. He’s probably on a couple of different hit lists belonging to the government, the underground, and whatever hero agency he decided to piss off lately. But there you are. There you go, being present exactly where he doesn’t want you to be. There you go, being stuck in his mind no matter how hard he tries to force you out. There you go, working some kind of magic on him that is making him sick straight down to the stomach at the thought of never seeing you again. It must be your quirk. It has to be your quirk. It has to be. 

Because there’s no way in hell you have him wrapped around your finger with just one look.  Because there’s no way in hell you really have him loyal like a dog on a leash just because you said to him, “You’re my hero.” There’s just no way.

But fuck…did you have to look at him with those eyes? Did you really have to?

A small, small part of his consciousness registers the moment when he tosses his body to the other side of his mattress on the floor, unable to stay still and stable due to his workup. But he’s still fast asleep. His eyes are still closed. His lips are still parted. And his legs are still tangled into a pile of sheets that he knows he has never washed before while his head is pressed into a pillow that smells like a faint combination of everything he has smoked in this room in the past week.

He’s fast asleep. A time that should be peaceful, save for the occasional nightmare or exciting dream of the future he wishes to make happen more than anything in the world. But it’s not peaceful. He’s fast asleep and it’s not peaceful. Not because of a nightmare. Not because he’s dreaming of a world where he gets to play the unapologetic judge, jury, and executioner of his father over and over and over again. But because he’s in turmoil. 

Because he’s dreaming about you.

He’s dreaming about the girl he just ran into a couple of hours ago. He’s dreaming about the girl he inadvertently saved from being mugged and possibly worse. He’s dreaming about the girl who didn’t seem to hear how her attacker screamed and groaned in pain as his bright blue flames brushed against their skin. The girl who seemed grateful to be saved by a man who looks and walks the part of a villain. The girl who didn’t seem one bit scared of him, despite the heat of his flame, the coldness of his stare, and the frightening, grotesque look of his body.

He’s dreaming about the girl who looked up at him through pretty little eyelashes and whispered “You’re my hero…” just loud enough for him to hear.

In his sleep, Dabi tosses about the bed, once more. His sheets are further messed up. A groan escapes his lips. His eyebrows knit together before softening, as his body relaxes once more. Even in his sleep, those words act as a trigger for him. Even after meeting you just a couple of hours ago, you have power over him. The mere memory of an incident that lasted no longer than a few minutes has power over him. Even in his sleep. 

The moment it happened- the moment he heard your voice, he tried to brush you off. He tried to ignore the shivers he felt as he could hear you take in precious breaths of air as the smoke from his fire started to grow larger. And he tried to ignore the way his heart beat a little faster with every second you stood close to him. Because you just looked so helpless standing there. Leaning into his space as you tried to tell him thank you. Swaying gently like a girl with just a little too much booze in her system. And smiling way too wide and sweetly for someone whose savior only stepped in because their attacker owed too much money and he was angry to try to collect.

But there you were. Helpless, sweet, precious little you. A perfect stranger.

But a girl he finds perfect nonetheless.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He knows he shouldn’t be falling in love with drunk girls who just so happen to be so nice and appreciative of him when he saves them from having a bad night. He knows he shouldn’t be caught up in some civilization girl’s life who probably won’t even remember him by the time her hangover has fully passed tomorrow afternoon. He knows he shouldn’t even be dreaming of you. Because Dabi doesn’t dream of the next time he runs into the pretty girl he only saw once. Because Dabi doesn’t dream about how soft your body would feel if he held you to his chest and wrapped his arms tight enough around you that no one could take you from him. Because Dabi doesn’t dream about the possibility- the chance- to hear you utter his name from your lips and call you his hero once more.

But Touya Todoroki does.

And by the time he wakes up, it’s already mid-afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and peaking through the window that he left open last night. And it’s starting to become a problem he can’t ignore. But before he thinks about shutting the blinds properly or tossing himself back into his bed, he has to deal with something. Or rather, Touya has to deal with something. That said, it’s been a while since he’s done this. It’s been a while since he has woken up with a mess bigger than he thought he was capable of in his boxers. So he could only just sit back and hope that he- that Touya- still remembers what to do.

That, and hope that you don’t mind boys who can’t help but get a little bit carried away, even in their dreams.

[plaidos]

Would u be open to a dm asking for advice on a complicated irl instance of transmisogyny? Long story short, I’m trying to navigate a strain on two friendships - one friend is friends with an afab nb who posted a harshly worded callout about a local white trans fem after she seems to have caused harm to them and other non-white (afab?) queers n women, the other friends are trans fem and casual friends with the girl who was called out. My trans fem friends see this situation as being built on overstated harm and the response as employing transmisogynist rhetoric, my other friend assures me there is a legitimate pattern of harm and believes the response to be justified because of that. I’m white and tme, and having a hard time wrapping my head around the pain caused in either direction - I don’t want to downplay harm / coercion especially when there seems to be a racial pattern at play, and I don’t want to dismiss transmisogyny or act like the power dynamic btwn tme / trans fem doesn’t also underly all this. I’m scared of losing friends but I know it’s a possibility - if I do, I want to do so because I came to a conclusion I can honestly stand by. Damn sorry that’s so long winded, it’s been eating at me - touchy subject so no need to respond but didn’t wanna dump something even lengthier in ur dm’s under some assumption u would be ok with it

i’m inclined to agree with your transfem friends — accusations of racism should be taken seriously, and the accusations might even be true, but a callout post is not “an accusation of racism” — it’s a callout post; it’s a public exile of trans women from online spaces with an acceptable excuse. it would not be acceptable to run another demographic off of this website & demand her friends cut her off due to subjective hearsay being treated as gospel whenever a trans woman can suffer. Transfeminists have talked at great length at how callout posts are a form of acceptable social violence towards trans women. Hell, from the way you’re describing her friends’ reactions it doesn’t even sound like they think this girl didn’t do anything wrong — an “overstatement of harm” absolutely fits the M.O. of TME folks unpersoning a trans woman.

My opinion of this is whatever this trans girl did, a callout post is a totally unacceptable way to platform those grievances, and it seems like it is intentionally being leveraged specifically to cut this girl off from her friends and community. I’d side against the person comfortable being judge jury and executioner of any trans woman who sleights them — even if this girl is the scummiest racist, this TME person is not the moral arbiter of who can share community with her

anyway, i guarantee you that there is another pattern at play with this TME person who thinks callout posts are an acceptable way to unperson one. I would be willing to bet money that they have made other similar callout posts about specifically other trans women. I mean, it practically always is, right? 😭

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #8416:

Censorship-happy jerks are really appointing themselves judge, jury and executioner of whatever people read and write, and saying they should die over it, like they're LARPing John fucking Doe from Se7en but with fictional stuff. That isn't something to be proud of. Shame on everyone who contributes to that nightmare.

[pascalispunkczechia]

Rules I Break For Him 7

Masterlist for this fic here

I suck in a breath. Trying to process whatever the fuck Javi just dropped on me. Vanessa. That local chick… some random girl working in a sketchy-ass brothel. And the cherry on top? He straight-up left his actual girlfriend at the fucking altar. Like, are you serious right now?

This man - who walks around like nothing phases him - used to actually care about someone. Until he just… didn’t. Then it was flings. Then Vanessa. And now I show up and suddenly he’s in confession mode?

I toss back the whiskey like it owes me money. Burns all the way down. Good. Maybe it’ll shut the screaming in my head the fuck up. He’s right there. Just… watching. Not saying a word. Waiting. Like I’m the goddamn judge, jury, and executioner.

“Uh…” I choke out, immediately hating myself. “So, like… with Vanessa. And all the others. You used condoms, right?”

His whole body jolts like I slapped him. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Always. I’d never… fuck. You don’t need to worry.”

“Shit, sorry,” I mumble, feeling like a bitch. “Didn’t mean it like that. I just…” Ugh. What even is this conversation? What did I think he’d say? That he’s been a born-again virgin waiting just for me? Please. I knew it’d be messy. I just hoped it wouldn’t be this messy.

But truth is? I trust him. God knows why, but I do. And the dumbest fucking part? Somewhere deep in my chest, I want to matter to him. More than anyone else ever did.

I look him straight in the eye. And he just sits there. Looking wrecked. Like some dumb kid who got caught sneaking cookies before dinner. Like he’s scared I’ll just… leave.

I don’t. I reach for his hand. Squeeze it. “Thanks for being honest. Really.” Still wanna ask, why me? Why now? But before I can open my mouth, he moves.

His hands are on my face. Warm. Rough. Familiar. They smell like him - soap, sweat, and something else I can’t name. Then he leans in. And boom… my stomach goes full nuclear butterfly meltdown. Fuck. I hate how much I want this.

I think he’s about to kiss me. But nope. Of course not. He opens his damn mouth and starts talking. “You know… the reason I’m telling you all this is ‘cause I want you to really know who I am. So you can… like… decide for yourself.”

Wait. What? I blink. Hard. What the fuck is he even saying?

He keeps going: “’Cause these last few days? You’ve started to mean something to me. Like… way more than I thought anyone could. You pull me out of all the shit I’m stuck in. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be blackout drunk somewhere, passed out in some shitty bar. But now? I actually look forward to your stupid smile. Your arms. Fuck. This isn’t even me. What the hell are you doing to me?!” He laughs, but it’s awkward as hell. His hands drop from my face.

And I just sit there like he slapped me with a goddamn love confession. I’m important to him? Did that really just happen? My whole body’s like ??? and my brain’s glitching. I wanna scream. Or cry. Or throw up glitter. What even is this feeling?

I grab his hands without thinking. They’re huge. A little rough. Gun-callused. I hold them like they’re the only solid thing keeping me grounded. “I… I feel the same,” I blurt out, before my heart explodes. “Like… what the fuck is this? We’ve known each other for five minutes and suddenly I can’t go a day without seeing you. I came here to work. No distractions. Be a badass, whatever. But now?” I look straight at him. “Fuck it. I want you around. All the time. You make me feel like I can actually breathe. Like I’m… safe. For real.” And there. It’s out. Laid bare. No take-backs.

He smiles. And holy shit - that smile! The rare, soft, totally unfair Javier Peña smile. Hits me right in the soul.

“I feel the same, baby,” he says, voice all low and rough. “I just… don’t always know how to be good at this.”

“Shhh,” I whisper, pressing a finger to his lips. “Good thing there’s two of us then, huh?”

I kiss him - hard. And he’s on me just as fast. Lips crashing into mine, tongue sliding against mine like it owns the damn place. It’s messy, hot, slow, so fucking deep. He’s kissing me like I’m breakable and he still can’t help himself. His hands slide under my thighs and suddenly I’m in his lap, legs wrapped around him, our bodies locked together like we forgot how to be separate.

I moan into his mouth and he growls - low and rough - before pulling back, barely. There’s something hard pressing against my stomach. And yeah, no surprise what that is.

He pushes my hair out of my face, buries his nose in my neck and inhales like a man unhinged. “You smell like coconut again. I swear I’m getting fucking addicted.”

“Yeah?” I whisper. “That’s how your smell fucks me up too.”

Then - chomp. He bites my collarbone. Not brutal, but definitely enough to make me gasp. And of course, he licks the same spot right after. Because he’s evil like that. And we both groan like we’re losing our damn minds. His fingers slip under the straps of my tank and off it goes. Gone. I’m not wearing a bra, obviously, and now I’m basically naked in his lap and he’s just looking. Forehead to forehead. His eyes drop down, and he goes still. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters. “You always kill me with this.”

Then his thumb ghosts over my nipple. Just once. Teasing as hell. I whimper like a goddamn warning shot. He circles. Squeezes. Groans. Then cups my whole breast in his hand like he’s claiming it.

I whine. Loud. Zero shame. All need.

And yep - he gets it. His hands trail down my stomach, slow and warm. He gently pushes me back into the couch cushions to make space, then pulls off my shorts and panties in one smooth motion. He starts unbuttoning his own pants, sliding them down. I watch him hungrily and slide my finger across my clit, slow and deliberate.

“Oh really?” he purrs, pupils blown wide, gaze wild. He tosses his pants aside and leans over me.

Frustration hits me like a truck, he’s still wearing those goddamn boxers, while I’m already completely naked. But judging by the way he’s straining against the fabric, those boxers won’t be staying on much longer.

He kisses me again. Slow. Fucking tender. Like he’s trying to win an award for ‘Softest Tongue in a Leading Role’. His hands slide over my knees, prying my legs apart like it’s the most casual thing in the world. His fingers? Straight-up electricity. Crawling up the inside of my thighs like they’ve got one damn mission, blow me up from the inside. And yeah, mission fucking accomplished. I suck in a sharp breath. Then his fingers find my clit. Just find it like they’ve got GPS, and he starts drawing circles like he’s sketching my death. My own fingers get nudged away like: ‘Nice try, babe, daddy’s got this.’

My whole pussy throbs like it’s synced with a drumline. I dig my nails into the couch like it’ll save me. “Don’t stop. Just… whatever the fuck you’re doing, keep doing it. Please.” I’m begging. No shame.

He laughs. Bastard. Breathless, smug. His thumb presses harder and my head lolls back like I’m possessed. He watches me like it’s a goddamn science experiment. Then he taps one finger at my entrance. Teasing little fucker. Meanwhile, his thumb’s still doing god’s work on my clit.

“You’re torturing me,” I pant and yank him closer. And he kisses me like he’s trying to shut me up. That’s when he slides one finger in. Then two. Smooth. Deep. Precise. My thighs start to shake, and I’m grinding against his hand like I’m trying to fuse with him.

And he’s just there. Smiling. Smug again. His thumb’s going faster. I’m panting harder. My pussy clenches around his fingers, and he moves them, curling like he knows exactly where to hit. We moan together. Yeah. That kind of moment.

And then I come. Hard. Violent. I grab his shoulders and claw down his back like I’m falling off a cliff and he’s the only thing keeping me from disintegrating.

And it’s just his fingers! Just. His. Fucking. Fingers. They’re perfect. Long. Calloused in just the right way. Like they were custom-built for me. But maybe it’s not just that. Maybe it’s because five minutes ago we basically dumped our emotions on the floor and now there’s nothing holding us back. Just him and me. Raw.

“I wanna do this every fucking day,” he mutters into my jaw, kissing me like I’m a secret he can’t keep.

And I’m still lying there, brain in orbit, and I suddenly realize - I came. He didn’t. I didn’t even touch him. Goddammit!

He doesn’t look pissed though. In fact, he looks like he just won a prize. Even with that massive bulge still caged in his boxers. I get caught staring. And of course he notices. He smirks. Peels the boxers off.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He’s hard, thick, gorgeous. Still gets me every time.

I moan. Loud. His dick brushes my stomach and I reach for him like my life depends on it. My hand wraps around him. Slow strokes. Teasing. Controlling.

His eyes flutter, his hips twitch. I pick up the pace, then slow again. Then up. Then down. I’m toying with him and loving it. He groans - deep, wrecked. “I wanna fuck you, baby,” he growls into my hair.

I nod. Barely breathing. My body’s screaming YES. Don’t ask how I’m still functional after that orgasm. I shouldn’t be. But hey… Javi’s a fucking sex god. And apparently, I’m his personal temple.

It’s fucking beautiful, having him over me. I wrap my arms around his neck, tilt my chin up, kiss him like I own his mouth. He pushes me deeper into the damn couch, like he’s trying to leave a dent of me in the cushions. He spreads my legs or maybe I do. Who the fuck knows. His cock presses against my stomach first, then slides down, between my legs. The tip lines up. My breath catches. And then he pushes in. First just the head. Then all of it.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He’s big… yeah. But somehow, he fits like he was fucking designed for me. Like we were made to fuck. Exactly like this.

He fills me so completely I swear my soul short-circuits. My whole body’s buzzing. He starts moving… slow, deep strokes. Lifts me up into this half-sitting position that makes everything hit harder. Deeper.

I move my hips like I’m chasing something. Like if I don’t ride this out, I’ll die. His hands are on my back, gripping me, dragging me closer, fucking into me like he means it. I’m moaning like a goddamn porn star. No shame. Not even a little. He’s panting. His skin slick against mine. My body’s tightening around him like it knows exactly what to do. One hand trails down my back. The other grabs my ass, hard.

And then he slams into me. Deep. Hard. All the fucking way.

I feel it the second he loses it. His dick twitches hard inside me, and then he’s groaning. “Fuck, baby!” Right into my shoulder.

Heat floods me. Fucking fills me.

He bites down on my collarbone, like I’m the only thing tethering him to Earth. Like he needs to remind himself I’m real. I’m here. I’m his. His body shudders, low and rough. I hold him through it, feel every last twitch of him finishing inside me, and think: Holy shit. This man. This fucking man is gonna ruin me.

I can tell he just came harder than ever before - with me. The way his whole body shook. The way his cock twitched so deep inside me it left me breathless. And somehow, that thought alone sends me straight over the edge. I clench around him, hard, soaking him in the aftershocks of my own orgasm. Now it’s him holding me.

We stay like that for a while. Just breathing. Skin on skin. Not talking. And then we start to peel away from each other… slow, sticky, fucked-out. We both laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that comes from complete satisfaction and exhaustion. Javi’s laugh is light and soft, and fuck, I wanna hear that sound every damn day.

“Thank you,” he says after a beat. His voice is low, a little hoarse.

I glance up at him. “For what?”

“For all of it,” he murmurs. “For not running off screaming tonight. For believing in me.” He kisses me. Pulls me into his arms.

I press my lips to his shoulder, then whisper: “Thank you for being here. For not letting the darkness take you again.”

He pulls a blanket over us. We curl up on the couch, tangled and warm. And for the first time in a long time, I feel safe. Really fucking safe.

Three Months Later

Javi and I… we’re still getting to know each other more and more every day. Whatever that thing was between us at the start? Yeah, now it’s a relationship. A real one. It’s still fresh for both of us. Javier hasn’t had a serious girlfriend since Texas, years ago. And me? I’m just trying to remember how the fuck to trust someone again.

But goddamn, these past three months? They’ve been good. Like really fucking good. The passion hasn’t died down… if anything, it’s gotten more intense. We spend all the time we can together.

Everyone at the base knows we’re a thing now. Maybe it’s because we’re in South America and not some puritanical corner of the States, but no one seems to give a shit that the boss is banging one of her agents. Okay, yeah - there were a couple of dumb-ass jokes. But mostly? People respect it. Probably because we’re still professionals on the job. This is DEA - if you don’t act like a damn professional, you’re out. No room for bullshit.

As for Cali — we made progress. We actually got one of the narco bosses locked up. But of course, nothing’s ever that easy. Now we’re realizing just how deep the corruption runs: local cops, politicians, you name it. They’re all on someone’s payroll.

I’m standing in my office, staring at our board, where the Cali network is mapped out like some fucked-up spiderweb. I’m wearing a blazer and skirt. Tight. Formal. Distracting even to me.

“Babe?” Javi knocks on the door, pulling me out of my thoughts. “We gotta go.”

He kisses me… soft, quick, but fuck, he still tastes like heaven. He always does. He’s in a navy suit. With a tie. A fucking tie. Great. That’s real fucking helpful, Javier. How the hell am I supposed to focus now? Seriously - I still can’t believe a guy like him actually chose me.

“I’m coming,” I say with a weak smile and brush some imaginary dust off his shoulder. “I’m just… a little nervous, that’s all.” And yeah, I have a damn good reason.

We’re supposed to be at the U.S. embassy in Bogotá today. Remember Diego? My ex? The one who cheated on me and humiliated me so thoroughly the entire fucking embassy whispered about it for weeks? Yeah. He still works there. So do the rest of the people who were there when it all went down. And now we have to go in, smile like good little agents, and talk to them about evidence tied to police and political corruption in Colombia. Just great.

“It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” Javi says, ever the calm one. “We’re going for work. Not even guaranteed you’ll run into him. And besides, who the hell’s gonna mess with my boss, who took down one of Cali’s top fucking bosses?” He throws me a wink like it’s nothing.

We don’t do secrets between us, not anymore. I told him everything about Diego. Let’s just say Diego’s not exactly Javier’s favorite person on this planet. I scrunch up my nose and make a face at him. He chuckles. He takes my hand in his, firm, grounding, and leads me out of the office. We walk out of the station, climb into the car, and hit the road to Bogotá.

Later in Bogotá

“Good morning,” the senator greets us with a handshake. “Take a seat.” She gestures to the chairs across from her. We sit.

I remember this room, spent more hours in here than I care to admit.

She cuts straight to the chase. They’re not planning to interfere with our work in Cali, of course not… but we should really be careful about the kind of accusations we plan to throw around in front of U.S. authorities. Javi and I exchange a look. Yeah. This is bad. Really fucking bad. As if this day couldn’t get worse - now it turns out even the fucking U.S. embassy might be compromised. Perfect.

“So,” the senator goes on. “I’ll assign agent Ramirez to your team. He’ll travel to Cali with you today and evaluate the situation from the embassy’s perspective.”

I feel a chill crawl up my neck. No. No fucking way. Did she just say Ramirez?

Javi glances at me, brow tightening. I can tell he’s about to say something - probably something sharp - but then there’s a knock at the door.

And the bastard walks in. Diego. Light brown hair, blue eyes, average height. With a sharp surge of satisfaction, I note he’s a good half a head shorter than Javier. And that belly? Yeah. That’s what you get when you spend your days rotting behind a desk, loser.

“Hello,” he says with that smug little sweep of the eyes, like he’s trying to measure what he lost.

A hell of a lot, asshole. Though, judging by the look of him now - I didn’t lose a damn thing. “Diego,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

Javi rises from his chair and towers over him without saying a word. Dominance doesn’t need volume.

“You must be Agent Peña, I assume?” Diego’s voice has that edge - sharp, but fragile.

“That’s right,” Javi says smoothly, flashing a smile that’s all teeth and zero warmth.

“Pleasure,” Diego grunts, eyeing him up with blatant disdain.

Oh, he hates this. Diego always hated not being the only guy in the room women drooled over. And right now, Javier Peña is sucking up every last molecule of attention like a black hole.

“Guess we should get moving,” I cut in, slicing through the rising tension like a damn scalpel. “Agent Ramirez, are you taking your own car or relying on DEA transport?”

“I’ll ride with you,” he replies, lifting the gym bag he brought in and slinging it over his shoulder. Of course he will.

We say goodbye to the senator and walk out.

We pile into the car - Javi behind the wheel, me in the passenger seat, Diego climbing into the back like a third wheel that no one asked for. His bag goes in the trunk. And yep - the entire drive, I can feel his eyes drilling into the back of my head through the rearview mirror.

“We’re stopping at Hotel Casablanca, right?” Javi tosses the question over his shoulder as we get closer to town. Cali’s maybe five klicks out now.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Diego answers flatly.

A few minutes later, we pull up to the hotel. It’s about a five-minute walk from the DEA base, but since we’re headed home, we’ve still got about fifteen more minutes to go.

“Here we are,” Javi says under his breath, already reaching for the door controls like he’s ejecting a virus from the vehicle.

“Thanks. See you tomorrow,” Diego mumbles and hops out, slamming the door behind him.

The moment the door shuts, the air in the car clears like we’ve been released from a goddamn pressure chamber.

“Finally,” I sigh, not bothering to hide it.

“My thoughts exactly. I was starting to worry the trip would never end.” Javi lets out a breath and shoots me a side glance as he pulls away from the curb. Tires roll. Engine hums. We drive home. Thank. Fucking. God.

We stop the car and head inside. My place tonight. We were at his yesterday. That’s kind of how we do it - we switch. And it works. But in the past three months? There hasn’t been a single night we’ve spent apart. Not one.

The second we’re through the door, a rush of affection hits me out of nowhere. I wrap my arms around Javi’s shoulders and hold him tight. Lately I feel like I’m overflowing. Like I’m bleeding love at the seams. But those two words - I love you - we haven’t said them. Not yet. Maybe it’s still too soon? I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it right now.

“Those suits look good on you,” I say, running my fingers over the lapels of his jacket. I tilt my face up and lock eyes with him. Yeah. I know what gets to him. I’ve had three months to figure out every damn switch on this man.

“You look good, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he grabs my hands and kisses me. Mmm. Yep. Nailed it.

I kiss him back, slide my hands free from his, and slowly slip his jacket off his shoulders. While I’m doing that, he’s already unraveling my bun. The jacket lands on the couch. I keep my eyes on him as my fingers untie his tie - muscle memory now. I toss the tie onto the bed behind us. Might need it later.

“Hm,” he breathes out, amused, as his hands go to my blazer and toss it aside too. Then his palms are on my face. And he’s kissing me again. His breath tastes like mint and a hint of cigarette smoke - Javi’s signature cocktail.

Next, his hands are on my white blouse, fingers slipping one button open after another. The fabric slides off my shoulders and drops to the floor.

I shoot him a playful look. He grins and then lifts me like it’s nothing. My legs wrap around his waist, and he carries me to the bed. He sits down. I straddle him. And I start unbuttoning his shirt now.

That chest. God, that chest! I love every inch of this man. Just don’t want to say it before he does. But I shut that thought down fast… no time for emotional spirals.

I press kisses from his lips down to his neck. I can feel his pulse there, beating hard beneath my mouth. His breath turns ragged. His hands are all over my back, unclasping my bra. It slips off and hits the floor. He cups one of my breasts in his hand and smirks.

Yeah. There’s already a hard bulge forming in his pants. And we’re just getting started! “Hmm, so ready for me, agent Peña?” I whisper into his ear, voice low and filthy.

He scoops me up like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world and stands with me in his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist again, clinging tight. He turns, lowers me gently onto the bed but I don’t let go. My legs stay locked around him, keeping him pressed tight against me. Chest to chest. Heat to heat. He’s not going anywhere.

His hands run down my thighs and hips. I spread my legs, slowly. He pulls my skirt and panties down in one motion and tosses them on the floor like they’re nothing. I’m naked again. At his mercy. I squirm underneath him, already aching for more.

Javier smirks. He picks up the tie I threw onto the bed earlier, the one I knew would come in handy. And yeah. It does. He gently wraps it around my wrists. “You good, bejby?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

“You know I am,” I purr.

He knows. We’ve tried this once before, a few weeks back, in the middle of our three-month-long getting-to-know-each-other phase. Let’s just say… I’ve got a thing for neckties.

Sure, I can’t touch him the way I usually need to but letting him have full control? Yeah. I’ll take that. Once in a while. Other times I’m probably all over him too much. But right now? Right now I can’t believe this man, this dangerous, hot, tie-wielding motherfucker, is mine.

He lowers himself between my parted thighs and starts kissing the inside of them, slowly, like he’s got all fucking night. Tiny kisses, one by one, closer and closer, until he finally gets there. When I feel his tongue press against my clit, I throw my head back, eyes shut, hips arching off the couch.

Fuck. I love this. Everything else disappears. Diego, that damn embassy visit - gone. All I can feel is Javi’s tongue and every fucking thing he’s about to do to me.

NEXT CHAPTER HERE

FOR MORE FICS -> MASTERLIST

[ifishouldvanish]

Thinking about Alurox o'clock...what do you see as the reason they're amicably divorced (or why it never developed past a mutually beneficial situationship)?

Oh boy.

Okay.

I like to imagine they met around the time of the pueblo revolt, ie 1680. I think they would be drawn to each other as fellow vampires who aren't like other vampires and who each have compassion for humanity (Olrox seems to have a type and it's men who are willing to fight for what they believe in). They see something of an equal in each other, and so share that foundation of mutual respect. 

I like to imagine they start off hunting Spanish colonizer vampires together, forming a sense of camaraderie that way. They trust each other, they have each other's backs. They've both been on this earth for about the same amount of time and have a lot to learn from each other about the world. They bond over their shared perspectives on some things, engage in thoughtful debate over the areas where their perspectives diverge. They end up bouncing on it bc Olrox looks like That© and Alucard looks like That™

I think where the cracks would appear is in Olrox's willingness to feed on humans, and I imagine this would be a time in Olrox's life where he is really driven hard by a thirst for vengeance for what was done to his people and continues to be done to other indigenous communities, which would be upsetting to Alucard.

Like I imagine Olrox having a pretty hard All Colonists Are Bastards stance that Alucard has a hard time reconciling, because he doesn't Get It™. He just sees his father going scorched earth all over again. I imagine Alucard thinking he can pull Olrox back from that ledge the way his mother had once done to his father, but these things aren't the same. The more Alucard tries to 'fix' him with love, the more Olrox pulls away because he's on a mission, he has a score to settle, he sees the injustice everywhere for what it is, in a way Alucard's idealism and need to see the good in people won't let him see. 

I would scream and yell and kick my feet if it all culminated in an argument that echoes the one Alucard has with Dracula in very first episode of the original series. Him saying like "innocent people will die", and Olrox shouting back, "there are no innocents, not anymore." (I love my Dracula v. Olrox parallels in case u haven't noticed)

I imagine Alucard being so close to Getting It™, or perhaps even Actually Getting It™, but still not being able to truly internalize ACAB if it means killing mortal humans. He has too much hope that they can learn the errors of their ways and that things can get better, that it's not in their place as immortal beings to act as judge jury and executioner in what he sees as 'human affairs'. So he makes the decision to leave. Because the alternative is to Make Olrox Stop By Force, and he can't bring himself to do that either. He just has to leave Olrox to do his thing the way he sees fit to do it, and hope that it works out. 

I like to imagine there's some anger and hurt on both sides, but that they kinda cross paths again some weeks/months/maybe even years later, and that's when Olrox saves Alucard's life in whatever the fuck way that's supposed to mean. And it's not enough for them to get back together again, but enough for them each to reach a point of closure and acceptance re: what they mean to each other and how they don't fit into each other's lives.

From that point onward, they're just kinda two ships in the night. Passing by each other from time to time, and perhaps sharing a chat, a drink, or even a bed for the night. But it's with this mutual understanding that it can't lead anywhere further than that. There's a comfort and familiarity in that no one understands them quite like they do each other, but they also know what irreconcilable differences lie beneath the surface and will bubble up if they're in each other's orbit for too long.

But maybe, in another 100+ years, after Alucard has seen enough of the mess that is human history to become a self-identified 'realist', and after Olrox has known the love of someone who suffered so much of the same losses he has yet still carried the same kind of hope for the world that Alucard once had, they might find themselves in a position to meet in the middle in a way the simply could not before.

Aahhhhh I love them sm 🫠🫠🫠 thank you for this invitation to yap about Alurox 🙏

[iliveiloveiwrite]

By My Side // A.B.

Request: Could I have something fluffy? I’m think maybe the reader is from a lower class and is married to Anthony and she’s worried about not being a good enough viscountess. They’re getting ready for their engagement ball and Anthony gives her a pep talk? You’re the best!! - @whovianwholikesgirls

A/N: I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get to it, my love! But here it is, I’m sorry it isn’t longer - I hope you like it!!

Warnings: feelings of insecurity, worries, anxieties, lots of fluff and comfort, kissing, established relationship,

Word Count: less than 1k

Your hands couldn’t stop shaking. The nerves that had risen steadily all day were finally making themselves known in the tremor affecting your hands.

Exhaling shakily, you do your best to fasten the clasp of your necklace. A gorgeous piece, given to you by Anthony’s mother. The emeralds are only further accentuated by the champagne of your gown.

A further sigh of frustration leaves you as you fail once more in fastening the necklace.

“Let me,” A gentle voice cuts in, taking the necklace from your hands before you launch it across the room in despair. You meet the kind and caring gaze of your soon to be mother in law; her smile is comforting as she fiddles with the piece of jewellery.

“I thought I could do it,” You murmur, “But I can’t get my hands to stop shaking.”

“Nerves,” Violet says, smiling wider as she clasps the necklace and smooths her hands over your shoulders.

“I think it’s more than that,” You whisper, feeling the familiar burn of tears clog your throat. “I don’t think I can go out there and face all those people, whispering about Anthony’s choice in bride.”

Violet frowns. “My dear, whatever has brought this on?”

You blink against the rush of tears. “The closer we get to the wedding, the more it becomes clear just how lacking I am in class politics, gossip and graces. I don’t want Anthony to regret his choice in bride.”

Violet nods, taking the words to heart. “My dear, I shall not be a moment. Stay here and try to calm yourself whilst I make it all better.”

A watery but grateful smile crosses your face as you watch the beloved matriarch leave the room, the door clicking gently shut behind her. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, doing your best to calm yourself by trying not to think of the gathering crowd in the ballroom downstairs. Each one of them waiting to catch a glimpse of you - to make their judgement; to be judge, jury and executioner all in one.

You aren’t alone with your thoughts for long. The door opens once more, however it isn’t Violet that walks through the door.

It’s Anthony.

“Darling,” He greets, his voice concerned as he crosses the room to you.

“Anthony.”

“Mother told me. Darling, how could you think those things?”

Tears cling to your lashes as you face your beloved fiancé. Anthony kneels before you; his hands gripping your knees, his face the perfect picture of worry.

You sniffle. “It’s all I’ve heard since we announced our engagement. In the modiste, in the tearooms, when we promenade… It is so tiring. I love you beyond all reason, but I cannot help but worry whether this is a decision you’ll come to regret.”

The words leave you in a torrent; rushing out of you so quickly you barely have time to take a breath. The words get stuck in your throaty as you catch the devastation that passes over Anthony’s face.

“My love,” He whispers, “Had I known the full extent, I never would have organised tonight.”

“No,” You argue. “I’m glad you have, I love any moment I get to spend with your family but I worry for the impact on you.”

Anthony’s hands leave your knees to grasp your face. His eyes fix onto yours. “I don’t give a damn about the impact on me.” He all but spits. “That out there? It’s all pomp and fake, but what we have… the love we share and the adoration, that’s what’s matters.”

“I love you.”

“I know you do,” Anthony breathes. “I love you too… endlessly. You are who I want; I want my future to be utterly entwined with yours. I want the mornings and the evenings and the nights. Your class status means nothing to me. You will be a perfect wife and an incredible viscountess. I don’t care about the ton, I only care about you and how you feel and what you think.”

The man you love so entirely pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly. His lips seek out yours, kissing you thoroughly, pouring all of his emotions into the kiss. There was no denying his love and adoration for you now; there was no denying how well you fit, how perfect you moulded to the other. There would be no-one else for him as there would be no-one else for you.

Anthony pulls away, leaving you breathless as he places kiss after kiss to your cheek.

“Thank you,” You whisper, “Thank you for loving me.”

“Thank you for loving me,” He responds in earnest. Anthony kisses you again; a short, sweet kiss that has a smile crossing your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, relieved to see a genuine smile on your face.

“Do you feel ready to face the crowd waiting downstairs?” He asks quietly; lips brushing your hair.

“With you by my side, I can face anything.”

[inafieldofdaisies]

(WIP) Music Monday Tag | Tagged by @simplegenius042

The rules: Post a song that is relevant to your WIP or inspires it. I’m also including the lyrics.

I crave you like I need the morning sun You burn like whiskey sitting on my tongue And here I thought I was the patient one but I can't seem to drink you fast enough Your chest is a pillow to my sweetest dreams Your eyes are a window to the seven seas Your hair's like a willow blowing through the breeze The more that I worship, the more I believe Monotony has got me feeling numb I've nothing left besides my flesh and blood But you've come to offer, I'm here to receive Your face is my gospel, your body my creed Bring me to your altar, drop me to my knees The more that I worship, the more I believe You know I love it when your kisses bruise me Like a river running straight into me Wrap me in your warm embrace Strip me of my sins and pain Heaven written across your face The way your body can breathe life into me Satisfy me until my undoing Wrapped around you like a vine Humble me in your divine Heaven written in your eyes

Anything you want, you've been wrapped up in my dreams Like fingers through your hair, I've been in between your teeth I'm so close to making you my everything and it's really scaring me So sick, broken record in my head I want you to let me in Cryptic, 'cause you know I'm cravin' it Tell me what you want, and, baby, I'm in Whatever you want, you've been wrapped up in my dreams Like fingers through your hair, I've been in between your teeth I'm captive, but I'm kinda lovin' it Babydoll, maybe you're Aphrodite I'ma fall hard and fast, I'm your Ares Babydoll, maybe I'll let you have me I'ma fall hard and fast, could you catch me?

I'm the one that you're running from Yeah, I'm the hunter, the loaded gun I'm the end, I'm the setting sun Yeah, I'm retribution, I'm the conclusion For you, there's no getting away I'm the Judge, Jury, Executioner Cold fury, pay what's due to ya No mercy Judge, Jury, Executioner

I don't wanna swim, I wanna walk on water Then skinny-dip with somebody's daughter Touching skin, something like an altar I know sin, the Ghost and the Father

Tagging, @socially-awkward-skeleton @derelictheretic @kyberinfinitygems @imogenkol @cassietrn @strafethesesinners @strangefable @voidika @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @trench-rot @purplehairsecretlair @carlosoliveiraa @raresvtm @simonxriley @cloudofbutterflies92 @killyourrdarlingss @direwombat @g0dspeeed @shellibisshe @aceghosts @elligatorrex @vampireninjabunnies-blog @lilywatt @la-grosse-patate @katsigian @sofrosine @dumbassdep and anyone that would like to share some music this week 🤍

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 13 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 12 here. Part 14 here.

Summary: Oh, insupportable delight! Oh, superhumane rapture! What pain could stand before a pleasure so transporting?

Words: 5700

Warnings: tiniest amount of bloodplay

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

So, uh, it only took us 13 chapters and 80k words later, but we hope you enjoyed!

Not something at all we anticipated we'd end up waiting for when we first started writing this story, but we have had such a great time writing and our first-ever 'slow-burn'ish type fic has been really fun to explore. We are so grateful for y'all for coming along with us as well - much more to come.

Love you so much! <3

You bolted for the window.

The latch slid through your fingers. Your shaking hands slipped twice on the wood. Grunting, you flung it open, only for it to slam shut from the top. In the glass, you met Tavington’s eyes.

He was impassive. “I wouldn’t.”

Desperation rattled your breath. If you could get out of this room—run somewhere—perhaps Goddard or Cornwallis or even the horrible Ferguson would believe your story first.

You spun for the door, feinted left, then dipped right. Anticipating you, Tavington seized your arm, yanked you toward him, then spun you to slam your back to the wall.

The room whirled around you. Your chest heaved, your eyes darted to every corner of the room, seeking salvation, finding none. You were left to only focus on the man in front of you, the man whose hands had pinned your arms still, the man whose face seemed wrought between frenzy and victory.

“I believe,” he murmured, “I asked you a question.”

You swallowed. “Why are you following me, you brute?”

He hummed. “Fascinating response from a woman caught meddling in the documents of a royal officer.”

“I wasn’t—that’s not—”

“I’m quite sure of what I just witnessed.”

Grimacing, you flailed, trying to wrest yourself free. He stepped closer, flattening your body with his own, his leg slotting between yours to rob you of leverage. You grunted, ignoring the reluctant warmth glowing around his thigh.

“Get off of me!”

“I don’t think I will.” His breath skimmed your ear. “You knew about the ship, didn’t you?” he asked. “You knew it would give you opportunity.”

“What?” You shook your head. “N-no, I—the ship—”

Another breath stabbed through you. You could still see the desk. Paper smothered it, the reports you’d already examined tossed away and covering the surface, the floor, the chair like leaves from an autumn tree. In the firelight, trapped to the wall, none of the words were discernible. Not that it mattered, now. He’d caught you.

Your chin trembled. You couldn’t have appeared more guilty if he’d walked in on you with a knife plunged into another man’s chest. There was no explaining this. He’d see you hanged, see your sister slain and the farm burned. And if your father wasn’t already dead, he’d see to it that it soon followed.

Heat bit the backs of your eyes, threatened tears. You would not, could not cry in front of William Tavington, but God, if only you could let them fall, dissolve into them as they slipped through the floorboards. You were awful at this, he’d been right, you’d been sloppy and obvious and altogether incapable of subterfuge. And because of it, you’d damned yourself and your entire family to die, all while having never asked for any of this in the first place.

“Why do you try to delude me?” he asked. “Why do you lie as if I won’t know?”

“Go on, then,” you said, choking back your anguish. “Think whatever you want.”

Tavington’s head cocked. He studied your face. “Do you deny you are a spy?”

“Does it matter?” You stared into him. “Am I to believe that a denial would stay the hand of the judge, jury, or executioner who all bear the name Colonel Tavington?”

His lip furled. “You infuriating, impossible creature,” he growled, pressing into you. Another rapid breath in your chest—this one woven with excitement. “For every death sentence you are spared, you can’t help but seek another in its stead.”

“Spared?” you scoffed.

“Had I known this to be your plan, I might have allowed your own temerity to doom you tonight and had done with it.” Firelight danced across the thin blue rings of his irises. “Cornwallis would have seen your illusion dispelled in an instant.”

“That wasn’t—ugh!” You tried to yank your arms from his grasp, but his fingers only tightened. “I wasn’t going to say anything!”

“Another lie,” he murmured. “Or do you truly believe I don’t know that look in your eyes?”

Your insides flipped. You stilled, suddenly too conscious of your chest brushing his as it rose and fell. Of his thumbs resting against the pulse in your wrists.

“You know nothing about me.”

“Don’t I?” he breathed, gaze trailing from your eyes, your lips, your neck, your breasts before rising back up. “I know your rage. How easily your tongue is seduced to violence. I know that you think yourself a player in the game of war, but you’ve no regard or care for its stakes. And…” He leaned closer, triumph glinting in his eyes. “I know precisely why that is.”

You stuck out your chin, holding his stare, inviting—or perhaps daring—him to continue.

“You want to lose.”

Fury lit up your spine, and you thrashed against him. He crushed you against the wall, a flicker of delight surfacing in the black wells of his pupils.

“Then let me lose,” you said. “Why impede the temerity of which you accuse me? Why not let me doom myself? If you despise me so deeply, if you consider me to be a spy, a traitor—”

“I consider you,” he said through his teeth, “to be the most vexing, capricious woman I have ever encountered.” His tongue rolled in his mouth, eyes locked onto yours. “I know you to be misguided. A vicious animal—”

“For you to tame?” You wrenched uselessly against him. “Is that what this is about?”

A dark grin flashed across his face. “Is it not obvious?”

“Play your damnable games elsewhere,” you said. “I’m finished. I’m not your creature to domesticate.”

“And yet...” He tutted, maddeningly calm. “Imagine where you’d be tonight without my intervention.”

Vitriol crawled like slime from your stomach, still fat, still wriggling from when he’d forced you to bury it alive in front of Cornwallis. It burned, clawed its way to your throat, catching there and swelling in your humiliation.

How did this despicable excuse for a human, this monster, even divine its existence? In fact, how dare he—how dare he know this part of you, incise through you and unmask it in all of its shameful sticky fury.

Every muscle shook underneath him. The vile taste of rage coated your palate, beseeching an exorcism.

“Admit it,” he said. “I’m right.”

You screamed. “Fine! You’re right. I never cared about winning,” you spat. “Or losing!” The inanity forced a breath from your chest. “I never cared about any of it! Not your games, not even who wins this damned bloody war!” A laugh escaped, like venom on your tongue. “I have only ever cared about protecting my family—and if I die doing so, then may God let the end of my rope reunite me with them.” You leaned close to him. “And even if I never see heaven,” you whispered, “I’ll rest peacefully knowing you shall never darken its gates to torment them again.” A thin smile creased your lips. “And that no one has or will ever love you enough to care if you live or die.”

The fire crackled. Wisps of troubled voices echoed from the gardens. Shuddering air escaped you as you held Tavington’s gaze. Within it, you could see something churning, like the cogs of a clock reversing rotation until their teeth clicked into place.

His jaw shifted. He glanced over his shoulder, studying the heap of disheveled reports, their information wasted, ungathered, unimportant. A soft exhale left his nose, and he focused on the wall, his brow tensing before he turned back to look at you.

Tavington’s grip eased. He stepped back.

A flutter in your vision. You sucked in air, fresh from the space he’d given you, your eyes flicking between him, the desk; him, the desk; him—

Turning, he left you against the wall to move toward the desk. He frowned, turned over a few piles before finding what he wanted: a neatly pressed stack of parchment at least several pages thick. As if to verify, he flipped through them before crossing back to you, extending it in his hand.

“You were looking for this,” he said.

Something stuck in your throat. You looked between him and the report, feeling like a dog offered food by a stranger. Holding your breath, you snatched it away and your eyes consumed it as if you were that very dog.

The documentation was thorough, his penmanship fine—these were details you didn’t want to notice, but did anyway—and as you skimmed it, checking page by page, you didn’t once consider gleaning any other information that could’ve been of use. Your heartbeat resonated in your temples, your fingertips. With each beat, the papers shook in your grip.

You turned a page and the list leapt out to you. You scanned it, scrutinizing every line you found, looking for Michael, and Captain, and the first few letters of your last name. But nothing.

You found nothing.

Papa was alive.

Relief hit you like lightning. You exhaled, the report dropping to the floor, your face dropping to your hands. A swell of air rolled through you, and you relaxed, slumping against the wall.

It hadn’t been for nothing. You hadn’t ruined everything. Papa was, at the very least, still alive.

Thank God.

You cleared your throat and steadied yourself, your eyes lifting to Tavington, gazing at him as if he’d just raised Jesus himself from the grave. You expected him to gloat—to mock you—but found him watching you, staring into you, his own face clear of everything but curiosity.

The world shrunk, its boundaries reduced to the perimeter of the office, its context of war and strife and danger lost. Opposite you was no one but a man self-stripped of his obligations, a man who had alleviated your fears, a man who had met you, human, and wished now to know you.

You felt small, insignificant as the recipient of his mercy. It was as if you’d ripped your chest open and allowed him to cradle your heart in his hands, like you’d seen a ribbon of affection in his gaze as he hovered his teeth over its bloody rhythm.

He looked at the report now discarded at your feet, then advanced toward you, his voice like a distant peal of thunder.

“Why,” he asked, taking another step, “have you been avoiding me?”

Again, your mouth parted. Again, you were unable to speak.

“I know that you think of that night as often as I do.” When you didn’t reply, he stepped forward again. “Do you deny it?”

Fire roared, rippling from the hearth to your blood. You didn’t want to deny him. And even if you’d wanted to, gazing at him now—the flames spinning threads of flax through his hair, his eyes paler than morning sky, his lips so supple that you could only yearn at their memory—you couldn’t.

Shaking your head, you replied, “I… I do not deny it.”

He cocked his head, waiting. You hadn’t answered his previous question.

“But…” You glanced at his mouth. Swallowed. “What you want and what I want—they’re at odds,” you said. “I want my father alive. I want my family safe.” You gestured toward him as if it was self-evident. “You… do not.”

Tavington drew closer, looming over you now, and rested one palm next to your head. “Our desires are not…” His stare swept over your body. “... fully at odds.”

Your mind pleaded with you to grab his jacket, to tear the buttons from its seams and expose his chest to your hungry hands; your cunt throbbed, alive and aching for his attention.

“I don’t…” Whatever words you were trying to form kept falling apart in your mouth. “Know what you… mean.”

He smirked, his free hand stroking up your arm, finger tracing over your lace-covered clavicle. “I know you, little soldier, remember?” he whispered. “I know what this trembling means.” His thumb ghosted your pulse, stroking the rapid thrum under your skin. “I know what your racing heart looks like in your throat.” He cupped your cheek, tilting your face toward his own. “I know what hunger lies behind your eyes.”

“I…” With the noblest of intentions, you laid a hand on his chest, prepared to push him away. “But we can’t—there’s no reconciling these—”

Tavington leaned forward and captured your lips with his. You whimpered, softening in his hold, as if it was your purpose to yield to his touch. He held you still, cradling your head, and your hand slid down his chest, catching on each button of his waistcoat as it traveled to his hip. With a breath, he pulled away, his gaze trained on yours.

“Tell me,” he said, “truthfully, that you don’t want this.”

A beat resonated from your core to your fingertips, a cry to sate whatever beast within you he’d created and enslaved. The truth, you knew, was obvious to you both: You wanted it so badly you suffocated beneath it.

The only thing left was to succumb.

You hooked his hips, tugged him against your body, and sealed your lips to his.

Tavington growled, gripping the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair, his body flattening you to the wall. His mouth sought yours like a blaze sought tinder, his tongue pushing past your teeth and teasing over your own. Shivering, you tightened your hold on his hips, hoping to ground yourself as air fled the room. He groaned, adjusting his angle, deepening the kiss, and you met him in kind, breathing him in, reveling in the heady scent of apple and wood and smoke-steeped leather.

His hands moved to grab your wrists, tacking them to the wall as he broke from your mouth to nestle his face into the crook of your neck. Grunting, his hips bucked into you, searching for friction beyond the layers of gown and finding relief against your thigh. A gasp escaped you, and he ground against you again, again, panting into your throat, his teeth scraping the delicate flesh.

You felt him, even through your petticoats, growing hard, growing needy, a promise to satisfy a longing you could not even define. Drawing a breath, you exhaled exhilaration, nuzzled your head against his—and his nails and teeth sunk into you simultaneously.

“Ah!” You squirmed, but his grip intensified, and a thrill shot up your spine. “You animal.”

He huffed, dragging his tongue over the tender spot. “‘You are like what is said that the frying-pan said to the kettle’.”

You stifled a laugh, rolled your eyes. “Is now the time to quote Don Quixote?”

Tavington glimpsed you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Never a better time than in present company.”

Desire surged through you, and you fought against his hold, wanting to meet his mouth with your own. His eyes glittered, and he bit your throat again. You cried out, breathless at how pleasure and pain inextricably knotted in your flesh. Writhing against him, you delighted in how this only urged him to bruise your wrists, to drag his teeth down to the clothed parts of your chest.

When this prevented him from advancing, he released you, moving to instead undo the buttons on the front of your gown. Your stomach petrified. Even though Tavington had already seen your body, now he craved it, like a hunter relishing the meat of his first kill. And you—despite the terror his blade inspired, wanted to be tasted.

His nimble fingers fully revealed your stays, and you braced yourself with a breath. This was just a man’s body, touching your body. You were not a coward.

You shrugged off your bodice, exposing your shoulders, arms, and collarbones fully to his eyes. He leaned back to absorb it, then twisted to search for something on the desk. Before you could discern what it was, he found and grabbed it, his arm barring your chest and pinning you along the wall. You squealed as he brought the letter opener to the bottom of your stays’ laces and sliced through them like flower stems.

You gasped. “Bastard! This is my only pair of stays!”

A single brow rose. “And the only silk ribbon in the Carolinas, as well,” he said, and shucked it to the floor.

“Well—” He tugged down your shift, exposing your breasts. “Oh—”

Tavington snorted. “Oh.” Then he jammed his thigh between your legs, his mouth latching to your throat, his hands groping at your chest.

“Oh, God—”

The moment your center connected with the hard muscle of his leg, you moaned, the sensation of pressure so staggering that you were afraid you would be unable to stop. Tavington exhaled with satisfaction, shocks of bliss peaking over you as he kneaded your breasts in his hands, his thumbs circling your nipples.

Your cunt felt swollen, hot, and you rocked on his thigh, frantic to oblige its budding need. A sound rumbled in his throat, and his teeth attacked your shoulder in a sharp stripe of pain. You yelped, and he did it again, his breath picking up, his mouth raising wet, furious marks on your flesh.

“Yes,” you said, because it was the only word that you could think to say. “I—ah!”

He gave you no room to speak, gripping your breasts so firmly that you twitched, grinding his erection against you. You wanted, needed more of him—your hands found his jacket, slipped under the lapels, scratched at his arms in a wordless request. Relinquishing you, he allowed the coat to slide from his shoulders, and you made quick work of his waistcoat, unbuttoning it as deftly as he’d done to you.

“I see what you want,” he murmured into your skin.

The waistcoat joined his jacket on the floor—but you had no time to admire him before he was back on you, squeezing your breasts, kissing his way to one before taking your nipple into his mouth. You threw your head back, overwhelmed with desire, with the insistent throb that now pounded between your legs.

There was a part of him you were both desperate and anxious to know: the part of him that might slake the lust that your fingers had been so unable to satisfy. It was just a man’s body, you told yourself, a man’s body you had longed for since the moment you’d seen him.

As he swirled his tongue around your hardened bud, you clung to him, breath hiccuped with whimpers of bliss, and reached below his waist, gliding your fingers over the bulge in his trousers.

Tavington convulsed, slamming you to the wall, teeth tearing at your breast, a rabid noise strangled in his chest. “Enough of this, then, hm?”

He grabbed you by the shoulders, his jaw tight as he pushed you toward the desk and smashed you chest-first against its surface, sending papers flying. You groaned, making to move before he gathered your wrists and bound them behind your back. Air kissed your legs as he hiked your skirts up, baring your stockinged calves, your thighs, your ass to the room. Panic rang bells in your brain.

“There we are.” Fingers brushed the backs of your thighs, coasting toward your center. You wondered what it looked like through his eyes. The mere thought made you clench. “You’re dripping.”

Heat burst in your belly. You could only manage to nod. He skated his fingers over the fat, puffy lips of your cunt, and you writhed, flinching at every sensation on that tender flesh which had never known a touch that wasn’t yours.

Tavington hummed appreciatively. “It’s about time I made use of that.”

Behind you, you heard rustling of clothes, something dropping, and you clenched again, knowing he was releasing his cock, furious you couldn’t see it for yourself. You tried to stabilize your breathing, thoughts spiraling in a storm of emotion. He was going to fuck you. William Tavington was going to fuck you. You were about to lose your virginity.

A hand curled around your thigh. Something hot, thick prodded your folds, slicked itself on your wetness.

He was about to take your virginity.

“Wait,” you said, “I—”

Tavington shushed you. “Hush, now,” he mumbled. “I’m introducing your cunt to its new master.”

You whinged. A flash of memory—the first time you tried to tell him.

His cock found your entrance. Pressed against it.

Swallowing, you closed your eyes.

“William.”

He stopped. You felt the head of his cock pulse, felt his grip dig deep. A slow, long breath left him.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I…” You laid your forehead against the desk. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

More silence. Every inch of your skin burned.

“You what?”

You tried to turn to face him, meeting his eyes from the periphery of your vision. “I’m a virgin.”

Tavington seized your hips, flipped you onto your back. Breathless, you devoured the sight of him; his skin bronzed in firelight, the patch of his chest heaving in need, his eyes like those of a starved wolf. His cock was free, proud and hard—longer and thicker than you had imagined. Your mouth watered, your thighs squeezed together.

He was going to put that inside of you.

Your heart skipped. You met his gaze. He was inspecting you for hints of deception, and as you stared into him, his throat bobbed.

“I believe this is the first time I've seen true fear in your eyes.” He smirked, so irritatingly assured. “You are a virgin.”

Blood warmed your face, and you looked away. “Well,” you muttered, “I hope that's all right with you, Colonel.”

He growled, spread your legs and settled between them. “William,” he corrected. “And you should hope instead that your tolerance for suffering is as impressive as you seem to believe.” Busy hands tossed your skirts up again. “Because I'm going to make this hurt.”

Your breath hitched. Like a cat watching a dangling string, you couldn’t resist.

“You can try.”

Tavington offered a pitiless grin and hoisted your backside onto the desk, scattering papers over the floor. Trembling at the fact you’d provoked him, you could only watch as he grabbed your calves and propped them onto his shoulders, his hands cupping your ass and giving a longing squeeze. You groaned, and he swallowed again, positioning his cock at your entrance.

Gazing at you, he said, “Plead with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You may effectively play at some things,” he replied, “but not war, and certainly not stupidity.” His voice lowered. “Plead with me to take you.”

Your cunt clenched around emptiness. His cock was warm and slick and hard. Hard for you, throbbing for you. God, you wanted it—and he knew it.

You grumbled. “You are, without a doubt, the worst man I've ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“And what of the best one?” he asked, tilting his head to indicate your ankles at his ears.

“Shut up.” You exhaled. “Please,” you said quietly, “take me.”

“To whom is this request addressed?”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, William.” You met his gaze, the truth easily slipping free. “Please, I want you to take me.”

Tavington’s jaw set. “You’re almost pleasant when you're obedient.”

The next thing you felt was pressure. Crushing, terrible pressure, widening into pain, like a fire iron was expanding inside of you, searing your insides, tearing deep into your stomach. You grimaced, gripped the table, fighting to find breath as tremors wracked your limbs. Above you, Tavington’s mouth was parted, his gaze fixated on his invasion of your cunt, the evidence of his pleasure escaping in soft, choked noises of disbelief as he drove deeper, and deeper, until his hips hit yours.

Fully buried inside of you, he exhaled, staring between your legs. Your mind was a whirlwind of sensation. You knew virgins to bleed. Had it deterred him?

He glanced at you. In his eyes, you could see nothing but utter rapture—the blue of heaven after apocalypse. You shivered, tightened painfully around him. No, it hadn’t deterred him.

William Tavington had only ever been delighted to see blood.

He exhaled. “Does it hurt?”

Your teeth clacked together, your body shook, drowning in its own feeling. Words wouldn’t come to you. But even if they would, you would refuse to give him—

Snarling, he slid out and slammed back inside. Agony ripped through you, forced a scream from your chest, and you spasmed, grappling for something more solid than the earth to steady you.

“Does it hurt?” he growled.

“Yes!” you sobbed. “Yes, yes—”

A quiet laugh rumbled in his throat. “Good.”

Tavington withdrew from you, grappling your hips, jaw slackening as he stared between your legs. He thrust in, you winced, and a deep, incredulous groan escaped him, as if he’d just released a millstone from his neck. Breath stuttered in his chest, his eyelids drooped, and he thrust again, again, his voice wracked with bliss.

Every stroke pushed pain inside of you, filled your belly with it. Your mouth lolled open, the only sounds leaving you strained through what little grip on reality you had left; the sensation sawed to your bones, engulfed you like gunfire. Seeking stability, you found his wrists, squeezed them to anchor yourself, shutting your eyes to endure the savaging of his cock.

“No,” he said. “Look at me.”

You whinged, forced your eyes to open. His gaze transfixed you.

“Very good. Meet my eyes,” he said, rocking into you, relishing each stab of discomfort flitting across your face. “Watch me defile your virgin cunt.”

Gooseflesh swarmed you, and you nodded, your attention flicking between his face and the sight of him disappearing inside of you. The truth of it electrified you—you were no longer a virgin—and as you surrendered to that truth, each new plunge of his cock felt less, less painful, as pain unraveled into pleasure. Tight squeals in your throat rumbled lower, reaching your chest, until you were moaning, panting as he fucked you.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Tavington looked drunk with lust. “Have I found myself a glutton?”

“I…” You didn’t know how to respond to that. Maybe you were. “D-don’t congratulate yourself… just yet.”

He smirked, rammed into you so hard that you wailed. “You’re an even worse liar when I’m inside of you, girl.”

“Do all men talk this much?” you replied, digging your nails into his wrists. “Or only you?”

Tavington’s lip furled. He flung your grip from his arms and leaned closer, folding you in half. The angle drove his cock even deeper than you’d thought possible; it speared through your belly, split you open to your ribcage. One hand fisted your hair, the other clamped around your throat, and he huffed in satisfaction, cock pumping into you.

“Come again?” he mumbled into your ear. “Didn’t… quite hear you.”

His hips punched forward, impaling you deep. You quailed, but the sound perished somewhere under the pressure of his grip. A strange hum infused your senses—buzzing in your lips, grazing along your scalp, trailing bliss in its wake. It inebriated you, like his touch was made of Madeira.

And you needed more.

Blindly, you felt your way up your body, found the rise of his fingers where they pinned your throat, clutched at them. Tavington uttered a disgruntled huff into your ear, his pace faltering. His grip slackened fractionally.

“No,” you whispered, trapping his fingers and crushing them harder into your flesh. “More.”

He leaned away from you, just enough to take you in. His eyes, wild and black with desire, searched yours. You nodded, brows pinching together.

“William,” you croaked, “please.”

The wildness in his eyes morphed into something utterly possessed. He unlaced his hand from your hair, bracing it on the desk beside your head. His hold on your throat twitched, tightened. He leaned closer.

“Isn’t that better?” he asked. “Isn’t it a relief to lose?”

His fingers cinched around your neck. Tighter, tighter, until that hum resumed, then rose to a knell.

Tavington renewed the onslaught of his hips. Your own heartbeat pounded through your skull. Around you, the edges of the room softened, crumbled into grey mist. Your eyes rolled back. Existence narrowed. Left at its beating center, raw and alive, was you. And within you—heat, pain, ecstasy, and him.

Just when everything dwindled to a tiny, bright speck, just when it seemed the mist would engulf you whole, the pressure vanished. Air struck your lungs, consciousness and pleasure surging outward in a riptide.

You cried out with it, keening as his cock stroked a spot inside you that blazed alive with sensation. It was too much. Not enough. You couldn’t tell. Logical thought seemed a distant memory in this state of indecipherable need. Each sensation was new, each unearthing an excruciating, exquisite frontier within.

Tavington straightened, rhythm unrelenting. Gulping air and blinking the remnants of mist from your sight, you beheld him, a towering devil framed in firelight. You watched him take your hand, entranced as he guided it between your legs to where your body split around his.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, voice ragged as he positioned your fingers at your clit. His face twisted in a smirk. “Like you do when you think of me.”

An indignant flame, half-buried in delirium, leapt to your tongue.

“I don—”

He snapped his hips, cutting you off in a gasp.

“Now, now,” he huffed. “I believe I requested your honesty.”

A languid thrust pushed a moan from your lips, and you nodded, eyelids fluttering. Tavington grunted his contentment, coaxing your fingers in slow circles over your clit. Surrendering, you took over the motion, touching yourself as instructed, as you had done so many nights before.

For the first time, a familiar pleasure crested, meeting the unfamiliar intrusion of his cock with a spark that made fireworks burst behind your eyes. Your fingertips brushed him where he entered you, dipped curiously down to feel the soft, wet wound of your flesh yield to the wrought steel of his.

“Tell me,” he purred, bracing over you again like a smug, hunched beast. “Is it everything you’ve imagined?”

He fucked you in long strokes, matching the tempo of your fingers on that sensitive nub to cataclysmic effect. Your only answer came out in a choked, desperate sob.

“Is this how you’ve longed to be ruined?” His hand slid to reunite with your neck, fingers cradling your nape while his thumb dragged up the bruised column of your throat.

“William,” you whimpered, trembling with the sweet ache that burgeoned inside you, deeper than you’d ever felt it, swelling toward a precipice. “I think I… I’m going to…”

“Yes.” His grip locked into place around your neck. “You are.”

His hand throttled any further noise. All you could do was writhe and swirl tighter, faster circles on your clit, drawn nearer and nearer to some indefinable edge as you shook with the force of his thrusts. Closer, closer it came, and your eyes squeezed shut, your limbs went rigid, your sanity suspended on threads, fibers fraying—

“That’s it,” came his voice, growling into your ear. “Break for me. I want to feel you break around my cock.”

Like a saber, his words severed you from rationality. You didn’t break. You shattered.

Euphoria ruptured your blood, a deluge through every vessel, the stretch of his cock stuffing you fuller, saturating you with it, until it reached the brim of your skin and poured over, washing you with bliss. You wheezed against his hand, quaking as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Yes,” he hissed, “yes—”

Tavington released you. Coughing down a breath, you peeled your eyes open, watching as he wrenched out of your cunt and into his fist, panting, stroking himself. Sweat gleamed off his chest and forehead. Your jaw dropped. You could look nowhere else but at him, and his eyes fixed on you.

His hips pitched, and he released a guttural, primal moan, hand stilling and mouth parting. Jets of warm, white seed pulsed from his cock, splashed over your thighs and belly. It slipped down your skin, mingling with the sweat smeared underneath you. As the tail-end of his climax receded, Tavington exhaled, finally spent, and leaned on the desk to catch his breath. Craning forward, you took him in.

Sweat soaked you both, and between your legs, blood stained your thighs, your shift, the wood. It had even seeped into the hem of his blouse. He glanced down at it, sighing with an arrogant satisfaction. He swiped across your inner thigh, collecting your blood, his seed on his thumb. Staring at you, he wrapped his lips around it and sucked it clean. You shivered. Swallowed.

Tavington was exhausted, yes, but it was the exhaustion of a duel winner: relaxed, at peace, and fully secure in his conquest.

Your head dropped back onto the desk, and you stared into the ceiling. Aftershocks of your peak continued to distract you from toddling your way back to whatever normalcy was. What did the world look like for you, now that your virginity had been slaughtered by an uncompromising hound? The cavern between your legs felt sore, empty. Sticky.

Sighing, you rolled your head along a stack of papers, looking toward Tavington. “What are we to do about the desk?”

He cleared his throat, finally managing to straighten and meet your stare. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Don’t be difficult,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “Someone has to clean it up.”

“Do they, now?”

“I’m not convinced of the wisdom in worsening His Lordship’s evening further.”

He snorted. “Am I to believe you’ve come to care about his opinions?”

“No,” you replied, frowning, “but they seem to be of great importance to you.”

Tavington gazed at you, a smirk crossing his lips. Keeping your focus, he reached toward an ink well, reeled back his forefingers, and knocked it over. Ink spilled like water across red-ribboned parchment.

“‘Alack, the day,’” he said apathetically, “‘what blood is this, which stains?’”

Oh, yes, this is just like Romeo and Juliet, you thought, as the ink bled into paper, dripped onto the floor.

Your hand plastered over your face. You couldn’t help yourself. You laughed.

[cowboyemeritus]

Day 14

Prompt: Tender

Pairing: Secondo/Reader

Tags: tender sex, implied rough sex, love confessions

Notes: a thing i've noticed about my writing style is that i'm very action oriented. it's hard for me to describe character's feelings and relationships, especially if they change over a long period of time. you'll see what i mean. not thrilled about how this one came out but i hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Something about tonight is different, but he doesn’t know why.

Normally, when you fuck, that’s just what it is. You go hard and fast, tearing at each other like starving wolves, like the rush is the only thing keeping you alive. Secondo dominates, and you take whatever he has to give without complaint, whether it be bite-marks on your breasts or his hands around your throat. He has to split you open, to rip you apart, or he isn’t satisfied. You’re an exquisite creature, outshining even Lilith Herself; it’s only natural that he wants to possess and claim you.

Tonight, though, you’re drowning him.

His grip on your hips is still bruising, but somehow you’re controlling the pace. The rocking is steady, like ocean waves, the tide of pleasure slowly rising. Your eyes are shut, head tilted back as you ride him, lost in the feeling of your bodies joined as one. Fading marks mottle your neck, chest, and thighs in shades of purple and green, decorating your skin like jewels. Bathed in the orange glow of candlelight, your skin just barely glimmering with sweat, you are resplendent, guiding him like a star towards his inevitable climax.

His guiding light.

Retirement left Secondo directionless. Shamed and emasculated, the resentment he felt — towards the Clergy, Imperator, even his own brother — nearly swallowed him whole. He retreated within himself, and alone with his despair, began to rot. 

Somehow, though, you found him at just the right time, desire lighting a long-dead fire inside him. You were meant to be a distraction, a callback to his glory days. What started as pure, indulgent sex, however, turned into something else. Walks in the garden and quiet afternoons in the library are now as much a part of your routine as the fucking. Slowly, you sank your hooks into him, your companionship a balm to his bitter wounds. 

You showed him that he is not some pathetic old thing, but a man, capable of appreciating the simple joys of living. Without him realizing it, you managed to chip away at the darkness in his heart until his past was but a distant memory. Now, he looks forward; his life is not over. 

It’s remarkable, really, how a gesture as simple as a smile can completely change one’s trajectory.

“Are you okay?” Secondo blinks, realizing you’ve stopped moving. He’s been staring up at you, eyes wide like a prey animal. Before he can stop himself, the truth spills out.

“I love you.”

The words are like a bomb, decimating every shred of self-assurance he has left. He wants to run, to throw you off of him and flee into the night, never to be seen again. He thinks of flipping you over, of pounding you into the mattress until you’re screaming and crying and forget he ever opened his mouth. But he can’t move. He’s paralyzed, fear and shame and anger with himself locking his joints so that he’s stuck, waiting for you to decide his fate. You are his judge, jury, and executioner, and that is a terrifying thought.

You smile gently, eyes a little misty. He could get lost in them forever. One of your hands, so small in comparison to his own, finds his cheek, your thumb brushing away a tear he’s only just now aware of. Leaning down, you press your lips to his. There’s no tongue, no teeth, just the softness of your body against him. You plant kisses on both of his cheeks, then one more on the bridge of his nose. Each one is as light as a butterfly. Then you laugh softly. It makes his heart skip a beat.

“Took you long enough,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. “I’ve loved you this whole time.”

[jasper-unofficial]

ok listen. look at me. look me in the eyes. the reason why i've repeatedly stated that NOTHING that might happen in the ofts finale would disappoint me is because i knew it would be entirely in character and whatever mess those messy characters would create, it would make sense. i am the author of the "i stand with my cancelled wife [boston]" post and that's still true. i have said before that i dislike top almost as much as i hate mew. so, why did i enjoy that finale? because it made sense.

best way i can suggest you to perceive everything that happened - since you are clearly not used to perceiving media that way - is by imagining that these are just real-life events a friend is recounting to you. this is exactly what happened. now tell me and tell me honestly: does it not all fall into place? and does your friend telling you about these things automatically mean they agree with them?

isn't top and mew hanging onto one another - while a random appearance of Some Guy instantly makes top feel like his relationship is under threat - completely in character? doesn't it make you look at your friend and go "damn, well that relationship is SO fucked"? and does it truly make you feel like your friend would disagree?

isn't boston trying to reconcile with the friend group and change for nick because he clearly needs friendship and close relationships completely understandable? doesn't it make you look at your friend and go "damn, well - regardless of how it happened - thank fuck he ended up leaving to new york alone and starting a new life, finding people who would understand him"? and does it truly make you feel like your friend would disagree?

isn't mew considering himself the judge, the jury, and the executioner and eventually not forgiving boston and consequently essentially removing him from the friend group completely realistic, considering the fact that he is highly moralistic and has ray and chueam wrapped around his little finger? doesn't it make you look at your friend and repeat "damn, thank gods boston moved on with his life"? does it truly make you feel like your friend would disagree?

isn't sand with his "yes, when i'm in love, i'm like a dog" thinking nick deserves 'better' than an open relationship completely true to his character? doesn't it make you look at your friend and go "damn, someone's projecting"? does it truly make you feel like your friend would disagree?

i can go on for-fucking-ever. throw something at me, if it doesn't make sense to you, and i will tell you why it does. because all of it does.

and i am sorry if you were expecting this series to be wrapped up in a pretty bow, ready for shipment to "everything is right and fair in the world" factory, but this was definitely not the series for that.