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egipci · 11 months

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thank you for bringing awareness to this grievous issue. how is there possibly not more huntercorp content out there?? the overlap between the succession freaks and spn freaks on here is practically a circle. then supernatural does a literal canon succession au and… crickets. i don’t understand. cmon ladies we can do better

Thank you for your solidarity! I agree: we CAN do better!

To be fair, I totally understand the paucity of content in the field, simply because those guys are just not really recognizable as Sam and Dean. They're vacuous spoiled dudes for us to laugh at for the five minutes they're on screen, unlike our very serious special Winchesters Prime, God's favorites, etc. We don’t really even know anything about them, other than they still live with their dad into their late thirties? And Sam is like "haha Dad is the best guy I wanna live with him in the same house forever cheers," which makes me think the CTE finally caught up with him. So fanon interest doesn't really extend beyond heehee silly wincest-twincest foursome business, or maybe there's some cracky Daddycestuous harem going on that I haven't heard about--- which is great if you're into that sort of thing.

What I think is more interesting though is to use that world as a springboard to construct a more canon-feeling AU that retains the characters' personalities and dynamics. Like, just take all the deeply traumatizing shit that comes with hunting from a young age and add to it all the fucked-up-ness of excessive wealth and access.

Say, John, at some point when Dean and Sam are much younger, decides it would be better to work with other people for resources and efficiency (lol), and doesn’t burn quite as many bridges as he could, and whenever someone offers to pay a little something to show their gratitude he agrees. Along the way that turns into a hunting business, recruiting hunters, etc, and it picks up, and it's lucrative enough obviously because monsters are plentiful, and so the kids grow up with money, comfortable. There's the old "I want you to go to school and I want Dean to have a home," so he probably did buy a home base, extra fortified, and there were babysitters to watch after Sam, a little less pressure on Dean with the co-parenting. More creature comforts and safety and stability available, but maybe even more emotional distance between John and Sam than in canon. Dad's trips last for months and months, Sam is fine, he goes to the same nice private school for most of his life, gets with Jessica in high school or something, whatever, you can fill in the blanks here. Maybe he goes to a military school or something, in this strange world where people know about monsters, but his dad is still very much distant and mysterious.

Depending on when the transition towards more financial stability happens, Dean would have more vivid memories of serious poverty that he shares with his dad that Sam might not fully remember/appreciate, and as he gets older Dean’s off with Dad more and more, staying away longer and longer, etc, and that in itself is an interesting question, I think: if Dean doesn't have to parent Sam as much, what does that mean for their relationship? There's always the baseline of the older brother duty/younger brother admiration going on, but maybe it's more like 2x20 than canon--- or not, maybe it translates into more closeness than the canon pre-canon! A good writer can convince you of anything, but it's essential that their relationship only flourishes in the absence of their dad, not only physical absence/death, but also his absence in Dean's emotional life, and all of that is deferred for as long as you keep the old man around. the idea of 60's John/40's Dean makes me....

Anyway, the Succession comparison in particular is really compelling here because 1. in a world where people know about monsters, and monster-hunting is a lucrative empire-building business, the Winchesters (assuming they are actually as good as they are in the main timeline) would hold huge influence. Like, serious political influence. Depending on the size and boundaries of his operation John Winchester could be the owner of an extremely powerful militia trained to kill both people and monsters? And that's... kind of insane! (And with that power and influence, did Sam and Dean grow up in the public eye to some degree, like president’s kids and various d-listers? What sort of rich people vices were they exposed to? Are hunters seen as celebrities or as soldiers, or something in between like in, eg, The Boys?”)

Therefore 2. the stakes of succession are extremely important, and also 3. as an au-explorer, that's how you get to keep some semblance of the John-Dean-Sam dynamic from canon. Say, Sam goes to Stanford on Dad's dime, no need for a scholarship, he fits in with the other kids fine, at least along socioeconomic lines. But obviously he's still very well trained as a hunter, and he may or may not be dealing with demon blood-induced uncleanliness. And let's say Dean is groomed into both hunting but also the business side of things, slated to run the family business when the time comes, maybe he goes to college too and studies something soul-sucking he thinks would be useful for the business and would make Dad proud. Or not, he already has charm and looks in spades, no need for a fancy degree.

But what if at some point John changes his mind? It's not Dean, but Sam who should be king. Or Sam and Dean together as partners. Sam of course doesn't want it. He wants to be a lawyer, or whatever it is the Lebanon alt!Sam does. Adam doesn't want it, he doesn't know anything about hunting, he's probably only seen his dad a total of five times since college, and no one showed up to his engagement party. Who knows, maybe he's already been eaten by the ghoul and no one has noticed yet. Obviously Dean doesn't want to run anything, either, but no one cares about that. He'll do it if he has to, because he's a good son, and in that way this is the weird inverse world of Succession where no one actually wants the inheritance. They do want the elusive kiss from daddy, they're just not under any illusions that the family business is an adequate substitute.

So, like, you can take those two weirdo throwaways and make them infinitely more interesting. You can kill John, you can throw in the Azazel hunt, or introduce the Heaven mega-bureaucrats, or whatever. Maybe Sam gets on the demon blood in his fancy private school and is surrounded by demons for years and it’s John’s fault because he sent him there, thinking he'd be safe. Or maybe none of that other mytharc stuff comes in and at the heart of the story is just the family drama. Sprinkle in some more sex, drugs, and rock n roll, etc— so many little choices to make for people who like the work of intricate world building and crossovers! Good for them, whenever they get their hands on this.

Of course the thing that matters to me most is the J/D of it all and Dean's feelings about it--- like he is daddy's golden boy in pretty panties and a cock cage, but what I've been thinking about (like, actually thinking about, for fic writing purposes) is why is he in the cock cage? What if he likes it? What if he wants it and likes it and hates that he likes it? Succession is part of a huge tradition of works preoccupied with wealth and moral decadence and corruption, and those things can only be compounded by the reality of not only wide-spread knowledge of monsters, but also the existence of an industry dedicated to the sanctioned extrajudicial killing of "creatures" that look and live just like normal people 99% of the time. It's extremely fucking bleak, more so in some ways than canon, and it's the kind of world where dad/son incest is possible, where alcoholism/addiction would be much closer to the surface, where Dean is rewarded for Dad’s parasitic dependence in different, slightly more complicated ways than canon, where Dean's baitboy duties probably extend to various unsavory human actors, men and women, starting when he was way too young. And it's not necessarily always the sort of seduction/manipulation/self-objectification that ends with Dean on his back, and John is not a mustache-twirling villain who's looking it in the face and ambivalently sending his kid to the slaughter, but shit happens and it's part of life and it's for the greater good and it's for the family business and Dean's a man and he can handle it and when he comes back tongue-tied and flushed, wearing his cute little panties under his slacks and holding a matching cage in his hand John will tease him first, always, and then he will put his hands on the kid and make it better.

#thank you dear anon-- thinking and writing this through reminded me of the scene with bela in s3 with the tux #and i don't really think she's that evil in the larger scheme of things #but she's someone who would be more vicious in this world #and now I'm thinking about a story where Dean *has to* have maybe traumatizing sex with her for whatever dad-related reason #and whatever she did to our little guy he doesn't want to think about his dick for a while :(#and obviously because it's dad's fault only dad can fix it #i mean--- if j/d can be distilled down to any single trope it would be hurt/comfort and john is always always the source of both </3 #asks

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baiyunli · 1 year

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would u consider posting more snippets of the retirement fic. pretty please. its so good!

for sure!! most of the fully-written scenes don't make sense without context, but i have one near the beginning, when jack still hasn't told nico what he's looking for here and nico's just angry and still hurt from everything jack had done before. no idea why i picked the wings for luke lol but here:

There were moments, after Jack was traded and before Luke signed with Detroit, where Nico would look at Luke and all he saw was Jack.

He never thought they looked similar: Luke was a head taller and not as talkative in the half-charming, half-flippant way that Jack was, but in certain lights, during warmups or after practice or in the middle of a goal celebration, Nico reached out and saw someone else.

He knew Jack was gone, but it didn’t stop Nico from seeing him everywhere. He’d rubbed off onto Luke, his mannerisms and locker room nicknames and pregame routine, and Nico was just tired of always looking for someone who was never his, tired of coming up empty.

The first year afterwards, Nico couldn’t even look at his old locker: as if he was the only one responsible for Jack’s leaving and the guilt was close to crushing him, one of those quiet, tragic hurts he never truly knew how to share. He’d look at Luke and see the same heartbreak on his face.

Luke’s gone now, swept away in offseason free agency. Nico is happy that he’s playing well, at least. The Wings are good. Better than the Devils right now. And the Canucks, but that part speaks for itself.

“He had an awesome season,” says Nico. Second place in Norris voting. “Tell him I said congratulations.”

Jack grins. “Obviously. Thanks for taking care of him,” he says. “After I got traded. Like, I think it was the first time he actually had to learn how to cook, and shit. God knows I couldn’t have taught him myself.”

“I had to get him out of ordering takeout somehow. He was going to die otherwise.”

Late twenties and early thirties blend in Nico’s brain. Now, thirty years old is far enough in the rearview mirror that everything in the interim feels the same, a foggy lacuna from the first time they qualified for the playoffs to their first Cup win. The years when they thought nothing could hurt them, that the worst had passed long ago, young and stupid and too reckless to care about the idea that the future might not swing in their favour. And even off the ice: nighttime drives on the turnpike, the closest they could get to the end of the world. The hum of tires along the rumble strip, watching the light hug the soft planes of Jack’s face. Nico had tried so hard to stay away from Jack, those years.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jack says in self-defense. He raises his hands. “We cooked sometimes.”

“For loose definitions of ‘cooked.’ And ‘sometimes.’”

Jack makes a face. “You make it sound a lot worse than it was. I got it together eventually. When it stopped being—okay, I guess. That I didn’t know how to be an adult. And I couldn’t get away with it anymore.” He worries at his lower lip with his teeth, folds his hands in his lap. “I wanted to—” his voice stumbles, stops. “Never mind.”

There’s a curl of hair falling into his eyes that Nico wants to brush away. Nico wants too much: he wants to ask Jack to finish the sentence, wants to say why didn’t you talk to me for five fucking years, wants to know why Jack came to his apartment if not to apologize for the last five years of silence.

He wants to put his fist through the wall, kick something, but he’s almost forty and should know better, so really he wants to go outside for a long walk until his throat no longer itches. He wants to crawl out of his skin until he’s so far away he can’t see Jack. He wants Jack to leave and he wants to stop him from ever leaving again. He just wants to hear him say sorry.

“Sure,” says Nico, curt. “Good for you.”

Jack wavers. “What?”

He rubs his forehead. “Jack, I just. I’m glad you’re doing better, but I still don’t know how long you’re planning to be here.”

Nico hears Jack’s breath hitch. “Not that long,” he answers, and then he flashes his brightest smile, all-American and pearly white, to make up for the pause before his reply. “I’m—sorting some stuff out, that’s all. Told Quinn it was unfinished business. But I can go. If you don’t, uh. If you don’t want me.”

“It’s—no,” Nico responds. He runs a hand through his hair and does not admit that Jack Hughes is all he’s ever wanted. “You can stay.”

Jack looks down at the table. “I’ll get it together,” he says, quieter, and it strikes Nico, for a second, the reality of it. “I promise. I’ll get my shit together soon.”

During Jack's whole first season with the Canucks, Nico dreamed about having him back in New Jersey, eating dinner with him and falling asleep on the couch before Jack could make it back to his own apartment. And now Jack’s here, eating his food, staying in his apartment, and Nico thinks that his most self-pitying dreams didn’t do shit to prepare him for it. “I didn’t. I’m not asking you to fulfill any promises,” he tells Jack. “Do whatever you have to. But the season starts soon.”

“Soon,” echoes Jack, his face shuttering. “You’re right.” He pokes at the rest of his dinner. He plays with a noodle, twirls it around his fork and drops it back in the takeout box.

“Jack,” Nico says. “Are you—is there something wrong?”

“No,” Jack says, too fast, brittle. “Not something wrong, I just, uh. I have to make some decisions. Tired of trying to be an adult, I guess.” He holds up the leftover takeout. “You want me to pop this in the fridge, or do you have a container I can put it in?”

#hrpf for ts #untitled redacted retirement fic project #yun replies

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unrealityshift · 9 months

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Omg, I read your anon calling Kaoru and old man and I was like "aren't all of them in their thirties? I'm in my thirties, it's not that old!" But Kaoru is turning fucking FIFTY!?!? In two fucking months!?!! He was thirty two when I was fifteen and had just started listening to them! I forgot that time has been moving forward for them too! Omg, even Shinya! He's twelve years older than me. I won't even be forty by the time all five of them are fifty. 😩😩😩 I've been thirsting over old Japanese men for more than (literally) half my life. I love these old men with all my heart but it's likely I will out live them, like, I think I was six when they formed and heard them first when I was ten but didn't really start actively listening to them until I was fifteen but there will at time in the future when they won't exist anymore. Obviously when I was under ten/fifteen I didn't notice their absence in my life but I will at some point in the future and I'm not ok about.

Sorry for ranting, I'm having an existential crisis right now. I want my old men to live forever 😭

hahaha, yeah!!! i mean fifty isn’t that old either but i suppose it’s all relative and also it’s just kinda funny to call them old men (esp when they act like old men stereotypes lol). i try to not think abt mortality much bc then the despair starts to creep up but!!! i’m learning to enjoy what they provide now and in the future and what they have done for me and others like me.

got a little sentimental there but!! it’s crazy to see them growing old (alongside us) but on the plus side, they just seem to be getting more and more gorgeous and talented/honing their craft so. id say the payoff is worth it!!!

and a side note, it’s crazy to me to think that when around when deg was putting out withering to death that some of them were the same age then that i am now like. AUGH

#i say i don’t like thinking abt mortality when i want to get a memento mori tattoo LOL #crow speaks #crow gets asks

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incorrectsnkships · 2 years

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The mental image of Levi with a baby strapped to his back while he's doing chores is 🥵 Maybe more than one baby so he looks like a grumpy mama possum.

i am very tired rn and running on one (1) bowl of cereal but god damn is dad levi one of the hottest things in the world (forgive any typos i am in so much pain)

young, single dad levi + me = incoherent screams

i am an absolute fucking sucker for single parent levi, bonus points if he had the kid at a young age, too.

just. him. holding his newborn and bouncing her (levi is a girl dad fucking fight me) up and down when she starts to grizzle is so cute. he’s so scared because what if he isn’t good enough and what if she’ll be better off with someone else? but no, he couldn’t do that. she didn’t ask to be born, so it’s his responsibility to make her life as happy as possible.

and he takes her to nursery and all of the other parents just silently judging him at drop off and pick up time because he must be the youngest one there judging by his face and his attitude nd his clothing and his style. they think he’s probably still a child himself, mentally, but when i tell you that he is a good dad anon, you best fucking believe it.

the shit he does for his kid. he’d go to the edge of the planet just for her. if nobody at school was taking her seriously or if she ever got bullied but nobody tried to stop it, i know for a fact that he’d be at his kid’s school in a heartbeat trying to sort things out.

they didn’t take him seriously at first, either, because, “mr ackerman, you’re barely twenty one yourself, i’m sure our grown, mature teachers know what they’re doing,” and that makes his blood absolutely boil. sure, he may be a kid with a kid, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t a parent, and being a parent means looking out for your child, putting them first, and doing things in their best interest.

the bullying doesn’t stop. levi’s had countless meetings at the school, so many that if he were to tally them all up, he’d be counting on both hands more than once. levi tends to lose his cool in said meetings, which has, unfortunately, meant that rumours have spread of levi being the “irresponsible, neglectful and careless dad,” which his kid has suffered as a result of. not in any legal consequences, more like teasing from other children. nasty stuff, kids can be cruel.

it gets too much. levi switches his kid’s school, and also puts in a complaint about her previous school, too. she’s five, school is meant to be fun, not hell. the realisation hit when he went over all the times when he’d try and dress his kid for school, try and get her to go but she just wouldn’t because she’d come home crying anyway, so what’s the point, right? the trouble is, levi has a hard time saying no, so this meant a lot of phone calls to school saying “oh, she has a fever,” “she has a stomach bug and won’t be in,” “she was up all night and now she’s paying for it, poor thing.”

obviously, levi had to be careful, otherwise it would turn legal.

l: baby come on. please, you have to

k: lol no

l: i’ll actually get in trouble pls go

k: bitch come at me

l: fine fuck u i’ll call the school and let them know you won’t be there ur going tomorrow tho

but the new school, oh, the new school. it was wonderful. the staff were so considerate, so kind and gentle with the children. they didn’t judge levi, but respected him very highly, and took their hat off to him for being able to raise a child whilst raising himself.

levi came across the term “gentle parenting” whilst aimlessly scrolling one day, seeing the posts that old friends from high school made - out having fun, clubbing, graduating, while he’s renting out a shitty two bedroom apartment with, practically, a toddler. but he wouldn’t have it any other way. anyway, he came across this title/style thing, and figured “huh, this must be me,” but gagged at some of the posts under the tag.

all millennial couples in their late thirties posting their yucky gender reveals and yucky baby showers and yucky kids with yucky names, commenting yucky things like, “my little bravey baby boy had an ouchy, broke my heart to see him in such a state! he’s so strong!” and realised that, okay, maybe this wasn’t him after all. not that type of gentle parenting, anyway.

levi liked to swear. a lot. but never in front of his kid. well, sometimes. he would curse when some fucker blocked off his right of way whilst driving, and would mutter “shitshitshit fuckfuckfuckfuck” under his breath whenever he’d hurt himself. sometimes, if he thought it wouldn’t do any harm, he’d swear to his kid. things like, “you’re a little shit, huh?” after his kid came up to him and blew a raspberry right in his face, but always followed it up with, “don’t say what i just did. it’s bad. don’t be like your dad, okay?” just to ensure that his bad habits aren’t rubbing off on her. and to cover his own tracks. technically it’s not his fault if she swears at school if he told her not to do it.

except one time when she did swear at school, and the teacher called home to inform levi. this school, the new school, was much more supportive. didn’t punish their younger years for cursing.

t: mr ackerman?

l: what’s wrong? is my kid alright?

t: yes, yes! she’s perfectly fine. however, i’m just calling to let you know that she did swear at another child earlier

l: oh really

t: yes, she did say the f and the s word, so i was just wondering if she might’ve picked it up from anywhere?

l, exaggerating: wha- well, i can assure you mrs roberts, she definitely has not got that from me, i am definitely going to be having a strong word with her when i pick her up!

the said word: “don’t cuss at school, ‘kay? i know dad does but maybe when you’re older.”

one night, levi tosses and turns in bed, can’t sleep. remembers when his baby became his. how little her hands and feet were, ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes which were his to look after. the blanket, which he kept, smelt like her, and the matching crocheted boots laid in his dresser drawer. he missed it. it made him think, it made him realise - he wants another baby. it couldn’t hurt, could it? to have another lil one.

but he couldn’t, really, could he. no partner. he’d be denied for adoption straight away, wouldn’t even get remotely considered. he’d just have to wait a little longer, ‘is all.

when levi turns twenty five and his kid is eight, they move out and stop renting the “apartment.” levi had worked many jobs over the years, multiple at once, even took his kid to work with him the majority of the time, just to be able to put money away for new opportunities like these, if his kid ever wanted to go to university and further her education. they buy a real house this time, a proper one, with more than three rooms.

when she grows up a little bit and gets older and starts to develop her own mind, thoughts, and opinions, levi gets a little sad. the day she turned 11 he swore it only felt like yesterday that he was bringing her home from the hospital, to their home and to her crib.

the day she goes to big school, levi cried after seeing her off. it wasn’t fair. when did she get so big again? was he watching?

the time flies like there’s no tomorrow. before he, and his kid, knew it, it was finals week. then, college, then, the decision of what she should study in university. levi wants whatever she wants. their bond only becomes closer, they act like friends rather than a parent and a child.

k: what would you do if i came home pregnant one day

l: kick you out

k: you’re one to talk

l: don’t talk to your father that way

k: hange says you were quite the man hoe back in the day

l: okay, “the day,” that you’re on about, was sixteen years ago, alright, and never listen to hange, just don’t

k: sixteen or sixty?

l: you are an asshole

his child grew up so quick. and if he had the chance to redo it all, he would, just so he could relive it again. he says he hates children, but no, he couldn’t really, and he doesn’t, he thinks about having more every day. dad levi = panty dropper. there, i said it.

i love dad levi so much i’m contemplating rn if i should write a fic about this (after the jearmin exchange ofc) because i just cant get enough of this material. if you have any dad levi fics, please share them!

#incorrectsnkships #attack on titan #aot #shingeki no kyojin #snk #levi ackerman #dad levi #dilfs tbf #eryx responds #levi being a dad #sort of dodged the question on this one #it was very self indulgent

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mourntheantagonist · 2 years

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happy early birthday!

Want to write about how Billy and Steve celebrate each other's 22nd birthday?

Yes! I do want to write about this!!

Ahh! Okay, so imma do Steve’s cause I think it’s fun.

I feel like Billy would treat the whole “turning 22” as Steve finally becoming “old” (and obviously he’s not actually old, but the transition from 21 to 22 is definitely the transition from “hahaha party time” to “hahaha party’s over get a job” lol)

so like, I imagine billy plans him this whole birthday week thing, and every little thing billy does is just a jab at Steve being “old”.

the first thing he does is he gets him some boxed dye with a little sticky note that says “to touch up those grays” and it takes Steve no more than five seconds of looking at it to chuck the box directly into Billy’s face. (and Steve knows he’s joking, but he’d totally be lying if he said he didn’t spend thirty minutes in the mirror last night inspecting every single strand of hair)

the next thing Billy does is he gets Steve a gift bag FULL of medicine, and Steve just rolls his eyes as he pulls out the bottle of viagra. Once again, the gift finds itself flying directly into Billy’s face.

“Hey! Better safe than sorry!” Billy says.

“I’m not even six months older than you!”

The last thing Billy gets him is on his actual birthday, and Steve sighs in relief as he spots the pink bakery box sitting on the counter, because finally, a real gift.

Except when Steve opens the box, Billy hovering over the top of him with a maniacal grin, Steve is once again rolling his eyes.

Written in bold red icing on a white sheet cake reads ‘Congratulations! You’re Over The Hill!’

“Billy I’m 22, not 50!”

Billy doesn’t respond at all aside from planting a wet and slopping kiss to Steve’s cheek.

As much as Steve was annoyed by being called old when he’s barely into his twenties, he couldn’t help but find the whole situation amusing. Billy was laughing like an idiot and seemed to be enjoying himself and it was playful, and fun, and it wasn’t like Steve didn’t intend on having any fun of his own as well.

“Hey they spelled congratulations wrong.” Steve said.

Billy leaned over. “Really?” he asked, bending down and taking a closer look at the cake.

Rookie mistake.

Steve quickly reached a hand up to the back of Billy’s head and shoved his face right in the center of the insulting icing.

Another one of Billy’s gifts to Steve finding itself thrown into his face.

And the sight of Billy’s face and hair coated in a sugary mess of red and white, well, Steve couldn’t ask for a better birthday gift.

#I have 12 hours left of being ‘young’ per Billy’s standards #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #mandi writes tresh #I wrote most of this while drunk so I had to fix it #sorry for the delay #and thank you also

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fratboykate · 2 years

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Yelena + pregnancy cravings = Kate going to the ends of the earth to look after her smol queen

Kate sits in a meeting. Her phone is on the long conference table. Screen lights up and it's Yelena. Kate sends the call to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, Yelena calls again. Kate rejects the call again. Not ten seconds later the screen lights up one more time and now Kate is like "m'kay well that's not normal..." so she grabs the phone and tries to sneak out but the entire room turns to look at her. She gives them an awkward smile but keeps walking. She exits the conference room and hastily answers the call.

"Babe...what's wrong?"

"Tuna sticks."

"...What?"

"I need tuna sticks."

"Babe...I...what???"

"Tuna sticks. I'm craving tuna sticks."

"Yel, what the hell is a tuna stick?"

"It's a mozzarella stick but with tuna mixed in with the cheese...a tuna stick."

"Love, you can't call me three times in a row because you have a craving. I thought something was wrong. I'm in a meeting. Can I call you back in like an hour?"

"You're always in a meeting."

"Kinda what happens when you're at work."

"Okay, well...I want tuna sticks."

Kate sighs.

"Can you get some delivered???"

"No. They don't exist."

"What do you mean?"

"I keep googling and it doesn't seem like anyone has ever made them before. Can't find them anywhere. It's tuna mixed with cheese and fried. You'd think someone would have thought of this before. It's like a fried tuna melt."

Kate sighs.

"You're asking for something that doesn't exist and you want it while I'm at work..."

"Correct."

"Okay...that's a stretch. On both fronts."

"Fine. Just say you don't love me then if that's easier. Not like I'm carrying your massive baby or anyt..."

Kate forces a smile and nods at the co-worker that just exited the conference room and stares at her.

"Can I get you a tuna melt and mozzarella sticks? That sounds close enough no? If you take a bite of both at the same time it could..."

"No. Tuna sticks, Kate."

"Where the f...okay. Okay...I'm leaving now. Let me see what I can do."

"I love you."

"Yeah yeah."

---

Kate goes to three diners and two restaurants. No luck. Everyone looks at her like she's a fucking lunatic.

She gets to this small deli ran by an old polish man and his wife. Kate's asks and they're like "Nope. Don't sell that." Kate is about to leave when she doubles back from the door and she's basically like "Listen...my thirty six week pregnant insane but beautiful wife NEEDS THIS. She has texted about a hundred and twenty times asking where I am. If I come home without this I will never know peace again. I will pay you a thousand bucks if you make me SOMETHING that even remotely resembles what I need so I can at least say I tried. HELP A BITCH OUT!!!"

The husband and wife look at each other and laugh. He speaks in his cute little accent like "ohhhh, yes. This one had crazy cravings all the time too. I would get in trouble if I didn't find. Let's see how we help." Kate's ass unclenches because she knows she was in for a hormonal induced rage shitfest if she walked into that apartment empty handed.

So little grandpa takes Kate to the kitchen and half an hour later they've made some Frankensteined fried croquette type thing with cheese and tuna and Kate's like "THIS WILL DO! RING ME UP!" but they're like "On the house!" And Kate's like "nah fam let me pay you." But they're like "Go feed your wife!"

---

So Kate gets home and she's like..."Your feast, your majesty." Needless to say they're a HIT with the wife (and beeb). Crisis averted.

[This was a whole thing but you can just imagine it now lol. Again...suing tumblr for today's emotional distress]

---

Kate goes back to the deli the next day with cash in an envelope and gives them five thousand bucks - one for each little "Tuna Stick" they made - and pops and moms start getting emotional cuz they obviously needed the money. And from that day on, Kate always goes out of her way to come visit them and get some food at least once a week. She takes Yelena like a week later for more and they're like "AH YES THE FAMOUS TUNA STICK LADY!". It becomes one of their spots.

Then one day they come with beeb and they find out they're gonna close and Kate's like "?????? Why????" And they're like "we got priced out of the lease" but they've had this shop for like 30 years and lowkey Kate's like "NOT ON MY WATCH." So the next day she does some sneaky work, finds out who owns the place and calls them up. She's like "Hi, yeah, I'm their business manager...the fuck is this I'm hearing about a rent increase???" (But actually she was charming as hell lol. That's how Kate rolls.) Not only does she get them another year at their current price, she pays like two months of their rent and she also tells the owners that they go through her now for any rent negotiations.

So then she goes back and tells them and theyre all 🥺🥺🥺...But then pops has a stroke and dies like five months later and there's no way moms can do this alone so the shop has to close anyway. Then Kate is like "but what are you gonna do???" And the lady is like "I'll just go back to Poland. I still have family there." And Kate is like ☹️☹️☹️ Then she leaves and she promised to stay in touch but never did and Kate never hears from her again.

And that's the story of how Yelena's crazy craving led Kate to a pair of adopted non-homophobic moms and pops for a while. They def added the Tuna Sticks to the menu lol. The gays forever miss those dumb "sticks" after the deli closes. Kate watched pops make them like a hundred times but for some reason she can never replicate it exactly. Must have been magic hand touch or something.

#this is truly the 97 cent store version of what I had but YOU GET WHAT YOU GET AND YOU CAN BLAME TUMBLR FOR IT #it don't even reach 99 Cent Store standards lol #kyfbau #anonymous #answers #kyfbaup

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bangtanpromptsfics · 3 years

Text

hyacinth. (m)

dialogue prompt #3: “Your tutor is so hot”

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: f2l(?), light smut

word count: 1,540

warnings: heavy making out, grinding, blonde!jk

summary: you think your new tutor at school is hot and jungkook is determined to change that

a/n: another mature oneshot. I basically die from embarrassment while writing smut lol.

masterlist

“Your tutor is so hot”. Jungkook turns around to your attention so fast he could probably snap his neck.

“Mr. Seokjin? ”, he knows who you are talking about. The new personality development tutor of your school, more like the entire population’s crush at this point. And Jungkook hated him just for the same reasons, it seems petty but he can't help himself.

“Go fuck him then”, he snorts, swinging his back pack from one shoulder to another while you grin. Almost as on queue, Seokjin appears on the hallways and passes a smile towards all the students.

“Oh yes. Look at that a--”

“I guess that's enough for today, come on we gonna get late”, he grabs your arms and pushes you forward to move, having enough of your daily ranting about angelic beauty and who the hell laughs at some dad joke?

“When were you ever interested in math Kook?”, you tease him, resisting him to walk slower, “Oh are you perhaps… jealous!? ”

“I'm not jealous. You are annoying”, he shoots cold face.

“Hey! I'm just saying he's attractive you don't have to be so mean about it”, you whine, hitting his arm.

You see, the fact that Seokjin stole Jungkook’s high school heartthrob position in two days is one thing, but he never expected you to act the same, especially when you were so different from most students on the campus. In fact he is shocked to see you crushing on someone. You despised people in general and he kept wondering what's there in their teacher to be so lurk about because he honestly doesn't see anything.

“He's old. And everyone knows he has a girlfriend, you guys dumb or what? ”, Jungkook teases back.

“Doesn't mean I can't praise a beautiful human”

“So he's the only attractive guy in the school? ”, he's curious now and also lowkey wants to find out if you had felt anything like this about himself.

Jungkook knew he was hot. He knew he could destroy Seokjin's reputation with one different hair color but that's too much drama over nothing. As if there isn't ten assignment waiting for him at home. Yeah he got better things to do.

“Nope”, comes your immediate answer. And man that hurt. You are smart and cocky and it would be cool to know someone like you finds him attractive, but you just hurt his ego.

“Not even me? ”, he asks, all squeaky and with a small pout and you return him a smile.

“See you at 7 Kook”

____

School ends at 5, and thankfully both of your residence are nearby and there's a party hosted by Jimin at his house which is a five minute drive so Jungkook has roughly one hour and fourty five minutes to make an appearance to the party. And by appearance he means to look absolutely endearing. He's never the type to bang a lot of chicks, he didn't even need to do anything than to wear a black tee and jeans to a party and could still get laid. If he wanted sex, he can have that any time he wants.

But today is different.

He's never been this eager to be at a gathering, took time to pick outfits and oh dye his hair. He has never experimented with hair colors except that one time he tried red and got famous by the name ‘cherry head’ in the entire locality.

You of course give yourself the usual thirty minutes to do slight makeup and wear shorts with oversized tee styled enough to merge into the party. And boy you have no idea what you are going to witness today.

Jungkook arrives ten minutes late because the highlights took time to dry off. He styles them, but not too much. He still wanted to look effortlessly handsome and got that long abandoned shear black shirt with blue jeans.

“Woah is that Jungkook!?”, some girls whisper beside the bar you are currently seated at and you turn around, only to feel a pang to your chest. Fuck. A completely look through shirt with fucking tight blue denim is he fucking kidding? And blonde hair? Yeah it's that complete ‘drool over me bitches’ package.

You suddenly feel self aware of how simple you looked. He should have given a heads up because one needs several business days to process blonde Jungkook. He seemed unrecognizable.

“Woah… What's up with this new look!?”, you approach finally. Many people eye him shamelessly in your peripheral vision which is pretty much obvious.

“Nothing. Just felt like it”, he grins, having won you. Jungkook is not attractive who? Yeah he bets Seokjin will never pull off this look.

“You like it? ”, and he undoes first two buttons, exposing a bit of his toning straight to your eyes. Is he fucking teasing? You want to confront him because he's acting weird. But you don't know if this is because you feel different around him.

“Y-yeah… It's good”, you tug a smile.

“Wanna dance?”, he asks and you nod, taking your hand to the dance floor. Most people are wasted but both of you are not. So when you feel him touching more than usual, you are absolutely aware that it's not an accident.

He holds you so close all the time, as if it's something you do daily. Fuck.

“Hold me like this”, he says out of nowhere and throws your hand behind his neck. He knows what he's doing. And you are aware too, but too weak in knees to retract. You hate that you are actually enjoying this and he loved it.

“Y/n….”, he whispers to your ear, tucking a strand of your hair behind it, “Can I kiss you love? ”

Your nod is so soft and innocent before you give in. Most people who were looking forward for Jungkook’s company give up and hook up with other guys around because they know he isn't here for anybody else.

He flushes your hips against his as he kisses you, obviously tongue all the way. He doesn't know why but he wanted to shut your mouth exactly like this whenever you swooned over Seokjin. And he is most certain that all those memories are perished along with the kiss.

He pulls your bottom lip out and looks into your eyes and grinds his hip on yours, and you moan lowly. He internally curses at how sweet you sounded.

“Come with me”. He pulls you out of the crowd and into a private cubicle where people usually make out. And thankfully there was one vacant.

But he isn't quick to act once inside the space. He takes his time to lock the door and to sit at that one chair in the centre, manspreading luxuriously for you to see.

You never did anything like this with Jungkook. It was not like you had friend zoned him, you actually don't know why, all these years you spent casually flirting and shrugging off with each other, and now you can't wait to devour him.

You make your way to his lap and sit right on his hips, sighing at the contact. He grabs the back of your head and pushes it towards him. His other hand taps your butt to continue grinding which you happily do so.

He continues exploring your skin, hooking his hands on your shirt and rubbing circles at the skin there. Feeling his cold hands, you move to undo two more of his buttons to get a peak of his pecs, something you wanted to do the moment you saw him.

He moans into your mouth when your movements start to get him worked up, feeling high and ecstatic. Even with the denim shorts on, the dent on his pants was enough to get you close to orgasm.

“J-Jungkook… ”, you trail off, head slightly falling back which he catches.

“Go on love, almost there”. Fuck. You loved it when he called you names, but this one was, exceptionally very much turning you on.

He detaches his mouth to suckle on your collar bone, exposing it by pulling your t shirt slightly down. It becomes all too much, and you focus on the knot forming at your stomach.

Jungkook stops kissing you, indicating he's chasing his high several moments after yours, glad that both opted for thick denims as bottoms to cover the mess you made.

“We should've done this way before”, you imply, separating the strands of his hair sticking to his forehead.

“We could've, but you were busy drooling over some teacher”, he smugs.

“So you were jealous! ”.

Unfortunately his cocky being doesn't have an answer for that so he dodges it with another long kiss, breaking off with a loud smooch.

“God I can kiss you forever Y/n…”

“And...then? ”, you ask your confusion. You don't know what's your relationship with Jungkook is anymore, now that you had made out with him.

“... then… maybe you'll fall in love with me?”

“See you at the party Kook”, you peck the corner of his lips and get off his lap. After taking a moment to fix your outfit, you leave the cubicle.

And Jungkook knew exactly what he was going to do.

Thank you so much for reading!! ♡

Original Content of ©bangtanpromptfics

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thatboomerkid · 2 years

Text

FIRST TEAM: LAST CHANCERS

Pentex is up to something.

... and it’s something BIG.

This is a pitch & solicitation for a game, which I will run online for interested players. This text will serve as a living & public-facing reference-document, designed for use by my players, to be regularly updated over the course of our Chronicle.

Brought to you absolutely free to enjoy, to dick-around with, & to share – as always – by the fine folks of my Patreon.

Hugest of all possible special thanks to Daemon R. Allwardt, Matt Banach, Phil Brucato, Sye Cole, Nick Esposito, Dylan Hanny, Christopher Hazlett, Josh Heath, Derek Reeverts, Rich Rittenhouse, Amul Tevar, Joey Wallace, Joe Weinberg, and Owen Westcot.

And whatever kind of hot, nasty, oozing new extinction-level bug-fuckery Pentex has got brewing in the back offices, one thing is for damn sure: it ain’t good.

... which, incidentally, brings us to you & your new pack.

You’ve just been sworn-in to a most-sacred mission, and stride now to war for the literal continued existence of Gaia herself: your righteous vow commands you strike fast, move in shadow, conceal your strength, sow great confusion among your innumerable enemies, leave neither a single stone unturned nor a single witness standing, and -- above all -- puzzle-out precisely what the fuck these smug, devious, buttoned-down little corporate-psychopath shitheads are trying to pull for the foul “glory” of their grotesque master, the Wyrm.

And then to kill every mother-fucking last one of ‘em.

Or die trying.

Introduction

[Table of Contents, which you are reading right now]

Chronicle Themes

Suggested Media

Player Requirements

Character Requirements

[A Storyteller Solemnly Swears]

Setting Notes

Rules Notes

New Backgrounds

- Board-Certified Seal-of-Approval

- Infrequency

Celebrity Guest-Stars! ... or “Important NPCs of this Chronicle”

Because this is no ordinary black-ops monkeywrench operation, friend.

Whatever horrifying, nightmarish new “Special Project” the grinning bastards on the Board of Directors at Pentex are cooking-up, those schemes are bound in bane & balefire, sealed with silver & sorcery, wrapped skintight in unutterably-ancient-yet-somehow-still-shrieking White Howler flesh: a full-ass six-hundred-&-sixty-six levels above top-secret, locked-away so snug that even the most leet hackers, data-pirates, info-sec operators, and dumpster-diving ninja-assassins in service to Gaia haven’t been able to pry-loose more than the barest echoes of whispers from the churning belly of the great beast.

Not that we haven’t tried, obviously.

Problem is, Earth Mother’s chosen have very recently lost three full packs of our best & brightest cyber-warfare specialists: proud champions reppin’ the Random Interrupts, the Rat Finks, and the Corporate Wolves (alongside their Kin, their allies, their Fetishes, their Caerns, and their tech) ... all taken-out with extreme prejudice, military-grade ordinance, and unholy, blinding-fast surgical precision by rapid-response First Teams that -- if one were properly paranoid -- might lead one to suspect that Pentex has themselves an “inside man”.

Or two.

... or three.

Well, guess what?

Gaians can play at this game too, assholes.

Pentex likes to think that their treacherous, conniving, lily-white Ivy-League asses invented double-double secret-reverse counter-counterintelligence state-military-industrial espionage-operations?

Lol.

Your boy Cockroach, just as a ONE example, came-up hard on the mean streets of the Permian-Triassic Extinction Event, which aced-out 95% of the life on the planet, and was over two hundred million years old at the time of the Eocene epoch – a 22-million-year period of flaming radioactive planet-wide upheaval that included a particularly unpleasant winter (which just so happened to last somewhere in the range of 100,000 years) – a solid-ass thirty-five million years ago, back when the world, no bullshit, had mo’fucking rings around it.

It was metal as shit.

Note that his ugly little ass survived -- thrived -- up to the release of Morbius on Blueray at Blockbuster (and beyond!) without the benefit of thumbs.

Cockroach don’t fuck around, is the point.

Sneaky & clever though he may be, however, he’s just a Totem of Wisdom ... meaning that even his most intricate, complex, wheels-within-wheels, man-behind-the-man nine-part-harmony Xanatos Gambit plots are nothing against the dizzying designs of Coyote, Cuckoo, and/or Fox.

SO, THIS JUST IN: Pentex has won the coin-toss & chosen to receive; according to this note I was just handed by my producer, they also wanna ... wat. omg lazers, does that say, “we trash the rulebook & play dirty lmfao”?

Well ... alright, alright, alright. So mote it motherfuckin’ be, motherfuckers.

We’re doing this shit olde-skool now: deep-cover, deniable ops. No records, no receipts, no witnesses. No paper-trail, no chain-of-command, no back-up, no plan B. No limit, no quarter, no exit-strategy; no brakes on the Apocalypse-train.

Underground, radio-silent, safeties-off; going full dark: inner circle only.

Your handler has pulled-in every favor, ringer, expendable, has-been, old dog, youngblood, wash-out, dirty dealer, troublemaker, loose cannon, burned asset, low bastard, basket-case, wandering drifter, retired killer, and rainy-day BREAK GLASS ONLY IN THE EVENT OF EMERGENCY secret hold-out weapon she’s been quietly collecting-up over the last three & half decades.

Calling all freaks, as they say. ‘Cuz that’s the name of the game.

If you or any member of your pack is caught or killed, the Garou Nation will disavow all knowledge of your existence.

Hope you enjoyed getting to watch your own funeral from the nosebleed seats, kid. Might wanna strap-in & kiss your sweet ass goodbye. Because it’s about to get bumpy ... and real, real ugly.

Welcome to your new job at Pentex.

image by jim pinto

Chronicle Themes:

SMALL WORLD: y’know all those old borders & ancient rivalries? Like, say ... the ones dividing the Western Cordordiat of the Garou Nation from the Beast Courts of the Emerald Mother for, like, untold millennia? Well, thing is, they shatter into utter, insignificant meaninglessness before the sheer awful, global scale of Wyrm & Weaver locked in final battle.

BIG BUSINESS: the legions of Pentex are endless, outnumbering the champions of Gaia not by two, not ten, but by UNCOUNTABLE orders of magnitude; they can outspend us a thousand-to-one without even trying. ‘Course, the nice people over at Dynamic Technology International, the Mikoshi Conglomerate, Star-Mart, and Shinzui Industries are no slouches, either ... and they, interestingly enough, also want you dead!

PAST IS PROLOGUE: anyone who tells you the War of Rage was, quote, “a long-ass time ago” didn’t learn a goddamn thing: the unforgivable sins of our tragic, blood-streaked history shall not be forgotten ... or, I guess, we could just go ahead & round-off the next million years to yet another “particularly vivid, gore-drenched grind of ceaseless, ever-escalating, and infinitely-recursive fun-house-mirror horror-shows”.

FUTURE-SHOCK: ... but those internal memos outlining Pentex’s plans & operational schematics for the next century of their uncontested control over Earth? Yeah. Uh, they’re actually quite a bit worse: hyper-detailed, high-definition, vivid, full-color, glossy, and sickening in the extreme (with pie-charts!). We’re up against an all-star assemblage of clever & detail-oriented motherfuckers with an agenda-most-obscene... and, one financial quarter at a time, very increasingly with the means to make it happen.

Suggested Media:

6 Underground

Angel (Season 5)

Archer

The Boys

Bunraku

The Defenders

Inglourious Basterds

The IT Crowd

Mayhem

Shaolin Soccer

Sneakers

Player Requirements:

bi-weekly (every other week) availability for a 4-6 hour online game.

basic-to-intermediate experience with tabletop roleplaying games.

basic-to-intermediate experience with Werewolf: The Apocalypse and/or the greater olde-skool World of Darkness setting.

willingness to help every player at the table, as an active participant in shared-world storycraft, to create a fun, memorable, and above-all-mutually-satisfying tale: a high-octane, heartfelt, hilarious thrill-ride of action-packed international espionage in which super-powered warriors of Gaia rip monsters & finance-bro into festive intestine-confetti.

Character Requirements

each player will create a new, unique character using the Werewolf: The Apocalypse 20th Anniversary Edition Core Rulebook and Changing Breeds texts, building a PC of any Breed, Auspice, Tribe, and background the player desires, subject to the Infrequency Background (below).

characters may begin play with extra Renown, up to an amount required for the character to reach Rank 2.

characters may begin play with up to 50 Experience Points.

a character created for play in this Chronicle must be both willing & able to “go deep-cover” as a member of a Pentex First Team.

a character created for this Chronicle is, by default, legally dead ... and is counted among the honored (or, I guess, dishonored?) dead by the Garou Nation / Beast Courts, depending on which way the player wants to go with it: any PC who wishes to maintain Allies, Contacts, Kinfolk, or a Mentor within the greater worldwide society of Gaian-aligned Fera will need the Lying-Ass Liar Social Merit (detailed below).

As an aside, the spirit-world is -- on the other hand -- very much aware that the PCs are still alive & kicking: long story short, the PCs do not lose access to the cool benefits of their Rank or their Renown.

“So ... uh? How precisely are they ‘secretly faking their deaths,’ then? If the whole spirit-world knows they’re alive?”

Lol. You mean the same spirit-world that’s casually kept Gaia’s Breath (W20 Changing Breeds, pg. 116) and Veil of the Wani (W20 Changing Breeds, pg. 160) out of the hands of the Garou Nation for literally ever, possibly just for shits & giggles at this point? The shadow-universe of dreams uncoupled from thought, populated entirely by unreliable narrators & constructed entirely of unreliable narration? Where use of the term “veracity” in a sentence has a non-zero-chance of causing the actual floor to scream “IT’S PRONOUNCED VORACITY” at you & then try to eat you?

That spirit-world?

Yeah, the PCs & their secrets will be fine.

Note that neither players nor characters will be forced to do evil or icky crap to “prove their loyalty to Pentex or the Wyrm”: while the characters may have to work hard & be clever to preserve their dirty secrets, I’m very not interested in running a game where the players are forced to do evil in ANY capacity

In fact ...

===

A STORYTELLER SOLEMNLY SWEARS

I, Clinton J. Boomer, do hereby promise & avow to never present my players with a “If you’re so evil, eat this kitten” scene or conflict within the context of this, our Chronicle.

Sincerely. Do not worry that it’ll happen. It won’t.

... that said, players are allowed to incorporate such moments into their own backstories & preludes (with Storyteller approval), if they so desire:

For Example: Kyle is playing a cunning Garou who has infiltrated Pentex in the guise of a Ferectoi; he & I decide, together, that -- during his character’s prelude -- he was given a sadistic “loyalty test” by a superior: handed a pistol & told to execute a captured Kinfolk wolf. Through incredible, awesome cleverness on Kyle’s part, his PC was able to prove his loyalty to Pentex beyond a shadow of a doubt ... while also keeping the wolf from being harmed!

Similarly -- and mostly only because it’s literally the focus of the Chronicle -- players will very often be presented with observably evil assignments by their superiors, which they (as a pack) will have to be clever & creative about completing ... or not completing, as they decide.

Por Ejemplo: The PCs are assigned by Pentex to rendezvous with a First Team operating out of Dakar and to thereafter provide material assistance with the unit’s mission:

infiltrate a local cell of the Ahadi (via exploitation of a Kerasi who doesn’t “ping” as Wyrm-tainted)

locate the cell’s hidden Caern

exterminate all members of the Ahadi, including Kinfolk

claim the Caern for the Wyrm

generate evidence pinning the attack on a well-known Silver Fang

The PCs decide, instead, to kill all the members of the First Team & pin the whole fiasco on a “particularly rascally Nuwisha”.

Can they get away with it? Let’s find out!

===

Setting Notes

This is a Werewolf: The Apocalypse Chronicle -- not a more-general World of Darkness Chronicle, nor a “crossover” Chronicle -- which means that a couple of very important things about the setting need to be addressed & clarified pretty much right away.

Among them:

The grand history & cosmology of the universe, as understood by the Garou, is -- essentially -- correct.

Now, sure ... there are a few fiddly little fine-grained details about the true secret history of reality (like, say, the Insect War mentioned in Ananasi: Changing Breed Book 7, on pages 25-26) known only to non-Garou Fera; these are also true, even if the Garou -- who are only about a million years old, after all -- don’t know about ‘em.

All other supernatural entities, on the other hand, are -- at best -- ignorant about the true shape & meaning of the universe; at worst, they’re tools of Wyrm, of Weaver, or of both: dangerously deluded and/or outright liars.

More specifically: leeches within the context of this Werewolf Chronicle lack things like a “generation,” a “clan,” a “Humanity score,” or even “Disciplines”; they do have what might be referred-to as bloodlines -- the foul undead that, in ancient days, forced the Silent Striders from their homeland in Egypt are said to have been spawned from the cursed, night-black veins of Sutekh, for example -- but anything you think you know about vampires that isn’t on pages 453-455 of the W20 Core Rulebook is pure conjecture (and also probably bullshit).

The same goes double for wizards, ghosts, fair folk, and monster-hunters.

If you really, really wanna be an expert on all the various horrible & mysterious creatures that go bump-in-the-night, be sure to buy up some dots in the Occult Knowledge (and also the Secrets Background).

===

Rules Notes

So.

Remember how I said, above, that any supernatural entity who isn’t one of the Fera is, and I quote: “at best, ignorant about the true shape & meaning of the universe; at worst, they’re tools of Wyrm, of Weaver, or of both: dangerously deluded and/or outright liars”?

Okay, so that’s all true: the Traditions & the Technocracy are both wrong, as is -- to a lesser degree -- any Nephandus who think he’s a servitor of anything but Malfeas: any “Infernal” entity encountered within the context of this Chronicle is, in all probability, just a member of the Maeljin Incarna randomly cosplaying-as-Satan for cheap shits & giggles.

Furthermore, any supernatural entity (who isn’t one of the Fera) is also at least slightly down-powered & sidelined: this is a W20 Chronicle, which means that the Technocratic Union is small-scale, underfunded, hopelessly corrupted from within, and mostly made up of Extraordinary Citizens.

The odds of a HIT Mark out-of-nowhere gunning-down the Perfect Metis at the last possible second to avert the Apocalypse, in other words, are approximately zero-point-zero-zero-null-&-fuckkin’-not-gonna-happen.

... that said, tho, the Mage: The Ascension 20th Anniversary books are really excellently written, and -- as such -- the M20 texts will serve as this Chronicle’s default “canon reference-documents” in such instances as a W20 book is silent on a particular rules-issue:

you want to play a Martial Artist? M20 pg. 424-426 has got you covered!

your character wants to shoot the gas tank? M20 pg. 459 it is!

you want a weird Merit or Flaw that’s not in the Corebook? Yo, check out the M20 Book of Secrets, friend-o.

===

New Backgrounds:

Board-Certified Seal-of-Approval

The massive, multiheaded hydra of Pentex trusts no one.

... and that’s not, like, hyperbole, by the way: the PCs, over the course of this Chronicle, will be taking orders from people who all goddamn HATE each other (see below), the majority of whom are actively trying to get one another killed.

It’s a squirming pit of monsters, my friend.

You & your pack are gonna be the one group of people that every member of the Board of Directors trusts to have their back ... and then you will betray the shit out that trust, for great justice, in the sacred name of Gaia.

zero dots (default): an outsider to the dark inner-workings of Pentex, you are – at best – a cog in the machine that it would be mildly inconvenient to Pentex to murder outright; this level of clearance covers everyone from a minimum-wage overnight counter-clerk at your local EndRun 24-hour gas-&-food convenience mart to an average lab-tech who works at Magadon, watches RED Network, and eats at O’Tolley’s three times a week.

1 dot: you’re a bottom-ranking peon who is (nonetheless) initiated into the foul, dark inner workings of Pentex: a First Team private, an associate executive, or a white-level scientist with Special Projects Division. You are cleared to know that “fomori” and “lupines” exist; you are also expected to die (or go to prison) at the whim of a superior.

2 dots: you’re a low-ranking, expendable cog: second-in-command of a First Team, a junior executive, or a green-level scientist with SPD.

3 dots: you’re a middle-ranking, slightly-more-expensive & slightly-less-expendable cog: leader of your own First Team, a supervising executive, or a blue-level scientist with SPD.

4 dots: you’re a high-ranking power-player: a chess-master directing the actions of multiple First Teams, a managing executive at a powerful (and lucrative) Pentex subsidiary, or a yellow-level scientist with SPD.

5 dots: you’re just one step down from the Board of Directors: overseeing multiple elite First Teams, an executive with your own subsidiary, or a red-level scientist with SPD.

6 dots: you’re at the level of the Chief Executive Officer of Global Pentex Security: not technically a member of the Board of Directors, sure ... but you’re on the short-list for membership (and you answer only to them)

7 dots: you’re at the level of a Subdivision Director -- someone like Kiro Yamazaki, Francesco, or Mr. Pochard -- and are a full-fledged member of the Board of Directors

8 dots: you’re at the level of a Division Director -- someone like Adrian Newberry, Chase Lamont, or Harold Zettler -- and are a ranking goddamn member of the Pentex Board

9 dots: you’re at, no shit, the level of actual motherfucking Peter Culliford, Executive Vice President of Pentex

10 dots: you are -- dear, sweet, hot, buttery Jesus -- at the real & actual level of Benjamin Rushing, Executive Director of Pentex

The difficulty of any Investigation, Streetwise, or similar check made to dig-up dirt or secrets on a character who possesses this Background is increased by +1 for each dot in this Background the target possesses over-and-above the investigator.

For Example: The PCs decide that they want to find out the actual, specific address of Adrian Newberry’s vacation home in Nantucket so that they can give him a shotgun enema I mean no, it’s so that they can have, like, flowers & candies delivered. For, uh ... Mother’s Day.

Anyway: since the Director of Operations has 8 dots in this Background and the highest score any PC has in this Background is 3, rolls to get any useful information are at a minimum of +5 difficulty.

This special Background may not be bought above 1 dot at character creation.

This special Background cannot be pooled, and PCs are expected to have different levels in this Background: the acting field-commander of a First Team will have higher “clearance” than her newest recruit, after all.

That said, the total level of trust placed in the PCs (as a team) will always be equal to the lowest Board-Certified Seal-of-Approval rating possessed by any member of the First Team.

This special Background can be used in-place-of & in the same-way-as any one of the following Backgrounds from M20 (pg. 303-328) at any given time: Backup, Influence, Requisitions, Resources, or Secret Weapons.

... of course, actually using your Board-Certified Seal-of-Approval to do shit like crush stories in the media, borrow sports cars & jets, or order a black-ops, attack helicopter extraction from a bad first date is the ABSOLUTE NUMBER ONE way to make your rating in the Background drop like a fucking stone.

Other than, like, fucking up a mission real bad, obvi.

Also, just to be as absolutely clear as possible: the literal, very specific goal of the Chronicle is to get your pack’s Board-Certified Seal-of-Approval rating as high as you can, so that -- just for example -- you can be placed in charge of security during an event where, if anything goes wrong, the entire Board of Directors will die in a horrible series of hilarious toilet-explosions.

===

News Merits & Flaws

Lying-Ass Liar (5 pt. Social Merit)

You have established (or have had established for you) a full alternate identity – complete with documentation – that passes with ease, drawing no suspicion, as a member of another community of supernatural entities. This very well might be the Western Concordiat of the Garou Nation or the Beast Courts of the Emerald Mother ... or it could be another organization altogether (like an international society of leeches, wizards, or even demon-hunters).

Regardless of who -- precisely -- you’ve infiltrated, you command the respect & trust of your “peers” within this organization, alongside a healthy measure of faith in your abilities from more-powerful members of the group.

To clarify, this is some next-level bullshit: a secret identity on top of all the secret identities you already have.

For example: you are Batman, currently operating in Gotham’s underworld as Matches Malone, after faking Batman’s death ... but you can also use the cash & connections associated with Bruce Wayne, if you want.

If you’re a Hakken (who everyone knows is dead) pretending to be a Ferectoi (while serving on your First Team), use of this Merit might mean that you’re also known to be a Child of Gaia Kinfolk: a disguise that involves slapping on some patchouli & a tie-dyed t-shirt, donning hemp sandles, and saying “whoa” a lot.

Or you might be known as the “blood-doll” or “familiar” of a powerful leech.

Or you & your Storyteller might decide that you’re an employee of a corporation like Shinzui International, or an agent of an organization like Strike Force Zero.

And yes, this is totally the sort of thing that a clever Ragabash, Corax, or Nuwisha could set up once the Chronicle has started, if given the time & materials to do so ... but this Merit is useful because it doesn’t involve any rolls (and thus it presents absolutely no risk of failure).

Note that this shit is also not bulletproof: if you’re ever “outed” as a member of a Pentex First Team (or, far worse, as your known-to-be-dead self), the reactions of those who know you only as the-identity-granted-by-this-Merit will be:

disbelief

followed by confusion

followed very rapidly by outright hostility toward your accuser

followed immediately thereafter by you being restrained, detained, and very thoroughly investigated -- just in case! -- by the paranoid people you’ve infiltrated

which may very well wind-up with you dead, and/or with your cover blown (and then also very dead)

You’ll need to work with your Storyteller to determine what specific supernatural group or community – such as the Garou Nation, the Beast Courts, a cabal of wizards (such as the Five Metal Dragons or the Akashayana), or even a night-lit masquerade of leeches – you’ve successfully infiltrated, and in what capacity: while it’s pretty unlikely that you’re able to pass for a high-ranking undead blood-wizard, for example, you might very reasonably adopt the disguise of “a highly trusted servant to an eccentric, paranoid, and agoraphobic elder vampire”.

You’ll also work with your Storyteller to decide whether Pentex knows about your secret identity or not: they’d love to have an asset that can infiltrate a werewolf moot while disguised as a Kinfolk, obviously ... but, y’know, maybe you don’t feel like showing your hand & revealing all your little tricks just yet.

Note that your alternate identity can use your Backgrounds – like Resources (W20 pg. 138) – but that you can also purchase Backgrounds separately: your fake identity might have points in Allies (W20 pg. 135) or Contacts (W20 pg. 136), for example, totally separate from those possessed by any other identities.

===

Celebrity Guest-Stars!

... or “Important NPCs of this Chronicle”

Any NPC listed below, alongside any information presented herein about the NPC in question, is automatically known -- with no roll, check, or expenditure-of-resources required -- to ALL player-characters.

In other words: you - as a player - don’t have to memorize any of this crap, because your character has it memorized for you (and you can look it up, right here, any time you want).

Some characters, of course, will have extra information: you’ll want to talk with me (your friendly, helpful Storyteller!) about the very, very special dark & secret shit that only you know.

Your Handler (and her packmates, Sept of the Epic Quest):

Eva Hedwig “Bunny Foo-Foo” Hare, Metis Glass Walker Ahroun

---

John “John-Boy” J. Jonhson, Lupus Glass Walker Ragabash

---

Philo “File-[zero]” Taylor-Swift Farnsworth Jr., Homid Boli Zouhisze Theurge

---

Ignacia Rosa “Iggy” Leon, Homid Glass Walker Philodox

---

Very Online Larry, Homid Glass Walker Ragabash

---

Sister Kasmira, Homid Glass Walker Galliard

---

... vs. the forces of Pentex:

Benjamin Rushing, Executive Director

---

Peter Culliford, Executive Vice President

---

Adrian Newberry, Director of Operations

---

Chase Lamont, Joint Division Director of Acquisitions / Information-Collection

---

Harold Zettler, Director of Special Projects Division

---

Franklin Rubin, Director of Project Coordination Division

---

Francesco, Subdivision Director of Project Iliad

---

Kiro Yamazaki, Joint Subdivision Director of Project Odessey / Project Aeneid

---

Kathryn Mollett, Subdivision Director of Human Resources Development

---

Andre Baptiste, Subdivision Director of Public Relations

---

Ursula Crane, Subdivision Director of Finance

---

Ian Robertson, Subdivision Director of Process and Integration

---

Sir Frederick Appleton, Subdivision Director of Project Lycaon / Neuro-Dynamic Laboratories International

---

Frédéri Pochard, Subdivision Director without Portfolio

---

Michael Dragons-Wrath, Chief Executive Officer of Global Pentex Security

---

Ash Pyralis, North American Chief of Pentex Security

#Werewolf the Apocalypse #campaign guide #players guide #old world of darkness #world of darkness

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lacharcutiere · 3 years

Text

x2 [suna rintarō]

1k words

✯haikyuu!! masterlist✯

alcohol consumption, soft angst

mara comin thru w a fic based on My Real Life Experiences™️ oops, s/o to bri for being my hype man and sam (not on here) for also being my hype man and telling me i should j write fics about my real life because Mara is Accidentally Y/N™️. technically this is unfinished but i’m posting it like this bc it’s basically what actually happened to me n i don’t wanna make shit up for stuff i don’t remember lol

☾𓆙𓂻

two sips of vodka, two times you catch him staring at you in the span of a few seconds, two vapes he’s hitting at the same time, two hugs because he says “y’re not coming back” no matter how many times you laugh and tell him you promise you’ll see him around. the two of you in your mom’s old car, and it’s only the first time you’ve hung out properly, so there’s not two of that.

you were in front of his house just five minutes later than you said, waiting with the engine still running, kanye blasting. to aran’s first to pick up a bottle of vodka (mostly empty, actually, rin complained when he gets back in the car; he got ripped off), then to his, where you passed his sister on the stairs and she gave you a smile and a laugh, real ones. he led you into his room, where you sat on his bed awhile, and you commented about how clean it was (definitely not what you expected, and cleaner than yours at the moment) and he laughed and told you he’d manically cleaned it hours before. that’s where the two sips of vodka came in; all you drank that night because you had to be home by one. shortly after was the first time you caught him staring at you twice within maybe thirty seconds. the only other time anyone had ever looked at you like that had been when they were about to kiss you. you wondered if you wanted him to kiss you, too. instead you asked what he wanted to do, and he said, dunno, up to you, and you suggested drive around because after this you didn’t know if you’d ever be back in this town.

☁︎︎

through winding roads through the woods and past a country club, past the street you’ve lived on for the past ten years, and a quick circle through the parking lot of the middle school you went to.

“‘s where it all started,” you tell him, with a little sad laugh.

the alcohol’s beginning to hit him now, and he asks if you can stop at the gas station down the road so he can take a piss. he hits two vapes when he gets back in the car and laughs, ‘s how you know i’m drunk, he says.

☁︎︎

you drive all the way up to the town on the bay; there’s still snow and ice on the ground. it’s pretty, still with christmas lights strung on the trees lining the streets downtown. the two of you park near the boardwalk and get out; go down to the tiny little lighthouse to see if you can get inside, but there’s a padlock on the door and it’s fucking freezing and in the end you surrender and get back in the car.

☁︎︎

a while later he’s even more drunk, you’re not, obviously, because you’re driving down the interstate and also because you need to be home in a couple hours so you can finish packing because you’re going back to school tomorrow. and he’s going to stay here, or maybe not, because he’s got six days to decide if he wants to move away with his mom. if there’s nothing keeping you here, you tell him, do it.

“but, like,” he says, and it’s slurred a little and you’re behind the wheel, speeding down the highway, “i don’t wanna run away from everything, you know? wanna, like, resolve all my shit first.”

“but what shit do you have to resolve?”

he laughs. “dunno.”

“so do it, get outta this shitty town. i promise it’ll be good; ‘s what i did.”

he laughs again: “ha, you’re right, you’re right. maybe i will.”

☁︎︎

there are a couple moments where, as streetlights cast strange shadows on you as you drive past them and you listen to him speak, you wonder what the two of you could be.

☁︎︎

heading back to aran’s for a bit because… you don’t actually know, but why not, high school comes up in the conversation, and you say something about how you’re glad you’re no longer who you used to be and,

“what’re you talking about?”

“ha, what do you mean? you knew me in high school. sort of.”

“kidding, right? i know so many people who thought you were bad.”

you’re silent for a while, and he repeats it.

“…who?”

“like… samu! aran! lotsa guys!”

“i… what the fuck?”

“yeah, y’ kidding? everyone thought you were some, like, badass chick or whatever.”

you snort. “that’s news to me.”

“no ‘s not, you gotta know. ‘s why you got that thing ‘bout bein’ a catfish on your instagram isn’t it?”

“what? no, ha, that’s about, like, my personality—“

“but your personality’s what makes you not a catfish?”

“hah, oh my god, no, are you kidding, i’m nowhere near as cool as i seem, i’m a fucking nerd,” you laugh.

“nah exactly! y’d be a catfish if y’ didn’t have a personality but ya do. so you’re not a catfish, and you’re very pretty…”

he goes on and on talking. you smile at the road in front of you and just listen.

☁︎︎

the night ends where it began, too, with you sitting next to him on his bed—well, really he’s lying down now, but then he sits up again because oh yeah, rings! and you laugh and he fills your hands with rings and then you tell him, “alright, dude, i really have to go now,” and you stand.

what to say? “see you around?” you settle on, even though you're not sure you will.

it takes him a second to stand up, but he does. “hug?” his arms are open.

you walk into them.

“‘s gotta be a long hug, because you’re not comin’ back.”

you laugh a little. “yes, i am!”

“not comin’ back.”

“i am—”

“no. not comin’ back.”

he lets go after a while, and you’re heading to the door, the rings jingling in your pocket now, about to say, see ya, and he goes,

“two hugs, because you’re not coming back.”

you laugh and indulge him. this one’s longer than the first. he kisses your shoulder when you pull away. and then you're heading back downstair, you’re out the door, walking back to your car in the freezing fucking cold, wondering what just happened.

you think about what he said. you should just stay here, with me. we coulda been great friends. he’s right, you think. you wonder about wasted time, about how in high school you’d been so scared to leave what was comfortable, leave your shitty friends, so scared of what people like him thought of you, and all along the truth had been that they’d never seen you the way you saw yourself. it’s usually like that, isn’t it?

#suna rintaro #suna angst #suna x reader #suna rintaro x reader #suna rintaro fic #haikyuu fic #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader angst #soft haikyuu angst #haikyuu angst #mara writes fics #hello i have once again arisen from the dead

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tennessoui · 3 years

Note

this is probably too many prompts lol but uhhh obikin: #6 meeting at a coffee shop au; #24 literally bumping into each other au; #40 exes meeting again after not speaking for years au (i'm a sucker for breaking up and getting back together again lol); #42 star-crossed lovers au; #48 meeting again at a high school reunion au

hi!! you probably forgot you sent this at all and I wouldn't blame you in the slightest. I'm pretty sure someone else already asked for 24, 40, and 42, so I wrote #6 instead! warnings for this one: bittersweet in that both anakin and obi-wan are sad, also the author is sad, also this takes place in the midwest in america (this is the first fic that is obviously set in america!!! wow!!)

6. Meeting At A Coffee Shop Diner AU (1.9k)

“Have a seat anywhere you want,” the hostess tells Obi-Wan without looking up from her phone.

Obi-Wan blinks and then looks around the deserted seating area. “Thank you, uh.” She’s not wearing a name tag.

“Angel’ll bring you the menu and take care of you, thanks for coming in,” she says, glancing up at him and then away.

Well then. Obi-Wan reminds himself that customer service isn’t everyone’s strong suit, that she might have had a rough day, that he’s here for the quick food on his way through town, that his ego isn’t fragile enough that he needs to be led to a table with a smile.

The restaurant is almost completely deserted. There’s two truckers eating their weight in bacon and eggs at the counter, and a family of four seated around a table, resolutely picking at their food instead of talking to each other. And then there’s Obi-Wan.

He chooses a booth by the window, one that overlooks the absolute nothingness of midwestern American scenery. If he cranes his neck, he can probably see corn.

God, Obi-Wan’s sick of seeing corn, and he’s only been in this part of the country for a few hours. He needs to go right through most of it to get where he’s headed. He’s not sure how he won’t die of boredom.

The thought sends a pang through his chest. It’s too soon to think of death even in an offhand way. He taps his fingers on the cover of his leather journal, before a line of dark brown under one of them catches his eye. He studies his hand critically.

It’s been two days since the funeral. Surely he wouldn’t still have grave dirt under his nails. Surely things like that wash away eventually.

“Hey,” a voice says from in front of him. A man is turned around and kneeling up in the booth in front of Obi-Wan’s, leaning over the garishly red vinyl of the empty seat with a menu clutched in one hand. His hair is short and dark blond, an undercut with a long fringe settling over his forehead. He has a nice sort of smile, one that looks genuine but doesn’t touch his eyes. Obi-Wan notices how long the man’s neck is and how predominant his collarbones appear in the loose white shirt he’s wearing, before he forces himself to focus only on his face. “I’m Angel,” the guy says, passing over the menu. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Obi-Wan accepts it gingerly. It looks like something that’s perpetually sticky. “Water is fine,” he says politely. “Thank you.”

“Will do,” Angel salutes him and ambles away. Obi-Wan watches him go before shaking his head to rid himself of any sort of thought, and opening the menu.

It’s standard food fare, of course. Breakfast options served all day if anyone were to come in and request them. Lunch and dinner options are also served all day, probably for the same reason: a diner like this can’t afford to turn anyone away, even if they want a hamburger at nine in the morning.

A glass of water clinks down onto the table next to him, making him look up at Angel, who’s looking at him curiously.

“You ready to order?” he asks, even though Obi-Wan is still very much looking at the menu and it’s also only been a few minutes at most since Angel gave it to him in the first place.

“Do you have any suggestions?” Obi-Wan asks politely. “I’ve never been here before. What’s good?”

“The water,” Angel says and then laughs like he’s said something funny. Obi-Wan finds his own mouth curling up at the sound. Sometimes people’s laughter is contagious, like a yawn.

And then Angel says, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No,” Obi-Wan admits. “North of Boston.”

Angel whistles, like Obi-Wan has said something impressive. “Boston, huh? What are you doing all the way out here?”

The pit in his stomach intensifies. He does his best not to look at his nails and the grave dirt that might still be under them. “Driving,” he finally says. “And are you...from around here?”

Angel’s eyes grow distant for a second, and when he focuses again on Obi-Wan, they’re cold. “Born and raised,” he tells him flatly. “Never got out.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to do with the sort of bitterness in Angel’s tone. It complements his own well enough.

“If you like eggs, I’ll put you in for the house special omelette,” Angel declares suddenly, all business again. “It’s four eggs, tomatoes, peppers, cheese. The usual.”

“What makes it special?” Obi-Wan asks, closing his menu and setting it down on the table in front of him.

“For you?” Angel drawls, “I’ll watch the cook to make sure he doesn’t get any egg shells in it,” and then he winks, holding out his hand.

Naturally, Obi-Wan shakes it. Naturally, Obi-Wan realizes a second after feeling Angel’s warm, calloused rough palm against his own that the man had meant to take the menu from Obi-Wan.

He can’t remember the last time he’s blushed this red, but he is absolutely regretting everything about this road trip. God, he’d pay money just to be able to leave now.

He should get in his car and drive back to Boston. It had been a stupid idea to come out here anyway, a result of stir-craziness and a desire to outrun the death of his father.

And now look what he’s doing. Shaking hands with his handsome waiter, as if he isn’t thirty-nine and perfectly aware of social norms.

Thankfully, miraculously, Angel laughs and this time it sounds real. “It’s okay,” he tells him, reaching out to pick up the menu.

Luckily for everyone involved, Obi-Wan finds it very easy to laugh at himself. “Well. It’s nice to meet you, Angel, I’m Obi-Wan.”

“I’ll go put the order in,” Angel says, “Obi-Wan.”

He’s back within five minutes, sliding into the seat across from Obi-Wan. So much for no eggshells in his omelette, but he can’t bring himself to be disappointed. There’s something magnetically fascinating about Angel. He’d like to know more.

“So you’re driving?” Angel asks, picking up a thread of conversation from several minutes ago. “Where are you going?”

“I was thinking of Alaska,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve--I’ve always wanted to go.”

“You’re driving from Boston to Alaska?” Angel whistles, raising his eyebrows in shock. “I think the gas money alone would cost me two months of work.”

Obi-Wan shrugs. It’s not like he makes much himself as a teacher in Massachusetts. “My father was a lifelong gambler,” he discloses without really knowing why he’s telling this to a stranger. “He came into a bit of luck near the end. A bit of a fortune as well. And when he...died, I inherited it and his house.”

Angel touches his hand softly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “When did he pass?”

Obi-Wan huffs out what might be a chuckle. “A week ago, actually. It’s summer break in Massachusetts--I’m a teacher--and I suddenly had nothing to stay for, for a bit. It was either leave for Alaska or find some other way to cope.”

He runs a hand--his free hand, the one Angel isn’t touching--over his beard as he gives the man a rueful smile. “Dad always wanted me to see more of the world.”

“My mom was the same way,” Angel leans forward to tell him, as if it’s a secret. Obi-Wan feels like it is a secret, that there’s something delicate and fragile in the air. Something that matches whatever emotion is filling up Angel’s eyes. “Always telling me to leave, go get famous, go get happy, come back and tell her about it.”

“You didn’t?” Obi-Wan asks, his chest tightening at the thought that the man before him could be unhappy.

“I couldn’t,” Angel sneers, looking out the window and propping his chin on his hand. Some things must be too close to the heart to tell someone to their face. “Mom got sick. I wanted to get out, I was so close. Graduated high school, packed my stuff. I was going to go to California. To Los Angeles, really make it big.” He rolls his eyes and scoffs, as if there’s something inherently funny about the dreams he must have cherished for so long.

“Then mom collapsed going down the stairs. Just passed out in the middle of the day. Doctors told us she was sick. Then life became all about treatment plans and monitoring symptoms and getting the money for the medicines and I never left. Got a job here when I was eighteen years old, right before I graduated high school. It’s all I’ve ever known, I guess.”

“And your mother?” Obi-Wan asks, mouth dry and heart all tangled up in itself for this stranger man, for Angel with the hard, sad eyes.

“Died a year and a half ago or so,” Angel says flatly like he’s repeated the words so often in his head that the truth digs no barbs into his flesh. Obi-Wan knows that voice is a lie. How often has he looked in the mirror this past week and told himself, ‘Qui-Gon Jinn is dead’? He can’t imagine a year and a half would make the pain go away.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says seriously, reaching across the table to touch Angel’s hand this time.

Angel shrugs but doesn’t pull away. “Is what it is, I guess,” he says. “I’ve made my peace with it. And the fact that I’ll never leave this godforsaken town.”

“You could,” Obi-Wan points out hesitantly. “You could leave tomorrow.”

For a second, a wild and previously undiscovered part of Obi-Wan wonders what it would be like, if Angel did leave tomorrow--with him. If they got into the same car and headed to Alaska together and Obi-Wan wasn’t alone at the wheel and Angel wasn’t alone in this town. If Obi-Wan could look over at the man in the passenger seat, asleep against the doorway as they crossed into Canada.

Obi-Wan wonders. Obi-Wan aches.

“I could,” Angel says, laughing once. “I guess I could. I guess I just can’t think of a good enough reason to.”

There’s a call of his name from the kitchen, and Angel stands and stretches, checking the time on his watch. “That’ll be your omelette, sir, which is perfect timing considering I’m off shift as of five minutes ago.”

“Thank you then,” Obi-Wan replies, ignoring the pang in his gut at the knowledge he won’t be able to keep talking to him. “It was nice meeting you, Angel.”

Angel’s face grows dark for a second as his jaw clenches. “That’s not my name,” he finally says, scratching at his neck with one hand. “That’s just what they called me when I started working here. Angel, like Los Angeles. Cause I told everyone for weeks this was a temporary thing, you know? I’d be going to California soon as mom got better. Guess they knew better than I did.”

Obi-Wan has never wanted to kidnap a grown man away from a place more, so he hides his hands under the table instead. “Would you tell me your name then?” he asks, wondering if he’s overstepping but needing to know too much to censor himself.

“It’s Anakin,” his waiter says, sticking his hand out, no menu to grab.

Obi-Wan takes it gently, turns it over, and cradles it between both of his hands. “Then it’s nice to meet you, Anakin.”

Maybe, he thinks as he picks at his omelette and watches Anakin shoulder his way through the front doors of the diner before disappearing down the street, maybe he can stay a day in this nowhere town. Just an extra day.

Yes, he thinks, taking a sip of his water. He’ll try the pancakes next.

#asks #my fics #not me writing this and thinking about a roadtrip fic novel length #called the summer of wound picking #where obi-wan does kidnap angel anakin/meets up with him before he goes on shift and he's like 'hey leave with me #lets go to alaska together'#and anakin is just crazy enough to accept #he leaves one of his dogs threepio with a friend #but takes artoo with them because hes littler and better trained #and they just go to alaska on a road trip #because the author really really really is craving a roadtrip to find herself right about now #obikin #wish fulfillment #pay no attention to the author trying to test out writing styles behind the screen #prompt fill

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babbushka · 3 years

Text

The Rabbi Is Coming

Flip Zimmerman x Reader (Darling Jewish Wife AU)

A/N: This oneshot is based entirely off of one of my favorite videos of all time, Company is Coming by Chris Fleming. Every time I see it, it reminds me of preparing for my own family holiday gatherings, so I’ve taken it and run with it lol. I just wanted to write something short and silly for Passover, lol, and I hope you enjoy!

Also inspired by this prompt sent in by anonymous: From your Passover prompts, will you please do this one for Flip? It sounds just like him!“They tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat.”

2k, crack treated seriously lol, humor. Putting a small cw for the Zimmerman’s son, in case folks don’t like reading about kids (this is the last time he’s mentioned for a while I promise lol)

----------------------

Early in the morning, just after sunrise, Flip yawns and stretches awake. The golden light of morning shines through the curtains that gently move from the breeze of the ceiling fan, and a melody of chirping birds signal the official start of morning. Despite having to get up early for work every day, Flip isn’t much of a morning person. But something about Springtime and the warmth that’s on the way makes him appreciate getting up, even on the weekends.

“Good morning, sunshine, light of my life – ” Flip rolls over onto his side, ready to coax you out of your sleep as well, ready to kiss you and start the day together, but when he reaches you’re your sleep-snuggled body, he finds the bed empty, and frowns.

Sitting up, he looks around the bedroom. Your side of the covers are neatly made, and Flip can only blink, his frown deepening. He clears his throat, raspy from disuse overnight, “(Y/N)?”

It isn’t until he hears the vacuum cleaner going downstairs, followed by a frustrated groan echoing through the house, that he remembers just what day it is, and falls back onto his pillow with a wince, lighting up a cigarette and scrubbing a hand over his face with a low,

“…Oh shit.”

He checks the clock, sees that it’s practically seven o’clock, and gets out of bed. Pulling on a casual t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans, he leaves his room to see his son standing tentatively in his own doorway, as loud sounds come from downstairs.

“Pop?” The five year old asks with no small amount of hesitation in his voice, immediately reaches for Flip, who scoops him up and balances him on his hip.

“Mornin’ honey.” Flip kisses his son’s cheek, and the boy giggles, clinging to him as Flip walks down the stairs.

He’s obviously annoyed that it’s not you who gets to wake him up and carry him downstairs, as he normally prefers, but Flip doesn’t know how to tell him that today isn’t a normal day. Still, the boy is always filled with questions, and his little eyebrows furrow into an all too familiar frown as they move closer to the chaos that is you deciding to vacuum first thing in the morning.

“Why is Mama acting like that?” He demands to know, as the two of them stop at the landing, watching as you, still in your pajamas, are fighting with furniture.

“Tonight’s the first night of Pesach.” Flip explains.

“So?” His son challenges, and Flip wants to laugh, because he agrees with the kid, but when you get into a mood like this, there’s no stopping you.

“So, there’s a very special guest coming for dinner tonight, and she wants to make sure the house looks nice and clean for him.” Flip sets the boy down, and he purses his lips, like he’s trying to assess the validity of that, eventually settling on complaining,

“But we already cleaned the house.”

Flip sighs, because he’s right, you spent the entire week cleaning to prepare for Passover. It wasn’t like a normal house cleaning, Passover had special rules that had to be obeyed. One of which, was the complete and total elimination of chametz, or food made from leavened dough. The other, was the koshering of the kitchen.

But he wasn’t so sure his five year old would care to hear about all that this early.

“I know son. Let’s go see what she fixed up for breakfast,” Flip leads his son through the living room carefully, before crouching down to his level and saying very seriously, “And then when you’re done eating, just do whatever Mama says, you hear me? Whatever she says.”

Just then, you come barreling through the living room with the vacuum and a tangle of cord in your hand, shouting at a completely inappropriate volume for the hour, “Zeeskiet if you haven’t made your bed just throw it away it’s too late to make it now!”

The boy looks up at Flip, and Flip immediately shakes his head and amends, “Not that.”

Flip is a good helper. He likes to help, and he wants to help, but sometimes when you get like this, it’s a danger to himself and everyone around for him to try and insert himself into a situation where you are a hurricane of anxious energy. He busies himself with getting your son settled at the kitchen table, giving him a big breakfast of fresh fruit, nuts, and yogurt, before bracing himself to venture back towards the dining room.

“The Rabbi is coming – get rid of the couches we can’t let people know we sit!” You shout, pointing an aggressive finger at one of the dining chairs, “This chair needs to be pushed in, there cannot be any signs of living in this house.”

Flip is quick to do as you say, even though what you’re saying is nonsense – he knows better than to point that out.

“I don’t care if we have to throw everything out,” You’re mostly talking to yourself at this point, just…loudly, and aggressively, “I want this place looking like a contemporary fusion restaurant by noon.”

It was a miracle and a half that the Rabbi agreed to lead your Seder dinner, and to say that the pressure was getting to you was the understatement of the century. You had everything picked out, what you were going to wear, what Flip and the kids were going to wear; you’d been cooking and prepping all week, and now the day was finally here and you were totally freaking out.

“Flip?” You shout, walking in circles around the dining room, trying to get rid of any possible point of contamination of chametz.

“Yeah?” Flip replies, already knowing that because he’s in the other room, you probably can’t hear him. He already is walking towards you when he hears you again.

“Phil!” You call a little sharper, and Flip huffs out a laugh, his suspicion correct.

“I’m right here ketsl, what can I do?” Flip startles you by suddenly being behind directly behind you, and you throw your hands up in exasperation.

“Oh my god – we need more pillows.” You gesture to the den where the conversation pit is decked out entirely with pillows. “Can you fluff the pillows? I need these things looking fluffed.”

Flip does exactly as he’s told, and the rest of the morning follows suit.

You wandered around the house cleaning; vacuuming sweeping dusting sanitizing every possible surface, the floors, even the ceiling, shouting out random demands and requests like:

We need more flowers. We gotta put flowers in every window. Philly can you put flowers in the kitchen?

We can’t have any clothes! Everyone take off your clothes!

At that, your son cast a semi-distressed look to Flip and asked, an uncertain, “Pop?”

“Not that either!” Flip immediately answered, lest his son think it’s okay to go running around in the nude tonight.

Somewhere around hour two, your mood shifts from manic to meltdown. Your son had been instructed to make sure his toys were all nicely put away in his room, mostly to keep him out of trouble or to prevent any accidental tripping over wires. Flip though, is still running around trying to keep up with you, out of breath from your own chaos.

“What is this?” You yank the perfectly good little towel out of the oven door handle where Flip had just watched you place it, and near-tears, you groan, “This is a dish towel! We need a hand towel! What are we, barbarians?”

He’s about to say something, try to console you or at the very least calm you down, but then you come to a complete and sudden stand-still and point out, “Phil oh god there’s muffins on the counter.”

Frowning, Flip whirled around and wondered how the fuck those even got there. All of your friends knew that there was absolutely no leavened product allowed in the house, Rabbi or no, and he’s trying to wrack his brain around where they came from as you back against the wall.

“Oh my god oh – that’s it -- we have to go into the witness protection program folks!” You chuckle humorously, effectively giving up. “Shalom Rabbi! Welcome to the Zimmerman household. We live outside. We eat mud. And sticks.”

At this, you give one big overwhelmed sigh, and a little sob hiccups out of your chest.

“Hey,” Flip frowns, kicking himself for not trying to get you to take a breather earlier than this, “Hey it’s going to be okay.”

Flip gets down on the floor with you, and pulls you into a tight hug. You shove your face under his neck and cry it out, and Flip soothes your back. He knows how big of a deal tonight is for you, and he wants to do everything he can to make you happy, but letting this go on any longer won’t be good for anyone.

“I’ll get rid of the muffins, we won’t tell anyone about it, okay?” He pulls you to face him, your eyes wet and wide, your chin wobbling. He thinks you’re so ridiculous, working yourself up like this, but he loves you so much to see it regardless.

“Did you fluff the pillows?” You ask in a small sad voice, and Flip nods seriously, brushing some of your stray locks that escaped the scarf you have wrapped around your head to protect your hair, away from your face.

“Yes ketsl, I fluffed the pillows.” He kisses each of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your forehead.

“Okay, alright okay, everyone calm down.” You say, wiping your tears away and taking deep measured breaths, suddenly asking, “What time is it?”

“Uhh,” Flip cranes his head around to try and catch a good glimpse at the clock on the wall, wondering how the hell it’s only, “Nine-thirty.”

You blink, and blink again, and then shuffle to sit upright there on the kitchen floor.

“Oh.” You reply, pursing your lips and scratching the side of your jaw. “In that case…I’m going to take a nap.”

Flip chuckles and lets you go. You’re too much all the time, and that’s exactly why he loves you. He’s never met anyone who cares as much about something like this, than you, and he wants you to go relax while he takes care of everything.

And he does, his son a proper helper as you snooze in bed, already having worked yourself to exhaustion and needing your strength back for the long dinner that’s going to come. The offending muffins are given to a neighbor, the surfaces re-sanitized, the kitchen all prepared. Your son even sets the table all by himself, enjoying being tall for his age thanks to Flip’s genetics.

When evening falls much later, and all your other guests have arrived, you feel your pulse spike as the doorbell rings. You’re dressed to the nines, as is everyone else, but Flip thinks that you’re the most radiant thing in the universe. You’re holding your son on your hip as Flip opens the door, already extending a hand for him to shake.

“Shalom Rabbi, thank you so much for joining us tonight, we can’t tell you how much of an honor it is.” You beam, as if you hadn’t had a total breakdown only that morning, as Flip invites the Rabbi inside.

“Of course Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman, the honor is mine. And may I say, you have a beautiful home.” He looks around appreciatively, giving a nod of approval that has all the air rushing out of your lungs.

“I’m thrilled to hear you think so.” You grin, leading him through your home and into the dining room where your other guests have been happily entertaining themselves, “Shall we get started then?”

“They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat!” Flip announces, and that has everyone laughing, including the Rabbi.

And as the Seder commences, Flip looks across the table and gives his son a wink. In return, he lets out a small giggling laugh, glad that all the preparations and chaos you put them through have successfully paid off.

------------------

Taggin’ some Flip lovin’ friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @the-unmanaged-mischief @materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @loverofallthings @bxnnywriting @groovetoob

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman fanfic #adam driver fanfic #adcu #passover #my writing #jewish!reader #flip zimmerman fluff #idk how to tag this lol

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whumpzone · 4 years

Text

Tomas and Rowe - Part 12

thank you all so much for your patience! and for all the lovely birthday wishes <3 i hope this was worth the wait! also I know fuck all about medical stuff, please forgive me lol

Masterpost

taglist: @sola-whumping @just-another-whumper @misspelledwitch @looptheloup @briars7 @black-polarf @zipadeedooda-drabbles @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @rosesareviolentlyread @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jazz-0307 @kestrelsparverius @whumpsy-daisies @whumpersworld @memoriesneverforget @sky-or-something-idfk @ghostcomit @cupcakes-and-pain @frankieswhump @ihaventwritteninsolong @mybrokenlittletoy @kiretto-laorentze @morelikepainsley @lave-e @tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @newbornwhumperfly @itaina-anta @whump-it

CW: dehumanisation, pet whumpee, self-harm mentions, very negative thoughts towards not being able to walk (please note: Rowe’s negativity towards not being able to walk comes entirely from the fact he was trained to kneel & doesn’t feel that he’s ‘earned’ the right to rest, and nothing else)

“The hospital says your leg should be fine to walk on in like a week,” Master said, holding the letter out for Rowe to see. Rowe breathed a sigh of relief. “But that’s obviously complete bullshit. They’re only saying that because you’re a Pet. You’ll need to rest for at least a month.”

“A month, Master?”

“Oh good, your ears work,” he replied, ruffling Rowe’s hair. “Now, I’d better make you something to eat.”

And before Rowe could protest (he shouldn’t protest, Pets don’t argue back), Master had gone, leaving Rowe with the ever-deepening knot in his stomach.

This was bad.

He couldn’t even walk. How on earth was he going to be useful now? He had tried to get up today, wanting to show Master Tomas that he was good, he knew a splint was no excuse, he could still get up and serve. But all that had happened was he put an ounce of weight on the stupid thing and immediately cried out in pain, bringing Master to force him back to bed.

So he couldn’t walk. He certainly couldn’t kneel. How would he beg properly? The knot twisted so horrifically at that thought that he felt nauseous. What would he do if he couldn’t beg? How would he get food, or sleep? How would he show Master that he was sorry after he broke a rule? How would he even be properly submissive if he was just fucking sitting there with his stupid, stupid, stupid broken leg?

His fist flew down towards it, but he stopped himself just in time. It’d only make him scream again, and Master had already given him a warning about that. Instead he stared at the letter from the hospital. Tomas G…Grz…. something… 12 h-a-r-t… Hartland Road… your Pet… s-p-l-i-n-t…. bed rest for up to one week…

He turned his head away. It just said what Master had told him. Master doesn’t lie, Rowe thought absently.

When Master returned some time later with a gently steaming mug and a plate of food, Rowe decided to beg in the only other way he knew how.

“M-Master,” he began, bowing his head and holding his curled up hands together, “Please, I can walk, I’ll be fine. Please let me try.”

“No, Rowe,” Master replied immediately, making Rowe’s heart sink.

“Please- I have to kneel-”

“You don’t. You need to rest. Walking will only make your leg worse. You’re delicate.”

“Th-then, please, Master, how will I- how will I beg for food, an-and sleep, and be good…”

Master set the tray down on Rowe’s -no, Master’s, nothing here was his possession, you know that Rowe- bedside table, and perched on the end of the bed. He was wearing a thin knitted cardigan that had slid down his shoulders to gather in the crook of his elbows. His rings, three of them today, clinked together as he took Rowe’s hand. Rowe had learnt that this meant a stern order was coming.

“You don’t need to kneel, pal. You don’t need to earn food or sleep, okay? You can take them freely.”

“N-no, I have to earn it, it’s a privilege, Master.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “If I give you permission to eat and sleep every day, will you do it?”

“Of course, Master.” An order was an order.

“Then that’s what I’ll do. You can eat this lunch. It’s just some spag bol.”

“Thank you, thank you, I’m very grateful, Master.” Rowe said, bowing his head submissively. Master rubbed his thumb along Rowe’s knuckles.

“But before you eat, I do have something else I need to say to you.”

Rowe tensed, nodding. Master stood, leaving Rowe’s hand feeling cold.

“I know what’s going on, okay? With all your mystery injuries. I know you didn’t trip when you broke your nose, I know you have new cuts along your shoulders, and I don’t even know how you were planning on hiding your legs from me. Jesus Christ, Rowe,” his voice faltered, trembling ever so slightly, with something that didn’t seem like anger, “it was fucking scary. I know you’re- look, I know you’ve been hurting yourself. Okay? That’s what this is about. I know you’ve done these things to yourself and it has to stop now.”

He sank to his haunches, bringing himself down to eye level, and took Rowe’s hands- both of them. Maybe he thought Rowe might lash out and hurt him too. Rowe wanted to protest, but Master hadn’t finished speaking.

“It has to stop, love. I care about you so, so much, and I know that you have had a scary fucking life. I- well, I don’t know, I couldn’t know what it’s been like for you, and what you’ve gone through. But I know you’re often very scared, and living with me has been very new and weird, yeah? And I know that when I got you, you were expecting something very different. I’m not…trying to put words in your mouth. B-but if you’re trying to, uh, make up for a lack of punishments, this isn’t how to do that, okay. We can work something out. Right now, I have to be firm with you. If you hurt yourself again, you will be in trouble. I don’t want to frighten you, and I will do everything I can to help you with this, but what matters most is you stopping. You’ve been escalating too, starting off with your nose, then knives, and now a hammer? It isn’t safe, Rowe. Do you understand? Oh, honey-”

Master wiped away the tears that had started to run down Rowe’s cheeks. He sniffed and meekly told Master that yes, he did understand.

“Alright. Is there anything you want to say? Do you want to talk about it? Anything you want me to do differently?”

Rowe wished he wasn’t crying. Crying made him look guilty. What could he say? He wanted to kneel so much.

“…I’m sorry, Master.”

“Don’t be sorry, Rowe. Everything is going to be fine. Things will be a bit different while your leg heals…but you will get used to it. We will get used to it.”

Master’s thumb, wet with Rowe’s tears, moved to cup his face as he planted a small kiss on Rowe’s forehead. A kiss- that was new. He quite liked it.

thirty days until I’m useful again

The clock showed quarter past two in the morning. Master thought Rowe was hurting himself. Which did make sense -why would Master doubt his friend?- but it was wrong, and Rowe had always been taught that his owner was never wrong. Your owner doesn’t make mistakes, what they say goes, and their Pet shuts up and accepts it. But- but-

His head felt close to bursting with the conflicting information. And even worse, when Kasia next came and used him as a punching bag, Master was going to get angry. He would think Rowe had deliberately disobeyed him, and he would be so furious that after everything he had done for him, Rowe had had the nerve to ignore an order like that? After all his consideration, and patience, and, and, kindness.

He sank back against the bedframe and stared at his leg, propped up by a tower of cushions. He tried to wiggle his toes. It hurt. Was this Kasia’s plan all along? Make Rowe so pitiful that Master finally threw him out, for Kasia to snap up? The walls were caving in and here he was, helpless, watching it happen.

twenty-eight days until I’m useful again

“It’s getting cold,” Master said. Rowe mumbled an agreement, although he couldn’t say he felt cold, wrapped up as he was in a blanket on the sofa, his splinted leg poking out delicately. Master seemed to realise this and smiled softly. “I suppose you’re quite snug right now, aren’t you?”

“Th-thank you, Master.”

“No, no, I didn’t say it just to get a thank you. Being cold is the worst. Which reminds me, I have to take my pill. I’m a fiend for forgetting.”

“What’s your pill for, Master?”

There was a time Rowe would never have dared ask such a silly, invasive question, but Master had made it clear that he didn’t mind. He seemed to like it when Rowe talked and, as Master put it, ‘made conversation’. Besides, Rowe had never seen him take any sort of medication.

“Folic acid. For my sins. Or, well, mainly for my anemia.”

“What’s… what’s that?”

Although, maybe he was still pushing it. Old master would have laughed at Rowe’s ignorance, before punishing him for asking.

“It’s a deficiency,” Master replied casually. “Makes me cold, and grumpy, and if I stand up too fast I go blind for a few seconds. Sometimes I faint! But this little top-up keeps me in order.”

Rowe watched Master chase the pill down with some water. Something about this felt… odd. Rowe had always been taught that a Pet’s owner was perfect. But now that he thought about it, Master did always seem to be wrapped up warm, or clutching a mug of tea.

“Do- do you- do you want this blanket?” Rowe ventured nervously. Master smiled and his eyes twinkled softly.

“Aw, Rowe, that is so kind. But I’m fine, honestly. You’re the one with the splint! You need to be wrapped up. I will come and sit with you, if that’s alright. Want to put the telly on?”

twenty-five days until I’m useful again

TV was a new and strange phenomenon for Rowe. Master rarely put it on before, but with Rowe spending most of his days confined to the sofa, wanting for nothing, being treated far better than he deserved, he had started watching some with his Pet- a routine that didn’t last long.

“I’m remembering why I don’t watch TV much,” remarked Master, filling up the kettle and eyeing the millionth episode of some dreadful home makeover show. “Bloody daytime shite.”

Rowe agreed, but he wouldn’t dare sound ungrateful. Until-

“What do you think, pal?”

That question again. “It’s- uh- n-not that great.”

“Thank fuck. Well done on telling the truth, love. I’ll try and find something a bit more exciting.”

Telling the truth. Rowe stared at his leg, and the cuts under his shirt ached.

twenty-two days until I’m useful again

Rowe could hardly focus on the book he was reading. It was called James and the Giant Peach, and it was charming (and he was reading!), but he couldn’t stop his skin from crawling.

Master was sat beside him, typing away on the laptop balanced on his knees, (complaining because ever since Adam had come over everyone at work had started being weirdly polite in their emails) but for some reason his closeness wasn’t the issue. It should be, Rowe knew. He should be far more scared of his Master than he was.

“You alright, pal? Haven’t turned a page in a while. Is there a word you’re struggling with?”

Rowe flinched as Master leant in. “I really- really want to be useful, Master, please,” he admitted.

“Ahh, you’re feeling a bit restless? That’s totally normal. Happens to all people.”

But I’m not a person, Rowe thought. Maybe Master was just trying to relate.

“I know what you can do. You want a chore, right?”

Rowe nodded enthusiastically. “Yes please, Master.”

“Righty. Two secs.”

The basket of freshly dried laundry dropped onto the sofa with a thunk, and a few seconds later Master sat next to it with a ‘’here you go, pal, fancy doing some folding?’’

The itchiness went away in a heartbeat. He had barely stammered out a thank you before he had seized the first item and got to work.

When his hands brushed against Master Tomas’s he looked up in confusion. Master simply smiled at him while neatly folding a pair of trousers.

What? Was Rowe not being fast enough? Was he being clumsy? Was Master showing him how, because Rowe was doing such a terrible job? Was he- was he in trouble?

“Hey, don’t worry,” said Master, seeing the look on Rowe’s face. “Just thought I’d do my share. We both live here after all, don’t we?”

“But- but- this is what I’m for, Master?”

“You’re doing this because you wanted to. I haven’t asked. These last few days you’ve just been resting and I’ve been perfectly happy with you.”

Rowe never understood when Master spoke in riddles like that. Why couldn’t he just be direct in what he wanted from Rowe?

“O-okay, Master.”

nineteen days until I can kneel

“This is for you,” Master said, opening up the parcel that had clattered through the letterbox earlier and made Rowe jump. He watched as Master Tomas ran a pair of scissors through the tape, and his chest felt… fine? Like even though Master could hurt him, and he probably should, it wasn’t a scary thought. Before Rowe had a chance to think about that further, Master brought out a pair of very fluffy socks.

“For me?” he asked, even though that was exactly what he’d just been told. He just couldn’t quite believe it, even after everything Master had given him.

“Yeah! Got to keep your feet warm, pal. Want to try them on?”

Rowe nodded and slipped them on. They were patterned with red and white stripes, and they came up almost to his knee on his free leg. Master Tomas helped him fold the other down to sit underneath the splint.

“Thank you so much, they’re lovely,” Rowe said earnestly, and- even better- actually smiled. Master Tomas smiled straight back at him.

seventeen days left until I can use my leg

“Have you always been a Pet?” Master asked suddenly. Rowe looked up from his book, his fingers curling in at the memory of his training.

“Yes, Master.”

“You didn’t have a life before it?”

“No. I was trained to be a Pet… that’s all I know.”

This seemed to be the wrong answer. Master frowned deeply.

“Don’t you have anyone missing you? Is there someone you care about, somewhere out there?”

“Only you, Master.”

And it was the utmost truth, and Rowe hoped Master believed him, because Rowe didn’t want him to worry.

fourteen days until I’m healed

eleven days left of resting

nine days left- because it’s good for me

five days left and I feel so much better already

three days left-

“Hey, Kas,” Master said, his voice floating down the stairs. Rowe went stiff. He had almost forgotten- Master had been so kind that he, he, he had got complacent. How did he let himself forget? “The hospital told me I didn’t ever properly sign the forms for Rowe. Call me back when you get this, and we can sort it out? Cheers, mate. See you.”

A beep. Rowe could barely breathe. He pressed a hand to his face to calm himself. It was a voicemail, Kasia didn’t pick up, there was still time-

Master’s soft footsteps padded towards him-

Rowe tried in vain not to cry. He was so weak, crying at the mere mention of his tormentor. Master was seconds from rounding the corner into the living room. Kasia would come soon. And then what? What would he do to Rowe this time? And what would Master say?

Rowe’s chest heaved with his panicked breaths.

What could he do?

#tomas and rowe #pet whump #pet whumpee #master/pet #whump #whump fic #dehumanisation #also hey! a chapter wholly from rowes perspective!#i enjoyed it a lot #tw self harm

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