#lore writes

[lorelune]

(minors & ageless blogs dni // michael kaiser x reader // inspired by kaiser's grip strength)

"i hate you."

"no, you don't." if you knew kaiser any less, you'd assume it was playful banter. that's what it sounds like, but, perhaps unfortunately, michael kaiser occupies your bed like an infectious disease and therefore you know his words are more him attempting to convince himself, rather than you.

"i do, actually." you frown, deeper, somehow.

your hand, wrapped in a tea towel and ice pack, is cradled against your chest. you haven't looked at michael in over ten minutes which essentially means he's experiencing withdrawals, but you're not in any mood to humor him or play nice.

"take it back." kaiser says, a little more seriously.

you sniffle. "die in a ditch. i hope you run into a tree in your stupid sportscar."

"it's actually a—“

"i don't care."

you don't like hospitals, that's half the reason for your fowl mood. the waiting room of the emergency room you're in isn't particularly private, nor is it particular uncrowded, though you and kaiser have tucked yourself into the most secluded corner of it. across the room, a mother sits with a wailing child— ear infection, probably. a guy around your age is holding one of those... barf sacks to his mouth. if you have to hear him wretch another time, you're going to walk out the ER doors and resort to homeopathic remedies that can be foraged from the shrubbery around the parking lot. even though they probably won't do much for a broken bones.

kaiser is sulking next to you, withdrawing from your attention the way a toddler would. fuck him, actually, you're giving him the cold shoulder until you at least get an x-ray and can lay into him properly for the damage he's inflicted on you.

your hand— it hurts. it hurts ambiently, and it hurts especially when you accidentally move it. you're trying to keep the appendage still, but it's hard when you're twitchy and unsettled in your fairly uncomfortable waiting room chair.

kaiser is bundled up next to you in a hoodie and joggers. you will give him some credit, the moment he realized you were actually injured, he threw on the outfit nearest him and shoved you in his stupidly expensive [insert sports car name] and broke several speed limits to get you to the hospital in record time. his concern is genuine. probably.

you can't bring yourself to care.

"i said i'm sorry." kaiser kicks the linoleum floor below. the puke guy wretches again. you're going to kill yourself. you can still feel the remnants of lube in between your thighs.

"you haven't, actually." you sniffle, carefully rubbing your nose with your free hand. it jostles your injured one enough to make you audibly wince.

kaiser, with a limber stretch, plucks a few tissues from a box nearby. he holds one to your nose.

"blow." he all but command.

"eat my dick."

he pushes them more insistently at your nose. "blow."

you do, if only to get him to stop his harassment. you're getting a restraining order. you're kicking him to the curb the moment you get home.

"fuck you." you say with far less bite than you wish.

you're— you're tired. you're sore. there's a hickey on your neck the size of a fist (kaiser's fist, large and veined and uncomfortably powerful) that throbs with your heartbeat. you have a headache. you didn't come. neither did kaiser, which is some consolation.

"don't be like that." kaiser frowns. you still aren't looking at him to see the expression on his face, but you can hear it.

you huff, tears beading in your eyes. you can't cry in this emergency room, that's pussy shit. you're saving that for when you're come in and you have michael autograph your cast so you can sell the carcass of it on online for a ridiculous sum of money. consolation.

"you haven't even said sorry—"

"i did, actually," michael's arm slides over your shoulder. "at home. you didn't hear me because you were too busy throwing a tantrum."

"a tantrum?!" you snap, finally looking at him if only to wield the fury in your eyes more effectively at him rather than the faux-marble of the flooring. "i'm sorry, but my partner just broke my fucking hand—“

"you don't know that.”

"i do, actually!" you peel the icepack away. the swelling already looks brutal, all puffy and inflamed along the back of your hand. there's a few lumps that are distinctly not inflammation and more than likely protrusions bone. or something. you show it to him with grimace.

you look from your hand then back to kaiser.

he does look sad, but for what it's worth.

he looks crestfallen, not quite ashamed, but not at all prideful. his own hands are in tight fists on his thighs. the crown lock on the back of his left hand shifts. his bottom lip is between his teeth. his hair is mussed up from your recent romp. he's— still a little flushed from it. he always has blushed easily and it takes awhile to dissipate.

"i didn't mean to." kaiser admits, all quiet-voiced. the wailing of the child covers his words entirely. they're just meant for you. "you know that."

"i do." and— you do.

there's some world where the cause of your injury is actually painfully (haha) romantic. michael, fucking you in missionary with strokes so deep and long, they probably carved you into a new shape. no one can fuck you like michael, and he makes that clear whenever he beds you. he'd been almost flat over you, braced up on one arm, holding your hand on the other side. his hands are so much bigger than yours, stronger, meaner. your legs had been pushed up to your ears. each thrust was a slow roll of momentum that you'd be feeling that next day.

("mihya," you choked on your words. god, you're close, just from the way that he's scrapping along your insides and the light friction of his pelvis against your clit. "you're so good."

he shushes you. he takes praise like this, when you're both so cored open, so poorly. he rejects on impulse, like a reflex from an atrophied muscle.

"so, so good," the fucking is good. sure. but it's him too. the fact that he can even stand to do this, to want this, to want to be this close and this present and inside of you. the fact that he even tries to take your adoration at all. he's such a good boy.

"you're—" you're cut off by a particularly brutal thrust. he tucks his face against your throat, kisses and bites like he needs to make sure the bruises he leaves never get a chance to fade. "you're feel so good, my mihya, so good, sooo—“

his hips stutter. he gasps into your fragile skin and squeezes your hand as you squeeze around him. he squeezes and squeezes and it feels so good. being the locus of his attention, bearing his presence and intensity. god, how can you take this either, really?

he's— still squeezes. still squeezing as your toes curl and you kiss his temple. "you're so good, mihya."

and then, there's an audible snap.)

snaps, actually. it's definitely not just one bone.

michael had never gloated about his physical strength. it was a passive thing, of course was as strong as he was fast, obiviously. you'd read some sports article that listed off some of his stats for the start of season. you saw his grip strength— 80kg— and barely took note of it.

you're paying for it now.

you know he didn't mean it. he was caught up in the moment and wasn't watching himself. he didn't intend to hurt you. your cunt just felt so good that he broke your hand over it. god fuck, how do you explain that to a doctor?

a nurse calls your name and you stand, wobbly. you're sore from being fucked less than an hour prior. michael stabilizes you with a hand on your waist.

and hesiates in his chair.

"should i go home." he asks. he's— tired. you can tell. red-eyed and close to a fracture himself, though the appendage splintering is less a hand and more a heart.

"no," you answer immediately. "you leave me here and i'm getting a divorce."

"we aren't married."

"then we will go to the fucking courthouse after this, get married, then i will divorce you." you glare then sigh. "please come back with me?"

kaiser looks at you. looks at you and looks at you and looks at you.

he sighs himself, stretches his arms above his head as he rises. his hand finds your lower back as you are led back into the bays of medical beds. you— you really hate hospital. the antiseptic smell makes your skin crawl.

your nurse settles you into a room. kaiser sits on the chair closest to the bed, watching like a hawk as the nurse takes a few of your vitals.

your shirt must have slipped down your shoulder. the nurse's gaze tracks from the purpling mark there to your obiviously broken hand and then to kaiser with his bulging thighs spread. she must recognize him, too.

"he— he didn't mean to," you clarify. jesus, you sound like an abuse victim. you amend quickly. "we were— um, it was a heat of the moment thing."

she looks increasingly concerned. professional, so it’s veiled, but still— fuck, fuck, fuck—

"we were having passionate sex and i broke their hand." michael says far too proudly. not an ounce of shame in his voice, the fucker.

the nurse looks to you. "would you like him to step out—?”

"no, no. it's fine. he's— telling the truth.

"oh!" the nurse laughs. "i see, no trouble at all. we see plenty of injuries from intercourse here."

despite her statement, she still slips you a "do you feel safe at home?" phamlet on the way out. you hand it to kaiser who then plunks it into the trash.

you lay your head back on the starchy pillow and sigh.

"this is so shit." you rub a hand down your face, the uninjured one. "you're getting me doner on the way home."

kaiser has scooted his chair closer. god, this fucker has separation anxiety. it's like you've adopted a shelter dog. you let him, and say nothing as he closes your proximity.

"we'll need to stop."

"and i will stay in your nice, warm car while you procure it." you glare.

"you're milking this for all that's it's worth, aren't you?" kaiser narrows his eyes.

"i won't be able to do much with it, mihya." you have the impulse to flex your fingers, but you restrain yourself. "i might need surgery if it's bad enough."

"you won't."

"i definitely could."

kaiser grouses at that, but doesn't fight the possibility. he's a professional athlete and has seen enough injury on the field (and off, if your memory serves you (and it does)) instead, he lays his head on stiff sheet below you. you, incredibly graciously, use your good hand to pet his hair. he grumbles some, but doesn't fuss any further.

time wheedles on as your gaze drifts from the top of kaiser's head and the ceiling tiles.

"was the sex that good?" you ask, mostly without thinking.

kaiser's cheek is against the mattress, facing you, giving you the vantage to see how sharp his eyes get. god, wrong fucking question to ask.

"schatzchen—" he purrs, plucking your wrist into his grip faster than you can pull away. "so good. your cu—"

"finish that sentence and you're sleeping on the couch."

"why?" he smiles, lips a little dry from the parched hospital air. "because i'm praising you?"

"no, because you're filthy and mean."

"you like that i'm filthy."

"i will never admit that."

"that's not really denial, dearest."

you huff and try to tug your wrist out of his grip. which, given the pretext for as to why you're in this bed, is a bad idea. he simply tightens his grip and you're trapped.

he kisses the back of your hand. "it was soooo good—"

your face feels hot as two nurses slid into the room. one clearly recognizes your disheveled kaiser and her eyebrows shoot up. you stare at. medical privacy, please.

kaiser doesn't notice. he's too fixated on you, on the back of your hand and on each and every expression of yours. the attention doesn't let up even as he picks up his head while the nurse goes through a bit of preamble to prep you for your x-ray.

"can he come?" you jerk your head to kaiser.

the nurse that recognized him pipes up immediately. "he can wait outside!"

"good, i'm glad." he breathes out with a contented hum. "i need to keep an eye on my partner, don't i, schatzchen?"

the nurse's expression goes flat. eyes darting between you both. kaiser looks very pleased with him, his grip shifting to clasp your hands together. not gingerly, because kaiser doesn't know tenderness enough to be such a way, but not so hard as for you too flinch at his grip strength.

it's comforts you that your street dog can learn.

[apotropaionalter]

cw: implied kidnapping, dark fic

snow covers the trees as far as the eye can see, until the trees blend in with the surrounding mountains. there are no roads visible in the distance, no streetlights, no smoke billowing from neighbouring cabins. the only sign of life comes from the steady stream of light pouring from the porch lamp behind you. 

your toes curl in your rubber boots, the bones crack from the cold. its hard to say how long you have been here, but you know you weren’t here long before you lost your winter boots. you tried to run — you got antsy in the cabin, pacing a hole into the floor, keeping the old man up — but you didn’t make it far before he was dragging you back inside by the scruff of your neck. he took your boots then, laughed about how you wouldn’t make it to the fence line without a proper pair of shoes. fuck, you can barely make it to the shed for some more firewood.

you’re heaving by the time you’ve gathered the last few logs of wood. the snow keeps pouring down; you’d overheard the weatherman on the radio say the storm showed no signs of stopping. the trail you made to the shed is almost gone by the time you turn back. you could run now, drop the wood and head south. but you can’t feel your toes, and the tears that have spilled over due to the cold are frozen to your cheeks.

the steps groan underneath your weight as you make your way back to the door. john looks up from the kitchen window and his face softens. you kick your boots off at the door, feet tingling. he offered his name the first night here. you didn’t offer yours. he knew it anyways. he knows a lot about you, yet you’re still learning about him. 

you’ve gathered that he is military, or he was. he’s old fashioned, the newest piece of technology in this place is the radio from the 90’s. he reads mostly non-fiction or mystery books. he starts his day with a crossword and ends it with sudoku. takes his tea black, drinks only decaffeinated past 2pm to help him sleep. the whiskey doesn’t hurt either.

he’s got trust issues; let’s you bring the wood in by yourself but doesn’t let you near the cutting knives. he’s got control issues too; he laid out a short set of rules for you to follow, but you discover new infractions everyday. 

you glide past him when you come inside, unceremoniously dropping the wood in front of the fireplace and dropping to the ground in an effort to warm up. you think he likes to keep you cold, hoping it will bring you closer to him. that’s why he only keeps one blanket on the back of the couch, why your socks are thin and your cable knit sweater is threadbare. he hums as he approaches, carrying a bowl of what you can only assume is another stew. old fashioned.

“up on the couch, love. got to warm you up.” he brings a hand to your shoulder, fingertips dancing to the curve of your neck before stopping above your pulse. you hate yourself for leaning into it. “got your favourite for dessert. stopped at a bakery i think you’ll love.”

you tilt your head back, watching as he settles into the couch behind you. you don’t recall him leaving. he groans as he leans back, shifting to make space beside him.

“you’d take me?” you ask, voice hoarse from the cold. 

he smirks and pats the space beside him, his other hand tightening on the steaming bowl. “one day. if you’re good.”

its a lie, you both know it. the thought leaves you just as quickly as it comes, erased by the fleeting idea of one day. you shuffle onto the couch beside him and tuck your feet underneath yourself. the snow shows no signs of stopping, the flakes fall heavier with each passing moment. you watch it settle on the window frame as you settle into john — it fogs up the window, it feels like erasure. the stew sits heavy in your stomach, its hard to say why you want to leave.

© lore 2026

[hbosscreations]

Hellweek Day 2: Ships

John looked at his watch with a frown.

He knew he was late, he’d planned to be at Ray’s before the sun went down, but things never went to plan when he needed them to.

The street was dark, only the lamplight to greet John as he opened the door to Ray’s building and let himself inside. No lights were left on in the business to greet him, even though he’d called Ray and told him he’d be coming. No music or sounds of the telly in the distance, and no Ray muttering to himself as he puttered around and put things where they belonged.

Unsettling, seeing Ray’s shop without a soul in it. He always had someone hanging about, keeping him company, more than a few of the local undesirables found their way under his protective eye. As a local elder gay, he considered it his duty to shepherd lost lambs when the opportunity arose. John would be jealous if he didn't know that he was the favorite.

“Ray?”

John called up the stairs toward the door to Ray’s flat and was greeted by the sound of his dog, Johnny’s, angry chuffs.

“Ray? Hullo? It’s John!”

Johnny barked this time, clearly upset by something, and John felt dread wash over him.

He made his way up the stairs and let himself in with the spare key Ray made sure he had on hand for bad nights or if he was just in the area and wanted to pop in. The entryway was dark, but John could see a small, dark shadow come barreling toward him as it let out several aggravated barks before spinning in a circle at his feet.

“Hey, mutt. Where’s Ray?”

Fuck. John didn’t like dogs and Johnny didn’t like John, but Ray hardly ever left Johnny alone, especially now that he was an elder dog. He’d named the dog after John to tease him, but his girls at the drag club liked it so much that it stuck, by John’s next visit, Johnny knew his name too well for John to issue a proper complaint.

The place was pitch dark, much like the store below, but at least the windows below had let the streetlamps light through. For whatever reason, Ray had closed all the curtains and made the place as dark as he could manage.

Ray never closed the curtains.

He didn’t leave Johnny in the dark, the little corgi didn’t like it, and John didn’t like it either. With Ray being so frail, especially this time of the year, John had horrible nightmares about the man tripping when he couldn’t see and falling down those stairs or hitting his head on a corner or on the floor. Twisting an ankle and not being checked on soon enough. He knew that Ray wasn't in need of constant care, but the thought of Ray being alone all the time, especially when he needed people, made him worry.

Hand against the wall to keep himself steady, John followed the shuffle of little paws on carpet and the sound of unhappy whining until they reached the sitting room. A sliver of light from the slight gap in the curtains illuminated Ray, sitting still in his brown leather armchair by the fireplace.

Johnny scampered quickly to Ray and awkwardly got on his back legs to put his paws on Ray’s knee. Johnny looked back at John and gave two sharp barks before he whimpered loudly.

“Oh hell.”

Ray had bottle and an empty scotch glass on the little table, next to a picture of himself and Sgt. Bill from right before the Falklands, a lovely shot that made John’s chest ache every time he saw it after Ray’d had it developed.

Taken just before the word that Bill’s ship, Sir Galahad, had been bombed. Ray had never smiled like that after.

Head soft, heart racing, John stepped forward.

“Ray?”

His chin was against his chest. His eyes were closed.

The bottle was mostly empty.

John came over and knelt next to Johnny to get into Ray’s line of sight.

He felt Ray’s wrist for a pulse, mouth trembling as he pressed into Ray’s soft skin.

It was there still, and strong.

Thank god.

John took a few breaths and blinked back the pressure that’d started to build behind his eyes.

“Ray? Ray, it’s John. Wake up.”

Ray was alive.

“Hmm?”

Ray’s eyes fluttered as he slowly, so, so slowly, lifted his head.

“Oh, dear. I must have dozed off.”

Johnny yipped loudly and pawed at his knee. Ray reached out to scratch his ears, hardly looked in John’s direction as he soothed the unhappy pup.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny. Poor boy.”

“You alright, Ray?”

Ray nodded slowly as his hand moved to scritch under Johnny’s chin.

“It was a hard day, that’s all. You know how things get.”

A hard day.

Yeah, the week before the anniversary was always hard. That was why John was in London in the first place.

“You scared me, Ray. Scared Johnny, too.”

“Oh, poor Johnny, my poor, poor boy.”

Ray let out a pitiful noise as he reached out to pat his pooch on the head. Johnny whimpered again and Ray frowned.

John didn’t know what to do for the man. He loved Ray more than anything, the man who’d taken him in when he’d had nothing, who’d supported his dreams and wanted nothing but for John to be happy and cared for. Who'd loved him like family and didn't turn him away when John'd acted up and out.

He'd been there when John was at his absolute lowest. There was no way in hell that John wouldn't be there for Ray in his hour of need.

John ran his thumb over the back of Ray’s hand, tried to soothe whatever demons had come to rest in his heart while John was away, to prove to Ray that John was there for him and he wasn’t alone in this, no matter how much it hurt.

Ray pulled his hand away.

“Would you mind taking Johnny for a quick walk? It’s been hours and I’m quite tired.”

It wasn’t a request made lightly, Ray knew that John and Johnny didn’t like each other, the dog had pissed on his shoes on more than one occasion and nipped at him plenty since Ray had picked him up, but…

Well, John wasn’t going to make Ray walk down the stairs in the dark when he was in his pajamas and robe, probably still drunk, and not in a good mind to be out and about. He got up and pressed a kiss to Ray’s temple.

“Sure, let me turn the light on for you first. Close your eyes.”

He waited a beat before he turned the switch and Ray’s reading lamp dimly lit the room with enough of a glow that John could confidently leave Ray to his business. Ray’s hand immediately covered his eyes and he grimaced.

“Ugh.”

“Just sit and let them adjust, I’ll take Johnny for a walk and then I’ll help you to bed.”

John clicked his fingers and started toward the front door, where Johnny’s leash hung, waiting.

“C’mon, mutt. I know you know what the word walk means.”

The dog let out a pitiful whimper, but trotted along after John to the door and let John hook his leash to his collar without even snarling or snapping once, an improvement on their usual relationship.

It was funny, the both of them were quite jealous of Ray’s affection and didn’t enjoy sharing, but they could get along when Ray needed them.

Normally, John knew that Ray walked Johnny slowly around the neighborhood, letting him toddle and sniff and go as slowly as his old doggy hips desired. Instead of a long meander around the neighborhood, Johnny went to the little grass patch and did his business, before he immediately started back to the building, tugging on the leash as he tried to pull John faster.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?”

Johnny huffed as he looked back at John.

“Yeah, mutt. I’m worried, too.”

Johnny hardly let John get the leash off before he ran off down the hall, making loud little doggie noises.

Ray was still in his chair.

He’s started to shiver, the familiar motion to his shoulders of sobs kept quiet to avoid attention, and his head was in his hands. Johnny settled himself on Ray’s feet and started making soothing, rumbling doggy noises.

A scrapbook on the floor caught John’s eye.

Ray was in the clipping business, he had all sorts of things plucked and preserved, saved for later and organized. It wasn’t unusual for Ray to have scrapbooks around. Bill was big on photography in his spare time, and Ray always said that pictures preserved things. Anything recorded wasn’t truly gone.

It was unusual for it to be fallen onto the floor with pages bent, though.

John picked up the book and immediately grimaced at the contents. He didn't know what he'd expected, but he'd hoped it was pictures of the two of them, Ray and Bill, or something like his girls at the drag club.

“He burned on that ship.”

Instead, it was an entire scrapbook of newspaper articles, carefully collected over years, depicting the entirety of the Falklands war. A mention of the upcoming anniversary of the bombing of Sir Galahad in today’s paper was the last thing inside.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Ray.”

John put the book down on the mantle over the fireplace and grimaced at it.

Ray developed a fear of fire and aged a decade overnight when Bill died, his hair turned fully grey, his skin seemed too thin on his hands. He was still handsome and charming as always, but frail in a way John had never imagined him to be, never expected. It took his girls two years to make him comfortable with the fireplace again, which he needed, because the winters were so, so cold in that little flat above the shop.

It wasn’t cold enough to need it yet, but…

“I worried every day. Wished I could write to him, but you know how things are for us. His unmarried, bachelor roommate sending him letters so often? It would have been devastating to his reputation.”

John lifted Ray’s hand and kissed his knuckles.

“I know. Ray, he knew you loved him.”

“Not enough. Never enough.”

No, it wasn’t enough, was it? Could never be enough, when the person you loved with your whole heart and soul was so far gone from you.

“Don’t do that, Ray. Bill wouldn’t like you doing this to yourself, being angry and mourning him and hurting yourself while doing it. This isn’t how he wanted you to love him.”

Ray sobbed and John pressed Ray’s hand firmly between his own, in his best attempt to offer comfort as he knew how.

As Ray had taught John to do when he had been hurting.

“C’mon, Ray, let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

“Yes. Bed. I am quite tired.”

John helped Ray to his feet and used himself as a support for Ray to lean on. He glanced over his shoulder at the album propped on the wall and turned his head to John’s shoulder.

“Perhaps…perhaps it’s best if you took that somewhere else. I shouldn’t stare at that ship any longer, I think.”

“I think that’s a good idea. Out of sight for the time being, you don’t need it right now.”

Johnny wuffed and led the way down the hall to Ray’s bedroom as the two slowly followed behind.

It was hard seeing Ray like this. When they’d first met, Ray sang and danced on stage in heels, he taught John to ballroom dance. He was vibrant and full of light that seemed to fill any room he entered without effort.

The fire in him had gone dim and John didn’t know if he was even capable of stoking that fire or if he was just going to make it worse.

Ray’s bedroom was simple. A bed large enough for just himself, a lamp, a dressing table, and a wardrobe, but since the last time John had been in the room, Ray had added had a small, carpeted ramp next to it that John didn’t fully understand.

Until Johnny toddled his fat little arse over to it and shuffled up onto Ray’s bed.

“When did you get that?”

“Tish got it for me.”

John took Ray’s robe and helped him get under the covers, tucked him in and kissed his knuckles again as Johnny wobbled over and flopped down right against Ray’s side.

“If I’d known you let the dog sleep with you, I’d have wiped his feet before he got into bed.”

Ray smiled as Johnny chuffed and snuggled in close, his head rested on Ray’s shoulder as he closed his eyes, contented.

“I’ll get bedding washed tomorrow.”

John snorted and shook his head.

“You mean, I’ll get the bedding washed. Can’t believe you let the mutt sleep with you when he’s a perfectly good and stupidly fancy dog bed right there.”

“Well, someone has to keep me company.”

John smiled and leaned over to kiss the center of Ray’s forehead.

He loved this man with his whole heart.

Hated his pain in equal measure.

Despaired that he could not soothe this man who he loved so dearly.

“Yeah, well, he’s lucky you put up with him. Stray like him knows when he’s got it made.”

Ray let out a worried noise and started to sit up.

“I didn’t put out any bedding.”

“Ray, hush. I’m a grown man, perfectly capable of getting myself a spare blanket. You just rest, don’t worry about taking care of me. I’ll handle breakfast.”

“You’ll burn down my flat making toast is what you’ll do.”

“I’ll order in.”

Ray sniffled and hid a sob in a laugh as Johnny wuffed at them again.

“Shall I leave the hall light on for you?”

Ray shook his head.

“Too much like flames on a bad night. Johnny’s been out and I can navigate by touch, I’m fine. I prefer the darkness these days.”

John smoothed the blankets and tried not to worry. Ray didn’t like fire, but he’d always kept at least one light on in the hall, always kept something lit in case anyone needed to come in, in case they needed him.

But when he needed someone else, he turned the lights out.

“Okay. You get some rest and in the morning I’ll feed you and get your bedding to the launderette.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“G’night, Ray.”

Johnny chuffed and Ray reached out to put his hand on Johnny’s head.

“Yeah, yeah, g’night to you too, mutt.”

John would dispose of the scrapbook somewhere that neither Ray nor Johnny would stumble across it. No sense in Ray looking at pictures of that ship and imagining the fate of poor Sgt. Bill.

He pulled the bedding from storage and laid it out on Ray’s couch before he picked up the scrapbook and shoved it beneath the cushions. He’d deal with it in the morning.

As John went to the window to pull the curtain closed, he caught sight of the picture frame on the table. He let go of the curtains and picked up the photo. 

Bill’s smile as he looked at Ray was undeniable.Their blissful smiles made his chest hurt.

With a sigh, John put the photograph under the cushion with the photo album.

They’d get through the anniversary and hopefully Ray could put that damned ship out of his head for another year.

[cryingwriter]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒

Daniel Blake x Teresa Hawke (OC)

Manipulation has always been the key to operation within Wilson Fisk’s empire. It’s a job Teresa Hawke has had no problem with for many years. Daniel Blake only wanted to support the mayor and work his way up in the political world, but nothing was as he thought it’d be. Neither of them expect the fallout of what happens when getting close for the sake of the job turns into so much more.

Follows season 1 and 2 of Daredevil: Born Again with references to Netflix’s Daredevil. Canon compliant until chapter 29.

Tags: 18+ only (mdni), age gap (older woman), work place romance, angst, smut, a happy ending.

a long-fic masterlist

sexual content ✦

PART ONE ♟️ Sugar, We’re Going Down

Chapter 1: Beauty, Unnamed • Daniel sees the woman who will irreparably change his life for the first time.

Chapter 2: Her Orbit • Daniel gets to know the woman he saw the night of Fisk’s win and finds out she isn’t exactly the goddess he expected.

Chapter 3: Peace Denied • Fisk asks Daniel to contact BB again. And he learns some new information about his infuriatingly attractive coworker.

Chapter 4: The Edge Blurs • Daniel goes out to a club and gets a very clear warning from the very strong hand attached to his coworker. ✦

Chapter 5: The Smallest Sin • Daniel is forced to ask Teresa for help as he faces the consequences of blabbing his big mouth to BB Urich.

Chapter 6: True Face • Teresa takes Daniel on a field trip.

Chapter 7: Borrowed Rest • Daniel and Teresa start to catch feelings.

Chapter 8: Inherited Damage • Teresa and Daniel get closer as she unravels under the newness of her position within Fisk’s empire.

Chapter 9: A Poor Man's Sandwich • Daniel helps Teresa relieve a little bit of her stress. ✦

Chapter 10: The Shape of Desire • Teresa sneaks into Daniel’s apartment. ✦

Chapter 11: A Slow Undoing • The pair go to a gun range before giving in to their relentless desire. ✦

Next scheduled fics below the cut!

Chapter 12: The Man She Built • Daniel moves up in the world while Teresa moves down. (June 15th)

Chapter 13: An Empty Alter • The beginning of the end for Teresa Hawke. (June 17th)

Chapter 14: The Price of Freedom is Death • Teresa confronts the mayor. (June 19th)

Chapter 15: The Kingdom Falls • On the run, Teresa is forced to side with unlikely allies. (June 22nd)

PART TWO ♟️ When It’s Raining, It’s Pouring (coming soon)

[loreweaver-universe]

aaaaaaargh the curse of feeling creative again after a four year drought is that I KEEP COMING UP WITH NEW STORY IDEAS

Premise: an overworked office worker in the year 2463 dreams of being a starship pilot, so much so that all his spare time when he's off work is spent taking piloting lessons and dreaming of exploring the galaxy. He's not always into work on time and is on his last chance before he gets fired when he spots a women being backed into an alleyway by a man with a very large knife. After a fight in which he gets moderately cut up but drives the guy off, she asks to speak with him, but he begs off saying that if he's late to work again he's going to get fired. She insists he take a phone number to call if he loses his job and sends him on his way.

He gets into work and immediately gets fired.

Despairing, he goes home and after a bit calls the number. It turns out the woman he saved was the owner of the largest shipping company in the galaxy, and she calls him into a meeting and asks him what he wants to do with his life. When he tells her of his dream to become a starship pilot and explore the galaxy, she gives him a smallish ship and a Gemstone Card, a top-level-rich-person card which can access a line of credit that will pay for repairs, supplies, and crew pay on her dime with no limit.

The story is about his travels, the people he meets, the crew he assembles, and...MAYBE an overarching dramatic plot? I haven't gotten that far. Anyways, here's the music video that inspired this, it's badass.

Also, I think I've hit on a name for the ship, and thus the story: Golden Tomorrow.

[loreshark]

Voidborn

Hey all, I’ve officially begun a new Danny Phantom AU: Space Core Danny, the Eldritch Edition.

I’m mostly writing short prompts and thoughts for the moment, but I might put together a full fic. We’ll see where the inspiration takes me. For now, enjoy the newest installment!

———

When the portal flared to life, Danny didn’t fall to the floor or stumble from the machine or any number of things one might expect from encountering death. He did hear himself scream, did learn the agony of harboring lightning within his bones, did feel the unmaking of his very being, but only vaguely, as if watching an old projection movie from far, far away.

No, in that moment, Danny changed.

———

Read the full piece on Ao3.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[lifeofa-fangirl]

One Night and One More Time - Masterlist

Summary: Four times she was a one night stand. And one time she wasn’t. Or: the one where she and Damiano keep bumping into each other and hooking up, but forget to talk about their feelings.

Word count: 11.7K

Warnings: Mentions of sex, a couple of swear words.

A/N: A lovely anon suggested I make a masterlist for this story, so here we are. Thank you for the great suggestion! It took forever to finish this story, so thank you to everyone who send me kind messages and likes and kicked my ass to finish this. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. It would be lovely if you could spread the word/give me some love once more. 

One. February 2019. Milan

Two. December 2019. London.

Three. June 2020. Naples.

Four. May 2021. Rotterdam.

Five. December 2021. Rome.