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osamucide · 2 days ago

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⊹ I KNOW

I WILL PRETEND THAT I DON’T KNOW OF YOUR SINS UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO CONFESS . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader, implied/referenced dissociation+anxiety+self harm+scars+past suicide attempts, hurt/comfort but it's him so of course it's a little unhinged, mentions of dying and being dead, mentions of kidnapping but it's not serious, minor suicidal ideation but it's romantic i guess? non-sexual nudity/intimacy, showering together, lots of kisses, just unbandaging a fragile Dazai and covering him in kisses

reid: draft i been sittin on. how many times will i do an iteration of unwrap and clean him. idk. a million billion. i love him so bad

He’s looking down at his hands—or his wrists, or his fingers, or the spaces between his fingers; you’re not sure. But he’s looking down, emptily, when you nudge the cracked bathroom door further open.

He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet. He has no shirt on. His bandages are unraveling at each end of their respective reaches. It’s long past time they should be changed, long past time the flesh beneath them breathe and be washed.

Changing the bandages is just something that has to be done; he will not give them up, nor will he give up the habit evidenced beneath them, and you’ve been with him long enough to know this is how he survives. The bandages do the holding-together when you’re not there to, which is far more often than he’d like. Ideally, he’d be able to shrink you down and keep you in his pocket for safe-keeping and take you out whenever he needs, like a good luck charm; he’d be able to have you on his arm all day, every day, but that’s not possible when you’re an adult with a job and a life. Like him. Right? Right. He’d shuck this skin sooner than the habit, anyway, so, like showering, it’s just something that has to be done.

He doesn’t particularly love when you watch him do it, or offer to do it for him, but you certainly drive off the impulses, hazes, and tremors that come with doing it alone. So, he lets you.

He didn’t always; he went out of his way, bent over backwards for a long time to make sure you never could, much less had to. Somewhere deep down, though, beneath that resolve and the facade stilted upon it, he knew he couldn’t hide his ugliness from you forever.

Despite the normality—the domestic intimacy that standing beneath the water with you suggests now, so much that he has to admit it stills the expansion of the ever-growing black hole inside him—he still always fears it’ll be the last time you want to look at it.

“Osamu?” you mumble from the doorframe.

He does not move, does not look at you over the white noise of the shower running—if he’s noticed you’re here, he doesn't show it. You move to him, slowly, like approaching a skittish cat.

Before you touch him, you bend down—beneath the sink are the rolls of fresh bandages, the clean, new ones that make him look less like a mummy unearthed from Victorian times and more like what he understands himself to be in his purest form: a basket case of the modern era, the worst gift you unwrap every Christmas and birthday and have to pretend to fawn over until it’s safe to be rid of it. You’ll never be rid of him, he thinks regretfully while you shuffle next to him; he’ll never get by without you now, and it almost makes him wish he never met you in the first place, just so he never could’ve inflicted himself upon you.

But you never send him back. Dazai can’t seem to understand, even with all that sharp intelligence of his, that you don’t ever plan to.

Four rolls. One for each of his legs, one for both of his arms, the rest for miscellaneous spots like around his neck or across his chest or wherever else he decides he needs them this time. That’s how many you set on the counter before you land in front of him, your hands pushing his hair back, your proximity forcing his cheek to lay tired against your stomach while those hands curl around the backs of your legs and pull you closer to stand between his.

You cradle Dazai’s head like you’re some sort of saint. To him, you might as well be.

Thumbs brushing his temple and the base of his skull, you speak again, just as quiet. “Come on, let’s wash.” Or, let me unwrap you and look at all that ugliness. He can’t help that he doesn’t move for a firm fifteen seconds; why would he want to, when you hold him so sweetly like this?

But eventually, he rises.

You don’t feed him formalities or those silly questions anymore when you do this. No more can I? Or, you’re gorgeous, or, is this okay? He doesn’t want those during this, you’ve come to find out; you’ll tell him you love him plenty in a few minutes, when he’s only marginally more ready to receive it, but right now you go to work like a tinker repairing a broken doll. Your touch is objective, but not cold or clinical. You treat him with a tenderness he couldn’t have fathomed until he knew you.

After he steps out of his slacks, you loosen the strips with one hand and twirl them around the other; they accumulate in a graying mass of two or more weeks worth of sweat, and you place them in the trash, softly, like you adore and respect those, too, as he skitters past you toward the water for a sense of cover. He knows you’ll be in right after him, but at least the light behind the shower curtain is dimmer. When he disappears, it’s as if he was never there.

But he says, “I’m okay,” unprompted, as you step beneath the water.

He is, really. It’s just jarring when it’s the focus.

The process of becoming accustomed to vulnerability is often more painful than the vulnerability itself, Dazai has learned. While the realization can be sudden, like the flipping of a switch, the vulnerability on its own can actually be quite nice. Peaceful. He knows this because you showed him—continue to show him.

He’s just a man in the shower with his beloved, so, now you’ll talk to him.

“I know,” you say. And you do, really. The hardest part is over, and he’s practically pranced through it this time. You crack a smile.

And he mirrors your smile, not so bright and smug as under normal circumstances but soft and searching. Dazai reaches for your arms, your waist, and pulls you into him; the water hits your back—hot, how he likes it—and you tuck your head into his shoulder and wrap yourself around his middle, whispering I love yous into his shoulder.

It's peaceful. He sways you ever so subtly.

But in true Dazai fashion, he'll shatter the peace. Ever the disruptor.

“I'm sorry you have to love this part of me, too.”

The ugliness, he means. Not just the marred and keloided skin that maps out his history of self-destruction, but his resignation to it. The scabs that touch the small of your back are freshly healing and peeling. If you didn't have him beneath your watch right now they'd probably be scratched open, raw and bleeding again, but as previously mentioned, your presence staves off the itching need to do so.

The tips of his fingers squeeze you when you pull back to look up at him, sliding your hands up his shoulders and behind his neck to link.

“I love every part of you,” you murmur as his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your stunted slow-dance deepens as he sighs himself back into his body, back into the clearer image of you in his grasp. “Don’t be sorry about it. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

The demons snap at his ankles, though. “What if you change your mind one day?”

If he was a hair more insane, he might take you hostage. Keep you to himself forever, and never let you leave. But that would take the peace out of it, he thinks. Your volition makes it all sweeter. You want to be here. You want to love him.

He just doesn’t want that to change.

You hum patiently, although hating when he what ifs. That’s the plague of the ever-moving mind he keeps, you suppose; so intelligent, but so restless. “I don’t think I will.”

You don’t think you will, but that doesn’t settle the insecurity that’s settled in his stomach like a coiled snake.

You don’t think you will, but you will. He knows you will, because that’s how it’s fated to unfold for him.

Your short words don’t corral him away from the snake, but the less you treat him like he’s a gaping wound, the better. You see it. You don’t cry or gasp or lament or promise how you could never leave him, will never leave him; you don’t like to make promises that reach beyond your control.

The human existence is so strange and fluid, and while you’re confident you won’t tire of him, well, your reciprocated touches aren’t the only things stitching you together, you know; there’s a world, much larger than both of you, that you live in, and a universe even more incomprehensible and its whims are fickle—but they’re also serendipitous. Everything is a miracle, if you think about it. A big, beautiful mistake. You don’t know how much he buys into this, and you’d rather him not read into it as an excuse not to answer with a resounding I’ll never leave you, my love, so you just do what you always do best: spin it in a direction his troubled mind can find solace in, pair it with kisses that have all your soul for him to inhale, and promise what you can: your hope.

You start with his lips. The best place, arguably; one of your hands tilts his chin toward yours and you kiss him softly, simply. Dazai responds hesitantly, still holding onto you tight. You kiss him for minutes, until he's humming, until his grip loosens comfortably and his shoulders untense and his palms rest on either of your hips.

You have a habit of kissing him silly, literally. Your lips move against his and he feels high. His head gets light, and his hands get restless, and between the short puffs of air he draws in through his nose he croons at the way your fingers push his hair back, trail down his neck.

“I’m confident,” you say, sliding across his cheek to beneath his ear while he grabs at you in soft and absent-minded desperation, “that I’ll love you ‘til the end of my days.”

“But what if the e—”

“I’m certain—” You cut him off, first with speech and then with a kiss before you begin pressing your lips into a necklace around his throat, “—that I want to get old with you.” On one side, you bite softly. “That I want to die with you.” You bite the other. “That I want to be buried next to you.”

Osamu’s breath catches on the words buried next to you. Of course it’s crossed his mind before that if you were to go before him, he certainly wouldn’t be long after you. The thought that you want to live a full life with him before any of that can happen, however, makes his heart swell almost uncomfortably, like it’s no longer meant to fit inside his chest—like it wants to crawl up his throat and go home to yours. It will one day, you say, when you’re rotting next to each other. He wants to melt at the idea of it.

“And then… I don’t know what, if anything, will happen after that. But it’s my purest hope—” You traverse from one shoulder, across his collarbones, stopping only above his sternum to finish, “—that I’ll be with you forever,” before making your way to the other. He’s a mistake you’d make again and again, given the opportunity. If reincarnation is real, you’re sure of it, more than anything—you will.

And you know not expect anything but speechlessness from Osamu until after you’ve kissed a circle around that heart of his that’s beating so frantically for you, until after you’ve brought his knuckles to your lips, all twenty-eight of them, until after you’ve made your way back up one arm just to kiss down the other, until you’ve bent to scatter kisses across his stomach, his hips, until you’ve knelt to descend the ladder marking each of his thighs, until you’ve sat at his feet with your arms looped around the backs of his knees with your head pressed against him like he’s the saint this time. You sit at the feet of a sinner and make him taste redemption. It tastes like the shower water that’s touched your skin and the dinner you both ate before wandering into this strange place between his disillusion and his sheer need. You kiss him back into his humanity.

When you stand, level with him again, he smiles that smile you love so much—not the cocky, performative smile nor the uneasy, misgiving one that wants to trust but has forgotten how to but the smile that’s altogether subtle and plain and sad and the most radiant thing you’ve ever known. Every time he falls apart, you just stitch him right back up what he’s always wanted to be: loved, held, loving and holding.

Osamu touches your lips with his fingertips like you’re not quite real, like you’ve not just reminded every other inch of him that you very much are; he speaks, not a progenitor of pretty promises himself—but he owes you forever, he thinks, as long as it’s what you want. “Thank you.”

You laugh once, breathy, in no need. “Thank you,” you echo, “for being the most wonderful thing to love.”

Not the easiest, you both know—but it’s just something that has to be done, and there’s no law forbidding you from reminding him how beautiful he is in the process. Until you can be buried next to him. There’s hardly anything keeping forever from beginning right now.

He holds you, and you hold him, and he feels clean.

#osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd fluff #dazai fluff #with love—reid

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tzyunaes · 1 day ago

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DESPERATE ⋄ 이희승

wherein — you share a heated moment with your roommate.

희승 ˖ 𝑓em!r g. roommates to potential lovers fluff suggestive ──── EPHEMER𝒾S ( 613 ) cw. skinship making out kissing.

jennifer says .. heavily suggestive cause i went a bit overbroad w this my apologies !! TT

11:38 pm. the clock ticked in its conventional rhythm. you sighed, getting tired of tossing and turning in your bed. you were supposed to get a full night's sleep tonight after the exhausting week of finals but here you were, your head messy with crazy thoughts. finally deciding to get out of your bedroom, you get up from the bed, the silence curls through the room along with the dim tranquil darkness, your footsteps soft on the cold tiles of the floor.

as you walked past the hallway and stood in front of the refrigerator in the kitchen, opening the door as you looked for a drink. the limp sound of someone breathing behind you in the eerie silence caught your mind, you could feel your heart skipping a beat.

you were definitely quick to look behind, just to find your annoying and forever ridiculously irresistible roommate that you were supposed to hate for being the exact opposite nature of you in various ways in front of you, your eyes rolled back into your head on its own but you sighed in relief anyway, “are you insane? why the hell are you standing behind me like a ghost!?” your voice loud till the signature smirk was back on his face, “why? did my pretty princess get scared?” he whispered, taking another step close to you, you stepped back, “what scared. i just meant why can you not act like a civilized person and c—"

your words hung in the crisp air when he stepped closer, causing you to stumble a bit but his muscular built hovered over you, he leaned down to your ear, “should i try a ghostface mask next time?” his husky voice barely a whisper, you stuttered, a rosy hue lightened your cheeks.

mixed scent of whiskey and strawberries drove you frenzy, he smirked, almost caging you against the fridge. your breath hitched when his hand sneaked past your shirt and found your waist, heeseung dipped his head, his face inches away from yours as his other hand reached out to brush a few strands of your hair off your face, “may i?” he murmured under his breath, his eyes deep into you as his hand rubbed circles on your bare skin.

you couldn't respond, you weren't supposed to be doing this here with the lee heeseung of everyone, you thought to yourself. but the heat seem to be going on your head, “i will take the silence as a yes, doll,” he mumbled in your ears before engulfing your lips with his, his mouth hot in yours when you kissed him back.

his hands tracing your skin intoxicated you completely, going lower when you didn't stop him and responded instead. every graze of his fingers sent sparks of electricity through your body, awakening your senses. he chuckled into the kiss when a soft moan against his lips left from your mouth, his body almost mushed yours.

he sucked your lips like it was the last day of his life, his tongue savoring yours. his touch growing more desperate and illicit but you didn't stop him cause you craved it instead. he pulled himself off, just to let you see the sweaty face of him which did nothing but made him more attractive right at the moment. his smirk grew more sinister, the faint dim light against your intertwined bodies.

“hee…” you murmured, your breath shaking. he leaned in again as his voice hitched, “yes, darling? be a good girl for me tonight, hm?” was the last thing you heard before you let him claim you as his deliberately.

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crowsghosts · 8 hours ago

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Crow’s shrines were never elaborate, nor would they like it that way. All he needed was a simple, golden scale with whatever trinkets their worshippers thought were best to offer. Justice would answer their prayers.

And yet, for a hundred and fifty years, Crow left the prayers unanswered.

Their grief over the sudden death of two friends left the god shattered into pieces. All the prayers they had received were nothing more than whispers in the night, and even an outcry could not overpower the flood of Crow’s own tears. As the years past, the offerings slowly trickled down until Crow received nothing more than an old candy wrapper.

And yet, a young girl persisted in making offerings. At first, Justice didn’t pay much attention to the efforts, but turned his head out of curiosity as the girl grew older. Why was she doing this? Was anyone telling her that there wasn’t a point anymore? That the god had abandoned them?

Crow watched as with each passing year, the girl continued to bring trinkets to any one of his shrines without a prayer asking for their help.

And maybe this was the push that had gotten the god out of their rut and back into fighting tyrants, just as they always done before.

As more decades passed, Crow could hear the old prayers grow past the once-tiny whispers, answering each plea for help. The number of trinkets amassed from their shrine offerings slowly returned to its usual numbers, but he could distinguish the girl’s offerings from the rest. She didn’t miss a single year, either.

By the time the now elderly woman was reaching her end, she noticed someone knocking on her door, and opened it.

“May I help you, sir?” She asked warmly.

“No, no. I’m just briefly passing by, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, dear. Have a seat.”

Crow slowly moved inside, observing the room around them until he spotted his shrine: the simple, golden scale, as the old lady placed a small chocolate in front of it.

“Don’t mind this. I’ve had this tradition since I was a little girl,” she explained, “I’ve been told only to gift to Justice’s shrine if I needed help from him, but I’m sure they don’t mind a normal offering.”

So that was why she left trinkets without a prayer. Crow tilted their head with mild curiosity and content.

“How did you find out about him? Didn’t they vanish for a while?”

“Oh, yes, that’s what everyone else kept saying!” The lady chuckled, “But even if he were gone forever, it still wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

There was a moment of silence from Crow. The god wasn’t expecting such an answer.

“… and what would you do if they were sitting here with you at this moment?”

“Oh, just treat him like any other guest! Why do you ask?”

“Well…”

Crow stood and took an object out of his pocket, revealing an old candy wrapper.

“I don’t know if this is enough proof to show that I am Justice, but I wanted to swing by and say thanks. I was in a rough spot when I noticed you were leaving offerings at my shrines.”

The god placed the wrapper back in his pocket before slowly clasping his hands around the old woman’s.

“From this moment forward, you and your family have my protection and blessing. No tyrant or bully can harm you as long as your bloodline lasts.”

The old lady stood in stunned silence, processing what she had just heard. From what she heard, Justice rarely, if ever, gave anyone his blessing, so to even be gifted it herself…

The woman simply smiled in gratitude.

“It’s an honour, sir.”

While other god's shrines are magnificent, yours is a bit too humbling. And yet a little girl visits you every year after stumbling upon it, never missing a year even as she grows old. Deeply moved, you decide to give her a parting gift greater than what any other God would dare to give.

#writeblr #minecraft oc #ocs #dnd oc #non canon

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aothotties · 3 days ago

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Jean // NSFW // MDNI

Warnings: Unprotected sex, mirror sex, teasing, praise, Jean loves his wife so much, multiple orgasms, cream pies, overstimulation, reader calls Jean papa, mentions of breast milk.

o.｡.: ☆ യ☉⟣

You had a baby six months ago and have recently began to lose the baby weight. You’ve changed your diet and stick to your exercises, but can’t help but notice the weight is taking forever to come off.

Sometimes you catch yourself staring too long in the mirror or even wearing more clothes around the house. Your husband Jean has also taken notice to your changes.

You two typically work out together at home which means you’re more likely to wear shorts and a bra, but since having your baby girl you’ve worn more leggings or sweatshirts.

Jean decides not to question the change until you’re ready to tell him yourself, but one day he catches you staring at yourself a little too long in the mirror and can’t help but intervene.

“Look at yourself, look in the mirror baby.” Your husband gently cups your jaw in his hand and tilts it upward until you’re facing the mirror.

You struggle to follow his instructions, the continuos pounding he’s giving you from behind causes your eyes to roll back into your head.

You bite down on your bottom lip to try and muffle your moans the best that you can. A few whimpers slip past your lips when he leans down to smash his mouth on yours.

He strokes your cheek with his thumb as your tongues drag against each others.

“You’re so fucking pretty, don’t you f-fucking forget it.” He fully pulls out of your dripping cunt and smirks at how desperate and whiny you become.

“I-I’m sorry, j-just don’t always feel pretty.” You pout and he bites down on your neck in return.

More of your sweet juices continue to drip out of your desperate cunt each time he nips on your skin.

He rubs his bulbous tip against your puffy clit and smirks at the sight of your gaping hole.

“Say the magic words baby girl, you know what I want to hear.”

You shake your head in protest and put your head down in embarrassment. He gently pulls your braids into a make shift ponytail to tug your head back.

“Tell papa how pretty you are, say it for me baby, please.” He kisses up your neck ever so sensually and you throw your head back to give him more access.

“I-I’m a pretty girl.” You whimper as you give in to his kisses. He smirks against your skin and guides your back onto his awaiting cock, but only the first few inches. He’s such a tease :(

“Jean! You promised.” You pout at his dishonesty and he shushes you with a soft kiss.

Your soft cheeks are held between his fingers as he guides your face to the mirror once again.

“You’re so beautiful, every single part of you.” He slides a few more inches of his hardened shaft into your weeping cunt.

You stare intensely at the mirror as his pretty pink cock fills you up. You throw your head back against his shoulder and grab his thigh for leverage.

You impatiently throw yourself back onto his dick, and go cross eyed at the feeling of him bottoming out inside of you.

“That’s right, take what’s yours.” He grunts into your ear, gently taking your lobe between his teeth before biting down.

He wraps a muscular arm around your waist and helps you bounce up and down on his cock.

“I-I love you papa! L-love you so much.” You say between moans, your eyes lock onto his and he feels like he’s about to explode.

“I love you so fucking much, my gorgeous girl.” He says through gritted teeth, little beads of sweat coat his forehead as he struggles to not cum too soon.

“A-all yours Papa! I-I’m your pretty girl.” You cry out before your orgasm washes over you. You choke on a moan when he oh so meanly rubs your overstimulated clit.

“Make a mess pretty girl, one more time for me.” He bites down on your neck as his fingers rub circles on your poor nub.

“Oh my god! Jean! Fuck fuck-“ You’re cut off as your sensitive cunt releases a gush of your juices.

He smirks as the sound of wet skin slapping gets louder with each thrust, his smirk is quickly wiped away when he feels his own orgasm approach.

He lets out a mantra of grunts as thick ropes of his warm cum flood your insides, you can’t help but whimper while he fills you to the brim.

“Was I too much?” He whispers against your skin, his large hands gently massage your thighs.

You shake your head and leave a kiss on his nose.

“Thank you for making me feel good, in more ways than one.” You thank him and he gives your hip a gentle squeeze.

“It’s my job to make sure you feel amazing at all times.” He responds, you giggle at the feeling of his scruff on your back.

Suddenly a few drops of something warm makes contact with Jeans hands and you chuckle.

“Is that milk?” He asks, and he can’t help but to lean forward to catch a glimpse.

He’s also embarrassed by how quickly his dick hardens at the sight of your engorged breast dripping with milk.

“Yeah it’s time for me to pu- ah Jean!”

“ ‘m sorry baby, can’t help myself”

What are you going to do with him?

Ari

#aot x black reader #aot smut #aot scenarios #aot x reader #aot imagines #aot x female reader #jean x y/n #jean kirstein smut #jean x you #jean kirschtein x reader #jean x reader #jean smut #jean x black reader

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coffeegnomee · 3 days ago

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There's something about how Mapicc will go full out on the attack over an assumption or something that fits with your reputation.

But then when confronted that that is not the truth, he will back off and say, maybe i was wrong.

But then he keeps you on the watch list and his trust is forever wavered.

There's two instances and both came up in the past month, though one was season 6 and the other season 4.

When Zam confronted Mapicc about Mawn on the first day, Mapicc confronted him back saying he only ever calls on him to fight and nothing else: tldr Zam uses him.

Zam of course is shocked and horrified that Mapicc would think that, and after going back and forth and a lot of insisting from Zam, Mapicc goes,

MAPICC: "I don't think you did. I don't think you were intending to like, use me for personal gain, but i think lowkey even if you don't agree you did- i think you did”

And then after more confrontations he goes,

MAPICC: “[pause] i think.. That maybe just a lot of people subconsciously do that and now I see it in people when it’s not happening. It's possible”

(12/15/24 "RECOLLECT" zam, conversation starts at 2:45:00)

And that interaction bothered me a lot. When it happened I thought it was a sign that Mapicc actually did start changing his mind about mawn, but by the time I wrote the post there were more mawn streams and Mapicc had clearly not been changed by that convo. So what was going on?

The rest of mawn continued, Mapicc kept denying it was all about Zam while making it all about Zam.

And on the last day, Mapicc brings back up the feeling used by Zam.

MAPICC: “i don't feel abandoned. I feel used. [..] i'm perfectly fine bro. I- I can make it back to 20 hearts, i can live on my own. Like [..] like i do some crazy ass action out of nowhere and like i die in the middle of it and the first thing you message me it to come bail you out of a bunch of wardens pit?"

Mapicc does an entire takeover of spawn and Zam doesn't enter into the play. He doesn't reciprocate. He doesn't embrace mapicc's idea. He doesn't care about him and what he cares about.

Zam just wants Mapicc when he needs help.

Stab the knife and twist it.

And all this after Mapicc put aside his "oath" (killing people whenever he thinks they deserve it) for Zam and Zam's plot. Mapicc changed himself to do stuff with Zam, but Zam wouldn't change himself to do stuff with Mapicc.

They go back and forth debating on whether or now mawn was good. Mapicc is less and less confident, while zam says he thinks it did do good but he couldn't be involved.

MAPICC: ‘what is it you would like from me” ZAM: “i don't know. Thats what im trying to figure out. Cause like, i don't even know” [..] MAPICC: “i think im in the wrong.” ZAM: "really?” MAPICC: "im sorry” [..] Zam asks if he wants to join his team with derap and poafa. Mapicc just looks at zam. Zam says he can think about it MAPICC: "i just don't want to team with derap and poafa” ZAM: “fair enough” MAPICC: ”lets just- why can’t you just be in two teams? [..] why can't we be in the mapicc-zam team and then you have your teammates” ZAM: “[jumping on it so fast] im okay with that as well”

(12/23/24 "to ashes and blood" zam. convo starts 2:49:00)

All of mawn has been about getting Zam back to spawn, Mapicc shouting once, "just- COME OUT OF EXILE! Just come back to spawn” (1:31:40 zam "dynasties and dystopia")

There's this war within Mapicc over knowing he will continue to feel used by Zam, but still just wanting to be by Zam. All of it centers back to wanting to be teammates - doing plots together.

Bc "teammate" means something for Mapicc. It's a "do everything together" type relationship. "Support each other in all things" type relationship. Look at how he was in dualities. (before the finale. which is actually really interesting to think about)

Which brings me to the second moment Mapicc reacted aggressively only to take it back and say it was all based on assumptions: the Dupe War.

Spoke dropping the unreleased footage within the same month as the above really created a parallel within the Mapicc characterization.

57:00 MAPICC: "honestly no, honestly, here's the thing, i think, i really do, okay? I really do think it might've just been the reputation [..] you were saying some ominous things. and me and zam thought about it [..] and you kept saying things that were making your case worse and worse."

After feeling like Spoke was playing them, Mapicc went and killed Spoke. Spoke, enraged and upset, confronted Mapicc and eventually Mapicc said he acted out of turn, it might've just been the reputation.

It's so similar to the s6 belief, now I see it in people when it's not happening.

And so similar to s4, he'll admit defeat in the battle, give the benefit of the doubt. But the nagging suspicion continues and he's never quite able to shake it.

MAPICC: "I wish this guy wasn't such a snake, i would like 5 minutes hanging out with Spoke" ZAM: "[finishing sentence] without thinking he has some kind of ulterior motive"

("Night of the End", zam vod 1:54:40)

Mapicc's mind runs at a million miles an hour, making connections, providing assumptions, giving gut checks.

And he's right a lot of the time.

But he doubts himself all of the time. Going back on his observation when someone presses him in the opposite direction. Caving and placating so as to not loose a friendship.

but that self-doubt seems to be louder in the conversation that it really is within his own mind. And once he notes something it's very hard for his mind to be changed.

And it's interesting how his assumptions that Zam would oppose mawn and would be responsible for these things that kept happening, were wrong. He said during the final mawn convo that he felt like zam kept 180-ing after every convo, though he admits he was wrong about who did the suspicious things.

But the assumption that started this whole thing was that Mapicc felt used, not that Zam would oppose him.

And that assumption has still not been proven incorrect.

Though Mapicc will go along with it for now, being more cautious than before. Just like he was with Spoke after that dupe war confrontation.

It's a haunting ending, and it's not helped at all by how Mapicc ended his video. My general belief is that Mapicc went 180 on what actually happened bc the video is public and all the lifestealers will watch it, and he did say he would keep mawn going and just let it exist in people's minds. You can't do that if you end your video saying it's all over.

And yet.

MAPICC: "Me and Zam had made up, but it didn't mean we could team. If i could go back in time i would have never done mawn, but now that i have full control over spawn, i can't just stop"

it is a complete 180 from what was decided in the conversation.

and that was mapicc speaking days later, after reflection. What went on in his head, alone while editing?? Where will this go? why did he have to go skiing??

#lifesteal spoilers #gnome rambles

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abandoned-quiche · 3 days ago

Text

Chapter IV - The Killing Blow

The Narrator: You're on a path in the—

Voice of The Cheated: Okay, what the FUCK was that!?

The Narrator: —woods... excuse me?

Voice of The Cheated: He attacked us while it was still our turn! That's bullshit!

The Narrator: Okay, first of all, where the hell are you? You're supposed to be on a—

Voice of The Cheated: Yeah, yeah, on a path in the woods, we know. I think it's safe to say we're well past that now.

Voice of The Stubborn: Who CARES where we are? If we respawn in the cabin—

Voice of The Contrarian: Not sure I'd consider this a cabin anymore, really.

Voice of The Stubborn: —that just means we can get back to fighting him faster!

Voice of The Contrarian: No reaction? Really?

Voice of The Stubborn: If he attacks us during our turn, that just means we have to spend less time DELIBERATING, and more time ATTACKING! Now let's stop wasting time talking, and go FIGHT HIM!

The Narrator: Well, at least you seem to have your priorities straight, but—

Voice of The Skeptic: But *how* did he do that? We can't do anything but react - how is *he* any different?

Voice of The Opportunist: Now THAT'S a good question! Maybe he isn't different. Maybe we can attack during his turn as well!

Voice of The Stubborn: This is perfect! It means we don't have to waste all that time dodging! We can just get straight to the point.

Voice of The Hunted: No! Dodging is what keeps us alive—we *have* to keep dodging. Keep dodging until an opportunity presents itself.

Voice of The Opportunist: I like this guy. He's the only one speaking any sense around here, really.

Voice of The Paranoid: Are you all idiots? Don't any of you realize what this means? We're not safe *anywhere!* He can attack us *any time he wants!* And yet he hasn't done it until now - he's been holding back on us. Who knows what else he can do? Who knows what else he hasn't shown us?

Voice of The Broken: Exactly. It's hopeless. He's so much more powerful we could ever be. He's just been toying with us. We might as well save ourselves the suffering and just kill ourselves now.

Voice of The Smitten: It's never hopeless, as long as we have true love on our side! We must keep trying until we are reunited with our beloved, no matter how many times we have to slowly and painfully die.

Voice of The Cheated: Oh, there you are! You were quiet for so long, I thought we'd finally gotten rid of you. I think that's a new silence record, honestly.

Voice of The Cold: I was hoping he'd stay quiet forever. He never has anything new to say. It's always the same thing over, and over, and over...

Voice of The Smitten: I may be saying the same things over and over, but it is because they need to be said! Who else will express the fiery passions held deep within our heart if not myself?

Voice of The Opportunist: I think I speak for us all when I say: I don't like this guy. I think he's annoying.

The Narrator: Okay, no, hold on, how many of you are there? There's only supposed to be one of you! How many times have you been here?

Voice of The Hero: Um... I think... ten? Or... maybe eleven?

The Narrator: Eleven... oh, goodness, this is— this is... unfathomably catastrophic. Are you absolutely certain?

Voice of The Hero: Well, no, it's just an estimate.

Voice of The Cheated: I am. I've been keeping track. It's eleven.

The Narrator: This is... horrible. Every world you've been to has been damned to oblivion. You know that, right?

Voice of The Skeptic: We know that's what you've TOLD us.

Voice of The Opportunist: And we believe it wholeheartedly! You've never led us astray before. If anything, I think we could stand to listen to you *more.* That's probably why we've failed all those other times, if we're being honest.

Voice of The Hero: Uh, for clarification, our previous failures weren't for lack of trying. We did try! It's just that this is... EXTREMELY difficult.

Voice of The Broken: It's TOO difficult. Why can't any of you understand that it simply can't be done?

Voice of The Contrarian: They're lying. In fact, we've gone out of our way to disobey your instructions every step of the way! Honestly, we're just a bunch of troublemaking rapscallions, up to no good.

Voice of The Hero: Ignore him, he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. Just... trust me on this one.

The Narrator: I see... That's... horrible. But I suppose there's nothing to be done about it now. We just have to make the best of what we have. Let's just... put that out of our minds right now, and focus on anything else. Like, say, slaying the Princess. Actually, you keep talking about a "he"—who's "he?"

Voice of The Hero: The... skeleton. Over there?

The Narrator: The—...huh. I didn't even notice that was there. That's... not supposed to be there. What on earth did you do?

Voice of The Cold: Does it matter what we did? The end result is the same either way. There's a skeleton, and we have to fight him.

The Narrator: Yes, it *does* matter, actually, because if you've done something to cause there to be... a "skeleton," for whatever reason, then that means you can do something to cause there to *not* be a "skeleton."

Voice of The Hero: Wait, we can? How can we do that?

The Narrator: No, nevermind, I've already said too much.

Voice of The Contrarian: Oh, well now I *have* to know!

The Narrator: No, you don't. Believe me when I say that knowing will only make your job harder than it already is.

Voice of The Skeptic: Try to hide it from us all you like. We'll find out one way or another.

The Narrator: I'm sure you will. Now, is there still a Princess?

Voice of The Smitten: Of course there is! I'm sure of it. The Princess is right beyond that dastardly knave who's been trying to keep us apart.

Voice of The Hero: He means the skeleton.

The Narrator: Well, that's good, because that means things aren't completely ruined yet. You still have a chance to do this right. But for the love of everything, the princess is NOT "your beloved."

Voice of The Contrarian: Wait. What do you mean "completely ruined?"

The Narrator: Nothing. Pretend I didn't say that.

Voice of The Cold: It sounds interesting. I'd like to see what would happen if we ruined everything. It certainly sounds more exciting than fighting this skeleton over and over and over...

The Narrator: No. This is an INCREDIBLY dangerous train of thought. It's time to stop ruminating, and start ACTING. Just focus up, steel your nerves, and slay the Princess. Or, skeleton. Slay the skeleton, and then slay the Princess. Right. Now.

Voice of The Stubborn: FINALLY. Let's go slay ourselves a skeleton.

Voice of The Broken: Or we could do what he asks us to and leave.

Voice of The Opportunist: That's what I've been SAYING! See, this guy gets it. The skeleton's the one with the power here, after all.

Voice of The Hero: You've been saying that, yeah, but you've also been saying, like, million other different things. It's hard to tell what your opinion actually is at this point.

Voice of The Contrarian: Or, hear me out...

Voice of The Hero: Let me guess. We throw the blade out the window?

Voice of The Contrarian: NOW you're getting it!

Voice of The Stubborn: Ugh, stop wasting time already! I want to FIGHT!

* [Walk up to the skeleton.]

Voice of The Opportunist: That's a good move. Definitely the right decision.

*hmm. that expression. that's—

Voice of The Cheated: Yeah, yeah, expression of someone with a lot of internal conflict, yadda yadda yadda, we've heard it already!

Voice of The Cold: He's so dull. He hasn't said anything new in forever.

Voice of The Opportunist: Hey, have we tried attacking him during his opening monologue? That might be a good idea.

Voice of The Stubborn: YES!

The Narrator: Before the skeleton can even finish talking, you lunge toward him, blade held low. But by the time you land, he's—

Voice of The Cheated: Already somewhere else? Yeah. We know. Typical.

The Narrator: Correct.

* Hold on. What happened to me being the decider?

Voice of The Paranoid: Oh, so *now* you want to be the one making the decisions? The last six times you pushed all the responsibility of fighting onto us until something new happened.

* I thought you were the Voice of The Paranoid, not the Voice of The Petty.

Voice of The Paranoid: What—?

The Narrator: Muscle memory and reflex guide you as you evade the skeleton's attacks, but without your full attention on the fight, your performance is imperfect. A few scrapes from bones whizzing past you, a few burns from searing hot beams of light grazing your skin. Why does the skeleton have lasers?

*guess we're getting right into it, huh?

Voice of The Hunted: Stop arguing! The fight has begun! We have to keep on our toes.

Voice of The Paranoid: Now look what you've done!

Voice of The Broken: Why even bother? It won't matter in the end.

Voice of The Stubborn: He can't dodge forever. Just keep attacking.

Voice of The Hunted: No. We have to eat. Eating is important to stay healthy, and we need to be in the best condition possible if we're going to win this.

Voice of The Contrarian: Ooh, here's an idea! What if we scarf down all our food right now?

Voice of The Opportunist: You know, that's a good point—we don't know how long we'll be alive this time. We should eat as much as we can while we have the chance. Life's all about enjoying the good things while they last!

Voice of The Hunted: NO! We have to ration our food.

* We don't need to eat yet. If we ate it now we wouldn't benefit from its full potential. [Fight.]

Voice of The Hunted: This is bad too! If we're not in proper shape for his next attack we can't survive as many hits!

The Narrator: You lunge at him again, but—

Voice of The Cheated: Yeah, yeah, we know. He dodges.

*our reports—

Voice of The Stubborn: We've heard all this before! Get on with it!

Voice of The Skeptic: Am I the only one who thinks it might be important to figure out what he's talking about?

Voice of The Hunted: His words are just a distraction. Don't pay attention to them. Information doesn't matter. What matters is staying alive.

The Narrator: You tune out the skeleton's words until he begins to attack again. KARMA and adrenaline coursing through your veins, your reflexes carry you through the skeleton's onslaught. As you leap over one of the skeleton's spells, however, your leg falls below the rest of your body, dragging across the bones, its skin shredding.

Voice of The Paranoid: Shit!

Voice of The Cheated: Shit, that hurts.

Voice of The Cold: I've told you. This would be so much easier if you just stopped feeling pain.

Voice of The Hunted: No. Pain keeps us humble. Pain keeps us nimble. Pain keeps us alive.

* [Fight.]

*until suddenly—

Voice of The Stubborn: I'm TIRED of waiting! We attack him again!

The Narrator: He dodges again.

*wow. not even gonna let me finish talking, huh? your impatience has really damaged you, hasn't it?

Voice of The Stubborn: We attack.

The Narrator: He dodges again.

*i know what type of person you are. you—

The Narrator: Suddenly, he begins attacking you again mid-sentence.

Voice of The Hunted: Shit! Dodge, dodge!

Voice of The Stubborn: This is taking too long. What happened to attacking during his turn?

Voice of The Cheated: Now, I'm all for giving him a taste of his own medicine, but—

Voice of The Stubborn: We attack. Again.

The Narrator: I wouldn't recommend this course of action, but I suppose there's nothing I can do. You make no attempt to avoid his attacks, instead charging straight for him while his magic razes your lower body. Once again, he effortlessly dodges your swing. I hope you know what you're doing.

* What the hell was that?

Voice of The Stubborn: I'm doing what you all are too cowardly to do and FIGHTING! We attack again!

* Okay, no. We'll die if we do that again. We're eating. [Eat the Legendary Hero.]

Voice of The Hunted: Finally!

Voice of The Hero: Still not comfortable eating something called that.

Voice of The Smitten: I'd brave any amount of discomfort if it means getting us closer to our beloved.

Voice of The Hero: You've been surprisingly quiet lately.

Voice of The Cheated: Shhh. I like him better this way.

Voice of The Smitten: How dare you! If you find my passions so offensive, perhaps you should go somewhere else! I will not let my feelings be stifled for the sake of others. In fact, I'm going to talk more from now on.

Voice of The Hero: Now look what you've done.

The Narrator: You eat the Legendary Hero. The flavors of the sandwich's ingredients dance across your taste buds in tandem, creating something greater than any of them could ever be individually—

Voice of The Cheated: We know how it tastes.

The Narrator: Fine. As chunks slide down your throat, they dissipate into nothing. You feel your pain ease up as your body, as if by magic, heals at a remarkable pace.

* Actually, can we speed this along? We've seen this enough times already. We know how it goes. I attack, he dodges, he attacks, I dodge, and every once in a while I eat something. You can just describe the rest of the battle, right?

The Narrator: This feels reckless. Are you really going to relinquish your decision-making ability just to make things go a little faster? What if that bloodthirsty one takes control of you again?

Voice of The Paranoid: I'll hold him back.

Voice of The Hero: Ditto. He won't get another chance to do that again.

The Narrator: Well, alright then. You fall into the rhythm of the battle, the skeleton throwing jagged reflections of his own body parts at you while you gracefully dance out of the way of them all. Sometimes you find yourself falling towards the ceiling, or weaving around white hot beams of light, but none of it seems to faze you anymore. For every attack you avoid with near perfection, you dish out another swing of your own. But the skeleton evades yours flawlessly and without effort. Or so it seems, until...

*ugh... that being said...

Voice of The Cheated: Oh, we're wise to your tricks now!

Voice of The Smitten: Your devilish deceptions shan't fool us anymore! You are the only thing standing between us and the Princess, and we will not rest until you are vanquished!

Voice of The Opportunist: Honestly, I'm shocked anyone fell for this. It was obvious from the beginning he was just trying to get the upper hand.

Voice of The Hero: You were the first one to suggest we take his offer!

Voice of The Paranoid: Focus!!!

Voice of The Stubborn: WE ATTACK!

The Narrator: He dodges.

Voice of The Hero: Shit, sorry! I forgot!

* It's fine. Narrator, you can speed things up again.

The Narrator: Right. Whatever. What else am I good for. You continue to exchange near-blows as the skeleton- hold on, what was that he said about you "consuming timelines?" That's rich, coming from *him.* He's the one preventing you from saving the world in the first place! Whatever. You keep dodging until it's time for his "special attack."

Voice of The Hero: Wait, what? For real? We made it?

Voice of The Paranoid: FOCUS!

Voice of The Hero: Shit!

Voice of The Stubborn: WE ATTACK!

The Narrator: He dodges. Again.

*heh, didja really think you would be able to-

Voice of The Opportunist: NOW!

The Narrator: You attack again, this time catching him off guard. In a single strike, an enormous gash forms across his entire body.

Voice of The Cheated: Holy shit! We did it! We actually did it!

Voice of The Stubborn: YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Voice of The Hero: Wait, really? We've done it?

Voice of The Opportunist: We've done it! And it was all thanks to me, really. Where would you be without me?

Voice of The Cold: About time. This whole routine was getting so dull.

Voice of The Broken: What...?

Voice of The Skeptic: Finally. We can finally find some answers.

Voice of The Smitten: More importantly, we can finally see our beloved!

Voice of The Hunted: No time to celebrate. We never know when another threat might present itself. We have to stay on guard.

Voice of The Paranoid: No, we can't have defeated him. It can't have been that easy.

The Narrator: It was. It's over.

Voice of The Contrarian: As amazing as I'm sure your reaction to it would be, I'm going to refrain from killing all of us right now because I *really* don't want to go through all of that again.

Voice of The Hero: How generous.

* [Proceed.]

The Narrator: You make your way to the end of the corridor. There... isn't a staircase leading to a basement, but after the random skeleton, this is honestly the least of my concerns. You walk through the grey halls, the cold stone chilling your feet, until you find a doorway to a grand throne room. Grass and flowers peek through the frame, as if inviting you to step inside. If the Princess lives here... no, that doesn't work here, does it?

* [Enter.]

The Narrator: You stand inside a regal throne room, the walls shining gold. In the center lies a throne, seated in a bed of golden flowers. In front of it, the silhouette of...

OH! GREETINGS, BIRD MONSTER!

Voice of The Smitten: There he is! Our beloved!

The Narrator: ...a second skeleton wearing a blonde wig.

something's wrong with my copy of Slay the Princess

#i may have gotten a bit carried away.

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prettygirl-gabi · 15 hours ago

Text

Chapter 23: In Focus

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: none

Paring: Paige Bueckers x !photographer fem reader

Fandom: Women's basketball

Summary: more opportunities...

Welcome to the chapter 23 of Through The Lens. I hope you all enjoy and there is more to come...stay tuned my loveies!! 🏀💕📸

Reader’s POV

The past few days had been… intense, to say the least. But somehow, through all the tension and heavy conversations, Paige and I had found our way back to each other. Things still weren’t perfect—life rarely was—but for the first time in what felt like weeks, we weren’t dancing around unspoken feelings or fears.

We decided to go on a date that night, something simple and lowkey, just the two of us. No basketball, no cameras, no looming WNBA talk—just Paige and me.

When she picked me up from my apartment, she was wearing her favorite UConn hoodie, her hair pulled back into a loose bun. “You ready?” she asked, flashing me that smile that always made my heart skip.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing my bag and locking the door behind me.

Paige had planned for us to grab food at a small diner just outside of town. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was perfect. We slid into a booth near the back, away from prying eyes, and ordered burgers and milkshakes.

As we ate, I noticed how relaxed Paige seemed. She laughed more, teased me about my poor attempt at organizing fries into “photo-worthy” stacks, and even let me take a candid picture of her with whipped cream on her nose.

“This is going on my wall,” I joked, showing her the photo.

“Oh, great. Just what I need—my worst moment immortalized forever,” she teased, but her grin told me she didn’t mind.

“Your worst moment? Paige, please. You’ve had far worse,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Name one,” she challenged, leaning back with her arms crossed.

“When you tripped during warm-ups last week and tried to play it off like it didn’t happen.”

Her mouth fell open. “You saw that?”

“Paige, everyone saw that.”

She groaned, covering her face with her hands, but she was laughing, and that made my chest feel warm.

The next morning, I woke up to an email from the athletics department of a rival school—Jade’s school. They were asking if I’d be interested in covering their game against Lsu.

I hesitated. On one hand, it was an amazing opportunity to expand my portfolio, but on the other… it felt a little weird. I texted Jade to ask her opinion.

Jade: Do it! I wanna see you at the game. Plus, get that bag.

Her encouragement gave me the final push I needed. I replied to the athletics department, agreeing to cover the game—under one condition.

I’ll cover the game if you’re willing to pay my rate.

To my surprise, they agreed.

By the time game day rolled around, I was running on adrenaline. I finished my classes early, packed my camera gear, and made my way to the airport to catch the UConn team before their flight to USC.

When I arrived, the team was already gathering in the terminal. I spotted a few of the girls chatting near the boarding gate, but it was Paige who saw me first. Her face lit up when our eyes met, and before I knew it, she was walking toward me, her bag slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice warm and familiar.

“Hi,” I replied, feeling my heart race as she pulled me into a hug.

We lingered there for a moment longer than we probably should have. The team was right there, after all, and we weren’t exactly public yet. But in that moment, it was hard to care about anything else.

When we pulled back, our faces were inches apart. For a split second, it felt like the rest of the world faded away.

“Paige,” I whispered, glancing around nervously.

She sighed, stepping back reluctantly. “Right. Not public.”

I nodded, trying to ignore the way my stomach flipped at the thought of being caught.

“I’ll see you after the game, back home” she said, her voice low and teasing.

“Good luck,” I replied, watching as she turned to rejoin her teammates.

As the team started boarding, I pulled out my camera, snapping a few candid shots of the players as they walked onto the plane. Paige noticed, of course. She grinned and held her hood out to cover her face, her eyes peeking over the edge as if to tease me.

“Really?” I mouthed, lowering the camera.

She just shrugged, her smile never fading.

Later that night, as I reviewed the photos I’d taken, I couldn’t help but smile at the ones of Paige. She was beautiful, even in her goofiest moments, and I felt lucky to capture her in a way most people didn’t get to see.

When my phone buzzed with a text from her, I wasn’t surprised.

Paige: Did you get any good ones?

Me: Maybe.

Paige: Let me see.

Me: Only if you promise not to make fun of me.

Paige: No promises, ma.

I laughed, shaking my head. Despite everything we’d been through, we were still us—teasing, laughing, and figuring things out as we went. And for now, that was enough.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

Tag list: @sayurireidotcom , @astroeliza , @paxaz535 , @0phantom0 , @sevyscoven , @authentic-girl03 , @starlighttsv .... (more to be added)

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milliesfishes · 2 days ago

Text

౨ৎ꣑ৎThe Greater Good౨ৎ꣑ৎ

[fem reader] contains: kidnapping, implied sexual assault, weight loss, abandonment pairing: fem reader x billy the kid summary: you broke billy's heart when you left him, but there's more to the story than he thought author’s note: welcome back to angst hehehe Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

Muscles aching, limbs hardly able to hold him up, Billy breathed in. The air around the home you shared had to be different than whatever else he was breathing elsewhere. Even the mere idea of your presence settled ease over his joints, a calm raining on him.

He let his horse graze, wandering up the walk. Wildflowers sprouted from the grass leading up to the cabin, blooming in that pretty blue color you loved. Bending, he snapped a few of their stems, imagining how they'd look when he tucked them into your hair. His beautiful girl.

Usually he wouldn't arrive home until the sun was well gone from the sky, but he'd managed an early leave today. When it was just him, he had no reason to come home, let alone when he didn't yet feel like sleeping. You added a purpose to his life, a reason to look at the clock.

Love had been a weakness in his past, something to rid himself of. He'd lived many years avoiding it at all costs, certain being loved by him was the worst debt to ever owe. Bad things happened to the ones he loved. Death, sickness. He saw what love did to his mother when his father met an untimely end.

Any notions flew with you. You and your doe eyes and soft words, showing him that love didn't need to be a fight, a struggle. No, your love was soft. Kind. It was patient, careful and sweet. Everything you were, manifested in a feeling. He'd married you as soon as he could, determined to have you for any semblance of forever.

From the moment he learned of the baby, he was smitten, more than he previously thought possible. The back of his mind told him that the more his love grew, the more dangerous it became, but he brushed it away. For all the good in his world, the bad couldn't possibly measure up.

He'd doted on you hand and foot when you were pregnant, conscious of every ache and pain and change in your body. And when Kat finally came, the joy only multiplied. Your daughter was a spitting image of you, but you insisted her hair was like his. Dark and curly and unruly, a head full of it.

Though there were moments he swore were pure magic, the hardship of new parenthood had painted the past month. Kat was up nearly every hour at night crying over one thing or another, and she hadn't taken to eating the way you had hoped. You had been struggling with her during the day for the past couple of weeks, collapsing in tears at the end of the day and whispering that you didn't know what to do. Billy tried to be supportive as well as he could, taking Kat so you could have a rest, trying to navigate nursing with you.

That was what he was hoping to do tonight. Take the baby off your hands for a little while, maybe coax her to sleep and fix dinner. It'd been so long since you'd had some time just the two of you, since he'd really been able to take care of you. These fantasies drifted through Billy's mind as he arrived at the doorstep.

Pausing, his brow scrunched into a furrow when he picked up on the sound of crying. Billy's footsteps became urgent, and he pushed the door open, the crying getting louder. Removing his hat and hanging it on the hook, he called your name once as he opened the door to the bedroom. You were nowhere to be found.

"Hey, baby," he muttered, tossing the flowers on the dresser and moving toward Kat. She was lying on her back in her cradle, little arms flailing as he reached down for her. Once she was on his chest, her crying began to slow, and he settled a palm on her back, rubbing it gently. "There we go. It's okay, kitty Kat." He kissed her head, taking in a deep breath of her baby smell. "Where's mama, huh?" You were usually so quick to snatch Kat up to be soothed, even if it didn't always work. "Is mama outside?"

He wandered over to the window, peering outside while swaying Kat carefully, trying to lure her back to sleep. You weren't in the back, and he knew for certain you weren't out front.

A dreadful feeling began to settle in his stomach. He walked back into the kitchen as fast as he dared with the baby in his arms, calling your name once more. You wouldn't leave Kat alone like this, especially not when she was crying. He searched the tiny space as if you'd pop up from one of the cabinets or rise from beneath the floorboards.

His heart was beginning to race. Billy said your name again, but it was a whisper. Panic was seizing his heart, squeezing every last bit of light out of it. Frantic, his eyes darted around the room, landing on something resting on the table.

A familiar gold wedding band with a single flower engraved in the top.

Something sank into his chest, spreading like a poison all through his body. There was a tidal wave of confusion washing over his body as he thought back to the last time he'd seen you. This morning, when you'd been woken by Kat.

You'd taken her out of her cradle, pulled your nightdress down to feed her. He remembered bits and pieces. How you'd watched your daughter eat, the softest of smiles playing at your lips. The sun had barely started to come up, light sneaking through the part between the curtains. You were angelic, stunningly beautiful in a way that would have him in worship for the rest of his days.

He'd left you sleepy eyed, lying back down with Kat resting soundly on your chest, with a kiss to your forehead and a promise he'd be back soon. It had been hard to tear away.

And now you were gone.

This wasn't a break in. There was no sign of struggle. No, you'd taken the time to leave the ring right where he'd see it. Even though he knew he wouldn't find it, he went to the front window in search of your horse. Gone.

Emptiness was coursing through his veins in place of blood. Unwittingly, he clasped Kat closer, chasing the air flying out of his lungs. She wiggled, one of her little hands flying to his cheek. The touch brought him back to earth, and he wearily looked around, trying to find a way out of the fog he'd been thrust into.

Gone. You couldn't be gone. No, you wouldn't leave him like this, abandon the life you'd both worked so hard to build. You wouldn't leave Kat.

It was an internal battle. You wouldn't leave him. But the wedding ring was undeniable proof.

Had you been unhappy? Billy's regret swamped his insides, and all he could think of was everything he should have done. You'd been struggling with Kat and he'd known it. He should have worked fewer days, should have held you tighter and told you more often how much he loved you. The way he loved you filled oceans and transcended expression, but he should have tried. To keep you, he would always try.

Dazed, he looked down at Kat, but all he could see was you. Closing his eyes, Billy sank to the ground, back against the wall. He wanted to weep, wanted to run off in every direction until he found you. The way he was feeling, he'd search every corner of the earth until you were found. His instinct was to fight it, to undo what was already done.

His tired eyes opened, catching again on your wedding band, sitting there like an omen. This was the first time he'd seen it apart from your hand in years. Even when you were only engaged, you wore it proudly, a symbol on your finger that announced you were his.

Kat stirred against his chest, and he willed himself to stand, mindlessly taking her back to the bedroom. When he tried to put her back into her cradle, she began to cry, and so he ended up lying back in bed with her, still in his work clothes.

Your side still smelled like you. Tears sprung to his eyes, but he blinked them away quickly, forcing himself to look back at Kat. Her breathing was steady, and he kept a hand on her back, hoping she'd sleep for longer now that he was here. The sun was setting now- he could tell by the way the shadows were facing now. He'd been lying here longer than he thought.

Staring up at the ceiling, Billy felt himself transition into numbness. He tried to imagine tomorrow or the day after, coming up blank. The idea of having to do this by himself was daunting. Not just raising his daughter. Living. Billy shut his eyes, exhaustion swallowing him whole. He'd gone through every emotion possible thinking about you for the past while, but one stood still, nibbling at the edges of his heart.

He missed you.

Pulling off his work gloves, Billy wiped the sweat from his brow and tipped his hat up to squint into the horizon. The sun was still above the horizon, meaning he'd finished right on time. He shoved the gloves into his belt, whistling as he gathered the rest of his tools to take back to the barn.

The property he worked on wasn't rough, but it was just challenging enough to keep him busy. But even if it'd been a ranch on impossible earth, he'd have kept at the job. The pay was good, and the owner was a fair man. Due to the quality of Billy's work, he was able to negotiate the schedule. The rancher had children of his own, and he had a sympathetic ear for Billy's struggle raising a daughter on his own.

He'd known that day he came home that you weren't coming back. The next few months solidified it. Now, at just past a year since the day, you were merely a memory. Something that lingered like a ghost, though he couldn't see it fully.

If it hadn't been for Kat, Billy knew he'd have gone off the deep end. He distracted himself from his grief by throwing himself into loving her. Every second with his baby girl was a gift, and he constantly marveled at everything she was.

She still had trouble getting to sleep, but once she did, she was out for the entire night. He'd stood her up, holding her hands so she could take her first steps. Her first word was 'mama', which had broken his heart, but her second was 'daddy'. She looked like you more and more each day.

This wasn't the life he'd imagined when he held her for the first time. But it was his. Him and Kat against the world.

Setting his tools in their proper place, Billy's mind wandered to tonight. Kat was up at the house, being watched by the rancher's kind wife. He'd swing by and pick her up and ride on home to make dinner. Then maybe they'd go for a walk to the wildflower field. Kat loved to watch the butterflies.

Climbing the steps to the porch, he tipped his hat up when he saw the rancher sitting on the front rocking chair. He was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand, jaw set.

Billy greeted him, removing his hat. "Sir. Is everything alright?"

The man nodded, straightening in his chair. "Yes. Kat's okay. But..." There was a beat of silence, and then he stood up, holding out the paper. "This is for you."

Brow furrowing, Billy took it, confused. Was he in trouble? Had someone come to collect the bounty on his head that had expired years ago? Unfolding the paper, he had the start of his life when he saw the familiar handwriting.

Without taking in a word, his head snapped up, frantic eyes meeting the rancher's. "It's-"

"She approached me in town," he said grimly. "Is it-?"

Billy nodded, forcing himself to look down again. Every emotion possible drenched his heart as he began to take in each word.

Billy,

I know anything I say won't be enough, but I'd be more than grateful if you let me try to explain. I'm staying in the boarding house in town if you want to meet me there.

I'm sorry.

It wasn't real. Billy felt weak as he lowered the letter. There wasn't any way it was true. After a year of nothing, you'd come back to town for whatever reason and put his heart in the worst possible twist.

Heart pounding, Billy stuffed the letter into his pocket, adjusting his hat and looking back up at the rancher. "D'ya mind keepin' Kat-"

"Go ahead, son," the man insisted, clapping him on the shoulder. "My wife would keep her all day and night if she could. Just come on back when you can."

Billy's thank you was flustered and rushed as he hurried down the steps, bounding toward his horse. The adrenaline made the ride rushed, and he was in his head the whole time.

The idea that you were so close in proximity was eating at him. You hadn't left his mind for the entire time you'd been gone, and if it weren't for Kat he'd have convinced himself you weren't real. The memories were hazy, and he'd shoved them all aside up until now. The last time he saw you played over and over, the spark of your eyes nearly real to him.

He asked for you at the front, your name feeling strange and familiar all at once on his tongue. Gliding up to the room, Billy froze at the door, knuckles poised to knock. His heart was pounding, and suddenly he was regretting not going home to change first. He was still in his sweaty work clothes and probably smelled like a horse.

Taking a deep breath in, Billy knocked to the tune of his wrenching heart. Nerves bit him like mosquitos, and a part of him was still convinced that none of this was real at all. It couldn't be you behind that door. No, it must be some imposter, and the rancher had given the wrong man the note. Billy had decided to turn around and get back to Kat when the door swung open.

There wasn't any reaction to have other than stunned.

He'd been expecting you to look better than ever. After all, he thought you'd run away so you would be happy. But the sight that greeted him was anything but that.

The bruise on your cheek caught his eye first. Then a bigger one on your collarbone. Your dress was ripped in several places, and upon further inspection, it was one he recognized. You looked exhausted, and your hair was much longer and completely tangled. And he noticed with a pang how much weight you'd lost. Billy was willing to bet that if he pulled off your dress he'd be able to see every one of your ribs.

"Billy," you said softly. Oh, your voice. It was like finally hearing a song you'd been humming under your breath for weeks.

He could only get out a broken, "Baby-" before you took his arm and pulled him into the room, shutting the door.

Billy stumbled back, unable to tear his eyes away from you. He barely had the sense to remove his hat. A million new questions replaced the ones he'd wanted to ask before. But when you sat on the bed and he followed suit, all he could manage was, " Where have you been?"

You took in a breath, your voice calm. "Billy, I know this is a shock. I know you have things you want to ask and I have things I want to ask you too." When you brought a hand to your unbruised cheek, he saw a long scar across your fingers. "Can I tell you what happened first? And then you can ask anything you want."

When he nodded, you swallowed thickly. "Thank you." He hated the way you spoke. It was so far from the way he remembered you, as if all the life had been drained out.

You folded your arms around yourself. "I was with Kat the whole morning. She was being so good for me." The tiniest little smile appeared on your face, but it was marked by your sad eyes. "I'd finally gotten her to sleep and she was smiling in her sleep. It was so sweet." It was obvious this was something you'd thought about a lot.

"She still does that," he said quietly, and you nodded, biting the side of your cheek.

"Kat," you croaked, brushing a tear away. "Oh-" Now Billy was confused. Was this guilt? Was he about to hear about some epiphany you'd had?

"I heard a horse outside," you continued, your voice wavering the slightest bit. He could hear you trying to stay calm. "I thought it was you. I thought you'd forgotten something or come home early." You looked straight into his eyes, breaths growing shaky. "He came in and started yelling. He was asking where you were and I told him I didn't know. He woke Kat." The last part was said in a whisper.

Billy could only stare at you. This wasn't going the way he had thought it would.

"He pointed his gun at her," you said, and the flash in your eyes told him you were reliving it. "And he t-told me that if I didn't come with him he'd...he'd..." your lower lip wobbled, a telltale sign that you were about to cry.

Billy's old instincts with you were falling short. The inside of him was yelling at him to comfort you, to close the gap between you, but he couldn't. It was as if his body was glued to itself. And his eyes were stuck on you.

"Your ring," he managed. "You left your ring."

"So you wouldn't come after me." You turned away, refusing to meet his eyes anymore. "I knew he was taking me as bait, but maybe if you thought I'd left you..."

A hand covered his eyes, and he bent his head, dropping his hat. The past was reworking itself before his eyes, the truth throwing him into something he never thought he'd see. You were here, somehow, and there wasn't any doubt in his mind about the truth of your words.

For a year he'd tried to make everything make sense. How he could have possibly missed the signs when you were the only language he knew how to read, how you could have given up when things were hard with Kat when you'd never once given up on him. But knowing now what he knew, every wall and excuse he'd built cracked and crumbled.

Lifting his head, he found you looking at him again, the very picture of exhaustion. When he sat up, you winced, and his heart broke all over again.

"I couldn't risk you or Kat," you whispered, nails digging into your own wrist. "It would be better for you to hate me than be killed because of me."

"They held you all this time?" He finally managed to speak, voice scratchy. "Where?"

"Up north. There's a mine in the mountains." You traced the scar on your fingers. "They would have left me for dead after a month or so if they hadn't found another use for me."

"Another use-?" You lifted your eyes to him and he knew.

Billy stood up, pacing the length of the room and trying to get his thoughts in order. You remained on the bed, and he swore you'd never looked quite so small.

He'd expected to be angry. It had felt like a trick, the idea of you coming back so close to the day he'd lost you. The only anger he felt was not directed at the woman he'd been trying not to miss for a year. It was at the monster who'd taken you from him, made you feel like you had to choose between your life and his. He was angry you'd been scared; angry you'd been made to suffer. Closing his eyes, he stopped, standing still as it buried him alive.

"Billy," you said quietly. When he didn't turn around, you came to him, footsteps soft. He only opened his eyes when he felt your hands on his cheeks, soft despite all you'd been through.

Your eyes were haunting. He could see the lifetime of pain lingering, as if it had always been there. Billy lifted his hand, touching your scarred fingers. He kept his fingers light, watching your expression. You sighed, body seeming to slump, and that was when he pulled you into his arms.

The instant your head found his chest, he breathed out, nose dropping to your hair. It was a nostalgic trip. Billy felt his other half meld into him, become his once more. His girl. His love. As much as he hadn't wanted to admit it, the love he had for you had flickered like a dying candle, hidden away but still there.

"You're hurt," he whispered, and you shook your head.

"This is nothing." Billy fisted the shoulder of your dress, as if he could bring you closer. Your voice was muffled by his chest. "It was worse before. I'm okay."

"No." Billy shook his head, pulling back to look at you, but keeping his hands at your sides. "How did you get out?"

"They left me for dead," you confessed softly. "They took the horses. But as soon as they were gone, I started running. I don't even know how long it took me to get down here, but I remembered that town was straight south."

He imagined you sleeping shivering in the cold, living off the meager plants you were forced to eat, no gun to protect you. All this to get back to him.

"I would understand if you hated me," you said, looking up into his eyes. "That's what I wanted you to do. But I had to tell you the truth. And I'll leave tomorrow and never come back now that I've-"

"No." Billy cut you off, cupping your cheek. He looked you over again, the feel of you grounding him. "I don't...I couldn't..." he took in a shaky breath. "I don't hate you and I don't want you to leave."

You were nearly trembling. Billy sat back on the bed, pulling you down with him. He smoothed your hair behind your ears, and you leaned into his touch. "You were protectin' us." He thumbed your bruise lightly, heart aching when you closed your eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't come after you. I should've-" Tears were rising in his throat. "I wish I'd have tried to find you."

"He would have hurt you," you sniffled, breathing in and holding his wrist. "You and Kat were safe. That's all I care about."

"But he hurt you." Billy's tone was sharp, and when you flinched he softened it. "I ought to find him and make sure he pays. Treating a woman like that. My girl-" He cut himself off when he saw the first tear on your cheek, and you were back in his arms when the second fell. His nose found your hair once more. "You came back to me."

"There'll never be a time when I don't try to come back to you," you mumbled into his chest. Billy kissed the top of your head, overwhelmed by the feeling of having you again. His wife, his love, practically back from the dead.

You'd pushed through every horror to find him again. What rattled him was that you'd thought there was a chance he'd turn you away after learning what had really happened. And yet you'd found him anyways. Any doubts he'd had about your love for him faded into nothingness, his hidden flame becoming a wildfire.

"I love you," he whispered into your hair. "I never stopped loving you."

"I love you." You clung to his shoulders, as if you'd been holding back before. "It killed me to make you believe that I didn't."

He leaned down to kiss your forehead, your cheek, your nose, realizing everything he'd missed all at once. You held yourself to him, breathing in and out slowly, reclaiming the safety he so badly wanted to give you again.

"Is Kat okay?" you murmured, eyes shut as he smoothed your hair, rubbing his thumb over that special spot you loved.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he said softly, stroking your back. "She's good. Misses her mama, though."

You hummed sadly, holding his wrist tighter. "I've missed her."

"We'll see her soon," he promised, shifting to lean back, holding you to his chest still. "Just let me have you a little longer."

Holding you was a haze of remembering. Whatever woman he'd been imagining since the day you were taken couldn't be less real to him. There was only you, the girl he'd always known, the girl he'd fallen in love with. Everything that had happened only heightened his protection.

"You're allowed to be even a little bit mad at me," you said softly, body snug against his.

Billy's eyes were shut, his arm wound around your waist. He felt at peace, finally back where he was happiest. Your head on his shoulder, your hand held to his chest between his fingers. He was stroking your scar again.

He didn't bother to open his eyes. "I'm not." Billy let his hand at your waist fall to the covers, tugging the end to wrap around your body. "Not even a little bit."

"Maybe you should be." He cracked one eye open. You were angelic in his arms, even with the bruises and scrapes marring you. If he had it his way you'd be put in a bubble of sunshine and wildflowers and love for the rest of your life.

Billy leaned down to kiss your hair. "No. How could I?" He lightly scratched your back, shifting you to be a little more comfortable on his chest.

"I left you," you said softly.

"You protected our daughter," he corrected, stroking your hair. "If I was gonna be mad about anything it'd be about you not giving me the chance to come find you." Billy nosed your temple, lips pressing there. "I could've saved you baby." He touched the bruise on your cheek again, blood starting to boil as he thought of everything you'd been subjected to while he was home trying to forget.

You shook your head, resting your head back on his chest. "It's all over now, Billy. It's okay."

It wasn't okay. He wanted to protest, bring up the proof of your hurt, both within and outside. But you looked so tired, and he knew there'd be plenty of time to dissect it all later. There wasn't any way he was letting you out of his sight again.

So he nodded, smoothing the folded covers over you again. The conversation was far from over, but he wanted you to get some rest more than he wanted to argue. When you closed your eyes, he smiled softly.

Billy wasn't so naive to think that having you back would fix everything. He knew you were hurting, the road to recovery long and winding. But you were strong. You had found your way home and you were all his again, safe and loved in the shelter of his arms. He'd reunite you with Kat in the morning.

Little steps. He'd thought he'd lost you until an hour ago.

Right now, this was enough.

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid x you #william h bonney x reader #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid fluff #billy the kid fic #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney imagine #william h bonney x you #billy bonney x reader #billy bonney #billy the kid mgm #billy the kid tom blyth #milliesfishes billy #Spotify

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elvisslittleegypt · 2 days ago

Note

Can you do something with daddy kink older Elvis spanking his good girl when she gets bratty?

𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 : Elvis Presley x FEM!Reader

𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑔𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 / 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 : daddy kink, spanking, legal age gap (reader is 19 and Elvis 41), mention of pain, p in v, unprotected sex, pregnancy kink, y'all tell me cause I'm too lazy to write it all 💀

“This ring on my finger is older than ya, y'know that?” Elvis's breath on the shell of your ear causes a chill to run up your spine, the weight of his statement making the heartbeat between your thighs thump twice as hard.

The cold metal of the aforementioned piece of jewelry almost stings against the slowly bruising plush of your ass, his slender fingers teasingly massaging your skin.

You can feel the tension in the air as he pulls his hand back, blindly anticipating the impact as you fight back the tears building in your waterline, the pain of your punishment starting to outweigh the pleasure you derive from it.

The bulge in his jeans digs into your tummy, letting on just how much he’s enjoying putting you back in your place. He looms over you for what feels like forever, the deafening silence only intensifying the urge to squirm in his lap in an attempt to tease his cock as much as possible, the angel and devil on your shoulders helping you weigh the odds of getting what you want if you do. Ultimately the angel wins, finding yourself too needy to risk losing your orgasm privileges for the night.

“Where’d my sweet little girl go?” He finally speaks, exaggerated disapproval lacing every word.

“I don’t know.” You whimper, the guilt of disappointing him finally setting in as you’re forced to sit with it.

“I know she’s somewhere in there, jus' have t'get past the brat.” He feigns sweetness before his tone takes a sinister turn, his hand coming down again quickly to lay several harsh slaps to your tender flesh, each hit alternating cheeks to give equal punishment to each side of your ass.

You grow more vocal, gasps and cries slipping from your lips despite how hard you try to keep them in. You can feel Elvis's cock growing even harder against your stomach with each cry, the sound only spurring him on further. He brings a firm hand down against your ass for the twentieth time, harder than the rest, making you jolt forward across his lap.

“y'think I’ve beaten the brat out of ya yet?” His free hand tangles in your hair, abruptly pulling your head back to look him in the eyes.

“Yes, yes! I’m sorry daddy, promise!” You plead, giving him the sweetest eyes you possibly can to drive your point home. His brow furrows as if he’s contemplating your answer, his features softening.

His hand gently massages your ass one last time, soothing your hot skin as he places a kiss on your forehead and releases your hair. “I really am sorry daddy.” You sigh as you shift to straddle his lap, resting your arms over his shoulders as his erection presses against your bare cunt through the fabric of his jeans.

“Y'know how ya can make it up t'me?” He asks, his hands slowly undoing his belt. You meekly shake your head, running your fingertips over the peach fuzz at the nape of his neck.

“By taking daddy’s dick deep in your sweet little pussy, babydoll.” He groans, pulling his cock out of his jeans and watching as you gently sink down onto him, finally starting to relieve the tension that had been building between the two of you all day.

Your head dropped to his shoulder, your train of thought diminishing with every inch he filled you up. it wasn’t until he bottomed out that he grabbed you by your cheeks, the look on your face telling him everything he needed to know.

The way you looked at him as if you didn’t have a brain, your eyes glassy and void of any emotion. you were truly, utterly cock drunk already. Elvis smiled, keeping his eyes trained on your face as he began thrusting into you. “this is what y'needed, baby hmm? needed me t'stuff this pretty pussy?” you mumbled a mix of nonsense in response, eliciting a laugh from him.

“Aww s'okay, y'don’t have t'make sense, baby..” Elvis continued thrusting into you, telling you how he was going to fill up your womb with his seed, making you the ‘prettiest mama Memphis has ever seen’.

“imagine that. carrying my baby 'round, being living proof of the filthy shit y'let me do to ya..” he shushed you when you cried out, his large hand rubbing your back soothingly as he pumped in and out of you. “yeah, let’s make that happen.”

#elvis fans #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x y/n #elvis history #elvis photos #elvis the king #elvis the pelvis #elvis presely smut #big daddy elvis #elvis smut #elvisaaronpresley

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anon-sect · 15 hours ago

Text

Bryan so wanted to go on the hunting trip with his straight friend. He really liked hanging out with Steve a lot. But he noticed things changed when he came out to him. They didn't hang out as much as they used to. He began to treat him differently than before when hanging out with his other buddies.

After much pleading, Steve agreed to let him go hunting with him. Bryan was glad to get to hang out with his buddy again. As Steve pulled up to an area and turned the truck off, he looked at Bryan. "I have a confession. There is a reason why I agreed to bring you hunting with me." Steve paused as he pulled out a strange device form under the seat. "I needed some hunting boots." He added.

Bryan was confused as to him going hunting had to do with getting new hunting boots. "Where are you new hunting boot?" He asked him as he looked around the cabin for them. He saw Steve smiling back at him.

"Right in front of me." Steve spoke as he fired the device at Bryan. A ray of light struck his gay friend. He watched as he quickly shrunk in size and reformed into a pair of boots for his size 11 feet.

Bryan found himself unable to move or speak. HIs field of view was limited with not much light. He found himself split in half. He then saw what was truly his fate. A black socked foot entered his new form and pressed down on his face. He was forced to experience it once more as the other boot was put on Steve' feet. The black socks smelled like they weren't washed in days. They reeked of rotten chees and eggs. He tried to get away from the foul stench but not had the ability. His friend had only brought him along just to turn him into footwear to wear for his hunting trip and nothing more.

Steve found his new hunting boots comfortable. His previous pair had worn out. He had that pair for the past five years. His previous hunting boots were special, too. They were once an annoying neighbor who constantly was throwing trash on his side of the fence. He was a good pair of boots for the past five years. It was time for a new pair of boots, and his old buddy was just the one he needed.

"I hope you last longer than the previous guy." Steve laughed as he got out of his truck and sat at the end. Drinking a bottlen of water before getting ready to go to his favorite hunting spot. So far, the boots were even comfortable to walk in.

Steve then remembered the durability spray he had recently bought. He had it in the bag he brought with him. He sprayed his new boots from the soles on up. "Now you should last for a long time, at least twenty years or more." He laughed as he gathered up his gear to head to his hunting spot.

Bryan was in agony as every step felt like the weight of the world was crushing him over and over. He could feel wherever Steve was stepping. It felt like his back was being pressed into the ground or wherever the surface he was stepping. The bombardment of the foul stench of the socks made the torture even worse. Yet to hear that he could be stuck this way forever, to be worn on Steve's feet, made him cry. He wanted to hang out with his friend, but not be literal footwear.

#inanimate transformation #foot domination #shrinkage #tf story #permanent transformation #unwilling permanent transformation #boot transformation #gay vs straight

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existential-crisis-of-the-mind · 2 days ago

Text

Dating but not really (Tim Drake x Reader)

Prompt: Tim and you are totally dating. His brothers are just being skeptics... right? (2.3k words~)

The cool swish of the doors opening alerts Tim of a presence, Jason’s heavy footfalls giving him away before his voice.

“Hey Tim you joining me on patrol tonight?”

Jason’s voice echos across the Batcave, as he crosses the expanse of corridor to reach Tim sitting at the Batcomputer preoccupied with a surveillance task.

“Can’t tonight, I’ve got a date. Dick’s gonna join you instead” he replies without looking away from the screen.

Jason raises an eyebrow at that. He crosses his arms as he comes to stand beside Tim, assessing him with a skeptical look.

“A date? Well who’s the lucky girl?”

“It’s a date with (Name)” he responds, still distracted by his task.

Jason nods, seemingly impressed “Nicely done, bout time you finally asked her out. Your moony glances at her across the room was getting somewhat nauseating”

Tim nods at that, only half paying attention at his brother’s words.

A beat passes before he whips his head towards Jason, “Wait what? This isn’t a first date”.

“No? Still didn’t muster the courage to ask her out? Well don’t worry little guy, I’m sure eventually one of your ‘hangouts’ is gonna turn into a date”

Jason knew (Name) was one of Tim’s closest friends, he also knew that Tim had a crush on her since forever, but the boy seemed to get far too nervous and tongue tied to actually act on his feelings.

Tim sputters at Jason’s words, “What-no that’s not what I meant. We’ve been dating for two months now”

Jason balks at his words “What? Really? No way”, his brow furrows at the thought.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tim asks, seeming to take offence at Jason’s reaction to his revelation.

“Well, I guess I couldn’t tell things had changed between the two of you. I mean she comes around a lot, I didn’t really notice anything different in your interactions” he shrugs.

Before Tim can answer, a beep draws their attention. They turn to face the entrance of the Batcave as it opens, Dick walks in.

“Hey Dick, did you know that Tim and (Name) were dating”, Jason’s voice echos across the cave as the third brother approaches the duo.

A bright almost congratulatory smile appears on Dick’s face, “Really now? Nicely done Tim”

His words accompanied by a fatherly pat on Tim’s back, seeming quiet chuffed by the news.

“Yeah, They’ve been dating for the past 2 months” Jason adds, his tone still conveying a sense of disbelief which causes Tim to give him a look.

“Oh”

Though Dick was surprised, he was much better at masking his expression than Jason, the only tell being the slight widening of his eyes which he quickly schooled into one of his bright smiles.

“That’s nice” he quickly added before there was too much of a pause. Tim only huffs in response,

“Why is that seemingly so hard to believe?”

Dick was trying to think of a delicate and diplomatic way to frame his answer, but Jason’s bluntness beat him to it,

“I don’t know, guess I’ve never see you both be all gooey and in love”, now that Jason thinks for a beat, he thinks it’s probably for the best, he shudders at the thought of being subjected to two lovebirds in his own home. A shiver passes over his body.

“Are you trying to say I’m not a romantic boyfriend?”

“Well that’s not-“

“Where’re you taking her for your date today?” Jason butts in before Dick can placate Tim’s simmering nerves.

“We’re going to the library.” Jason raises an eyebrow at that, which causes Tim to add with a rather exasperated huff “It’s a study date”

“And pray tell how is that any different from what you’d do before you started dating?”

“Come on Jason, I’m sure Tim and (Name) enjoy old haunts but also have new spots they like to explore from time to time” Dick came in on Tim’s defence with an assured smile, which slowly dropped into a surprised ‘o’ when he took in Tim’s sheepish expression.

“Well, I mean we’ve not really changed much of our routine since dating” Tim muttered, feeling less confident with each word. Were they supposed to? The two of them had a comfortable routine, and (Name) seemed happy with the arrangement. But was he supposed to be the one suggesting new ideas? Was she waiting for him to say something?

“Tim” Jason tuts, with a tone of disappointment mixed with affection that an elder brother would admonish their younger with, “Maybe you should put some more effort into this, I mean you if you really like her you have to show her that. If you just continue as you did as friends how’s she ever gonna know?”

Dick nodded, though he offered a more sympathetic smile.

Tim wasn’t all too surprised by Dick’s stance on the matter, he was known to be a hopeless romantic among the brothers, sometimes going overboard with his grand displays of affection and high production movie-esque date ideas. Now Jason on the other hand wasn’t all that overt about his affections, though he tried to come off as tough and unassuming Tim had happened to stumble across his somewhat poorly hidden stash of Jane Austen novels in his room once before.

But if even Jason feels like there’s more Tim can do for his budding relationship, maybe he really is missing the mark. Not for any lack of care on his part, but perhaps a result of an ignore is bliss, what with this being Tim’s first serious relationship.

He looks back at them somewhat apprehensive, “So what do you think I should do?”

The two brothers glanced at each other, twin smirks adorning their face before they turn back to him

“Don’t worry little brother we’ve got you”.

———————————————————-

You found yourself a nice shade speckled spot on a park bench, enjoying the feel of cool breeze on your skin. You decided to enjoy the pleasant weather while you waited for Tim, who texted you he’d be running late.

Your back was against the wood, knees pulled up, as you looked up at the sky, warm sunlight peeking through the thick leafy overgrowth of tall trees.You were almost dozing off to the delicate sound of bird song till you felt a large shadow block out the light. Squinting an eye open to examine the sudden presence, you end up having to blink a couple times to register what you were looking at.

Tim standing in front of you. Expected.

But Tim holding a giant bouquet of flowers which almost overpowered his frame? Unexpected.

“Tim?” The question in your tone was not directed at Tim himself but rather at his appearance.

He was wearing a blazer with a pressed white shirt, which was odd given he’d usually show up in shorts and a T-shirt for your library dates. You’re quite certain he’s wearing a different cologne too. And is his hair slicked back with hair gel? Your examination of his get-up only adding to his nerves.

Tim felt stiff and hot in the blazer, ‘Smart Casual’, those were the words Dick used to describe his look.

’A sharp look says you’re putting in the effort and care about how you show up for your date’ Dick nodded sagely as he fixed Tim’s sleeve cuffs.

Jason observed the interaction with a light frown, he stepped up when Dick moved aside and loosened Tim’s collar, tilting one of the edges so they were no longer symmetrical.

Noticing Tim’s confused glance he added “Well you don’t want to look like a Toy Solider either, you need some personality, few tweaks and you’ll be artfully scruffy’.

So here he stood, a questionable blend between smart casual and artfully scruffy, not feeling all too much like himself.

“Hey. Uh- these are for you” He says as he shoves the bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers towards you.

A short laugh of disbelief escapes you, the gesture is sweet but fairly out of the blue.

“Thank you. They’re wonderful… is there any particular reason for this?” you ask as you accept the flowers.

Tim feels his face flush, reason? No there wasn’t any particular reason, unless of course you count his brothers giving him a rom-com interlude date makeover as one.

“Well I just- just thought they’d make you smile” the words tumble out of him, hesitant and shy.

He always wants to make you smile, he hopes you know that. But perhaps his brothers have been right, maybe he’s been too subtle about his feelings. Maybe you don’t know how your smiles cause blood to rush into his cheeks, how his heart flips when he’s the reason behind them.

“Also I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner later today?”

“Oh, that sounds nice. Your place or mine?”

“How about a restaurant this time?”

He’d take her somewhere nice, somewhere that takes reservations. That’s some indicator of fancy right?

And he’d pay, cause ‘that would be the chivalrous thing to do’, Dick’s voice echos in his ears.

Unless of course she wants to split the bill, in which case he ought to ‘respect her wishes and give her space’. Right, Jason’s words also ring true. Even if they happen to be pulling him towards two different directions.

Tim’s inner turmoil paints an expression of conflict on his face. You’re finding his behaviour quite odd, almost as if he’s acting out a role. Your eyes narrow as you consider him, causing the poor boy to stiffen further.

“Tim, do you think I’m angry at you?”

He blinks “What? No- no of course not” he replies with a strained laugh, his eyes widen slightly as he reconsiders your words

“Unless you are?” Was that supposed to be a trick question? God he’s not good at this, maybe he shouldn’t have skipped that Tarot card reading by the self declared witch on Tiktok last night, is this karma?

A short laugh escapes you, not unkindly and not direct at Tim, but rather at the situation at hand.

“Well the flowers, the blazer and dinner date all together come off as an apology attempt. It’s not all very… you” (Name) shrugs.

Tim’s shoulders drop, “Yeah I guess not” A dry chuckle escapes him as he runs a hand through his slicked back hair. Part of him is relieved you’ve seen through him, but worry still gnaws at him.ffff

You pat the space on the bench beside you, he offers a weak smile before sitting beside you.

A sigh escapes him, his gaze remains firm on the gravel below, “(Name), you know I care about you right?”

You blink, the question seemingly out of the blue, though the doubt swimming in his eyes conveys that this is something he’s been mulling over.

“Of course I do Tim”

“No- like I really care about you. More than friends” he pauses, frustrated at his inability to convey what he’s really thinking “This- what we have, it’s not just some summer fling to me. I really cherish it and I’m-”

He flinches as he feels your hand over his, he hesitantly meets your eyes, feeling his pulse steady at your gentle gaze.

“Tim I get it. I feel the same way…. what’s this really about?”

He had to bite back a laugh, of course you’d catch on to his distress even when he struggles to find the words to voice it.

“I don’t know if I’m doing enough. If this all just feels too casual- cause it’s not to me. It’s just when I do try to express it through a grand gesture it feels too artificial and forced… you saw right through me’

“Oh Tim, that’s what this is about?” A sigh of relief escapes you at his confession, you shake your head at him with an exasperated smile “For the record, I like what we have… it never felt like a fling, why would you think that?”

“Well- the lines between friendship and romance feel so blurry, I don’t know if I’m doing it right… I mean when was the last time I got you a bouquet of flowers” he asks, agitation evident in his tone.

“Actually this is the first time you did”, Tim winces at your words but you squeeze his hand before he can spiral into a worse case scenario

“You don’t get me bouquets of flowers. You get me pretty daisies you find on your walk which remind you of me”

You fingers flick at his uneven shirt collar “And you don’t wear white shirts with blazers, you wear band tees and mismatched socks”

This draws an embarrassed laugh out of him “Right, not exactly a trend setter am I?”

His eyes flit to your warm smile, it comforts his nerves, it always does.

“Maybe not, but it’s you. And I like that. I mean, I like what we have… don’t you?”

God yes. Of course he does, it all seems to come so naturally to him. It’s so easy. And that’s what worries him, that maybe he’s taking it all for granted. Maybe he’s not able to show you how much you really mean to him.

He gives a stiff nod “Of course I do. I just… I don’t know if it’s enough. If this is what it’s supposed to be or if I’m missing somethin-“

“Tim” you interrupt what would turn into a worry filled ramble by placing a hand over his, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks it should look like, we get to define that for ourselves. Trust me, you’re more that enough. And you make me very happy”.

You peck his cheek so as to reemphasise your point, causing a light flush to adorn his cheeks.

“Alright. I’m glad…” That’s all he can muster right now.

His mind’s a jumbled mess, thoughts flit around like agitated butterflies, but they’re soft, warm thoughts so he doesn’t entirely mind. One day he’s going to figure out how to tell you just how much he feels for you.

All in good time, he might ask his brothers again, only if he's really desparate. But for now you seem happy to figure things out as you go, and he’s all too happy to oblige.

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #red robin #dc universe #batman #dc comics #dcu

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thelonelyshore-if · 23 hours ago

Note

It occurred to me that Croft is going to hate that a decent amount of MCs are obsessed with the lake especially if romanced by them. Croft gives the vibe of not only wanting to leave but to put as many miles between them and the fog as possible.

Which would probably be pretty hard to achieve if even after they both escape MC comes to the lake every summer to visit (they still feel v bad about not visiting more in the past).

Poor Croft would probably pull their own hair out, if they hadn’t worked painstakingly on their aesthetic, about the fact they have seemingly fallen for the most insane person alive.

(Not MC going to visit the lake every summer, laying on the dock and looking into the depths while they keep their feet and tell the lake all the things they love about Croft before going for a swim, like gushing to a parent or best friend about your s/o. Softly lamenting that they couldn’t convince Croft to come this time either, but that they wouldn’t stop working on it).

You're 100% correct, Croft would hate it. I love this ask so much. Your thoughts are soooo good. It got me thinking, and I ended up possessed, so I wrote a little drabble to go along with it c:

“You're sure you don't want to come with?”

Croft stands in the entryway of your shared home. You've got the door cracked, letting an unpleasant wave of hot air worm its way into the house. Sunshine cascades over your shoulders. It spills onto the floor, golden-bright and much too warm.

Croft edges away from the light and the heat. The heft of their thick black hoodie is enough to get them sweating at the mere thought of stepping out into the summer day.

“Yes, I'm sure,” they say tersely, avoiding your eyes.

The skin on the back of their neck pricks. Gooseflesh raises on their arms. It must be 80 degrees out and yet they feel cold.

Why do you insist on doing this?

They think the words, but it's an old argument, and they refuse to sour your departure with a recycled spat.

Instead, they tilt their head and ask, “Will your parents be joining you this year?”

What they mean is, will you be alone? Or, worse, alone with Willow? They're asking if you'll be safe and sound and stay on this side of reality or if they'll spend the next week sick with the fear that the lake or your terrible little sibling will steal you away.

If you hear the undercurrent of fear you brush past it. Instead you elect to set your luggage down and slip back into the house. You walk up and wrap your arms around their waist.

“I'll be perfectly safe,” you respond, without answering the question.

Croft starts to argue but falls silent when you press your lips to theirs. They hold you tighter, cupping the back of your neck. Deepening the kiss. They pour their fear and their uncertainty and their love into it, aching for you to taste the desperation on their tongue.

They can't lose you.

They don't understand why you go back every year. They know, of course, about your youth and the lake and the red string tying you together. They've seen it, and they know you. But they still can't understand.

You escaped–both of you, together, breaking your way back into reality. Shedding the horror and the fog and the fear of Easthaven was like tasting sunshine, made all the better by you at their side.

And yet you go back to your cabin every year. Drawn in, the moth to the flame. So far you've always ended your pilgrimage and returned to their arms. It doesn't change the silent fear that corrodes their faith and their trust; the terror that tells them that this time you'll give way to temptation. That you'll be lost to them forever.

Except you wouldn't be, would you? Because Croft would go back, if it meant holding you again. Orpheus singing his way into hell.

“I know you will,” they whisper against your lips. They try to rid themself of the doubt. They do trust you. They love you.

One week and you'll be back again.

“Don't miss me too much,” you tease, pulling away.

“Don't fall in,” Croft responds, throat so dry that you can both hear the plea badly hidden amidst the joke.

You give them a small, sad smile. A final hug, too brief, but you have a plane to catch and a car waiting outside.

“I'll see you in a week,” you promise, “I love you.”

“I know.”

They watch you leave. The door creaks to a close as you pull it shut behind you. You're off to commune with something they will never understand. Leaving them behind.

But only for a week.

Croft closes their eyes. Takes a deep breath.

They can handle a week.

#asks #interactive fiction #drabbles #tysm for the ask!!#the drabble is totally non-canonical ofc #but i couldn't get the thought out of my head <3 #so hopefully y'all enjoy a little taste of croft!!!#croft

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guesswhojusttt · 3 days ago

Text

peace, peace, my love (Aizawa/reader)

Summary:

aizawa is not a good person, but he can try to be. you are not a person at all, but you can pretend to be.

(to those who wish they were a little easier to love)

Read on AO3

In which Aizawa adopts a cat. (You are that cat.)

It's never a bad time to bring a grown man to his knees.

Your nose twitches, smelling the petrichor before it happens. Big fat drops splash onto dry, grey pavement, spreading like stains on a shirt, like ink in a pond, and wet cat fur takes forever to dry, so you dart to the nearest shelter (the word shelter doing a whole lot of heavylifting here).

You huddle beneath a coarse bush, make a home of its sharp brambles and drooping boxwood leaves, the edges eaten away by crawling caterpillars or tiny ants or Japanese beetles. Your claws pick idly at the loose dirt, with its dead leaves and snapped twigs, its sharp rocks and wriggling worms that have made this damp earth their home. It would be so much easier, wouldn't it, to be a worm? You do not have to scavenge and hunt and fight for food- you can simply nibble at the nearest shred of vegetation. If it is cold, you need not seek shelter, merely crawl into the nearest pile of filth. What luxury it would be, wet mud your bed, soft grass your blanket, and all manner of greenery as your feast. No one to adopt you, coax you into a false sense of security, only to replace you and toss you out once they find someone better, someone who gives them everything you never could no matter how had you tried, no matter how you forced yourself to mold and change into anything, anything they desired, but it was not enough, because you were not enough, even when you had warped yourself into a form you did not recognize, metamorphosing yourself at their beck and call-

But, though you feel like one, though you may certainly be treated as one, you are not a worm. So you gather your limbs beneath you and tuck your head below the bush, chin resting on a patch of pillowy leaves, and watch the shoes of the people as they pass. An expensive pair of Nike's or Jordan's or whatever type of shoes high school boys obsessed over these days, pencil-thin, hot pink stilettos all tall and elegant and just a step closer to permanently disfiguring the woman's poor heels, chafed black boots that are well-worn (well-loved, your favorite type of shoes- and thus the type of people who wear them- are those that have clearly seen better days, were once shiny and polished and brand new, but have since been broken in, lost color and shine but are still worn year after year- loyalty, you think, to keep them around instead of replace them. Or maybe this man's just poor and can't afford a new pair, but… you like to think, well. Wouldn't it be nice to be a pair of shoes, kept around year after year, regardless of how you lose whatever was first appealing about you- never tossed out, never abandoned or replaced?)

What kind of life is it, if you spend your days dreaming of a worm's life, fantasizing about being a torn pair of old shoes?

You gaze out from your comfortable perch- this bush is yours, if nothing else is- and you may be parched, you may be starving, you may feel fur and fibers clinging to your ribcage till it caves in, concave chest and nothing else between your skin and bones except the thinnest most breakable layer of tissue- but at least here, you're safe from the oncoming rain. A cute pair of cats all snowy-white and speckled and spackled in cheerful orange dart past, and a little girl tugs on her mama's skirt and eagerly points at them, bouncing on her feet in her dusty-pink ballerina slippers until the mom sighs fondly, reaches into her purse, pours out a water bottle the cats eagerly lap up, nuzzling into the little girl's legs as she giggles and squeals in delight.

Well, of course (you think bitterly), everyone loves a cute kitten. You sigh and burrow your face deeper into your arms, tail flicking irritably. Why are they out so late anyway? Shouldn't the kid be asleep by now? Way past her bedtime.

The familiar pair of scuffed snow boots walks past your bush- this pair of shoes is always home well after most people are, must work a late shift, poor guy- but with your tail still agitating, it rustles the marcescent, withering leaves just a bit, just a touch, almost imperceptibility- you're never one to make much noise, why draw attention to yourself, why incite what'll only hurt you- yet the boots stop short, because of course they do. Of course he has superhuman, doglike hearing, because you truthfully weren't making much noise at all.

(You never do, anymore.

[You know better, now])

The tall figure stoops down, and if he has any regard for how dumb and silly and frankly pathetic he looks, grown-ass man bent in half, hair nearly brushing the dirt as he tries to get on your level- well. This sort of man seems to have no regard for anything, if that lackadaisical, languid, lethargic demeanor is anything to go by. He blinks at you- slowly, slowly now- and you blink lazily back.

He leaves.

Can't say you're surprised. He'd probably thought there was a cute fluffy kitten cloistered in the bushes, had wanted to take sympathy on it and feed it and maybe even pet it a little, but the moment he took a good look at you- matted fur and missing ear and mucusy eyes- he'd regretted having stooped down to inspect the bush to begin with. Well, of course he did. Wouldn't want to risk rabies or ticks or whatever else might be hitchhiking in your hair. You almost can't blame him.

Almost. For such a little thing, you really are full of more hatred than your small body knows what to do with.

You idly bat at a sprouting crabgrass weed, displacing a black ant that had been edging up its stem, when the thick, peeling boots come back, and with them, the foreign, exotic, salivating mouth-watering gourmet heavenly scent of-

Tuna.

No, not the stubby little can with cold watery shreds, but ahi tuna steak. Easily a fat inch thick, juicy and tender and comes-apart-in-your-mouth meat.

Oh. He must've seen the cute twin cats earlier and his old little heart must've softened and he must've wanted to why is he crouching down at your bush again? Are they behind you? No, would've heard. Your one ear hears better than two, really. But, no, neither your eyes nor your ear lie to you- he really is offering you this blue-ribbon tuna steak.

He digs his long index finger into it, peels off a morsel, and plops it down on the cracked curb before you. You're no idiot and make no move to take it. He backs up- five feet, ten feet- and only when he is no longer within grabbing distance do you pounce on it, snatching it up in your jaw and scurrying back to hide in the bush before he can blink.

You down it so quickly you choke. Not even a second to savor the rare, precious, once-in-a-lifetime flavor. You'd squandered your chance to delight in its taste and you'll never again-

He's offering another scrap. backing away- one arm's length, two arm's lengths-

You seize it and dash back into hiding and gobble it up and-

You continue this little song and dance till you've eaten the steak whole.

The next day, you do not perk up when he comes by, nor do you spend your full day awaiting his return. Because you are better than that, and you know better than that, and you know it was a fluke. A one-off encounter, because either he'd been drunk (though your sharp nose had not detected any traces of alcohol) or sentimental (his no nonsense manner does not strike you as the sentimental sort), and you weren't gullible enough, naive enough, foolish enough to really think he'd come by for you again.

And your shoulders do not relax when he sits at the park bench, stretching his long legs out, sighing off the weight of his day. The mini-playground, consisting solely of a small, faded red slide and an airplane spring rider, sits in wood chips which conveniently double as a big old litter box. A grey tabby- one you'd benignly dubbed Thief- scuttles over to the man's boots, its tail winding round his leg affectionately. He droops his large hand down, lets Thief sniff it, scent it, lick it.

You tamp down your envy. You expected this, and you can't be mad about things you knew would happen, right? That's like being mad at the weather for raining after you'd already checked the forecast and chose not to bring an umbrella.

Thief paws up the man's leg to settle on his lap, reveling in the scritches behind his ear and under his chin, leaning into the man's large, warm body.

You shiver under your bush, suppress an aggressive hiss (the time for fighting is long since over, for you. As far as you were concerned, Thief could have him, goodbye and good riddance), and curl your limbs closer, ever closer, around yourself.

It's going to be a long night.

Best you go to sleep now.

Night after night, when the moon is high in the sky or when the sun is just beginning to crawl up from the horizon, he comes back. Night after night, you are still on the waitlist for every homeless shelter within a 50-mile vicinity, and go back and forth between cat and person as if it makes a difference at all.

It would be nice to believe he was looking for you, but really he is just here to play with whatever stray cat is out. So you hide while he feeds fat, big, strong Garfield, and you bristle, because he snatches up any scrap you find before you can even smell it, batting at you and hissing at you or even scratching at you even if you were in the middle of eating something- if he spots food, it's his, doesn't matter whose mouth its currently in- he can and will and does snatch food right from between your jaws, still spit-slick and half-gnawed.

Even the big black cat- almost-panther-like, in size and appearance, but not as strong, or if he was as strong before, he's had it long since beaten out of him. He lopes over with a fluid agility that promise once I was something great, but now, with gunky black stains trickling from the corners of his great big eyes in permanent tear tracks, flinching, just like you, at the slightest sound, jumping, just like you, at the first sign of a motion just a hair too fast, conceding, just like you, to any cat half his size or strength the moment it wanted to steal his food right out from under him.

Yeah. Weak and a little pathetic, just like you. You get him. He's your favorite. You look out for each other, the both of you. All that really boils down to is that he doesn't steal your food and you don't steal his, and if he seeks shelter under your bush, you let him, and if you trail after him, he lets you.

It is the closest thing you have tasted to love. To friendship.

(It is not enough.)

But maybe that is because you are greedy, all-consuming, always wanting more than the little slivers and scraps they toss you. One day someone will extend an itsy bitsy droplet of kindness and you will think this solitary drop is enough to sate years and years of parched mouth and dry tongue, others you go from night to day without a single interaction and back again, and the starvation is back, like it never left, like its only compounded exponentially, worse and worse every day you go without a single moment of affection and-

And the last and only time you've been touched in a way meant not to harm is-

Is-

Is years ago, in that shelter's end of the year catch-and-release program. They grabbed you, vaccinated you against ringworms and parasites, and subsequently released you back into the wild as if you could survive out here.

Well, you're fine. You're all good out here. Just peachy.

The sky breaks open. It's happening less and less, and this worries you. Rain used to be common. Snow used to be common. Now, you're lucky to see even a smattering of snow, it's an unmitigated miracle if there's baker's sugar powdering the streets. Gone are the days of snowballs and snow forts and snowmen, lamenting long-gone snow days where children get to stay home from school and snow so high it drowned the park benches in its crests and dips. The rain is good, yes, in the sense that there'll be plentiful water to lap up when it douses the clefts of the cement, the fissures of the sidewalks, but immediately it only means that this bush isn't enough, the dappled leaves a contented for the water to seep through and soak the dirt at your feet. you scurry to the tall trash cans only to find a family of cats has already made it their home, using the plush, overflowing trash bags- thin and black and shimmery as drips slip down and coat them- as bedding, as shelter from the storm. The pitter-patter of the rain gushes into a torrent, and you dash to the overhang above the doors to the apartment buildings but of course, of course, both Thief and Garfield are already there, albeit on opposite ends since both are too competitive to really get along. Your precious bush is colonized by a drove of rabbits that in any other time or situation would know better than to come here, of all places, where bigger cats like Sushi and Fushi would eat them alive. Stupid, ugly, disease-ridden, tapeworm-carrying, flea-infested furbags, they thump their hind legs and lunge and you really, really don't have the energy to deal with them.

You can weather bad weather. You certainly have before- you are capable of it, more than capable. On one hand, you could probably slip through a train station and take it as your bed for the night, on the other, the last time you did that, someone reported you, so. Cat form it is.

Sure, the life expectancy for stray cats is about a fourth of house cats, but you've adjusted better than most. You're not weak, like the rest of them.

Even if… even if you weren't born into being a stray like some of them are. Even if, once, you'd actually been gullible enough to believe…

But there was no use worshiping that family in your mind. They never appreciated it once anyway.

The man comes back (late, as always), his eyes alighting on you as if he'd been searching for you. As if worried about you. as if. He takes a step towards you. You take three back. He crouches low, makes himself smaller, less intimidating.

He is not any less intimidating than a lion that rears back before it strikes.

You do not want his help. Not because you do not need it- you are not arrogant, nor are you so foolish so as to believe you, or anyone else, is entirely self-sufficient- not even because you do not want it (who would not welcome a warm, dry shelter from the thrashing storm lashing the trees themselves in all their height and grandeur?)- but rather, because you cannot have it.

Not permanently.

Last time you'd actually fallen for it-

So no. You have no interest in letting him warm you and dry you and take care of you only to abandon you the moment the rain stops. What is the point of love if not everlasting? What is the point of letting him give you just a sliver, just a finite taste, of what warmth could be like only to toss you back out like garbage?

No. You will huddle under this tree even as the rain slips through the leaves and douses you. He's getting soaked, too, but those heroic types are always willing to sacrifice small comforts for the greater good. You leap to the lowest hanging branch when he makes to approach you, dig your claws into rough bark, buried in the little crevices and cracks along the wood, skittering and scrambling up the tree to get away from him like a cat possessed. Take the hint, you want to growl, I don't want you. I'm not fine on my own but I'm still better off than I would be with anyone else.

He misinterprets your distaste for fear (it isn't, but of course he is the arrogant sort), and carefully lopes over to the base of the tree, craning his neck up to look at you, blinking the rain out of his bloodshot eyes. He raises one long arm to shield his stubbly face from the onslaught of rain, other hand weaving two long fingers into his stretchy grey scarf- grey, like the overcast sky, grey, like the sheets of rain separating you and him as a thick and much-welcome curtain. He takes another step closer, jaw set as if intending to scale the tree and rescue you, so you arch your back and hiss and do everything a cat does to say go away and leave me alone, but all he does is cock his head in sympathy, making a cooing noise that is so condescending and infantalizing that you'd all but gouge his eyes out were you not set on keeping him as far away as possible, scrabbling up to the next branch, ever higher, the torrent of icy water stabbing through your fur coat and right into your skin, again and again, cold sharp needles battering away at you- the leaves do not protect you at all, the tree swaying in the wind and bending and bowing to the harsh winds. When he realizes that no amount of pspsspsssting is going to bribe you to abandon your safe harbor, he squares his shoulders and straightens his slouch and tightens his grip on his loose grey scarf, tugging at it, winding it-

Then shakes his head, as if thinking better of it.

Instead, he offers his hand. Palm up. Crooks one long finger in a come hither motion.

You snort. Does he really think this would work?

He digs around in his trouser's pocket. Pulls out his phone. Your heat jackrabbits- is he trying to send you to a shelter? Not again not again- you're ready to leap off the tree and take your chances to outrace him, but-

Cats. Yowling. He's pulled up a Play this to attract your cat and make it meow back (works instantly!) video, and … he looks up at you so hopefully, so expectantly, that you almost feel a little bad for the sopping wet cat of a man before you. Almost want to throw him a bone. Rain ricochets off his moisture-wicking raincoat, douses his mop of black hair, stringy strands falling into his face (weathered, less so with age than with weariness). He fishes in his oversized pockets again, replacing his phone with a…

Carton?

CATMILK: TREAT FOR CATS & KITTENS, a cartoon of a bright orange cat heartily licking a milk mustache off its upper lip.

Does he… carry around a carton of milk for cats? Just in case? [1]

Does this man not have hobbies outside of following stray cats like some sort of stalker? [2]

He makes those soft kissy sounds that you know he thinks attract cats but really just make him look like a silly old man.

He's certainly tall enough, long-limbed enough, that if he really wanted to, he could just scale the tree and seize you himself, so it's beyond you why he's going to such bizarre, near-comedic lengths to lure you down. His pants are plastered to his legs by now, the rain sticking his clothes to his skin and isn't he cold, even in those thick boots and even with the turtleneck peeking out beneath his coat- it is the sort of wetness where it not possible to get any wetter, a drowned rat in a gutter. (You've seen and eaten enough of them to know.)

Put this poor idiot out of his misery, you huff, give him what he wants and then he'll leave you alone. As you always are. As you always should be.

You rear back on your haunches, slowly, slowly, and his eyes widen so earnestly that he must be a child seeing Santa is real, spreading his arms wide to catch you.

Well, fine.

Placate him and he'll go away soon enough.

You leap off the tree, claws out, head first, the branch left trembling from your jump off it, and he does not startle, does not react- you think dully, this must be a man who is used to catching people, to adjusting to unpredicted weights, permanently prepared. He draws his inky rain coat open, letting his sweater get rain-splattered in the process, tucking you into his jacket and bundling you close and tight before speed-walking to his home, kicking up sprays of water and splashing up perfectly good puddles in his haste to get home.

No.

To get you home.

He treks up the stairs, water-sodden boots squelching with every step, strong arm keeping you tucked closer than you think is strictly necessary, and you hold your breath and remind yourself the other shoe will have to drop.

He will release you back into the wild. It's what they always do. He's accomplished his heroic endeavor of getting you out of the cold wet rain, and as soon as the storm ceases, he'll be done with his task and done with you and honestly, honestly, you pray it stops raining right this second so you can leave. Before you learn his name or his mannerisms or what his phone-

His phone, blaring the generic, cheerfully chirping ringtone he apparently never bothered to change- he's pulling it out and you avert your gaze, not wanting to know his lockscreen, his phone case, how new and shiny and expensive it is or isn't. You tuck your small head further into his thick, dense jacket, an action he mistakes for affectionate nuzzling when really it's to cotton your ears with the fabric so you don't hear his conversation- or so that it's at least muffled. Don't want to know the low cadence of his voice, don't want to learn the slow, steady way he speaks as he sighs, "I'm not- no, Hizashi you are always pulling some- you can survive one night without me. Yes you can. Yes you can. Well if you die that's a you problem. To say I would laugh at your funeral is to imply I'd bother showing up to begin with. Mm-hm. I'm just busy right now. Yes it's more important than you, but that's not a very high bar. It's not really canceling plans because I never wanted to go anyway. No I don't. No I don't. You and Nemuri need adult supervision? Can't argue with that. I'm tired. I want to sleep. We'll go out for drinks- sooner if you have a say in it, later if I can avoid it. I said I want to sleep. Good night. I'm hanging up now. Yes I am. Yes I-"

And he really does hang up. Huh.

What a shame, too. The more time he spends talking to his friend the less time he'll spend bothering you, so it would've been in your best interest if he'd kept the conversation going just a little longer.

It's better when that sonorous, canorous timber isn't directed at you. When you can't feel it resonating from his chest into yours, can't feel his lungs steadily expanding into all of you, all of you, consumed by all of him. His rain-slicked coat may have been all rubbery and wet on the outside, but on the inside, where he had stowed you away? A fuzzy, dense fleece lining blanketed you on one side, his cable-knit wool sweater blanketing you on the other. All droopy and roomy, the shapeless collar sagged so low that your little head nestled right against his cool, smooth collarbone. The more your soggy fur presses into his sweater, the more he stinks of wet wool and wet cat and wet mud, but he only chuckles fondly.

"You stopped thrashing when i was on the phone. Does my talking help calm you down?"

No, no, no, no you do not need to hear more of that all-encompassing, steady-as-a-mountain voice. You squirm and convulse in a bid to pry yourself out of the cotton cocoon he has entrapped you in, but all that does is confirm his theory that he needs to soothe you.

Like some child.

Like some pet.

But you are not his pet. You are just a stray, that he happened to stumble across once or twice, and he had nothing better to do (he canceled plans with his best friends to stay here with you), and the moment he's done he'll toss you out and it'll be better, be safer, not to get attached to something you'll lose before you even have it.

It's not worth it, the way a cut takes only a second to stab into you but takes weeks, takes months, takes years, takes forever takes eternity takes infinity to heal and even then, even then, it leaves a scar behind to mar you; you can't risk that, not again, not again, not again-

He grunts, one large hand still cupping your head as the other fishes for his keys, jingle-jangling against each other as he unlocks the apartment door, kicking off his waterlogged boots, elbowing the door shut and flicking the light switch on. Warm, orange light bathes his apartment in a dreamy glow- the sleek wood paneling leading to a shaggy carpet, the overcrowded desk shoved to one corner, the stuffed-full bookshelf against the white wall- all so toasty and cozy and promising, awash the hazy orange glow.

Keeping a firm arm around his chest to cradle you close, as if scared you'll slip away the second he loses hold of you, he hushes and soothes you through every action he takes: his keys clink when he plucks them down onto his kitchen counter, shedding his rain coat, shaking off the water the way a cat shakes water off its fur and hanging it on the hook at the door. For just a moment, he pauses, back slumped against the wall as if his legs can no longer carry the weight of him- sighing, running a hand over his face, the quiet, irregular drip-drip-drips of his hair and clothes puddling at his feet- composing himself. Catching his breath. His heartbeat thrums slowly into yours- steady, steady, steady.

The man hooks a thumb through his thick grey socks, peeling them off, toes over to a long, pillowy, yellow sleeping bag, and eases you in.

A sleeping bag…?

Oh, shoot. You'd been taken in by a poor man. He'll shake stale Cheerios from a tattered box for you and call it dinner.

Well.

It would still be a kindness, and you would be grateful for it just the same.

You shuffle, kneading into the plush, well-used, well-loved fabric-

No, no, no. See, this is exactly what you were hoping to avoid. Now you know things about him. Things like- he has kept this sleeping bag around for a while, he has not replaced it, he has tossed it into the washer hundreds of times and it has lost its color and whatever deluxe softness it once held, whatever sleek shiny shades it had on the outside, and yet he has kept it, he has not thrown it out in the same way he has not replaced that scuffed pair of boots, he has used them both till it's molded to the contours of his body, and look, his phone's not new either, not at all, he does not throw things out on a whim, doesn't just abandon- he keeps, he keeps, long after the object is outdated and expired and obsolete, and there is no good in knowing any of this at all, because all this does is inflate a bubble of false hope, that you too could be a constant, something to keep around like a worn-out pair of well-trodden shoes-

You close your eyes. It is the only way to stop observing things.

Again, the man does not understand you. He doesn't- he doesn't get it. Doesn't get you. Delighted, babbling like a fool in love, "aw, you gettin' comfy, kitty? All cozied up? Good, make yourself at home. Oh, I know, you were just so cold and scared outside, huh? Brave girl. Such a brave girl. Trust me, you don't have to be scared, anymore. Wanna get a little warmer? Yeah? Of course I'll turn on the heat, just for you. Such a sweet little kitten."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

The dull rumble of the gas kicks on, heat seeping into the apartment like a nice hot shower after a snowy day, cradling you in its warmth till staying awake and sober is an active effort. The ambiance does not flood, but trickles into, your ears: feet shuffling along cool floor, fridge pops open, rustling, fridge snaps shut, tap water gushes, tap water off, glass clinks on the counter, cabinet opens, soft rattling, cabinet closes- the quiet, cyclic sounds of his pitter-pattering about the kitchen could've damn near soothed you to sleep, a homespun, home-baked, homemade lullaby of just- of just- someone going about their day. Someone going about the meniality of life, the same humdrum of a routine smoothed and honed and rounded the way a river sands down a stone till it's a comforting weight in your palms… when was the last time you had a place to sleep with no shouting, no crying no clanging no yelling no slamming-?

Okay, fine.

Just for tonight. You'll sleep here, just for tonight, just to weather the storm, just to dry off, and in the morning when he opens the door to go to work, you'll slip out when he does, and part ways as unlikely friends. [3]

Which unfortunately means, no matter how hungry you are, you can't take his proffered gifts. Normally you have no problem accepting help- you need food, and would never pass up a free chance to eat without neither cats nor people competing and drawing blood for each and every bite- but to eat now is- well-

It's the basic Greek laws of xenia, yeah? Same for the Islamic hospitality rules. If you have a guest, you feed them; if you are a guest, you eat and be merry and thank your gracious host. To do otherwise is to say I am not your guest; I am merely a traveler, passing through; I will not sit at your table, I will not drink your wine: I will not sleep under your roof and bid you a good night, and you will not wish me safe travels and thank me for brightening your day.

We are strangers. Let us remain so.

So when you hear the sharp snap of a metal can, when the salty tang of sardines permeates the air, when he places it reverently at your feet like a worshipper, you do not grant it so much as a cursory sniff.

"Some cats don't like seafood, right? Or is it that you don't like wet food?" He scuffles off only to come back with a bowl full of cat kibble and oh God this is not a cat bowl this is a human bowl. The man is using his own dishes to feed you. Come to think of it, that was just a normal can of packed sardines, not a can of cat food. Is he just feeding you whatever he has in his own pantry? No, the dry food for sure smells like bonafide cat food. Still. His own bowl. His own food.

Oh, well, now the reason you're eating isn't just to reject hospitality and show him you're not one to keep around, it's because he's this poor broke sorry man who's sacrificing his own meals to feed you. Poor thing, going hungry for a sorry stray. To accept his kindness would be a cruelty. It's okay, you would tell him, if you didn't have the basic social decorum that says if you turn back into a human now he'll freak out because no Quirk justifies tricking someone into providing you with food and shelter and warmth.

Because no matter how much you had fought tooth and nail to keep him from bringing you in, no matter how much he'd been the one to insist, it still felt like you'd… manipulated him. Coerced him, somehow. But there was no room for guilt: you become a cat specifically because… well. People are… kinder, to cats. Still cruel, still overlook them, still do not save them or take care of them or adopt them or love them, but no one is going to call the cops on a famished, bedraggled, ugly cat the way they would on a famished, bedraggled, ugly woman. A homeless person is a threat. A homeless animal is a tragedy.

So you give thanks for your Quirk because at least, as a cat, your stomach is smaller, your needs lesser, and no one's going to think you're some scary, smelly drug addict who needs to be reported for disturbing the peace (sleeping on a park bench).

You nudge the can back to him and hope it conveys, I'll just scavenge for mice and birds outside, so don't you worry about me! You'd leave out the part that normally the moment you get your grubby little paws on a scrap, every other cat within a 50-mile radius can somehow smell it and pounces so viciously that you're left without even the bite you'd held between your teeth. Still, go mix it with mayo, shred some lettuce, wrap it up in some tortilla, you skrunkly old man. Judging by the broken red capillaries all over the whites of your weary eyes, you need this boost more than I do.

But he does not understand you, just as you do not understand him, not even a little bit, not even at all (why is this penniless old man giving up the last of his food to feed a bony old cat, you wonder, and do not know that he is neither penniless nor that old and has a whole stockpile of catfood and cans and bags and pouches specifically on the luck occasion that he comes across a cat, you do not know that being an underground hero and a teacher at the most prestigious school in the county means his pockets are lined with far more than lint and cobwebs, you do not know, you do not know-)

Just as he does not know you. He clicks his tongue, "picky girl, huh? Princess wants to be spoiled? Want a Fancy Feast Classic Pate ™? Want a Churu Puree Lickable Treat™? Come here," and he does that fake-groan thing humans do where it's not a grunt of actual effort but they exaggerate it like it is, scooping you back up into his arms- doesn't he care that wet cat is getting all over his perfectly good nice sweater?- and you squirm viciously, struggle and writhe, but all he does is bring you to the open pantry, holding you up to eyelevel with a dizzying, colorful array of options.

Oh, bless his heart. This man's a cat mom with no cat.

Well, this explains everything.

Big brand names and wand toys and bags- not just of kibble but of litter, a scoop, a cat bed- why does this man stockpile like it's going to be a damn apocalypse. An apocalypse where specifically cats are in danger, because you know damn well he doesn't have this much in the fridge.

You dig your claws into his arm and use the split second of distraction to leap out his arms, bound over to the fridge, because you've gotta know. you can just tell he's the sort to come home at midnight, open the fridge to nothing but leftover take out (from a restaurant he didn't even want to go to but was dragged along), sniff the sticky rice, decide it's maybe decent and probably won't give him food poisoning, and eat without bothering to heat it up in the microwave.

"Refined taste? Sorry, sweet little kitty, I don't have much to offer you in the ways of human food." He pops the sleek black fridge door open, and-

And-

Oh, you were so right it sort of hurt a little.

One- because you are so set on not knowing this man, (the more you know the more you get attached is how it works you see), but damn if he isn't easier to read than a picture book with big bold neat letters.

Two- because this sorry excuse of a man was just much in need of help as you. If anything, having you around might encourage him to buy himself some food, as it had already pushed him to turn on the heat (would he had just let the apartment stay cold if it wasn't for you being here?), to go to bed at a reasonable time and to come home earlier to take care of you.

You could do him some good, you think, but that is an arrogant thought, and a condescending one to boot, so you squash it down along with the worse, rotten, traitorous he could do me some good. You give a disdainful sniff to the low fridge shelf, carrying the impressive feat of no less than half a bottle of soy sauce and a yellowing onion and a dented, open can of sparkling water that you just know had gone stale and should've been tossed out weeks ago and-

You've been here too long. Getting too comfortable with each other. What are you doing, sniffing up his fridge? Fuck's sake!

Piss him off.

You scale the pantry with its veritable cornucopia of feline delights, and it is not hard to send everything toppling over like a collapsing tower, to wreak havoc and destruction upon his frankly creepy shrine, because otherwise- and you can hear it so clearly, an impartial, detached observer spectating the actors as they take their stances upon a stage when you've already memorized the script right to the bitter, yet crudely obvious end:

"I'd love to adopt you, but I'm so busy with work; I just wouldn't have the time to give you the attention you deserve: I'm barely home as it is." And it would be true, because you always see those scuffed boots trudge home when the moon is bright, or even when the dawn has first begun to break. It wouldn't be a half-baked lie or a flimsy excuse.

(It wouldn't make it hurt any less.)

"You have a very special place in my heart, and you always will, but I'm just not in a place in my life where I can adopt a pet."

"Why is she in a room by herself? She got behavioral problems or somethin'? I'm not interested in an aggressive animal."

"It's just that I already have all the cats I need and besides what if you don't get along with them?"

"I'll still visit you. Of course I will."

(She did not).

"I wish I could, but my mom's allergic-"

"She won't let me pick her up."

"What's wrong with her face?"

"My dorm doesn't allow-"

"Not very friendly, is she?"

"I'm looking for a lapcat, but this one's been cowering and hiding in the corner like I'll kill her-"

"Can you introduce me to a better-?"

"Way too shy-"

"I'm sure she'll find her forever home, but I'd prefer a-"

"No, really, what's with her face?"

"She bit me!"

"We'll find you your person eventually," the shelter worker would promise (lie), every time, "I'd even adopt you myself, but-"

Whatever. People don't owe loyalty to strays; only to the housepets waiting for them at home, the ones they keep around for years and years till one of them dies and then they grieve carry a piece of their pet with them forever because they love them, they love them, and people can certainly be nice to strays like you, and feel sorry for you, and wish they could find a home for you, and then walk right past. They do not love them (you), they are no more loyal to them than to a trampled weed. Yes, they might see it once upon an idle stroll, might peer at it closely on their way home, but that is the start and end of the relationship.

It would… save you both a great deal of time and trouble to just nip it in the bud.

Yet even as the metal cans clatter to the ground and your claws rip into a paper bag of kibble, waterfalling onto the yellowed kitchen tiles you realize, as you exert every manner to make him turn you out sooner rather than later- so you can only feel a smug, I-knew-it-all-along satisfaction, rather than a hollow I thought this time was different pang- that the stockpile of food is assorted in the sense that- that- with a marked difference in expiration dates and brands and states of being, old and new alike, that he must've-

You can see it now. Every time he goes grocery shopping, indulging his curiosity, making a harmless little impulse purchase, flitting into the pet food aisle, perusing the shelves and grabbing one or two things just in case, for the somedays and what ifs and hopefullys, and repeating this ritual every single time he ever goes to a store until they build up into whatever the hell it is he's got going on here. You had sat in your bush a thousand times over, had watched him follow strays in his free time (so you know what he is doing is not out of kindness nor the goodness of his heart, he just has nothing better to do with his life. Probably works a miserable job with shitty hours and shittier pay and this is the only part of his day that gives his life any real meaning, makes him feel like he's useful), watched from the safety of your foliage as he extends an arm out to offer up packets of pate and cans of carp, sprawled on the park bench, rubbing the heel of his palms into his bloodshot eyes and sighing, long and heavy and aching, days- nights- when your nose tingled with the tang of blood, and what kind of job is this, that leaves him bloodied and scratched up and dented like an old beaten-up car?

So you understand that taking care of strays is just his passion project, and yes, yes, you can understand that. Respect it, even. Appreciate it the way a parishioner appreciates a bite of sacrament.

Just…

You need so much more than one bite.

(I know love does not come easy.)

You don't want to be someone's charity case, yeah? It's a little embarrassing. At the same time-

You do not have that sense of pride everyone else seems to, the sort that makes them say we're not taking free food and I'd rather work three jobs than accept handouts and I want not your pity but your respect. Can't relate. You would love to pitied. If someone felt sorry for you, that means they acknowledge bad things have happened to you. If they smother you with sickly sympathy, at least it means they know you've had a pitiable life. And your desire for dignity is so much lesser than your desire for someone to just- to just get it.

But no one fucking gets it.

(Oh, there must be someone who hears me.)

Because no one else is in your position. Oh, everyone else has a partner, if no partner, then a friend group, if not a friend group, then a best friend, if not a best friend, then a loving family, if not a loving family, then someone, somewhere, who understands them a little, who loves them a little-

But you do not have anyone to couch surf with, to 'can I crash at your place till I get back on my feet?', a special sting of misery when shelter workers, when every intake worker asks if you have any family or loved ones you can stay with, because they have limited beds and every homeless shelter is underfunded because don't you know money should go to bombs, because war keeps our country safe so you can starve in peace; a special stab of humiliation, that there is a not single person you can put down as your emergency contact, it is just a big blank line staring back at you, the dash of N/A where you're to put a phone number taunts you like a playground bully and- and it's-

At least a cat can be cute.

This man, kind as he may try to be- he doesn't get it either, can't get it, because he has friends that were waiting for him. Who want to met up for drinks with him. He does not need you, because already he has people who love him, and people he is protective of, and he is in the business of taking care of strays, not taking in strays.

And what is more violent than being taken care of but not being taken in? If he keeps you safe tonight, but is rid of you in the morning, then…

What could be worse?

Painfully patient long fingers pluck up every item that clattered to the floor and ease it back into the shelf. Get a broom too short for his tall form, sweeping up the kitty kibble like it was no bother at all,

He closes the cabinet. He sighs, and there it is, he is disappointed in you he hates you you've upset him he'll finally toss you out and you won't have to spend another excruciating minute choking down his vile, suffocating, poisonous kindness-

"So!" He claps his hands together. "Your palate is simply too sophisticated that neither my own food nor the cat food satiates it, but I can't just not feed you. Let me check again, m'sure I can throw something together."

He pries the white Styrofoam takeout container from his fridge, muttering "guess I should thank Hizashi for forcing me to try that conbini stand."

Mackerel. You do not even like seafood unless it is salmon or tuna. (You have learned that the food at a cat shelter is generally safer than food at a homeless shelter). But this poor man is trying so hard to help you, to take care of you, and even if it is to stroke his own fragile ego, it would just be cruel to reject him, at this point.

So you bend your head and you eat it and you try not to look at him when he smiles as if you are a kindly fairy who has granted him everything he didn't know to wish for.

He just… sits there. Crouching, hunching, staring. Well. Perhaps staring is the wrong word- staring (glaring gawking leering glowering) is what they do to you when you're sleeping on the train and you stink of sweat and vomit and piss and your prone form is taking up three seats, staring (watching waiting waiting waiting) is what you do when you've found a particularly good dumpster and you can't decide if it's safer to approach it as a cat (and risk bigger cats fighting you for every scrap of food) or as a human (and we all know what happens to a woman walking alone at night), staring (studying observing poring over) is what you do when you get your greedy little hands on a book, soak it up word by word and page by page and throw yourself into it, headfirst, submerged in the feel of ink and paper and thoroughly immersed that everything else just disappears-

Yes. That's the type of staring he's doing now: poring over you. Like everything else doesn't matter because finally, finally, he's fed you. Doesn't touch you. Doesn't even try. Just goes to the bathroom, door clicking shut, water running, brush-brush-brushing his teeth and just… leaves you to eat. In peace. Gives you your space.

You can almost hear him say: if my heart was a house, you're right at home.

Home.

It's enough to make you want to vomit all over his carpeting just to make him kick you out, but-

You're not about to give up the only food in your stomach for spite.

That, and…

You can't stay in your cat form forever. It's like laying down too long or sitting too long, your body can't just- can't just stay in this 'mode'. It's a mode to turn on and off, not keep running forever, like a laptop never shutting down till it overheats. And you will. Overheat. But he could come back out any minute, and- he'll think you're a burglar and he'll call the cops on you or worse he'll just kill you himself and no one would ever know, it's not just that they wouldn't care or wouldn't miss you there just genuinely wouldn't be anyone who would even know-

His footsteps, when he comes back, are enough for your shoulders to jump. Footsteps and knocking are about the scariest sounds out there. But he just flicks off the lights. Peels back his blanket- soft, well-worn, why is it that everything he has, he's owned for years, why is nothing here new, why are you the sole intrusion upon an ancient sanctum, does that means he really is the loyal type like you judged when you first saw those stupid boots?- he eases himself into it with a soft groan, pats a spot next to him to tuck you in for the night. You blink at him, attempting to convey as much disdain and dislike and distaste as physically possible-

But again, he does not understand you. He slow-blinks back, and he must think he is reciprocating love, as a cat's languid blink would normally mean a sign of affection.

He keeps misinterpreting you- giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming your every rude, insensitive, petulant action is so much better than it is, that you're so much better than you actually are.

Nor do you pretend to understand him, either, and while he tries to see the best in you, you force yourself to seek out only the worst in him-

Yet despite every miscommunication and misconstrusion-

He finds a way to make it work. So he keeps the corner of the blanket peeled back, waiting just for you, even as you slink away to the window, hopping up on the sill, stretching your back and marveling how, for once, you did not have to be careful of your movements. You would not startle anyone around you, nor would anyone startle you, either. You do not have to be careful of how your jaw stretches as you yawn- no one will interpret at as a threat, because this man does not see you as anything more than a pathetic little charity case. (You suppose he's not wrong). You can outstretch your arms all along his cool windowsill, and he will not be mad at you for making too much noise and can you keep it down some of us are trying to sleep here. For once you are on the other side of the windowpane, the rain battering the glass practically a world away— though you can hear the pellets pound the pane, though you can feel the icy chill of the water seep into the glass, it does not seep into you, because the heat he turned on has settled quite comfortably into your boenes- for once, no one is hurting you, for once, just for now, you are safe.

You are safe.

Oh, yes, you know, you know- he'll let you go soon enough. Just as soon as those storm clouds wither up and dry.

Outwardly, you'd hissed and squirmed and clawed every step of the way.

Inwardly, you hope the rainy season stays forever.

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