#( its just - still stings on bad memories is all )

[sparklymuses]

      man, being blocked by someone you never met feels weird ... part of me probably knows the reason why tbh. probably has to do with a guy who got called out but, its whatever.

[sinofwriting]

Cover It All Up - Charles Leclerc

Words: 2,214 Summary: As she starts to get ready to meet her boyfriend's mom, she can’t help but be nervous considering that last time she met a boyfriend’s family he dumped her all because his parents didn’t approve of her.

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After the disaster of Lando Norris, she had told herself no more British men and no more F1 drivers. She had at least stuck to one thing.

Charles was different from Lando. The only thing they really seemed to have in common was that they both were F1 drivers and competitive people. But where Lando would get stroppy when she beat him in paddle or during their one bowling date, Charles would laugh, grinning at her as he kissed her in celebration, telling her how easy she made it look, despite that sometimes not being the case at all.

It wasn’t that Lando had been a bad boyfriend, he had been nice, just not for her. Or rather she wasn’t for him.

She thinks about it as she stares at herself in the mirror, regretting the sleeveless top she bought to meet Charles’ mom. It was pretty, the color complementing her perfectly, there was just one problem. The lack of sleeves. Meaning her tattoos were showing.

She had lost count how many she had after getting her first one when she was eighteen and then getting three more within that same month. She had some on her thighs as well, a tattoo on the back of her shoulder and a small one on her ankle.

She loves her tattoos, there isn’t a single one she regrets but as she looks at them now, she does. The shame and embarrassment from meeting Lando’s parents still has a spot in her mind.

They barely had spoken to her during the dinner, their eyes lingering on her tattoos, the multiple piercings in her ears. Her words had seemed to fall on deaf ears, her compliments, and questions. She hadn’t been surprised when a day later Lando told her that they didn’t approve of her. It made her laugh. Lando’s parents not approving of her because she had tattoos and a few piercings in her ears. She had been surprised when he broke up with her in practically the same breath.

“It’s just a lot, isn’t it?” He gestured at her. Blood had rushed to her cheeks. “What do you mean?” “Well,” He chewed on his lip for a second. “The tattoos, the piercings.” He shrugged. “It’s just a lot, a lot to see, to deal with.” That had made the blood rush more, knowing he was referring to when she got her last tattoo. “And besides.” He continued. “I can’t really be with someone that my parents don’t approve of. It would never work.”

The memory has her eyes stinging, she had never felt so small or embarrassed before. Taking her top off, she puts it back on its hanger, placing it back in the closet before looking at its contents. There wasn’t much. Charles had tried to get her to bring more stuff to his, but she had figured one suitcase was more than enough. It filled the two drawers he gave her, she ignored the existence that those two drawers belonged to a dresser that was hers, and her clothes that had to be hung up fit perfectly in the section he gave her. She also ignored that they didn’t fit perfectly, tons of free space around them.

As she looked at what she brought with her, she sighs. So much of her wardrobe was short sleeves, tank tops, and sleeveless things, all to show off her tattoos and here at Charles’ she only had one top that had full length sleeves.

It was cute, it just wasn’t the top she wanted to wear, she had imagined wearing when meeting Charles’ mom, but it would have to be the one. Pulling it off the hanger, she quickly pulls it on, just barely resisting the urge to make a face as she looks in the mirror. She forces her eyes away from the mirror as she begins to take her piercings out, including her fake septum one.

As she takes her helix out on her left, she sees Charles behind her.

“You’re putting different ones in?”

She makes a humming sound.

He smiles, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Can I pick again?”

She can’t help but smile at the question, leaning back into him for a second. “You can pick something for my lobes. I’ll be wearing this top.”

He frowns as he looks at her tray of jewelry. “I thought you wanted to wear the one you bought yesterday.”

“It didn’t look nice on me.”

“Well, that can’t be true.” He lightly scoffs, before holding up a pair for her approval.

She shakes her head at the opal earrings, but opens her hand for him to place them in. “Next thing I know, you’ll be giving me earrings with your number.”

He flushes at the comment, looking away from her.

“Charles!”

He grins at her laughter, wrapping himself around her again, watching as she puts the earrings in. “You look beautiful with my number on you, mon amour. I can’t help but want to see you in it all the time.”

“Can I not pick another one?” He asks after a moment of her fiddling with her earrings, the backs of them always giving her a little more trouble. “Like uh,” he taps a spot on her ear, trying to remember it. “Your conch.”

She shakes her head, turning in his arms. “I’m not wearing any others today. You can pick all of them tomorrow.”

His eyebrows raise, “Including this one?” His hand goes between their bodies to gently press at her navel.

“Including that one.” She kisses his cheek. “Now, are you ready to go?”

He nods, eyes darting around her face, drinking her in before he frowns. “Amour, you aren’t wearing any other piercings?”

She shakes her head, stepping back. “I’m not wearing any others today.”

“I thought you just meant your ears, I didn’t think you meant your fake ones.” His frown deepens. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her go anywhere and only wear one visible piercing. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” She tells him. “Just not feeling today.”

He looks at her, something not feeling right, but he nods. “Okay.” He kisses her forehead. “Let’s go then.”

As they walk to his mother’s, he can’t help but look at her. Not just because it’s hard for him to not look at her, which it is, because something is wrong. He’s never seen her cover up her tattoos when it hasn’t been cold out and he’s never seen her with so few piercings. It just isn’t her. It’s not who she is.

Her grip on his hand is also a little tight and he can see her fingers on her other hand constantly rubbing at her palm. She’s nervous, he realizes, feeling a bit stupid. He had thought that he had calmed the worst of them, but now as they grow closer, he fears he hasn’t.

Maybe he hadn’t told her enough how excited his mom was to meet her, to see her. She had so many questions about her tattoos and her piercings, where she got the fake ones, and so many other things it made Charles’ head spin. He had never seen her so excited to meet one of his girlfriends before.

“She’s going to love you.” Charles tells her as they reach the front door, pressing a small kiss to her cheek.

“Promise.”

She smiles at him, her nerves bleeding through. “Okay.”

He presses another kiss to her cheek before opening the door.

“Maman!” He calls, stepping inside. He wants to go further in the house but knows better than to leave the entryway with his shoes on. Bending, her hand still in his, he loosens the laces of his shoes with his free hand before getting them off. Staying bent over, he loosens the laces on hers as well, smiling at the large sigh she gives.

Standing straight he nearly jumps at the sight of his mom watching the two of them, a fond smile on her face. “Maman!” He greets, giving a squeeze to her hand before letting it go to hug his mom.

Wrapping his arms around her, he expects for her to murmur how much she’s missed him, fuss about his hair, press a kiss to his cheek, while she hugs him back, but all she does is give him a quick squeeze before moving out of his arms and past him. He looks at her wounded, but she doesn’t notice, enveloping his girlfriend in a hug, whose eyes widen before she returns it.

“Oh, you look beautiful, Y/N. I was so happy when Charles told me you’d be coming today.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Leclerc.”

“Pascale, please.” She says, finally pulling away. “Have you eaten? What would you like to drink? Come sit.”

Charles watches, mouth slightly dropped as his mother ushers her into the kitchen, completely ignoring him. She always asked him that, and told him to sit, no matter that he had grown up here. He was one of her babies, she always said, before gently pinching his cheek.

“Water is more than fine, Mrs. Leclerc.” He hears her laugh as he enters the kitchen and sees them sitting at the table.

“Please, call me Pascale.”

She smiles at his mom and he can feel the love he has for her grow more as she reaches for his mom’s hand, taking it in hers for a second. “Pascale.” She says, “Water is more than fine. And I have something for you.”

“Oh, there is no need for that.”

Charles watches, surprised as he sees her reach into her purse and pull out a jewelry box. He had no idea that she had brought something for his mom. “Charles mentioned that it can be hard to find nice topaz and opal jewelry.” She says, voice quiet and Pascale opens the box.

“It’s beautiful.” She breathes, carefully taking it out of the box.

His eyes widen as he sees the necklace in his mom’s hand. It was stunning. The topaz perfectly framed with opal. He had never seen anything like it.

“Mon amour,” the words are breathless as he shakes his head. “How did you?”

She ducks her head, “I wanted to give something to you,” she looks at Pascale. “That represents all of your kids. It was hard to find, but I’m happy I did.”

Pascale places a hand over her heart, tears stinging her eyes and she puts the necklace gently on the table before wrapping her arms around the girl. “Thank you, ange. Thank you so much.”

Charles watches as she melts into the hug, her nerves finally seeming to leave her and the sight of the two most important women in his life embracing makes him breathe easier, his own nerves disappearing.

“Now,” Pascale starts, pulling away. “Charles is going to pour us some wine.”

“Maman,” he tries protesting, but she continues ignoring him and he huffs before letting his feet lead him to where the wine glasses are.

“And you are going to tell me all about your tattoos.”

“Oh.” She looks shocked and Charles brows can’t help but furrow.

“You of course don’t have to.” Pascale rushes to say. “I just have seen so many pictures of them, from Charles and your Instagram, and would love to see them and hear about them. Your piercings as well. I had no idea you could get such good fake piercings.”

“No, I-I would love to tell you about them.” Her eyes glance over to Charles, who is concentrating on pouring wine. “I was just a bit nervous meeting you with all of those things. I didn’t know you had an interest.”

Pascale looks at her in confusion. “Since Charles showed me your photos, I have wanted to meet you. You are such a gorgeous girl and you make him so happy. And I love your tattoos. Did Charles never say?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Charles!”

He stops, eyes wide, just about to set the glasses of wine on the table. “What?”

“You never told her that I love her tattoos? Charles!”

“I thought I had.” He defends, putting a glass in front of both of them before sitting in the chair next to his girlfriend, his arm immediately coming up to rest on the back of her chair as he presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’m sorry, mon amour.”

“It’s okay.” She tells him, with a small laugh. She turns her head to look back at Pascale. “Really even if he had told me, I might have not believed him.” She pauses, taking a sip of a wine. “The last time I met someone’s parents, they didn’t care for my tattoos and piercings. He broke up with me over it.”

The older woman scoffs, shaking her head. “Their loss and our gain. They are lovely from what I’ve seen.”

“Would you like to know about my favorite one?”

“Yes!”

Charles watches fondly as she pushes up her left sleeve, exposing a myriad of tattoos before pointing at the one just above her wrist on the inside, telling his mom all about it. It’s a story he’s heard before, more than once, but just like his mom he can’t help but listen intently as well.

[santaasi]

die with the smile

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: a love once haunted by nightmares finds solace in a sunrise, where promises of healing and hope turn dreams of a future into quiet, steady certainty.

warnings: !major spoiler for obx4 final!, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, establish relationship, talking about death, mention of panic attacks, no use of y/n, jj calls reader angel, english isn’t my first language

word count: 3.9k

a/n: requested by this ask. thank u for request, love <з. and to everyone else – i'm waiting for your requests too.

ᯓ★ now playing…

lady gaga, bruno mars – die with the smile

IT WAS SUFFOCATING. After everything that happened in Morocco, it felt like your chest had been crushed under an unbearable weight. Breathing no longer came easy. Each inhale was a jagged reminder of the past, a sharp sting of memories you couldn’t escape. You hated sleep, hated the moments when your mind would surrender to the dark. Every night, the desert came back to haunt you, its endless stretch of sand suffocating. You saw JJ lying there, motionless, his body a broken promise beneath the burning sky. And surrounded by the Pogues, Rafe fucking Cameron, his hands digging JJ's grave, burying the love of your life six feet under.

You could still hear your voice, a fractured thing, torn from your throat as you screamed for them to stop. You fell to your knees, pleading with them to hear you, begging them to leave him there, to not let him go. But no one listened. John B, Sarah, Kiara, Pope... they just stood there, frozen, like they couldn’t see the life slipping away. Of course, it was just a dream — your brain's cruel joke, twisting everything you feared most into a nightmare. But in the stillness of the night, when you woke with your heart pounding and the cold sheets tangled around you, it didn’t feel like a dream at all. It felt too real. Too close.

And so, for three months, you lived like this. In the hollow space between waking and sleeping, where the line between nightmare and reality blurred beyond recognition. Three months of restless nights, clinging to coffee mugs as if they could fill the emptiness, while your eyes begged for sleep. But when you did manage to fall asleep, the dreams would return, relentless, each one leaving you more shattered than the last.

It wasn't as bad as it had been in those first two months, when every moment was suffocating with fear. When you couldn’t bring yourself to leave your house, couldn't bring yourself to stop waiting for that phone call from the hospital. The one that would confirm the thing you couldn't bear to imagine — that JJ was gone. Everything had felt like a fever dream: tracking down doctors, finding anyone who could help, getting him back to Kildare, the hospitals, the bills you could never afford, the ones that now you had to face. Your parents never asked you to repay the money, but you knew how much they'd given up for it. They'd been saving for years. It felt wrong to let it go without giving something back.

And then there was that month of rehab, where the days stretched on like a never-ending ache. Sitting next to JJ's hospital bed, listening to the faint beeps of machines as nightmares still held you in their grip, tormenting you while you tried to hold onto him in the real world.

You hadn't cried once. Not in those two months. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to — weeping felt like you were digging his grave in advance. Like if you let the tears fall, you’d lose him all over again. But now, he was here. With you. Alive. The JJ you knew, the one who cracked jokes, who lived without fear, without hesitation. And you tried to return to who you were before, but it was harder than you'd expected. He made it seem so easy, slipping back into his old self, but you felt like you were still drowning in the wreckage of what had happened.

For weeks, you sat beside him, feeling his skin warm beneath your touch, hearing his laughter echo in the spaces between you. But still, in the quiet moments, the fear lingered. Every time you closed your eyes, you feared waking up in another cold bed, alone. But each morning, you’d find him there, by your side. He was here, alive, and you began to let yourself believe it, piece by piece.

Slowly, the days started to fill with color again. It wasn't easy, but it was better. Breathing no longer felt like a battle, and with each passing day, you felt yourself letting go of the haunting fear, the dread that lived just behind your ribs.

And you never left his side. Once, it had always been JJ who took the lead — who reached for you first, who kissed you first, who pulled you close. Now, you were the one to reach for him, to thread your fingers through his, to press a soft kiss to his lips or his forehead. It was like you were holding him tighter, making sure he was still real, still here.

"If I had to almost die for you to get this clingy," JJ teased one evening, grinning up at you as you curled into him on the couch, "You could've told me sooner, you know. I didn't know I had a personal koala bear all this time."

You smiled at his playful jab, though your fingers gripped him a little tighter. You tucked your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was like a song, a reassurance that he was here. That he was alive.

You were learning how to laugh again. How to joke. How to be you again. Or at least, almost. Because even though the world felt like it was beginning to make sense again, you couldn't shake the nightmares. They were still there, lurking in the shadows. Every time you closed your eyes, you feared that the night would swallow him whole once more.

But for now, he was still here. And in that moment, that was enough.

The chateau had become your sanctuary, a fragile semblance of home. But even here, in the quiet of its walls, you couldn't escape the void that followed you, the weight that pressed on your chest every time you woke up without him beside you. The comfort of falling asleep wrapped in his arms didn't seem to be enough anymore. It didn't stop the dreams from coming.

Every night, they came like a storm. JJ, dying in your arms, blood staining his chest. JJ, sinking beneath the waves after falling off the boat, reaching for you, but you couldn't reach him. JJ, spiralling off his dirt bike, tumbling into the dirt, and you couldn't save him. And then, there was the desert. Always the desert. You couldn't escape it, no matter how hard you tried.

But in the moments before the nightmare took hold, when you woke to the warmth of his body next to you, his hand resting lightly on your waist, his breath soft against your neck, you could calm yourself. You could breathe, steadying your heart before the panic could rise. He was there. He was alive. And you would cling to that reality until the night came again, bringing with it the horrors you couldn’t outrun.

JJ, of course, remained blissfully unaware. He slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of someone who had earned a brief reprieve from the chaos. And you — you would lie there, bathed in moonlight, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, needing to touch him, needing to see that he was really there. That he wasn't slipping through your fingers. Over time, the nightmares began to fade. They became less frequent, their grip less tight. But just when you thought you could breathe freely, just when you thought the storm had passed, it came crashing back.

Two weeks of peace. Two weeks of deep, uninterrupted sleep. But that night, everything changed.

The dream returned. The one you feared the most. JJ, lying motionless in the sand, his clothes stained with dried blood, his body pale under the desert sun. The wind blew the sand into your eyes, blinding you, choking you, as Rafe stood above him, digging, his hands moving with the unholy rhythm of a grim reaper, burying your love beneath the earth. You fell to your knees beside the pit, the hot sand searing through your clothes, but you didn't care. You couldn’t look away. You couldn’t look away from the hole that was swallowing everything you loved. With each shovel of sand, the pit grew deeper, and with it, your heart.

The faces around you were blank — pale, cold. John B, Sarah, Kiara, Pope... they stood there, frozen, as if they were burying someone they'd never known. No tears. No grief. Just... emptiness. It broke you. It shattered you, piece by piece.

"No! No! Please! Enough!" you cried out, your voice cracking as you scrambled to your feet, your body shaking. You turned to them, your heart a fragile thing, desperate for anyone to react, to feel something. "Do something! He's not dead! JJ's not dead! John B! Sarah! Please!"

The tears fell freely, hot against your cold cheeks, choking your breath. Everything blurred around you, and all you could see, all you could feel, was his face. His beautiful face, pale and cold under the relentless sand. You reached for him, your fingers trembling as they traced the outline of his cheek.

"I love you, JJ... Please, don't leave me... don't you dare leave me," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the roar in your ears. You pushed the hair from his face, trying to pull him back to life with your touch. "Please, Jay, wake up. I love you. Please..."

The heart-wrenching sob that escaped you felt like it was tearing you apart, even as they began to throw the sand over him. As they buried him. Covered him. And the world turned dark.

Someone's hands grabbed at you, pulling you away, but you fought them, kicking, screaming, dying with him as the earth swallowed your love.

"No! Please, no!" The words tore from your chest like jagged glass, but it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

Then, a voice — soft, familiar, grounding. A warmth that pulled you from the nightmare. "Hey, hey, angel..."

You gasped, eyes snapping open, panic seizing you as the darkness of your dream lingered. The bed was empty. The space beside you, cold and vast. Your body trembled as sobs wracked your chest, but then arms wrapped around you, strong and steady. They held you close, pulling you into warmth, into the comforting scent of the sea and something more.

"Wake up... come on, angel, it's okay," the voice coaxed, his words gentle but firm, a tether pulling you from the depths of your nightmare.

You turned, eyes still blurry with tears, and looked over your shoulder. You half expected to see nothing. To be alone in the darkness. But then you saw him. JJ. JJ. His face was the same as it always had been — familiar, comforting, real. The soft smile on his lips made your heart stutter, and you found yourself reaching for him instinctively.

"JJ… you're here," you exhaled, your body relaxing, your mind calming for just a moment. But then the overwhelming relief struck you, and suddenly, you were gripping him as tightly as you could, clutching him like you'd never let go. You turned in his arms, wrapping yourself around him, pressing every part of yourself against him, trying to absorb his presence with every cell of your being. You needed to feel him, needed him to know how deeply you'd been shaken.

"I thought you were… you were… I saw…" you choked out, the words barely a whisper, breaking apart in fresh waves of tears that trembled through you. You buried your face in his neck, shuddering as his hand ran soothingly down your back.

"Shh... I'm here, love," he murmured softly, pulling you even closer. "I'm with you, and I'm not going anywhere." His hand traced gentle circles in your hair, his voice a soft balm over your wounds.

JJ knew how much you’d been struggling. He saw it in your red, swollen eyes each morning, in the tired shadows that lingered beneath them. He noticed how you would sometimes drift off mid-conversation, lost to a place he couldn't reach, as if carrying something too heavy to share. He felt it every time you’d reach for his hand, holding it tighter than you used to, grounding yourself in his touch. And he felt it every night you stayed at the chateau, choosing to lie beside him rather than in your own bed, pressing your ear against his chest just to hear his heartbeat.

JJ Maybank wasn't oblivious. He understood what haunted you, and he wished with everything in him that he could erase it. Because he knew — if it had been you, if you were the one hovering on the edge of life and death... he couldn’t even let himself think of it. You were his everything, his only certainty in a world that had never offered him much. And knowing you were hurting like this, knowing he was the reason, that was the worst thing he could imagine. It was worse than the death he’d nearly met.

And so he tried to help you in every way he could. He stayed close, always nearby, holding you tight whenever you needed it. He whispered sweet promises in your ear, spun dreams of the future for you both, reminded you every day just how much he loved you. He did everything he could to show you that he was here, that he wasn't going anywhere.

But seeing you now, shattered and trembling in his arms, feeling your tears soak his shirt, it tore at him. It was like a raw ache, a knife twisting deeper with every sob you released. You were suffering because of him, and he could feel the guilt clawing at his chest. He’d never wanted this — not for you.

As your breathing began to calm, your hold on his shirt loosened, and he shifted back slightly to meet your gaze. Your face was swollen from crying, your eyes rimmed red, and he felt a tenderness rise in him that he could barely contain. He lifted a hand to your cheek, thumb grazing your skin as he leaned in, gently brushing his lips over yours, a silent promise, as if he could kiss the fear away.

"I'm fine," you whispered, though your voice was trembling and raw. JJ just shook his head, unconvinced. He bent down, picking up his hoodie that had been lying on the floor, then draped it around your shoulders. The familiar, comforting scent of his cologne surrounded you, filling your senses, and you closed your eyes, sinking into the warmth.

"Let's go for a walk?" he asked softly, his voice gentle but insistent. You managed a small nod, slipping out of bed to follow him.

The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon as you reached the beach, bathing everything in a soft, golden light. JJ's hand was intertwined with yours, and his thumb traced delicate patterns along the back of your hand, grounding you. The breeze tugged at your hair, the salt air filling your lungs as you took slow, steady breaths, savouring the tranquility of the moment.

When you reached your favourite spot, tucked away behind the rocks, JJ settled down, pulling you between his legs, his arms circling you. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, and you felt a soft, involuntary smile tug at your lips. His heartbeat thudded against your back, steady and reassuring, and you let yourself melt into the safety of his embrace.

For a few quiet minutes, you both watched the sun rise, bathing the ocean in warm, shifting hues. Then JJ's voice broke the silence, low and hesitant.

"You know... for a second, I thought I was going to die," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely let himself show. "When I blacked out, I thought... this was it. That y'll would leave me there in Morocco, that I'd lose everything."

JJ swallowed, as if trying to steady himself, and you could feel the tension in his arms as he held you tighter. He’d tried to laugh it all off before, hiding behind jokes and smiles, but now — now it felt real. The memories weighed down his words, and you could hear the unspoken fear beneath them.

"JJ, don’t," you whispered, your own voice catching. You pulled his hoodie closer around you, burying your face in the soft fabric to push away the memories of that day, the endless days that followed. His arms tightened around you, his cheek pressing against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he drew you closer, as if he could shield you from the memory.

"No, I need to say this… I need you to hear it," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a shuddering breath, and you felt something wet land softly on your shoulder. A tear.

JJ gave a small, shaky grin and shook his head, leaning in close to murmur in your ear. "You've been with me through everything, angel. You saved me. You kept me alive."

The words settled into you, quiet and profound, and you turned to look at him, seeing the vulnerability he was baring, the weight he'd been carrying alone. You looked back at the horizon, feeling a deep ache inside, a pull that was both painful and reassuring, like your heart was finally finding its place.

You closed your eyes, concentrating on nothing but him — the feel of his arms, the warmth of his breath against your neck, the way his fingers tightened protectively around yours. You wanted to wrap yourself in this moment, to sink so deeply into him that you’d never be apart again.

"When I woke up for the first time… I heard your voice," JJ's voice trembled, breaking as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. "The way you told everyone that I wasn't going to die... the way you begged me not to... not to leave you..." His words cracked, and you felt the weight of his pain seep into your bones. He was broken, and it tore at your heart.

You intertwined your fingers with his, feeling the soft, trembling pulse beneath his skin. "I couldn't die... every time I slipped away, all I could think about was you," JJ whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "That I couldn't leave you. That I love you, and I don't want to leave you..."

He gently cupped your chin, lifting your face toward his. His eyes — red and swollen from crying — met yours, and in that moment, you saw how deeply connected you were. You were both raw, broken open, and yet, still whole together.

"I love you so much, that even at death's door, I fought with everything I had to stay here with you," he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand slid down your cheek, brushing away the tears that refused to stop falling. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I put you through this, angel."

You felt your heart shatter for him, your lip trembling as his words hit you like a wave. Your hands moved instinctively to his face, cupping it gently, and you shook your head. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault that life had dealt him such a cruel hand. It wasn't his fault that he had been made to suffer in ways no one should. You knew he didn't deserve this. He deserved better — so much better.

"I promise…" JJ's voice was tight with emotion, but he pressed on. "No, I swear... I will never make you go through this again. I swear it. I swear that after all this, I won't give you any reason to worry. I will always be here for you." His blue eyes searched yours, holding you captive with their intensity. The weight of his words felt heavier than anything you'd ever known. "I will be with you, no matter what. And I will build us the house you always dreamed of. A white house with big windows and a garden, where we’ll play with our dog — our dog, which we’ll name JJ Jr. And then... maybe a child, or two, or three...”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head, though tears still lingered. It had always been a dream, a fantasy you shared with him, but now, seeing the determination in his eyes, it felt like a possibility. It felt like something you could reach out and touch.

"I'll give you the world, angel. I'll give you paradise," JJ continued, his voice thick with promise. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure these stupid tears never fall from your beautiful eyes again. Do you believe me?"

There was a pause. His gaze was so sincere, so full of hope, searching for any sign that you believed in him, in what he was offering. You felt a warmth spread through you, a quiet certainty in your chest. You smiled softly, your heart swelling with a love so deep you thought it might burst.

Without thinking, you pressed your lips to his, soft and slow. You let your kiss speak for you — every unspoken word, every emotion that had built up inside you over the months, the fear, the longing, the desperation, and finally, the relief. This kiss was all of it, and more. You poured everything into it, every promise, every fear, every hope, every part of you that you'd been holding onto for so long.

You held him like you'd never let go, feeling the weight of time slow down, knowing that in this moment, you were safe, you were here, and he was here. Nothing else mattered — just the two of you, together.

"I believe you, Jay. I've always believed you, and I will, because I love you," you murmured, your words soft as they met his lips. He responded with a deeper kiss, pulling you into him as if he could anchor himself to you, as if he, too, was letting go of something.

You giggled as he playfully knocked you down onto the sand, its warmth wrapping around you like an embrace. The sand, once so haunting, now felt soft and grounding beneath you, no longer a symbol of loss but one of hope — a new beginning waiting to be written.

JJ leaned over you, his blue eyes softened by the first light of dawn, eyes that were once wild and filled with fear but now were steady, full of promises. "I love you more, angel," he whispered, his voice like a lullaby against your skin, "and I'm not going anywhere."

He leaned in, capturing your lips again, and this time, every kiss melted the edges of past wounds, pushing away the darkness of every nightmare and sorrow you'd held. Here, with his arms around you and the sky lightening into the day, it was easy to believe in something beautiful, something lasting. You kissed him back, savoring each touch, each brush of his fingers against your skin as he held you closer.

For the first time in months, you let yourself imagine a future unshadowed by fear. A life filled with morning sunrises like this one, laughter echoing between you, the warmth of a home you’d build together. As JJ pulled you even closer, you felt a quiet certainty settle in your chest — a certainty that happiness was no longer a distant hope but a promise waiting for both of you, right here, right now.

thankx for reading <3

i was literally crying while i was writing this and i felt like this for the first time in my life. so, i hope you liked it. you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3

- your santi 🪐

masterlist

[bluebeary-jay]

A promise softly sung

Astarion x f!Reader/Tav

Summary: before the battle that will decide his fate, Astarion is terrified of losing you to Cazador. you comfort him after a nightmare. (set at the beginning of act 3)

Tags: hurt/comfort, BIG angst and some fluff, poor boy doesn't believe he's deserving of love :( let's hold him until he changes his mind

Warnings: mentions of trauma, self-deprecating thoughts, memories of past abuse and torture, c*zador, being unable to move (briefly), tadpoles mention (idk if that's a trigger)

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: hiiiiiiiii my darlings <33 soo this is something else from what i usually write but i finished bg3 recently and i LOVED IT but i'm on a trip rn so in the absence of my pc i found some inner inspiration to write something again. honestly i missed writing very much but i had the biggest block for almost a year now but maybe it'll get better now that my classes are starting again and i'll be needing a distraction lmao. anyway comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated and don't be shy to send in a request! and as always, happy reading!!! <3

He was there again.

Astarion loathed those hard, stone walls as much as he feared them. It was here that he once spent an entire night, having infernal script meticulously carved into his skin. It was here that he was punished every time he disappointed his master, every time he didn’t do well enough on his mission. It was here that he was reminded time and time again how worthless, pathetic and meaningless his existence was. It was here he returned in almost all of his nightmares.

But now you were here, too.

Astarion couldn’t believe this, but no matter how much he blinked or willed himself to wake up, the view before his eyes didn’t change. It was you, chained by the wrists to the ceiling where he was hanging so many times before, your toes just barely scraping the ground that was already splattered with your blood. Your clothes were ripped to shreds and cuts and bruises covered almost every inch of your skin. Astarion wanted to run up to you, to get you somewhere safe and far away from this place, but he found that he was unable to move. It wasn’t shock seizing up his limbs, but magical paralysis which he had experienced a couple of times during combat. Even though he knew it was a spell that was holding him in place, he still fought against it with all the strength he could muster – but to no avail.

Your eyes, full of tears and fear, met his briefly before you looked past him at someone else.

“Ah, my sweet, insolent boy,” whispered a voice straight from Astarion’s deepest, darkest nightmares, causing him to tense up in terror. A hand – pale, all too familiar in its deceptive tenderness – brushed his jaw from behind before grabbing his hair roughly. The vampire spawn could do nothing but watch as his head was tilted back and he came face to face with his master.

No, it can’t be… How was Cazador here? How were you here?!

“You’ve been a very bad boy, Astarion,” Cazador tutted, shaking his head. “Running away like that, not returning home for months… It’s no way to treat family, isn’t it?” Astarion felt a sharp sting of his master’s quarterstaff at his back, digging into the scars made by the same hand, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even scream. “But I’ll forgive you… eventually. After all, you brought me this delectable treat…”

Both him and Cazador looked up at you when Astarion realized what – or rather, who – that bastard was talking about. He tried shaking his head, tried begging for him not to hurt you, but he still couldn’t move, his voice was still stuck past his throat and no word or sound came out. In the meantime, Cazador stood up, walking around his spawn to stand in front of you.

“His own survival was always the most important thing to him,” Cazador said almost pitifully, and only after a moment Astarion realized that this time, he was speaking to you. “He’s a selfish, contemptuous creature, after all. Say, did he tell you he loved you before he lured you here like so many others before you? Did he lie, swearing how much you mean to him?”

“Yes, he… he did.”

Astarion prayed to any higher being that it was just the power of another spell compelling you to say that, and not what you were really thinking. He tried to struggle against his own magical restraints, but whatever scroll or verbal command was used, it was far too powerful for the vampire to beat it with sheer willpower alone. He was helpless again – but worse than that, he was forced to watch you being at Cazador’s mercy, too, all while he couldn’t do anything to save you.

“I honestly didn’t think poor Astarion had it in him,” Cazador continued calmly, gliding gracefully around you and disappearing behind your back. Your own eyes, now full of hurt and betrayal, were trained on Astarion’s. He couldn’t turn away, but in the corner of his vision the elf saw a flash of a blade against your bare skin. “To give away one person who, for some strange reason, saw good in a filthy worm like him… But I’m so very proud of you, sweetling.” Cazador looked at him over your shoulder and licked his lips, so, so dangerously close to your neck. “You’ll live to serve me for centuries to come, and you can watch your lover take your place in my ritual… You did well, Astarion.”

No, Astarion cried in the prison of his own body, unable to reach you or to even stop Cazador from spilling lies into your ears. Not her, no, no, please–

“No!”

Cazador smiled widely and sank his teeth into your fragile neck, and you screamed, still looking at Astarion with this horrible hatred in your eyes…

“No, no, please! Take me, please, just don’t–”

“My love, it’s alright, you’re safe…”

“Stop! Please, just–!”

His body suddenly jerked painfully and his eyes shot open, darting around in confusion and trying to figure out where he was. Astarion wasn’t feeling the cold frigid air of the kennels anymore – instead his skin was almost hot, and damp from sweat, but there was something smooth and soft under his back… the sheets. He was in a bed, at an inn. Still panting heavily, he looked around, noting the details in his surroundings: the crooked chandelier, a little window with curtains drawn shut, his shirt hung neatly over the back of the chair… and your shoes right next to it.

At the memory of your battered and tortured body in Cazador’s dungeon, Astarion shot up with a belated sob, almost knocking you over in the process. Only when your warm hand left his cheek did he notice your presence. You were kneeling next to him on the mattress, expression worried and sorrowful, with the last traces of sleep just leaving the edge of your vision. His red eyes scanned your body, but there were no bruises, no cuts made by Cazador’s wretched blade, no burns on your wrists from the manacles he saw you in mere moments ago.

And there was no hatred in your gaze. Only love and care he didn’t deserve.

Astarion’s eyes filled with tears, but before he could run out of the room or hide under the bed, you opened your arms, gently offering him the solace within. And he, being the selfish, contemptuous creature that he was, didn’t deny himself what he wasn’t worthy of.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, petting his hair softly, while the other hand was – as always – mindful of the scars on his back. “It was a dream, my love. You’re safe here with us.”

His body shook with quiet sobs as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the soothing scent of your skin and your blood singing to him just beneath. He saw again before his eyes the way Cazador looked at him before he bit you, right in this place he was now so close to…

To give away one person who, for some strange reason, saw good in a filthy worm like him…

“I’m sorry,” Astarion choked out, finding his voice at last, which made you pause in your ministrations. “I’m so sorry f-for not doing anything… He…”

You were quiet for a couple of seconds, but then Astarion felt the most tender touch of your lips on the crown of his head, and he buried his face more into your chest.

“I’m here, darling,” you whispered. “Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real.”

He didn’t answer, instead lifting his arm and tentatively brushing his fingers just underneath your shirt. He didn’t feel any scars mirroring his own, but could still see the blood flowing from your back and down your legs, could still hear your painful scream… It brought fresh tears to his eyes again.

“I… I swear, I would never do that,” he attempted to explain himself, but his words came out in a pathetic sob, and he shook his head again, curling in on himself. “He– he was lying. I’d never…”

A fresh wave of tears wetted your shirt, but you didn’t seem to mind as you gently rocked him back and forth, cradling him safe in your arms. Old Astarion would probably scoff at the condescending action of being treated like an infant, but he knew better now. He still found it difficult, but with you at his side he was learning what true care and affection looked like, and how to accept it. You were always so patient with him, so gentle, never rushing or angry when he couldn’t give you the closeness and intimacy you deserved. Astarion loved that about you – even if he wasn’t ready to say it out loud just yet.

“My star…” you hesitated, but ultimately asked, “what did you dream about?”

The vampire took a shaky breath, unable to open his eyes or speak about what he saw. Instead, he called on the tadpole in his brain and nudged your mind with it, wordlessly asking for permission, which you immediately granted. There was at least one thing the tadpole was good for, he thought as you lived through the nightmare his weak, broken mind had conjured. If by the gods’ grace all of them managed to get rid of the tadpoles and survive this whole ordeal… and if by some miracle you still wanted to stay with him after all was done… Astarion knew he would have to learn how to communicate his feelings on his own. But not tonight. Not tonight.

You didn’t say anything for a long while, only continuing to hold him close to your chest. In this position he could hear the soothing beat of your heart, proving that he didn’t lead you to Cazador, that he didn’t turn you into a monster like him…

“We’re gonna kill him,” you finally said with your throat tight from emotions. “I promise you, as soon as we get to the Baldur’s Gate, we’ll find him and end him for good.”

Astarion knew what he should say – he should agree, or maybe jest that this is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said, or even argue that it’s not going to be that easy.

But all he could do right now was to continue clinging to you like a child, too afraid to face you.

“I’d never give you away,” he breathed, so quietly that he wasn’t sure you heard it, but he didn’t care. “Even if I had to suffer another two hundred years. I’d never–”

“I know, my darling,” you whispered back, and Astarion felt your own tears disappearing in his white locks. He still couldn’t believe why someone like you would waste your tears on him of all people, and it caused a new kind of pain to bloom in his chest. “And you’re not those things he told you. You’re… you’re everything to me, Astarion. Everything.”

Astarion wondered if he’d ever believe that. You proved to him time and time again that you can make anything possible, even change the worldview of someone like him… but with Cazador’s threat still looming, he didn’t have it in him to try and convince himself of your words.

Maybe after the bastard's dead, he concluded. Maybe then it’ll get easier and he can finally start becoming someone deserving of you.

You stirred slightly, breaking him out of his musings. Astarion hugged you tighter, sharply stopping you from moving away.

“Please. Don’t go.”

You just leaned back on the pillow and kissed his head gently again. Astarion felt the tension in his body melting away just a little, but the tears welled up again in his eyes.

“I won’t. Promise.”

And you kept your promise. Astarion didn’t fall asleep again, but your constant heartbeat under his cheek brought him some semblance of peace as he waited for the sun to rise. It didn’t feel right to let you care for him so much, to gift and envelop him with your love that he didn’t deserve… But it’d be even more wrong to take that choice away from you. He knew all about that, after all, and he'll be damned if he ever treats you the way he was treated.

So Astarion decided that he will let you love him and he will love you in return, for as long as you allow it.

Because, truth be told, he was nothing if not a selfish, contemptuous creature.

[heich0e]

suna's parents divorced when he was eight.

he doesn't remember a lot of the finer details as he's gotten older, mostly just that there used to be a lot of yelling, but he does remember the two piles of belongings that stacked up in the empty living room of his childhood home: one consisting of his father's and his own, and the other comprised of his mother's and his little sister's. their entire life, their entire family, packed up into cardboard and then divided down the middle.

the apartment he moved into with his father was always too quiet. it was in aichi, far enough away from where he spent the first decade of his life that he didn't have to be reminded of it every time he left the house, but since his father worked so much it still left him with plenty of time to think. to grieve. though maybe he didn't recognize it as that at the time. he played video games his father bought for him after school. ate convenience store bentos or whatever leftovers were set aside for him in the fridge for dinner. he put himself to bed at night. it wasn't a bad life, though maybe a bit lonely.

he was scouted to play for inarizaki when he was 14.

the lonely apartment turned into a lively dorm. he had new friends (his teammates) to play video games with. his convenience store bentos were replaced with hot meals from the meal hall. the loneliness of the apartment in aichi was a distant memory, but still lingered.

"i'm home."

rintarou drops his training bag in the genkan as he toes off his shoes, calling into the apartment to announce his return.

"welcome home!" you call back from further in the apartment, and the sound makes him smirk a little to himself.

you've been coming over to his place a lot lately, ever since he gave you his spare key. he's not upset about this in the slightest, but it doesn't mean he won't take every possible opportunity to tease you for it. he plans how he's going to make fun of you as he pads into his home towards the sound of your voice. he almost has it all planned out—his delivery on the very tip of his tongue—when he falters to a stop.

"how was your day?" you ask him without looking up from what you're doing.

and suddenly, anything rintarou may have wanted to say—joke or otherwise—is beyond him.

he watches as you set a plate of food down on the already full table just off his little kitchen. the food that covers the surface is still hot enough that steam curls up into the air above it, its preparation perfectly timed to his arrival home. his apartment is warm, and smells good, and there's music playing from your cellphone on the other side of the room that you must have been listening to while you cooked.

his chest feels tight.

you turn to look at him when he doesn't respond to your question.

"rin?" you ask again, a lilt of worry in your tone. "you okay?"

"what's all this?" he manages to ask, nodding towards the table where the meal you prepared is still waiting.

"oh, i've been craving my mom's recipe for the past few days, i just thought i'd make it for dinner," you say, tugging at your fingers nervously. your entire countenance is a bit different now, strained like you're worried you've done something wrong. "hope that's okay?" your words lift at the end like a question.

rintarou's never seen so much food on his table. can't remember the last time he even sat there to eat a meal—let alone a home cooked one. his face feels hot, and his eyes sting, and he just can't bring himself to look at you.

"yeah," he says, and if you notice how his voice is a bit croaky, you're nice enough not to tease him about it. "'course it's okay."

you smile, and you look relieved. "wash your hands then, it's getting cold."

you eat your dinner together and talk about your days. you take a shower while he cleans up the dishes. you fall asleep tangled up together on the couch with a movie playing in the background.

his home isn't quiet anymore. he isn't lonely.

and it's thanks to you.

[lottins-only]

CROSS THE LINE | Jude Bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x fem!reader, unnamed fictional RM player x fem!reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: after a fallout with your boyfriend, you find solace in a spontaneous night at the movies, where you run into his golden boy teammate. one thing leads to another and you cross the line.

A/N: first judith fic!! this was really fun to write. (very loosely) based on guilty as sin by taylor swift. let me know what yall think <3

warnings: infidelity (i don't condone it yall its just fun to write morally gray characters 🫣)

someone once told you there’s no such thing as bad thoughts – that it’s your actions that truly define you.

you wonder what they’d say if they saw you now: sitting up in bed with your boyfriend sound asleep beside you, staring at your phone with a pounding heart, silently hoping, waiting, for a message from someone else.

you wait and wait, but there’s nothing. your home screen stays empty, mocking you. you glance at your boyfriend. his shallow breathing fills the quiet room, steady and oblivious.

he has no idea you came home at 3 a.m. wearing his teammate’s jacket.

you'd stuffed it in the back of your closet as soon as you got home, a relic of a night that shouldn’t have happened. you'd scrubbed yourself thoroughly in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of jude’s cologne that clung to your skin. but it’s still there. not on your skin anymore, but in your mind, stamped into your memory to stay forever. 

the way the flickering lights from the movie theater screen cast shadows on his beautiful face, the fleeting feeling of his warm hands on yours as he handed you his jacket, the full body rumble of his laugh, the feel of his soft lips on yours.

you will never forget. how could you, when that was the first time in months you’d felt seen? desired. wanted. needed. it’s an intoxicating feeling, like stepping into the sunlight after living in the shadows for the longest time.

and now, staring at your phone, you feel it all over again. the pull. the wrongness of it all.

a buzz breaks the silence. your heart jumps into your throat as the screen lights up and a single message appears.

jude: you got home safe?

it’s innocent enough. simple. harmless.

you could ignore it. pretend you didn’t see it. block his number and put an end to whatever this is before it spirals into something else.

but instead, your fingers move on their own accord.

you: yeah. thanks for checking.

you press send before you can stop yourself. you lock your phone and put it on the bedside table before closing your eyes and willing yourself to go to sleep.

to your credit, none of this was planned. it all starts earlier that night. you and your boyfriend are supposed to have a date night, a rare opportunity to spend some alone time together. you pick out a dress he once says is his favorite and make a dinner reservation at his favorite spot.

but plans change quickly.

“babe, the guys just texted,” he says, barely looking up from his phone. “they’re hopping on fifa in a bit. you don’t mind if we raincheck, right?”

you stare at him dumbfounded as he flops down onto the couch.

“raincheck?” your voice trembles, the tears obvious, yet he doesn’t even glance at you.

“yeah. just tonight, we’ll do something soon,” he says dismissively.

it’s not the first time he’s blown you off, but tonight it stings a little more. maybe it’s the fact that he’s so indifferent to you and your feelings, he doesn’t even care to notice the relationship is teetering on the edge of a cliff. he doesn’t realize that you’re making an effort to save it while he’s unknowingly contributing to its unraveling.

you realized it too late, but you know now you’re not a partner to him, not really. you’re a glorified accessory, someone he can show off for external validation, a dependable constant in his life that’s only there to cheer him on and make him look good while he gives his attention and energy to the things he actually cares about: his friends, his family, and above all, his football.

it wasn’t like this in the beginning, but things changed quickly after he made the move to real madrid and became a bigger star. with every goal, every headline, and every paparazzi photo, you sank further into the background of his life.

you linger for a moment, waiting for him to change his mind, to look up and realize what he’s doing. but he doesn’t. so you grab your bag and leave without saying another word.

the cinema isn’t your first choice. you wander the streets for a while, debating whether to call a friend or just head home. but you need a distraction, something that can dispel all the thoughts running through your head. so before you know it, you’re buying a single ticket to whatever is playing next.

the theater is almost empty. it isn’t until you sit down and glance at your ticket that you realize you’re not seeing something new, but a re-release of a classic: Goodfellas.

halfway through the movie, you see a figure slip into a seat a few rows ahead of you. a few moments pass, and you feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of your head. it’s distracting, like an itch. you can't bear to ignore it any longer so you turn your head and look straight at the person. the figure quickly shifts his gaze, pretending to be engrossed in the screen. his features are hidden thanks to the hoodie he’s wearing, but his height and broad shoulders give him away as a man.

you hold your gaze for a second longer, just to make sure he gets the message, before turning back to the screen. but your focus is broken after that.

a few more moments pass and you notice the man stand and make his way out of his row. you let out a quiet breath of relief, assuming he’s leaving. but from the corner of your eye, you see the same figure moving toward your seat. your body stiffens immediately. why is he coming your way? maybe it was a bad idea to come to a nearly empty theater alone so late at night.

you watch as he stops in front of you and slightly crouches to not block the view of the screen.

“y/n?” he asks, voice low yet familiar.

“uh, yeah?” you respond warily.

“thought it was you.” he pulls back his hood, revealing the grinning face of jude bellingham.

a wave of embarrassment immediately washes over you. it’s bad enough that your boyfriend doesn’t love you and prefers to spend time playing video games with his friends, but now you have to run into his teammate of all people while you’re publicly wallowing in your misery—his kind, handsome teammate who always makes you flush whenever you cross paths.

this time is no different. your face grows warm as you stutter, “oh! h-hi, jude.”

you brace for the questions: why are you here alone? where’s your boyfriend? why do you have tear stains on your cheeks?

they don’t come though. instead, he gestures to the seat next to you. “mind if i join you? my seat over there was right under the AC; i was freezing.”

you nod. jude flashes you a smile as he takes a seat.

and then nothing. you watch the rest of the movie silently, the only interaction between you being an elbow nudge from him to offer his pack of candy.

he’s completely engrossed. he laughs silently at certain scenes, and in the more intense ones lets out small gasps. for someone else, it might’ve been annoying, but for you, who’s used to your boyfriend’s indifference to everything, you find his enthusiasm refreshing, maybe even a little endearing.

you spend the rest of the movie mentally going through the list of things you know about him : he's the same age as you (your boyfriend begrudgingly posted a birthday wish on his instagram story once), he can't drive (you see him being picked up by a driver whenever you visit valdebebas), he's genuinely nice (he always says hi when he sees you around, and he's politely held a door open for you once or twice), his spanish isn't the best (you once ran into him hopelessly trying to change his order at the canteen, sheepishly apologizing to the annoyed barista before you helped him out), and your boyfriend quietly holds a dislike for him because he's 'attention seeking' ( you secretly think its not his fault that he's charming and easygoing, that he has everyone he meets wrapped around his finger).

when the movie ends and the lights begin to brighten, he turns to you.

"do you wanna get ice cream?"

you hesitate for a moment.

"yeah. i’d love to," you say finally.

you exit the cinema, and when the fresh outdoor air hits you, you ask the question at the tip of your tongue.

"why and how are you here?"

"could ask the same for you," he grins.

"yeah, but—" you begin, but are immediately silenced by the sight in front of you. jude reaches into the pocket of the jacket he's layered over his hoodie and pulls out a dreadlocked toupee. with the straightest face, he carefully pulls down his hood, places the wig on his head, and adjusts it before pulling the hood back up.

you blink.

"you were saying?" the corners of his mouth twitch at your facial expression. without waiting for a reply, he starts walking, leading you away from the cinema.

you walk in tandem, still giving him a confused look. when you catch sight of his (fake) locs swinging along to the rhythm of his steps, you can’t help it; you burst out laughing.

“what’s so funny?” he turns to you, a mock hurt look on his face. “i’m part jamaican, you know.”

you pause your walking, doubling over and clutching your stomach as you laugh. he stands patiently, looking slightly amused.

after you catch your breath and fully recover, you continue walking.

“so that’s how you go places unnoticed?” you ask, still giggling.

“yup,” he says. “otherwise it’s a nightmare. need a bodyguard and stuff.”

you nod sympathetically as you stroll down the quiet street, the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the concrete. jude walks with an easy confidence, his hands in his pockets while you glance over at him and his toupee every so often.

“so,” he says after a moment, glancing sideways at you, “what’s your excuse? why are you at a late night showing of Goodfellas all by yourself?”

your smile falters slightly. you look straight ahead, debating how much to share.

“just needed to get out of the house,” you say with a light tone.

jude doesn’t push, though the way he hums softly in response tells you he notices your answer is only a half-truth.

"what about you?" you ask.

"I like watching movies," he says simply.

when you give him a somewhat confused look, he pulls out his phone and opens the letterboxd app, showing you the extensive list of movies he's marked as watched. you skim through it and you’re surprised by the diversity. the list is seemingly filled with movies of all genres, from classic films to indie flicks. you didn’t expect this side of him, but somehow it makes sense.

as he enthusiastically explains the list, you can't help but feel endeared by the excited look on his face. you have the overwhelming urge to reach out and smooth over his furrowed brow with your finger. but for the first and only time that night, you don't act on that impulse.

you reach a small gelato stand located on a corner of the street, its neon sign glowing softly. jude steps forward and leans against the counter.

“pick whatever you want,” he says, winking as he passes you the menu.

“don’t mind if i do,” you say, raising an eyebrow. you ignore the way his words make you feel—warm and fluttery, like this is a first date between two single people.

after a moment of deliberation, you pick pistachio and hazelnut, watching as jude leans in to order the same for himself.

“you copying me?”

“nah,” he says with a smirk, passing your cone to you from the server. “just figured you have good taste.”

you wander away from the stand, both of you savoring your ice cream. for a while, you walk in comfortable silence. at one point, he removes the ridiculous wig from his head. it isn’t until you reach a park bench that jude breaks the silence.

"you know," he starts. "i haven’t seen you at a lot of games lately. everything good between you and your boyfriend?"

“‘your boyfriend?’” you tease. “why not call him by his name? you guys have beef or something?”

he stays silent.

you gasp half-jokingly. “oh my god! tell me everything, so i can sell the story to the tabloids.”

he lets out a laugh at that.

“you’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“c’mon, spill,” you tease, nudging his arm lightly. “is he, like, selfish? does he refuse to pass during games?”

jude chuckles, shaking his head again. “nah, nothing like that. he’s a good player. talented, hardworking… you just start noticing things when you’re around someone all the time, you know?”

he says it carefully, almost hesitantly. you tilt your head at him. “notice things like what?”

he shrugs, his gaze dropping to his melting cone. “like… maybe he doesn’t appreciate what he’s got.”

the words hang in the air between you. you don't know how to respond, so you just gaze down at your own ice cream.

"sorry," jude says quickly. "didn't mean to overstep. i just—forget it."

"no, it's fine," you say quietly. "you're not wrong."

you sit in silence for a few moments. you feel him lean back against the bench, and the next time he speaks, his tone is lighter.

"my dad's coming to visit tomorrow," he says casually, an excited undertone in his voice.

"yeah? that's nice. does he come often?"

"not as much as i'd like," jude admits. "he's got my little brother to worry about in sunderland."

you smile softly. “what do you guys usually do when he visits?”

"usually we grab some food..."

he speaks about his bond with his dad, and also his close relationship with both his brother and mother. soon the conversation moves to childhood memories; jude tells you stories about growing up in birmingham, the football academy there, how he met his best friends at school. in return, you share stories of your own childhood, each one met with genuine curiosity from jude. you laugh, the conversation feeling effortlessly easy and natural.

it isn’t until you pull out your phone and glance at the screen to check the time that reality crashes back in. you have a boyfriend waiting for you at home. a boyfriend who hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, hasn’t even noticed that you’ve walked out of his house.

you lick the last remnants of your ice cream and are just about to crunch into the cone when jude gestures toward your chin. “you’ve got a little…” he says, trailing off as he points.

“oh,” you mumble while jude scans your surroundings for a tissue. finding none, he leans in and gently swipes at the bit of ice cream with his thumb.

“got it,” he murmurs, his touch lingering just a second longer than required.

what happens next can only be described as a a lapse in thinking, or maybe something you've been holding back all night. before your brain can catch up with your actions, you grab his hand and bring his thumb to your lips. you lick the ice cream away, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

jude freezes, his breath catching, his deep brown eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

"i—" you start, but whatever explanation you're about to give disappears when jude leans closer, his hand hovering near your face, as if waiting for your permission.

you don’t pull away. you don’t want to.

his lips brush against yours, hesitant at first, testing the waters. when you don’t push him away or move back, when, instead, you lean into him, his kiss deepens. it’s slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world to memorize every inch of you.

the ice cream cone in your hand is forgotten, melting onto the pavement as your fingers tangle into his hoodie, pulling him closer. the world fades, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble.

when you finally pull apart, your breaths mingle in the night air and jude’s forehead rests against yours.

“jude…” you whisper, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression serious. “tell me if I’ve crossed a line. i don’t want to make things harder for you.”

your heart flutters at the genuine care in his tone. you shake your head. “no, you didn’t.”

he doesn't keep his lips off you after that.

the next morning, you wake up feeling better than you have in months. there's a lightness in your chest, a warmth that’s been missing for what feels like forever.

you glance at your boyfriend, expecting to feel guilt or remorse. but there’s nothing. no pang of regret, no twist in your stomach. you feel... nothing at all.

you watch him roll out of bed and get ready for training. not a word passes between you as you sit down together in the kitchen to eat breakfast.

“so, what does your day look like today?” you try.

he doesn’t even look up, his attention entirely on his phone, scrolling with one hand while holding his fork with the other.

“i have a meeting at work that’s pretty—“ you start, but he cuts off.

“we’re doing penalty drills,” he mutters without looking up. “need to score more than bellingham so i can wipe that smug smile off his face. did you know he gets paid more than me?”

you just stare at him. you wonder what you even saw in him all those years ago. how had you overlooked the bitterness in his eyes, the envy? how had you missed it all along, his resentment towards anyone who seemed happier, luckier, more successful? his good looking face looks distorted to you now, forever changed to you to reflect the ugliness he holds inside. its as if you’re seeing him for who he really is for the very first time.

your phone buzzes on the table. without even checking, you know who it’s from.

jude: good morning :) sleep well?

you see it for what it is: an invitation to step into dangerous territory, to cross the line once more. a lifeline offering escape from the sinking ship that is your relationship.

you decide to take it.

you type a quick response and set the phone down. your boyfriend is grinning at an instagram reel now, completely absorbed.

you don’t speak to each other for the remainder of breakfast. this time it doesn't bother you at all.

[court-jobi]

Phantom Spasms | Headcanons

Pro-Hero!MHA x Reader: Kirishima, Midoriya, Tamaki, Shinsou, Bakugou

Words: 3.8k

Prompt:

A telltale quiver wracks your body every now and then. Trembling: like a ghost which holds its wrenching fingers in wait to play piano on your nerves and muscles- attacking your body without warning or mercy. Once upon a time, those unsettling sensations would have been the sign of a flare-up or overextention… but now, phantom spasms merely unlock memories of pains seen and unseen. How will your hero best soothe your aches?

Warnings: desc. of injury/ body aches, language (because BK exists) HURT/COMFORT/FLUFF assorted

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

A/N: Still working through some fun asks, but here's some headcanons since it's been a minute~ show weeks are crazy for me (my theatre kids get it) Happy Halloween and Happy Booping, yall!

--Eijiro Kirishima

The first time you jumped out of your skin at work due to someone's hand landing on your back, Sero simply figured you spooked easily from behind. You made a joke right away to his teases. Then another time, you pinned whoever it was to the wall, when it happened to poor unsuspecting Mina at a party. You apologized and everyone laughed the overreaction off- sweet ‘Pinky’ included. 

But it wasn’t till it happened a third time at night -in your kitchen- with your own sweet-spirited Kirishima, that he finally became the one to learn what the reason behind your jerks stems from.

You were a little down in the face, getting some ice cream when he sleepily trudged out of bed for some water– and to find his sweetheart who’d left him cold and lonely. He found you up and tracing the bottom of your dish with your spoon, and made to come behind you with a hand to your waist– when you gasped. Flinching hard and snacking him with a grab– to root him to the spot and rear up to hit your attacker-

"OW- babe, it's just me!!" 

Your eyes widened and back stayed arched until you kind of stuttered and rubbed it with your free hand. Your gaze fell away to Kirishima’s arm- with stinging tears and guilt. You’d drop the scoop carelessly on the counter and regulate your breaths, all in hopes this could be perceived as another nervous-nelly reaction and not sign of what this actually is… something worse. 

"I-I’m sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, baby-" Kiri carefully raised a hand to brush your face into a sweet caress. Like magic, his touch soothes and your back finally eased up and let you sigh.

"No. I'm sorry. God, did I hurt you?" you straightened and rubbed at his arm yourself.

"Nah, it's fine, manly hit tho, babe!" He brushed it off until his laugh died seeing your eyes. "Hey. You ok? Is... something wrong with your back?" Kirishima smooths your hoodie’s folds back over your shoulders and down your arms to casually hold your waist."You were... rubbing it, just now."

"...happens more than I let on..." you sighed a little dejected. "Old injury, just - spasms- sometimes, when someone comes from behind me and I didnt notice." 

Kirishima’s gears worked together through the drowsiness,, "so... when Mina?"

"Yeah."

"And when Sero came in the-"

"Not as bad, but yeah," you nodded.

"Oh God, babyyyy," he lifted you and rubbed the outsides of your thighs when he sat you on the counter, shifting the ice cream remnants aside and caressing your low back. "Why didn't you say anything? I never would have teased you like that! Damn, I give you surprise hugs all the time..."

"It's not all the time!" you tried to assure him. "I usually hear you or know it's coming, and it's nice. It's really nice." 

A fond smile brings you to run a hand through his floppy hair. 

"I.... it actually feels better when I know it's you at my back. It feels... safe, y’know?"

He hummed and lifted his brows, raising his hands to your cheeks and giving you a sweet kiss. 

"Then consider me your personal koala, angel. I've got your back." The reassurance would touch you at its sweetness– till you see that he glanced down to your cleavage. "And your front, too."

"Oh hush, Kiri."

He laughed at the far more tame slap at his chest and tickled your sides to get you to join in. Once calmed down, you hugged Kirishima tight from your spot on the counter and so did he- now taking careful, soothing rubs on your back. 

"I love you so much, baby. Tell me anytime it hurts from now on, ok?"

-- Izuku Midoriya

It was in training at Grounds A when it began storming outside, so you figured you’d stay a little longer and not fight the bad weather on the roads. If nothing else, it gives you extra time to watch him practice his new and improved shoot style. With the new suit came a learning curve, so Izuku practically lived on campus nowadays, long after his classes were over. Before he could take to the streets, he’d need to learn how to work as a hero again, merging his physical disciplines with the new tech he now wears to protect himself. 

Happy to spend any break with him and support him on his hero track, you came anytime Izuku called and asked for you to take notes. He’d call out how high he guesses he can reach, and you’d yell the actual figure back as soon as he landed; as a game of sorts to see how far he could go. 

Izuku shouted one simultaneously with a thunder crack and while you did answer, it sounded faint. He looked back through sweaty bangs and he noticed you kind of spoke it downwards to the ground- and you were rubbing at your back with an awkward reach.

"You ok?" Izuku called– you looked up suddenly and smiled to mask the quivering sensation as it died down.

"Yeah, I'm good! Go again!"

A few more rounds passed and in between kicks, the thunder cracked again. Even Izuku cringed at the sight out the window, seeing how nasty it was getting. The passing worry over ‘Kacchan’ being out in this drek came through a mutter when he bounded back to your side with a solid thud on the ground, looking to you for perhaps some reassurance– 

– at least he was seeking you out, until he realized he was the one who needed to attend to you. Izuku’s eyes went wide and he rushed to your side with a higher-pitched call of your name.

Shoulders held uncomfortably straight, you were half slumped on the railing, trying to regulate your breaths. 

Izuku huffed over to your side in a second, the flash of electric teal ebbing through his suit's grooves catching your eyes as he worried in front of you. 

"I'm really fine," you rasped, "it happens’a lot– more annoying than anything." You chuckled as it eased up and allowed you to carefully kneel to a sit. Izuku crouches by you too, easing you down slowly.

"Honey, that's not normal! What's happened? Are you ok?? " 

He is quick to start mother-henning you, cupping your cheeks… and you had to smile.

"It’s just a phantom pain," you twisted and pointed at the back "Not even really ‘painful’ anymore, even- just.. strange. Like, have you ever had a bad dream that something's poking you in the back, but nothing’s really there?"

He sweated through that strange scenario, "Uhhhhh, no? I've never had that before..."

"Well, it’s a thing. The doctor checked me out," you brushed off all the same. "Just the thunder spooked me, and it acted up. Loud noises make me jump., and everything siezes."

Izuku is still hard to settle, so you give him the speed-read through what happened to you. A rookie mistake of pushing yourself beyond your limits when you were young resulted in a (potentially) life-long bout with strengthening your core, keeping good posture… years have been spent working around the scar tissue under the surface as best as you can manage.

"Scar tissue?"

"Yeah, right... here." 

You thumbed at the spot of your tremors, 

"Surgery took care of it. There's not even a bad incision- it just..--”

-a low rumble shook the sky-

“- teases, sometimes. Under the surface."

"Oh," Izuku mumbled, noting you seemed embarrassed, “So it’s like a missing limb? Amputees will say that, I hear. Aizawa has before, too, after what he did with his leg...”

Thinking back to a darker time, you’d felt the same of yourself… when you worried whether or not you’d walk again. It has been so scary, feeling that there should have been horrible pins and debris sticking out of you with how your nerves twisted and pinched all around the site of your wound. As much as you wish it wouldn't, sometimes it feels like yesterday that you were laid up in the hospital for endless scans and tests for weeks on end.

Simply put, you agree so as to not worry him more: “In a way, yes.”

"-But it’s not hurting you?"

"Not... ‘hurt’ exactly, just feels kinda queasy."

Izuku’s powers of observation can read as overwhelming, though right now, you think it’s sweet how he’s taking in every inch of you to memory. He's running through a thousand and one solutions- you know the signs.

He got an idea. 

"Hey, well, let me rinse off and we can stay in and watch a show until this storm lets up! That way, you won’t be alone! And I'll sit at your back... I can rub it, if it helps?" His ears got a little pink as he rambled through, but you smiled up at his eyes sweetly. 

"That'd be nice~"

-- Tamaki Amajiki

Tamaki laid curled up in his favorite spot on your chest: his long-sleeved hand rests tucked into himself while he nuzzles into your neck. It’s his favorite spot since he could hear you and feel all of you so well, but you didn't have to see his face.

He admittedly had fallen asleep there, even though a storm had started. Poor baby can sleep through almost anything as long as you're still enough (as his pillow).

But today? When your jump underneath him roused him, he suddenly went self conscious,

"mmmmmAHHH, s-sorry, I didnt- I... hey, what are..."

A moment’s delay, Tamaki noticed your pained expression as you let out shallow breaths. 

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you??"

"No, honey, no, you’re... ahh... yer’fine...." you tried to press your tummy back down and nuzzle back into bed. You were clearly preoccupied and not able to fully focus on resolving his quivering self as quickly as you normally would. 

"Y-you’re shaking..." Bridging up on an elbow off of you, Tamaki sounded concerned and a little more commanding. He could be very protective once he knew there wasn't a risk of embarrassing himself, "Tell me what hurts, love."

He laid on his side and regarded every twitch of your face as you glanced his way. For all his shrinking into himself and generally submissive nature, no one stands in your corner like Tamaki Amajiki. Now with your roles of confidence reversed, you felt ashamed not telling him sooner.

"It's just... my low back." You turned to face him, thumbing it, and he instantly touched the spot, your skin jumping at contact but settling as he palmed it. "It acts up sometimes... old injury and all."

"Do I need to take you to the nurse?"

"Oh no," you brushed off, "there's nothing she'd do anyway- it's supposed to go away on its own." Then another thunderclap brought it on again, and he tightened onto you again.

His little face dropped, feeling horrible that you were suffering all this time. After your initial recovery, physical therapies, even taking you to and from your yoga classes, Tamaki had foolishly assumed you’d made a full recovery without an ounce of lingering trouble.

 "I can't believe I didn't see this before. God, I'm a terrible boyfriend…" he mumbled into your shoulder, holding on for comfort as he tucked you under his arm so your back laid mostly on the bed again and he shielded you from on top. You cooed at his self deprivation and just petted through his hair.

"Tama-honey,” you tapped his chin to look up at you, "you're the best boyfriend I could- ever- wish for.”

And it's not a lie- never a lie when it comes to him. Had he only been in your life during your recovery from that pesky broken leg back in your teens, you're sure you would have bounced back ten times faster.

You're here now," you sunk adorably under him to make him feel bigger, "why would I ever feel anything but completely safe with you?"

His little lip quivered into a smile and he leaned to kiss your nose and cheek to which you sighed at both touches happily. "What should I do? To help, I mean?"

You keen a little at this caring attention. You rarely told him to do anything due to his fawning -and already skittishy- nature that simply wanted to be held and adored when in your company… but with how gentle he's being, this opening makes you answer him honestly. What's so wrong about giving him a reason to please you?

"Back rubs are nice~”

When you turn over gingerly and he starts to pet along your back, you wiggle your hips a touch.

“You can go under, hon. I won’t break, promi-”

“U-UNNDER?!” 

You giggle into the pillow. Simple back scratches will have to do for your shy darling.

-- Hitoshi Shinsou

You haven't noticed much pain since you were in the hospital, post-accident. The meds they gave you were gold, and just about knocked you out within fifteen minutes of a dose. Truly all you’d wanted was to go home and ride out your recovery, but everyone on staff urged you to take the PT seriously, as it would help you in the long run. Your chief cheerleader -and drill sergeant- was none other than your partner in both heroics and love, Shinsou.

Once settled in your second story apartment, you really hedged against leaving to brave the stairs unless absolutely necessary. But even when you needed to for an appointment, Hitoshi was there, taking you by the hand to support you step by step. There to help you shower, there to help you dress until you could proudly manage on your own. But even then, you claimed you relied on his witty banter more than anything else… He’s strong in every sense of the word, and stoic where you need him to be, even now off duty. You missed heading out to fight crime with him, but ‘all in good time, sweetness’ was his anthem during your six week long ‘house arrest’.

Being home was such a happy change of pace from the white hallways of the triage floor; you were actually eager to tackle the monotony of chores again. Shinsou had encouraged you to rest, but didn’t fuss or demand it when you went piddling around the apartment. It wasn’t until you were putting dishes away that you had your first, huge flare-up.

You couldn’t even call it pain- just the most intense muscle spasm and queasiness you've ever felt that shook you from your low back up your spine. The sensation honestly scared you. The mug in question immediately retreated to the counter and you stumbled beside the fridge -balancing on the counter- your breaths fast and short as the tremors vibrated in you, 

"Hi–Hitoshi?!" You called weakly, trying not to panic.

He was there in a matter of seconds; he’d already heard the crash and was on his way to investigate. You heard him curse lightly before coming up beside and behind you, lowering your arms from their mismatched hold on whatever cabinet handles you could grab and placed both palms on the counter, 

"Let go," he prompted, and you obeyed without any coercion. When you held onto the flat surface, he took your waist in his hands to steady you. "Don't tense- breathe through it, deep breaths."

"What's happening…?" you can’t turn to look, even though you wanted to.

"It's in your back, right here?" Shinsou laid a warm palm on the queasy area, and you whimpered an affirmation. "You're ok, sweetheart. It’ll pass- it's just a spasm. It'll pass... just breathe."

You forced yourself an inhale that’s not as slow as you know he’d prefer, but Shinsou doesn’t correct you. Here he stands, rubbing your back with two expert fingers and his thumb over the bundle of nerves where your initial surgery had been. It seemed to help because breathing got easier. 

"That's it,” He whispered close to your ear, closing his eyes to pray. "You're doing good." He kissed a few spots on your shoulder as you relaxed as the minute wore on, him rubbing your back and you sinking away from the counter as your back bowed back from its arch.

"Oh my God...." you breathed.

"Better?"

You nodded. He looked up and saw the open pantry and let out a little breath. He kept a hand on your waist and put the mug up himself.

"You know things like this are why I'm here. Don't push yourself."

You soured at that, "I should be able to reach things in my own kitchen..."

"You will- just not right now." Shinsou said firmly, but in a tone that softened at the end whenever he was with you. You turned your back to the counter,

"Thanks," you breathed out, rubbing up his arm. "That was... really wierd. And kinda scary."

"The same happens in my neck from time to time. Not so much anymore. It will fade after a couple months." 

You exasperated at the sound of that time frame. Shinsou had suffered a bout of whiplash after a villain sting earlier that year, and you remembered his more subtle shudders and shivers indicating his nerves were getting back to standard operating procedure. That neurological progress took nearly half the year, just as he said.

But Shinsou knows your brand of impatience all too well. He lifted your chin to his gaze, more concern than scolding, 

"-which is why you need to take your recovery seriously. I know you wanna bounce back fast; I can help you get there. You know what to do. We want to avoid these as much as we can."

You nodded, but your chest still sunk. You know more practically that you couldn’t bother him every time it happened, yet you now fear what would happen now if he hadn't been here. He’s only off night duty for another week, so after this weekend, you’ll be managing life solo, more or less… 

But despite any lingering discomfort showing on your face, Shinsou would do anything to see it go away. He pressed a kiss to the soft edge of your eyeline and leaned his forehead to yours, rubbing your back comfortably in his hold- making your hands naturally hold back on his arms to make him stay. He brought you gaze back up, 

"Hey sunshine..." 

You opened your eyes to see his small smile. Makes him look all the more sleepy, but it’s such a soft sight, you’re happy to see it all the same.

"Do you trust me?"

You smiled back a little brighter. "I do."

"Then you should let me help you when you need it. I'm counting on you to tell me when that is. Promise?"

"I promise." You closed your eyes, just soaking in his presence. "I just want to be normal, babe."

He nuzzled noses with you, "Normal is subjective. You're healing, and that's nothing to be ashamed of."

You had to smile at his logical reasoning– takes after his mentor. So you nodded and asked if you could turn in and start up a bath, even if it was a little early in the day.

He massaged the soft skin by your ear and responded, "of course, love. Whatever you want."

--Katsuki Bakugo

You had rare help in the kitchen most days at this hour, since Bakugou was still on some personal leave from his agency (a forced break from his pr specialist who's placed him in time-out from the public eye). Given the availability he now has should be regarded as a gift, he was there to readily help you and no doubt distract you with kisses while you worked. His teasing has carried on throughout the afternoon as he cleaned up behind you, and was working on washing up the last few dishes when you were getting out a stockpot for dinner.

Crouching a little too fast to reach it on the low shelf, the shooting queasiness had your back bowing, and breath expelling out of your lungs in a gasp not unlike ‘fear’. You flopped almost immediately to your butt and pivoted with your back to the cabinet as you let out an uncontrollable moan.

At the sound of a hushed 'ughhh not again' in your first language, Bakugo peeked from the other end of the island and couldn’t find you at first… so he leaned off to the side and found your crunched body on the floor.

With a loud curse, he dropped everything and rushed to your side, 

"What the hell happened??" Bakugou’s hands went everywhere, from your hands to your shoulder, scanning your legs and your tense face for signs of a cut or a bruise you could have made this quickly.

"Babe, I'm fine, this is normal f’me."

"THE FUCK YOU’RE FINE– you're on the DAMN FLOOR!" He went to pull you up bridal style but you stopped him suddenly,

"No, no don't!! It's just gotta pass first…"

His eyes went wide and felt panic creep down his back. Bakugou flopped criss-crossed on the floor, and ran a hand through his hair- all that’s left was to watch you helplessly, which was the last thing he wanted to do in this moment. Surely he could do something. The waiting made him angrier than ever for a split second, until he reigned in some breaths himself. Eventually, the blond just reached a hand out to rub your knee. What else was he supposed to do?

You sensed your boyfriend’s now silent concern, and sent a little weak smile his way as it started ebbing away, 

"It's already better. My back just seized up sometimes, it's just an old injury that acts up every now and again. I usually don't do ‘squatty’ movements like that- things that tax it,” -you wink a little playfully- “Rookie mistake~”

Bakugou nodded, yet just stared at your core as it leveled back to normal.

"Sorry about that. Getting older sure doesn’t help these things~" You breathed out as you sat up normally-- only to have Bakugou launch at you fast and grip you to him–

You yelped at his sudden reach but brought a hand to his back– strange, that you think you might need to soothe him instead with how hard he’s breathing– 

"Katsuki?"

"Don't scare me like that again, dummy," he croaked out, nuzzling his face into the warmth of your neck and cradling your head to him in the dearest way.

Really, you should know better by this point. He can be battered and bruised beyond recognition and won’t pay a bit of attention to himself… but when you get so much as a paper cut or a wasp’s sting, and he will nearly go ballistic to tend to you.

[minkdelovely]

catharsis

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“we are more

than our disguises,

we are more

than just the pain.”

Alastor x Lucifer ; RadioApple ; MDNI 18+

tags/warnings: angst (w/a happy ending), established relationship, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions/allusions of abuse, mentions of death from illness, sexual content (biting, blood/blood play, kissing, palming)

word count: 2.5k

author’s note: guess who’s writing angst again?? this kinda hit me out of nowhere, but is fully inspired by @sunlit-mess / SOL 1 x 1 (on twitter) recent works (linked HERE and HERE) with alastor seeking luci’s comfort. seeing these back-to-back just set something off in my mind and i couldn’t rest until it was out. a special thanks and shoutout to our darling @fraugwinska for helping me get a title on this baby — without her y’all would have been reading ‘untitled’ 😂💖 quote is from twin flame by weyes blood. without further ado, buckle up and dive in; i hope you enjoy 😌 (also posted on my ao3 if that’s your preference)

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It was surprising, even to himself.

Alastor couldn’t recall the last time he had cried, much less in front of a witness. Composure and a display of strength were hard-won attributes he had built upon himself. Each unpleasant memory in his mind was a brick in his fortification; the tears he denied himself to shed the mortar between them.

He hadn’t always followed his own code of conduct and taken the ugliness of life on the chin. Before he had found his own strength, he could admit to being swayed by the will of others. Alastor found words to be harsher than the switch and was more than familiar with the sting of both. Though the switch was a boy’s punishment… A closed fist was more suitable for raising a man.

Or so his father had thought.

Mama’s boy… Just my luck. I got me a mama’s boy... C’mere you little pansy!

The repulsion in his father’s words hadn’t lost any of its potency, even after all this time. Alastor recalled them with more clarity than the face of the man they came from, which only served to plunge him further in his despair. Hadn’t he proven his resilience? Not only in body, but in mind and spirit? Perhaps not as much as he thought, with the way he was sobbing. If his father could see him now — bereft of stoicism and drenched in tears, drool, and mucus — he’d have been absolutely disgusted. Alastor loathed how much that bothered him. The fear of inadequacy lurching in his gut like a bad tonic.

Hot, angry tears flowed down the streaks that shame had carved on his face. Not that Lucifer would be able tell the difference with the way Alastor had burrowed into his chest. It was merely a fresh bout for the candy-striped vest to soak up. The saline fabric was beginning to chafe Alastor’s face, but he didn’t feel ready to surface; arms tightening around his lover’s waist as his hands gripped Lucifer with a desperation he assumed was buried long ago with his innocence.

Stop hidin’ behind your mama and come take your whoopin’ like a man!

Alastor choked on another sob and gasped for breath, heaving in Lucifer’s arms as the angel held him firmly. Gloved hands petting red hair and anguished, downcast ears. Hushed words of comfort spoken into the crown of Alastor’s head to soothe in tandem as they both shook from the force of the demon’s sorrow.

“I’ve got you. Shh, honey, I’ve got you.”

So much love conveyed in so few words. Alastor still grappled with accepting it. Evidenced by more tears fighting their way through his clenched eyes and a muffled, heart-wrenching cry into Lucifer’s chest. The pain of it went straight through the King’s heart as he pressed a firm kiss to Alastor’s head, feeling the distress on his face as he did so. How he wished to unburden the demon of his suffering. More than anyone, Lucifer could understand what it was like to be wracked with such melancholy.

If only Alastor could remember what had set him off, if he had, in fact, been triggered at all. He had just woken up this morning feeling low. Why was he dwelling so much on things that were better left to the past? Unbeknownst to either of them, they were sharing the same thought. And both knew that dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed did nothing other than inflict harm. Must they be plagued by the ignorance and rejection of their fathers for eternity? The cost of the scorn they’d endured seemed to grow ever higher some days.

That was one of the first things they had bonded over, sharing self-deprecating laughter to hide from their aching wounds. When love is built on a foundation of hurt, it’s only a matter of time before the walls crumble. Most times they were Lucifer’s, and sad as it was, it felt much easier to navigate. The angel was much more comfortable wearing his feelings, after all, and he’d had millennia of experience weathering his storms. Alastor was no stranger to being the shoulder to cry on. If anything, it came to him too naturally; a trait he couldn’t be sure was born in him or a side-effect of the wall he had built.

When Alastor buckled under the weight of his grief, it was devastating. He repressed himself for such long bouts of time that the force of his woe had the impact of an avalanche. Sadness, anger, shame, and regret cascading through his lithe frame until he was utterly hollowed out. Lucifer’s task of mending him was only beginning, he knew. It would be days before Alastor returned to himself, but he was more than willing to put in the work. Stitching his love back together with his needle of assurance and thread of devotion.

It was impossible to tell how long they spent this way. Alastor kneeling on the floor between Lucifer’s legs, knees sore and body aching, face still smothered in the drenched clothes donning the angel’s chest. Lucifer on the sofa in their bedroom, comforting the demon with every ounce of strength he could muster.

Until finally the tears stopped, replaced with uneven, sometimes stuttering breaths and hiccups. And soon enough those were gone too. Lucifer’s right hand rubbing Alastor’s back as his left cradled Alastor’s head. Before long, the demon was stirring. Sniffling a bit as he nuzzled his face into the mess of fluids he had left on the King’s vest and shirt. Lucifer didn’t mind, knowing that he could have it all gone with a snap of his fingers, but it wouldn’t do any good for Alastor to try wiping his face on his clothes in the state they were in.

“Let me clean your face, love. You’ll get a rash if you stay there,” Lucifer chided softly, manifesting a warm, damp handkerchief as he bent down to kiss Alastor's forehead for good measure.

It wasn’t a very convincing threat, both of them knowing that if Alastor did suffer a rash Lucifer would heal it in an instant. But Alastor conceded, and gingerly peeled himself away from the safety of the angel’s chest. His poor face was raw from tears, eyelids chapped red with irritation; dried salt crusted his cheeks like the vestiges of sea foam on the shore.

Alastor knew he looked awful. He could see himself reflected in Lucifer’s eyes proving as much. Every bit of moisture his body had was soaked into Lucifer’s chest, and he could feel the headache promised by dehydration blooming in his forehead. He was wrung out and exhausted but nearly began crying again, too moved by the tender act as Lucifer gently wiped his face. His Sire hushed him, voice calm and gaze full of adoration. Not even bothering to clean himself up before ensuring that Alastor was taken care of first.

The swell of affection Alastor felt in that moment was overwhelming, and he swallowed thickly as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the comfort of his lover’s hands tending to him. His father’s cruel words fading into darkness with every soft swipe of the warm cloth.

You’ll find someone special someday, mon amour.

Alastor was grateful for his mother’s memory, and wondered — not for the first time — what she would think of Lucifer. She had been a God-fearing woman, after all. A fear that she did not pass down to her son, choice of partner aside. He had turned his back on God long before his eyes had set their sight on the fallen angel. If she could see him from Heaven, he hoped that she would be happy. The Devil wasn’t all he was made out to be, if the way he cherished Alastor wasn’t proof enough.

His mother never pestered him about settling down, but worried for him deeply when they realized that she was sick and wouldn’t be getting better. Alastor was self-sufficient by then, with a year of working at the local radio station under his belt. Not that he didn’t take her concern to heart. If anything, when it came to her, he took things all too seriously. He wasn’t weighed down by the need for partnership or marriage, especially not when his career still had traction to gain. Alastor would try to tell her as much, assure her that she had nothing to worry about, and they would drop the subject and speak of other things. But he never left the sanatorium without receiving her prayers; his large, warm hands looking almost comical in her frail, cold grasp. Her hold on him was as fervent as the words and wishes she spoke to someone Alastor knew wasn’t listening. Though that didn’t make the act any less sincere or appreciated.

It was a brand of care Alastor thought he would never know again after his mother finally succumbed to her illness. The near-decade that passed after this had only cemented that fact. He didn’t seek companionship nor did he deny it when the mood struck. But beyond his small circle of friends, Alastor was content with his solitary life. Besides, a partner or spouse would have only made his nighttime affairs much harder to juggle — if not damn near impossible — and having the reputation of an elusive bachelor only helped with his fan base when it came to his radio segment.

It wasn’t until Lucifer had broken through his defenses that Alastor understood how he had barricaded himself from the world. And that he wanted support and comfort and understanding more than he cared to admit.

There are things you need that you can’t take care of on your own.

Basked in the warmth of Lucifer’s affection and his mother’s memory, Alastor hummed and opened his eyes, a tired smile curling his lips. Lucifer smiled back at him, expression benevolent and soft as his hands found their way back into Alastor’s hair to resume their petting. And grateful as he was, Alastor couldn’t ignore that Lucifer had yet to address the mess setting into his clothes. He fought against the pain as he uncurled his fingers, stiff from the grip on Lucifer’s waist, and silently began unbuttoning the candy-striped vest he had come to adore as the angel’s signature.

���Hey, you don’t have to —”

Alastor stopped him with a kiss, his fingers continuing their work as Lucifer sighed against his lips. The tension in both their bodies deflating as they shared hungry pecks and inhaled each other’s breath. All the while, Alastor’s hands remained busy with the undoing of buttons. First on the vest, then on the white shirt beneath it. Each open button providing relief like the snapping of a taut string.

Perhaps it was the musician in Alastor subconsciously rising to the task, but Lucifer would never cease to be caught flat-footed by the demon’s impeccable timing. How Alastor’s fingers managed to perfectly sync with his kisses was a feat Lucifer could only describe as divine. As if the acts were always meant to be one, never separate. It made the golden blood in his body turn molten; roiling through his veins as he sighed and chased every touch with relish. He was not often given these affections without needing to ask, whether with a look or an outright plea. Games that Lucifer was content to play, knowing that anticipation and a good tease left them both more than satiated.

With the collar of Lucifer’s shirt loosened, Alastor straightened his back and bent his neck to suckle and kiss down the angel’s pristine throat. The demon took his time with this, hoping to convey his gratitude and desire with every press of his lips against the milky skin beneath them. When Alastor made it to the junction between neck and shoulder, he was unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in; the flesh yielding to his fangs like a ripened peach, and the nectar that soon coated his tongue was a gift in itself.

Lucifer hissed through the bite, hips jerking in space between them as Alastor groaned and languidly sucked and licked the blood rising from the wound. With his hands free from buttons, Alastor let them explore. How he adored the feeling of Lucifer’s small frame beneath them. Endlessly fascinated by the twitches and sounds he could elicit from the angel with little more than the slightest drag of his claws against sensitive skin.

Alastor released himself from Lucifer’s neck with a salacious pop and licked his lips for good measure. The whine that escaped Lucifer from the action had Alastor’s ears and groin at attention. The low creaking sound of antlers branching out mingled with their shallow breath. Alastor’s crimson eyes drank in the almost bashful look on Lucifer’s face, accented by a golden flush that made his abdomen tight with hunger.

How lucky he was, truly.

The silver lining of Lucifer’s descent was heavily in Alastor’s favor. Had Lucifer remained God’s favorite, he’d be in Heaven — a place Alastor had never planned to be. In truth, he never intended to be in Hell either, which is where luck came into play. He wasn’t destined for mortal companionship, but for something transcendent. Not a god to worship, but a sin. A king.

An angel.

“I’m unworthy of your benevolence,” Alastor lamented, desperately kissing and kneading the supple skin of Lucifer’s chest. “But I’m devoted to you, always.”

It was a sentiment he had expressed before, feeling much like Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’ feet with her tears. But it made Lucifer’s heart jump all the same; its rapid beat calling to Alastor like a siren from under skin and bone as his teeth latched to Lucifer’s breast. Their pleasured moans harmonized as Lucifer cupped the back of Alastor's head, encouraging him to continue with a whisper of his name. Alastor happily obliged. Tongue lapping at the pert nipple, hot and fervent, as his mouth and teeth provided a deliciously sharp suction, drawing out the ambrosia in Lucifer’s veins.

Lucifer struggled to remain cognisant, lost and overwhelmed as Alastor’s mouth peppered a trail of kisses from right to left. Alastor shifted slightly between Lucifer’s legs as teeth sunk into the top of his left pectoral just as Alastor’s left hand palmed his groin. The wanton cry that echoed off the walls of their bedroom only served to make Alastor desperate for more. Eagerly succumbing to his need to worship the angel, the agony he had suffered earlier behind him but not forgotten.

An offering of gratitude and declaration of fidelity in a language they shared when words failed. When adoration was beyond articulation and the only thing strong enough to quell their aching hearts was propinquity. The evening had started with Alastor falling apart in Lucifer’s lap… but it would end with Lucifer falling apart in Alastor’s hands.

And they would wake in the morning with tangled hair in wrinkled sheets. Sharing hushed jokes and lazy kisses as the early morning sun colored their room in a hazy, pink glow.

Healing each other one day at a time.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @hyperfixations-keep-me-going, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds, @littlebluefishtail, @hazelfoureyes, @sugoi-writes, @nxcxllxsevens, @swagkittybear

[theincognitomoth]

Wild Side

Pairing: Mr. Wolf x Fem!Reader (Stablished relationship)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 5731

Warnings: Rough sex, mild language, bitting, scratch,ing knotting, praise kink, male!dom, fem!sub, first person POV.

Sinopsys: During a mission gone wrong, Mr. Wolf goes on a wild frenzy and ends up hurting his girlfriend. Out of guilt, he isolates himself in a dirty apartment, all the while his sweetheart is determined to prove he has nothing to feel Sorry for.

Since the Night Howlers' incident, Wolf refused to come out of his room. He also refused to let anyone else in, except for Snake, and he refused, above all else, to see me- And that stung far more than the bite mark shaped like his teeth in my forearm as I applied the flower scented infection cream.

Three months ago Diane came with a mission for us. It was simple at first: find a couple of missing citizens. But soon the conspiracy web spiraled so further down that mind controlled guinea pigs and a butt shaped meteorite sounded sane in the same sentence. 

Those people were targets of a cult- The Naturalists, they called themselves. They believed that the root of suffering came from the modern world. A normal group with this belief might have organized a hike or camping trip but, crazy bastards that they were, thought themselves justified to take people off the streets and inject them with a brain altering drug: The Night Howlers.

That cursed little purple capsule was the reason my boyfriend refused to see me, even after two weeks of the case closed.

During a chase he was shot with the substance. Even now my stomach ran cold when I remembered the look in his eyes- Desperate at first, and then feral mindlessness. He chased me prey, my heart pounded in my ears, all my blood going to my legs telling me to run, run, run. It was still a blurry memory, the way his fangs buried on my skin. It was sheer luck that saved me that day, and I dreaded imagining the other outcome. But whatever horrors my mind came up with, I knew Wolf's was much worse, leaving him to rot in his little den of misery. 

With a heavy sigh, I put on my clothes and marched out of the apartment, standing in front of Wolf's door yet again.

“Moe?” I knocked and waited for a response that never came.

This everlasting silence would drive me mad.

“I know you can't- won't see me right now, but could you at least say something so I know you're not dead and rotting on the other side of that damn door?” 

My words were harsh, I knew, and the corridor echoes made sure to slap me in the face with them. For his sake I kept those words in. I knew he was suffering, I tried to be patient, but the sting with each day of deathly silence left a bitter taste in my mouth and I had to let it out before it made me sick.

“I'm getting tired of this- I know you feel bad for what happened, but I swear, I'd rather get bitten again than for you to play dead. Please…”

I was certain my plea would fall on deaf ears until the door locks creaked. My heart was beating in my ears like drums, my eyes burnt from not blinking. The door opened to reveal a dark room, cold and smelling like an old pantry. Snake stood on the other side, looking at me with a frown deeper than normal. He was much better at hiding  his worry than me. 

“Go easy on him,” He said, slipping out of the door and holding it open.

“Is it too bad?” I whispered.

“Would be easier if he wasn't such a drama queen.” 

I forced out a chuckle.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it, just… Get him out of that damn apartment.”

A difficult mission, one I didn't know if I was up to, yet had to grab this precious small chance.

I walked into Wolf's apartment and closed the door behind me.

Some people prefer winter nights over nice summer days, but the state of his apartment was absurd. I adjusted my sleeves to cover my hands as the AC turned a city apart into a tundra, its blue glowing numbers being the only light source letting me see broad shapes. Wolf sat in the corner of the couch, wrapped around an old blanket with his face hidden in it. How much time did he spent day after day like this?

One of many food packages scrunching under my foot as I made my way towards him. His ears perked up for a second before laying flat against his head again.

“Moe…” He flinched.

I sat on the couch, arms length from him.

“Can you look at me?” The knots in my chest tightened further as the seconds stretched without a response. “... I miss you.”

Finally, thank Heavens, finally he looked up at me, those big sad eyes resembling an abandoned puppy. He stared for a short while, before sifting his focus to my forearm, covered by the long sleeve.

“Does it still hurt?” He asked, voice quiet.

“No.”

“Did you get an infection?”

“I didn't.”

“Scar?” 

“None.”

“Good.” He let out a shaky breath. “I've missed you too.”

There was a glimmer of the ‘him’ from before the incident when he smiled at me- My old Moe. But I blinked and it was gone. I reached for his hands into the blanket cocoon, but he winched away, covering it up with a chuckle.

“I haven't trimmed my claws in a while.”

“Since when do you trim them?”

“I- uh, started recently.”

“Moe…”

He shook his head, leaning further away from me with a frown.

“Stop. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He struggled to find words. I knew that angry look, but it wasn't aimed at anyone.

“Like you're the one who hurt me and not the other way around.”

When he stood up, so did I, keeping a distance as I followed him to the kitchen, littered with full trash bags that didn’t smell, for they were full of plastic packages and cans instead of real food.

“Come on, it wasn't your fault.”

“Yeah, there are blood stains on my shirt that say otherwise.”

He grabbed a kettle and put it on the stove to boil and took one cup of instant noodles from the almost empty cabinet. Shrimp flavored, Moe's least favorite.

“You weren't in control, they shot you with a Night Howler.”

“And I went after you instead of the cultist, how do you explain that?”

Over the weeks, that question plagued me too and I came up with a few theories. Maybe he chose to chase something that smelled familiar, or his animal brain saw me as easier prey, since the cultist was bigger. Whichever reason, not a part of me believed he acted from malice.

“Look, you don't need to try and justify or rationalize what happened there. I don't blame you one bit.”

“You should.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

I tried to remain level headed, but I didn't know what else to say to make him see reason.

“Why? Why the hell are you so angry with yourself when it was the crazy cultist that drugged you?”

“Because I liked it!”

The kettle whistle was the only sound in the room as I was left speechless, mouth agape and dry. I only realized how tense my shoulders were when they dropped heavy on my sides.

“...What?”

Wolf let out a deep sigh, turning off the stove and leaning against the counter. He wasn't looking at me.

“I liked it- not hurting you, not ever. But when that guy shot me with the Night Howler…” He rubbed the spot on his neck where the drug hit him. “It was like- like I had been wearing a tie squeezing my neck the whole time and the Night Howler cut it loose.”

His eyes sparkled with something familiar, that same shine from when he went through a heist plan or talked about a new driving maneuver he pulled. But as soon as that spark came, he met my eyes and it was gone.

“You can't be serious,” I shook my head. “Did you actually buy into that naturalist looney's idea?”

“It's not- look, I'm not saying I want to run around like a rabies crazed dog.”

“I sure hope so.”

It wasn’t the answer he hoped for, I knew, but it wasn’t what I expected him to say either. Something about those eyes begged for me to understand. For all that it’s worth it, I tried.

Wolf took a moment, pouring the hot water on his noodles.

“Wish I could explain it better. I haven't been able to sleep right after what I did to you, but at the same time, when I close my eyes and remember the way it felt to run around without a thought in my head, it was… free, and real and…”

“Wild?” 

He opened the lid of his instant noodles with a small chuckle, poking at the shrimp pieces with a plastic fork.

“Yeah, wild.” He took a sniff of the thing, face twisting in disgust, then put it down on the sink. 

Silence weighed on the apartment while I tried to make sense of his words. The way he spoke wasn't much different from those cultists and I couldn't use the excuse of indoctrination on him. The great leaders didn't talk Moe into buying their idea, he felt it on his skin, so much so that even the bite incident didn't stop him from missing that brief moment of brain off wildness.

Maybe the naturalists weren't so off. 

“Would you do it again?”

“The night howler? Nah, too risky.”

“But you miss the feeling.”

It wasn't a question, and the way he lowered his ears showed he knew it. I tried to relate in a way, imagining what it would be like if I could never again eat my favorite food, run in the rain or go downhill on a bike. What would be like if I had a snippet of the highest high of my life only to know I could never experience it again? What would it be like if I had a tie squeezing around my neck, only loose enough to suck in shallow breaths?

Miserable, that's what it would be like.

“Moe…” My heels clicked on the silent apartment as I approached and touched his shoulder. “I can't in my right mind say you should do drugs,” I said with a straight face and he chuckled. “But I don't want you to feel like you're suffocated either. Maybe we can find a middle ground, loosening the tie without ripping it off.”

His ears perked up a little and he looked at me with those puppy eyes that got my heart in a claw-like grip.

“Really? After what I did, would you still want to help?”

“Of course I do. What happened wasn't your fault, and I don't want you to feel suffocated.” I reached for the fluff on his cheek and Moe leaned against my hand. “I love you.”

I barely finished my sentence and his arms wrapped around me, squeezing my waist, firm and gentle, even if I wouldn’t mind having the air squeezed out of me. His head rested against my shoulder and his tail wagged fast.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

The familiar weight of his head on my shoulder melted the tension I walked with for the past weeks. I missed the way his fur tickled my cheek and the way his tail brushed against my legs. If helping him tap into a semi-wild state was what it took to keep this, then becoming a goddamn adrenaline chaser suddenly climbed its way up my list of priorities.

Minutes passed in our much needed embrace before I gathered the willpower to pull away, earning a small whine from him.

“Okay, Moe. If I'm going to help you, we are doing this right.” I walked up to his fridge where a little white board with a couple of markers was glued to the door and picked the red one, writing ‘Mr. Wolf's wild list’ on the top. “Let's start with the ideas.”

Wolf crossed his arms and leaned against the counter with a smirk.

“Not wasting any time, I see.”

“The sooner we figure out what can help you, the sooner we can implement it. So come on, ideas.”

He closed his eyes with a hum, scratching his chin.

“Pulling out a stunt with the car always gets me going.”

“Dangerous driving, then?”

“It's only dangerous if you don't know what you're doing, sweetheart.”

I stared at him, unamused for a good three seconds before sighing.

“Fine.” Against better judgment, I wrote ‘crazy driving’ on the board. “But only on empty roads.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about hiking? It's in nature.”

“Eh, I don't know. Not really a nature guy myself.”

“Really, Moe? No nature in the wild list?”

Wolf chuckled, shaking his head.

“Well, when you put it like that… Maybe I can give running around the mud and get eaten by mosquitos a go.”

“What a lovely way to put it, babe.” I wrote 'touching grass’ on the list with a green marker, drawing a little mosquito beside it.

“Okay, what else?”

Doodling a couple of stars, I waited for new ideas. When he told me nothing for a good thirty seconds, I turned my full attention to him; his tail wagged a little bit, but hung low, the clawed finger tapped against the counter in steady clicks.

 “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, I know the room is pretty dark but I'm not blind.” I placed my hands over his bouncing leg and tapping finger, the movement stopping. “You can tell me.”

He took his sweet time with it, eyes running through the corners of the room and looking away after the split moments he met mine.

“Promise you won't get mad.”

“Okay… I won't get mad.”

“And promise you'll say no if you're not absolute, one hundred percent sure of it.”

“You’re making it sound like you want to commit a crime.”

“Not far off my alley. But no, it's not a crime, it's… Not gonna lie, it's pretty damn embarrassing.”

Embarrassing. This was the man who played the suave thief like second nature, so when he looked at me like a punny teenager about to ask the cheerleader to the dance, scared of my rejection, what else could I do other than swoon?

“I never knew you had shame buried under that white suit of yours.”

I waited for his smart little remark so I could answer with a comeback heating up on the tip of my tongue. It felt nice, familiar, our back and forth.

“Yeah, that's what you do to me.”

My witty come answer turned to ash in my mouth, leaving my tongue heavy; And while my head scrambled for coherence and my knees for composure, Wolf chuckled and put his hands on my hips,thumbs running up and down sending a wave up my back and making my hairs prickle.

“I want you,” He whispered. “When you walked in, your smell almost made me forget why I hid away to begin with.”

The Moe I knew was a flirt, yes, but in a way which felt like he practiced his lines in front of a mirror. A great actor, no doubt, but still an actor. This was different, it was raw. He spoke without a filter and it made my back arch. I squeezed his shoulder, crumpling the fabric of his messy shirt.

“I want you too,” I leaned closer, breath fanning over the little furs on his muzzle. “I missed you, Moe. I missed you way too much.”

Harsher than what I was used to, his hands squeezed the flesh of my hips, and I could feel the tip of his sharp claws through my jeans.

“Sweetheart, I need you to be real with me now and only say yes if you really mean it.” A gentle hand tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I want you to be part of my little list.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I want to try something different, a little more… loose.”

The only thing stopping the heat that ran up my spine from getting to my head was the ever present suspicion.

“Loose?”

“Yeah, you said I should loosen the tie,” His grip on my waist tightened and he pulled me close enough to feel his hot breath brushing my nose. “And I want to loosen it with you.”

Little impressions I had from the time we spent entangled in the sheets suddenly became much clearer. The way he held me by the waist, kissed me, touched me- Aside from being fantastic and melting the tension from every muscle, left me with this itch in the back of my mind. Be it a scowl on his brow or hands that squeezed me too tight just to let go two seconds after, what he did to me never felt complete. Now I had the confirmation to my suspicions: He held back every time.

Morbid curiosity allied with the growing fire in my stomach, making me wonder how much I could take if he didn't.

“I want to try that out too.”

“Really?” His smile widened and he gave my hips a small squeeze. “It's not just because of me, right? Because if it is-”

I cut his rambling by the root with a peck to the lips.

“I'm a big girl, Moe. I know what I want and I mean what I'm saying. And what I want is for you to take off that leash and burn it-”

In a blink, he had me on top of the balcony, body pressed flushed together as he invaded my mouth in a kiss that left me light headed.

He took his lips away from mine and before I fully made sense of what was happening, began kissing my neck.

“Just tell me to stop and I will,” he said between little kisses and small nibbles. “And if I hurt you, punch me in the throat.”

“Hm, yeah, I can… I can manage that.” 

Pushing words out became quite the task when he was making me gasp and sending  shivers through my nerves. I held onto his head, looking down as he worked his magic on my skin, tucking my shirt's collar down to give the same treatment as my neck. While Wolf busied himself with that, I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling a hardening volume against my inner thigh.

“Already?” I smiled, scratching behind his ear.

“Hm, just missed you so much.”

His hands moved from my hips to my thighs, squeezing them like stress toys while leaving an open mouth kiss on my cleavage. I tugged at his head, and when a breathy moan left my lips, he growled against my skin.

“How much do you like this shirt?”

The sudden question snapped my attention back to him. He looked at my long sleeve shirt as if it was his worst enemy.

“What?”

He squeezed my thighs a little harder, claws poking my flesh.

“The shirt. Is it a favorite of yours?” 

“Why- no, not really.”

“Good.”

The fire that ran through my blood when he tore up the shirt with his teeth and claws was enough to make my face melt off. My mouth hung open with no words uttered as he kissed between my breasts, before pulling away to stare at my lace bra.

“Hm… Not this one.” Much gentler, nimble fingers unclasped the hooks behind me, letting the bra slide through my shoulders while he looked me in the eye with a cheeky grin. “This one I like.”

“...I'll keep that in mind.”

“But I like these even more.”

His attention focused on my breasts. He took one in his hand and kneaded it gently, before making me groan with a harsh squeeze. His grip loosened the same moment and he kissed the finger prints on my skin.

“Too much?”

“No, no, just a little sensitive. It’s been a while.”

“It sure has,” Another gentle kiss traced the reddish marks, trailing up to my pulse. “We can do it the nicer way, you know.”

There he went, offering me an out again when my desires were set in forgetting all restraint. In response my eager hands worked around his shirt, soft fabric hiding even softer fur beneath it. Maybe I was the wild animal between us.

The rumbling of his laugh vibrated against my neck.

“Or not.”

His hands returned to my tender breasts, previous gentleness gone as he squeezed one while feeling the other’s weight in his palm. The pain didn’t phase me. Sure, there was a sharp moment of agony, but in less than a second it became laced with strange pleasure, before fully dissolving into it, like a cold shower after a full day walking in the sun. 

My own hands stayed occupied, tracing my fingers over his spine, glazing my nails against his skin, and fully sunk into him when Moe took one of my nipples into his mouth, threatening to bite it down. He didn’t, I knew he wouldn’t go that far, but the possibility was enough to get me shivering.

He nibbled, sucked and played with my hardened buds until I was pulling at the hairs on his neck with enough strength to rip them, and by the end even the breeze from the air conditioner made me whine. He moved back a little, a gleam of smugness in his eyes as he looked over his work of turning my flesh into a personal canvas with purple and red marks. Those eyes that never looked more dangerous met mine and I almost came undone right then and here.

“Awn sweetheart, you’re crying?”

Overwhelmed tears stung my eyes, my entire body, especially my face, feverish.

“N-No. I’m tearing up, it’s different.”

“Well, un-lucky for you, you’re way too pretty like this.” He held my chin a little too forceful, making me stare at the predatory gaze of his. “Now I wonder what’s like if I do make you cry.”

My gasp got cut short when Wolf threw me over his shoulder like a fat shack of dollar bills and walked towards his bedroom, making me yelp when he squeezed my butt followed by a less than gentle bite.

I tried to look at his face while balancing myself.

“When did you get this strong?” 

“Always have been, just needed the right motivation.”

The bedroom was as dark as the rest of the apartment, his familiar scent all around when he threw me in the bed, right in the center of a nest-like pile of blankets and kissing down my lips.

“Comfortable?”

“Yeah, I could fall asleep right now.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, one finger pulling my pants.

“You can try, don’t think you’ll be able to. But if you get close to falling asleep…” With a swift movement, he lowered my pants to my thighs. “I’ll just have to get you on the edge again.” He slid my pants down all the way and kissed under my belly button. “...And again…” His lips stopped at the hem of my panties, fingers coming up to touch the soaked spot between my legs. “... And again.”

Threat or promise, he already left unable to catch my breath. My watery eyes admired the sight as much as the blurriness allowed it, my hips buckling against his fingers while the bastard grinned.

“Hell, Moe. You want me to beg?”

“I wasn’t thinking about it, but now that you offered…”

Leaning back on the pillows with one arm over my face, I groaned.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“Hey, don’t be mad. I’m just messing with ya, beautiful.” 

“Oh, aren’t you a jokester? This is torture-”

A jolt went up my spine when he dragged his fingers along my slick, teasing me through the panties’ fabric. Wolf’s breath hovered over my over sensitive clit before he gave it the much needed attention with an open mouth kiss that if on the lips would leave anyone drenched. I held myself back from locking his head with my legs when he moved away to slice my panties off, my fully nude form barely affected by the cold room because of how he made me burn.

Moe kissed me, the softer and passionate approach meeting the pace of his fingers teasing my entrance and smearing my clit with my own wetness. For a moment he got me thinking he had given up on our little experiment, but horny little me simply walked into a trap, only noticing when he grabbed my hips and flipped me into my stomach. I tried to use my elbows for support, but Moe pushed me back down and lifted my hips, leaning over my body, pressing himself flushed against me and whispering.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to have you like this, bent over letting me see everything. And you look so pretty. Always so, so pretty for me, sweetheart.” 

His husky whisper tickled the back of my ear and I couldn’t blame myself from the moan he dragged out of me. I needed him now, before this drove me to wild madness. And maybe that’s what Wolf was trying to do- To turn me into a crazed and unleashed beast. By the way I pressed myself against him, without a single rational thought, he more than succeeded.

“Just fuck me,” I demanded.

Growling, he dug his hands into my hips, grinding the rock hard cock against me, staining his pants with my slick.

“Last chance to back down.” The sound of his voice was followed by the unzipping of his pants.

“I think I’ll combust if I do.”

Wolf chuckled, one of his hands spreading my lips for him while the other guided his thick length to my entrance and made me gasp and grab at the sheets. It took a total of three slower thrusts before he picked up a crushing, brain melting pace and made me forget the time of the day, the place and my name. He held me by the back of the neck, and by the stings of pain coming from my back and shoulder, I could guess how many marks I would have by the end of this- and God, I didn’t care. If anything, it ripped more unrestrained whimpers and cries from my throat.

“You sound almost as amazing as you feel,” he said, voice breathless against the back of my ear, his arms wrapping around my waist and holding me like a vice. “Damn, sweetheart, so pretty, so good for me, my good girl.”

“N-Not fair, that’s my- Oh, God!- that’s my line.”

The unforgiving pace grew even more savage, cutting out my moans with each thrust.

“But you like it too, don’t you? Screaming so much my ears are ringing.”

“Sorry-”

“Don’t be.”

Although he reached so, so fucking deep into me, that wasn’t the end of it. No, not with Moe like this, not with the swollen base as a delicious reminder, slapping against me everytime he moved.

His groans grew more fanatic, he barely pulled out, rutting against me right before his knot slipped inside in a stretch that might be painful if I wasn’t soaking wet.

Hissing, Moe held me flushed against his chest and my hands held onto his forearms for any semblance of structure. He could only rut against my heat and I could only moan at the over stimulation, so close from being a mess in his arms.

“Mine,” He groaned, nibbling my ear. “My perfect girl, taking me so well.”

“M-Moe…” My body twitched, tears rolled down my eyes into the sweat stained sheets. 

Wolf licked a red mark on the crook of my neck.

“Hm, I knew you would look even more beautiful crying for me.” His voice came out in huff and puffs of hot air on my already burning skin. His rutting became relentless, the tip of his cock bullying my cervix, trying to invade everything, tear me apart, merge into me, and by God, I would let him.

It didn’t take long for me to feel the familiar euphoria rush through my veins and tie knots- how ironic- around my stomach. Barely mustering the strength to moan and cry, pitiful wails echoed back to me, and my unleashed lover didn’t trail much better, his own voice hoarse and desperate.

My climax didn’t knock at the door- no, no, no, it came bursting through it, making a mess and all around as I clawed at Wolf’s forearms like a beast and was left shaking and gasping for air amidst low whines. He kept his pace, mindlessly chasing his own high, making my overstimulation all the more wrecking.

Two more minutes of harsh slapping sounds went by before the sights of his orgasm finally appeared to relieve my shaking body. Claws dug in my hips with a possessive grip, his jaw was so tense I could hear the sharp teeth grind against each other and for a moment it seemed he wanted to merge into me before his grip loosed and I felt the familiar warmth floating my walls and leaving no empty creeks.

Fast movements died down, his head resting on my shoulder followed by a heavy and content sigh .I could finally catch my breath.

“Are you okay?” Wolf asked, kissing the marking on the back of my neck.

In my head I answered ‘yes, fantastic’, but babbles left my mouth instead of words- At least he found it funny. 

Gently, he flipped me on my back and laid me down, kissing my temple and pulling my putty self closer.

“Fantastic as always, sweetheart. I didn’t think you could get any better and you still impressed me.”

I met his eyes, a smile playing on my lips. His fur never looked more messy, inviting me to pet and try to even it out. I did so, and Moe leaned against my hand, but that sweet, blissed out smile died the moment he laid eyes on the bite mark on my forearm. My heart squeezed for him as he took my arm like it was made of glass and stared at the red teeth scars.

“Moe, it’s not-” 

“I know.” He kissed the bite mark, lips lighter than butterfly wings. “But I’m still so sorry. Even after this, you’re still doing so much for me, I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

My hand scratched behind his flat ear.

“Well, if you’re so keen about it, I would love it if you finally got out of the apartment.”

He scoffed, but I kept going.

“I’m serious. I know you feel guilty, but locking yourself up as if you committed a crime is not doing any good to anyone. Hell, if I was the one who went crazy and bit you, it wouldn’t be an issue. You might even be laughing about it.”

Proving my point, he let out a breathy chuckle.

“See?” Despite the wobbly limbs, I shifted on the bed, bringing his head to my chest and placing one leg over his waist. “You’re not bad, Wolf.”

Hesitant hands moved up my back, holding me closer, and my worries were eased once I heard his tail wagging against the bed.

“Thank you, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Of course you’re right.” He nuzzled my neck and I could feel his smile. “And you’re right about leaving the apartment too. My nose is starting to itch and I would rather eat cardboard than those shrimp flavored noodles again.” 

“How about we go for a walk and get a salad after?”

He looked at me like a little kid who got told no at the toy store.

“Fine, a walk and ice cream. But after that we're deep cleaning this place.”

“Hmm, yes. You’re definitely too good for me.”

Wagging his tail, he leaned in and kissed the purple bruise on my neck. I knew his self blame wasn’t gone, hope as I might, it might never fully be, but we would take it one step at a time. And besides, exploring this new, unrestrained side of him- of us- wasn’t bad at all.

TAGLIST: @freeholeformuzan @xxladysquishyxx

[theskit]

Stickers AU

Important!!!

Direct linking gets rid of the readmore cuts!

If you came here via direct link, or wish to use the direct links to another part of the story, and DO NOT want to spoil the surprise stickers, please click on my blog name to go to the actual post after using the link.

Part 7

《Prev Next》

Sitting on the hotel roof as he tried to calm down from the high-speed flight away from Batman, Danny looked over his ill-gotten gains.

Ooh, candy! Why did Batman have candy? Did he have a problem with his blood sugar? Shrugging, Danny popped a sucker into his mouth. What else did he get?

Fiddling with one piece of a thin stack of black metal, he managed to click a concealed switch that caused the sides to expand from an unobtrusive oval to razor-sharp, wing shaped edges. Ow!

Shaking the sting from his left hand, Danny inspected the thin, shallow slice on his finger before holding it to the edge of his hoodie to keep his blood off things until he got back to the room for a band-aid.

Getting the now obviously a batarang to collapse back down, Danny beamed. Score! He'd gotten four of the things, one each for himself, Ellie, Sam, and Tucker. He didn't think Jazz would mind not getting a vigilante throwing weapon as a souvenir. She usually used the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick or the Boo-Staff, having been mostly banned from long-range weaponry on account of her inheriting Dad's aim...

Shuddering, Danny banished the memories accompanied by that thought in favor of the last item. Looking it over, it seemed like an airpod? Did he grab one half of Batman's headpho-... Oh, Ancients that was a communicator! Could they track it? Who was he kidding, of *course* they could track it!

Freaking out juuuust a little, Danny stuffed everything else into his pockets, grabbed the comm unit, and high tailed it, phasing through walls and floors in his hurry to get back to the room.

Once there he dove for his luggage, pulling out the Thermos he'd brought along just in case, and dumped the ear piece in before locking it down.

There. Heaving a sigh of relief, Danny slumped down against the side of the bed he'd claimed when they first checked in. The ecto-shielding on the Thermos should block any incoming or outgoing signals until he could get Tucker to look at it and make sure no one could trace the comm back to him.

Wincing against the light as the bedside lamp on the other side of the room flared to life, he saw Jazz squinting at him fuzzily, one hand on the Anti-Creep Stick propped up on wall beside the bed. "Danny? Izzat you?"

"Yeah, Jazz, it's just me. I just got back, sorry for waking you. I'm gunna wash up and head to bed. You can go back to sleep." Danny felt bad that he'd woken Jazz up after she'd had a long day helping set up the Fenton convention booth and gently riding herd on their parents' over enthusiastic responses to the other 'ghost hunters'.

"Okay Danny, glad you're back safe. Night," Jazz mumbled as she turned out the light and laid back down. Danny smiled at her softly before turning to gather his things. It had been a good night, if more eventful than he had planned when he first went out exploring.

Batman had traced the comm unit's signal to one of the larger, more popular hotels in the area before the strangely fluctuating signal had cut out entirely.

Inspecting the roof, he caught sight of a dim glow. Kneeling down, he collected what looked to be a few drops of fresh blood with a swab kit. It appeared that whoever had taken his gear had rested here for a bit before leaving again, possibly to check what all they had taken, then finding and disabling the comm unit. He hoped they hadn't injured themselves too badly, probably on the batarangs, if it was indeed their blood he'd found.

The dimly glowing sticker, still on its backing paper with a drop of blood on the corner, caught half under an air conditioning unit, pointed to it being the same person. Picking it up, Batman inspected it for a moment before dropping it into a separate evidence bag. He'd put both samples through analysis back at the cave.

@mygood-bitch99 @stargazer-luna @easily-broken-by-emotion @dolfay @britcision @cyber-geist @is-this-even-relatable @alcorbearson @fisticuffsatapplebees @thegatorsgoose @my-mom-calls-me-rat @some-rotten-nest @crystalqueertea @meira-3919 @wandererofthestars @seraphinedemort @bjurnberg @blep-23 @stargirl1331 @bianca-hooks123 @addie-lover-of-stories @pickleking8 @iconicanemone @sarina-elais @mur-ururu @sailor-goddess @dragonfirefeather @nutcase8691 @ravenpainter

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Stevie Fic

This is a Stevie first meeting fic based on this amazing art and concept by @your-unfriendlyghost Like most of my stuff its not betaed. Enjoy!

*************

Evie really fucking wants to hit something.

It’s probably a bad idea considering hitting something-  well, someone-  is what got her here in the first place, but right now it feels like her options are fight or cry and she really doesn’t want to cry. 

The bench in the holding cell is cold under her bare legs, her skirt not long enough to properly cover them, but she can’t bring herself to care in the slightest, despite the fact she’s sharing the holding cell with two guys, one a drunk sleeping off a hangover in the corner, the other a tough looking greaser she vaguely recognizes from school, who’s flicking a lighter idly, clearly bored out of his mind. Her right hand is aching something awful, knuckles all split and bloody, but she clenches her fist tighter, letting the skin pull back, watches the small cuts reopen and the blood well up, filling the tiny cracks in the surrounding skin. It smarts something awful, but it’s kind of mesmerizing all the same. 

She focuses on the sharp sting, pretending the tears pricking her eyes are because of that instead of the fact that mom’s here talking to the police sergeant but she’s still never been further away. 

How did this even happen? A year ago her mother was her favourite person in the whole world. It was the two of them against the world, always had been, ever since dad died back when she was six. Mom never used to have a problem with how she dressed or did her hair, never used to care if she made lewd jokes or chewed with her mouth open because mom’s own manners were even worse and she liked them that way. A year ago if any man mom was seeing raised a hand to her mom would’ve punched him herself, fuck the consequences or the injuries, because she wasn’t ever gonna let a man know she was afraid of him, even if she was. A year ago if Evie had swung at someone for a good reason mom would’ve bailed her out and took her out for ice cream, smiled her crooked smile and told her she was right proud of her and her fighting spirit, made her promise to keep it close to her heart.

Now? Mom’s so different she might as well be a different person, and if this is the thanks Evie’s going to get for defending her, well, she can fucking fend for herself. If mom wants to simper and smile and bend over backwards for a man who treats her like dirt and Evie even worse she can fucking do it. If she wants to take his side and fuss over his broken nose while Evie’s stuck in this fucking cell then good riddance. But Evie’s never gonna throw a punch to defend her again, not ever. Hell, she might not even stick around the house. If mom’s gonna choose a man she met three months ago over the daughter she’s raised for the past sixteen years, why bother? Home hardly feels like home anymore anyway, what with Dean’s clothes in dad’s old dresser, and his presence sucking the air out of every room. Mom’s art supplies have been shoved into the closet to make room for Dean’s unemployment papers, and last week Evie got home from school to find he’d thrown out all her model airplanes. She’d sobbed- she’d been collecting them since she was six, and building the green one was the last thing she did with dad before he passed- but mom just told her to stop acting like such a child because they ‘were only toys anyway’ and went right back to cooking Dean dinner. As if she didn’t know those planes meant absolutely everything to her. As if she hadn’t scraped and saved to buy her one for her birthday every single year without fail. Like she didn’t even care.

A fresh wave of anger rushes through her at the memory, and the next thing Evie knows she’s on her feet, her fist connecting with the concrete wall. She feels more than she hears something in her hand crack, and the fresh wave of agony is definitely similar to when she broke her arm back in kindergarten, but she doesn’t even care. It feels good. She wants to hit something. She wants to hurt. She wants to throw punches the way her mother taught her in the hopes they will somehow help her forget said mother’s betrayal.

“Hey!” A cop with cropped brown hair raps on the cell door with his baton so hard the bars rattle, “knock it off!”

She glares at him for a second but drops back onto the bench. She tells herself it’s because she really does want to get out of here, preferably today, but deep down she knows it’s because the man’s cold eyes and the way he swings the baton make it clear he’d be all too happy to use it on her. 

“Crazy bitch,” she hears him mutter as he walks off,and she stiffens, suddenly wishing she’d spit on him while she had the chance. 

“What’d you expect?” A different voice answers, “These greasy chics are all the same. Wild as rabid dogs.”

A snicker. “And they dress just as poorly. My Adeline ever stepped outta the house wearing something like that she’d never be allowed back in.”

Their voices fade, getting reabsorbed into the racket of the precinct, but there words have already sunk into her skin, leaving cuts under her surface, making a home in the piece of her thats hates herself. She shivers a bit, hugging her jacket tighter around herself, and glowers at the linoleum floor, pointedly ignoring the prickling uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Between her outburst and the cop’s shouting it’s little wonder half the precinct is staring, but she refuses to give them the satisfaction of meeting any of their gazes. Besides, it’s not like she isn’t already used to being looked at like she’s a freak.

“--I mean?” Evie recognizes Dean’s voice easily, even over the din of the rest of the station, conspicuous due to its deep cadence and domineering tone, “that’s not normal behaviour, nice girls don’t do that. I really think I oughta press charges.”

Her head snaps up and she glares at him, snarling, despite the fact he’s pretending to ignore her. Even if he doesn’t see it, mom will, will know that Evie is nothing short of genuine in her hatred, that she regrets nothing. 

Besides, she knows the threat is an empty one anyway. Dean talks a good game but he knows better than to actually press charges for something like this. The cops hadn’t dragged Evieout for her side of the story yet and they’d been all too happy to put her in handcuffs- Dean’s ruined shirt and self righteous anger when he stormed in here had seen to that- but when she does get a chance to speak she’ll be all too happy to explain why she punched him in the first place, and that probably won’t go over too well with a judge.

Of course, mom could always lie for him, rendering her whole defense useless. But Evie’s trying not to think about that. Surely mom still loves her somewhere. Surely she won’t let her own daughter go to the cooler for a half baked crime even if she doesn’t. 

Right?

“It’s those friends of hers,” mom defends, letting out a trilling, fake laugh, smiling as placatingly as possible at Dean and the cop they’re sitting across from. Her eyes dart towards Evie's and away so fast she’s half convinced she imagined it, “they’re such terrible influences. She didn’t mean it.”

“She broke my nose.”

And I'd do it again, asshole, Evie thinks. Her hand is killing her, but if it wasn’t she’d have clenched her fist at the mere thought. That was the one upside of this whole situation: she’d finally been able to do what she’d been wanting to do for months. She’ll be dreaming of the satisfying crunch Dean’s nose had made when she deviated his septum for weeks. 

“She’s your daughter,” Dean continues, “Don’t you think she ought to be punished?”

“Of course I do,” mom simpers, cosying into Dean’s side, gazing up at him with such a sickeningly sweet look Evie wants to vomit,  “But don’t you think pressing charges is a little harsh? I mean, she’s never done anything like this before.”

“Well you have to do something, Caroline, she’s out of control. Talking back, giving me attitude, not listening to you either-”

He keeps going but Evie tunes him out, done listening to his bitching, God knows she already hears enough of it at home. She hates that he’s here, that he lives with them, that he’s ruined every good thing in her life. She hates the way mom looks at him. 

Most of all she hates that she only swung at him once. 

The guy across from her with the lighter is still flicking it rhythmically, the clicking sound oddly sharp, distinguishable even over the overlapping conversations in the precinct itself, but its owner doesn’t seem so bored anymore. In fact, he keeps glancing over at her and then quickly looking away every time their eyes meet. She has half a mind to tell him he’s gonna waste all the gas in his lighter if he keeps it up, or maybe offer him a cigarette in exchange for a light, but she figures the boys in blue might decide to take some issue with that and she isn’t about to get a full pack of marlboros confiscated when she only just bought them.

“Fine!” Dean is suddenly looking right at her, voice rising above the precinct for real this time, “I won’t press charges this time, but I’m sure as hell not paying her bail. She can rot here as far as I’m concerned.”

The rage is a tidal wave bursting through a dam, all consuming and back full force before she can even blink

“Like you could pay it anyway, asshole!” Her unbroken hand is slamming into the bars and he should be grateful for it because it’s the only standing between him and Evie wringing his thick neck, “Last I checked you were a broke, unemployed loser spending my mom’s hard earned money because youre too much much of a fuck up to have a single cent to your own name!”

He sneers, cruelly, but doesn’t rise to the bait. She’ll catch it for sure next time she’s in the house, and he’ll probably find something of hers to break in the meantime, but for the moment he manages to hold himself together.

“Enjoy the holding cell Evelyn.”

“Seriously?” She turns to mom, half desperate, half pleading, knowing it won’t make a difference and hoping foolishly, childishly, that it will anyway, “You’re just going to let him leave me here?”

“Evie-”

“You’re my mom.” Her voice breaks.

Mom flinches, but she hides it well. Evie notices, because she knows her tells, knows the slight trick of her left eye is her way of hiding heartbreak, just like she knows mom never really got over losing dad as much as she always tried to convince herself she did, knows Dean saw the loneliness that festered in mom’s heart and twisted it to his advantage. She knows that mom is strong in some ways but not all of them and that a part of her has given up. She just hadn’t realized until now that the part of her that gave up had given up on Evie.

“I did it for you,” her voice is shaking, and Dean could be screaming and the precinct could be burning around them and it wouldn’t matter because all she can see right now is her mother’s apologetic brown eyes and the fact that she has let her down for the last time, “for you. Not for me. And this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m sorry,” mom whispers, shame twisting her features, “but- but you did a bad thing Evie, and-and we don’t really have the money for bail right now anyway. They’ll only hold you for a day or two anyway and then you can come home and we’ll figure this out, the three of us.”

“Come home?” She can’t help the scoff that forces its way out of her throat, “You think you can leave me here, after everything, and I’ll just come home like nothing happened?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Try me.”

“Dean’s right,” mom shakes herself and the glimpse of her true self is gone, replaced by the shell of a woman filled with Dean’s slimy thoughts, “you need a few days to cool down. You’re impossible to talk to right now.”

“Imagine how much more impossible to talk to I’ll be when I'm gone and your sack of human shit boyfriend won’t even let you try to find me!” Evie yells at her retreating back, “Huh? Huh, you fucking bitch! Fuck. You.” She punctuates the last two words with a weak rap against the bars, but as suddenly as her anger overtook her it has drained away, leaving nothing but misery in its wake.

The brown haired cop doesn’t have to rap on the bars this time to make her behave. She slinks back to the bench, a woman defeated. 

She doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing. In fact, she still might. It’s taking a lot of harsh blinking and biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from falling, but she refuses to crumple here, to be weak in front of a room full of men who have already seen her humiliated and powerless, men who have actively participated in making her that way. They will not get the victory of seeing her cry too. They won’t. 

“Here,” suddenly the boy with the lighter is next to her, holding out a stained, but soft looking rag. She must have stared at him a beat too long because he clears his throat awkwardly, cheeks reddening ever so slightly, “for your hand.”

“Oh,” she’d all but forgot about her split knuckles and probably broken ring finger, but when she looks down she can see that it’s started to swell something awful, which has in turn increased how much she’s bleeding, “thanks.”

She struggles to wrap the rag clumsily around her knuckles. Without meaning to she makes the mistake of accidentally twitching her broken finger and drops the rag with a hiss, instinctively cradling her hand closer to her chest.

“Here, let me- I mean- I can wrap your hand for you? If you want?” Lighter guy offers. He’s endearingly awkward, and, Evie has to admit, kind of cute, with his thick dark hair and glowing bronze skin. He looks about as rough as most guys from their side of town, intimidating with his leather jacket and seemingly instinctual scowl, but he doesn’t seem scary. Not really. Not when he’s this kind.

Wordlessly she holds out her hand and he takes her wrist with a gentleness that’s unprecedented from such large callused hands, clearly used to hard work, as he carefully threads the cloth over and around her knuckles, covering most of the cuts without tying anything too tightly.

She’s almost disappointed when he pulls away.

“You’re real good at that.”

“Yeah well,” he grins, suddenly roguish and Evie can see how he could be mean if he wanted to, “it’s not exactly my first time bandaging bruised knuckles. Might be my first time bandaging them on a girl though.”

“Oh yeah?” Despite her misery she can feel a smile tugging at the corner of her own lips.

He nods. “You oughta join a rumble sometime, looks like that right hook of yours does some real damage.”

“He deserved it!” Evie snaps. 

“Looked like it,” The boy agrees, holding up his hands in surrender. He’s quiet for a minute, then adds, “Sounded like it too.”

Something about the way he says it makes her pause.

“He was gonna hit my mom,” she admits, shivering at the memory of Dean’s rage and the way mom had tensed, hands flying up to shield her face. She’d said after, when Dean was still screaming and everything had gone to shit that he’d never done it before, but her reaction had told Evie otherwise. “He was standin’ over her and I could see him pulling back and in that moment it felt like my options were hit or be hit. So I punched him.”

“Tuff.”

Evie blinks. “Ya think?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “I really do.”

Something in her chest relaxes at that, at not only his non judgemental assessment of her actions but his clear approval of them. She hadn’t realized how much she needed someone on her side until now.

She looks at him, really looks at him. Aside from his thick hair and smooth skin, he’s got slightly crooked teeth and a strong nose. His eyes are angry, but righteously so, not cruelly so, and there is kindness hidden in the curve of his cheek and the calluses of his hands.

“You’re Steve, right? I’ve seen you around school before with that friend of yours. The blond one.”

“Sodapop, yeah,” He gives her an odd look, slightly pleased but clearly taken aback, “I gotta be honest, I’m not used to people knowing my name and not his.”

“Oh,” It’s her turn to blush, “well, I-I guess he never really made much of an impression on me.”

“Well since you seem to know my name, does that mean I made an impression on you?” 

“No,” her cheeks are burning and she doesn’t sound convincing, even to herself, but if she’d seen Steve Randle doing pull ups when she walked past the boys gym class once and made a point of learning his name, that’s no one's business but her own. It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t mean anything before now. “Shut up.”

He laughs, and she should probably be annoyed because he’s definitely teasing her but it’s such a nice sound, carefree and inherently defiant, that it’s hard to do anything but enjoy it.

“Someone call for a jailbreak?” 

Before Steve can properly answer they’re interrupted.

Speak of the devil, Evie thinks, silently cursing Sodapop as he grins through the bars at Steve, flanked by an older boy wearing ascuffed letterman jacket and the brown haired cop from earlier. He couldn’t have waited to get here just a few minutes longer?

“Took you long enough,” Steve rises fluidly to his feet as the cop unlocks the cell, and nods at the other boy, “Hey superman. What’re you doin’ here?”

“Gotta be over 18 to bail someone out Steve-o,” Sodapop singsongs, before the older boy can get a word in, “an’ I figured you wouldn’t want me gettin’ mom or dad involved unless I had to.”

“Thanks man,” Steve pulls them each into one of those odd half hugs boys do, clapping the big one called Superman on the shoulder as he pulls away, “speaking of, any chance you’d be willing to sign for one more person? I’ll pay the bail, I just need your signature.”

He looks over his shoulder expectantly and Evie realizes with a start that he means bail for her.

“What? No! Steve you guys can’t- I don’t got the scratch to pay you back-”

“Well I ain’t about to leave you here by your lonesome all night, and it don’t seem like your mom’s fixing to come back anytime soon. Darry here won’t mind signin’ the papers since I’m vouchin’ for you.”

‘’Course not.” The older boy agrees.

Evie bites her lip, considering. She really, really doesn’t want to stay here, especially without Steve for company, but she also doesn’t have the funds to pay him back.

“I really can’t pay you back-”

“Listen, if you really wanna pay me back you could agree to go out on a date with me?“

“O-oh,” she smiles down at her feet, “I- yeah, I’d love to.”

“Really?”

He really shouldn’t sound so shocked. She’d basically been the one to admit to liking him, after all.

“Yeah. Really really.”

“I’m Evie by the way,” she tells him as she and Steve walk side by side out of the precinct, realizing she has yet to introduce herself, despite how long they’ve been talking.

“Oh,” Steve's grin is playful, “I know. I make a point of learning the names of pretty girls.”

“I guess I must’ve made an impression on you too, huh?”

He gently takes her non broken hand in his, twining their fingers together.

‘Yeah,” he agrees, “I guess so.”

[livdomtruther]

I LOVE YOU, I'M SORRY.

It had been about four months since Liv and Dominik were paired up for their carefully crafted plan to get revenge on Rhea Ripley—the person who had hurt them both more than anyone else ever had. The idea was risky, but they’d decided that pretending to be lovers would give them the best chance to manipulate her. It was a game of deception and mind games, with every interaction carefully staged.

Finn, ever the skeptic, had voiced his doubts when they first pitched the plan. “This could end up being a bad decision," he’d warned, watching them with narrowed eyes. But even he couldn’t deny the undeniable spark between Liv and Dominik. Their chemistry was palpable—so much so that even the lines between reality and pretense had begun to blur.

In the beginning, Liv had told herself it was all part of the act. She practiced her smiles, her laughs, and the way she let Dominik's hand linger on her waist. But soon, she found herself unable to control the way her heart would flutter whenever he was near. It was like a restless bird trapped inside her chest, beating faster and faster whenever he leaned in too close, whispered something in her ear, or flashed that mischievous smile of his.

Dominik had a way of looking at her that made her feel seen, truly seen. His dark eyes, deep and thoughtful, seemed to reach right into her, making her forget that it was all just a façade. When they trained together in the gym, his laughter would echo against the walls, filling the empty space between them, making her feel lighter than she had in years. She couldn’t quite place the feeling—nervousness or joy, perhaps a tangled mix of both—but it left her breathless all the same.

She told herself it was the thrill of the plan, the rush of adrenaline as they plotted Rhea’s downfall together. But late at night, when she replayed the moments they’d shared, she couldn't ignore how Dominik made her feel. He was the first thought that crossed her mind when she woke up, and the reason she looked forward to going to work every morning. His presence had become like the sun in her life, a warmth that she craved without understanding why.

And she hated how easy it had become to care for him. It made everything feel messier, more real, and more dangerous. Yet, there was a part of her that didn’t mind the risk—that loved how she could be herself around him, without needing to pretend. Sometimes she wondered if he felt it too, in the way his gaze lingered a little too long when he thought she wasn’t looking, or in the way his touch seemed to soften when their eyes met.

But the plan was still the plan. It was a mission they couldn’t afford to fail, a game they couldn’t let slip through their fingers. They both knew it, and yet, somewhere along the way, they had become more than just co-conspirators. They had become something else, something unspoken. And in the quiet moments between plotting revenge and keeping up appearances, Liv found herself wishing, for just a second, that this was real.

But Liv always kept those feelings buried deep inside her, locking them away like a secret she didn't dare speak. Every time she caught herself lingering on the way Dominik's smile made her feel or the warmth of his touch, she quickly shoved those thoughts aside, afraid of what might happen if she let them show. After all, unrequited love had been a painful companion before—its sting still fresh in her memory. She couldn't bear to go through it again. So, she built walls around her heart, hoping that maybe, if she acted convincingly enough, no one would notice the cracks forming beneath the surface.

One afternoon, when the two of them had taken a break from their endless planning, Finn cornered her in the hallway, his expression unreadable. “Liv, you’ve been different lately. What’s going on with you and Dominik?” His voice was low, curious, and she felt her pulse quicken, panic threatening to bubble over.

She forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and shrugged as casually as she could manage. “Nothing, Finn. We’re just doing what we planned—keeping up appearances, that’s all.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the tremor in her voice or see the way her fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt. Finn studied her for a moment longer, his brow furrowed as if he might press further, but eventually, he let it drop, leaving Liv with a sinking feeling in her chest.

But as the weeks turned into months, hiding her feelings became an impossible task. The love she felt for Dominik seemed to swell with every passing day, growing like a relentless tide that refused to be contained. It washed over her in waves—when he laughed, when he looked at her like she was the only person in the room, when he held her close in those moments they pretended to be a couple. She told herself it was all an act, but each touch, each glance, made her wish it could be real. And she was drowning in it, pulled deeper into the currents of her own emotions.

She thought she could keep it hidden, but the more she tried to hold it back, the more obvious it seemed to become. Her cheeks would flush when he leaned in too close, her voice would waver when he teased her, and she found herself looking at him with a softness that she could no longer disguise. Even Finn had started to notice the way her eyes seemed to follow Dominik across the room, like a moth drawn helplessly to a flame.

Liv knew it was only a matter of time before Dominik realized too. The thought sent a chill of fear through her—a fear that he might look at her with pity, that he might pull away, leaving her heart exposed and aching. But even that fear couldn’t quiet the way her chest fluttered every time he touched her arm or gave her one of those smiles that seemed meant just for her.

She tried to avoid being alone with him, knowing that the closer they got, the more her resolve would crumble. But their plan kept pulling them back together, and each moment they spent alone became another crack in the armor she had tried so hard to maintain. Every word, every touch, was an unspoken promise that she longed to believe in.

Yet, every night when she was alone with her thoughts, she couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to let herself fall completely—to tell Dominik everything, to risk her heart again. It was a dream she didn’t dare chase, but it haunted her nonetheless, creeping into her thoughts until it was all she could see when she closed her eyes.

And in those quiet moments, she knew that she couldn’t keep this secret forever. One day, it would spill out, whether she wanted it to or not. The truth, like her feelings, had grown too big to stay hidden. And when that day came, she would have to face whatever came next—whether it was heartbreak or something she never dared to hope for.

One night, after wrapping up a segment with Rhea, Liv and Dominik finally had a moment to breathe. The whole thing had gone off without a hitch—Rhea’s expression during their act was priceless, her jealousy and frustration almost palpable. It was clear that she had no idea they were faking it. She still had feelings for Dominik, and seeing him with Liv had gotten under her skin in exactly the way they’d hoped.

Exhausted but pleased, the two of them found themselves sprawled on the couch in The Judgment Day's locker room. Liv’s head rested against Dominik’s shoulder, while his arm draped lazily around her. They both let out tired laughs, their bodies warm from the adrenaline of the successful segment.

“That was so much fun,” Dominik said, a tired grin spreading across his face.

Liv couldn’t help but smile as she nodded, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “The look on her face was amazing,” she replied, recalling Rhea's reaction with a laugh that bubbled up despite her exhaustion.

Dominik chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Can’t believe our acting is this good.”

But something about that word—Acting—landed heavily in Liv’s chest. The sound of it echoed in her mind, bouncing off the walls she’d tried so hard to build. Acting. It hit her like a splash of cold water, pulling her back to the reality she had been trying so hard to ignore. It was all pretend. Everything—the lingering touches, the closeness, the way he’d look at her—was just part of the game. And in that moment, she felt the ache she’d been hiding come rushing to the surface, sharp and undeniable.

Her smile faltered, and before she could stop herself, she shifted her head from his shoulder. The warmth of his body that had been so comforting just a moment ago now felt like a painful reminder of how close he was, yet how far away. Silence settled between them like a thick fog, her heart feeling heavier with each passing second.

Dominik noticed the shift immediately, turning his head to look at her with a puzzled expression. “What’s up? You went quiet all of a sudden,” he asked, his brows furrowed with genuine concern.

Liv’s chest tightened, and she swallowed hard, knowing that what she was about to say would change everything between them. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and frantic in her ears, and she knew she should laugh it off, brush away the question that was on the tip of her tongue. But the weight of the unspoken truth was too much, and she couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her lips parted, and the words came out before she could think twice. “Just acting, right?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but the vulnerability in it was impossible to miss.

Dominik’s eyebrows furrowed deeper, confusion flashing across his face as he studied her. For a moment, he looked as if he might say something lighthearted, a joke to keep the mood easy, but he caught the serious look in her eyes. He turned fully toward her, his arm slipping from around her shoulders. “Yeah, what else would it be, Liv?” he asked, his voice a bit softer now, but there was a tension there, as if he was trying to figure out what she was really asking. His eyes searched her face, trying to read the emotions she couldn’t quite hide.

Liv felt a painful twist in her chest at his words, and she forced herself to meet his gaze even though it hurt. She could see the confusion in his eyes, the way he was trying to understand what she meant, but she knew that to him, it was simple. It was all part of the plan, a role they played to get under Rhea’s skin. But for her, it had become so much more, and now she was stuck between the fear of losing what little she had with him and the unbearable ache of pretending she felt nothing at all.

She could already feel the regret pooling in her stomach, knowing that she had opened a door she couldn’t close. Her heart was racing, and she struggled to keep her voice steady, even as she forced a small, wavering smile onto her face. “Yeah,” she replied, but the word came out broken, barely more than a breath. Her gaze dropped to the space between them, where her hand rested inches from his, wishing for a moment that she could take it all back.

But the truth was out there now, hanging in the air between them like a thread waiting to snap, and all she could do was brace herself for whatever came next.

Dominik could sense that something wasn’t right. There was a tension in the air, the kind that made his chest feel tight, and he could see the way Liv was shrinking into herself, her shoulders tense. He was about to ask her what was wrong, to press her on the sudden shift in her mood, but before he could even get a word out, she spoke. Her voice was small, barely more than a whisper, and it made his breath catch.

Liv’s eyes were fixed downward, staring at her shoes—those matching sneakers he’d gotten for both of them as a joke, a little reminder of their act. But now, they felt like something more, a symbol of all the time they had spent together. The lump in her throat grew, and she could feel the burn of regret spreading through her chest, making it hard to breathe. She knew she was about to cross a line, one she couldn’t uncross, but the question tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it.

“You’ve never felt anything for me during these months?” Her voice trembled as she spoke, the vulnerability bleeding into every word.

Dominik’s eyes widened, her question catching him completely off guard. Was she really asking what he thought she was? His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a soft sigh, his mind racing. He needed to be careful here, to understand exactly what she meant before he answered. He couldn’t afford to misread this moment.

“In what way, Liv?” he asked, his voice low and careful, almost afraid of the answer. He studied her face, trying to find the truth hidden in her downcast eyes. He wanted her to say it—wanted to hear the words clear and direct—so that there would be no room for misunderstanding.

Liv’s teeth dug into her bottom lip, holding back the emotions that threatened to spill over. She could feel her hands trembling in her lap, and every instinct in her screamed at her to take it all back, to laugh it off and pretend she hadn’t meant a thing. But her heart was speaking for her now, louder than the voice in her head that urged her to keep quiet. And so, she let the words slip past her lips, hating how vulnerable they made her feel.

“Romantically,” she whispered, the word feeling fragile in the space between them. “Have you ever liked me? Or felt any genuine spark between us, Dominik?”

The question hung in the air, raw and unguarded. She could feel the weight of it pressing down on her, could feel the tears she was fighting back stinging at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want to ask it—didn’t want to put herself out there like this—but it was too late. The words were out, and now all she could do was brace herself for whatever answer might come.

This was a confusing situation for Dominik. He opened his mouth to respond but found that he couldn’t quite form the words. There was a lump in his throat, a tightness in his chest, and a dozen thoughts swirling through his mind. He wanted to tell Liv something that wouldn’t hurt her, something that would ease the vulnerability in her voice and the pain in her eyes. But no matter what words he thought of, none of them felt right.

He looked at her, really looked at her—at the way her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, the way her shoulders seemed to slump as if she was bracing herself for a blow. He hated that he was the one putting that look on her face. He hated that this moment, one she had clearly hoped for, was turning into something that hurt her. But he also knew he couldn’t lie to her, couldn’t make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

“I’m sorry, Liv,” he finally said, his voice barely more than a breath. It was the only thing he could muster, the only words that felt like they wouldn’t break him or her any more than they already were.

The silence that followed was sharp, slicing through the air between them like a knife. It was the kind of silence that held a weight to it, that pressed down on them both until it was almost suffocating. Liv’s world seemed to come crashing down all at once, those three words echoing in her mind like a bell tolling the end of something she had only just begun to hope for.

She felt her nails dig into the soft flesh of her palms, trying to ground herself against the overwhelming ache that spread through her chest. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps, as if her lungs had forgotten how to work. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat like a sharp pain that made her feel like she might shatter into pieces right there in front of him. It felt like someone had taken a glass vase and thrown it to the ground, shattering it into a million pieces—and she was the one trying desperately to gather them all back together.

Her mind screamed at her to take it back, to laugh and say it was just a joke, just part of their little game. But the words wouldn’t come, her throat too tight, her emotions too raw. All she could do was sit there, the reality of his apology sinking into her like a cold weight.

Across from her, Dominik watched the heartbreak unfold on her face, and it cut through him like a knife. Deep down, he knew the truth: he did like her. He liked her in a way that made his chest ache when she wasn’t around, in a way that made him want to hold her a little longer when they hugged, in a way that made him feel alive when she laughed at something he said. He felt something for her that he couldn’t quite put into words—something that was warm and bright, something that made him want to believe in the possibility of a future that was more than just their game of make-believe.

But as he looked at her now, seeing the pain his answer had caused, all he could feel was the shadow of his past, dark and unyielding. The memory of his relationship with Rhea still lingered inside him like a ghost, haunting him with its bitterness and its failure. He remembered how that relationship had gone wrong, how he’d hurt and been hurt, how love had twisted into something that only left scars behind. It was a part of him he couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how much he wanted to.

He felt like he didn’t deserve Liv’s feelings, didn’t deserve the hope she’d placed in him. He felt like he would only end up hurting her, just like he’d hurt Rhea, just like he’d hurt himself. And that fear held him back, chained him to the silence between them. This confession should have made him happy—it should have been a chance for something real, something new—but instead, all he felt was the weight of his own doubts pressing down on him, keeping him from reaching out to her.

So, he stayed quiet, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, wishing he could find the courage to tell her everything he was feeling. But instead, he watched as her hope crumbled before him, and the silence between them grew colder, more painful. And as much as it tore at him, he couldn’t bring himself to break it.

Liv swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing a smile onto her lips. It was a fragile, broken thing—more a mask than a true expression. Her lips trembled as she held it in place, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which were red and glassy with the tears she refused to let fall in front of him. She slowly stood up from the couch, feeling unsteady on her feet, like the ground beneath her was shifting.

Her back was to him now, and she was grateful for that. She didn’t want him to see the tears that threatened to spill, didn’t want him to see how badly she was crumbling. She took a shaky breath, her chest tightening with every beat of her aching heart, and she forced herself to look over her shoulder, sparing him one last glance. She knew she should just leave without saying another word, but the truth—her truth—had already been spoken, and there was no taking it back now.

“I love you,” she said softly, the words breaking in the air between them like a delicate thing shattering on impact. She didn’t let herself linger on the way his expression changed—how his eyes widened, how a flash of pain crossed his face. Instead, she quickly added, “I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked, and she turned away again, before she could lose what little composure she had left.

She walked out of the locker room, her steps hurried and uneven, and as soon as she was out of sight, the tears began to flow freely, hot and unchecked down her cheeks. Her vision blurred, and she bit down on her lip to keep from sobbing, trying to quiet the noise of her heartbreak that seemed to echo in every step she took. It felt like her chest was being squeezed tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the world to fill her lungs. All she could do was keep walking, even though each step felt like she was dragging a weight behind her.

Back in the room, Dominik watched her go, her words hanging in the air like a ghost he couldn’t escape. He felt his heart twist painfully in his chest, a sharp pang of guilt cutting through him. He wanted to get up, wanted to run after her, to grab her arm and tell her not to go. He wanted to take back his silence, to tell her that maybe—just maybe—he could feel the same way if he could only let himself believe it.

But he stayed rooted in place, his hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The guilt felt like a heavy chain wrapped around his limbs, keeping him from moving. He had already hurt her enough, and he was terrified that if he chased after her, he’d only end up breaking her heart even more. He watched the door she had left through, his throat tight and his heart aching like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

Who knew that one confession could leave two hearts broken? The words she had spoken played over and over in his mind—I love you, I’m sorry—and he could hear the pain in them, the same pain he felt deep inside. It should have been a moment of clarity, a chance to bridge the gap between them, but instead, it had left them both more shattered than before.

Dominik sat there in the silence, feeling the weight of his own regret settle around him like a cold fog, knowing that he had let something precious slip through his fingers. And even though he could feel his heart begging him to make it right, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He just sat there, letting the silence stretch on, while the ache of what he hadn’t said tore at him from the inside.

[dcdreamblog]

do you have any tidbits about the Red Bee? I heard he died decades ago but I also saw some people claiming that he showed up a few years back helping that Peacemaker guy

Depending on someone's level of familiarity his entire life is a fun tidbit but I will do my best.

(Art piece of The Red Bee that adorns one wall of the Superior City Historic Society) Richard "Rick" Raleigh would have appeared to anyone who knew him as the most stand up kind of guy that existed at that time. The assistant DA in the booming pacific port town of Superior City. His only major quirk was a fascination with bees but hey, everyone has to have a hobby right? No one knows for sure what caused his turn to crime fighting, as I've stated before it really was just something in the air during those days. If people like The Sandman and The Atom could do it, and make the jackals preying on vulnerable communities shiver, then anyone would with the right willpower.

His abilities were modest. A motorcycle, a "stinger gun" (which in reality was just a souped up BB pistol but sting it did indeed do) and his secret weapon. A trained bee named Michael. Those of you who do not know this story just balked at that. How does one train a bee? Don't bees live like, two months at best? I need you to look at me when I tell you a couple of things and then the best guess we have. I am NOT fucking with you. 1. That bee is still alive, and has recently reunited with Raleigh's time displaced sidekick. 84 years after Raleigh's debut. Michael sat, and waited until Ladybug returned to the honey farm where he was housed and upon her return instantly flew up to her acting with direct recognition of the young woman after 8 decades.

2. Michael is able to sting multiple times without any ill effects on his person. (Bee-son. You know what I mean) Our best guess? The bee has a metagene.

A random mutation in this seemingly random worker bee has given it, what is from its perspective superhuman abilities of intellect, longevity and invulnerability. It is a theory because under no circumstances are we ever going to get to find out unless for some god forsaken reason the two heirs to Raleigh's estate pass it off to science when and if it does finally die.

Perhaps the discovery OF Michael's abilities were of partial inspiration for Raleigh's career. Truly we may never know.

Raleigh himself died in a battle with Nazi war criminal Baron Blitzkrieg in 1944, distracting the Baron long enough for his teammates in the Freedom Fighters to free themselves and turn the tide of battle. His memorial rests in Raleigh Park, Superior City for those curious. Note that it is a somber place of respect, those who have gone in an attempt to trivialize or joke on Raleigh's legacy have found themselves suspiciously targeted by the park's many large bee hives. The local superstition is that Michael has made it clear to all his fellows in the thousands of following generations who made their undisturbed home possible. (The park was built and is now maintained by the Raleigh estate, currently in the name of Raleigh's grand niece Jenna Raleigh and the descendants of the Rivera family who owned the honey farm where Michael was born) To this day, in Superior City, is considered very bad luck to harm a bee. And the city's annual Pollination Parade is held on Raleigh's birthday in July.

[unfortunately-obsessed]

My Love Will Never Die

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader. Tags: emotional hurt/comfort, burnout, established relationship. Title based off a Hozier's song. Ao3 link.

Summary:

« You've done me wrong for a long, long time. But after all you've done, I never changed my mind. »

Behind you, you wonder if the chauffer it is still there, standing. You know he is, the manners making him wait until you enter the house to only then pull the car to the garage. Watching you frozen in place, bag lazily held in a hand, umbrella in another. Hair disheveled, clothes unruly. You wonder if you look pathetic on his eyes, just as much as you feel currently.

The truth is: you are utterly destroyed.

Not only mentally. Your muscles ache, pain spiking up on your lower back worse than any damage a sharpened knife could cause. Feet so thoroughly hurt by heels they're numb, if not for the casual sharp sting.

It is Gotham. The sky is grey, the city sucks up you out of life each passing moment.

Rain splatters against your umbrella. You stand just before the front door of Wayne Manor, mindlessly fidgeting with the wedding ring sitting pretty on your finger.

One year. You've been married with Bruce Wayne for one year already? Doesn't feel like it.

Time flew before your eyes, the start of it all just below your eyelids. Every first so toothachingly sweet, burned into your brain. Press nails against skin until it sharpens.

Behind you, you wonder if the chauffer it is still there, standing. You know he is, the manners making him wait until you enter the house to only then pull the car to the garage. Watching you frozen in place, bag lazily held in a hand, umbrella in another. Hair disheveled, clothes unruly.

You wonder if you look pathetic on his eyes, just as much as you feel currently.

Not worthy of the surname Wayne, to be called “lady of the house”.

Time is a cruel kind of lesson.

"Ms. Wayne." Alfred's voice, invariably courteous, calls. You almost wince at the door opening. He stands before you, maybe a little unnerved by your state, but if it's displeasure or worry on his face, you can't tell.

He masks terrifically well. You're always alarmed by this.

"Are you alright, ma'am?"

At that, you do wince.

"Yes, Alfred." Your brain haven't even processed his presence yet when you walk past him. He takes your coat and bag. "Just got lost in thoughts for a moment."

"Pondering the mysteries of our universe at the front step?" Ah, you do love the edge of sass in his voice. You meet his eyes, a shy-like (unlike you) smile cursing your face. "Shall I fetch for tea? Supper will be served in one hour's time."

Some months ago, you might have looked forward for it. If Bruce couldn't welcome you after work, he at least would make sure to eat dinner with you.

Deep in your stomach, rot. You swallow dry.

"No, thanks," you say, taking a deep breath. Desperately– desperately talking through the knot in your throat. "I just want to hit the showers and sleep," you say, all sincerity.

You smile politely. He doesn't pushes you.

It is easy to backslide. To make oneself likeable, less volatile, more agreeable. Until you can earn love and care.

(Oh. It's getting bad again.)

"And Bruce?" You ask halfway through up the stairs, despite yourself. My love for you is bigger than words. I search for you everywhere.

The silence that hangs would be enough of an answer. Alfred is merciful, though. "Still working, ma'am."

Isn't it painful? Loving someone just from outside their life?

Wayne Manor is a haunted house. Constantly burning, touching the skies with horrible black smoke. Sculpted coffered ceilings, furniture of expensive dark wood. Bristol, yet you can see the city and all its skyscrapers by the right window.

Wayne Manor, aka Bruce Wayne's first grave.

Every corner, a memory.

"Of course," you mutter to yourself, emotion pooling in the eyes.

Love is about the failure of language, so you fall silent and disappear into the halls.

~*~*~

The sheets are clean like you know they would be.

Heels are the first to go. You kick them off, grumbling in satisfaction. Earrings next, then lipstick messily scrubbed off in any sheet of paper.

Hairpin and belt lost to the ground. Bra? Disappeared.

Yet, despite being absolutely exhausted, you stop just before the bed. Ice at the nape of your neck like a garrote, a promise. Knot in your throat to hang on.

King-sized, silk sheets, cloud soft. Each breath is a stutter of a muscle, the blood running in your veins a statement that you are, in fact, alive.

Isn't it such a lousy fear? The fear to sleep and have yet another nightmare. Oh, to be worn out mind and body and still unable to touch a bed.

The sheets are clean, white-pure. Sours you mouth.

Messy and childish fear. To see the future, where he dies by your feet using the damned cowl. Feats unnamed, life unhonoured.

Death smiles to Batman.

(Ah, Bruce. I would break my own fingers for you. Tear the tongue out of my mouth.

But there are limits.)

You can't even remember half those nightmares. Hands shaking, clattered flesh, de-boned corpses–

You don't want to ruin the sheets. You don't want to ruin your life.

~*~*~

It might be 5am.

He nuzzles against your neck, breath hot and exhausted, chest to your back. Skin painted with purple and red, scar-tissue mapping constellations, saying eat.

Eat you do. Bite one step removed, soft-mouthed kissing blue veins and rough hands. Until you lips become raw and numb.

His weight sinks the mattress, acting like a gravitational pull. Bruce's body, which furnaces can't compare, protectively embraces you.

He's so warm. It's 5am and you both are lying together, legs intertwined, his face buried on your shoulder. You listen to his breathing, slow and controlled, in the comforting quiet of unrealized-hours.

I wish the past had been kinder on you. How the world is cruel and how you refuse to be.

Soft sunlight hums through the damasked curtains, birds start to sing. You are wide awake, and he is too.

You'd seen him die down in your mind, every night. He lives your nightmares, putting on the suit. You're not bound to him by fate, not a soulmate, with no divine intervention; hallowed by gums aching and reverence– that is to say: the door is open, you can walk away.

Because one day, he won't come back.

You know it. He knows it. He has the arrangements prepared for the occasion.

And nowadays, he can't afford to leave the cave if not for going downtown.

The life of a hero is very unthankful.

"Do you hate me?" he asks you, voice rough to be an knife's edge. It's been long enough since you last felt him this close, low in your ear.

Bruce assures you through touch. Calloused thumb rubbing your wrist. Affections ebbs in his palms, love even. A work in progress.

In all your inner turmoil, you can see yourself getting quite tired of it all. The late nights crawling up walls, knowing he won't come back until morning– the stitching of wounds, his blood in the Persian rugs– but to imagine oneself as his enemy? As in, hating him?

"No," you murmur in a steady heartbeat. A detour cross your mind, of eustress: he gets tired too. And, then you say for good measure, "Never."

People don't really think how tiring tragic the life of a hero is. But there's this exhilarating moment where all that exists is Bruce's breath in your skin.

"Do you love me?" he asks because he can't take any chances. Oh, you can bet a kid that grew up traumatized will need reassurance. Constant, gentle reassurance.

White stripes of scars in his knuckles and forearms below your fingertips, drawing into your memory again and again.

The truth is: you are utterly destroyed.

Not only physically. But he tugs with your heartstrings everyday, bruised like he'd been squeezing it. The more it lingers more you realize you've been packing up emotions for weeks, now.

"What a silly thing to ask," you say. Not an answer. Neither are breathing for a second, there. You teeth clatter like a damn trying to bust.

Ah! There's a lot of messed up stuff happening all the time. You coil in yourself, perhaps considering. Bruce's touch shudders.

And there is something to realize. You'd rather die drowning for love than in thirst of it. Repeat to yourself, to him, I will never leave you. In healthiness and sickness–

"On purpose. Always–"

Love, who is brutal, who is stored in the viscera–

"–I love you."

A/N: If you like what I do, please consider supporting me and buying a coffee!

[luveline]

Hello! I’m usually a silent reader but OMG the zombie au 😭😭 this series hits me right in the heart, but honestly everything you post is amazing!! You’re such a talented writer that your words create feelings, not just images, and they’re the most comforting, relatable, and heart wrenching all at once. No pressure, but I would love to see more of r’s recovery from her cuts! Maybe something happens when the survivors are moving that causes Steve to be extra worried? Thanks SO much either way!!

thank you so much 😭 I hope this is okay!! sry it took me ages. steve zombie au —steve looks after you again !!

You haven't been able to tell Steve why you're covered practically head to toe in little cuts beyond what you remember. Days now since the attack on The College, you vaguely remember an impact, which might explain your poor memory. Someone or something had hit you down, and when you woke it was in a pool of crushed glass, darkness like velvet enveloping the sky. 

"I don't know how you did it," he says, sitting between your legs, unperturbed by your state of undress. 

You're wearing a pair of mens boxers as shorts to grant him access to your sliced thighs without feeling naked. The worst stretches across your left thigh, stitched closed and weeping miserably. It's a horror —the cut isn't bad but the infection is, and if it doesn't get better, there's going to be a problem. 

"Desperate to get back to you," you say. You're not lying, but you say it like a joke. 

Steve laughs and rubs your one unscathed knee gently. 

"My poor love," he says under his breath, focusing on your stitches. He cleans around them with a damp strip of cloth poorly shorn. 

He moves up with a new strip to clean the top ones. You could do it yourself, but his fussing is nice. Relaxed against a pile of bed rolls, your arms crossed to avoid touching your stomach, which is also blanketed in cuts, you wince as Steve grows closer. 

"Can we take a break?" you ask. 

"Yeah." He puts down the bowl of linen strips and screws the lid back on the isopropyl. "Sorry, honey. I know it sucks. You've dealt with it all so well–" 

"Steve, you say this to me with a sprained knee." 

"It's not less true," he says, easing down with a boyish groan beside you. 

He turns to you as you turn to him, actual dirt on his cheek, stubbly and waxy in the dusk. You rub at the spot of dirt unhappily. He lets you touch him without complaint. 

"Sorry I'm a mess." 

"As long as you come back to me," he says. "I don't really care how much of a mess you are." 

"Don't, baby." You rub your face into his shoulder, feeling the muscle of his bicep under your palm. You don't want him to be nice to you like that, not while your skin is stinging like this and you're still feeling hopelessly terrified of the uncertain future again. 

"I gotta. I'm playing the romantic, doting love interest in our book." 

"What book?" 

"One I'm gonna write. Me and you and Robin at the end of the world," Steve says, dropping his head on yours. 

"Who's gonna read the book?" you ask quietly. 

"Everyone. When the world gets back on its feet again and the next generation wants to know what it was like, they'll have a great answer. Boy falls in love with girl destined to be constantly injured and reluctantly taken care of." 

"Ah, but I'm not reluctant," you say. 

"I can do your other leg?" 

"No," you whine. 

"That's reluctance." 

You sit together for a while. 

"You have to let me finish," he says firmly.

"I know… just. I love you," you say quietly. It's hard to explain it, but sitting with him as you are in the corner of a crowded room, it doesn't matter where you are, because you're with him. All these cuts and bruises don't mean a thing. 

"I love you, too." He wraps his arm around your shoulders. You wish you could see his face, but this is nice. 

"Do you ever worry we say it too much?" 

"No." He turns his face into the top of your head. "This is the right amount. But you can definitely tell me again, if you're worried." 

You thumb along a scabbed cut. "I love you. Thanks for taking care of me." 

"You're welcome. And you can make it up to me. I want a neck massage, you know, where you dig into my literal bones and–" he imitates a cracking sound. 

"I don't know why you like it so much." 

"Cos it's you doing it. Deal?" 

You sigh. Somehow, you feel as though you might have taken the short end of the stick. "Deal." 

[dr-spectre]

I saw your most recent post and noticed you somewhat said (kind of idk I don’t know how else to phrase it) you were on team present! Do you have any specific reason or just joining for funsies

I've explained my reasoning for joining team present in the past but you know what? I'll explain it again for you.

When I think back to moments on when I'm truly happy, it's always when I'm in the present. When I'm just thinking about the here and now. Thinking about "what do I wanna do today?" When I think of the past, it often makes me feel sad because... those feelings are gone... the places I used to go all the time... are gone... and that... stings. It really REALLY STINGS!

When I think of the future, it makes me feel scared and worried. I think, "will I be successful? Will the choices that im doing now will send me down a bad path filled with regret? Will I find a girlfriend? Will I be able to start a family?" In the past where I got sucked up into the """productivity""" advice youtube pipeline, it made me feel fucking miserable and awful. That I wasn't some robot, that I wasn't disciplined, that I didn't "work hard" and that "if you don't work hard now you'll regret it in the future!! You could be great!"

But then I realised something... the future doesn't fucking exist yet. There is no predetermined path. This ain't no fucking RPG where you choose the good or bad ending.

Life is chaos. Life is pure mayhem. Even if you work hard, your life could still be god awful. So what if I wanna relax today? I aint gonna end up broke, dying on the street in the future. I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT!! BEING IN THE PRESENT MEANS FREE WILL!!! ITS REAL!!! YOU CAN FEEL IT!! YOU CAN EXPERIENCE IT!!!

I now live life by one quote... one phrase...

I CAN DO WHAT I SO PLEASE! I HAVE CONTROL!

I dont pick teams based on which Idols are in them, I pick them based on my own beliefs as a human being. I hate getting into Idol wars because it's so fucking stupid. DO Y'ALL REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME WE GOT INTO AN IDOL WAR?!?

We got a whole fucking hero mode based on that idea. The idea that we should NOT do those sorts of things. That we should not fight. But come together instead. To celebrate what we have. To create more memories together. Because that will make us happy.

You paint the world and I will play my melodies...

I will not choose team past because Callie is in it.

I will not choose team future because Frye is in it.

I am choosing team present because that is what I truly believe in.

Plus. I'm a Splatoon 2 baby. Without that game, I would not be where am I today. I would not have the chance to voice my opinion to hundreds of people. To express myself and feel heard and seen for the first fucking time in my life.

I feel like I owe something back to that game and I will do so by picking team present, aka....

Off the Hook.