#I apologized for it but I just need to know why this is happening | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stevieschrodinger · 2 days ago

Text

Part One Two Three Four

“What?” Steve’s on edge, he doesn’t mean to snap, it just comes out that way. Eddie’s gone from never looking at him to...always looking at him. And the scrutiny is...it’s so fucking judgemental. Eddie has a horrible little smirk on his face as he fucking stares, eyeballing the drink Steve is pouring for himself, Steve is on the edge of just...screaming at him, or something.

Eddie huffs, rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t say anything.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep calming breath, and reminds himself that absolutely none of this is Eddie’s fault. They’re alone for the first time in a while, so Steve takes his chance, “I’m really sorry, about what I said, okay? I’m sorry I...tricked you. It was wrong, it was absolutely a dick move, I had no right to know, and I’m sorry.”

Eddie does look away then, deflating a little, Steve’s apology seems to have knocked the wind out of his sails, or something. Diluted the anger a little, at least.

“It’s…” Eddie shrugs, staring the shit out of the kitchen floor, “my Steve didn’t drink.”

Steve scrunches his nose up, surprised, “what, at all?”

Eddie shrugs, “glass of wine with dinner maybe, if we went somewhere just the two of us but...no. Not really,” he keeps picking the label off his own beer.

“But why?” Steve asks, so incredulous at the revelation that he forgets to be pissed off.

Eddie won’t look at him now, though, tinking a ring against the glass bottle. The moments long enough that Steve knows Eddie’s debating if he should tell him at all, but eventually Eddie sighs, “when Ronnie was tiny, she got a cough. She was like...fine, we didn’t think anything of it, just thought she was being grizzly or whatever. And Steve had a drink, and I hadn’t, so it was fine but, I checked on her, and she was fast asleep but like had a raging temperature. And it didn’t matter, we had baby meds in the house, we were prepared but...Steve got so worried. He was like but what if we’d run out of meds or...or they didn’t bring her temperature down and she needed urgent care or whatever. I mean, she was absolutely fine, we changed her out of her footie jammies and the medicine worked just fine so...literally nothing happened but...Steve still got so worried about it. So he decided he needed to always be able to drive just in case and he just...stopped. Drinking.”

Steve wants to open his mouth and dispute it. Wants to tell Eddie he’d never fucking do that, that he isn’t the paragon of perfection Eddie dreamed up while his body was busy beating the crap out of every one. That he can’t possibly compare...but he can see it. He wouldn’t miss it, he knows he wouldn’t, and it’s the logical way to make sure his kid is fine then...yeah. Steve would, the thinks. He thinks he would do that.

“He sounds like a good guy,” Steve answers softly.

And Eddie, Eddie smiles before biting his lips together. He closes his eyes and swallows, thick and slow, his voice breaking when he speaks, and Steve knows that Eddie’s fighting a loosing battle against the tears, “he was.”

“Do you want…” Steve holds his arms out, and Eddie all but falls into them, “I know I’m not him, okay, I know that, but I’m here, if you want me to be here.”

Steve thinks he feels Eddie nod, as he sobs against Steve’s chest, curled up so Steve can hold all of him. And Steve cries too. He can't keep the tears inside. Eddie’s pain is palpable, and this isn’t about Steve, not really, Eddie’s Steve was real to Eddie but...the details. The details of Eddie’s story are gutting to listen to. He had a child, and she grew up, and Eddie...he remembers all these little details of their lives.

“Why are you crying?” Eddie chokes out through a sob.

“The footie pajamas,” Steve manages through his own tears, “you had a little girl Eds, you had a little girl and you-” Steve can’t finish it, it’s just so horrible. So unbelievably cruel. Steve can’t even imagine, not really, “I’m so so sorry you went through this. It’s my fault, if I’d taken you with us, if I’d gotten you out, I didn’t know Eddie I swear I didn’t know-”

“I know. I know. Stop it. I probably...I’d be dead now, if you- although I don’t know if that would be better.”

“Jesus,” Steve drags him close drags him into a rib crushing hug, tries to press Eddie inside him, “don’t say that. Jesus Christ, please don’t say that.”

“I...okay.”

Eddie becomes his shadow, which is...kind of weird but also not. Steve doesn’t mind Eddie being there, not at all. He keeps feeling...strangely guilty, about the whole thing. Like it’s, at least, in some way, Steve’s fault, no matter what Eddie might say. Logically Steve knows Eddie’s right, and isn’t that ridiculous, that Eddie has been reassuring Steve? But Eddie is right, Steve couldn’t have known what would happen, no one could, and...Eddie was dead. There was absolutely no way to predict what could have happened but...Steve wears it anyway.

Not to mention the fact that Vecna must have chosen Steve to be Eddie’s imaginary husband for a reason...he must have...liked Steve, for that to work right? Before everything, it must have been realistic to Eddie’s mind that Steve was the one. At least, the thought must have been present enough for that to...take root. Steve doesn’t know, not really, but it haunts him anyway, a loose tooth that, although is painful, he can’t help fiddling with. Even though it’s nothing to do with him, not really.

Eddie stops drinking. He has his last beer, he in fact makes a point of telling Steve that it’s his last one, and not to buy more. So Steve gets one too, they chink them together, and drink them. Then, without speaking, Steve gathers the remaining seven beers out of the fridge and they stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, pouring them away. It feels kind of poignant, and a little ceremonial. It feels like an important moment, one Steve will look back on, “you still could have had them,” Eddie points out quietly.

“Nah.” And then that’s...kind of it.

Steve can tell when Eddie really wants a drink. He gets antsy, the kind of restlessness that comes out as destruction, and Eddie gets snappy and bitchy and...hard work, to be around. Sometimes. He swears a lot, gets angry over nothing. There’s a lot of slammed doors and angry clanking and music played loud enough that Steve winces and leaves the house for a while, not really caring what the neighbors think.

Steve lets it wash over him, or at least, does his best to, at first. But finding Eddie shredding the pages of a note book, one at a time, and then getting shouted at for simply asking, “you okay?” Steve starts to figure this isn’t sustainable.

He honestly feels like he’d be taking his life into his hands if he dared suggest Eddie go to some sort of therapy – and who could he talk to, anyway? How could Eddie tell someone on the outside that he’s lived a full life, that he’s lost an adult child and been married for like, thirty years by the age of twenty one?

Steve ducks the notebook as it wings passed his head, watching as Eddie stomps out the back door, slamming it behind him.

“Am I...uhm, gonna’ get anything thrown at me?” Steve doesn’t come too close, just in case. A torn up notebook cover might not have hurt, but the beer bottle still stands out in Steve’s memory. He wonders vaguely if he should have called one of the girls to do this, but it feels cowardly.

Eddie shakes his head, gesturing vaguely with his burnt out cigarette. There’s a neat little row of butts and a scrunched up packet next to Eddie’s boot. Steve pulls up a lawn chair next to him, “sorry,” Eddie says quietly, pointedly not looking at him.

“Yeah, it’s okay-”

“No it isn’t.”

“No...probably not but...I get that you’re hurting, is what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says again, vaguely, “sometimes something just…” Eddie sighs, and after a few minutes Steve realizes he’s given up and isn’t going to say anymore.

“Reminds you?” Steve tries.

“Yeah,” Eddie gestures again vaguely, running his hand through his hair. It’s looking a little greasy, but Steve knows that at least Eddie stood under the water this morning so he will take what he can get. His clothes are clean today, at least, and that’s a little win considering can go days with no interest whatsoever in his own personal hygiene.

“Do you...want to tell me?”

Eddie sighs a big sigh, “I wrote a song for Steve, for like, our seventh anniversary. Something like that. I wrote it out, to check I still remember. I do.”

“Oh. That sounds...really nice.” That is...very romantic. It makes something flutter a little, inside Steve, because no ones ever done anything like that for him, put in work. It doesn’t take much for Steve to see that Eddie is absolutely that kind of guy. The all in kind of guy, “I bet he really appreciated that. I bet he loved it.” Steve knows he would.

“Yeah,” Eddie rasps, “yeah he did.”

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #steddie dreamed life #pre steddie

158 notes · View notes

syngularitysyn · 3 days ago

Text

Caitlyn & Vi - apologies and trust

Caitlyn and Vi are very different, but they share a commitment to the same values: Honesty, loyalty and directness.

Caitlyn has felt like a misfit since she was a kid, not fitting in with the fakeness of Piltover high society. She resents her mother for not letting her see 'the real world', by which she means the Undercity. Caitlyn doesn't care about apologies either. People apologize to her multiple times and she doesn't even acknowledge it. Their actions have already spoken and that is more important than their words.

Vi explains how to earn her trust while tied up in Ambessa's tent: 1. Be honest 2. Be patient 3. Just shut the fuck up (actions > words)

Episode 7 breaks up the flow of the current timeline. The next conversation Vi has after talking to Ambessa is with Caitlyn. The subject of trust is immediately brought up. Vi doesn't trust Caitlyn, and for good reason. Caitlyn knows this and understands why. 'Can you blame me?' Vi asks, and Caitlyn remains silent, but her emotions are shown on her face; shame, guilt, regret, and anger (at herself) expressed in the explosive 'I KNOW!'.

1: Be honest. Vi doesn't trust Caitlyn anymore, and Caitlyn immediately leads with honesty, starting with the 'I know', agreeing with Vi that she let Ambessa and her hatred for Jinx poison her. She lowers her defenses and tells Vi exactly what happened with Jinx while Vi was unconscious. How Jinx only cared about Vi's safety and then surrendered.

2: Be patient Caitlyn then tells Vi Jinx is being held in the bunker while she decides what to do. That she was waiting for Vi to recover instead of acting on her own. She wants to be on the same page as Vi again, but they aren't yet.

3: Shut the fuck up Vi walks off after asking 'who decides who gets a second chance?', and Caitlyn shuts the fuck up, clenches her jaw, and lets Vi walk out. There is nothing she can say to fix things between them, action is needed.

Cait talks to Jinx and sends all the guards to the Hexgates so Vi can break Jinx out if she wants to (and potentially leave together with her sister). Vi chooses to put herself first for the first time in her life when she learns this.

This is how Caitlyn won Vi's trust in the first season as well. Trading her rifle (which she's had since she was young and the only protection she has from Silco's goons) for medicine to save Vi. Telling the Firelights to take her and let Vi go. Taking the hextech gemstone to the council with Vi and Ekko (which was the initial plan).

Caitlyn lets Vi take the lead and make the decisions, but does pause multiple times to slow things down. First to disclose she saw someone else, wanting there to be no secrets between them, which is met with 'I don't fucking care.' And again when she sees the bandage on Vi's side, not moving forward and hovering her hand over it in silent apology but also in question. Caitlyn is willing to address it now if Vi wants to. Vi then decides she doesn't by pulling Cait back in, saving that conversation for later if they survive the battle.

#arcane #caitvi #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #arcane vi #piltover's finest #violyn #have to get up early and couldn't sleep #i've seen people talk about this here and on other platforms #just wanted to add a few bits and bobs to it #and add lovely gifs from mvp steph #goodnight #netflix arcane #arcane lol #arcane league of legends #vi #caitlyn arcane

182 notes · View notes

coldkingwasteland456777 · 1 day ago

Text

Ok this is gold and I could absolutely see this come about if Wu ming just woke up in a bed in the manor/woke up on the floor in one of the rooms (so whatever curse/spiritual mishap has affected him a while after he was hit so no one suspects what gonna happen or knows why this happened) and therefore Xie Lian is out at the time it does happen) so Yin Yu finds him, saber out, ready for a fight, highly suspicious and the first thing out of his mouth is “where is his highness” and obviously Yin Yu can tell from his form and lack of familiarity with the surroundings that something has happened

Also he doesn’t want to fight off Hua Cheng in any form so he’s just like I can contact him and he does through the array and tells him Hua Cheng is having memories problems? And please comes back right now and of course immediately Xie lian goes to find a doorway so he can transport back to the manor. In the meantime Wu ming is still hella suspicious when he’s told his highness will be here soon because either that’s a lie (likely) or he’s missing a lot of context beyond even why he was seemingly abducted? Because why would his highness come when he called? He can barely stand the sight of Wu Ming, he’s currently not being a useful tool because he’s gotten himself into a situation

So he also asks “What is this place?” Because it’s got hallmarks of the Xianle style but the sky visible outside is purple and the halls are filled with strange wildly beyond mortal collections artifacts. And Yin Yu awkwardly answers “Hua Cheng manor”

“Who is that?”

“…the King of Ghost city?”

“This is ghost realm?!”

Then Xie lian comes barrelling round the corner and stops dead at the sight of Wu Ming (I’m pretty sure HC can change his form including clothing with spiritual energy so that’s subconsciously happened here so he looks like Wu Ming with the mask and everything)

The look in his eyes is haunted and eventually he croaks out “Wu Ming?”

In response Wu Ming bows reverently “Your highness” because whatever the hell is happening his highness is hear and seems to be ok

He does the catch how Xie Lian face loses the remainder of its colour.

So essentially the situation devolves into frantic apologies on Xie lians side and frantic confusion and distress at Xie lians distress on Wu mings side before Yin yu, having regained some equilibrium, reminds XL that Wu Ming doesn’t know where he is or what happened to him (possibly in the array—basically saying that he needs to coherently explain and also that they need to work to figure out what even happened) which kinda brings XL back to the hear and now, and priority number one is of course, comfort his confused husband.

He sits Wu Ming down and tells him he came to his senses and didn’t want to release the spirits on Yong’an (which Wu Ming is so proud about on his behalf and glad that his highness came back to his sense before he could do something he would regret forever) but before he could take the sacrifice, Wi Ming did it for him and

“I thought you dissipated—I thought you were dead—I—I want you to know I’m so sorry for the pain you went under for me after the way I treated you”

Wu Ming of course sees literally no problem with the fact he almost died again for Xie lian because he protected him and deflects from the apologies. Xie lian wants to push but draws himself back and swallows down the words because this is not the time, not when Wu Ming only remembers Xie lian treating him like a tool and hasn’t even lived through the spirits tearing him apart yet.

So instead he immediately glosses over the 800 year gap and tells Wu Ming that they found each other again after Wu Ming regained a form and that Xie lian ascended again (he skips over the Jun Wu and overthrowing the heavenly emperor conversation because it’s over complicating things for a Wu Ming with no context, he just tells him Bai Waixang has been defeated and sealed away) and then he says something like

“And now we can love each other in peace” and looks really intensely into his eyes because he may not be able to apologise for all the wrong he did Wu Ming but he can love him.

Of course this leads to Wu Ming squeaking out a “Your highness” at a pitch that could shatter glass. Boy is having a nervous breakdown, his head is exploding, he’s going through the five stages of grief except there the stages of mortification and horror his highness knows about his feelings, fear of being discarded, confusion because his highness is insisting he love Wu Ming What, acceptance he and his highness are lovers then unfathomable euphoria.

Xie lian kisses him on the cheek and he just implodes out of sheer happiness. He’s shaking crying throwing up but in the most positive way. Shaking like a wet chihuahua. Truly in a state of being like high on pure dopamine.

Because all that is happening all Wu Ming gets about his identity is that Xie lian calls him Sang lang, which he immediately latches onto because it’s a name his highness calls him because he loves him, so he’s now just Sang lang.

In the aftermath Xie lian is pouring over documents in the libary to find a clue of what happened while Yin Yu goes to interrogate people and do external detective work (because Xie lian can’t bear to leave Sang lang alone when he’s in such a vulnerable state) then they both go to the kitchens together because Xie lian is going to cook for his Wu Ming (both because he knows HC loves it and also because he does know his violin is awful but he likes to think he’s improved after getting his back luck dispersed and so he’s hoping to make a better impression) and as they walk there they both overhear the kitchen staff gossiping about Hia Cheng and his husband who they also refer to as his highness, it’s nothing bad, just normal chatter and when they get there Xie lian politely asks for the space while Wu Ming hangs back out of sight (it’s so word of his condition doesn’t get around though he has taken the mask off now, Xie lian doesn’t want any hint of this getting out—but it just makes Wu Ming more sure about the conclusions he’s about to draw)

The math is, this is Hua Cheng’s, the king of ghost city, house and Xie lian is clearly referenced as his husband by the household stuff and is acting like it, this is clearly his home, Wu Ming didn’t question why he wasn’t in the divine realm after having ascended but now the answer is clear, Xie lian is married to this Ghost king, seemingly willingly because he’s shown no sign of discomfort in the house or with the staff

So clearly Wu Ming or Sang Lang must be his lover on the side. (He won’t bring this up for absolutely ages because he’s terrified of hearing how much Xie lian loves this other man, who is clearly more powerful than Wu Ming and therefore better able to serve and protect Xie lian so he doesn’t want to remind him of his husband) but also after seeing how ‘negligent’ Hia Cheng is of his husband, ‘he hasn’t been seen in days and he’s not helping his highness’ then he begins to suspect he’s truly unworthy of his highness and needs to be disposed of. He ALSO suspects that memory regression may have been a plot by HC in the first place because he’s a terrible husband that can clearly see how much better Wu Ming would be as a marriage partner because at least he stays at his highness side! But he’s also not going to say that because he doesn’t want his highness to think he’s jealous (which is he is)

One of those Hua Cheng reverts to Wuming scenarios where Wuming comes to understand the that 1) He and Xie Lian are sexually and romantically entangled 2) Xie Lian is married to a ghost king named Hua Cheng. The conclusion he derives from this is that he is Xie Lian's lover?? servant he fucks sometimes?? some sort of concubine??? He is trying to figure out how legitimate their affair is.

#tgcf #wulian #wu ming #xie lian #hua cheng

437 notes · View notes

jd-loves-fiction · 3 days ago

Note

Heh. I am back :3

An alternative of the kidnapping scenario with the same characters (Boothill, Blade and Gallagher) but when they get to reader they find them already having finished the job, covered in blood but they seem terrified of even themselves and apologizing for what they have done in tears.

🌑making my way through all the shorter requests cuz the event is coming!! Excite :)

✦ 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦

Doesn't blame you in the slightest

Scours your surroundings quickly just to make sure you're safe first

Then he's immediately making himself smaller while shushing you softly - he knows what it's like to let your revenge take over

It's literally his every day, it's why he joined the galaxy rangers, why he traded his body for the one he now has

Tries to make you laugh, brushing away your worries about the blood covering you and your apologies - he couldn't care less about that

But he's scrambling on what to do - his instinct is telling him to hold you close, just as his father's had when he was young, but they weren't made of cold, unfeeling metal

If you muster up the courage to ask for it tho? No hesitation, immediately wraps you up in his arms even if he feels sort of bad for not being able to provide you proper human comfort :(

If only you'd met earlier...

✦ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 ✦

Oh honey

No way he's gonna blame you, no way

Not the best with comfort but trust that he tries :(

He's rushing to your side and urging you to calm your breathing

When you start apologizing he'll tell you firmly to stop doing that >:[

You have nothing to apologize for, and he wants you to understand that

I feel like i say this about him in every post but QUIET COMFORT!!!

Just stays by your side as long as you need it and gives you space if that's what you need

Will not offer words of comfort unless you ask him to, but will wrap you up in his arms if you let him

May seem distracted the whole because he's trying his best not to lose with how angry he is with the people you killed - thank your lucky stars you took care of them cuz he would've done much worse

✦ 𝐆𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐡��𝐫 ✦

You've never seen so much raw emotion on his face before

First instinct is to hold you and that's what he does the moment you give him permission

Swaying slightly and shushing and cooing at you while you're trying to apologize

No need for that, he's just happy you're safe

Casts a glance around to make sure they're all dead

Wipes the blood and tears from your face while comforting you the best he can

All the reassurance - this doesn't change who you are or what you're worth and he doesn't blame you for doing it nor does it make you any lesser in his eyes

Won't let you out of his sight for some time after

He just has to make sure it doesn't happen again :(

149 notes · View notes

damnfeelings09 · 3 days ago

Text

Animals AU - Shadow's version

A.N: I like Shadow's soft side, I guess this AU is not as dark romance as I imagined it but can you blame me? He's just sooooo cute. RED for stalker, GREEN for you. Careful who you talk to, they might not be exactly who you think they are.

White fluffy fur and red eyes flooded your dreams, running away from someone you couldn't recognize. The heaviness in your legs did not allow you to run, your steps slower and slower, and that hand coming from the sun my salvation moving farther and farther away while you were consumed by darkness. You awoke with a start looking everywhere for Shadow but you were alone in your cold, dark room. Fear creeping down your back as the door opened to reveal a figure, tall, broad, dark, slowly aprooching you, as the night lamp started to outline Shadow's figure, you relaxed and let out a sigh you didn't know you were holding.

“What you doing awake?” He asked caressing your face

“I... nightmares.” his expression softened. “Don't wanna be alone, I'm scared”

“Told you there's no need to be afraid of the dark if you're with me,” he said laughing lightly. settling in to sleep holding you tight as if his life depended on it and it did.

“Want me to tell you a bedtime story?” You nod, caressing his chest once more. “'kay, this one's about a princess with big beautiful eyes and long silky hair and a... knight a dark one but not the kind you'll like. She danced to the music only she heard, as if no one else was there. Their paths crossed for a brief moment, a wrong turn caused her to end up in the knight's arms and he... well let's just say he got the drink he wanted but not in the form he needed. The princess looked at him with her eyes so big and those beautiful red cheeks as she ran her hands over his body trying to clean him up. So scared and embarrassed, like a little bunny at the mercy of a predator. She excused herself and ran to her carriage. It was a second, maybe less, but it was enough to capture the knight's raw, hard, black heart and took it with her.”

Shadow's story sounded awfully familiar, memories from years ago, hit you. You remembered it. It was in your freshman year? While jamming a song on your earphones, pretending the music was taking you somewhere else, as per usual, swaying your hips to the beat of Dance Macabre, and an unexpected turn that should have ended with you face down on the floor, instead you found yourself in someone's arms. What happened next was like a blur in your memory, you remembered the embarrassment and the thousand apologies you had given to the stranger, you remembered running to the subway and hiding inside trying not to look out the window. “It was you...” you muttered without being able to turn to look at him. “Is that why you call me that?”.

“I was screwed since the first time I layed my eyes on you bunny. I couldn't get that sweet scent out of my mind. I was yours from day one. You have no idea how long I've waited to do this.” He lowers his head, eyes locked on yours asking for permission, he kisses you. Slow, soft, as if he feared you could break at any second. He deepens the kiss, tastes your lower lip biting it hot, steady, a soft moan scapes from your lips but Shadow won't let it go any further, not in the state you're in. He's already waited so long that a few more days for you to regain your sanity is no problem, besides, he doesn't want you to regret it in the morning.

Shadow wants, wishes that when he fucks you it's conscious, because you want it and not just to erase a bad memory.

Morning came, sunlight sneaking through the curtain, fluffy hair tingling your face. You try to get up to close the window but a strong arm holds you around your waist pulling you back to the bed. Shadow lies beside you nuzzling into your hair, his legs locking yours so you wont run away. You take a moment to admire him, his nose shiny, his jet black fur soft white fur dots near he’s muzzle as if they were freckeles, tiny eyelashes adorn his eyes. You move your hand, stroking his face it's soft and the smell of fresh lavender envelops your senses. He looks so relaxed, peaceful, tender, as if he is another Shadow. Slowly you move closer and gently deposit a kiss on his lips. He opens his eyes, this time there is no fire behind them, just a mix of orange and reddish, like sunset you think. The shadow of a smile peeks out of his expression.

“Morning,” you say, still caressing his face. Shadow seeks the touch of your hand emitting a soft prrrrrrr, drawing you closer to him, the curves of your body fit perfectly with the hardness of his, the warmth between you is enough to make you tremble.

Who knew he would be the one to take care of you?

#shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #shadow fanfic #shadow the hedeghog #shadow the hedgehog #sth au #mobian x human #sth #shadow #sonic fanfiction #AnimalsAUShadowversion

92 notes · View notes

hivemuthur · 2 days ago

Text

Nothing's New - Ch.5.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, angst & smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.6.

word count: 6,2K

warnings: angst, unsafe sex, dacryphilia, orgasm denial/forced orgasm, d/s undertones

tag: #nothings new

author's note: The next update will be on Sunday. Other than trigger warnings, I can only say that this chapter is mostly conversation and 'conversation'. @rennethen beta read 🖤

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You stay. And the longer you do, the more awkwardness seeps in. At first, it’s all tender—Viktor bathes you with hesitant hands, silent until you gasp at his fingers between your legs.

“Sore?” he asks, his expression a mix of worry and fascination.

You nod, and he nods back, placing a kiss on your temple. “It’s okay,” he murmurs constantly as your fingers clutch his arm.

You get dressed in his boxer shorts and sweater. The further the two of you move from what just happened, the more alien everything becomes. His smiles grow more rehearsed. His touch turns hesitant. Your hands fidget as the familiar feeling of being a guest creeps in. You want to say so many things, but none of them will pass the barrier of your mouth.

By the time you both sit on the couch, the distance between you feels vast, every grunt and uncomfortable cough echoing within it. You hug your knees and pull his sweater over them. Viktor winces, knowing this will stretch it into a shapeless rug, and passes you a blanket instead.

You glance around, but the empty shelves glare back at you, so you keep your eyes low. Viktor exhales slowly, rubbing his fingers together as if debating whether to speak at all. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than you expected.

“I don’t really know where to begin.” The sentence sounds pointless to his ears, but he needs it to hear his own voice and confirm it’s still present in his throat. You watch him carefully, searching for any sign of certainty in his expression, but all you find is measured restraint.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For everything,” he says, avoiding your eyes.

Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “That sounds very finite.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “That’s not what I was intending it to sound like.” He shifts slightly, fingers tightening where they rest on his knee. “But if I were to apologize for every single thing, you wouldn’t get out of here for a week. So… I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to run. And for making you uncomfortable… later.”

Your stomach knots. There’s something unsettling about how carefully he chooses his words, how he holds himself so still, as if afraid of what he might do if he lets go. A stark contrast to what was barely an hour ago. God, I love you, falling from him, unfiltered and unguarded already feeling like a stranger.

“Are you apologizing for dating Julia?” you ask, forcing yourself to look at him.

He doesn’t flinch. “No. It felt natural when it happened. So I’m only sorry for being a… dick about it.”

You press your lips together, your fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket. His tone is frustratingly even, revealing nothing beyond what he wants you to hear.

“Is that why you broke up?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “Because it stopped feeling natural?”

His reaction is small but noticeable—a brief clench of his jaw, the subtle shift of his fingers as if suppressing an impulse. He hesitates, his silence stretching long enough that your heart starts beating harder against your ribs.

“Yes,” he finally says, but there’s something else there. His throat bobs, his poise wobbles and you could swear you saw something. Having your eyes drilled into him, he adds, “And… I technically cheated on her.” His voice doesn’t waver. “With you.”

Your breath hitches, but Viktor doesn’t move. He’s watching you now, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses your face.

“And?” you press, barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he does nothing. His fingers twitch, his lips part, and then he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly—as if at himself, as if he already knows that you know, but it has to be said anyways. “And… it felt like the right thing to do.”

Your pulse stumbles. “Breaking up with her or cheating?” You wince at yourself, so fucking needy and stupid you have to get everything spelled out for you. But the moment is so cramped, you cannot pack it with a bunch of half-truths, there has to be one, honest-to-God truth or you will burst.

His eyes lock onto yours, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Both,” he says. His voice is quiet, but firm, like a confession that for once he isn’t ashamed of. “Both felt right when they happened.”

You tear up, but will your eyelids to hold the wetness in. Your hand shoots up to rub your face in a weak attempt to disguise how your feelings are threatening to overspill again. Viktor takes notice but continues, his voice measured, deliberate.

“How did it feel for you? To break up with him?” He will not say that name again, he decides.

“Awful. But necessary,” you admit, the words scraping your throat. Then, before you can stop yourself, you add, “You hate him, don’t you?”

Viktor exhales, his fingers pressing briefly into his knee. “Oh, I hate him, yes,” he says without hesitation, his eyes flick to yours, sharp with intent. “But would I be wrong if I said you hate Julia too?”

Your breath stutters. The air inside you compresses into a void. “N-no,” you manage, your voice smaller now. “I suppose not.” And it’s not rational nor fair but hating her allows you to not hate Viktor.

He shifts, just barely, like he’s testing the distance between you. His gaze lingers, dark and unreadable, before he speaks again—softer this time, uncertain. “So… it means we still care about each other then?” Lots of breaths taken between the words and Viktor settles on one, unsteady inhale at the end.

You swallow, hard. If the kissing and the sex and all the crying hasn’t been enough of a testament to your shared sentiment, then this definitely gives it a final weight that tips the scales. You nod, and with the movement, a tear slips out of its prison and rolls down your cheek, to your chin, falls onto your hand.

“Why are you holding back?” Viktor asks, his gaze following the tear to where you try to hide it. Eyes glimmer and his expression falls apart from composure to wonder. He will have to check it a million times before it’s confirmed, but the feeling is undeniable. A sharp pang, there, where his cock grows out from his groin and the cramp low under his stomach and it’s so uncanny that the sensation of being cried for wakes it, he almost scolds himself. But his gaze doesn’t waver, and his fingers grip his knee tighter.

“W-what?” A hiccup distorts your voice, as the fear of being seen creeps back in. Your breath stumbles, hands tightening on the blanket. Your body tenses as Viktor’s relaxes. There’s a shift in his posture, a quiet but undeniable pull in the way he looks at you now. His expression isn’t one of pity, nor discomfort. His breathing slows, his eyes—sharp, fixated—drink in every trace of wetness clinging to your lashes, every twitch of your mouth as you try to keep it from trembling.

“You want to cry, I can see that. Why are you holding back?” His voice is gentle, but his question digs deep with genuine curiosity.

“Oh, I… I don’t know, I just… I’ve cried so much today already,” you murmur, blinking rapidly as if that alone could chase away the evidence. You sniffle, wipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater and look anywhere but at him. You feel stupid, falling apart again.

“It doesn’t matter. If crying will make you speak, then cry.” He says too fast and winces. Too much. Too revealing. His stomach knots, his chest tightens with something weightless and hot that makes his head feel lighter than it should. He doesn’t move, but he feels it, the way his breath shudders through his ribs, the way warmth pools at the base of his spine.

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh, voice fragile, burying your face in your hands.

He moves before he can think better of it. A slow drag across the couch, the hesitant pull of his body closing the space between you. He reaches out—not to comfort, not exactly—but to uncover, to claim. His hands slip over yours, peeling them gently away from your face, and before you can protest, he leans in. His forehead brushes yours, then the damp curve of your cheek. His breath is warm, uneven, as he nuzzles into you, his skin meeting the slick, salty trails of your tears. A sigh leaves him, quiet, almost relieved, like something inside him has settled. In a whisper, sounding dangerously close to hopeful, he asks, “Are you crying for me?”

Your lips part, a sharp inhale caught in your throat. “I’m… scared that I will blow this somehow,” you admit, the honest-to-God truth slipping free. “I miss you. Every day I miss you and chase you away and then miss you again.”

He’s so close you can whisper now. So you do and each one of those confessions gets progressively quieter, progressively bigger as these are the truths you wouldn’t say out loud even to yourself. “I am… so lonely without you.”

“Do you want to try again?” Viktor asks between heavy breaths. His face doesn’t leave yours as he bathes in your tears and his cheeks are warm and hands already grab your neck with thumbs pushing into your throat gently. His lips catch against yours and brows knot and he knows that he is begging but he doesn’t care.

“What if it doesn’t work again?” You say, nodding and your eyes squeeze shut at the thought of what it would feel like to be there again. Chests ripped. Hands scratched, stomachs aching.

“We will survive,” Viktor lies through his fucking teeth. “We will be better,” he vows. “I will be better, you will be better. Promise me, we will be better and that we will try harder, because I can’t—” he cuts as he takes a breath.

His lust confuses his sadness. The simple act of being cried for makes him feel so clean. As if he is not replaceable. As if the fact that he is difficult to love won’t stop you from loving him anyway. As if choosing him means your truly are choosing him over something secure, something easy and comfortable and it makes him grow a little taller, a little broader, a little better.

“I will be better,” you say quietly, even as your insides are crying, screaming, kicking for him.

“I missed you,” Viktor sighs, pulling you closer to his chest. Your legs swing over his, and your arms cradle his waist. His palm rests on your thigh, while the other snakes beneath your hair, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He breathes in deep, measured breaths, trying to calm himself.

You let your tears dry as you rise and fall with the steady rhythm of his chest. “I’m sorry too,” you finally say, and Viktor squeezes your neck in recognition.

“Hmm, whatever for?” he asks, brazen. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging gently, coaxing the tension from your forehead in a familiar gesture.

“God, I’ve missed this,” you hum, and Viktor takes the cue, pressing his thumb between your brows and tracing a firm line across your arch to your temple. He repeats the motion on the other side, and slowly, you feel the tightness in your face and throat begin to ease.

“I’m sorry for being such a coward,” you confess, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your voice doesn’t waver. You feel safer. “For disappearing. And I mean before I actually disappeared.”

“And what else?”

You swallow and blink. “What else?” you echo, hesitant. “What else do you want me to say?”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose. “Anything that you are holding back.” His voice is steady, rawness lingering beneath it as if he is asking for something he is not exactly ready to hear.

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “I thought leaving was the only way to make you see me. To make you care enough to stop shutting me out.”

His fingers tighten slightly at the base of your neck. “So you left to punish me?”

“No,” you whisper, but you don’t sound convinced. “I—I left because I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t let me in, Viktor.” Your breath catches as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “I was always waiting. For you to look at me, to see me. And when you finally did, I—” You huff out a bitter laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was so angry. I wanted you to feel how I felt.”

“And did it—” he asks, low and measured. “Did it make you feel better?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “No,” you admit. “It didn’t. It just made me feel alone.”

Viktor is quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing absently against the back of your neck. Then, finally, he speaks. “I was selfish.”

Your head snaps up, startled. “What?”

“I was selfish,” he repeats, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips. “Not because I shut you out—I did that out of habit and complacency. But because I still expected you to wait.” His hand slides from your neck, settling against your cheek. “I thought you’d understand. That you’d know without me having to say anything.” His thumb ghosts over your skin. “But that is not how love works, is it?”

Your breath shakes. “No,” you whisper.

He nods, and you feel the need to trade one confession for another. “Sometimes... I was so angry with you that I would make you start a fight,” you offer quietly. His fingers still, a silent question painted on his face. “I would go out of my way to piss you off. Just so you would interact with me. And so it would be your fault that we had a fight in the first place.” You recoil as you hear yourself saying it.

“Was it intentional?” He gives you a window. And he sounds so hopeful that it twists your guts.

“Not really. I realised it once I did it to… Paul,” you mutter, cringing at the admission. Pieces fall into place as you uncover something about yourself, and Viktor is the first person to witness it. “God, that’s just awful, isn’t it?” you sigh, clasping a hand to your face.

“Eh, a little awful, yes,” Viktor chuckles, trying to uncover your face. “But also weirdly insightful of you.”

For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something more. He wants to tell you about the note but bites his tongue—too much in one sitting. He speaks your name softly and sinks down a bit. “I’ve done awful things to forget you as well.”

“Like what? Save for the obvious, like changing the locks,” you shift, grateful for the change in attention.

“Ah, that,” Viktor sucks in a breath and scratches his head. “I… haven’t changed the locks exactly. Just made a new set—” He trails off as your eyes drill into him in disbelief. You shake your head, but a smile tugs at your lips.

“And what else?”

“Well, you already know I sold our bed.” Your heart jumps at our. “What you don’t know is that I might have ended up burning a first edition of Naked Lunch in the whole process of the bed exchange,” he blurts in one breath, bracing himself for a smack. But you only stare, your mouth hanging open as you sit up to kneel next to him.

“Viktor—” you speak more to yourself, disbelief colouring your voice as you search his face for any sign that he’s joking. He’s not.

“I’m so sorry,” he says with a small, embarrassed smile, his brows knitting together in apology, hands reaching for your face.

You seize them and kiss his knuckles, startling him. He doesn’t realise what he’s just admitted yet—a confession worth more than any I love you. “Please, forgive me. I had no idea,” you whisper against his skin.

Viktor laughs, trying to cup your face, but you don’t let him. To do something so desperate, so romantic—to try and rid himself of you in such a way—makes you ache with shame.

You climb onto his lap and kiss his face, over and over, murmuring I’m so sorry between the pecks.

Viktor laughs through it, startled, embarrassed by the sudden surge of affection, yet something blooms in his chest at the familiarity of the gesture. “Are you not angry?” he asks, bewildered.

“No,” you half-chuckle, half-sigh. “I love you so, so much,” you breathe out, and it’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

Viktor’s face does something utterly strange—like he’s about to cry—but in the end, he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses you. Grateful. Deep. Full of breaths and tongue. And it feels like coming home.

And you sit there for a while. Kissing, laughing, fetishizing each other’s flaws until your stomach gives away a loud growl and Viktor chuckles straight into your mouth. “Food, yes?”

“Such thing was promised,” you smile and allow him to take your hand. And he keeps it in his as he abandons his cane on the sofa and leads you into the kitchen, his thumb absently stroking over your knuckles. The warmth of it lingers even when he lets go, moving toward the counter. The space looks the same, mostly—same chipped tiles, same half-broken cupboard door that never quite shuts—but the air feels different. Lived in, but not by you.

You hesitate near the fridge, gaze flicking over the notes tacked haphazardly to its surface. His scrawled handwriting crowds the scraps of paper��grocery lists, half-legible reminders, a date circled twice with no explanation. Your stomach clenches when you skim over them, hunting for something, anything. Another Miláček meant for someone else. A new name creeping in where yours used to be. But there's nothing. No Julia. No stranger. Just Viktor’s usual chaos.

“Tea?” he asks, already filling the kettle.

You nod, slipping onto a stool, watching him move. He retrieves bread, some cheese, and a tomato from the counter, methodical but oddly cautious, as if remembering how to exist in this rhythm with you. It should be simple—slicing, assembling, waiting for water to boil—but something about it feels… off. The gaps of silence stretch too long. His hand hesitates on the knife.

You rub at the edge of the counter, feeling the grain of the wood beneath your fingertips. “You eat like a student,” you remark, a weak attempt at normalcy.

Viktor huffs a small laugh, shaking his head as he plates the food. “I am a student.” He sets a mug in front of you. “Still. Always.”

The steam curls between you. You should reach for his hand again. You don’t. It’s awkward. He passes you the sandwiches and a cup and you both eat in silence.

Once your plate is clean, the weirdness settles deeper in you—there is nothing left to do, at least not for now. The wise thing would be to bid Viktor goodnight and go home. And as if reading the thought, watching it write itself across your forehead in glaring letters, Viktor beats you to it.

“Will you stay?” he asks.

“The night,” he adds, in case you thought he was already pleading for forever. “Will you stay the night?” His voice is steady, like he’s just confirming something he already knows the answer to.

You nod, and he smiles, muttering okay under his breath, again and again. Then Viktor limps toward you, takes your hand, and gently urges you to stand. When you do, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, leaning into you like a secondary cane as you walk together to the bedroom. A tiny flutter of fear stirs in your chest at the thought of what’s in there—what has replaced your beloved, cursed bed. The empty shelves, the hollow spaces in the cabinets where your things used to be—little signs of your absence foreshadowing the dread.

As if he feels it too, Viktor’s hand tightens around your shoulder as you step through the door, stopping you when he sees your eyes wide and wandering.

“Is this alright?” he asks quietly.

You study the bed before answering. The words aren’t fully formed until you take in the dark wooden frame, the still-crisp mattress, the sheer size of it making the room feel significantly smaller. It’s just an object, you tell yourself. It’s probably not worth mourning every single bit of the past, playing a game of sentimentality.

“What do you think?” Viktor prompts, and your bubble bursts. This is all very silly, but his anticipation warms you—his silliness matches yours.

“It’s just a bed. It’s all good, Viktor,” you say.

He exhales, visibly relieved. His chest sags, and his fingers loosen their grip on your shoulder. He presses a kiss to your temple, then walks you gently to the edge. Your calves meet the frame, and you sit before he presses his hands on your shoulders, urging you to lie down.

Then he clumsily crawls on top of you—needy, grateful—his keen fingers tracing your skin, his sharp hip bone digging into your side until you wince. But the awkwardness is gone. It’s almost as if your bodies speak better than your mouths, and your mouths are only useful for kissing apologies and remorse into each other’s throats. The wound keeps sealing and opening, each next rip smaller and smaller, the scar uglier and uglier. But still, a testament to healing.

Viktor mumbles a lot of sweet things to you—half-words, all of them cut off by your mouth invading his. His voice grows harsh, dropping into a breathy whisper as he repeats your name over and over. His lips grow impatient, wandering down your throat. His hands slip beneath the sweater you’re wearing, tracing your stomach, cupping your breasts—so full of wanting that it clouds your mind.

And soon, it’s only Viktor there.

His toes tickling the soles of your feet, his thighs between yours, one pressing there where you are already soaking through his briefs, stomach bellowing into your ribs, breaths catching against each other in stutters, his drool leaking into your mouth with a lewd sound of wetness spreading around the room. And his fingers, hooking beneath your waistband and yanking the underwear down with one hand, other resting firmly around your neck. Keeping you in place, as he disconnects from your mouth with a loud smack and the string of saliva stretching between you finally breaks off, once his head hovers over your stomach to place a kiss there. And then lower, on your hip bone. And then a lick across your navel, as he shimmies himself down to splay his chest flat between your spread thighs, knees bent, his ankles playfully bumping against each other. He flattens his palms on your abdomen and gently kisses your clit.

Your body jolts, you almost kick him in the head, but he catches your shin, bites it and licks it before throwing it back in its place. His tongue parts you lazily and you feel yourself buzzing, the urge to grab a fistful of his hair and guide him overwhelming, but Viktor is faster again. When he notices your fingers creeping toward his face, he grabs them, entwines them with his and pushes your palms into your lower belly, making a soft sound of, “Mm-mm” to scold you.

And to know that this man’s worship of you ever became doubtful in your heart—it’s unthinkable. Having him here, now, completely devoted, quite literally kissing your feet and your cunt, humming in appreciation, makes everything else feel distant. And you wonder—had you only imagined the distance between you? Or is it a fluke that you found your way back to each other with so little sacrifice?

Which, of course, was anything but little. And yet, compared to how monumentally your love swells in your chest right now, it seems like nothing but dust.

It’s strange, sharing something so grand with only one other person—one who also recognises it as grand. Both of you are just specks in the vast web of the universe. And yet, there is nobody else to witness this.

Only you and Viktor know how this feels—to be like this, with each other.

Your own thoughts distract you, when Viktor is torturing you with the slow pace of his flat tongue, his mouth occasionally sucking, his soft lips easing your sore and you feel yourself gradually melting, dripping straight into his throat. He murmurs and chuckles into your core when you give him strangled whimpers and he finally allows your fingers to tug at his hair when he sees you need to hold onto something. And when you can almost touch it, when the cramp in your guts is an inch from release you curse yourself for all the corny thoughts that swept through your mind a moment ago. Because Viktor retreats. And you whine, the sound stretching your neck, close to ripping it in half.

“Fuck, why?” you almost growl, and he dares to smile like a five-year-old.

“Just… trying something out,” Viktor says, resting his chin on your pubic bone, an innocent grin tugging the corner of his lips down. It’s an experiment. Well, of course.

“Now? You’re trying something out now?” Completely exasperated you glare daggers at him. Having your orgasm dangled in front of you only to be snatched away at the last minute is, to say the least, a dick move.

“Shh, lásko, patience,” he tuts, placing a peck on your clit. “Can you trust me?” he coos, throwing you the bedroom eyes to die for. That look from under his lashes—no bad bone in his body—the let me love you plea that leaves you with your mouth hanging open.

So you groan and nod obediently.

“Good girl,” he hums, eager, and your skin prickles at all the pet names. Amongst the hums in your head, you’re thankful he hasn’t dropped the one that was tainted.

And then his mouth is back on you again. Hot breath washing over you as his tongue resumes the work and soon he joins one finger to tease you from the inside. So delicate, to keep you there on the edge of pleasure, he drags it and curls it to explore every crevice. A bunch of pretty whimpers drip from your lips when you try to push your hips lower to meet his hand, but he holds you tight. He whispers sounds of appraise into your flesh: so wet, so good for me, good girl, trust me. And when you finally do and let your hands fist the sheet and your head fall back, eyes squeeze shut as your breath hitches and stomach curls into another cramp, Viktor fucking stops.

“Viktor, I hate you!” An undignified cry escapes you as your body jolts upright, eyes wide in disbelief, tears prickling in the corners.

“Ah, and whatever happened to trust?” He fixes you with a glare.

“This… this is cruel.” You gasp for breath, almost hyperventilating at the audacity of his behaviour. Something crestfallen flickers across Viktor’s face—like he’s disappointed you didn’t trust him blindly.

“No, my heart. This,” he murmurs, crawling back up until his face is level with yours. You feel his cock pressing against your entrance, his breath tickling your cheek.

“This is mercy," he says, voice low. "Because I really want to fuck you again, and I don’t want to hurt your poor pussy further. So you see how important it was for me to prepare you.”

And just like that, shame washes over you. What kindness was that, that you so eagerly discredited.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, the words spilling out faster than you can think. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him into a kiss of apology. But Viktor tilts his head just enough that your lips land on his chin.

“We’ll see about that now, won’t we?” he murmurs, dipping lower. His whisper fans over the shell of your ear, his breath burning. “Because as far as I’m concerned, I don’t have to make you cum tonight,” he chuckles darkly as the head of his cock slides inside you with ease, and indeed, you are so wet it doesn’t hurt.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, ah—” you gasp, as his cock hits the spot, a tear rolls down from the corner of your eye, and you catch something in Viktor’s expression. As soon as it happens, he presses his sweat-slicked forehead to yours and begins licking into your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips so greedily you could choke, hips roll into yours, making a lewd sticky sound each time he retreats to push back again, and again.

Viktor’s arms cage around your face, his fingers anchor into your hair as he tilts your head up to lo look at him, his eyes draw up to yours with a gaze full of intent.

“Will you behave now?” He states more than asks. The world becomes soft at the edges, when he looks at you like that. When he fucks you like that. When his fingers curl around your hair and his thumbs press gently into your temples.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice nearly absent. Your eyebrows knit together more and more with each slow slam of his hips between your legs and the tightening in your stomach comes back, stronger than before. You spread your legs further apart, lifting your pelvis to meet his, your toes curl and muscles tense up around him.

“And will you do as you are told?” he asks, and his voice gives way to something hopeful and needy.

“Yes,” you reply, this time audibly with a full vocal moan and try to snake your hands between the two of you to cradle his neck, cup his face. He keeps the angles fixed, slapping your clit with his pubis in a steady rhythm.

“Good,” Viktor coos, giving you a wet drooling kiss. And then another, before he thinks for a bit. His lips brush yours, when he whispers, “Be my good girl and cum on my cock.”

And if that wouldn’t break you completely, the bite on your neck would and it does. You feel it down to you marrow, surging through, as your cunt clenches around him and Viktor pants and grunts into your skin. You come pressing your nose against his with a loud fuck, knuckles paling on his arms. Tears start pushing themselves through the corners of your eyes again and when you think he will come too and stop, he doesn’t.

He sucks his stomach in and snakes a hand between your sticky navels, fingers finding your clit when he rasps, “Again.” You yelp, startled, your cunt going numb before you feel his touch and you try to jolt away, hypersensitive and swollen. “One more time, for me,” Viktor mutters into your ear, voice dripping heavily from his tongue. You can feel he is close too in every little spasm of his cock, but he holds back. He batters your lips with his, swallows the heedless sounds you make. Like a reward for your struggle, he caresses a hollow of your cheek and whispers quiet praise in between kisses.

And when you regain the feeling in your womb, a new tension builds itself on top of the previous one, ready to snap you in half. You clasp your thighs around him, fingers still digging into his flesh to the point of bruising and when you cum again your vision goes blurry from all the tears welling down your cheeks, and Viktor, oh, he rubs his face against yours, purring, as if you have just given him the most precious of all gifts. The orgasm lasts forever, fucks you out completely, breath rips out of your lungs when you finally find a way to grab his neck and moan everything straight into his wet mouth.

He swallows all of it and seconds later gives it back with his own completion—a couple of ragged hard snaps against you, while he spills himself inside you with a strangled groan falling from his lips. Before you can say or think of anything, he jams his tongue back into your mouth and kisses you deeply, gratefully, moaning and whimpering at the last twitches of your cunt milking him dry.

Then he nuzzles into your neck and takes a deep breath, his belly pressing against yours. In this soul-crushing moment, all words feel like strangers to you, and Viktor grants you another little mercy when he asks, “How are you?”

You swallow before replying. You have no idea. Fucked numb? Sad? Happy? Full? Empty? All those things at once? In the spirit of trust, you say quietly, “I don’t know.”

A warm chuckle reaches you as he pulls out and up to cradle you. You look at his face, convinced the exact opposite of his expression is painted on yours, when he tries to soothe you with a quiet, “It’s alright.”

Gentle hands bring you closer, and he places a kiss on your temple, breathing in deeply. “Just tell me if anything aches.”

“It doesn’t,” you say quickly. And then a stupid question pops into your head, bounces around, and rolls out through your mouth. “Did you plan for this?” This could mean so many things, but Viktor, by some uncanny intuition, knows.

“To sleep with you? Oh no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “My nearly perfect plan to really tell you and then see you out failed miserably.” Viktor murmurs while stroking your hair, and you wrap your arms around him tighter—both happy and sad. Happy that his plan failed, sad that he had one in the first place, and it wasn’t about winning you back.

“But that’s not new,” he sighs, and you raise your eyebrows in question. “We haven’t done the best job keeping away from each other.”

“Viktor,” you start, disbelieving the sound of your voice. “I am terrible at keeping away from you. I think if I have to do this again, I’ll die of cancer. I won’t survive if we do this again, I swear,” you mumble, wincing at how pathetic your first words sound. But you maintain, reinforcing your confession with a nuzzle into his touch. At least it’s not awkward anymore.

Viktor’s fingers trace absent-minded shapes on your shoulder. His voice is soft when he finally says, “Some things will need to change.”

You shift slightly, tucking your face closer to his neck. His warmth is comforting, but the words sting a bit. “What do you mean?”

His hand stills. “We cannot fall back into the same rut. We have to—” He exhales, shaking his head like he’s unwilling to phrase it too neatly. “Do better.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. It’s the answer you expected, but still, something in you balks at the finality of it. The If not, then nothing feels heavy. “Do you want to forgive me?” you ask, your voice quieter than intended.

Viktor hums, considering. “I already have.”

Relief floods you—but before you can lean into it fully, he adds, “That does not mean I trust you.”

Your breath catches, and you lift your head to look at him. His expression is unreadable, and you search his eyes for something that might tell you how deep the wound still runs.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, gaze steady.

You open your mouth, then hesitate. You do. But not fully. Not in the way you used to. Not in the way that feels effortless. The hesitation speaks louder than words.

Viktor smiles, not unkindly. “Exactly.”

A prickle of shame rises in your throat. But he doesn’t pull away. His hand finds your back, rubbing slow circles as if he knows you need reassurance.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, as if it’s a promise rather than a question. “We’ll take it bit by bit.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. It’s terrifying, starting over like this—unsure, tentative—but then again, when have either of you ever done things the easy way?

So you take a breath. “Alright,” you whisper. Things have already changed, and Viktor is already someone else compared to a mere week ago. So far, so good. Your mind swells with thoughts of the last four hours, and you catch yourself staring at him, searching his face for answers to questions you haven’t yet put into words.

He opens one eye and cocks a brow. “You’re still trying to figure me out,” he murmurs, more amused than accusatory.

“Yeah,” you admit.

He huffs a quiet laugh and closes his eyes again. “Good.”

And he holds you closer.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #nothings new

105 notes · View notes

constantfragmentation · 12 hours ago

Text

Agreed.

Do I believe Vander blames himself, that he wronged Silco? Yes, I do. But he really doesn't do much beyond extended a weak olive branch to a trusted friend that he just tried to kill. It wasn't a fight that got out of hand, he tried to kill him.

I don't know about anyone else, but I'm sure as hell not going to seek my attempted murderer out afterwards to 'reconcile'. Yeah, no. Silco isn't going to the their special place in the mines, the Drop or anywhere else in FEAR he may run into his attacker and die the next time.

Let's also not forget, the Felica reason is really stupid. He lost his head? The writing is so weak here. Silco and Vander's break seemed more profound than an accidental death of a mutual friend. People get hurt and die in revolts. They had to know there would be casualties or why bother with revolting against Enforcers, who are heavily armed?

Also, if we use a vague timeline between the Day of Ash, Silco recovering from extensive injuries mentally, emotionally and physically, to the point in Arcane S1E1, WHERE... Vander and Benzo make the comment of 'there are worse things than Enforcers out there" meaning Silco and immediately painting him as the big baddie in the first episode.

So, by the age of the kids supposedly on the Day of Ash and then in Ep1, Vander had YEARS to try and contact Silco. They lived in the Underground, know the same people. There's not exactly an infinite places to stay hidden. Vander and Benzo clearly know Silco is operating in the Undercity.

You can't tell me in all those YEARS, Vander couldn't have made the effort to actually contact Silco and clear shit up. He chose not to and continued painting his 'brother' as a bad guy. For someone who 'never forgave himself', he sure didn't make an effort to find his brother. His effort was the weakest ever.

Even his "I never forgave myself" is hollow. No, buddy, you should have been begging your brother's forgiveness for what you did to him. It's this pathetic attempt of Vander's is what I find insulting. We're supposed to go, "oh look he was sorry , if only Silco KNEW!". But it doesn't address the work needed to regain a person's trust and forgiveness.

Vander didn't put in the effort to deserve Silco's forgiveness. End of story.

The mutliverse episode just felt like a slap in the face in this respect. Silco's personality completely changes which makes ZERO sense. The young Silco and Timeline Silco in S2 don't make any sense compared the characterization of Silco in all of S1.

Young Silco HAD to have traits that build into what makes S1 Older Silco. The drowning isn't going to make those traits magically appear. It was always about the cause. Even if Vander apologized, his handling of the Underground and working with Enforcers is what pits Silco against him. THAT is the betrayal.

I don't think Vander's letter would have done much if we're going off S1 Silco explanation of the drowning and aftermath. Silco tried to see if he could get back the 'old Vander' but also knew it might not happen and had Plan B in the wings.

" I let a weak man die".

Silco decided that the cause was still the most important thing to him and learned not to trust anyone so willingly and blindly.

The Felicia angle is so weak. There is no build-up to this magical trio of friends. Silco doesn't seem to know her kids or vice versa. The kids seems to see Silco as an enemy most likely due to Vander and Benzo.

If Silco was a true friend, why doesn't he know the kids or vice versa? You'd think due to their age prior to the bridge, Silco would be a part of their lives and not just Vander?

S2 was such a disappointing mess. If they really wanted to explore these relationships, then they should have laid some of the groundwork in S1 but didn't. The fact it was dealt with in such a sloppy manner and expected fans to love it? That's what bugs me.

And the blatant character assassination of SO many characters in order to make their plot work.

All of S2 was poorly executed. Period.

y'all. y'all know the letter wasn't the apology right. it was the olive branch. "you know where to find me" was an invitation. he couldn't apologize in a letter. he wanted silco to meet him. yeah it was a shit apology. because it wasn't one. my word.

#silco #vander #arcane critical

400 notes · View notes

getaapologist · 3 days ago

Text

The Tension and the Terror............Part XV

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length)

Summary: The chaos surrounding the death of Macrinus keeps Letha and Geta apart much longer than either of them expected. Geta has an urgent question for Letha.

Warnings: make-up sex, and a shitty understanding of ancient Roman procedures around rule, 18+ only.

Word Count: 3.6k

Part 15 of 15!

[ Part XIV ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: I would like to preface this by saying thank you for reading this self-indulgent slop. I hope you got some small amount of enjoyment out of it. Your comments along the way kept me engaged enough to actually finish this. It's the first thing I've ever started writing that I actually feel like I finished. There's so much I could've added to this post-reunion that this would've never been done. I could always embellish at a later date if anyone wanted it. I'm also a bit sad to finish this because I don't have anything to look forward to now. Thank you for your time and attention. It means a lot.

Also, mea lux is 'my light' I believe.

Almost two weeks passed before Letha laid eyes on Geta again.

It was prevented by a combination of things. There had been so much to deal with after the incident in the gardens. Geta had been embroiled in meetings, debating things Letha wasn’t privy to. There was a ceremony for Ancus, to honor him for his efforts to protect his Emperors. And at every party, everyone was so desperate to show face to their Emperors, to remind them of their loyalty in wake of the exposure of Macrinus’s plot.

Though she wasn’t invited to any official meetings or ceremonies, there were situations where she could’ve sought Geta out at these fetes and events. But she didn’t. She was scared to have that conversation that needed to happen.

She knew she was still treated as a guest in the palace. More like a fixture, really, available to distract Caracalla whenever the burden of rule grew too tiresome with more poetry, read under the shade of a tree in the gardens, Ancus always nearby. But aside from that, she felt quite restless.

It’s not as if she expected things to go back to how they were, but she didn’t think it would be this hard to put her thoughts together. Leaving the gardens that evening, neck still sore, she was imagining how she’d look over at Geta the next morning and fervently apologize, for all of it. She’d tell him she would understand if he sent her away, and he would assure her that he wouldn’t dream of it.

But the next morning she couldn’t leave her bed, paralyzed by this new fear. She’d gotten a chance to see what her relationship with Geta could be, she didn’t know what she would do if it was not that. And the possibilities he’d promised her most certainly couldn’t and wouldn’t happen anymore. She stewed in the hesitance, the uncertainty, until she became convinced that it absolutely would be different. No matter what different meant, she was sure it wouldn’t be good.

And so it continued, Letha skipping mealtimes that used to be routine, bumping into servants gossiping on her way into the kitchens to eat. Occasionally she heard her name on their tongues, her appearance causing them to freeze as if Letha were Medusa herself. Not wanting to make a scene, she’d just duck right back out, resolving to return later.

Caracalla assured her his brother was just being kept very, very busy in the wake of the subterfuge and death of Macrinus, but she couldn’t help but feel like it was a little intentional.

What did you expect, honestly?

She didn’t know why she was still allowed to wander the palace, as if she were back to being a guest. There were no guards posted outside her room, and for the last week she spent her evenings in the gardens, observing the moon, asking no one in particular what happens next.

She wasn’t naive, she knew Tegula didn’t trust her. And nothing spread faster than a salacious rumor. They weren’t so foolish as to speak poorly of their Emperor, so they resorted to tarnishing her reputation instead. She was a witch, had steered Macrinus to his end, was desperate to attach herself to the divinity the Emperors were entitled to.

It was ridiculous. If she had such powers, she sure wouldn’t have suffered all this.

It was all just more fuel for her suppositions, perpetuating her unhappy cycle until she felt like it would be better if she just snuck out one night. She could become a ghost story. But against all odds, she still carried hope that the next day would be different.

As for Geta, well, Geta was trying to prevent an economic collapse. Some part of him thought Letha might think poorly of him if he let the empire fall around them because he would rather be locked up in his rooms, curled up in her. Because that was what he wanted. But he had a duty, a responsibility to steer this monstrous empire in a direction he could have heirs in. Perhaps the danger had put things into perspective.

Listening to the senators describe just how involved Macrinus had been in arming their voracious armies became more and more painful as they dove into the minutiae of complex accounts and processes he never bothered to pay attention to before. It was overwhelming. But he knew their efforts were working. Still, there were moments where he’d trade it all for those eyes on him again.

What little free time he had was spent trying to avoid Letha, because he needed hours, days, uninterrupted, for him to spill his heart to her. A few minutes here and there wouldn’t be enough to relay any of the complex emotions he felt. He couldn’t avoid her forever, though, because there was a certain conversation that had to happen. He needed to know where he stood with her before he picked a particular path to tread down.

So that was why he stalked the gardens that evening, waiting for her to appear for her nightly stargazing. And as he watched her spread out the emerald-dyed linen on the grass, he felt calm. Almost peaceful. He let himself forget the weight of all that had happened, the guilt, too. Everything they’d all been through.

Well, not everything.

“You should have run far away from here,” Geta spoke, disturbing her peace.

Letha looked over her shoulder, her breath held in her lungs as she appraised him. It almost felt like the first time. The first time she saw him and admitted against her better judgment that he was beautiful.

The moonlight glinted off the laurels and the golden chestplate he still wore, though the ceremony had long been over. His hair was shiny, neat, framing his fair face. His deep, dark eyes, still lined in crimson, were locked on her.

He looked close to divine standing there in the golden armor, easily one of the most opulent things she’d ever seen. He somehow looked taller, broader, in the armor. Untouchable, too.

It was so late in the evening, he should’ve changed. He should be in bed. Anywhere but here.

No more hiding.

“I was locked in a cell, I wasn’t running anywhere.”

He surprised her by sitting beside her on the blanket, the ceremonial armor quite uncomfortable to lay down in. He kept his arms slung around his knees, the bindings of the tall sandals flexing over his shins as he joined her in staring up at the large moon.

“What about after?” After Macrinus. “You’ve had no chaperone for well over a week now.”

Letha felt her stomach twist. “I’ve thought about it.”

“But?” Geta supplied, turning his head away from the splendor of the night sky to peer down at her where she laid out beside him. A challenger to the celestial might hanging above.

“You know there would be no point.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I do?”

She rolled her eyes, a treasonous activity if done by any other, but it filled Geta with warmth, bringing the beginnings of a smile to his lips. It all felt so familiar.

“There’s something that is keeping me here. Besides the fact I wouldn’t last a day out there with nowhere to go.”

“I dared to hope,” he admitted, taking her own admission and shoving it into the cracks that were slowly mending, a makeshift mortar.

She looked over at him, a line forming between her brows as she studied him, thinking very hard about what to say next. He reached down with a finger, gently pressing at the center of her brows, pushing away the line.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, the pressure of his closeness becoming overwhelming.

“No,” he shook his head, moving his finger lower to press to her lips, silencing any further unnecessary apologies. “It is forgiven.”

Letha felt relief, could feel a tear forming at the corner of her eye. But she didn’t want to cry, not now. She recalled her apology muttered into his hair that day. He’d told her ‘no’ then too.

“Do you still care for me?” he asked, his voice low.

“Of course I do,” she whispered, feeling the tear slide down the side of her face.

He noticed it, moving his fingertip to wipe away the trail before resting his hand on the ground beside her head. He licked his lips, staring at her, all his weight bearing down, as if daring himself to collapse onto her.

As much as he might have enjoyed frolicking beneath the stars, removing this armor was not a graceful job, even for two.

“I want to show you something.” He pushed off the ground and sat up, the haze of him dispersed. She made herself sit up, kept her eyes on him as he stood up. He could feel a swarm of bees in his stomach moving angrily as he held a hand out for her to help her to her feet.

There was a split second of indecision and he nearly faltered, but her tight grip on his hand was a balm, immediately settling his nerves. As she leaned down to gather up the blanket, he tugged her hand, urging her to leave it.

Geta lifted the small chest off his desk and carried it over to where Letha sat on the side of the chaise in his room. It sank into the plush seat and she looked up at him, surprised.

“It’s quite heavy.”

“I can manage just fine,” he smiled, his teasing tone returning.

It was so easy to get caught up in his magnetism. She wondered if he knew he possessed such a thing.

“Go on,” he urged. “Open it.”

She obeyed, pushing up the lid, exposing a rich ruby interior, the box created to house this one ornate bauble. Laurels, golden and sparkling. There were small, dazzling red gems hidden among the leaves here and there.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, reaching in to run a finger along one of the gilded leaves. “Seems a bit small for you,” she admitted.

“It is,” he confirmed.

“Well I think Caracalla will love it,” she smiled, lowering the lid. “It’s a thoughtful gift.”

Geta reached down, pulling it back open. There was a look in her eyes that gave him pause, all the smiles and teasing forgotten. As if she knew already what he was about to say. To ask.

“It’s not for my brother.”

His words sent an icy chill down the center of her back, forcing her to sit up a bit straighter. He was already moving away, pacing.

“I have been busy, Letha,” he admitted. “I’ve spent more time with the senators than I can possibly stand. And in exchange for those long hours, I got this.”

“Geta, I—”

“Don’t feel like you need to say yes right now. Just promise me you will think on it. I know these last couple of weeks have been difficult, we’ve had a hell of a time trying to navigate—”

Letha stood and walked over to him as he rambled. She reached up and curled her fingers around the collar of the chestplate, pulling him down by it, pressing her lips to his.

Geta recognized the action immediately, bringing one of his hands up to cover hers where she held the armor, moaning against her lips. He pulled her in by the small of her back with his free hand. Her necklace clattered against the metal plate until it was muffled by the press of her against him.

He could not get near enough air into his lungs. He felt dizzy, incoherent, his blood at once diluted but also thickened, leaving his limbs feeling heavy with a honeyed sludge passing through his veins. The pressure of her hauling him down to her eager mouth by the bronze plate persisted in his brain, in his gut, and he suspected he would relive it for the rest of time.

“Letha,” he breathed, his palm pressing to her heated cheek. “You can take time,” he offered, though he would be lying if he said he was satisfied with this and nothing more.

“I’ve taken it,” she replied quickly, releasing the armor.

Before the dissatisfaction crept in, he felt her fingers at his side, brushing the underside of his arm that he immediately lifted. She worked at the buckle, pulling the leather free before moving down to the woven golden string keeping both halves together.

Once his brain caught up to hers, he pulled at the cords holding the pauldrons over his shoulders, the both of them picking up speed as an unspoken sense of urgency grew in the silence. It all hit the floor with a loud clattering, the pteruges joining it not long after.

Free from the weight of the heavy armor, Geta reached for Letha’s neck, pulling her into him, groaning against her lips as he attempted to make up for lost time.

As he held her, he realized she was working herself out of her dress. It was bunched up on her shoulders by the time he looked down. The next chance she got, the two of them needing air, she threw it off over her head.

“I would have gotten to that,” he breathed, allowing himself to look her over.

“Like I said, I’ve taken it.” she spoke with intention. He felt it low in his belly.

She got to spend only a moment more on her feet before he collected her in his arms and carried her to the bed. She let out a laugh as she sank into the plush arrangement of silks and pillows. He stared down at her, feeling that blooming of warmth in his chest that only she gave him.

“What are you waiting for?”

As the words left her lips, Geta threw off the white tunic and joined her, crawling up her body to seal his lips to hers, finally allowing the weight of him to press her down into the bed. He had missed this. Her skin, already hot beneath his hands, her movements only drawing him in further, seeking his touch, his lips.

It had been a long couple of weeks.

He felt her bring a leg up around his hip and he reached for it, fingers digging into her thigh as he rutted against her. The ragged moan that left his throat said more about his desperation than anything else.

The tension in his arm trying to hold him up off of her was too much to ignore. He turned onto his side, clinging to her thigh, slowly bringing her with him until he was on his back. As she settled in this new position, she looked down where they met, a bashful smile on her face.

He couldn’t deny the wonder that overtook him at the sight of her above him, the way her mussed hair hung around her face, a few strands now loose. She was radiant, even in the night. Her nervous smile took hold in his chest, and he knew then that he would make it his goal to continue to find ways to draw that same smile from her.

“I missed you,” she admitted, eyes cast down to the expanse of his torso beneath her hands. “I thought we might never…”

“Letha, you possess me.” Her eyes widened, her body frozen in his hands. “I think that was why it hurt so much to be separated from you.” He shifted his hips, forcing heat into her cheeks. “And I owe you an apology.”

“It is forgiven,” she insisted.

He shot her a look. “I could have lost you. It was cruel and impulsive.”

“We are fortunate your brother had the good sense to intervene, then.”

“Please, do not speak of my brother right now,” he pleaded, squeezing her thighs.

She laughed at him, covering his hands with hers. “Let me distract you,” she offered, bringing his hands up higher, his fingers skimming her belly before she pressed his palms into her breasts.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, his hands squeezing her soft skin.

She ground herself down on him, using him, the sight filling him with desire for her. How he ever got pleasure from anyone else, he could never know. This was all he ever needed. He could only thank the gods, the fates, whoever brought her to him.

She surprised him as she swung her leg over him, leaving him there in the bed, a pathetic whine leaving his throat as the air hit his slick-wet cock.

Letha felt a bit unsteady on her feet as she walked through his room. She was ready to show him that she would take on the mantle, the responsibility of keeping him sated and happy.

Possessed him? She would never get over it.

She found the chest and lifted the lid, reaching down for the delicate crown. Even in the dim light it sparkled. Her prize in hand, she set it on her head and nearly sprinted back to Geta.

He still laid in the middle of his bed, a vision of long limbs and pale flesh. At the sound of her feet padding on the floor he craned his neck, his large brown eyes passing over her, lingering on her head, where the crown sat precariously.

His full lips parted in a grin. “Eager to fulfill your duty, Empress?” he questioned, his voice low with desire. He held his hands out for her, helping her return to her place astride his hips.

“Do you like it?” she asked a bit bashfully, her hands leaving his to steady the crown in her hair.

He let out a deep breath. “Mea lux,” he smiled, reaching up to pull her down to his chest, “you spoil me.” He stole a kiss from her lips before he reached up to adjust the crown so it would sit more securely on her head. She leaned into every touch, relishing the sensation of his large hands on her skin, skimming, gripping, squeezing.

She was so overwhelmed by him that she didn’t notice him preparing to shove into her, her only warning a quick swipe of him through her slick. They let out matching sighs as he filled her, like this was all they needed. Letha sat up, a hand pressed against his abdomen for support as she reacclimated to him.

“W-What exactly are the duties of an Empress, Geta?” she asked. His hips snapping up forcing a wanton moan to leave her lips.

His flush extended from his face and ears down to his chest. “Besides the obvious?”

She nodded, shifting her hips, moving on instinct, eager for relief.

He grunted, letting his head fall back. “Well,” he began, bucking his own hips up slightly to reward her. “You will sit with me in all the boring meetings. We will suffer together.”

“Mhmm,” she moaned, nodding. “I can do that.”

“You will advise me, keep me in line,” he grunted. “Tell me when I’m being a fool.”

“I will relish every chance I get,” she grinned, chasing her pleasure.

“Don’t look so excited,” he chuckled, biting his lip.

She felt her thighs burning, but she didn’t dare stop, the coil pulling ever tighter. “What else?”

“You will guard my heart, Letha,” he breathed, his eyes meeting hers.

Her hips stilled.

Geta flipped them, bringing his face down to hers. She ran her hands up his sides, over his shoulders, tangling in his hair as he kissed her. She relaxed beneath him, her legs wrapping around his hips as he drove into her at a steady pace.

“Can you do that?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

“Haven’t I been already?”

He blinked down at her, absorbing her words. “I love you.”

“I love you,” she echoed, pulling his face down to hers.

In the kiss, he quickened his pace. She felt like she was falling apart in his hands, unable to form more words. He reached down between them, his fingers finding home in the apex of her thighs, his nose brushing against hers as he urged her to her release.

She clung to him desperately, choked gasps leaving her throat as he pressed his lips against it. She clenched around him, the coil finally snapping and giving way for her hard-earned release. He pushed her through it, her hands squeezing his hips in an effort to slow him down, too sensitive.

He sat up, pulling her to him by her hips, grunting as he pounded into her.

“Is giving you an heir part of my duties as well?”

He laughed. “Not a requirement, but–” He cut himself off, burying himself in her as he fell on top of her, pulsing into her. “–a perk.”

He settled on top of her, his lips pressing to hers before he buried his face in the side of her neck. She held him close, running fingers up and down his back, enjoying the warmth of him despite all the sweat.

“I would stay like this forever,” she sighed, trying to fight off the exhaustion she felt. The last thing she wanted to do was sleep now that she had him back.

“I have no pressing business for two days, mea lux. You’re not leaving this room,” he spoke into her skin. “And when we do, we will be wed.”

She felt nervous, but optimistic. “Should we not have waited until after for this then?”

He lifted his head, his warm eyes settling on hers. Full of love and mirth. “Oh, no, dear Letha. I believe you said you have already taken your time to think,” he winked, “and I would not deprive my Empress of anything.”

[ fin ]

Thank you for reading!

#emperor geta x ofc #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta #gladiator ii x reader #joseph quinn x reader #gladiator 2 x reader

65 notes · View notes

acourtofthought · 13 hours ago

Note

I agree with your post that Azriel was an asshole in that scene 100%. But I think making it seem like Elain didn’t have a choice whatsoever in that moment is also why people keep saying the fandom infantilizes her. She was wrong too for thinking it was okay to do that especially when Lucien was there. Again I agree that Azriel acted like an ass there, but Elain wasn’t forced to do anything with him. Let’s start treating her like the adult she is in this fandom. If you want Azriel to apologize to Elain, then Elain should apologize to Azriel too because she was aware she’s a mated female and still chose to accept that kiss.

I actually don't agree with this take and it sounds like you're confusing infantilizing a character with what is you wrongly thinking a female somehow owes a guy something. A guy who, even if she's confused and secretly wants him, has not at this time been giving him any mixed signals therefore her actions were not in any way "cheating" or disloyal.

How was Elain in the wrong for exploring something outside of one likely super serious commitment after she just got out of a super serious commitment when she has currently made no commitment to anyone?

I LOVE Lucien, my heart breaks for Lucien but I also realize how much Elain has gone through.

Lucien lost Jesminda but spent the next how many centuries having casual liaisons with others. Yet for some reason people think Elain has to go from an engagement with Graysen immediately into a super serious mating bond which is a forever sort of thing. Somehow she has to accept her bond with Lucien RIGHT NOW because .....? Why? Why is she not allowed to have a hot girl summer before maybe deciding to explore the thing someone else decided for her. Make no mistake, I am all here for Elucien's story and the reluctant soul mates / arranged marriage trope but that doesn't mean she's not entitled to take time to herself without worrying about Lucien's feelings. Did you forget everything she's been through in the last two years on their timeline? Lost her entire life in the human lands, rejected by her fiance, forced to become a species she grew up fearing, had to stab someone, lost her father and on top of that everyone seems to expect that she focus on Lucien. Everyone but Lucien of course because he's a complete green flag which is why he is her endgame. But she's allowed to be a 24 year old girl processing trauma even if that means having a meaningless fling just to see if she's ready to get back on the dating horse.

Rarely does the fandom fault Nesta for all but confessing her love to Cassian, being willing to die by Cassian's side then turning around and (without any sort of discretion) sleeping with MANY other males, something he was fully aware of. I also do not remember Sarah having Nesta apologize to him for sleeping with others.

Elain did not set out to hook up with Az that night, she thought everyone was asleep. And yes, Lucien was in the house but as far as we know he was also asleep and not aware which means she was a lot more discreet than Nesta had been.

Elain does not need to apologize to Az for anything because Az was fully aware she has a mating bond. They both chose not to discuss her mating bond, Az never asked her whether she planned on rejecting it which means he was fine moving forward without those answers. And just because she has a bond doesn't mean she owes Lucien loyalty. Again, Nesta suspected Cassian was something to her yet she still went on to hook up with multiple others.

Infantilizing Elain is when others act like she's the only person who never had a choice therefore she HAS to end up with Az, that somehow ending up with Lucien isn't a choice because "we need to respect what she wants" as if she's not a fictional character whose wants can change from one book to the next.

Acknowledging that Az hurt Elain in that moment and not the other way around is what happened and I think if you somehow think Elain needs to apologize to HIM than that is you infantilizing a 500 something year old guy with communication issues.

Edit thanks to @zenkindoflove :- Here's your apology from Elain, anon: She opened her eyes, hurt and confusion warring there before she whispered, "I'm sorry." "You don't - Don't apologize he managed to say. "Never apolgize. It's I who should...." He shook his head, unable to stand the bleakness he'd brought to her expression. "Goodnight."

The 24 year old apologized to HIM when he called things a mistake after he was the one who left his hands on her neck then titled her head. And instead of saying, "It's I who should apologize, I'm so sorry" he just decided he couldn't handle telling her he was sorry.

#elain archeron #lucien vanserra #pro elain archeron #azriel critical

41 notes · View notes

alittlegiraffe · 2 days ago

Text

Title: "No More Secrets"

Part 3

The journal felt heavy in Marshall’s hands.

He closed it slowly, like shutting it would somehow make the words disappear. But they wouldn��t. They were burned into his brain now—every letter, every I’m sorry, every apology meant for a goodbye that never came.

His throat was dry when he looked up.

Alaina was still staring at the floor, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold something in. Hailie, though—Hailie was watching him, waiting for something, like she needed him to tell her what the fuck they were supposed to do next.

And Marshall didn’t have an answer.

So he did the only thing he could—he reached for them.

"Come here," he muttered, his voice rough.

Neither of them hesitated.

Hailie stepped forward first, practically falling into his arms, her breath uneven as she buried her face in his shoulder. Alaina followed a second later, pressing into his side, her grip tight like she was afraid to let go.

Marshall held them both, closing his eyes for a beat, trying to steady his own breathing.

They were scared.

And fuck, he was too.

But he couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not yet.

He pressed a hand to the back of Hailie’s head, voice quieter now. "She’s still here."

Hailie let out a shaky breath. "But what if she—"

"She won’t." He didn’t know if that was true. But he needed it to be. "I’m not gonna let that happen."

Neither of them responded.

They just held on tighter.

And for a few long minutes, that was enough.

By the time he got upstairs, his anger was boiling.

Not because he was mad at you.

Because he was fucking terrified.

Marshall found you still curled up in bed, exactly where you’d been when he last saw you. You weren’t asleep—you were staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, your face unreadable.

You didn’t even flinch when he walked in.

But when he tossed the journal onto the bed beside you, your entire body went rigid.

"Tell me," he said, voice like gravel. "Tell me why the fuck I had to find out from our kids that you’ve been writing goodbye letters for months."

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

That scared him even more.

"Say something," he demanded. "Fucking look at me."

Slowly, you turned your head, meeting his gaze.

And the look in your eyes wrecked him.

You were tired. Hollow. Like a house abandoned after a fire, walls still standing but everything inside gone.

"I never meant for them to see that," you whispered.

Marshall let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "That’s what you’re worried about?"

You swallowed. "I didn’t—"

"Didn’t what?" His voice cracked, his breathing uneven. "Didn’t think it mattered? Didn’t think you should tell me? Didn’t think I’d fucking care?"

Your jaw tightened. "Of course I knew you’d care—"

"Then why the fuck didn’t you say something?" He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "Jesus Christ, baby—do you have any fucking clue what it felt like reading that? Knowing you’ve been planning to leave us for months?"

Tears pricked at your eyes. "I wasn’t—"

"Don’t." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Don’t fucking lie to me. Not now."

You blinked quickly, looking away. "I—" You sucked in a shaky breath. "I didn’t want to die."

Marshall’s chest ached. "Then why the fuck were you writing those letters?"

Silence.

Then, finally—

"Because I didn’t know how to live like this anymore."

His breath caught.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, your fingers curling into the sheets like they were the only thing holding you together. "I was tired, Marshall. I still am. And I didn’t want to leave you—I just… I didn’t see another way out."

Marshall stared at you, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Baby…"

You let out a weak laugh, shaking your head. "I told you, I’m trying."

He swallowed hard. "Try harder."

You flinched.

But this time, his voice wasn’t sharp.

This time, it was pleading.

He sat down beside you, his hands trembling as he reached for yours, gripping them tight. "Please." His voice was barely a whisper now, thick with something he couldn’t choke down. "I can’t do this without you. I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t lose you."

Your face crumpled, your fingers squeezing his like you were desperate to believe him.

"You won’t," you whispered.

But the way you said it—it wasn’t a promise.

And that fucking terrified him.

Marshall didn’t leave your side that night.

Even after the anger had drained from his voice, even after the fight had bled out of you both, he stayed. Just sat there, gripping your hands like if he let go, you might disappear.

You didn’t sleep.

Neither did he.

At some point, you shifted, turning to face him, your eyes red-rimmed but dry. "What now?"

He swallowed, staring at you for a long moment. "We fix this."

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Marshall, it’s not that simple."

"I don’t give a fuck." His grip on your hands tightened. "We fix it."

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed. "And if we can’t?"

His jaw clenched. "We will."

Silence stretched between you.

Then, after a moment, you exhaled, pressing your forehead into your hands. "I don’t even know where to start."

"Then let me help you." His voice was softer now, but still firm. "Baby, I—I should’ve seen this. I should’ve noticed before it got this bad."

You shook your head. "This isn’t your fault."

"Maybe not," he admitted. "But you’re my fucking wife. And I should’ve been paying more attention."

His voice cracked on the last word.

You looked up at him, something unreadable in your gaze. "You’ve been fighting your own battle, Marshall. I didn’t want to add to it."

His face twisted. "That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work." He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "Baby, you—fuck, you saved me. You were there for me through every fucking relapse, every time I swore I’d get clean and didn’t. You held me together when I was falling the fuck apart, and you never once made me feel like I was too much. And now you—you think you can’t ask me for help?"

Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I didn’t want to be a burden."

"You’re not a fucking burden." His voice was fierce now, unshakable. "You’re my fucking heart. And I can’t—" He cut himself off, inhaling sharply. "I can’t do this without you."

Something in your expression cracked.

And in that moment, something shifted.

You weren’t fixed.

Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.

But for the first time in months, you weren’t carrying this alone.

Marshall wasn’t going to let you.

And for now, that had to be enough.

---

Marshall thought things would get better once the truth was out.

Maybe not overnight, maybe not even quickly, but at least somehow.

But the weight of it didn’t lessen—it shifted.

Now, it wasn’t just him who was scared.

Hailie and Alaina had been quieter since they found the journal. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes lingered too long, their arms wrapped around themselves when they thought no one was watching.

And Whitney—Whitney was watching. She was too young to understand, but she felt it, the way tension thickened the air, the way conversations hushed when she entered the room.

Something was wrong, and she knew it.

And that scared her too.

So now, Marshall wasn’t just trying to figure out how to fix you.

He was trying to keep the kids from falling apart in the process.

And the pressure was crushing him.

It all came to a head one night, late, when the house was too quiet and your eyes were hollow again.

Marshall sat across from you at the kitchen table, his fingers drumming anxiously against the wood.

"I think we should find someone for you to talk to," he said carefully.

Your expression barely flickered. "I’m talking to you."

"I mean someone who knows how to help—"

"And you don’t?"

He exhaled sharply. "Baby, come on."

"No, seriously." Your voice was too calm. Too sharp. "You want me to talk to some stranger and tell them what, exactly? That I’ve been struggling? That I think about dying every day? That I spent months writing those fucking letters?"

Marshall stayed silent, but his jaw tightened.

Your fingers curled into fists. "Tell me, Marshall, who the fuck was I supposed to talk to when I walked into that bathroom and saw you on the fucking floor?"

His stomach dropped.

"Who was supposed to help me when I thought you were dead?" Your voice cracked, rising with every word. "Who the fuck is going to rewrite my brain so I don’t see you like that every time I close my fucking eyes?"

"Baby—"

"No!" You slammed a hand against the table, breath ragged. "You want me to get help? Tell me, Marshall, who’s gonna help me stop feeling like I fucking died that night too?"

He flinched like you had hit him.

"I don’t even know how to wake back up," you whispered. "I don’t know how to move forward from that. And you—you keep asking me to try harder, but I have been. I have been since the fucking hospital, since I spent two weeks so fucking lost in you that I didn’t even know where the kids were—and worse? I didn’t care."

Marshall felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. "What?"

Your laugh was dry, humorless. "You were dying, Marshall. And I—fuck, I wasn’t thinking about anything else. The kids could’ve been anywhere, and I didn’t care. They could’ve needed me, and I wasn’t there."

Marshall’s chest ached. "Baby…"

"You wanna talk about getting help?" you spat, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I needed help years ago, but I didn’t get it. I couldn’t. I had to be strong—for you, for the kids, for everyone. And now—now, you want me to just—just go talk to someone like that’ll make it all disappear?"

He swallowed hard. "I just—I just want you to get better."

"I don’t know how," you whispered.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because he didn’t know how either.

Marshall had never felt so fucking helpless.

He sat there, watching you tremble, watching the fight leave your body like a balloon slowly deflating. You looked exhausted—not just from the yelling, not just from the weight of the conversation, but from everything. From living.

And that terrified him.

Because he’d been there.

He knew what it felt like to be so fucking tired that even breathing felt like a chore. To look at the world and feel nothing but exhaustion.

He just never thought you would.

And worse—he never fucking saw it.

"Baby…" His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. "I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking seen it."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "It’s not your fault."

"Like hell it’s not." His fists clenched on the table. "I was so caught up in my own shit, I didn’t even notice you were drowning."

Your breath hitched. "I was hiding it."

"You shouldn’t have had to."

Silence stretched between you.

Then, after a long moment, you exhaled shakily, dropping your head into your hands. "I don’t know what to do, Marshall."

His heart twisted.

Because fuck—he didn’t either.

He wasn’t a therapist. He wasn’t a doctor. He wasn’t some miracle worker who could snap his fingers and take your pain away.

But he was your husband.

And if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was fight.

So he reached across the table, carefully prying your hands away from your face and holding them tight. "Then we figure it out together."

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t say anything at all.

You just stared at him, eyes hollow but searching, like you were trying to decide whether or not you could believe him.

And for now—that was enough.

Because he wasn’t going to stop until you did.

The silence between you and Marshall was thick, heavy with everything that had been said and everything that still lingered unspoken. Neither of you noticed the small figure standing just beyond the doorway, tiny fingers curled around the edge of the wall.

Whitney had only come downstairs for a drink.

She hadn’t meant to hear anything.

But now, she stood frozen, heart pounding in her little chest, staring at the two of you across the dimly lit kitchen.

Mommy looked sad.

Daddy looked scared.

And neither of them had noticed her yet.

She didn’t understand everything you had said. She didn’t know what all of it meant. But she knew something was wrong.

And that was scarier than anything.

"Mommy?"

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. Marshall turned so fast his chair scraped against the floor.

Whitney stood in the hallway, bare feet pressed to the hardwood, clutching the hem of her oversized pajama shirt.

"Baby, what are you doing up?" Marshall asked, his voice softer now, careful.

Whitney hesitated. "I—" Her voice was small. "I was thirsty."

You moved first, standing quickly, the chair legs scraping against the tile. "Come here, sweetheart."

She hesitated for only a second before hurrying forward, wrapping her arms tightly around your waist. You ran a shaky hand over her hair, trying to ignore the way your throat felt tight.

"What’s wrong with Mommy?"

Your heart stopped.

Marshall exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. "Baby, it’s—"

"I heard you yelling." Her voice wobbled, muffled against your stomach. "I heard Daddy say he didn’t know you were drowning." She tilted her head up, eyes big and glassy. "Mommy, did you almost drown like the girls said?"

Your breath caught.

Marshall stiffened. "What?"

Whitney fidgeted, shifting her weight. "Lainie said Daddy had to pull you out of the pool ‘cause you didn't want to swim. She said you swim with us all summer and you don't have a problem, but sometimes grown ups get sick and don't swim."

You swallowed hard. "Oh, baby…"

She sniffled. "Are you sick?"

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know how to explain something like this to a child.

But before you could think of anything, Marshall was moving. He stood, stepping closer, one big hand smoothing over Whitney’s back.

"Mommy’s not sick, sweetheart," he said gently. "She’s just really, really tired. That’s all."

Whitney blinked up at him, brows furrowing. "Like when you were sick?"

Marshall’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Not exactly."

Whitney chewed on her lip. "Can she get better?"

Marshall’s gaze flickered to you. His fingers twitched against his jeans.

You inhaled shakily. "Yeah, baby," you whispered. "I can get better."

It didn’t feel like the truth.

But when Whitney threw her arms around your neck, burying her face into you, it was the only thing you could say.

Because now—now it wasn’t just Marshall watching you closely.

It was all of them.

And if you couldn’t fight for yourself, you had to fight for them.

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader

40 notes · View notes

haechansunshineboy · 2 days ago

Text

*:・ﾟ✧. *:・ﾟ✧.

“I need your help.” You say simply.

Jeno climbs into the dugout, taking a seat next to you on the cool metal bench. He recognizes you as a pretty popular up-and-coming singer but not much more than that.

What exactly you were doing here at the baseball stadium? Certainly not to learn some tips on how to throw the ball from the team’s star player.

“Help from me? For what?” Jeno asks, imploring you to continue.

You cross your leg, one over the other, and take a sip of your coffee cup, your sparkling nails covering the logo of Jeno’s team.

“My boyfriend cheated on me and I want to get revenge.” You’re staring at the now lipstick stained spot on the lid of your cup, avoiding eye contact with the baseball player. “Or I guess I should say my ex now.” You bitterly correct yourself.

Jeno briefly recalls hearing something on a news about you dating some kind of actor from a big franchise. Without thinking he puts a hand on your back, gently rubbing circles with his palm.

“I’m sorry that happened to you” Jeno murmurs.

The mental images of you returning home that night to find your ex caught in the act, the missed phone calls and apology texts, the snubs from the other woman, came flooding into your mind again.

The pain still left a sting in your heart.

You let out a deep sigh to push down those thoughts and finally look Jeno in the eye, a fierce look of determination on your face.

“That’s where you come in, Jeno Lee. I want you to, well, fake-date me.”

Jeno looks a little taken aback, which makes sense to you. It was certainly an odd request from someone who he just met.

“Look,” you go on to explain, “I need to look like I’m moving on, and you could use more media presence for the team, plus a pretty girl like me and a hot athlete like you would get so much attention!”

You weren’t wrong. More press for the team would be really helpful for the season (and maybe hearing you call him hot made him a little flustered.)

“We can even set up an arrangement with my team,” you’re babbling on when you notice Jeno isn’t responding “-and it doesn’t have to be too public, just get caught on a few dates-”

“Slow down princess, I get the picture.” Jeno interjects, raising his hands in defense.

Jeno sees your face morph into a sad puppy look and he feels bad. “Look I understand the situation but I’d have to think this over.”

He doesn’t know how you could look even sadder after what he said and quickly replies “I promise I’ll think about it but please give me some time!”

At least this gives you a little hope and you give a little nod.

You stand up from the bleachers and fish out a card with your number on it from your purse.

“Just in case you change your mind.” You give another curt nod before heading towards the small steps to exit the dugout.

“Why me?” Jeno blurts out without thinking, making you stop in your tracks and turn on your heels.

“Because,” your lips form into a smirk, “you’re his favorite.”

*:・ﾟ✧. *:・ﾟ✧.

#it’s giving inspired by Sabrina carpenter #a part two maybe?#nct #nct dream #nct x reader #writing #jeno #jeno x reader #nct jeno #lee jeno #a fake dating au maybe?#baseball au

42 notes · View notes

quintessenceofdust88 · 2 days ago

Text

Life is Changin' Tides, ch. 5 🌊

[Ch. 1]

[Ch. 2]

[Ch. 3]

[Ch. 4]

[Read on AO3]

"“Baby, why would I be going to Mr. Evan's house?” He asks, completely baffled.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to go to Evan Buckley’s house. It’s not like he hasn’t low-key stalked the man’s social media and the last three days and been even more charmed by what he saw. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about asking the other man out at least ten times since that day. “Because, Daddy, mr. Howie said you should, remember?” She tells him, and for once in his life Tommy curses her absurdly good memory. “He said you should check it if mr. Evan meant it or if he was just being silly!” --- Tommy has to make an important delivery. He gets to see Evan Buckley one more time. It doesn't go as either of them expects.

It’s been three days since the tsunami, and Tommy is finally ready to let Vivie out of his sight for more than ten minutes; they’ve spent pretty much all of their time at home as both her and Sal recover from it all, physically and emotionally. Sal’s been staying with them, and Tommy’s insisting he stays until his medical leave is over in a week.

But now Tommy needs to go for his first shift since everything happened, and he’s pretty sure Sal is having a harder time with it than Vivie. While his daughter is happily lying on the floor, her socked feet swinging in the air as she colors a piece of paper, his best friend is eyeing Tommy warily from where he’s sitting on the couch, as he ties his shoes.

“Tommy”, he mutters. “Are you sure you want to do this? You… I won’t be offended if you get a babysitter or take her to someone else, you know? I… I’d understand after…”

Tommy sighs; he’s tried to blow off every single apology Sal sent his way ever since the tsunami. They’re safe, and Vivie is completely fine, and Tommy doesn’t blame Sal for any of it. But that doesn’t mean Sal is convinced, and Tommy’s starting to think he’ll need an extra hand.

“Vivie?” He calls.

“Yeah?” She answers, still focused on her drawing.

“Do you want Daddy to call someone else to take care of you while I work?” Tommy asks, and that makes her raise her head in alarm.

“Why?! Is Uncle Sal not okay?! Are you feeling bad, uncle Sal?” She rushes to them, throwing herself in Sal’s lap. He wraps his arms around her, a sheepish smile on his face.

“I’m feeling fine, darlin’, don’t you worry about me.” He tells her, ruffling her hair, and she sighs in relief. “Do… you want me to take care of you?” Sal asks, sounding impossibly insecure, and Vivie glares at him in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of Tommy’s own bitchy expression.

“Duh, uncle Sal, you’re my favorite uncle. You play the best games and you sing Barbie songs with me!” She tells him as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Tommy, in his defense, does his best not to look smug, but he doesn’t think he actually succeeds. As he finishes tying his shoes, he gets up, raising an eyebrow at Sal, who’s glaring at him.

“Well”, Tommy quips, grabbing his car keys. “I guess that settles the matter, doesn’t it? You guys have fun singing Barbie tunes as I go to work. You behave for your uncle, pixie, okay?”

He presses a kiss to Vivie’s forehead, half expecting her to say goodbye to him and cuddle up against Sal. What she does instead is gasp and scramble out of her uncle’s lap, rushing back to her paper. As she grabs it, a healthy amount of glitter falls on the floor, and Tommy doesn’t even want to think about the clean-up. He guesses he could ask Sal to take care of it, but it doesn't seem like a fair thing to the concussed guy.

“Wait, Daddy!” She says, and then she shoves the card into his hand. “You have to take this!”

Tommy frowns, and looks down at the card. His cheeks instantly blush when he sees the wobbly ‘To Mr. Evan’ that’s written on the cover, along with a much neater ‘From: Genevieve’ (she’s only five, but she’s already a master at writing her own name, Tommy is proud to say). There’s a very glittery blue heart in the middle, and when Tommy opens the card to take a peak, he sees two sticky figures: Genevieve, holding Marsh, and a bigger one that can only be Evan based on the blue eyes and the small pinkmark drawn above one of them.

“Vivie, that is so beautiful, pixie,” Tommy tells her, because he’s a firm believer in always praising his daughter for her efforts (actually he’s a firm believer in giving Genevieve everything he never had growing up, but that is neither her nor there). But he’s afraid he’ll have to burst her bubble at least a little bit. “But… you know Daddy is not going to see Mr. Evan, right? We don’t work together, sweetheart.”

Genevieve looks at him as if Tommy’s being particularly obtuse. He briefly thinks that, if she’s mastered this look by this point, he’s already praying for himself during her childhood. She crosses her little arms and huffs at him.

“I know you don’t work together, Daddy, Mr. Evan works with Christopher’s daddy!” She tells him. “But you’re going to his house, aren’t you?”

Tommy looks at Sal, completely at loss, but his best friend is no help. Sal looks back at him with a shrug, clearly making an herculean effort to hold back his laughter, and Tommy glares at him before looking back at Tommy.

“Baby, why would I be going to his house?” He asks, completely baffled.

But Tommy can’t, because he can’t hold Evan accountable for the things he said under the effect of exhaustion and painkillers. Tommy doesn’t know what scares him the most about bringing it up: Evan being honest and telling him that of course he didn’t mean it, he’s straight, what is Tommy even thinking (even though a straight man wouldn’t call Tommy gorgeous, not even on painkillers, but that’s not the point), or Evan being too polite to say that and date him out of a sense of obligation.

(The thought that maybe Evan did mean it never crosses his mind. But apparently it crosses Vivie’s.)

“Because, Daddy, mr. Howie said you should, remember?” She tells him, and for once in his life Tommy curses her absurdly good memory. “He said you should check it if mr. Evan meant it or if he was just being silly!”

“Wait, wait, silly about what? What did Buckley say?” Sal asks, his gossiper vein clearly showing, and Genevieve is answering before Tommy can stop her.

“About wanting Daddy to ask him out!” She says, bouncing excitedly on her toes. “He said Daddy should, as a thank you, but Daddy said he didn’t mean it because he was too sleepy!”

Sal smirks like he has just won the lottery, and Tommy would strangle him if he wasn’t hurt. Tommy’s cheeks blush impossibly red, and he runs a hand through his face, wondering how he can tell his five-year-old to shut up without traumatizing her.

“Did he, now? Isn’t that interesting?” Sal says, crossing his arms and smiling smugly at Tommy, who flips him off mentally.

“It’s not, because he was under heavy painkillers and probably wouldn’t know the difference between me and Margot Robbie at that moment.” Tommy grumbles.

“Dude, that’s flattering yourself” Sal scoffs at the same time Vivie pipes ‘Who’s Margot Robbie?!’, and Tommy very maturely chooses to ignore both of them. But he should have known there’s no stopping his determined little matchmaker.

“Daddy, but you’re going, right? What if he wasn’t being silly? You could go out with him, and you could be friends!” She says, and Tommy is pretty sure Genevieve doesn’t really know what asking someone out entails.

“Yeah, Tommy, you could be… friends. With Buckley. I can tell you want to.” Sal says, and Tommy internally thinks he’s having way too much fun with it. “Besides, can you really disappoint Vivie and not take her card to him? Are you really gonna do this to your daughter?”

Tommy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, because he’s either going to break his daughter’s heart or teach her the words ‘son of a bitch’, and he’s not looking forward to it. So he closes it again, looks down at the card clutched in his hands, and sighs, realizing he doesn’t really have a choice.

“Please, Daddy?” Vivie pleads, and Tommy already knows he’ll say yes. He’s a sucker for those puppy eyes.

“Genevieve, I… Fine.” Tommy accepts, but he doesn’t want to set her up for disappointment, so he kneels down to her level and looks her in the eyes. “I’ll go over to his house and I’ll take your card, but I don’t know about the whole asking him out part. But I promise you’ll be the first to know how it went, okay?”

Vivie smiles brightly, throwing her arms around his neck, and Tommy hugs her with a chuckle. She’s the love of his life, this little girl, and yeah, he’ll take a few awkward moments to make sure her gratitude is relayed to Evan Buckley.

But he absolutely won’t ask the man out. He still has some self-respect.

-----

Evan Buckley is an overthinker; he’s known that fact about himself all his life, but knowing it doesn’t mean he’s able to control it. So, it’s a given that he’ll overthink the things he said to Tommy Kinard on the day of the tsunami and that Chim had, very kindly, told him in excruciating detail when Buck said he didn’t remember it the next day.

Apparently. Buck had called Tommy gorgeous (ridiculously gorgeous, according to Chim, who was having way too much fun with it). Which gives him the slightest pause because, yes, he’s always been an ally, and yes, he’s always been able to appreciate a hot guy’s ass, but that’s normal, isn’t it? He had never thought of himself as being attracted to guys before.

And yet, he had asked the guy out. More accurately, he had implied Tommy should ask him out as thank you for doing the decent thing and rescuing his daughter. And to top it all off, he had said it in front of said daughter.

Buck supposes his only saving grace is that he doesn’t have to see Tommy again. Eddie told him there’s been some number exchange because Chris and Genevieve wanted to see each other again, but that doesn’t mean Buck needs to be around for it. No, Tommy Kinard has no business being in Buck’s life (and Buck tries to ignore the disappointment that thought brings him).

As he hears someone knocking, Buck figures it must be Eddie asking him to babysit again, so he tries to push away any thoughts of the so-called hot pilot.

Buck opens the door to find Tommy Kinard on the other side.

“Uh… H-hey, hey, Tommy.” Buck says, and tries not to flinch at how idiotic he sounds.

There’s one point in which Buck has to agree with his painkiller-brain: the man is ridiculously gorgeous. He’s wearing a black henley, and there’s a bit of stubble on his cheeks, and he has a cleft. Tommy’s looking at Buck as if he’s a little shy himself, which Buck finds ridiculous, because a man like that has no reason to be shy, ever.

“Can we talk?” Tommy asks, and Buck gulps.

Oh, God, he thinks. He’s going to tell me how completely inappropriate I was and that he doesn’t want me anywhere near his daughter.

“S-sure!”, Buck says, the cheer in his voice embarrassingly fake. “Come on in.”

He lets Tommy inside his house, and the man takes an appreciative look around before gazing back at Buck, smiling at him. He has a crunchy sort of smile that makes Buck’s stomach twist inside of him, and he’s starting to think he might be a little more than an ally.

“Can I offer you anything?”, Buck offers, trying to ignore how sweaty his hands are and how fast his heart is beating inside his chest.“

“No, thanks, I’m not staying long. I’m actually here as a mail man”, Tommy says, and when Buck frowns at him, he chuckles, obviously amused by something. “I was given strict orders to deliver you this.”

He offers Buck a blue piece of paper, shaped like a card. Buck takes it curiously from his hand, an unhealthy amount of glitter slipping from his fingers, and his heart gets all warm when he sees the words ‘TO: MR. EVAN, FROM: GENEVIEVE’ on the card. He opens it to find a quite heartwarming picture of the two of them, and he’s smiling before he can stop himself. That little girl has a piece of his heart, he’s not shy to admit it.

“Oh my God, that is so sweet”, he marvels, chuckling in delight and shaking his head, holding the card close to his chest. Apparently Tommy doesn’t want to tell Buck to stay the hell away from him and his daughter, so he feels more relieved. “She… she really didn’t have to.”

“Well, that’s Vivie for you”, Tommy says, and it takes Buck aback how much affection he can hear in his voice when he talks about his daughter. “She always wants people to feel loved.”

“She’s a great kid”, Buck says sincerely, placing the card on his counter with a small smile on his face, and he looks back at Tommy to see a soft smile on his face too.

Buck realizes that, theoretically, Tommy has nothing else to do in his house. But he’s not moving to leave, and Buck is in no rush either. He likes having this man around; he wants to get to know him better, without missing children or painkillers being involved.

“H-how’s she doing, by the way?” He asks, trying desperately to find a way to keep Tommy for at least a little bit more. “A-and your friend Sal?”

“They’re good!” Tommy exclaims, the relief palpable in his voice. “Sal’s recovering, and Vivie… Well, she’s perfect, thanks to you. Evan, I really don’t think I can put into words how grateful I am.”

He’s looking deeply in Buck’s eyes, and Buck can’t breathe all of a sudden. His gaze is piercing, and it’s making Buck have a hard time thinking. It takes him longer than normal to realize he should answer Tommy.

“I…” He trails off, and crosses his arms on his chest, trying to ground himself. He feels so light-headed it’s ridiculous. “You really don’t have to thank me, Tommy. I’m just glad everything turned out okay.”

Tommy nods, his soft smile gracing his features once more, and then he frowns worriedly at Buck.

“And how are you doing? How's your leg?” He asks, and his concern sounds absolutely genuine, which makes Buck feel all tingly.

“Ah, it’s… It’s alright, I just gotta take it easy for a couple days. I’m under Hen’s strict orders.” Buck chuckles, and Tommy nods in sympathy, which reminds Buck this man knows all of his friends. In fact, it seems almost funny that they had never met before.

“Good. I’m glad you’re taking it easy, cause… You weren’t doing that great last time I saw you”, he says, and Buck wants to flinch in embarrassment, imagining how he must have looked to Tommy, fainting like a Victorian lady as soon as they met. But then Tommy smiles, a little teasing this time. “Though you still managed to realize I am ‘ridiculously gorgeous’, so I suppose you weren’t so out of it”

The teasing catches Buck completely off-guard, and he blushes all the way from his forehead to his nose. Shit, he remembers, he thinks, and then wants to kick himself because of course Tommy remembers, Buck is the one who was out of it, not him.

“Oh, God, yeah”, Buck says, and makes a weird sound that’s something between a laugh and a scoff. He rubs the back of his neck and wonders if it’d be too dramatic to jump from his loft window to escape this conversation. “I am sorry about that, by the way. Probably not what you needed when your daughter had just been rescued from a natural disaster.”

Tommy chuckles politely at that, and Buck’s relieved that at least he doesn’t seem offended. He gives Buck a light shrug, getting a little closer to him, the teasing smile never leaving his face.

“No, don’t apologize, it was very flattering! No one had ever called me a hot pilot before” He says, unlocking another piece of what’s shaping up to be Buck’s most embarrassing memory, and he laughs a bit hysterically. He takes a step closer to Tommy, as if drawn by an invisible magnet.

“Well, you are. A hot pilot, I mean.” He blurts out, and widens his eyes when he realizes what he said. For some “N-not that I’m objectifying pilots or anything, I didn’t even know you were a pilot until that day, and there are probably better ways to tell someone you’re attracted to th-”

Buck doesn’t get to finish his sentence; it all happens in a blur. Tommy gets closer, feels two fingers raising up his chin, and next thing he knows, Tommy’s lips are touching his, and oh.

There are fireworks exploding in Buck’s head; it’s like something is unleashing inside of him, a part of him that had remained hidden until now, a bit of himself that needed Tommy Kinard to be let out. Buck kisses him back, placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, reveling in how right this kiss feels, in the wonderful feeling of Tommy’s lips against his.

It’s over much sooner than Buck would have liked; it could have lasted forever for as long as he’s concerned. His world could have been reduced to kissing Tommy Kinard, and he’d been happy with it. But now Tommy Kinard is looking at him, as if he’s a little surprised with himself, and Buck can only imagine how shocked his face looks right now.

“Like that?” Tommy asks, and he sounds a little out of breath.

“Y-yeah, that works” Buck stutters, his voice more high-pitched than usual, his eyes impossibly wide, but he wants more.

“So that was okay?” Tommy asks, and somewhere in the back of Buck’s mind it registers how sweet of him to be making sure. It makes Buck want to kiss him again.

“B-better than asking someone out in a painkiller-induced haze.” He answers dazedly, and Tommy chuckles adorably, his posture more confident once he’s sure his kiss was well-received, as if Buck’s enthusiastic kissing back hadn’t been proof enough.

“Well, I promise there are no painkillers in my system right now”, he says, and then honest to God straightens Buck’s shirt, and Buck’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to form a coherent thought again. “But I still would like to ask you out. And not even as a thank you for saving my daughter, it’s because you’re really cute.”

Buck smiles despite himself, blushing like a schoolgirl at being called cute of all things. He nods emphatically, looking down at where Tommy’s hand still lingers on his shirt, warm and heavy against his chest.

“I… I’d like that”, he admits, and Tommy’s smile widens impossibly.

“Great. How about Saturday? Are you free?” He asks, and Buck lets out a deep breath he hasn’t even realized he was holding, God knows for how long.

“Yes, I… I am free” Buck answers, and he realizes he doesn’t mean just about Saturday.

“Okay, so… I’ll pick you up around eight? Does that work?” He asks, and Buck realizes he probably should answer more coherently, but all he manages is another weak nod.

“T-totally” He tries again, and Tommy makes finger guns at him, and Buck’s just agreed to go out with this dork.

“So… see you Saturday?” Tommy confirms, and Buck realizes that he’s also a little nervous. That somehow eases Buck’s nerves, and he manages to smile even a little flirtatiously at Tommy.

“Absolutely. D-do you want my number so we can set things up or?...” He asks, and Tommy surprisingly shakes his head, chuckling.

“No need, Chimney already gave it to me.” He tells him, and Buck has never been more grateful for the existence of Howard Han.

“So we’re all set. S-say hi to Vivie for me?” Buck says, and Tommy smiles, already halfway out the door. Buck has to resist the urge to call him back.

“Will do. Bye, Evan.” Tommy says, and just as he came, he’s gone, as if he hasn’t just upended Buck’s life and brought him all sorts of discoveries about himself.

Buck throws himself on his couch, and a huge smile comes to his face. This is the happiest he’s felt since the fire truck accident, and no wonder. He may not have his job back yet, and things might take a while to get better, but… He has a date with Tommy Kinard. How can he be upset?

----

Tag list:

@bidisasterevankinard @unhingedangstaddict @silversky9 @music-is-the-voice-of-the-soul @asmugfirefighter

@typicalopposite @aplaceinme @rubydaiquiri @racerchix21

@dearqueend @laundryandtaxesworld @buckleyskinards @actuallyitsellie

@agentpeggycartering @chaoticdisasterbi

@deelovesbooks @teabroomsandbooks

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #gabby writes #life is changin' tides #life is changin' tides ch. 5 #tsunami fic

49 notes · View notes

siggiedraws · 23 hours ago

Note

I'd love to hear more about your view on Sonic too! What do you like (and dislike, if you want) most about him?🍀

There are so many things I love about him it's hard to choose! But a few things do come to mind:

1) Sonic's willingness to help others no matter what, like when Sonic decides to help rescue a girl's village from a dragon in Black Knight despite the fact that this would cause him to run out of time to do Nimue's tasks (luckily, that was actually a test that Sonic passed!) The fact that Sonic just wants to save people who need saving, no matter if that's an inconvenience to him, shows how compassionate and selfless he is. Not to mention his line to Chip where he says "Do I need a reason to want to help out a friend?" makes me emotional every time. He helps people simply because he wants to!

2) Sonic's thrill-seeking nature. He'll do crazy shit just because it's fun and dangerous and you can tell he just lives for it. He sounds so happy and excited whenever it happens that it's really cute. This is very much highlighted in the Storybook games, where Sonic's companion characters often express their chagrin at how reckless Sonic is. This moment in Pirate Storm and this moment in Molten Mine are my favourite examples.

I would say Sonic's thrill-seeking is emboldened by the fact that he faces death head-on and isn't afraid. When he's about to die in Sonic Adventure 2, he keeps his cool and he calmly holds the fake Chaos Emerald, wondering if he can make it through. In Secret Rings, at the realization that the Flame of Judgment's time limit is almost up, he chuckles to himself and apologizes to Shahra for worrying her. This is extremely telling of his selfless character and his lack of self-preservation. Even in death he's not thinking about himself. He's focused on cheering up his friend.

It's something I find very fascinating, for someone who enjoys living so much to lack a fear of death. Though, I would argue that it does bother him on the inside, if even a little bit, going by the lyrics of Unawakening Float: Must I float away? / Will I ever wake?

3) Sonic's love for life and the world around him. Sonic's always fighting to preserve and protect nature from Dr. Eggman's industrialization, and environmental awareness is a prominent theme in the Sonic franchise, so it makes sense that's what Sonic's all about! He remarks in Heroes that he loves Grand Metropolis, for instance, which is a huge eco-friendly city with no pollution. Also, in a 2022 Q&A, Sonic says that restoring all the levels in Generations reminded him of how great the world is, which is genuinely so sweet! 💙

As for Sonic's love for life, the thing with Sonic is that he doesn't have any ultimate goals in life or any dream to achieve. When it comes to living life to the fullest, he exists in the moment and enjoys the present day. He does what makes him happy right here and right now. In other words, he's content without a destination, and he enjoys the never-ending journey. There is a lot I can learn from him!

4) His mystery! What is Christmas Island like? How did he and Eggman first meet? Just who the hell is this guy? No one knows, but Sonic will tell you he's just a normal hedgehog, which may very well be true. There are little hints here and there that point towards the symbolism of his origins, like his folded boots being inspired by Santa Claus, which is why they're red and white with a buckle! I find that such a cool detail. I love the vagueness of his past and I hope it stays that way.

Speaking of Sonic and mystery, did you know that there's a character called Uhu the Wind Genie in Sonic and the Secret Rings, who is known for his speed, and we never see his true form? I wonder who that could be an analogue to...

As for what I dislike about Sonic, that's much harder to answer because I love him so much. Every aspect about him is perfect to me! I suppose if I had to choose one thing… he can just leave without notice for an extended period of time, as seen in the end of Sonic Advance, and that can be very worrying. He's an independent guy and he likes alone time, but I can imagine how his behaviour could frustrate the people around him. Tails flying in the Tornado trying to look for him in the sky breaks my heart.

anyways... I love Sonic so much as you could tell. Thanks so much for your ask! 💙

#sonic characterization #ask

44 notes · View notes

parker-artio · 2 hours ago

Text

The Batfamilys ages don’t make sense.

Or me dissecting the timeline of when the bats first met and why their ages are fucked up!

This is a lot of math that I did mentally while washing the dishes, I apologize if some of it is inaccurate, but I did the best I could.

(And yes, well all know their ages are fucked up, but I realized they’re a lot more fucked up then anyone first notices)

-I am ONLY doing the main family btw-

SO-

The very first Batfamily members to meet were Bruce and Alfred, it was kinda straightforward, Bruce was a baby Alfred was around the same age as his parents at early to mid 20’s.

List of the ages so far:

(I will be doing this every time)

Alfred Pennyworth: 24 ish

Bruce Wayne: 8

The second was Bruce and Dick (obviously), but this is kinda a odd one, but it’s still straightforward, Bryce went to The Flying Grayson’s show, he saw his parents die, and Y’know he decided right then and there he was going to be a foster parent. Good for him. But Dick is mentioned to be about like from 8 to 9 here. It’s more implied that he’s 8, because it’s supposed to be a parallel thing, to Bruce, with both of his parents dying in front of him at 8- so that the age I’m going to use for the beginning of this.

Bruce was supposed to be Batman for about 2-3 years before he took in Dick, so that’s what I’m going by to assume his age. (DC admit this man is mid fourths to early fifty’s , stop saying he’s early 40’s- he’s clearly not.) So he dropped out of college pretty early on, so I’d say like 19? Then he went on his trip around the world for a year or so and ended up at the League of Assassins to where he stayed for like- 2 to 4 years before he came back to Gotham. So I’m going to use the median of 2 and 4 and get that it was 3 years. (Same with the years before he took dick in, rounding out to 2.5) therefore Bruce was about- 23.5 ish when he took in Dick. And if you do some subtraction he’s only 17 years older than Dick, which works in a basic timeline of there being a couple references to Bruce being a ‘teen dad’.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 39 ish

Bruce Wayne: 23.5 ish

Richard Grayson: 8

Say what you want, but Barbara is apart of the batfam- I know some people like to say she’s a bit like Huntress and isn’t- but to me she is. She is the original Batgirl, and is very much apart of the Batfamily to me.

So she’s older than Dick, I’m not sure how much older, but I’m her first appearance (when she wasn’t being shipped with Bruce) she was about 2 years older than him (?- I think I can’t find anything on google with any confirmation and I don’t have old comics on hand rn).

But her first appearance was when Robin (dick) was about 12-13, I’m just gonna put 12.5 for the sake of putting 12.5.

Meaning her first appearance was when she was about 14 ish. And was about- 6 years later.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 45 ish

Bruce Wayne: 29.5 ish

Richard Grayson: 12.5

Barbara Gordon: 14

The next is Bruce meeting Jason. To figure out the ages here we first need to figure out the amount of time between him meeting Dick and meeting Jason. So let’s talk about the age gap between Jason and Dick.

It’s believed that their age gap is from 5-8 years, so let’s just go to the middle and say it’s 6.5 years. Jason is supposed to be 12 when Bruce first meets him, when he trying to tirejack the Batmobile. So if we add 6.5 to 12, Dick is about 18, meaning it’s been around 10 or so years. Which actually lines up believe it or not. (The old writers could actually stick to a timeline unlike the newer ones.)

But I can’t find any older comics to figure out if Bruce took Jason in right then and there, or he saw him again about a year later and took him in then. So let’s just say Jason is 12.5 when Bruce takes him in.

Ages so Far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 49 ish

Bruce Wayne: 33 ish

Richard Grayson: 18

Barbara Gordon: 20 (This also would be post paralysis as she was 19 when it happened)

Jason Todd: 12.5

When Tim comes into the family is when it gets confusing. We’re not even starting with the first time he met the family, we’re starting back with Flying Grayson’s Show.

So, Dick as we’ve established is 8. Jason is about 6.5 years younger than him. Making Jason about 1.5 when the show happens, but a very often mentioned age gap in all of the batkids- is between Tim and Jason. As Tim was 13 when Jason died. Jason was 16. Tim was 16 when Jason came back. And Jason was 19.

It’s a three year gap, therefore, Tim couldn’t have attended that show. But I don’t think anyone did the math there, meaning that’s where the first timeline inconsistency starts to occur. But it’s okay, because in a few versions Dick was said to be about 11, meaning Jason would’ve been 4ish and Tim about a year old. Most babies don’t remember stuff that happens in this time, but it is possible, so I’ll just scratch it up to multiple different world and the writers forgetting.

But when Tim does finally meet the family he is 13, as it is right after Jason’s death when he is 16, he becomes Robin because Dick basically hands him the suit, when Tim tells him Batman needs a new Robin, and yeah.

So a three year gap. Timeline a bit messed up, but it can’t get that much worse, right? (Wrong.)

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 52 ish

Bruce Wayne: 36ish

Richard Grayson: 21

Barbara Gordon: 23

Jason Todd (assumed dead): 16

Tim Drake: 13

So the next person is always a bit confusing, some think it’s Steph, others think it’s Cass, but Cass was batgirl first, however Steph was Spoiler first- They kinda started at about the same time- so I’ll just smush em in together.

So Cass is said to be older than Jason by only months. And they both come in at about a year of Tim being Robin, putting Cass at 17, which also doesn’t line up with the timeline, as Bruce says she is 16 (I can’t find the panel but it’s in one of he 2000’s runs I believe I can’t confirm exactly) but it’s close in age, so I’ll let it go.

Steph is said to be both the same age as Tim, but other times older, so I’m going to place her at 15 here. A year older than Tim since it’s only been a year since Tim started as Robin.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 53 ish

Bruce Wayne: 37 ish

Richard Grayson: 22

Barbara Gordon: 24

Jason Todd (assumed dead at 16): 17

Tim Drake: 14

Cassandra Cain: 17

Stephanie Brown: 15

So the next is Damian- obviously.

So Damian is 10 when he comes, it’s mentioned multiple times. Yay an easy to confirm age, we love it!

Jason also comes back.

However Tim is mentioned to be 16 here, so we can easily just get everyone’s ages from doing the math from their ages previously. Most people when calculating their ages skip Steph and Cass and say it’s a six year gap between him and Tim, which does line up, but without Steph an Cass there it still fucks with the timeline a bit.

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 56 ish

Bruce Wayne: 40 ish

Richard Grayson: 25

Barbara Gordon: 27

Jason Todd (now alive again): 19

Tim Drake: 16

Cassandra Cain: 19

Stephanie Brown: 17

Damian Wayne: 10

Now we’re on Duke. Which is where it gets all fucked up.

So Google says Duke is four years older than Damian, and his first appearance is when Damian is 11 or 12iah, making Duke about 15 or 16, in his first appearance. But also in this time, DC stopped aging Tim all together, they supposedly aged Cass down, and Steph closer to Jason’s age. Which fucks the whole timeline up, but let’s not get into that.

We can just go from Damian’s age to get the rest, meaning it was a two or so year gap from Damian arriving to when Duke first started in the ‘I Am Robin’ movement and soon after became Signal

Ages so far:

Alfred Pennyworth: 58 ish

Bruce Wayne: 42 ish

Richard Grayson: 27

Barbara Gordon: 29

Jason Todd: 21

Tim Drake: 18

Cassandra Cain: 21

Stephanie Brown: 19

Damian Wayne: 12

Duke Thomas: 16

This is what their ages would’ve been if they didn’t continue to age Damian up and no one else, so here’s what ages they SHOULD be. (This is for you Tim.)

Since Damian is 14-15 in comics currently- everyone should be a bit older too- but DC refuses to age them up. (I’m going to use 15 just because, making it a THREE year difference.)

Ages they should be:

Alfred Pennyworth: 61 ish (I don’t care if he’s dead)

Bruce Wayne: 45 ish

Richard Grayson: 30

Barbara Gordon: 32

Jason Todd: 24

Tim Drake: 21

Cassandra Cain: 24

Stephanie Brown: 22

Damian Wayne: 15

Duke Thomas: 19

Someone needs to ask Duke how college is going, or ask Tim how it feels to drink. Maybe someone should ask Dick how a mid-life crisis feels, when you’re actually close to the mid-life age. (He’s had them before, but now he’s actually closer to the midlife age.) Have someone ask Bruce how it feels to be in his 40’s and still get called hot, to get called ‘beekeeper age’ by people- and still get voted hottest man of the year, yearly.

There’s so many untapped humor opportunities that come with their chronologically accurate ages. But DC is full of pussies.

#DCpleaseletTimage

27 notes · View notes