#I have no time line for when they will be opened but I’m working on it

[andypantsx3]

FILLING IN | BAKUGOU x READER ˖˚˳⊹

summary: A production assistant for an erotic arts studio, you think you've seen every ridiculous plot line under the sun. But not even porn tropes can compare to the absurd reality you find yourself in when the on-screen talent drops out, and you're asked to fill in opposite the studio's number one star Bakugou Katsuki.  contents: The classic oh-no-the-porn-talent-has-gone-missing-let's-sub-a-rando-in trope, no quirks au, pornstar Bakugou, soft dom Bakugou, gn + afab reader, unrequited-requited crush, slight bondage, descriptions of afab genitalia, nipple sucking, cunnilingus, piv sex, pet names used: angel and sweetheart, porn with surprise feelings, 18+, 8.2k words notes: This is my Bakugou x Reader commitment for @ficsforgaza, and I am sorry it is late enough to also count for Valentine's Day (but also Happy Valentine's Day!!) Additionally, a special thank you to my angel princess @ofmermaidstories for handing me the nerd + pornstar combo when I was worried about Bakugou's characterization. I think this is the only way I could have ever written a pornstar Bakugou that felt right to me. Love you, Mermie.

The studio was churning in chaos by the time you arrived.

The first sign that things weren’t right was Komori, one of your fellow production assistants, propped against the wall outside. Her cellphone was pressed against her ear, and she looked nervous, her foot tapping a thousand miles a minute. She had a thumbnail pressed to her mouth and was chewing steadily through the nail like a rabbit through a lettuce leaf.

You didn’t want to disturb her, so you buzzed inside the studio, only to find the hallways filled with an equally nervous energy. Yaoyorozu, one of the production managers, hovered in the doorway of a dressing room. She looked to be arguing with someone, her normally sweet expression pinched in profile. A small circle of people took up the hallway behind her, shifting apprehensively.

A shrill voice filtered out of the dressing room as you tried to wedge yourself by. “I said I’m not doing it. We’re getting married and we agreed I wouldn’t do this anymore.”

“Bibimi—” Yaoyorozu started.

“Effective immediately. Find someone else,” Bibimi’s voice replied.

You stopped in your tracks, blinking as you turned back to the doorway, peering over Sato’s shoulder.

Bibimi Kenranzaki was one of the studio’s top actresses, the very performer scheduled to shoot the production you were working on this afternoon. The shoot was a Valentine’s Day special, and had already been delayed at Bibimi’s request several times. If you’d understood Yaoyorozu’s previous concerns correctly, today was the last possible day to shoot it with enough time for it to make it through editing to post on Valentine’s.

This was not good.

“Bibimi, of course we would never force you to do something you did not consent to,” Yaoyorozu said patiently. “But you can see how having delayed this shoot many times already puts us in danger of not delivering on our commitments.”

You heard a dismissive snort issue from the room, and peered over one of Yaoyorozu’s slender shoulders. Bibimi lounged across one of the waiting room couches, arms crossed over her chest. An enormous diamond ring you’d never seen before glinted from one of her fingers, clearly the source of today’s change of heart.

Oh, production was not going to be happy.

You winced as you ducked out from behind Yaoyorozu, heading back down the hall to stuff your things into one of the vacant lockers. It was a struggle to fit everything in as today you’d come directly from a lecture—two textbooks the size and weight of cinderblocks choking up all the space in your bag. You would have thought that, considering that a wide swath of the production staff were college students—including several of the performers themselves—the studio would have had a better set up. But it was often a fight to the death to even find an open locker amongst the many other bookbags, and an equally Sisyphean struggle to get the door shut on the tiny cubbies.

Once you finally managed to finagle the door shut on your backpack, you made a beeline for the supply room. Typically, your first task of any shoot was acquisition of about a million pounds of baby wipes and lube, though you wondered if they would be needed today, given the scene with Bibimi you’d just witnessed.

You checked the film schedule posted in the staff entry to find the allotted set room. Then you made your way down the twisting maze halls carpeted with ancient olefin to the set for You Cumplete Me, the obnoxious working title Kaminari had come up with for this particular Valentine’s Day project.

The room was set up like some generic apartment, a large bed with a wire-framed headboard dominating the majority of the space. A cherry wood nightstand cluttered with fake knick knacks stood diligently at the bedside, and two fake windows with their curtains drawn shut overlooked the whole affair, red dressings fluttering slightly in the breeze from a fan.

Most of the production staff was already inside the room, the cameramen and director huddled together in the corner, whispering nervously. You spotted Mina, the wardrobe coordinator and makeup artist, fussing with her phone in the other corner, her various products and brushes spread out across a plastic folding table, looking put out.

“You know if we’re going to be able to sub anyone in for Bibimi?” you asked as you approached her, flopping down in one of the chairs set up at her makeshift dressing table. You arrayed your armful of lube and plastic packs of wipes at the corner so as not to disturb her arrangement.

Mina’s eyes flicked up to yours and she grinned, the upturn of her mouth accented with perfectly-applied hot pink lipstick.

“Komori’s called like ten other actresses so far and can’t get anyone,” Mina answered. “And Shiozaki and Kendo are in-studio but both just got off another shoot so we contractually can’t use them. I think Yaomomo is ready to start shaking people down.”

You winced. Yaoyorozu never lost her cool, but the pressure must be mounting. You knew marketing materials had already been put out on the studio’s website, specifically promising the return of the studio’s highest-grossing star—Bakugou Katsuki—opposite Bibimi.

While Bibimi might be the highest paid actress, Bakugou was the real draw of UA Productions. UA churned out projects that were largely targeted towards less traditional markets—largely women—porn that was often of higher production value, higher quality scripting, and careful coordination showcasing enthusiasm and consent. It also subsequently employed more than its fair share of beautiful men.

And Bakugou Katsuki crowned that pile of performers. Though foul-mouthed and often irascible, he was undeniably breathtaking to behold, both on screen and in person. He was the typical blend of tall, strong, and well-muscled that most UA actors were. But he moved with a singular precision and intention that drove fans wild, and came equipped with bed-rumpled blond hair, mile-long lashes, a surly, pouty mouth, and a facial symmetry that Euclid himself would have wept over.

He was also nearing the end of his doctoral and would not be filming for much longer, you were given to understand. So the studio stood to lose a significant amount of audience trust and money, should this production fall through.

As if on cue, Bakugou Katsuki himself stomped through the doorway. The expression on his face told you he was already well-aware of what was happening with Bibimi, and he was getting annoyed with the hold up. He set a direct line for you and Mina, mouth twisted in dissatisfaction.

Your ears promptly went hot, the way they always did when Bakugou was in your line of vision.

You’d unfortunately had something of a crush on him from the minute you’d become a production assistant at UA, your third year of college. Funds were tight and your masters program loomed large in front of you, its meager stipend like a slap in the face. You’d needed something else flexible, and you’d found UA through the friend of a friend—its proximity to the university, and ever changing schedule of ongoing productions offering the perfect amount of flexibility for your situation.

Bakugou had been there that first day as Yaoyorozu gave you the tour, too. He’d been tucked up on the couch of the waiting room as you passed through, blonde hair rumpled, someone’s lip gloss still smeared at the corner of his jaw. He looked like a soft, relaxed mess—clothes askew like he’d pulled them back on after a shoot and immediately migrated to the couch—though his scarlet eyes tracked intently across the page of an enormous engineering text spread across his thighs. His long fingers twirled a pen absently, tapping against a notebook peeking out from just under the textbook, headphones jammed over his ears.

He did not look up as you made your way inside, but your stomach had flared to life with a sudden flutter of butterflies. You were startled by the pretty set of his mouth, the long lashes that swept over his cheeks as he read, the flex of those long, beautiful fingers on his pen. You had never seen a person so perfect in real life, and the effect was dumbing.

“That’s Bakugou, one of our performers,” Yaoyorozu had told you, leading you through the room. She did not stop to introduce you. “He’s working on a PhD in chemical engineering, and performs once every couple of months for us. He’s—erm—not quite friendly, so we’ll skip the introduction today.”

You’d followed her, nodding obediently, leaving Bakugou behind. You’d dutifully concluded your tour and signed all the paperwork, and met several other members of the staff. It was only when you’d been released from your onboarding obligations that you saw Bakugou again, as you ran out into the parking lot to start your car.

It was raining out, a torrential downpour much worse than when you’d arrived that came down in thick, pelting sheets. Visibility was bad enough that you almost missed the tuft of blonde hair across the parking lot, ducking under the awning of the nearby bus stop.

You knew the route headed back towards your university, and subsequently your apartment, and it dawned on you that Bakugou’s would most likely be attaining his cited PhD at your same college. You felt your mouth twist, impressed. PhD tracks were notoriously difficult to attain at Musutafu University—no wonder Bakugou needed a job that was, for lack of better phrasing, quick and dirty. He probably was drowning in post-grad labs and dissertation materials.

The memory of those long fingers tapping at the edge of his text suddenly flickered again in your brain, and something possessed you as you started up your engine. Before you knew what you were doing, you had pulled your car around into the bus stop bay, leaning out to call out to him.

“Hey—Bakugou, right?” you said, watching as scarlet eyes found yours, narrowing suspiciously. His pretty mouth lifted in an immediate, reflexive snarl, and those broad shoulders squared off, like he was getting ready for trouble.

You cut in, quickly explaining yourself when you realized he had no context for the rando hanging out of their car window at him. “I’m Yaoyorozu’s new production staff. Just joined today. Are you headed towards Musutafu U and do you want a ride?”

A blonde eyebrow lifted. “You’re with UA?” he asked. His voice was a kind of low growl, not unlike the thunder suddenly echoing overhead, and the sound shot through you like a bolt of lightning.

“I—yeah. Just signed the paperwork this afternoon.”

Several spatters of rain dampened your cheeks where you had your head poked out of the window, and Bakugou’s eyes tracked them closely as he leaned in. “Then let’s get one thing straight right off the bat—I don’t fuck coworkers off the clock.”

You recoiled, horrified at the conclusion he’d immediately brought himself to. “No! That’s not what I—I didn’t mean like—! I just thought because it’s raining out, you might want—”

“I want you to fuck right off, is what I want,” Bakugou said, crossing his arms over his chest. He made a show of leaning back against the glass wall of the bus stop, its interior papered over with moldering ads. It was a clear dismissal.

You blinked at him stupidly for a moment, mind reeling that your gesture had been received so poorly. But then you realized he hadn’t seen you, in your trek through the staff room during your afternoon tour. You’d only just seen him, and you hadn’t spoken to him besides. Despite your immediate interest in and respect for him, he knew nothing about you.

And he was a pornstar, come to think of it. He probably had had a fair number of creeps proposition him out of the blue. Enough that he was suspicious now, as you might have been, were you in his position.

Your cheeks heated, suddenly ashamed. You nodded, gritting your teeth as you ducked back inside your car.

“Right, fucking off, as requested,” you said, turning your blinker on to move back out into the road. “Sorry to scare you. See you, um—see you at work sometime.”

“Oi—I ain’t fuckin’ scared,” you heard him growl, but then you were turning back out into the street. You rolled your window back up as you sped up, resisting the urge to look back at Bakugou in the rearview.

What a humiliating first impression that had been.

You'd fretted about it for another week before your first official day at UA, and for several weeks more when you didn’t immediately run into Bakugou. When you’d finally met him properly, however, Bakugou acted like he’d never even seen you before in his life, and you somewhat gratefully followed his lead. He treated you like anyone else, with the same kind of universal severity he turned on the other production staff. You discovered very quickly that he was impatient, brusque, no-nonsense. He stalked onto every set with all the latent energy of a nuclear missile strike, and never softened until after the shoot was over.

His general attitude, and your humiliating first encounter should have been enough to turn you off of him. But the occasional glimpse of him after a shoot—rumpled, relaxed, open in a way he normally wasn’t, in the way that you'd first seen him—was unfortunately enough to keep those initial butterflies aflutter.

The fact that he was smart—and annoyingly adept in the bedroom, considering the number of reshoots his costars often needed after they accidently came too early—did not help matters.

“Where the fuck is Yaoyorozu?” he demanded of you and Mina, as he approached you in the set room now.

You met his scarlet gaze, holding very still under his regard.

“She was negotiating with Bibimi just now when I came in,” you told him, cheeks heating as his eyes flicked over you. He had a very direct way of evaluating people, and rarely missed a detail. You hoped your makeup wasn’t smudged from where you’d had your head propped up in your hand, valiantly resisting falling asleep in your earlier lecture.

“Bibimi’s a waste of fuckin’ time,” Bakugou growled.

You rolled your eyes. He couldn’t very well act opposite his own hand, so someone was going to have to fill in.

“Well Mina says we’re not having luck finding anyone else either so Bibimi is your best bet,” you told him.

Bakugou looked down his perfect nose at you. “Anyone in this damn studio could do better than she does.”

You felt your eyebrows raise. Bibimi was popular with a variety of audiences for her exaggeratedly dollish features—you doubted just anyone could fill in for her and look as good. You said as much to Bakugou, and he scoffed.

“‘S not about looking good, it’s about showing that you’re feeling good,” he said plainly, igniting a wave of fire across your cheeks. The flames worsened when he crossed his arms over his chest and you had occasion to notice he was in nothing but a workout tank, his bare biceps flexing enticingly in the studio lighting.

You were thankfully spared from having to form a coherent response by Yaoyorozu stepping into the room. She was tailed by Komori, and wore a troubled expression. She waved an elegant hand that encompassed both your camp in the corner and the directors on the other side of the room.

“Bibimi is unfortunately out. And we cannot use Shiozaki or Kendo. I am afraid we may have to call off the shoot this afternoon,” she said.

“So get someone else in,” Bakugou said, with his usual brisk directness. He turned to face her. You caught the whiff of something light and clean on him as he did so, laundry detergent and recently-applied shampoo.

Yaoyorozu fixed him with an expectant look. “We’ve unfortunately worked our way through the roster of available performers. Unless you know someone else?”

Bakugou stared back at her evenly, arching a blonde brow. “There’re a bunch of extras already here, aren’t there?”

A little shock went through you. Extras. As in the…people in the room right now? Did he really mean the production staff?

Yaoyorozu blinked, apparently taken aback. Then her gaze slid thoughtfully between Komori, Mina, and you. Another little thrill raced through you, like you’d suddenly missed a step. Surely they both could not actually be considering that.

“I’m a hoe but I’m a loyal hoe,” Mina said from next to you, immediately putting up a rosy palm. “Eiji is my one and only, sorry babes.”

Yaoyorozu nodded. “Of course, I would not expect you to violate any commitments you already had to a significant other.”

“I am also seeing someone,” Komori volunteered, a shy little blush sweeping across her cheeks. You smiled a bit at her obvious regard for whoever it was—until you sensed a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly turning to you.

Your stomach dropped—less of a missed step then and more of a sudden push off a cliff.

Worst of all was the pair of scarlet eyes suddenly burning with undue regard in your direction. You stared straight at Yaoyorozu, unable to meet Bakugou’s gaze. You still felt like you might burn up under his scrutiny, like an ant under a magnifying glass.

“I—uh—” you said dumbly, floundering for the right set of words to explain yourself. “Uhh.”

“You seeing anybody?” Bakugou prodded, prompting a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks.

“Well—no—”

“You clean?” he asked.

Your face burned hotter. “Yes, if you must know—-but uh—”

“Then what?” he prompted.

“Is it that easy for you? To just switch partners like that?” you asked. You weren’t exactly a blushing virgin but you still had only slept with partners you had cared for. Bakugou had worked with you for years and never signaled anything beyond dismissal and semi-professionalism—so it wasn’t like he had that same level of interest in you, despite your enormous crush on him. How could he just switch, just like that?

Bakugou uncrossed his arms to settle his hands on slim hips instead, and he gave you another evaluating once over. “Something the matter with you?” he asked. You noticed he did not ask if you thought something was the matter with him. You wondered if your crush on him was that apparent.

“No,” you said defensively. “Just—I don’t know that I’d be any good on camera.”

“You’ve been in videos before,” Mina pointed out, tugging playfully on your belt loop. “You were in Bibimi’s Christmas special a couple years ago.”

“That was different,” you said, staring at her. “I was her evil coworker who sent her running into Tetsutetsu’s muscular arms. I didn’t have to get naked.”

“We can give you time to get prepared,” Yaoyorozu promised kindly. “If you wanted to um, clean up or trim—”

“It’s not that!” you said quickly, waving your arms. Your ears burned. “I just mean I would be shy.”

Bakugou watched you silently for another long moment, his full mouth pursed in thought. His gaze dragged down your body and then back up to your face, and you felt it like a physical touch.

“Then if you forgot you were on camera?” he asked, a rasp in his tone.

You blinked at him dumbly. “If I—forgot?”

“If I made you forget,” he said, flashing a sharp smirk. The arrogance looked so good on him, zinging through your veins like an electric current. Your cheeks and ears flared even hotter, until you thought you might actually be emitting smoke from them.

You tried to form words but seemed to have trouble shaping the proper ones with your tongue, making a series of choking noises before you managed. “There is no way you could—you’re not that good.”

Something hot flared to life behind Bakugou’s eyes, and his smirk curled even sharper. “We’ll see about that.”

“What if Bakugou helps you get over your nerves, and we just try it and see how you do.” Yaoyorozu prompted gently. “Is that something you would be willing to do? Of course we won’t pressure you.”

Your gaze jerked back to her as you startled. For just a second you’d sort of forgotten there was anyone in the room but Bakugou.

“I sort of doubt—but if you really need—I mean I could—try…” you fumbled out.

Yaoyorozu nodded gratefully, looking pleased again. “Alright, then let’s at least try it. Mina please find proper costuming and help get Y/N ready. I will draw up a short contract with the same terms we promise all our on camera talent for you to look over when you’re done.”

You nodded, a little dazed. Had you really just agreed to—?

But then Mina was laughing, grabbing you by the elbow and drawing you out of the room. She marched you towards the back of the studio building where she’d amassed a respectable wardrobe, racks upon racks of clothes. “Alright, this is going to be so fun! I love dressing new talent! It’s always fun to work out what’s going to work with your coloring and style on screen.”

The mention of you doing anything on screen had all the blood draining from your veins, but Mina didn’t seem to mind. She kept up a stream of happy, easy chatter as she pecked around in the racks like a chicken hunting a grasshopper. Eventually she emerged with a robe in a deep pink, slippery and silky and glistening faintly under the overheads.

“Okay so you’re supposed to be a loving couple celebrating your anniversary and looking for ways to spice things up,” she said. “So you’ll be waiting for him to come home, looking delicious in this little slip of a thing. He can unwrap you like a V-Day present!”

Her callback to the plot of the shoot suddenly made you realize there were way more things involved in the project than just being pawed at on screen—and you did not know any of Bibimi’s lines. How the hell were you supposed to deliver any kind of performance?

“Don’t worry about it, I assure you the gears are already churning in Momo’s big brain,” Mina said when you asked as much. She peeled you out of your sweater and jeans, and ushered you into the robe. Cheeks burning, you let her look you over to make sure you were properly groomed for the camera.

Then before you could get cold feet, she bundled you up and shepherded you back into the set room and set to work on you with her various pots of paint and ointments. She worked a couple things into your hair, applied something glossy and sticky to your mouth, and adjusted the fit of your robe to her liking until she pronounced you ready.

Yaoyorozu was already leaning over you by the time Mina released you, laying out a packet of sheets in front of you. She detailed the terms to you in the professional, clipped tone you’d heard her conduct business in before, and soon enough you were penning in your own name in a shaky hand. The strokes looked almost foreign on the page, and you felt a little more than lightheaded thinking about what you’d just signed yourself into.

“So—what am I supposed to do about Bibimi’s lines?” you asked, your voice coming out kind of dry and crackly.

“We’re going to improvise,” Yaoyorozu said. “Bakugou will guide you. Try to respond as best you can to what he says, along the framework of being a couple celebrating their anniversary. It’s most important to capture your intimacy, however, so we can always come back and reshoot any dialog as needed after. You can call him Katsuki, there are no aliases for this shoot.”

You nodded, feeling even more nervous now that all the prerequisites had been completed.

That left Komori waiting for you. She was apparently assuming the duties you’d abandoned by becoming the star of this absurd alternate dimension. She led you over to what had been meant to be Bibimi’s starting mark on the bed and helped you spread your pink robe out enticingly. You almost laughed as you helped her, feeling foolish and distinctly unsexy for the deliberateness of it all.

There was nothing less romantic than half a dozen other people in the room with you, cameras and hot lights trained on you like you were an escaped convict under a helicopter floodlight. You got the impression that it was going to be a monumental task to work up the nerve to even loosen the tie on your robe, nevermind remove it.

Except then Bakugou walked in.

He’d changed, sometime in the half hour or so Mina had had you in her clutches. He prowled into the room in a dark charcoal suit, the consummate businessman home from his generic businessman job.

He looked unfairly good in it too—the close cut of it highlighted how his broad shoulders slashed inwards into a trim waist, and his pants showcased the flex of a strong, hard thigh. He’d acquired a chunky wristwatch in a dark metal, and it glinted dully under the overhead lights.

He looked sleek and dangerous, even though you’d just seen him stomping around in sweatpants not thirty minutes prior. You felt your breath escape you in a whoosh, your heartbeat kicking up as he prowled closer.

“I’m home, angel,” he said, a smoky rasp curling on the end of his voice. Despite the pet name, he sounded enough like his usual self that you almost answered him in turn.

You vaguely remembered you were obliged to playact with him, and you summoned up your nerve. “Hi, Katsuki,” you said. You hoped your voice did not sound too shaky. “Happy Anniversary.”

Bakugou’s scarlet eyes dipped down to your robe, fastening to the spot where it gaped open suggestively over one thigh. Your skin buzzed like a hive of bees was trapped beneath it.

“This my present?” he asked, stalking closer. He snagged the tie of your robe in his long fingers, toying with it speculatively.

“It should be easy to open,” you joked, then almost cringed.

Sexy. You were supposed to be sexy, not goofy as hell. And what happened when he really did try to open it?

A small amount of panic crept up your spine again, seeping into your veins. You did not feel ready to be naked before all of the eyes in this room, nevermind the roving gaze of the internet. What had you been thinking, signing up for this?

Your hand came up defensively to tug the robe tie back out of Bakugou’s hand, only for it to be captured too. Bakugou tugged you up and to him, and your face broke out in another sweeping wave of flame as you felt the hard planes of him against you. He was so warm, and smelled so good up close and you could not even begin to know what to do or where to put your hands—

Before you could ask him what the heck he was doing, however, he brought your captured hand to his mouth. You almost leapt out of your skin when you felt the gentle press of his lips on the inside of your wrist, the careful flicker of a tongue. Those scarlet eyes slid over you knowingly, near enough that you could see tiny flecks of deep purple in them.

His other hand came up to take your chin, his thumb stroking over the side of your jaw. The feeling made you shiver slightly, and it must have been clearly visible because the corner of Bakugou's mouth lifted into a smirk against your wrist. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, every inch of your skin thrilling with the feeling of your longtime crush doing something this to you.

“Think I’m gonna enjoying opening you alright,” Bakugou intoned.

You struggled to remember what he was talking about, giving up almost immediately as his mouth trailed along the inside of your arm. It traced up and up and up, until he was hovering dangerously close to your face. His fingers tightened on your chin, tilting your face up to his.

And then he bent his head, and crushed his mouth to yours.

Immediately, everything else disappeared.

Kissing Bakugou was three thousand zillion times hotter than you could have ever even imagined. You’d sort of imagined that with an attitude like his, he would be all power and impatience. And the power was there, but leashed, somehow. His mouth was hot and shockingly sweet on yours, and his fingers cupped your face to his, holding you there like he planned to kiss you for hours yet.

Your head was spinning by the time he let your mouth free, and the dip of his blonde lashes as he looked you over was extraordinarily self-satisfied.

His hand on your chin went to your robe instead, pulling the collar wide so that he could lower his mouth inside instead, kissing over your throat. You seized fistfuls of his suit, clinging to him, as he mapped a hot path across your shoulder and collarbone, one of his hands coming up to up your chest.

You heard yourself let out a soft hiss as his thumb pressed over your nipple through the silky fabric. Bakugou sucked a careful bruise into the side of your neck as he did it again, letting out a barely audible snort when you jerked in his hold, unconsciously arching into his hand.

“So sensitive for me, angel,” he drawled as his other hand came up to carefully pinch your other nipple.

You heard yourself make a small, choked off noise like a whine, and you could feel Bakugou’s lips pull into an answering smirk against your throat. You didn’t think you had been quite this responsive to a partner before—but something about the careful, purposeful way he was touching you had your blood running quicker in your veins.

Bakugou’s thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles over your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make you groan. He teased you again and again as his mouth traced higher on your neck.

Within minutes you were panting, a slow, syrupy pleasure dripping down into your core.

Bakugou tugged your robe wider, then bent his head. You felt the tickle of his hair against your collarbone, softer than you would have thought, as his mouth closed over the point of one nipple. The draw of his mouth had you arching up into him immediately, pleasure zinging through your veins.

“Oh my god,” you said, seizing a fistful of that blonde hair.

Bakugou’s tongue teased at the nipple, and you writhed in his hold. Then he did the same to your other one, and you thought you might die. He hadn’t even touched you yet and you already wanted to crawl out of your skin with impatience.

“Katsuki—please,” you heard yourself say, almost distantly. “Katsuki—oh!”

“Please what, angel?” he said into the skin of your chest, before laying his mouth back over your nipple and giving a sweet suck.

“Oh my god—please!” you said, stupidly. Not an answer to his question but you’d forgotten how to string words together, your brain-to-mouth connection running on autopilot.

“Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” Bakugou said, and you heard the relish in it. Your face burned, and you yanked his hair a little more firmly. He just groaned, and then sucked you a little harder.

“Touch me! Please—Katsuki,” you panted out, hips flexing unconsciously with the pull of your nipple.

“Thought this was my gift, angel. I can’t enjoy it how I want?” he asked.

You considered his words muzzily, having no idea what he was talking about. Gift? What gift was he talking about?

Bakugou’s scarlet eyes flicked up to yours, and something in your expression must have told him you had no idea what he was on about. His mouth pulled up into a self-satisfied grin, and he leaned up to kiss you again.

You flattened yourself out against his chest, all but velcroing yourself to him. You wanted to feel every inch of that hard body against you, wanted to climb as far into him as you could. Something gratifyingly hard pressed against your stomach as you kissed him, and he grunted, locking you to him with a muscled arm across your back.

“Want me to touch you, angel?” he asked.

You nodded. A smile played across his lips.

“Get on the bed for me then, sweetheart.”

It took a minute for you to process but then you were scrambling to obey, scrabbling your way onto the bed, turning and watching as Bakugou stepped nearer.

He shed his jacket as he approached, yanking off his tie too and flinging it somewhere behind him. Then he crawled over you, his fingers seizing the ties of your robe as he did. He pulled it open gently, then yanked a little harder until the silk tie slid free.

His eyes picked over it speculatively, then flashed back up to you. A look of intent interest settled over his features.

“You ever been tied up before, angel?” he asked.

You shook your head, even as it swam with the implication. Your skin prickled, somehow growing even hotter. He didn’t mean to…?

“You gonna let me?” he asked.

You rather thought you would let him do anything he wanted with you. The question was barely out of his mouth before you were nodding hurriedly. A shocked laugh punched out of him, and he gathered up your wrists, scooting you backwards until they pressed against the headboard.

He looped the silk around your wrists, gathering it into a series of complicated knots. He moved with a purpose and precision, his movements sure and practiced. You tested the give of the ties when he sat back on his haunches, finding that they held firm, even when you put a little more muscle into it.

Bakugou’s gaze blazed over you, hot like coals. His eyes traced over your body, spread out under him now, your silk robe pooling at either side of you in a pink puddle.

He bent his head and kissed you again, until you were fuzzy with the feeling once more. Then he worked his way downwards, softly biting your shoulder, licking over one nipple, pressing deep kisses into your belly and then indent of your left hip.

A shock of pleasure raced through you when you realized where he was going with this, and you let out an involuntarily little gasp as he hooked your thighs over his broad shoulders.

“Katsuki,” you began, though you had no idea what you meant to follow it up with. Bakugou didn’t wait for you to finish, ducking his head and licking a hot stripe up the cleft of you.

Immediately you arched, thighs flexing under his hands. Your face heated when he laughed again, but any embarrassment was instantly forgotten when he licked over you again, slower and more deliberate this time.

“Oh my god,” you said again, biting off into a groan when his tongue dipped deeper between your folds, flicking up over your clit.

“Yeah, angel?” Bakugou asked, his voice a heady rasp. “You like that?” He layered another open mouthed kiss over you, slow and thorough, until you were arching up into his mouth again.

It would have been evident to anyone on earth how much you liked it from the noises you made, the way you kicked and squirmed with the movement of his mouth. He sucked your clit gently into his mouth, then laved over it firmly as he pressed his fingers to you, the pads of his index and middle slowly sinking into you.

Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head when he gave another slow suck, the feeling almost too much. His fingers pressed deeper into you, easily slipping in with how comically wet you were for him. The gentle suction of his mouth made everything a million times better, everything a million times worse, as he carefully curled his fingers within you. He seemed to immediately find a spot within you that felt like he was touching your clit from the other side too, and the feeling was immediately far too much.

“Holy shit,” you heard yourself say, cutting off into an honest to god whine when his tongue swirled around your clit, just as he teased a finger along you from the inside too. “Katsuki—oh! Katsuki please! Please oh my god oh my god.”

Bakugou’s ministrations grew a fraction firmer, and you heard him groan too as he kissed you messily.

“So fucking hot for me, sweetheart. So sweet,” he said, then sucked again, a tiny bit harder this time. His fingers stroked you from the inside, a firm, deliberate rhythm that had you turning your face and muffling a keen into the meat of your arm.

Your hips flexed against his face, wild and uncontrolled, wanting less, more, not enough, too much, oh my god—

“Katsuki!” you cried, as you suddenly hit the crest of your pleasure. Your wrists pulled against their bonds, and the feeling of helpless restraint suddenly made everything feel a thousand times more intense. Every single nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire, so that even the air of the room seemed too harsh on your skin. You screamed as you rode out your pleasure against Bakugou’s face.

He worked you through it diligently, licking and sucking until you collapsed back to the mattress, panting like you’d just run a marathon.

“Good, angel?” Bakugou asked.

You nodded breathlessly, turning your face to his when he crawled up your body to kiss you again. The taste of yourself on him was both embarrassing and thrilling, but Bakugou didn’t give you much leeway to consider it, kissing you into a stupid, pliant little puddle against the mattress.

You could feel him hard and hot against your hip as he did so, but he didn’t make any move to get inside you yet. Instead, his hands moved over you, slowly teasing you from satiation back into want. His fingers played with your nipples again, pinching them softly and rolling them. It felt like he'd rigged up some kind of wire, leading from your nipples right to your core, that lit the pilot flame of your interest again.

A couple minutes of diligent teasing, and easy, unhurried kisses had you wiggling under him again soon enough. It was only then, when you realized you were unconsciously rocking your hips against Bakugou’s, that he finally sat back to shuck off his shirt and pants.

He was so unfairly beautiful, bared in the bright light of the room. You’d known he was gorgeous, of course, but up close he was something else entirely. He was chiseled with thick muscle, his chest and arms hard and glowing faintly with perspiration. The light and the shadows of the room played over the divots of his muscles with a deliberate care, like he was a painting instead of a man, highlighting him in loving shades. A set of perfect abs trailed down into the hard jut of hip bones over his pelvis, and his cock was just as upsettingly gorgeous as the rest of him. It was thick and full and flush with his arousal, and he wasted no time crawling back between your thighs.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked. His voice had gone even more gravelly than usual, and it plucked at your core like a string.

“Please, Katsuki,” you said, your voice embarrassingly breathy. You couldn’t help yourself though, couldn’t be ashamed with the easy way your thighs fell apart for him. Your ankles hooked across his back, trying to pull him closer still.

He groaned and surged up over you to grab a condom off the nightstand. He quickly rolled it onto himself in one practiced movement, before immediately pressing himself into you.

He sank in mortifyingly easily, you already half out of your mind with want. He didn’t seem to mind, though—you heard the soft, sibilant hiss of his own pleasure as he filled you, and your robe tugged the skin of your shoulder as he fisted a hand in it, just beside your head.

“Been dying to fuck you, angel,” he said. “Thinking about how hot and tight and sweet you would be for me. Been thinking about it nonstop.”

You made a vague noise of agreement, moving your hips with his as he drew back and pressed inside of you again. The slide of him inside you was mind-numbingly good, the pressure against your stomach as he pressed back in almost sparking stars in your vision. The flex of his abs between your thighs as he found his pace was almost immediately too much for you, and you had to turn your face away. You tilted your face up to his, watching him as he watched you.

Bakugou seemed to read your expression easily, finding the angle and pace you liked incredibly quickly. He slid an arm under the small of your back to angle your hips up into him, yanking you up like you were nothing, and the show of easy strength had your toes flexing and curling against his back.

He kissed you again, catching the sounds of your pleasure in his mouth as he rocked into you. You moved against him, hips bucking, delirious with the feeling of him. Eventually he freed his arm from under you, pressing his thumb to your slit again with deadly precision.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned into his mouth, legs tightening on him as he played with your clit. The almost-too-gentle sensation of his thumb on your clit, coupled with the relentless drive of him inside you had your vision sparking and greying at the edges. His face swam in front of yours, and all of your limbs began to feel shivery, almost too weak to lift yourself into him the way you needed, to rock against him and find relief from the friction.

Bakugou continued to tease at you, carefully pinching and petting. His hips drove into you tirelessly, slapping the bottoms of your thighs, as you strained in your silk bonds, wanting to grab him, pull him even harder into you.

“Katsuki, please please please,” you heard yourself begging. You felt him smile against your mouth, tasted his reply more than heard it.

“You want me to let you cum, angel?” he asked, doing something with his fingers that made your breath catch in your lungs.

“Unhh, yes—please!” you cried, desperation coming over you in a white haze.

You had never—never—been so desperate for anything in your entire life. You didn’t know how Bakugou was doing it, why his touch felt like so much more than anything else you’d ever felt in your life. If he didn’t let you cum you were certain you were going to die, right here and right now.

“You gonna scream for me, sweetheart?” Bakugou asked, his voice raspier than you’d ever heard it. He grit the words out, like he too was on the edge of his own climax, barely staving it off.

“Anything, I will do anything,” you babbled senselessly. “Yes—going to scream for you—Katsuki!”

Bakugou’s gaze was hotter than you’d ever seen it, scarlet eyes clouded with pleasure, glowing like banked coals. “Then you can come for me, angel. Come on, sweetheart.”

“Oh!” you cried in answer, your feet planting themselves on the bed to jut your hips up hard. Bakugou’s thumb pressed hard against your clit, then, firm and merciless, and he fucked into you harder, his pace growing faster, furious.

Your second orgasm hit you like a truck, snapping your spine into alignment, locking all your limbs up as if in rigor mortis.

“Katsuki!” you wailed as you writhed against him, clenching and fluttering around him as you sobbed.

“Oh fuck,” you heard him say, and his hips stuttered. You realized he was coming too, fucking into you sloppily and disjointedly as he rode out his own pleasure. You arched and spasmed with him, clawing uselessly at the silk that bound you, twisting in blissful agony.

When you finally came back to yourself you found yourself slumped on the bed, Bakugou’s weight pinning you down into the mattress. His chest was slicked to yours with sweat, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of it against you as he caught his breath.

“That good, angel?” he asked, his voice heady with satisfaction.

You nodded, absently turning your face back up to his for a kiss. He granted it, kissing you almost possessively. He looked soft and rumpled, just the way you'd always liked him, and something in you purred with satisfaction at finally getting to have him like this for you.

Gradually, you became aware of other sounds in the room as you came down from your high. Quiet murmuring and the sounds of shuffling met your ears, the shutter click of a camera lens slicing through the atmosphere like a knife.

A sudden shock raced through you when you realized you and Bakugou were not alone—and you were on the set of a porn film, half a dozen eyes glued to you just over one of Bakugou’s thick shoulders.

A porn film. You had been shooting a porn film!

“And cut!” you heard the director’s voice ring out, like a bucket of water dumped over your head.

You tensed up beneath Bakugou, mind racing. Holy shit, he had actually managed to make you forget, exactly the way he'd promised.

You could tell Bakugou was thinking the same thing as he went to untie you, looking extremely satisfied with himself.

“Told you, angel,” he said, flashing something of a feral grin. You hated how good the self-conceit looked on him.

You went to draw your wrists back to yourself as he let them free. But Bakugou caught them instead, carefully massaging the skin there as if to make sure things were circulating properly. It was a startling note of unexpected care, as was the way he drew your robe closed around you again against the sudden chill of the room.

You found yourself saying wonderingly, “Wow. It was just that easy for you to switch partners like that.”

The thought somehow stung, even though you’d known going into this what you were getting yourself into. Somehow, the latent care and intention with which Bakugou had fucked you had addled your brain, made you think your connection had been something more. He had felt like he had feelings, beyond those mimed for the camera.

But here was evidence to the contrary, plain and simple. There literally was a camera.

Except then Bakugou looked down at you, a frown marring his pouty mouth. “Well yeah. ‘Course it was gonna be that easy when it’s you we’re talking about.”

You blinked at him, not understanding what he was saying. “Uh. When it’s—me?”

A crease came in between Bakugou’s blonde brows. “I said it, didn’t I? While we were fucking? Wanted to fuck you for a long time. Of course it was easy.”

Your stomach dropped, like a rug had just been yanked out from beneath you. “You—have? What? Since when?” you demanded.

Bakugou leveled you with an unimpressed stare. “Since the second time we met,” he said, and your mind flashed back to the way he’d seemed not to recognize you, that second time you'd spoken to him. “Once I realized you did work for UA and weren’t actually a little fucking creep trying to lure me into your car.”

You felt your eyebrows shoot towards your hairline. “Then—? For years? You cannot be serious. You never acted like we were anything other than coworkers!”

Bakugou scoffed. “We fucking were coworkers. And I told you, I don’t fuck coworkers off the clock.”

You blinked again, startled by the level of professionalism couched in the crassess of his statement. It made sense, you supposed, for a pornstar of Bakugou’s caliber to have put boundaries like that in place. Probably everyone in the world would just be dying for a shot at him.

“Wow,” you said, almost to yourself. You didn’t know what to do with this new information, wondered how it was going to be possible to behave professionally with Bakugou at all going forward. It was probably obvious to him how big your crush on him was, given that he’d known all along he could make you forget you were on camera. Given the way you reacted to him embarrassingly easily.

Except then Bakugou leaned forward, putting his face startlingly close to yours. “Emphasis on were, since this is my last shoot,” he said.

You stared at him, wondering if you were interpreting the implication correctly. There was no way he meant—?

“Uhhhh, meaning what, exactly?” you prompted, heart beating just a little bit quicker despite yourself.

Bakugou’s mouth turned up into a gorgeous smirk, and he ducked his head even closer, voice going softer.

“Meaning you’re going to get dressed and I’m going to take us to get something to eat,” he said, fingers playing at the edge of your robe. “And then you’re going to give me that ride home in your car after all. And we are going to do this all over again.”

Flames erupted across your face, sweeping across your cheeks. And you were up out of the bed before you even realized what you were doing, catching yourself on the bedside table as you stumbled.

Bakugou’s laugh chased out of the set room as you raced towards the wardrobe again. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, this time.

Not when your heart felt like it was going to beat right out of your chest. You smothered a smile as you ran down the hallway.

Much like Bakugou had just done to you—it looked like your hopes and dreams were finally lining themselves up and filling themselves in.

[brittle-doughie]

Orchestrated Arrival (Pure Vanilla Cookie)

Previous Story

———————————————————————

[Main Story]

Therapy Progress Note

Y/N Cookie has improved drastically since the last visit with me, being more lively and engaged with my questions and conversations. Their previous symptoms have since cleared up and appear to be back to normal condition. There was one particular thing of note was the incense they carry with them, but they’ve told me that it was just for personal reasons.

I ask that Y/N Cookie returns to me in a week to see if their progress continues to improve. Seeing their smile reminds me of why I chose this line of work.

- Chamomile Cookie.

———————————————————————

You looked up at your drawer mirror, that light in your eyes that wasn’t there before, giving you confidence that you were back. Back in control.

You look over to the incense that was in the burner, giving off that fragrance that you’ve welcomed into your life. You kept counting your stars that Golden Osmanthus Cookie was able to help with your…problem.

You kept inspecting yourself when you noticed that the smoke from the burner had stopped, looks like it ran out of incense. No matter, you open your drawer to get out the next one..until you kept reaching around in there and noticed there wasn’t any.

Well..that was okay, the other drawer also had more, you’ll just open that and get some mo-there wasn’t any in there either.

Now you really started to worry as you go through the drawers to try and look for where you placed the incense, unable to locate any as your searching grew more frantic. You were practically opening any cabinet or drawer and flipping them upside down to look for something, anything!

That hazy feeling in your head was slowing returning and along with it, came their voices again…

…

…

You: “Oh no…”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Yoohoooo~! If it isn’t my dearest little Cookie!”

You: “What?! You’re here already?!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Aw, that’s no way to greet a close friend of yours~!”

You: “We’re not friends. I only allowed you to help that one time and you still had to go overboard with it!”

You sigh to yourself. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you looked like a crazy Cookie talking to thin air from an outside perspective.

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Tsk tsk tsk. I did as you asked, you never said HOW I should do it. Or did that not matter to you in the heat of the moment~?”

You: “Yeah, because I’m not as nuts as you are.”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Oh, Y/N Cookie! I’m so hurt~ There’s no need to get mad with little ol’ me~ Those three are still alive, right~?”

You only grumbled as you get up to head out the door, only for your hand to freeze up right as it was about to touch the doorknob, confusing you.

You: “What the…”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Believe me when I say that I hate doing this, but it seems you leave me with no choice!”

Your hand leaves the doorknob as you grabbed your arm with the other one.

You: “No way, it hasn’t been that long yet!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Oh no, you see, I’m different compared to my…friends. Nothing you can do will deter me from you…”

You: “Get out of my head!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Oh, but it’s just so snug in here! All of these feelings! All of these memories…you’ve been quite the busy Cookie longer than I expected!”

You: “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “If you don’t want to take a trip down memory lane, then listen to what I have to say, cutie~”

You: “……*sigh*..What is it?”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Surprise! You’re going to Beast-Yeast again! This time, to see the greatest show master across the land, me!”

You: “Of course it’d be that, as if your friends weren’t enough…”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Aw, don’t be like that. My acquaintances may be a little..intense, but I promise to you that they do care!”

You: “One of them tried to mess with my mind and the other gave me these invisible scars of sort. Is that caring to you? Not to mention that you tried to mess with my head too!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Things might have gone a little off script, but I promise it will be different this time!”

You: “And if I say no-“

Shadow Milk Cookie: “THEN YOUR KINGDOM WILL SUFFER FROM YOUR CHOICE!”

You: “What?! You can’t do that! They have nothing to do with this!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “You’ve forced my hand, Y/N~ I’d hate to hurt you much more, but I will have your little pals on strings if you say no~ I don’t need my puppets alive to toy with them~”

———————————————————————

A brief flash of an image coursed in your head. Your kingdom on fire. Houses in ruin. The grass was wilted as Cookies fled from the chaos.

There in the sky were Crowned Cupcake, Salsa, and Dumpling Cookie. Their limbs twisted and broken on blue strings, their necks…necks don’t bend that way…

The flash goes away as quickly as it came, making you gasp.

———————————————————————

You: “No, you can’t…”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Oh, but I will! So, what will it be? No pressure~”

You: “I….I…”

*KNOCK KNOCK*

???: “Y/N Cookie? Is everything alright in there?”

You snapped your head to the door to the voice on the other side of it.

You: “Dumpling Cookie?”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Tick tock, honey~”

———————————————————————

Dumpling Cookie: “Y/N Cookie? Are you..”

The door to your chambers opens as you step out, as you adjust your outfit with a determined look.

You: “I’m fine. But I have to go and attend to something. I’ll be back when I can.”

Dumpling Cookie: “What? This is abrupt of you, I can come along to assess the situation-“

You: “No need, I can handle myself.”

Dumpling Cookie: “Y/N Cookie, do you not remember what I said earlier? If anything is a problem, you can tell me…”

You: “Don’t you trust me that I can handle things on my own?”

Dumpling Cookie: “I’m not doubting you, but..I just wanted to know if you were okay…”

You: “I am, don’t you worry. I’ll see you around…”

You go and head off down the hallway. Dumpling Cookie wanted to reach out and go to you…but stopped herself.

You made your choice clear…

…

…

…

???: “Are they gone?”

Dumpling Cookie sighs as she looked to the side solemnly.

Dumpling Cookie: “Yes…”

Salsa Cookie and Crowned Cupcake Cookie step out of the darkness of the hallway behind her.

Salsa Cookie: “Good. We’re getting to the bottom of this.”

Crowned Cupcake Cookie: “It hurts me to see my dearest shun us out, we need an explanation from them!”

Salsa Cookie: “Don’t be too sad, Dumpling Cookie. Y/N Cookie is clearly hiding something from us and we’re going to figure out what.”

Dumpling Cookie: “I just feel like we could have waited for them to tell us on their own terms…”

Crowned Cupcake Cookie: “The more we wait, the more they could get hurt!”

Salsa Cookie: “Remember, this is for their own good…”

Dumpling Cookie still had conflicted feelings, right as she headed into your chambers alongside the two.

———————————————————————

Pure Vanilla Cookie: “Y/N Cookie, you’re here!”

You: “Y-yeah, here I am.”

Pure Vanilla goes to hug you close as the others head over, glad to see you return to the Faerie Kingdom after many months.

Pure Vanilla Cookie: “Are you okay? Are you well?”

You: “Yes, I am…well….”

Your eyes twinkle a certain blue.

You already regret coming here…

———————————————————————

“What do you mean you won’t hand over control of them?!”

“This wasn’t what we agreed on…”

“Oh please, my friends! You two had your chance with my dearest! Now it’s my time to shine with my special reunion with them~”

“And what if you fail?! We’ll be losing them again from the palm of our hands!”

“It will be a pity if it happens…”

“I’ve got this under control. It’s either us or their kingdom falling under ruin~! They’ll be in our grasp when I’m done with them~”

“You have better be right….”

“Yes, I can’t lose them again….”

———————————————————————

[lvnleah]

west end star | leah williamson.

You were lounging on the couch, Leah sitting beside you with your legs draped over her thighs. Today was the day you could find out if you had landed your first major West End role, the one you’d been dreaming of since you were a kid.

Your whole life had been dedicated to musical theatre. From performing in summer recitals at age six to moving all the way to London from Manchester for Musical Theatre college, your whole life had revolved around it. Sure, you had done a few ensemble parts here and there after college but nothing like a major role. 

A few months ago you had auditioned for Sophie Sheridan in Mamma Mia the Musical on the West End. You had poured everything into that audition. Every note, every step, every ounce of emotion you could muster had gone into your performance. 

Sophie Sheridan in Mamma Mia. Even saying it to yourself felt surreal, but it was what you’d been dreaming of for as long as you could remember.

The callback process had been gruelling. Weeks of singing, acting, and dance workshops, surrounded by people who were just as talented and hungry for the role as you were. You’d tried to stay grounded, but deep down, you knew you wanted this more than anything.

Leah had been your rock throughout the process. She’d spent countless nights helping you run lines, watching you practice choreography in the living room, and reassuring you when the self-doubt crept in. 

“You’re going to get it,” she’d said every time you worried. “I can feel it.”

Now, here you were, sitting on the couch, staring at your phone like it might explode. Leah was gently tracing patterns on your shin, pretending to scroll through her phone but clearly keeping an eye on you.

“You know you’re allowed to breathe, right?” she teased, glancing up at you with a small smirk.

“I am breathing,” you shot back, though it felt like your lungs were only half working.

Leah rolled her eyes. “Barely. It’s going to be fine, love. Whatever happens, you’ve done everything you could. You were incredible in that audition.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Both of you froze.

Your agent’s name lit up the screen, and your heart started pounding.

“Don’t just stare at it, woman!” Leah said, her voice suddenly serious. “Answer it!”

With trembling fingers, you picked up the phone and pressed it to your ear. “H-hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart, it’s Miranda,” your agent said warmly. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” you managed to say, though your voice cracked slightly. Leah gave your leg a reassuring squeeze. “Do you have… um… any news?”

Miranda let out a little laugh. “I do. I just got off the phone with the casting director, and they were absolutely blown away by you. They said your energy was perfect, your vocals were spot on, and well, they want you for Sophie.”

The words hit you like a wave. You sat there, frozen, as Miranda’s words echoed in your ears. “I what—wait. I got it?”

“You got it!” Miranda confirmed, laughing again. “You’re going to be Sophie Sheridan on the West End. Congratulations, sweetheart. You deserve this.”

Tears filled your eyes as you tried to process the moment. “Oh my god, I—Thank you, Miranda. Thank you so much.”

“Go celebrate,” she said warmly. “You’ve earned it. I’ll be in touch soon with all the details.”

The call ended, and you slowly lowered the phone, staring at it like it might suddenly disappear.

“Well?” Leah asked, “Babe, talk! You know, use words?”

You turned to her, the biggest smile breaking across your face. “I, um, I got it,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Leah, I got it.”

Leah let out a cheer, pulling you into her arms so quickly that you nearly toppled off the couch. “I knew it!” she exclaimed, kissing you all over your face as you laughed and cried at the same time. “You’re going to be Sophie! On the West End!”

“I can’t believe it,” you said, burying your face in her shoulder. “This is actually happening.”

Leah pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands framing your face. “You worked so hard for this, and you deserve every bit of it,” she said before attacking you with more kisses. “I’m so proud of you, babe.”

You smiled, giggling as her kiss attacks stopped. “I couldn’t have done it without you. You’ve been my rock through all of this.”

“And I’ll be your rock through everything else, too. Now,” she said, standing up and pulling you with her, “we are celebrating. Whatever you want, dinner, drinks, dessert, name it, and it’s yours.”

You laughed, wiping your tears. “Can we start with some champagne?”

“Absolutely,” Leah said, already heading to grab a bottle. “Only the best for my West End star.”

Your debut arrived quicker than you ever expected. Weeks of rehearsals and costume fittings flew by in a blur. The nerves hit as soon as you woke up that morning, a constant flutter in your stomach that didn’t ease, no matter how many times Leah reassured you.

“You’ve got this,” she said that morning, handing you a cup of tea as you sat at the kitchen table, staring into space. “You’ve worked so hard for this, and everyone’s going to see how incredible you are.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Leah asked, sitting across from you after a few moments of silence. 

“Just… everything,” you admitted. “What if I mess up? What if everyone hates me?”

Leah smirked and reached for your hand. “If anyone doesn’t like you after tonight, they’re either blind or tone-deaf. You’re going to be the best Sophie Sheridan that stage has ever seen.”

You smiled despite yourself. “You’re biased.”

“Absolutely,” she said. “But I’m also right.”

She was the steadying presence you needed that day, texting you little messages throughout your pre-show prep: You’re a star, babe. Don’t forget to breathe. Save some talent for the rest of the cast, yeah?

When the curtain finally rose that evening, the nerves melted away, replaced by the joy of being on stage that you always had. The music, the lights, the energy of the audience, it was everything you’d ever dreamed of. By the time the final bows came, the roar of applause felt like it might shake the building.

When you finally emerged from the stage door, your breath caught. There Leah was, standing with Amanda and Berny, a bouquet of flowers in her arms. Leah’s face lit up the second she saw you, her grin wide and proud. She stepped forward, holding out the bouquet, but before she could say anything, you launched yourself into her arms.

“You were amazing,” she whispered into your ear, holding you tight.

“Thank you,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were sparkling with pride, and the sight made your stomach flip.

Amanda stepped in next, wrapping you in a warm hug. “That was incredible, sweetheart. I was in tears during ‘Slipping Through My Fingers.’ You’ve got such a gift.”

“You were made for this role, darling,” Berny added, smiling warmly. 

“Thank you, both of you,” you said, overwhelmed by their kindness.

As the four of you walked toward a nearby restaurant to celebrate, Leah squeezed your hand. “You know,” she said softly, so only you could hear, “watching you up there… I’ve never been so proud in my life.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Stop it. You’re going to make me cry.”

“Good,” she said with a grin, “because I cried. Twice. And if I have to admit that, you can at least tear up.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, though your smile betrayed you.

“And you’re brilliant,” she said, leaning over to kiss your temple. “Don’t forget it.”

[lanf1an]

DREAMS lando norris pt.3 When your childhood bestfriend Flo had convinced you to get the fashion design job at her brother's company Quadrant, it finally paid off when Louis Vuitton was announced as the new sponsor for F1.

pt.1 pt.2 wordcount: 2495

You had convinced yourself nothing had happened. You would never have to tell Flo anything. And for a few days, it was easy to believe that. There were no events, no fittings, no reasons to see him. Just a silly mistake you had already forgotten. It should’ve never even happened in the first place. You weren’t the kind of person who mixed work with… whatever that had been. You were a professional and your LV job meant way too much to you to risk anything.

So when you arrived at the next fitting, relieved you weren’t assigned to Lando. It was for a campaign shoot, a setting that felt much more comfortable to you than the chaos of a live event. Here, things were controlled. Professional.

You were helping another driver with their fitting when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Manager: Hey, slight change—Norris requested you.

You barely had time to process before the door opened and Lando strolled in, hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease.

Lando stretched lazily, like he had no idea why you’d be annoyed. 

“Hey, stylist.”

You kept your voice even. “Didn’t realize I was assigned to you.”

His grin widened. “Well, you weren’t.”

You exhaled sharply. “Then why am I here?”

Lando shrugged. "Yeah, well. Wouldn’t trust anyone else with my zippers during a wardrobe malfunction. Only the best, hey?"

You didn’t answer, just tossed the first outfit at him. “Try it on.”

Lando took the suit, standing up. “You’re all business today.”

“I’m always all business,” you muttered.

He didn’t push further, just disappeared behind the curtain to change. You took a steadying breath, shaking off the tension creeping into your shoulders. This was fine. You were in control.

A few moments later, he emerged, adjusting the sleeves of the suit jacket.

“How do I look?”

You turned, ready to make some small remark—but your words caught in your throat.

The suit fit him too well. Sharp lines, tailored perfectly to his frame. The deep navy color made his eyes stand out, the crisp white shirt underneath just barely undone at the collar.

Damn it.

Lando caught your hesitation, grinning. “That good, huh?”

You exhaled. “Put the next outfit on.”

He chuckled but did as he was told.

By the end of it, Lando looked as effortlessly put together as ever, and you had successfully done your job, and kept your professionalism intact. You were glad the fitting was done and you didn’t have to stay for the whole shoot, so you quickly left.

-

After the Australian Grand Prix and the first few races, there were no high profile LV events. You had been doing preparatory work at the London office. Until Monaco. Of course for Monaco, Louis Vuitton would play a big part at the events again. You flew there a few days before the events and race. Quadrant was also in Monaco for the race and they were all going out tonight, Max and Keegan had both texted you to come with like old times in London. 

When you arrive, the party is in full swing, the rooftop of the Monaco venue buzzing with drivers, influencers, and the elite of both motorsport and fashion. Maybe it’s the relief of not being on duty, of not having to hover over drivers making sure they don’t wrinkle their suits before the cameras get to them. 

You spot Max and Keegan near the bar, laughing at something stupid, and make your way towards them immediately.

“Finally,” you sigh, sliding between them. “People I actually like.”

Keegan grins, handing you a drink. “We’re honored.”

“Don’t be,” you tease, taking a sip. “I just don’t like anyone here”

Max laughs. “That’s the alcohol talking.”

You let yourself have fun. It’s been a while since you weren’t just the put-together stylist, since you weren’t navigating an event with work on your mind. The music is good and the drinks are flowing.

Of course they had invited Lando, he was their actual best friend. But you had thought he might not be there with the race weekend coming up. 

You’re all dancing, when you see him approach, greeting Max and Keegan enthusiastically. When you see Lando laughing with Max, joking around effortlessly like they always had, there was something oddly familiar about it. For a brief moment, he wasn’t the global superstar you had to dress. He was just Flo’s annoying brother, the same kid who used to crash your sleepovers and steal your snacks.

Then he sees you. 

“Hey stylist” he says as he steps closer.

You tilt your head. “I’m not working tonight”

Lando hums, eyes flicking over you. “I can tell.”

There’s something about the way he says it. 

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lando leans in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach twist. “Just… didn’t see this side of you.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can respond, his hand grazes your waist as he reaches past you for something on the bar.

The touch is fleeting. Almost nothing.

But it lingers.

Your breath catches.

His smirk deepens, like he knows.

So you turn back to Keegan, laughing at something he says, ignoring Lando for the rest of the night.

-

Your head was pounding.

The second you cracked your eyes open, you regretted it. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn just enough to let in the Monaco morning light. Everything smelled like expensive cologne, a mix of fresh linen and something unmistakably male.

This was not your hotel room.

You groan, shifting slightly—only to feel someone beside you.

Your eyes fly open, heart hammering.

You turn your head.

Keegan.

Your entire body sags in relief. Keegan is still dead asleep, sprawled on his stomach, snoring into the pillow.

You push yourself up, glancing around. The sheets are too nice. The floor-to-ceiling windows too clean, too expensive-looking. You carefully slid out of bed. You needed to leave before anyone saw you.

That’s when you hear voices from the other room.

“…absolutely gone.” Max’s voice, amused.

“Yeah, she’s never drinking that much again.”

Lando.

The possibility of sneaking out without anyone noticing vanished instantly.

You sighed, making your way into the living room, where Lando and Max are sitting casually drinking coffee, looking way too well-rested.

Lando smirks over his cup. “Look who’s alive.”

You fold your arms. “What the hell am I?”

Max grins. “Lando’s place.”

Your stomach drops. You stare at Lando.

His smirk widens. “Don’t look so horrified. It was just the safest option.”

“You and Keegan got absolutely wrecked. Figured we’d let you crash here instead of sending you back to your hotel in that state.” Max adds.

Lando just shrugs. “Safe house.”

You narrow your eyes. “And we just… crashed?”

“You both crashed onto my bed directly,” Lando says. 

Keegan stumbles into the room, groaning. “I am never drinking that much again.”

You laugh when you see him, nudging him. “This is all your fault, those damn tequila shots”

Lando watches the exchange, something unreadable in his expression.

You heard your phone buzz.

Manager: Hey, last-minute change for the fitting today—it’ll be at Lando’s place instead of the hotel. Be there in 20.

You blinked. Then read it again.

No. No, no, no.

"Something wrong?" Lando asked, too entertained by your reaction.

You slowly looked up at him, horrified. "You arranged the fitting here?" you asked, voice hoarse.

Lando stretched, entirely unbothered. "Oh yeah. Seemed convenient. Thought you’d appreciate not having to travel. Figured it’d be easier than going to the hotel. Hope you don’t mind."

You wanted to murder him. Instead, you exhaled sharply, turned on your heel, and headed straight for the bathroom to make yourself look less like you had spent the night drinking tequila with his best friends.

You really needed to not look like a complete disaster before the fitting.

Which left you with only one option.

Lando’s wardrobe.

You rummaged through his neatly arranged collection until you found what you needed—a white button-up shirt and a pair of jeans. The jeans were  too big, but with a little trick—you were a stylist afterall—it worked. They sat low on your hips, hanging just right. His button-up was oversized, falling effortlessly over your frame, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows.

By the time you emerged from the bathroom, freshened up and dressed, you actually looked good. Casual. Effortless. Like you hadn’t just woken up hungover in a Formula 1 driver’s apartment.

Lando raised his eyebrows when you walked in, smirking. “Didn’t know we were styling my clothes on you today.”

You rolled your eyes. “Didn’t know I’d be styling someone in their own damn apartment.”

“Worked out, though.”

You heard Max and Keegan arguing in a different room, it sounded like they were playing videogames. 

You were glad the doorbell rang, it was your colleague with the clothes. It was very normal for celebrities to request their fittings at their homes, so she didn’t question it. 

The fitting itself was smooth—thankfully, he didn’t push too much. When you stepped back to check the final look, he tilted his head.

“You’re quiet today.”

You met his eyes, unamused. “I have a headache.”

“From drinking?”

“No. From you.”

Lando laughed. “Fair.”

You finished up quickly, more than ready to get out of there.

“Alright,” you said, taking a step back. “You’re done. I’ll see you at the event.” You still had to go the LV office before, and were going to the event from there.

Lando just looked at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Looking forward to it.”

You popped your head into the gaming room to say goodbye to Keegan and Max, too focused on their video game and stream, mumbling something like ‘’See you soon’’. They wouldn’t be going to tonight’s event, but they would be at enough other things in Monaco this week and weekend. You were glad they were around again, missing the friendships during your work at Quadrant.

-

The venue was extravagant—glistening chandeliers, perfectly curated floral arrangements, and guests dressed in luxury from head to toe. Louis was always extravagant, but this was Louis at Monaco, you hadn’t seen something like this before.

Lando was already there, talking to a group of people, glass of champagne in hand, his fitted suit a sharp contrast to the playful persona he usually carried. He had a way of looking effortlessly put together.

And yet, there was something about how easily he slipped into the role of charming, high-profile athlete that irritated you. He looked good—you knew he would. You had styled him. But it still annoyed you to see him flashing those perfect smiles for the cameras, working the crowd like it was effortless. It didn’t help you were still feeling hungover.

So, you did what you never did at events. You drank.

Not recklessly, just enough to take the edge off. 

"I liked my clothes better on you" Lando said, his gaze dragging over you in a way that felt deliberate. You had obviously changed into something else back at the LV office.

"Guess you can dress yourself again then" you replied, keeping your tone neutral.

He laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "Nah, I like all the attention your outfits get me"

You rolled your eyes.

The night went on, and you did your best to avoid him—not in an obvious way, but enough to keep some distance. It was necessary. 

But, of course, it was impossible to ignore him completely.

And then, the final blow—

You reached for your bag, instinctively searching for your keycard, only to realize—

Shit.

Your stomach dropped. You had left it at his apartment.

And, as if the universe was just as cruel as Lando, he already knew.

"Problem?" Lando’s voice came from just behind you, close enough that you felt his breath against your ear.

You should have been startled, but instead, your pulse just kicked up. You turned slightly, exhaling sharply. "I left my keycard at your place."

Lando smirked. "Looks like you’ll have to come home with me, then."

You shot him a look. "I could just ask the front desk for a new one."

"You could." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower. "But then you wouldn’t have an excuse to come over again."

Your stomach twisted. You hated the way he said it—like he knew what he was doing to you.

You huffed, tilting your chin up. "I don’t need an excuse."

His smirk widened. "Then let’s go."

-

Lando unlocked the door to his apartment, stepping inside and tossing his keys onto the counter. "Make yourself at home," he said, amusement laced in his voice.

You shot him a glare, slipping off your heels. "Not funny."

"Little bit funny."

You ignored him, going straight for the living room where you had probably left your keycard earlier. But before you could grab it, Lando was suddenly there, leaning against the couch, watching you with an expression you really didn’t trust.

"You know," he started, and you could already tell he was going to say something stupid. "At this rate, you should just move in."

You glared at him. "Shut up."

He laughed, but then his eyes flickered down—just briefly, just enough to make your breath hitch.

He smirked, his hands slipping into his pockets like he wasn’t affected. Like he wasn’t standing close enough that you could smell the mix of his cologne and whatever alcohol still lingered on him.

"Okay, got it. Leaving now."

Lando leaned against the doorframe, blocking the way.

"Are you?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes?"

He tilted his head, grinning. "You sure? You do basically live here now."

Lando was suddenly close. Closer than he had been all night. Hands grazing your waist, fingers trailing up your spine.

“Lando,” you warned, voice quieter than you intended.

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

You could feel his breath against your skin.

“I—”

And then, suddenly, his hands were on your zipper.

"Think I can handle this one," he murmured against your lips.

A breathless laugh escaped you, but it was lost in the way he kissed you—deeper, needier.

Lando’s hands found your waist, pulling you against him, his grip firmer this time, like he wasn’t afraid you’d pull away. 

And this time, you didn’t stop it, you weren’t sure if it was the lack of energy or the drinks you had.

It was messy and rushed again, seemingly unplanned, and before it could go any further, you heard stumbling and a door opening. You quickly stepped away.

‘’Lando, that you?’’ Max emerged from the bedroom, still half asleep.

-

WN: guysss sorry it took so long!! long chapter to make up for it. I actually have many chapters and ideas for this story but I just want able to finalize to post because I was busy. Hope you enjoy it!! xx

tl: @freyathehuntress @linnygirl09 @sarx164 @joannaln4 @widow-cevans @444-leqz @laneyspaulding19 @mayax2o07

[rebelssvy]

kiss it better. ✧.*

bakugo x reader ·˚ ༘

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

summary: making out with hot frat boy baku at a collage party, in a closet. no sex or heavy petting, just really hot making out and lots of dirty talk.

thinking about, frat boy bakugo. despite all your efforts to not be here, your new roommates dragged you to this party. you had zero interest being here and zero intention flirting with anyone that came your way. sexually frustrated and maybe a little tipsy wasn’t a willing combo for you. it wasn’t until you bumped into a sweaty back that left you cursing under your breath. what shocked you more was the response you got in return. a line of curses that had your mouth wide open. this guy messed with the wrong girl and that was for- fucking sure.

“excuse me?” you said craning your neck up to the guy, tapping him on his shoulder to make him face you.

“you got a fucking problem?” the sassy blonde replied to you, now fully aware of your presence. turned around facing you, arms crossed in anger.

“your my fucking problem asshole.” mocking him with each syllable, you stocked towards him. you were at a physical disadvantage but that wasn’t stopping you. no, not when this guy is making you already bad night, worse.

without another word you were now being dragged through the halls, brushing up against people against your will. this random man had you in his grip, tight but not loose enough for you to slip through his fingers. if you wanted to you could’ve fought your way out of his hands, but a part of you wanted to see where this lead. notices in his handsome face and muscular tone when he turned around. this was a battle worth fighting.

the hard surface of the door against your back brought you back from your imagination, he had you cornered in this random room. wait. it was closer to a closet. you really didn’t have anywhere to go. his huge frame trapped you, you now got a better look at him. you realized you weren’t gonna run anyways he was just to gorgeous.

breaking the silence, he started-“listen, i’m not gonna let some pretty random girl ruin my party.” you gasped at his words, they were simple, but his tone was harsh. “so when we leave this closet your not gonna be out there looking so upset. your gonna act like your having a good time. got it?” he finished.

“you think i’m pretty?” you asked toying with him. the scowl on his face seemed permanent.

he tugged at his shirt collard, clearing his throat before saying, “yeah but it doesn’t matter how pretty you are with your fuck ass attitude.” you laughed in his face as a reply.

“you think i have a bad attitude? fuck off, you are clearly so much worse then me!” you said through giggles.

“just shut up oh my fucking god.” he groaned while his hand flew to his hair.

“make me.” you pushed yourself up, onto your tippy toes. testing him to see what type of guy he was you flushed at your own behavior.

without another word, his hand found the back of your neck and you were pulled against the man in front of you. his lips finding yours with fastness. the kiss was rough, teeth clinking against each other. you gasped when you felt his hand move from his spot on your neck, to its new position on your waist. pulling your body harder against him your lips now worked in rhythm, the harshness was now seductive. sloppy and wet.

slowly, he parted away from your lips, his hands never leaving your body. you grabbed onto his shoulders for balance. slightly lightheaded as you stumbled back.

“you could be a problem for me.” he said through hot breaths, himself also regaining composure.

“oh really tough guy?” before you could laugh farther, he silenced your laughing in his face buy laying his lips back on yours once again.

“stop arguing with me like a good girl and be fucking quiet.” he mumbled against your lips, his words making your mouth part. his tongue ventured into the new space taking the opportunity to catch you off guard. the two of you getting very hot and bothered now, fighting for dominance.

dry humping each other you caught his groans in your mouth. pulling apart he moved away from you slowly.

through rushed breaths, he said “if you feel the same way i feel about you meet me upstairs in five minutes. room 12, it’s my room.”

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

thinking bout a hot HOT part two.

the part two is up!!! check out my master list

[peachesofteal]

Simon and Johnny love a good game. 

They get bored, when they're not at work. Climbing the walls and lurking for long hours in the gym, at the bar. You can only watch so much television, can only read so many books. They try to broaden their horizons when it comes to cooking, but so far, they're slow learners. 

But games. Games can be fun. Not board games, metal pieces and paper money, folding maps and cards. No. 

Simon loves a cat and mouse game. The most dangerous game. A game that ends with catch but never release.

And Johnny's always more than happy to oblige him. He's even better at it, in a way. Simon skulks and sticks to shadows, where Johnny roams in the sun, smiling at old women and babies, chatting up whoever's behind him in the check out line. Finding a mouse is never hard for him.

Tonight’s mouse is a touch too skittish for Simon’s liking. Even though he enjoys them scared, the last one pissed herself when he threw her over his shoulder. He wasn’t a fan.

Still, Johnny likes you. Simon would never deny him, though you do throw a curveball.

You’re scared, but you’re smart. You pick up on them sooner than your predecessors, head half turned over your shoulder, clocking the shadow from the corner of your eye. Survival instincts lead you to stick to the crowded street, avoiding the left you’d usually make to head home to your apartment. You zig, cross to the other sidewalk, you zag, weaving through couples and groups of people taking their time, you have your keys between your knuckles.

You’re managing until you make the fatal error.

The train.

Why do they always think a confined, underground space is a good choice?

One time they chased a mouse through a fucking tunnel.

Made her pay for it, at least.

Simon laughs out loud, Johnny chuckling in his earpiece. “She was doin’ such a good job.”

“Just as well. I’m getting hungry for dinner.”

“Are you having fun?” Simon cocks his head, arms crossed over his chest, and you shake your head rapidly, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. His cock grows heavy, and he squeezes it over his pants, Johnny licking his lips. Fuck. He loves it when they cry.

“Fun?” You croak, confused little wrinkle in your brow. “Wh-what?” Your mouth is hanging open too, and without thinking, he rams his fingers into it, shoving them back past your tongue until you gag. Johnny clicks his tongue, strokes your jaw before cupping it, immobilizing the hinges and forcing it wide.

“Want to have a bite before we get ‘er home?” There’s another man in the same car, on the other end, watching. He hasn’t said anything, done anything, moved at all. He’s only watched. A sick fuck like the rest of them. Simon knows he won’t intervene, so he pulls his fly down. The man pretends to glance away.

“Have you sucked a cock before?” You make some awful hissing noise like a strangled cat.

“C’mon bonnie, hold still.” Simon forces himself past your teeth. You’re shaking so hard it’s like your bones are rattling, and when you stay frozen, Johnny guides you, dragging the heat of your mouth back and forth on Simon’s cock. It’s hot, and wet, and his toes curl. It’s like getting high, like a cigarette after a huge dinner. Euphoric. Satisfying.

The man at the other end of the car turns to give the situation his full attention, but not to stop him. Instead, his hand creeps down the front of his pants.

“Aww mouse, I think he likes ye.” Johnny’s cock is also hard, swollen against his thigh, and he rips your tense grip free from the seat to press it to his erection, kissing your temple. “It’ll be my turn, when we get home.” You try to jerk free, thrash, but it only forces the blunt tip of Simon’s cock deeper, and you start to gag uncontrollably. Johnny’s practically shivering with excitement.

“Don’t puke.” He grunts, fucking your face, slamming deep as he pumps his cum down your throat. You moan, eyes slipping closed. Defeated. Trampled under foot. Poor little mouse.

It’s adorable. You’re helpless. There’s too much going on, him, Johnny, the fucking creep still rubbing away at his crotch, and he feels bad. They should be taking better care at this point. They always need to butter them up before setting them free in the maze.

“Lights out, Johnny.” Fingers find those pressure points on your neck, and then the next thing they know, you’re slumped over, asleep on Johnny’s chest. What a cutie.

“Think we can keep her for a bit?” Simon rolls his eyes.

“We’ll see.”

[hitlikehammers]

Rockstar!Eddie Leaves What He Had With Steve Behind in Hawkins 💔 to Chase His Dreams 🎸

(so why is it that he’s back in Steve’s bed Hawkins every couple months for ‘very pressing reasons’ that are straining Steve’s heart honestly anything but? 🫤❤️‍🩹🥺)

NOTE: this was originally a fill from @eddiemunsonbingo AGES ago, and I’m only bringing it over here NOW because something for the @steddielovemonth is going to be posted soon that is a standalone in its universe, but also very much a sequel to it ♥️

Steve really does try not to think about it in terms of…time.

Maybe that’s foolish. It’s mostly denial. Lots of it isn’t reliable anyway: the score his body keeps isn’t accurate, war-time left over from too many near-misses with a fucking alternate dimension but the popping in his joints and the ringing in his ears and the white hair he pulled out of his scalp and stared blankly at in the sink for a good twenty minutes: those are real things, but they don’t chart the passage of days, of hours, months and fucking years with any real meaning.

It’s been four years. Roughly. Depending on what the start point is. Whether it’s that Spring Break. Whether it’s the first winter. Or the spring after, when Robin begged him to go with her—there’s still time. She still begs, because they still talk given the thread inside them stays tied unbreakable to one another, oblivious to miles between. Maybe it’s measuring from the graduations, the kids—only Erica’s left at Hawkins High, now, though Steve gets calls from the whole bunch of them, Eleven the most, which was maybe surprising, then it’s a good split between Dustin and Will, another surprise. Max calls enough but her calls are calls, with a weight most of the others lack. Lucas’s calls aren’t super frequent but always long, mostly because he talks around the point forever, whatever the point happens to be. Even Mike usually ends up on the other end of the line once a month. It’s…that could be where the time starts from.

Or it could be the summer, that first summer. The one that taught Steve what it was to have a heart just to fucking break it.

Could be that. Impossible to say.

(It’s been 3 years, 7 months, and 14 days. Steve had only counted in retrospect, in the wreckage left behind, because while he’d known there was a deadline in it, to it all, he’d thought he could be enough. That he could change a mind. He’d thought…

Foolish things. Bullshit. Didn’t matter. Could be any fucking date.)

But since the point's come up, and it’s front of Steve’s mind, his least favorite (most favorite) place to find it: he hadn’t expected it. Robin liked to say she saw the signs but. Steve hadn’t watched it happen in slow motion because there wasn’t a single goddamn slow thing about it. Which was…for whatever it was worth, Steve knew falling fast and hard and with everything he was had maybe failed him every time, thus far, but at least he knows that for him?

That means it’s real. He’s all in. He might not be met equal on the other side of the equation—hadn’t been yet, maybe wouldn’t be ever, but he wasn’t having any luck trying to fucking change that fact so, learning to work with what he had was the best he could do. And he had love. He’d never been able to name it to himself so far: not before, and certainly never since. But.

Figuring out the sexuality thing had been a not-bathroom-but-definitely-floor talk on the shitty Family Video carpet sometime around November of ‘85. Slow days, idle comments, and Robin’s suspiciously-but-reliably-gentle-when-the-need-was-dire hand to his shoulder to say no, no: actually wanting to kiss people of any gender wasn’t really…the default Steve had always expected it had to be. How could anyone look at, say, Harrison Ford and not think, oh yeah, I would at least suck his face?

Turned out probably at least half the people on the planet. As in the straight guys and the lesbians. Steve had spent the majority of three days on that disgusting fucking carpet, open to close, popping up to ask Robin if she was sure because what about—

She was sure. And eventually, through a couple of needs for deep breathing and a handful of assurances that it was okay to cry—he appreciated that, but he kept the crying to his room after these long-ass shifts and if Robin stayed for some of those times, that was because she was half his head, half his heart, and she knew what he was going to do sometimes before he did.

They did end up on the floor of his bathroom, a clean one for once, at one point. Maybe because they both held to tradition. Maybe because Steve had largely come to terms with the mindfuck of yet another piece of his world, his self unravelling and rewriting itself, and thought the vodka in his dad’s liquor cabinet was a good way to celebrate. The label was entirely in Russian and Robin had been practicing on hers, said she was pretty sure it was the good shit.

Sometimes you can drink enough of the best shit on an empty stomach, though, and still spew the whole of it up.

Steve sometimes does think he drinks his dad’s best liquor that way on purpose, though. Delightful going down and yeah, it sucks to chuck it up but. The idea that it’s ultimately wasted feels…right.

Anyway: Steve had settled with it all by New Year's, and while he’d hosted the rugrats who could only blabber about their latest campaign with their epic DM, and he’d kissed Robin when the clock turned, well. It felt like a new start, a fresh page.

Something that had the chance at being a good thing.

And nothing much happened in the two-and-a-half-months that followed save for finally catching a glimpse of the D&D god who ran their little club while he was idling in his car to pick up the shitheads, this legendary DM who did not make Steve jealous one tiny bit and who was cool and was edgy and was so fuckin’ cool, Steve, did we tell you got cool he is?! and Steve had said language as monotone as he could before he squinted as out came all the metal and the ink and he’d said your club president dude is Eddie goddamn Munson and he should have kept his mouth shut because the amount of talking that ensued left him with a headache the size of Montana; but.

That was really all that happened until about…mid-March.

Then Spring Break happened.

It could be argued Eddie and Steve grew close enough to pass the acquaintances benchmark, ended up as at least tentative friends on top of necessary battle mates as early as the Upside Down. Whatever reason Eddie gave, he jumped in after Steve. Whatever speech Steve landed on, he didn’t want Dustin orEddie hurt.

It could be argued Steve wasn’t paying attention and didn’t stop in time and landed in the land of Tentative Friends You Wouldn’t Mind Added Benefits With after the…at least after the way Eddie leaned in close and his lips we so red and he called Steve big boy and…

Yeah.

When Steve carries what may or may not be Eddie’s still fucking corpse out of the Upside Down—he can’t tell, every time he tries to check again his own heart's too loud, his own breaths too shaky—but by then, they’re family. Bound in blood. Steve would die for him, like the others. He won’t let him die, if he can fucking help it.

Between him and Max, Steve almost crashes, breaks. Steve’s there when Max’s fingers twitch and he laughs with tears in his eyes and hands over hands and tells her he loves her and he’s sorry and he’s there, tries to talk around the letter he opened and resealed without evidence because Steve knows some tricks too, okay, and her words had broken him but now he could live up to what she thought she was leaving behind, could make sure she had every goddamn thing she thought she was giving up in spades, to roll around in in abundance. He was going to take care of her, whatever she needed. Whatever it took.

Her lips had quirked and the doctors called coincidence, don’t get your hopes up but; Steve knew Max. That was all her.

And there were more tears, he let her fucking feel them; he fucking hoped she’d notice, and remember, and give him so much shit.

Eddie takes longer, pulls out of the woods enough to exhale a few days later, and the way Steve slips out to find the hospital chapel, the only goddamn place he won’t be found by anyone he knows, and bawls his goddamn eyes out?

It’s family, and it’s love because it’s family but…it’s been so quick. It’s been intense, and that probably speeds it along but…

Shit. Shit.

That’s when Steve knows he sets a new goddamn record for himself and falls hard and heavy and stupidin, like, a week and change. Jesus Christ.

It’s in the recovery that they build something though. Something that’s not trauma or terror or the threat of imminent death. Steve spends most of his hours between two hospital rooms listening to progress reports and taking notes and the kids gravitate toward Max—Dustin would have been the outlier but Steve knows he’s not ready, and so he gives his own updates just to his brother when he drives him home after visiting hours—but that means Steve’s Eddie’s most common conversation partner. They talk about bullshit. Steve defends a-ha to the last breath he has. Eddie’s rendered speechless for a second and then frantic when challenged to pick his favorite band. Again when it’s his favorite song, from his favorite band. And again when it’s his favorite song of any song, ever at all. Steve's heart swells in the watching. He’s foolish enough to bask in the glittering of Eddie’s eyes when Steve indulges in talking, scene by scene as guided by the master in the bed beside him, about what his opinions on Star Wars really were. And then guided by no one, just invited to share what his opinions are on the last movie he saw and loved: which was Weird Science, the last movie he watched in a theatre because he and Robin had gone to face their fear or some shit after Starcourt and it was easier than he’d expected. Eddie listens, and nods, and asks if they can rent it when he’s out, before making sure to add  but you should really have a new choice like, eight months later, man, you work at a video store.

Steve was mostly just focused on Eddie more than implying, of his own volition, that he wanted to have a movie night.

Eddie’s released before Max, largely for mobility reasons, so they both go to visit her now. Robin’s put on the night shift when they schedule their movie night and Steve immediately moves to reschedule but she says no, she’s seen it, make Eddie suffer this time. So it’s just them.

They sit closer than they have to, on the couch.

And it’s little things that build from there. Max’s physical therapy is a government secret, like some fancy space-age protocol that has real hopes to put her on her feet again so she needs a ride, and while they could take turns, Steve and Eddie just take turns as to which vehicle they hop into to drive her. They stay when she needs them—not when she asks because she’s Max and she never asks—but it ends up three days a week back and forth and during: together.

And a lot of nights, for a movie or a smoke or a nightmare or a pulled stitch before they’re all taken out: together.

And shifts where Steve doesn’t even bother to bring his own lunch because Eddie Munson, unpredictable and wholly forgetful super-super senior—who Nancy and Hopper and most of all Joyce convinced the School would be finishing his final senior year at home save for tests, and only that once he was cleared by his doctors—that Eddie Munson brought Steve something every single time he worked. A burger, a chili dog, chicken fucking nuggets. A PB&J clearly homemade and cut diagonal.

So yeah. It starts out how it does when Steve’s in trouble. But it builds like…Steve’s never known before.

They kiss in May. Maybe so that it’s not their first, and a total cliche, when Steve kisses him for graduation behind the bleachers.

The sleep together after graduation, high on the thrill of it, and that’s maybe a cliche but Steve could not give a shit less.

And then they're EddieandSteve, only to find out they have been for a while; and this is just something a little deeper, a little bit more.

In ways that mean everything.

Looking back, Steve knows Eddie never minced words about his plan to leave Hawkins in the fall. With a mixtape and a prayer if I have to, Stevie-boy, he’d said once even, and Steve had laughed.

He’d fucking laughed.

So he’d known.

But July bleeds into August and Steve…Steve’s in love, okay, for real in a way that he’s never felt before. Right in a way he’s never felt before. He kinda just…overlooks it. Because Eddie seems to be at least on the same wavelength. Touches him first, reaches for him first: wants him. Looks at him with not just desire or attraction but…something no one’s ever looked at Steve with before.

And so he hopes. More than hopes.

But when Eddie starts packing, Steve can’t breathe.

He buys a set of luggage and goes home to start the same, has half of his not-excessive possessions shoved in when he realizes:

He’s not invited. Eddie’s never asked him to come.

Looking back, he’s afraid he wasted too much of those last weeks. Scared of giving too much away, the hurt from so many sides and the heartache that’s already taking root, but also: the way he clings, but tries not to make it obvious.

Fuck; but of course it was gonna be obvious, and how much energy did he waste, how many opportunities slipped by, because Steve was trying not to give away that Eddie leaving—to get away from a town that hated him, to try and make a real go with his music, to be anywhere without Steve so he could live out the dreams that predated Steve, that Steve had no place in—to try not to give away that all of it; it’d fucking destroy him.

Steve doesn’t know, to this day, how he stood and let Eddie kiss him breathless out the driver-side window, how he waved until Eddie was out of sight. He doesn’t know.

Kind of like he doesn’t know how he fucking keeps doing it.

Eddie throws tapes to every radio station with Van Halen or other top-played bands written on the insert in sharpie like that gives nothing away, and sneaks a demo in every underpaid delivery boy’s hands to record executives as he drives to the West Coast, sends Steve postcards what seems like has to be every goddamn day, filled up with his rambling until there’s no space left, has to draw lines around Steve’s address to make it clear where the damn thing’s going lest it get confused. Like they’re SteveandEddie still. Like only…only the things that changed after graduation are gone.

Steve sobs after about a month of it all, grateful and resentful, hateful and still so goddamn full of love it’s sickening. Literally, it makes him feel nauseous. He…

He keeps every postcard.

When one of them comes to say some idiot in San Francisco accidentally played Corroded Coffin on what’s apparently an important station, and Eddie got a letter in response from one of the labels, he says he’s coming back for the boys, they need to be ready. Steve knows he’s not one of the boys, but.

Eddie wouldn’t have told Steve he was coming if it wouldn’t matter to Steve. And maybe Eddie wasn’t in love with him anymore, maybe never was in love with him.

But he’d be lying if he said he thought Eddie didn’t love him. In a different way. A…you-don’t-get-to-come-with-me-but-I’d-still-want-to-see-you-when-I-stop-back kind of way.

And Steve…Steve’s not a fucking monk or anything. But even Robin doesn’t try to push him when he finally just tells her what he feels, lovesick and pathetic as it is:

I gave everything I had to someone else, and it’d be different if I wanted to back, to give again, but…I don’t.

I don’t want it back, not from him. Not if any part of him, wants to keep any part of it.

And because she’s Robin, she knows he means something else when he says ‘it’. And because she’s Robin? She’d push if she thought it was worth it.

She just holds him, and that’s really the best thing he could ask for.

But it becomes a thing. The boys go with Eddie, and they record new shit to impress...whoever. And they do. They come back for Halloween, because Eddie loves it. The label’s dragging its feet, but they’re not deterred, they’re energized. They come back for Thanksgiving because Wayne loves it—except he doesn’t, Steve knows that, Wayne actually hates trying to make a bird and Eddie had lamented more than once that they ended up with lunchmeat cut into cubes one year when Wayne was particularly frustrated with the process. They go out East, and try a few studios in New York. They come back for Christmas.

Eddie spends most of his time with Steve. Steve doesn’t fucking fight that; wants it…like…

There’s nothing to compare how he wants it to. Nothing exists that fits.

Eddie spends most of the time that he spends with Steve, though?

In Steve’s bed.

And here’s the thing: Steve had a decent amount of experience to compare to, but once they’d fallen into a rhythm, got past the awkward bits, the learning curve? Sex with Eddie had been a goddamn revelation. Not just because he was a man—after he’d left, Steve had forced himself to try, and dispelled that possibility quick as hell—and now?

Now, it’s like they never stopped. Every fucking time, it’s like they never stopped.

Steve’s not surprised in the slightest that he remembers every give and tell of Eddie’s body—of course he goddamn does—but that Eddie doesn’t miss a beat in touching, sucking, licking, worshippingSteve’s? That’s insane. That’s…

Unexpected. Every time it’s unexpected and every time Steve’s shown he wasn’t forgotten when he probably should have been. Eddie’s building a life that doesn’t include him.

He’ll only get in the way.

But Steve is selfish and stubborn and maybe it’s often, like almost strangely so, but it’s only a week or two at a go so he tells himself he’s allowed. He tells himself that it felt like making love in the beginning because Steve was in love, and that it still feels exactly the same because Steve…Steve never stopped.

Steve is still just as goddamn in love.

So yeah. Steve sleeps with Eddie and it’s like…it’s like rationed air. He gets a regular taste and he gets to keep breathing.

And it’s okay. Probably more then. Because he gets Eddie—even a little bit. Even just in scraps. When he has Eddie?

He has him, even for moments that were never made to last.

It’s Easter, this time. The band put out their first record in January. It’s doing really well. Eddie’s over the moon. Someone called about a magazine cover for a publication in Cleveland that’s apparently kind of a big deal, Alt..something. Steve will buy every copy in a fucking 100-mile radius. 200 miles. 500—

It’s Easter. Eddie didn’t lament not celebrating it after Spring Break in ‘86 but he’s back every year now. And if it’s just…come to mean something, or maybe did then and circumstances won out against it? Steve will be here. Steve will be comfort and a reprieve or a hot as hell romp with a familiar body, Steve will…

Yeah. Steve will do whatever’s needed. Wanted. Anything.

Pathetic.

But so much better than nothing.

Case in point: they’re both naked, sweat mostly dried, sharing a joint and it’s comfortable. It’s quiet and gentle and put up against sitting alone on a weeknight, not with Eddie?

It’s heaven.

“So when’s the dream happening?”

Steve looks cross-eyed toward his lips; he hasn’t smoked this thing long enough to have heard wrong. He squints up at Eddie, whose chest he’s laid out on, confused. Offers him the smoke but he waves it away.

“The dream?” Steve asks finally, when Eddie doesn’t seem to want to answer on his own.

Eddie looks at him weird. Not weird for its own sake but like: like he’s staring into him, and then like he’s disbelieving, but then also like he’s seeing him for the first time.

That kind of weird.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie answers like it’s obvious. “White picket fence. Little nuggets.” He spreads his hands as wide as possible without tossing Steve from where he lies. “See the sights.”

And Steve’s response is immediate. Doesn’t even require a thought.

He laughs. Like, ugly-laughs.

“Man,” he shakes his head as he catches his breath, and passes the joint off this time with purpose, not an offer or a choice as he snorts a little; “that’s not the dream.”

When Eddie doesn’t grab the smoke, Steve finally looks up. Eddie…

Eddie looks like what Steve’s always struggled to understand the word ‘poleaxed’ to mean. He thinks it might be this.

He looks…like something stuck him through the gut. Slapped him silly across the face.

“What d’ya mean?” And it’s just three words, one that’s a cheat, and he says it slow enough to take an age.

Steve breathes out, and then, if he’s gonna be honest, and if he has to keep holding the damn thing anyway, decides to take another drag before speaking:

“Figured out what the dream was, inside the dream,” Steve says, wondering if he’ll get away with the vagary; knowing he won’t.

“All we see or seem?” Eddie jokes a little, but it falls flat, his tone eerily kinda…strained but hollow.

“I like poetry.” Steve smiles up at him, soft, and offers the joint again straight to Eddie’s lips. He takes it this time.

“It was about family. It was about stability, not,” Steve shakes his head, stops talking half-assed around the lungful he’s holding, and lets it out slow; “not in a place, fuck, not in a house, but,” a person he doesn’t say, but he hears it in his head; “it was about sharing it.”

And that's it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward truth. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything complicated, or offensive in it. Hard to swallow. Even if he’s come to terms with it. Is mostly at peace with it.

Which is why it’s weird, that Eddie feels suddenly rigid beneath him.

So Steve turns, and braces his hand on Eddie's chest for balance, and frowns when he doesn’t even have to push down to feel the way his heart’s a fucking riot.

“What?” Steve asks, gentle; Eddie’s face is a portrait of conflict, of distress and Steve can’t fucking figure out why, they just came like four times between them and are sharing some very nice Cali weed—they’re nestled close, they’re together, it’s…

Eddie’s quiet, his breath disconcertingly steady for how his pulse pounds, and then he breathes out slow before covering his face:

“I don’t think I can fuck this up any worse than I already have, so,” he mutters, dejected for reasons Steve can’t even guess, then he laughs, humorless, shakes his head:

“Let me try, I guess.”

Steve frowns, uncomprehending, until:

“I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Steve thinks the world stops. His heart does, at least. Suspended. Silent so he doesn’t miss a syllable.

“And I told myself,” Eddie bites at his lip, worries at the bottom swell; “end of that summer, from the very first, I said: don’t ask him to come with you, even if it breaks your heart,” and oh god, oh god after all this time: Steve doesn’t think he’s projecting to hear the genuinely broken heart in those words for just remembering.

“Don’t ask him to settle, you’re not even in the same universe of what he wants,” fuck, what lies Eddie’s saying; did he believe them? Has he always—“what he needs.”

But Eddie is everything he needs, always was, will always be—

“You’ll never have the picket fence. You can’t give him his nuggets. You should never be trusted to park a Winnebago.”

They could have had a shitty studio apartment. They could have had the kids in college. They could have run the BMW until it died, or sold it to put toward a better van for equipment. They could have—

“You’re selfish, Munson, you’re a rat fucking bastard but,” Eddie’s still going, heart still hammering under Steve’s touch even as Eddie swallows hard and fails to smile, looks ill with the attempt like it hurts to try: “you love him too much for that.”

Oh. Oh god.

“It didn’t break my heart, though,” Eddie clears his throat and glances away, to the ceiling, eyes too bright: oh fuck; “broke my goddamn soul,” and a tear falls, and Steve can’t help but wipe it away, and kiss the track. Even just once.

So he does.

“When I saw you again that first time back,” Eddie starts again, voice rougher and shakier as he reaches a hand for Steve’s. “I could have asked the boys to fly out, the execs offered, but,” and this time, the attempt to grin is more successful, like a weight’s lifted from it: “and you smiled at me, it felt like,” and when he shakes his head this time it’s for disbelief, but the kind that comes with awe; “and when we slotted back together like we’d never been apart, it was…”

Eddie’s voice trails, but it cracks at the end—Steve doesn’t know which does more to stop his words.

He’s grateful, relieved, when they come back. He’s powerless but to give when Eddie touches his cheek so gentle and breathes:

“And I had to tell myself again, and again,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s skin like he’s precious: “you love him too much to take his dream away from him.”

“What did it matter?” Steve can’t help but ask, no malice in it, just the need to understand. “You had your dream, you have—“

They have a contract. They have an album climbing the charts. They’re not just on their way—they’re there. The only next step is to get bigger, and bigger, and—

“Dreams within dreams, wasn’t it?” Eddie murmurs close to Steve’s cheek, where maybe he’s pressing to be close, or maybe he’s hiding a little, so Steve strokes his hair because he can either way and relishes how Eddie leans, melts into it like always. “Inside the dream?”

Steve nods, more to encourage more words. More Eddie.

“Break my dream open and there’s you with me, every step,” Eddie whispers, his lips warm on Steve’s skin. “Break my heart open, same damn thing,” and that causes Steve to shudder, and his heart to pick up now, too. “Both just kinda crumble if you take out the center.”

Steve can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Wants to. Doesn’t think they’re lies. It’s just, he…

“Those,” Steve tries to speak but his voice cracks; he clears his throat and kicks his lips while he tucks Eddie into his neck, under his chin: “those would be good lyrics.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and nuzzles Steve’s throat with the motion and this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening, can it?

“No, those words were only ever meant just for you.”

And Eddie kisses the pulse point close to his mouth and holds there, like a sentry and a miser, and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“And I don’t know,” Eddie’s saying more, but it’s pitchy, thready, like he’s barely holding the words together at all; “I don’t know if it’s nostalgia, or convenience, or routine,” his voice breaks again and the sob’s in the word when it comes even if it’s not streaming down on his cheeks: “pity,” and no, no, not fucking ever, how—

“I was never your dream then, and I don’t even know if I can be your inside-dream now, and,” Eddie’s rambling, and he does that when he’s desperate, when he’s overwhelmed and overfull with feeling—and Steve knows that. Steve knows that about him.

Steve knows. Better than he knows himself, Steve still knows him.

“I just want the world for you,” Eddie whispers, stroking up and down Steve’s jaw; “my sweetheart. My sunshine,” he smiles so real and soft and Steve melts, like the heart in his chest starts spilling through his ribs, warm and liquid: “you deserve more than the world, more than fuckin’ me and I,” Eddie shakes his head again, more this time like he’s stopping himself, like it’s a defense mechanism and Steve reaches for his cheeks, broad palms on either side to hold him still because…he doesn’t want Eddie to stop.

Ever.

“Did I ruin it?” Eddie breathes, and barely at that, eyes so wide and swimming and oh, god; “did I—"

And Steve can’t help it. He can’t help but kiss him with all he’s got, even if it couldn’t be all Eddie’s worth in all the world. Steve can’t contain all that Eddie’s worth.

But he can give everything, because this is the man who already has it.

“What the hell was I supposed to be to a rockstar?” Steve tries to talk through his own tight throat, his own growing smile, his own threat of tears bubbling close to the surface. “How the fuck was I ever going to measure up, ever do anything but hold you back when you could have—“

“I come back to you, for you,” Eddie answers immediate; it’s not what Steve’s asking but he won’t lie and say he didn’t want to know, at least a little. “The handful of times I’ve tried,” Eddie shakes his head once now, definitive; “I have always left my everything with you.”

The idea that Steve’s spent all this time feeling empty, and hollow, and missing the best of himself where it lived in the man he loved—the idea he was wrong, that they both were so fucking wrong is…insanity.

“I had a bag half packed.”

Steve doesn’t need to explain further. The noise Eddie makes is pure pain.

“Baby,” he nearly croons, falls into Steve somehow closer, wraps him up tighter; “I wanted to kidnap you in the night.”

“I sobbed in my bed after you were out of sight.”

“I pulled over before the town sign, because I couldn’t see the goddamn road.”

And Steve…Steve doesn’t really have a decision to make about what he says next. What dream he wants; always has.

“I never got rid of the luggage.”

And Eddie hears everything he says in those words, because after everything, Eddie Munson knows him, and…yeah.

Steve’s been kissed in a lot of ways before. By this man in particular, even.

But this: if leaving broke Eddie’s soul, if somehow the lack of Steve somehow did that?

This is…this is the body meeting another body, heart to heart and tasting the way a soul slides back in place. It's Eddie’s hands in his hair like hell never let go and he’s happy about the idea; blissful for it, even. It’s—beyond anything Steve’s ever known. So: yeah.

It’s not a decision. It’s just a fucking given.

♥️

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Lighter Kink and Psychology Analysis - Zenless Zone Zero

Full disclaimer: I don’t play Zenless Zone Zero, but through my friend’s love of the game and Tumblr osmosis, I’ve learned a great deal about Lighter. I find the differences between his canon and fanon interpretations fascinating, so I thought it would be interesting to break down the psychology of kinks and what I think Lighter’s are. I’m going to focus on the ones I believe he has, and if people want me to go into further detail, let me know! Also if it was clear from the title 18+ content below

Exhibitionism – Subcategories: Semi-Public Sex, Secret Keeping, and Risk Play

Lighter is fascinating because he’s full of contradictions. He doesn’t like having his picture taken and prefers to keep a low profile, yet he wears flashy clothes and takes on high profile work where he cannot NOT be noticed. He wants to be left alone but craves connection with people. Part of this can be attributed to losing so many important people due to his own actions, but I think another part of it is Lighter’s hopeless romantic streak. He wants to die for love, and I think part of that is tied to finding someone worthy of that sacrifice.

He’s not interested in people who praise him or send him gifts because, to him, they don’t truly know him—and if they did, they wouldn’t want anything to do with him, he thinks. This low self-esteem and disorganized attachment style create a loop where he desperately craves connection, has opportunities for it, but never fully lets his walls down to allow a deeper bond. Because of his past and the fear of never being truly understood, Lighter communicates in subtle ways. In-game, he can give the player purple lilacs. In the language of flowers, purple lilacs symbolize one’s first love or the first time one feels love for someone. However he leaves on a job right after, to stop any possibility of asking him more about why he gave them to you.

When it comes to sex, Lighter has experience, but in romantic love, he’s very much a virgin, in my opinion.

In line with this, I think Lighter would be needy as a partner, in constant need of validation but unable to ask for reassurance. He hates when his friends are mad at him—it distresses him significantly, which reinforces my earlier points about his emotional sensitivity. Thus, I think one of his core needs would be for a partner to be very possessive of him. Not only would this push back against his feelings of guilt, but it would bulldoze past his tendency to panic at intimacy and distance himself.

While I agree he’d be into risk/thrill-seeking, I don’t think it would be extreme or involve pain. I believe it would be a form of intimate thrill-seeking—the kind that engages an overactive mind.

Imagine:Lighter and his partner in an elevator, on the way to a party. Four seconds before the elevator reaches the destination, his partner pushes him against the wall, kisses him, and whispers in his ear that they’re not wearing anything under their dress coat. The doors open, and they walk out into the party crowd—no one the wiser. Except Lighter.

For example: They’re at the party. Lighter’s charming, slipping easily into conversations with strangers. But every so often, his partner brushes their fingers lightly over the back of his neck—just once, fleeting. No one notices, but Lighter does. His spine straightens slightly each time, a silent acknowledgment: I know who I belong to.

Or: Club sex on the top floor behind a loud rock band. The balcony overlooking a busy street. Going to dinner with friends with a remote in his hand and a small vibrator in his partner’s underwear.

I think Lighter would enjoy all of these scenarios—not just for the risk, but for the inherent trust required to play and keep these secrets between him and his partner. It’s something completely his, something no one else can encroach upon, yet it’s right there, obvious to anyone observant enough to notice.

Marking – Physical and Psychological

Marking, both physical and psychological, would lean into Lighter’s desire for connection. Think: visible signs of his partner’s presence—like a hickey or a faint lipstick smudge on his collarbone.

While traditional marking overlaps with the possessiveness I imagine he’d enjoy, psychological marking might be even more appealing to him. This could involve embedding someone’s presence in his mind through habits, sensory triggers, or routines.

Lighter’s fear of being forgotten or unimportant could be countered by the constant reassurance that he’s always present in his partner’s thoughts. Non-sexually, his partner might leave voice notes for him to listen to during missions or spritz their perfume on his scarf. They might even snap a risky picture and set it as his lock screen so the next time he checks his phone on the job he’s left with a surprise.

Lighter is haunted by the dead, but I think what he truly craves is being haunted by someone living. He would adore his partner’s presence lingering in his personal space, feeding his need for connection without direct confrontation.

Domination – Receiving, Direction Taking

I firmly believe Lighter likes to be dominated. In terms of desire, I don’t think Lighter experiences much spontaneous desire; rather, he’s more connected to responsive desire (see the paper “Sexual Arousal and Desire: Interrelations and Responses to Three Modalities of Sexual Stimuli” by Katherine Goldey and Sari Anders). That man is too tired to be dominant, and as seen in-game, he prefers to take orders. He would definitely call his partner “Boss” in the bedroom.

Beyond the bedroom, I feel Lighter would continue this relinquishment of power through authority transfer dynamics as a coping mechanism for emotional instability, much like he does for the Sons of Calydon. This could manifest in routines or rituals where his partner makes decisions for him, offering a sense of control without the burden of autonomy. It’s both a reaffirmation of care and a release from the pressure of decision-making.

Given his tendency to overthink, delegating power outside of sex could ease his mental load and reinforce security in his relationships. I think Lighter would enjoy having his partner pick out his clothes, jewelry, ect, decide small daily routines, or even manage his finances in a consensual dynamic. This creates a structure where emotional care is embedded in everyday life, not just during intimacy.

Additionally, given Lighter’s need for emotional grounding and his craving to feel “claimed,” collaring—whether in a literal BDSM context or as an everyday symbolic gesture—would be something he could secretly obsess over. If Lighter were given a necklace, choker, or even a collar (especially since he loves jewelry), he’d never take it off. He’d wear it under his clothes, hidden from everyone else but always present. On rough days or when away from his partner, just feeling it against his skin would serve as silent reassurance, grounding him.

It would satisfy both his exhibitionist streak (a hidden “secret” between him and his partner) and act as a reminder: I’m not lost. I belong somewhere. To someone.

For example: if before a mission his partner was to kiss him goodbye, place a necklace around his neck and say “Come back wearing this” he would tug at the small chain subconsciously the entire time he’s gone. He would sleep with it on, shower with it, and when he returned, the metal would be warm and oxidised from his skin, his skin stained from the metal.

Praise Play

An extension of his need for domination and grounding, I see praise play as a huge turn-on for Lighter. While some believe degradation is one of his kinks, I think it’s the opposite. While he might engage in degradation play if his partner wanted it (and part of him might believe he deserves it due to his low self-esteem), I think he would emotionally shut down if it became a consistent dynamic. To me it would be a similar dynamic to the start of the Astarion romance, fulfilling a role as a tool rather than as a person.

Kinks often reflect core emotional needs. Non-consensual fantasies, for example, are about being desired so intensely that someone is willing to break laws and social norms. Degradation kinks often involve a need for others to see the worst parts of us and want us regardless. However, for sensitive individuals, this negative reinforcement doesn’t bring solace—it simply reaffirms their worst fears and destroys their fragile attempts at building a better self image. I also don't think Lighter would find any attraction in demeaning his partner, I think he would feel unworthy of their attention and trust, especially in the beginning.

Lighter is consistently wracked with guilt and desperately wants to know whether he’s doing the right thing, whether it’s in his job or in a relationship. For someone like Lighter, praise isn’t just arousing—it’s reparative in a way nothing else matches. Each compliment is a stone in the foundation of a self-worth he can’t build alone. When his partner says, “You’re doing so well,” or “You feel like home, like safety,” it’s not just about sex. It’s about rewriting the narrative he’s been telling himself for years.

Domestic Play

You cannot convince me that the image of Lighter’s partner cooking or doing general domestic chores wouldn’t awaken something deep within him, even though he might not admit it at first. In-game, he respects and surrounds himself with women who embody dominant, traditionally masculine qualities. He’s more than happy to take orders from them, but in terms of romantic or sexual attraction, he seems to have little interest in those traits. I suspect this is because these qualities mirror his old self, and that’s not something he finds much solace in, either romantically or sexually.

I think Lighter would be attracted to someone fundamentally different from those around him—someone softer and more considerate, yet still strong in a more traditionally feminine sense. Given his history of loss, trauma, and the absence of a stable family, I believe he harbors a profound urge for a family-like relationship. His partner would create an environment that feels like home, a concept Lighter likely yearns for but doesn’t fully understand.

Home-cooked meals, small domestic gestures of affection—these would make him unbearably needy, though he’d only show it when alone with his partner.

For example: During mundane moments—making coffee, fixing his jacket—his partner casually murmurs, “You belong to me.” It’s subtle, not always sexual, but it lights up the part of Lighter’s brain that craves validation without having to ask for it.

Things like his partner knowing how he likes his coffee without needing to ask, or grabbing the salt shaker from him because it’s bad for his cholesterol would make him unbearably turned on you cannot convince me otherwise. These small acts of care would hit him hard, far more than overt declarations of love.

For Lighter, being told what to do isn’t about submission—it’s about relief. In a life where his choices have often led to heartbreak, the absence of choice feels like safety.

Sensation Play – Both Sensory Deprivation and Service

Lighter is an overthinker. According to Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are, overthinking is one of the primary reasons people struggle to achieve climax or engage fully with emotional and sexual vulnerability. When you place too much pressure on external factors—self-image, internal worries, even things as small as ‘the dishes need to be done’—it inhibits your ability to ground yourself in the present and truly experience pleasure. This is why many people, particularly women, struggle with partnered sex and climax.

For Lighter, orgasm denial or delayed gratification would likely be a huge turn-on, especially in situations where he’s restrained or unable to interact directly with his partner—think handcuffs or shibari. The removal of senses, such as blindfolding, helps heighten arousal by redirecting the energy normally spent on processing visual stimuli toward pure sensation. It doesn’t stop the overthinking; it realigns it, forcing it to focus on the present moment.

For example: His partner lightly places a hand over his mouth while he’s blindfolded—not fully cutting off air, but creating a soft restraint. It’s not about danger; it’s about trust. The lack of visual and verbal control pushes him into a space where he can’t overanalyze—he can only feel.

Considering Lighter’s past—especially his time in the fighting pits, where he described himself as feeling like a zombie—I don’t think he’d enjoy pain or impact play. His physical existence outside the bedroom has already been filled with similar kinds of suffering. Instead, sensation play becomes a refuge—a way to experience his body without violence, without pain. There's a running joke that he fears the sight of blood in game, which is another reason why I believe centering pleasure rather than pain would be more attractive to him.

Emotional Edgeplay

I believe Lighter craves not just physical intensity but emotional vulnerability pushed to its limits—scenarios where trust is tested, intimacy feels dangerous, and attachment triggers are explored in consensual, negotiated ways. Emotional edgeplay isn’t about causing harm; it’s about walking the razor-thin edge of emotional exposure, where the potential for catharsis is as powerful as the risk.

Overstimulation is an aspect of emotional edgeplay, often resulting in emotional release—like crying during or after sex—as the body lets go of trauma it’s been holding onto for too long. Lighter, who is profoundly dissociated from his needs due to guilt and a deep-seated dismissal of his own worth, would find this both terrifying and necessary.

We see hints of this in-game. For example, there’s an interaction with a guide dog—trained to seek out the most vulnerable person in the room—that ignores everyone else and goes straight to Lighter. This detail speaks volumes about how disconnected he is from his own emotional fragility; the desensitization runs so deep that he doesn’t even recognize it anymore.

In these moments, speech and affirmation would be crucial, especially during heightened emotional states or low points.

For example: During edging, when he’s trembling with frustration—not just sexually, but emotionally—his partner gently cradles his face and whispers, “Do you see how wonderful you are when you’re not pretending?”

It’s not just arousing—it’s disarming. Because in that vulnerable space, Lighter isn’t the cool, edgy pit fighter turned bodyguard. He’s just him, stripped of all pretense. No walls, no bravado. Flaws and all. It also provides acceptance by omission, that his partner sees all and accepts all.

Caretaker Dynamics (Reversed Aftercare)

I also believe Lighter would prefer to be the primary aftercare provider, despite this traditionally being the role of the dominant partner. According to Dominatrix Eva Oh, aftercare is a service role, and for Lighter, providing that service would be deeply fulfilling. (It’s a common misconception the Sub role in BDSM is the harder or serving role, because truly Dom’s are required to be very emotionally stable, beholden to their sub and can turn out to be a very stress inducing role for the wrong people). This is why high flying jobs such as CEO’s actually prefer to be submissive because it is the only place in their life they get to be minded.

While aftercare is essential after most sexual interactions—especially those involving intense scenes—reversed caretaker dynamics, where the more emotionally fragile partner provides aftercare, would align perfectly with Lighter’s psychology. Despite his vulnerabilities, he has an overwhelming desire to feel needed, to prove his worth in relationships even when he feels broken.

Being allowed to “take care” of his partner post-sex, even when he’s emotionally raw, satisfies this need. It’s not about dominance or submission—it’s about anchoring himself through acts of care.

For example: After an intense session, when his partner is spent and emotionally vulnerable, Lighter insists on making tea, carefully bandaging small marks, or physically holding them—even if he’s the one shaking. He tucks the blanket around them, brushes sweat-damp hair from their forehead, and whispers, “I’ve got you.”

In those moments, his value isn’t measured by strength or stoicism. This role reversal reinforces his sense of purpose without undermining his vulnerabilities. He doesn't always have to be the strong one here, in this moment.

Closing Thoughts

Ultimately, Lighter’s kinks aren’t just about physical pleasure—they’re reflections of his deepest fears, needs, and desires. They’re coping mechanisms woven into intimacy, helping him navigate a world where connection feels both a gift and a threat. Whether through domination, praise, or emotional edgeplay, his kinks allow him to confront the parts of himself he hides from the world.

At the heart of it all, Lighter wants to be known.

References

Disclaimer I have dyslexia and English is my second language so I apologize for mistakes.

Theswaddle.com. (2019). The Psychology of Sexual Kink. [online] Available at: https://www.theswaddle.com/what-is-kink-the-psychology-behind-sexual-behavior [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

admin@blossmcart (2023). A dive into the definition of Lilac Flower and its Significance. [online] Blossmcart Flowers. Available at: https://blossmcart.com/blog/definition-and-significance-of-lilac-flower/#:~:text=The%20Lilac%20is%20a%20flower,purple%20Lilac%20signifies%20first%20love. 

‌Li, S. (2024). The Psychology of Kink: A Cross‐Sectional Survey Investigating the Association Between Adult Attachment Style and BDSM-Related Identity Choice in China. Archives of Sexual Behavior, [online] 53(6), pp.2269–2276. doi:https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-024-02829-1.

When Kinks Come to Life: An Exploration of Paraphilic Behaviors and Underlying Predictors. (2024). The Journal of Sex Research. [online] doi:https://doi.org/10.1080//00224499.2024.2319242.

The Kink Orientation Scale: Developing and Validating a Measure of Kink Desire, Practice, and Identity. (2024). The Journal of Sex Research. [online] doi:https://doi.org/10.1080//00224499.2024.2387769.‌

Oh, E. (2020). I Was a Corporate Slave Until I Became a Professional Dominatrix. [online] VICE. Available at: https://www.vice.com/en/article/eva-oh-dominatrix-sex-kink/ [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

Youtube.com. (2025). Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_Ng_b28uxM [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

‌Youtube.com. (2025). Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2_aCw-DMq0 [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

‌

[michanvalentine]

Some of my favorite lines—among the saddest—that Astarion has ever said. Every time I hear them, delivered so perfectly by Neil, my heart aches. I'm sharing them with you because my husband can't take hearing me talk about Astarion and Baldur's Gate anymore!

"It’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me." There’s an entire world behind this line: the expression on his face, the tone of his voice. There’s sadness and resignation. This is how things work—this is who he is. The person in front of him is no different from the others, just another one who wants to lose themselves in him, use him for their own pleasure, and then move on as if nothing happened. Not only that, but it's also the same old charade used to deliver unsuspecting victims to the slaughter. The same old script, one he’s tired of, one that causes him pain. His eyes grow sad as he says it, his shoulders sink, his lips curve downward, and everything about him exudes bitterness. In that moment, amidst sweet words and sensual movements, the real Astarion comes out, carrying all the heavy baggage he’s been burdened with.

"Maybe, but did he take it." Cazador is dead, Astarion won, he’s alive, and he’s free. But the death of his tormentor didn’t turn back time, the death of the monster didn’t undo the damage or return what was stolen. It’s a powerful, terrifying, and painful realization, especially when you think about how these things—these parts of Astarion—were taken and erased. Because what is gone wasn’t just lost—it was replaced with suffering, shame, anger, hatred, and horrific experiences. These are memories that will stay with him for the rest of his un-life, memories he’ll have to battle every single day.

"All right, I’ll do it." The way he says it, after Tav/Durge delves into his mind and uses his greatest fear against him, is utterly heartbreaking. Once again, there’s resignation, but there’s also fear and, worst of all, a hint of submission. In that moment, Tav/Durge is the embodiment of Cazador. They bring back his most horrifying experience, fill him with pure terror, and remind him of how useless, weak, and pathetic he is—unable to defend himself. It makes him feel small again, lost, and willing to do anything just to feel safe. And this is coming from the very person who, up until that moment (unless the player is a complete sociopath xP), had been helping him regain a shred of self-worth and independence. It’s truly a low blow, a betrayal—especially because Astarion depends on Tav/Durge, much like he depended on Cazador, but in a positive way instead of a negative one. They force him, against his will, to do something he doesn’t want to do, and with that statement, Astarion seems to be saying, “Yes, master.”

"I didn’t know how to say no." This one is heartbreaking too, it hits right in the heart. It really hurts, especially in context, but also in general. Saying "no" is a fundamental right of every free individual. But Astarion doesn’t say that he can’t say no—he says he doesn’t know how to say it. And that’s truly sad, because at this point, it’s no longer just an external imposition; it’s something internalized. And of course, it goes without saying that here too, Tav/Durge took advantage of Astarion—of his inability to defend himself, to immediately recognize and stop behavior that should be shut down at the first sign because it’s harmful to him. Once again, Tav/Durge betrays him in the worst way, right after an agonizing confession, no less—Astarion opens up and admits to having very real struggles with sex.

Do you have any favorite lines too? Obviously, there are a billion more funny ones, but I’m afraid I’d need an entire day to write down all my favorites. I just love this little shit too much. xD

[colorfulwastelandvoid]

In defense of MelJay

I just need to say this…SHUT UP! Yall are all tap dancing on my last nerve.I’m am at my wits end with this fandom. Every time I think we take one step forward some dufus pushes us two steps back.

Okay. I’m arguing with a JayVik shipper on TikTok who says MelJay is boring and toxic. I am about to explode this shit can’t still be the main conversation about this ship.

So first off MelJay is “boring”. This isn’t unique to JayVik nor is it the first time someone has said this about MelJay, but I always find it weird when people say certain ships are boring. The ships in question are usually just chill and communicative so there is no needless drama. This probably relates more to online fandoms’ obsession with romanticizing toxicity but I digress. It’s weird that the tension and political intrigue,something of which yall claim to love about the show overall, is in someway boring. The fact they are not constantly arguing or disregarding each other was nice cause I hate that those interactions are normalized in fandom in regard to romantic ships. If one of them had something to say then they would just say it and they would discuss it and move on like a normal couple. There is a lot to digest with them though as separate characters and as a couple. While Mel and Jayce are similar they obviously are not exactly alike. Mel it’s a lot more closed off and tempered and Jayce is more emotionally open and is hot headed. Both want to do good and have enough ambition to do so. It is their methods that differentiate them. Mel is more comfortable working behind the scenes whereas Jayce runs head first. These little differences offers up moments of character growth for both these characters. Mel started to become more aggressive (she was never docile) in her emotions and tactics where Jayce became more level headed.

The second one is that they are toxic. I’m going to keep this part short cause I already addressed this multiple times on this tumblr, so I’ll just bring up my highlights. Mel was not manipulating Jayce throughout their whole relationship. The only times where we see her manipulations is with Hoskel , but f him who cares about that man, and Jayce during progress day when they weren’t even together and Viktor wanted Jayce to do the same thing Mel was asking him to do. He didn’t even listen to her either. Mel and Jayce were genuinely attracted to one another so no she didn’t eventually fall for him she liked him from the first kiss. After a certain point we must recognize that Jayce was coming to Mel for advice and she gave it. Whether he listened to her or not. The investment line, an investment to Mel is not the same as investment to Jayce. An investment to Mel is like an action word. She invested in Hextech cause she genuinely believed in Jayce and Viktors ability to do good and she wanted to help similar to how a parent invest in their child, not because they think they’ll get something in return but because they love and believe in their kid. Jayce knows that, hence why he apologized for insinuating otherwise.

A lot of the so called toxicity the fandom claims they see is cause no one is meaningfully engaging with Mel or Jayce as characters but are just trying to get them to work in whatever ship they see fit.

Listen at the end of the day ship who you want but how you ship is gonna get your critiqued. For the love of anything that’s holy engage with the characters as their own separate entities. Your ships will thank you for it.

Ps I doubt this will be the last time some one will piss me off about Mel, Jayce or their relationship but I’m trying to keep this page more happy, for a lack of better words,so I’m trying not to rant to much. I got one more though. It’ll be way shorter though.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Home Grown 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Cole Turner

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Cole and Eartha.

Summary: loneliness can drive one to desperate measures.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Cole is tired. He's never really not. He spends all day on his feet, cleaning up some clog in the drains or fending off the pests in the fields. There's not much going on aside from the constant battle with the earth for his livelihood. His family's too.

Ever since his dad had a stroke, it's been on him to balance it all. His sister if off who knows where with who knows his name and his mom is looking after his dad. So it's all up to him to keep this place going. And it's all on her to keep him going.

The shame used to make him squirm. His skin would burn and his blood would boil. He'd close his laptop and mope, feeling bad for himself, calling himself weak. Then he'd open it back up and keep doing it. His persistence became indifference, Not to her. No, he only ever thinks of her. He just doesn't care if it's wrong because it makes him feel right.

That night, he's addled. His dad isn't doing well, his mom is worried despite efforts to hide that, and he can't get an answer from his sister. She said she'd come see them so he could spend more time working. Not that he really wants to.

He slips his phone into the little plastic pocket to protect it from the water. He balances it on the rack that hangs around the showerhead and he cranks the faucet to a steaming spray. He stands under it as he lets it wash away the tension and waits for the stream to buffer. It's taking a bit today but sometimes it happens. Out here in the farm lands, reception is spotty.

It's not working. He's lathered up by the time the error shows. Disconnected... Strange. Why?

He gives up with a sigh. The one thing he has to look forward to and even that isn't going his way. He'll give Jensen a call when he's done.

He rubs dry his hair as the water drips down his legs onto the mat. He looks down at himself then moves to face his reflection in the mirror. He's not an ugly guy. He's not being a narcissist, he just doesn't think he's that bad. He shouldn't be alone. Still.

He huffs and wraps the towel around his waist. He grabs his phone from the show and closes the curtain. He walks down the hall and locks himself in his room. His bars are full. He shouldn't be having issues with a signal.

He dials out and waits for Jensen to pick up. He does right as Cole expects to go to voicemail. He's whisper.

"Hey, dude," Jensen scuffs around.

"Busy?" Cole asks.

"Eh, sorta, just..." he clears his throat. "All clear now, bud. What's up?"

"Mm, well... you remember... that... feed. So, er, it's not working."

"Hm, and it's just on her laptop?"

"Yeah," Cole sits on the bed and chews his thumb. "All of a sudden."

"Did the error have a code?"

"Uhhh yeah, I think," he recalls the numbers as best he can.

"Device is either off or broken. Could be both. You could give it a few days and see," Jensen suggests.

"Sure, but, er..." A few days is a long time especially when they're so slow. "Yeah, you're right. I'll wait her out."

"Dude, trust me, I get it. Boss went out of town last week and I saw her pack her favourite toy," he purrs grossly. "Anyway, it's about that time for me."

The line clicks. Good. Jake kinda weirds him out sometimes. He drops his phone.

He'll be cool about this. He can handle a few days without watching her. I mean, she's a stranger. They've never even met. She doesn't even know he exists. So he can log off and touch grass, so they say.

~

The days pass in a torturous slog of dirt, pollen, and lonely nights. Cole is wound tight, ready to snap as he has a thousand things pulling at him at once. His mom wants to hire a nurse, his dad is getting aggressive with everyone, and his sister just convinced his mom to send her money they don't have. Worst of all, he's alone. He's not sleeping because all he does is dream of her.

As he cuts away the rot from the tomato vine, he catches the tip of his glove, just enough to pinch himself good. He curses as a flash of rage swells in him. He whips the clippers into the dirt and snarls. Goddamn it!

He paces back and forth angrily. He rips off the gloves and tucks them into his workbelt. He combs his fingers through his hair and prowls like a wild beast. He can't take it anymore.

He takes his phone out and calls Jensen. It takes two tries but he gets an answer. Not a happy one.

"Dude, I had to leave a meeting--"

"Feed's down," Cole interrupts. "I'm having a real bad day and I need--- I need it."

"Jesus, you sound like it. Hm, okay, you know her email?"

"Uh, sure I do," Cole says.

"Right, you know everything," Jensen laughs. "Come on, guy, let's not pretend here. We're all a bit freaky. So, I'll send you something. Don't click on the link, got me? You take that template and forward it to her. I'll include instructions so you can dupe the sender... she'll think it's some bullshit coupon redemption or whatever. She clicks on it, you got full access again."

"Really? That easy?"

"Well it all depends on her, doesn't it?" He snorts. "Alright, I'll get that too you when I can. Gotta go."

The call ends. Cole leans against the fence and sighs. He better follow through. Better yet, it better work.

[sad-girl-hours23]

All the Hours and Minutes In Between

For @bucktommyfluffebruary Day 9: Moving In Together

The commute to Harbor from Evan’s apartment is fifteen minutes shorter than it is from Tommy’s house. If they stay at Evan’s place the night before a shift, they get to have fifteen more minutes together: cuddles in bed, unhurried kisses, quiet conversations in the kitchen over cups of coffee.

It’s why most of the nights they’re together, they’re spent at Evan’s.

And while those fifteen minutes add up day after day, they only leave Tommy wanting more.

One morning, Evan stops Tommy on his way out the door. He hands Tommy the lasagna pan he used the week before when they had dinner at his house. The pan looks brand new and not at all how it looked in Tommy’s cabinet—of course it does—because Evan always leaves things better than he found them.

“You can keep it,” Tommy says. “I prefer your lasagna any day.”

Evan tilts his head and laughs quietly. “That’s sweet, but I already have four. I think I’m good.”

Tommy accepts the lasagna pan and a lingering kiss on his lips.

He spends the whole walk to his truck wondering why he feels so rejected.

∗∗∗

Tommy hasn’t been to his house in over a week. Evan’s schedule and his matched up perfectly and even though they wouldn’t have time or energy to do much more than eat and sleep between shifts, when Evan texted him: come over after work? Tommy did each time. And at the end of their work week, one date night somehow turned into three. 

They’re lying together, Evan squished between Tommy and the back of the couch, watching Pretty Woman when Tommy shivers. Evan holds him closer. “Do you want a hoodie? You left a few here.” “Yeah. Where are they?” Tommy moves to sit up, but Evan stops him.

“Stay. I’ll get it,” Evan says as he climbs over Tommy.

Tommy smiles as he watches Evan walk away. He wonders which one he’ll bring back: the one from the Muay Thai gym he goes to or any one of the alarming number of LAFD hoodies he owns. 

When Evan returns, he sets a laundry basket on the floor and picks out a navy hoodie that says Kinard on the back. He smiles sheepishly at Tommy. “I was—uh—doing laundry and found a bunch of your clothes so I threw them in with mine. Figured you might need them when you go home. You can just bring the basket back whenever.”

Tommy stares down at the full basket and can’t quite remember how or when he’d squirreled away so many articles of clothing, but he desperately wants to tell Evan to put them all back where he found them. He doesn’t even have a drawer of his own in Evan’s dresser but still he wants more, more, more .

Evan shifts his weight and clutches the hoodie to his chest. “Was that—okay?”

The hitch in Evan’s breath shakes Tommy out of his daze. He tugs at Evan’s shirt until he’s standing between Tommy’s legs. “That was very thoughtful of you, sweetheart.” 

A small smile tugs at Evan’s lips. Tommy kisses Evan until the light returns to his eyes and a soft blush settles on his cheeks.

Evan unfolds the hoodie. “Now put this on so we can start Runaway Bride . Lift up your arms.”

Tommy asks, “is this really necessary?” but he does as he’s told and lets Evan slide the hoodie over his arms and head.

After they’re back on the couch, Evan—curled against Tommy’s back—says, “I love taking care of you.”

Tommy places his hands over Evan’s, where they’re settled on Tommy’s stomach, and laces their fingers together. 

He really loves Evan taking care of him too.

∗∗∗

Tommy has to park in a space that couldn’t be further from Evan’s apartment, but it hardly fazes him anymore. Soon he’ll have Evan in his arms and it’ll be more than worth the trek.

When Evan opens the door, he frowns. “Did I forget we had plans?”

Tommy sighs and shakes his head.  “No, we didn’t. I just drove here after my shift out of habit. I wasn’t thinking.”

Evan smiles and opens the door the rest of the way. “Well you’re here now, so come in.”

Tommy takes off his shoes and lines them up next to Evan’s, drops his keys in the bowl right next to his. “Actually, that’s a lie.”

“What?”

“I said I wasn’t thinking, but that’s not true. Coming home to you—it’s all I can think about. It’s all I want to do. I want to wake up with you and go to bed with you. I want all the hours and minutes in between.”

“Tommy—”

“I don’t want you to send me back to my house with clean dishes and laundry.”

“What are you saying?”

“I want more than just a drawer in your dresser and a key to your place.”

Evan takes Tommy’s hand in his. Like so many times before, they’d gravitated toward each other without realizing it. “Babe. I really need you to spell this out for me.”

“I want to move in with you.”

Evan smiles. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Tommy, I wanted you to move in with me six months ago.”

“Well, a lot has happened since then. I didn’t know if the offer still stood.”

Evan squeezes Tommy’s hand.  “It stands.”

Tommy sighs. “Okay. Good. Does that mean I can stay the night?”

“It means you can stay forever.”

Tommy places Evan’s hand over his heart, where it beats mercilessly against his ribcage. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Also on AO3

My Fluffebruary works collected here

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

Masterlist

Previous (Chapter 3) // Next (Chapter 5) (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, panic attacks, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan was relieved to see that the boy was capable of cleaning himself up. The shower had only run for a matter of minutes, but as Rowan lingered outside the bathroom to eavesdrop – just in case he was needed - he heard the tell-tale clicks of the shampoo bottle opening and closing. Water splashed rhythmically against freshly cleaned tiles in a hum that was barely muffled by the door. Rowan waited a few painstaking minutes after the water had turned off, seizing the opportunity to practice his patience, before he knocked and reentered.

Although it was a deeply unsettling sight to see the young man kneeling naked in his bathroom, Rowan could already see that the boy’s skin was cleaner, and his wet curls still seemed lighter than when they had been coated with grease, sweat, and blood.

The shower also made clear that some of the yellow patches on the boy’s skin were not dirt, as Rowan had foolishly hoped, but near-healed bruises. Some wounds that had been scabbed over before the shower were open now, glistening red with nascent blood as the skin tried to stitch itself back together. Bright white scars danced with blue bruising, and a single drop of crimson trailed down from a recently reopened leg wound. It seemed that the boy had interpreted the instruction to clean himself up as an instruction to rub his scabs away, scrubbing at his skin until his injuries were raw.

Rowan made a note to himself to speak more clearly in the future. The next thing Rowan noticed was that the mirror was bone-dry, no signs of steam or beading water at the top of the glass. No hints of humidity hung in the air either. He felt his lip turn down in spite of himself.

“You can use hot water next time, yeah?” He offered as hopefully as he could, though his gaze was not returned. “Seriously, you can use the hot water, as hot as you can stand it. This place is great, because I only pay a flat fee for utilities. No extra charge for those long, hot showers. Feel free to sit in the hot water as long as you want. I mean, I certainly do. Anyway, you’re looking a bit cleaner now, so maybe you want to try on some of those clothes? You’ve got to be freezing after that shower. Come on, follow me back to your room.”

And the boy followed, damp hands and knees finding purchase on vinyl tiles, an unfamiliar rhythm across the condo’s floors. Rowan winced again, making sure to hide his disappointment by looking towards the ceiling. They’d have to do something about the crawling, get him back on his feet and walking with confidence. They’d also have to get him eating and drinking on his own, comfortable enough to take showers in hot water, wearing clothes by default, acting of his own will and guided by his own desires…

Rowan bit back a sigh. There was a lot to work on.

They made it back across the hall, and Rowan walked over to the file cabinet that was currently doubling as the boy’s dresser. He slid the bottom drawer open as the steady shuffle-crawl followed in behind him. Rowan’s fingers thumbed through the sweaters that he’d hastily folded just hours earlier, one after the other, a stack of cotton and polyester and sherpa promising warmth. There was a sweatshirt he remembered specifically from his clothing haul, something lined with fleece, certainly thick enough to restore a bit of warmth after a cold shower. Hands still digging through the drawer, Rowan defaulted to his rambling once again.  

“I know I set out sweatpants and a sweatshirt earlier, but there might be a warmer sweater in here. I’m going to guess you’re cold, so let’s see if-“ and as Rowan turned to look back at his guest, just to see if he was listening, his heart dropped through his stomach.

There, on the bed, the young man was presenting himself with raised hips and a carefully arched back, eyes looking up through thick eyelashes to meet Rowan’s own-

“Fuck.” Rowan gasped, and he took a step back so fast that his shoulder slammed into the filing cabinet. His hand snapped up to shield his eyes while his voice bubbled up from his chest, words coming out as an inadvertent shout. “No! Jesus Christ, no! No. Stop doing- stop doing that. Fuck, get down from there, just get down. No, we’re not doing that. I’m not going to- we’re not- just- fuck-“

Before Rowan could speak another word, the young man bolted off the bed and down to the floor, throwing himself flat against the ground so hard that the nearby furniture trembled. The sound of his bony knees hitting the ground resounded like two gunshots. In the blink of an eye, Rowan’s outburst had caused the emaciated victim to expose his scar-riddled back to the sky.

It was clear that he was waiting for Rowan to rain blows down on his skin, whether with fists or with whips, another line written in the book of abuse written for all to see. He trembled, but he was silent, utterly silent. This was routine, a punishment he’d been subjected to before. It was something the boy expected, that he waited for, that was the natural consequence to someone raising their voice.

All because Rowan had been a bit uncomfortable, and all because he couldn’t keep that discomfort to himself. He’d been given a sliver of power, a shred of influence, and he’d already resorted to screaming.

Guilt washed over Rowan just as coldly as shock had moments earlier. The sight of the boy offering himself up for punishment, moments after he’d offered himself up for use, jolted Rowan’s consciousness back into his body. He’d yelled, one of the very few thingshe wasn’t supposed to do, and had undoubtedly terrified his guest in the process. The boy’s hands were trembling where they rested, palms up, in front of him. Short gasps came from his mouth, just soft enough that they weren’t quite whimpers, but Rowan could hear the tears he was swallowing back nonetheless.

Rowan pulled in a deep breath, surprised to find that his own eyes were stinging with emotion and moisture. This was all too much. He knew what the victims endured in their abuse, he knew that he had brought a Romantic into his home, he knew all of this from when he signed the papers and looked through the PLF rehabilitation materials. But it was one thing to read the words on a page, and it was another thing to have a battered young man on his bed offering himself up for abuse.

It was the closest Rowan had come, now by himself and in his very own home, to seeing just what he’d been fighting to have dismantled all these years. It was the closest he’d been to direct complicity, to participating in the cruelty of man. It was the closest he’d been to hell on earth.

I can fix this, Rowan thought to himself, forcing another deep breath into his lungs. I have to fix this. I can smooth this over, make it better. This is what I signed up for, this is what I’m here to fix, this is what I have to deal with. I fucked up, so I have to fix it.

What better way to start than with an apology?

“I’m sorry,” Rowan hissed through his teeth as he fought to control his volume. He wasn’t going to yell again, no matter how hot the adrenaline felt in his veins. “I shouldn’t have yelled, and you’re not in trouble. You’re not in trouble, I promise, it’s all okay. You’re okay. You’re alright. Everything’s alright.” Rowan’s heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that it was hard to swallow his volume back. His head felt heavy and his hands tingled with the panic seizing his nervous system.

Yet Rowan knew that he was not the most terrified person in the room. No matter how scared he was at the seemingly impossible challenges ahead, and no matter how worried he was that he’d already ruined everything, the boy was infinitely more afraid. If his first instinct after a shower was to offer his body up for sexual abuse, and if his first instinct after a shout was to offer that body for physical abuse, there was little question as to what horrors he’d endured before this point. He hadn’t even been in Rowan’s home for more than an hour, and he had resigned himself to the service of a stranger who owned his body, who held a title to his very life. There was no sign of the defiance, or disobedience, or even displeasure. It was fluid, seamless, undeniable recognition of ownership.

The boy hadn’t moved despite Rowan’s attempted placations. A perfect pet, entirely obedient, unmoved by gentleness. This was everything WRU wanted in its output, in its products. Simultaneously, it was everything that made Rowan sick to his stomach.

After a painstaking deep breath, Rowan grabbed the clothes he wanted from the file cabinet, and took a step towards the body trembling on the floor. He kept his steps slow, movements as glacial as he could muster, hoping that the boy wouldn’t expect a blow.

“Hey, I’m coming over now, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even going to touch you. Just-“

The boy flinched nonetheless as Rowan lowered the clothes to the floor beside his outstretched palms.

“Here,” Rowan offered, voice as soft and level as he could manage, “these are for you. To get dressed. Please, get dressed. I’m going to leave you alone now, okay? Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back later to check in. I think we both need… a minute, yeah? A minute to take a breather. Both of us. You’re not in trouble. Just, get dressed please.”

Rowan left as quickly as he could manage, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

---

The pet could hardly choke back its tears. What had it done wrong? Had it erred by not offering to please Master first, settled square on its knees, eyes pointed upwards and an eager, open mouth? Had it not cleaned itself well enough, hair still damp from the shower, some wounds still raw and dripping blood? Had it not seen something obvious in this room that it should have found for Master’s use instead?

But the punishment it expected for its insolence and incorrect assumptions never came. Even though it had exposed its hands and its back, opening its skin for lashes or stomping boots, no such corrections came. It hadn’t been able to make out the precise words that Master had shouted, his precise displeasure lost to the ringing in the pet’s ears, but it knew anger from the tone alone. It always knew when its master was angry.

Anger, yet no correction. Shouting, but no punishment. Nothing but a bundle of clothes dropped on the ground beside it, a clear indication that it was supposed to get dressed.

And with that, Master left, closing the door behind him. The pet was left alone to cover its shameful body and await its uncertain future.

---

Rowan wasted no time in grabbing the now-wrinkled PLF Rehabilitation Manual from where he’d placed it on top of the fridge. He knew that if he didn’t separate it from the rest of the paperwork strewn across the kitchen counters, he’d certainly lose it amidst the chaos. On top of the fridge, placed alongside the boxes of now-stale cereal, was as safe a place as any.

He leaned the small of his back against the countertop and busied himself with thumbing through the pages. His eyes flicked quickly over the table of contents, then through the section headers in the body of the document. When he read the manual earlier, he swore he’d seen a few pages dedicated to fixing a fuck-up. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? It was a fuck up of fantastic proportions. Rowan hadn’t even made it two hours before he’d yelled at the abuse victim in his second bedroom, all but screamed at him, just for doing what he’d been so thoroughly trained to do.

He was the picture of a perfect pet, and Rowan had managed to get mad at that. In the boy’s mind, he’d done exactly as he was trained, and it still hadn’t been enough for Rowan. That was going to forever be his first impression of Rowan.

Some people are just more suited for fieldwork, the voice of his past mentor echoed in his ears. Rehabilitation and recovery isn’t for everyone. Just like Greyson has found his stride working on the administrative side of the PLF, you’re doing your best work out in the field. Rehabilitation is an entirely different skillset, a skillset that some people don’t excel in, and that’s fine. Everyone’s job is important here. Your job is important even if you don’t work directly with the victims, I promise.

And yet, despite years of being aware that he was most certainly not suited for rehabilitation work, he’d taken up this cross on little more than impulse. The only one who would pay for Rowan’s ignorance and impatience was the very person who needed him the most.

For the second time since he’d purchased the boy he felt his eyes sting. The weight of this new responsibility weighed on his shoulders now more than ever. There was so much that could go wrong, so much pain and misery he could unknowingly inflict. This time it was his own uncontrollable shock, something he should have been able to swallow back. What would it be next time? His impatience? His ignorance?

Rowan swallowed back the lump in his throat as he finally found the dog-eared page he’d been looking for. He’d dog-eared it, of course, because he’d been afraid he’d have to use it.

You Lost Your Temper – Now What?

In a perfect world, we’d never lose our temper when assisting the wards in our care. Much like we might lose our temper with friends, family, or colleagues, we might likewise lose our temper with our wards.

These moments, while less than ideal, present a learning opportunity for all parties involved. For you, the guardian, it is an opportunity to model sincere apologies and create a safe space for your ward to talk about how they feel. For your ward, it is an opportunity to learn that they deserve politeness and equal treatment from others. For both guardian and ward, it is the chance to discuss communication, expectations, and mutual respect.

Should you lose your temper with a ward in your care, take the time to collect yourself and your emotions. You might be feeling upset, disappointed, or even angry with yourself. You might even be upset with your ward for the actions that triggered the incident, even if you know those actions aren’t their fault. You might be upset with a ward who tested your boundaries, or exercised their freedom and autonomy, in a way that you aren’t comfortable with. These are normal and expected feelings. While it is healthy to process these emotions and acknowledge their impact on you, it is best to do them away from your ward early in the relationship, and in front of your ward later in the relationship. Both are opportunities to model behavioral processing in a healthy and focused way.

Once you have gathered yourself and recognized your own emotions, take some time to think about what caused that first negative feeling. Recognize the moment you lost your temper, recognize what triggered that initial negative emotion, and consider creating a plan to prevent a similar reaction in the future. Take as much time as needed for this process, and ideally, try to give your ward an adequate amount of time to process the event as well.

Finally, talk to your ward directly. Make an appropriate apology for your reaction. For example, if you yelled, apologize for raising your voice. Take the opportunity to remind your ward that they should be treated with kindness and respect at all times, and acknowledge that you did not fulfill that basic expectation. You do not need to share the reason for your reaction – in fact, doing so can cause unnecessary fear and guilt in your ward, particularly early in the recovery process, and even more so if the triggering behavior was due to their trauma or conditioning. Instead, offer them comfort and an opportunity to discuss how the event made them feel.

The rest of the page was filled with sample conversations, language for new rehabilitators to use in such situations. Rowan studied them carefully, feeling himself grow calmer as he did so. He wasn’t the first rehabilitator to fuck up, and from the looks of the manual, he certainly wouldn’t be the last. While this did little to alleviate the guilt, it allowed for a small sliver of relief. There wasn’t anything uniquely wrong with him. Instead, his response was one rooted in human emotion, another byproduct of the system and its cruelty. His disgust was with systemic oppression, not with the boy himself.

I have to do better, Rowan reminded himself, and he took yet another deep breath. His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline that had dumped into his system.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the boy was affected if he himself was feeling the effects of his own temper so severely.

That was the next thought in his mind. He couldn’t simply refer to his guest as the boy forever. Part of developing autonomy, including the autonomy necessary to process scenarios such as the one that Rowan had just created, came from a sense of independent identity. Right now, the boy was just that: the boy in Rowan’s spare room, an object, a legal possession. To recover, he would have to become so much more than that. The manual had said as much: giving the ward a name as soon as possible was critical to developing a relationship of equals.

That would all have to come later, and it would hopefully come from the help of a rehabilitator that Rowan prayed was on the way his condo. Hope was doing a lot of heavy lifting as Rowan sat and stewed at his kitchen counter. He took a moment to check his phone, then he checked a second time to confirm there were no new messages, before placing it back on the granite.

His heart was still racing, so he looked back to the manual with a glance, then over to the closed door of the den, then back to the manual. If either of them were going to make it out of this intact, the least Rowan could do was take the manual’s word as gospel.

What emotion am I feeling? It burned hot, Rowan knew that much, and it had spurred him to yell when he rarely ever did so. Is it anger?

But instead of a tightness in his throat and a burning in his head that he would expect from anger, Rowan felt a tingling in his fingertips, a tugging in his chest, a queasiness in his stomach. It was like he was in grade school all over again, waiting for a teacher to pass out a test he hasn’t studied for. It was that heavy, burdensome dread that clung to him every time he walked onto the liquidation event sales floor.

Rowan knew he could name the feelings as soon as he took note of their home in his body. It was one that he was loathe to admit, even as old as he was, because of the stigma of weakness that clung to those words. No matter how many times he had conquered these feelings in the past, he struggled to confront them now.

But he had to. He had to, for the sake of the person in his care, the very soul that was counting on him to move past the discomfort. Rowan would have to now, and he would have to again, for the both of them.

What am I feeling? He asked himself again, biting down on his lip in spite of himself. Coppery blood washed over his tongue from the open wound. What am I really feeling?

Anxiety. Fear, dread, distress.

Those feelings were so much more than mere anger, and they were budding like a nascent ulcer in his stomach. Those were the feelings that had governed his actions since he’d signed the contract just over 24 hours prior. Adrenaline had made him run like prey, a panicked creature hunted by an unseen predator. Rowan was a gazelle on an endless savannah, running for his life, uncaring of his destination so long as it put distance between himself and the lion on his tail.

In Rowan’s case, the lion was the system itself, the weight of an industry that would crush him if it knew what he was doing. It was ruthless, it was nefarious, and it would readily kill him if it knew of his efforts to liberate people from its clutches. If so, he wouldn’t be the first liberationist to go missing under similar circumstances.

Of course Rowan was frightened, and of course he had every reason to be. There was legislation, there was law, there was unspeakable amounts of money and power that he was up against. The PLF had always been at a systemic disadvantage in this fight, as had all of its victims, all of its wards. They were fighting on the side of the underdogs, and they would be underdogs until a significant change in the public consciousness occurred.

I’m smarter than a gazelle, Rowan thought to himself, fist tight in his lap. And the lion’s only teeth are rich politicians with a vested interest in oppression. I’m not their fuckinggazelle. I’m braver, I’m smarter, and I’m stronger. I have to be. I refuse to be their prey.  

A few more moments of steady breathing were necessary for Rowan to compose himself. And just as the manual had mandated, he’d named his emotions, processed them, and acknowledged their trigger: a victim, a ward who could not consent, offering their body for sexual and physical abuse.

Another minute passed, and much to Rowan’s pleasant surprise, his breathing had levelled. The buzzing in his extremities had relaxed, and his heart no longer felt like it was being squeezed in an unforgiving fist.

The next step was to confront his ward, the boy still waiting and terrified in the spare bedroom.

“I can do this,” Rowan muttered under his breath, the soft escape of his internal dialogue. “I can apologize, I can name my feelings, and I can offer reassurance.”  

He paused and searched his thoughts for something to bridge the gap. What had the boy responded to the best in these last few hours?

After a moment of mulling, Rowan realized that it had been the water. The boy had grasped the glass as if it offered his only salvation. He’d swallowed it in the blink of an eye, disappearing before Rowan could have even come up with the words to stop him.

Of course, as Rowan knew from more than a decade of field work, the victims that were prepared for transit were both starved and dehydrated to reduce any potential resistance during transit or during their first few hours with their purchasers.

Such practices resulted in a non-zero number of transit deaths each year, some of which Rowan had documented firsthand.

Rowan went over to the pantry and took out another glass, paced over to the fridge, and poured another glass of cool water from the filter. He filled it just below the brim, tall enough that the boy would be able to drink his fill, but not so full that shaking hands would be unable to raise it to equally unsteady lips.

Glass in hand, Rowan walked back over to the second bedroom’s door.

He paused. A moment, a deep breath, a hand raised towards the faux-wood painted in landlord-eggshell. And he knocked, once, twice, knuckles on the paint making a hollow thunk with each hit.

No response was expected. None came. After another two long seconds, Rowan grasped the doorknob and pushed into the room.

---

The pet had gotten dressed. It had dressed itself in the clothes that Master had tossed beside it after he had yelled, the command obvious enough even without it understanding the precise language.

It knew it had messed up. It knew that something it had done – perhaps it was the position? Perhaps it was the assumption that it would be taken on the bed? – had made its master furious. It had made its master so furious that he had thrown clothes at it, commanded it to cover itself, and left it alone.

So the pet had obeyed as best as it could. It clothed itself in the linens – softer than it had ever been granted with its old master, and so much warmer too – and resumed its position kneeling in the center of the room. Master had placed it here for a reason, certainly, alone with nothing but its thoughts and the ringing in its ears.

Fully clad, from its ankles to its wrist, in pillow-like clothing, the pet felt the pull of sleep. Even the fear from its Master yelling was not enough to overcome the exhaustion of its travels and of its last moments with its handlers. It was so tired that it was nodding off where it knelt, knowing full well that such an action would earn it a lashing like no other.

But its body would only be pushed so far before it broke.

Adrenaline returned when the walls and floor trembled with slight vibrations. Ever since the ringing in its ears had begun in earnest, the pet had learned to pay attention to the way the surfaces around it sang. Now, the floorboards rumbled with the sound of its Master approaching. Light steps – none so heavy as its old master – but an insistent knocking that carried through the wood and laminate.

The pet wished it could shrink in on itself, become smaller, offer an adequate with just its body. But it was already as small as it could make itself, swallowed by the billowing fabric of the sweatshirt, sleeves coming down past its wrists and covering its bony knuckles.

There was almost a certain chance that it would be asked to remove the sweatshirt in short order, anyway.

As it expected, Master’s feet appeared before it moments later. It took deep breaths, listening to the steady hum of Master’s voice. He wasn’t shouting, not this time, back to that level-set rhythm that the pet already found so soothing. If there was supposed to be anger or frustration, the pet couldn’t hear it.

That wasn’t saying much, given that it couldn’t hear much at all.

Much to the pet’s surprise, Master leaned down and placed another glass in front of it. This glass was crystal-clear, filled nearly to the brim with water, its surface rippling from the movement. Although it had happily drank the earlier glass of water at its Master’s command, the pet was still parched. And although its stomach was still in knots from how Master had yelled at it, how it had been waiting for a punishment yet to come, the thirst once again prevailed.

It knew better than to grab the glass with its greedy hands. Waiting, patience, showed the very skills that it had been trained time and again to embody. So it waited, waited, until Master’s voice raised with a sharp uptick in volume.

Drink.

The pet did so without hesitation. It reached forward and it drank eagerly, trying to still the trembling of its hands as it did so. Although it had to raise its head to drink, it made sure to keep its eyes pointed downwards in as much respect and deference as it could display.

The water disappeared in a matter of moments, the pet ensuring that it showed its gratitude for the generosity by finishing it with haste. Carefully as it could manage it placed the glass back on the floor where Master had set it.

Its stomach was still tight with worry, filled with the sandwich and the first glass of water, but it was confident that it would keep the meal down. It had to – if it got sick now, there was no telling when it would get food again. This nutrition was more valuable than anything else at the moment, it was the only way it could hope to have the strength to carry on.

---

“That’s great,” Rowan praised, trying to keep his voice steady as he had been. It had already been stressful enough to raise it to give the command to drink, but the boy seemed unfazed. In fact, he finished the full glass in a matter of seconds, drinking eagerly and without hesitation.

Figuring out how to get the boy to drink on his own would be a challenge for another day. For now, even if Rowan had to command as much, drinking something was better than not at all.

Now, for the reason he’d come back into the room in the first place, when all he wanted to do was leave the boy alone long enough to decompress.

“Hey, uhm, I’m sorry for yelling,” Rowan said. The apology came easily and naturally enough, so he pushed on. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. That was wrong of me, and you didn’t deserve it. You did nothing wrong. Really, you did nothing wrong. The fact that I yelled was my fault. I’m not angry at you. I’m not mad, and I’m not going to hurt you. Everything is okay.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t acknowledge a word beyond the command to drink. Just as all the other times Rowan had spoken, he seemed attentive, but didn’t react.

“I mean it,” Rowan pushed on. “I’m sorry. Everything is alright. You’re okay. You’re safe here, with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to ask you to do those things you had to do before. It caught me off guard, and my reaction was wrong. I shouldn’t have raised my voice”

Nothing. At this rate, it would be impossible to have the back-and-forth dialogue that the manual had encouraged, but Rowan knew that it was possibly asking too much for a first day, even a first week, or a first month. His one-sided apology was a start, at least.

“If you want to tell me how you feel, you can,” Rowan offered the floor up. “It’s okay. You can say how you feel – actually, you can talk, if you’d like, about anything. I haven’t heard you say anything yet, but you’re allowed. You’re allowed to talk as much as you want here. And- and you can get your own water, and your own food- ah. I’m getting ahead of myself, I think. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s okay, and you can talk to me. If I scared you, or upset you, you can tell me that. And if you tell me what’s wrong, I’ll do my best to make it better.”

As Rowan rambled on, self-conscious of the words spilling out of his mouth, he forced himself to look down at the boy kneeling before him. This was no way to talk to a victim like this, was it? Rowan was still towering above him, voice booming downwards, the power imbalance as visual as it was ingrained in the boy’s blood.

So, after another moment, Rowan sat.

He lowered himself to the floor in front of the boy and sat down, crossing his legs like he was a child again. A laugh almost escaped his mouth as he realized how much flexibility he’d lost, knees straining and thighs tugging, as he finally got his ankles close to one another.

The boy perked up immediately, looking through his hanging curls in Rowan’s direction with those bright doe-eyes that Rowan had only seen a glimpse of once so far. Rowan smiled in spite of himself.

“Hey, is this better for you? I think it’s better, at least for right now, if you don’t want to stand up yet. This will let us talk to each other like equals, yeah? We are, you know. Even if you don’t believe it yet. So, I’ll say it again, and maybe you can think about it some more. I’m sorry for yelling at you, and yelling was wrong of me. I never should have raised my voice. I wasn’t mad at you, I was just surprised, because I don’t want to do those sorts of things to you. I’m here to help you, not hurt you, especially not like that. I promise that you’re safe, and no harm is going to come to you here.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. As Rowan spoke the boy’s weight shifted slightly forward, so slight that Rowan almost missed it entirely, and his eyes flitted from his knees towards Rowan’s face. He never quite made eye contact, still hidden behind the curtain of hair, but it was closer than Rowan had been able to achieve from a standing position.

This was what had stood out to Rowan on the sales floor of the liquidation event. The boy seemed distant, but he was far from catatonic like some of the victims that were more difficult to rescue. There was a spark, an attentiveness, a willingness to listen and to obey. It was a flame that yearned for the chance to survive.

Rowan just had to figure out how to nurture that flame and reach through the glass between himself and the boy. They would have to break that barrier down if they were going to move towards healing.

“Yeah, we’re just having a conversation right now, that’s all.” He wasn’t sure how effective his soothing would be so soon after his yelling, but Rowan knew he had to try. “If you want to talk about how you’re feeling, you can do that, talk to me all you want. You can also just tell me to leave if you’d rather be alone right now.”

Nothing, still nothing.

“Can you nod for me if you want to be alone?” He asked, hoping to see some movement. Nothing. “Can you shake your head if you want me to stay?” Nothing again. 

A thought struck Rowan as he saw the boy’s eyes peek up again, still hunting, almost fixated on his lips. He tried again once he saw the boy look upwards.

“Can you nod your head for me?”

And just like that, the boy’s head moved slightly, once up, once down. It was short, but unmistakably the very nod that Rowan’s question had evoked. And once the nod had finished, the boy looked back down at the floor.

“Can you nod again?” He asked once more as soon as he was certain the boy was no longer looking.

No movement.

“Oh my god,” Rowan whispered out loud as realization flashed through him, and he clambered to his feet. He nearly tripped over himself as he did so, staggering to a standing position and darting behind the boy, back over to the far corner of the room, directly behind his ward. The boy was still kneeling, unmoving, his eyes were still pointed towards the door. Importantly, he was unable to see Rowan’s face even if he raised his eyes.  

Rowan snapped his fingers, a few times on his right, a few times on his left. No reaction. Then, after a pause to suppress the oncoming wave of guilt, he clapped his hands together with considerable force. The sound was sharp enough to echo throughout the small room.

This evoked a reaction. It was subtle, but he saw the boy’s shoulders twitch in some sort of anticipation. A fear response, automatic, but a response nonetheless.

“Holy shit,” Rowan muttered to himself, a hand running through his hair almost of its own accord. His epiphany was looking more and more like a plausible possibility.

“Hey, turn around,” he instructed. He made sure not to raise his voice, keeping it as neutral as possible, but still issuing the command with certainty. Again, no movement. He tried again, same tone, conversational volume. “Turn around, right now. Turn around and look at me.”

Nothing.

After a deep breath, and a final reminder that he was doing this for the boy’s own good, Rowan shouted.

“Turn around!”

And just like that the boy moved, turning on his knees in a swift, fluid motion. A blink later and he was kneeling in that same position, but this time pointed towards where Rowan stood at the back of the room.

A nervous chuckle slipped out before Rowan could swallow it. All of that pain, all of that suffering, the threat of death on the sales floor, it had all been under the guise of disobedience. Rowan was now certain it was anything but.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you’re not disobedient. You just can’t fucking hear me.”

There was a euphoria he couldn’t describe blossoming in his chest. This rescue wasn’t a hopeless mistake that he had made, this victim wasn’t beyond recovery or redemption. He simply couldn’t hear the very words that Rowan was speaking to him, commands or otherwise.

It was Rowan’s turn to drop to his knees, aging bones hitting the wood as he fell a mere foot from where the boy had stationed himself.

“It’s okay!” Rowan all but shouted, the boy’s flinch lost to the excitement. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all okay.” His voice was as loud as he could make it without screaming.

“You’re safe. You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re home, you’re safe. It’s all going to be okay.”

A/N: Cheers to the rewrite for a chance to make it clear that Rowan's not an idiot, he's just out of his depth. That was one of the driving factors for the rewrite, actually. Sorry for those that hoped there'd be a few more chapters of misunderstanding and obliviousness from our well-meaning caretaker - it's important to me that Rowan is capable and aware of himself in this story, particularly given his role in other liberation efforts. But there will absolutely be other barriers to communication and understanding between the two, I can promise that much!

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[crackedpumpkin]

All Too Human (04)

taglist: @chennqingg @theblindhag @elysiuansstuff @professionalrodent @mikadough @jenniferontheblock @blackparacosm @goth-detectives365 @crystalbeetle888 @filiswingman @beescomet

a/n: if anyone would like to be removed or added to the taglist, do let me know!

| 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁 |

You can’t remember the last time you said ‘I love you’ to your parents. Their faces are blurry in your dream, stuck in a time when you’d stormed out of the house after a heated argument about your future. 

The whole idea that blood is thicker than water has always made no sense to you. Just because they made you doesn't mean they know what's best for you.

It's like watching an old movie, an out-of-body experience as you see your past self storm out the door with a packed suitcase and bag, plane tickets to another country already purchased and transportation arranged .

The door slams shut behind your past self. You silently watch the tears roll down her cheeks before gripping the handle of her luggage with a newfound intensity. Mom always said that you inherited your temper from your dad, but you never really understood what she meant until now.

Defiance and fear swirl within her gaze, each footstep away from the front door growing heavier. 

Shards of grief that you’ve pushed down a long time ago begin to resurface, slicing your heart and leaving raw, open wounds in their wake. The scene shifts to a later memory — when you’d first got lost in a country after leaving your home, crying alone at a bus stop.

During this moment, a pickpocket had taken your phone, your lifeline. Everything was gone: personal info, bank cards, even your one contact back home. You watch your past self wipe her eyes and wander to a nearby phone booth.

She picks up the receiver, fumbles for a coin, and dials by muscle memory. The rings echo across the line until, finally, a familiar voice breaks through.

“Hello?”

A strangled sob escapes from your lips as you watch your past self, silent and staring blankly at the phone pressed to her ear. You’re the one sinking to the floor, as if the weight of it all has finally buckled your knees, tears streaming down as if a dam has burst. "Mom," you whisper hoarsely, feeling the words break free, “Mom, it’s me.”

It’s been so long since you last heard her voice, almost long enough to have forgotten its warmth. But that same warmth brings about a chill, knowing that she can’t hear you. 

Pain blooms in your knees as they scrape against the ground, but the blood goes unnoticed. “Mom, I miss you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I want to come home.” Your words tumble out in broken fragments, your chest heaving, breaths shallow between each shaky sentence. "I’m sorry I let you down, I’m sorry I left. I miss Dad. I miss home.”

Your past self remains motionless, a shadow oblivious of your pleas. But here, reliving it, you feel the words ripple through your body, pulling raw grief and regret to the surface. The ache has never left; it’s only buried itself deeper.

“Hello? Must be a spam call,” you hear her mumble to someone else before a click in the line signals that she’s hung up. Your past self remains there, tears forming in the corners of her eyes but her pride refusing to let them flow. 

Then, the scene shifts once more. 

You’re in San Francisco now, a brand new apartment a friend of yours had let you stay in. She’d been gracious enough to lower the rent, though it’s still pretty expensive given that you’re only working part time in a bar and at the community pool. 

Picking yourself off the ground, you wipe away the tear streaks on your face through the sniffles. Feeling your breathing calm somewhat, you watch on as your past self lays on the floor with a smile, blissfully unaware of the future that awaits her. 

Then the world spins.

Inhaling sharply as your eyes snap open, you’re met with the worried faces of Bilbo, Fili, and Kili hunched over you. Your body jerks up with a choked cough, water spilling from your mouth and into the water below.

Throat burning and eyes watery, you assess the situation. The riverbank, with no orcs in sight. Just as relief hits you, so does the pain with full force. A soundless gasp pushes past your lips as your fingers clench into fists. 

You’re almost afraid to look. 

However, you force yourself to angle your head down, and your gaze falls on the arrowhead still lodged deep in your thigh. The metal tip glints darkly, surrounded by a ring of torn fabric and smeared blood. 

Crimson trickles from the wound, pooling around the shaft and soaking into your clothes, each heartbeat sending another wave of fresh blood spilling over your skin. The area throbs, a pulsing agony that radiates up your leg, making it difficult to keep from crying out.

Your breath catches, eyes darting to Kili, who grips your shoulder firmly, his face drawn tight with worry. “It’ll be alright,” he says, though his voice wavers just slightly, betraying his own anxiety. His hand hovers near the arrow, uncertain, clearly torn between wanting to help and knowing that removing it now could make things worse.

Bilbo’s face pales as he watches the blood seep steadily from your leg, and Fili clenches his jaw, casting nervous glances between the wound and his brother. The pain sharpens, and a tremor runs through you as the realisation sinks in. You’re hurt, badly. Moving seems impossible, yet the urge to press on gnaws at you.

“We must leave now.” Bilbo’s worried eyes turn into a glare that’s aimed at Thorin from the announcement he makes. 

“Thorin, she’s injured!” He protests, stepping forward in a protective stance. “She can barely move, and you’re here in one piece thanks to her!” 

Your lips part in a murmur. “That’s sweet.” The hobbit remains firm in his posture, the leader of the group relenting. 

Kili gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his gaze steady. “I’ll carry you if I must,” he murmurs, a quiet resolve in his voice.

“Two minutes. Bind the wound and prepare to leave in two minutes.” Bilbo’s shoulders relax, moving to stand near you. He’s too kind for his own good, and that bull-headed dwarf Thorin could learn a thing or two from him. What a bastard, truly.

Maybe he’s a Taurus.

But as much as you want to cry like a baby and just writhe in pain, you can’t die now. 

“I need a knife,” the plea barely makes it past your lips, Bilbo fumbling around briefly before handing you his own blade. Unsheathing it, you muster all the strength in your body to cut through the fabric, revealing bare skin that’s been torn open.

Blackened veins spider around the wound’s edges. Poison, you realise with dread. “Stay still lass,” Balin pushes past the brothers to the forefront, grabbing the closest arm and pulling it to you. Unfortunately, it happens to belong to Fili, who officially becomes your stress ball replacement.

“I’ve got you,” he says, bracing himself as Balin’s steady hands close around the arrow’s shaft. Balin glances from the arrowhead to your teary eyes, muttering, “On the count of three. One—”

He yanks the arrowhead out in one swift motion. A pained scream rips from your chest, and your face buries into Fili’s arm as the agony sears through you, leaving you breathless. The arrow clatters to the ground, stained in crimson, and blood flows freely from the puncture in your thigh.

Your breath comes in shallow, shuddering gasps, and for a few moments, you simply let yourself cry. Each sob rakes through your body, as though it might somehow release the pain. 

When you finally manage to draw in a shaky breath, the metallic taste of blood taints your tongue. Forcing down a swallow, you squeeze your eyes shut one last time before mentally putting on your big girl pants.

Patching up the wound before it bleeds any more comes first, but your frantic gaze finds no bandages or supplies around you, nothing even close to resembling gauze. Once again, you’re left with the bitter reminder that you’re in another world with none of the resources you’d grown so used to.

Desperation sharpens as you glance back and forth from Balin’s empty hands to Bilbo’s wince. The river washed away anything you might have used, and the rest of the group definitely lacked anything to do with medical supplies.

Swallowing the bile rising in your throat, you look down at your soaked tunic. It’s waterlogged and bloodstained, but it’s all you have. With a grim determination, you slip your arms out of it, leaving you bare with only a bound cloth around your chest, shivering slightly in the cool air.

As you pull off your soaked tunic, the dwarves go silent, their gazes averted — mostly. Fili’s eyes linger a little too long, clearly caught between worry and curiosity at seeing you in just your undergarb. 

But before he can get too distracted, a firm nudge from Kili snaps him out of it, his brother throwing him a hard, narrow-eyed glare. The unspoken signal is clear, and with an apologetic cough, Fili looks away, his cheeks turning the slightest shade darker.

Meanwhile, Kili’s focus remains locked on your face, searching for any sign of your discomfort beyond the pain before you hear a loud thwack, Balin having smacked the side of his head and forcing him to turn his back as well.

Amusement darts through you in the haze of pain for a mere moment, catching the reddened tips of his ears. With no other option, you set to work, cutting the tunic into strips and winding each piece tightly around your leg. 

Unfortunately, most of your strength is spent. Your left arm falls down, numb beyond belief. Everything in you is screaming to not ask for help, to not be a burden any more than you already are. But without someone to assist in bounding your leg, you’d bleed out and die.

“Kili.” The dwarf in question turns, eyes widening when he sees the helpless look in your eyes. “Please,” you croak, gesturing to the remaining material barely clinging to the skin of your thigh. 

He’s instantly by your side, his hands getting to work as he binds up your leg using the same method you’d taught to him back in the dungeons. Gritted teeth don't hold back the sharp inhales at each jolt of pain he can feel. 

In an attempt to distract yourself, you cast your gaze up to the clear blue sky. It helps somewhat, blinking away the involuntary tears that form. Once his movements cease, you look back down and meet his eyes briefly.

A flicker of admiration sits in his irises, mingled with worry and guilt. Your breath hitches for a split second before you both look away. “It’s done,” he announces with a shake of his head. He glances around at the company, scanning each dwarf quickly as you tug whatever’s left of your tunic back on.

There’s no spare fabric left from the packs, and most of their clothes are just as worn and torn from the escape. Watching him pause and his jaw tense as he makes a decision, you’re caught off guard when he reaches for his own tunic. 

Without hesitation, Kili slips his knife from his belt and cuts a length of cloth from its bottom. The tear leaves his shirt a bit shorter than usual, but he hardly notices. “Hold on now,” he murmurs gently, inching closer to you. 

The makeshift covering he’s prepared in his hands is soft, but sturdy enough to offer a thin layer to protect your modesty. "Like you said,” his voice warm but still teasing, “we should still take care of ourselves when injured.”

Your voice dies in your throat as he leans down, wrapping the cut fabric around the exposed skin between the bottom of your now torn tunic (or makeshift crop top, you silently dub), and the top of your pants. 

His fingers work deftly but carefully, tightening the bandage with an ease that belies the tension in his jaw as he tries not to look too closely at the scrape and blood pooling around your thigh.

You’re pretty sure your brain’s short-circuited now, forgetting how to breathe when his gaze meets yours once more. The ground doesn’t even feel solid under your fingertips at this point, heart turning to mush.

His gaze should be illegal, you decide. He should be in jail for the things he’s doing to my stomach right now.

The other dwarves, sensing Kili’s dedication, glance over now and then but quickly return to their tasks or their stances, giving you both the privacy the moment demands. Fili keeps his head turned but can’t resist casting a sideways look every so often, protective but still wary of intruding.

Kili pulls the bandage securely once more, his hands warm and steady. He finally lets go, resting one hand lightly against your knee for a moment as he steadies himself, catching his breath. “It should hold,” he says, his voice soft but resolute, and you can sense the relief mingled with pride beneath his words.

The pain subsides slightly with the firm bandaging, and for a moment, there’s a shared silence between you, broken only by your own slightly laboured breathing.

“You were—” Kili begins, then hesitates, a trace of his earlier admiration still in his gaze. “You held yourself well. I doubt many could do as much.”

His praise stirs something in you, though the discomfort of vulnerability lingers just beneath the surface. You’re exhausted, but his words somehow give you strength, grounding you through the pain and fatigue. 

You manage a faint smile, nodding to him in silent gratitude, watching as he rises and moves back, though his eyes linger on you just a moment longer than usual. Fili coughs loudly to shatter the moment, trying his very best to ignore whatever just happened. 

Don’t blame him at all, because what the fuck was that all about?

You blink. Get a grip. You’re not actually supposed to feel this way. He’s just a character. Just focus on surviving, that’s all you have to do now until you can go home.

Your fingers press against the makeshift bandage, testing it, and though the pain has dulled somewhat, each movement sends a sharp reminder throbbing through your thigh. You grit your teeth, willing yourself to focus. The pain is almost grounding, in a twisted way; keeping you alert, reminding you that you’re still here. Still needed. You won’t let it slow you down.

“I think I’ll be alright now. Why don’t we-” 

The sound of a branch being split open makes the breath hitch in your throat, interrupted when you spot a man standing on a jagged rock above everyone else. His shoulder-length hair is tied back into a scraggly half-up style, an arrow notched onto his bow in expert manner. 

The arrow pierced through the branch in Dwalin’s hand makes everyone else hesitate. His figure seemed familiar. Where do you know him from? Your fingertips brush against the edges of another memory partially shrouded by exhaustion, a name rings clear in your mind.

Bard. The fisherman? Or ferryman of Lake-town. Again, the details remain frustratingly out of reach, scraggly bits and pieces floating around in your head like an unsolved puzzle waiting to be pieced together. One thing’s for sure though, he’s one of the good guys.

Before you can tell the others what you know, another arrow slices through the air, knocking away a rock that Kili instinctively picked up. 

“Do it again, and you’re dead.” 

Okay, so maybe you might be wrong.

Fuck it, only one way to find out.

“You’re Bard, aren’t you?” you ask, voice strained as you struggle to remain composed through the dull throb of pain in your thigh. His head tilts in mild confusion when he spots you among the band of dwarves. “Of Laketown. The… guy.” You manage a faint smile, but the lingering ache distracts you from delivering anything close to poise.

Bard’s expression hardens, narrowing his eyes as he lowers his bow, though his stance remains guarded. There’s a flicker of surprise in his gaze, perhaps at the way the dwarves seem to fall into step behind you. “And what does it matter to you?”

The question lingers as you struggle to get up from the rock, pushing past the ache in your thigh. Bofur, quick to notice, moves to your side, offering a steadying hand, which you accept gratefully. Together, you hobble forward, keeping Bard in your sights.

Oin’s sceptical voice cuts in from behind. “Ye know this lad?”

“Not personally, no.” You shake your head, trying to inject some nonchalance. “But if we need to get into Laketown, he’s our best chance. We’re just some… merchants.” You direct your words at Bard, keeping your tone light despite knowing the cover is flimsy at best.

Bard’s eyes narrow further, clearly unconvinced. “Merchants.” The flatness of his voice draws a tired nod from you.

By now, he’s drifting toward a small boat nearby after deeming you a non-threat, and you press on, following with uneven steps, each one jarring your leg. Kili’s worried gaze catches yours, and he inches closer, hands poised to help if you stumble. You look away, avoiding his concern. There’s no point overanalyzing whatever tension lies between you two. At least, not now.

Balin steps forward, taking over with his usual warmth. “Aye, and I’ll wager you’ve hungry mouths of your own to feed?” As he speaks, Bofur helps you settle onto a nearby rock, and you give him a grateful smile, shifting your attention back to Bard.

Bard’s stance relaxes slightly, a touch of softness entering his expression at the mention of his family. Balin notices and pushes a bit further. “How many bairns?”

Bard sighs, pride slipping into his voice. “A boy and two girls.”

“Aye, and your wife’s a beauty, I’ll wager?” Balin continues, keeping his tone gentle, disarming.

Before Bard can respond, you blurt, “Oh no, she’s dead, actually.”

The bluntness drops like a stone into the conversation, the air growing heavy as all eyes snap to you. The dwarves freeze mid-reaction, their expressions ranging from horror to disbelief. Balin looks like he might choke on his own words, while Bard’s gaze sharpens, settling on you.

Well, shit.

You bite your lip, heat rushing to your face as you realize the weight of what you’ve just said. The ache in your thigh is messing with your focus, your usual filter unraveling with every throbbing pulse. Now your mouth is just running wild, practically begging to land you in trouble.

Bard doesn’t flinch, though his eyes narrow slightly, studying you with unnerving precision. “I suppose you’ve seen many a dead body, then?”

The question hits harder than you expect. His gaze dips to your bandaged thigh and the faint bloodstains on your clothes, a flicker of understanding sparking behind his eyes. You can’t tell if it’s pity or suspicion, and frankly, you’re not sure which would be worse.

You shake your head, feeling the rawness of his words cut through the haze. “Just my grandfathers and grandmother,” you say quietly, the vulnerability slipping through your usual guard with a hint of shame that clouds your words.

A beat passes, and Bard’s expression shifts slightly, perhaps a mix of understanding and solemnity. “Were you there when it happened?”

You shake your head again, guilt seeping into your cheeks in the form of a heated flush.

He nods slightly, turning back to his barrels. “Then you are blessed.”

There’s no malice in his tone, just the hard edge of someone who’s weathered his own losses. For a moment, you’re caught off guard by the strange gratitude his words evoke, though defensiveness lingers in your chest. You hadn’t expected him to care.

Kili’s sudden voice breaks the silence. “Please.” He takes a step forward, glancing at you before focusing on Bard. “She’s injured. She needs medicine, and we have none. You may choose not to help us, but surely you wouldn’t forsake your own kind.”

For a moment, Bard says nothing, watching Kili with a sharp, assessing look. But as the silence stretches, he finally steps into his boat, shuffling through his belongings.

A flash of doubt crosses Kili’s face, but before he can speak again, a heavy fabric lands on your head. Startled, you grab it, realising it’s a cloak. “Put it on,” Bard mutters, his voice firm. “Your tattered clothing will draw unwanted eyes.”

Relief flickers in Kili’s expression as Bard helps you into the boat — a quiet, unspoken agreement in his actions. As you settle in, you clutch the cloak around your shoulders, watching Bard closely.

Before he pushes off, you reach out and catch his sleeve, surprising even yourself. “My companions. I won’t leave without them.”

He raises an eyebrow, his expression cautious. “And what makes you so sure that it will matter to me?”

His question lingers, a subtle warning in his tone. You steel yourself, masking the tremor in your voice. “Because you don’t leave people in need. We’ll pay you — double, in fact,” you add, feeling Thorin bristle behind you. Balin gives him a firm look, urging him to stay silent.

Relief washes over you in waves when Bard pauses, assessing the state of the dwarves, and the desperation in your eyes. “Triple, and you will do exactly as I say.”

Balin seizes the opportunity by the neck, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “Seems like we have a deal.”

— — — — — — 

“So what really brings you here?” It’s difficult to answer the sudden question that Bard springs forth, fiddling with the edges of your cloak as you lean against Balin. There’s a certain familiarity in his demeanour, one that resembles that of your own father.

 Hesitating, you look to Balin for approval. He nods. 

“I can only speak for myself.” The words come out slower than you intend, as though admitting them makes the whole ordeal more real. “Thranduil…let's just say he didn't take well to me pointing out that he's… a few brain cells short of a functioning idiot. So he locked me up for it.” You manage a weak smile, shrugging as if you’ve come to terms with the absurdity of it all. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just want to go home.”

You’ve lost track of the number of times you’ve made that wish, both out loud and to yourself. Maybe if I do it two hundred more times, there might be a pot of gold by the end of this rainbow, you think wryly. 

Wow. I’m actually going insane, aren’t I?

“Did you run away?” Bard’s follow-up question catches you off guard. There’s a gentle curiosity in his gaze, as though he’s seen this kind of longing before.

It’s difficult to answer without seeming like an absolute lunatic seeking asylum at the mention of other worlds, so you just nod, offering a half-smile. “Guess you could say that.”

Bard chuckles lightly, a sound warmer than you expected. “I’d bet you were a handful to your own parents.”

You manage a small laugh, feeling a flicker of warmth in spite of yourself. “They might’ve mentioned that… once or twice.”

At that, Bilbo, who’s been listening in with a quiet attentiveness, speaks up with a thoughtful look. “Leaving home is no easy thing,” he says, his voice soft. “I did the same, not so long ago. Not quite running away, but… close enough.” His eyes meet yours, sympathetic and knowing. “Sometimes, what starts as a reckless idea can lead you exactly where you’re meant to be.”

You arch a brow. “Even when it means getting thrown in prison?”

Bard raises an amused brow at Bilbo, half-smiling. “This hobbit here has an odd way of putting things.”

Bilbo clears his throat, a little embarrassed but smiling anyway. “Let’s just say it doesn’t always turn out so badly.” He shifts closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And… between us, I think Thranduil might be due for a few more words from you. For his own good, of course.”

Bard chuckles, shaking his head. “Let’s hope he doesn’t put a bounty on your heads by the time you reach Laketown.”

For a moment, the tension eases. You drift along in the heavy mist, watching the shifting shapes of stone structures emerge on either side. There’s a chill in the air that seeps through your cloak, though you find a strange comfort in the silence shared between the three of you.

Even the pain in your leg has lowered to a dull throbbing, but you know better than to simply move it. Your fingers itch for the familiarity of your phone once more, wanting nothing more than to go to a hospital and get proper medication and treatment. 

But when in Rome, do as the Romans do, you suppose. 

The boat rocks gently, and you glance at Bard. His hands work the tiller with practised ease, his gaze steady, navigating the inky water as though the mist doesn’t faze him at all. His silhouette is calm, almost statuesque against the ghostly outline of ancient archways rising from the lake’s surface, relics of a world much older than you can fathom.

You lean back, letting the mist curl around you, but your gaze drifts to Kili. He’s watching the ancient stone structures slip by, the flickering light from the lantern near him casting shifting shadows over his face, softening his usual sharp, playful edges. 

You can still feel the tension from earlier. His hands steady against your skin, the warmth of his gaze in that unguarded moment. It’s enough to make your chest tighten all over again.

A part of you aches to reach out to him, but another part, one you can’t ignore, wonders if it’s really a good idea. You’re already more involved with him than you wanted to be, and each shared glance, each touch, seems to draw you deeper. 

Oh. Oh god no. 

It dawns on you with mortification, your heart sinking in your chest. You are not about to get into a situationship with him, not with your literal life at stake. You shake your head slightly, as if to clear the thought, focusing instead on the mist-laden waters and the steady, quiet pain that reverberates in your leg that anchors you to reality.

Thorin approaches, his impatient voice cutting through the silence.

“What are you trying to do? Drown us?”

Bard doesn’t even flinch, his expression calm as he turns to Thorin. “I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf,” he replies smoothly. “If I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here.”

The dwarves exchange glances, and you hear Dwalin mutter darkly to the others, “I’ve had enough of this lippy lakeman. I say we drop him over the side and be done wi’ it.”

You bite back a grin at Dwalin’s suggestion, sharing an amused glance with Bilbo. Unable to hold back an exasperated roll of your eyes, he stifles a chuckle of amusement from your blunt honesty. 

“We do not have to like him. We simply have to pay him ... come on now lads, turn out your pockets.” Balin instructs calmly, as if he’s used to the unfriendly attitude the rest have. You frown slightly.

“You could at least say thank you to him.” 

“Of course. After you apologise for speaking about his dead wife, perhaps?” The harshness of Thorin’s reply sends a jolt of embarrassment through you, a heated flush creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. 

Bard’s indifferent voice drifts over, his eyes focused on the waters ahead but still within earshot of the conversation. “She is injured and by my estimate, lost quite an amount of blood. I did not think that you would treat your companion with such unkindness, especially when she insisted on not leaving you behind.”

Kili glances between you and his uncle, conflict in his eyes. The warmth in your cheeks fade, reality sinking in as you realise that Bard has come to your defence. “I’m sorry about earlier,” you say softly, head slightly bowed in apology. “I really didn’t mean to blurt it out like that.” 

“I am not worried about your bluntness, but I am curious as to how you came to know of this.”

Bard’s question lingers in the air, his voice calm but probing. You hesitate, eyes darting to the dark waters slipping by as you fumble for an explanation. “I…” you start, but the words dissolve on your tongue, weighed down by the impossibility of explaining the truth.

Everyone’s watching. Bard with mild, detached curiosity, Balin with a hint of concern, and Kili with something softer, almost protective. Thorin’s gaze, however, is more impatient for answers.

So much for thinking that he’s chill with you joining the group. 

Unable to meet their eyes, you swallow, finally settling on a response, however insufficient it feels. “I can’t tell you,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. Your hands knot together in your lap, a shield against the expectant silence.

Thorin’s jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t turn openly hostile. “You’re a mystery to us, it seems,” he says slowly, the suspicion in his voice tempered by caution. “But you've proven helpful thus far. I'll grant you that.”

But Bard’s expression softens, though his eyes remain sharp. “Everyone has secrets, Master Dwarf. Especially in times like these.” His gaze returns to you, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “I won't ask you to share anything that you're not ready to answer.”

Kili shifts beside you, his hand hovering near your arm before he quickly pulls it back, as if unsure. “She’s done more than enough,” he mutters under his breath, almost defensively.

You glance at him, surprised by the support, though it only makes the tightness in your chest more acute. His eyes hold a warmth that cuts through the tension, silently assuring you that he trusts you, even if the others don’t.

Balin clears his throat, ever the diplomat. “Aye, let’s leave things as they are. We’ve a long journey yet, and nothing to gain by second-guessing those beside us.”

Bard returns his attention to the tiller, the boat cutting through the mist as silence settles back over the group. Thorin finally looks away, though his stance remains tense, as if he’s reserving judgement until he can be certain of your intentions.

In the stillness, you sense Kili’s gaze drift back to you, his expression softened, though he quickly looks away when he catches your eye. For now, his silent support is enough.

It’s a while later before you wake up from having dozed off, finding yourself on Kili’s shoulder. Blinking away the sleep in your eyes, your hands find the edge of the boat’s seat, pushing yourself to sit upright. 

His gaze is warm and slightly teasing, but there’s a flicker of something else too—a hint of hurt that surprises you. “Looks like you needed the rest.” The smile in his voice doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You give him a sheepish look. "I didn’t mean to doze off on you."

"Don’t worry about it," he replies, but there’s a hesitation, like he’s holding back. "You’re injured after all. Just let me know if you need it again."

There’s a small pause as you glance at him, feeling the familiar pull to let your guard down, to simply enjoy the warmth and kindness he offers so freely. But it’s not mine to take, you remind yourself, an unease settling in your stomach. Kili belongs with someone like Tauriel — someone from his world, with his bravery and his spirit.

Yet, here he is, looking at you with that softness in his eyes.

"Why are you always so… nice to me, Kili?" you murmur, hating how vulnerable the words sound but unable to stop yourself. "You barely know me, and you don’t… you shouldn’t have to go out of your way like this."

Kili looks at you, brows knitting in gentle confusion. "Because I want to." He pauses, voice lowering. "And you’re not as alone as you think, even if you feel that way. I can see it."

His words settle around you like a blanket, both warming and suffocating. A pang of guilt tugs at you as you look away, biting your lip. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. But the thought of putting distance between you, of brushing off his kindness, hurts more than you expected.

"Well," you manage, forcing a playful smile as you steady your breathing, "maybe you’re just terrible at making new friends."

Kili chuckles softly, but there’s a question in his eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe I just see something good when it’s right in front of me." He hesitates, searching your face as though waiting for you to let him in. "Are you sure you’re alright?"

You feel your heart race at the sincerity in his question, the way he sees right through your defences. But the closer he gets, the more you realise that pushing him away now might hurt him, especially since he doesn’t understand why. "It’s nothing," you lie, hearing how hollow the words sound.

Kili watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering, as though he can sense the struggle within you. He doesn’t press you further, but his voice is softer when he speaks again. "You know, you don’t have to pretend with me. If you ever need to… talk, I’m here."

Your heart tugs painfully, and you fight the urge to reach for his hand. "Thank you, Kili," you murmur, forcing a smile that barely reaches your eyes. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He nods, his expression kind but uncertain, as though he’s trying to decipher the wall you’ve put up between you. But before he can say anything more, you turn away, pretending to be interested in the dark shapes of trees drifting by. You tell yourself that distance is for the best, that keeping him at arm’s length will prevent the hurt that’s bound to come. But dread pools in the depths of your soul, inching closer with each betrayed flutter of your heart.

A few clearing of throats and shuffling of feet draw your attention, spotting an uneasy look on Balin’s face as he counts the coins in his hands. He glances up at the dwarves around him, before turning to their leader. “There’s a wee problem ... we’re ten coins short.”

Without thinking, you instinctively reach into the cloak Bard had lent you, rummaging through the inner pockets. Your fingers graze something cold and rough, and you pull out two coins, which must have been left there by Bard himself. 

With a soft hiss of pain, you manage to push yourself to your feet. Bilbo, ever attentive, quickly moves to steady you, helping you shift closer to the group. “I don’t have much, but this is all I could find.”

Balin accepts the coins with a grateful nod, his eyes softening. You silently hope Bard won’t notice that his own money has ended up among the dwarves’ funds.

But as you settle back, trying not to aggravate your injury further, the atmosphere shifts. Gloin is grumbling about the expense of this venture, but the rest of the company has fallen silent, their eyes transfixed on something in the distance. You turn, following their gaze… and the sight stops you cold.

There, looming far ahead, is the Lonely Mountain. Its peak cleaves through the morning mist, jagged yet majestic, as the first light of dawn spills over the horizon. The dwarves fall silent, captivated, reverent, their gazes fixed on their distant homeland.

You stare, awestruck yourself. For all the marvels you've encountered in your own travels, like the serene slopes of Mount Fuji, and the magnificence of the Colosseum…none of it compares. The mountain is more than a landmark; it’s a vision woven from longing and memory, a piece of lost history carved into stone and sky.

But then, like a crack through still glass, the memory hits.

So came the hot dragon breath from the north, about dusk, over the Lake... Smaug came hurtling from the North, licking the mountain-sides with flame, beating his great wings with a noise like a roaring wind... Then he settled over the town, slowly turning up the heat with fire and wrath.

A wave of nausea swells in your stomach, and you press your lips together, forcing back a gag. The image in your mind is too vivid. The flames licking at Laketown, the choking smoke, the screams. You close your eyes, clutching the edge of the boat as if grounding yourself could push the memories away.

Really? Right now? Talk about bad timing-

Beside you, Gloin silently presses a leather purse into Thorin’s hand, his voice thick and reverent. “Take it... take all of it.”

Thorin’s eyes stay fixed on the mountain, unreadable, but you sense the significance of their silence, each dwarf carrying the burden of years and losses. You breathe deeply, willing the nausea to subside, focusing on the chilled air and the steady rhythm of the boat snaking through the waters.

As you manage to steady yourself, a soft nudge from Bilbo catches your attention. His brow furrows, eyes flickering with concern as he glances between you and Bard, who’s steering with an intent gaze on the dwarves’ silent devotion. Bilbo opens his mouth to speak, but before he can voice his question, Bard interrupts, his voice firm.

“The money, quick - give it to me.” he commands, drawing you all back to the task at hand.

Maybe it’s the sight of his homeland that spurs forth the sudden distrust in Thorin’s voice, his hands gripping into fists at Bard’s urgency. “We’ll pay you when we get our provisions and not before.”

“If you value your freedom, you will do as I say. There are guards ahead.”

Turning at the loud shout that travels across the water, the memory from moments earlier fades away at the sight of a town looming out of the thinning fog. Every building and path is made of wood, the dimmed lanterns revealing dark shapes of crooked buildings and the golden glows of torchlight.

“In the barrels, if you value your lives.” 

Muttered complaints and glares directed toward him go ignored. Making a move to stand up, you’re stopped by Thorin who places a heavy hand on your arm. “You will stay here. I will not have another dying before we reclaim our homeland.”

Too exhausted to argue and too numb to disagree, you sit back down. “Have you at least thought of a better disguise than a merchant?” Bard questions, sarcasm laced through his gaze. “If I were you, I’d go with mercenary.” His eyes drift down to your injury once more. “It’d explain that, at the very least.” 

His advice rings true, and you nod your head in response. “Mercenary it is.”

He gestures to the back of the cloak, a silent instruction for you to flip up the hood. The material rests atop your head, shadowing your face to the dwarves in barrels behind you. 

As his boat nears the town, you take in row upon row of crooked, thatched houses that balance on slumping piles. A long wooden bridge is the only connection with the shoreline a distance away. 

So this is Lake-Town.

A small fleet of early morning fishermen, pulling nets in from small boats, eye your hooded figure on Bard’s boat as he passes. The boat comes to a slow stop, and you watch as he moves a few boats down with practised ease.

He stops, exchanging a nod with a couple of fishermen in a hushed conversation. 

A couple of guards patrol nearby, and you hold your breath in anticipation, praying they wouldn’t notice you. Luckily, they get distracted by a noise to their right, veering sharply away from the boats and into the town. 

“What’s he doing?” Dwalin’s baffled question elicits dissatisfied mumbles from the rest.

“He’s talking to a couple of fishermen,” you say, just loud enough for them to hear. Your fingers twine together in your lap, a form of prayer for steadiness. “They’re pointing at us now, and shaking hands.”

“What?!” Thorin’s outrage is prominent, Dwalin chiming in. 

“He’s selling us out!”

“No, you guys!” You hiss, frustration creeping into your voice. “He’s bribing them. You all have trust issues, I swear.”

A sharp, audible inhale cuts through the rising tension, and you glance over at Bilbo. His eyes are wide, his expression unreadable at first, until they flicker to Bard. A glint of distrust forms in his gaze, sharp and fleeting when he sees him gesturing towards the barrels. For a moment, that look in Bilbo’s eyes feels like a betrayal…like you’ve been doubted, like something you thought was understood has been called into question.

You flinch, the hurt stark and unexpected, but just as quickly, you shake it off. It shouldn't matter. After all, it's nothing but words on a page, written by a stranger, long before any of this started. But even so, the sting lingers for a moment longer than you’d like.

The fishermen hand Bard baskets of freshly caught fish, and he makes his way back to the boat without spilling any. The parkour skills this guy displayed is enough for you to grow a newfound appreciation for him, a sense of awe in your eyes. Even at your best, you’d probably have tripped over and fallen face first into the murky waters.

Not probably. Definitely.

He reaches the boat and approaches the barrels, pausing when he sees you stand up with difficulty and reaching out your hands for one. He ponders for a moment before deciding that time is of the essence, and pours half a basket of fish over Dwalin’s barrel before handing you the remaining. 

As you approach Kili’s barrel, the dwarf looks up at you, glancing from the basket to your sympathetic smile in mild panic. As he accepts his fate with a small sigh, you proceed to pour the rest of the fish on top of him. 

You and Bard work quickly, the fishermen handing him more fish as needed. You manage to cover Balin, Oin, and Bombur who gives you a reassuring nod, though the disdain at the extreme smuggling is clear in his gaze.

“Now, you will have to be quiet. Let me handle the talking.” You sit back down, the sudden movement sending another shock of pain through you. Biting back yet another groan, you take slow, deep breaths. 

His demeanour becomes watchful, shoulders tense as he steers the boat towards a canal that leads into the heart of Lake-town. Audible dwarvish grumbling from the barrels makes Bard kick at one with his foot, the boat nearing the bridge.

“Quiet - we’re approaching the toll-gate.” 

A heavy iron gate blocks the canal entrance, reminding you of the pictures of mediaeval drawbridges you’d walked past in museums. A voice calls out in the gloom. 

“Halt! Goods inspection, pull alongside! Papers, please!” A voice cuts through the fog as the boat drifts closer to the checkpoint. Your heart skips a beat as the lantern light sweeps over the boat, and the guard peers in. He squints for a moment, then recognition flashes across his face. “Oh, it’s you, Bard.”

The guard lifts his lantern a bit higher, casting a wary glance at your figure, cloaked and keeping to the shadows. Your grip on the fabric tightens as you try to shrink further into yourself, hoping to blend in, but the movement only draws more attention. 

If you can’t see them, they can’t see you, right?

Bard nods in easy familiarity. “Morning, Percy.” He hands over a paper (maybe their version of a passport?) and you try to keep your breathing steady as Percy studies it. The guard’s eyes flicker back to you, brow furrowing with obvious curiosity. He hesitates, and your pulse quickens.

Is he going to say something?

“Anything to declare?” Percy’s gaze lands squarely on you, and you stiffen, forcing yourself not to shrink further or look away. Every instinct screams to turn and bolt, but you keep still, willing yourself invisible.

“Nothing — except that I’m cold and tired and ready for home.” Bard’s smooth answer cuts in, calm and final. The hint seems to work; Percy shrugs, his curiosity satisfied, and stamps the paper with a grin. “You and me both. There we are... all in order.”

Just as you feel the relief starting to settle in, your shoulders dropping, the paper is intercepted mid-air by a pale hand, snatched with a suddenness that makes you involuntarily flinch. 

“Not so fast!”

A short man holds the document up to inspect it, his long fingers curling possessively around the edges. His small, narrowed eyes sweep over Bard and then land squarely on you. 

“Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm…” he drawls, his gaze now shifting to the barrels stacked with fish. As he pauses, his lips curl in a sly smirk. “Only… they’re not empty, are they, Bard?”

Out of the corner of your eye, one of the barrels shifts ever so slightly — the one you recall Kili had climbed into. Even through the wood, you can sense the simmering frustration of the dwarves, each second in this tense exchange testing their patience.

“And who might this be?” he sneers, looking back at you.

“She’s no one of importance,” Bard replies quickly, his tone tight.

The man’s smirk broadens. “I can’t just let strangers slip past without proper inspection, can I? Pull back your hood.” His voice drips with false charm and a hint of malice, his smile stretching to reveal teeth yellowed by age and neglect.

You glance at Bard, who gives a brief nod. Reluctantly, you lower your hood, revealing your face and hair, messy from the journey. Realisation dawns on you, a name flickering in your mind: Alfrid, the gross coward from Lake-town. 

Alfrid’s brows shoot up, and he steps closer, leaning in with a sickly grin that tries (and fails) to pass as charm. The look he gives you is laden with oily interest, each lingering second making your skin crawl.

Bard steps forward, his voice calm but edged with tension. “She’s with me — a mercenary from the southern lands,” he explains, keeping his tone firm and steady. “Hired to help navigate some of the more dangerous roads. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

Alfrid’s oily grin doesn’t falter, his gaze now shifting between you and Bard, calculating and clearly unconvinced. “A mercenary, is it?” he repeats, his tone mockingly sceptical. “Quite the unusual ally for a bargeman. Seems you’ve found yourself a rather… unique guard.”

You lock eyes with him, fighting to keep your face neutral, even as your heart pounds against your ribs. His gaze feels like a rotting weight, heavy and invasive, each moment dragging on longer than the last. "I go where the coin does," you say, your voice steady despite the unease coiling in your stomach. "Bard's needs matched my skills."

Alfrid’s brows arch as his grin turns sickeningly sweet. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of… skills.” His tone is drenched in insinuation, and your stomach tightens with revulsion. From behind him, Bard’s fists clench, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he barely restrains himself.

That motherfucking BITCH-

Stomach tightening, you hold your ground, forcing yourself to meet Alfrid’s gaze without flinching. You can practically hear the dwarves behind you, the muffled, contained fury rolling off them like a tide, and just as you tense, one of the barrels shifts behind Alfrid with an audible creak. A low, strained groan follows. You instinctively stiffen, placing the voice immediately.

Kili. It has to be. You can almost feel the seething anger radiating from the barrel he’s packed in. If it weren’t for the tight walls of the barrels and the risk of giving their position away, you know they’d be out by now. 

Alfrid doesn’t seem to notice — yet. He shifts slightly, distracted by the movement. His eyes flicker back to the barrels, a flash of suspicion crossing his face. "If we’re not done here," you say, forcing the words through your clenched teeth, "do know that I bill by my time. And unless you plan to pay on his behalf," you gesture with a dismissive wave to Bard, "I suggest you stop wasting it."

Alfrid’s eyes narrow, and for a brief moment, it seems like he might back off. Then his gaze slides back to you, lingering on your face with something more predatory. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and a low chuckle escapes his throat, like a rat sniffing around for something it can devour. "I do wonder, mercenary," he drawls, his voice sweet and mocking, "how much you're really worth... in coin, or otherwise."

You fight the urge to shudder at the way his gaze slides over you, not just seeing you, but almost stripping you with his eyes. The stifling atmosphere feels too thick, the air pressing down on your chest, but you force yourself to breathe through it.

Behind him, the faintest creak from the barrels sends a warning shot through your body. You glance quickly at Bard, and for the first time, you notice the barely contained rage in his eyes. 

You’ve handled creeps like Alfrid before, more than your fair share of them back home after years of living alone. "It’s not like you could afford it," you scoff, leaning back with deliberate indifference, inspecting your nails like this is just another boring encounter.

But the pain that flares in your thigh sends a sharp sting through your senses, a cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. You swallow it down, giving nothing else away. “Now, are we done here?”

Playitcoolplayitcoolplayitcool-

Bard steps forward, his voice colder than before, and you can feel the weight of his presence rise behind you. "Yes, are we done here?" His words drip with authority, and as he towers over Alfrid, it's clear the situation is reaching its breaking point.

Alfrid sneers, reluctant to let you both go without one final jab. He glances from you to Bard, but the impatient tap of your knuckles against the boat makes him pause. He hesitates just long enough to dig in one last time. "Ever the people's champion, eh, Bard? ‘Protector of the common folk.’ You may have their favour now, but it won’t last. The Master has his eye on you. You would do well to remember — we know where you live."

As the gates open, Bard steps back onto the boat, pushing off. “It’s a small town, Alfrid,” he calls out, a tremor of anger in his voice, “everyone knows where everyone lives.” As the boat drifts away, you slide the hood back on in an attempt to block out the lingering stare before the gate closes behind you.

Bard navigates through the canals, drifting past alleyways filled with scattered scraps of food and animals fighting over the remaining. “Don’t pay him any mind.” You look up at Bard, who glances down briefly in an assuring manner. “He has no courage to try anything, especially around me.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply, throat dry while you try to mentally shake off the remnants of slimy creepiness from the earlier interaction. Besides, if Alfrid pulled anything, you’d kick his balls with your good leg, or punch it if needed. 

The villagers you pass by throw suspicious glances, but they immediately return to their tasks when they see who you’re with. It’s like you’re with a police officer during a parade, his assured gait warding off any threats. 

So this is what main character plot armour is really like.

One of the barrels shifts again, drawing the attention of a stall owner nearby. Leaning down slightly, you use your good leg to kick its side, a pained grunt belonging to Dori making your eyes widen. “It’s not yet time,” you whisper with a sheepish smile.

“So, how does a child of Men end up in the company of dwarves? I imagine you’ve gone through the ordeal getting out of the Woodland Realm together, but loyalty being developed so quickly is almost unusual.” 

His observational skills are parallel to none. A part of you hesitates, yet you decide to speak. “They’re my best bet at surviving,” you say truthfully, “sure, some are a little rough around the edges, but they’re not as bad as you think they are. They helped me, after all. Could’ve left me behind.” Your voice drops to a whisper, mild happiness tinging your words, “but they didn’t.”

The dreariness of Lake-town is hard to ignore. It’s not quite as you expected. You'd read about this place before  — of its waters, its sturdy wooden bridges — but now that you’re here, it’s more of a cold, grey, intersecting web of buildings than the majestic town you had pictured.

Bard glances at you, sensing your momentary distraction. “Something on your mind?” he asks, his voice softer now, though still carrying that knowing weight.

You can’t help it. The words slip out before you realise what you’re saying. “It’s just… nothing like I pictured it. It sounded... grander, like a beacon of hope or something.” You laugh softly, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I was expecting bright lights and clean streets, maybe a place where hope is still something you can believe in.” You quickly recover, forcing a smirk. “Guess that’s the romantic in me.”

Bard raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, though his silence speaks volumes. You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth, hoping you haven’t revealed too much, but the damage is done.

“What did you expect?” Bard asks after a beat, his curiosity piqued. “To be honest, I’ve never thought much about how others see this place. For me, it’s just… home.” He watches you carefully, his expression unreadable, though there’s a subtle softness behind his gaze.

You hesitate, then shrug, choosing to be as guarded as possible. “I guess I thought it would be more... full of life. Like the people here were all bound together by something. But instead, it feels like everyone’s just going through the motions.”

Bard’s eyes flicker for a moment, but he says nothing, merely nodding in understanding. “Here we are,” he says, his voice breaking through your thoughts, though you barely hear him as you take in the surroundings. 

The more you see, the more industrial this part of the town looks. The wooden walkways, so prevalent in the main part of Lake-town, are replaced by grimy planks and decrepit platforms, making the whole area feel more like a forgotten factory district than a place of life. The smell in the air shifts too, thick with the scent of metal, oil, and the faintest tang of decay.

It’s an eerily similar vibe to the industrial areas back home.

I guess architecture transcends worlds, you think, almost disbelievingly. The reality of Lake-town seems like a far cry from the idea you once had, but seeing how the people who live here adapted to survive, it’s a sobering thought that grounds you to this reality.

Bard’s eyes flick to you again, though this time, there’s a quiet understanding. It’s almost like he’s aware of the thoughts swirling behind your expression, but he doesn’t press, letting the weight of the moment settle between you. 

The boat slows as it reaches a series of docks. There are no shops here, no people idly wandering. Just empty spaces, and the faint echo of villagers from the village marketplace. You glance back at him, but his face is unreadable. This is just another place to him, just another part of his harsh life. 

RIP Bard, you would’ve loved skyscrapers and electricity.

Once the boat stops, Bard uses his foot to tip the barrels over. 

Fish and indignant dwarves spill onto the deck. A singular dock worker watching on is amazed at the sight, as Bilbo and the dwarves extract fish from all parts of their clothing. Bard presses a silver coin into the dock worker’s palm. 

“You didn’t see them. They were never here. The fish you can have for nothing.”

He is so fucking cool.

Casting a brief glance back at you, he deems your injury as non-critical. “Follow me,” He orders, helping you stand up and acting as your support. Before he can make another move however, a young boy runs toward the group. 

“Da!” Bard’s steps slow to a halt, eyeing his son with concern. “Our house,” he says through rapid pants as he catches his breath, “it’s being watched.”

The panic in his voice is enough to make you snicker, and the look of confusion his son gives you when you giggle only makes it worse. Bard peers down at you, like he’s just realised he’s helped an idiot. 

You know this scene. You’ve read it a hundred times, and it was hilarious back then, but now that you’re actually standing here, all you can feel is a deep, almost painful pity for the poor dwarves.

You turn to the group behind you, and Bilbo — bless his oblivious little heart — blinks innocently. You open your mouth, barely able to hold back another laugh.

“You guys are really not gonna like this.”

— — — — — — 

The stairs creak beneath your weight, each step a battle as you grip the wooden railing like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Every breath is laboured, but you push forward, determined to make it to the top without looking completely out of breath. No way you’re letting Bard see you struggle. Not when you’ve already made a fool of yourself enough today.

“Do they even have elevators in this place?” you mutter under your breath, trying to take your mind off the ridiculous number of steps. (10. There were 10 steps.) Whoever decided to make up the standard route to any house in this town needed a serious reality check.

Finally, you reach the door, entering it quickly before Bard shuts and bolts it behind you. The sound of his children’s voices follows, lilting and full of that chaotic energy only kids have. You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to hear that kind of noise in a home, what with being in prison and all.

At least you could check that off your bucket list and Bingo for this year.

A small girl runs up to him, her face scrunching in a mix of impatience and joy. “Da! Where have you been?” she repeats, a hint of a pout tugging at her lips.

“Father! There you are,” another girl, much taller than the first, says, letting out a long breath as if she’s been holding it in forever.

And for a second, it strikes you—a simple, quiet moment of what could almost be normal. 

“Sigrid, Tilda,” Bard introduces them to you, pausing to add your name like it’s something to be remembered. You barely keep a straight face—like you really need an introduction right now. You already feel like you’ve been here for a decade, getting your life threatened, nearly dying in a few places. One more person wouldn’t make much of a difference at this point.

Bard’s gaze flickers toward the window, his usual caution coming through, then turns back to his son, his voice low and steady. “Get them inside.” Bain who’d been introduced to you along the way nods, rushing down the stairs.

Sigrid’s concerned eyes fixate on the fresh patch of blood leaking through your bandage. You hadn’t realised it had started bleeding again. “I’ll get you some water,” she says brightly before hurrying off to what you guess is the kitchen.

Tilda guides you to a seat you all but collapse into, a weariness in your body that threatens to drag you back down into the depths of unconsciousness.

“Thank you.” Taking a moment to finally breathe, your adrenaline decides to take a rain check at the exact moment the scent hits. You smell them before you can see them, the all too familiar smell of ammonia and worse, drifting through the house.

And then — just as you're about to choke on your own laughter — Dwalin appears in the doorway. You don't even need to look up to know exactly who it is, the smell's that distinct. You can only imagine what their expressions look like.

Just then, you glance up and see Bilbo, still hovering at the back of the room. He points at you with a raised finger about to say something — only for him to pause. His mouth opens, then closes. A long sigh escapes him. “Yeah, I’m done with this…” he mutters under his breath, his shoulders slumping. You watch, struggling to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

He’s completely defeated. You almost feel bad for him, but the humour of it all? You really wish you could film this and get it on video.

“Well,” you manage, feigning innocence, “it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who stinks around here.”

The reaction is instant: a few groans, a couple of muttered “I-can’t-believe-this” comments, and you can’t help but laugh despite the ache in your leg. You look up at the dwarves' faces — tired, exasperated — and in that moment, you know they can't even be mad at you. 

After all, you did help in their escape and get shot while doing so.

Fatigue comes in waves, eyelids starting to drift shut when it occurs to you that you’re probably still bleeding out. Still, you manage a tired wink at the group before one last exhale has you fully passed out on Bard’s chair.

[sunflw3rbouquet]

another time

in another time, you and me could be together forever, and have a perfect, carefree romance.

toji x male reader spoilers for the jjk manga and anime :p

notes: semi-jjk canon compliant (toji's mentioned to be alive? idk how to explain and tsumiki doesn't exist), ooc toji, angst tw: angst, abandonment, cursing, depression, mentions of arguments, mentions of blood (implied assassin career). i might of missed smth, lmk if i need to add anything

…sun✰: writing this bc im depressed and i love my toji<3

in another time, i could come home to you.

the house was dark, no lights that burned electricity working. there were only candles that slowly reached the end of their wick, giving the room a soft glow. it created a creepy haunted atmosphere if there was no one present. y/n hated coming home to the empty house. it depressed him more than he usually was in this lifestyle. 

he called out for anyone, dropping his coat on the rack at the door. y/n kicked off his shoes, peering his head to look towards the kitchen. “toji, i’m home.” there was no immediate response, meaning the man was most likely asleep or was out of the house buying alcohol.

y/n didn’t expect a response. he learned to not expect one. toji was, for how much he loved him, never around enough. the house was just him, megumi, and the scent of cigarettes and dried blood. 

sometimes the opposite of expectations occur.

“will you be quiet? i just got megumi to sleep.” toji’s head poked from megumi’s bedroom, holding the sleeping 3 year old in his arms. his heart rested for a second before clenching again in a stressed anger. y/n held back a retort, something along the lines about how he just made a paycheck for their family and how he shouldn’t be chastised for trying to talk, but he held his tongue and allowed the bubbling emotions to burn in his gut. getting angry at toji right now wouldn’t do anything. it rarely did anything, due to toji’s hard head, and only made things between them worse. besides, the anger in his stomach allowed him to feel anything other than pain that lingered in every curve of his brain.

“i’m sorry.” y/n said with a lack of the smiley tone he had before. toji’s face faltered only for a moment, not one second longer. apologies weren’t common among them, the pride they both carried was both strong and loud. toji coughed slowly to clear his throat, megumi turning sleepily in his arms.

“it’s fine, just- say good night to him? he was whining all night for you.” toji’s voice is rough, the softest bit of emotion slipping through his voice as megumi turned once more in his grasp. the anger burning a pit in y/n’s stomach quelled as toji handed him the boy, his thin body much too light for his age. megumi’s eyes slowly opened, a glimmer appearing in his irises as he saw y/n.

“you’re home!” he happily said, reaching his small hands up to grab y/n’s hair. y/n smiled at the touch, leaning down to press a kiss to megumi’s forehead.

“i am. have you been giving daddy a hard time while i’ve been gone?” megumi shook his head at y/n’s statement in denial, the flush caking his face revealing his lie. toji cracked a small smile, pinching his son’s cheek. megumi squealed, dropping his hands from y/n’s hair to cover his face.

“don’t believe anything this rascal says. he was complaining and whining all night wanting you to come home.” toji’s voice had a ribbon of playfulness going through it as megumi tucked his head into y/n’s chest, embarrassed he was being exposed. y/n shook his head, toji rolling his eyes, whispering about how y/n babied the boy too much. when would toji understand that megumi was the cutest thing in the universe? toji leaned up against the door, pushing it open.

laughter escaped from y/n’s throat as the bedroom door opened, toji ushering y/n and megumi inside. looking down at the boy, y/n’s smile changed into a smirk as he sped up while going into the room. “megumi, i got you! let’s run away from daddy, he’s gonna get us!” megumi squealed as y/n entered the room, toji running up behind the two, his arms locking around y/n’s waist with little effort.

“caught you.” toji’s voice was low as he pressed a gentle kiss to the right side of y/n’s jaw. y/n opened his mouth, megumi squealing in response again as toji’s hand sneaked up to tickle his foot.

in between megumi’s giggles, he looked up to meet y/n’s eyes. “you’re terrible at running, dad. we got caught by daddy!” he exclaimed with a pout, kicking his feet against, y/n’s heart stopping. 

dad…?

megumi continued to stare up at him, expectantly. a frown started to replace the glimmer in his eyes as y/n didn’t respond to him. y/n was silent for a second more, toji’s cough signaling a ‘pull it together’, snapping him out of his trance. “i’m sorry megumi. it’s all my fault, now i guess you have to go to sleep.” y/n frowned, caressing the boy’s hair gently. toji nodded his head in agreement, megumi pouting as his eyes began to droop.

megumi hid a yawn behind his lips as y/n laid him down on his bed, eyes practically closed as y/n tucked him into bed. y/n sat down on the edge of the mattress, toji following the action and sitting next to him, avoiding the small boy’s curled up body. “sleep megumi, you need to sleep to grow big and strong!” y/n’s voice was cheerful as he pet the top of megumi’s head. the cheerfulness an act he only put on for the kid, one that he let die the second him and toji were alone.

“like daddy.” he groggily whispered, y/n breaking his gaze from megumi to look over to see toji’s smile. there was an affectionate aura that clung to every section of his skin. the look was so different for him, something that y/n had only seen the day toji had asked him out all those years ago. the exclusivity of it made y/n’s stomach burn with a rush of adrenaline, fiery like a burning star. maybe there was more to toji and the gruffness inside him. maybe there was happiness and accepting in there. maybe there was joy in there for the people who he loved. y/n wanted to dig in to find more of it, to see him like this more.

y/n looked back to megumi, his hand now brushing megumi’s hair out of his face, smiling softly at the boy’s half-asleep figure. “just like daddy.” y/n repeated gently, toji’s arm snaking around his waist as y/n quietly cupped megumi’s cheek. “sleep well dear.” that was y/n’s final words to the boy for the night, toji repeating the message quietly. the two adults exited megumi’s room quickly before their movement could cause megumi to stir and wake up again and catch a case of the zoomies.

as the couple entered their room, toji’s hands went to y/n’s waist. his fingers brushed against the waistband of y/n’s pants, his skin barely touching the edges of y/n’s back. the room was dark, as whatever candles toji had lit earlier in the day had definitely burned through their entire wicks by now. 

“you’re so good to him. it’s sickening.” toji’s voice was monotone, like usual, but there were sections of happiness peaking through his lips. y/n smiled in return, pressing a kiss to the scar on toji’s lips, so quickly it could barely be counted as a kiss.

“megumi just brings out the affectionate side of me.” y/n spoke, gently straightening out toji’s baggy shirt, his hands stopping on the muscles of his biceps. he slipped away, going to the dresser before he got too comfortable.

toji froze at the touch. he froze so intensely that he couldn’t react to y/n quickly stripping out of his clothes and putting on pajamas before flopping into the bed. “come here, toji. i’ve waited all day to be in your arms.” y/n’s words were soft. inviting. something that broke toji out of his trance and made him walk over to y/n. the emotions made his heart clench, toji now wishing for the connection of the man he… loved. 

against a portion of his mind, toji flopped onto his boyfriend, arms tightening around y/n the second he touched his waist.. toji pressed a kiss to the side of y/n’s face, rolling to the other side of the bed, one arm under y/n’s back, the other hanging off the bed.

“god i love you. i think you’re poisoning me, you know? fucking asshole who took my heart and made me fall in love with how beautiful and kind you are.” toji whispered, eyes looking towards the window. his words were most likely meant to be thoughts. even y/n could tell that. a bright smile graced y/n’s face as he slipped his hand into toji’s, staring up at the ceiling.

“you were a bitch too. bringing me into your home and trapping me with your good looks and adorable son…” y/n teased, toji’s exterior falling as he began to complain.

“hey- you came to my house AFTER we started dating- don’t make it sound like i’m a crook.” toji’s words were a grumble as he turned over, clinging to y/n’s side. he pressed a gentle kiss to y/n’s jaw, eliciting a soft giggle from the man. “besides, you love megumi and me. you didn’t get trapped.”

y/n rolled his eyes at the (accurate) statement, moving his body so he rested on toji’s chest, arms loosely wrapped around toji’s waist. his breath came out as soft, warm sighs against toji’s neck, eyes closing due to how relaxed toji made him feel. “you’re warm. i really love you, ji.” toji’s eyes lit up, grip on y/n’s back tightening the slightest bit. it was almost unnoticeable, but the action made y/n smile.

“i love you too, y/n. sleep well.” toji spoke softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his boyfriend’s head. y/n’s eyes fluttered open and then shut, catching one more glimpse of toji, the darkness seeping through the windows as he fell asleep.

y/n felt disgusting. dried blood caked under his fingertips, on the line of his scalp, and soaked his shirt with a deep red color. his heart was beating so fast it was like a high only comparable to cocaine. the back door of the house closed with a loud shutter as he reentered, something toji was supposed to fix ages ago. it was something he probably forgot about and somehow escaped y/n’s wrath, and yet even in his wave of anger, he had no energy to fight.

“you’re home.” toji said plainly as y/n entered into the house, sitting next to megumi at the head of the table while the 3 year old his dinner of frozen vegetables and whatever y/n cheap crap that was semi healthy could find at the grocery store. 

megumi began to turn his head, toji covering his son’s eyes before they could see y/n in his bloody tank top and pants. “i wanna see dad!” megumi whined, toji shushing him. he tried to push of toji’s hands, toji not budging.

“dad’s not ready to see you yet, eat your dinner before i eat it instead.” toji’s voice was harsh, harsh enough to make y/n wince at the thought that the person on the receiving end of this was his son. 

he - begrudgingly - used this distraction to run up the stairs to the bathroom to shower. opening the door, y/n moved to turn the water on, the shower head turning on. cold water trickled down his arm when he checked it after a few minutes, his neutral expression turning annoyed.

“damn you toji for not fixing the heater.” he muttered, shaking off his wet arm before stripping down the bloody clothes that weighed on his body. he entered the shower, shivering as icey water covered his torso.y/n’s world always got so much darker when he’s in the cold water of the shower. the shock allows his brain to fully awaken and think long strands of thoughts that don’t normally process in the drunken, depressed haze y/n is in during the day.

y/n had a pit growing in his stomach. things had been going too well recently. toji was happy, smiling once a day at the least, whether it was y/n or megumi didn’t matter. he actively tried to please y/n: making sure dinner was made, taking care of megumi, or trying not to curse up a storm right after y/n returned home.

most of these things would make anyone in a normal “relationship” happy, as their partner finally accepted them into their life and allowed them to coexist together. but these things, actions that were so ‘untoji’, made y/n fear for the coming days. was toji hiding something? or did he find out something was wrong?

y/n shook his head, water getting on the old shower curtains and drippin to the ground. he reached for the almost empty shampoo bottle, squeezing out the smallest amount of the watery substance onto his hand. he worked it into the roots of his hair, the blood flaking from his scalp and falling to the shower floor.

the bottle of body wash was comparably newer, y/n taking a large amount after turning the water off to rub on his skin. he basked in the scent, the familiar waves of sandalwood and honey calming down his anxious heart. 

everything would be fine.

maybe toji was really getting better. maybe, now, his lover wasn’t someone who he just attempted to make ends meet with, but someone who he could depend on in his personal life. toji was turning into a life partner, and not someone who was there to make the pain go away.

y/n turned the water on one final time, the remaining blood and negative emotions leaving him in the streams of droplets. it would all be fine. he turned off the water, exiting the shower with a happiness that was fresh and clean, like a daisy after the rain. there was a towel laid on the counter, most likely something toji had put there before y/n had made it home. 

it was strange being so cared for by a man who didn’t care often. everytime he rubbed the towel over his body to dry his wet skin, his heart fluttered with a golden light that surely radiated off of it, like it was toji’s own hands drying him off. once his body was rid of the dampness, he dropped the now dirty towel onto the floor and made his way to the bedroom lit by small rays of sunshine coming through the windows.

he found a pair of clean boxers in the laundry basket - whether they were his or toji’s both was unknown and didn’t matter. he slid them on to his mostly dry lower body, the domesticity of it all bringing a soft smile to his face. was his life turning for the better finally.

y/n picked a shirt and a pair of pants from the dresser, hoping it looked cohesive enough that toji wouldn’t immediately point it out, which he had done before. the soft fabric made y/n smile, already imagining toji and megumi waiting downstairs for him. he quickly returned to the stairwell, a smile crawling onto his lips as he saw megumi and toji dancing in the living room on the lower floor.

it was a mixture of hilarious and the most precious thing he had ever seen. megumi, bless him, was standing on toji’s feet, reaching his hands up to the sky towards his father. toji leaned over, connecting their hands, swaying from left to right slowly. the music was some soft ballad from a children’s show megumi watched, a bright smile on the toddler’s face as his dad made harmless critiques of his skill. megumi giggled softly, toji watching with a bright smile.

there was a soft breath that escaped y/n’s lungs, wishing he had his old camera to take a picture of his family. this is when they would start anew. megumi’s laughter soared through the house like balloons, toji occasionally letting out his own chuckle every once in a while. there was a new emotion seeping into y/n’s heart. was it one he could name?

as the song slowed to a stop and megumi jumped up and down in happiness, as toji looked up towards the stairs and his smile grew tenfold as he saw y/n standing there, he understood. it was completeness. he was complete, finally, after many years of searching.

“are my two favorite boys dancing without me?” y/n asked, a shocked gasp escaping his mouth as he ran down the stairs. megumi hopped off his father’s feet, meeting y/n at the edge of the living room.

megumi giggled as y/n pat his head, pointing to toji with his small index finger. “it was daddy’s idea.” y/n gasped again, looking at toji with a fake-betrayed look on his face. 

“what! it was daddy’s idea!” y/n’s gaze met toji, a fake pout appearing on his lips. the only goal of it was to make toji bend to his wants.

toji rolled his eyes, his hands crossing over his chest. “sorry, my dear y/n, that i was so cruel to dance with my son who begged me to dance with him.” megumi giggled, pushing y/n’s leg gently to get the man’s attention.

“meg, what’s up?” y/n asked, the 3 year waving his hand towards himself, signifying he had something to say. going down to the ground, y/n leaned in, listening to megumi’s words.

“go dance with daddy!” he exclaimed, giggling softly as y/n gasped. does the child enjoy embarrassing him? a warmth erupted on y/n’s face at the thought of dancing with toji, once dormant butterflies growing in his stomach again. y/n stood up to see toji putting a cd in the cd player, before turning around and extending his arm towards his boyfriend.

“may i have this dance?”

there was a pause as y/n took in a deep breath. and then he returned to the reality they both lived in. y/n took toji’s hand, a smile returning to his lips as they stepped closer together and toji’s hand went to y/n’s waist. y/n’s arms wrapped around his neck, a bright smile creeping onto his face.

the world spinned slowly with the cd playing, frank sinatra flowing through the living room as y/n and toji swayed under the moonlight. it was perfect in every sense of the word, slow dancing under the stars. y/n wasn’t used to that perfect from toji, but his heart slowly acclimated to the feeling.

megumi was curled on the couch, beginning to fall asleep as y/n and toji danced the night away. every place their bodies connected had an electrical spark, warmth flowing through y/n’s nerves. toji was the only thing on y/n’s mind, a constant that made his heart flutter in every instant. and then, he understood himself in that moment.

this is the man he would spend his life with.

he could see them growing old together, toji’s warm hands holding him just as they did now. he could see them with eternal happiness, because they both deserved it. they both deserved it so much.

“you’re spacing out.” toji said, his eyes sparkling as he looked at y/n. “what’s up?” y/n snaps out of his daze, making eye contact with toji, admiring the glow. toji’s eyes sparkled so beautifully as they admired him like he was the only thing in the world.

“i just love you.” y/n whispered, pursing his lips together to view toji’s face. he could see all the wrinkles on his face, the lines under his eyes that made him look tired. and yet he saw his gorgeous smile, the scar bending on his lips to accommodate the motion. y/n reached his hand out, thumb rubbing the skin, the warmth connecting him to the earth he stood on and the life he was living. toji chuckled softly at the touch m, brushing y/n’s hair out of his face. y/n leaned into the touch, head tilting to the side like a dog. 

“i love you too.” he responded, y/n nodding. he could tell toji meant it. he could feel that in the pit of his stomach. toji really loved him.

“good. that’s good.” y/n whispered, his fingers messing with toji’s overgrown black hair. the man’s smile grew brighter, eyes locked onto y/n’s.

“come here,” he whispered softly, y/n leaning into toji’s chest with a sigh. they swayed back and forth, the music flowing through their ears with a calm aura. it wad a movie. y/n leaned his head up, his eyes like stars saying hello to the moon. his eyes then moved their focus down to his pink lips.

toji’s gaze mimicked y/n’s as he turned his head to look down at his boyfriend, their lips inching closer with each breath that escaped their lungs. at the final second, their lips touched, and y/n could breathe again.

their lips pushed and pulled against each other, soft like cotton and sweet like candy. toji must have been taking care of himself more. the usual rough skin of his lips was gone, the only texture on them being the scar that still laid there, that would forever be present on his figure. toji’s hands laid tightly against y/n’s waist, rubbing soft circles on the skin present as y/n made finger curls with the hair that was right above the nape of toji’s neck.

the night rolled on, the two dancing until their feet hurt and they couldn’t feel left from right without stumbling. it was their own movie, where time was still and the only thing that would ever happen would be love.

the music had slowed to a stop, and the family found themself all cuddled in y/n and toji’s small bed. megumi was fast asleep, he probably had been for what was becoming an hour. the small boy was curled into toji’s chest, taking slow deep breaths as y/n curled the strands of his hair around his finger. it was happy.

they were… happy.

toji and y/n quietly made conversations with smiles on their faces. it was far from the usual topics they discussed, like what jobs needed to be done around the house, when one person or the other was working, what food megumi should be eating, etc etc. it was happy things, like where they should take megumi to play, what flavor his birthday cake should be, and where they should go on a date when they had the freetime.

it was happiness. 

and it should’ve been a sign.

it should have been a glaring red sign, instead it was something y/n accepted happily. maybe it was something he would grow to accept in the future.

y/n’s eyes began to close slowly as toji rambled on, a small smile appearing on the man’s face at the action. the moon was well into the sky by now, the two having danced much later than they expected to. he moved his hand to rest in y/n’s hair, gently playing with the strands.

“go to sleep. you’re starting to look like little megumi, falling asleep so randomly.” y/n tried to fight back, contradicting toji’s statement with words about how he ‘was so awake’ and how ‘toji was trying to get rid of him’.

“stop whining, dear. sleep.” y/n lost the energy to fight back due to toji’s hands running through his hair, eyes beginning to close again.

“fine, fine. love you, sleep well.” y/n groggily answered, leaning forward, kissing toji’s lips gently before pulling away, head resting on the pillow next to toji’s. their faces were so close together, close enough that every breath that escaped their lips caused vibrations that caused toji’s bangs to move the slightest amount.

“i love you too. i’ll love you forever, never forget that dear.” the words of toji’s reply were solemn, a stark difference from the happy tone he previously occupied. y/n looked at him concerned for a second, but he smiled once again once toji pressed a kiss to his lips. “yeah yeah, okay loverboy. i’ll love you forever as well.” y/n closed his eyes to the touch of toji’s hand on his hip, falling into a deep slumber, one that he wished he didn’t have to wake up from.

the sunshine was cold.

the sunshine was cold, and yesterday the sunshine was warm. it was so warm that everything was bathed in a golden light. it was so warm that the glittering moonlight heated y/n’s skin as he rested with his family the night prior.

and yet the sunshine was cold today.

y/n’s eyes shot open, expecting to be glancing right at toji face.

and yet he wasn’t there.

toji wasn’t there.

that was out of character for the new toji. the new toji didn’t just leave without saying goodbye. the new toji didn’t just disappear after filling y/n’s heart with happiness he had forgotten over the last years of his life. the new toji didn’t just leave his boyfriend - leave his son - and never looked back. the new toji would never break his heart like this.

unless he was the old toji all along, never changing into the new version of himself that y/n so idolized.

megumi was now against his chest, which wasn’t the same position they fell asleep in last night. now sure, the 3 year old tossed and turned, but whenever toji fell asleep next to the boy, megumi gripped so hard and never let go.

y/n closed his eyes, pressing them shut until there were sparkles appearing in the darkness and his head almost hurt, and then he reopened them, relieving the pressure. and yet toji was still gone.

in his daze of reopening his eyes, y/n saw a note resting on the sheets in front of him where toji used to be sleeping. y/n carefully moved his arm to grab the note, readjusting megumi so the boy was more comfortably resting against his chest. he unfurled the sheet of paper slowly, and he was almost certain the world could hear his heart slowly crack.

dear y/n,

i’ve decided to leave this morning and never look back. i got a job that i will complete. i’m leaving megumi to you, as the little man loves you. 

this isn’t because i don’t want to spend my life with you. i wish i could be with you forever but this is how the world is. we must keep moving on. 

i hope this doesn’t hurt that much. i really want you to be happy.

i love you my dear,

toji

tears slipped out of y/n’s eyes and onto the top of megumi’s head as he finished reading the letter, loud sobs creeping up his throat, only to be choked down. megumi stirred slowly, his small, childlike eyes opening brightly to look up at y/n.

“dad,” he sleepily spoke, y/n nodding his head to show that y/n was listening, rubbing megumi’s hair to take his mind off of the note that felt like fire in his hand.

“yes, my dear?” y/n shakily replied, tears falling down his cheeks quickly. megumi looked up, about to ask his question, then he looked to his right. 

“oh… where’s daddy?” megumi asked, now seeming more awake than he did a few seconds ago. he shifted again, holding y/n a little tighter. was he nervous? upset? scared? did he noticed that y/n was in despair?

“daddy? he’s just gone to work, dear.” y/n voice shakes harder with each word, tears dropping into megumi’s hair as he forced himself to break the contact of their eyes. megumi was a spitting image of his father, the man that y/n loved with his entire life and body, the man who just abandoned their family.

“when will he be home? i wanna go to the park with him, and i wanna have dinner with all three of us!” megumi exclaims, y/n holding back a sob as he tightened his grip on megumi’s grey sweatshirt. he was so happy, the emotion and his tight grasp on him making it harder to breathe.

“soon, dear. this will be a long mission though, i’m not sure when he’ll get home.” y/n almost hushed the boy, megumi’s constant questions twisting his heart into a small ball that couldn’t pump any blood. tears began to fall again, faster as he began to become unable to control the tsunami of emotions in his stomach.

megumi took a breath, hand reaching up to hold y/n’s jaw. “dad, why are you crying?” his voice was filled with a wonder that only a child could hold, crushing his heart into his digestive system. his small fingers brushed the tears off his cheeks before bringing them back down to gaze at them.

“i’m not- i’m not crying, megumi. go back to bed. it’s really early and you were up past your bedtime.” y/n calmed down slightly and pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead, rubbing his hair until he heard the boy begin to take slow, deep breaths. the action made y/n slightly more relaxed, but the silence made him realize the gravity of the situation.

he could finally break down.

and with one tear came two, which came 4 more, which became him crying and holding back sobs as he rubbed megumi’s back. why was he alone? why did he get left again?

there was a sound at the door, y/n looking towards it. but he had just imagined it, no man there looking for him. no man there that was ready to kiss his face and take him into his arms. maybe there was another universe they lived happily in together.

in another time we could be together, and you wouldn’t leave me all alone.

first oneshot completed! love you toji<3 5085 words

[katiebuggg]

You really got a hold on me

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teddy boy John x reader fic!

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this is my first ever tumblr post so I'll be posting here until my ao3 account gets approved LOL If you guys like this fic I'll write chapter 2 and have it up by tmrw. enjoy!

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It’s early morning, February 1960, in Liverpool. In the silence of the night before, a quiet dusting of snow had fallen onto the still-sleeping city. The crisp air bites at Y/N’s nose as she hustles through the streets. Clutching a mess of papers to her chest, Y/N briefly glances down at her Sultana watch. Its face is small, and the band is a braided leather adorned with gold hardware. It was her first big purchase with the money she had earned herself—at the job she is now extremely late for.

“Shit!” she panics to herself as she quickens her pace, her heeled boots kicking up light snow as she dashes around one corner, then the next. Her heavy tote slides down her shoulder with every brisk step, making it difficult to keep the papers hugged to her fur-lined coat while simultaneously pulling up the bag’s slipping strap.

Finally, fifteen minutes late, Y/N tugs at the cold iron door handle of the building where she works. Her job at the local newspaper isn’t glamorous, but it keeps the lights on and puts her brand-new communications degree to use. She flashes a sheepish grin at the woman at the front desk—her friend Nancy. Nancy blinks back through her false eyelashes, unamused. She’s only a year older than Y/N but is quick-witted, sharp, and, most importantly, beautiful. Naturally, she worked her way up to the front desk swiftly. Her long, pin-straight black hair is pulled tightly into a French bun, and she wears a dark grey boxy dress with a thin white cardigan over top.

“Second time you’ve been late this month, Y/N. If the early morning stories are too difficult, you should consider taking more late-night ones,” Nancy says coolly as the phone rings on her desk.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Y/N groans, ignoring the comment about a schedule change.

Nancy pulls the phone to her ear and waves a dismissive hand at Y/N, who rolls her eyes before striding over to the elevator. She urgently presses the button for the seventh floor and slides in as soon as the doors open. The stale, damp smell of the office building elevator clings to her cold nose as she scans over the headlines of the stories in her hands: a section on local politics, sporting news from the weekend, and an advertisement for a hotel beneath them. Y/N exhales a puff of frustration as the elevator dings and opens onto her floor, where the loud chatter of typewriters fills the office.

She plops down into her wooden chair, placing the stack of papers on her desk before shimmying off her coat. Her job here is simple—look over the papers for errors, then pass the stories up to the publishing and printing department. Despite the simplicity of her work, she stays busy, tirelessly sifting through the news from one dull article to the next. Nothing ever really catches her eye or piques her interest. Y/N is considerably younger than most of her coworkers, except for Nancy, whom she keeps close. She wrapped up university quickly to jump-start her career, which she had imagined would be far more glamorous than this. Despite her disillusionment, she grabs a fountain pen from the cup of stationery on her desk and begins to review the stories carefully.

As the morning hours tick by, Y/N sifts through story after story, paper after paper, circling errors and drinking a generous amount of coffee. When the clock strikes noon and the church bell chimes from around the corner, she gathers her things for lunch and lugs her way downstairs to meet Nancy.

“Jesus,” Nancy chuckles dryly, wrapping a scarf around her neck and tugging on her gloves. “You look dead.”

Y/N groans in response, rubbing her eyes, her coat wrapped warmly around her.

“It’s been a relentless week… seriously,” Y/N mutters.

Nancy pulls her small purse onto her shoulder and links arms with Y/N as they step out of the building to grab lunch at their favorite café across the street. The bitter winter air stings their faces as cars whizz by, splashing slushy snow onto the wet pavement.

“You should tag along with me to the club tonight,” Nancy chirps as they cross the street.

“Are you kidding me? I’ll be knackered,” Y/N protests, still arm-in-arm with her friend.

“Oh, come on! It’s Friday, Y/N—live a little.” Nancy bumps her hip against Y/N’s, who rolls her eyes dramatically, letting her head fall back for added effect. Nancy chuckles.

“Fine, fine… but if I miss a story, it’ll be your head on the stake, not mine.”

The girls step into the warm, bustling café and slip into a cracked vinyl booth before continuing their lively chatter. Across the way, sipping steaming hot tea and sucking on cigarettes, sit two boys. One wears deep blue jeans and biker boots, while the other dons a pair of black slacks and saddle shoes. Both, however, wear thick, worn leather jackets over warm jumpers. They jabber loudly, smoke spilling from their smiling lips, curling around their booth in soft plumes.

Nancy notices them first and huffs. “Right, because the first thing you want to hear in a café is two teddies gobbin’ off,” she scoffs. “Give me a break.”

Her tone is loud and annoyed—no doubt meant for the boys to hear.

Y/N groans, covering her face with a menu. Since they met, Nancy has been known for her short temper and strong opinions. Y/N loves her for both of these things—one more than the other—but sometimes, it costs her sanity in public.

“Nancy… please,” Y/N warns through gritted teeth, giving her friend a pleading look.

Nancy ignores her, keeping her judgmental gaze fixed on the duo.

The boy in slacks turns his head toward them, meeting Nancy’s eyes for a split second before giving them both a once-over. He chuckles dryly, his eyes lingering lazily on Y/N a second longer before glancing back at his friend. He nudges him under the table and whispers something over his tea, making the other boy glance over as well. The one in jeans murmurs something back, and they both snicker. The sounds of other café patrons and kitchen clatter mask their quiet exchange.

Y/N can feel Nancy start to boil over, noticing her eyes haven’t moved an inch off the rowdy boys.

“Please, for my sake, do not—”

Before Y/N can finish her sentence, Nancy has already popped out of the booth and is storming over to the teddies.

Y/N groans and slides out after her.

“Oh-ho-ho! Here she comes!” the boy in slacks announces as Nancy furiously approaches. His auburn-brown hair matches his deep eyes, and a foxy grin spreads across his face. He holds up his hands in mock surrender, a cigarette pinched between two fingers of his right hand.

“Nobody in here wants to hear you two causing a racket,” Nancy announces, arms crossed in front of her chest, glaring down at the men with her famously unamused expression.

Y/N catches up behind her, eyebrows raised, her face pink with embarrassment. She shoots the boy in jeans a remorseful smile and pats Nancy on the shoulder, signaling it’s time to go.

“She doesn’t seem too bothered,” the boy in slacks says slyly, looking around Nancy to meet Y/N’s eyes. He flashes her a toothy grin.

“I’m John. Who—”

“No one gives a shit who you are. You lot are a bunch of bloody gobshites, anyway,” Nancy interrupts before turning on her heel, grabbing Y/N by the wrist, and dragging her toward the door.

“I’m Paul!” the other boy shouts in a pestering manner, followed by an eruption of laughter from both of them.

“Oh, piss off!” Nancy yells back before yanking Y/N outside, back into the cold streets of Liverpool.