#Me in memory of the fallen Robin

[pretentious-blonde]

realisation

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: it’s a feeling he hasn’t touched in years—something selfish and dangerous and impossible to let go of

warnings: therapy, big big feelings from steve, migraines, anxiety

a/n: soft steve always has my heart <3

series masterlist

Steve never liked the quiet, that’s part of the reason he loved his job. The noise in his classroom was gentle, filled with curiosity—excitement. It was an odd definition of peace, but he never questioned it. Kids brought out something within him he thought was lost, he liked that about them.

That’s also why he never enjoyed going back to his own place. It was the kind of quiet that felt too suffocating. When he first signed the lease after leaving his parents' house, he thought the isolation would be a blessing—a sanctuary where it was just him, no drama, no outsiders.

No threats.

But as time went on and memories resurfaced, that same quiet began to feel heavy.

He found himself remembering what it was like when he first moved here, when progress was just beginning—because in a way, it was again.

Slashed, back to fucking zero.

He could no longer move forward. Couldn’t talk about it anymore—not in the way he needed to.

He couldn’t safely open up in his therapist’s office, couldn’t make you understand now, not really.

All he had left was Robin—the same Robin who had nearly fallen apart trying to hold him together at the start of all this—and he couldn’t do that to her again. Wouldn’t.

That is why he has to do this. 

It’s late afternoon, and he’s got one sock on, one sock half-off, pacing across the tiny stretch of kitchen linoleum with the phone pressed to his ear. His free hand scraped through his hair, again, again—like maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll comb away all the thoughts circling in his head.

He hasn’t slept. The therapist’s words from yesterday rattle in his mind, reverberating through every breath. 

Intervene. 

He’s replayed the warning all night, half expecting someone to burst through the door and threaten him again. It churns in his stomach. All the guilt and fear—he can’t figure out which is louder. 

He just knows he’s been lying in bed, eyes wide at the ceiling, again. 

The excuse he comes up with is a simple one, not really a lie. Because in a way, his head does ache. It’s not the blinding kind of pain that used to knock him off his feet after a particularly bad episode, but the pressure’s there, right behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. 

He might as well call it a migraine if it keeps you at arm’s length—keeps you safe from whatever might be going on inside his mind. But that’s not really true anymore.

The threat is, once again, in the real world.

He closes his eyes the moment he hears your voice on the other end of the line. He tries to answer in a steady tone.

“Hey,” he begins. “I—hey. Um. I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

It’s quiet as he waits for your answer, like you're feeling out the tone of his voice. 

“Why?”

Didn't take much to sense something was wrong. You were observant. 

Too observant. 

That’s why he had to create this distance. 

“I’ve got a migraine coming on,” he manages, voice unsteady. “Just… sort of crept up on me. Thought it was gonna pass but… doesn’t feel like it.”

He can picture the worried fold between your eyebrows, the way you’d tilt your head if you were standing in front of him. 

“Is it bad? Y’know… like last time?” 

You ask it so gently, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

Last time.

The last time—when he nearly lost everything you had built together.

The last time he left you scared.

The last time he really fucked up.

“No,” he speaks quickly. “Not that bad. Just a bit of pressure. Thought I should stay home—sleep it off.”

He hears you exhale, a soft sigh that says you’re not convinced. 

“Steve…”

“Sweetheart,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light, “I’m alright. I just… need a quiet night.” He punctuates it with a half-hearted laugh, like it might sell the story better.

“Okay.” There’s a pause on your side. “Well—I’m coming over.”

His chest constricts. 

Of course you are. 

He knew you would. It’s one of the things that scares him most about letting you in: you show up. 

Always. 

“No—no, you don’t have to,” he blurts. “Really. I’ll just be in bed. It’s not exactly good company.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for thrills,” you tease, voice warmer. “Let me take care of you a little.”

He almost loses it right there. The phone cord wraps around his wrist as he paces in a tight circle, sock skidding on the tile. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. So he says it out loud, in a voice that cracks just a bit. Hopefully he can blame it on the “pain.”

“Maybe,” you answer, and he can practically see your small smile, the tilt of your lips. “But I like you. So that’s kind of your problem now.”

He can’t fight it anymore. He'll say it's his lack of energy.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Door’s unlocked.”

He hangs up too fast, like if he stays on the line a second longer, he’ll give up the entire game. The phone slips from his hand onto the receiver with a dull clack.

He just stands there in the fading sunlight, staring at the pattern of the kitchen countertop. He can’t figure out if he’s more relieved that you’re coming, or more terrified that you’ll see the cracks he knows will soon show. 

He moves into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions sink under his weight like they’re trying to swallow him whole. He feels like an idiot as he scrubs his hand over his face. He should’ve just faked the entire day, come up with an ironclad excuse—maybe said he had to run errands or something. 

But then you’d ask questions, you’d want to help him, and he’d buckle anyway because he can’t say no to you. Not when you sound like that. 

Not when your first instinct is to care.

He glances at the stack of second-grade spelling tests on the table and pushes them aside, annoyed at the very sight of them. He was trying to keep busy, to put a pen in his hand and shut off his brain. But the weight in his chest is too big, too heavy to ignore, and nothing about marking a dozen attempts at the word “elephant” is going to clear the images swirling in his mind.

Last night was bad. 

Worse than usual. 

He’d tossed and turned for hours, drifting into shallow snatches of sleep that delivered him into the Upside Down, or a half-memory of it. The vines. The pulsing lights. And you, off in the distance, looking at him like he was a stranger. 

He’d woken with a jolt, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. Spent the morning sipping lukewarm coffee with no music, no TV, no noise at all—just the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He knew this would happen, especially after his last appointment, but it still hurt all the same. He hadn’t had a dream like that in weeks, proof that all of his progress feels like it’s been ripped from under him. 

Everything about this is too much and not enough. He’s tiptoeing on a razor’s edge of fear and yearning, wanting to protect you but also wanting to crash into your arms. He doesn’t deserve how you look at him, the way you always ask if he’s okay. 

And now you’re on your way over, and he can’t stop you. 

Doesn’t truly want to stop you.

Because in the back of his mind, he knows this feeling. He knows it all too well.

Knows what it does to a person.

It always starts slow—just a ripple, a toe in the water—until suddenly the tide’s pulling you under and there’s no surface left to reach for.

He knows what it means to drown—in both senses of the word. But this time, it’s worse. This time, it’s not his choice whether he comes back up.

This time, it’s yours.

And all he can do is hope that if it comes down to it, he’ll be the one sinking. 

Not you.

The front door swings open quietly, you don’t bother waiting for an invitation. By the time Steve looks up, you’re already stepping inside with that urgency in your eyes—like you’ve come prepared to handle any crisis he’s trying to hide. 

He hates that he can read your body language. Hates that he can see how cautious you are, bracing yourself for whatever version of him you’ll find.

And he hates even more that you’d still come anyway.

For a moment, he just stands there in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was halfway through tidying up, something to move his stiff body. Make you think that your boyfriend can at least seem to hold his life together. 

He’s in his usual knit jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, hair a little mussed from the nervous nap he never took. The lighting softens him, makes him look more fragile than he feels, it traces the curve of his jaw and the soft downturn of his mouth. 

He’s tired. You can see it instantly—the weighted slump of his shoulders, the slight effort in his exhale. Maybe there’s a pang of guilt in his chest at being so transparent, but he can’t quite fix his expression into something more reassuring. 

Not tonight.

“You look rough,” you say, raising your eyebrows in that gentle, teasing way.

He can tell you’re worried. It’s there in the careful tone of your voice, the way your gaze flicks over him like you’re scanning for damage.

“Yeah…” His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “I know.”

Before he can stumble out a courtesy greeting, you close the distance, slipping your arms around him and drawing him into a hug. The warmth of your body presses flush against his chest, and he stiffens for half a heartbeat—like he’s not quite sure he has the right to accept this comfort. Then instinct kicks in, and he melts. The tension drains from his shoulders, and he drops his head to the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent. The one he never knew he would crave so deeply. 

His arms rise to wrap around your waist, palms splayed against your back as if to steady himself.

“Hi,” you murmur into his hair, voice muffled against his temple.

He breathes you in, a tired sigh slipping out. 

“Hey,” he answers, almost inaudible.

The quiet in the room no longer feels suffocating—it feels like a shared breath, something that belongs to both of you. Your fingers slide into his hair, combing it back gently, and his eyes flutter shut. 

He thinks about how a hug like this might’ve been a luxury in another life—before nightmares and secrets twisted everything into shadows. 

But with your arms around him, he lets himself believe it could be simple. 

Just for a moment. 

He’ll give himself a moment. 

When you finally pull back to look at him, there’s a softness in your expression he’s not sure he deserves. Your attention drifts over his shoulder, landing on the small table behind him. Paper after paper is scattered there—spelling tests, wobbly handwriting, even a few crayon doodles. You tilt your head, curiosity nudging your brow. 

“What’s all that?”

He steps out of your hold, just enough to glance at the mess over his shoulder. Reluctance flickers across his face. 

“Just… some papers I needed to get through,” he says, swallowing. “It’s nothing. Spelling stuff.”

“You can’t possibly do that when your head’s hurting.” 

He’s dealt with worse. 

He shrugs one shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. 

“It’s not so bad,” he tries, though the hesitation in his voice betrays him.

You don’t buy it. He can see the resolve in your stance, the way your chin sets. 

“Trying to concentrate on eight-year-old handwriting is not how to cure a migraine,” you say flatly, giving him a look that shows your playful exacerbation.

“Honestly, it’s fine,” he insists. But even as the words leave his mouth, they sound weak. 

He’s still holding onto that white lie, and guilt gnaws at him from the inside. You’ve already started marching past him toward the table, your gaze determined. 

“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” you say, lifting one stack of papers. “I’ll do it.”

He follows, hand raised in a weak protest. 

“No—hey, that’s my job,” he says, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Like, my real actual job.”

The one he needs to keep. 

Your grin appears, brightening the mood without effort. 

“I think I can handle some spelling tests,” you retort, eyeing the pages in your hands. “Pretty sure the complexities of second-grade grammar won’t defeat me.”

He sighs, a smile finally curving his lips for real. It’s small, but it’s genuine. 

“Am I gonna convince you otherwise?” he asks, half-rhetorical.

“Nope,” you say simply, lips shifting smugly as you slide into one of the dining chairs. It’s a look that tells him you won’t budge on this. 

Stubborn as always. 

He stands there for a second, torn between wanting to help and wanting to give in. There’s this warmth building under his ribs, relief and something else—something so dangerously close that he daren’t name. 

“Okay,” he finally murmurs, stepping back. The tension in his spine eases a fraction, and he can almost feel the exhaustion settling in now that he isn’t forcing himself to keep going.

“You gonna stand there or go lie down properly?” you ask, not looking up from the first spelling sheet you’re scanning.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and drags his feet over to the couch, sinking down into the cushions with an exhale that betrays how tired he truly is. 

“Here’s fine,” he says quietly. 

The idea of vanishing into his bedroom feels unbearable right now. 

Too far. 

Too alone.

It’s selfish—how much he needs to stay near. Near enough to hear your voice, the soft scratch of your pen, proof that you’re there.

He rests his head against the arm of the couch, turning just enough to watch you from across the room. You spare him a glance, understanding flashing in your eyes. 

“Okay,” you accept. .

You stand abruptly and move to the lamp in the corner. A soft click and golden light spills into the room, bathing the scuffed hardwood floors in a gentle sheen. The overhead light blinks off with a flip of the switch, and suddenly everything feels softer, quieter—like you're tucked away in a little sanctuary, a space carved out of the world, just for two.

He shifts, propping one arm under his head, blinking against the change in light. 

“Hey now,” he jokes, words a bit slurred with fatigue, “it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Maybe,” from over by the lamp, you look at him and shrug. “But your head.”

His mouth twitches—he can’t help it. The weight in his chest lifts, just a little. 

“Right,” he mutters in agreement, the fight slipping out of him. 

He’s not sure if he wants to keep up the migraine ruse anymore, but it’s too tangled in everything else. Better to just let you have this small comfort. 

You deserve it.

You’ve been way too good to him—and because of that, he’s dragged you into this mess.

And the worst part? 

He knows he won’t be able to let you go, half-truths are going to have to be enough to compensate for his carelessness. 

You go back to the table, pulling out a chair and settling in with the stack of papers. Your face furrows in concentration as you pick up a pen—his red marking pen, the one he’s been avoiding all day. The faint sound of your writing tip against paper is a soothing background lull.

He watches you, eyelids heavy. He just lets his gaze linger on the shape of your face in the lamplight, the slope of your shoulder as you lean over a misspelled word. He breathes, in and out, feeling a tug in his chest every time you shake your head in mild amusement or scribble a little note in the margin. He closes his eyes, so filled with longing he cannot figure out where to put it all. 

Just let him have tonight.

Let this be all he feels tonight. 

Seconds bleed into minutes, and he’s not sure when his breathing slows, or how his tense muscles start to loosen. Eventually, he feels the calm settle over him, the quiet that used to feel like a noose around his neck. Now it’s more like a blanket—soft, encompassing, safe. He exhales as his eyelids droop.

His mind drifts in a liminal space between wakefulness and the pull of sleep, cocooned by the low lamplight. 

You clear your throat and tap the tip of a red pen against a test paper, amusement lacing your words. 

“One of your kids spelled kitchen like kitchin. I kinda like it,” you say, a small laugh escaping. “It feels… softer.”

He murmurs a response, voice thick from exhaustion. 

“Yeah,” he manages, eyes fluttering open just enough to find your silhouette at the table. “Bet that’s Jackson. He says breakfirst too. I never wanna correct that one.”

His words slur slightly, and he barely registers that he’s smiling. You lift your attention from the paper, your own playing at the corner of your mouth.

“Breakfirst makes sense,” you tease, the pen still in your hand. “It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up.”

He chuckles softly, shifting against the pillow. The motion tugs at his shoulders, reminding him how tight his muscles are. 

“Mhm,” he drawls, eyes sliding shut again. “He told me last week he wakes up thinking about pancakes. Said it just… appears in his brain.”

You snort a laugh, then set the test paper aside, leaning back in your chair. 

“I think I’d like him,” you remark, mock-serious. “He’s got the right idea.”

It’s so easy for him to picture Jackson—a scrawny seven-year-old with an overbite and an endless supply of energy. The image floats into his mind and settles there, a soft spot in the midst of his own troubles. 

He can almost see the bright classroom, the crayons and the whiteboard, the echo of little voices calling him. It feels like a life unshadowed by therapy sessions and the secrets choking him from within.

He lets the moment linger, a comfort in the back of his mind. Then a memory surfaces—one he rarely shares: his mom, the aroma of melted butter, the slowness of an early morning without his dad. It nudges at him, stirs something bittersweet in his chest.

“My mom used to make pancakes when my dad was out of town,” he hears himself say, the words spilling out so softly he almost isn’t sure he’s speaking aloud. He feels you pause. You don’t respond right away, giving him space to unravel the memory if he wants to.

Like you always do.

He swallows, blinking slowly at the ceiling. 

This is a safe one to share.  

“He traveled a lot,” he continues, voice quieter now, each syllable steeped in nostalgia. “Work stuff. Sales, I think—always sounded vague. But when he was gone, it was like… things relaxed a little. She’d let me sleep on the couch, and we’d have pancakes in the morning. Not the box kind, either. She did the whole thing—batter from scratch, butter in the pan, bubbles on top when they were ready to flip. Real old-school.”

Your pen lands gently on the table. He can feel your eyes on him across the distance. He knew you’d appreciate another piece of his past, no matter how small.

What scared him was how much more he wanted to give you.

How easily he’d hand it all over—just from the look on your face.

“That sounds nice,” you say, your voice subdued, maybe to match the mood he’s set. He wonders if you can tell how vulnerable he feels, laying this out for you. 

“She’d put bananas in them sometimes,” he murmurs. “I hated it—but I never told her. Didn’t wanna mess it up. It felt like… I don’t know.” His voice wavers, and he breathes out carefully, as if exhaling might scatter the memory. “A good thing.”

For a moment, all he hears is sound of his own breath. Your voice comes softly across the room. 

“You didn’t want to change it.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyelids heavy, almost speaking more to himself than to you. “Exactly.”

He slips deeper into the cushions, a sort of melancholy peace settling in his bones. Remembering those mornings—milk and flour and eggs whisked in a bowl, the hiss of the stove, his mom’s rare, relaxed laugh—feels comforting and too big to hold onto. 

It reminds him of being a kid, back before entire worlds twisted into nightmares and scars. Before he had to figure out how to keep people safe by keeping them in the dark.

Outside, the sky is darkening, casting shapeless shadows across the walls. You rustle the papers again, returning to your marking with diligence. That rhythmic scritch, pulls him back from the edges of old memories.

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, barely conscious, his words filled with drowsiness. A little piece of anxiety wells in him suddenly—intrusive. 

It’s about the kids—about whether they notice the days he can’t quite summon his usual energy. The way he knows he’ll be tomorrow, when the smile won’t come as easily, no matter how hard he tries.

He hates asking you this. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually save for Dr Avery, but that isn’t an option now. It feels cruel—testing the waters just for his own peace of mind, leaning on you to give him the direction he can’t find on his own.

His voice is small when he finally asks. His eyes half-lidded, drifting toward you, too tired to stay open all the way.

“D’you think the kids…"

Fuck, this is hard.

"D'you think... they know when I’m having a bad day?”

You pause for a moment, shaking your head as your eyes meet his, looking at him like he just hung the moon. It undoes him utterly, the way you let out a gentle sigh,

“I think…” you speak slow, perhaps to allow his exhausted mind to keep up, but the words end up hitting him twice as hard. 

“I think they know you’d still show up for them anyway. It’s… just who you are, Steve.”

It's just who he is...

Is that how you see him?

He absorbs the statement slowly, like it needs time to settle in his bones. There’s a kind of weight to it—the raw honesty behind every word you offered, like you handpicked them with care, laid them down gently just for him.

It loosens something deep in his chest. A knot he didn’t even know he was carrying starts to unspool.

He doesn’t feel like he’s a failure.

Maybe he is a mess. Maybe he’s always been a little broken, stitched together with stubbornness and guilt and whatever scraps of hope he can still find—but he’s here. 

He’s trying. 

He’s still showing up.

That has to count for something.

His eyes drift shut at last, sleep too heavy to fight. Maybe he can let himself rest a little. Just for now, with you close by. He breathes out, chin dipping into the pillow, and finally gives himself permission to fall.

As his consciousness fades, he holds onto one stubborn wish: later that evening, when he opens his eyes, you’ll still be there, still close enough to chase the doubt out of his mind—at least for a little while longer.

When Steve’s eyelids flutter open, it takes him a second to remember where he is—or why everything suddenly feels this peaceful. 

The living room is draped in darkness, the overhead lamp turned off in favour of a single warm light coming from the kitchen. For a disoriented moment, he hears nothing. Then a soft clink of metal on ceramic reaches his ears, followed by a faint hiss and the gentle scrape of something in a pan.

He pushes himself upright, blinking the last traces of sleep from his eyes. The couch creaks and the fabric of his jumper feels slightly rumpled from dozing. He rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, wincing at the dull ache there. 

A quick glance at the window tells him night has fully settled over Hawkins—streetlights glow faintly outside, their beams catching on the air.

The heaviness he’s carried around for days has receded, at least for the moment. His head doesn’t throb. His chest feels looser, the anxiety dulled. 

That sure as hell isn’t just from the nap. 

Slowly, he stands, letting the blanket slide off his hips, and runs a hand down the front of his jumper. His bare feet touch the floor with soft thumps as he pads toward the kitchen, one sleeve pulled over his hand like a restless kid, not even realising he’s doing it.

The closer he gets, the more the smell of butter wraps around him. He’s struck by how surreal it all seems—like stepping into a memory. Except it’s not some dusty recollection from his childhood. 

He stops in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, and sees you standing at the stove. You’ve rolled your sleeves past your elbows. There’s a mixing bowl on the counter, a spatula in your hand, and the sizzle of batter hitting hot butter is the only real noise besides his own breath. 

Plates are stacked on a small portion of the counter you’ve managed to clear. A current of tenderness runs through the space—through him—that has little to do with the heat of the stove.

“Hey,” he says softly, still a little groggy. His voice is low, reverent, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will shatter the spell.

You glance over your shoulder, a quick smile flicking across your face as you meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” you answer, tone hushed not to hurt his head. “How’re you feeling?”

He swallows, stepping into the kitchen a bit more, hand trailing against the wall. 

“Much better,” he admits. 

And he realises, in that moment, it’s true. 

The tension in his spine has eased. When he looks at you, all sweet in his space, the last of his fears feel like they’re retreating into the corners of his mind. 

“What’re you doing?” he adds, voice soft, curious.

“Making dinner,” you reply with a casual shrug, turning back to the stove.

You slide the spatula and lift it, revealing a perfect golden underside. As you flip, the batter sizzles, sending up a little puff of fragrant steam. You nod toward the mixing bowl. 

“Figured something simple might do the trick,” you say quietly. “And, y’know, you mentioned them.”

He lingers a step longer, breath catching in his chest as he’s catapulted back into the memory he shared with you earlier. The smell of a hot pan threads nostalgia through his core, tangling with the gratitude he feels in this moment, watching you do something so unexpectedly thoughtful. It renders him speechless.

“Pancakes,” he manages finally, the word falling from his lips, soaked in wonder.

You glance back, giving him a small smile. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, catching the weight of that memory in his eyes. “You don’t have any bananas.”

You really were something else. 

He exhales a shaky laugh through his nose. It’s almost real—almost. It slips out unsteady, because there’s something about the simplicity of it all. The way you act like the world could be set right with just this—this one small, human thing.

And what floors him, is that for a second—God, maybe longer—he believes you.

Believes it could be that simple. 

You gesture with the spatula toward the small dining table. 

“Go on,” you suggest, “sit.” 

There’s a gentle command in your tone, like you’re used to looking after him—even if, not so long ago, he would’ve insisted he didn’t need it.

He obeys, walking over on slightly unsteady legs. 

Obeys.

The word sounds strange, but it’s accurate: you speak, and he follows. Not because he’s weak, but because you make him feel safe. You make him feel seen. And in that safety, he allows himself to lean on you more than he’d ever planned.

Drawing a chair out, he settles into it with an exhale, placing his elbows on the tabletop. The wood is cool through the knit material, and he can feel the faint vibration of your movements through the floor. Figures form in gentle arcs along the cabinets, as if the night outside has pressed its nose to the windows but hasn’t dared to intrude.

He’s spent a lot of time alone here, pacing the small perimeter while his mind churned with old memories. 

He wonders if this is what normal looks like. If other people get moments like these all the time—moments where the person they trust wanders into their space, rummages in their cupboards, whips up something simple that tastes like childhood. 

If so, he thinks he’s missed out for too long. 

Please let him keep this.

Just for a little while.

He’s not sure how long he watches you. He’s content to let the seconds stretch, your quiet movements hypnotising him. The whisk tapping the side of the bowl, your gentle footstep shifting weight. 

When you finally switch off the burner and turn to face him, plate in hand, he’s still staring. You serve the pancakes on the two most similar plates you can find—he doesn’t exactly have a matching set. You slide one in front of him, the other in front of you, the only sounds are the dull scrape of forks cutting through soft batter, the occasional drip of syrup pooling on porcelain.

He lifts a bite to his mouth, nodding in faint approval as he chews. His jaw still feels tense, like it’s absorbing some leftover stress. Beneath the table, his leg bounces with restless energy, but outwardly, he tries to keep calm. You watch him, noticing the slight furrow in his brow. Neither of you speak until you finish the first few bites; the tension in the air is subtle, but it lingers.

“You going into work tomorrow?” you ask, casual enough that someone who didn’t know him might think it an idle question. But he senses the concern under your tone. 

You’re not prying, exactly—just checking in.

“Yeah.” He nods, quickly swallowing. “I’ll drop you back home after this, don’t worry.” 

The words come out automatically, as if he’s already set a plan for the day: take you home, show up, teach the kids. Everyone safe and accounted for.

You carefully set your fork down, the faint clink slicing through the atmosphere. Your gaze holds him a second longer than normal. 

“I’m not leaving,” you say softly.

“What?”

“What if…” Your voice takes on a cautious edge.  “What happened last time… happens again?”

Last time?

Oh.

Angel, don’t do this to me. 

He goes rigid. The memory knifes through his mind like a jolt of cold water: the flash of your startled eyes when he’d woken gasping, his fingers clamped around your arm before he even registered he was awake. The shame of your worried face as he stammered an apology, trembling with leftover panic from the dark corners of his sleep. A strangled feeling clutches his chest, and he drops his gaze to the plate. 

“It’s not gonna be like that,” he murmurs, his voice guilty.

“I already packed my pyjamas.”

He sits back in the chair. 

The effect you have on his is downright dangerous. 

A part of him wants to argue—he doesn’t deserve this level of care, not when his baggage bleeds into reality and threatens to drag you with them. 

“No, seriously,” he presses, voice quieter now. “I’m gonna be just fine.” 

There’s a self-loathing edge to the words because he knows it’s not true. You sense it in an instant.

“I’ll take the couch, alright?” you say. That softer note creeps into your voice, the one that tells him you’re not afraid of him—you’re just concerned. 

“Won’t be able to sleep if I’m worried about you.”

Something clenches in his throat, and he drops his head into his hands. His fingers thread through his hair, gripping it lightly as if that might keep his thoughts from spiraling. Another ragged breath escapes him. 

“You’re not taking the couch,” he mutters, muffled behind his palms. The image of you spending the night curled in discomfort while he’s holed up in his bed feels all wrong.

“If you’re feeling rough,” you insist, “you need your own bed. Please just… let me stay.”

He can’t look at you right away, eyes still trained on the dark space between his knees. The weight of everything squeezes his stomach. He drags his eyes up. And there you are, watching him with genuine concern—no pity, no judgment. 

He sees it in your eyes—there is no budging on this.

“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile crosses your features, one he has no right to feel pride at. You pick up your fork again, like this decision was the easiest thing in the world. 

He glances at the swirl of syrup pooling around the edges of the plate, but he can’t bring himself to take another bite. 

All along, he thought he was the selfless one.

He lies in bed, sheets tangled around his hips, trying to convince himself that stillness might bring sleep. 

One arm is flung over his eyes, pressing down as if he can block out the cacophony of thoughts that refuse to be quiet. The dark presses in, broken only by the light of the clock—each minute passes in silence, ratcheting up his restlessness. 

He rolls onto his left side, then back onto his right, shutting his eyes as hard as he can. 

Come on, breathe in, breathe out… 

His therapist’s voice echoes in his memory, urging him to focus on his heartbeat, to ground himself. But his brain crackles with tension, refusing to comply.

The advice feels fake now, anyway.

He flips again, this time onto his stomach. It doesn’t help. His jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the ache up into his temples.

When the sheets start to feel suffocating, he snaps upright and shoves them away. His legs swing over the edge of the mattress, feet meeting the cool floor. A hiss of breath leaves him—everything feels too loud despite the silence. 

He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin like he’s trying to scrape away the anxiety. He stands, letting the duvet pool behind him as he pads barefoot out into the hallway.

The living room is dim. He notices the lamp's still on, a small puddle of light that silhouettes your form on the couch. You’re curled up, fast asleep under an old throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath your cheek. Your breathing is gentle, the rise and fall of your shoulders almost imperceptible. 

You looked so soft.

He tells himself he should go back to bed, not disturb you, let you have your rest. But there’s a stronger voice in him—the one that urges his forwards. 

It’s a jarring realisation that knocks something loose in him.

You’re becoming the next point of call when things get rough. The person he turns to now, instinctively, without thinking. And what unsettles him most is knowing you’d be glad to hear that. You’d take it as a sign of closeness, of trust.

But it feels cruel.

Cruel that you’d take pride in being his safe place when you still don’t know the full extent of what you’re stepping into. Cruel that he’s letting you play nurse to wounds he hasn’t even shown you yet.

He shouldn’t need you like this.

But he is going to be cruel, just for tonight. 

He brushes a strand of hair off your forehead. The small touch makes you stir, and your eyelids flutter open. Confusion flickers across your features until you register it’s him crouched there, face etched with concern.

“Steve?” You mumble, voice foggy with sleep. “Are—are you alright? Did something happen?”

You’re panicking because of him, and it makes it ache even worse.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as he tries to soothe you. “Nothing happened. I promise.”

You start to push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off one shoulder to get a better look at him. The shape of your arm emerges, goosebumps prickling from the cool air. He swallows, feeling another wave of guilt that you even have to sleep out here. 

On the couch for God's sake. 

“I just… can’t sleep,” he admits, voice dropping. The confession tastes vulnerable on his tongue. 

It sounds pathetic—like a kid who never figured out how to function.

“Bad night?” you ask, still blinking sleep from your eyes. Your hand finds his forearm, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Even that tiny touch feels like a lifeline.

“Yeah. I don’t know.” He nods as he lets out a shuddery breath. “Everything feels… loud.”

His request is simple, but the desperation laced in his voice betrays just how badly he needs the answer.

“Will you… come to bed with me?”

You still. The air between you tightens. He can see the caution in your eyes, the trace of a memory of the time before. He hates that he’s the cause of that worry. 

“Steve, I—I don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your lap as you recall his grip on your wrist, the way he shot out the door without so much as an explanation. “Last time, you were so out of it, and I didn’t know what to do, and you—”

“I know,” he interrupts, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him. “I know. And I’m sorry—I really am.” His voice wavers, and he takes a shaky breath. He wants to reach for your hand but forces himself to keep still, give you space. 

“But—but it’s not gonna be like that tonight. I’m okay, I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

You search his face, like you’re checking for any sign of doubt. Your gaze wanders over the weariness lining his eyes, the way his shoulders slump, the vulnerability in his expression. 

“...Are you sure?” You ask softly, a thousand questions and concerns pooling behind the simple words.

He’s sure. 

He wouldn’t put you in that kind of danger. 

“Yeah. I just—please.” 

He doesn’t care that it sounds like begging. Right now, he is begging. 

Your eyes dart between his, and you sigh softly. In the low light, he looks worn down—like that earlier nap had only skimmed the surface of whatever’s been dragging him under. 

It doesn’t take long to decide. The fact that he’s asking at all tells you everything. He wouldn’t, not unless he was sure. This isn’t casual. It’s something close to desperate.

“Okay.” Another short pause, your hand still on his forearm. “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

You shift the blanket aside and stand, the couch springs creaking as you move. He rises too, unfolding himself from his crouch. There’s an awkward silence where neither of you speaks. He feels like he should apologise—but where to start, he isn’t quite sure yet.

He extends his hand, fingers itching to hold your own. He leads you down the hall, every step slow. At the threshold of his bedroom, the air cools, and he can feel your hesitation in the slight drag of your feet. It sparks another pang of guilt. 

He nearly drops your hand, ready to say it’s okay, you don’t have to do this. But you tighten your grip, an assurance that you’re choosing to stay.

The bed is still rumpled, blankets half on the floor from where he stormed out. Silently, you both gather them up. You toss one over the mattress, smoothing it down just enough to make room to lie on.

When you finally slip under the covers, he follows, gingerly settling next to you on the mattress. He keeps to his side at first, giving you space.

The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three. 

The tension is palpable, and he regrets getting up in the first place. You turn onto your side, facing him, catching his eyes with your own. They’re wide, and beautiful. 

So fucking beautiful. 

There you go, looking at him like that again 

You look weary, and he bets he does too, so he can blame the sleep when he reaches out. He slips an arm around your waist and waits—just waits. Allowing you to choose how close to him you will get. 

He doesn’t let out his breath until you nestle closer, allowing him to tuck his chin over your head, the long exhale that seems to pour into the darkness. 

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers.

He hopes he will be. 

He senses your small smile, lips curving upward against his jumper, a subtle shift in your posture as you settle down. 

“Get some sleep,” you murmur, reaching curl your arm around his waist, mirroring his position. 

“I will, angel,” he murmurs into your hair. 

He will, but not yet. 

First, he waits for your breathing to slow, for your shoulders to uncoil, for sleep to settle over you. Guilt weighs on him for putting you through this—sleeping beside someone you believe isn’t okay. 

He isn’t, but there’s a sick sixth sense inside him that warns when a night will be rough. Tonight won’t be, though. 

He’s sure of it.

What he’s just done feels like a trial, a test of whether you’d follow him, stay with him. It troubles him the more he thinks about it, but there’s no other way to explain it. 

He needed to know if you would—because if you did, it’d mean you feel for him what he feels for you.

He might be hopeless when it came to saying how he felt—couldn’t talk to his parents, had to be cornered by Robin, nearly let it all slip through his fingers just trying to name what was going on. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

Steve felt things—deeply, messily, all at once. Always had. He’d felt this particular emotion before, or thought he had, in flashes: in borrowed bedrooms, first relationships, and soft pink roses. Young and dumb, sticky and sweet, like he saw in the movies. 

But it was never like this. This was bigger than him, something that carried a risk—like most things now did. 

Everything in his life felt more intense now. 

This was no exception. 

He felt it in every part of him. For the first time in years, he was glad he could still feel that much. That he hadn’t gone numb to it.

He held you, a secret he needed to keep. Even if he couldn’t give you every word of it, Steve Harrington knew what this was.

He knew what love felt like.

He’d fallen into it.

He knew better, but he chose to anyway—damned the fallout, and damn the cost.

It meant he could keep you to himself, just a little while longer.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[bts-trans]

250303 Weverse Translations

RM's Post ❇️ with V's Comment 💬

바깥은 봄인가요 화천은 눈이 17cm가 왔습니다 전북 어디는 영상 20도가 넘는다는데 확실히 사계절이 뚜렷한 나라, 멋진 대한민국 맞습니다 음 갑자기 후임 하나가 생활관 앞에 이글루를 만들고 있습니다 여기서 추억이 참 많을 것 같아요 예.. 세상은 요지경 이제 대학생들은 개강을 하고 초중고딩 친구들은 새학기가 시작되겠군요 저도 드디어 군생활 앞자리를 떨궜습니다 로빈 훗마냥 달력에 하루하루 X자를 치고 있답니다 저 조난된 걸까요 아마도.. 그럴지도 야간 점호를 하면 늘 독서 연등을 가는 게 습관입니다 최근엔 미루어왔던 에리히 프롬의 '사랑의 기술'을 읽고 있습니다 사랑에 기술이라니 이게 웬 말일까요 사랑을 노력한다는 게.. 말이 되니? 요는 이렇습니다 우리는 그림을 잘 그리려고 기타를 잘 치려고 공부를 잘 하려고 수십 수백번 숙달하고 연습하면서 사람의 삶에서 가장 중요한 '사랑'은 왜 아무 연습도 숙달도 없이 그냥 하려는 거냐는 거죠 날로 먹으려는 그 마음! 현대 사회에서 사랑은 미디어나 자본주의에 의해 강렬한 감정과 드라마만 강조되어 오고 있지만 사실은 비장한 결의의고, 약속이며 결심이라는 것입니다 사랑엔 종류도 온도도 표정도 많겠지요 일대일이 아닌 일대다나 다대일인 우리는 어떤가요 음악을 만드는 사람은 무엇을 만들고, 듣는 사람들은 무엇을 듣고 있는 것일까요 우리는 무엇을 바라보고 무엇을 사랑하고 있는가요? 저는 어떤 결심으로 여러분 앞에 11년을 서 왔을까요 그런 말랑한 생각들을 해 보았습니다 결론은.. 한 번쯤 일독을 권합니다 (출간된 지 50년이 넘어 좀 낡은 관념들이 있긴 합니다만.) 세 달 정도 남았습니다. 퍼센트로는 18% 그 전에 죽기야 할까요. 건강하게 인사드려야죠 정신과 시간의 방.. 갈수록 중력이 무겁네요 짝대기가 네 개라 그런가 드럽게 안 가긴 합니다만, 국방부 시계는 거꾸로 매달아도 간다니까요. 거꾸로도 매달아보고 돌려도 보고 540도로도 달아보고 그럴랍니다 제 사랑도 마음도 잘 재정비해서 돌아오도록 하겠습니다 음악으로도 언어로도 들려드릴 이야기가 많네요 이제 봄입니다 봄이 오고 있습니다! (17cm 제설을 하며) 아 쫌 덥나? 싶으면 ���가서 제가 저희가 계속 귀찮게 치근댈 예정이니 그전까지 갓생 사시길 바라겠읍니다 그럼 저는 보던 웹툰을 마저 보러 가보겠사와요 사랑합니다 오늘도 이건 결심이고 약속일 터입니다 보고싶슴다 초여름과 메뚜기떼 이놈들아 빨리 와 ! - 남준

V: 잠만 이 글 너무 명석해보이잖아 (https://weverse.io/bts/artist/0-156513041)

Is it spring outside? Hwacheon just got 17cm of snowfall. But I heard somewhere in Jeonbuk it's been above 20 degrees. South Korea truly is a country where the four seasons are all so clearly present, such a cool nation.

Umm Suddenly, one of my juniors has started making igloos in front of the barracks. I feel like I'm going to have so many memories to take away from this place Yeah.. It's a strange world.

At around this time, college students are probably going back to college, and school kids are probably starting a new semester. For me, finally, my days in the military have fallen to the double digits I feel like Robin Hood, crossing out the days on my calendar. Have I become a castaway? Maybe.. I might have

After we do the evening roll call, I always spend my leisure time reading. Recently, I read Erich Fromm's 'The Art of Loving', which I'd been meaning to read for a while. The art of loving, what on earth could that mean? Love as something that you have to work for.. that doesn't make sense. In a nutshell, this is what the book talks about: In order to be good at painting, or playing the guitar, or being good at studying, we practice hundreds of times to develop our skills. So then why, when it comes to love, the most important thing in a person's life, do we just try do it, with no skill, no practice?

In our modern world, love is something that's intensified by the media and capitalism, and only the drama of it is emphasised but, in reality, love is a determined resolution, a promise and a decision. There are probably many different types, and temperatures, and expressions of love. What about us? Not a one-to-one love, but a one-to-many or many-to-all love, what could we be? What does the person making music make, and what do the people listening to the music hear? What are we gazing at, what are we loving? With what resolution have I been standing in front of you for 11 years? I spent some time with these tender thoughts. The conclusion… I recommend reading the book. (It was published over 50 years ago though, so it does have some old-fashioned ideas)

Three months left now. In terms of percentages, that's 18%. Will I die before then? I'll be sure to greet you in good health. This hyperbolic time chamber… the further I go, the stronger gravity feels. Maybe it's because I have the four lines now.² They move so disgustingly slow, but the hands on the military clock do move, even if you hang the clock upside down. I'll try hanging it upside down, and turning the hands, and tilting it 540 degrees, I'm trying it all. I'll do my best to come back to you with my love and my heart reset.

I have so many things to tell you, both through music and through language. It's spring now, spring's coming! (After the 17cm of snow has been cleared) Right when you start to think "It's gotten kinda hot, hasn't it?" We'll be out and bothering you so much it gets annoying. Until then, I hope you guys are killin it. Okay, I'm gonna get back to the webtoon I was reading. I love you, today too, as always. This is both a resolution and a promise.

I miss you. Early summer, grasshoppers Can you guys please hurry up?!

-Namjoon

(T/N: *A reference from Dragon Ball Z

Referring to the stripes on his uniform, which indicate the rank of a sergeant.)

V: Wait this post sounds so intelligent

Trans cr; Aditi @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS

V's Post ❇️ with RM & V's Comments 💬

눈이 왔습니다 제설 했습니다 눈싸움했습니다 눈싸움 잘합니다 병장 2호봉 됐습니다 이제 여기서 2위입니다 곧 서열 1위 최근에 특급전사됐습니다 운동 열심히 했습니다 열심히 하다가 갈비뼈 한번 나갔습니다 돌아왔습니다 지금은 다이어트합니다 70입니다 책 많이 읽었습니다 이나누나가 책 많이 주셨습니다 너무 많이 주셨습니다 다 못 읽겠습니다 여기서는 불면증이 없습니다 누우면 그냥 기절합니다 그래도 아침에 일어나는 건 도저히 익숙해지지 않습니다 아미 많이 보고싶어서 콘서트 영상 많이 봅니다 춤추고 싶습니다 노래 부르고 싶습니다 후임동생이 블랙스완 안무 다 땄다고 봐달라고 했습니다 제가 안무를 모릅니다 까먹었습니다 요즘 보물섬 봅니다 박형식 배우님 멋있습니다 정호석님 나 혼자 산다도 봤습니다 정호감입니다 콘서트 못가서 많이 아쉽습니다 아미 볼 수 있는 기회인데 어 음 아무튼 보고싶습니다! 사랑합니다!🩶

V: 어떤데 명석하나 RM: 누우면 기절? 개부럽다 RM: 김명석으로 앨범하나 내줘 (https://weverse.io/bts/artist/3-193728755)

It snowed. I cleared the snow out. I had a snowball fight. I'm quite good at snowball fights. I became a level 2 sergeant. I'm now the second highest rank here, soon I'll be the first. I recently became a special forces officer. I worked out really hard. I went so hard I broke a rib, it's fine now. I'm on a diet now. I'm 70 kilos. I've read a lot of books. Lee na nuna gave me lots of books. She gave me too many. I cannot read all of them. There is no insomnia here. I pass out as soon as I lie down. But I still find it so hard to get used to waking up in the morning. I miss ARMY a lot so I've been watching a lot of concert videos. I want to dance. I want to sing. A junior of mine said he learnt the whole Black Swan choreo and aksed me to watch. I don't know the choreo. I have forgotten it. I've been watching Buried Hearts lately. Mr. Park Hyungsik is such a cool actor. I watched Mr. Jung Hoseok's I Live Alone episode. I am now Jung Appreciation*. I was very sad that I couldn't go to the concert. It would have been a chance to see ARMY. And uhh yeah anyway I miss you! I love you!🩶

V: How was that, did it sound intelligent?

RM: You pass out as soon as you lie down? So jealous.

RM: You should release an album sometime as Kim Intelligent.

Picture translation: All I have is you

(T/N: A play on the words '호감', 'appreciation', and '영감', inspiration, which was mentioned during J-hope's 'I Live Alone' episode.)

V's Comments 💬 on ARMY's Post ❇️

💜: 김병장님… 제설 아닙니까..? 재설….? 제설이 아니였습니까 병장님 병장님이 이렇게 귀여워서 되나요 V: 그만하지? V: 실수였어요 (https://weverse.io/bts/fanpost/1-156530407)

💜: Sergeant Kim..is it not spelled 제설*..? 제설….? Wasn't it supposed to be 제설? Seargeant, seargant, are you allowed to be this cute?

V: Okay you can stop now.

V: It was a mistake.

(T/N: V initially misspelled the word '제설', 'snow clearing' in his Weverse post.)

💜: 거짓말 ㅋㅋ

V: 아 진챠로 ㅋ (https://weverse.io/bts/fanpost/4-193725419?anchor=4-370356021)

💜: Liar haha

V: It's trueee heh

Picture translation: All I have is you

Trans cr; Aditi @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green, Part 5

WC:1063, Masterpost

CW: dissociation, self esteem issues, (past) dehumanization, referenced torture and experimentation

Danny flinched, again.

He felt bad for it, Red Robin was being as careful as possible sliding the rubber fabric between the collar and Danny’s skin, but it was just that having hands on the collar like that freaked Danny out. He closed his eyes and mentally ran through the numbers of pi. He used to know over a hundred of them. Now he was only certain of about seventy-six or so. There were a lot of things that used to be so much clearer in his memory than they were now.

“Just the overlap now,” Red (the others just called him Red), said.

He flinched again as Red pressed lightly against his neck to overlap the fabric, but the hands pulled away after.

“Do you need a little break?” the other one, Nightwing, asked.

“No. I just want this off, please,” Danny begged. He had gotten used to begging in the last year. Years?

“We’ll get it off,” Red said confidently.

Danny tried to trust that. He kept his eyes closed.

A gloved hand slipped into Danny’s, giving him something to cling to other than the sheets. Danny recoiled at the touch at first, but when the hand started to pull away, Danny twisted their fingers together and held on tightly. He didn’t open his eyes to see who’s hand he was holding.

As Red started to work on the collar, Danny couldn’t help but tense. He’d been shocked by it so many times. He was like Pavlov’s dog, collar and all, he thought bitterly.

“Almost there,” Red warned.

Danny could tell the instant that the seal of the collar was broken. It was like moving a limb that had fallen asleep, but the pins and needles were everywhere, inside and out. It was agonizing.

It was a relief.

A damp cloth was dabbing under his nose.

He blinked rapidly and Nightwing came into focus. The hero looked so concerned.

“Wha…” Danny croaked.

“Nose bleed,” Nightwing explained. He folded the cloth and set it aside.

Moving slowly (though Danny still struggled to follow the motion) Nightwing reached out and places his hands on either side of Danny’s face. Gently, he tilted it this way and that. “You didn’t exactly lose consciousness, but you… went somewhere else.”

“I do that, I think,” Danny said. The hands started to pull away and Danny swayed after them. One returned to help keep him upright. Danny’s eyes fluttered closed. “It was easier… to be away than there.”

The thumb stroked gently across Danny’s cheek.

He could feel himself tearing up. When was the last time he had been touched with kindness? Why was he now? They didn’t know what he was, that’s why.

“You’re safe here, I promise. You don’t have to go away anymore.”

-

Jason looked up from the cutting board when Dick came out of the bedroom. Dick did his best to offer his brother a smile as he took a seat on one of the slightly rickety stools at the kitchen counter.

“How is he?” Jason asked. He had swapped his helmet for just a domino. (To Dick it was a pretty clear sign that Jason has already claimed the kid as theirs.)

“Better. The nose bleed stopped and he was fully conscious again,” Dick said. “He says he does that, goes away like that. It sounds like it was a defense mechanism for whatever those bastards put him through.”

“Fucking hell,” Jason muttered.

“Yeah. I’ll let the others know so that anyone looking over him knows to watch out for it. Especially if anyone takes him out shopping or anything…”

“Right,” Jason said with a grimace, clearly picturing how badly that could go.

Dick just gave a little nod. He dragged the table that Tim must have been using close and opened it to check on the rest of the family.

“You, me, and Cass?” Jason asked a few minutes later.

“What?”

“One of us three should always be here, right? Or Babs if we move to a different safe house.”

Dick hummed thoughtfully. “There’s something to be said for moving safe houses if the kid plans to wait awhile before wanting to see Bruce.”

This safe house was bearable, but it really was one of their worse ones. It didn’t even had a table to eat at or a television. They could deal with the one bedroom and a couch, but Dick got the feeling there would be a lot of Bats stopping by whenever possible and that it wouldn’t quite cut it.

“We can see how Kid is tomorrow after rest and food,” Jason said. “If he’s up to being in a car with us we can easily move to any of them.”

“Maybe the one on Rosserie Street?”

“Which one is that?”

“Upper East Side.”

“Ah, yeah,” Jason said with a little nod, pushing the things off his cutting board and into the large pot on the stove. “That one would work. More space and better stuff.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Dick said. It was one of their apartments set up for a long term hideout if one of them was too injured to be seen in public or supposedly out of town as cover. “And big enough beds people can share.”

Jason snorted. “I’ll stick to the couch. The demon brat kicks.”

“Do you think he’ll stop by?” Dick asked as he picked at the thick rubber case on the tablet.

With a heavy sigh, Jason crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the counter. “Yeah, I think he will. I think he’ll need to, for his own sake. I’d rather it be when you were here, you’re the only one of us who can really control him if he gets… territorial.”

“He’s been better,” Dick pointed out.

“This is different and you know it. This is blood, even if it’s green. Hell, it being green might actually make it worse.”

Dick groaned and let his head thunk onto the tablet. “Yeah… I’ll talk with him and try to get B and A to also.”

“Yeah,” Jason said and reached over to pat Dick on the back.

Why did being a the oldest have to be so exhausting? And now there was another one. Not that Dick would trade any of them away, but he could really use a vacation, a drink, and a long nap.

I no longer tag, but you can subscribe to the masterpost.

---

AN: Dick really really wants to hug Danny but is really really afraid of scaring him. Don't worry, he'll get hugs.

[sleepynoons]

SANTA TELL ME BY ARIANA GRANDE – sunday (hsr) x f!reader, guardian angel!au + college!au, sfw

genre – fluff, angst word count – ~2,700 warnings – explicit language synopsis – to put it quite simply, you have horrible taste in men. you're more than aware of it, so this year, you really, really, really want santa to hear you out because god definitely hasn't. but what you don't know is that someone does love you very dearly – you just can't see him.

Sunday ought to change positions. In fact, his sister, Robin, had notified him of an opening two weeks ago, no doubt confidential information that still somehow made its way through the Department, and he really should have brought it up with his manager. But more than likely, the position has already been taken, and even if it was not, no one gets to transfer at such a dire time in the year.

Holidays are what the Department calls “High Risk Periods.” In other words, during these trying times, humans are more prone to injuring themselves, usually from their own idiocy and recklessness, and that means Sunday and his guardian angel colleagues have to work overtime to prevent any major accidents or incidents, unless instructed otherwise in the Book of Fates. After all, humans seem to have found a plethora of ways to amuse themselves – getting drunk till they black out, doing parkour across the roofs of buildings dozens of floors tall, having disastrous sociopolitical conversations at the dinner table that devolve into screaming matches, the list goes on. Robin says she finds them entertaining, while Sunday constantly wonders why he was assigned to the Department in the first place.

Regardless, there is one truth about humans that Sunday wholly believes in. Out of all the humans he has been assigned to, you, especially, are stupid.

–

For the first time in weeks, your phone’s silent. No texts, no phone calls – not even a single email notification! Even your college seems to have decided to leave you alone when you least want it to. You lift your head, taking one last peek at your screen, and wail in disappointment and sadness despite knowing nothing will have changed within the second since your last glance.

Your girl friend grunts in response. She’s been sitting beside you in your room for the past few hours, having fallen victim to your post-breakup breakdown.

You yell into your pillow. “Why isn’t he reaching back out!”

“Because he’s a man,” she deadpans. 

You flip over so that you’re lying on your bed, face staring up at the ceiling, before letting out a pathetic moan again.

With teary eyes and trembling lips, you choke out, “I really thought he was the one.”

Bewildered, your friend drops her phone onto the floor. “What in the fuck are you saying, darling.”

“No, really! He’s so sweet and has this impish smile –“

“Sweetheart, you’ve been reading too many YA novels. No one fucking calls a smile ‘impish.’”

“– and he always bought me flowers when I least expected it.”

You release a dreamy sigh, with a slight undertone of frustration and envy. Since you started college three years ago, you haven’t really had any luck with long-lasting relationships. In your defense, first year’s meant to be spent frolicking, meeting different potential partners, and not really holding any expectations. Second year’s when you’re supposed to start settling down and finding an actual boyfriend, but sometimes, you just don’t meet someone who clicks. Unfortunately, even though you’re already halfway through your third year now, your misfortune seems to be nowhere near ending.

But you’re really trying! During the school year, you made sure to do your makeup and wear cute sets to class every day. You even got a new perfume – a little sweet, a lot more floral – to make sure your presence was known and committed to memory, and the new hair oil you rubbed through the ends of your hair had been giving you that extra healthy sheen and glow. And to your best judgment, your personality isn’t that bad either.

Your girl friend knows what you’re thinking by the downturn of your mouth. “It’s not you, love. You just don’t have the best… eye for men.”

“But aren’t you supposed to date men who can at least do the bare minimum?” The more you think about your now ex, the more you want to shrivel in a corner and question yourself. After all, you were hoping to spend all winter break long with your ex, but now you’re totally, completely, definitely alone for the holidays.

Your friend scooches over to the head of the bed and pats your arm with gentle thumps of her palm. “Yes, but they have to be consistent, too. Your ex may have been nice, but only sometimes. Remember how he forgot about your dates and always showed up late? Or that time you asked him to get painkillers, but he totally forgot because he went to the gym for four hours instead?”

You can only nod, unable to refute these instances of your ex’s incompetence. And by the knowing look on your girl friend’s face, it seems she has a laundry list more.

“I was just trying to give him the benefit of the doubt,” you mutter. You know you sound so naïve, but truly, you can’t help it. You don’t like it when others find fault in you, so you’re just doing the same for others – that’s the golden rule, right?

She gives you one final pat before standing up and stretching.

“Enough about this douche,” she says, with a sense of ultimatum to her tone. “Our Christmas party’s still happening, and who knows, maybe you’ll find a cute guy there.”

That’s true – at least there’s one good thing you can look forward to this winter break. You’re not returning home, so you’re celebrating Christmas with some other students who have also decided to stay on campus. You don’t know any of them, with the exception of your girl friend, well, so this party will be a good opportunity to meet someone new and outside of your usual circles.

Though you still feel sluggish, you do your best to follow your girl friend’s lead and drag yourself out of bed. When both of your feet are planted on the floor, you feel slightly more grounded. With a deep breath, you glance at your friend, and when the two of you lock eyes, for the first time since the breakup, you feel like there is a way up.

–

There’s another thing that humans do that Sunday finds incredibly odd: they never dress properly for the weather. Whether it be forgetting an umbrella or wearing shoes that’ll easily get soaked through by snow or dressing so bare and scantily in the dead of winter, Sunday simply cannot wrap his head around it.

He’s hovering above the edge of your bed as he watches you and your friend chatter about. He does not usually clock in at night out of respect for your privacy and space – which is, in reality, a moot point, since you do not know that he is there in the first place –, but you previously had a fiasco where you knocked over a glass cup in your drunken stupor and left a deep gash in your hand. That gash was not supposed to be there, and Sunday has learned his lesson to always supervise you when you are out and about, socializing and mingling and making out with strangers.

Sunday sighs as he watches you fidget with the end of your dress. As always, you seem to try to wear as little as possible when it is literally freezing outside. The ponds in your neighborhood have frozen over. The weather forecast reported an intense cold draft. Yet your jitters are not from the chill or wind – they are solely from your excitement. When your girl friend tells you to fold the dress up by another inch, to show off more of your arse, something in Sunday’s temple jumps unpleasantly. But of course, you nod enthusiastically in agreement, and he blocks his sight with his wings as you lean over your dresser in search of a safety pin.

Sunday knows your only singular goal tonight is to find another “catch of a guy” to satiate your needs. He wants to scream at you – to wear more? to keep it in your pants? something else? maybe all of the above? –, but guardian angels are forbidden from appearing or interacting with their humans. He also reminds himself that he is not your mother, so there is no need for him to worry over you when he does not need to. He should only be stressed if he has to intervene.

He sighs as he follows the two of you out of your apartment. He really hopes your idiotic antics will not cost too much of his patience, and if they do, he swears he will put in a transfer request next year.

It does not take long for you to find your prey for the night. You arrived at another student’s apartment where a small crowd had already gathered on the floor, all exchanging drinks in red plastic cups and hiccuping with veins full of vodka and whisky. You join, naturally finding a spot beside who you deem to be the cutest in the room, while Sunday miniaturizes himself so that he can sit on top of your head.

The room is so loud, and woody cologne, gingerbread, and hair spray do not go together. But what he hates most is the direction in which your conversation is headed.

“Never seen you around,” your prey comments with a flash of a toothy grin.

You hum and nod your head vigorously. “Yeah! That’s so odd, since we’re in the same year and all.”

“For sure,” he continues, tone already a little too bold for a pre-game, “I definitely wouldn’t forget a face as pretty as yours.”

Guardian angels are supposed to be ambivalent towards humans in general, but even that poor excuse of a pickup line wants Sunday to abort his job. But you still eat it up, and he feels his blood pressure rise.

The two of you continue to make small talk before the majority of the group decides to relocate to someone else’s unit, which is larger and has freshly baked brownies resting in the oven. But because this apartment is bigger, you and your partner manage to find yourselves a comfortable corner, distancing yourselves from everyone else to have more “privacy.”

You ask, “Why are you staying back on campus?”

With a shrug, he responds, “Flights are expensive. I was upset at first, but…”

You cock your head to the side, look up, and flutter your eyelashes. Sunday’s eyebrow quirks, but he is not sure if it is out of annoyance or something else. That is your signature move, your flawless routine to pull boys in, and he has seen it over and over again before.

“But… what?” you ask, voice shy yet tinged with coyness.

He shakes his head. He needs to remain calm, vigilant, and most importantly, neutral. As a result, he decides the best thing he can do is abandon his post as an eavesdropper and entertain himself with other matters. He stands up and flutters down to reach your shoulders. As he descends, he watches as one of your eyelashes falls to rest on the apple of your cheek. He would move it out of the way – obviously to assist your efforts in getting your prey, not that the guy has noticed it in the first place –, but he knows he cannot. He then observes your earrings. Although he tries, the metal does not reflect his person, and he does not understand why he reacts with a drop in his stomach.

Frustrated with all these questions and indeterminants, Sunday perches on your shoulder.

At some point, you excuse yourself for another drink. Sunday follows closely, occasionally intervening so that you do not bump into other crossed students and experience another catastrophe. However, once you get your cup of punch, instead of returning to your partner for the night, you head over to the bathroom. Sunday is not sure if he should join you, but there is a glint in your eyes, something that triggers his intuition that you are planning something reckless and most likely desperate, so he stays rooted to your shoulder.

And lo and behold, his intuition has never failed him, and it does not tonight either. You down the juice in one go, slap your cheeks with your hands quite forcefully, and look at yourself square in the mirror. Sunday wishes he could have slapped his hands over your mouth.

You say, with feverish determination and promise, “I will not screw up! I think he’s the one, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure we work out! It’s Christmas, too, so I should be extra lucky!”

Sunday cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes. It is more than obvious that that guy is only in for a good time, not a long time. This is why Sunday insists you are one of the stupidest humans he has ever had the misfortune to work with.

But whenever he explains how much of a lost cause you are to Robin, rather than believing him, his sister questions him instead.

“Are you sure, Brother?” she once asked.

“Yes, absolutely! How can one be so blind!” he proclaimed as the feathers of his wings ruffled with displeasure.

“Well, I think your human is just dense, and I find that quite adorable. Is it not?”

Sunday quieted immediately.

Even to this day, he chalks his failure to respond up to the sheer shock at his sister’s reaction. It is not surprising in that his sister finds a human adorable – many of his coworkers often express their never-ending fascination and curiosity towards human nature, behaviors, and quirks. Rather, it is unjustified to find your idiocy, your denseness, your ignorance cute, and that makes him seethe.

Now, though, he is not sure his original conclusion or feelings are right or appropriate. As you head back, a strong desire to prevent you from finding that man stirs within his gut. Of course, Sunday does not act on such unreasonable urges, but truly, he would be lying to himself if he said he was neutral when it came to matters concerning you. Again, perhaps he is just impatient, perhaps he does not want to deal with your grief-stricken self – especially when your state is caused by an inconsequential man’s actions –, perhaps he simply does not want to see you unhappy.

But neither of your wishes come true. 

You return to the living room, only to find your desired partner cozying up with another girl. Sunday can only watch, looking up as he sees tears, droplets so large relative to his miniature size, stream down the sides of your cheek and chin. When you are not looking, more occupied with scampering back to your apartment as quickly as possible, he catches one of your droplets in his hands, observing it as it hovers in front of him, still failing to show his reflection. He lets it go moments later, but how he wishes he could hold onto it for longer.

But more than that, he knows he would never make you cry like that. If only he was allowed, even one chance, to speak to you, knock some sense into you, demonstrate to you the treatment that you deserve. That way, you would learn your lesson, your true worth, and he would feel like he is actually doing his job as your guardian angel.

In the back of his mind, though, Sunday knows he would never actually feel satisfied – and that he will always worry over you, no matter what. After all, there is a reason why that rule is in place, and it is not to regulate humans. Indeed, humans are fickle creatures. Guardian angels, on the other hand, watch over a human from the time they are born to the day they die. This rule was created to keep the angels in check – to restrain their possession, greed, and lust from running amuck.

Robin is right. You are as downright adorable as you are clueless. But he did not want anyone else to find out, despite knowing there is nothing – nothing at all – that he can do about that.

winter event masterlist

[lockes-woods]

7: A Reptile and Bird's Beloved

Day 7 of Locke's 10-day countdown to the new year!

Prompt: Crocodile x reader x Nico Robin

o Sir/mistress kink

o Found Family

Requested by: @nocturnalrorobin

Warning: Sir Kink, Mistress Kink, Oral, Creampie, Doggy Style, Large Cock, Size Difference

A/N: So this one kinda got away from me. I was too busy writing it to notice it's almost 3,000 words. Hopefully, they're not too OOC; it's my first time writing for Crocodile and only second for Robin. I gotta go to work so I'll do a more thorough edit later today. I hope you enjoy ^-^

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You couldn’t help but let a sigh escape you as you sat curled up in the plush chair in your reading nook in the early hours of Christmas morning. Your focus is locked on the freshly fallen snow. The turret you sat in gave the perfect view of the large park across the street. It was still pure and untouched by the neighborhood children. While this was your least favorite time of year even you could admire the beauty of the thick blanket of white covering everything in sight; well almost everything. Despite the hour all the walkways, driveways, and streets had already been plowed; at this point, you expected no less for the most expensive neighborhood in the city you called home. Despite being in a relationship with two of the most powerful people in the city for the better part of the last year you still felt an air of unease from the contrast of your new life and your humble beginnings.

What had started as a sugar baby-like relationship last February had transformed into an exclusive romantic relationship between Sir Crocodile, Nico Robin, and yourself. You met at a gala where you were working as entertainment for the city’s top 1% as a harpist. It was at the gala where the two business partners struck up a deal. After both showing interest in you, they met you with a calculated proposition to satisfy both of their needs. While they had contracted you together your time with them was almost only spent on one-on-one dates, dinners, and sex. While shared dinners and dates were less common, the least common interaction between the two was during sex; both were too dominant and possessive to share you in that setting. Despite it almost being a year into the relationship you felt like you had just begun to scratch the surface of the complicated depths of their partnership.

While you still maintained an allowance from both of your partners, the contractual part of your relationship had devolved over the summer. You were now in an exclusive romantic relationship. While the change may seem subtle you were given more freedom. You were able to make more requests and the ability to veto certain decisions; along with a prenup-like contractional agreement that entitled you to a hefty severance pay at your discretion of never sharing any of the two’s personal information. While you normally rarely used your veto, you had been using it generously since Thanksgiving.

The one positive of your complex relationship with them was that they had more important things to discuss outside of you, letting your behavior slip through the cracks. You told yourself it was because you didn’t want to worry them, but on some level, you knew you were being self-destructive. You tried to rally, you really did, but it was no use. It felt like you were cursed to be plagued by the bad memories that possessed you every holiday season. You knew the feeling would be gone by the new year, you just had to rough it out for a few more days.

You snapped out of your train of thought as three hard knocks sounded from your closed bedroom door. Based on the power of the knock alone you knew it was Crocodile on the other side. Knowing he wasn’t fond of waiting you tossed your blanket aside and made the quick walk across the heated floors to your door. You paused before opening it, glancing down at your clothing. You were only clad in one of Crocodile’s undershirts and a pair of cheeky-cut panties. Robin preferred you in layered clothing, not only for the time of year but also so they could tease you by undressing you at an agonizingly slow pace. Though he’d never admit it you knew Crocodile liked to know you were comfortable. Sure, the businessman loved to bathe you in expensive clothing and jewelry in public, but in private he was most concerned with your comfort. You had easily picked up on this when, the morning after wearing lingerie for him you were gifted with an anonymously delivered package of comfy loungewear back before you moved in. You considered throwing some real clothing on before another harsh knock rang out.

You swallowed nervously as you opened the door, eyes widening at the sight of both of your partners waiting for you.

“Hey?” you said, more as a question rather than a greeting.

“Hello love,” Robin greeted, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead, before walking into your room. You quickly stepped aside, allowing Crocodile the room needed to enter your bedroom. He gave you a neutral look as he ducked under the doorway and shut the door behind him. You could feel your heart palpitate at the lack of a cigar sandwich between his lips. He was rarely without one while home. The only times you’ve seen him without one was during sex and even then, he’s smoked contently while you’re going down on him. Robin leaned against one of the posts of your bed, while Crocodile sat on the foot of your obscenely large bed; the only thing he required for your room. You brace yourself against your desk, you could feel your nerves rising in your stomach as you were met with their unwavering gazes. Crocodile crossed his arms across his chest, before addressing you.

“Do you know why we’re here, Darling?” he asked.

“No?” you responded, as you wracked your brain for possible reasons that would concern both of them. Sure, you missed a couple of outings, but nothing that would concern both of them to the extent of coming to your room in the middle of the night.

“We were chatting at the office holiday party, and we both came to the realization that neither of us has been able to take you out on a date since November,” Robin stated, filling you in. You furrowed your brow in confusion; not because you didn’t understand her statement, but rather because you’d never pictured them talking about you in their free time.

 “You’ve rejected all of our plans. No ice staking, skiing, or Christmas markets,” Crocodile started,

“You’ve only had sex with us a handful of times,” Robin added,

“And neither of us have heard you play your harp.” Crocodile stated, “To make a long story short we were wondering if there was someone else taking your precious time away from us.”

“What? No!,” you answered quickly, eyes darting from one to the other.

“Then what is it? Robin asked, in a neutral tone, “You’ve been withdrawn and on edge the whole month; do you want to end our arrangement?”

“No,” you answered quickly, “I-It’s just this time of year is really hard on me,”

Her gaze softened at your omission, while Crocodile’s stayed neutral you could tell he was listening by the slight tilt of his head.

“It just this time of year brings up a lot of old emotions. I went no contact with my mom 10 years ago; when I did have contact with her Christmas was always about her and the sacrifice she made so that I could have a ‘good’ Christmas. On top of that within my immediate family, I always felt like an ‘other’ like I’d never fit in. It was always very isolating for me.”  

“So, you isolate out of habit?” Robin asked softly, walking over to you to hold your hand supportively.

“I guess?” you answered, battling your emotions to stay at bay, at least until they leave. Despite your best efforts a few stray tears did manage to fall. Before you could wipe them away, Robin gently cupped your face and brushed away your tears as they fell. Once you reached equilibrium again your hand came to cup the outside of hers.

“Not to speak for both of us, but I for one would be honored to make new happy memories with you,” Robin said, gazing down at you softly. You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your libs.

“Would you like that darling?” Crocodile’s smooth deep voice rang out throughout your bedroom. The bed groaned as he stood up to his over 8-foot hulking stature, “We could vacation anywhere you want until the new year,”

“Perhaps somewhere tropical, to get you out of the cold,” Robin suggested.

“You’re only suggesting that to show our girl off in a bikini,” Crocodile accused, in a light tone, well as light as his tone can go.

“I don’t see why both can’t be true,” Robin replied, a quirk forming on her lips, “I also never said we wouldn’t be going to a nude beach, they’re quite popular abroad.” She finished, winking at you. Crocodile grunted in response, giving Robin a stern look.

“I’m just joking Crocodile,” Robin reassured, looking up at him, “I know how possessive you are of our girl.”

“If we did go to a nude beach there would be no tan lines,” You added, looking up at Sir Crocodile, through your eyelashes. You had learned in the past year that despite his imposing form, he was never able to resist your puppy dog eyes. The businessman grunted once again, looking away with a slight tinge of red coloring his cheekbones.

“I suppose that would be okay if done at a private residence.” He conceded. You and Robin shared a grin. Your spirit felt lighter than it had been all month.

“I’ll have my assistant send over some options for you to pick from,” he added.

“Now that that has been settled, how would you like to spend Christmas morning?” Robin asked, gazing down at you lovingly. “There are plenty of presents under the tree for you, love.”

“Could we stay here?”, you asked hesitantly.

“Of course, love, what were you thinking of doing? Or rather who were you thinking of doing?” She asked in a teasing tone and a knowing look. You could feel your face begin to warm under her gaze.

“I’m not sure,” you answered honestly, “I know you both hate sharing, but I don’t want to leave either of you out.”

Your partners had a silent conversation over your head, both of them easily towering over you.

“I suppose we could make an exception this one time,” Crocodile conceded, from behind you.

“How would you like us love?” Robin asked, gazing down at you fondly.

“I-”, you started hesitantly, both of your partner’s attentions drawn solely on you. You cleared your throat before trying again, “Can I eat you out, while Sir fucks me?”

“Are you sure baby? Today’s about you,” Robin asked.

“Please”, you asked looking up at her, trying to not seem as desperate as you felt.

“Oh? Is my little flower feeling needy?” she asked teasing, only making your face warm more, “You like making your Mistress feel good?”

“Yes,” you answered quickly. Too on edge to pretend to be coy. She smirked down at you before pulling you in for a loving kiss. A whine escaped you at the feeling of crocodile’s right arm wrapping around your middle as he braced you against him. Before you could process what was going on, a gasp escaped you as his cold metal hook sliced down the middle of your, well his, shirt. Leaving you in the bare outside of your panties. Robin took advantage of your open mouth to dominate the kiss. Crocodile then pulled whine from deep in your throat as his right hand skirted down your front finding its way into your panties. You moaned as he went from gently stroking your seam to prodding at your entrance with one of his massive fingers.

A needy whine left you as Robin pulled back, before turning her attention onto marking your neck. She listened patiently to any noises you’d release. She immediately zeroed in after you let out a gasp, before sucking on your sensitive skin. She let out a satisfied hum at the hickey now blooming on your neck before moving down to your chest. All you could do was enjoy the sensation your partners were pulling from you as you stood prone between them. You shamelessly moaned as Crocodile worked in a third finger, grinding desperately against his palm. Simultaneously Robin sucked one of your nipples into her mouth while teasing the other one. You could feel yourself rapidly approaching your limit.

“Fuck,” you moaned, “Can I cum? Please Sir,” you begged, as he worked in a fourth finger. You were both physically and emotionally at your limit; the coil in your tightening to a severe extent.

“Go ahead love,” He encouraged, “Be a good girl and make a mess,”

Nothing could stop you as you writhed between your two lovers, moaning loud enough for the whole block to hear. Your release splashed between them as you squirted all over Crocodile’s hand. He kept you braced against him as you came down from your high.

“Good girl,” Robin purred in your ear as you fell slack against Croc.

“Can I taste you please?” You asked, Robin once you had fully come back into your body, whining at the sensation of Sir easing his fingers out of you.

“Of course, love.” She answered, taking a step back, Crocodile cradled you in his arms, carrying you over to the bed, before gently placing you down in the middle. A needy whine escaped you as he peeled off your soaked underwear, tucking them into his pocket before he began to undress. The slight groan of the bed alerted you to Robin’s presence above you. You flipped over, breath catching in your throat at the sight of her bare form. You would never get tired of the beauty that is your Mistress. You shared a brief kiss before you made your way down her body, making sure to give attention to her neck, nipples, and thighs as you kissed your way down to her core. You bit your lip to contain a groan at the sight of her bare cunt. You let out a gasp, momentarily pulled away from your fixation on your Mistress as Crocodile’s large hand pressed firmly down between your shoulder blades, encouraging you to arch your back. You shared a moan with your Sir as the head of his cock breached your entrance.

He held it there for a moment, before patiently thrusting in and out as you adjusted to his massive form. Too focused on your breathing you were suddenly jerked to attention by Robin’s fingers laced through your hair. She pulled you flush against her pussy, not needing any more prompting you dove straight in. You reveled in the small gasps and moans she produced. Neither of your lovers were particularly loud during sex, that was unless they were teasing you. Crocodile let out a quiet moan as he finally bottomed out, leading you to suck particularly hard on Robin’s clit; causing her to moan out.

You whined as Crocodile’s hand skited over your lower stomach before he put light pressure slightly above your pelvis.

“You can feel that can’t you darling? You can feel how well Sir fills you up. You’re so good at taking me but, even a needy little slut like you need time to adjust.”

Your breath came out as desperate pants as you pulled away from Robin’s clit. It felt like you could feel him in the back of your throat. While both your partners relied on well-timed moves, they never seemed to have any patience when it came to you. In an instant Robin had you positioned back over her cunt. While Crocodile’s hand gripped your hip in a bruising hold as he began to fuck you, quickly building his pace. Your mind began to get hazy, Crocodile quickly building your orgasm, one thrust at a time.

You doubled down on your efforts to make Robin cum, before Croc could completely fuck you stupid. Your lips once again sealed around her clit, your fingers keeping pace as they curled, stroking her inner wall. You flicked your tongue against her clit, savoring the feeling of wetness leaking onto your face. You could feel her legs begin to shake around your head; taking this as a good sign you thrusted into her faster and faster. Before you could register the death grip she had on your fingers, she was cumming hard and fast. Her plush thighs squeezing around your head; she was past the point of worrying about your ability to breathe.

Despite your best efforts you quickly came after, to overwhelmed by the taste of Robin’s release and Crocodile’s cock rearranging your guts. You fell limp on the bed as he continued to fuck you like his personal toy. Robin shifted after coming down from her high so that your head was resting on her lap. She gently petted your hair as you began to feel overstimulated by Croc’s ministration. Luckily it only took a moment before the tell-tale sign of him cumming. You felt his hips stuttering, seconds before you were overwhelmed by his cum filling you up. You both collapsed into a pile, he moaned as you whimpered at the sensation of him easing his cock out of you; a steam of cum following after his cock.

The next half hour was a blur as your partners took care of your spent form, bathing you before dressing you and tucking you into bed curled up in between. You fell asleep content. Robin’s arm curled around your middle, and your head tucked into the hallow of Crocodile's throat.

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MASTERLIST

Next up is a Dom!Robin x Sub!AMAB Reader, Then I'll go back to working on the list

[yayakoishii]

Sober (Pt. 2) | Sanji x Reader

Fandom: One Piece

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x GN! Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Genre/Tags: Angst, Happy Ending, Sanji being dumb

Summary: You had waited for Sanji to confess to you when he was sober. Except...

A/n: I don't usually write sequels but I felt like it and then it became unexpectedly angsty?? It's still a pretty happy ending imo, so I hope you like this continuation ♡

To new readers, this is a part 2 to my oneshot that I've linked below. You could read this one without reading that, but it won't make as much sense.

Part 1

also available on ao3!

He didn't do it.

The morning after, Sanji woke up with a terrible headache and vague hazy memories from the night before. It was only when he was serving breakfast to everyone and saw you that he remembered the… conversation you two had had. But then he dismissed it, realising it was only a dream. He had drank too much, fallen asleep and dreamt of you. Yeah, that must have been it.

Thinking so, he smiled at you as usual and mooned over Nami and Robin as always, not noticing your hopeful smile turn into a disappointed one.

Every time you popped into the kitchen or tried to strike up a conversation with Sanji after that, the dream would pop up in his mind and he ended up stammering his way out. A few days in, you realised he was avoiding you and started reciprocating by not going out of your way to talk to him either.

Sanji missed you. He didn't realise what the problem was because he wasn't being that weird. Okay, so maybe he was too flustered from his dream where you had held him so close and he had kissed you (he could still feel the phantom warmth of your breath on his mouth, the wet press of your lips on his cheek) and it was difficult to talk to you about anything without feeling the urge to do that with you. Maybe he had shut down one conversation too many but now you were avoiding him back and he didn't know how to fix it.

He couldn't just tell you about that dream he had had. You would slap him and be disgusted and freak out. Even the thought of that sunk his heart. He could tolerate being just a crewmate to you for the rest of your lives, but he couldn't tolerate the thought of you hating him forever. But without talking about the dream, he couldn't explain himself either.

A week passed like that, the two of you awkward and clumsy around each other. Everyone else noticed and Nami had tried to talk to both you and Sanji about it but neither of you let her know anything. They were all confused and Luffy just wanted you both to go back to being your usual selves because it was weird even for him. Of course, no one had the gall to say it to your faces, and Nami had stopped Luffy from saying it when he tried.

Fortunately, a new island appeared and the usual straw hat cycle of finding a city in trouble and accidentally saving them played its hand. The resulting party had you downing a few bottles of wine, although Sanji knew how much you hated the taste of alcohol.

"Why would I drink that?" Your face had scrunched up the first time Sanji had questioned you about it. "It doesn't taste good to me at all. I'd rather drink the juice you make for me, Sanji."

There was no one on the ship who praised Sanji's cooking as much as you did. You didn't hesitate to compliment his food every single day and while Sanji was very secure in his cooking ability, it was still validating to hear how much you loved his food anyway.

This past week you hadn't complimented him even once. You had never gone this long without doing it so Sanji knew you had to be really upset with him. He had to try and fix this as soon as he could.

Even during the party, his head was full of thoughts of you. When he looked out for you, he found you slumped over a table, empty wine bottles lying all around you. Without thinking, Sanji made his way over and cleared away the bottles so that you wouldn't accidentally break one and hurt yourself. You stayed silent as you watched him.

"Do you want to go back to the Sunny, my dear?" Sanji looked at you finally, trying to exude his usual self. You shot him a glare and pouted, your cheeks puffing up in what was unmistakably anger.

"Go away," you hissed at him. Sanji had to blink away the thought of how much you resembled a cat in that moment. "I don' like lyin' liars who lie to me."

Sanji had expected you to be angry at him but that statement confused him. He had avoided you, yes, but he could not remember lying to you. You were not one to lie so perhaps there had been a misunderstanding between you two?

"Which lie are you talking about, (y/n)-chan?" He asked carefully. You froze and shot him another glare. Even angry, you looked cute.

"Which lie?" You sounded outraged. "How many lies have you told me, huh?!"

"Wh– that's not what I meant!" Sanji tried to calm you down but you stood up abruptly and started walking back to the Sunny. The chef was stunned for a second. You never just up and leave. He had really badly fucked this up. So of course he had to run after you. Sanji caught up to you halfway, skidding to a halt in your path so you couldn't move. "Wait! I really don't know what lie you're talking about, my love, but I'm sorry for it. I will do whatever it takes to beg for your forgiveness and then try my best to make the lie a reality."

You stopped glaring and shot him a heartbroken look instead. Sanji felt like someone had stabbed him in the heart. Why did you look like that over… him?

"That's what it was supposed to be," you said quietly. The two of you were quite a way away from the din of the party so Sanji could make out the words. He was getting more confused but he had to be patient and hear you out. He couldn't fix his mistake if he didn't know what he had done. "You said that if this was real… you wanted to hold me. You said you would tell me how much I mean to you. That you would kiss me and tell me how much you love me. So why haven't you, Sanji? Do you not feel those things anymore? Or was it all a lie?"

Sanji froze. That was… that was the dream he had had! How did you know– Oh. Oh he had been so stupid. It hadn't been a dream at all. It had been real. And he had fucked it all up by avoiding you after all of that.

"Maybe I was the one who was an idiot for thinking you could possibly like me," you were crying now, tears running down your cheeks. Sanji's heart hurt at the sight; he had wanted to be the reason for your smile and laughter, not for your tears. He had hurt you, the person most precious to him. You suddenly grabbed his collar and pushed him into the tree and he just let you, mind too jumbled up to say anything. "I'm a fool. God, I was so stupidly happy that night, I couldn't sleep. I thought all my dreams had come true. I thought we would be in love. I thought I could finally wake you up with a kiss and tell you how much I loved you too before we fell asleep. I thought I would make you your favourite dish for your birthday and, and go do one of those love compatibility readings at the fortune telling shop for fun! I thought, I thought of so many things I wanted to do with you and you… Sanji, you never came. You never told me those words you had said when you were drunk."

He wanted all of that too. Sanji wanted to do all those things you had said and even more.

Your tightened fists loosened as you breathed heavily, still crying. Even like this, you were still the most beautiful person he had ever seen. If Sanji had had any doubts before this, then they had no place in his heart any longer. All of him, mind, body and soul, was yours. He could not let you go on with this misunderstanding any longer.

"Guess they were wrong," you chuckled wetly, stepping back. "A drunk man's words aren't his truest thoughts after all. They are just his–"

"They are," Sanji said roughly, stepping back into your bubble. You didn't look up at him, just stared down at your feet, still crying silently. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for taking all this time, my love, when you deserved to be told everyday that I'm but a fool for your attention. I was in the wrong, thinking that night had been a mere dream when my imagination cannot even begin to dream up the warmth you possess. I'm sorry and I will spend the rest of my life earning your forgiveness, if only you would find it within yourself to give me one more chance."

Your eyes looked hopeless, and you just smiled weakly at him.

"Hasn't it been enough, Sanji?" Your voice wavered. "Don't play with my heart anymore. I love you too much to survive another–"

Sanji pulled you into a tight hug, his arms surrounding you completely. Although you were still mad at him, your body automatically relaxed at the familiar comforting scent of him. "I don't have the words to even begin to apologise for what I have done. But I swear to you, love, I will make up for my mistake in every action from now on. I will leave no doubt in your mind of the fact that I'm madly, stupidly, disgustingly deeply in love with you. So much that my own heart isn't enough to hold all that love."

"You're like a dream, Sanji," you said quietly into his ear, heart racing yet mind calm. "A dream that you can't quite remember when morning comes. A dream that the more you try to grasp it, the more it slips from you. But even if you're a dream like that, I want to believe in that dream. I'm stupid enough to want to get my heart hurt again because it has chosen you and refuses to choose any other. So you better show me that my heart made the right decision."

"I will," he promised, pressing you harder into him. You were clinging onto him just as hard, but your tears had finally stopped.

"I don't like lying liars who lie, Sanji," you repeated your words from before. The chef smiled to himself. "You better keep your word this time."

Sanji hummed and let you go only to cup your cheeks in the palm of his hands. You looked at him, still a mess from crying and drinking. You were starting to look sleepy but Sanji felt like you had blown all his sleep away.

"When I'm sober," you paused to give a tiny yawn that had Sanji's heart clenching from how adorable it was, "you better be next to me."

Sanji smiled and picked you up bridal style. You curled into him and fell asleep in two seconds, barely catching his soft reply.

"I'll be there."

°•❀•°

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[hopefulceladon]

a battered light (can only burn so bright) | sunday x reader

summary: it truly was only a matter of time before he burnt himself out, wasn't it? pairing: sunday x reader word count: 4.5k (help me) notes: the self-indulgent brain worms influenced me i am so sorry. you give sunday a wing massage and he clearly has Mixed Feelings about it all. is he yearning? is he just stubborn? the world may never know.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A blanket of starlight had wrapped itself around the Dewlight Pavilion, the ethereal glow illuminated ever brighter by the governing moon.

On such peaceful nights like this, solace for the fatigued was all too simple to acquire for those who sought it, yet even still, there remained those who did not yet allow themselves the luxury of rest whenever daylight grew dim.

It was just such a terrible pity that the Head of the Oak Family was one of them—a conclusion strengthened by the restless, focused, and very much still awake Halovian displayed before you.

“Mr. Sunday,” you called for him as you balanced a silver tray in your arms, hoping to garner his attention.

Your hopes were soon drowned out by the clatter of footsteps as they treaded to-and-fro against wooden floorboards, a pace that hardly ever changed in stride and never once dared to cease.

The sight laid before your eyes was a troubling one; Sunday was in the midst of sizing up his miniscule-scale model of the Golden Hour, his weary eyes roaming over the elaborate diorama as he muttered words that fell upon your ears like muddled verses of a foreign poem.

It was also a sight that you, unfortunately, were growing all too familiar with.

When the two birds of a feather had been reunited by the scarred hands of dormancy days prior, you quite naturally—and quite foolishly—had believed they had snatched away the tension that rested upon Sunday's shoulders in exchange.

It hadn't.

The scattered plumes of both deep purple and white, the likes of which were now haphazardly skirting themselves beneath the premises of the table Sunday paced around, had already given that away, after all.

Wordlessly, you avoided trampling any of the fallen feathers by the grace of your careful footing, and you settled the tray that carried both a cup of tea and a small plate of freshly cut strawberries—Robin had let it slip that he was fond of them once before—upon his desk in the room above, before descending the stairs and continuing to observe the madness before you.

Once you decided you could no longer bear the burden of playing a helpless bystander for much longer, you took a step forward and gently tapped Sunday upon his shoulder.

Sunday's feathers bristled in reaction to the abrupt touch, but his gaze softened once he turned around to face the source.

“Ah, do forgive me, please,” he began with a cordial, apologetic smile, his eyes tearing away from the model to glance at the tray. “I must've forgotten about this evening's tea.”

“If it clears your conscience any, I nearly forgot to start brewing it.” you admitted.

“Is that so?” Sunday hummed in response, nearly bewildered by your confession. “Hm, perhaps I should allow for a bit more leniency in the schedule...”

You frowned at the self-deprecating chuckle that left his lips, but you resisted making a remark. Without a further word spoken, you sat down in the chair that he had graciously pulled out for you, planted right next to his desk.

Peeking over at the files he was so adamantly focused upon, a small smile graced your lips at the underlined and emboldened heading, proudly declaring the parchment's title of ’Charmony Festival Preparations’.

“I can see why your memory slipped,” you mused, hoping to stave off any suffocating silence. “It’s an exciting thing to be in charge of something so memorable, isn’t it?”

Sunday tensed, a flicker of something unreadable dimming the usual poised gleam of his golden eyes.

“It... most certainly will be a festival one shall never forget.” Sunday finally replied.

You decided against inquiring as to why his wings had betrayed him, a subtle twitch disrupting their perfectly mundane flutter.

You also decided against dwelling upon the pitiful sight of gaps between his feathers.

As Sunday picked up his pen to scribble something upon the documents, a frown crossed your lips as you noted the way his eyes, with their appearance already marred by the evidence of lack of proper rest, had their corners crinkled from overexertion.

The remnants of a dying flame lingered upon the nearby candelabra’s wick, before extinguishing itself with a forlorn puff of smoke. As the light diminished further within the room, Sunday’s eyes squinted.

With a frown creasing your lips, you finally decided to speak up.

“Sir, if you’d like, I could relight the candle?”

Sunday paused to look up at you, shaking his head in light of your concern. “You really needn’t go through the trouble.” As your unwavering gaze met his, the visible extent of your worry piercing through his obstinate resolve, Sunday promptly faltered. “...but, of course, if you’re so insistent, I won't stop you.”

You nodded before getting up to scour his office for a matchstick, acquiring one with relative ease. As you struck the match against the igniter, you waited for the head to mingle with the worn-down wick with a steady hand.

Your focus soon fell upon Sunday’s weary countenance.

He was much akin to his candle, you reckoned—meant to burn bright for all to see, yet the burdens of his extensive obligations had weighed his benevolent, ever-giving wick down to a charred stub; whenever he had wavered, so, too, did his light.

And, much like a moth enraptured by a kindled flame, you, like most any other Dreamscape denizen, had clung to the luster he meticulously weaved from the luminance of his candle. Nonetheless, his elevated status hadn’t hidden that he was as helplessly human as those he served, and that even he, too, needed a lamppost to sturdy himself upon.

You wondered if he ever allowed himself to acknowledge such logic.

Once the match finally ignited the wick, you silenced your internal musing with a sigh, snuffing the lingering embers upon the wooden stick with a flick of your wrist.

As you set the candelabra back down onto his desk, it was then that you noted the still untouched cup of tea.

“Your tea must be getting cold by now...”

Sunday’s attention drifted away from his paperwork, and he glanced over at the cup. “Ah, right...” he hummed in acknowledgment, studying it carefully. “It’s chamomile, I presume?”

“As evident by the pigment, yes.”

“And the bitter leaves have been amplified by a squeezed lemon, correct?”

“Of course.”

“Thoroughly stirred, though not too harshly?”

“Only the gentlest of stirrings for you, sir.”

“That’s my wonderful assistant,” Sunday mused with a tired smile, lifting the drink up to his lips and taking a small sip from it, before setting it back down. “Life is quite more convenient when everything is coordinated as it should be, isn’t it?”

You nodded at his observation, all too familiar with the principles he's uttered before in the past. “It does have its perks.”

Sunday stirred the spoon in his cup around in slow circles, his expression growing unreadable.

“So, it truly is a shame whenever something disrupts how things ought to be...”

“You’ve... mentioned that before, yes.” you replied, hesitantly clinging onto his every word.

Sunday hummed as he took another sip. As he refreshed the tea against his palate, his eyebrows narrowed in concentration, prompting his lips to form a frown.

“I’ve noticed the sugar you've been sprinkling in.”

“And I’ve noticed that you've begun to molt.” you quickly retorted without much thought. It was childish, yes, you knew, but perhaps your hasty tongue had a point.

The Halovian stiffened at your remark.

“I beg your pardon?”

Your confidence wavered as Sunday’s eyebrows furrowed, yet your shame was outweighed by your concern.

“The floor is littered with proof, and as pristine as you keep your appearance, it’s hard to cover up unevenness caused by fallen feathers," you paused, your focus drifting from the wings near his temples to fall upon his paperwork. “And, given the stress that normally accompanies festival preparations...”

Sunday’s tongue clicked in frustration at the implication.

“Whether or not I was stressed—or even molting, for that matter—my feathers should hardly be any of your concern,” he replied, his voice trailing off as he eyed your approaching hands.

In a swift motion, he pinned your wrists down against the desk, a counteraction made in desperation to prevent them from reaching their destination.

“...and I would appreciate it if you kindly refrained from touching them.”

You tried your best to recoil one of your hands away, but they wouldn't move—how could they, when they now sought the mercy of his restrictive grasp?

Even as Sunday’s palms cordially arranged for your wrists to be wed to the wooden surface, however, you didn't budge. “Were this over anything else, I would gladly listen, but given the fact that you’ll need someone to help you safely-”

Sunday’s eyes squeezed themselves shut in frustration.

“Beloved assistant of mine, please do not be so obstinate.”

As the Halovian's hold upon your wrists gradually softened, you snatched them back to your sides.

“I learn from the worst.” you murmured.

Sunday let out a soft sigh in response before returning to his paperwork. A part of you wondered why you even dared to bother vocalizing your concern.

Nonetheless, in the ever-growing silence, it was only then that you realized how truly worn out the Halovian had appeared. The dark circles underneath his eyes and the missing feathers had been telltale signs, but even his countenance had changed; beneath his layers of practiced, superficial perfection, you could sense that he was exhausted beyond both your unwavering understanding and his intentional ignorance.

Your heart sunk to the pit of your stomach as your eyes caught themselves on the sight of dried blood in the center of one of the gaps in his feathers, before they reluctantly tore themselves away. It was hardly like him to ignore his appearance to such an extent.

A sigh crossed your lips as you focused upon a droplet of heated wax, witnessing it roll off the surface of the pitiful candle and onto the table.

You couldn’t hold your tongue for much longer.

“Sir, you really should examine your wings.”

“I hardly have the luxury of time on my side,” Sunday countered swiftly. “Were it not for the preparations, I would've already-”

“Then, please, at least let me try?” you interjected without second thought.

Sunday’s gaze tore away from his desk to stare at you, unblinking, as if you had just uttered the most irrational thing possible, and perhaps you indeed had—an offer made in haste could surely be considered as such, couldn't it?

“Did I not already beg you not to do so?”

“You did, but as your assistant, I’ve known you long enough to be certain you’ll just prioritize perfecting the festival over your own well-being, so...” you stared at the spot once more before glancing back at him. “Please.”

Sunday shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he pondered your offer, his wings twitching from what you assumed was contemplation. He parted his lips to speak, only to draw out a mere reluctant sigh.

Slowly, Sunday opened one of the drawers to his desk, pulling out a cloth and a spray bottle, before holding out his hand with the two items bundled together within his grasp. As he motioned for you to take the items with a nudge of his hand, you noted that his eyes never once met yours.

“Thank you.” you said with a soft smile.

Recalling the multiple occasions you had witnessed him clean his wings, as well as the knowledge you secretly procured from handbooks on Halovian biology, you spritzed the water upon the cloth and held it a few inches away from Sunday’s wing, all memories of the least intrusive methods coming to mind.

As you pressed the cloth against the surface, a sharp breath had made you halt.

“Forgive me.” Sunday muttered. “As you can tell, it’s... been a while.”

You nodded, all questions dying upon your tongue for the sake of his comfort, before gently dabbing the cloth against the spot, wiping away the bloody inequity and restoring his pristine visage.

Setting the cloth down on the desk, you smiled. “And... done.”

“Ah, thank you kindly.”

A small portion of your worry had ebbed away at in light of the relief in his voice, but returned with a vengeance once you remembered the sight of the disastrous floor from moments prior. As your gaze trailed away from him and towards the dark purple feathers that dotted the floor right next to those of cloudy white, Sunday’s gaze had soon followed.

Inquiries regarding their condition formulated themselves without much prompting within your mind, but you couldn’t dare speak them out loud.

Not when he had already been so stubborn over his first set of wings.

Not when he had already faltered so strongly in his breathing, a pattern you associated with immense discomfort.

In the absence of all conversation, you both tirelessly danced around the inevitable before something finally had to give.

“The festival has been, admittedly, more of a... project than I could’ve ever expected,” Sunday began, droning off with an awkward, tensed chuckle. “...and I suppose that, perhaps, amidst the madness of it all, the matter of my wings’ upkeep must’ve slipped my mind...”

“I... I see.” you acknowledged his words with a soft hum, accepting his unlikely-to-be-true excuse without further prompting.

Sunday sighed as his hands absentmindedly fidgeted with his gloves to smooth out an invisible crease, before he finally continued.

“The upkeep of a Halovian’s wings just hardly isn’t a thing to entrust so lightly to another being, you see, and I just, I...” his voice trailed off. 

The eyes that were once so keenly intent on scrutinizing the floor beneath his feet soon met yours.

Had you of been anyone else, you would've surely melted under his weary gaze, but no, quite frankly you couldn't and most definitely shouldn't, for you were merely his assistant, and such feelings must not be stoked by any such foolish thing-

“If I absolutely must trust another soul with such a hefty responsibility, I suppose it would indeed be you.” Sunday finally murmured.

You were startled, to say the least. Hurriedly, you gleaned for any signs of hesitance upon his features, finding nothing except a softness in his eyes that you prayed was not drawn from reverence.

“And you're sure of this, sir?”

Sunday hesitated, his expression unreadable before finally, he nodded.

As Sunday arose from his chair to stretch his stagnant muscles, intent on ridding himself of his white coat, he had reached for his shoulder with a barely-suppressed wince. Without thinking, you rushed over to his side, cupping the top of his shoulder with your palm, attempting to gently work off the sleeveless coat for him.

Seemingly frightened by the abrupt touch, Sunday breathed in sharply, hastily brushing your hand off of his shoulder before his picture-perfect poise could shatter.

“Please,” he murmured tersely, his hand still protectively grasping his clothing. “I believe I can handle doing this part myself.”

You nodded as you slowly stepped back, resting your treacherous hands at your sides.

As Sunday worked the snow-colored coat off of his shoulders, he grabbed the discarded garment and folded it into a neat square before putting it up on his desk, then focused on the silvery blazer that had laid beneath.

After a few moments spent fumbling with his multiple layers, Sunday was now stripped down to his dark turtleneck.

Your eyes fell upon the sight of the dark blue, wing-like vest that wrapped itself around his waist, and just as you were about to ask if they were yet another layer he had to remove, you froze once the ‘vest’ had shifted and twitched.

“Are those...?”

Sunday noted your confusion and shook his head, his fingers working diligently to unwrap the clinging, restrictive article of clothing.

What had twitched underneath the vest was a pair of deep purple wings, their plumes matching the pigments of what was strewn beneath you. As beautiful as the appendages were, the difference between their standard of upkeep compared the likes of which rested above his temples were like night and day.

A part of you wondered if, for whatever unspoken reason, he was ashamed of them.

The Halovian tensed under the weight of your prying gaze, trying to relax to force the dormant plumage awake as he averted his sight. “I know what you must be thinking,” he whispered, his voice taut from the effort. “...but I beg of you, please do not pry.”

Your heart ached at the way he struggled with the furled appendages.

“Do you... require assistance?”

“I...” Sunday fussed with the tight wrap once more, before reluctantly nodding. “I suppose.”

Your hands were quick to approach the wings, intent on massaging the tension out of their pinions so that they'd might unfurl.

The very moment a disgruntled, screechy craw from a raven rung from above, however, Sunday had faltered and hastily smoothened his garments back down, urging your hands to shy away.

You turned to face the direction of the sudden disruption, before tilting your head at Sunday, wondering why he seemed so distraught by the avian's call.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Yes, there is something wrong!” Sunday snapped, before his tone softened. “This... this is improper ! To have convinced myself to allow you to touch my primary wings was one thing, but this...” his voice broke off as he glanced down at his unsightly feathers. “...this... I truly never should've...”

A frown etched itself upon your lips at his sudden change of heart.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know a Halovian's wings are...” you hesitated, vividly recalling the multiple times he had recoiled at your touch. “...sensitive. I’ve studied handbooks once before, and-”

Surprise briefly flashed in his eyes at your admission, before his face hardened into a disapproving scowl the moment he interrupted you.

“You mean to tell me that you’ve studied handbooks upon such a topic, and yet still, you allow yourself to willingly fall victim to the whims of compliance over my foolish fallacies?” he sputtered, his tone abrasive. “You should've stopped me, for heaven’s sake!”

Irked by the criticism, you, too, began to bristle.

“If this truly is so wrong in your eyes, then did you really ever wish for my assistance?”

Startled by the bite in your words, Sunday bit back any further protests, swallowing down his anxious ire. Loneliness had been his home for so long, and your touch was nearly a dangerous siren's call—he couldn't truly bear the thought of losing such a privilege.

The puffed up, bristling feathers of Sunday’s higher wings smoothened themselves back down as he steadied himself, flexing his fingers against his palms.

“Please, just get on with it.”

“Thank you.” you whispered before leaning forward, your hands delicately palming the fragile cartilage of his wings as you tried to help them unbind themselves. Reluctantly, Sunday flexed them against your touch, trying to encourage them to spread.

“Still, this is all so... terribly insolent,” Sunday muttered through gritted teeth.

You stilled your efforts, desperately wishing you knew why he was so resistant to your assistance.

“Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Sunday winced from the loss of motion, the loss of blissful touch against the very surface that yearned for it, no less, and he was far too quick to nod his head.

“Yes, of course. Loathe as I am to confess such a thing, this... truly is a process that must be done,” he replied, his breath wavering. “It’s hardly your fault that I’ve been so... neglectful.”

As your hands tenderly helped work the cartilage to awaken, massaging the spots you figured must’ve been sore, it only took moments later for them to finally loosen from their protective stance.

Dark, raven-like wings, pigmented like the glimmering skies of midnight, had blossomed forth from Sunday’s sides and splayed themselves before you. Battered and bristled as they were, they were nonetheless a breathtaking view.

As the deep purple plumages fanned themselves out like curtains, you gaped with pity at the sight of the clipped plumes, the multiple defects marring an otherwise symmetrical pair of wings. A remark formulated itself upon your tongue, but died upon your lips once Sunday acknowledged your staring with a slight grimace, as if he could guess what you were nearly about to say.

You continued to stare at his fragile feathers with unwavering wonder.

“Your wings are truly beautiful, sir.” you whispered adoringly.

Sunday turned around to bare his back before you instead, swift enough to conceal the rush of both shame and bashfulness that had abruptly invaded his features.

Gently, you reached your hand forth and tentatively brushed against his plumage.

“Careful.” Sunday reminded you with a slight wince.

You nodded at his warning and reached for the cloth with your other hand, dabbing the damp material against any dried spots of blood where his plumes had fallen out, before placing it back down after you finished tending to them.

Your touch was light, delicate, as your fingertips mapped a path forged by concern against the surface of his wings, seeking out any broken feathers as you sought to soothe as many of his aches as you could.

Unbeknownst to you, your very touch was both a soothing balm for Sunday’s miseries and a temptatious instigator for a stirring within his very core.

Brushing past a sore spot located at the starting muscles of his wings had ripped a soft gasp from Sunday’s throat, and quickly, you stopped.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.

“No, no, just...” he breathed out, distracting himself by how heavenly your hands had felt. “If you would just kindly massage them, that'd be-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you worked your thumbs carefully against the cartilage's base, inadvertently rendering him silent, save for a few tender, wavering breaths.

Your hands worked practical miracles against the bothersome likes of his tension, snuffing them out by the source as they brushed up and down the entirety of his wingspan, your body pressed close to his for better grounds.

As your breath cascaded upon the back of his neck, your fingers delved deeper against his muscles. “I hope this is enough...”

Sunday swallowed thickly at your closeness. “Oh, dearest assistant, you...” he paused, clearing his throat. “You haven’t the faintest idea how much of a blessing this is to me.”

Slowly but surely, Sunday’s ever faithful front of ‘perfection’ had bared its frayed threads before you and unraveled itself by its fragile seams, leaving the fate of his precious, oft-concealed vulnerability within your tender hands.

Every trembling breath at each pass of your hands, along with every visible tremor of his bones in wake of your care, had clawed further at your heart, constricting its cage with concern.

Weathered down by his responsibilities and blemished by the expectations placed upon his shoulders as he was, it was clear that he was blind to how thin he had worn down the wick of his perseverance—the very structure of his charitable soul.

Finally satisfied with the sight of relaxed feathers displayed before your very eyes, your hands had retreated back to your sides, and as sudden awareness of your close proximity washed over you like a rebuking flood, you hastily moved yourself away.

Sunday had turned around to face you, his pale skin flushed as he shifted his weight from side to side. The moonlight that filtered through the Pavilion's windows seemed to enhance his ethereal beauty, the glow of the evening catching upon his halo and permitting it to shimmer like an ever-glittering star.

“I must ask,” Sunday began quietly, his gaze fleeting about the room, from the candle, to the barely-sipped cup of tea, even to the untouched plate of strawberries. “Why did you do this all for me? Surely, there must be something you need in exchange...”

You shook your head and frowned at his words. Why did he believe an act of goodwill had such a price to pay?

With so many words you wanted to say and a plethora of woes over his wellbeing you wanted to profess, you held your tongue and swallowed down the bitter medley of trepidation, fearful of shattering the tenderness that graced this rare moment of solitude.

Surely, one day, there would come an opportunity where you could properly formulate all of your thoughts, but this night was far from being that night.

“It’s just that you’ve been working tirelessly these past few days in preparation for the Charmony Festival,” you began, eying the stack of paperwork that laid in a neat pile upon his desk, before turning back to him. “...and it seems to be my obligation to at least try to remind you to take a break.”

“I’m sure I would’ve remembered to take one eventually...” Sunday protested weakly, as if he himself hadn't believed his words.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Perhaps, once you’ve finally burnt yourself out.”

Sunday’s head wings lowered themselves with a meek display of shame upon being put under such conviction.

As his eyes flitted away from yours, far too sheepish to meet your perceptive gaze, you took a step forward and, without much thought behind your all too forward actions, you wrapped your arms delicately around his waist.

Feeling your familiar touch snake around his sides as it enveloped him into a warm, blissful embrace, Sunday stiffened.

You gulped as he tensed against your grasp.

“Forgive me,” you whispered an apology against his chest, careful to not overwhelm him with any further skin contact. “...you just looked as if you needed one.”

Sunday took a few moments to steady his breathing before responding. “I... suppose I did.”

You watched as, with trembling footsteps, Sunday dragged you both backwards, before stopping to allow himself to sit back down in his chair.

His gloved hands clenched at his sides before finding purchase on the tops of your shoulders, pushing you down so that you'd settle against his lap—adjusting you accordingly so it wouldn't look conspicuous—before finally reciprocating the hug.

Completely unsure of what to do with his hands, Sunday had freed one of them to lift your head up with a shaky palm, his cold glove a soothing touch against your chin.

With ever-softening glances being exchanged, the weight of so many unspoken confessions had hung in the balance of the room's silence, but to your surprise, you hardly minded at all. Sunday’s eyes were briefly drawn to your lips before he forced himself out of his stupor, resisting the deafening call of the tender temptation with a soft clearance of his throat.

It was for the best, however—you really weren't sure if you could've resisted the notion of leaning forward yourself.

You were startled as the top of Sunday's head brushed against the underside of your chin, leaning his face down so he could rest the side of his cheek against your chest, breathing softly as he melded himself close to you, cocooning you both together within the vast expanse of his wings.

“I... I truly thank the heavens upon every moment I remember that you're in my life,” Sunday murmured fondly.

Ignoring the abrupt, intrusive flutter in your chest, your arms strengthened the secure hold they possessed against his form.

“I feel much the same, Sunday.”

In the silence of the night, you held each other close, the beat of your own synchronized hearts as you clung to one another the only melody worth dwelling upon.

Even if you couldn't outright plead for him to be more mindful of his limits and capabilities—that his singular light was not enough to shoulder the burdens he subjected himself to, let alone be strong enough illuminate the entire sky—you were grateful that in your arms, he could find his ever-fleeting, redeeming solace.

In that moment, it was enough.

It had to be enough.

[daffydilled]

On using the Robins

Alright, I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but DC? We gotta talk about the Robins and how they're used. For a company and comic universe with a truly spectacular willingness to explore every possible avenue of a character, if you want to really get to the point of Batman, we're going to need Robins used consistently across media and we're going to need the right ones used.

Why? TL;DR: the Robin you use tells us a hell of a lot about the Batman you're using. If you're going to keep using Batman in everything, we're going to need Robins. And they need to be the right ones. Using the wrong Robin is destroying live action DC adaptations.

Believe it or not, this whole rant started with me playing Gotham Knights on my PS5. Normally, anything that distinguishes between Robins and puts them interacting with others is pretty damn good to go in my book. It's not exactly common, after all. But I got about 15 hours into it and realized what was bugging me so much: it uses the wrong Robins.

Let me clarify. Nightwing and Red Hood are nearly perfect. They're exactly where they need to be. But if that game let Tim Drake detect in the role filled by Batgirl, let Batgirl be Oracle, and put Damian Wayne into the 'young Robin finding his wings' role that Tim plays, the story would have been far more cohesive. Why? Because I would have bought the final word Bruce tells them far more and I would have bought Talia's involvement as well.

This particular Bruce Wayne is an older Batman, one comfortable removing himself from the cause and passing it on to the rest of his family. The balance of Robins (and the misuse of Batgirl) upsets this. This isn't a team that is ready for that step yet, and Bruce in-game would know that. One can argue that's part of the tragedy of it, but the weight of the dynamic is still lopsided. The game feels unbalanced. If a story is going to rest on proteges and inheritors, I need to buy their ability to take over for Batman, and I don't. (And don't get me started on the misuse of Babs in this game. That woman has her own team, her own struggle!

Batman v Superman pokes me too. It's the lack of a Robin in these, though, that really grind my gears. That is a violent, brutal Batman that has fallen so far into 'The Mission's' ass, I kept expecting to see a suited memorial to a dead kid in his batcave and an extremely stubborn thirteen-year old stopping him from breaking a Kryptonian's face open before the dread "Save Martha" can be said.

That is a Batman that screams I just lost my son. He is so angry and bitter and walks around with an armory for a suit. That's a perfectly acceptable Batman to explore, when paired with the context of Jason Todd. Otherwise, it just reads like they made the movie gritty for the sake of being gritty and missed out on piles of nuance for both the heroes.

Frankly, a Batman grieving Jason Todd and a Superman processing the arrival of a cloned version of him mixed with Luthor's DNA would go miles to explaining the mental states of both these guys, but nobody bothered to do that, so I'm just bitter.

One of the oddest mix-ups of Robins I've ever seen has absolutely nothing to do with Batman. It's from Birds of Prey or The Fabulous Emancipation of Harley Quinn, where somehow Stephanie Brown and Jason Todd pre-pit get fused into one character and named Cassandra Cain. That is. Odd. I don't even really know how to address it, but I'm going to try.

Fact one: Steph would have been a perfect kid for Harley to meet in that movie. She's whip-smart, tough as nails, survived having a supervillain for a dad, and could, in the right light, even look a bit like Harley. There's this great potential there for her to remind Harley of a younger version of herself before the Joker got to her and wouldn't have messed with the vibes Birds of Prey was going for at all.

Fact two: Jason Todd also wouldn't have been too odd of a fit, especially if this was happening in a world where he did manage to jack the tires. He's immediately recognizable to the fans, though, which I do think would have pulled focus from the Birds in that movie.

Fact three: That was not Cassandra Cain and it was frankly a bit of an insult to her character to name that character Cassandra Cain. That's a rant for another time though.

Why mention it now? It's indicative of the greater issue DC has with adapting its characters to screen. Namely the issue to actually adapt the characters at all and not turn them into some weird Frankenstein'd versions of themselves. There's no Batman in Birds of Prey, but the world he'd inhabit is. And that world, based on our poor scrambled egg mess of Robins, is a disaster.

I think it's important for DC to remember they are adapting comics here, and those comics do not shy away from using Robins in them. Even in the most bat-shit (pun not intended) alternate universes where there's Cthulhu Batman or Edwardian Batman or White Knight Batman, the Robins are there.

How they're living and dying in those universes is one of the reliable ways to judge things like tone, narrative priorities, and themes. There's nothing wrong with trying a few different version of Batman, but Batman without Robin doesn't work long-term. It hasn't before and it will continue to fail if DC, in their adaptations, don't get a handle on their universes' scale. After all, the heroes only work if they have people to pass the work onto.

[kryptonian-outlaw]

Crown of Shadows

Author: Ultimate

Series: Crown of Shadows

Chapter 1: Fallen Robin

Rating: Explicit (18+) Smut

Summary:

*Time skip of eight years. Damian is 21 years old.*

AU Bruce Wayne remains dead after the events of Final Crisis, leaving a young Damian Wayne lost and seeking solace from his mother, Talia al Ghul. Instead of comfort, he is met with a ruthless tyrant and is ultimately forced to kill his grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul, to seize control of the League of Assassins. Eight years later, Damian operates as a rogue, spreading chaos across Gotham, long abandoned by those who once cared—except for Jason Todd. Refusing to give up on him, Jason disrupts the League’s operations, determined to track Damian down and pull him back from the edge. But Damian has no intention of being saved—he intends to stop Jason personally, ensuring nothing interferes with his ruthless mission to rid Gotham of its criminals.

// WARNING \\ Non-con, trauma, abuse, child abuse, violence, and PTSD in this chapter.

* SNEAK PEAK *

Damian's eyes sparkled with amusement as he sucked on Jason's nipple, his voice husky with desire. "Damn, you have such a lovely voice, Jay." He nuzzled at Jason's chest, inhaling deeply as if savoring the scent of his skin.

Jason managed to grit out a response, "Fuck off, Damian!" But it was too late; his body had already betrayed him. His cock throbbed in his pants, straining against the fabric as the friction from Damian's touch sent him into a desperate frenzy. As Damian continued to suckle at his nipple, Jason discreetly felt for the small needle he had hidden in the waistband of his pants. His fingers closed around it like a lifeline, and he began to work on loosening his restraints while keeping Damian distracted.

Damian pinched Jason's nipple again, making him wince. "Scarecrow got me with fear gas, and— wait you don’t remember?" There was a hint of disappointment in Damian's voice as he gazed up at Jason. Jason shook his head in denial even though memories were beginning to resurface - fragmented images of that fateful night when Scarecrow unleashed terror on Gotham City. But he refused to give in to them now not when there was still fight left within him still chance escape grasp break free get revenge.

"Crap! Give me a sec, will ya? I need to...I don't know, get my head straight," Jason gasped, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush as Damian's fingers closed around his other nipple, pinching it with precision. The shock of pain mingled with the simmering arousal, leaving Jason breathless and disoriented.

Damian's voice was low and husky, his words dripping with amusement. "Well, I guess it's not a concern right now, Jay." He began to unbuckle Jason's belt with a deliberate slowness that made Jason's heart skip a beat. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was like a countdown to Jason's undoing.

Read the full chapter here.

[ladykailitha]

The Rise of The Fallen Part 2

Here we are at last, the end of an era. Other than a short Christmas ficlet this is the end for our boys.

Thank you to everyone who tagged along with me for this long adventure.

Part 1

Abbadon reveals himself and the two most important people in his life. And we see a bit of the aftermath.

~

Abbadon: So before I take off the mask and let the whole world see who I am first I want to thank our manager, who the world had only known as Miss Celeste Baptiste. Robin Buckley. She is my rock and as Shane said, my platonic soulmate and twin. We might not be related but if feels like we were separated from birth.

A picture is shown of their fashion plate of a manager. Dark black bob, dark sunglasses, slinky feminine clothes. The woman that walks into frame is not that. She still has the slender frame and sharp features but she’s wearing boxy, masculine clothing. Her blond hair is a choppy bob that frames her pretty face and bright blue eyes. She grins as she sits on one of the arms of the chair and Abbadon puts one arm around her waist.

Robin Buckley: Hey guys! To all my friends and family: gotcha! As if someone as wonderful as me would ever be just some rockstar’s low level PA. Slubs!

I laugh. She winks at me and I can feel my cheeks flush.

KL: Were you their manager from the beginning?

RB: Yeah. Abbadon and I have always worked together since our first jobs. There was no doubt that I was going to be their manager.

KL: Tell us about those first couple of years.

She huffs her annoyance, not at the question but at the memory: It was pretty hard just getting into the doors of dive bars. Like really hard. I didn’t look like a manager and they didn’t look like a metal band. They looked like the dads of a metal band.

She kisses the top of Abbadon’s head.

RB: It was Abbadon who came up with the idea. At first it was just me. I’d dress up like some high powered manager maybe they would stop fielding my calls. And it worked to get them in the door, but the second they walked on stage, they’d get booed right back off again.

The band shifts uncomfortably in their seats at the memory. They all seem affected by the booing. Even Shane Kendrick who exudes sunny by nature.

RB: So I suggested they do the same. Dress up as metalheads and the metalheads will come. It was Abbadon that suggested the masks and hoods. All the members in the band have features that can’t be covered up by makeup to make them unrecognizable.

She starts counting off on her fingers.

RB: Spence’s crooked nose, Shane’s red hair and freckles. Simon’s high cheek bones and sharp jaw. And Abbadon’s hair.

I frown

KL: Is it red like Shane’s or something?

Robin and Abbadon laugh. And even Abbadon’s partner smiles widely.

Abbadon: I was famous for my hair in high school. It was even one of my nicknames. The Hair. So yeah. Hoods were the only thing that would cover it for sure all the time.

KL: Why not a wig?

Abbadon: I allergic to whatever they use for them. I’ve tried all kinds but I always end up with a rash and a bloody scalp.

I wince.

KL: That must be painful.

Abbadon: There’s something else the mask covers. I have distinctive moles on my face and while they can be covered with makeup, it’s still visible in certain lights.

RB: Like the stage lights in a stadium. You can tell there’s a bump there.

KL: So masks it was then?

Abbadon nods

Abbadon: But I never thought to cover the ones on my neck. I didn’t think that anyone would be paying attention to those.

Robin smacks his arm playfully.

RB: And we all saw how well that worked out for you.

Abbadon shrugs, clearly unrepentant.

Abbadon: I got a boyfriend out of the deal.

Then Eddie Munson, lead singer of Corroded Coffin walks into frame and sits on the other side of Abbadon on that arm of the chair.

Eddie Munson: That would be me! He waves cheerfully at the camera. I had a crush on Abbadon when we were in high school so I mapped every freckle, every mole, every line that I could see. A lot.

KL: Tell us about how you figured out they were one and the same.

He grins and Abbadon shakes his head fondly.

EM: I went to a concert of theirs with the friend everyone wants to see the reaction to this video filmed. I grilled the kid to figure out if he was in on the secret, too. But nope. He’s definitely caught on by now, though. He winked at the camera. Sweetheart, I have my own confession to make.

Abbadon looks up at him expectantly. Don’t ask me how I can tell with the mask still on. The best I can figure is that he looks like a puppy. Head tilt and all.

EM: Jeff’s known who you are for almost as long as I have.

Abbadon’s laugh is bright and clear.

Abbadon: I know, babe. He told me that first tour together. I thought you knew.

Eddie turns toward the camera slowly.

EM: Jeffrey Oliver Lawrence, I am going to murder you and no one will ever find your body.

Everyone laughs.

Eddie and Abbadon share a look and Abbadon takes a deep breath. He pulls off his mask, but his head is still down. He pushes back the hood and takes a deep shuddering breath. Both Robin and Eddie take one of his hands and gives it a squeeze. Abbadon raises his head. They give his hands another squeeze and exit frame, leaving Abbadon alone in the hot seat.

He’s a good looking man with an easy smile and yes, very distinctive moles. His hair is floppy and a warm honey brown.

Abbadon: Hey, Dustin. I know you’re about ready to murder me right now, and I can absolutely explain if you’ll let me. I’m really, really sorry I didn’t tell you. Hiding this from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. But I know you. There is no way you would have been able to keep this to yourself. You would have been too excited.

Your two best older guy friends frontmen of their own metal band? You would be vibrating out of your skin to tell people. And you wouldn’t mean to, but someone you thought you could trust would sell me out for a tidy check and whole lot of hurt. Not just me and the rest of The Fallen, but for you too.

I know it’ll be some small consolation, but the first album is about you and your friends. I hope you can forgive me.

Abbadon chokes back tears.

Abbadon: Right. Now that the apology is out of the way. My name is Steve Harrington and I’m 33. Like Shane said, same birthday, year and all. I wasn’t always a metalhead. I only started listening to it because of Corroded Coffin. They were from Hawkins and Dustin highly recommended them to me. So I started listening to them. They were so good that I kept going back to the music store–he rolls his eyes yeah, yeah. Lame I know. But the internet! he waves his hands I wanted a person’s recommendation not some algorithm. And I got really into it.

KL: How long had you been singing?

Abbadon (SH): Since I was a kid. I learned how to play piano, sing, and dance. My mother wanted to me to be a little gentleman. Hell I even had allocation lessons.

My eyebrows shoot up.

KL: Was your mom trying to live out some Jane Austen fantasy through you?

Abbadon (SH) laughs: Something like that.

KL: I’m a little furious about the names, if I’m honest.

Abbadon (SH) throws his head back and laughs. The rest of the band joins in.

Abbadon (SH): I would like to take credit for it because it is so fucking hilarious. But no, that was all Shane.

Astraeus (SK) grins.

Astraeus (SK): Hell yeah it was. Robin hated it at first but once people started using them it just kinda made sense. And the rest is as they say is history.

Abbadon (SH) gets up and moves out of the hot seat to sit with his band.

KL: It must be so strange to be calling each other by your real names.

Asmodeus (SO): Fuck no. We’re friends outside of the band.

Abbadon (SH): I know we don’t have the decade long history of playing together before making it big the way Corroded Coffin does, but we’re solid as friends. We were all invited to Spence’s daughters’ Christening. Shane couldn’t make it because he had another family thing crop on the same weekend, but we support each other.

I am taken back at how fierce Steve Harrington is about the love his bandmates. I can see around him his band relaxes when he takes charge, like a commander of a military unit. They all look up to him, even though Shane and Steve share the same birthday, it’s clear they love Steve like an older brother.

KL: So what’s next for The Fallen?

Azrael (SP): I know fans will be disappointed to hear but we are taking a two year break. We need time for our families to get use to the fact we lied to them for the last twelve years.

Asmodeus (SO): There maybe some heavy fallout that we have to deal with and we don’t want our attention divided like that.

Astraeus (SK): Our music would suffer for it and we don’t want to do that to our fans. We love you guys.

Abbadon (SH): Trust the process. Trust us. I know that seems like a lot to ask right now. But please respect our privacy at this time.

KL: Thank you so much for joining us today. The Fallen everybody!

There is a smattering of claps from the crew and Eddie Munson and Robin Buckley whistle and cheer.

Looking over at the four men that felt they had to hide themselves to be treated with respect in the genre they loved you can see the weight of the world has lifted from their shoulders and they are happy.

*

“Why does Eddie have to record this?” Dustin whined.

Eddie laughed. “You are the self-proclaimed biggest fan of The Fallen, I’m honestly more surprised that you didn’t want to record it yourself.”

Steve bumped his shoulder into Dustin’s. “And it’s not like we’re going to stream it. If you have a bad reaction, it won’t go up on TikTok. I promise.”

Dustin narrowed his eyes. “Pinkie swear?”

Eddie and Steve both held out their pinkies. Dustin used both of his hands to shake on it and then settled in to watch the video.

Steve shifted nervously in his seat as his three best friends in the world revealed themselves to be members of a famous metal band. As they dropped hints about Abbadon’s identity.

Dustin’s face went from excitement to confusion to anger and Steve braced for the explosion.

But it never came. Dustin, for all his bluster growing up, had changed. He waited until Steve’s reveal and his apology.

Dustin’s anger vanished like mist in the morning sun as he watched TV Steve fight back tears about having to keep this secret from him.

He slowly turned to Steve. “Which songs are about me?”

Steve barked out a laugh. “There’s only one about just you. The rest are about you and your friends. The one about you is ‘Brother’. The ones about you and your friends are ‘The Heart and the Flame, ‘My Lullaby’, and ‘Kiss the Girls, Kiss the Boys’, from the third album is about you guys, too.”

Dustin frowned for a moment. “That last one was directed at Mike and Will specifically, wasn’t it?”

Steve shrugged. “It was aimed at all of you. Kissing who you want to should never have to hurt. Boys or girls. And at the time it was also partially about me being bisexual, too.”

Dustin thought for a moment and then launched himself at Steve, throwing his arms around the boy that became his surrogate older brother.

“I forgive you!” he mumbled into Steve’s shoulder.

Steve sighed in relief. He gave Eddie the thumbs up and he stopped recording.

“I almost told you so many times, Dusty,” Steve murmured. “You have to believe that.”

Dustin nodded. “I’m a little hurt at the moment but I think once the shock wears off, I’ll agree with you. But I’ll be grumpy about it.”

Steve squeezed him tight. “As is your right.”

“I still can’t believe you and Robin told us that you were gofers for the record label!” he huffed.

Steve and Eddie laughed.

“As if we would have stayed if it sucked that bad, bud,” Steve said. “We’ve always moved on and up with every job we’ve ever taken.”

“I guess I didn’t really look hard into it,” Dustin admitted. “The rest of us had all gotten these amazing jobs.”

He began counting on his fingers, “Max is a software designer and motion capture stunt skateboarder for all the Tony Hawk games. Lucas recently retired from a decade long career in the NBA. Mike and Will are New York Times best selling children authors. Ellie is a fashion designer that has had her work featured at New York fashion week. Eddie’s a rockstar, Nancy and Jonathan are an epic journalist duo. Argyle has three food trucks and a Michelin star restaurant in LA. And I work for freaking NASA, man, with my wife.”

“I’m still upset you and Ellie didn’t work out,” Eddie groused.

“She got invited out to London at the same time I got the job at NASA,” Dustin said with a wry smile. “We knew then we wanted different things.”

He huffed out a sigh and rotated on the sofa so he was facing Steve. He twisted his fingers together and bit his lip. “When Azrael talked about how isolating it felt that no one in your lives figured out that you were in one of the biggest metal bands in the country, I scoffed.” He looked down at his hands.

“Because I was so sure if I had known anyone in The Fallen I would have guessed,” Dustin continued. “Only I did know someone and I would have never guessed. I was so willing to believe that you and Robin just didn’t have the ambition to chase your own dreams. And I’m sorry.”

Steve, Robin, and Eddie all hugged him.

“Now you’ve got hella bragging rights at work now,” Robin said with a smile. “You’re friends with Corroded Coffin and The Fallen.”

Dustin lit up and started talking a mile a minute, hands waving and grinning from ear to ear.

Steve pulled out his phone and read the messages he was getting from his best friends and bandmates. There had been a couple of rough moments, like Steve knew was going to come from his own parents and maybe even a couple of their group, but they would make it just fine.

The least surprising thing to come out of the reveal was that Chrissy and Robin were dating and had for a couple of months after their trip around the world, but waited until the reveal to come out to tell people.

The most surprising thing to come out of the reveal was that Simon had plucked up the courage from somewhere to ask Vickie out on a date. She said yes.

There were hints on the horizon of another relationship forming too. And judging from Shane’s texts, once Gareth got over the shock of Abbadon being Steve, the two of them were going to be a pretty sure bet.

Nadia was the only one who really took it in stride. But that woman was unflappable. She just calmly sat Spence down to discuss the sudden invasion of their private lives and how to handle all that. Spence had admitted in the group chat that he cried in relief when she took over.

It looked as though The Fallen was going to rise from the ashes of this experience just fine. Hell, they might even get a album or two out of the deal.

Because “The Rise of The Fallen” sounded like one hell of a song title and album name, too. Their future was going to be as bright as their past. He just had a feeling.

~

Yes, Robin flirted with Karla but only to make her blush. She is faithful to her Chrissy.

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @chameleonhair @eyehartart

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child @blondie1006

4- @yikes-a-bee @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten

5- @genderless-spoon @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt

6- @disrespectedgoatman @dawners @thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @garden-of-gay

7- @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot @papergrenade @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars

8- @ravenfrog @w1ll0wtr33 @child-of-cthulhu @kultiras @dreamercec

9- @machete-inventory-manager @useless-nb-bisexual @stripey82 @dotdot-wierdlife @kal-ology

10- @sadisticaltarts @urkadop @clockworkballerina

[fabcreature]

for no particular reason, here's how i like to think about some batman ships (superbat, batcat, brutalia, batjokes)

-

superbat: i don't personally ship them, but i definitely get the appeal, and i like to think they have a bond like no other. they're friends, and they're not in love, but they love each other, so so much. they understand each other in a way no one else does, lois doesn't understand clark the way bruce does, alfred and none of the robins understand bruce the way clark does. their comradery is unmatched. and tbh, they can have a little crush on each other, as a treat. not like hopelessly in love, just a casual little crush you get on your best friend sometimes.

-

batcat (plus some analysis about bruce vs batman identity stuff): they are a two-person love triangle. bruce wants selina, but selina doesn't want bruce. selina wants batman, but bruce can't let her have him.

in another life they might be together and happy, but not in this one. maybe if bruce's parents never died, he never became batman, he never had to create a false persona to hide his true self, they would have met under different circumstances, and they could've fallen in love and gotten together in a mundane, comfortable way. or maybe if selina loved brucie instead of batman, they could get together, with bruce continuing to keep batman and his true self hidden from selina, because he would do that if it meant he got to love her.

but alas, that's not how it is. bruce can't let himself be loved, not his true self, the one batman is closer to. he can't let himself be vulnerable like that, he considers himself unlovable, and besides, his mission is too important. in the end, he loves gotham and batman more than anything else. that's what he devotes himself to.

bruce wayne, in his heart, was a man who was supposed to settle down, get married, have kids, be happy. but he's not bruce wayne anymore, not really, he's batman. ever since his life turned in the direction that made him batman, the chance for that happy simple life was taken away from him. bruce wayne could have gotten married and been a family man. batman could never. bruce wayne died the same night his parents did.

-

brutalia: i'll be real i'm not super familiar with talia yet, but i want to learn more about her and i will. but for now, i have a very simple analysis of their relationship. former lovers, who used to be in love, aren't anymore, but kind of are. talia claims to still love bruce, but truth is she hasn't for a long time. meanwhile bruce claims to no longer love talia, but in truth he still does, even if he wishes he didn't. but he loves how they used to be, who she used to be, who he used to be when they were together, and he can't help but hold onto those memories and still love her. but he doesn't want her back. despite his foolish heart still yearning for her, he knows going back would only end in disaster.

-

batjokes: i am a batjokes stan first and foremost, sue me. they're obsessed with each other. they're soulmates that are destined to destroy each other. joker loves batman so much he hates him. bruce hates joker so much he loves him. they complete each other, and in doing so they also doom each other.

the joker is obsessed with batman to the point where he wants to hurt him, and wants to be hurt by him. it's the only form of release he can get for all that pent up tension, he needs batman, and the only way he knows how to have him is for them both to hurt each other. to the joker, their rivalry is a game, and he's having a blast. he wants to keep playing the game forever and ever, until eventually batman kills him. joker truly believes that's how it will end. there's no other way it could. one of these days he will have pushed batman enough, and he will kill him. and he will die with a smile on his face.

also important to note that it's batman specifically the joker wants. joker doesn't know who batman is outside of the uniform, and he doesn't care. because he knows whoever's behind that mask is irrelevant and fake. batman is the true man. joker knows this. whoever he is in his daily life is an act, and he lets his true self out at night when he runs along rooftops and beats up villains in his stupid cape and cowl. because he's crazy - joker is hellbent on proving this, proving the fact that batman is just as crazy as he is, making him face it, accept it, he's no better than the clown, no more sane. batman's near equal obsession with the joker proves it.

bruce is obsessed with the joker. he doesn't want to be, but he is. maybe because when the joker insists they're the same, he's hitting bruce where it hurts. maybe because he wants to prove the joker wrong, by being better than him. maybe because he wants to prove the joker right, by helping the joker be better. yes, bruce hates the joker's guts, trust me, he really does, he despises the clown. but for whatever reason, he finds himself caring. worrying. in the angry parts of his heart, he wants to destroy and kill the joker. but in other parts, he just wants him to get better. bruce hates their rivalry, their neverending game of cat and mouse. he desperately wants the game to end. and he doesn't want it to end because there's no one to fight anymore. he wants it to end because the fight is over. because the joker finally allowed himself to be helped, and he would be rehabilitated, he could live the rest of his life as a stable, happy man, leading a normal, unextraordinary life. a life bruce knows he'll never have. he spends his life fighting for other people's right to that life.

that will never happen though. the joker believes it's too late for him. he believes we are not in control of our lives. we are slaves to the cruel, uncaring, random chance of the universe. so he's insane, and so is the batman. and they will keep fighting, forever and ever and ever, until...

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Break it first

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 2

Prompt: Came back wrong

Rated: M

CW: Mind control/brainwashing; Possessive behavior; Referenced character death; Aftermath of trauma; Aftermath of injury; Kidnapping

Tags: Kas!Eddie Munson; Dark Eddie Munson

Notes: So, I already had a fill for this prompt, but then @house-of-the-moving-image showed me this stunning piece of art and my brain broke like Steve's. We both have a bunch of other fills coming up for this challenge, quite a few of them collabs, and I'm so, so stoked to share!!! ❤️

He still remembers how fragile Steve looked. 

They were in the boat house, Steve and Eddie. The others had gone out for supplies, but Steve had insisted on hanging back. Eddie hadn’t protested, even though the thought made his heart rabbit. 

The second they were alone, Steve let himself slide down the wall and curled into a ball on the floor, face hidden between hunched knees, shaking hands clawing at his own temples. 

“Hey, man!” Eddie jumped in alarm. “You okay?” 

Steve took a while to reply. 

“Fine,” he claimed, but his smile was a tense thing in a too-pale face. “Just headaches. Been getting them a lot. Robin thinks it's 'cause I got knocked around a few times too many." 

Eddie quirked an eyebrow, pulled a strand of hair in front of his face. "That … happen often in your line of business?" 

And Steve told him. 

About fighting monsters with nothing but a nail bat. About Billy Hargrove. About Russian torture chambers and the headaches and the nightmares and the ringing in his right ear that never really went away. He looked so young, so beautiful, so broken. Eddie wanted to scoop him up and put him back together and hold him close so that nothing would ever hurt him again. 

But he didn't. 

Instead, he watched. 

Watched how Steve squared his shoulders and put on a brave face for the kids. Watched as Steve threw himself to the front lines so that others wouldn’t have to. Watched as Steve got choked and torn apart, that golden skin painted in new scars, and told everyone not to worry, he was fine.

Eddie watched and Eddie didn't do a thing. 

Because Eddie was weak. 

Eddie was a coward.

It's a good thing he's dead. 

*

Steve is still the one to throw himself into danger first. That's good. It makes it easy to catch him alone. 

"You still have the scar on your neck …" 

A flick of his wrist and the bats scatter into the clouds. Steve curses, scrambles to his knees, gropes for his fallen weapon- and freezes as he cradles his face in both hands, tilting his head up. 

"... Eddie?" 

"Not quite," he hums, sharp claws carding through soft hair. "I have his body and his memories, that's all. The name's Kas. I've been dying to meet you, sweet thing." 

Those caramel eyes go wide. Steve tenses under his hands, tries to scramble away. That's okay, to be expected. He tightens his grip. Steve gasps as the vines on the ground wrap around his wrists and ankles. 

"What are you-?" 

"Sssh…" he brings their foreheads together, softly, slowly. Lets his mind wiggle inside the boy's, just a sliver at first, so he won't notice. Finds a crack, fine as a hairline, slips inside. Waits. "He was so in love with you, y'know that? It ate him alive, watching you sacrifice yourself over and over again. Seeing you suffer. Being unable to help, being unable to fix it." 

Steve's mind flutters like a frightened bird as he encases it with his, gently, carefully. His arms twitch in their restraints, trying to break free.

He smiles. Always the fighter, his sweet boy.

"Dont worry," he coos. “I’ve got it all figured out now sweetheart. I’ll fix everything, promise." 

"Eddie, wait-" Steve's mind flails. Realizes it's trapped, panicks, tries to break free- 

And he pounces. 

Steve struggles, briefly, but he doesn’t stand the ghost of a chance. He's human, and humans are weak. All it takes is a little pressure, and the tiny crack opens wide, welcoming him in. 

Steve screams.

"I know, sweet thing, I know," he coos, curls himself around the boy's spasming body as he digs in deeper. "It'll only hurt for a moment. You'll feel so much better after."

He sees them now, the scars on that beautiful mind, the traces left by years and years of hurt. Sees how to fix them, sees what Eddie could never have seen. What Eddie was too soft, too cowardly to understand.

Sometimes, to fix something, you need to break it first. 

And he does.

Tears at the cracks of that mind until it comes apart at the seams, shatters the fragments into so many tiny shards, grinds what is left into fine, fine dust. Steve screams and sobs and begs him to stop until his voice breaks. By the time the dust is ready to be molded back into shape, he is silent, bar for the occasional whimper.

He tells the vines to release their hold, cradles the limp body against his chest. He hums softly and kisses the tears from under the boy's unblinking eyes while he completes his work. He takes his time. This needs to be perfect. 

"You with me, darling?" 

Steve hums against the crook of his neck, so softly he nearly misses it. 

When he looks down, those pretty eyes are blinking up at him, wide and wondrous like those of a newborn. 

He chuckles. It's true in a way. 

"Feeling all better?" he asks, claws softly tracing the shell of his boy's right ear. "Ringing should be gone?" 

Steve doesn’t reply, just slips his eyes shut and nuzzles closer, every movement slow and sluggish. 

He coos.

"Aw, sweetheart. You must be exhausted, that was a lot to take." He gently scratches at Steve's scalp, revels in the little sigh it gets him. "Don't worry. From now on, nothing's gonna hurt you ever again. I'll make sure of it." 

Steve stirs a little at the soft press of lips against his forehead. His lids flutter, but they don’t open.

"That's it, honey, you rest. Let's take you home now." 

By the time he has adjusted Steve's weight so that he can stand and start walking, his boy is fast asleep. 

All of my holiday drabbles

[kurishiri]

15.5 . . . “ the memory engraved in my body ”

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— 🍷 his side story, chapter 15. this is the one you need to reach alfons bond level 22+ with in order to purchase.

— cw: alcohol consumption.

Alfons: And to see you deceived just like that——I see you don’t really hold that thing called ‘love’ for me.

Kate: ...!!

I chose words that would purposely hurt.

Just like that, her eyes wavered, teary.

Kate: I... I really, truly—!

Alfons: Loved me? ...Or what, did you mean to say love?

I asked, a mocking tone in my voice, and her palms, which had pushed against my chest, gripped tightly at my shirt, causing it to wrinkle.

It would be nice were she to throw away these feelings she had toward me on her own volition, but——

(Reality just isn’t so nice, after all.)

Kate: Just why... would you do such a thing...?

K: Why do you have to reject me so much... just over me saying ‘I love you’?

Tears fell from her cheeks as she spoke from above.

They were very much like stars falling from the night — so pure, and so beautiful.

(——So much so, it’s like the moment I touched her, I would end up getting burned.)

Kate: Not once did I say we had to be official.

K: All I wanted was to like you, and be by your side… and yet…

Alfons: …Because I find it a nuisance.

A: The fact you had fallen for me, and the fact you like me even now... all of it.

I used those sharp words to deeply pierce through her heart.

Such words seemed like such a sin toward her straightforward feelings,

and, compared to her words, which so resembled pure stars, mine were akin to shattered glass sinking down the gutters of a back alley.

Alfons: All this was meant to be was an entertainment that lasts but a month, and then letting it end the same way.

Kate left the room, and when I descended the crumbling staircase,

The friend with a wound on his eye was standing at the entrance to the hidden, dilapidated room.

Man with a wound over his eye: To think you suddenly came in with a memo saying ‘Stay at the pub until I call you. If you come then, your drink’s on me’——

Man with a wound over his eye: I was wondering what in the world was going on.

Alfons: Hehe... thank you for your cooperation on that matter.

Man with a wound over his eye: If getting perfumed and greeting a lady when she woke up was all it took for some free booze, anyone would do it.

Man with a wound over his eye: So it was to get that ‘little robin’ to give up on you?

Man with a wound over his eye: You always up and run away, fading right out, so if she could make you go to this length, well what a lady she must be.

Alfons: Indeed, you can tell me that again.

I could dodge her at every turn, push her away, but she would still put her energy into her love without so much as getting discouraged,

so left with no other choice I threw away what little of a good heart I had left to break her to pieces.

(Unable to deceive herself into thinking this wasn’t love, but instead all a misunderstanding...)

(What a poor, darling little miss robin.)

Man with a wound over his eye: If you wanted me to make love to her for real, though, I would be fine with that too.

Alfons: Now that won’t do. I’ll have you know despite all appearances, I happen to be a gentleman who despises hurting women.

Man with a wound over his eye: ...I doubt that.

Alfons: Do you now?

Man with a wound over his eye: How would I know. Well, I’ll leave the payment to you.

My friend didn’t bother to seek the truth, instead leaving the conversation like that and disappeared into the night city while laughing.

——This pub was open 24 hours, so it was lively regardless of time.

Exchanging greetings with several acquaintances and taking a seat, the bar master lifted his brow, as though exasperated.

Bar master: And here I thought you wouldn’t come back til the morning. You’re back early, aren’t you?

Alfons: I so dearly missed seeing your face, you see.

Bar master: I’m anything but happy being missed by an arsehole. Pay up for that friend of yours.

Alfons: Goodness, so cold.

While making small talk, from the back of my mind, I remembered her, who had been sitting next to me just a few hours before.

—— Flashback ——

Kate: Alfons...

K: ...I won’t put the blame on you or anything else anymore...

K: So please, make love to me.

—— End flashback ——

—— Flashback ——

Kate: Just how bloody cruel can you get...!!

K: I don’t understand, why would you lie to me like this!? Help me understand...

—— End flashback ——

She did not say, ‘Why did you do such a cruel thing’——but rather, ‘Why did you say such a lie?’

From the start, she had seen through my lie that another man had made love to her.

(...Just where did I slip up?)

(I stayed silent... could it be body temperature? Or the shape of my body? The movements? Or smell?)

At the very least——even if she couldn’t see with her eyes, she was able to confirm that it was indeed me.

All that to say, there was no doubt that the memory of me had been engraved in her body.

Bar master: That’s a pretty long face.

Alfons: That it is, could I ask for your consolations?

Bar master: Of course, this is a shop to share such things. For a price, that is. What’ll it be?

Alfons: Quite stingy now, aren’t we... well then, I’ll have a sherry perhaps. Any type is fine.

Bar master: A sherry? Not every day you get that.

Alfons: ...Is that so?

Indeed, I felt that I normally didn’t drink sherry.

That said, I sought out the intoxication from the liquor, so I wasn’t so caught up on the type it was.

Yet the name had slipped so easily out of my mouth, I tilted my head as I took the glass filled with a dark mahogany color liquor.

The moment I took in that mellow, sweet scent though, I remembered.

(Ahh... this was the liquor that she had drunk this afternoon, isn’t it.)

—— Flashback ——

Kate: I... don’t like it... when others touch you...

K: ...Whatever, I know I’m... just like a kid t’you...

—— End flashback ——

(...Considering she was downing this sweet sherry, I would say her taste is like that of a kid’s.)

When my lips met with her, who was still blindfolded, her tongue did indeed have the sweet taste of the sherry.

But, for a reason beyond me, I felt that the kiss I shared with her was far sweeter than the liquor I was drinking now.

Alfons: ...Master, could you see if the carriage at the back of the shop is still there?

Bar master: What? Don’t go ordering the bar master around like that.

Alfons: I’ll get your mooost expensive liquor. In a bottle.

Bar master: ...How many?

Alfons: How does ten sound?

The bar master clicked his tongue and flipped a middle finger at me before leaving the back to the alleyway and coming back the next moment and shaking his head.

Bar master: It’s not here anymore.

Alfons: Is that so, then that’s a relief.

Bar master: Is it the lady who drank with you that went on the carriage?

Alfons: You’re quite in the know, aren’t you?

Bar master: Sending her back alone in the wee hours of evening, some sexyman you are.

Alfons: That’s just how it is.

Bar master: ...If you care about her enough to prepare a carriage, the least you could do is send her off.

Alfons: ‘Care,’ huh... I suppose.

A: I didn’t want to put her in any physical danger,

A: but I did need to instill so much shock in her that she would want to forget it all... so it was all a necessary measure.

Bar master: Not so sure what you’re getting at there, but what I do get is that you’re one hell of a shitty bastard.

Alfons: Ahha! I would expect nothing less from you, master, knowing me to the tee.

It took time for memories to fade.

That went for the memory of me engraved in her body... and the memory of her in mine.

But time seemed to have a knack for passing like it was melting away, unexpectedly so.

If she was going to go back to her uneventful, warm everyday life from long ago, then even more so.

Alfons: ...It would be great if you could find a man who can heal the wounds of a lost love and become happy.

Before I knew it, the glass in my hand was empty.

The sweet flavor of the sherry lingered on my tongue, staying there without fading away for eternity.

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masterlist🪞 ╱ ko-fi ☕️ ╱ comms 🤍

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ tags🏷️ ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ @drachonia @.comment, send an ask off anon, or dm to be added or removed!

[fire-lizard-ro]

Smol snippet because the angst hit me all of a sudden.

CW: mentions of death, mental fucking breakdown djxkd-, grief, angst, Sunday is sad :’’’’)), 2.0-2.1 spoilers.

(Disclaimer with a 2.2 trailer/livestream spoiler: I’m aware that she isn’t actually dead, but this is made in mind with Sunday who doesn’t know that.)

No mentioned gender for reader.

Writing under the cut (SFW):

“My baby, my baby. You’re my baby say it to me.”

Cradled in your arms he cannot even cry. He feels empty and lost. Sunday… what use is the name Sunday if there is no Robin to call after him? He failed her. Her, the one who shone so brightly in his life.

He can remember every birthday, every scrape, every “good morning” and “good night”. He can remember every “I love you”. Thinking about these memories, holding that light cone with a moment in time held so dear trapped within it’s frame- It fills the emptiness with something.

Sunday tightens his grip on you, fingers twisting in the back of your shirt as a silent sob wracks his body.

Anguish.

That is the name of the emotion that colors his empty insides with dark and dreary hues of blues and blacks; his heart with the color of life as it bleeds in her absence.

You pet the back of his head, holding him back just as tightly as he finally allows himself to fall apart in only the company of solitude and you. The seraph finally allows his wings to rest. The figurehead finally takes off the perfect mask.

“Why did it have to be her?” He can’t understand how this happened. How could his lovely, perfect sister be gone?

“I don’t know. I’m sorry, Sunday,” is all you can say. But that much is enough. He lets his tears wet your shoulder as he hides away from the reality of her death and the world. He’s grateful you’re here at least. In the back of his mind that’s fracturing and breaking to pieces, he wonders what he’d do if he didn’t even have you to hold him together. Would he fall apart? Lose himself entirely?

A dash of gratitude and love colors his bleakness in a splash of warm pinks and oranges- Like the sunset he watched with you in the dreamscape not too long ago.

She was everything before he met you. Being the older brother, she was like his first child. He can remember looking at her tiny, chubby face when she was still too young to talk, and thinking- “This is my baby sister.” He was supposed to take care of her- protect her.

Thinking of how someone killed her in cold blood and made those starlight eyes close forever… Deep reds formed.

Anger.

He would force the criminal into the light and bring about retribution for their evil.

“Will you help me?”

He asked, eyes almost manic and wings spread; looking almost like an angry, vengeful fallen angel in that moment.

You took his hand and he smiled, leaning down to kiss the hand that accepted his.

“Thank you, my love.”

I wanted to include how every older sibling’s first child is their baby sibling, lololol. And just. I can’t imagine how much grief he had to have been going through. OTL

I might edit this or add to it later this was just a blurb I wrote in like five minutes-

[queenvitch]

Wish I Were His Dream

+

When the reader is hopelessly in love with Vinsmoke Sanji, while he falls in love with Nami.

+

This was written at like 3am so it might sound pretty stupid, but this fic is based on Connan Grays Heather and I took a lil inspiration from Saeran in Mystic Messenger!~

Enjoy~

I will become the world's greatest journalist who writes honestly about the events between the government and pirates. That's that. There's nothing else to it. That is the goal I hold close to my heart since it is the only goal that matter for me. What other dream could I chase after if not that?

Since I joined the Strawhats, I have not wished to do anything except chase after my dream and help my friends on their journey to reach their dreams. I often offer helping out with the smallest things if it means their happiness is rewarded; helping Robin water her flowers, testing out Usopp's new gadgets, fixing up Luffy’s torn clothes… I always wish for their happiness since I have grown quite attached to them- I never intend to have my dreams clash with theirs. If it ever did...why would I travel alongside them? Would I not be a nuisance who makes their progress backtrack? Yes, I would be a bother to them. However, since I do not have any dreams that clash with the Strawhats, I will continue traveling the seas with them. Hopefully our family- that has been brought together despite the odds of us getting along- stick together. That has become one of my other dreams that reside in my heart despite our short history together.

Looking over the pages of my journal, I re-read what I had written in the past up until today. Laughing at myself silently I lifted the cup of black coffee that sat near my journal and took a slow sip, all while staring at the man in front silently whisking away at something that will most definitely become a marvelous delicacy for us rowdy pirates to have the pleasure of eating later on today.

His back faced me, with his broad shoulders casting a shadow from the light emitting through the window in front of him. His soft blonde locks swayed every time a breeze entered the small kitchen. The striped blue button up that he wore would stretch and pull with the slightest movement of his arms, which exhibited the strong lean muscles he had underneath his clothes. The place I sat at made him seem like an angel. To be fair, he honestly is not far from being a real one. The man who was now at the fridge- searching for some unknown ingredient to me- had started humming a soft tune to himself. I listened earnestly attempting to puzzle together what song had managed to get stuck in his head. Identifying the song to be the one played the night before by Brook- our crew's most favorite song yet- I closed my eyes and let a very small smile form as I enjoyed listening to the man's small performance.

Memories about a certain moment when I had discovered one more dream of mine flowed through my head; The moment when I discovered how dear our crew's chef is.

The moment I discovered that the chef was such a sweet person that I wished to keep him happy above my own happiness. The moment when I discovered that I wished to keep him beside me and I at his side at all times. That moment when I discovered I love the chef.

I love Sanji.

The thought of loving Sanji full heartedly made my chest flutter and my cheeks burn.

I remember that moment so clearly. It was when I had collapsed from exhaustion in the bath room one day. He had been searching for me all over the ship, he had a sundae prepared for all the crew but preferred to deliver the desserts to the ladies out of courtesy. I was undressed with a towel and ready to bathe to replenish my strength, but my body gave out when I turned on the faucet. I had fallen face first onto the tile floor. When I awoke, I was informed of my overworked body giving out and how I was found by Chopper.

He told me Sanji carried me down from the bath to his office. I found myself wearing an oversized sweater instead of clothes, although it was embarrassing that the perverted chef saw me in such a state it was also really respectful of him to cover me up with his own clothes. Even if such decency was expected out of everyone, it made me realize that the man was not such a crook and actually took it upon himself to behave in such a way with no one having to supervise him.

After that collapse in the bath room, I had a fever for a week. Sanji stayed by my side when he was not preparing food. He served me the most nutritious soups, changed my towel out often, checked on my temperature, and called Chopper over with paranoia that I had not improved. He had no reason to do any of this, but he did. He may have done it out of sympathy since he had seen me in the nude, however I began seeing him in a different light since then.

Opening my eyes, I looked at the chef once more then turned back to my journal and coffee. I flipped to a page where I had analyzed him when I had been exposed to him behaving differently. I realized my feelings for the man not long after writing this excerpt. I now question my foolishness to look into him more.

Although I once knew Sanji to be simply a loyal comrade, I have recently pondered the complexity of his character and see him entirely anew.

Sanji is a passionate and sympathetic man. He believes that everyone should have the decency to finish their meal out of respect for those who do not receive a meal. He takes initiative to help those who are in need of a hand no matter if it is a starving crook of a pirate or a lonesome head searching for his body. He dreams of a magical place named the All Blue, and becomes giddy whenever he revisits in his heart his cherished goal.

But his most prominent trait is the fact that he is known to be a womanizer. A ladies man. A flirt. A pervert.

I believe that his perverted personality stemmed from his admiration of women, from seeing women to be superior and worshipped for everything. Maybe he cherished the abilities of women to bring and sustain a new life...maybe he cherished the soft kindness that most women carry with them...maybe he cherished the strong women who ignored sex stereotypes...I believe that whatever he admired- or better yet- everything he admired on women led for him to simply love everything about them. He gushes over a female's body, mind, and soul.

When I look at him as a whole, I see a chivalrous kind-hearted man.

Oh, what a fool I was.

I looked at the man who had been moving around the kitchen. I accidentally sang a part of the song as I saw him practically dancing in the middle of the kitchen. He paused, and turned over to me.

“Oh…” I sat up straight upon realizing I interrupted his moment to himself. “Sorry…” I offered an apologetic grin up at him as I sank into my seat about to return to my journal and coffee.

“(name)-chan...” His face turned red slowly then he started wiggle dancing while spouting our compliments on how cute and shy I am.

“You know you can sing for me if you would like, (name)-chan?” Hearts formed in his eyes as he thought of the possibility of me singing for him. I laughed and declined his offer.

“I’m sorry... I didn’t realize I was caught up in your humming. You can get back to it, I just want to review my journal right now…” He stopped gushing over me and gave me a confused expression.

“Why are you sorry?” cheekily grinning at him, I tilt my head to the side without answering him.

I downed the rest of my coffee and washed and placed it away. I walked back to the journal sitting on the table, with Sanji continuously staring at my movements. Ignoring him until he stopped, I flipped through my pages in an attempt to distract myself from the blonde’s stares. When he returned to cooking, I felt many glances shot in my direction.

The door to the kitchen was swung open all of a sudden. In walked the red haired Nami, with a newspaper in one hand and a pen in another. She had barely entered the proximity, but Sanji had automatically offered to serve her a cup of hot coffee and get her a snack if she wished. Accepting the offer, she sat across from me and immediately started reading today's news.

Looking down at my journal scribbled with thoughts of Sanji and sketches of him from the backside, I dejectedly smiled. He didn’t offer me anything when I walked in earlier. I made and served my own cup of coffee. I looked up at the navigator sitting across from me and admired her beauty. I glanced at the chef who stared at her longingly. Smiling to myself in mockery, I stood up and left the room.

Finding myself in the aquarium alone. I followed the fishes dancing in the water. They made me ponder what Sanji’s All Blue would be like.

His dream… Surely he must have another desire like I do. What if his dream is to be with Nami?

My dreams conclude of being the best journalist the world has seen, keeping my family happy, and for Sanji to be by my side and I to his.

This is why my younger self was so foolish.

My dreams clash with one of my crew's dreams now…

I told myself that if that ever happened, I should leave to not burden the Strawhats… But I really don’t want to… Am I selfish for wanting to stay by his side despite him not wanting me?

I really do adore her… She’s such a perfect girl that I would not question anyone falling for her.

Nami is lucky.

She is beautiful, strong, smart, kind, and overall attractive to all. She has many emotional scars and deals with them so admirably...She somehow can become stronger from everything that puts her down. I look up to her. I wish I could be just like her.

I confess that she beats me in everything… I’m not as pretty. Or smart. Or strong. Or kind… But I still envy her…

After continuously hiding myself behind laughter and smiles to the crew for months on end, Sanji began speaking with me more often.

Of course I relished in his attention whenever he would offer it to me, but his thoughts and conversations with me always returned to the same topic. Nami, our navigator.

Everytime he would mention another woman in my presence, my heart painfully throbs. Why can't I just get over it…?

I should be happy for them both.

Yes, I cherish them both but when I am around either one of them my head spins like crazy from the stress of having to put up a front of a happy crewmate. I continuously will ignore this sensation though. I don’t want to ruin their chances with each other… I don’t want to lose either one of them…

I have noticed Sanji flirting and swooning over other females less and less every day. His feelings for her are growing so tremendously that his playboy behavior has dwindled into simply a chivalrous behavior- a respectable behavior that remains loyal to a certain person.

Since he comes to me for emotional support in pursuing Nami, I can feel that one day he will ask her straight up to be with him… I know him… He will definitely make it a romantic and extravagant event. I expect for many flower petals, a fancy dinner, a clean suit, and maybe a gold ring or necklace as a gift. He is simply such a romantic… Of course he will make it a big ordeal. That’s just who he is. I love him so much… I wish that instead of her, it was me who he is pursuing…

I was in the Library reading when Sanji came in for me. I closed the book and gave him my full attention. He looked serious, and I wondered if it was about his love ordeal.

“I need help…” He gulped and stepped closer to me. “(name)-chan, please, help me with your womanly opinions! I plan to ask her to be mine, but I want to make it perfect!”

Staring at him with my mouth slightly agape, I looked down and responded in a quiet voice. “Any ideas?” I then gave him a gummy smile with my eyes closed. He mirrored my expression and sat down next to me.

Turns out my guess earlier was correct. He wanted to have me help choose the gift and flowers to go with his Italian themed dinner.

He is so cliche.

The romantic gestures are so guessable.

But I am not complaining. What position am I in to even complain? I’m desperate for the slightest amount of attention from him.

Tomorrow night. That is when Sanji will attempt to woo Nami.

While we were out shopping today, we chose a golden heart lock necklace with N+S engraved in the heart. It was really pretty, and we found a painter who was able to draw them together according to their wanted posters. It turned out nicely…

The flowers chosen were red rose petals to be strewn about and center pieces of Peonies. I picked up a bouquet of blue roses for myself, but Sanji was quick to include it with his order.

It's almost laughable how terribly friend-zoned I am. Sanji, the one I cannot have, bought me blue roses as a gift of thanks for helping with his love interest pursuit…

Sanji ran to me in my bedroom in his ice suit. He looked amazingly handsome. His white vest sat on top of a white button up, the colors contrast with his red tie making it the main appeal to the outfit. His long legs covered in white strode to me so quickly that I had no other choice but to snap out of my trance.

“Where is your coat?” I stood up to meet him halfway across my room.

“The button popped off…(name)-chan, can you please fix it? The dinner starts in fifteen minutes!” He held the coat that was hidden behind his back out to me. I noticed the red rose that was supposed to sit on his pectoral was in his other hand. I reached out to grab the rose out of his hand and place it in the water among my blue roses.

The sight of the roses made me squint in heart break.

Unlike me, Nami is being gifted red roses and peonies…

“Let me grab some thread and needle.” Leaving him standing near my desk while I searched for the items needed, I ignored the numbing pain in my chest.

“Thank you (name)-chan!!” I smiled gently at him.

Nami has a kinder smile than me...

“Of course, Sanji. Anything for you!” Tears almost slipped out of my eyes when I took his coat with eye contact. I started fixing his button as quickly and neatly that I could.

I bet Nami could do it better than me…

Once I finished, I put the coat on him and fixed his attire up. I fixed his hair and grabbed the rose from my bouquet.

Sanji quietly watched me as I got him ready to send him off.

She would most definitely send him off with more attentiveness...

I can’t even look him in the eye right now…

Just as I was about to place the rose on his chest, Sanji placed his hand in the area it was meant to go in. Looking up at him, I ask why he did that. He shot me a closed eye smile and spoke in such a natural caring tone.

“I just feel like your bouquet could use a red rose among the blue, (name)-chan!’ I blinked at him in confusion and despair.

Sensing my confusion and assuming my sadness was due to him not wanting the rose he explained himself further.

“I have more roses, so don't worry.” He took the rose out of my hand and kissed it.

With my eyebrows furrowing together, making myself seem concerned instead of sorrowful, I spoke in a voice that shook with each word.

Everything he tells me is a stab to my heart.

“Don’t you think that the bouquet should be blue, only? Or red only? Having them both makes the situation complex…” I looked back my the flowers sitting on my bedside.

“I think the beauty of a bouquet comes from having variable colors mixed together.” Once again, the grin he shot me made me want to cry.

“Don’t you think maybe Nami should receive all of the red roses? I mean, you did get them for her.”

“(Name)-chan, it’s just one rose. You have helped me so much, I could never repay you fully…” He lifted my chin to make me look at him rather than the flowers we spoke about.

The rose he kissed… He places it directly in front of my mouth allowing for the soft petals to tickle my lips.

After I took the red rose out of his hand, he gave me a chaste kiss to the forehead. He then stepped back.

“Thank you! For everything, (name)-chan! The dinner time is soon so must be on my way. Good night, (name)-chan!” He stepped out of my room and I could hear his foot steps disappearing as I stood frozen in my room.

Sliding to the floor I held the red rose in my hand so tenderly as I finally cried out the frustrating feeling of being rejected for so long.

Why?

Why did he have to kiss me?

Why would you give me this red rose?

Crawling to my bedside, I carefully placed the red rose amongst the blue roses. I curled into a ball on my bed, staring at the roses and wishing for the red one to never wither away.

Nami…

He belongs to Nami…

Nami belongs to him…

…

I wish I were Nami.

:')

Gosh, that hurt my heart...

~ Miss Queen

[pinkcrocss]

Is A-Train "redeemable"?

I have been thinking about this discourse that people have been having, following A-train's actions so far in season 4. And I know we've watched A-train teeter on the edge of good and bad for the last 4 seasons (generally falling to bad more than good). But i think the revelations about Frenchie's character kinda add an interesting spin to this question.

We need to consider how much our personal bias towards the characters we have grown to know (their motivations, their trauma's, their back stories), is impacting moral judgments we pass on other characters across the board.

Atp, every member of the boys has crossed "the line" in terms of black and white morality, but we give them a pass because we are convinced that they are all truly good at heart, and that their cause is just.

However, when you actually break down the actions of said characters, it kind of paints a different picture.

What has A-train done, that we feel he has to atone for? (this is just going off my terrible memory, so forgive me if I miss some things)

He killed Hughie's girlfriend (through negligence)

He killed popclaw (at the behest of homelander)

He's generally pretty arrogant and doesn't care about the horrible actions of his comrades, until it affects him

He killed bluehawk (most people agree that was justified)

Since season 2, Frenchie's past as a hit-man was hinted at (with little Nina explicitly stating that he had also killed children in season 3). It's clear Frenchie never had a particular moral code when he was a hit-man (no women/children type limits). He was simply a hired gun.

We sympathize with Frenchie because we know he had a difficult upbringing with his abusive father, as well as his loyalty to his friends (Cherie and Jay), the boys and especially Kimiko. Him serving as a comic relief often, also adds to this empathy bridge.

But season 4 has actually shown us a glimpse of just how many lives Frenchie has taken in cold blood. A whole room full. Why are we rooting for Frenchie's peace of mind, while debating if A-train is redeemable?

Frenchie has killed more people than Atrain (supe or not) and as far as I know, A-train has never killed a child.

Would it be easier to understand the gravity of Frenchie's crimes if Ryan or MM's daughter was one of his victims? Because his victims are all nameless, we act like his crimes hold less weight.

And then he goes on to start a sexual relationship with one of his victims, while hiding the knowledge that he was perpetrator of his greatest trauma. I think maybe we overlook the sadistic nature of that act because we interpret Frenchie as a "lover at heart", a true romantic that was swayed by his feelings and couldn't help that he had fallen for someone he had wronged. Bruh. When Colin eventually calls Frenchie a psychopath, he's not wrong.

And what about starlight? Her hands aren't clean. Remember the civilian she killed in Season 2? How is that any different from the situation with A-train and Robin? Yeah, it was an accident. In other words, negligence on her part. She needed to save Hughie; but why does Hughie's life matter more than that man. Her and Butcher were trying to carjack him and he had offered to call for help. He had a right to try to defend himself, and that bullet wouldn't have hurt her. That man was a father.

By the logic of why the boys are doing what they do, why we justify their murders of supes who have harmed them and their loved ones; if the child of that man grows up and hunts starlight down, would we need to root for that child to kill her?

Not so different from the shining light girl that keeps trying to kill Kimiko. From what was revealed of their backstory, Kimiko was the one who lured the girl into shining light. That's actually a common tactic of human traffickers, to use their victims (usually women and children) to lure in more victims cuz they seem less threatening. And obviously we can't fully blame Kimiko. She was trapped, brainwashed, and a child trying to protect her younger brother.

However, that girl also has every right to hate her. From her view, her life was forever taken because Kimiko chose not spare her (kinda similar to Gamora and Nebula). When Hughie said to A-train, "everything started with you!" we side with Hughie and we agree. So everytime Kimiko faces against that girl, why are we rooting for Kimiko? Wouldn't kimiko be A-train in that instance?

At this point, the only member of the boys who is still maintaining some Moral code is MM, and it's no coincidence that the show has made him seem pretty useless so far this season.

Btw, this post isn't a defense of A-train nor is it truly an indictment of any of the characters I used as examples. It's just an inconsistency I've noticed with the general fan discourse of who's "good" and who's "bad" on this show. Who is worthy of "forgiveness". Who's "redeemable". Redeemable to whom tho?

P.s. I'm not here to argue. Don't come for me cuz I critiqued your fave. I'm just thinking out loud. Feel free to respond/disagree, but if you're rude I'll just block you.