#Miles general head canons

[cursezoroark]

afterthoughts

[rainy-day-gracie]

- wedding night (1) -

A Venus & Mars mini series

pairing: general marcus acacius x virgin!wife!reader

content warning(s); dual pov, arranged marriage, implied age gap but nothing specific, period typical misogyny (Ancient Rome), mentions of violence/warfare, mention (1) of sexual violence (not against reader), mentions of pregnancy, attempted bedding ceremony, reader has hair that can be pinned back, steamy kisses, crazy amounts of sexual tension, discussions of consent because consent is sexy mandatory, virgin!reader, SOFTTTTT marcus acacius, romantic and intimate as hell, grievous historical inaccuracy because it's fucking fanfiction, canon divergent because duh

a/n: this has been living in my head for weeks now, along with every new photo we get of general marcus acacius because of course. this can be read as a prequel to bloodlust, or read entirely on its own. the reader insert is written as the same character in each fic.

this will be part 1 of the wedding night, and part 2 will include smut :)

---

You considered bolting as the sun rose on the morning of your wedding day. Stealing one of the nobleman's horses, putting as many miles as you could between yourself and the General's country house.

But, from what you've heard about the General, there would not be a corner of the earth that he would not find you in.

Your palms were clammy with sweat as the handmaidens pinned your hair back into a style of a bride. You wondered how they couldn't possibly hear the quick, panicky beating of your heart as each moment brought you closer to what you considered a life sentence.

General Marcus Acacius is venerated like a god in Rome, and anywhere else. Men boast about his wartime accomplishments as if they were their own, and ladies whisper about his scarred face like they would a demon within the walls.

So many rumors swirling around the Emperor's most esteemed general.

His hands were permanently stained red with blood, he burns the heads of his enemies in sacrifice to the gods, he kills men with icy calculation, takes women with fiery passion.

You could only imagine what kind of monster was waiting for you at the altar.

---

Marcus was in no good spirits on the day of his wedding, the marriage forced on him almost as much as it was forced on his...

Gods above, his bride.

The idea of having a bride was almost as foreign as you yourself were, since never once had Marcus even considered marrying anyone. With all the bloodshed and near-death experiences, he never exactly considered himself a man that was meant to be a husband. Or a father, for that matter.

Marcus tried not to shudder at the end of the aisle as the chorus began singing, sounding all to close to a death march.

At the sound of the choir, you entered into the wedding hall, for all gods and men to see.

His bride.

The world seemed to be brighter, the flowers bloomed more beautiful, and Marcus' vision turned clearer as you stepped into his sight.

For a moment, he forgot all about the blood of men on his hands. The shame that burdened him was cast off. Maybe he wasn't completely condemned to the Underworld.

The very possibility of you being his bringing him more relief than any wine or fine lady. The possibility of you being in his life was... redeeming. Redefining. Remaking.

One look, and he made a vow, but not to you. To himself.

If any harm were to come to you, he would unleash the fury of the gods upon them. He would protect you to the end of his days. Honor you, and serve you, however you may wish.

---

Fear coated your every nerve as you beheld your soon-to-be husband.

Nothing could have prepared you for just how mighty General Acacius was. Tan, broad, and mighty, dressed in fine white robes similar to yours. His bare hands were strong, made for swinging axes, throwing punches, and taking what he wanted. At the altar, he seemed to be near brooding, speaking his vows quietly, his voice like a roll of thunder.

You managed to keep your voice steady while you spoke your vows, but there was nothing you could do to keep your hands from shaking as the priest brought out the rings.

The general reached for your hand, and you were unable to keep from trembling.

His touch was warm on your skin, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he slid the gold wedding band onto your finger. You found the nerve to meet his brown eyes, finding something utterly unreadable as he held your gaze. Could it be... fondness?

Gods, he was beautiful.

His touch steadied you, though you still exchanged rings with a thundering heart.

"In the sight of Gods and men, you are now Husband and Wife. You may kiss your bride, General."

The priest's words echoed in your head.

Husband and Wife.

The general leaned forward, an unspoken question in his warm eyes.

Swallowing, you gave a near imperceptible nod.

For such a harsh man, such a dominating man, his kiss was utterly... soft. Tender. Almost coaxing.

After a moment, he pulled away first, and you could've sworn he lingered, cherishing the air between you... before turned to the cheering wedding party.

In an instant, he changed, switching from the gentle kiss of a lover to a commanding force, a man that drinks in praise like fine wine.

A mighty man, indeed.

---

Marcus tried his best to not feel too wounded that his new wife was completely terrified of him.

He felt the thundering pulse in your hand as he slid that ring on, and he wondered if you saw the wedding band as a chain, a set of shackles. It's all too true for other women in Rome.

You barely spoke to him during the wedding feast, only giving small nods and forced smiles in between sips of wine. He had a good feeling you were resisting the urge to swallow it down in one gulp.

Marcus couldn’t help but study you— at first innocently, taking in the curve of your lips, the shine of your eyes, the polite smile you gave when someone offered congratulations.

Damn his dirty mind. As the night went on, and the celebrations continued beyond what he would’ve liked, he tried, and failed, not to eye your body as a means of distraction from the rowdy feast.

It started with your neck. He traced the slope of it with his eyes, marking every freckle and curve. He prayed to all the gods that you would want him to leave his marks on you.

Downward, he peeked slightly at your breasts whilst cursing himself. Of course, they appeared perfect beneath your wedding stola, and he wondered what manner of sounds you would make when he took them into his hands, into his mouth.

And then… Gods, those hips—

“Time for the bedding ceremony!” Emperor Geta jeered, pulling you from your seat with a firm jerk of your elbow. His eyes were greedy, scheming. “Let us see what is underneath that—“

Your face flushed with either embarrassment or fear or both. And that was all Marcus needed to see.

“There will be no bedding ceremony.”

Marcus lowered his voice to a deep warning, the kind that has sent men running for their lives.

Geta scoffed, still holding to your elbow. “It’s a wedding, Acacius, it’s your wedding. Don’t you want to show off the prize of your latest conquest? Distribute the winnings? Strip down that—“

Marcus stood, towering several inches over Geta’s slimy face. “I said… there will be no bedding ceremony.”

Geta kept his hands on you, and Marcus’s vision tinged with red hot fury.

His voice was a rumble, a threat in itself. “It’s my wedding, is it not? And I say there will be no bedding ceremony.”

People were watching now, the feast gone silent at this standoff.

Marcus knew how to pick his battles, cut his losses. But when staring down Geta, the most powerful man in the empire, he realized that for you, he would pick every single one if it meant he kept you safe.

The moments that passed were crackling, the tension between the two men sucking all the air from the celebratory hall.

Geta saw something in Marcus’s unyielding gaze, something that told him he would not win this fight, and decided the bedding ceremony wasn’t worth the scrutiny.

As the Emperor walked away, Marcus took your hand, and led you to your marriage bed.

—

You couldn’t find the words.

The general nearly trembled in rage on the walk to the bedchambers, but still, he maintained that odd gentleness, holding your hand as if it were the most delicate thing in the world.

Servants opened the grand doors as you entered, showing a large room with a massive four poster bed and elegant tapestries lining the walls—

Then the doors shut. And you were left alone with the legendary, bloodletting general.

And you still couldn’t find the damn words.

You knew what came next. The husband will take what is now his.

In this case, you expected your husband to take you in the same way he took lands for the empire— violently, mercilessly, with the intention of forging new legacy, through a son of Rome.

“Before you ask, my General, I wish to assure you that I am untouched,” you blurted, quoting what your mother taught you to say before you were to be… intimate. “I am pure, though I can only hope to be worthy—“

“Darling wife,” the general said quietly, so different from the commanding force from the feast. He held your hands in his, leaning down and kissing your knuckles in reverence.

You went silent, shocked at the soft fondness in his tone.

He peered at you with curiosity, and almost amusement. “The only thing I wish from you is for you to call me by my name, not title. No general, no lord, but my name. I hear it so little nowadays that I will look forward to hearing it from your lips.”

“As you wish… Marcus,” you breathed, eyes locked on his.

Marcus let out a little sigh, like he was relieved. “It’s much prettier when you say it.”

You drop your head in bashfulness, more confused by the moment. The way he spoke so kindly, so fondly.

“You know what is meant to happen tonight?” Marcus asked, almost hesitantly. You nod, undeniable fear curling in your stomach. “I need you to understand something, my darling, so listen very carefully.”

He pulled you toward the bed, sitting you both down on the silken sheets. His eyes on yours were discerning, and intent, like he was searching for something within your stare.

“I will never, ever, force myself upon you. Not in this life, or the next, or the next. I know what you might’ve heard about me, and much of it is true, but never would I take a woman without her permission. You belong to yourself, and if you never should like me in your bed, I will honor that to the end of my days."

You blinked at him in confusion. "So, you do not... you do not want me?"

Marcus exhaled sharply, looking down at your intwined hands. "That... that does not matter."

"Why not? A husband has the right to take what is his--"

"No man has any right to take a woman's body for himself, husband or not. What... what do you think is to happen tonight?"

Heat rises to your face, embarrassed at the question. By the look on his face, he was embarrassed, too.

"I don't... I don't know how it works, but some of the other wives at court say that the consummation of marriage is one of the more... painful duties of a wife. What you are meant to do to me... it's painful," you murmured, and quickly begin stammering. "B-but is it a great honor to serve you, my--"

"May I kiss you, darling?"

Some candles had been left burning, illuminating him in a warm glow. Marcus's eyes were soft, a rich, chocolate brown in the light of your bedroom, and something about them made your core flutter like one of the candles.

"Yes... yes, please."

Marcus smiled softly, and moved his hands to the sides of your neck. They were scarred, and calloused... and so warm.

His lips met yours almost hesitantly, like he was holding himself back. They were tender, tasting of sweet wine. Fingers curled lightly into your pinned hair, pulling you closer as his chest pressed against yours.

You moved your mouth with his, suddenly feeling the need for... more. You didn't know what, but you just knew you needed it.

His tongue slipped against yours, and the groan that left his throat left your pussy throbbing.

"Marcus--" you gasped, losing your breath as his lips traveled down to your neck. You could've sworn he moaned in response, sucking at your pulse point, leaving it a delicious shade of red--

"Do you want me to keep going?" He gruffed, trailing light kisses along your throat.

Oh, gods, how you wanted him to. "Yes, but..."

Marcus withdrew instantly at your seemed hesitation, pulling his mouth away but keeping his hands in your hair.

"I'm fearful," you admitted, holding his tunic to keep your hands from shaking with both desire and nerves. "Not of you, but... the rest of it."

Marcus nodded, swallowing. "We could continue kissing, if you like."

You laughed lightly, the nerves mellowing for a moment. "I'm not sure I'm prepared to have you in that way, but I know that I want to. I know that I... I want you."

Marcus's soft eyes shone with fondness, but had a wicked edge to them, like he was plotting something.

"I know I want you as well, darling. I promise, I will make sure you are prepared to have me... perhaps even over-prepared."

Your brows furrowed with confusion. "What do you mean?"

The general smiled. "I'll show you what I mean."

Part 2 here!

[raptorific]

I have this really weird pet peeve in comics fandom, which you can't really Talk About without it being mistaken for opposition to those headcanons in the the way certain Spider-Man fans were so opposed to a black Peter Parker that the writers invented Miles Morales about it, with the way Diverse Headcanons form, become popular, and occasionally even become mistaken for canon.

A lot of the time these headcanons are built on a combination of ethnic stereotypes and an outright refusal to engage with existing characters who actually have those identities in a way that generates the money that gets those characters further official content

The core example is the common headcanons about Robins prior to Damian-- the most popular headcanons about them are that Jason is Latino and Tim is Asian. And, like, I'm not necessarily opposed to them being Robins Of Color, and I'm not even necessarily opposed to those headcanons, but their popularity largely comes from unexamined biases and ethnic stereotypes about Latino and Asian men. The aggressive, hot-headed, violent Robin who came from a poor neighborhood must be Latino, and the well-off, nerdy teacher's pet Robin who's known for being good at computers must be Asian. I've seen Bat-fans balk at the suggestion of headcanoning Tim as Latino, or headcanoning Jason (or god forbid Dick) as Asian, often saying the quiet part loud: "it just doesn't fit their personality." They cast a black actor as Tim on Titans and I actually saw people who bill themselves as progressives complaining about it, because it ignores the popular Asian Tim headcanon

And the thing is, there actually are a fair number of fun Latino and Asian characters in DC canon! They're nowhere near as prominent, but, when you ask these same fans to maybe pay some attention to them, they make excuses and hem and haw and stick to making comic panel edits "correcting" the skin tones and facial features of their favorite canon white dudes to align with their headcanons. But if you ask them to make fanart or talk for even a second Jaime Reyes or Renee Montoya or Cass Cain, it's like herding cats

[oh-theseus]

bloody stones

pairing: astarion x gn!reader, astarion x gn!tav summary: you nearly die and astarion still can't bring himself to be honest with you. word count: 4,018 a/n: first time trying to write for astarion (or just bg3 in general) & i'm not sure it came out how i wanted it to, BUT i hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless <333 i kind of wrote this to be like a background for a future thing i think... but no promises bc i am anything if not inconsistent 😭

warnings: descriptions of blood & injury, canon typical violence, mentions of past abuse. lmk if i should add more!

You were fairly certain you had never been as close to death as you currently were. Even while trapped inside of the nautiloid ship, you had felt like you would make it out. Granted, that might have been because you thought Lae’zel was going to kill you if you died, but still. Even then, on a ship that was actively crashing from hundreds of miles in the sky, you’d thought you’d make it out.

That hope is nowhere to be found as Z’rell drives her ax into your lower leg. You have been injured in battle dozens of times but this is the first time your injury has ever made you fall to your knees within three seconds of receiving it. There is next to no pain at first, but then she pulls her ax from your leg, and it feels like… well, like your leg was just split open.

Blood gushes down your leg, and you can’t stand up again, but by the grace of one of the gods, you manage to block her next attack. Her ax meets the blade of your sword with a loud clang that you can hear over the sounds of other blades clashing and spells being conjured. Anger blazes in Z’rell’s eyes and she surges her weapon further with as much strength as she can muster. You met her with the same effort, but you’re losing so much blood so fast. You’re not nearly as strong as she is.

A noise that is somewhere between a cry and a grunt falls from your lips. But you are certain this is it. You’ll die here. In Moonrise Towers with a parasite wiggling within your skull. You’ll die in a blighted land and your friends will go on without you. If they survive, that is. You can feel your arms wobbling, about to give out. Her ax will come down on your neck and you’ll sit here choking on your own blood until you die. Maybe she’ll dig the Illithid parasite out of your skull and consume it just as your Dream Guardian had urged you to do so many times before. You doubt Z’rell would have qualms about it though - if fact, she might just keep you alive while she digs around in your skull. She seems like the type.

But then there’s an arrow embedded in Z’rell’s neck. And now she’s the one choking on her blood, her weapon faltering. You don’t have time to be grateful, not when she’s determined to make a killing blow and take you out with her. It takes all of your effort to roll out of the way, her ax bouncing off of the bloody stone floor where your head had just been seconds previous. Your head is spinning from the movement, and your leg feels like dead weight, but you manage to draw your dagger and shove it deep into the disciples stomach.

Z’rell falls to her knees. Then forward, onto her face. Dead. 

Hands are underneath your arms, dragging you away from the rest of the battle before you even have time to process that you aren’t dead. You have half a mind to kick and struggle, but when you try to push the hands off of your body you stop your fighting. You know these hands.

“Astarion,” you choke out, tilting your head upwards to see him above you, carefully dragging you behind a turned over table. You can feel a trail of blood being left by your leg; for a moment you wonder if Astarion had smelled your blood before he saw it.

“Don’t talk,” Astarion scolds, propping your back against the table. Blood is splattered on his face and armor, his bow slung across his body. Your eyes shift to his quiver where only three arrows remain. If you weren’t so busy trying not to pass out from blood loss, you might have told him you were right when you’d told him this morning he needed more arrows. But you can hardly convince yourself to breathe, let alone make a joke.

Astarion’s face is twisted into an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen him wear before. There is determination there as he examines your wound, cursing beneath his breath. There’s concern too. But something else dances in his crimson eyes that makes you tilt your head to the side curiously. 

Fear.

Astarion is scared. 

“How bad?” you force out, leaning your head back against the overturned table. Your eyes lock on the ceiling of Moonrise. This had been a temple once. Briefly, as you fight to keep your eyes open, you decide that it might’ve even been beautiful.

“Not terrible,” Astarion lies. You know it’s a lie, and he knows you know that, too. You might’ve looked at him, tried to assure him you would be okay if you believed it. But you’re not quite sure that you do, so you keep your eyes on the ceiling, listening to the sounds of battle slowing down behind you.

Astarion stops talking after that. Your silence and sudden interest in the ceiling is enough to make Astarion certain his heart will start beating again just so it can race in fear. But his hands are quick in grabbing a healing potion from your belt and helping you get it down. They’re faster still as he shuffles through his discarded back for cloth to press to your wound. 

Blood quickly soaks the white cloth and Astarion’s hands, but the vampire doesn’t mind. He can’t be bothered to think about how potent your blood smells, how easy it would be to just take some for himself. He is certain that if you’d been bleeding out in front of him like this when you first met that he would’ve taken every last drop of blood that he could get. But right now… Astarion wasn’t sure he had ever wanted to puke at the sight of blood more.

Astarion isn’t sure he’s ever felt a panic quite like this before. Perhaps when he’d woken up in a coffin six feet underground. Maybe when he’d realized he was a slave to an evil vampire lord. But other than that? No, Astarion had never felt fear like this. Fear that clutches him by the throat, makes his hands start to tremble. Fear that won’t let him focus on the battle coming to end. Not even to see if his companions - his friends - had survived. All he knows is you, your blood coating his hands, and terror coursing through his entire being.

He’s so consumed by his fear that he doesn’t notice you’ve finally passed out. Nor does he hear Shadowheart approach until she’s shoving Astarion away from you, her hands immediately coming to rest above the gash in your leg. She starts to mutter the words of a healing spell and even Astarion can tell that she’s completely spent, that she’s using her last bit of magic and strength to coax your skin back together.

“Wake them up,” Shadowheart hisses, her eyes still locked on your leg. “Wake them up now, Astarion!”

The near crack in Shadowheart’s voice stirs Astarion from his fear driven stupor. His hands are on your face immediately, your name falling from his lips once, twice. His fingers find the pulsepoint at your neck, and Astarion doesn’t dare to move until he feels it. It’s faint, but it is there.

But your eyes are still closed, and no matter how hard Astarion tries, you will not wake up. You’re still breathing, but it’s hard and labored, and Astarion is certain that if he looks away from you for even a moment you will be gone for good. He didn’t know much, but Astarion did know that a world without you was not one he was willing to return to.

By the grace of… something, Shadowheart manages to mend the skin of your leg. She’s exhausted and can hardly stand by the time she’s finished, but she does it. You’re still out cold, and Astarion is not sure whether to start crying or to find something else to kill to distract himself.

“It’s the blood loss,” Wyll assures him quickly, hauling Shadowheart up from the ground with her arm over his shoulders. “They’ll live. But we need to move them. Now.”

The Blade of Frontiers does not waste another moment, leading Shadowheart across the main floor of Moonrise Towers, down into the basement. Astarion doesn’t hesitate to do the same with you, his blood coated hands holding you so, so carefully.

When you wake up, you’re pretty sure you’re dead. You didn’t know what you expected the afterlife to hold, but it certainly was not a stone floor and the smell of mildew. For a second you think that maybe you could be somewhere else (somewhere where you are not dead) but you can’t think very clearly right now. All you can feel is a distant throbbing in your head and a bone deep cold. Your leg… You could feel your leg. That was good, considering the last thing you could recall before passing out was taking Z’rell’s ax to your shin.

And Astarion. You remembered his familiar grip, pulling you to safety. You remembered his crimson eyes, the fear you’d seen in them. But that was it. You didn’t remember passing out or how light you had felt while blood seeped from your leg. For a moment, it troubles you that you can’t remember. But if this was truly your eternal resting place… maybe it was a good thing you couldn’t remember. You’re not sure that it's really something you’d enjoy dwelling on for the rest of eternity.

You’re not sure how long you lay there. You don’t move your body, and your eyes keep falling closed every once in a while. You feel lightheaded, yet impossibly heavy at the same time. All you can bring yourself to do is stare at the ceiling. Maybe there is a god here, because you’re gifted the memory of doing the very same thing before passing out the first time. And this ceiling looks remarkably similar to the one in Moonrise Towers.

That voice, too. The one you can hear in the distance - almost as if they are shouting for you from the other room. The voice is so similar to…

“Astarion?” You breathe out, your eyes finally shifting away from the ceiling. They fall instead to the person beside you. At first, they’re just a jumble of white curls and red eyes. But then your vision clears and so does your hearing. Astarion’s repeating your name, asking if you can hear him. All you can do is nod. At least you know you’re alive, though. Or at least, you’re pretty sure. Your brain is still foggy. The lingering effects of blood loss? Or perhaps one too many healing potions?

You somehow manage to force yourself into a sitting position. Astarion’s right hand splays against your lower back carefully, his left one hovering in front of your body to catch you if you fold in on yourself. When you straighten your back, the room spins so fast you’re certain that Gale’s cast a spell to make it do that. Your hands grip Astarion’s left arm to keep from falling over.

“Easy, easy,” Astarion says softly. You’re not certain of many things right now, but you are certain that you have never heard Astarion use that tone before. One so gentle, so soft. Even when he’d told you of Cazador and the scar that tainted his back. 

“I’m okay,” you reply after a moment. Your hands still grip his arm but neither of you seem to mind it. “I’m okay, promise.” The sentiment is just as much for yourself as it is for Astarion.

Astarion only hums in reply. His eyes are flickering over your face. Like he’s taking you in for the first time - or perhaps even the last. His hand on your back is a welcome weight and the feeling of his forearm under your fingertips keeps you grounded. This is real. You are here.

You are alive.

“Holy shit,” you curse. Your eyes widen and your breathing slowly begins to pick up. You’d been so close to dying, to bleeding out in a cursed land so far from home. You’d never thought you’d be one to care so much about something like this, but the fear that you could’ve died is gripping you by the throat, pinning you beneath its clutches. 

Astarion notices this. Of course he notices. He notices everything about you. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. How you shift your weight from foot to foot when unsure about something. How your hands flex when you’re growing frustrated. So of course he notices your breathing picking up, your grip on his arms becoming just slightly tighter.

“You’re okay, you’re okay. You need to breathe, love.” He says your name softly then, still in that foreign tone of his. The hand at your back comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “Breathe,” his voice is firmer now, one you’re used to from him. Maybe it’s that tone of his that compels you to listen. Maybe it’s his hand cradling your face like you might slip away as soon as he lets you go. Or maybe it’s the fact that his eyes are still swimming with that fear you’d seen before you lost consciousness.

It takes a few moments, but you manage to even out your breathing. Those invisible claws at your neck retract, fading into the shadows of the room. The basement of Moonrise Towers, you realize. That was why the ceiling looked similar to the one upstairs. 

Everything returns to you then. The battle, Ketheric, the ax, the amount of blood you’d lost. Astarion’s arrow in Z’rell’s neck.

“You killed her,” you say, as if Astarion had not killed dozens of other enemies during your travels. “Nice aim.”

Astarion visibly deflates as soon as the joke leaves your lips. Your lips quirk into the smallest of smiles despite yourself. But then Astarion retracts his hand from your face, and that small smile falls away slowly. Astarion pretends not to notice it. You pretend like you don’t either; your attention shifts to your right leg, studying the skin exposed by the large tear in your pants. You make a mental note to find new pants.

Your hand trembles slightly as you remove it from Astarion’s arm and bring it down on your leg. Gingerly, you pull the ruined fabric back more and take in where the wound should have been. Instead, your skin looks near perfect. There is a thin scar from where Shadowheart’s healing had knitted the skin together but that is the only indication that your flesh had been torn apart that very same day.

“For a woman who worshiped the Lady of Loss, Shadowheart was rather good at keeping me - us from losing you.”

Your eyes shift to Astarion’s at his slip. You try to not let your face fall when he pulls his arm from beneath your other hand. He leans back in the chair that matches the table you’re laid out on top of, crossing his arms and screwing his face into that expression you’ve grown to recognize as a mask. A flash of hurt floods through you. Selfishly, you wonder how much more you will need to do to prove yourself before Astarion finally, finally trusts you.

“Shadowheart is a good healer,” you say instead of what you want to say. You want to comment on him being scared. You want to point out that he had literally saved your life. You want to tell him that that is not something you just do for someone you’re looking at with sheer indifference. “I think you’re the only one who doubts her.” Your own tone has changed. Despite the hurt in your heart, your tone is sharp.

“I do not doubt her, my dear. I don’t trust her. There is a difference,” Astarion replies with a wave of his hand. You don’t like this game. You hate this game. Why must he insist on playing it?

“Do you trust anyone, Astarion?”

If you were anyone else, Astarion would’ve had a quick retort. Or if you’d said it with anger in your voice. But you’re you and the question comes out with far less frustration than you had wanted it to. Instead, you sound sad. Hurt. And somehow, seeing you look like this is almost as bad as watching you bleed out. He predicts your next words before you say them, but he still winces at them all the same.

“Do you trust me?”

Your question hangs in the air between the two of you. Maybe it’s the lack of blood in your system that makes you say it. You never would have dared to ask something so vulnerable just a few feet from the rest of your companions normally. Maybe it’s the fact that you had almost died. Almost died with so many unsaid words swimming through your mind. Maybe that’s why you say it. Or maybe you’re just tired of not knowing what Astarion is truly thinking and feeling.

“You know I care for you,” Astarion replies after a moment. And you do know - how could you not when you’d seen his fear at the prospect of losing you with your own two eyes. How could you not know that he cared for you when he was so gentle every time he took your blood? How could you not know that he cared for you when he had sat beside you on sleepless nights? 

But that was not what your question was. 

“That’s not what I asked.” You intend to sound firm still. You fail, though, and you sound every bit as hurt and frustrated as you feel. “Why not?” Why didn���t he trust you? Or better, why did he not trust you enough? He trusted you enough to tell you about Cazador and what his former master had done to him. But he didn’t trust you enough to be honest about his emotions - especially his emotions towards you. Why? Why?

You watch as Astarion shifts in his seat. At first, you think he’s going to get up and walk away from you. Instead, he shifts forward, and his left hand finds yours. Your eyes fall to where your skin meets, they watch as Astarion holds your hand on top of his gently. His own attention is drawn to it, watching carefully as his other hand fidgets with your fingers.

“I thought you were going to die.”

His confession is soft, heartfelt. You might even be able to convince yourself he sounds like he might cry. But when he looks up to meet your eyes again, his crimson eyes are clear of tears. But there is pain there. Pain and torment and that fear. 

“I thought you were going to die and I would… And I would have to live with -” He gestures to himself with his hand that had been fidgeting with your fingers. “This.”

Your eyebrows knit together at his words, but you say nothing. You had long since learned that when Astarion was on the verge of opening up, it was best to let him get the words out on his own. Pressuring him had never gotten you anywhere. Well, except for right now. Every other time it had been entirely fruitless. 

“You have shown a kindness to me that I am unfamiliar with. With Cazador… His version of kindness was letting me eat instead of starving. But it always had a price. Always,” he can’t look at you anymore, instead looking intently at your hand in his. “Your kindness - I am learning - comes freely.”

“You are waiting for the other boot to drop,” You say, understanding what he is trying to tell you without directly saying it. When he nods, you swallow thickly. Words seem to fail you as you search desperately for the right thing to say. But there are no words that feel good enough.

Astarion also seems to be at a loss for words. Carefully, you place your hand not holding his under his chin and tilt his face upwards, so that your eyes meet once more. Your hand slides to cup his cheek, and your heart swells when you feel him press into your touch gently. 

“I am not him.”

Astarion’s eyes close at your words. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything except sit there for a long moment. So long that you think he isn’t going to reply. But then he turns his head, and he kisses the palm of your hand. Then where your hand meets your wrist. Then the inside of your wrist. As he places the third kiss to your skin, you let your hand fall away and watch as he picks it up with his free hand.

He doesn’t say it, but you know he understands. He knows you are not Cazador. And you don’t say it, but he knows you understand. You know he is trying. And neither of you say it, but both of you see those three words swimming in each other’s eyes. But you both know they’re there.

“Thank you,” you say after a long minute. “For not letting me die. Not that I expected you to, but…”

But you knew he wouldn’t have saved you a few weeks ago. 

“I mean it. Thank you.”

The fear in Astarion’s eyes finally melts away and that smirk of his falls onto his lips. But this was not his mask - no, this was his real joy. His real happiness at your not being dead and at being able to let a joke slip past his lips knowing you didn’t expect anything because of it.

“I can think of a few ways you could show that gratitude,” he says suggestively. A smile of your own spreads across your face, despite the color that floods it, too. Weakly, you shove his hands off of yours and roll your eyes at him. “You are welcome. I’ll save you a thousand times over if it means I get to see your smile once more.”

“Oh, don’t get soft on me now,” You say through your grin. But you’d like nothing more. A soft Astarion meant a healed one, a safe one. If that meant you were subjected to a few sappy lines here and there, you wouldn’t mind it.

“Hard to be soft with you around.”

“Astarion,” You hiss, realizing the joke you’ve walked yourself right into. For a second you debate getting off of the table and smacking him over the head, but when you shift your leg just slightly, that dizziness returns and has you gripping the edge of the table. 

Astarion is on his feet within a moment, noticing the change in you as soon as it happens. His hand has returned to your back, steadying you as the room starts to spin again. With your head a little clearer now, you recognize the feeling as similar to what you feel when Astarion drinks from you. With how strongly you’re feeling it… you don’t want to think about how much blood you must have lost.

“Rest. Please,” Astarion says in that soft voice again. And truly, who are you to deny him when he’s being so gentle? You let him coax you onto the table, onto the soft pile of fabrics you hadn’t realized had been under your head until just now. You want to stay conscious, to talk to Astarion more, but as soon as you’ve settled back down, you realize just how tired you are.

When you stir hours later, you’re tucked into your bedroll within your tent. And Astarion is sitting not far from you, reading. You don’t say anything as sleep overtakes you again, but you’re pretty certain you could get used to waking up to the sight of Astarion.

And Astarion’s pretty certain he wouldn’t mind it either.

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[loganlermanstanaccount]

petition for reader to give miguel the most soul sucking, mind numbing, toe curling, canon breaking, head ever please

yeah was thinking about this one for a while so here it is anon >:)

Gentle Femdom + Orgasm Control with Miguel O'Hara

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: bf!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel has a long day. You help him relax :)

warnings: gentle femdom, orgasm control, m receiving oral, slight anal play, grinding, general filth. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: made this femdom because... because uhhh...

wc: 2.3k

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

"Baby, I can't-"

"Please, Miguel." You clamber on top of him, and he places tentative hands at your waist. 

The pendulum motion of your hips captures him as you rock back and forth on his crotch. 

"A quick one, okay?" 

His eyes are low as you watch him struggle with himself - clearly conflicted. You feel him squeeze your hip. 

"...M'tired, cariño." He presses his forehead to yours, and you card the hair at the nape of his neck. Ever so slightly, he arches, shifting in his seat to press tighter against you. 

"Let me take care of you, then." You nose at his cheek, featherlight kisses as you pull his hair a little more, juust so, until… 

"Mmh, fuck. Okay, okay-" You giggle as he rolls his eyes, a little embarrassed. 

You pull him into a kiss, the messy kind: the kind that has you both gasping, and desperate. When you separate, he's got his eyes closed in bliss, lips slightly parted to chase what's left of you. He catches at your chin, planting wet kisses that he'll turn to hickies, if you're not careful. So you pull away, gently; slipping off his lap to kneel in front of him. You place your hands on his thighs and he stretches out above, giving you a peek of tan skin under his shirt. 

Looking up at him like this, Miguel is so, so pretty. You rest your head on one thigh, running your hand up the other. Imperceptibly, he shivers.

Recently, you've noticed something. He's always taken the lead in bed, often initiating, leading you to your climax and always providing gentle aftercare in its wake. And you're more than happy to oblige, riding the crest of that wave; however it comes. Miguel is a giver: selfless and dutiful. It's the little moments of intimacy you think he likes the best and you drink it all in: the way his eyes flutter and legs shake when you give him well-deserved praise, or tell him how much you love him. Miguel is a giver, and you've decided: it's time you give a little back. 

"Tell me about your day, baby." 

"Uhh, it was g-good," You run across his thigh with your nails, now, and he keens. 

"Mmhmm." You keep your pace steady, watching how he reacts just from your touch. 

"I mean, it was actually kind of shitty." He blinks, with a faraway look in his eyes. 

"Oh? Was it that portal malfunction you told me about yesterday?" 

"That was….yeah, I had to deal with it this morning, and-" You press against his length with the heel of your palm, and he's already half hard. He clears his throat. "And i-it feels like I've been putting out fires all day."

Without breaking eye contact. you nod, unzipping his trousers and taking his cock out of his boxers. He's filling up nicely, hardening cock heavy in your palm. 

"Like Peter B, today - he's just been off his game. I sent him and Miles to deal with an anomaly, 'cus –mmffuck–“

One stroke, then two, his hips buck up; and you coo. 

"Like that, baby?" 

He nods, head slightly back as you keep the pace. You stop, squeezing at the base of his cock. 

"No, I want to hear it." 

He gulps, and can barely breathe with the way you look at him. What's gotten into you? This is…. It feels different. 

"...wanna hear you say it for me."

His cock jumps at your tone, dulcet and sweet. "J-Just like that. Feels… feels good."

His smile is lopsided, blissful, and you give him a little kiss at the tip of his shaft as a reward. 

"You didn't finish, cariño." 

"Okay," He takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair to steady himself. "I think he took Mayday, which I've told him not to about a thousand times. I tell him, you can't take your kid to fight multidimensional villains, and every time he nods and smiles, and does it anyway. Why do I even…?"

He mutters to himself, and you take the opportunity to capture him in your mouth. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, pretty and weeping precum. The muttering stops, for a bit, as he hisses at your warmth. 

His hands come to rest on your cheek, cradling your jaw. And his eyes, God, they melt as you swirl your tongue over his tip. You stop, separating from his cock with a string of saliva, waiting. 

He's groaning, trying to compose himself as he slowly starts to understand. When you asked him to talk about his day, you mean it; and you want him to work for that orgasm. 

"Fuck, I…. I can't do everything around HQ." It's said shakily, under his breath. Humming in affirmation, you give him a few lazy pumps, eyes low. He sighs, leaning into it. You make his head spin, frankly. 

You take him deeper, widening your jaw to fit him in as far as you can and he throws his head back, a hand running through thick locs. You dig your nails into his thighs and he's seeing stars; hips canting into your warmth and oh fuck, is that the back of your throat? 

He brings a hand to the back of your neck; not pushing, but applying the slightest bit of pressure. He's close, you can tell – reading that shake of legs and heavy breathing like words on a page. 

You bring yourself off of him with a pop, eyes bleary with the memory of him at the back of your throat. 

And he's whining, hand clamped around his balls whilst his hips drive upwards; narrowly missing your plump lips. 

"¿Qué carajo?" You swear you see tears in his eyes as he fights off an orgasm. "Why'd you stop?" 

You giggle, pressing a little kiss to his tip; teasing. 

"No hands, Miggy."

He's shaking his head, confused. 

"You'll come when I tell you to, okay?" You bolster your point with a quick stroke of his shaft. Precum pours from his tip, in response. "That means no hands, and you'll keep your hips still." 

It's bold: asserting the new dynamic like this. What you expect is for him to tug at your hair and pull you onto his cock, regardless – and you'd welcome it, if he did. But instead, your boyfriend gives you a desperate nod, wringing his hands and placing them flat on the couch besides him. He's obedient, you note. 

As a reward, you sink a little lower; suckling at his balls whilst keeping eye contact. 

"S'feel good?" 

He nods, but it's only when you raise your eyebrow he takes the hint. "Y-Yes. Feels good, baby."

You hum, pleased with his response: Miguel slotting his hands to his sides, like a good boy. 

"We'll try that again, okay?" You pump his cock, marveling at the precum that pours out. 

And so he tries, bless his heart, stopping and starting through a scattered recount of his day. You're watching carefully, reveling in the way he melts like this. It's not often Miguel gives you this chance, often too concerned with getting you off to let you slobber all over his cock: your hand dwarfed by his pretty length, steadying yourself as you take him in as deep as you can. 

"...a-and the flux condenser needed replacing s–so–ffuck–I–" 

His hips buck up, and he groans; head tipped back on the sofa and apologies spilling out before you can even react. 

"I'm sorry, baby. P-Please, please don't–fuuck" He's resorted to pleading when you separate and sit back on your knees. 

You're licking traces of him off your lips, and he groans, snaking a shaky hand through his hair. There might even be tears in his eyes, and with the way he sounds, it light you on fire. 

You get closer, lashes fluttering as he keens. His tip pours precum, and his length pulses; breathing heavily as you mouth at his balls. You're feeling greedy, wanting to see more; to watch his pretty lips curve in that O shape you've gotten drunk on. 

He obliges, hands clawing at the couch cushions and you slather over his balls. You run your tongue over the skin; warm, wet, the flat of muscle chases its push and pull. You can't help it now, hand trailing down to your pussy, and you grind down on the heel of your palm. Sharp scarlet eyes trace down, along the gentle curve of your skin and down to where your hand meets your pussy. 

He's begging, little expletives mixed in with pleading, and you let it go to your head. You slip your fingers along your slit, pads of your fingertips brushing against that little bud, and you can feel him: Miguel tensing against your lips. He's close. 

"Can you cum for me, Mig?"

With a tremendous groan, your lips seal around his tip, and he's forced down as far as his cock will go. Miguel cums, hard, spilling as you gag around him, nose brushing neatly trimmed hairs at the base of cock. 

It's a lot of cum, salty and thick, and you drink it all up with glee. Watching, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, you lick it up from his tip, and pop off of his length. Heaving, Miguel tenses as you run your nails down his thighs, stroking lovingly. 

"Fuck." He hisses, shaking as he pulls you up onto his lap. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, smiling like a dope. 

"Was that good?" You ask innocently, 

"Good? Of course it was–" He's still out of breath. You watch him writhe, placing big hands at your hips that slowly travel to your ass. 

You cut him off with a kiss: sweltering heat, and he's licking up your moans. Underneath, he stirs, hardening as you're dragged across his length by rough palms. 

"Ah-shit–Mig!" He slips a hand down the back of your panties, two fingers playing at your hole. As expected, you're soaked. "Thought you said you wanted a quick one?" 

He rolls his eyes, pressing light kisses to your jaw, and to your neck. 

"I was tired, baby." He shifts, and seats his fingers comfortably inside your cunt. His other hand shifts your hips, and you're led into a gentle roll of hips. His eyes are blown, two fingers scissoring your pretty hole and thumb tapping at your asshole. You recognise this as the kind of hunger that only surfaces when he wants something: deep, desperate yearning you can never get enough of. You lean forward, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other at your ass like a slut, spreading yourself wider so he can go deeper.

“J-Just like… oh fuck—just like that.” He sits further back, and you can’t help but fuck yourself on his fingers. It doesn’t last long, feeling his cock quickly harden underneath. Fuck. You want him seated deep, bullying his fat tip inside.

“Miguel.” You’re whining into his ear, gently easing his fingers out. “What do you want, cariño?”

You want to hear him say it; to put a name to the pleasure he so dearly deserves.

“You.” He breathes. “You. Always you.”

He nips at your neck, big palm splayed onto the back of your head, pushing you down onto his lap. When you discard thin shorts, and slip off lacy panties, you make quick work of his pretty dick, already hard and aching. He likes this bit, he thinks, leaning back to look at the way your legs shake around his length – too impatient to take it slowly.

And God, that stretch has your eyes rolling to the back of your head; a quick, stuttering pace as you claw for one another. It feels feral, just the way he likes it, the press of bodies as you slot yourself against him. It’s addictive, you’re addictive; and he finds himself unable to love in any other way than with his whole being. He thinks you’re made for him; moulded to the shape of his length as you hump against one another.

It’s not just fucking. It’s sticky and sweaty and needy; and it has you creaming around the base of his cock with a wet slap. He presses his thumb to your asshole; chest creaking at the way he can feel your walls from there. He can feel you everywhere; and then he spills into you, filling you to the brim. His cum drips out onto his balls, and in your haze you use the wetness to massage them. They feel heavy, and sore; and so you roll the skin in your hand to soothe him.

Tears prick at his eyes, and he’s groaning lowly, forehead pressed against yours.

“Oh, baby.” You coo. “I know, I know.”

You sit like that for a while, his fat cock softening inside of you. With the weight of his orgasm, he crumples ever so slightly, shaky hands spanning your back to hold you like water.

It makes you smile, and you whisper sweet things into the shell of his ear. You’ll run him a bath later, wash his hair and rub his back as you slip into the water with him. You know him well: he’ll complain, insist he’s fine and gently swat you away, but you’ll stay steadfast. 

Miguel is a giver - you know that. Every once in a while, you’re more than happy to give him a little back. 

_

_

_

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[umbrellajam]

Have any Dick & Tim fic recs for us poor unfortunate souls? We’re hungry for brotherisms

I feel you anon, there can never be too many Dick & Tim brotherism fics! 😊 I had a great time wading through my bookmarks to pull some recs (and inevitably lose a bunch of time re-reading things lol), so thanks for the ask!

so I've organized the below first by general time period, then categories like Canon Divergence and Alternate Universe. I've also limited myself to fics that have a clear focus on Dick & Tim as the primary relationship (although some of them include other characters or ensembles).

Hope that you find something new that you enjoy, friend!!

A Thousand Ninjas, by @silverwhittlingknife (100k WIP series) - Silver's fantastic epic that covers the span of Dick and Tim's relationship in preboot canon. Some of the individual works are WIP, others are complete - just read them all, okay, you will not regret

Dick and Tim, through the years: from Lonely Place of Dying, through Tim's Robin years, and beyond Red Robin. "Watch me on the trapeze, Tim. I'm going to do my act - 'specially for you." (B 441) "Who the hell are you?" (NT 60) "Dick Grayson is my brother. My best friend." (R 181) "You're my equal. My closest ally." (RR 1) "I can't see him. You can't see him. But I know Robin. And Robin's always there when you need him." (TT/O Secret Files) "You're my brother. You'll always be there for me." (RR 12) "And then I think... no... it's for Tim. For him, a thousand ninjas is just the start of what I would do." (N 138)

EARLY ROBIN TIM

Brothers Have the Worst Timing, by @havendance (1k) - god I love Tim just popping up randomly to be the most annoying little brother ever, and frankly there's no better time for it than during Nightwing/Huntress, when he can bother both Dick and Helena at once.

Tim crashes Dick and Helena’s ill-advised one-night stand; this is awkward for everyone involved.

A Long Fall with a Sudden Stop, by @eggmacguffin (5.1k) - Interesting and appropriately awful take on fear toxin, with a relatively young Robin!Tim having to manage an incapacitated Dick. Also good Dick & Bruce content.

Dick Grayson was not and never has been afraid of heights. However, there were moments, moments in the wake of tragedy, in the midst of doubt, where he was deathly afraid of falling. — Dick Grayson. Fear Toxin.

Little Brothers and Stupid Ideas, by lazarusfell / @gretahayes (2k) - Tim breaking into Dick's apartment to be a neurotic little dork at him, my beloved.

Dick doesn't think he'll ever get used to his little brother's idiosyncrasies. It's like whenever he thinks the kid can't get any weirder, he decides to just blow Dick out of the water with some new abnormality. It's endearing.

LATE ROBIN TIM

lifeline, by me c: (~700) - just a ficlet, but I'm still fond of it, so. set nebulously post-Infinite Crisis, after both brothers' Really Bad Year.

At a low moment, Dick thinks he needs to catch Tim, and he just - can't. Tim catches him instead.

a soft place to land, by unchosenone / @bitimdrake (3k) - set during the OYL cruise around the world; gorgeous brotherly feels and support and absolutely adopted as personal canon.

Tim rubs the back of his head, trying to affect a joking tone. “I knew I should’ve just gone for the new escrima sticks.” Dick is ready to be a good big brother to his grieving little bro. Tim flips the script.

ribbons just beyond the eye, by silverwhittlingknife (5.9k) - you know how Dick and Tim had their island adventure in NW #143, and afterward they had to swim out several miles to where they parked the Batsub because the remote stopped working, and Dick talked about making a pit stop in Palermo to visit a "great little Italian restaurant that serves a great ciambellone for dessert"? Well, this is what happens when they do, and it's lovely.

Two weeks after their fight over the Lazarus Pits, Dick and Tim go on a trip, and Dick confronts some old memories.

RED ROBIN / BATMAN REBORN (Dick!Bats) ERA

Brothers, by KelpieCodyne (8.5k) - a refreshing and measured look at the divisive events of Red Robin, from Dick’s perspective. bashes no one, hurray!

Bruce is dead, Dick is Batman, and his brother is floundering. In a desperate attempt to save Tim from himself, Dick tries some tough love. It does not go the way he hopes. Or - Red Robin's 'BruceQuest' through the eyes of Dick Grayson.

We've Taken Different Paths, Traveled Different Roads, by Sohotthateveryonedied (2.3k) - brothers 🥺 even in the middle of their Brucequest fight, Tim can show up out of nowhere for a middle-of-the-night pajama party and heartfelt talk.

Dick is suddenly very awake. He bolts upright, staring at the dimly lit figure. “Tim?” “Hi, Dick,” Tim whispers. He isn’t in uniform for once, instead wearing a pair of sweats and a shirt that Dick recognizes as one of Bruce’s. Dick was wondering where that went. “Jesus, kid,” Dick exhales, an uncertain mixture of disbelief and bafflement. “What are you doing here?” Tim and Dick are still in a fight of sorts, or are they? Have they made up yet, or is the terrain still cracked? Dick wants so badly to ask, but just having Tim in the same room as him is already more than Dick could have hoped he’d get.

a conversation at 4:30am, by xscintillate / @scintillyyy (4.6k) - Dick having a nightmare that Tim is dead and checking all of his regular napping spots with increasing paranoia to prove that he's alive, my beloved. such a great look at the brothers, suffused with all of the love they still share post-Brucequest.

dick & tim, post RR#12 because sometimes having a conversation might end up going nowhere, especially if it's one you're not ready for, but it's enough for now

the best of both of us, by @ashynarr (7k) - a lovely pair of conversations between Tim and Dick, working through their conflict in RR and reconnecting after everything.

They used to have a routine, involving shitty take-out, shitty movies, and a bit of shit-talking. Dick wants to restart it, after everything. Tim's not sure if it's that easy. Or: After Harkness' arrest, Dick and Tim have a heart-to-heart. It helps, a little.

there's an endless road to rediscover, by @zahri-melitor (1.2k) - post-RR fic where Dick and Tim skip right to affectionate violence as a gesture of reconciliation, which is so delightfully in-character, tbh.

Sometimes the only way to show that you've moved on and forgiven each other is to take a flying tackle from the ceiling. Dick and Tim know each other's demonstrations of affection. Damian doesn't.

When it Rains, by vellaphoria (5.8k) - an exploration of Tim and Dick's (most recent) experiences with sexual assault, so warnings for past rape. really excellent.

After Cass and Tim return from Paris, something seems... wrong. Dick tries to find out what it is.

nightwing and red robin hit the town (or do they?) by xscintillate / scintillyyy (7.2k) - hilarious reversal of the "Tim is sad Dick never has time to hang out with him because Eldest Daughter Syndrome" trope.

Dick just wants to hang out with Tim on patrol, like old times. It's a shame that everyone else seems to have the same idea. It's fine. Dick'll get him next time.

POST-FLASHPOINT / MODERN ERA

so won't you stay, won't you stay (with me?), by dizarys / @dizaryswrites (1.4k) - beware the ANGST, this one really stomped on my heart 😭 but it's lovely

Dick seized his hands, holding tight. A long moment of silence passed. Tim kept time with Dick’s breathing as it steadily returned to an even pattern. "I'm proud of you for asking for help." His big brother whispered. "But I haven't." "I dunno, TimTam. Breaking into my apartment seems like a cry for help." Tim's having a hard night. So where else does he go but to his big brother's apartment? Whumptober Day 12

go past where our feet could touch, by redboard (Ink) / @upswings (1.5k) - this is such a lovely fic about the brothers having feelings about their long-gone mothers, and Dick seeing himself in Tim and processing things in his own life by being there for him (without sharing his own issues, at least that we see, lol). perfect characterization.

Today Tim was calmer, almost cheerful – as if it was any other Saturday afternoon. But it had also not escaped Dick's notice that Tim had gone on a universe-hopping trip to rescue Bruce, and one of the first things he'd done upon returning was, apparently, unbox a lot of photos of his dead parents. "How was the multiverse?" Dick asked.

WE'RE NOT DEAD (WE WALK)., by orpheusaki / @damianbugs (4.9k) - fantastic whumptober fic. the boys go through it, by god.

Dick is overwhelmed for a moment, filled with clarity and inexplicable confusion as he blinks around him bleary-eyed. There's the familiar itching covering his skin, tiny grains of dark sand invading the cuts that have torn through his suit from the crash. He coughs, throat dry and closing with every gasp of harsh air. The desert is as unforgivable as the last time he was here, an empty expanse of dunes that might just be a trick of the heavy sun against the back of his neck. Dick pushes the panic away behind his eyelids, savoring the darkness before opening his eyes again. Immediately, he sees Tim. Unconscious, hunched over, covered in blood and sand Tim. (Dick and Tim get stranded in the desert, Dick is always moving forward.)

CANON DIVERGENCE

long distance, by unchosenone / bitimdrake (1.7k) - A Red Robin era AU where Bruce is actually dead.

Six months—months—radio silence, and Tim is calling him. Dick doesn’t even know where Tim is. He scrambles for the phone.

Holding the Line, by Birdchild / @birdchildsnest (6.6k) - part 2 of the series and the first part is just as good, but more focused on the Dick&Tim&Damian relationship as a whole. In this, Dick is plagued with nightmares about the people he loves falling, and struggles through the resultant insomnia.

"Dick was used to anxiety dreams, even (or especially) ones about falling and failing to catch people. They weren’t pleasant, but he understood that they were his brain’s way of working through buried fears. The garbage disposal of his subconscious. But these dreams were more like the hyper-vivid nightmares and thrashing night terrors he’d had after his parents’ deaths. And they were constant. Every time he closed his eyes. He didn’t just feel rattled when he woke up; he felt flayed open."   (This will make more sense if you've read "Redrawing the Lines," but it takes place before "Season of Darkness, Season of Light," so you don't need to have read that.)

now the little red lighthouse knew that it was needed, by xscintillate / scintillyyy (22k) - beloved Tim never becomes Robin but shows up in Dick's life and becomes his brother anyway fic of my HEART

"Kid," he says, frustration bleeding through, "I don't know who you think I am, but I can promise you, I don't know anything about any companies. You might want to call the police about this, instead." "No, that's just it," the kid says, "I can't trust the police. I think they're in on it. I think I might get arrested soon. I need—I think I need Nightwing's help." in an alternate universe where jason survives ethiopia--dick and tim still find each other.

this also has a WIP sequel, so the little red lighthouse tried to shine once more, which is equally excellent

well, what would you do if you went back in time?, by xscintillate / scintillyyy (3.5k) - yeah, in retrospect Tim's smug know-it-all tendencies would become exponentially worse if he traveled back in time and actually knew everything, lol. of course he takes the opportunity to be a Pest to both Dick and Bruce c:

tim goes back in time, and prevents certain things--but still makes his appointment at the circus with dick and is kind of a menace (aka: snippets from an au where tim goes back in time and makes it so he doesn't become robin...but he's still just having fun going around and preventing everything he can think of regardless and making sure to bother dick)

the time you won your town the race, by silverwhittlingknife (4.4k) - technically WIP, but absolutely works as a (DEVASTATING) oneshot. It's been well over a year and I still have not recovered tbh.

He doesn’t know exactly what Tim would say. But he knows what Tim would do. Tim dies. Dick doesn’t take death for an answer. A Red Robin 12 AU.

the picture frames have changed and so has your name, by zahri-melitor (24k) - a fix-it it fic for Grant Morrison's 2009 Batman and Robin comic run, which infamously has Dick more-or-less forget that he's supposed to have a close relationship with this alleged "Tim Drake" guy. (Little brother who?)

So, in this fic, Dick literally forgets. Tim notices, and investigates. Also wonderfully highlights Tim's relationships with Helena, Barbara, and the Birds of Prey, and sometimes with Damian.

There’s something wrong with Dick. Tim thought everything was getting back to normal. Bruce was alive and back in their timeline, the Birds of Prey were once again operating out of Gotham, Dick had the city well under control as Batman and even Damian had been less obnoxious than usual. And then during a firefight at a warehouse by the docks, Tim was almost hit by a flying boomerang. And Dick never noticed. When something is wrong with your big brother, who else do you turn to but your big sisters?

Dizzy Edges, by Jojo_Squires / @jojosquires (156k WIP)

A Tim-time-travels-and-interferes-to-make-his-family's-lives-better fic which includes the whole Batfam, but is definitely centered on Dick&Tim and the weird itching dissatisfaction of their missing close relationship from the original timeline - which neither of them can even remember that they're supposed to have.

I leap on my email notifs and stuff new chapters in my mouth as soon as they come out.

Tim Drake didn't quite know what he was agreeing to four years ago, but he tried to make the best of it! Using notes from his past (future?) self, he (somewhat messily) tried to help everyone his other self cared for. Now, it's four years later and he can mostly ignore the second set of memories lying in the back of his brain. It'd be much easier if Dick Grayson would just leave him alone. If Tim believed in destiny he might actually think that the universe cared about what was lost. Dick Grayson has spent the last year feeling like he's veered off course. Something keeps itching at the back of his brain. He's missed some clue. Helena Bertinelli's promised to help him crack down on human trafficking, but Dick thinks her foster kid might actually be more help in that department.

First Priority, by avaya29 / @avayarising (6.8k) - okay so Jason does feature prominently in this one but also he's a hilarious outside observer to Dick&Tim's shenanigans. Also, GLUE TRAP.

As the door opened Tim quickly disabled another three separate electronic sensors in the doorjamb by swiping them with a device that looked a bit like a thumb drive. “Walk where I walk,” he said. He took a big step over the doormat, eyed the floor carefully, then took a careful skipped sidestep to another mat against the right-hand wall, where he removed his shoes. “What the hell?” whispered Jason, still standing in the open doorway. Tim pointed up. There was a net rigged up on the ceiling. “Pressure pads under the carpet.” “I repeat, what the hell? After Tim completely derails Jason's beatdown attempt by asking him for a hug, Jason's first priority is to get this touch-starved kid more cuddles. Tim's first priority is to avoid DIck's traps. Jason learns a lot about his brothers and what happened while he was away, and something about himself too.

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

Patchwork Siblings, by Raberba_girl (40k) - fluff and whump and we also get both Talon!Dick and regular!Dick being big brothers, which is delightful.

Years ago, young Dick Grayson was taken by the Court of Owls and made into a Talon. When Talon is flung into an alternate universe where Dick Grayson was taken in by Bruce Wayne instead, he latches onto the first familiar person he sees. (Or: Little Bat-stalker Tim Drake is understandably alarmed to find that an undead assassin has imprinted on him.)

5+1 Night's at Freddy's, by cowboymater (6.6k WIP) - okay so this is only the first chapter of an expected six, but it's already a wildly interesting and entertaining scenario with great characterization. my kingdom for 5000 AUs where young Dick and Tim are thrown together into Trials and Tribulations out of nowhere for their brotherly meet-cute.

The 5 nights Tim spent at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza with Robin and the 1 he spent with Batman, OR, this would be the coolest thing that happened to him ever if the animatronics were trying to kill them less, OR, the "Batman meets Freddy Fazbear" fic I found hidden under a loose floorboard in Tim Drake's childhood bedroom.

darling boy, by deitybird (335k) - Fuzzy and funny de-aged!Tim shenanigans, with Dick as his primary caretaker but the whole Batfam getting involved. Author pulls what plot, character, and relationship points they like and want to explore from varied canon (post-Crisis, New 52, Rebirth, Infinite Frontier, Batman the Animated Series, etc.) and fanon to build out that 335k of story, and it's a very fun time. Toddler Tim is such a gremlin ♥

His comm crackles to life. “RR’s suit is in a pile on the floor,” Jason says, voice grim. “But no sign of him. Something bad must’ve happened if he ditched it all.” “I wouldn’t say it’s bad, per se,” Dick replies, gazing down at the kid nestled against his chest. Now that he’s looking properly, he can see hints of his little brother in those small features. “But at least I can confidently say that he’s not dead.” Or: Tim gets de-aged to four. Dick takes care of him.

Under a Parent’s Wing, by IzzyMRDB. (39k) - YMMV on whether this will be your cup of tea, as this is an AU where Dick comes into a parental rather than brotherly role for a younger, AU!Tim, who is also autistic and abused. But it’s also delightful, heartfelt, and a thoughtful exploration of the complicated, difficult situation as given.

Also I would, no lie, read hundreds of fics based on the premise of kid!Tim discovering that THE Dick Grayson (aka THE ORIGINAL ROBIN) is coaching gymnastics classes and using his sneaky determined ways to finagle himself into said classes.

When Tim found out that Dick Grayson was a gymnastics instructor in Bludhaven, he quickly signed up. After all, learning gymnastics from The Nightwing himself is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Dick Grayson is more concerned at the obvious signs of child abuse he sees in one of his students. AKA Dick Grayson, as a childcare worker, is a mandated reporter who knows how to recognize child abuse in his students. Tim Drake, after a lifetime of fear and confusion, learns to trust adults.

[drenched-in-sunlight]

since I’m drawing more of them, here is a bit of background for my x2 Prowler PunkFlower AU (mix of comic and animated canon and my own delulu):

- Hobart started out in a life of crime because he felt trapped by his circumstances (this follows the comic canon, he is the youngest of 9 siblings, but his dad left early, mom was an alcoholic, and eventually even his big brother left. Even though he was a tech genius, he struggled to make a living). Then after his right hand was injured after a job for Kingpin, he was saved by Peter (let’s say in Earth 42 Peter is not Spiderman, instead he runs a company.. which is also comic canon at one point).

Parker Industry gave him a prosthetic and provided a healthier environment for Hobart to grow, they sponsor him to be a kind of vigilante to keep the city safe (again, this is a bit based on the comic canon, but in the comics he was paralyzed from the waist down for a while, he also worked for Parker Industry for some time).

- For Miles G. after his father died, there was a time when he lost his direction in life. He was haunted by the fact that he could not protect Jeff. Earth 42 is already chaotic, he doesn’t know how to protect his mother (since Uncle Aaron also has his own business and can’t stay with them all the time).

- One night when he was walking back home, Miles was stopped by a robber, normally he could protect himself, but that day his mind was spiraling so badly and before he knew it, he was cornered. That's when Prowler saved him.

- Hobart was just on duty, the alley was dark so he couldn't see the other boy very well, he just turned his back to tie up the robber and told Miles to go home, it's very dangerous here.

- At that time, the Prowler symbol on the back of Hobart’s jacket seemed to engrave itself in the back of Miles’ eyelids - a call to fight, a call to protect. He made a decision then.

- Miles immediately ran to Uncle Aaron and told him of his intention to be a vigilante. Aaron was hesitant at first, but Miles said that if he didn't train him, he would go find the Prowler himself and ask him for help. Aaron was worried that Miles would be taken advantage of by others, so he accepted to train and help him create tech.

- After a while, the two of them started blowing things up left and right in Brooklyn with Miles as the new Prowler, that was when Hobart realized that there was another guy running around in his symbol (there is a whole theme in the comics where Hobie’s Prowler gears keep being stolen by other ppl to impersonate him 😭)

- He thought about telling the boy to stop, but seeing Miles punching criminals, confronting villains who are many times bigger than him yet was still not afraid, Hobart became… curious? Want to know who that person is, why do they do this.

- Of course, when they meet, Hobart still asked Miles to not to carry his logo around, but Miles stubbornly argued that anyone can be a symbol, and he would not dishonour this one.

- In general, Hobart was impressed with Miles, but it took some time for both of them to gradually trust each other. After more than half a year, Hobart took the initiative to tell Miles his true identity, Miles then also took him to meet his uncle.

- After the two became closer, Miles began to help Hobart repair and maintain his prosthetic. Hobart also began to doubt his future in Parker Industry. He had never liked to be confined to a system, and although Peter helped him a lot, he still wanted to be his own person, fought for his own ideals. So as soon as Miles and Hobart were able to fix his prosthetic on their own, Hobart left Parker Industry and moved in with Miles.

- They started dating after 2 years of knowing each other (Aaron thanked heaven and earth that his nephew finally stopped blue-ball that Hobart boy, his head hurt every time he has to witness their awkward flirting 😭😭), when Miles G. met Miles 1610, he and Hobart had been officially dating for a few months.

So basic timeline: first meeting Miles G. was 13 / Hobart was 15 -> worked together as Prowlers team at 14 / 16 -> Hobart left Parker Industry / they started dating when Miles is 15 and Hobart is 17 -> meet Miles 1610.

Well that’s all for now, so when I draw that AU it’s based on that groundwork. Cheers!

[osamucide]

DAZAI HCS! ⊹

LAST UPDATE: DEC 19

cw: talk of mental illness and substance use/abuse, speculation about Dazai’s f’ed up past+trauma, Dazai-typical references to suicide, references to self harm, probably a lot of projection on the author’s part

reid: i feel like yapping about Dazai tonight so here’s a non-exhaustive list of general headcanons i have about him. no word count because i’ll probably update this periodically lol

he does not listen to music from this century. he just doesn’t. not that he goes out of his way not to, he’s just drawn to a certain sound that only older music seems to have—I think The Smiths, Blondie, Tears For Fears, The Smashing Pumpkins, King Crimson, and Led Zeppelin are among his favorite artists

I think he also really enjoys classic jazz/blues/bebop music—Charles Mingus, Billie Holiday, Duke Ellington, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, etc.

he’s anemic. I’m of the firm belief that Kunikida buys him a 100 ct bottle of iron tablets every 100 days which Dazai always graciously accepts. however, he only actually takes them when he gives enough of a shit to (which is not often) so the bottles are just accumulating on his bathroom sink/in the cupboard beneath

nail biter, cuticle picker, hair twirler, thigh bouncer, etc. I don’t think he really sits still unless it’s absolutely necessary

children love him, much to his dismay. they think he’s entertaining. he thinks they’re like puppies (and he canonically hates dogs). he won’t treat them badly, but he’s just not super interested in interacting with them. unwilling older brother vibe when faced with them. shithead kids can stoke his rage much faster than Chuuya ever could

he cannot take care of a fucking plant. has one succulent in his apartment. it’s surviving out of pure unadulterated spite. he hasn’t watered it in over a year

wearer of funky socks. his favorites are either the ones that say "I love my job ha ha just kidding" or the custom ones Yosano got him as a gag gift one year for white elephant at the office christmas party (they have Kunikida’s rage face on them)

really sad that, despite his criminal record being scrubbed clean, he is still banned from driving in the nation of Japan for the rest of his life because he wants a Ford Explorer so bad

PROFOUNDLY SOUND KNOWLEDGE OF MEDICAL TERMINOLOGY

he’s fluent in Japanese and English, proficient in French and Italian, and learning Russian

I think he also enjoys learning math/researching random shit/reading anything he can in his free time when he feels up to it. he never received a formal education and his IQ is through the roof—his yearning for academia is almost like an itch he has to scratch every once in a while. also, he just likes knowing things

he never learned how to ride a bike. wahhhh wahh

BPD king. look at him. my beautiful princess with a disorder. I doubt he’s diagnosed but he strongly suspects it seeing as he’s so self-aware; if not borderline, he just assumes he has severe PTSD. either way, he really won’t do anything other than what he already knows about how to manage it

along the same lines—he’s been a functional alcoholic since an alarmingly young age (I’m talking 16-17). I think it probably got a lot worse post-defection when he was underground, but he hardly had to function then anyway; he gets somewhat better after joining the Agency but still has a dependence, it’s just not severe enough to debilitate him

has a bin of art supplies in his apartment. he only ever pulls them out once every few months, but he rather enjoys painting and wouldn’t mind getting better at it

master at darts. don’t take him to a bar where there’s a dartboard. he will stand in front of it all night and obliterate everyone who challenges him

insatiable sweet tooth. he especially loves anything maple, butter pecan, or butterscotch he’s a grandpa

UPDATE.1

I love to headcanon that he has a glass eye!!! and that the bandages around his head in the dark era were some legitimate injury. he likes to pop it out as a party trick/to weird Kunikida out

he feeds the stray cats and kittens that linger around the ADA dorms. he probably spends some of his grocery money on the fancy wet canned food and leaves it out with a big plastic bowl of water. sometimes sits and watches them eat and likes to give them little scratches if they trust him enough to come rub up on his legs. they’re sort of to him as the orphans were to Odasaku, and it makes him feel closer to his deceased friend

on the note of grocery shopping—he only goes when Atsushi or Kunikida drag him along. keeps his list relatively the same from trip to trip: canned crab, cigarettes, bandages, a few cases of beer, sake, instant ramen, ice cream (particularly butter pecan), paper towels, and 3-in-1 shampoo when he needs it. Kunikida forces vegetables upon him (“put it in the ramen so you don’t die of heart disease”) but they almost always end up rotting to mush in his fridge. he steals his toilet paper from the ADA bathrooms/supply closets or bothers Atsushi and Kyoka for spare rolls when he’s out

religiously orders drinks from the cafe on his way in and out of work. on mornings he usually gets a latte with plenty of sugar and some sort of flavor; in the evenings he probably gets an iced flavored tea to mix or chase his sake with when he gets home

always has a pocket knife on him. probably one he got in his mafia days, or, it’s at least a habit/security he picked up from then

takes a lot of night walks. he doesn’t sleep well, so I think he probably wanders out tipsy with his pack of cigarettes in the wee hours of the morning and scuttles around to tire himself out

UPDATE.2

two words: medical trauma. I know some people get iffy when it comes to speculation about what Mori did/didn’t/may/may not have subjected him too as a young teenager (and believe me I have a lot of thoughts) but I definitely headcanon that Dazai was used as a little bit of a lab rat/sedated and coerced to some degree when it came to turning him into a killing machine. as a result, he’s got a fear of medical settings. after his surgery during the cannibalism arc? I know he got that phone back and was like “Tanizaki get me out of here right neow”

I think sweet little old ladies probably love him and he loves them too. always feels like he strikes up the best small talk with them. will help load groceries into their cars for them. he gets all smiley and stuff when they call him “sweetheart” “honey” “dear” or remark how handsome he is and about his hypothetical girlfriend must be so lucky

he can throw knives with pinpoint accuracy from a pretty impressive distance. he’s a little less accurate with his handgun at long range/with moving targets but HE’S GETTING BETTER

has like a 3.5 ft vertical jump at his best. like why are you a detective when the Lakers need a center

UPDATE.3

lowkey a god at shoulder massages? he’ll meander behind Kunikida at the office and rub his shoulders like a boxing coach trying to warm up his athlete mostly to try to piss him off but Kunikida totally just melts into it after smacking his hands away a couple times. does the same thing to Atsushi but Atsushi just starts fucking purring and almost passes out

I was talking about this with Kal a second ago—but I think he and Ranpo love acting so gay at the office also to piss Kunikida off. they also ask him if they can be allowed to go outside and play

cigarette of choice is a Marlboro Black. I think someone has said/alluded to this before but I can’t remember who. if you’re reading this you’re right

on top of his overflowing piles of iron supplements, I think he also has an unreasonable amount of reusable water bottles. reason being Kunikida again because I just know Dazai doesn’t drink enough water and Kunikida’s always buying him a fancy new cup to try to keep him enthusiastic about being hydrated. it doesn’t work but his favorite one to date is his orange hydroflask (sometimes he brings a vodka soda to work in it. Kunikida is thrilled until he realizes his partner is tipsy) (Kunikida wishes he could fire him)

on that note—other than sake, I think his liquor of choice is vodka. I do not think dark liquor agrees with him but ultimately he will drink whatever gets him drunk. and so ensue the Sunday scaries (and the every other day scaries)

[erins-quinn]

Do you have any sydcarmy fic recs? I feel like I’ve read a lot of the ones on ao3

*rubs hands together maniacally*

(organized by rating. canon compliant unless stated otherwise (like an AU u know the drill)

(If there’s a star by the author’s name you should read more of their work. read everything read it all)

General Audiences

Crush on the Red Line by Blissymbolics*

Did you call me baby? by imenawriting

la valse de sydney by malariamonsters* (@songkangsbottomteethcirca2020)

Teen and Up

viscum album by cruciomione* (@cruciomione)

They Know by tiltedtemple*

before you came into my life (i missed you so bad) by hotelfoxtrot*

106 miles by MissAmyShay* (@missamyshay)

almost home by papercranium*

you change all the lead, sleeping in my head by adogwithabirdatyour_door*

two worlds collided by heydoeydoey

let lips do what hands do by wispenwillows

Mature

Copenhagen (let me go home) by turbulenthandholding (@turbulenthandholding)

Again and Again by 2shytheshippy

child with a child pretending by emilybrontay* (@sennenrose) (single parent AU)

Why Can’t We Be Friends? by currymanganese*(@currymanganese)

write me like it’s your last time, I’ll read it like it’s my first by puzzlepuppy (me! :D)

Fire One Chicken Noodle by DoubleApple* (@doubleappled)

Seasons of Sydney by shewalksoverme (@shewalksoverm3)

it’s all for you, everything I do by Amiera_Sapphire* (@amieraisposting) (pregnancy AU)

and I can tell that you’re my good girl by mariyanas

nobody ever got my soul right like she could by seh28* (@yangsharperavery)

infraction by bobaheadshark

as if the dream of you, it sleeps, too by icouldnotsee (herprettysleeper)

Explicit

the raspberry room by shroooms

Mouthful of Petals by Galatria57 (hanahaki AU)

The Support by peachybunnybabie* (@ethxocore)

These Stones Will Shout by Anonymous

A Pear Tree (or Any Other Tree in Bloom) by OysterKnife*

Fundamentals for the Fun and Mental by bioloyg* (@bioloyg)

gotta get up to get down by somethingdifferent

if i’m butter then he’s a hot knife by minecrafter42

fireproof by kneeinjury

with the intention of forever by sashafiercer* (@sashafiercest)

his private joy by tvfanatic97

if you want it you can have it by mediumsweet

You With The Dark Curls (You With The Watercolor Eyes) by swaggnation

bonus:

this isn’t sydcarmy but sydlip (from shameless) and I’ve been fucking obsessed with it despite never watching an episode of shameless a day in my life so. yeah. read it. Two Ghetto Geniuses by sashafiercer (@sashafiercest) (college AU)

all of this shit up here hits so hard. sincere and joyful and angsty and passionate and everything in between.

this is just a drop in the bucket. if you’re on this list please keep writing. if you’re not on this list please keep writing. keep writing and keep writing and keep writing and keep writing. this is me telling you your words have so much fucking value and they’re so beautiful I am BEGGING you not to forget that if you write fic at all.

[apocalypse-shuffle]

DAMON SALVATORE (the vampire diaries)

—

“Terms and Conditions” (Damon Salvatore x Fem!Reader)

| Damon helps you get ready for the Founder’s Day “festivities” but can’t help damning himself after a few too many instances of putting his foot in his mouth.

| SFW, established relationship, canon divergence, founders day politics -witch!reader & slight goth!reader

| Mostly practice for writing Damon. Also let’s just assume the Reader’s a college aged adult at the youngest. (Pic source: The Vampire Diaries)

| 🎃!!!HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!🎃

| part one of two

| 2k+ words

You’re watching yourself in the mirror, gown poofing up some and bodice dangling from one hand as you move around to adjust all its bells and whistles. You’ve yet to start the process of putting the dress on, still in your underwear as you prep everything, but you are admiring it.

Honestly, the last thing you want to do is go and put on a face for a whole bunch of people you don’t like and have them actively do the same back to you, but your mother was one of the heads of the planning committee so it was kind of expected.

Then to top it all off it seemed like the news of your failed attempt to overhaul the ‘founding families only’ stipulation that didn’t allow anyone that wasn’t part of the club to vie for the Miss Mystic Falls title (or even her court) had gotten around to everyone.

Naturally Caroline had been the first to inform you of the drama in the most uppity way possible. Why you continued to put up with these teens and their bullshit you had no clue, but you had a protective streak a mile wide and a wannabe supervillain turned fling turned kind-of-friend who was a stage one instigator so really you never stood a chance.

Still the memory of Caroline's haughty voice makes your face twist even worse from where you’re looking back at yourself in the mirror.

You just didn’t think it was a fair rule on top of the whole celebration itself being disgusting, so you’d started kicking up a fuss so your little cousin would have a chance at joining the little makeshift pageant. If they weren’t going to drop the unnecessary aggrandising and the founding family stipulation then you’d damn sure argue your own family’s qualifications, but you digress.

You were only one person you had to protect your peace every once in a while.

For all that though, it’d still been the Lockwoods who owned your family way back when so y’all should one hundred percent count as a founding family. People in this town’s insistence to meat ride the confederacy but clam up when someone even mentions slavery be damned.

The fact that five generations ago your great grandfather changed y’all’s family name when he’d gained his freedom shouldn’t matter.

Especially when the Lockwoods could still coast on their generational wealth, and all of the other founding family members’ names could get them out of an issue five towns over. Not one of them had a leg to stand on claiming your connection to the Mayor and his people had in any way “expired” in the time that’s past.

After they’re emancipation most of your family had moved north during the Great Migration, where everyone stayed until your mother decided she needed a change of scenery while she was pregnant with you and came back to Mystic where some of your grandfather’s descendants' family still lived, but that shouldn’t have been a point they could use against you either. It was moot at best.

You huff.

Honestly fuck everyone though, you were gonna wear this damn dress alongside your cousin and go watch that insolent parade even if Mama Lockwood or anyone else bitched at you for it. And despite how much it would for sure have you cringing. You were a part of a founding family too - hell - your people built Mystic Falls, they deserved to do that stupid dance and stand on that damn nepo baby float too.

Great. Okay, enough of this.

You turn away from the mirror with a small frown and shimmy into your little peasant dress one leg at a time.

“Aww, why the long face?”

“Shit!”

You jump as Damon flashes in, appearing behind you in the mirror, and then starts to laugh. You roll your eyes after catching yourself and go back to fixing up your dress for the “festivities”.

He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of sneaking up on you he so obviously wanted.

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely excited to celebrate a whole bunch of dead white men.”

Damon stops laughing but there’s still a smirk on his face as he invites himself atop your bed with a flourish.

“Hey, I’m one of those ‘dead white men’,” he snipes back. His accusation is said with a light air but you don’t feel like matching his energy today.

You’re getting tired of the town’s theatrics enough as is.

“Yeah, confederate you,” you deadpan.

He pauses, expression twitching, then gives you a nod as he’s picking up one of the stuffed animals laying on your bed. It’s a bat.

“Touché. That comment was in poor taste. Won’t happen again,” he says, relinquishing his words.

“Oh, if fucking only,” you snap, glaring at him.

Briefly your eyes lock in the mirror and his face loses a little more of its usual sharpness. He’s saying sorry. You scoff, but dismiss the line of conversation right afterwards despite how sharp your tongue feels at the moment.

In any case, in a rare show for Damon, he wasn’t the source of your frustration today so there really wasn’t any use in taking your anger out on him.

���Glad we're on the same page,” you say, voice dipping sarcastically. “Now what do you want?”

Damon’s reflection puts a hand to his heart, face contorting like he’s been staked. Many would wish.

“It’s painful you think so little of me. I don’t want anything.” He inclines his head, face evening back out and smirk falling back in place. “Right now.”

“Mmm.” You smile, nice and closed mouthed and fake. “That mean I’m being subjected to you just for fun?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. You catch the way his eyes go lidded when he watches where your under dress is pulled taunt against your backside and turn to flip him off. Those same intrusive eyes roll. “I’m sorry, haven’t I seen you naked before?”

“Hush,” you grunt, twisting the under dress around on your body with a narrow look at the strings you needed to lace up at the back.

The fact that your mother hadn’t arranged for your gown (and all its many components) to come with written instructions was ridiculous because just watching a few people tie this thing up on YouTube had simply not been enough; you were still confused.

It’s not a minute later that Damon seemingly grows tired of watching you struggle and tosses out a tip about how you’re actually supposed to put on the under dress you’re useless twisting around your torso.

You shoot him a look in the mirror, brows furrowed and lips forming into something between a scowl and a pout.

Damon’s brows raise and he lifts your bat up in front of his face like it’s a shield. “I’m not being a dick. Promise.”

“Hn.” After a second you heed his advice, huffing in shock when the first step actually works to get the piece of clothing in position properly. “So you’re just full of surprises today, huh?”

With a short laugh he peeks at you from behind a spined fabric wing, crystalline eyes sparkling with an emotion that’s not just excitement.

The look makes you want to squint at him harder, makes your mouth twist and lips purse.

Following more of his “tips”, and with the direction of the under dress now fixed, you cinch the strings at the back then wrap the them around to tie into a bow below your breasts. You don’t really take your eyes off Damon, however.

If he realizes what you’re staring for he doesn’t comment on it, just brings the plush back to his lap and begins running his palm across its soft oversized head, looking down at it.

Your gown goes on easier after the under dress is on, the ruffled garment far more straightforward to manage when all you have to do is slip it over your head like any other sundress. Minus the sea of fabric you briefly get swept up in, of course.

All of that finally on, you drop your gaze to the bodice waiting for you to put on next with a frown.

Ugh.

Picking it up you loosen the even greater amount of lace, pulling the ivory ribbon like you’re picking out your least favorite vegetable in an otherwise fantastic dish.

There was no doubt in your mind really that you’d look damn fine in this dress but the prep could kiss your ass.

“So…?” you find yourself asking. The type of guy that Damon was, him quiet either meant he was brooding or he was plotting.

And both could lead to bloody bloody outcomes you’d rather avoid right now.

“So,” he repeats, giving you a steady look that you return right away by turning to look him headon. You screw up your face at him, questioning.

The corners of his eyes actually crinkle and he chuckles when he registers your expression, visibly beginning to look more mischievous in real time. “Fine. You asked for it, Pushy. I heard about your little flop with the Miss Mystic pageant from Liz,” he starts, and you’re already rolling your eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

You throw the bodice in your hands down on the foot of your bed and Damon shifts forward in intrigue.

“Really, why not?” He grins at you and your eyes dart immediately to see his fangs. They’re not out but you still have to shake off that instinctual unease at the prospect that they could be. At any second. “I thought it was very commendable,” he’s saying.

In spite of his words, the tone he’s saying them in gives off the unarguable impression that he’s mocking you. Though you suppose an argument could be made for teasing but you’re not in the mood for giving Damon that much benefit of the doubt currently.

Just him being here without a reason was suspicious, let alone whatever secrets were hiding in his gaze.

“Sure you do,” you scoff.

Not looking at your face he raises his hand, rocking it back and forth in a so-so motion. The way the feel of his gaze travels over your body is nearly a physical thing.

“Mystic Falls is midwestern generational wealth central, you never stood a chance trying to fight that battle, but it’s very sexy that you cursed them out anyway.” His eyes climb back to your face. He points the bat at you. “Which you could’ve done for real since you’re literally magic but for some bizarre reason didn’t. Explain that decision to me, again?”

“We can’t all compel our way into city council, Jackass.”

“Mm.” He scrunches his face sarcastically before shaking his head from side to side. “Except you totally could though.”

Sighing, you turn to give him a bland look. “Yes Damon. I have the ability to do that, but do you know what else I have?”

“What?” he murmurs, eyes sparkling as he gazes over at you.

“A conscience, Damon. I have a damn conscience.” You smile, and Damon huffs dramatically, before you let your face drop once more. “Now, for real, tell me what the hell you want.”

Still watching him you reach over to grab your bodice, taking a fortifying breath before pulling it over your head. You don’t miss the way Damon hides his laugh by turning it into a cough, but you just want this cursed thing past your shoulders at this point so you don’t bother pausing to address him.

He’d be alright.

Damon — demented primadona he was — got more than enough attention from everyone as it was.

“I already told you. I just wanted to see you in person,” he winks at you.

“Right?” you say shortly, before turning to snap your fingers at him and point to the space beside you. “Alright. Then help me into this thing.”

Damon smiles as you shake the bodice at him. Makes a big show of saying goodbye to your bat before rolling off your bed too. Your conversation isn’t over, but you won’t be pissing in his blood over it any time soon either.

He sidles up to you easily, cool hands cinching the back of the bodice together and then lacing it up without a second thought; the subtlest reminders of his age.

He gets the lacing done halfway before pausing. “What do you even need a bodice for anyway?”

“I need it to give the dress shape. There’s a lot of fabric, Damon.”

“I mean sure,” He puts his hands to your waist, molding them to your shape. “That’s the boring reason, but I don’t know. Seems pretty cinched already.”

Eyes lighting up you knock his hands away. “Just tie the damn laces,” you bite out in between the laughter threatening to bubble past your lips.

He chuckles, finally tying the ivory ribbon into a drooping bow without you having to say so.

Afterwards he takes a few moments to run his hands down the skirt of the dress, and it takes you longer than you’d admit to realize that he’s very carefully smoothing out the few wrinkles that have found their way into the fabric. Despite how tight the overarching situation around the ball is making you, his ministrations make you smile.

Once he’s satisfied with the fabric after a minute or two he looks up and catches your eye. When he notices you smiling he ducks his head, but those hands return to your waist without a second to spare regardless.

In the mirror his eyes strip you from head to toe.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go for black.”

“Hmm?”

You slide both of your ornate earrings on and then start fiddling with the backs for them.

“Your dress,” Damon murmurs. “You’re usually much more psycho goth chick than this.”

You chuckle, “Yeah, well my mom begged me to go for a little more color so…” you gesture towards the dress.

“Royal purple.”

“Uh huh, but don’t worry the rest of my wardrobe remains very very black.”

“I wasn’t worried; such a dark purple looks good on you.” You watch his eyes slide intently over your primped form, his cold breath fanning over the dark skin of your shoulder. “Plus a style change can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You watch him roll his eyes in the mirror, his hands trailing from your waist to settle at your hips and squeeze. He leans closer.

“Don’t lie.”

You roll your head back, granting him more access to your throat while pretending to ponder his words, your hand coming up so you can trail your nails along his jawline. His breath hitting the curve of your neck makes you shiver.

He didn’t have to do that for you. Breathe every once in a while to ease the slope of your heavy shoulders.

You lay your hand flat against the side of his jaw and, quick as a blur, he briefly diverts to press a kiss into the pad of your pinky finger.

“Mmm,” you sigh, finger tingling, “…maybe sometimes, when you’re being particularly obnoxious.”

He presses a kiss to your neck, “Like right now?”

“Nah.” You rest your head on his shoulder and watch the way he smirks and easily takes your weight.

Your smile drops some, an earlier thought coming to you, and you focus your gaze at the edge of the mirror.

“Earlier though…”

“Earlier?” Damon says into your skin. He pressed another wetter, less delicate, kiss over your jugular.

The sharp points of his teeth just barely graze over your vain, and you want to fall into it. This is the point in your couplings where you’d start singing for him and Damon liked nothing better, but the earlier memory dampens the mood too much for you to let go like that. Even if you could use the distraction.

“Uh huh,” you click your tongue against your teeth. “I saw you watching Elena earlier.”

The vampire’s eyes snap up to yours in the mirror from where his head is still bent into the crook of your neck.

“Mmm,” another kiss, he squeezes at your hips. “It was a little disconcerting how much she looked like Kathrine in that moment. Dressed like that.”

“And what you told Stefan?”

You hear him open his mouth before his eyes furrow and he shifts back up to his usual height. Both of your hands drop back to your sides.

He looks down, eyes narrowing, “How…did you even hear that?”

You don’t bother talking to him in the mirror. Turning your head sideways with an uptick of your brow, you answer him.

“Oh? You didn’t see me? I hadn’t noticed.”

The smile he throws your way rankles.

“Deflection isn’t pretty on you, Y/n,” he says. Low, rough. So inconsequentially Damon in his delivery.

You let out a big sigh and pull away from him.

If he wanted to actually acknowledge the giant Elena and Kathrine sized rips in your relationship by playing dumb then so be it. Damon wasn’t the only one between you too who craved a little chaos from time to time.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

This isn’t scary or Halloween themed but I’ve run out of time, and there is vampires, so this is what I’m posting. And I do love this fic, I just wasn’t planning on releasing it for Halloween.

We’re just gonna go ahead and imagine that for the sake of this fic Damon did not have that relationship with Caroline that was basically a domestic violence situationship, but that the show just straight up didn’t acknowledge the full ramifications of. So yeah…Damon did attempt to make up for it by giving Caroline his blood after her accident and the tomb situation, but I still think either more needed to be said or less needed to be done because rewatching season one those scenes were too brutal to not be properly addressed when you’re trying to redeem a character. Alright, rant over.

There’ll be more expansion on what happened in this au instead of the Damon/Caroline thing in part two, also.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

[downbadf0rficppl]

sweater weather

Nomad!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: While caught out in a snowstorm while on a mission, you resort to desperate measures to keep warm.

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Canon violence, slightly injured reader, smut, manhandling, soft sex, facefucking

Repost

The mission was long. And hard. And all you wanted now was a nice, long nap.

Steve had brought up this particular mission while you two were hiding in Manila. You always preferred the warmer destinations, even when you worked for SHIELD.

It was a simple mission - too simple in hindsight - the grab-the-file-and-get-out type.

"It's Austria," you sighed, again with the cold. "I know, sweets, but it's an ex-Hydra base. We gotta check it out, make sure they don't have anything they shouldn't."

You nodded, "When do we leave?"

"Wheels up in an hour."

When you landed in Austria, your mood soured quickly. There was a foot of snow surrounding the town, and you trudged through the snow to get to the safehouse - a mile away from the nearest town. You were staking out the safe house when the entire town lost power. No lights, no heating, no appliances. It was going to be a rough couple of days.

You bundled yourself in a coat and blankets while you and Steve went over what you knew. The old Hydra base had been abandoned for a while, but it was one of the few that hadn't been on SHIELD's radar due to the lack of activity in the area. It seemed that they had missed something. It seemed very active now.

You spent the first few days making sure no one suspected you were doing anything suspicious. You stocked up on firewood - making sure you would have enough, even if you ended up snowed in for a couple of days. You tried to get out to some shops, but with the three inches of snow in the local town, no shops were open. You hoped that there was some long-life food still left in the safe house.

When you set out, you silently prayed that the power would come back on by the time you had finished dealing with the agents in the bunker. You also thanked Tony for putting a heater in your suit as part of one of his routine upgrades. You weren't freezing your ass off as you broke into the base.

The bunker itself was powered by some self-generating form of energy - no doubt developed as a result of Loki's scepter in the hands of Baron Von Strucker. The bunker was still working at peak capacity when you and Steve waltzed in the building, guns a-blazing, looking for any signs they were planning something big.

The bunker clearly had been expecting you, launching a full assault on you as soon as you guys walked in. Agents flew left, right, and centre, throwing kicks and punches. The odd bullet was fired at your heads. They were good. But you were much better. You dodged each blow, retaliating with one much harder. They may have had power but it was amateur. You were a battle-hardened professional.

One guy was lucky. He took a baton to your ribcage while you were preoccupied with two other guys. Clearly, he hadn't learned to play fair. You threw the other two guys off you, kicking your assailant into the wall. A nasty crack was the end of him.

You left the bunker exhausted, gripping a nasty bruise that was forming over your ribs. Steve wrapped an arm around you, carrying your weight as you hobbled from the bunker. He abandoned the idea quickly, your height difference making the maneuver awkward. Instead, he wrapped his arms under your thighs, scooping you up bridal style.

You nuzzled into his chest, seeking out his warmth as the snow beat down upon you both. Steve was like a human furnace, his heat radiating through you, keeping you warm even in the hostile temperatures you found yourself in. He smiled down at you, gripping you tighter into his body as you retreated into the trees.

It was about 12 miles from the bunker to the safe house and Steve knew he had to get you both there before the blizzard really hit. There he could check your ribs for the extent of the damage. He prayed that the damage wasn't bad, guilt overtaking his mind. A few seconds of preoccupation on his part led to you being injured. Steve felt terrible.

He was also on high alert. There was no exfil team. They weren't Avengers anymore. They were on their own out here - even Nat wouldn't be able to get here in time if they were attacked.

The trudge through the snow was terrible. Frost covered your hair and his beard, and the chills were racking through your body with more frequency. The snow was seeping through your tactical gear, and given that night was fast falling around them, Steve picked up the pace.

More than once, you offered to walk alongside him, saying that you'd both be faster if you could run, but then an odd step would jolt your body and the pained gasp that would leave your lips was an answer enough.

By the time you reached the house, you had fallen asleep in Steve's arms. He kicked the door open with his toe - the key being a biometric scan of his eye.

You woke up as he sat you down gently on the edge of the sofa.

"Welcome back to the land of the living sleeping beauty." He chuckled as you threw your boot at his head. He caught it easily.

You almost swooned. Sometimes, you thought Steve showed off just to get a reaction out of you. You didn't mind - it was hot.

Steve shut the door with a click, kicking off his shoes by the door. You shivered. Somehow it was colder inside the house than outside. Steve grabbed your bag, throwing a pair of soft clean clothes in your direction, before grabbing some firewood and getting a fire started.

You limped into the bathroom, the coldness making your bones ache. You made quick work of your suit - throwing it into the bathtub, before toweling yourself dry. The wetness of the suit had chaffed at your skin, and the threadbare towel was doing nothing to help the soreness of your skin, but a little itchiness was nothing compared to the hell that would be a cold. Especially since you had no idea when you were getting out of here.

"The power's still out!" Steve called from outside the bathroom. You could tell he was leaning on the door frame, ever the gentleman, even in sub-freezing temperatures.

"Yeah, no shit sherlock." You mumble under your breath as you open the door.

Steve smirked, "I caught that." You gave him a sarcastic smile back. He passed you to go dry off, "No hot water, so I dumped my suit in the tub to dry." You said, leaning on the door frame to take in the picture in front of you.

Steve's usually prim and proper appearance was dishevelled, hair run through multiple times. His suit was half-unzipped, toned chest visible under the confines of the tight fabric. A spattering of hair grew on his chest - the result of multiple back-to-back missions. And, of course, being an internationally-wanted fugitive.

He gave you a nod of confirmation, before shutting the door. You turned around to be hit by a wave of warmth. In the time it took you to pull the skin-tight tac suit off your body - which, let's be honest, took quite a while seeing as it was soaked - Steve had managed to get a fire going.

You huddled close to the fire, pulling your legs into your chest and tucking your face into your knees. You stayed there while Steve stirred in the bathroom - the occasional grunt as he bumped into the things making you giggle.

You shuffled closer to the fire, trying to steal every ounce of warmth to warm your frigid body.

"Careful, doll, you might burn yourself." You looked up at him and smiled, reaching for him as he walked towards you. He sat behind you, arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. You relaxed into his arms. This was nice. You needed to do this more.

He ran his fingers over your ribs, goosebumps following in his path. You winced slightly as he applied pressure. "Not broken." He whispered, hot breath ghosting over your ear. You shivered lightly.

Steve pulled you into a chair, before retrieving the first aid kit. He sat you down, before sinking to his knees in front of you. You clenched your thighs slightly, the action pushing your mind to filth. If Steve noticed, he said nothing. He rolled up your sleeves and your trousers, revealing a plethora of small cuts and bruises that littered your body. Steve made quick work of treating your superficial wounds, smiling sympathetically when you winced at the sting of antiseptic against the cuts.

He snuck a hand under your shirt, locking eyes with you in a silent request for permission. You pulled up your shirt, revealing the large bruise over your ribs. There was a red mark in the centre of the bruise where the pole had hit you. Steve gently wiped it with an alcohol wipe, before applying Arnica cream to the bruise. You watched him tenderly patch you up.

"I'm sorry." His words surprise you.

"What?"

"I should have been there. To protect you."

You scoffed, "In case it slipped your memory, you were preoccupied. It's not your fault."

He nodded silently, rolling your shirt back down. He started to pack up the kit, but you grabbed his arm, dragging him back to sit where you had been sat moments before.

"You're hurt too, Captain," you said, sinking to your knees in front of him in the same way he had. The effect you had on him was far more visible. His face blushed a bright red, and you smiled coyly.

You bandaged up the graze on his leg, hands lingering longer than they needed to. You pushed yourself off the floor and occupied yourself with the knots in his shoulders. The adrenaline made both your bodies tense, but while you had had the time to relax in Steve's arms, he hadn't had that same luxury.

You ran your fingertips over his shoulders, kneading the particularly tight parts. Steve let out a low groan in appreciation, resting his forehead on your stomach. The sound sent electricity through your body, heat pooling at the bottom of your stomach.

Steve's hands came around to rest on your thighs, pulling you closer into his body like he couldn't bear to be apart from you for even a moment.

You leaned to whisper into his hair, "It's not your fault, Steve." His hold on you only became tighter.

You stood like that for a while, your arms running up and down Steve's back while he convinced himself that you were fine.

He walked out back to grab more firewood, promising he'd be back in a few seconds. You smiled to yourself, fingers ghosting over your lips. The thought of kissing Steve was overwhelming, but you didn't want to push him when you weren't sure of exactly how he felt.

You had a pretty good idea though.

Ever since you had joined the Avengers, you had been close. But with the multiple near-end-of-the-world experiences, it never seemed like the right time to explore those feelings. Steve had always been affectionate, keeping close to you, both in public and private. He had bought you flowers regularly when you lived in New York, always remembered your birthday, protected you when Hydra agents and internet trolls attacked you. In return, you had stood by him in every fight that you could - you always had his back. He could count on that. When the dispute over the Sokovia accords had happened, you agreed with Steve - even if that meant you lost some close friends. In the years that followed, you had fought countless enemies side-by-side. Bucky sometimes joined you, Sam too. But for the most part, you two had become almost intimately acquainted.

You crept towards the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets for any long-life food that might have been kept there. You pulled a can out of the cupboard. Baked Beans. You pulled another can out of the cupboard. Baked Beans. And another. And another. And another. All beans.

Buried at the back of the cupboard was a single tin of Chicken Noodle Soup that was so out of date, the mold in it had probably bred a new organism. Baked beans it was then.

You heated the beans up in a pan, placing them over the roaring fire to warm them up. You huddled up to the fire again, chills wracking through your body, keeping the pan over the fire all the while. After a while, with the tomato sauce bubbling slightly, you pulled the pan away from the heat and stood up to serve it into the two cracked bowls that were left in the safe house. Tony had done a good job at emptying the safe houses after the end of the Avengers.

Your hands shook as you evenly distributed the beans. You could hardly bear to be this far away from the fire. You needed more layers, but your coat and your tac suit were soaked through, meaning you had nothing else to wear.

Your hands shook violently again as another shiver ripped through you. You tucked your hands under your armpits and raised your shoulders to cover your ears.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted something fuzzy draped on the edge of the sofa. Steve's jumper. He's been wearing it when he arrived in Austria but claimed that it was far too thick for him - immediately discarding it when you had entered the safe house. You didn't know how it had slipped your mind earlier.

You slipped it on - Steve hadn't lied. It was incredibly thick and cozy. And also quite large, dwarfing your figure, making you feel safe and warmed. You pushed up the sleeves and carried the bowls to the floor in front of the fire.

You noticed an extra pair of Steve's socks tucked into the front of his backpack. You quickly stole them, slipping them onto your feet. You were grateful that Steve was an over-packer.

You crouched back in front of the fire, pulling the jumper over your knees, balancing your bowl on your kneecaps.

You heard Steve before you saw him. He was carrying a pile of firewood in his arms and grumbling about how 'the stupid snow got in his boots and now his socks are wet'. You giggled.

"Glad you find my torment funny, sweets." He said, his eyes still trained on the wood in his eyes, "How would you feel if I got trench foot, and was benched for-" He stopped abruptly.

You looked up at him. His gaze was trained on your body, eyes darkening by the second.

"You shouldn't have done that, sweets."

Your face breaks into uncertainty. Maybe you had completely misread the situation. Maybe Steve only wanted to be friends.

The way he grabbed your face, though, told you differently.

He stooped low to cradle your face in his hands. He placed small kisses all over your face, pecking you like a bird would its food.

"You're mine." He whispered between each one. The declaration made heat pool in your stomach and you couldn't help but laugh. You grabbed his face with your hands, and pressed your lips to his, gently at first. Steve ran his tongue against your lips, begging to be let in.

You moaned as his tongue explored each and every part of your mouth. You could feel him getting harder every second that passed and that only spurred you on.

"Steve," his name fell from your lips like a prayer, "please."

He picked you up and you let out a soft gasp.

"You like that, sweetheart?"

You nodded, words cast from your mind. He chuckled, lust colouring his tone as he shuffled you in his arms.

"Makes me feel safe." You whispered, nestling your head into his shoulder. "Like it when you carry me."

He smiled and laid you on the sofa gently. He pressed deep and sensual kisses on your lips, large and warm hands caressing your body.

You arched your back as he ran a knuckle over your nipple. You were hopelessly horny, begging for friction.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

"You. Only you." You whimpered.

"Where do you want me?"

"Everywhere. Please, Steve." You were begging. Steve's eyes lit up.

"Want me to love you, pretty baby?" Steve said, dragging his fingers up your sides.

"Steve, please!" You were close to tears.

He pulled your panties down, fingers slipping in between your wet folds.

"Fuck, darling, you're making a mess." You shuddered, moans spilling out from your lips. He pulls his trousers down, dick curling into his stomach.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You nodded in response.

"Good." He slid into you gently, your walls stretching to accommodate him. He groaned, head tossed back in pleasure.

He was bigger than you had thought - you grabbed his bicep as he brushed your g-spot.

“S’big Stevie." You whimpered, "M’all full.”

"Yeah baby? You like that?" His hands came to rest on the bulge in your stomach.

The pleasure exploded like a million fireworks in your stomach. He started moving, setting a brutal pace, pushing in and out of you. His cock brushed your g-spot with every thrust, and soon enough you were seeing stars.

"Love it, Stevie! Please don't stop!" He drilled into you, muttering sweet praises.

The coil in your stomach tightened with each thrust. “M’not gonna last.” you whimpered softly.

“S’okay baby." He praised, "Come for me, pretty girl."

You came with a silent cry, shuddering as a wave of arousal washed over you. Steve rode out your orgasm with you, before pulling out. He stood up to head to the bathroom, but you grabbed his hand and pulled him down onto the sofa. You sank to your knees in front of him, again, and licked a stripe from the base to the tip of his cock.

"You don't have to do this."

"I want to."

You placed a kiss on the tip of his cock before taking it in your mouth and sucking on it. You wrapped your right hand around the base of his cock and used the other to massage his balls. Steve drew a sharp breath in above you. You wrapped his hand around your hair, giving him permission to fuck your face. He grabbed your hair tightly and fucked up into your face, choking you with the brutal pace that he set.

"Oh, God, I'm gonna cum," Steve said, slightly relaxing his pace as he moved to pull out. You pushed your face further onto his cock.

Ropes of his cum coated the back of your throat as he came with moans of your name. Your eyes welled up as your throat filled with his seed. You swallowed it, much to Steve's surprise. He pulls you into his lap, before carrying you to the bathroom to clean you up.

You settle on the sofa in his lap, kissing lightly over and over again.

You turn your head to the fire. "Shit."

"What?" Steve looked at you in concern.

"The food. S'gone cold."

He burst into laughter, resting his forehead on your shoulder. He placed a small kiss on your shoulder. You could get used to this.

fin.

buy me a coffee

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 61

part 1 | part 60 | ao3

cw: mentions of canonical minor character death

Chapter 14

It's twilight by the time they make their way to Rick's place — gnat clouds swarming, sun dipped low, Lover's Lake an inky smudge beyond the blur of passing pines. Steve’s not totally sure how they got here, this dusty service road that's more pothole than pavement; one minute he's bitching about doomed love and double VHS, the next he’s taking the scenic route to a drug den.

There were some important moments in between, he’s pretty sure.

He’s also pretty sure he blacked out somewhere around the moment the morning news reported that an-unidentified-Hawkins-student-who-very-well-could-be-Eddie-Munson was found dead in his fucking trailer.

Kinda difficult to resurface from that one.

Feels like his soul’s got swimmer’s ear.

Even hours later — after Dustin and Max burst into Family Video talking a mile a minute about how Eddie was alive and they needed to use the phones; after Ernie stupidly gave a reporter Steve’s name, swearing up and down on the TV that his neighbor Steve Harrington was an upstanding young man who would never do something like this; after they spent an agonizingly long afternoon lying low and taking backroads to avoid the cops because the cops probably suspect Steve of murder now, oh god—

“It’s this next right up ahead,” Max says from the back seat. There's a map spread over the bench between her and Dustin, and Steve blinks himself awake; gives her a nod in the rearview.

Beside her, Dustin’s munching on Twizzlers he stole from the store — window down, easy slouch, just way too chipper for the situation at hand. "So Steve," he says conversationally, "now that you're a fugitive, does that mean—?"

Steve cuts Robin a pleading look.

Robin reaches back and smacks the little twerp upside the head.

"Ow!" Dustin whines.

"Shut up, please," Robin smiles.

Max makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh and checks the map again. "Right here," she says, pointing. "After that weird tree stump."

They turn onto another road that could be generously described as paved, once, several decades ago, and eventually, the winding path lets out onto a slightly nicer street. Aging but cared for, Holland Road is a crowded row of little lake houses, trailers and shacks with manicured shrubs and chipped fence paint, weeds growing through the sidewalks beneath pristine American flags. Steve pulls into the driveway of #2121.

It looks abandoned. Dark inside and out, a truck parked on the curb that's likely been there for a while, its tires sagging in a mulch of old wet leaves. There’s an autumn wreath on the front door.

“You sure this is the place?” he asks as they climb out of the car.

Max sasses him for questioning her navigation skills, Dustin unsuccessfully tries to land a revenge slap on Robin — a move that earns him a retaliation wedgie and a wrestling match he was never gonna win — and Steve pops the trunk and feels a hundred years old. Feels every bit the exhausted dad trying to keep the family road trip together as he grabs his nail bat and slings his duffel over his shoulder.

"You planning to spend the night?" Dustin teases from Robin's armpit, still bent double where she's got him in a headlock.

"No, just-" he drops the bag at their feet with a grunt, “doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Dustin’s eyes bug out. “Is that a can of goddamn bear mace?”

“Keep your voice down!” Steve hisses.

“You keep your voice down!”

"Should I just go ahead and choke him out?" Robin offers.

Steve considers it for a second: knock 'em all out, stuff 'em back inside the car. Go do this shit quietly by himself.

He rolls his eyes and puts his hands on his hips.

"You're no fun," she pouts, but she lets Dustin go.

Dustin grabs flashlights and walkies out of the bag, passes them around the circle. They take a moment to steel themselves — huddled together in the dark, shoulders tense, the creepy house looming ahead. Sharp shadows stretch toward them. Croaking sounds creeping from the edges of the lake.

Robin puts her flashlight under her chin like she's about to tell a scary story. "Alright, kiddos," she says in a deep, ominous voice. "Let's go rescue Steve's ex."

Stunned silence in the sudden vacuum her words create. Steve lets out a tired sigh. Dustin’s jaw is on the curb.

“His WHAT?” Dustin shouts.

Oh, my god. “He’s not my ex."

Robin rolls her eyes and says ‘sure’ under her breath, and Max turns to Dustin, laughing. “You didn’t know they were a thing?”

“We’re not—” Steve tries again.

“What were you trying to get them back together for then?”

She seems genuinely curious. Dustin seems three seconds from spontaneous combustion. “What was I WHAT?!” he yelps, limbs everywhere. Reminds Steve of Eddie so bad it hurts.

“Okay,” Steve interrupts, clapping them both on the shoulder; drops his voice to a harsh whisper. “In case you two forgot, we’re here to rescue Eddie.”

“Who you’re dating.”

Dustin’s voice is small, disconnected, his gaze far away. Like he’s shellshocked.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “I— Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

Max snorts at his answer, Dustin makes a series of faces like he's gonna need seven years to process, and Robin interrupts his crisis by waving her flashlight like a traffic guard, walking backward up the hill as she directs them toward the house.

“Why don’t we just go find him first?” she suggests, making a rainbow with her hands, flinging light through the grimy windows. “And then Stevie here can answer alllll your big gay questions.”

Steve glares at Robin. Dustin glares at him, narrowed eyes for a full ten seconds like 'yeah, you fucking better,' and then he takes off up the driveway hollering Eddie's name.

—

part 62

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[dreamerinthemoonlight]

Genshin as Boyfriend HCs: Part One (Kaeya, Xiao, Thoma)

Fuck it. I think if I work on my original project any longer I’m going to scream bloody murder. I am realizing that a post apocalyptic (taking the world population down to a couple million level apocalypse) story that doesn’t take place in the chaos/murder/destruction/warlords/shit just hit the fan time period is incredibly difficult. Especially since I’m generally anti-shortcut. How do I solve being overwhelmed? Fluffy Head canons. Because the Genshin guys live rent fee in my brainpan. Let’s see... Kaeya, Xiao, and Thoma. Please be kind on Xiao and Thoma. I don’t know Xiao very well and have only written for each of them once

GN reader

Fluff under the cut

Kaeya

I know we head canon Kaeya as a huge tease--which he is, ain’t gonna lie--but I think he’d be crazy sweet

High up on the level of most observant boyfriends ever. Wait... That’s most every one on my “Genshin character’s I will write for” list hehe

But no, seriously, he pays attention and even though he’s a tease, he’d definitely know where to draw the line

Also as charming as he is, I bet it backfires sometimes

I bet he picked you up for a date early on in your relationship and cuz he’s charming as fuck, he gave you roses

One problem, I don’t think he’s the most experienced with relationships. It’s the whole secrets thing, ya know.

SO I can see him being super excited, but hiding it really, really well

Until he gave you those roses I mentioned. Roses made using his vision. Roses that melted in your hands because he was so excited and wanted to impress you so much he didn’t think it all the way through

Any passerby died laughing. You just give him a look like “really, Kaeya? Really?” 

Though there’s a chance you both start laughing, because Kaeya just isn’t the kind to take that hard. He’s embarrassed, but he laughs.

You like to bring this up every now and then just to get a reaction out of him (It’s fucking hilarious)

After that he’s a bit more successful

Still extremely sweet and supportive despite his charm

PDA is definitely a thing, unless you’re super uncomfortable with it--which he will pick up

In private, he’s always touching you. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, brushing shoulders, he just likes the physical contact

Xiao

Xiao and dating

That’s a hard one. I mean, he makes me seem like a successful extrovert which I am not

I think you two would be a very private couple, in large part because he is a very introverted private person

But you respect this and don’t push him too hard

Dates often consist of hanging out on a rooftop or somewhere else quiet

I think the two of you do a lot of hand holding or linking pinkies, things that are subtle, but soft and meaningful all the same. 

The fact that he’s willing to do so, and eventually seeks it out makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside

Speaking of dates

He definitely went to Zhongli for advice and followed that advice to the T

You two had a very traditional Liyue style date. Which you enjoyed. You appreciated that he put in so much effort and went so far despite his introversion and discomfort around people---it really makes you want to go the extra mile too On a side note, someone please update Zhongli on dating practices. I know he’s aware of what goes on in Liyue, but I can’t see him being totally up to date. 

After that you do a lot of the planning, making sure to take both of your preferences into account, which he appreciates

Despite his introversion and strong boundaries, which take time to get through, he’s always there for you and ever so slowly he starts to let you be there for him

Thoma

This guy is what you call on top of it

Of the three I think he’s the only one who really hits his stride from the get go

He managed to take you on a date even you didn’t think you would want

Flowers, dinner, nice sunsets, it’s no wonder he’s so well regarded by Ayato and Ayaka

On a day to day basis, the guy is busy, but he still makes time for you whenever he can

He’s definitely the kind to randomly sweep, mop, and just take care of extra chores around the house while you’re off on some sort of adventure, not just because he wants to support you but because he really enjoys cleaning. And it’s not like you’re going to complain

On his days off you’re definitely his first choice for company

Definitely take you to see the cats outside of Inazuma City

It’s a very domestic relationship

There’s not a ton of PDA, because he is a figure so strongly associated with the Kamisato Clan, but he really does like to hold hands, ruffle your hair, little stuff like that

At home, after a day of cleaning and serving Ayato and Ayaka, he’s happy to sit and cuddle with you, talking or not talking

And if you fall asleep on him, he’ll definitely let you stay there for a bit, watching the play of dreams on your face he’s smitten before picking you up and tucking you in bed. 

He actually likes it when this happens because it means you trust him enough to completely let your guard down

Actually, he’s done the same to you a few times. After a long day he’ll fall asleep on you, though carrying to bed is more like dragging a rock because he’s tall

After the first time you decided that you’d either wake him up and move him of just leave him and fall asleep too

It’s just all so domestic

[wood-white-writer]

"Didn't mean to make your heart Blue" || [8/...]

— OPLA! Buggy x F!Reader

"My love is mine, all mine. I love, my, my, mine. Nothing in the world belongs to me but my love,"

— Mitski, "My Love Mine All Mine"

Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live Action) x F!Reader

Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends.  Buggy, desperate for your attention, can't help but think about what led to this situation.

Warnings: fem!reader, LA!Verse, slight canon divergence, morally grey reader, depiction of blood and wounds, DIY suturing, slight alcoholic indulgence, Buggy realizing he's fucked up big time

Buggy recalls the first time he caught your smile.

It had been several months since the Captain introduced you to the crew. Despite the sorry state you were in at the time of your debut, your eyes were so bright even back then, as though illuminated by something internal.

He’s heard about fish glowing in the dark even when in the deep depths of the ocean, thousands of miles out of the light, and they require nothing but themselves to keep the light on.

He wondered if you’re like that. You didn’t look like a fish, nor did you remind him of any fish people he had encountered; too pretty and earthbound but glowing all the same.

Glowing, but dull. A knife that's not been polished for long, but still being used as intended.

Everything about you, how you walked and moved, all the way down to how you blinked, felt placid and stale from his perspective. He himself was an expressive man, never denying himself the capacity to show how he felt, so to witness it from you felt like a foreign sight. 

You didn’t smile, nor show much of anything really. No sadness, anger, or joy. Just a blank canvas without any colors.

He compared you to a doll; a mannequin having come to life from behind a display case, breathing and blinking and moving, yet maintaining its lifeless nature all the same. You were strong, exceedingly so, and you followed orders without question or complaint. Like a machine working on auto.

He wondered whether you had been a slave or some kind of child soldier before Rogers found you. You must have been because no one becomes this … this … cold of their own volition.

He found that your apparent incapacity to live annoyed him, and so he set out to change it. He didn’t know why, but he just had to.

Quite frankly, he didn’t know what he said or did. Maybe he told some silly joke, the kind his crew mates usually smacked him in the back of the head for due to its cheesiness, but you smiled. 

The image of that remains stuck in his head like a stain that won’t wash off. He remembers everything about that moment. The way you wore your hair, with a singular braid on the right side of your face. Asymmetrical and messy, yet you made it look just right.

He remembers the way the gray sky parted just in time for a ray of sunlight to shine across the deck, further illuminating your face. It was like the heavens above decided to put a spotlight on you.

He recalls the way your eyes glistened in the sun.

He remembers it all.

Maybe that’s when it first began? This … thing that’s been gnawing at him for so long? This feeling that won’t leave him in peace, even in his sleep. It tugs at his chest, pinches his stomach, itches his skin, and warms his face. 

This feeling that’s been clawing at him in the twenty years you were parted.

The source of that feeling that’s currently looking at him from across the room.

His eyes light up like fireworks upon seeing you enter the kitchen area. “Hey! Look who it ...—!" The moment he sees the state you're in, whatever words were about to exit subsequently fall dead on his tongue. "— ... is."

You look like shit, mildly put. He's never seen you look as terrible before save for the time you first joined Rogers’ crew, and it feels like he’s back there again.

Back to sitting on the sidelines as the Captain procured you from under his oversized coat; a kid who looked smaller than she really was, now with a fresh bruise in development across your cheek, sunken eyes, and a pale complexion to your skin that wasn't there before. 

You're leaning onto Rubber Boy like he's your only lifeline from falling headfirst into the floor, and upon squinting his eyes, Buggy notices the edge of a bandage peeking out from under your shirt, with a drop of blood staining the material.

In all the time Buggy's known you, he's only seen you bleed maybe once or twice. It was a rare occurrence; no blade could pierce your skin, nor daggers or swords. Your hide was impenetrable, like molten armor in the flesh. Arlong really did a number on you. He couldn't see much during the time he was stuck in that God-awful bag, but by the sounds of it, it was not a fight you were winning. He always held onto the notion that you were unbeatable; unbroken. Nothing could hope to harm you. 

However, this diluted image of you he’s presented with confirms the opposite. You’re not invincible. You’re human. Faster, stronger, indefinitely more dangerous than the rest if your track record is anything to go by, but still bitterly human to the core.

When he led Arlong to Baratie, he thought you'd be able to finish the fucker off without a struggle. He'd watch the spectacle from the front rows, popcorn in his metaphorical hands while cheering you on from the sidelines. 

Now, seeing you like this, like you've just walked through hell and back, he can't help but acknowledge the fact that he did this to you. He led Arlong to you. 

He swallows the lump in his throat and stores the guilt away for another day.

Your eyes finally meet, for the first time since Orange Town, and he can see the confusion in your eyes. The hesitation that gradually morphs into the anger that he's become acquainted with as of late. You promptly yank yourself free from Luffy, stomp over to the table with uneven and unsteady steps that threaten to topple you over, and finally slam both of your hands on each side of Buggy's head.

The table cracks lightly under your grip, sending several splinters flying in every direction. Buggy gulps nervously.

"H-Heya, doll," he tries, but the darkness over your eyes leaves no room for sugarcoated words. They never did.

"Luffy," you say calmly while never taking your eyes away from the clown's, unbridled rage simmering in their depths despite your compromised state. "Why is he here?"

"About that ..." Luffy sheepishly scratches the back of his head. "He's the only one who knows the way to Arlong Park."

"To Arlong P— … " Your nails leave crescent-shaped holes in the soft tablecloth, and you glance at Luffy from over your shoulder, looking far more tired after seeing Buggy for ten seconds than you did beforehand. "And you're sure there'sno other way of getting there?"

"Nope!" Buggy interjects with a prominent pop!, hoping to catch your attention again. "He was real secretive about where his little fish-mancave's located. Lucky for you, I memorized the way back to my body!"

He's disappointed that you won't turn to even acknowledge his contributions to the conversation. You won't look at him again, and he discovers that he can't bear it. 

Please look at me!

But you don't. 

The silence is suffocating until you push yourself from your table, and he notices the way you cradle the side of your stomach while doing so. A silent hiss leaves your lips that he would've been unable to catch onto had he not been so focused on your reactions.

You look at Luffy, your back turned to Buggy, and limp over to the pathetic captain. Buggy predicts you’re about to shout at him, tell him the stupidity of this decision, and maybe even smack him across the face for emphasis. He hopes you will; the kid needs to have his ass kicked a few times to compensate for the humiliation the clown suffered at his hands.

To his bitter disappointment, you don’t commit yourself to any of the aforementioned. Really, not even a smack? Instead, all you do is heave an exhausted sigh before you prepare to exit the kitchens. "It's your decision," you say, and that's all you say before Buggy has to suffer your absence again.

———

It's the bounty hunter's turn to keep watch over him tonight, and Buggy, for one, would rather prefer to get tossed into the ocean than suffer like this.

He finds that this asshole is the worst one among the bunch to be keeping an eye on him. While the waiter and the long-nosed idiot would rather ignore him and leave him be, Moss-hairs over there seems like he has it out for him the most. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he almost killed him, but hey, all is fair in piracy?

"YAH!" Buggy shrieks when the asshole yanks him by the scruff of his hair with an iron grip, pulling out several blue hair strands while doing so. "CAREFUL WITH THE HAIR, SHITHEAD!"

"Shut up."

He can only hang when Zoro takes him inside to the kitchens, where the pretty-boy with the blonde hair is already cooking something up. Even before they entered the threshold to the kitchen, Buggy could hear your voice. You were talking to the blonde, and judging by the lightness in your tone, you were at ease enough not to be spiteful.

Buggy feels himself become annoyed, and not even the smell of food can tame it regardless of how hungry he is.

"Also, you should stitch up that wound soon," says the blonde, his voice growing more audible the closer they get to the kitchen. "Wouldn't want it to get infected."

"I'll handle it," you say in turn. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had to do something like this."

"You know, if you want to, I can lend you my hands. I'm told I have quite dexterous fingers, molded for delicate work."

"I'll pass, thank you."

"As you wish, but my offer is still on the table should you have a change of heart."

Buggy doesn't even know the guy, and he already wants to drown him. Whatever hunger occupied his stomach miles away with the rest of his body gets promptly replaced with something far sharper. Far uglier. It has teeth long enough to bite through flesh, claws that can tear open flesh, and it’s starving.

They finally enter the kitchen area, and whatever conversation previously took place shifts into silence upon their entrance.Buggy grins as he meets your eyes. "What's tonight’s specials?" he asks, hoping you'll actually respond with something this time, regardless of how sardonic it is.

He wouldn’t mind it if it’s something along the lines of “Fuck you” or “Eat shit” or “I hope you die, asshole.” It only has to be something, but it seems that even that is too high of a criterion for you to bother with.

You merely get up to your feet, unsteadiness painting your steps, and try to excuse yourself from the room without as much as a look his way.

For the duration of his uncomfortable stay with these shitty nobodies, Buggy's main priority aside from navigating this useless crew and getting his body back is your attention. 

However, whenever someone — whether it be that shitty cook or the bounty hunter or the slingshot — brings him someplace where you coincidentally happen to be, you excuse yourself from their company and go someplace else. 

He finds it more torturous than the bounty hunter's hold on him. It's been like this for the past two days. You won’t talk to him, won’t look at him, you won’t even acknowledge him even when he’s being the loudest head in the room.

Sure, he can piss off the rest of the bunch without even trying, but no matter how much he tries to catch your ire, you don’t take the bite. 

The string that’s been dangling him above the water is just about ready to snap at this point. 

"Hold up," Zoro says and proceeds to hold up Buggy's head for you, ignoring the string of curses that flow from his lips. "I want to eat my dinner in peace, so you take him."

Your face, while blank, cannot disguise the irritation laced in your words. "Give him to Ussop."

"He's on watch duty tonight,"

"Sanji?"

"My fine lady, as much as I'd desire to ease your woes, I'm currently preoccupied with preparing the meals." The blonde raises his pan for emphasis. "I would have lent you my aid, do not doubt that."

You’re not convinced. "… Right." Your eyes finally settle down to Buggy, and with great reluctance on your part, you slowly raise your hands up to take him. 

Zoro smirks and deposits the clown into your hands. The absence of pressure at the top of his head is a welcomed reprieve. Your hold — while firmer around his cheeks than he'd prefer — is not uncomfortable per se. At least, not in comparison to your other crew mates.

He considers this a win. It's been far too long since he's been granted your touch, the last time being when you bid him a bitter goodbye back in Orange Town. 

"Also," you say to Zoro. "I need a bottle of rum and a rag."

The swordsman tilts his head skeptically to the side. "Haven't you had enough to drink?"

"I need it to sterilize the sewing equipment."

Realization dawns on his face and Zoro relents. He hands you a bottle of rum from the kitchen cabinet, and after thanking him, you make your way to your cabins with the bottle in one hand whereas Buggy rests in the crook of your other elbow.

The walk is excruciatingly quiet, only the sound of your feet making any noise. It's deafening, and he can't stand it. He needs noise, preferably from you, but he doesn’t mind being the instigator.

"... So," he begins. "You know how to stitch yourself?"

You don't answer, and when he peeks up at you, your eyes are solely aimed at the path ahead. 

"You gotta have the right technique," he continues, a little more energized. "Or it'll become an ugly scar. I can help you with it, I'm a pretty good seamster if I do say so myself."

Again, you don't dignify him with a response. He bites his cheek. Fuck, this is getting tiresome.

He looks up at you again, and he notices just how different you've become from when you were younger. Your eyes were bright, but your smile was even brighter. You'd happily chat with him for hours and hours on end without ever growing bored of the conversation. You'd joke, you'd playfully hit him (though your definition of 'playful' usually had him stumbling in his steps), and you'd smile.

Now, your eyes are dark, and sunken, and there are several wrinkles in development; not from age alone, but simple exhaustion. The years have truly changed you, and the itch nagging him at the back of his head reminds him that it's partially his fault.

He decides to shut up until you reach your cabin.

Your place, he discovers, is vaguely minimalistic at best. You have the basics: a hammock in the far corner, a chair with a small table next to it, a barrel serving as both a nightstand as well as what he assumes to be a storage space of sorts, and a lantern on the top that's already been lit.

You close the door behind you and head for the table. He expects you to all but pummel him down on it, like your crew mates, maybe even drop him altogether for the heck of it. He braces himself for impact and shuts his eyes when you raise your hands.

To his surprise, you simply put him down on top of it without any unnecessary pressure or force. He feels the wooden surface under his neck without any discomfort, and he can't help but notice that you've deliberately positioned his face towards the window. 

He tries to plop around, like a fish out of water, but your hands - a little tighter around him this time - retract his movement. "Hey, what gives?!” 

He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to ask, already knowing that you're probably not going to answer.

To his surprise, you actually do this time.

"Don't look." Despite the sharp enunciation of your voice, the one he's been aching to hear for the past two days, it sounds hushed. 

Not wanting to piss you off in case you decide to completely ignore him again, now that he's regained a smidgen of your notice, Buggy complies and elects to stare out of the window in spite of the desperate need to remain focused on you.

However, Buggy's never been one to completely follow the rules, so he decides to bend them. The window provides him a half-measured view of you in its reflection, with the dark waves serving as an addition to your image. A beautiful addition at that.

How sad is it that this is the only way he can look at you now?

He listens and watches as you put the liquor bottle on the table inches away from him, and then you proceed to retrieve a box of something hidden under the wood. It's not until you put it down next to the bottle and open it that he discovers that it's some kind of sewing kit. 

You take a small mirror and put it on the edge of the window frame at a very specific angle.

Eyes sharp and focused on the task at hand, you withdraw a needle of adequate size from the box, carefully pull a thread through the pinhole, and douse them both with booze. Shortly after taking a generous gulp of the liquor yourself, you put them both to the side to draw up the side of your shirt.

Buggy pales slightly when he sees the bloodied bandages hidden under the fabric. If the semi-transparent reflection of it is enough to make him nauseous, he can't imagine what the real deal is like. 

The three marks that stretch across your ribs look ugly. Scratch that, they look grotesque. Old blood rests dried and cracked along the edges, and the fresh flesh between your severed skin looks even worse. Like an animal maimed you and left you to rot on the ground. He’s seen his fair share of shitty shit in his life as a captain, but this is something he considers almost too much for him. It doesn’t make sense, he’s seen someone amputate on themselves due to a canon blast, but he only considered it a nuisance at best.

Maybe it’s because it’s you this time?

“God,” he whispers more to himself than anyone else. When snap your eyes to him, having heard him speak, he is quick to deflect. “I- Erhm, I never noticed how shitty the weather is tonight.”

He can’t tell if you buy it or not, but if you do, you don’t voice it and continue with your makeshift patchwork. With the rag you procured, you pour some of the alcohol over and press it tightly against your open wound with no delay. Buggy winces at the same time you do. He's had to disinfect wounds similarly before, and it hurts like hell. Fucking hell. He doubts you disagree with the notion. 

You grit your teeth tightly, face contorting and your lips wobbling as a quiet "Fuck" leaves you. One second becomes two, two become four, four become eight until finally, you withdraw the now stained rag. He notices your hand shaking, your breath hitching, and the way you're all but forcing yourself to stay calm. 

Since when did you limit yourself like this? Deny yourself the capacity to feel? Fucking scream, he wants to yell at you. Feel something. Say something! Show him that you still feel anything. Don't pretend like you don’t.

If that pot ain't calling the kettle black, he doesn’t know what is.

He looks at your reflection, watches as you pick up the needle and inching it towards your severed ski— 

“DON’T!”

You abruptly stop and snap your eyes over to him, and he realizes he’s efficiently blown his cover. While still selectively mute, all the anger and irritation you need to convey is done so through your glare alone. Scorching. Sizzling.

He licks his lips. “If you do it like that, it’ll scar real fucking bad and won’t hold the skin together.”

At first, you only stare, and he thinks you’re going to ignore him again. However, like some miracle, you answer. “I know how to patch myself.”

“Sure as shit don’t look like it,” he retorts snidely. “With an angle like that, you’re lucky if—”

“I didn’t ask for your input.”

“Fucking looks like you need it.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

You all but throw the needle into the nearby wall, which just happens to be the same one he‘s positioned next to. The needle lodges itself right into the wood, sticking out with the thread still dangling from the eye.

Buggy stops breathing, and a drop of sweat trickles down his forehead. He expects you to throw the bottle at him next, just for good measure.

But you don’t. You don’t do anything.

He spends a minute deliberating whether it’s appropriate to continue the flow of conversation. “Look,—” He turns his head around to face you directly. “I’ve been around the block; I know what is best suited for your kind of scratch.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Between the two of us, who do you reckon has the most experience with having their asses kicked? The walking-talking tank who can launch people twice her size in the opposite direction, or the clown?”

“Thought you couldn’t be cut.”

“Correction; I can’t be sliced. There’s a difference,”

The look you give him is a culmination of everything ranging from indifference, irritation, boredom, and subtle agreement towards the statement. In lieu of an answer, Buggy prevails, "If you move the needle in a wavelength through the skin, it keeps it together better and is easier to remove. I know your name would make crossed stitches better fitted, but it sucks by comparison. Trust me."

You don't. Buggy knows that already, but if only for a second, your eyes shift to something other than the four aforementioned. Maybe it's contemplation, perhaps a softer edge around your crow's feet, but it's indecipherable from where he's perched. If he got closer, he might have a better chance at figuring it out.

To his surprise, you actually follow his word on it ... after retrieving the needle that's been embedded into the wooden wall with at least two-thirds of its length.

He corrects you here and there, and provides you pointers while weighing his words. He's just now got your attention, he's not about to risk losing it. "- Not too deep, remember? God, what are you trying to do, give yourself another scarring? Keep it tight!"

... Well, he weighed his words, but maaaan, is he bad at measurements.

After a few more glares from your side and some non-verbal threats of bodily harm, you finally manage to stitch the skin together. Your hands, while precise and experienced in the art that is self-suturing, didn't get to do it perfectly. He knows it hurts like a bitch, he winces every time he sees the needle protrude through your flesh, and while you show no facial reaction, he knows it hurts you as well.

If he'd had his own hands at disposal, he would've made it perfect. So perfect that you'd not even have a scar at all. That, and he’d finally be able to touch you.

But this is as appropriate a substitute as anything, and all in all, it's not too bad. It's you, of course, so nothing you do can be too bad. He keeps that thought to himself as he watches you wrap up your midsection and put away the equipment.

"So, how did I do as an instructor? Pretty damn flashy, am I right?" He says with a low chuckle, only for it to disappear once he's discovered that you're not talking or looking at him anymore. "What? Back to the silent treatment?"

Evidently, yes.

He chews on the inside of his cheek and comes up with another approach to get your eyes on him again. It’s a risky one; might get him your attention, or it might land him into the opposite wall, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. "I heard what you said, you know? To Rubber-Boy."

He observes no palpable reaction, so he tries again. "Shanks seriously never told you what happened that day it all went down?"

There it is. The fish on the line. Bull’s eye. He sees you stiffen just slightly, and he gets his wish. A shiver runs down his spine when your eyes fall on him again; he can feel it, even from miles and miles away. 

No distance can hope to expel the feelings your gaze bestows him with.

You speak one word. Just one. So low, yet so clear all the same.

"No."

... Buggy the Clown wants to vomit. 

He's not sure if his current disproportionated state can manage it, not to mention it's been days since he last had a scrap of food, but it does not ease the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. 

Fuck.

When he first heard you tell Luffy this, he thought you were ... lying, somehow. It was stupid; you're not the kind to lie, always telling things as they are without skipping a beat. But he could not see your face, could not see the face you were making, and so he took it with a grain of salt. Or a bucket-load of it.

There was no way you didn’t know, no way Shanks didn’t tell you… Right? Buggy used to come up with excuses for his own righteousness, telling himself that this thing that happened was never his fault.

Now, he knows for certain. He knows you're telling the truth, he sees it, and he feels a bile rise in his throat.

One conclusion is made in the messy pile that is his brain.

He fucked up. 

He fucked up BIG TIME.

It's a fuck-up that'll go down in history as the biggest fucking fuck-up ever to cross the seven seas in all fucking time. He fucked up so bad, in fact, that it cost him more than he'll ever be able to pay for.

The sound his throat makes is pathetic.

"Oh."

BANG!

A good-sized piece of the wooden table snaps under the pressure of your fist and descends to the floor with a plat. Buggy imagines if that was him instead, getting crushed to the floor like a maggot crawling in the dirty as an unsuspecting hiker walks across..

With the shove of your chair, you get to your feet. "I'm getting Zoro."

"NONONONO! WAIT! PLEASE, ANYONE BUT HIM!"

You don't care. You're already halfway across the room when he, in his desperation, shouts two words he's never said before. 

"WAIT! I'M SORRY!"

… You stop.

He takes the moment right out of fate's hands.

"I didn't know, alright! I didn't know that you didn't know, and I thought you knew." He hopps his head a little closer to the edge of the table, right where the cracked piece currently on the floor once was. "I thought you knew, and then went with that fucking red-haired asshole! How was I supposed to know that you didn't know?!"

Wrong words. Very wrong words. He finds out soon enough just how wrong they were.

You're inches away before he can even blink, hands clenched on the table counter with one at each side of his head. Your noses almost touching, and he can feel the fire in your throat threaten to scorch him alive like a pig above the pyre.

"You could've asked." You say, softly at first, but bit by bit, your voice opens up to the deep-rooted anger that's laid dormant for years. "You could've asked me." 

Craaaaack, and another splinter pops off the table and lands in his hair. 

"You could've talked to me."

The entire table shakes now, and Buggy struggles not to slip from it. He thinks you're about to tear the whole damn thing to shreds with the way you're clenched around it. It's on-brand by now for you, comes with the name and everything.

"Cross-Hairs. Captain of the Cross-Haired Pirates, the Beast of the East, and Breaker of Tables and Faces and Bones and Jaws and Clown Noses."

He expects the additional titles to apply to him any moment now. He'll have to jump around the ship in search of his misplaced jaw next time, and probably the nose too. The crew of nobodies will have something to laugh about in years to come, and he'll never live the shame down.

But like with Orange Town, instead of the hand that will bring about his demise, all he feels is a breeze across his cheek. So light, and so brief, yet there lingers a warmth he wants nothing more than to grasp it. A thirsty man searching for his oasis.

You remove your hands from the table. "I would've traveled across the seas with you if only you'd asked it of me."

... What?

He feels his head freeze for the umpteenth time as your words circle in his head, garnering a storm of long-forgotten memories and feelings and hurt and betrayal.

You would? 

You really would? 

You would have gone with him all those years ago, if only he'd asked it of you?

He looks at your hands; the cracked knuckles and bruised skin, adjusted fights and blood and the impact of bones. The same ones currently threaten his safety as a dislocated head. He looks right into your eyes despite the risks it warrants.

You refuse to look at him, more now than ever, like there’s a rope wrapped around your neck that’s forcing you to face down. Like you're afraid that he might see something you'd prefer to keep in the dark. And yet he sees something wet and salty gathering in the corners of your eyes, and he sees the ways your body scrunches like a child wanting nothing more than to curl up to the floor and cry.

When was the last time he saw you even come close to crying? You never cried, for as long as he’d known you. If there ever was a time, it was the day he left you behind on that dock so long ago, and he had already turned his back before he had a chance to see the waterworks leak.

He finds it strange how some things seem to change whereas others don't. When Rogers first brought you onto the crew, disheveled and thin as you were, you never made a sound or showed any emotions. Being a man who wore his feelings and thoughts on display, he found it fucking weird. You were weird. You are weird, now more than ever.

Now, seeing you like this, knowing he's the one who brought it out, he doesn't know whether he's the detonator or the executioner. Maybe a bit of both?

His general nature is to deny accountability and put the blame on something or someone else to save face. It's always been like that; a habit by now. Call it cowardice, but he calls it a way of life. A bank getting robbed after the employees got knocked out by Muggy Balls? Not him. The white lion having a stomachache after eating old slabs left for too long in the cooler until it developed an ecosystem of its own? Not his fault.

But you crying?

You being hurt.

You hurting.

His fault. All his.

You, the strongest person he knows of; the same person who laughed at his jokes, worried about him, kicked ass seven days 'til Sunday, and shone so brightly in the moonlight by the docks, crying ... 

His fault.

You're the strongest person he knows. Hell, you're probably one of the strongest people in all of East-Blue, yet still, he's the one who managed to make you cry. A beast rendered to a tearful child, still so small even after all this time, all because of him.

What does that make him? The strongest person in the East Blue? Or the worst? He's never minded being the worst at what he does, but he realizes in that moment, perched on the tabletop, that he can stand anyone's tears but yours.

Never yours.

You’re fighting those tears the same way you fight everything else; putting every ounce of strength your body has to offer, clawing at it, gripping it, doing everything in your power to keep the tears from spilling and potentially revealing something more.

Still, it doesn’t matter how strong you are. You could’ve lifted the world and held it in the palm of your hands, and the tears still would’ve proved the biggest challenge you'd face yet.

If he had his hands, he’d cradle your chin, hold you close, and promise to never let go ever again. You’d fight him all the same, kick his ass, claw at him, break all the bones in his body, and he’d let you.

He’d endure your strength, dance across the blazing charcoal that is your wrath, but nothing you’d do would make him let go, even if you were to separate every atom in his body one by one.

He'd hold on, and when he gets his body back, that’s what he’ll do.

“I’m sorry …” he whispers, the apology tasting like bitter peppercorns on the tip of his tongue. “I … Shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have” Fuck, he sounds pathetic. “… I’m so … so fucking sorry.” 

For all of it.

He’s never once apologized in his life, not to anyone, but for you, he’d apologize a thousand times over. He’d learn “I’m sorry” in every language known to man, recite every prayer, suffer every penalty in the book.

This could all have been avoided if he’d just fucking talked to you that day instead of running. As if divinity decided to deliver punishments, he was haunted by that thing he ran from for twenty years; torturing him, driving him mad with longing.

Twenty years of bullshit in your absence … all of it avoidable had he not been the fuck-up he acknowledges he’s been.

He’d dive head-first into the ocean if it meant he could take back what he said that day. He’d take on the Marines too if he had to. He’d find the One Piece and give it to you, forgo his own dreams. He’d do anything, just to take back what he did.

Just to have you look at him with something other than scorn. Just to have you look at him the same way you used to.

A few drops of salt land on the table right in front of him, and save for the occasional sniffs and heavy inhales, you remain stubbornly quiet. This time, he keeps his mouth shut and awaits your judgment. The likelihood of you refusing to forgive him is the most probable one, and he can’t fault you for that as much as he’d hate it. The chance of you forgiving him just like that … is less. 

A minute of silence becomes two minutes, and two become three, and five, and ten.

You raise your head to peer down at him, your eyes reddened and heavy, but you finally do look at him. He holds his breath in anticipation and wonders what’s working behind them.

What are you thinking?

What are you feeling?

Is it rage? Is it vengeance?

Will you wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze until there’s nothing left but an ashy head? He doesn’t know if asphyxiation will have the intended effect given his condition, but there’s only one way to find out.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and imagines that it will be his last.

The door slams and the room rattles, throwing him off in surprise.

Buggy opens his eyes and sees that you’re not here anymore.

You’re gone, again.

He releases the breath he’s been withholding, not knowing what to make of this. Will you come back, or will you leave him here by himself: put him through the same state as he left you in?

His head burns thinking about it.

Not even a minute later, you return to the room, and the scent of something delicious fills the atmosphere.

You’re holding something in your hand, a plate. It takes him a while to realize what it is, and as he’s about to open his mouth to ask, you wordlessly put the plate down in front of him.

Buggy drools like a dog. It’s food. Actual fucking food. Some kind of dish (fish?) with boiled potatoes and cabbage on the side, with sauce distributed evenly over it. He usually hates cabbage, but as hungry as he is now, he thinks it looks like the most delicious thing of all. Even better, the food is still hot, and it’s been cut so that it’ll be easier for him to take in.

He looks up at you expectantly and watches as you sit down, cross your legs, and put a glass of water with a bendy straw next to the plate. Did you bring him a bendy straw? Holy fuck, you brought him fucking bendy straw! He can’t help but stare at you like you put the sun in the sky because, how could he not? You brought him food, you brought him a drink, YOU BROUGHT HIM A FUCKING BENDY STRAW! 

Bored eyes turn to him as you rest your chin in the palm of your hand. “It’ll get cold,” you state matter-of-factly, which he interprets as Hurry up and eat, asshole.

Buggy doesn’t have to be told twice, and he digs in like an animal. Decorum was never his thing anyway.

Maybe this isn’t forgiveness, and maybe you’re still rightfully pissed, but that’s alright. This gesture implies that, at the very least, there’s a bridge now. It’s made of rusty nails and unsteady planks and runs over a shitty river, but it’s a milestone from his point of view.

He’ll wait for as long as he’ll have to, even if it’s takes another twenty years to make up for it, even if it takes a hundred. He'll wait and he'll work for as fucking long as he have to, just to see your smile again.

He knows your dream.

He knows you care; you protected him, after all. You held him close, put yourself in harm’s way just to keep him safe.

That means, even after all this time, you still consider him yours.

All that remains is for you to finally find our for yourself.

-----

Taglist: @kurinhimenezu, @carpinchootaku, @ay0nha, @teh-vampire-bunny, @lokiscure, @internationalsuper-spy, @detectivesparrow , @yuriwk , @notyuralycat , @angeli-fucking-cat , @machinema7k , @shuujin, @avatar-lover, @gingernut1314, @autumn-slaves. @marvelouskatie, @floristoflillys, @dizzyenby, @redpool, @deliri-yum22, @aemondsb1tch, @ackroxia, @gayandfairycore, @knightsfavoriteprincess, @asterizee, @aamethyst23, @lizzie1107, @cyberwears, @heylookliisten, @f41k47, @beep-beep1, @crimsonflameproxy, @unpopular-sober-thoughts, @rayleeya, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, (If you want to be tagged for this story, just send me a message or leave a comment :))

[dearsnow]

THE LAST TIME

- ten out of the countless times you have seen neil perry, and nine where you saw him alive. (neil perry x gn! implied to be shy reader, fluff to angst, canon-typical main character death, major spoilers for dps but i assume you’ve watched it before, i included my own poetry so i hope y’all like it, sad face emoji i teared up while writing this).

word count: 9,006

a/n - thank you so so much to my beta readers @sorencd and @chuudidit for reading this massive piece, i appreciate you endlessly <3 this was definitely a labor of love, one that i took a considerable amount of time to write and edit. i adore dead poets society and poetry in general (i have written 130+ poems and never plan on stopping) so i definitely needed to put my thoughts into words lol 😭 anyways, i hope you enjoy, because i definitely enjoyed writing this for you.

When Neil Perry first saw you, and god, did he see you, he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

You were simply sitting there under the old tree just outside the borders of Welton with a book under your nose and the soft rays of a flashlight filtering through your hair. You had one knee up, holding the book in a gentle balancing act as he stared. Charlie gave him a nudge, eyebrows raised and a tease on the tip of his tongue, but Neil couldn’t even move. He was completely and utterly dumbstruck. The moon was hanging above your head, full and bright, drowning you in a poetic haze. You flipped a page and he could feel his heart beating in his chest. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful before, and he had no idea why.

After a long minute, he peeled his gaze away from the figure under the tree and followed the other dead poets to their second ever meeting. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw you glance up at him when he passed, but no one else seemed to notice.

When Neil and the poets were walking back to Welton, you weren’t there- something Neil noticed instantly. Of course, being who he was, Todd noticed that Neil noticed, and Charlie noticed that Todd noticed, and before he knew it, Neil and his fixation were the new tortured topics of the evening. 

“Oh, love at first sight! The most beautiful kind.” Charlie teased, clasping his hands and spinning around. “How romantic.”

Neil shook his head, trying desperately to clear his suspicions. “It’s not like that. I swear, it’s not even a crush. I just thought it was weird.”

Cameron chimed in with a slightly hushed tone. At least he was aware of the fact that they were quickly approaching the earshot of every single person in Welton Academy. “I wonder where they came from. I mean, it couldn’t have been comfortable or safe to be out here at night. Especially alone.”

“Same. What do you think they were reading?” Neil responded, quick to try and put the teasing behind him. Despite his efforts, the teasing carried long into the night and the days following it. It seemed like nothing and no one would ever let him forget he ever saw you.

He would find out later that you were reading a poetry book.

He saw you for the second time on a trip to the main town. He recognized you instantly, from what little knowledge of you he had gained. You had the same hair, the same stature, the same book tucked under your arm as you peered into the musty old bookstore in the back corner. Just Todd was with him this time, and he definitely knew what was up.

Todd glanced at him, a warm expression on his face. Once again, Neil was entranced.

In the new glorious daylight, he noticed things he never could’ve before. The undertones of your hair, your skin, the way you seemed to glow even when you dipped into the shadows. He saw the pure beauty of you in a manner he had never seen anyone else in before. He took a step forward, pulled towards you somehow as his heart beat a mile a minute. The bookstore loomed over you, cracked and imperfect, yet casting the evening in a scene plucked out of a storybook. You turned, seeming to have seen him in the window’s reflection, and he flinched. He almost had a heart attack as his brain registered the color of your eyes and exactly how your mouth pulled up into a smile. Quickly turning away, he grabbed Todd’s sleeve and hightailed it out of there. Todd followed, as he always did. Neil was enamored, and Todd could tell.

“Do you think they saw me?” Neil gasped, pulling Todd into the square’s corner. He was panting lightly, red-cheeked, with a lopsided grin on his face. Todd had never seen him nervous, much less shy. In fact, he was the opposite- friendly, inclusive, and not the type to run away from a challenge. Something must have been different about you.

Todd raised his eyebrows. “Probably, Neil, they looked back.” He, too, saw your eyes, though he was mostly focused on the anxiety coursing through his veins rather than committing them to memory.

Neil’s gasping breaths were definitely louder than they needed to be. “Oh god, they definitely saw me. They probably think I’m a creep. Jesus, it’s definitely over.”

“What’s over?” Todd put a hand on his shoulder worriedly. “There was nothing there to begin with. They’re just a person, you’ll be fine.”

“Way to kill my dreams, Todd. Look, can you promise me that you won’t tell this to anyone else?” Neil asked, suddenly very serious. He glanced around like someone would waltz into the trash-filled and truthfully disgusting corner. The bathrooms were just around the bend, and he could smell it.

Intrigued, Todd nodded.

“I need you to say it. Promise me.” Neil whispered. His coat crinkled as he moved closer to Todd, the material dipping around his sweater. The fall air was the perfect background for whatever Neil was trying to get up to.

“I promise.”

Neil grinned boyishly and glanced around the corner again. “This is stupid, but I think I’m in love.” From the look in his eyes, Todd could definitely tell. His friend was suddenly more animated than he had been in a very long while, and he knew that he would do anything to keep him that way. His caution, however, took over.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. What if you never see them again?”

“And what if I do?” Neil breathed. “What if I see them tomorrow, or the next day, or a week from now? What if I see them every day of my life because I just went out and said something?”

Todd shook his head. “Just be careful, alright? There’s a very good chance that nothing will come of it.” Neil clasped Todd’s jacket, quirking his eyebrows.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“Just no.”

The first time you saw Neil Perry, you didn’t even know you saw him. You were sitting under a tree, reading an Emily Dickinson book you bought in the town’s bookstore. It was a way to relax to you. A way to forget all of your troubles and just enjoy the wonders of the world. You don’t know why you picked that tree, or why you stayed so long you had to use the flashlight you so hastily packed, but life has its ways of pulling you towards something you didn’t know existed.

The scenery was absolutely beautiful, even at night. You wrapped your thick coat tightly around your shoulders. The fall leaves beneath you gave a crackle and the moon hung high above your head, slightly illuminating your page. Welton Academy loomed just outside of your line of sight. It was beautiful, too, but something about the cold stone walls made you shiver.

As time slipped away, you began to hear a hushed cacophony of boys around your age coming out of the school to the side of you. They had their hoods up, laughing and giggling like they were in some sort of secret club. You looked up, and one of them stopped dead in his tracks. You could see his breaths clouding in the night as the others urged him forward. Your eyes drifted back down to your book, as if you were embarrassed. The moment broke, and he was on his way.

You weren’t there for his return back to Welton.

The second time you saw him, you noticed him a lot more clearly. You were window shopping just outside of the bookstore. Even though the building was dusty and marred, it smelled like home. It smelled like stories and adventures and comfort. You were a frequent visitor to this place, and one of the owner’s best customers. 

He often set up his new imports in the big, yellow-tinted window in front of you. As you gazed in, you noticed a face appear in the space next to you. You turned around partially, meeting his dark brown eyes. Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at him.

It was an electric moment. His lips were slightly parted, and the gray clouds above him were engorged with unshed tears. You gaped at him, dumbfounded, as milliseconds ticked away like hours.

Before you knew it, he had sped away with his friend in tow. Huh, you hadn’t even noticed he had a friend. All you could think about was the fact that he looked familiar, and the fact that he was the most handsome boy you had ever had the pleasure of locking eyes with.

His stature reminded you of the boy by the tree, the boy from Welton Academy. There was just something about him that screamed “you saw him once in a dream”.

Somehow, you thought one simple thought: you were in love with someone you did not know.

When Neil saw you for the third time, and the third time you saw him, he worked up the courage to talk to you.

Mr. Keating was instructing the boys outside yet again. They were in the courtyard, taking inspiration from the world around them. From leaves, patches of mud, anything that struck their fancy. 

You were taking a walk by campus. Once again, you didn’t know why; you just were. The boys were not a quiet group, and you could hear their shouts very clearly. You strained your ears, hoping to hear one voice in particular. Of course, you didn’t know what his voice sounded like, but you were listening anyway. If you were right, and he was a boy from Welton, maybe you might be able to catch a word or two.

That’s when Neil spotted the person walking loops around the front of campus. Maybe, for the first time, you could be his inspiration.

He looked over his shoulder, quickly trying to assess whether he could slip away unnoticed or not. No one seemed to be looking at him. He left his group behind and jogged up next to you.

You saw him coming. Even from a distance, you knew it was him. Your heart began to pound in your ears, loud and fast and just a little bit lovesick. You were right.

“Hey!” He exclaimed. You took a small step back. Your nerves were on their highest setting and your mind was reeling. What did he think of you, you wondered. More importantly, who was he?

As he approached, you put on your best nervous smile. “Hi.”

“My name’s Neil.” He said, reaching out a hand for you to shake. You complied quickly, saying your own name in turn. His palms were slightly damp, but you couldn’t blame him. Yours were probably worse.

The moment your hand held his, fitting perfectly under his fingers, he knew you were made for him. “I saw you in town the other day. Do you like books?” 

Your voice was hesitant, unsure, and Neil wished he could reach out and smooth the wrinkles in the sound like an old coat. “Yeah.”

“What were you reading?” Neil asked. He tried to stamp down his own nerves, but something about you made his breaths flutter in and out like butterfly wings. It was a feeling he was completely and entirely new to.

You shifted the bag on your shoulder to your hands, reaching in to pull out the book. “Oh, Poems by Emily Dickinson. It’s not the traditional type of book, but I love poetry.” Your cheeks began to warm. You knew nothing about this boy. What if he thought poetry was stupid, just a lesson in his English class and nothing else? How could anyone know how much those words meant to you?

Neil beamed, big and wide and lovesick. You truly were perfect for him, he thought. Poetry. You certainly were poetic, with those gorgeous eyes and an equally beautiful mind. “I love poetry too.” He breathed.

Your tense smile turned genuine. “You do? That’s awesome.” A quiet flutter started to pick up in your heart.

“Yeah. You know what?” He grinned, “my friends and I have a sort of poetry club. The dead poets society- we do readings, original works, whatever the members are feeling at the moment.” He sucked in a silent breath, pausing just enough to let his reeling mind decide on what he wanted to say. “It’s at night in the old Indian cave.” You nodded along to his words, growing increasingly intrigued the further he carried on. This dead poets society began to excite you. It was all you ever wanted in life: a community of like-minded people sharing the verses that made your heart tick. “If you want, I mean, you should go to our next meeting. It’s tonight.” Neil offered. He could tell his words were cycling through your mind, finally catching up to his proposal.

You wanted to join the dead poets society so badly it made your heart ache. A little inkling, though, in the back of your head, sparked a pit in your stomach. “Would your friends be okay with me being there? I… I don’t exactly know them.”

Neil was head over heels. You were so wonderfully lively, in the way that a breeze touching his eyelashes with the tips of its fingers would be. You were exactly how he expected, and exactly who he needed.

He waved away your concern with the flip of a hand and a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. The others bring guests too, and gosh, I’m sure they’re going to love you! Especially Todd. I’m sure you two would get along real well.” 

“Then I’ll definitely be there.” You replied. The sparkle in your eye shot Neil at full force. You were excited, smiling, happy. He made you happy. He mentally patted himself on the back.

“Great!” Leaves rustled from behind Neil, and you could see a group of boys approaching in the near distance. “Shoot. I gotta go, but make sure to show up. I’ll be waiting for you.” He whispered, leaning in closer to you before turning around to walk towards the group. You felt cold air where he had once been, and you wished for a moment that he would come back. His friends, however, were hooting and hollering, and you thought you could hear a kissy noise or two. You shook your head, a shaky warmth creeping its way up your neck, before turning to walk away.

You were going to go to a secret meeting in a secret cave at a hauntingly secret hour, and you had never been quite so excited in your entire life.

The fourth time you saw each other was the dead poets society meeting. You were brimming with nerves beforehand, shaking fingers gathering your materials as you tried to prepare for waltzing into a place with people entirely unknown to you. The bag you were holding contained a couple of your favorite poetry books, your own poems scratched in the empty spaces on certain pages that really inspired you. You weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to read a poem out loud, especially your own work, but earlier in the evening, you resolved to “go with the flow” and do what the others were doing. You hoped you wouldn’t have to regret that decision later.

After putting everything together and making sure to turn off your light and close your door, you slipped out of your house into the black night.

The scenery on your walk was entirely too beautiful. You never noticed just how much the bark on trees formed swirling patterns, or how the stars seemed to twinkle on their own. The ground under your feet was littered with fallen leaves in fiery shades and clumps of moist dirt. You began to smile just a little bit, thinking of a poem you had written when autumn had first started. That is surely what you would say if the dead poets wanted you to speak.

Nothing felt greater than breathing in the crisp, cold air and swinging your arms as you stepped along the path less traveled on. 

When you finally reached the cave, heart significantly lighter, the sound of laughter floated up to your ears. It was bountiful and boyish and beautiful. You peered around the edge of the cave entrance, and Neil’s eye immediately caught on you.

“Come in, come in! We’re just about to begin.” He called. You stepped fully into the light and glanced around at your company.

They were giggling and shoving, gaping at you and Neil with a sort of uncertain certainty. Some were standing, some sitting, a couple moving around, and all of them male. You took a seat next to Neil, between him and the boy you saw with him in town. He gave you a meaningful nod and looked to Neil, who was opening an old, thick book. He was frightened to so much as speak in front of you, as silly as it might have seemed.

“Attention, dead poets. Today is another wonderful night.” He announced, voice deep and commanding and humorously theatrical. “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately… I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life! To put to rout all that was not life… And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived…” His voice trailed off, and someone from the back of the cave echoed his last word. He closed the book with a snap, and the boys began to murmur excitedly.

Neil took a seat and turned to you, a glimmer of something sweet in his eye. When he looked at you, all he saw was magnificence. “Who wants to start?”

A boy jumped up. In his fist was a crumpled piece of paper, which he made a show of unfolding. “For those of you who don’t know,” He said, with a pointed glance at you, “my name is Nuwanda, and today, I actually made a poem.”

A couple boys yelled in support, and Neil gave you a nudge. “Charlie Dalton.” He whispered, making sure to not alert the others. You thanked him with a shy nod. Then, as “Nuwanda” was starting to begin his woefully homemade poem, Neil put his arm around your shoulders. 

His touch sent jitters through your entire body, lighting you up like a firework. It just felt so right, so natural, so breathtaking. It felt exactly like shaking his hand and feeling his eyes and seeing his breath hang in the air- like it was destined, written in the stars, utterly perfect. You leaned into his touch, feeling his warm breath fanning over the back of your neck and shoulder. “To live, to learn, to die,

my boys, 

to see, to love, to burn. 

To touch, to know, to harm, 

my dear,

to eat, to reap, to sow.” 

Charlie recited. For someone who seemingly took poetry lightly, he wasn’t particularly bad. He put more passion into his words than most other boys you knew. In fact, you’re sure he would be a great writer if he put more than an ounce of effort into it.

He took a bow as the room erupted into applause, Neil’s arm still wrapped around you. He could feel it too, the electricity. He wanted nothing more than to bottle that feeling and keep it forever.

Charlie sat, staring at you and Neil with a smirk on the corners of his lips. “Hey, why don’t we let our guest take a crack at it?”

The cave filled with a rumble of excitement from all of the poets. Neil’s brows were furrowed, but he gave an urge of support anyway. “If you want to, of course.”

You wanted to. Energy thrummed throughout your company, filling you with a sense of confidence you rarely had anywhere else. For once, you truly wanted to speak up. The air was crackling with a sense of anxious anticipation, and you could smell the love each boy held for each other. They knew, somehow, that the moment meant a lot to Neil, and they were willing to put aside any inhibitions to help him enjoy the night.

“I’ll go.” You uttered. Neil’s face lit up as his previous worries slunk away into the night.

You pulled out a book from your usual bag and opened it to the page you knew so well you could recite the poem it held without looking. And, of course, your own poem was scribbled in the margins. 

Everyone was attempting to peer over your shoulder, to take a glimpse of what made you a poet. Having attention on you was an odd feeling, like ants crawling along the back of your spine. You took a deep breath. “When you die,

the beetles will still sing.

The trout will still jump,

and the earth will still rumble.

When you die, the moon will still turn

and the stars will still burn.

When you die,

The lakes will still ripple

and the trees will still creak

and I will lower you into the ground

and I will cry so hard the world stops moving.”

As the last words left your lips, a profound silence enveloped the group. Then, all at once, it exploded.

“We’ve got a real poet in here!” Came Charlie’s teasing (yet not entirely unkind) voice. “Truly Keating material. What sparked your creative melancholy?”

You felt yourself glowing as you sat. If you were being honest, you never could have imagined that anyone would genuinely enjoy your work. That notion was entirely unfounded and untrue, considering they were a group of poets, but it persisted nonetheless. “I don’t know, really. Just the notion of losing a loved one, I suppose.”

When Neil saw you, in that moment, when he heard your voice, he couldn’t breathe. He knew so little about you, yet you pumped his pulse up to be as fast as a racehorse. He wanted, no, he needed to learn everything that made you you. He needed to know what you looked like when waking up in the morning, or how your fingers felt threading through his hair, or your deepest, most desperate passions. He needed to be so close to you he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric of your shirt. He was intrigued. 

When he first discovered acting, he felt the same exact way- a burning desire to learn, to know, to discover. If you let him, he would recite his lines all the way into your heart.

The meeting continued as the sky grew ever darker, complete with poems and rhymes and words spoken in deliberately lyrical tones. You fell into every verse and every story as easily as you would if they were written in a book. You began to learn every name in the room, and they quickly caught on to yours. It was a community, a group of people that began to feel like home. 

Of course, by the time they decided to end things, the stars were full and bright. The sun would surely peek its head out of the fog in a couple hours. You were smiling harder and more genuinely than you ever had before, with Neil by your side, and Todd on your other. As they all stood up to leave with boisterous whispers, Neil turned to you.

“Will you come tomorrow? And the next, and every day after that?” His question was so excited, so innocent, like he didn’t know that you would kill for the chance to be near him and everything he held dear.

You smiled. “Of course. I’ll be a dead poet for life.”

Your eighth encounter with Neil was not a lucky twist of fate. He got permission to leave school for some something or other that you never bothered to find out. Now, it was just you two and the big town square looming in front of you.

In truth, it wasn’t that big, but when you’re standing at the beginning of a new day with the boy that holds your heart, everything feels intense.

He took hold of the sleeve of your sweater, as he so often did, and you descended upon the shops.

“Come on, you’ve absolutely got to try the milkshakes at Tom’s Ice Cream Parlor! They’re just the best. Hurry, hurry!” He tugged you along, a bright smile on his face. God, how you loved him.

You had grown closer in the past five dead poets society meetings. Often, he would stay with you in the cave long after the meetings had ended. You would talk about whatever crossed your mind in the moment, and he would spin stories out of thin air. He didn’t ever seem to talk about real life things, though. His work at school, sure, but anything outside of that was uncharted territory. When you asked him about his family, he just clammed up.

You laughed as he weaved through the clumps of people with you in tow. “Slow down, Neil! You’re gonna get us killed.”

The sound of your voice, especially your laugh, was something Neil had come to relish. He would keep you talking all day if it meant he could hear that giddy ring in his ears every time he craved your presence. “You’ve just got to go faster. The line is horrific at this time of day.” 

“This place had better be good.”

“It is, believe me. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

When you arrived, bodies hot and just a little uncomfortably sweaty, the sight of the ice cream parlor was a welcome one. He led you through the doors and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. You wished you could do it for him. The line was, unsurprisingly, quite long. You made idle chat, but his words fell on deaf ears as you stared at him.

“…he was real impressed when Charlie played his sax. Mr. Nolan, though, he definitely wasn’t-“ And, before you could think about it, before the screaming in your head could tell you no, you reached up and smoothed the cowlick that always seemed to mess up his part. When you pulled your hand away, he was beaming.

“Thanks.” He said, simply. You smiled back at him.

“No problem. So, what happened to Charlie afterwards?” You questioned. Neil gave you a look, one you had come to realize meant “I’ll tell you later”.

As you stood three people away from the front counter, Neil fumbled around in his pockets. “Shoot, I could’ve sworn I brought more money than this…” He muttered. He pulled out a dime and three pennies, all slightly covered in the fuzz from his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry. I don’t know, I must’ve spaced out- I’m usually so good about things like this.”

You took his arm with one hand and slipped the other in your pocket, rooting around for any spare change you had. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I have more than enough.”

You did not, in fact, have more than enough. You had a single quarter and a spare button. Pooled together, you could get exactly one milkshake and have his three pennies left over. Neil looked at you regretfully.

“You take it. I’ll get one another time.” He said, putting on a smile. “I’ve had too many sweet things today anyways.”

You would not accept this as an answer. Not here, not now. He deserved all the good things life had to offer, and you would be damned if he didn’t get them- starting with this milkshake. “It’s alright, you have it.”

Neil looked at you with furrowed eyebrows. “You should have it, really.” He would be damned if you didn’t get what he dragged you out here to experience. If he could see your face, smiling and sticky-lipped, after taking a sip from something he contributed to, he would be the happiest man on earth. 

The back-and-forth was getting nowhere and you both knew it. “Why don’t we just share it then? Ask for two straws?” You sighed. “It’s the best solution.”

He paused. It wasn’t ideal, and it wasn’t the life he wanted to give you (if this was any indicator), but it would work. Everything would work as long as you were there. “Okay. Yeah, let’s do that.”

There was another quick conversation about which flavor to choose, but you settled on one that you both liked equal amounts. You discovered that he had far different tastes than you milkshake-wise. If you were any less filtered, you would’ve told him his opinions were downright wrong.

You sat with him, smiling so hard you thought your face would break as he finally told you what happened to Charlie. Apparently, Nolan had reprimanded him as he so often had to do, but Charlie couldn’t stop smiling during the lecture. Eventually, Nolan just stopped mid-sentence and ushered the boy out the door. Apparently nothing and no one could ever crush Charlie’s spirit, not even the hardships of wooden rulers.

You leaned in to take a sip absentmindedly. As you reached your straw, you felt the tip of Neil’s nose brush against yours, and you realized you were so close to him you were almost kissing. You pulled back quickly, a hotness enveloping your cheeks.

“Sorry.” You uttered, trying not to look him in the eye. You were so mortified you almost killed yourself on the spot.

Neil, however, was overjoyed. He felt your breath on his chin and it was all he could think about. You, close to him, like you would’ve touched him if you hadn’t pulled away. He relished the feeling.

He shrugged, trying in vain to make it seem like he was just simply all right with it. “It wasn’t a problem,” He said, before noticing that the milkshake was running dangerously low. “Hey, why don’t you take the last sip?”

You cocked your head slightly. “Why?”

“Because I never want to be the one to end it.” He grinned. You shook your head, the corners of your lips rising up as he let out a little laugh. You adored his laugh.

“If you say so.”

That conversation stuck with you a long time after it happened.

It took four more dead poets meetings for Neil to ask you to go somewhere with him again. By the twelfth experience, though, you knew him like the back of your hand.

He loved acting. Loved it. He loved it so desperately that he was willing to face the wrath of his father to pursue the play he was casted in. Oh, and you learned about his father through whispers, mostly from Charlie. Neil, he told you, would never say a word about him. Tyrannical, inhospitable, red-hot like fire and ice-cold like ice. You knew of his mother, too, and her quiet indifference. Neil held a special place in his heart for Todd, the new boy at Welton. He loved puppies and poetry and soft scarves. Not the scratchy ones, as those irritated his neck. He wanted to be an actor in the future, but his father wanted him to be a doctor. He loved so many things, and yet could not have them; however, he definitely hated when people felt sorry for him.

So, you weren’t sorry. You felt his desires like a burning in your gut, stripped away piece by piece, but you were not sorry. You loved him.

You needed him to be fulfilled in every way possible, and you were not sorry. He was going through so many conflicting things, and you were not sorry. You were hopeful.

Life would turn around, you told him. He would see. In ten years, he would be on Broadway, waving at you and Todd and Charlie from the stage. He would be great, and you knew it.

“I’ve never skated like this before. Are you sure it’s safe?” You asked, standing at the edge of Welton’s lake. It was late in fall, with powdery snow dusting the edges of the ground, but the lake may have been in the process of freezing still. Neil took your gloved hands.

“Trust me, it’s good.”

He often asked you to trust him, and you always did. There was just something in his deep, dark eyes that whispered exactly how strong he was.

You took a tentative step onto the ice, nose already feeling the cold burn of pre-winter air. The ground under your feet was slick, but it held. Neil walked backwards, gently guiding you, and you followed.

You found a sort of rhythm in the movements, pushing off with your feet and letting them slide forward on the ice. Neil’s face was tinged with red as you skated on flat shoes, never letting go of your hands. You laughed, truly and honestly. The world spun around you in a blur, white and brown and beautiful. The air snuck through the gaps on your clothes, but you did not care. In that second, it was just you and Neil and the most beautiful day you had ever known.

His eyes softened when he looked at you. Even through the lack of words, he knew exactly what you were thinking. That crinkle by your eyes, the curve of your lips, your laugh. You were content, happy even, because he brought you here. When you reached the middle of the lake, leaning against him, trusting him, he felt a fluttering in his stomach. 

Throughout his days with you, he had come to discover the person behind the book, behind the shy smile. He could firmly say that he knew you, and he loved you even more for it.

He knew your favorite book, which jokes made you laugh so hard tears formed in your eyes, your favorite ice cream flavor. It wasn’t his, but it was completely and entirely you. There was nothing he adored more in the world than you.

You stared at him with a smile gracing your lips as you came to a stop. He reached his hand up to your face and brushed a small snowflake away from the corner of your mouth gently. His hands were soft.

He leaned in closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his face. It was now or never, he thought. Carpe diem.

Neil pressed his lips to yours, and all of your feelings exploded from your connected flesh like dynamite.

He was warm, so warm. You kissed him fervently with your arms wrapped around his shoulders like you were dancing. He had finally done it, put to action the kind thoughts he had expressed, and you were glowing. There were stars in your tightly shut eyes, and you reveled in how they spun.

Neil’s mind was racing as you didn’t pull away. He didn’t know what he expected, but you pulling him closer was not his first thought. He most definitely didn’t mind.

When you finally broke the kiss, you were both panting feverishly and looking starved for more. Your combined breaths hung in front of your faces.

“We should do that again.” He whispered. You huffed a laugh, feeling every bit as blushy as he looked.

“Only if you’re okay with never stopping.”

It was a week and a half before Neil’s big play, and the twenty-fourth (maybe twenty-fifth, you had lost count) time you saw him. It was also your tenth official date.

“Date” may have been a loose term, as it was more practicing lines than talking, but the atmosphere was quiet and calm at the café you sat in. There were grainy pictures of favorite customers on the wall and the chairs were just the right amount of wobbly. It felt like a place where you could relax without abandon. Neil’s hand was on top of yours and he was staring deep into your eyes as he spoke line after line, trying to steel his nerves and push past the stress of his approaching deadline.

“If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumber’d here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream, gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: and, as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck…” He hesitated for a moment, eyes unfocused. You squeezed his hand in support and he gave you a small smile. Clearing his throat, he continued. “…now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue, we will make amends ere long; else the Puck a liar call; so, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.” 

You gave a quiet cheer and clasped your hands together. “I think that was your best runthrough yet! I’m so proud of you.”

His eyes lit up as he gazed at you bashfully. “You think?”

“Absolutely. You’re good, you’re really good. You could probably perform tomorrow if you wanted to.” He smiled and ran his fingers over his fleece sleeves as you spoke. If you were in the audience, he was sure he would be able to do anything. “In fact, you could perform any time you wanted to. You’re just that amazing.”

You were so impressed by the sheer amount of talent and emotion he had that you just couldn’t help but smother him in compliments. Every single one was true.

Neil tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, blushing like a madman. Every time you said something kind about him, his heart leapt for joy. “What about you? What have you been working on?” He posed. He had heard your poetry before, of course, but you always seemed to be creating something new.

You pulled out a book from the bag sitting next to you and flipped around. There was one specific poem you wanted him to hear. One you had written about him.

When you found it, you turned the book sideways so you both could see and pointed at it. “This one.” Neil tilted his head, opening his mouth to read it aloud. “I think, 

if I was blind,

I would still know your face.

The curve of your nose would call to me

and your eyelids would flutter under my touch.

There is no one else, no one at all

who could make the pads of my fingers

see the entire world.”

He gazed up at you with a starstruck expression. “Is this about anyone in particular?” Neil leaned forward and dipped his head down to rest on his propped-up hand. He had a grin on his face. He absolutely knew who it was about.

“I wrote that one for Meeks. He’s just so cute, don’t you think?” You teased. Neil’s mouth dropped open as his expression turned to comical shock. 

“I’m wounded, my love! How dare you.” He shouted, throwing his arms up. You started laughing as he continued his theatrical expressions, much to the dismay of the café workers.

“Be careful, we might get thrown out!”

“I’ll throw you out myself if you don’t stop laughing at my demise.” He furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched his nose as you giggled from your seat. “I’m so lucky to have you.” He murmured, suddenly as soft as a spring rain. You ran your fingers over his hand underneath the table, finding every groove like it was your own.

“And I’m lucky to have you. I love you, you know.” 

Neil smiled gently. “I love you too. So much.”

You sat in that café for a few hours more, until the workers had to politely remind you of their closing hours. You laughed and talked and felt the sheer joy of being with the boy you had begun to consider your soulmate. He was a star, shining his light and illuminating you with his rays. Too often, however, the brightest lights fade within the snap of a finger.

“I hope that when I die,” Neil wrote, right before your thirty-first meeting,

“God will send me back to Earth.

He will say,

‘Live again. Run again,

hope again,

plunge your body into ice-cold water again. 

Hate again, 

and cry again,

run your fingers through the grass again.

Kiss them again, 

press your palms to their faces again,

and lose them again.

Let yourself feel again,

and never forget

that life is what matters, 

not death.’

And I will say,

‘I promise

to do everything I have ever told myself I could not do

again and again and again.’”

He closed his journal with a thump and tucked it into his drawer calmly. That was something he would rather not share with anyone, not even you. 

The day was cold and drizzly, but he stood up with a kind of manic smile. He walked out of the doors of Welton and into your awaiting arms.

You both sat down on a park bench under the cover of a tree. Your seats were slightly wet and very cold, but it didn’t matter all that much. You were just glad to be there with him, with Neil. He was the love of your life, and any time with him was well-spent.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked softly. He was the same as he always was, you thought. But his eyes were welling up with tears and you just felt the need to ask, like some unearthly force was telling you that you needed to.

He leaned back, putting his arm around the back of the bench with a sigh. “I’m trapped.” He was smiling, but there was such an utter lack of humor behind it that it made you shiver. You shifted closer to him, leaning your head on his shoulder as a silent sign of comfort. By this point, knew everything there was to know about Neil Perry- even the parts he tried to keep hidden.

“How so?”

“I don’t even know, I just… I want to be an actor. That is what I want to do for the rest of my life. But I can’t, and I’m trapped, and no one can help me, no matter how much they try.” His voice was sullen, but he was still smiling. Curse him for trying to make you feel better even then.

You placed a kiss on the back of his hand and threaded your fingers through his. Your heart ached for him. You knew there was nothing you could do about it, though, and that’s what made it even harder. Holding his hand, telling him it’ll all work out, everything ultimately did nothing for his situation, and you cursed the being that forced him into this position. If you could scream into the night, into the big, black sky to execrate the universe, you would. You did, in the future. You regretted not doing it sooner.

“I’m sorry.” You started, squeezing his hand. “ Just keep going, alright? I promise you, in the future, none of this will matter at all. You just have to stick with it. The world will find a way of figuring it out.”

His face formed a more genuine smile as he laid his head on top of yours. “Yeah. I guess it will.”

The last time Neil Perry saw you was the night he had been anticipating, dreaming about, and dreading: the night of his play. He was prepared. He knew every line and cue by heart, and yet he was still nervous. He was so nervous he could hardly think. 

He stood behind the curtains listening to the chatter of the audience. The rest of the cast members and some of the technicians were scrambling to put everything in place, but he just stared at the dark walls of fabric separating him from his new life. That was it. He was going to put on the best performance of his goddamn life.

The lights dimmed, and he stepped away to take his place.

When it was finally time for him to make his entrance, Neil did it with flourish. “How now, spirit! whither wander you?” He spoke. Cheers came from the audience, whoops and hollers from the dead poets. He could hardly keep himself from smiling.

Then, he saw you. You were grinning wide and large from your seat, giving him that quiet encouragement he had always loved. You whispered his name, and Neil could hear it in his heart.

He was having fun. So much fun. With every line he spoke, with every movement he made, Neil was sinking deeper and deeper into the play and his love for acting. He didn’t remember the last time he had ever felt that alive. 

But with every sinking, there comes a point where one drowns.

His father was there. When had he come? Neil hadn’t seen him before. God. He was burning a hole in the back of his head with his piercing gaze, and it took everything in Neil not to turn and run. That was it, he thought. He was done. But gods be good, he was going to finish his play. He would not let his father ruin this for him.

By the time he was speaking his last lines, the ones he had practiced with you, he barely remembered his father was part of the audience. The curtains closed, and the audience exploded into cheers. He could hear your voice, he swore he could- he was the happiest man on Earth. He had put on the performance of his lifetime, and he couldn’t be more proud. Until, of course, he was dragged out the door by his father.

He was back home before he had even registered his father’s anger. All he could feel was emptiness as the gnawing hole in his stomach expanded to encompass his entire being.

“We're trying very hard to understand why it is that you insist on defying us. Whatever the reason, we're not gonna let you ruin your life. Tomorrow I'm withdrawing you from Welton and enrolling you in Braden Military School. You're going to Harvard and you're gonna be a doctor.” His father stated, eyes sharp. Neil let out a noise of protest.

“But that's ten more years. Father, that's a lifetime! I won’t be able to see any of them again, not one person I knew before. You can’t do this to me, you just can’t.” Tears formed in Neil’s eyes, and as he looked at his mother, she was feeling the same way. And yet she said nothing. He could feel himself becoming increasingly more desperate. 

His father scoffed. “Oh, stop it. Don't be so dramatic. You make it sound like a prison term. You don't understand, Neil. You have opportunities that I never even dreamt of and I am not going to let you waste them.”

Neil rose to his feet, suddenly angry. He needed to fight for this, for himself. He couldn’t just let one man take away everything he had ever loved. If he couldn’t see you, his friends, if he couldn’t act, there was no purpose in his life. “I've got to tell you what I feel.”

Neil’s mother reached for him. “We’ve been so worried about-“ 

“What? What? Tell me what you feel. What is it? Is it more of this, this acting business? Because you can forget that. What?” And just like that, it was gone. Neil sat back down, staring blankly at his lap. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything because he was just a stupid boy who wouldn’t listen. His father scoffed once again before leaving the room.

His mother, ever the soft one, paused.

“I was good. I was really good.” He whispered. She sighed, urging him to his feet. 

“Go on, get some sleep.”

Neil nodded, still in a trance, before trudging to his room. That was it. He was done. He would never see you again, no matter what, and it hurt him so badly he didn’t know what else to do. He ran his fingers over his things lightly before removing his shirt. That was it. He grasped his crown of twigs and placed it on his head, staring out through his open window. The cool air kissed his body sweetly, like your lips on a rainy day. He took a deep breath.

It was time for his last act, his curtain call, his final carpe diem. There was no warning, and yet there did not need to be one. That night, that cold, bitter night, he knew what he needed to do. 

The last time you saw Neil Perry, he didn’t see you. He couldn’t see you. It was December 18th, and you had been asked to read a poem at his funeral. 

God, the word “funeral” hit you like a train. Neil was dead. His sweet demeanor, his gentle words, his soft hair, they were all going to be covered in dirt within the next few hours. You couldn’t stand it. The world needed so much more of him, but terribly, horribly, the world did not deserve it. No one deserved him.

It was odd, you thought, how the sound of one gunshot could replay over and over again in your mind without you ever having heard it at all. The boom, the thud, the scream. It was all so clear in your mind.

As the priest spoke, you felt an emptiness pool in your guts. He was really gone. Your Neil, your poor Neil. You sat between Charlie and Todd, all three of your faces streaked with tears. You could feel more welling up in your eyes, and you let them free without a care. Neil was dead, and nothing else in the world mattered.

In a way, you couldn’t believe it. He was just here, warm and happy and yours. When you got that phone call, you almost joined him. Nothing was worth it anymore, nothing at all. The eulogies, the sobs, they faded into the background as you stared down at the ground.

Before you knew what was happening, you were standing at a podium with a piece of paper clutched between your shaking fingers. Neil’s mom looked up at you in silent support.

You took a breath, so much like the breaths you always took before reading a poem and yet so different. Neil could not hear this one.

“When you died,

the beetles still sang.

The trout still jumped,

and the earth still rumbled.

When you died, the moon still turned

and the stars still burned.

When you died,” Your voice cracked. Looking out into the audience, at people you didn’t know and people you knew so well you could identify them by a strand of their hair, it was too much. Hot tears slipped their way down your face as the pit in your stomach grew ever-wider. 

“The lakes still rippled 

and the trees still creaked

and I lowered you into the ground

and I cried so hard the world stopped moving.” 

There was a murmur throughout the audience, choked sobs and utters of agreement. “For Neil, who lived as he died and died as he lived.” You rasped.

You were quickly ushered away from the podium and back into your seat.

Neil was one in a million. There was no one else in the history of ever that could make you feel so amazing. Like you were a real person, like you mattered. He made everyone feel that way, but something in him burned for you in a way that you believed was unique. And, of course, you burned for him the same. 

The rest of the service went by in a blur. Everyone around you began to get up, and you knew it was time. As you sat there, still as a rock, when everyone went to say their final farewells, you were extinguished. 

You felt a gentle tap on your shoulder. When you looked up from your tear-soaked lap, Todd was there, and he clasped your hand. “Let’s go.” He whispered. “Let’s say goodbye.”

You pulled a page from the book by your feet and shoved it into your pocket. It was for him, it always was and it always had been.

“In some other universe, I found you again.

Maybe in this one we held hands, gently and honestly,

or leaned against each other’s shoulders on the train,

or sobbed against each other’s shirts when we crashed and burned,

because anything with you

means flying too close to the sun.” It read. 

As you stood in front of his casket, you could hardly bear to focus on his pale face.

He was cold, so cold. The embalmer had done well with his head, but there was so much that just looked off. He didn’t look like your Neil. He looked empty. You gripped his hand and brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. It was winter, and he was colder and paler than the snow.

You held him far longer than what was deemed socially acceptable before tucking the page into his lapel and swiftly walking away.

You weren’t there for his burial, and you knew you couldn’t be. It was just too much. If you had seen his casket close, if you had watched them shovel dirt on top of the wooden box, you would’ve dropped to your knees and screamed. Much like you’re doing now.

You sat on that same old park bench, knees clutched up to your soaked chest, sobbing harder than you ever had before. Your Neil was gone and you could never see him again, not ever.

When you saw Neil Perry for the last time, and god, did you see him, you knew nothing would ever be the same again.

[artfulacrostic]

had my second high definition viewing of atsv in the theater today and here are my favorite details that i missed due to being overwhelmed on my first viewing:

LONG AF POST:

-gwen is literally wearing a rainbow shaped trans pride pin on her jacket with her prom outfit. she's soooo so canon trans <3

-captain stacy HAS A TRANS FLAG PATCH ON HIS POLICE UNIFORM JACKET?????? when i'm telling u my eyes popped out of my head 😳 SHES SO CANON TRANS!!!

-poster outside miles's guidance counselor's office reads: "visions sciences: telling you your story".

-parallel of miles's and gwen's dad kicking things out of general exasperation towards the beginning and end of the movie respectively

-when miles as spidey is talking to his dad and giving him advice (for himself) there's a reference to miles possibly reading vonnegut? (maybe in class??) "if this isn't nice what is" is a collection of kurt vonnegut's commencement speeches. (literally subtitled "advice to the young". the writers were extremely clever for this reference. if not reading it in class, miles has been searching up life advice on his own)

-i barely caught this but i'm PRETTY sure that in miles' room near his door there's a MICHELLE OBAMA presidential race sticker??? was president obama in the earth-1610 dimension michelle obama?? iconic if so

-fedex on earth-1610 is REDEX

-gayatri seems like they took elements of both gwen (police dad) and mj (young model) for her background as i believe i caught her visible on a "zomato" ad billboard (which appears to be the earth-50101 version of ubereats)

-i spent all of hobie's scenes trying to pick up the details of his many pins; but the only one that i could really make out with the quick shot changes besides the union jack pin was the one right above it, which is a three-leaf clover. i wondered if maybe it had some kind of significance to maybe irish independence or smth but i couldn't find anything online that backed that up so not sure what it means. if u know pls drop it in the replies.

-hobie's boots are definitely NOT ladder laced. i KNOW there is concept art and poster art of him with ladder laces but in the actual movie they are 100% crossed. also unlike the poster art, both boots have blue laces, not one blue, one yellow/orange. i wanted to be all on board the ladder lace code train but i'm pretty sure they just made his laces blue so that they could contrast against the red boots and be spidey colors. they probably abandoned the ladder lace part of the visual when someone realized what blue ladder laces meant in lace code. "HAS hobie killed a cop," you ask? given his comic backstory i'd say the odds are HIGH. but i would bet they didn't want people to think that since he's gone through canon event asm-90 ("a police captain close to spider-man is killed by falling rubble during a battle with a nemesis") that there's any possibility THAT was the cop he killed and he's proud of it (since it's supposed to be all abt character development from the ✨trauma✨ of the event)

-during the whole "intervention" scene, while all the other spider-people are facing directly in towards miles and miguel from wherever they are standing in the circle, hobie is the only one whose back is turned. he watches most of the scene over his shoulder. also, during a couple shots facing miles before the entire society of spiders show up, hobie is separated in the shot from all the other main spiders (Peter B, Gwen, Jess, etc) BY MILES. he is visible over one shoulder and everybody else is visible over the other. these two details are great signals of hobie having already MORALLY turned his back on miguel's authoritarianism, as well as giving a nice inverted "devil/angel on the shoulders" nod.

-peter b asks miguel to take a picture of him and mayday since it's her first chase; miguel brushes him off but mayday understands and uses her webshooter to click the camera button on peter b's phone and take a selfie without him noticing 😂😂😂 shes everything to me

-when miguel is pinning miles to the train, after gwen and peter b have caught up, there is a very fast moment when miles calls for help ("PETER!!") and peter doesn't reply to him, but calls out to miguel to calm down (smth like that) instead 🥲 peter for the love of god step up your mentor game and look out for this kid i can't handle it anymore

-when gwen takes the watch hobie made her out of the box, the screen is briefly visible and reads "project botleg". bootleg -> bot -> "botleg"; I SEE YOU HOBIE. people think he's so cool (and he is!!) but he's also just as much of a dork as all the other spiders. what a goofball

-in miles-42's room, a speed bag/speed ball/maize ball is attached to his wall near the door. there are other substantial differences to their rooms, but i think this is clearly a reference to uncle aaron-42's large presence in miles-42's life, given the association from both movies of aaron with the punching bag and miles getting guidance from him/looking to him for support.

-in addition to all the miles-1610 vs miles-42 prowler vs spidey reflection imagery in the end credits, guess who else has several moments of flashing from spider-man colors (red and black at least) to prowler colors (purple and green)?? miguel, that's who. miguel and miles-42/uncle aaron-42 team-up in beyond the spiderverse? or just an extra parallel for the antagonists sharing goals/possibly methods?

OKAY ANYWAY if ppl want i can try and dig up images of some of these but i figured that would make this post long af so that's all for now folks!! go see across the spider verse again and marvel at how much more fine detail you find like me 🕸🕸🕸