#and if i end up being less tired i will maybe try and draw something for everyone at a later stage

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

Some mild existential dread in the house today

[riftclaw]

i’ve been pretty busy so i don’t have a lot of time to draw as much as i want to right now but i wanted to doodle a little something of @bunnymajo‘s quake bc i think out of all the ocs in @sonic-oc-showdown she might be my favourite

As of posting this there’s still about 3 hours left on the poll if you also think she’s really cute.

[after-witch]

Dreaming Seamless Dreams [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: Dreaming Seamless Dreams [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Synopsis: Follow-up to And The Danger Danger Drawing Near Them. what happens when Shigaraki Tomura decides he gets to keep you?

Word count: 3000ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, non-graphic noncon, noncon groping, depression, loss of appetite

When it’s quiet–which is not always, depending on who decides to stay awake and how soundproof the current hideout is–you think too much.

Like right now. It’s too quiet, and your thoughts are starting to hop around. Jumping from thought to thought. Thoughts about the rose-tinted past, the uncertain future–though the future was perhaps not any less uncertain than your present. 

It becomes too much, too easily. Tears inevitably pool in your eyes. Your throat gets tight, your stomach hurts. You curl up and curl up until you can’t possibly twist inward anymore than you already are, leaving you with one pitiful lament: 

Why do you have to think so damned much? 

Maybe it’s because Shigaraki isn’t here at the moment. He’s talking to the League, you think. It must be at the other end of the building, because you don’t hear a peep from anyone. No arguments, no shouts, no excited agreements on what hero they were going to try to kill next. 

Just you and your thoughts and the dim buzz of the world at night. Insects, somewhere outside. The occasional groan of a night wind. The sound of the world itself, fuzzy, buzzy in the background. 

And when you’re actually alone in bed like this, arm curled up against the pillows propped under your head, tucked into a blanket, you can pretend. Pretend that it’s your bed, in your room, and with the quiet and lack of your captor here, well–

It’s almost like it was before.

The thought hits your gut hard. Tears instinctively reach your eyes, and you’re glad Shigaraki isn’t here to wipe them away. You do it yourself, like you would have done before all this. You didn’t appreciate your life enough, you’ve since realized. 

A quiet life where all you did was work your job and come home and occasionally go out with friends for little things. Coffee dates, heading to the bookstore, shopping for clothes. Ooing-and-ahhing over the little changes of life dropped into every conversation. 

A quiet life where you were free to do what you wanted, when you wanted. Where you weren’t a prisoner (not that he’d call you that, no matter how many times you said it earlier on) bound to the whims of someone who claimed to love you, even though his love was more want than love.

A quiet life where you didn’t hear people talking about destroying the world through the wall. 

The thought gets choked out when your breath hitches. It hurts too much to think about, the loss of your old life. 

And anyway–

The door creaks open and Shigaraki pauses in it. Like a monster in the closet doorway, hovering, waiting for just the right moment to strike.  

Your eyes squeeze shut like a child, willing the image of genuine sleep to project over you like some sort of hazy fairy tale. Willing yourself, too, not to take a peek and look at him. If you don’t see the monster, it doesn’t see you. Or so you used to think, as a child. When naivety was normal, and not wish-fulfillment. 

Maybe tonight, he’ll go to bed without demanding something from you. Maybe you can pretend to be home, in your own bed, and ignore the hum of his wants. 

The weight of his gaze covers you like an extra blanket before he mumbles, “I know you’re awake.”

Ah. It’s pointless to keep pretending. So you shift yourself up in the bed and let the blanket drop from your chest, exposing the used t-shirt he gave you to sleep in. One of his, of course. You still don’t look at him, not directly. You settle for staring at his legs. He’s wearing shoes.

“Where were you?” The question comes out softer than you meant it. If you’re too soft, he thinks you’re being sweet on him. The reality is that you’re just too damn tired to argue sometimes. Maybe he knows that, actually; maybe he likes it better that way.

You can hear the damned smirk on his mouth when he finally speaks. 

“Did you miss me?” 

That damned smirk fades, you know this through sheer muscle memory, when your unspoken no hangs in the air between you.

He’ll be annoyed, that you weren’t more receptive to him. That can be bad. It can be good, though, on occasion. When he’s too annoyed, he sometimes decides to huff and puff and leave you alone.

But not always. It can make him angry; make him grab your arm and yank you around, pull you close and remind you of his quirk. Death under his fingers, rot and dust, so stop acting like such a damned brat all the time. 

In the middle, though, there is a strange sort of ambivalence in him when you don’t do what he wants. It’s worse, in some ways, when he acts like this. Like nothing you say has any effect. You’re nothing, weak, a buzzing, useless thing that might as well be quiet for all the good protest does you.

It reminds you just how little say you have in everything.

Because sometimes–like tonight, you realize, in just a few moments–it doesn’t seem to matter much to him at all. Because in the stretch of a few moments, he’s on the bed, tugging off his shoes and tossing them to the floor with a loud clunk. 

Because he doesn’t just remove his shoes–his trousers and shirt goes with it, leaving him in his boxer shorts and worn-out socks and nothing else. 

“I don’t–” you begin, when he begins to crawl his way up the mattress, towards you, towards the blanket you feebly bring up against your t-shirt clad chest. The words get stuck in your throat as he grips the blanket, a finger on each hand carefully tucked to the side, and yanks it down.

You don’t miss the warmth so much as you miss the ghost of protection it gave you. 

“Wait,” you try again, as his body takes the place of the blanket. Just as warm, but far more intrusive, caging you in with nowhere to go. His hair hangs down against his cheeks as he takes 

you in, and even in the dimness of the room–the moon filtering in through tattered curtains letting you see enough–his intentions are apparent. 

Before you can protest further, his hands are on you. He unceremoniously gropes your chest and you let out an awkward sound that is far too much like a pathetic bleat as his fingers grope and squeeze; first your chest, then down, down, past your stomach and lower. Tickling and itching and unwanted.

“Stop.” The word finally comes out, peeled off like an old bandage. “I don’t–I don’t want you to–not right now. Not tonight.” You can’t fend him off forever. You know that. But when he’s good–and this is a stretch of the word, you know–he does listen to you. 

He’s not listening now.

Because he doesn’t stop. Instead he leans forward, and presses a hot kiss against your mouth. There’s too much warmth, from his breath, his tongue, his body against yours. 

“Not tonight,” he tells you, batting aside your protests like a gnat. Another kiss against your mouth, and you fight the urge to press it shut. “I want you,” he continues, voice lower, darker. His fingers flutter against the edge of the shirt and lift it up, pushing it against your collar bones, exposing you fully.

His breath comes in slow and he leans back just a little, taking you in. What must be your flushed expression, you think. Helpless and prone under him, bound to his whims.

Bound to listen to his thoughts, too, when they come low and sickly sweet. 

“You’re so pretty, you know?” 

So you’ve said, you think, bitterly, as his hands go to pull down the waistband of his trousers.

“Shigaraki–”

“Tomura,” he corrects. There’s a force behind his voice that wasn’t there before, and you feel yourself shrink inside. 

“Tomura,” you force out, even though the name tastes dry on your tongue. But maybe if you act sweeter, he’ll listen. Maybe so. “Please. I don’t want to.”

Maybe he considers it. Maybe not. Regardless, he leans in again, this time pressing his kisses against your neck. Your chin jerks up slowly at the sensation. It’s not the first time, not the last time either, that he gives you hickies. 

“Well, I do want to,” he murmurs, the words melting into your skin with his breath. He must feel you still underneath him, the way you stiffen, the way your breath comes in tighter. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it feels good. I promise.” His teeth drag against your skin and you feel his fingers fumble against your underwear.

You will hate yourself in the morning for the relief you find in his promise. 

–

It gets harder to live like this. Harder to do anything other than sleep and cry and regret. Some days, you don’t get out of bed at all. You don’t eat, you can’t be bothered to ask for a shower or even a toothbrush. Thoughts of treats–books you want to read, a game you’d like to play–get pushed to the back of your brain with anything else that no longer matters much. 

Why bother, when the world is coming out so wrong? 

It is Tomura who tries to drag some life out of you. Tomura who makes you shower, who watches you eat, who tells you to get up and walk around the room. Who sits you down in front of a video game and shoves the player two controller into your hands and says, curtly, “Don’t make me die on this level or you’ll regret it.”

One day you even tell him that it’s hypocritical, because he doesn’t take great care of himself. How often does he subsist on scraps of junk? How often does he sleep too little, or not at all? It’s bullshit, to expect you to do all of that when he can’t be bothered.

At this, his expression shifts and you almost start to feel sick with worry, but then, it becomes clear. He looks–happy. Not happy like he is when you submit underneath him, a greasy sort of joy that makes your stomach hurt.

But almost–light. Almost bright. Almost a sort of happiness that peels away a layer on him and shows you something else underneath. 

“You’re worried about me, huh?”

It’s a slap in the face. It’s also, sort of, maybe, a little bit true. 

“I’m not,” is all you can say, but he only smiles and shakes his head. 

“It’s cute,” he says, before pointing at your half-finished meal. Some yogurt with a vague fruity flavor, a piece of bread, some slices of beef that was too overdone. “Now eat the rest. You need protein.” 

It’s ridiculous, the way he hovers over your meals sometimes. Usually just on the days where you don’t want to get out of bed or do anything but stare at the wall and contemplate how life led you here. 

You stab at the yogurt with your spoon and have half a mind to throw it at him. Only half, though, so you have to be satisfied with your yogurt-stabbing. Petty thought it is. 

“Don’t test me,” he says, that edge of warning still there–always there, you think. Always ready to be pulled out of his pockets like a bare hand, all 5 fingers at the ready. “Just because you’re cute doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want.”

He’s right on that mark, at least. What you want doesn’t matter anymore. 

What hurts the most is the question that immediately comes afterward, like an unwanted fly in the house: 

Did it ever matter? 

–

“It hurts.” Your voice rings hollow, even to your own ears, despite the earnest wish to put some truly nasty petulance behind it. But true petulance, the kind that made your gut warm and brain smarmy, required an energy you no longer had; not here, in these cramped spaces, this isolating life. 

(Isolating, you think, but not isolated. Not with the leader of the League of Villains clinging to your every breath. Not with the constant chatter and clatter of the League, sometimes far away, sometimes right on the other side of the wall.)

Tomura Shigaraki’s hands still, and the comb gripped in not-quite-all of his fingers goes still against your scalp. For a moment, you think he’ll huff out a sigh, and threaten to punish you. Tie you to the headboard or the radiator and leave you there to think about things; 

“It wouldn’t hurt,” he says, continuing to tug with the comb, “if you would stop squirming.” A nearly fruitless effort on his part: while you’d relished the initial gifts of self-care you were given once you “calmed down enough,” you eventually realized there was no point to it. 

Why bathe, why keep your hair nice, why do anything at all but lie down in whatever bed you were given at the latest League hideout and contemplate the utter shithole of your existence?

Easier to rot in bed, to cry yourself to sleep, to squeeze your eyes shut and try to block out his arms around you, his breath on your neck. His words in your ears; how much he loves you, he wants you, you’re his-his-his.

Nothing to be gained, from a life like that. No, that’s not quite right, is it? You do have one thing–and it’s a modest consideration, in your isolated, depressing world. But even you can’t deny the satisfaction of bothering him.

It’s the one thing you still have any control over, after all. 

“I wouldn’t be squirming,” you shoot back, voice tight and tart, “if you weren’t combing my hair.” 

There is something satisfying in the brief stillness that follows–the quiet shock when your barbs have just enough audacity to make him shut up–before the air crackles with a familiar heavy irritation. 

You know what’s coming even before he does it.

“You–” He bites down on the word, foregoing the comb to scratch at his own neck. When you crane your own neck to see, there they are: the scratches, which might turn into deeper gouges depending on how his mood shifts. Enough to bleed, sometimes, depending on how hard he digs. 

It’s enough to make your breath hitch. Uncomfortable memories come flooding in. The days when you were unruly. When you spit in his face. When you told him you hated him, you hoped All Might would kill him, that you’d never feel anything but spite and hate and–it was like you were back in your house. 

Back in the closet with fear making your stomach clench so hard you thought you were going to puke. Back when he destroyed your door and your life in one fell swoop. Back when you heard those damned words–”You’re pretty”--and the world went upside down.

You’d felt nothing but fear that night, being dragged away from your life among strangers–the girl kept tittering and someone made an ugly remark about what he wanted with you and all it had taken was a stern look from Shigaraki and everyone went silent. Except for you, sniffling, crying, begging for this not to happen.

But it did happen, and he took you, and he could be mean but not always. You could tell, when he was going to be mean. There were signs. His voice got tighter and tougher, he snapped more easily. And he scratched, usually. 

Like now, his fingers digging into the skin, with–

Blood. Suddenly there is the familiar taste of it, all warm iron leaking onto your tongue. In your fear and flinching, you must have bit down on your cheek without realizing it and Shigaraki must have realized. 

Must have seen the way you flinched and shrunk into yourself at the sight of him getting too annoyed. Bordering on angry. Bordering on being the Shigaraki on the news who kidnapped you that night, not the one clings to you in bed, who presses kisses to your cheek with scratchy lips, who offers to let you play his video games if you eat your whole lunch this time. 

He likes it better, you think, when you see him like that. 

Because now he’s cursing, crouching, kneeling in front of you with thumbs wiping away the hot messy tears.

“Shh,” he croons. It’s a familiar sensation, too, this feeling of his thumbs rubbing down your cheeks. He does this on the days you don’t get out of bed, sometimes. When the tears simply fall, leaking onto the pillowcase, and you can’t tell him exactly why you started–other than the basic truth. That you want to go home. That you don’t want to be here. 

He keeps it up, this ritual, until you stop sniffling; until your body comes down from the mountain high of anxiety and lets you sail down to something a bit more like a gentle calm.

He waits until you look at him again, eyes all puffy, to speak. His voice is softer now. Less irritation, and more instruction. Like you’re some beloved pet who needs to be talked to before they go off to the veterinarian for their shots.

“If I don’t take care of your hair,” he says, and a thumb reaches over to tuck a piece behind your ear, “you’ll get knots.” He picks up the comb again, and this time you feel too worn out to fight. “You could get infections on your scalp.” To this, you murmur, something noncommittal. 

A bit of a smile in his voice–and on his face–now that you’re quiet, letting him do it, even when he hits a knot and it tugs your head sideways. When you sniffle, he coos, and you vow not to sniffle, whimper or anything remotely pathetic for the rest of the night. 

If you can manage it, with what he says next. 

“After this,” he says, and the smile takes on an edge you don’t like, low and warm, “we’ll see about getting you a bath.”

[midnightanxietytm]

He takes his whiskey neat

A/N: Look, I think i was possessed while writing this one /j. It was like 1 am and I was procrastination on college work, I dunno what happened but this is the ungodly spawn of my imagination mixed with sleep deprivation, caffeine and stress. Enjoy and don't question it too much

Contents: Ford Pines x reader, pinning (lots of pining), I pictured reader in their late 40s to early 50s so there is an age gap but nothing extreme. There's some plot in those holes. uhhh lots of tension and no payoff because im pretty sure I passed out before I got to that part.

Word count: 996

There’s this look on his eyes now that you can’t quite figure out.

Ever since Stanford Pines came back from the portal, ever since weirdmageddon and the end of that fateful summer, something about him fundamentally changed. There’s contempt, relief, sure, but there's more to it, something that he keeps deep in that rattling metal-protected brain of his.

And god forbid sometimes you just want to pick him apart entirely, figure out every detail, note it down, absorb it, maybe then his mere presence won’t entice you, mess you, so goddamn much.

It culminates, as all events are bound to do, right before that year’s summer vacation, you blame the heat. 

Soos and Melody took a vacation for themselves, entrusting the shack back to Stan’s less than trustworthy hands, just like old times. Ford slips back into the basement so easily you almost follow him; your mind briefly longing for that nostalgia of being freshly out of college, when you and Ford were easily impressed by the oddness of the world.

You were a prodigy; a good ten years younger than him yet still doing your masters while he did his doctorate, and in the same area with similar themes! Back then, you two were just bright-eyed yet very tired academics… Then Gravity Falls presented itself on a silver platter, and Bill followed through.

You were there, on the day of the portal, or at least, almost there, going back for the thousandth time, expecting no answer to your knocks at the door as usual, only to be met with the fallout of something far worse than refusal.

And then he was back, less jittery, less paranoid and less sleep deprived than he was before at least. But there was that thing in his eyes, that inherent distrust, detachment…? You struggled to find the words and if there’s one thing that you as a scientist can’t deal with is a question that goes unresearched.

So it began; your “research” depended on experiment and to experiment, you firstly decided to get close to your unwilling subject. And you go down the rabbit hole.

You find him in the basement, of course. He’s drawing on loose sheets of paper, some of the discarded pieces lay on the floor, and the cd player by his side is playing just loud enough to muffle your footsteps as you approach him by his right side. “Updating the journal?” You ask, nonchalantly, as if you hadn't obsessively turned each page of his journals before, as if your own handwriting wasn’t squeezed in the first ones before his old muse took all the space left.

Ford just hums, raising his chin slightly, but not his eyes, just to acknowledge the question. “Not really, just trying to get some proportion practice. Looking back, some of my work on the first journal was… Not the best.” 

A chuckle leaves your mouth; “If you say so…” You hum, picking up one of the filled out pages that were pushed aside in the table and pretending to look it over as he places his pen down and looks up at you.

“Any advice?” He asks, and once again you pretend to be paying attention to anything but him and his every movement.

“Not really… I think you’re good.” You place the paper back at the table, leaning against it. “Thought you’d be going through your abstract phase by now, honestly.” And you smirk down at him.

He leans back, crossing his arms; “I fear I’m too logical to have an abstract phase, even my craziest dreams have math and science behind them.” And you both laugh, and your curiosity itches more and more every millisecond.

The next words that leave your mouth were planned and inwardly rehearsed, but they come out natural as a summer breeze. “Every tortured artist has an abstract phase, get on with the times, sixer!” It comes out as a joke, it's a test. And suddenly you’re too nervous to stay there, staring at him and waiting for a rebuttal. You push yourself off the table and zipline to one of the bookshelves, reaching towards the back of it, you pull the ‘eureka whiskey’ and the two cups.

He just watches you for a second, then accepts the cup as you pour him one, then one for yourself. 

And it’s truly the eureka whiskey, because goddamn you just found something in those eyes. 

He takes a sip; “Yeah I guess those portal days would do for some good surrealist pieces at least.”

“I can’t even imagine.” You say.

He smirks, lips inches from his cup. “You can’t…” He takes a sip. “That’s the point of surrealist.” You want his brain under a microscope, you want his breath mixing with yours, you want to never see him again, you want to wake up near him every day.

The curse of science is that in the endeavor to figure out the world, the scientist often loses sight of themselves. 

The witty remarks, the planned lines, the psychological strategies, all fly out of you head and you lean back against his desk. He’s leaned further back now and his chair is turned diagonally towards you and he watches with a smile and those eyes. “What did you see?” It’s almost a whisper, because you think he might actually tell you, and that scares you more than anything.

“Too much…” He swallows, sighs, takes a swing of whiskey and rests the empty cup on the desk. “It was very chaotic, honestly that’s all I want to say…” You sigh, pushing yourself up to sit at his desk, and his head tilts as he watches you. 

“I’m glad you’re back.” You settle, even though it doesn’t even come near to all the things you want to express. He smiles, and his eyes travel down, landing on your hands, holding your barely touched whiskey glass. You follow his gaze, and chuckle. “I’m more of a whine person.”

“I know…”

[plutoispurplw]

Cardigan

Summary: Spencer is having dudes about his feelings towards JJ and reader can't bear it.

Couple: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Spencer being a bad boyfriend, mention of prision and drugs.

A/N: I just write this because haunted of my favorite blonde but ended up in cardigan. Second part is probably in saturday or sunday.

Second part!

All these years for what? He always gonna dude about their relationship.

After he was held hostage with JJ he started to act differently towards you, he was more cold and looked guilty when you tried to hug him.

In a case when you both shared a room, you lay down on the bed by his side, it was almost midnight. You try to move closer to him but he just moves away just a little, you get nervous for a moment but you decide to push the thoughts aside.

"Spencer I wanna talk with you about something important." You look at him in the eyes, sitting against the gray headboard of the bed.

"I notice that you've been acting weird and-"

He didn't let you finish, normally he wouldn’t do that and less in a conversation like this. "Please don't start now Y/N, nothing is happening with me. Let's just sleep okay?" The tone of his voice was annoyed and sounded tired, his facial expression was annoyed

You felt your heart break a little at his words but you tried to mend it by telling yourself that he maybe was frustrated with the case and that you have to stop overthinking.

Nothing was wrong.

You lay down again in the bed and put the beige blanket over your body and his. "Okay, I'm sorry, I was just worried about you and if something was wrong."

His expression changed again and he looked filled with guilt. "Don't apologize, you just were worried. Let's just sleep okay, sweetheart?" It was the name that he called you but it felt like ice against your warm skin. It was burning but you could bear it.

You started to be more worried, maybe he was having problems again with drugs? That would explain the guilty face that receives you when you kiss him.

Questions, that what you had so you started to ask him what was happening but he always denied everything, he thought that you were that stupid?

In the wedding of Rossi, you notice the looks between him and JJ, but you decide to ignore that even if it gives you a bad feeling in your guts, maybe you just were exaggerating.

Weeks later he and you were in the apartment, he was sitting on the couch reading a book, and you approached him and sat on his lap. Normally he would put the book down and kiss you but now he didn't do that, he kept reading like you weren't there.

"Spencer, what's happening?" Your voice was tired this time, you were tired of this, of never knowing what was wrong.

He put the book down and looked at you in the eyes, he looked annoyed by you again, and you felt hurt. "Nothing is happ-"

Now you were the one interrupting him, your voice was louder. "Stop saying that, I know something is wrong so just tell me what is happening."

He put you on the couch and got up, he was pacing around the living room, he looked stressed out and you were just looking at the floor. That's when he starts talking.

When you hear his words your mind when just blank, and your face doesn’t have any emotions for a moment, the only thing that could betray your sadness is that the characteristic light in your gaze is gone.

How he could heal and draw over your scars just to make new ones, scars that would never heal.

After that you started to cry, all your emotions were being poured into your salty tears. He tried to comfort you but you didn't let him.

"You feel something for her?" He stayed quiet, he didn't look at your eyes. That told you everything that you have to know.

How could he love her? You were the one who listened to his rants and facts. You were the one who comforted him when he had nightmares or couldn't sleep because of the memories from prison, from his addiction, from everything bad that happened to him. You were the one who always loved him and the one who would give their life without thinking for him.

"She is married and she has kids Spencer!" You yell at him, anger starts to grow inside you along with the sadness from your broken heart.

"I know," He calmly told you, how could he be calm after breaking your heart?

Maybe you weren't that important to him, maybe you were the consolation prize after all.

"Y/N, I love you, I need you to know that." His hands cupped your face, hands that were always delicate with you, like you were a doll of porcelain. For an instant, you were gonna get closer to kiss him, But you noticed his gaze, filled with guilt and pity for you.

You got up and ran towards the bedroom, the suitcase on the bed while you were filling it with clothes and your things. Tears wetting your clothes and your cheeks.

He then spoke again. "Please wait Y/N, calm down." He tried to hug you from behind you, it felt like he was trying to contain you.

You turn around and push him away from your body, from your embrace. "Stop saying that I need to calm down! You just said that maybe you still love Jennifer, how the fuck do you want me to feel about it?" You yell at him at the top of your lungs. You take a deep breath and keep packing your things.

He let you keep packing the suitcase, he didn't try to stop you again.

When you ended up filling your suitcase you walked to the principal door of the apartment, ready to go anywhere but here, you couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in the same bed where he told you that he loved you for the first time.

When you look back you find him with his eyes crystallized, the guilt was consuming him. Your fool heart broke again at the sight of him like this but your brain didn’t let you go back so you stepped out of the apartment.

After that you came to our friend's house and told her everything, she let you cry on her shoulder and told you to stay and don't go back still.

In the middle of the night, you woke up, wishing that this was just a really bad dream but that didn't happen, you were in the guest room alone.

Now you couldn't sleep without his welcoming warm that embraces you through the most cold nights.

After all, you always gonna be his second choice, the one that he could always count on to comfort him even if he didn't reciprocate your feelings.

You should know better than wanting to hug him and forgive him but you couldn't help that feeling, you thought that he was the love of your life, the father of your kids, the one you would die with.

You put your hand on top of your belly, how you were supposed to tell him that you were pregnant with his child after that? You didn't know what to do.

You felt like an old cardigan under someone's bed waiting to be found again and be used.

[flamingpudding]

Fictober23 Prompt: 22 - "Who takes care of you?"

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: T

Warnings: -

A/N: Originally Cass was supposed to be the one picking up Danny... but I was not confident enough in that deleted part and so Dick's part ended up getting changed and being the last one instead.

Damian blinked at the child sitting at the playpen of the rescued kittens. He was sure there hadn't been anyone before besides this was a restricted area. Only volunteers and the actual workers of the animal shelter were allowed here. He looked around the area, hoping to see someone that could identify as the child's guardian but he was alone in the room with the child and kittens.

"How did you get in here?" He bluntly asked but the child was apparently ignoring him. The boy's back was turned to him and Damian's eyes narrowed. The child was wearing a slightly oversized NASA shirt as well as ratty looking shorts. He had black hair that appeared to be slightly unkempt with a length just enough to prevent Damian from seeing the child's eyes. He stepped over the knee high kitten fence towards the child but then stopped.

The boy was holding one of their smallest kittens they had rescued two days ago. The kitten had refused any milk or food they had offered it. Damian had planned to try and convince it to eat something before the workers would be forced to attempt force feeding. But the boy was holding it and one of the milk bottles was only used for the youngest of kittens. It was eating.

The small child was mumbling something to the kitten and Damian believed he picked up some of the words being: 'You're safe now.', 'I know it hurts but you gotta eat.', 'Being lost is always scary.', 'I am sure everyone is worried.'.

Under normal circumstances Damian would be suspicious of this boy but right now he was more relieved that the little one they all had been worried about was finally eating something. He would have to thank this little boy and his guardian. Maybe the boy even planned to give that little kitten a home with him.

With a small fond smile Damian decided to let the boy be and turned to feet the other kittens that were already excitingly climbing up his leg for their meal in his hands. He hadn't watched the child for less than five minutes but when he turned back to ask that child about his guardian.

The boy was gone. The feeding bottle was propped onto the fence in a way that allowed the little kittens to still feed off it. It was like the boy had never been there. Damian hadn't heard the door of the room open and close either. Nor the typical rustling of clothes when one stands up. He narrowed his eyes at the spot where the child had been.

Even when asking the other volunteers and workers. No one else appeared to have seen the child he had described to them.

—-

Tim blinked at the boy that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe Tim had been too tired to realize that he had sat down into a booth that was already taken when he had ordered his coffee. The child didn't appear to pay him any mind, to focus on a piece of paper they were drawing on with green crayons.

Tim looked around the coffee shop trying to spot who this child belonged to but found no one. Now the most responsible thing would probably be to alert one of the store workers about a possible abandoned child, get in contact with the authorities and make sure the child would be returned to his rightful guardians or parents.

The problem was, Tim was sleep deprived and had his own fair share of abandoned child issues as well as having seen enough corrupted authorities trafficking children like that.

"Hey there, what are you doing?" He asked the kid instead, black shaggy hair hung into the kids eyes and the head moved only so slightly indicating that the child had heard him.

"Drawing a blueprint." The boy mumbled and Tim arched an eyebrow.

"With crayons?"

"This is the only shop that gave me this for free so I wouldn't have to attempt to steal a pen and paper."

Tim hummed studying the boy more closely and his drawing more closely now. He arched an eyebrow when among the barely readable scribes he noticed something that looked a lot like a mathematical equation.

Letting his eyes wander around the store once more before resting them on the child Tim thought about it. A child seemingly alone in a coffee shop, the only place according to the kid that had willingly given him paper and crayons to draw with. The drawing being a 'blueprint' for something and among the scribbles were some actual calculations that might make sense. He would need to take a closer look to really judge that.

"Don't you have things like that at home?"

Before he could receive an answer Tim's number got called out, telling him that his order was ready. Glancing at the kid he got up to quickly retrieve it. But when he turned back to the table to continue questioning the child he found the booth empty with no indication that anyone had been there before.

Partially Tim thought his mind might have hallucinated the boy in his sleep deprived state but a broken piece of green crayon left on the floor by the place where the boy had sat was his indication that he hadn't. Strangely enough, when he tried to check for video evidence, Tim found that all surveillance videos were corrupted.

—-

Jason was just done dealing with this drug deal when he heard rustling behind some of the warehouse crates. Instinctively he pulled out his gun. It appeared like one of these goons tried to sneak away. Well not on his watch.

But once he had silently made his way over to the crates he did not find a left over underling like he expected. No when he kicked the crate and pointed his gun it was not a grown ass man trying to hide from Red Hoods wrath, no a goddamn child rolled out of the crate clutching some metal pieces and electric cables to his chest.

"Fuck!" His first thought was that these assholes he had just beat up were not only trafficking drugs but also children, it made him want to beat the ever living daylight out of them a second time. But then the child's head tilted ever so slightly, eyes covered by his shaggy looking hair but Jason thought he saw blue peeking out between the strands of hair.

"Shit." He cursed once more hurrying to put his gun away so as not to scare the kid, before he crouched in front of the boy. "Hey there, you okay?"

His hands hovered above the boy's shoulders, close enough to catch the kid should he fall over but not too close to make the boy feel threatened. Looking the kid up and down, Jason tried to see if there were any injuries on the boy.

"No! The circuit board I found is now cracked! What a waste!" The boy held up a clearly cracked and broken piece of electronics with one hand, his other arm was still clutching some cables and metal to his chest.

Not the reaction he was expecting but Jason could find a way to roll with it. "Bummer huh? Want me to show you a place where we could get a perfectly good one?"

The boy was grumbling something inaudible and threw the piece of broken electronics to the side, instead picking up something else that had rolled out with the boy from the crate. Jason watched how the boy, clearly ignoring his question, picked up what looked like a piece of surveillance equipment and inspected it.

"I guess that thing will do. No one will miss it if one of them is gone, right?"

"One of them?" Jason questioned looking at the little transmitter in the kids hands. The boy appeared to finally pay attention to him, turning his head ever so lightly up to look at Jasons. "Yea there are a bunch of these in all the boxes."

He narrowed his eyes and looked over his shoulder and shouted at his men. "HEY! Get someone to look at this stuff! They bugged the place!"

When he turned back towards the boy he found kid gone. Jason blinked in disbelief, his hands which had been hovering over the kids shoulder were now above an empty spot.

"Where the fuck…?!" He stood looking around the warehouse and around all the boxes and crates. But the kid was nowhere to be found. He cursed several times and had his men looking in the surrounding area but there was no trace of the child.

All that was left from his encounter with he child was that piece of broken electronic the kid had thrown to the side. Not even his helmet had retained any footage. The video one loaded onto his laptop to review it, turned out to be corrupted. So now he couldn't even print out a picture or something of the boy.

—

By now the meetings of his siblings with a small black haired boy had made the rounds in their family. While Damian, Tim and Jason appeared to have had the biggest meetings with the child they weren't the only ones. Once the topic has come up, Steph, Duke and even Cass shared small stories of having met a child with the same description.

Dick had then pouted a little, lamenting that he was the only one that hadn't gotten to meet this strange kid that appeared out of nowhere and then also disappeared like he never had been there. His siblings had only stared at him unimpressed.

Well either way it looked like Dick was getting his wish after all. If Damian hadn't mentioned what the kid was wearing and Jason hadn't added that the kid appeared to be collecting electronics Dick might have overlooked it when he had jumped from roof to roof.

But as it was he caught a little boy trying to drag an old washing machine tied with rope into an empty building. It had made Dick pause and stare at the situation long enough to realize that the kid fit the description his siblings had given him before perfectly.

On instinct he wanted to jump down and talk with the little bugger but he was also curious of what the boy was doing so he watched a little more and he was quite impressed. The child must possess some strength because after a while the kid had dragged the washing machine into the building.

Spotting an open window Dick decided to sneak in that way to continue to observe. Once in though he blinked at what he saw. The kid had built a lab out of scrap metal. There was also something that looked like an arch the boy was clearly working on but holy moly. Tim probably wasn't too far off with his boy genius on the run theory.

But looking around more Dick also noticed that the place did not look lived in. Sure there was this giant self made lab area but everything else looked very much abandoned. He glanced around and snuck into another area finding a mattress, bedding and a backpack with a thermos as well as a couple of packs of snacks but no actual food.

Dick frowned at this. Even if the boy was a child genius, this was no way to life for someone his age. He looked over his shoulder towards the entrance of the area he was in. In the distance he could hear metal clanging. Looks like the kid was already working on dismantling the washing machine he had dragged in.

He reached out to the backpack, looking into it carefully but found nothing but a second set of spare clothes and what looked like an old self made flip phone. He should feel guilty but he wanted to make sure of things, so Dick flipped the phone open, checking if it was on. What greeted him was the image of a teenage boy that held similarities to the child getting hugged by what appeared to be the teenager's friends with a red haired girl behind them.

Frowning more, dick decided enough was enough. He openly walked to the lap area where the child was currently sticking his head into the washing drum. "Hey there kid!"

He winced hearing how the boy apparently banged his head on something and let out a storm of curses that would probably make Jason proud or all of his siblings frown. Leaning over the washing machine he smiled at the kid as the boy glared up at him rubbing his forehead. Ouch there really was a bump forming. He will ice it later.

"You're one of Gotham's vigilantes, Nightwing." The kid muttered but Dick caught the hand sneaking to the side reaching for a heavy looking wrench.

"That I am and you're a little kid working in a self made lab. Where are your parents and or guardian?"

"Don't have any here." The kid was now full on glaring at him. Why was he getting the not as friendly treatment? Sure that's better than the way his siblings had described the boy ignoring them but he hadn't done anything bad to the kid yet.

"If you don't have any, who takes care of you?" He then asked, still all smiles and friendly despite internally being very worried about this child's wellbeing.

"I take care of myself. I am not doing anything illegally. Everything I got here was thrown away by other people! You can't arrest me!" The boy hissed and hadn't Jason and Cass said they saw the child's eyes being blue? Why did he just see green peek through the bangs of the kid?

"Hey, hey, hey! I am not here to arrest anyone! I promise!" He held his hands up but the boy still glared at him. "But if you are alone here, you know I can't just let you be right?"

"No, you can!" The boy sprang up holding the wrench like a weapon in front of him. "I am perfectly fine on my own and working on a way back home! You can just leave me alone and act like you never saw me!"

Dick shook his head. The boy appeared to be stubborn and set on not having anyone interfere with whatever he was building. But Dick, in good consciousness, couldn't just leave like nothing was going on. His siblings had also voiced worry for this child. So he was going to try to negotiate something with the kid, and if that didn't work… Well Dick could always pull a Bruce and bring the kid home and into his care anyway. "Sorry little guy. No can do, but if you tell me more about your situation maybe I can help you get home?"

[blehblehbleh735]

Sleepytime

Rapper!chris x singer!reader Content: tooth rotting fluff, thats basically it Status: established relationship

credit: @liiixsturniolos for inspiration

Note: this is my first time writing in 2nd person so hope you like it🩵

Chris had been restless all day. You could tell from the way he kept bouncing his knee at dinner, his fingers tapping out a beat on the table while you tried to tell him about your studio session earlier. He wasn’t being rude—not intentionally. You knew his mind was elsewhere. It usually was when he got stuck in his creative process.

Now it was well past midnight, and you were curled up on the couch in his apartment, your legs draped over his lap as a late-night sitcom hummed quietly in the background. Chris’s arm rested loosely on your shin, his fingers drawing patterns on your skin while he stared off into the distance.

“You’re still thinking about that verse, aren’t you?” you asked softly, breaking the quiet.Chris blinked, his gaze snapping back to you. “Huh?”

“The one you couldn’t finish earlier. You’re stuck.”

He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch. “Yeah. It’s like... I can hear what I want it to sound like, but I can’t figure out the words. It’s just frustrating, ya know?”

You nodded. You’d been there before—those days when the music felt just out of reach,it was like trying to grab water with your hands.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said gently. “You always do it when you’re tired.”

Chris groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Probably. But y'know I can’t turn my brain off. It’s like every time I close my eyes, the beat’s just there, looping over and over again.”

You shifted, sitting up a little straighter. “Maybe you just need to relax,” you suggested. “Do something to take your mind off it.”

“Will you sing to me?” he asked, his tone bordering on desperate. You hesitated and raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching into a small smirk.

“Sure,” you said with a laugh. Chris stretched out on the couch, his head resting on the armrest, and you pulled a blanket over him. His legs were long enough that they hung off the other end, and you couldn’t help but smile at how he looked—a little less like the confident tough rapper the world saw and more like the teddy bear boy you knew.

It had to be something soft, something calming, something... meaningful.

You started humming first, letting the melody settle in the quiet space between you. Then, softly, you began to sing one of your favorite songs—a gentle one that had always felt like home to you. Your voice was low and steady, the lyrics flowing like a gentle stream.

Chris’s eyes fluttered closed almost immediately, his breathing slowing as he listened. The hand rested on his chest that was tapping ruthyms, suddenly stopped.

“Damn,” he murmured after a minute, his voice barely audible. “You sound good, ma.”

You smiled, pausing for a moment to reply. “It’s not like you haven’t heard me sing before.”

“Not like this,” he said, his voice muffled against the skin of your thighs. “It’s...different.”

Your fingers brushed through his hair, the soft curls springing back into place after each pass. As the song ended, you switched to another.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered, his voice heavy with sleep.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you said quietly, the words like a promise.

You kept singing, your voice wrapping around the room like a warm blanket. And as you did, you noticed the way Chris’s body sank deeper into the couch, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Eventually, his breathing evened out completely, and you realized he’d fallen asleep.

For a moment, you just watched him. He looked so peaceful, his features softened in a way you didn’t get to see often. The weight of his public persona—the cool, confident rapper everyone adored—was gone, leaving behind just Chris.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight,” you whispered.

There was something about moments like this—quiet, simple, and unglamorous—that made everything else in life feel a little easier.

Maybe tomorrow, Chris would wake up with the words he’d been looking for. But tonight, you’d given him what he really needed.

Rest.

Dividers by me, please tag if you use as inspiration🩵

[inside-lees-mind]

hello!! could i ask for a hyoga x overworker s/o?

reader tries their best to impress hyoga while they learn to use the kudayari, and shows him their progress quite excited to hear his opinion; however, their hands are bruised and damaged from using the spear continuously without gloves, as the kept training day and night. hyoga didn't like this.

it's that one hyoga anon again! tysm for writing my request last time, and feel free to make my requests any way you want! i'm so down bad for this man i could read anything about him, honestly 😭😭

Hyoga’s S/O Overworking Themself

Okay. I wrote about like when you do something so much, you can’t do anything that isn’t it. Like that time I played 2048 so much I played it in my dreams too. Or how I play just dance so much, I have to pull myself away from it and I dream of playing it too.

I honestly think if Hyoga likes you, he’s like meanly nice. If that makes sense. He’ll give advice in shit in a harsh tone. Sometimes, it’s hard not to throw in insults but I think if he respects somebody, he’s not the type to call them anything other than proper so…

Tirelessly, for days now, you’ve worked on your form, technique, style, everything. You can’t get yourself to settle down to sleep because every time you try, you just feel the ghost of the spear in your hands. When you do close your eyes to try, you see yourself trying again. If you fall asleep, even for a second, you dream of sparring.

So you stand throughout the night, practicing on a dummy you built to practice on. You spin the spear, your hands tiring now. Sure, the bamboo doesn’t spin, but moving the spear to spin is wearing on your hands with every hit. Your grip is growing weak. Not to mention, you’re undeniably tired, but you just can’t stop.

Sometimes, when you think to stop, maybe finally being able to focus on something else, you think about what Hyoga would say if you do bad when you spar with him the next day. You’ve got to get it perfect unless you want your boyfriend to be disappointed. He takes so much pride in the Owari Kan style.

Even if it’s hard to tell, he takes so much pride and is so happy that his s/o is learning the technique from him. You can’t mess that up for him.

The next day, after less than 2 hours of sleep, you meet up with your boyfriend for a sparring session. It’s early morning, the sun is just now rising behind him. You’ve been sparring for a few minutes now, but the sun helps him realize something. You have bruises littering your body. Bruises, callouses, cuts cover your hands. A finger or two on each hand was wrapped up in bandages. Between that and the sunken in eye bags from your lack of proper sleep, he can’t believe he didn’t notice.

He waits until the end of what you were both currently working on. He tells you to just take a water break, but he watches you carefully the entire time. When you go to move back for your spear, he calmly stops you.

“If you can’t do it properly, don’t do it at all.” He says, smiling behind his mask. The look on your face tells him he shouldn’t have worded it that way. He’s not the kind of man to backtrack and stumble over his words to correct himself or anything, so he calmly adds, “Take a break. Proper rest is important.”

You finally realize what he means as color returns to your face. “But I n—”

“No. How much sleep did you get?” He asks, taking the spear from you. He stares at you, expression almost blank. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but a part of you thinks he may be… worried?

“About 5 hours.” You shrug.

“Don’t lie.” He warns, which draws a groan from you. You look up, meeting his eyes briefly.

“I think a bit less than 2?” He simply nods at this.

“And how many times have I told you to wear gloves?” He asks, staring blankly.

“Several.” You mutter.

“And that’s for a reason. Yuzuriha can make you gloves.” He says sternly, eyes opening and flicking up to meet yours. “That’s the proper way.”

“Yes. I’ll do it the proper way.” You smile, finally realizing what he’s doing. Sure, it’s unconventional, probably rude in most people’s eyes, but that’s the softest he gets. Or maybe not. You can’t help but wonder if he’s got a super soft side you won’t get to see until you’re like married or something. That’s a question for later though, you confer as he tells you to go lie down and get some rest.

[staarboyyy]

YAYYY YOUR REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

I was wondering if you could maybe write something about y/n being an apprentice and Hoffman flirts with them even knowing they are in a relationship with Amanda 😧 It goes on for a while and Amanda gets tired of it, gets really jealous and yells at Hoffman then takes y/n back to her room and… you know 🫣 NSFW, maybe slight choking if you don’t mind writing it (if not that is totally okay!) just some dirty talk here and there also for example: whenever Amanda catches Hoffman flirting with reader she whispers things into readers ear :) Thank you so much in advance!

territory

amanda young x gender neutral reader | specified anatomy

18+ characters / scenarios - minors dni

tags / warnings ; apprentice!reader, jealousy, amanda being a guard dog, anatomical terms for vagina, degradation, dubcon if u squint, biting, sadistmanda

summary ; amanda catches you and mark going over your lastet work.

word count ; 3.2k

a/n; sorry for the delay, i really loved this prompt and writing for the apprentice reader, they are so silly! please enjoy :D

Amanda had a bad feeling about Mark from the start. How could she not? She saw that wicked look in his eyes, that knowing spark every time he glanced at you while you sketched traps aimlessly. He knew that you weren't supposed to be anything more than teammates, but that didn't stop him from trying to turn it into something more - Something like what you and Amanda had. Mark had always been cold, bitter. He spoke the truth with no hesitation, taking in breaths with the intent to speak words meant to silence others in the room. He was a force to be reckoned with to most; And yet as he watched you from across the warehouse, his gaze was disturbingly ... Friendly. Seeing this did not just make Amanda angry, her gaze curiously stuttering past the dooframe just as Mark crossed the room toward you. He squared his shoulders, shoes thudding quietly against the cement floor as his eyes reached the sketchbook in front of you.

You had been drafting for some days - It felt strange, almost like having homework due. John was a tough judge, especially when the traps were made for a truly awful person; In truth you didn't want to dwell on the details of the man this trap was for. He had taken things from women that could never be given back to them, and that was enough to drive your sadistic spark. The spark that made John give a slight tilted grin, not speaking as he steadily nodded, studying your sketches. At first his silence worried you, but when your drafts ended up pinned to the wall near his desk, you took to planning more confidently. It seemed John wasn't the only one to take notice to your determination, your pencil coming to a sharp pause as Mark leaned the weight of his hip into the creaking metal table. His eyes were still lingering on the page, jaw shifting with a slightly tilted head, nearly perplexed at the scratched notes and crumpled discarded brainstorm pages. Not your fault your desk was cluttered. When the inspiration hits you, y'know?

"What is this?"

Mark asked quietly as he moved to grasp and hold up one of the crumpled sketches. It had been discarded because you accidentally drew it comically uneven and decided it was too time consuming to try and fix without a ruler on hand. Mark gave you a quizzical glance nonetheless, looking between you, the warped drawing, and the others on the sketchbook before you. You had originally planned to draw a second picture, a much less fucked up version with the same pose, but you got hung up on the details. A small laugh escapes your throat, lighting up the cold warehouse for a brief moment. Why did he take notice of the wrong sketch? And why did he have to remind you of it's existence? The small pursed smile pushed at the corners of your lips as gave a shake of your head.

"Bad proportions."

"I'll fuckin' say,"

Mark's response suprised you slightly, the way his tone so easily shifted from a cold demanding one to an almost playful chuckle. He gave a slight nod as he re crumpled the distorted sketch, eyes casting over his shoulder to locate the trash can and - Oh. There she was. Amanda stood slightly obscured by a stacked frame of chains, the light of the warehouse casting long shadows across her face. She could feel the distinct searing hot shaking in her fingertips; She had never seen Mark laugh, let alone smile. It left a harshly bitter taste in her mouth, shifting her shoulder to shrug past the hanging chains. Her body moved slow, steps quiet as she approached you and Mark with the stealth of a snake in high grass. Her dark eyes were still locked on Mark's, the way his free hand hovered over your shoulder, how he shifted his body to face yours, the smell of his subtle cologne brushing over your senses. Jealousy surged through Amanda's veins in chilling waves, goosebumps pricking the back of her neck, fingers clenching into fists, knuckles a bright white. No one could have you besides her, this was true. But Hoffman surely had to know exactly what he was doing.

Mark's eyes narrowed when they met Amanda's. He knew that look - An animal primed to kill, a woman who would cage herself over you in a storm of shattered glass without a second thought. He swore a flashing glint of red soared over Amanda's gaze, her attention faltering as it caught the sight of Mark's hand. In one moment, his palm had laid for perhaps half a second on your shoulder, and the next, a shadow cast over your sketchbook, a figure standing directly behind you.

You had grown used to Amanda's silence when walking around the warehouse, yet your body jolted with a sudden twist of fear, moving to turn towards the figure just as Mark pulled his hand away. Your hitching breaths relaxed as you caught sight of Amanda, your expression easing into a small smile. But when she did not return it, it faded from your lips. You immediately recounted the past few minutes - Surely there had been no reason to be angry with you. You've been working, and Mark's been... Ah. The dots connected then as you peered over toward the man beside you, then Amanda once again. The woman wet her lips slowly, tongue rolling over her bottom lip before speaking in a terrifyingly calm voice.

"Having fun?"

Amanda's gaze locked with Mark's, her thoughts flashing with an ugly picture of him with you. Mark shifted slightly, a frown tugging at the edge of his lips. He knew that look in Amanda's eyes. That possessiveness that bordered on insanity. She couldn't place if Mark even knew about her history with you - The countless times she'd press kisses to your cheek in passing, the brush of your thighs when you passed each other, your quiet desperate whispers in her ear promising to keep quiet if it meant she'd touch you. You belonged to her entirely, she was assured of that every waking moment of the day. Every time your bodies tangled together in bed, swimming amongst the sheets to get comfortable, taking in eachothers warmth and staying close, whispering sweet nothings. You were Amanda's everything. She'd flay anyone, any man that tried to ruin that.

"Having a blast." Mark speaks sarcastically, leaning once again against the rusting table, palms splayed over it behind him. "Our friend here was showing me some of their latest work, which I have to say seems promising."

Mark continues, not even looking at Amanda, instead focusing on your drawings. Amanda, for her part, remained motionless for a moment, her expression nearly unreadable, her breathing sharp and steady. Your face flushed, cheeks warming at the sight. In another world, you'd be terrified of that look. Primed to kill, stalking prey with the intent to ravaging it. Her fists curled tight at her side, mouth parted ever so slightly.

"Latest work?"

Amanda echoed, not missing a beat. She still had her eyes locked on Mark. There were no words there anymore, just unspoken emotions that Mark caught wind of almost immediately. He rolled his shoulders, feeling them tense up slightly. He should have known better than to cross claimed territory. That became only more apparent as Amanda's slow pace began once again, coming closer to you both until her hands could rest on both of your shoulders. Her hands were just abit smaller than Mark's, fingers slim and familiar, silver banded rings wrapping over them. They were familiar, warm as her thumbs swept over the backs of your shoulders. It comforted her having you in arms reach, especially with Mark so close by. Her grasp was ever so slightly too tight, fingers flexing over your shoulders as her head cocked, eyes still on Mark. She lifted her eyesbrows expectantly, chin jutting forward slightly, motioning the man to speak with an impatient expression.

"Tch,"

Amanda's possessiveness was so intense, you started to question if that was really a good thing - But the way her hands were now holding you, stroking your shoulder in a comforting caress? That was definitely worth the way Mark began to shift away from you both. There was no helping the way you bit your lip, trying to ignore the way your pulse was picking up pace by the second under Amanda's cold grasp. Her large scarred hands made you feel safe. Each arching scratch or healing nick on her finger tips had a story, one she would tell you with a lopsided grin, nearly bragging. She liked impressing you. Though, she'd never admit it to you without a myriad of stutters and flushed cheeks. Her presence made you feel warm, a space of safe welcoming heat in the middle of this seemingly endless freezing warehouse. You were so comfortable with her hands on your shoulders that you stopped wondering what Mark was feeling. Your gaze cast toward the sketches splayed over your desk, mind dwindling off into all different directions, all leading back to her. Mark was always cold. You and Amanda had something different - The way her breath caught in her throat as she realized you were starting to relax again, the way the fingers on your shoulder gripped tighter just for a moment before she pulled back, as if to assure you she'd be back in no time - you didn't even glance away as Mark's footsteps echoed away down a dingey hallway, presumably to leave for the night.

The feeling of your back hitting the lush mattress of Amanda's bed took the breath away, but how her hands kept your wrists pinned to the sheets made you gasp sharply. The palms pressed softly against your wrists, sending shivers rocketing up your spine, setting your every nerve on edge. Her dark hair curtained over you as her nails gently raked over your body - She cherished every inch of skin, biting her lower lip as her eyes watched you wryly, pinned underneath her. You didnt dare push past this to see through the pulsing haze that danced across your vision from the unexpected rough touch of the other. You tried to swallow your panic down, but nothing could be done to keep the soft whimper from escaping your lips; It pulled a low purr from the woman, tutting quietly before bringing an index finger to her lips, a motion to stay quiet. Amanda leaned down then, her whispered words catching the shell of your ear as she leaned more of her weight into you.

"Shh... You know exactly what you were doing. Don't try to fight me now."

Your eyes darted back and forth, body shivering with equal parts need and fear as she chuckled darkly. The sound was pillowed with a dark intent, lips moving to trace over the warm skin of your neck, lightly glazed with sweat. There was a moment where it felt like you were going to pass out from the thrill of being Amanda's plaything, but then her lips pressed gently against your throat, tethering your mind to focus on her. The way her tongue slid over the sensitive space of skin, teeth gently sinking down, reeling a quiet squeal from your chest. It only made her bite harder, though perhaps you knew that; Perhaps she was right. You wanted to play cat and mouse? So be it.

You squirmed at the slowly building pinch on your throat, back arching as arms fighting ever so slightly against Amanda's weight. After a long moment, the pain subsided, her tongue sweeping over the harsh bite before sitting up slightly. Her eyes were locked on yours, though she was clearly looking through you, to some private joke you were not exactly privy to. Her eyes slid down your body slowly, her left hand releasing one of your wrists to dive underneath your shirt. It seemed a dangerous gamble, taking the chance that she'd see your skin bare, chest rising and falling with frantic gasps of desire, like this. But then, Amanda had been a risk taker - And in this moment, there was nothing more you wanted, those poisonous moments where every sensation she caused seemed to leave a permanent mark on your body and mind. She molded you, carved you like granite as she palmed your chest greedily, one of her legs shifting to spread your own. Her knee pressed lightly against your clothed heat, applying slight varying pressure with a watchful eye; She always loved to see exactly what made you tick. What made your back arch and breath hitch with a carnal spark. She craved to have that practiced to a muscle memory, to turn you mindless in the palm of her hand whenever she chose fit.

"God you're sick huh?

You tried to say something in defense, maybe even a witty quip to get her to smile again. You loved when she smiled in moments like this; Between the passion, the rough bites and harsh words - It was nothing less than love. She knew how much you adored her like this. Dominant, protective, trigger happy with anybody who dared get too close to you. But you were breathless, body shuddering with the pleasure her touch brought. You were at your most vulnerable underneath the woman; Even with no way out, you could think of nothing better than being right where you were. Not much else mattered except for the feeling of both her hands sweeping back down your chest and stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. It wasn't until her finger tips hooked around your belt loops that your dazed eyes focused. Her fingers were slim, scarred, veins lacing over the back of her large hand and muscular forearm. She pulled away your pants with a bite of her lip, kicking them away with distinct impatience; She wanted to taste you.

The cold air chilled your lower half as she worked at your jeans, a soft chuckle following as her finger tips glided over your hips, dipping into the waistband of your underwear. She took more deliberate care with these, her fingers finding the exact mark in the fabric to pull them down, leaving you fully exposed. She wasted no time in exploring the full breadth of your bare front, leaning slightly downward to press soft kisses along the hard pulse of your left thigh. It was maddening, feeling the woman in her element as she lavished attention on your vulnerable skin, biting like a starving animal; Arousal spun your mind, her hot breath and desperate tongue so close to your needy cunt.

You couldn't think through the fog in your mind - Only feel. Only see. Her fingers danced across your skin in search of its most sensitive areas, leaving strewns of light bruises on the soft of your thighs. Hands swept over your thighs with surprising gentleness, positioning your legs to rest on her wide shoulders. She didn't let them linger there, letting go to slip those same palms over your ass, pulling you closer to her with yet another dark snicker. The air in your chest seemed to catch fire when she spoke, her whispered breath causing your hips to sutter forward, whimpering needily.

"I haven't even touched you yet... You think Mark could make you this fucking pathetic?"

It was a sharp question, despite being spoken in one of the softest tones you've ever heard from the woman - She gave you no time to answer, let alone recover before letting her tongue dip firmly into the space she whispered into.

“You're mine,” She murmured, letting her senses all fall away from her head, her spiraling thoughts. She was quick to pull your legs apart from one another, letting his tongue ease over your cunt, starting down firmly at the base, one of her thumbs moving to spread you open gently, to let all her have complete access to you. You gasped sharply, instinctively trying to close your thighs at the sudden electric euphoria lashing at your senses. Yet when her teeth grazed over your clit, your breath hitched tightly in your chest, gazing down at her working at your cunt with the desperation of a starved animal. A groan vibrated into your heat, and you let your head fall back, propping yourself up with her elbows as beads of sweat rolled over your temples. Your eyebrows knitted together, one of your hands reaching to the back of Amandas head, hoping for everything that she wouldn’t stop no matter what you said.

“Fuck - 'Manda!”

You strained the words, your hips shaking slightly as Amanda pulled your clit firmly between her lips, the fingers once used to hold you down had been moved to ease into your cunt, her index and middle fingers sliding in with little resistance. You felt so full just from the pair of fingers, and when she curved them upwards, you could feel your thighs trembling, biting your bottom lip. The quickening tips of her fingers reached that perfect spot, the one that you could barely reach by yourself. You tossed your head over the sheets, your fits gripping the blankets beside you so tightly you could feel your fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. Amandas tongue worked wonders over the small area, her fingers keeping the repetitive motion inside of you; You felt a small fire start to rise in your lower stomach, spiking up into your veins, clouding your vision with stinging tears - Your body screamed for release, your moans aimless, begging Amanda not to stop.

          Your squeals always seemed to motivate her more than anything else. Amanda used her free hand to pull one of your legs up onto her strong shoulder, leaning herself deeper into you - So willing to make you come undone just from her fingers and tongue alone. A smile reached over her lips as she pulled her mouth from you, her fingers not wavering.

      “That's it...” She murmured, her dark eyes piercing deep into yours, expression contorting, able to see you finally cum around her thick fingers. Your eyes watered with the immeasurable amount of pleasure that reigned over your senses, head spinning, saliva falling from your bottom lip. Amanda shuddered out a sigh at the sight of your twitching heat, her thumb rubbing over your senstive clit harshly now, post orgasm. This caused you to try and pull away once more, head shaking instinctually. The sensitivity was too much for you, a strangled sounding out cry made Amanda chuckle casually, her teeth now nipping at the insides of your thighs as you rode out your forcefully coaxed orgasm.

When Amanda removed her fingers, she eased her tongue over them, humming with approval, eyes not leaving your dazed expression. She let your trembling leg slide off her shoulder as the air filled with your unsteady gasps, hardly able to put words together as the woman before you moved to sit on the bed beside you - You tried to move, lifting your shakey hand, finger tips numb from your shallow breaths, yet Amanda shook her head and returned your hand back in place. You needed rest, even as she pulled you into her arms and wrapped her thick quilt over your shoulders, keeping you in her lap while she gingerly offered you water and pecking your cheeks and head with kisses. Amanda would spoil you until the end, even if it meant reminding you exactly who you belonged to every once in a while.

[boonsmoon]

Radiant

Tesla ver. of this req (Thor version) I haven't read the manga so uhm, yeah probably bad Tesla Chaotic Aztec god reader; however, you don't have to be the god of chaos

Request Chungus ML Record of Ragnarok ML Nikola Tesla x m Aztec god!reader Genres: Oneshot|Fluff|Romantic

You roamed the vast land of Valhalla quite often. Sure you were a god, but you've known everyone here for thousands of years! It gets boring hanging around those losers.

So the next best thing? Hang around the dead humans that happened to get here. At least they all had a different reaction!

It took awhile of messing with some other people, but you finally stumbled upon this "Tesla" guy. Apparently he contributed quite a bit to humans, so perhaps you could spend some time irritating getting to know him. Little did you know...the tables would be turned (unintentionally).

So maybe you broke into his lab, and maybe you made a mess while looking at these papers with endless numbers, but you're innocent! The place was already a mess when you got here, who cares if it got worse?

Nikola cares. Nikola cares a lot actually. You could tell by the way he looked at the lab, the grip he had on those papers, that fire in his eyes when he saw the lines of chalk mixing together.

But he didn't say anything, not a word. Why? This mess you proudly stood in the middle of seemed all for naught. That's fine, if you can't get to him with his work, you'll just have to try with your natural charm instead.

Nikola sat in front of his chalkboard after cleaning up the mess you created, prompting you to sit next to him watch in confusion at whatever nonsense he wrote down.

"Hellooo there you silly human! Whatever are you working on?" You grinned while looking at him. When Nikola didn't answer, you inquired again, "um, hello? Human! What are you doing?"

After the second attempt, you grew tired of him ignoring you and started to poke him shoulder, "heyyyy, I'm talking to youuu," beginning to draw out your words, you waved a hand in front of Nikola's face.

"Hey? Are you ok?? Humans don't normally do this..." Less annoyed and more concerned, you began to look for anything abnormal, something that could be the cause of him ignoring you.

He can't be so zoned in that I'm zoned out! He must be sick...can the dead get sick? You began thinking to yourself before an idea came to mind.

"If you won't acknowledge me willingly, I'll just make you!" You said before grabbing hold of Nikola's seat and moving it away from the chalkboard. He has to notice me now!

Nikola slowly lowered the chalk and turned around to face whoever dare interrupt him. "It's about time, human! You are by far the airheaded person I've met!" You ranted.

Letting out an exhale you looked at his confusion filled face, "now! Tell me what it is you're doing," you said looking back over to the board.

Nikola taking this as an opportunity to start spouting theories and hopefully possible ideas, starts to yap about some science that you don't understand. "Ah! Well you see this writing here is..."

You started to zone out after the first sentence...you didn't really think paying attention would do much help anyways. That was until you heard something electricity and lightning.

"What was that about the lightning?" You asked, "and make it easy to understand!" He laughed and spoke, "I need lightning to confirm a theory, but I don't have any..."

Perhaps the boredom of being a god has been getting to you lately, but being around this irritating human a bit longer wouldn't hurt, right? No, no it wouldn't, so let's do that.

"Well, you're in luck! I'm feeling nice today and have decided to help you." Creating lightning ain't that hard, I mean maybe not large scale like Thor or Zeus, but definitely something close enough.

And so this went on for months. Tesla meets a dead end and you offer a helping hand to him. You weren't supposed to stay this long, but he's basically your emotional support human now.

Today you ended up creating a small scale sun, sure maybe the brightness and heat had a bit adjusting, but it was pretty much the real thing.

"What do ya think of this, human? Haha!" You laughed, showing off what you were capable of. What you got in response was praise, "very fascinating! It's radiant, just like you," Nikola looked at you and smiled.

Your face began to heat up and you turned away, "well don't get too excited now, this is only the beginning!" You crossed your arms and looked at him with conviction.

"I look forward to what you have in store for me," Nikola responded before running his tests and theories.

Yeah, he's a bit more than an emotional support human now, but that's alright with you.

hope you enjoyed my totally 100% accurate Tesla

[darcytaylor]

The Importance of Staying Grounded in Speculative Conversations

It’s that time again, where I’m writing what might be a thought-provoking post? Inspirational? Overbearing? I know most of you are probably tired of these by now, but hey, maybe there’s something worth considering in what I’m about to say. Or maybe not. Who’s to say?

So why am I writing this? Is it to convince you to agree with me? No, you don’t have to. Is it to share my personal take on what's going on? Nah, honestly, I don’t think my opinion matters that much. Do I have thoughts on what’s happening? Sure, but it’s not my place to tell anyone how to think or what to believe. But maybe I can offer a perspective on speculation and how people engage with it:

I’ve been reflecting on how people engage with speculation (shocking, I know! haha), especially in fandoms and even in other public spaces. People have this undeniable passion for what they believe to be true, and while that passion can be understandable - and even admirable at times - it can go a little overboard.

When I say, “I don’t actually know what’s going on because I don’t know the people involved,” I tend to get a couple of reactions: Some people see it the same way, some people get defensive, some people try to convince me to see things their way. But here’s the truth: I don’t know the people involved - and neither do you. None of us know the full story or what’s going on behind the scenes.

A lot of people will say, “But look at the evidence! It’s so obvious!” And here’s where I disagree: Without firsthand knowledge, we’re essentially trying to put together a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. And drawing conclusions from that? It’s risky at best - and misleading at worst.

What really gets to me, though, is the need some people have to stir the pot (and I guess this is the main reason I make posts like this). It seems like some people want to rile others up, making it appear like they know more or that their perspective is the only one that matters. Maybe it’s a way to feel validated or in control, but in the end, it doesn’t help anyone. It just adds noise and fuels unnecessary drama, which - can be harmful!!

When people get defensive about their views, I think I could be because they’re seeking reassurance. They want to feel like they’ve figured it out. But the truth is: none of us have all the answers. We’re all just outsiders looking in.

For me, staying grounded means accepting that I don’t have the full picture - and that’s okay. It means being open to the possibility that there could be many explanations for a situation and choosing not to rush to conclusions. This isn’t about being overly cautious or passive - it’s about showing respect. It’s about letting people live their lives without outsiders treating their guesses like hard facts.

I think if more people took this approach, fandom spaces and public discourse would be a lot less toxic. It became so toxic for me that at one point I had to step away, because of he vile anonymous asks I was getting. It’s entirely possible to have thoughtful, respectful conversations without falling into the “I’m right, and you’re wrong” trap. A little humility, and a lot more recognition that things are often more complicated than they seem, could really make a difference.

At the end of the day, none of us have all the answers -and that’s fine. What’s not fine is turning speculation into fact or stirring up drama when it isn’t necessary. So, can we be more mindful, respectful, and take a step back from the impulse to turn every guess into something?

If you see a take that isn't damaging, you don’t need to respond just because you don’t agree with it. You can let people have their own perspectives without degrading others. That said, I have no respect for speculation when it comes to matters that are too personal or just downright mean, especially when people try to act like it isn’t. Some things shouldn't be speculated on, and treating them as public fodder isn’t just disrespectful - it’s harmful.

Life’s complicated enough without us making it harder than it already is.

[greekceltic]

FAQ Page

She/her | 38 | I like cats and rain. My comic: https://catswaycomic.com/ My Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/greekceltic My Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/greekceltic Other links: https://linktr.ee/greekceltic Sorry in advance if you send me a message and I don't get back to you, I tend not to stress over messages/asks. I do try to read them though, and I'm always open to being asked questions about characters or my headworld/stories. I am already aware that my art is being copied. They're blocked. Please stop telling me about it. Rest of my FAQ is under the cut >

Can I repost your work? I don't mind as long as I'm credited. I'm less okay with my work being used as a pageviews grab, but it's probably not worth my time to care. If it's something I've selected to take down and don't have posted anymore, don't. If it's something you commissioned, go for it. You don't need to credit me every time you share it. Once in a while is cool.

Are you okay with fanart? What about OC interactions? Can I post it? Sure, just don't profit off of it and please credit me. If you want to draw my OCs interacting with yours that's also fine (and fun!)- though I prefer situations where their actions make sense. Alf wouldn't make your character cry, for example. He's grumpy but not cruel. Posting it is fine. Is it okay if I take inspiration from your art and concepts? I've been in a situation in recent years where another artist has taken far, far too much. It's a subject I'm pretty burnt out on. I recently saw another artist's take on this and it looked sensible to me. I'm just going to quote theirs. I have tried to find my own words, but right now I find myself more comfortable using someone else's. "Well, if you’re having to ask me for permission, either your design is too similar or you’re being overly nervous about a normal artistic process. You’re absolutely free to use my work as a source of inspiration but I’d strongly encourage you to think about the details from my design you like most, and remix them with other concepts into your own unique take."

Taking inspiration is something everyone does, but please don't become a shadow I get bi-weekly alerts about. Ideally your pool of inspiration will be many artists and concepts re-imagined into something unique to you- and that you're being honest with yourself about the result.

Your art is being copied! / Will you tell me who the copy cat is? I get a lot of messages about this and am tired. I'm sure if my art ends up somewhere it shouldn't be or there's something really worth my attention I'll find out through friends. Otherwise, I'm just sayin' get a second or third opinion before coming to my inbox. I probably already know about it.

I sent you a message and you didn't respond. Sorry about that. I tend not to stress about messages because it can be a drain. You're more likely to get a response if you let me know from the get go what you want, but nothing is guaranteed. Sometimes I didn't see it, sometimes I got busy or forgot, sometimes I plan to do it later, sometimes I just opted out. It's not personal. Where do you Rp? Are you looking for more partners? Discord mostly. Roleplay consumes a lot of time so these days I mostly only play with my buddy Thema. I probably wouldn't have time to play, but I like to hang around people that do and I don't mind being asked. Just please don't be sad if I never get around to responding! I'm most compatible with people who are comfortable with radio silence.

Can I use your characters in roleplay/as roleplay refs? Considering I actively roleplay my OCs and there's a potential for confusion, I'd rather you didn't. Though I think there's a difference between linking to my art and saying 'this is my character', and linking to it to say 'this has the mood I'm going for, but here's what's different about my character--'. The latter is fine.

Can I make Fan OCs for your setting? Thinking about this makes me tired. Maybe I'll get to a point where I'm more comfortable later, but for now I'd rather you didn't make something directly from my worlds. But lets be real, you don't need my permission to draw cat monsters and I take a huge amount of inspiration from ancient history. Many of my concepts are inspired by things that you can read about and be inspired too. If you see something and are curious if there's a historical source, just ask. Hopefully I'll remember.

Do I have permission to draw NSFW art of your characters? No, for a plethora of reasons, some easy to explain and some not, but I probably can't stop you. Just don't profit off of it or show it to me.

Do you have a website for your OCs? I have RP pages for them scattered all over the place and many of them are outdated, but as I type this I recently put some up on Toyhouse. https://toyhou.se/GreekCeltic

Do you have a website for your comic? Sure do. It's an expensive fuck. https://catswaycomic.com/ When does your comic update? Sporadically. I work on it when I have time. My income is solely freelance commissions and Patreon- mostly commissions.

There's other places you could post your comic! Yeah, I know. I may do that someday, but for now I like having my own house, even if it's an expensive fuck. (Not really, the renewal just hits around tax time, Lol).

[fkinkindagauche]

As Is Chapter 2 - I'll Fascinate You For Awhile

Chapter 2 of this one is up now on AO3. See below for a snippet!

Rating: Explicit | WC: estimated around 20K | CW: child abuse, period-typical homophobia include use of the "f" word by Neil Hargrove, internalized homophobia | Tags: angst with a happy ending, secret relationship, omegaverse, alpha Steve, omega Billy, top/bottom versatile Steve and Billy, post-S3, Billy lives, Billy needs a hug, Billy Hargrove used to be a piece of shit; people can change

Summary: Billy starts making some positive moves in his life. Things continue to heat up between him and Steve.

Excerpt below.

Billy tried to stay away from Steve. He really did. But it was nearly impossible. He didn't understand what was going on, but he always felt immeasurably better when he was around the perfectly coiffed idiot. His pain decreased to more tolerable levels. His mood improved.

At first, he'd thought it was just something to do with his heats. But then he'd made the huge mistake of going to Steve's house when he wasn't in heat. Being around him still helped. A lot. And once they started fucking outside of heat, he stopped having the weird mini-heats.

So then Billy thought it must just be the orgasms, right? He'd read that orgasms made you release hormones that were, like, magic or some shit.

So, he'd gone on a couple of dates with beta girls over the past few weeks, since he and Steve absolutely were not dating. He'd even had sex a couple of times, only to find that it didn't help the way sex with Steve did. He had to rethink his orgasm hypothesis. Maybe it was some fucked up alpha-omega thing. Whatever it was, his body was a fucking traitor.

Now it was a Wednesday night, a week since he'd last had sex with Steve, and he was hurting. He'd somehow managed to sleep wrong, like he was 60 years old or something, and all the scar tissue in his chest was screaming. As soon as he got off his shift at the gas station, without conscious thought, he found himself driving to Steve's.

Steve answered the door with a smile. "Billy! Hey," Steve said, like he was pleased to see him. Nobody was ever pleased to see Billy. It was off-putting.

"Hey," Billy grumbled in reply, pushing his way in. He was hit with the concentrated scent of Steve, and his shoulders immediately relaxed. He breathed in deep, taking in as much of the scent as he could without being too obvious about it. What he really wanted was to bury his face in Steve's neck and stay there all night, but he would have to make do with just scenting the air.

"Long day?" Steve asked.

Billy snorted. "You trying to tell me I look like shit, Harrington?"

Steve shrugged. "You kinda do."

Billy grimaced, running his hands through his hair, then rubbing his tired face. "Yeah, it was a long day." No use pretending. "But I don't wanna talk about it."

"Alright," Steve said. As whatever this thing between them was had progressed, Steve had stopped pushing Billy to talk when he clearly didn't want to. Billy hated how much he loved that. Steve stepped closer to Billy, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him flush against his own body. He moved his face to Billy's neck, breathing his scent in deeply, clearly having less qualms about it than Billy did.

Billy shivered as Steve's lips brushed over his scent gland, just a gentle, feathery touch. Steve kissed the skin around the gland, moving up Billy's neck to his jawline, tracing over his stubble until he reached his ear. Steve's breath ghosted over his ear for a moment before he pulled the lobe into his mouth and bit down gently, drawing a moan out of Billy.

Billy used the position to bend discreetly to Steve's neck, drawing in big lungfuls of his scent straight from the source. It soothed something deep inside him, loosening up all the tight muscles of his core that were pulling at his scar tissue.

Steve's hands slipped under Billy's shirt, fingertips skating over the skin, almost tickling. Billy changed the angle again, drawing Steve in for a proper kiss, lips to lips. Steve went willingly. He opened his mouth to Billy and let his tongue slide right in.

Steve slipped a thigh between Billy's legs as they kissed. Billy pressed down, rubbing his cunt and his cock on Steve's thigh. He could get off just from this, just from kissing Steve and humping his thigh. When had he gotten so desperate?

He needed more tonight, though. He needed to feel Steve deeper than this.

"Fuck me," Billy panted against Steve's lips.

Steve opened his eyes and nodded frantically. "Bed?"

Billy dove back in for another kiss, then shook his head. He didn't want to wait. "Here," he said.

Steve pulled Billy around the side of the couch and made to sit down. Billy liked to ride Steve most of the time. He liked the sense of control. But he didn't want that tonight. He stopped Steve with a hand on his wrist.

"Want you on top," Billy muttered. A large part of him felt ashamed, to be asking to be put in such a vulnerable position when his brain wasn't fogged with heat. But he needed to feel Steve's weight pressing him down. He needed to be contained.

Steve's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he didn't say anything, just nodded. Billy undressed quickly, throwing his shirt to the side and shimmying out of his jeans and boxers. He lay back on the couch as Steve finished taking off his own pants.

Billy spread his legs, inviting Steve to lay between them. Steve lowered himself onto the couch and held himself up on his hands so he was leaning over Billy. He resumed their kiss, licking into Billy's mouth with vigor. Their cocks brushed together between their bodies, drawing a moan out of Steve.

Steve reached a hand between them, fingers sliding through Billy's slick and into his cunt. He was always so fucking careful with Billy. It made him feel weird. It made him feel fragile.

"Just fuck me, Harrington. Enough with the foreplay."

Steve huffed a laugh. "I think that's the first time I've heard that." Thankfully, he didn't protest, pulling his fingers from Billy and lining up his cock. He slid into Billy easily, the way eased by copious slick.

Steve propped himself up on his hands as he fucked into Billy, keeping himself from laying directly on Billy. But Billy wanted to feel Steve on top of him. He wanted to be held down.

He grabbed Steve by the waist and pulled hard. Steve lost his balance, arms flailing, and collapsed on top of Billy.

"What the fuck?" Steve spluttered. Billy wrapped a hand in his hair and pulled him down for a kiss.

"Move," he instructed when Steve just lay there on top of him, kissing him. Steve pushed himself up on his hands as far as Billy would let him go, so he could start to thrust, but Billy continued to hold most of their bodies flush. Steve's weight pressing him down into the couch felt amazing. The external pressure on his chest worked to somehow lessen the internal anxious pressure that had been plaguing him all day. He could smell Steve everywhere, all around him. It was bliss.

With their bodies pressed together, every thrust rubbed Steve's belly against Billy's cock, ratcheting up his pleasure. Steve angled his hips a little, managing to get the position just right to hit Billy's g-spot. Billy groaned.

"Feel good?" Steve asked. Billy wasn't sure why he needed verbal reassurance when Billy was very clearly enjoying this, but he'd gotten used to it by now.

"Feels fucking great," Billy responded, shifting his head to bite at the muscle of Steve's shoulder.

Steve picked up his pace, each rapid thrust pummeling Billy's g-spot. Billy's orgasm hit him fast, almost out of nowhere. It was a big one, releasing all sorts of pent-up energy as Billy yelped, spilling cum between their bodies.

Steve only had to thrust a few more times, and his knot was swelling. "Do you want it?" Steve asked, panting. Always so fucking considerate.

"Yes, I want it, dumbass. Knot me," Billy demanded.

Steve groaned and pushed himself in all the way. He thrust a few more times before he swelled enough to catch on Billy's entrance, locking in place as he pumped cum into Billy. Billy's walls spasmed around Steve's knot, waves of pleasure flooding his belly as Steve's knot pressed into his g-spot.

Steve slumped onto Billy for a few moments, then collected himself. He pushed himself up onto his hands and looked down at Billy. "Should we shift onto our sides?"

Billy yanked him back down so he was laying fully on top of him. "Just stay there."

Steve did stay, silently laying on top of Billy as they waited for his knot to go down. Billy felt better than he had in months. Probably better than he had since before the evil monster thing possessed him. The tension in his chest was somehow gone. He hadn't realized how pervasive it had become until it left him.

Was this what he was reduced to now - a mess of a man who needed Steve Harrington to lay on top of him to feel good?

Eventually Steve was allowed by both his knot and Billy to get up from the couch. Billy found himself agreeing to stay for pizza again, sitting on the couch in companionable silence as they watched another basketball game.

Steve kept making comments about Bobby Knight's coaching style. "I just think he could get a lot more out of them if he was less mean," he said.

Billy snorted. "Yet they keep winning."

"They could be even better," Steve insisted.

"Well why don't you go coach them?"

Steve's face fell. "I've thought about it. Not coaching IU, obviously, but coaching basketball in general. I was gonna go to school to be a teacher, so I could do gym classes and shit, get into high school coaching. But I didn't get accepted to any colleges." His eyes flitted back and forth, and his cheeks heated up, like he was ashamed.

Billy had honestly thought Harrington just wanted to continue the cushy life he had for himself, living in this huge house mostly alone and working an easy job. He hadn't realized Steve had wanted to go to college.

"There's gotta be some coaching jobs you can get without being a teacher," he found himself saying. "Like what about the littler kids? They have intramural leagues and shit that aren't affiliated with the schools."

Steve chewed on his lip. "I hadn't really thought about that," he admitted. "I honestly just kind of gave up when college wasn't an option."

Billy clapped him on the shoulder. "Man up, Harrington. You've got options if you don't pussy out like a little bitch at the first sign of failure."

Steve grimaced, brushing Billy's hand off his shoulder. "I thought you were being nice for once."

Billy laughed. "You should know by now. I never play nice." He stood up, dusting off his jeans. "Time to go."

As Billy was getting ready to leave, Steve exclaimed, "Oh, shit, wait! I have something for you." He ran back into the kitchen. It better not be flowers or some shit. Billy couldn't handle that.

Steve came back holding a piece of paper. "I was driving the kids to an arcade in Jimtown, and there was a garage just about 20 minutes away that's hiring. Thought you might be interested so I grabbed you an application." He handed it to Billy. "The guy working there was really grumpy, probably a good fit for you."

Billy looked down at the application. His throat felt funny, like there was something stuck in it. He swallowed hard. Steve had remembered he wanted to work in a garage? And he'd stopped and grabbed him an application? What the fuck.

"Uh. Thanks," Billy said awkwardly, because he had to say something.

"Sure," Steve said with a smile. "See you later, Billy."

Read the full chapter on AO3.

[feralboo-the-weirdo]

Here's where I get extremely nitpicky about the characters in Legend of Korra. Part two of my many rambly thoughts after watching S1 of LoK.

Amon and Tarlok, the two villains. I think they were well written as antagonists, until you look at their motivation. Why do they want Republic city? Why does Amon want to take bending away? Why does Tarlok want to get rid of all nonbenders? Why do they both want the city? What was their goals? It almost would have made more sense if they were the same person. How I think it should have played out was that Amon wanted to find Tarlok but he couldn't just go up to him for REASONS, because he wanted to apologize to Tarlok for leaving him, and start over. Maybe he was held hostage by benders cause he could bloodbend and that's why he was punishing benders idk. Then Tarlok is like "oh shit who is this guy?" He starts acting like a absolute menace to nonbenders to draw Amon out (the thing I think the show was trying to do) Amon is a no show. He goes to confront Amon, discovers it's his brother and freaks the hell out. He joins Amon??? Idk. They just needed better motivations, clearer ones, better goals. Something that makes Tarlok blowing him and Amon up hit harder than it does.

Tenzin was almost perfect. A mentor character that was also a very tired dad that has to adopt Korra. A great bender, not over powered, or overpowered only where he should be.

Korra. I don't know what to say about Korra. She wasn't a Mary Sue which I'm glad for, and I feel like her character was well flushed out, but she doesn't really have an ark. She starts out overconfident, cocky and headstrong and ends slightly less overconfident cocky and headstrong. Her ark should have been her unable to learn airbending because it requires you to be intune with yourself and able to follow the flow -Something Korra can't do- and then she learns to airbend not because it gets turned on, but because she learns to slow down and how to listen.

Mako, Zuko a little to the left just if he'd been left on the streets with a brother to take care of. Also what is this man's goal. Does he know what motivation is? Has he met a modivation? And like yeah, he's modivated by he wants to save his friend and keep Bolin safe but what does he want? Does he want a better life for himself? Does he feel like he has to protect Bolin always and that makes him overbearing? How does this affect his actions in the show? His goal seems to be first and foremost putting Bolin first. Keeping his baby brother alive. But we don't see this much after Bolin is kidnaped when he should be more protective of him. Maybe of Korra too. I don't know what his ark should be but him finding out he loves Korra feels empty. Like he started out a full character at the start and the the writers remembered they needed a love interest for their love triangle. I just don't get what he wants. Like he wants Bolin to be safe and a better life for both of them, which is why he moves in with Asami, but he trusts her too quickly in my opinion. This what eighteen, seventeen? Year old who lived on the streets and worked for a gang doesn't have major trust issues? He watched his parents get BURNED ALIVE. HE IS NOT OKAY. This parentified child trusts Asami's father instantly and it's ridiculous. Also, I feel like part of his ark should have been him being deeply distrustful of Fire benders, and that's why he doesn't like Korra. What I think his ark should have been. Learning that he doesn't have to be overbearingly protective of Bolin and that not all fire benders are bad people. So him letting Korra into the family dynamic would be more of a win. Would have mattered.

Bolin. Where to begin with Bolin. Sokka turned sideways. Naive, still immature, but that makes sense. Mako took on all the heavy stuff so Bolin could stay that way. Like Bolin isn't stupid, he hides behind humor, but somehow wears his emotions on his sleeves. He has the same problem as Mako. Starts and ends the season the same person. Also starts out a lived in character ends it the comic relief. Also him almost getting is bending taken away should have had a way bigger affect in him. I want nightmares, I want a fear of bending in public, I want him to be terrified of being found again. And I want Mako to be paranoid. Like Bolin just chill a day later- which as a person who experienced a lot of truamai find ridiculous. What is his modivation? His are even more fuzzy to me than Mako's. But I think I figured it out. I think fundementally what Bolin wants is to be loved. This is why he gets into so many messy relationships later in the series. He's a lost boy desperate for someone to fill in his needs where Mako can't. This is why he clings so hard to Korra, why he likes her so much. She treats him like a person, a friend, someone who deserves attention. This is why he cracks so many jokes. A desire to be noticed, to be cared about, attention that makes him feel like he won't be ignored. Because being a child on the streets messes you up. Mako grew up to fast, Bolin to slowly. A disconnect between them. Both struggling to meet each other's needs. I think what Bolins ark should be heading towards is learning he doesn't have to change who he is to be loved, that people will notice him and care about him when he isn't making noise. That should have been his ark in S1 or at the very least the direction it heads in.

Tenzins kids. Idk. They're kids. Meelo is annoying but most children his age are. Jinora was just there. Same with Ikki. Pema was fine. Kinda mid. Kinda just there cause Tensin needed a SO.

Lin. She's perfect. My favorite though I don't know why. Her modivations are inconsistent. She's kinda static. But she's cool. Idk. I don't know what she wants. She's chief of police. Did she inherit that from Toph? Did she chose that? Did she want that? It clearly means something to her. Though, I think what she wants boils down to her wanting to protect people and keep them safe. She seems to long for a parental role. Or at the very least would try to be good at one. I think this is what she wants judging by what she doesn in the show. She breaks everyone out of jail so she can find her officers. She stations her officers around the bending arena to protect the pro benders and the city. She sacrifices herself to Amon so Tenzin can get away and loses her bending. Idk. Regardless. Still my blorbo.

Asami. My least favorite. She felt like she was shoved into the story so Mako could have a love interest and there would be a love triangle. She's another character that I just fundementally do not get. Why does she stay with Mako? Why does she like him? Why does her being too nice at the start of the season feel like it's setting up her secrently being evil? Why couldn't she be secretly evil? Throw the viewers off track, make the dad just some guy. Like what does she want? Does she want anything? What is her goal? Her modivations for staying with new team avatar? Does she have any? Is she really just a plot device? Is that all she is? I don't know and it bothers me that I don't know. I think she should have been evil, working with Mako because benders killed her mom and she wanted to make them pay, but then she meets Mako and starts a relationship with the intention to get close to the avatar so she could make it easy for Amon to get her. But they she finds herself actually falling in love with him and she doesn't know what to do. Then it's revealed that she was evil and helping her father but she's changed, she wants to help them. Maybe she know a super important secret about Amon that she gives up do they'll trust her again. She had so much potential man. I would have ayte that up. And instead we have Asami, the "my father is evil but my only role is love interest and that's my whole character actually" character. Idk. Maybe I missed something, but she felt so shallow to me. Also there should have been more time devoted to Korra and Lin not being able to bend.

[wintrwinchestr]

checking in/where i've been

some personal rambling and life updates below the cut

so um hi. it hasn't really been that long since i've posted any drawing or writing but it feels that way to me. and i've been thinking for the past couple of days about making a post like this so here i am doing it now. i just thought i'd give a little explanation for where i've been and where i'm at.

i don't know if anyone noticed but i did turn my ask box off last month. after i posted my christmas joel drawing i got a handful of rude and accusatory anons about him in my inbox. i didn't respond or draw any attention to it but i still decided to turn off anon asks and then turn off my asks altogether so i could have some peace of mind. i also realized that turning off my asks would stop the "do you plan on continuing __?" and "when do you plan on posting more __?" type of questions, which also has given me more peace of mind lately. i appreciate that anyone has any interest or enthusiasm for my writing at all, but i just haven't had the answers to those questions lately.

my job has been chaotic for basically the entire two+ years i've had it, but it's been especially hard honestly kind of going all the way back to late last summer/early fall. drawing and writing used to be my escape from it at the end of the day, but lately my 9-5:30 has been more like 9-7:30/8:00, and i think i've worked every weekend of 2025 so far. i plan on working this weekend too. so needless to say, my job kind of sucks the soul out of me, and it's been worse than usual in recent months. every day i would go to work looking forward to at least being able to draw or write a little bit when i got home, and then that would end up never happening because i would get back home too late and have to go to bed before i knew it so i could do it all again the next day. there have been nights when i just broke down sobbing because of this job and truly felt like i was losing my mind. so i just decided i would take a break from creating for a while, because at least i wouldn't have to be disappointed and crying every night that i was too tired or didn't have enough time to continue doing the things that bring me joy.

"why don't you just quit or find another job?" you might ask. i was applying to jobs for a little while without hearing anything back, and then... i got promoted last week. so... maybe it's selfish and capitalist of me to say, but i think i'm just going to try and ride it out for at least a few more months while my new paycheck hits my account and not try to hit the road the second they actually give me the promotion i've been hoping to get for the past several months. sure, i hate staying at the office 2/2.5 hours past when i'm supposed to leave every night, and i haven't had a single work-free weekend in recent memory, but at least it's a little more worth it now. i'll deal with the stress and panic and crying as it comes.

i was also pretty addicted to tik tok until it got banned for all of about 19 hours, and i decided to take the opportunity to break my addiction and delete it from my phone altogether. i've decided to pick up reading books again, something i knew i should probably be doing but haven't really for the past couple of years, and i've been really enjoying it. even when i come home at the end of a long day and just don't have it in me to create anything, i can at least find half an hour to read a little bit instead of being sad and scrolling on my phone, and that's been helping me feel a little better.

so i guess what i'm trying to say with all this is that i don't know when i'll have a drawing to share again. i don't know when i'll be able to continue either of the series that you all have given me so much support on. i'm thinking about them almost every day, but... their stories will have to wait until my life is a little more stable. and i don't know when that will be. i'm more or less taking a break and allowing myself to not feel guilty about that.

i'm just trying to take everything one day at a time and keep as much of my sanity intact as possible. thanks for reading if you made it this far. i will leave you with one of the quotes that's been keeping me going recently.

"'Cause I didn't feel like there was kind of any moment past that moment. But there was, there was"

[afewproblems]

agree with steve not forgiving eddie! how do you think it would go when they see each other for the first time after everything? like.. I feel like steve would just tell him it’s over for good but :O

Part one, part two, part three

The record label releases a statement, something to the effect of privacy concerns, not to misconstrue or blow things out of proportion because photos can be manipulated. There is no firm denial, but no confirmation either. It's all wishy washy bullshit.

It's like Steve's heart breaks all over again.

He doesn't speak to the press, despite redoubling their efforts to talk to him, Steve unplugs their home phone permanently, wraps it up in the cord and puts it in the back of the bedroom closet.

Eddie does try calling Steve's cell, but he never leaves a message, as though he knows they would go unheard.

After the initial visit from Wayne he ends up calling his de facto father in-law once a week. It's nice, it's the one good thing that has come out of this whole situation.

And Wayne doesn't seem to mind being their go between, especially since he's a lot less subtle than he thinks, asking pointed questions about how Steve is feeling, how he's handling the LOA.

It's a relief to say the least, talking to Eddie without talking to him, it allows him to breath.

It's quiet for about two weeks, the coverage of the photo and the story has dwindled significantly and the media seem to have moved on from talking about them, finally.

Steve's LOA is almost over, he's confirmed with Liz that he can return to the classroom next week as planned which leaves him in the highest spirits he's been in all month.

But of course it can't last.

The first time Steve sees Eddie is on Conan.

It's a Thursday night, Steve channel surfs absently. He's left the living room dim, the only lights from the television and the Chicago cityscape glowing through the living room window.

He lands on NBC for just a moment and freezes when he hears Gareths familiar voice speaking.

Gareth, Eddie, Jeff, and Grant are all seated on the set couch with Andy Richter. Conan asks a few questions about their tour, their recent resurgence in popularity from the movie, their favorite Marvel characters from the franchise that skyrocketed them back into the public scene.

Its a standard interview, Conan keeps it light, easy-going, not a single mention of the infamous photo.

Logically Steve knows this is most likely a mandate from the band's manager but it doesn't feel that way, it feels like a slap to the face if he's being honest with himself.

Did he imagine it? Had he blown this whole thing out of proportion? Maybe he was overreacting.

His phone buzzes on the coffee table he's left his feet on, Robin's face and 'Thing One', brightens up the room.

Steve moves his feet to sit up properly and he mutes the television with the remote before answering.

"Are you seeing this shit?" she growls on the line.

Steve laughs, "Hello to you too," he leans into the worn cushions of the couch and tries not to think of the second empty divot in the middle next to him, "yeah I'm seeing it".

"And they're not going to talk about it at all? Like what about journalistic integrity and all that shit?"

Steve rolls his eyes and snorts into the receiver, "I don't think Late Night counts as journalism Bobs--"

"Still," she huffs out.

Robin is quiet for a second before she says softly, "you okay?"

"No," he whispers, "but I think I'm the closest I'll be for awhile," he draws a heavy hand through his hair and ignores the cameras which have now panned to Eddie who looks pensive on screen.

He's not speaking, in fact Eddie hasn't said a word the entire interview. He looks tired, his normally pale face has turned sallow and drawn with deep purple bags under his eyes that even the show makeup has not covered.

Steve looks away from the screen and ignores the dull ache in his chest.

"I'm glad that it's not all over the news anymore," he admits after a moment, "but, its almost like it never happened".

Robin hums sympathetically on the line, "Twenty-four hour news cycle, they've probably found some new scandle to follow," she's quiet for another second, "he looks like shit".

Steve barks out a surprised laugh that trails off sharply, he chews his lip for a second, "is it crazy that I'm worried about him? He looks likes he's not sleeping--"

"Steve..."

"I know, I know, I'm am angry with him and I don't think that will go away any time soon, but look at him".

The camera angle switches to a wide shot of the whole group and Eddie stands out so starkly amongst the other band members that are put together, smiling, engaged in the conversation.

Verses the silent, pale ghost that Steve doesn't even recognize.

"Do not let that kicked puppy thing let him off the hook Steve," Robin says, the words are sharp but the tone is still gentle, "he hurt you just because you had a fight--"

"Maybe it wasn't that simple!"

"Steve..."

"I miss my husband Robin, I can't, I fucking hate that he did this but I miss him so much," he says, his voice wobbles slightly as Conan holds up a large version of Corroded Coffin's latest album on the desk before gesturing to the stage area to reveal their setup to start playing.

"I feel like there's something wrong with me," Steve says, giving voice to the smallest parts of himself that have been festering inside of him the last couple of days.

The longer they're apart, the longer he refuses to speak to Eddie to more these thoughts have been creeping in. Maybe he should just let it go, maybe he can eventually forgive him and they can move forward again.

It's countered again and again by the image, the kiss.

Imagining the two of them together, Eddie with this stranger. Did he call them Honeybee, the way he did Steve? Did he hold them after and whisper other sweet nothings, promises into their ears?

It's enough to turn his stomach.

"I don't know what to do, I can't exist like this much longer, the tour is going to be over soon and then what?"

"I don't know Steve, you're the only one that can make that decision, but," he can hear the small reassuring smile on her face as she speaks, "we'll be here for you no matter what you decide, I promise".

"Thank you".

"Anytime Dingus".

***

The second time Steve sees Eddie is a month after the Conan interview.

Steve's back at work and the kids seem happy to see him, though they are sad that the 'easy' sub days are done. He's glad for the routine once more, especially with the end of the tour looming on the horizon.

Steve has spent the last week fretting over what to do, he's talked to Robin and Dustin about it, weighing the pros and cons. He's talked to Wayne about contingency plans for the apartment, if he has space for one of them to go there.

Steve is fairly certain Eddie would go stay with Wayne willingly if he asked him to, but both of their names are on the mortgage and he'd rather be prepared for anything.

It's Gareth that calls him, his name lights up the darkened bedroom while the picture of Gareth and Chrissy and Steve and Eddie at their place for Thanksgiving two years ago flashes on the tiny screen.

It's late, almost two in the morning, but Steve is awake. He hesitates before snatching the device with shaking hands and swipes a hesitant thumb across the screen to answer the call.

"Hey Gar," Steve says quietly.

He sits up, letting the covers pool around his waist and stifles a small yawn with his hand.

"Oh, Steve, I...fuck is it good to hear your voice man," Gareth breathes out, he sounds surprised, nervous, "I wasn't expecting you to actually answer this," he trails off and clears his throat.

"I wasn't asleep," Steve shrugs.

There's a pause on the line, Steve can hear Gareth take a deep breath and the hushed words of someone in the background.

"I, God, Steve, I'm so sorry, I hate that we weren't there for you," he continues, and Steve can't help but agree with that sentiment.

It's certainly felt like the only one of his friends from Eddie's circle in his corner was Wayne, he hasn't heard from any of the band members or Chrissy since this happened and he can't say it hasn't stung.

"And I know you must hate us for this--"

"Gareth, I dont--" Steve tries with a small tired voice but Gareth barrels onward, the words getting faster as he speaks.

"I won't make any excuses, we should have done better by you and the fucking label knew exactly what they were doing," he breathes out again and this time its infinitely more pained, "and I hate to do this Steve, I know you already told him that you needed more time--"

"You're coming back?"

"Yeah, we fly in tomorrow actually," Gareth says softly, "and we just, well we wanted you to know".

Steve feels his heartrate quicken, he swallows harshly against the sudden lump in his throat.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow, with no warning, no notice, and suddenly Eddie would be back. He'd be coming home...

"I want to see him," Steve hears himself say before he can clamp his mouth shut, "I...can you tell him that, I need to talk to him?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, uh," Gareth stammers out, then the sound is muffled for a moment as though a hand has been placed over the receiver, lowered voices murmur in the background and Steve feels himself drag in a sudden breath, as though he had forgotten to breath at some point.

"Okay, Steve?"

"Yeah," he whispers into the darkness of his bedroom.

"He'll be there".

***

The clock ticks slowly by, interrupting the quiet of the apartment and every time Steve looks at the clock face it's still only been forty minutes since Gareth texted to tell him they've landed at O'Hare.

It's like the clock is mocking him, the minute hand holding court over the kitchen where Steve has planted himself with a full cup of, now undrinkable, tepid tea.

He initially debated offering to pick them up from the airport, but the thought of their first meeting being so public, the thought of camera flashes and more people asking questions was enough to turn his stomach.

Even now Steve isn't sure how he'll react when Eddie walks through that door, his hands shake slightly and a flicker of anxiety runs through his chest because what if he's not alone? If he brought Gareth with him, or Jeff as some kind of backup or shield from Steve's anger.

Steve scoffs to himself at the thought, they'd seen a lot of Steve over the years, he's sure this wouldn't phase them. Maybe they'd even stand aside and let Eddie take his verbal lumps.

Steve sighs and grabs the mug from the counter before walking it over to the microwave. He sets it for thirty seconds and waits with his fingers drumming against the door handle. He opens the microwave before it beeps and presses the cancel button to reset the time before he walks back to the counter and stool he had been perched on.

Steve steals another glance at the clock and curses, make that forty-five minutes since Gareths message.

The sudden sound of a key sliding into a lock snatches Steve's attention towards the entryway.

Eddie steps through, wheeling his suitcase in behind him, he lets his backpack fall onto the doormat and softly closes the front door behind him. Eddie looks even more tired than he had during the interview, thinner as well and Steve feels that familiar pang in his chest at the sight.

Neither says anything for a moment. They stare at each other unmoving, and then...

"Hi Honeybee".

That's all it takes for Steve to jump off the stool and stride through the kitchen to the foyer, he stops just in front of Eddie, takes in his shining eyes and the sharp downturn of his normally smiley mouth and Steve's last resolve snaps into pieces.

He launches himself into Eddies arms and tucks his face into his neck, it's the first time he's felt remotely normal in the last two months.

"I'm so fucking angry with you," Steve hisses but the words sound more like a sob than anything else.

"I know, I'm angry with me too," Eddie whispers into his ear, he holds Steve even tighter as he speaks.

"I just, you're the person I talk to, about everything and," Steve bites his lip and curls his fingers into the fabric of Eddie's t-shirt, "I couldn't do that, I didn't have you, you’re my person Eddie and you took that from me, and so much shit happened here, you dont even--".

He's fully crying now, so much that it's harder to speak, but Eddie is holding him so tightly he can't catch his breath.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Eddie says, his voice wobbles and wanes as the words tangle in Steves hair, "if I could take it back I would, I wish I could take it back Stevie believe me".

"It didn't mean anything, it didn't," he continues, raising one hand to card through Steve's hair as he does, "I don't know how to fix this," he admits so quietly its nearly lost in Steve's sniffles and hitching breaths.

"I don't want to lose you," Steve whispers into Eddies shoulder, the material of his shirt is soaked with tears and snot but he raises his face anyway to meet Eddie's own red rimmed eyes.

"Then you won't," Eddie whispers again, he sniffs and moves his hand to cup Steve's cheek, "we'll fight, we'll fight for it and I won't give up, I won't run this time".

"I promise".

There is so much more to talk about now, so much to apologize for, but for now, they hold each other in the foyer, letting the golden Chicago light morph into the bronze orange of sunset wash over them from the kitchen window.