#compliant home documents

[harryspet]

ribbons & rage | b.barnes

[warnings] dark!gray!congressman!bucky barnes x feral!hybrid!reader, daddy!bucky, power imbalance, possessive bucky, pet play elements, dollification, political manipulation, age regression tones (dd/lg dynamics), dom/sub dynamic, stockholm syndrome, forced domestication, DUBCON

summary: After a diplomatic mission turns into an extraction, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes brings home a prize no one knows about. She’s impulsive. Dirty. Disobedient. But under his eye, with enough ribbons, praise, and correction, he’ll turn the wild thing into something beautiful. Something his.

word count: 5.8k

bucky barnes masterlist

Sam warned him not to get involved in Project LUPUS. He was only a year into his congressional term and he’d managed to fully rid the public of the image of the Winter Soldier. For the first time in the century he’d been alive, he was just James “Bucky” Barnes. Some of his colleagues had even begun to take him seriously. Despite this, Bucky knew Sam didn’t fully understand. He’d never fully understand the destruction that Hydra had caused to his mind. Bucky was the only one who could understand the minds behind the deep-state project. Modern American scientists influenced by Hydra’s science. 

Project LUPUS was Hydra’s legacy. The experimentations, the genetic manipulations, the violence. They hadn’t been erased. They were buried, waiting for someone to dig them up. It was his responsibility to make sure everything tied to it was destroyed. 

The classified file came across his desk because one of his colleagues recognized he would be the best person for the job. He was granted limited access under the purpose of an oversight audit and a bioethics violation review. 

According to the document, everyone involved had been terminated and all the experiment subjects had been exeterminated. His colleague believed otherwise. Bucky read the documents even closer during his private flight to Outpost-25 A, and undisclosed location in Alaskan territory. A snowstorm had grounded most flights but he’d been given “special clearance”.

The scientists, under the direction of a network embedded within the Department of Defense, were intending to create self-healing, biologically engineered hybrids with enhanced aggression, sharp senses, and fast reflexes. They’d be able to detect and eliminate threats, control public unrest, recover key asessets, and could even be deployed during warfare operations. 

They’d learned nothing from the past. 

The very last document in the pile of fifty pages peaked Bucky’s interest the most. It was a scanned intake form, faded, stained and partially redacted. This one had many notes written in the margins. A different tone than the documents describing the purpose of the project, the different subjects and how they’d been exterminated. 

Subject 109. LUPUS-F. Status: Unconfirmed termination. Last seen on Sublevel 3. 

Ah, the real reason he was here. You were nineteen at the time that the project had been terminated. Many of the notes were similar to the other subjects. Rapid healing. Strong territorial response. Pre-verbal communication. A few others, including you, had been listed as non-compliant. 

He stared at the paper longer than he should have, becoming unsettled as he read further. 

There were so many incident reports related to you. Reports on the use of deadly force. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. The accidental death of a Lt. Carney. Another accidental death of a Lt. Wynn. Destruction of two containment doors during transport. The standard dose of sedation being ineffective due to rapid metabolism.

Avoid eye contact. 

Will only accept food from [REDACTED] 

Your termination order was prior to the termination of the project. The justification included unmanageable behavorial volatility and emotional instability. It stated your body had been incinerated but there were no autopsy photos included. 

Double dose required for sedation. 

Rejection of mating partner 103-M. 

Rejection of mating partner 98-M.

Rejection of mating partner 115-M. 

Bucky searched for anything that gone right during your captivity and didn’t find anything. Bucky finally tore his eyes away when the plane dipped from turbulence. The storm was building. As the jet began its descent into a snow-covered valley, Bucky caught sight of the outpost. It was buried under permafrost in a decommissioned missile silo.

The pilot warned him not to stay long before he finally stepped off the transport. It was a thirty-foot walk through snow, reaching up to his mid-calf, to the entrance. The tall steel doors of the entrance had been sealed off. He used his clearance code, courtesy of his colleague on the oversight committe, and the steel doors groaned open. 

Lights flickered weakly above. He passed through long corridors and security checkpoints until he reached the main lab. It didn’t look abandoned. Only frozen in time. Notes were still scrawled across whiteboards, papers stacked on desks, and metal trays with half-used syringes. A shattered, glass, containment chamber sat nearby, clawmarks across the glass. 

But there were no bodies, or bones, or even any bullet casing. 

Carefully and methodically, Bucky cleared the first two floors of the outpost. He found each cage door open and and empty. When he finally reached Sublevel 3, he noticed something in the air had shifted. The air cooled even further and lights dimmed. That’s where he found the bones. Animal bones. 

He checked each cage for a sign of life. Though there was a pistol on his hip and a shotgun strapped to his back, he didn’t ever reach for them. He paused at cell 12-C and stepped inside. There was bedding, sheets created from lab coats, chair cushions and even shredded documents. Muddy foot prints. Small and barefoot. 

You weren’t in a cell. You were loose. Surviving. 

He stepped back into the hallway. And then he saw you. No chains. Just … standing at the end of the hall. Watching him. 

Despite the the lack of sunlight and coldness of your home, your skin was rich and radiant. Your curls, though some were matted, defied gravity. Your frame was slender, most likely from being trapped here with dwindling resources, but the curves of your body remained. Gunshot to the abdomen. He saw the scar above your hip bone. He also saw another one on your right thigh and an even larger one on your collarbone. 

It wasn’t just the scars or the angles of your body that made you unlike anything Bucky had ever seen. Unnaturaly wide pupils that he could see even in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears. You looked him over, scanned him, and Bucky noted the faint twitch of your nostrils – scenting him. Though you were physically much smaller than him, you did not cower. You were not prey. 

Your lips parted and Bucky could see your canines, just slightly too long. 

He remembered your file. 

Hybrid Type: Homo sapiens/Canis lupus (Genome Series III)

Ancestral Donor: [REDACTED] 

You were made this way. Selfishly, inappropriately, Bucky wondered how something made by evil minds could be so … beautiful. Something switched in his mind then. He couldn’t ensure the full termination of Project LUPUS. 

You were like him. A monster of another’s creation. He had to save you. Someone decided to give him a second chance, he could do that from you. 

Perhaps they had evolved. Maybe he was here to get rid of you like the others. He was armed. There was no reason to trust him. 

You didn’t speak. Just stared. Assessed. 

Until you did move. 

Part of you expected to easily pierce his skin. To be so much faster and stronger that the shear force of pushing your body against his would easily knock him down. You hadn’t met a worthy opponent yet. Until now. 

He caught you. 

He moved but barely. You let out a scream of anguish as his arms wrapped around your torso, pulling your body against his. You thrashed wildly, trying to pull your knees into his groin, before you decided to go for his throat. Bearing your teeth, you lunged for him, but the wind was almost knocked out of you when you suddenly found yourself slammed against the concrete wall. 

Now you were mad. Blindingly furious. 

What was he? He didn’t smell like a hybrid. He smelled chemical, metallic, and synthetic. His arm, across your chest, pinned you against the wall. You looked up at his face now, long dark hair shielding half his face. 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” His first words to you weren’t a threat. You knew that much although you couldn’t decipher the full meaning. He was surprised. Not scared of you. Not the least bit scared of his own safety. It made you even more furious, “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop.”

Dead. Hurt. You knew those words. Those were bad words. But he almost seemed worried. He looked … conflicted. 

You couldn’t breathe, your chest was tightening under the pressure, and it felt like your bones might crack at any minute. Your eyes burned from the rage and frustration. No one had ever made you feel like this. You wanted his heart in your hands. You wanted his head off his shoulders. But you forced your body to still. Not in submission but to allow yourself time to think. 

A growling whine left your throat, the pain finally fully registering. His grip loosened and something changed in his face. He managed to keep you pinned but the pressure lessened, “I don’t want to hurt you,” He spoke and you hung onto every word. You needed to think. To try to understand him, “You won’t be able to hurt me. Not in the way you want to.” 

Your nostrils flared. You didn’t believe him. You also didn’t move. Clearly, you would have to take a different approach.

He talked like a human. Carried weapons like the humans. You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like he needed them. You could take another bullet, you’d done it before. You wished that the food hadn’t started running out a few weeks ago. You would be stronger. But there was still fight left in you. 

He didn’t notice the switch flip in your mind. He was already pulling away, giving you space, but you quickly struck again. Dropped your weight, slammed your forehead against his jaw as hard as possible. Nails slashed against his throat when you successfully caught him off guard. You drew blood and smiled. 

“Fuck,” He growled, actually growled, and your smile grew bigger. 

So he bleeds. What was he? 

A metal arm wrapped around your throat before he shoved you to the ground. You scrambled and kicked as he got on top of you, straddling your torso. When he reached into his pocket, you thought he was reaching for his gun. 

“You don’t get it,”  He said. You screamed as best as you could. Your chest heaved, “I’m not your enemy.”

You didn’t see the syringe until it was already pressed against your arm. The sting was nothing. You’d felt much worse. You didn’t flinch. Despite the way his face softened, you showed him your rage. You pushed at him until you couldn’t feel anything anymore. 

Bucky didn’t realize he’d taken on too much responsibility until it was too late. 

“You’re safe here,” He’d say over and over, “This isn’t a cage.”

Now you were here in his Brooklyn home, barefoot, feral, and you were close to destroying every valuable item in his home. His first mistake was trying to make sure you didn’t feel caged. He realized quickly that he couldn’t be nice with you. The only things you responded to were pain and control. 

This would be a journey. A long one. It would be a slow, brutal fight to drag you out of whatever darkness they left you in.

And Bucky wasn’t sure yet who would survive it.

For the first two weeks, he kept a bit gag in your mouth to stop you from biting, and padded gloves on your hands, leather on the outside, soft inside, to keep you from scratching him. He had to sedate you everytime he deemed you needed a bath or your teeth brushed because you’d fight him until your body went limp from exhaustion. You completely refused any clothing, leaving Bucky to draw every curtain in the home. 

He hadn’t found a way to make a click. To help you understand. Until he’d prepared you a breakfast one morning and you’d thanked him by flipping the table. He lifted you by your waist and dragged you kicking and screaming to the living room. He bent you over the couch, vibranium arm pressed against your upper back, and spanked you until your growling turned to whimpers. 

He hadn’t seen you cry yet. Not until then. His heart panged, realizing he’d let his anger make him lose control. He hand’t wanted to hurt you. Not really. But the spanking had done more then bruise your ass. It embarassed you. Made you truly realize how much stronger he was. You were deadly but Bucky had an extra eighty years to perfect his craft. 

Bucky could tell in the way your posture softened. How you leaned into the fabric of the couch for comfort. You weren’t broken but you were beginning to understand. He was the one in control. He could keep you here no matter how much you fought it. 

You allowed him to lift you, to place you softly on the material of the expensive sofa. As he rounded the piece of furniture and sat close to you, he watched how you pulled your knees into your chest. And then quickly sat up and tucked your knees under yourself instead, bottom sore.  Hesitantly, he rested a hand on your thigh. You looked up at him, eyes sad and confused. 

“I know,” He said quietly, voice rough but steady, “But there are rules to follow. You were being a bad girl–”

You pointed to your chest and spoke to him for the first time, “B-ad girl.”

Bucky was taken aback by your tone of voice. Gritty from misuse but he heard so much softness underneath. A delicateness he had not expected. Bucky nodded after a long pause, “Yes, you were being a bad girl. But I know you can be a good girl.”

Your brows furrowed and Bucky saw the way that you momentarily grew frustrated before you pushed it away. For the first time, you pushed away your gut instinct to fight him. You pointed to him next, “Good girl?” You asked, confused. It didn’t sound right and Bucky could see your mind working.

Bucky grinned, “No, I’m Bucky.”

“Boy,” You corrected yourself, “Good boy?”

Bucky’s lips parted. He honestly hadn’t thought he’d get to this point with you so he hadn’t spent enough time considering how he would explain all of this you, “No,” He said after clearing his throat, “That one’s for you. You get to be the good girl.”

You tilted your head again, “You … Alpha?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, not exactly. I want to be your …” He thought carefully about his next words. He pointed to you, “You … good girl. Baby. Doll. Pet.”

He pointed to himself next, “Me …. I’m Daddy.”

“Hmm,” You made a noise as you looked him over. You reached out next, your fingers wandering curiously over the fabric of his white button up. You felt his chest, hard and thick before you gripped the metal wrist of his left arm, “Daddy arm … this … you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Still me,” Bucky spoke a little breathlessly, not realizing how much that word on your lips would make his heart race. You studied his face and then subsequently his heart rate. You placed a hand over his heart and felt the beating. It fascinated you. Your heart rate was so much slower, so much more controlled.

You made another noise and your hands wandered back to your own lap. It would be a strange sight to anyone looking in. You were completely naked and Bucky had, somewhat, grown used to looking at your figure. Sometimes his eyes lingered a little too long on the perks of your nipples or the plumpness of your bottom. And your legs were slightly parted, he could clearly see your slit. You didn’t mind it. It bothered you more when he wanted you to wear clothes. 

“No baby,” You interrupted his thoughts and Bucky realized his hand was traveling closer to the gap between your thighs. 

You were so soft. 

“What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“No … not baby,” You pointed to yourself then and gestured to a lower height, palm facing downward, emphasizing how small an actual baby would be, “This baby.”

You wanted to be understood, “Not a real baby, no,” Bucky said, “But I want you to be my baby,” When you went quiet, he continued, “I want to take care of you. I will take care of you.”

You shook your head, “No need.”

“I know,” Bucky agreed, “You’re right. You’re strong. But I know you don’t want to be alone again. All by yourself. No family. No friends. No love. It’s bad for you.”

“Bad for me. No love,” You said after awhile, mimicking him. Trying to understand. 

Bucky nodded, “It’s good to have someone. Stay with me. I won’t hurt–”

“You hit,” You retorted, some of that fury returning. Your palm touched the skin of your bruised bottom, “See, you hit! No like. I … don’t like.”

You raised a hand and Bucky quickly caught it. His eyes grew sharper and he sent you a warning. 

“Hey, you’re not supposed to like it. I hit, yes. But it’s different than this,” Bucky emphasized the scars on your skin, the bullet wounds, the scars from where knives had sliced you open, “Sometimes it hurts more here.” He pointed to you heart. 

“I don’t like,” You said again, softer this time. 

Slowly, Bucky’s tight grip turned gently and he took your hand into his. One hand on your thigh, his metal hand on your soft one. 

“Then you won’t be a bad girl, okay? No fighting. No hurting Daddy. If you want something, you have to tell me. You can’t just throw a tantrum. There are rules to follow.”

You sighed, considering. Your lips parted again, uncertain. That was good enough for Bucky. 

Bucky leaned in, his voice gentle, “Do you know your name? I’m Bucky. You are …”

“109-F,” You answered easily and flashed him a look of boredom, like your name didn’t matter. 

“That was your name. We’ll think of something better, okay?”

Another week passed and Bucky found he had little use for the bit gag and leather gloves. The tantrums remained but Bucky noticed your intentions had changed. You didn’t get riled up and try to hurt him anymore. You pushed at him and knocked things over but mostly only when you wanted to communicate something and Bucky couldn’t understand you. 

As the spankings increased, the good behavior increased as well. He started new routines with you. 

Your room was currently only a twin bed and soft carpet despite the size of the room. It allowed for less things to be destroyed. You didn’t sleep in the bed anyways. Bucky started to notice that his couch cushions, blankets, old newspapers, and even clothes from his closet were starting to go missing. He found them later in the small closet connected to your room. 

A nest.

You had created a soft, safe space for yourself inside. At first, you bared your teeth at him when he tried to step inside. Instead, Bucky sat right by the entrance of the closet door. He brought you breakfast, a simple bowl of oatmeal. He’d take a spoonful into his mouth and exaggerate an, “Mmmm,” as he ate. Then he would hold the spoon out to you and wait for you to take it, “Your turn, baby.”

You refused the first few times. Then eventually you took the spoon in your hand and catapulted it at the wall. Not out of anger, mostly out of curiosity. And then you clumsily dipped the spoon inside the oatmeal, brought it to your nose, smearing some on your nose. “See, it’s not so bad. Try it.”

You looked at him like he was from another planet. 

Eventually, you took the spoon into your mouth and had a few bites, “Good girl, baby.” That’s how he knew you were warming to him. 

His work in Washington continued even as he continued to help you settle into a routine. There were still meetings and late-night calls. Stacks of policy briefs piled high on the living room table and his phone buzzed constantly. Soon, he would have to return but he hoped by then you would be more house broken. Easier to manage. Easier to leave on your own. 

You responded well to the corporal punishments. To make even bigger changes, Bucky tried to workout a system of rewards for you. It started with the stuffed animals. Soft and cute. He knew you’d never seen or held one before. He sat outside the closet, further than he usually did, one evening holding a stuffed, brown bear, “Look, he’s soft. Do you want to hold him?”

“ … hold him?” You made you way to the edge of door and reached for it.

Bucky pulled back, “You may hold him. You’ve been such a good girl, eating your food, and not throwing things. Come here,” He patted his lap. 

For a long moment, you mentally debated whether or not you would leave the closet. When you finally decided the risk was worth it, you hesitantly crawled forward, sitting your bare bottom on the worn fabric of his jeans. Bucky let you take the bear into your hands and he saw something your face soften immediately. You brushed your hands over the fur methodically, over and over. Bucky counted fifty brushes of your hand over it’s head. 

“You can hug him,” Bucky demonstrated for you, realizing then that you wouldn’t know what a hug was. He pressed the bear to your chest and then guided your arms around the plush toy, “See, sweet girl. Do you like him?”

“I like bear,” Your voice came out muffled as you pressed the bear against your face, “Soft.”

You were mesmerized for a solid fourty-five minutes. You didn’t mind when Bucky shifted you in his lap so that you were fully straddling him, the bear between the two of you. His hands caressed your back, the sides of your waist and eventually he fully grasped your bottom in his hands, “Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Hurt?” You asked though it was clear your mind was elsewhere.

“No, baby,” Bucky said although he was painfully hard.

“I keep bear?”

Bucky placed a soft kiss against your shoulder blade and was surprised when your face remained soft, almost happy, “It’s yours. For you, my good girl.”

“I’m good girl,” You smiled a real smile. It was the first time he fully saw your teeth and you weren’t thirty seconds from trying to rip out his jugular, “Good bear for me.” 

He nodded, brushing your curls back with his metal fingers. He’d have to tackle another deep detangling another night, “That’s right. But when someone gives you something special, there’s something else you say, too.” He touched your cheek. “Can you say thank you, baby?”

You blinked at him.

“Thannnk—” he started, slow and patient. 

You studied his mouth. “Than...”

“Good,” he coaxed, smiling now. “Now say thank you, Daddy.”

You continued, “Thank you… Daddy.”

“There you go. So polite. So sweet.”

You just stayed there, safe in his lap, hugging the bear a little tighter.

You followed Mr. Bear around the house. Wherever Bucky placed him, you were there. The kitchen table at breakfast, the space beneath Bucky’s desk while he was working, beside the bathtub when Bucky decided you couldn’t go any longer without a bath, your bed that you had initially abandoned. You’d even spent a full night in Bucky’s large bed, letting Bucky hold your waist as you slept using Mr. Bear as your pillow. It wasn’t conscious at first. You fell in love with the small toy quickly. You looked in his eyes and squished his belly to help calm yourself, to even help yourself sleep. It was an attachment that was foreign to you. You liked that Mr. Bear was yours and that Bucky had given him to you. 

It was comfort and regulation. It was all new. 

You spent a full two weeks with that sense of peace. Until you woke from a long nap on the living room couch and Mr. Bear was missing. You’d learn to breathe, to slow down and to not let your anger rise to point of seeing red. You breathed deeply as you turned over every cushion and looked threw drawers. You couldn’t even smell him anymore. 

He was gone. Forever. Stolen from you. Had you been a bad girl? You’d grown attached and now you’d been abandoned. You started looking under any item you could find, letting items fall to the ground with a thud. You emptied an entire bookshelf of all it’s books and spread the contents of one of Bucky’s manila folders all over the floor. 

Cold, dense paper. Nothing soft. You didn’t register the sound of Bucky’s voice in the other room. You fell to your knees, cheeks wet with tears, and started to shred the papers with your nails. 

“....Then tell them to hold off until I’m back D.C. I won’t sign off on anything blind …. Yeah, he knows this. Email him again. Then call. Whatever you have to do. That’s your job …”

A second later, the footsteps came. Fast, heavy but controlled. 

“Give me a second,” Bucky said. Then louder, “Just pause the call.”

Your eyes found his when he finally walked into the living room from his office. He looked over everything quickly. You couldn’t control your breathing. 

Before he could ask you what was wrong, you yelled, “You took bear! Not here! Where?!”

“He’s not gone,” Bucky crouched next to you, eyes dark and fixed sharply on you, “I was in the other room. You need to ask when you have a question. You can’t do … this.” 

“Need bear, Daddy,” You crawled closer on your knees, “Need. Baby is sad.”

“Thank you for telling Daddy how you feel but this is not what you do when you’re sad. You didn’t ask Daddy for help,” Before he continued his lecture, he realized you weren’t the least bit sorry. Your focus was on your toy, “Daddy put Mr. Bear in the washing machine. He was dirty. He’s in the dryer now.” 

“You took bear,” You croaked and Bucky sighed, “Not dirty. Give back.”

“I’ll give him back after you clean up your mess.” 

“No, Daddy!”

“Do you want a spanking too?” You blinked, eyes wide. You shook your head slowly. It had been so long since Bucky had bent you over and done that to you, “Clean, all this needs to go in the trash. The books go back on the bookshelf. And you can put the couch back together. I will wait.”

You scowled then. You had to clean when all of this was his fault. He took Mr. Bear. 

He kept his word. He waited. You put the couch cushions back where they belonged before you stacked the books back on the shelf. He stepped in to show you exactly where the books needed to go and held a trash bag open for you to place all the destroyed papers in.

“Good girl,” He said though the way his jaw clicked made you believe he might be just as mad as you. 

He took your hand a moment later and led you into the small room with two white machines. One was loud, rumbling and as Bucky opened it’s door, the shaking came to a cease. And then Mr. Bear appeared. Before you could lunge for him, Bucky’s metal arm shot out, holding you at a distance, “My bear,” Your voice trailed off as you eyed the toy. He looked cleaner but he’d lost the smell you’d grown to like, “Bucky no more clean. Not dirty.”

“Mr. Bear does get dirty just like Baby does. He has to have a bath sometimes. Do you understand?”

You were reluctant but you nodded. “Yes,” As soon as the plus toy was in your arms, you curled up on the ground, and held him tightly. As Bucky turned to return to his call in the other room, you let out a small, “.... Sorry, Bucky.”

He paused in the doorway, glanced back.

“I know, baby,” he said gently. 

Bucky decided the perfect gateway into you finally wearing clothes around the house was yet another toy. This one was a soft rag doll that looked just slightly like you. The same skin tone and dark curly hair pinned up by two lavender colored bows. She also wore a lavender dress and matching ballet flats. She looked sweet, safe, familiar. 

His usual spiel had failed. He explained that clothes were a good thing. They were soft and kept you warm. He also teased the possibility of one day going outside with him, “The people outside always wear clothes,” He’d say, “You want to go on a trip with Daddy one day, don’t you?”

You just ignored him and let your eyes wander towards the window, “This is Mr. Bear’s good friend,” He presented the doll to you, placing her on your bed, next to the loose-fitting, pink t-shirt dress that was laid out on the bed. He chose something completely unrestrictive on purpose. You perked up then. You gave him a hungry look, as if he was presenting you with a medium-rare steak instead of a doll, “She’s a ballerina. Uh, like a dancer. To music. Her name is … Rina.”

“Rina,” You tried, your eyes locked on her, “Soft?”

“She’s very soft,” Bucky assured you, “She loves hugs too.”

“Rina mine?” You asked next, face soft, looking up expectantly, “Like Bear?”

“She could be. She wants a new friend. But she has a rule.”

Your arms crossed at that. You leaned forward to study the doll, brows furrowed, “She has rule?”

“She doesn’t want to be held unless you’re dressed, like people are supposed to be. Even cute hybrid girls have to wear clothes.  She feels the most comfortable that way.”

You pouted adorably, “Bad rule.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, “That’s what she told me. Rina’s rules. She might let you hold her if you’re a good girl.”

“Don’t like,” You started to whine, pressing your body against Bucky’s body, forehead pressing against his chest, “Please … don’t like.”

Bucky placed gentle on your shoulders, lifting your body from him. He pressed a finger under your chin, lifting it until you were looking at him, “I’m sorry, I would help you but it’s not my rule.”

He turned away from you. Not far, only a few steps. He gave you space. Pretended to check his email on his phone. He heard you stomp your feet. Once. Twice. Then a whine. Then there was silence. The tiniest ruffle of fabric. When Bucky turned around, you were wearing the dress. He smiled wide, impressed. 

He doubted he could get you in pair of underwear or a bra today but there was time for that. 

He came closer again, running his fingers over your hair before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “Did it. See, Bucky.” You declared, eyes wide and expecting, “Mine now?”

“She’s yours.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” You bounced on your toes excitedly before you happily scooped up the doll. Bucky picked you up next, and you wrapped your legs around his torso. You let out a soft laugh, a real one, and it was music to Bucky’s ears. One arm looping around his neck, the other squeezing Rina to your body, you looked Bucky in his eyes deeply. Like he’d placed gentle kisses on your forehead, your shoulder, and cheeks, you placed a soft peck on his lips. 

He stilled for a second. Then smiled, full and proud, “Thank you, babygirl.”

There was one week left until Bucky had to return to Washington. He was more than happy with the progress you’d made. You’d started wearing underwear and you’d even been open to trying different kinds of clothes. Pants were still a nonstarter. You didn’t mind the skirts. You didn’t love the tight-fitting t-shirts but Bucky often left you no options. You tugged at them and pouted. Selfishly, he liked the way they looked on you. 

There were still many gaps in your social etiquette. It took him a full three days to explain that you couldn’t lift up your skirt whenever you wanted. You had a habit of wanting to stare at the different patterns on your underwear and often would flip up your skirt in the middle of a conversation or activity or anything to look. He corrected gently, not because he didn’t like the view but because ideally one day you’d accompany him to dinners and go on outings with him. He didn’t need you putting your body on display. 

He convinced you Rina liked it when wore different hairstyles. Ribbons and bows were her absolute favorite. He’d started getting really good at braiding it into neat rows, and tying bows to the ends. During his morning meetings, you often sat between his legs at his desk, Rina in your lap, as he fixed your hairstyle for the day. 

Bucky was settling into a sense of peacefulness. A feeling he had longed for. Therapy helped. His new job fulfilled him in some aspects but also made him realize how slow change really happened at the same time. This life, the pocket of innocence he was building around you, was starting to help most of all. This life was the opposite of everything he and you were ever used to. 

He didn’t want you exposed to the real world. He would shield you from reality for as long as possible. He would give you something he never had for himself. He’d also had enough of following orders for ten lifetimes. With you, in his own house, he made the rules. 

He had to address his mission. Debrief the committee on all of his findings. He had to give his colleagues enough information to satisfy them but couldn’t risk them getting their hands on you. You were the survivicing data to a program that never should’ve been created. He decided to lie. The site was clear of any sources of life. The facility was sealed, records wiped away, and he submitted a report that suggested Project LUPUS be permanently blacklisted from funding due to “gross ethical violations”. 

He’d have to spin another story eventually. Explain your presence in his life. Mel, his assistant, was already working on using the story for political advantage. You were a rescued civilian during a humanitarian negotiation. You’d suffered severe trauma and Congressman Barnes, recognizing the complexity of the situation and understanding the importance of mental rehabilitation, he’s personally arranged for you to receive trauma-informed rehabilitative care under his sponsorship. He’d be even more of the hero than the public saw him as. 

Colleagues would raise questions but no one would push to hard. He was a war hero. His word was gospel. 

Pls reblog w/ your thoughts if you enjoyed! This will be a 2 part series with the second chapter focused on Bucky + Baby’s time in Washington! Hope you enjoyed :)

[tacticaldiary]

omg hi, i love your writing and saw requests were open for cod. i was wondering if you could write something where reader and simon are in an established relationship (can either be public to the team or a secret) and they are on a mission. reader has a scare during a mission and ghost has an “i almost lost you” moment with her.

Anyone But Her

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Their line of work has never guaranteed the assurance of coming home, but that doesn't make the fear of loss any easier to deal with, especially not when it happens right in front of his eyes.

Masterlist

If asked where one feels the most comfortable, people who respond with something like 'home' or 'the beach', something achievable and wholly normal.

Her? There was nothing more comforting than the feel of hot metal in her tight grip during a mission, the easy reloading of her sniper almost by muscle memory as she gazes down the scope. The commands, the back and forth with tasks and delegations, and the constant movement and adjustment needed to bring home a victory is what keeps her on her feet.

"In position on first building." Ghost's rough voice travels through the comms, bringing her attention away from the scope she's looking down. Laying down on the top of a hill, spotting the other members as they infiltrate a Russian warehouse, was an easy job. In and out before they realised that the team was even there.

It's an ugly thing, what the 141 deals with, but it's so far set from what normal is that she's long since accepted that there's no going back.

Part of her is glad she hadn't tried. If there was never a chance she'd have been selected for this squad, she never would have met the enigma that is Simon Riley.

Standoffish, brash, deadly.

Understanding, confident, loving.

They'd butted heads on her first day harsher than any of the others ever had, and after an order from Price to resolve their tension lest it interfere mid battle, the both of them had come to realise that they had much more in common than they thought.

The rest had been history. They already moved in sync on the field, and after a try they'd discovered they worked just as well together as something more than teammates. It was hard to keep things professional with glances so heated and words that no friend would ever offer each other.

Some of the things he's said to her in the heat of the moment and the privacy of their quarters makes blood rush to her cheeks just thinking about it.

She was just a precaution, really. A failsafe, because the odds may be in their favour but they were never always truly compliant.

"Breaching second on your command." Gaz's voice relays through.

"Sergeant, how are things from above?"

"All clear, L.T." She says, doing another final sweep of the grounds. "No visible hostiles near your vicinity." The good news is delivered with an undertone of caution.

If their intel was correct, this warehouse should be housing stolen US documents, information that could deal real damage to their operations if transported farther than it already had been.

So where were all the soldiers?

The only ones she sees are a few mulling around the grounds, three by the radio tower nearby and another few near the vehicles at the back of the compounds. Surely such valuable intel would be more heavily guarded?

Her gut speaks to attest that something is wrong, but before she can bring it to light, Ghost and Soap, and Gaz and Price breach the doors of their respective warehouses.

"Copy." Ghost rasps. "Breaching now." She pauses for a moment to fiddle with her comms unit, the voices filtering through to her earpiece crackling in a way they shouldn't be if the device was fully functional.

Looking down her scope, everything seems normal. The grass swaying in the wind, the silence that follows and-

Silence?

She stiffens at the sudden lack of noise. It was too still, the clam before the storm. Hand flying to her comms, she speaks into the device;

"Ground team, how copy?"

Static. Then silence.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she repeats herself louder, more firmly, frowning where there's nothing but muted static and crackling. She does another sweep of the facility with her sniper. All seems quiet until her gaze focuses on the radio tower.

Adjusting her scope's distance, her mouth goes dry when she realises exactly what the three at the base of the structure are holding. A device she herself has used many times during missions like these.

A jammer.

Sudden movement makes her eyes snap back to the vehicle form before. Her stomach drops as the doors to the truck swing open and soldiers armed to their necks pour out, spreading all over the facility.

An ambush. They knew they were coming. Jammed their comms to isolate them and hide their forces until the others entered the warehouses probably. Surrounded. They'd be surrounded in mere minutes if they didn't do something.

Her comms are useless, so she can't warn them, and can only watch in muted horror as they start to scatter around the building.

Fuck.

She can't take out the three men at the tower from here. That wouldn't stop the device and only act to reveal her position. Hands-on was the only way.

Slamming her sniper onto the strap on her back, she extracts her pistol, breaking into a harsh sprint down the hill. There was no time, she had to warn them herself. To hell with staying out of sight.

The 141...they were like family to her. Soap and Gaz's constant cheeky remarks and antics, Price's steadfast and reliable leadership, Ghost...Simon's patience and understanding, his muted passion and actions that when decoded conveyed more love than anybody had every offered her.

The day her team took a loss would not be today. Not like this. Not when she could help it.

Finding herself in the middle of the compound by ducking and staying out of view, she kneels behind a crate, unhooking one of her frag grenades, pulling the pin out with her teeth.

This would give away her position, a dangerous gamble while hostiles surrounded her from all sides, but what better way to alert battle-ready soldiers than with the bang of a grenade. A sounds they knew all to well.

She'd just have to hold her position until they could regroup. She's done tougher things before, and this was so or die right now. With the thought in mind, she steels herself and tosses out the grenade at the most densely packed area of soldiers, clenching her jaw and taking cover at the resounding bang that cracks through the air.

The gunfire follows soon after.

Her comms crackle, evidence that someone's trying to reach her, but with the jammer not sounds can be deciphered.

Soldiers yell, and fire at her location, the heavy thudding of footsteps on either side of her clueing her into their intentions to flank her sides and gun her down. Returning fire, she ducks between the crates to make her way to the radio tower, just a couple of metres away. Bullets clink and bang and ricchoet of fthe metal around her, but miraculously, she's mostly unscathed as dives behind a vehicle and takes down the three men aiming their rifles at her.

The jammer lays at the feet, blinking green.

Right in the middle of the open field. She had to get there, had to get it off so they could all communicate with each other and move smoothly. There was a higher risk of casualties if one moved without the knowledge of the others.

Unpredictability was the worst of enemies in the field.

Steeling herself for going out in the open under the inevitable spray of bullets, she unclips a smoke grenade and tosses it, holding her breath as acrid smoke obstructs everyone's vision. Stumbling into the mess, she keeps low to the ground to avoid the blind fire into the smoke and feels around for the device.

Her hands curl around the metal and she sprints back to cover.

She doesn't make it.

Their blind fire proves effective, as a bullet rips through her shoulder, another one through her calf wrenching out a choked scream from her. The smoke was slowly dissipating, and pretty soon visibility would be back and then any bullet wounds she'd sustain would not be as unfatal.

Panic claws up her throat, but years of practise allow her to swallow it down. She pulls herself up, but groans and collapses, her leg unable to support her weight and her shoulder unable to drag her across the ground.

Shit, shit.

Her breaths come ragged and uneven, her knuckles turning white with the harsh grip on the device. Changing courses, she brings the jammer close to her, focusing on it instead, turning knobs and pressing buttons.

If she bit the bullet here, she'd damn well do so making sure the others stayed alive.

The second the jammer switches off, voices filter through her comms, a flurry of mixed yells, gunfire and pounding footsteps.

"Sergeant?!" A familiar voice barks down the line, hoarse...worried? "Are you down?"

Lightheaded, feeling blood soak through her clothes, she can't bring herself to respond. The smoke starts to clear and the best she can do is shift herself behind a tree a few feet away, leaning against the thick trunk for cover while unable to grasp her weapon through the slippery bloody coating her hands.

Was it normal to have that much blood? Feeling a little delirious, she drops her weapons besides her and presses down hard on the wound on her leg, biting back a groan. Gunfire pings around her, gunpowder and smoke acrid in the air.

It's only when Ghost snaps her name through the comms does she come back to herself a little.

"I'm..." She squeezes her eyes shut trying to get her tongue to form words. "I'm down. Bleeding out near the radio tower. Fuckers jammed out comms. Ambush. Had to...had to warn you. Had to fix it." She coughs, spitting into the ground beside her as blood trickles down her chin.

Definitely not normal.

Swallowing is hard, her thoughts swim as the grass beneath her is stained crimson. Her body feels too heavy, head to light and she wonders if this is really the end.

Someone speaks through her comms, words to muddled in her head to make out. Gaz? Or was that Price? Maybe Soap? Or Simon?

God, what she wouldn't give to hear Simon again, just once. Her eyes flutter shut with a groan. Just once more. She just wants to hear that gruff voice one more time through the comms, saying her name. He's never told her he's loved her verbally, even when she expressed it herself, but words haven't ever been his strong points.

His actions spoke far far louder.

The ways he's memorised all her little routines, her favourite foods, her favourite activities, the particular way she likes to store and clean her weapons. the silent moments at night where he pulled her close and the shared a book together, the nights spent together in bed where he showed her that he was not lacking in love when it came to her.

Simon Riley had left a mark on her life that she wore with pride, and if this...this meant that he lived on another day. She grits her teeth, shallows pant soft breath as blood pools between her fingers.

Then it was damn well worth it.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

An unstoppable force by nature, Ghost is the scariest anybody's ever seen him right now.

That last comms transmission from her had made his heart practically stop in his chest, even if he was as apathetic as ever from the outside. He had called out to her again, demanded she stay awake and give a precise location but no matter how much he shouted and order through the comms he was met with a deafening silence.

Silence that suggested the worst.

Fuck, no. No way. This wasn't happening, this simply wasn't something Simon would allow to happen.

Not her. Not any of them, really, but especially not her. Not her soft smiles and meaningful glances, not when she made him feel as if he might not break everything he comes into contact with.

Not when she was the only one who's ever coaxed out Simon Riley from Ghost.

His actions grow harsher, more brutal. The moment he hears she's near the radio towers bleeding out, he's a man on a mission, and none of the others make a peep of protest as he clears the way through to her, a spartan leaving a trail of blood behind as he moves.

He does not rage. Rage implies something uncontrolled and fierce. No, this is not rage. This is something much colder, much more calculating. Every throat that he slashed with his knife, every bullet that lands home in a skull is done with precision and deadly force. He means every bit of hurt he causes, hurt that stems from his own panic at her sudden silence.

This was not rage. This was icy cold desperation disguised as cool anger.

He's the one who finds her after everybody spreads out to clear the facility.

Back to a tree, eyes closed, hands limp at her side.

She might have been sleeping if not for all the fucking blood.

Dropping down beside her, he shakes her shoulder firmly, calling out her name.

"Wake up, Sergeant." He orders, eyes raking over her figure to find the source of her injuries. His jaw ticks as he notes the two fresh wounds. She doesn't move when he extracts a rolls of gauze from his belt, doesn't flinch when he tightly wraps her injuries.

Does not wake up to notice how his hands are shaking as he ties the final knots.

"Wake up." He says, voice much lower, something deeply needing. Shifting closer, he pulls her into his arms, away from the rough bark of the tree. Her head falls to his shoulder limply, making his breath hitch, true, cold fear gripping his heart. "Wake up, sweetheart, c'mon." He urges. She's still alive as per the shallow rise and fall of her chest, but she won't fucking wake up and it's killing him, making panic claw at his throat because not her, not her, not her.

Reaching around, he pinches her sternum hard, relief slamming into him when she finally groans and whimpers, a weak hand reaching up to push his away. "That's it, love. There you go." He mutters praise, hooking an arm under her legs and hoisting her up, carrying her. "Keep those eyes open for me, yeah? Don't you dare fucking close them, you hear me?" His accent is thicker than normal

"..Simon?" She groans, barely a whisper, making his heart wretch painfully.

"It's me." He confirms, clutching her tighter as he makes his way back to the exfil he'd ordered Gaz to request. The heli stand waiting near the first warehouse, a mass of dead bodies paving the path for them to step over. "I've got you, love. Stay with me, just a little longer.

He doesn't know if she can hear him let alone understand what he's saying, but it seems to work, her groggy gaze taking in their surrounding, watching but not really seeing.

She shoves at his chest suddenly, weak but firm. "No...you gotta-they're here." She rattles in a breath that makes even him wince. "Ambush, Simon. Gotta-get yourself out."

"Fucking hell woman, you think I'd leave you?" He hisses, hiking her up closer so their bodies are pressed together. He feels a rush of anger peer through the crushing panic and worry he's beating down.

"No time." She breathes. "Leave-"

"Not another word." He warns, angry at the thought that she'd even think for one moment that he'd let her die on his watch, that he'd ever leave the one good thing in his life.

Her compliance scares him to the bone.

Simon practically runs the last few meters towards the evac heli, barking out instructions for a medic as they bring out a stretcher. Gently, an action so at odds with the flames burning through his veins, he lays her down on it, staying by her side as they hoist her inside.

The jolting makes her whimper, aggravating her injuries no doubt. "Careful," Simon demands, and a single glare from him is enough to make the team move her with much more cautiousness.

The team clamours in and it's not long before they're all in the air.

A silence is passed around the space, an acknowledgment and shared anger at her state, how she was riddled with bullets like a target because of her selfless nature to save and give.

They hadn't gotten the intel, but Simon has never given less of a shit about anything before, not when she's laying next to him pale and trembling, looking up at him as if he might be the one to make her pain go away.

May God strike him dead if he doesn't try his fucking hardest.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The steady beep on a heart monitor and the sharp smell of antiseptic is what slowly brings her back to the living world. She feels...

Well she feels like shit.

That's kind a given though, judging by how she determines by the scratchy sheets under her that she's in a hospital bed. One would be more disorientated by waking up like this, but she's seen her fare share of white bedspreads and jello cups.

Finally gathering up the courage to blink her heavy eyes open, she squints at the ceiling light, slowly getting her bearings.

They were...on a mission. She tries to recall. Warehouse. Men. Jammer...

The jammer! Were the others alright? All she remembers is passing out by the tree and-what else?

Alarm ringing through her, she moves to sit up but immediately groans at her body protesting, her limbs burning at the movement. Shoulder and leg tight with stitches, she tries to force herself to sit up when a large, warm hard pushes her back down.

"Easy does it. Lay still for me." The familiar voice washes away the alarm and when she slowly, groggily turns her head, there sits the one person she wanted to see.

Simon sits beside her bed, looking ragged and poorly even beneath his mask. She can see it by the tension in his shoulders.

"Wh-" She trails off, coughing and wincing at the pain in her dry throat. There's a rustling, and then a hand at the back of her neck, guiding her lips to a cup full of cool water. "Drink." Simon says simply, helping her swallow the liquid until she pushes on his hand.

"What happened?" She finally manages, meeting his eyes. "You look...like shit. You okay?"

Amusement may have flickered into those eyes of his, but it's next to nothing with the other concoction of worry in his eyes.

For someone so stoic, he had very expressive eyes if you knew how to read them.

"Am I okay?" He stares in disbelief. "Considering I didn't get shot twice and nearly bleed out, I'd say I'm doing better than you."

"Ever the comedian." Her joke doesn't crack a smile from him and that's when she knows something is truly wrong. "Simon what-"

The scrape of his chair cuts her off as he stands abruptly, moving over to her side. He seems hesitant for a split second, arms pausing as they reach out.

He decides to push away the doubt, however, because moments later, strong arms are wrapped around her, pulling her into him. She relaxes at the familiar scent of him, of his clothes as he tucks his chin over her head.

His heart is racing under his cheek, her fist loosely gripping his shirt.

She knows he'll speak in time, that she just has to wait for him to gather the words and decide how to express them out loud. So she does exactly that. She waits while he regulates himself, gathers his thoughts.

His arms tighten around her. "Thought I lost you." He says, and if it had been anybody but her, they might have missed the slight tremor in his voice. "When I saw you bleeding out against that tree...Fuck, I thought you were gone."

"Not that easily." She hums, pressing into him further. "Never than easily."

"Better fucking not be." It coaxes a hoarse giggle from her, what he growls in her ear.

"I'm alright, Simon." She assures him gently. "Alive and kicking."

He nods against her head minutely, his lips pressing against her head through his mask, a gesture that makes her melt because if Simon was resorting to such a thing he must have really had a scare. He hated PDA and although they were the only ones in the room, normally they reserved this kind of intimacy for their own rooms when they're alone together.

He stays like that for a while, convincing himself that she was there, that she was alive and breathing and in his arms and untouchable as of now. All the while she runs a soothing hand up and down his strong arms, mumbling assurances of their safety.

She'd do it again in a heartbeat, would put herself in harms way to save her team, but as she sits there pressed against him, the sun spilling into the room warming it with it's rays, she can't help but think of how thankful she is to have felt this again.

To have the chance to continue experiencing the protective love of Simon Riley.

Requests Are Open!

(25/06/2023)

[jones-friend]

USA Friends

Congress is passing legislation that would require proof of citizenship to vote. Proof is currently defined in the bill as such:

— A REAL ID-compliant driver’s license that “indicates the applicant is a citizen.”

— A valid U.S. passport.

— A military ID card with a military record of service that lists the applicant’s birthplace as in the U.S.

— A valid government-issued photo ID that shows the applicant’s birthplace was in the U.S.

— A valid government-issued photo ID presented with a document such as a certified birth certificate that shows the birthplace was in the U.S.

Currently the government processes to obtain these documents are being gutted. This means when this law goes into effect obtaining your documents in time for 2026 midterms may become extremely difficult.

If you are able, it will be helpful to have a folder in your home that contains:

Birth certificate

Passport (check for expiry)

State ID or Drivers License

We don't know what will happen as we go. But having basic documentation will be important. Make sure your documentation is up to date.

[itficlibrary]

This week's fic rec theme is 2024!

The following are recs for some of your + our favourite fics to come out within the last year (with a bonus bingo board at the end)! Thanks so much to anyone who sent in their faves!

For fans of soulmate aus & richie tozier’s crippling self-loathing, try:

• Three weddings (and my funeral) by witchietozier (@witchiewitchie)

(23k words + ongoing)

This is a soulmate au (although it very much feels like its own thing), wherein Richie and Eddie are set up to pretend to be soulmates for stanpat’s wedding. Featuring unique & bubbly prose, several awkward situations and musings on a delightfully pathetic Richie’s psyche.

For fans of kid fic & family feels, try:

• It’s a cruel summer with you by eddiekaspbrakirlsblog (@eddiekaspbrakirlsblog)

(21k words)

A series of seven short fics centered on the toziers having a beach house and eddie spending summers with them there, following reddie from age 4 to adulthood. This dedicates a lot of time to characterising Maggie & Went Tozier (as good parents!) and is packed with fluffy childhood innocence & found family themes.

For fans of fix-its & tenderness:

• Hold on and hope we’ll find our way back in the end by rcdwings 

(27k words)

A good old fashioned rewrite & fix-it of IT 2019, through Eddie’s eyes and then Richie’s. Featuring all the missing scenes & extra character beats you could want from the movie, a very sweet Maggie Tozier portrayal and a pretty, elegant writing style.

For fans of teen fic & pining, try:

• Well, that’ll be the day, when you say goodbye by thewayilovetheocean (@derrypubliclibrary)

(4k words)

A look at Richie’s in-full-bloom feelings for Eddie and all the angst surrounding that, set before he leaves Derry around 1991. Featuring plenty of internalised homophobia, classic teenreddie banter and a gently hopeful ending.

For fans of lucky 7 ensemble pieces & balls to the wall fun:

• If love is the answer, you’re home by kissbrak and richiebeepbeep (@toziers)

(55k words)

A fic based on Tag (2018), wherein the losers play an annual game of tag and fall in love along the way. It switches focus around all of the losers, gives so much depth & complexity to every single relationship and is all round a deranged & extremely fun romp!

For fans of t4t reddie & awkward meet-cutes, try:

• Switch-hitters by sheepknitssweater 

(16k words)

This follows a t4t reddie who meet via softball to the face, and the rest is history. This fic’s style is snappy and lively, its characterisation (especially of Richie) is uber charming, and it deals insightfully with its themes of internalised transphobia and identity.

For fans of funny meet-cutes & haters of sonia kaspbrak, try:

• Come for aunt Brenda’s green beans, stay for the drama by asexual_asshat (@asexualasshat)

(5k words)

Richie meets Eddie on Tinder and they conspire to ruin the Kaspbrak family thanksgiving (to piss off mrs k of course). Featuring these two being absolutely crazy about each other, plenty of hijinks & comedy and eventual smut.

For fans of college fic & heavy angst, try:

• Go on and on and on until by tozierlvr (@tozierlvr)

(160k words)

A series wherein Richie and Eddie (unknowingly) reunite at college after the events of IT chapter one, documenting their entire relationship from start to…uh…end. It’s got super realistic 2nd puberty, eventual gut-wrenching angst, and stays ‘canon compliant’ while adding the most unique tweaks.

For fans of pining & domesticity, try:

• Don’t want to let you go (‘til you see the light) by nonbinary (@oshaskell)

(6k words)

This oneshot sees reddie in a roommates scenario, wherein Richie is working up the nerve to finally ask Eddie out. reddie’s weird little dynamic in this is natural and endearing (Eddie bites Richie at one point), there are cute flashbacks via old videos, and overall this is an extra warm and cozy read.

For fans of soft, happy endings & richie tozier’s wooing attempts, try:

• Take a right at the light by moichi (@clownbrainrot)

(6k words)

This follows Richie on an odyssey to shoot his shot with Eddie, and the mounting obstacles he faces on the way. It’s got bevchie best friendship, a sweet ending and is extra generous with its low-stakes-high-comedy Richie suffering.

For fans of short-but-sweet fics in a corporate setting, try:

pour myself a cup of ambition by searcher_of_amroth (@spagedster)

(8k words)

Richie and Eddie meet by chance because they both have been mandated to see a HR counsellor at their workplace. Featuring oh-god-he’s-cute on both sides, with alternate points of views (a personal favourite!), and plenty of cute moments as they both try to woo the other!

For fans of time loops and happy endings, try: 

again, again, again by watchoutforthefanfics (@watchoutforthefanfics)

(12k words)

Richie gets stuck in a time loop and has to save both Eddie and Stan. It goes about as well as you think it would! Features emotionally constipated Richie Tozier (as he should be), angst (as there should be), and healing (as there should be). 

For fans of fics set during the 27 years in between and bittersweet endings, try:

familiar by fredastaire (@it2017)

(23k words)

During the 27 years, Eddie returns to Derry once: for his mother’s funeral. Mike is there to help him through it. I love this fic so much! This fic contains Kasplon relationship dynamics, Remembering Your Childhood, and Dealing With Your Emotions About Your Mother. 

For fans of Reddie bickering and Benverly, try:

double date by beefcakebeetle 

(17k words)

Richie, Eddie, and Ben come to Chicago to help Beverly move her stuff out of Tom’s house. Then, Ben and Bev trick Richie and Eddie into going on a double date! Featuring a lot of cute dynamics between these four, and alternating points of view! 

For fans of communication and character studies, try:

remembering you by loelight 

(13k words)

Richie and Eddie have a long conversation. Set post Chapter 2. A really cute, fluffy fic! Featuring The Kissing Bridge(™), very little emotional constipation, and a happy ending.

For fans of the Awkward Teenager Drama and slice of life genres, try:

crosseyed & painless by bellbawttoms (@gaylittlerichie)

(58k words)

Eddie gets a girlfriend and Richie loses his absolute mind. Featuring the Authentic Pathetic Teenager Experience, You Guys Just Wouldn’t Get It, Nobody Understands Me, a slice of life in the 80’s in every chapter, and self discovery. 

For fans of character studies and introspection-heavy fics, try:

Octopus’ garden by searcher_of_amroth (@spagedster)

(16k words)

Character study fic with a focus on mental health set post Chapter 2 events. Featuring a chapter for each loser (two for stan!), and a whole lot of resolutions and tying up loose ends.

For fans of coming of age fics with plenty of slowburn, try:

that teenage feeling! by fredastaire (@it2017) 

(50k words)

Explores Eddie coming to terms with identifying as a trans woman. Set during the 27 years, and features plenty of miscommunication, introspection, and character and relationship analysis, as well as Richie Tozier as a narrator(™).

For fans of character-accurate communication and post-canon fics, try: 

Dance slow decades by xosmia 

(16k words)

Eddie shows up in Los Angeles in the middle of the night without any warning. Richie and Eddie have a couple of long conversations and reconcile their relationship, both platonic and not.

For fans of fix-it fics, try: 

a murmur beneath my skin by mikripetra 

(26k words) 

Richie and Eddie bump into each other randomly at a grocery store in their thirties. It triggers a butterfly effect that neither of them could have seen coming. Featuring character studies, hurt/comfort, and psychological horror. 

Here’s a bingo board for you to cross off, with bonus spaces to find more! Check out these resources to help you leave some comments along the way!

[theeartuaist]

The Most Terrifying Yandere: When They Have ACTUAL Power

I've rambled before about the yanderes that both fascinate me and keep me up at night – the manipulative ones who isolate you so gradually you don't notice until it's too late, the ones who are SO self-aware that they can't be reasoned with because they KNOW exactly what they're doing...

But there's another type that genuinely makes my skin crawl in the best/worst way possible: The yandere with actual POWER.

I'm not talking about yanderes with supernatural abilities (though they are terrifying, too - I'll maje a post dedicated to them another day). I'm talking about yanderes who hold positions of REAL institutional authority and can use legitimate systems against you. The ones who don't just stalk you – they have the means to LEGALLY monitor you. They don't need to break into your house – they have the AUTHORITY to enter it.

Think about it:

A methodical, calculated MENACE of a police officer yandere. They don't need to install hidden cameras in your home – they can park a patrol car outside your house and call it "routine surveillance."

They have access to traffic cams and license plate readers. They can run background checks on anyone who comes near you. They know exactly how long they can detain someone without cause. Every new friend in your life gets pulled over for a "broken taillight" and subtly threatened. Your ex suddenly has outstanding warrants. And if you try to report them? Guess who takes the report. Guess whose colleagues handle the investigation. Guess who knows exactly how to make evidence disappear.

Or a judge yandere doesn't need to break the law to ruin you – they ARE the law. They can sign warrants to search your property, freeze your assets for "ongoing investigations," and grant themselves custody if you have children together. They know every legal loophole, every procedural delay tactic. Their colleagues trust their judgment implicitly. Every legal avenue of escape gets mysteriously blocked by "proper procedure."

Or consider a psychiatrist yandere – the absolute nightmare of someone who can literally have you committed. Who can diagnose you with paranoid delusions when you try to expose them. Who has detailed notes on every vulnerability you've ever shared. Who can prescribe medications that make you foggy, compliant, dependent. "You're experiencing paranoid thoughts about me? That's a symptom we discussed in our session last week. I'm concerned your condition is worsening. I think we need to adjust your medication." And everyone – EVERYONE – believes them over you, because they're the expert on your mental health.

Or worse, what about a government official yandere. They don't need to hack your accounts – they have legal access to your data. Every email, every search, every location ping. They can flag you as a person of interest the moment you try to flee. They can ensure you're "randomly selected" for additional screening at every airport. They can see every conversation you have asking for help and be waiting when you arrive at the "safe place" someone offered. Maybe they can even flag your passport, freeze your accounts for "suspicious activity," and make you a person of interest the moment you try to flee.

The absolute nightmare of having someone obsessed with you who can also leverage entire SYSTEMS to keep you. Someone whose authority is rarely questioned. Someone who doesn't need to hide their surveillance because it's LITERALLY THEIR JOB to watch people.

What makes these scenarios so much more terrifying than the typical yandere is that you can't even prove anything wrong is happening. It all looks legitimate on paper. It all follows protocols and procedures. There's always a plausible, professional explanation:

"We received an anonymous tip about your friend's involvement in illegal activities."

"These medications are standard treatment for your condition."

"This restraining order against your family member is based on documented threats."

"Your passport has been flagged due to identity verification concerns."

While they systematically cut off every escape route you might have.

The nightmare scenario isn't just being trapped by someone's obsession – it's being trapped by their obsession and the entire infrastructure of society backing them up because of their position. It's having your reality slowly rewritten not just by one person but by records, documents, and systems designed to be trusted.

What defence do you have when the very institutions meant to protect you become the architecture of your prison? When the person obsessed with you doesn't have to hide in the shadows because they have an office with their name on the door and the authority to keep you right where they want you?

[writetimewrongmuse]

From Hogwarts With Contempt (M, 17.5k words, 8/15 Chapters)

A look at Draco's time at Hogwarts from what his father hears about (and sometimes doesn't).

Summary:

Hogwarts wasn’t quite what Draco Malfoy expected.

It’s colder, draughtier, and far more Gryffindor-infested than he was prepared for.

In a series of scathing letters home, Draco documents his years at Hogwarts — from the incompetence of the staff to the baffling popularity of Potter and the infuriating brilliance of a bushy haired Muggle-born witch.

If Hogwarts won’t bend to his will, at least his father will hear all about it.

Tags Include:

Epistolary

Canon compliant (WHAT HARRY DOESN'T KNOW, HE DOESN'T KNOW)

Enemies to Lovers

First through Seventh Year

Secret Relationship

Pureblood customs

Angst and Fluff

Yearning, pining, jealous (all-consumed) Draco

dad don't read too much into this, she's only the love of my life.

year one - I don't have a crush I just want her to be my secret ally

year two - she's strange but i like it

year three - i'm not sulking

year four - the best use for blast ended skrewts is determined and practiced

Snippet from Chapter 8:

P.P.S. You were right in thinking Dumbledore wouldn’t allow everyone to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Pity, I was hoping Weasley would be chosen so he could die in a tragic accident — or well, maybe not die — that would make a martyr of him. Maybe disfigurement. But Granger does have a soft spot for ugly gingers — in fact, the uglier the better — so maybe it is all for the best none of us can compete. Not that I ever would. Who needs glory when you can sit back and commentate on their misery? Besides, it’s not like I’m after attention. Not anymore.

[losver07]

okay so im planning (JUST PLANNING) a canon-compliant fic and im making a list of spells or details id like to add (because writing magic is shit hard but it's soooo much funnnn)

so yeah enjoy??? these WILL go into my future fic

remus enchanting muggle books, lycanthropy research or personal notebooks's covers to look like textbooks or really boring titles (sirius is still interested even if it's, like, "advanced latin grammar" and it pisses remus tf off that he always asks to have a look)

peter using his pocket watch to calculate what proportion of a class slughorn actually spends teaching them stuff vs the time he spends divagating

pre-transition reg throwing a spell so that every time someone refers to him with his deadname he hears 'regulus' in his head. he doesn't use it at home, though

james enchanting his glasses so he can physically see a dark shadow near people who are not feeling okay, his little secret to helping everyone. also, sirius jokingly puts them on once and let's just say james isn't looking so bright

remus lending sirius one of his jumpers and casually mentioning that it's enchanted to always smell like him (sirius MELTS)

the valkyries sharing tips and spells to do their makeup, such as ways to make their mascara waterproof or their lipstick to stay on for a whole night

peter always carrying pieces of parchment with him to draw and document bugs he finds, as well as plants

sirius asking the rest of the marauders from time to time to let him be alone with remus in the shack the morning after a full moon. he just stays there to make remus feel better and hides with the cloak when madam pomfrey comes (i have so many ideas for this type of scenes)

lily using the map for her prefect rounds with remus and finding james and regulus making out in a corner of the castle, then screaming "I KNEW IT!"

peter sneaking out into the ravenclaw tower as wormtail to see gilderoy

boggart angst. like, sirius expecting to see his mother but he sees himself instead, dressed in his elegant black heir clothes, back straight, hair short, acting just like he is "supposed" to act, according to his family and still being HAPPY somehow (did he get it wrong? would he be better off if he had obeyed? would that have fixed all the things that are now wrong with him? ...who knows)

also, remus's boggart being greyback because i have so much of the plot planned around that its insane (thank you elaborate metaphors, thank you psychology classes)

peter deafening himself when he's annoyed & wants to sleep in study sessions, making a piece of parchment levitate over his head saying "wake me up when you stop snogging, you WHORES"

i know i have mentioned this before, but regulus using magic to hide the white streak in his hair. this is so important to me i swear to god

obviously, all members of the marauders & co. converting their silver jewellery and overall possessions into tin or steel as soon as they find out about remus

james getting distracted by having conversations with the paintings in the halls and being late to class (especially first and second year)

(from 4th year on) remus taking potions near the full moon, not just for the physical pain but also his temper. also, asking peter the spell he uses to go deaf (that man does NOT stand people the week of a full moon)

all of them somehow coming up with a spell that makes their records' lyrics mute so they can have a karaoke, this is so silly but so real (it was james' idea, too)

in one of their birthdays, making the candles impossible to blow—every time they are put out, the flame reappears. bonus points is the birthday boy's wish was something that will never happen in the fic, e.g. an impossible romance

...

i will be adding more to this because not only is this so fun i also kinda need to lay all my ideas down before i start writing

[storm-angel989]

Part 2 please of sleep deprived Val’s daughter I’ll give you my first born 😭

(Love your works!)

Hi friend,

Thank you so so much for the compliment- I’m glad you like my writing! As much as I adore kids, I do not want your first born (but it was very kind of you to offer!). I am a much better Aunt than I think I would be a mom. I am 100% guilty of taking my nieces/ nephews to the store, buying whatever they want ( particularly slime, things that light up and loud, noisy toys), give them a huge bowl of ice cream and send them back home to my siblings house. So you probably don’t want me babysitting either LOL. 

That being said, please enjoy the below part two! 

All I can say is Good Luck, Vox!

<3 Mandy 

I slept most of the next day. 

The few hours I did spend awake, I was overly supervised. The crabbiness, the crankiness was in overdrive. I wanted nothing more than an energy drink, hell, even a cup of coffee and I was more than willing to make it everyone's problem. Finally, my Uncle Vox took me by the hand, told me he had had enough of my attitude and pulled me onto the elevator. 

“Uncle Vox, I am not allowed in Daddy’s studio,” I grumbled. “And I’m in my pajamas, so I know I’m not going to yours.” 

“You’re right on one account. But your father is waiting for us,” Vox replied as his flingers flew across his phone. “We’re going to have a little discussion.” 

I crossed my arms and pouted. With one hand on my shoulder, he guided me through the empty studio down to where I knew the nurses office was.

“Oh fuck you, I don’t need a check up,” I snapped as I stepped back. 

“Watch your mouth crabby pants,” he replied as he pushed me forward. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Which is it?” 

I grumbled but didn’t respond. I didn’t doubt that one look at Vox and I would be walking into the doctor's office, calm as could be. He had that effect on people. With a sigh, I allowed him to push open the doors and lead me inside. 

My father and Aunt Velvette stood, waiting. 

“We really didn’t have to make this a family affair,” I growled. “Really, it’s not even like its complete.”

“We are grouchy today,” Velvette said dismissively. “Get into the gown. Sit on the bed. You know the drill.”

“I would like it documented that I hate all of you,” I snapped as I pulled the cloth screen closed behind me as I stepped into the little room.

“Duly noted,” my father said drily. “Let us know when we can come in.”

I changed into the gown and plopped on the bed, leaning back with my arms crossed. “I’m done,” I called. “Come in if you have to.”

“We do,” my father told me as he pushed the curtain aside. I crossed my arms as the doctor walked in. 

“Uncross your arms,” my father told me firmly. “This is how it’s going to go. You’ll get an EKG, physical exam, an ultrasound of your heart and your blood drawn, in that order. You will not fight, or your Uncle Vox will step in and you will be compliant. Do you understand me?”

The tone of his voice indicated that challenging him would be the worst idea I could have. Dejectedly, I laid down on the bed and kept quiet as the doctor stuck sticky pads all over my body. 

“I promise, the rest will be just as painless,” the doctor told me cheerfully as he detached the wires. “Sit up for me, I’m going to listen to your chest.” 

I didn’t answer and instead gave my dad my best scowl. He raised an eyebrow as if daring me to protest. 

“Babygirl,” Vox’s voice floated through the room. 

Inadvertently, I turned my head and was met with a swirling red eye and a brightly lit screen. 

“Relax and do what the doctor says,” he continued. “Come now, you don’t want to make this harder than it has to be.” 

I felt a fog flow through my brain and without really knowing why, I complied. Without protest, I obeyed the doctors every command, staying still as he listened to the inner workings of my body, and quiet even when then cold gel hit the skin over my heart. As soon as he was done, he handed me a towel and I sat up as I wiped the leftover goo away.  

“Just some bloodwork, and we’re good to go,” the doctor told me as he stood up. “Let me go get a few things while your dad takes your blood, and then we can chat.” 

“Reader,” Vox’s voice came instantly. “Look at me.”

I did as he demanded and our eyes met. Like magic, the fog lifted and exhaustion crept through me. My father sat down next to me and I laid my head on his shoulder. 

“Tired?” He asked as he pulled my arm across his lap. “Bebita, you can lay down. I can’t take your blood with you sitting like this.” 

I didn’t answer. After a moment, he stood up and Vox took his place next to me. 

“I’m sorry babygirl, I know its a long day, but we need to make sure your healthy. You really put yourself through the ringer,” he said. 

I couldn’t care about the feeling of the rubber band being pulled around the skin of my upper arm, or the coldness of the alcohol swab. “

“Little pinch, princessa,” my father warned. “Just relax and stay still.” 

I felt the sting of the needle and closed my eyes. A few seconds later, I felt him hold cotton over my arm and the sting of the paper tape to hold it in place. 

“That’s my good girl,” Valentino praised. “All done. Now we wait for the doctor to come in.”

“I want my jammies,” I mumbled into Vox’s shoulder.

“I think all the testing is done, you can get into your jammies,” Velvette replied. 

Vox stood up and as soon as the curtain was pulled behind them, I slowly undid the gown and pulled my pajamas back on. The fog had lifted, but I still felt tired. Like it would be too much effort to fight or argue anything that was said. I tossed the gown to the side and opened the curtain.

To my dismay, the doctor stood, speaking quietly to the V’s. I couldn’t read the expression on my father’s face, but all at once, I felt very, very awake.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I stepped across the floor. “Daddy?”

My father turned to look at me and all at once, his expression relaxed.

“Nothing, baby,” he said as he stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder, guiding me back towards the bed. “Not this time, at least. Come, sit on the bed, we need to chat.” 

I sat quietly next to him as the doctor listed the dangers of caffeine addiction. From mild to severe, long term effects. 

“Most adults have some form of caffeine addiction,” he told me. “And up to 400 milligrams a day is fine for those adults. But what you inadvertently did was an overdose.”

“You can’t overdose on caffeine,” I protested. 

“Yes you can,” my father said sternly. “Your blood pressure skyrocketed, your heartbeat was through the roof. And when the doctor looked at the EKG your watch took during the time, you can quite literally see the irregularity in the rhythm.” 

“You’re fortunate you didn’t drink anymore,” the doctor continued, “and that your family stopped you when you did.” 

I leaned my head on my fathers shoulder as the doctor continued on. According to him, I was one more energy drink away from risking hallucinations, vomiting, confusion, muscle spasms, or even convulsions.

“Okay, I get it, no more caffeine, now what do I do? Am I going to be okay?” I asked.

“This time, yes,” the doctor said firmly. “The best thing you can do for your body is minimize your caffeine intake.”

“That means no more energy drinks, or coffee, for you young lady. Or for any of us, for that matter,” Aunt Velvette said.

I watched Vox’s screen glitch ever so slightly at her words. But the four sets of eyes on me again meant I had no way out. 

“I mean it, there isn’t any lasting damage that I can see, but you need to take really good care of your heart,” the doctor told me. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I got it. No more caffeine.”

“That’s our good girl,” my father said with a kiss on the top of my head. 

“You don’t really mean no coffee, did you?” Vox asked Velvette as we walked back across the studio.

“Yes, I did. We can support Reader,” Velvette said with a firm smack to Vox’s upper arm. “Wouldn’t hurt to do a few days without caffeine.”

Vox mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out, but whatever he said was rewarded with another smack from Velvette.

“How about a movie when we get back upstairs?” I suggested as I stepped into the elevator. 

“I think that sounds like a good idea,” my father told me.

[strawberrystepmom]

to forgive is divine & to err is human

pairing: Natsuo Todoroki x F!Reader (romantic), Touya Todoroki x F!Reader (familial)

word count: 7.5k

about: when Touya is released to Natsuo’s care following his 8 year prison stay, the fragility of the dynamic between the three of you threatens to derail everyone involved.

contents: cw: contains descriptions of depression, trauma, smoking, bad coping mechanisms, alcoholism, Touya dyes his hair black in a white sink (ugh). angst with a happy ending, set in canon universe but not canon compliant, established relationship between Natsuo and reader (married), Touya and reader are both assholes at certain points.

notes: tbh I've been meaning to repost this and since I'm currently in my "yes girl give us nothing" era, the time has come. Thank you to everyone (then and now) that has read this baby bc I did indeed put my ol' Kendussy into it so I didn't really change anything about it other than fixing grammar and I'm sure there are still mistakes. This is is how I wrote a year ago and that's okay and I'm proud of how far I've come.

Posting this as a double feature bc it feels too idk self promo-y to split them up again so enjoy my creature feature with my beloved Natsuo and his stinky brother. chain divider thanks to @/cafekitsune ♡

The large, red letters across the paperwork make your eyes hurt by simply gazing at them. 

“RELEASED” stamped with what you can tell was a mostly dried out ink pad, the red darker at the beginning of the word than at the end. You wish you could close the growing pit in your stomach knowing Natsuo will soon arrive back to your home, rehabilitated brother in tow, but the uncertainty makes it hard to settle as you re-stack the documents given to you by the Hero Public Safety Commission when they formally announced they would permit Touya’s release so long as someone would be responsible for him.

When the conversation came up, Natsuo volunteered without a second thought. It hurt at first that he did not ask you before making the decision but after having spent nearly a decade at his side, you trusted his judgment. Six months after the initial inquiry, you still do. Touya is a practical stranger, someone you have only met through grainy video chats, but you have been briefed by many HPSC coordinators. They have conducted home visits, interviewed both of you as if you were the criminals, combed through every bank account and piece of mail to ensure that they are putting their inmate into good hands. A good word from Endeavor, something your husband reluctantly accepted, sealed the decision. Your eyes scan over the handwritten letter from Enji, tucked in the stack of documents. 

“No one is more qualified to care for his brother Touya than my son Natsuo. He is a licensed medical professional, specializing in psychology and mental health services and has experience in dealing with traumatized children. I ask that the Commission consider no other placement for Touya.”

A tired sigh escapes as you flip through a few more pages, squinting through descriptions of you and Natsuo. Your personalities, your hobbies, where you work, who you associate with - all vital information, the panel assured you. The final page of the documents has the official ruling, the top left corner of the page curled in from how many times the pair of you have read over it.

“Todoroki Touya, thirty two years of age, is to be released to the custody of his brother Todoroki Natsuo, twenty eight years of age. Todoroki will be required to wear a location monitoring device at all times per the agreed upon terms of release. He is not permitted to be in contact with any of his prior associates. If contact is initiated, he will be required to return to the custody of the HPSC immediately and will no longer be eligible for release.”

Your eyes scan the document again and again, searching for some kind of strange loophole that could prevent all of this from happening. Guilt crawls up your spine and makes you shudder at the thought. How could you not want this for your husband? He has spent years dreaming of having a second chance to love his brother differently, to help him heal. It makes you feel vile to even entertain negative thoughts about Touya. 

Touya. You know little about the man aside from his name, or names, rather. His time as Dabi concluded, he was sentenced to 8 years of rehabilitation instead of prison. A victim of child abuse needed recovery, the commission reasoned, and they were willing to give him the space to do so within reason. The entire Todoroki family agreed with and supported the commission and their decision, his siblings and parents being granted permission to visit him if they chose to do so. 

Natsuo went as frequently as possible, excitedly telling you how much his brother has improved after every visit, eagerness infectious. You listened to his every word, rapt, as he talked about how different Touya looked now that he was eating well, how far he had come, how he seemed emotionally stable for the first time in his life. Genuine excitement danced in his eyes at the thought of having his brother back, not a shell of a boy or a man. Not Dabi but Touya, someone who was cruelly taken from him when he was too young to fully understand why. 

The true agony was seeing the metaphorical stitches ripped open, cruelly and callously. The entire country was witness to the explosive truth - Touya Todoroki was alive. Even Fuyumi with her limitless poise gnawed her lower lip hoping it would ground her enough that she could stay strong for everyone else. “I can handle this,” she assured you as you wrapped your arms around her shoulders the day after the video aired. She knew the person who would need you the most was her brother. Looks were deceiving - Natsuo was big and strong, a grown man, but his feelings were delicate. She trusted no one but you to look after him.

Natsuo had only asked you to be his girlfriend weeks before his brother revealed his true identity publicly. You will never forget the way grief was etched into all of his features, his strong brow downturned for weeks; retraumatized. It took every ounce of strength in his body to muster a smile, much less anything else, but he did it. For Fuyumi and Shouto, for his mother. 

You can remember every moment of the years following Touya revealing himself. The nights when Natsuo woke up sobbing, burying his face into your chest and balling the fabric of your shirt up between his fists as if it would keep him from losing touch with reality completely. He stopped eating for days at a time, depression sinking him into depths he didn’t know existed. You were always there with a soothing touch and okayu, a rice porridge Fuyumi taught you to make for him. 

“When Touya died, it’s all he would eat,” she explained. Your heart crumbled at the thought of a 13 year old version of your beloved future sister in law having to keep her 9 year old brother moving through the pain of loss. How did they keep themselves together?, you wondered more than once as she breezed through the difficult times with a tight smile. 

The more you watched the man you love sink, the more conflicted you felt about Touya. Those feelings lingered even into today. Natsuo is healing, therapy and love and compassion all coming together to create a whole man instead of pieces of a hurt child in a big body, but you can’t help the simmering anger you feel when you think about watching him experience the hurt in real time. Some memories stay etched forever. 

Natsuo continued to live despite the difficult times. You helped him study and make his way through medical school - a feat that he often credited you wholly for. It wasn’t true but the praise always feels good. Three years after Touya was sentenced, Natsuo opened his clinic that offers a variety of therapeutic services for children with difficult quirks or those who have suffered because of them. A year after that the two of you were married. 

“I knew you were the one when you gave me a reason to keep trying,” he tearfully admitted as you exchanged vows during your small wedding ceremony. The details weren’t for everyone else to know, but the pair of you knew exactly what he was talking about and the admission still makes you feel weepy if you start to think about it for too long.

Love feels like too shallow of a word to explain how you feel about him which is why you agreed to this in the first place - your love for Natsuo is stronger than your distaste toward Touya. You remind yourself of the mantra as you hear voices outside of your front doorstep, one immediately recognizable as belonging to Natsuo. You stand and take a deep breath, composing yourself and closing the file folder on the table as the door opens and the two white haired men crowd into the small genkan, talking amongst each other. 

“We’re here!”

A practiced, measured smile is what you can manage as you watch the situation carefully. Touya scratches the back of his head and offers a small and impersonal wave and you’re surprised by how different he looks. Thin but healthy, his skin grafts have been properly secured, his lashes are the same white as the ones that frame your husband's kind, gray eyes. The similarities between the two are striking but so are the differences - Natsuo greets you with a smile and a peck on your forehead and Touya glowers from the doorway. 

“Welcome home, Touya,”

He looks around, eyes narrowed as he takes in the sights of your well lived in home. It reminded you eerily of the way the representatives from the commission sullied your safe place away slowly, searching every corner to make sure you would not enable any more bad behavior from the man standing in the doorway. Your home had only just begun to feel like yours again.

“Nice place. Guess that’s what being married to a doctor gets you.”

His crass comment made you feel stricken, flinching slightly as your practiced smile wavers. You aren’t Fuyumi, full of endless grace and forgiveness - you can’t fake it. You aren’t Natsuo who believes in the potential of people more than anyone you’ve ever met. You are you and right now you are angry. Clenching your fists in a way you hope is imperceptible, you fake a laugh and your husband looks at you with wide eyes, noticing your change in demeanor.

“Well, it’s your place too now. Guess that’s what being a doctor's brother gets you.”

Touya purses his lips and nods, arms folded across his chest. You look over his scars, his healed skin, his cold eyes. “Do you want to show him to his room, babe?” Natsuo asks, voice shaky, as if he’s anxious for your response. “I can find it myself,” Touya answers for you, heavy boots in his hands as he pads through your home toward where his room lies. You spent weeks helping Natsuo prepare it for him, filling it with photos and books to help him gain back the time he lost while he was away. The taste in your mouth is nothing short of bitter and sour as you think about it.

“I don’t know what that was about, I asked him no-,” you raise your hand, cutting your husband off mid sentence as your fake smile finally falls and gives way to a slight frown, corners of your mouth downturned. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Touya has always felt suspicious of you. Your intentions, your affections for his brother, your involvement with his family - it’s hard not to be uncertain about someone who fits so flawlessly in the dysfunctional outline created by being a Todoroki. What are you hiding? What do you want? 

He tosses his boots down on the floor of the room at the end of the hallway. Instinctually, he knows this is his space. Covered with childhood photos of the Todoroki family, a quilt he received as a child covering the bed, he wants to be impressed with the effort put in but instead he feels hollow. This life never fit him in the first place, happy smiles for photos and dinners and whatever the fuck was expected of him, and now he had no choice but to live it. 

It is a hell of a lot nicer than the four white walls that housed him for eight long years. The bed looks a lot more comfortable, he thinks as he settles down on the edge of it, lying back with his arms behind his head. Fixing his gaze on the ceiling, he takes a moment to think in the silence of the space. The entire car ride his brother talked about you and your life together. Touya eventually began to tune him out, watching the trees pass by the window with the occasional red light flashing on his monitoring anklet catching his attention.

Rehabilitated. The connotations of the word weighed heavily on Touya - one fuck up and it would be so easy for you to convice Natsuo to send him back. You could never understand him the way that his family does. You couldn’t forgive him the way they had either, something both of you would never communicate to each other. 

“Hey,” Natsuo’s voice rasps from the doorway and Touya sits up slightly, grunting his response. “You like it alright?”

“It’s fine.” 

Natsuo sighs, carefully entering the room and shutting the door behind him as he slumps down on the bed next to his brother, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the huge change that has come over his otherwise peaceful life. “You don’t have to lie, Touya.”

Touya sits up, using his elbows to support his weight, and offers a half smile toward his brother. “I’m not lyin’, it’s fine. Just feels like too much.”

Natsuo nods, trying to tamp down his urge to play therapist instead of brother. It was something he did all too often growing up and probably why he has made fixing people his mission in life. Touya was no exception.

“It’s the least we can do. You’ve been through a lot.”

We, Touya thinks to himself. Always we. He wonders how much Natsuo has surrendered of himself for your sake. Does he have any hobbies besides being a doting husband? Is his world filled with anything besides this little bubble the two of you live in?

“Don’t act like she had anything to do with all of this, Natsu. I was released to you.”

Touya slips a hand in his jacket pocket and fishes around for his pack of cigarettes, popping one out of the packaging with expert precision and sticking it between his lips as his brother sits next to him silently. “Lemme guess, need to do this outside?” 

Natsuo nods and Touya sighs, sliding off of the bed and leaving a rumpled quilt behind him. Heavy footsteps trail down the hallway as he peers into the kitchen and notices the backdoor, quietly slipping through it only to be met with a glowing red cherry on the other side, smoke streaming from your mouth as you stand with a cigarette between your fingers.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” he starts, pulling his lighter from his pocket and clicking it until a bright flame catches the cigarette dangling from between his lips. Once upon a time he would’ve just used his quirk but the prescription blockers he was given by court order prevented that. “All he ever talks about is how perfect you are.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” you shoot back, flicking your cigarette ashes onto the ground below before taking another drag. 

The mutual distrust permeated the air between the two of you. Touya reminded you so much of your father in law it was like looking at another version of him. You reminded Touya of everything he hated about this world - false pretense and unattainable perfection. He doubts you have ever walked around without a hair out of place, a Todoroki would never.

“Any other deep dark secrets I should know before being trapped inside of this house with you 24 hours a day?”

You chuckle, dropping your cigarette on the ground and stomping it out, bending to pick up the butt once you’re done. 

“Your brother won't let me drink anymore,” you start, hoping the vulnerability warms your brother in law. His steely gaze convinces you otherwise and you begin to walk away, arms folded over your chest with a cigarette butt in your fist. “Just another fun part of the aftermath of your little warpath.”

Touya knows he fired the first shots but he’s taken aback at your accusatory tone. 

“Anything else you want to question me about? Figured the commission briefed you on all of my dirty laundry.”

He shakes his head and exhales smoke through the corner of his mouth, the plumes drifting in your direction. “Good chat, Touya.”

The back door slams as you enter your home through it, windows rattling slightly. Your first instinct is to pour a drink but the reminder of your rock bottom lingers on your mind as you instead toss your cigarette in the trash and turn down the hall and head to your bedroom, Natsuo sitting on the bed.

“Why does he hate me so much?”

You hate how hysterical your voice sounds, anxiety rising like bile. Rising to his feet, your husband gathers you against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Give him time, he’ll warm up.”

You don’t share your husband’s boundless optimism as you hear the back door slam and hear footsteps heading to the bedroom opposite yours. Natsuo plants another soft kiss atop your hair and squeezes your hand gently as he walks back over to Touya’s room. 

“You alright?” Natsuo asks and Touya rolls his eyes, shrugging off his jacket and draping it across a hook on the back of the door. “Fine. Thanks for the concern.”

Natsuo slips through the door completely and closes it softly behind him, leaning against the solid wood.

“What happened out there?” 

Touya chuckles and shrugs, sitting on the bed in the same place he had left. “Nothing worth mentioning. I’ll make sure I keep my bottles hidden from her though.”

His eyes widened, Touya’s antagonistic tone nothing new, his shock coming from the fact you told him about your struggles with substance abuse in the first place. It wasn’t a secret but it certainly wasn’t a fun fact you gave out at trivia night. 

“Uh, yeah, thank you.” Natsuo fumbles through his words, unsure of the right thing to say. “That would be great. She has come a long way but there are still times that are difficult, especially when big changes occur.”

Your substance abuse issues began about a year after your marriage. Blissful happiness wasn’t enough to numb the intense pain of the years prior but copious amounts of whiskey while Natsuo was busy with work were good enough. Blind confidence convinced you he didn’t notice a thing, not your sunken eyes or decreased appetite, but he did and he confronted you as gently as he could.

The next day you started therapy of your own and have continued to go to meetings for others struggling with addiction since then. Nothing drastic has happened in your life since you quit drinking, calm falling over the Todoroki household, making it easier for you to maintain your wits.

He would never say it but Natsuo truly worried about your sobriety. Every time he left for a trip or wine was passed around at family dinner, he wondered if it would be the day you changed your mind. Sticking with you was easy, though. You did the same for him at his low point and he would never stop doing it for you.

“She smokes, you know that?”

Natsuo nods, Touya’s raspy voice breaking the silence caused by his brother’s overthinking. “Have to let her have one vice, you know?” 

“I think you forget that you weren’t the only person who had to live through that fucking horrifying life! It didn’t just go away when you did.”

Your voice cracks as you raise it at your brother in law, his turquoise eyes wide as he watches you yell with an intensity that leaves your hands shaking. He has never looked more like your husband than he does now, the same white hair sticking up on top of his head, his fingers carding through it and yanking the strands as he paces your living room floor. 

“There are times I don’t think you realize that your actions have always had consequences because you’ve truly faced so few of them,” you feel your face flame as Touya’s expression turns from surprised to angry. “You didn’t have to clean up the messes. I did.”

Seeing the similarities makes something inside of you crack, a piece of your heart perhaps, your chest heaving. Regret consumes your mind; you’ve gone too far. You struggle to catch your breath, rubbing your fingers over your cheeks to hide evidence of your tears. Silence blankets the room like a dense fog.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Your voice sounds meek and thin even to your own ears, the screaming match you have been engaged in rendering your throat raw. Painfully, you swallow what little spit you can and shut your eyes tightly as you listen to Touya’s rhythmic footfalls. Taking a deep breath, you sink into an armchair and dab at your eyes with the back of your hands, opening them long enough to see Touya staring intently at you. You drop your hands and sigh. 

“I can’t imagine what you have been through,” you hiccup, warm tears sliding down your cheek and dripping onto your wrists where they sit in your lap. “But you weren’t the only one going through it and I hope your brother can forgive me for saying all of this to you.”

The white haired man remains silent as you rise from your chair, hands balled into fists at your sides. Your gaze turns directly to him and you sniffle, tears subsiding. 

“He has always loved you despite everything you’ve done, exactly as you are. Please remember that.”

The words feel cathartic to say aloud, astute eyes narrowing to watch you as you turn on your heel and begin to walk away. Your tense posture tells him exactly how you feel about the entire situation and you reason that giving Touya space seems like the best option to end the strange battle of wills the two of you have found yourselves in. 

The gravelly sound of Touya’s voice from over your shoulder stops you in your tracks. 

“Then I owe it to him to try.”

There is no apology to be found in the words but you swear you can feel it as he says them, looking over your shoulder. For the first time you don’t see Dabi or Touya, you see someone completely new - your brother in law. A blank canvas, someone you could perhaps get to know under better circumstances. 

“We both owe it to him,” you respond as you turn around and make your way back to the chair you were sitting in moments ago, sitting stiffly against the back of the chair, shoulders still held tensely by your ears. “But how do we begin?”

Touya sighs and sits opposite you, rubbing his hands over his face as he rests his elbows on his knees.

“Hi, I’m Touya.” You laugh for the first time in a week and he can’t hide the half smile that comes across his face. “I did some fucked up things and spent eight years paying for them but I fucking love my family.” He stomps his foot, emphasizing his point. “That includes you now so we better get our shit together, yeah?”

Another tear falls as you nod, a watery smile settling over your features.

“Yeah, we should.”

A year later, when you think of your brother in law Touya, a memory from your childhood comes to your mind.

You are six, maybe seven and at the zoo. Your parents hold both of your hands dutifully to make sure you don’t run off, squeezing your tiny palms between theirs as you excitedly gasp and croon at birds, snakes, and butterflies. A flamingo makes you shout, a duck makes you quack.

Steps slow down as the three of you approach a large glass enclosure. “Black panther - panthera pardus” says the sign extending from the ground in front of the glass. You don’t know that, of course, until your dad reads it aloud to you, asking you to repeat the name.

“Panthera,” you repeat, a tiny voice bouncing back at you off of the glass.

As if you summoned the cat itself, it appears and you flinch. Black, lithe, wild eyed with muscles wound so tightly you can see the shape and size of each of them. You wonder if the panther knows how to relax, the same way your mom tells you to when you cry too hard. Maybe he needs to take a deep breath. 

“Why does he look so nervous?” 

In your young mind, the question surfaced before you had time to think about it. Of course he’s nervous, you reason, all of these people are staring at him like the attraction that he is. A dazzling thing to see locked between four glass walls. 

“He isn’t nervous honey, he’s probably just thinking about what he would do if he were outside with us.”

Pondering your mom's polite whisper, you nod and accept the answer. Grown ups always know best anyway. 

As a keeper enters the enclosure and carefully stalks toward the cat, your eyes widen in surprise. How can he let someone so close? You wonder if you could ever get that close to him. To see the sunlight in his fur just enough to reveal the spots under the dark of his coat or to watch his ears twitch as he listens for sounds of danger. Would he ever trust you? Could you trust him?

The crowd around the glass increases in size, delighted whoops as the keeper dangles the cleaned carcass of a large bird above the panther. You drink in the way he crouches and springs, tight muscles unwinding for a moment as large paws capture the food between them. 

A sight you’ll never forget.

A sight you see as Touya stalks through the living room of your home, tightly running his fingers through his hair. Muscles taut, standing and walking but trying to simultaneously fold in on himself.

“What the fuck would they even want to talk about?”

You sigh, shrugging at his words. The “they'' in question is the Commission and one year after his monitored release, he has been asked to return before the panel and answer some questions. Natsuo sits next to you on the floor in front of the chabudai, sorting through the papers sent to him to review ahead of Touya’s scheduled meeting. The three of you only found out about the date today.

“I dunno, Touya,” your husband shoots a bit impatiently toward his brother. “Let me read this and then I’ll tell you.”

Silently, you watch as he scans the documents, flipping them between his fingers. You hear the heavy pounding of Touya’s footsteps across the floor, reverberating through the otherwise silent room. Your house is too quiet. There is no crowd to filter out the silence.

“Potential restoration of privileges,” you hear Natsuo mutter from beside you. He continues to read to himself and you wonder what that truly entails. Would Touya be released from his supervised period completely? Would he be allowed to wander more than 50 feet away from his guardians? 

“God Natsu, read faster.”

Natsuo’s eyes shoot a frosty glance toward Touya from over the top of the papers in his hands. Placing them on the table, your husband sighs.

“They want to see your progress and maybe give you a little more freedom.”

Touya freezes in place for a mere second before turning on his heel and rushing to the edge of the table to snatch the documents and look over them, brows furrowed in concern that this is some evil trick the two of you have decided to pull on him. Revenge for the last twelve months of him and his fits, his angry words, his snarling. 

You’ve realized during the months he’s more meow than he is hiss.

“But,” Natsuo starts, clearing his throat, Touya tossing the papers back on the table and interrupting his brother with a clear as day “fuck!”, beginning to pace once again. “We have to give testimony.”

The royal we is something Touya has hated since the day he moved into your home. It always makes him feel as if it’s two against one, no separation between yourself and Natsuo and how you feel about the situation. He assumes if you’re mad at him, his brother is too. If you’re frustrated with Touya drinking the last of your nice matcha, Natsuo must be too. If you’re angry at Touya for dying his hair black in your bathtub and staining the shiny white tiles, Natsuo must be too.

He’s wrong about that, of course, his brother never holding any of his minor blunders against him. You don’t either but it would be tougher to convince Touya to believe that than it would be to build a house by hand, despite the tentative peace that exists between the two of you. You’ve allowed him into your home, your world, your once peaceful little family and have found that you are better for it. Natsuo is better for it. But there will always be a level of distrust. 

Like that panther you think of so often, Touya must wonder what it would be like to be free and trusted. 

“Touya, I don’t know how to say this,” Natsuo says, trying to keep his tone even and calm despite how anxious you know he must be feeling. You feel your stomach drop as well, balling the fabric of your linen pants between your palms to keep your hands from shaking. You looked at the date on the documents and noticed that it was a day you knew he’d be unavailable, working on a particularly tough case with multiple children from one family. “I can’t do it.”

Touya chuckles, a bitter and hollow sound that makes you flinch. “Of course not.”

“She can, though.”

Unexpectedly, Touya’s bitter chuckle turns into a belly laugh. You wonder if he’ll double over from the strength of it, scarred hands clutching his middle. Natsuo stands, approaching his brother carefully.

“Her?” He points at you and you feel like the one being questioned. Despite the grasp on the thighs of your pants, your hands do shake and your fingers slip. “She probably wishes I would have died every single day despite the little “play nice” bullshit she does for your sake.”

Gasping at the accusation, you hope he can’t see the way your eyes glance downward. You had assumed the two of you were past this, arguments coming to a halt around six months ago when you told him you simply didn’t have the energy for them anymore. 

You then began taking him to pick up cigarettes every other day, riding in your car together silently but comfortably. His fingers always drum against his thighs impatiently and you clear your throat, mouth dry until you arrive. You have to be close to him the entire time but you linger on the edges of the small shop in your neighborhood, giving the elderly shopkeeper time to fuss over Touya the way he needs. 

The two of you then silently ride back to your home.

“How could you say that, Touya?”

Much like the smaller version of you felt compelled to speak outside of the gleaming panther exhibit, you do the same now. Your voice sounds weak, thin, defeated. Natsuo rushes to your side, kneeling back down and placing one of his large arms around your shoulder.

“Oh here we go, gotta rush to defen -” 

Touya’s words are cut off by a sharp glance from his brother, a look he has never seen before. Smothering all of the fire inside of him, hurting the one person who has endlessly forgiven him, he is doused by humility.

“I don’t hate you,” you look up and see Touya’s turquoise eyes that are narrowed and hard staring directly at you. “I don’t wish you were dead,” you continue as you shrug your husband’s arm off of you and begin to stand. “In fact, I was stupid and thought we were finally fucking past all of this!”

Punctuating your shout with a frustrated grunt, you stomp off down the hallway and leave the brothers to figure it out amongst themselves. Natsuo would simply have to find a way to make the date work for him because you couldn’t bring yourself to beg the Commission to be merciful toward someone who detests you so much. You aren’t a big enough person for that, lacking the careful compassion of your husband.

“Are you fucking serious, Touya?”

Natsuo cursing at his brother makes his steely gaze falter, eyes glancing downward toward the floor. Touya remembers a time you went too far, not long after he first moved into your home, and he feels guilty knowing he has done the same.

“Whatever,” Touya responds dismissively as he stomps off. 

Natsuo hears the back door slam and rubs his hand over his face, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. He’s transported back to 12 long months ago when he didn’t even want to be in the same room as the two of you, the tension making him incapable of dealing with his own uncertainty about the ability to rehabilitate his brother. 

As Touya steps outside into the cool air, far less suffocating than the inside of the house, he fishes around in his pockets for his lighter and mutters obscenities as he realizes it is inside. Of course, he still can’t use his quirk thanks to the very strong suppressants he has to take daily as part of his release, so he flings the door back open and stomps inside. 

Hearing hushed muttering from the living room, he closes the door quietly and creeps to the doorway of the kitchen. He shoves himself against the wall, trying to hide from view as he hears your voice.

“I don’t understand why he won’t give me a chance, Natsu.”

His brother sighs and Touya sinks further against the wall. He knows the sound - fed up, frustrated, struggling. Natsuo is the last person he ever wanted to create those feelings in and shame, a bit of an unfamiliar feeling for him, creeps up his spine and makes his stomach turn. 

“You didn’t exactly make the best first impression, of course he doesn’t completely trust you.”

Natsuo’s words make you blow out air in frustration. Touya can’t see you, but he imagines you look as downtrodden as you always have after these little battles. His brother’s defense of his behavior is surprising, though, and he idly rubs his thumb across one of the graft scars on his hands.

“I know,” you relent with a sniff. “I know.”

Your words shift Touya’s perspective, precious humility trickling over him and making his left eye twitch - a stress reflex he tried to hide for years. 

You were the first person who noticed it and on your usual trip to the small store to pick up his cigarettes after, you passed him a box of anti-inflammatory medication and a bottle of eyedrops wordlessly as you buckled into your seat. He hasn’t twitched since.

Acknowledging the hurt you’ve caused is the first step of atonement, he remembers reading in a book Natsuo brought him while he was still locked up.

He peeks from around the wall, stretching his arms over his head and locking his fingers on the back of his skull, buried in poorly dyed black hair. Natsuo looks up through his light eyelashes at his brother who approaches carefully, settling on the opposite side of the table from where the pair of you sit.

“You can do it.”

The words are simple and cause both you and Natsuo to look up. Touya refuses to meet your puffy eyes and rises back to standing as quickly as he sat, slapping the tabletop once before skulking down the hallway to grab his lighter.

You and Natsuo resolve not to ask questions, with only two weeks until the panel meets time is of the essence and your testimony will be key to helping Touya if you choose to help him. 

Sitting in front of the panel is more nerve-wracking than you expected. A group of five familiar faces all staring at you with discerning eyes as you shuffle the hand-written pages of your testimony between your fingers.

These people have rummaged through your home on more than one occasion, interviewed all of your close friends and family, sifted through every piece of your dirty laundry and you’re at their mercy once again but this time you’re more willing.

“You may begin as you wish, Todoroki-san.”

Nodding respectfully toward the head of the panel, you clear your throat and exhale as you look down at the papers in your hands. You can feel Touya looking at you from across the room, Fuyumi and Shouto seated beside him and Rei on the other side of his sister, but refuse to look up at them for fear it’ll make the little courage you’ve summoned disappear.

“When Touya first moved into our home, I was uncertain of his ability to be rehabilitated.”

You spent the last two weeks reading this exact same speech to Natsuo, rehearsing it in your bedroom while pacing across the floor. The ink on the page is smeared in places from wet tears that dripped down onto the paper, black bleeding into blue and drying into rippled and raised spots. Those spots remind you of Touya, the way he has woven his way into part of your everyday existence. 

“The process of allowing him into our lives felt very invasive. Respectfully, our lives were torn apart in preparation for him. Our home was combed through, our mail was intercepted, my husband was followed by a member of this committee on his way home from the clinic he tirelessly uses as a means to help others on more than one occasion.”

You keep your tone even to avoid sounding accusatory. These are all facts the Commission themselves have confirmed via their own documentation but standing in the face of the very force that can decide your future as well as Touya’s is more intimidating than you expected.

“The day Touya moved in, our lives shifted in a way that no amount of preparation could have made us anticipate. Difficult interpersonal dynamics forced us to take a good hard look at the future of our family and the future of what we desired for Touya. How did we want his rehabilitation to look?”

Taking a breath, you look up from the sheet of paper for a moment to meet Touya’s gaze and it strikes you as odd to see something almost tender. You sniff, nose twitching, vowing to hold yourself together until you’re alone or with Fuyumi or anywhere but sitting in front of people who have made their living off of judging, doling out punishment, changing lives for better or worse.

“While we’ve had many difficult times, I am not here to talk about the difficulty I caused Touya with my inability to coexist for the first several months. Rehabilitation takes a team and I was not a team player,” you pause and hear shuffling from the seats across the room. “Despite this, Touya has dedicated himself to improvement and has continually adhered to every request the commission put forth in the original terms of his release.”

While you don’t want to continue to air out your dirty laundry, there is a therapeutic feeling in knowing you’re publicly admitting to handling things wrong. In front of Natsuo’s family, nonetheless. Touya’s family. Your family. 

At the end of this lies the fact that you are all a family and forgiveness is inherently woven through the relationships and bonds you share.

“It is the recommendation of both my husband and I that Touya’s privileges of release be expanded upon, including reduction of supervision and permission to travel to the homes of his mother and siblings independently if he chooses.”

Rising to your feet, you bow before the panel once more before walking toward the back of the room and quietly exiting as they take time to deliberate and make their decision. 

Touya rises and comes to the front of the room, standing before them. He hates the way he feels, like a caged animal with his muscles tensed, in a suit that doesn’t even belong to him because why the fuck would he ever own a suit? The sleeves are too long, it is Shouto’s after all, and he pulls the cuffs over his hands with his thumbs.

The panel head speaks and the room is so quiet you’re even unnerved from the other side of the door. Pressing your ear to the wood, you listen.

“Our decision will not be immediate. You can expect further communication from the panel in the coming weeks. As of right now, your terms of release remain the same until you are otherwise notified. Thank you for your time today, Todoroki-san.”

Touya bows and joins his family, missing the member he wishes to see the most.

You back away from the door as you hear the knob turn and rest against the wall, arms over your chest as you greet your in-law’s with a subdued smile. 

“Natsu will be so proud of you!” Fuyumi beams, rubbing your bicep in a comforting gesture. You just shrug, unable to speak. You exchange a few additional pleasantries with Shouto and Rei, wishing them goodbye as they leave you and Touya standing on opposite sides of the hallway.

“It’s okay, you know.”

Touya’s voice is a rasp, as always, and you look up through your eyelashes at him. Fiddling uncomfortably with the cuff of your shirt in the same way he’s been fiddling with his own cuffs all day, it just further emphasizes the similarities you share. It isn’t just love for Natsuo you have in common anymore.

“None of this shit has been easy and you’ve done your best. I’m not exactly a fuckin’ easy person to get along with.”

You chuckle, tension diffusing.

“I think you’re going soft, Touya.”

He chuckles back and your eyes meet, the two of you walking toward the center of the hallway to leave the building together and walk back to your car. Your footsteps are quiet and so are his, both of you slumping as you saunter out of the door and into the bright midday sun.

“Nah, just tired of being an asshole all the time.”

The news comes as you stand at your kitchen sink, Touya bent over as you help him rinse black hair dye down the drain. Your hands are wet, his shirt is soaked, but you agreed to help him after noticing a huge white patch still at the back of his head from his attempts to do it himself. 

“I dunno why you want it to be black so bad, don’t you want to look like Natsu?”

Touya snorts and the sound echoes through the steel basin. “I have to keep a little edge. Let me live.” You shut off the clean running water, allowing the dark droplets to work their way out of your sink. There was more rinsing to do but you wanted to be sure of how much more.

“It’s here!” Natsuo shouts from the doorway and you hear his hurried, large footsteps trek into the room, ripping of paper ringing in your ears.

You want to leave Touya’s side and go to Natsuo, to read over his arm, to see for yourself but you resolve to be patient and continue to lightly massage Touya’s scalp. He needs comfort right now, you can tell.

“Expansion of privileges,” Natsuo mutters to himself, scanning the page as quickly as he can. “Unsupervised access to other family homes! Holy shit!” 

Tossing the papers onto the counter, your husband bolts toward you and wraps his arms around your waist. “No, no, no,” you chant as he picks you up and you accidentally pull Touya’s wet strands of hair. He yelps and you let go, hissing apologetically.

“God Natsuo, down boy.”

Your snarky brother-in-law draws a giggle from you as your husband presses a kiss against your cheek and reaches down to slap him on the back. “Do you wanna tell mom or should I?” Touya looks up, head still dripping, and rolls his eyes at his brother. “I could just show up at her house, that’d have more impact.”

Wiggling away from Natsuo, you reach for the towel on the counter and wrap it around Touya’s neck so he can sit up and not drip black water all over your floor. He gives silent thanks in the form of a tight half smile and you smile back, stepping away to let the brothers converse about how they’re going to break the news to their siblings.

As you watch the two of them, the panther and his handler once again come back to your mind. 

The reason that the handler was able to come so close to the cat is because he trusted him. The cat could learn to trust others, to let people in, to let them be on his side. You won’t have to wonder if you could have gained the panther’s trust any longer and he won’t have to wonder what it’s like to be on the outside with the rest of us. 

[weasleys-wizard-writes]

A Sorry Substitute {R.B}

Synopsis: In a home full of photographs depicting memories of the past, it can be hard to move forward... Good thing you have remarkably little interest in doing so.

Notes: Absurdly non cannon compliant (mentions of the Yule Ball, completely ignoring Sirius and Regulus' strained relationship, etc.) Also, warnings for angst, mentions of underage drinking, and mentions of death.

In the photos littered throughout your home, Regulus Black was thoroughly documented, portions of his life (or rather, your conjoined life together) suspended in time for all to see.

There was a small framed photo in the parlor of him and his brother as children, with the older chasing the younger through the ever familiar back garden of their home. Regulus had at one point kept it at his bedside after his brother left for Hogwarts, which was how you'd come to have it in your possession years later. It was one of few images depicting Sirius as a child that hadn't been destroyed by a bitter Walburga.

Beside it, sat a slightly larger frame, within which was a similarly moving image of a far older Regulus as he snatched up the golden snitch in the the 1974 Gryffindor vs Slytherin quidditch match. You were quite proud of this particular photo, having taken it at the very moment that the young man's expression had begun to morph from one of utter concentration to victorious pride. It also helped that you'd managed to frame it in a manner that captured Sirius' reaction from his position as Keeper in the background. He'd cursed his brother up and down for catching the snitch after the match was over, but judging by the photo, his initial reaction was as proud as could be.

On the opposite wall, dual photos of your evening with your boyfriend at the Yule Ball during your fifth year were hung proudly, one having been taken by Lily, and the other by Sirius himself, whose presence pervaded many of the memories you'd decorated your home with.

In his photo, you and Regulus stood posed together, he in his dress robes and you in your gown, with several other couples visible in the background conversing amongst themselves. If you looked closely enough, you could see the subtle shaking of the camera and the slight glare that came over the younger Black heir's eyes as his brother laughed at the hesitant manner in which he'd placed his hand upon your hip. "Her Mum is going to see this, you utter fool." He'd reasoned afterward, which you recalled had only sent Sirius into a far greater fit of laughter than before.

Lily's photo, on the other hand, was far more candid, and a personal favorite of yours. In it, you were dancing casually with your love, arms resting gently upon his shoulders as he'd finally put those years of dance lessons that all pure blooded families seemed to make their children endure to good use. He looked happy, smiling down at you as a hand moved up to gently caress your cheek, a subtle gesture of affection that had sent your heart racing even after a full year of dating and another of pining before that.

Of course though, the parlor was not the only room decorated with photographs.

Your entryway, for example, was home to a group photo of you and your friends aboard the Hogwarts express together as you prepared to begin the 1977-1978 school year, after which Lily, James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter would all graduate. In this particular picture, you were all crammed into one little area aboard the train, basically on top of one another as you struggled to fit everyone into frame. In fact, toward the end of the image's looping movement, you could see where the train had lurched, pushing you off balance and making Regulus' eyes widen as he'd tightened his hold upon your arm. And beyond that, you could even see the shifting expressions playing about people's faces as they realized you were falling, genuine smiles briefly morphing into looks of comical panic before the loop started over once more. Unfortunately, what was not captured in the photo was the next few seconds of time, which featured you and your boyfriend of nearly 1.5 years toppling down together atop your friends, sending everyone into a fit of laughter so loud that the other inhabitants of the train car had all turned to see what the commotion was.

In addition to this, your kitchen in particular was absolutely littered with little photographs, many of them far too silly to have printed out and displayed properly in your home. Of course, this was exactly why you'd simply turned them into little gold framed magnets for your refrigerator instead, covering the appliance in happy memories for all too see if they only chose to look.

For example, one of your favorites included Regulus at the aftermath of a party in the Gryffindor common room after the house had beaten Ravenclaw during their quidditch match earlier that day. In it, he was clearly somewhat inebriated and incredibly exhausted, because rather than fixing the photographer, a seventh year James Potter, with his typical glare, he instead resolved to simply flip him off with an unsubtle roll of his eyes before he rolled onto his back atop the couch he'd been laying on when he'd noticed that the stag animagus had been aiming the camera in his direction. At the edge of the frame, you could just barely make out the sight of you and Sirius bursting into laughter over the interaction, leaning on one another to keep your (certainly not sober) selves from tumbling to the ground.

Another featured you all but bum rushing your boyfriend after he'd gotten hold of the snitch during a different quidditch game that same year, throwing your arms around his neck gleefully as he caught you with a visible but silent "oof!" before shaking his head in exasperation and wrapping his arms around your waist with a grin, happily accepting and eagerly returning the celebratory kiss you pressed to his lips shortly thereafter.

A much older photo next to that one exhibited a third year Regulus scribbling furiously at his arithmancy homework in the great hall after you'd all managed to convince him it was due that morning rather than the next one.

The following image, however, taken only a few minutes later by an uninvolved Peter, showed the young slytherin chasing you, James, Sirius, and Remus down the hallway after your growing bouts of random laughter had become suspicious enough for him to question what you were all up to.

Of course, while Regulus was indeed the most important person in your life, and certainly the one you were most keen upon displaying about your shared home, that wasn't to say every photo included him.

For example, one of your favorite pictures that adorned the fridge featured you sleeping on the floor just outside the room that Remus had locked himself away in during one of your many trips to a long forgotten Black family lakeside property whilst on Easter break. In it, your hand was resting gently atop the gryffindor's fingertips as they stuck out from underneath the door, which was the closest he would allow himself to get after you'd pleaded with him to come out all evening. It had been the night before a full moon, and he'd always preferred to be alone on such occasions, but since you'd rarely experienced that behavior of his, you'd been insistent that he continued to feel included. It was a sweet memory, and certainly one that you were glad to have the opportunity to display as you so pleased.

In addition to this, another image that didn't contain Regulus was the one of Peter, Sirius, James, and Remus passed out in the slytherin common area after a long night of studying during their sixth year. In classic gryffindor fashion, they'd all insisted that the slytherin furniture was far too uncomfortable to rest on, leading you, Regulus, and Lily to take plenty of photographs of them sleeping soundly the very moment the opportunity arose, shoulders shaking with laughter as you'd quietly mocked your friends.

Alongside all of these, various other memories clung to the magnetic surface of your refrigerator, including a few failed attempts at casting a patronus on yours and Regulus' part after James had tried to teach the spell to the two of you during your conjoined fifth year and his sixth.

Eventually though, you'd gotten it, and thus there was another photo up of your patronuses as they walked about together, a ginger and nebelung cat respectively (something James had tried to tease you both for until you'd reminded him of his and Lily Evans', quickly prompting him to leave well enough alone).

Still, even with all of those wonderful memories in mind, the one that remained your very favorite was one that didn't actually hang at all, but rather sat framed upon your bedside table for you to wake up to each morning.

It was an absolutely beautiful and intentionally shot photo, featuring the very same Black family lake house that you and your friends had occupied in some of the pictures located on your fridge. Having been taken just after James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, and Peter's graduation at a small gathering put together by you and your boyfriend to celebrate, the energy of the photograph itself was joyful beyond words, although that may have had more to do with the tear worthy moment captured within it than anything else.

In the background, the sun was beginning to set low on the horizon, casting a pink and orange glow across the waters behind where you and Regulus were stood.

That is, until without warning, the aforementioned man suddenly wasn't standing at all anymore, but kneeling before you instead, a black ring box in hand and a nervous expression playing about his handsome face.

He hadn't even gotten the chance to get the full question past his lips before you were tackling him even further to the ground with a hug and a hurried, repeated nod in agreement.

At the edges of the frame, Lily and James could be seen gaping at the scene while Peter simply pointed in utter disbelief and Remus tried (and failed) to hold back tears of joy.

And of course, pictured only in memory, was Sirius behind the camera, the only other party who had been privy to his younger brother's plans, and thus the man with the duty of taking the pictures for you.

He could not have done a better job if he'd tried (Not even with your second favorite image from that evening, which depicted a very inebriated you riding on the back of a very inebriated James Potter after he'd taken on his stag form. The two of you had become utterly determined to try it after Remus had cracked a sarcastic joke, and after a charm had been cast to magically make you lighter to lessen the weight upon the stag's back, you'd both set off victoriously with no particular destination in mind as your partners chased after the two of you with utterly horrified expressions plastered on their faces. It was a very good photo, indeed).

Yes, in the photographs littered throughout your home, Regulus Black was thoroughly documented, some of the very happiest moments of his life replaying time and time again for any and all to see.

That is, except, for him, and every other person besides yourself depicted in those dearly beloved photographs.

Your sweet Lily and persistent James, long gone, murdered in cold blood.

Your brave Sirius, unfairly returned in shambles before being taken away again far too soon.

Your loyal Remus, fallen alongside his love after years of being your only remaining solace in a world cruel enough to have taken everyone else away from you.

Your misguided Peter, who you could never forgive, but could not help but weep for when you saw the boy he'd once been in the photos on your walls.

And, of course, your darling Regulus, who you'd always hoped against hope that you'd see again until those very same hopes had been dashed to pieces as if against the rocks near which his final resting place could be found.

All around you, your love's life replayed over and over endlessly each and every day, acting as a sorry but needed substitute for his presence, longer gone now than you'd ever even had the chance to know it.

And in the end, there was no greater grief in your heart.

For no pain was worse than that caused by the scarcely explained and permanent absence of Regulus Arcturus Black from the life you'd planned together.

masterlist

[kindaasrikal]

“This, is a soul stone.”

“A…soul stone?”

“Yes. Once a soul leaves its physical form they create a soul stone to keep their…ghost-like form intact. This soul stone is surrounded by the actual projection of ourselves, similar to how a heart is encased inside the body. It cannot be taken out easily. In fact, the only ones who can remove anyones soul stone from their physical projection is the First spinjitzu master, Sensei Wu, Sensei Garmadon, and the consciousnesses of the two realms of the dead. Other then them, not even the person whose soul stone it is can remove it from it’s home, and its no easy task for the ones who can either.”

“…If all of that is true, then how are we both looking at your soul stone?”

“….Unfortunately, my soul stone had faced extreme abuse years ago, leaving it fractured and….weak.”

“Is that why it has pieces floating around it? It looks almost like a planet, surrounded by its moons…”

“An interesting comparison.”

“Ahm…that’s besides the point. Why are you showing me this? If its so delicate that it can almost never be removed from its home, then why would it help us in our mission?”

“…the merge, has shown to create unique consequences over the years. One of such, being the slow return of the Preeminent.”

“What.”

“I can’t explain in too much depth to what had happened, we don’t nearly have that much time and I need to use it sparingly.”

“What are you talking about?!-”

“A soul stone is indeed delicate, Lloyd. So delicate, so precious, that the very existence of a soul relies on it.”

“The..what?..”

“If my soul stone gets into the wrong hands, if it faces too much harm, I will no longer be able to keep it connected and in ‘one piece’ as I have so far. I will be erased from existence, and so will all the knowledge I have so painstakingly collected.”

“…Where are you planning to go, Morro?”

“…A place I should’ve visited years ago.”

——————

Will there be a fanfic of this? Probably not, since i can’t stick to finishing stories.

Anyways, take Morro from an AU i created in my head, theres no other content of it other then half completed stories in my notes/word documents and this post.

If anyone rlly wants me to, i can go more into depth of this AU and give it a name. But for now, all you need to know is that its mainly canon compliant, just with a few changes to the story of Morro and then the actual canon divergence starts during the merge. Some things before that will also be changed to fit ideas i have and things i like, such as the issue with Lloyds age.

Oh, alsooo! Morro in this drawing is still a ghost, but in this AU to differentiate departed ghosts from cursed, cursed ghosts look like how they did in the show and Morro’s og design, but departed ghosts tend to look more like how they did when they were alive (with some differences and yknow, being see- through)

So Morro in this looks like how his Departed ghost form would in this AU

I also realised that the gi itself looks a lot like Cole’s because of the black and orange. Pretend the orange is grey/green/yellow, pls and thank you.

AND MY FAVOURITE LITTLE DETAIL. Look at Morro’s gi and how its folded, see what i did there??

I had fun drawing this with another newly acquired art style, this is also one of my first few times drawing Morro and being happy with it. Turns out i am very picky when drawing characters i like over literally anything else.

[anony-man]

This can be read as a standalone drabble, but it is also a sort of follow-up to the drabble written yesterday! The previous drabble can be found here.

Chubformers drabble #111!

Characters: Megatron and Soundwave (TFP)

Word count: 1.2k

Soundwave’s efforts were paying off, according to his carefully calculated measurements. If there was one thing that he had learned from the hours spent monitoring Megatron over the shoulder of a flaky doctor, it was that keeping track of his leader’s progress was vital to ensuring his home remedies helped.

Pumping Megatron full of more fuel than he could take every day was good and well, and he always enjoyed the outcome of that sloshy belly hanging from weight of too much energon in his tanks, but there was no point in continuing with the practice if it gave no good results. They needed great results, and great healing progress, if he was ever to return to his rightful place at the head of the Decepticons.

It felt a bit twisted, but Soundwave took amusement in the fact that Megatron seemed so flustered by their attempts at getting him back into working order. The fuel pump regimen was unusual, he had to admit, but it worked, and it worked well. His leader was already gaining back the mass he had lost in nearly half the time he would have without his subordinate’s assistance. What was there to discourage?

Maybe it wasn’t just the forced fueling, Soundwave had reasoned. Maybe it was the constant doting from his third in command, or maybe it was the fact that Knock Out and his hulk of a partner had started to catch on to their arrangement. They couldn’t get away with skipping past the extra medical check-ins without arousing suspicion, even if Megatron’s tests came back cleaner than before with every follow up.

No one’s snide comments or pointed remarks mattered to him, though. Knock Out’s attempts at encouraging more frequent visits only earned a cold stare from Soundwave as he guided their leader back to their quarters, and every attempt their incompetent air commanded made at undermining Megatron in his weakened state was met with calculated karma.

Nothing occurred without Soundwave’s knowledge, but it was only because he was so adamant about ensuring their leader’s health was protected. He had already learned what worked best for Megatron as he healed from his injuries, and what was best was making sure he returned to his normal self.

The hours after a feeding session were often spent pampering Megatron and his achy belly, but Soundwave always had plans for him once the worst of the pain had settled. They were nearing another major mark in the healing process, and he wasn’t going to miss out on a chance to gather every little bit of information on his leader’s progress that he could.

Megatron sat at the food of the berth on a stool far too small for him as he awaited the start of their private check-up. He busied himself with rubbing his belly fat in the meantime, all while trying his best not to let his mind wander. Taking measurements and documenting his increasing weight was definitely done more for their enjoyment than anything, but the fear that something would pop up that pushed his health back and triggered another decline was ever present in his processor.

What was there to worry about? Nothing, that was what. His wounds were healed, and his spark still beat strong. The dark energon he had consumed still tainted him, draining his energy as the days ticked by, but Soundwave was there to keep him going. This wasn’t another day of lying on that cold table while Knock Out picked through his chest and cleared his systems so he could live. This was a normal day of rest, and of recuperation.

He had sat pretty and lay compliant on his berth while Soundwave shoved tubes down his throat and up his valve, hadn’t he? He could make it through a bit of measurements.

The anxiety brewing in the pit of his stuffed tanks was immediately soothed by the gentle touch of lanky servos against his shoulders. Megatron lifted his helm and stared into Soundwave’s face, a small smile tugging at the corner’s of his mouth. He couldn’t see his third’s expression, but it didn’t take much to know Soundwave was looking forward to this.

“Well?” he said, slowly rising to his pedes with the insistent help from Soundwave. “Are we finally ready?”

Soundwave was silent as he nodded. He pointed to the mirror across the room, which was conveniently placed next to his table of strings and measuring tapes. Always prepared, he was, and more than ready to begin.

Megatron allowed himself to be dragged over to the mirror with one of Soundwave’s servos pressed into his back, the other held to the swell of his belly. He stood in place in front of the mirror and watched as his third gathered up the supplies, his small smile widening into a grin of amusement.

“Eager today,” he said, hardly missing the noticeable click of panels or the coils that were slinking free. “Forgive the assumptions, but I’ve begun to believe your insistence on two tubes instead of one earlier was just for show.”

There was a pause as Soundwave moved to stand behind him and reached around to hand over an end of the tapes. Despite his lack of words, Megatron could read the mech’s movements clearly.

“Indeed,” he said with a chuckle as he pulled the measuring tape around his belly and held the slack behind him for Soundwave to take.

The tapes were pulled tight around the mesh of his gut, but never enough for the plastic to dig in. They had to take accurate measurements, of course. Megatron stood still and silent, his gaze drifting over the reflection in the mirror, watching as Soundwave pulled the tapes this way and that, focused entirely on the task at hand.

Well, he was mostly focused. Megatron didn’t fail to notice the small pinches and fondling from those tendrils, their three-pronged digits grabbing fistfuls of his flab and giving it a good jiggle. Every twist or tightening of the measuring tapes meant another pinch or poke in a different area, and before long he was finding it nearly impossible to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Everything is as it should be, I assume?” he asked, almost breathless as Soundwave dropped to the floor to measure his thighs.

There was no response—not a shake of his helm, not a pause in his movements. Soundwave did, however, draw the tapes even tighter around the fat of those legs, and he didn’t stop until the excess was dangling between his fingers while the edges of the tapes dug into the mesh of Megatron’s thighs.

Megatron shuddered as those groping coils squeezed his belly even tighter in a relentless tease. For a brief moment, between struggling to steady his intakes and closing his optics against the measuring tapes unraveling against his frame, he catch Soundwave staring up at his reflection, his helm tilted ever so slightly to the side.

This was all a ruse, then. Measurements were being taken, but not without a bit of fun. Still… Megatron wasn’t going to stop him. No, he wouldn’t. For now, he would let Soundwave have his fun.

The ever-present sensation of those tendrils against his frame loosened, and Megatron opened his optics. At his pedes, Soundwave was staring into their reflection.

“Eager today,” he heard his voice say, a low and staticky sound.

Megatron only managed a breathless laugh in return.

[yoted-meister]

Alright so the ‘tism is striking again and I’ve come up with an oc idea for a game I don’t have much knowledge in. I hope to make them as accurate as possible so feedback is appreciated!

(I attempted to make an official Urbanshade document for them here)

Lots of text alert below I did a lot of thinking for this but am officially quite satisfied with what I now have

Enoch Reed, Z-13-b, The Aquanaut:

Before conviction, Enoch would help around their home town with anyone that needed a hand and overall just was a great person. This helpful attitude attracted a bad group of people who threatened them into helping with their burglaries and small thefts.

This caught up to the group as the area grew more and more alert and in the end, all 5 were arrested on scene. After interrogations, police note Enoch as very compliant, confessing to just about everything, and offering convicting testimony about the whole group, granting them a reduced sentence, which they would serve in a separate prison to prevent potential retaliation from the other arrested members.

After Sebastian's breach and as a result, the loss of the Hadal Blacksite, Urbanshade gains interest in intentionally recreating Sebastian’s transformation in an attempt at pioneering a monster both fast and strong for use as an underwater aid including maintenance, pest control, and other such tasks as see fit. However, as a first precaution, they sought a prisoner who was willing to go through the experiments and would not object to the tasks given.

Upon obtaining info on Enoch, they were immediately proposed for the experiment and, once permission was granted, people were sent to give Enoch their offer. Enoch, while willing to help, was reluctant to sacrifice simply leaving on parole. This reluctance immediately vanished when informed the 4 others had broken out of prison.

Once taken back to one of Urbanshade's many docks, Enoch was promptly given LR-P status and a cell to wait in as preparations were made to begin the experiments.

The plan was to use some dna strands used in the original Z-13's experimentation, not just for their gills, but for some of their other traits, such as the sea snake's shape, great white shark's senses, blue whale's lungs and echolocation, female angler’s luminescent lure, silver spinyfin's darkvision and ability to see color at depths, and a “smasher” mantis shrimp's strength.

However, further dna was used in an attempt to further enhance Enoch such as the blue marlin's to copy it's tail and, in theory, its speed, alongside great indulgence into the whale shark's in an attempt to both allow buccal pumping to allow Enoch to sleep and be still underwater, as well as recreate blubber to allow stronger insulation and the ability for Enoch to potentially travel longer distances on less food, possibly permitting use in swift delivery of physical items between sites. As it was Sebastian's transformations that inspired the experiment, they chose to designate them as Z-13-b; and for the aquatic mastery they would hopefully obtain, they were also granted the codename: “The Aquanaut”

While the traits were successfully gained, some such as the mantis shrimp's punch at an albeit reduced potencies than expected, Z-13-b's human nose conflicted with the attempted acquisition of buccal pumping, and as a remedy, minute amounts of western clawed frog dna were used to replace their nose with that of an amphibian.

As a result of their mutations, The Aquanaut has gained a form similar to Z-13 with some differences naturally, such as a more oval head, having a messier hairstyle with a ponytail, and goggles resembling glasses(at Enoch's request), and some unnaturally, such as a lack of third arm. While still larger than a human, Z-13-b is smaller than Z-13 in an intended effort to increase speed by having a reduced mass while maintaining similar muscles. As a byproduct of the indulgence in whale shark dna alongside the blue whale, Z-13-b's scales have darkened and their skin has become a dark blue, slightly brighter on their face and chest, and their back to gain the white spots owned by whale sharks. Their eyes are a lighter yellow than their anglerfish lure and their tail fin is thinner, resembling that of a marlin's. Starting from their elbows, the back of their arms and hands are covered with calcified scales resembling that of their tail's that enhance the impact of blunt force from said regions, most likely obtained via mantis shrimp's dna.

Enoch's mutations were always painful, your very being being altered at the core would do that, and yet, the first alterations always left Enoch in awe. The tests that made sure the dna was applied successfully always passed and there was a sense of pride at the scientists' joy and excessive affirmations every time. But as their body changed more and more, they felt as though they were becoming less human.

It was easy to ignore with the gills or the senses and lungs, the arm scales were too, the lure was harder to ignore. The blue skin, missing nose, and eyes were…suppressible, but the tail was unignorable.

It was after they completed their final test and first official task, an under the table delivery from one dock to another, that they were up for consideration to become an MR-P; that they were given their collar.

“A specially designed PDG” they called it, after the actions of Z-13, the scientists wanted a failsafe to ensure their safety, and since Enoch didn’t need any diving gear, they created an alternative to give them.

While Enoch understood their reasoning, having your potential death always ready to execute you doesn’t do good for the nerves. The “good job, Enoch” and other affirmations given after they completed tasks went from just nice words to lifelines, proof they were doing things right and safe from being killed and discarded. Just because they didn’t SAY doing a bad job would kill them doesn’t mean they WONT, right?

Officially ranked MR-P, Enoch's range expanded to all nearby docks, no longer returning to their initial destination after completing objectives and now being sent between docks as required. Now integrated into and familiar to all nearby docks, tasks Enoch would be given ranged from important undersea transportation, inspection, retrieval, maintenance, or retrieval; to mundane reduction of local fish population(one of the few times they get to eat), and the application of blunt force to recreational televisions in an attempt to fix them(with a surprising 75% success rate). Positive affirmations are given after completion regardless of importance, it has almost felt like TOO much affirmation. This has continued to the present day, efforts have not been made to mass produce Z-13-b until reacquisition of the Hadal Blacksite for additional secrecy and potential, but likely impossible, experimentation in crossing the Veil of the Let-Vand zone.

In the present, Enoch is usually seen moving from one place of the docks to another due to there constant utilization. In the rare conversation, Enoch is usually timid and cautious when conversed with, often playing with their hands in silence and doing as they are told without question in an effort to ensure they don’t come off as hostile and have their collar detonated. The few who make efforts to befriend Enoch, however, find them to be a chipper and upbeat individual, enjoyable to be around. On their own, they sometimes talk to themself as they work and try to come up with a way to, at the very least, earn enough trust to have their collar removed.

Though it is known Z-13 is still alive in the Hadal Blacksite, Z-13-b has not (yet) been dispatched for objectives there to ensure they are not severely harmed or killed by the entities that roam it.

[lilydalexf]

hi! do you know of any fics where mulder or scully (i think this fits either of them well) ask the other "can i kiss you?" ? its my favourite fic "trope" but i think ive only found one xf fic that does it and i cant even remember it, please help!

Thank you for this ask! I have (many) older asks I maybe should've answered first, but it was very fun compiling this rec list of fics where one of Mulder and Scully asks the other "Can I kiss you?" Enjoy! Anamorphosis by Megan Reilly Assigned to find a horrifying serial murderer, Agent Scully discovers things about herself and her past that she never suspected. City of Light by Bonetree On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them apart. (Part of the Goshen universe) Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton Some feeling defy the confines of time. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by Jenna Tooms Scully comes to Mulder with a wound only he can heal. general conundrums by @intrepidment Nonsense fluff. Impulse by Suzanne Schramm Mulder and Scully investigate some strange doings in a little town where people seem to have no control over their actions. Let's Bee Together by @baronessblixen Set during IWTB: Scully comes home from the hospital to find a bored and restless Mulder has picked up an interesting new hobby: apiculture. Little Notes by aRcaDIaNFall$ Mulder and Scully are bored in a meeting and start passing notes... The Mad Physicist & The Lab Rat by littlemisfit5290 (@alittlemissfit) "Who said I was even going to the party?” “I said you are if you plan on knowing whether I dressed up as a sexy alien or that beast woman.” MSR, pre IWTB, Halloween fluff. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) For the first time ever, the FBI is doing a secret Santa exchange. But what do you do when you're not paired with the only person you can imagine exchanging gifts with? You do everything in your power to rig the game. Nuptiae Sub Rosa by SisterSpooky1013 and XFMaweezy (@sisterspooky1013 and @xfmaweezy) A series of canon-compliant missing scenes showing that some dynamics of Mulder and Scully’s relationship may have changed much earlier than previously thought. radiant by kittenscully (@kittenscully) Under normal circumstances, her vulnerability would shock him. But things are different now, the shift tectonic and undeniable. He owes her the same trust that she’s showing him. Saying the Words by Karen Rasch Mulder and Scully finally confront their feelings for the first time. (Part of the Words series) Tender Intent by A.I. Irving When Scully returns to work after recovering from her illness, Mulder discovers that she isn't quite the changed woman she claims to be. Untitled by @baronessblixen “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” / “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?” Untitled by @broadcastnews1987 a “what if one breath never happened au.” Untitled by @msrafterdark scully puts the moves on mulder post-millennium. What Happens In Vegas (Sometimes Finds Its Way Into Official Documents) by tiredmoonlight (@myshipsintheharbor) When some interesting news about the marital status of two agents finds its way to back to the FBI, questions are raised, the main one being that the agents don't actually remember getting married. While You Were Sleeping by Skinfull Mulder falls for an intoxicating red head he spots in the park, then saves her life but not before she is injured and put into a coma, then he meets her sister! Den den dehhhhhh! Seraphim by chekcough (@chekcough) After Mulder returns from the dead, Scully tries to pick up the pieces. AU, with Mulder/Scully relationship pre-established after FTF. Implied character suicide.

[our-future-is-up-to-us-2]

The Day Of The Jackal Fic Masterlist

Hey everyone!!

So my obsession with The Day Of The Jackal is running on overtime like OH MY GOODNESS!! This show has taken over my life atp. The cinematography, the characters, the tension, the EVERYTHING.

I have been and will continue to write fics for the show. I have decided to make this comprehensive masterlist, which will be updated with the more I write <33

Request fic ideas, prompts, and whatever else you'd like, over here!

Please be aware of spoilers if you're a spoilerphobe! But I'll make those clear either way.

~ Read the list under the cut ~

1 - The Jackal

Summary:

The Jackal lives in secret. He hides from everyone and everything.

Relationships: Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Nuria

Spoilers/Episode Content: Episodes 1-5

On Tumblr | On AO3

2 - Good People

Summary:

It’s only been a day or two since Charles stopped texting and calling Nuria back.

And yet, she’s here, telling her daughter things she can’t bear to hear.

Relationships: Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Nuria, Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Rasmus

Spoilers/Episode Content: Primarily Episodes 6 & 7

On Tumblr | On AO3

3 - Instincts

Summary:

Screaming, screaming, screaming!

A TLOU/TDOTJ crossover, where Bianca is Ellie's saviour at Silver Lake.

Relationships: Joel Miller & Ellie (TLOU), Joel Miller & Bianca Pullman, Ellie & Bianca Pullman

Spoilers/Episode Content: Nothing from The Day Of The Jackal, but covering TLOU's David incident at Silver Lake

On Tumblr | On AO3

4 - all of these are the prettiest things

Summary:

It’s always the quiet moments that draw them in. Peter sits about, examining blueprints, mulls over documents on his computer or phone, while Rasmus takes to watching him, or making some food.

At least, that’s when they’re not entangled in work, or each other.

Relationships: Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Rasmus

Spoilers/Episode Content: Based around Episodes 6 & 7

On Tumblr | On AO3

5 - Chain Reaction

Summary:

“Hey, hey– Bianca. Listen to me. Listen to me, I swear to god, you’re ok!”

Relationships: Bianca Pullman & Vincent Pyne

Spoilers/Episode Content: Episode 8 (this is a darker fic, and is canon-compliant to the darker themes of the episode)

On Tumblr | On AO3

6 - The Blueprint On My Mind

Summary:

“You’re kidding, right?”

The Jackal looks up from his bowl of cereal, met with Rasmus’ surprisingly stern gaze.

“I don’t kid about anything.”

Relationships: Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Rasmus

Spoilers/Episode Content: Loose canon compliance to Episodes 6 & 7

On Tumblr | On AO3

7 - Mirror

Summary:

The Jackal’s breath is soft and slow as he walks through the spaciousness of his own home.

Relationships: Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Nuria

Spoilers/Episode Content: Episode 9

On Tumblr | On AO3

8 - 'Cause You're A Brand-New Species

Summary:

The boat chase is highly exhilarating, if the Jackal says so himself.

Relationships: Bianca Pullman & Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop, Bianca Pullman & Vincent Pyne

Spoilers/Episode Content: Episode 9 (a what-if scenario situated post Episode 9), sprinklings of details from Episode 8 and Episode 10/Season 1 Finale

On Tumblr | On AO3

9 - Community Service

Summary:

Blue and red, mixed with black. It’s what she wants him to be bleeding.

What if Episode 10 turned out differently, as Bianca seeks to take The Jackal alive? What if she has a plan up her sleeve that is risky, seriously boring, and exhilarating all at once?

Relationships: Bianca Pullman & Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop, Bianca Pullman & Vincent Pyne, Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Rasmus

Spoilers/Episode Content: Episode 10, aka the Season 1 finale. You will be spoiled on that episode in the very first chapter!

This is a multichapter fic, with canon divergence within that first chapter as well.

On AO3 | (Won't be posting this one to Tumblr, so please read it over there!)

[psychiatry-and-poetry]

Missed Chances and Stolen Glances

Part 1 | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

A/N: Here I am, back again with a new work instead of finishing my WIPs 🥰 anyways I hope you enjoy! Also I know this fic is gonna have so many classic and overused tropes 😭 don’t come at me ok? I wanted to portray Azriel’s father here as cruelly as possible while also keeping him compliant to how bad parents can be in our world. This is just my interpretation of how Az’s father would look like in a modern AU!

Summary: Az is failing high school Spanish, and he desperately needs to get his grades up in order to graduate. He manages to conveniently find a tutor a couple of years younger than him, but there's no way he'll fall for her. Right?

Word Count: 1444

“Scattered ‘cross my family line,

I’m so good at telling lies”

~ Family Line, Conan Gray

Az ran a hand through his already messy hair, groaning. What the hell? How had he failed his Spanish test again?

“So, what’d you get?” His friend asked, leaning down to get a glimpse of his test. Quickly snatching it off the table before his buddy could get a look, he scowled up at him. “Piss off, Cassian.” He’d always been too nosy for his own good, and Azriel knew it was bound to land him in trouble. 

“Not in the mood, huh?” Cassian inquired. Azriel didn’t even bother responding, only flipping him off as he grumbled internally. 

I swear to god Azriel, if you fail one more test, you’re not playing on the basketball team this semester, his father had chided when he’d flunked chemistry. He couldn’t stop playing basketball. He simply couldn’t. He was well on his way to getting a scholarship from one of his top sports universities, and even his middle-aged, cranky father could see that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. 

How was Azriel going to break the news to his father this time? Truth be told, he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Spanish, but he needed to continue playing basketball, and right now, that was the same thing. 

Shoving the paper into his backpack, not caring if it got crumpled or ripped or utterly destroyed, he dragged himself home without so much as a goodbye to his friends. 

✦ ✦ ✦

Standing outside his father’s study, he stared at the mahogany door and the gold engraving in neat, elegant letters. Mr. Ellison. 

He’d been standing here for the past five minutes, not being able to work up the courage. Useless coward, he chided himself. Absolutely pathetic. 

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself, and knocked twice. The sound echoed all around the marble lobby, and did nothing to ease his nerves. 

“Come in,” boomed his father’s voice from the other side. Slowly pushing the door open, he slipped inside. He was trapped in his father’s lair.  Nothing and no one was saving him now. 

✦ ✦ ✦

“Father,” he started, voice devoid of emotion. His father merely nodded, brow slightly furrowed as he perused what seemed to be vital documents. With no further directions, Azriel took a seat across from him in one of the plush burgundy armchairs, the sheer size of them dwarfing him despite his considerable height. 

He supposed it was another one of his father's tactics, to have over-the-top, extravagant furniture that caused nothing but discomfort to the client. It would make it so that they’d want to leave as quickly as possible and give him additional time to exploit loopholes in their statements and contracts. At least that was what he told himself, because there was no other explanation for his father's ghastly interior décor choices. 

“Well? You came to see me for a reason, didn’t you?” His father barked out. Impatient, ruthless man. “Yes. I…do you remember our deal about me being kicked off the team if I failed another test?” He asked sheepishly and immediately realised how stupid of a question that was. Of course he remembers. His father was never one to forget, especially not when it came to the deals he made. He prided himself on it, flaunting his ‘greatest quality’, as he so happened to call it, like a badge of honour. 

Azriel’s statement seemed to catch his father’s attention, and he paused, staring at the paper as he contemplated…whatever it was selfish, old, stuck-up businessmen contemplated. His eyes narrowed, lips pursing. The only way Azriel could make out his clear displeasure was because he’d been forced to learn how to read the man like a book his entire life. Mood swings and bouts of anger were more common than was healthy, but he’d learned to live with it. Stay out of his way, and wait until the dust settles, his mother had told him before she’d died. Cancer, he remembered. 

Indeed, he couldn’t remember much of his mother at all, seeing as she’d passed when he’d been around six and had only begun to understand the world and its fleeting mechanisms, the slippery nature of some people. What he did remember was the hospital visits and the long discussions with the doctors late into the night. His father was never present for those, instead choosing to work late because of whatever pressing issue there had been at the office that he simply had to take care of. He hadn’t cared for her treatment, delaying it until she was practically begging to be taken to the hospital. He hadn’t even shed a tear at her funeral, only been his somber, distant, aloof self that had made Azriel hate him even more than the day of his mother’s death. 

His father’s sigh brought him back to the present and he could see how irritated he was as he rested his forehead on his index finger and thumb. “Please don’t tell me you failed yet another test?” Azriel opted to stay silent, only placing the ruined test paper on his pristine, polished desk. His father’s eyes flicked down to read the number on the paper, marked in red ink, and then looked straight at Azriel. Avoiding his piercing gaze that would make even the bravest uneasy, he looked down at his lap and his folded hands. “You know what this means,” continued his father. “I’ll have a talk with your coach. You’re benched. Until you get those grades up boy, you won’t be seeing a basketball, let alone touching one.”

“Yes father,” he said solemnly, even as his heart plummeted. He knew what was coming, he knew it, but it still hurt to hear it said out loud. 

As he made to leave, his father called, “When’s your next progress report coming?” He turned, facing him fully, and answered, “Not until March, father.” Why the hell was he asking about these things like he gave a damn? He merely hummed to indicate that he’d heard, then inquired, “And how are all your other subjects coming along? Any more that you’re on the verge of failing?” Without waiting for a reply, he ploughed on, “Or rather, let me phrase the question differently. Are there any subjects that you’re actually passing, boy? Any real chance that you’ll graduate at all?”

He was seething. He wouldn’t have been surprised if actual steam was coming out of his ears, because this was an entirely new level. Indifference he could handle, could handle being treated like he was invisible or that he didn’t matter. It was easier that way. But direct confrontation? He’d never mastered that. It was clear on his face as he stumbled for words, and his father being the vulture he was, pounced on the opportunity. “I thought so,” he hummed. “Well, there’s no use in you standing here like a statue. You can go make yourself useful. How about you actually sit down and study for once, hmm? Try to get those drowning grades afloat?”

“Father,” he cut in, heart beating rapidly, knowing he was playing a dangerous game. He was an egoistic man, and thrived on power, on oppressing those who had nothing to call their own. “You don’t have to bench me.” Before he could really yell at him, Azriel rambled on, not quite sure what he was trying to say. “I can find myself a tutor. If I get my grades up with a Spanish tutor, I’ll be able to pass high school with decent enough grades to be accepted by the university I’m aiming for, and I’ll be able to play basketball. It’s a win-win situation for everyone,” he finished, slightly out of breath and hoping he wasn’t about to get thrown on his ass for suggesting something like this. 

His father was silent, and cocked his head to the side as he mulled over the proposition. It was seal-tight, after all. Why would he say no?

“Fine,” he answered curtly. “You find yourself a Spanish tutor within the next three days, and you’ll get to keep playing.”

“Three days? I need at least a week, father, please.”

“Five days,” the man bargained. “Final offer. Take it or leave it.” Suppressing the urge to tell him how unfair it was, he said coolly, “Okay. Deal accepted.” They shook hands on it, his father’s iron grip unrelenting, as if it was trying to squeeze the very life out of him. Taking a deep breath, Azriel managed to leave the office slightly relieved, if not entirely satisfied, and his heart beating like anything.

Part 2

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings