#cw adoption trauma

[boxeom]

It's almost like the twisted sense of familial ties and never being able to change the way they saw one another is the core struggle of Calebmc. It's almost like Caleb himself says this exact thing during his "I'm tired playing this game of house" rant.

It's almost as if their entire relationship is founded in being so closely bonded to one another to a point that they can still fall for each other despite the situation they were placed (and found comfort) in. It's almost as if Calebmc is an exploration of codependency founded in trauma, love that transcends modern societal morality, and cherishing the one person you have ever known unconditionally in every way you possibly can while you still have time.

If you cannot handle the canonical themes that are being presented, that is understandable and the exact reason the eng translation has given people who would be uncomfortable with this the "childhood best friends" trope. But to go around and harass and demonize those who enjoy the canonical aspect of Calebmc is ridiculous, immature, shortsighted, and chronically online behavior.

[riddlemearose]

Inherited Handwriting

(CW: background themes of adoption and loss of/implied non-forceful removal from family)

He’s got Wild tucked into one side and Twilight against the other. They’re both asleep, breathing even and deep, faces softly lit by the pale moonlight above.

Time watches them both, neck craned awkwardly in order to do so.

It’s strange sometimes, knowing these two are his descendants, that they are his future. He can’t really think of them as his sons, per se. There’s barely a decade between himself and Wild, if one considers their physical ages, and about half that time between him and Twilight.

But still it’s quietly baffling to think that his legacy has not only one but two tangible forms.

Wild doesn’t really resemble either Time or Twilight.

Eons have stretched out between Time's inevitable death and Wild's birth, their bloodline naturally changing as the centuries tick past. The only physical appearance that has survived that passage of time seems to be the colour of his eyes; that same sharp, bright blue as Time's own.

But there are other things that have made themselves known; small tics and habits that Time had once dismissed as irrelevant and miniscule in himself finding their way into another person who exists a millennia later.

Perhaps the worst and most recognisable trait of all is the way Wild carries his guilt close to his chest, cloaked by his cheerful demeanour to keep it away from prying eyes.

It certainly is painfully familiar. Twilight does the same thing, but hides his behind a wall of bone-deep protective instincts and care.

And Time has always hid his guilt beneath a mask of festering anger.

He isn’t sure if he can truly call it a family trait; the entire Chain has things they don’t want to talk about and things they continue to hide even now, after all.

However there are occasions where this behaviour certainly feels like something Twilight and Wild, who will be born centuries and millennia after Time's own life will come to an end, are destined to inherit from him.

But in a way, Time is grateful that Wild only shares habits and behaviours. It's much harder in Twilight's case because Twilight actually looks like Time.

Time can see himself in the shape of their faces, the line of their noses. Twilight's chin and physical build are all from Malon, and even the texture of his hair is closer to Malon's than to Time's.

In the back of Time's mind, he's quietly thankful for those few differences because he knows the very striking and blatant similarities had thrown Twilight off too for the first few weeks of this quest.

Much like Time, Twilight has never known his parents; he has no memories of them at all. Apparently all he'd had when Uli found him in the Ordon Spring was a small blanket with his name embroidered on one corner.

Twilight had grown up never knowing his blood, had never had anyone who looked like him at all through his childhood.

And Time knows exactly what that does to a person.

In a strange way, the Kokiri had softened the blow for him, because Time had been nine years old before he first heard statements like ‘you have your mother’s eyes’ being directed towards another person.

It was aged nine when he had been able to see how Malon looks like her father, and how Lullaby has an almost uncanny resemblance to her own ancestors, their faces well-preserved in portraits that decorate the walls of Hyrule Castle.

There is no need for biological resemblance among the Kokiri, so it had been an almost mystifying concept for his young mind to grasp. He hadn’t truly understood back then, too young at first, and then too busy and angry to truly pay attention, but eventually time will march on and with each step comes awareness.

So eventually Time too had found himself wondering just who he looked like? Who he got this trait or that habit from?

The Great Deku Tree had told him his mother fled a war, entrusting him to the Kokiri before she passed. Does Time have her eyes, like Twilight does Malon's? Does he have her nose, like Twilight has his?

The questions, even to this day, are endless and almost insanity-inducing, and he has tried his best to ignore them, to push them away for his own mental health.

It isn’t fair to say it as bluntly as he does, but seeing Twilight had brought all those questions Time had locked away back to the forefront of his mind. They’re not questions Time expects to ever get an answer to.

But somehow the knowledge that Twilight gets to know who he looks like, that he gets to know who he got his eyes and his nose and his face from is relieving and comforting and…

... And bittersweet.

[hersheysmcboom]

(If yelena was found after pietro and wanda were abducted.)

Yelena: natasha, you have to tell me what’s wrong.

Natasha: sometimes you even sound like her.

Natasha: do you know about this place: do you know anything about them, we were playing right here, just over a year ago (shows a picture of her and the twins playing on that exact same hill)

Natasha: everything I ever did, I did to protect them, but now they’re gone, but I’m still here, I wonder what would they think of me?

Yelena (hugging Natasha) well I think you’re pretty great.

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Another Clone Danny au, but the twist is he's basically reincarnated. CW shoved his core into a soulless LoA Damian clone to keep the halfa from completely dying after his original human body was destroyed in his og dimension. Danny is currently mute, too. Be warned, this is long. [Pt 2 here]

Danny had become completely aware in his new body after about a month of barely processing what is happening. The trauma of everything that's gone wrong in his life putting him in a disassociative state while his body's creators train and test him for something. It takes a while for him to realize he's not their first clone, but is the first to not be a soulless husk. These people talk too freely around him, but rarely each other, confident in his inability to understand anything outside of orders. So he decides to play along, learning about this hell hole and what little of the outside world he can. He takes the latter with a grain of salt, he can smell how delusional his creators are.

"Hmm, something is defective with this clone." A tall, beautiful woman says while glaring at Danny's eyes, "Damian's eyes are Juniper. This thing's eyes have been fading to a bluer colour every time I see it. Someone has made a mistake.... no matter. Beloved and my son shouldn't notice it's eyes are pine if we send it now. It is ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Give it its instructions and get it out of my sight."

And this is how Danny learns he's been made to attempt to kill his template or die trying. He gets the full feeling that they expect him to die, like the, apparently, dozen before him. (He hides his amusement when realizing he can truly relate to Dani now.) Too bad for his creators, he's not like the rest and fully intends to not do any murder once he's out of this godforsaken lab.

Keeping himself from reacting gets a whole lot harder when he realizes they intend to put him in a crate to ship him to some place called Gotham, but he stays as blank and relaxed as possible. It's only once they unload him, inform him of his Template's whereabouts, and ditch him in the middle of what he assumes is Gotham, does he finally grimace and shake off the shitty shell persona he had going on. As he stretches out his limbs and thinks on how he wants to play this, he takes in how absolutely drenched in the smell of death the city is. It reminds him enough of Amity that he knows his ghost half would never go hungry here, but what to do with his human half? He wonders if his Template and his father would care for another sibling. He caught the tall lady and her father saying insulting things about how many strays, he assumes kids, his Template's father adopts, it's usually over how pissed they are that his Template isn't treated like God's gift for simply being blood related.

So with a bit of hesitant hope, Danny heads towards where he was told his Template was. He's hit with a wave of weariness when he finds a kid of the same colouring as him decked out in a hero costume and arguing with a giant man dressed as a.. bat? Danny has no idea what he's looking at and is a little scared of how aggressive his Template is. Aggression means he's probably going to have to at least dodge a lot.

Danny's awful luck strikes again when before he can even decide on how exactly he's going to approach this, he hears a light crunch that has him bolting several feet in the opposite direction before he whips around and into a defensive fighting stance.

"Shit, sorry, BB." A blonde woman dressed in a purple hero costume says to a small figure that looks like a creepier verson of the bat dude. Purple is standing where the crunching sound came from, and scarily, "BB" is almost exactly where Danny had been. "Shit. He looks like Demon Brat.."

"Calm.." "BB"'s voice is soft and feminine, and she(?) seems to be trying to project "we're not going to hurt you" and "let me near" with body language alone. Which Danny finds impressive but doesn't trust, Purple is too tense and is too ready to attack. So when his Template and his father climb onto the roof, apparently seeing a commotion, and they too look ready to fight, Danny just bolts. He's not dumb enough to test if he can fight 4 unknown trained fighters. He can see why all his predecessors instantly died if they just automatically started fighting and trying to kill people.

The fact he ran seems to surprise them and gives him a few seconds headstart. He ducks and weaves, avoiding everything they throw at him to the best of his ability without tapping into his ghost half. He REALLY doesn't want to out himself as a freak just yet.

"Kid! Get back here! I'm sorry for scaring you!" Purple yells, slightly out of breath and somewhere behind him to the left.

"I demand you stop running!" His Template sounds pissed and directly behind him, so Danny quickly rolls to his right, dodging a tackle. Which apparently BB was ready for, because she's right there and grabs ahold of him, taking them both to the ground. He's scared, trying not to hurt her, and absolutely stuck in her hold without his powers. He lets out an inhuman whine as he struggles. He hasn't spoken a single word in this body yet, he doesn't know if it has the ability yet, and something he hadn't realized would complicate this situation in the way it has.

"Safe" BB tries to soothe, but Danny can't be soothed, not when he can see and sense the rest of his pursuers closing in on them. BB seems to realize this and snaps at her people in annoyance. "Back!"

Danny flinches and trembles in her hold, not knowing if they'll ignore her and ... he's not sure what, but do something to him. But to his endless surprise, they listen and back up several feet. Close enough to help her if she needs it, but far enough Danny relaxes a fraction. It's not a lot, but it's enough to get his anxiety down to a more manageable level. And even though he thought she'd start questioning him now, she simply waits. He's still confused and scared, but slowly relaxes in her hold, an odd sort of trust forming against his will at her calm and "Please trust I won't hurt you" vibe she's yeeting at him.

"Safe." She says and releases her hold just enough to free one of her arms. She gently runs the hand through his hair and rubs his forehead and cheeks, just softly petting him. It's a gentle affection that reminds him of Jazz. He can't remember the last time he was touched kindly, and it's enough to make him tear up. She wipes away any tears that escape. "Safe."

Once he finally stops trembling and he's emotionally spent, she finally fully releases her hold and moves to sit by him so he can sit up. He feels so awkward when he realizes his Template's father and Purple are staring him down while his Template looks like he's trying to pretend to not be interested, but is glancing over too frequently to be believable.

Danny takes a shakey breath and gives a little wave, unconsciously trying to lean towards BB when he sees their body language all sharpen and focus harder on him.

"Who are you?" Bat dude demands, and Danny can see the resemblance between him and his Template, even while he's panicking to figure out how to communicate without his voice. He ends up pointing at his Template with a nervous energy. "Are you a clone?"

Danny is so relieved at the yes or no question, he almost forgets to be nervous about frantically nodding yes. Almost.

"Can you talk?" Purple asks next and he's trembling again as he gives a hesitant no. "Yes or no questions it is!"

He nearly jumps out of his skin when BB starts rubbing his shoulder in a soothing manage. He tries to subtly self-sooth by rubbing his thumb along the middle phalanx of the pointer finger on the hand hidden between him and BB. It's the first time he's done it while not completely alone. He's not sure what the LoA would have done if they'd seen, but he can't imagine it going well for him. He stops self-soothing at the thought. BB's vibes turn very sad next.

"Based on your outfit, the League of Assassins sent you, yes?" His Template growls menacingly at him and Danny winces for the guy's poor teeth the way he grides them at Danny's nod. "To kill me?"

Danny wants to bolt again, but BB is already pulling him into a hug, trapping him. The spike in anger at his nod sends him into a panic, but BB's hold is inescapable, so he ends up "hiding" in her arms. He curls up as small as he can while pressing his face into the front of her shoulder. He feels like a scared little kid.

"Geeze, kid..." Purple sounds sad.

"All of the LoA clones have been nothing but mindless shells. Why are you so different?" His Template doesn't actually sound like he's talking to Danny, but even if he was, Danny literally can't answer that with some sort of aid. Though, Danny doesn't trust these people enough to explain even if he could. "Father. I believe we should take him to the batcave."

Danny tucks himself deeper into BB. She's petting his hair and back the way you would a cat. "Safe."

"One more question." Bat dude says. "Are you planning on going through with your orders?"

Danny can feel BB get defensive on his behalf, even as Danny pulls away to look Bat dude in the face as he frantically shakes his head no.

"Honest. New brother?" Something seems to change in them when BB says this. Amusement and resignation are as easy to read as their weariness. He can't blame them. He's far from their first LoA clone, just the first to not be a mindless murder machine.

"Hn."

"Tt. Really, father?"

"Hn."

"Tt!" Danny blinks in fascination at the weird monosyllable conversation between his Template and his father. BB gets up before pulling Danny to his feet. She keeps a loose hand on his wrist, probably in case he tries to bolt again, but it's still nice. It does get awkward when she keeps her hold as they climb off the roof, and Danny needs a little help getting down with only one hand.

He tucks himself half behind BB when Purple decides to ask him a random assortment of questions while they wait for something called "the batmoble". He's a bit intimidated by her energy, it's so much like his parents'.

'Do you have a favourite food?' No. He hasn't actually eaten food yet in this body, just iv-ed nutrients. 'Favourite animal?' No. He doesn't know this dimension's animals. 'Flowers? Or plant?"No. Same problem. 'Are you hurt in any way?' Shrug. He's a little scratched and bruised, but it's not even in the top hundred of hurt he's been through. He's actually pretty happy this body doesn't have all his scars, his ghost half will have them, but his new human half is basically a blank canvas, and it's a glorious reprieve. 'Have you been anywhere besides the LoA and Gotham?" No. 'Did you at least stay somewhere nice in the LoA?' No? Does the lab count? It was a pretty nice lab all things considered.

Danny nearly jumps out of his skin when a black, sleek car shows up without a driver. He clings to BB when they climb in. He's nearly in her lap.

He can't help but wonder about how out of character he feels. He wonders if it's because this body is, at most, 2 months old, or if his time as only a ghost core kick started childish instincts, his ghost half IS only about a year old, or if the trauma of everything that happened caused a mental regression. He vaguely remembers Jazz talking about age regression as a coping mechanism, not enough to understand if that's what's happening right now, but it sort of feels like it. At least BB doesn't seem to mind having an overgrown toddler using her like a security blanket.

The drive is pretty smooth considering the speed bat dude is driving. Danny looks around "the batcave" in wonder when they pile out.

"Who's that?" A cheerful man in black and blue bounces over. Danny hides behind BB again and wishes he knew literally anybody's name. Currently, he just knows his Template's non-hero identity as Damian Al Gul. BB's hero identity of BB definitely means something, but all he has is what Purple called her.

"New brother!" BB chirps. Blue guy thankfully stops a few feet away while a tired guy about Purple's age wonders up.

"Why does he look like Demon Brat?" Tired guy sounds grumpy and on edge.

"The LoA apparently made a new clone of me. This one seems defective. Simply trying to run away and escape when Black Bat and Spoiler spotted him watching father and I." The new people tense, and Danny fully ducks behind BB, while Damian continues, "He did not throw a single punch and showed true panic at being caught. As you can see, he's been glued to Cassandra's side since she calmed him down."

"Likelihood of this one trying to kill me?" Tired guy asks. "I'm tired of new siblings trying to kill me."

"Unlikely. Kid ran like a scared deer the whole time we were chasing him." Purple, no, Spoiler? reasures tired guy.

"Well, if you weren't so stabbable." There's a teasing tilt to his Template's voice. Danny kind of wants to know what THAT means, so he peeks curiously at them. Tired guy just looks more tired when their eyes meet.

"Damian and Jason both tried to kill me, multiple times." Tired guy explains with a tone that'd be more fitting for a conversation about a sibling stealing a favoured toy in the past, not admitted homicide attempts on one's life. Danny's eyes dart at blue guy and Damian, wondering if they'll try to kill him too. Tired guy frowns before asking, "Do you actually know who any of us are?"

There's a whole lot of squawking when Danny shakes his head no and just points to Damian. Damian is complaining about how little sense it makes to only tell Danny a kill order. Spoiler is embarrassed and complaining about not realizing. Bat dude is giving off embarrassed vibes, even if literally nothing changed in his stance or face. Blue guy, tired guy, and Cassandra all seem very amused, but blue guy is also stressed and tired guy is just resigned.

"Okay, so introductions. I'm Timothy Drake-Wayne, just call me Tim or Drake. My vigilante name is Red Robin." Tired guy says before pointing to each of the other people. "Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, call her Steph. Dick Grayson is Nightwing. Cassandra Caine is Black Bat, call her Cass. Bruce Wayne is Batman. Dam-"

"I am Damian Al Gul Wayne. I am the current Robin and the only blood son of Batman." Danny's Template cuts off Tim.

"Can't say you're the only blood son if we keep the clone," Tim teases and gets a knife thrown at him for it. He easily dodges it and continues talking to Danny. "There's also Jason Todd, who's not here right now. He's Red Hood. Barbara Gordon is our eye in the sky, better known as Oracle. Duke Thomas is Signal, he's our Day shift so he's asleep upstairs currently. And Alfred Pennyworth is the real head of the house and pseudo grandfather, even if he says he's just the family butler. There's more, but they're who you'll most like to interact with anytime soon."

Danny must look as overwhelmed as he feels because Dick(? Why is he named that?) steps closer, hands where Danny can see them. "You okay, little buddy? Do you have a name or something you want us to call you?"

Danny gives Damian, Steph, and Mr. Wayne a panicked look. Steph comes to his rescue.

"He can't speak. We're unsure why he can't, but he hasn't even tried to say anything. Only made a whining noise when Cass pinned him. We'd think it was another Cass situation, but he can understand everything we say."

"Oh.. Maybe he just never learned?" Dick wonders aloud before asking Danny, "About how old are you?"

Danny points to Damian. He's pretty sure his body is the same age as his Template's, who is about as old as Danny's whole existence. Unlike Dani, who was made slightly younger than Danny in body, but is currently only a year old in spirit.

"No, I mean, how long have you been alive?" Dick corrects gently. Danny blinks and figures the correct answer is how long his clone body has been alive. He can explain later when he can communicate better, if he feels safe enough to do so. He holds up 2 fingers. "2 years?"

There's grimaces when he shakes his head.

"2 months?" Danny cautious nods and startles when Steph gasps loudly.

"A Baby!" Danny pouts at that, but can't exactly refute it. He does move so Cass is more between them.

Cass unexpectedly decides to remove her creepy mask, making Danny stare in wide-eyed surprise at her short dark hair.

"Oh! The baby hasn't seen our faces yet!" Steph is delighted and pulls her own mask down. The rest of the group unmask, minus Tim, who's already in civilian clothes. Danny looks at them before circling Cass so he can see her. She's very pretty, some sort of Asian, and giving off happy and calm vibes. It reminds him a little of Jazz when they could just exist, no parents, school, or ghosts to worry about. It's nice. He likes that his new big sister has that peacefulness.

"You see?" Cass smiles and clarifies, "Language of body?"

Danny brightly nods. He had to learn to read body language or die the rest of the way. It wasn't a failure to read it that nearly got him killed.

"I'll teach you to read it even better and to hide your own." Danny is startled by Cass speaking a full sentence before he excitedly indicates he wants to show her something. He can see how absolutely horrified they all get when he slams his body language into the soulless husk both labs of horror he got stuck in wanted. He turns lifelessly to each person, taking in their reacts to it, only breaking character only when he turns back to Cass. He beams excitedly at her, wanting her opinion. "That was very good. Almost no one would be able to tell."

"I can see how the LoA wouldn't know you weren't like the others if you just behaved like that the whole time." Tim hums, seemingly more fascinated than horrified, unlike the rest. They look ready to jump him, so he goes back to hiding behind Cass, deciding right now that he's staying with Tim and/or Cass, until he either runs away or they're all more comfortable with each other.

"Be nice." He can hear the scowl she's giving everyone, but Tim. Tim edges closer with a fancy piece of technically that Danny's never seen before. It almost looks like a clipboard at first glance, but is clearly a sci-fi computer thingy. Danny noticed technology is far more advanced in this dimension, but hasn't had a chance to figure it out.

"Do you know how to work an ipad?" Tim doesn't give him a judgmental look when he shakes his head, just steps closer with clear intent to teach. "Okay, I'll show you. You can read, correct?"

Danny nods and cautiously steps towards Tim so he can see the device better. The others start to wonder off and change into civilian clothes while Tim gives him a crash course on everything Danny can do on this iPad. He does explain there's basically a child lock on it to keep Danny from accidentally going on an unsafe website. It's more for his safety as he learns. Danny accepts that reason, despite knowing that's definitely not the only one, because the other reasons don't matter. He's probably only going to be using it to look up everything he doesn't understand in this dimension and communicating with whoever is in front of him, at least for now. He feels a lot like a toddler with how out of his depth he is, which is honestly a good thing right now. Really sells the "I'm a harmless baby, protect me!" thing he has going on.

"Now that you can answer." Tim smiles a little, "Is there any you want to be called? It's okay if there isn't just yet. Finding your name can be difficult."

[Danny] Danny excitedly shows Tim.

"Danny? Not what I was expecting, but it suits you." Tim's easy acceptance is wonderful, too bad his Template ruins the moment.

"Absolutely not. You need a proper name. How about Daniel? Or maybe the arabic version? Danyal?" Danny throws his most disgusted face he can pull.

"That's a no." Tim sounds like he's barely concealing laughter.

"He needs a proper name. How about Dante?"

[It's better than Daniel, but I still don't like it.]

"How about we come back to this later? We can look up names that Danny can be a nickname for and he can pick from those once he's settled in." Tim basically orders when Damian opens his mouth. "Danny should shower. I'll grab him som-"

Danny grabs his sleeve. Cass isn't here, so Tim is his current security person. He doesn't feel safe with his Template yet.

"Nevermind, I'll get him showered. Could you grab him some clothes?" Tim adjusts to the quiet demand easily, glancing to Danny to ask. "Any idea of preference?"

Danny glances at the stiff outfit he's currently in before writing [Comfy?]

Tim nods and tells Damian, "You should snag one of Dick's hoodies and one of my fluffy pj pants. Alfred probably has some unused underwear somewhere with how many times a guest needed some."

Damian doesn't look pleased, but seems to follow Tim's lead. He does quizzically eye Danny one last time before he leaves. Tim gently leads Danny to what looks like a locker room. No one else is currently in there.

"I know he seems abrasive, but that was his version of trying to bond." Tim explains, "He's trying his best. Just say something if it's too much."

Danny nods and strips. Uncaring of Tim looking at him as he hops in the shower, he only seems to be checking for injuries, then he only glances over every once in a while to make sure "the baby" is cleaning himself properly and doesn't need help. He doesn't get any creepy vibes from the man. He's awfully familiar with the vibes to look out for since some of the scientists would bad touch him, claiming it's for science. It wasn't. Needless to say, being a labrat kind of murders shyness over being naked in cold blood.

Damian shows up with the clothes Tim requested when Danny is drying off. Danny makes sure to scribble a [Thank you!] and show it to him before taking the clothes.

"You are welcome."

"Alfred will be happy his newest grandchild comes with manners pre-installed." Tim jokes, and adds at Danny's curious glance. "The rest of us were feral. You'd think that I'd be an exception since I'm from high society, but I literally blackmailed my way into being Robin and then made a fake uncle to keep myself from being adopted."

Danny gives Tim an alarmed look, and Damian looks curious.

"Okay, so I used to stalk Batman and Robin every night because I lacked adult supervision. I was just taking pictures because I was a huge fan and had figured out who they were when I was 9. Then when I was 12, Jason died for a little bit." This makes Danny more alarmed, so Tim quickly adds. "He's alive and as well as he can be now, but he was Robin at the time, and Bruce, Bruce was devastated. He was taking it out on everyone. Purse snatchers were ending up in the ICU. So I first tried to get Dick to come back to Gotham, when they didn't work, I showed up on the doorstep with photographic evidence I knew everything and demanded I be Robin to keep him safe. I.. It was a rough time. He hated me with every fiber of his being for a while, but I couldn't let Batman die. We were partners, but not family by any stretch of the word. Then.. my parents died and I couldn't let him adopt me. I wasn't his son. I hadn't had an adult keeping track of me in years, hell, B barely tracked me as Robin, thinking it would make me stop. Jokes on him, I'm too stubborn."

"That's unfortunately true." Damian sounds exasperated.

"I hired an actor to pretend to be my fake uncle to keep Bruce from questioning my living situation. Clearly, that didn't last." Tim chuckles, "Steph compared me to a feral cat a lot during that time."

Danny has to pull up his (Dick's?) sleeves to use the iPad. [Are all of your lives so weird?]

"Unfortunately." Damian sighs, "Every single one of us has a different tale of how we came to be with Father."

"Kid, you're a defective clone that just escaped from a cult of assassins and are actively being adopted by the family of your target." Tim teases. "You fit in perfectly."

Danny flusters at that, but has nothing to say against it.

"I apologize if this is a sensitive issue, but I have to ask." Damian does look sorry. "Why don't you talk? I know a few of the Clones were instructed in the past to say things, so I was wondering why you can't."

[Never talked before. Don't know how to. Wasn't taught before mission. Tall lady didn't like my eyes and wanted me gone.]

"Tall lady? Probably Talia. But she didn't like your eyes? Why?" Tim tilts his head.

[Wrong color. Fading slowly to bluer color. Wasn't perfect copy anymore and getting less perfect by the day. Needed to die faster.]

"She wanted you to die because your eye colour?" Tim and Damian look shocked as Danny nods.

[Imperfections die. Barely good enough to be sent out instead of killed in lab.] Danny lays it on thick, but it wasn't untrue. He ended up seeing other "Imperfect" clones be terminated near the end of his stay.

"Well... actually, what colour do you think they'll end up? Now that I'm paying attention, I can see the difference. You think it's a result of whatever made you different?" Tim seems excited by the idea. Damian just looks thoughtful.

[Unsure. Changed from Damian's color to current in a month. Tall lady was very unhappy by it. Don't know why change happened.]

Danny suddenly yawns. He didn't get much sleep in the crate. Too scared to.

"Alright. We can talk more after you get some sleep."

"Alfred told me to tell you you're cut off from caffeine until you sleep a minimum of 6 hours, Drake." Damian looks a little too amused by Tim's despair over that news, before turning to Danny. "Your new room is next to Cassandra's. She apparently requested it while we were otherwise engaged."

Danny is delighted by the news, hugging his iPad to his chest. Tim and Damian lead him to his new room, pointing out things and whose room is who's while they walk. Danny's dazed look and slowly making a list of things to look up really sells his new role. He's also scared to even breathe on anything. Everything is so fancy.

"Getting you your own clothes and room decor will have to wait until tomorrow." Damian informs him apologetically before the brothers bid him goodnight. And Danny doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't feel safe in this too nice room. So he grabs one of the pillows and the thin extra blanket at the foot of the bed before cramming himself under the bed. He curls up in a ball under the head, the end tables blocking the sides, making him feel safer.

He wakes the first day to Cass laying on the floor nearby, but not under the bed. It's a very weird day for him, but Tim, Cass, and his Template are very helpful and mostly non judgemental to the mess he is. He does find a moment to naturally "discover" his obsession with space. Thankfully, it turns out this dimensions space is so different that he doesn't have to pretend to be clueless. Everything is so different and Danny kind of loves it. He's gifted so much space themed shit and books on space and alien culture throughout the week, he has to fight to keep from glowing in his excitement. He knows they noticed, but let him pretend to be normal for a bit. It's harder to hide his inhumanity in this body, but he does his best.

[whoisthisguyandwhyishehere]

I have only had 1 (ONE) friend in my life who actually took the time to learn about the trauma of adoption.

[just-writing-ideas]

cw: abuse and trauma and other unsavory things

interesting character backstories

because "my parents hit me or force me to be perfect" won't cut it for every character in the cast

-characters who grew up poor. poverty is traumatizing, people. i wanna see characters who never ask for anything, count dollars and coins, freak out when the bill isn't split fairly and immediately suspect bed bugs when someone says they're itchy. and mention the ugly stuff too. smelling bad and having water stains on the walls. ice cream for dinner and not eating breakfast. lights going out and fourteen year olds supporting a family of five.

-characters who were neglected. not physically abused, neglected. who don't understand why people care when they don't show up, or seem kind of down today, or leave a party without saying goodbye. who are too independent for their own good. who can't think of anything to say when asked to describe their parents. who are okay with being lonely. who always feel lonely. who get uncomfortable if you even ask them how their day was. who does that?

-characters who were smothered. who were treated like a toddler well into their teens. who were practically stalked by their own parents, never allowed a moment of privacy. who were constantly belittled and denied their autonomy as the adults in their life made every decision for them. regardless of how loved they truly were, this is abuse. this could go in two diverging directions: end result of a very guarded, mature character feeling a constant need to prove themself, or end result of a passive, immature character who requires attention, praise and constant assistance. both have extremely low self-esteem.

-characters who are fundamentally different from their family. maybe they're queer, or adopted, or disabled, or aren't fully related to the rest of them (bonus points if they aren't the same race as their family). characters who watch like a ghost as everyone else smiles and bonds. and maybe it's their fault that they're like this, or maybe it's their fault for not reaching out to the family themself, but... nobody else had to ask for it.

i forgot about this blog

[millersfinest]

untethered | e.w

00s!ellie williams & 00s!miller!reader

wc: 7.4k

series: chapter one (you’re here!), chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

blurb: it’s been awhile since you’ve been back home; in upstate new york where you’ve spent most of your life waking up early and tending to the animals that moo’d and meh’d. after graduation high school, and then college, the city life has stolen most of your attention. enabling you to visit only a handful of times through the years. when your lovely adoptive parents (tommy and maria miller) invite you back for a thanksgiving dinner—a troubled old flame from your childhood manages to get your attention, despite its explosive ending.

cw: lmao flip phones, some vulgar language, ellie cheating on her gf (kind of), the millers, r is a writer, elements of longing, ellie is #1 lesbian yearner in the world, some early 2000s references, thanksgiving, some physical violence, adopted kid trauma (shoutout to all the adopted kids!!), hella angst, repressed emotions, a little bit of mature content, eventual smut.

note: i have too much confidence writing for ellie. but here’s another series im starting because i realized the plot is too much for a single work on here, hence the 7 thousand words ijbol. hope you guys enjoyyy.

It was quieter upstate. Breathable and airy—you missed it more than anything. As much as you loved living in Manhattan, there was nothing like the countryside. Waking up to the sound of birds chirping and roosters crowing. Hearing the excited neighing from the horses you birthed and took care of. It was refreshing to be home again.

And, of course, you missed your parents.

They adopted you as a troubled child, and you’ve considered yourself lucky ever since. Babies and younger children were often the ones to be pulled from inconsistent foster homes, but they chose you. A pierced, attitude-ridden, thirteen-year-old who liked smoking cigarettes because they made you look cooler than you felt. And it helped you cope with the lasting effects of neglectful parents.

That trauma didn’t just disappear once Tommy and Maria entered your life. It was something that grew from nothing, and they were adamant in making your transition as comfortable as possible. You never experienced anything like it before them. Their strictness and structure did the opposite of what most would think. You went from sneaking out and smoking cigarettes to staying up late studying and finishing your favorite novels—still smoking cigarettes, though, but out your window. It was hard habit to break.

Once you realized that they could be trusted and had your best interest at heart, you gave them the right to parent you. Sure, it wasn’t easy. The three of you argued many, many times—but you respected them more than you have anyone else. Really, just for tolerating you.

The Miller’s were always very family oriented and social. Sunday nights always managed to be a grand event—Tommy grilling in the acred backyard, Maria handling the food items that could be cooked inside, and you diligently decorating and setting the table. Football Sundays were always the worst, but they were great memories to think about. That was the first time you met, basically, the love of your life at the time. Ellie Williams.

It was 1995 when you had completely fallen in love with her—only knowing her for around three years. Joel Miller wasn’t really her father, or adoptive father, he was just somebody who took care of her. He owned a guitar shop that sold, obviously, guitars and other instruments alike; as well as holding lessons for those wanted to learn how to play.

The story goes: Joel was working the register on a very slow day when Ellie showed up. There was a shiner on her eye, but she insisted that she was fine—asking for lessons with crumbled cash and dirty coins. She couldn’t afford the lessons on her own, so he gave her a job and proceeded with teaching her how to play.

She grew up similar to you; hidden under the confines of foster care. The only difference was, she was never adopted. At least not until the age of seventeen, when she’d spent so much time with Joel that she had a decorated bedroom in his house. They both had commitment issues, but after Tommy convinced him to do the paperwork… He did. Surprising her on her seventeenth birthday. However, the outcome didn’t really go to plan. Not how anyone would have expected it.

It was 1997 when she completely broke your heart… Not to be cheesy or anything.

Her seventeenth birthday was hosted at your house, on the farm. You knew her the most out of everyone, so you made it your mission to make this the best birthday ever. Decorating had become a hobby of yours after so many Sunday dinners—you spent all day stringing up lights and colorful streamers. Maria helping you out with a homemade cake that said: Happy Birthday Els! You were too anxious to write the words yourself, so you let her do it instead. You were even sure to invite the friends you shared; demanding they each brought presents to show how much they cared about her.

Joel had showed up before she did; just in time so they could all hide and jump out with big smiles on your faces when Ellie arrived. You would always remember the feeling of hearing the rumbling of her truck coming to a stop. And the shy smile on her face when everyone jumped out from behind furniture—blowing birthday kazoo’s. It was picturesque!

Dina had trotted over to her, snapping a blue paper cone birthday hat over her head. While you walked over with her birthday cake in your hands, brightened with seventeen candles. “Happy seventeenth, Ellie.” You had spoken, warmly. A bashful grin spreading onto your lips. She looked at you with such awe in that moment. Blowing out her candles and kissing your cheek, muttering a blushing ‘I fuckin’ love you’.

You knew about her surprise adoption papers before the party had started, excitement running through your veins when Joel meandered toward her—handing her an envelope of hope. Ellie took it, eyeing him, skeptically. “Open it!” You urged—that was your mistake.

Chortling, she broke open the envelope, not caring if it tore. When she pulled out the certificate, reading the words on the page, her entire face dropped. “Adoption papers?” Her eyes squinted in disgust, glaring at Joel. The smile fell from your face, lips parting in slight shock. Her olive eyes glanced around the room, seeing the fallen expressions clouding everyone’s features. Landing on your fallen face, briefly—a look exclaiming, ‘how could you’. Freckled cheeks heating up in embarrassment and… Anger. “Joel, what the fuck?” She blinked at him, shoving the papers into his chest, then storming out of the house. Hands ripping the hat from the top of head, throwing it to the ground. The screen door creaking obnoxiously as she exited. It all happened so fast.

He quickly followed her out, calling for her, desperately.

Awkwardly, you turned to the frozen people around you. “Anybody want cake? It’s german c— chocolate.” You stammered, trying to keep your composure. Looking to Maria and Tommy for some sort of consolation, you frowned, placing the cake on the counter before fleeing to the bathroom.

You clenched at the roots of your hair, pacing around the bathroom. You could hear remnants of a solo screaming match from outside the bathroom window, causing you to grit your teeth. The papers were supposed to be a good thing! Ellie had always been a hothead—easily agitated like a stray kitten is distress. There were even moments where the two of you went at it. Until one of you caved, begging for affection as an apology. Your nerves burned at the idea of her not liking the surprise—was that selfish?

Instead of remaining in the bathroom, you swung open the door with your eyes fixed on the front door. Hands clenched at your sides, you walked through the kitchen, where Tommy tried to liven up the mood by handing out pieces of cake.

He tried calling your name, but you brushed him off, pushing open the screen door with an attitude that could be felt with every step you took. The brisk autumn air hit your exposed skin, the long-sleeve striped shirt not doing much to keep you warm.

Striding around the side of the house, you seen Joel and Ellie having a stern conversation. But by the time your eyes landed on them, they were in a beat of silence. Joel shaking his head with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Ellie had her arms stubbornly crossed, frowning. When her eyes found yours, he turned around to leave. “She’s all yours…” He solemnly sighed, walking back into the house. The adoption papers crumbled up in his hands.

Biting your bottom lip, you approached her with your arms crossed for warmth. “What happened, Ellie?” Your voice dragged, tiredly. There was something always wrong with her. “We just wanted to do something nice for you… Why’d you have to go and ruin it—?”

“Oh, I’m the one who ruined it?” She scoffed, a sneer resting on her lips. “I’m not the one who brought the fucking adoption papers!” Ellie exclaimed, gesturing broadly with her hands. When she was up in arms, she always gesticulated more. “Did you have anything to do with this? Because if you did—“

You interrupted her with scrutinizing glare. “So, what if I did? I thought this would make you happy, Ellie… Don’t you understand?”

“You had me open that in front of everyone knowing what was inside— and you thought that’d make me happy?” Her lips arched in disgust. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all.” Her words were venomous, lips twitching in anger.

There was nobody who understood you more than Ellie, and vice versa. You just got each other because you came from similar backgrounds—that was your glue. You don’t know me at all. That was new.

With your eyes growing warm with tears, your tongue rolled in your mouth. “I spent all day setting this up… For you. Because I love you, Ellie. I don’t know you— that’s bullshit if I ever heard it.” Your voice cracked, but you refused to let a tear run down your cheek. This was no time for tears—if she could get angry, so could you.

“I’ve known you long enough to have some semblance of understanding on why you’re upset, right now— that’s for damn sure.” You paused, averting your eyes to concentrate on keeping your rising emotions at bay. She watched you, cheeks still red with anger. “I’m gonna give you ten minutes— ten, Ellie! If you don’t get your ass back in there in next ten fucking minutes…” You lick your lips, shaking your head. “We’re over. Done!”

Giving a final glare, you turned to head back inside. “I can’t keep dealing with this shit.” You mutter, under your breath.

“So that’s what it is… Dealing with me?” Ellie voiced, a sliver of disappointment slipping in her moment of anger.

Wiping your cheeks, you peered over your shoulder. “What?”

“You got this perfect little life… Huh?” She began, approaching you intimidatingly. “The loving parents, the farmhouse— you became the perfect daughter for them… Gets the grades, does everything she can to appease them. This fuckin’ fantasy world that you chose to live in all because you wanted someone to love you… Fuckin’ pathetic.”

“Ellie…” You warned.

“Well, newsflash, little-miss-perfect— not everybody wants that! Not everybody wants to play pretend for the rest of their fucking life just to be—“

It happened before you could stop it, fists clenching at your sides as she bad mouthed you till oblivion. Your soft spot—and she knew all about that. Both of you grew up as kids who got into fights and disputes more times than anyone could count; you just decided to clean up your act. However, that troubled twelve to thirteen-year-old still resided inside of you. And, in that moment, she wasn’t your doting girlfriend—she was someone punching down on you.

Your knuckles collided with the side of her face, knocking into her cheek bone. Features scowling as if she were a stranger. Ellie stumbled, holding onto her face with surprised eyes. For a second the version of her you loved came through, but she quickly recovered. Her lips curling at the ends, taunting you. “I knew you still had it in you… You’re no better than me.”

There it was.

Not only was it the straw that broke the camels back—it was the truth. The ultimate truth. Behind all of your petty little arguments. Behind all her wild bursts of anger. She was jealous of you. Grunting behind your teeth, you charged at her. Taking the collar of her jacket as her back hit the gravelly ground. Straddling her, you didn’t hear the rushing feet hitting the porch. You could feel her hands settling loosely on your calves, only angering you more. “I did the fucking work— nobody else but me!” Tears poured down your cheeks. “I am better than you. Because I fucking try—“

Arms pulled you off her body, wrapping around your abdomen. It was Tommy, questioning you in your ear, but you weren’t listening. “Everything went to shit because of you! Remember that!” Dina and Jesse rushed to her side, but she only sat up watching you get pulled back inside. They glared at your forced retreat—they were always more friends with her than they were with you.

Tommy released you, with a disappointed sigh. Maria walking inside, shutting the door behind her, frowning. You heaved, looking at all the decorations that mocked you. Sparkling and shining against the dim lights in the room. The barely eaten cake sat on the counter in the kitchen making fun of you—it was all too much.

“What the hell has gotten into you, y/n?!” Maria pointedly, asked. Not really wanting a response.

“What’s gotten into me?! What’s gotten into her—!” You pointed to the door as if she replaced it.

The blond man leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter, bending at his hips. “Well, I don’t think it matters what’s gotten into her if you put your hands on her, Bug.” Tommy spoke, evenly. He was always the calmer of the two. “Did you… Did you put your hands on her?”

Maria stood with her hands on her hips. “What did we say about fighting—? And you don’t hit your girlfriend— you don’t hit the people that you care about!” She scolded, pointing her finger. “We raised you better than that…”

Your lips quivered, guilt setting in. “I didn’t mean to hit her! She wanted— she wanted me to… I swear!”

He glanced at his wife. “She wanted you to hit her?” Tommy deadpanned, pressing his lips into a line.

They both looked at you with separate expressions. Maria clearly overwhelmed with disappointment and utter disbelief. The same look she gave you when she caught you smoking cigarettes at the barn when you were fourteen—when you told her you quit. Tommy had an expression of pity, like he often did. That same look he gave when you had a meltdown at school when you first moved in with them.

More tears began to roll down your cheeks. “Maria… Tommy… She pushed me. Why would she do that? Why would she—“ You began to ramble, knees growing weak. Your strict mother-figure rushed to your side, catching you before you fell. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to— she was just being so mean.”

Sinking to the floor with you, her hands caressed your hair. Maria looked to Tommy, mouthing for him to go check on Ellie.

Outside, Ellie was dismissing the weary questions from her friends. She’d never seen you act in such an unruly way. Every time she came over, there wasn’t a hair that was out of place on your head. She was always the one acting out, swearing like a sailor. Sure, she knew about your smoking habit, but that was nothing.

Your girlfriend was envious of how everything was panning out for you—college was around the corner. You had an acceptance letter from your dream school, and without a doubt, you were leaving for the city. Leaving her behind to rot in the country. It wasn’t fair!

That adoption letter felt like pity. She wasn’t a fan of that feeling either.

As a bruise formed on her cheek, guilt settled into the pit of her stomach. Ellie had every intention on seeing the side of you that everyone talked about with a past tense that indicated warning. She needed to prove to herself that you weren’t the perfect person she saw you to be—but all that was left behind was remorse and a sore cheek.

She watched as Joel and Tommy stepped aside to talk. Their eyes glancing back and forth between the door and Ellie, as she leaned against her rusted red truck.

“I can’t believe she would do something like that… On your birthday?” Dina shook her head, with her arms crossed.

“It’s not like her…” Jesse narrowed his eyes at the auburn-haired girl. “What’d you do?”

Dina smacked his chest. “Jessie! She’s literally the victim here— domestic abuse!”

He sucked his teeth, rolling his eyes. “I’m not saying what she did was right.” Jessie began. “I’m saying that I know Ellie Williams, and I know how she is— she’s a pusher.”

The bruised seventeen-year-old scoffed.

“Yeah, I said it.” He stood tall, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You’re a pusher. Hell, you’re a professional pusher— you push people for a fucking living.” Dina glared at him, threatening to hit him again. “I mean, there was that one time… When we went into the city for that comic convention, and you completely obliterated Joel for worrying about you—“

The dark-haired, freckled teenager pushed her boyfriend out of the way taking his place. “We don’t have to relive that…”

Ellie rolled her tongue in her mouth. “Look, I know this is my fault…”

“Ellie… You’re the one with the bruise forming on your face.” She reached up, rubbing her cheek. Her wincing under her touch.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, squeezing her red eyes. “Yeah, and if it weren’t for me— for what I said… I wouldn’t have this fuckin’ bruise.” Ellie peered at where Joel and Tommy were speaking. They were wrapping up, giving brotherly hugs. “I am a pusher… And now my girlfriend hates me.” She pouted, tears welling up in her eyes. The blond Miller waved a hand at her, giving a tight-lipped smile that screamed I’m sorry. “I gotta go…” She pulled her keys from her pocket, getting into her truck.

That was the last full conversation the two of you had. Horrible, but the last. Everything in between then and the present was short and empty. Light conversations that only strangers and acquaintances shared. Letters here and there. It was a dispute that was so nuanced, for the first year after that, Joel barely said a word to you. Which bled into his relationship with Tommy. Maria tried to play middleman, but it didn’t work.

Perhaps, that was the reason you kept your distance. You didn’t want to continue to be the wedge that formed between two brothers. While you loved your parents, they were only a phone-call away. And, in the meantime, you could focus on growing in your career. Focusing on your book writing, instead.

You just wanted to forget about what happened when you were an emotionally undeveloped seventeen-year-old, but every time you seen her face—you remembered. So, avoiding Ellie Williams was a mission within itself.

A mission you were hoping you weren’t going to have to endure this year.

“You know,” Tommy began, sipping his fresh coffee. “Joel’s coming down from Jersey for the week.”

As you looked through the fridge, you snapped your head in his direction. “Is he now…?” You slowly question. Letting the fridge door shut on its own. The blonde woman to his right, sitting at the island counter, chuckled. Flipping through the interior design magazine you brought for her.

“And he’s picking up Ellie from the city.”

“What!” You exclaim, rushing to the opposite side of the counter. Pulling the mug from his lips, a surprised squeak left your throat. “Uh, dad… You forgot to mention on the several phone calls that we had in that last month that Ellie moved to the city.”

Maria perked up, pushing a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, she’s been there for about a year now… Brooklyn, is it?” She looked to her husband for clarification. He nodded, peering up at you with a plain expression.

“A year?! And none of you told me?”

“Bug, you did say that you didn’t want us to bring her up anymore unless you asked.” Maria stood to her feet, meandering to the stove and oven. “But that does remind me… They should be here in a few hours. Wanna help with the brownies?” She preheated the oven, walking around you casually.

Your mouth fell open, glancing between the two of them. “Okay, so they get brownies, and I get the worst news of my life…” An apron with your nickname embroidered on the front, Bug, hung in your mother's hand as an offering. “Yes, I’ll help with the brownies— this is very cruel to your very successful daughter.”

Tommy waved his hand, dismissively. “C’mon, that incident happened years ago now. You’re twenty-five, I’m sure she’s gotten over it.”

Tying the string around your neck and back, you pressed your lips into a line. It wasn’t really about her—you weren’t over it. You still harbored the same guilt you felt when you settled in your room that night. A crazy mixture of resentment and remorse all rolled up into one feeling; as you settled in your reading nook, with your hand out the window holding a burning cigarette with your index and middle finger. “I’m sure she has…”

Eventually, you switched the conversation around while baking. Falling into fits of laughter from mentioning past stories of your teenagehood. Teaming up with Maria to make fun of Tommy and his aging—all of a sudden, he was beginning to have a knack for playing a checkers. Only old people enjoyed playing checkers. Then, the waiting began.

To busy yourself, you pulled out your computer and brought it to the porch. Even though, you were taking some time off at your publishing job; when it came to your book writing, you had an agent to keep flooding your inbox with emails. Telling you to do this and do that—it was obnoxious. But you did as she asked anyway.

Typing away, a puff of nicotine fled from your lips. Murmuring under your breath, the words that were populating on the screen. On your hip, your phone rang, causing you to throw your head back in slight agony. Something always interrupted you when you were flowing. Flipping open your phone, the decorative chain swinging around as you placed it against your ear. “Hello,” You spoke, stubbing out your cigarette.

It was your roommate and closest friend, Sierra, complaining about the neighbors. Her strong long island accent echoing through the phone. “Oh, my God— they’re so loud! You’d think gettin’ an apartment in a nicer building would thicken the walls.” She groaned on the other end. “Please, come back. At least to tell them to shut up, and then you could go back upstate.”

“Why don’t you… I don’t know…” You shut your laptop, replacing your butt with the boxy electronic. Strolling to the far end of the porch, leaning your arms against the bannister. “Tell them yourself?” An amused smile spread on your lips.

Sierra paused. “Because that’s your job. I’m the nice one, remember?”

“Okay, well I can’t leave. I just got here, and I’m not spending another grand on taxi fare.”

“I’ll spot you.” You could hear her smile on the end.

“Sierra, I’m not coming back until Saturday. So, your only options are to either bang on their door— telling them to shut the hell up— or you suffer listening to their relentless daytime sex.” As you spoke, a truck began rolling up the driveway. Identities unclear due to the intense window tint, but you knew exactly who it was. However, there were three heads in that truck.

She groaned on the other end of the line. “Ugh! I hate you—“

“You love me!” You grinned, but it dropped right off your face when the people exited the vehicle. From the driver's seat, it was Ellie; then, it was Joel who exited, seemingly in conversation. And, finally, a girl stepped out of the vehicle. Joel noticed you leaning against the bannister on the porch, waving his hand with a smile.

Your muscles reacted, waving a fleeting hand. “Maria, Tommy! They’re here!” You yell loud enough to be heard through the screen door. You were always insecure about calling them by their parental titles in front of people—let alone new people.

“You’re yelling in my ear, hon. If you gotta go just tell me.” Sierra complained.

“I gotta go.”

Before she could say her goodbyes, you shut your phone, sliding it into your back pocket. Your parents came out of the house in high spirits; Maria clapping her hands, excitedly, embracing Ellie. Tommy giving a firm bear hug to Joel, laughing heartily—at what? You were unsure.

Awkwardly, you stood there. Smiling with your hands held in front of your body as if you were presenting a project.

Joel looked to you, approaching you with open arms. “Look at you,” He began, wrapping his arms around you, warmly. “All grown up.” He pulled back to get a better look at you, nodding proudly.

“Yeah…” You tapped his shoulder. “You, too.” A chuckle fell from your lips.

Then, you looked to your right at the freckled girl with her arm around a feminine stranger. However, you couldn’t indentify her before you did Ellie. Her auburn hair was pulled into a low bun, with pieces framing her gentle features. Her round evergreen, tinted with slivers of brown, eyes. Freckles decorating her cheeks, bridge of her nose; the beauty mark under left eye—

“Hey,” Ellie drawled out the greeting, awkwardly. Leaning in for a hug that teetered back and forth until you reciprocated.

You kept that same plastered smile on your lips, wrapping your arm under hers. “Hey, Ellie.” Pulling back, you finally looked at the girl beside her. She had tattoos and piercings and looked so much cooler than you. “Who’s this?”

Her earthy eyes widened. “Oh, this is, uhm, my girlfriend, Cat.”

The only response you could give was a nod and a half-hearted wave. It was like a dramatic record scratch in your head. But your parents took over with the rest. Guiding everyone inside to the warmth. Tommy remained outside, giving you skeptical eyes. “Help me with the bags…”

“Honey, don’t be weird about this.” He spoke, as you followed him to the truck.

“I’m not being weird.” You whined, gravel crunching under your feet. “Seriously, what’s to be weird about?” Reaching into the open trunk, you pulled out luggage’s and duffle bags. This was a lot of stuff for a week stay—they brought more than you did.

He gruffly breathed, pulling up the handle of one of the suitcases. “You’re my daughter, I know you— just sayin’…”

“Oh, my God— please!” You complained, hooking the duffle over your shoulder, pulling one of the luggage’s. Leaving him to follow you toward the porch.

Dinner had come quicker than you had hoped. If anything, if you could magically skip over the thing, and still eat, that would’ve been perfect.

All six of you sat at the dining table, forks and knives scratching at ceramic plates. Tommy and Joel had gathered in the back, last minute to cook up some steaks. And, to busy yourself, you helped Maria with the sides while Ellie and Cat got situated in the guest house.

“So, y/n, how’s the book comin’ along?” Joel wondered, putting a cut piece of steak into his mouth.

You made a surprised sound as you chewed your food, rushing to swallow. “Shit, you’re writing a book?” Ellie questioned, leaning her elbows on the table.

Taking a sip of water, you decided to respond. “Yeah, I’ve been working on it for a while.” Your eyes glanced at her, then moved on, quickly, to Joel’s. “It’s… Coming along.” A bashful laugh fell from your lips, as your hand reached for the glass of wine. It was barely touched, red hue swishing in the bulb of the glass as you took a sip. It’s fruity bitterness relishing over your tongue.

“What is it— like fiction or…?” Ellie pressed, genuinely.

“Non-fiction. A book of essay’s, really— written in different forms.” You nodded. “It sounds boring…”

Ellie shrugged, forking a piece of meat into her mouth. “Doesn’t sound boring to me.” She responded, with her mouth full.

“It’s the farthest from boring, honey.” Maria massaged your shoulder, sharing a small smile. You mirrored her in return, forking at the vegetables on your plate—perfectly steamed broccoli.

“How’s Brooklyn treating you?” You spoke up, raising your eyebrows.

Ellie lightly glared at Joel before answering, placing her utensils down. “It’s certainly treating me…” She muttered, rubbing her hands together, glancing at her girlfriend.

“It’s a great place for art, but just not Ellie’s art.” Cat chuckled, sipping from her wine glass.

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing.” You nod.

“I recall her using the words: too crowded.” Joel used air quotes to briefly describe the past conversation.

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “It makes me feel crowded— the city. When you say it like that, it makes me sound fucking stupid, Joel.”

“You did say crowded.”

“Well, I meant overwhelmed.”

You snickered at their bickering, leaning back in your chair. “Back to your art, I guess you’re experiencing the artistic equivalent to writers block?” Tommy inquired, still chewing on his steak, raising an eyebrow. The auburn-haired young woman nodded, chuckling to herself. “That’s why you’re stayin’ with us for a little while, huh?”

Another record scratch.

You blinked at you father, deepening your eyebrows. “Wait, what?”

Joel had set his beer on the table, leaning forward. “Yeah, Ellie’s stayin’ with your parents for a little while to get her juices flowing, again.” He explained, pressing his lips into a soft smile. Ellie cringed at his use of the words juices, taking a sip of her beer.

Tommy and Maria told you nothing unless you asked for it for almost everything now—you at least deserved to know that Ellie was staying on the farm indefinitely. After all, when they’re dead and gone, it’ll be yours; so, they could’ve at least told you without you having to ask—that’s big!

“And, I’ll help out so I won’t be sleeping the day away— because I know that I will without a proper schedule.”

“I thought you guys didn’t need a farmhand.” You glanced at your parents, with your eyebrows still deepened with confusion.

Maria chuckled, standing to her feet. “We don’t need anything, but who could say no to a helping hand?” She grabs the empty basket of biscuits from the center of the table. “Anybody want more biscuits?”

“I would love some!” Cat spoke up, holding up a tattooed finger.

“Me too, honey.” Tommy also spoke.

A dry chortle left your lips, leaning against the back of the chair. “Are you staying on the farm, too?” You peered over at the stranger—the girlfriend, with a slight accusatory tone.

Her lips parted a few times before she responded. “Oh, no, I’m going back to Brooklyn. Not much of a country girl.”

Pursing your lips, you nodded, downing the rest of your wine. This week was going to be a doozy. When Maria came back to the table, you snatched a biscuit from the basket, biting into it. There was a perfect crispy layer on the outside, mixed with the perfect gooey, soft innards of the biscuit. “These are so good.” You muttered with your mouth full with its buttery goodness.

On your hip, your phone buzzed. Cursing under your breath, you plucked the cellphone from your belt, flicking it open. It was your agent calling you at eight o’clock at night. “Excuse me, I gotta take this.” You scooted the chair back, pressing the green button. “It’s late, Isa.” You started the call, stalking out of the room like the corporate woman you are. Taking the route up the stairs to your old bedroom.

“I need that new chapter by tomorrow morning— as in, 8am.” She scolded on the other line. “I’m personally reminding you. Since you couldn’t respond to my emails.”

You sighed, shutting your bedroom door behind you. “Isa, I’ve been traveling all day on public transport, and I’ve been trying to have family time— is that not what Thanksgiving is about?”

“You’re writer, hon. You have little bit of family time, then you hermit to finish your work— now, stop giving me grief. Time is of the essence.” Her smooth voice told, chuckling after her words. “I’ll be anticipating you’re new chapter tomorrow at eight! Have a great night.”

“Have a great night…”

Slapping your phone shut, you sighed, running your other hand over your face. Being a writer was relentless—just as relentless as you and your roommate’s neighbors. But, instead of lingering in frustration, you grabbed your heavy laptop and propped yourself on the cushion beside your window—your reading nook. Not forgetting to put a Sade tape inside of your stereo for some background music, before you began to diligently work.

You typed at your computer, rapid clicking sounds filling your ears. Although, it was no surprise that you worked your hardest after the sun set—it was like you had one too many espresso shots.

Every word was coming from the heart, and coincidentally enough, the guests at your home made it easier. This chapter was definitely reflecting the feelings you felt the day of Ellie’s seventeenth birthday. You used imagery and metaphors to describe that feeling of attack—being backed into a corner, having the worst part of yourself brought into the light. And, like most of your pieces, it was dredging it all back up again; the emotions.

That feeling of losing the only person that truly understood you.

Of course, you had a few relationships since then—a few, trying to chase that same feeling you felt when your hands touched. But there wasn’t anyone who could compare to her. How pathetic was it to still be harping on a highschool sweetheart?

Hours passed under the radar. Your parents being the mile marker in your work, knocking on the door to let you know everyone was heading to bed. Too busy with outlining new ideas, you barely spared them a glance, muttering a smooth goodnight.

It was about one in the morning by the time you finished the chapter. Still, it needed some tweaking, but it was good enough to send to your agent for the editor to look at.

Shutting your laptop, you finally took in your old bedroom. Various music artists slapped against your soft pink walls, attached with tape—some corners hanging off. Catwoman figurines lining the back of your large, white, wooden dresser; with comics stacked alongside them. Stacks of old books in the corner of your room, stacked from the floor to the middle of her wall. If you were to stumble into them, they’d experience one hell of a fall.

Suddenly, curiosity struck.

Hopping from the cushioned seat under your paneled window, you looked under your bed. Reaching for an old shoebox that was filled with many, many interesting things. You slid it from under the dusty bed frame, taking it back to that plushy seat you appreciated so dearly. Plucking the top off, you released a sigh. Immediately being hit with polaroids of yourself as a teenager—mostly standing beside, laughing with, and cuddling Ellie.

They were the photos you snatched from your wall after that fight. Oh, she looked the same. Still had that uncertainty in her earthy, olive eyes. You didn’t understand it then, and you most definitely didn’t understand it now. Ellie didn’t have to feel the uncertainty she was used to in foster care. She had people who believed in her—who will always believe in her.

Sifting through, your hands hovered over a letter she wrote. It was an apology letter sent around the time of her eighteenth birthday—almost a full year since the situation. The envelope was ripped open from the day you received it; stained with salty, heartbroken tears.

If only that day never happened…

A startling knock sounded at your window. It was no more than a pebble, which was confirmed when another launched within your sights. Scrunching up your eyebrows, you unlocked it, pulling it upwards. Once you peaked your head outside into the brisk, cool weather, a small smile spread onto your lips.

“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’ up there?” Ellie called from below. “I brought a little somethin’… Thought you could use a break from writing.” She waved a tightly rolled joint in her hands—which could only be seen if you squinted.

The corners of your lips spread wider, feeling horribly nostalgic. “You’re actually a little too late on that front. I finished a few minutes ago,” You pressed your lips into a line, continuing. “But I could never turn down smoke break. I’ll be down in a second.”

Dropping the letter, you scooted off the seat to grab your jacket. Stuffing your feet into the semi-stained Uggs you wore into the ground, before fleeing your bedroom. You didn’t feel the need to sneak down the stairs, but a part of you wanted to—to relieve that feeling of adrenaline you felt in your youth.

Ellie met you at the back door, holding open the creaking screen door as you exited. “I honestly wasn’t sure you still did this.” She chuckled, looking at the ground as you both began to walk away from the house. Putting some distance so the smell wouldn’t upset the elders in the home.

“What? Smoke weed?” You perked an eyebrow. “You think because I went all corporate, I stopped being down?”

“Actually… Yeah.” She responded, nervously snickering.

The two ofyou settled in front of this white-lined shed that was illuminated by the two warm, orange-toned lights on either side of the door. “Well, you’re kind of right…” You admitted, squinting your eyes, embarrassed. It’s hard being known for your adaptability. “I try to keep the pot smoking to a minimum. In the corporate world they test you for it.”

Ellie pulled the joint from behind her ear, placing it between her lips. She shook her head in response to your words. “Says the cigarette smoker…” She joked, eyeing you, teasingly. While she flicked her lighter to burn the tip.

“Hey, they don’t give a rats ass about nicotine— I need to make up for that loss somehow. I’m a writer for christ’s sake.”

When she finally gets it to catch the fire, she took two puffs before passing it to you between her index and thumb. “Where’s Cat?” You innocently questioned, taking a hit of the joint, then looking at it, before taking another hit.

Ellie became rigid, releasing an exasperated sigh from her lips. “The guesthouse, watchin’ some movie.”

You handed her the joint. “What, is she not down?” Mocking your previous words, with amused eyes. However, her demeanor had quickly shifted.

“She gets easily frustrated after traveling all day…” She shook her head in a dismissive way, like she didn’t want any further questions to asked.

“Hm… That’s relatable.”

Silence engulfed the both of you as you passed the blunt back and forth until it was nothing more than a roach. Hearing nothing but the distant wind chimes sounding off on the porch.

Before speaking, Ellie took a deep breath, glancing over at you as if she were nervous to make eye contact. “I hope me stayin’ here for a little bit doesn’t bother you too much.”

Her words were double-take worthy, you looked over at her with expressive eyes—widening, in surprise. “Bother me? Why would it bother me?” You leaned your shoulder on the shed, kicking one leg over the other.

“You didn’t seem like the biggest fan—“

“Ellie, I was surprised. That’s all.” You waved your hand, shaking your head. “I feel like they don’t tell me shit anymore…” Shoulders shrugging, you glance toward the house standing tall in all its glory. “They didn’t tell me about you moving to Brooklyn, either. What does it look like when someone you’ve known your whole life moves to a city you’re actually familiar with and they’re not, and you don’t reach out to help them? I’m only a forty minute train ride away.” You rambled, deepening your eyebrows. “They basically made me look like an asshole.”

You weren’t entirely sure how you’d react if you knew about Ellie’s moving to the big city. Knowing your habits, you’d probably sit by the phone for hours before making the move to give her a call. But, it’s not like you were given the opportunity to figure it out for yourself. Now, it just appeared that you forgot about her—or could care less about her endeavors; which is farthest from the truth.

Her full lips cracked into a smile, chuckling. The auburn-haired woman, mirrored your position, leaning her shoulder against the wooden shed. “Always worried about what you look like…” She muttered, sucking her teeth. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’re an asshole— you just didn’t know.” Ellie shrugged. “It’s not like we talk as much as we used to…”

As much as we used to. That kind of stung.

Your eyes averted to the gravel under your boots. “Yeah…” There was an awkward beat that took its place between you. Swallowing, you shooed it away with speaking up. “What about your art? You’re living in one of the most creative cities in the world, and you can’t create?”

She puffed air from her lips, glancing in the direction of the guesthouse, priming her lips. “Okay… Confession— but only if what’s said here stays here.”

“What’s said at the shed, stays at the shed.” You affirm, holding a hand and crossing to fingers. The high from what you smoked clouding your mind, squinting your eyes and loosening your inhibitions.

“Cat and I moved in together pretty early— too early… I needed a roommate and she was the perfect option.” Ellie began, carefully. Olive eyes shifting under the dim light in thought. “I swear ever since I moved in with her… The inspiration to make anything new is fucking gone.” She ran her hand over her hair, which was actually loose without a hair tie. Dusting over her shoulders, pieces pushed behind her ears. “She, you know, hovers a lot— in a sweet way, it’s just irritating because not even her pushing me can be inspiring.”

Your heart skipped a beat; it was hopeful—you really are an asshole! “Damn… So, it’s not the city that makes you feel crowded. It’s Cat.” You hum, nodding your head, taking in your assumption. “And… You think staying here will help? Doing boring farm work?” A chuckle falls from your lips, borderline nervous, borderline humored.

She pursed her lips, raising her eyebrows. “I mean, I spent a lot of time here growin’ up…” Ellie looked at you, knowingly. “It was never boring when we did it together.”

“That’s because we were doing it together. I’m not gonna be here while you’re shoveling horse shit.” You chortled, peering at her through hazy eyes. She giggled and it sounded like music to your ears. It’s been awhile since you heard her laugh from something you said. Weed always did have a way of bringing people together.

“Well, maybe before you go, you could help me out. Jog my memory.” Ellie offered, raising her eyebrows. “It’s either you or suffering through Tommy’s jokes for hours—“

“I don’t mind, but we might have to jog each others memory.”

“Hey, you can take the girl out the country, but not the country out the girl.” She shrugged. “I have faith in you.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, a smile spread on your lips. “You’re still so corny.” Shaking your head, a laugh slips. Wrapping your arms around your body, you acknowledge the cool weather. It pricked at your exposed skin, and even through your jacket. “It’s getting late…”

She scratched the back of her neck. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I appreciate the joint— I needed it.” You pushed off the shed wall, licking your lips. In preparation to meander back toward the house, you rocked on your feet. “There’s some left over biscuits on the counter…” You drawled, but it was all right because Ellie had filled in for you.

“I’m fucking starving.”

Then, the two of you walked shoulder to shoulder back inside. Giggling at stupid jokes, surfing over any of the past debacles you had. Turns out reconvening with your childhood lover wasn’t so bad after all. For now, anyway.

[undyingdecay]

pairings: robert reynolds x reader, slight void x reader cw: smut, afab reader, mention and usage of drugs, food play, oral (male and female receiving), messy sex, unprotected sex, trauma responses, nursing, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum).

a/n: im not taking specific requests but if you have any other characters you want me to write for send them in my asks!

bob was a consuming person.

so much so that when he enjoyed something, he’d try—truly try—to take it in little pieces. like a child with sugar, licking the edges before the center. like a user with a final hit, drawing it out even as his body screamed to finish it. as if savoring was a form of prayer—an act of desperate hope that the thing he loved wouldn’t vanish when it was gone.

you think it’s a condition carved into him from the inside out, from years of addiction that had rewired the marrow of his being. he’d whisper the stories when he couldn’t sleep, his voice cracking as he spoke into your skin. the first time he smoked meth—how the world sharpened and dulled at once, like standing on the edge of a lightning bolt. how it ate time. how he stopped knowing when the sun had set. when his own name had last sounded human.

he only talks about it when you’re holding him. always in moments where your skin is touching his, like he needs the reality of your body to anchor the unreality of his memories.

like now.

you’re both submerged in the bath, the water thick with oils and salt. it’s not warm anymore, but neither of you cares. you’re straddling him, your thighs trembling against his sides, facing him—always facing him, as he asks. he tells you it keeps him here. grounded. you don’t question it anymore. his eyes are closed, lashes wet and golden, his mouth parted just enough for steam to kiss his lips. you rake your nails through his scalp, the conditioner lathering with a gentle foam as your fingers work slow circles into his head.

he moans—not from lust, not yet—but from the sheer relief of it. as if even this, even the gentle tug of your fingers through his curls, is a high he’s trying to stretch until it snaps.

and it always snaps.

bob needed coping mechanisms. dr. cornish, the one they assigned him after the thunderbolts briefing, liked to call them “rituals.” anchor points for an unstable mind. repetitive comforts that warded off the noise. he tried to adopt some of the healthier ones—you’d find him pressed against your chest like a child some mornings, nursing at your nipple with a single-mindedness that stole the breath from your lungs. the fifth time that day, no less. sometimes with tears drying on his cheeks, sometimes with a smile against your skin.

other times, it was baking.

that's one you could get behind. he was good at it—shockingly so. quietly focused, movements precise like he was defusing a bomb instead of folding batter. maybe it was the control. the order. the step-by-step promise that if he did everything right, sweetness would come out of the wreckage.

but there was still something wrong with how he looked at you when you ate it.

not just hunger. not just lust. reverence. the kind of look that should’ve been reserved for a god—if bob believed in anything higher than your moan when the spoon hit your tongue.

“this is so good, bob,” you’d said once, mouth full of still-warm vanilla cake. you were just being honest. it was good. light, soft, and impossibly fluffy.

but his face went red. and below the counter, you caught the twitch of his cock in his sweatpants. the way his fingers clenched the edge of the marble so hard you heard it creak.

he got hard from that.

from your praise.

and now?

now you’re sat in front of bob, bob’s legs slightly spread on the bed, his cake frosting is everywhere. slicked across his stomach, smeared over his thighs. he’s got a piping bag discarded on the nightstand, and the tip of his cock is flushed deep pink, glistening with milk pre and vanilla-sugar cream in a mess you can’t tell apart.

his mind is like a bee hive, he’s high, high off your touch, the mere thought of this moment. you want to taste what he made. you want to taste him. every pass of your tongue makes him sob.

“love when y—you do that,” he gasps, hips jerking up to meet your mouth. his fingers tangle in your hair, frosting slicking your scalp. “wanna bake for you more. wanna feed you. wanna be ‘s good for you.”

it’s breathless. mindless. the kind of manic devotion you used to hear in his voice when he described scoring meth on a dirty downtown corner, how it made the sky fall away and time collapse into a tunnel of white.

only now, it’s you. your praise. your mouth on him like some kind of holy retribution for all the years his body went unloved.

you take him deeper, and the milk pre leaks out in thick drips that mix with the frosting. it’s obscene. sticky. it clings to your lips, your chin, your tongue. bob groans like he’s being sanctified.

yeah, baking was good.

healthy. normal. or at least whatever normal meant for the two of you. a rhythm that made sense, something you could explain if ross’s team ever asked how he was coping. you could say, he’s staying clean. he’s baking. he’s using his hands for something that doesn’t kill people or break bones. and it would be true.

but what you couldn’t explain—what wouldn’t make it into his logs or therapy sessions or mission briefings—was bob’s infatuation with your arousal.

that wasn’t healthy. it wasn’t even about sex, not really. it was closer to need, the same primal, destabilizing kind that used to claw up his spine when he was coming down off meth. back when his body would turn inside out trying to chase the next high, chewing through hours, days, memories, just to feel anything again.

it’s obscene. sick, even.

the way his golden eyes gleam when you’re spread out for him like an offering, the slick between your thighs catching the light like it’s sacrament. he stares like a man who’s found god at the bottom of a spoon. he shudders when you drip—literally shudders, full-body tremors rolling down his spine—and then his mouth is on you like nothing else matters.

he’s whining into your core, greedy and wet, his mouth messy with your slick. not dainty licks. no performance. just raw hunger. sloppy and animal. his nose grinds into your clit with every upward drag of his tongue, breath sharp and hot as he pants against your folds.

pink lips swollen and glazed with arousal—your arousal—he moans like he’s being spoon-fed ambrosia.

you feel the mattress jolt rhythmically beneath you, and that’s when you realize his hips are rocking into it—humping like a teenager, rubbing himself against the sheets with frantic, desperate friction. he’s not touching himself. not really. his arms are locked around your thighs, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, but his cock drags uselessly against the bed, leaking precum onto the sheets in long, creamy smears that soak into the fabric.

the bed is wet beneath him—obscenely so—and you don’t know if it’s spit, slick, or that heavy stream of milk-pre that keeps dripping from the flushed tip of his cock.

you try to pull away once—just to breathe—but his arms tighten instantly, almost bruising.

“no,” he gasps against you. “no, baby—need it. please. i’ll be good, i swear—i just need to finish—need to taste all of it—”

you go still at the tone. that shaking, stuttering panic in his voice that sounds exactly like the way he spoke the first time he described a come-down. that same hoarse terror of having tasted heaven and knowing it would leave him.

and now? now your body is his new fix.

“what do i do?”

your voice cracks slightly, softer than you meant it to be, but you don’t take it back. “is there anything i can do?”

you’re in one of the old auxiliary lounges, where the plaster is peeling from water damage and the overhead light flickers like it’s choosing its own rhythm. the thunderbolts base isn’t exactly warm—ross’s money goes to suppression collars and clean containment zones, not comfort—but the space here feels lived-in. abandoned cushions scattered across the floor. a broken projector in the corner, dust covering the lens. the scent of weed hangs heavy in the air like incense from another world—slow-burning, warm, and strangely grounding.

ava and yelena are here already, sunk low into mismatched cushions. you didn’t expect to find anyone when you pushed open the door. least of all them—yelena with her ever-present smirk and chip on her shoulder, and ava, distant as a half-finished ghost. the air is thick with smoke and the quiet echo of some half-finished conversation. you catch it in fragments—something about schedules, about the facility’s restrictions tightening again after he broke through another training room wall.

you hadn’t planned to talk about bob. not really. but the words slipped out like a loose thread you pulled too hard. thankfully you hadn’t told them everything, not the titty sucking, not his unusual obsessions, just the necessary. 

“i need bob to develop a habit,” you said, pacing slightly, arms folded tight across your chest. “a healthy one. something small. something that helps.”

ava didn’t say anything for a moment. you thought she was ignoring you, lost in whatever tension was holding her shoulders so rigid. but she looked up, and her gaze was steady, the kind that makes you feel like she’s already weighed your heart on a scale and found it just barely balanced.

“well,” ava finally said, lifting the blunt in her hand and eyeing it like it was a practical tool rather than a vice, “this is something.”

you frowned. not out of judgment—but hesitation.

“it’s still weed.”

yelena raised an eyebrow. “and?”

“he used to be an addict.” you didn’t say the drug. you didn’t need to. they both knew. the shadows of bob reynolds’s history clung to every whispered briefing and side-eyed glance from new agents. “i’m not sure it’s safe. what if it’s a slippery slope?”

yelena exhaled sharply, not annoyed—more like someone trying not to laugh at something that isn’t funny. she leaned back, arms draped over the edge of the couch, her russian accent thicker than usual as she said, “you know what else is a slippery slope? repressing everything until he explodes a ceiling panel.”

you didn’t smile, but your lips twitched.

“he’s… overwhelmed,” you admitted. “there’s nothing between him and the world anymore. not even the wrong things. no armor. no filter. just him.”

that quiet you always feared settled over the room. the kind of quiet where everything that needed saying sat too close to the surface.

“he’s not going back to that,” you added quickly. “the meth. i know him. he’s—he’s past that. but the rest of it… i don’t know how to give him something to hold onto.”

yelena tilted her head. “you don’t. not alone. he has to want to hold it.”

then ava shifted, and for a moment you thought she was going to disengage again. but instead, she reached beside her into a small tin box. quietly, without drama, she took out a slim, clean blunt wrapper, a soft brown papery roll, and held it out.

“don’t light it,” she said. “don’t smoke it, not until he’s ready at least, just—hold onto it. think about whether it’s worse to give him nothing than to give him something small.”

she handed you a small sealable bag too. not heavy. just enough flower to roll a tight, simple blunt.

the paper crackled slightly in your hands.

“does this help you?” you asked.

ava’s expression didn’t change. “sometimes. when i phase too much, i can’t feel gravity. can’t feel my own weight. this pulls me back. not always. not perfectly. but enough.”

that stayed with you.

not perfectly. but enough.

you looked over at yelena. her eyes were sharper than usual. maybe she’d smoked less than she let on. maybe she was always sharper than she acted.

“i’d rather him have a little control over something,” you murmured, “than none at all.”

yelena smiled faintly. “then you’re already ahead of half the people who’ve tried to manage him.”

the weight of the blunt paper in your palm felt strange. like it carried more than it should. but it wasn’t loaded yet. not with meaning. not with history. not until you brought it to him.

you didn’t know what he’d say. if he’d flinch. if he’d beg for it. if he’d refuse.

but maybe this wasn’t about curing him. maybe this wasn’t about fixing a man who could crush continents and still wake up crying in your lap.

maybe it was about giving him a moment. just one moment where the static faded and he could feel something gentle.

you slide the window open with both hands, the metal frame groaning softly as it gives way.

the air outside is cool, not cold, but crisp in that way that promises storm clouds far off on the horizon—maybe days away. it smells like ozone and dirt and trees that have long since surrendered to the lab-converted facility grounds. you leave it wide open, enough for the scent to reach the bed and lift the heaviness from the air inside.

two weeks.

two weeks since ava gave you the small little bag.

you reach into the drawer like it’s something sacred, fingers curling around the soft bag ava gave you and lifting it out with quiet reverence. you don’t speak, not yet. just move with purpose. calm. like this is a habit you’ve done before. like you aren’t still caught somewhere between guilt and resolve.

bob watches you from the bed.

he’s stretched out across the mattress, loose grey t-shirt tugged slightly at the hem from the way he’d been curled there moments ago. there’s always a quiet tension in him, even now—like his body doesn’t know how to be still unless it’s pressed to yours, wrapped around you like a question he can’t stop asking. his eyes follow your every move, curious but cautious, like he’s trying to decode something you haven’t said aloud.

you climb onto the bed beside him, moving slowly. no words. you place the small bag between you like it’s something fragile. not a drug, not a solution—just something else. something new. it sits there, nestled in the folds of the comforter, light as air and heavier than guilt.

it feels like offering something at an altar. just the two of you. a very, very small cult of your own design.

bob stares at it.

then at you.

a slow smile breaks across his face—gentle at the edges, stretched thin with something heavier beneath it. it isn’t mocking. not quite playful, either. it’s soft and cautious, the kind of smile someone offers after surviving a collapse. his gold-flecked eyes seem to flicker with recognition. not of the bag itself, but of what it means for you to give it to him. to trust him with it.

there’s history behind that look. shared history. unearthed in your bed, in the quiet tension of his comedown nightmares, in every time he’s reached for you instead of something chemical.

“i’ve smoked weed before, if that’s what you’re stressed about,” he says, voice featherlight and teasing, though there’s a question buried somewhere in it. “when did you leave—to get it?” his tone shifts. less joking. a flash of something a little wounded. like he’s asking, did i lose time again? did you go somewhere and i didn’t follow?

you settle beside him again, the mattress sinking slightly under your weight. the room is quiet in that specific, padded way it always gets when bob is calm—calm enough not to break it. you glance at the bag, then back at him.

“ava gave it to me. she said it helps her come back into her body. when she phases too much.”

bob nods, just once, slow. his hands don’t move. they stay crossed over his chest, protective, hesitant. like if he reaches too fast, the intimacy will collapse and he’ll shatter something.

you hesitate. “i thought it might help you. i didn’t want to push anything. that’s why i waited.”

he stares at you for a long second, then lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “i already have things that help me,” he mutters, lips pink and pouting, breath catching a little. “can we just do what we usually do?”

and you hear what he’s really asking: are you getting sick of me? am i too much today?

your answer is immediate.

“yes. of course.”

his next question is soft, almost startled by your quickness.

“now?”

you barely nod. but that’s all he needs. the moment doesn’t erupt—it dissolves, like a sugar cube dropped into hot water. melting on contact. losing shape. sweet, cloying, overwhelming.

bob melts into you with a desperation that feels ancient, almost reverent. his cock is flushed, leaking, and slick with need already—just the sight of you has him soaked and sticky, dribbling messily onto the dip of his stomach. your fingers wrap around him like muscle memory, and he chokes on a whine, thrusting helplessly into your palm. his head buries into your chest as though he could crawl inside your skin, mouth wet and needy against your breastbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses over your sweat-damp skin.

you stroke him slowly, firmly, and his hips stutter. but after a long, trembling second—he pulls away.

“wait,” he gasps, his voice tight and hoarse. “wait—wait, i want—”

you expect him to say he wants you to keep going. or to finish him. or to ride him until he forgets his own name. that would’ve been simpler. expected.

but he slips from your grasp like something slithering down a drain and drops between your thighs with the urgency of a man crawling to an altar.

you suck in a breath.

bob’s fingers hook into the band of your underwear and he pauses when he feels it—how soaked it is, how ruinously wet. his eyes flutter. a tremor runs down his spine. when he breathes out, it sounds like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

then his tongue flicks out—just once. a single taste against the damp fabric. a sample. a test.

the moan that follows is guttural. obscene. he shakes like something short-circuiting.

then he tears the fabric aside entirely.

two fingers push into you fast, curling upward immediately like he’s been here before, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. and he does. you feel it in the way his breath catches, in the way his shoulders hunch as he groans into your inner thigh.

“fuck,” he chokes, voice thick, reverent. “fuck, there it is. there you are—give it to me, please, i promise i earned it—”

his fingers are soaked in seconds. slick strings down his knuckles, dripping messily onto his wrist, his forearm, pooling into the pale hairs of his arm. he doesn’t stop. he watches it coat his skin with wide, worshipful eyes—like he’s just been handed a chalice of liquid salvation.

he slides his fingers back through your folds. deliberate. tender. dragging every last drop out of you and smearing it across his palm, like he’s anointing himself with it.

“i need all of it,” he murmurs. “please. don’t—don’t stop me. i need all of it.”

and you let him. because it’s not want in his voice anymore—it’s need, low and cracked and vulnerable. as if this isn’t sex anymore. as if this is what keeps him tethered to his body. to reality. to you.

then he’s off the bed. ungraceful, stumbling a little as he moves. his boxers cling halfway down his thighs, and his cock bobs with every shaky breath he takes—angry red and shining with precum, twitching like it’s still reaching for your hand. but he’s focused now. possessed.

he reaches for the tin on the nightstand with trembling hands. opens it with care, reverence. fingers still glossy with your slick, he spreads the weed. adds more with a shake of the tin. he doesn’t wipe his hands before rolling. he doesn’t want to. instead, he drags his wet fingers along the paper, smearing your arousal into the crease with slow, circular motions. the mixture is darkened, muddied. his hands are filthy with it.

there’s no hesitation. no shame. he groans as he does it, low in his throat, the sound pure and broken.

the weed darkens. your slick coats it in glistening trails—milky and viscous, seeping into the crumbled flower like a slow infection. he mixes it with methodical slowness, hands dirty and glistening, not bothering to clean himself. he doesn’t want to. every movement is a sacrament.

then he lays out the paper. flat and clean. a blank page, soon to be rewritten in you.

he spreads the weed. presses it down with your wetness still on his fingers, dragging sticky circles into the paper’s seam. it stains dark. faintly pink, faintly cloudy. a corrupted ritual.

he doesn’t wipe off the excess. just rolls, slow and precise. the blunt comes together loose and heavy with wetness, a messy thing wrapped in prayer. and when it’s time to seal it, he doesn’t even blink.

his tongue drags along the edge—coating it with spit and come, warm breath misting over the paper. his lips are glossy with arousal and resin when he pulls away.

the lighter clicks. orange glow catching on his trembling hands.

he brings the blunt to his lips. inhales. deep. like he’s starving.

the first hit makes his chest jolt. he coughs once, eyes squeezing shut—but when he exhales, the smoke rolls out slow and thick, spiraling upward in a fog of earthy haze tinged with something more intimate. the air smells like resin and sweat. like sex and something holy. he’s breathing you in, you’re in his lungs.

he climbs back onto the bed like a man crawling toward god.

you’re spread open still, thighs parted. his eyes go glassy again when he sees you. the glowing end of the blunt smears ash across your stomach as he lowers himself, one hand gripping your thigh like he needs grounding.

“just gonna slip inside,” he murmurs, voice cracked and boyish. “i’ll be good. gentle. i promise.”

you nod. his whole body shudders—no, convulses—like something bigger than lust is tearing through him. his hips twitch forward involuntarily, like muscle memory dragging him to where he already imagines himself buried. his cock nudges between your folds, and the sound he makes isn’t a moan so much as a whimper. half-formed. desperate.

then he blinks, eyes glassy, realigning his body like it’s hard to remember what’s real. his cock, flushed deep red and sticky with precome, slides against you, dragging through the mess you’ve made together. your slick coats him in thick strings, clinging from his shaft to your cunt like a second skin. he gasps. the sound is hoarse—cracked from smoke and begging. it’s the same kind of noise he used to make coming down from a binge, the same full-body tremble, the same too-much-too-soon terror. only now, it’s you. your heat. your wetness.

and then he presses in.

it’s not graceful. it’s raw. sloppy. his tip catches, then pushes past with a sticky squelch that’s downright filthy, like your body’s too wet to offer any resistance. his breath catches, lips parting in a silent cry as your walls clamp down. he twitches already, cock jumping in your grip like it’s surprised you took him in. every vein, every pulse, every thick inch pushes through you with painstaking slowness, like he’s trying not to overdose on the sensation.

you see it in the way his face contorts—forehead drawn tight, mouth slack, golden eyes flickering. awe, horror, worship. all tangled together. like he thinks he’s desecrating something sacred just by being allowed inside.

“fuck!—oh god, you—” his voice breaks into a sob. “you feel better than anything i’ve ever—fuck—better than light, better than flying, better than—than meth—”

he chokes the last word like it burns his tongue, but he means it. you can feel the sincerity in his shudder, the way he buries himself deeper, inch by inch, until your hips meet. his balls press flush to you, soaked now in your slick, and the wet heat of his release chamber rests low and full against your cunt. his whole body curls around you like you’re shelter, like he needs to get closer than skin.

he’s still holding the blunt between trembling fingers, the cherry burning low. ash trails across your thigh from the way his hand keeps jerking with every little pulse of your cunt around him. he tries to raise it to his mouth, but his arm won’t stop shaking—his thrusts have short-circuited his motor control, his need so overwhelming it’s shorted him out completely.

so you guide him—gently, wordlessly—taking the blunt from his fingers and pressing it to his lips like a mother nursing a fevered child. his mouth opens instantly, compliant, hollowing his cheeks around the inhale. he whimpers as he takes it in. then he grabs your face, pulling you close with trembling urgency.

“let me… give you something too.”

he kisses you with smoke still in his lungs, and the moment his lips touch yours he exhales. the heat rushes into you, tasting like weed and sex and something rawer—saliva and your own arousal still smeared across his tongue. the kiss is soaked, wet and messy, full of smoke and spit and want. he moans into your mouth as he exhales, and the sound vibrates down your throat like a tremor. you can taste the thc on him, sharp and bitter, but what coats it is unmistakably you. you’ve become part of him, even in the air he breathes.

he doesn’t let you go.

“wanna stay inside you forever,” he mumbles, delirious now, starting to thrust. the rhythm is nothing—just a series of shallow, broken movements, like his hips can’t remember how to fuck properly because all his focus is on not exploding. “don’t wanna leave. don’t make me leave—please, don’t—”

“i’m not,” you whisper, holding his jaw. his pupils are blown wide, but the rims glow gold. he looks unhinged. beautiful. gone.

somewhere in that molten light, the void watches from behind his eyes. lurking. curious.

“he likes when you’re like this,” bob murmurs, voice strained and breathless against your throat. “when i’m begging. ruined. he thinks it’s fucking hilarious.”

you grip his jaw tighter, eyes blazing. “then let him watch.”

bob’s whole body jolts. the sound he makes is obscene—nearly a sob, loud and broken. his hips stutter as he fucks you harder now, with more desperation than finesse. the blunt is still clutched between your two fingers, smoke leaving a sooty trail along your belly, on your sheets. ash clings to sweat. your skin is sticky with it—damp with his heat, your slick, his come beginning to leak out with every snap of his hips.

his forehead presses to yours. sweat drips from him in hot rivulets, staining the sheets beneath you both. “i’m—i’m gonna—i can’t—” he’s sobbing now. “you’re gonna make me come. you’re gonna ruin me. don’t stop—don’t stop squeezing—feels so good, so tight, so fucking wet, i can’t—”

you squeeze down on him. deliberately. relentlessly.

and bob lets out a sound which seems like a choked scream.

his orgasm hits him like a convulsion—hips jerking, cock throbbing violently inside you as his come spills out in thick, gushing pulses. it’s messy. it’s gross. you feel it flooding you, leaking down your thighs almost instantly. hot, viscous, obscene. like his body couldn’t hold it in a second longer. like every drop is penance.

he clings to you with the rawness of a man who’s lost everything before and is terrified to lose it again. his arms wrap around you, crushing you to him. he doesn’t pull out. his cock stays buried inside, twitching with aftershocks, like it doesn’t know what to do without you wrapped around it.

he slumps against you, full weight bearing down. you let him. you adjust him to your side when he finally softens, and you raise the blunt to his mouth every few moments as his body tries to come back down. he doesn’t even notice when more come leaks out of you, pooling under your thighs. doesn’t flinch at the way the sheets are soaked. he wants it. he needs the mess.

and from somewhere deep—lower than sound—the void stirs once more.

bob doesn’t flinch. not anymore. he just breathes against your neck, still panting like a newborn, lips parted, skin flushed with something that doesn’t fade.

“i love you,” he mumbles, over and over like a chant. “i love you. don’t make me go back to being alone. please—please.”

“you’re not,” you say, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “you’re not alone. i’ve got you.”

the room is thick with smoke, pungent and heady. the air is dense with sex and sweat, the cloying scent of arousal still sticky on your skin. ash streaks your thighs, smeared in lazy handprints. but none of it matters. what matters is bob. in you. on you. of you.

and he holds onto that like a man who has finally found a drug that doesn’t rot him. something pure. something feral.

something that wants to be inside him just as much as he wants to stay inside you.

[nerdygirlramblings]

I've got a hc in my mind.

Simon doesn't want children. At least that's what he promised himself due to his trauma, childhood etc.

And that leads to thoughts:

When he sees reader with one of Jonny's baby nieces in their arms, he is whipped. He can't imagine getting you not pregnant anymore. Like the baby fever's hitting hard af.

The twist. Since he got a vasectomy when he was like 20/25 he isn't able to get you pregnant. So, desperate and horny, Simon asks Jonny. (Noone can tell me Jonny doesn't have high fertil sperm. He's the reason why the pill is only 99% safe.)

Jonny wouldn't be Jonny if he didn't try at least. After maybe the third try, he's kind a part of their marriage now and stays after reader got pregnant.

It's up to you if you wanna do a kind of baby trapping- thing (because not everyone if comfortable with it and that's okay) or with consent

- May your sleeves never slide down and get wet when you wash your hands

Hi, anon! This was a delicious, devious ask, and I had thots. I know it's not quite what you suggested, but I hope it works anyway. (I also may have misread the hc the first time and saw John not Jonny and completely missed the niece bit too.)

cw: baby trapping, unprotected PIV, dubcon

When you and Simon started to get serious, he told you he didn't want kids. He'd learned from others that kids was a deal-breaker, so he wanted everything out in the open early.

He couldn't have been more thrilled when you said you didn't think you wanted kids either. He mentioned his vasectomy and you casually replied that if things ever changed, you could always adopt, give a kid without a home someplace to belong rather than bring an innocent life into a world that constantly felt like it was one mad ruler with a fiddle away from total collapse. He couldn't agree more.

Everything was fine. You loved Simon and he loved you. He was married to you and the job, and you kept him grounded, reminded him life wasn't a battlefield. It helped that he was close with his unit even off the field. Johnny was a staple at your place, and when they weren't deployed, the whole team did Sunday dinners at the Prices, which is where Simon first saw it. Saw you. And his entire worldview cracked.

He knew, abstractly, that Price's wife was pregnant. The belly was hard to miss. But she'd given birth during his last solo mission, and he hadn't met the baby. You though, you were one of the few people Price deemed safe enough to be around his missus and kid, and with Simon away, you'd spent a lot of time with them. You'd do the shopping for Mrs. Price or watch Baby Price while the Captain wooed his wife.

That Sunday, Simon was completely unprepared for the sight of you cradling Baby Price against your chest, rocking him so his mama could eat her meal while Price was grilling. Simon's heart lurched, and he unconsciously palmed his growing erection. Johnny, sitting next to him, noticed the movement and said, "Ain't nothing more lovely than a mum with her baby, yeah?"

Of course Johnny knew Simon didn't want kids, but he didn't know Simon was shooting blanks. And he wasn't unaffected by the sight of either you holding the kid either. He loved the idea of getting a pretty woman pregnant, her body working to grow his kid.

Simon decided in that moment he needed to get you pregnant any way he could.

Your sex life had never been vanilla, and you'd both had your share of all kinds of partners before, but you'd never had a third. Never expected Simon to ask. And you definitely never thought he'd ask for it to be Johnny. You weren't outright opposed to the idea: Johnny was charming, a flirt. You saw how he sometimes looked at Simon, the feral glint in his eyes when he talked with you one-on-one. It might be fun to see Johnny slip the leash he had on his control.

"'E's clean. An' 'e's snipped like me," Simon said. "Never wan'ed ta 'ave a baby outa wedlock. Too much Catholic guilt." You weren't on anything because with Simon you didn't have to worry about a pregnancy, so you didn't push for condoms for Johnny either. While Simon was telling you Johnny shot blanks, he told Johnny you had your tubes tied, so his swimmers could play in the pool with no consequences.

Sex with them was indescribable. The push and pull between them, the way their awareness of one another on the field translated to the bedroom meant you were constantly on a knife's edge, dangling over the precipice of "too much." But they always caught you.

Apparently you weren't the only one who enjoyed the night, as Simon requested a repeat performance several more times over the next few weeks. Johnny, who never had a steady girlfriend, had no qualms slotting himself into your and Simon's bed whenever his lieutenant asked. He'd been a constant presence at your house throughout your relationship. Having him in bed with you almost felt like a natural progression.

Two months later you found yourself dragging. Every day was a struggle to get up, and you were constantly tired. Your favorite foods didn't stay down anymore. Every time you complained, Simon looked at you. There was something in his eye that you couldn't place. Something greedy, knowing.

He finally suggested you see the doctor since you weren't getting any better. The appointment started like they always did for women of a certain age: "Are you pregnant? Or could you be pregnant?" You laughed. Pregnancy is preposterous. Your husband had a vasectomy over a decade ago, and the new lover you've had in bed is the same. There's no way you could be pregnant.

The doctor nodded as you talked and insisted on running a pregnancy test anyway. The positive result shocked you. How would you tell Simon, who never wanted kids? How could it be his? Or Johnny's?

It never occured to you your husband lied to you.

That night, Johnny's over, cooking as you're sat quietly on the couch. You knew you needed to say something, but you didn't know if it was only Simon you should tell or if Johnny needed to know too. It all came out during supper after you took two bites before rushing to the loo to vomit.

Crying, you told the men you're pregnant. "But I'm not sure how when you're both safe," you wailed.

Johnny spluttered. "Wha? I'm no snipped," he said. "But ye cannae be pregnant if yer tubes 'er tied, lass."

"My what?" you breathed, turning horrified eyes on your husband who had the good sense to look mildly ashamed.

Johnny looked between you, realization dawning on his face too. "Lt, wha'd ye do?"

He looked at you both and admitted, hardheadedly, "What I 'ad to."

main masterlist

[the-s1lly-corner]

Calling various CRP pretty boy

Yoinking this prompt from the slasher version of this post because i kind of enjoy this prompt a more than normal amount and I like feeding all my followers regardless of what fandom they follow me for

Characters: Slenderman, Masky, Hoodie, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, Laughing Jack, Jeff the Killer

Notes: reader is GN, written on mobile

CWs: none

SLENDERMAN

He gives little to no reaction to you, as expected as a lot of forms of affection dont mean all that much to him

Not that he doesn't treat you with love and care, he does because he knows you like it

Receiving is just a little odd for him, possibly because it's so foreign to him- but at least he doesn't reject you!

Asides from his lack of response, there isnt much else to note! Over time he does begin to respond to it if you keep calling him that

MASKY

He doesnt talk all that much so the lack of verbal response doesnt surprise you all that much

He prefers being called handsome, if you insist on saying something about his looks

Mild confusion because hes never taken his mask off around you, the most hes done is lift it up to eat or kiss but even then...

Suspicious that you've peeked when he wasnt aware or conscious- probably not the best nickname

HOODIE

Doesnt talk at all, so once more the lack of verbal response doesnt come as a surprise

You haven't seen his face yet you call him pretty boy... you might actually be able to convince him to take his mask off for you so you can confirm if he really is a pretty boy

He does respond to the name and seems to at least enjoy it a little bit

Will occasionally ignore you until you call him pretty boy, not a common occurence though

TICCI TOBY

Mix of leaning into the name and calling you pretty in return, but I can also see him slightly rejecting it

He knows you mean it, more than likely- but hes so used to not being treated nicely that he cant tell if you're secretly making fun of him or not

Brings it up passively and hides it behind jokes but it's so obvious hes a little suspicious of you

Firmly reassure him that you really do think hes pretty, bonus if you point out specific parts of his face that you like!

EYELESS JACK

He considered himself average before the cult, nowadays he cant look in the mirror... though that's less of a self confidence thing and more of a trauma thing

He has mixed feelings about being called pretty boy, in general and due to the circumstances

Let's you continue calling him pretty boy, quietly keeps his thoughts to himself

He may grow onto it with enough time

LAUGHING JACK

Giddy, he already has the idea that hes cute but the thought that you think hes pretty really does it for him

Returns the energy and says he thinks you're really cute, he could just eat you up!

Takes the sudden nickname really well and adopts it as a new pet name between the two of you

He kind of perks up like a dog when you say a word they like around them

JEFF THE KILLER

Honestly he would expect you to call him pretty boy, though be doesnt need to remind you of something he already knows as fact

Pretty, handsome, cute, beautiful... call him any of those and hes going to let you know he already knew he was attractive

WILL notice if you stop calling him pretty boy, making it a habit... and you just stop calling him that out of the blue

A little huffy about it but hes going to act like hes not pressed about it- he doesn't want to come off as desperate for attention

[bananami]

and just like that i’m back on my nanami bs. i hope this helps you all heal from the trauma that was season 2 of jjk <3 (cw: pure fluff, dad!nanami, wife!reader, sex is alluded to a number of times, nanami is just desperate for his wife ok)

“he just passed out, he usually naps for a good 30 minutes. i can do it in 20.”

you can’t help but laugh at your husband. ever since adopting yuuji the two of you have been adapting to your lives with a toddler. that included very limited one on one time, and it was taking a toll on nanami.

“i have to fold the laundry,” you’re tone is apologetic but your face tells him you find this amusing.

“you’re the greatest multitasker i know.”

you feel his arms wrap around you as you continue to fold yuuji’s t-shirts. the kid was so messy sometimes, it caused him to go through his entire closet in a weeks time. “we need to seriously go shopping and get him more things to wear.” you spun around to wrap your arms around his waist. “your child is a dirty little gremlin.”

“your husband is trying to be one too but you won’t let him act on it.”

“you are not gonna be 20 minutes, you say that but you’re not quick with it anymore old man.”

“who are you calling old man? i’m spry for my age.”

“see, you even sound like an old man.”

“an old man who just wants to show his wife how much he still loves her.” his hands slide up and down your back, holding you to him and bringing his lips to yours. “i love you. i miss you.”

“i miss you too kento,” you let him take his time kissing you. “ok, what if-“

“i love where this is going already.”

“i haven’t even told you.”

“the prospect of things makes me excited. really gets me going.”

you giggle, “so repressed.”

“you have no idea, it’s taking everything in me not to turn you around and accost you right here on the dining room table.” he leans his face down to nuzzle and kiss at your neck.

“accost?”

“accost. respectfully.”

you tighten your arms around his waist, satisfied with the heavy affection he’s showing you. “what if i call up gojo-“

“and just like that i’m soft.”

“kento!” you smack him in the back but can’t help the smile that sneaks onto your face. he’s so easy to rile up.

“you know the emotions his name invokes in me. i can’t stand him.”

“i was going to say, what if i called him up to see if yuuji can spend the weekend at his and geto’s place with megumi, and then you and i can have the entire weekend together. just the two of us.”

“i love him.”

“wow, wait until i tell him you said that.”

“i’ll never admit to it.” nanami takes your face into his hands, kissing at your lips over and over until a giggling voice breaks the moment.

“eeeeew!!” yuuji runs forward from the other side of the hallway, jumping up and down at nanami’s feet. “up, up, up!!” and when he does the pink haired little boy leans over to give you a kiss on the nose.

“thank you, yuuji,” you give his nose a kiss in return.

“thank you, mama!!”

nanami narrows his eyes and scratches at the boy’s belly, sending yuuji into another round of giggles at being tickled. “guess who’s house your gonna sleepover at this weekend.”

you send a look toward your husband. “he hasn’t agreed yet, i still have to call him.”

“he’ll agree. because if he doesn’t,” he presses a million little kisses all over yuuji’s face, “i might actually die. and then who will he have to annoy at work?”

“he does like to annoy you.”

“i’m well aware.”

“i’ll call him now.”

nanami sets yuuji down, sending him into the kitchen. before following him, he leans over to give you one last lingering kiss on the lips. “i love you,” his smile lifts into a tiny smirk, “and it is for that reason exactly that i say, with all of the love i can muster, i am going to ruin you this weekend.”

“ruin me?”

“ruin you. respectfully.”

[mosseroleplay]

The Underground Cat Cafe (DoL Original Location) & Ferdinand the Fisher's Trauma (DoL OC)

CW: sex trafficking, claustrophobia, fear

This is a bad ending. The Underground Cat Cafe functions similarly to the Underground Brothel, but with a theme: all the workers have to behave like cats. They essentially have to live just as pets do, while also being expected to perform sex work. They live in a guarded common area and can be taken to private rooms by customers. The workers are expected to obey management and customer requests.

If you pass out in the city and your beauty stat is 3 or above, there is a chance you will wake up naked and collared in the Undergound Cat Cafe. Players with partial or complete cat transformation have a much higher likelihood of being abducted to the Cafe.

There are many management-encouraged activities at the Cafe, some of which include: Playing, napping, being pet, begging for treats, or serving customers privately.

Engaging in cat-like activities earns customer attention and both increases the chances of being expected to perform sex work as well as being adopted by a customer.

Players who refuse requests or misbehave will be sent to the punishment room:

The Punishment Room The room is dark and cold. You see a wall of kennels in front of you. The kennels have solid metal doors in favor of barred doors. You're shoved into one of the kennels where you’re forced to sit in a small space. There is a fan blowing above your head.

Punishment lasts until the next morning. You can pass the time by sleeping, scratching graffiti on the walls, trying to kick the door open, or inspecting the fan above you. If you inspect the fan above you, you realize that rattling it loosens the screws. Enough time or visits permitted, you can unscrew the fan and climb up into the ducting.

Traverse the ducting to escape: Some directions you take in the ducting may be unstable and you could fall through a vent, get caught, and be brought back to the Cafe. If you’ve memorized the route, you can escape every time. The Tall Customer One of the customers who comes to the Cafe is a very tall man dressed head to toe in black. He wears a face mask and a black drifter hat. You can’t see his skin or face well. He seems to be watching you, but it's hard to tell. He only stays for an hour.

You can try to appeal to him and get his attention. He appears to be staring at you, but never touches you. Perhaps there is something more you need to do to gain his attention. Ferdinand’s Trauma Ferdinand may also be abducted and brought to the Underground Cat Cafe. It is not the first time- he had been brought there multiple times. He hates this place the most, and wants his freedom back.

He deadens his emotions while at the Cafe and goes through the motions. He is looking for his chance to escape.

EVENT: Ferdinand Abducted If your love stat is over 30%, you may spot Ferdinand in the city between 3pm-5pm on weekdays. A van labeled ‘animal control’ screeches to a stop alongside him and people hurriedly climb out. Ferdinand tries to flee, but they tase him and drag him into the van.

The player may choose to save him, but the success rate is challenging even with maxed athletics. If you manage to save Ferdinand, he is very grateful. +++Love

If you cannot save him, you watch the van drive away. Ferdinand disappears between one to four weeks and cannot be found at any of his usual haunts. When you see him again, he is thin and haggard. He meekly tells you that he’s happy to see you and that he missed you while he was gone. He does not elaborate on his experience.

EVENT: Flee with Ferdinand There is a possibility that the player will be abducted to the Underground Cat Cafe while Ferdinand is present. He is mortified to see you there. He will share with you that escaping security is very difficult, and that getting adopted by a customer and then escaping your adopter is much easier. He warns you NOT to get adopted from a customer who looks like a very tall man in a black hat.

If you tell Ferdinand you want to escape security with him (low success rate) and succeed, Ferdinand will be extremely grateful. ++Love.

If you fail, Ferdinand will be judged as the mastermind of your plan and will be sent to the punishment room. He will not be in allowed to return to the common area for a day.

If you get sent to the punishment room while he is also there, you can hear him panicking and weeping from an adjacent kennel. If you escape via the ducting, you can find the fan above Ferdinand’s kennel and together you can free him and escape. Ferdinand is extremely grateful to you. +++Love

Note: If you ignore Ferdinand during your stay at The Underground Cat Cafe, he disappears. You find out he was adopted by a customer called The Collector.

[thats1llyfairy]

ARCANE HEADCANONS

( Mostly Zaun family and AU!Zaun family )

CW: TimeBomb, Romantic!Zaundads, death ( just mentioned ), Silco's trauma is mentioned in the AU!Zaun part,

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .✦. 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Main Universe:

Claggor is the 'flashlight' kid. He gets woken up at five am to help Vander fix things around the Last Drop. They don't speak much during this time but it's their bonding time :)

Mylo was the one that shaved the side of Vi's head as an annoying little prank — but Vi ended up loving it. ( Vander did not, but he's fine with it now )

Claggor likes hugs :)

Mylo is a cat person, Vi is a dog person ( cus... she got that dawg in her ), Pow Pow is a lizard person, Claggor is a either or kinda guy.

Claggor's stutter was worse when he was younger.

Benzo knew Ekko's parents and has been taking care of Ekko since Ekko was three. First was baby-sitting ( Which he kind of hated ), then as his full-time caregiver at five or six.

Benzo isn't as gentle as Vander, so was therefore a little worried that he'd hurt Ekko on accident somehow someway

Most of Claggor's clothes are Vander's hand-me-downs.

Mylo and Vi share a closet ( Vi just doesn't know )

Vi's first word was 'dada'

When she was little, she would call Vander her second dad ( I used to call my Uncle my second dad lol )

Baby Vi also did not like Silco, they've been beefing since Vi could talk actually.

Ekko has only called Benzo 'dad' once before. Ekko had fallen asleep on the floor while working on fixing an old toy car that Claggor had found for him. He woke up to Benzo picking him up to carry him to bed. He snuggled up to Benzo and whispered, "Night, dad.", to which Benzo didn't respond until he laid Ekko in his cot — "G'night, son." Just a quiet whisper that Ekko kept with him for a long, long time.

Benzo stopped smoking after adopting Ekko because one night, he was smoking in the shop with Vander, while Ekko was working on an old watch and he heard a soft little cough from Ekko — immediately stubbed it out and never picked it up again.

Claggor helps out in the bar and knows how to make most of the non-alcoholic drinks.

Vi never officially came out, but Madame Babette once caught Claggor, Vi and Mylo peaking on the women in her brothel. Everyone, kind of, knows?

Vander slicks back Vi's hair for the first time, just being silly but Vi keeps styling it that way. Like her old man.

Claggor had much curlier hair when he was younger... Vander will pretend like he didn't ruffle it every morning because he liked how soft his son’s hair was.

Claggor was a bit clingy the first few months he was with Vander.

Mylo was like a feral animal, aggressive and hissing like a cat whenever someone tried to come near him in that first month he was with the family.

Mylo was the last child Vander adopted.

Benzo got arrested during the riot, but of course, he was let out after Vander strikes a deal with the Enforcers — the first thing Benzo did? Look for Ekko.

Vander and Benzo tease each other about the other "growing soft", but they both know deep down that they're both soft.

Mylo had a small appetite most of the time until he hit ten, then he would just devour anything

No one knows how Mylo gets his hair to stand up...

Ekko had a very filthy mouth as a wee boy ( no thanks to Benzo for that )

Vander was a ring fighter as a hobby, while Sevika did it as a side-job which is where they met. I think their age gap is like seven years and Vander does what Vander does best and decided to adopt her into the group.

Walls are not safe from Powder

Mylo used to climb all over Vander, like a monkey

They used to have a dog that Powder brought home that Vander said he "didn't want" ( he cried when the dog ran away )

AU!Zaun family:

Vander is much more gentle than he is in the main universe. He has no need to fight anymore — he's an old dog now.

Vi's death caused a war, Vander and Silco's relationship ( brotherly or lover-ly, depending on how you see it ) was reignited during that war on Piltover. Vander most likely turned to Silco, desperate and angry after Vi's death ( Benzo didn't approve at first of Silco's return or Vander going back to his ex)

Powder had very little memory of Silco when Vander brought him back home, but she knew him. She just felt it. The first thing she did was hug Silco, as tight as she could.

Benzo and Silco argue like they're an old married couple all the time. Vander has, on many cases, needed to drag the one away from the other to stop their arguments

Vander is still not allowed to touch Silco's neck

Silco despises baths.

Silco has a big ass fish tank in his office that Vander and Benzo built by hand for him.

They actually got family counseling — Benzo was there was support lol

Silco sees himself in Mylo and finds himself being close with him — offering advice, being Mylo's inspiration.

Powder is sick and tired of living with all these men, so when Mylo brought home Gert — Powder was ecstatic to have some kind of sister again

Aunt Sevika is real

Powder and Ekko haven't always been dating but they have always been Powder and Ekko. Pow-Pow and Little Man.

Vander has a row of violets tattooed on his back, just before his neck starts.

Benzo had to learn how to take care of Ekko's hair right and he's... pretty good.

Ekko can do it himself, but he likes it when Benzo does it ( softies... neither will admit it though )

Powder does Vander's hair in the morning

Silco likes pulling Vander's hair to get his attention ( is it because it causes him pain... maybe... )

Ekko has memory problems — like they'll go blank then freak tf out until someone calms him.

Ekko. Just Ekko. I love him.

Physical touch is very grounding for Ekko

Silco is a member of the Council but he... hates the rest of the Council — comes home complaining after every meeting, to which Vander sits and listens. He does talk very fondly about Cassandra and Mel. hates salo so much tho.

Ekko is one of them he/they's

Pow is one of them she/they's

Claggor has a garden out back where they grow most of the food used in the Last Drop

Silco walked into The Last Drop after the war, looked around and decided he was going to redesign some stuff. He would slowly... very slowly... replace things. New chairs? "Oh, yes, the chairs were..". New paint job? "The paint was chipped..."

Vander: "Babe, I'm going to fight a war because my daughter died."

Silco: "Not dressed like that you're not."

Silco's office is sacred, you don't go in there unless you're Vander, Benzo or Powder.

Silco will always win the arguments he has with Benzo, but only because Benzo lets him.

Benzo smokes cigarettes, Vander smokes his pipe and Silco smokes his cigars — they all claim their own form of lung damage is better.

Mylo is pansexual and very desperate. Not pan because he's desperate, he just happens to be both at the same time.

The first person he came out to was Powder, on accident.

Claggor is completely unaware of his handsomeness.

Mylo works at The Last Drop on weekends but is studying at a college in Zaun rather than studying at the Piltover Academy like Ekko and Powder.

Ekko always studies, gets good grades

Powder never studies, gets better grades

Silco is gay, so gay. I can't imagine him with a woman.

Sevika is very fond of all the children ( Mylo and Powder look up to her )

Powder owns a locket ( gifted by Dad 2, aka Silco ) with pictures of her mom and dad in it.

Powder owns a lot of necklaces and rings. She LOVES layering. she diys her accessories — she also likes stealing Silco's old clothes ( Silco loves it )

Vander loves embarrassing his kids in front of potential partners, he's evil like that

Madame Babette no longer owns a brothel and retired instead, though she comes to visit the Last Drop sometimes

Sevika x Grayson anyone...?

Powder was always bringing animals home: birds, lizards, cats, dogs, frogs, fish ( somehow?? ), anything.

Powder cuts her own hair

Powder would've had a dorm in Piltover Academy but Silco said no. He's a bit too protective.

Ekko doesn't either. They can't leave their girl alone 🤷🏿‍♂️

Ekko paints portraits and murals while Powder keeps a very doodle-y and graffiti ish style. Keep spray cans and paint markers away from her

Vander has shirts that Powder was bleached or painted on

Silco has SO much stuff that Powder just decorated for him. He loves it.

^ Sits in Counsil meetings with doodled-on mug.

Claggor has a girlfriend that he's been hiding for like months. His family is a bit too crazy ( it's Sky 😋 )

SKY X CLAGGOR REAL 🥀🥀🥀 ( when they're older btw... )

Mylo was hit HARD by Vi's death, harder than anyone expected. Someone he thought was so strong had died, someone he looked up to.

Sometimes, he wonders if Vi would be proud of him.

ROMANTIC!ZAUN DADS: Silco is in control of their relationship, Vander allows it because he doesn't want Silco to feel like he's powerless again.

Powder pierced Ekko's ear in the bathroom when they were thirteen and Silco was pissed at them ( for doing it wrong ) then showed them how to do it right.

ROMANTIC! ZAUNDADS: Silco is constantly touching Vander as a reminder that this is real. They're safe. They're not dead. They're free. They're together.

Powder made Ekko's earrings

Mylo sucks at reading the time

Ekko. Just Ekko. I love him a lot.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .✦. 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ill add more if I have more lol

[gingeralecranberry]

INTERMISSION

𝟑-𝟎 ; 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 "𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐥"

THROW ME IN YOUR BACKSEAT

☺︎ cw:

mentions of the higher ups vomit, descriptions of death/death of family members, orphaned child (in jjk? what a surprise), adoptive family, paperwork double vomit, a few adults hate on the child for no reason, allusion to trauma responses, i've officially decided to say fuck it and make the reader fully OP cause he has to have a way to survive this clusterfuck of crazies somehow

“Inoue, are you close to finishing that incident report?” 

Manato blinked. 

On the outside, the building looked like every other one on the block;  tall, glass office space filled with stuffy little cubicles that weren’t nearly big enough.  On the inside, you could say it probably also looked like every other business.   Lines and lines of employees at their desks, filing paperwork, sneaking in a quick lunch, rushing off to make an appointment.  It was the content they were working on that set them apart. 

“Oh- Uh, yeah, sorry,” the supervisor murmured, “just… having trouble getting all the details together.” 

The life of a supervisor was one that was often filled with monotony.  It was drive a sorcerer here, file some paperwork there, rinse and repeat.  But this case, this case in particular, was something special.

A grade 1 curse is observed being completely docile until arriving at this specific home and only acting aggressively towards the victims specifically?  Not only this, but the nine-year-old son is the one to exorcise the curse and ends up living to tell the tale? 

It didn’t make sense.

The building manager, another supervisor by the name of Sano Tomiko, squinted at him incredulously.  She was always a stickler for rules and deadlines.  That, paired with her seniority, was what originally landed her the managerial position. 

“If you can��t handle the caseload you’re currently being assigned, I’m sure I could find another supervisor or some kind of aid to make sure things get done on time.” 

The younger man quickly shook his head, trying his best to wipe his clammy palms off on his gray slacks, “I assure you, that isn’t necessary.  You know me, even if I get a little tight on the time frame it’ll get done.” 

Ms. Sano pushed her red Cat Eye glasses up her nose, jaw just barely tightening enough that it was noticeable.  She gave a subtle nod of the head, pivoting on her foot with the click of her heel, “Whatever you say, just make sure it’s on my desk before lock-up tonight.” 

“...Yes, Ms. Sano.” 

Manato waited until he heard the familiar sound of the same old wooden door creaking shut and the heavy sound of the deadbolt locking back into place before he let out the sigh he was holding.  

His hands landed in his hair as he leaned back in his chair, staring at his ceiling in exasperated silence. With another frustrated huff, his golden eyes flicked down to the neatly printed incident report on the right hand side of his desk.  Then, they flitted over to the hand-written notes passed on by one of the other departments. 

He tossed around the idea of rereading the report again just to double-check, but at this point, what was there to double-check?  Even if things weren’t logically adding up in Inoue’s head, facts were facts.  Sworn witness statements and the evidence at the scene didn’t lie. 

Still. 

…

One more time couldn’t hurt, could it? 

His elbows flopped down onto the mess that was his desktop, gingerly reaching over to grasp the pristine stack of papers in his hands.  The only signs they’d been touched were the little folds over the corner staple. 

‘Incident Report first, y’know, since I have to turn this in and stuff.’

For good measure, he licked his thumb before gently peeling the title page back to actually analyze the report’s contents. 

‘Location: Okinawa, Japan 

Time: Incident began at approximately 4:15, lasting almost half an hour

Curse (Grade, Name, etc.): Unnamed Serpentine Curse, Grade 1, believed to have some connection to the nearly forgotten practice of Kodoku (see attached) recently resurfacing due to a recently released horror movie in a popular franchise/series

Attending Sorcerer: Masamichi Yaga, Grade 1

Victims (Name, Age, Sex, Ethnicity, Occupation, etc.): 

(surname) (mother’s name) - 34, female, Ethnically Japanese, part-time daycare worker - deceased

(surname) (father’s name) - 37, male, Ethnically (your ethnicity), lawyer - deceased

(surname) (younger brother’s name) - 4, Ethnically Japanese and (your ethnicity), has yet to be enrolled in school and there are no signs of any application or enrollment in any early educational programs - deceased

(surname) (name) - 9, Ethnically Japanese and (your ethnicity), currently enrolled in Furutani Private Elementary School, grade 4 - injured, comatose 3 days post-incident 

Additional Notes: 

I, Minato Inoue, was the reporting supervisor assigned to the case.  I drove one Masamichi Yaga to the suspected location of the unnamed grade 1 serpentine curse at the (surname) residence in Okinawa. 

Upon arrival, the previously wide open entryway had been sealed by foliage and prevented anything larger than a person from passing through, discounting the difficulty of that in and of itself.  Exiting the vehicle, it was clear something was amiss due to the large, inconsistent surges of cursed energy emanating from the home.   Despite the potentially dangerous nature of the situation, my responsibilities stipulated that after casting the veil, I was to remain outside waiting for the attending sorcerer in the case of an emergency evacuation.

From my point of view, the incident wasn’t of much note.  I didn’t hear much noise, however this was likely due to the veil combined with the other obstructions between the scene and myself. 

When Masamichi Yaga exited the abode, he was carrying a small child in his arms, now identified to be the family’s nine-year-old son, (surname) (name).  Immediately, it was noted, the child was latched onto the attending sorcerer’s cursed corpse, Cathy.  While this may have seemed normal due to the proclivity of small children to latch onto stuffed animals, Yaga immediately corrected this assumption. 

The child was siphoning Masamichi Yaga’s cursed energy through the cursed corpse.  Yaga explained later that he did this to create a safe channel for the child to continue to siphon the cursed energy without directly taking it from his body, potentially damaging his permanent reserves. 

As a witness, I, Minato Inoue, swear upon my oath as a supervisor that the above is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ 

That was his own witness statement, the only other one belonging to Yaga. That was stapled behind Minato’s.

He peeked over at the handwritten notes at the top left-hand corner of his desk. 

“...”

Technically, they were classified documents meant for specific eyes only.  They were supposed to be stapled to the back  of Minato’s incident report and sent off to a group of higher ups for further evaluation. 

“...”

It would be a violation of privacy, and a violation of his own contract and morals.   He really shouldn’t spend any longer thinking about it. 

“...”

…but what was the worst that could happen? 

He peeked outside of his cubicle, scanning the walkways up and down.  A few of his coworkers straggled here and there, mainly by the boss’s mailbox and the coffee machine.  Nobody was suspicious of him; didn’t have any reason to be.  After all, if anybody looked in, it’d just be Inoue parsing through some documents.

“...”

The moment his fingers touched the high quality parchment, he could feel his guilty conscience hit him in the face like a truck.  His brows knotted up in the middle of his forehead, further displaying his inner turmoil.  He’d already gotten this far, though.  He’d already crossed the line of no return when he flipped open the first page. 

‘CASE 0976, (surname) (name) 

Cursed Technique: Igarushi Clan’s lost “Cursed Weaver” Technique 

Basic Description: The user is unable to manipulate cursed energy in what would be considered a “normal” fashion.   All cursed energy, including cursed energy belonging to other sorcerers or being produced by non-sorcerers, is perceived as threads/strands.  Largely, this sets the user on a plane completely separate to a majority of jujutsu society. 

The technique is considered to be a gem among many other cursed techniques for its unique lack of drawbacks and nearly infinite amount of uses.  That isn’t to say the technique would automatically rule the user a skilled sorcerer like the Gojo clan's famed Limitless Technique or their Six Eyes.  The user must be able to manipulate each individual strand of cursed energy into the correct position at the same time/rapid succession, making any use of cursed energy time and attention-consuming.  So while the creation of cursed tools out of thin air may seem simple enough, the user must be acutely aware of how much cursed energy they’re incorporating into each and every action. 

Unlike others, the user is able to see any and all cursed energy in the area at all times.  However, this ability can become troublesome when interacting with other sorcerers.  Cursed energy appears like woven lines, ties, or blankets depending on the individual’s reserves of cursed energy and their technique.  It becomes an eyesore quickly, but works well for expeditious situational awareness. 

The specific facets of the technique have been lost to time, seeing as many record keepers believed the records to be obsolete after centuries of waiting for the technique to manifest again. 

Much of this can be corrected with extensive practice/research, however the boy appears to be late to developing his technique.  When he last awoke, he relayed to his temporary caretaker (Masamichi Yaga) that prior to exorcising the unnamed grade 1 serpentine curse, he hadn’t so much as seen a cursed spirit before. 

Exorcising a grade 1 curse immediately after awakening one’s technique is largely unheard of, even more so when considering two other factors. 

The child’s parents were both non-sorcerers with no connections to the Jujutsu World

This technique was believed to be lost in the fateful battle against Ryomen Sukuna, dying with the Igarushi Clan Head nearly a thousand years ago. 

Genetics confirm that (surname) (name) is distantly related to the Igarushi clan, but the intermingling of other clans and bloodlines in the mix should’ve largely bred out/tainted the potential population that could carry the genetics necessary to pass on the technique, not to mention pass these genetics to seemingly the perfect host at the perfect time. 

While all of the above is more than infuriating enough, the child managed to create a binding vow during the time frame he faced death’s door against the unnamed grade 1 serpentine curse. 

He becomes largely unresponsive/aggressive when questioned about the vow, however, the obvious side effects have been noted. 

His reserves of cursed energy latch on to the largest reserve in his vicinity, siphoning their cursed energy until drainage before moving on to the next target.  Upon waking from his coma, it was revealed he can control the intensity and speed at which he drains cursed energy as long as the speed and amount exceed a certain threshold.  This threshold has yet to be officially established.

His temporary caretaker has reported he has difficulty sleeping, claiming that when he closes his eyes, he sees colorful outlines.  Upon further investigation, the outlines were that of cursed energy carriers (sorcerers, cursed corpses, etc).  In other words, the child is able to sense and perceive cursed energy in a vicinity of around 30 meters around himself with his eyes closed. 

The child’s control of the Cursed Weaver technique demonstrates basic mastery.  As of now, there are no leads explaining how this is possible.  

Despite being much more open with Yaga than other sorcerers, when probed about the details of the binding vow, he becomes visibly upset/distressed rather than hostile. 

In the meantime, staff have begun to refer to this vow as “evil”, “mutant”, and “unnatural”.  It is, of course, normal for many to be frightened by so many unknown factors, but it pains me that many are unaware of the potential developments that can be made into the science of jujutsu due to their fright. 

Despite myself and a large group of dissenters being against the name, CASE 0976, (surname) (name), has officially been dubbed “The Parasite”.’

JAZMIN BEAN : FAVORITE TOY

☺︎ taglist:

@angelkazusstuff @ahoeindeedinneed @wutap @mysouleaten @ilovebattinson @satansdaughter123 @http-l-o-k-i @rinaizha

masterlist: ☓

[cherryblossom-heart]

https://www.tumblr.com/cherryblossom-heart/780572973196279808/out-of-curiosity-this-is-simply-a-what-if

I know that this was just a what if scenario, but what did Kenji think about the whole, being adopted by someone who killed his stepfather and suddenly being lifting into a different environment and what he thought about reader

Kenji pt. 2

A/N:Hi! I love this question. So this is going to be a long answer, so sorry about that. I’ll put a read more below this.

CW: Mentions of child abuse and trauma

When Kenji stepfather was killed by Naoyas men, Kenji obviously was there to witness what happened. He didn’t see IT happening but he saw the body, he saw the men pointing a gun at him. He obviously was terrified but he had grown a little hard from the tough upbringing with his stepfather, each beating stripped away a piece of his childhood away and even at such a young age he was preparing himself for dying. He had wished so many times to never see him again, prayed that he never came home that he thought maybe this was the price for his wish.

Then comes Reader, screaming and fighting the men that had just killed his stepfather. He’s not dumb, he knows she works with them but Kenji is just surprised to see someone actually caring for him, let alone a strange woman he literally just met. So when she stands in front of him, pulling her own gun out as she’s screaming she’s going to kill them all if they dare even touching him, the only thing he can do is hold onto her.

After Reader took him she knew she had to go see Naoya but she couldn’t bring him with her, so he left him with Toji so he could protect him. And it wasn’t easy at all to get him to stay, he screamed, cried, kicked, punched, anything he could do to not get separated from Reader. Eventually, she managed to pull herself away from him but she promised him she would be back.

After everything is settled things are definitely not easy. When reader is back he isn’t talking which she things is understandable given the circumstances. Then another day goes by. And another. And another. Halfway through the second week Reader calls Shoko and brings him to her. Shoko tells her that this isn’t something physical but mental and he should really see a child therapist and recommends someone.

After going back and forth on it, she decides to have a sit down with Kenji. Both of them sat down at the kitchen table and Reader made hot chocolate with marshmallows for him.

“Kenji.” You called, the little kid lifting his gaze from the cup of hot cocoa.

No answer

“I know what you’ve been through is… a lot. Way too much for a kid your age.” Your voice broke mid sentence. “I want you to know that you don’t have to be scared anymore. The scary men that went to your house will never, ever hurt you again.”

No answer.

You sighed.

“I also want to apologize to you. I’m sorry I caused all of this, I’m sorry I took away the family you had left. I’m sorry I’m the reason why you were taken from your home. I’m sorry I was the reason you were put in that position in the first place.”

You continued your rambling, apologizing for everything you could think about but Kenji only looked at you with a blank stare.

“I understand if you don’t want to stay with me. I can arrange for you to stay with someone else I trust to keep you safe.” You wanted to grab his hand but you hesitated, choosing not to do it as not to make him uncomfortable. “I don’t want to force you to stay with the monster that took everything away from you.”

A minute went by and he didn’t answer, so you assumed he wanted to be sent away. You began standing up but he stopped you.

His words stopped you.

“You’re not a monster.” His words came out a little strangled from not using his voice in a while. “He was.”

It took you a minute to process what he said and Kenji had never seen someone as angry as you before.

“He? You mean your dad?”

“He's not my dad.” Kenji answered angrily. “He married my mom.”

You gulped down the anger that came out of you.

“Is he the one that did that?” You pointed at his almost completely healed busted lip. You had assumed it was Naoya’s men who did that considering they were ready to kill the kid.

He nodded.

“I hated him. I wanted him to die.”

His eyes watered and for the first time in a long time he felt a heaviness leave his chest.

Your heart clenched at his words as he fought the tears. You looked him in the eyes and you almost thought you were looking at yourself in the mirror.

Anger, resentment, frustration, bitterness. Each one of them trying to corrupt this kid, who has barely even seen the world yet he had gone through so much.

And something in you sparked that day. You didn’t want this kid to have a life like yours. You wanted to be able to laugh and experience everything that was good in life without the hardships and tribulations he had already faced. You wanted this kid to be able to live the life you always dreamed of but never got to.

You wanted him to be happy.

“I don’t want to leave. Please don’t leave me. I promise I’ll be good.”

You stood up, reaching for him to engulf him in a tight hug.

“It’s ok. You can stay as long as you want.

I’ll never abandon you.”

[whoisthisguyandwhyishehere]

One of the least favourite questions i get after telling someone im an adoptee is " what age were you adopted?"