#if you are wondering it was prompted by seeing the same “might be a hot take buuut..... tristamp is trash and i hate it” type of post

[vero-niche]

unexpectedly, my half-asleep written mini-rant has been quite well received on bluesky, so might as well share it here too:

and some of my favourite replies:

[koalayoo]

Men who talk a certain way.

They carry themselves with elegance, talk with a poised cadence unique to them. They hold themselves upright and have an air of superiority. A cunning look, signature smirk, firm hand; these are staples of their character, they know how to strike a deal. Whether for their people or their own gain, they intimidate those to gain an advantage no matter how many exploits gone through or people exploited.

People either love or fear them.

They’re important.

It’s no surprise that they sit at the centre of the table at a meeting, commanding attention. All eyes are on them, gripping their every word. Prompt nods and murmurs of agreements follow. They’re smart too. Incredible wit and perceptiveness as they continuously glance at everyone, especially you.

Fuck, and they’re hot too.

It makes your blood run hot. Jolts shoot throughout your body and you avert your gaze. It was stupid to you to be losing your cool for a man who felt indifferent about your existence. Maybe that isn’t the right word. 

Sometimes, you would question whether he hated you. Whenever you needed a pen, your hands brushed against one another for a second and he would quickly pull back as if being stung by a bee with a slight scowl forming on his face. If the piles of paper you needed to finish took too long, he would be adamant you finish for the night, which is all fine and dandy if he wasn’t looking for help from others to complete your work. He even reprimanded you, talked to you in that familiar stern tone once for not having your priorities in place when a stranger came up to you in a flirtatious manner as if you could control that. 

He pissed you off. 

Why couldn’t he care about you like a normal person?

However, you were wrong about all of it. He cared too much.

When your fingers grazed him he was ridden with guilt, these were the same hands he would think about at night. Imagine tracing the sharp edges of his skin. He would shut his eyes and throw his head back, replacing his hands with your own. Try to commit the soft feel of yours to his. Would you go slow or fast? He wondered. How would you hold him? Would you let him make a mess? His thoughts would trail on and on questioning your grip, your face, what you would say.

So, it was no surprise when he saw you working yourself to exhaustion that he wanted you to rest. That was his duty after all. Only he could do that. The eyes that he desperately wanted to see glazed over with a lust filled haze needed to be well rested first. That way, he could slowly see them become drunk for him, turning red, bloodshot from just how well he would treat you.

And it was especially no surprise that when another person had the audacity to want you too, he had to stop them. Sure, you didn’t deserve the scolding but he would make you feel so much better later on. He just had to be patient.

Had to keep his tone steady and tame. Pretend to treat you just like everyone else. Even if you thought he hated you. He could fuck you like that too if you wanted. He would give you anything you wanted. However, you didn’t deserve to know how depraved he truly was.

There was a thought that lingered at the forefront of his mind. If you found out just how he imagined you, would you leave? He figured you might feel disgusted, a man of his caliber, his power, wanting to succumb to you. And so he continued to talk. Continued to keep his tone steady. Keep his tone tame. 

He would keep himself in line; refined. Because if you found out how he was imagining you, perhaps then this man would truly feel fear.

fantasising about...

Sylus, NEUVILLETTE, Jing Yuan, Welt, Sunday, DAN HENG, Artem, Zhongli!, Gepard, Alhaitham?, Cyno ...and anyone else you're thinking of

Hope you liked this! Inspired by the song 'Talk' by Hozier. Specifically the line, "So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you." Please give it a listen! It was in my Spotify Top 5 it's so good and captures the vibe I was trying to go for with this. Sorry for the yap. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!

[oneforthemunny]

if i knew then |ex-husband!eddie munson x ex-wife!reader|

prompt: a collection of flashbacks from before.

contains: angst. like idk how else to say it- ow ow ow angst. all flashbacks. teen pregnancy, unexpected pregnancy. shitty judgy people. insecurities. dream crushing. fighting. language. really just bittersweet angst. chaos. they're so not good and immature in these. also might be a part one to a two part series.

October 17th, 1985

“We’re gonna get caught, Eddie.” Your heart trilled, heavy and hard at a thundering pace, his hand holding yours so sweetly, guiding you through the small patch of forestry that led to the football stadium- you hoped he couldn’t feel how your palms were beginning to sweat. 

“Who’s gonna catch us?” Eddie turned, chin hooking over his shoulder to give you a teasing grin. He pushed back a limb, unbothered that the branches were undoubtedly scratching at his leather jacket. “No one’s gonna be out here unless they’re doin’ the same shit we are, sweetheart. Promise ya.” 

Your tummy flipped with an adrenaline rush of heat, squeezing his hand tighter, moving closer to him as the dirt path turned to broken concrete, the Hawkin’s High School football stadium vacant of light, but bleachers standing high in the moonlight. 

Eddie moved towards the back side of the chain link fence, to the corner, heavy boot sliding under the exposed chain metal, lifting it so it peeled upwards. “After you,” Eddie bowed playfully, nodding towards the small gap. 

Your lips twisted, heat pricking at your cheeks. “I should’ve worn pants, I guess.” You muttered, hands smoothing over the skirt you’d chosen instead, despite the chilly temperatures. You knew Eddie liked you in a skirt, eyes always lingering and flickering towards your exposed legs. Even before you were ‘official’, you’d always catch him looking during fourth period. 

“‘S alright,” Eddie shrugged, lips puckering and pulling into a smirk he tried to hide. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” 

“Eddie,” You hissed, a trilling squeal of excitement in your tone, looking over your shoulder as you shimmied through the small space, careful not to pick your sweater. 

Eddie grinned, though you didn’t miss the way his eyes darted, catching a peek as you crawled in. He followed you closely, expertly sliding in before the chain fencing snapped back into place. You wondered how many times he’d snuck in here before. Maybe he was the one who made the hole in the fence to begin with. If he’d brought any other girls with him before. 

Eddie’s hand found your back, sliding over to your hip, pulling you close into him. “See? No one’s here.” Eddie nodded, motioning towards the empty rows of bleachers, the vacant football field. “You can relax now, baby, told you no one would be here.” 

“Yeah?” You hummed, leaning into his chest, warm cotton brushing your skin. “Guess I should trust you. Seems like you’ve done this a few times before.” 

Eddie’s chest rumbled with a laugh, squeezing the fat of your hip. “Only a few.” 

“Yeah? With who?” You scoffed lightly, brows pinched when you looked up at him. 

Eddie’s brows raised in amusement, lips rolling and biting back a grin. “Really hot chick, ya know? Her name was Gareth.” Eddie snorted in laughter. “I’ve only been here one time, last year with Gareth. We spray painted Kimmy Frank’s number on the field, wrote ‘call for a good time’ under it after she stood Jeff up at homecoming.”

“That was you?” You gawked. 

“Yeah,” Eddie smirked proudly. “She deserved it. Asked him out and got him all excited, then laughed at him when he showed up. Said it was a dare and called him names. Really fucked him up, ya know? So we thought we’d embarrass her.” 

“It definitely worked.” You muttered, passing the twenty yard line that stood out from the others with a fresh coat of paint, from Eddie and Gareth’s handiwork. “Didn’t the Franks have to change numbers because so many people were calling?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie snorted with a laugh. “I might’ve put it in the stall at The Hideout, too.” 

Your heart skipped, stomach dropping with the same prickling rush of fear and excitement it always did when you were with Eddie. The head reeling, mind numbing kind of rush that had you brainlessly going into any situation with him. 

“Here,” Eddie pulled you from your own thoughts, stopping at the center of the field. “This feels like a good spot.” 

“Eddie-” You looked around, towards the fence then the other side. You were so exposed, right in the middle of the field, for anyone to see. 

“-Baby, I told you, no one’s gonna come. Believe me.” Eddie hummed, shimmying off his jacket. “It’s not like this is Fort Knox or somethin’. It’s a public high school. No one’s giving a shit who’s here.” 

You bit at your lip, rolling it around as you tugged at your fingers, a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach. It had been growing and growing since you first decided to sneak out, after your parents had gone to bed, slipping through the window and running down the quiet street towards Eddie’s can parked on the corner. 

“C’mon,” Eddie muttered, cold hands catching your jaw, the metal of his rings meeting your own wind bitten cheeks, pulling you into him. “I’m not gonna let you get in trouble.” 

“I feel like you are the trouble.” You muttered, your body betraying your brain, letting yourself slip into his hold, hands pulling at his shirt. 

Eddie grinned, lips barely brushing before they captured yours, pulling you into him. Hands pulling at your clothes, your hips, sinking onto the cold grass. Eddie laid you back on his leather jacket, a gentleman, you mused. Shoving his pants and boxers around his thighs, he flipped your skirt up, lips still pulling at yours as he rutted into you. Your head spun, dizzy with excitement and pleasure, fists balling at the fabric of his shirt, hoping the sun would stay gone forever so the night would never end. 

July 28th, 1986

“Holy shit,” Eddie muttered, cradling the can of Similac. “Is there not a knock off version of this?” 

“No,” You hissed, rocking Jude close to your chest. 

You could feel the judging eyes of the couple beside you. Their baby in a stroller, cart full of diapers and groceries, the woman’s left hand adorning a rather large diamond, the man clean cut in a suit and tie. The polar opposite of you and Eddie, two scraggly looking teens with a two month old baby, and an empty cart. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to just get some of Marsha’s milk?” Eddie asked, turning to look at you. “She said she’s overproducing anyways, and she’d give you some bottles since you’re not-” 

“-Eddie,” Your body burned with embarrassed heat, tensing as the others in the aisle turned, lips pursed in disapproval. “Just get the formula.” 

“Baby, this is two-fifty a can. Marsha said she’d give it for free. I don’t see why you wouldn’t just take that.” Eddie said, trying to rationalize with you. 

The older woman beside you scoffed, her nose sticking in the air in disapproval as she turned to the young girl beside her. “And that’s why you don’t have a baby before you're married. You don’t want to end up like these two.” Her eyes narrowed towards you and Eddie. “It’s unfair to the baby.” 

Your heart stopped, fell into your stomach, your breath leaving with it. You thought you’d be used to this- the dirty, judgy looks when you went to prom nearly nine months pregnant, or when you barely made it to graduation after you had Jude three days prior. Still, it felt like a suckerpunch to your sternum every time. You’d blame the consuming shame as the reason you barely left the house now. 

“Lady, mind your own fuckin’ business, alright?” Eddie snapped, a growl in his voice that left her jumping, hurriedly pushing the cart down the aisle. 

You didn’t dare look to the couple beside you, but you could feel their judgment burning through you. Jude had begun to fuss the moment you entered the store, picking up on your apprehension that left him unsettled, until he finally began to cry. 

“Shit,” Eddie muttered, looking down at the baby, his face beginning to scrunch with the warning of a wail. “Here, take him to the car and I’ll check out.” 

“No, I can check out.” You shook your head, overwhelmed with the interaction from before and now this. “We still need diapers.” 

“I can get diapers-” 

“-No.” You snapped, teeth baring in irritation. “You always get the wrong size. I can get them.” Your voice was harsh, stilling Eddie and you both with shock in the aisle. 

Jude’s whimpering cries were beginning to grow louder over the beating of your heart thundering in your ears. “I’m sorry.” You whispered, looking down at Jude, then back at Eddie. “I just… I need a second.” 

Eddie nodded slowly, pulling out his wallet and passing it to you. “I got him.” Eddie muttered, slowly taking Jude from your arms. “I’ll be in the van. Take your time, baby.” He pressed a kiss to your head before he left you. 

You felt nearly robotic, pushing down the aisles towards the diapers. The dirty looks were gone, they left with Eddie and Jude, but a suffocating feeling of guilt took its place. The woman’s words ringing in your ears, unfair to the baby. Maybe it was, your mind screamed, as you stood in line at the check out. Maybe it was unfair that you couldn’t afford the luxury swaddlers, or that you couldn’t even produce enough milk to feed Jude. Maybe your parents were right, you had made a mistake. 

“Do you have any coupons?” The teenage cashier dead panned, a bored look in her eyes as she pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Oh, yeah- yes, I do.” You muttered, flipping through Eddie’s wallet for the coupons you’d clipped out of the newspaper this week, handing them over with a shame you were unsure of. 

The cashier punched in the number, the register dinging as the total rolled over at the top. “Twelve- seventy-two.” She muttered. 

You pulled the ten dollar bill out, heart sinking as you flipped through the contents, the folds and flaps of Eddie’s leather wallet. Where was the five you put in here last night? You know you gave it to him- 

“Ma’am,” The cashier huffed. “It’s twelve-seventy-two.” 

“I-I know.” Your chest tightened, lungs constricting. “I-I know I had more. I-I’m sorry, I just- I know I put it in here-” 

“-Ma’am, if you don’t have enough-” 

“-No, I have enough.” You snapped, startling the cashier. “I just- I know I put it in here, just-  Are you sure you added the coupons?”

“Yes,” The cashier snapped. You could feel your heart thundering in your chest, ears ringing, hands trembling. “Lady, I’ve got a line. If you don’t have the money, I’m going to have to ask you to leave and you can come back when you have enough.” 

“I can’t-” You pressed your eyes shut, your voice shaking. “H-How much without the formula?” 

“Just the diapers?” The cashier huffed. “Eight dollars and seven cents.” 

“Fine. I-I’ll just get those.” You muttered, eyes cutting to the line behind you. 

“Just the diapers?” The cashier asked, brow lifting with annoyance. 

“Yes.” You muttered, hands shaking when you reached for the ten dollar bill, eyes pricking with tears.  

“That will be eight dollars and-” 

“-Add the formula back on.” A voice behind you said softly. 

You jumped, turning towards the woman behind you. “I’ll pay for them.” She said softly, giving you a gentle nod. 

“No, no, I-I couldn’t ask you-” 

“-You didn’t.” The woman shook her head, sliding the twenty dollar bill over to the cashier. “Everyone needs a little help every now and then, and I’m happy to help.” 

Your lip trembled, jaw clenching to keep in your tears. “Thank you.” Your voice was broken, a barely there whisper that burned when it made its way out of your chest. 

“Don’t mention it.” The woman waved with a smile. “How old is your baby?” 

“T-Two months.” You croaked, sniffling back a wet sob. 

“A fun age.” She grinned. “Two months is great, but two years- ooh.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “That’s when they become little gremlins.” 

The cashier handed back the change, passing you the bagged formula and diapers. “Please, let me at least give you some money, an-and I can pay you back the rest by the end of the week, I swear.” You rambled, reaching for a pen off the counter, flipping your receipt over. “If you give me your name, an-and phone number, I’ll-” 

“-That’s not necessary, dear, I promise.” The woman shook her head at you lightly. “But if you don’t mind me asking, are you working?” 

Your chin ducked, spinning the pen around in your hands. “I-I waitress during the week at Benny’s. It’s been hard finding a job, because…” You looked down at the groceries, voice tightening in your throat. 

The woman nodded, reaching for the pen in your hands. “Well, if you’re interested in something else, I work at Vance Insurance and we’re looking for a receptionist.” She scribbled an address on the back of your receipt with her name- Sheila. “We just need someone young who knows how to work the phones, and can help us transfer calls, schedule appointments. Is that something you can do?” 

“I- Yes, I can do that.” You nodded furiously. 

“Wonderful.” Sheila grinned, passing the pen back to the cashier. “Stop in anytime this week and they’ll interview you. It’s a good starting place, good benefits- especially for a baby.” 

“Thank you,” Your eyes watered, brimming with tears that fell slowly down your cheeks. “I just- I can’t thank you enough, really, this is too kind-” 

“-Everyone needs help sometimes.” Sheila repeated gently. “I was you not too long ago, just needing some help. Like I said, I’m happy to help.” 

You nodded, clutching the receipt in your hands as you walked towards the sliding doors of the entrance. You held onto the receipt, buried it deep in your pocket until Monday morning. 

February 2nd, 1989

“Motherfucker,” Eddie hissed, ringed hand slapping down on the sticky table top. “A dollar?” 

“C’mon, ‘least it’s somethin’, right?” Darrel snickered from beside Eddie, bussing the booth next to him, emptied beer glasses splashing in the bin. “Could be nothin’ like that table before.” 

“Bunch of assholes,” Eddie grunted, shoving the dollar in his pocket. “Dude has a BMW and can’t tip more than a dollar?” 

“Those are the worst kinds, man.” Darrel shook his head. “Ones with the most are the stingiest.” 

“You’re tellin’ me.” Eddie scoffed, shoving the emptied bourbon glass in the bin. “That’s why I quit workin’ at Elroy’s.” 

“You quit at Elroy’s?” Darrel gaped. “When? I thought you just started that job, man, what happened?” 

“Psh, he’s a dick.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “Had me doin’ all the dirty work, making nothing, while he’s making six figures and just sits there bitching at all of us nobodies.” Eddie shook his head. “I got sick of it. I’m not working for some asshole and making no money. Besides, it was cuttin’ into my time playing here.” 

Darrel nodded slowly, head shaking with a shrug. “Yeah, that’s… That’s tough, Ed.” He hummed. “What about the Mrs? She pissed at you for quitting another job.” 

“No,” Eddie snapped, far too quickly and too defensively for it to be true. Pissed was an understatement. You’d had a fight so big, so loud, the neighbors two trailers down had to come check on you. 

“This is the third job this year, Eddie!” You had roared, throwing your arms out. “How the fuck are we going to afford a house when you keep doing this shit?” 

“Will you relax? We’ll be fine, we’ve always been fine. I’ll find another-” 

“-We’ve always been fine because I have a job.” 

“Baby, when I make it big, you won’t have to work. I’ll take care of us- all of us, ok? I’m working on it. I’ve gotten a bunch of gigs in Indianapolis-” 

“-That don’t pay.” You sneered. “That you spend more money on gas to get to than you actually make-” 

“-You gotta spend a little money to make money, baby. That’s business!” Eddie huffed, throwing his hands up. It was the same fight, it always was. 

“Spend what money? My money?” You scoffed. “Taking money away from Jude so you can, what? Play pretend rockstar? Grow up, Eddie!” 

That had been three nights ago. You hadn’t talked to Eddie since then. He’d slept on the couch every night since the fight. 

“Look, I-I got another job lined up.” Eddie bristled, shaking his head, trying to drown out your cruel words still ringing in his head. “I’m playing for Oktoberfest at this bar in Indianapolis. There’s gonna be a shit ton of people there, and who knows? Could be a producer or someone there to sign us. The guy over there said they’re always coming in from Chicago, seeing what talent is around.” 

“Oh, it’s a gig?” Darrel looked at him, not nearly as excited as Eddie thought he would be. “Not a job.” 

“I mean, yeah, it’s both-” 

“-You’re gettin’ paid?” Darrel lifted a brow. 

“Yeah, it’s not- it’s not much. Like fifty bucks, but that’s not with tips, and they cover my tab for the night.” Eddie stuttered defensively. It sounded like a much better deal when the owner pitched it to him. 

Darrel nodded slowly, fingers tapping on the bin. “Well, good luck then.” He muttered, wiping down the table. “But, uh, if there’s not a producer or whatever, you know my cousin is still looking for help with his HVAC business. If you’re ever looking for anything.” 

Eddie’s chest burned with furious heat, scoffing as he pulled away, moving to the next table. Who the fuck does he think he is? Eddie fumed, jaw set tight, teeth grinding with fury. 

The rest of the night wasn’t better, despite the crowd. Eddie pocketed a solid thirty-seven dollars, and some change an asshole at the corner booth left. He cut it down thirty-six dollars before he made it home, stopping by the liquor store for a pack of Camels. 

Eddie was surprised the living room light was still on when he came in, quietly shutting the door in case you and Jude were asleep on the couch again. 

“Baby,” Eddie whispered, creeping into the room. He found you sitting, awake, on the couch, arms crossed over your chest, eyes red rimmed and glassy. 

“Oh, I thought you were asleep.” Eddie muttered, voice still hushed as he shook off his jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch. 

Your lips pursed, arms still tight across your chest. “Jude is with Wayne tonight.” You said, though your voice didn’t carry the usual purr it did when you’d told him that before. Tonight, it was filled with icy malice. 

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie grinned, leaning over the couch towards you, arms wrapping around your frame, face pressing into your neck. “Good. I’ve had the worst fuckin’ day, and I’ve missed you. Missed sleepin’ in the bed with you, baby.” His lips tugged at your ear lobe, teeth grazing your skin. 

“Stop, we’re not…” You huffed, pushing him off you gently, standing from the couch. “We need to talk, Eddie.” 

Eddie’s heart dropped, sinking deep in the pit of his stomach. “Talk? About what?” His shoulders slumped, gripping the back of the couch with an exhale of exhaustion. “Baby, you know I didn’t mean it when I said that. I was just pissed, and… C’mon, you know I’d never really mean tha-” 

“-I’m pregnant.” Your words echoed through the small living room of the trailer, a silence settling around the two of you after that. 

Eddie’s mouth opened then closed, words strangled in his throat. “Pregnant?” Suddenly he was eighteen again, heart stilled in his chest, ears ringing with what he was sure was delusion. 

“What- I mean, how- No, I-I know how, I just…” Eddie swallowed around the thick lump in his throat, head spinning with the news. “That’s-That’s great.” 

Your choked sob startled him, left him flinching as your hand moved to your mouth, muffling your cries. “Hey, hey, what’s- Baby, don’t cry.” Eddie soothed, his voice calmer now than it was four years ago. 

Your wet cheeks pressed into his shirt, the overwhelming scent of stale cigarettes making you retch and gag. He should have known you were pregnant a week ago, when he’d slipped in the bed beside you after a night shift at The Hideout and you had gagged, shoved him out of the bed and told him to shower. “I can smell smoke in your hair, Ed. It’s giving me a headache.” 

He let you go, back away from him with a cry that turned into a gag that faded into a cough then back to a sob. “What’s wrong?” Eddie hesitated, his hands reaching out to you then back to his sides, unsure of what to do. “Why-Why are you crying? Are you not- I mean, hey, at least we’re married this time and… and adults.” 

He thought the little joke he made might calm you down, soothe you a little, not send you into another wave of sobs. Face crumbling, shoulders shaking with tears. “What- Why are you crying?” Eddie’s brows furrowed, reaching out for you. “Are you- Are you not happy?” 

“No,” You spat, sniffing back a wet cry. “I mean, yes but…” Your teary eyes met his, lip shaking with a cry you tried to swallow. “I-I don’t think it’s the ri-right time.” 

Eddie frowned. “Well, it’s a little late for that, sweetheart.” His hand rubbed over your arm soothingly. “What’s the matter, hm? What’s got you upset? This should be a good thing.” 

“Should be,” You spat with a wet sob. “Eddie, we barely make it as it is, and…and we’re never going to be able to afford two kids when you won’t stay at a job.” Your breath hitched, the harsh truth you’d kept in for months finally tumbling out, laying on him thickly in the room. 

Eddie’s lips pursed, tightened in a straight line. “I have a job.” 

“The Hideout is not a job.” You countered. “Not one that can support two kids, Eddie, be serious.” 

“I am being serious.” Eddie crossed his arms defensively. “And it’s not my main job, anyways, you know that.” You fought back an eye roll, the tears flooding your vision instead. 

“Baby, I know it doesn’t pay much right now, but all I need is one chance, ok? One time, just someone out there hearing me play, and-and then everything will change. We’ll be set for life. More than set.” Eddie gushed, reaching out to hold you. 

His eyes were wide, wild with the same excitement they were years ago, when he’d first told you his dream of being a rockstar. But that was before- before Jude, before you’d gotten married, before reality hit you in the face and knocked you on your feet. Before you’d become bitter with the harsh realization that dreams were for the lucky few, and that you weren’t. 

“I can’t…” You pressed a hand to your mouth, taking a deep breath you hoped would calm your nerves, settle your stomach. “Eddie, I- we don’t have time for one day. We have a family right now.” Your tear stained eyes met his. 

“I can’t afford to live off a dream that may happen.” Your lips pressed together, swallowing back a cry. 

Eddie’s face fell, and you could practically see his heart shattering. “What-What are you saying?” 

“That you need to grow up.” Your tone clipped, bitter and cold in the echo of the room. “You have a kid- two, now, an-and it’s not fair to them that they suffer because you want to chase down a dream that might happen.” 

Eddie’s heart sunk, burning with a soul crushing ache he hadn’t felt in years. “What? You think I can’t make it? That-That I’m not good enough?” 

Your eyes closed, taking in a deep, calming breath to steady yourself. “I never said that.” You looked at him. “Maybe if… if things would have been different, you could go out every night an-and play wherever and do whatever, but they’re not. We have Jude and another on the way, and…” 

There was a pause, neither one of you sure how to fill it, what to say. You swallowed the growing lump in your throat, willing your tears down. “You have to choose, Eddie.” Your voice shook gently, uncertainty filling each syllable. “If you want to go and make it big, fine, but I am not going to keep bankrolling your trips. Either get a job and grow up and be a father, or go be a rockstar.” 

“That’s so fucked.” Eddie scoffed. “You know that? That is so fucked, and-and manipulative and- You know I love you and Jude, and I’d do anything-” 

“-Then go get a job.” You snapped. “Go get a job and grow up, Eddie. Grow up and be an adult. Stop quitting every five seconds because something is mildly uncomfortable. Do you think I’m happy all the time at my job? No, but I stay because I have to, for Jude and for you.” 

Eddie swallowed back the burn of tears that built in the back of his throat, embarrassment maybe anger spilling hot out of his chest. “It’s time to grow up, Eddie.” Your eyes couldn’t meet his as you walked towards the door. “The choice is yours.” 

Eddie’s fists balled when you shut the bedroom door, stalking towards the front door, slamming it so hard behind him the trailer shook. He fished for his keys, yanking the van door open. You heard the gravel flying, the squeal of the tires following when he tore out of the drive. You squeezed your eyes together, letting out a pathetic sob in the still and silent room. 

Hours later, long after you’d cried yourself to sleep, you felt the bed dip. You smelled the smoke before you felt him, sliding next to you under the sheets, Eddie’s hands finding your waist. 

“I called Darrel.” Eddie said into the quiet darkness of the room, his voice hoarse with emotion. “His cousin said I could start Monday.” 

You turned, blinking with burning eyes, still raw from tears. “Really?” You croaked. 

Eddie swallowed before he nodded, and you pretended not to notice the way his lip shook. “You’re right. I…I need to grow up and be a man- be a better husband and father to Jude and the baby.” His voice was tight. 

Your words rang through Eddie’s head every day he got up, dragging himself out of bed and to work. What started as a motivating mantra, something he’d chant in his mind to get him through the tiresome shifts slowly became tainted, fading into a bitter, mocking reminder. Every time he’d pass by The Hideout, seeing the next gaggle of wannabe rockers on stage. Every time the radio would play a new band, someone his age who had gotten lucky, been at the right place at the right time and got discovered. He’d stew over it, fuming about how that could have been him. Resentment building that he tried to swallow down, the painful reminder of what could have been.

[lovebugism]

How about steve with the prompt "You look so hot today, babe." "Hotter than yesterday?" "Hotter than yesterday." 

ty for requesting xoxo — steve always thinks you're pretty (yes, even in granny panties) (established relationship, fluff, 0.6k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Steve knew you loved him the first time he saw you wearing his socks. He knows you love him still because of the underwear you have on.

It’s perhaps the tamest pair of cotton he’s ever seen you in, covering most of your ass and rising high on your waist. You’ve paired it with a freshly washed body, smelling distinctly clean and radiating with the warmth of your scalding shower. Wet hair, small shirt, no bra, bland underwear.

There’s something so emphatically domestic about the combination. Something soft and angelic, diabolically so. You might as well be telling him you love him without saying a damn thing at all.

“Have I told you how hot you look today?” Steve wonders from the center of the bed, curled in the sheets he hasn’t left all day.

“Uh… not since this morning…” you answer distantly where you stand before the mirror of his dresser. You kiss the tin of your chapstick (‘cause you hate putting your finger in it) and then correct yourself. “Actually, no— you said I looked pretty. Not hot.” You flash him a look over your shoulder, bare-faced and pink-lipped. You leer at him lightheartedly. “So you’re slacking today, Harrington.”

“Well, you look really hot today,” he atones with a crooked smile.

“Hotter than yesterday?”

He thinks for a moment, squinted eyes and jutted lips. Then he nods. “Hotter than yesterday.”

“You said that yesterday,” you scoff.

Steve tilts his head on the pillow, honey hair as wild as his eyes. He smiles, lopsided and pink. “Only ‘cause you keep getting hotter.”

“Well, I think it’s because you’re a boy, and you can see my underwear,” you argue half-heartedly. You cross your arms over your chest and angle your hip to the side, thighs rubbing like a harmony. “And now you don’t know what to do with yourself, like a Victorian child who just saw an ankle.”

“Well, yeah, that’s the half of it. But you’re also just pretty.”

Your nose scrunches. “You’re also just pretty, too.”

“C’mere,” he beckons with outstretched arms and grabby-hands. You gravitate towards him without thinking, crawling onto the mattress on your knees. His hands grip your waist the moment you’re in reach, wrenching you around until your back hits the bed. He smiles when you squeal.

The comforter wraps around his waist when he turns to lay over you. He kisses at your pulse, then gets lost in the way you smell. He runs the tip of his nose over the expanse of your throat. The softness of his barely-there touch makes you shudder.

“You smell good,” he mumbles, burying the words into your skin.

“Cozy by the fire,” you say as you twirl your hands in his hair.

“Hm?”

“Cozy by the fire. That’s the soap I use.”

He hums into the nook of your neck. “Mm. That makes sense. You smell all warm,” he mutters and melts further into you. He’s pressed so intently against your body that the rest of his words are nearly inaudible. “I don’t wanna get off you…”

“Then don’t.” Your arms wrap around his neck as you hold him closer to you. Even if he wanted to move, there’s not a world where you let him.

“I’m not crushing you?”

“Yeah,” you murmur into his temple. “But in a good way.”

He laughs against your pulse. Your heart starts to beat with it. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t make fun of me! I just like feeling you.”

Steve figures he knows what you mean. ‘Cause sometimes he gets jealous of your pillow, all green with envy because he can’t be stained with your scent the same way it can. “Fair enough,” he mumbles.

You linger there for a while. Pinned between his body and the mattress, like a flower pressed in the pages of a book.

[xetlynn]

So I saw that your requests were open and just wanted to request a little something. Idk why this came to mind but could you make something angsty between hospital friend! Viktor x fem!reader. When they first meet it’s purely by coincidence and as they grow older they get closer, but reader’s health deteriorates more and more due to their diagnosis. By the time they both were going to confess it was too late. This can be set in a modern AU or not. Thank you!!

(God im such a whore for angst 😭😭)

oh man oh man oh man. How I love angst. But lowkey think I’m bad at writing it so I’m sorry if I did this dirty����

Arcane Imagines- Viktor

Twisted Fate

[arcane] [main page]

prompt: in which fate is against you.

“Mom, please.” You roll your eyes, standing up from the hospital bed. “I just wanted to make sure!” She puts her hands up in defense as you just shake your head. “I can get up on my own.” You laugh, picking up your laptop, putting on slippers as you head out of the room. 

“I’ll be in the lounge if the nurses look for me.” You tell her and she nods her head, already tidying up your bed since you left it. You sigh at the clean freak that is your mother, walking down the hallway of the large building. It’s currently 10 pm so you’re hoping nobody’s in the patient lounge so you can do your school work in peace. It’s your senior year of high school. 

You turn the corner and into the comfortable warm colored lights that you say every room should have these types of lights instead of the bright annoying ones. You stop in your tracks though when you see a guy sitting there. He doesn’t pay any mind to you but you frown nonetheless. Wondering if you should head back to your room. 

If you did you’d have to deal with your worry filled mother. In here you’d have one strange guy who’s your age and obviously doesn’t seem like he’s going to bother you. 

You go sit down at the other side of the table that he’s already sitting at. Opening the lid of the laptop and getting started on your homework. 

As the time slowly passes you catch yourself looking at the boy, he was handsome that was for sure. “For someone also in the hospital for a reason you sure stare like an outsider.” He finally speaks up, your breathing hitches. Not expecting him to call you out. His accent also caught you off guard. It was really pretty. “Sorry.” You quickly apologize. 

“Is there something on my face?” He glances up to you with a raised eyebrow, putting down his rubix cube. “No, you just… remind me of someone.” You lie straight through your teeth. 

“Are they hot?” He asks and you smile. “Ehh, not really.” You joke and he places a hand on his heart. “Wow, way to bruise a guy's ego as he’s already clearly down.” He motions to the building the two of you are in and you snicker. 

“What kind do you have?” He inquires, you give him a confused expression. “Cancer, what kind?” He repeats and your mouth goes into an ‘o’ shape. 

“Acute Leukemia.” You answer curtly, pressing your lips together for a moment. “You?” You close your laptop, seeming as you weren’t going to be able to pay attention now. “Same actually.” He puts his hand up and you both pretend to high five one another in the air. “Twins.” You chuckle. 

“I’ve been sick since I was a child, so it’s only my luck that I get diagnosed with Cancer right before I turn 18.” You dramatically huff, leaning back in the chair. “Hah, we really are like medical twins. I had a really poor immune system as a kid. Diagnosed two years ago though. This is hopefully my last.” He crosses his fingers and then you do as well. 

“I hope so as well.” You nod your head. 

And as time passes the two of you grew close, almost inseparable. You two were the only ones who truly understood what the other was going through. Growing up sick as children, having worry warts of mothers. Then to get diagnosed with cancer, the same one might I add. You were grateful for each other. 

You were glad you had someone to warn you about what’s to come, who won’t soften the details like the nurses and doctors. And he would come to the hospital whenever you had to go back. Visiting you until the hours were over. You did the same for him as well. 

Your phone buzzes, you look at the screen hurriedly. It was the day that Viktor gets told if he’s cancer free or not. Today is important. You immediately answer, smashing the ear to your phone. “So!??” You pace back and forth in your bedroom. Antsy and impatient. 

“I uh…am…” He sounds sad and your heart drops. “Cancer freee!!” He excitedly says into the phone and you squeal out. “Yes!!! Congratulations!!!” You scream, laughing loudly. Your mom runs to the bedroom. “It’s gone?” She questions with wide eyes and a curious expression. You nod your head and she cheers, pulling you into a hug. Taking the phone from your hand. “That’s amazing, sweetheart! I’m so so so happy for you!” She tells your best friend and you scrunch your nose, smiling at her. 

Your mom and his had gotten close over the past 9 months since you had befriended Viktor. Now the two might be as close as their kids are. “I need to call your mom. We so need to celebrate this.” Your mom says and you over hear Viktor laugh, agreeing with the woman. She hands the phone back to you. 

“Sorry, she snatched my phone from me like I was some peasant.” You sit on your bed. “Well, it’s not like a peasant if you are one.” He tells you and your jaw drops. “Rude! I’m telling your mom when we go out to Hibachi grill later.” You threaten causing him to let out a snort of a laugh. 

“Hibachi grill?” He asks and you can already see the face he’s making. “Your favorite, of course we’ll be going there.” You scoff, he says a small “true.”

 “I have to go, you were the first call I made. My mom’s forcing me to call my whole family now. “ He groans. “Cancer free but at what cost.” He whines out, you chuckle. “I feel special, see you later.” You say with a smile. “See you.” He hangs up the phone and you stand up, going out to the kitchen. 

“Alright, Hibachi grill at 7, I’ll make a little reservation now.” You hear your mom speak and you bite the inside of your cheeks trying not to laugh. You called it. You knew them too well by now. You open the fridge, pulling out a water. You pinch the cap between your pointer and thumb, attempting to unscrew it but your hand feels too fragile. 

You frown, glaring at the white plastic. Trying it again. Your body was weakening from the first round of chemotherapy. You begged them to wait until after you graduated and now that you had, they set the appointment up and here you are.  You squeeze your eyes shut, throwing the bottle to the ground. “I have to go, I’ll see you at the restaurant.” You hear your mom say in the other room. Her feet heading your way. You look up at her. 

She sees the bottle that’s still rolling across the kitchen. “What happened?” She asked and you shrug your shoulders, going over and grabbing the stupid water filled plastic. “Can you open this?” You hand it over to her. “Of course.” She gets it with ease, your jaw tightens at the sight. Wanting to punch something. 

“So Hibachi at 7?” You change the energy of the room to something lighter, not wanting to hear the whole spiel of getting weaker and how it’s okay to ask for help. “Yeah, but do you need to cancel? I’m sure they’d understand.” She places a hand on your shoulder and you wiggle away. “No, mom. We’re going to celebrate my friend for being cancer free.” You spit out, walking back into your room. Upset that she would even offer that to you. 

It had been a year since Viktor was told his good news and now you’re walking into the hospital together for his appointment to check if that’s still the case with his body. You were bundled in a beanie, scarf and a large puffy jacket. It’s only 40 degrees outside but it was freezing to you. 

Viktor’s mom was supposed to be there but he told you she got caught up with something at work. You questioned it because his mom would never miss something like this. He shrugged his shoulders at your words. 

Secretly he had pleaded with his mom to just go to work so that you’d go with him instead. She knew how he felt towards you so it didn’t end up being a huge fight. Except she didn’t go to work. She stayed home due to her nerves being amped up. Not knowing if her son was going to have cancer again or not. 

The two of you are taken into a room to get the news. He had done all the blood work a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to find out over the phone so here you two are. 

He sits on top of a medical exam bed as you sit in a chair, shivering from still being cold. “You okay?” He asks you and you wave it off. “I’m fine, Vik.” You smile, your teeth chattering as you do so causing him to snicker. “Here.” He takes off his jacket, putting it on your lap. “Extra layer.” He says and you quietly thank him. 

The doctor walks in with a clipboard. “Heyy, Viktor. Long time no see. And you [Name]. Good to see you.” He grins at the both of you and you force a polite smile in return. “You too.” You puff out, holding yourself tightly. 

“So, Viktor. You are still cancer free. No signs of any abnormalities.” He tells Viktor who lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding and you clap your hands excitedly. “I only need one last test from you and then you are good to go. And hopefully I will never see you again unless it’s with [name] for the time being.” He motions over to you and you giggle. Every one of the staff knows the two of you are attached at the hip. If one’s there it’s most likely the other one is as well. “Okay.” Viktor stands up, leaving you alone in the room after they walk out. 

You sit there, leaning your head back tiredly. Using the hood of the coat as a pillow. You then feel something warm cover you, you shoot your head up, confused. “Sorry, Viktor told us you were cold.” The nurse awkwardly tells you and you thank her.

The room grows silent once again and you smile, snuggling into the heated up blanket. Grateful for your best friend. Your chest tightens at the thought of him. You were growing feelings for the boy as you spent every day with him. 

And two years later you’re standing there with your mom, Viktor and his mom ringing the cancer free bell. Weakly smiling as Nurses surround you, cheering. Viktor pulls you into his side and you grin up at him. “Now we’re both cancerless!” He squeezes you and you snicker. “Woo!” You rasp out. You currently had a cold so you weren’t all the way there but still excited nonetheless. Your tireless fight is now over. 

“Chinese food tonight!” Your mom joins the hug, Viktor’s mom following along. “Yay!” You beam. 

It didn’t last long though. You got a call about a month later from the doctor. “[Name] [Last Name]?” The lady over the phone asks and you smile. “That’s me!” You say as you were cleaning up in the kitchen. Viktor was currently in the living room with your mom. Getting ready to leave.

“I have some unfortunate news regarding your x-ray results. We have your appointment already set up on Friday for your physical if you want to hear it then unless you’d like to hear it now over the phone.” She speaks and your heart drops, palpitating a few times at her words. “I’d like to hear it now.” Your voice breaks. 

You leaned over the counter using it as support. “Um,” She was hesitant to tell you the news.

 “You have a malignant tumor in your brain, cancerous, it has spread to a point where you’d need surgery and treatment as soon as possible.” She informs you and your shoulders tense up. “The percentage of me living through this?” You quiet your voice as you ask, not wanting to alarm your mother or best friend in the other room. 

“10 percent.” She breathes out and you bite your bottom lip. “How long if I don’t get the treatment?” You vaguely ask but she immediately understands what you’re asking. 

“6 months with treatment and it failing, 3 months without it all together.” She answers your question and a tear slips down your cheek. “I’m not doing it.” You say sternly. “There’s a chance you’d live a long life if you get the surgery-” 

“I will go to my appointment this Friday to speak with my doctor. Have a good night.” You cut her off, hanging up the phone. You hunch over the sink, taking in the information you were just told. 

You’re not going through it again. You’re not making your body suffer more than it has to for only 10 percent. 10 percent!? 

“[Name], I’m heading out now.” A voice speaks behind you and you lift yourself up, forcing a smile. “Okay! Text me when you get home. Love you.” You give him a short hug, knowing if it was a longer embrace you’d break down in his arms.

“Love you too.” He says, leaving the house. Once his car is out of your driveway you collapse to the ground, letting out a loud sob. 

“[Name]!? [Name], what happened!?” Your mom falls beside you, pulling you into her arms. “Three months!” You wail, hiding your face in her neck. “I have three!” Your body shakes and she shushes you, not understanding what you’re talking about.

“Honey, breathe. Breathe.” She pets your hair and you hyperventilate harder, not able to calm down. 

“I- I got a call! From the office!” You shout out, having no other way to get it out due to struggling to breathe. 

She pulls away from you with scared eyes, staring at your face. “[Name], what are you saying?” She questions, gripping your arms. You breathe in through your nose, soothing yourself before speaking. 

“Malignant tumor in my brain. Only ten percent chance with the surgery and therapy. 3 months to live without it, 6 months if it doesn’t work but still do it.” You explain and tears build in your mothers eyes. You squeeze your eyes shut, you think this has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real. 

“You’re  getting the surgery right?” She asks automatically and you put your head down in shame.

“Right, [Name]!? You’re getting the surgery, right?” She cries out and tears spill down your face as you don’t answer her. “You just got the news, you can change your mind. It’s okay!” She talks, mainly to herself. 

She stands up, not knowing what to do with herself. “Don’t… tell anyone. Please.” You look up at her from the ground. She avoids eye contact with you but nods her head. 

On Friday your mom is gripping onto your hand, tears already threatening to fall from her eyes as you sit straight up. Your Doctor doing two knocks before entering. “[Name].” He solemnly nods his head, you do the same in return. “What would you like to go forward with?” He gets straight to the point and you glance over to your mom. She breaks down, looking away from you but not letting you go. 

“I’m not doing the surgery.” You tell him, heart thumping loudly in your chest. His face seems to flicker a sad expression before he takes a loud breath. “Alright, let’s talk about that decision then.” He begins. 

You sit with Viktor, staring at him from across the booth. Taking in all of his features with a small smile. Appreciating his presence. “What?” He chuckles and you shrug your shoulders.

“You just have an interesting looking face.” You say simply and he cocks his head to the side. “What a compliment.” He rolls his eyes playfully and you grin. 

“So, what’d the doctors say about this little sickness you have?” He points to your figure that’s very clearly ill. “Just my body having a weird effect from the medicines I’m still taking.” You lie. 

You hadn’t told him of the death sentence you had received. Or the cancer in your brain. You didn’t want anyone beside your mother to know. She told Viktor’s mom who promised not to tell him. You swore to do it before the third month. 

It’s already been one, the two of you still hanging out frequently, almost everyday. “Ah, so weird. You’re so prone to weird diseases.” He takes a bite of his food and you let out a dry laugh. If only he knew. 

You wanted to tell him how you felt before you were gone. Get it out. It’s been forever of yearning for him. The least you could get is a confession out. Maybe even a kiss from the man you’ve loved for over three years. 

Every single time you go to do it, something stops you. An interruption. Fate screaming at you not to do it. 

And in the second month, you were now in and out of the hospital, growing too weak to where Viktor couldn’t not notice something was truly up that you weren’t telling him. Even his mother seemed secretive.

He didn’t like this. 

You lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed as you rest. Your mom watches your breathing as she sits on the couch in the corner of the room. “Viktor will be here in ten minutes.” She tells you and you hum out.

“Good, I have something to tell him.” You smile softly. You were going to confess. You knew you weren’t going to make it through the week.

 

Viktor presses the button of the elevator, waiting in silence as it goes up to your floor. Holding flowers and your favorite chocolate. He was going to confess. 

The elevator doors open and he steps out, he limps a little more than usual, not having his cane with him. He was trying to walk without it in front of you. Show he’s getting stronger like he’s been saying. He heads to your room 143-V. 

As he gets closer, suddenly nurses and doctors are rushing into your room, he furrowed his eyebrows, picking up his pace to the best of his abilities. “What’s happening!?” He shouts, asking one of the nurses in passing. “I don’t know.” She sadly responds in a panic as she follows after the nurses.

He hears your moms voice, screaming. 

“No! No, no no! She was supposed to have another month!” She pleaded, getting pushed out of the room. Viktor grabs onto her.

“What’s happening!?” He asks, repeating the same question he asked before. “Oh, Viktor.” She cries, pulling him into a hug, crushing the flowers that he held. 

“Wha- what’s going on?” He shakily questions. “She never told you.” She curses you, frowning at the stupid choice that you made. 

A nurse comes out to say they’re working with you, leading them to a private waiting room. The two sit down and your mom explains everything.

Viktor sat there, stunned. Not believing this. Not believing that you wouldn’t tell him this. 

An hour passes and a nurse comes into the room. She looks like she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s about to cry. Her chin quivering. She’s been your nurse since the beginning. Since you first got diagnosed. 

“I’m sorry.” Her head bows and your mother screams out a cry. Viktor’s ears ring. His vision was blurred. 

“You can see her.” She says and your mom goes out but he stays planted in the spot. Not able to move. Not able to register what’s happening. You two were just planning to watch a movie together. To hang out and try this dessert you’ve never had.

The door creaks open and your mom is standing, her face stained with tears. “Go see her before you can’t.” She tells Viktor who nods, getting up from his seat. Shuffling his feet underneath him. Clutching onto the stupid flowers. And the stupid chocolate. He enters your room. Throwing the stuff at your feet.

“How could you!?” He shouts angrily. 

“How could you do this to me!? How could you leave me!?” He falls down to the side of your bed, grabbing onto your lifeless body. His own body finally letting him cry. 

“I was going to confess my love for you! And you die?! What the fuck!?” His voice breaks with every word, it was high pitched and hurting.

The nurses that pass by, lowering their heads. Everyone that knew you in the hospital was heartbroken. They truly didn’t think this was going to happen to you. You were good.

“And you don’t tell me you were dying? I should’ve known something was up, you were so sick! I’m such a terrible friend! I fucking suck, you… You fucking suck.” He bawls, punching the bed repeatedly. 

Your mom goes to him, pulling him into a hug and he clings onto her immediately. “I’m sorry!” He says. “I’m sorry!” He weeps and she shushes him. “It’s okay, it’s okay I promise.” She cries with him. 

Such a twisted, sick fate life had gifted upon you. 

[avocado-writing]

Could I request headcanons for Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Halsin, Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor react to his gn crush who is so oblivious that they told him with confidence that no one would be interested in them romantically?

yes of course lovely, it’s always a pleasure writing your prompt lists 😊💕

Astarion

definitely thinks you’re joking at first.

laughs, then sees the defeated lag of your shoulders, the way you can’t tear your gaze from the ground.

wants to do his usual blasé retort, but is torn because well. he really cares for you.

I think, after a moment of silence, he reaches out and takes your hand. threads his fingers through yours.

“darling… there is so much of you to love, it’s mesmerising.”

he can’t look at you while he admits this of course, but he feels the way you squeeze his hand in yours and his dead heart skips a beat. 💕

Gale

utterly baffled.

of course someone would love you romantically?

from a practical point of view he just starts listing things off: you’re kind, a good leader, big-hearted, have a strong moral compass…

and then he just lapses into the things he likes about you.

that you’re so lovely. so good-looking. that your hair is nice and your eyes are spellbinding.

only realises he’s gone off on a tangent when he sees you grinning at him, then gets a little embarrassed…

gives you the confidence to press a kiss to his cheek though, and after that he’s beaming for the whole day 🥰

Wyll

shocked. shocked and appalled that you think that way about yourself.

takes you out for a stroll, just the two of you, and ends up waxing lyrical about all the things you have going for you.

he tries not to turn it into a confession but my man is a romantic, and soon he ends up spilling everything.

the way every time you smile at him his heart speeds up and his cheeks get hot. how you deserve someone who’ll be by your side through everything, and he’s not afraid to be that someone despite everything you’ve faced on the road.

he’d keep going if you didn’t muster up your courage and pull him into a long kiss 💕

Halsin

is old enough to understand self-doubt doesn’t just go away in one day. he’s admired you for a while so he tries to start actively courting you.

little gifts appear for you. carvings of your favourite animals, flowers you’ve mentioned liking the perfume of.

he finds a reason to be by your side every day. always tries to make you smile and laugh.

and eventually you realise… oh, what you believed before? about nobody ever feeling romantic love towards you? that was totally wrong. because there is your Druid and you’ve just realised his heart is totally devoted to you.

when you have this moment you immediately run to find him and throw yourself into his arms rom-com style lmfao ❤️

Dammon

“that’s… that’s not true! there would be plenty of people who’d love you.”

you look up into his eyes. they’re soft and sweet, and there’s a desperation behind them as the words come tumbling out of his mouth, too late to stop them.

“I’d love you. I do love you.”

a moment passes. he’s worried he’s messed up.

then you stride across the room to bring him into a kiss and his face gets hot enough to rival his forge… 🔥

Rolan

”don’t be so foolish.”

you’re utterly gobsmacked, because you were being so vulnerable, admitting your worry. “excuse me?!”

he tries to backtrack and make it look like he didn’t just insult you, lol

”there’s nothing wrong with you. you’re… wonderful. anyone would be lucky to have you.”

cheeks a bright crimson, and he’s so bad at hiding his emotions that you clock what this is instantly. it’s a confession.

“oh…” “don’t worry, forget it, I didn’t say anything—!” “rolan, would you like to get a drink tonight?”

he might combust. but he squeaks out a “yes.” because honestly? he was worried about the exact same thing you came to him to confide…

Zevlor

is firm in how silly you’re being, but kind.

holds your face in your hands to get you to look at him.

swears how lovely you are, his words like a pledge. like a prayer.

and when this paladin tells you all this? how could you believe him to be wrong.

maybe someone would love you romantically. gazing into his warm eyes, maybe someone does.

[angelsheartts]

Hi!! I was wondering if I could request the “hope nobody will catch us!” prompt for Angel dust x gn! reader too? Thank you love!!❤️❤️

✩‧₊˚ I HOPE NOBODY CATCH US !! .

(but i kinda hope they catch us, anyways)

#pairing: angel dust, husk, velvette, lute x gn reader

#cw: suggestive content, +18 mdni, cuss words Imao, getting caught in suggestive situations ig?? adam being adam on lutes part, drunk sex?, kind of only fans on velvettes part ngl.

#notes: just got back from vacation, and i do feel kind of inspirational to write on my blog lmao, so here it is! second part of "i hope nobody catch us". did anyone noticed it’s the lyrics from les - childish gambino?

PART l

˖ ˚ ༘✶ ANGEL DUST .

well, it’s kind of ironic how angel dust would actually care if someone would see you both fucking, but it’s just because he actually wants to have something intimate with you, not just some porn video where you both need to act.

today, valentino had given your partner finally a day off, so you both decided it would be the best to spend it together.

as you both were cuddling in his bed, you somehow started teasing him by confessing how you watched one of his adult videos, and how much it had turned you, so it wasn’t a big surprise how you ended having him on top of you.

"that’s kinky for you to say, but keep going" angel dust said, smirking at you while already having your underwear aside "well, at first i saw how you went down on them, and-" suddenly fat nuggets was on the bed looking at you both.

yeah, so after seeing your kid staring at you both, it really made the atmosphere so not hot.

˖ ˚ ༘✶ HUSK .

i mean, husk, and you do have a pretty regular intimate life cause this man is sooo touch starved, but there’s something different about being drunk and intimate to him.

you knew you both had maybe a few more drinks than usually, but that wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?

wrong, as soon as you started to feel the alcohol doing its thing, you soon started to feel horny too.

but, who could judge you? seeing your bartender boyfriend also with the same flushed face as you was so hot, you somehow ended on top of the counter, while having your boyfriend kiss your neck.

"Oh, for fucks sake, and everyone says im the perverted one?"

yeah, hearing angel dust words made you both stop, but it didn’t make you stopped once you reached your bedroom.

˖ ˚ ༘✶ VELVETTE .

your girlfriend being a famous influencer in hell wasn’t something new to you, but as soon as you both started dating, you didn’t expect her to literally get sent sex toys for you both to try out and recommend or give your review about it.

your girlfriend was doing a live on her sinstagram, when you unexpectedly entered the room in the lingerie she just bought you just a few days ago.

of course, she had to end her livestream by saying a lame excuse to pamper your needs, and what the best way to do that with testing the vibrator who got sent to her for a review.

"velvette, ah- it‘s too much, i‘m going to cum" while sitting on her lap and putting your arms around her neck, you both suddenly heard velvettes phone vibrating like crazy, turns out she never ended her livestream and all hell just saw how needy you were for her.

after really ending the live, let’s just say that the vibrator you used got most-sold-sex-toy of the month.

˖ ˚ ༘✶ LUTE .

your girlfriend is somehow always occupied with something that isn’t you, so you might of have your ways to have her attention.

even though your girlfriend is an exterminator, you both sometimes ended up working together.

so, if dragging her near a closet to have her all for yourself was bad, then what you wanted to do in there with her would be worse.

"(name), it’s not appropriate, and adam is gonna be here anytime soon" lute said, staring at your face with her mask "yeah, yeah you say that every time, but you know how it always ends"

and yes, it was true, your girlfriend knew your true intentions when you dragged her into the closet, but still, she had a kinky side where she liked doing things you weren’t supposed to.

not to mention how hot you looked when you tried to be the dominant one.

"fuck, you're already so wet, huh? is it because you like getting me in trouble or because you want me to punish you?" she said, rubbing her fingers near your clit faster each time, "ah, lute-! keep going" "you’re a fucking mess, answer my questi-"

"DANGERTITS? bullshit, why the fuck didn’t i come sooner? legit thought you didn’t have sex, but you know what? this can get pretty awesome if i joi-“

adam did in fact not join you both, but he did make lute clear that "you both needed the original dick to even come" - adams words.

[drabblesandsnippets]

Sunshine - Part 4

Hot Bucky Summer 2024 - Week 8

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Plus-size female character (nickname is Sunshine)

Prompt: “Maybe this'll help you relax” | [Hot Bath | Another Drink | Cockwarming] @buckybarnesevents

Summary: (4k) Series Masterlist TW: Mention of (past) SA. During a blackout, Bucky learns more about Sunshine’s past.

Warnings: 18+ Only. Slow burn. Grumpy/Sunshine trope. Happy Bucky (is that a warning?) - he's a photographer in this AU. Mention of insecurities, anxiety, intrusive thoughts, and body image (she's a bit of a mess, okay?). Internal dialogue. Sexual thoughts. Use of weed. Mention of car accident and minor injuries. Mention of emotionally immature parents. Mention of (past) SA.

---------------------------

Bucky barely got any sleep last night, having spent most of it thinking about Sunshine and the different ways he could confess his feelings. Ridiculous, elaborate plans that would likely just overwhelm her and risk ruining this before it can even begin. None of which he actually considered putting forth.

This isn’t about surprising her or winning her over. Bucky wants Sunshine to trust him enough to share her past, to allow him to learn what shaped her into the woman she is today. Not as a means to take advantage of their undeniable connection, but to see if this is even something she wants to pursue.

The intimate moment they shared last night is the only evidence he has that she feels the same way he does. It’s not enough to jeopardize their friendship, no matter how much he wants to ask her out on a date. No matter how much he wants to tell her how beautiful she is and how long he’s thought about kissing her.

Bucky’s determined to do this right.

Which means he also has to take into account what Sunshine might be dealing with if his assumptions are correct. He already saw a glimpse of it last night, the way she blushed and acted as if it didn’t suddenly feel like they were the only two people in the world. Trying to pretend that they were sharing a friendly interaction and not the start of something that most people only get to dream about.

Planning to listen to his intuition - something that’s rarely steered Bucky wrong - he decides to approach this from two different angles. 

Before he leaves for work, he takes the time to write her a note, going through several pieces of paper figuring out how to word his message. Friendly, but not overly flirty. The point is to ease her worry that things are awkward between them, not to convince her that last night meant something to him.

Bucky will save that for tonight. And, if there’s any indication that Sunshine’s looking for a relationship, he won’t let her go one more night convincing herself that he doesn’t want her. He can’t.

-------------------

After tossing and turning for the last few hours, she finally kicks off the covers and sits up in bed with a soft groan. The last thing she wants to do is get ready for work, having to go into the office today, but the thought of calling out sick gives her too much anxiety.

 She’s not sick. She’s just stupid. 

Last night has been playing on a loop in her head, as if her brain is trying to torture her, oscillating between convincing her it was all in her head, to wondering if there really was some mutual flirtation going on.

By the time her alarm is going off, she’s done a spectacular job of sticking to being ‘realistic’ about the whole thing.

Bucky definitely wasn’t flirting. He was being friendly and she was reading way too much into it. She’s not his type. She imagined the whole thing. Even if he was flirting, it didn’t mean anything - it’s just who he is and now he’s comfortable showing that part of himself to her.

While getting dressed, she’s going further down the rabbit hole, imagining worst-case. It doesn’t even matter that he behaved like nothing was out of the ordinary after he was finished taking her picture. He kept his word, delivered her the final product and even joked that seeing her positive reaction to the headshots was payment enough.

But it still doesn’t stop her from believing that she’s going to find no coffee waiting for her. Or wondering if he moved out in the middle of the night to get as far away from her as possible.

If nothing else, she excels at nonsensical scenarios.

When she finally enters the kitchen, it’s like the wind gets knocked out of her. There’s coffee waiting, the familiar Good Morning, Sunshine! travel mug full and ready to go, but there’s also a piece of carefully folded paper next to it.

Oh god.

Every single possibility races through her head again, one thought slamming into another before she can even process the original one. Torn between wanting to quickly get it over with to see what the note says and wanting to postpone it for as long as possible, to delay bad news.

Already wasting enough time, her schedule forces her to gather her things and rush out the door, the unread note stuffed in her pocket, her heartbeat pounding in her ears with each heavy step she takes towards the subway. 

He’s leaving. You made him uncomfortable.

The moment she finds an empty seat on the train, she uses all the tricks to slow her breath and ease the stitch in her chest. Her anxiety is getting the best of her, not letting her think straight, causing her to feel as if she’s already living her worst nightmare.

Knowing she can’t wait until she’s at work, she wipes her sweaty palms on her thighs, the linen of her pants soaking up her nerves. 

Bucky wouldn’t deliver bad news like this. He wouldn’t treat her like she means nothing to him. Deciding not to silently admonish herself for believing he would, she opens the note instead, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Good morning, Sunshine!

Thank you for trusting me to take your picture.

If you ever want to do it again, 

just say the word and I’m all yours.

(that goes for anything you want to do together)

I hope you have a great day!

Try not to work too hard,

     Bucky

During the 5th reread, she almost misses her stop and shoves the note back in her pocket, planning to look at it at least ten more times today. At least she finally feels like she can breathe again.

Everything’s okay. 

Maybe more than okay?

Instead of allowing herself to go down that line of thinking, she’s just happy that she didn’t fuck things up last night. Their friendship is the only thing that matters to her. She can deal with the rest of it later. Or, never.

-------------------

The expected thunderstorm arrives earlier than predicted, drenching Sunshine just minutes before she walks in the door. Finding Bucky standing there ready with a towel, her look of annoyance morphs into one of surprise and he grins at her, resisting the urge to wrap her up in his arms. 

He’s also ignoring the desire to let his eyes roam, just barely catching a glimpse of the way her wet clothes cling to her body. Bucky wants to peel them off of her, expose every inch of glistening skin, lick up each drop of-.

Sunshine’s movements interrupt his thoughts, the towel mopping up the wetness along her arms as she rushes to her bedroom to change. Brief exchanges of hello, a passing complaint about forgetting her umbrella at work, and he’s suddenly alone again, searching for another towel to dry the floor as he laughs to himself.

This isn’t how he expected their evening to start, but Bucky’s not going to let it faze him. Nothing can ever go exactly as planned, he just needs to make sure Sunshine’s evening isn’t ruined. A little rain might seem inconsequential to him, but it could be her last straw after a stressful day.

Giving her space to dry off and join him when she’s ready, Bucky moves into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee and look through their cabinets for a snack. Just as he’s planning to prepare more than enough to share with her, the flicker of the lights stops him in his tracks.

The storm is building and there’s a very real possibility they’re going to lose power. 

Praying the coffee finishes before they do, Bucky calls out for Sunshine and starts gathering supplies for the impending blackout, tossing everything onto the counter. Flashlights and batteries. Candles and lighters. A portable charger. A charged USB fan from his backpack in case it gets warm.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” she says, joining him in the kitchen, eyeing everything he’s managed to find in such a short amount of time. 

Bucky doesn’t miss the way his readiness makes her smile, but just as he opens his mouth to respond, fate steps in, reminding them who’s in charge, and they’re engulfed in darkness.

Sunshine’s soft, exasperated “well fuck me” seems to echo throughout the suddenly quiet apartment and straight to Bucky’s brain, threatening to send him into a spiral of dirty thoughts. All he can do is break into a fit of laughter to join hers, the exhilarating sound filling him with contentment.

Whatever happens tonight, it’ll only bring them closer.

A few minutes later, the soft glow of the lit candles creating an unintentional romantic atmosphere, Bucky joins Sunshine on the couch, setting her bong and glass container of weed carefully on the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” There’s a slight furrow to her brow, but she’s laughing, as if she’s hoping for another rare night where he joins her.

It hadn’t been his plan - wanting to be as clear headed as he could be tonight - but, the look she’s giving him has him throwing away every last shred of the plan. None of this has gone the way he thought it would, so he may as well go with the flow.

“I dunno about you,” he grins, pulling his legs underneath him to turn towards her, giving her his full attention, “but I’d love nothing more than to get high and play some cards with you.” Producing a deck of cards from his jeans, her smile grows and he watches a bit of the stress from her day melt away.

Bucky may not know everything about Sunshine, but he’s paid attention long enough to know what she needs during moments like this.

-------------------

Bucky’s note was the highlight of her day, everything going downhill after that. Meetings that should have been emails. Unnecessary, awkward social interactions. The looming promise of a mid-year review. The only thing she wanted to do after work was come home, get stoned, and find something to distract her brain for a bit.

None of her usual choices are options now that they’ve lost power, and the fact that Bucky seems to understand without her having to say a word makes last night come rushing back. Even if there hadn’t been any flirting, it’s obvious that he cares about her, and not just on a surface level. That’s what she needs to be focusing on, not the delusional hope of having more with him.

The weed helps, encouraging her to relax and enjoy the moment with Bucky, the occasional dirty thought quickly brushed away. The usual anxiety and insecurities that are known to plague her are quieted, and soon she’s having too much fun laughing and joking with him to worry about anything else.

She doesn’t even mind when the joking turns into more serious conversations, the topic soon approaching dangerous territory: childhood and family. She listens with rapt attention while Bucky recounts the tale of how he and Steve met the summer before junior year of high school.

“I had just gotten my license,” he explains, glancing at his cards to decide his next play, “and was driving my mom’s old station wagon home from a friend’s when a guy blew through a stop sign, hit my passenger side and spun my car straight into a tree.”

She gasps and her eyes widen, her mind suddenly filled with horrible images of teenage Bucky hurt and in pain, but she’s too invested in the story to verbalize any thought or question, her own cards held tightly in her hands.

Not letting the tension build, Bucky’s quick to tell her, “I was lucky, but the tree put up a pretty good fight.” She watches as he pulls up his short sleeve to show her a faint scar above his left bicep, the thin line snaking around his arm and up underneath his shirt.

Using the excuse that the candles aren’t providing enough light, she leans in to get a better look, the couch dipping between them as she ignores the part of her brain telling her to touch him. The absurd thought is almost enough to make her laugh, but she covers it up with a soft clearing of her throat and settles back, meeting his gaze to say, “Please don’t tell me Steve was the guy who ran the stop sign.”

Easing any worries starting to grow, Bucky grins and shakes his head. “Of course not. The hospital was busy, so I ended up with a roommate.” The bright smile on his face tells her everything she needs to know, and she laughs when he confirms it. “Steve and I immediately butted heads, and then became inseparable. It didn’t take long for my parents to basically adopt him as their own, and right before 11th grade ended, they invited him to move in with us like it was nothing.”

After everything Bucky’s told her about his parents, she’s not surprised, but she’s unable to stop herself from blurting out, “Wow. Your family is a lot different than mine.” She’s still laughing when she says it, but that familiar feeling of being too vulnerable threatens to rear its ugly head. 

For the first time, and not just because of the weed, she dismisses the fear, suddenly wanting nothing more than to share more of herself with Bucky. She’s kept so many things safely hidden, unsure of how he might react, or how it would change things between them. They just started to truly be comfortable with each other, and while she’s scared of erasing all that progress, the need for more of a connection with him is too great.

As if reading her mind, Bucky gently says, “I know not everyone is fortunate enough to have parents like I do.” He pauses to take his turn in the card game, then adds with a smile, “So while I might not be able to truly understand, I’d still like to try.”

Taking a moment to consider her next play, her eyes focused on her cards, she casually begins with, “My parents are the complete opposite of yours.” A glance up to see that Bucky’s attention is only on her has a tingle of excitement settling over her, a complete contrast to the usual jolt of worry and nausea she feels during these conversations. “Distant. Cold. Selfish. I think they call it ‘emotionally immature’ or something.”

Putting her cards face-down in front of her, she finally meets his eyes again, seeing nothing but sympathy staring back at her. There’s no pity, no look as if she’s suddenly broken. It encourages her to keep going, to share more of herself with him.

Giving him a slight shrug and a soft exhale of a laugh, she explains, “Basically, they didn’t know how to be parents or care enough to even try. Other than meeting our physical needs - roof over our head, food in the fridge - it was like living with complete strangers. But hey, it’s probably why I’m so good at living with roommates.”

“Jesus,” Bucky laughs, shaking his head at her. Her dark humor has a way of catching people off guard, but it’s obvious that he’s not just laughing to placate her. He genuinely seems to appreciate her jokes, even the ‘inappropriate’ ones.

“It’s true!” Her growing smile only seems to make him laugh more and she shrugs innocently, their attention on each other, the game now paused. “But, it’s also why I struggle at communicating and expect the worst in every situation.”

Bucky nods in understanding, a soft smile on his face. When his tongue flicks out to wet his lips, she can’t even resist glancing at his mouth before meeting his gaze again, her cheeks growing warm. With just a hint of knowing smile, he says, “It’s why I left you the note this morning. I figured there might be a little stressing out, and I wanted to try to help if I could.”

“You did.”

This time when their eyes connect, she doesn’t forget how to breathe, despite the dazzling smile suddenly lighting up his face. Her heart still skips a beat, but her body stays relaxed enough for her to take in a slow, deep breath. 

As her lungs fill, warmth spreads throughout her body, and that deep yearning returns. That longing for connection and intimacy, to be loved and cared for by someone. It’s the only reason she has for what comes out of her mouth next.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Anything.” He says it so quickly and with such conviction that she actually believes it. For right now, in this moment, she trusts that she can tell him anything and it won’t be ‘too much’ or make him treat her differently.

She still doesn’t find the words until after she takes a much needed sip of water, keeping the sweating bottle in her grip to occupy her hands. “Sometimes I worry that I’m too fucked up for a relationship. That no one can handle all the things wrong with me.”

-------------------

This isn’t how Bucky wanted to get to this information, but he’s still grateful to learn that Sunshine isn’t necessarily single on purpose. Despite her sadness, it gives him a spark of hope that this is the invitation he’s been waiting for. 

Treading carefully, he slowly shakes his head to disagree, telling her, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

His words make her laugh, but he takes it in stride, letting her speak her piece, listening to her list all the things she views as ‘wrong’ about herself. Her anxiety, her insecurities, her intrusive thoughts, her lack of family and inability to trust people.

Once she pauses, Bucky leans forward, not caring when their cards slide along the couch cushion, mixing together. What she needs to hear is more important than anything else. “Those are things you struggle with.”

With another soft laugh, she replies, “It’s the same thing.” 

“No, Sunshine, it’s not.” Bucky’s smile fades slightly, giving her a glimpse into his serious side, desperate for her to understand how he views her.

There's nothing wrong with her and she's not broken. 

He can see the emotion growing behind her eyes, the familiar ache to pull away, to break the silence with a joke. Bucky expects it, and he won’t fight her on it, but he doesn’t encourage it this time. He stands his ground, holding her gaze, an understanding smile gracing his face as he waits for her.

“You don’t understand.” 

It comes out as a whisper, barely audible, but the apartment’s still quiet, save for the lingering noise of the fading storm coming in through the open window, and the slight hum of the battery-powered fan keeping them relatively cool.

There’s more to Sunshine’s story. Something from her past that makes her believe she’s not worth someone’s time and effort to learn how to love her. It makes him itch to hold her, to physically comfort her in whatever way she’ll allow. 

They’re not quite there yet, so all he can do is encourage her to tell him, then he’ll be able to prove to her that she’s wrong.

“Whatever it is, it still doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

The soft sigh that leaves Sunshine tells him she’s ready to divulge more information and he grows quiet, watching her gather the forgotten cards into a neat pile. “My parents weren’t the only fucked up people in my family.”

This isn’t a time for assumptions, but wherever this is going, Bucky’s chest is already starting to ache, silently taking in how her trembling hands reach to load a new bowl. They’re both high as kites, but if it’s what she needs to tell him more of her secrets, he’s not going to question it or shame her.

After a large hit that she almost struggles with, she starts over, telling him, “When I was in high school, I started spending a lot of time at my aunt’s house, while my parents worked.” 

She pauses yet again, this time to offer him a hit, as if grasping for the last bit of distraction she can find to delay this. 

But Bucky doesn't provide her one, politely declining and offering her a soft smile when she teases, “Ya sure? It’s not an easy story. It might help you relax.”

He doesn’t need her to comfort him or make this easier to digest. Bucky wants all of her, especially the parts that she's been taught to believe aren't worth knowing. Carefully placing the bong back on the coffee table, he says, “I’m sure, Sunshine. I promise, it’s okay.”

An audible swallow, a slow nod of her head, and then a deep, steadying breath. Maybe he is starting to get through to her.

Gently clearing her throat, she explains, “I spent a lot of time at my aunt’s house, while my parents worked, and…”

She briefly glances at him again, smiling at the encouraging nod he gives her, before finally allowing her confession to come out. “My older cousin still lived there and he started… paying attention to me.” A nonchalant shrug, and then the words that make Bucky’s stomach drop, “Inappropriate comments turned into unwanted touching.” As if she needs to defend herself, she adds, “I didn’t know what to do. No one had ever talked to me about that stuff.”

“Sunshine,” Bucky says, the urgency in his voice begging her to keep looking at him. It takes her a moment, but when she does, the fear is palpable, the emotion clear in her eyes. “I don’t care if someone gave you step-by-step instructions and you still didn’t know what to do. None of the blame falls on you.”

She blinks back the unshed tears and nods her head, but still tries to dismiss it all with a shrug of her shoulders. “It took me a while to finally tell someone - a teacher at school - and when my family found out, they all just wanted to pretend it didn’t happen. My parents were more mad that I got the school and the police involved than they were about anything else.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to hold back the emotion, the anger and sadness threatening to well up inside of him. Thoughts of wanting to find her family and enact some sort of revenge on every single one that caused Sunshine pain. It’s not his responsibility to fix this, but he sure as hell can ease some of her concerns.

“I know there’s nothing I can say that can make up for your shitty family, but I am proud of you, and I am so glad that none of them get to see the amazing person you are today.”

-------------------

She wants to cry. She wants to hug him. She wants to trauma-dump and have him console her. But, she’s not ready for any of that right now, no matter how much she feels like she can suddenly trust him.

There have been countless times where she’s shared this secret with someone and it’s backfired. Caused rifts and awkward exchanges. Reduced a friendship or relationship to nothing but innocent jokes and weird looks during conversations about intimacy and sex. 

The way Bucky is looking at her doesn’t give her any anxiety about their future. She feels seen and heard, and extremely hopeful that things aren’t going to change between them. It allows her to be comfortable enough to remind him again that she’s scared of what her prospects are.

“Now you get it,” she tells him with a smile, offering out her hand like there’s nothing else for her to explain. “No one in their right mind is ever going to want to date me and deal with all my issues.”

“That's not true."

That conviction in Bucky's voice is still there, but it does nothing to prepare her for what he promises next.

"I definitely do.”

---------------------------

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Hot Bucky Summer Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 13

Jason Todd + Masks or Helmets

Hi guys, hows everyone doing lately? Im tired, but what else is new. Such is the waters of life, or whatever they say. I have no idea where I was going with this, enjoy. Kind of goes hand in hand with the Jason prompt from last year, which you can read here. This is more focused on their relationship, so it might be a little bland.

2024 kinktober masterlist.

What you and Hood shared didn’t have a name. you weren’t officially dating or anything, but you only messed around with each other, if that made sense. He got you stuff in leather, and let you fondle his body, when and when he wasn’t wearing that latex bodysuit. It got you both going, and helped keep the edge off when things got annoying. Plus, he was hot as hell, even if you had never seen his face.

Him wearing his helmet always seemed to add a bit of an edge to what you two did, especially when your hands followed the shiny surface of the black latex suit he wore, only to see it follow up under the helmet. There was a small seam just below his head, before the helmet started, but that was all. It left you almost dizzy just thinking about it, wondering what was beneath it all.

Of course, you didn’t get to see beneath it for a long time, even when Hood got wacked hard enough in the head that he could barely stand on is own two feet, and you had to drag him to Leslie’s. Leslie was used to seeing you, both of you. You liked to fight, and Hood just always ended up fighting whether he wants too or not. All the leather you wore was pretty damn recognizable too, making you a memorable sight.

At least, it would have made you memorable, if this wasn’t Gotham. Most folk were too busy trying to survive this shithole to worry about what anyone wore, only checking if it was the uniform of some rogue or gang, before going on their way. The red streaks to your outfits were enough to let people know you were one of Hoods, and that’s all they needed to know.

You knew Joker had gotten out some days before, and that he had finally been picked up by the bats again, after causing more death than that clown should be allowed too. You hadn’t even needed to check the news or anything, since Hoods pacing and ranting was enough to tell you that the clown was out again. If it were up to you, then Joke would have been dead a long time ago, would do a lot of good in your opinion.

It got to a point where you felt like Hood was gonna burst a blood vessel, so you had to resort to the good ol, rub his torso and try and calm him down. He was wearing the same latex as always, his angry breathing loud enough for his helmet to pick it up. Hood sounded like some kind of angry dragon about to breath fire all over you, or maybe that was just you making things up.

The helmet was blank, the white eyes doing nothing but staring at you with no feeling or tell of what was going through his head. You had learned some of his tells over all the time, at least what Hood allowed you to see of him. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to know when he was angry, stressed, sad, or whatever else he might feel that could hinder him as a leader.

Him leaning his head back to flash his latex covered throat was a bit new though, his shoulders slumping as he exhaled loudly, clearly debating on something inside his head. Hood had a lot of thoughts, a lot of it that he never shared with any of you and kept to himself. That was just how Hood was, he had at least gotten better at sharing when something could involve you guys, sometimes.

You almost wanted to pull your hands off his torso where they had been rubbing his stomach through the shiny material, when he reached up to grab his helmet. It felt illegal to see what was beneath it, your hands tensing up with the instinctual want to cover your eyes. Seeing Hoods face felt so wrong, like something you should never be allowed to do.

It left you a bit stumped as the helmet came off, only to reveal… another mask. Or rather, another hood. You didn’t know too much about the whole, gimp culture, at least you thought it was one of those masks. Except it had some kind of mesh material covering his eyes and mouth, still leaving his eyes a mystery to you.

You were speechless, and you were rarely speechless. Hood barely looked like himself as he shucked his jacket and shirt off, herding you backwards until you were sitting in his chair, in his office. Having someone as large as Hood kneeling between your knees was still new and uncomfortable in its own way, but also nice, good.

He clearly didn’t want this to go anywhere, as he avoided rubbing against the obvious hardness sticking to your thigh through the tight material of your leather pants. Instead, Hood just pressed his forehead against your knee and sighed loudly, rubbing his head from side to side, like he just needed something.

With slight hesitation, you finally just decided to say fuck it. There was a guy in the sewers who looked like a crocodile, a chick who controlled plants, and you were pretty sure there was a bird cult in the city. So, who where you to judge that your boss, who’d clearly shown you that he was into this whole thing, was into this whole thing.

With a soft exhale you just place one of your leather gloved hands on the back of his sleek head, moving it in slow motions back and forth. Rubbing from the back of his head, down between his shoulders, and back up again. It felt almost like scrubbing the hood of a car, not that you legally owned one. But you’d painted and waxed enough cars for the motions to be familiar.

You felt kinda bad comparing your Boss to a car getting waxed, but what he wore left him shiny like one, so you couldn’t really help it. Hood clearly wasn’t gonna get all soft and pliable like you’d seen in videos online, not in some place as dangerous as his office. The only place that was good enough for that was his safehouses, you hoped. The guy needed some time to just turn off his brain and do what he liked, but realistically no place was ever safe enough for that in Gotham.

Sitting here rubbing your crime bosses hooded head wasn’t ever on your plans for the future. But it was nice in a way, if you didn’t think too much about it. There was a familiar throb between your thighs that told you that your body definitely liked it, you just had to turn the thought in your head for a bit, maybe even do some research on whatever it was Hood was into.

Latex, full head covering, and masks wasn’t really your thing, but if Hood was into it enough, then yeah, you’d learn about it. He had always been a nice guy, in the way crime bosses could be nice, and you had this whole, strange relationship going on, which made it worth learning about.

Maybe next time, when he wasn’t this worked up, Hood could actually tell you about it. For now, though, you just sat there and comforted him, in that strange way he seemed to need. But everything in Gotham was weird, so maybe this wasn’t as strange as it felt. Not weird, maybe you should just call it new instead. It was new, and you were happy to explore it with Hood, if he allowed it.

[daddy-kinard]

a relatively unimaginative little thing for @bucktommypositivityweek prompt scenes from a fire truck

It’s not the first time they’ve responded to the same call as the 217 engine working ground support, but it doesn’t happen often. Buck thinks this is only the fourth time since Harbor station came to mean something more to him than any other, and two of those times he knew Tommy wasn’t even on shift. Today though, today Tommy’s working, which means probably Tommy’s here. Buck feels his heartbeat pick up in anticipation before their engine has even rolled to a stop, parked up right next to the one branded 217. It hadn’t sounded like the sort of call that would have any of their lives in imminent danger, but Buck knows as well as anyone how quickly that can change.

Thankfully, things don’t escalate any further than expected, and as they start winding down operations the knot of anxiety in Buck’s gut loosens to its baseline - he’ll never be completely calm when he knows Tommy’s out there, trying his utmost to stay safe, to make it back home - to their home - of course, but putting his life at risk nonetheless - and he wonders whether he’ll maybe get the chance to see him before they have to leave.

He’s repacking their gear when he feels a body behind him. The space is tight in between the trucks, and when a hand lands on his hip, he’s about to apologise, to try to squeeze out of the way so whoever it is can pass, when a warm, familiar, voice speaks, right in close to his ear.

“Bobby said I’d find you here.”

“Firefighter Kinard.” Buck smiles as he lets himself be spun around, until he’s face to face with blue eyes that sparkle back at him.

“That’s Firefighter Pilot Kinard, I’ll have you know.”

“Hmm,” Buck muses, pretends to consider it, “you know, I can think of something else I’d rather call you” he lowers his voice to barely above a whisper, “Daddy.”

Buck swears he can see Tommy’s eyes darken in the moment before all 200-something pounds of him is pressing Buck back against the hard metal of the engine. Their lips meet and Tommy kisses him deeply, hungrily, his hand coming up to tangle in Buck’s curls, angling his head the way he wants. Buck goes easily, willingly. He rocks his hips into Tommy’s, wanting more, even though there’s only so much he can feel with two layers of turnouts in between them. He lets Tommy’s mouth wander, to his jaw, to his pulse point, the scrape of teeth and stubble making Buck moan his name softly.

“God, you’re a troublemaker, aren’t you kid?” Tommy huffs as he pulls back.

Images of stolen firetrucks, of being caught with his dick out on the roof of the station, of the countless times he’d given out his number to women on calls, of the few times he’d asked for one of theirs, of an ill-advised appearance at a basketball game, of a soot-covered face in a hospital bathroom mirror, flash through Buck’s mind. A decade’s worth of trouble, now, and he wouldn’t trade where it’s eventually led him for anything. He can’t keep the smile off his face as he snakes one arm beneath Tommy’s coat, resting against his sweaty lower back, to pull him closer for one last kiss.

“Don’t tell me that wasn’t what you came here for?”

Tommy holds up both his hands.

“Alright, alright, busted.” He laughs. “Couldn’t last until tomorrow without kissing my hot boyfriend.” Buck feels his cheeks heat up, turns out there are certain things that don’t get old no matter how many times he hears them.

“118, we’re heading out.” Buck assumes the crackle of Bobby’s voice over the radio is a deliberate warning so he and Tommy can avoid being caught by their co-workers in some compromising position, and he might be peeved if there hadn’t been precedent. Instead, by the time Buck’s team start appearing, the only evidence of their not-quite-PG activities is the state of Buck’s hair - he’ll blame the helmet if anyone dares question it.

“See you at home?”

“Of course. Love you.”

“Love you more, be safe.” He studiously ignores the exaggerated gagging sound Eddie’s making from behind him as Tommy presses one last, chaste, kiss to his cheek.

“Be safer.”

Buck swings himself up into the truck.

“Thanks, Cap.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Buck.” Bobby replies with a smile.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Hello,

I have a writing prompt for Michael Kaiser (Blue Lock): Kaiser gets into a pr relationship with an actress and they eventually bond and fall in love.

I think he would have a hard time because of his feelings of worthlessness, but this guy has so much potential, I swear, I love him so much.

If you want to go for a "dark side of Hollywood" type of concept, imagine: a young girl who was raised under the pressure of becoming "the perfect star" and surrounded by the chaos of the industry (Idk, the movie Black Swan comes to mind, or the typical representation of Marilyn's life, something along the lines). I think he could bond with someone who is in a similar mind space as him, but who externalizes it differently, remaining kind and such. He definitely needs someone who is empathetic and can see through his insecurities, and I really like the concept of two characters who are hurt helping each other heal.

If you don't want that much drama, scratch the idea of a hurt oc. Think about someone with an "entrepreneur" mindset: someone ambitious, confident, and level headed, who (again) is empathetic and would call him out and help him grow (I'm thinking about sae, but emotionally competent lol).

You don't really have to go for any of this though, it's just meant to get you inspired to write something for my boy Kaiser. I hope it's not too much. Also, there's no rush at all!!

Thank you in advance. I hope you have a good day 🩷

Synopsis: Michael Kaiser is like a rose, and you are the songbird he cannot bear to lose.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.8k

Content Warnings: fake dating trope, implied/referenced abuse, call me tabito karasu the way i assassinate kaiser’s character in this, open ending, relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…

A/N: hiiii anon ty for requesting!! i hope that i wrote kaiser in a somewhat satisfactory way 😫 this is my first time writing for him so idk if i got him right 😓 also i have NO idea why but for some reason i decided to write this in the present tense which i literally have never done?? so if it sounds off that’s why 💔 i’m so sorry i really don’t know what possessed me SKDJFSHKL

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

It’s hot and like a bruise, your first phone call with Michael Kaiser. He’s that brand of aggravating and just shy of painful to speak with; morbidly, you wish for the conversation to manifest as some kind of actual injury, perhaps on your upper arm, so you can poke at it until it is tender and blooming. But of course, that sort of thing isn’t possible, so you amuse yourself by tapping your fingers against the counter and considering what you might eat for dinner.

“Did you hear me?” he snaps when you do not respond to his proposition immediately. He speaks with an accent, clipped and short, lending severity to his words even when he’s saying nothing of note. “Miss L/N. It’s in both of our best interests to cooperate.”

He’s not wrong about this. It’s the only reason you’ve stayed on the call for as long as you have — it’s in your best interest. It’s the same for him, too, and the thought almost makes you laugh, because who would’ve expected your interests and his to ever align?

“Of course I heard you,” you say, twisting open your bottle of water, taking a sip and idly wondering if he can hear an accent when you speak, too. It’s difficult for you to notice your own, but maybe to him, you sound as odd as he does to you. “You should learn patience, Mr. Kaiser. Such a heavy request you’re making of me, and yet you demand my answer immediately?”

He huffs. “It’s not something you need to dwell on.”

“It might be,” you say, though it’s not at all. Your mind was made up the moment he asked; everything after that has been nothing more than a ploy to irritate him. You’re good at that, at irritating people. Michael Kaiser is not an exception.

“Miss L/N,” he says again, something like a darker version of pleading creeping into his tone. “Your answer. Now.”

“Well, you already knew before you asked, didn’t you? Naturally, I’ll do it,” you say. “It’s a mutually beneficial partnership. Though I expect you to really try your best, Mr. Kaiser, or else it’ll all be for naught.”

“I could say the same to you,” he says.

“Between the two of us, who is the actress?” you say, chuckling when he is silent. “I am sure that I will be convincing. It’s you who I worry for. Hiding your true feelings has never been one of your strengths, has it? Or you wouldn’t be speaking to me at all.”

“Shut up,” he says after a moment has passed. “I doubt your acting skills are anything to brag about.”

“I know you’ve watched my movies,” you say, and when he doesn’t refute this, you beam. “Have you really?”

“Only because someone I know suggested I should,” he says. “If I want to love you, then I have to understand you. That’s what he told me.”

“And what did you think?” you say.

“I thought that I don’t plan to love you at all, and then I told him as much,” he says, the force of his eye roll transmitting even over the phone. You’re not sure if he’s acting deliberately obtuse or if he really thinks you care about this inane conversation he’s describing, but either way you sigh, because his answer is so telling of his personality.

“I was talking about my movies,” you say.

“I don’t prefer the genre,” he says, and then he’s hanging up with a promise to call you later, if he is so inclined. He doesn’t tell you not to call him, but you feel like he implies it, so you vow to set your phone aside and pay him no mind for the rest of your evening.

I’m dating Michael Kaiser, you type in the body of your email to your manager, who you are certain will be so delighted by this news that he will combust spontaneously upon hearing it. You want to type it again, this unbelievable turn of events, so you do. I’m dating Michael Kaiser. Then you delete the repetition, reverting it once again into a formal email, instead of a giddy celebration over an event which should not prompt giddiness or anything resembling it.

It’s a relationship meant to salvage his ruined reputation and boost your career in one fell swoop, and so it’s a relationship that can only work if it’s formed between you two in particular. He, who is a foul-mouthed soccer prodigy, known better for his crass treatment of others than any actual skills he may possess, and you, a rising star who will do anything to be famous and are already of a serviceable status to be seen with him.

Despite your burst of excitement, the prospect of dating Michael Kaiser isn’t actually a thrilling one. The rumors of his horrid demeanor aren’t rumors, and you know this well, albeit through secondhand accounts. Cruelty is the way that he operates, his so-to-speak basal mode, and because it is so intrinsic to his being, you do not fancy that he will deviate from that malicious rule, even for you.

But you are accustomed to a false existence. Donning a facade and masquerading as a person who you are not is the only thing you are good at, are good for, and this time is no different than every other. You will put on the mask of a woman who is loved by Michael Kaiser, who has tamed that mad emperor and turned him into her sweet pet, and you will once again fool the world into believing you.  

He’s doing an interview today. You’re only aware because he texts you right before and tells you to turn on the TV to a channel you’d never choose if you had a say in the matter. But you’re intrigued and he refuses to explain further, so you do as he commands and find yourself watching as he reclines back in a leather armchair and smirks at the host, who’s clearly nervous.

She’s pretty, her hands shaking but her expression serious. You’ve never seen her before, which means she’s new. Of course, that’s not a surprise; only someone very inexperienced or very stupid would invite Michael Kaiser to their show, and she does not seem to be particularly stupid, so her affliction is the first. 

“Um, Mr. Kaiser, it’s a pleasure to have you with us,” she says, like she cannot quite believe that he is actually there, or like she is afraid of what he might take offense at, or some combination of the two.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he says, all roguish and self-assured, which is such a contrast to his typically surly demeanor that you have to commend the girl for keeping her composure.

They speak at length about his soccer career, throwing around words you do not understand and do not care to. It’s so boring you almost power down the television and tell him you think as much, but then the girl clears her throat, her face turning a comical shade of red as her fists clench the paper she’s been reading off of.

“This last question is from our viewers, but it’s personal, so if you don’t want to answer, then it’s not a problem,” she says, squirming in her chair, probably hoping he does not humiliate her. It will be bad for her career if he does, even if by now everyone knows what kind of person he is.

“Go on, then. I feel like we’ve built a rapport here, so I don’t mind it as much if it’s from you,” he says. It’s a perfectly packaged sentiment. His PR team must have tortured him into this new persona. You try to imagine it — it’s definitely a humorous thought, picturing the Bastard München representative slamming Michael Kaiser’s face into a bowl of water for every snarky comment he makes. Unrealistic, though. They would never risk compromising his performance like that.

“There’s rumors that you’re seeing Y/N L/N, the actress. A source who claims to be close to you both mentioned it online, and people can’t stop talking about the possibility. Neither you nor Miss L/N have addressed it, though, and our viewers were hoping you might…?” She cringes back, already preparing for one of his tirades, but he only smiles genially and winks at the camera. You remind yourself to tell him later that he’s laying it on too thick, even if you are enjoying this new character that he’s playing up for the sake of it.

“Y/N L/N? I’m shocked that you think I’m handsome enough to date someone like her,” he says. Your phone buzzes — it’s your manager, crowing about how impressed he is with your ‘boyfriend’ and his presence of mind. 

“So it’s a no?” the interviewer says, almost hopefully. He’s mysterious when he shrugs, mysterious and more than a little coy, as if she’s flattering him and he’s too shy to accept the praise.

“If Miss L/N ever deems me to be worthy of her, then it’s a yes in a heartbeat,” he says. It’s an excellent setup for his redemption, and the girl plays into it so beautifully that you tell your manager to send her flowers or some chocolate at the earliest possible opportunity.

“I think that you’ve shown yourself to be an excellent candidate today,” she says.

“Have I? I’ve really been trying to prove myself,” he says. Dreamy sighs ripple through the live studio audience. Someone whistles. It’s all very romantic and fairy-tale-esque, although he is far from being any kind of prince.

“You’re doing great,” the girl assures him. “I’m sure that, if Miss L/N is watching, she’ll have no choice but to be smitten.”

“If she’s watching? Oh, the thought didn’t even cross my mind,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. You shouldn’t have doubted him and his audacity; he’s fallen into the role as if he were born to play it. “How embarrassing. I’ve just confessed to her on live television without even knowing if she’s interested…”

He’s actually blushing. You are doubly awed — he’s a natural-born talent. It’s a shame that he’s devoted to soccer; he could make it out like a bandit in the acting industry.

“No, no, don’t be embarrassed. How could she ever reject someone like you?” she assures him. How, indeed! At the moment, you are so pleased that you could kiss him. He’s better than any co-star you’ve ever had to work with, in that he is making your job exponentially easier instead of exponentially more difficult.

“If she really is watching, then I can only pray she heard you say that part,” he says, waving in greeting, presumably at you. “Hello, Miss L/N. I really admire you, so if you find me at all agreeable, then I would quite like it if you would say yes to the date I’m going to ask you on.”

He’s made the world swoon and your social media mentions triple. People are begging you to say yes, to give him a chance, to see how he has changed. They want to live through you, and you will let them.

When he calls you, you tell him you were thrilled by his performance. This causes him to shoot back that he finds you insufferable and condescending, to which you say that it’s what makes you and him such a perfect pair. Then you recite an address, and he asks you what you’re going on about. You answer that it is the place where you will have your first date, and then you hang up before he can respond, just so that you can deny him the chance to do it to you first. 

Cameras flash in your faces as you enter the restaurant your manager has booked a reservation at. Michael Kaiser’s arm is wrapped around your waist, and it’s nauseatingly domestic, the kind of scene that would be the cover for one of those coming-of-age movies your agent loves booking for you. You wait for the frantic sound of camera shutters to slow, and then you tug on his sleeve.

“What is it?” he says. It’s quiet enough that no one else can hear, which is why it’s devoid of any warmth, but you are unruffled.

“Your tie,” you say. “It’s not crooked, but we will pretend that it is, and I’ll fix it so that there is something sweet to accompany the tabloid articles that will come out tomorrow.”

Your hands reach for his neck, and he does something you do not comprehend — flinching back, he shakes his head. When he realizes he’s done this, he grits his teeth, like the anger can make up for the temporary weakness. You do not press the issue, merely furrowing your brow and gazing up at him, doing your best to ensure that your eyes remain soft, so that the exchange is not misinterpreted by the parasites around you.

“No,” he says. “Do something else, but leave my tie alone.”

“Alright,” you say. It’s not sensible for you to argue, and anyways it doesn’t matter much what you are doing, as long as you are doing something. Humming to yourself, you adjust the lapels of his jacket. The cameras go off again. You pretend like you do not notice, like the world consists of only you two, and then you interlace your fingers with his, allowing him to drag you into the restaurant behind him.

It’s your turn to be interviewed. You’re wearing a dress, your legs crossed at the ankles — it’s demure and practical and prevents anyone from leering at you, so it’s been a habit of yours for quite a while. The interviewer is female, though, which calms you a bit. She’s older, around your mother’s age, and the wrinkles on her forehead remind you that you should call your parents and arrange for them to meet your doting boyfriend.

“Miss L/N, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am to finally meet you!” the woman says. You think her name may be Anne, but she hasn’t introduced herself to you yet, so you’re not certain.

“You are too kind. If anything, it’s an honor for me to be here,” you say. The audience really likes that, when you are humble and shy and so darling. It’s palatable and easy for them to digest, or that’s what your manager tells you. 

“Tell us about your upcoming projects,” she says after giving you the appropriate amount of praise for your charming personality.

“I’m currently shooting a new romantic comedy, but I’m afraid it’s all very hush-hush, so I can’t say too much about it. I think you all will really enjoy it, though, and I’m looking forward to the day that we can discuss it at length,” you say. 

The conversation goes on like that for a bit, but you know she’s going through the motions because she has to, not because she wants to. There’s only one question she cares to ask, but if she just talks to you about your boyfriend and not your own accomplishments, then she’ll be blasted online as an anti-feminist. You hear quite frequently that this is akin to suicide in the world of marketing, so you can’t blame her.

That doesn’t stop you from having some fun. When she’s exhausted every possible avenue of questioning you about your future plans and past successes, you make as if you’re going to stand up and leave. Panic leaps across her face, and you snicker.

“We’ve spoken at such length about my acting career. You can’t possibly have any more questions about it, hm? You probably know more than my manager does!” Your attitude is balanced out by the joke. The audience laughs. It’s a fine line that you walk, but if you do not have the chance to act sharper every now and again, you believe you will die — internally if not externally — so you take such risks when you can justify them to yourself.

“You’re dating Michael Kaiser now, aren’t you?” she says. It’s a rancid curiosity she hides with a motherly type of concern. You brush off your legs, recross them, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I am,” you say. You don’t have to play the games that he did; you both are established now. Official. A bona-fide couple. Anyways, it’s more appealing if you are outright with it.

“How has that been? You’ve really made a difference in that young man’s life, it seems,” she says.

The best way to lie is to tell the truth. “Yes, I suppose I have, but he has made an equal difference in mine. He is as good for me as I am for him; truly, I never understood what it meant when my parents called each other their ‘better halves’ until we met.”

In an hour, there will be thousands of posts online about this. If Y/N and Michael break up, then I don’t believe in love anymore! Maybe soulmates are real! Couple goals! These are the kinds of captions you are anticipating. The two of you will send screenshots to one another and laugh about how gullible the world is, and then you will strategically plan which comments to like and posts to favorite so that your message goes through. That’s the extent of your relationship with him, really, at least when the two of you are alone. The detachedness makes things much easier than they otherwise would be.

“There’s a popular theory going around that the two of you have had a secret wedding already. Is it true? Am I speaking to Mrs. Kaiser at the moment?” she says, eyes glittering like a vulture’s. She’s ready to pounce on any hesitation, any brief indecision that you might show, but you have spent more time in the spotlight than in your own parents’ home, so you don’t even waver.

“Marriage! I think we’re a bit too early in our relationship to be considering such things, and a bit too early in our lives to be rushing into major decisions like that,” you say. “If and when the time comes, you’ll be the first to know, but it won’t be for a while.”

It won’t be at all, actually. This relationship is not going to last for more than another month. Once the buzz surrounding you two dies, you and he will quietly split. It’ll be as if you never met in the first place.

Your phone rings as you’re leaving the studio. The caller ID says that it is Michael Kaiser, and the thought that he was watching your interview in the same way you watched his makes you feel odd.

“Hello?” you say.

“I’m not gonna marry you. Never-fucking-ever. If you’re expecting a ring, then put it out of your mind.”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “How else would you have liked me to answer that question?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Neither of you hang up on the other — you don’t think you can summon the wherewithal to, which is out of character for him but typical for you — though you both also don’t speak any further. He stays on the line while you drive home, breathing softly like he is sleeping, but you are sure that he is not. The point of it is lost on you, but then you drive into a tunnel and the call ends on its own, so it’s moot anyways. 

Your parents are excited to meet Michael Kaiser. They’ve read up on him extensively, watched all his interviews and even his game highlights. Your mother calls you the night before just so she can gush to you about how handsome he is, how you’ve really done well for yourself this time around. Her approval is nice to have, though superfluous, like a luxury soap or perfume. 

Your father is the one who suggests you all go golfing. You don’t know how to play, and neither does your mother, but you recognize it’s his attempt at connecting with who he thinks is your boyfriend, so you accept. You’re not sure if Michael Kaiser knows how to play golf, or really anything besides soccer, but he is game enough to come that you suppose he must.

It’s warm out, the sun beating down on your father’s brow as he lines up the ball with his club. Michael Kaiser stands on his left, and you think he’s somehow beautiful in this lighting. Not beautiful how your many attractive coworkers are, but in a manner which is distinctly him and therefore utterly irreproducible. His body is lean and graceful, his hair shaggy and gold, though he’s dyed the tips blue in what you’re sure is a statement. The shade matches his eyes, and also the inked roses on his neck. You have long ago come to the conclusion that the flowers are also a part of that same statement, but you have yet to discover what that statement might be. 

“He’s an improvement from that last boyfriend of yours,” your mother says, leaning back so that she can pour the last few drops of soda from her empty can into her throat. You and her are sitting together in the golf cart, seeking refuge in the shade of its plastic roof, sharing the drinks that your father had bought for himself and forgotten about the instant he stepped onto the golf course.

“He is,” you say. That’s not an exaggeration, nor is it something incredible. Your last boyfriend was an old classmate of yours who loved your celebrity more than he loved you. Michael Kaiser doesn’t love you, either, but he is honest about it, and you do not love him back, so there is no resentment between you and him.

“I like the way he looks at you,” your mother says. There’s a hiss as she opens a new can of soda. It’s a vice, but whenever you remind her of it, she dismisses you. She wants to have fun while she’s on this earth, apparently. Maybe drinking five cans of soda in one sitting means her life will be shorter, but life without soda isn’t worth living anyways, or something like that. The reasoning is stupid, but you know she is loyal to it, so you have to accept it. “It’s refreshing. So gentle. You’ll be talking to someone else, and he’ll just be staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re his.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you say. 

Your mother is about to say something else, but she is interrupted by a loud whoop. Michael Kaiser has hit a hole-in-one, and before you can tell him to stop embarrassing himself, your father is cheering, throwing his arms around him and calling him son.

“Your father likes him, too,” your mother says. 

“Oh, he needs to stop that! I can’t believe he’s making things so awkward,” you say, getting up to reprimand him before realizing that there is an entirely foreign sheen to Michael Kaiser’s eyes as he rests his chin on your father’s shoulder. He is not quite smiling, but it is a close approximation of the expression, and when your father ruffles his hair and says that it may have been beginner’s luck but he’s proud regardless, the curve of his lips becomes deeper.

You don’t understand, but you don’t need to. You may have facilitated it, but the moment belongs to him, and your presence is as unwanted as it is unnecessary.

You sit back down and take a sip of your mother’s soda. She grins knowingly and says that you look like you are in love, too. You don’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so you hum noncommittally and say that you might be.

You are growing fond of Michael Kaiser. It isn’t a slow realization — actually, it hits you very suddenly one day. He hands you a bouquet of flowers before opening the passenger door of his car for you. You ask him why he’s brought you peonies instead of roses, and he says it’s because he despises roses. It’s such an absurd answer and he says it with such a straight face that you have to cough in order to disguise your choked laughter. 

“Those must be some other kind of flower, then,” you say, pointing at but not touching his tattoos, at the delicate petals which fold over his pulse, azure and bright and silky. 

“No, those are roses,” he says, his knuckles growing white on the steering wheel. Normally, you wouldn’t ask further, but today you want to prod at his bruise of an existence, so you turn the music down and hug the peonies to your chest.

“But you despise roses,” you say.

“It’s a good reminder,” he says. “No flower lies quite as well as a rose does.”

That is when you are certain that you are partial to him. It is an unavoidable fact and also a treacherous one, but true notwithstanding. 

You put the peonies in a vase of water when you get home that night and hope they never die, although you know that they will be gone within the week. It’s how time works. The peonies will die and you two will break up and you’ll have nothing but a bare kitchen counter and thoughts of his intricacies to remember him by. 

There are no paparazzi around on the night when he wraps your hands around his throat. You are alone with him, sequestered away in the living room of his mansion, a bowl of popcorn shoved between the two of you while a movie plays in the background. This seclusion defeats the original purpose of the relationship entirely, but you sense that that original purpose is no longer fully applicable, so you do not refuse when he calls you and demands you come.

There’s a blanket tossed over your legs, the brilliant colors of his soccer club’s emblem faded from repeated washes. It’s warm, and if you were not busily eating most of the popcorn, you’d pull it up around your shoulders. As for Michael Kaiser, he’s facing the screen, his hair tied back in a knot, a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of his nose and reflecting the visage of the lead actress as she laughs. You observe him as you snack. You’ve seen this movie before and didn’t really like it, so you’re not missing much. He’s more interesting by far.

“I know that woman,” you say, so that he has to acknowledge you.

“Hm,” he says.

“She’s a jerk,” you say. 

“Sounds like your kind of company,” he says. You scoff, because he’s not wrong. He keeps watching the movie, and you keep watching him, until a thought occurs to you.

“Can I call you Michael? Even when it’s just us two,” you ask. He purses his lips. The actress screams. Her character has just died, but the scene is poorly shot and even more poorly acted, so it’s not as heart-wrenching as it should be. You would’ve done better, but your agent doesn’t want you taking any gory roles, and your manager agrees. In his professional opinion, it’ll ruin the doll-like persona you’ve spent so long cultivating. He’s probably right. It’s hard to adore a doll once you’ve watched it die so gruesomely.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing another mouthful of popcorn, the salt lingering on your tongue long after the popcorn itself is gone. “Michael.”

“Yes?” he says.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just wanted to say your name.”

“Okay,” he says. “Y/N?”

He’s never called you that in private. Of course, when you’re out and about, he must refer to you with such familiarity, but in private you’ve never been anything but Miss L/N. It’s a change but a good one. You don’t want to ever be Miss L/N again. Not to him.

“Yes?” you say.

“I’m trying to watch this movie,” he says. “It has high ratings, so be quiet and allow me to finish.”

“It’s shitty,” you say, yawning and leaning back against the mountain of pillows you’ve created for yourself. “Overly gratuitous with its use of fake blood.”

“Right, because that’s a cardinal sin,” he says dryly.

“Sorry, but it’s hard to enjoy films when you know how they’re made,” you say. He picks up the remote and pauses the movie. You blink, because that’s about the last thing you expected from him. Then he turns the TV off entirely and you realize you’ll probably never be able to predict what he does next, so you should stop trying already.

“I know how movies are made,” he says.

“Did you have a secret acting career you never told me about?” you say. It’s a joke, but you also wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true. He’s taken to performing like a fish takes to water, and every day you tell him he should quit soccer and devote his life to cinema because of this uncanny skill.

“Not me, but my mother was an actress, and my father was a director,” he says. 

“Was?” you say.

“Maybe they still are,” he says. “I don’t know. We’re not on speaking terms.”

“Why not?” you say. He takes your hands in between his, and you can make out immediately that his instinct is to hurt you, to press his fingertips into your wrists so hard that they leave marks. It’s to his credit that he fights back the urge, fights it back and arranges your palms against his carotid arteries. His jaw clenches and his pupils dilate as he waits for you to realize; when you do, you rip your hands away for fear of wounding him further.

“Don’t pity me,” he instructs you, unpausing the movie like nothing happened. “And don’t ever bring it up again.” 

Now that you have his permission to refer to him only by his name, you develop a strange fascination with saying it. He’s amused by your new fixation, answering you in a lilting tone every time you call for him.

According to him, you are like a small nightingale, always warbling, always happy, fluttering around beside him and changing his mood for the better. Well, if you are like a nightingale, then he is like a dog, and you tell him as much when you are sitting across from him at a coffee shop.

“A dog?” he repeats, his face pinching. He’s just taken a swig of the black coffee he always orders, but you know his disgusted expression isn’t a symptom of the beverage’s bitterness. “Take that back.”

“Not in a bad way,” you say. Your own drink is sweet, so you sip on it slowly to prevent a stomach ache. “I’m not calling you pathetic. I just mean that you are amiable and lively. It’s a compliment.”

“It’s not who I really am,” he says. “Have I deceived even you? Amiable? Lively? Remember why this entire scam began in the first place — because I am neither of those things.”

“Right,” you say. “A peacock, then. Terribly vain and entirely alluring.”

He relaxes and raises his cup to his mouth again. He’ll be up late tonight, he always is when he has coffee, but it never stops him from drinking it. “That’s better.”

The reminder that whatever you have with him is not real stings more than it should. You throw away your drink almost untouched, which does cause him to raise an eyebrow, but thankfully he refrains from commenting. It’s a relief, because you don’t even know how to explain it to yourself, let alone him.

He walks you to your front porch and waits with crossed arms as you fish for the key in your purse, shoving it in the lock once you have it in your grasp. His farewell when you open the door is stilted and abnormal, so you stop him with a hand on his arm before he can go.

“Michael,” you say. You’ve never said his name like this before. It comes from a place raw and deep within you, a place that you are certain is purple and black like a wound. You say it like you love him, and you think it must be because you do.

“Yes?” he says. It’s the way he always responds to you, his voice like a song, a small smile on his ordinarily strict face — though today, he is not smiling. Instead, he is frowning, like he has come to an understanding that he would have rather not reached.

“Never mind,” you say. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he says. He drives away, his car disappearing around the corner, leaving you standing alone in the still-open doorway and wondering how you will survive the day when he disappears permanently. 

You’re not sure what it is about him that makes pretending difficult, but suddenly, it’s a struggle for you to maintain your aloof front. You find it disconcerting, that he has taken this aspect of your identity and rendered it entirely null and void; it’s even more disconcerting that he has done it unwittingly and unsympathetically. If you loved him any less, you would hate him, because he has stolen who you are and left you blind and fumbling, but you fell for him, and the way you landed broke something fundamental, so that it is impossible for you to get back up. 

“I think that I love you,” you say. You are on his couch again, and there is a movie playing again, which is all too similar to a past scenario that you think about when you are lonely. Tonight, it’s some soccer documentary that you find so tedious you are driven to irrationality. 

He drops the glass of water in his hands; you reach out and catch it before it can spill, setting it on the table in front of you. 

“What?” he says. You shrug.

“I love you,” you say again, and you’re flippant about it because you’re not telling him in the hopes he loves you, too. In fact, you know that he does not, so you are using him as a confessional; after all, the minimum he owes you is sharing the burden of this sin.

“There’s no one around,” he says. “You don’t have to lie. It won’t gain us anything.”

“It hasn’t gained us anything in a long while,” you say. It’s true — your relationship isn’t trending anymore, and most of your dates are in locations where you will not be recognized. 

He stands up. The documentary continues as he paces, and a referee blows a whistle while he tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls. You stay on the couch, your eyes following his erratic movements, your hands folded in your lap.

“No, you don’t,” he says.

“I don’t what?” you say.

“You don’t love me,” he says. He wants to sound callous, you are sure of it, but the effect is lost on you. He sounds more lost than anything.

“But I do,” you respond. “Who are you to tell me I don’t?”

“Don’t,” he says. “Stop it. This instant.”

You laugh incredulously. “Do you think it’s that easy? I wouldn’t feel like this in the first place if it was.”

“Why?” he says. He’s still pacing. It’s like watching a tiger in a zoo. You want to study him, but he demands your attention in a different way. “Y/N. Why me? Why at all?”

“The reasons don’t matter, do they? I can tell you, but they won’t change anything,” you say, shrugging. “If you find yourself in the kitchen, bring water back for me. I’m thirsty.”

“Drink mine,” he says, pointing at the cup you had narrowly saved from disaster. “And quit your avoidance. Tell it to me plainly. Why?”

“Because you are you,” you say once you have drained half of his glass and your tongue is not quite as papery. “It’s a series of things; there’s not just one concrete reason. You hate roses and only drink black coffee. My mother thinks you’re handsome and my father is convinced you’re a golfing genius. You are a dog but also a peacock and then again an emperor. Don’t ask ridiculous questions and expect me to answer them when I cannot.”

“I’ll hurt you,” he says. “I’ll hurt you, Y/N, and I don’t — I don’t want to. You’re the only one who I don’t want to hurt, so just give up. It’s for the better if you do.”

“You won’t,” you say. “I don’t think you can.”

“Of course I can,” he says. “It’s the one thing I’m capable of. The only way I know how to love someone is by hurting them. I’ll do the same to you if you let me, and if you’re telling the truth, then you will let me.”

“Because I love you?” you say. “You think I’ll let you hurt me because I love you? For shame, Michael. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Please,” he says. It’s a word he’s never said, not to you and not in his life. Its weight hangs before you, pulsating in the air like it’s tangible. “If I love you, I’ll destroy you. And then you’ll leave, and it’ll destroy me.”

It’s a selfless desire that he’s disguising as a selfish one. You’re good at pretending, but you’re not good at telling when others are. That much is obvious, because if you had any talent at the latter then you would’ve seen that he’s loved you for as long as you have loved him, maybe longer. He loves you and so he’s urging you to flee, to destroy him before he can do it to you first.

“Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, huh?” you say, exhaling and finishing off the rest of his water. “Listen to me.”

“No,” he says. His obstinance is endearing, but you throw a pillow at him instead of cooing like you want to. He catches it and tosses it back. It lands beside you with a thump. You pat it for emphasis.

“Yes,” you say. “I love you.”

He plugs his ears with his fingers. “Nope.”

“I love you, I love you — hey, I know you can hear me!” you say.

“La la la,” he shouts over your voice, sticking his tongue out petulantly. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you!”

“You’re cruel,” you say. “I won’t deny it. I know who you really are, Michael Kaiser. You possess cruelty in spades, but it’s in the way that a rose does. You have grown malice like thorns so that no one may come near your heart, and you think these thorns will tear me apart when I extend my hand past them. What you aren’t accounting for is that I have done so already. I have reached your heart and still I am intact. Now, what is there to cause me harm — a mere flower? But a flower can’t cause anyone harm, least of all a person such as myself. You can’t, or more importantly you won’t. I believe that you won’t.”

He stares at you. The soccer team in the documentary still playing behind him scores, and the crowd roars in approval. You stare back at him and wait.

“I hate roses,” he finally says. “I hate them a lot. They’re the worst kind of flower.”

“I don’t know about that,” you say. “I quite fancy them.”

“They prick your fingers,” he says.

“Not if you are gentle,” you say. “Not if you understand them.”

He buries his face in his hands. “Go home, Y/N.”

You do as you are told, flagging a taxi and shivering while you wait for it. You wish for things to be different, but the amount of unfulfilled wishes you’ve made outnumber the stars in the sky, so you add this one to the list and vow to move on.

You have no desire to leave your bed the next morning, but you are also hungry, and your hunger wins out over your despair. You muster up the energy to roll out of your sheets and trudge downstairs, but you are miserable as you do so. You are utterly miserable, and the fact that you are only worsens the feeling, trapping you in an endless kind of loop.

When you enter your kitchen, you are surprised to see a pot of flowers sitting innocently on your counter. You didn’t put them there, so you should feel afraid, but they’re roses, and they’re the same arresting shade as the sky, so you don’t. You only grin, slowly and then all at once as you begin to giggle helplessly.

There isn’t a card or an explanation provided, but you don’t need either. You already know who they are from.

[lizzytheglizzydogtheglock9000]

Hi hi!! I love your writing so much!! I saw you had a prompt list and was wondering if you could do number 11 with the Tenth Doctor 👉👈 I feel like that’s something he would say. Thanks I’m advance! 🫶

Guys I am indeed actually alive, it's just been a hot minute since I've felt any motivation to really come back and write things. But I am back, and I have no idea if I'll be consistent with this or not, it just sparked my interest again. I really appreciate all the consistent support from you guys!! <3333

Tenth Doctor x FemReader

"Yes I have feelings for you, moving on."

"Y/N?! Can I come in???"

You heard a flurry of knocks at your bedroom door as an excited Doctor rushed in before waiting for an answer.

"Why yes Doctor you may enter my room," you laughed. "What if I was changing or something in here?"

"Well I uh.. It hasn't happened yet!" he fought back.

You giggled and rolled your eyes at how flustered he got, something that you noticed happening often. Although you just chalked it up to that being a part of his personality, especially when he has so many lovely women flirting with him on your trips together.

He flopped onto your bed and stared at you.

"So! What are we doing today hm? Go see the stars of Ntiri, or perhaps an alien market, or we could go back to the time of the Renaissance!" he ended with a flair.

"A ball sounds nice, like in France. Marie Antoinette times! But preferably without the Reign of Terror, running isn't exactly on my wishlist for things today," you pondered aloud.

He jumped up and twirled you around, making you go all the way up on your tippy toes.

"Well alrighty then Ms. Y/N! The Yew Ball awaits!"

You rush out to see him start slamming levers and pulling bits and bobs as your center of balance is thrown away like it wasn't even there in the first place. It always amazed you how the Doctor managed to stay up the way he did. He was by no means the most graceful man you had ever met, but the TARDIS didn't seem to throw him around the same way it did you.

As he pulled you up and brushed some stray hairs out of your eyes, a thought hit you.

"Doctor?"

"Yes love?" he replied.

"Where are we supposed to get the right attire for this? My blouse and blue jeans won't exactly fit in a 16th century setting."

"Ah, don't worry about that, I'll get it all sorted out for us," he grinned.

The two of you walked out of the TARDIS, finding yourselves in a storage closet of sorts. You walked out and around the corner, up so many stairs you thought you might pass out, and then finally a couple more turns before stopping at a large white door with gold details.

The Doctor rapped on the door gently before a small brown haired woman appeared in a plain corset and dress.

He whipped out his psychic paper and the woman's face lit up.

"Oh! Madame you must hurry the ball starts soon!!!" she chimed.

She yanked you into the room as you gave the Doctor a very confused look while he just simply grinned back at you.

You then spent the next few hours getting your makeup done and having a multitude of dresses shown for you to choose from. It took at least one of those hours to convince the women helping you to not make you wear a wig, even if it is a sign of wealth, you just can't stand the itchiness.

Eventually, you made your way to the main ball room, stopping at the top of the stairs. The Doctor stood with his hands in his pockets admiring the view around him opposite you.

As his gaze met yours his eyes lit up and a wide smile crossed his face. He was in a royal, no, TARDIS blue coat and pants, with a golden waistcoat, and creme colored tights that he looked very upset to be wearing.

The two of you met at the top of the largest staircase, where the other two converged.

"You look absolutely stunning Y/N," he whispered.

You were given a ball gown in the exact same shade of gold as the Doctor's waistcoat, with your corset and center piece of material a light shade of cornflower blue, complementing your complexion perfectly.

"You look rather dashing yourself Doctor," you cooed.

He bowed to you deeply, arose, then held out a delicate hand to lead you down the stairs.

You proceeded to wander around the room, talking to many couples, eventually getting to meet Marie Antoinette herself. She found you most exciting, and thought you were the most intelligent person in the room.

The night began to slow, and the Doctor was leading you in your final waltz for the night.

"Doctor, I wouldn't have traded this night for anything," you said softly. "Although we must go into the past more often, we don't go nearly enough."

"I agree, the nights are always wonderful with the one you love most..." he stated holding onto your hand even tighter.

"Wait.. Doctor say that again?"

You couldn't believe what he had just said, did he really just say that he loved you the most??

"Yes, I have feelings for you, moving on," he brushed off.

"Wait a minute you can't just move on from this Doctor! You really love me?"

"My dear Y/N, why in the multitude of universes, wouldn't I love you? You are the sweetest person I've ever met, you're strong, capable, and gorgeous to the moons and back."

You blushed and smiled fondly.

"Which moons Doctor?"

"Any of them love, as long as you come with me," he whispered, tipping your chin up and kissing you gently.

You felt a swirl of emotions that you never knew you could feel before, and even more as he swung you off your feet, and placing you down gently.

"Uh, Doctor.. I think we're being stared at," you pointed out.

The entire room turned to look at you both, A truly handsome couple, the queen thought.

He placed a hand around your waist and began leading you back to the TARDIS.

"Well then, they'll definitely be staring after they see us walking into broom closet together," he snickered.

Your mouth dropped but returned to a content smile, not believing the wonderful night that just occurred.

[chiyuuchu]

Shoto’s alter-ego <3 (30th July 2024)

Shoto Todoroki x Reader

Prompt! Shoto gets hit by a villain quirk which splits him into two individuals. One with completely white hair and a cold personality and the other with completely red hair with a fiery attitude.

It was an ordinary day at U.A. High School until an unexpected villain attack disrupted the calm. During the skirmish, Todoroki Shoto found himself at the mercy of a villain with a quirk that altered the very essence of a person's being. The villain’s quirk had the ability to split a person into their alter egos, revealing the two sides of their personality in their purest forms.

When Todoroki woke up in the infirmary, his classmates were gathered around, shocked and intrigued by the sight before them. There were two Todorokis lying side by side, but they were strikingly different. One had vibrant red hair and a fiery aura, while the other had pristine white hair and a serene demeanor.

As the two Todorokis regained consciousness, the differences in their personalities became immediately apparent. The red-haired Todoroki was boisterous, confident, and unexpectedly flirty, resembling his father’s fiery nature. On the other hand, the white-haired Todoroki exuded calmness, aloofness, and a cool elegance akin to his mother’s demeanor.

“Todoroki..? Are you alright?” Midoriya squeaked out in concern.

The red haired Shoto was first to speak.

“Me? I’m amazing! Never felt so much better to be free.” The red haired Shoto said with a laugh.

The shocked faces among everyone was preposterous.

The white haired Shoto nodded with a simple: “I’m fine.” This was more like the usual Shoto everyone was used to.

“Now this.. I will never get used to this.” Kirishima said with his mouth wide open after.

The very next day, the class had observed in fascination as the red-haired Todoroki began to interact with his surroundings. His personality was markedly different from the usual stoic Todoroki they were used to. He seemed especially interested in Y/N, who was sitting nearby, and his flirtatious behavior was evident. “Hey, Y/N,” he said, with a smirk. “How about we grab a coffee together sometime? I promise I’m worth it.”

The class exchanged looks of astonishment. They had never seen Todoroki act this way, and the notion that he might have a crush on Y/N was immediately assumed. The red-haired Todoroki’s advances were bold and unapologetic, causing quite a stir among his classmates.

“I never knew Todoroki could be so.. hot-headed and bold!” Hagakure squealed.

Kirishima chuckled. “Looks like Todoroki’s got a fiery side we never knew about.”

Mina giggled. “This is gonna be interesting. I wonder how Y/N will handle this.”

The white-haired Todoroki, ever the picture of calm, observed the interactions with a cool detachment. However, he soon became concerned about his fiery alter ego’s behavior. Later the same day, as the red-haired Todoroki was once again trying to charm Y/N with exaggerated compliments and playful banter, the white-haired Todoroki approached him with a serious expression.

“Hey,” the white-haired Todoroki said quietly, pulling his red-haired counterpart aside. “You’re making Y/N uncomfortable. You need to back off.”

The red-haired Todoroki raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “What’s your problem? I’m just trying to get to know her better.”

The white-haired Todoroki’s expression remained unchanged. “She’s not responding well to your advances. Maybe you should tone it down a bit.” He said coldly.

The class watched the scene unfold, whispering amongst themselves. The atmosphere was indeed intense.

“I never thought I’d see Todoroki arguing with himself,” Kaminari said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, it’s like watching Miraculous Ladybug.” Jirou added with a smirk.

Over the next few days, the class watched with great amusement as the two Todorokis fought over Y/N’s attention. The red-haired Todoroki continued his relentless pursuit, showering Y/N with compliments and extravagant gestures, while the white-haired Todoroki kept a watchful eye, stepping in whenever he felt the red-haired Todoroki’s advances were too much.

One day, Y/N was trying to focus on her studies when the red-haired Todoroki approached her with a bouquet of flowers. “I thought these would brighten your day,” he said, his grin as fiery as his hair.

Y/N accepted the flowers with a polite smile but seemed uncomfortable with the attention. Before she could respond, the white-haired Todoroki stepped in, offering a small smile. “Sorry, Y/N. Let me take care of this.”

The white-haired Todoroki then guided Y/N to a quieter part of the classroom. “You don’t have to deal with his antics if you don’t want to,” he said gently. “I’ll make sure he understands boundaries.”

The class watched the scene unfold with a mix of laughter and curiosity. The contrast between the red-haired Todoroki’s brashness and the white-haired Todoroki’s calm demeanor was a source of endless entertainment.

“Man, this is better than TV,” Sero said, leaning back in his chair as he throws yet another crisp into his mouth.

Mina nodded. “I can’t believe how different they are. It’s like two sides of a coin.” she added as she reached into Sero’s bag of crisps.

As time passed, the tension between the two Todorokis and Y/N began to resolve. The class had grown accustomed to the dynamic between the fiery and calm versions of Todoroki. Despite their differences, both sides of Todoroki showed a genuine interest in Y/N, though their methods were vastly different.

“Hey Y/n. I decided to make this bracelet for you out of the dainty flowers I picked. I know these are your favourite colors as well.” the white haired Shoto says in his cold but gentle voice.

Y/n blushed and gladly took the gift. “Wow.. thankyou erm.. Cold Shoto?” she says.

“So when I’m not around, another man is flirting with you? Darling, I am so much more better than this cold-hearted lunatic.” The red haired Shoto smirks beside the girl. He then grabs her hand with his warm palm. “Choose me instead. You know that I’m so much more hotter than this white haired dude.” He smirks.

The white haired Shoto immediately takes Y/n’s other hand in his freezing cold hand. “Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I can treat you like a princess.” White haired shoto claimed.

“Guys. I mean.. uh.. Todorokis! There’s no need to fight!” Midoriya panicked.

Midoriya then shrieked as a hand grabs his shoulder. “Don’t interrupt them Midoriya, this is the most entertainment we’ve had in weeks!” Mina shamelessly said chewing on her popcorn. Beside her were Sero, Kirishima, Jirou and Kaminari who also had their own popcorns.

Finally at the end of the week, after a particularly heated argument between the two Todorokis, the villain’s quirk wore off, and Todoroki was restored to his usual self. He blinked, looking around in confusion as he took in the bemused expressions of his classmates.

“What did I miss?” Todoroki asked, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he realized the situation. The class burst into laughter, recounting the amusing and chaotic days of his split personalities.

Y/N, now understanding the nature of Todoroki’s actions, approached him with a warm smile. “It seems like you had quite an adventure. I appreciate the effort, even if it was a bit overwhelming.”

Todoroki, slightly embarrassed but relieved, nodded. “I’m sorry if I caused any discomfort. I was just trying to... figure things out.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “It’s okay. I’m just glad everything’s back to normal.”

The class continued their school year with a new understanding of Todoroki’s character and his complexities. The incident with the villain’s quirk had not only been an amusing experience but had also brought them closer together.

Todoroki, now fully restored, carried with him the lessons learned from his split personalities. He and Y/N grew closer, their bond strengthened by the unusual circumstances they had navigated together. The class often reminisced about the days of the red-haired and white-haired Todoroki, finding humor and camaraderie in the memories.

As for Todoroki and Y/N, their relationship evolved into one built on mutual understanding and genuine affection. The fiery and calm sides of Todoroki had revealed different aspects of his personality, but ultimately, it was the whole Todoroki that Y/N had come to appreciate and care for deeply.

Bonus Snippet: A Homecoming Surprise

The news of Todoroki's unusual split quickly reached the Todoroki household. His siblings, Fuyumi and Natsuo, were both curious and concerned about how their brother was managing the situation. They eagerly awaited his return from U.A., ready to support him however they could.

When the two Todorokis walked through the front door, the reactions from Fuyumi and Natsuo were immediate and intense. The red-haired Todoroki, with his fiery personality and confident swagger, and the white-haired Todoroki, with his calm and serene demeanor, made for an unusual and startling sight.

Fuyumi gasped, her eyes wide with shock. "Shoto? What happened to you?"

Natsuo, equally surprised, stepped forward. "Did a villain do this to you? Are you okay?"

The red-haired Todoroki smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, a villain’s quirk did this. But don’t worry, I’m fine. Better than fine, actually."

The white-haired Todoroki nodded in agreement. "It’s been an interesting experience. We’re managing."

Fuyumi, always the nurturing sibling, approached them with concern. "Well, I’m glad you’re both okay. But this must be so strange for you. How are you feeling?"

The red-haired Todoroki shrugged nonchalantly. "I’m enjoying it. It’s freeing to express myself without holding back."

The white-haired Todoroki added softly, "It’s a bit disorienting, but we’re making it work. We’ve learned a lot about ourselves."

Natsuo shook his head in disbelief. "This is surreal. Two Shotos, each with a different personality. How does it feel being split like this?"

The red-haired Todoroki grinned. "Honestly? It’s kind of fun. I get to say what I want, do what I want. No holding back."

Fuyumi smiled gently, trying to maintain some normalcy. "Well, let's make the best of it. I’m making dinner, so why don’t you both help me? It’ll be like old times... sort of."

In the Kitchen

As the siblings moved to the kitchen, the red-haired Todoroki eagerly took charge of chopping vegetables, his movements quick and precise, mirroring their father’s intensity. The white-haired Todoroki, meanwhile, helped Fuyumi stir the pots and set the table, his actions calm and measured, reminiscent of their mother’s grace.

Fuyumi watched them work, her heart warmed by the scene. Despite the odd circumstances, there was a sense of unity and cooperation that brought back fond memories of their family life before everything changed.

“Do you remember when Mom used to cook with us like this?” Fuyumi said, her voice soft and nostalgic.

The white-haired Todoroki nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yes, she always made sure we felt loved and cared for.”

The red-haired Todoroki, though more energetic, softened at the mention of their mother. “She was the best. We should visit her soon.”

Natsuo, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “You know, despite everything, it’s kind of nice seeing both sides of you. It reminds me that you’re still our Shoto, no matter what.”

[the-monkeies-girl]

OO OOH prompt 58. Locked in a small space with our boy Noa

Perhaps before dating but the tension is thereee, perhaps suggestive undertones perhaps. Perchance I'm begging for this

I'm going feral

58. Locked in a small space.

Grunting softly, you bit down on your bottom lip as it exploded in pain as you had just tried to kick the door of the closet you were stuck in. Yeah, go out to the Echo Ruins with Soona, Anaya and me, Noa gave you that charming acolate to get you to come, something you always sought for and chomped down at the smallest nibble just to spend more time with him. It would be fun, you said sarcastically, feeling sweat drip between your breasts and along the hairline of your forehead.

Two bodies were stuck in a space that was once used to store Echo items, eyes not even able to detect in the darkness what it had actually stored. Cramped. Hot. Chest to chest with an Ape who could tear your neck muscles right out and enjoy it, your skin running hotter at that idea. Even in the dead of wondering how you were going to get out, you couldn’t help but indulge in a bit of a fantasy given you were in incredibly close proximity to him.

Foot now seething itself up your leg as you had kicked at the metallic door with all your might, your eyes staring down at it intensely like that was going to heal it in the dark, unable to even turn around or bend down to grasp, your chest pressed against another that was riddled with dense fur that had absorbed much sun on the trip to the ruins themselves and in most instances, you’d have been more than okay and could rationalize that you were trapped with the Master of the Birds. But now? In the dead of Summer, your body gleaming with moisture as it, now being stuck finely with Noa’s fur as he rustled himself around to get an escape route planned, you gave in and let a small sigh leave your lips, escaping and littering against Noa’s face. He welcomed it, enjoying the nature of the coolness versus the heat that was beating from the sun outside. 

The door--- Noa looked towards its general direction or where he thought it was, your ears pricking up at the sound of the minute movement as it racked through all your senses, mouth falling open and panting softly. Something had snapped behind the two of you as you were rummaging through the small space, unable to see unless you actually went inside of it and it locked you inside. “Anaya,” His breath was hot against your face, swallowing hard at the sensation as if you thought it was the coldest thing on the Earth and wanting nothing more than his mouth to pant all along your body in a bid to cool you down. A prickle of self-satisfaction at that thought hit your spine and rested uncomfortably in your tailbone, “Soona will see we are missing. Come find us.” “How long?” You asked, shuffling a bit in your spot and raising your hands to press against the wall but finding yourself delving your fingertips into the fur that spotted around Noa’s diaphragm. He stiffened at that, remarking how even in the heat that was encasing you, your hands still felt so cold to him. “Can you feel behind me if there’s a doorknob on this side of the door to get out?” Noa only knew vaguely of the Echo concept of a doorknob. Such a foreign thing to him, but in a bid to get you both unlocked, he nodded in silence, knowing you were unable to see anything and reached his hands out blindly. They scraped against the top of your shoulders. “Sorry,” He uttered, “Cannot… see… No light…”

Licking your lips, you drew your bottom lip in again as you felt him fumbling against you, Noa’s incredible weight shifting both of your bodies a few centimeters backwards to the point where your back was now pressing against the cooler nature of the metallic wall. Noa--- Your eyes widened as if you could see the eclipse of his gold and green gaze. Had you pinned unintentionally, his hands holding onto the wall behind you and taking in the same delectation that it was indeed cooler than the air. Your eyes tried to see him, tried to make sense of where he was in conjecture to you but to no avail.

“Do-doorknob will be about uh…” White heat rose against you that played and tickled along with the heat of the Summer air. Dry, all consuming and encompassing, “Waist level for me.” Noa’s heart skipped a beat at that, his staggering feet moving that much closer to your own, a few of his toes pressing against the sole of your shoes. Another sorry was thrown your way, this time near the cusp of your ear as he dragged his hands from the rounding of your shoulders, down the wall towards what he hoped to be your waist.

“Do-Do you feel anything?” Noa preened, feeling the already hot hackles on his shoulders rise at the fact that he was able to feel your breath against his skin. Not just his fur. You were nearly consuming his shoulder, your face so near that it was able to tickle skin and not just the fur that lined it. 

“Do…not…” Noa burrowed his usually soft brow, feeling a cushioned nature near his spread out fingers. He pressed into it and tilted his head, mouth ajar as realization dawned upon him that he was feeling the gentle curves of your body, so hot in conjunction to the metallic slatted wall. Noa’s nerves felt like they were tethering to the brink of being completely shot, the fabric of your thinned t-shirt, worn from time, sticking against your body from the sweat that was encasing your pores. He thought about it for a moment and just moved onwards, trailing downwards to where he imagined your waist was. “Feel anything…” Swallowing hard, you nodded and let him graze the sides of your body without a word, allowing the pleasure that was now consuming you. A tiny sliver of hope rose that maybe there was no doorknob and Noa was going to have to fumble himself against you again as you tried against the other walls in the room. “It’ll be like… A circle sort of thing.” You whispered now, knowing how close to his ear your face was as he brought his body down slightly with his hands in desperation that maybe his eyes could adjust to even the pitchest black. 

“Still do not feel anything.” The Chimp muttered, feeling you tense up against him so deliciously that he wanted nothing more than to snap, drape himself against you, allowing you to flush against the wall so he could do what he pleased as he finally landed around your waist.

“Can try again, if you would… like… Maybe…” Noa’s voice was barely a touch above a hush as he pulled his face back up, hands still near the sides of your hips and looked at what he hoped was your face. He wanted nothing more in the moment, passing away from the heated frenzy of actually being so near to you by circumstance, than to see your eyes playing into his as temptation pinned him against the wall much like he had you at the moment. “Can I try… to feel again…?” “Th…” Voice hitching itself in your throat, you tilted your head back and felt it thunk against the wall in desperation to the implications of his words, your heart racing in your chest. “Yeah…”

“I will.” “Please…” You tried not to whimper, reaching your hands up to lightly place them on Noa’s forearms to guide him this time. His fur was hot and heavy to you, tangling deeply into your fingers as you urged him forward with silence. 

“SOONA---” Anaya hooted, almost ripping the door next to Noa and yourself right off the shingles and it came clattering onto the side of the outside wall from the force. Bright light finally pouring onto the two of you, blinding for a second as Anaya continued on his yelling to get Soona's attention. “FOUND. LOCKED---”

Anaya finally looked over the two of you, raising his brows at Noa for only a moment, knowing it was more than enough time for him to understand what was implied by the position you two were in. Your eyes widened directly into Noa’s before you mimicked the action to look at Anaya. “Should… Leave you? Can close the door again until you are done."

[coloursflyaway]

Hi there, I’m not sure if you taking dbda prompts anymore, but I’ve recently fallen in love with your hurt comfort fanfics and your writing style in general. If you want to, I think it would be heartbreakingly amazing if you were to write something where Charles sees his father again (either like his father comes into the agency looking for help, not knowing that Charles works there or like they go to visit him and Charles’s mum) and the kind of anger and hurt it brings up in Charles and then Edwin ✨comforts✨ him

You don’t have to, but know I would read the hell out of this if you did :)))

Hi anon ♥

Thank you so much for the prompt, I am sorry this took forever and a day, but here you go!

I went into a slightly different direction, but I always wondered what would happen if Charles told Edwin about watching his parents in the mirror, so I thought I would combine those things.

It’s something Charles never thought he would be able to share with Edwin, and yet, somehow, here they are.

At least they are in the agency, he reasons with himself as he touches a fingertip to the mirror, willing it to change its image. By now, it should be second nature – he has done this countless times before, after all – and yet, he feels strangely nervous, like it might go wrong, show a different house, a different living room, a different set of people watching TV. Like the act of showing Edwin could somehow make it not work.

But then, the mirror ripples and the agency fades; instead, there are Christmas lights and his mum wrapped in a burgundy blanket, a glass of wine in her hand as she flicks through the channels with the other. His dad, next to her, is reading something, and just like it does every time, Charles’ heart beats a little faster at the sight of him.

For years, he hasn’t been able to make out just what he feels for his father, thirty-odd years away from his scolding, his belt, his words of kindness strewn in between. He still isn’t certain, but it is clearer: there is anger, there is pain, there is love, nonetheless.

“So, this is what you did when you asked me to give you a few minutes alone?”, Edwin asks next to him. Careful, as if he was handling fine china; Charles loves and hates it at the same time. “I never even suspected.”

“Well, that was kind of the point, wasn’t it?”, Charles replies, half a laugh tacked onto his voice, so Edwin won’t be able to tell how strangely difficult this is for him. Shouldn’t Edwin next to him make it better, less confusing?

After all, while those people in the mirror are his parents, it’s Edwin, who is his family.

“I suppose”, Edwin concedes, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “I just- you could have told me, Charles. I might not have understood, but I never would have judged you for it.”

And maybe, Charles knew that on some level, yet hearing the words breaks something open in him, something that feels ancient and yet new.

“I-”, he starts, watching his father put down the book and say something to his mother, who gives him a tired, well-worn smile. Not dismissive, but only half-listening anyway, like it is a conversation they have had a thousand times. “It’s just-”

And all of a sudden, he is crying.

Tears spilling down his cheeks that feel like they have been waiting within him so long they must have died with him, thick and hot in the muted way only ghosts can feel, dripping down Charles’ chin and evaporating before they touch the ground, his shoulder’s shaking as he tries to suppress sobs that rival earthquakes.

“It’s just-”, he tries again, and hears the moment Edwin realises what is happening instead of seeing it: the world is clouded by a new shower of tears.

“Charles”, Edwin gasps and then there are arms around him, thin and yet the most secure thing Charles has ever felt, pulling him against Edwin’s chest, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head, the other pressing firm against his spine. “Oh, Charles… if I had known… you didn’t have to show me, I didn’t want you to-”

“No, it’s-”, Charles tries and fails to get out, hiding his face against Edwin’s shoulder. This, at least, he knows, is real; this is forever. “It’s-”

“Shh, it’s fine”, Edwin tells him, slender fingers brushing through Charles’ curls in a way they never have before, and Charles loathes it, loathes himself and his father and the tangled mess of emotions in his chest for stealing this from him. This should have been a tender moment, just them and the intimacy they are slowly building between them. “I shouldn’t have asked, I should have known there was a reason why you did not share this with me before. I am sorry, Charles, I truly am.”

“It’s not that”, Charles finally forces from his lips, words half drowned in sobs; Edwin hugs him harder, and Charles knows that he could fall apart in Edwin’s arms so, so easily. “I should hate him, I want to, but I can’t.”

And that’s… it.

There are a hundred other things as well – fear for his mother’s safety, the pain of missing her, the ache he sometimes feels when thinking about his old room – but then there is the image of his father, smiling at him across the dinner table overlayed with him snapping the belt against his palm, violence in his eyes and the line of his mouth and the muscles bulging in his arm. The same man, and yet unrecognisable.

“Oh, Charles”, Edwin breathes into his hair, so soft, another first touch stolen. “It’s alright, it’s okay. I understand. And I don’t think any less of you for it.”

Another sob, wrenched from somewhere deep, deep within Charles, and he clings to Edwin like he’s the only thing left keeping him upright.

“And if it helps”, Edwin adds a moment later, fingers still stroking slowly through Charles’ curls, “I’ll hate him enough for the both of us.”

And perhaps, he is.

[allthemeniveloved]

It Will Come Back - Part 8

Summary: Arthur and the others return from Guarma worn and weary, prompting you to call on Arthur for help with rescuing John.

wc: 4.9k

ao3 link

Tags: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader, fluff, angst, hurt comfort, reminding myself that this is a love triangle story, did you miss Arthur?

a/n: EEEEK! This might not be everyone's favorite chapter but this is for sure one of mine. Btw, this'll be the last chapter that clings heavily to the canon storyline for any of you hoping to avoid real spoilers.

And the day that we'll watch the death of the sun That the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on Then you'll gaze unafraid as they sob from the city roofs

Wasteland, baby I'm in love I'm in love with you

The swamp was alive with a suffocating tension as the remnants of the gang scrambled to leave Shady Belle. The failed Saint Denis bank robbery had sent shockwaves through everyone, and with the Pinkertons closing in and the law hot on their trail, there was no time to mourn, rest, or even think. Sadie, sharp-eyed and determined, had stepped in to take charge amidst the chaos, her voice calm yet firm as she directed the others. “We can’t stay here,” she said, helping Abigail bundle Jack onto a horse, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Lakay’s far enough out to give us time to breathe, but we’ve gotta move now.” The gang, rattled but desperate, followed her lead, pulling together what little they could carry from the crumbling mansion as the clock seemed to tick down.

You worked alongside the others, your hands trembling as you stuffed supplies into saddlebags, your mind reeling with the thought of those still missing. Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier, and Bill had disappeared after the bank job, and no one had heard from them since. Abigail’s distraught cries were a constant reminder of the others you had already lost: Hosea and Lenny, gone forever. The weight of it all sat heavy on your chest, but there was no time to grieve. The law could arrive at any moment, and Sadie’s steady leadership was the only thing keeping the group moving forward.

The journey to Lakay was grueling, the horses trudging through thick mud and water as the humid air clung to your skin. The swamp seemed to close in around you, the dense trees and hanging moss creating an oppressive atmosphere that matched the mood of the gang. Dahlia’s steps were careful but unsteady as you followed the caravan of riders, your eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. Sadie and Miss Grimshaw led the way, all eyes fixed ahead, while Pearson’s wagon groaned under the weight of the camp’s salvaged supplies.

When Lakay finally came into view, it was a dismal sight—ramshackle huts barely standing on the edge of stagnant, murky water. The air smelled of decay and mildew, and the buzzing of mosquitoes filled the humid night. It was far from a home, but Sadie called it safe, and that was all that mattered. “Get settled,” she barked as the gang began to dismount. “We’ll rebuild here. It’s not forever, but it’ll do for now.”

The camp quickly descended into controlled chaos as everyone worked to unpack. Miss Grimshaw and Pearson began setting up stations, muttering under their breath about the lack of space. Sadie helped the rest of the women while you lingered near the outskirts, your eyes darting back toward the swamp trail. The longer you waited, the harder it was to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach. Where were they?

-

Twenty-six long days had passed since the gang had relocated to Lakay, and the tension in the swampy camp had only grown heavier with each sunrise. The shacks were barely holding together, the air thick with mosquitoes and the stink of stagnant water, and the days stretched endlessly as everyone tried to scrape by. You’d nearly given up hope of ever seeing the missing men again. Every night, as you lay awake on your makeshift cot, you couldn’t stop wondering if they were alive, or if they’d met the same grim fate as Hosea and Lenny. 

After Saint Denis, the weight of everything made the idea of leaving feel impossible. You told yourself it was practical to stay, that you needed their resources and protection, but deep down, you feared you didn’t have the strength to survive alone out in the unforgiving wilderness. As much as you hated the chaos, abandoning the gang felt like stepping into an even darker unknown, and you weren’t sure you had it in you to face that kind of uncertainty alone. 

The thought of John in prison was a weight that never left your chest, pressing down harder with each passing day. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering to dark places, imagining him locked away in some cold, damp cell, surrounded by unforgiving walls and cruel guards. Was he being fed? Was he hurt? The unanswered questions gnawed at you constantly, leaving you restless and sleepless most nights.

Worst of all was the fear that you might never know the truth. The uncertainty tore at you like a jagged edge—what if the law had decided he wasn’t worth keeping alive? What if they’d already executed him, leaving you here, clinging to the hope of a man who was gone? You tried to push the thoughts away, tried to focus on the slim possibility of rescue or escape, but the gnawing doubt refused to be silenced. The idea of him out there, suffering or worse, while you were helpless to do anything, felt like it was breaking you piece by piece.

Then, one humid evening as the sun dipped below the swamp, the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats shattered the quiet. You bolted upright, your heart leaping into your throat as you ran to the edge of camp. The sight of five riders emerging from the mist left you breathless—Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier, and Bill, their figures gaunt and weary, their clothes tattered and caked in dirt. They looked like they’d been through hell, their faces hollowed with exhaustion and their eyes haunted.

Arthur dismounted first, his movements slow and deliberate as he scanned the camp, his gaze finally landing on you. You didn’t hesitate; your feet moved before you even realized, and you ran straight to him, your chest tight with emotion. “Arthur!” you cried, your voice trembling as you threw your arms around him, holding him tightly like he might vanish if you let go.

He stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but then his hands came up to rest on your back, his touch grounding and steady despite the weight he carried. “Easy now,” he murmured, his voice rough and hoarse, but there was a flicker of warmth in it that made tears spring to your eyes. “I’m here. I made it back.”

You pulled back just enough to search his face, your hands gripping his arms as your gaze swept over his tired features. “I - we thought you were gone,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Twenty-six days, Arthur. Twenty-six days, and we heard nothing!”

His brow furrowed, guilt and weariness mingling in his eyes as he glanced toward Dutch, who was dismounting nearby with a grim expression. “It wasn’t easy,” Arthur said quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion. “We got stuck… in more ways than one. But we’re here now.” Only then did you notice that Arthur’s face was uncharacteristically red, the skin across his nose and cheeks raw and peeling as if he’d spent days under an unrelenting sun. You frowned as you looked at him, curiosity stirring in your chest. 

He didn’t offer details, and you didn’t press him. The relief of seeing him alive and back at camp was enough, for now. As the others dismounted and the camp stirred with murmurs and questions, you clung to Arthur a moment longer, your heart still racing. Whatever hell they’d been through, you could tell it wasn’t over—and neither was the fight to keep the gang together. 

You grabbed a bowl of stew from the pot Pearson had set up, the steam rising in swirls as you carried it over to Arthur, who looked like he could barely stand. “Here,” you said softly, nudging him toward a crate to sit on. He hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing as he watched you, but he finally sank down with a heavy sigh. Sitting across from him, you studied his sunburnt face, the peeling skin and exhaustion in his eyes, and an unexpected wave of relief washed over you. You didn’t think you’d ever see him again, and the fact that he was here—alive, even if worse for wear—tugged at something deep in your chest. “You okay?” you asked quietly, your voice softer than you intended. 

Arthur glanced at you, his brow furrowed, and muttered, “Didn’t figure you’d lose sleep over what happens to the likes of me.” Though his tone lacked its usual edge, as if he wasn’t sure he believed his own words. You hesitated, the mix of guilt and gratitude swirling in your chest, leaving you unsure how to respond. “Of course I do,” you finally said, your voice barely audible as you looked away, unable to face the question lingering in his tired gaze.

Your fingers began to fiddle with the edge of your sleeve. “I was worried. I didn’t know if you’d come back, and… I didn’t want to lose you too.”

Arthur’s expression softened, though he still looked uncertain, his fingers idly turning the spoon in the bowl of stew. 

“Guess I didn’t think you still gave a damn about me,” he admitted, his voice low and gruff, like he wasn’t quite sure how to say the words. He leaned back slightly, his tired eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place. “But I appreciate it. More’n you know.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the sounds of the camp distant as the weight of the past weeks hung between you. Despite everything, Arthur’s presence grounded you, his steady strength a reminder that you weren’t as alone as you feared. “Well,” you said quietly, offering a small, tentative smile, “you’ll have to get used to it, Arthur. Like it or not, some of us do give a damn.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I reckon I’ll try to remember that,” he said, his voice lighter now, though his weariness lingered. He picked up the bowl of stew and began to eat, his movements slow but steady, and you stayed beside him and studied the worn features on his face.

Arthur’s beard had grown wild and uneven, the sun catching on the lighter strands that peppered the thicker growth along his jaw. It framed his face in a way you weren’t used to, making him seem even more rugged, almost untamed after the time he’d been gone. Your eyes lingered, tracing the curve of his jawline beneath the sunburnt skin, down to the faint hollow of his throat just visible beneath his open collar, the worn fabric clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. You’d thought you might never see him again, and the realization hit you all over again, making your chest tighten. He shifted slightly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he finished his food, and you couldn’t help but study him further—the sharp lines of his features softened by exhaustion, the way his collarbone rose and fell with each steady breath, grounding you in the moment. Despite the grime and wear, there was something reassuringly familiar about him, something that made you feel, if only for a moment, like everything might still be okay.

The silence between you was heavy, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “I owe you an apology,” he began, not meeting your gaze. “For what I said when I found out about you and John. I was angry, and… I shouldn’t’ve said half the things I did.”

You swallowed hard, the memory of that confrontation still fresh in your mind, the sting of his words lingering even now. “Arthur,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly.

He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “I know,” he said quietly, his tone laced with guilt. Tears stung your eyes as you leaned forward, your hands clasping together in your lap. “I never stopped caring about you, Arthur,” you sighed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I still care about you. And when you said those things, it… it felt like I lost a part of you that I’d always counted on.”

His shoulders sagged, and he let out a long sigh, finally looking at you fully. “You didn’t lose me,” he said, his voice softer now, filled with a quiet sincerity. “I was hurt, sure, but that ain’t an excuse for the way I acted.”

You nodded, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips despite the tears threatening to spill. “I just want us to be okay again.” you said softly.

Arthur’s expression softened, and he gave a small, weary smile. “We’ll be alright,” he said, his voice steady.

Arthur glanced up from his stew, his tired eyes narrowing slightly as he caught your lingering gaze, and a faint, wry smirk tugged at the edge of his lips despite the exhaustion weighing on him. “Careful, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, “John might not take too kindly to you lookin’ at me like that.” His words jolted you, and your face flushed as you quickly looked away.

You shifted uncomfortably under Arthur’s gaze, your cheeks still warm from his teasing, but the weight of everything left unsaid between you pressed down too heavily to ignore. Clearing your throat, you quickly changed the subject. “Arthur,” you began quietly, your voice trembling slightly, “John was arrested after the bank job in Saint Denis.”

Arthur froze, the spoon in his hand hovering mid-air as his tired eyes widened slightly. “Arrested?” he repeated, his voice rough and low, his brows furrowing. “What’re you talkin’ about? I thought he and Abigail had both gotten away.”

You blinked, taken aback. “She did,” you explained quickly, guilt tightening in your chest. “But when she got back to Shady Belle, she told us she saw him being taken away. Pinkertons caught him right after everything started.”

You blinked, your heart sinking as the realization hit. “I thought you knew,” you said softly, your voice almost breaking. “We’ve all been waiting—hoping for news. But it’s been weeks, Arthur. Abigail hasn’t heard a word since she saw them take him.”

Arthur exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he set the bowl aside, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Damn it,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration and worry.

Arthur’s gaze hardened, the exhaustion in his eyes giving way to a sharp focus as he leaned toward you. “Where’s he bein’ held?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slightly as you admitted, “We don’t know… Abigail saw them take him, but she couldn’t follow—no one’s been able to find out.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at the ground, the weight of everything hanging heavy in the air. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed deeply and said, “I’ll talk to Dutch in the morning… see if we can come up with somethin’.” The words barely left his mouth before you collapsed to your knees in front of him, the desperation you’d been holding back spilling over as you wrapped your arms around his torso, clutching him tightly.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your cheek pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt. For a moment, Arthur froze, his arms hovering awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Then, with a quiet sigh, he rested a hand gently on the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your shoulders as he held you close. “It’s gonna be alright,” he murmured, though his voice was rough, and the words seemed meant as much for himself as for you. As he sat there, comforting you despite the lingering ache in his chest, he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from caring for you—no matter the cost.

Arthur let out a quiet sigh, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you closer, letting your weight rest against him as the dam finally broke. You sobbed into his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly, releasing everything you’d bottled up for the past month—the fear, the guilt, the sleepless nights wondering if John was still alive, and the unbearable tension of holding it all in. Arthur didn’t say anything at first, his hands moving in slow, comforting strokes along your back as he held you like he had all the time in the world. His warmth and steady presence grounded you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself collapse fully into your grief, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a rhythm that soothed your racing heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered between sobs, your voice cracking as you tried to pull yourself together. “I shouldn’t… you’ve been through so much, and here I am falling apart on you.” You made to pull back, but Arthur’s arms only tightened around you, keeping you close. “Don’t do that,” he said gruffly, his voice softer than usual but carrying an undeniable firmness. “You’ve been holdin’ all this in, and it ain’t good for you. Hell, I’d feel worse if you didn’t let it out.” His words broke through your reluctance, and you buried your face against him again, tears streaming freely as he rested his chin lightly on the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, the roughness of it oddly soothing. “You ain’t gotta carry all this by yourself anymore, alright?” For a brief moment, the weight of your burdens felt just a little lighter, shared in the quiet strength of his embrace.

Arthur shifted slightly, his arms still wrapped securely around you, and murmured, “C’mon, darlin’, let’s get you off this cold ground.” Before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly, his strong arms cradling you as he stood, holding you close against his chest. You blinked up at him through tear-soaked lashes, feeling a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. “Arthur, you don’t have to—”

“Hush,” he interrupted, his voice soft but firm, his eyes meeting yours with a steady warmth. “You’re worn out, and you’ve been carryin’ too much for too long. Just let me do this, alright?”

He carried you into one of the small, rickety shacks at Lakay, the floorboards creaking faintly under his boots as he stepped inside. He laid you down gently on the small cot in the corner, adjusting the blanket to cover you before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. You reached out instinctively, your hand brushing against his, not wanting him to go. “Arthur… don’t leave,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the dim light.

He hesitated for a moment, the faint flicker of something unspoken crossing his face, before he nodded. “Alright,” he murmured, pulling off his hat and setting it on the floor beside him. He eased down beside you, his large frame careful not to take up too much space as he leaned back against the wall.

As you settled into the thin mattress, the tension in your chest began to ease, replaced by the quiet comfort of having him near. His hand rested lightly on yours, a grounding presence that kept the dark thoughts at bay. “Get some sleep,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, the exhaustion in it betraying his own need for rest. You nodded, your eyes drifting closed as his steady breathing filled the room, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a fragile sense of safety begin to take hold.

-

The soft light of morning filtered through the gaps in the shack’s weathered boards, painting faint golden lines across the floor. As you stirred, the faint ache of exhaustion still lingered in your body, but the overwhelming heaviness of the previous night had begun to lift. Turning your head, you spotted Arthur slouched in a wooden chair near the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. His head was tilted slightly to the side, and despite the awkward position, he seemed to be fast asleep, his face relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in weeks.

A warmth bloomed in your chest as you watched him, the sight of him staying by your side all night melting away the residual anxiety that had haunted you. He hadn’t left, even though he had every reason to. The slight rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of his breathing—it all grounded you in a quiet, fragile peace you hadn’t felt in what felt like forever. You sat up slowly, not wanting to disturb him, but the creak of the cot under your weight made his eyes flutter open. Blinking groggily, he shifted slightly and looked at you, his voice rough with sleep as he murmured, “Mornin’, darlin’.”

You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you met his tired gaze. “You didn’t have to stay,” you said softly, your voice still hushed from the morning quiet, though there was a warmth in your tone you couldn’t quite hide.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as he sat up straighter in the chair. “Figured you might need someone around,” he muttered, his voice gravelly but carrying a hint of that familiar gruff affection. “Didn’t seem right, leavin’ you after all that.”

Your smile grew a little, and you tilted your head, watching him as he stretched, his muscles stiff from the awkward position he’d slept in. “Still, you’ve been through hell. You didn’t owe me that,” you replied gently.

Arthur shrugged, his eyes meeting yours again, softer now. “Didn’t feel like I owed it,” he said simply, a faint, tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Just felt like the right thing to do.”

You looked away briefly, heat rising to your cheeks as his words lingered in the space between you. “Well,” you murmured, glancing back at him, “thank you… for everything.”

He gave a small nod, his gaze steady but warm. “Anytime,” he said quietly, leaning forward as he rested his forearms on his knees, the moment settling between you like a fragile truce.

Arthur let out a long sigh as he ran a hand through his too-long hair, his tired eyes fixed on the floor. “Let me go talk to Dutch, see if I can get him to focus on somethin’ that actually matters for once. John’s done too much for this damn gang to be left rottin’ in a cell.” He glanced up at you then, his expression softening despite the weight in his voice. “It ain’t gonna be easy, though. You know how Dutch is—he’ll want it to fit into some grand plan of his own.” His tone carried the quiet determination of a man who had seen too much but still refused to let go of what little hope remained. 

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but Arthur seemed different now. The man who once spoke about the gang’s loyalty and Dutch’s vision as if they were gospel now carried an air of quiet skepticism. His shoulders, though broad and strong as ever, seemed weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion—a kind of disillusionment you hadn’t seen in him before. There was a tiredness in his eyes, not just from lack of sleep but from seeing too much, knowing too much. And yet, that same sense of strength and resolve remained, a spark of who he was, but tempered now by an understanding that things had to change.

You grabbed his hand tightly, your grip firm as if to anchor yourself in the moment, and your voice trembled with gratitude. “Thank you, Arthur—thank you for not giving up on him,” you said, the words spilling out in a rush.

Arthur gave a small nod, his gaze steady but distant, before rising from his seat and heading for the door. As the shack’s wooden door creaked shut behind him, a faint glimmer of hope stirred in your chest, fragile but undeniable, as you clung to the thought that maybe, just maybe, things could turn around. 

-

The chaos at Lakay had been nothing short of a nightmare. The Pinkertons had descended on the swamp like a storm, gunfire echoing through the murky night as the gang fought to hold them off. By the time it was over, the once-crumbling camp had been completely abandoned, supplies scattered and spirits broken. The gang moved north in a frantic retreat, the chill of the approaching mountains biting at their heels as they set up a rough, makeshift camp at Beaver Hollow. The air at the new hideout was thick with tension, the gang fractured and on edge, their collective grief and frustration palpable in every hushed conversation and distant glare. You had barely settled before slipping away, the weight of everything driving you into the woods to hunt, the repetitive task the only thing keeping your racing thoughts at bay. The cold morning air bit at your cheeks, and each breath escaped your lips in soft, misty plumes that hung briefly before disappearing into the gray dawn.

It was there, among the trees and damp leaves, that Arthur found you, his broad figure cutting a familiar silhouette against the faint sunlight filtering through the canopy. His approach was slow, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor, and you didn’t look up until he was standing a few paces away. “Dutch doesn’t want anyone goin’ after John,” he said flatly, his voice carrying a weight that made your stomach twist. He paused, his hands resting on his belt as his gaze lingered on you. “Says it’s too risky, that we’ve got bigger problems right now.” There was frustration in his tone, but also a thread of resignation, as if he’d already fought this battle and lost.

You turned to face him fully, your bow slipping from your grasp as his words hit you like a blow. “Arthur, no,” you said softly, shaking your head, your voice trembling as desperation clawed its way to the surface. “We can’t just leave him there—Dutch can’t just decide that.” You took a step closer, your hands clenched into fists at your sides as tears threatened to spill. “Please, Arthur, you’ve got to help me. You and Sadie—you know where he is. We can get him out.” 

His jaw tightened as he averted his gaze, clearly torn, but the conflict in his expression only made you press harder. “I can’t do this without you,” you added, your voice softer now, pleading. “John doesn’t deserve to be left to rot while Dutch spins his schemes. Please.”

Arthur sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he shifted his weight. His hand lifted to rub the back of his neck, his tired eyes finally meeting yours. “It ain’t that simple,” he said quietly, though his voice lacked conviction, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as you. “Dutch… he’s diggin’ in his heels, and things are already fallin’ apart. If I go against him—if we go against him—it’ll only make things worse.” His words were heavy, but you could see the cracks in his resolve, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if grasping for a solution he couldn’t quite reach.

You stepped closer, your voice firm and trembling with frustration. “If you won’t go, I will,” you said, the words rushing out before you could stop them. Arthur’s head snapped up, his jaw tightening as his tired eyes bore into yours. “Don’t,” he said sharply, his voice low but carrying a weight that made your breath hitch. He took a step toward you, his broad figure looming as he softened his tone, though it remained firm. “You know I can’t have you goin’. You’ll get yourself killed before you even get close to that damn place.” His voice broke slightly, the faintest edge of worry cutting through his words. “And I… I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

The intensity in his gaze left you momentarily speechless, your hands curling into fists at your sides as his words hung between you. “Then what, Arthur?” you finally asked, your voice trembling. “What do we do? Because I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Arthur let out another sigh, his shoulders sagging as he looked away, clearly conflicted. “I’ll help you,” he said finally, his voice quieter but laced with determination. “But we’re gonna do this smart, not reckless. I ain’t about to lose you over this, y’hear?” His words carried a weight that settled deep in your chest, but there was a flicker of relief, of hope, as he added, “We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice breaking as you whispered, “Thank you, Arthur. Please… bring him back to me.”

Arthur looked at you for a long moment, his tired eyes softening, though the hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you, girl,” he muttered, his voice low but laced with that familiar gruff affection.

The words hit you like a quiet storm, leaving your chest tight as you stepped closer. Without thinking, you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the rough stubble brushing against your lips. “Thank you,” you murmured again, your voice filled with gratitude, as his smirk faded into something more tender.

A faint blush crept up Arthur’s face, his usual composure faltering as he glanced away, the stubble on his cheek still warm where your lips had touched. You watched as Arthur disappeared into the woods, his broad shoulders framed by the stark trees, each step carrying him further into the misty morning. A tangle of emotions swirled in your chest—gratitude for his willingness to help, guilt for asking so much of him, and a quiet, confusing ache that lingered from the soft blush on his face when you kissed his cheek.

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

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