#it was a while back but i think the world is ready to see them now

[ducksido]

Babysitting Cheka With Leona

The sun blazed overhead, pouring golden light over the Savannaclaw dorm as Y/N and Leona lounged on the soft grass near the dorm gardens. Well, "lounged" wasn't quite the right word—Leona was sprawled across the ground, arm draped over his face to shield his eyes, while Y/N sat beside him, cross-legged and enjoying the rare moment of peace.

It didn’t last long.

“Unca Leona!”

The sound of small feet pounding against the ground reached their ears, and both looked up just in time to see Cheka barrelling toward them. Y/N had only a second to brace themselves before the lion cub tackled them into an enthusiastic hug.

“Y/N! You’re here too! That’s so cool!” Cheka exclaimed, his amber eyes sparkling as he looked up at them.

Leona groaned from his spot on the ground, muttering something about cubs being "too hyper for their own good." He made no move to get up.

“What’s the occasion, Cheka?” Y/N asked, ruffling his fluffy hair.

“Papa and Mama had to go to a meeting, so I get to hang out with Unca Leona today!” Cheka beamed before his expression turned pleading. “Can we play a game? Please?”

Leona finally peeled one eye open, glancing at Cheka with a mixture of exasperation and resignation. “Don’t you have someone else to bother, runt?”

“Leona,” Y/N said with a playful smirk, “he’s just a kid. Don’t be so grumpy.”

Leona groaned again, but the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. “Fine. What game?”

Cheka gasped with excitement. “Hide and seek! You’re it, Unca Leona!”

Without waiting for a response, the cub darted off, dragging Y/N along by the hand. Y/N shot Leona an apologetic look over their shoulder, but the beastman just waved them off, muttering, “You’re on your own, herbivore.”

The game went about as expected. Cheka hid in the most obvious spots, giggling loudly and making it impossible for Y/N to miss him. Still, they played along, pretending to search high and low before "finding" him in the bushes or behind a tree.

Leona watched from a distance, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, his emerald eyes following Y/N’s every move. There was something about the way they laughed and indulged Cheka's antics that made his chest tighten in a way he wasn’t quite ready to admit.

Eventually, the game wound down, and Cheka declared himself the winner. Y/N collapsed onto the grass, panting but grinning as Cheka plopped down beside them.

“You’re really good at hide and seek, Y/N!” the cub said, his tail swishing happily.

“Thanks, Cheka. You’re a tough opponent,” Y/N replied, ruffling his hair again.

Leona finally joined them, sitting down with a dramatic sigh. “You tired yourself out already, runt?”

“No way! But Y/N looks tired, so we should rest.” Cheka cuddled up to Y/N, his small frame warm against their side.

Leona’s gaze softened as he watched the scene. Without thinking, he reached out and flicked Y/N’s forehead lightly.

“Hey!” Y/N protested, rubbing the spot.

“You’re too soft,” Leona said, but there was no real bite in his words. “Letting the kid run you ragged like that.”

Y/N rolled their eyes. “Oh, please. You enjoyed watching us play, admit it.”

Leona smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Maybe. But don’t get used to it.”

Cheka’s eyelids were drooping, and he yawned, snuggling closer to Y/N. “You’re the best, Y/N… And Unca Leona is pretty cool too.”

Leona’s ears twitched, and he looked away, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

As Cheka’s breathing evened out, Y/N laid back on the grass, the little lion cub nestled between them and Leona. The warm afternoon sun made it impossible to resist the pull of sleep. Y/N glanced at Leona, their smile soft.

“You know, you’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be.”

“Tch. Don’t start,” Leona muttered, but his hand brushed against theirs, his fingers curling around Y/N’s in a quiet acknowledgment.

For a while, the three of them lay there, the world still except for the gentle rustle of leaves and Cheka’s soft snores. Leona’s hand lingered against Y/N’s, his thumb absently brushing their skin.

“I don’t get why you’re always so patient with him,” Leona said after a long moment, his voice quieter than usual.

Y/N tilted their head toward him, meeting his gaze. “Because he’s a good kid. And he adores you, Leona, even if you try to act like you don’t care.”

Leona scoffed, though there was no malice behind it. “Adoration’s overrated.”

“Not when it’s earned,” Y/N replied, their tone gentle.

Leona didn’t respond right away, but his eyes softened, the usual sharpness giving way to something deeper. His grip on Y/N’s hand tightened ever so slightly.

“You’re a handful too, you know,” he said, his voice low, almost fond.

“Is that so?” Y/N teased, their smile growing.

Leona leaned in, his forehead briefly touching theirs. “Yeah. But I don’t mind.”

It wasn’t much—a fleeting gesture, unspoken words tucked between their fingers—but it was enough.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the world in hues of amber and gold, Y/N drifted off to the sound of Leona’s steady breathing and the comforting warmth of his hand in theirs.

And for the first time in a long while, Leona thought that maybe, just maybe, moments like this weren’t so bad after all.

[ruiniel]

Another Way - XII

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Summary: what if someone in the 21st century stumbled upon this stranger during a turbulent storm, narrowly avoiding running them over, and what’s more they can’t understand a word coming out of their mouth.

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

Rating: Mature / 18+ only

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, References to Depression, First Meetings, character-meets-world, Near Death Experiences, References to loss, Grief/Mourning, Fantasy, POV Second Person, Language Barrier, Violence, Portal Fantasy, Isekai, Slow burn, References to canon, Rewriting show canon, Because why not, POV Alucard, POV original character, More tags to be added

Also on AO3

Part I

AN: been a while

XII.

He doesn’t like coffee.

This becomes quite apparent with the different flavor of mild disgust over his features after each sip.

“It’s an acquired taste for some,” you try saying with a straight face, because it is more amusing than you’d thought to see a grown man with a perfect jaw and bedroom hair seated at your small table, coming up with the most telling, candid expressions. 

After breakfast—during which he insists on turning the cooker on and off, ‘to learn’, and during which, once again, he eats little to nothing—you head over to your desk and obtain for him the work Adrian asked for. It’s not difficult to find, and happens to be the first book printed in the English language, in the 1400s. 

“Is… this it?”

His enthusiasm says ‘yes’ when seeing the title page, and you let him take your place and scroll through as you head to get ready for the adventure of helping him look less conspicuous. “All right, enjoy your courtly romance, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“All right.”

You pause, turning to stare but his eyes are feverish on the screen, attention absorbed by the text. Whatever works. You decided to stop wondering. 

Having made yourself presentable enough to be outside, you tap back into the room on bare feet. “Ready to g—...” you trail off at the sound. His voice. His voice, with that same mild inflection, but the words are oddly shaped to the ear.

He’s reading aloud from the online scan you fetched him, nodding, writing in the agenda.

“What’s… this?” You near him, narrowing your eyes at the screen. 

Adrian turns to you with an excitement you’d not seen or felt in a long, long while. Somehow, it’s endearing. This side feels like him too, a natural expression in contrast with all those confused, dour moods he’d been mired in. 

“I need…” He pauses, hand in his hair, eyebrows pinched together. 

“What… do you need?...” 

He points at the scan of the text, long fingers gliding along the little black rows of archaic words. “... from now.”

“From now?... Oh! A modern version, you mean? From our time?”

Adrian nods. “Possible?”

“Y-yeah. There might be one… wait…” As you search it for him, Adrian waits patiently with his arms crossed, rubbing at his chin. “I get it. You want to learn modern vocabulary equivalents, don't you?” You bring up the 1400s version of the work again. “Wait… you understand this one?” Not that it's impossible, shouldn’t be. But you didn't exactly take him for someone pursuing comparative historical linguistics.

“Yes,” comes the answer, leaving you bemused.

“You know what? I won't even ask. Go ham. Here, I found it.” 

As he nears and glues himself to the screen, you dare to gently pull on his sleeve.

“Remember…clothes?”

Adrian blinks in realization, then stares back at the screen with a sort of longing. You get it. He’s making a breakthrough here, or so he thinks, one that’ll be of help in wading through terrain unfamiliar to him. 

But the rare practical side of you insists. “You can pick this up when we get back, right?”

He meets your eyes, nodding in acceptance. “Right.”

~~

The bell rings as you open the door to the second hand shop you sometimes frequent, looking behind you to see Adrian entering with care, gazing about with mild interest. 

“Well, here we are,” you say as he meets your stare, before looking towards the shop attendant who’s sitting behind a desk, phone in hand, chewing on some gum and watching the both of you with piqued interest—no, rather, watching him.

You cough, “Hi, we’re looking for some—” 

“Men’s wear is over there,” she answers, not taking her eyes off Adrian.

“All right, thanks.” Starting to think this is a typical reaction. You make a gesture, urging him to follow. 

He has a befuddled look on his face, but walks after you as you reach the rows of clothing boasting jeans, t-shirts and jackets. 

“So, listen.” You turn, waving a hand around the space. “You look for something you like.” You pull at your own blouse, pants, and coat. “And there’s a cabin over there, where you can try stuff out, if you like.”

He seems to understand, nodding and tentatively following your lead as you rummage through the merch on display. You notice the way he feels the garments, looking at you with a question in his eyes.

“Take your time,” you offer, going over and taking a seat on a chair. 

It doesn’t take long, really. Soon enough he’s gathered a few items under his arm, a bundle of… mostly black, cream and white garments. “Want to try these on?” you ask when he nears, standing before you, uncertain.

When Adrian doesn’t reply but tilts his head in slight confusion, you rise and walk towards the cabin, drawing the curtain and showing him the space. “In you go, let me know if…” You pause as he pulls the worn shirt over his head without much ado, spinning around and drawing the curtain behind him. “... call if you need help,” you mumble, stiffly walking away.

Your heart beats strangely, faster as you meet the stare of the shop clerk, who apparently has less important things to do than follow your exchange. 

Whatever. You go and idly sift through the items of clothing, humming to yourself. 

“Your boyfriend’s out,” comes the clerk’s voice after a while, and you blink in confusion, head swiveling to stare at her.

 “Oh, he’s not my—” Before you can finish that thought, movement has you turning in time to see Adrian emerging from the cabin. 

“Right, uh, you look… they fit, don’t they?" Heat rises to your face, damn the air conditioning. 

Black faded jeans, tight. A simple, white fitted t-shirt—was he always this…slim? Fit? A dark blue coat, reaching to his knees. “They look like they fit,” you follow, scratching your head. 

“Oh yeah, they sure do,” comes the young shop attendant’s voice, and a niggling sensation you’ve been unfamiliar with pinches at your mood. 

Adrian seems to agree, looking at himself, then at you. “Good?” he says in English.

You nod. “Yeah, good. That’s one round. Things here are affordable, so uh…” you retrieve your phone, type it in, and translate. “Find another item of each, to have spare clothing.”

He’s surprisingly efficient after that, and it’s not long before you’re returning to your apartment block, Adrian following with a bag in each hand. 

“Okay, that was relatively painless,” you comment, turning to look over your shoulder at him, and—

“Adrian?...”

His expression is frozen, light-amber eyes wide and lips parted. It’s not out of fear as much as it is… consternation?

You turn back around, a different tremor running through your limbs at the person approaching.

A tall woman, wearing a flowing white dress suit, her red coat slung over one forearm. Her long, straight dark hair is done up in a ponytail, swinging languidly with each step taken on black pumps. She’s always had a distinct sense of style. Her attitude is the usual—one of those people carrying themselves like the world lies in wait at their feet. You never did know how to feel about her, nor do you know much about her. You do know this is but one of many businesses she has under her care. Well to do, in any case.

Guess it had to happen sooner or later. “Mrs. Hawke, hello.”

The landlady smiles in greeting, blue eyes alighting first on you, then focusing beyond your shoulder. She lands a hand on her hip, “How have you been, my dear?” 

The question was directed at you, but you’re perceptive enough—you like to think—to notice the unspoken query following the first. 

“Doing well, um. You know how it is…”

“Mm.” Her eyes are still on Adrian, but her gaze is different from that of the store clerk earlier. It holds no fascination, merely a calculating sort of curiosity that disappears the moment she stares back at you.

“I actually wanted to contact you, but didn’t get to until now. You see, Adrian here will be staying for a while, and I know that affects the rent, so…”

Mrs. Hawke tilts her chin. “That’s right, normally so—do you have an idea as to how long your additional tenant will be staying?...”

“Um. Well, I…” You feel an urge to turn and look at Adrian, but somehow her stare arrests you enough that you can’t.

Just then, she waves a hand. “You know, nevermind. I know you’ve had a difficult time lately. Consider no fee added to the rent, for now.”

The impossible has happened. Mrs. Hawke, being… lenient? Forgoing business? Not asking the ‘how’ and the ‘who’ and the ‘why’?

“Er… you mean it? Really?” Your jaw might be somewhere on the floor for all you know.

She nods. “I do. If the time of stay extends indefinitely, then that’s another matter, of course… but for now, we should be fine.”

“Thank… you…?”

She laughs, a light, glittering sound. “Oh don’t look at me like that. After all…” her gaze flicks back behind you, only briefly. “Life does seem to hold all manner of… surprises, doesn’t it?”

There’s something unusual in her tone, but, ah, the prospect of not having to scrounge up more money regularly is a godsend. “You can say that again…”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run!” And she does just that, without another glance, leaving the two of you alone in the hallway.

“Well, I’ll be…” you murmur, then remember Adrian. “What is it about you, seriously? It's either the worst of luck or the strangest change... Adrian?”

His stare is unfocused, like something blew a fuse behind his eyes. When you touch his arm, he snaps out of it with a start. “Let’s go up?... You wanted to continue reading, didn’t you?”

Shaking his head like someone having been splashed with ice-cold water, Adrian looks down at you. “... reading. Yes. Let’s…let’s go.”

Picking up fast, you think as he walks ahead of you towards the elevator. And maybe it’s just you, but his steps are more determined than before.

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX - Part X - Part XI

Taglist: @hornyf0ckers @the-keep-under-gresit @pencildrawer12 (this is old, let me know if you want to be removed!)

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MASTERLIST: CASTLEVANIA SERIES x READER

More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]

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Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated

AN:

Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye (1464) is a translation by William Caxton of a French courtly romance written by Raoul Lefèvre.

[batboysanonymous]

A Taste of Silence

Pt. II

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Summary: Rhys's drunken words cut deeper than any blade, leaving Y/n questioning everything she thought she knew about their bond. As heartbreak and betrayal collide, she faces a choice that could shatter the fragile threads holding their world together.

Pt. I

──────────────────────────────

Rhysand was drowning.

He had endured centuries of torment in Amarantha’s Court, faced death and destruction in ways that would have broken lesser males—but this? This was agony unlike anything he had ever known.

Because this wasn’t just losing her. This was being the cause of her pain.

The bond was still there, a heavy, throbbing weight tethered to his soul. It twisted and pulled at him, refusing to let him forget the raw betrayal in her eyes when she left. He couldn’t block it out. Couldn’t shut down the waves of anger and hurt radiating from her, nor the faint echo of her presence that haunted his every step.

He didn’t deserve to forget.

He followed her from a distance, staying just out of sight, knowing he had no right to approach her. She had retreated to a small, snow-laden village on the outskirts of his territory, a place so quiet and unassuming it seemed designed to swallow grief whole. Rhys respected her boundaries—at least, as much as he could while still ensuring she was safe.

The villagers had no idea their little haven was now fiercely guarded by shadows. Every night, he patrolled the perimeter, silent as death, ensuring no threat could come close. When a pack of feral beasts wandered too near, Rhys killed them before they could even scent the village. He cleaned up the blood and left no trace, unwilling to let her see the lengths he was going to for her protection.

She might hate him, but she was still his mate. And he would protect her, even if it tore him apart.

But even the small things he could do weren’t enough. Not when every second without her was a reminder of the chasm he’d created between them. The cold, empty nights stretched endlessly, the silence gnawing at his mind until he thought he might go mad.

──────────────────────────────

The third week after her departure, he broke.

He had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t intrude, and wouldn't push her until she was ready. But the bond burned unbearably that day, tugging at him with a force that felt like claws raking through his chest. He flew to her cabin before he could stop himself, landing with a muffled thud on the snow-packed ground.

She was outside, stacking firewood with her back to him. She froze when his boots crunched against the snow.

“Don’t,” she said without turning, her voice cold enough to make him falter.

“Please,” Rhys choked out, his voice hoarse.

She didn’t respond, and he didn’t think—he just dropped to his knees. The snow soaked through his leathers, numbing his skin, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

“Please,” he repeated, his voice breaking. “Please, just listen to me. I—” His throat closed up, the words catching on the lump that had lodged itself there since the moment she left. He dragged a trembling hand through his hair, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his desperation. “I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I—Cauldron, I can’t live like this. I can’t live without you.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t move.

“You are everything to me,” he said, his voice raw. “Everything. And I hate myself for what I did, for the way I made you feel. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right, if you’ll let me. But if you can’t…” He swallowed hard, tears stinging his eyes. “If you can’t, I’ll still do it. I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure you’re safe and happy, even if it’s from afar. I don’t care what it costs me, as long as you’re okay.”

“How can I trust that the next time you’re drunk or angry, you won’t say something that cuts me to the bone?”

Her words hit like a dagger, sharp and precise. He bowed his head, his voice trembling as he replied, “I don’t deserve your trust, not after what I said. But I swear to you, I will never drink if it means risking your pain. I’ll stop entirely if you ask me to. Nothing—nothing—is worth losing you again.”

Her arms crossed, her shields firmly in place, though he caught the faintest waver in her expression. “And what happens the next time we fight, Rhys? What if you get angry? Will you throw my weaknesses in my face again?”

His head snapped up, anguish written across his features. “Never. I would never—” His voice broke. “You are not my weakness. You are my strength. And if I ever forget that, I want you to walk away and never look back. But I swear to you, Feyre, I will spend every day of my life proving to you that I’ve learned from this. That I will never, ever make you feel like that again.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. He could feel her battling herself, the bond between them a swirling tempest of doubt and yearning.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he whispered, his knees sinking deeper into the snow. “I’ll spend the rest of my life earning your trust if I have to. Just tell me how to begin.”

The silence stretched taut between them, and Rhys didn’t dare move. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but edged with steel. “Prove it.”

Her shields weren’t just up—they were fortified. But he didn’t need to feel the bond to see the war raging within her.

──────────────────────────────

The days that followed were a slow, painful process. Rhys didn’t push. He stayed near enough to be there if she needed him but far enough to give her space. He continued his quiet watch over the village, eliminating threats before she ever knew they existed. He left her gifts—small things he hoped might bring her comfort. A new brush when he saw her old one had broken. A scarf enchanted to keep her warm even in the bitterest winds. And a note with every gift: I’m still here. I always will be.

She started letting him stay for longer each time he visited. They didn’t talk much at first—just sat in heavy, charged silence. But gradually, the walls began to crack. She started asking him questions, small and tentative, and he answered with an honesty that left him vulnerable and bare.

The night she finally forgave him, it was snowing.

They were sitting by the fire, the soft glow casting flickering shadows across the room. Rhys’s voice was low and steady as he recounted the years he’d spent under the mountain. The rawness of the memories was evident in the way his hands clenched and unclenched, but he forced himself to speak, each word a step toward atonement.

Y/N sat across from him, silent, her gaze fixed on the flames. Her fingers twisted the hem of her sweater, the movement restless and uncertain.

“You didn’t just hurt me,” she said at last, her voice trembling. “You betrayed me, Rhys. You made me feel small, like I didn’t matter.”

The words tore through him, but he didn’t flinch. He nodded, his throat tightening. “I know. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel that way again.”

She looked at him then, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “How can I trust you not to run your mouth again? To not let some drink or situation make you careless with me?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, shame crashing over him. “You can’t—not yet. But I’ll prove to you that you can. I’ll prove it every single day, Y/N.” His voice cracked, his chest heaving as he lowered himself to his knees before her.

“Please,” he begged, his hands trembling as he clasped hers. “Please, give me a chance to earn back your trust. I’ll never take another sip of wine if that’s what it takes. I’ll never let myself forget the weight of what I have to lose. You are everything to me.”

Her lip trembled as she stared at him, the rawness in his expression and the desperation in his voice cutting through her defenses. “I’m terrified, Rhys. Of trusting you again. Of getting hurt again.”

His thumbs brushed over her knuckles as he held her hands tightly, his head bowing. “I know. And if I ever break your trust again, I’ll deserve every ounce of that fear. I’ll deserve to lose you. But I won’t. I swear to you, Y/N, I won’t.”

The bond between them hummed faintly, like a whisper of what it once was, and it pulled at her even as she hesitated. She reached out, cupping his face with trembling fingers.

“You have one chance, Rhys,” she whispered, her voice heavy with both hope and caution. “One.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, pressing her palm to his lips. “I won’t waste it. I swear to you, I’ll never waste it.”

When she finally leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, his arms wrapped around her protectively, as if he could shield her from every hurt in the world—including himself. The bond sang louder, fuller, and in that moment, they began to mend what had been broken, piece by fragile piece.

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: After a moment of revelations with Ellie and Maria, you retreat to the quiet of upstairs, where Joel brings you something that reminds him of you

a/n: AHHHHH

After a warm shower upstairs, you step out of the bathroom, steam rising and billowing into the room as you tie the robe tightly around your waist. Ellie sits on the edge of the bed, already changed into a fresh set of clothes—new jeans and a long sleeve. The coat Maria left still sits nearby, but with the warmth inside the house, there’s little need for it.

You move to the bed, squeezing the last drops of water from your hair into a smaller towel as you approach.

“What’s all this?” you ask, eyeing the neatly folded clothes Maria left for you. Beside them, you notice a small, unopened contraption. You inspect it and discover a rubber funnel-like device, small enough to fit in your hand. Ellie giggles from her spot on the bed, flipping through a comic book. Her hair is still damp, dripping onto her new clothes.

You narrow your eyes at the small user guide that came with the contraption. Diva Cup.

And then it clicks. You start giggling, feeling heat rise in your face. Ellie joins you, her laughter filling the room.

There’s also a note on the bed. "I’m across the street.”

“Okay, okay,” you hiccup through your laughter, “Let me get my shit together and we’ll head over.”

“Can’t we just—” Ellie starts, a slight frown creasing her brow as she leans back against the headboard.

“We’re guests. We have to be good,” you say, and she rolls her eyes, gazing out the window.

You pause, watching her for a beat. “You sure you’re okay?” The question hangs in the air, heavy in the silence that follows.

“Yeah…” Ellie trails off, her eyes still on the comic book, distant.

Not wanting to press, you tell her you’ll get dressed in the bathroom, and soon enough, both of you are heading out the door.

At Maria’s, the house is quiet. You let yourselves in, taking in the cozy furniture and the comfort of the space. The warmth is a welcome reprieve from the chill of the outdoors. It reminds you more and more of home, of the life you lived with your dad. You can hardly believe you managed to survive for months without the simple comforts of electricity, warm meals, and clean clothes.

You both stop in front of the fireplace, drawn to the small chalkboard sign hanging above it.

Kevin 04/03/2000—09/29/2003 Sarah 07/20/1989—09/26/2003

“That’s the day…” you whisper, pointing to the date beneath the girl’s name. “That’s the day the world went to shit.”

“You remember it?” Ellie asks softly, her voice serious.

“It was my fifth birthday,” you reply, eyes still fixed on the names on the chalkboard. Half-melted candles sit in front of the names, their faint glow long gone. You wonder how many nights Maria and Tommy must have spent lighting those candles for their children, thinking of them.

A soft voice breaks the silence. “Hey.”

You turn to see Maria smiling at both of you. You greet her with a quiet, “Hello.”

“I just traded for some better coats,” she says, holding up two jackets in her arms. They look warm, thick, and winter-ready. “Go ahead and try them on.”

You walk over to her, grabbing the black one while Ellie takes the purple.

“Thank you,” you say, lifting it over your shoulders.

“It’s, uh…” Ellie says, eyeing her jacket. “Super fuckin’ purple.”

Maria smiles. “It’s eggplant,” she teases, wiping off the jacket and making sure it fits. “Shoes fit, too? Did you get the thing I left for you?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Weirdest gift ever,” Ellie mutters, turning it over in her hands.

“But useful,” Maria finishes. “Come on, let me get my scissors for that mane of yours.”

“Wait, wait–” Ellie protests.

“Just a trim! The ends!” Maria calls over her shoulder as she heads toward the other room.

Soon enough, you’re sitting down in front of Maria, who combs through your hair, snipping the tangles with every few strokes.

“So…” Ellie says, leaning forward, “Was this your job, or something, back then?”

Maria chuckles softly. “No, I was an Assistant District Attorney out of Omaha, Nebraska.”

“Sounds fancy,” you comment.

“I put bad guys in jail,” Maria replies. “But I always liked doing hair. Maybe it was a mom thing.” Her voice softens, and she glances at the memorial you’d been looking at. “I saw you looking at the memorial Tommy made.”

You look back at the names again, your stomach tightening. You nod quietly.

“I’m really sorry about your kids,” you murmur.

“It’s okay,” Maria replies, voice soft. “And… just Kevin. Sarah was Joel’s daughter.”

Your stomach drops, a tight knot forming deep in your chest. The weight of Maria’s words presses down on you, suffocating. You didn’t expect it to hit this hard. The idea of Joel’s daughter—Sarah, her name now etched in your mind like a brand—was something you never imagined he’d kept locked away, hidden behind his walls of silence. It made sense now, why he was the way he was, why he could be so hard, so distant, why he didn’t let people in. The pain, the rawness of losing someone you loved so completely—how could anyone recover from that?

Your throat tightens, and the moisture in your eyes wells up before you can stop it. You blink rapidly, feeling the sting of unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall. You can’t. Not here, not now, not in front of Maria, who clearly didn’t mean to stir all this up. She couldn’t know.

“Oh,” Maria says, noticing the silence. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s okay,” Ellie answers for you, her eyes watching you carefully.

Joel had a daughter, and he never said a word about it. You imagine, though, that losing anyone is hard enough. You never spoke about your mom after the outbreak, and your dad never brought her up, so you followed his lead. But Joel… his daughter, of all people. Dying on outbreak day. It’s devastating.

“It kinda explains him a little,” Ellie says, her voice thoughtful.

You nod, wiping your eyes and forcing a chuckle. “Definitely explains him.”

Maria shifts, standing in front of you, leaning on the back of a chair beside Ellie. “Look,” she begins, “I’m not gonna ask what you’re doing with him—”

“Good,” Ellie interrupts, her tone sharp.

“But there are clearly things you don’t know about Joel.”

“Like he used to kill people?” you say suddenly, your blood heating under your skin. “We know.”

You’ve been quiet since you arrived—polite, respectful, not once stepping out of line—but this? This is where you draw the line. You won’t let anyone question Joel's morals, not after everything he’s done for you and Ellie.

Maria’s hands resume their work on your hair, brushing through it. “So he doesn’t do that anymore? Killing people?”

“Doesn’t kill innocent ones,” Ellie shoots back, her eyes narrowing. “Besides, how do you think we made it this far? By singing show tunes and hugging it out with everyone we met?”

You cough out a laugh at that. Taking lives was never easy, but it was a necessity. It wasn’t something you wanted to do. It wasn’t something you ever did until Joel came into your life. But that wasn’t his fault. Some people were out for blood, and the only way to survive was to fight back. You’d never regret what you’d done to protect yourself and those you care about, and you sure as hell wouldn’t start questioning Joel’s actions.

“Girls,” Maria says, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. “There’s a whole lot you’re not telling me. And that’s okay. Good, even. Just…be careful who you put your faith in.” she pauses, turning, “Now, grab your coats. We’re going to the movies.”

You hesitate, then speak softly, “I’d really like to stay here, if that’s okay. It’s just… it’s a lot of people.”

Maria nods, understanding. “That’s fine. But Ellie is coming.” As Ellie opens her mouth to argue, you shoot her a look. Be nice. Be polite.

It’s a couple of hours later when you hear the heavy, familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. You’re settled in the largest bedroom upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a book in your hands, trying to keep your mind occupied. You know who it is before he even opens the door—the unmistakable sound of heavy boots on the steps, the familiar grunt he makes when his joints protest the climb. It’s a rhythm you’ve gotten used to over the past few months.

The door creaks open, and there he is: Joel Miller, freshly cleaned, newly clothed, but with that same familiar scowl etched deep into his face. His dark eyes meet yours for a moment, then flick to the floor as he closes the door behind him. There’s something in his hands—he’s holding it behind his back, his posture slightly awkward. You don’t know why, but the way he’s standing makes your pulse quicken just a little.

“Hey,” you greet softly, trying to mask the unease bubbling up inside of you.

He gives you a small, almost hesitant nod, and then, in that way he has of doing things without really making a fuss about it, he reveals what’s in his hands. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the sight. It’s a bow. A bow that looks carefully made, with white wood, smooth and carved beautifully, the string taut and waiting. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time.

“Found somethin’ for ya,” he says, his voice low, a touch unsure but steady.

You swallow, unsure of how to react, before you rise from the bed. Your legs feel unsteady as you walk toward him. The smell of soap and musk is faint but noticeable as you get closer, and there’s a brief moment where you can feel the heat of his body, the closeness, that makes you pause for just a second.

Joel’s eyes are on you, waiting, as you take the bow into your hands. You run your fingers over the smooth wood, tracing the shape of it. It’s different than yours, heavier, unfamiliar. But it’s a bow. And something about it feels so right. You’ve missed the one you lost in Kansas City, the one left behind in the truck when you were running for your life, when there was no time to grab it. It had been a simple, quiet tool to you, something familiar that helped keep you alive. 

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, still in awe, your fingers lingering on the curve. You look up at him then, your voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

His eyes soften as he watches you, his face unreadable. There’s something in his gaze that shifts, something behind his usual guarded exterior that you hadn’t noticed before. It’s like the weight of all the days you’ve spent together suddenly comes to the forefront.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you step forward, your hands moving up to wrap around him. You can’t fully explain what it is that makes you do it. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in his eyes, or the way he’s protected you for months on end, never once thinking of leaving you behind, even when he could’ve sent you off to fend for yourself back at the house. Maybe it’s the quiet understanding that just today you learned he lost his one and only daughter. Or maybe it’s the simplest, most unexpected reason: the fact that he thought of you. When he saw that bow, he knew how much you missed yours, how it had once been an extension of you, and he had the heart to bring it to you. As a gift.

Even now, you’re afraid to look into his eyes as you reach for him, afraid you’ll find rejection, assessment, or worse—nothing. So you avert your eyes from him and close the gap between you without hesitation, wrapping your arms around him. The warmth of his body against yours is familiar, comforting, like something you didn’t know you needed until it’s right here. Your hands instinctively find his neck, fingers curling gently against the rough fabric of his shirt. You pull him closer, and for a brief moment, the world seems to hold its breath.

To your surprise, he hardly flinches, and doesn’t even pull away. His hands, though, hover over you, unsure at first, but they come down gently to your lower back, pulling you into him with a tenderness that makes your heart constrict. You can feel his too, both of your hearts pounding against your rib cages. It suddenly occurs to you that maybe he’s just as nervous as you are.

You let yourself stay there for a long moment, in the comfort of his arms, and for the first time in a long while, you don't feel the weight of the world pressing in. The tension, the fear, all of it fades away as you feel his warmth surrounding you, steady and real. But even in this fleeting peace, you can’t ignore how every nerve in your body seems to hum, to come alive in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Every inch of you craves more—more of this closeness, more of him.

As the silence stretches on, you feel his arms settle more securely around you, pulling you in even closer, as if he finally is allowing himself to be close to you. His head dips into the side of your neck, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, slow and steady. The quiet of the moment is broken only by the sound of his inhale, and you realize, for the first time, just how much you’ve missed this kind of tenderness. It’s as if, in his presence, you don’t have to worry about anything, not for a single second.

It feels so right, so good to be held like this. To have him, this person who has protected you with every ounce of his being, just hold you—no words, just the comfort of being together. You let yourself sink into it, letting go of all the tension that’s built up over days, weeks, months of constant survival.

But then, the moment shifts. When he pulls back just slightly, the warmth of his hands on your back moves, and you feel the shift in the air between you. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and you find yourself locking eyes with him, the intensity of his stare almost too much to bear. His chocolate brown eyes are searching you in a way you don’t quite understand. 

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing away something wet—tears you didn’t even realize had fallen.

“What is it?” he whispers, his voice rough, strained. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him speak with that kind of softness—like he’s afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean.

Sniffling, you shake your head, “I just…all this…” you sigh, looking up at him, unable to string together the right words, “You…”

His dark eyes still search yours, the silence stretching between you, heavy with unspoken words. You can hardly believe he hasn’t let you go. It’s as if he’s holding onto you as much as you’re holding onto him, both of you unsure if this is just a fleeting moment—or something more, something that might change everything between you forever.

Joel whispers your name, and that’s when you realize, with a sudden clarity, that the space between you is almost gone. His eyes have dropped to your lips, and your heart races in your chest. His thumb is still there, gently on your cheek, like he’s waiting, watching you for any sign that you might pull away. But you won’t. You can’t. You’d never pull away from him, never let him go now. Not when this moment feels like everything you’ve ever wanted.

It hits you then, deep in your chest, in your gut—you realize that this is it. This is everything. All the times you caught him looking at you with something more than just the need to protect you. All the times you found yourself looking for him in every room, in every corner, as if your heart knew where he was before your mind did. Even as a teenager, it was never like this. It was never so full of trust, so full of need, of longing. Of…love.

Joel Miller was very close to you now. 

So close you could feel his breath against you, shallow and almost hesitant. He was moving slowly—agonizingly slow—and it took every ounce of willpower not to close the distance yourself. But you couldn’t. You needed him to show you that he felt this too, that it wasn’t just some fleeting crush, that this wasn’t just a momentary rush of emotions. After all this time, after seven years of separation, of waiting, of silently longing for him, you needed to know this was real.

Seven years of missing him. Seven years of dreaming about his broad shoulders, the scruff on his face, the way he moved and spoke. Now, you were here, living through the days side by side, finding comfort in each other in ways that had once seemed impossible. Protecting each other. Looking for each other. Sharing these small, fleeting moments that somehow felt like everything. This wasn’t just some passing thing. This was something both of you needed—something that, now that it was on the edge of being realized, felt so right, so complete, that there was no going back.

“Joel,” you whisper, your lips barely parting as he hovers inches away. The word feels like a plea, a desperate, silent begging for him to bridge the space between you. To finally take what’s been his for so long, what’s always been his, even when neither of you could admit it. There had never been anyone else, not in the way there had always been him. Not just because of your life in isolation, but because no one else could make you feel like this.

His hand that’s cupping your jaw moves then, sliding into the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, gently pulling you closer as he leans in.

Joel’s lips are so, so soft. 

It’s a slow kiss, like he’s taking his time, like he’s savoring the moment—every inch of it. The contrast of his rough stubble brushing against your skin feels jarring yet comforting, a sensation that sends shivers down your spine. Your heart races, painfully tight in your chest, and a rush of warmth floods through you, spreading like wildfire, lighting every nerve. For a second, you feel weightless, caught in the storm of it all, the world outside forgotten.

He’s so warm.

The heat of him, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, his hand still tangled in your hair, the solid press of his chest against yours—it’s all consuming. Waves of warmth flow from him, surrounding you, filling every part of you, inside and out. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, a calming, grounding force.

Then his tongue brushes against your lower lip, hesitant, testing. It’s so gentle, so careful that it makes your heart skip a beat. You nearly jump out of your skin, the sensation unfamiliar, intense. But then, you feel his smile against your lips, soft and reassuring. You open for him instinctively, feeling his warmth deepen as he moves closer, his tongue sliding into your mouth, slow and deliberate.

You can tell how mindful he’s being, how aware he is of how new this all is for you. Your movements are unsure, tentative, but somehow, with him, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. And despite all the uncertainty, despite the unfamiliarity, it feels so right, so entirely... him.

You both pull away to catch your breath, the air between you thick with the weight of the moment. But as soon as his lips leave yours, you can't help it. You lean in again, just a quick, soft peck, wanting more, needing more. Your body is reacting to him in ways you’ve never known, something deep inside you pulling and longing for more of him.

When you pull back, you catch sight of his cheeks—there’s a pink tinge there, soft and almost vulnerable. His expression is still serious, brows furrowed, but there’s something else behind it now, something gentler.

“Not that scowl again,” you whisper with a teasing smile, your hand reaching up to smooth the wrinkle between his brows. It’s a small gesture, but you can't help it, a way of soothing him even as you try to lighten the tension.

Joel’s eyes soften, and the faintest trace of a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. But it’s fleeting, replaced by something unreadable. His hand moves to your wrist, brushing it gently with his thumb. He holds it there for a moment, as if weighing something heavy.

With a deep sigh, he drops his gaze, breaking eye contact, and his hand falls away from your wrist. “I can’t do this, kid,” he mutters, shaking his head as he pulls back, his body language closing off.

The first thing you feel is the coldness—the literal gap between you as he releases you from his embrace. Your hands fall back to your sides, and the warmth that once existed between you both is suddenly gone, replaced by an empty chill. It’s a feeling you’ve known too well—the sting of rejection. The emptiness of being left behind. The gnawing, familiar ache that creeps in when you realize you’re not good enough. Abandoned.

You try to breathe through it, but the weight of it threatens to choke you. “I get it,” you whisper, though you can barely hear your own words, “if you don't want this…don’t want me. I understand why.” You want to scream, to beg him to change his mind, but the lump in your throat keeps you silent. Instead, you take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. You want to believe it’s not true, but you can already feel the walls closing in.

Joel’s eyes flicker to you, a storm of conflicting emotions clouding his expression. His voice softens, low and almost tender. “Trust me, baby. I want it. I want you.” His hands come to his face, pushing back his hair in a heavy sigh, his words full with longing. “But I’m so damn screwed up. The things I’ve done…”

You step closer, your hand reaching for his chest, your voice steady despite the tightness of your throat, “You’re a good man, Joel,” you say, the sincerity in your words cutting through the tension. “Please. I’ve only ever wanted this with you. Ever since I’ve known you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens at the words. His gaze drifts away, the weight of his past hanging over him like a shadow. “What? When you nearly shot me with an arrow when I showed up at your door?” he chuckles darkly.

You shake your head quickly, a quiet urgency in your tone. “No, even before then,” you admit, stepping closer, your voice trembling with vulnerability.

His eyes soften again, but the hesitance lingers, like he's trying to convince himself of something. “Jesus, kid...” His words are barely above a whisper, his hand resting on yours as it sits on his chest.

“When are you going to stop calling me that?” you tease a little.

He doesn't answer at first, letting the silence stretch between you. Then, he takes a breath, meeting your eyes with resolve. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” you murmur. “There’s so many other men… boys your age.” 

You can’t help the painful twist in your chest. “I’d rather be dead than have any of them,” you say, voice quiet but sure, your heart pounding. “I want you. I always have.”

Joel scoffs, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Not sure which one of us is more sick in the head,” he mutters. “You for wanting some old man, or me for wanting a girl I’ve known since she was fifteen…”

The space between you is charged, but still, you move closer, gently closing the distance. “I’m not scared of you, Joel.”

The silence lingers between you, thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides. You can feel the weight of the distance he’s placed between you, the rejection still echoing in the pit of your stomach. Every inch of your body aches to bridge that gap, to make him see that you don’t care about his age, his past, his doubts. You’ve never wanted anyone else. It’s always been him.

And then, without warning, Joel reaches for your face again. His eyes, dark and stormy, lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think he might pull away once more. But his hand moves to your face, cupping it gently yet firmly, as if he’s pulling you into him with just that touch.

“I’m already goin’ to hell,” he mutters, his voice gravelly and deep, his gaze never leaving your lips. Before you can process what’s happening, his mouth crashes into yours again—fierce, desperate, hungry.

This kiss is different. It’s everything the last one wasn’t. There’s no hesitation now, no uncertainty—only need and heat. His lips claim yours with an urgency that steals your breath, and you can feel his hands tightening around you, pulling you closer. His fingers grip the back of your head as he deepens the kiss, urging you into him like there’s no turning back.

You don’t fight it. You respond with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around him, hands sinking into his shoulders as you press yourself as close as you can, desperate for the connection. Every inch of you aches for him, and the moment feels like it’s stretching into eternity.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only to breathe. His chest heaves against yours, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. His eyes lock onto yours, wild and intense, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. His touch is still gentle, but there’s an edge to it, a possessiveness that lingers in the way his hands slide down to your waist, holding you close like you’re the one thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“I ain’t just this,” Joel whispers, his voice rough with emotion, each word weighted with a kind of raw sincerity you’ve never heard from him. “I want more. I want a life with you. Here.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you search his eyes. There’s something there—vulnerable yet determined. You’ve never seen him like this before, so open, so unsure yet so certain at the same time. It makes your chest tighten with a mix of fear and hope, a sense of something deeper than you’ve allowed yourself to acknowledge before now.

“We can do whatever you want after we get Ellie to the Fireflies,” you say, your voice a little shaky, but the words come out with a lightness that contrasts the gravity of the moment. Your fingers idly play with his hair, grounding yourself in the simple act, but the truth of his words still rings in your mind, echoing with a promise you can barely begin to process.

Joel hesitates, the weight of the silence between you thick, but then he nods once, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. His hands slide down your back again, urging you closer, and this time you don’t pull away. He keeps kissing you, like you’re the only thing, only person that’s ever mattered.

And for the first time in a long time, in this dangerous, unforgiving world, you feel like you’ve finally found something worth holding onto.

[theangelsheardyou]

Everybody talks abt the bakugous adopting toga, now get ready for: the togas adopt bakugou

They adopt him when he's around 5 years old, after an accident with his Quirk awakening heavily injures his mother, putting her in a medically-induced coma. His father isn't capable of taking care of a child after that, and katsuki is sent into foster care. Part of him has given up on the idea that his dad would ever take him back, but the other part is clinging onto the hope that his mother would wake up and find him. Wherever he is.

The Toga's foster Katsuki for a few months initially, which turns into a full year. Himiko, about 6 years old, likes the idea of having a new little brother.

(I've heard theories before that Himiko already had some other unnamed siblings since she's described as "the oldest daughter of the family" but to keep things simple let's just say she was an only child up until this point.)

(Also, I don't know whether this is canon or not, but while Himiko is her first name, we aren't sure if Toga is her real last name. But again, to keep things simple, let's just say that it is.)

Katsuki was a tough nut to crack, or maybe he would be if his foster parents ever really tried. From what we see in Toga's backstory, I assume they're not really there for their kids emotionally. As long as they eat three meals a day and have a roof over their heads, they've done their jobs, or at least that's what they think.

Katsuki and Himiko are left alone a lot. Maybe their folks are always busy at work or just didn't spend much time with them. Either way, the two become closer as the only kids in the house.

Now, canon Katsuki would probably be really judgemental about Himiko's gorey interests, but in this AU, he has literally almost killed his mother. He's in no place to judge and he knows that. No matter what crazy infatuation this girl has, it's got nothing compared to what was practically a murder.

Katsuki's a little more closed off at this age, kind of like in the canon storyline, but at age 5-6. Having lost his parents, his friends, and being put in some stranger's home, he's not the type to really show off anymore. He's hard to get to know, but Himiko never stops trying.

Despite everything, a bond begins to bloom.

Katsuki and Himiko are inseparable. They do little kid things like Katsuki going "watch this!" Before doing something cool and making sure his sister gets to watch, and Himiko cheers him on like he's just done the most amazing thing in the world. And to her, it probably was.

This is where Katsuki's show-offiness begins to bloom again. He loves showing his sister all his achievements. A perfect score on a test, an award from the sports festival at school, no matter how big or small he shows it to his sister who always cheers him on and encourages him to keep going. He works hard to get better at school, does well in sports, all to get his sister's attention, which she gives generously. She loves watching her little brother succeed in everything. Everyday she's so, so proud of him for something new. She's proud to call him her brother.

Katsuki's personality rubs off on Himiko, too. She starts to get a little competitive, especially when the two play against each other. Be it badminton, tennis, or even just a game of tag, these two are unstoppable. And there's never a sore loser because one will always be proud of the other no matter what the scores are.

Himiko also rubs off on Katsuki, more than she'd like to admit.

I don't think canon katsuki was ever the type to be grossed out or queasy about gorey things. He'd probably find dead animals on the side of the road and call his sister so she could check it out too. As they get older, he brings along a camera, so he can take pictures of all the bloody details for her to examine later. By now Katsuki has been legally adopted, though there still isn't much of a bond between him and his new parents. They are proud of his achievements of course, but they prefer to show him off at parties like a showdog. He prefers Himiko's way of showing her pride in him way more. It feels more genuine.

Katsuki and Himiko aren't exactly delinquents, but they do get into trouble a lot. Katsuki has grown to be a little more violent due to Himiko's influence, enjoying seeing the blood burst from someone's face when it comes in contact with his fist. After he beats someone up, he likes to take a moment to examine his handiwork. A broken nose, a black eye, a tooth landing somewhere, he finds joy in it. He's definitely more of a bully in this AU, not out of anger, but out of pure bloodlust.

At this point he hasn't heard much from his dad, but he visits his mom at the hospital now and then. He gives her updates on his new life, tells her about Himiko, and all his achievements. Part of him doesn't really think she'll ever wake up again. But another still clings onto the hope.

Katsuki and Himiko are middleschool outcasts. Weirdos. Freaks. They don't have many friends, but they have each other, and that's what counts.

Katsuki is still very into heroes, but he let go of the idea of ever becoming one. The shame from his Quirk awakening has left him afraid to use his own Quirk for almost ten years now. It's Himiko that encourages him to use it, calling it a beautiful ability that should be shared. It takes a while, but by graduation, Katsuki is dead set on becoming a hero. Not for money or fame, but for his sister.

Katsuki has also been very supportive of Himiko's interests from the beginning. In fact, he encourages her to become a nurse. After middle school she starts studying medicine, and by the time Katsuki's at UA, guess who's Recovery Girl's cute little sidekick/apprentice.

Himiko gets a front-row seat to all of Katsuki's high school achievements. She cheers him on from the sidelines as he wins the UA Sports Festival, while also treating all the poor souls who fought against him. This is actually how she meets Ochaco. A real meet cute.

She gets angry at how the awards ceremony went, and even got Recovery Girl to use her status at the school to speak to the teachers on her behalf. She's still pretty ticked off by the time they get home, and tells Katsuki to throw the medal away, but he doesn't. He keeps it in his room. It's a symbol of the first time in his life that someone aside from his sister acknowledged his abilities, his Quirk, as a good thing. Aizawa's speech during his fight with Ochaco was proof. After that, he follows his teacher around like a lost puppy, and in turn Himiko does, too. Now he's got two little blonde kids tailing him, and he just gets used to it at some point.

Katsuki's personality is a lot less angry and more a...weird kind of friendly. He got like, half a cup of bimbo-ness from Himiko, as well as a couple of her more tame friendly influences. But he does sometimes get a little too close, and asks questions very bluntly, sometimes offending or making people uncomfortable. But considering 1-A is just a mosh pit of weirdo high school kids, they all get along just fine.

Katsuki and Izuku reunite at UA. It was actually Izuku who approached him. Having missed all the middle school bullying since Katsuki was in another school at the time, the same one Himiko went to, he's a lot more confident. The two have a grand reunion and become better than best friends. They, along with Himiko and Ochaco, hang out together a lot in and out of school. It gets to the point that Ochaco gets a little too happy when she gets injured, knowing she'll get a free pass to visit the cute nurse at the infirmary. Izuku gets to join Himiko on the front row to all of Katsuki's victories, which assigns him as Vice President of the Katsuki Fan Club instantly.

I have so many more ideas for them and I kinda wanna draw/write more about it, so tell me what you think! If this gets very little attention my shyness and short attention span will probably shift me to something else😅

[bansept]

Until I see you again

I... didn't mean to write this??? I was about to rant about Ichigo leaving to the UK and leaving Orihime sad behind, but then it started to look like a small writing thing. So, have at it, hahahahaha

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

She's not supposed to cry. She promised him.

Orihime sniffs back the wave of fresh tears ready to breach her resolve, the hand holding onto the plastic bag - which contains the only gift Ichigo agrees to take with him, namely some fresh bread from her bakery - clenching valiantly. Her gloved hands hold on tight, a small lifeline that keeps her from gathering him in her arms and anchoring herself on the ground. Maybe if she turned into a solid bloc of pure metal, she'd be able to keep him well-settled on the ground, and he wouldn't have to take that stupid plane.

She doesn't want to be selfish, and oh well, she knows she won't be. He discreetly rubs her back, the touch reassuring, and somehow that barely helps her greed win the fight.

Ichigo, mostly free of his Hollow-hunting duties, will leave for the UK, right in London, in 4 hours, as a continuation of his studies to become a translator.

It's not really a surprise to anyone who's known him: in classes, he was among the best in English, discussing Shakespeare and his influence and overall works. He'd help her with tests, training her with the spelling, although it flew right at the top of her head at the time ; it took a lot out of her to not blush to death.

And now, here he is, all handsome and adult, right on his way to graduate in a couple of months, but leaving for a foreign land she knows scrap about (except they drink tea and have a monarchy), and he will be gone forever.

She sighs, pouting to herself. Not... forever forever. But 4 months feels like an eternity already.

Ichigo looks from left to right, checking for his luggage while Yuzu fusses about the importance of being early at the boarding gate. Karin elbows Isshin, whose expression is a mix of pride and terrible doom. Orihime heard him mumble things to Ichigo while on the way here, which of course only left Ichigo pissed at his father.

The young man already said goodbye to their friends earlier, back in Karakura. Chad is busy at the Gonzalez gym, his boss not giving him much regard when it comes to breaks, while Uryu is buried under thick layers of medical books and studies. He might not become a surgeon like his father, but he's definitely not lacking work while studying the pediatric field.

Renji and Rukia came earlier in the week. With the recent announcement of Rukia's pregnancy, which was a whole event on itself and brought EVERYONE to tears (no matter what Uryu and Ichigo say) and the incessant work the Soul Society keeps throwing at them, it was very kind of them to travel back to the World of the Living to bid their goodbye.

Which leaves her. Sure she could come by as just the friend who's available to come and see him off, a smile on her face as he waves, flying away like a bird to foreign lands.

Except she's no longer just a friend.

After the war, they spent time with each other. Just them, just the simple reading sessions in his room or at her place. Just the bickering about the bread he supposedly dislikes but engulfs greedily. She was invited plenty of time, gradually, to their home, the warmth of the Kurosaki smiles around her, cautiously tasting her meals before genuinely digging into them. Spending time with the twins, as both of them stared at her with wonder, some kind of urge to be understood as young women. Orihime remembers fondly the moment Karin, quiet, distant and cranky, asked her for help. Nothing overly major, but in that single moment, she wasn't just a friend anymore.

She wasn't simply a buddy either when Ichigo asked for more of her time, which she willingly gave.

Were they dates? Going to a coffee place, or the cinema, or on missions just the two of them? A part of her rapidly thinks it's the way for Ichigo to enjoy some peace and quiet without being alone, while the confident and hopelessly in love part of her rebukes the idea of convenience: it's to spend time with her. And only her.

And so they did, they hung out, discussed, laughed, visited places together. He confided in her, some of his fear, and she leaned against him while muttering about her past, what her brother had told her, very long ago.

Ichigo had shown nothing but tenderness towards her, and the cherry on top was his first hug, the day they'd visited his mother's grave.

She flushes at the memory. Oh, no, they weren't dating... Were they?

Ichigo turns to her after hugging his little sisters, a small smile on his face. He's wearing a thick gray coat lined with fur, the only protection he has against the frigid cold from England he's supposed to have once arrived. His hair has been trimmed one last time by a tearful Yuzu, the short strand on top of his head still somehow foreign after a few months. But who is she kidding, Ichigo looks even more handsome that way.

"Are you alright, Orihime?" His voice is smooth, laced with held-back worry.

"Y-yeah, I'm fine." She sniffs again, and she swears she means it. Her heart is aching for him to stay and never ever leave without her for so long, but she can't be that kind of horrible person. Suggesting he misses this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity out of selfishness is out of the question. "You sure you have everything?"

It's one of those phrases everyone asks. He's packed his 2 suitcases over the last month, he's pondered over it for longer than that, his sisters helped him out, his father checked with him and Orihime helped retrieve one last tube of toothpaste, because he has a specific brand he likes and that's one of the many things she's discovered about him that make her melt.

"Yeah, I think I got what's necessary." He grins nonetheless, pulling at the grip of the dark blue suitcase by his feet.

Orihime nods at him, hiding her reddening nose in her coat. It rained a lot this morning. Ichigo comes closer to her, his wide frame hiding her from the rest of his family, some kind of intimacy for them both. He has a small blush on his face when he picks up one of her hands.

"Hey... You promised not to cry."

"I'm not... just the blue men tickling at my eyes." She pouts, letting her hand rest in his bigger, safe and warm one.

Ichigo only raises his eyebrows with a knowing smile, her antics gliding over him naturally now.

"I'll send messages." He speaks, and his tone is breaking a little, because she knows it hurts him too.

Orihime can only nod, although her eyes waver with the silent "please do" plea. She gently holds him tighter, and with a tight smile, Ichigo decides to lean closer, hugging her against him. The warmth invades her, both her body and mind, turning all residual sadness and anxiousness into a mushy pile of love for this man, like pillows of marshmallows. He smells of home, of courage. Of the books he studied, of the iron of his sword, of the gentle dandelion in the wind. His arms, although completely engulfed by the coat, are molted steel bars, circling her while remaining strong. His head is leaning against hers, resting atop her scalp, and in the small instance it took for him to embrace her, Orihime's doubts and fear all but flush away.

A part of her wonders how his family reacts to this evident display of affection, one she herself is almost foreign to. But it doesn't matter.

He pulls away, gently, face red mirroring hers.

Hours later, his plane flies away, and Orihime clenches her phone, the small pastry charm attached to her phone case, a small gift from him, rocks gently against her palm.

[metaphorfordeath]

Anti-Psychotic

A person living with schizophrenia finds that their delusions may have more basis in reality than they thought. Originally published in the Fall/Winter II issue of Diet Milk Magazine, available here. Content warnings for depiction of psychosis, violence, ableist language.

No one is watching me.

Julie has me write that down at our session. She never listens to me. She says, it can be comforting to realize that people don’t think of you as much as you think they do. I know this already. She asks, what evidence do you have that you are being watched? I say there isn’t any. Just a feeling. She writes something down, and asks about my meds again. 

So fucking patronizing. Of course I take them. I have taken mine like clockwork, every day, for five years. Maybe I missed a few days, but who doesn’t forget sometimes. My meds are cleat spikes jabbing into the earth. Helping me keep my footing. Making sure I don’t slip.

Last week I started getting the prickle again. Like fingers up my back. Someone standing behind me, breathing. I live alone. When I felt it, I wasn’t scared at first. These things happen sometimes. I’ve been around the block. The prickle and I are old friends, practically. When it finds me, I have ways to forget it. 

I drew the blinds, which helped a bit. I had a drink—nobody's perfect—but the prickle didn’t dull. So I peeked through the shades at the street below. Normal street stuff. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of fire. Cars went by, all the usuals. Some kids were yelling in a driveway. A wasp tapped at my window, wiggling its feelers at me. No obvious source for the prickle. So, probably nothing. For the rest of the evening I puttered, read my book, ate some frozen nothing heated in the microwave, and took my meds. The prickle was temporary, I told myself as I lay down to sleep, the usual fog settling over me in a cool, clammy layer. No one was watching me. No one ever is.

That was a week ago. It’s only gotten worse since then. The prickle turned into a terrified stomach ache that kept me up for nights and nights. I called in sick to group, told Cheryl the caseworker that I have the flu. She sounded alarmed, but she’s only worried because of what happened to Devin.

Devin was like me: good at meds, good at therapy. We were friends, in a psycho kind of way. A few weeks ago, Devin started to get bad. Stopped showing up to group, didn’t even call. I haven’t seen him in a while, even when I went looking for him in his usual bad places. I miss him. I told Cheryl not to worry. I’m steady, just sick. I’ll see her again soon. 

I keep taking my meds, but they aren’t helping like they should. The fog I count on to sleep is thin, or missing. Something scrabbles at my skin from underneath, and I keep catching myself scratching little bits off of me. When I lay down, a low, neutral voice whispers nonsense at me through the pillow I clamp over my head. I can’t shower; that’s when the prickle gets stronger. Someone standing on the other side of the shower curtain, someone looking down at me through the water stain on the ceiling. I hiss and babble out loud just to hear myself talk, to shut up the voices that aren’t mine. I get sicker by the day.

By now I haven’t been outside in over a week, but my meds are ready to pick up. I don’t want to miss a dose, so I put on shoes and the big jacket that makes me feel safe, and I go outside. Birds leer at me from the tops of buildings. Walking in the opposite direction, an old lady frowns at me.

“Hmph, same to you,” she snaps.

My stomach lurches, but I don’t say anything, just keep walking. I hadn’t spoken. Had I? 

The drug store is brightly lit. It hurts to be inside. Too many things to look at. Faces on packaging look strange now. Confrontational. Interrogative. But at least they look like faces. When I look at anyone real, their features shift. Static snow eats at the air around their heads in a halo. It frightens me, so I keep my eyes on my shoes. The pharmacy tech who’s always there gets the packet for me, rings it up.

“Any questions about your medication?” he asks. I shake my head, pay with a card. He has glasses that give his face a sort of stability, so I look at it. His eyes are brown, beard gray, no hair on his head. He smiles at me. “Have a nice day, miss.”

“You too,” I mutter.

And then I go home, have to stop myself from running for safety. The walk is twenty minutes each way; harrowing, the passing cars huge and hungry, huffing and snorting at me. The prickle is more than a prickle by now. It feels like someone is pulling out the hairs on the back of my neck, one by one. My heart thuds against my ribs so hard that I’m afraid it will burst out, plop on the sidewalk and keep throbbing without me. The paper bag with my pills turns damp and tattered in my sweaty hand. 

And getting home doesn’t even help this time.

Julie says too much TV can be a trigger for me, but I start leaving it on all the time. Noise beats silence, any day. No empty spaces that need filling. I can’t watch sitcoms or anything fictional, so I tune it to the news. The news is always. Steady, real, factual. There’s a story about a body they found by the freeway. Pushed out of a moving car. No one knows or cares who it was. There’s a picture of the scene, taped up yellow and covered in those little numbers that say where a bit of evidence is. A tattered jacket lays in a ditch, dark with blood. 

I stand and race to the bathroom, cool porcelain against my hands, bile and nothing coming up as sweat pours down my back. My head pounds, edges of my vision sparkling. I can only see the jacket. Not dirty or bloody or ruined but the way it used to look. Devin’s jacket.

Something is horribly wrong. Men-in-black wrong. The-end-is-nigh wrong. 

The prickle wasn’t imagination. It was intuition. 

Someone got Devin. Who else did they get before him?

---

The next week, I force myself to go to group. I need to see faces. See who else is there, or not. Cheryl picks me up for these, since I don’t drive. I’m sicker than I can remember being, and try to remember to ask Julie about my dose on Tuesday. I sit silently in the passenger seat, feeling Cheryl’s eyes on me. Caseworkers all have the same eyes.

“Feeling alright today, X?” 

My name isn’t the name she calls me. You don’t need to know it.

“Fine,” I say, pinching my hands between my knees. They shake if I don’t. “Still getting over that flu.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. Her sedan has beige fabric seats. The passenger seat is dark, stained with sweat and whatever else from all the people she’s ferried around. A vanilla air freshener dangles from the rear view mirror.

Someone shouts in my ear, so close I feel a little blast of hot breath on my neck, and I flinch. Cheryl looks at me suddenly.

“Everything okay?”

She didn’t hear that. “Yeah. Sorry. Weird itch.”

“Hmm.” 

Group is fine. It’s usually fine. I don’t say much this time, just look around at everyone in their folding chairs. Their faces are wrong. It makes me nauseous to look, but I look anyway. I need to see who isn’t here.

There are no empty chairs, but there are fewer. One or two down from usual. All the other regulars are here, picking at their skin or looking at the clock or chewing their hair. I glance across the room and for a second I think I see Devin, sitting in his old coat. But when I look again, it’s just Tom. I almost hoped.

When it’s over, there’s bad coffee to drink. I suck on a red straw and let the bitter taste anchor me to my tongue. I inhabit my body, touch my fingers to the side of my face to know that it and my fingers exist. Sufficiently convinced of my realness, I go to Amber, our de facto leader.

She’s drinking water from a bottle with cucumber slices in it, cloudy with pulp and seeds. Ectoplasmic. It makes my stomach turn.

“Amber,” I say. My voice feels far away. She looks at me, expectant. “I missed last week. Have you seen Greg, or Mariah?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. Greg was here last week, but I haven’t seen Mariah since like, last month. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. I focus on that, since the rest of her features won’t stay put. “You’re worried because of what happened to Devin?”

“I think Devin is dead.” There is a sudden hush as other people in my vicinity overhear. “I saw his jacket. On the news.”

Cheryl appears beside me. “X, would you like to talk in the hallway?” 

She pulls me out before I can answer. “Have you been feeling alright?” she asks again. “Taking your medication?”

“Yes,” I say, a little forcefully. She clicks her tongue.

“Really? Because if you need to move up your next appointment, I can make some arrangements for you.”

Despite the fact that I do want to move my appointment up, her tone hits a button in my brain and my face turns red. “No,” I say. “I’ll wait until the next one. I’m fine. I just need to know what’s happening.” A rancid taste creeps up the back of my throat. “Where are people going?”

“Honey, everyone’s here that needs to be here.”

“No—that’s not right. I need to know.” 

I can tell from the way she moves that she thinks I’m getting agitated. She doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “People call in sick sometimes. You did, just last week. Mariah was having issues sticking with the program, so we’re working something out. No one’s gone.”

“Devin is gone. Devin is dead. He’s dead and no one knows it.”

Cheryl comes closer, her voice so low and venomous that it starts to meld with the others. “I’m going to give Dr. Bern a call and try to get you in with her sooner than Tuesday. If you can’t keep up with your regimen, we’ll have to consider another in-patient stay.”

Anger chokes me until my vision goes white. “Okay,” is all I can manage. I have some unsavory thoughts, which I won’t repeat to you now.

“Good,” says Cheryl, holding my leash. “Let’s get you home.”

I don’t sleep. I don’t even try. Someone is watching me. I think about Devin, the last time we spoke before he was gone. He got paranoid, too. He jabbered sometimes, when we would see each other. The same face, he said, with glass eyes. Looking at him. Following him. He said his pills were replaced, his furniture moved, nothing looked the same as he’d left it. No one listens to me, he said. I’m scared, he said. I’m scared of what will happen next.

“I’m scared, too,” I say to no one. A chorus laughs at me. 

---

“So,” says Julie. “Cheryl told me you’ve been having some trouble sticking to your medication.”

“I stick to it,” I say, and set the pill bottle on the desk in front of her. “Count them and tell me I’m not.”

She doesn’t move to count them. I’d hoped at least that she would humor me. “It sounds like some of your persecutory thoughts are returning. Tell me about what you’re worried about.”

“I saw on the news that they found someone’s body in a ditch off the interstate. They showed pictures. I think the body was Devin.”

“Devin from your group?” I nod. “We actually just heard from him last week. His brother answered when we called his phone. Devin is currently in a private rehabilitation clinic in Cincinnati. He’s alright, X.”

A numb feeling falls over me all at once, like a sheet. Something crawls up my thigh and disappears into a deep hole in my flesh. “Oh.”

“Amber talked to us, too. She said you asked her about Greg and Mariah’s absences this week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I followed up on those for you, too. Greg had an accident at home and was in the emergency room during your meeting time this week. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to reach Mariah personally, but her father informed me over the phone that her family has pulled her out of the program. She won’t be returning.” Julie leans across her desk. “X, can you please look at me?”

I look at her. Her face is twisted, like a mask, papier mâché, drooping strips of plaster bandage. The static threatens to consume her, and me.

“I’m going to increase your dose to eighty milligrams. For now you can take two of what you have at the usual time, but I’m sending in a new prescription to the pharmacy.” She scrawls something on a pad at hand, and I take the opportunity to look away. “I’ll see you again this time next week, okay? And if anything’s the matter, you can call the nurse’s hotline. We’ll take care of you.” She hands me the script. 

“Thank you,” I say, and then someone brings me home. I am silent for the drive. Thinking.

Wasn’t Devin an only child?

I start doubling my dose. The fog doesn’t come. The prickle intensifies into ceaseless paranoia. I check the window locks three times a day to make sure, even though I live on the third floor. Chair under the doorknob, empty bottles stacked on it so I’ll hear if someone comes. I can’t stop thinking about Devin, and the others. Were they all really fine? Was this just a breakthrough-breakdown, pills ceasing their function and leaving me alone, spiraling? 

I hadn’t tried calling Devin in weeks. He didn’t pick up the first few times, and anyone in that state doesn’t usually want to talk anyhow. But Julie said someone answered when they called. Maybe they would answer for me.

The phone buzzes. Surging forward and receding, like a tide. Devin could be there on the other end. Getting better. Being cared for. I close my eyes and wait to hear his voicemail, or something else.

Click. “Hello?”

The voice startles me so much I can’t speak. A stranger.

“Hello?” says the phone. “Who is this?”

“Um,” I say suddenly, “Devin?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice says. “Devin isn’t here right now. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m—his friend. X,” I clarify. My voice is not of me. “Can I talk to him soon?”

“No, unfortunately he can’t talk. But I’ll let him know you called, he’ll be happy to hear people are checking up on him.”

“What’s—who are you?”

“I’m Eric, Devin’s brother. I’m taking good care of him, miss. Have a nice day.” 

The call ends. Something in my stomach shrivels. I run to the bathroom, but there’s nothing to bring up. I don’t know why that voice scared me so much. Why had I thought Devin was an only child? He hadn’t mentioned his family—maybe I’d just assumed, or forgotten if he’d said. Of course he had a brother. He was alright. They all were, now.

---

Days pass. Bugs make their homes in me. My medication runs out, the new pills ready for pickup. I’d rather die than set foot outside. But I need my stability. I steel myself to leave, and exit my apartment into the world. 

Everyone looks at me. They all want to hurt me. A car drives slowly past me and I try not to look at the people inside. My head hurts. It’s hard to see where I’m going, but I go.

The drug store is bigger than it was last time. Brighter. Angrier. People avoid me as I shuffle towards the pharmacy counter. The pharmacist who’s always there smiles at me again.

“Do you have any questions about your medication?”

I shake my head, fumbling for my card. He’s staring at me through his glasses.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?”

His voice makes me want to puke. I shake my head again, take the pills and make for the door. A crowd of voices shout at me as I stagger out into the air. I miss the way things were. My cleats don’t fit anymore. I tear the bag open, pop the lid off the bottle and shake a pill into my mouth, force it down dry and sticky and hope it does its job. My mouth is sweet where it lingered. It didn’t used to be so sweet.

There is a dull shock of understanding that blooms at the edge of my mind. The prickle rises on the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again. The pharmacist is looking at me from his position behind the counter. His face ringed in static. He waves at me. And I take off running.

There is no one I can call. No one who will listen. There are only doors that will slam in my face, white speckle tile and fluorescent lights and needles. He knows that. He knew it for Devin, too. He knew it for the rest of them. The wind in my face feels like fingers grasping at me, tugging at my hair, slowing me down. I race home, up the stairs and lock the door, brace it with furniture and then I sit on the floor and cry and cry. They’re laughing at me. Trading whispers. Look how stupid. Look how gullible. Go on and cry, crybaby. 

So I do. It’s all I have left.

The next time it’s group, I don’t come to the door. Cheryl calls me, but I don’t answer. There will be a wellness check if I don’t come. I want them to, now. When her calls finally stop piling up, I wait fifteen minutes, then step outside. I leave my door open, leave what I can to show that I am gone. I leave the pills out, and the script. Crush a few with my heel for good measure. I hope they can put the pieces together.

It’s dark, cool. It reminds me of the fog, makes me wish I could sleep. Eyes follow me through the evening. Headlights burn me as cars move past. I walk slowly in my big jacket, letting myself be watched. Letting the prickle come up my neck, creep over my scalp, trickle down over my face until it covers me in a thin layer and I prickle all over. The prickle and I are old friends. It tells me when to be afraid.

Then there are headlights at my back that don’t go away. The growl of an engine crashes into me. I stop walking, and someone gets out. I don’t turn to look. I can’t stand to look at faces anymore. Suddenly, I have a funny thought. Maybe I do have some questions about my medication, after all.

Something whistles through the air above my head, and the world disappears.

When I wake up later, I’m not sure if I have. There are stars. It smells like gasoline, copper and dirt. My jacket is gone. My mouth is gone, too. My hands. You’re caught, someone says in my ear, you let it happen. With my eyes, which I still have, I look across the floor. It hurts to look. There’s blood under me, sticky black. The prickle is gone. I discovered its source.

I’m alone for a long time. It’s hard to say how much. I realize that there’s a door behind me when it opens. Light falls across the floor, yellow tractor beam coming to take me away. I long to be weightless, but the earth won’t let me. Then the pharmacist who is always there puts his shoe against my face and turns me over. He doesn’t speak. He crouches down and looks into my eyes like he is trying to take something from me. Then he takes the tape off my mouth.

All I do at first is scream. It's all my body knows how to do. He sits and watches me. When I can see his mouth, it’s smiling, and I realize he likes it when I scream. So as soon as I can, I stop. Silence rushes back into the gaps, roaring in my ears.

“Good girl,” he says when I am quiet. His voice is a distorted growl, infrasound, rattling my eardrums. “Aren’t you such a good girl?”

I think about his throat in my teeth. I think about his blood on my face. For a moment it feels like I am lunging for him, jabbing thumbs into soft and fragile places. But he still has my hands, turning numb and purple at the small of my back. So I sit up as much as I can and spit at the floor near his feet. Faster than my eyes can track, he lurches forward. Fist in my hair, hauling me up to hip height.

He looks into my face with his glass eyes. His mouth is monstrous, all his white teeth sharp in a thicket of gray.

“I’ve been watching you,” he says. 

I know this already. There is nothing satisfying in the confirmation of it. 

He is not the man in black I always pictured. He could be anybody.

“Think of this as a favor I’m doing you.”

Then he hits me again. And other things.

When I’m alone, voices chatter in my ears. No one is coming, they say, you are alone. They will not find you. You and the ditch will be friends soon. So you amounted to this—better than nothing, we suppose. I shush them, rock myself against the cement floor and hum and think about grass, and birds. I try not to leave myself room to cry. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction.

A thousand years go by. Outside the room, there are voices. Not any of mine. His, and others. They start loud, and get quiet. His voice goes away completely. Doors open, distant, then closer. Light falls over my body again, and I feel the weightlessness. Real this time. My hands come back to me, but I can’t move them. There are faces, more than I’ve seen in a while. They scare me, but I can’t run, so I try not to look. Except at his. They take me past him, and I look. Through his glasses I see his eyes, still trying to take something from me. He has, by now. But not what he wanted.

I sleep for a long time, and when I wake up, the world is the way I remember it. My feet on the ground, cleats and all, not slipping. When I’m well enough they bring me to identify Devin’s body, since he didn’t really have a brother after all. They find Mariah’s, too. Greg really was in the emergency room, turns out. But there are others. Too many to think of.

Cheryl changes careers afterwards. Probably for the best. I find this out when she drives me to group the first time after I get out of the hospital. She doesn’t look at me much, but when she does, I can see her eyes are different. Not caseworker eyes anymore.

“Lauren is going to be taking over your case starting next week,” she says after a long silence. “So this will be the last time I see you.” I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“Okay,” I say. 

She never apologizes. No one does. They all say they’re sorry for what happened to me, but that isn’t the same thing. People who don’t listen never think to apologize for it. They think they were listening all along.

Things are mostly the same as before, except I get my pills mailed to me now. And I think about Devin a lot. When I pour myself a drink, I pour one for him too and pretend he’s with me. I don’t have any pictures, so mostly I think about his voice. The last time we ever spoke, he told me, no one listens to me, X. 

What I said then was, I know the feeling, man.

But now I just tell him I’m sorry.

[thegingerwrites]

Ok, I'm calling it, first draft of suddenly a sith is complete. Time to forget about it enough to edit it and think of a new name and time to start working on the rest of those poll results 😅 Next up is two and a half hours of writing on only for you. I don't think I've ever shared a snippet of that fic so here you go:

(omegaverse, Alpha Anakin, Alpha Obi-Wan)

---

“Anakin, get down!” Obi-Wan shouts at him from behind a barricade.

It is not the first time, Obi-Wan has given him the command today, but if Anakin has his way it will be the last.

They are so close. The Seps are on the run, this has to be the last wave of droids, and they are feet from the capital city’s gates.

Now is not the time to duck and cover, so Anakin stands his ground above where Obi-Wan and the rest of their men have taken shelter. His lightsaber blazes in his hands, easily deflecting bolt after bolt of blasterfire back into the lines of droids. When all of this is over, he is going to laugh at Obi-Wan for being so cautious. He’s getting hesitant in his old age.

“Anakin, you have to get down!” Obi-Wan says again. This time his voice is edged with something potent, a Force-suggestion or an alpha command, likely unintentional for all use those would be on Anakin.

“That’s okay, Master,” Anakin says. He leaps down from the top of the barricade and launches himself into the fray. With a single slash, he takes out two battle droids and catches another on the backhand. “I can finish up on my own. You rest there and I’ll wake you when—”

Anakin does not get a chance to finish the taunt. The earth sways beneath his feet and a battle droid somewhere to his right utters a small 'uh oh'. That's all the warning Anakin gets before he turns his head in time to watch the ground erupt in front of him. His whole field of vision bursts in an explosion that takes out rank after rank of droids, their metal bodies thrown upward and torn apart. In a flash of realization, Anakin knows he is next with no time to get away. But before he can make his peace with rejoining the Force something grabs him around the waist and yanks him backward.

He hits the ground flat on his back, stealing the breath from his lungs. His body spasms, gasping for air, before being choked by falling dirt. Another explosion and suddenly Anakin is hit by something else. Pain erupts in his shoulder and it is all he can do to curl into it, protect it from further harm.

On his side, he sees the boots of his men run past him on the field, advancing now toward the city gates. He can’t hear them. Everything is muffled past the ringing in his ears. He thinks the explosions have stopped—landmines probably and the reason Obi-Wan tried to slow him down.

His world narrows even further from the boots on the ground to the pain in his shoulder. He kicks his feet, trying to bring his knees up to his chest, and moans when that only brings more weight down on his bad arm.

Someone takes him by the uninjured shoulder and rolls him onto his back. Anakin looks up into the face of his master, who glances down at him briefly before looking back up into the fray. Their victory must be obvious now, Obi-Wan’s lightsaber is lit and at the ready but he makes no move to leave him.

Obi-Wan looks strong and sure from down here. Every inch the perfect alpha general, the perfect Jedi, the perfect man. Blade drawn in a protective stance, watchful eyes scanning the horizon for oncoming threats, a steady hand outstretched to offer comfort. Anakin might be jealous of that steadiness if he weren’t so utterly grateful to have him at his side right now.

Light flashes across Obi-Wan’s features—an echo of blasterfire from the direction of the city gates. He nods and gives a command to someone Anakin can’t see, all the while kneeling at Anakin’s side, the weight of his hand on Anakin’s arm the only thing anchoring him to the present.

Then Obi-Wan turns his attention back to Anakin. The permanent furrow between his brow is deeper now as he speaks to him—Anakin can’t make out what he’s saying, everything is muffled except for the ringing. Obi-Wan shakes his head and Anakin can read his own name on Obi-Wan’s lips.

For a moment, Obi-Wan pulls away and sits back on his heels. Anakin only gets a second to protest the retreat before Obi-Wan is back in full force, looping one arm under Anakin’s knees and the other behind his shoulders. Anakin’s stomach swoops as Obi-Wan picks him up like a youngling and carries him toward the city gates.

“I’m fine,” Anakin says into Obi-Wan’s neck. He hears his own voice, mostly the vibration of it inside his own head, sound returning to him slowly beneath the ringing in his ears. “I can walk, it’s just my shoulder.”

He can feel the rumble of Obi-Wan’s laughter in his chest even if he can’t quite make out the words just yet. Obi-Wan shifts his grip of Anakin a little, somehow making Anakin feel even smaller in his arms, which shouldn’t be possible.

A sense of safety washes over him and Anakin’s face heats in embarrassment. He turns to hide his face in Obi-Wan’s robes only to realize that doing so has made things worse. He can smell Obi-Wan so easily like this. There is sweat and dirt and the chemical tang of munitions but beneath that is his scent. Anakin smells the familiar pine resin scent of his exhaustion and catches the mineral taste of his frustration on the back of his tongue. Under that is his usual alpha musk, familiar tea leaves and amber.

The smell should not be comforting. Anakin’s hackles rise all too easily at the scent of any other alpha. But Anakin feels himself relaxing into Obi-Wan’s arms. The pain from his shoulder ebbs a little into a dull throb and Anakin lets himself, reluctantly, be taken care of.

“Thank you,” he murmurs when Obi-Wan sets him down at last. Anakin sits up on a mobile examination table for Kix to look him over. “You didn’t have to carry me, you know.”

The way Obi-Wan looks at him ties Anakin’s stomach in knots.

“I know, but someone has to look after you if you won’t.” He takes the hand of Anakin’s good arm and gives it a squeeze before heading off to see to the end of the battle.

[kradogsrats]

Oh! I think about this a lot, though I'm not really sure why besides that how people make decisions about children is inherently kind of interesting to me.

The Aaravos situation is unusual in that there's a relatively short timeline attached to it—they aren't putting off having children until some nebulous future time when there might finally not be some kind of crisis somewhere, they're putting it off for seven years, at which point they will be... all of 25 years old, which is generally considered to be a much better time to have a baby than 19 or 20. I've read stuff in other fandoms where the decision of whether to have a child during a time of threatened world crisis becomes about weighing the risks of the child growing up without one or both parents, or growing up in a dangerous and war-torn environment, or not growing up at all against the risk that the world will simply never be sufficiently safe. With a definite finality of "within ten years, either we have stopped Aaravos for good or the world has ended"... they might as well wait, which may or may not be bittersweet depending on how badly they want to get started.

(One thing that's interestingly vague about this setting is what/when is considered to be "adulthood." That's a number that has been pushed later and later in modern times, which is not a bad thing! However, looking at the characters themselves—Rayla is functionally a child soldier at 15, and Soren is already an officer in the Crownguard at 18, meaning he probably joined and was expected to be ready to die for his king at 16 or earlier. Callum being High Mage to Ezran makes sense, but is also literally putting a teenager in a government cabinet position. What makes all of that slightly less weird is that culturally, here in real world USAmerica and/or Canada, we have essentially added an entire new stage of non-adult life after 18, during which you are expected to figure out a career trajectory of some kind. When you remove the expectation of higher education from the question, "I have already launched my lifelong career at 16" works a little better. At that point, "I will start a family at 20-21" also sounds less insane because they've already been operating as an adult for several years.)

Anyway what I think would be really interesting about the whole question is the competing influences on both sides—Janai and Amaya explicitly get married during Karim's rebellion because she's "done putting off the good things for fear of the bad," and I think Ethari and Runaan would have a thought or two about waiting for the time to be "right" versus valuing yourselves and your family. Bringing a child into the world is obviously a bit different from getting married, but I think the "don't let the evil in the world dictate when you can seize joy" philosophy could still apply.

On the other hand, you have the personal experiences of Callum, Rayla, and Ezran with having absent parents. Callum lost his father as a young child, then his mother not long after, and was raised by his stepfather. Ezran never had a mother in his life, and lost his father, as well. One set of Rayla's parents left to defend the world and never came back. I think they'd all have some Big Feelings about those things—most obviously Rayla's parents, as the obvious closest analogue to their situation, but also like... it's at least kind of implied that Sarai and Damian had a child despite both of them knowing that he would likely not live to see that child grow up. I think it's unlikely that Callum doesn't feel Some Kind Of Way about that. Parental loss/abandonment trauma affects basically every character in this entire story, and while they all deal with it a bit differently... they all gotta deal with it.

(And of course, if you want to get extra angsty—what happens if suddenly OOPS ALL PREGNANT? What if it's in year one post-s7 versus year six post-s7? Do they keep the baby? Do they let Aaravos prevent them from keeping a child who is otherwise wanted? I feel like that's a much harder choice than whether to start trying for one.)

Rayllum, 10 babies and Xadian family planning

I’m trying to post the next chapter of Dark Alternative, but AO3 is very wonky, so you’re going to be subjected to my rambling thoughts on my new WIP for Work in Progress Wednesday.

So, over my vacation, I’ve been plagued by post-season 7 fanfic ideas. Short fics, obviously. No more than three chapters, as usual.

What’s got me intrigued right now, is how the continent of Xadia, or at least, a select group of people, will manage with living with the knowledge that Aaravos, in some form, is coming back in seven years. How would that affect politics and society, as well as the individual characters and the choices they make knowing that?

The regular folks would struggle to miss that whole eternal darkness and dead creatures thing that happened, but what do they know about exactly what went down?

And what do they know about what’s to come?

You know me, I’m a Rayllum person, so pretty much any fic of mine is a Rayllum fic, and this current idea is focused on how this particular threat affects the next stage of their lives.

Without a doubt, when we last saw Rayllum they were totally committed to each other and are fully ride or die… but how would that devotion relate to their future, in particular, the subject of children?

Now, I’m an angster in my deep dark heart, so while I’m sure many people could conceive of a fic where Rayllum are secure in their ability to defeat Aaravos come round two, that ain’t where my brain was ever going to go.

Rayllum are in love and clearly want a future together. Callum was openly planning a quaint little one in the Silvergrove before they were rudely interrupted by the whole end of the world dealio.

So, where does that leave them now (in my angsty reality anyway)?

In their youth, they both leaned into their more paranoid natures (Rayla leaving without Callum in TTM and Callum getting physical with Soren in season 4), and while they’ve both grown and matured since then, would such a threat as the world ending be enough to bring that paranoia right on back?

Which leaves me with my current fic planning conundrum.

Assuming Rayllum decided to forego the whole having kids thing until Aaravos is imprisoned again, how likely is it that they could plan when to have a family.

I’ve seen people say that the world of The Dragon Prince is in a medieval setting, and so people had children younger then, which, aside from not being the entire story, doesn’t feel like it really applies to a world with magic and dragons, a world that lacks the sexism and gender roles that are also associated with medieval times or other more grounded works set then.

Additionally, looking at canon, I think it could be reasonably argued that some form of birth control is readily available in the setting. In fact, I think it’s likely multiple forms of birth control exist in the world of The Dragon Prince.

From humans to elves, we don’t see large families normally associated with the inability to plan a family via the use of effective birth control. The “largest” family we see are the Sunfire monarchs, with three children. Viren and Lissa had two children only. Sarai may well have had more children had she lived, but Rayla’s parents spent multiple years at the Storm Spire and she remained an only child.

I can’t imagine there’s much in the way of entertainment at the Storm Spire either. Sure, they could abstain or get creative, but oof, hasn’t enough been asked of them?

Even looking at prior generations, we do not see large families. Given the closeness in ages of the siblings we know of, it also seems unlikely to me that children were lost in childbirth or to childhood illnesses.

To me, it seems far more likely that family planning is active in Xadia and would be a tool Callum and Rayla could exercise.

Clearly, no birth control is infallible (or I guess it can be, magic and all) and I assume Miyana’s twins were unplanned.

Personally, I head canon Rayla herself was an oopsie baby in order to further explain the complications of her parents being called away to join the Dragon Guard.

Where am I going with this? I don’t even know anymore.

I suppose, to me, it’s not a foregone conclusion that in seven years Rayllum would have a kid (or indeed multiple). The setting of the world doesn’t imply that it’s particularly difficult to prevent pregnancy. In fact, the small families imply to me that family planning is a cultural norm among elves and humans.

Faced with the imminent threat of Aaravos’ return, would Rayllum plan to start a family? Certainly, people put off having children for far lesser reasons.

We also don’t know how using dark magic, even in that limited capacity, has affected Callum and the potential for him to get possessed again. It was clearly enough to physically mark him, but does that go deeper?

Would imprisoning Aaravos once again result in an inevitable possession?

Not great when Dad gets taken over and abandons the family.

Or worse, Mum has to take him out.

Angsty though!

As usual, I’ll be doing my own thing in my fics, but I’m interested to see where Arc 3 goes with this (optimistically assuming we get it). There are a lot of factors at play to explain why we might see a lot of the characters in a state of stasis. Seven years isn’t that long when you’re facing the world ending, after all. Particularly when you’re likely to play a very active part in trying to stop that returning apocalypse.

So, which way to go? I see the angst potential in both.

On one hand, you’ve got the pain and desperation of protecting your kid from a returned Aaravos, or perhaps worse, a possessed Dad.

But on the other, you’ve got two people who likely want to take the next steps in their lives, but feel the pressure of a ticking bomb haunting them and potentially preventing them from moving forward.

Either way, bring on the pain.

[notmorbid]

the silt verses, pt. 2.

dialogue prompts from eskew productions' the silt verses.

there are tides that offer, and tides that seize.

i just couldn't keep going on as i was.

look to yourself first. you can't control how other people see the world.

everyone's walking their own path.

can i trust you to stay?

if you want us to fight, i'm ready to fight.

i've learned to weather as much as i need to.

haven't i given enough of myself to you?

i'm always tired. hasn't stopped me yet.

they couldn't listen, so they didn't know.

i can go. i don't mind going.

take my advice: make sure you're back before nightfall.

this is going to be very painful, like nothing that ever came before. i'm sorry for that.

there's so much out here. so much shape and color and texture and distortion.

there are so many layers of protection against your childhood.

i'm not really sitting here, am i? this isn't really you.

i'm not going to die down here.

you learn to love the wounds as much as what came before them.

i never found a god i could love more than fear.

if it was possible to create something better, someone would have done it already.

the least i can do is send you on your way with a full stomach.

i never had this, growing up.

may your peace find you on a lonely road. may your peace walk on with you for a while.

i'm sorry you've been through so much.

i'm lucky. i do know that.

everything's gonna be okay. i just thought you'd want to know that.

i'm sorry i caused a scene back there.

i don't think i feel the same way i used to.

it's like something has been stolen from me, but i can't tell if i should be grieving for it yet, because i don't know if it's coming back.

i don't understand, but that's okay.

i'm not as simple as you like to make out. i keep trying to tell you that.

i've already apologized twice tonight. i'm not doing it a third time.

i hated you, too.

you're not turning me into an allegory.

i'm sorry. i know that's not what you want to hear from me, but it's the truth.

this thing doesn't come with a face you and i can strike at.

that's my rage to carry. it's my hurt. it's my sorrow. you don't get to share it with me.

stop pretending. stop performing.

you know what hurts most, after all of this? you're still not listening to me.

doesn't that make you ashamed? to scavenge off our lives when they're all we have?

pleased with yourself, are you?

sleep. you've done enough. your work is done.

i wasn't expecting you to be so kind to me.

i thought i must have done something to make you leave.

none of them seem to know what to make of you.

what's in it for you? that's what i don't understand.

i don't think anyone cares who you really are, at this point.

we do have a choice, but it's just one: resist or comply. there is no third option.

it's a hateful thing, isn't it? when it turns out someone really knows you.

i thought your job was to make me talk.

it's good to see you, [name].

[acekindaneat]

worms on a string 👍👍

[weed-cat]

.

[tojbnuy]

boyfriend!toji who doesn’t know why but he feels this weird jealousy everytime he sees you meet your friends and greet them all with a big hug. you never did that with him. you relationship was still fairly new to the both of you, but you kissed you fucked you even held hands sometimes when walking around. but, what toji was now realizing, was that he wanted a hug. well, he wanted a hug from You. not a casual little hug, a hug. holding each other. he didn’t know how to broach the subject without sounding needy and like the complete opposite of how he usually acts. he had never cared about this kinda stuff with other people, he’d never experienced it growing up and he thought he could live without it. until you. until you showed him that wanting to be held was normal. he’d been thinking about it for a while until one night, as the two of you got ready for bed it simply slipped out.

‘how come you don’t hug me?’

immediately you stopped plaiting your hair and turned to him with a shocked look.

‘what?’

‘how come you don’t hug me? like when you see your friends or you say bye you hug them. you don’t hug me.’

as soon as he said it he felt stupid. a grown man like him, older than you and he was sat here asking for a fucking hug. what if you turned the question around and said ‘well you don’t hug me’ what would he say? that i’ve never done that before sorry i don’t know how? his thoughts came to a stop when he felt a small hand grab his own larger one.

‘i- toji im so sorry. i’m sorry i didn’t think that was something you wanted.’

fuck now he’s made you feel bad.

‘nah doll you don’t have to say sorry, its nothing let’s just go to bed’

‘no toji please. let’s talk about it.’

you lifted the blanket and made your way over to his side of the bed so you could sit face to face. everything about you was so soft, so kind. such a complete contrast to himself. he was panicking, he didn’t do stuff like this, never talked about stuff like this.

‘honestly toji, i really just thought you weren’t a touchy person. i’m sorry for just assuming especially considering everything you’ve been through,’

‘no please doll. i wasn’t trying to blame you for anything. i just’

his palms were actually sweating, but your face. god your darling sweet face, looking at him like he hung up the stars in sky. like every word out of his mouth meant the world to you. you would wait for him to get the words out no matter how long he took.

‘i don’t know to be honest. you’re right i’m not a touchy person i’ve never really hugged anyone. but i want that. with you. and im sorry, i should be the one to initiate it i just didn’t really know how doll.’ his voice was so quiet, just a rough whisper.

he looked up to stare into your glassy eyes when you leaned in and kissed him. a small whisper of a kiss.

‘can i hug you?’ you said with your lips pressed against his.

he knew you knew he would prefer not to dwell on it.

and then he wrapped his arms around your back so tightly like he was showing the universe just how bad he needed you. he pulled you into his lap and let his cheek fall to your shoulder. he felt your arms wrap around his neck and you fingers stroking the hairs at his nape.

neither of you spoke, you simply sat and held each other and made a silent promise to maintain the closeness from today onwards.

‘thank you for telling me toji. you big baby.’

‘yeah that’s enough. time for bed.’

your giggle was music to his ears.

[homoquartz]

this post is not gonna be well put together but i am having feelings

mean girls is trending right now because the musical movie just came out and i feel insane. idk why i do, it was stupid of me to think that most people Got It, no one ever gets it, it was always about the memes and the aesthetic.

the first mean girls movie was based on a nonfiction book called queen bees and wannabes. it interviewed and discussed the social hierarchy system in teen girl friendships. how they hold each other to these insane standards of heternormative femininity out of sheer terror that they won't meet those standards themselves. the way they leverage their relationships for some small degree of power in a world designed to strip them of it, even if it drags other girls down.

the "you can only wear your hair in a ponytail once a week and on wednesdays we wear pink" speech was not an original creation for the script. it's a QUOTE from a real teenage girl. those were REAL RULES.

then the musical came, and it was one step removed from the intended messaging of the film. OG mean girls was not perfect (and was extremely racist), but it said what needed said. the musical leaned on the comedy more, but still left a heartfelt undertone, and still critiqued the systems in place. of course no piece of media is going to be perfect, but it was about the conversation.

then this new movie comes out and it is washed over in the veneer of white hollywood feminism so thick you can't see anymore. the problematic aspects of the original movie are taken out to avoid "offending" when the offense was the point. it becomes toothless, it becomes some other thing entirely. they changed karen's line "i expect to run the world in shoes i cannot walk in" to "watch me as i run the world in shoes i cannot walk in." because choice feminism is in vogue, suddenly this character whose entire point is that she doesn't think deeply about WHY she does anything is suddenly hip to the fact that the world is against her.

i think of sokka losing his misogyny arc in the new atla. i think of the Heathers remake casting the bitchy, identical heathers as queer and hollywood-fat outcasts. as if the story, the meaning, the allegory is hidden in the sets and the jokes and the music. it's a whole new thing now, and it's a thing that means nothing in particular.

the plastics should not wear jeans. they should not have curves. their queerness should be suppressed, painful. their sexuality is not a slay, it's the only thing they think they have of value. the santa dance isn't sexy, it's shocking, it's mortifying - they are children.

they're not mean because "we are all mean." they are mean because they are girls in a world that brutalizes them and crushes them into a standardized shape. they are mean because the world is mean to them. they are mean because it gives them some power back. they are mean because it's the only weapon they have.

the landscape of femininity today has shifted to camera-ready makeup at the age of 10, stringent performative hygiene standards, and avoiding being caught on film while having a genuine emotion. the consumerism, the fatphobia, the racism, the classism, the homophobia remain. We could have had a conversation about that.

[buckyalpine]

18+ Minors dni. Buckys innocent neighbor who bakes him cookies and muffins just cause. The girl next door who has the coziest apartment he's ever been in. Shelves filled with books along with plenty of comfy blankets decorating the couches. Bucky has his own place right across but home is with her (even if she doesn't know it yet).

She's the type of girl he's going to take his time with, asking her out on a date, just coffee and a walk in the park. Nothing more than a kiss on her cheek at the end of the night. Another date. Dinner. Another kiss to her other cheek. He wouldn't dare rush anything, especially not someone as soft and sweet as her.

He feels like such a dirty little pervert when he thinks about her afterwards when he's alone in bed, all the blood in his body rushing south, and fuck he's so hard. He tries to ignore it, he didn't want to do something so debauched by thinking of her like that, he even tries to think about his grocery list, laundry, he'd probably wash his arm later, it would probably be fine in the dishwasher-

Nothing worked.

He groans, shuffling and kicking his sweats off, hissing when his hand goes down to tug at his aching cock, relief flooding his veins at the sensation. He lets his mind wander to how adorable she'd be, the way he'd take her apart in the most gentle way. Lay her against the pillows while he holds those soft thighs apart, giving her the most feather light suckles on that perfect clit, basking in all the sounds she'd make. He strokes himself faster thinking about the way he'd get her ready to take all of him. How he'd make it so good for her-shit he was going to blow-maybe if he was lucky, one day she'd let him put his cock in her mou-

"Fuck!!" Bucky threw his head back, spurts of cum shooting from his sensitive head, his post orgasm haze leaving him feeling like a filthy old man. She were here making him baked treats and he was jerking his dick off like a sick fuck.

Then the night finally comes. Bucky is ready to cuddle and nothing else but he's thrown off because never in his wildest fantasies did he expect this.

She is the girl who sends him reeling the first time he takes her clothes off one by one revealing dark ink on her back and hips. He has to suppress a growl, his eyes growing wide at the scantily clad lace that covers her body.

"Like what you see, Sergeant?" she practically purrs in his ear while he lets his han ghost over her bare skin, his chest heaving when his eyes fall to her perfect breasts, hints of silver peeking from under her lingerie, there was no way-

"Can I?" He asks breathlessly, his hand reaching behind to unclasp the bra, those pretty pierced nipples begging to be sucked.

Bucky who turns into a fucking menace, his entire world flipping upside down when she grinds down on his crotch not hiding exactly what she needs from him. He doesn't even have the ability to hide how feral he is, letting all his inhibitions slip.

-

"My little bunny's a slut, fuck, c'mere" He grabs you and tosses you over his shoulder, hauling you over to his bedroom like an untamed beast, tossing you onto his bed with no remorse. You're in nothing but your panties which he rips right off, your thighs squeezing together at the way he stalks over to you, his hungry eyes raking up and down your body without an ounce of shame. He tugs his sweats down to reveal his leaky cock, stroking it at the edge of his bed after tossing his shirt off.

"See this baby? Been fuckin' stroking and touching myself like a fuckin' teenager because of you-" He throws off his pants before climbing onto the bed and kneeling between your thighs, spreading them apart with his knees, "-and you've been here lookin' like God damn sin under those cute little sweaters"

He flicks his cockhead against your clit, humming at the clear beads of his arousal that drip onto your cunt.

"Fuck James, need more, pl-"

"Nuh uh, what was that you called me earlier, sweets?" He lets out a dark chuckle, the veins in his cock throbbing as he tightly holds the base, waiting to hear it again.

"Sergeant" you whine with mischief in your eyes and Bucky is a goner. He'll taste you later and most definitely feed you his cock another day but right now he wants to be nowhere else other than your pussy. He wants to watch you take every bit of him, rolling over to lay on his back while you straddle him, his length slotted against your cunt. He holds it up for you with a cocky look on his face, moaning when his tip breeches your tight pussy, your walls gripping his swollen, pink head.

"That's just the tip baby, c'mon, sit on it, wanna put all of my dick in you, that's it, good girl-shittt"

"Oh fuccckk,s'big" You moan feeling the stretch as you sink all the way down, panting and staying still while you adjust to his size.

"That's it bunny, that's it, ride me, ride your Sergeant" He grabs you by the hips, guiding you to grind down on him, making you feel his entire cock in your stomach. "You're a slut for big dick aren't you baby, acting all cute and shy when all you really wanted was the winter soldier's cock"

Bucky wasn't even sure where all the filth spewing from his mouth was even coming from but he couldn't stop.

"S'that it bunny? Say it baby, tell me how much you wanted my fat cock in you"

"Wanted it! F-cuk Sergeant, wanted your cock s-o-so bad!!"

"Fuck yes!!" His feet plant to meet your bounces, his hips thrusting up, slamming his entire length into you. "M'close, fuck bunny, gonna cum already, I can't hold it-

He doesn't have time to be embarrassed. You feel to good. He rubs your clit needing you to cum all over him so he can let go.

"Please, cum all over Sergeants cock baby, give it to me, be a good girl n'cum, c'mon, cum on my dick, yes, oh fuck yes I can feel it-milk it, shit touch my balls-"

You nearly collapse as your orgasm starts to wash over you, his sponge head hitting the most sensitive parts against your walls while he toys with your clit. His voice is muffled as you start to feel waves of pleasure consume you but you head just enough to reach behind, rubbing his heavy, so full of cum ba-

"FUUUCCCCKKK" He grabs you and wraps his arms around your body while he relentlessly thrusts up, biting down on your shoulder while he lets out the sluttiest, loudest moan with 0 remorse. It feels too good and he's sure the neighbors can hear but honestly, everyone should know how amazing it feels.

-

"I got you pretty baby" Bucky coos as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, a shiver running through you while you float in bliss. Bucky pulls the covers up, deciding to cuddle up with you for a bit before running a shower, his previous demeanor replaced with the far less debauched version of him.

Anyway, just an idea. Also, it's past my bedtime.

[sqtorux]

husband! satoru who helps you get ready for date night instead of just waiting around or rushing you.

husband! satoru who learnt how to do your hair exactly how you liked, taking care not to pull on it too hard and delicately running his sleek fingers through each strand to place them perfectly.

husband! satoru who couldn't help but admire the way you put on the little lines and colours on your face that you insist makes you more prettier. he thinks you look mesmerising with or without.

husband! satoru who pulls you onto his lap to help you with the remaining touches while telling you how perfect you are over and over and over, until you believe it and then once more.

husband! satoru who has no problem with whichever dress you choose, no matter how revealing because he can fight and will win.

husband! satoru who helps zip up your attire but not without running his hands sensually on your back while whispering sweet nothings and 'i love you's into your ear.

husband! satoru who takes you to see the wonders of the world while he stares in awe at the wonder in his world — you.