#like i know hes free now but the one we knew is dead. he died. he could never truly escape no matter how many copies of himself he made

[cakypa120]

About Billy keeps dying au

Is it crazy to think that if an interdimensional portal were opened, Marvel who was reborn after being killed could meet up with fellow Leaguers from his past lives?

Like, is he reborn directly when he died, or does he kind of break through space and time and always be born in the same year he was supposed to be born? So does he generally have a standard age in relation to the infinite possibilities of Leagues?

Billy sighed. This wasn't how he'd pictured his long-awaited mission with the Flash of the new world. They were currently standing in the middle of another dimension's goddamn Gotham. And their home dimension was three dimensions away.

Flash: Where are we?

Marvel: Gotham. And also in another dimension.

Flash: Dude, when you said that mage could send you to other dimensions, I thought you were kidding.

Marvel: Well, now you're going to listen to everything about magic. That's the lesson.

Flash: Right. Shit, are we stuck here forever?

Marvel: No, we're just a long way from our home world. But I guarantee if we hurry, we'll make it in time for the free food giveaway at the Watchtower.

Flash: Then what are we waiting for? We gotta hurry!

Billy laughs. The Flash of the new world was young. And he had only recently been accepted into the Justice League. Barry was even different from his versions. Black-haired, blue-eyed, and curious to the point of insanity. The Bruce of the new world denies that he mentally adopted the guy, but Billy knows otherwise, Clark knows, and Diana knows too. No matter how much Bruce denies it, it is obvious that he has become attached to Barry. Billy is now eagerly awaiting Dick's arrival.

Flash: Do you have any ideas on how to get back to our home world, Gandalf?

Marvel: Did you just call me Gandalf?

Flash: Dumbledore?

Marvel: *pinches the speedster's cheek* Yes, I do, now calm down. We need to get to Fawcett. There should definitely be a portal there.

Flash: Why is there a portal in your town?

Marvel: Precautionary measure. Let's go quickly.

Flash: Race?

A shot rings out next to them. They turn around and see Red Hood. Billy quickly raises his hands up. Jason standing in front of them was the one who personally slit Marvel's throat when Billy was poisoned by magic and seriously damaged. Everyone wanted to save him then, to cure him, but it was impossible. Then Jason ended his suffering.

Jason froze when he saw Marvel. Just as bright, and just as big. He knew that Marvel would be reborn again. He knew, but doubts penetrated his heart. But now Marvel stood before him. A lump in his throat prevents him from breathing normally. Jason takes off his helmet and puts away his gun.

Jason: Holy shit, old man, you're really alive, huh?

Marvel: Alive as can be. Thanks for last time.

Jason: No thanks.

Flash: Guys? Anyone got something to tell me?

Marvel: Flash, meet Red Hood, he might show up, but we're not sure. Hood, this is Flash. Go easy on him, he's new to the hero business.

Flash: Hey!

Jason: Trying to mentor the new guys, huh, Cap?

Marvel: Sort of. Sorry, but we need to get to Fawcett fast so we can teleport back to our home dimension.

Jason: Try to stay out of sight of the other heroes. They didn't take your death very well.

Marvel: Got it, thanks for the warning.

Flash: Wait, you're dead?!

Marvel: Yeah, that happens sometimes. Now let's go, we need to get to the city quickly.

Superman: I don't think there's any need to hurry.

The three of them freeze and look up. Superman is hovering in the air, watching them like a hawk. Jason lets out a guttural growl and points his gun at the Kryptonian.

Superman: No need for violence, Red.

Jason: I wanted to tell you the same thing, asshole. I told you not to come to Gotham.

Superman: Sorry, but I couldn't ignore such a familiar voice.

Marvel steps in front of Barry. Clark has changed. A lot. This universe was especially violent. Rarely, but it happens. But Billy remembered a different hero. What else happened after he died? Now, the most important thing is not to lose control.

Marvel: Supes, how old are you? How is Lois?

Superman: She's okay. How are you? Still playing superhero?

Marvel: Of course, I'm not going to be thrown out of this job that easily. Well, Flash and I need to get back to our world, so we need to hurry.

Superman: Your world is here, Captain. You're staying here.

Billy didn't like the man's tone. Superman suddenly lunges at him, but Billy ducks just in time.

Superman: Marvel, don't make this difficult.

Marvel: What's wrong with you? Flash, run to Fawcett. I'll hold him off.

Flash: I don't want to leave you here!

Marvel: Flash. Run. That's an order.

Barry flinches at the hero's voice. Marvel rarely gave orders. He glances at the strange Superman, who was looking at Marvel like a dog looks at a bone. But an order is an order. Barry turns and runs.

Marvel: Clark, what happened.

Superman: A lot has changed since you died. Oliver's disability, Barry's coma. This world is losing its light. I just want to keep the light in the world. Will you help me?

Marvel: I don't belong in this world anymore.

Superman: You've already been killed here. Not there. You're safer here. Marvel, stay.

Marvel: Again, the answer is no.

Clark sighs, Jason tenses.

Superman: Then I have no choice.

Jason: Don't even think about it, son of a bitch!!

Clark attacks and pins Marvel to the ground. Billy watches in horror as the hero's eyes begin to light up. Jason points his gun, ready to fire. A sudden flash of light knocks Superman down. The Kryptonian flies away. And Billy looks at Barry.

Flash: Your hobbit saves the day!

Billy looks at Clark. Then he grabs Barry and teleports away, ignoring how loudly Clark screamed. His insides are burning from teleporting to Fawcett. He didn't like teleporting to other universes.

Flash: Dude, I don't like it here. Let's go home.

Billy nods and runs toward the old subway. Barry runs after him. There were many questions in his head, but he decided that he would ask them later. Now they needed to get home.

[icedteaandoldlace]

Wow, I really am the biggest animal lover in this family. Not that that's anything new, but you'd think someone would be interested in trying harder to keep these kittens alive.

[foldingfittedsheets]

My mom has always loved the idea of animals but her husbandry is often… lacking. So when she heard someone was giving away two free sheep she took them because it was so sad that they were full of tumors and unwanted.

She didn’t like. Do anything about the tumors.

But the sheep came and lived in our fields, wooly and much bigger than I’d imagined sheep to be. I asked mom if she’d have them sheared, because both wooly lads were starting to grow moss on the outer part of their wool.

No, she said, she’d just be sad looking at their bare tumors. The sheep remained unshorn. That was probably for the best since we knew fuck all about fibercraft.

I asked my mom if we would eat the sheep since they were dying anyway.

No, she said, she didn’t like mutton and didn’t like the idea that we might eat sheep cancer. The sheep remained unslaughtered.

So the first sheep died, after a year of languishing in the grassy fields, weighed down with unshorn wool. Maybe it was a nice year, we have no way of knowing how the sheep felt.

Now here into the narrative enters my father. A man allergic to literally every animal. A man married to a woman who was just constantly bringing animals home. Cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea pigs, horses, goats, cows, and finally sheep.

He yelled, he fumed, he raged and when his fury was spent the betumoréd sheep were still quietly chewing cud in the pasture and my mom won again.

Now my dad worked in IT. So one morning, my mom called him. A sheep has died, she said. My dad waited. We have to bury it, she informed him. My dad was dressed in his work clothes, a button up and slacks. So he called work and told them he’ll be late. Because he has to dig a sheep grave. His coworkers do not know what to say but agree that he can come in late.

So he went down to dig a sheep grave with my mom.

My mom was not there. I no longer remember what task she abandoned him for but the long and the short was that my father was alone with the dead sheep he didn’t want.

The property we lived on was about two acres. We had the lower pasture and the upper pasture. We also had a beautiful little stream that cut across the property. This beautiful little stream was home to frogs, salamanders, and all manner tiny little things and all those little creatures meant there were strict rules about where we could dig or develop.

The sheep had died in the lower pasture. But he could only be buried in the upper pasture, roughly 2 acres away. Which meant my dad needed to get the sheep from point A to point B alone. In his work clothes for some reason, he didn’t change.

So first my dad dug the sheep grave in a gentle drizzling rain, spattering his work pants with mud. Why didn’t he change. That part was pretty easy. Then he got a tarp and set about grabbing the dead betumoréd ram. Getting it on the tarp was also pretty easy, rolling it from left to right.

This sheep. Was about 300lbs under the wool. But with a few years of unshorn wool that was slowly filling with rain that sheep corpse was much too heavy for a single beleaguered man.

When he related this story to me I was incoherent with laughter. My dad at no point thought that this was a funny story, not his wet muddy work clothes, nor his wayward spouse, or the extremely dead farm animal.

I had tears rolling down my eyes and I asked, did you give up and wait for mom?

No.

My dad is not a quitter.

He, still in his work clothes, dragged that corpse a foot at a time, uphill, in the rain, to its final resting place, all by himself.

And then he went to work. In his wet muddy clothes.

[clockwayswrites]

Cont. DoMAYn D5 - ch2 p1

masterpost (it's not getting it's on one yet)

Danny considers leaving.

It would be the smart thing to do.

(Which is why Danny knows he won’t do it.)

Mostly it’s because Jason is still clinging to Danny like he’s the thing that brought Jason back to life. He didn’t, he wasn’t, but Danny gets wanting that sense of security. He gets needing someone with a beating heart near after coming back to life.

So instead of leaving, which would be the smart thing, Danny helps Jason drink some more tea and eat one of the oatmeal cookies. At least the snacks were a good idea that Danny actually followed through with.

A slamming car door is loud against the relative silence of the graveyard. It makes Danny flinch. Which makes Jason move. Suddenly, Danny is wrapped up like Jason is trying to protect him. Danny isn’t used to being protected, not anymore. It makes a weird feeling bubble in his stomach that he tries not to think about too hard.

The important part are the two figures sprinting across the damn grave dirt, dressing gowns fluttering behind them like they’re in one of those Gothic horrors that Jazz likes to watch.

“Jason!”

“D-dad!”

“Jason!”

Danny tries to get them up and standing, but Jason’s like a new born calf, all rubbery and boneless. They’re barely up and off the cold earth before a man to rival Jack’s size is barreling into them. Danny does his best to squeeze out of the way without breaking Jason’s hold on his sleeve. (The possum isn’t as lucky and is crushed between the reuniting family.)

“Jason, Jaylad,” The man—Mr. Wayne—sobs the names like a prayer. His hands move over Jason’s face like being able to touch his son again burns, but that at the same time, that if he lets go, Jason will vanish.

Would Danny’s parents feel the same, if they knew he had died?

The older man standing behind the pair has his hand to his mouth, like he’s hoping to keep the tears welling in his eyes tucked away. He tears his way from the pair and over to Danny. Danny flinches at the notice.

Jason’s hand tightens.

“Are you the dear lad who called us?” Oh, it’s the British man, that makes sense.

“Um, yes sir. You guys got here quick!” Danny said.

Now was the time to go, before the questions and comments and shooting. Danny tries to take a little step back, but Jason holds fast. Worst, Danny watches as the older man—Alfie’s—eyes move from him to the dead boi picnic set up to the relatively undisturbed grave.

He watches as the confusion set in.

He has to go.

“Master Bruce,” Alfie murmurs, pulling Mr. Wayne’s attention away from frantically checking over Jason.

Danny watches Mr. Wayne look around with a sinking heart.

Please no. Don’t let them be angry. Don’t let them turn Jason away. Don’t let them.

Mr. Wayne places his hand lightly on the back of Jason’s head.

Danny breaths out. “I—I should go.” Go home where he parents don’t know what he is because they don’t know to ask. Where he can pretend a little longer—

“What’s your name?” Mr. Wayne’s voice is a low rumble, like it belongs somehow in the dark night. It’s oddly comforting.

“Me? I’m no one, just glad that—” Danny cuts himself off as bright green suddenly obscures part of his vision.

“Oh my,” Alfie murmurers while Bruce Wayne just makes a slightly strangled little sound.

Danny sighs, reaches up with his free hand, and plucks the green sticky note from his forehead.

‘His name is Danny Fenton’, the note reads. Great. Now they know his name.

Second note appears as Danny sighs. He doesn’t even get a chance to grab this once before Alfie is plucking it to read.

“Well, that we certainly can do,” he said, a slight tilt of amusement to his lips.

“Alfred,” Mr. Wayne admonishes.

“Master Wayne,” Alfie—Alfred? says back, his own admonishment far more cutting. “Some supernatural force just brought our boy back to us. If it is simply asking us to feed the boy who helped him, I am not going to refuse it.”

Mr. Wayne sighs. “Yes, Alfred.”

[reiderwriter]

🧺 Any More 🧺

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Requested: spencer realizing that he’ll never love someone as much as he loves you. (whether that be because of a case or what have you), his mind is absolutely blown with how much he worships you and how much you love and care for him and he shows you that with the softest most sickeningly sweet sex you and him has ever done. <3

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI! Discussions of case details, case burnout, very close friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), vanilla sex (p in v penetration). Discussions of mental health, and two idiots in love.

A/N: I'm hitting the prompt Vanilla for this one, so please don't be scared off by the KinkBingo tags! I had a lot of fun writing this one (and adding Pride and Prejudice quotes into the smut scene because HELLO). Let me know what you think in the replies~♡

Masterlist || Bingo Board

You hadn't seen Spencer in 100 days. Which in the grand scheme of things wasn't that long, trapped in the purgatory of a ‘what if’ the way you had been for the last eight years. 

You'd lived without him for longer than 100 days before. He'd been in prison, you'd been on assignments, you'd lived an entire life before meeting him, but now somehow 100 days was too much time, and you were exhausted. You understood why Spencer had to take some time away from you, from the team in an official capacity after everything he'd been through. You supported him even. 

But when even your free time didn't overlap anymore, you wondered if your relationship would ever be the same again. 

Spencer was a friend, your best friend, probably. You'd arrived on the BAU team, he'd rattled off some statistics, stammering the way through them, and you'd immediately warmed to the man. He was brilliant, funny, and fiercely loyal, and you tried your best to protect him even when the job seemed designed to break people like him into thousands of little pieces. 

You'd tried to convince him to leave before, after Maeve had died. You didn't want to see him heart broken again, but no one else had seemed to agree. 

“Reid needs purpose,” they'd said. “Reid needs something to do.” 

What Reid needed was to not end up dead before he had a chance to be happy, and happiness didn't come often in your field of work. 

You'd been almost vindicated a year later when he'd been shot again, almost fatally. Vindicated, maybe but distraught and inconsolable. Morgan had to carry you screaming and clawing out of his hospital room multiple times. It sounded stupid enough to yourself that it was only then you realized your feelings for the man. 

You wanted to be Spencer Reid's happiness, which was why you were so lost without him. 

He was coming back on Monday, and at least you had the weekend to sort your feelings out about everything.not just about him, but about the job you'd found didn't fit you well enough anymore, about the team you loved like family, about the relationship you knew would likely never come to fruition. 

You dumped your bags at your door when you'd arrived in your house that night, pushed yourself into your bedroom and let yourself collapse on your bed, balling up into as cozy a position as you could. You didn't even bother taking your jacket off, you just let your brain haze over and sleep rush in. 

Three quiet raps at your door lifted you up and out of bed again, not an hour later. 

You grabbed your phone, grabbed the second go-bag you kept at your house, put your shoes back on, and opened the door, expecting Emily and a new case. 

“Where are we going?” You said, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, not even looking up at your guest. 

“Hopefully, nowhere? I brought takeout.” 

Your eyes widened then, taking in all 185cm of Doctor Spencer Reid, tweed jacket and plastic bag full of chow mein included. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, like a sigh of relief, letting the bag drop to the floor next to the first one and letting yourself into his arms. 

He held you carefully there for a second before leading you back into the apartment, wrapping an arm around you and ruffling your hair. It was brotherly, and it made you sick to your stomach. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Emily said you were back from a case,” he started, unpacking the takeaway from the containers. “And it feels wrong to eat this without you.” 

You rolled your eyes and followed him into the kitchen, pulling two forks out of the drawer nearer you and stabbing them in the top of your two cups. 

“Hey, I can use chopsticks now,” he said, defending himself against an inside joke. Spencer was always useless with his hands. 

“I don't care if you can use them, I care that they don't accidentally end up stabbing me,” you said, taking yourself back to your bedroom, Spencer following. 

“You'd hardly die from being stabbed by a wooden chopstick, maybe a papercut or a splinter but-” 

“But you're just bad enough that I don't want to risk it.” 

You kicked off your shoes again and climbed onto your bed. Spencer followed. 

“Remind me again why we aren't sitting on your couch?” 

“Uncomfortable.” 

“Or at your breakfast bar?” 

“Glorified filing cabinet right now. Eat.” 

He shook his head but complied, leaning back against your pillows as you both began carefully eating. Silently, you pulled your laptop onto your bed, opened it up, and pressed play on a movie, one you'd seen more than once, and you'd forced Spencer to watch before as well. 

In a comfortable, friendly silence, you finished your food. You stretched out in a yawn once and then curled into his side, letting his mumbling voice, repeating the movie lines as they were spoken, lull you softly into sleep. 

Spencer knew he had to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to wake you. The movie had finished hours ago, he'd closed the laptop and turned off the bug lights, but he couldn't leave. 

Unlike you, he hadn't counted the days that you'd been apart. He hadn't needed to. He knew you'd be waiting there for him when he returned, knew you'd give him a smile and a pat on the back, and immediately start bouncing ideas off of him. It was what he loved about you. 

As he laid next to you in your bed, a place he'd absolutely been before, his heart thumped. Just once, but hard. 

Even in sleep, you looked exhausted. Your shirt was crumpled, hair a mess, you were still wearing makeup, and he knew he'd probably get an earful for letting you sleep like that in the morning. You were a mess, and he still wanted you. 

The thought came to him suddenly, another painful thump of his chest echoing in his mind. He rubbed absent mindedly at his chest as if experiencing heartburn. In the dim light of the room, he let his head drop to the pillow and wrapped two shaky arms around you and pulled you in closer. 

The two of you were a picture - both in suits, both with badges still somewhere on your person, both dearly clinging to the person they feared losing the most. 

When you woke the next morning, it was actually the afternoon. 

“Spencer,” you groaned, melting under the heat of his embrace. Somehow, during the night, he'd rolled on top of you, pressing you into the bed with a delightful pressure, head nuzzled into your neck, arms tucked around your waist. 

“Spencer, we should get up,” you said again, forcing your eyelids apart as your mascara tried to glue them together. 

“Mmmmhh,” he groaned, moving to pick himself up off you for a minute but lowering himself again. If asked, he'd blame your hand in his hair, stroking the rogue curls gently, as if he were a prized pet and you their carer. 

“Spencer, its 2pm.” 

“On a Saturday.” You laughed at how pouty his voice sounded, but he complied and rolled off of you slightly, arms still wrapped around you. 

“Come on. Get up. I've got some clothes that might fit you, let's get you out of the tweed.” 

He huffed but nodded and lifted himself halfway to upright, eyes still closed lazily as he let in the light millimetre by millimetre. 

“God, my face feels horrible,” you said, itching at your nose. “How did we even sleep so long like this? My belt is still on, Spencer, my belt.” 

“If you were still wearing a weapon, then I'd be worried,” he smiled. 

You shot him a sarcastic look and finally detangled yourself, only to clasp his hands and pull him forward as well, letting him trail you to your closet. 

“Here, change in the bathroom,” he nodded and walked away, following directions with eyes still closed, as if it were really his apartment and not your own. 

100 days without him, and it was as if it had only been 100 hours. Your entire body chemistry changed when he was around, the stick holding your spine rigidly in place, dissolving into calm, into a smile and a free giggle. It felt right again, and you almost forgot you'd ever felt wrong. 

After briefly changing, you swapped place with Spencer, who'd exited the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and wet hair. 

“Dry it for me?” He asked, sitting on your couch, and you nodded your ascent. A shower and a quick change later, and you were doing just that. 

As much as he tried to keep his head upright, it kept lolling onto your thigh, yawns stretching out of him as he nuzzled closer to you. 

“Spencer, you're like a big kid, keep your head up.” 

“I'm not a kid,” he laughed, hooking his arms behind your knees and nuzzling closer into your soft sweats. “I'm just tired.” 

“You're right. A child would probably be better behaved.” 

“Our child would be,” he sighed, but you'd already turned the hairdryer back on, drowning out everything. Everything but that thump again. A child, he was thinking about children, and more importantly, he was thinking about your children. With him. 

He'd always imagined himself with a family, knowing it would ultimately stay in his imagination. But for a second, his visions changed. It wasn't just a child or two. It was you. Thump. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

He only released the image when you finally pushed his head off of you and stood, turning away from him to get a glass of water from your kitchen. 

“So, any plans today? Books to read, papers to mark, undergrads to run away screaming from?” You let the ice water cool your hot cheeks, but kept your back to him. You were hot, embarrassed, and you were looking at him in a sickeningly sweet way that could only be described as love struck or struck dumb. 

“No, no, I finished all my obligations at the college yesterday,” he said, following behind you and picking up your cup when you set it down, taking a sip himself. 

“I was… I was actually hoping we could spend some time together? Unless you had plans, which is totally fine-” 

“No, Spencer, yeah, I have no plans, that's…. Well I have to do laundry, which is a bit boring but, no. No plans.” 

“Laundry?” 

“Two week case in Florida, I don't know how you didn't smell me yesterday, Spencer. I'd be running for the hills.” 

He laughed and stepped away again, grabbing the two go bags by the door and coming back into your space. 

“How about we get this done now so we can spend the day in a Who-Trek marathon?” 

“Make that a Who-Greys Anatomy Marathon, and you have yourself a deal.” 

He pouted again, and you snorted at the sight, taking another sip of water to calm yourself before you could react safely to that face. 

“Come on, you know you've been dying to know what happens next at the Grey Sloane Memorial Hospital.” 

“I thought it was called the Seattle Grace Mercy?” 

“Oh we better get to that laundry now. You have a lot to catch up on.” 

Grabbing a bag in one hand and his free hand in your other, you made your way down to your building's laundry room. But despite the man by your side and the relaxing day threatening to stretch ahead of you, a gloom caught you in the corridors. 

You'd worked for two weeks, practically solid. You'd killed a man two days ago, or at least someone on your team had multiple shots having been fired. Another day on your job, another unsub felled, and everyone else was content with this just being a part of the job description. 

It felt like each step towards the laundry room, each thing you did that was normal, that was regular, threw back in your face the pain you endured to save lives. 

The bag in your hand weighed you down, pulling you lower and lower by the second. 

You reached the laundry room, and you found the weight almost unbearable, stopping just before you could step in. You didn't have to think about what came next though, because suddenly the bag was out of your hands and Spencer was sorting your laundry for you. 

“It's a Saturday, so your neighbour's won't complain if we separate the darks and lights into two machines, will they?” He asked, not looking up at you as he worked pouring out the fabric softener and the detergent. “Y/N?” 

You hadn't noticed the lightness in your body until the tears hit your cheeks, the weight gone with his support. 

“Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?” He said, hands cupping your face, because of course he was immediately at your side. 

“I-I can't do it, Spencer…” your voice shook, pitching upwards, your vision blurring with tears. 

“Can't do what, Y/N? Talk to me please, let me help?” 

“I can't do laundry!” You said, finally bursting into a full fit of tears and burying your head in his waiting chest. 

“L-Laundry?” He said, trying not to laugh, but the smile slipping out anyway now you were holding him. 

You only sobbed again, nodding into his shirt, aware you were probably leaving snot all over it but not being able to care. It was your shirt anyway. You would just have to add it back to your laundry pile. 

The thought set you off on another wave of sobs, and Spencer set about comforting you again. Keeping an arm wrapped around you, he put his quarters into the machines and set them off before quickly ushering you back up the stairs into your apartment. 

“Y/N? Y/N, please talk to me,” he begged, smoothing your hair out of your eyes as you tried to gather yourself.

“I don't…. I can't….” You took a breath again, aware of the way your breathing hitched in your chest as you did. 

“I don't think I can do this anymore,” you said, and his eyes widened quickly. 

“This? Y/N, if you mean this as in us, then I can't-” 

“This job,” you clarified, hands digging into the soft flesh of his arms further as he held you, finally sitting back on your couch. 

“The job. Okay, the job. That's okay. We all feel like this at some point.” 

You sniffed again and refused to meet his eyes. 

“But this isn't like the other times this - It's like my whole b-body is protesting, and I can't sleep, and if I don't, then I might get sloppy and an unsub could-” 

“Y/N, focus on my voice. You're spiralling. Listen to my voice, let's take some breaths, and think about this for a second.” 

He guided you through some breathing, a hand on your back tapping out beats even as his voice grew quiet. 

When you finally relaxed, you were sat on top of him, his hand rubbing circles into your back. 

“I think it started when you left,” you whispered. “When you went to Mexico, and then, you know,” you've voice thickened, and you couldn't get the words out. 

“And then these last 100 days they've just been…difficult.” 

“100…difficult,” he echoed, almost breathless as he listened to you. 

“It's like I can't do it without you. I never had to try to do it without you, and now I get what people say when they say this job is shitty, because it is when your best friend isn't there.” 

You gave him a weak smile and wiped away your tears, trying to climb from his lap. But his firm arms held you still, and you didn't really want out anyways. 

“When I get home, everything is different, and I can't make myself do anything. If you weren't here, I wouldn't have done that laundry. I'd let it sit and avoid it for weeks. Do you understand?” 

“Y/N, lots of people feel depressed sometimes-” 

“It's not - Spencer, I don't think this is something I can medicate my way out of. I don't know what to do because I can't do my job without you, and I can't be happy doing my job, and if I leave my job I'll be without you and then-” 

Your voice cracked again. 

“And then I still won't be happy.” The words were barely a whisper, but they were a plea, too. You weren't sure what for. 

“You can't be happy without me?” He asked, but it was more a statement than anything else. Spencer felt horrible in that moment as his chest rattled, gleeful that he was your happiness. 

“I love you,” he said, outloud finally after eight years. 

“I love you, too, Spencer, but-” 

“No, Y/N. Listen to me. I. Love. You.” The thumping of his heart set the tempo for the choir that was his senses to begin singing, as he finally leaned forward and kissed you.

“I love you, and I don't care if you're working at the BAU or if you're avoiding laundry at home. I, god, you're amazing and wonderful, and you're a human being, and you've our yourself under so much pressure for the last decade to keep me alive, to keep all of us alive really and….” 

He took another breath, leaning into kiss you one more time. 

“And you deserve a break.” 

“W-When we take breaks, people die.” 

“Did anyone die when I was teaching for the last three months? When JJ went on maternity leave?” 

You shook your head, but your brain was still a mess. 

“You all had reasons, I-” 

“You have reasons, too. Y/N…. Y/N, let me be your reason.” 

For a moment or two, Spencer truly thought you were going to say no. He thought you would get up and walk away, or better yet, ask him to leave and never come back. 

So when you pressed your lips to his, he was sure that this was a dream. 

But to you, it was salvation. Spencer Reid's love was the lifeline you'd been thrown, and it was buoyant enough to make you start floating. 

His hands kneaded the flesh at your hips as he pulled you closer still to him, his tongue slipping into your mouth to explore every part of you there. 

“Y/N… love…you,” he mumbled with each spare breath he caught, and you only detangled your lips to hear him say it again as he pressed similarly heated kisses against every inch of your exposed skin. 

When Spencer's mind lost its ability to create original speech, he leant back on a lifetime of information, of learning love through books and people and marathons with you. 

“I know that all I know right now is that I love you. And I know that I always will,” he whispered, lifting you and carrying you back to the bed you'd only crawled from an hour hence. 

A hand slid under your shirt, and slowly pushed it over your head, letting it slowly drop to the floor as he held you tenderly. 

“To me, you are perfect.”

His mouth found one nipple, and he gently kissed, then suckled at it, hands softly caressing your stomach, feeling along every ridge of you as you writhed under him. 

“Of all the FBI Units, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” 

“Spencer,” you said, voice still thick with tears, but these ones more tender, more joyful. 

His hand eased your sweats over your ass and off, his hips settling between your legs as if he found the place he was made to lie forever. 

“The truth of it is, I’ve loved you from the first second I met you.” 

His mouth trailed lower until his tongue hit your clit, brushing against it languidly, as if it was his deepest desire to taste you and nothing else ever again.

His tongue flattened and flicked and pushed inside of you as you replayed his words again and again and again. You found yourself repeating them with him. 

“I love you,” you echoed as he pushed a finger inside of you. 

“I.. love you,” you gasped as he added another. 

“I love you,” you screamed as your back arched up off the bed, finding your pleasure in his tongue, just ad you'd found love in his words. 

“You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love….” He freed his cock from his pants, and took it in hand.

“I love…” With another kiss, he pressed the tip of it against you, asking for permission silently as you nodded your head. 

“I love you.” He pushed in slowly, but it wouldn't matter how he did it because now you knew how he felt, and you didn't want to return to a time of not knowing. 

Hooking your legs around him, Spencer dropped his forehead to yours and looked you directly in the eyes as he began moving. In and out, he thrust, mouth open in a moan of pleasure, likely mirroring your own.

The poetry, the movie lines, they were gone now, and Spencer was left with nothing but you, and love, and love for you. 

“Spencer,” you moaned out, and he felt his chest swell. Pride. His name on your tongue, his body pressed to yours, claiming you as his ad you claimed him as yours. 

He came with a shudder and you were not far behind, his undoing sending a shiver up your spine as his fingers grazed your clit again. 

You sat panting for a minute, still attached, still forehead to forehead. 

You weren't sure if it was him who giggled first or if it was you, but you were glad it was one of you. 

You spent the rest of the night, the rest of the weekend, wrapped in his warmth, dressed in his love, taking each day a step at a time as you basked in his adoration.

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 || 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬

part one: the fallen fruit || part two: here

summary_after freeing Rome, you’ve lost Marcus Acacius, his baby and you are forced to marry Lucius Verus in order to freely rule as empress and visit Acacius’ grave

warnings_ CRINGE, age gap (legal) (I’m 20, sorry) historical inaccuracy, angst, sexism and misogyny, fluff but angst, a lot of canon divergence bc I said so. ANGST ANGST I CRIED WHILE WRITING THIS

note_ that’s it, it’s official, Paul Mescal my new bf, don’t you ever make me write a fic where I knowledge any Pedro character’s death (even if it’s canon) listen to 13 beaches pls

♪ ♫ Pedro playlist

♫ ♪ Paul playlist

✰ Index (+ fics here)

𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸

Once your eyes opened, reality struck you in the harshest possible way. This time, no one was there to tend your wounds. Although they weren’t severe, they had dozed you off for days. You heard Lucilla’s scream and you closed your eyes, knowing your love was dead.

Numbness assaulted you, nausea struck you and you heard everyone gasping in horror as their beloved general’s body collapsed in the arena.

Hours after Marcus Acacius’ died, you lost his baby as well.

A day later, Rome was freed. Lucius Verus became the new emperor and you caught a fatal fever when the sun came down.

That night, death seemed like the most convenient alternative. You had lost everything you had fought for over the years. The man you loved and the prospective children were taken from you before you could’ve claimed them.

Something changed when you woke up. Like time has passed so rapidly that the pain from the loss of Acacius and your baby has healed. But as soon as you think about the would’ve, could’ve, should’ve… you start sobbing.

It’s a bright morning and the city sounds peaceful. Everyone has moved on. And you know you’ll have to. Only that, you don’t know how.

With your brother’s death, your lover and baby’s, everyone was gone.

Lucius is alive…

There’s a knock on the door and soon it opened.

A man should never intrude into a woman’s chamber he had no relationship with.

“Ah. Princess y/n you’re awake….” He says uncomfortably. You didn’t knew his name, but had been running as a politician for several years.

“I suppose I’m no longer a princess”

“Trials are happening right now, the senate is a disaster but we’re handling it okay. Lucius Verus Aurelius refuses to be crown emperor but he has argued in your favor and you have been found not guilty, but you face conspiracy charges. Consequently, you’re still a princess. And the only person we can rely on according to the law…”

You sigh, looking away from the old man to focus on the tapestry that hangs from a wall. It has a naked woman’s statue in the middle of a garden. A woman being the center of attention.

You were the maximum authority at the moment. But you still had barriers to break.

“What did you do with the corpses of my brothers?” perhaps your siblings weren’t the most lovable people, but you grew up with them. They were your last remaining family.

“Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla rest in the secluded area of the cemetery of Rome. Where the punished are buried…” you nod.

They deserved punishment, but still, an odd sensation in your stomach rested, feeling shame and pity for your brothers.

Where did the good one go? An imaginary little light sparkles upon your eyes.

“And General Acacius?”

“In his Death Will, General Acacius stated that he wanted to be buried alone in one of the islands belonging to Rome” Your eyes water and you have to bite your tongue and gulp to calm your tears.

Where he had wanted to build a home with you.

“His wife Lucilla was buried in the neighbor island upon petition” You nod, trying to sit down. You finally spot the cuts and sewed arm. Fighting Pretorials had been more difficult than participating in the war.

Alongside Marcus…

“I would like to visit his grave. Marcus Acacius’s grave” Your voice sounded broken and you could barely see the man, failing to hide your growing tears.

“There is one problem, princess y/n. Until you’re officially crown empress, you can’t leave Rome and command without being considered charged, despite being not guilty. You must marry first and I’m afraid the only suitor is Lucius Verus Aurelius”

The man that made you feel so much in no time. Who made you feel like you could be for once unconditionally loved. And that maybe Acacius was not your downfall. Maybe you had one more chance to nourish your wounded heart.

You suppress a smile. You want to see him and talk. See if he felt the same way about you and if he did, it would be a new beginning.

“Where is he?” You ask trying to hide your excitement.

“The prince is back in Numidia. He wanted to give a proper burial to his friends and his late wife especially”

The little smile on your face disappears and you look down. Unbeknownst to the man standing in front of you, you felt shame. For believing Lucius would be waiting for you.

“How so?”

“He was given permission to go back with an audience from the council” you scoff, rolling your eyes.

“And why he was allowed to go to territory that is not declared Roman by the law yet…. But I can’t go to an island that is less than four hours away, claimed by the empire hundreds of years ago?”

The man gulps, seemingly uncomfortable by your sudden snapping. Your heart beats in anxiety and the anger increases. The first minutes after you awake you already feel the burden of your new present.

“Because he’s an heir…” to that, you can only sigh. Knowing the real answer.

“And I’m a heiress. I’m… a woman”

Rome was free. But as a woman, you probably never would.

“I suggest you rest and prepare for his arrival, princess. You’ll want to be ravishing to negotiate and assume the wedding”

“I haven’t decided if I’ll marry Lucius Verus Aurelius”

“It’s not like you have much of a choice, princess. I’ll send a doctor to check on you” The bitter tone of the man made you frown. You quietly curse him as he leaves the room.

Finally alone again. Like it seemed it would be for the rest of your life.

You should’ve run faster the first time you tried to escape Rome. You should’ve climbed that wall higher, maybe, just maybe none of your disgraces would’ve happened.

You had to go to Marcus’ grave. You had to say goodbye to him. Tell him all the things you couldn’t say the last time. Because he deserved it. To let him know that no matter where your baby and he were, you would always love them.

Lucius meant nothing, you try to lie to yourself.

I won’t be part of a deal, you remember as you look at the renewed Rome.

Suddenly you realize no matter whom you decide to love, you’re always the lover, not the wife.

Always the second option, never the one.

…

Four days later, you realized you had no other choice but to attend the hearing that would determine your future. Where you would face Lucius. If you had seen him once again before he left, many things could’ve been different, you liked to think.

But given the circumstances, you had no desire to see him again. You barely knew the man, of course, he would choose his wife first even when she was dead.

Your mind betrayed you with the idea of Lucius using you just all those nights to find a way to get out of the Colosseum. No matter what, he didn’t visit you, he didn’t bother to see if you were okay. Likely, he never knew you had fallen ill.

Everyone left you behind.

Happened once as a little girl who fell for her best friend, once as a teenager who fell for an older officer who turned General and once as a young woman who fell for a gladiator and turned out to be a missing prince.

With golden brackets that cover your arms and the heaviest earrings, you nervously walked through the long marble halls of the justice building. Near the temple of the god of war, there rested the place where justice was brought.

A guard opened the door for you and once you stepped in, the room was already full.

Every man inside stood up to greet you with a little reverence and you could feel a migraine already coming.

But when your eyes found a blue pair of aquamarine diamonds looking piercingly at you, the anger mixed with nervousness.

Immediately you look away from the prince. As you took a seat at the end of the long table, you could feel him everywhere. As if Lucius was silently begging for you to look at him.

“We reunite here to revoke any charges and penalties addressed to Prince and Princess; Lucius Verus Aurelius and y/n y/l/n”

You barely hear the man speaking, you were only waiting to hear the next part.

“From the power the senate gave us and by the guidance of the gods, said charges and penalties will be revoked by uniting the prince and princess in sacred marriage. Everyone who agrees says accipio…” everyone says the word, and you close your eyes trying to avoid huffing or ending up screaming in disagreement. Your father ascended to the throne rightfully. Every politician voted for him. When he died your brothers were young and naive and remained as so throughout their rule. Your only crime was to conspire against the empire along with Acacius when he was alive.

All a big nonsense.

“Hear hear, now… Do you Lucius Verus Aurelius agree to the terms of conditions of this agreement?” you look up to see the man. He looked different.

His wounds were healing, his hair looked trimmed, his beard styled. Without sweat, blood, and dirt covering his face, he looked gorgeous. Like an actual prince.

Lucius also looks at you. You can’t tell how he feels, but his eyes look hopeful. And his lips are slightly tilted. Was he trying to smile at you?.

“Accipio…” he says, looking away from you.

Your lips sealed shape a full face of anger.

“Do you y/n y/l/n agree to the terms of conditions of these agreements?”

“I would like to resign to my titles”

Gasps could be heard, and a mixture of shock and disapproval was all over the men at the table.

Lucius looks with curiosity at you. But you can see he’s also shocked.

“Princess y/n… you can’t resign” a man says and you roll your eyes.

“Exile me if needed. I can also recommend a handful of women who would be perfect suitors for Lucius Verus Aurelius” As much as you tried to sound calm, you sounded enraged.

“Then I won’t sign the agreement…” Lucius says looking at the same man who spoke first, then at you.

You eye him with confusion, he crosses his strong arms and he intimidates you with his strong gaze.

“I want you or nothing” he admits with tranquility. Which makes you even angrier. But also make your cheeks turn hot after feeling every man in the room exchange awkward looks.

How could he act so cooky and shameless?

Before you can say another thing, you are interrupted.

“If none of you agree, your charges and penalties will prevail. That would lead to several trials, where both of you could end up with death penalties despite being two rightful heirs”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh.

You’re so tired, drained from everything.

But you won’t give any man the satisfaction to see you crumbling.

Never again…

“You may constrain me all you want, Lucius Verus Aurelius. But you won’t hear what you want from me today”

The poison filling your voice intoxicated everyone, leaving the room flooding with awkwardness and uncertainty. Lucius and you share looks. There’s an odd warmth that makes you remember how good he was when you first met him. He is not a bad man. But you fell in love with him and overrated him so early.

With the silence reigning, the sound of your chair sliding as you stood up drew all the attention to you again. But you didn’t face anyone, you simply left.

The air hit you and you could already feel the tears threatening to spill.

It’s a shame because it seemed like it was a good day for Rome. You can hear kids playing nearby, and people selling goods while the clear sky warmed the afternoon.

“You really don’t know why I want you, y/n?” You hear behind your back, Lucius approaching with heavy steps, making you wipe your eyes before you turn around to see him.

“I would say to gain power. But I know you don’t want that so no… I’m clueless. All I know is I won’t be part of a deal when all my life I’ve lounged for love”

“I can’t believe you don’t remember…” he responds and you frown, disappointed that he has ignored your words. So rudely, you move away, farther from him.

“Who was there when you fell ill after breaking your bones?” your eyes almost pop out, you stop walking only to slowly turn around again and eye him in shock.

“Who was there when you used to escape the palace and needed someone to accompany you back?” Lucius pleads with every word he lets out, he walks towards you and tries to grab your hands but you slip away from his touch, defying him.

In your shock, you can only sigh as memories start reminiscing in your head. A childhood love that couldn’t be. Which involved some feelings you thought had no meaning. But sure they had. More than you wanted to admit as an adult.

Lucius Aurelius Verus was that little boy that you fell in love with as a child. That little boy disappeared without saying goodbye. A boy you thought you’d never see again.

“I left you and resented it all my life, y/n. Now I can be here for you again. Allow me to retrieve the memories we had…” This time you weren’t fast enough to prevent his touch.

He feels warm and at home. His fingers are calloused and his raspy fingertips slowly caress your knuckles. You want to hold him in your arms and cry from happiness. You want to curse him for making you believe he was dead.

But you are selfish after so much pain.

“Why you didn’t say anything when we met again?” You coldly ask, freezing the warmth he has built.

“I needed to know I could trust you first,” he says apologetically.

There’s so much to talk about. Never in your dreams, you thought you’d have the boy you loved once now turned into a man you must marry.

“Please, y/n. We’ll meet each other again, fill the empty promises we made years ago”

“You knew I was alive all this time. Why did you never come for me? We could have escaped. If I had known you were alive, a lot of my suffering could’ve been prevented” he looks away, he feels guilty.

“You married, Lucius. You were happy before Rome conquered Numidia. And I won’t diminish the death of her. But you moved on… like I never existed”

He grabs both of your hands but you move away.

“I thought you were safe. I had no chance of getting you back, that’s why I married. But when I saw you again at the celebration where I had my first fight…” even when he sounds convincingly remorseful, you still keep the distance.

“I don’t care, Lucius. The only thing I want now is to say goodbye to the only love that mattered while you were gone. I can’t visit his grave now for the charges, and when I marry you, I won’t be able to visit his grave because of it. Don’t act like you are not wanting me as your second choice”

If only you knew, Lucius thought as he watched you leave.

…

As a kid, your father would be delighted whenever you danced in the celebrations he hosted. Your brother Geta and Caracalla would sneak in and try to ruin your performance, they weren’t allowed to attend the parties because of their mother; a whore. Your father’s ginger hair had not spread across the twins’ heads and they certainly not looked anything like your mother. There was a snake hidden in the basket of flowers you carried while dancing. But a gentleman realized earlier and as soon as you dropped it because of the bite, he took you to the doctor. And that night you developed a little crush for the officer Marcus Acacius.

Soon you forgot about the older man when you took food and made your way out of the palace. Near the stables, you had found a safe place. Where you always met with who refused to tell you his name.

So you always called him amicus. You could only refer to him as a friend.

“Amicus…” you called him.

Soon he appeared, with burnt blonde hair, blue eyes, and his kind smile.

“What happened to your hand?” he asked pointing at your bandaged extremity.

“Geta and Caracalla placed a snake on my flower basket”

Your friend huffed, clearly annoyed that they tried to hurt you again.

“I wish I could be there, I would always protect you”

You smiled, caressing his face. You were no stranger to his proximity. At the rough age of nine years old, you two had grown a big friendship.

“But you’re always here for me, amicus”

“I won’t be always…” you frowned confused.

That was the last night you saw your friend; Lucius.

You shake your head, pushing aside the memories. Realizing you are once again in a party, but your father is gone. Nobody sits on the throne, your twin brothers are not around to try to banish you. There is no Acacius to help you and you are no longer a kid.

You wonder why Lucilla never told you his son was alive. That he was your best friend. You understand that probably she didn’t trust you enough, given that you looked like you were on your brother’s side most of the time. Although the reality was very different.

Lucius arrived at the celebration with many people trying to talk to him. His tone was kind, but he felt overwhelmed responding to the variety of questions thrown at his face.

Having all the attention resulted in frustration. He was no god and Rome started seeing him as such thing.

He was a humble man, despite growing up knowing he was a prince, he was accustomed to the peaceful farming life in Numidia. He married and thought he would die as a farmer. But even when he finished a rough day of tending his sprouts and counting seeds, mostly he would go to sleep thinking about you.

Lucius never forgot the little girl he found pacing through the secret passages under Rome. Surely he always knew you were a princess, you were alive and well within the walls of the city he grew to hate.

He thought he was correct in never telling you who he really was. He had no chance to say goodbye, he was forced to leave. For a lot of years, he thought he would never be able to fall in love again, but he found a new love.

As soon as he married, he tried to forget about you. And as much as he loved his wife, he always went back to you. Wondering if you were also married, if you remained as beautiful as you were as a kid, or if you missed him like he missed you.

His answers were given to him when he saw you eating figs and softly arguing with one of your red-haired brothers.

Lucius swore his heart stopped a few seconds before he had to fight under the demand of Macrinus. When he recited poetry, he understood you didn’t know who he was. He locked eyes with you for too long, which made you frown and exchange confused looks with Geta.

But he did a good job because you went to visit him later, realizing you knew only half of the truth.

Lucius never stopped loving you.

He watched you twirl around in a purple dress and he couldn’t help but smile. His need to know who you had transformed into was eating him. The curiosity over your love affair with Acacius and how you ended up on the battlefront of war killing him. And he wished nothing buy you to understand that destiny wanted you to be separated but now there was a chance to heal together and be together.

Although it seemed like you were beyond hurt. Only makes Lucius feel guilty for some reason.

A man from the senate reveals to the party you and Lucius are officially engaged and he knows you must be boiling in anger. Lucius tries to go and talk to you. Assure you that he wasn’t involved in the early announcement. He wanted your consent and forcing you would never fix your anger and resentment.

But when he tried to reach you, you were gone. And he knew to where.

To visit Acacius’ grave.

…

With white roses and a dirty cloak, you arrive at the island. Is smaller than you thought. It’s just a hill.

No gold, no ostentatious mausoleum, just a little mark in the middle of the hill that over the centuries would be swallowed by the Earth. There rests Marcus Acacius.

You swallow hard, hoping to get there before your legs betray you and you end up on the grass crying. After hearing the announcement of the engagement, you sprinted out of there making a mess of fury. Your desire to say goodbye to your love would never become a reality. So you took matters into your own hands and risked three hours of absence in Rome.

Each step adds a little more pain to your chest and you want to leave as fast as possible.

But you remain silent, looking at the little plaque.

Not even beloved General of Rome. Just his name.

“I don’t regret saying that I hated you the last time we talked…” you start, biting your cheek from the inside and frowning, competing against the tears that were already coming.

“I closed my eyes so hard to pretend I wasn’t witnessing your death” The chilly air makes you shriek, it also makes some scary sounds as you talk.

“We had a baby, Acacius. I suppose conceived in Athens. He left me hours after you did. I guess he sensed my bad luck…” you coldly say, attempting to joke with the silence.

“Not of importance anymore. I just came to say goodbye. To thank you for training me, and for making me a strong woman. Thank you for loving me the wrong way…”

“You can rest now, Marcus. Your death was worth it, Rome is free. But I’m not…” Finally, your voice breaks and you start sobbing, weeping, and crying so loudly that your lungs hurt.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be strong enough to come back again, Acacius. Your death will always be the loss of my life but our baby is my little hope. To always remind me that I was very close to having you…” with your legs trembling, you stand up and grab the basket. The flowers are gently placed and your tears fall over his name, washing the accumulated dirt.

“I’ll move on. Because I know that’s what you would’ve wanted. I’ll keep your memory alive. And I’ll never love the same way I did with you. You earned it, Marcus. In life and death…”

Dried from all the tears, suddenly you felt less weight on your shoulders. You feel light and in peace.

In that hill would rest the memories of your past, of the love you gave to that General and what could’ve been.

You leave in silence. And when you step foot in the boat again, you have the strength to smile and realize that you don’t care about anything anymore.

The sense of everything comes into question.

Nothing can hurt you anymore.

…

He’s there when you step a foot into the salty shores of Rome. Lucius looks worried. He gives confident steps until he’s facing you.

“You went to that island. Didn’t you?” He asks judging you, which makes you frown.

“I did…”

“Why are you risking yourself? I had to tell everyone you felt ill” You roll your eyes, not handling his words with patience.

“I have nothing to lose, Lucius. I don’t care anymore if I die right now…” he huffs and slides his fingers through his blonde hair, exasperated.

“Why can you understand you’re the one I want? I want you to be safe. But you can’t stop acting like there is no hope left. Why?”

You finally explode.

“BECAUSE I’M HURT!. You know my brothers never loved me, I thought I had you and you disappeared. I spent years in love with Acacius and when he finally looked down at me, he never chose me above your mother. But he wanted to give me a house, a family. I lost him and that night I lost our baby too, I didn’t even know I was with child. And now everyone’s gone, you’re back but I feel like you are just choosing me because you have no choice” Your lungs so tired of your crying make you ache as you end up sobbing once again.

Lucius immediately places his arms around you. And it’s the first hug someone gives you in a long time. So you sob harder and slide your arms to hold him closer.

“I didn’t know… I’m sorry” he whispers in your ear, one of his hands caressing the back of your head, fingers sliding through your hair.

“You’re not my second option. You were always the first. I choose you all or nothing because I couldn’t before. And now that I have you in my arms, I’m never letting you go”

Lucius feels like the home you never experienced but always dreamed of. His words start soothing you. His words feel bigger, like an oath this time. A healed promise of the one he made as a kid.

“When I looked at you again, I remembered that little girl I used to play with. With her dazzling hair and loving eyes” you look away, to the shore. You never liked receiving compliments.

“Look at me…” his fingers grab your chin and gently, he makes you look at him but you close your eyes after briefly meeting his eyes.

Just like the first time, you get lost in his blue irises. Blue like the sea you traveled, like the sea you once thought would be your way to freedom.

“Please look at me, y/n,” he says pleading, with his warm touch you know you won’t be able to oppose any longer.

Slowly you open your eyes and finally accept his gaze.

“You loved another man and I loved another woman. But we had already marked each other’s hearts before we met them”

Slowly, you nod. He smiles and wipes the tears from your eyes. He looks so gorgeous. You know he means every word. Only a man who did everything to save his mother and free a city would make such a big promise to a woman and beg.

You caress his strong jawline, ignoring the way his beard tickles at your fingers. You smile back at him.

“I love you”

Before he could finish, you kissed him.

…

You hadn’t thought back on your love Acacius in months, but that morning you dedicated the bright sky to him. You hope he’s happy for you.

You look at yourself in a mirror and smile at your reflection.

“Are you ready?” Lucius asked entering the room. Your smile grows at the sight of him dressed in gold and a crown in his head. He also eyes your dress and you blush at the way he is mentally undressing you.

Your husband is possessive, kind, brave, and an emperor.

“Stop staring like that…” he looks back at your eyes and it makes you chuckle.

“Come here…” he pleads and when you try to kiss him you both hear a tiny yelp.

“Oh Lucilla, I’m just trying to kiss your father…”

You had birthed a daughter two months ago in Egypt. And was named after Lucius’ mother. She had matted hair the same color as you and she had the blue eyes of his father.

“I’ll get her…” Lucius carried her and leaned to let you look at yourself tiny baby yawning, as she had woken up from a little nap. Her tiny hands flirt fists and her face scrunched in slumber.

She was a winter baby and every citizen of Rome was waiting to meet the daughter of the emperor and empress.

“So fussy like her father…” you claimed, making Lucius roll his eyes at you.

He had grown patient. A perfect partner and father. You felt lucky and blessed to have him. Thinking all the pain was worth it. Your head would now and then think back on what could’ve been if Acacius had survived, and his baby as well.

But you accepted that in this life, he wasn’t meant to be yours. So you prayed to meet him again in the next one. But for now, you were in the arms of your first love.

“I love you, Lucius…” he seemed lightly surprised, as he was the one that says it more often. But he knows he looks so clumsy and in love.

“Not more than me…” you kiss your daughter’s cheek and then your husband, making him softly gasp as you deepen the kiss.

“Don’t do this to me now, y/n…” you giggle, taking the baby from his arms and leading the way towards the door.

“Wait, satis… I know it’s nonsensical to ask at this point but…Do you think I’m being good at this?” Lucius asks pointing at little Lucilla, you sigh, walking back towards him.

“My love, there is no way of being good at this. But if she knows that we love her and that we’ll be here for her forever, is enough…”

He had his doubts a couple of months after the wedding when you got pregnant.

“You don’t know how proud and thankful I am of you. You decided to agree and give me a family after so much pain, satis” You form a smile grin, opting to avoid the memories of your old love. Because that was the past, sacred to you but still the past.

“We deserved it, Lucius.” He nods, taking your free hand.

“I have the feeling that this one will be a boy…” you say pointing at your still-flat stomach.

“Whatever it is… as long as you’re the mother, it’ll be okay”

You both exit the room hand in hand, hearing the excited crowd outside waiting.

_________________

PAUL X PEDRO X READER FIC IS COMING, COMMENT TO BE TAGGED :)

I won’t ever ever ever write a fanfic where a Pedro character dies again. NEVER AGAIN! I don’t care if you think this was cringe, I cried a lot while writing on different days. I love Lucius but in my head Acacius never died, so from now on if I write for him, he WON’T DIE.

[aingeal98]

More Jason and Cass thoughts (sorry but also not sorry) but if I was magically given full control over DC and could write what I'd want obviously I'd make Cass Batman but I've been thinking of what sort of reaction and role Jason would have in response. I think I'd write his version of "Congrats on the new job!" as a test, involving the Joker and civilians and gangs and Red Hood and a ton of explosives. Bruce failed me, and now he's given up. You're his successor, let's see how you handle this dilemma that freaked him out so badly he threw a batarang into my throat rather than let me avenge my own death in front of him.

So obviously Cass will overcome the traps and the puzzles. That's the fun part to show how competent both of them are and sprinkle in little character moments as we go. But then we reach the emotional crux of the matter, probably laid out as some sort of saw trap because it's Jason. Here I am, a victim of murder. You say nobody dies tonight but I did, and I want the man who did it dead. Not only did Batman fail to avenge me but he failed to stop the Joker from going on to create even more victims. What right do you have to stop me from getting justice for myself? What right does this man have to life after what he's taken from me and from countless others? I'm not trying to kill a random stranger, I'm specifically demanding justice for my own death that I never got while I was gone.

There are two ways this could go. The straightforward route if I knew my time on this run was limited would probably be a pyrrhic victory like the ones Cass's og series was so fond of. Just like Bruce in utrh, she acts on instinct and saves the Joker (and Jason this time) . A win technically, but she fails the test. Jason is once again vindicated but with nothing to show for it. The story ends with Cass sending the Joker back to jail and going back to the batcave, where the old Robin costume looms judgementally, highlighting her failure. It would be the most fitting end given their character molds, all tragedy and conviction and unstoppable force meets immovable object etc.

However... I think the option I prefer would be a little different. Cass levelling with Jason, a killer talking to a murder victim. She has no right to stop Jason from getting justice, she has no love for the Joker but she knows any death she allows to happen like this would devastate her, just like that death row inmate long ago she tried to break out but ended up letting go once the family of the victim talked to her and demanded justice. I think... In this specific situation, she'd just be honest. Morally she has no right sure. Personally she just really really doesn't want anyone to die. Give her one chance, please. Let her try it her way. Not demanding, not lecturing or insisting, just... Please. Don't do this. Let me try another way.

And then what? Jason asks.

In the end a deal is struck. Cass will take the Joker and lock him up, ensuring he never harms anyone again while also trying to rehabilitate him. But the second she fails and he gets free, Jason kills him and she won't stand in his way. It's the kind of deal that leaves both of them mildly disgusted and dissatisfied with themselves, neither of them naturally creatures of compromise when it comes to this specific topic. But Cass is willing to do anything to avoid death and Jason did not expect the new Bat to be so... Flexible? Kind of? Of course maybe she won't actually hold up her end of the deal and when the Joker gets loose she'll try and stop Jason from killing him and he'll get his miserable vindication, but right now this is something strange and new and he's mildly confused and curious about where it will go. He doesn't believe in her ability to contain the Joker forever but he's willing to let her try because her reaction to that future failure interests him. She's given him a sword of damocles to hang above her head and he didn't ask for it or expect it. It's the type of power he never thought the Bat would just... Hand to him.

The conflict ends with neither of them fully winning or losing. They both don't really know what to feel about this.

The thing is, the second Cass let's Jason kill the Joker she's hanging up the mantle. She's staking the Bat on this, because it's always go big or go home with her when it comes to saving others, even someone like the Joker. In this magical universe where I have unlimited power, Cass would lock the Joker in a secret bunker and have Leslie Thompkins talk to him daily, mostly because I think her pacifism speeches and debates in the comics would make a fun contrast to the Joker's evil sadism. (But what about his rights? Doesn't he deserve a trial and to be held in a regular prison? I'm going to be honest I think Cass would be very comfortable bending the rules on this specific situation. Morally questionable but I'd have fun with it. She's going to let Leslie treat Joker like her personal pet project to save his soul because yes she wants him to change but also she's got a city to save every night so go crazy Leslie, have fun.)

And the Batman series would continue with Cass as the lead, new challenges and new antagonists and every twenty issues or so for the first hundred we'll cut back to the Joker briefly if his chats with Leslie can help highlight some thematic element of the current arc. But bit by bit he'd slowly fade away onto oblivion, maybe getting referenced every hundred issues or so until eventually no one remembers or cares about him because there's so much else going on. Meanwhile Jason's got a good thing going as Red Hood, primarily based in Park Row and a tentative ally on the occasion when their vigilante work aligns. Unlike Joker he's a much more frequent character in the comics, and after say 10 years (this is my magical fantasy universe Cass's batman run is going to last for a very long time alright) when people think of DC characters they think of Red Hood long before they think of the Joker.

Is any of this realistic? Right now of course not. It's why I'd go with the pyrrhic victory if I actually got the chance, because it would be the best way to tell the story in the larger context of the Bat narrative. But it's my fantasy DC editor and writer daydream and I'm going to dream big. They're never going to be normal happy siblings, their personal demons will never fully let them be free and the looming possibility of losing everything they currently have narrative wise if Bruce comes back as Batman will always be there. But it's maybe the closest to peace they'll ever get. Unsatisfying and tame compromise that probably violates several laws and ethical codes but whatever. Cass has never read the Geneva convention and Jason's not going to shed tears over the Joker. Let him die relevancy wise if not physically.

[messenger-of-babel]

First Fallen

Summary: Jason's first snow back, but you wouldn't know that. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 1.5K

Notes: I feel like I'm constantly trying to defend the fact that I'm not dead so please take my apologies, a fic I dug up from the Christmas event last year (stopped due to emergency), and my four hours of sleep.

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"Slow down, you need to put your jacket on." Jason grumbles, eyeing you busying around his room. He follows a step behind you like a disgruntled parent, hands hovering in case you trip over something.

"But it's snowing!" you chirp back excitedly, casting a glance to him over your shoulder. "We need to get out there and enjoy it before it goes all slushy."

When you send him that smile his breath stutters in his chest, and it pulls a grin from his own lips. It makes his brain short circuit, the way that you look at him like that. The way that you looked at him, it was like he had never disappeared. Like he hadn't left you alone and grieving. You looked at him like he was still as free spirited and snarky as he used to be, the kid that gave Bruce Wayne and Alfred an equally frustrating headache (even though he still did at times). Like he had never died, or what you had thought, been put in a witness protection program. You didn't question where the muscle suddenly came from when you hugged him, or how he grew a full head taller than what he was last. You never commented on the green in his usually blue eyes, or the white in his hair that never washed out.

He knew that you'd seen the scars across his back and down his arms, and the burn pockmarks left on his hands and shoulders, but you still kissed along the skin like it had never been marred. There was so much change in this one bedroom that now felt too young for him, but your smile was the same that he remembered.

You were there sending him that same damn smile.

"Snow ain't going anywhere, sweetheart." he says back, helping you sling one of his jackets over you and funnel your arms through the sleeves.

"Yeah, but still." you protest, sending him a pout before pecking him on the cheek. "Come on, grumpy, let's go." you pat his arms and reach down for his hand, his fingers interlocking with yours on instinct.

"You don't have gloves," he points out as you begin to lead him out of the room and into the manor hallway.

"Don't need them." you say, eyes still forward but you raise your linked hands together. "Your hands are warm enough."

"What if I let go?"

"Then don't." you tease back, dragging him to the front door.

The snow falls gently outside, and you race forward without fear, footfalls crunching with each step that you take. He watches as you track marks through the fresh white carpet, beaming all the while. The white powder is slowly starting to decorate your hair, covering the oversized sleeves of the jacket. He watches you from the doorway, laughing to himself as you trip over your own feet and stumble in the snow, racing around like a child and taking large handfuls of it. Once your hyperactivity has worn off, he pushes from the doorframe, shaking his head as you return. He takes your hands back into his, bringing them to his mouth to blow warm air into them.

"Told you, you needed gloves." he scolds, the biting temperature of your frozen digits bleeding into the warmth of his palms.

You don't say anything as he heats up the frozen fingertips, you just stare at him with that soft gaze.

"What?" he huffs, lips tilting and making the scar at the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Come outside with me." you say softly, folding your hands so you can take his in yours instead. "Come enjoy the snow."

His smile tilts downwards a little. He isn't against it really, he's just more surprised than anything.

"Nah, I'll stay here sweetheart, you go enjoy. I'm cold enough to last another lifetime."

However the defiant gleam he loves so much takes over your eyes, and you tighten your grip on him. Wordless and with a clenched jaw you tug at his hands, leading him step by step outside. He feels a shiver rush over him as the chilled breeze darts across his exposed skin, biting into the flesh of his hands and the tips of his ears.

"It's cold." he says, tone warning but it only makes you smile wider.

"of course it is, smartass. it's snow."

you pull him a good distance from the door, the warm light from inside hitting your backs. you watch as the scar on his lip dips down slightly in a frown, his eyes reflecting the glow as he looks over his shoulder towards shelter.

You would never tell him this, but you thought he looked beautiful right now.

There was something angelic about the curves and contours of his face, the slight sheen of red making its way over his nose. He grumbled anytime you called him a name, whether that was beautiful or handsome or cute. Any form of endearment was merely brushed off with a shake of his black mop and a wave of his hand. So, you kept it to yourself, eyes flitting over him soft and reverent. So lost in trying to capture the picture in your mind that you were unaware of your hand tightening in his instinctually.

"Hey." Jason manages to snap you out of your daydream. "What are you thinking about?"

Blood rushes to your face and warms your cheeks. Your brain flips into overdrive, thinking of how to play it off. "Nothing." you bite out a bit too quickly. "Just this."

Without thinking about it you crouch to the ground and grab fistfuls of fluffy snow, crushing it between your fingers before grabbing the back of his hoodie and shoving in down his back.

Jason, who had been too curious to respond in time, screams as the cold snow hits his back. His hands reach for the back of his hoodie to flap it, trying to create space between the snow and his back. He whirls away from you, huffing when he empties the flakes from the bottom of his jacket.

"You brat." he grins back, dropping to the ground for a second before flinging a handful of loosely packed snow at you. You shriek as it collides on the side of your head, smattering the cold particles through your hair and down your neck. "Jason!" you scold, hands coming up defensively but grinning widely.

"Don't 'Jason' me," he grins, covering the distance to wrap his arms around your waist and spin you. "You're the one that started it."

smiling you lean back, taking in the glimmer of his eyes as they look back down at you. They were warmer than they had been before, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something behind those blue irises, something behind the curtain you were blocked off from.

"You make me feel alive again, you know that?" he breathes out. Your smile falters slightly but you keep it up.

"You make it sound like you were dead," you scold slightly, whacking him playfully in the chest. "Trust me, if you were dead, I'd be the first to know about it. I'd be inconsolable." you giggle, the downturn of his lips and the sad flicker in his eyes going unnoticed by you.

He knew that you knew about the scars but chose not to say anything. He had no shame in showing you those, the lines and bruises that you traced so reverently with your fingers and sealed lips. It would be a silent ritual between you both, except in those few times where you'd mumble under your breath how strong he was, how strong he must be to endure whatever he was keeping from you. But one thing he would never tell you was that those scars you so gently praised as a symbol of his strength, murmuring quietly of his survival, were the opposite. When he looked at the mirror he didn't see the evidence of a survivor, and his heart ached at the idea of trying to tell you that those scarred over wounds had in fact claimed him.

So, for now he'd settle with you in his arms, grinning up at him like the world revolved around him. He'd forgive the snow dusting his hair if it meant he got to stare into those glimmering eyes of yours for just a moment longer, withstand the biting cold if it made your nose crinkle more often.

"Merry Christmas, babe." he murmurs silently, voice full of a heavy warmth as he places a soft kiss on your forehead, looking out at the rest of the gardens gradually succumbing to the winter blanket.

It may not have been his first snow with you, but as he held you in the garden, he couldn’t help but feel like a stranger reliving his own memories again.

[adonisbeloveds]

Hi!! I wanted to ask if i could put in a request, but if ur not comfortable with it, it's okay! You dont have to do it. I was thinking yandere mains angst cuz the reader died and they feel like they failed to protect them. Again, if you're not comfortable with it or just dont want to do it, feel free to decline! there's no pressure on my end. I love ur writing style btw!

Yandere Main Toons with a reader who died.

Okay okay! I hope you mean't the main toons when they weren't twisted, and I LIVE for yandere and angst stuff omg so don't you worry and I'm glad you love my writing style! Also can you guys COUGH guess my fav toon ahahahhaha Reader is GN and uses they/them pronouns, and Vee, Shelly and pebble are all meant to be seen as platonic. Warnings: Yandere behavour ofc, Dandy keeps the readers body (he doesn't do ANYTHING weird with it, he just keeps it), self hatred, mentions of suicide, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

ASTRO

".....you're lying. Sprout please...you're lying.."

.He was in denial for a long while, even though he knew you weren't coming back a small part of him was still hoping, wondering if you were out there -- if you were just hiding and waiting for him to come to you and save you. .He blames himself so much, he knew he shouldn't of stayed back, that he should of convinced you hearder to let him come with others..what if you were nearly at the exit, what if you didn't have enough stamina to make it, if he was there he could of helped you. .What if you were hiding, cornered, crying quietly while you muttered his name -- hoping and praying he would come get you, come help you and make sure you wouldn't die or get hurt, if so why didn't the others help you? why didn't goob pull you close to him why didn't anyone help you. .Maybe you died to get away from him .He still blames himself, he blames himself so badly -- but some of that blame now goes to other toons, more specifically the toons who had the ability to help you.

"Astro, they aren't here anymore! THEY'RE DEAD!" "YOU WERE MEAN'T TO PROTECT THEM! AREN'T YOU THE OVERPROTECTIVE ONE!" .Everything that was in your room he put into his room, even to the smallest piece of paper that had nothing written on it -- and when I say everything I mean everything, even your trash that he never threw out. .He know's it isn't healthy and he knows the other toons are judging his coping ways, he just can't bare the thought of anything you had in your room being taken away. This is what was left of you and he wasn't going to throw it away, no matter how bad or unhealthy it was. .He has started dreaming about you, he use to share dreams with you -- but now he just dreams of you, and he uses these moments to play pretend, even if its for a minute or so. Seeing your smiling and alive face is enough to start fueling his delusions .At first he knew these delusions and dreams were simply that, but over time he started to wonder if this was actually you, that you survived and are still waiting for him out there, waiting for him to save you. .So then on he started his mission, he know's he couldn't protect you in that moment but this time, this time he's going out there and he will bring you home- "No." "What...what do you mean no." "Astro, you aren't in the right mindset to go out on runs. We don't want you to see a twisted version of them and willingly run into the arms of a twisted." "They....they aren't a twisted, they are still alone out there! I know it!"

VEE

"No...no wait WAIT-"

.She witnessed first hand your death, she tried running to you the moment she saw the twisted coming close -- but it got to you before she could, and the worst part is that you smiled. You saw her and you smiled. .Shelly grabbed her arm before dragging her back to the elevator, but all she could think of was the way you smiled at her, not even noticing the thing behind you -- or maybe you did and knew your time was up, and you smiled at her as a way of saying "It wasn't your fault, please don't blame yourself" .You two talked about this, about what would happen if one of you were to die -- and she promised, she promised you that she would always have your back, that you would always be protected and she failed. .Cause that's what she is, a failure. .Who cares if she can sing or host programs or show twisteds by their frequencies, cause what is all that tallent for when she couldn't even keep her promise and protect the closest person to her. .She handled her greif better than the others, she knew that you weren't coming back, no matter what she or the others tried to do. But just because she handled her greif better doesn't mean her coping mechanisms were the same. .She made dolls of you, and used the recordings of your voice to play pretend, even when she was sleeping she would play your voice and pretend you were there -- she would even tweak your voice to say certain things, and she would even listen to breathing to just pretend you were breathing and well. .Unlike the others, she went out on runs still -- but she was silent, only ever tapping her mic before going back to the corner. She couldn't bring herself to leave the foot of the elevator when it closes, especially when she see's your twisted form. .She likes to think she's strong enough to not run to your twisted form, but at this point she doesn't know anymore -- so she doesn't risk it, she just looks down at the ground the two of you use to walk together on and waits, what is she waiting for? .The elevator to open up again, or for a twisted to take her away like it did with you? "soon....soon we will walk the same path like we use to, my show star."

SHELLY

"They....what?"

.She's absolutely devistated when she found out, one of the only people to actually see her and not forget about her was gone. .She loses all her spark that she use to have, and just stays in her room. She can't bear the thought of looking at your room anymore, it only fuels her with fake hope and sadness. .Vee and the others tried to get her to open up about her feelings so she doesn't lock them away but it's already to late -- the only thing she allows herself was one of your plushies that use to be sold in the gift store. .She's cried herself to sleep every night, and usually doesn't talk to anyone, not even pebble or Astro. Astro has tried talking to her about her dreams of you -- and she's tried to tell him but she can never get past a few sobs, and the one time she did she almost threw up. .She blames herself for not being able to help you, but even if she wanted to she wasn't as great as the others -- nor did she have any special abilitys to help you. Leading to a deeper and darker pit of self hatred and pain. .She hasn't even bothered to go out on runs anymore, if she wasn't there to save you, and she can't save anyone with how weak and useless she is, than whats the point of going anywhere any more?

SPROUT

"COSMO, COSMO LET ME GO THEY- THEY ARE STILL OUT THERE! please..."

.He could see you out there, you were running as fast as you could -- but than one of the twisteds rounded the corner and go you -- and he saw it all happen. .When the elevator closed all he could do was go limp as cosmo brought him down to the ground and talked to him? He couldn't hear -- he couldn't see through the tears that he couldn't feel, he couldn't do anything...he didn't feel...there. .Once they arrived at the safe space he just let cosmo bring him to the medic -- he couldn't hear what anyone was saying, all he could do was remember you running, you turning the corner and you dying. .If only he fought cosmo harder, if only he was able to run out there to you, he wouldn't even care if he died because he would of died with you -- you wouldn't of been alone while dying. But that wasn't the case. .Were you calling out to him? Where you calling out to anyone? Did you try to fight or did you accept your death? Oh god he hopes you didn't do either...accepting your death and accepting that no one, not even him could save you -- or fighting until your last moment and hoping someone could come save you, hoping that he would come save you. .He doesn't know what's worse. .His personality took a whole 180 after your death, he usually stayed in your room rather than his own, hugging your pillow and pretending it was you, and that you were still alive with him -- even though he knows the truth .He doesn't have dreams, he's only haunted by nightmares of you dying over and over again -- he has seen the concerned looks Astro gives him whenever he leaves your room, but neither has talked about it .He has a grudge to everyone that was in that run, he not only blames himself but he blames the people that didn't try helping you, he blames cosmo for holding him back, he blames goob for not pulling you in even though you were behind a wall, and most importantly he blames himself for every reason and above. .The others usually hear Sprout talking to himself, crying to himself and so on -- they have noticed sprout not talking to anyone anymore, not even cosmo, and how he usually keeps himself locked away in your room. "I'm going on this run" "No you are not." "Why not." "Cause I don't trust you in this state to take care of yourself."

PEBBLE

"Pebble...they...they aren't coming back"

.Poor thing didn't know how to react, hearing that his favourite caretaker had died, that they weren't coming back to play fetch him with anymore, to sneak treats to him, to cuddle with him after a long day of playing, and how those moments were never going to happen again was heart breaking. .Every toon tried to help Pebble, trying to play with him, giving him treats and everything you use to do with him -- but nothing worked, he always had his tail low and never went on runs anymore, all he did was stay in his caretakers room with tears in his eyes. .Late at night the toons would either hear happy barking, or small whines -- this indicated whether pebble was having a nice dream about his caretaker, or a nightmare. .Even thought he can't talk to any of the toons, it's clear as day the poor thing blames himself for your death. He's usually the distracter yet he wasn't allowed on that run due to hurting his leg previously. "It's okay buddy! When I get back we can sneak some of cosmo and sprouts treats okay?" .Oh how he was waiting so patiently at the elevator door, tail wagging as he watched it ascend only to let out a confuse whine when he didn't see you there -- only to be told that you weren't coming back.. .Pebble has developed a habit of snarling at the toons, even going as far as full on aggressively barking whenever one of them went close to your room .The worst incident was when one of the toons tried to take your stuff out of your room -- it was almost like pebble went full guard dog mode as he harshly bit the poor toons arm, only getting off when their screams alerted the other toons who took him off their arm. When that happened everyone knew not to touch your stuff .Your death must of hurt him so much, enough to cause him to go feral at the even mention of your stuff being taken out of your room.

DANDY

"No...no no no no!"

.This wasn't mean't to happen, you were just talking to him when he came up with his shop -- he sold you med kits and everything....he wanted to deny it so bad but he can't. He watched it happen on his cameras, he watched you die and he couldn't do anything about it. .The moment the elevator left he ran, he ran as fast as he could towards you...maybe just maybe if he made it there in time you would be okay, right? .When he got there he tried to find a pulse or something, from your neck to your wrists to your heart -- he even tried to convince himself that you were breathing still, that your chest was going up and down -- even with how blurry his vision was and how hard his crys were, he wasn't going to leave you. "My flower, shh it's okay my flower, you will be okay I promise -- this is just...just a hiccup okay? I will make everything alright...come on, let's, let's go back home okay?" .You were so limp, he could feel the ichor where the wound was, but he didn't think about it, no. It's because you were....going to be fine, everything will turn out okay in the end and you will wake up and it will be fine. .He bandaged your wound and placed you in his bed, well 'our' bed as he likes to call it, he spoke to you while looking around for papers, papers to help you come back to him -- to help you out of this small hiccup. .And every night he would go back to the bed, get under the covers and fall asleep up against your chest, pretending he could hear your breathing as he smiled and said goodnight even if he cried himself to sleep, knowing deep down that you will never respond again. .If you were human you would of started rotting at this point, but you weren't and you wouldn't -- meaning he can play this game of pretend for the rest of his life, until he finds a way to bring you back to life. .At first Dandy still went in the elevator, still sold things to the others until he just, stopped. He stopping coming up, he stopped giving cards -- and the only reason is because he just couldn't care anymore, he had more important stuff to do -- like finding a 'cure' for you and spending time with you! And if you aren't out there anymore whats the reason to be handing out stuff anymore? "My flower! I'm back!" ...... "I missed you too! Don't worry I'll be there shortly, just need to put these papers somewhere safe" ...... "I will bring you back...I promise my flower."

[animeshotsh]

Devils Touch | Dad!Lucifer x Kid!Reader |

Summary: Being forced to take pills alongside your mother just seems enough to end in hell...

Warnings: Suicide mentions | Death | Canon Violence| Cursing | Lucifer its a softie | SFW | Reader its between 5-7 | Reader takes the form of a sheep/cat mix | Reader's mom sucks tbh | Maybe platonic!yandere Luci? |

When you opened your eyes everytning was red. Screams and insults filled the air, the smell of blood and other things you could not understand filled your nose making you gag.

"Mom?" You asked to no one, no one took note of you. All you could see were strange creatures, some more human and some more animal.

Tears went down your face, you could remember being forced to take some pills. Your mother crying while she did the same.

Something was wrong, really wrong.

"And what do we have here?" A stranger voice said taking you by the collar, you ended up meeting with sharp red eyes, and that look....it did not mean well.

"L-let me go" you screamed trying to get free from this thing. Reacting out you saw your hands were now black with claws, making your mind quick you attacked that thing.

It let you go with a small "fuck". You took of running, not knowing where to go, but you could hear that thing behind you chasing you.

Taking a quick look behind you ended against something. Looking up someone wearing a white suit with a cane and a hat that had a snake looked to you.

"P-please help me" you tried again "I dont know whats happening I want my mom"

The stranger took you by your arms to inspect you.

Lucifer stood there with no emotion seeing the "x" on your neck. Suicide? He thought seeing the mark. But you were just a kid, with fluffy cat hears and a tail, however your hair was not the one from a cat but the one from a sheep...or a lamb. Two little horns did also appear on top of your head.

He cursed inside his mind. Maybe you were killed, or forced to something. You were too small, your soul did not let out any type of malice besides the "sin" of taking your own life.

He soon saw a Demon coming towards him, most likely looking for you, and with no debout their intentions were not good.

Just one flick of his hand the Demon was gone. You were shaking looking at him and then around you.

Fuck, he wished Charlie was here, he knew she would be able to calm you down.

Taking care of sinners was not his job. His job was to rule hell, but he could not just leave you in here. He was sure you would be dead again in seconds.

Or worse.

"Calm down Kid, im going to take care of you" his voice was as soft as he could. Turning around opening a gold portal to his home "whats your name?"

He nodded once he hear your name, carefully petting your head. He passed by many old photos of his family. A maid appear besides him looking at the sinner in his arms.

"Please, prepare a bath and get some clothes " Lucifer requested passing you to her.

Or well, trying to.

"N-no, I dont want to go with her!" Your hands took an iron grip on his suit.

Lucifer almost panicked at your state but tried to remember what he used to do when Charlie was this young.

"Listen, she is someone good. You will be taken care off. We can have lunch later, and some sweets"

"...chocolate?" You asked with pleading eyes

~☆~☆~☆~

After your bath and food you were in a better mood. Lucifer used this time to show you around the house while asking you different questions to try and know why you had ended in here.

He showed you his ducks collection and almost passed out by how much you loved them. You ignored him as you played with the duck, almost burning the wall with one of them.

Lucifer decided to tired you up and then look up for your mothers soul. If you two died together...then the chances of her being down here were high.

~☆~☆~☆

It was harder than he expected. The sugar from the chocolate gave you so much energy you ended checking every room of the house. Lucifer behind you trying to stop you from getting hurt or from breaking something.

"Catch me if you can!" You joked while he tried to balance two statues.

With a swing of his wings he was able to catch you, rolling down the stairs and laughtning with you. You seemed....happy almost forgetting your situation. To you this could be nothing but a bizarre dream.

~☆~☆~

Once you were tired enough, Lucifer took you to one room. His heart made a flip when you took his arm pulling him close.

But he needed to go and see where your mother's soul was. So he made the maid stay outside your room just in case you woke up.

~☆~☆~

"That fucking bastard, son of a bitch, cursed slut" Lucifer screamed almost burning his office. Turns out, your mother was not in hell or heaven, she was alive, whatever she was triying to do failed for her.

He wanted to go there and kill her himself. Not only her but heaven as well, you were just a kid. Sure, you had cursed, and lied sometimes, he had read your record of sins. But that was not enough to make you end down here.

He knew your faith was sealed. Heaven would never admit they made a mistake or listen to him for starters. He had to calm down and think.

And after some minutes he decided the safest option would be for you to stay with him. He was not sure how he would explain to you who he was or what had happened. But he knew a few things, besides him no one would try to hurt you, and also you made him feel happy again. He could raise you, be a better father, be someone you could relay on.

"Its decided" he said to himself, picking up a pen and a paper, he wrote down your name and his last name. This way the other sins and overlords would know not to mess with you.

"Dont worry (y/n) im going to protect you.

~☆~☆~

[gay-dorito-dust]

hey feel free to ignore this if its too dark but could u do ford x reader where he comes back from the portal and finds out reader died while he was gone

The moment Ford uttered you name he should’ve known something was wrong, especially the way Stan eyes didn’t meet his, his face was set in a look that told him that whatever happened to you he still wasn’t in complete acceptance of it.

‘Stanley,’ Ford said as he stepped closer to his twin brother, who has evening uncharacteristically silent the entire time, ‘where’s y/n?’

Stan fiddled with his fez hat as he debated whether or not he should tell Ford a lie, or tell him the truth that to this day he himself was still very much in denial over, but he decided that his brother should know regardless even if it did hurt him to admit it. ‘Y/n’s dead Stanford.’ Stan finally said and could hear Ford gasp in the silence that followed afterwards.

‘What? When?’ Ford asked, looking over at his desk and at a framed picture of you and him in your youth with a hairline fracture on the glass cutting across your face. He wished this was some joke but Ford knew his brother well enough to know that he’d never joke about you or death in the same breathe, you were their friend since childhood, and his childhood sweetheart; So to find out thirty years later that you were no longer living hurt Ford in ways he couldn’t fathom, it was like his heart had been violently ripped out of his chest and smashed into a million pieces, the air left his lungs as quickly as the news came and he had to find something to sit down on.

‘They died last this day last month…they held out hope that you’d come back one day, said they had something they’ve always wanted to tell you but before I could ask what…they passed away…I’m so sorry.’ Stan told him as he went to sit next to his brother who had tears silently streaming down his cheeks. You and Stanford meant a lot to Stanley- and a hell of a a lot at that- you were the only person in New Jersey who didn’t give a shit about Ford’s six fingers, or being labelled as weird because of your association with them, you just didn’t care enough about those things and instead encouraged them to keep being who they were without shame.

Stanley also knew that Ford had a thing for you and still has from how he kept things you left at their parent’s house when you were younger, it was fun to tease him about it until he started actively encouraging Ford to say something to you, anything! Lucky you did go out for a bit but it wasn’t until everything blew up between and only then did your relationship fracture and fall off. With Ford dedicated all of his time and effort to his work rather than your crumbling relationship, it had gotten to the point where you just left without a trace, assuming that he’d be off in the woods on his latest monster chase.

Stan tried to keep telling you to hold on, just until Ford came home, but your health had rapidly declined so severely that there was nothing anyone could’ve done to prevent it. It hurt Stan to loose his best friend and his unofficial but in his heart of hearts official in law, he couldn’t help but think of how Ford would react upon hearing that the person he still longed for had died with a heart heavy with regret. You wanted to marry Ford, it was your biggest hopes for the future but unfortunately that future didn’t come nearly as soon as either you or Stan would’ve liked.

‘And we ended on less than satisfactory terms too.’ Ford said sombrely, feeling deep within his chest that something was missing, he felt hollow and empty knowing that he had missed out on setting things right with you. He had missed the chance to marry you happily like he saw his alternate self did in a dimension that he visited briefly, and looking back at it now only caused Ford more heartbreak. ‘There’s so much I have yet to tell them,’ he trails off as he looked to Stanley who had now started to tear up at this point, ‘I still love them Stanley.’ He admits and Stanley clenched the fabric of his pants within his firsts. ‘I know and they loved- no-still love you too, right until their very last breath all they could think about was you.’ Was all he said.

‘I wanted to marry them Stanley.’ Ford said weakly as all the future prospects he had for you and him slowly slipping from his grasp, one by one.

‘I know.’ Stan replied.

‘I wanted to spend the rest of my life with them.’

‘I know, they did too.’

‘I wanted them.’ Ford cried

‘And they wanted you just as much.’ Stan said as he brought his brother into his side as he wept while clutching at his chest as though his heart was burning him from the inside out. it hurt Stanley to see his brother in pain, such pain that it brought him to his knees, begging and pleading for a god that doesn’t exist to bring you back to him. Stan hated knowing that you and Ford could’ve had a happy ending, only to end up with a tragic one instead; So he remained by Ford’s side in solidarity as he cried and shouted until his throat was raw and he feel asleep due to exhaustion.

‘You deserved better,’ Stan said to no one in particular, ‘you both did.’

[cokoladasljesnjakom]

tag you're it

summary: shes a ruthless killer. she does not care if someone dies on her watch. her moves are like shadow. she is a shadow. once you see her, its too late. its not her problem. she cant complain, but what she can do is to complie. thats what is she made for. thats what they made her do. but once she escapes from their grasp, she searches for him. for her brother. but of course what goes around, comes around. and thats is when she meets him. the winter solider. and oh yeah the rest of the avengers.

bucky barnes x fem! reader

word count: 5.9k

a/n: sorry it took me years (a week) to write this down. i lost the motivation but the i got it back... somehow... anyways! shes here and im hoping someone is going to like it because my sleep schedule is fucked up so PLEASE LOVE ON HER! thank you for the reading! by the way if you cant tell this is SLOW burn... (GO READ SECOND PART RN!)

masterlist part iv

He escaped. The target had escaped. How dare he? He was supposed to be dead, not running, not hiding, not slipping through her fingers. Not from her.

Shadow stood frozen, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

The man beside her spoke, voice sharp and impatient. "We have to go."

She didn’t move.

When she still didn’t respond, he snapped, "Now. The mission is messed up. It’s over. He escaped. You failed."

Failed.

That word echoed in her skull like a gunshot. No. It couldn’t be. She didn’t fail. She wasn’t supposed to fail. Not now. Not ever.

She was designed to kill. To shape history with bloodstained hands. To make people suffer while they begged for mercy that would never come.

The ruthless, cold assassin known as Shadow was not supposed to fail.

And yet, the mission was compromised.

A hand grabbed her arm, yanking her toward the black SUV waiting for them. Her boots scraped against the pavement, but she didn’t fight back. The realization of her failure was too heavy, suffocating her.

She slid into the car, staring blankly ahead as they drove away.

And yet—she couldn’t stop thinking about him. That man. The way he looked at her. Like he knew her. Like he had seen a ghost.

Something about him… it rattled her.

She tried to shove the thought away, but it clung to her, sinking into her bones. He wasn’t just another target. He was something else.

And she needed to know why.

Thirty minutes later, they arrived at the safe house. Every step inside made her stomach twist. Not out of fear—but because she knew what was coming.

The footsteps came first. Slow. Heavy.

She forced herself to stand still, to keep her face blank.

Then, a voice. Sharp. Cold. Unforgiving.

"Mission report. Now."

Her mouth opened. The words should have come easy. The usual, precise details, the confirmation of success.

But instead, she asked, "Who was that man in the car?"

The slap came fast and hard. Her head snapped to the side, the sting blooming across her cheek.

Not the first time. Not the last.

"No one you’re supposed to know," the thick Russian accent said. But he was lying.

She could feel it.

"He was a mission, and you failed."

The words cut deeper than the slap.

She took a slow breath, but it didn’t steady her.

Her handler stepped closer, grabbing her jaw, tilting her face up to his.

"Now what do I do with you, hm?" His voice was mocking. "Do I throw you in that room for days? Let you starve? Break you? Or..."

He trailed off, laughing darkly.

She swallowed, not daring to move.

"Or do I wipe you clean again? Make you forget, all over again?"

Her hands shook. She curled them into fists.

Then, softly—so softly she almost didn’t hear her own voice—she whispered, "I want to be free."

The laugh he let out was cruel. "No, you don’t. You don’t get to be free. You don’t get to feel free. You don’t get to think about freedom."

He leaned in, voice lowering to a venomous whisper.

"You don’t get to know what it feels like to have a family."

Something inside her cracked.

Family.

Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Because she had a family once.

A mother she had killed. A brother she had nearly destroyed.

And now?

Now, she didn’t even know his name.

not even thinking a second Vasily, the man in front of her demanded told the siencetists in russian "wipe her and make sure she freezes to death. she doesnt deserve to live after all this."

one of the man that worked here took her carefully under her arms and wiped her clean. the look he gave her was soft. he was sorry for her. for everything she had to go through.

he never actually wanted to be the part of this, but his family was in the picture and he had a daguhter maybe younger than her but they were close in the age.

to think that this can happen to his daguhter made him sick in the stomach. he never wanted for anyone to experience this kins of torturement.

she was tired and her eyes wanted to close badly. she wanted to fight ot off, but she couldnt.

"мне жаль" and she really was. all she wanted was to feel free. to feel the warmth in her dreams in real life too.

"я не хотел потерпеть неудачу" she only spoke russian when she needed to but this time she felt like she wanted to.

the man looked at her and wanted to comfort her, to give her something to hope for anything at this point. so he jsut whispered "я помогу тебе сбежать" he looked at her again and smiled at her.

and for the first time ever, she believed it.

then the another group of men took her and put her to a cyro alone. and all of her memories of her brother and mother? wiped clean. they dont exsist anymore.

while in the room next to hers, stood the infamous assassin. the winter solider. before named james buchanan barnes.

his mission went suscesfull. he eliminated the targed just perfect. clear shot through the skull and no signs of blood.

by the time he killed the person and hide the body, he was ready to go back. to his "home." where he belonged.

the footsteps were louder than he expected. sitting in a chair and waiting for the man that made him do the mission, he stated at the wall.

"mission report." the american accent said.

"mission suscesfull. target eliminated." same answer same mission. over and over again for 60 years.

"well done solider." the voice called out. it was cold and mocking.

suddenly a young man busted through the door and said "mr. pierce!" and alexander pierce turned around facing the young man.

however the man continued "shadow... she failed in her mission. shes put back in a cryo."

rolling his eyes he said "of course she would. for gods sake you are stupid enough to put her to kill him."

the man stuttered "we- we thought she was ready for this mission and she shiwed the signs that she had it all under control."

pierce laughed and grabbed the man by the collar choking him slightly "she was supposed to kill that idiot in the best way possible. i have given to you plenty of time to do that AND YOU DID IT IN THE MIDDLE OF A DAY?!"

the man now in the air chokjng in his own breath said "w-we thought maybe she is going to do it. the-the perfect shot but he just ran away and dissapeared." the man softly cried "we are sorry mr. pierce.

watching closely the winter solider gripped the armrest on the seat and took a slow and steady breath trying to calm his racing thoughts.

while pierce trying to shake off the feeling having his hands on the man smirked. thats what he wanted to happen. he wanted to break her. to rip her apart. to make her suffer and to destroy her. all of her memories that she had, he was planing to rewind them back all over again just for her to remember the one spesific memorie.

her family. her mom. her brother. her previous life that she had. when she was peacefull. when she was just 10 years old. making friends and trying to live her life, until that night happened.

where she was taken away from it. mom. brother. her family and all of her memories.

turning around to face the man he told him while taking the slow steps "next time dont be so stupid. or i swear to god ill make you beg me to end your life faster than you expect me to." he leaned down to a mans height "understand?"

the man now shaking and noding "yes mr. pierce. i understand. "

smiling to himself and patting the man on the shoulder he turned to the winter solider and asked him "you see that solider? we just made a deal."

dissmissing the man he turned to the solider and spoke the next words "now solider... if you dont want for the same thing to happen to you... you'll have to do your missions perfect. not good not okay but perfect." then he narrowed his eyes at the soldier "understand?"

the winter soldier looking straight at the wall emotionless noded his head "yes sir."

patting the solider on the arm he turned around and told the siencetists to wrap it up and put him on the ice.

walking out from the room, pierce's phone ringed making him stop in his tracks and huff when he saw an ID's caller. and before he could say a word a voice interrupted him.

"we need you back." a thick, gruff voice called out.

then a sarcastic laugh followed from pierce "yeah well I was on my way to do something and you just interrupted me nick."

nick however replied in the same tone as before "pierce this is important. come back as soon possible. you have an hour and a half. see you there."

and then the line went quiet. pierce now looking at the phone scoffed and murmured under his breath "asshole." and went off to the shield compound.

using his super hearing the solider listened to the conversation making the information hard to understand. what did the man know? was he trying to do something? where is pierce going? is this another mission? but soon enough his thoughts were interrupted by siencetists leading him in the capsicle making his thoughts freeze.

while the man from far away watched what was happening, his promise still lingered in his head. for more than 14 years he watched the young girl and a man getting tortured by hydra. their memories getting washed away again and again. every time when there was a mission to kill someone they were the one who got to do that, without asking them if they really want that.

now finally he had a chance to do something good. even if his life was in a danger. thinking something like that could happen to his daguhter made him to do this. shadow was someones daguhter too. the solider too. they were someone and it was eating him alive.

creating a plan how to get at least her out the man walked out from the room and started to make a plan.

MEANWHILE

The summer heat was unbearable, pressing down like a suffocating blanket. Even inside the apartment, the air felt thick.

Sam had just gotten back from his morning run, drenched in sweat and starving. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, kicking off his sneakers as he walked into the kitchen.

At the same time, Max trudged in, still half-asleep, hair a mess, eyes barely open. He didn’t bother with a greeting—just went straight to the fridge and grabbed some eggs and ham. Living alone meant cooking for himself, and since he barely knew how to cook, breakfast was usually the same thing.

Sam smirked, watching him fumble with the pan. "Look who finally decided to wake up." Max groaned. "Can you be quiet for like... five seconds? Thanks."

Sam chuckled, leaning against the counter and taking a long sip of his orange juice.

That’s when Max turned, looking at him like he had just committed a war crime.

Sam frowned. "Why are you looking at me like I just killed someone?"

Max squinted at the drink in his hand, full of nothing but judgment. "Why are you drinking orange juice?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Apple juice is literally superior in every way."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "…Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Apple juice is better. You’re actually disgusting for drinking that."

Sam blinked, genuinely taken aback. "Because I like the texture? I like how thick it is, okay?"

Max visibly recoiled. "Jesus Christ. You’re actually insane." He shook his head in disappointment. "Like, actually brain dead."

Sam just stared at him for a second, then took another slow, deliberate sip of his thick orange juice. Max sighed. "I have lost all respect for you."

Sam smirked. "Good. Now shut up and eat your eggs." Max muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue further.

Sam let out a breathy laugh, still smirking. "What is up with you? You just woke up and you’re already walking on eggshells? Calm down, man."

Max didn’t respond, just finished cooking and dropped his breakfast onto a plate. Then, without breaking eye contact, he poured himself a glass of apple juice.

Lifting the cup to his lips, he took a slow sip—staring directly at Sam—before sitting down at the table and digging into his eggs and ham.

"There’s nothing wrong with me," he said finally. "But you? Waking up at—what?—5 AM? Running around like a lunatic? AND drinking orange juice?" He shook his head, clicking his tongue.

"That’s a crime, dude. A literal jail sentence."

Maintaining eye contact, Sam took another slow sip of his orange juice, dragging it out just to make a point. Then, without a word, he walked over to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down with an easy, unbothered confidence.

"Yeah, yeah." He waved Max off like his opinion didn’t matter. "Anyway, when you’re actually awake—like, fully awake—and freshened up, because damn, you look like shit, man, I need you to be wide awake for the conversation we’re gonna have."

That got Max’s attention. He paused mid-bite, brow furrowing. "What conversation?"

Sam didn’t answer. He just stood up, stretched, and started walking toward his room. "You’ll see." And with that, he disappeared, leaving Max alone at the table.

For a moment, Max just sat there, staring at his plate, replaying Sam’s words in his head. 'What does he want? At 8 AM? Who even talks at this time?'

He sighed, checking the clock—8:07 AM. Way too early for anything serious. Still, something about the way Sam said it nagged at him. With a shake of his head, Max shoved the last bite of eggs and ham into his mouth and downed the rest of his apple juice. God, he loved apple juice. Seriously, he could kiss the person who invented that stuff.

Plate in the dishwasher. Bathroom. Fresh clothes. All done in 15 minutes.

Finally stepping into the living room, he found Sam already there, casually lounging like he didn’t just drop a cryptic bomb on him. Max narrowed his eyes. "Alright, dude. I’m awake. What the hell is so important?"

"I found the HYDRA base she’s in." A punch to the ribs. A fist squeezing his lungs. Max’s body froze. Then everything sped up. His heartbeat wasn’t beating anymore—it was slamming. Pounding so hard he thought it might break through his ribs. His breathing was off, wrong, useless. He tried to pull in air, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough.

The world cracked open. No—it collapsed.

Everything hit him at once, a tidal wave of too much, too fast, too loud. Sam’s words were still there, hanging in the air, but they didn’t feel real. They didn’t feel like words at all.

The fridge hummed. The clock ticked. Sam’s chair creaked. Too loud. Too fucking loud. His mind was screaming at him, Why did you let her go? You could have stopped them. His hand was small, too small to pull her away, but he should have tried harder. If he had just reached farther, if he had screamed louder, if he had done anything differently, maybe she wouldn’t have been taken.

Max’s breath hitched again. Why didn’t you save her? He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of that thought. The thought that had haunted him for years—that he hadn’t done enough, that he hadn’t been enough.

'If I had tried harder. If I had just been stronger.' He remembered the look on her face as they pulled her away. The way her eyes locked with his, desperate, begging. Please, Max. Please save me. And he couldn't. The floodgates opened. Her hand—small and desperate—reached out for him. She was begging for him to save her, and he had failed her.

Why didn’t you do more? Max’s throat closed up, and the panic rose again. His body was trembling, shaking in a way that felt so foreign, so uncontrollable, he couldn’t stand it. His chest was tight, but his hands were ice cold. He felt like his skin didn’t belong to him anymore.

And then, like a flood of dread that washed over him, the memories came crashing through—louder, sharper, heavier. He could still hear their mom crying. The desperation in her voice when she begged them to take her instead, to leave her alone. He could still feel her, right there, clinging to them, helpless, powerless.

Why didn’t I do anything? Tears burned his eyes. He wanted to scream, wanted to throw up. But no sound would come out.

His mind was a mess of memories and regret, spiraling so quickly that he couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t catch his thoughts.

I couldn’t save her. I never could.

He wanted to smash his fist into the wall, punch something, anything, just to stop the overwhelming flood of emotions that were drowning him.

Sam’s voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline, but Max could barely grasp onto it. His hands were trembling. His heart was hammering. His lungs—his lungs felt like they were being crushed. "Max, breathe. Just breathe with me. Four in… hold… four out." The words were far away, muffled by the chaos in his head, but he latched onto them like they were his only chance of survival.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus. Focus. Focus on something.

But the guilt was still there, clawing at his chest. He had failed her. He had failed his sister. If he hadn’t been so small, so weak, maybe he could have stopped them. "Maybe I could have been strong enough to save her." But he hadn’t been. He wasn’t.

I wasn’t enough. The guilt wrapped itself around him, tightening until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She’s still out there, Max, and you’re still sitting here like you can’t do a damn thing.

He felt the walls closing in, felt the air in the room getting thick again. God, just breathe, please breathe.

Sam’s words repeated in his ears, soft and steady: "We’re going to save her, okay? We’re going to do this together. But you need to stay calm."

Max wanted to scream. He wanted to punch the wall, to break something, to do anything to make the pain go away. But he knew if he didn’t calm down, if he didn’t find a way to fight the panic that was pulling him under, he wouldn’t be able to save her.

I can’t lose her.

Sam’s hands were on him, steadying him, grounding him. The steady pressure was like a beacon in the storm. But Max couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still going to lose her.

What if I don’t save her? What if I fail again?

I can’t fail again.

Slowly, his breath began to even out, but the guilt didn’t go away. It lingered, hanging over him like a dark cloud. He wiped the tears from his eyes, muttering to himself, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“I’m… I’m not going to fail her again. I can’t.”

Sam, seeing that Max had finally calmed down, let out a breath and leaned back in his chair. "You’re not going to lose it, okay? You’ve got me, man. We’re going to get her out. Of course, if you fuck something up while we’re doing it, then yeah, your ass is on its own." He smirked, hoping to get at least a flicker of a smile out of Max.

And somehow, it worked.

A small, tired smile broke through the tension on Max’s face. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—the room didn’t feel as suffocating anymore. Air actually reached his lungs. It had been a long time since he’d had a panic attack this bad, and even longer since he’d let himself feel just a little bit okay afterward. But this? This was his life now. The panic, the overthinking, the feeling of his own breath catching in his throat like barbed wire. He had learned to live with it, even when it felt like it was killing him.

"What?" Sam raised a brow. "I got something on my face?"

Max furrowed his brows, taking a deep breath. His voice was rough when he finally spoke. "No… it’s just…" He trailed off, trying to steady himself, trying not to slip back under.

His fingers twitched against his knee. His heart still felt like it was trying to break out of his ribs. "I need to find her, Sam. I have to save her—" the words caught in his throat. His breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut for just a second, like that would be enough to stop the rush of panic creeping back up his spine.

Max blinked hard. His breathing was turning shallow again, too quick. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes, desperate to block it out, but it was right there. The echo of his own voice, five years old and screaming himself hoarse: “Give her back! Please—don’t take her, take me instead!”

No one listened. No one ever listened.

Sam’s voice cut through the noise. "Hey—breathe. Just breathe."

Breathe. Just breathe.

Max opened his eyes, forcing a deep inhale, then another.

He nodded, wiping his hands against his jeans like that would stop them from shaking. “I can’t—I won’t lose her again.”

This time, Sam didn’t tease. He just nodded, serious now. “We won’t.”

He lifted his gaze to Sam, his voice barely above a whisper, but heavy, so heavy. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her, Sam.” His throat felt raw, like he had been screaming for years. In a way, he had.

“She’s reaching for me. Like—like I’m supposed to save her. Like I could have saved her.” His breath stuttered, his vision blurring. “And every damn time, I fail. I keep failing her. I keep failing Mom.” His hands curled into fists so tight his nails dug into his skin, but the pain wasn’t enough to drown out the memories. “I should have done something. Anything. But I just—stood there.”

His voice broke, and for a second, he thought he might shatter with it.

Sam didn’t hesitate. He gripped Max’s shoulder, firm and steady, like an anchor. “I know, man,” he said, his voice rough with something close to grief. “I know. But you listen to me—she’s still out there. And she’s alive.”

Alive.

That word lodged itself in Max’s ribs, sharp and relentless. For years, he had imagined the worst. Had convinced himself that maybe it was better not to hope. That hope was a cruel, twisted thing that only made the fall hurt more.

But Sam—Sam believed it like it was the only truth that mattered. Sam exhaled slowly, his grip tightening. “We’re going to get her back, Max. I swear it.”

Max stared at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. There was none. Just that unshakable, stubborn loyalty that had held him together more times than he could count.

Something inside him cracked, and before he could stop himself, he pulled Sam into a tight, desperate embrace. His body shook, but he didn’t care. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “For everything.”

Sam clapped a hand against his back, not letting go. “You’re my brother, man,” he said, quiet but fierce. “Always.”

And for the first time in years, Max allowed himself to believe it.

Not waisting a minute max asked sam with a glint in his eyes "So whats the plan genius?" and Sam replied with a smirk on his face "Thought youre never going to ask."

AT THE S.H.I.E.L.D’S COMPOUND -

Pierce stepped out of his car, smoothing his suit as he made his way to the elevator. He pressed the button for the top floor, his face impassive, but his mind was already turning. "World Security Council."

"Confirmed."

As the elevator ascended, he replayed Fury’s message. “We need to talk. Urgently.”

No details. No context. And that? That wasn’t Fury’s style.

Pierce exhaled through his nose. Was this about her? No. Couldn’t be. He had buried that truth so deep it might as well not exist. If this was just another pointless security briefing, he was going to be pissed.

The doors slid open with a soft chime. He stepped out, pushed open his office door—

And found Fury. Sitting in his chair.

Pierce stopped just inside the doorway, his grip tightening slightly on the handle before he let it go. “You make yourself at home in everyone’s office, or is this a special occasion?”

Fury didn’t react, just leveled his gaze at him.

Pierce sighed, letting a casual smirk settle on his face. “What is it, Fury? Forgot your password again? Or—” he gestured to his eye with a smirk, “—misplaced another one?”

Fury didn’t take the bait. “Sit down, Pierce.”

The humor in Pierce’s expression didn’t reach his eyes. “I am sitting, technically.” He leaned a hip against the desk, folding his arms. “Now why don’t you tell me why I’m here instead of wasting my time.”

Fury stood, slow and deliberate, crossing his arms as he took a step forward. His voice was calm, but heavy. “December 25, 2006.”

Pierce gave a slow blink, but inside, something locked into place.

“Ring any bells?” Fury asked.

Pierce tilted his head. “Christmas?” He let the word hang, feigning indifference. “What, are you feeling sentimental?”

Fury wasn’t amused. “That was the day we were supposed to wipe out a Hydra base.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Shut them down. Sabotage their entire operation. Make sure they never got back up again.”

Pierce kept his expression even. “That mission went south. Things happen.”

Fury exhaled sharply through his nose. “Things happen?” He shook his head. “A ghost tore through our team that night. She wasn’t even old enough to drive, and she damn near wiped us out.”

Pierce gave the slightest incline of his head. “And?”

Fury’s eye narrowed. “She took my eye. Almost took your life. And now—eight years later—she’s back.” He tossed a file onto the desk between them.

Pierce looked down at it but didn’t move.

“Over a hundred assassinations in those years,” Fury continued. “Then, last week, she tried again.”

Pierce finally lifted the file, flipping it open with practiced ease. The name staring back at him made his pulse slow, measured.

Y/N Harrison.

Fury spoke again. “Her target?” He let the weight of it settle. “Max Harrison. Her own brother.” Pierce barely reacted, but the air in the room shifted.

Fury took another step. “You know what doesn’t sit right with me?” He tapped a finger on the desk. “Why she just—vanished. Why there’s nothing on her for years. And now, all of a sudden, she resurfaces hunting her own blood?” He let the question hang, watching Pierce.

Pierce slowly closed the file. His grip on it didn’t tighten, didn’t betray anything. But inside? His mind was already moving three steps ahead.

Fury kept his eye locked on him. “I’m gonna find out why, Pierce.” He started toward the door. “And when I do—” he glanced over his shoulder, voice lower, darker, “—I hope you’re on the right side of it.”

The door shut behind him.

Pierce stayed still, staring at the file in his hands..The name on the page burned into his vision. He had erased this. Made sure she was nothing but whispers and smoke. But somehow, Fury had cracked the foundation.

Slowly, Pierce exhaled. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

A voice picked up immediately.

“Burn it.” Pierce’s voice was flat, emotionless. “Everything. Every file, every record. Fury’s onto her.”

The person on the other end hesitated. “Sir, that would mean—”

“That’s the point.” Pierce cut them off. His grip on the phone was steady. “Do it. Now.”

Silence. Then: “Understood.”

Pierce hung up, tossing the phone onto his desk as he leaned back in his chair.

He had spent years building walls around this secret..And now? The cracks were starting to show.

HYDRA’S FACILITY -

The man’s breath came fast and shallow as he hurried down the corridor, gripping the files like they might slip through his fingers. His hands were sweating. Not just from the heat trapped in the underground facility, but from what he was about to do.

He had spent years collecting this data. Cross-referencing. Double-checking. Piecing together fragments of information into a weapon sharper than any blade. And now, with one phone call, Pierce had ordered it all erased.

It was like setting fire to a masterpiece.

He swallowed hard as he reached the old terminal, its outdated screen flickering dimly in the dark room. The keys felt stiff under his fingers as he typed in his credentials. The system took longer than it should to respond, forcing him to stare at his own reflection in the black monitor while he waited. His heart pounded.

Then—there it was. The archive.

Decades of classified information. Projects. Identities. Secrets Hydra had buried so deep they shouldn’t exist. And soon, they wouldn’t. His hand shook as he moved the cursor to the DELETE ALL command. It was simple. Just a click. One click, and it would all be gone. His index finger twitched. He couldn’t do it. Not yet.

His eyes darted to the TRANSFER option.

A different kind of anxiety curled in his stomach. His rational mind screamed at him—this is treason. If anyone caught him, he wouldn’t even get the dignity of an execution. He’d just disappear.

But another voice whispered: It’s not wrong to keep a copy. Not everything. Just the important files. Just enough.

His breathing grew uneven.

His hand hovered over the mouse, his fingers tingling like they weren’t even his own.

The walls of the room felt like they were closing in. He had spent years building this database. Hydra had spent centuries constructing its empire. And he was about to erase it like it was nothing?

He pressed his fist against his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.

Then, in a sudden burst of defiance, his fingers flew across the keyboard. He selected a handful of critical files—the most valuable data Hydra had. The ones no one should ever have access to… but someone had to.

His pulse was a hammer in his ears.

The TRANSFER IN PROGRESS bar crawled forward, each percentage point making his stomach twist tighter.

Come on. Come on.

His foot tapped anxiously against the floor. The room felt smaller. His skin prickled with heat.

Then—TRANSFER COMPLETE.

He barely let himself breathe before shoving the drive into his pocket. He had what he needed.

Now came the hard part.

His hand clenched into a fist as he forced himself to move the mouse again. Slowly, hesitantly, he guided the cursor back to the DELETE ALL button. His finger trembled, hovering over it.

For a second, he thought about stopping. Thought about keeping it all.

But that was suicide.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he squeezed his eyes shut and clicked.

CONFIRM DELETION?

The final warning. A last chance to back out.

He hesitated.

Then, before he could lose his nerve—

CLICK.

It was done.

The screen blinked. The files—the ones he hadn’t saved—began vanishing before his eyes. Line by line. Folder by folder. Years of Hydra’s work, turning to dust.

His stomach churned.

He stood up too fast, nearly knocking the chair over as he grabbed the physical files and turned toward the door. His hand trembled as he swiped his keycard, the door locking behind him with a dull click.

It was over.

Or at least, this part was.

He forced himself to breathe, to swallow down the nausea curling in his gut.

He had saved something. A piece of history. And no one would ever know.

At least… that’s what he told himself.

From the shadows of the corridor, another man watched. Unlike the scientist, his hands weren’t shaking. He wasn’t nervous. He was waiting. Calculating. In his palm, he held a small device—a custom override chip. It wasn’t enough to crack the system entirely, but with the right access…

His gaze flicked to the scientist’s keycard.

That was the way in.

The man—Ivan—knew exactly what he needed to do. He had done unspeakable things for Hydra. Followed orders without question. But this? This was different.

This was about her. He was going to get her out. No matter what it took. His mind was already forming a plan when— "Тсс, Иван, что ты здесь делаешь?"

Ivan stiffened. The voice was sharp, laced with suspicion.

Turning, he found himself face-to-face with a lab technician. Thick glasses framed the man’s beady eyes, his white coat hanging loosely over his thin frame. He was watching Ivan carefully, expectantly.

Ivan forced a breath, pressing a hand to his chest like he was steadying his heart. “Ах, не пугай меня так.”

The technician didn’t flinch. He simply repeated the question.

Ivan hesitated for half a second—then exhaled sharply, feigning frustration. “Эээ, я хотел пойти поесть, но блокнот выпал у меня из рук.” He gestured vaguely toward the floor as if proving his point.

The technician squinted at him. Then, after a moment, he gave a curt nod. “Ну, ну… просто возвращайся. Ты нужен нам в лаборатории.”

Ivan nodded quickly. “Скоро буду.”

The technician turned and walked off, leaving Ivan alone once more.

He didn’t move for a moment, letting the tension bleed from his muscles.

Then, finally, he turned back to the door.

He still needed that keycard. Still needed to get to the files. And still needed to free her.

But first?

He needed a plan.

Back in the cold, sterile chamber, she stood frozen in cryo—locked in time, trapped in silence. No thoughts. No movement. No feeling. Then—a twitch. Just her fingers, barely noticeable. But it was enough.

If she woke up, there would be no alarms, no time to react. One punch. One snap of the neck. One second. That’s all it would take for bodies to hit the ground. No screams, no struggle. Just dead weight collapsing onto cold concrete.

Across the hall, in another chamber, he stood frozen too. The Winter Soldier.

Once, he was Bucky Barnes. A man. A soldier. A friend. But that version of him had been buried beneath blood and metal, his name carved away like it never existed. Now, he was nothing but a weapon. Cold. Precise. Controlled.

Orders were given. He obeyed. Targets were marked. He killed. No hesitation. No mercy. No questions.

And yet, something cracked in the programming.

It happened every time they crossed paths, even in passing. Just for a second. A flicker of recognition—something human clawing at the edges of their minds. A moment of clarity, suffocating under the weight of their conditioning.

They wanted to speak. To ask. To remember. To scream.

And then—the switch flipped back.

Their bodies locked. Their minds erased.

No hesitation. No mercy.

What goes around, comes around.

And soon, something was coming for them.

One mission. One mistake. One fracture in the system.

And when it happened?

No one would be ready for it.

TO BE CONTINUED...

the translation -

мне жаль - im sorryя

не хотел потерпеть неудачу - i didnt want to fail

я помогу тебе сбежать - i will help you escape / i will help you out

Тсс, Иван, что ты здесь делаешь - hey! what are you doing here?

Ах, не пугай меня так - ah dont scare me like that

Эээ, я хотел пойти поесть, но блокнот выпал у меня из рук - Uh, I wanted to go get something to eat, but my notebook fell out of my hands

Ну, ну… просто возвращайся. Ты нужен нам в лаборатории - okay, okay... just come back. we need you back at the lab

Скоро буду - i'll be there soon

[arceus-insanity]

So When Did Things Start Going Down Hill

I don't mean everything is shit after this, but things looking back started getting (steadily) worse starting with. Check bottom for more indept view on each option

A) at first I wasn't going to include this one as it happened before most of what I considered shit started happening, but with how much it blatantly favours this lazy-ass child abuser, how could I not include it. And of course, it shows so much evidence that he hasn't changed at all, like only even offering to teach Midoriya and Bakugo to manipulate his favourite victim Shoto

B) when it first happened I was devastated but expected this to lead to greater change to the hero system and society. But no, just a meaningless footnote to the heroes epic battle

C) literally no one questions how a top hero was just so eager to kill someone, or buy a wife, breed her, abuse & neglect his kids to the point one of them was believed dead. Only citizens whining about how Dabi is bad for them

D) here's this apparently big shot hero from the States we've never heard of before and immediately dies. If they wanted to keep Shigaraki from having too many powers they could of just chalked it up to the heroes interupting the process

E) the Todoroki family all blames themselves, this isn't to go into the complexity of abusive households, but to absolve Endeavor's responsibility and guilt. Despite the fact that as the one who created and was in control of this situation, he should be held accountable for theirs as well. The only backlash for his shit is framed as ohh poor Endeavor, he didn't mean for the child he threw away to create consequences, and now people are being mean to them

F) what was the point of this arc? Deku barely asks a villain three questions before giving up. He learns the HPSC had Lady Nagant acting as a secret assassin against any undesireables for them, covered up her arrest and got a replacement assassin (Hawks who has at least one confirmed extra jurdical murder under his belt). Witnesses an innocent woman get attacked for her appearance and was turned away from multiple shelters for said appearance. Deku: Hero Society is the Best, Nothing needs to change, because not every single apple in this basket is rotten to the core! Looking back he just looks worse for this

G) so this child, who due to his parents mistake was blackmailed under great threat & risk, into giving information to the blackmailer, deserves to be chained up and forced to take further risk by the heroes. Remember Endeavor never faces any consequences, nor does Hawks, but this child, Yuga, gets treated like this.

H) once again what was the point? How does Edgeshot know he can do this? How does he know how to do this? Why is he a top hero who has never interacted with Bakugo before this, sacrifices his appearing to be unharmed self, for a random hero student in the middle of a war? Oh and Edgeshot is revealed to be alive at the end of the manga, because Heroes have no consequences and live in magical fairytail land. Again what was the fucking point!

I) This was originally going to be two points, Oh poor Endeavor, victim blaming part 2 and the hospital battle. But I ran out of options and Endeavor doesn't need another personal option. So we got the whole Todofam blaming Dabi/Touya this time, and Endeavor being a whiney responsibility dodging coward again. Then we see the heroes knew that the villains were going to go after Kurogiri, kept him in a hospital. We see that the people aren't going after doctors or patients just trying to get to Kurogiri, get demonized for it. We have victim blamer/ pick-me Tentacole say that their kids will be attacked for this (already happening), and that it's up to them/ him to inspire the violent quirkests to not constantly attack, assualt, and otherwise discriminate against them, no need for the quirkists to be given any responsibility or consequences for their own actions. Oh and Spinner has major brain damage because how else was Tentacole supposed to win this arguement. Bonus points for Hawks calling for Toga to be murdered, doubling right back down on his previous murder

J) in this already overcrowded 3rd act lets make sure all these background characters get a scene! And despite the fact it took years for Deku to get a powersuit in the epilogue, All Might just randomly gets one, no build up or anything. AFO's backstory is left in the past so no one has to consider anything

K) I had hope going into this, but at every turn they kept on making it worse. Deku only tries punching and attacking, rather than make any attempts to actually talk unlike what Shigaraki has been doing since his introduction. Is randomly able to enter Shigaraki's head, doesn't have to see just how fucked Hero Society is as it gets cut short by moral scapegoat AFO coming in and revealing he orcastrated everything! Oh and he flat out kills Shigaraki. Living up to his name and not his goal. Deku that could my ass

Sorry if this comes off as super negative but I've been wondering this for a while, and well I'm pissed at the ending. Here's some people I want to hear the opinions of:

@moodyvoid @nagitosstolenhand @codenamesazanka @shortstrawberryshake @darkonekrisrewrite @nothingofinterest @itsnothingofinterest @villainsandvictimsalliance

Feel free to @ more people

[cupidsworstcrime]

toxic!johnny x f!reader

inspo - for you 🌸 hope it lives up to expectations

smut , some nondescriptive , some descriptive

please read responsibly

contains kidnapping/hostage holding , manipulation , dub/non con , emotional/verbal abuse , controlling behavior (including food + work out) , stockholm , pregnancy at the end (marked with a heart banner , feel free to end there)

Johnny wasn't the same after the bullet.

They said he died on the table for forty-seven seconds. No oxygen. No pulse. Then, a gasp. A miracle, they called it. But when he opened his eyes, Johnny wasn’t all there. Not the same “Soap” who cracked jokes between gunfire or who could recite Shakespeare while stitching a bullet wound shut.

There was a quietness to him now. A sharp, eerie stillness. And horrid mood swings that changed faster than the wind blew. Like something feral was pacing behind his smile.

You met him at a pub on a rain-soaked Thursday. You hadn’t meant to stay long — just one drink, maybe two. He’d clocked you from across the room. Piercing eyes. Buzzed hair. Scars you couldn't stop staring at. And he smiled like he knew you'd come to him eventually.

“Sit with me, pretty thing,” he said, voice soft with a Glaswegian lilt. You did.

You laughed too hard at his deadpan jokes. He liked that. Bought you drinks, then offered to walk you home, heavy jacket slung over your shoulders. The city lights blurred as the streetlamps flickered, and his hand was warm on your lower back.

You didn’t mean to take him home. You weren’t that kind of girl. But he looked so sad when you said goodbye at the door. So tired. So hollow. And you were soft. Soft enough to let him in.

You made tea. He walked around your flat like he owned it.

“Cute place,” he murmured, picking up a trinket from your bookshelf — then dropping it like it didn’t matter. “Suits you.”

You offered him the couch. He took your bed. You told him no. He laughed.

The sun cut through the half-closed blinds in thin, pale slats.

You woke up before him. His arm was draped heavy over your waist, like a lock. You stayed still for a while, heart pounding against your ribs, listening to his breathing — slow. Deep. Asleep, maybe. Hopefully.

You eased out from under his arm like you were defusing a bomb. Each breath shallow. You slid your feet onto the floor, quiet as you could, and tiptoed across the room. Your phone was still dead. You didn’t know where your charger had gone. You’d checked the kitchen last night and it wasn’t there either.

But your keys. Your keys were by the door. If you could just—

“Where you goin’, bonnie?”

His voice stopped you cold. Low. Rough. Still thick with sleep — but laced with something darker.

You turned slowly. He was already out of the bed, shirtless, scarred, eyes locked on you. One second later and he was on you.

You hit the floor with a sickening thud, breath punched from your lungs as your back slammed against the wood. His hand gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Why you tryin’ to leave, bon?” he murmured, mouth close to your cheek. You could smell his breath — warm, coppery, like he bit the inside of his mouth. “We were just gettin’ comfortable.”

“I—I wasn’t—” you stammered, squirming under him. “I was just—needed air—”

“Air?” His grin curled, but his eyes were dead. “You need air from me?”

He didn’t raise his voice. That made it worse. His calm was cold. Measured. A different kind of violence.

“You don’t need to run, sweetheart.” His grip loosened, just slightly, and he ran his thumb down your cheek. “Not from me. I’d never hurt you. Not unless you asked nice.”

You flinched. He noticed.

“Oh,” he cooed, tilting his head. “You’re scared of me now. Is that it?”

“I just—I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you whispered, shame burning hot under your skin. “It was one night.”

His smile faded. Slowly.

“One night,” he repeated. “Right. So I should’ve left. Let you wake up alone. Let some other bastard find you.”

He leaned in. His weight pressed into you. You could feel his pulse against yours.

“I saved you from that, didn’t I?” he whispered. “Took care of you. Fed you. Kept you warm.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed. His hand slid down to your throat — not choking, but there. A promise.

“You’re not leavin’,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Neither am I. Not today. Not tomorrow.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Now,” he said softly, “you’re gonna be good, yeah? Be sweet for me.”

And like a fool, like a coward, you nodded.

You stopped keeping track of the days. Time blurred into Johnny’s voice. Into his hands.

He didn’t leave. Not once. Not even to go outside. He told you it wasn’t safe. That there were people out there who’d hurt you. That the city was filthy, full of men who’d take one look at you and ruin you.

"But you're mine," he said. "No one's gonna fuckin' touch you again."

You believed him. Eventually.

Your phone was gone. He said it was broken. Then said you dropped it. Then said he threw it out because it was rotting your brain. You didn’t ask again.

Your meals changed. He measured what you ate. No more snacks. No more sugar. He watched you chew like he was keeping score.

“You’ll thank me later,” he muttered one night, running a hand down your stomach as you lay curled in bed, hollowed out from the meal he called “clean.” “Gotta keep my pretty little thing tight, don’t I?”

He timed your workouts. Told you when to start, when to stop. You’d never cared much about exercise before. Now it was punishment. Now it was praise. When you did it right, he’d kiss your sweat-slicked cheek. When you didn’t, he’d stand behind you in silence, arms crossed, watching until you cried.

And you always cried.

Your clothes vanished. The oversized hoodie you loved — gone. That short skirt you wore to the pub the night you met — burned. Literally. In the sink.

“Slag’s uniform,” he said, eyes glazed as he watched it smolder. “Never wearin’ that again.”

He picked your clothes now. He liked lace and silk. Chokers. Slippers that made no noise when you walked. He said you looked like a doll — porcelain and breakable.

He liked that.

TV? He picked it. Music? He decided. If you tried to read, he’d take the book and toss it. “Don’t need words in your head. Just me.”

And then there was that part. The part you didn’t speak about.

He was soft with you — sometimes. Before. After. During. But sex wasn’t yours anymore. It wasn’t a choice. It was a ritual. A schedule.

When. Where. How.

Sometimes rough. Sometimes sickeningly sweet. Sometimes in the kitchen, bent over the counter before you’d even had coffee. Sometimes in the shower, where his hands held your wrists against the tile and whispered don’t fight, bonnie, just take it.

And you did. You always did.

Because if you didn’t, he’d stop speaking. Stop touching. Stop looking. That silence was worse than bruises.

Worse than anything.

Because in the quiet, you remembered who you were before. And Johnny wouldn’t allow that.

“Forget her,” he’d whisper, hand over your mouth, sweat dripping from his brow as he drove into you with slow, punishing rhythm. “She’s gone, sweetheart. She’s fuckin’ gone. And now you’re mine.”

And maybe she was.

There was a knock at the door. Sharp. Familiar.

Your heart stuttered.

You hadn’t heard that knock in weeks.

You were wearing what Johnny picked out for you that morning — a white camisole and soft pink shorts, no bra. Hair down. Lip gloss he said made you look "fuckin’ edible." He was in the kitchen. Or maybe the hallway. You hadn’t seen him in the last few minutes, but you could feel him. Like static in your bones.

You opened the door just a crack.

“Hey,” your best friend whispered, breathless like she’d run the whole way. “Jesus. I’ve been calling—what the fuck, I’ve been texting—” She stopped, taking you in. The outfit. The gloss. The fake smile.

“You look… different.”

You tried to smile wider. “I’ve been busy.”

She frowned. “Busy? You disappeared. No replies. Your socials are dead. I thought you were—” Her voice cracked. “Can I come in?”

Before you could answer, you felt it. The warmth at your back. The solid weight of him.

Johnny’s arm slid around your waist from behind.

He leaned down, chin resting on your shoulder like he’d always belonged there.

“Hey there, love,” he said to her. Calm. Polite. Voice like silk over broken glass. “Nice of you to stop by.”

Your friend’s eyes widened. “Who’s—?”

“This is John,” you said too quickly. “He’s… staying with me.”

Your friend blinked. “Staying with—? Since when?”

You felt his fingers press slightly harder into your hip.

“Since the night we met,” he said for you.

You swallowed hard. “He’s good to me.”

"Are you okay?" she asked, eyes darting to yours. “Seriously. Just blink or—”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, too fast, too loud.

Johnny chuckled under his breath.

Your friend didn’t move. “Come with me. Just for coffee. Ten minutes. We’ll talk—”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Johnny said, softly. Not a threat — not exactly. Just a fact.

You turned toward her, pulling the door in just a little. “I don’t want to go.”

“Babe—” she tried, voice small.

“I said I’m fine.”

And that was that.

You closed the door before she could respond. The latch clicked like a coffin sealing shut.

You stood there, breath shallow, hand still on the knob.

Behind you, Johnny pressed a kiss to your neck.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Knew you’d be loyal.”

You didn’t speak. You just stared at the door.

And you didn’t cry. Not yet. Not while he was still behind you.

You waited until he was in a good mood. After dinner. After he’d eaten, after he’d fucked you slow and whispered praise like a prayer in your ear.

You curled up beside him on the couch, head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His hand stroked absentmindedly through your hair. You felt small. Safe, almost. If you didn’t think too hard.

“Johnny?”

“Hm?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. He felt it — you knew he did. His hand stopped.

“I was thinking… maybe tomorrow, we could go outside.”

Silence.

“Just a walk,” you added quickly, too quickly. “Nothing big. Ten minutes, even. Just around the block. I miss the sun. The air. You could come too— I want you to come.”

Another beat. His hand slid out of your hair. Rested on your hip instead. Firm.

“You miss the sun?” he asked, voice flat.

You nodded, cautious. “I do. I just— I haven’t seen it in so long. I think it’d be good for me. And you could hold my hand the whole time. We don’t even have to talk to anyone—”

“You think I don’t give you enough?” he said, and there it was — the edge. Sharp as wire.

“No—God, no, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You’ve got food. Clothes. Warm bed. Me.” He sat up a little, pushing you off him like you were just in the way. “And you want to go outside? Risk some cunt lookin’ at you like you’re available? Like you’re not already mine?”

“Johnny, please—”

His hand gripped your face, thumb pressing hard into your cheek, not enough to bruise — but close. His eyes were blank. That same blank.

“You wanna be seen?” he asked quietly. “Is that it? You wanna show off what I fuckin’ own?”

“No,” you whispered, throat dry. “No. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.” His grip tightened. “You’re still thinkin’ about it. I can see it.”

“I’m not. I swear. I won’t ask again.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then let you go.

“Damn right you won’t.”

You collapsed against the couch when he stood up, knees too shaky to follow. He disappeared into the kitchen, muttering to himself. You thought you heard the click of the drawer. The one with the knives.

The sun didn’t come up the next day. Not really. The blinds stayed shut. The lock on the door clicked twice that morning instead of once.

And you didn’t ask again.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out.

You were folding his shirts the way he liked — sleeves perfect, collars straight — and your fingers brushed the edge of the old British Army tee he wore to bed. You looked up at him, standing in the doorway, shirtless, scar gleaming faintly under the soft light of the living room lamp. Right above his temple. A brutal little crescent of pink, where the bullet hadn’t quite killed him.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked, before you could stop yourself. “The scar?”

He froze. Face blank.

The silence was immediate. Sharp.

You panicked.

“I didn’t mean— I just— I remember seeing it the first night and it worries me—”

“Worries you?” he repeated, voice flat. Cold. Like you’d said something dirty.

Your mouth opened. Closed. “Yes.”

He stepped toward you.

You took a step back. Instinct.

He grabbed your wrist, dragged you into the bedroom, the force of it like gravity shifting under your feet. You stumbled, tried to explain, but he didn’t want words.

“You don’t ask about that,” he snarled, throwing you down onto the bed. “You don’t talk about it. You don’t fucking look at it.”

“I didn’t mean—!”

He was already on you. Belt in hand. One hard crack across the back of your thigh. You yelped, fingers knotting in the sheets.

“You think I don’t see the way you stare?” Another hit. “You think you can fix me with your little slag eyes?”

You sobbed. Not from pain. Not entirely. From shame. Confusion.

One more blow. Then silence.

And then — his breathing changed. Slowed. Hitched.

He was still holding your leg down, hand shaking.

“…You said worried,” he whispered.

You blinked through tears. “W-what?”

He let go of the belt. It dropped to the floor like it burned him.

“You were… worried about me?”

You turned your head slowly. He wasn’t looking at you like before. Something broke in him — cracked open and leaking.

“I thought it was ugly,” he muttered, dazed, like he was talking to himself. “I thought it made me look wrong. Like a freak. But you were worried.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He sank down onto the bed beside you, hand hovering — not touching.

“Say it again.”

You hesitated.

“I was worried about you.”

His hand found your back, trembling.

“…Why?”

Because I used to think you were human. Because part of me still believes there’s something left inside you.

But you don’t say any of that.

“Because I care,” you whisper.

He exhales. Like it hurts.

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

But he kisses your thigh where the belt left a mark anyway.

And you know he’s going to hurt you again. Maybe worse. But for a moment, he’s soft.

And that’s what terrifies you the most.

That night, he barely spoke.

Didn’t drag you by the wrist. Didn’t bark orders.

He just stared.

You were in bed, curled on your side, still sore from the belt. Still aching in ways you couldn’t name. Johnny stood at the edge of the room, shirtless, scar half-lit by the moon through the curtains.

You watched him, silent. Waiting.

When he moved, it was slow. Measured.

He climbed into bed behind you, peeled your shorts down like he was unwrapping something sacred. You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to ask, maybe to beg — but he was already there, already inside you, already moving.

No teasing. No commands.

Just fucking.

It was deep. Intentional. Not rushed — not this time. But not gentle, either. Like he was chasing something. Like he had to make you fall apart.

His hand slid between your legs, fingers practiced, determined. You moaned, body jolting, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up. He whispered filth — what you’d look like dripping, what he wanted to hear when you came. Called you his good girl, his pet, his little doll with the sugar-slick cunt that only he gets to ruin.

You came once, breathless and clinging to the sheets.

He didn’t slow.

“Again,” he growled, sweat slicking his chest as he drove harder. “Gonna get three out of you. Maybe four. Maybe five if I hate myself enough tonight.”

You whimpered his name. He kissed the back of your neck like it hurt him to be soft.

The second orgasm tore through you fast, messy. You were already shaking when he pushed your legs apart again, dragging your hips up into his lap.

“I hurt you,” he murmured. “I always hurt you. All I fuckin’ do. And you still look at me like you care.”

You tried to reach for him — touch his face, his chest — but he caught your wrists and pinned them to the bed.

“I don’t get to finish,” he said, voice flat. “That’s the rule tonight.”

“Johnny—”

“You want me to cum?” His laugh was bitter, broken. “You want the freak with a hole in his head to cum with you like he’s normal?”

Your heart cracked.

You opened your mouth to answer — but then you were coming again. A third time. Harder. Raw.

He watched the way your eyes rolled back, the way your mouth fell open.

And still — he didn’t let go. Didn’t let himself finish.

Even as his hips stuttered. Even as he bit down on your shoulder to keep from screaming.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you, breathing ragged.

Silent.

You reached for him. He let you, this time.

Let you hold him.

Let you whisper, “thank you...”

And he didn’t reply. But his hand found yours in the dark. Gripped it like a lifeline.

Like he was scared of floating too far.

You woke up to the sound of keys. Real ones. The front door.

Johnny stood above you with his jacket in one hand and your shoes in the other. The ones you hadn’t seen in weeks.

“Up,” he said.

You blinked, dazed. “What—?”

“You’re going outside.”

It took you a full five seconds to move. Then you scrambled to your feet, breath caught in your throat. He held out the shoes. You reached for them, but he didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm.

“You been good lately, haven’t you?” he murmured, eyes on yours. “Didn’t ask again. Didn’t whine. That’s what I like, pet.”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. I’ve been good.”

A smile tugged at his mouth — lazy, sharp. Dangerous.

“See? You get it now.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “You get rewarded when you don’t beg like a bitch.”

You flushed. Shamed. A little sick. A little proud. You didn’t know which part of you felt what anymore.

Outside, the world was louder than you remembered. Brighter. Wind scraped against your skin like it hated you for leaving.

Johnny never let go of your hand. His grip was bruising.

You walked two blocks. Past a bakery. A flower stall. People. People. They smiled as they passed. One man looked at you twice. Johnny squeezed your fingers so hard your knuckles cracked.

“Let’s head back, yeah?” he said through clenched teeth.

You didn’t argue. You nodded like it was your idea.

Back home, the silence slammed over you like a door. You kicked your shoes off neatly. Looked at him. Waited.

He stepped in close. Close enough to smell the leather of his jacket.

“Good girl,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “That’s how this works. You obey, you get a little taste of fresh air. A little sunlight.”

He cupped your chin.

“Next time,” he said, “if you really earn it… maybe I’ll let you sit outside alone. Wouldn’t that be sweet?”

Your eyes burned.

“Yes, Johnny.”

“Say thank you.”

“…Thank you, Johnny.”

He smiled.

Then he kissed you hard — bruising, breath-stealing — and you knew your reward was over. The leash pulled tight again.

And you were back where you belonged.

It was raining.

Not hard — just the kind of soft, constant drizzle that made the walls feel closer. Time slower. The flat smelled like garlic and onions and steam from the pot he stirred with methodical focus.

You watched him from the kitchen doorway, bare feet on cold tile. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

His scar was visible in the kitchen light, a pale seam above his ear where skin met ruin. You thought of that night again. The belt. The whispered you were worried. The way he hadn’t let himself come.

And something broke open in you.

Not out of fear. Not obedience.

Something smaller. Realer.

You stepped closer. Slow. Careful.

Wrapped your arms around him from behind.

Your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, arms looping under his. A quiet hug. No words.

You felt him go still.

Utterly, completely still.

The spoon clinked against the edge of the pot and dropped. He didn’t pick it up.

“You okay?” you whispered against his spine.

Silence.

His hands were still at his sides.

“I wanted to,” you said softly. “That’s all. I just… wanted to feel you.”

Still nothing.

But then — slowly, like something ancient learning movement — he turned in your arms.

His eyes were unreadable. He looked down at you like you were speaking a language he hadn’t heard in years. One he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore.

“You…” he started, then stopped. His jaw tightened. “You don’t have to fake that. I’m not fuckin’ stupid.”

“I’m not faking.”

Your voice was steady. Honest.

His hand came up. Hesitated. Then settled gently on the back of your head.

And for a second — one long, impossible second — he melted.

Let you hold him. Let you press your face into his chest. Let the kitchen and the rain and the outside world fade.

Then, just as fast, it shifted.

His grip on your hair tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who he was.

“You do this again without permission,” he said softly, “and I’ll fuckin’ ruin you.”

You nodded against his chest. “Okay.”

But he didn’t let go.

And he didn’t move away.

Not until the pasta burned.

She showed up at your door like a ghost from another life.

A knock. Firm, fast. The way she used to knock when she brought cheap wine and gossip. You froze, dish towel in hand, pulse skipping hard.

Johnny was in the living room.

He looked up from the couch, face unreadable. Then—slowly—he nodded.

“Answer it, pet.”

You opened the door.

There she was. Same eyes. Same concern. Same disbelief as she looked you over.

“…Hey,” she said. Soft. Suspicious.

You smiled too wide. “Hey. Sorry I haven’t called. Things’ve been… hectic.”

She glanced past you.

Johnny stood just inside the hallway now. Barefoot. Shirtless. His scar caught the light like a warning.

“Hi,” she said to him carefully.

He just nodded. Didn’t smile. Didn’t move.

You stepped aside. “Wanna come in?”

You weren’t sure which of you was more surprised when he didn’t say no.

She stepped in slowly, like the floor might bite her.

“Place looks clean,” she murmured, glancing around. “New decor?”

“Johnny’s idea,” you chirped. “He’s got… good taste.”

You could feel him watching you. Heat behind your spine. Like a wolf breathing down your neck.

She sat on the edge of the couch. “You’ve lost weight.”

You forced a giggle. “Been working out. Clean eating and stuff.”

Her eyes didn’t move from yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, really.”

Johnny moved to the arm of the couch, leaning against it casually—but his eyes were locked on you. Burning. Daring.

Your friend looked between the two of you. “You… sure?”

“I’ve never been better,” you said brightly. “Really.”

Johnny’s voice slid in like a knife.

“She’s thriving. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You looked at him.

Your mouth said, “Yes.”

Your eyes said, Please.

And your friend?

She saw it. Just a flicker. A tremor in your smile.

She stood. “Right. I should, um. Let you get back to it.”

You followed her to the door, heart pounding.

“Text me,” she said, too quiet.

“I will.”

“You promise?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

She glanced past you one more time—at Johnny, who hadn’t moved.

Who hadn’t blinked.

Then she stepped into the hallway.

And suddenly Johnny was there, closing the door behind her.

Locked it.

Turned to you slowly.

You were already backing up when he said, “Three minutes.”

You swallowed.

“I gave you three whole fuckin’ minutes to pretend.”

You frowned.

Not the kind of expression Johnny liked to see.

It wasn’t bratty. It wasn’t scared. It was confused.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you said quietly. “I meant it. I don’t know why she didn’t believe me.”

Johnny’s eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened — like your confusion was an insult. Like it made him angry that you couldn’t see what he saw.

“You think that makes it better?”

You opened your mouth.

He was already dragging you by the wrist.

Down the hall. Into the bedroom. You didn’t fight him — but your chest was tight, breath shaky, not from fear exactly, but from not understanding.

You didn’t want to leave.

So why did she look at you like you were a victim?

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

His hand was already in your hair, pushing you down onto the bed.

“You wanna act like you’re mine?” he growled, voice rough and ragged as he yanked your panties down. “Then you take it like mine. Don’t pout like some kicked puppy.”

You gasped when his fingers came down hard — not soft, not teasing, but mean.

A hard pinch to your clit that made you jerk, whimper.

“No—Johnny—!”

He didn’t stop.

He rolled the sensitive nub between two fingers, cruel and tight. “She looked at me like I fuckin’ chained you to the radiator,” he spat. “And you looked at her like you were confused. Like you missed her.”

“I didn’t—! I swear—!”

Another pinch. A twist. Your thighs shook.

“Then prove it. Say who you belong to.”

“You, Johnny—!”

“Say who's this is.”

He slapped your inner thigh. Another tug. You sobbed.

“Yours! It’s yours!”

He spread you open, spit on you, fingers coming down again — quick, sharp flicks to your clit that made your back arch and tears spring to your eyes. Over and over. Burning. Overloading.

“Too much—Johnny, please—!”

He didn’t stop.

“I need you,” you cried. “I love you—!”

That made him pause.

Just a second.

His hand still between your legs. Breathing hard.

He leaned down, mouth at your ear, voice like gravel and heat.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Say it while I break you.”

He slid two fingers inside you while the other hand tormented your clit again. Fast. Ruthless. Overstimulating. Your body jolting under him, every nerve on fire.

You were sobbing when you came — a raw, cracked sound that didn’t sound like a word.

And still, he didn’t let up.

“I said again.”

“I—I love you—!”

His lips pressed to your temple, soft and strange in contrast to the way he worked you over.

You’d never felt more owned.

More kept.

More honest.

You didn’t remember when the pain stopped.

Just the warmth.

The slow drag of a wet cloth between your legs, gentle. Careful. His touch finally light, reverent almost, as he cleaned you up.

Your breath came in tiny shivers. Brain fogged. Muscles loose. Eyes barely open.

You didn’t think you could move even if you wanted to.

Johnny sat beside you on the edge of the bed, tucking a blanket around your thighs. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing sweat-matted hair away from your face.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice like honey, like a balm. “Took it so well, didn’t you?”

Your lips parted. You leaned into the touch without thinking. Nodded slowly, cheek pressing into his palm.

“Mhm…”

He chuckled low in his chest. “All that crying. All that noise. But you needed it, didn’t you?”

You blinked up at him, eyes unfocused. “Needed you.”

His smile was soft. But his words weren’t.

“Needed me to remind you what a needy little thing you are. Can’t think without me, yeah?”

You nodded again, dreamily.

“Can’t keep yourself clean. Can’t cum right without bein’ slapped stupid. You like that, don’t you? Like bein’ put in your place.”

Something in you fluttered.

Not fear.

Not shame.

Something… warm.

You let out a tiny whimper and nuzzled closer. His hand stroked down your arm, your side, his palm settling on your hip.

“You’re precious like this,” he cooed. “All broken open. Mind quiet. Good for nothin’ but takin’ what I give you.”

You didn’t notice the words. Not really.

Just the tone.

You melted into it, clinging to every soft edge.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what, sweetheart?” he asked, all mock-surprise.

“For… for taking care of me.”

His smile grew — sharp and full of teeth.

“Always, pet. I’ll take real good care of you.”

And you believed him.

Even if your body ached.

Even if your heart did, too.

Because it was the first time he ever held you after.

And somehow, that made everything feel like love.

You woke before the alarm.

Eyes open, lashes heavy. The ache between your legs bloomed the second you shifted — sore, stretched, raw in places only he ever touched.

But you didn’t wince.

You smiled.

It wasn’t happiness. Not quite.

It was clarity.

You knew what to do.

You slipped from under the blankets quietly, careful not to wake him. Johnny’s arm twitched on the mattress beside you, his breath steady, deep. You paused for a second to look at him — the scar on his temple, the mess of his hair, the muscles beneath the sheet — then you padded barefoot to the kitchen.

He liked things clean.

Precise.

So you followed the recipe exactly.

One egg, over medium. Two slices of toast, not buttered — drizzled with olive oil. Tomatoes pan-seared in the same pan until blistered. A single slice of bacon. Never two. He didn’t like “greedy portions.”

You ate standing at the counter.

Half a piece of toast. No toppings. One tomato. Water, not juice. You didn’t need the same kind of food he did. You’d earned different things.

He made sure of that.

You had it all plated by the time you heard him rise.

The door creaked open behind you. His footsteps slow. Heavy.

You turned, plate already in hand.

“Good morning,” you said softly.

He blinked.

Took in the food. The spotless counters. You — wearing what he liked, the little pale robe he’d picked out and told you not to cover up.

He sat down without a word.

You placed the plate in front of him. Napkin. Cutlery. Perfect.

You didn’t sit.

You stood by the side of the table, hands clasped in front of you, watching him take his first bite.

His brow lifted, just a little.

“You remember the oil.”

“I remember everything.”

A beat.

His tongue dragged across his bottom lip. He chewed slowly. Swallowed.

Then he looked up at you.

“You always this obedient when you’re sore?”

You nodded once, eyes low.

“I want to be good.”

A pause.

“You’re getting there,” he murmured.

And for the first time, he offered something: a piece of tomato, speared on the edge of his fork, held out like a prize.

You leaned in. Took it from his hand.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Smiled.

It started that evening.

You were folding laundry, his shirts crisp and lined up in perfect little rows on the bed, when he came up behind you — wrapped an arm around your waist and spoke against your ear.

“Y’know, pet,” he murmured, “You’ve been so good, I think it’s time we make it official.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

By morning, your days had rules.

Rituals.

A quiet set of commandments written in Johnny’s voice, carved into your brain like a holy text.

Wake before six. You wore only what he picked the night before — laid out at the foot of the bed like a uniform. Something sheer. Something short. Something soft.

Breakfast made and served by six-thirty. He’d eat first. You only ate what he allowed after he was done — his leftovers, sometimes. A single egg. A bite of bacon. Your hunger became a test.

Clean the flat, every corner. But not robotically — lovingly. He wanted to see effort. Pride. Gratitude.

Midday check-in. If he wasn't at the flat, he expected a photo. A voice message. Something that proved you were home, obedient, still his.

Workout by four. The routine he picked. Push-ups. Squats. You counted out loud, breathy and strained. If you missed a rep, he’d make you start again. Shirtless. On video.

Dinner by six-thirty. The same care, the same portions. If he liked it, you got a kiss. If not, the plate went in the bin and you didn’t eat.

Kneel by eight. Naked. Waiting for him in the living room like clockwork. Quiet. Ready.

Every minute accounted for.

Every moment designed to mold you tighter to his shape.

You didn’t fight it.

You thrived under it.

It felt safe.

Structure. Purpose. Proof.

By the end of the week, you weren’t checking the rules anymore — they lived in your spine.

You’d say, “Did I do good, Johnny?”

And he’d smile.

Run his thumb along your jaw.

“You’re gettin’ perfect, pet.”

And that meant everything.

You didn’t expect a reward.

You never asked for them.

You just… wanted him to be proud.

So when Johnny came home and saw the floor scrubbed spotless, the candles lit just the way he liked, and you—kneeling by the bed in the soft lace slip he’d mentioned was his favorite once in passing—he stopped in the doorway and stared.

Eyes heavy. Breathing slow.

“Christ, pet.”

You looked up at him. Glowing.

“I just… wanted to show you,” you whispered. “That I’m yours.”

His expression shifted. Not a smile. Something darker. Deeper.

“You’ve been more than mine.”

He stepped closer.

“You’ve been perfect.”

You felt your heart flutter. Hips rocking instinctively where you knelt. “I want to be.”

He pulled you to your feet—no resistance—and pressed you to the bed, soft and slow, like you were made of glass.

Not like punishment.

Not like the cruel claiming he gave you when you disobeyed.

This was different.

He kissed you.

Really kissed you.

And when he pulled back, he whispered, “Think you’ve earned something special tonight.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Special?”

He tugged his belt loose. Dropped it beside the mattress. Pulled his boxers down with his pants—bare. Hard.

“No rubber.”

Your breath caught.

Your thighs twitched.

He smirked when he saw the way your pupils blew wide.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes.”

He ran his hand over your lower belly. Pressed down, just a little.

“You’re ready to carry me, yeah?”

Your breath stuttered.

You weren’t sure if he meant emotionally. Physically.

But the thought made your spine melt.

You nodded.

“Please.”

His hand cupped your face.

“Good girl.”

He pushed inside slow—and raw.

No barrier.

No filter.

Just skin to skin.

And it was different.

Hotter. Deeper. More final.

You gasped, gripping at his shoulders, your body already trembling around him.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s me. Givin’ you everything.”

You whimpered.

“I trust you,” you said again, tears pricking your lashes.

And he smiled.

But it wasn’t soft.

It was triumphant.

“Then take it all,” he growled. “Take every fuckin’ drop. You're gonna look so pretty stuffed full of me.”

You didn’t say no.

You couldn’t.

You only wrapped your legs around him tighter.

Because if this was love—

You wanted to drown in it.

It started small.

You didn’t even realize it, at first.

Your usual breakfast—the half piece of toast, maybe an egg—made your stomach churn. The smell of bacon had you pressing a fist to your mouth and bolting to the sink.

Johnny caught you that morning, bent over, trembling.

He just rubbed your back, quiet. Didn’t tease you. Didn’t scold.

And for once—he let you eat more.

He didn’t say why.

Just served you bland rice and banana slices, set the plate on your lap, and said, “Eat up, pet. You need it.”

You blinked at him.

“You're… letting me?”

He knelt beside you, ran his hand over your belly like it was something his.

“Not letting you,” he murmured. “Telling you.”

The next few weeks passed in a haze of nausea, cravings, and fatigue.

Your thighs grew softer. Your face a little rounder.

You dropped the laundry once—dizzy—and he didn’t snap.

Didn’t punish you.

He just carried you to the bed, tucked you in, whispered, “That’s alright, bonnie. You’re doin’ so well.”

Then you missed your period.

Once.

Twice.

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

Some part of you knew.

And you weren’t ready to know.

But he was.

Johnny came home with a bag from the pharmacy one evening, placed it on the bathroom counter like it was a gift.

“Go on,” he said, voice gentle, but not optional.

You stared at the box. Pregnant. Not pregnant.

Two lines.

One.

You touched the plastic with trembling fingers. “Johnny…”

“You’ve been feelin’ different, yeah?” he murmured, stepping behind you, his hand sliding over your stomach from behind. “Tired. Nauseous.”

You didn’t answer.

He kissed your neck, slow and firm.

“S’not just you anymore, pet. You’re carryin’ me now.”

You let out a soft, broken sound.

“I—if I am, I—”

“You will be.” His voice went low. Serious. “Took you raw. Filled you up like you’re meant to be filled.”

You looked in the mirror.

His arms wrapped around your waist. His chin on your shoulder. His hands over your belly.

You didn’t see yourself anymore.

You just saw his.

[writeriguess]

Do you write for Shoto? Because I got the best idea for him after seeing you want more Dabi fics and this relates to Dabi too!

Soooo can you write a fic where Shoto takes it really hard when Dabi reveals his identity (even when he doesn't show it) and reader, who's his girlfriend, comforts him. Shoto asks her if she thinks Touya is still in there and it's just major angst. Thank you!

Ashes Between Us

The name hit him like a physical blow—Touya Todoroki. A ghost from a forgotten past, a brother he barely remembered, a shadow he never truly faced. Shoto stood motionless, the world dissolving into static and silence around him as the broadcast cut through the chaos of battle. Dabi’s cold voice echoed in every corner of Japan, and in that voice was the unbearable truth: Touya was alive. Not the sweet, quiet boy from his fractured memories, but a broken man consumed by fire and pain.

Shoto’s chest tightened painfully. It wasn’t just shock or fear. It was something heavier—grief, guilt, confusion, and a deep, gnawing ache that had nothing to do with the flames burning his brother’s skin. He had been so young when Touya was declared dead, so distant from his family in those early years, locked away in endless training under Endeavor’s demanding gaze. Memories of Touya were faint, like a half-remembered dream—an image of a pale boy with dark eyes, the rare moments they crossed paths swallowed quickly by the pressures and silences between them.

And now, that boy was gone.

He was Dabi.

Later, when the noise of the world faded and the sterile quiet of the medical wing surrounded them, Shoto sat by the window, staring at the rain blurring the city lights. You found him there, pale and rigid, a storm barely held at bay behind his eyes.

“Shoto,” you said softly, settling beside him without a word.

He didn’t answer at first, just kept watching the rain slide down the glass, tracing invisible paths like the broken fragments of his own memories. Finally, his voice cracked the silence.

“Do you think Touya is still inside Dabi?” he whispered, barely audible, but filled with desperate need. “Or… is he gone? Buried beneath all that hatred and fire?”

You took his hand gently, squeezing it. “I think there’s still a part of him in there. Some part worth saving.”

He looked at you then, eyes shimmering with the weight of years no one else saw. “I barely remember him. I was too young when he died—or so I thought. Father locked me away in training. We never saw each other, not really. Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew him at all.”

The ache in his voice was raw. “And now… knowing that he’s become this… this monster… it’s like losing him all over again.”

You swallowed hard, wanting to reach across that distance inside him. “It’s okay to be scared. To be angry or sad. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Shoto’s jaw tightened. “I’m scared. Scared that if I hadn’t learned to control my emotions, if I’d been left to rot the way Touya was, I’d be him. That I’d be nothing more than a broken tool for Father’s ambition.”

His gaze fell to his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m already lost. If this darkness inside me is just waiting to burn through.”

You shook your head gently, your voice firm and steady. “You’re not Touya. You’re not defined by what Father did to you, or by what your brother became. You’re Shoto. You’re stronger than this pain.”

His lips quivered, the walls crumbling for the first time. “I wanted to hate him, you know? To hate what he’s done… but I can’t. Part of me… just wants to find the boy he was. The boy I barely knew. I want to believe he’s still in there, somewhere beneath all the anger and scars.”

You moved closer, your fingers tracing a comforting line along his arm. “Then hold onto that hope. I’m here. And I won’t let you fall into the darkness alone.”

Shoto’s breath hitched, a tear slipping free despite his best effort. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “For holding me when I don’t know how to stand.”

You pulled him into your arms, feeling the tremors of his broken heart against your chest. “We’ll face this together. Every fire can be fought, and every scar can be healed. Not because it’s easy, but because you don’t have to do it alone.”

He rested his forehead against yours, the storm inside slowly yielding to the quiet strength between you.

“I’m afraid,” he confessed, voice raw and honest. “Afraid of what he’s become. Afraid of what I might be if I’m not careful.”

“Then let that fear remind you to hold on tighter,” you whispered. “To fight harder. Because you’re not Touya, and you’re not Dabi. You’re Shoto Todoroki. And I love you.”

For the first time since the world fell apart, Shoto let himself believe in a future where pain could be shared, where hope could live even after the darkest fire.

[bumblehoneybee]

I’ve always had the idea that the Player character has gained a tremendous amount of guilt since coming back to the factory. They technically never did anything wrong, not to the toys nor their co-workers, but after learning about all the experiments that were happening while they were blissfully unaware they can’t help but feel terrible.

And I can only imagine how bad that kind of survivor’s guilt would become after learning about the Hour of Joy and what happened to their co-workers and friends.

So, if you’re willing, so you think we could have Dogday hearing player admit that they believe they should’ve been there with their co-workers during the Hour of Joy, heavily implying that they believe they should’ve died too?

Why Me? Why Not You?

Dogday didn’t want you to see it, the Hour of Joy. Poppy felt you deserved the truth of what happened to your coworkers, people you cared about, and while Dogday agreed you deserved all the answers you desired, he didn’t want this. He didn’t want you to see the people you cared for being ripped limb from limb, gorged upon by ferocious toys that you now knew were just people, hurting people lost to the torture of their new nature.

You deserved to know, but couldn’t he save you from the pain of seeing the massacre?

Dogday kept close as you watched the tape play out. It didn’t take long for your body to start trembling. You backed into his chest, breathing shaky, but eyes wide and attentive.

You watched, and afterwards you were not the same.

Silly, meaningless conversations tapered off. You tried to smile, tried to appear normal, but you weren’t normal anymore. The video changed you, or some realization you made did. Dogday wanted to dig out that piece, put you back together, to how you were, ignorant and okay, but he couldn’t.

Just how he couldn’t deny you knowing the truth of it all.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to help fix whatever broken within you.

“You know, I was sick that day.” You said into the darkness, not quite night, but the time you’d chosen to rest. Dogday shifted against your side, curling closer to hear your quiet voice. “I didn’t call in, though. Just. . . couldn’t find the energy to.”

Dogday remained quiet. It was something he wondered, but where were you going with this?

“I wasn’t even that sick.” You continued. Your eyes met, but you looked away, as though ashamed. “Just. . . lazy, I guess. I could’ve come in. I wasn’t contagious.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Dogday said.

“I wish I had.” You whispered back. Dogday stiffened immediately. “I can see them, sometimes. When I close my eyes, I can see them. They’re gone, they’re dead. I was supposed to die with them.”

“No, you weren’t.” Dogday gruffed, pressing his head into your back. He didn’t like this, not at all. “You are alive. And I’m so grateful.”

“But why me?” You asked the air.

“Why not you?” Dogday replied. “You are kind, and you have saved us. You will save us. Believe in fate, or don’t, but I will praise whoever above that you were spared.” You turned some, so Dogday placed his head in your lap. “I wish more could’ve been saved. But there is nothing we can do anymore. We can only move forward.”

You said nothing. Dogday felt the doubt you still carried low in your gut, twisting around like a parasite within. He couldn’t bite it out, but he could press his nose to your tummy. He could let your hands glide through his fur, let you find comfort in his presence.

How lucky he was to have you, to have been saved by you. He’d convince you, one day. You both had plenty of time, once you were free. And he’d happily spend it all telling you what a blessing you were.

You were his angel, after all.