#like there has to be something better than what to expect when you're expecting

[caseuoiseau]

Please allow me to jump in with a 4th point, because I learned a lot of different fiber arts and craft stuff as a kid, and when you're a kid you tend not to care as much about your lumpy first project because every first thing you've ever done to date has been lumpy, and you tend to lack a general idea of what failure is and focus on the "Yey-I-did-it!"

But the first craft I tried as an adult was spinning, which had the triple threat horrors of being:

a) ...thoroughly unlike any other fiber craft I had ever done, despite being integral to each one (sewing, knitting, crochet--all require fiber to be spun before anything else can be done).

b) ...the first skill I had to pay my own hard-earned, fresh-out-of-college pennies to learn, and

c) ...another one of those things like playing guitar where everyone else before me had decided that the difficult part to be managed by your dominant hand was actually the complete opposite of what I thought.

So my one or two private lessons didn't amount to anything remotely usable, until a few years later when some big-name blogger started posting her spinning. And I got pissed off because I took one look at it and I thought to myself "That's barely better than mine was, and she's getting all these accolades from her followers??? I bet I could spin yarn like that with my shitty wooden-toy-wheel spindle." And man oh man didni sit down and spin.

Now, I didn't start writing this story to tell you that Spite Will Fuel You To Perfection, so don't get ahead of me. Because my fiber had been compacted over the years and I was over-twisting it and I didn't technically understand that "single ply" doesn't actually work with handspun, and I wound up making some pretty wretched curly rope. Totally unusable. But it was the age of LJ, and I nevertheless showed my craft friends my awful attempt so they could have a good laugh at it, and that's where I got the actual best advice I've received as an adult learning a craft.

My friends who spin simply told me to save it. Hold on to that yarn-that's-barely-yarn, put it in a drawer somewhere and just...check in on it from time to time. Because every time you spin, you get a little bit better at it, and it really, really helps soothe your mind to take a look at that first project when you think you haven't improved.

And my next yarn--arguably a bulky two-ply from some high-micron Shetland, still iloverspun and the texture of rope, but definitely more yarnlike. The next was a very uneven two-ply made by plying merino pencil roving back on itself. Overspun in places, but much more reasonable as handspun--if I'd told someone it was supposed to look like that with a sufficiently confident tone, they would have bought it. That was the first handspum that actually became something:

A little tea cozy that I had to alter pretty spectacularly, since I had only spun about 90 yards out of the 50g I had.

And so it goes, each project getting a little bit better than the last, and noticeably better than the first. I either threw out that yarn or I have it packed away in the attic somewhere, but I used to bring that out at the end of my first night of the drop spindle basics class I used to teach. This is what I made first. These are the next three skeins I made. And here's my most recent.

It's a hell of a way to get people to think more fondly about the kitchen twine they think they've been fighting with for the last two hours.

So, to end with the advice I used to give my first-time knitting class: this isn't like being at work. You aren't expected to be an expert in something you learned 5 minutes ago. You have my permission to suck at this.

I hope all new fiber artists know that the "slightly misshapen" object they made that they're stressed about not looking good:

1. Happens to every fiber artist always, you're too zoomed in to its every detail because you're the one who made it and most people would think it looks normal, or at least much less misshapen than you do, stand 20ft away from it and look at it and then see how you feel (true about all art tbh)

2. Gets better and more uniform each time you do anything

and the *very most important*:

3. Can be made Significantly Less Misshapen by just grabbing the fabric and stretching it in a few directions

I keep helping new fiber artists who are like "but my thing looks so bad :(((" by like, taking their object and stretching it sideways and horizontal, and handing it back, and they're like "????? Magic?????" bc it looks perfect.

Trust the process. Trust the stretchy process

[marksbear2]

Hiiii, bear!!! If you're still taking requests, could a request a homelander x male!reader fic where homelander is sort of a little desperate for readers approval because hw hasn't gotten a lot of positive attention in his life? And if it's still open, could I be '🪼 anon', please?

Homelander x male reader

Hiii and yes you may my friend. This has to be like a world record for me to be writing and posting a request in the same day.

Beneath the Cape

The first time you met Homelander, you hadn’t expected much.

Not because he wasn’t impressive—he was. Towering, broad-shouldered, the very image of America’s strongest hero. But you knew his reputation, the whispers beneath the carefully crafted PR. Dangerous. Unstable. Capable of wiping out a city if the mood struck him.

And yet, when you spoke to him, you saw something else. Something beneath the mask.

It had been a brief encounter. A charity event, one of those nauseatingly polished affairs where Vought paraded their golden boy around like a prize horse. You’d been there as part of your company’s sponsorship, nothing special. Just another name on a list.

But then he walked by, and you—unlike everyone else—didn’t grovel. Didn’t flinch. You just… smiled. A simple thing, a polite acknowledgment, nothing more.

And for a second, just a second, Homelander froze.

Then his expression shifted, something unreadable flickering across his face. He gave you a nod, an almost hesitant one, before moving on.

You thought nothing of it.

He, however, couldn’t stop thinking about it. Homelander started noticing you more after that.

It wasn’t immediate, but it was persistent. Every time he passed through a room, his gaze would linger on you a little longer. At first, it was just curiosity. Why hadn’t you looked at him the way everyone else did? With fear. With worship.

Instead, you were… normal. You treated him like a person, not a god.

And for the first time in his life, that felt more intoxicating than any amount of adoration. So he sought you out. First, by coincidence. Then, with more intention. He made excuses to be near you, dropping by your office under the pretense of business, stopping to chat when he saw you at events. He wanted—needed—to know why you were different.

And every time you spoke to him, it was like a breath of fresh air. No false praise. No trembling admiration. Just simple, casual conversation. You didn’t hesitate to crack a joke, to roll your eyes at corporate nonsense, to treat him like—well, like a regular guy.

He couldn’t get enough of it.

Of you.

At first, you chalked up his frequent appearances to coincidence. But then it became too frequent. Too deliberate.

Homelander always seemed to be around. Finding excuses to talk. Standing just a little too close. And then there were the looks. The way he watched you—not with the cold, calculated gaze he gave most people, but something softer. Almost needy.

It was subtle at first, the way his eyes followed you, the way his expression shifted when you laughed at something he said. But then there were the moments when he lingered after conversations, as if reluctant to leave.

And one night, after another one of those tedious events, you finally called him out on it.

“Alright,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the balcony railing. “What’s your deal?”

Homelander blinked, tilting his head. “My deal?”

“You keep showing up around me. Hanging around like a lost puppy.” You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

There it was again—that flicker of something behind his eyes.

“Would you rather I leave?” His voice was casual, but you caught the undercurrent beneath it. The uncertainty. The smallest, quietest thread of insecurity, woven into the carefully controlled mask.

You exhaled. “I didn’t say that.”

His expression shifted, something relieved, something satisfied. “Good,” he murmured, stepping closer. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, something crisp and clean beneath the fabric of his suit.

And then he smiled, not the perfect, PR-ready grin he always wore for the cameras, but something real.

Something just for you.

From then on, it was impossible to ignore.

Homelander wanted your attention. Craved it. And he wasn’t subtle about it.

He’d show up at your office unannounced, making himself comfortable in your chair like he belonged there. He’d hover during conversations, subtly guiding them back to himself, clearly wanting to hear what you thought of him.

And, God help you, he was charming when he wanted to be. Infuriatingly so.

“You like me, don’t you?” he mused one evening, seated across from you in your apartment—because, yes, he had started showing up there too, somehow always knowing when you were home.

You scoffed. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You’re nice to me.”

You frowned. “And?”

“No one’s ever nice to me.”

Something in his voice made you pause.

It was an admission, plain and simple, but there was something raw beneath it. Something vulnerable.

He covered it quickly, pasting on a smirk. “Well, not without wanting something in return.”

You sighed. “Maybe I’m just nice.”

He studied you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Maybe that’s why I like you.”

Your stomach twisted.

Not out of fear. Not out of discomfort. But something deeper.

Something dangerous.

Because the way he looked at you—the way he wanted you—wasn’t just some passing fascination.

It was need.

And you weren’t sure you could ignore it much longer.

---

It escalated from there.

Not in the way you expected. He didn’t push. Didn’t demand.

He just… stayed.

In your life. In your space. Always there, always watching, always waiting for whatever little scraps of attention you’d give him. And God, when you did?

It was like he came alive.

A simple touch—your hand brushing his arm—made his breath hitch. A kind word had him lingering on it for days.

You realized, then, just how little warmth he’d ever been given.

And how much he wanted it from you.

One night, after a long conversation over drinks, he sighed, tilting his head toward you. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“How much I need this.” His voice was softer than usual. “How much I need you.”

Your chest tightened.

And when he leaned in, when his lips hovered just a breath away from yours, you realized something.

You needed him too.

THE END

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Real Man"

Older Au Chapter 3.

THIS IS A MATURE STORY. IT HAS SOME SEXUAL SENCES, IF YOU DONT LIKE DON'T READ. Ok yall ik i said i was gonna post this last night but i hated it so i rewrote it! if it sucks don't say anything pls. sorry if it's repetitive, lmk whose team ur on!!! And what you want to happen next. comments, reblogs, likes and kind asks are always appreciated. If this one random anon keeps sending theses crazy things, i'll have to remove anon asks, which I dont want to do. I love my anons, so pls be nice. Send in asks, I miss yall, I've been sooooo busy with school lately and I havent had time to get on here. THIS IS MY 1ST TIME WRITNG ANYTHING LIKE THIS SO LMK HOW IT ISSSSS

WHY AM I GETTING THE FEWLINF EVERYONE HATES THIS??? IM ABT TO DELEYEB TS NGL 😭

Six months had passed since that night—the night you let Slade’s words sink into your skin like venom and made the choice that changed everything. For better and worse.

You hadn't accepted his offer easily. Not after what happened with Two-Face. That betrayal still sat in your chest like a dull ache, a constant reminder of how easily people could take what they wanted and leave you with nothing. You had sworn not to trust so easily again, not to let yourself fall into another cycle of being used and discarded. So when Slade made his offer, you hesitated.

"You're smarter than this," you had told yourself that night. "You know what happens when you trust the wrong person. You know what men like him want."

And yet, here you were. Living in his world.

Not as a prisoner, not as a puppet, but as something more. The lines were blurred, shifting with every glance, every order he gave that you didn’t question, every moment that stretched too long in the dim glow of your shared space. Because that’s what it was now, shared.

The apartment Slade had set up was far from a safe house. It was huge and spacious, Slade wasn't a cheap man. It felt lived in. Your things mingled with his, your scent lingering in the air. You bought vases and filled them with flowers, you organized the kitchen and bought him real groceries, not just canned food. You hung pictures you developed of you and him. Ones he didn't know you took. You roped him into painting your room a baby blue, a color he swore he hated, yet he still slept in your room every night. It was comical to see such a large man laying in a pastel colored room on your floral bedsheets, the last man you let into your bed was equally large. But we don't talk about him.

Slade cared for you deeply, or at least tolerated you. At first you were always at each others throats, each person throwing a more cutting remark than the other. When your arguements got so bad that you began to ignore him, he brought home women, made sure he heard them moaning through the walls till you snapped and began screaming.

You hated Slade Wilson

But after the first month things began to change, Slade never said anything about it, but you caught the way his eyes would darken when he returned from a mission, his gaze sweeping over you like he needed to confirm you were still here. Like he expected you to disappear.

You leaned against the counter, watching him from the corner of your eye as he cleaned his weapons. The rhythmic motion of his hands, the way he handled each blade with the kind of care most reserved for something fragile, it was almost mesmerizing. Everything he does is.

“You’re staring,” he said, not looking up. God, he's so smug.

You scoffed. "No, you are. I don't stare at creepy old men. In fact, it's usually the opposite."

His lips curled into that knowing smirk, the one that made something tighten in your chest. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

The nickname used to irritate you. Now, you weren’t sure what it did. All you knew was that it made your heart race the way only one person had before. He used to call you sweetheart too.

Slade’s presence in your life was suffocating, an unshakable force that wrapped itself around you, squeezing tighter with every passing day. He was cruel in the way he trained you, brutal in his expectations. If you failed, he had no patience for it. Slade trained you for greatness and he wouldn't tolerate anything less.

“You call that a punch?” he sneered one evening in your early days of training, after you had barely managed to land a hit on him. “Pathetic. I’ve seen senior citizens put up more of a fight,"

Gritting your teeth, you launched at him again, only for him to sidestep effortlessly. A sharp pain bloomed across your ribs as he shoved you down, hard. The thing that you loved and hated most about Slade was that he treated you like an equal. He didn't see you as his younger, fragile, kind-of girlfriend; he saw you as an equal opponent.

“You hesitated,” he said, standing over you. “That hesitation will get you killed.”

You spat blood onto the mat and glared up at him. “Or maybe I just don’t care if I live or die. Nothing is ever really this serious.”

Something flickered in his eye, dark and unreadable, before he crouched beside you. His fingers dug into your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. He didn't understand your humor sometimes, considering he's old enough to be your father.

“Oh, but you do, you want to survive. To be great, ” he murmured, voice dangerously soft. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

He let go of you with a sharp shove and stood. “Get up. We’re not done.”

The tension between you both had only grown over the months. Slade had a way of pressing in, invading your space without ever needing to touch you. Sure you guys fucked almost twice, sometimes three times a week, but there was that small sliver of confusion and hesitation.

Sure, he slept in your bed ever night now, called it "our room," and sure you stayed up waiting when his missions would take too long. Yeah, you would run and jump into his open arms, feeling nothing but content as he kissed your forehead and took you to the bed, it's normal that ya'll didn't even have sex some nights, that you just cuddled.

Sometimes, you swore he was waiting, waiting for you to be the one to close that final inch between you. But you never did. You couldn't bring yourself to do it.

Instead, you fell into a rhythm. Training. Fighting. Learning with him and laughing with him. He pushed you harder than anyone ever had, demanding perfection, never letting you slip back into old habits. He didn’t coddle you like they did. He didn’t pretend you were something delicate. He made you strong.

Most nights, after an exhausting day of training, you would sit on the brown leather couch cuddled up to him with your head on his chest and his arms around you, the dim glow of the television flickering between you. Slade wasn’t much for small talk, you talked enough for the both of you, but the silence between you felt... comfortable, almost warm

“Why did you take me in?” you had asked once, voice barely above a whisper.

He had taken a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. “Because I saw something in you,” he finally answered. “Potential. Something you’re too afraid to admit to yourself.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, you wondered if there was truth in his words. You liked that he believed in you, no one had done that before.

Then there were the other moments. The ones that made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge. The way he stood too close when showing you how to hold a blade properly, his breath warm against your skin. The way his hands lingered too long when correcting your stance. The way his gaze dropped to your lips before he forced himself to look away.

Neither of you ever acknowledged it. You weren’t sure if you wanted to. It's completely normal for your teacher/mentor/enemy to sleep in the same bed as you every night. It'd be weird if you didn't make breakfast and dinner for the two of you. It'd be weird if you didn't know his favorite foods and if he didn't know how to braid your hair. It'd be even weirder if he didn't make you coffee exactly how you like it and help you put away the dishes.

Slade had become an inescapable presence, his control over you extending far beyond training. He knew where you were at all times, had a way of appearing when you least expected it, his eyes always sharp, always knowing. Some nights, when you tried to slip out for air, you’d find him already outside, leaning against a wall as if he’d been waiting for you. He let you do what you wanted, think you were free, but he was always watching you.

If you were singing at a bar, you could count on him to be in the crowd. If you met with Selina at a restaurant you could count on him to drive you home. Slade was always there. Selina thought it was strange, you took comfort in it.

“You really think you can go anywhere without me knowing?” he had mused once, a shadow of amusement in his voice.

It should have bothered you. Maybe it did. But part of you had started to crave it, the way he made you feel like you belonged to him, even if neither of you would ever admit it.

Slade had been… watchful lately. More than usual. He came back late from missions, missions he didn't let you come to, sometimes with a tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before. He was hesitant to let you go and preform at bars, sometimes convincing you to just play the songs on your guitar in the living room and run your fingers through his hair as you both laid on the couch.

There were the calls—brief, coded. You were offended, Slade told you almost everything these days but somehow no amount of sweet talk and bedroom eyes could get him to budge this time. And then there were the other things. The subtle shifts in the city’s underworld. More movement in Gotham than usual. The quiet whispers of old ghosts stirring, names you hadn’t spoken in almost a year.

Dick. Jason. Tim. Damian. Bruce.

You saw it in the way certain streets had too many eyes. As if waiting. As if listening.

And then there was the whisper of something else. Something darker, something clawing at the edge of your awareness. A name that had once sent a thrill through you, now only bringing unease and resentment.

Harvey Dent.

A name you hadn’t spoken in months, yet it clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t shake. A man you couldn't bare to even think of. A drink left for you at a bar you hadn't performed at in weeks, a coat draped over the back of a chair that looked too familiar.

Slade noticed before you did. “You’ve got a ghost,” he murmured one evening, the flicker of a knife between his fingers. “One that doesn’t know how to stay buried.”

You didn’t ask him what he meant. You didn’t have to. You already knew. You just didn't know why. Had he finally seen through Tiffany, now that it was too late?

At first, you didn’t question it. Slade had always been territorial—watchful, overbearing when he wanted to be. He had a way of controlling things without seeming like he was. That was how he worked.

So when you first noticed the shifts, you didn’t react. Your schedule changed, but not because you changed it.

You used to go out when you wanted. Walk the streets when they were quiet, feel the Gotham night press against your skin, the air cold and sharp. Not anymore.

Things began to change this week. Now, every time you thought about leaving, something stopped you.

The fridge was always stocked, eliminating any reason to step outside. Your favorite food. Your favorite drinks. Little things appeared when you needed them; new clothes, supplies, anything that might have made you leave for even a moment. Things you mentioned only in passing, like the new lipstick you wanted or a pair of vintage heels or a new bag.

If you reached for your coat, Slade would speak before you even touched the door. Asking where you were going, trying to be casual.

It was never a command. Never outright control. But the implication was there. And every time you hesitated, he won. If you needed to leave or just wanted to go out, he would come with; a silent yet protective figure always in the shadows.

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that should have been peaceful but wasn’t. The apartment smelled like old wood and gun oil, the faintest trace of smoke lingering from Slade’s cigar earlier. You had just stepped out of the shower, skin still warm from the heat, hair damp as you walked barefoot across the floor in your towel.

Your hand brushed against the pretty golden door knob absentmindedly.

And then you froze. Something was different.

Your fingers curled around the lock, tracing over the new ridges, the reinforced structure. The weight of it felt wrong.

It wasn’t your lock. Not the cute one you insisted on buying at the antique shop that Slade hated. It didn't match the walls.

Your stomach twisted. You turned slowly, your damp hair clinging to your skin as your mind raced. This wasn’t an accident. You hadn’t imagined it. Slade had changed the locks. The thought sent something icy down your spine. Alarm bells blared in your mind.

You tried to shake it off, tried to tell yourself it was nothing. Maybe it was security. Maybe he just wanted better protection.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t it. Because he didn’t tell you. Because Slade never did anything without a purpose. Because Slade Wilson didn't need a lock to keep people out. And because you hadn’t noticed until now. You took a slow, steady breath and turned toward the living room.

Slade was there, like always, seated in his usual chair by the window, sharpening a knife. The sound of steel against whetstone was rhythmic, deliberate. His posture was relaxed, but you weren’t fooled. His fingers were too steady, his shoulders just a little too still.

He was waiting. Watching. Like he had already predicted this moment, like he was ready for an argeument. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, heart pounding too fast, not caring if you were in a towel.

"Planning on keeping me in a cage?" you muttered.

Slade didn’t pause. Didn’t even look up. “Planning on keeping you alive.” The words were so smooth, so easy, that your stomach turned.

Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t hiding it. He wasn't denying it. Not anymore. This wasn’t a mistake. This was intentional.

You forced a laugh, though it felt hollow in your throat. “Right. Because I’m just so incapable of keeping myself safe. Even after all the training we've done. Even with my literal super-human abilities.”

Slade finally looked up. His eye locked onto yours.

There was no humor in his gaze. No smirk, like he usually had on while teasing. Just that slow, assessing stare that made your pulse stutter.

"If I thought you were capable of that," he murmured, voice quiet, too quiet, "we wouldn’t be having this conversation."

Your chest tightened. Because the way he said it sent something sinking into the pit of your stomach. This wasn’t just about protecting you. This was about making sure you never left.

Two days later, you decided to test it. Just to see what would happen. Slade had stepped out—or so he wanted you to believe. The moment you heard the door shut behind him, you moved.

Your fingers curled around the knob.

Turned it— but a large, scared hand beat you two it

"Going somewhere?"

Your entire body locked up. You gulped and licked your suddenly dry lips, he had you cornered with one hand on the knob and the other caging you in as he towered over you. His voice was smooth, calm—too calm. You turned slowly, pulse thrumming in your throat. Slade stood right behind you.

The door was still closed.

Your heart stuttered. You hadn’t heard him come back. Hadn’t even realized he was there. So much for super hearing. Nothing worked on Slade Wilson. You kept your expression neutral. Didn’t let him see the panic creeping up your throat.

"Didn’t realize I had a curfew," you muttered with an uneasy grin, trying to start your usual banter. Slade didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched you.

“You don’t.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. But he didn’t move. Didn’t step aside. Didn’t let you leave. The silence stretched too long.

Finally, you forced a smile, tilting your head. “Then I’ll be back in an hour.” Nothing changed in his expression. But you could feel the weight of his stare. Then he tilted his head, eye dark and calculating.

“It's not safe out there anymore. Not for you.”

You blinked. Something in his tone shifted.Not amusement. Not control. Something else. Something darker. Like he was waiting for you to figure it out.

Your stomach twisted. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t even move.

Just let the question hang in the air, stretching the silence tight between you. And that’s when it hit you.

He wasn’t stopping you because he was afraid you’d leave.

He was stopping you because something else was waiting outside.

Something he wasn’t telling you about.

Your mouth went dry. Slade finally let out a slow, amused breath, pushing off the wall.

And then—

He stepped aside. A challenge. Daring you to open the door. You hesitated. And that was all it took.

The moment you hesitated, you lost. Slade smirked, shaking his head like he had already predicted every move you would make. "Let's get to bed." He rasped out, looking at you with dark, seductive eyes.

And then he turned, walking past you like the conversation was over. Because it was. Because he knew you wouldn’t leave now.

The next morning, the locks changed again. The windows were reinforced. Your pretty pink curtains replaced with black shutters. Your phone stopped working. You couldn't call Selina. Every excuse to leave was removed before you could even think about it. You tried not to panic. Tried not to question it.

But Slade was closing the walls in. And you weren’t sure if it was to keep someone out—

Or to keep you in.

The first time, you thought it was a coincidence.

You had slipped into a bar down the street, needing to breathe, needing something normal.

The moment you stepped in, your stomach turned. Something familiar. Cologne. Not just any cologne. Expensive. Sharply tailored. The scent of whiskey and authority.

You froze.

Your mind screamed at you. It’s just someone else wearing it. It’s just your imagination. And then you saw it. A glass at the bar. Untouched. Neat. No ice. A double pour. your breath hitched.

Harvey’s drink.

It wasn’t until you came home that you truly realized. Because that’s when you saw the rose.

A single red rose on the kitchen counter.

Waiting for you. Your entire body went cold. It wasn’t from Slade. It couldn’t be from Slade. Slade would never bring you roses, he wasn't a gentleman. And he knew you liked hydrangeas and peonies now.

You turned slowly and nearly threw up.

Slade was already standing there. Watching. Waiting. His jaw was tight. His fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t say anything. And that’s when you knew,

He had seen this coming.

“Where did that come from?” you asked, voice thin. Why was he doing this? Was shattering your heart not enough? Did he want to ruin things with you and Slade?

Slade didn’t answer. Instead, he walked forward, plucked the rose from the counter, and rolled it between his fingers. Slowly. Deliberately. Then, he crushed it.

Your stomach dropped. The petals crumbled to the floor. His voice was dangerously calm. "You tell me, sweetheart."

For the rest of the night, he didn’t let you out of his sight. Not directly holding you hostage, but you felt it. The way he lingered in doorways. The way his hand ghosted too close when you passed him.

Like he was waiting. Waiting for you to ask. Waiting for you to figure it out. Waiting for Harvey to stop playing games and make a real move.

You weren’t sure when it had happened; when you had stopped keeping track of time, stopped caring about the difference between one night and the next. Slade made sure you had no reason to count the days. He made sure you had no reason to want anything. You woke up every morning in his arms and went to bed satisfied and well loved. It wasn’t a prison but it wasn’t freedom either. It was something in between. A limbo of his design. A small slice of heaven in hell.

You were happy. But something was off, Slade was being more paranoid and he got less subtle about it each day.

You weren’t trapped, not physically. Slade let you leave the apartment. You weren’t chained to the walls, weren’t locked in a room. He took you out on missions, let you get your hands dirty alongside him, let you breathe in the crisp Gotham air under the cover of night. In some ways, those nights were the only times you felt alive, other than when you were with Slade. The weight of a blade in your hand, the burn in your muscles from the chase, the sharp adrenaline rush of the fight, of using your powers on someone they affected; it reminded you that you still existed outside of this quiet game he played with you. Because that’s what it was. A game.

Slade never said it outright, never told you he was keeping you on a leash, but you could feel it tightening with every passing week. At first, it was small things. The way he subtly redirected missions away from Gotham’s city center, keeping you to the outskirts, where the shadows were deeper and the chances of running into familiar faces were slimmer. The way he always made sure you stayed close during a job, always just within arm’s reach. It wasn’t just protection. You knew better than that. It was control. He was testing you, waiting to see if you would try to slip away, if you would give him a reason to remind you just how easily he could pull you back.

You weren’t stupid. You knew the real test wasn’t in the field. It was what happened after.

After the job was done, after the adrenaline had settled into exhaustion, after the long, banter filled walk back to wherever Slade had decided to keep you that night. It was in the way he never let you wander too far. The way his hand would hover at the small of your back without quite touching, guiding you down the streets like he was the one who decided where you went. It was in the way he never left you alone for too long.

At first, you told yourself it was coincidence. Slade was always working, always had something that needed his attention. But then you started to notice the patterns. You ate together, you slept together, trained together, hell; you even showered together. You were never alone for more than a few hours. If he had business elsewhere, you were given something to occupy your time—training, surveillance, a task that kept you exactly where he wanted you.

You tested it once again, just to see what would happen. After he had left for what you thought was a routine meeting, you had grabbed your coat and made your way to the door. You weren’t even thinking about leaving him, not really. You just wanted to see if you could. If there was still a part of you that could step outside without feeling the weight of his presence pressing against you.

Your fingers had just curled around the doorknob when you heard his voice. Low. Even. Inevitable.

“Going somewhere?”

You were getting de ja vu. This happened last time too. You had swallowed hard, pulse spiking in your throat as you turned. He was standing right behind you.

You hadn’t heard the door open. Hadn’t heard his footsteps. He was just there, watching, waiting. The worst part was that he wasn’t even angry. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you, wasn’t raising his voice or blocking your way. He didn’t have to.

Slade had simply leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, eye scanning you with that sharp, unreadable expression that made your stomach twist. “Didn’t realize I needed permission,” you had said, forcing your voice to stay steady. You wouldn't let him control everything, not another man would be in charge of your life.

“You don’t.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he had already solved. “Just wondering if you really think it’s safe out there.”

Not this odd shit again.

That made you pause. The way he said it. Not like a threat. Not like he was trying to scare you into staying. He said it the same way as last time. Like he already knew something you didn’t.

Your grip on the doorknob tightened. “What are you talking about? You said this last time.”

Slade didn’t answer right away. He just let the silence stretch, let you feel the weight of your own hesitation. Then, slowly, he took a step back. Another challenge.

“If you want to go,” he said, gesturing toward the door, “go.”

Your breath caught. You should have. You should have walked out.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew that if you did, if you stepped outside now, you wouldn’t just be walking into Gotham. You would be walking into something else. Something waiting.

Slade knew it. And now, so did you.

You swallowed hard, stepping back from the door. Slade huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head like you had just proven his point. Then, without another word, he walked past you and disappeared into the other room. That was the moment you knew, whatever was waiting for you out there was worse than what was waiting inside. You just didn’t know what it was yet.

You found out a week later. A part of it, at least.

The envelope was waiting for you when you returned from a job with Slade, slipped under the apartment door like a whisper of something you had tried to forget. You had bent down, fingers hesitating just for a second before picking it up. The paper was thick, expensive. No return address. No markings. But you didn’t have to open it to know who it was from. The sharp smell of cologne gave it away.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising in the back of your throat as you tore it open, your hands gripping the edges a little too tightly. The letter inside was simple. Only four words.

You won't forget me.

Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled. Because the worst part was, he was right. No matter how much Slade consumed you, or your occasional fantasy about Clark; he also stayed on your mind

You barely had time to process it before you heard the apartment door shut behind you. Your fingers snapped the letter closed, chest tightening, but it was too late.

Slade had already seen.

His expression didn’t change, but you could feel it. The shift in the air. The way his shoulders set just a little too still, the way his single eye flickered from your face to the envelope with something dark and unreadable. He stepped forward, not rushing, just closing the distance between you with the kind of inevitability that made your breath come short.

You turned, but before you could move, his hand shot out. Not rough, not gentle like usual, just firm. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, halting you in place.

“Let go,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached for the letter.

You pulled back.

Slade’s grip tightened. “Let me see,” he said, his voice low, controlled. He wasn't used to you denying him these days, not when you loved him.

Your stomach clenched. You didn’t let go, but it didn’t matter. Because Slade never asked twice.

With one sharp tug, he tore the letter from your grasp, unfolding it with a lazy flick of his wrist. You watched as his eye scanned the words, his jaw tensing, his fingers tightening around the paper just slightly.

Then, finally, a quiet chuckle. A dark, amused sound. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Your breath hitched. Slade looked at you now. Expression unreadable.

“Do you miss him?” Your heart stopped. You denied it, but you could see in Slade's eyes that he didn't believe you. In the way he turned away from you that night. You didn't blame him, you didn't even believe yourself.

Harvey always knew how to play the long game.

Small things began to shift in your life and you knew who was behind it. The song on the radio. A scarf. A photo photo. They were never coincidences, he didn’t believe in coincidence. The man was calculated, meticulous in his pursuits. When he wanted something, he played patient, steady, unyielding, watching from the shadows, striking when you least expected it.

Slade was the same way, but Slade never needed patience. Slade took what he wanted. Harvey waited for it to come back to him.

The jazz playing in the bar was nothing, just white noise in the background while you sat beside Slade, nursing your drink, your head still fogged from the last mission. You weren’t thinking of anything other than how good it felt to finally sit still.

Then, days later, the scarf appeared. Neatly folded on the couch, like a gift wrapped in silence, waiting for you to pick it up. You hadn’t touched it at first, just stood there, staring at it, fingers twitching at your sides. It was a trick of the mind, an old memory manifesting in a way that didn’t make sense.

Except it wasn’t.

He had been here. Or close enough to touch. You should have told Slade. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And then, the photo. A photo Selina took of you and him dancing at the Pink Pony Club. It smelled like him too.

That was what shattered the illusion of security, the idea that you had control over this. The moment you saw it, you knew.

Harvey had always been a sentimentalist, clinging to memories long past, treasuring things most people would discard.

You, once upon a time, had been one of those things. And now? You weren’t sure. You weren't sure what he wanted, especially since he had Tiffany. You had placed the photo down carefully, afraid to crumple it, afraid to acknowledge what it meant.

You had kept your movements neutral, your breath steady, but Slade had been watching. His presence in the other room was a solid weight pressing into your chest. The shuffle of files, the slow deliberate sound of metal being set down, he was waiting.

He had noticed. Of course, he had. Slade noticed everything. And yet, he didn’t say a word.

You lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling Slade’s presence next to you like a silent storm waiting to break. He wasn’t asking. He was waiting for you to give yourself away. To tell him the truth, to trust him like he trusted you.

Slade had been watching you too closely, keeping his invisible leash tight without ever pulling. That was the way he worked, he let you think you had freedom while keeping you within his reach. If you had tried to leave through the door, he would have known.

So, you didn’t.

You waited, feigned sleep, forced your breathing into something slow, even, something convincing. You heard him move in the other room, heard the creak of his chair, the slow inhale of a cigar.

You moved the moment he shifted. Window, not the door. Silent steps. A fire escape that groaned beneath your weight. By the time Slade glanced back toward the couch, you were already gone.

Harvey knew you would come.

You knew that from the moment you stepped onto the rooftop, the Gotham skyline stretched out behind him like a kingdom.

He turned before you could say anything, a slow, easy movement, his face shadowed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. And then, he smiled. Not a smirk. Not the sharp, dangerous grin you had been expecting. It was something softer. Something more desperate. Like a man in the desert coming across a well.

“Took you long enough, didn't think you got my message. I started thinking that maybe the note didn't reach you.” he murmured. The message he left in the women's bathroom at a bar you and Slade frequented.

Your throat felt tight. You felt hurt all over again. Like someone reopened the wound of his betrayal. Like the same broken girl Slade took in six months ago. You came here for closure. So that it wouldn't hurt when you said his name or sang the songs you wrote for him. “How did you find me?”

What did he want? To torture you? Rub salt in your wounds?

Harvey exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I never lost you.”

Only Slade called you that now. The words made your stomach twist, a cold knot settling in your chest. You should have walked away then. But you didn’t. Because you had to know.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you haunting me? Not letting me move on?” Your voice shook as you said it. This conversation was long overdue.

Harvey’s fingers gripped the railing, his knuckles white. “Because I need you to listen to me. Just once. Just this once. Hear me out.”

Your heart hammered. Hear him out? He could've started with an apology.

“You think I’ll forgive you?” you spat. You would, because when you looked at him, you still felt the same warmth you did all those months ago; only this time it was mixed with resentment and longing.

He flinched. And for the first time, you saw it—the raw, desperate emotion that he had always hidden behind sharp words and confident grins. The mask cracked, just for a second.

His voice turned rough, unsteady. “I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know that. But I need you to hear me out.”

You shook your head, stepping back, but he reached out—not touching, not yet, but close.

“You don’t know what’s happening,” he continued, his voice dropping into something urgent, pleading. “Your family—Tim, Dick, all of them—they’re figuring it out. They’re finding out the truth about Tiffany. They'll realize what she's doing, like I did.They'll know soon, maybe not today or tomorrow; but soon. They'll realize she's been using her powers on them like she did to me.”

Your breath came too short. No. This was not happening. Not when you were finally happy again. Not when you think you've fallen in love with Slade.

“No,” you whispered.

Your vision blurred. It was happening. Everything you had tried to scream about for years, everything they had ignored, it was going to come to light. Harvey’s fingers brushed your wrist.

Soft. Careful. Like he was trying not to scare you away.

“And when they realize what they did to you,” he murmured, “they’re going to come running. Crawling back like I am.”

Your stomach twisted.

“They’re going to act like they care,” he continued, voice soft, insidious. “Like they’re sorry. But they’re not. Not like I am. You know that, don’t you?”

Your lips parted. You hated how much sense it made. Hated how deep the doubt had already burrowed into your skin. Hated how genuine and honest he was being, you could sense it. Harvey tilted his head.

And then, voice lower, almost fragile he said, “You don’t have to go back to them.”

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back. “I’m not going back,” you said, voice shaking. Never.

Harvey swallowed hard. And for a moment, you thought he might break, that the weight of what he had done, what he had lost, might finally crush him. But then, he looked at you.

And you saw it, the shift. The danger. Not Two-Face. Not the cold, calculated criminal.

Just Harvey Dent. The man who never let go. “You think you’re free?” he murmured.

The words sent a chill down your spine. Harvey smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “You think he just let you leave?”

Your chest tightened. You tried not to show the flicker of doubt, the small crack in your resolve. But Harvey saw it.

And then, voice so soft, so dangerous—“He’s not going to let you go either. He'll keep you locked up. I won't.”

You should have never gone to him.

You had known it was a mistake the second you saw him standing there, leaning against the rooftop railing, the glow of Gotham’s skyline making him look almost human.

But you had gone anyway. Because Harvey had always been a mistake you kept making.

You clenched your fists, how dare he talk about Slade? What right did he have to tell you who to trust. "Yeah and I'm gonna take advice from you. That's rich."

He softened immediately, his regret and remorse so obvious; yet he refused to apologize. You wanted to hit him, hurt him like he hurt you; yet when he stood in front of you in the moonlight, your treacherous heart still beat for him. Your heart didn't want to hurt the man who showed you what love is. The man who picked up the shattered pieces your family and Clark left and rearranged them beautifully. It didn't care that he broke them again; he could fix it.

“I made a mistake. I paid for it, I know the truth now.” He said steadily stepping closer, sensing your reluctance.

Your pulse pounded. “What do you want from me?” You were here for answers, not to rekindle an old flame. Not when you were starting one.

Harvey exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Nothing from you. ”

The words hit you too hard. You understood what he was implying, what he wanted. You knew he would come crawling back someday, you just didn't expect it so soon

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “Why?”

His smile faltered. His hands curled around the railing, gripping it like he needed something solid to hold on to.

"You know why. But that's not what i called you for. I called you to warn you about your family and Tiffany,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher. More desperate. “I can throw them off for a little while, lead them off track and make sure they don't know the truth. If that's what you want. But once they know the truth, they won't leave you alone. Certainly not with him.”

You hated the way your chest tightened with affection at his consideration. You hated that you were here. You hated that he still had a hold on you. You hated how he talked about Slade. You hated hearing him say Tiffany's name, it brought back so much hurt and hatred.

“I don't care about them Keep them away for as long as you want. You know I'm not here to hear about them or your whore.” you said viciously, your eyes shining and your teeth sharpening.

Slade would be proud.

Harvey didn't react to your fangs, he wasn't afraid of you. He came closer and grasped your hand, his eyes so heartbroken that it gave you satisfaction, only for a minute.

His voice cracked slightly. “Nothing I do or say can make up for what I did.” His jaw tightened. “I know that.”

You should have walked away. But you didn’t. Because Harvey’s voice dropped lower, his words curling around you like a trap you should have seen coming. “But I need you to know something,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. “She wanted to be you, she tried so hard.”

Your breath hitched. You knew this. But hearing Harvey say it made you feel so much better.

Harvey’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “But she never could.”

Your stomach dropped. Why did this have to happen now? Why now when you finally forgot about him?

“She dressed like you,” he continued. “Talked like you. Watched the way you moved. The way you laughed.” His voice hardened. “The way you loved.”

You shook your head, backing away. You couldn't take this anymore. You wanted to run back into Slade's arms, where nothing could touch you. “Shut up.”

Harvey didn’t.

“She wanted to take everything from you.” His expression twisted. “And maybe, if I had been a different man, I would have let her.”

Your skin crawled at the thought. Harvey let out a breathless laugh, bitter and sharp. “But I couldn’t. I had to go digging, looking for clues.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “Because she wasn’t you. No matter how hard she tried to be. No matter how much she played with my mind, she could never replace you.”

You hated him.

You hated that you believed him.

You hated how you still loved him.

Harvey exhaled sharply, tilting his head, watching you with something frighteningly raw. “Every time she touched me, every time she tried to take something that wasn’t hers—” his voice dropped into something dangerous, low and dark and broken— “I was thinking of you.”

Your breathing came too fast.

Harvey stepped closer.

“Every time I kissed her,” he whispered, “I wanted it to be you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop. I don't care.” Lies.

“She wasn’t you,” he repeated, voice almost pleading. “She never could be.”

Your throat closed. Your eyes watered and your teeth burned with unshed venom just thinking of his betrayal. Why was this happening.

Harvey’s fingers ghosted over your wrist. Not touching, not quite.

“I never wanted her, not really” he murmured. “Not once.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. This was all you wanted to hear, all you wished for for so long. So why did you feel trapped. Harvey’s voice dropped even lower. He moved even closer

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

You forced yourself to look at him.

“If you don’t care,” he whispered, eyes burning, “why are you still here? Why do you want answers so bad? Why do you still look at me like that?”

You shouldn’t have come.

But you hadn’t been able to help yourself.

Because Harvey always knew what to say, how to linger in your mind like an open wound that refused to heal.

And now here you were, standing under the dim glow of the rooftop’s city lights, your eyes watering, the weight of his gaze pressing into you, sinking into your bones like something familiar, something dangerous.

You forced yourself to keep your stance steady, your pulse even. “You don’t get to ask me those questions.”

Harvey let out a breath, almost a chuckle, but there was no humor in it. His hands curled around the railing as he moved away from you again, gripping the cold metal like it was the only thing keeping him from reaching for you.

“Do you know how many times I told myself you were gone? That I lost you, ” His voice was steady now, but there was an edge to it—something dangerous. “How many times I tried to let you go, to let you move on?”

Your chest tightened. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something else, something more dangerous. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me. I didn't want you to regret your choice. I didn't want anything but happiness for you. No matter how much you hurt me.”

Harvey’s fingers twitched.

“No.” His lips pressed together in a thin line, he knew the truth, that you always wished the best for him. “No, you didn’t.”

The wind curled between you, cold and sharp, carrying the weight of everything unsaid. You should have turned away. Should have walked back the way you came.

But then Harvey laughed, a bitter, broken sound.

“She used her little snake charm but somehow,” he continued, “after a week I was thinking of you. I never loved her. Couldn't even bring myself to like her, honestly.”

Your stomach dropped. It was a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. He saw it—the flicker of emotion in your face, the tightening of your jaw, the way your breathing caught for just a second too long.

And Harvey, Two-Face, the man who never let go, moved forward, voice soft, eyes burning.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I never stopped loving you”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “Shut up.”

He ignored you. Again.

“I love you so much,” he said, voice low. “You love me too or you wouldn't be here.”

“I said shut up.” He was right, he always is.

Harvey smirked, but there was nothing victorious in it. It was almost self-loathing.

“I never loved her,” he whispered again. He was making sure you knew.

“She wanted me to,” he continued. “She wanted to take everything from you.” His jaw tightened. “And maybe, if you had been a different woman, I would have let her.”

The thought of it made your skin crawl.

Harvey, Tiffany. Together. The ultimate betrayal.

“But I couldn’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “Because she wasn’t you.”

He kept repeating it, trying to speak his remorse into your heart directly. You hated how much it affected you. Hated how your chest ached, how your mind burned with the thought of what could have been. You shouldn’t care. But you did. And Harvey knew it.

“You’re lying,” you whispered, forcing steel into your voice. “You used her, just like she used you. You wanted to spy on Bruce and I wouldn't do it.”

Harvey let out a sharp breath. “Yeah.” His eyes met yours. Unflinching. “I did.”

There was no shame in his voice. Just cold, simple truth. No regret anymore. He didn't regret using her, he regretted hurting you.

“But it wasn’t revenge, sweetheart,” he murmured, his Gotham accent slipping in the angrier he got. “It was survival. She had me under her little spell at first; when that stopped working, her little dream team made sure I never stepped outta line. Never came crawling back to you, never told anyone the truth. But I'm done with them now.”

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Harvey stepped closer.

“Every time I kissed her, every time I played along, I was thinking of you.” His voice dipped, lower, darker. More desperate. “Every time I called her by her name, I wanted to say yours.”

Your breathing came too fast. This wasn’t fair. Harvey was not supposed to be able to do this to you. Not anymore. He was supposed to be dead to you. He had killed himself in your mind the day he let himself be used, the day he betrayed you.

And yet—

Yet.

You couldn’t move.

Because deep down, a part of you knew—you had thought of him, too. When you weren't with Slade, Harvey consumed your thoughts.

Your stomach twisted as he stepped closer again. “You’re smart, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You always were. Choose carefully.”

You swallowed hard. This wasn't about your family anymore. This was about him and Slade.

“You don’t have to go back to them.” He repeated himself again trying to convince you. His words settled in your bones, heavy, unshakable.

You clenched your jaw again. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Harvey’s eyes flickered, something dark and pleased curling at the edges. And then, voice low, almost dangerous, “Then why are you still with him?”

Your breath hitched. Slade. Your body went rigid.

Harvey took another step closer. Your noses almost touched and you nearly threw yourself into his arms.

“You think he's better than me?”

Your chest tightened. Doubt crept in. You had been so careful. So quiet. Hadn’t you? Harvey saw it. And he smiled.

A slow, knowing smirk. “He’s not going to let you go, he won't give you a choice. I don't blame the man, if I hadn't fucked everything up; I wouldn't let you go either.”

Your stomach dropped. The realization hit you all at once, suffocating, crushing. You hadn’t been careful. You had been playing into Slade’s hands all along.

Because Slade always knew. And if he hadn’t stopped you?

That meant he was letting you dig your own grave. A shiver ran through you.

The moment Harvey’s voice dipped, the second his fingers ghosted over your wrist like a lover’s touch—you should have walked away. But you didn’t. Because part of you needed to hear him say it. Needed to hear him tell you what you already knew.

That he still wanted you. That he never stopped. That you were never meant to be replaced. And it felt amazing to hear the regret in his voice and see the pure longing in his eyes.

The wind curled between you, cold and biting, but Harvey’s presence was stiflingly warm. He was watching you the way he always had; like you belonged to him, like the months between you hadn’t changed a thing. And for the first time all night, you let yourself look at him.

Really look at him.

The scars on the left side of his face had deepened, his two-toned gaze more piercing than before. The weight he carried in his shoulders was heavier, more defined. He was still Harvey, but he wasn’t just Harvey anymore. He had become something darker, something rough around the edges, something broken in a way that made you feel like a piece of you had broken along with him.

You swallowed. “I have to go.” Before you did something you couldn't take back.

Harvey exhaled, slow and deliberate. He nodded, but he didn’t move. He didn’t stop you. But he wasn’t letting you go, either.

“You’re going back to him.” It wasn’t a question. A statement, like he knew it was coming

Your pulse stuttered. “It’s not like that and you know it.” You still felt the need to defend yourself, even though you knew you didn't owe him an explanation.

You still loved him, that much was clear.

Harvey let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Sure it isn’t.”

You took a step back. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t say anything to stop you, but his presence curled around you like a shadow, wrapping itself around your spine, keeping you anchored in place. And then his voice dropped. Low. Certain.

“I’m letting you walk away. But I'm not letting you go. Not when we still love each other.”

Your throat tightened. He wasn’t chasing you. Not yet. But you felt it. The promise in his voice. The inevitability. You didn’t respond.

You didn't deny that you still loved him, it was like a child insisting they didn't eat cookies when they have crumbs all over them.

You just turned and forced yourself to walk away.

The apartment was silent when you returned. Slade was waiting, seated in his chair, drink in hand, legs spread, glaring at the walls. He didn’t turn when you entered. Didn’t move when you stepped further inside, carefully shutting the door behind you. You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

You slipped off your shoes, moving slowly, watching him, waiting. Nothing. No reaction. Just that unshakable stillness. The kind that had always been more dangerous than his anger.

You took a steadying breath. If you didn't speak first, he wouldn't speak at all. “Slade—”

“I knew you’d come back.”

His voice cut through the room, sharp and even. Your fingers curled at your sides. “Of course I came back.”

Now, he looked at you. Finally. And when he did, it felt like a blow. That single eye, cold and assessing, swept over you, taking in every detail, every movement, every breath you tried to keep steady. Then, his lips curved. Slow. Controlled.

“Did he tell you what you wanted to hear? Make you want to run into his loving arms again?”

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t let it show. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Slade exhaled through his nose, the faintest huff of amusement. “Don’t insult me.”

Your jaw tightened. Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. You weren’t sure if you were waiting for him to snap, or if he was waiting for you to confess. Then, finally—Slade leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, voice lowering into something dangerous.

“Tell me something,” he said lowly.

You didn’t move. “What?”

Slade tilted his head, watching you like he was already playing out the end of this game. “Did you hesitate?”

The words hit harder than they should have. You swallowed. You could lie. You could tell him what he wanted to hear. But it wouldn’t matter. Slade always knew. And that was the worst part.

Slade was quiet for too long. Then—he sighed. Tired. Expectant. And that was worse than anger. You hated when he treated you like this, so indifferent. You liked his anger better, at least then you could get a reaction out of him.

“Take off your coat,” he said. You hesitated. Slade’s expression didn’t shift. “Now.”

Slowly, carefully, you did as he asked, slipping the fabric from your shoulders, letting it drop onto the chair beside you. Slade’s eye flickered toward it. Then, back to you.

You weren’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe he was looking for something Harvey left behind. Something you didn’t even realize you had carried home with you.

Then, after a long pause—Slade smirked. And it wasn’t kind like the ones you've grown accustomed to.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You stiffened. “Realize what?”

Slade leaned back again, completely relaxed. Like he had already won. “You'll know soon.”

Your breath caught. Where was he going with this? You hated when he spoke like some ancient being and he knew that. He was gonna be insufferable these next few days; he always is when you do something he doesn't like.

“Doesn’t matter where you go,” he continued, his voice so damn certain. His smirk widened, mocking. “You’ll always come back to me.”

Your chest tightened. You hated him. Because he was right. He knew you hated it, too.

You lay awake that night. Not because you couldn’t sleep. Not because Slade was in the other room, making you sleep alone for the first time in months, still awake, waiting, watching, knowing.

But because you couldn’t shake the way Harvey had looked at you before you left. Not angry. Not resentful. Just patient and remorseful. Like he already knew something you didn't.

Slade never brought it up again. Not directly. You weren’t sure if that was worse. You weren't sure if you wanted him to scream at you and demand you never see Harvey Dent again. You would rather anger than the silent treatment.

He didn’t demand answers. He didn’t press the issue. He simply carried on as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t watched you walk through the door smelling like another man’s presence.

That should have been a relief. But it wasn’t. Because Slade didn’t let things go. He let them fester.

It was in the way he touched you now, more deliberate, more possessive. The way his hands lingered a little too long on your waist when he passed you in the kitchen, the way his fingers grazed your wrist, as if reminding you that you were still there, still his.

It was in the way he watched you. He had always been observant, but now it was different. Sharper. He wasn’t just looking at you, he was reading you.

Every twitch of your fingers. Every slight shift in your breathing. Every time you looked over your shoulder without realizing it. You had brought something back from that rooftop, and Slade knew it.

And still, he said nothing. Instead, he tightened his hold.

It was late. The apartment was quiet, but neither of you were asleep. Your back pressed into the cool sheets, heartbeat steady but too aware of the man beside you. It'd been three days since Harvey and Slade was finally sleeping next to you again, but you knew he wasn't truly letting things go.

Slade’s fingers traced slow circles against your wrist, his grip loose but present. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he murmured.

You exhaled, shifting slightly beneath his hold. “And you have?”

A quiet chuckle. “I sleep when I need to.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze in the dim light of the bedroom. “And when do you need to?” You missed teasing him.

Slade’s smirk was lazy, knowing. “Whenever you’re not around to keep me entertained.”

You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t let you pull away. His grip tightened, just enough to remind you he was there.

“You think too much,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Keeps you restless.”

“Maybe I like thinking,” you shot back booping his nose. You lived to annoy him, to push his buttons in a way only you could get away with.

Slade hummed, shifting to prop himself up on his elbow, still watching you. His fingers trailed down your arm, you would've though he was trying to start something if his movements weren't so slow and calculated.

“What are you thinking about now?” He said reeling you into his trap, his eyes hard. You hated when he tried to trap you. Your pulse skipped. Nothing you said would be the right answer.

Slade’s lips quirked up slightly, but there was something in his expression—something darker, something expectant.

“You can say it,” he mused. “Say his name.”

You were tempted to do it, moan Harvey's name just to piss him off, but that was a line even you knew not to cross. You rolled your eyes, "God, just let it go Slade. It wasn't important."

Why couldn't he just let this go? Slade smirked, mocking. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t break his gaze. Didn’t look away. Because he knew. He always knew. Nothing goes over Slade Wilson's head.

The next morning, you woke up to a message. Not a text. Not a voicemail. A gift.

The small wooden box sat on the kitchen counter, neat, precise. Like it had been waiting for you. Your blood ran cold. You hadn’t heard anyone come in. You hadn’t even felt him. But Harvey had been here. You swallowed, fingers brushing over the lid before carefully lifting it open.

Inside was a single playing card.

The Two of Hearts.

And beneath it—folded carefully, as if it was meant to be unwrapped like some kind of sentimental treasure—was the same scarf he had left before.

Except this time, there was something else. Perfume. Your perfume. It smelled like you and him. Like Harvey had held onto it. Like he had kept it close. Your stomach twisted.

Harvey had been here. And you hadn’t even noticed.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the box, breath coming a little too sharp, too shallow. The walls of the apartment felt smaller. You didn’t hear Slade approach, but you felt him before he spoke.

His voice was smooth, dangerous. “Something I should know about?”

You forced yourself to breathe. “No.”

Slade leaned against the counter, eyeing the box like he already knew exactly who it was from. And then—he laughed. A quiet, amused sound, as if this was a game he had already won. “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” he said, in the same tone some used when regretting not buying a book before it sold out.

Your stomach dropped. Slade tilted his head, eye still locked on you. “But you wouldn’t have liked that, would you?”

You said nothing.

Slade smirked, shaking his head. “Soft spot for old flames.” He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist. “That’s your problem.”

You clenched your jaw, jerking your arm away. “And what’s yours?”

Slade’s gaze darkened. “I don’t have problems.”

You let out a breathless, humorless laugh. Always with the tough guy persona, honestly it must be tiring always acting untouchable. “Right. Sorry, I forgot. Because you don’t feel anything.”

Slade didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, unreadable. His hand reached for your jaw, firm, demanding. His thumb traced your cheek, slow, deliberate. And when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I feel plenty.” You swallowed. Slade smirked. “You just don’t like what I feel.”

You stepped back before you could do something stupid. Something that would make you forget about the box on the counter, the scent of Harvey still lingering in the air. Something that would make you forget that you weren’t sure who you were more afraid of losing.

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Harvey was right. They were going to find out the full truth soon. And when they did, they would come for you.

Now, a week after your meeting with him, your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Message after message, call after call, each one from Tim Drake-Wayne. All asking you questions about Tiffany, about yourself. About where you were.

Your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled through the texts, hands shaking, stomach twisting itself into knots so tight you thought you might be sick. Of course Tim was the first to figure out something was wrong. He was about five years too late though.

Tim: We need to talk. Please answer. I have questions. About Tiffany..

You could barely breathe. He wanted to investigate, to look deep into Tiffany. Now?

Now, after years of pushing you aside, after ignoring every cry for help, now he wanted to take your warnings seriously.

Your eyes burned, fingers tightening around the phone, your mind screaming at you to respond, to finally say all the things you’d held in your chest for too long.

But you didn’t. Instead, you turned the phone off. You shoved it under the pillow, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to push away the tears, trying to ignore the way your chest ached with something ugly and desperate.

The moment you walked out of the bedroom, you knew he had seen.

Slade was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, gaze heavy with something unreadable. The phone was still buzzing beneath the pillow in the other room, and somehow, you knew he had heard it.

He had been waiting for this. You swallowed, standing stiffly near the doorway, trying to pretend like everything was fine. Slade didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.

“Took him long enough,” he mused, his voice casual, controlled.

You rolled your eyes. He's been bitchy ever since the whole Harvey thing.

Slade’s eye flickered to your hands, still clenched at your sides. “And let me guess—you ignored him.”

You hated how easily he could see through you. You glared at him, jaw tight. “None of your business.”

Slade chuckled, shaking his head, pushing off the counter and closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was lower now, smoother, curling around your spine like a threat disguised as affection. “Everything about you is my business.”

You tensed. Slade reached up, tracing a gloved finger along your cheek, tilting your chin up slightly, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“He’ll keep calling,” he murmured. “He’ll keep begging. He'll figure it out and tell the rest of the little squad and they'll all come running back. Just like your dear old Dent. ” His lips curled into something mocking. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? Make mistakes because they know you'll forgive them?"

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. Not to hurt you, just enough to remind you who was in control.

His thumb brushed over your lips, slow, deliberate. “What are you gonna do?”

Your breath hitched. Slade leaned in slightly, voice dropping even lower. Dangerous. “Do you want Tim to tell the others? Want your family back? Want him back? Even after he fucked your sister while you were lying sick in your bed?”

Your throat tightened. He was toying with you. Mocking you, trying to hurt you. Making you say it. And you didn’t want to say it. Because you didn’t know. Your family had been your world.For so long, all you wanted was to be seen.

To be loved.

To be something more than just a ghost standing in the background, watching them fawn over someone who had stolen everything from you. And Harvey gave that to you, before he betrayed you.

And now, he was sorry. Soon, they would all know the truth and be sorry.

The emotions clawed at your throat.

You wanted to scream at Tim. Tell him it was too late. Tell them that he could never fix this. No amount of investigating and apologies could make up for years of neglect.

But another part of you, the part that still ached for their love, the part that still wanted them to prove you wrong,

That part whispered, “What if?” What if when they found out the truth, they would love you? What if this time, they actually stayed?

What if this was your chance to finally have the family you always wanted?

The war inside your head made you dizzy. And Slade knew it. He was still holding you, still keeping you rooted to him, while your world spun out of control. After a long, suffocating silence, Slade finally sighed. “You’re a mess.”

You glared at him, pushing away from his grip. “Fuck you.”

Slade chuckled, unfazed. “You do it almost every night.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, "You're a child, you know that?"

You turned away, grabbing a glass from the counter, hands still shaking slightly as you filled it with water. You weren’t thirsty, but you needed something—anything—to keep yourself grounded.

Slade leaned against the counter again, watching you with amusement, but something deeper lurked beneath it. Then, in a voice so casual it almost didn’t register, “I’ll make him stop. I'll make them both stop.”

The glass almost slipped from your fingers. You turned sharply, eyes wide. “What?”

Slade shrugged, like it was nothing. “You don’t want to deal with them. You don’t want to make a decision. So I’ll make it for you.”

Your breath caught. Slade never dealt with things peacefully, he got rid of problems permanately. “You can’t just—”

“I can.” His smirk deepened. “And I will.”

Your stomach twisted. Because the worst part was; you weren’t sure if you were relieved or horrified. Because Slade was right. You didn’t want to make a choice. You wanted someone to do it for you.

And Slade was more than happy to take that burden.

The first thing you noticed the next morning was the silence. No more buzzing. No more messages lighting up your screen. Slade had done it.

He hadn’t waited for you to argue. Hadn’t given you the choice. By the time you checked your phone, every number had been blocked. Every contact erased like they had never existed at all.

And maybe that’s what Slade wanted.

For them to be nothing but ghosts in your past. A clean break. A fresh start. So why did it feel like your chest was splitting open?

You had spent years craving their attention. Years begging for even a scrap of love. And now? Now you had the chance to get it. And you ignored it. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t need them. That you had spent too long chasing something that was never meant to be yours.

And yet, as you stood in the quiet of the apartment, phone gripped too tight in your hands, you ached. Because you had wanted them to fight for you.

Slade had left that morning, his usual teasing smirk in place, but there had been something off.

Maybe it was the fact that his mission was dragging out longer than expected.

Maybe it was the way his fingers had lingered under your chin before he left, thumb brushing over your jaw like he was making sure you were still his.

Or maybe it was the way he had muttered, “Be good while I’m gone, sweetheart.” as you kissed him goodbye.

Like he already knew you wouldn’t be. Like he already knew something was coming. The apartment felt too big without him. His absence wasn’t something you should have noticed.

But you did.

It was in the empty space beside you when you sat on the couch. The extra portion of dinner you made out of habit. The lack of footsteps behind you. The missing weight of his presence pressing against your world, keeping you safe.

It was the first time in months you had been truly alone. So you did the only thing you could think of.

You took a nice, long, hot, shower, trying to dull the ache below your hips. You and Slade had sex last night, but somehow you were already wanting more. It was like your body could sense his absense.

You stood under the hot water, letting the steam curl around your skin, letting the heat scald away the thoughts clawing at your mind.

Maybe Slade was right. Maybe it was easier to just let go.

There was a sound. Soft. Distant. A creak where there shouldn’t be one. You wouldn't have heard it, wouldn't have sensed the body heat if you didn't have your powers. Your heart stopped. You turned off the water immediately, listening.

Nothing.

Maybe it was just—

Another creak. Closer this time. You swallowed, pulse hammering, every nerve in your body screaming at you that something was wrong. Slade was gone.

No one should be here. But you weren’t alone.

The second you stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your damp skin, fangs reader and a knife in your hand, you felt him.

The shift in the air. The weight of someone watching. And then, his voice.

“Gotta admit,” Harvey mused, voice smooth, mocking, as if he had any right to be angry “didn’t think you’d be the type to shack up with a guy like him.”

Your stomach dropped. You turned sharply, eyes darting across the room, breath catching in your throat when you saw him.

Sitting on your bed. On Slade’s bed.

Harvey was leaning back against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other, looking far too comfortable. Like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t the intruder in this equation.

Harvey sat there like he hadn’t broken in, hadn’t shattered what little peace you had left. The moment you stepped out of the shower, still dripping, wrapped only in a towel, you knew, he was waiting for you.

Your fingers clenched around the towel’s edge, jaw tight, pulse pounding.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve," you muttered, stepping further into the room, closing the distance between you and him.

Harvey leaned back against the pillows, one arm draped lazily over the headboard, watching you with something smug, something knowing.

"Had to see you," he said simply. Like it was normal. Like it was nothing.

Your stomach twisted. It was never nothing with Harvey.

"And let me guess," you bit back. "You just let yourself in."

His smirk widened. "Door was unlocked, it’s not breaking and entering if you used to live together."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Bullshit. That’s exactly what it is, Dent. We don't like together anymore. Never did officially either."

Harvey didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze slid lower. Over the damp strands of your hair. Over your throat. Your collarbone. Your bare legs.

You knew that look. It made something ugly stir inside you.

He looked at you, gaze slow, deliberate, taking in every inch of you. The damp strands of hair clinging to your skin. The way the towel barely covered enough to keep you decent.

His lips curled into a smirk. “Don’t stop on my account. Nothing I haven't seen before.”

Your fingers clenched around the towel, pulse thundering. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Harvey let out a quiet chuckle, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Relax, sweetheart. Just thought I’d drop by. Say hello. You wouldn’t answer your phone, so I figured—” he spread his arms in mock innocence, “—why not pay a visit?”

You hated how calm he was. How easy he made it look. Like he hadn’t just broken into your home. Like he hadn't broken your heart. Your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, heart hammering against your ribs. Slade was gone. Gone.

No one was coming. But you could handle yourself. And Harvey knew it. His eyes flickered down your body again, this time slow, calculating. Looking at all the marks and love bites Slade had left the night before. “You always did have a thing for older men,” he mused.

Your jaw clenched. Low blow.

Harvey smirked. “What’s the matter? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Thought you could just run off and play house with Gotham’s favorite mercenary and I’d let it slide?” He tsked, almost disappointed. “That’s not how this works, sweetheart.”

You glared at him. Where did he get the audacity? “You don’t own me. Especially not now. Especially not after what you did. Your apology didn't change anything. You've got no right to be here.”

Harvey’s expression darkened, but only for a second. Then he grinned. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was thinking about him.”

Your stomach twisted. Because you knew what he was doing. He wanted you off balance. He wanted you to doubt. It was working. Because a part of you—a part you hated—was already wondering what Slade would do when he found out. Because he would find out. How jealous would he be? Would he finally drop the whole nonchalant act, ask you to be official?

Harvey’s smirk widened. “You think he’s coming back soon? You waiting for him? That's real cute princess.”

Your throat tightened. “He'll be back tomorrow.”

Harvey shrugged, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How missions can just drag out longer than expected?” His grin turned sharp. Cruel. “Would be a real shame if something happened to keep him… occupied.”

Your blood froze. Harvey watched you, waiting for the realization to sink in. He knew. He knew Slade wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

Your fingers curled into fists and suddenly you were on top of him, fangs bared, “What did you do?”

Harvey simply leaned back, enjoying himself and the view of your almost naked body on top of him. He turned his neck, as if trying to give you more access to him.

Harvey raised an eyebrow. “Now, now. Don’t go blaming me. I didn’t lift a finger.” His grin widened. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know who did.”

Your breath was coming too fast, too shallow, panic creeping up your spine. Slade was gone. Harvey was here. You were trapped. And Harvey knew it. Your pulse pounded. Slade was gone. Harvey was here.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pinning him down harder against the mattress, your fangs bared, breath coming in sharp, furious exhales.

"What did you do?" you hissed again, voice low, dangerous, shaking with barely contained rage.

Harvey smirked up at you, completely unbothered. His eyes gleamed with that same smug amusement, like he was playing with his food.

"Relax, sweetheart," he murmured, voice infuriatingly smooth, teasing. "No need to get all worked up."

You pressed your thighs against his sides, pinning him harder. "Answer me, Harvey."

He let out a slow breath, his smirk twitching, dark amusement flickering across his features. "You always were so determined. I love that about you."

Your fingers tightened, nearly scratching his back, sharp acrylics pressing into his skin through the fabric of his white button down. You didn't want to hurt him, not badly at least.

"Tell me why Slade’s mission is taking so long," you demanded, your weight pressing down on him, your legs gripping him tighter.

Harvey’s hands moved then; sliding slowly up your thighs, gripping just hard enough to make your breath catch.

"You really think I’m gonna make this easy for you?" he murmured, voice dropping to something lower, something thicker with something he wasn’t bothering to hide.

Your stomach flipped, heat creeping down your spine, twisting through your limbs. He knew. He felt it.

His smirk widened, his hips shifting beneath you just slightly.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Throbbing. Pressing against the thin fabric of his slacks, against the barely-there barrier of your towel. You nearly moaned, stop being a slut, you tried to tell yourself.

You froze, just for a second. And Harvey noticed.

You were straddling him, baring your venomous fangs. You could kill him. And he was hard. You could feel it, it was impossible not to, thick, twitching against your inner thigh, pressed right against you.

Your powers didn’t help. They never fucking did. The second you got close enough to feel body heat, it was over. It was a constant hum under your skin, that ache, that need, clawing at your sanity. Your towel barely clinging to your damp skin, the heat of his body seeping into yours, you didn't know how much longer you could hold on.

He let out a low, pleased chuckle, his good hand settling on your waist, just barely gripping. "Didn’t know you missed me this much, sweetheart. Thought you were over me?"

Your nails dug into his chest even harder, but he didn’t flinch. He never fucking did. "Tell me where Slade is," you demanded.

Harvey hummed, mocking. "You sure you wanna talk about him right now?" His fingers flexed against your skin, his smirk widening as he shifted slightly beneath you again. "Because from where I’m sitting, you got bigger problems."

Your breath hitched, and you hated it. Hated the way your traitorous body reacted to him. Hated the way he felt so familiar.

His gaze flickered, taking in the flush on your skin, the way your thighs squeezed involuntarily around him. He felt it too. The heat. The tension. The pull that never really disappeared, no matter how many times you had tried to convince yourself that you were done with him.

"You always were greedy," Harvey murmured, tilting his head, eyes dark with something wicked. He was loving this. "You just can’t get enough, can you?"

Suddenly, you were angry at him again. You remembered Tiffany. Your grip tightened around his wrists, holding him down, pressing harder into him, and his smirk twitched, just slightly.

Good. Let him fucking squirm. "You still think you have control here?" you whispered, lowering your head, your breath grazing the sharp line of his jaw.

His breathing faltered. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, just as quickly, his lips curled again, sharp and taunting.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice deep, smug, full of sin. "As long as youre on top of me or under me, I don't give a shit who's in control."

Your entire body tensed. Your nails dragged down his chest, slow, teasing, right over his shirt. You could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath your fingertips, fast, erratic, out of sync with the smug bastard act he was putting on.

He was burning for you. Just as much as you were for him. But you weren’t going to give in.

"You still think you can do whatever you want to me?" you whispered, leaning in, letting your lips hover just over his.

Harvey’s eyes flickered. A muscle in his jaw ticked. And for the first time since he had shown up, his smirk finally fucking dropped.

You grinned. Then you moved your hips and ran your fingers up and down his chest.

Harvey cursed sharply through his teeth, his grip on your waist tightening instantly, fingers digging into your skin like a vice. His dick twitched against you through his slacks, so fucking hard and aching that you could almost feel the pulse of it.

You let out a slow, breathy chuckle. "Guess you do still want me, huh?"

Harvey’s breathing was uneven. "Careful," he rasped, voice lower, darker, more dangerous now. "You’re playing a real stupid game, princess."

"Why?" you taunted, grinded your hips again, watching the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to snap. "Because you can’t handle it? Because you can’t handle me?"

It was fun being in control. Slade never let you do whatever you wanted to him, barely ever in the bedroom. You loved control, especially when it meant having a man at your mercy beneath you.

Harvey’s eyes flashed. Then, he flipped you. Fast. Brutal.

You barely had time to react before you were the one beneath him , your towel barely hanging onto your body, his hand locked around your wrist, pinning you down, his body hovering over yours, pressing you into the mattress.

His breathing was hard, uneven, tense.

"You really think I don’t know what you’re doing?" he murmured, so close now.

Your chest heaved. You got too cocky, too confident, and now you were paying the price, "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Harvey laughed softly, mocking, brushing his nose against yours. "Liar."

You swallowed, pulse hammering.

"You love this," he said, voice like gravel against your skin. "The attention. The desperation and groveling. You love seeing me beg. The way you talk like you want to kill me, and the next second," his lips ghosted your cheek, his cock pressing hard against your thigh, "you’re grinding against me like a fucking addict."

Your breath hitched. His grip tightened.

"He ever let you get on top?" he murmured, lips just barely grazing yours.

Your stomach twisted. "Don't."

His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Did you think about me when he had you at first? Did you close your eyes and pretend it was my hands on you even after I broke your heart? Should I tell him that?"

Your nails dug into his shoulder, your body betraying you, the heat between your legs only getting worse, stronger, overwhelming, unbearable.

"You wish," you rasped, but it sounded too breathless, too shaky.

Harvey smirked. He knew. "Say you don’t miss me," he challenged.

You clenched your jaw, turning your head away, trying to ignore the way your body burned beneath his.

"Say it," he demanded.

You tried to, but the words wouldn't come out.

Harvey hummed. Then, his fingers slid lower, trailing along your bare thigh, teasing the hem of the towel.

"Yeah," he mused, smug and cruel. "That’s what I thought."

His fingers flexed against your thighs, his grip tightening.

"Little desperate, aren’t you?" he murmured, his voice thick with something smug, something rough.

You scoffed, but your heart was hammering, your body betraying you. "If I was desperate," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips were just barely brushing against his, taunting, teasing. "You’d already be inside me."

Harvey let out a low groan. He flipped you back around, giving you full control. Letting you be on top. You lost yourself for a moment, lost the plot. You melted into him and began kissing his neck slowly and unbuttoning his shirt as you slowly moved against him. But then, you saw the picture frame you hung of you and Slade, right behind Harvey.

Slade made you take down all the photos whenever he went away on a mission, in case someone broke in and saw them, and decided to hurt you to get back at him. It was the only one you refused to remove.

It was of you and him, two months ago. Slade had a mission in Paris and he let you tag along, after you were done, you made him go to an ice cream shop. Some sweet old man asked if you wanted a picture together, Slade wasn't smiling, barely even smirking, but you could see the happiness in his eyes as he had his arms around your waist, looking down at you.

You felt nauseous, all the arousal you felt was gone. You were a whore. How could you do this to Slade? You stopped moving as your eyes watered, what if Harvey had done something to him?

Harvey's hands snapped up, gripping your hips, grinding you down onto him. He wasn't gonna let you stop now.

"Fuck, baby, I forgot how good you are at this. Don't stop, please." he exhaled, almost begging, his jaw tightening, his cock pulsing against you.

You bit your lip, trying to fight the heat clawing through your body, the way your nerves lit up at the sheer pressure of him beneath you. It felt so good. You were horny again. But you could use this to your advantage, Harvey wanted you even more that you wanted him.

"Tell me," you whispered, rolling your hips just slightly, torturing him. "Tell me what you mean when you say Slade's occupied.."

Harvey’s smirk curled, his hands dragging you down harder, making you feel every inch of him. " What’s it worth to you?"

Your breath hitched. Harvey’s fingers trailed up your back, slow, possessive, teasing. "You wanna make sure your merc comes back in one piece?"

You swallowed hard, your body thrumming with frustration, anger, something else. All control you had was slipping, your powers were making you horny but they weren't working. Harvey wasn't listening to what you told him to do.

"Make me happy, sweetheart. If I’m happy," his smirk deepened, his voice dripping with dark amusement. " the bastard stays alive."

Your chest tightened, heat roaring up your spine, burning you from the inside out. You hated him. You wanted him. You needed to keep Slade alive. Harvey’s hands slid lower, his thumbs tracing slow, burning circles into your skin.

"Make a decision, pretty girl, his flight leaves soon." he murmured, his dick twitched against you, heavy with need. God, how could he be horny while threatening your teacher/ mentor /situationship's life?

You couldn’t lose Slade.

So you kissed him. Hard. Desperate.

Harvey groaned against your lips, his hands flying up to grip your waist, dragging you down harder against him, practically trying to merge your bodies together.

"That’s my girl," he muttered, his voice rough, victorious, possessive.

Your stomach burned with shame, with need, with something twisted and terrible. You hated him. You loved him.

You needed Slade to live.

But you couldn't do this to Slade, couldn't betray him on the bed you shared every night. He would be livid, what would he do in this situation? Probably kill Harvey. But you weren't Slade, you weren't as brave or as cruel as him.

So you did what you do best: You ran.

You jumped off of Harvey, punching him in the nose, still only in your towel that somehow stayed on, and shut the bedroom door in his face. You had powers, you were faster than Harvey, maybe even stronger than him. You made it to the front door in seconds, but your heart dropped as you saw the three new deadbolts.

Fucking Slade. You debated letting him die at that point.

Suddenly, you felt him behind you, grabbing you and pinning you against the door.

“Goddamn,” He laughed, amused, mocking, “you really thought that would work?”

You snarled, struggling harder, but he didn’t budge. His grip only tightened.

“Let me go, Harvey.”

His breath hitched at the way you said his name. Not Dent. Not Two-Face. Not some alias meant to keep distance. Just Harvey.

And it made something in his chest clench. His fingers flexed, his other hand dragging up your spine in a slow, deliberate motion, making you shudder.

“You always run, don’t you?” His voice was low, smooth—but there was something dangerous beneath it. “Always running from someone.”

His grip tightened on your wrists, pressing them into the wall, “From them. From me. From yourself.”

You hated how well he knew you. You hated that he was right. You hated how he got you into bed willingly even as the guilt ate you up. You hated how good he made you feel, how you couldn't bring yourself to say no. If you did, he would stop, and you didn't want that.

"Don't act like you don't want me now. You were all over me not even a minute ago." He sneered, as he ripped off your towel like it offended him.

You didn't know how many times you came, or how long you went for. You felt so good, but somehow you've never felt worse. Even as Harvey made you scream his name, you thought of how Slade would react.

You felt even worse as the night wore on, and instead of rough sex, you began to make love. Harvey buried his face in your neck as he muttered apologies, still buried inside you, and swore he would make it up to you.

You began to cry, it felt so good. But it was so wrong, so disgusting.

And you knew you never felt true regret until you woke up the next morning in Harvey Dent's arms, naked on the bed you slept on with Slade Wilson.

WHAT YALL THINK?? 1-10?? ALSO COMMENT DOWN BELOW TO BE ON THE TAGLIST FOR THIS STORY

[crispywriter]

Gale Dekarios is a quiet kind of beautiful.

When you'd first met—pulled him headfirst into you from within the depths of that unstable portal—you truly hadn't thought all that much of him. Not to say that you weren't immediately aware of the man's handsomeness, but the tadpole squirming within your brain, threatening to change you into an unfeeling monster was top priority in that particular moment.

As the weeks had passed and you'd gotten to know him, opened your heart toward him, deepened your trust and eventually fell madly, completely, utterly in love with him—every little detail about the wonderful wizard was revealed to you and to your surprise, you fall impossibly deeper for him with every passing day.

Now, as you sit lounging across the worn old bench on the balcony outside your shared home in Waterdeep, legs sprawled over his knees, you've completely forgotten whatever ancient tome it is Professor Dekarios has asked you to look over in favour of admiring the way the late afternoon sun falls upon his face.

He's gotten softer now—the months of sleeping in comfortable beds and eating balanced meals treating him much kinder than the roughness of the time spent travelling to Baldur's Gate, and he's told you he wasn't much better before, when he'd spent so long worried over his potential to bring an end to an entire city. Your eyes linger on the shapely curve of his neck, the strength of his jaw, the wisdom of the creases and lines on his face—his eyebrows are furrowed as he reads, his growing hair half swept back into a knot behind his head, warm sunlight catching in his eyelashes and making him appear almost ethereal.

"I know you're staring." Gale breaks the comfortable silence, turning his head just slightly toward you and tapping his glasses up his nose. The spectacles are a welcome addition, you think, adding to both your devilish fantasies and the overwhelming love toward him. "You're supposed to be helping me decipher that. I've got exams to prepare."

"How am I to focus on translating Infernal when you're sitting here looking the way you do?" You bite back, nothing but adoration in your tone.

"Looking like what?" He turns his head to you fully now, strands of hair falling about his lovely tanned skin, the deep chocolatey brown catching the sun just as his lashes had, lighting it golden.

"Gods, I don't know if there's a word that would suffice—an angel, perhaps?" You hum and close the book you were supposed to be reading.

He'd told you once that with you he forgets his goddess. With him you forget every other divine being in all of the realm's histories.

Gale flushes a delightful shade of red, tutting his tongue to his teeth and shaking his head slightly. "You and your ridiculous..." He trails off, "you haven't happened upon another mindflayer tadpole by chance?"

"Disgusting, and no, I assure you these thoughts are entirely my own." You grin, shuddering at the phantom feeling of something wriggling about inside your head. "What? I can't compliment you now without you doubting me?"

"Your compliments I can handle." Gale chuckles as he turns his attention back to his book, his eyelashes lighting up gold once more. "Your flattery—though once I thoroughly enjoyed—I now find myself unable to accept."

You almost pout at that, but knowing where the professor's proud nature had come from and all the years of trying to live up to—what were by all intents and purposes—unreasonable expectations, you swallow it down and instead swing your legs around and scoot closer to your beloved's warm body, the navy silk shirt he wears loose on his body, the buttons popped open lower than he'd allow under any other circumstances, and you take the opportunity to slip your hand inside and rest your palm over the steady beat of his heart. It stutters when your proximity increases and Gale releases a sigh that begins confident but loses strength somewhere in the middle.

"Darling, I'm busy." His voice wavers. You smile and nudge your nose against the softness of his hair, right by his ear.

"Ignore me." You whisper, delighted at the way the wizard shivers in response, your thumb rubbing lazy half-moons on his chest, your other arm going around his neck until your hand finds purchase on his shoulder, squeezing at the tension in his muscles. "Relax. Pretend I'm not even here."

"By the Weave—"

You smile and begin to kiss across his temple, stretching your neck up as your nose presses into his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and worn book pages, plain soap and the underlying crisp smell of magic that tickles your nose as you press your lips to his skin. Both your arms go around his neck and you cup the opposite side of his face in your hand, trying not to disturb his spectacles too much as you adorn his soft cheeks with sweet smooches, humming happily as he tries his very best to continue to focus but still leans into your touch.

"My love..." Gale gives another sigh, this one sounding almost defeated as he turns his head and allows you to trail your pathway of kisses toward his lips. "You're being rather unfair."

"Unfair?" Your smile only grows as you tangle your fingers into your lover's hair and tease his mouth with your own, your lips barely brushing his. "It's not my fault you're unable to resist me."

He keens into your feather-light kisses, his mouth parting as he breathes you in, eyelids fluttering closed and his book almost forgotten—his determination so quickly abandoned now you've got him twisted around your fingertips. You hum softly and gently comb your fingers through Gale's hair, dodging his neediness to nuzzle your way back up the side of his face, your nose skimming his glasses as you press a kiss between his creased brows.

"My sweet girl..." You shuffle closer, expertly maneuvering into a kneeling position, vaguely aware of the professor finally placing his book down on the small table beside the bench before his curious hands come over to slide up your thighs and hips. "Love of my life—closer please, please—"

You smile wide at the endearment, carefully slipping your leg over the wizard's and sitting down, comfortably straddling his thighs. "I thought I was a distraction?" You gently untie the knot in his hair and let the soft strands fall free about your beloved's face before you comb your fingers through it slowly, stretching forward to press gentle kisses in his hairline every time you see a grey hair—so you end up kissing him a lot.

"Oh, you most certainly are." Gale closes his eyes as you shower him with affection, your nails lightly scratching at his scalp, his arms looping around your waist as you lean your weight into his solid body. "But a welcome one nonetheless."

💫

just thinking about how much i love this man

[azurem]

IM SORRY. IF SOMBD ALREADYY ASKED ABT IT buuuuut what's your take on inkmare first kiss or confession??? Chaos chaos, evil chaos

Uhhh. i do not remember well to be honest. I remember asking how the first kiss would be, however!

My take on the confession is that it was the one that happened first, when the relationship still was somewhat unilateral. Nightmare realized he had somewhat of a crush, and, assuming it was something about possessiveness (aka he thought it was a childish whim he wanted to quell), quickly proceeded to action. Like. Second truce done, friendship established and he didn't take long to confess.

I assume it was a mix of you-do-this-to-me + a try-to-sell-something-to-you kind of talk? Like. He wasn't quite sure if Ink reciprocated (which was kinda the situation) so he was sure to market himself and his question like something beneficial (though he was still kinda grumpy with it cuz he also has the unconscious thought that the crush existing™ was an act done against him. Like, the thought that this was Ink's fault and that he had to take at least some responsability about it)

I imagine it was quite attractive (of an offer). And Ink did find it entertaining enough he accepted. I imagine it happened when they were in one of their recreational meetings (aka probs reading inside nm's library or inside a geno au) likeeee

"...I've made a mistake," Nightmare said. Ink looked up at him from his place, sitting cross legged on the floor. They placed the book down. "This— a horrible mistake."

Ink just stared at him. The question marks of their eyes made him die a bit. They smiled at him. "C'mon, you're a confessed torturer. Can't be that serious."

But it was. He briefly considered sitting down, just to see them eye to eye, but Ink was already up and coming closer. The motion resulted on their elbows resting on his desk, their torso leaning forward.

"Hmmm?"

He really should have planned a better scenery for this kind of thing. Still, he couldn't let himself be intimidated, much less so when Ink was being so brave about it. "You're cruel."

This was not the response they expected. Nightmare saw him get their arms back to their sides, their back straightening. Ink's lost face stared back at him, their eyes wider than usual.

"You—" he couldn't help the way his hand shielded his mouth for a moment, as if he couldn't figure out the reason why his voice was acting. "You're— all I think about, now."

He had to fight against the instinctual need to hide himself like a child. It was sickening. He had vowed to himself to never let himself feel this small. And yet.

"You plague my mind," Nightmare said —as his hand went down from his mouth, it landed on his chest, squeezing the fabric with the need to touch— "since when, I don't know."

Ink's breath hitched with realization, flustered like one who'd suddenly find their seed peeking out from the ground in leaves. Oh. Oh!

"I don't know how," Nightmare continued, something like bitterness on his tongue before it cleared to something warmer. "But you've— you've enthralled me. I want you. As such, I need you."

"...huh."

"If you want me to beg—" Nightmare took a moment. Whatever he was about to say died in his mouth. "All I need now is a promise. An attempt. Anything."

"This is— hm. This— y'know—" Ink fidgeted with his hands, surprised when he found his cheeks warm. It was a sickening, horrible feeling. It tasted purple in his mouth, it tasted pink. The same feeling willed him to cover his mouth with both hands, unwilling to let it out on the floor.

When Nightmare looked at him cover himself as if he had something to hide, Ink felt something new. A new type of fear he never knew before. Why?

"...Of course," Nightmare said after a moment. He had never seen Ink turn those colors before. He wondered if this view would become familiar to him. "This means that if you accept, I'll make sure you're taken care of."

Ink looked at him with a type of confusion so sharp it was almost disgusted. "...Huh?"

"A truce between lovers would be quite a solid thing, don't you believe?" He said dryly, his fingers twitching with the dread of someone who hasn't been told yes. "Whatever you need, I'll acquire it for you. Whatever you want, you'll have. But you'll give yourself to me."

"But not the AUs," Ink said after a moment. He couldn't distinguish the emotion in his own voice as he put his hands down. "You wouldn't stop your show just to have me, won't you?"

"I'm afraid not," Nightmare said. His eye looked down on them. He couldn't help but smile bitterly. "Of course not. You'll make no slave out of me."

"...You're funny," Ink murmured. "I like you. You're— you're intriguing, dynamic. I'd like to know where your character arc is going. I like your color palette."

"...Is that a yes?"

Ink sighed. (It was a yes.)

[nightscythe]

dark sides of the primarchs' relationships

some of these are very dark (esp lorgar, angron, ferrus I guess) but I wanted to represent some of the less enjoyable themes in their relationships. some are kind of obvious, but I wanted to expand a little. again, it's how I write them, so you may not necessarily agree!!

18+ below the cut pls, it's sfw but some themes of death, obsession, etc, mostly pre-heresy

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the lion: struggles to interpret his feelings and often mistakes them as needs - namely, sexual need, but really any physical need. the heavy feeling in his heart because he hasn't seen you for weeks? must be because he had become used to your presence and his body must adapt to being without you. the burning in his chest when someone else dares to speak to you with a more suggestive tone? well, its not jealousy, it is his body telling him he needs you. overtime this would start to go, he would learn to interpret feelings in a more emotional way, but realistically he would need to care enough to want to try in the first place. he would always struggle though, turning every single one of his feelings about love into his duty. you're his responsibility, everyone else is a threat.

fulgrim: whilst it is obvious that his desire for perfection may have an impact on you, it has an equal burden on him. he always doubts himself, always taking a pessimistic view of both himself as a lover and to relationships as a whole. and your reassurance may never be enough, even if you do mean it and he seeks it out. he will always make each gift, each speech, each act of love bigger to meet his own desire to be better. and really? it can become more exhausting than anything. especially if he is always trying to prove himself and it sometimes starts to feel artificial. there would be a breaking point though where he finally realises to you, he is perfect, and there is nothing else he needs to do. but there is always that little, teeny doubt.

perty: trust issues will get to him more than anything. he'd need someone who has so much patience that it wears you down, but ultimately it would be worth it. the worst part is that he wouldn't often share how he feels, he keeps it to himself and sits brewing thoughts in his own head that you may just be like everyone else and not truly care. he'd keep it from you, never uttering a word, silently letting it all fester until it gets too much. and breaking down that wall he builds from his own thoughts would take a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of letting him work things out on his own. that's probably the biggest issue - he has a lot of time, something you may not as easily afford.

the khan: his idea of love is different. in a good way, maybe, but different to others. love for him is choice, and he will not restrict you to it. if you want to leave him, then go. if you want to spend a day without him, then do so. he'd really need someone who can deal with his laid back approach (or more so, his promotion of freedom above all other things) to love. that can be tough. his free spirit may just be too free to some people, and that's just what life is like. don't expect reassurance or speeches of his feelings, they are not happening. he's quick to make his decisions, his conclusions, and he's quick to temper. in the right conditions, this can make a storm. if anything ever goes bad.. good luck.

leman: it flips with him, very sudden, very easily. one day he's so enamoured, so utterly floored by everything you do that he's got massive heart eyes and following you around like a puppy. other times he's in his own world, following his own free spirit, that it can make you feel neglected. all of this just ends up causing more and more anxiety, unknowingly to him, and obviously to you. its all unintentional of course, he loves you so deeply. and his love itself? it's raw. he's so set on being stoic and strong but he is fragile too. he fears the worst, his emotions are never waste. everything he feels he shows directly to you. that can be overwhelming; all of this is overwhelming. especially when you could wake up one day and he's gone to do something without any warning, not evening thinking that you notice.

dorn: he's cold. he's so cold that it burns. or... is that the raging fire inside just reaching through the cracks? words mean nothing to him, and it can be difficult to truly know where you stand. he would never say he loves you, he would make you feel like he didn't ever need you, but should you ever leave? he'd tear the imperium down brick by brick until he had you back with him. it's unknowing to him. a duty. an unspoken loyalty. he doesn't believe in anything being temporary, so you're with him for life now. even if he never says it. and its the fact it's just actions, ones which may not mean anything to you, that makes it so hard. the door he gifted you with a heavy duty lock may be strange to you, but you did tell him you were worried about someone breaking in...

curze: does not feel he can be loved. he thinks he deserves it, but he never thinks anyone would dare. he thinks any affection shown to his is out of selfish fear and the second an opportunity presents itself, that love and affection would be gone. so he worries. he worries you are just like everyone else. makes assumptions, accusations, tells you that he thinks you're lying. probably because in the past he felt he should be loved and forced it out of people. he never once stops to think that maybe you lay beside him, you hold his hand, you take care of him, because you want to. it doesn't make sense to him, not without proof, or time, or anything to support your case. he'd get it eventually, he'd stop spending nights awake convinced you'll leave him when you sleep peacefully beside him with no intention of going.

sanguinius: his foresight is a burden, knowing what will happen to him means his guards are up. he would always be devoted, and he would carry the burden of fate to know he had shown you love in a way that mattered. but the sleepless nights would come, knowing the heartbreak would follow. especially at first, he'd try so hard, he'd want to protect others, you, from the fallout of fate. he'd never wanted you to see him in a way as more than a guardian, protector even, but it was inevitable. especially being who he is. and he would keep it to himself, and it would eat him up inside. he'd want to give you an easier way out, a ending where his death was the lesser of two evils, but he could never bring himself to leave. not before fate forced his hand.

ferrus: he has to make you better. you though fulgrim was obsessed with perfection? imagine that, but reversed, and intensified by a thousand. ferrus can make you better. he can make you stronger, he can make you everything you ever wanted. and over time, as he improves you, makes you need to know that he's impressed with you, it changes you. he's unrelenting. and it's not that he doesn't love you. oh, he loves you so so much. but there's a part of him that thinks his encouragement, his desire for your perfection, it helps you. together you can be the perfect couple, but not because of beauty or looks. then it feels like you're a project to him, little more than a toy for him to work on each and every day. and he'd let you go. he'd give you the choice, be free of him, but you'd hesitate. could you ever really be without him again?

angron: he only knows war. pain. death. love is so... small to him. he doesn't understand how to be gentle, how to replicate the love some of his brothers will. but he doesn't want to hurt you, either. and it shows. he will not hurt you, he will not make you feel pain, but he would die for you. and would you die for him? well. if you wouldn't, he would make you. love for him is a reflection of the strongest emotions he feels. the words he associates with it are different. violence. he'd kill anyone who stood between you. desperation. it's a feeling he can't describe as anything other than need. consuming. it grinds on him, wears him down, until he treats it the exact same way as everything else he feels. you're his, and you will become a part of him, whether you want to or not.

rob: it should be easy to him, but its not, and that makes him feel worse. he's not stupid, he can process love and emotion. yet... why does it feel so hard? he always feels like he is doing something wrong, always expression too little in case he reveals too much, whilst always trying to make up for something he fumbled already. its a vicious cycle. the reality of the situation is he's torn in every direction, he's needed by so many people, that he doesn't have time for love. yet he would fight to the very end of time to show it to you. and it exhausts him to no end. he'd just need a little patience, he'd very much enjoy if instead of something require brain or body power, he could just rest with you in his arms, enjoy the peace, but when that's every single evening, it could become a little hard

morty: he carries around a lot of anger and it's not always easy to hide. like a bitter old woman who sneers at kids for stepping on her lawn, but deep down she has a heart bigger than anyone - she just doesn't like it when he things are messed up. probably a bad analogy. the smallest things annoy him and he's got a quick temper. he constantly has to remind himself to check his own feelings, assess if he's reacting appropriately, then actually respond. so sometimes, it can feel artificial, like it's a brave face he puts on, and eventually you'll just want to know the real him. and you can, but it may not be as easily heard or understood. with time he would get better, he'd balance his emotions with your help, but until then it may never feel 100% real.

magnus: the poor guy, he just doesn't think (how obvious, I know). his actions are well intended but the way he comes across is a mixed bag. you're proud of something you've done or learned and in the spirit of sharing your achievement he does it in one try... or he tells you a more advance version of a spell with the intention of helping you but... it just comes across as him belittling you. like you were never good enough for him, that he is so so much better than you and his standard is so far above you. in reality, he's just happy, he's sharing those things because he thinks it will help you. he's worried that he's not good enough for you. he feels like he has to prove himself, to show you just everything he's capable of, elevate the two of you, together. aww :(

horus: he knows about his charisma. like a beacon that sits on his head and forces everyone to like him. and that makes him question the reality of everyone around him. are you nice to him because he's Horus, or because you want to be nice to him? are you kissing him because he's Horus, or because you want to kiss him? it's a guessing game that he is losing. he truly believes that those closest to him do not care, and overtime he has developed trust issues beyond saving. he'd never show it though, but inside everything can feel like a lie. he'd have a way to work it out though - he's not stupid - but his way is long and extended, tests and games which may not be appreciated, and it may feel like you need to prove to him why you care about him. was your love not enough? it was. but he just needed to know it wasn't manufactured by that damn beacon.

lorgar: love... its something different for him. it's not love. it's reverence. you become everything to him, his faith, his truth, his gospel. you become divine to him in every way, perfection incarnate, holy as the gods around him. and for that reason, it is all written in fate for him. you are meant to be with him, you are meant to stand by his side. he would build temples in your name, he would burn planets to the ground if it meant you were happy. he would destroy worlds to bring you what you wanted. but, if you are unhappy with that? if you do not accept his love and devotion? that's heresy. that's denying the truth. and escaping him, it can only come through death. his one is quite dark, i'm very sorry about that. unless you like it, then happy to help.

vulkan: he wouldn't have many faults, aside from obvious primarch things, but I think he's full of worry. not insecurity, but concern, always worried about you, always thinking he may hurt you, worried that the feats he puts himself through may have an unnecessary effect on you. he knows that he puts himself in danger but he can't stop himself, he know your concern that maybe just one time, he won't come back - but he will still test the limits anyway. he'd never show you every part of him, afraid it may just be too much for you, and though he's never hiding anything sinister, he'd always be hiding something. and you know it. and he'd smile, assuring you its nothing. it's literally just something like he's never tried kissing you in a certain way in case he hurts you. or he was wounded fatally again but he's okay. probably better if he just tells you... but secrets in the name of happiness, I guess.

corax: sometimes he goes, for days. for weeks, months even. some may even question whether you've just made it up in your own head. it's not that he doesn't care, or he doesn't love you, but... he got lost in his own head. what he needed to do. and it doesn't help that when you are together, he's cold, he's reserved, and its like you've never even met before sometimes. he can handle all of this, he's secure in his feelings and is loyal to you beyond anyone else, but can you? it's not that he would abandon you, or betray you, but when you've waited for him to come him for months and there's still no sign of him, your thoughts may start to go somewhere less pleasant. you can ask him to stop, but it's never permanent, even when he's fully opened to you emotionally - he'd unintentionally fill you with doubt.

alpharius: oh its a bit of a mindfuck. one loves you, one doesn't. one whispers sweetly in your ear, one just whispers. one touches your shoulder and catches the tips of his fingers on the curve of your neck, the other one just touches your shoulder. it's little things. barely noticeable at first. something the everyday person would have just shrugged off. but after time, you do notice. that's not Alpharius. and it makes you mad. to think he sent someone else in his place? he had to, and you'd never understand, but he hates it as much as you. do you know how badly he wants it to be him that is with you each day? how insulting it is to know that he was sharing you? it drives him to the brink of insanity. it's truly the worst feeling in the world. but there's nothing you can do about it, and you'll have to live with knowing that maybe the man next to you isn't the alpharius you love.

˗ˏˋ 𓅰 ˎˊ˗

[nabi-unveiled]

With each rewatch of When It Rains, It Pours, I had become increasingly uncomfortable. A question had begun to plague me.

How did I miss it?

It's no secret that I've been in the "don't trust Fujisawa" camp for a while. But I felt bad for him during the early episodes. After all, it really is a nightmare situation for him too. Why did it take me until my THIRD watch of ep4 to fully convince myself of Fujisawa's nature?

Missing sounds? Not a surprise.

But COMPLETELY missing something that's literally GLARING at me? Not even having it on my radar? That's unusual.

I always have multiple theories and numerous potential scenarios running in my head. It's not like I was watching this series casually.

And make no mistake - the man's been glaring since episode 1. It wasn't constant, but the glaring is not a new development.

Even Fujisawa's words have never been subtle.

So how did I miss it? Why did it take me so long?

I realized the answer yesterday, and I don't like it.

I missed the signs, because I was trained to miss them.

I see these dynamics all the time in my community. And when you see something all the time, you begin to notice it less.

Being uncomfortable with sex?

Growing up ensconced in purity culture means I know A LOT of people with very complex relationships with sex.

Some want it but would NEVER dare talk about it.

Some see it as something shameful.

Some see it as something to be feared.

It's what happens when you're constantly told libido is a swamp.

So this...

I didn't see it as a problem beyond them wanting different things. Either Fujisawa was ace or had issues with sex. He had been open about it with Sei, and he was doing the best he could.

This is fine as long as both parties are content. But Fujisawa is controlling and manipulative. Note the "bars" in the picture above.

Matching your partner's preferences?

I was taught catering to my partner's commands was an expectation. It was required to be a "good" partner. So this....

At one point WAS me. And even if I don't obey the rules anymore, I still see this type of "consideration" in most relationships around me.

IT'S NOT HEALTHY.

Consideration should not mean self-sacrifice.

At one point I thought, "Well, it's Sei's choice."

And that's true. But I know better than to fall for that logic.

It ignores his trauma.

It ignores his low self-esteem.

It ignores his fear of being left alone.

It ignores the difficulty of leaving those you care about and the life you know.

It ignores the manipulation.

Because this type of statement? It's tricky. It can be completely innocuous. But it can also be controlling, and a lot of that comes down to the power dynamics of the relationship.

Fujisawa holds the power here. He HAS been controlling and trying to manipulate Sei. I questioned last week what the purpose was of the editor if Fujisawa wasn't having an affair. However, it became clear when watching for the sizzle. Sei says he will go to the party and Fujisawa IMMEDIATELY says "I'll introduce you to my editor."

The unspoken words are if you don't go to the party. Mentioning the editor was a manipulation tactic. A subtle one, but it was there.

I give Sei credit. He went to the party. He kept emailing Hagiwara. He pushes back on occasion. He doesn't always follow commands.

But well.... damn.

I thought I could at least recognize when my raising was influencing interpretations. I thought I had worked through those issues.

So thanks When it Rains for reminding me not to forget my ID.

I sure as hell don't plan on getting trapped in that room again.

Break out Sei. It's not easy, but BREAK OUT.

There's a beautiful world waiting.

[angelsdean]

hot take maybe but actually i do expect my mom to comfort me and make me an ice cream sundae when i’m sad even when i get to 40 and she’s 70. my grandma does that for her still. it’s not. limiting her. it’s not saying she only has to be my mommy. i have taken care of her too. it’s saying we love each other and want to take care of each other. mary struggling to be able to interact with grown up sam and dean was very very valid and understandable and i love her for it. she also could’ve maybe tried a little more anyway. they could’ve lent on each other. idk.

Yea i've said before that I think it's a bit outrageous the way people seem to think someone stops being a parent once their child reaches adulthood. Maybe it's a cultural thing, I don't know, but the whole idea of "once your kid turns 18 they're out the door and not your problem anymore" is so deeply flawed IMO. But yea I focus more on "debunking" the claim that Dean expects some sort of motherly coddling / babying from Mary because that seems to be the deancrit take I see the most with regards to this arc / the "i'm not just a mom" scene.

But for sure many people seem to have some weird ideas IMO about what it means to be a parent. Like I think you can feel for Mary and understand that parents can and are more than just parents, but also understand that they will never stop BEING a parent either. Their kids will always be their kids. It's why people always say being a parent is a full time job, not something to go into lightly, that you should be sure you actually want kids and understand that having them is a lifelong commitment etc etc. And having kids makes them become your priority, even when you want to be selfish you always have to try to put them first. Obviously that lessens as they grow up but like, if your adult child were injured or had some kind of health issue / challenges as a parent it's still your job to be there for them, to support them, to care for them. That doesn't just end at 18. It's why *I* know that even though I like the idea of kids I probably never will have any because it's so much responsibility and because those kids are always always going to come first, forever! That's kind of part of the parental "contract" IMO. And even when they're adults, a parent should still be the one person in the world your kid can turn to, rely on, seek comfort in.

And I understand these expectations are complicated in this particular narrative by the fact that Mary died young and is not equipped to be a mother to adults. I think that's such a delicious component that I wish they leaned into more. She is grieving her babies. She is allowed to feel those feelings and feel confused and unsure and struggle with accepting this new dynamic with her children. But a big part of Mary's arc in s12, which culminates in 12x22 with "I need you to see me" is that she is the one stuck in the past, needing to accept her reality and "SEE" her children for who they are now. That's what the arc is moving towards, that acceptance. And after s12 we see her and Dean have a better relationship. We see her still getting to be Mary the person AND Mary the "mom." She hunts, she comes and goes, but she's someone Dean can talk to, share a meal with, spend time together. It's what he always wanted most. He tells her in 14x11 that "just knowing you're around, that you're alive has meant everything to me."

Anyways, I won't ramble about all that again because I've made a bunch of posts about it already. But yes, I think it's normal for Dean (and Sam) to want Mary to comfort them, do nice things for them, the way any parent or really a family member in general might do. They are not asking for kisses on their boo-boos and getting tucked into bed with a bedtime story, which is how a lot of deancrit posts read. What they want is some sort of familial reciprocal care. Like the way Dean spends quality time with those he loves. The way he baked a cake for Jack. Cooks for his family. The way he gives people gifts. The way he fixes Cas's truck. The way he calls to check in on people. He doesn't do these things out of some obligation or playing some "role", he does them because he cares. Because he loves his family, and that's just what family does for each other.

Someone in my tags last night said it very well that what Dean really wanted was just, another family member, to spend time with, to share their joys and burdens with. Someone like Bobby, that he could turn to if he needed. Bobby was a parent figure but he wasn't "parenting" them, y'know? He was someone Dean could lean on, but he didn't expect Bobby to shoulder all his burdens. And I think that's what Dean wants most. Just someone he can lean on and rely on, since he's been having to be the strong one for everyone his whole life.

[charmwasjess]

for our good friend dooku, 16, 21&22, and 6 if you have more to say about it. 🙏🙇‍♂️

OH YOU JUST COME INTO MY ASK BOX AND MAKE MY DAY?!! :D Beloved anon, these are SUCH fun questions and I absolutely had a blast answering them. Thank you so much! Stop by anytime and I’ll make you a cup of coffee! (I have tea too, but my taste in tea is real gross.)

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

Ohh, this is a hard one! 

The thing is, while I have my favorites, I find Dooku soo very shippable with a vast number of characters - not because he has any healthy understanding of his own sexual and emotional needs anymore than he has a healthy relationship with food - but because especially in his Sith era, he’s a black hole of need and loneliness. Sex is like the one way Sith are allowed to access the intimacy that fifty years of Jedi communal life has trained him to want and need. 

The ship for him that I absolutely love-hate in that vein is Sidious/Dooku. I doubt it went much further than a few absolutely debased encounters because let’s be honest, Sidious can do much better and isn’t in the habit of letting his dog eat from his plate, but whoof, what a fun, fucked up ship with nasty power dynamics. “Oh nooo, oh no, awful….where’s the link?” energy.

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

I love giving Dooku big, often violent, over the top moments where his natural appetite for chaos comes out. 

Dooku gives you these amazing options as a fanfic writer. He’s so high drama. A huge part of his reserve and composure is that there’s an absolute volcano of feeling bubbling under the crust.

The things he says are absurd and beautiful, poetic and horrific, hilarious and awkward. You can push the character further than you expect, and he’ll go with you in surprising places in a piece of writing if you let him show off. This is a character who loves attention and has the natural talent and chaos to back up his own bullshit. If you can get his sound and feel right, there’s almost nothing you can’t do with him - because a core part of Dooku is the unreliable narrator: even he doesn’t always know what he’s about to do. 

I think the hardest part is his “voice” because Christopher Lee had such a distinctive cadence - it’s not just a British accent, it’s early 20th century British, who grew up bilingual and went on to speak like literally 7 different languages fluently, with a supremely deep voice, who wanted to sing opera but only got half-trained before WWII ruined that dream for him. It’s a very unique sound.

I like “my” Dooku voice in my fics and I’m proud of it; I work really hard on it and it’s why I use him as a POV character most often. But I still look at my own fics and have those record needle scratch moments where I know a line of his needs to get reworked. It’s a constant process.

The Christopher Lee accent also could not be MORE different than my own rural American one. There’s a hilarious-awful story in Lee’s autobiography, Lord of Misrule, about him getting stopped by a patrol of Americans in WWII who absolutely do not believe he’s English and they start trying to speak German to him. He goes, “you don’t have to speak German, you know, I’m fairly capable of understanding English, since that’s what I am.” 

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to this character? Something you don't like?

I love it when fics do a realistic job of letting Dooku be the walking contradiction he is. Two of my favorite Dooku fics right now are Pray My Mind Be Good to Me and Galaxies Far Far Away May Be Closer Than They Appear - both feature Dooku written in this way. He has done or is going to do horrific shit - shit that cannot be changed and has real consequences. In both fics, he’s also portrayed vividly, a "real person," full of genuine emotion, vulnerability, and deep investment in the other characters. Love is a part of his betrayal and betrayal is a part of his love. These two things exist in the character simultaneously in queasy, gorgeous combination. 

As far as what I don’t like, I don’t know, I think Dooku is a tremendously intimidating character to write and I’m impressed by anyone who takes a crack at writing him! I’d encourage anyone to give it a shot. 

I have one really small weird pet peeve, and that’s giving him too much stuffy, uptight rich guy cliche. Dude was a mud-grubbing mission Jedi for 50 years, himself raised by a swamp troll, who went on to train two of the most chaotic Jedi. He’s eaten more bugs than Anakin, and I'll die on that hill.

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

I went pretty broad on my other answer, so I’ll tell you two lil' things!

I’m tall (ironically I’m about Sifo-Dyas’s canon height, a character whose legit tallness is often overlooked cause he’s standing next to Dooku–) and I pull a ton of my own experiences into how I write the way he moves or his little gestures, especially how small he can fold up when he’s feeling vulnerable. There’s a unique tall person awkwardness that comes from experiencing the adolescent growth spurt right at the time when it’s the most emotionally unbearable to be physically conspicuous. 

I didn’t realize I shared his exercise-away-the-strong-emotion thing until I was chatting with @bolithesenate about some fic or something, and said something offhand like “too upset about Sifo-Dyas, gotta go for a run” and she was like “uh, Jess? are you QUOTING your own Dooku characterization here?” :O Don't call me out like that, bro!! Do not perceive me!

[messrsrarchives]

Hello! I adore your blog and your yaps so much I’ve been following you for a few months now and I first wanted to tell you that you do so much good! So, a huge thanks to you for using your platform for trans topics/Palestine/as well as fandom etiquette/awareness and for just being amazing!

All things aside though, I do have a question! I was wondering what your opinion on @the-dead-gay-oscars was. I stumbled upon it recently and felt kind of an icky feeling about it, because it just feels like another way of comparing fanfic to mainstream media when fanfic isn’t really meant to be like that? It’s also putting a bunch of fanfic out there for people to vote on/critique publicly, and I cant find whether or not the fanfic writers are asked for permission for their fics to be included in such an event- especially when I know a lot of people have boundaries over that kind of thing. I just wonder if it brings back that almost expectation for fanfiction to be like published modern literature/movies. I doubt anyone had the intention for it to be like that but I just don’t really like it?

Idk, it just left me feeling weird about the whole thing, but maybe I’m being over dramatic and critical over something meant to be fun, which could totally be the case. 😅

Anyways, thank you so much for what you do! Have a nice day!

hiii !! first of all!!! thank youuu 😖😖🫂🫂

and yeah,,, not a fan. idk if this mention tags them and if it does, sorry!!! just some gentle opinions 😖

idk like,, "best" categories in fandom really ick me out. and i think it can be very discouraging to others? like how does the voting work? do they select nominations and then others vote?

oh you've said they do! so yes, then it turns into "oh my work wasnt as good as the one that won" etc etc - i just think there's better ways to show appreciation than creating more pedestals in a fandom that already has a massive issue with idolisation, imposter syndrome, etc etc

and whether the authors are asked permission or not is irrelevant to me (actually,, probably worse if they are and agree in my mind)

idk. good concept, poor execution that i personally think is just discouraging and competitive when this space is for everyyyyyyone to create and enjoy without worrying whether you're better than someone else or the "best" etc etc. and yes, 100% brings expectations.

i get it was for appreciation, but i dislike the notion when really you could just comment on a fic and say you liked it, and then make a post recommending it, or rec it to your friends etc etc. you know??

we don't need awards and competition, we need community and an encouraging space where everyone feels confident to engage and write and draw and edit and do whatever it is that they do without worrying about whether they're the best at it or if they're as good as someone else

unless i get best rant poster. then it's okay. (I'M KIDDING THAT WAS A /J. THAT WAS A JOKE.)

[according2thelore]

Random question about some ABO verse, but do you think that they'd have something like a sex-ed class during middle/high school?

Like, just imagine Sammy (a bit weirded out) but so amazed that his big brother (O!Dean) has these "innate" abilities to be naturally "perfect" caregivers/companions, wayyyyy better than their "Alpha" dad who just dumps them and disappears days/weeks on end just to go "hunting with friends".

Idk, I like to imagine Sam going into a rabbit hole and reading up on whatever reading materials were available at school/the public library and eventually tries to find some law books after hearing about some changes in omega related legislation.

Anyway I'm just ranting at this point hahaha!

(Just ignore this ask if it's not something you're interested in 👍👍👍)

hi, anon!!!

NOT SOMETHING I'M INTERESTED IN????!?!?!??? this is EXACTLY what i'm interested in, anon!! thank you so much for sending it in!!!!!

let's TALKKKKKKKKK about baby sam PLEASEEE

something i have ALWAYS adored is the idea that sam, when he's young and right in that sweet spot after dean presents as an omega but before sam presents, he wants to be an omega so bad. like. sooooo bad.

his only real alpha influence in his life is his father, and we all know how he feels about his father and his "my-way-or-the-highway" mentality. john says something and expects you to hop-to it, because his word is law. bobby's a beta, and the only other alphas sam ever spends time around is the occasional teacher and caleb, when they end up in the same state and dad needs help on a hunt.

then dean presents, and everything about his little life changes. dean becomes even more protective of him than he thought possible. john pulls him aside and tells him that he and sam are going to have to keep an extra eye out for dean, because people might treat him differently.

despite this, john becomes more distant than ever as they become teenagers and he can leave them alone without raising too many eyebrows or risk them killing themselves like when they were ten and six.

when sam hits sixth grade, his teachers awkwardly announce that this is the first year they'll have a secondary designation class, and all of the kids titter awkwardly. a kid in sam's class has already presented, an alpha with burgeoning pimples on the baseball team.

sam has more context for dean's presentation, why he went still and shocked and why his smell was bad-bad-wrong-new-not-dean before it became fully dean again--fresh and calming and warm. he learns that there isn't really a way to predict what someone will present as, despite the playground taunts and characters in TV shows that insist they always knew someone was one-thing-or-another because of how they acted or dressed.

sam learns that omegas tend to be more naturally nurturing, and how they make nests when they're approaching heat. they're ferociously protective, especially over pups, and they are happiest and have the highest satisfaction rates if they have a strong community.

alphas are natural leaders. alphas are innate protectors, headstrong, and fiercely loyal. alphas scent their pups or mate or packmates to make sure they can go about their business unbothered, and butt heads with other alphas when challenged. alphas are supposed to make sure everyone in their pack is healthy, happy, and most importantly, safe.

sam can't stop his lip curling in disgust. their dad can usually only manage one or two out of three; he hits all three maybe five times a year.

sam's starting to realize that dean is kind of the perfect older brother. and kind of a perfect omega. despite the fact he's still kind of a dick. (sam bitterly remembers this morning when dean flipped the mattress because sam was going to make them late for school.)

sam--resentfully--can't remember the last time dad even tried to scent him or dean before he left for weeks at a time, while sam can still smell some of dean's open air-sunshine-musky scent on his own wrists from dean wrestling him near the door and doing his daily scenting.

it would be so nice, sam starts to think, as he reads about how omegas tend to form incredibly tight personal bonds, and how alphas always butt heads, if he presented as an omega, too. alphas are kind of lunk-heads anyway. he and dean could be the same. the thought fills him with a bubble of buoyant hope that he can't pop, all the way home.

he doesn't tell dean any of this, embarrassed in his fantasies of them running away together and starting a completely new life away from john and his abandonment and mission. maybe even...his ears flush, and he buries his face in his math book to hide his pink ears from dean--helping each other through heats. sam knows what dean smells like when he's in heat. since he's still unpresented, he's in charge of bringing dean food and water and making sure he doesn't die. dean has pulled him more than once into his nest for comfort, sam pressing his perpetually-cold fingers against dean's feverish forehead as dean's head lolled. it's been entirely familial. regretfully so. it would be...nice. really nice. if they could grow up and experience that together.

even if he was a beta, sam could be happy. he could still help dean through his heats, if dean was okay with that. they could still have a fully completed pack-bond, instead of the faint pup one they have now.

he becomes obsessed with omega laws--digging into books and city hall ledgers for hours. one time, a guy corners a seventeen-year-old dean in a gas station and sam--still completely unpresented--almost rips the guy's head off. dean absolutely had it covered, as he keeps snapping at sam the entire way back to the motel, but sam is still buzzing with rage that people are going to do this to dean--treat him like this--forever.

and then sam presents as an alpha, aged fourteen. a late bloomer.

he's devastated. dean pets his hair away from his forehead, stringy with sweat, and sits on the ground outside of the closed motel door throughout sam's entire rut. he parks the car right in front of the door and barely sleeps to make sure no one gets close to their motel room, since dad has been gone for the last week and a half. keeping him safe. an innate, natural protector. an instinctual caregiver.

sam cries into his pillow, even as he feels like his skin is going to peel off his bones, because he and dean will never be the same thing, now.

he knows dean's quietly upset, too. he thinks he failed dad in some way, by not being an alpha. the fact that sam doesn't find a ton of joy in being just like their asshole dad doesn't bring dean a lot of comfort. dean wants to be just like dad, wants to make him proud.

sam couldn't give a shit about making dad proud.

he stays devastated, until his civics class in freshman year. their unit on omega laws sets an absolute fire under his ass. omegas are just as capable as alphas. dean--who can gut a drower in ten seconds and has been stepping between his and dad's constant fighting more and more every single day (even if it's just to throw sam back on his ass, and despite the fact sam knows having two alphas dean feels loyalty for coming to blows and giving off all kinds of commanding and acerbic pheromones is a biological warhead for dean), and loves spaghetti westerns and can drink anyone under the table and has shed gallons of blood over the years to keep sam safe--is better than three of his alpha dad put together.

alphas are supposed to be protectors. they're supposed to keep others safe. and if sam has to be like this, he's going to harness it to help.

he can't stop looking up case law, can't stop researching legal precedent, and civic lawyers who represent omegas in court. he turns in a paper on Trent v Polaski for his AP government class, and his teacher asks if he's ever considered going to law school.

sam feels something hot and sharp and terrifying take root in his chest.

EEK!! i just love this ask, anon! i hope this was what you were looking for, but if not, PLEASE send another, lol! i love talking about omegaverse wincest, clearly!!! thank you again for this ask!! mwah mwah mwah <3

-lizzy

[kikyoupdates]

Changing Plotlines ⭑˚💞⭑ 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟

yandere!ocs x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, yandere reverse harem, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, isekai

A desperate cry on your deathbed leads to you being given a fresh start at life. You're overjoyed at having finally obtained a healthy body and a real chance at living normally, only to discover that you've been transported into a yandere game, where danger lurks at every corner. Determined to protect your new life at any cost, you vow to stay as far away from the major characters of the game as possible. But things don't always go as planned.

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“Honestly, I thought you would’ve given up by now,” Sergei sighed.

“What? Of course not,” you frowned. “I’ll have you know I’m very serious about this. Look, I’ve even been practicing!”

You proceeded to swing your wooden sword with visible enthusiasm, making cutting motions left, right, and center.

Needless to say, he wasn’t impressed.

Today marked the second day of your lessons with the kind-hearted knight who ended up meeting a gruesome fate. Naturally, you had no intention of getting ahead of yourself. It wasn’t as if you expected to become some sort of prodigy overnight. But every effort counted, and the more you practiced, the better equipped you were to defend yourself if something went awry. After stupidly letting your guard down and helping out Flora, you needed to keep up with your training, now more than ever.

“So?” you huffed, wiping the sweat off your forehead. “What do you think?”

Sergei’s brows were creased. He looked like he was searching for the right words to say.

“I think that you have absolutely no talent with a sword.”

Okay, well he clearly hadn’t found the right words, because ouch.

“You’re so mean,” you whined. “This is only our second lesson! Don’t you think it’s too early to jump to conclusions? Of course I’m not going to be great right off the bat. I’m only a beginner. Were you immensely talented from the get-go?”

“Yes,” Sergei said calmly. “My talent is the whole reason I decided to become a knight.”

“Ugh. Okay, that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say is that someone can suck at something at the beginning, but that doesn’t mean they can’t improve one day.”

“I agree with that,” Sergei acknowledged. “I’m not saying that you can’t learn, but from what I’ve seen, it’s already quite clear that this isn’t the sort of activity that will come naturally to you. Everyone has different types of skills. Why not take up a hobby that you might be better suited towards? It could save you a lot of frustration, and sword-fighting really isn’t the sort of thing a lady like you will ever have any use for...”

But I can’t learn something else. It’s not like I’m doing this for fun. I need to make sure I’ll have some way of protecting myself.

Obviously, you couldn’t tell him that for you, learning to use a sword was absolutely essential. So, you did what you did best. You lied.

“As I’ve told you before, I am a very prudent woman,” you said.

Sergei snorted. Okay, rude.

“Lately, I keep having nightmares of criminals attacking me in the middle of the night, and I can’t do anything but quiver helplessly. I refuse to be helpless,” you frowned. “I never want to end up in the sort of situation where I just cower in fear and hope for the best. I want to take charge of my life and fight until the very end.”

“This seems to be an ongoing concern of yours,” he remarked, looking a touch concerned. “Being cautious is all well and good, but there is such a thing as worrying too much. If you’re really so afraid, why don’t you just make sure to take a personal guard when you go out in public?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“So, then...”

“But if they fail to protect me, then I’m right back to square one.”

Sergei shook his head in disbelief. “Alright, alright. If training with a sword will really help to put your worries to rest, then I suppose it’s the least I can do for you. But you really should know that the odds of you getting hurt, especially if you aren’t on your own, are remarkably slim. Infinitesimal, even.”

Ha. You’d be surprised.

“Yes, I know,” you said, mustering a smile. “But this really does make me feel better about the whole thing. I feel powerful, even though I realize I’m far from it yet. And now I have the added challenge of becoming so good that you’ll be forced to eat your words. Hehe.”

“At the very least, your enthusiasm is certainly admirable,” Sergei chuckled.

Right. That was all you had, really. Enthusiasm. And fear. Fear for your life. With such emotions driving you forward, you were certain that you could somehow compensate for your lack of athletic abilities.

As proof of your readiness to train your butt off, you swung your sword several times in quick succession, building up a noticeable burn in your arms. Sergei wasn’t saying anything, just watching you in silence. It didn’t matter if you sucked. Hell, you knew you sucked, but that still wasn’t going to change the fact that you were going to do this, no matter what.

“Lady [Name], please stop,” he eventually said.

You looked back at him in confusion. “Yes? Am I doing something wrong?”

“You’re doing many things wrong, but that’s not what I was getting at. How would you like to try using a real sword today, just to get a feel for it?”

You could hardly contain the grin that burst across your lips. “Really?!”

“It would be good to try,” he nodded. “If the point is to protect yourself, a wooden sword won’t do much to achieve that. It was just to get you a bit familiar with the length and girth of the weapon you’ll be holding. Keep in mind that the real thing will be quite a good deal heavier, though. It will be difficult to adjust to at first.”

“That’s totally fine!” you babbled, eager to finally try out the real thing. You’d never held a sword before. It was difficult to even find swords back in your previous world. All of this was to learn how to protect yourself, but it was still so exciting!

Sergei bit back a smile. “It’s not that amazing. But I have to admit that it’s quite amusing to watch you react so expressively.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re amused. C’mon, gimme!”

“You certainly don’t speak like a noblewoman, though... anyways, here you are. Be careful. Don’t move too suddenly with it.”

He gently placed the hilt of the sword in your hands, with the blade pointed downwards. You couldn’t feel the full weight of it yet, not while Sergei was still gripping it as well.

But then he let go. And the sword fell to the ground.

“Ouchie!” you squealed, frantically shaking your wrist. “My hand nearly broke!”

Sergei clamped a palm over his mouth. “Pfft... n-no, you’re just exaggerating. I did warn you, my lady. Perhaps you were just surprised. Care to try again?”

You grimaced, cheeks glowing bright red. Okay, maybe you were exaggerating just a bit, but that thing was heavy as all hell! In the interest of staying as safe as possible, you knew wielding a sword was practically crucial, but you were slowly realizing that it was an even bigger obstacle than you’d once presumed.

“I can do it,” you huffed, crouching down to pick the sword back up. “It’s okay. I have muscles. Weak, underused ones... but they’re still muscles!”

Sergei was trying not to laugh at you—and failing horribly, at that.

But by some miracle, you managed to pick the sword up. Granted, you had to hold onto it with both hands, and the strain it was placing on your wrists was enough to make your arms shake, but you were actually holding a sword. God, you felt like such a badass!

“I-I’m amazing,” you said, grimacing in between breaths. “Showstopping, incredible, phenomenal. S-Super epic... ugh, I just can’t anymore!”

You dropped the sword once again, sighing in relief. Okay, so it was a work in progress. Strengthening your wrists would likely be crucial. Maybe you could practice by repeatedly opening jars.

“Good effort,” Sergei mused, flashing you a thumbs-up. “It was—pfft! —very entertaining."

“Well, I’m glad one of us enjoyed it,” you eye-rolled.

“Weren’t you going on earlier about how you’d make me eat my words? Surely the weight of the sword isn’t enough to make you quit?”

“I have no intention of quitting,” you reassured. “That being said... is it all possible to make my own sword? One that’s a bit lighter? I’m not as tall or strong as you. I can have one personally customized to better suit me, right?”

Sergei nodded. “Yes, you can have one made by a blacksmith. If you provide him with the rough dimensions of the sword, and what sort of materials you’d like to have used, I’m sure he can craft one that’s more comfortable for you to use. It still won’t be too light, not if you want it to be sturdy enough to deal damage, but you can figure out the details and strike a good balance between what you’d like to achieve.”

“Is there a particular blacksmith you recommend?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Remind me to write down his name and some other details for you later.”

“Alright. In that case...” You picked up the wooden sword instead of the real one, smiling sheepishly. “Um. Until I have my personal sword made, I’d like to stick with this one, if that’s okay...”

Sergei was clearly holding back the urge to laugh again. “Whatever you say, Lady [Name].”

“Back to training I go,” you hummed. “Watch this! Consecutive wooden sword slashes, but at a dizzying speed. Hyah!”

“Again with the battle cries...”

Even if you were still a noob in the purest sense of the word, over time, your body was bound to adapt. You were intent on getting by through muscle memory alone. Besides, as far as you knew, only two of the yanderes were proficient sword-fighters themselves—namely, Triston and Friedrich. So long as you were armed, and they weren’t, you would probably stand a chance.

Point being, it was best not to skimp on your training. Even if you probably looked like a fool flailing around all over the place.

Still, it was certainly tiring swinging a heavy wooden sword continuously. With every motion, you could feel your arms progressively turning to jelly. Coupled with the fact that it was so hot out, you were really starting to break a sweat.

“Time out,” you groaned, throwing your sword down. You tried to fan yourself off with your hand, but it wasn’t doing much good. This goddamn tunic was making you burn up. It needed to go.

So, you proceeded to get rid of it, stripping your outermost layer and exposing the thin camisole you had underneath. The relief was almost immediate. Granted, it was still hot as hell, but your skin could finally breathe now.

“L-Lady [Name]!” came the horrified splutter. You turned to find Sergei gaping at you in disbelief, several shades redder than he’d been a few seconds ago.

“Yes?” you frowned.

“You can’t just get undressed like that all of a sudden! Please remember that you are in public!”

He looked away in a hurry, and you had to admit, it was kind of cute. In the game, Sergei made every effort to act the part of a knight. He was sometimes guilty of being too serious, although he eventually came to let his guard down around Flora, after falling for her gentleness. From what you recalled, he’d never been much of a joker, yet in the few interactions he’d had with you, you’d already gotten to see him laugh it up plenty of times at your expense. And now he was even blushing. It was refreshing to see such different sides to a character you liked.

But honestly, you didn’t really get what the big deal was. The camisole was pretty thin, sure, but it wasn’t all that revealing. A tiny bit of cleavage and bare shoulders, but that was about it. Back in your world, people showed plenty of skin, so you definitely weren’t used to such an innocent reaction. Your case especially was rather unique. Countless doctors and nurses had seen you butt naked before, so something like this hardly fazed you.

Watching Sergei get increasingly flustered was rather amusing, though.

“You can drop the title, you know,” you chuckled, still fanning yourself off. “Just [Name] is fine.”

“No, I really mustn’t,” he insisted. His face was buried in his palms, and it almost seemed like he was itching to move them out of the way and steal another peek, but his willpower remained undaunted. “This is already quite improper... and you allow me to speak to you so casually in the first place. Now, please, will you get dressed?”

“Aw. But it’s way too hot out. I’d rather keep practicing like this.”

“Lady [Name], what you have on leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Please, for my sake, I’ll ask that you cover up again.”

“Prude,” you muttered under your breath. Alright, alright. You could sort of understand that this was set in a different time period, with different standards and all that, but you were really struggling to feel modest given your previous lived experiences. Guess that was yet another thing you’d have to get used to here.

With a great deal of reluctance, you put your tunic back on, cursing the fact that they didn’t even have air conditioning in this world.

“You can look now,” you announced. “Rest assured that my breasts are back in their rightful place.”

Sergei gritted his teeth, still red as a tomato. “In the name of all that is holy, I am literally begging you to stop.”

“Hehe.”

“Don't hehe me!”

It was safe to say that Sergei was too embarrassed to look you in the eye for the rest of your training session.

Cedric Lightsteel, huh?

You stared down at the piece of paper in your hand. It was the name of the blacksmith Sergei had personally recommended to you. Sergei spoke very highly of him, so you didn’t doubt that he’d be able to craft you the perfect sword. Once you’d obtained a weapon tailored to suit your needs, you were confident that your skills would improve astronomically.

Anyways, things were looking good. As expected, it felt good to plan everything out in the event that you got caught up in something dangerous. Based on the natural progression of the plot, you still had plenty of time until the yanderes began exhibiting their dangerous tendencies—not that you planned on ever seeing any of them again.

There had been a little hiccup with Flora, sure, but you’d ignored her letter. By now, you were confident that she would’ve gotten the message. Even if you did feel really shitty about it.

“Man, I’m pooped,” you yawned, stretching your arms out. Living in a healthy body really was incredible. You’d worked your butt off today, and you were definitely tired, but it still didn’t even come close to the fatigue you experienced every single day back in your old life. Even with minimal activity, you’d been in a perpetual state of exhaustion back then. You slept just about always, lied around doing very little when you were awake, and your body struggled to do even that much.

It almost made you want to cry. The fact that you actually got to live like this now. That was why you needed to hold onto it with all your strength.

You decided to unwind by taking a nice, hot bath. Modern day luxuries were certainly missing in this world, but that just meant that you had more time to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. You could even feel some of your vigor returning to you as you soaked in the delightful bubbly water. You’d trained for hours, but with this body, it felt like you’d be good to do the whole thing all over again after just a little bit of rest.

Sighing happily, you eventually decided that you were squeaky clean and stepped out of the tub, wrapping a towel around your body.

Then, you walked back into your bedroom.

Only to find a strange man sitting on the bed.

“Ah,” he smiled upon locking eyes with you. “Did you have a nice bath? I was waiting for you to finish. Come, let’s have a chat."

Unsurprisingly, you screamed.

More chapters are available on Quotev!

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💞 main masterlist ♡ character appearances

[winchestergirl2]

Oohh, I do like these headcanons 💕💕

Dean

"I'm find"

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

😂😂 love the Friends reference.

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

I feel like the only one who would be worse than Dean as a patient would be Ben.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

Aww 😍 this is such a sweet moment.

Beau

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

Aww, my poor Beau Beau.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

Ahh, his sense of humour is still intact.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Haha, I can see him liking that. I think with Beau it would take a lot for him to stop and let someone take care of him, but when he does I think he might be the kind of patient that drives you a little crazy in his requests. Like the soup, the saltines, the tea, the blanket, and the cough drops, lol.

This is exactly how I picture him when he's ill. Not wanting to admit defeat and still trying to make his jokes and lighten the mood, but actually being quite a needy patient.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to.

He's going to be the world's worst patient, isn't he? Although I can see him quite liking the fact that his girl is looking after him.

That whole 'I'm buying you a yacht for Valentines Day' bit made me laugh.

Boaz Priestly

Priestly!!! Love that you have added him in 😊

You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

Oh, you know it's bad when the hair is flat like that.

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

I kinda have to agree with him there... it's good stuff but not really a fan.

He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Oh yeah, I can absolutely see that.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

So he's not so sick that he's not thinking about that then 😂

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Poor Priestly... Man Flu is no fun.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

Ooohhh, it's not the most romantic time to be thinking about that, lol. I think I would also be wondering if he meant it or was just delirious with fever.

I loved all of these, and I would definitely risk the flu to look after all these men... especially Beau and Priestly.

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

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Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Priestly Tag List

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats

@mostlymarvelgirl @thebiggerbear @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @mxltifxnd0m @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

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@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2

[xcziel]

Hey wise people of tumblr, in the interest of having resource materials PHYSICALLY available for people to find

what are some actual books on or covering reproductive health that are as current/accurate as possible and that might help a person make thoughtful, informed choices about contraception, pregnancy, etc. and dealing with complications (miscarriage, pregnancy-onset conditions)?

there have got to be some clinic staff or advocates with sources that aren't just websites or similar

[worstloki]

there is a difference between being born to a throne, maliciously vying for a throne, stealing a throne, and having a throne thrust upon you when you are already in the midst of an identity crisis. And I fear Loki's place in the line of succession has people unable to differentiate between any of these

[lord-squiggletits]

Honestly it annoys me that pride, ambition, and generally having a big ego are always villainous/evil-coded personality traits because personally I think if you genuinely are a prodigy at what you do you are 100% within your rights, perhaps even deserving, of flaunting your skills and being proud of the fact you can do something that only a small fraction of other people can do. Is it even ego at that point if you genuinely are as good at your field/skill as you say you are? Are people not aware that becoming a prodigy at something is something that takes lifelong sacrifice and practice sometimes to the point of giving up on having a normal life, relationships, etc even potentially destroying your own health???? God I fucking hate how pride in your own skills and ambition are so villain coded all the time. As if it's evil to want to be good at something and be recognized for what you rightfully earned