#raising a child that he can't even call his own.

[tessabennet]

I don't usually do this and get involved in these speculations, but here's my two cents about the 911 leaks that nobody asked for.

Spoilers under the cut!

So. What I'm about to say is obviously not what's going to happen. Can't stress that enough. But it's what I would do if I was in charge, and had to go by the leaked photos.

8x13:

Hen centric, maybe they'll start setting up a bigger arc for her

big step for Eddie and Christopher, we're led to believe that this plotline is resolved

maybe we start the Athena cruise ship plotline; possibly it's about the cartel wanting revenge on Bobby, maybe it's pirates again, maybe someone wants to get back at her, maybe something else entirely

8x14:

whatever happens with the Athena cruise ship plot happen

(side note: I know it's bc of Doctor Odyssey, but I think it would still be kinda cool if the name of the ship is a hint that they'll have to get out of this with some kind of trick)

cliffhanger where the bad guys threaten Bobby's life

8x15:

Athena cruise ship (seeming) plot resolution

maybe the 118 come to the rescue again; possibly with Tommy's help again (maybe to the point where he gets promoted?)

ends with Athena and Bobby and maybe some other cops talking about how one or several of the bad guys escaped

Bobby's life is still in danger; we end with someone (possibly Bobby himself) saying that he has to die

8x16:

we open with the funeral; it looks real even to the audience

we see how Bobby "died" in retrospect; it still sounds real enough

there's a funeral montage with a sad song; we cry a lot bc we still don't know if it's real or not

on her way back from the funeral, Athena takes a call from an unidentified number - it's Bobby

now we get the story again but with additional info on how they faked his death

(side note: when they're wondering how they'll do it, someone (Bobby) says something like "I know a guy / If only we knew an actor / etc" - cut to Brad and how he helped orchestrate the whole fake death)

by the end of the episode, Athena says goodbye to Bobby right as he goes into witness protection; they won't be able to talk again until the bad guys on the run are caught

only Athena and a handful of other people know about this; the 118 doesn't, which is a setup for a potential next season

8x17:

with Bobby gone, Gerrard or (and bear with me here) Tommy becomes captain of the 118

Tommy and Buck may or may not get back together; either way, the new hierarchy has an impact on their relationship, raising tension between them

Eddie (who came to LA for the funeral) has some kind of accident/ gets caught in a call/ etc, gets heavily injured and put in a coma

8x18:

Chris and Eddie's parents have come rushing to LA bc Eddie's in a coma

it looks bad, the will gets brought up; Eddie's parents are shocked; Chris is surprised but moved by it

Buck lets Chris decide what he wants; Chris decides to stay at the house with Buck; we finally get some Buck and Chris bonding again

(side note: Eddie's parents either stay at a hotel or at Buck's house too, which would arguably be funnier and/or highlight Buck and Eddie's relationship more)

tensions are high; when Eddie wakes up after several days, he and his parents argue about the will

In the end everyone leaves it up to Chris, who decides to stay in LA

but with Bobby gone, Eddie can't get his job at the 118 back; this is also a potential plot for s9

So what would all this set up for s9 (if we get it)?

Bobby's in witness protection while Athena takes down the bad guys who were out to kill him; the 118 still think he's dead

Eddie and Chris are back in LA; they have moved in with Buck while Eddie tries to get back his job so he can find his own place; this creates possible tension between Eddie and Tommy bc of the job and/or Buck

Maddy and Chim have their second child

Why the leaks?

I don't think they're coincidence; the whole scene was too openly filmed, and afaik (even more telling) there hasn't been enough damage control by the actors or network for pictures that spoil that big of an event; maybe it's just that they're trying not to draw more attention, but someone would've said "please don't share the pics and spread the spoilers even more" by now

the pic Oliver posted of Brad and deleted right after again is no coincidence either; they had to know that at least some people would see it in time before they deleted it again; if it was an attempts at cover up, it only raised speculations

misdirection via shock: if Bobby dies, that would be a season finale event (or I should hope so); I think they're preparing us for something that will probably get even bigger than the pics suggest

handling press: the actors have been getting asked about the Buck/Eddie/Tommy plot in every Interview these last two weeks, they're all are hedging, and with draw questions in another direction

handling fans: the shipping discourse has been brutal since 8x11, which may not bother the 'casual' audience but the tag certainly hasn't been fun lately; Bobby's possible death would give Buck/Eddie and Buck/Tommy fans a common enemy if you will¹

most importantly: they're trying to get up the viewer ratings; the leaks have shock value, people may be more likely to watch the next few episodes with a MCD coming up; they want s9 to happen so they need the attention

¹ btw, I am writing all of this independent of any shipping; I've been nothing but annoyed by the hate and constant discourse, this isn't about that

And again, this is obviously not what's gonna happen. It's barely even a prediction. It's just what I would want, what I would do, what I will possibly turn into fanfiction, and why I think the leaks are a deliberate stunt

Tl;dr: those leaks probably aren't a coincidence, they're a means to an end

[jo-castle]

Devil's Share

You know when you've been in a writers block for years and then your computer breaks and you're suddenly compelled to write a 5k fic for a fandom you've never written for before? Yeah anyway I wrote a bunch of Dick Grayson whump on my phone.

Posted it on AO3 and under the cut here.

"I want to hire you to kill Deathstroke."

Jason wasn't sure how Dick had managed to find him, but in the end he thought he shouldn't be too surprised. He made a face behind his mask that Dick couldn't see.

"The golden boy wants someone to die," even with the voice modulator the sarcasm seeped through. "Well Dick, why him? Why me?"

"He tried to kill my brother." Dick said.

Jason scoffed. "Tried?" Robins were dropping like flies, apparently.

"I stopped him."

"But you didn't kill him?" Jason teased.

"Couldn't." Dick grit through his teeth. "Was a little busy bleeding."

"I see." Jason observed him for a moment. Dick did look terrible. He leaned against the wall with a hand pressed to his side. Looked like a strong wind would tip him over. "Why me?"

"You're the Red Hood, right?" Dick said. "After Deathstroke, you're the best hitman in town. I don't know what your deal is-" Jason frowned. "-and I don't particularly like you. But I need a man to die."

Jason stilled. He didn't know. Dick didn't know. Of course Bruce never told him. Jason crossed his arms to avoid the reaction to hit something. Dick had no idea who he was, besides a random crime lord.

"I'll pay." Dick added after the silence stretched on.

"Tried to kill your brother, huh?" Jason asked. He tried to imagine Dick hating someone enough to want them dead. "That makes someone worthy of death? By trying? What if someone succeeded?"

Dick gripped the wall harder, and Jason couldn't tell if it was from anger or pain.

"Look," Dick snapped. "Someone did, okay? I have three younger brothers. The first one was killed by an awful man. The second one was nearly killed-" oh, so Bruce told him about that little incident. "-and now, yet again, another one is nearly killed! I need to stop it."

"Took you nearly losing three brothers to do anything about it huh?"

"I've tried." Dick grumbled. "I did something the first time, I killed the man who killed my brother."

Jason startled, his arms slipping to his sides. "You, what?"

"It didn't stick." Dick grumbled. "But I need this one to, okay? This man has been in my life enough. He kidnapped me-" what the fuck "-he tried to kill Damian, I-" Dick cleared his throat. "I need him dead. And I can't do it right now. Please. I can't lose another brother."

I can't lose another brother.

Jason felt the urge to tell him. To take off the helmet, to reveal it all. To yell, to scream, to ask so many questions about Dick supposedly killing the Joker. But in the end he couldn't bring himself to. He watched Dick sag against the wall, watched the dark look Dick shot his way, and all he could think was how sad it was. He knew what anger felt like. What fear felt like. He saw it in Dick. He also knew that for Dick, this wouldn't last. If Bruce couldn't bring himself to seek revenge for a lost child, Dick certainly wouldn't.

The silence stretched on and even in the dark Jason could see Dick's concentration fading.

"No." Jason said.

"Name your price-"

"I said no!" Jason snapped. He took a step forward then sighed, raising his hand to his face in an aborted gesture before motioning at Dick. "You look like you're about to fall over," Jason said. "Go home. Get better. Think this over. And when you realize this isn't what you want? Well. Don't call me."

"This is what I want." Dick insisted.

"Then do it your own damn self."

Jason turned his back on Dick and stalked off. Let that loser drag himself home. Jason had better things to do.

----

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face as the elevator doors shut on Damian's pouting face.

"Dick is fine," Bruce repeated to himself as the elevator took him down. Lying to his sons exhausted him and Damian was particularly stubborn.

The doors opened with a ding, letting out into the Batcave. Bruce strode past the empty medical bay without sparing it a glance. Dick wasn't there. Wasn't resting, like he'd told Damian. But if Damian found out that Dick had left the manor in his condition Bruce would have a nightmare to deal with on top of everything else. Hopefully Alfred would keep him distracted long enough for Bruce to find Dick and put his ass back in bed.

Tim was pouring over a computer and didn't even look up when Bruce put a hand on his chair and leaned over. The screens we full. Many showing scene from cameras Bruce knew were near Dicks frequent locations, but none of them seemed to showing Dick himself.

"Anything?" Bruce asked.

It was Barbara's voice that answered from the speaker. "Not yet." She sounded tired. Bruce didn't bother checking whatever goddamn time of night it was. "Tim is looking for Dick-"

"I'll find him." Tim muttered.

"-and I'm still looking for any information of Deathstroke. I'm worried-"

"Deathstroke didn't take him." Bruce said. The cameras had told them that much. The idiot child had limped out of here of his own free will.

"I'm worried," Barbara repeated. "That we're not the only ones looking for him."

"Who else?" Bruce asked.

"League of Shadows."

Bruce winced. Not surprising, but not what he wanted to hear.

"Deathstroke tried to kill Damian." Barbara pointed out.

"There's no way Talia doesn't already know." Bruce grumbled. He hated the idea of her having eyes inside his city. Even if it was to keep tabs on her son.

"Let them have him," Tim finally looked up. His eyes burned with unshed tears and anger. "That son of a bitch has done enough."

"Language." Bruce hissed. Tim just glared, and Bruce forced himself to take a breath. He reminded himself that the kid was, well, a kid. A kid whose brother was grievously injured and missing. "Sorry," Bruce added. "You aren't wrong."

"I'm worried," Barbara repeated, "That Dick will get caught in the crosshairs between the League and Deathstroke."

Bruce startled. "Dick is going after Deathstroke." It wasn't a question. It was so obvious.

Tim laughed. "Of course." Pulling the chair away from Bruce, he hunched over his keyboard again, flicking screens and typing code Bruce only half understood.

Bruce stepped back. No. Dick wasn't fine. He'd been fucking shot and now was apparently running amok in the city. Apparently getting himself caught in the crossfire between Deathstroke and the League of Shadows. Bruce was itching to get out there, to do his own work. Maybe he should suit up-

His phone rang. No. Batmans phone rang.

Tim paused to glance at it, then at Bruce.

"Well?" Tim demanded when Bruce hesitated. "Answer it!"

Bruce didn't want the call to be related to Dick's being missing, but he also wasn't willing to divert his focus right now. He picked up the phone anyway. Tim returned to his work when Bruce answered, but he knew the kid was listening.

"I could use your expertise here," Jim Gordon said without preamble. "Got a scene that I think you might have special knowledge of.

----

As it turned out, it was three in bloody morning. Dick had been missing for nearly twelve hours.

Spotlights lit up the scene, illuminating the gory details. The SUV was crunched to hell and looked like it had recently been on fire. The corpses the EMT's were covering looked charred. The only survivor was being hustled into an ambulance for immediate medical care.

Bruce felt sick looking at it. He lingered in the shadows, but Gordon found him anyway.

"You wanna tell me why your boy smashed a car with a garbage truck and left these guys to burn?"

Bruce sucked in a breath. "Which one?"

Jason, likely. But if Dick . . .

"Which one?" Gordon looked somewhere between frightened and offended. "How many of your dogs are off their leash?"

Bruce glared solidly, but Gordon didn't look phased. He just waved his hand as if to clear the air.

"It was Nightwing."

Dick.

"Is he here?" Bruce demanded.

"Nope." Gordon shook his head. "Fled long before we got here. Just got the camera detail. This isn't like your boy, Batman." Gordon pressed. "What's happening?"

"Who were they?" Bruce asked, ignoring the question.

Gordon fiddled with wallets in his hand. "Dunno yet." He said. "Got some IDs, trying to figure that out-"

"Let me see."

Gordon sighed, but handed them over and waited semi-patiently while Bruce read the information aloud.

"On it." Barbaras voice crackled from Bruces comm. The police weren't willing or able to crack the internet in the way Barbara could.

Bruce passed the IDs back dismissively.

"He's looking for Deathstroke." Bruce admitted.

Gordon sucked in a breath. "In Gothem?"

"If you hear anything about him, and I mean anything," Bruce said. "I need you to let me know immediately. And then stay the hell away from him."

"The cops can handle Deathstroke," Gordon said with a frown. "If you let us-"

"There are a lot of angry people after him right now." Bruce gestured at the scene in front of them. The scene Dick had caused. "They're not in a respect the cops kinda mood. They'll kill anyone who gets in their way."

Gordon grunted. "Your boys killers, Batman?"

Bruce grit his teeth. "Not yet." Spinning around, he stalked off into the dark. Not most of them, anyway. Not Dick. Not if he could help it.

----

Bruce found the door to the warehouse already swung open and heard whimpering inside. The address Barbara had directed them to was a frequent location of one of Dicks earlier victims. Barbara thought it was some kind of illegal printing press. ID's, most likely. That implied that Deathstroke was looking for a new ID, and that he might be trying to flee the country. It would be a lot harder to find him - or Dick - if he left..

Bruce gestured for Tim to hang back while he peered through the door. The room inside opened up to a dim office. Red Hood stood in the middle of the room, gun in hand. He was facing the man responsible for the whimpering, fair enough given that the man was pinned to the wall with a piece of rebar jutting out of his body.

Beckoning Tim, Bruce swept into the room.

"R-" Bruce didn't know if he'd been about to call Robin or Red Hood, but either way the name choked in his throat. "Hey."

Red Hood turned around, twirling his gun lazily over a finger.

"You're late."

The voice modulator made it impossible for Bruce to detect even a hint of the child he once knew. Then again, maybe that child wasn't even in there.

Tim lurked behind Bruce and sucked in a breath at the sight. "What did you do?"

Behind Red Hood, Jason, was a mess of blood. The man looked beat to hell, and a fresh bullet wound oozed from his leg. He barely looked conscious as he gripped the rebar.

"I shot him." Red Hood said easily.

Bruce threw him a look.

"Really!" Red Hood holstered the gun he was toying with and held up his hands. "Like I said, you're late. I found him like this."

"You found a man impaled to a wall," Bruce growled. He couldn't believe the nerve of this-

"Your precious golden boy did this."

The words were like a punch to the gut.

"Killing is off the table, but did you ever tell him not to torture people for information?" There was a smirk in Red Hoods crackling voice.

"He wouldn't." Bruce snapped. "You lying-"

"Nah, this was Nightwing."

Both Bruce and Red Hood startled. Neither of them had noticed Tim slip from Bruces side to inspect the man on the wall.

"Please," the man begged. "Help me."

"Major bruising, electrical burns consistent with Nightwings sticks, this reads like Nightwing." Tim ignored the man completely as he poked him over. "Rebar is a little dramatic, but . . ."

"Told yah," Jason shot over his shoulder at Bruce.

"Why would he do this?" Bruce wasn't really asking, the question just came out.

"Hey," Tim slapped the mans face, drawing his focus. "Who are you anyway."

"Nobody," the man whimpered. "Please, let me go. I told that blue freak, I told this red freak, I don't know where Deathstroke is!"

"What else did you tell me?" Red Hood prompted. He didn't move any closer to the man or Tim, but the man cowed anyway.

"S-same that I told the blue one. Nightwing. There's a man downtown, he might know more. . ."

"I got an address right before you showed up." Red Hood sounded smug.

"We'll check it out." Bruce said. "See if we can't get to him before Nightwing does."

"Like hell we will." Red Hood snapped. "I don't need your help. I got the info, I'll find Nightwing."

"Why do you even care?" Bruce tossed back. "Not like you've given a damn about this family recently."

Tim sucked in a breath. Other than that and the mans quiet whining, there was silence.

Red Hoods fingers twitched over his guns and Bruce silently dared him to pull one. He needed an excuse to hit someone.

Instead, Red Hood crossed his arms and turned away.

"He came to me." Red Hood muttered, and Bruce almost missed it. "He asked me to kill Deathstroke and I said no. So. Guess he decided to do it himself." Jasons head twitched towards Bruce. Despite the opaque glass, Bruce got the impression he was being glared at. "You didn't tell him." Jason said accusingly.

The words took a moment to process. You didn't tell him . . .

Oh.

"I didn't think he'd go looking for you." Bruce hissed.

"You didn't. Tell him."

"Tell him what? That my dead sidekick is alive and a crazed kill-"

"Okay now!"

Suddenly Tim was between them, a hand on Bruces chest pushing him away from Red Hood. Bruce was furious. As if he was the one that needed to be held back.

"No, none of us told Nightwing, Hood, I'm sorry." Tim kept a hand on Bruce even as he turned to Red Hood. "It's difficult, okay? But we can't fix that until we find him."

"Why do the two of you even care about finding him, huh?" Red Hood snarled. "You can't be bothered to tell him the truth about the world. You-" he gestured at Bruce "-have a new child to ruin, why bother with him? Let him rot like you did me."

"I did not-"

"Because!" Tim spoke loudly over Bruces shouts. "We're family! Okay? We find our own, when we can."

"Shitty family." Red Hood muttered, turning away. "I'm going. You're not. I'll find him."

Bruce was ready to argue, but Tim was pulling on his cape.

"Red Hood and I will check the address." Tim said. "You get this guy to a hospital." He pointed at the man who had gone limp on the wall. Bruce wondered if he was even still alive and felt a pang of guilt for not checking on him sooner.

"Tim," Bruce didn't understand why Tim was attempting to defend Jason. It hadn't even been a year since Red Hood had tried to kill the current Robin. Bruce was still upset, Tim certainly had a right to be. "You don't have to go with him." Bruce said softly. Not soft enough, given the scoffing from Red Hood. "I can-"

"You can't." Tim said flatly. "You shouldn't. I can. It's fine." He glanced at Red Hood, who hadn't moved or objected to his new partner. "We'll be fine."

----

Jason shook Tim off as soon as he pulled the bike up in front of the address the man had coughed up. The address that was, allegedly, where Deathstroke met with the man who had actually sold him the fake ID's. It looked innocuous enough. Until you took into account the shattered windows and busted in door of course, but Jason had seen worse.

"Thanks for the ride." Tim muttered, pulling off the borrowed helmet and handing it back to Jason. Jason didn't respond, just tossed it on the bike and strode towards the building.

The inside was just as messy as in the outside, possibly worse. The hallway was littered with bodies. Whoever had been working here was long since dead and their killers hadn't spared any furniture or walls in the killing.

"Even I'm not this messy." Jason muttered, trying to find a place to step that wasn't steeped in blood.

"Dick didn't do this." Tim said.

"What do you see?" Bruces voice came over the comms.

"Shut up." Jason growled. "You focus on your job, and we'll focus on ours."

"You never told me why you cared." Bruce clipped back.

"You never stopped being an ass."

"Alright," Barbara cut in. "Cut it out or get a new channel. Tell me. What is happening?"

"Buncha bodies," Tim responded. "Dick didn't do this."

"How do you know?" Bruce asked, desperation in his voice.

"Afraid your favorite child is going to fall from the pedestal you put him on?" Jason commented.

"Remember earlier when Barbara mentioned the League of Shadows might be after Deathstroke too?" Tim said, ignoring the argument.

Jason stiffed. "What? Why?"

"On account of him trying to kill their heir, and all." Tim muttered. "Long slices, blades. Lotsa blood. I don't even know if Dick could do this with a wound like he has."

Jason strode past him, abandoning his hope not to get his shoes bloody, and marched down the hallway. The door at the end was broken in, a sure sign it was the one they were looking for.

Jason pushed past it and . . .

"Jesus Christ."

Two more lay dead in the floor, and another sprawled on the desk. His body, Jason could only assume it had been a him, was sliced to hell. There was hardly a part of his body that wasn't oozing blood.

"What is it?" Bruce demanded.

Jason ignored him, wondering if the man Bruce was supposed to be taking care of was getting any care at all.

"If this is the shit Damians gonna pull one day," Tim said, walking up beside Jason. "Someone tell him to clean up. I thought assassins would be . . . sneakier than this?" Tim ignored the bodies and started pulling open cupboards in drawers in the office.

"It's less about sneak and more about flair." Jason commented.

"Is anyone going to update us?" Barbara asked.

"More bodies." Tim said. "No Dick. And, ah ha. Cameras."

"It's fresh," Jason added, toeing a body. A few hours at most. Jason was willing to bet sooner.

"Got something," Tim said from where he was clacking away. Jason abandoned the body moved to join him, reluctantly glad he'd brought the new Robin along. Computers weren't his thing.

The replay kicked on. "There." Tim said. "Two hours ago."

Dick.

He looked . . .

"Is he okay?" Bruce demanded over the comms.

"He looks like shit." Jason said.

Dick was in his Nightwing suit, but the front of it was already stained red. He stumbled into the building, a hand clutched his side as he took out the henchmen on his way it. Sticks. Fists. No swords. Dick knocked the men down but wasn't slicing them up. Tim was right. Someone else had dealt this damage.

Jason winced when Dick jumped and kicked a guy into a wall. With his gaping gunshot wound, that had to have hurt Dick more than the man. But still. Dick persisted. The camera showed Dick catching himself on the wall and pushing forward. He busted in the door and interrogated a man that Jason suspected was now dead on the desk. But Dick left without killing him.

"Here," Tim pulled the footage forwards. Dick was gone. The men in the hallway started to stir. Then, one after another, the cameras went dark. The last one, the room they were in, a shadow moved in the doorway, something hurtled towards the camera, then it too shorted out.

Even without the footage, Jason could guess what happened next.

"We just missed him." Jason muttered.

"Two hours isn't just missed."

"Fuck." Jason watched the scene play out again. Dick stumbling out and heading gods knows where, having gained god knows what information. "Fuck!" Jason yelled, snatching a paperweight off the desk and throwing it at the wall. "We got nowhere!"

"Not completely," Barbara said. "Tim, patch me in to their cameras."

"On it." Tim fiddled with the computer towers. Jason just wanted to break more stuff. He never should have left Dick. Should have hauled him over his shoulder and dropped his ass off at home. Or maybe a hospital.

Jason heard Bruce cuss through the comm.

"Told you he looks like shit." Jason said. His eyes flicked to the screen, which Barbara must be showing to Bruce by now. Jason had seen Dick earlier, he'd looked bad, but it was dark. How was he supposed to know how bad Dicks injuries were?

"Where is he?" Bruce growled through the comms. Jason honestly couldn't tell if it was more Bruce or Batman in that tone, all he knew was that the man sounded pissed. No, not pissed. Scared. Jason wondered if Bruce had felt half that fear when Jason died.

"I'm tracking him." Barbara said. "Regroup, gimme an hour, I'll find him."

Silence echoed from the comms and Jason had to assume Barbara had logged off to focus, and Bruce was probably punching shit.

Tim was on the floor, doing some detective shit. Jason didn't care. The detective bit was never his thing.

"He's awful worried about the golden child." Jason said casually, like his stomach wasn't doing a turn watching Dick on the camera. "Don't think the old mans ever been this worried about anyone before."

He felt Tims eyes on him, but refused to turn.

"I've seen him. . . like this, before." Tim said. "Four years ago, Bruce was . . . he was losing it."

Jason scoffed. "What made the old man go crazy?"

"Four years ago? His son died."

Jason snapped his head towards Tim, but the kid wasn't looking at him anymore. Wasn't even focused on his detective shit. Just trailing patterns in the blood on the floor with a finger.

"And Dick was, well, he was dealing with his own stuff. Anger at Bruce. Guilt for not being there for his brother. Grief. He wasn't in a place to help Bruce. So I did. I became Robin."

"You became Robin," Jason didn't like how dry his voice sounded. "To help Bruce? Are you insane?"

"Batman needs Robin," Tim said simply, pushing himself to his feet. "The second Robin understood that. I was just doing what needed to be done. I couldn't bring back the old one, and I could hardly fill his shoes," Tims gaze skittered to Jason for a moment before darting away again. "But I did what I could."

Jason felt the wood of the desk creak as he gripped it. He want to hit something. He wanted to cry. He wanted to run away and wash his hands clean of these people.

"So don't think Dick is special," Tim said. "Bruce grieved for you too." The statement was like a slap in the face. Then, as if to add insult to the injury, Tim slid his mask off his face and turned to him with a smile that didn't look entirely forced.

"I forgive you, you trying to kill me." Tim said. "I can't say the nightmares will go away, but, for our family, I think we need to set it aside."

"You're not my family." Jason hated his voice for betraying him, even through the helmet. Tim didn't look convinced, but he shrugged.

"Lets start with acquaintances then, huh?" He stuck out a hand. "Hi, I'm Tim Drake, the current Robin. Nice to meet you."

Jason stared at Tim so long he watched the kids smile waver into something like concern. Before he could fully process his actions, Jason had his helmet tucked under his arm and his hand in Tims. Tim looked just as surprised as he felt.

"Jason." Jason grumbled. "Not dead."

Tim released his hand and the smile on his face looked more genuine, as did the relief as he took a step back.,

"Pleasure. Well, they might not be your family, yet, but they are mine. Help me save them?"

Jason huffed, settling his helmet back on his head.

"Dick never could keep himself out of trouble."

----

The roof Bruce met with his boys on was shrouded in shadow, the perfect recon sight for some bats. Bruce shook his, glancing at Red Hood. He needed to stop thinking of Red Hood as Jason. Just because he was helping them find Dick didn't mean he was apart of the family again. Didn't mean he even wanted that.

Tim nodded to the building adjacent to them. "That's the address Barbara gave us," he said. "It's been quiet so far."

Bruce sized up the building. He opened his mouth to speak when a new voice came over the comm.

"Father."

Bruce stiffened. "Damian?"

"Would you like to explain to me why Grayson is not in his infirmary bed?"

"Damian," Bruce brought a hand to his face.

"I do not care if you would like to," Damian continued. "Grayson is missing and you are looking for him. I am joining you."

"You are not!" Bruce said. "Wherever you are-"

"I'll be there momentarily."

"Damian!"

Jason groaned and muttered something that sounded like "demon brat" as a shadow alighted on the roof beside them.

It was . . . Damian.

"What are you wearing?" Tim asked.

"My Robin costume." Damian said simply. It looked like it. Though none of the Robins had ever carried a sword like that before . . . "I will help you recover Grayson."

"His Robin-?" Tim glanced at Bruce, then at Damian. "How did you even find us?"

"Barbara told me." Damian said.

Suspicious silence echoed from the comms.

Jason crossed his arms. Bruce sighed.

"We will discuss this later," Bruce said.

"Yes we will." Damian agreed.

"But for now, you will stay on this roof while we-"

"No." Damian said. "I will handle the Leauge of Shadows who, as we speak, are approaching the area. You will recover Grayson."

"No-"

"Father," Damian clenched his fists, then let out a huffed breath and released them. "Grayson nearly died to save me. I can handle the League. I will help you."

Bruce hesitated. As ferocious as his son was, despite his upbringing, he was still just a kid.

"He can handle the League." Jason confirmed. Bruce jerked his head towards Jason, surprised. "Let him. They'll just be trouble if we're trying to battle Deathstroke on one side and the League on the other."

They were all just . . . kids. But Dick was out there bleeding somewhere, Jason tapped his fingers on his guns, Tim was poised and ready to go, and Damian looked determined to fight. . .

Bruce didn't have time for guilt or second guessing. He'd periodically been reminded how young his boys were, but . . . Reluctantly, Bruce gave a terse nod.

"We will talk about this later." He warned.

Satisfied, Damian joined them at the roofs edge, peering over.

"Are you sure this is the right building?" Damian asked.

An explosion lit up the interior, and screams rang out.

"Pretty sure." Jason muttered.

"Move." Bruce said. "Robin, Red Hood, with me. Damian . . ."

"On it."

They leapt to the street and the three of them darted into the building. Bruce glanced over his shoulder to see Damian, clad in the Robin costume, settling in front of the door, sword drawn, waiting.

"Leave him," Jason muttered. "You've done it before."

Bruce turned to snap at him, but Jason was already down the hallway after Tim. Bodies littered the hallway. Most of them groaning, all of them bleeding. Neither Tim nor Jason hesitated stepping over them, and Bruce followed. The door at the end of the hallway was swung open.

"-glad it's you to take the shot, Grayson." Deathstroke. "Though I'd recommend aiming a little to your left, you're drifting."

Bruce pushed his way into the room. Deathstrokes eye flicked past Dick to him.

"Ah," Deathstroke inclined his head. "The party poopers have arrived."

"Shut your stupid face." Jason snapped. He and Tim hovered by the door, but Bruce stepped forward.

"Nightwing," He said carefully. Dick stood lilting in the middle of the room, a gun pointed at Deathstroke. He had a hand wrapped around his waist, blood oozing between his fingers. He looked unfocused, but his gaze was focused stubbornly on Deathstroke.

Ignoring Deathstroke, Bruce stepped closer to Dick, putting out his hands, but not touching him.

"Nightwing, put down the gun." Bruce said.

"No," Dick rasped. "I'm not losing another brother."

"I'm not losing another son," Bruce insisted. "Put down the gun. Let us take you home."

"I can't let him live anymore. Not after everything he's done."

"He didn't kill Dami-"

"THAT'S NOT ALL HE'S DONE." Dick shouted.

In the silence that followed, Dicks heaving breaths, a question swirling in Bruce's mind. Now wasn't the time to ask it though.

"I should have killed him years ago." Dick said. "I didn't-" Dicks legs finally gave out and he collapsed. Bruce quickly knelt beside him, catching him before he could fall completely to the ground. Jason was at their side in an instant, but Dick raised the gun again, pointing it unsteadily at Deathstroke.

"That's not what we do," Bruce said. "We save lives. You save lives."

"Not all of them." Dick whispered.

"You're injured, Dick," Bruce said softly. "Let us help you."

Bruce reached out slowly for the gun, but Dick shook his head.

"No."

His grip spasmed more than an intentional pulling of the trigger. The gun clicked. It didn't fire. Jammed or empty, it didn't fire. Deathstroke stood looking unimpressed.

Dicks head lolled towards Bruce, giving him the most pitiful look Bruce had ever seen. Dick looked so hurt, so disappointed. So desperate.

"Let's get him out of here," Jason said, swooping down beside them and scooping Dick up easily in his arms and taking him from Dick. Tim was there, pulling the gun out of Dicks limp grip and guiding Jason out.

"Well, this has been a beautiful reunion." Deathstroke commented. Bruce turned his attention towards the man to see him near an open window, one leg swung out. "But I've really got to get going. My apologies for trying to kill the kid." He shrugged. "Gotta do what you gotta do, you know?"

Bruce clenched his fists. Deathstroke smiled, as if reading his mind.

"You can chase me," Deathstroke offered. "But you'll be abandoning Dick. Again. I wouldn't recommend that."

Again.

"What did you do to him?" Bruce asked.

Deathstroke chuckled. "Not my place to tell you," he said. "Ask the kid yourself."

He was gone. Bruce hesitated a moment longer, then swept after his boys.

The Batmobile was parked out front. Damian stood beside it, watching anxiously as Tim helped Jason slide into the back seat with Dick.

"I've got a ride." Damian said as Bruce approached. He nodded towards the shadows, where Bruce could barely see a reflection in the darkness. The League was holding back. Fucking Talia.

Bruce just nodded and slid into the drivers seat as Tim buckled in beside him. Bruce hit the gas, ignoring any and all driving laws or safety rules.

"Oracle," Bruce snapped. "Tell Alfred-"

"Way ahead of you." Barbara's voice sounded further away. "I'm on my way too. Meet you at the cave."

Bruce glanced in the mirror at Jason in the back with Dick. Jason had removed his helmet and he looked . . . soft. Softer than Bruce had ever seen him. One hand was pressing on Dicks wounds, a desperate attempt to keep any more blood from flowing, while the other carded through Dicks hair with a gentleness Bruce never would have suspected.

"Jason," Dick whispered. His eyes were unfocused, and Bruce wondered how much he was actually processing. "I'm sorry."

"You should be, dumbass." Jason muttered. "Making us come save you. It's-"

"No," Dick interrupted. "I'm sorry I didn't save you."

Jason froze, emotions crossing his face that Bruce couldn't decipher in the mirror.

"I should have been there." Dick muttered. "I wasn't. You died. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well," Jason said gruffly. "Worry about yourself dying, okay?"

"If it means I get to see you again," Dick said with a smile. "Then dying will have been worth it."

Bruce returned his gaze to the road and pressed harder on the gas, willing the car to move faster.

[rhineposting]

Don't you guys ever think about how the first time Subject 2 tasted normal food only when abandoning his identity for the sake of posing as Albedo. Don't you guys ever think about how before that, he only had whatever Dragonspine offered to eat. Stolen supplies from the Fatui at best, half-frozen carcasses from all sources at worst. Don't you guys ever think about how he spent the first few weeks of his second life like an animal and not a person. Even less than animal, as they are born already knowing things like running, hunting, fending for themselves. Don't you guys ever think about how he was born with nothing.

[loverboybrightsideghost]

one of my favorite clark headcanons that i have (that is completely unsupported by canon) is that he's transgender by kryptonian standards. martha and jon kent raised him as a boy and as he grew up he never had any reason to doubt it at all, he was like yeah i'm a boy, makes sense. and then he gets to the fortress of solitude for the first time and it turns out how Gender works on krypton was just Different enough that clark doesn't really fit the kryptonian standards of whatever he was supposed to be. bonus points because this makes him feel like even more of an outsider as a kryptonian, even if he's the last one left.

[pocketramblr]

more Cadmus gripe time because I just finished the last boy on earth arc and ughhhh SB was so devastated to return home and find everyone gone, and we saw that Roxy spent weeks trying so hard to find him when everyone else said he was gone and good riddance, she even found Robin's number and asked Batman for help, she even went to see if Knockout knew anything, and everyone at Cadmus knows this- and when SB comes back from spending months as an amnesiac captive and wants so badly to see his friends again, they don't use their incredible resources to track down Roxy and help reunite them, they take him to Paris and claim it's because giving him a new scenery and something to hit will do him good and get his mind off it, but then it turns out they just want to field test him and get him to work for them. SB going from being exploited by Leech to exploited by Cadmus is bridged by a story where he's literally stripped of all agency and the ability to speak for himself and I'm going to scream.

[sunni-stuff]

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Reader who gets pregnant off of a one night stand with some soldier during armed forces day, showing your appreciation for his service a little too well.

You had a support system, friends who joked about you having way too much fun, hence your predicament, others already offering to buy things for the baby and your parents who couldn't be happier to meet their grandchild.

But what about the father?

Well, it's not exactly like you could track him down. Fuck, you didn't even know the man's name, only how he made you feel, his filthy words strumming in your ear, big hands tight around your waist, hips slamming away in a desperate chase.

Let's forget how you leg-locked him.

When your daughter was born, everything changed, and time slowed down. She was a quiet baby, barely crying or having any outbursts like a normal child would but outspoken in her own little way. That chunky thing came out of the womb with a glare. Brown eyes staring down anyone and everyone but you.

That's something she definitely got from her father. You vividly remember how his umber eyes watching you from across the bar. He was like an eagle waiting for the perfect moment to strike his prey. A perfect soldier.

So, you named your daughter Adira in memory of his strength. That's one thing he could have.

Adira loved to be by your side. Her chubby cheeks pressed into the nook of your neck, holding you close with strength of a thousand babies. Your clingy little thing was a koala, always by her mommy's side, never straying far no matter how curious she got. When she learned to walk, her favorite thing became to hug your leg, especially while in stores. She hated people, wearing a tiny scowl whenever customers passed by tucking herself closer to you.

Maybe it was a good thing her father wasn't around. Having to compete for her first words would've been a bloodbath.

You spent two years in bliss. The fact that you were a single mother an afterthought to raising what you considered a blessing.

With Adira's second Christmas coming up, you wanted to do something special. She loved trains and found them absolutely amusing, often mimicking the honk as she ran around your apartment. Thankfully, there was a train ride for kids around the park during this time of year.

Here, you stood in line, bundled up to the nines. Big poofy coat, warm gloves, and fuzzy boots. As the crowd moved, Adira clung close, arms wrapped around your leg, glowering at any passerby with an annoyed look on her rosy cheeks.

That one was new. Maybe something else she got from her father.

The two of you took steps in tow, keeping Adira close and comfortable as the train came into view. Her expression shifted, excitement palpable. "Twain!" She squealed, jumping up and down.

Before you could respond to Adira's childlike joy, a man bumped into you by accident, nearly stumbling over his own feet. He turns to look at you, blue eyes meeting yours, but you were too focused on the weird ass Mohawk on his head.

People wore still those?

"Sorry bout that lass." The man starts to apologize, a Scottish accent lacing his voice.

That breaks your stare, laughing awkwardly to mask your wandering gaze. "Oh no, it's fine. You should be careful. you might slip on ice."

He nods, giving you a kind smile. The Scottish man starts to leave, but the look your kid was giving him sent shivers down his spine.

Little Adira was giving him a fierce stare down from behind your leg before ultimately cutting her eyes at him as if he were merely a nuisance.

"Next in line! Mctavish!"

The man doesn't stay after that. You assume that it was him they were calling with the way he hurried off. Hope he doesn't fall, seemed like a nice guy.

Soap can't help but do a double take when be gets to the front. The little rascal was wearing his Lieutenants face, hawk eyeing anyone who dared got to close. It was like looking in a mirror.

He nudged Gaz, making a gesture to look back without making it obvious. "See the lass and her bairn in line?"

Gaz gives him a raised brow, looking back for a second before turning around. "There's a lot of kids with their mother's, Johnny."

Soap glances back, double checking to make sure you were still in line. “The lass with the wee one—she’s got the same wicked look as Lt. You cannae miss her.”

Gaz rolls his eyes but humors Soap by looking once more, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on a little girl already mean-mugging him from a distance. He swiftly turns around, blinking in surprise, trying to comprehend what he saw. "Uh..."

Soap only nods in agreement. That was Ghost's face, on a kid no less. He wastes no time, elbowing Roach and getting him to look back as well, leaving the other Sergeant in the same shock as Gaz. "That is not a face a kid should have."

"Agreed." Gaz added, shuddering at the thought.

"Where's the cap?" Soap asks, the train ride no longer feeling like fun now that he’s discovered the jackpot.

"Market place with Lt. for cigs," Gaz knowingly remarked, remembering that Price had run out on their way here.

"Well, let's go show them a Christmas miracle," Soap shot up from his seat all too eagerly.

The sergeants just got their Christmas present.

[naomi-nana]

✎ᝰ. in the name of you .

in a world where everyone forgot their own religion, it's not wrong for luka to look at your ethereal self and immediately mistake you for a divine being, no?

featuring : luka

cw : female reader, implied stalking(for just a little), luka is obsessed with reader, luka isn't obsessed with hyuna in here for the sake of the story lol🙇‍♀️

a/n : i made a till one, and now i'll make a luka one! i was trying to make it seems as if luka is obsessed with reader, but i was having a hard time showing it, and ended up making it seems like luka had become a better person after meeting reader lmfaoo😭🙏

from the moment humans were taken away forcefully by those disgusting aliens—they all had forgotten about their creators. the one who gave them life, the one who gave them the will to continue living. each day felt like a stab to the heart, it feels as if someone had taken your lungs out of your body, before putting it back inside again.

it feels empty, like a void.

while all the kids run around anakt garden happily, although not genuinely, all luka could do was lean on one of the trees, while holding his knees close to his chest. what can he do? what does people expect him to do? he is a weak child, a child born with diseases, a child unable to live without support from others, including the tree he is currently leaning on. without anything to lean on, to hold on to, what was he supposed to do, weak and dependent as he was?

nothing. he could only weep himself to sleep every day, and it changes nothing. he has heard from the other kids that there is a powerful divine being that could help you in times of distress, how it's called god, how you're supposed to believe in it for it to help you, and he did. luka believed in god for a day, but nothing had changed. his everyday life had remained the same.

like waking up early, even though he doesn't know what time it is because of all the fake painted skies the aliens put in the garden, go eat breakfast with the other kids, with no one else sitting besides—"hey, is this seat occupied?" in the midst of the suffocating silence, a cheerful, almost unreal voice had reached his ears. he had first thought that it was just his imagination, his desperate feelings of wanting to be accompanied by someone. but it wasn't, as the voice echoed in his ears once again.

"uh, hello...? did i catch you on a bad day? i'm so sorry, i'll find another seat then." after what felt like a minute, he finally looked up at the person talking to him, only to notice that they're gone. he clenched his fist in regret. he should've looked up earlier, he should've answered whoever that was, but he didn't. such a shame, he thought to himself.

after half an hour, luka finished his breakfast and was getting ready to leave, before being stopped by someone whose voice was so familiar to him, it almost feels as if he is dreaming. "hey, um... i'm really, really sorry for bothering you earlier. as an apology, i got some bread for you!" that cheerful voice had struck something inside him, his eyes grew wide slightly, and his hand trembles at the sight of you. if he were to believe in the divine, he would immediately get down on his knees and pray for you, an angel.

your soft gaze, your skin that looks almost as delicate and fragile as a glass, and your small fingers offering him the bread you got for him. it took him almost a minute to react, and all that came out of his mouth is just a small gasp, so small that even you can't hear it. "don't tell anyone about this though, but i stole it from someone's unfinished breakfast! so take it, please?" you shoved the bread to his face, which made him raise his eyebrows. but he took it anyway.

he examines the bread carefully, to which you took great offense. "i won't poison you, so there's no need to look at it so intensely!" you pout at him. if you squint your eyes really hard, you can notice the faintest hint of smile on his face, and probably the first time he has ever smile so genuinely.

his everyday routine had consisted of the same, basic thing. but, now that you talked to him, it changed his life forever. it changed his views of the world, of everyone. some kids may have believed in the divine from the moment they were born, but luka just believed in the divine the moment she graced himself with her kindness.

from then on, whenever luka woke up and entered the garden, the first thing—or person he looks for, is you. whenever he went to the cafeteria, the first person he approached is you, and when luka went to his first performance on stage, the first person he looks for in the audience is you, holding a cream-colored lightstick.

whenever luka goes anywhere, the first person he looks for, thought of, and wishes to see first... is you.

his god, his universe.

and if he happens to notice some... imbecile, or other people trying to approach you, he won't hesitate to show them that no one can approach his angel without consequences. no one other than him.

naomi-nana. do NOT repost, do not use,(with or without permission), do not reccommend or talk about my works outside of tumblr.

[ssahotchnerr]

FOR DAD!AARON

It could be Ellie’s birthday and for some reasons the cake order they made got canceled or something like this and Aaron stays up all night prior her birthday party to cook her a cake 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 Bonus point if he never did that before !!!!!!!!

no time to lose

that is adorable 😭 cw; dad!aaron, pregnant!reader, food mentions, playful loving banter and domestic fluff to the max💞 wc; 1.5k

Juggling multiple grocery bags in one hand so he could use the other to open the door wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, but it did allow Aaron to enter the house without making too much noise. If he entered too loudly, the sleeping children upstairs very well may not stay sleeping.

It wouldn’t be too much of an issue if Jack was awakened, but Ellie could not wake up tonight, plain and simple. Not only because birthday surprises were still to be put together, but she’d just recently and finally grown accustomed to sleeping, and remaining, in her own bed.

A bittersweet feeling overcame Aaron at the thought of her newfound independence - she really was growing up. He suddenly found himself missing waking up in the middle of the night to her little feet directly in his face.

You followed the sound of his return, a slight panicked expression on your face as you entered the kitchen. "Did you find an open store?"

"Thankfully," Aaron huffed softly, unloading the bags onto the table. He immediately started unpacking - a box of vanilla cake mix, a tub of white frosting, a few frosting tubes for decorating. "They didn't have pink frosting though, so I got food dye."

You nodded hurriedly. "Candles?"

"Wait, was I supposed to get candles too?" Your face fell back into a panic before his feigned, stunned expression changed to a smirk, "Of course I remembered the candles honey."

You playfully tapped his arm, causing a chuckle to escape him. "That's mean."

"But you still love me." You hmph'ed in response, but graciously accepted the kiss he leaned in close to give you, smiling as you pulled away.

"Hey I wasn't-"

"No," You raised your eyebrows, narrowing your eyes amusedly, "no distractions. This cake isn't going to bake itself."

His shoulders dropped defeatedly as he looked at you, his expression a bit pained. "How am I going to decorate a ballerina and bunnies cake?"

Your curly headed daughter had been very insistent that her birthday cake consisted of those two things and those two things only. Ballerinas in honor of her favorite activity, and bunnies to represent her special plush she refused to relieve from her grip.

You shrugged, "A bunny in a tutu?"

"I'm certified in quite a few things, but cake decorating is not one of them."

"Just be happy the bakery was nice enough to let us know." Your usual go-to had called just an hour before, the time quickly approaching ten. The cold weather had caused a pipe to burst, and flooded the establishment as a result. Therefore, Ellie's birthday cake was not ready and you were forced to utilize your own capabilities. Aaron had left in a frenzy while you kept your raging hormones at bay - you had dissolved into tears at the news. Her fifth birthday, absolutely ruined.

He hummed in agreement, opening the cabinet and pulling out the mixing bowl. "I can't argue with that."

"Do you need my help?" You neared close, wobbling only a bit.

"No, you go lay down." He pressed his hand to your protruding belly where your newest addition grew, giving you another kiss. "I can handle this, you've been on your feet all day."

A laugh erupted from you, "So have you."

"Yeah, well, I'm not with child." He quipped back, a warm glint in his eyes that only enhanced their gentle brown color.

"Have you even baked a cake before?"

"I've made brownies. How different can it be?"

Making the cake was fairly easy. Aka, Aaron could read and follow the instructions on the back of the box. You chimed in from your designated spot at the kitchen island - if you weren't going to lay down you were going to sit, he had insisted - offering the advice such as using the electric mixer rather than whisking by hand. The cake soon ventured into the oven, and once it’d been baked it was popped in the fridge to cool. Meanwhile, Aaron got started on the frosting.

"Is this pink enough?" His eyes shot to yours, slowing his spoon and tilting the bowl slightly so you could easily see.

"Hmm, add some more white? That's more Barbie pink than coquette pink." You suggested, wrapping one of Ellie's presents - a doll she's had her eyes on for months.

Aaron gave you a bewildered look, before obliging and spooning more into the bowl, "What?"

"It's too vibrant, it has to be much lighter."

His face didn't falter, immediately retrieving the tape your elbow had bumped to the floor. "Coquette? What the hell is that?"

"You do know that there's more than one shade of pink-"

He spoke over you, "yes I do but-"

"Just listen to me." You teased, topping Ellie's present with a bow. Aaron exhaled a breath in return, causing you to laugh lightly.

"God, I can't believe she's turning five." Aaron mumbled as his lips drew into a small pout, mixing the frosting rather grumpily - as if it had personally offended him. "Where did the time go?"

"I know," your hand found his back, rubbing it soothingly. "It seems like it was only yesterday we brought her home from the hospital, she was learning how to walk, refusing to sleep anywhere but our bed."

"Don't make me cry."

"Sorry," you giggled gently, kissing his cheek. "But just think, this year she'll start kindergarten, become a big sister, soccer in the spring. Five will be huge for her."

He nodded, a deep sigh leaving his chest. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"Haven't you learned by now? I always am." You bantered, but after a moment, you added, "I feel bad."

His head lifted in alarm, eyes wide as they searched your face before dropping to your belly. "You do?!"

"No, no. We're fine." You reassured, your words intertwining with your soft laugh. Resting your head against his shoulder, "I should be making you a cake. It's not only Ellie's birthday tomorrow."

You'd just entered your third trimester and your energy was dwindling - every day had been different. Energetic one, sluggish the next. All your time was spent catching up to your tireless daughter, ensuring Jack made it to his extra-circulars, and managing the normal household necessities.

Aaron helped in every way he could, but his schedule did dictate when - you were on your own when he was gone, abide some help from Jessica. But you managed while pregnant with Ellie, you could do so again.

And when Aaron was home, he made certain you didn't dare lift a finger. He took charge when it came to the house and both kids, and even devotedly massaged your swollen ankles every night without fail.

You'd gotten him a gift at least, and had already sneakily texted Penelope to ask the favor of stopping before the party tomorrow to pick up some cupcakes for Aaron. You’d both agreed: Ellie's birthday was top priority. But Aaron deserved to feel special too.

"Thank you, but I don't need anything more," He pressed a kiss to your temple, gazing at you lovingly. "I have everything I need. Three healthy kids and an amazing wife. I'm set."

After you'd gone to bed, Aaron completed the last minute preparations as he waited for the cake to chill. You'd already hung up the streamers (under Aaron's very watchful eye, a hand on your back spotting you even though you were merely on your tiptoes). He blew up the balloons, scattering them along the living room floor where Ellie's presents were laid. He smiled to himself, picturing her excitement when she woke up. As a five year old.

Next came the hard part, decorating. Lathering the cake in pink frosting had been easy, but it was the bunny in the tutu that - pun intended - would be the icing on the cake. He couldn't mess that up.

Before you settled down, you selected easy, cartoon bunny images for him to reference. He picked the simplest one - the one he felt most confident he could portray - and went for it.

With a steady hand, he started with the outline. Shaping the bunny, even adding a lopsided ear to contrast the one sticking straight up. He filled it in, added whiskers, eyes and a nose, other minor details to make it appear more life-like. He did utter a shit under his breath more than once; too much frosting oozing out of the tube, accidentally drawing one whisker longer than the others, quirks that could be noticeable.

It wasn't perfect, but in the end it resembled a bunny. And the tutu, more manageable than he'd anticipated, he even added small ballet slippers. Hopefully and most importantly, it was Ellie-approved.

Come tomorrow, approved didn't nearly cover it. Ellie was in absolute delight, and insisted that Aaron would make her a bunny cake every year: 'Every year Daddy,' she had pointed a finger at him, the signature Hotchner eyebrows drawn over her eyes.

And the team, equally as shocked. Penelope's surprised, high pitched Sir! nearly caused his (bad) ear to ring, while Morgan altogether refused to believe Aaron had done it, despite your reassurances that it had been all him: "Get outta here. Hotch did that? You serious?"

Maybe Aaron could add cake decorating to his list of credentials.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

It's Been Calling Me

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, light angst, shameless smut (oral f receiving, p in v sex), fluff, soulmates, dreams, told over many years, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams.

So sure, until you're not.

Author's Note: I love this one. I love using fake Marvel science logic. I love putting sad men in situations where they can't escape love. I love semi-linear storytelling. Enjoy!

Word Count: 10.9k

“I get… dreams.” You mumble, staring at an odd point over Dr. Raynor’s head. It’s always better than looking her in the eyes. “They’re weird.”

“The very nature of dreams is to be strange.” You can see the shrug of Raynor’s shoulders, hear the neural expression that must be on her face. “Although if you feel they’re worthy of note-“

“They are.” 

Raynor hums. She’s probably raising her brows. You still won’t look.

“You sound quite certain of that.”

“I am.” You tuck your knees up to your chest, frowning at the air. “It’s- They’re not new.”

“Ah.” Raynor pauses, then says your name. In the gentle but firm therapist way that you really hate. It makes you feel like a child. “This conversation may be easier if you would look at me.”

“No thanks, I’m-“

She says your name again. A little harsher. “We’ve discussed this. You’re here of your own volition-“

“That’s not true.” You mutter. “Court-ordered isn’t volition.”

“Well you could’ve chosen the inpatient ward.” Raynor’s shrugging again. “Look at me.”

You let out a long breath, and meet her gaze. You’d been right. She was raising her brows.

“Good work.” She gives you a tight-lipped smile and small nod of approval. “Tell me about these dreams.”

It takes a minute to find the words. Not because you don’t have them, but because you’d never expected to use them. You’ve rehearsed them in the mirror a million times, but they always sounded insane, and you didn’t need another reason to be called crazy.

“I’ve had them my whole life.” It’s easiest to start there. “But it’s- they’ve changed. Over time.”

“Changed how?”

“It’s hard to explain-“

“Try.”

You scowl. “I am trying, Christina, but there’s kind of a lot to say-“

Raynor sighs, giving you the patented look of disapproval that you might hate more than how she says your name. “How about telling me when they started. Is that do-able?”

It takes a long, deep breath, but you nod. “I was- I think I was ten. I fell asleep, and it was the first dream I’d ever had. The first one that I remembered when I woke up. It was…” You swallow, and there’s a sting in your nails as you rip more skin away. “Really vivid.”

——

This isn’t your body. It’s too big, too tall, and you’re not nearly strong enough to rip a door off its hinges. This body is sprinting across ice without ever breaking pace or falling flat with a crunch. You can’t even walk up stairs without tripping over thin air.

But this doesn’t really feel like a body at all. It feels like a shell, or tool. Hollow and pressed down, moving so mechanically you’d think it was a machine if you couldn’t hear its heartbeat in your ears. There’s a lot of pain in it. Strangely numb pain, as if the owner of this body doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, shuttering it off to the side as he moves.

You’re pretty sure it's a he. There’s hair in your eyes, but men can have long hair, and when the body’s arms swing into view they’re big and muscular. You’re also pretty sure there’s something between your legs that wasn’t there when you went to sleep.

And you can feel him. Very, very deep in your head, he’s bellowing and scraping at his own scalp. He feels like a caged animal, but this is his body. He’s roaring things that are more like feral sounds than actual words, and every time he gets loud enough for you to make out a real voice something clamps down on your skull—his skull—and it all goes quiet.

You can see another man in your line of vision. He’s on his knees, trembling and begging, but the noise is muffled and static. As if there’s a filter pushing anything coherent out of your head.

A gloved fist that’s attached to your body—but not yours to control—reaches out and grabs the man by his throat. It squeezes. 

He’s desperate. Locked down and furious, the ‘he’ who you’re possessing is almost pleading with himself to stop. 

But he doesn’t. 

And there’s a sickening snap that will echo in your ears for a long time after you wake up.

——

Raynor’s looking at you like you’re insane. You don’t love it.

“Did you…” She pauses, scanning over you with a small frown. “Did you see the hand?”

You blink at her. “Yeah, I just said-“

“Without the glove.” She clarifies. “The one that snapped the man’s neck. Did you ever see it without the glove.”

It’s an oddly specific question. And she seems to be looking for a certain answer, because in all your time of working with Raynor she’s never looked so obviously invested in a story. 

“Not for a while.” You keep your words slow, watching her wearily. “He always wore the gloves. And when he didn’t, he wouldn’t look at his hands-“

Raynor frowns. “So how did you know he wasn’t wearing the gloves?” 

“Because he knew.” You shrug. “I lived in his brain like, every night.”

“Every-“

“Night, yeah. That’s what I fucking said.”

Raynor hums, and you think she’s going to grab the notebook to write something along the lines of patient has lost her goddamn mind, but she just keeps staring at you. “You said you didn’t see the hand for a while. When did you see it?”

“When I was sixteen. The first time the dreams changed.”

“Changed from-“

“Being in his head.” You pull your lip between your teeth, weighing how much you want to reveal. Too much feels like a violation of his privacy, even if they’re your dreams. He’s a private guy, it took you years to get him to tell you anything, and if you’ve realized turns out to be the truth, you don’t want to ruin anything. “It’s- it was about six years of seeing everything through his eyes-“

“Everything?”

You wish Raynor would stop saying the word every like that. Like it’s a lie.

“All the murders.” You mutter. “There were a lot of murders.”

Raynor nods for you to continue, and you have to take a long, steadying breath.

“One night I went to sleep and he was… attacking some blond guy. We couldn’t really see his face. Then I fell asleep the next night, and it was different.”

——

You can see him. You’ve never seen him before. 

He’d never looked in a mirror, or described himself in his head for you like he’s a Wattpad character. He’s only ever been a body that moves out of your will, and a pained voice deep in your brain that didn’t seemed thrilled with what was happening either. 

But you’re not in his head, or his body. You’re standing in a bathroom—in your own body, wearing the same clothing you’d been wearing when you’d crawled into bed—and looking at him. 

He’s a lot more attractive than you’d anticipated. And you’d anticipated attractive. You’d built an image in your head of your imaginary dream assassin, basing it purely on a level of hotness that would justify all the murders he’d been up to. It had been a little fucked up, but you’d also been so goddamn sure he wasn’t real. That this was just a really odd and worrying coping mechanism for all the messed up shit in your real life. 

But he seems pretty fucking real right now. And almost impossibly handsome. Strong features that look like they’d been carved from marble, an almost hulking frame that’s somehow bigger when you’re looking at it from outside, and tangled, greasy hair that’s really working with the whole tortured expression on his face.

Because he does not look okay.

He’s gripping the sink and glowering at himself, scanning over his own face like he recognizes it less than you do. He’s bent like there’s a weight on his shoulders he doesn’t know how to shake off, and that’s impressive, because you’ve seen him pick up a car. 

The porcelain of the sink cracks, and he flinches back, looking between his hands and the rubble with wide eyes.

His eyes are blue. A really pretty blue. You’d always thought blue eyes were overrated—big whoop, you’re more sensitive to light—but there’s something silver in this man’s eyes that you really love. It feels like a deep storm you’d like to chase.

He’s really pretty. 

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would like being called pretty, but he is. In a natural and powerful way. Like something heavenly that’s burned through the atmosphere in a dreadful fall.

Pretty face, pretty eyes, pretty hands-

Metal hand. 

One metal hand.

——

Raynor looks worried now. You wish she’d go back to thinking you’re just batshit crazy. 

“Do you-” she clears her throat, sitting a little taller in her chair. “His name. Did you ever learn his name?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Does that matter?”

“Yes.”

It’s a flat, tense answer. It makes something coil in your throat. 

“I-“ You rub your own calves, soothing yourself in the careful way you’ve always practiced. “I didn’t, for a while-“

Raynor says your name, her tone short and clipped. “Stop telling me something didn’t happen for a while. If I ask a question, it’s because I need to know the answer. Not the buildup.”

You frown. “Need to know?”

“It’s…” Raynor sighs. “It is very important that you give me a name.”

“Why?”

“Therapist reasons.”

You give her a flat look. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Yes, it is. Name.”

“If you need the name,” you say, raising your chin slightly. “You have to sit through my for a while.”

Raynor gives you a look of disbelief, shaking her head and muttering something that sounds like God, I can’t take two of them, before raising her voice. “Fine. What was for a while.”

“I couldn’t talk to him.” You explain. “For like, two years after I got out of his brain, he still couldn’t see me. When I tried to talk to him it was like I was in a- sort of a one-way mirror? And it’s not like he was just walking around telling the air I’m Bucky-“

“Bucky?” Raynor looks downright distressed. “His name was-“

“It’s Bucky.” 

He still is. He’s not a was, Bucky is.

That’s part of the problem.

“And how-“ Raynor swallows. “How did you learn this?”

“He told me.”

——

This is new. You’re not on a street or in a half-empty apartment—the two places you’ve grown most accustomed to seeing in your sleep—but in a field. A very big field with huts and brush and goats.

There are a truly staggering amount of goats.

And there he is. His hair isn’t greasy and unkempt anymore, but looks almost soft, pulled back in a half-up half-down situation that makes him look clean. His metal arm is gone, but he doesn’t seem that bothered by it. He’s standing taller than before, like the weight you’ve grown used to seeing finally has begun to lift.

His outfit is new too. It looks like something traditional and well-made, rather than the off-brand baseball hats—you too are a big fan of the American baseball team, the ‘Doggers’—and shitty polyester t-shirts.

You’re taking him and scenery in, trying to place where your brain could’ve possibly taken you this time, when he does something you’d never expected.

He turns and looks at you.

Not through you. Not around you. Not in your general direction.

At you.

He can fucking see you.

“Hello?”

You’ve heard him speak before, a few times. His voice has always been low and gruff and heavy.

It’s smooth and richer now. You don’t know if that’s because it’s directed at you—setting off small sparks over your ribs—or in relation to that vanished weight, but you like it. It suits him better.

“Hi.” You whisper, your body frozen in place as he moves forward.

He’s right in front of you. Staring at you. 

He’s always gotten prettier every time you’ve seen him. This is different.

This is knocking the air out of your lungs with just the sight of him, because there’s a light in his eyes you’ve never seen before, and it makes something deep inside of you glow.

“I’m, uh, I’m Bucky.” 

He holds out his hand, and you tilt your head at him.

“That’s a weird name.”

He blinks at you, his hand still frozen in the air. “I guess, yeah. Never thought about it. It’s just a nickname.”

“Oh.” That makes more sense. “Sorry. That’s- I just never thought you as- never mind.” 

Bucky frowns at you, opening his mouth—likely ask you what you mean by that—but you say your name and shake his hand because he gets the chance.

He has a nice hand. It warm, and calloused, and fits really well in yours. 

“Why can you see me?” You blurt, and there goes any pretense of containing the truth. 

Bucky frowns at you. “Should I… Not be able to see you?”

“You’ve never seen me before.”

“Before? What do you mean-“

“It’s- It’s weird. And complicated.”

He just stares at you, waiting for you to continue. 

You’re holding his gaze. You’ve never held anyone’s gaze before. 

It’s kind of electrifying.

“I’ve dreamt about you before.” You mumble. “And you’ve never seen me.”

“About me?”

He doesn’t sound like he believes you. You get that. It’s not really a reasonable or believable statement.

“Yeah. But you had two arms. And there weren’t goats.”

Bucky nods slowly, and seems to reach a conclusion in his brain that you don’t get to be privy to. 

It’s enough for him though. Because he gives you a small, almost nervous and apologetic smile. 

“Do you wanna, uh, do you wanna meet the goats?”

You blink at him. You’d expected more questions, or some doubt. But he’s just looking at you, something in his pretty blue eyes almost hopeful.

“Are they...” You trail off, glancing at the goats over his shoulder. “Your goats?”

“They’re community goats.” He shrugs. “But Shuri says connection with life will help my recovery, and I don’t really want to connect with people.” His voice lowers, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “They don’t really like connecting with me.”

You don’t know who the fuck Shuri is, but you nod anyway. “So goats?”

He gives you another odd look, like he’d expected you to say something else. 

“Yeah. Goats.” 

“Did you name them?”

He frowns. “They’re goats. They don’t need names.”

You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Wrong. Everything needs a name. I named my car, and my phone.”

“You named your phone?”

“Yep.” You grin at him, and it’s a wide, teasing grin you haven’t given anyone in years. “Bertha.”

“That’s…” Bucky’s still staring at you–he seems to do that a lot—but there’s something like amusement in his eyes. “Bertha is not a good name.”

“Better than Bucky.”

He chuckles at that, and it’s a beautiful sound. Deep and heavy, like a bass drum in your chest.

It’s the sort of thing that could be addicting, if you’re not careful. Worse, it’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t mind being addicted to.

“You’re kinda mean, doll.”

“Yep.” You shrug, ignoring how ‘doll’ makes you feel fuzzy in your gut. “And I’ll be meaner if you don’t let me name your goats.”

He hums, scanning you over with an intensity in his eyes that reminds you of that storm you’d see all those years ago in the bathroom. This time, you’d like to do a little more than chase it.

You think it could be really easy to get wrecked by it. 

“Will you come back if I let you name them?”

He keeps saying things you don’t expect. Of course you’ll come back. You don’t have a choice.

But you nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Only if you promise to actually use the names.”

He nods, giving you another smile. “Deal.”

———

“Did you ever learn his last name?”

You shake your head. “I never asked. He mentioned his real name was James at one point, but then I asked why he was called ‘Bucky’ and we got off topic.”

“One… point?” Raynor’s words are slow, and you’ve really never seen her looked lost like this before. You’d be proud of yourself if it wasn’t a bad sign. “Exactly how frequently did these dreams occur?”

———

“You’re back!”

Bucky looks genuinely happy to see you. He does every night. The same surprised joy in his voice, shock always written over his face like it’s truly odd and lovely to see you here.

Like you’re not here every night, for three to four hours, standing in his little hut and wandering the fields.

You’ve worked out that you’ve put him in Africa. Wakanda specifically, likely because you’d seen it all over the news and it seemed pretty interesting. Shuri was the princess, and the guy T’challa Bucky had mentioned a few times was the King. You’d almost certainly heard their names during all those UN conferences—the ones you put on in the background just to hear some noise that wasn’t ringing in your ears—and your brain had just decided to run with it.

At least, you think it’s just your brain. You’ve always assumed this was all in your brain, because this feels like the exact kind of fucked up shit your brain would pull. And Bucky never aged. He’d never really changed, for six years. He’d had just been another way to cope for the longest time, but now—as you actually get to know him—he seems dangerously like a real person.

He looks like he broods less than when you see him hunched over a toilet or glowering at his reflection in a window. His appearance has started to shift in a way it never really had.

The metal arm has permanently departed. He seems fond of keeping his hair out of eyes, and his wardrobe finally has diversity. He talks to you, and he has a personality. An adorable, grumpy, endearing personality that would play into your idea of ‘made up in your brain’ if he couldn’t be so annoying.

He stares. He grunts a lot. He doesn’t get any of your references. If you made up an imaginary dream man to feel more loved, he would like all the things you like and hate all the things you hate.

But he doesn’t.

And it always draws you in further, because he truly does seem like just a perfectly insufferable asshole. 

That’s cruel. He’d been right. You could be mean. 

He never seemed to mind.

And he’s more like a dog anyway. One that escaped the pound and follows you around, not even bothering to beg for scraps because you offer them with a grin.

You like his company. You like his voice. You like that he’s annoying and you like more that it’s your exact type of annoying.

You like that he’s really fucking hot, and get hotter every time you visit. 

You mostly just like him.

“Of course I’m back.” You shrug, kicking a rock with the tip of your foot, watching it bounce through the dirt. “I’m always back.”

“Yeah. So far.” You see Bucky shrug in your periphery, and when you look up, he’s staring again. “Could change.”

“Won’t change.” You counter, giving him a pointed look. “Sorry, Buck. You’re stuck here until I die.”

That’s the first time you’ve called him Buck. He tenses for a moment, seems to shake something physically off his body, and nods slowly.

“Should I be worried about you dying?”

“Not right now, no.” You hum. Another rock gets kicked. “Death doesn’t agree with me.”

He chuckles. “Don’t think it agrees with anyone, doll-“

“Shut up.” Third rock. This one hits a goat, and you cringe slightly. “Shit. Sorry, Bubble McBubbleface-“

“Bubs will be.” Bucky rolls his eyes, moving to your side. He’s standing really close. You can almost feel a phantom heat from his body. “And I still can’t believe you talked me into that name. I had to tell the king of the damn country that his goat was named Bubble McBubbleface.”

You giggle, and Bucky shoots you a glare.

“You think that’s funny? I had to like pretend it was my idea,” he grumbles your name, and you always like how he says it. Like it’s some sort of answer. “I had to look the council of elders in the eyes and tell them that Bubble McBubbleface got Lady Gaga pregnant-“

Your eyes widen. “You let the goats get pregnant?”

“Course I let them get pregnant, doll.”

“But-“

He gives you a dry, amused look. “Would you rather I interfere? You want me to cockblock Bubs?”

You blink at him. “You know what cockblock means?”

Your brain had given him the personality of an eighty-year-old man. You don’t know why, but you stopped asking questions like “why” and “what” a long time ago. You just know that he shouldn’t know what cockblock means, for consistency.  

“Of course I know what it means. You taught it to me.” He winks at you, and you’re pretty sure you’re flushing.

This is meant to be a dream. You shouldn’t be able to flush, or feel a little flutter and hum in your heart, or something molten in your gut when he leans a little further forward to grin down at you.

This seems less like a dream every night.

You’d be worried about that if you had the energy, or foresight, or care.

“Are goats births gross?” You ask, and he chuckles again. The sound has started to inflict a sort of high on your brain, and every color in this dreamworld seems brighter. 

“They’re fucking disgusting.” He leans a little further down. You have to stare at his nose to pretend the proximity isn’t going to make your fall over. “But if you let me show you one in here, I’ll let you name the babies out there.”

You nod kind of stupidly, the whole world shifts into a barn—goat births are disgusting, but Bucky gets a look of intense focus you’d like to see re-aimed in your direction—and four months later Bucky tells you little Oz The Great and Powerful, Donald Duck, and Pants McPantsface have been welcomed into the world.

———

“So you’d see him in… Wakanda.” Raynor takes another long breath. If you didn’t think it would make everything worse, you’d tell her to try some deep breathing exercises. “Did the location ever change? Did you witness any more of those murders from before?”

You feel something spark in your chest like an electric wire, and you sit a little taller. You haven’t seen Bucky kill anyone since you’d been trapped in his brain. He’s a good man. And, as far as Raynor knows, a figment of your imagination. She has no right to fucking imply-

“It’s important that I know,” she says slowly, and you think your oddly blinding and righteous anger had been painted all over your face. “So I better understand what’s been happening to you. Please,” she says your name, leaning somehow further forward in her seat. “Answer my questions.”

You nod, letting out a slow exhale. “No murders. But he did start coming into my brain.”

Raynor frowns at you. “Was he not always-“

“Not like this.”

———

“This is new.”

You whip around, taking a stumbling step back that would’ve landed you on the floor, had Bucky not looped his one arm around your waist.

“Hey, doll. Pleasure seeing you-“ He frowns, glancing around your apartment. “Where the hell am I?”

You don’t answer, only reaching up to touch his face. His beard is soft. His hair is softer. When you trace the line of his nose it does feel like a nose, and when you poke his cheek it seems pretty cheek-like- 

“What, uh,” Bucky say your name, scanning over your face with concern. “What’s happening here.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You whisper, poking his cheek again. Just to be sure. “You’ve never been here before.”

“Yeah, figured that one out myself-“

“No.” You shake your head, placing one hand on his chest. It fits well there, slotting right over muscle and warm skin. Every part of him seems to fit perfectly against you, and you’ve never been this close before, but you don’t have any urge to move away. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You’ve never been here. It’s been ten years, and you’ve never been here.”

“I know, doll. Doesn’t seem like there’s much to-“ He pauses, giving you an odd look. “Ten years?”

“Yeah.” You mumble. There’s not much else to say.

He just stares at you, and shakes his head slightly. “Huh. You gonna tell me where I am?”

“My apartment.”

“Your-“ He starts slightly, but you never shake in his arms. “You live in this place?”

You nod, and he pulls you to your feet, scanning over your home. 

The silence wraps around your heart and lungs, and the room is spinning slightly. You’re asleep. You’re pretty fucking sure you’re asleep. You locked the door, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed, so you’re asleep. Bucky’s never been here before, but he’s not really here because this is a dream and he’s not real.

You think. 

You wouldn’t bet on that anymore, though.

And nothing has ever been as important as Bucky liking your room, because the longer he just scans over the space around you the more your skin heats, the more your eyes blur, the more your throat constricts and your heart aches and pounds-

“It’s very… you.” He finally says, and every bit of nerve vanishes into the air.

He’s right. You’ve been very deliberate in making sure your home is yours.

And you’re not sure why you bothered worrying at all. He fits here, just as well as he fits in every other part of you.

“Can I get the grand tour?” He raises his brows, and you nod, leading him through your space, making jokes and feeling your heart do a little flip and spin whenever he chuckles.

And things always do change. Frequently out in the real world, and carefully and easily in here.

And at least with Bucky, the change seems adaptive. You grow, he grows with you, until you’re twined and rooted into each other, and every color in this dreamscape is so vivid it’s the only thing that still tells you:

None of this is real.

———

“It was split after that.” You say. ”Half the dreams in Wakanda, half in New York.” 

You’re watching Raynor carefully. Still on the edge of her seat, legs braced like she’s ready for a fight, a tight expression on her face that Bucky calls the moose in headlights expression.

———

“You got that moose expression again, doll.”

You frown at him. “Stop calling it that, it’s just my face-“

“No. Your normal face has a dimple here, and your brows rest like that.”

He’s touching you as he explains, moving your features to match his words. You’d smack his hand away if his touch wasn’t soothing and flaring all at once. If you didn’t really love the idea of him looking at you long enough to know exactly how to adjust your face, and how to be right about it.

“But it’s not like that now.” He finishes, giving you a pointed look. “You got moose-face.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Moose-face is worse, Bucky. And it’s still not a real thing-“

“Yeah it is. Most people got a moose face.” He shrugs. He’s staring again. It’s taking a lot of effort not to melt forward into him. “Tight expression. Like a deer in headlights, but they think they’re too good to be in the headlights. They’re gonna go down fighting.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. “Can I see your moose face?”

“I don’t have a moose face-“

“Liar.” You poke his ribs, narrowing your eyes. “You said everyone has one-“

“I said ‘most people.’” Bucky shrugs. “Moose face means you’re gonna get hit, you just don’t believe it yet. I know how to not get hit.”

“Sounds like something someone with a moose-face would say.”

He chuckles. You’re sitting down, and you’re going to fall over. “No luck, doll. I got other faces, but no moose face.” He frowns at the air. “Never could afford to have one.”

There’s suddenly something heavier in his eyes, and it makes your whole body feel wired and heavy. It’s suffocating and crushing and rotten, and it’s just an expression but everything feels worse when you see it—when his shoulders hunch and his face becomes set like stone, just like all those years ago in the bathroom—so it needs to stop right now. 

“What about a wolf face?”

Bucky blinks at you. “What.”

“You said no moose face.” You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “Do you have a wolf face?”

“I don’t know what that is-“

“So suddenly you’re the only one who’s allowed to make up expressions?”

You hold is gaze for a long second—you’ve gotten really good at doing that, but only when you’re dreaming of Bucky—until his lips twitch slightly.

And everything feels alright again.

———

“How much of New York appeared in your… dreams? Was is like Wakanda, where you wandered?”

You frown at the air. Raynor’s indulging in this, but not like you’d hoped. Not shutting you down or telling you that you’re crazy. You’d really hoped to hear some validation that you were just plain crazy.

“Not really. I mean, there was one night where we were at my job, a few at the coffee shop I usually go to, and maybe like, five at the park, but we were mostly my apartment when I was showing him stuff.”

“And what did you-“ Raynor’s whole body tenses, and the last part of her question is pushed through her teeth. “What did you show Bucky?”

You flush, your gaze dropping down to your hands. “Stuff. In my apartment.”

———

You don’t know exactly what gives. What straw completely desolates every single bone in your body, and ends with you here.

Maybe it was that you’d finally mentioned all the murders, and you’d never seem him look horrified before, but the sight has dislodged something along your ribs that hadn’t mended until he let you move his head to your lap. Stroking his hair as he stared at you, telling him about your day.

Maybe it’s that you always tell him about your day. That this—whatever this is—has shifted from trading teasing comments and trying to learn about each other, into pure and comfortable understanding, and now that’s how most nights are spent.

Bucky’s reports are short. The goats are being goats—that’s all they know how to do—he doesn’t like a song someone tried to make him listen to because it’s too loud, and Shuri brought him some food that made his face feel like it was going to fall off, but in a good way. You pretty sure he only gives them because you insist upon it, but he always puffs out his chest a little at the end, when you smile at him and start to tell him everything you can remember about your own day.

Maybe it’s how he always hangs onto your every word. Like it’s gospel or scripture, and to do anything but listen and watch would be a higher sin than any blood you’ve imagined on his hands.

And maybe that’s it. 

Maybe it’s how you really don’t believe it anymore, when you remind yourself that he’s not real. That he’s just a figment of your mind, manifested to evolve as you do and always be exactly what you need. 

You still tell yourself the lie, night after night.

But you’re certain it’s a lie. That Bucky is just like that. Meant to be here, with you, the exact same way you’re supposed to be wherever he is.

And now you’re here.

You’d started it. You’d slammed your mouth to his, and he hadn’t moved. There had been a brief moment where you’d been worried you’d made a mistake, but the second you’d tried to push back on his chest and apologize, he’d kicked into gear. 

And wet dreams are supposed to be hazy. Cast in a misting light and more of a halo that brings your body high than an actual, nameable feeling.

But you can really feel this. 

And it’s heaven.

You’d expected Bucky to kiss slowly. Deliberately. It’s how you’d always seen him move and speak, and you hadn’t been against the idea of being kissed in a methodical and careful way.

You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Bucky kisses you like you’re air and water and every good thing in the world. All passion and spit and burning desire, where you can feel every bit of want in his movements. His mouth is demanding as he traces his tongue over your teeth and groans your name down your throat, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady against his chest. When his knee presses between your thighs you have to wrap your arms around his neck for balance, and it’s all you can do to return ever bit of want he throws at you as he walks to backwards to your mattress.

It takes effort to pry your mouth from Bucky’s. He doesn’t want you to go, even a few inches, and when you start to palm him through his pants—smiling against his lips and squeezing his bulge in a silent request—he hisses against your lips.

“You-“ He groans, nipping at your lower lip as you smile, repeating the movement. “You don’t- Shit, doll, you don’t know what you’re doing to me-“

You hum, bumping your nose with his and swaying in his hold. “Maybe. I’d like to do more.”

Bucky chuckles, and the sound rolls right into your core. “Think you could take more, sweetheart? Cause I’ve been a gentleman, but if more is on the table-“

It’s easy to cut him off with a heavy, deep kiss that has him half growling down your throat and his hips jerking against your movements.

“Want more.” You whisper, combing your free hand through his hair and trying to pull yourself impossibly closer. “Want you.”

Bucky tenses against you, and when you lean back to meet his eyes he’s staring again. Looking at you like you’re glowing, kneading your skin under his hand like he’s checking that you’re not going to vanish. 

“You want me.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed face. “You sure about-“

“Yes.” You nod, giving him a small, soft smile. “Only if you do, obviou-“

Bucky cuts you off with another bruising kiss, and before you know what’s happening he’s lowering you onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs, and shoving your thighs apart with a wolf-like grin.

You don’t know when you ended up naked. You can’t really care though, because Bucky shoves his face right into your pussy, and your mind empties of all thoughts that aren’t his name. 

It’s another point in favor of this being a dream. Bucky’s mouth against your cunt feels so amazingly real—licking and biting and eating you out like he’s been starved for a hundred years—but this has to be a dream, because no real man has ever made you feel this good. He knows every single way the plunge his tongue in and out of your pussy until you’re squeezing your thighs around his head and tugging at his hair, and his beard scrapes and tickles at your thighs in a way that’s driving you out of your mind, and fuck, he keeps moving his attention to nip at your clit, sucking it between his lips and letting his teeth graze against you, and-

“Bucky-“ You moan, grinding shameless into his face, trying hopelessly to remain upright with one hand, your fingers fisted into the sheets below you. “Please- I’m gonna- Fuck, I’m so close-“

He growls against you, flatting his tongue against your clit and squeezing his hand on your thigh, and that does it. You cum with a scream of his name, warmth washing over your body as your knees clamp around him and your eyes roll back in your head.

He’s ruined you. All Bucky did was eat you out in a dream, and you’re panting and flushed and drunk on him. You don’t know how you’ll manage to move on from this in real life.

You don’t really care. Not as Bucky runs his hand over your dripping, fluttering cunt with a look of open awe on his face, presses a kiss right over your clit that makes your hips jerk, and moves to his feet.

He’s naked now too. 

And he’s perfect. 

His cock is big and thick, standing at proud attention and jerking slightly as you run a hand up his thighs, your fingers trailing over his balls and a little drool falling out of your lips as you lean to take him in your mouth-

Bucky’s hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back to meet his eyes.

He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Chest heaving and eyes blown with lust. You’re going to lose your mind.

“Bucky-“

“Not now.” He mutters, pulling you a little further back. “Need to be inside of you, doll. Please.”

You’d have to be insane to say no.

You crawl back on the mattress, spreading your legs in silence invitation, and something hot and powerful flashes in his eyes as he takes you in. 

“You-“

“I’m sure.” You squirm in the sheets, running your hand between your legs and starting to rub your clit in slow, strong circles. “God, I’m so fucking sure, please-“

He’s shockingly fast for such a large man. It might be the whole dream thing, but you barely register him moving to kneel over you, swatting your hand away with a darkened gaze a set jaw.

“I do that,” he grunts, running two fingers up and down your cunt, smirking at you high whine. “Legs open, doll, want to see how wet I’m making you.”

You nod, falling flat on your back, and pour all your focus into his order. “Fuck, Bucky-“ He shoves the fingers into your pussy, and your back arches off the bed. “Shit- I- Please-“

“You want my cock?” He drawls your name, and you can only nod dumbly at the ceiling. “Come on, tell me you want it-“

“Want it,” you gasp, hugging your body as he starts to pump his finger, crooking them at the exact right spot deep inside of you. “Fuck, Bucky, you said- You said you’d fuck me-“

He clicks his tongue. “I said I’d be inside of you-“

“But- But I want you to fuck me.” You start to roll your hips as his pace picks up. “Please, Bucky-“

You whine as his fingers vanish, leaving you clenching around only the air, but it’s a short-lived pain.

Bucky slams into you with one thrust, and you’d been wrong again.

He hadn’t ruined you. He’s destroyed you.

You’ve never been so full in your life. You’ve never been fucked like this in your life. With a fervor that should be painful, but just makes you feel wanted. Cared for. Bucky’s every thrust is brutal and rough, and his mouth on yours is that same feral kiss from before, but he’s pressed his body over yours like he’s trying to shield you from the world, and he’s groaning your name down your throat like it’s a hymn.

You’d say his name too, if you could remember how to speak. But Bucky’s hitting every right spot deep in your pussy, and you’re so high the world is just color and light and Bucky, and when he starts to suck and kiss a line down your throat, along your collarbone, and over your tits, you’re sure you’re going to fly out of your skin.

Then he takes your nipple into his mouth, and the sound you make is almost inhuman. Your release crashes over you like a wave, Bucky groans against your breast as you squeeze around his cock, and a burning warmth coats your thighs and cunt as he cums with a roar.

You make a small noise of content as Bucky pulls out, kissing a soft line back up your jaw before dropping his brow to yours and letting out a long, slow breath.

“That was…” He trails off, moving his hand to hold your hips, drawing firm patterns with his thumb that might drive you out of your mind.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “It was.”

He nods, and neither of you move for a really long time. Usually you’ve woken up by now, but no part of you is eager to go, eager to leave where there’s still a little buzz in your heart from the pleasure, where you can feel a perfect ache between your legs and you’re so happily trapped under the warmth of Bucky’s body-

Happy. 

You’re happy. 

This isn’t real, but under Bucky’s body you’re safe and warm and happy. And you don’t want to go. 

Almost as if he can read your mind, Bucky clears his throat.

“Thank you.” He mutters, his breath hot and soft over your ear. “Needed this.” There a long pause, and his hand squeezes on your hips. “Needed you. And I know it’s dumb to thank you, because-“

“It’s not.” You cut him off with a kiss to his neck, rubbing your hand up and down his back. “And I needed you too.”

He lets out a dry laugh that you don’t understand, but doesn’t push on it. Just kisses your brow and rolls onto his back, taking you with him and clinging to you like you’re a tether to something a little more important than just a dream.

And you really don’t know why he’d laughed. 

You do need him. You’re growing more and more certain every night that you need Bucky more than you need anything in real life. That he’s more than anyone else, and that he maybe, possibly, could be real.

He feels real, beneath you with a calloused hand squeezing at your skin and your finger tracing over the scars near his arm. 

He sounds real, when you finally ask why he only has one arm, and he takes a very long breath but mutters that he fell off a train. When he tells you that bad people found him, and he wasn’t really the best guy either, for a really long time. 

He tastes real when you kiss him for comfort, and smells real when you bury your face in his neck as he continues. 

You know he’s not telling you everything, but you also know he’s not lying. 

And you really do know that, in some strange and impossible way, this might be real.

———

“I see.” Raynor swallows, and she won’t stop staring at you. “Did those, ah, occurrences happen again?”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Pretty much every time after.” A smile tugs at your lips. “One time we used the barn.”

“I-“ Raynor sighs. “Understood. How long, exactly, did this continue?”

“They never stopped, not until-“ Your nails dig into your skin, and a heavy stone lodges itself in your throat. “The, uh, the blip.”

———

These have been the worst five years of your life. And they haven’t been amazing for anyone, but no one else has to feel this like you do.

And that’s selfish. A little narcissistic. Incredibly crude.

But it doesn’t make it any less true.

Because everyone lost people. Everyone watched loved ones vanish right in front of them, witnessed the world fall and crumble around them as half of humanity vanished, and got left in the rubble to pick up the pieces. 

But no one else seems to feel this. Nobody else seems to be falling apart at the seams from nothing at all like you are. Because Bucky was probably never real. But he’s gone. 

And you don’t know how to move on.

It’s odd to grieve a dream. It makes living impossible. You go to all the support groups and listen to everyone share their own pain, and it makes your heart ache for them but nothing in you ever seems to heal. It’s as if a piece of you had been ripped out and ground to ash, and mending over it would be blasphemous. You don’t want to fix it. You need to, because this is no way to exist, but it feels wrong every time you try. As if even your body can’t just admit he’s gone, and you need to keep going. But everything feels artificial. Every breath is mechanical, and every beat of your heart feels shallow and deliberate, like it’s only doing just enough to keep you alive.

What’s worse is that you can’t tell anyone why you’ve become a sunken, hollow shell. You’d sound insane. You’re already not winning any points in the sound of mind department, and you do have a record, so if you went to one of the countless therapists who have been making their living off of everyone’s loss and said ‘see, doctor, the person I loved only existed in my dreams, but he vanished with the snap and now it feels like I’ve been cleaved in half’, you’d be locked up in an asylum.

You hate that you’re only realizing it now. That the overwhelming sense of warmth and peace you felt in your dreams with Bucky was love. That you’d fallen in love with a piece of your own mind. You’d basically fallen in love with your reflection. Your annoying, handsome, grumpy reflection that you’d rip your spine out of your body to reshape it back into his form, to bring him back to your side.

And the dreams still happen. He’s just not there, and it’s the worst thing in the fucking universe. You keep coming back to a forest, and there’s a little ash that’s always drifting around in the air, that feels really important.

It all always feels like more than just Bucky being gone. It feels like you’ve missed a train, or taken a wrong turn, and lost a key that double as a compass, and now you’re stranded at the bottom of the ocean. 

Alone. 

You’ve spent your whole life with only yourself to rely on, but you’ve never felt more alone.

———

“And after the blip?”

“He came back.” You’re going to cry. You really hate crying in front of Raynor—she always tells you it’s going to be okay, and you fucking know that—but you can’t stop it. Because Bucky really did come back, and it’s still the best thing that ever happened to you.

———

During the past five years, your sleep has gotten fucked. You get about four hours a night, because that’s just long enough to keep you functional but too short to allow you to appear in the forest.

So it took a while to pass out. You’d curled up in your bed, drank tea, done yoga, followed every ‘how to fall asleep fast’ internet guide until your eyes drooped, and you were gone.

When the dream takes shape around you, you’re not in the forest, but in a sleek, hospital-like room that you don’t recognize. 

And he’s there. 

Bucky’s right fucking there.

You make a small, choked sound, and his eyes shoot to yours in an instant. 

He’s moving in a second. Half launching across the room to grab you before your knees give out, holding you to his chest as you cling to his shirt and press your face into his neck. 

“Hey,” he mutters your name, and you can hear the low horror in it. He’s putting together why you’re crying. Why you’re scratching at his neck and trying to half climb up his body. “You’re alright. It’s all good, doll, everything’s good now-“

You cut him off with a long, heavy kiss, and his hand moves to cup your head. 

He has two hands again. You don’t really care why.

Because Bucky’s rubbing circles on the skin of your waist, and letting you cry without making a big fucking deal about it, and nothing mended. Nothing’s ever mended. You’ve been a little fucking broken for a long time, with or without Bucky. But it had been a kind of broken that had folded and shaped with him, and when he’d been gone it was like half your organs had been frozen and crumbled in your body.

But he’s back. And you feel real again.

———

There’s a long silence in the air, and you know what’s coming. The question. You’ve known she’s going to ask it the whole time—you’d honestly expected it a lot sooner—and you’ve been prepared. You have a very long speech about how Bucky had changed again—short hair, kept the new arm, appearing in his own, mostly empty apartment and trading the Wakandan clothing for jeans and jackets—and that he’d told you how much he hated some guy named John. 

He’d said he despised the asshole. That he was everything Steve had hated—you’d had a pretty good idea who Steve was, based on context and a theory but you hadn’t be quite ready to it yet—and nothing sounded better than punching his lights out. 

And you’re ready to explain that you’d had the news on in the background, a few words had broken from static background noise, and your whole world had shifted. John Walker had been announced as the new Captain America, they’d run a stupid little fluff piece on the life of Steve Rogers, and there was Bucky. Captain America’s best friend and ally, the assumed cause of that whole the Avengers are breaking up thing, and the former Winter Solider. 

You’d mostly stared at the screen for a really long time as everything feel into place—you’d looked him up after, and it was a little embarrassing it had taken you this long given that he has a Wikipedia page—before calling Raynor, and preparing for the question.

But when she asks it, your mind goes blank, and all you can’t think to say is the truth.

“May I ask,” Raynor says carefully. ”Why are you only discussing this now?”

“Because he’s real.”

———

Bucky has dreams. Not nightmares.

Dreams.

He dreams about Her. She’s the only constant in his life, the only solace and purely good thing he knows, and She’s not even damn real.

Bucky’s pretty sure She’s not real. It wouldn’t make any sense for Her to be real. He’d spent most of the years assuming that She was simply a result of him being able to dream again, a trick of his mind that was both a comfort and a torture, because he needed those dreams—needed Her, in a strange way that lived in his chest and was soft on his skin—more than he’d ever needed anything, but they also reminded him of what he’d never have.

A life in a simple apartment, filled with his own presence in a way that was easy. He always loved that about Her apartment. How everywhere he looked, She was there. The colors and furniture and posters and trinkets on the shelves all screamed Her, and no one could ever replicate that if they tried. 

He didn’t know how to do that anywhere. How to just be him in a way that didn’t feel like something was strangling him. His apartment was barren. Every time he spoke it felt like he should be apologize immediately after, because barely anyone seemed to like him, let alone want to hear him.

Bucky understood that. He wasn’t exactly his own biggest fan, and the only time there was no part of him trying to escape his own body was when he was asleep, and She was at his side. 

He liked being himself with Her. It was simple, and natural, and never a labor. She never flinched away from him—She seemed to like being close to him—and Bucky never really wanted to wake up. Part of him always hoped that this time, when he fell asleep and She appeared once more, he’d wake up in Her apartment, and it would all be real.

A very small part of him needed this—needed Her—to be real. It would be really amazing if She was real. It wasn’t something he deserved to ask for, to plead with the universe about, but he did. He kept trying to come up with reasons She could be real.

She felt real, in his dreams. She spoke and acted like a person, and not a doll or shell his brain may have created to get him through his de-programming. She was always saying things and making references he didn’t get until she explained them, things he was certain he hadn’t heard in passing. She was way prettier than anyone Bucky had ever seen, which would contribute to Her being only a dream if he wasn’t so certain that he simply wasn’t that creative.

He could imagine a pretty girl.

He couldn’t imagine Her.

Smart and funny and gorgeous, fitting against him like She’d been molded to, teasing him in ways he’d never thought of and kind to him ways he couldn’t be kind to himself. 

She was never disgusted by the arm, and Bucky was sure that—if She was only a part of his mind given shape—she would know about the whole Winter Soldier thing. But he’d had to explain all he could to Her, and when he’d left certain, darker parts out She hadn’t said but that’s not the truth, is it, James.

She seemed to like Bucky. That was the most concrete proof he had that She had to somehow be real. Nobody liked him. Not in to raw, unrelenting way She did.

So She had to be real.

Bucky really hoped, against all odds, that she was real. 

It would fix a lot of problems if She was real. Sam kept trying to get him to date, and he didn’t want to. He always felt like he was betraying Her. It wasn’t sustainable or logical, but logic didn’t really matter here, because Bucky’s gut would wither and his hands would curl into fists every time he had to try and flirt with another woman. They didn’t fit against him as well as She did. Their teasing would either bite too hard or not bite at all, and the night would end with Bucky falling back into Her arms. 

He asked Shuri—very vaguely, he didn’t want his brain to be poked and prodded again—what reoccurring dreams could mean.

“Reoccurring?” She’d frowned at him over the video call. “You’ll have to clarify, reoccurring can mean many things.”

“Uh,” Bucky had swallowed, glancing at his mattress across the room. “A dream you have every night. And it could change, but it’s always the same person in it?”

Shuri had given him an odd look. “Have you been having a dream like that?”

“No.” His answer had been too fast. He needed to keep it together if he was going to sell this. “Sam has. He mentioned that he kept seeing some lady in his dreams, and she felt real but he’d never met her before. Thought I’d do him a favor and ask about it.”

It wasn’t the best lie he’d ever told, if Shuri look of doubt had been any indication. But she bit, and kept moving.

“Well, it looks as if Sam,” she’d given him a pointed look, and Bucky had forced his face to remain completely neutral. “Has found his soulmate.”

Bucky had stared at her for a really long time. His vision had blurred, there had been a ringing in his ears, and time had seemed to still as Shuri’s words sank in.

Soulmate.

“I thought, uh,” Bucky had cleared his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “Soulmates aren’t real-“

“Of course they’re real.” Shuri had shrugged. “Soulmate is an archaic term for two brains that emit the exact same neuroelectricity, their nerve paths aligning completely. Often they will have differing personalities and lives, but the tie of the biology will link them in sleep, and they will experience incredibly vivid lucid dreams. Like this video conference, but if our minds and bodies were built to fall in love with each other. It is rare, but not impossible.”

Bucky had frowned. “But I- uh, Sam said he’s only had these dreams about four years-“

“Sam’s brain underwent severe rewiring and torment.” Shuri’s voice had been dry, her expression flat. “He would do well to remember that his connection may have been slightly mauled, and only after a certain genius princess fixed him would he have been able to reciprocate the bond fully.”

Oh.

The first time Bucky had appeared in Her apartment, She had said ten years. When She’d appeared to him for the very first time, She’d said she’d dreamt of him before.

Bucky had assumed that had been another way his brain was comforting him. Telling him he could be the type of person a pretty girl like Her dreamed about.

But when he thought about it—clenched his jaw and drew up the heavier, blood-stained memories of the Soldier—there had sometimes been someone in his body with him. Not the Soldier, but the third presence that wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t really foreign. Just was. 

“Could the-“ Bucky had swallowed, watching Shuri carefully as he spoke. “Sam said he could sometimes feel the gal while he was awake. Is that a thing that could happen?”

“If Sam was not himself, and the soulmate was not of full maturity, yes.”

Bucky had felt himself pale. “What do you mean, full maturity-“

“You are a hundred years old, Mr. Barnes.” Shuri had raised her brows, and all pretense of Sam had dropped. “There would have naturally been a point where your soulmate was a child, as that is how most people begin their lives. It is likely that you were still under the control of Hydra in your soulmate’s youth, and she would have only been a growing presence in your mind until she was a full person, and you were no longer only the shell of a man I met after my father’s death.”

“So she- Would she have seen what I did? As the Solider?”

He knew She had. She’d told him She had.

Bucky still didn’t want it to be true.

Shuri had given him a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, yes. She would have. But if she is what you say, she is a perfect match to you in every way. She will not care what you were before, under the control of Hydra.”

“But-“

“It is not something worth protesting, Bucky.” Shuri had sighed, leaning a little closer to the camera. “This is not something that can be severed or changed, so please do not bother to ask. And remember that she is real. Her own person, with her own pain. I would recommend you attempt to find her, but that is something you will have to decide for yourself.”

And now he was here. Staring at the dark screen where Shuri’s face had been moments before, his head still spinning around the word. 

Soulmate.

She’d made is sound scientific. Possible. Bucky could have a soulmate. 

He didn’t deserve a soulmate. Not one he’d likely trapped in his mind, forced to witness the brutal atrocities he’d committed as the Winter Solider.

And he wanted to find Her. Bucky wanted to touch Her and kiss her and keep her longer than just the night. To wake up and see Her next to him, tangible and all his. 

He’d liked the idea of something being his in a way that wasn’t a curse. In a way he could throw his all right back to Her, and she’d catch it. 

But there was still the sour, molding feeling over his heart that—since She was real, and probably had Her own issues to deal with—She wouldn’t want him in her life. Not Her real life, where everything was more complicate than just them in a literal dream.

He shouldn’t find Her. She’d be better off without him. Bucky would do nothing but make Her life more complicated, and he could get through this know that She was real and safe, far away from him but still haunting his dreams in the best way possible.

He was so lost in his head he misses the first phone call. And the second one.

It was the third one that got his attention—buzzing and ringing on the table next to his computer, Dr. Raynor flashing across the screen—and the fourth one he actually managed to pick up.

Bucky didn’t bother to hide the tension in his voice when he spoke. He really didn’t have the time or energy for this, not right now. “Doc, I’m not due back for another four days-“

“I’m aware, James, I keep a calendar.” Raynor sighed through the speaker, and Bucky had never heard her sound so tense. It was a little concerning. “However, I am going to have to request you come in today. It’s an emergency.”

He scowled. “What emergency, I haven’t done anything emergency worthy-“

“It’s not only about you.” Raynor snapped. “And I’m changing it from a request to an order. Office in twenty minutes.” There was a long pause, and then a whispered, “Please.”

That wasn’t good.

“Did I get in trouble?” Bucky asked, his grip on the phone tightening. “Cause I’ve been following all the stupid rules, and if Sam says I did something he’s just being a dramatic dick-“

Raynor sighed, and Bucky could picture the thin look of exhaustion on her face. “You are not in trouble, James. It’s not- I can’t explain over the phone. It may be better for you to see.”

“See what?”

“Just come to the fucking office.”

Bucky blinked, and the line went dead.

Raynor couldn’t make him go. But he also had never heard her swear like that. Or order him to come in before an appointment.

He was a little curious. And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do today but drown in the knowledge of what Shuri had told him, trying to work out how he’d face Her tonight.

So he went to the office. Chances are it was nothing. Bucky couldn’t imagine it would be something. He spent the whole ride trying to think of an idea, came up blank, and decided that Sam had mentioned something to Raynor about how Bucky had been brooding more than usual, and he was just going to have to explain the whole I’m not brooding, I’m just sick of Sam’s blind date bullshit and also maybe have a soulmate thing. Then he’s kick Sam’s ass, and everything would be fine.

Bucky entered to office with a whole speech ready. His chin raised high and his arms crossed, because he was already having a very weird and complex day, and he didn’t need this. 

All the words were knocked out of him the moment he opened the door, glanced around the room, and saw who was on the couch.

Her.

In person. 

Very, very real, and in Raynor’s office, and here.

Raynor said Her name. The name Bucky knew Her by, and her last name. 

It was a nice last name. Barnes would suit Her better, but the idea that she was real enough to have a last name was already bringing Bucky to his knees, so he’d have to save that thought for later.

“Meet James Barnes.” Raynor was probably looking between them. Bucky couldn’t be sure though, because he couldn’t stop staring at Her.

She was moving to Her feet, and seeing Her in person was somehow even better. She was sharper around the edges, and more colorful in small, bright ways, and nothing about Her felt like it could ever slip between Bucky’s fingers.

She wasn’t mist. She wasn’t an illusion, or a coping mechanism.

She was real.

Walking towards him with wide eyes and an open mouth, reaching a hand up to poke at his face. Tracing his nose and running fingers over his cheekbones, Her eyes never leaving his.

Bucky caught Her hand right as it brushed over his lips, and She made the prettiest gasp he’d ever heard.

“You’re real.” He said, because it was all he could think of. Nothing about this was a dream. Bucky would not have a dream where Raynor was watching him restrain himself from kissing Her until she collapsed in his arms.

“I’m real.” She whispered, and Her voice was better in real life too. “You’re here.”

He nodded. “I’m here.” He paused, scanning over Her open features. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere, doll.”

Her face split into a wide smile, all teeth and light and joy. For Bucky. 

There was adoration on Her face, and it was all for Bucky.

“Good.” Her smile grew, Her fingers tangling with his metal ones. “Because I’m not either.”

End Note: Save me Bucky Barnes raising goats. Bucky Barnes raising goats, save me.

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[shaisuki]

“c'mere megumi. i know you're tired.”

gojo calls out to him but the boy ignores him and continued to walk.

“he won't satoru. you traumatized him.” you quipped at him.

teleportation is fun and all but not to a fourth-grader megumi who got almost dropped mid-air from the teleportation skill gojo have, only to catch him mid-air before he truly drops.

“i catched him before he fell.” the white-haired male pouts.

“catched him before he fell?” scoffing at him. “he's a child, satoru. think before you do something to him. you almost endangered him with your antics and you can't do whatever you please when you want. you're an ass and you know it.” you spat at him and gojo pouts and he's like a child kneeling down while being scolded.

you crouched down to meet the height of megumi. patting his head and you began to speak in a soft voice. “i'll carry you, okay? i promise no funny business.” drawing a cross in your chest to convince megumi. the poor child is sleepy and fighting the urge to not sleep caused by the earlier wrongdoing of an pre-adult.

deciding to trust you, megumi comes closer to you and puts his arms around your neck before carrying his small body in front of you. your arms tucked under his thighs and it turns to snuggle you. his jaw in your shoulder.

megumi blankly stares at the adult behind you. immature, he thought but his eyes are getting heavy and sleep is calling to him. before his eyes closed he reminds himself not to be carried by that weird man.

it took a few seconds before the child snuggling in you fell asleep. you can tell from the lack of movements of his body and the small snores. patting his back before continuing to walk.

gojo followed you. he felt bad and it was like a punch to him in the gut when you scold him but he likes it. loves it when your cheeks puff and your eyes rolling at him in annoyance.

stopping at a bakery to get a few sweets to satisfy his sweet tooth and for the siblings to eat back home. you continued to walk, enjoying the little peace and quiet before a old lady approached at you three.

“oh my! what a cute family.” the old lady commented and your eye twitched at the comment. giving the lady a smile before briefly bowing.

taken a back at the sudden statement before gojo burst out in a laughter. “she called us a family, (y/n).”

“ha-ha-ha. funny.” you dryly responds to him and adjusting your arm to make megumi comfortably settle in you. the child is completely passed out in your grasp and you can't help but to kiss megumi's wild hair in which megumi groans before going back to sleep.

“aww, come on. i didn't mean it, okay?” gojo whines, blocking your way as he walked backwards to meant he really is sorry.

“okay.” you replied back to him. “just don't do it again.”

“okay!” he beams up and once again silence filled in the long way of walking.

dusk is beginning to settle down and the sky turns into orange. the sunlight giving it's final rays before the night falls.

“kind of you to take them both, satoru.” you break the silence and gojo hums. thinking about something.

despite gojo's stubbornness and his lack of tact in things, you like that he's willing to help the children to have a roof over their head and spoiled them like it's his own. even preventing megumi to be taken away from his clan and let him have a normal childhood with his sister.

“say, (y/n). what if we adopt them both?” gojo asks you.

“we? and adopt?” gojo nods. waiting for your answer. “i think it's fine. these two will have two guardians to look them over if the other one's not around and in case something's happen to one of us.”

“don't say that, (y/n).”

you raised an eyebrow at him and smiled.

“it's inevitable, satoru. in this line of work we have.” you said to him. referring how dangerous the jujutsu society is and you'll never know what the future may hold.

“i'll protect you. us”" his bright blue eyes peeking through his dark glasses with sincerity. looking at you and megumi sleeping in your arms.

“satoru....” you call him and his eyes full of sincerity.

“that's nice, satoru.” you smile at him but the expression in his face is anticipating something more.

“i know you will, satoru.” and he grins. pressing a tender kiss in your forehead and patting megumi's head. “stop that, sato. you'll wake him up and don't get too sappy with me. it's not you.” he pouts at that but kisses you again.

he can't wait to be with you forever.

[vaguely-concerned]

thinking about not only the specific people lucanis pulls in to represent the 'locks' in his psyche, but the storytelling that happens in the structure/order of them. the underlying ideas are presented something like:

the lucanis who went into the ossuary never came back out again; he died down there (the boy caterina raised is gone forever) -> you're putting yourself in danger doing this (by being close to me), you should leave because I can't bear it if you get hurt because of me -> it doesn't matter even if we do try this, it won't work anyway (again because of me) ('you know what he's like, you can open the door but he won't walk through it' :'( oofie doofie) -> what if the real secret is that there was never anything but the monster in here from the beginning. you should leave, there was never anything here worth saving in the first place. (implicitly: what if I deserved what happened, all along.)

it runs pretty cleanly from outward-oriented attachment anxiety ('caterina won't even want me back like this, she won't recognize me (the same way I no longer recognize myself)) and gradually deeper inwards until we reach self-image and self worth. or you know, the harrowing basic lack of it lol.

"careful -- they'll know we're not right," spite says in one of their first scenes... but clearly, some very deep part of lucanis has feared or suspected for much longer than that that there's something inherently not right at the core of him, way before any demon entered the picture. and the voice he gives those lines to is the person who should know him better than anyone in the world, who he has loved more than anyone in the world -- and who deliberately chose to hurt him so horrifically anyway. 'It's better if I'm just a monster and deserved what happened than it is to allow for the idea that the brother I love doesn't really exist and maybe never did'. it's better if he's fundamentally flawed in some way that needed fixing to help him survive, and that's why caterina chose to hurt him again and again -- out of love. (this one I think he might have a very sad wakeup call on one day if he ever ends up with the responsibility and care of a child of his own in some way and realizes just how alien the idea of ever intentionally hurting them for any reason is to him. oh buddy. also interesting that he keeps caterina as the outermost lock -- there IS a distance he keeps there that he hasn't with illario. he doesn't resent her 'anymore' he says, but he also keeps her carefully further away from his deepest self.)

as far as I could tell the only note in the mind prison that's fully hidden and needs to be uncovered is the sad painful helpless stupid little truth that even after all this, even knowing what happened... he still loves his brother. is there anything illario could ever do that would make lucanis completely stop loving him, do you think? sometimes the trouble with unconditional love is that it is, well. unconditional, even when some terms and conditions probably would have been in order haha.

that's the pattern you see there again and again; he would rather destroy and abandon and imprison himself at every turn than let go of love, even when it's just scraps, even when there's only ever enough of it to hurt him. it's only when rook shows up and as it were takes his hand and walks along with him that he can entertain the idea of changing the story of what walking out the door might mean in the end.

[writermani4c]

Me and the Devil | Count Orlok x Reader

summary: You're a nun at an isolated convent. He is in your mind, eating away your mind bit by bit, soon destroying the pillars of your faith. Until you have no choice but to surrender to him, he will destroy all that is necessary.

warnings: He's a vampire. Of course he doesn't have to play fair, does he? There is mind control and there are some rather bloody deaths. I don't think I'm really good with that, I don't think it's too heavy, but it's good that there's a warning.

:: We girls can't bear to see a vampire who is completely obsessed with a woman, who will spill as much blood as it takes to get her, and who has already fallen in love with her. I'm completely obsessed by Nosferatu, even though I couldn't get a screening where I live. This is basically my brain being eaten away by Bill Skarsgard's hunger… I'm always hungry for Bill, but at this point in time I could be kept in a secluded castle to give birth to all of his babies, and I mean that. I hope you enjoy this. By the way, good luck in 2024!

The high-pitched squeak penetrated the stones of the convent, seeping like moss into the soft, bumpy cracks in the porosity, and imitated the soft voice of a wanderer saying a prayer in a dead language, older than time. His understanding was forgotten by men, but that didn't silence him. That voice was still preserved in the air that surrounded you like a thick mantle covering a thick cotton habit, as light as the coat of a holy lamb, which covered you from head to toe in a sacred enclosure. 

Through the narrow window of his room, all that showed were the orange Carpathian mountain ranges in the middle of a mild autumn, with the taste of hot tea and the smell of a fire burning in the evening, when the temperature dropped at night.

The mountain ranges and that stone fortress, far from the convent and yet terribly close.

Every day, the castle seemed to move. When you weren't watching it with your stoic expression, it seemed to grow tentacles over its foundation and creep up slowly. Depending on the day, it seemed further away, with only the tip of its towers appearing between the hills. But when you were getting ready for bed, tucked up in the modest comfort of your little room and wrapped in the soft blanket of your nightgown, the castle seemed terribly close to you, so close that you could feel its evil aura as you raised your hand in a vain attempt to touch it. 

He was calling you. A strength, a terror, a hungry longing.

Come to me, my eternal beloved. 

Tormented, you choked on your own breath. The deep, seductive sound of that voice crept under your blankets at night, and under the modest garments of your nightgown, finding your soft, easy-to-creep skin. His touch was physical, even if you often groped your skin in search of those hands and found nothing but loneliness, and intimacy. So intimate that not even the devil himself, cruel and cunning, could emulate such evil in his attempt to corrupt the Lord Jesus in his trial in the desert.

It scared you.

The feeling of intimacy that belongs to something, that is lost until it is regained. That invisible hand, as well as the voice that only you heard, shook your sense of self and made you feel the narrow mattress slipping off your back, the thin blanket sliding off your body and your fear of dissolving as you floated above the bed. A demonic, ghostly vision, with your eyes rolled back in a trance that nothing and no one could stop.

You felt it, more intimately than you felt anything else, and that was scarier than any of the other traps in hell.

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— My child — greeted the voice on the other side of the wooden confessional booth. The only voice you could turn to in times of extreme need. Father Lengyel was an elderly authority in the convent, as was Mother Superior Illés. If it hadn't been for that, you wouldn't have had the courage to confide in him your greatest fears, seeking the reassurance of his gentle voice. — In your praiseworthy stillness, I can see that something is troubling you. You owe me your ordeal, child.

— Father, help me! — Tired and sleepless after a night awake, with your knees against the floor praying to ward off the tentacles of evil, you felt your eyes grow heavy as you saw the low, hunchbacked shadow of the priest. — I'm cursed. I didn't do anything about it, but I know that the shadow that haunts me was born with me, wrapped around me like an umbilical cord that has never been amputated. I feel it and sometimes I hear its impatience calling my name.

— Fear not, my child. No shadow of a curse is stronger than our Lord's mercy on your spirit, waking you up every morning with a breath of life.

But maybe it's not our Lord, you thought bitterly. You almost disbelieved that God would even work in your cause, probably deciding to wash his hands of you and leave you alone on your ordeal. This thought angered you, wondering how God, your holy God to whom you dedicated your time and efforts to serve with blind devotion, could leave one of his daughters helpless when the claws of the nefarious one threatened to entangle her? 

And anger, even though it was blasphemy with your Father, was easier to manage in your restless spirit than the fear that perhaps God hadn't let go of your hand. Perhaps he was there, following in your footsteps not long ago, weeping blood for not being able to do anything to prevent the evils that awaited you. Maybe there were forces greater than the salvation you blindly tried to reach like a child afraid of the dark.

That thought you swept from your mind, because if that thing was stronger than the Savior you were turning to, there would be no reason to be reluctant in its evil call.

— I beg you, Father, with all the infinite goodness of your being, pray for my soul. 

— I will, my child. You too, pray for wisdom and that the Lord, in his infinite love, will bring you comfort. 

When you left the confessional, you got down on your knees in front of the proudly erected altar. The suffering face of that poor man in his moment of greatest difficulty never comforted you, but inspired you. If even he, the son and Messiah, found the purpose to remain firm on the narrow road of faith, you too would find the strength to stay in the light. You would have to pass through that tortuous valley to have your healing.

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You weren't the youngest in the convent, but you weren't the oldest either. When you arrived, with your only bag with a few belongings and a photo of the home you grew up in, the home that always seemed unworthy of your torments about the terror that was trying to get its claws into you, there were older girls who took you in as a younger sister, teaching you the trade so that you could also teach those who came to the convent after you. This was the mission: you didn't serve God's pure purpose alone, but learned from your sisters so that you could teach others in a cycle that stretched out like an infinite patchwork quilt. 

Among his protégés, the young Agnes was the most cherished. So young and intelligent, she was your faithful dog in the convent corridors. Agnes, who came from a poorer and more literate family than yours, found comfort in listening to you read the Psalms, the book they were given to study. Agnes' chubby cheeks and earthy brown eyes reminded you of the child you would never have, the one you could never run your hand through and love. The Lord was merciful to you in giving you a sister to fill that void and you gave her all the attention you could. Your beloved Agnes sat next to you while you ate your lunch in silence. The soup was thinner, to save supplies for the harsh winter, and the bread was smaller. All deposits were saved and all fasting was done in summer and fall, because in winter your bodies' strength was tested by the ice that seemed to be trying to infiltrate your bones. They would have to eat better to survive until spring.

Next to him, young Agnes choked on her bread.

— Eat slowly. 

— Pardon me, sister! — She stopped eating, lowering her head as if she expected to be punished. You smiled, running your hand over your protégé's head. 

— Don't be like that. I'm talking for your own good, chew better, it also helps to fill your stomach.

The girl turned her face towards you with a soft, youthful smile. 

A low, loud sound caught their attention. It was as if the ceiling had broken, so you looked up in doubt, but it seemed as firm as ever. Surprised gasps and the sound of footsteps moving across the stone floor made you stand up and look around, at the shocked faces of your sisters. 

— Stay behind me, Agnes. — You stood in front of the girl, shielding her with your body, while you searched for the cause of the commotion among the others. 

Another thud made you find the source of the terror. Your older sister, a girl so genuinely kind that she wouldn't mind giving up her own shoes and going barefoot if she had to. Olga. Olga, who was so generous that she always presented the others with little embroideries on old linen handkerchiefs, making them priceless pieces. Olga who hugged you as soon as you arrived, immensely happy as if you were a relative she hadn't seen for years and who was returning home. Your beloved sister Olga's nose was covered in blood and her front teeth were in an equally miserable state. Her blue eyes were completely covered by dark pupils, making them animalistic as she looked around at the familiar faces until she stopped at you. 

She gritted her teeth painfully, teasing the veins in her neck. Olga no longer knew you. She didn't look at you like her younger sister, but with anger.

— Ungrateful! Damn you! — She pointed her slender, cocked forefinger, the knuckles seeming to ache with the effort. — Ungrateful and  damned, unfortunate creature! Look what I do to what you love so much, look what I do to the object of your efforts!

Olga moved her face away from the table enough to almost fall backwards, gripping the edge of the table with her fingers tightly, before putting all her strength forward and, with a hollow sound of something breaking, smashing her nose against the wooden table. The noise tore you apart. Young Agnes' arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you pushed her back. 

Mother Illés rushed into the dining hall. 

She gave you an appeasing look and you understood. With agility, you gathered all the younger girls, totally terrified, and asked them to follow you out while Olga, surrounded and supported by her older sisters, screamed:

— Love me! Devote yourself to me! Command me if you wish, but don't ignore me, my beloved, don't deny me, for I am your lord and savior! I am the master of your pure and tormented soul, my beloved! 

But you, terrified, denied his call once again. You covered your ears as you led the girls into the courtyard outside. The dry autumn wind enveloped you, your voices, but did nothing to muffle the terror in your minds. Little Agnes was still wrapped tightly in your body and soon the others followed suit, seeking warmth in your shivering, freezing body. Concentrating on them, on reassuring them, took your mind off the torturous thought that, yes, he was impatient.

All those years of “tranquility” were his gift, his way of making you surrender voluntarily. But he was lonely. He was hungry. 

Now he controlled Olga's body. 

But not just her. 

That same night, while Olga was tied to her bed under the watchful eye of Mother Illés, Annabeth began to dance as she blew out the candles. You didn't see it, you were busy with your chores, but the others saw it and told you about it in sad, frightened voices. Annabeth, so young and playful, began to twirl around and the others thought she was just playing. The girl liked to play games, hiding pine cones under her pillows and little flowers in the sleeves of her habits. 

She spun around mesmerized, spinning faster and faster and more violently. Her feet seemed bewitched and she suffered without even being able to move her mouth to do so, her teeth clenched in a painful grind as her jaw unhinged. The candles on the altar grew, fueled by something supernatural and unworthy, dancing along with young Annabeth.

That macabre dance ended in a tableau and the flames touching the young woman's habit. The fire consumed her without anyone being able to put it out; no amount of water could stop the flames. They consumed Annabeth until there was nothing left. In her death, she said nothing, but tearing her clothes to get rid of the fire, her name was torn into the soft skin of my body. Her name was everywhere, written with love, sorrow and anger. Like a love-hate letter, he wrote to you through the skin of an innocent girl. 

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You hadn't slept a wink for three nights. 

At the slightest sign of unconsciousness, as you blinked your eyes a little more slowly, it was as if he was lurking there waiting to take you, and this made you resist even though your body could barely stand.

The mother didn't let you take part in the funeral, allowing you only a brief farewell before you were taken to your chambers to rest. 

You didn't want to rest.

Even so, you didn't have the strength to move. Perhaps it was tiredness or apathy, the feeling that all your efforts were useless.You lay there in your narrow bed, watching the day fade away through the shadows on the wall.

The night was his territory. 

Night was when he hid in the wind and entered his room.

Even though he wanted to, there was no voice in his throat to scream and a hot tear ran down his left eye. 

The door to his room opened and, to his relief, Father Lengyel entered his room. The black cloak swirled solemnly around him, like something divine coming to his rescue.

— What ails you, my dear!

— A large, slender hand, smelling of scrubbed earth, touched his face. There was a certain softness to it, even though the ice in your palms made you sigh with the thermal shock. — My poor little lamb! 

The man held your face lovingly, with such care that you simply let go, allowing yourself to cry in dismay at his attentive care. Father Lengyel, so small and twisted, sat on the edge of your bed. A candle burned on the chair on the other side of the room, the glow of the fire casting shadows on the wall next to your bed and leaving you cloaked in that lonely corner. Father Lengyel kissed your cheek, with those closed, dead lips, so cold they made you shiver.

— Father!

— Poor creature!

— My shadow is growing. — You confessed, leaning your face on the old man's hand. — My shadow consumed poor Olga and Annabeth, casting them into the valley of the storm. 

Father Lengyel pulled the blanket away from your body and, in the narrow space that barely fit a body, he lay down with you. Your eyes widened as the man pressed himself against your body. The man you had always seen as a loving and attentive father, a listener incapable of the slightest judgment, lay beside you with the warmth of a lover. 

— You curse us all, my sweet. — His mouth curved into a smile that only reflected darkness. — Everyone, everyone, everyone. My eyes, so blessed with the beauty of your soft skin and childish eyes, your sweet mouth and the shaggy strands of your eyebrows, became the object of his dark admirer's envy and, look, what he did to me.

In the short distance between your faces, that distance you wanted to increase at all costs, you could make out the old man's wrinkled features. His withered cheeks, the corners of his eyes creased by years and years of study and service to the church. His thinning hair was pearly white on his straight head, with little spots like freckles. The eyes, previously blue, weren't there. 

In their place, there was the emptiness of two hollow holes whose darkness seemed to feed with pleasure. 

The priest smiled in her direction.

— Smile, my dear. Who else in the world would be as adored and cherished as you? What other soul would be as worthy of all the fascination of eyes that have seen the rise and fall of empires as the rising and setting of the sun? There are worse ways to live. In complete ignorance, never seen and never remembered, gradually rotting away like this old man. 

In an unknown breath, you felt the instinct to fight with the same strength as the archangels as you sat up in bed, your body trembling from the effort. The priest continued to lie there, moaning with satisfaction as he enjoyed the smell of your hair against the pillow where you had shed your tears. 

He was totally possessed. The evil had taken hold of the most benevolent man you've ever had the pleasure of knowing, save only his own father, a man so generous that he gave up his beloved daughter to the care of a convent without ever doubting his desires to follow a holy life. All was lost.

You got out of bed, your legs wobbly as you dragged yourself out of the room. There were few lit candles and a long corridor. Carefully, you hugged your body and left your quarters, dreading the next demonic sight you would encounter on your way.

The convent seemed more alive than ever. A complete organism. The walls moved as it breathed and guided you in silence, the cold accompanying you like a guardian, a raven on your sullen shoulders. The moon was high in the sky, its pearly glow illuminating what not even candle flames could touch. And you walked, leaning on the walls, groping for balance. In the dining hall, where Olga's blood was embedded in the wood of one of the tables, you saw the shadows of the feet of all your beloved sisters and your devoted mother.

They all floated solemnly, with ropes around their necks. They all looked at you with pupils consumed by darkness and wide smiles, so big that they seemed to rejoice in your presence. 

— My beloved! — cried Clara. 

— Beacon of my darkness! — said Lucia. 

— Don't you see, my beloved? 

With dread, you walked around the tables, looking into their faces. Every single one of them. The rope wasn't taut, they were floating under the invisible force that kept them alive only for a brief moment. Just long enough for you to see them, to remember their names and their faces, their voices, their lives and their untouchable faith. Because they, like your Savior, had no power to stop the terrors you were cursed with at birth.

As soon as your cry marked his arrival in this rotten, petty and cheap world, he also felt the pain in his chest, where his lungs were supposed to work. Your soft cry marked the raw, lifeless gasp of the thing that woke up to take in its big, slender hands what was rightfully its: that poor soul, which had never found a single day's peace, shrouded in the melancholy of that fateful encounter. 

Nothing could stop her soul from touching him, much less his emptiness from possessing her soul.

It was a perfect fit, an unspoken agreement between heaven and hell. God, all merciful, gave you up for the greater good. You were eternally linked. 

And your sisters, mother and father paid the price for coming between the two of you, for taking you away from your true home and your true master. They filled your days with their miserable little lives, with miserable knowledge, with miserable privations for such... miserable glory. 

— I have set you free, my beloved. I have loosened the nails that bound you to your cross. — Murmured the mother, with jubilant eyes, cheeks streaked with sweet tears. Your stern and beneficent mother. — My obsession is the key to this filthy, worthless prison. Come, darling, and enjoy with me all the pleasures you've been denied. Come quickly, my beloved, put an end to my loneliness.

His shadow has grown over you, outside in the courtyard.

— Spare them! I beg you! — Her voice roared over the tearful smiles of her sisters. Young Agnes wiggled her legs, looking at you with that untouched childish gaze, as if she were throwing herself into dense fluffy clouds and not into the abyss of death, into the blackness of darkness. — Spare them and I'll follow you without looking back. I will never desire anything other than your company, nor will I follow any other path than the one your feet once trod.

Your sisters' laughter exploded through the high ceiling, laden with a mockery that didn't belong to them.

Bewitched, they all looked down at you with equal dark amusement, their voices blending together like a spiral that drained the strength from your legs. 

— Don't you understand yet, my holy lamb? — Smiled sweet Agnes. — There's no bargaining. Whether they live or die, you will still be mine.Even in death, I will pull you back and chain you to me. I myself have suffered many years of being bound to the prison of my desires for you, waiting for you for countless years, feeling the weight of your rejection, cruel lover. 

— But you love me, don't you?

— Every part of me to every part of you, my sweetness. 

— So give me these gifts. Spare my beloved sisters, my fellow human beings, those sweet women with pure hearts who have guarded me long enough for you to come and take your rightful possession. They are not guilty, but guardians. — On your knees, you clasped your hands to your chest, begging the devil for mercy. — I know I wasn't good to you, I was insensitive to your call, but they are not to blame.You'll have all my devotion if you spare them, but if you kill them, even though you have my body and my spirit, you'll never have a drop of my attention. 

The silence of the souls hanging from the ceiling of the convent refectory echoed their inconsolable weeping.Thick tears and a plea so strong that it could make the souls turn over in their graves. 

The doors opened in a rush, letting the cold wind enter the dining hall. 

For the first time, under the ethereal light of the moon, as if in a macabre mixture of dream and nightmare intertwined by the thin veil of unconsciousness, you saw it.Not its aura or its agonized call, you saw the creature with your own eyes. 

You, who know so little about men, had never seen such a figure. 

So tall that you had to stoop to pass through the door that you would walk through without any difficulty.Eyes so deep that no light could reach them. A face hardened by the spectre of death, with a long nose and a thick moustache of a deep shade of black.He entered the sacred ground with equal parts ease and pain, each step a necessary torture to reach the object of his desire. The soul he so coveted in his millennial solitude, forgotten by the world, completely abandoned under the promise of a single soul that the heavens did not claim, a soul he could corrupt at will. 

Yours to devour, he thought at first, perhaps resentful that he was also chained to a lowly mortal, a wandering and very basic creature. Yours to torment, he thought, when you were very young and saw his shadow in your room for the first time. Yours to worship, he realized now, pulling her by her bare arms to stand up.

The creature, hungry for something, for some compensation for its endless loneliness, brought its face close to his and, with a touch of malice, stuck out its tongue, licking the length of his tears with its cold, inhuman breath. 

— I thought you'd wait for me in your habit, my beloved.I was particularly looking forward to it. — He lowered his cold, vile gaze, delving into the shape of your body beneath the nightgown with which you were forced to rest, a fabric so thin of light cotton that it hung down your body, revealing through the worn nature of the fabric the color of your stiff nipples against the fabric. He gasped with pleasure. — But what unparalleled pleasure it is to see you in such intimate attire, my eternal obsession. 

His hands, holding her face, were huge, with large, aged nails. Nails that would have dug into the earth to escape the grave. Their coldness was uncomfortable, but, given the horrors in your mind, you found yourself accepting their touch as a shred of comfort.

It destroyed your sanity, that it would at least give you the soothing balm of a caress.

— Please! — you sighed with a breath, a breath as anguished as it was tired. 

Your hands touched his, your eyes full of life and fear threatened his darkness with such a benevolent request, something the creature had never witnessed. 

Those like you, mortals, used to beg for mercy on your own life, on your knees and with the greatest promises of riches and pleasures.And here you were, a soul who would never reach heaven, asking for mercy for others when it was your fate that was at stake.

How he loved you! How he hated you!

— Treating it as my personal gift and demonstration of my esteem, these women live by my ability to have mercy on the requests of your heart. — He approached your warmth, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the salt of your feverish skin. All his vitality was more than banal desire, he was madly fissured by every cell of his anatomy, every rudimentary bit of his mortal Anatomy, and so doomed to the horrors of putrefaction. — My eternal living flame, how it tormented me not to be able to touch it. How it torments me right now to feel the softness of your skin. 

The creature's eyes mapped your face, his eyes so vivid and striking in color, the visage on your skin, the softness of his mouth as you breathed audibly, so bruised by fatigue that you didn't even budge when he wrapped you in his arms like a bruised little bird. Her soft sigh, nesting her head against his shoulder, was the fuel for him to release the women from their ropes, gently lowering them until their feet touched the ground.

— As long as you live, my ladies, be the witness of my triumph in having my sweet beloved in my arms for eternity.

He lowered his face in your direction, the ancient smell on his clothes made you scratch your nose. 

The texture of his mustache was thick. When his funeral lips touched yours, you tried to resist. Never before have you felt the pleasure of a passionate kiss or a love that took your breath away. But he knew what he'd been waiting for, holding you tightly by the back of your head, wrapping himself around you menacingly as his mustache scratched and skin immaculate from his face. His lips were hard, demanding and hungry.

His mouth ate you as his last hope, the last of pleasures and torments, a feast for a dying man.

The exchange, life and death, touching each other for the first time ignited an impulse in you. The impulse that matched his kiss, because that was the deal. You gave in, letting your lips submit to the kiss. Your body was surprised as you gasped with pleasure at corresponding with him, stimulated by the passion with which he held you. The human body is capable of many bargains to continue resisting.

And you, who had resisted for so long, gave in to that bittersweet feeling of surrender, feeling it take against your body.

Her body gradually sank into the feeling of being supported. As her dark lover's lips devoured hers, the world became a darker and darker place, the hiss of the wind seeping into her ears like spilled poison.  Between soft gasps, feeling the creature suck on his lips, unable to be completely satiated, his body gave in to the strain, falling into a powerful sleep. Realizing that you no longer corresponded with him, he walked away, looking at her with apprehension. His right hand, large and bony, rested on his chest. 

The beating of his heart was quiet, yet powerful. Each beat rumbling softly against the bones of his chest. 

Under the gaze of the bewitched nuns, he disappeared with the night, carrying with him the only one with whom he could share his eternal night.

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[sirhamburrger]

how they would react to you calling them “fine shyt”: the ultimate shytpost (bllk top 6 x reader)(no nagi sry)

FEATURING R. ITOSHI \\ R. SHIDOU \\ T. KARASU E. OTOYA \\ K. YUKIMIYA CONTENT mentions of insecurity (karasu's), truly a shitpost (otoya's), shidou is very very brainrotted, est. relationship for all A/N i am so sorry i don't think i will ever write for otoya properly (idl him much)

RIN ITOSHI - aka the “what did you just call me?”

he's chronically offline, but shidou and charles are constantly blowing up his phone with dumb instagram reels and "lukewarm" tiktoks, whatever that's even supposed to mean. he's brainrotted enough just from being around them, so he shoots you a withering stare as the words leave your mouth.

you put a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh. "rin, you do know what that means, right?"

"knowing you, probably nothing good," he says dryly, returning to his book. you pout, letting out an indignant huff. after a few moments of silence, he finally groans and sets his book back down.

"fine. tell me what it means, then."

"it means i think you're handsome, rin!" you frown, seeming more than a little offended. "can't you learn to take a compliment? i compliment you all the time, just in case you're forgetting!"

oh. he feels himself flushing, and as he opens his mouth to say something that might placate you, maybe an awkward apology -

"it's alright," you mumble, still pouting. "my sweet little rinnie poo -"

"okay, that is enough out of you -"

RYUSEI SHIDOU - aka the "girl, i know"

he has an average screen time of six hours a day, enough said. not only is he caught up to date on all the latest slangs, but he also knows how good he looks - he's confident in his own skin. a little too confident, at times, but oh well. that's just how ryusei shidou is.

ryusei grins when you say the words to him, a twinkle in his eyes. "gotta whole roster of people sayin' that shit to me every day, don't gotta tell me twice."

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical. "oh, really? who says that to you?"

"zantetsu." he says smugly.

you frown. "what did you tell him it means?"

he's silent for a second before he admits his deception, close to tears, that he told his teammate it means "someone who's good at what they do". though you pretend to be frustrated with his antics, you can't deny he's actually kind of cute when he gets like this.

"i can still call you that," you offer, a small smile stretching your face. "if you want."

his face lights up. "really?"

"well, it's true, so..."

ryusei beams.

TABITO KARASU - aka the "oh... okay..." (flustered)

tabito karasu knows he's not a bad-looking dude. however, though he might be confident in some areas, he doesn't really think of himself as particularly handsome. he's a very detail-oriemted person, and that includes being deeply observant about flaws, especially his own.

and so when you call him that -

tabito thinks he might just die.

which is stupid, because he's been with you for about a year now, and you tell him how handsome you think he is all the time. but the way you say this - all giggly and bashful and looking at him with such love in your eyes - it makes him want to take your face in his hands and pepper you with kisses.

and that he does, until you're both blushing messes, and your arms are looped around his neck as you give him a peck on the nose.

"i mean it, y'know. you are fine shyt." tabito snorts, but then sobers up instantly when he sees your wistful smile. "i tell you that all the time, but you never seem to believe it, so..."

"oh."

he thinks back to his first ever crush as a child, where the girl he linked rejected him publicly. there are prettier guys around, or so she'd said. it had shaped his thinking even as he grew up, that he might not ever be good enough. not for himself, and not for you.

but as he lays on the couch with his arms around you, he feels like the prettiest guy in the world.

EITA OTOYA - aka the "you think my what is what??"

he's playing valorant with his noise-cancelling headphones on. he does NOT hear a single word of what you say.

moving on!

KENYU YUKIMIYA - aka the "yeah. mhm. wait, WHAT -"

ah, kenyu, kenyu, kenyu. he kind of has to be "fine shyt", doesn't he - or else he'd be out of a modeling job! he's used to compliments by now; from family friends, from the photographers that work with him, from giggling girls in his classes. he truly has no "bad side". that is, until it comes to you, of course...

"really?" kenyu lets slip a slightly amused chuckle, a smile stretching his face at your words. "well, this is an unusual compliment."

"actually, on second thought -" you tap your chin with a finger. "you're actually not all that -"

and he thinks he feels his heart shatter.

"what?" he croaks, feeling physically ill. he's not online a lot, seeing as device use is bad for his eyes, but he's feeling like he's just been shot 57 times - somewhere it really hurts. "uhm… what do you mean by that?"

suspect’s girlfriend doesn’t think he’s pretty. vine boom. suspect’s girlfriend hates him. another vine boom.

“kenyu,” you laugh, “i was only joking! i mean, i have seen you drool in your sleep, and wake up from cat naps with the worst bedhead - but you’re still pretty, i promise!”

emotional damage.

vine boom.

bllk masterlist || general masterlist © sirhamburrger 2025

[aakeysmash]

prompt:

sukuna skipping gym to sleep in and later on does his workout in their living room, using her as a weight when doing push ups, may turn heated hehe

college Sukuna's masterlist

turned this into a college!sukuna drabble lmao sorry!! no smut this time, i wanted to elaborate a bit on sukuna's protectivness toward yuuji :)

You're humming a song from your studying playlist when you hear someone knocking at your door. You look at the clock you keep on your desk near a plant Yuuji gifted you last week. On the terracotta vase there's a scribbled note in the obvious handwriting of a child.

To: baby peach, but no more annoying screams when we play, please!

You smile. He always chooses to be baby mario when you play Mario Kart together because he doesn't want you to feel alone in case you're the only baby character. He's such a cute kid, you're lucky to have him as one of your almost-roommates.

You get up (it's still pretty early anyway) and stretch your back, hearing it pop. You open the door, and standing in front of it is the same kid you were thinking about.

"Hey," you wave at him, a happy tilt to your voice. You look at him shuffling and avoiding your gaze.

"Is everything okay, Yuuji?" you start getting worried. He mumbles something you don't hear clearly, so you make him repeat himself. He juts his lip out, then looks straight at your face.

"Can you take me to school please?"

You raise your eyebrows. Usually, this is a big brother kind of duty: where is Sukuna? Yuuji takes your silence as rejection and starts backtracking.

"Sorry, I didn't want to disturb you, I can just go alone-"

"Sure, let me grab my purse and we can go," you stop him, changing your expression to one of calmness, ruffling his pink, unruly hair.

"Are you sure it's not a bother?" he asks you hesitantly. "Big bro closed his door and I can't seem to be able to wake him up... and I'm supposed to be accompanied by an adult..."

"It's not a big deal, Yuuji. I'll take you in my passenger seat, okay? We'll be there shortly," you reassure him, nodding.

"Thanks," he says, blushing, giving you one of the biggest smiles you've ever seen him do. Your heart melts a little, and he looks at you like you've physically hung up the sun shining outside.

When you get back home, you're not even able to get to your room when you find yourself being squished between the nearest wall and a hot, rapidly rising and falling chest.

"Where the fuck is my brother?" Sukuna grits out his teeth, breathing down your neck. You wince. He's controlling his strength, but he's still a mountain compared to you, and your ribcage is starting to hurt.

"Get off of me right now or I'm calling the police, Itadori."

He notices he must have been too rough and takes a step back, mumbling an apology while still looking at you menacingly. You pat your clothes, making sure there are no wrinkles before answering him.

"I took him to school. He told me he was being neglected by his own caretaker, so I had to intervene," you shrug.

"He did not say that. He doesn't even know the word neglect," he says, sighing. His shoulders drop and he takes on a more relaxed appearance.

"What's wrong with you? You've never gotten up later than 6 am," you ask him, trying to sound nonchalant, walking toward your fridge to make yourself a toast. The truth is, you're starting to get attached to him. In the last couple of months, you've created some sort of bond, and it's probably also thanks to Yuuji and his stubbornness in making you do things like you're a family. Just last night, he forced you both to make cookies with him because apparently his friend Megumi was coming to play this afternoon and "he wanted to make a good impression".

Sukuna, on the other hand, can be a lot. The majority of the time he nudges you to get you to move out of his way (he just does it to see your annoyed face, but he's not going to tell you that), huffs in your face when you say he hasn't cleaned his dishes from the night before, and flips you off whenever you try to have a civil conversation about who's turn it is to choose the film on Friday night. But he's also pretty attentive. It's not like he makes you notice it, but he does feel bad for you when you get out of your room after an all nighter because of your studies. He thinks you're annoying because you're always trying to pry into his private life, but when you're not home Yuuji always asks of your whereabouts. Yeah, that's definitely why he can't stop thinking about you laughing with the boy he literally raised. The boy whose disappearance was driving him insane this morning.

Because sure, Sukuna tells Yuuji he's a brat 95% of the time, and the kid yaps way too much for his taste. He also manhandles the kid badly, telling him he's way too weak to be called his brother, and more often than not Sukuna tells him he's adopted and that he'll kick him out as soon as he can. But you've seen the way he prepared soup every night when his little brother caught the flu in December—he's just full of shit. He'll never admit how hard it was to raise a brother he didn't want at 13, alone and broke. But he'll make sure the child never doubts of having someone to fall back into like Sukuna did since he was much younger than Yuuji is now.

"Didn't sleep well and I missed the gym," he responds, munching on an apple. You hum in acknowledgment, not turning around from the stove.

"You know that pilates class you suggested to me last week? I found their videos on YouTube. I was thinking of starting them today," you quickly change the topic. You know you won't get more than that; him admitting he didn't sleep well was already a win.

"Wanna start them with me, chipmunk?" he asks you. You turn around to slap his arm slightly.

"I told you to stop calling me that," you say rolling your eyes.

"No."

You whine. "Yes, by the way. I want to see you suffer like the men I see on TikTok."

"Come be my weight and I'll do pilates with you today," he suddenly says. You're biting your toast and you're so caught off guard that you start coughing up crumbles. He hands you a glass of water while telling you you're too fucking dramatic.

"What does it mean to be your weight?" you tentatively ask him when you can breathe properly again.

That's how you find yourself sitting crisscrossed on his back, gripping his shirt as hard as you can, while he does pushups and tries not to laugh every time you scream about him moving too much and almost making you fall.

[cenvast]

"Toshiro Is Sexist," "Toshiro Owns Slaves": What's Really Going on With This Guy?

I've seen a lot of debate on whether or not Toshiro is problematic because he's a slave owner or because he's sexist in the context of his crush on Falin. While I do want to examine his relationship to Falin, I'd like to take a few steps back and unpack his upbringing first. We'll dive into the gender and class dynamics he was raised with and how it impacts his behavior in the main storyline.

Like all people, Toshiro is shaped by the environment he grew up in. Toshitsugu, Toshiro's father and the head of the Nakamoto clan, is the most impactful model of authority and manhood in his life. Toshiro does recognize some of his father's flaws and tries to avoid replicating them. But whether or not he emulates or subverts his father's behavior, Toshitsugu is often the starting point for Toshiro's treatment of others, particularly marginalized people.

The Nakamoto clan exists under a patriarchal hierarchy with Toshitsugu at the top. As noted by @fumifooms in their Nakamoto household post, his wife has more authority than Maizuru. She's able to ban Maizuru from parts of their residence, but despite disliking his infidelity, she can't divorce him or stop him from cheating on her. Their marriage is not an equal partnership.

On an interpersonal level, Toshitsugu and Maizuru also have a fraught relationship. While she does seem to care for him, she's often frustrated by his thoughtless behavior.

For example, he drunkenly buys Izutsumi for her — without considering how she'll have to raise this child — and invades her room in the middle of the night. When he cryptically says, "It's all my fault," she replies, "I can think of a lot of things that are your fault." She calls him an "idiot" and "believes that [Toshiro] will grow up to be a better clan leader than his father," implying that she takes issue with Toshitsugu's leadership.

Because Maizuru and Toshitsugu are described as being "in an intimate relationship" and "seem[ing] to be lovers," Maizuru appears to be a consensual participant. Still, this doesn't negate the large power imbalance between them as a male noble clan leader and his female retainer. This imbalance introduces an insidious undertone to Maizuru's frustration with Toshitsugu. Like Toshiro's mother, Maizuru doesn't have the agency to do as she pleases in their relationship; he has the ultimate authority. For instance, she doesn't seem to want to raise Izutsumi, but she has to anyway.

While Maizuru's role as Toshitsugu's mistress is significant, she's also the Nakamoto clan's teacher and Toshiro's primary maternal figure. She cares deeply for Toshiro: tailing him, feeding him, and taking responsibility even for his actions as an adult. While it might seem sweet that she cares for him like a son at first, Maizuru was notably fifteen years old at the time of his birth. In the extra comic below, he's six years old and has already been in her care for some time. Even if we're being generous and assuming that she didn't start raising him until he was six, she was still only twenty-one at the time she was parenting her boss/lover's child with another woman.

Maizuru's roles as mistress and maternal figure, in addition to her role as retainer, demonstrate the intersection between gendered and class oppression in the Nakamoto household. Despite her original role being a retainer trained in espionage, Toshitsugu presses her into performing gendered labor for him and eventually, Toshiro. She's expected to be Toshitsugu's lover, perform emotional labor for him as his confidant, care for his child, and carry out domestic tasks like cooking. She says, "Even during missions, I was often dragged into the kitchen." If she was a male servant, I doubt she would have been expected to perform these additional tasks. She can't avoid these tasks either, stating that her "own feelings don't factor into it."

Toshitsugu disregards his wife's and Maizuru's desires and emotions to serve his own interests. Because he has societal power over them as a nobleman and in Maizuru's case, her master, neither woman can escape their position in the household hierarchy.

As a result, Toshiro grew up within a structure where men and male nobility, in particular, wield the most societal power. The hierarchical nature of his household and society discourages everyone, including him as a clan leader's eldest son, from questioning and disrupting the existing hierarchy.

The other Nakamoto household members also internalize its sexist, classist power dynamics.

For example, Hien expects that she and Toshiro will replicate the uneven dynamics of the previous generation, regardless of her personal feelings. She sees her and Toshiro's relationship as paralleling Maizuru and Toshitsugu's relationship; she is the closest woman to Toshiro and his retainer, so she's shocked when Toshiro doesn't attempt to begin an intimate relationship with her. Notably, she doesn't have actual feelings for him. Her expectations are centered around the household's precedent of placing emotional, sexual, domestic, and child-rearing labor onto the female servants without any regard for their personal desires.

Hien also probably knows that her position in the household will improve if she is Toshiro's lover because she's seen it improve Maizuru's position. However, the fact that being the future clan leader's lover is the closest proximity she, as a female servant, has to power further reveals the gendered, class-based oppression she and the other women live under.

It's important to note that the Nakamoto clan bought Benichidori, Izutsumi, and Inutade as slaves, so they have less power and agency than Maizuru and Hien. The clan further dehumanizes Izutsumi and Inutade as demi-humans; their enslavement contains an additional layer of racialization.

Toshiro isn't oblivious to the gendered, class, and racial power dynamics of his household. He tries to distance himself from participating in its exploitative power structure. He walls himself off from Hien, who he's known since childhood, to avoid replicating his father's behavior and making his servant into his lover. He disapproves of his father's enslavement of Izutsumi and Inutade, and he lets Izutsumi go when she runs away in the Dungeon.

But does any of this absolve him of his complicity in his household's sexist, classist power dynamics and racialized slavery?

The short answer is absolutely not.

Despite his distaste for his father's exploitation of his servants and slaves, Toshiro still uses them. He refers to his party as "his retainers," and he has them fight and perform domestic tasks for him. You could argue that Toshiro doesn't like to and thus, doesn't regularly use his servants and slaves. In the context of him asking his retainers to help him rescue Falin, Maizuru says, "The only time he ever made any sort of personal request was for this task." But it shouldn't matter whether exploitation is a regular occurrence or not for it to be considered harmful. Toshiro asking Maizuru to cook him a meal still constitutes asking his female servant to perform gendered labor for him. He's also very accustomed to her grooming and dressing him.

Maizuru sees feeding, washing, and even advising Toshiro romantically as fulfilling Toshitsugu's orders to care for his son. They aren't fulfilling a "personal request." But just because her labor has been deemed expected and thereby devalued doesn't mean that it isn't labor or that she isn't performing it.

Maizuru's dynamic with Toshiro is also complicated by her role as his maternal figure. She loves him and wants to take care of him, and she doesn't have a choice in the matter. During Toshiro's childhood, the onus was on Toshitsugu to cease exploiting his lover and release her from servitude, but Toshiro is now an adult man. Seeing as how Maizuru defers to his wishes and calls him "Young Master," they still have a power imbalance that he's passively maintaining. Ideally, he would not ask anything of her until he has the authority to release her from servitude.

Throughout the story, Toshiro acts as if he has no agency and quietly disapproving of his father's actions absolves him of his participation in maintaining oppressive dynamics. While his father still ranks higher than him, he's essentially his father's heir. He has much more power than Maizuru, the highest-ranked servant. At the very least, he could leave his slave-owning household.

Unfortunately, his refusal to confront injustice is consistent with his character's major flaw: he does not express his opinions, desires, or needs. While this character trait obviously hurts his friendships, it also furthers his complicity in the injustices his household runs on.

Toshiro's relationship with eating food — the prevailing metaphor of the series — also parallels his relationship with confronting injustice. Maizuru mentions that he was a sickly child, so the act of eating may have been physically uncomfortable for him. As an adult, his refusal to eat crops up during his rescue attempt of Falin. Denying himself food might have been punishment for not accomplishing important tasks like rescuing Falin and/or a way to maintain control over something in his life when he felt like he'd lost control over the rest of it, again in the context of losing Falin. (Note: I suggest reading this post on Toshiro's disordered eating by @malaierba.)

But he cannot and does not avoid consuming food forever.

Similarly, Toshiro keeps his distance from his retainers and tries not to use them until the Falin situation occurs. His efforts to avoid exploiting his retainers amount to inaction — things he doesn't ask of them or do to them. But his inaction does nothing to dismantle the existing hierarchy that places his retainers under his authority, denies them agency, and often marginalizes them as not only servants or slaves but as women, and he ends up using them as servants and slaves anyways.

Returning to the narrative's themes of consumption, Toshiro cannot avoid eating just as he cannot avoid perpetuating the exploitative system of his household. The Nakamoto clan consumes the labor and personhood of those lower in the hierarchy. The retainers' labor as spies and domestic servants is the foundation of the clan's existence. Thus, the clan consumes their labor to sustain itself.

Within this hierarchy, the retainers' personhood is also consumed and erased. As Izutsumi describes, they are given different names and stripped of their agency to reject orders or leave. Maizuru and Hien also say their feelings are irrelevant in the context of Toshitsugu's and Toshiro's wants and needs. Both women are expected to comply with whatever is most beneficial and comfortable for the noblemen. Clearly, despite Toshiro's detachment from his household's functions, these social structures remain in place and harm the women under him.

Although we know the Nakamoto clan has male retainers, the choice to highlight the female retainers seems intentional. We're asked to interrogate how not only being a servant or a slave in a noble household impacts a person's life and agency, but how being a woman intersects with being a member of some of the lowest social classes.

Toshiro only distances himself from his father's behaviors of infidelity and exploitation so long as it doesn't take Toshiro out of his comfort zone. He doesn't free his slaves. He's far too comfortable with his female retainers performing domestic labor for him, and he barely acknowledges their efforts; they're shocked when he thanks them for helping him save Falin. He hasn't unpacked his sexist (or classist or racist) biases because he perpetuates his household's oppressive hierarchy throughout the narrative. Considering all of this, he inevitably brings this baggage to his interactions with Falin.

Falin is presumably one of the first women he's had extended contact with that isn't his relative or his family's servant. Because of his trauma surrounding his father and Maizuru sleeping together, he understandably falls for a woman as disconnected as possible from his father and his clan. He seems to genuinely like Falin, respects her boundaries, and graciously accepts her rejection. His behavior towards her is overall kind and unproblematic.

But if Falin had gone with him, she would've likely been devalued and sidelined like the other women of the Nakamoto household. No matter how much he loves Falin, simply loving her cannot replace the difficult work of unlearning his sexism. Love, of course, can and should be accompanied by that work, but by the close of the narrative, we gain little indication that Toshiro acknowledges or seeks to end his part in exploiting and devaluing women and other marginalized people.

A spark of hope does exist. Toshiro expressing his feelings to Laios and Falin suggests that his time away from home has encouraged him to speak up more. Breaking his habit of avoidance may be the first step towards acknowledging his complicity in systems of injustice and moving towards dismantling them.

Special thanks to my very smart friend @atialeague for bringing up Toshitsugu's relationship with Maizuru and the replication of dynamics of consumption and class! <3

[ddarker-dreams]

Can you spare us some Scara crumbs for this starving pigeons pls?🥺🥺🥺 I miss the way how you write that shortass gremlin so much (I miss my wife, tails... I miss my wife)

There comes a point where even you, one of the few species capable of withstanding long-term exposure to a certain Harbinger, find yourself exasperated. Beneath his apathetic façade lies a volatile ego, poised to misinterpret the most innocent acts as a knife through the heart. Scaramouche's treated you coldly since you both retired to your personal quarters. You'd like to claim ignorance, but you know better — know him better — which makes remedying the issue harder.

"You had a fun evening, I take it?"

His voice shoots across the room, releasing the taut string that's had you in the crosshair for hours.

"It was fine," you accentuate your indifference with a shrug. Then, a counterattack of your own: "Why?"

He puffs his cheek to the side, looking more like an indignant child than one of the most feared forces at the Fatui's disposal. "Oh, no reason. I just couldn't help but notice how eager you were to fawn over my co-worker."

And there it is, you think. Why did we have to run into Childe, of all people...?

"I was just being polite."

"'Polite?'" He repeats, barking out a hollow laugh. "That smile, those sweet expressions were polite? Are you sure you weren't auditioning to be a courtesan?"

You offer him your most unimpressed look. Scaramouche returns it tenfold, narrowing his eyes and closing the gap in distance between you. You take it as an opportunity to examine the finer details he works so diligently to hide. The trembling of his lower lip, curling of his fists, and the watery sheen coating his eyes.

Although he doesn't require oxygen, his chest heaves like he's been deprived of it.

Or something of equal significance.

"I can't stand it," he admits, raising a shaky hand to cup your face. "You— that... nauseating charm. You're bound to attract pests everywhere you go. I thought by now, it'd be clear that you're off limits, but..."

Electricity crackles in the air.

Then, he freezes when you lay your hand on his.

"No one's going to try anything," you reassure. You leave out the part that they might as well be bringing about the end of the world. "Let's just call it a night before we get more worked up, okay?"

His fingers twitch.

Eventually, he averts his gaze, a rosy blush dusting over his cheeks.

Scaramouche clears his throat, then grumbles, "... I'm not worked up."

Regardless of his complaints, he silently acquiesces to your wish, slinking his way over to your wardrobe to contemplate what he'll have you wear the following day.