#sh writing

[somerandomcockroach]

*runs away at the speed of light*

[bishy437]

チーンホワ君の日常。

sqh’s everyday life.

[mutantjellybeans]

Johnny Storm (celebrity with years of media experience and a number of scandals with a massive PR team) and Peter Parker (extremely bitchy broke photographer from queens with no media training) are hopelessly and disastrously in love and it is unfortunately everyone’s problem

[becca-e-barnes]

all i can think about is bucky literally BEGGING to eat your pussy. just on his knees, calling himself a needy slut, just looking up at you with puppy dog eyes while he just begs for your pussy on his mouth. ugh.

Men who are this into eating pussy have a special place reserved for them in Heaven. Hearing someone beg to go down on you is life changing when they know what they're doing 🙈

But you're so right, Bucky would be so willing to degrade himself like that just to be allowed to go down on you. He'd be on his knees, trying to ignore how full his balls feel, begging for you.

"P-please." His voice is so quiet you almost start to question if he said it intentionally. "I need to taste you. I can't think about anything else."

His cock twitches despite how heavy it looks, flushed and angry against the pale skin of his thighs.

"Really?" You tease, tilting his chin up with two fingers so he's looking at your face, rather than your body. "Tell me exactly what you're thinking. Describe it to me"

He doesn't miss a beat. "I'm thinking about how soft you are, how warm and silky your cunt feels under my tongue. I'm thinking about burying my tongue as deep inside you as I can reach and still wishing I could get deeper. I want to feel how wet you are but more than anything, I want to taste how wet you are. I want to dream about it for the rest of the week. Every time I stroke my cock I want to be able to remember how you taste."

Precum drips from his tip and you're not sure you can deny him much longer. Not when he's making it sound so appealing.

"Do you even hear yourself?" You do your very best to act like you don't love the sound of every word that has just come out of his mouth.

"I do. I sound like a shameless, filthy, desperate slut. The type of slut who wants to kiss and lick and worship your sweet pussy until you're so sensitive you have to force me to stop." His hand wanders between his own legs, tugging his stiff length to the mere thought.

He's not above begging and you know that. He'll draw this out as long as he needs to until he gets his way but there's very little sense in that when you want this just as much as he does.

"Lie on the bed." You give him time to make his way over before following, lining yourself up just above his face.

You take a second to smooth his hair, enjoying the feeling of his freshly shaved face against the sensitive insides of your thighs.

He's looking up at you, your eyes meeting his. "Thank you." The relief in his voice is clear right before he grasps your hips and pulls you down onto his mouth.

Fuck, he's incredible. This is the mouth you dream about when you're alone. His tongue massages your clit, stroking back and forth before dipping into your fluttering entrance. You swear he must feel what he's doing to you. You feel your cunt clenching and rippling, your muscles contracting in response to the pleasure and for a second you wonder if he can tell.

He's hungry for this; he has been for hours. He's moaning and slurping obscenely, his tongue buried in your cunt. You don't even need to look over your shoulder to know that he's alternating between fucking his own fist and gripping the base of his shaft tight enough to stop him from spilling his release all over himself too soon.

It's very hard to tell which of you enjoys this more.

[thelostmagicians]

Say my name | Steve Harrington

Summary: Steve hated his name, until he heard you say it [2.5k]

Fluff, comfort, slight angst, kind of smut

♡

Steve Harrington was never fond of his name. It felt plain and boring, blending into the background of everyday life. Yet, it carried an immense significance. Named after his great grandfather - a man everyone revered - Steve bore the weight of the Harrington legacy. Perhaps that’s why his posture was never perfect; the invisible load of expectations and history bore down on him, a constant reminder of the greatness he was expected to live up to.

Maybe that’s why Steve always tried to be recognized as something other than himself, his father’s son, Nancy’s (ex) boyfriend, or the highschool King turned loser. But no one really knew Steve. Beneath the labels and legacy, there was a person who felt unseen, lost in the shadows of who he was supposed to be.

Every time his name left someone’s mouth, he would wince, almost forgetting it belonged to him, hating the way their lips formed around the rough noise of the “v” and how they would draw out the “e,” as if speaking his name was a chore.

–

The first time you said his name, it was like unlocking something buried deep inside him. You didn’t even notice how your voice softened, how the word Steve seemed to linger in the air, hanging between you. It wasn’t just a name—it was a recognition, a moment of something real, raw, and quietly powerful. He had been called “Steve” a thousand times before, but this was different. The way you said it felt like the beginning of something, and it made him feel seen in a way he never had before. Steve didn’t sound plain or burdensome—it felt like a truth you were just discovering together.

It started so simply. He’d introduced himself with an easy smile, his hand extended toward you. “Hi, I’m Steve,” he’d said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place—nervousness, maybe? Hope?

You smiled back, slipping your hand into his, and without thinking, you said, “Hi, Steve.” The sound of his name on your lips was unassuming, almost casual, but it did something to him. The way you said it felt warm, like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky. Your voice carried a quiet sincerity that lingered in the space between you, and for the first time, Steve didn’t feel like just a name. It felt like it belonged to him in a way it never had before—personal, meaningful, significant.

He held onto that moment longer than he meant to, replaying the way your voice pitch changed and the way you dragged out the e a perfect amount to keep him longing. It wasn’t just the first time you’d said his name—it was the first time it had ever truly meant something.

_

The moment leading up to your first kiss was a quiet symphony of stolen glances and charged silence, where every movement seemed deliberate and every breath felt heavier. You were standing close—closer than you ever had before—your shoulders almost brushing as the night wrapped around you like a cocoon. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of leaves and distant rain, but all Steve could focus on was you. The way your eyes flickered to his lips for the briefest second before darting back to his, the way your breath quickened ever so slightly, and how your fingers fidgeted nervously at your sides as if they were itching to reach for him.

Steve felt like the world had narrowed down to just this moment, this heartbeat where he could lean in or step back, caught between the fear of messing it up and the overwhelming pull of you. His heart thundered in his chest, loud and unruly, as if it were urging him forward. He searched your face for a sign, a hint, anything that might tell him this wasn’t just him, that you felt it too—that invisible string tugging the two of you together.

Then, you tilted your head ever so slightly, your lips parting just enough to breathe his name softly, “Steve…” It was barely above a whisper, but it was all the permission he needed. He leaned in slowly, his hand brushing against yours as he moved, tentative yet desperate to close the gap. The world seemed to hold its breath, the seconds stretching out as his lips finally met yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question being asked. But then, as if some dam had broken, it deepened, filled with all the unspoken feelings that had been building between you. It was everything and more—sweet, electric, and full of possibility. And when you pulled back, breathless and glowing, your eyes met his, and you whispered his name again.

“Steve…” you breathed, and it was like the world held its breath for a moment. You spoke his name with the same sweetness and stickiness found in honey, each syllable melting into the quiet night air, tasting like something sweet and familiar. It was a sound that wrapped itself around him, settling deep inside his chest, and he couldn’t help but shiver at the weight of it. He realized, for the first time, how his name could sound when it was spoken with love, with tenderness, with a kind of intimacy that had been absent all his life. His name had never sounded so soft, so intimate, as if your lips were tasting the very essence of him, drawing out everything unspoken.

_

The lead-up to that night unfolded naturally, like the quiet turning of pages in a story you had both been writing for months. Every shared glance, every lingering touch, seemed to hold a question neither of you had dared to voice yet. The air between you was charged but unhurried, a quiet intensity building with every stolen moment.

It started as it always did—a night spent together, lost in conversation, the kind that made time slip away unnoticed. You were sitting close, your legs brushing against his, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm halo around you both. There was nothing particularly unusual about the moment, and yet, something had shifted. You could feel it in the way he looked at you, his gaze lingering a second longer than usual, his thumb absently tracing circles against the back of your hand.

His touch felt different that night—more intentional, though he still hesitated, as if waiting for you to meet him halfway. He laughed at something you said, but his voice wavered just enough to give him away. You could sense the nervousness behind his easy smile, the way he was holding back, testing the waters.

You weren’t immune to the nerves either. Your heart raced every time his fingers brushed against your skin, every time his gaze lingered on your lips just a little too long. You could feel the questions hanging in the air, unspoken but loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the night. Would this change things? Would it be everything you’d both dreamed it could be?

When his fingers finally laced with yours, it wasn’t a grand gesture, just a simple, quiet moment that felt heavier than it should have. Your heart raced as his eyes met yours, his expression soft, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing every detail of your face. Then, as if by some silent agreement, you leaned into him, and he met you halfway. His lips found yours, soft and searching, as if he was trying to pour all of his feelings into that one kiss. It started slow, hesitant, but quickly deepened, the nervousness giving way to something more sure, more consuming. His hands found your waist, tentative at first, like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t—you stayed, leaning into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

It wasn’t planned; it didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt real, like the natural culmination of everything that had been building between you. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, and when his lips finally met yours, it was tentative at first—soft, searching, full of questions neither of you needed to ask aloud.

And yet, even then, there was a quiet hesitancy, a moment of pause where the weight of what was about to happen settled between you. “Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yes,” you said, the word carrying more certainty than you thought you could muster. In that moment, the space between you disappeared, and the unspoken tension finally gave way to something deeper, something that felt like it had been written into the very fabric of who you both were. The nervousness was still there, but it was joined by a sense of trust, of connection, that made everything feel right.

When the two of you finally gave in to the pull that had been building between you, tangled in a haze of desire, your voice broke the quiet with his name, and everything seemed to fade except the feeling of him, the sensation of your bodies moving in unison. “Steve,” you moaned, and it was like a spark, a rawness that ignited in him.

His name, slick with need and desire, slipped from your lips and hit him like a wave. It was as if every syllable of his name was drawn out by the rhythm of your breath, hanging in the air like a fire that kept burning, fueled by the need between you. Each time it left your mouth, he felt it in his chest, in his bones, the way it shifted from something ordinary to something undeniably his.

The sound of his name now was everything—urgent, desperate, and filled with so much connection. It wasn’t just a name—it was a thread that tied you together in that moment, every syllable carrying the weight of the desire that you both shared. And in that moment, all of the nerves, all of the fears, melted away, leaving only the two of you, completely and irrevocably intertwined.

_

Steve was barely conscious when he heard the sound of your voice, soft yet filled with a tremor he couldn’t ignore. The pain was sharp, every breath a struggle, but your voice cut through it, like a lifeline pulling him from the edges of everything dark and dizzying.

“I love you, Steve,” you choked out, the words trembling with raw emotion. It wasn’t a confession made in some grand, orchestrated moment—it was born out of desperation, of the fear of losing him. Those three words carried everything you couldn’t say, every ounce of love and fear and hope tangled together.

His eyes widened, softening as they met yours, and for a moment, he forgot about the pain, focused only on the sound of your voice. He wished he could gather the strength to hold you, to pull you close and reassure you, but all he could do was listen, feeling the weight of your words in the marrow of his bones. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, yet desperate enough to feel like a plea. The way you said it made him feel like he was more than the hurt, more than the moment—like he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

He never expected it to be so simple, so pure, but the way you said his name made him feel like he belonged in your world. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, with an understanding that transcended words.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, his voice weak but filled with something unshakable, as if the weight of your love was enough to hold him steady. But you only shook your head, tears spilling over as you said it again, quieter this time, softer, “I love you, Steve,” as if repeating it would make him believe it more, make him understand the depth of what you felt. And in that moment, he did. Every word, every breath of yours seemed to fill the cracks in him, stitching him together with something stronger than anything he’d ever known.

_

Years passed, each moment with you stitching together a life he never imagined he could have. There were quiet evenings, shared laughter, and moments of tenderness that wove themselves into the fabric of his world. The milestones came in small, beautiful bursts—there were birthdays, each one a marker of how far you had come, from the first one where you celebrated together as a couple. Then came the day you packed up your past in boxes, willingly unpacking it in the new solace, with Steve by your side—the simple act of combining your lives into one space, where every corner felt like home because it was with you. And then, the wedding day—a small, intimate moment at the courthouse, just the two of you standing together, hand in hand. In that quiet, unassuming space, he saw his future stretched out in front of him, brighter than he'd ever dared to dream. The anticipation was palpable, the air thick with the weight of the moment. There was a quiet nervousness, but also a profound sense of peace, as if everything that had brought you both here—every laugh, every tear, every shared glance—had been leading to this single, perfect instant. It wasn’t a grand ceremony or extravagant celebration—just a simple vow, a promise made in the presence of each other, where the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you and the love that had quietly woven itself into your lives. When you spoke your vows, it wasn’t just words—it was a reflection of every moment you’d shared and all the moments yet to come. And when you sealed it with a kiss, it felt like the universe paused, holding its breath for a brief moment, before gently exhaling with the realization that this was just the beginning.

This moment, in the quiet of the delivery room, marked the culmination of everything that had come before. It was there, amid the exhaustion and the flurry of new beginnings, that he realized just how much had been building between the two of you all along.

The air was thick with anticipation. You were both exhausted, caught in a haze of nervous energy as you prepared to meet your son for the first time. The weight of the moment pressed in on him, but when your eyes locked, time seemed to stop. In that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, waiting together to give your child a name—a name that would carry the love and the journey you’d shared, and the life yet to be written.

You looked up at him then, a soft smile playing on your lips. With a tenderness that made his heart ache, you whispered, “Steve.”

The name hung in the air like a promise, a future unfolding in the space between you. It was more than just a word—it was everything.

He stared at you, his heart swelling, feeling the weight of your words, of the moment. “Steve?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief and awe, as if trying to understand why you would want to name your son after him.

You met his gaze, a soft laugh escaping your lips. You shrugged slightly, the smile never leaving your face. “It’s simple,” you said. “Steve is my favorite thing to say.”

And in that moment, it hit him all over again—this name, his name, wasn’t just his anymore. It had become something more, something that felt right in a way he had never imagined. It was the name of a legacy, a symbol of your love. His smile softened as he shook his head, overwhelmed by the significance. “I’ve never loved my name until I heard you say it.”

You spoke his name with a reverence that made it feel timeless, making it something bigger than just the two of you. It wasn’t just a name anymore—it was the thread that would forever connect you, a bond that would last for all time. And it was his.

[fadedkat]

a little human bill doodle sheet this evening based off the wonderful fanfic A Human Condition by @sapphosscribe!! this is really one of my favorite fics at the moment and I wanted to show my love for it by doing some art :DD

now on my way to read the most recent update 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

aaaaand close ups!

[sygneth]

I have had a lot of thoughts on the original story after listening to the Sherlock&Co "Gloria Scott" and a new headcanon just dropped.

Chapter 1: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6

Masterpost (Index)

AO3

thoughts, if you're curious:

As far as gay Victor Trevor absolutely got me, I don't think there was anything serious between him and Holmes. This all comes down to my reading of Holmes, who is (to me) too aroace-spec to get involved in a regular relationship (althouuuughh about Holmes, his sexual and romantic orientation and him discovering it I have had so many thoughts I could write a whole essay). He likes to have a default person though, someone who will take him as he is, and maybe even admire a little - now that's Watson, earlier it was Trevor.

And yea I think Victor got a crush straight away after their first meeting, maybe they even talked about this at some point. Maybe Holmes said that he won't be able to reciprocate this affection but if Victor is fine with keeping things as they are, then he is too. I like to think they stayed pen friends even after Trevor's leave.

I feel like I should emphasize this? My intention in the comic was to make Trevor visibly flustered because he didn't expect a young attractive boy (he's hopeless in my head), while Holmes simply didn't expect to see someone his age and so sincerely sorry.

[mouse-of-mischief]

I was looking up different kinds of coats for reference when I found THIS, and...

I cannot stop imagining Sherlock & Co.'s Sherlock wearing this! Just seeing him wrapping it around himself like a cocoon when he curls up in a seat, flapping it dramatically behind himself when he paces, etc.

I'm unreasonably happy about this thought!

[bunnymadeofstardust]

siff and loop doodles that went a little farther than intended, and then I immediately forgot to post them ,:3

a bonus I made for the second to last one for ya~!

[condohavenoking]

[starlightvld]

Up in Smoke

(Also on AO3)

The first time Ghost rips the cigarette from Soap's mouth, drops it on the ground, and stomps on it as he passes by, Soap is too stunned to say anything for a full ten seconds. They've only been working together consistently for a couple of missions, and even as his superior officer, the audacity of the action floors him.

By the time his brain restarts, Ghost is long gone.

--

The second time Ghost steals Soap's cigarette, he bursts out in a string of Scottish curses and tackles Ghost from behind before the wanker can drop it on the ground. An impromptu sparring match ensues, fists and curses flying. 

Afterward, he doesn't feel much like a cigarette anymore — not with the split lip, anyway. Besides, the buzzing under his skin that usually drives him to smoke is just... gone.

Price catches wind of the incident, of course, and calls them into his office a few hours later. By that time Soap has calmed down enough to be... maybe not okay with it, but at least able to see the humor. 

"What's this about you muppets scuffling by the smoking area?"

"Just a little sparring to blow off steam," Soap says.

"Ghost?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Captain."

"No? I've got one soldier who looks like he just got back from a bar fight, and the other..." He squints at Ghost. "He get a hit in on you, too?"

"Yeah," Ghost replies in that deadpan tone of his. "Coupla black eyes."

It's a joke. 

Ghost is telling a joke. And it's objectively not funny. It's not. But Soap bursts into hysterical laughter all the same. 

The corners of Ghost's blacked-out eyes crinkle. 

Price rubs his temples before dropping his hand on his desk. Soap presses his lips together to contain his laughter.

"Sparring happens in the gym. I'm sure you know the place. It's where we have things like mats and gloves. I catch you two bare-knuckle fighting again, and you will regret it."

And it's enough to sober Soap up. He avoids Ghost as he ducks away to catch dinner.

--

The third time... well, no. He supposes that's really the fourth time. 

Because the actual third time, Soap had come back from a shit mission where everything went wrong. Intel was faulty, exfil was delayed, and people under his command died. It didn't happen as often in SAS as it had in the regulars — the soldiers here were well-trained and hard to kill — but that made it all the worse. 

When Ghost tried to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, Soap growled. 

"Back the fuck up, Lt. Or Price is gonna be disappointed in both of us."

Ghost paused, and their eyes met. Slowly, Ghost lowered his hand. 

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuck no."

"Thank God."

Soap didn't have it in him to even huff a laugh. He took a long drag and blew the smoke away from Ghost as a peace offering.

To his surprise, Ghost didn't leave. He spun around and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. They stood there together, utterly silent, as Soap let the heat and sting in his lungs soothe the beast inside that wanted to rip the world apart.

When he was done, though, he was surprised to find he didn't want another. Usually after shit missions, he'd stand there and smoke half a pack before his hands would stop shaking.

He finally met Ghost's eyes. The man quirked a barely visible brow.

"S'pose we should take it to the mats this time?"

Ghost pushed off the building and started walking. Soap followed like a lost child looking for a way home. 

--

The fourth time is in Chicago. His hands are shaking not from losing soldiers but from almost losing his own life. The cigarette trembles in his grip as he stands outside the bar, the biting wind turning his fingers and probably his lips blue. He lifts it to his mouth, inhaling deep—

And then it's gone.

The whine that bubbles up from his gut and bursts from his throat is nothing short of humiliating. But God. God. He needs it.

"Not now. Please, Ghost."

"Why?"

Ghost hasn't thrown the cigarette down. Yet. He cocks his head to the side and gives Soap a long look. Soap can only tremble from the cold and a need that goes deeper than a simple hit of nicotine.

"I just... I need it."

The cigarette drops to the ground, but Soap doesn't have time to lament the loss before that same hand is curling around Soap's neck and pulling him into a fucking massive chest. The other arm comes around Soap's shoulders and...

Ghost just stands there, holding him. And Soap can't help melting into the warmth and solidity of the man who saved his life just hours ago. He dares to curl in deeper. To raise his hands and clutch at Ghost's jacket. To let a few, silent tears escape his tight control.

Finally, his muscles relax. Ghost must feel it, because he turns and leads Soap back toward the bar.

"Why do ye even care?" Soap mumbles from his spot tucked into Ghost's side.

"Because those things'll kill ya."

Soap supposes the "I like you alive" is implied at this point.

--

Soap loses count after Chicago. He gets stretches of days when Ghost is on a solo op or out with one of the other operators when he can smoke in peace. So he does.

At first.

He's been hooked since he was a rebellious teen trying to make his mark on the world. He's tried to quit multiple times, but it never seems to stick. The first bad mission or adrenaline-filled near miss and he's back at whatever smoking spot he can find, puffing away.

He finds himself trying to cut back, though, even when Ghost is away.

Any time Ghost is on base, all bets are off. In addition to darting by and making a grab for it or sneaking up behind him and flicking it out of his hands, Ghost has gotten more creative. Sometimes Soap will pull out a cigarette only to find he's "lost" his lighter. Sometimes the cigarettes themselves go missing — he clutches his chest and mourns all that wasted money whenever a whole pack disappears. 

He supposes it's all just going up in smoke anyway, though.

He should be angry. But in truth, it's almost a relief to hand over the reins to Ghost. To let the man help him by annoying the shit out of him until he wants to give up on it entirely.

Which is definitely the point. Ghost has made that perfectly clear.

So, whenever he gets the urge to calm his racing thoughts or overactive mind with a cigarette, he finds Ghost and annoys him instead. They talk, or spar, or simply sit in silence together, doing their own thing. Ghost doesn't often touch him — their moment in Chicago is still the closest Soap's ever gotten to the elusive Ghost — but he also doesn't push Soap away when he slumps into Ghost's side after a hard day or leans over his back when he's sitting at the table in the 141's common area on base.

The urge doesn't go away, of course. And sometimes, when things get really bad, Ghost will just sit or stand with him like he did the third time. Still, he finds himself smoking less and hanging out with Ghost more.

--

The last time Ghost steals a cigarette from Soap, he simply stands beside Soap and holds out his hand. Soap immediately knows something has gone terribly wrong. Still, he's too invested in the game now to not hand the cigarette over.

He nearly keels over when Ghost pulls up his mask and takes a long, hard drag. Soap watches in fascination as his cheeks hollow, his neck muscles strain, his lips curve around the paper. It's erotic in a way he really shouldn't be thinking about in regards to his emotionally unavailable superior officer, but the knowledge hasn't stopped him yet. Since that day in Chicago — probably before if he's honest — he's only ever wanted to be closer.

Ghost coughs a little and hands the cigarette back.

"Fuck. Just as disgusting as I remember."

"Ye used to smoke, then?"

"Before I joined up, yeah. Hated it, though."

"The smell? Or—"

"Everything. The taste, the smell, the heat..." Ghost trails off, his hand rubbing over his bicep in a strangely specific way. He shakes his head and looks back at Soap. "Not your problem, Johnny. Forget about it."

Soap's hand is darting out, fingers curling into Ghost's jacket, before he's properly thought through the action. Ghost pauses before turning back. They stare in silence for a moment until—

Soap stubs out the half-burned cigarette and drops the butt in the trash. He licks his lips. Glances up at Ghost. The mask is still sitting on his nose, and Soap stares at his lips for longer than he should before pulling the pack out of his pocket and throwing it in the trash, too.

"Cannae have ye thinking I stink, can I?"

"Too late."

But Ghost's throat bobs with a hard swallow. Soap wets his lips, takes a step closer, and uncurls his fingers to slide his hand up Ghost's chest until his fingertips are resting on Ghost's shirt collar.

"I dinnae think it is."

Ghost turns and walks away. Soap closes his eyes and drops his hand, internally cursing his impulsive behavior. The scuffing of boots walking away from him is like nails on a chalk board.

Until they stop, and a gruff voice calls out, "You comin'?"

A slow smile slides across Soap's mouth. "No' yet."

A huff — exasperation? laughter? a bit of both? — before, "Better get movin' then."

And Soap has never been more glad to follow an order.

[jessamine-rose]

˚♱ଘ Faustian Bargain ଓ♱˚

Welp here we are with the fourth entry in my Yandere Church AU. Let’s fall into depravity once more, this time with Demon! Pantalone x Contractee! Darling (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

Tw:: yandere, manipulation, blood, violence, slight self-harm for summoning purposes, spice, mention of nsfw, MDNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion, guest-starring Demon! Scaramouche <3

♡ 2.5k words under the cut ♡

♡ Since their creation, humans have ruled over the mortal plane under the influence of spiritual beings. But while angels are venerated as divine saviors, demons are fallen sinners who corrupt humanity through temptation and curses. It is for this reason that humans live in fear of demons, with the Church condemning all forms of unholy covenant. But time and time again, that warning has fallen on deaf ears.

♡ Throughout history, several individuals have formed pacts with demons in exchange for divine favors. Favors vary across demons but in all contracts, the price is clear: The human gives up their soul and any chance at salvation. Once the pact has been made, the human is granted the ability to summon the demon as their lifelong companion. But upon the human’s death, the pact is broken and the demon is free to seek out new souls.

♡ It is through these contracts that the Harbinger of Fortune rose to prominence. He is a “young” demon in the sense that his earliest records only date back to three centuries; but in that short amount of time, Pantalone has tempted many fools and heretics with the promise of material wealth. And it is through this tactic that he attained power, recognition, your soul.

♡ In your defense, you had no other choice. Born to an elite family in Liyue, you had enjoyed a life of luxury until your parents squandered their fortune. After a failed attempt to flee to another nation, they were murdered and you were told to repay their debts lest you meet the same fate. It was a hopeless situation—you had no assets to pawn off and even then, your remaining days would be spent in poverty. So when you recalled the local stories about the demon who deals in prosperity, you were desperate to summon him.

♡ It is difficult to find authentic records of his summoning ritual, but you manage with what little time you have left. There is an illustration of his sigil, to be copied on the floor with blood from your own palm. A table is arranged with incense, gold coins, freshly-brewed tea, a mirror, and the dagger used to extract your blood. Once everything is in place, you clasp your bloody hands together and utter the sacred incantations.

♡ As soon as Pantalone’s true name leaves your lips, the incense sticks emit a dark fragrant smoke. The summoning circle glows violet and within it, a brilliant figure emerges. Dark horns, adorned with silver, curve back along his raven hair. His garments are styled with violet jewels, serpentine motifs, an iridescent cape embroidered with a scene from the Garden of Eden. He is beautiful, so beautiful that you feel unworthy when his bespectacled gaze meets yours.

♡ Before you can look away, he is already onto you. In a polite voice, he introduces himself and asks for your name. Next, he tells you to disable the barrier of the summoning circle; he prefers civil negotiations. It takes some reluctance on your part but eventually, the two of you are seated together at the table. There is a critical look on his face as he surveys his offerings and explains his contract in detail.

♡ Aside from the general rules, there are clauses specific to Pantalone’s pacts. He can only be summoned twice a week, and never on Sundays. Contracts with other demons require his permission. Any attempt at breaking the pact will incur severe consequences. All of this is said with honeyed words and a kind smile.

♡ So perfect is his facade that you fail to notice an undertone of condescension. A glimpse into your soul was all it took for Pantalone to regard you as a hopeless fool hindered by your worldly upbringing. But that is fine—fools are easier to deal with, and you’d make a pretty addition to his collection of souls. Plus, it was only yesterday that his previous human died, and he is always quick to move on to the next pact. With that, Pantalone tells you to make a choice.

“A fair exchange, don’t you think?” he asks. The smile on his face is deceptively angelic. “In return for your soul, I will provide you with wealth, prosperity, everything your heart desires. Do you believe it is worth the price, ______?”

♡ You say yes. That is when Pantalone takes off his rings then his gloves, revealing multiple scars slashed across his palm lines. Gracefully, he picks up your used dragger, draws a new line, and clasps his wounded hand in yours. Then he wraps the same hand around your neck, staining it with a mix of your blood.

♡ There is a burning sensation followed by a burst of pure ecstasy. Once the euphoria subsides, Pantalone lets go of you and holds up the mirror. The front of your throat is branded with his sigil while a diamond pattern encircles your neck. It glows violet before disappearing altogether, a sacred collar invisible to mortal eyes. Thus, the pact has been formed.

♡ The next few minutes are calm. Pantalone’s scars are concealed once more. The two of you finish your tea. He takes a coin from his offering, now magically engraved with his sigil, and explains that you need only flip it to summon him. Then he offers one last smile, says he will look forward to your partnership, and disappears with the remaining coins.

♡ In the morning, you wake up to find bags of coins and jewels on the table, the exact amount needed to pay off your debts. Once the money has been given, you eagerly summon Pantalone to thank him. He merely smiles, leads you to your parents’ office, and tells you that the next step is to rebuild your family business. After all, while he can create material riches out of nothing, a mysterious source of wealth may attract the suspicion of your fellow humans.

♡ Soon enough, the company is flourishing under “your” authority. In reality, it is Pantalone who instructs your decisions and eliminates competitors. During meetings with clients, he attends in his invisible form and whispers to you the necessary responses. With success comes your return to high society, and Pantalone is all too happy to escort you to galas as your plus-one. His human form attracts several admirers, but his attention remains on you.

♡ He is also pleasant company. You can’t help but summon him often—your house feels empty without your parents. As for friends, you refuse to trust anyone after they turned their backs on you during your financial crisis. Pantalone is always nice about it, listening to your woes and participating in your hobbies. Once in a while, he will activate your pact mark and comment on how needy you are.

♡ He even fulfills your carnal desires. Over the months, Pantalone has toyed with your physical attraction towards him, teasing you with light touches, seductive whispers, sinful smiles…and a deep kiss when you shyly proposition him. That kiss is soon followed by heavy makeouts, long nights in your bed, physical marks all over your body. Greedy as he may be, he always makes sure to repay the pleasure you’ve given him.

♡ One night, you ask him about his divine nature. He confirms the popular belief that all demons are fallen angels; in his case, he was created for the Ninth Order, the lowest rank in the angel hierarchy. For the first century of his life, he could only settle for the inferior powers and duties assigned to his status. Neither could he enjoy the freedom which humans were born with.

♡ Thus, he set his sights on Hell. For angels are not created equal but demons can earn their powers through individual efforts. But leaving God always comes with a price, and Pantalone’s was paid in blood and tears.

⬩◈⬩

“Is that how you lost your wings?”

In the dark, your demon’s scars remain apparent. A pair of rough, featherless, ugly lines which you are careful not to touch, lest he flinch—from pain or shame? During your first night together, Pantalone refused to talk about it and you took the hint.

Even now, he flips over in your bed to hide his imperfections from you. When he answers your question, his voice takes on a light tone.

“Yes. It was God who ripped out my wings, and He even had the ‘mercy’ to cast them out of Heaven after me. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve since put my old feathers to good use.”

His capes, he means. They are his signature accessory, all crafted with sheer fabric, tiny jewels, and iridescent embroidery. Each cape is its own masterpiece, bearing fantastical images of God’s creations. It was during a casual conversation that Pantalone told you the threads were sourced from his old feathers.

He looks past you, and you know his gaze is on the coat rack. Tonight’s cape depicts a celestial paradise filled with winged figures. Beneath Heaven, separated by dark clouds, demonic figures descend into a fiery sky.

“Still, it must’ve been painful,” you tell him. Hesitantly, you add, “I mean, you didn’t only lose a body part that day. You also lost your former appearance, your ability to fly, your siblings—”

At that, a smile makes its way to his face. A large, genuine smile that isn’t directed at you.

“My former brethren were not dearly missed,” he replies. He sits up, combing the strands of hair tangled around his horns. “After I landed in Hell, I was taken in by an older demon. Let’s call her Jiejie, since she does not appreciate needless declarations of her true name. She is the one who treated my wounds, the one who cared for me using her own resources, the one who welcomed me into her home with open wings. And for that, I am eternally grateful.”

A soft breeze rustles the cape, threads glittering in the moonlight. Some threads, however, lack the iridescent quality of Pantalone’s feathers. Instead, they are silvery shades of black and gray.

His tone softens. “I will confess that I had an easy start in Hell thanks to her influence, as did Scaramouche who fell before me. But everything else—my contracts, my current status—are the fruits of my own labor. Perhaps someday, I may even reach Jiejie’s level of power.”

“I see…” You look into his eyes this time. “So what do she and that Scara demon specialize in? They sound nice; am I allowed to form pacts with them?”

“No.” He says it firmly, with no room for argument. Bare hands pull your body closer to his. “Even speaking as their brother, that sounds very unconscionable. Don’t get too greedy now.”

“Oh, I…okay!” you squeak. A faint violet light takes up your peripheral vision—your pact mark? “I’m sorry for asking. I’ll remember that.”

“Good.” His hand moves to your throat, tracing your sigil. When your eyes meet, his are bright with desire. “Never forget, you are mine first and foremost.”

⬩◈⬩

♡ In the following years, Pantalone grows more fond of you. Gifts begin to appear in your hands, from violet jewels to stylish garments. He accompanies you to more meetings with your fellow humans, his arm wrapped around your waist in a possessive gesture. His physical affection intensifies. On a few occasions, he even visits you despite not being summoned.

♡ It’s a nice change, but an overwhelming one. As time passes, you meet new friends and suitors, only to reject them after Pantalone claims to have glimpsed malice in their souls. Neither can you summon other demons, not when he is confiscating your demonological texts under the pretense that you’re too “impressionable” for another pact. And who can forget the time you were caught looking for information on the Tree of Life?

♡ It wasn’t your intention to seek a way out of your debt. It was by pure coincidence that you ran into the heretic who sold you the grimoire with information on Pantalone; and the conversation naturally shifted to the topic of your eternal damnation. Unsurprisingly, many humans have attempted to go back on their deals; and according to your “friend,” the best solution is to become immortal through the Tree of Life. You only asked them to contact you if they ever find the mythical tree, but that was enough to anger Pantalone.

“Do not lie to me, ______,” he snaps. His smile appears calm, but his tone sounds absolutely venomous. “I glimpsed your memories of last night, and I know you tried to violate our contract.”

“I…” You fearfully shake your head, only to cry as your throat constricts. It hurts, as though his sigil is burning your flesh, and your knees hit the floor. “I didn’t mean to…”

Your voice trails off. A gloved hand tilts your head upwards, forcing you to meet his death glare.

“Speak up, darling. My time is precious.”

♡ After that, you apologize and make no attempt to evade your fate. The next time Pantalone becomes angry, you at least have the luxury of not being the target of his emotions. It is a seemingly normal day, and you are served tea by a long-time servant. Suddenly, Pantalone appears and pulls you away from the individual, not bothering to hide his true form. When he tells the servant to “drop the act,” there is an indigo glint in their eyes.

♡ And that’s how you learn that the Puppeteer specializes in demonic possession. The servant’s body falls to the floor, unconscious, and it is Scaramouche’s turn to make himself known. He has asymmetrical horns, a single skeletal bat wing, and an expression which is far from friendly. A silvery black-and-gray feather dangles from the brooch pinned above his heart.

“Tell me, Scaramouche, what are your reasons for spying on my precious jewel?”

“Hmph, as if you need to ask. I just wanted to see if your little pet is worth Nee-san’s blessing. If you still desire them when that time comes, you’re on your own.”

♡ You don’t understand what they’re talking about, but it’s clear that you have no part in the conversation. After a few insults, Scaramouche leaves, but not without telling you to “know your place” in the future. That is when Pantalone sighs, pours a cup of tea for himself, tells you that it is none of your concern. Don’t worry, darling, he has it all under control. So just sit down, drink your tea, talk to him about anything under the sun. You still have a long life ahead of you, and he shall give you Heaven on earth until the day your heart ceases to beat.

♡ And perhaps if you are good enough, he will act on his desire to keep you as his pet in Hell. It’s been centuries since Pantalone has tortured a sinner, but he does know the best ways to break your mind. And is eternal suffering in his home not preferable to another demon laying their hands on you? At any rate, it’s not like you have any other choice.

“In the name of love, I will respect the contract between us and the fate you put in my hands.”

♡

More Church AU here!! Dottore ๑ Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving characters or dynamics not included in my masterlist.

Aahhh I hope y’all enjoyed my take on Demon! Pantalone!! He ended up with the most tame + lore-heavy fic, and I swear that the character of “Jiejie” will make more sense when I write the remaining stories for Church AU. Also, fun fact, Pantalone’s capes are inspired by Rusly Tjohnardi and Hieronymus Bosch’s triptychs~

Moving on, thank you to @diodellet for beta-reading this and supporting me through every step of writing hell. Now if y’all excuse me, I’m must avenge myself and whack Pantalone with the biggest cross I can find o(^▽^)o

Tag a Pantalone enjoyer!! @navxry @beloved-blaiddyd @leftdestiny-posts @meimeimeirin @euniveve @lychniis @teabutmakeitazure @stickyspeckledlight @mochinon-yah @zhongrin @harmonysanreads @oofasleep @theinnerunderrain @ddarker-dreams

[notmoreflippingelves]

A Timeline of Dick Grayson's Unrelenting Trauma Era (circa 2004-2006 in comics)

So as I was coincidentally reading the Outsiders (2003) and Teen Titans (2003) runs, I became gradually aware that some of the events were overlapping timeline with the Batfamily "War Games" arc. As I had previously become aware that "War Games" overlapped both the Blockbuster + Tarantula arc (Nightwing) AND Under the Red Hood, I became shocking aware of how many new traumas were rapidly piling onto Dick Grayson in very quick succession across multiple ongoing series.

So I did a lot of reading of both specific comics that I had read--and summaries of a few that I hadn't-- to do my best to make a definitive timeline of this absurdly stressful period in Dick Grayson's life. (Most of which seems to have occurred with around 6 months or less).

(I am no expert so feel free to add/clarify anything that I may have overlooked or misinterpreted).

[becca-e-barnes]

"Slippery When Wet."

Taking a quick jump back to the 'Shit He Said' series because I haven't given it nearly enough time.

I think I'd almost forgotten how it feels to be with someone who lets you feel like you're their entire focus. God, it's nice.

It's nice to spend time with someone who makes you feel so thrilled to be yourself. It's nice to want someone so intensely you can't wait to touch them again. Yeah, it's been nice 😵‍💫

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Unprotected sex, cream pie, oral sex (f receiving), thigh fucking, alcohol mention

Summary: You and Bucky spend some time relaxing together

Minors, do not interact

"These reusable plastic cups might have to do." You're standing on your tiptoes, reaching into the cupboard in the Airbnb kitchen, searching for the one thing you hadn't thought to bring with you.

"Those would be perfect." You hear in response from the bedroom just down the hall. "The rules said 'No glass in the hot tub'."

A sensible rule and one you're more than content to abide by.

One rule of few.

"You can open the champagne bottle. I don't need to go home with a horrible injury." You tease, lifting two of the plastic cups and making your way outside. Sandals of some description would have been smart but it's only a few steps out to the tub.

The cover has already been removed, the water is still and it's hard not to pause for a second and admire the view. Rolling green hills, a lake in the distance, flowers all around the patio and the sun beginning to set, bringing a very slight chill to the evening air.

There couldn't be a more perfect evening to climb into a hot tub and enjoy the scenery.

So that's exactly what you do.

The water is warm as you sink down in, settling yourself into one of the grooves. The level comes to just above your shoulders, lapping against the bottom of your chin as you adjust and get comfortable, looking over the edge at your surroundings.

"We'd need be careful getting out. The steps are slippery when wet." Bucky doesn't take long to join you, reading from the sign on the fencing that was strategically placed to give you some privacy.

Who knew he's so into rules.

Settling beside him feels natural. It's familiar and comfortable and reassuring in a way you didn't know you needed.

He couldn't possibly know how you've craved him since you saw him last. You'll do everything you can to make him feel it though.

He pours champagne into the two little plastic cups, handing one to you before looking for the button that starts the bubbles.

You clink the cups together, taking a sip from your respective glasses while the jets burst to life around you both.

"It's such a mild evening." You hum, cuddling in against his side, enjoying the chaste kiss he leaves on the top of your head.

"It is." He agrees, tilting your chin up so your lips meet his.

They're warm and soft and plump and taste faintly of champagne and there's nothing else you'd rather do in that moment than kiss this man more.

You break away quickly though, choosing instead to spend the time catching up. You talk about work and how things have changed since you last met up. You talk about your plans, your hopes and your fears. He gives you perspectives you hadn't considered and advice you fully intend to take, all while curled up in the bubbling tub.

The champagne slowly disappears. The glasses are filled up again and then that disappears too. You laugh together. You tease each other. You enjoy the company of someone you'd like to see a whole lot more of but understandably can't.

He gives you a reasoned perspective on the things that bother you. Somehow, you don't feel silly telling him about the little things that upset you recently or the worries you have. He's understanding and considerate and so damn fun to be around.

You pepper kisses across his broad shoulders, absentmindedly play with the little short curls of hair on his chest and he lets you feel so entirely worshipped.

He holds you in a way that makes you feel entirely wanted; like all of you is exactly the way it's meant to be and there's nothing he'd dream of changing. It's so incredibly attractive to feel so wholly appreciated. You want him in the very same way and every touch reminds you of that.

All too soon, the sun sets over the hills. The bottle is empty and the water starts to get to a temperature that's just a little cooler than comfortable.

You could sit here with him forever and never run out of things to talk about. That said, your fingertips are beyond wrinkled by the water and it's probably time to call it a night.

Somewhere in those last 30 or so minutes, you realised you need him again. The moment you'd arrived here earlier, the curtains had been pulled and you'd taken the opportunity to relieve some stress before dinner but it's not enough.

"Can I show you what else is slippery when wet?" You tease, pressing your lips to his with an urgency that surprises you.

He seems entirely into that idea, pulling your body impossibly close, his hand gliding up the inside of your thigh to rub against the thin material of your bikini.

Squirming in his lap is becoming a bit of a theme.

Before you get too far, you carefully step out of the hot tub and scamper inside, letting him close up the tub while you rinse off the pool water in the shower very quickly.

The anticipation gets to you, much like it always does. It only ever adds to the fun.

By the time he's also rinsed and dried off, you're perched on the edge of the bed, enjoying the feeling of your own fingertip trailing lazily over your clit. Your legs are spread wide, giving him full view of your glistening, soaked sex.

"I've been dreaming of this." He mumbles, kneeling at the edge of the bed and replacing your fingertip with his tongue.

Fuck, he's so good at that. His tongue flicks and thrashes, his neck working overtime to deliver you a sensation that not comparable to anything else you've ever experienced. He groans as he licks your body, enjoying the taste of your arousal and the slick wetness coating his chin to his nose.

You could let him do that forever and never grow tired of it. Your fingers have woven through his hair at some point and your thighs have clamped tight around his ears.

While you don't want to, his neck will thank you for suggesting a change.

You tug him up, eager to taste your own arousal on his lips and tongue and he doesn't disappoint. His tongue glides against yours, his wet chin rubbing against you and the intensity leaves you totally breathless.

You're almost frantic in how you need him now. "Please. I want you." You practically whine, grasping his firming length and giving him a few slow strokes until he's totally ready.

"Your hand always feels better than my own." He half laughs, half gasps, grinding his hips in time with the movements of your hand.

It's needy and desperate from both of you, much like it was earlier with the tip of his dick nudging your clit perfectly while he fucked your thighs.

His length slides against your eager core, massaging your arousal against his dick. It feels almost luxurious to be able to take your time with him. There's no rush, other than that dictated by your own need.

Before long, he's sinking into your body with a low groan, enjoying the way he feels your heat engulfing his shaft.

"You're so fucking wet." He moans, bottoming out and kissing your shoulders.

You know you are and it's borderline embarrassing how quickly he was able to get you like that.

"Such a pretty angel." He pulls back, giving himself a chance to sink into you again and it steals the breath from both of you. "You feel like Heaven. You're so hot around my cock."

He's bound to still be sensitive from the round earlier that day but it doesn't stop him.

"God, you're going to earn every drop of cum I give you. I'm going to pump you so full." He's so delightfully filthy and you love hearing him talk to you like that.

Your hand weaves its way between your bodies, finding your throbbing, neglected clit and rubbing it in rough circles.

"You want to cum inside me this time?" You love how you never really know what to expect with him. He he pulled out earlier in the day, choosing to glaze your chest and tummy with an impressive load instead.

"I'd cum inside you every time if you didn't look so pretty covered in it." His thrusts are faster now, meeting the rhythm your fingers have dictated you need.

"I want you to cum inside me this time. Fill me until I'm dripping." The image in your head as you're saying it is enough to make you quiver. You're chasing your high far faster than you thought you'd be but you're sure he's not far behind you. The notion of his cum filling you is a love that you both share.

"Want to taste it inside you when I'm done. Let it leak out of you and then press it back in with my tongue."

That's all it takes. One filthy little fantasy and you're trembling, cumming so hard you see stars. You work yourself through your high, riding it out on his cock and you're vaguely aware that you've milked his release from him too. You feel him spilling inside you, blowing another huge load into your eager body with a low moan and a few curses.

When you're both spent, he collapses onto the bed beside you, pulling you close to him for a cuddle.

"Give me a few seconds. Then I'll get to work." He hums, breathlessly.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Hello dearest kitty, I'm here begging on my knees for some fluff

Okay okay I'll stop, but it was a funny start especially after your least post, but I really love your writing and I would love to see you write some sub villain X dom hero fluff, about self care and maybe a little bit on self harm cuz I have exams and this is my comfort trope.

But regardless if you write it or not I want you to know that I really appreciate all your work and I it makes such a huge difference in my life, you're one of the people I can look at and be happy 😁💖

tw mention of self-harm

“This is…nice.” The villain frowned and hugged their own legs, almost as if they had never been in a bathtub before. Still tired, they leaned against the tiles of the bathroom wall. All the hero could focus on were their lashes when they closed their eyes.

Admittedly, the hero hadn’t considered this to be the result. They hadn’t expected to end up in bed with their nemesis. It would have been easier if this was part of a mission, they reckoned. But fate was much crueler.

Now feelings were involved. Complicated, difficult feelings. Sometimes they didn’t know if they should blame themselves or the villain. After all, the villain was devoted and passionate. They were tactical and brilliant.

And they were also pretty. Ridiculously pretty.

The hero swallowed.

Why was this happening to them out of all people?

“I don’t think anyone has ever made that kind of effort for me,” the villain said. They smiled and the hero’s heart dropped.

“You mean letting in some water?”

“Well, yeah…and the breakfast. The soft kisses. The massages, you know?” The villain looked at the hero again. “No one has ever done that for me.”

For the hero’s taste, they were too far away from each other. Even though the bathtub wasn’t the biggest, the hero didn’t want to sit on opposite ends. They worried their bottom lip between their teeth.

“Can you come closer?” they asked and the villain nodded, obeying quickly.

The hero let out a shaky breath they didn’t even know they were holding once the villain sat down on their hips. At this point, it was like a drug. The hero craved this affection and these hands on their skin.

It wasn’t just pleasure, it was something more vile. Something that could bleed and die, something that could destroy the hero within seconds.

A few hours ago, they hadn’t realised it. Not really. But now that they knew they weren’t just attracted to the villain, they needed to control themselves.

“You know you deserve it, right?” they asked. The villain didn’t meet their eyes, though. “You deserve nice things.”

“Is this a separating-work-and-personal-life-thing? Because we both know I’ve done despicable things in the past.” The villain looked ashamed. They let their thumb run along the hero’s biceps, almost as if they could distract themselves that way.

“No. I like you the way you are. Even the parts you deem ugly.” The hero touched the scars the villain had tried to hide yesterday gently. They couldn’t stop looking at their nemesis. At their perfect face, their perfect body. The hero wasn’t sure why their melancholy was taking over the now.

Yesterday, they’d been laughing and kissing. They’d never had that much fun in quite a while. But now, responsibility weighed heavy on their shoulders again and they couldn’t bear the feeling of saying goodbye in a few hours.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Have I ever been dishonest with you?” the hero asked. Brilliance wasn’t a gift. It was the result of hard work and the hero could appreciate and respect that the villain had been working just as much as they had. Both were the same in that aspect, destroying themselves because that seemed to be logical: working until you had results. No failing, no mistakes. 100%. All the time.

The villain smiled softly. Maybe even sadly.

“When you told me you love me yesterday?” they asked quietly but the hero already shook their head.

“No, that wasn’t a lie.” Their finger traced one of the villain’s scars. Somehow, the bathwater was getting hotter and hotter. The hero closed their eyes as they tried to calm down. “You’re lovely.”

It was only natural, wasn’t it? To be attracted to someone who challenged, yet matched them in so many ways? God, the hero was really at the end of their rope.

“Hm. You know, under all these layers—” the villain touched their chest “—of calculated and raw reason—” they drew a heart with their finger into the hero’s skin “—there’s a very gentle soul inside you.”

“Is that criticism or a compliment?” the hero asked. Again, looking at the villain made their stomach turn. In a good way. Kind of.

Their nemesis smiled.

“Just an observation,” the villain said. They leaned forward and kissed the hero’s cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me. I kinda suck at it.”

The hero’s hand was still on the villain’s scars.

“You just need a little bit of help, that’s all. Everyone does.” The villain was still so close. If the hero moved their head a little, they’d be kissing.

Hell, why was their heart beating so fast?

“Do you think I could be better?” the villain asked. “Do you think I could change?”

“Change is inevitable,” the hero explained. “But I…I got you.”

They held onto the villain a little tighter this time and honestly, they knew why their heart ached when they brought them home.

[behindthesefangirleyes]

Re-reading Charlie’s relapse in Solitaire makes me certain that as much as I’d have preferred it more fleshed out in season 3, I wouldn’t be able to cope with Tori cursing Nick out over the phone.

That said …

The way that we see Nick’s anxiety mounting in the back half of season 3 can be believably linked to that interaction. We know from Tori’s POV that she’s furious, but she acknowledges the fact that Nick will redeem himself in her eyes (she almost immediately acknowledges it, as well).

But Nick doesn’t know that. All he knows is he’s the “bastard” whose “fault” it is for the relapse since he “left”. Which ties in so seamlessly with Nick worrying about leaving Charlie for uni and later, his resentment at Charlie acting like he’s leaving him behind (in N&C) as he starts trying to prepare for life after Truham.