#trying to figure out who has paired with who so I can start isolate the pairs to see if they'll nest and raise chicks for me

[pretentious-blonde]

realisation

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: it’s a feeling he hasn’t touched in years—something selfish and dangerous and impossible to let go of

warnings: therapy, big big feelings from steve, migraines, anxiety

a/n: soft steve always has my heart <3

series masterlist

Steve never liked the quiet, that’s part of the reason he loved his job. The noise in his classroom was gentle, filled with curiosity—excitement. It was an odd definition of peace, but he never questioned it. Kids brought out something within him he thought was lost, he liked that about them.

That’s also why he never enjoyed going back to his own place. It was the kind of quiet that felt too suffocating. When he first signed the lease after leaving his parents' house, he thought the isolation would be a blessing—a sanctuary where it was just him, no drama, no outsiders.

No threats.

But as time went on and memories resurfaced, that same quiet began to feel heavy.

He found himself remembering what it was like when he first moved here, when progress was just beginning—because in a way, it was again.

Slashed, back to fucking zero.

He could no longer move forward. Couldn’t talk about it anymore—not in the way he needed to.

He couldn’t safely open up in his therapist’s office, couldn’t make you understand now, not really.

All he had left was Robin—the same Robin who had nearly fallen apart trying to hold him together at the start of all this—and he couldn’t do that to her again. Wouldn’t.

That is why he has to do this. 

It’s late afternoon, and he’s got one sock on, one sock half-off, pacing across the tiny stretch of kitchen linoleum with the phone pressed to his ear. His free hand scraped through his hair, again, again—like maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll comb away all the thoughts circling in his head.

He hasn’t slept. The therapist’s words from yesterday rattle in his mind, reverberating through every breath. 

Intervene. 

He’s replayed the warning all night, half expecting someone to burst through the door and threaten him again. It churns in his stomach. All the guilt and fear—he can’t figure out which is louder. 

He just knows he’s been lying in bed, eyes wide at the ceiling, again. 

The excuse he comes up with is a simple one, not really a lie. Because in a way, his head does ache. It’s not the blinding kind of pain that used to knock him off his feet after a particularly bad episode, but the pressure’s there, right behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. 

He might as well call it a migraine if it keeps you at arm’s length—keeps you safe from whatever might be going on inside his mind. But that’s not really true anymore.

The threat is, once again, in the real world.

He closes his eyes the moment he hears your voice on the other end of the line. He tries to answer in a steady tone.

“Hey,” he begins. “I—hey. Um. I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

It’s quiet as he waits for your answer, like you're feeling out the tone of his voice. 

“Why?”

Didn't take much to sense something was wrong. You were observant. 

Too observant. 

That’s why he had to create this distance. 

“I’ve got a migraine coming on,” he manages, voice unsteady. “Just… sort of crept up on me. Thought it was gonna pass but… doesn’t feel like it.”

He can picture the worried fold between your eyebrows, the way you’d tilt your head if you were standing in front of him. 

“Is it bad? Y’know… like last time?” 

You ask it so gently, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

Last time.

The last time—when he nearly lost everything you had built together.

The last time he left you scared.

The last time he really fucked up.

“No,” he speaks quickly. “Not that bad. Just a bit of pressure. Thought I should stay home—sleep it off.”

He hears you exhale, a soft sigh that says you’re not convinced. 

“Steve…”

“Sweetheart,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light, “I’m alright. I just… need a quiet night.” He punctuates it with a half-hearted laugh, like it might sell the story better.

“Okay.” There’s a pause on your side. “Well—I’m coming over.”

His chest constricts. 

Of course you are. 

He knew you would. It’s one of the things that scares him most about letting you in: you show up. 

Always. 

“No—no, you don’t have to,” he blurts. “Really. I’ll just be in bed. It’s not exactly good company.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for thrills,” you tease, voice warmer. “Let me take care of you a little.”

He almost loses it right there. The phone cord wraps around his wrist as he paces in a tight circle, sock skidding on the tile. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. So he says it out loud, in a voice that cracks just a bit. Hopefully he can blame it on the “pain.”

“Maybe,” you answer, and he can practically see your small smile, the tilt of your lips. “But I like you. So that’s kind of your problem now.”

He can’t fight it anymore. He'll say it's his lack of energy.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Door’s unlocked.”

He hangs up too fast, like if he stays on the line a second longer, he’ll give up the entire game. The phone slips from his hand onto the receiver with a dull clack.

He just stands there in the fading sunlight, staring at the pattern of the kitchen countertop. He can’t figure out if he’s more relieved that you’re coming, or more terrified that you’ll see the cracks he knows will soon show. 

He moves into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions sink under his weight like they’re trying to swallow him whole. He feels like an idiot as he scrubs his hand over his face. He should’ve just faked the entire day, come up with an ironclad excuse—maybe said he had to run errands or something. 

But then you’d ask questions, you’d want to help him, and he’d buckle anyway because he can’t say no to you. Not when you sound like that. 

Not when your first instinct is to care.

He glances at the stack of second-grade spelling tests on the table and pushes them aside, annoyed at the very sight of them. He was trying to keep busy, to put a pen in his hand and shut off his brain. But the weight in his chest is too big, too heavy to ignore, and nothing about marking a dozen attempts at the word “elephant” is going to clear the images swirling in his mind.

Last night was bad. 

Worse than usual. 

He’d tossed and turned for hours, drifting into shallow snatches of sleep that delivered him into the Upside Down, or a half-memory of it. The vines. The pulsing lights. And you, off in the distance, looking at him like he was a stranger. 

He’d woken with a jolt, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. Spent the morning sipping lukewarm coffee with no music, no TV, no noise at all—just the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He knew this would happen, especially after his last appointment, but it still hurt all the same. He hadn’t had a dream like that in weeks, proof that all of his progress feels like it’s been ripped from under him. 

Everything about this is too much and not enough. He’s tiptoeing on a razor’s edge of fear and yearning, wanting to protect you but also wanting to crash into your arms. He doesn’t deserve how you look at him, the way you always ask if he’s okay. 

And now you’re on your way over, and he can’t stop you. 

Doesn’t truly want to stop you.

Because in the back of his mind, he knows this feeling. He knows it all too well.

Knows what it does to a person.

It always starts slow—just a ripple, a toe in the water—until suddenly the tide’s pulling you under and there’s no surface left to reach for.

He knows what it means to drown—in both senses of the word. But this time, it’s worse. This time, it’s not his choice whether he comes back up.

This time, it’s yours.

And all he can do is hope that if it comes down to it, he’ll be the one sinking. 

Not you.

The front door swings open quietly, you don’t bother waiting for an invitation. By the time Steve looks up, you’re already stepping inside with that urgency in your eyes—like you’ve come prepared to handle any crisis he’s trying to hide. 

He hates that he can read your body language. Hates that he can see how cautious you are, bracing yourself for whatever version of him you’ll find.

And he hates even more that you’d still come anyway.

For a moment, he just stands there in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was halfway through tidying up, something to move his stiff body. Make you think that your boyfriend can at least seem to hold his life together. 

He’s in his usual knit jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, hair a little mussed from the nervous nap he never took. The lighting softens him, makes him look more fragile than he feels, it traces the curve of his jaw and the soft downturn of his mouth. 

He’s tired. You can see it instantly—the weighted slump of his shoulders, the slight effort in his exhale. Maybe there’s a pang of guilt in his chest at being so transparent, but he can’t quite fix his expression into something more reassuring. 

Not tonight.

“You look rough,” you say, raising your eyebrows in that gentle, teasing way.

He can tell you’re worried. It’s there in the careful tone of your voice, the way your gaze flicks over him like you’re scanning for damage.

“Yeah…” His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “I know.”

Before he can stumble out a courtesy greeting, you close the distance, slipping your arms around him and drawing him into a hug. The warmth of your body presses flush against his chest, and he stiffens for half a heartbeat—like he’s not quite sure he has the right to accept this comfort. Then instinct kicks in, and he melts. The tension drains from his shoulders, and he drops his head to the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent. The one he never knew he would crave so deeply. 

His arms rise to wrap around your waist, palms splayed against your back as if to steady himself.

“Hi,” you murmur into his hair, voice muffled against his temple.

He breathes you in, a tired sigh slipping out. 

“Hey,” he answers, almost inaudible.

The quiet in the room no longer feels suffocating—it feels like a shared breath, something that belongs to both of you. Your fingers slide into his hair, combing it back gently, and his eyes flutter shut. 

He thinks about how a hug like this might’ve been a luxury in another life—before nightmares and secrets twisted everything into shadows. 

But with your arms around him, he lets himself believe it could be simple. 

Just for a moment. 

He’ll give himself a moment. 

When you finally pull back to look at him, there’s a softness in your expression he’s not sure he deserves. Your attention drifts over his shoulder, landing on the small table behind him. Paper after paper is scattered there—spelling tests, wobbly handwriting, even a few crayon doodles. You tilt your head, curiosity nudging your brow. 

“What’s all that?”

He steps out of your hold, just enough to glance at the mess over his shoulder. Reluctance flickers across his face. 

“Just… some papers I needed to get through,” he says, swallowing. “It’s nothing. Spelling stuff.”

“You can’t possibly do that when your head’s hurting.” 

He’s dealt with worse. 

He shrugs one shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. 

“It’s not so bad,” he tries, though the hesitation in his voice betrays him.

You don’t buy it. He can see the resolve in your stance, the way your chin sets. 

“Trying to concentrate on eight-year-old handwriting is not how to cure a migraine,” you say flatly, giving him a look that shows your playful exacerbation.

“Honestly, it’s fine,” he insists. But even as the words leave his mouth, they sound weak. 

He’s still holding onto that white lie, and guilt gnaws at him from the inside. You’ve already started marching past him toward the table, your gaze determined. 

“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” you say, lifting one stack of papers. “I’ll do it.”

He follows, hand raised in a weak protest. 

“No—hey, that’s my job,” he says, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Like, my real actual job.”

The one he needs to keep. 

Your grin appears, brightening the mood without effort. 

“I think I can handle some spelling tests,” you retort, eyeing the pages in your hands. “Pretty sure the complexities of second-grade grammar won’t defeat me.”

He sighs, a smile finally curving his lips for real. It’s small, but it’s genuine. 

“Am I gonna convince you otherwise?” he asks, half-rhetorical.

“Nope,” you say simply, lips shifting smugly as you slide into one of the dining chairs. It’s a look that tells him you won’t budge on this. 

Stubborn as always. 

He stands there for a second, torn between wanting to help and wanting to give in. There’s this warmth building under his ribs, relief and something else—something so dangerously close that he daren’t name. 

“Okay,” he finally murmurs, stepping back. The tension in his spine eases a fraction, and he can almost feel the exhaustion settling in now that he isn’t forcing himself to keep going.

“You gonna stand there or go lie down properly?” you ask, not looking up from the first spelling sheet you’re scanning.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and drags his feet over to the couch, sinking down into the cushions with an exhale that betrays how tired he truly is. 

“Here’s fine,” he says quietly. 

The idea of vanishing into his bedroom feels unbearable right now. 

Too far. 

Too alone.

It’s selfish—how much he needs to stay near. Near enough to hear your voice, the soft scratch of your pen, proof that you’re there.

He rests his head against the arm of the couch, turning just enough to watch you from across the room. You spare him a glance, understanding flashing in your eyes. 

“Okay,” you accept. .

You stand abruptly and move to the lamp in the corner. A soft click and golden light spills into the room, bathing the scuffed hardwood floors in a gentle sheen. The overhead light blinks off with a flip of the switch, and suddenly everything feels softer, quieter—like you're tucked away in a little sanctuary, a space carved out of the world, just for two.

He shifts, propping one arm under his head, blinking against the change in light. 

“Hey now,” he jokes, words a bit slurred with fatigue, “it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Maybe,” from over by the lamp, you look at him and shrug. “But your head.”

His mouth twitches—he can’t help it. The weight in his chest lifts, just a little. 

“Right,” he mutters in agreement, the fight slipping out of him. 

He’s not sure if he wants to keep up the migraine ruse anymore, but it’s too tangled in everything else. Better to just let you have this small comfort. 

You deserve it.

You’ve been way too good to him—and because of that, he’s dragged you into this mess.

And the worst part? 

He knows he won’t be able to let you go, half-truths are going to have to be enough to compensate for his carelessness. 

You go back to the table, pulling out a chair and settling in with the stack of papers. Your face furrows in concentration as you pick up a pen—his red marking pen, the one he’s been avoiding all day. The faint sound of your writing tip against paper is a soothing background lull.

He watches you, eyelids heavy. He just lets his gaze linger on the shape of your face in the lamplight, the slope of your shoulder as you lean over a misspelled word. He breathes, in and out, feeling a tug in his chest every time you shake your head in mild amusement or scribble a little note in the margin. He closes his eyes, so filled with longing he cannot figure out where to put it all. 

Just let him have tonight.

Let this be all he feels tonight. 

Seconds bleed into minutes, and he’s not sure when his breathing slows, or how his tense muscles start to loosen. Eventually, he feels the calm settle over him, the quiet that used to feel like a noose around his neck. Now it’s more like a blanket—soft, encompassing, safe. He exhales as his eyelids droop.

His mind drifts in a liminal space between wakefulness and the pull of sleep, cocooned by the low lamplight. 

You clear your throat and tap the tip of a red pen against a test paper, amusement lacing your words. 

“One of your kids spelled kitchen like kitchin. I kinda like it,” you say, a small laugh escaping. “It feels… softer.”

He murmurs a response, voice thick from exhaustion. 

“Yeah,” he manages, eyes fluttering open just enough to find your silhouette at the table. “Bet that’s Jackson. He says breakfirst too. I never wanna correct that one.”

His words slur slightly, and he barely registers that he’s smiling. You lift your attention from the paper, your own playing at the corner of your mouth.

“Breakfirst makes sense,” you tease, the pen still in your hand. “It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up.”

He chuckles softly, shifting against the pillow. The motion tugs at his shoulders, reminding him how tight his muscles are. 

“Mhm,” he drawls, eyes sliding shut again. “He told me last week he wakes up thinking about pancakes. Said it just… appears in his brain.”

You snort a laugh, then set the test paper aside, leaning back in your chair. 

“I think I’d like him,” you remark, mock-serious. “He’s got the right idea.”

It’s so easy for him to picture Jackson—a scrawny seven-year-old with an overbite and an endless supply of energy. The image floats into his mind and settles there, a soft spot in the midst of his own troubles. 

He can almost see the bright classroom, the crayons and the whiteboard, the echo of little voices calling him. It feels like a life unshadowed by therapy sessions and the secrets choking him from within.

He lets the moment linger, a comfort in the back of his mind. Then a memory surfaces—one he rarely shares: his mom, the aroma of melted butter, the slowness of an early morning without his dad. It nudges at him, stirs something bittersweet in his chest.

“My mom used to make pancakes when my dad was out of town,” he hears himself say, the words spilling out so softly he almost isn’t sure he’s speaking aloud. He feels you pause. You don’t respond right away, giving him space to unravel the memory if he wants to.

Like you always do.

He swallows, blinking slowly at the ceiling. 

This is a safe one to share.  

“He traveled a lot,” he continues, voice quieter now, each syllable steeped in nostalgia. “Work stuff. Sales, I think—always sounded vague. But when he was gone, it was like… things relaxed a little. She’d let me sleep on the couch, and we’d have pancakes in the morning. Not the box kind, either. She did the whole thing—batter from scratch, butter in the pan, bubbles on top when they were ready to flip. Real old-school.”

Your pen lands gently on the table. He can feel your eyes on him across the distance. He knew you’d appreciate another piece of his past, no matter how small.

What scared him was how much more he wanted to give you.

How easily he’d hand it all over—just from the look on your face.

“That sounds nice,” you say, your voice subdued, maybe to match the mood he’s set. He wonders if you can tell how vulnerable he feels, laying this out for you. 

“She’d put bananas in them sometimes,” he murmurs. “I hated it—but I never told her. Didn’t wanna mess it up. It felt like… I don’t know.” His voice wavers, and he breathes out carefully, as if exhaling might scatter the memory. “A good thing.”

For a moment, all he hears is sound of his own breath. Your voice comes softly across the room. 

“You didn’t want to change it.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyelids heavy, almost speaking more to himself than to you. “Exactly.”

He slips deeper into the cushions, a sort of melancholy peace settling in his bones. Remembering those mornings—milk and flour and eggs whisked in a bowl, the hiss of the stove, his mom’s rare, relaxed laugh—feels comforting and too big to hold onto. 

It reminds him of being a kid, back before entire worlds twisted into nightmares and scars. Before he had to figure out how to keep people safe by keeping them in the dark.

Outside, the sky is darkening, casting shapeless shadows across the walls. You rustle the papers again, returning to your marking with diligence. That rhythmic scritch, pulls him back from the edges of old memories.

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, barely conscious, his words filled with drowsiness. A little piece of anxiety wells in him suddenly—intrusive. 

It’s about the kids—about whether they notice the days he can’t quite summon his usual energy. The way he knows he’ll be tomorrow, when the smile won’t come as easily, no matter how hard he tries.

He hates asking you this. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually save for Dr Avery, but that isn’t an option now. It feels cruel—testing the waters just for his own peace of mind, leaning on you to give him the direction he can’t find on his own.

His voice is small when he finally asks. His eyes half-lidded, drifting toward you, too tired to stay open all the way.

“D’you think the kids…"

Fuck, this is hard.

"D'you think... they know when I’m having a bad day?”

You pause for a moment, shaking your head as your eyes meet his, looking at him like he just hung the moon. It undoes him utterly, the way you let out a gentle sigh,

“I think…” you speak slow, perhaps to allow his exhausted mind to keep up, but the words end up hitting him twice as hard. 

“I think they know you’d still show up for them anyway. It’s… just who you are, Steve.”

It's just who he is...

Is that how you see him?

He absorbs the statement slowly, like it needs time to settle in his bones. There’s a kind of weight to it—the raw honesty behind every word you offered, like you handpicked them with care, laid them down gently just for him.

It loosens something deep in his chest. A knot he didn’t even know he was carrying starts to unspool.

He doesn’t feel like he’s a failure.

Maybe he is a mess. Maybe he’s always been a little broken, stitched together with stubbornness and guilt and whatever scraps of hope he can still find—but he’s here. 

He’s trying. 

He’s still showing up.

That has to count for something.

His eyes drift shut at last, sleep too heavy to fight. Maybe he can let himself rest a little. Just for now, with you close by. He breathes out, chin dipping into the pillow, and finally gives himself permission to fall.

As his consciousness fades, he holds onto one stubborn wish: later that evening, when he opens his eyes, you’ll still be there, still close enough to chase the doubt out of his mind—at least for a little while longer.

When Steve’s eyelids flutter open, it takes him a second to remember where he is—or why everything suddenly feels this peaceful. 

The living room is draped in darkness, the overhead lamp turned off in favour of a single warm light coming from the kitchen. For a disoriented moment, he hears nothing. Then a soft clink of metal on ceramic reaches his ears, followed by a faint hiss and the gentle scrape of something in a pan.

He pushes himself upright, blinking the last traces of sleep from his eyes. The couch creaks and the fabric of his jumper feels slightly rumpled from dozing. He rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, wincing at the dull ache there. 

A quick glance at the window tells him night has fully settled over Hawkins—streetlights glow faintly outside, their beams catching on the air.

The heaviness he’s carried around for days has receded, at least for the moment. His head doesn’t throb. His chest feels looser, the anxiety dulled. 

That sure as hell isn’t just from the nap. 

Slowly, he stands, letting the blanket slide off his hips, and runs a hand down the front of his jumper. His bare feet touch the floor with soft thumps as he pads toward the kitchen, one sleeve pulled over his hand like a restless kid, not even realising he’s doing it.

The closer he gets, the more the smell of butter wraps around him. He’s struck by how surreal it all seems—like stepping into a memory. Except it’s not some dusty recollection from his childhood. 

He stops in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, and sees you standing at the stove. You’ve rolled your sleeves past your elbows. There’s a mixing bowl on the counter, a spatula in your hand, and the sizzle of batter hitting hot butter is the only real noise besides his own breath. 

Plates are stacked on a small portion of the counter you’ve managed to clear. A current of tenderness runs through the space—through him—that has little to do with the heat of the stove.

“Hey,” he says softly, still a little groggy. His voice is low, reverent, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will shatter the spell.

You glance over your shoulder, a quick smile flicking across your face as you meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” you answer, tone hushed not to hurt his head. “How’re you feeling?”

He swallows, stepping into the kitchen a bit more, hand trailing against the wall. 

“Much better,” he admits. 

And he realises, in that moment, it’s true. 

The tension in his spine has eased. When he looks at you, all sweet in his space, the last of his fears feel like they’re retreating into the corners of his mind. 

“What’re you doing?” he adds, voice soft, curious.

“Making dinner,” you reply with a casual shrug, turning back to the stove.

You slide the spatula and lift it, revealing a perfect golden underside. As you flip, the batter sizzles, sending up a little puff of fragrant steam. You nod toward the mixing bowl. 

“Figured something simple might do the trick,” you say quietly. “And, y’know, you mentioned them.”

He lingers a step longer, breath catching in his chest as he’s catapulted back into the memory he shared with you earlier. The smell of a hot pan threads nostalgia through his core, tangling with the gratitude he feels in this moment, watching you do something so unexpectedly thoughtful. It renders him speechless.

“Pancakes,” he manages finally, the word falling from his lips, soaked in wonder.

You glance back, giving him a small smile. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, catching the weight of that memory in his eyes. “You don’t have any bananas.”

You really were something else. 

He exhales a shaky laugh through his nose. It’s almost real—almost. It slips out unsteady, because there’s something about the simplicity of it all. The way you act like the world could be set right with just this—this one small, human thing.

And what floors him, is that for a second—God, maybe longer—he believes you.

Believes it could be that simple. 

You gesture with the spatula toward the small dining table. 

“Go on,” you suggest, “sit.” 

There’s a gentle command in your tone, like you’re used to looking after him—even if, not so long ago, he would’ve insisted he didn’t need it.

He obeys, walking over on slightly unsteady legs. 

Obeys.

The word sounds strange, but it’s accurate: you speak, and he follows. Not because he’s weak, but because you make him feel safe. You make him feel seen. And in that safety, he allows himself to lean on you more than he’d ever planned.

Drawing a chair out, he settles into it with an exhale, placing his elbows on the tabletop. The wood is cool through the knit material, and he can feel the faint vibration of your movements through the floor. Figures form in gentle arcs along the cabinets, as if the night outside has pressed its nose to the windows but hasn’t dared to intrude.

He’s spent a lot of time alone here, pacing the small perimeter while his mind churned with old memories. 

He wonders if this is what normal looks like. If other people get moments like these all the time—moments where the person they trust wanders into their space, rummages in their cupboards, whips up something simple that tastes like childhood. 

If so, he thinks he’s missed out for too long. 

Please let him keep this.

Just for a little while.

He’s not sure how long he watches you. He’s content to let the seconds stretch, your quiet movements hypnotising him. The whisk tapping the side of the bowl, your gentle footstep shifting weight. 

When you finally switch off the burner and turn to face him, plate in hand, he’s still staring. You serve the pancakes on the two most similar plates you can find—he doesn’t exactly have a matching set. You slide one in front of him, the other in front of you, the only sounds are the dull scrape of forks cutting through soft batter, the occasional drip of syrup pooling on porcelain.

He lifts a bite to his mouth, nodding in faint approval as he chews. His jaw still feels tense, like it’s absorbing some leftover stress. Beneath the table, his leg bounces with restless energy, but outwardly, he tries to keep calm. You watch him, noticing the slight furrow in his brow. Neither of you speak until you finish the first few bites; the tension in the air is subtle, but it lingers.

“You going into work tomorrow?” you ask, casual enough that someone who didn’t know him might think it an idle question. But he senses the concern under your tone. 

You’re not prying, exactly—just checking in.

“Yeah.” He nods, quickly swallowing. “I’ll drop you back home after this, don’t worry.” 

The words come out automatically, as if he’s already set a plan for the day: take you home, show up, teach the kids. Everyone safe and accounted for.

You carefully set your fork down, the faint clink slicing through the atmosphere. Your gaze holds him a second longer than normal. 

“I’m not leaving,” you say softly.

“What?”

“What if…” Your voice takes on a cautious edge.  “What happened last time… happens again?”

Last time?

Oh.

Angel, don’t do this to me. 

He goes rigid. The memory knifes through his mind like a jolt of cold water: the flash of your startled eyes when he’d woken gasping, his fingers clamped around your arm before he even registered he was awake. The shame of your worried face as he stammered an apology, trembling with leftover panic from the dark corners of his sleep. A strangled feeling clutches his chest, and he drops his gaze to the plate. 

“It’s not gonna be like that,” he murmurs, his voice guilty.

“I already packed my pyjamas.”

He sits back in the chair. 

The effect you have on his is downright dangerous. 

A part of him wants to argue—he doesn’t deserve this level of care, not when his baggage bleeds into reality and threatens to drag you with them. 

“No, seriously,” he presses, voice quieter now. “I’m gonna be just fine.” 

There’s a self-loathing edge to the words because he knows it’s not true. You sense it in an instant.

“I’ll take the couch, alright?” you say. That softer note creeps into your voice, the one that tells him you’re not afraid of him—you’re just concerned. 

“Won’t be able to sleep if I’m worried about you.”

Something clenches in his throat, and he drops his head into his hands. His fingers thread through his hair, gripping it lightly as if that might keep his thoughts from spiraling. Another ragged breath escapes him. 

“You’re not taking the couch,” he mutters, muffled behind his palms. The image of you spending the night curled in discomfort while he’s holed up in his bed feels all wrong.

“If you’re feeling rough,” you insist, “you need your own bed. Please just… let me stay.”

He can’t look at you right away, eyes still trained on the dark space between his knees. The weight of everything squeezes his stomach. He drags his eyes up. And there you are, watching him with genuine concern—no pity, no judgment. 

He sees it in your eyes—there is no budging on this.

“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile crosses your features, one he has no right to feel pride at. You pick up your fork again, like this decision was the easiest thing in the world. 

He glances at the swirl of syrup pooling around the edges of the plate, but he can’t bring himself to take another bite. 

All along, he thought he was the selfless one.

He lies in bed, sheets tangled around his hips, trying to convince himself that stillness might bring sleep. 

One arm is flung over his eyes, pressing down as if he can block out the cacophony of thoughts that refuse to be quiet. The dark presses in, broken only by the light of the clock—each minute passes in silence, ratcheting up his restlessness. 

He rolls onto his left side, then back onto his right, shutting his eyes as hard as he can. 

Come on, breathe in, breathe out��� 

His therapist’s voice echoes in his memory, urging him to focus on his heartbeat, to ground himself. But his brain crackles with tension, refusing to comply.

The advice feels fake now, anyway.

He flips again, this time onto his stomach. It doesn’t help. His jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the ache up into his temples.

When the sheets start to feel suffocating, he snaps upright and shoves them away. His legs swing over the edge of the mattress, feet meeting the cool floor. A hiss of breath leaves him—everything feels too loud despite the silence. 

He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin like he’s trying to scrape away the anxiety. He stands, letting the duvet pool behind him as he pads barefoot out into the hallway.

The living room is dim. He notices the lamp's still on, a small puddle of light that silhouettes your form on the couch. You’re curled up, fast asleep under an old throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath your cheek. Your breathing is gentle, the rise and fall of your shoulders almost imperceptible. 

You looked so soft.

He tells himself he should go back to bed, not disturb you, let you have your rest. But there’s a stronger voice in him—the one that urges his forwards. 

It’s a jarring realisation that knocks something loose in him.

You’re becoming the next point of call when things get rough. The person he turns to now, instinctively, without thinking. And what unsettles him most is knowing you’d be glad to hear that. You’d take it as a sign of closeness, of trust.

But it feels cruel.

Cruel that you’d take pride in being his safe place when you still don’t know the full extent of what you’re stepping into. Cruel that he’s letting you play nurse to wounds he hasn’t even shown you yet.

He shouldn’t need you like this.

But he is going to be cruel, just for tonight. 

He brushes a strand of hair off your forehead. The small touch makes you stir, and your eyelids flutter open. Confusion flickers across your features until you register it’s him crouched there, face etched with concern.

“Steve?” You mumble, voice foggy with sleep. “Are—are you alright? Did something happen?”

You’re panicking because of him, and it makes it ache even worse.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as he tries to soothe you. “Nothing happened. I promise.”

You start to push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off one shoulder to get a better look at him. The shape of your arm emerges, goosebumps prickling from the cool air. He swallows, feeling another wave of guilt that you even have to sleep out here. 

On the couch for God's sake. 

“I just… can’t sleep,” he admits, voice dropping. The confession tastes vulnerable on his tongue. 

It sounds pathetic—like a kid who never figured out how to function.

“Bad night?” you ask, still blinking sleep from your eyes. Your hand finds his forearm, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Even that tiny touch feels like a lifeline.

“Yeah. I don’t know.” He nods as he lets out a shuddery breath. “Everything feels… loud.”

His request is simple, but the desperation laced in his voice betrays just how badly he needs the answer.

“Will you… come to bed with me?”

You still. The air between you tightens. He can see the caution in your eyes, the trace of a memory of the time before. He hates that he’s the cause of that worry. 

“Steve, I—I don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your lap as you recall his grip on your wrist, the way he shot out the door without so much as an explanation. “Last time, you were so out of it, and I didn’t know what to do, and you—”

“I know,” he interrupts, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him. “I know. And I’m sorry—I really am.” His voice wavers, and he takes a shaky breath. He wants to reach for your hand but forces himself to keep still, give you space. 

“But—but it’s not gonna be like that tonight. I’m okay, I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

You search his face, like you’re checking for any sign of doubt. Your gaze wanders over the weariness lining his eyes, the way his shoulders slump, the vulnerability in his expression. 

“...Are you sure?” You ask softly, a thousand questions and concerns pooling behind the simple words.

He’s sure. 

He wouldn’t put you in that kind of danger. 

“Yeah. I just—please.” 

He doesn’t care that it sounds like begging. Right now, he is begging. 

Your eyes dart between his, and you sigh softly. In the low light, he looks worn down—like that earlier nap had only skimmed the surface of whatever’s been dragging him under. 

It doesn’t take long to decide. The fact that he’s asking at all tells you everything. He wouldn’t, not unless he was sure. This isn’t casual. It’s something close to desperate.

“Okay.” Another short pause, your hand still on his forearm. “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

You shift the blanket aside and stand, the couch springs creaking as you move. He rises too, unfolding himself from his crouch. There’s an awkward silence where neither of you speaks. He feels like he should apologise—but where to start, he isn’t quite sure yet.

He extends his hand, fingers itching to hold your own. He leads you down the hall, every step slow. At the threshold of his bedroom, the air cools, and he can feel your hesitation in the slight drag of your feet. It sparks another pang of guilt. 

He nearly drops your hand, ready to say it’s okay, you don’t have to do this. But you tighten your grip, an assurance that you’re choosing to stay.

The bed is still rumpled, blankets half on the floor from where he stormed out. Silently, you both gather them up. You toss one over the mattress, smoothing it down just enough to make room to lie on.

When you finally slip under the covers, he follows, gingerly settling next to you on the mattress. He keeps to his side at first, giving you space.

The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three. 

The tension is palpable, and he regrets getting up in the first place. You turn onto your side, facing him, catching his eyes with your own. They’re wide, and beautiful. 

So fucking beautiful. 

There you go, looking at him like that again 

You look weary, and he bets he does too, so he can blame the sleep when he reaches out. He slips an arm around your waist and waits—just waits. Allowing you to choose how close to him you will get. 

He doesn’t let out his breath until you nestle closer, allowing him to tuck his chin over your head, the long exhale that seems to pour into the darkness. 

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers.

He hopes he will be. 

He senses your small smile, lips curving upward against his jumper, a subtle shift in your posture as you settle down. 

“Get some sleep,” you murmur, reaching curl your arm around his waist, mirroring his position. 

“I will, angel,” he murmurs into your hair. 

He will, but not yet. 

First, he waits for your breathing to slow, for your shoulders to uncoil, for sleep to settle over you. Guilt weighs on him for putting you through this—sleeping beside someone you believe isn’t okay. 

He isn’t, but there’s a sick sixth sense inside him that warns when a night will be rough. Tonight won’t be, though. 

He’s sure of it.

What he’s just done feels like a trial, a test of whether you’d follow him, stay with him. It troubles him the more he thinks about it, but there’s no other way to explain it. 

He needed to know if you would—because if you did, it’d mean you feel for him what he feels for you.

He might be hopeless when it came to saying how he felt—couldn’t talk to his parents, had to be cornered by Robin, nearly let it all slip through his fingers just trying to name what was going on. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

Steve felt things—deeply, messily, all at once. Always had. He’d felt this particular emotion before, or thought he had, in flashes: in borrowed bedrooms, first relationships, and soft pink roses. Young and dumb, sticky and sweet, like he saw in the movies. 

But it was never like this. This was bigger than him, something that carried a risk—like most things now did. 

Everything in his life felt more intense now. 

This was no exception. 

He felt it in every part of him. For the first time in years, he was glad he could still feel that much. That he hadn’t gone numb to it.

He held you, a secret he needed to keep. Even if he couldn’t give you every word of it, Steve Harrington knew what this was.

He knew what love felt like.

He’d fallen into it.

He knew better, but he chose to anyway—damned the fallout, and damn the cost.

It meant he could keep you to himself, just a little while longer.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Sleepless in NYC

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x f!reader

Summary: Having insomnia can be isolating, but lucky for you there's someone else at Avenger's Tower who can keep you company. Reader is a superhero named "Mystic". This is the first fic in my "Something to Lose" series!

Word Count: 8.5K

Tropes: Grumpy (reader) vs. Sunshine (Bob) (a little bit?), Black Cat (reader) and Golden Retriever (Bob) (a little bit?), Slow Burn, Mutual Pining.

Warnings: Cursing, Torture mentioned (briefly), Death/Murder mentioned, Blood mentioned? Hints at reader having a dark past, Reader has somewhat created backstory that is talked about, Self-deprecating thought (reader), Mentions of mental health, Mentions of therapy, Mentions of depression, Elder Abuse (aka reader makes fun of Bucky for being old), Mentions of medication, Mentions of violence, Walker is a bit (alot) of a jerk, Protective! Reader. Bob might be a little OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Bob, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: Okay, again... the hyperfixation has begun and all I can do is ask y'all to strap in for the ride. 😅

Masterlist for Series

In hindsight, eating that cinnamon bun before training this morning was a bad idea.

You think to yourself as your back hits the ground with a heavy thud, the impact knocking the wind out of you as you get more acquainted with the black thick plastic mat on the floor of the gym and try not to let the cinnamon bun in question make an encore appearance.

Bucky stands over you, arms crossed over his chest, mouth tilted down in a frown. His formidable figure outlined by the large fluorescent lights that lined the roof of the gym at Avengers Tower.  "You're still leaving your left flank unprotected. Come on we've been through this before-"

"Maybe I was just taking it easy on you, old man." You cough out a laugh while you try to catch your breath.

Honestly, you were off your game and you knew it.

It was hard to focus when the only thing your body was craving at the moment was sleep. Last night was the fourth night in a row that you couldn't quite drift off and you didn't have high hopes for tonight. You also couldn't decide if no sleep was better than the nightmares that flocked like a murder of crows in your head, the sharp talons pulling at your hair, while the wings beat hard and heavy in your ears whenever you did finally find yourself lucky enough to rest.

Because on the list of things that were unfair in your life, the fact that other people finally found peace in the sweet abyss of sleep while you found only death and destruction was at the tip top.

The sun has to break sometime… right? My luck isn't that bad, is it?

It was. On a scale from one to a million, you were sitting pretty at a negative 7.

You look up at Bucky.

His metal arm glints in the light, muscles tensing slightly under the black tank top, his stance wide and open as he stares down at you. There wasn’t anything in his posture to suggest that the two of you were sparing as you always did each morning, he looks far too relaxed for that. Which meant that this wasn't challenging him at all.

And it was getting embarrassing, especially given the fact that you were created by Hydra for the sole purpose of killing the man standing over you if he ever went rogue.

Pieced together from his genetic material, an enhanced clone of the Winter Solider, the thirteenth in a long line of experiments that went wrong. An unlucky number by all standards, but the only survivor of the trials that all the other clones failed, the same trials that left your hands streaked with their blood while their bodies fell one by one.

Lethal. Deadly. Unstoppable. Created to be better than him in every way.

Just not right now.

When Bucky and Sam had found you in the Hydra bunker hidden at the bottom of the Atlantic and brought you back up to the light over a year ago there had been a long period of adjustment. Mostly because Sam wasn't convinced that you wouldn't kill them in their sleep.

He hadn't been too far off, you had thought about it, thumbed the well worn handle of your favorite knife and thought about how easy it would be, but you hadn't and that was the main thing.

It's the little victories really.

But despite the new life that Bucky had introduced to you, there was little you could do to drive away the nightmares.  The ones filled with memories you so desperately wanted to forget. The same memories that used to fill you with pride and now only made you feel shame. The shadowy tendrils of the past seeping into the present to ensnare your mind and pull you back into the darkness.

Everyone on the New Avengers had a dark past.

Each person had something that they'd like to forget, but yours haunted you. And despite the conversations that Bucky had with you about trying to accept the past and move forward- and the discussions with the therapist he recommended, you still felt… alone.

You feared that there was still a part of you that longed for that- a unquenchable thirst for blood that screamed out in the darkness of the night when all was quiet.

It made it harder to believe Bucky when he told you that you deserved better and that you weren't your past.

Truth was, you knew why you didn't believe him, because the Winter Soldier did things while under hypnosis and you did them of your own free will. Did them because you were bred for it, created in a test tube, and trained to kill. It was the only life you knew, the only world that you thought existed. The constant struggle for survival while you clung on with bloody fingernails and teeth fighting to stay alive.

No friends, no family, just targets.

You didn't know that there was anything else out there until Bucky took you in, didn’t know what a life could really look like.

It had taken you a while to realize exactly why Bucky did it, why he didn't just put you out of your misery the moment he broke into the base and realized what Hydra had done, who or rather what they had created from his DNA.

Honestly, after everything it was nice to have someone around who understood how you felt, nice to actually have a friend.

That was about a year before you'd joined the Thunderbolts, which in all honesty was a complete fluke. A happy (chaotic and bullet holed) accident. Bucky had been so stressed about Valentina's trial and all you'd wanted to do was help him out, try to give him some peace, so you'd done some digging to see if you could uncover something to use against her.

Which may or may not have included you breaking into a government facility and maybe calling up one of your old contacts to help you find the hidden vault in the desert. One of the same contacts that Bucky would probably kill you if he found out you were talking to again.

Getting into the vault had been easy, but you hadn't meant to stumble into the Thunderdome situation that was happening between Yelena, Walker, Ava, and Taskmaster. If anything you'd thought that the vault would be filled with dusty old files, not four paid assassins who were each trying to off each other.

And because you'd promised Bucky that you'd be better, stop killing people, and turn over a new leaf, you hadn't killed them. You hated breaking promises to Bucky. He was the closest thing you had to family.

I wonder if he feels that way about me or if he thinks I’m an annoyance?

Bucky rolls his eyes at your taunt, but you see a flicker of something in his gaze that might be humor. “Sure.”

I'll take that as a yes.

You roll back upwards to a standing position, shaking out the exhaustion from your body, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet.

I got this. I’m awake. I'm awake. I'm- in desperate need of coffee.

But other than the cloying exhaustion, it was a normal Tuesday morning at the tower.

There was the subtle clink of weights from where Walker was doing his morning reps in the corner, the smell of mac and cheese from the kitchen you were sure Yelena was making, and the sound of the TV five rooms away blasting yet another war documentary, which meant that Alexei was couch camping again and you would have to avoid the living room to escape the usual twenty minute long conversation in which he described the good old days and then asked you about your past missions. The air in the gym reeked of stale sweat and something that might have been Alexei's socks, which he kept saying "needed to airdry." Why he hung them in the gym to do so, you'd never know.

The gym itself was outfitted with everything the team would need to train: weights, treadmill, large plastic sparing mat, giant wall lined with deadly weapons to kill each other, punching bag-

Right now you felt like a punching bag, given how much time you were spending on the mat, and the bruise that was forming on your butt from hitting it so many times.

But you were thankful that today Bucky and you weren't practicing with weapons. As much as you hated to admit it, Bucky probably would have turned you into coleslaw by now if you had.

You narrowly dodge the arch of Bucky's metal fist and take a confident step back, hands raised in front of you protectively.

"You're distracted today." Bucky says, but he doesn't lower his guard. "What's wrong?"

Your eyes trace over the taunt form of his body, noting the subtle shift to the right, the thick plastic pad beneath him dipping with the movement of his right foot. The anticipation of the punch that was going to follow from that direction, buzzing through your body. Every subtle tick of his body sending off alarm bells in your head, warning you to prepare.

The punch comes just as you thought it would and you dodge again, twisting away before throw a kick into his unprotected side as Bucky fully extends his body with the momentum of the punch.

He stumbles back, off balance, but you don't move to finish, instead you wait for him to straighten up, rolling your own shoulders to stretch out and ignoring the twinge from the previous time you'd spent on the mat.

"I'm not distracted."

"You are. By now you've usually knocked me down at least once."

"Thought I'd give you a chance today. Can't always be beating up a senior citizen. Someone might call the AARP." You flash a smirk.

Bucky doesn't look convinced. He knows that you're trying to cover how you feel, he was used to your deflection techniques. "How'd you sleep last night?"

You hesitate to answer, because you couldn't lie to him. Bucky knew you and he'd seen the two dozen cinnamon buns you'd made last night on the kitchen counter this morning when he was rooting around for his usual morning banana, black coffee, and cereal.

And before you ask, yes it's bran cereal.

The baking had been an interesting development in the months following your freedom from Hydra. You blamed late night food network TV and also blamed Sam's subscription to Netflix (the one you were using without his knowledge) which exposed you to the Great British Bake-off. But you never thought that you'd actually be good at it.

Dismembering? Sure. Long-range sniping? You got it! Hot wiring a car? Sign you up! But baking? Really? In what universe?

But there was something about it that never failed to calm you down.

The methodical measuring, the sharp crack of the eggs, the high-pitched whirr of the mixer, the folding of the dough- it all helped. It helped drive the images of what you’d done from your mind and helped you focus on something else for a few moments, giving you the same reprieve you imagined a good nights sleep would.

Plus, after there was something good to eat.

Everyone in the tower was benefiting from your newfound hobby. Alexei most of all, who had taken to giving you requests of Russian treats you'd never heard of and were difficult to find in the city.

Unfortunately, he would ask for them at the most inopportune times.

Like a month ago when the two of you had been crouched behind a car taking fire from a group of men robbing a bank downtown and Alexei began to describe a sweet treat that his mother used to make him when he was a boy that he couldn't remember the name of instead of focusing on the ricochet of gunfire above your heads.

Or last week when you'd been locked in hand to hand combat with an enhanced agent and Alexei kept shouting out ingredients the two of you could pick up at the grocery store after the fight.

However, you still thought that it was comical. Hydra's best asset, the one that people all over the world were afraid to whisper the of name for fear of summoning you like a shadow from a bad dream, spent each night baking, icing, and kneading with the same hands that were once used to maim, gut, and kill so many others.

Still waiting to see the flying pigs.

"I slept fine." You answer begin to circle him, sweeping your eyes over his body to analyze his next move.

"You hesitated."

"I did n-"

Bucky lunges forward moving fast across the mat in a tackle, but you sidestep, dropping low to sweep his legs out from under him. He lands with a solid thud, the huff of his breath into the gym air filling you with a sense of triumph.

He rolls onto his back in a huff, dark hair falling forward into his face. "Yes you did. And you're pulling your punches!"

"Buck, you're on the ground right now. I don't think you get to say that I'm pulling my punches."

"I-"

The rest of his sentence is lost in a loud crash. Your body tenses with the clang of weights against the concrete floors, years of having to constantly stay alert taking control, the self-preservation instincts pulling your body taunt as you turn in the direction of the sound prepared for a surprise attack.

Bob is standing on the other side of the room clutching a small five pound dumbbell to his chest like a teddy bear, his blue eyes wide in shock and fear. The shelf that usually holds all the other dumbbells and weights is on the ground in front of him, scattered all over the concrete floor like oreos out of a plastic sleeve.

He must have knocked it over.

Your eyes trace over the way he's shrunken into his oversized blue sweatshirt, how he scrunches up his body beneath, his face downcast and flushed in embarrassment.

Seeing him look so small, stirred something in the pit of your stomach.

Bob was different than anyone you'd ever met before. Soft and vulnerable, the complete opposite of you. All the ways that you’d had to harden yourself to keep people out clashed with the soft smiles, stutters, and flushes that you’d seen and heard from Bob whenever he talked to you. Bob was the kind of person that someone like you swallowed whole.

And yet, there was something that drew you to him, something inside that felt different whenever he was around, and something that you still hadn't quite figured out.

When everything happened with Sentry and Void a few months ago, you’d thought that Bob pretended to be shy and awkward. That he used it as a manipulation tactic to try and get people to come to his aid. That was, until you'd seen him with Valentina.

You saw how she manipulated him, turned him into something he wasn’t, twisted his mind into something else. And in the moments that the others fought Sentry all you saw was you. Something contorted and warped by Hydra, a monster created for the sole purpose of someone else’s gain, someone who got lost somewhere along the way to the whims of others.

It was the first time in your entire life that you'd hesitated to do what you knew needed to be done.

Sentry had slammed you into a wall, unaffected by your hesitation.

Later Bob had apologized profusely, stumbling over his words and refusing to make too much eye contact. You didn't understand what the feeling was in the pit of your stomach when he had. The only thing you could think to tell him was that he didn't have to apologize, because you understood what it was like to be used. And then walked away before he could ask you how.

"What the fuck Bob?" Walker's voice splits through the silence in the wake of the accident. "You could have killed me!"

The weights were scattered around where Walker had been sitting on the floor to take a minute break from lifting, and a 400 lb was sitting directly where Walker's head had been, a long thin crack snaking out from where it made impact with the floor.

"I- I'm sorry." Bob stutters out, eyes flicking around the room from Walker, to Bucky, then to you. The shock of bright blue rests on where you stand for an extra beat before his gaze moves back to Walker.

Walker stands from the ground, fists clenched at his sides, face contorted with rage and annoyance as he glares down at Bob.

"Sorry doesn't cut it! Why are you so fucking careless? I could be dead right now!"

Bob shrinks back from Walker, disappearing further into his blue sweatshirt. Some of his brown hair has fallen forward into his face like a shield as if it wishes to block the onslaught of Walker's anger.  "I w-wwas just trying to-"

"I don’t care what you were trying to do!" Walker snaps back.

Something inside of you flares red-hot.

"Back off Walker." The words pass through your mouth before you can think to stop them. "He said he was sorry."

Walker's gaze doesn't move from Bob. "I wasn't talking to you Mystic."

"Yeah, well unfortunately I'm talking to you." You continue, eyes flicking over to where Bob has begun to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves nervously. "So I guess we're both doing things we don't want to today."

Walker turns in your direction his eyes narrowed. "Why don't you go back to having your ass handed to you?"

By now the dull throb of your anger in your body has transformed into a roar, the uncomfortable feeling of whatever the hell it is telling you to stand up for Bob unable to ignore.

You hated how small he looked. How Bob seemed to be trying to vanish into the floor, to melt away into the concrete, or blow away like a piece of lint. He'd been through enough in his life and you'd be damned if you were going to let an asshole like Walker treat him like trash.

"Listen Captain Douchebag. Your massive inferiority complex does not give you the right to talk down to people. So why don't you pack all that up and your gym bro muscles, and get the hell out of here?"

Bob lets out a giggle-like snort before he can stop himself at your comment, the small sound making the end of your mouth curve up in a half smile. It made you feel a little better to see him smile, it was better than him looking like he wanted to melt into a puddle of goo.

But predictably, all it does is make Walker go from mad to furious. His left eye begins to twitch with annoyance.

"What did you just say to me?" If looks could kill, you'd definitely be on the ground bleeding out from the way Walker is staring at you, but you don't care.

"You heard me."

"Why don't you come over here and say that shit to me?" He snarls while flexing his muscles under the dark gray t-shirt he's wearing.

You wonder if he thought he was intimidating you, even when he knew that you had enough strength to squish him down accordion style. You go through the mental filo-fax you had on all the people who had tried to stand in your way. Most of them had the same attitude as Walker. An all American asshole who thought that everyone should kiss the ground he walked on.

They really chose a winner for Captain America. Was there even a screening process? Or did they immediately choose the guy that is every nerd's waking nightmare in high school?

"Okay." You shrug. "Here I come."

You didn't need that cup of coffee for an energy boost to kick Walker's ass. Hell, you could have a whole month of sleepless nights and still put him in his place.

Bucky's thrusts his arm in front of your chest to stop the advance. "Go cool off John. There's been enough bloodshed this week already."

"No, I don't think there has." Walker retorts.

"Yes, there has. Plus, we've got that briefing in an hour with Yelena about the Op in Europe. And I really don't want to bench you again."

"But she-" He points an accusatory finger in your direction and you flip him off.

"Go." Bucky says more forcefully.

Walker stands there for a few extra moments watching you with narrowed eyes, teeth grinding down together. Your gaze is locked with his, daring him to say something else. But he relents, muttering something under his breath and stalking out of the room, each heavy footfall down the hallway a thunderclap.

What a toddler.

"Don't do that." Bucky sighs, lowering his arm to his side again and giving you an annoyed look.

"Do what?"

"Make me get between the two of you. It makes me feel like a Kindergarten teacher."

"Judging by how childish Walker is acting-"

"You were both acting childish."

You roll your eyes at him. "I didn't ask you to step in. And Walker was asking for it-"

"I have told you time and time again not to goad him into a fight."

"I was not!"

"Yes, you were." Bucky sighs again.

Sometimes you thought it was funny that despite only meeting Bucky a year ago, he still acted like he'd been your dad for decades. Truth was, you knew that Bucky struggled with that little detail, the perversion of Hydra with his genetic material to create you without his knowledge.

"I'm not going to do this with you." You echo his sigh before marching over to the scattered weights on the ground and the overturned shelf.

Bob is still standing there, slightly curled in on himself, but he hasn't glanced away from you. He looks like he's contemplating something, trying to find the courage to speak.

"Are you okay?" You ask him softly as you pick up the empty shelf with one hand and set it straight before moving on to the scattered weights.

"Y-yeah." He nods enthusiastically, a few extra bobs of his head than what should be normal, his cheeks flushing that cute pink color. "T-tthanks for doing that. You- you didn't have to."

"Yeah I did." You pick up a stack of weights. "You're apart of this team. He was being an asshole."

"He always is." Bob gives you a half smile that makes something inside your chest tighten for a moment.

That's weird.

"True." You mirror his smile, lifting another few weights.

"We're not done talking about this," Bucky says your name, but comes over to help you clean up. "Maybe it's best if you stay here."

"What?" You half turn to him.

"The Op. I think you should stay here."

"But-"

You didn't know what you were going to follow up that sentence with. Probably something like 'but I was looking forward to breaking some noses' or maybe 'but I was looking forward to taking some anger out on the bad guys.' Both weren't the best to admit aloud, not to your therapist and not to Bucky.

You were supposed to see her again tomorrow, which meant another awkward hour long session where she dredged up things from the past you wished that you could forget. The overbearing sense of foreboding had begun to weigh on your shoulders again when thought about the upcoming appointment.

He shakes his head. "No buts. You were all over the place in training, and I want you to get some sleep. Besides," Bucky brings his right hand down on Bob's shoulder to give it an encouraging squeeze. "You can keep Bob company."

Bob's cheeks flush an even deeper red and he drops his gaze from your face to his hands to fiddle with his oversized sleeves again. They hang almost a full hands-length from his fingertips, the material beginning to fray and pull from the cuff.

"Buck, I'm fine-" You begin to say.

"No, you're not. I want you to take it easy. We'll be back in a few days."

"But-"

Bucky sighs your name, releasing Bob's shoulder. "I'm worried about you. You were distracted today and the last thing I want is for you to get hurt because it’s your fourth day in a row without sleep."

Your mouth drops open in shock. "How did yo-"

"I know everything." He answers. “But go on and see if you can convince Alexei to turn off the documentary and get ready for the brief. I want to talk to Bob for a minute.”

You glance over at Bob, who is watching you with curiosity. Bob knew that you hadn't slept last night or the night before because he'd been there sitting at the kitchen island the way he always did whenever you were making something.

You noticed that Bob had been doing that more and more since you moved into the tower permanently. That he seemed to appear in rooms that you were too, but he wouldn't always talk to you. At least, Bob only really talked to you when no one was around. Sometimes he would sit somewhere on the edge of the room with a book or something to fiddle with, occasionally looking up as if he was checking you were still there. You were under the impression that was what he meant to do today before he knocked over the weights on the shelf. That Bob really didn't want to lift, but for some reason he'd come in to see what you were doing.

You didn't understand why he was doing that, but you also didn't quite understand the feeling that sprouted wings in your chest  whenever it was just the two of you.

It was unfamiliar.

It felt differently than the usual buzz of warmth you had when Bucky and you used to hang out in his one bedroom apartment, crashing on the couch and watching an old black and white movie he called "classic." Or when Yelena and you went to the giant thrift store down the street to see if you could score some new jeans or a pair of leather boots. The feeling you had when you always thought to yourself that it was nice to have a friend.

But this was… odd. Not a bad odd, just different, something you’d never felt before and you couldn't name.

That being said, you did like being around Bob. Despite the whole Sentry/Void situation that happened before, there was something about him that was calming. He wasn't loud like Alexei. Didn't annoy you like Walker. Wasn't aloof like Ava.

He was different, quiet, and shy. He spoke only when he needed to say something- unfortunately sometimes the things he said only made you mad because he would say something self-deprecating that wasn't true at all.

But the truth was, you'd be lying to yourself if you didn't admit that there was just something about Bob that you liked.

You think back to a few moments ago when you'd defended him from Walker. That instinctual urge to protect him from Walker's undeserved rage. The only person you'd ever really cared about and tried to protect was the man you were designed to kill, but you cared about Bob. You knew that.

It was just hard to decipher why.

"Fine. But come get find me before you leave." You say to Bucky before giving Bob a quick once-over.

He was standing up straighter now, still hiding a little bit behind his hair, but he did look better than he had when Walker was in the room. A sense of relief settles in the center of your chest, replacing the anger that burned hot beneath your rib-cage only moments ago.

"I'll see you later." You say to Bob, giving him an encouraging smile as you pass.

"O-okay." He stammers.

You knew you would. After all there was no doubt in your mind you wouldn't be able to sleep tonight and would yet again end up in the kitchen at 3 am holding a spoon with Bob sitting at the kitchen island watching you with rapt attention.

You took in another deep breath counting to five before you released it, feeling the slow rise and fall of your chest, the gentle cradle of your mattress beneath your body. Your eyes were shut, the soft pillow beneath your head plush and cool to the touch. The pitter patter of rain against the roof of the tower a soft reminder of where you were, the rhythmic sound a soothing lullaby.

But not for you.

You turn over again fruitlessly going through the motions  to try and fall asleep. Mentally checking off the list of things your therapist told you to do to make it easier and also the random things you'd found while surfing the internet bleary eyed and trying to find something, anything to put you under.

But nothing ever seemed to work.

She'd also suggested melatonin or something stronger, but the problem was losing control like that, taking something that dulled your senses didn't appeal to you. Of course this also only emphasized the idea that maybe you weren't falling asleep because you didn't feel safe, didn't feel like you could surrender yourself when anything could happen while you did.

Also, because it reminded you too much of the syringes full of clear liquid that made your mind feel foggy, hazy, as if there was a cotton ball inside your head getting slowly pulled apart. The same ones that were used to keep you docile when you didn't want to go under.

The memory surfaces like a rising wave before you can distract yourself. The prick of the needle in your arm, the tug of the leather straps on your wrists that held you down on the bed, while the hospital gown scratched at your legs. The face of the doctor above you materializes, the bottom half of his face obscured by a mask, eyes shielded with goggles.

"Stop fighting. It'll all be over soon." His voice echoes in your ears as the straps rub your skin raw.

You open your eyes to rid yourself of the image, fighting the shudder that crawls down your spine as the memory comes back. The digital alarm clock on your bedside table comes into focus, the bright red 2:37 am flashing, mocking you.

Alright. I'm up.

You sit up and look around the room.

It was an average size and held only a bookshelf, your bed, a small desk, and your bedside table. There was a large window on the back wall that gave another stunning view of the city and the bathroom you shared with Bob, Yelena, and Bucky was across the hall.

When you moved in you hadn't had much. You didn't have any personal photos or mementos from before, however you did have drawings.

Every single blank wall was covered with them, overlapping and tapped together, a hobby that you picked up on the road somewhere, drawing places you'd been, people you saw. Bucky had one of your drawings framed in his room. Something you drew of the two of you sitting back his one bedroom apartment on the couch, eating pizza on a Saturday night while watching a movie.

Your eyes flicker across the drawings on the wall, stopping on one you drew while at a coffee shop in Berlin. It was of an older couple sitting on a bench feeding the pigeons.  It was your favorite one, the memory of you sitting there with  the soft chatter of the patrons around you, feeling the tickle of the wind in your hair, watching the couple laugh, watching the older man gently brush hair from the woman's face.

It was the first time you'd seen something like that on your first real mission alone. And after you'd been late after to meet up with your handler and he'd given you something to remember what would happen if you ever were again.

Just inhale… exhale.

You think to yourself taking a moment, before you slowly get out of bed and make your way to the door of your bedroom.

The tower is quiet and dark. The only sound coming from the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle pad of your footsteps against the cool black marble floors. You pass Bucky's room, not bothering to look up. He wasn't here, neither was the rest of the team.

It was just Bob and you, and you hoped that he was having better luck at sleeping than you were. You hadn't heard anything coming from his room next door to suggest otherwise.

The thought of him brings the memory of how he looked earlier with Walker in the gym, an unpleasant emotion flickering in your chest as it does.

He's okay. He's asleep.

You weren't buying that. You knew it was only a matter of time before he came out of his room to find you in the kitchen as he usually did.

The kitchen is huge. A monstrosity of gold appliances, solid black backsplash with flecks of gold, countertops made of hard black granite, and tucked into the far corner of the living room, directly across from the bar. The large windows show the city below slightly blurred with rain, the lights beyond hazy, as the distant rumble of thunder rattles the glass in the panes.

You pull open the pantry and root around in the refrigerator as you try to figure out what to make.

Maybe an apple pie?

As cliché as it was, apple pie was one of Bucky's favorites and you thought that maybe he'd like something familiar when he came back.

Besides, apple pie is always better the second day.

You find the recipe on your phone that you bookmarked the other day and the bag of apples in the back of the refrigerator, striking gold when you realize that you had some sense to buy some granny smiths as well as red delicious when you'd made a grocery run two days ago. One of the contestants on the GBBO had sworn that using different kinds of apples "enhanced" the flavor of the pie. No idea what that meant, but you were going to try.

It takes about ten minutes for Bob to come out of his room, slowly but surely making his way down the hallway with tentative footfalls, while you back is turned, but you can still sense that he's there.

Years of training and your heightened senses alerted you to his presence the second he took a hesitant step out of his bedroom onto the polished floors. The soft swish of the fabric of his pants together, the gentle pad of his bare feet against the ground, and the prickle of his eyes focused on your unprotected back.

"Are you trying to sneak up on me?" You ask, looking through the pantry. "Because it's kinda hard to do that."

"N-." Bob audibly swallows. "No I was- was just about to say hello. Um. Hi?"

The sound of his voice makes you smile to yourself. The nervous tremor apparent as he stumbles through the sentence… but it didn't annoy you. You found it cute.

"Hi." You smile at him as you turn to lay the bag of apples on the large kitchen island between the two of you.

He slides into one of the barstools across from you, hands in his lap, still wearing the oversized sweatshirt from before. Your eyes trace over the frayed sleeves once more and you make a mental note to pick him up another one at the thrift store Yelena and you had been frequenting once a week.

 "Couldn't sleep?" You ask, beginning to peel the apples.

He shakes his head once. "Y-you?"

"Nope."

A moment of silence passes between the two of you as you continue to peel and slice apples.

"What are you making?" He asks watching you with curiosity.

"Hopefully an apple pie. I thought maybe that Bucky would want something a little more 'familiar' when he got back." You twirl the knife expertly in your hand, but feel a twinge of something when you think of him off on a mission without you there to watch his back.

Bob hesitates for a moment, ducking his head to his lap shyly, but you can tell he wants to say something.

"What?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Are- are you and B-b-ucky," Bob bites the inside of his cheek. "Together?"

You almost drop the knife in surprise. "What?"

It was the last thing that you expected him to ask you. Bob had never asked you something so personal before. Usually the conversations revolved around ridiculous things that happened at the tower, what you were baking- once Bob had asked you what your favorite flower was, which was weird and you didn't understand why he needed to know that, but never anything like this.

"I mean you and him are always-" Bob is flushed to the roots of his hair, still not looking up at you. "Around each other joking and I-I-"

"No." You shake your head with a laugh. "We're just friends."

The rest of the team didn't know about Bucky and you, and personally you wanted to keep it that way. It wasn't the easiest thing to bring up in conversation and your trust issues didn't let you. Something about giving out that extra bit of information seemed unnecessary, and you'd always rather have people underestimate you than know exactly who and what they were dealing with.

"Oh." Bob's face is the color of the apples you were cutting up, and again you can’t help but smile at how nervous he was.

He really is so different than everyone else.

"Bob can you reach the flour?" You ask to change the subject. "I'm pretty sure Walker keeps putting it up there to piss me off."

"O-okay." He stands from the barstool, the metallic legs making a high pitched screech across the floors. Bob winces at the sound, giving you a sheepish smile, before he rounds the counter to the pantry. He stands up on his tip-toes to reach the top shelf, the bottom of his sweatshirt pulling up to reveal a tiny slip of the skin above his waistband, the taunt muscle of his abdomen catching for a few moments in the can lights fastened to the ceiling of the kitchen.

You stare for a few seconds longer than was necessary. It was easy to forget how muscular he was, especially when Bob wore all those oversized closed all the time. But you weren't expecting to feel the skin of your cheeks heat for a few seconds when Bob turned around and caught you staring.

His wavy hair is hanging forward in his face again, long and curling up at the ends, but you can still see the shimmer of the cobalt of his eyes beneath watching you.

Something passes between the two of you, some unspoken electricity that makes you feel like you’d just jumped out of an airplane. As if every single neuron in your body is firing at once.

"Um- thanks." You avoid his gaze as you take the flour from his outstretched hands and turn back to the apples, beginning to measure out the spices, sugar, and flour needed for the filling listed on the recipe shinning on your phone screen.

Bob doesn't move from beside you for a few moments. His feet shuffling in place slightly. You know he wants to ask you something, but this time you're not sure if you should ask him what it is. Something about him being so close to you was making you feel weird.

Not a bad weird, but an unusual feeling. A warmth that seemed to rise up from the bottom of your stomach that you'd never experienced before.

You still couldn't figure out why being around Bob seemed so effortless, so easy, so… different. You weren't used to being like this either. Your entire life you'd never held back what you said, the questions you asked, but right now you were almost afraid.

Odd given the fact that you'd faced down numerous enhanced opponents and never felt a tickle of fear, but now… you weren't sure.

“Um-" You clear your throat. "What did you and Bucky talk about?”

Bob leans against the counter to your immediate left, toying with a discarded remnant of an apple skin between his fingertips. “He-he told me that he wants me to start training more.”

“Really?” The rhythmic motion of the spoon in the bowl, stirring together the ingredients is doing little to block the way your heart has begin to beat a little faster in your chest.

What is happening to me?

Bob nods.

“I mean it’s not the worst idea." You muse, scooping out a spoonful of apples into another small bowl before pushing it across the counter to Bob. "Maybe it would help? Or maybe you'd feel better about being more in control?"

"Maybe." He pulls out the drawer to his left for a fork, the high pitched ring of the silverware inside snapping through the kitchen.

The other version of you that lived in your head was confused. The version that recognized that power meant control, and if Bob was supposed to be the strongest being in the entire universe, why wouldn't he want to be? Why wouldn't he want to use his powers?

It seemed ironic that someone so powerful was so determined to be so invisible. But the other part of you couldn't help, but feel bad for him. Because you knew Bob- well, knew him enough. He wasn't like any of the other opponents you'd faced, the ones that were loud and boisterous and thought themselves unbeatable.

He was just Bob.

Bob spears an apple on his fork before taking a bite, audibly moaning at the taste. "I can't wait for this to be done."

"You like apple pie? Would've pegged you for a Key Lime Pie kinda guy. You being from Florida and all-" You smirk, but feel a sense of pride swell in your chest at the compliment.

"That seems a l-little stateist." He cracks a smile.

"I've never been to Florida so I can't exactly comment or speculate."

"Really?"

"Nope. No missions to the Sunshine State. I've also never had a beach day." You add with a shrug. "Hydra didn't exactly give me any days off or benefits."

The pre-made pie dough was more than thawed out on the counter by now and by some miracle there was a pie plate in the kitchen. How or why you had no idea who had thought about it, but you were thankful. The dough is soft and squishy as you unroll it and place it carefully in the bottom.

Bob doesn't laugh at your joke. "How long were you-"

"Ah, Ah, Ah. Nope. You don't get to change the subject." You say before he can ask you about it. Mentioning Hydra was enough of a dip into the past for you, thank you very much. "We're talking about you. Now, in your head, what's the worst thing that could happen?"

“Huh?” He sounds confused.

“Tell me what you think the worse thing that can happen is if you trained more."

The sugar and spice coated apples tumble into the crust with a delightful plop.

"I c-could hu- hurt someone." His eyes flick to yours for a second, before he drops his gaze to his hands.

"How would you hurt them?"

“I-.” He hesitates. “I don’t know my strength. And before I-“

His hands pull at the fraying sleeves of his oversized sweatshirt. It didn’t take a genius to know that he was thinking about the day a few months ago when he basically dismantled the team within seconds and threw you against the wall. Concussions weren't fun for anyone. You'd spent the better part of a week with intermittent headaches while Bucky had to practically sit at your bedside to make you stay in bed all the while you complained that he was babying you.

Bob curls in on himself again, turning away from you, his eyes falling down to the half-eaten bowl full of sugary apples on the counter. It reminds you too much of how he looked when he was with Walker earlier. How small he was. It makes an unpleasant sensation spike just under your rib cage.

"Bob." You sigh his name to make him look up at you again, he does, blue eyes just a little watery, faded to a darkened gray. The color of the sea on a stormy day. Breakers stirring the chilling water into a frothy white in a torrential rainstorm.

"It's not going to get better if you ignore it, and I think it's a good idea for you to train. You wouldn't be afraid about losing control or hurting people if you used your powers more. I think it'll help you be just a little more comfortable."

He doesn't answer.

"How about this?" You bite the inside of your cheek in contemplation. "How about you let me train you?"

Probably not your best idea. Going toe to toe with Bob when he was Sentry was not your idea of a good time, but you hated the way he was looking at you.

Lost and vulnerable.

"You?" Bob gulps.

"Yeah. I mean I don't have powers like yours, but I'm a little stronger than most of the team so I can take a punch or maybe two from you." You crack a smile, but he doesn't return it.

In fact, Bob's eyes widen at the thought, worry flashing through his irises. "But- But I'd-" Bob stumbles slightly over his words. "I-I don't want-t to hurt you."

"Trust me." The smile slips into a frown. "I've had worse."

The scars that crisscrossed over your body were proof of that, the ones you hide beneath long sleeves and your favorite oversized worn in leather overcoat- the one you stole on your first mission ages ago and never regretted once. Each one a reminder that failure was never an option, and that there was a price to pay for disobedience.

Bob doesn't answer.

You turn back to the pie dough, cutting the lattice. It comes out a little more clumsy than you want it to, but you didn't mind. Baking to you meant something that didn't have to be perfect. And after years of only being perfect it was a relief.

"Do you re- really think that it-" Bob swallows. "Would help me?"

"Maybe. I'm not an expert, but I think that if you're scared about hurting other people then-" You begin to lay the strips of dough down on top of the pie. "I think that it would make you feel better to know you're in control. I mean-"

You hesitate to finish.

After years of being manipulated and years of losing pieces of yourself to other people, sharing things about yourself was difficult. Finding the courage to trust, really trust another human being was like having your hair pulled out. Even with Bucky at first it had been so hard to share things with him without feeling guilty or worried later on that he was going to use it against you someday.

But there was a little part of yourself that wanted to share things with Bob. You still weren't exactly sure why that was or why you wanted to trust him, but…

He's watching you again with his big blue eyes, waiting for the next thing you're going to say. Face open, vulnerable, and trusting-

You didn't know how he did that. Bob didn't know you and didn't know the real you.

How can he do that so easily?

"I understand what it's like to be afraid of yourself." You begin slowly, turning away from his gaze because it's too much. "Afraid of what you're going to do. Afraid of losing control. But, if you ignore it, it won't go away. It'll only grow more and more each day, until it consumes you and there's nothing that you can do to stop it."

Sometimes you could feel it inside- the other half of you. The darkness that tried to rip it's way out, the person you used to be rattling the walls of her cage where you locked her away. Biding her time for the moment you were too weak to push her away.

"So maybe, we start out slow." You continue as you pick up the pie to place it in the oven. "Take it one day at a time. Respect your boundaries. And see what happens."

A pleasant wave of heat comes when the oven opens, before you gently slide in the pie, but for some reason it feels different. The whole time you can feel Bob's eyes on you, studying you, and it makes the heat prickle further underneath your skin.

Sometimes it was difficult for you to discern what he was thinking, something that infuriated you given that you spent so much of your time and prided yourself on the ability to read people. It came with the job and you were the best- except when it came to him.

"Y- you don't think I'll hur- hurt you?" He mumbles quietly.

The worry that shone in his gaze makes a small shock travel down your spine. Again you think to yourself how weird it is that Bob is so focused on the possibility of hurting you, when it was him that should be worried of you hurting him.

But there was another thought buried deep down that you couldn’t shake- that Bob may have been the first person who didn’t want to.

"There's always the possibility of that." You shrug. "Honestly I'm also kinda worried I might hurt you."

The end of his lips twitch slightly in a smile as if you'd said something funny.

Why does he think that's funny?

He waits another few moments, living in the silence that stretches between the two of you. "O-okay."

"Good. We can start tomorrow-" You glance up at the clock hanging above the bar across the room. "Or later today."

Bob nods.

"Now, come on. We've got fifty minutes and there's a new episode of Crime Scene Kitchen on Hulu."

Bob's face lights up. "Can we m-mmake popcorn?"

"If you don't I won't let you watch it with me."

If it's possible, Bob's smile gets even bigger as he turns back to the pantry in search of popcorn, while you make your way over to the plush leather couches in front of the TV, settling in for the long haul.

Outside the tower the rain continued to pummel against the glass windows, slipping and sliding down the smooth cool surface that shook with the distant rumble of thunder, while the inside filled with the sweet smell of apples and cinnamon, the warmth of the oven, and the crisp sound of popcorn.

A/N: Guys I think the slow burn on this one is gonna kill me, because I promise no matter what y'all are feeling when you read a slow burn, writing one is a hundred billion times worse 😅

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! The comments really keep me going! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this fic series!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @angrydragon90 @toxicrelief

[nxuvillette]

TO FEEL WHOLE AGAIN — BOOTHILL

synopsis: getting pregnant and left by yourself wasn’t in your plans in life at all, but you end up meeting a man who becomes more than just a friend who’s willing to help.

❥- pairings : boothill x fem!reader

❥- note : so sorry for any inactivity !! life has just been a wreck, but i’m here with a little idea I came up with the other night. i hope you all enjoy <3 reblogs are appreciated !!

content warnings : sfw, fem!reader, ageless + blank blogs dni, pregnancy, abandonment, heavy angst, breakups, mentions of abortion (reader does not have one), mentions of alcohol, human!boothill, angst with happy ending, use of pet names (darling + lovely), fluff, very fluffy things.

You can recall the day you met Boothill like it was the back of your hand. 

It was the day your life had begun a completely new journey, but also, the same day that your life had completely fallen apart within just twenty four hours. Every memory was ingrained in your brain like it was never meant to go away. How could things end up going right, but so wrong at the same time?

About seven months prior, you found yourself sitting inside of a bar with tears still staining your cheeks from the incident that had occurred just hours beforehand. Your heart had gleamed, but shattered just minutes after. You questioned why something like this had happened to you. You never wronged anybody. Sure, you weren’t the most perfect person to exist, but as humans, it’s in their nature to make mistakes. Yet, god had different plans for you and they weren’t exactly the most pleasing ones.

Just two days before that day, you had found out you were pregnant. 

It came by total surprise. You and your boyfriend weren’t exactly trying for kids, but you both had been together for four years at that point. You noticed something was off about you when your period suddenly missed its usual day, and you were experiencing some very odd symptoms that were unusual. After some convincing from your friends, you decided to go out and purchase a pregnancy test which came back positive. You didn’t know what to feel. You were excited, nervous, emotional, but most of all, anxious. You didn’t know how to break the news to your boyfriend and you weren’t sure whether or not you wanted to keep it. 

For a few days, you didn’t say anything to him. You weren’t the best with words and you didn’t want to dump something so sudden onto him either, but he eventually figured it out when he found you one morning throwing up your breakfast into the toilet. 

He wasn’t angry or upset, but you knew something wasn’t right with him after he found out. He started to become somewhat distant and he avoided any conversation about the baby growing inside you. Then, that same day you ended up at the bar, you had woken up to him gone. All of his items and personal belongings had been cleaned out, and when you tried to get a hold of him, he just completely ghosted you. You didn’t understand. Was it you? Was it the baby? Why did he just up and leave you like that with zero hesitation? It was like your heart had been shattered into pieces and you didn’t know what to do. He left you alone and pregnant with his child. 

Completely brokenhearted and confused, that’s how you ended up in the bar. No, you weren’t drinking any alcohol, but there was a part of you that wanted to head to the clinic and terminate the pregnancy all together. You couldn’t raise a baby on your own. You had seen many stories of mothers defying the odds and managing, but would you be able to? You loved your now ex boyfriend more than life itself. You didn’t think you could fall in love again, and what man would want a single mother as a girlfriend? Most of them would scurry away the second it’s brought up. It wasn’t their job to shame you for whatever choices you made. 

The bar's atmosphere was buzzing with people chatting amongst themselves. Despite being around people, you still felt completely isolated inside of it. You kept thinking of the choices in your brain over and over again. It was consuming you, and you didn’t think you were in the right state of mind to make that decision right now.

You were brought out of your thoughts when the bartender placed a glass in front of you. It was filled with some kind of alcohol that looked like it could be a margarita or a martini. Your brows furrowed at the sight of the beverage. You didn’t order it. “U-Um.. sir, I didn’t order this.” you pushed the glass towards the man behind the bar who was cleaning some cups used earlier. 

“I know, but that man over there did.” he pointed towards the other end of the bar.

You turned your attention to where he was motioning his hand. Your eyes widened a little at the sight of the man who sat a few seats away from you. He had a cowboy hat on top of his head, and very long hair that stretched past his chair. He was wearing a white button up shirt that exposed his chest just a little. He noticed you were staring at him and winked at you, then waved a little. It didn’t seem creepy or strange, but you didn’t know how to react. Despite feeling the way you did, you couldn’t help but think how handsome he was. He had a cunning smile and seemed like one of those cowboys you would have heard of in stories you heard when you were younger, but you knew you couldn’t accept his drink. 

Soon enough, you turned away and just pushed your drink from your reach. You didn’t want to do anything stupid. If it came off as rude, then so be it. You weren’t about to fight with another man this evening. 

You decided to check your phone. There was a small bit of hope that was in your heart. You hoped that maybe your ex reached out to you to fix things or maybe had something to say, but unfortunately, there was nothing. You had a few random notifications from friends, but otherwise, it was silence on the other end. God, you felt like an idiot. He was gone for good. Men who do that shit typically fall off the face of the earth and never come back again. 

“Hey, sweetheart, mind if I take this spot next to ya?” 

You practically jumped out of your skin at the sudden voice that spoke beside you. Your head snapped towards the sound, and you were a bit surprised to see that man who was sitting across the bar now standing next to you. His cologne filled your nose. It smelled of deep wood with a mix of pine. 

Your words got caught in your throat. Was he doing this to make you uncomfortable? Part of you wanted to ignore him, but he wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong. “N-No! Go ahead.. it’s empty anyway..” you replied, trying to avoid his eyes that were boring holes into your face.

The man plopped beside you, taking a swig of his glass that seemed to be filled with some kind of whisky. He was quiet, at first. You weren’t sure if striking up a conversation was in your cards tonight. You were honestly too lost in your thoughts, and somewhat a little nauseated. “So, uh, do ya come around here often? You’re quite the peach if I say so myself.” he placed his cheek against his fist which was resting against the table beside him.

“I don’t..” you replied, dryly. 

He seemed a little discouraged by your sudden lack of enthusiasm. It wasn’t your intention, but really, you weren’t interested. “I see.. my name’s Boothill.” he said. “Yours?”

Your eyes flickered towards him then back at the soda can that your hand was wrapped around. This was starting to feel awkward or almost like a forced conversation. You didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but you wanted him to take the hint. “(Y/N)..” you looked at your cell phone to try and avoid him. “Look.. I-I appreciate the drink, but I’m not really interested in a relationship. I just don’t.. I..”

Before you were even able to finish your sentence, tears began to trickle down your cheeks. You didn’t even know you were holding them in until they began to slip from your eyes. 

Boothill was taken back by your sudden tears. He immediately felt guilt wash over him. He didn’t mean to come off as a weirdo or forceful towards you. That’s the last thing he would ever do. “Hey.. I’m sorry, shit, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I-I can totally take the drink back and get out of your hair.” he stood up out of his chair to leave the bar. 

You started to wipe your cheeks of any liquid that was on them. “N-No, it’s alright, it’s not you..” you shook your head. “I’ve just had a rough couple of hours.. believe me, it’s not you at all.” 

The man was unsure of what to reply with. Regardless, he felt very bad for you. Not many people come into bars to weep. Most of the time, they come to do the opposite and use the drinks to numb any negative feelings they have. He didn’t want to pry by any means. “I see.. I’m still sorry,  darlin’ I had no idea..” he paused for a moment thinking of what to say next. “If you wanna talk, I’m willing to listen, can’t guarantee I’m any good at advice, but I can be an open ear.”

You weren’t sure if venting your feelings to a complete stranger would make any difference in how you felt. It's not like he would care much anyway. He would probably look at you with that same look every other person had given you when you told them what your ex did. 

However, you were completely wrong.

That day you told Boothill everything that had happened to you. He was completely blown away when you confessed that you were pregnant. He kept apologizing for the drink and was somewhat worried that you felt disrespected, but you didn’t take any offense. It’s not like he knew, nor were you even showing at that point. 

Although he didn’t know you, he had a lot of sympathy for you. He told you that your boyfriend wasn’t a man, but a young boy who couldn’t take responsibility for his actions and he didn’t deserve you by any means. Boothill felt as if abandoning a woman and her child was the sickest thing you could ever do in this life, and you couldn’t help but agree. Especially after spending many years together. 

It felt kind of nice to have someone listen. Even if he was some random person you didn’t know, there was at least somebody out there who was willing to give you the time of day. 

You felt a little dull when you realized you would probably never see Boothill again, but you thanked him many times for his patience. He was even sweet enough to walk you back to your apartment which wasn’t very far from the bar at all. Typically, you weren’t so trusting when it came to men in general, but Boothill’s energy felt secure for some reason. You didn’t feel fear or unease around him. Your body would always give you signs someone wasn’t good, but you were calm and didn’t have a single issue. 

For a little while, you wondered if keeping the child was the right option, but after a lot of conversations with your friends and family, and oddly enough, Boothill, you decided to go forward with the pregnancy. 

You thought you would have to do it alone, but that changed almost instantly when you started receiving random items at your doorstep one morning. 

You had a stable job, but you knew babies weren’t a walk in the park financially. Your parents offered to help pay for whatever was necessary, but you felt bad for making them do such a thing. It all started to shift when you discovered a package outside your apartment door. You had a box of different supplies. Baby shampoo, baby bottles, wipes, lotions. It was basic necessities for an infant and you were a bit confused how they showed up there. You questioned your parents but they denied ordering anything of the sorts, so you wondered who gifted it to you. 

Your friends were also clueless. They had gifts in mind but they weren’t planning on purchasing anything that early on in your pregnancy. You hadn’t even planned on a baby shower or anything of the sorts. 

It didn’t take long for more things to arrive. One morning, you saw that you had been given some baby toys. They were small and quite cute, but you still had yet to discover who was the one leaving them at your doorstep. You wondered if it was potentially your ex trying to somehow compensate you for deserting you, but would he really? He left you alone with the baby. It was clear enough that he wasn’t interested in helping to raise it, so why put in the effort to accommodate you? He could care less about you. 

It all changed when you were leaving your apartment one afternoon. You had an appointment at the doctor’s office to check on how the baby was doing, and standing right beside your front door was not your ex, but Boothill.

At first, you didn’t notice him holding a box of items in his hand, but the realization soon took over that he was the one buying the gifts. You were taken by complete surprise. The two of you had hardly interacted much during that time period, so it did confuse you why he was helping you. He wasn’t obligated to just because you informed him of what your ex did. It wasn’t like you were begging him for money or assistance either. Boothill was just as surprised to see you there too. He usually would stop by when he knew you wouldn’t be around, but he knew sooner or later the truth would come out.

With a flushed face, Boothill began to explain himself. 

He told you that he just couldn’t let you go on that journey alone. He knew it wasn’t his responsibility to be buying you things or even being involved in your life like that, but at the same time, he couldn’t sleep at night knowing that you were all alone and there wasn’t anybody else to be there for you. He did apologize if it made you uncomfortable and he wouldn’t come around again if that was the case. 

However, you told him the opposite. You were very thankful for what he had been doing for you. Not many men would step up and just go out of their way to buy things for a baby that wasn’t theirs. You told him you were very appreciative of what he had done, and he could come around as often as he liked. It was kind of lonely being by yourself all of the time. Your friends weren’t always the most available, and you lived on your own. It felt nice to know that somebody wanted to spend time with you. He was relieved that you weren’t weirded out or upset with his actions. He wanted to do the right thing. 

Much to his surprise, you invited him to come to your ultrasound that day, and he was thrilled.

Your interactions grew over the course of a few months. You started seeing him everyday and he came around whenever you needed something. Boothill didn’t mind spending his days with you. It was a joy to watch your belly grow and to see your baby begin to become larger than it was before. His favorite moments were when he’d feel a small kick or movement. He loved kids. It was a guilty pleasure of his, and he honestly couldn’t wait to meet your baby girl. He made so many bets that it was going to be a girl and you thought he would somehow be wrong, but he was right the entire time. 

Along with the baby's growth, there were also feelings between you and Boothill too. He was the first man in your life since your ex and he treated you so much better. He did everything for you, and the baby wasn’t even his. He would spend time helping you tidy up your house, holding your hair away from your face when you had morning sickness, making you tea, giving you massages whenever your body felt sore. Boothill did everything. He even offered at one point to do the entire nursery for you when your due date came closer, but you assured him that it wasn’t his duty to do so. 

But, he planned on doing it anyway.

All of your friends told you to go for it. They said that Boothill was what you needed and they could tell he was into you too, but you were still unsure. If anything, he could be doing all of this just to somehow hurt you in the end or claim you “owed” him a relationship for doing everything for the baby. You knew that probably wasn’t the case, but you were still on the fence.

But, was he?

-

That afternoon, you had woken up from a nap to a knocking coming from your front door. You weren’t expecting any guests, but you had already assumed it was Boothill who was there to do his usual drop by to check in on you. 

You unlocked the front door, pulling it open so he could enter. He was dressed in his usual outfit. A white button shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and those cowboy boots that you had made fun of a few times. Boothill was used to just entering your place at that point. “Afternoon, darlin’” he said, shutting the door behind him. 

Your hair was a bit messy from your nap and you weren’t really dressed up. You wore an oversized t-shirt with a pair of shorts that sat just below your belly. It was a lot more comfortable than the regular pajamas you were used to wearing months ago, but alas, the growth of your body had made those a lot less comfortable these days. Boothill still thought you were gorgeous despite the messy look. “Hi..” you yawned. “Sorry, I’m fresh from a nap. I didn’t hear my alarm..”

“Not a problem, I was just stopping by to drop something off for you.” he replied, handing you a box that had your name on top of it.

Your eyes flickered from the box to the man who was staring down at you. You were used to him giving you random things for the baby here and there, so you were expecting something that was a necessity. “I’m curious, let me see.” you then began opening at the box to see what was inside of it.

After a few seconds, you pulled out a small blanket, but it wasn’t one that was from the store. It was actually homemade, and right in the center was the baby name you had picked out stitched into the fabric with baby pink lace. It was probably the most adorable thing you had ever received from him. It was so soft and you could already picture yourself swaddling your little girl in the blanket itself. The fact that it was homemade as well made it even more special than it already was. 

You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy emotions or not, but you could feel warm tears burning your eyes. It was truthfully making you feel so happy for this pregnancy, but most of all for Boothill. You couldn’t be more blessed with a man like him. “I-I.. I love it..” you sniffled, trying to hide your tears. “It’s so cute..”

Boothill was concerned with your sudden emotions. He didn’t mean to make you cry. If anything, he wanted to do something special for you since you were a special person in his life. “Ahh.. shit, I’m sorry, lovely, is it too much?” he asked, nodding his head. 

You shook your head, laughing in the process to try and halt the tears slipping through your eyes. It was the furthest thing from too much. You adored it. You didn’t care if the stitching was a little crooked or if the pink was somewhat bright, it was cute. It had to be one of the best gifts you had ever gotten. “N-No! I love it! It’s something I wouldn’t have imagined you’d give me! Did you do it all on your own?” you looked up at him with an eyebrow raised.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Haha.. yeah, that’s why it might seem a little messy. I got the idea though and figured why not? You need something to swaddle that little monster with!” he smiled, which made you smile as well.

Boothill was taken back when he suddenly felt your arms wrap around him. This was the first time you had ever initiated any sort of physical contact with him, and he wasn’t sure how to react to it. Your body felt warm and your belly was against his own abdomen. He could smell the scent of your shampoo lingering in your hair, and it almost intoxicated him from how delicious it smelled. He hesitated for a brief moment, then settled his own arms around your waist. It just felt.. so right to be hugging you. He had yearned for quite a while to feel your touch, and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

Your cheeks felt hot at the realization that you two were so close. There was so much going through your mind at the moment, and all you craved was him. His presence, his touch, his warmth, anything. It was all you wanted. “Boothill.. I want you there when she’s born..” you spoke, softly. “I want you by my side.. you deserve that more than anybody else.”

His eyes grew wide at your words. Sure, he knew he was going to visit when your baby was finally born, but in the room? During the birth? Oh, he could faint right about now. “Of course I’ll be there, sugar. You know I wouldn’t miss it.” he replied, smiling at the thought of your birth. 

Boothill then crouched down to meet your belly. He hadn’t ever done that before while being with you. You felt his hands touch your stomach, seemingly searching for your little girl who was somewhere in there. It felt so natural for him to be doing this. You didn’t feel off or weirded out. You loved the way his fingers explored your skin, touching and grazing at the stretch marks that had formed within time, but what you loved the most, was him.

“Can’t wait to meet your little one.. she’ll be a peach, I know it.” he looked up at you with a grin. 

“Our.. little one.”

Boothill paused when the words slipped from your lips. He thought he had misheard you for a second. “W-What..?” his brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You felt a little bashful having to repeat yourself. You weren’t sure what his reaction might be to you saying such a thing, but you couldn’t keep quiet anymore about your feelings. You wanted him involved in your daughter’s life so badly. It would kill you inside if that wasn’t the case. “O-Our.. baby, Boothill.” you said, avoiding his gaze that was fixed on you.

He stood up, still staring at your face with a serious expression. It was like his heart had completely blown up inside of his chest. It was like he was falling in love with you all over again at that very moment. He couldn’t feel more honored that you thought of him that way. “You’re serious..?” he questioned, looking into your eyes. 

“Y-Yes.. god, yes, Boothill. I don’t care if she’s not technically yours.. in the end, I want you in her life, and mine too. I can’t imagine a life without you..” you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his.

He couldn’t hide his wide smile at your confession. All of the love he had swallowed down was now completely overflowing, and he didn’t mind whatsoever. You were so beautiful. He adored you so much, and he was more than happy to call you his girlfriend. He was also thrilled to have a daughter. He could care less if people would judge him for raising a child that wasn’t his. He was more of a father to her than any other man would be. 

He suddenly pulled you close to him, pressing a kiss onto your lips. It was so passionate and loving. He couldn’t stop himself. It was like he was finally able to have what he wanted, and it felt amazing. “I love you so much, darling, you don’t even know how deep my love runs for you..” he pressed his forehead against your own. “I’d die for you and our little angel..”

A grin appeared on your face. This was all you ever wanted to hear. You didn’t think you would ever have the opportunity to hear him say such things, but you couldn’t be happier it was coming true. “I love you more, Boothill.” you then placed his hand on your belly. “And I know she does too..”

The both of you couldn’t be more excited at that moment. It was all perfect. You had everything you ever wanted. Neither of you imagined that this life would be in front of you now, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

© NXUVILLETTE ┆ all rights reserved, do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.

[ogsherlockholmes]

As much as I go on about how Holmes and Watson are sold as a set and that every adaptation has to include both of them, I always think about what they would be like apart.

For example, Holmes in his teen/young 20's years, trying to get through University and failing because he's uninterested in most of the topics, apart from the ones he's obsessed with which he cannot and will not break away from. Holmes basically isolated from the world because all of the other students find him too strange, too eccentric to hang around and be taken seriously (I'm purposefully excluding Victor Trevor here because he's always been a Watson prototype in my mind). Holmes starting to take drugs to stop feeling so depressed, to actually feel normal for once or to compensate for his feelings of loneliness by telling himself he's okay with being shut off from the world. Holmes' solving his first cases with Scotland Yard, gradually gaining more and more of a reputation, both for being a clever detective and for being an outcast. Holmes battling with his sexuality and his gender identity, because he sees men his age getting married to women and he isn't interested in that but he's still a little too interested in men, and maybe he's hoping he grows out of it, but deep down he knows he can't.

And then Watson has his own narrative and storyline: successful army doctor trying to find his feet in the war. He knows how to include himself with the other soldiers and the other men- after all, he can relate to their experiences with women. But secretly he knows that isn't all, he knows there's something different about himself that he just can't figure out, but he comes close when he looks at certain army 'buds' for a little bit longer than he should. Watson might have gone to war to escape from a situation at home, and he's trying to shut it out with the chaos, and he's mostly successful but he still feels something inside of him.

Both of them are struggling to understand their identities, to find their place in the world and who they might even share it with. They're nearly there, there so close but there's something missing: they're whole, but sometimes, things have to come in pairs to work at their best.

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Head Empty, Stuffed...

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

Summary: Commissioned by @curufins-smile. Dabi has a hard time letting go in his and Shigaraki’s scenes until he starts pretending to be something he’s not. The escalation from that point to pretending to be nothing but a head-empty horny slut is not something he foresaw for himself, but he is absolutely not complaining when it makes him feel so good. 

Contents: BDSM, Dumbification, Bimbofication, Feminization, Lingerie, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Sex Toys, Masturbation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Creampie, Cock Cage, Dirty Talk, Degradation, Praise Kink, Daddy Kink, Prostate Milking, Spanking, Dacryphilia, Subspace

Word Count: 8,167

Dabi has, even after everything in his life has gone wrong, always been the kind of person who thinks he knows exactly how and where his life is going to go next. Maybe that innate sense is from how he was told he had purpose when he was born, maybe he is just someone who constantly seeks out a way to make his life mean something, but either way, he has always known what he would be. That thing has changed over the years, but visualizing his future was never something that he had trouble with. 

Tomura Shigaraki might be the only time Dabi has been thrown a curveball and left spinning on his ass as he tries to figure out where he's going from here. Dabi wasn't expecting Shigaraki to be anything other than a villain obsessed with his own goals when he first heard about the League. And then he hadn't been expecting him to be anything other than an entitled, loser, brat, gamer-bro villain who was being bankrolled by real power in villain circles and he would just be a tool for Dabi to use to get to his goals. And then he thought he was a worthless waste of space when AFO got arrested. And then he thought that maybe Shigaraki could actually be capable enough for him to be worth Dabi spending his time with after the Overhaul thing. It wasn't until he watched Duster tear down the city around them in Deika as he convinced the army that was standing against them that he could be a good leader and that hitching his horse to this wagon until his own inevitable end was truly a good idea. Dabi has had a lot of thoughts about Shigaraki over the months that they've known each other, but he absolutely didn't have any concrete ones about the other man’s sexuality until he was confronted with it.

"Grand Commander," The PLF member that spoke was a woman, in her early twenties, bright eyes, big tits, and a sweet smile that had not convinced Dabi that she was innocent and coquettish as she was trying to present herself as she immediately got a little too close to Shigaraki as she introduced herself. "It's so wonderful to see the new direction that you've taken the organization in so far." She said, completely ignoring Dabi who had been in the middle of trying to set a time for he and Shigaraki to go over what he'd missed since he spent two straight weeks getting healed by the doctor so that he wouldn't be limping around here on his cane or dying of gangrene from the fingers that had to be amputated. "I would love to spend some time together one-on-one and hear about the other ways that you plan to make changes." She batted her eyelashes and Dabi would have gagged if he weren't so flabbergasted that anyone would make a pass at Shigaraki of all people. "I have a combat quirk, so if you're cleared for more strenuous activities, we could also do some training together sometime." 

He'd opened his mouth to say something then, but Shigaraki had blatantly run his eyes up and down her body before he'd turned back to him. "We can meet in my office tomorrow at eight. I'll see you then." Before he turned and walked off with her. 

Dabi had gaped after him, but when the shock and indignation wore off, he had figured Duster had just never gotten any attention from a girl before and the socially isolated gamer was just begging for attention and his first taste of pussy. 

And then when he went back up to their wing of the villa after finishing all of his work for the day, he had heard her howling with her pleasure and begging for more through the walls until nearly two in the morning. Dabi had been just about to lose his mind, but thankfully, someone else spoke to Duster about the lackluster soundproofing in their rooms and he had contractors up there within the week to make sure the incident didn't repeat itself. 

So fine, Dabi acknowledged that Shigaraki fucks. He could also say that chick was putting on a good show for whatever status she didn't end up getting from fucking the new leader. But that didn't stop other people from trying it with Duster too. More girls, guys, people outside of the binary, and Shigaraki accepted a handful. Dabi couldn't even tell what the other liked, given that the people he took to bed had such a wide variety of different traits, worked in different departments, and had completely different styles. But whatever. Shigaraki's dick was his business, and Dabi was going to go back to ignoring it. He could admit that he didn't expect Shigaraki to be the kind who was able to pull but that wasn't going to impact his work. 

And then Shigaraki stopped seeing anyone else and Toga mentioned when he was helping her trim her hair that he smelled lovesick. The idea of their boss being so fucking influenced by his emotions like that had Dabi hording the knowledge like a knife in his back pocket. He thought that was fair given that they had tried to kill each other when they first met. 

It was bad form for him to pull it out when he was trying to go over work with Duster in his office and he noticed that the other man seemed a little distracted. 

"Put away the longing, hand job, I'm not just here to look pretty." He'd snapped and that had red eyes locking onto his with an intensity he hadn't been expecting. "Yeah, Toga told me about your crush, stop thinking about it when we're supposed to be working." He couldn't help pressing the advantage when he had it.

Shigaraki had tensed slightly and then he'd taken a slow breath, "What about outside of work?"

Dabi snorted and went back to the papers, "What you do with your dick outside of work isn't my concern unless you make it mine." 

Dabi had thought he was being pretty clear that he didn't give a fuck who Shigaraki, well, fucked, but when they finished their work and he stood up to leave and Shig had caught his wrist, stepped right into his space, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck just gently enough not to kill him before his mouth had been over his own and he was being devoured, Dabi realized that neither of them had been playing with a full deck.

He had changed his expectations about Shigaraki a lot since they met, and even more when he'd gotten his head out of his own ass and actually started dating him properly. But Dabi had not been able to anticipate how much he would want to change where he was going next or who he was when he was with Tomura. Not giving up his goals, or changing who he would be outside of their bedroom, but inside of it? Oh, he had no idea just how freeing it would be to not have to think about that future or have any expectations on him but his dom's. 

///

Dabi is going to kill someone. He might kill a lot of someones if he goes out this weekend to 'recruit' as they try to keep up the pretense that they still don't have the resources that they do now with the PLF. Besides, keeping the heroes, especially Hawks who is still trying to crawl back into his good graces after he blew up at him, and blew his tattered cover, when he pulled the sword on him after the High-End fight is a good thing. He should probably take a couple of days off and wander around in a city not too far from Fukuoka so that he thinks that he's just been slumming it there in the aftermath. After that, maybe he should try a gamble with the doctor. He's not going to turn him into a nomu now, not when that would get him the wrong kind of attention from the rest of the League, but maybe he could do something about the shitty medical care he's been able to get for himself since he left the hospital. At least Ujiko actually has a medical license. After that it would probably behoove him to take some time digging around the files that their spy in UA sent them. He hasn't heard much about his brother's studies since his internship started, not since that villain went to their house and Natsuo nearly got killed. He should also--

"Dabi." 

He blinks, looking up from his laptop where he was finishing writing the meeting notes so that none of the other lieutenants, i.e. Geten, can pretend to have 'forgotten' something that they talked about and then go about doing the same old bullshit that he used to before they rebranded. 

"I'm going to be home this weekend." He tells him easily, "Why don't you go get pretty and we can do something special tonight?" 

Dabi didn't realize that his mind had been running so quickly it had seeped tension throughout every inch of his body until his lover offers him a reprieve. "Fuck off." The words are practiced and vicious, but everyone just thinks that he's, as Toga says, a complete prude when it comes to showing anything about his and Duster's relationship outside of their bedroom. They think he's just being prickly because that's what he does and Tomura is teasing him about it because he likes to see the rise that he can get out of him. It's a good illusion to keep because Dabi quickly finishes up the memo so he can go straight upstairs and do exactly what Tomura wants. 

Dabi knows that no one in their right mind really would find him pretty, but thankfully, Shigaraki has bad taste and likes to play pretend with him. He likes to be in charge, likes to make sure that Dabi isn't thinking twenty steps ahead as he constantly rushes towards his own goals in the midst of their war. When they have time to be together, he wants it to just be them, not all of the screaming thoughts that race through his head when he gets like this. But being apart for another three weeks while his lover was getting treatments from the doctor and having to keep on top of everything in the PLF has taxed him in a way that he knows will only get worse if he doesn't take the relief that Tomura is offering him. Besides, now that they've found the right cocktail of play that they can use to give him that, he's more than eager to take it. 

Knocking down the wall between their rooms, soundproofing the new space, putting in a second walk-in closet, and expanding the ensuite had been a project that took two months, even with the ability to use all of their own people who are also more than happy to use their quirks to speed up the work. But now their room is theirs, made perfect for them when they're inside. The separate seating area with Shig's game setup and the TV, the massive bed with the custom headboard that Dabi has been locked into more than once, a big tub so he can soak in it when he's been worked over too thoroughly to move for himself, and of course, the second closet. 

This door is locked whenever they're not using it, both of them knowing that the chances of one of their friends barging into their room for something or another is still extremely high, and not wanting to compromise their privacy or Dabi's dignity by leaving it open. He has one key, Duster the other, and he goes over to the door and feels the last of his tension melt away as he turns it in the lock and hears that satisfying click ring through the room. Dabi enters the closet and immediately is hit with the smell of the soft floral perfume that is sitting on the vanity. Their normal closet is filled with their normal clothes. Tomura's suits, their villain shit, their casual clothes, and it is all just organized cleanly and neatly with an organizer that they essentially just dragged and dropped from some big online furniture store. That room is pragmatic, this room is for play. Dabi steps into the closet, the floor in this room carpeted with a thicker, plusher pale pink than the dull gray of the rest of their room. Three of the walls are covered with built-in drawers, racks, shelves, and cabinets to organize all of the things that they could ever need during play, from dildos, restraints, collars, and lube to leather, lingerie and heels. 

Dabi goes over to the section that is absolutely lined from end to end with... girl clothes. He had just about killed Tomura when he suggested it, but after having to safe word out of half a dozen scenes, and then dropping two times he pushed himself to keep them going when his head just could not get to where it needed to be, he was ready to try anything. Becoming Tomura's baby girl had not been something he thought he would like, but it... worked for him. Dabi knows what he is and what he's not, and having Tomura treat him so differently during their play when he already innately knew that he was wearing a costume had helped him to get his head on board with the kinks they were exploring more than any amount of negotiation ever had. So when Tomura tells him to get pretty, he knows that it's time for him to stop being him and for Dabi to start... being Daddy's baby girl. 

With how heavy his head has been for the past week, Dabi is more than ready to make things easier for himself by being Daddy's girl now, and he picks out his undergarments first. Different ones usually tell his Daddy what kinds of play he wants. The black strappy ones tell him that he wants him to be mean to him, the red ones beg for him to romance him and give him more pleasure than he thinks that his body can take, the white ask for him to be the one to corrupt him 'first', but Dabi passes over all of those and goes for the bubble gum pink set. His head is too big and heavy and he wants to be stupid for the weekend. He wants his body to feel good and to be able to look at himself and pretend that he's pretty. So he picks out a thin lacy pair of panties that make his cock and balls look so cute inside of them and a pink and white bra with push-up demi cups, the pillow-soft padding pushing the muscle of his chest up so that he looks softer there like he has a cute pair of tits nearly spilling over the edge of the cup trimmed with pink lace. He can't help running his hands up over his chest, biting his lower lip as he sees how much the undergarments alone have already changed how he looks and have made his head feel a little lighter. He can be cute like this. 

Dabi loves to go through the rest of the clothes. Daddy sometimes lets him go on shopping sprees with his credit cards, but sometimes he just buys him boxes of new clothes that Dabi doesn't get to see until he picks them out. It makes him feel so spoiled as he gets to walk up and down the rows and select his baby girl clothes for the day. Dabi's whole body goes hot when he sees the micromini skirt that has a little white petticoat attached to the underside that he knows will show his Daddy his ass if he moves at all and he takes that off of the hanger and shimmies into it, before picking a garter, ruffled headband, white stockings, and a pair of pretty heels that he has to sit on the big pink heart-shaped ottoman to put on. They make his legs look nice and push his weight onto his toes, giving him the illusion of a fuller butt beneath the skirt. He's so cute like this and he's a little giddy as he goes over to the vanity. He's already giggling to himself when he realizes that he can't actually pull his skirt low enough to sit on, his panties against the stool as he reaches for his makeup and perfume to make all of him softer.

He adds a fruity scent to his skin to soften the stressful tang of smoke that has been clinging to him after having to be responsible for so long while his Daddy was gone. Then he makes sure that his lashes are curled and there's mascara making them thicker and fuller, making his eyes pop, and covering his lips in a fruity pink sparkly gloss that makes his skin soft. He looks so cute like this. Toga would be jealous of how many cute clothes he has, how cute he gets to be when his Daddy takes care of him. He doesn't know when his Daddy is going to finish with things elsewhere and it's too hard to think about finding wherever he threw his phone when he got into the room, so Dabi stays at his vanity and picks out one of his pretty sparkly nail polishes too and starts to work on those as well. 

When they're all painted and all that's left is for him to wait for the top coat to fully cure, he gets up from the vanity and goes out into the rest of their bedroom. Daddy still isn't there and Dabi huffs and throws himself onto their black leather couch, trying to take the remote between his palms so that he doesn't mess up his nails. It's still hard to hit the right button to turn it on, and he immediately starts to scroll through the channels. The TV is always left on the news, but that makes his head full and he knows that baby girls are supposed to have empty heads and holes for their Daddies to fill. So he can't watch something like that. So he clicks through the channels, flitting between a shopping program and a saucy magical girl show that's only on one of the special channels his Daddy got on this TV for them to enjoy. Dabi wonders if his Daddy would buy him all of the pretty sparkly jewelry being advertised and then make him feel good with only that glittering on his body, but then they start to talk about a new air fryer and he switches to the magical girl show and watches as the domineering villain catches the hero with their legs spread wide around a bench that morphs into an undulating snake that starts to move through the city streets. The movements of the snake rub against the hero's crotch, sending waves of pleasure through them as they try to struggle out of their restraints and stop themself from getting so visibly aroused by the treatment as the villain lets the whole city see how humiliated and needy the hero actually is when it comes down to it. Tha has Dabi's clit starting to harden in his panties and he starts to squirm on the couch reaching down to palm himself through his panties. The soft lace puts so much texture against him as he squeezes himself and lets out a moan from how good that feels. 

"Already emptying that pretty head for me, princess?" Daddy asks as he shuts and locks their door. Dabi immediately squeezes himself again, spreading his legs wider so Daddy can see how cute he looks in his pretty clothes he bought him. 

"Uh-huh." 

"Did you finish sending that memo to everyone?" He asks as he starts to loosen his tie. 

Dabi blinks, his hand falling away from his crotch, "Yeah, Duster, wha--" 

Daddy clicks his tongue with clear derision. "Not empty enough yet, but that's okay, baby girl. Daddy is going to help you become the stupid, needy slut that you were made to be." 

Heat rushes fresh through his body, his clit starting to harden and his nipples pebbling inside of his bra as he lets out another needy moan at just the suggestion. Yes, yes, he wants that. He wants to be nothing but empty holes for his Daddy to fill. Daddy goes into the closet and Dabi sits up a bit more on the couch, checking to make sure his nails are dry so he doesn't make any messes that might distract him. When Daddy comes back out he's holding a new toy and a small case. It's a black pillow made of a velvety material that he recognizes as the waterproof kind that their favorite blanket is made of, and it has a strange plastic hole in the center. 

"I know that your head gets filled with so many thoughts when Daddy isn't here to make sure that you stay pretty and stupid, princess." He says, leaning down to press a kiss to Dabi's temple before he starts to arrange the cushion on the couch. Daddy then unzips the carrying case and takes out a dildo much smaller than his cock and Dabi pouts. He's gotten so spoiled from having his Daddy's cock that anything smaller feels like a punishment. Tomura chuckles when he sees his expression, "On your hands and knees, baby girl." He gives the order as he locks the dildo into the plastic housing on the pillow. Dabi immediately moves into the position he wants, and Daddy rubs his hands along his ass, his gloves already in place so he doesn't have to worry about Dabi hurting himself if he does something stupid like moaning and spreading his legs wider as he pushes back to try to get his Daddy to touch his pussy sooner. The biting slap that comes down over one cheek only makes his clit twitch hard in his panties and Dabi can't help how hot it makes him. 

Daddy doesn't even take his panties off, he just uses one hand to stretch them to the side, his other squirting icy lube against his hole so he's nice and wet for him. But he doesn't unzip his pants and give Dabi what he wants. Instead he presses a finger inside of him, making sure his insides are wet too and Dabi tries to entice him more by heating his body a little more with his quirk. That has Daddy pulling that finger out so he can land a spanking right against Dabi's pussy. 

"Naughty girl. Thinking you can manipulate me. Thinking," he clicks his tongue derisively and Dabi whimpers. "It's a good thing I came home when I did, otherwise you would have forgotten completely that good sluts aren't supposed to think." 

"I'm sorry, Daddy." He chirps, resisting the urge to push himself back into the touches so he can get more. 

"You're not going to be anything but an aching clit and a dripping cunt for me, soon, princess." Tomura promises him. "Because you're going to sit right here," He pulls Dabi up again and has him position himself over the smaller dildo. "You're going to sit here and watch the pretty colors on screen while your pussy gets all warmed up for Daddy's cock." He says before reaching back into the carrying case and taking out a little bullet vibrator. "You're going to tease your cute little clit until you're all wet in your panties and Daddy is sure that you don't have any thoughts rattling around in your head." Dabi's body goes warmer as his Daddy tells him what to do. "But if you cum before I give you permission, then Daddy is going to have to punish you, baby girl." 

"Okay, Daddy." 

"Good girl. Now let Daddy see you stretch your pussy." 

Dabi eagerly holds his panties aside as he sinks down on the false cock, letting it start to stretch him in a much less satisfying way than he knows his Daddy's cock will when he gets it. Then Daddy gives him the bullet and lets him turn it on. The vibrations that start to go through him as he reaches to rub it against his head has another moan immediately tumbling from his lips as his Daddy moves so he can see the TV again. He would have pouted as he realizes that Tomura is going to shower and change if not for the fact his Daddy takes one more thing out, a little black remote from his pocket. He clicks that on and Dabi keens as the pillow starts to move beneath his spread legs, the dildo starting to fuck into his hole slowly. He starts to move in time with it, his clit hardening so much his skirt is tenting and his panties are stretched as he starts to make himself feel so good. 

///

Dabi isn't sure how long his Daddy has left him like this. He doesn't know how many episodes of this show have flashed over the screen or how to count the number of times he's had to take the bullet away from his clit. His whole head is foggy, his body trembling. There is smoke leaking from his seams and the heat of his quirk is making his skin glisten with a thin sheen of sweat as his clit aches. His balls are so tight and the dildo inside of him has rendered his wall so sensitive that every slow mechanical thrust is leaving him on the verge of tears. He wants to cum so badly, but he can't. Daddy said he had to wait. But it's so hard to remember that when his whole body is so tight from forcing himself away from his completion again and again. 

He keeps running the bullet along himself, having to touch different parts of his oversensitive flesh so that he doesn't spill without permission, but the sharper that the vibrations begin to feel against him, the less he remembers that he's supposed to stop. Or, rather, the less he cares. He wants to feel good. Good girls bounce on cocks, they let their pussies do the thinking for them, they get to feel good all of the time. Dabi is a good girl. He's so cute when he sees himself in the reflection of the screen whenever it goes dark between scenes. He's cute, and good, and he is so, so horny. He wants to be allowed to feel good. Dabi feels himself getting close again and he can't make himself take the bullet away or try to angle himself up so that the toy inside of him isn't rocking so deliciously against his aching prostate anymore. He keeps the toys right where they are and he chases that good, good feeling that he's been starving himself of for the past however long he's been here. 

He is just about to tip over that final edge before both toys abruptly turn off completely. Dabi cries out, trying to push the dildo deeper inside of his pussy, trying to find a button on any part of the bullet, tears filling his eyes as his foggy head fails to make sense of what's happening. He was so, so close. He just needed a little more--

"Are you really such a stupid little bimbo that all of Daddy's orders leaked out of your ears like how your pre soaked your panties?" 

Just hearing Daddy's voice has him moaning, arching back against the couch so that he can rest his neck against the back of it and look up at him. Daddy's long hair is wet from his shower, his chest bare, and he smells so good that all he wants to do is shove his face against his skin as he brings their bodies as close together as he can. 

Daddy doesn't make him try to speak, reaching down to take the bullet from his hand and then rubbing his fingers along Dabi's clit through the lace that is sticky and so wet from how many times he's gotten so close that there is a puddle on the cushion where he's been riding the toy. "But you did get all wet for Daddy without cumming, which means that you don't have to be punished." 

"Thank you, Daddy," he chirps automatically. He doesn't like it when he gets punished. Not when that means he doesn't get to feel good the way that Daddy always makes him when he's good. 

"Take off your panties, baby girl." Daddy tells him, straightening up so that he can come around the side of the couch. 

Dabi tries to move quickly, but his legs are so weak from riding the toy that it takes him a second to even just stand. And when he does, he nearly collapses into Tomura, but thankfully his Daddy is so strong and sure that he catches him. Dabi can't help giggling as he teeters a little on his heels and that makes Daddy smile too. 

"My ditzy little girl." 

"Uh-huh," He agrees, but manages to get his feet under him so that Daddy can sit on the couch. Tomura was only in a towel, and he sheds that as he sits, letting Dabi see every inch of him. His whole brain feels hot and soupy as his eyes drag along his Daddy's body. Over the swell of his pecks, the strong line of his shoulders, his thick arms, cut stomach, the sharp v of his hips that lead the eye to muscular thighs and the thick, long cock that hangs between them. Dabi's pussy can't actually drip just from seeing him, but he knows that it would if it could. As is, his clitty is twitching in his panties again, and he needs to get out of the scrap of lace that is confining him now. As he shimmies the soaked fabric off of him, trying to do it without getting the icky mess on his stockings or shoes, Daddy opens the lube and pours some into his own palm, reaching for his pretty cock and starting to stroke himself as he watches Dabi partially strip. 

"You look so cute like this, princess. Turn around." 

Dabi is more than eager to turn for him, giving a little spin that makes him stumble on his weak legs before he fully turns away from Tomura. 

"Bend over, baby girl. Let Daddy see how pink your pussy is." 

Dabi has to brace one hand against the coffee table as he folds over at the waist immediately, his other one going to his ass as he feels his skirt pull up to expose most of him. He doesn't bother trying to tug it down, he wants to show Daddy how hungry his pussy is, and he spreads his cheek open with the other hand, feeling some of the lube from the dildo slip out and drip along his taint. 

"Mm, so cute, all pink and puffy like that, princess. Daddy is going to make you do the same thing when he's all finished filling up your slutty little holes. Gonna take a picture and make it the background on all of your devices so that every time you open one, you remember that you're not supposed to be anything but my needy little cumdump." 

"Daddy," it's not a protest. It's a moan, a plea, as he has to quickly lift his hand from the table to push his skirt hard against his clit as it gushes another stream of pre as the thought of never forgetting this makes him so warm. 

"Did that get you so close, princess?" Daddy's voice is mocking, but when he looks over his shoulder to nod weakly, he sees that he's smiling. "Okay, baby girl, come here." 

Dabi straightens up right away, his skirt pushed up around his clit that's so hard that he's going to turn purple soon, as Daddy leans over the back of the couch to pull another box up from the other side. He stands in front of his Daddy, trying so hard to think through the fog enough to find his words. "I wanna be yours Daddy." 

Tomura pauses with one hand in the box. "You're already mine, princess." 

"Like this." He admits, feeling warmth in his cheeks as he plays with one of the layers of his little skirt. 

"Oh?" He stops stroking himself, his cock hard now and making Dabi's head dizzy with arousal as he licks his lips, knowing that he will taste so good if he takes him into his mouth instead of his aching cunt. Tomura wraps his hand around Dabi's hip and pulls him between his spread thighs. "You want to be Daddy's just like this? Not the scheming little brat, just Daddy's good, dumb, horny slut that doesn't think about anything but getting his pussy filled?" 

He can't hide how badly he wants that when his whole body trembles and Daddy can see how the words immediately have thick drops of pre beading on his head and dripping over his skin. 

"You can be Daddy's dumb slut all the time, princess." He purrs. "But you'll have to be trained properly. Right now you're such a needy little bitch, you wouldn't be able to walk around in all of your cute little outfits without being tricked into letting someone else touch you and you're Daddy's set of holes." 

"I'll be good, Daddy." 

"We're going to see about that. I have something that you'd need to wear until I know that you wouldn't let anyone else touch, and so I know that my silly little girl won't get so distracted from his own cute clit that he touches himself without permission. If you can wear it for the rest of the weekend, then Daddy will let you wear some of your princess clothes out on Monday." 

"Okay, Daddy!" He agrees immediately. He wants to wear more of his cute clothes. He wants to have his pussy filled. He wants to have his skirts on so that Daddy can decide when he wants him wherever they are and he can bend over for him to fill or drop to his knees right there so he can get his mouth splattered with his cum. 

The smile Daddy gives him is so sweet the second before the grip on his hip goes bruising. It goes so tight to keep him in place as Daddy takes the ice pack from the box and presses it directly to his clit and balls, the heat of Dabi's skin so intense and the sharpness of the chill so bright that a hiss goes through the air before he squeals as it instantly starts to melt against him. The cold bites at his princess parts and makes his arousal from there ebb so sharply that Dabi's eyes are filling with tears and his whole mind goes cloudy with heartbreak. He was being a good girl, wasn't he? So why is his Daddy hurting him like this?

The sob that tears out of him is shushed by his Daddy. "It's okay, baby girl. Daddy just wants to see you little." 

He doesn't want to be little, he wants to cum, but then Daddy takes away the ice pack when he's all soft and as small as he can go from how badly his body reacted to the cold. Before he can find words, Daddy exchanges the pack for a pink silicone... thingy. Dabi hasn't seen a thing like that before. It looks like a little cup with a ring on one side of it and a little slit going through the tip. Daddy pulls him closer again and he slips his clitty into the tube part before the ring goes around his balls. The tube is textureless inside and once his balls are in place and the sleeve is pulled to the right position, Dabi is squirming again because it feels... little. Not too tight, but it's hugging every part of his clit and he doesn't understand what this toy is for. Daddy uses a little pink padlock to snap the two pieces together and lock them in place. He looks down, reaching for the hem of his skirt so he can see that his clit has been pressed small and tight to his body in a way he hasn't ever had done before. It looks... different.

"There, princess, look at how cute you are in that pretty pink clit cage." Daddy coos at him. 

Dabi manages a sniffle. "Cute?" The rest of the words flow through his mind and out the other ear. 

Daddy smiles so sweetly. "Absolutely adorable, baby girl. So cute that Daddy doesn't want to wait to have your tight little pussy any more. Come here, precious, in my lap. Daddy wants to watch your pretty tits bounce." 

The compliments make his head feel much softer than it did a minute ago and he climbs into Daddy's lap eagerly. He's even happier when he doesn't have to lift himself into the right position. His Daddy is so strong now with all of his special quirks, so Daddy lifts him, hooking Dabi's knees over his shoulders, and bracing him with one hand against his thigh and the other arm supporting him around his lower back. Then he starts to lower Dabi down onto his cock like he's nothing but a fucktoy. Dabi moans at the first press of his thick head against his hole, the sharpness of the ice and strangeness of the clit cage enough to have distracted him from how badly his insides wanted to be stretched properly after being teased with the little toy for so long. 

That arousal comes flooding back now but... it can't go to his clit. Dabi keens, looking down at his heaving chest as Daddy sinks him all the way along his length so hard that his tits really do bounce. Dabi gets distracted by the movement for a second, liking the way that he looks in the push-up bra as he jiggles. But then Daddy draws him back up and slams him right back down. The movement of the toy had been slow and aiming to abuse his prostate constantly, but now he's so worked up that these harder, deeper thrusts, brush past it and make him see stars as those untouched, unstretched parts of his pussy are made to take the brunt of the stimulation now. And it's good, it's so, so good, but it doesn't have his clit filling after being chilled. It has his whole body tingling hotter because his arousal can't go where he's used to it. Dabi wants to find words, wants to figure out how he's supposed to cum with the cage on, but Daddy doesn't slow down. He pushes in harder and harder on every thrust, faster and faster as he drags Dabi's body down into them rather than letting gravity take any of the work. 

All he can do is moan, reaching for Daddy's hair, tangling his fingers in it and getting even louder when he manages to drag him in closer so that Daddy puts his mouth on his bouncing tits. He catches the center of the bra between his teeth and tugs it down as he lifts Dabi high along his cock, making his tits pop out over the top of the cups when he's tugged back down roughly a second later. With his nipples exposed, Daddy wastes no time in bringing his mouth there, sucking and tugging his piercings with his teeth until his tits are aching almost as badly as his clit that still isn't being allowed to get hard in the tight silicone that is trapping it. Dabi doesn't know if he's ever whined and howled at the way his body feels as he's made to experience his arousal in a completely new way, but every pulse of pleasure through his body that isn't allowed to go to his clit heightens the sensations elsewhere.

He wants to cum so badly, he's wanted to cum for forever now, surely. It's been years at this point, surely, but Daddy doesn't let him. The tight hold on his clit doesn't let him. He just has to writhe as his tits are tortured and his cunt is fucked so roughly, so perfectly, his whole body folded in on himself so that he can be made the perfect toy to satisfy his Daddy's needs. He likes to be used for his needs, so when Daddy keeps fucking him hard as Dabi's own frustration sends sharp tears along his cheeks again, he does get a little relief and satisfaction when Tomura's mouth shifts from his tits to his cheeks so that he can lick away the bloody tracks of tears before he fucks up into him hard one more time before Dabi is mewling as he's filled with Daddy's cum. His whole body is so hot that the thick splash of his seed spilling deep feels cool inside as he is held in place to be pumped full. 

"Mm, fuck, princess. Love your pussy so much, don't know how I'm going to get anything done if you're walking around so eager to get filled like this again. Maybe Daddy will need to buy you a few longer skirts so that you can sit in his lap all throughout our meetings. Gonna have to teach you to be quiet if I do though, because I don't think my stupid little slut will be able to stop himself from babbling to everyone about how much he likes to warm his Daddy's cock." 

Tomura just came, but Dabi still hasn't been allowed to and he is trembling hard in his lap, sobbing with his need as his hand goes down to his clitty. He tries to tug at the tight ring around his balls, the tighter sleeve that keeps him small and soft no matter how badly he wants to cum, and neither budge. When he can't get them off he tries to rub himself, squeeze himself, through the silicone, and Daddy laughs at his desperation. 

"You have to keep it on if you want to stay Daddy's little slut forever." He teases. "You're practicing to be a good girl on Monday, aren't you, baby girl?" 

"I wanna cum, Daddy," he whines desperately. "I wanna feel good." It's sheer petulance when he keeps trying to rub himself off fruitlessly as he sobs. "Dumb whores are supposed to feel good! Pretty princesses are supposed to get spoiled!" He's supposed to be both of those things. He made himself a pretty princess for Daddy today by picking out his pink panties. He made himself dumb by emptying his head of anything but the gratification that he's been craving for so long now. He wants to have what he was promised right now! 

Daddy laughs at him and makes Dabi squeal as he sinks two fingers into his pussy right alongside his softening cock. The extra stretch has Dabi keening, his toes curling as he feels some of Tomu's cum gush out of his abused pussy. But then those fingers are crooking and rubbing. Like the toy before, they find his prostate and start to prod at it relentlessly. "You're going to do something else today, baby girl. Daddy is going to show you something that will make you even better at being his good little slut. Something that will make him so happy and that will make sure that your needy body learns that it only gets to feel good when Daddy says so. This way you won't ever get so distracted from your own tits or how cute you are and start to touch yourself. You want to be a perfect little slut for Daddy, don't you?" Daddy doesn't wait for his response, rubbing his fingers inside of him deliberately again. "Don't worry baby girl, you don't actually have to listen to any of that, I know it would be too much for you to process right now when Daddy's made sure that your pussy is so full and your head is nice and empty." 

Dabi keens in response, rocking down harder on the fingers as best he can, his head is too foggy to make sense of Daddy's words. He just wants whatever pleasure he can get from him. 

"Come on, princess," he coos, "Just let go. You aren't anything but what I make you now. And I want to see my little girl squirt." 

His body doesn't feel the same way it ever has before when his arousal peaks. It doesn't send pleasure pulsing along his clit, it doesn't even feel like the good, satisfying full-body sensation that comes from when his Daddy makes him cum from his pussy instead. No, this sends that heat that was burning up under his skin to deep inside of him, aching at his root even though his clit is still held soft in the cage, before he's letting out a higher pitched, embarrassed moan as all of the sudden his clit is spilling everywhere. It doesn't pulse out a few spurts of thick white cum, instead a thin pearly liquid starts to stream from the hole at the tip of his cage, Daddy shifting their positions then to lay Dabi back against the couch as he keeps rubbing his fingers hard against his swollen prostate with one hand and his other, now free, hand reaches to his clit and teases his slit as he spills, and spills, and spills. Dabi's whole body trembles as he makes a big mess, so much more fluid coming out of him than he's ever felt before and leaving him absolutely breathless as the burn of arousal in him only seems half satisfied when it finally stops. 

"Mm, there, such a good little whore. Spread yourself open for Daddy, baby girl." Tomu demands as he pulls his fingers out of his hole and wipes his cum off on Dabi's skirt. He feels so dazed, but he follows the instructions automatically, one leg falling open so far it slips off the edge of the couch. Dabi reaches down and makes sure his pussy is as spread as it can be, shivering as he feels how wet he is, soaked with everything that came out when he... squirted, and all of Daddy's cum spilling out too. Daddy reaches over for his phone and doesn't hesitate to take pictures of him while he's so dazed and messy. "There, baby girl. You look so cute like that." He sets the device aside and then regards the huge mess that they've made of the couch. 

It's a sharp relief when Daddy doesn't try to make him put his head back on straight, instead standing so that he can lean down and pluck Dabi from the couch. 

"I know it's going to take more than one time to make sure my baby girl is trained properly. But that's okay, I think that you still have enough energy for Daddy to smudge your pretty lipstick, don't you, princess?" 

Dabi doesn't even really hear the words. He just sees his Daddy smiling down at him sweetly and nods along. His head is too empty to try to think for himself. It's such a good thing he has a Daddy to do it for him instead. 

///

Thank fucking god Duster doesn't take the shit he does when he's completely in bimbo mode to heart without actually checking in with him, because Dabi would have killed them both if he'd come out of the headspace in the middle of a meeting when one of the other lieutenants said something stupid only to realize he was dressed like a girl. Thank god he can say 'no' to the things he might have said 'yes' to when he was absolutely desperate for all of the good floaty feelings that come for him when he's in his subspace. So when Monday rolls around he is back to doing his work with the efficiency that he always has, in his usual villain gear. 

But maybe it's just another testament to how completely Tomura has thrown a monkey wrench into his plans for himself and who he thought he would be leading up to his death, because beneath his dark pants, the soft pair of pink satin panties and the tight cock cage that is keeping him cute and small for his Daddy are keeping him aware of what else he'll become whenever he has a chance. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment/ask. If you'd like to get a commission, consider checking out my guidelines at the bottom of my pinned post! Commissions are half price until the end of March!

[yanderes-galore]

Low honor Arthur Morgan + prompts 58, 57?

Yandere! Low Honor! Arthur Morgan Prompts 58 + 57

"One more mistake and I may just break something."

"You're stuck with me, like it or not."

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Deception, Violence, Possessive behavior, Threats, Arthur likes control, Coercion into eloping, Isolation, Forced/Toxic relationship.

You should've known better than getting with a man like him.

When you met Arthur, you felt your heart flutter. He was handsome and an outlaw. Despite the warnings you were given... you found yourself falling for him.

Even Arthur felt himself drawn to you.

Your time with Arthur was sweet at first. You had met him at a bar and looked at him as though he was a gentleman. To be fair, for an outlaw, he played the part of a gentleman well.

But Arthur was never a very honest man.

You were like a fly in a web to him. When he first saw you, it was indeed love at first sight for him as it was for you. Except... love for him was quite different.

You saw Arthur as a charming yet rugged man. One you had no issue seducing one night with a couple drinks. Yet while you saw it as all sunshine and rainbows...

Arthur was busy trying to figure out how to keep you.

You were too delusional with your feelings to realize Arthur's honeyed words felt fake. Your 'relationship' had started just because of you being intimate in a hotel one night. Ever since, you've loyally met up with Arthur... eager to just have his affection.

You're naive. Even your family keeps pressing that you shouldn't be involved with a man like him. Arthur, however... tells you to ignore them.

Each kiss, despite tasting like bitter tobacco or whiskey, is rough yet pleasant to you. Each hug is tight yet makes you feel secure. You were blinded by love...

Unaware of the fact Arthur intended to trap you... leading you like an oblivious rabbit to an animal trap just to prevent you from running.

Once you were close enough to him, clinging to him like a lovesick fool, Arthur knew he could lessen his restraint. You looked so cute to him. He loved the idea of making you his.

Which is why he suggested eloping... why bother with a big wedding?

No one else approves of your love... for good reason.

Arthur never hurt you... thankfully. However, the outlaw did enjoy control. Eloping with you allowed that.

Now he felt you'd always be his, slipping a stolen ring on your finger to solidify things.

It's after your little 'ceremony' together that Arthur became more possessive. He was quick to steal you from your family, isolating you to a gang you didn't know. It wasn't until you were surrounded by outlaws yet forbidden from talking to them that you had... second thoughts.

This wasn't your dream... was it? You were thinking of something more akin to the typical family life. You wanted to prove to your family that Arthur wasn't who they thought he was...

Yet you weren't even allowed to talk to them.

You were meant to be Arthur's obedient partner. You were meant to stay as loyal as you were before. You're just meant to be his....

Such a new dynamic often sparks many arguments between you... breaking your fantasies as you realize just who Arthur was.

Arthur... doesn't take this well.

He may not harm you. But the man can scare you. Especially with his strong build.

You and Arthur had gone off to make a private camp together. He says it's a date. Yet you know he just wants you with him and not left alone.

You ask if Arthur can take you to the town your family is from. You haven't seen them in so long now. Must be... a couple months now....?

Arthur just tenses... shooting you a cold glare... yet you keep pushing.

In the middle of quite possibly nowhere, Arthur and you bicker. Your husband remains adamant on keeping you away from your family. You, on the other hand, are tired of just submitting...

It isn't long before Arthur has enough.

You jump when the coffee pot is flung off the fire. Your heart nearly stops as Arthur stares you down, practically growling. He's... terrifying.

So unlike your usual handsome outlaw.

"One more mistake and I may just break something." Arthur barks, making you flinch away. "You've been testing me long enough... Your folks don't matter no more."

"Just one visit... please love... I promise I'll come back to you...!" You try to bargain but Arthur doesn't relent.

"You go near them again and I'll shoot them myself." Arthur threats, stunning you into silence.

"... y-you'll... what...?" You whisper, feeling yourself shake.

"Sweetheart... You know how long I've been wanting to shoot them fools?" Arthur chuckles in an exasperated tone. "They've done nothing but put me down... but say I can't have you... but y'know what...?"

Arthur then leans forward, holding your chin softly. He makes you look into his eyes. You swore he felt pleasure when he saw your fearful expression.

"You're stuck with me, like it or not." Arthur coos, caressing your cheek. "Since I met you, I never planned on letting you go... so forget going back home. You're with me now..."

You then feel yourself tugged close to him, him gently kissing your neck.

"I think it's time for rest, darlin'..." Arthur whispers, soon tugging you to the tent he's making you share. "I want to hold you...."

As you're dragged to the tent, you feel a sense of dread...

You begin to wish you listened to your family...

Maybe then you'd look past your fantasies... and see the beast you were truly dealing with.

[zenfiii]

My favorite ships of all time.. but as lesbians‼️‼️+ why i love these ships

Why i love these ships: they're stupid together

Anyway hope you like my designs!! Even if some are barely noticeable 🫠

(I'll be adding the qijiu drawing later!!)

(real reasons under the cut)

Clarification: they are not listed according to which one I like the most‼️ I have also only chosen the one I like the most, but there are many others ships that I enjoy as much as these! It's just that these have a special place in my heart (not to mention it's like four in the morning and I'm not going to draw more lol). With that said, let's see why I like these ships 😯

Torisai: Watching the series, Toritsuka became my favourite character because of how funny he was and especially because of his relationship with Saiki. Already when Saiki threatened him in the bathroom and half kabedoned him the gears in my head started working.

These two ironically are very close. Throughout the whole series Toritsuka has been very clingy with Saiki and even though Saiki himself despises and insults him, he actually cares and trusts him enough to do something as important as the volcano problem. They have this hate-love-hate relationship that I love, because Tori practically praises him while Saiki treats him like a germ, but, in the end, whether he wants to or not, he gives in (that's a lie, he doesn't, but let's pretend he does).

Saiki is practically a god to Tori and Tori is more of a problem to Saiki. They can't stand each other many times but they need each other's help on many other occasions. I love them I hope they get run over.

(I know I'm not saying much, but it's been a while since I've seen the series. If I rewatch it, I'll probably write this again with more details!!)

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·

Zensung: For many years my otp was yooran, BUT I discovered that this ship actually existed and OMG. I've always been a multishipper, I believe that love is the solution to everything, and for a long time I was exploring other ships but this one I had never seen, when I did everything changed, seriously.

Their dynamic, their chemistry and their relationship both inside and outside the canon UGH. They've always had that big brother/little brother type of relationship, very adorable and all, but what happens when one of them starts to have feelings for the other? Then everything becomes more complicated because these seemingly innocent acts can suddenly have a different meaning. Going over to each other's house unannounced suddenly isn't so comfortable, being so close is suffocating, and the touching is too much to bear.

On Yoosung's part the problem comes more from the fact that he is his friend, and not only that, his incredibly attractive friend. And on Zen's part there is the fact that he is a man, and not only that, a man he actually finds very cute. So they have this awkward dynamic of not knowing how to approach each other properly and it's so delicious. I could read thousands of fanfics where it's just them trying to figure out what's the best way to just accept these feelings. Very cute, hopefully they kiss mua.

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·

Xiaoven: When I wasn't playing genshin yet I came across some very nice art of them on Instagram. When I started playing Venti quickly became my favourite character. Shortly after that I got to know the pairing he had with Xiao and I found it. So cute. I did some research and saw that there was a lot of stuff around them and thought "wow, that's cool!! From so much content I'm sure a lot of people love it". Er. What a surprise when I realised that for a long time it's been one of the most hated ships in the community and I was like ???? I couldn't understand why, and to this day I still don't understand why it's so hated jksjdks.

Anyway. Why I like it is very simple. They're cute together. Xiao who has been isolating himself from everyone and everything actually has someone he holds dear to his heart because not only has he saved him, he constantly helps him and keeps him company. A pure soul who is there and embraces him with all that he is. And on Venti's side, although it doesn't seem like it, he actually is pretty much alone, all his friends, most of them, dead. And it's not like he can visit the ones that are alive. He is a free soul but, essentially he is lonely. He spends his nights with Xiao because he is someone he can trust, and secretly Venti hopes to spend more nights with him. Ayyy my kids how I love them, if I could I would put them in a little box and keep them away from everything bad in this world.

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·

Ivantill: My lovely kids! I love them because they have this whole complicated story, how Till loves Ivan but doesn't show it, and how Ivan wants Till to look at him but does it with violence because he doesn't know how to express it normally!! Well none of them know how to do it normally but uh, yeah.

Quite recent, but their story is very good! Although to be honest I don't really like angst and prefer to draw them happy, so I'll stick with au's!! I'd rather shamelessly cover my eyes and think they're happy than see how they've really ended up lol. Although that has its own beauty too, I just prefer the adorable stuff.

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·

[dev1lm4n]

all glory

masterlist | kofi (support me here!)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel has been feeling insecure, finding it hard to come to terms that he's indeed aging. tommy suggests a clever solution: a post-apocalyptic glory hole

word count: 4.8k of pure filth

warnings: minors dni (18+), post-outbreak, joel is 56 here hehe hot old men, insecurities, glory hole, fingering, unsafe piv, slight breeding kink, no pregnancy stuff tho cuz im terrified of that, reader calls him sir, pet name (darling)

note: i decided to create a kofi bcs im a broke college student lol. anyways hope yall enjoy this, do COMMENT and REBLOG if you enjoyed this :)

Joel Miller had always been a man of confidence.

Being left as a single father for Sarah at an early age, he’s been through thick and thin, trying his best to make ends meet so that they wouldn’t have to end up in one of those run-down shelters. But never once did he question his ability to attract women. 

He’s always had it in him. With a mere glance from his expressive eyes, he can ensnare hearts and leave an everlasting impression on anyone fortunate enough to encounter him. Rugged masculinity and striking refinement; a deathly mix that kept girls swarming after him like bees. After the world descended into chaos, he’s not much different either. Perhaps the bone-deep trauma had left him looking eternally exhausted with sunken eyebags, or that gray filaments started becoming a welcomed addition to his beard, but all in all he’s still charming.

He didn’t have to seek, because people seek for him. Joel had plenty of erotic rendezvous in times where society crumbled and the rule of law eroded, more so now that everyday could be his last and he didn’t have the privilege to take it slow like a true Southern gentleman. He’s done it everywhere. Inside a stuffy closet while hiding from a clicking monstrosity, behind a thin wall while her husband sat cluelessly on the other side, and even taking sexual compensation for his little business. Joel Miller wasn’t a saint. Neither he one for God and he’d like to make it obvious.

Nowadays though, within the tall foreboding walls of Jackson City, that type of attention has faded away. He’s no longer getting those longing stares from across the floor, no longer being begged to corrupt just for some extra wad of cards, no longer being flirted and fawned over like a goddamn stud. Joel didn’t have any problem with it at first. He’s growing old. Instead of those naughty strands of white peeking out of his head, he’s now a complete mix of salt and pepper. Instead of just having a fun smile line, forehead rolls and crows’ feet are now imprinted deep into every crevice. Joel wasn’t the man he used to be. 

He’s weathered away, he thought, unsuited for fun and adventure.

Perhaps it had something to do with his daughter as well. Even when Ellie’s not from his actual blood, everyone in town viewed her that way. He’s her father. Thus, everyone seemed to perceive and treat him as merely a father and not as an actual person that has his own needs and wants. Joel loved his daughter. Terribly so in ways he couldn’t decipher. A part of him has made up his mind that this would be how he should spend the rest of his life: in celibacy. Though the retirement of his sexual and romantic life has slowly taken a toll towards his self-esteem. Tommy, who’s always known to be rather slow and imperceptive, was surprisingly the first one to take notice of his gradual change.

“Maria told me you might be here.”

Tommy’s gruff voice brought him out of his trance. Joel looked up, meeting the familiar figure crouch to get into his little workshop. It was his newfound hobby these days, becoming a hermit and isolating himself from the community. He’d craft a wooden figure or two each night while he relived each and every one of his memories. Good and bad. Of death and of birth. Then by the end of the night he’d feel mildly satisfied with a wooden sculpture shaped like memorabilia from the old world. Joel couldn’t admit it outloud, but insecurity had taken over him. It festered deep into his soul that he couldn’t even bear looking at himself in the mirror anymore or present himself to society.

“Yeah, just..” he paused to ponder on a better way to answer. “Just doin’ my own thing.”

“You skippin’ dinner again?” Tommy’s curiosity sounded oddly suspicious, enough that Joel already knew he’s about to say something obnoxious or entirely uncalled for. The older quirked his thick eyebrows in return.

“Made myself my own plate,” Joel cocked his head towards where a lone plate sat. Judging from the crimson stain smeared on top, it must’ve been one of those canned pastas that he picked out.

“Brother..” Tommy started out, visibly nervous of how his brother would take it. “Is there something wrong?”

“With me?”

“Yeah, with you.”

“No, not that I could think of,” Joel hummed. “I ain’t bitten or anythin’, why are ya asking such a dumb question anyway?”

“You’re just different these days,” Tommy reasoned with a small frown. “You barely come out of your house and if you do, you’re huddled up in this place, carving things for hours on end.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with wanting to be alone. Is there?” he challenged.

“No, but you’re.. different. Almost like your mind’s troubled for once.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong, Tommy,” he insisted.

Joel was actively avoiding the accusations. He stood up from where he’s been perched upon for hours on end, bringing his half-carved wooden slab with him to set it on one of the displays he had. He’s grown quite the collection. It’s been going on far longer than he’d expected, the crippling fear of being undesirable and hideous, and it brought up an immense feeling of embarrassment. He couldn’t possibly admit such things to Tommy, could he? Tommy was different from him. His first child was on its way to be birthed, but girls still chatter about his charming smile and strong figure. They’d still gossip and make dirty guesses about his size. How long he endured such activities, the position he enjoyed best, and how sweet he was to his partner.

Tommy couldn’t possibly understand his fear.

“You can’t help me even if I told ya,” he grumbled.

“Put some trust in me, will ya?” Tommy chuckled as he spun around his seat to follow Joel’s every move. “Tell me what’s troublin’ you, big brother.”

“They don’t look at me the same way.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“The ladies,” Joel muttered.

His words were barely above a whisper. It almost seemed as if he saw the phenomenon as something humiliating, up to the point where he couldn’t even look Tommy in the eye in fear of having him laugh. He’s never talked about this with anyone else. It didn’t help that he truly didn’t have anyone to talk to in general aside from the few acquaintances his brother introduced him to and well.. Ellie. But none of them seem to be the right person to talk to regarding this. 

Regarding his failure in masculinity. His unspoken worries that he didn’t have any of the strong, chiseled jawline or any of the tightly packed abdomen with six separate squares to admire. He’s grown old and weak. Five years ago, he could’ve probably still sweet-talk his way into a woman's heart, but now he couldn’t even look one in the eye without the fear of being put to shame.

“They still do, Joel,” Tommy assured him. He’s telling the truth. Joel knew that Tommy didn’t have it in him to lie, he’d have sounded like a strangled bird or a squeaky dog’s toy if he did. But his mind couldn’t believe it one bit.

“I don’t know, Tommy..” he muttered. “They don’t look at me the same way. They don’t look at me at all even.. and I’m fine with that I 'spose. I ain’t a whorin��� bastard who couldn’t accept that he’s agin’..”

“But they do, Joel.”

“I’m old,” he sucked in the air. “Lately there are these moments where I.. where I’d look a girl in the eye and all I could feel was humiliation.”

“Humiliation?”

“Like they’re lookin’ at me as if I’m some.. some sort of repulsive creature,” he whispered. “I feel like I could hear ‘em gigglin’ with their girlfriends on how shameless I am.”

Tommy was deduced into silence. Time ticked by as he cranked up his brain to figure out the best way to aid his older brother out of his misery. It’s all in his head, Tommy knew that Joel knew that as well, but it’s easier patching up an oozing wound than a troubled mind. He brought his hand together on top of his jeans as he waited for the younger to make another comment, whether of comfort or of a harsh reality.

“I’ll offer you a solution,” Tommy spoke up. “But you gotta promise not to lose your head over it.”

“It ain’t drugs, is it?”

“No, no..” Tommy chuckled humorlessly.

“I’m open to anythin’” Joel dropped his arms to his side as he curiously eyed Tommy.

“Have you ever heard of a glory hole?”

Joel’s expression contorted in such a way that the younger Miller couldn’t possibly read what he’s thinking any longer.

“I ain’t goin’ outside those borders just to go to some sketchy brothel, Tommy. That’d be pathetic.”

“Well, the thing is this whole operation ain’t sketchy,” Tommy reasoned. “The girls were tested and approved by the local doctor before..”

“Local doctor? You tellin’ me this is happenin’ within Jackson?”

“I operate it, Joel,” he sighed, knowing he’s about to be bombarded with a handful of questions. “And before you ask, no this ain’t considered prostitution as there’s no material exchange.”

“You mean..”

“Yes. The girls do it for free. Volunteers. They do it for their own pleasure and I help make their dreams come true.”

Joel looked at his own brother as if he was a mad man. Who wouldn’t? When he’s just told him that they had an actual glory hole installed without most of the public knowing. Or perhaps they knew, they were just not talking about it in front of Joel.

“Ten to twelve. There’s a small house across the sheep field. One girl every Friday night.”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy. Maria knows about this?”

Tommy shifted uncomfortably on the stool.

“No, but it’s better off she doesn’t.”

Joel felt his morals set askew for a second. This sounded like a terrible idea, despite the fact that he’s confirmed it himself that it’d be the safest a glory hole could possibly be. He scratched his beard and took it into deep consideration.

In the quiet stillness of a winter’s night, the world was wrapped in a soft, white blanket of snow. The moon hung low in the dark sky - a beacon towards those who chose to travel in the deepest hours of nighttime. Joel blew puffs of warm air onto his gloved fingertips, hoping it’d satiate the coolness that made his joints ache and his skin itch. The air was crisp and biting, each breath producing a frosty cloud which quickly amalgamated into the air. He watched as gentle snowflakes, alike to elegant ballet dancers, fell from the heavens up above and twirled and swirled into an intricate pattern. He’s been waiting for way too long.

“So what are ya sayin’? Are you gonna let me take you tomorrow night?” Tommy broke the silence.

Tommy promised to meet him on the edge of the sheep field, where they’d herd livestocks all throughout the warmer times of the year, but he’s yet to see his tall nose and dark hair from any of the cardinal directions. He’s been waiting for too long to keep the same mindset Tommy’s trained him into, that this was simply a beneficial exchange for every party involved and that he shouldn’t feel shameful for something so instinctive. Waiting gave him time to weigh out the cons, how this was naturally an act of debauchery that wounded both his moral values and beliefs. He ain’t a God preacher, but he’s sure to keep some of those Southern manners.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

None of Tommy’s ideas are ever well thought out. Starting from his sudden gravitation towards the military, to his desires to hand over his entire life towards the Fireflies, and now this. He knew his younger brother wasn’t the brightest of men, but creating an entire glory hole to keep the town’s morale up might be the stupidest one he’s heard yet. Especially when Maria’s not aware of it. He feared for the day when the beans spilled out of its jar, but tonight wasn’t that day. During the time in which he contemplated his decisions, Joel didn’t notice the crunching of snow against thick boots. Tommy was here and he looked far too calm for a self-made procucer.

Tommy beckoned him to follow the path his boots had made. Joel sucked in some of that painfully cold air into his lungs, before he stuffed his hands in his pockets and started trailing along. There were a few street lamps across the field, a ruddy glow emanating from them as they were adorned with a light dusting of snow. He kept his guards up while he scanned through the whistling field of crop, that traumatized part of him always keeping in check of abrupt movements and unsettling sceneries. After a quiet walk for a good three minutes, they finally arrived. The house fronts looked dark enough, and the windows even darker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs.

There was snow piling up outside as well, dirtier ones whose last deposit had been plowed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons. He scrutinized over the tracks, wondering if this was meant to be used as a makeshift grain tower. If it was, then Tommy must’ve been a great scheming asshole to turn such a place into his own little heaven. Not one soul was around, which confused Joel even more. Wasn’t this supposed to be a public glory hole? Weren’t it supposed to be disgustingly packed with sweating men, adorned with walls covered in left-over spurts of cum and other bodily fluids, and smelled like sex itself?

Joel continued to pursue Tommy even when he’s overly skeptical about this entirely new scene. His boots were scuffed as he was dragging his feet through the front door, a fight against his defense system that’s begging him to flee out the door at the unfamiliarity. The establishment consisted of a long narrow hallway that eventually led up to an imposing door. Wooden, large, and mysterious.

To his surprise, what was beyond that door wasn’t some tacky sex dungeon with rattling chains and leather whips, it was a modest looking box. Square, he’d assume one meter wide and half a meter tall. He took in the wood it was made from. His pointer finger slowly traced the circumference out of habit. Oak, he concluded, making it sturdy and cool even in the warmer weather. What he failed to notice from the get-go was a pair of legs that were stretched open, chained onto the wall from the considerably-sized gap. Joel’s heart dropped to his stomach, he forgot for an entire minute what he was planning to do, and he’s starting to get cold feet.

“Darlin’, I’ve got someone for you,” Tommy cooed.

“You do, Tommy?”

Normally, people acquire hobbies in order to soothe their brief but occasional boredom, though you have discovered a unique way to tackle long hours of the night. This brilliant discovery of yours was birthed from a fated moment. One where you accidentally stumble across the conversation Tommy had with one of his patrol friends. It began a fantasy in your head. One you didn’t believe could come true until you overheard a passionate storytelling session one of the barmaids gave their friend. Only then did you gather enough courage to talk to Tommy about it. Despite his initial disapproval, saying things like you look too good and gentle to be doing such things, you managed to convince him with a week's worth of nagging.

“Mhm, one of my good friends here,” he hummed. “You’ll let him use you like a good fucking girl, won’t you?”

Goosebumps trailed from your backbone down to where your legs spread wide. Your nervousness made you flinch, effectively causing your legs to rattle against the metal restraints.

“Yes, I will, Tommy.”

When did you get so.. obedient?

“Alright then. I’ll see you in um.. twenty?”

“Thirty,” the foreign voice spoke up, masculine with a twinge of accent.

“Thirty it is.”

The entire room went quiet for an entire minute, only then did you finally hear the door slammed back shut. You swallowed back the throbbing fear in your heart, pushing back those persistent thoughts constantly warning you of the dangers. Even if you trusted Tommy with all your life, you didn’t trust the random strangers Tommy’s picked out. How could you trust them when you didn’t know who they were for sure? They could’ve been someone you see on the daily. The friendly guards, the cafeteria guy who’d always beam a sweet smile your way and give out more bread than standard, or even.. Tommy’s hunk of a brother. The same one who wouldn’t even spare you a look when you’re obviously sending heart eyes his way.

“Darlin’ is your name, ain’t that right?”

There was something so.. alluring about his voice. The type that makes your knees buckle inevitably, despite your best efforts to push it apart.

“That’s right,” you squeaked out.

“Darlin’, it’s been a long long time since I’ve done this, so let me indulge in you alright?”

“Okay,” you breathed out unsurely.

Your eyes instinctively followed the direction of the hushed voice, but all you could see from the dim box was a piece of dark fabric that was hung from above the hole. It was to keep your identity a secret so that the patrons across from you could only see you from the belly button down. Though now you felt more inclined than ever to pull on the draping and meet this man’s eyes. Your thoughts soon diminished when you felt a large hand over your inner thighs. Nowhere dangerous, just resting below where your kneecaps sat. You closed your eyes to try and envision the kind of hands touching you.

Were they soft and unsullied like a baby’s bum? Or were they rough and ridged with years of work?

That large hand traveled down South, inching with an irritatingly slow pace down towards where you ached the most. He was a fair man. He treated both of your thighs in the same manner before the two gathered together in a v-shape over your cotton panties. You wondered if you should’ve worn something more enticing, something which suited a person like you - someone willing to spread their legs for a true stranger. But the man on the other side didn’t seem to have a problem. He didn’t seem like he was bothered by the simplicity of your presentation, instead he was keen on pressing his thumb down the center.

They were the latter. 

His fingers were textured and it felt too good to be true. At the briefest touch, you followed after his movement, hips reaching further up to chase after his departing touch. You whined. Frustrated that he’s cruel enough to press your sensitive clit and leave you all hot and bothered. He let out a deep chuckle, one that came out from the depth of his stomach as he placed his thumb back where it belonged. Your hole clenched and unclenched at the stimulating sensation. Your cotton panties seemed to be a great aid for your needy clit. It felt similar to grinding over a pillow, just this time, it felt a lot more real and animated.

“How long have you been doin’ this, darlin’?”

“Doin’ what, sir?”

So polite. It’s laughable the fact that you’re so soft spoken. Your lips spilled out a gentle moan as his thumb dug deeper into that sensitive spot.

“Lettin’ strangers fuck you,” he was frank with his words that’s for sure.

“This is my first time.. in the box that is,” your voice cracked almost immediately under pressure. “Been thinking of this for a long long time though.”

The gruff man hummed noncommittally as he continued to please you with his thumb. You used to be shy when it comes to being reactive during intercourse, but with the box, it almost felt like you could finally be your true primal self with your utmost carnal desires. He slowly eased your stained panties to the side once he saw an increasingly growing wetness, knowing that it’s time to move on to his next way of torture. Your pussy was exposed to the cool air immediately, it felt like the air was nipping at the sensitive skin all around. He took his two fingers - his middle and pointer finger being his favorite choice despite the controversy - and slowly dragged it atop the slick canal.

“A pretty girl like you gettin’ all wet from a little touchin’,” he chided. “You haven’t been fucked well or somethin’?”

What a considerate man. He called you pretty when he could barely tell what you look like.

“No, maybe, I-” you were flustered. You’ve never had to exchange proper talk when someone’s touching your dirty, wet cunt. “None of Jackson’s men did good. That’s why I hoped..”

Your voice trailed off into a garble of nonsense when he teased at your entrance, trying to decide whether you’re soaked enough to push a finger in comfortably. You whined, louder this time, as your legs fought against the uncomfortable metal cuffs wrapped around your ankle. He decided to play nice for once and made your dreams come true by inserting that thick finger of his. Fingering has never felt good for you, it always felt like an intrusion rather than a welcomed feeling, but he’s making it feel like heaven on earth.

“Hoped a stranger would fuck me well enough,” you took awhile to finish that statement.

He let out one of those noises of disapproval, at your skewed moral direction perhaps or at the tone of desperation your voice must’ve let out. You could only suck in a shallow breath when he started making proper, continuous motions with his finger. He pushed upwards to poke the tip of his finger onto that squishy part, playing around to find out where exactly made you react the most. You loved how he’s patient. You’re half-expecting the men to just stuff their cocks in you like you’re some sex doll instead of taking their time, which you don’t mind either. Half the pleasure was from being treated like nothing.

“Dirty gal,” he degraded, which you found both surprising and exciting. “Just wanted her pussy stuffed with any cock she could have, hm?”

Your hips thrusted up at a larger interruption. This time, the man managed to insert two of his thick fingers inside your eased cunt. He twisted it one-hundred-eighty degrees to the left, then back to the right, before he curled it in a come-here motion. The motion had left you dumb. A combination of ah ah ah’s and unfinished pleads for him to keep still. The man never once fully removed his fingers out of you. He’d slowly pull back to only have a single knuckle stuck inside before pushing it all the way in once more. For once, someone didn’t finger you like you’re a pizza dough waiting to be pounded.

“A-ah, sir. I really.. mmh- I really like that,” you moaned out shamelessly. “Feels really good in my.. in my pussy.”

“You like what, darlin’?”

“Like your fingers.. fingers in my ah- ah pussy!” you whined when he deepened his reach by rotating his wrist upwards. “Something- fuck- something’s coming! Please.. Please don’t sto-”

You warned him like a goddamn virgin and there it was, you couldn’t see it, but you could hear the way your pussy squelched around his finger at the new wave of sticky fluids. The noises were filthy and lewd that you were embarrassed for the first time that night. It coated your throbbing cunt and slowly ebbed out of your hole, dribbling down onto the wooden floor boards under. Strings of almost translucent thickness proof of his success. It’s pretty. The way you gaped around his fingers, tightened and relaxed at his fingers that still kept you full.

“Good girl,” he cooed.

He must be experienced, because he was quick to rub your clit precisely as you went through the throes of orgasm. His broad palm never missed where that bundle of nerves were, until you’re dripping all over the place. Only when you’re right towards the end did he land a small smack atop your pussy, keeping pressure where your womb is to maintain the pleasure for as long as you could. It felt like this wasn’t a shit place for once. It felt like this stranger could surely turn the flesh-eating monsters into a field of rainbows and flowers from how good he’s making you feel.

“You taste sweet,” he muttered. “Someone ever told you that?”

It took you a while to notice that his fingers weren’t there to stuff you full. He was busy tasting you. You could imagine him on the other side of the room, rough fingers deep in his mouth, drenched in your arousal. The thought made you squirm, growing wet once more. You shook your head as his hand slid back up. His fingers ran over your clit with one long stroke before they stayed there. His thumb sat right atop the throbbing spot, unmoving. 

"Perfect little thing, ain't ya?” he asked, and you nodded, your muscles tense as anticipation ran high. "Gonna fill you up real nice."

As soon as the dull tip of his cock prodded against your entrance, your whole body convulsed. Tears slowly crept into your eyes, frustrated, you might as well cry out a pathetic plea if he kept on stalling. Your palms banged flat against the side of the box. Overwhelmed and on the verge of tears when he purposefully missed your weeping hole. His length slid upwards, the warm tip rubbed against your clit from below before it shied away once more. Your toes curled and he must’ve taken the hint from behind the curtains.

The perfect stranger pushed himself up to where his mushroom-like tip ended, allowing you to adjust to the dimensions of his cock before he eased himself deeper.

You let out a strained moan. 

You almost bump the top of your head on the oak boards when he forced his way in. His cock was fully inside you at last. You were ecstatic. Eyes shut close as you bit into your bottom lip, flesh tearing beneath your canines. It was too much all of a sudden. Too good. Too large. Too full. You could hear the loud squelching noise your spongy hole made as he pulled back and stuffed himself back in.

“Fuck,” he groaned silently. “Don’t squeeze around me, darlin’. You're gonna get me in big trouble.”

He chuckled and fuck did it sound so hot.

You felt his fingers gently reach for the width of your hips. His grip was tight and harsh as he guided your every movement with them. He thrusted like a man on a shooting range, with much precision and prowess. You liked this. Liked feeling as if you’re just a doll for people to use and dump their loads in, especially when it's for someone like him. His cock made you writhe and fight against the metal cuffs holding your legs up. Eager to have him speed up to meet your desires yet he was persistent in keeping a stable speed. The sensation was growing. Slowly but surely.

“A-ah.. mmph.. oh God!”

“God ain’t here to save you, darlin’. It’s just this old man right here,” he cooed crudely. 

He made sure to keep you full at all times. Never once did his perfectly-sized cock leave your sloppy hole, it just kept on twitching and growing in size with the help of your warm embrace. “You like this, don’t ya?”

“Oh- oh yes. I like it. Love your..,” he stopped your lewd confession by placing his thumb back atop your once neglected clit, drawing lazily with what’s left of your wetness. You could feel him starting to seep. A tinge of his own arousal mixing in with yours. “Cock! Love your c- cock.”

His heavy pants started to intensify in volume, such a lovely melody when combined with your pathetic whimpers. He’s close.

“Gonna cum in you, darlin’” he muttered out breathlessly. “Gonna make sure you’re all fucked out with my cum.”

You couldn’t think straight. Not when you’re on a highway to heaven. Your little hole tightened, so eager to milk him dry.

“Yeah, you’d like that, won’t you?”

“O-oh.. oh yes. Please.. fuck,”

“Please?”

“Please fill me up.”

His tip started oozing out ribbons after ribbons of cum, quickly filling you up relentlessly. Though he hasn’t stopped bottoming himself up into you. His load sloshed around, coated his length a perfect milky shade, and dribbled down your rear deliciously. Did you really just let a complete stranger fill you up to the top? Did you truly just let him pour his seed up your needy hole?

Maybe you did.

And maybe it’s reckless.

But oddly enough, you don’t feel too bad about it.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

the albatross ii - matt murdock

a/n: my first part two! i really love odd reader shes my favorite person ever. uh i don't really have much else to add i just love their dynamic. sorry the beginning is kind of bad im trying to figure out how much i want to delve into readers past like that. also im going to start a taglist for this so let me know if you wanna be included :)) warnings: cursing, drinking, lots of talk of death, reader has a lot of insecurities, reader has boobs my bad, oh! like a very brief mention that reader has sexual trauma, and lots of talk of sex though nothing happens-- word count: 5.2k summary: if there's a stunning woman with questionable character in the room, matt murdock is going to find her, and foggy nelson is going to suffer. pairing: matt murdock x winter soldier!reader the albatross series : i // ii now playing: the albatross - taylor swift "i'm the albatross/i swept in at the rescue/the devil that you know/looks now more like an angel/i'm the life you chose/and all this terrible danger"

September 19th, 1972

When you wake up, you’re freezing and out of breath. The initial moments after those long-term freezes were always frightening. You do not know how long it has been since you were taken, and part of you wonders if you ever will. You’re only ever conscious here, surrounded by generals and guards.

As soon as you wake up, a muzzle is clamped over your mouth. You’re a screamer, or at least you used to be. But now the muzzle is put on as a reminder that you are truly trapped and have no autonomy.

Someone will come in soon to say a list of words that will snap you out of your brain—Maybe snap is the wrong word. You will be locked out of your brain, conscious enough to know what you are doing but not at all in control.

You’re sitting in this big metal chair that might have scared you all those years ago, your arms strapped to the arms of the chair. The dimness of the room almost makes you scared as if you are a six-year-old who is afraid of the dark.

 A gruff looking man walks into the room, and behind him, you can see some soldiers dragging along an exhausted man, whose hair is long, but your eyes are drawn to him. Are there.. are there other people who are in the same situation as you?

In the back of your mind, a foreign emotion sparks, something that you cannot name at first, but then you find it— hope. Maybe hope is a strong word, maybe what you should be feeling is dread, that the things you are being forced into are happening to some other poor soul. You almost want to throw up when you realize it, but like everything else in your exhausting existence, you are ripped out of your thought by commanding forces around you. The man in front of you follows your eyeline to see you watching the man, and you think you see him grimace.

You have found something that was meant to always be a secret from you. You recall a foggy memory that isolation is the key to abuse.

The man nods towards you, and suddenly, you feel a violent shock go through your body as the man wills you to forget the small detail that you will hang on to for as long as humanly possible.

When a second jab of shockwaves hits you, you black out for a few seconds, only—

• • •

You sit up in bed, gasping or air as you try to orient yourself. Your hands come up to push sweaty hair out of your face, and you grip it tight to try and ground yourself. Your heart is racing as you take deep breaths in your nose and out of your mouth, not wanting to spiral into a panic attack.

You get up from bed to go shower, before changing your now drenched in sweat sheets, and it’s only then do you turn on your light and grab the book you’ve been reading.

You sit on the floor next to your bed, feeling disgusting and upset. You try to read, but you are rereading the same paragraph repeatedly. After twenty minutes of that, you grab your flip phone off the bedside table and dial Matt’s number.

You know it’s four in the morning. He’s asleep. He has to be up for work in the morning, but you cannot help it. You have been seeing the handsome stranger for a little under a month, and he has become your drug.

But there’s a couple of things.

First, you are still lying to him. He has no idea about your time as who is known in government circles as “The Midnight Agent”, and he has no idea that you will never be able to give him the life he deserves. Hell, you haven’t even spent the night with him, your relationship has been the definition of taking it slow.

Which leads to this: You have not slept with the man.

Back in 1945, you were surrounded by purity culture. Sure, you could have had a handsome soldier in your bed, but there was a part of you that always felt guilty when you looked to your large catholic family who were always insistent on saving yourself for marriage.

But you recall the memories of your time trapped, of guards who went unchecked and memories of men who took advantage of the fact that you were brainwashed, and how you might freakout if Matt’s hands wander too far..

And you recall Matt’s comment on your first date, about how he thought a long time to go without a date was a few months.

He picks up the phone before your thoughts can spiral any further.

“Hey, baby. You okay?” His voice is thick with sleep, and you feel a pang of guilt for waking him up. But you also melt at the simple pet name, not quite used to it yet.

“Hi.. I’m sorry I woke you up..”

“No, no, it’s okay.” He lies, “You didn’t..”

“Liar.”

“Okay, you got me.” He chuckles softly, “But seriously, it’s okay. What’s up?” He asks, and you let out this sigh. What to tell him, what not to tell him..

“Can’t sleep.” You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Wanted to hear your voice. I tried to read The Outsiders, but I couldn’t focus.” You cannot seem to do anything right..

“Okay.” He says gently, “Why can’t you sleep?”

“I had a nightmare.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“..Not really..”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“Sorry..”

“Why are you apologizing?”

You pause. It’s a good question.

“I dunno..” And then after a few moments you ask, “Matt?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Is it okay that we haven’t had sex yet?” The question eats at you. You recall Matt’s assumption that a ‘while’ since your last date had meant a few months. You’re worried that you’re not satisfying him and that he’ll get bored. Bored of you, bored of your quirks and oddities, bored of all of it.

And you don’t know when you’ll be okay to have sex with him, or if you’ll even be able to make it all the way through when you get to that point. And it’s eating you up— You could at least be good at something if you insist on being odd and bizarre throughout this whole relationship.

“Of course it’s okay,” He promised, “Why wouldn’t that be okay?” Sure, Matthew had his fair share of partners in the day, but this was different— You weren’t just a date to him, you were fascinating. If he hadn’t been such a realist, he might have accused you of being a time traveler.

And sure, sometimes he thought about you, about being buried between your thighs, about making you shake and cry with pleasure, and about how well he could fill you up..

But those lewd thoughts always take a backseat to how utterly interesting you are— Your odd taste in ice cream, odd movie and book tastes, the way you speak, some of the things you say..

“Because you’re hot,” you blurt out and then sigh. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, you’re so fucking handsome and I can’t even..” The words die out in your mouth, as you curl up into yourself on your floor, holding the phone pressed tightly against your ear.

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t need to sleep with you to know that I care about you.” He promises. “Do you want me to come over? Maybe you’ll sleep better if we’re together.” He says softly.

You hesitate, looking around your apartment. If you had a nightmare, he’d question what happened.. But on the other hand, you were fucking exhausted, and maybe Handsome Matthew would be the trick to you getting some sleep.

“Sure.. but uh.. My apartment’s super messy..” You confess, and he just chuckles.

“Somehow I don’t think that’ll bother me.” He teases, and you laugh.

“Right, Right.. Sorry..” You say. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

“See you soon.” He promises, and as soon as he hangs up, you immediately get up and start shuffling around to clean your apartment.

You do the dishes, you throw all your dirty clothes in the hamper, you make your bed with pristine edge and of course.. You grab the gun you keep under your pillow and stuff it right next to your vibrator next to your fuzzy socks.

You’re finally finishing up with your minor chores when you hear a knock at the door. You open it and have to take a beat to catch your breath since Matthew looks especially good with his grey sweatpants and black sweatshirt.

He grins at you, leaning into greet you with a kiss as he steps into the apartment.

“So, this is where the magic happens, huh?” He asks, and you smile bashfully.

“Something like that.” You shrug, letting him lead you through the apartment. His cane tip-taps against the floor, and your hands come up to rub your arms. It is your apartment, and yet, you feel absolutely exposed. “Uh, just… Keep going straight and the bedroom is on the right. Do you need anything?” You ask, unsure if he has some weird hypervigilant bedtime routine at.. you know.. Four in the morning.

His cane shifts hands and he holds his free hand out behind him, for you to take.

“Just you.” Your face flushes as you take his hand,

“You’re such a flirt.” And he laughs.

“How can I help myself when I’m in a pretty girl’s place?” he asks, and you go to answer but he leans against the wall right next to the doorframe, dropping his duffle bag and cane in favor of pulling you close, your chest against his. Your breath catches and he smirks as if he can see your flustered nature.

“You’re a decent young man,” you start, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s rude to grab people?”

“No, the nuns never mentioned that.” He does that adorable half chuckle before tilting his head. “Why? Do I make you nervous, sweetheart?”

Your face flushes.

“Everything makes me nervous, Matthew, you know that.” You accuse and he laughs again, nodding.

“Yeah, maybe I do know that. Seems familiar.” He hums, his grip on you loosening a bit. He presses another kiss to your lips. “Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart.” You don’t protest, simply grabbing his hand and pulling him along to bed. He’s more than happy to follow you through.

You find yourself laying in the bed, and he’s standing to the side as if he’s staring at you. You raise an eyebrow to him.

“What? What is it?” You ask, and he quickly moves, jumping on top of you. You laugh a bit to hide your nerves, and he grins. He leans down and presses a long kiss to your lips before whispering,

���If we never have sex, I’ll still stay with you forever.” He says gently, and your face is deeply flushed.

“Forever?” You ask gently. He nods, leaning down and pressing another kiss to your lips.

“As long as you’ll have me.” He says gently, and then, he rolls over and lays next to you. His hand finds yours and he laces his fingers with yours. You look at him for a long time, just holding his hand. “What is it?” he asks softly, glancing over to you.

“I just..” you laugh a bit. “I’ve never had a boy in my bed before.” You confess, and he laughs, his arms wrapping around you.

“You’re so odd.” He says softly, his hands finding your hair to play with it gently. “I love it.”

• • •

And this is how you spend your early morning. You sleep soundly in the arms of the one who loves you, something you have never had the privilege of before.

You slip out of bed rather early considering that you don’t have work today. But you can’t help yourself, you find yourself making breakfast for Matt. Pancakes, sausage, and coffee, just for him. At some point, he calls out to you,

“Hey, babe, where’s the shower?” And it’s rather domestic, in a way that makes you both uncomfortable and giddy. At the same time. Weird.

“Uh, right across the hall from the bedroom,” you tell him. And after about twenty minutes, Matt comes out to the kitchen. He’s dressed for work, but his tie is undone, sitting on his neck. His jacket hangs over his arms, and for a minute, you are just as you were always meant to be—

A young woman, in love with a man who has a good career, who loves you and is kind, whom you cook breakfast for and anxiously wait for him to get home.

And before you can stop yourself, you walk on over to him and begin to fix his tie, and he tilts his head.

“Where’d you learn to tie a tie on someone else?” he asks curiously. Your brain flashes to the soldiers who were never taught to tie a tie, so you learned, making sure to help them make sure their uniforms were in pristine condition.

But better than telling your boyfriend about that, you settle on a different truth.

“Needed to tie my brother’s tie a lot before work.” You settle on, and he smiles. That was the first time you had mentioned any of your family, so he just nods.

“What was his name?” ‘Was’ is a cruel but accurate detail.

“Anthony.” You tell him, finishing your work on his tie. Then, you press a kiss to his cheek. “Ready for breakfast?” He smiles and nods, as you direct him towards your table.

Yes, even though you ate mac and cheese while sitting on the floor when you first met him, you do own a table.

“What’s for breakfast?”

“Pancakes and sausage. Oh, and Coffee,” You tell him. You serve breakfast and sit across from him, placing a jar of jam on the table as well as syrup. When you pop the lid off the jam, Matt tilts his head.

“Why do I smell strawberry jam?” He questions, and you just raise an eyebrow.

“For my pancakes?”

He begins to laugh.

“This is what I mean when I say you’re odd. The only other person I know who’d do that is my dad, who learnt it from my grandparents.” He tells you. You shrug.

“I grew up with jam. Syrup’s too sweet.”

“Of course you did.” He smirks, taking a bite of his breakfast.

• • •

After Matt leaves for work (After breakfast, a make out session and then ten minutes with you fixing his disheveled look), you begin to actually clean your apartment. But your apartment is only so big, so by lunchtime, you’re bored again.

So, you start cooking and making these chicken ceaser wraps and french fries, before hopping in the shower. You’ve never dated anyone who you’ve felt the need to make and bring lunch to, but there is a first time for everything.

When you get to his office, you take a while to notice and observe every little thing about the walk. When you get to the front door, your hands run over the sign that reads ‘Nelson, Murdock & Page.’ And then you remember that in going up these stairs, you’ll meet his two best friends, and your stomach flips at the idea of it.

But your fingers twitch at the idea of seeing Handsome Matthew again. You’re incredibly down bad for the man you refuse to sleep with, so you push open the door, making your way to the office. When you step inside, you’re faced with a blonde man holding a cup of coffee, talking to a different, more blonde, woman who eats her lunch. 

Maybe you have the wrong office.

“Hi— Uh, I’m looking for Matt.” The words tumble out of your lips, and you wish you could say something more.

“Yeah, he’s in his office, I can grab him for you.” The man says kindly, and steps towards the only office door that’s closed. You nod and stand awkwardly. This is weird, you know that. You are a stranger in this office holding a big lunch box.

Matt steps out of his office and smiles in your direction. Immediately, you relax. There he goes, Handsome Matthew completely messing up your thought patterns and making you go against everything you ever thought you’d do.

“Hi.” He says, leaning in to give you a quick kiss.

“Hey.” You smile, and you see a moment of recognition on the faces of his coworkers.

“Oh, you’re the girl—” The man starts, and then it clicks that these people must be his best friends.

“And you’re Foggy and Karen.” You smile, sticking a handout for them to shake, and they do. You introduce yourself, and they do the same. It’s not as awkward as you would’ve thought, but you’re making it so much worse in your head.

“What’s going on?” Matt asks, and you redirect your attention to him.

“Uh, I made lunch. I thought I’d bring it to you.” He smiles at this.

“Thank you. Here, let’s uh, eat in my office.” He takes your hand, and you tell Foggy and Karen that it was nice to meet them, as he closes the door behind him. You sit down in one of his chairs.

“Sorry for just barging in on you guys. I probably should have called first.” You decide, but he shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s perfectly fine.” He smiles, sitting down in his own chair as you unpack lunch. You’re seriously not used to any of this, so it’s as if you’re taking foreign steps.

The two of you make pleasant conversations before Matt asks you,

“Hey, do you want to come to the bar tonight?” He asks, “We have a usual spot we go to. I thought it might be a good way for you to get to know my friends.” He hums.

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude...”

You also don’t really want to get drunk around Matt, afraid of what you might say. But he answers,

“Don’t worry, Foggy’s wife is going and so is Karen’s boyfriend.” You notice the shift in Matt’s body language.

“You don’t like Karen’s boyfriend.” You immediately recognize.

“What? No—“ He chuckles, “It’s just a complicated history..” The part of you that never grew up, that wants to dive head first into drama, the part of you that is still twenty something, clutching the arm of your sister as she spills about all the people she doesn’t like gets to your mouth before you can stop it,

“What do you mean, ‘complicated’?” You ask, and he just laughs a little.

“Really, sweetheart, it’s not—”

“Let’s make a deal,” You say, “In exchange for me bringing you a delicious lunch,” You start, “And for telling you something about my messy past, you have to tell me about that complicated history.”

“Deal.”

“Okay, than spill.”

“You remember a few years back, the uh, Punisher?” He asks, and you tilt your head. No, you don’t. It was probably before you were allowed to have autonomy and live on your own.

“Uh.. No.”

“What? It was all over the news.”

“I wasn’t living in New York until a few years ago.” Not untrue, you were living in the middle of Europe until recently.

“Oh, right.” He nods, “Well, he killed a lot of people he thought deserved it, and, as someone who has great respect for human life, I don’t know, I just can’t imagine dating someone with a kill count at all, let alone over thirty people.” He sighs, “But Karen sees something in him, I guess.”

A shiver runs down your spine. You realize that you can’t ever tell Matt about what had happened to you. He wouldn’t understand, he’d see you as a monster. Well, you are a monster, but you cannot ever tell him that! Is this a mistake? Are you supposed to break up with him now not to hurt him?

“Yeah, I can understand that.” You take another bite of your wrap.

“I believe I’m owed some of your messy history.”

“Right,” you nod, “Well, Before I moved here, I was living in Europe.” You tell him.

“Really? Where in Europe?”

“Here and there.” You shrug. “I just sort of went wherever I was needed.” You explain, again—Not a lie. Definitely not a lie. You were ordered around and told to go here and there.

“What did you do there?” He asks.

“It’s all kind of a blur,” You’re really being truthful now.

“Has anyone ever told you how weird and odd you are?” He acts, voice full of affection.

“You. Last night.” You grin, and he just grins back.

“Right. I really have a way with words, huh?”

“Yup. You’re a real charmer.”

“I meant it though.”

“Which part? The part where you called me strange?”

“The part where I asked you to come out to the bar with us tonight—And the part where I told you I’d stay with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Yes.”

“Yes you’ll come to the bar with us or you’ll let me stay with you for a while?”

You get up, circle around his desk, before placing your hand on his jaw, tilting his head up to you. Your other hand comes up to take his glasses off. For a minute, you just admire him, before pushing the hair from his face. Then, you lean in to press a kiss to his lips.

When you pull away, his lips try to follow yours, but your thumb just gently wipes away your lipstick stains from his lips.

“Yes.” You repeat, and he just grins.

He absolutely adores you.

• • •

You make sure to fix your hair before you leave your apartment, and then, you find yourself leaning on the brick wall outside of the bar. Your heart is racing, and although you do not smoke, god you need a cigarette.

Your foot taps anxiously against the pavement.

This will be fine, you tell yourself. Matt likes you, surely you can get the others to do the same. Or at least, you can try your damn best, and not just sit out here like a bitch.

Your head glances over to the door as a rather tall and gruff man approaches the door. He sees you staring at him, and opens the door before asking,

“You coming in, kid?”

Kid.

You’re a hundred years old, but okay.

“Uh, yeah.” You answer, before heading into the bar, “Thanks,” He just nods back at you. You walk in and look around for Matt and his friends. You immediately soften when you see him. Of course you can do this.

As you make your way over to them, the man who opened the door for you also heads over to them. You tilt your head as you get to your boyfriend and his friends before Karen comes over to you guys, sends you a smile, before greeting the man with a kiss. Oh. This is the boyfriend that Matt doesn’t like.

Matt greets you with a kiss, before Karen asks,

“What are you drinking?” You realize she’s asking you. What do you drink?

“Uh, whatever. I kind of like everything,” You smile weakly, before shrugging. She just nods, and then her and her boyfriend head over to the bar. You glance over to Matt, and smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He smiles and kisses you again. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

“Well, I did say yes earlier.”

“Yeah but you were being very vague and odd.”

“You said you liked that!”

“Shhh,” and then he kisses you again.

“You two are gross.” His friend, Foggy, says, and his wife just swats his arm.

“Sorry,” You smile, and then Frank and Karen are back at the table, and this large bottle of whiskey is placed on the table, and six glasses are placed along side it.

“Woah, big bottle.” Foggy whistles, and Karen shrugs.

“Long week. Lots of whiskey required.” Matt leans over to you and says,

“You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to—”

“I said I like everything,” You told him, “And I meant it.” You remind and the people around you laugh, so it definitely gratifies your desire to please them.

“See, this is the type of energy you needed in a date,” Foggy grins, and Karen laughs as she pours the whiskey for you all.

“I agree, I like her a lot more than I liked the last one.”

“Flattered, I love when people talk about me like I’m not here,” You tell them, as you take a long drink of your whiskey.

“You are odd,” Foggy says, and again, his wife swats his arm.

“Franklin, you cannot say that to someone you just met!”

“I was just joking, really it’s fine,” You assure, and take another sip of your drink. Then another drink. Your eyes get a glint of dog tags hanging around Frank’s neck. You nod to him. “Military?” Everyone’s head snaps to look at you, and then to him.

“Marines.” He answers, and he waits.

“I was a nurse overseas for a while.” And you almost slap your hands over your mouth, horrified at the words that just left your lips. Everyone looks at you, very confused, including sweet Handsome Matthew.

“Wait, you were in the army as a medic?” He asks, and you just nod.

“Yeah, I don’t.. really like talking about it..” You sigh, “It was a long time ago.. Before I was in Europe doing whatever, I was in Europe being a nurse.”

“Europe? There hasn’t been active combat in Europe since the 40’s,” Frank says, and you shrug.

“That’s where they had me. It’s where I learned to drink.” You finish your drink and go to refill it, “You’d be surprised how many young cadets try to assert their dominance over drinking games.” You laugh fondly at the memory.

Matt leans in to kiss your cheek, whispering in your ear, “Odd.”

• • •

You and Frank get into your own form of a drinking game as the night goes on. After two glasses, Foggy and his wife stop drinking, something about brunch with her parents in the morning.

Matt stops drinking after three, and Karen after four.

But here you and Frank are, swapping war stories like old army buddies as you make your way through the bottle. Five, six, seven.. You can’t remember by the time the bottle is empty. All you know is you’re leaning against Matt, and Frank is holding Karen close, and you are happy.

You don’t feel hidden anymore.

When the bottle is done, Matt’s fingers run up and down your arm.

“We gotta get you home, honey.”

“You need to kiss me.” You blurt, too drunk to know what you’re saying.

“What?” He grins.

“Kiss me. I want you all over me,” and you lean over to kiss him, and after a few moments, he pulls away from the kiss.

“Alright, but let’s get you home first.” And then you nod, because that’s a good idea. You don’t want Frank and Karen to see all the vicious things you want to do to Handsome Matthew. He helps you up and wraps his jacket around your arms, before glancing back to his friends. “Have a good night guys. See you Monday.”

You take a minute, before smiling at his friends.

“Thanks for having me. I had fun.” You cannot remember the last time you had this much fun. “Sorry I’m so fucking odd,” You start giggling, “But I had fun.” Everyone else, too tipsy and drunk to say much else, just laughs and sends you on your way.

You and Matt stumble home, as you mumble soft things about how much you like him, how pretty he is.

When you get back to your apartment, he locks the door behind you and helps you to your bedroom. Once there, you begin to kiss him.

“Sweetheart,” He mumbles into your lips, “Wait,” He pulls away and smiles at you. “Pajamas first.” He requests, and you nod.

“Yeah. Great Idea.” You mumble, going over to your drawers (Not the one with your vibrator, socks and gun) and pull out an old tee shirt and shorts. You begin stripping down, and you stop and glance to Matt, in just your shorts and bra, before asking, “Wait, how do I know you’re not staring at me?”

He almost laughs at how drunk you are.

“Honey,” he begins softly, and then taps the space between his eyes. Then you laugh, feeling silly.

“Oh.” You unclip your bra and slip on your tee shirt. You sit on the bed, and then lay down. You sigh deeply, your bed surprisingly comfortable after all of those drinks. You watch as Matt begins to strip down. “Handsome.” You mumble, and he laughs.

You fall asleep as he kicks his pants off before crawling into bed with you.

• • •

You wake up at some god-awful hour, maybe around two in the morning. You run over to the bathroom and vomit into the toilet. After a while of throwing up, you wander on over to the kitchen.

You take a big, long drink of water, before sighing deeply.

Your stomach growls. You find a loaf of sourdough bread you had brought home from work yesterday and begin to butter a few slices. You munch on your food, and remember Matthew in your bedroom.

Your Matthew.

You finish your snack, and then find yourself sitting on the floor of your kitchen. Just like you did the first night. Your lean your head back against the cabinet. You think about your boyfriend, and you think about everyone you lost.

In your half drunk state, You only smile when Matt sits next to you on the floor.

“What’re we doing on the floor, baby?” He asks softly.

“Just.. Sleepy..” You mumble, and then a grin spreads across your face. “I’m thinking about my best friend.”

“Your best friend?”

“Taylor.” You say softly, “She was my best friend.”

“And where is she now?” He asked, leaning over to brush your hair out of your face.

“Oh, she died ten years ago.” You say, and then laugh as if it’s funny. “Natural causes.” You shrug. She had died of old age.. And you weren’t there for her. Your best friend..

Matt’s arm is around you in an instant.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He says gently, and leans in to kiss your head.

“And you..” You glance over to him. “You.. I don’t even know what to do with you.” You laugh, and he frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I..” You sigh. “I mean that no one’s ever made me feel like you have..” You mumble, and then you admire him, only in his boxer briefs. “I love you, Handsome Matthew. And I don’t know what to do about it..” You mumble.

Matt just leans in to kiss your head again.

“If I said I love you too, would that help?”

“It would be a start..”

“I love you.”

“Even though I’m odd?” You ask, “Weird and bizarre? Off my rocker, completely out of my fucking mind..?”

“Especially because you’re odd.”

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

taglist: @writtenbyred , @indestructeible

[casual-praxis]

Ramblin' about corn au vired for a bit

I never seem to shut up about them, but at this point I'm just rolling with it. I figured I'd make a post talking exclusively about their dynamic eventually, so might as well do it in one go

Feel free to ignore this one! It doesn't delve too too far into the plot of the gas station au on account of being largely "off-screen" to Blue, and the fact Red actively avoids the narrative to the point he's basically missing in arc 2, but some of this will probably come up eventually since Vio likes to torment the bludow pair--and nothing pisses off Shadow more than someone making Blue feel like shit

CW: the details surrounding Red's death are mentioned--not to a graphic degree, but there's mentions of the state Vio found him in. Also a singular mention of cannibalism, if it still applies between a human and demon.

Okay, so, tryin'a get my thoughts in order.

The vired dynamic has changed slightly over the course of figuring out what the actual story of the au is going to be like, but the key elements of it have remained unchanged.

Vio takes Red's soul after Red's untimely murder and is able to bring his consciousness back as a supernatural entity, which brings about a plethora of problems for Red who would much rather still be dead.

They didn't really have any contact with one another before the events of the story start to kick off, but Vio was at least aware of the type of soul Red possess, and it was always his intent to eventually take it for himself to utilize. The timeframe in which Vio became aware of Red is ambiguous, though it could range anywhere from a handful of days before Red died, to three or four years of procrastination.

I like to think it was at least a year, and Vio didn't do anything immediately simply because he found Red to be interesting. Not that he felt interest in Red. But because he thought the two of them were similar, and he was curious to see if Red would snap and kill someone--he was kinda looking forward to it, honestly.

Of course, Blue accidentally messed that whole thing up, and he probably prolonged his own lifespan unknowingly in the process.

The whole resurrection process is messy and imperfect, but Vio manages to mostly salvage Red's human appearance from what he remembered of it. It's missing some details here and there. There was a bit too much of Red's namesake everywhere to really glean every little detail while Vio was busy trying to stitch the main wound closed. Just so he'd have a better idea of how Red's human form looked when not gutted.

Red does not adapt well to the idea of being a supernatural entity, nor the fact it took literal weeks for Blue to even realize the real Red was dead and he'd been temporarily replaced by an impostor (a story for another time). He especially doesn't take well to how Vio erased everyone's memory of the incident, leaving him isolated in his knowledge that he's not even alive anymore; along with the unfortunate experience of knowing what it's like to have your organs fall out.

Even though it's possible for Vio to take a person's memory away, a perk of his venom, he chooses not to take Red's, which immediately sparks resentment. The reasoning is that Vio can only remove recent memories, and not handpicked ones, as he has no way to perceive an individuals recollection of their life in a nonlinear way. Not unless he simply erased everything up until the desired point, which could potentially leave a gigantic hole in his targets memory, and causes issues, such as Red forgetting the fact he's now a supernatural.

In order to placate Red, Vio ends up agreeing to take some memories on occasion, whenever Red gets overwhelmed or his phantom pains starts to become unbearable. Vio's venom is somewhat unreliable on supernatural entities, having about a fifty-fifty chance of working, and running the risk of building immunity if used too often. It's the best thing Vio can really offer, since the alternative is to just kill Red, and that would interfere with the benefits he gets from holding onto Red's soul as is.

Red ends up isolating himself and pulling away from Blue and Green, especially once Shadow shows up at the gas station. He only really has Vio to talk with, and they're usually very onesided conversations. The shift from being kinda pissed at Vio, to trying to piss off Vio happens pretty succinctly.

He figures that if he annoys Vio enough, he'll probably end Red's suffering one way or another. So he starts chatting with him whenever Vio stops by. Red talks about this, that, and nothing at all, just to see if rambling will annoy him, but Vio has a great poker face, and Red really can't tell what he's thinking, if he even is at all.

The most he really gets from Vio is a very monotonous, "you humans call those opiliones, to my understanding," when Red starts googling spider facts to throw at him. He has to google whatever it was Vio just said, too, but apparently, grand daddy long legs are, in fact, not spiders. Go figure.

He's the one to give Vio the name "Vio" in the first place, since it's offensive in demon culture for demons/supernaturals to refer to a demon by anything other than their full title (A Violet Spider's Death Bloom, in this case), something he learned in passing from Shadow.

This didn't work either, on account of the rule not implying to the 'inferior human race', and Red apparently still qualifies as a human to Vio's many eyes.

Red doesn't know how to feel about that.

So he tries not to feel anything about that.

It doesn't take long before Red's random rambling turns into borderline venting, and upon getting no reaction from Vio still, he continues to do it, since it's not like Vio was entirely listening. Plus, it helped him sort his thoughts out. He needed someone to talk to. Even if that person was the cause of about 60% of his current problems, and was also mentally checked out while Red cried into a pillow.

Eventually, Red would find out that Vio wasn't actually ignoring him. Though that wouldn't become immediately obvious for some time.

As it turns out, Vio was quite literally created to gather information. It was in his nature to wait, observe, and act on what he had learned when the time seemed appropriate. Red talking in circles about mundane human habits didn't really offer much in the way of finding a solution to Red's main issue, so he only stored relevant tidbits and discarded anything tangential.

It starts in small ways, instances that Red didn't notice due to his own spiraling. The fact Vio kept popping up was an indicator in and of itself. Once the venting began, Vio was able to understand to a better degree just what was going on in Red's head, and devise a few different ways to try and remedy the problems.

Vio's comprehension of emotions is lacking, due in large part to him legitimately shutting down that whole function years prior. But at the very least he knows how to problem solve, even if he doesn't quite understand the emotional aspect behind some reactions.

If the problem is Red feeling lonely, then he'll just show up more often. If that problem persists due to his prolonged absences, then he'll just leave one of his spi-eyes behind; a constant companion with an eye only for Red.

If the problem is Red no longer needing to do simple human things anymore, then Vio will find ways to encourage Red to do them anyway; recreationally. He'll leave Red's favorite drink where he can find it, place takeout food from Red's favorite restaurant in obnoxious spots, hide Red's hoodie under his bed sheet, etc. If this doesn't work, Vio could also engage these activities alongside him, even if it's largely uninteresting.

If the problem is Red's former wounds act up, and he feels he's being torn apart again, then Vio will tighten his stitches. If this only delays pain, then Vio can just hold Red tightly as a reminder he's still whole.

If the problem is Red feels unsafe, then Vio will just have to protect him.

Neither of them realize it at the time, but Vio somehow manages to problem solve his way into caring about Red. The phrase, "my human," which was always meant to be a literal statement of ownership, starts to take on a slightly more endearing tint to it.

Red is Vio's one exception. To a lot of things.

He doesn't quite love him, not at this point in time, but the potential is there.

And then the threat of Vaati comes knocking, which drags the two of them back into the plot at large. The tentative friendship the two had cultivated is lost to the wind, unknown to anyone but them. It died with Vio, who died to keep his territory safe.

The territory of which Red lives in.

A territory of which Red will have to keep living in, unable to shift back into his human form without Vio's aid. Vio returned Red's soul, prolonged his life a little longer, but at what cost.

He's unable to move on without the erasure of Vio's soul from this plain of existence. And he's unwilling to take that step.

The resentment starts to creep back in.

Vio cursed him into this form. He played nice, trying to get Red to forget his despair.

He tried to care about Red.

He made a small effort.

He gave Red his soul back. Knowing he was likely going to die.

Vio made the choice to spare Red's life a little longer. And Red is livid.

Vio died, and Red's going to make it everyone else's problem. :)

I think that's about as much as I can say without going into further spoiler territory, but the vired dynamic does expand from here despite Vio being dead.

As I think y'all can probably guess from all my nonsensical vired drawings, Red changes quite a bit between the arcs, and while it doesn't all connect back to Vio, Vio being missing does negatively impact Red when it comes to some specific story beats.

Red's feelings towards Vio also comically slide from "I don't vibe with you" to "I'm obsessed with you" somewhere along the way, which could also be said about the bludow dynamic, but the difference is vired are actual freaks about it

I didn't even touch on all the strange things they consider romantic

Vio can't decide if he finds Red attractive in a potential partner way, or an "I want to literally eat you" way--eventually settling on both.

Red welds one of Vio's spi-eyes (a broken one that didn't function even when Vio was around) to the magic manifestation of a gun he's able to summon as a somewhat morbid memento, attaching yet another piece of Vio to his soul, technically.

They are the most dysfunctional duo in this story, but they end up making it work for themselves and no one else understands how or why. Red becomes so chaotic over the course of this au almost entirely because of a gay spider, and at this point trying to course correct it would feel a little anticlimactic, so I'm leaning full tilt into it instead

Antagonist power couple who can't make up their minds on if they're doomed or just toxic yeehaw

Vio relearned one whole emotion and it got him smushed, which sounds sad, but I've been intentionally isolating his behavior with Red from his general behavior in the au--so just keep that in mind

Blue does not miss him lmao

Thank you for coming to my au talk, uh, *squints at the squiggles on my hand* me, myself, and I

I will see y'all in conference about what to do with the corn in the vents, we're starting to get cobplaints about it

[amandacanwrite]

The Violet Thread of Fate Part One:

The Reclusive Wizard and the Cheeky Upstart

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Join Taglist

POV || Third Person, dual POV Gale Dekarios and Elinna Inklynn (Tav)

Pairing || Elinna Inklynn (Half-drow tav) and Gale Dekarios

Length || 5,500 Words

Scenario || In an alternative timeline for the events of BG3 Elinna Inklynn, an orphan from the Moonshae Islands seeks out the tutelage of accomplished wizard Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. She has a knack with the Weave, but no money or connections to actually learn how to harness it. She has heard the wizard is a gentleman and a schollar, and hopes she can appeal to him to take her on as his apprentice in exchange for her help around his tower, with his research, and in running errands in Waterdeep. Unfortunately for her, Gale Dekarios does not take on apprentices.

Warnings || Age gap (Perhaps about 10ish years), depiction of depression and heart ache, description of very, very mild body horror.

A/n || I hope you all enjoy this very indulgent little fic I'm starting. I am already having entirely too much fun with it. Please keep in mind that while this fic will have a good amount of characters and scenarios from the canon events of BG3 I am planning on taking a lot of creative liberties and may leave out certain situations/characters for the sake of flow!

If you like this, you may also like my original works! I have a writing taglist that you can sign up for simply by commenting or reblogging and letting me know you'd like to be added. OR you can fill out this form if you'd like to be specific about which works you'd like to be tagged in.

Tag list || @softvampirewhump @horizonstride @thoughts-of-bear @mymybirdie @tiedyedghoulette @drabblesandimagines @madwomansapologist @hijirikaww @tryingtowritestuff24 @laserlope @auroraesmeraldarose @puckprimrose @dont-try-pesticide

A Reclusive Wizard

“Mr. Dekarios, if you would just consider it–” Tara suggested as she fluttered alongside her charge. 

“Tara, no,” Gale said. “We are not dropping the wards and we’re not taking visitors. The orb is too volatile.”

“But, Mr. Dekarios–I’ve told you this isolation of yours–” 

“Tara–enough,” Gale shouted, exasperated. “You are my friend. You’re not my mother. I’m a grown man, who has done quite well for himself, might I add, and I don’t need your–your incessant fussing.”

“Mr. Dekarios!” Tara tutted, her whiskers perking forward with her disapproval. “My incessant fussing is what helped you figure out how to stabilize the orb in the first place, may I remind you. And if you so tire of my incessant fussing, allow me to divest of its burden! I may not be your mother, but your mother is a friend to me and will happily put me up.”

“Tara,” Gale said. “Wait–I didn’t mean you should leave–”

“I know that. But I am also quite aware that my willingness to fetch magical items and act as your little familiar has proven to only enable your reclusive habits,” she retorted. “Perhaps you will not listen to me, but when you run out of biscuits for your tea, perhaps you’ll see the reason in getting a little bit of fresh air…and perhaps a bath…and for the sake of the gods a shave.”

Tara flitted her way up to one of the high windows in the tower, pausing on the sill before leaving.

“Tara, don’t go,” Gale said, his eyes taking on a sort of sorry, piteous quality. “Please, just stay here.”

“Mr. Dekarios, those big glittering eyes won’t work on me any longer,” Tara said. “I’ve known you too long to be bewitched by your pouting. If you so wish me to return, you can come fetch me at your childhood home. The walk will do you well.”

And with that, she soared right out of the window, leaving Gale of Waterdeep entirely and utterly alone. 

Gale scowled up at the window she’d escaped from before sighing and smearing a hand down his face. He cupped his hand over his mouth and heaved out a low grumble, lost in thought as he often was these days. 

Perhaps Tara was right…maybe it was time to leave the tower. To engage in the ease of camaraderie at The Yawning Portal, reach out to the colleagues that had tried to pay him a visit in the year since his relationship with Mystra had come to an end–since this tangle of Netherese magic made a home of his chest cavity. 

But it wasn’t just the volatile nature of the orb that worried him. It wasn’t as if he thought a raucous night with his friends would trigger an explosion to level the city he called home. Even with the constant peril of the orb in his chest being destabilized by a too-strong emotion, there was a deeper fear inspiring the reluctance.

Gale Dekarios was used to being an outlier. Unfortunately, it was the otherside of the coin of being a particularly gifted wizard. As a child, it had been a source of ostracization. As an adolescent it made him the subject of many an ill-begotten rivalry. As a young man he had begun to learn how to minimize the isolation by compensating for the inevitable inferiority complex he inspired in others by learning to be charming and funny–to couch his corrections in complimentary language so that he could have some measure of friendship.

It wasn’t often that he could find people that could keep up with him or converse with him on his level–at least, not where the subject of magic came into play. But he’d learned to accept that and enjoy the company of other wizards–even non-wizards–in different ways. 

A game of lanceboard, the critical analysis of a book, a spirited debate on the merits of the shadow arts when applied to the correct endeavors. Now, as a man in his late 30’s with questionable knees, he felt nicely secure in his ability to play nice with others. 

But this new sense of separation–this insurmountable mountain between himself and the other–had been so very devastating to the life he had carefully cultivated. 

How could he listen to other people lament about their sordid love affairs, the politics at the academy–anything– with any measure of understanding or empathy? How could he confide in the people who he used to call his friends? 

He was alone in the tower, but he wasn’t certain he could face the profound isolation of trying to connect with someone about his condition, only to find them staring back at him in utter befuddlement. Or worse, with soulless platitudes and what he could only describe as foolish optimism.

Who could possibly make him feel better when there was no way he could ever feel better? How could he listen to the woes of friends and earnestly care about them when he had been forsaken by the goddess of the only thing he held sacred in his life?

He couldn’t. That was a the truth of it. And that was why he didn’t want visitors. He didn’t want to subject his friends to the poor quality of his care; didn’t want to expose them to this unique brand of selfishness and bitterness. 

He’d had enough of destroying things. 

But he also knew he needed Tara–not just because of the artifacts, but because she was his oldest and longest standing friendship. And because the tower, in her absence, had already become unbearably quiet.

And he supposed it had been a while since he last saw his mother…

He sighed and turned away from his mess of a study, climbing up the two flights of stairs to his bedchambers. Once there, he conjured himself a bath as he undressed, leaving his house robes in a pile on the floor before stepping into the steaming water. 

It smelled of bay laurel and lavender–an old combination that Mystra loved to use when they’d shared baths together. His mind drifted to the thought of his goddess cradled against his body, how small she felt even with her considerable power, the feeling of her silky hair catching on his skin as he kissed the hollow of her neck and…

“Don’t take that path in your mind, Gale. She’s the last person you should be thinking about right now,” he told himself as he gave his cheek a couple firm, bracing pats with his hand. He let his head drop back in the water and sighed. 

The water filled his ears, quieting the ambient sounds in the room around him and creating an echochamber of his head. He heard the airy sound of his breaths coming and going in and out of his lungs; heard the gentle trickling sounds of his fingers creating tiny currents under the water; heard the sound of his heart still beating in his over-crowded chest. 

He was still alive. 

There could be hope for him yet. 

Unlikely, sure, but there could be. 

After washing up with some simple soap, he got out of the bath and toweled off. 

He walked over to the small wardrobe where he kept his things and slapped a couple lazy splashes of a fragranced suspension he’d made onto his neck, favoring his pulse points as he used to when he’d go out for a night at The Yawning Portal. He trimmed his beard as a small concession to Tara (he would not be shaving it completely, thank you very much,) and got dressed. 

He decided he would wear one of his nicer sets of robes. It’d been a while since he’d properly dressed himself in something other than simple tunics and roughspun practice robes. He started with some leather trousers and his under shirt, layering the criss-crossed front with car and fastening it with the ties at his waist to create a slender, tapered silhouette. Then he slipped the robe on, and paused as he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. 

He’d not really been thinking when he selected the robe, but this was one of Mystra’s favorites on him. Various shades of violet with a wine-colored sash. 

Violet, of course, was the color of the weave. Mystra’s color. 

Would she want him to eliminate the color from his wardrobe altogether? Now that she’d left him to his devices? Surely a goddess couldn’t bar him from wearing a color. Hopefully not, considering more than half of his wardrobe was some shade of lilac, lavender or morning glory.

Whatever the case, he fastened the buckles and straightened the sash the wine colored sash, trying once again to put Mystra out of his mind. He did a flick of his hands to lace up the sleeves and then slid on some leather bracers for good measure. 

It wasn’t as if he had any intention of doing any fighting or shooting any arrows, but he liked how they looked. And it had been so long since he’d looked in the mirror and thought to himself my, look at that handsome devil.

Finally he looked at the mop of his hair. It’d also been too long since he’d gotten a cut…now his messy curls fell past his shoulders when he usually preferred to keep it short enough to comb back with a bit of emollient or pomade. He was certain his mother would gripe about it and then he would have to deal with incessant fussing two fold between his mother and Tara. Still, it was dark outside–long past the time any salons would be open, so he gathered half of it up, bundling it as neatly as he could manage around his two forefingers and secured it with a two-pronged hairpin. 

He looked at the earring on his wardrobe and hedged for a moment. 

He’d been given the earring as a gift from Mystra when he’d first encountered her as a boy. He’d only stopped wearing it in the last year. Something had felt off about keeping it on–like a widower still wearing his wedding band. But it also felt wrong to leave his tower without it. It felt like a part of his identity. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he said to himself in the mirror before turning from it and striding out of his bedroom. 

…He returned not two seconds later and slipped the earring into his left ear. Damn it all. He couldn’t help what he was. A sentimental, heartbroken fool.

On his way out the door, he grabbed a hooded cloak and draped it over his shoulders. He lifted the hood, obscuring his face in shadow, hoping it would be enough to keep him from having to interact with anyone who wasn’t Tara of his mother. He considered, for a moment, casting an invisibility charm on himself…alas the concentration such a thing would require left him feeling exhausted at the thought of it. The cloak had worked for rogues and criminals for centuries. Suely it could work for him as well. 

Finally, he left the safety and control his tower afforded him and walked out into the cold, Waterdhavian night. 

A Cheeky Upstart

“Okay Elinna. Just…ring the doorbell. You’ve traveled all the way here. So just ring it,” a young woman told herself as she stood outside the wrought iron gates. “You sailed all the way from the Moonshae Islands, left every book behind, dealt with some of the worst sea sickness in all of the realms just to be here.”

Despite telling herself this, she had to shake out some of the numbness in her fingers from clenching her fists too tight. Or maybe it was just the nip in the air from the coastal evening. She couldn’t truly be sure. 

As she stood there, her green eyes caught a streak of movement in the sky–some winged creature departing from a high window of the tower. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. Maybe a gargoyle? Or a mephit? An imp?

Something churned in her gut at the thought of Gale of Waterdeep cavorting with the infernal. Perhaps that was why no one had seen him in such a long time–maybe he’d made a pact with a devil and lost some of his humanity in the exchange. Maybe she ought to just turn on her shabby heels and book passage back home. 

“You can’t do that, Elinna,” she told herself. “You already spent everything you have just to get here. You’re all in, now.”

But that was precisely why she couldn’t bring herself to tug on the chain to ring the doorbell. Who was she to show up at the door of one of the best wizards–a proper prodigy of composing strings of the weave; the apprentice of the famous Elminster, no less?

Well she knew the answer to that. 

She was desperate. That’s what she was. 

She’d been left at the Scribe’s Nest by her mother with nothing but a note and an old locket she couldn’t get open; drow craftsmanship. The note detailed her lineage as a half-drow, but begged the clerics of the temple to take her in and raise her. According to the note left in her swaddle, Elinna would be shunned and excluded by because of her impure blood. 

A shame for both her mother and Elinna herself that the Scribe’s Nest had simply moved into an old Temple of Ilmater. The inhabitants inside were nothing but glorified librarians. They may have had access to all of the books in the world, but not a single one of her guardians actually knew how to use the information inside. 

No. Instead, they tried to raise her to love cataloging the written word, but deny herself the joy of actually using anything she learned from the old dusty tomes in the temple. Even when she’d shown a natural knack for small magics, she had been discouraged from using them, leaving her with no choice but to practice in the wee hours of the night. 

She knew she hadn’t much to use as a benchmark for her growth as a burgeoning young wizard, but she thought for all of the effort she’d put in she made a half-decent self-taught magician. All she needed was some proper tutelage to become something truly magnificent. Something worthy of the tales of great wizards that she’d read. 

Which brought her here–to the first and only plan she had to seek out that higher learning. And now her future hung in the balance of whether or not her knock at the door–or rather the ring of the doorbell–would be answered. 

Her heart pounded in her chest, at her temples. He leather fingerless gloves squeaked as she flexed and clenched her fists. 

“Gah!” she cried, turning away from the gate, pacing across the narrow cobbled street, then pacing right back. She gasped in a few preparatory breaths and hopped from one soft-soled foot to the other. “Just do it, just DO it, Elinna. Just–”

The door of the tower opened, it’s underutilized hinges creaking as the man opening the door grunted. 

“Damnable–old door–why did I make you out of iron,” grumbled the voice. 

Elinna went entirely still, eyes going wide. 

Perhaps it was habit from how many times she’d had to sneak tomes away from the restricted areas of the Scribe’s Nest, but she ducked behind the stone columns holding up the wrought iron gate and watched as the cloaked figure made his way to the gate and slipped outside of it with a wave of his hand. 

She remained hidden as he looked down the road in her direction, his eyes looking too distantly to catch her small frame tucked away in the dark. 

She’d seen sketches of the Gale Dekarios before, but she couldn’t help but feel they did him no justice. The etchings seemed to have emphasized the wizened qualities of his features; the lines around his eyes, the creases around his lips. They made him look sagely and–well–old. 

But the real man, the one now standing in the flesh just a few feet from her was something different entirely. 

He showed signs of age, of course. He was a middle-aged man, after all. But his lips were fuller, his beard a little more tidy, and his eyes…

His eyes were what made him look the most youthful. There was a sort of shimmer to them that she couldn’t quite describe, a sort of weight to his brow that made him look as if he was always curious, always observing.

She watched as he pulled his cloak a little tighter around him and turned the opposite direction, walking down the narrow street. 

Wait, she thought. What am I doing?!

She hesitated for only one more moment before quickly hurrying after him. She searched her mind for all of the speeches she’d practiced for this introduction, but she was left wanting. She should have written it down so that she wouldn’t forget–or would it have been even more strange for read her introduction off the pages of a notebook? 

It was all strange, of course; a girl crossing the ocean to show up on the doorstep of a stranger several years her senior. Asking for an apprenticeship when she hadn’t so much as sent him a letter of introduction or even had anything to offer in exchange except for chores, errands and meal preparations. Seeking tutelage from one of the most accomplished young wizards when she was still struggling with even the most basic of incantations…

But what else could she do? 

The life of a Scribe Nest Archiver was not a luxurious one. She’d had to sneak out of the old Nest to sing songs at the local tavern to scrape what little money she could together to book passage to even get here. 

Blackstaff wasn’t exactly inexpensive–and even if it was, she couldn’t hope to get in. Not with how poorly she handled the weave. 

But Gale–she had read transcripts of his lectures, heard tales of how magnanimous and warm he could be. She even once met one of his friends at the tavern who was visiting the islands for this or that purpose–she couldn’t remember. She only remembered the tales of his kindness and generosity. Of his gentleman’s nature. 

He seemed like her only real chance at ever mastering this art that sang to her like a harpy at roost in the bay.

God’s he was walking fast though. Perhaps it was just because she was so short in comparison to him, but she was almost having to run to catch up to him. 

“E-excuse me,” she finally said when she was within earshot.

She saw the briefest glance back at her, the quickest flash of a startled expression, before he focused forward and quickened his pace.  

“No, thank you,” Dekarios replied. “I’ve already a subscription to the Waterdhavian times.”

“Uhm, no–that’s not–” she stammered. “Wait, could you please stop walking so fast!”

“I’m in a dreadful hurry, good night to you,” he said dismissively, walking even faster as he pulled his cloak further to guard his face. 

“Mr. Dekarios! I’ve come here to talk to you!” She shouted, a little crack of desperation coming out with it. “Mr. Dekarios I–”

He whirled on her, suddenly encroaching into her space. He was so quick that she almost stumbled backward and fell. Before she could, though, he seized her arm with one strong hand, stablizing her quickly before clasping his other hand over her mouth.

She stared up at him with wide eyes, bright irises flicking around his face as if she were prey caught in his snare.

“Shhhh,” he hissed before looking around, as if to see if anyone heard her. “Mystra’s Elbow, you’d think my reputation as a newly initiated recluse would have gotten around by now.”

Elinna swallowed dryly, critically aware of the feeling of his calloused fingertips on the soft swells of her freckled cheeks. She blinked up at him, unsure what to do. His hand felt warm through the roughspun, puffed sleeves of her Scribe’s Nest garments.  Her feet were sort of turned in awkwardly after he’s caught her mid fall. 

She wondered if it would have looked like she was being accosted by a thief to a wandering bystander. She supposed it didn’t matter because no one else was here. She knew she should have been afraid. That she was a young woman alone with an older man; that he’d rendered her silent and could easily do much worse. But she also knew that was likely the experiences at the tavern thinking for her. 

Gale was supposed to be a gentleman. That’s what she’d always heard. And…

And his hands smelled like…like tea and old parchment and sage. There was a somewhat sharp quality to the fragrance–perhaps a suspension alchemized in alcohol of some sort. He must have made it himself. 

“Now. This behavior of mine, admittedly, is abhorrent for a gentleman with a young lady. I will have to ask you to forgive my bad manners and to give me the grace of your understanding because I simply did not want to be greeted by anyone aside from my mother and my cat. Now. I am going to take my hand away from your mouth; apologies again for the rough handling. But I’m going to then need you to let me walk away. And perhaps most importantly, I need you to leave me alone,” Gale said quietly. “Do we have an accord?”

Elinna’s pale ginger brow furrowed and he tutted quietly. 

“No, no. No crinkles of the brow, no narrowing of the eyes, miss,” he scolded. “It is by mere coincidence you’ve even caught me out of my tower. By all accounts this is an anomaly of the highest order and therefore…uhm…does not count. You should just forget this ever happened. In fact, I could help you do so if you like!”

Doesn’t count? What kind of logic–that was school-boy logic! And what did he mean help her forget?! She jerked her arm away from him and, perhaps in a moment of panic he tightened his grip.

“Alright, alright! I’m going to let you go–just– remember our deal, please,” he said, releasing her arm.

He winced slightly as he hesitated to remove his other hand from her mouth. She thought he had the same expression one might have if they were about to remove a cork from a vial of smelling salts.

He released his other hand, drawing it away from her mouth. 

“Mr. Dekarios, I’ve come to ask you to take me on as an apprentice,” Elinna blurted out. “I know you have never met me, and that you have no notion of my ability or skill. And that showing up outside of a strangers house and asking them for a place to live–”

“I’m sorry, a place to live?” He interjected with an incredulous tone

“--and a comprehensive education in the arcane arts–” she continued.

“I assure you I do not have the time, and it certainly wouldn’t be proper for an older man to bring a young woman into his home to–” he interjected again. 

“ But I have nowhere else to turn and…And I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer.”

His brows shot up as she finally stopped speaking. She didn’t know what to make of that expression, nor the silence that followed. Elinna could feel her face beginning to warm and she knew from  that her face was already starting to color with her own nerves. It felt the same way it did when a tavern patron made a bawdy joke at her expense–or about her body. 

The silence was the most unbearable part, though. So she started to fill it, her face getting warmer by the moment.

“You’re silent,” she said. “Uh–right. Names. I’m Elinna Inklyn. I hail from the Moonshae Islands. I grew up under the care of the Scribe’s Nest Archivists and–”

“Elinna. Elinna,” he said, his tone almost pitying. “I’m going to stop you right there.”

She felt her heart sink as he pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back, looking toward the sky. “Look, Miss Inklyn. I’m sorry that you came all this way, but. I am afraid you must take no as an answer. I cannot take on an apprentice, even if I wanted to.” He winced and almost half shrugged. “And frankly, I really do not want to. Even if I could do it, I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“But–if you’d let me explain–” she protested. 

“No–no buts. Again, I am dreadfully sorry for the trouble you went through to get here. But…considering that you sought me out and addressed me by name, you must know who I am.” he said. 

“Yes,” she answered. 

“So, then you know that I am particularly gifted with manipulating the weave,” he said. “That’s why you’ve sought me out.”

“Yes,” she said yet again. “Well part of the reason but also because–”

“So, then I’m sure you could understand why I find the inadequacies of unskilled wizards irksome, correct? That if I were to take on an apprentice, it would be someone with a certain level of innate talent?”

Her brow furrowed again and she inhaled to speak, but before another word could fall out of her mouth a huge boom of sound tore out from the sky above them. She clapped her gloved hands over her ears and yelped.

“What was that?” she shouted. 

The two looked up at the source of the sound only to see the sky split open like it’d been torn by a dull blade. Out of the opening flew a giant aircraft with writhing tentacles slicing through the air as if it were a squid traversing deep sea waters. The two wizards–one novice and one adept–balked at the appearance of the spelljammer, the size of it practically the size of Gale’s tower if you laid it on its side.

“A nautiloid?” They both said at the same time. 

They met eyes briefly before Gale gritted his teeth and grasped onto her arm, almost flinging her away from him

“Get out of here, Elinna. And whatever you do don’t let the tentacles touch you,” he shouted. 

She stumbled, almost falling on her face, looking back at him. 

“What about you?!” she cried. 

“I’m a wizard,” he said before turning and casting a bolts of ice at two of the tentacles that swatted out toward them. 

“It’s a spelljammer!”

“I’m a very, very good wizard!” he said. 

Elinna’s sense of self preservation won out over her worry for the man she’d come here to meet. If he thought he could take on a nautiloid, who was she to deny that? She turned and sprinted down the narrow street before dodging down an alleyway in hopes of getting cover from the massive tentacles that now swept down toward the ground like great, giant whips. 

She chanced a single look back to see Gale running just behind her, and the spelljammer that was traveling far too quickly and far too low to the ground for comfort. He followed her down the alleyway, calling ahead. “Not that way! To the east–”

“I don’t know which way east is!” she shouted back. 

“Are you kiddi–Eugh–LEFT,” he said. “LEFT, LEFT! Go LEFT!”

“Alright, I heard you!” she said. “No need to shout!”

“I will shout if I want to, now–Elinna, look out!”

She looked ahead just in time to see a brick wall and slipped on her worn soles as she tried to come to a screeching halt. 

She slammed into the wall, but thankfully not with enough force to knock her out.  She managed to clumsily tumble toward the left, dropping onto her fingertips just a moment before lurching back upright. Gale caught up to her and cast some spell–gust, she assumed– because a strong wind caught in the fabric of her clothes like a breeze in the sails of a galeon and made her feel like she was running on air. 

He fought off another tentacle and she screamed as one almost tagged her, but smashed an old fish barrel to bits instead.

“Keep going. We’ll lose it on the main road,” Gale yelled.  

They spilled out onto a wider street and she immediately regretted listening to the Waterdhavian native. It’d seemed a sound plan at first. But only if the goal of the ship was to find them specifically. When they made it to the street, Elinna realized that was not the drive of the nautiloid at all. 

The main road was chaos. There were carts toppled over and people lying trampled on the ground. People ran and screamed, some of them were swatted by the terrifying power of the tentacles only to vanish into dust before they could make impact with the wall of a building or the floor below them.

Elinna froze in terror, realizing finally that her plight had gone from one of trying to secure a teacher of her own to one of simply trying to survive her first night on the mainland. It suddenly dawned on her that she might actually die here. She might die within moments. 

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

It was a mistake to stop, but she realized it too late. A horse cried out desperately and tore away from the frightening vessel. It tore straight toward her, its eyes wild, his nose gusting tufts of steam into the air like a machine. It pulled a market cart along with it, full of heavy barrels of meat and wine. She braced herself, squeezing her eyes shut and thinking about the magic she’d read about. Misty step–misty step, what was the incantation for misty step?

“I-Inveniam Viam!!” she shouted, the words sailing on waves of the weave and almost…echoing. There was the sweet taste of something on her tongue–the after effect of using the weave if her reading was any indication. She’d only tasted that once or twice before, but chasing that sweet, comforting experience was what brought her here. It’s what made her so desperately want to learn how to wield this magic.

When she opened her eyes, the horse was gone.

Unfortunately for her, so was the ground beneath her feet. 

She’d somehow teleported into midair and, as if the weave was just as shocked as she was, she’d wound up suspended there for just the briefest moment, cradled by the strands of the weave she’d managed to manipulate. Seconds felt like minutes as he copper hair floate away from her face as she experienced true weightlessness for just moments. Then she felt the sickening churn in her stomach as she started to fall. 

The floor just far enough to be lethal but not far enough to give her adequate time to figure out another spell. Her mind went blank with terror. In a moment of desperation, she found Gale in the crowd, a stationary man in a sea of fleeing people. 

He looked at her in abject horror as she dropped like a dagger out of the sky. He looked utterly, woefully helpless.

She screamed, wrapping her arms around her as if she could brace her own fall, as if holding herself would hold her together.

Then, just as she was about to splat on the cobblestones into a puddle of bone and blood, a searing heat bloomed from the center of her back. She screamed again as she felt herself dissolve from the inside out, her innards liquifying into a primordial soup. 

Her body went miserably hot, and then impossibly cold. No. Not cold–she realized–absent. She was vanishing from the center of her body. She watched in uncomprehending horror as her middle vanished, watched as her body evaporated like steam off a teacup. 

Her guttural scream sounded from her and died in the air. 

The last thing she saw before her vision went black was Gale still staring at her as he too succumbed to the nautiloid’s attack.

[alicedrawslesmis]

I know I just said I didn't want to just be complaining about everything so I'll try to word this in a more constructive way asdfghjkl

It's hard to be an Eponine fan in a world where the musical -and On My Own specifically- is sooooo mainstream. Because imo as much as On My Own itself is kind of a half-decent, if simplified, encapsulation of Eponine's struggle with her love for Marius if you analise the lyrics in isolation, the musical as a whole, her role in the narrative as the unrequited love diva (I'm also simplifying here. I don't think this is super fair to the anglo musical, but compared to the book there's no question of how they reworked her into a glamorous 80s diva contralto because musical theatre has usually very strict gender roles), did her so dirty. So dirty. And imo often her character is reduced to her pining in fandom as a result. And I don't like that, personally.

I love that girl so much. I love that she is just young enough to still be a child but adult enough to be aware of her social role. She has one foot in the gamin life and one foot in the adult world. I love the tragedy that is the fact that she likes the beauty and pomp of high society girls and wish she could have silk shoes but knowing she can't.

And also being super resigned to her class despite it, she doesn't believe she ever will have any of that. She resents that too, somewhat. The tragedy of her knowing that she couldn't be with Marius because of his social class and her accepting that (angrily? sadly?). I love her self-banishment as his guard dog because of this. I love her drunk sailor voice. I love how manipulative she is and that she isn't Marius's friend at all. He's just her one neighbor who wasn't a total asshole one time. He was, later. But not at first. And she can't be in his head and know he thinks she's kinda despicable because crime because Marius is a judgemental little shithead.

And Eponine isn't an idealist, she's resigned to her position. I understand why she gets paired with grantaire in fics but her canon narrative parallel is Javert, they both believe they are excluded from society from their outcast position and so become the watchdogs for it. Eponine a kind of guardian (in her own words a devil, not an angel) and Javert the same. That's why he's the one person who sees her in the barricade, he's the same as her. Marius saw her but that's only cause he had a use for her in that moment, as soon as she didn't he forgot all about it.

I think also Gavroche, with his ability to be kind of a figure above the narrative, with his gamin skills of being almost omnipresent is something Eponine used to have, but with her age she's starting to lose that. She's starting to grown old enough that she's required to be IN the world and not supercede it. Gavroche is also almost there, if he had been allowed to grow up he would've lost that ability too. They both inhabit this sort of magical surreal world superimposed on our own.

A lot of Les Mis and Notre Dame de Paris can be kinda described as magical realism, I would go so far as calling them urban fantasy. And characters like Babet, Thenardier sometimes, Gavroche, Eponine (and Javert sometimes as well) are inhabiting this magically charged layer. This reality that's imposed Over the real world.

Talking about that One Series Of Wizard Books is a bit passé rn so uh. Doctor Who. Particularly the initial New Who seasons before they got that huge budget. That's a good parallel to what I'm getting at. The real world is still the same but there are certain characters that inhabit this mystical overlayer and are able to transverse from one to the other (Javert can't really because he is stuck forever outside and the second he understands that you CAN'T be an unbiased outsider who only enforces the norm without participating he freaks out and literally dies about it). Eponine is right in the eye of the storm tho. She manipulates reality to get her way, to die with Marius, because that's as close as she can get to being with him. And she manipulates reality to protect him too. Contradictions be damned. She has many contradictory feelings that make her complex and cool and an awesome character whom I love and wish would stop being reduced to the glamurous mysical theatre role with a single black stain on her face and a beautiful actor and a big unrequited love song about a random boy (whose personality was also changed for the musical and I argue is probably the character that was most fucked up by it in the public perception because he's such an weird little self-insert of an even weirder guy. But I get it, the musical is long enough as it is).

Anyway, I wish eponine could be more of a mongrel, a little gremlin. A little rat child that's just beginning to grow into an adult and is self aware of her role in the narrative society. She's a teenage girl which already sucks to go through when you're not constantly starving and cold and being forced by your father to work and do con jobs. Marius is the object she attaches herself to, but it could've been literally anything. Javert did that with the social order, he protects and guards it. She just chose Some Guy instead. Which, we all have that one friend who does that too. Like girl you're too good for him. Come on let's get you sone ice cream. And clean clothes and a roof. Literally anything. Bread.

I think if Eponine had a roof over her head and like, food on the regular she would forget Marius exists. Same as Cosette if she had moved to England. Like he'd be that one intense crush they had as teenagers. Can't say the same for him tho. He would hold onto that for the rest of time.

[good-beanswrites]

With this innocent/guilty spread, how do you think the whole situation would play out?

(Originally from my Songshift/Roleswap AU)

T1:

Guilty: Haruka, Fuuta, Muu, Amane

Innocent: Yuno, Shidou, Mahiru, Kazui, Mikoto, Kotoko

T2:

Guilty: Shidou, Kazui, Mikoto

Innocent: Haruka, Yuno, Fuuta, Muu, Mahiru, Amane, Kotoko

Ooh, I remember that, it was fun!! (Original post here) Thank you for the ask – weirdly enough, I was just thinking about doing something like this, and it was really interesting to figure out! Although I’m sticking with Yamanaka’s structure of three injuries/three deaths, I’m purposefully choosing new victims/relationships/interactions. There could easily be repeats of a lot of canon events, so I’m trying to just focus on new possibilities…) Spoiler alert, we once again arrive at Superhell 😭 Some of the verdicts seemed counterintuitive with the events going on, so just imagine there were Really compelling mvs lol 👍

As soon as she’s forgiven in T1, Mahiru is reaffirmed in her belief that her emotions are just right, and that she should be able to indulge in/share her love. She decides the guilties are going to be her personal rehabilitation project, and that love can save them. John also reacts strongly to being reaffirmed, becoming extra suspicious of everyone now that the Warden has agreed it’s important for him to protect Himself at all costs. It’s mostly Mikoto fronting throughout the trial, unaware that John is preparing himself with weapons/strengthening/planning every now and then.

During the first hiatus, Kotoko would attempt her attacks in the same way: She gets a hold of Haruka unnoticed, leaving him in a terrible state. She arrives at Fuuta’s cell next, but Mahiru has taken him to another room to try and help him. Kotoko ends up attacking Muu next, but Kazui steps in to help. Kotoko makes a final dash to Amane’s cell to attack, but Mikoto steps in after hearing the commotion. Without any of the restraints or being taken by surprise, the fight ends much differently than a draw. He beats Kotoko nearly as badly as she’s been hurting the others before Kazui can separate them. 

When T2 begins, Haruka, Muu, and Kotoko are injured. Mahiru throws her whole self into helping Shidou take care of the others. Muu and Haruka look to both of them for care and attention, both becoming very attached. They find peace in it, but the others are put off by the weird little codependent family thing they have going on. Kotoko stays away, insisting she can care for herself and doesn’t want murderers’ help. 

Yuno admits she wants nothing to do with the caretaker role, especially since Mahiru’s got things covered. She reacts fairly similarly to canon, though she’s a bit more aimless without having Mahiru’s company. Fuuta is wracked with guilt of his crime from the guilty voices as well as severe survivor’s guilt, thinking he could have protected the others (or at least bought them time) if he’d been in his cell like he should have been. He spends a lot of time with Kazui, admiring the way he heroically stepped into two fights to protect the younger prisoners. 

Amane still doubles down on her religious beliefs, but this time it's out of fear. Having stood face-to-face with Kotoko ready to beat her, she saw her life flash before her eyes and believes God saved her from such a close fate. She isolates herself, afraid of everyone who tries to check on her. Mikoto is also constantly on high alert for any threats – he’s strong and focused, but just as stressed and exhausted as a guilty vote could have been.

As T2 comes to a close, Shidou’s treatments stop with his guilty verdict. Haruka and Muu heal thanks to Mahiru’s physical and emotional help, and become vengeful towards Es. They believe that Es tried to get them killed through Kotoko, then guiltied Shidou to finish the job. Some see it as being annoyingly entitled, but others see it as a beautiful change in confidence when the pair start fighting for their life and loudly standing up for themselves. 

Seeing how well Mahiru is taking care of things, Yuno continues to openly reject the caretaker responsibilities and keep to herself. Amane sees this as a sign of agreement with her own aversion to medicine, and she clings to Yuno for support (she wanted to lash out against Shidou, but was far too afraid to risk getting hurt.) Being responsible for a child only makes Yuno more upset, and she avoids everyone in the hopes she isn’t bothered. Amane doesn’t pick up on this, and her fears from the previous trial ease a bit.

As good as Mahiru is with treatments, she can’t do anything for patients who refuse it – during the trial, Kotoko doubled down on her avoidance of medical aid when Shidou was named guilty, not wishing to be associated with villains. She ends up succumbing to her injuries and dying, regardless of her forgiveness. Shidou is crushed by this, feeling like he should have paid more attention to her worsening condition and given some tough love when she tried to refuse. He’s plunged into guilt, having complex emotions over the fates of his recent patients.

The event causes an escalating argument between the prisoners, wondering who should have been watching over Kotoko more closely. This time, when Kazui steps in to disagree with Mikoto, his previous trial of preparing for threats and giving in to his temper kick in. He attacks Kazui, and since the restraints only affect one of them, ends up killing him. (John fronts most of the third trial, under the stress of the guilty verdict and also ashamed for taking things too far.) Soon after, Fuuta falls into despair and commits suicide – regardless of the current inno verdict, the immense guilt from the previous trial and combined with his role model Kazui being ripped away are too much to bear. 

The only one I couldn’t put my finger on for a solid reaction was Mahiru. I want to say she’d keep up a good attitude – she’d be so proud of Muu and Haruka, and of her own success in healing them. She’d be glad to see Amane feeling better, and encouraging Yuno to remain involved in the group. She’d be disappointed that Kotoko had refused treatment, but not feel personal guilt since it was her decision, right? But at the same time, she’s emotional enough to take all the deaths very personally, and have a hard time staying upbeat through any of them. Especially regarding Fuuta, I think the fact that a man she had cared for through a depression who then committed suicide on her watch again would really mess her up…

So yeah… Superhell 2! :’)))) I just think it’s very interesting looking at the different friendships and enemies that could form 👀 I really wanted to toy around with a different cult recruit, but if anyone, it would have been Haruka (and I didn’t want him to die here too, this time from injury neglect 😭) I actually theorized that Kazui was going to get really hurt in canon T3 because he stepped into a fight like we wanted him to, but it was too much for him to handle, so I was happy to include that here even if it made me Sad ;-; I didn’t detail out exact injuries, but I actually really liked the idea of Muu with the injured eye like Fuuta – something about her always being loved for her appearance, and now she has to come to terms with the fact that she’s not forgiven, not beautiful/pitiable to earn anyone’s sympathy, and needs to find the strength to pull herself out of that.

[churchstopsurgeryscars]

Hey y'all if I tried to write even a short fic regarding this ship it would take weeks so here's my Reds and Blues Polycule Chart™️

Note: Platonic refers to Queer Platonic Partners not just standard friendships.

(Separate photos of each category and headcannons under the cut. CW for some NSFW themes)

(NSFW) Tucker and Kai tried being romantic partners, but realized that they were both just in it for the sex and decided to remain friends who have sex

(NSFW) Wash and Donut have had sex a total of 3 times and each time have been when Wash was so stressed out and lonely and Donut just decided to give him a hand. They don't speak of it and act like it never happened because Wash is embarrassed.

(NSFW) Donut, Grif, and Simmons have had multiple threesomes.

Wash, Carolina and Church are not genetic siblings but they consider themselves siblings because of their bond. People outside the polycule assume Carolina and Wash are dating and it offends them every time.

Sarge sees Simmons and Lopez as his sons and would protect them at all costs.

Grif and Kai...obviously

Church and Simmons ended up getting really close when Simmons decided to defect to Blue Team in Blood Gulch. They're a pair of massive nerds and love to discuss their favorite video games and TV shows. These discussions look like arguments to an outsider but they're having a great time

Doc, Kai and Donut all separately came to Locus with the goal of helping him experience life. Doc and Locus garden together. Kai takes him to a LOT of parties. And Donut has been teaching him about self care like makeup, skincare, bubble baths and things of the like. At first Locus was super overwhelmed by it but has grown to love his dorks

Locus and Church have this dynamic of two cats sitting on opposite sides of the couch to each other. They care about each other so much but hardly interact or say a word. They have this habit of giving each other gifts by just placing it on the other's bed without a word or even a note.

Sarge and Grif used to hate each other but over time have gotten to the point where they literally cannot handle not having each other around. If they go more than a week without seeing one another they get stressed.

Carolina and Grif became QPPs after Iris when Carolina started trying to process her trauma and figure out how to relax. They have a weekly hangout with just the two of them where they get so high and play videogames together.

Donut has put in a lot of effort to learn Spanish for Lopez. He struggled with it at first, but has gotten much much better. When not with Locus, Lopez is usually with Donut because he's one of the only people who can actually understand him.

Doc and Lopez ended up trauma bonding after their experience with Omega.

Caboose, understandably, has clung to Wash as a replacement for Church. However, over the years he has learned to love and rely on Wash in a way that goes beyond treating him as a rebound for Church.

(NSFW) Sarge and Donut first got together almost immediately during Blood Gulch after Donut made some sort of sex joke and Sarge was like "bet" then suddenly it wasn't a joke. They don't keep it a secret and yet nobody seems to know they're dating.

Simmons and Grif were the most painful relationship for everyone in the polycule to witness because they denied and denied and denied their love for each other for years. It wasn't until well after everything with Temple went down when they FINALLY started dating.

(NSFW) Locus and Grif started off with Locus getting so irritated and frustrated with Grif that he just had to fuck him about it. For a while Grif kinda clung to Locus like a lost puppy until recovering from the isolation of being alone on Iris for a couple months.

Doc and Donut started off with being close friends but after living together in Valhalla they realized they saw each other as more than friends.

After Locus joins Red Team (After the end of Season 15 in this AU), him and Lopez end up bonding really fast. While Doc and Donut know some Spanish, it's not the same as speaking with someone who is fluent in it. It's also nice to have someone who is more serious to talk to after being surrounded by maniacs and idiots for so long. They are the calm at the center of the storm that is the rest of the polycule, watching it all go by together and silently holding hands.

Locus and Wash got together after Wash got shot. In this AU, he stayed with him in the hospital and helped support him through rehab. They ended up bonding over their shared traumas and experiences with war and soon realized they had a lot in common.

Church and Tucker actually started dating all the way back in Blood Gulch. It's been on again, off again, but that's mostly because Church has this bad habit of dying and being effectively reincarnated. They really don't go on a lot of dates/do romantic shit, but they are very much in love. Their idea of a good time is sitting in lawn chairs, drinking beer and bullshitting.

Caboose never dated Alpha. In fact, Alpha really only ever saw him as a friend, and not even a close one. Epsilon, however, loved Caboose so much.

Wash and Tucker have such a strange dynamic. They argue like an old married couple, almost as bad as Grif and Simmons do. And they compliment each other so well. Wash helps Tucker to stay motivated and Tucker helps Wash to calm tf down for once.

Kai and Carolina are the newest couple in the polycule. They ended up getting close due to Grif's manipulation of always coming up with excuses for them all to do things together. Their relationship at this point mainly consists of the two of them sharing each other's interests with each other. Kai has found out through Carolina that she thinks MMA is really cool and Carolina has learned that she actually really likes making kandi jewelry.

[yanderes-galore]

Would you mind doing a romantic yandere Kira Yoshikage? Thank you!

I'll try, sure! I hope you enjoy :) Also! I HC Killer Queen purrs in this lol.

Yandere! Yoshikage Kira Concept

(Ft. Killer Queen)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, A lot of Stalking, Violence, Manipulation/Deception, Murder, OOC Killer Queen, Isolation, Kidnapping mention, Mentions of hand fetish (I don't go into it... thankfully), Possessive behavior, Dubious/Forced relationship.

The unfortunate and most plausible outcome for you in this situation is death.

Kira is a serial killer only ever interested in hands.

A genuine connection would be rare...

... but maybe not impossible?

Kira is a man who wishes for perfection.

A quiet and perfect life where he can hide his murderous tendencies.

He's willing to do anything to achieve that.

He doesn't want to stand out.

In fact he does everything he can to keep things that way.

An obsession would disrupt such a life.

You could be a new victim to steal the hands from... or maybe he wants to kill you because he blames you for disrupting his quiet life.

When he meets you by chance he can't get you out of his head.

So he blames you for such an issue, stalking you and plotting.

He sees his obsession as an imperfection... he feels the only way to get rid of it is getting rid of you.

However, in the process of stalking you with the intention of murder...

He falls for you... not just your hands... you as a whole.

Such a thought baffles him.

He didn't even think he was capable of such an attraction.

The start of his obsession is a fight between himself.

He really should get rid of you... but these new feelings say otherwise.

Kira would spend a lot of time just watching you.

He isn't sure how to approach you.

That and Kira notices Killer Queen act up around you.

Kira could be trying to mind his own business, only to feel his breath hitch when Killer Queen spots you and starts... purring.

You drive the killer insane... if he wasn't already.

Eventually Kira will cave and try to figure out how to deal with these feelings he has.

He could manipulate you into dating him... but what if you find out his true nature?

The best option is to silently... appreciate you from afar... yet his desires only grow stronger.

Kira hates standing out yet he might force himself closer to you.

People still strangely "go missing" in Morioh, even with Kira's fixation on you.

He seems like the type to plan meticulous meetings/dates with his obsession.

He has a really hard time calming Killer Queen down, the cat stand hovering around you curiously.

Thankfully you aren't a Stand User and can't notice the pink cat's purring.

What you do notice is Kira struggling to keep composure.

Oh... you have him tight in your grasp and he isn't sure if he hates it or not.

Kira would balance interactions with you along with his usual routine.

Speaking with you does manage to soothe his obsessive thoughts a bit... but it's never enough.

Kira would try to escalate your bond with just being "friends" to something more to soothe his obsession.

The constant burning of desire in him makes him want to tear his nails off.

He's killed countless but he's powerless with you... it irks him.

Kira's obsession would even persist as Kosaku.

Except now he's even more upset, blaming the Joestars and their friends for forcing him into hiding.

Now he can only stalk you, even then it isn't often.

Which drives him more up the wall.

I imagine eventually Kira will snap, secret identity or not.

Soon he's going to end up breaking into your home and taking you captive.

The outcome he'd like the most is if he could manipulate you into being his lover.

But if other drive him away from you... drastic measures will be taken.

He'll try his best to be a good boyfriend/husband to you.

He'll experiment with holding you, kissing you, probably fixating heavily on your hands.

If that doesn't work... and others separate you from him...

Well, then no one can have you can they?

He doesn't want to share or lose you now that you're in his mind...

If he can't have you... then he'll have Killer Queen do the honors of taking your hands all for himself to keep... forever.

[batgrldes]

It frustrates me that there are people that misunderstand what happened in the kitchen scene. Jumping on Eddie’s anger like it’s the same as abuse is wrong. He is lashing out, like Buck did earlier, because of the guilt he feels about not being there when Bobby died. We are seeing many of the characters bodying the five stages of death. Athena with denial and the ‘case of the dead baby’ and feeling like Bobby left her. Chimney represents anger. Angry at Bobby for not telling him he was sick. Angry with himself for telling Bobby how he regrets dying like this and leaving Maddie and the kids, and for asking Bobby to look after them. They are all feeling the depression stage, probably Buck the most seeing as he is more despondent and hasn’t had anyone to really hold and care for him like the rest with their significant others or theirs children. That’s why you see that first memory around the kitchen table at the firehouse.

Eddie is experiencing bargaining, thinking maybe something would have changed if he had been there. Even if deep down we know it wouldn’t have made a difference, in moments like this so close after losing someone, it is easy to fall into the mindset that changing one thing could have stopped this tragedy from happening. So in the kitchen they are both like exposed nerves, and when they start talking to each other, it’s in the form of anger. Anger at the fact that neither one is really talking to each other and telling each other how they feel. Eddie and Buck both want the same thing, for the other to come to them and say something.

Each character is feeling isolated and in survival mode at this moment. Buck and Eddie both know that they are not at their best so it’s messy and it’s loud and it’s shining at light on the fact that they’ve not really been there for each other. Buck with his assessment surveys instead of just asking his family how are they doing and telling them I’m hurting too. Eddie tip toeing around Buck about his El Paso life continuing on without Buck and just being honest. Both characters are not thinking clearly, overcome with grief and in this scene, they finally crack. It’s hurtful and it’s hard, but also necessary. Buck and Eddie are each others’ safe space and sometimes that means bumping heads. But Buck and Eddie can do this with each other. They know each other so well that after a sleep Eddie knows what to do to make up for his bad behavior. Buck is able to talk to Pepa, a parental figure not quite as close as Bobby but someone who gives off that nurturing energy, and say what he is really feeling; that he is afraid of change. Eddie shows up with Christopher, their child, to say he’s sorry for the other night.

Eddie gives Buck that family dynamic that Buck has been missing lately, and even if it’s not the exact one he’s missing right now it’s a start to the healing. Buck is the one person Eddie can be totally vulnerable with. Much like two people in a long term relationship (not necessarily a romantic one), they push each others’ buttons when they are upset. Eddie knows how to work with anger, it’s much harder to work with sadness and feeling vulnerable. It’s something he is continuing to work on. Buck is always trying to fix things and sometimes he overcorrects and starts to spiral when he can’t fix things right away. This pairing always shows that not everything about being in a relationship is pure and clean cut. Sometimes it’s messy and lines are blurred especially when something devastating happens. I love that Buck and Eddie at the end of the day will be Buck and Eddie, they will always come back to each other heart in hand, and be the person each of them needs. Together they will find the last stage, acceptance, which doesn’t have to mean they have to get over Bobby’s death. It means that this person whom they loved, is gone and together, with their fire family, they will get through this and the hurt will always be there but they will be able to carry on with the help and love from one another.