#worse than the judgment day split

[kamisadopteddaughter]

CHASE U I LOVE YOU FOREVER

[whitedarkmoonflower]

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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: Yeah, I know – the trope’s older than time and cheesy as hell, but I’m too in love with a certain supersoldier to care 🥰

Warnings: smut, fluff, a bit of angst, mentions of blood, pain, bruises and wounds, implied domestic abuse in the past

Word Count: 9K

Summary: It’s been another rough day, one too many, and Bucky’s just looking to forget. No comfort, no connection, just something simple, physical. You weren’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to want more. It wasn’t supposed to get complicated. But it did. It's what happens when neither of you know how to say what you feel.

Bucky stared at his reflection and muttered a curse.

Fresh bruise blooming high on his cheekbone, a split above his brow, still bleeding a little and that dull, familiar throb where metal met muscle at his shoulder. He looked like shit.  Lately, everything ached more. Took longer to heal. Everything just... dragged.

He splashed cold water on his face and gripped the sink.

You’re getting too old for this shit, he thought and not for the first time. He’d never wanted to be anyone’s savior, never wanted to be a hero, that had always been Steve’s thing. Steve saved the world, Bucky just tried to stay upright.

So how the hell did he end up here again?

Steve. Steve was gone. And in the silence he had left behind, something flickered, something Bucky never said out loud. That quiet itch, that voice that whispered what if...

What if he could’ve had it too? The normal life with morning paper, school drop-offs, shitty traffic, an office job. Coming home.

Home.

Weird word. As much as it might seem it didn’t mean walls or clean sheets or expensive furniture. He had all that now, but it still didn’t feel like anything. Still didn’t feel like home.

His phone buzzed.

A message. She’s downstairs.

He let out a sharp breath, straightened, wiped his face. He hadn’t been drunk when he booked it, just unraveling like every time he did. This wasn’t about sex, not really, it was about forgetting. For a little while, at least.

He’d picked the agency for a reason – discreet, top-tier, no questions, no judgment. That’s why he always paid extra. Still, he braced himself.

Same old pattern: a glance at the arm, the polite step back, the smile that didn’t quite hide the unease or worse, the disgust.

He’d seen it all before. It’s why he stopped dating, why he didn’t even try anymore.

Who the hell wanted a hundred-year-old mess with more baggage than a freight train?

You were used to nerves, used to that thick tension just before the door opened.

Actually you didn’t take new clients anymore, not after that incident a few months back.Too much risk, too much cleanup when someone forgot the rules or worse, decided they didn’t apply.

But this one came recommended with double pay and half the demands.

Your boss swore up and down he was a regular, quiet, predictable, not a single complaint from the other girls. Wanted one thing, didn’t want it for long, no talking, no touching unless necessary, no eye contact if he could help it.

You told yourself that was fine, perfect, even. You weren’t here to fix anyone. You weren’t peeling back trauma or saving souls. You were a body, a balm and gone before the sheets even cooled.

Still, as your hand lifted to knock, something twisted in your gut.

The door clicked open before you touched it.

He stood there – tall, broad, bruised, wearing a scowl like armor, but the exhaustion in his eyes bled through.

He opened the door like he was expecting a fight, eyes scanning, shoulders tense. He glanced over you once, then stepped aside without a word, like letting you in was a task on a list he hated checking off.

You catched a quick glimpse of the spacious hotel suite: dim lights, curtains drawn tight.  An untouched whiskey bottle, neatly folded cash on the table with a combat knife beside it.

You turned as the door shut behind you and the shadows shifted just enough to see him better.

His leather jacket was heavy, tactical, too much for a spring night, but it fit him – the weight of it, the coolness. Blood stained cuff. You furrowed a brow but didn’t ask. You never did.

You knew who he was, of course.

Congressman Barnes, you reminded yourself, alias James Buchanan Barnes, alias Bucky, former assassin, ex–Winter Soldier, newly minted Avenger – whatever that meant.

But he didn’t look like a superhero, he looked like a man one breath away from falling apart.

His face was a slow car crash with a fresh bruise blooming across his cheek, a split in his brow still faintly red, and dark circles deep under his eyes.

But it was the eyes that caught you, not just blue and deep. Soft, wrecked, as if sleep hadn’t come in days, and peace hadn’t come in years.

He looked wrecked, not just on the outside – bruises, blood, the usual – but deeper. He looked like someone who’d stopped believing the pain would ever end and just learned to carry it.

“Mr. Barnes?” you said gently. “Or do you prefer James?”

He hesitated. “Doesn’t matter.”

His voice was low, rough as if it hadn’t seen daylight in days.

You slipped off your coat and stepped further inside.

Why did he always get nervous when it came to this? He should have been used to it by now. He paid, they obeyed.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight as he watched you scan the room, the dim light, the drawn curtains, the untouched whiskey, the knife he had forgotten to hide.

You didn’t blink, the heels, the coat, the way your gaze swept the place, it was all effortless as if none of this fazed you. Like he didn’t faze you.

You turned back to him, eyes pausing on the blood drying at the cuff of his jacket.

Yeah, he knew how he looked. Bruised, exhausted, a little too close to unhinged, still dragging half a mission behind him. You didn’t ask, didn’t even flinch.

“Rough night?” you said softly, not really a question, just acknowledgment.

He gave a small nod, almost grateful for it, for your calm, your lack of judgment, for your normalcy.

You stepped in closer, slow, deliberate, watching him.

“I read your preferences,” you said, gently, slipping off your heels. “You want control. Minimal talking, nothing soft.”

He flinched, just slightly, not enough for most to catch, but you did. 

There was something in his eyes, in the way he held himself, tight as a drawn bow, chest rising just a touch too fast, trying to mask his nerves, that made you question it.

On paper, it sounded like dominance, detachment, but standing here, face to face, it didn’t read like control. It read like fear. 

Fear of himself, of what he might feel, of what he might need.

But you didn’t push, you didn’t challenge the rules right away, you just softened your posture, eased your tone and stepped a little closer, slow enough to give him space to retreat if he needed it.

“You know,” you said, voice low and calm, “people ask for rough when they’re scared soft might undo them.”

His eyes snapped to yours, startled and a little wary.

“You think that’s me?” he asked with a sort of a bite in his voice, but it cracked at the edges.

You gave a small smile. “I don’t think anything yet. I’m just here, however you need me.”

You stepped in closer. “You know the rules?”

He nodded, stiff and tight. “I know.”

“My safe word is silver,” you said, voice even. “If I say it, everything stops.”

Another nod, quick, automatic, like a box he was checking off, but his jaw was tight, and that flicker in his eyes hadn’t left since you walked in.

“And yours?” you asked, stepping back slightly to give him room.

“I won’t need one,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, eyebrow lifting just a little. “That’s not how it works.”

“I can handle it.”

You paused, eyes flicking to the faint tremor in his left hand, the flesh one, not metal.

“Even soldiers bleed,” you said, gently.

That landed, his throat bobbed with a swallow he didn’t mean to show and after a beat, he murmured: “Winter.”

“Alright,” you said softly. “If I say silver, you stop. If you say winter, I stop.”

He gave a small, tense nod.

You could see how tightly wound he was, shoulders coiled, muscles locked, he wasn’t looking at you anymore, eyes gone distant, like he was already halfway out of the room, halfway numb.

You kept your voice easy. “And where would you like to have me?”

You glanced around the suite – the leather couch looked inviting, the bar counter could work too – but before you could suggest anything, he looked at you, surprised, as if no one had asked before.

He blinked, then nodded toward the bed, the only real softness in the room.

You nodded back, walked over to your bag, pulled out an unopened pack of condoms, a small bottle of lube and placed them on the nightstand.

You could feel him watching, tracking your every move.

Then you turned, crossed the room, stopped right in front of him and reached for the hem of your dress, slow and steady.

“Let’s begin.”

There was still no eye contact, but you swore you saw him exhale.

You pulled the dress over your head and let the fabric fall.

He watched, not hungrily, not with the usual detached interest of men who paid for the illusion of closeness, but rather as if he had no idea what to do with softness.

You stepped in, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. He didn’t move.

His chest rose a little too fast under his shirt, but his hands stayed at his sides, one flesh, one metal, both clenched like he didn’t trust them if they strayed.

“You can touch me,” you said, quiet.

Still, he didn’t, just stared at your collarbone like it was safer than your eyes.

It was. Your eyes were too steady for Bucky, they didn’t search for threat, didn’t calculate, didn’t judge, they just saw him and that scared him more than a loaded gun.

He’d been clear about what he wanted – brief, physical, detached. Everyone before you had stuck to the script, no softness, no lingering, no emotional weight, no invading into his space. Just friction, silence, then the door.

That’s what he thought he needed, what he thought he deserved.

But you didn’t follow the script, you looked him in the eyes, you didn’t rush or flinch, or retreat, you met his gaze head-on. No flicker of fear, no forced kindness, no wide-eyed recognition, or false, rehearsed sympathy, just calm, steady presence so close that he could smell the fresh mint in your breath.

It seemed you didn’t see the assassin or the walking weapon, not even congressman or the Avenger or Thunderbolt or whatever title was bestowed upon him again. You looked at him as if he wasn’t a ghost wearing a body, but just… a man. And he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

All the anger, all the tension that had hardened in his body like concrete started to leak out, slow and silent, like you’d found the wound without naming it.

“Start where you want,” you told him. “However you need to.”

You reached out, slow. No touching, echoed in your mind, but you didn’t give a damn about it now. You’d been in this work long enough to know: it was never really about the spoken rules, it was always about what went unsaid.

You knew too well that look in his eyes – like he’d simply forgotten what it was to be touched without consequence, without hurting, without breaking, or maybe he’d never had it to begin with.

He wasn’t here for control or power, he was here to feel. Something. Anything. He just didn’t know how to ask, didn’t know how to let himself want it.

You gave him a soft smile and reached for his hand – the flesh one – lifting it gently until it rested on your waist. His breath caught, rough callused fingers brushed your skin. He wasn’t trembling, but he was close.

With your other hand, you touched his jaw, softly, almost asking, your thumb skimmed the edge of it. He didn’t pull away, just clenched tighter, the metal fist still locked at his side like it might betray him if he let it move.

You rose onto your toes, slow and careful, giving him every chance to back out.

He didn’t.

The second your mouth touched his, he went still, like you’d hit him, but then your breath brushed against his lips, and something cracked. He kissed you back like it hurt.

It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet, it was mouth and teeth, and desperation, raw, hungry. Like he was punishing himself with it, like he needed to forget or maybe remember, maybe both, like he was drowning, and your mouth was the only way he could breathe.

He backed you into the wall with force, his hands suddenly everywhere – pulling, gripping,  yanking your underwear down in a few rough motions. 

You didn’t resist, you let him take. There was no finesse in it, but there was also no cruelty, no deliberate roughness, just raw, unfiltered need. 

He ripped off his jacket, flung it aside. You caught a glimpse of blood at the seam of his shirt. 

His mouth crashed back onto yours, messy and demanding, but under all the chaos, something trembled. You kissed him back just as fierce, your fingers twisting in his hair, yanking, reminding him you were here, you were real. He moaned into your mouth. 

His hands moved faster now, dragging you toward the bed with that same wild urgency. He spun you around and shoved you onto the mattress like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. You landed face-first, caught yourself on your palms.

The sharp clink of his belt echoed behind you.

You turned quickly around and pushed up onto your elbows. No way were you just giving him your back, you wanted to see him.

He didn’t even bother taking off his shirt, pants shoved just far enough down to free his cock, already thick and hardening in his hand as he stroked it to readiness.

Then his eyes met yours – surprised. You shook your head and reached for him.

He climbed onto the bed, pressing you flat beneath him in a rush of heat and breath, the mattress dipped hard under his weight.

One hand gripped your hip, bruising, the other braced beside your head, breath ragged, body tense and hovering.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, tugging gently, and he stilled. You met his gaze, calm and steady and kept going.

After a long second, he finally let you. You pulled it over his head slowly, your fingers brushing down his shoulders, his arms – flesh and metal. He flinched when you touched the cool vibranium.

You didn’t stop, you trailed your hand over his chest, down his taut stomach. God, he was solid.

Your fingers found the edge of his pants, you looked up and for a second, what you saw wasn’t lust – it was grief, hunger, not just for your body, but for comfort, peace, for something he didn’t even know how to name.

You reached up for him again, your hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek. Gently, you guided him toward you and kissed him, slow and searching.

He groaned into your mouth – a wrecked, low sound – and you wrapped your legs around his waist, arching into him, your hands sliding over the hard lines of his back, not teasing, just caressing, grounding. 

And he melted, not completely, not yet, but enough that you felt the tension begin to bleed from his muscles and you felt the shift – his grip loosening, not desperate anymore, just there.

He kissed you again like he didn’t know how, seemingly bracing for you to vanish if he let himself want it.

You leaned up, lips near his ear.

“I feel you and I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a reflex he hadn’t used in years.

“That’s what everyone says,” he muttered. “Right before they figure out who I really am.”

You pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me who you really are. You know who I am. You know why I’m here. It’s easy. You don’t have to pretend, not with me.”

You started to tug his pants down, his breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. 

His flesh hand moved first, slow and unsure, tracing up your side like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.

The other – metal – stayed frozen, fingers twitching just a little, like he didn’t trust it, like he didn’t trust himself.

So you reached down, took the cold, heavy hand in yours, and gently placed it on your thigh.

“Touch me,” you said, voice low. “All of you.”

His breath caught, you felt the hesitation ripple through him, the metal fingers were stiff, tentative, like he thought this might be the moment you flinched, pulled away, changed your mind, but you didn’t.

You kept your hand over his, guiding it slowly up the curve of your thigh, the cool glide of vibranium over warm skin. You pressed into his palm, letting him feel you, letting him know it was okay.

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “It doesn’t feel… natural.”

You smiled, lips brushing along his jaw, your fingers traced his metal forearm, slow and soft.

“It feels like you,” you whispered. “Strong. Steady. Careful.”

He shuddered.

You took his metal hand and pressed it to your stomach, let it rest there as your hips rolled gently beneath him. Then you found his other hand, guided it to the soft curve just beneath your breast.

“Touch me like I matter,” you said. “Not like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

And slowly, haltingly, he did.

You guided his hands as they moved over you, not with hunger this time, but with awe. You felt it in his breath, in the way his touch lingered, fingertips trailing across your ribs, the dip of your waist, mapping your skin like it was something almost sacred.

You kissed his shoulder, his collarbone, the scar beneath it, then lower, down his chest, your mouth slow, gentle, your tongue lingering on his skin, tasting him, teaching him the difference between surrender and trust.

Your hands followed your lips, gliding over firm muscle and warm skin. You caressed the planes of his abdomen with open palms, feeling the way he tensed under your touch, not from discomfort, but from the unfamiliarity of being handled with care.

He was solid, strong, perfectly built, but as your fingers traced a scar, skimmed the curve of his waist, and pressed a kiss to the hollow between his ribs, you didn’t think of strength, you thought of restraint, of loneliness.

“Like this,” you whispered, lips brushing his skin, sliding lower, palms skimming down his back, easing the tension from every knot and scar. “This is how it’s supposed to feel.”

Both his hands trembled now as they roamed over you, he lowered himself again, slower this time, his eyes locked on yours. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate anymore, it was human.

Your hand wrapped around him, warm and steady. You took your time, stroking the thick length of his cock with slow, fluid movements. Your thumb slid over the head, gathered the slick precum, and spread it down his shaft in long, smooth strokes.

His breath caught, jaw slackened and a low groan escaped him, wrecked and involuntary, like your touch was almost too much.

You reached for the nightstand without looking, tore open the foil packet, as you held him in your palm, hot, heavy, pulsing, and he exhaled, shaky and uneven, one hand fisting the sheets. 

The other hovered midair, like he didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know if he was allowed to want this and have it, too.

You stroked him slowly, fingers gliding from base to tip before rolling the condom on, confident, unhurried, letting him feel everything. He moaned, low, broken, head tipping back as you guided him between your legs, letting him feel the heat of you, the slick glide of your folds against his cock.

You were more than ready. The lube stayed forgotten.

You angled your hips, guided him in, breath catching as the thick head pushed past your entrance with a deep, stretching burn. 

He thrust into you hard. Deep.

A broken sound escaped both of you, your bodies slamming together with force that echoed through your bones. You rose to meet him, thighs tightening around his waist, pulling him in, your nails dragged lightly down his back.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I can take it. I can take you.”

He moved fast at first, frantic, unfiltered, all sharp hips and reckless rhythm, like he needed to burn something out – anger, guilt, need.

His grunts were rough, each thrust punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin.

And you took him, legs wrapped around him, hands roaming his back, feeling every tremble, every breath he tried to hold in.

You kissed his neck, soft presses of your lips against his hammering pulse, your hands never stopped, smoothing over his skin, grounding him, and slowly, it shifted.

His rhythm faltered, thrusts slowed, got deeper, less punishing, more present.

He was still panting, still shaking, but now he was listening, to your body, your breath, the way your hands guided him, the soft pull of your hips inviting him closer, deeper, not just into your body, but into the moment.

And even if you hadn’t expected it – pleasure bloomed low in your belly, coiling slow and hot.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to. 

Your breath hitched every time he hit that perfect angle, deep, just right, making your fingers dig into his back. And then it happened: a moan, raw and real, ripped from you like it had been buried too long.

His head snapped back, he stared down at you, stunned, eyes wide, mouth parted, like he couldn’t believe what he just heard.

You were trembling beneath him, clutching at his skin, and your pleasure was impossible to fake.

“I…” he choked out, voice cracking. “You’re…fuck…,” the words died, his hips faltered, rhythm falling apart and with a hoarse groan he came hard, his whole body shuddering, breath panting.

He collapsed against you, breathless, shaking, forehead pressed to your collarbone, his chest heaved with each ragged inhale, like he didn’t know how to come back down from wherever you’d just taken him.

You didn’t speak, didn’t move, you just held him, fingers threading through his damp hair, the other hand at the back of his neck, brushing the tight line of his spine, feeling the stutter of his heart.

It was way past the paid hours when you finally let go and sat up to dress.

He didn’t say anything, just watched from the bed as you pulled your clothes on. He sat up, the sheet slipping down his chest, and slowly stood, dragging on his boxers and jeans.

He picked up the folded cash you’d already seen waiting on the table, wordless, he stepped over and held it out.

You took it gently. He held on a moment too long.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out, so you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

A goodbye.

Then you turned, your heels clicked against the hotel floor as you walked to the door.

He just stood there.

Just another job, you told yourself as you stepped out and closed the door behind you. But somehow, it didn’t feel like one.

It was two weeks before you heard anything.

You hadn’t expected to.

Men like him, closed off, broken in ways they didn’t want to admit, rarely asked for seconds, especially not when you touched something they weren’t ready to admit.

The message came through the agency. 

James Barnes. Requests the same companion as last time. Exclusive. No substitutions.

You stared at the screen longer than you wanted to admit, heart skipping for reasons that had nothing to do with professionalism.

You didn’t answer right away. 

You’d crossed a line last time, held him too long, let yourself feel too much. It all had felt so painfully familiar, an almost long-forgotten image emerging in the back of your mind like a jagged shard of glass. He had reminded you of someone. 

You saw her clearly, that young girl with wild hair and desperate eyes, broken and aching, thinking she didn’t deserve any other treatment, convinced it was all her own fault. You thought you had buried her long ago.

You shook your head as you read the message again. Feelings, attachment, empathy, hope – those were dangerous in this line of work, they made you soft, exposed.

You told yourself you were not taking him, you were not going back, then your boss called the next morning.

“He asked explicitly for you,” she said. 

You hesitated, tried to say maybe it wasn’t a good idea, that maybe someone else…

“Look,” your boss cut in. “He’s paying triple. No special requests. Just wants a repeat. You’re one of the best. Handle it.”

You agreed before you could talk yourself out of it.

The hotel was the same, the suite too – dim lights, curtains drawn, untouched whiskey on the table and him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you tested, slipping off your coat.

“Bucky,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor. “You can just… call me Bucky.”

He looked nervous, but not like last time, different.

“So,” you said, turning to face him, “you asked for the same setup. No talking. Rough. Detached. Right?”

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck again, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I did.”

You waited.

He exhaled sharply, almost annoyed with himself. “It’s just… what I know how to ask for. Easier that way.”

You nodded, watching him fidget with the seam of his sleeve like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

“But is that what you want?” you asked, tilting your head. “Or just what you’re used to getting?”

Long pause, then a small, one-shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. I just… didn’t think I could ask for anything else.”

You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “You can,” you said quietly. 

One more step, slow and deliberate, your hand lifted, no pressure, no rush, and when your fingers brushed his jaw, he didn’t pull away, he leaned in, eyes fluttering shut.

Your thumb stroked the edge of his cheek, rough stubble scratching your skin.

“When’s the last time someone touched you like this?” you asked softly. “Not just contact. But this.”

He was silent for a while, brow furrowed like he had to dig for the answer.

“Besides you?” he asked.

You nodded.

His eyes opened, barely, a small, bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can’t remember.”

You didn’t let go, just held him there, your hand on his jaw like it belonged then you leaned in and kissed him – slowly, easy, no urgency, just warmth.

He kissed you back, hesitant and uncertain, like he was relearning how, his hand settled lightly on your waist, not quite holding. You covered it with your own, pressed it closer, his breath caught, and slowly, bit by bit, you felt him start to relax.

You pulled off your shirt, casual, unhurried. He watched you like he was seeing you for the first time.

You helped him undress too – shirt, jeans, layer by layer—fingers brushing over warm skin and old scars. You kissed his shoulder, let your lips travel down his chest, he shivered, but let you.

This time it was you to guide him to the bed. Both of you sank into the mattress and he crawled over you carefully, like he still thought he might break something.

You pulled him closer, legs parting easily around his hips, hands sliding up his back, settling between his shoulder blades. 

His hands moved with a reverence that caught you off guard, fingers trailing slowly up your sides, along your ribs, like he was memorizing you by touch. He dipped his head, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower, kissing a soft path down to your breasts.

His mouth was gentle there, almost shy, as if he didn’t want to take too much.

His tongue circled your nipple, slow and careful, followed by a soft kiss, then again and again until your breath caught and your fingers tangled in his hair.

He glanced up, quick, uncertain, checking if he was doing it right. The hand at your waist gave him away, thumb brushing back and forth, soothing, trying, not just to please you, but to feel you.

When he pushed into you, it was deep and careful. He groaned, not just from the pleasure, but from the way you looked at him while it happened. 

You stroked his hair back, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I…,” he started, voice shaky, moving slowly like he didn’t want to mess it up.

“Schhhh,” you cut him off with a smile. “You’re doing fine.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hips moved in a lazy rhythm that made heat curl low in your belly. 

You moaned softly into his mouth.

He froze – just for a second – like he couldn’t believe it, like he wasn’t sure you were really enjoying him, then he moved again, steadier now, bolder, still gentle, but with intention. He was there, present, wanting to feel you, stay with you, soak in the warmth and store it as if he didn’t know when he’d get it again.

“You okay?” you whispered against his neck.

He nodded into your shoulder, voice low and tight. “Yeah. I just… didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smiled, kissed his jaw, fingers tracing lazy lines down his spine.

“Now you do.”

The next request came just two days later.

You didn’t even think, you accepted the moment you saw his name, before your brain could catch up and tell you not to.

It wasn’t until two weeks later, after pacing the same bright hotel stairs almost every other night, that it finally hit you.

You barely made it through your apartment door, keys dropped from trembling fingers onto the table. Your heart was pounding too hard and too fast, something between wanting to burst or break.

You kicked off your heels and leaned back against the door, trying to breathe.

You’d done this long enough to know the rules. Keep it clean, keep it clear, draw the lines and don’t cross them. You were good at it, good at making men feel seen without giving them anything real, a few hours of connection, good sex, a bit of warmth, sometimes softness, sometimes something else - anything they needed. You knew how to play the game, how to remain in control.

It always ended with the door closing behind you, but this time…

His eyes, his shaking hands, the way he held you after, like he didn’t know how to let go. You felt it. All of it.

The way he softened under your touch, the way he looked at you, like maybe, just maybe, you were something worth holding on to.

Shit.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to push the feeling down, will it into something smaller, safer. It didn’t work.

The softness had rooted itself, the lines were gone, and you weren’t sure anymore where the job ended and you began.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The office was quiet, soft morning light slipping through half-open blinds.

Your boss didn’t even look up at first, fingers still tapping at the keyboard. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind you that she glanced up.

“I’m not taking him again,” you said, before even sitting down.

That got her attention, she leaned back, arms crossing, brows raised. “Okay... wanna tell me who him is?”

“James Barnes. Bucky.”

The name felt weird in your mouth, too personal, too real.

She leaned back further in her chair. “He do something?”

You shook your head. “No. That’s the problem.”

Silence.

You rubbed your forehead. “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep it clean. I don’t cross lines. But with him…”

You hesitated, then made yourself say it.

“I let it get too close. He got too close.”

She narrowed her eyes, not harsh, just reading you. “So are you telling me, you caught feelings?”

You gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t even know what to call it, but I can’t pretend it’s nothing. I thought I could keep it professional, but I can’t. Not with him.”

She watched you a second longer, then gave a small, slow nod.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll handle it. I’ll take him off your list. If he tries to book again, I’ll let him know it’s not happening.”

You exhaled. Something in you unclenched, but something else twisted tighter. The weight of it settled fast – this is it, no more hotel rooms, no more late-night requests.

No more him.

Fuck.

How did you let this happen?

First three times there were just polite answers, saying that you were unavailable, but after his fourth attempt to book you again, the agency finally called Bucky back. 

“She won’t be available,” the voice said flatly. “Not now. Not ever.”

He blinked. “What do you mean not ever?”

“She’s declined further bookings. With you, specifically.”

There was a long silence.

“We can offer others,” the voice continued. “Discreet. High quality. Same experience.”

“No,” he said immediately.

“Mr. Barnes…”

“No.” His voice cracked, then dropped lower. “I don’t want anyone else.”

They paused. “Understood.”

Click.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed for hours, staring at nothing. The phone was still in his hand, screen long gone dark. His metal fingers flexed against the edge of the mattress, making the sheets crinkle like paper.

“Idiot,” he muttered. “Fucking idiot.” 

What the hell had he expected?

Love ‘til the end of your days? From a prostitute?

The word made his stomach twist, not because of what you were, but because of how small it made everything feel. 

But that was the truth. He paid. You came. You touched him like no one ever had and he let himself believe, just for one night, then another, that it meant something more, that maybe he wasn’t just a job, that maybe you saw him, not the Winter Soldier, not the weapon, not the broken thing trying to pass as human.

And now? Everything was over, like it always did.

His jaw clenched, a burn crawling up behind his eyes as his hand twisted into the sheets.

You knew better than this.

You’re not built for softness. You’re a machine with a man’s name stapled to it. Why would anyone want more than a few hours from you? A few paid hours.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room, then stopped, frozen mid-step and just stood there, numb and hollow, except for that one place inside him that ached like mad.

He thought of your hand on his jaw, the way you’d guided his metal hand to your thigh like it didn’t matter, the way you looked at him when he came in your arms.

None of it meant anything.

His eyes landed on the glass beside the whiskey bottle. The sharp crack of it shattering echoed in his ears, the shards scattered across the floor like broken thoughts. He flinched, staring at the mess like it hadn’t been his hand that hurled it at the wall.

He didn’t sleep, he just sat in the dark, back to the cold wall, bottle of whiskey in hand.

He didn’t want the burn.

He just wanted you.

But he drank anyway.

The med bay was a blur, too-bright lights, sharp voices, the sting of antiseptic. Bucky barely remembered how he got there, blood crusted on the side of his face, pain ripping through his flesh shoulder like fire.

Damn it. Two metal arms hadn’t exactly been on his bingo card, but he’d come close, too close.

Now he was laid out on a gurney, the sterile white sheets sticking to his skin, wires clipped to his chest, IV half-started in his arm. Overhead light buzzed.

A doctor’s voice cut through the haze: “You need stitches. And your shoulder! Christ, Barnes, it’s a mess.”

Bucky didn’t answer, just stared at the ceiling like it was pressing down on him. It was all his own fault, he had been distracted.

He didn’t want stitches, didn’t want rest, didn’t want someone checking his vitals every ten minutes and pretending that meant he was going to be okay. 

Of course, the shoulder would heal. It always did.

What didn’t heal was the hole in his chest, it just grew bigger with every damn day.

The doctor moved in with a needle, and that’s when Bucky snapped upright, ripped the wires from his chest, not paying attention to the shriek of the monitors, and yanked the IV from his arm. Blood spattered across the floor.

“Jesus…Barnes!” someone shouted, reaching for him.

He shook off the hand like it burned. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not…”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice was low, cracking underneath like glass under pressure.

He yanked his jacket on with a grunt. 

The doctor stepped in front of him again. “You walk out like this, you could bleed out. You need treatment…”

“I need air,” Bucky muttered, brushing past him.

The door slammed open as he walked out, ignoring the calls behind him and the red smears he left on the floor.

It wasn’t the first time he’d stood here.

Truth was, he’d been coming every night since he figured out where you lived – an info pried out of a reluctant CIA contact who owed him a favour. 

But that wasn’t the only thing he had done. He wasn’t proud of it, wouldn’t even admit it to anyone.

The young agent hadn’t asked questions, just lit up like it was an honor to be given a task by Bucky Barnes. The file he handed over before the last mission wasn’t long, but it had been enough to throw Bucky off his game. Almost got the whole thing compromised.

You had moved to New York five years ago. No close family listed, both parents deceased. A trail of medical records stretching back for years – bruised ribs, concussions, two broken wrists, one collarbone. All logged as accidents. 

Slipped down the stairs.

Fell on ice.

Walked into a door.

You must’ve been real clumsy.

But Bucky knew better, knew what those reports meant, knew the patterns, the silence between the lines. Someone had hurt you. Repeatedly. And no one had stopped it.

Then the trail went dark, two years of nothing – no address, no job, no medical history, like you’d dropped off the face of the earth, and then suddenly, you reappeared in New York. 

Clean slate, new name, job at an escort agency.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his jaw like he could grind the guilt out of his bones.

And he’d thought he was the only one with ghosts, the only one carrying pain he didn’t talk about.

But you... you'd crawled out of hell, too.

And he’d been so wrapped up in what he was feeling, he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t asked. 

He’d let your presence become routine, a comfort he thought he could keep buying. He hadn’t asked how you were, hadn’t even tried.

He knew every line and curve of your body, but he didn’t know if you liked coffee, didn’t know what music you listened to or what kind of day you’d had before walking into that hotel room.

And now?

Now he stood outside your building like some damn ghost, night after night, too broken to leave, too ashamed to come closer.

Maybe you were asleep. Maybe you were awake, just too busy to notice him.

Maybe you saw everything and just didn’t care.

Still, he kept showing up, across the street, in the shadows, watching your second floor windows light up. Watching them go dark. 

He didn’t even know what he was hoping for – a flicker of your shadow, the sound of your laugh through an open window, just proof you were still there, that you hadn’t vanished for good.

The last entry in the file had actually been the most unsettling.

Target terminated the job contract with the agency. Seen at the train station multiple times this week.

The train station. Were you leaving again? Running?

His chest tightened, breath caught, heart stuttering in his ribs.

Were you already gone? Was tonight too late?

The light in your window was still on, the curtain half-drawn.

And for the first time in weeks, Bucky moved off the curb, across the street, up the steps.

It was close to panic that carried him now – if he didn’t knock now, he might never get another chance.

He raised his hand to the buzzer, it hovered, hesitated, faltered, then, heart pounding, he pressed it.

And waited.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

That was the first thing that hit you when the buzzer rang, slicing through the quiet of your apartment. You froze on the couch, eyes flicking toward the door.

You hesitated, nobody buzzed this late unless it was an emergency or a mistake, or… 

Crossing the room cautiously, you checked the security feed and your breath caught.

Bucky.

He looked like hell, blood dried on the side of his face, a split brow, and a strange stiffness in the way his flesh arm hung at his side. He wasn’t even looking at the camera, just standing there, head bowed slightly.

You should’ve walked away, pretended you weren’t home, let it ring. That would’ve been the smart move, the safe one.

You owed him nothing, he wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t even supposed to know where you lived.

But you just stood there, frozen in front of the screen, and stared at him, your hand hovering near the intercom. 

Don’t do it, a voice whispered. Close the panel. Walk away. He’s not your responsibility.

Then he looked up, just for a second, right into the camera as if he knew you were there watching him. And that was it, you muttered a curse under your breath, called yourself a goddamn idiot, and hit the button. Then you opened the door and waited.

The hallway was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. He took the stairs. Why the hell did he take the stairs and not the elevator? He emerged from the staircase and neared your door slowly.

You took him in – torn skin, blood dripping down his fingers and smeared across his temple,  half-wiped like he’d tried to clean up and couldn’t finish.

“Jesus,” you breathed. “What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stood there a second longer, then let out a rough exhale.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

It was such a cliché to say, sounding like something out of a moody, old romance movie, but he didn’t have anything better. 

He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Honestly, he hadn’t even believed you’d open the door, let alone talk to him. He’d taken the stairs just to buy himself a little extra time, to get his head straight, but the second he tried, his thoughts scattered, flapping around his brain like panicked chickens.

You didn’t move. 

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried. I swear I tried.” 

There was something oddly sweet about the way he stared down at his boots like they were the most fascinating thing in the world and scratched the back of his head with his metal hand. Grown up man looking like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You let out a slow breath, then stepped aside.

“Come in,” you said. “You’re bleeding all over the hallway.”

He followed, quiet.

The kitchen light was soft, the air still warm with the faint scent of tea. Bucky hovered in the doorway, shoulders tight, eyes flicking over everything but you.

You nodded toward the chair by the table. “Sit.”

He did, lowering himself with a wince.

You grabbed the first-aid kit, a damp cloth, and a bottle of vodka from your secret stash.

Bucky gave the bottle a look.

“What?” you said, catching his glance. “You think I keep medical-grade disinfectant around just in case some supersoldier shows up bleeding on my doorstep?”

Bucky gave a half-shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost smiled. “Would’ve been convenient.”

You rolled your eyes and set the bottle down beside the kit. “You’re lucky I had vodka at all. I was saving it for a shitty day.”

He glanced down at himself, bloody and slouched in the middle of your kitchen. “Guess today qualifies.”

“Take that off,” you said, nodding toward his jacket.

He shrugged out of it with a wince. The T-shirt underneath had definitely seen better days, it was torn, soaked in blood and clinging to the wound at his shoulder.

You grabbed a pair of scissors, knelt beside him, and carefully cut the shirt away, then you soaked a cloth in vodka, wrung it out, and reached for his face.

He flinched.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

He hissed through his teeth when you pressed the cloth to the gash above his brow.

“I thought you were a supersoldier, or something,” you muttered under your breath.

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy vodka facials.”

You rolled your eyes but kept dabbing carefully. 

“You showed up bleeding on my doorstep, you don’t get to complain about my methods.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes searching yours. “Yeah, but I get to be grateful for them.”

You blinked at that, caught off guard for a second, but you recovered quickly, giving his good shoulder a light nudge. “Just shut up and let me finish saving your life.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with something very close to a smile on his lips.

You cleaned the blood from his temple, careful around the split in his skin. He kept shifting, eyes darting away, like being under your hands was harder than the pain itself.

“You’re not good at this,” you said softly.

“At what?”

“Letting someone take care of you.”

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. “Don’t really get the chance.”

You didn’t say anything, just focused on the cut above his brow, patched it up, then moved to his shoulder. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, already starting to heal, but he still tensed every time your fingers brushed his skin and groaned when you pressed the vodka-soaked cloth to it.

You folded the gauze, pressed it gently to the wound, and taped it down with steady hands, or so you thought.

When you finally packed up the kit and snapped it shut, your eyes landed back on the vodka bottle. That’s when you noticed it, your hands were shaking like hell.

“You’ll live,” you muttered, grabbing the bottle and taking a long, burning sip, before holding it out to him without looking.

Bucky took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, he hesitated a second before tipping it back for a sharp swallow, then set it down with a quiet clink on the table.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

The room was suddenly too quiet, you could hear the tick of the old clock on the wall and the soft hum of traffic through the window. 

“In truth I didn’t think you would let me in,” he said finally, his voice rough from more than just the drink. 

You leaned back against the table, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together.

“I didn’t come here expecting anything,” he added. “I just… I needed to see you, make sure you were okay.”

You gave him a look. “You’re the one bleeding all over my furniture.”

That almost got a smile, almost, his lips twitched before falling back into a line.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Then slowly, he moved, reached out and gently took your hands in his. You froze, caught off guard.

He turned your wrists over with care, thumbs brushing the faint lines of your skin and without rushing, he lifted them to his mouth and kissed them, first the right, then the left.

You didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a breath.

He held your gaze, searching for words that wouldn’t sound too small or too late.

“For letting you walk away,” he said finally. “For pretending I didn’t care. For caring too much and never saying a damn thing. For not asking about you, not once.”

You didn’t speak, just looked at him, your wrists still resting lightly in his palms and a lump forming in your throat.

“When you stopped seeing me, I told myself it didn’t mean anything,” he went on, voice rough. “Tried to believe it was just a job, just time I paid for.”

He paused.

“But it wasn’t, not to me. Every second with you felt like… like breathing again.”

“I didn’t come here to make things harder,” he continued. “I just... I needed you to know, even if you slam the door in my face after this – I had to say it.”

He swallowed hard, his grip loosened, just slightly, giving you space to pull away, to run, to reject him like he half-expected.

You didn’t move, your eyes filling before you could stop it.

You blinked fast, trying to hold it in, but the tears came anyway, quiet and unexpected.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t care,” you said, voice catching on the words. “I left because I did, because I couldn’t go on like that anymore.”

You covered your mouth with one hand, shaking your head like the words were spilling too fast and you couldn’t stop them. “Because it didn’t feel like a job and I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything like that again.”

He stared at you, breath held, like even breathing too loud might break the moment.

“I spent years building walls, Bucky,” you said, voice unsteady. “Telling myself I’d never fall again. Never let anyone in, because the last time I did, it wrecked me and broke me in ways I’m still crawling out of.”

You let out a soft sob, almost a gasp, and he moved without hesitation, pulling you into his arms, warm and solid. You didn’t flinch, if anything, you melted into him.

“I wasn’t scared of you,” you whispered, voice raw. “I was scared of how much I wanted to stay. Of how badly I wanted this to be real and something more … more than just… just fucking for money.”

He exhaled, slow and shaky, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“I might be a damn idiot when it comes to feelings,” he murmured, “but I’m not here to break you, I swear. And I won’t hurt you. Ever.”

“I believe you,” you breathed, barely a whisper. “That’s what makes it so terrifying.”

You didn’t speak after that. There was nothing else to say, nothing that words could carry. You were not sure what this was, neither of you were, but it was something. Something unnamed, delicate and a little messy but nevertheless real and beautiful.

Bucky’s forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm against your cheek and his hands cradled yours like they were the most fragile things he’d ever held.

Eventually, you pulled back. 

“You should lie down,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over the bruised line of Bucky’s jaw. “The bleeding hasn’t stopped yet.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but you didn’t give him the chance, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom, switching off lights along the way.

He sat at the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure what to do next. You handed him a clean T-shirt, one of yours, oversized and soft, and he took it without a word.

He tried to pull it over his head on his own but winced halfway through, his shoulder clearly still aching. You stepped in, brushing his hands away gently. “Let me,” you murmured.

Carefully, you helped guide the shirt over his head, easing his arms through the sleeves. As the fabric settled over his chest, you bit back a smile. It looked oversized folded in your drawer, but on him, it clung just enough to stretch around his shoulders, riding up slightly over his abs. 

He didn’t complain, just looked up at you and you shrugged, lips twitching. “I think it suits you.”

Bucky kicked off his boots, then shot you a sheepish look as he reached for his jeans. His fingers fumbled at the button, cheeks going pink like this was the first time he was undressing in front of you, which, considering everything, was kind of ridiculous.

He averted his eyes and turned slightly, like that would somehow make it less awkward, then shimmied out of the denim, keeping his boxers on, and slipped under the blanket like he was trying to outrun the embarrassment.

You didn’t laugh, didn’t tease, just watched him for a second, heart aching a little, for all the muscle and the myth, there was something so soft in the way he still got shy when it wasn’t just about sex, when it was something more, something new.

You slid into bed beside him, quiet, not touching, letting the moment breathe.

Then his hand found yours under the blanket, uncertain, careful, and your fingers curled around his without thinking.

You shifted closer and placed your cheek on his chest. His heart was racing.

A second later, his arms came around you, hesitant at first, then stronger, and when Bucky exhaled, it sounded like he hadn’t breathed easy in weeks.

You didn’t protest, just stayed like that, no words, no labels, just warmth, just this, whatever it was. 

Bucky closed his eyes, breathing in the faint scent of your hair, it wasn’t his place, wasn’t even his bed, but somehow strangely it felt like… like home.

[vampiredaisiesss]

❝ all a ghost can do

is haunt ❞

— part one

★ dofp! logan howlett x younger reader

tags & warnings - mentions of domestic violence and daddy issues, age gap, (reader is in her early 20s), mentions of logan being referred to as an 'old man' and him calling the reader a 'kid', fluff, itsy bitsy angst, time has softened logan a bit.

word count - 1.7k

part two

★ ★ ★ ★

The whiskey burns, but not enough. Never enough to dull the edges of memories that cut deeper than any blade could. 

Logan sits at the kitchen counter of the mansion, darkness pressing in from all sides. His demons always seem to find him here, in these quiet hours when the world narrows down to silence.

Even the adamantium in his bones feels heavier tonight.

He catches your scent before he hears you—that vanilla body lotion you always use. Your bare feet pad against the hardwood floors, and he takes a long gulp of his Jack Daniels when he feels your eyes land on him.

Your eyes are full of worry, as they often are for him. You can’t help it. You both know he drinks too much, smokes too much, gets angry too fast and doesn’t sleep enough. You might be a lot younger than him, or seen half the world he has, but that doesn’t mean you are incapable of distinguishing his self-indulgent tendencies from self-destructive ones.

"You're brooding again," you murmur, voice soft in deference to the midnight hour. The gentle concern in your tone makes something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

"Ain't brooding, bub. Just thinking." The lie tastes bitter, worse than the whiskey.

"Same difference with you," There's no judgment in your voice as you pad closer. You slip onto the stool beside him, close enough that he can feel the heat of you against his arm. "Share your demons with me, old man."

Logan's grip tightens on the bottle, knuckles white. "They ain't your burden to bear, kid."

"Seems like they should neither be yours to carry alone anymore," Your hand finds his forearm, fingers gently coaxing his own to uncoil from the bottle. "They’re tearing you apart, Lo."

“I’ll heal,” his voice turns assertive.

For the first time since you walked in, Logan looks at you. There’s no real heat behind his hazel eyes, but the intensity of his gaze makes your mouth go dry. 

Logan's the kind of handsome that gets better with age, with grey starting to streak through his dark hair at the sides. You've spent more nights than you'd care to admit thinking about running your fingers through that hair, wondering if it's as soft as it looks. 

“There are some scars that can’t heal on their own.” Your voice catches, vision blurring as memories surface. His expression softens, recognizing your demons as they dance in front of your eyes.

You grew up in a small house on the outskirts of town, where the screams couldn't carry far enough for neighbors to hear. Your father worked construction, coming home with anger burning through his veins, fueled by whatever poison he'd picked up at the local store. The bruises started small—a grip too tight around your wrist, fingers digging into your shoulder. By thirteen, you'd mastered the art of layering clothes in summer without breaking a sweat.

Your mother watched it all happen through a veil of willful blindness. She'd whisper "I love you" while dabbing antiseptic on split lips, promising "things will get better" as she covered the marks with a drugstore concealer. But she never left, trapped in her own web of shame and financial dependence.

The day Charles Xavier found you was the day your powers manifested. 

Your father had been in one of his rages, when something inside you finally snapped. The resulting telekinetic burst had sent him flying across the room. You ran, terrified of what you'd done, of what he'd do in retaliation. That's when the professor's black car pulled up, offering sanctuary within the walls of his school.

Xavier's became more than just an escape—it became home. A home with an unlikely collection of mutants who’d soon turn into family. As far as you were concerned, Charles Xavier was your father and Storm had taken on a motherly inclination when it came to you.

And then there was Logan… gruff, protective Logan who understood you without you having to explain. You both sat in this very kitchen the night you finally told him everything.

You'd watched his knuckles whiten, saw the rage build in the set of his jaw—not at you. Never at you. You remember thinking that your father wouldn't survive the night if Logan decided to pay him a visit. But instead of violence, Logan had offered something far more precious than revenge.

Understanding. 

And that was the first time you fell a little for him. 

Logan lets out a breath that shakes more than he'd like to admit. "Been thinking about Stryker. The lab." His voice roughens as he admits. "Sometimes it all just... comes back. Can’t close my eyes, for the life of me."

You don't flinch from the roughness in his voice—you know too well how memories can become monsters in the night. Instead, your fingers slide down to cover his hand, "Would you like to spend the night with me?"

"That's how rumors start, you know." The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his hand turns beneath yours, rough fingers catching against your skin. He shouldn't enjoy your touch this much, shouldn't let himself notice how perfectly your small hand fits in his giant one.

"You worried about your reputation, Howlett?" You lean closer, unable to help yourself. Everyone else might see your relationship as purely paternal, but the thoughts that race through your mind when he looks at you are anything but daughterly.

"Hell nah, never been." His voice drops lower, rougher, allowing himself this small indulgence. "You sure you wanna be associated with a sleazy old bastard like me?"

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." The words come out playful, but your mind floods with memories. 

Ever since you joined the team, Logan's been your shadow, protecting you during every mission. You think of training sessions in the gym, how good his hands feel when they’re adjusting your stance. You think of the day he carried you through the mansion when your leg broke after a mission gone sideways. You'd been mortified at first, but when you felt him cradle you against his chest, you'd buried your face in his neck.

When it comes to Logan, it's more than just physical attraction. It’s the way he’ll jump in any fire to save you. It's the way he'll sense your fear and comfort you whenever you have nightmares. It’s the way he can make you laugh just by raising that eyebrow in exactly the right way at exactly the right moment.

You felt safe with him. You wanted him to know he could feel the same with you too.

Logan watches you lose yourself in thought, fighting the urge to brush back the strand of hair that's fallen across your face. 

He's spent too long trying to convince himself that his feelings are purely protective, that the way his chest tightens when you smile at him is just paternal instinct. But there's nothing fatherly about the way his body responds when you're close, about how often he finds himself thinking about the sound of your laugh.

"And call it daddy issues or whatever," you add with deliberate casualness, though your heart is hammering against your ribs, "but I like older men. So you're in luck, old man."

Logan knows he should say no. Should keep his darkness away from your light. But when you stand and offer your hand, he takes it, letting you lead him through the silent halls like a ship following a lighthouse home.

He has been in your room before, though never like this. Your room is almost the same as his. Almost, with bits and pieces of you sprinkled throughout. A huge antique bookshelf, courtesy of Charles, is one of them, covering an entire section of the four-walled space. 

You watch Logan from your perch on the bed, the way his hands are curled into loose fists at his sides. "It's okay," you let him know softly. "Let me help."

He draws a breath at your words. His hand falls from the doorframe, and the door closes behind him with a soft click, separating the two of you from the rest of the sleeping world.

The mattress dips beneath his weight when he finally sits. You resist the urge to immediately touch him, letting him arrange himself comfortably, until he's lying down with his head in your lap. 

His breathing is too measured, too even to be natural. You watch his hands, curled still into loose fists against his chest, and wait.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the rigid line of his spine begins to soften. He drapes his left arm over your legs, and your fingers find their way into his hair. And fuck, if it isn’t as soft as you imagined. 

"Is this okay?" you ask softly, working your fingernails through his scalp; The first stroke sends a shiver down his spine.

He responds with a barely perceptible nod.

"You're safe here," you murmur, tracing patterns against his scalp. "No labs, no Stryker. No pain. Just you and me."

His eyes flutter close, though he fights it at first but all protests die in his throat. Your fingers continue their gentle journey through his hair, across his scalp, and you feel him surrendering inch by inch to the comfort he's denied himself for so long.

"Those memories? They're just ghosts now. They can haunt you, but they cannot touch you. They can't hurt you anymore, because you survived. You got out, Logan. You're here. You're loved. You're safe."

A soft whimper escapes him. Slowly, so slowly he almost doesn't notice, the tension begins to leak from his muscles. The metal in his bones feels lighter now, smoothing the worried crease between his brows.

"That's it," you whisper, and he feels the smile in your voice. "I've got you, Wolfie. Rest now."

Wolfie, he smiles sleepily. The nickname is the last thing he registers before sleep claims him whole.

★ ★ ★ ★

a/n: Do we want a part two???

[002yb]

Suspension with no pay is a generous punishment, given how severely Dick knocks another officer's lights out. He's lucky no charges will be pressed. His 'colleague' probably isn't keen to air the dirty details of his provocations to the police commissioner; to have them put on paper.

Dick isn't too eager to discuss it, either. Just thinking of it tests his temper and his resolve not to tear through the precinct to the infirmary the bastard hides away in; to grab him by the collar of his uniform again and wail on him for being a sick fuck.

Gordon wants an explanation. Because he knows Dick. Because he knows Dick doesn't do shit like this without reason.

Dick keeps his mouth shut. He sets his jaw, clenches his teeth. He wants to scream, but he swallows it down. Looks just over Gordon's head instead, and waits to be dismissed.

He takes his punishment. He slams the door on his way out.

The only thing he wants is to go home, but he doesn't want to bring his bad mood past the threshold. So Dick sits outside, back to the wall, and makes himself breathe.

His knuckles are still red and swollen, but they'll bruise in the coming hours. He picks at split skin, smudging away blood that beads up.

There’s no cleaning up the mess he is, so Dick settles in. Dropping his head back against the wall beside the door. Breathing. Meditating. Glaring off at nothing as he sits, stews, and broods. Hands clenching periodically because he still wants to hit something.

Someone, specifically. Because Dick wasn’t done fucking them up before other officers stormed in to intervene. Alerted by shouts and familiar sounds of a scuffle. Baffled, probably, that good boy Dick Grayson can lose it worse than any of them ever could.

So Dick sits there. For a long time, until he feels numb. Until he can compartmentalize and put all his anger and irritation and hurt behind him. Because he’s not bringing it home.

Not this.

Not with Jason there.

Jason who, after some hours, comes up the stairs and startles at the sight of Dick sitting just outside their flat, quiet and unnaturally still.

Jason who sees the damage to Dick’s hands and the storminess to his expression with just a quick glance, and who takes that ugliness in stride and sits beside it anyway. Because it’s Dick.

Somehow it’s both easier and harder to breathe with Jason there beside him.

Mercifully, Jason doesn't pry. Not yet. He just sits there with Dick, quietly shuffling through the mail he must have grabbed on his way up. Ads, bills, notices.

It's so normal, so mundane that Dick feels winded by it. The easy slope of Jason's shoulders, the quiet contentment in his expression. They're outside their flat, sorting through mail; when they go inside, they'll debate on eating in, going out. They'll talk casework, get distracted by their own banter. They'll go on patrol, come home and tend each other's hurts. And they'll go to sleep together, same as any other day. One of many.

Fuck. Dick looks skyward. Blinks. Breathes.

Then he turns to look down at that pile of mail. Distracts himself with the cluttered ad that shows deals at a nearby grocery that Jason scans and scoffs at or stops to consider.

'Are you happy?'

'Depends who won the fight.' Is the cheeky reply.

Dick snorts, but doesn't comment. Doesn't trust his voice, or what words might pour out of him. Despite the lack of bruises anywhere but along his knuckles, Dick doesn't doubt it looks like he's the one that got fucked up.

Apt. Because to Jason, Dick doesn't look upset - he seems hurt.

And Jason isn't going to badger Dick. Or chide him. He trusts Dick's judgment, his reasoning, even if Jason likes to be contrary and challenge Dick at every turn.

But he's a Robin at heart, always curious. And he's also a street kid in soul, nosy because intel is an invaluable resource. He's also Jason, who worries even if he's prickly about it.

'Must've been fucked to get under your skin so bad.'

The words are there, but they're ugly. Dick swallows them down and deflects:

'Got suspended.'

'With pay?'

'Without.'

'How long?'

'A week.'

Jason clicking his tongue and scoffing about it, but he doesn't care about the lost income. It's a line of questioning to gauge the severity of the fight.

When Jason asks about on a scale of Damian to Jason, how mad will B be about it, Dick can't help the quiet laugh that bubbles up in him. He considers, then shrugs, 'Tim levels, maybe?'

Jason sitting with that, puzzling it over until something seems to click and he grimaces. Because, 'what the fuck would you be fighting over me for?'

Dick can't talk about it: about how an officer implicated themselves in the solicitation of a 'back alley whore,' a child, at the time. Provoked by the picture Dick keeps of Jason as his lock screen. Unable to resist the temptation of mocking, ridiculing Dick 'perfect golden boy' Grayson by going after his boyfriend, 'How much is that running you? Used to be dirt cheap, back in the day.' , 'Gotham's sloppiest seconds, or mine at least. Does he still cry pretty when you--?' Etc. Etc.

So maybe Jason figures it out for himself and makes an accurate guess. Because since Jason came back, he hasn't dealt with the police in any notable way. Not as a civilian, at least.

Jason would know that if someone saw Dick's lock screen and talked shit about Jason's appearance or other superficial bullshit, Dick wouldn't be so quiet about it. He'd be ranting and raving, incensed because he insists Jason is handsome, gorgeous (and it's sweet, because Jason isn't anything to write home about; a fun fight to provoke, some days, if only because Dick gets so up in arms over it).

And if it's not anything to do with present!Jason, that only leaves all the shit of his past, which is...

They haven't talked about it. Jason doesn't doubt that Dick knows, it's just - Jason doesn't want to talk about it.

Just Jason recognizing Dick's kindnesses for what they are. How Dick defended him. How he hurt enough for him that Dick risks it all. And then he comes home and waits outside because he won't bring that anger home like Jason's dad would. And he goes so far as to bite his tongue because he won't corner Jason into talking about shit he doesn't want to.

Just Jason, breathing steady and changing the topic entirely: 'I'm happy.' So happy. Happier than he's ever been. It's jarring, sometimes, how happy he is. Because there was a time when he didn't think he'd be allowed it. But here he is. With Dick. At their flat; a shoddy home, but theirs. Where they'll make dinner together and complain about romance not existing in the kitchen, get outta my way )< ; and where they'll talk circles around case work before they start bantering, gossiping, laughing. And where they'll leave for patrol but still flirt over comms and come back and hide their hurts only for the other to poke at them because they know. And they'll sleep. And it's warm. And of course Jason is happy.

It's a simple life, but it's theirs.

Oh, Jason looking at Dick's bruised hands and feeling overwhelmed at just how happy he is - to be loved and cared for so much. ;////////;

Getting all bashful as he tells Dick again, 'I'm really...really happy.'

And because it feels a little too heavy, a little too raw, Jason would cough and deflect in his own way. Grumbling because, 'Would've been happier with an expulsion, but...' Shrug.

Dick laughing under his breath. Taking the out. 'On my way. It was a 'formal reprimand'.'

Then Jason snickers because, 'Could I give you more names? Speed up the process.'

Which oops. Too dark, too soon. But after the initial grimace is a brittle laugh because wow.

Then something something Jason standing up and offering Dick a hand to pull him up, too. And they go about their routine. When Dick settles down, Jason starts prompting for details on the fight. How fucked was the officer's face? How many men did it take to tear Dick away from him? (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

Dick teasing him about it sounding like Jason likes that Dick lost his shit. And Jason owns up to it fully. Of course he likes it; it was for him. (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

Jason makes it easier for Dick by teasing him about it. Taking some of the weight away from it. Because this is how they look after each other. ♡

[alltimecharlo]

Will smith isn’t gay he’s just a really really reallllyyy good ally ( he stares at macklins ass from time to time in the locker room ) ( also toff is just watching all from side lines being like oml )

love this hehe!! yes, here is will being the best ally possible 🩵🏳️‍🌈 fic under the cut!!

Will Smith isn’t gay.

He’s not.

He knows this the way he knows how to tape his stick without looking, the way he knows exactly where Macklin Celebrini is on the ice at all times, like some internal compass is tuned to the sound of Mack’s skates cutting into the zone.

He’s straight. Very straight. He kissed a girl once in the sixth grade during spin the bottle and everything.

So when he catches himself glancing—briefly, okay, maybe more than briefly—at Mack’s ass in the locker room, he just… chalks it up to being a really good ally.

Like, a super progressive, supportive kind of guy.

“Nice towel,” he says one day, very casually, as Mack walks by post-shower, said towel slung low on his hips, damp curls dripping onto his neck.

Mack raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

Will blinks. “Yup.”

Totally fine. Not staring. Not even a little.

From the next stall over, Toff snorts behind his water bottle. Doesn’t say anything—yet—but Will can feel the judgment radiating off him like heat from a freshly Zambonied sheet.

⸻

It’s not even just the locker room.

It’s worse during games.

Because Mack’s got this fearless, all-gas-no-brakes style that’s somehow both reckless and beautiful, and Will gets to play next to him more often than not, because they came up together and the coaches like their chemistry.

Which is great.

Except when Mack leans over the bench to yell something like “High slot! Take it!” and Will’s brain short-circuits because Mack’s close enough to kiss.

“You hesitated,” Mack says one night, after Will bails on a shot and loops too wide.

“I was waiting for you to cover,” Will defends, flushing.

Mack grins—grins, full and sharp and heart-stopping—and Will feels something flutter in his chest like a glitch in the matrix.

“I always got you,” Mack says. “You just have to trust it.”

Will nods. “Right. Trust. Cool.”

His voice cracks a little.

Toff coughs into his glove. Definitely not hiding a laugh.

Will glares. “You got something to say?”

“Me?” Toff says, all wide-eyed innocence. “Not a thing, Smitty. Just enjoying the show.”

Will wants to die.

⸻

Later that week, in the weight room, Will’s trying to focus on his split squats, but Mack’s across the room doing deadlifts in a cutoff tee, and Will’s focus is shattered. His brain is doing this really annoying thing where it notices details it absolutely doesn’t need to be noticing—like the way Mack’s forearms flex, or how his shorts ride up a little when he drops into the lift, or how he groans when he hits a heavy rep and Will has to pretend he’s not hearing it in surround sound.

He’s so deep in thought that he doesn’t notice Toff sliding onto the bench next to him until it’s too late.

“Will.”

Will jumps. “Jesus.”

Toff sips from his protein shake like he’s watching a particularly juicy soap opera. “Do you know how many straight hockey guys I’ve met who talk about how not-gay they are right before checking out their teammate’s ass for the fourth time in ten minutes?”

Will gapes. “I’m not checking anyone out.”

Toff gives him a look so flat it could level a city block.

Will backpedals. “Okay. Maybe I looked. Once.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m just—supportive.”

Toff laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his shake. “You’re the most supportive, bro. You’re a rainbow-colored parade of support.”

Will flushes hot. “Shut up.”

Toff leans in, voice low. “I’m just saying… it’s not a crime to realize you like someone. And if that someone happens to be your weirdly hot, emotionally competent rookie best friend, I say: follow your heart, king.”

Will covers his face with both hands. “I hate you.”

Toff pats his back. “You’ll thank me when you’re married.”

⸻

The worst part—the worst—is that Mack seems completely unaware of the absolute chaos he’s causing. He tosses Will a Gatorade after practice and says things like “You were flying out there” with his hand resting casually on Will’s lower back like it’s no big deal. He offers to grab food after games. He brings Will coffee the exact way he likes it, no explanation, just drops it on the bench before warmup and shrugs: “You looked tired.”

Will drinks it with shaking hands.

Later, Toff walks by and mouths, you’re down so bad.

Will flips him off, but he doesn’t even bother denying it anymore.

⸻

Things come to a head on a travel day.

They’re on the bus, heading from the hotel to the airport, and Will ends up next to Mack because that’s just how it always works. Of course, the AC is broken, and of course Mack is in a T-shirt that’s slightly too tight and smells unfairly good—some mix of laundry detergent and clean sweat and whatever soap he uses that Will definitely isn’t obsessed with.

Will is trying to hold a normal conversation.

It doesn’t help that whenever their future with the Sharks comes up, Mack turns to look at him, and his eyes do that thing—soft but locked in, like Will’s the only person that exists in this exact moment.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Mack says. “You always have.”

Will’s throat goes dry. “You think so?”

Mack nods. “I know so.”

There’s a beat.

The bus rumbles underneath them.

Will blurts, “I’m not gay.”

Mack blinks. “Okay?”

“I just… I look at you sometimes, and it’s not—like, I don’t mean anything by it. You’ve got… really symmetrical facial features. And a—great ass.”

Mack’s mouth twitches.

So much for good instincts. Will immediately regrets his entire life. “I’m gonna jump out of this moving vehicle.”

But Mack just laughs. Low, and warm, and kind.

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” he says. “You can just… be.”

Will looks at him. At the curve of his smile, the easy set of his shoulders.

“You’re really annoying,” Will mutters.

Mack bumps their shoulders together. “You too, Smitty.”

⸻

Two rows back, Toff’s busy texting Eky.

Toff:

Smitty’s in love with Mack.

It’s like watching a teen drama in real time.

I give it two weeks.

Loser buys Chipotle.

♡

[thatnightlamp]

warning: English is not my first language, I am very bad at writing in English so I will use everything I can to translate from my mother tongue to English.

You don’t remember when the letters started coming more frequently - maybe a few weeks after that night in the abandoned building. The days blur together, too many crime scenes and sleepless nights. But you do remember how they changed.

At first, they were short. Taunts and observations, always written in that same shaking script. No fingerprints, no clues - just words. But over time, they grew longer, more… personal.

The last one was a long sentence, folded neatly and slipped into your apartment mailbox. You’d stared at it for an hour before even breaking the seal, telling yourself you didn’t care what he had to say. But of course, you did.

"You looked tired last night, detective. You should be careful. The city is a dangerous place for those who try to save it."

You crushed the paper between shaking fingers, telling yourself the heat on your face was anger. But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was the way his words lingered. How they seemed to coil around your thoughts, tight and possessive.

More than once, you caught yourself staring at the letters before shoving them into a drawer, fingers brushing the edges like they might burn. He was taunting you. Trying to get into your head. You knew that.

And yet…

Some nights, when the darkness pressed in and exhaustion blurred the lines between right and wrong, you couldn’t help but read them again. Not for the clues - those were always too subtle, too wrapped in riddles—but for the strange, twisted familiarity in his words. Almost as if he knew you well.

Or worse - understood you.

----------------------------------

It’s raining again the night they come for you. The downpour turns the city streets into rivers of black and neon, and the coffee in your hand is already cold by the time you get to the parking lot. You’re too tired to notice the dark van until it’s too late - until gloved hands grab you from behind, and something sharp presses into your neck.

You fight, elbow jamming back into someone’s ribs. A grunt - then another pair of hands, heavier this time, slamming you into the concrete. Stars burst behind your eyes, and you taste blood.

You kick, curse, bite, but there are too many of them. Rope cuts into your wrists, a hood yanks over your head, and the ground sways beneath you. There’s a roaring in your ears - panic, pain, or the van’s engine, you can’t tell.

You try to count turns. Left, right, right again - your mind is foggy, but you cling to it like a lifeline. The smell of gasoline. The muffled voices, one higher-pitched, excited. Another - deeper, steadier.

"Night Haunter will reward us," one of them breathes, almost reverent. "He’s chosen us."

Your stomach twists. Fanatics.

There had been rumors - a cult, they called it. People obsessed with the Night Haunter, with his message of punishment and judgment. Conspiracy theories on late-night forums, witness reports dismissed as crackpot delusions. You’d thought they were crazy.

But you’d been wrong.

You’re half-conscious when they drag you out, boots scraping against concrete. Your head feels split in two, each breath a struggle. There’s a faint light, hazy through the hood, and the smell of rust and oil. An old warehouse, maybe, or a factory.

Someone rips the hood off, and the world tilts sickeningly.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering in and out. Concrete walls, stained dark. A chair - steel and bolted to the ground - stands at the center of a chalk circle, symbols smeared in red. The ropes dig into your wrists, and you’re shoved into the chair, vision swimming.

A man steps forward, hooded, eyes bright with zealotry. He’s young -twenties, maybe. A knife glints in his hand.

"You don’t understand," he hisses. "You’re tainting him. Leading him astray. But we can fix that."

He raises the knife, and you brace yourself for the pain-

But the lights cut out, plunging the room into darkness.

There’s a scream - short, choked off with a wet crunch. Then another, gurgling, and a heavy thud. Blood sprays warm across your cheek, and the knife clatters to the floor.

You blink, vision blurring. Shapes move in the dark, swift and lethal. The sound of flesh meeting flesh - bones snapping like dry branches. A wet gasp, then silence.

The emergency lights flicker on, crimson and dim.

And you see him.

Konrad Curze. The Night Haunter himself.

He stands amid the carnage, bathed in red. He is no longer stay in the dark, but his presence is the same - towering, gaunt yet powerful, draped in a long black coat that sweeps the ground. His hair falls in dark strands around a face as pale and sharp as a blade, eyes like chips of ice. Even half-conscious, you can’t mistake the darkness that clings to him, a shadow given form.

He turns, and those eyes fix on you.

For a moment, you can’t breathe.

He steps forward, movements eerily smooth. The bodies of his supposed followers lie broken at his feet, throats torn apart. Blood drips from his gloves, black in the emergency lights.

But his expression is almost… soft.

You flinch when he reaches out, fingers ghosting over the rope binding your wrists. His touch is ice, but gentle, careful not to brush bruises already blooming beneath your skin.

"You shouldn’t have been here," he murmurs, voice low and cold but edged with something raw. Almost regretful. "They were never meant to touch you."

You try to speak, but the words catch, your throat raw and aching. You settle for glaring, though it lacks conviction.

He huffs something like a sigh, cutting the ropes with a flick of a knife. Your arms fall limp, wrists throbbing. The room tilts, and he catches you before you hit the ground, his arm around your shoulders, holding you upright.

The closeness is suffocating. You can feel the cold press of his chest, the faint scent of copper and something rotten. You should shove him away, fight, anything-

But your limbs won’t obey, too heavy and numb.

"Rest," he murmurs, almost… soothing. "They can’t hurt you now."

You should hate him for this. Should spit curses and claw at the monster who’s haunted your every waking thought for years. But your eyes are already sliding shut, the fight bleeding out of you with each rasping breath.

The last thing you feel is the brush of cold fingers, careful and reverent, smoothing your blood-matted hair from your face. A voice, low and distant, almost gentle.

"Sleep, detective. I’ll keep them away."

And for the first time in weeks, you let the darkness take you.

[mattsundaes]

ADVERSARIAL APPETITES

♡ — aki hayakawa x f!reader

The only thing worse than accidentally running into the Lust Devil is having to call Aki fucking Hayakawa for help.

18+ ONLY

wc — 1.9k

prompt — coming in pants, praise kink (requested by @antique-remains)

additional content — enemies to lovers, edging, masturbation, phone sex, light brat taming, light dom!Aki vibes, voice kink, mentions of anal sex, coming untouched, dirty talk, anal fingering

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

“Hayakawa.”

“Yeah?”

His voice is slightly muffled, and you know there’s a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, burning orange embers dangling precariously as the white stick shakes with the slight movement of his lips.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, the back of your head thuds against the creaky motel headboard as you close your eyes and exhale noisily before muttering, “I need your help.”

Later, you’ll look at your call log and be horrified to find that you called Aki fucking Hayakawa to grovel for assistance. Like this is your first goddamn day as a Devil Hunter. Like he’s not the most insufferably broodish bane of your existence. 

You may never forgive yourself for this temporary lapse in judgment, though that will ultimately be a problem for Later You.

Later—when you’re not stripped down to your bra and panties in a dingy motel room with a questionable smell lingering in the faded brown carpet, your blood-stained button-down shirt and pants carelessly tossed over the back of a half-busted chair, filthy knives left discarded on the nightstand where they’re sitting precariously close to a well-worn copy of the Bible. 

When the metallic taste of blood isn’t still lingering in your mouth from your split bottom lip.

When you’re not about to crawl out of your skin with arousal because your simple in-and-out solo assignment was interrupted by an accidental run-in with the fucking Lust Devil. 

The Lust Devil, who had laughed with an irritatingly melodic voice as you tried and failed to decapitate her. Your knives sang through empty air with each swipe as she repeatedly disappeared into a cloud of hazy, pink vapor, the sickeningly sweet smell of which left you doubled over gagging and gasping for breath. 

She’d kissed you on the cheek and tapped your nose with a deceivingly girlish little giggle before taking her leave, ominously lilting, “Good luck with that, love.” 

You’d hardly made it to this shitty, back road motel with the dredges of your self-control intact, almost orgasming from the mere feeling of your car bouncing with the bumps in the road, scraping your thighs together as you floored it. Abdomen pressed desperately against the edges of the dubiously stained sink, you’d scrubbed your hands raw with scalding hot water thrice in the cramped bathroom before unceremoniously stripping down and flopping onto the bed. 

After an hour of trying and failing to bring yourself over the edge, your sticky, arousal-soaked fingers are now cramped and sore from repeatedly plunging them in and out of your aching cunt. Try as you might, every time you reach the precipice of release, your pleasure evaporates in an instant, leaving every nerve ending in your body painfully ignited with need. Pathetic tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you desperately hump your hand, powerless to expel the insurmountable lust burning inside of you. 

Clearly, masturbating isn’t the solution to the Lust Devil’s little game. 

And Aki says as much after you finish explaining yourself through gritted teeth, fighting for your life to stave off the embarrassing urge to dip your fingers between your thighs again while the call is still active. 

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?!” you cry out in frustration. 

“Her power is fuelled by the fear of something, remember. But it’s not the concept of lust.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s the fear of lusting after someone that you shouldn’t. She feeds on the shameful feelings of acting on inappropriate sexual desires.”

You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see you. “So you’re saying I should come back and seduce Kishibe sensei.”

“You’re fucking shameless.”

“I like a quick solution.”

You can hear his exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “From what I’ve been told, it’s not about physical consummation. It’s a mental thing.”

“So I just need to think about a dirty little secret while I’m touching myself, and then I’ll finally be able to orgasm?”

“Essentially.”

Twenty minutes later, half of the pillows and bed covers have been angrily tossed to the floor in your attempts to touch yourself in every position you could possibly think of—sadly to no avail. 

“Yes?” Aki sounds bored when he answers your next call, and you make a rude gesture in the direction of your phone. 

“It’s not working.”

“And?”

“And I’m two seconds from losing my mind. Can you put that stupidly smart brain of yours to use and actually help me?”

The other end of the line is quiet, so you add with an annoyed huff, “Please.”

You can hear the slight amusement in Aki’s tone as he asks, “What, do you need me to tell you how to masturbate?”

You pointedly ignore the odd feeling that zips up your spine at his words. “Wow, you sure know how to talk dirty to a girl, Hayakawa.”

He scoffs. 

He fucking scoffs. 

There’s a shuffling sound before he responds in a low, clipped tone, “Stop being a fucking brat.”

Everything is silent save for the ticking of the clock on the wall. 

“I…” you trail off, not sure what kind of response you can formulate with the way your heart’s suddenly pounding in your chest. 

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he intones smoothly, your toes involuntarily curling at the cadence of his deep voice. 

“Laying in bed,” you reply, far shorter of breath than you were moments ago. 

“And what are you wearing?”

“My bra and underwear.”

“That’s too much. Take them off.”

Your sharp inhale is your only response, and though Aki’s normally hard-pressed to even suggest you do something on a regular day without getting a snarky response in return, your hands are like phantom limbs as you comply with his request. 

“Are you naked now?”

You nod, only to belatedly realize he can’t see it, so you reply, “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your back arches upward from where you’re lying face up on the mattress, those two words catching you entirely off guard. 

Aki’s the bane of your existence most days, for reasons your foggy brain can’t quite remember now that you’re naked and dripping wet to the husky sound of his unfairly attractive voice in a shitty hotel room in the middle of nowhere. You’ll certainly hate yourself for this later, for shamelessly imagining the slightly bored look on his stupidly handsome face as you spread your legs wide, exhaling shakily while running your fingers over your sensitive, peaked nipples. 

But oh, if it’s an inappropriate orgasm the Lust Devil wants?

It’s what she’s going to get. 

(And if you’re silently moaning now in anticipation at the thought of Aki fucking Hayakawa murmuring dirty things to you over the phone to get you off, nobody else needs to know that.)

“I like you like this,” he murmurs.

“Like what?” you ask, as if you don’t already know. 

He chuckles.

—

You’re insufferable. 

Absolutely, positively insufferable. 

You live and breathe to make Aki’s job far more difficult than it needs to be, with your snappy, headstrong attitude and your penchant for nearly getting yourself killed on a regular basis. 

But right now?

Right now, that’s the last thing on Aki’s mind. Because all of your bristled, sharp edges have gone pliant on the other end of the phone, your scathing, impatient remarks replaced by the sound of your heavily aroused, labored breathing. 

“I bet you’re already soaked,” he says, shifting slightly from where he’s seated on his couch as he feels himself harden in his slacks at the thought.

“I'm dripping all over the sheets,” you admit. 

He bites his fist. 

“Touch yourself for me then.”

You don’t hesitate—he knows that because he can immediately hear the lewd, squelching sound of you starting to pump your fingers in and out of your wet hole. 

“Slow down,” he chides, just to be a dick. He can’t let you off that easy, after all. 

“Fuck you,” you pant out with a whine. 

“Maybe if you behave,” he drawls, clicking his tongue. “How many fingers are you using?”

“Two.”

“Put in another.”

He hears a strangled moan fall from your lips. 

“S’tight,” you whimper. 

“How do you expect to take my dick then?” he asks, the words past his lips before he can stop himself. 

There’s a slight choking sound from your end. “How would you fuck me, Hayakawa?”

“Aki,” he corrects you with a slight edge to his voice, not sure why he suddenly feels compelled to do so. 

“How would you fuck me, Aki?”

His dick is straining painfully against his zipper now, a dark spot of precum staining the black fabric of his pants. He presses the heel of his palm against his throbbing shaft to relieve some of the pressure as he hears the damp slide of three of your fingers plunging in and out of your cunt. 

“Till you’re begging me to come.”

You moan for him. 

For him. 

He’s fucked. 

“Would you fuck my mouth to shut me up?” you breathe out, words hoarse. 

“I bet you’d look so pretty choking on my dick.” More precum leaks through, and Aki’s muscles tense. 

“Would I look pretty with your cum all over my face?”

His dick is so painfully hard it feels like it’s going to fall off. 

Aki’s going to kill the fucking Lust Devil with his bare hands. 

“You’re filthy,” he comments, hips rocking upward to no avail.

“Rude,” you exhale between a moan and a whimper, and he imagines the way you’re probably teasing your supple breasts while fucking yourself on your fingers right now. 

“That was a compliment.”

“I haven’t even told you what I’m doing now,” you tease. 

He raises an eyebrow, letting himself run his hand over his throbbing shaft briefly one more time. “What’s that?”

A loud, broken moan follows. “Using what’s dripping out of me to finger my ass.”

Oh. 

He’s really fucked. 

Aki bites his lower lip so hard he tastes blood as he resists the urge to furiously fist his cock. 

“How many?” he croaks. 

“One.”

“Give me two,” he nearly growls. 

“I can’t—“

“Prep yourself for me. Two fingers.”

Aki’s fairly certain he’s never been so desperate to fuck anyone in his life as he is in this moment. 

He hears you gasp and whimper as you slowly ease a second lubricated finger up your ass, knows it’s shoved all the way in by the sobbing moan that follows. 

“Okay,” you whisper shakily. 

“Good girl,” he says again, because he could tell what it did to you the first time. 

You keen at the praise, and he hears as you resume playing with your pussy while plunging in and out of the tight ring of muscle between your cheeks at the same time. 

“I’m close,” you sob. 

“Come for me,” he tells you, like he’s not on the verge of an untouched orgasm himself. 

“Wanna feel you come in my ass,” you whimper. 

Aki’s helpless to hide his answering moan, the mental image sending him reeling. But it’s the sound of you crying out his name as you come that’s his undoing—

“AKI!”

The coil in Aki’s gut unfurls like a whip, white-hot pleasure washing over his body as he trembles with the force of his orgasm. Cum floods his boxers, his hot, sticky seed leaking all over his balls and soaking through the front of his slacks. He gives in and roughly grasps his cock through the damp material, riding out the aftershocks as cum drips along his inner thighs, belatedly realizing just how loudly he’s moaning right along with you. 

Then it’s quiet for a moment, save for the sound of both of you breathing hard. 

“Did you—“

“Text me the address of that motel. Now.”

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[sehtoast]

Rebirth (Homelander x OC)

18+ | heavy descriptions of gore, s4 e4 spoilers, the bad room, mentions of sexual abuse/trauma, torture, they're making each other worse in this one actually and homie deserves that kind of ride or die vibe | Fic Directory

“So, how do you feel?”  

Such a simple question for such a… gruesome task.  Benjamin had gone with Homelander to his moment of reconciliation.  Even helped him pipe sloppy icing writing onto that ugly little Carvel cake.

He knew everything.  Long ago, after busting into Stan Edgar’s personal terminal, Ben found the tapes and files on Homelander’s childhood.  Watching them had been sickening at best, but hearing the personal account as described to him by his lover over the years?

Even the do-no-harm bug himself couldn’t find a reason to prevent Homelander from following through.  He’d found John crying in front of that shattered mirror and pulled him out of his stupor once the banter ended.  Benjamin held him on the couch as he sobbed as he often did after run ins with the different facets of his psyche.  Used to be that there was no one to hold him at all, but the bug changed that.

Homelander would crash, but he would have somewhere safe to burn.

He thought about John’s various accounts of his childhood on the flight to the compound.  The incinerator, the bad room, how on edge he always was under the all seeing eye of big brother.

Usually the violent details emerged after nightmares.  Babbled words and cries for mercy as he tossed and turned until he’d shoot up in bed with his eyes primed to protect himself from his own memories.  Benjamin always held him afterward and listened.

“Sometimes I can still feel it,”  John would say, eyes glassy as he’d fight to keep those little shakes from turning into sobs.  No signs of weakness, no reaction.  Part of his conditioning– he cannot let the world know it hurts.  He cannot be a disappointment.

Ben would all but beg him to let it free anyway.  “You don’t have to be strong with me, pumpkin,”  he would always whisper.  “I love you even when you’re not.  Promise.” 

“But I– I have to be,”  Homelander would reply.

Benjamin always asked why.

John could never give an answer.

The worst were the more… intimate details.  Benjamin knew less about these, but there’d always been a sneaking suspicion that things along the lines of that happened.

Homelander spilled the beans after a panic attack during foreplay.  Stuttered out the details of masturbating during the security guard’s breaks. Doing what young boys do, he’d said.  Failing to finish in time and finding himself subject to mockery day in and out.

The resulting body image and self confidence issues, and the occasional difficulty with performance were all the consequence of some jackass further torturing the boy who never had a safe moment to feel what he described as the only good he could find in that awful room.  

Each time, Ben held him.  Promised him he was safe.  There’s no judgment, no mockery, no humiliation, and certainly no name-calling.  With kisses pressed to John’s knuckles, the two would talk it out until the world became steady again.

It’s why Benjamin doesn’t mind watching John laser that piece of shit’s dick clean off.  He doesn’t bat an eye to any of it.  The torture they face is but a fraction of what they’d done to that little boy– a drop in the lake of the things they swear up and down they don’t recall.

The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.

After listening in on Barbara’s account of Homelander’s conditioned obedience and the nature of his birth, he finds he has no problem holding her steady as his love slaughters the rest of them before her eyes.  

Bit by bit, he dismembers them.  Split them in two and paints the room with their remains.  He laughs and laughs, grinning wide and proud as he pries a man’s jaw open until his neck splits just to rip the tongue from his gullet and chuck it at her face.  He doesn’t stop until they’re no more than unrecognizable piles of flesh and viscera. 

True to their perfected teamwork, Ben webs Barbara to the wall to feast her eyes upon Homelander’s good work, and John?

Well, lasering the door and melting it forever shut was ingenious.

She will die in there, nice and slow. It’s no less than she deserves.

It’s heartbreaking to see how little it did to soothe Homelander’s pain.  Revenge, as Benjamin had told him many times, never quite worked out the way people wanted it to.  It’s potent for as long as it takes for the elevator to reach the surface.  It simmers during the flight.  Fades by the time they touch down at the tower.

And then turns to deep, lurching sobs as they shower it all away.

Release, yes… but not enough.  

It could never be enough.

“Johnny–”

“Homelander,” he chokes through tears. He’d been correcting people all day about his name.  “I’m– I just–”

Ben shushes him softly, thumbs swiping away the odd gooeyness of blood and tears.

“H-Homelander… just–” he tries again.  “Just for now… please…” 

Because Homelander was safe.  Homelander had the strength to overcome.  Homelander was the ideal and the power to protect himself.

The arms around Ben’s abdomen pull him impossibly closer.

“Homelander,” Benjamin murmurs, still stroking softly at his love’s face.  “I love you.”

Maybe not the best thing to say to the man claiming to be casting off the shackles of love, but certainly something always worth reminding him of while he crumbles.  There’s a million promises behind those three little words.

I love you when it hurts.  I love you when it doesn’t.

When it is ugly.

When it is beautiful.

As long as it is you.

His love succumbs to more cries, but Homelander knows, deep down, that it’s okay.

He is safe.

He is loved.

There will be no mockery. No humiliation.

Here, in the arms of his little spider, he need not be strong.  Here, he may simply be.

[madhatterbri]

It All Fell Down | D.P. Part 2

Summary: The fallout costs Damian and Y/N their relationship.

Author's Note: Saw him last night after Smackdown in the last dark match. He went against Jey Uso. 😮‍💨 so fine.

It All Fell Down Part 1 | Damian Priest List | Main List

"Are you ready for our match tomorrow?" Rhea asked happily. She sat next to you at the hotel bar. The two of you decided to go late that night to avoid people calling her Mami that night.

You sat on the stool fixated on the bartender as he counted money from the register. Your mind so far in space, it was like you were visiting ET in his home land. All you could think about was Damian and the look on his face when you broke up with him. A nudge to your arm brought you back down to Earth.

"You okay? Is it a full moon? I swear between Damian ignoring my texts about us being here and you being a bloody space cadet tonight, it's like I'm stuck in the twilight zone," Rhea complained and took another drink.

"Damian isn't going to come," you whispered. Guilt ate at you, and you bit your lip.

"Why? Is he feeling sick?" Rhea pressed.

You were unsure if you should tell her and leave it up to Damian, but she was your friend too. "We broke up,"

"What? When?" She asked and scrolled through her messages. Rhea wondered if she missed anything in her chats with Damian. Tonight was the only night that something was off.

"About three hours ago," you answered. You frowned and started to cry. The pain was worse than you could have ever thought possible with dating someone for a few weeks. He was with you for everything. It felt like a dream, but now you were living a nightmare.

"What happened?" She asked and rubbed your back. You cleared your throat and told your side of the story.

💜🖤

You first thought about breaking up with Damian the night Finn found out. Continuing the relationship felt like a dig at Finn. The way he looked at the two of you lived in your mind rent-free. Every time you closed your eyes, you can see his hurt face. Damian convinced you that things would get better and decided not to split.

The relationship was going strong until you finally cornered Finn to talk to you. It was in an elevator, and it was a happy chance. He tried to ignore you, but you cornered him. Finally, he let you have all of it.

He didn't appreciate your broken promise to him or Damian for almost letting Finn ask you for another chance. The betrayal of you two sneaking around instead of telling him was brought up. Now, he was upset because you messed with his career. That conversation made you feel worse. You knew what you had to do.

"Break up? Take it easy. Finn will eventually come around to us," the archer of infamy shrugged. His arms crossed over his chest as you sat at the foot of the bed. Your hands rubbed together nervously.

"No, he won't," your voice cracked. "This was all a mistake. I cost us our friendship to Finn,"

"Our relationship is many things, but it is not a mistake," he defended. "Why are you so willing to throw us away for a man having a temper tantrum?"

"I'm not throwing us away, Dam. We are just going back to being friends," you tried to explain. You knew it would be hard to break up with him, but you never expected such a fight. He told you he didn't know if he could just be friends with you.

The argument didn't get much better from there. There was no yelling, but there was a lot of hurt. Finally, he threw his hands in the air and took a few steps back. There was no changing your mind about all of this.

Before he left your hotel room, he turned to look at you. "I love you, Y/N. I just wish that would have been enough for us,"

💜🖤

The air in the bar was thick. Rhea bit her lip and contemplated on what to say next. All this drama had gone on long enough. For the most part, everyone kept it professional, and it was contained between you and Judgment Day.

"It's late. Why don't you get some sleep? I want you to be good for tomorrow. Here, I will help walk you to your room," Rhea offered. You gladly took her up on her offer. She helped get you settled back in and left.

She stood outside your door and grabbed her phone. Finn's name lit up her phone screen. She hit the message button.

"You and I need to talk," the message simply stated. She hit send and waited for his response.

[ballsandbabes]

A shadow, darker than black Pt.3

authors note: y/n = your name// not proof read// GIF not mine // loosly based on the events of the series// Chihiro is such an exciting character and totally underrated, so this is a heartfelt project of mine// This is a multi part story, you can find the other parts here:

Parts: Part.1 // Pt.II // Pt.III // Pt.4 // Pt.5

pairing: Chihiro Mayazumi x fem!reader

summary: A shadow darker than black is exactly what fascinated you. Because you saw something for a split second: a spark. So what happens if you try to understand, where these sparks come from?

genre: romance, hurt/comfort, angst

word count: 800

After you told the generation of miracle, what you really thought about them, there was a bad mood around. So the next day, it was Kuroko who came to find you. he didnt like said mood, wanting to understand, where your opinion cam from.

He waited after practice while the gym emptied, leaning against the wall with his usual quiet patience. You almost didn’t notice him—typical Kuroko. But when you turned and caught his eyes, you saw something different. Not judgment. Not pity. Curiosity. And a little sadness.

“Hey y/n. Can we talk?” he asked softly.

You nodded. You both sat on the gym steps, the distant sound of bouncing balls echoing from another court. It took a while before either of you spoke. “I wanted to understand,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “What you said yesterday… about us. About the Generation of Miracles. I’m not angry. I just want to know what made you say it.”

You looked down at your hands, then at the gym floor—at all the moments your friendship had carried you through, and how much weight your words had dropped on them.

“It’s because of Chihiro,” you said.

Kuroko blinked,“Mayuzumi-kun? From the Rakzuan Team?” This answer surprised him. You nodded, more firmly now. “He’s being treated like shit—as if his only value is in becoming your better version. Akashi uses him. The team ignores him unless he’s doing something ‘useful.’ They mock him when he fails. He’s… completely isolated.”

Kuroko looked down. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“No. Of course you didn’t.” You exhaled sharply. “You saw him as your replacement. The one who took your role. The threat.”

He didn’t deny it. For a while, you both sat in silence. Then, softly, Kuroko said, “You’re right.”

You turned, surprised. “I did see him that way. I thought… if Akashi had found someone like me, but ‘better,’ then maybe I had already been left behind. Maybe I didn’t matter anymore.” He stared at his hands. “But I was wrong. Mayuzumi-kun isn’t better or worse. He’s just different. And he’s being used like I was… only without the support I had.”

You didn’t speak. You just let him process. Then he looked at you again, eyes a little gentler. “You care about him.”

You froze.

“I can see it,” Kuroko said, a tiny, knowing smile playing at the corner of his lips,“You speak differently when it’s about him. Like he matters in a way no one else does.”

You swallowed. “Maybe I do. I don’t know yet. I just want him to be seen the way he is...as the amazing player he is...”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promised. “But… thank you. For seeing him. For being kind, even when we weren’t.”

A small silence passed between you. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. You rested your shoulder against his.

“We’re good?” you asked. He nodded. “We’re always good, Tetsu.”

___ _ _ _

That evening, you found Chihiro at the usual spot—by the water, where the city’s light danced like silver on the ripples. He stood with his back to you, hands buried in his coat pockets, scarf loosely hanging around his neck. You walked up beside him, your fingers almost brushing his. He didn’t look at you, but his voice was steady.

“You talked to Kuroko,” he said softly.

“Yeah,”you said, wondering how he always knew about these things.

“…He’s not as dense as he looks.”

You laughed softly. “He’s not. He just needed to understand. How come you know about this??”

Chihiro’s eyes flicked toward the water. “He spoke to me...he apologized, so i figured...You didn’t have to defend me, you know.”

“I wanted to,” you said, looking in his starry grey eyes.

He went quiet again. The wind picked up, tugging at your hair and ruffling his coat. The space between you narrowed by a breath, a heartbeat.

“I hate how easy it is to be invisible,” he murmured. “But with you… I don’t feel that way.”

Your breath hitched. You turned toward him, eyes searching his face. His expression was unreadable—cool, calm, maybe a little guarded. But his voice? His voice was full of weight.

“I think about you too much,” he added, almost like a confession. “It’s annoying.”

You smiled—shaky, breathless. “I think about you too,” you whispered. “More than I should.”

He turned toward you. Now you were face-to-face, closer than you’d ever been. The space between you felt magnetic—pulling, buzzing, waiting. You could see the color in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something else but didn’t.

He didn’t move. Neither did you. It was unbearable. Soft. Electric.

But nothing happened. Not yet. Because it wasn’t time. Not tonight.

Instead, he looked away first, jaw tightening, like the moment had slipped through his fingers. “You’re freezing,” he muttered, pulling off his scarf and wrapping it around your neck without asking.

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes for no reason you could name. “Thanks.”

He didn’t look at you again. But his hand brushed yours—and stayed.

And for now, that was enough.

[schrijverr]

Superstition

Hen Wilson week 2025, Day 3: Superstition

During the fool moon, Howie quiet curses him and Hen for their shift. This results in an evening full of weird calls, ending with a kid stuck in a chimney. Prompts by @henwilsonweek

On ao3.

Ships: minor henren mention

Warnings: the shittiness of pre-canon 118

~~~

“Hey, Hen?” Howie breaks the silence unprompted, chewing on a doughnut as they sit in the ambulance. It’s a full moon and everyone has split up to answer to as many calls. Hen is glad to be stuck with Howie instead of someone else even if it’s probably because Gerrard still hates them.

“Yeah?” she replies curiously, since this is a slow moment and on a chaotic night like this – though it has been pretty slow the whole time all things considered – and Howie’s random thoughts can be very entertaining.

“Do you think that if we invoked the q-word curse, would it cancel out the full moon or make it worse?” he asks.

“Huh,” Hen says as she thinks about it for a moment. Then she decides: “I don’t think it works like that.”

“I mean, how do you know that. We won’t really know until we try, right?” Howie argues. “I would like to have a way to have better full moon shifts, don’t you?”

“No! Nu-uh, you’re not involving me in this, don’t you know what karma is? No. I’m not risking my life like that,” Hen protests immediately. She know she is a little superstitious, but it’s better to be safe than sorry in her opinion.

Howie considers it for a moment as he chews on his last bite of his doughnut. He smartly swallows it, before saying: “Well, then I say, me specifically, that it’s been quiet for a full moon.”

Hen actually gasps when he says that and the both hold their breath.

For a moment, nothing happens. Cautiously they unclench all their muscles and Howie grins: “Hey, guess it did work! A jinx cancels out a jinx!” which naturally means that their radio goes the second he says that.

“You were saying?” Hen tells him judgmentally as she starts the ambulance up and turns on the sirens as she peels out of the parking lot.

“Oh come on, it was worth a try,” Howie complains.

“I wasn’t supposed to get involved in your dumbass idea. I had nothing to do with this,” Hen immediately argues back.

“How was I supposed to know it would hit you too! I specifically said it was about me,” Howie exclaims.

“Still,” Hen pouts. She did not ask for a jinxed shift, especially not a full moon jinxed shift. She just wanted to have an as easy shift as possible and go home to her wife and son, not run around town like a chicken without a head!

Sadly, the universe does not listen to requests like that and her and Howie spend all night scrambling from one emergency to the next. The only silver lining is that most of them are ridiculous not very intense or requiring a lot of manpower, so it’s mostly her and her best friend having one of the weirdest nights of their lives to date.

Despite the hectic-ness of it all, Hen is actually having a lot of fun. Howie has that effect on her. It’s not that she’s too serious, but she has always had to be professional to be respected. With Howie she can be silly and he won’t question how competent she is. It’s nice.

Howie has always just accepted her, whether it was as a firefighter, a paramedic, or a giant lesbian. He never cared, just acknowledged that that was what she was and moved on.

So, yeah, running around, because of his stupidity, isn’t the worst. It’s just a tiring shift, not a rough or unpleasant shift for them. In a way, the jinx could have been a lot worse.

That is until one of the calls closer to the end of their shift.

They arrive at the house first, the others already on their way from another part of town with the ladder truck. It’s a normal, unassuming house in the suburb… were it not for the crying woman that meets them outside.

Howie takes lead for now, since he is the senior worker between them and Gerrard would take less offense with that. So he speaks to the woman first: “Ma’am, we got a call there was a child stuck somewhere?”

“Yeah, my son, Mica,” the woman cries. “I don’t know what he was thinking. I went to check on him after I went to pee and he was gone, then I heard his muffled voice in the wall.”

At the words, Howie shares a look with Hen, that’s not something you hear every day. Howie asks: “Can you show us?”

“Of course,” the woman says, leading them inside. She shows them in, babbling about how her husband is away on a business trip and that Mica is six years old, but an adventurous little rascal, and shouldn’t there be more people?

Hen ensures her that more people are on their way, just as she opens the door to a room that definitely belongs to a six year old. Though, interestingly, the window is open. She asks the woman: “Was the window open when you went to check on Mica?”

“Yes. Oh god, you don’t think he’s been taken, do you?” the woman asks horrified.

“No, no,” Hen quickly assures her. The woman heard him, more likely that he is still stuck. The question just is where and this opens up more routes to how they got there.

“Mica is still here,” Howie says, his ear against a part of the wall. “I can hear him.”

Hen looks to where Howie is listening, then leans out the window, her gut feeling telling her she should look there. As she looks out over the roof, she says: “And I think I know how he got there and what he’s stuck in.”

Howie joins her at the windowsill, spotting the same chimney she had. From the open window it would be easy to get up there, especially for a kid. She asks: “What are we going to do now? Wait for the others to show up? I mean, we need equipment for that.”

“Yeah, kind of,” Howie says, glancing to the woman before lowering his voice, “but Mica’s breathing sounds weird and I want his vitals as quick as possible.”

“Well, then we go up to him,” Hen instantly says, because she will back his play and trust his expertise just like he would with her.

They tell the woman to go outside and wait for the firetruck to direct towards the room again. The two of them probably should wait for harnesses, but there is a six year old child in danger, they don’t have time for waiting. So, together they climb up to the chimney to look down and check.

Mica’s feet are sticking up, but are way down. How he’d gotten in so far, they don’t know, not to mention why. They call out to him, telling him they’re there to help, before trying to reach out and check on his pulse. Both their arms are too short to reach him. As he is hanging in the chimney, Howie curses: “How did he get in so deep?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like how his voice sounded,” Hen replies. “I want him out of there, make sure his vitals aren’t dropping with the way he’s out of breath. His lungs could be constricted in there.”

“You’re right, I’m going in,” Howie says.

“You’re going in?” Hen repeats incredulously.

“Yeah, I’m going in. I think I can fit some part of the way down, enough to reach him. Maybe we can even get him back up like that, or I could get a stethoscope up his back or something to check,” Howie explains.

Hen seems skeptical, but she also wants Mica to be okay and if Howie wants to go down there, she isn’t stopping him. So she just says: “Alright, what do you want me to do?”

“Just be on stand by and maybe pull me back out,” Howie grins.

“Will do,” Hen promises.

Soon, Howie has wormed himself halfway into the chimney, legs still sticking out, almost as if he’s bending down into it. He has managed to reach Mica’s ankle, finding stable enough vitals, even though his breathing definitely can use help and he should be right side up as soon as possible. The poor kid had apparently just wanted to know what it was like to be Santa, which is an awkward conversation for his mom to have with him.

By that point, Gerrard and the others have arrived. Hen goes to catch them up to speed, while Howie goes to investigate how Mica is stuck.

Gerrard is very much not pleased with them and Hen is sure they will hear all about how horrible they are later, but for now she takes some schadenfreude in how they apparently have had as busy a shift as her and Howie.

Tommy wants to bash in the wall to get Mica out, but Howie comes over the radio that the construction of the chimney will allow him got get Mica out without them having to bash in a wall and potentially ax a child in the stomach. Someone just get him the lube.

So, up Tommy goes with copious amounts of lube, while Sal and Hen wait at the hearth to receive Mica, which is a bit too similar to helping people give birth for Hen’s taste, but whatever. If it works, it works.

She doesn’t know how much lube Tommy ends up carrying up there (though she does know the homophobic jokes Sal can make about it), however, when Mica finally comes sliding down the chimney for them to catch.

The woman is beside herself with joy as Hen checks Mica over to see if he’s okay. He is lightheaded and he has some bruising, but nothing is cracked or broken and his breathing returns back to normal the second he is right side up and out of the tight space.

At that point, Tommy comes down. Alone.

“Where’s Han?” Gerrard barks.

Tommy looks unsure for a second, then says: “Uh, stuck, sir.”

“Stuck?”

“Yeah, in the chimney. I can’t get him out.”

Sal comments: “But he’s covered in lube!”

Hen doesn’t waste time talking about it. Howie needs her and she is going to be there to get him out of this trap of his own making. Indeed Howie is stuck in the chimney, wiggling to no avail. “Howie?” she asks, putting a hand on his back to calm him, he could scrape himself up if he goes on like that.

“Uh, hi, Hen,” Howie replies, sounding out of breath. “I guess going in the chimney wasn’t my best idea, huh?”

“Maybe not,” Hen laughs. “But we’re going to get you out. Can you move?”

“No, not really,” Howie calls back, while at that point Tommy and Sal also join her up there.

The three of them tug and pull on Howie for what feels like forever as more and more lube gets poured over him in an attempt to get him out. They cut off a lot of his gear, hoping to slim down his bulk, but it seems like Howie isn’t going anywhere.

In the end, they have to break the chimney to get him out, bring up some crow bars and saws to cut him out of there. Hen is pretty sure that this is the last time Howie will every even dare to play with any jinxes, because he definitely called this down on himself.

When he is finally out of there, they all take a deep breath of relief. Howie is heaving deep breaths, covered in lube and soot as well as in torn up clothes. Hen puts down her saw and lightly kicks him in the side, saying: “Let’s get you to a shower, Mr. Chimney.”

~~

A/N:

Hen and Chimney friendship as well as Chimney getting his name bc he got stuck in a Chimney will always be special to me <3

Maybe not as Hen-centric as it should be for Hen Wilson week, but the two of them are just too fun and I loved writing this, so who cares xp, she is still prominent

[lukedanger]

Day 10: Second Chances

For @owlcatober - a former companion gets a second chance, and Arueshalae talks to her.

[Ao3 Link]

====

Of all the horrors that Arueshalae had anticipated in her return to the Abyss, there was one reunion she had not expected. Perhaps if given time she might have considered the encounter with an abyssal larva bearing a former comrade’s face, or perhaps demons born from that larva. Yet in the whirlwind of preparations, the thought of meeting a former companion was far from everyone’s mind.

In hindsight, though, Arueshalae should have known better than to assume that Pharasma’s judgment erased everything. After all, Arueshalae herself had her realization by way of Desna awakening the memories of the damned souls that eventually became her. And that was without the consideration of what this mythic power would do to the process.

Arueshalae watched the subject of her thoughts: at first glance, another succubus with black bat wings and similarly colored tail, pointed ears, piercing brown eyes, and horns that had been filed down to be barely noticeable in the bangs of her long black hair that hung behind her past her shoulders. She wore a light blue half-dress over white, much as she had in life, even as the mortally feminine attire gave way to practical brown pants and boots below the hips.

Then she transformed. Not the transformation that Arueshalae knew all too well to match her victim’s desires, but shifted into an entirely new demon. An incorporeal black mass with wings black as midnight, long claws for hands, and a black fog for legs. The dress she wore also turned translucent with the transformation, staying with it. An invidiak, more commonly known as shadow demons. A demon of envy, masterful possessors, and also often servants of their Lady in Shadows.

Then the demon transformed again. The bloody red form of a babau, all traces of beauty lost as it was replaced with a horned skull-like face, a long tail, clawed feet, and slimy red skin. The dress shifted to match, and so far seemed to be holding despite the red acid. The demon’s true form, or at least the one that was victorious in a contest of consumption. Demons of murder, the sin that had defined this soul the most in life, followed shortly after by the other two.

In a way, Camellia Gwerm had not avoided the fate of abyssal larvae after all.

Camellia had her back turned to Arueshalae, the former half-elf looking in a mirror she had brought from the city below as she explored her new self. It did not take long for Camellia to return to the form of a succubus, even as she pouted at her wings and ran a hand along her forehead to make sure the horns had been filed down.

“Fascinating, is it not?”

Arueshalae looked to her right. She had stepped up to where Nenio and Woljif were keeping an eye on Camellia - or at least, Woljif had his eyes on the task. Nenio had been studying Camellia’s transformation since their first encounter, finally interested in the noble bastard after having previously shown little interest in her.

“I dunno,” Woljif admitted, “seems like a gimmick to me. I mean, don’t succubi transform already?”

“Yes, but they cannot truly impersonate other beings of the outer planes! Not without powerful magic, even in comparison to the most accomplished mortal spellcasters.”

“If you say so.”

Arueshalae folded her arms together, frowning. “Camellia has become something strange. Three demons fused together.”

“Or one being split into three - see the fey at the Battlebliss Arena as an example of the phenomenon.” Nenio put a hand to her chin. “Truly, we have stumbled upon a remarkable discovery. I am quite glad that she was not smote on the spot and that we assisted in completing Lady Areelu’s experiment!”

“Yay, we helped a shadow-babau hybrid add a succubus to the tryst,” Woljif deadpanned with an eye roll. “Honestly, as far as the chief’s ‘dumb idea but she wants to see what happens’ moments go, this is worse than studying Vang’s notes.”

“I would note that my assistant adamantly refused to recreate swarm boy’s experiments, not even seeking volunteers ready to sacrifice in the name of science!” Nenio insisted with just a bit too much regret in her voice for anyone to be comfortable. “Nonetheless, assisting rich girl has provided us with invaluable insight into Areelu Vorlesh’s research! She studied this phenomenon for its own value, but more importantly to understand the survival of the mortal ego through Pharasma’s judgment. She must be working on truly revolutionary work for rich girl’s transfiguration to be a mere stepping stone!”

“Whoo, big deal. Doesn’t tell us how they’re makin’ the mythic monsters.”

“No,” Arueshalae admitted, “but perhaps it is something we should all think about if this was not an accident.”

“Gee, thanks, like I haven’t considered what demon blood does.”

“Regardless of tiefling boy’s sour disposition, you wanted to speak to her demon girl? We were not asked to bar verbal inquiry, so by all means!”

Arueshalae nodded, inhaling. Yes, she needed to. Camellia had tried to reach out to her in life. In hindsight it was probably for horror stories to get off on, but perhaps something remained of that bond? Perhaps truly seeing life in the Abyss had convinced Camellia she had deserved her fate but now could change her ways?

Arueshalae stepped forward, flicking her tail to hit the rocky surface so it was clear she was not trying to sneak up on the new demoness. Camellia heard, turning her head partway, and then she affected a smile. The same false smile, as Daeran had put it, of a woman pretending to be enjoying herself in society. Yet within there was something genuine - Camellia was not as discrete as she had believed she was at the sight of horrors.

“So,” Camellia started, “Arueshalae. How do I look?”

“Much as you used to,” Arueshalae admitted honestly. “The tailors of Alushinyrra are as precise as I remember.”

“It helps when one remembers not only wearing the clothes, but the commissioning itself.” Camellia ran a hand around the front of her collarbone, then down her chest to admire the deft replication, then scowled. “If only the price was something other than her pleasure. But I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

There were quite a few things such a jab could allude to, and Arueshalae was not interested in revisiting any of them. “This is the way of the Abyss. Everything can be currency, whether you wish to spend it or not.”

“Hmmm,” Camellia noted as she glanced towards her nominal guards, just a bit too far away to hear if they lowered their voices. “Yes, it is true. Even in Charnelhome, fools wanted what satisfaction they could get. At least I was able to escape swiftly enough after my shadowy self found me.”

Camellia tried to hide it, and the Abyss had clearly been a harsh but effective teacher in such a short time, but Arueshalae could still perceive how much the experience had horrified Camellia. How must it have felt for one to technically succeed, especially for someone who was used to being on top in such an encounter? Arueshalae had her own run-ins with invidiaks, including an inexperienced one trying to take over her body, so it was not an academic question for her. 

“Still, this has been an,” a pause, “educational experience. One I am eager to move past. I suspect you feel the same.”

Arueshalae blinked. Was she right? Focus! She told herself. Don’t play her hand too early. “This is not the homecoming I would have wanted, no, but we have to find the source of the mythic demons. Even all of us together could not stop an army of them.”

“I suppose not. But at least here, you are most helpful, are you not?” Camellia smirked. “Elaina must hang onto your every word and story now. More than she had, that is.”

“She needs all the information she can get. You remember what she said about knowledge.”

“Knowledge is power, a road to using it better, and so on.” Camellia sighed. “I suppose knowledge of Mireya was not enough…”

“Don’t lie. Not about this.”

“Oh please, I know full well that my secret is out. Can a girl not use sarcasm?”

“Sorry,” Arueshalae apologized as she felt her cheeks flush. “But, I know how hard it is to earn their trust.”

“Evidently not as hard as I imagined. So, where is your mark?”

“Mark?” Arueshalae asked.

“Don’t play dumb,” Camellia reached a hand to her dress, opening the top until her heart was visible. A brand had been burned there between her breasts, shaped as a sword before a sun. “A Mark of Justice. Divine retribution for misbehaving. Elaina and her holy warden friends were eager enough to brand me in private. What are a few shared secrets between demon girls marked by a paladin?”

“She never- Elaina never put any sort of mark on me.”

“Well, I suppose she must not have been powerful enough back then. Who then? Sosiel, because you want love instead of lust? Or maybe Lady Sigrun - Desna’s protege marked by Desna’s high priestess in Drezen? Arsinoe, with how you hung out by the cathedral?” Camellia ran out of alternatives as Arueshalae remained silent, still staring at the brand.

“Are- are you kidding me?!” Camellia finally snarled as she let go of her dress. “She branded me, but not you?! Why? You did far worse than I ever did!”

She was right. Of course she was: Camellia’s deeds were horrible, but her praying mantis ways (as Daeran put it) were a drop in the bucket in a place like the Abyss. Arueshalae had done far worse than Camellia ever had, and far more brazenly at that. Or was it just volume overwhelming severity?

So why does she trust me? Arueshalae wracked her thoughts as Camellia fumed, unwittingly shifting into her Invidiak form as her envy took hold. When did Elaina start trusting her? It had to be early. Was it hearing her voice in Kenabres? Maybe, or was it-

“I don’t think she trusted me,” Arueshalae finally said, “Not at first. But I think she trusted Desna. Do you remember the Song of Elysium?”

“I was there when she disappeared,” Camellia snapped back. “And when she sang it to you in that cell. Fine, so a goddess vouched for you. But then you lied about Greengates! If she brands people to keep them in line, surely that was the time to do it!”

Again, not wrong. “Then you know what I told her - that I was still thinking as a demon. Not my very being calling to lust and pleasure, seeking sex, good food, and praise, but the way we live. Perhaps she genuinely believed me then, in the honest admission of regret.”

“So what, I should have told her that I like to kill? That it is not a want, but a need. That my desire for blood was like an annoying fly that cannot be seen or swatted away?” Camellia’s form began to shift again - and again she did not seem to realize it as her skin turned red and started to secrete acidic red slime. “That I received no relief from the death of enemies in battle, but from those who believed me a friend? That to truly silence the fly for a time, I must see the disbelief and dread in their eyes as they perish? From my first puppy to men thinking with their swords?”

“Like a demon,” Arueshalae said, not catching what she had said until it was already out.

Camellia was about to snarl, fully in her babau form, but stopped herself, then took a half step back and nodded. “I suppose it was demon-like. It is something I always had - even as a little girl, even before spirits began to whisper to me. You know all too well what it means to be compelled to do something.”

“Do you still feel it?”

“Of course. I am a demon, yet the urge to kill feels no different than when I was alive.” Camellia tilted her head. “It is simply who I am, it seems. Who I was born to be.”

“You can still change, though. You have the bodies of three demons, yet you are not ruled by any of their sins. Like a mortal, you are free to choose a path.” Arueshalae took a deep breath. “I do not pretend to understand how this works, but you have a second chance, Camellia. Surely it is too valuable to waste.”

“Of course: I fully intend to prove myself,” Camellia consciously shifted back to her succubus form. “I will slay the Crusade’s enemies here in the Abyss and back on Golarion. I will prove my worth, even if I must leave when the Worldwound is closed.”

It was a repentant sounding sentiment. One that Arueshalae wanted to believe, if only because it meant that she too could find her redemption. Yet, Arueshalae knew demons all too well, and had been closer to Camellia than most of their party. The Abyss had taught Camellia lessons in how to lie, yet they were lessons Arueshalae had mastered centuries ago.

Still, there was one last piece before she was certain.

“Do you not regret the murders you committed?”

“Of course I hold regret, given the fate it delivered me to,” Camellia traced her finger along the front half of her neck, seemingly unaware of the red secretion following her finger. “But having suffered my just punishment, surely I can use this second chance to better myself?”

Arueshalae felt her black heart sink.

“You only regret being caught,” she sighed as she shook her head. “All those senseless deaths still don’t mean anything to you, do they? The hopes and dreams of the men and women you murdered, they mean nothing to you. And now you ask why you are not trusted.”

“If you get a second chance, why shouldn’t I?”

“Is that mark not your second chance? If you truly want to change, Camellia, should you not wear that mark as proof of penitence?” Arueshalae did not relent as Camellia’s scowl grew. “You knew that what you did was wrong, but you kept doing it. Will keep doing it if you are allowed back onto Golarion. If you truly wish to change, Camellia, if you truly want a second chance? You have to be willing to change yourself.”

Arueshalae took a step away, then turned away as Camellia snarled in fury but knew better than to try anything. Small wafts of smoke arose from her dress as the babau acid tested its wards.

“Funnily enough,” Nenio was saying to Woljif as Arueshalae passed, “babaus usually excrete their acid after the kill, rather than in anticipation.”

“Oh I could have gone without that thought, thank you very much!”

Arueshalae wished she could have chuckled at his harmless misfortune the way friends would, but Arueshalae was weighed down by her thoughts.

It was unlikely that Camellia would truly change. Even Sosiel and Ember felt that Camellia was not interested in redeeming herself, even as Ember noted how miserable the Abyss made her. And none of them were willing to let Camellia back onto Golarion. Even if they were willing to, though, they could not help her.

Something she had overheard the Hand say to Elaina suddenly made so much more sense to Arueshalae: that ultimate victory over the evils of the Abyss would only occur when no mortal soul willingly turned to evil, but those who tried to create such by force only became tyrants. If they wanted to drag Camellia to the light, they would have to do far more than place a conditional curse on her. They would have to take away her freedom to choose.

Camellia had her second chance. All that remained was to see whether she would truly take it to be a better person, or try to exploit it.

Much as Arueshalae hoped otherwise, she knew it would be the latter.

===

Some notes as this is a bit of a complicated idea: I have nursed the idea of Camellia showing up in Act IV as a babau if you killed her in Act III for a while. This was finally a chance to explore that, even if the full story might wait.

The basic idea is that Camellia's share of the mythic power allowed her to survive the ego death of Pharasma's judgment, so when she arrives in the Abyss she would be a fully formed demon with her personality intact. I played with the rules a bit (mythic power is absolutely doing a ton of heavy lifting here) as when discussing this with a friend who is very familiar with a canon example (Mangvhune from the Hell's Rebels AP) the idea of the sins splitting came up. One-of-Many in Mask of the Betrayer was a fun concept I never got to use as I never did an evil playthrough, so it felt like a good fit here even if it isn't technically how it usually would go.

Well, between that and the ego death averted, it seems like the thing that Areelu would look into, wouldn't it? I do want to do more with this idea eventually, but for now... here's my shot at it.

[stoicbreviary]

A World Split Apart 8 

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

THE DIRECTION OF THE PRESS 

The press, too, of course, enjoys the widest freedom. (I shall be using the word “press” to include all the media.) But what use does it make of it? 

Here again, the overriding concern is not to infringe the letter of the law. There is no true moral responsibility for distortion or disproportion. What sort of responsibility does a journalist or a newspaper have to the readership or to history? If they have misled public opinion by inaccurate information or wrong conclusions, even if they have contributed to mistakes on a state level, do we know of any case of open regret voiced by the same journalist or the same newspaper? 

No; this would damage sales. A nation may be the worse for such a mistake, but the journalist always gets away with it. It is most likely that he will start writing the exact opposite to his previous statements with renewed aplomb. 

Because instant and credible information is required, it becomes necessary to resort to guesswork, rumors, and suppositions to fill in the voids, and none of them will ever be refuted; they settle into the readers’ memory. How many hasty, immature, superficial, and misleading judgments are expressed every day, confusing readers, and are then left hanging? The press can act the role of public opinion or miseducate it. 

Thus we may see terrorists heroized, or secret matters pertaining to the nation’s defense publicly revealed, or we may witness shameless intrusion into the privacy of well-known people according to the slogan “Everyone is entitled to know everything.” (But this is a false slogan of a false era; far greater in value is the forfeited right of people not to know, not to have their divine souls stuffed with gossip, nonsense, vain talk. A person who works and leads a meaningful life has no need for this excessive and burdening flow of information.) 

Hastiness and superficiality—these are the psychic diseases of the twentieth century and more than anywhere else this is manifested in the press. In-depth analysis of a problem is anathema to the press; it is contrary to its nature. The press merely picks out sensational formulas. 

Such as it is, however, the press has become the greatest power within the Western countries, exceeding that of the legislature, the executive, and the judiciary. Yet one would like to ask: According to what law has it been elected and to whom is it responsible? In the Communist East, a journalist is frankly appointed as a state official. But who has voted Western journalists into their positions of power, for how long a time, and with what prerogatives? 

There is yet another surprise for someone coming from the totalitarian East with its rigorously unified press: one discovers a common trend of preferences within the Western press as a whole (the spirit of the time), generally accepted patterns of judgment, and maybe common corporate interests, the sum effect being not competition but unification. 

Unrestrained freedom exists for the press, but not for the readership, because newspapers mostly transmit in a forceful and emphatic way those opinions which do not too openly contradict their own and that general trend.

[outrunningthedark]

I don't really care if ATDU get split up or stay together, but can WWE stop playing games, pick a side, and let them THRIVE? It's even worse than what we're seeing with The Judgment Day's never-ending impending break up considering that group actually gets regular screen time and PLE matches.

[mallows-marsh]

Madison Leanne Duncan | 24 | 5’7 | February 1st

Personality: Madison has always been open about herself and things she enjoys. She found an interest in psychedelics as a teenager, taking them semi frequently to enjoy some escapism in her life. She’s decided to surround a good portion of her life around her interests in these drugs, the aesthetics of decades past, and horticulture. Despite her extracurricular activities, Maddie is quite smart. Though she tends to fall into believing in pseudosciences like astrology and the like, proving that she’s kind of gullible. 

She isn’t afraid to be loud about her interests, hoping it’ll attract her to the right woman/women one day. In the meantime, she’s happy to make all the friends and stoner buddies in the world. She is a free spirit with a zest for life, hoping to inspire those around her. She has an intense carefree and vibrant energy, always eager to explore new experiences and meet new people. Resilient beyond words, Madison has learned to navigate life’s challenges independently, having always been able to maintain her authenticity despite the lack of support from her family. She often wears her heart on her sleeve, valuing honesty and openness and encourages others to embrace their own sensitivity. Backstory: Not exactly raised in a very welcoming environment, Maddie has learned to be herself by herself. Her father was stern and controlling, often arguing with Madison about her choices. Her mother was kind but too scared to stand up for herself or Madison, leaving Madison to figure things out on her own. From an early age, Madison felt like she didn’t belong at home. Her father's harshness and her mother's silence made her seek comfort and understanding elsewhere. She was very close to her older brother, Blane, and they were best friends. But as Blane grew older, he got involved in toxic online communities and adopted harmful beliefs, causing a painful split between them and leaving Madison feeling betrayed and alone.

As a teenager, Madison found an escape through psychedelics introduced by her friends. These experiences opened up a new world for her, helping her break free from her oppressive home life. She also fell in love with the styles and culture of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, finding inspiration in the past. Her interest in plants started as a hobby and soon became a passion, giving her a sense of purpose and a way to care for living things. Realizing she was gay was a turning point for Madison. It helped her understand herself better but made things worse with her father. When she came out, her father immediately rejected her, and they barely spoke for almost a year, even though they lived together. This rejection was very painful, but it also made Madison more determined to live her truth and find relationships based on love and acceptance.

Motivations and Goals: Madison is motivated by a desire to escape the negative influences of her past, particularly her father and brother. She wants to distance herself from their judgment and toxicity, aiming to create a life where she is surrounded by positivity and acceptance. Something she wants most in her life free of all things negative is a partner, one who appreciates her for who she is. Until then, she’s happy to make friends and build a network of buddies and fellow enthusiasts. 

Ultimately, Maddie’s goal is to live a life true to herself, free from societal expectations and familial pressures. She strives to live independently while building some sort of community that supports and celebrates individuality.

Likes:

Psychedelics

Roller-skating

Gardening

Music festivals

Tarot reading

Dislikes:

Harshing the vibe

Her brother and father

Societal norms

Anti-drug rhetoric

Appearance: Madison stands slightly taller than the average woman, is fair-skinned and covered in freckles. Her hair is blonde and constantly frizzy from an unkempt perm. She has blue eyes which are usually bloodshot nine times out of ten. Her wardrobe spans decades, ranging from the more flashy 60s outfits to groovy 70s wear and eventually landing somewhere in the 80s to match her hairstyle.

[wisdomrays]

GENTLENESS AND ELEGANCE IN INTERPERSONAL RELATIONS: Part 2

It is high time for making a new start, be it with a few people only

Acceptance and internalization of such a code of manners takes a certain period of time; we are talking about a society exposed to a severe storm of disrespect for a long time. People usually talk without observing a certain measure or code in our time. It can be said that a kind of slang pervades the entire society. As for the language used in media, it is even worse than the society’s. If you refer to dictionaries for the meanings of certain words used in media, you find notes stating that they are rude and slang expressions. In this respect, we should make a new start and undertake an effort to revive feelings of respect. At the beginning, only a few people will observe this code sensitively. Even if it remains limited to a certain circle at the beginning, they will make a positive difference with their manners and attitudes, and thus present a good example for others to follow.

As a matter of fact, volumes of works were written on good manners in Islamic culture. They can naturally be referred to. But it needs to be remembered that acceptance of matters only mentioned in books depends on their being practiced in specific circles. At a certain period in the past, people learned so much from the attitudes and behaviors of imams and muezzins while they preached in mosques. The society gained various beauties from the mosque. On the other hand, people in Sufi lodges gave a separate lesson on manners. Their relations were always centered on respect and reverence. Since life always continued with respect, it became an ingrained quality of people’s nature. Therefore, people behaved in a respectful and mannerly way very spontaneously and without any artificial efforts. In the past, you would come across fifty of those blessed places. You would see fifty different sages teaching the beauties of this spiritual heritage. The people who visited those places would definitely receive their shares from these lessons. Now the streets are going through a dreadful shortage in this respect. Some establishments have lost their fruitful characters and some do not exist at all. In addition, there are no persons to teach the high moral code of Islam to others. This is why I pointed out the necessity of reviving these manners among a limited number of people in certain circles. A group of friends staying in an apartment can say “Bismillah” (In the Name of God) and start reviving such respect and manners with a resolution to attain this character. Although the issue of manners seems secondary in comparison to crucial issues such as faith in God, the Prophets, resurrection, and offering the Prayers seriously, these disciplines should not be neglected. The Pride of Humanity, peace and blessings be upon him, stated that faith consists of more than seventy subdivisions, and that the foremost one is faith in God whereas the pettiest one is to remove things on the way that will bother people. This pettiest subdivision of faith is a kind of good manner as well. In the same way, smiling at a believer one meets, or giving the water one pulls out of a well to another person, are also included among the subdivisions of faith and they should never be seen as unimportant.

As a final point, let me state that all subdivisions of faith and deeds related to them are complementary components. If you practice certain manners for seeking the good pleasure of God, they also serve as reminders of God, His Messenger, and Judgment Day to you. A single moment of remembering God and togetherness with Him for a split second is worth thousands of years spent without Him. Then, even though they seem to be petty, such matters are so great with respect to the meaning they stand for. For this reason, no matter what others do, we need to revive our own understanding of refinement, by referring to the manners of Islam and the Qur’an.