the-dork-urge

[the-dork-urge]

adhd paralysis sucks bcuz im just sitting there and my brain is like

YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME

no work done no rest gained. literally no point of this at all

[the-dork-urge]

[the-dork-urge]

thank god his parents didn't sleep that night

[the-dork-urge]

[the-dork-urge]

Run Off the Mill - The Deep

As Kevin, aka the Deep is hanging with his only friend, you, he learns something that will change him forever. (re-upload from my second account -> butcherbabyx) Reader x The Deep and mention of Homelander

The night was still, the pier as quiet as it ever got, save for the occasional scurrying of a stray cat and the distant hum of boats passing by. The vast expanse of water reflected the dim glow of the moon, casting eerie shadows across the dock. You could almost feel the cool, salty breeze brushing against your skin, the solitude comforting in a way that only this place could provide. This place had become a sanctuary for both of you, a refuge from the relentless chaos of life at the tower. Here, you could escape Ashley's endless barrage of questions, and, most importantly, the constant, oppressive presence of Homelander

A sudden ping from your phone jolted you from your thoughts. You looked up just in time to see Kevin, his tall frame silhouetted against the moonlight, scaling the steelwork fencing at the edge of the pier. Each muscle in his body flexing as he reached the top. He paused, gazing at the water below, then stretched and dove gracefully into the dark depths.

For a moment, you watched him with a sense of quiet admiration. . As he cut through the surface and disappeared into the darkness below, you couldn’t help but think how perfectly he belonged here.

Your phone pinged again. This time, you couldn't ignore it. You took your eyes off Kevin and, with a slight hesitation, pulled your phone from your pocket. A new message, from Homelander. There was a picture attached, but you could not quite manage to open it right away. Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm the nerves that had suddenly tightened in your chest, bracing yourself for whatever he had decided to send this time.

"Did you catch that dive, (Y/N)?" Kevin's proud voice jolted you out of your thoughts. You looked up to see him clambering back onto the pier, water streaming from his hair and clothes, leaving a trail of droplets in his wake. He flashed you a wide grin, clearly proud of his dive.

"Yeah, dude, sick," you replied somewhat automatically, your tone distant as your eyes drifted back to the phone in your hand. You could feel Kevin's eyes on you, sensing your distraction, but the weight of that unopened message was all you could focus on.

You tapped your screen, unable to resist the pull of curiosity and dread. The messenger app opened, revealing Homelander’s text. "Have a look at this." The words sat above a slowly loading image. The signal here at the pier was spotty at best, leaving you in agonizing suspense as the photo buffered.

"Who are you texting?" Kevin’s voice startled you as he ran over, looming over your shoulder and peering at your phone. Before you could stop him, the image loaded, and in an instant, you both saw it.

A photo—flesh-colored and unmistakable—an unwelcome view of what could only be Homelander's… well, Kevin’s gasp said it all. "Holy shit!" he yelped, water spraying off him in a panic as he stumbled back laughing awkwardly.

You had learned to look at the images with a detached indifference. You knew the game. Homelander wasn’t just trying to shock you—he was reaching out in the only way he knew how. But this time, the picture was more revealing, more intimate, as if he was pushing the boundaries, testing how far you’d let him go. the pictures always came at times when he was low, when his usual outlets were out of reach. When the weight of being Homelander, the world's most powerful man, became too much to bear, he seemed to circle back to you. It made your skin crawl. Even now, with Kevin standing beside you, shaking off the water from his dive and trying to laugh it off, you couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at your bones. Of all people, why did he always come back to you?

But you knew the answer deep down. It wasn’t about attraction—it was about control. Homelander didn’t see you as a person; just another plaything in his web of power, someone he could dangle on a string whenever he felt the need to remind himself that he could.

And that thought—more than the picture, more than anything else—was what scared you the most.

You let out a dry, humorless chuckle, forcing yourself to act nonchalant, even though every instinct screamed at you to throw your phone as far away as possible. "Guess Homelander's feeling... generous again," you muttered, rolling your eyes.

Kevin, still recovering from the shock, gave a nervous laugh, clearly trying to shake off what he just saw. “Yeah… generous is one word for it,” he said, his tone awkward but attempting to match your nonchalance.

You could not help but have another look at the pale flesh, in the same way, people can't look away from a car crash, before you shoved your phone back into your pocket, pushing down the unease that twisted in your stomach. You couldn’t let it get to you—not here, not now. Homelander’s games were designed to get a reaction, to unsettle you, and you were determined not to give him that satisfaction, not when this evening had been so peaceful up until now. After he sent you the first photo many months ago, you realized that Homelander had handed you the tools to bring him down if you dared to take the risk. You could have shared those photos far and wide, turning them into viral sensations on Reddit, revealing the private, humiliating side of America’s so-called hero. But the risks were immense. Vought, ever adept at media manipulation, would twist the narrative. They’d portray Homelander as the victim and you as an abusive ex or disgruntled employee. The photos might be dismissed or even disappear, while you’d face severe backlash. And the best-case scenario, the scandal might focus on the disappointing size of his genitalia rather than the deeper issues, turning the situation into a sensationalized spectacle, and you'd still end up dead and burried.

Still, the thought of exposing America's number one hero to ridicule was tempting. Imagine how many might feel vindicated to outsize their idol? The thought of revenge against him, ignited a warm feeling in you stomach. A girl could dream. So, you did what you had done all these months and you remained silent, balancing between self-preservation and resisting Homelander's twisted need for control. Kevin, finally calming down, took a seat beside you on the pier, letting out a deep breath.

"I now know what girls feel," he said with a sheepish grin, guilt evident in his eyes as he recalled every unsolicited picture he had ever sent.

"If I ever hear of you doing that again," you said, half chuckling but with a clear edge of seriousness, "I'll cut your fucking balls off." You punctuated your threat with a friendly slap on his back.

Kevin laughed, his smile easing the tension. "No, (y/n), I’m getting better at this shit. Treating women with respect and all," he said as if reading from one of those flyers the marketing team had handed out.

He really was trying. You thought about your own past mistakes, the dark deeds you had committed to prove your loyalty to Vought. The blood that had once sealed your commitment still stained your hands. You were unsure of where to begin in making amends for those actions. In that sense, Kevin was already one step ahead of you, though it was clear that his progress wasn’t entirely without your influence.

In a world dominated by alphas and echo chambers of oversimplified, misogynistic takes, you were the only reasonable source of influence Kevin had. Truthfully and saddening, the only reason The Deep had managed to improve at all was because of you. ''Can I see it again?'' Kevin asked, ''Just to delete it for you after?'' ''Be my guest, I don't want to look at his cock and balls anymore.'' You took your phone from your pocket, handing it to him. You watched closely as Kevin reopened the conversation with Homelander, being extra careful not to click or send anything by mistake. His fingers hovered over the image, and from the corner of your eye, you noticed him zooming in.

“Kevin, what the fuck?” you muttered, trying to stop him. But Kevin had his hands firmly on your phone.

“It’s not even that special?” Kevin said, his tone more of a question than a statement.

“It’s just a regular, run-of-the-mill penis,” you said from your spot next to him. “What did you expect? His tip to be made of gold?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin chuckled, his voice taking on a strangely light, almost chipper quality. “Something more impressive?”

A proud smile spread across his face, and you finally realized where this was heading. Kevin started laughing, and you couldn’t help but join in.

“Gosh,” Kevin said, patting his own upper thighs as he puffed himself up, “my cock is bigger than his.”

You reveled in his reaction, imagining how satisfying it would be if all of America could compare their dicks to Homelander’s. But for now, you settled for the smile on Kevin’s face and the true lightness in his laugh.

[the-dork-urge]

Rafi Silver as ROBERT HOUSE Fallout (2024—)

[the-dork-urge]

The Mess of It All - Ash Williams x Reader

You were covered in blood and guts, like the time you volunteered to smear yourself in fake gore for that high school horror project—corn syrup and red paint, sticky but harmless. Only this was real. The coppery tang in the air, the warmth of it soaking through your clothes, the weight of it clinging to your skin—none of this was pretend.

You dropped the machete onto the cobblestones, its weight suddenly unnecessary, your fingers numb from holding it so tightly. The sound of it clattering echoed off the walls around you. You bent forward, hands pressing against your knees, struggling to find some stability, your breath coming in uneven gasps.

You’d told yourself countless times that you’d get used to it, that eventually, it would stop making your stomach churn and your chest tighten. But maybe a human wasn’t supposed to. Maybe no one was ever meant to feel the slick warmth of real blood soaking into their skin and simply carry on.

Ash was one of those rare people who did carry on. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pause—just kept moving forward like the blood on his hands didn’t weigh him down. He’d seen more, been through worse, lived this life longer than you had. Much longer. Where you hesitated, Ash acted. Where you questioned, Ash already knew the answer. For him, this wasn’t horror anymore. It was routine.

You didn’t want to admit it, but when he was wielding his chainsaw or a gun, when those deadites dropped like flies around you, you looked up to him. It was more than admiration; it was attraction. The way Ash moved, so sure and ruthless, like every swing of his chainsaw or pull of the trigger was a dance he’d perfected. The way his eyes burned with something that felt both reckless and controlled. It pulled you in, made your heart race in ways that weren’t just from fear.

But perhaps, you realized, that could be the adrenaline talking. It was hard to tell what was real and what was just the chaos twisting your mind, the fight-or-flight instincts pushing everything to the surface.

So when the fighting died down, when the adrenaline finally began to fade and the horror peeled off like a second skin, you were left with him as he was—the bumbling idiot. The one who never quite got it right, the one who’d make dumb jokes in the middle of a crisis or trip over his own feet when the danger was gone. In the quiet, he was no longer the fearless, battle-hardened hero. He was just Ash.

And maybe that was the part you weren’t prepared for. The part you didnt want to admit you liked too.

It was then that you noticed it, as you still stood there croached over—the blood, dark and sticky, dripping from your hair, trailing down your face like a grotesque clown, and then dripping down between your shoes. You reached up, combing your fingers through your hair. The more you touched it, the more it spread, the more it seemed to cling to you.

Your jacket, soaked with remnants of the fight, felt like lead, weighing you down with every movement. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You ripped it off, tossing it aside, letting it fall to the floor, discarded like everything else from the battle. It joined the pile of things left behind

Your breath hitched in your throat, the coppery taste still lingering, but now something else, something sour. It built up inside you, rising, burning, until your stomach couldn’t hold it anymore. You doubled over, the weight of everything crashing down on you as you threw up, the bile and the blood mixing together, spilling onto the floor in a violent mess. The moment felt endless. The sound of your own choking breaths. Than he came rushing over. He crouches down next to you, the sound of his boots squelching in the blood-soaked floor, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll just stare at you, unsure of what to do next. But then, in that familiar Ash way, he cracks a grin, even though it’s a little forced.

"Hey, uh, you’re not gonna start puking on me now too, are you? ‘Cause I really don’t have the best luck with... that,” Ash says, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You look up at him, still breathing heavily, your vision blurry. The joke, though meant to lighten the mood, does nothing but make the tension in your chest grow tighter. But it's Ash—he's trying, even if he’s a bit off the mark. You blink, your hand still shaking as you wipe the last of the bile from your lips. “Yeah... not my best moment,” you mutter. Ash nodded, his usual bravado softening for a moment, though he was still fumbling with how to comfort you. "Well, if it makes you feel better, you look fucking badass, covered in guts and puke," he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly with his fake hand. His other hand hovered near you, unsure whether to touch you, before it fell back. "It's, uh... the look of the season."

You couldn’t help it. You let out a small chuckle, standing up straight again. You reached out, grabbing his awkwardly extended hand for support. He gripped it tightly, holding you steady as you wobbled on your tired feet, trying to find your balance. You took a heavy step away from the mess, letting him help guide you away ''Sorry aboiut that,' You blinked, still feeling the sting of everything, "I’m just… tired," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something—maybe offer you a way out, a way to escape the endless nightmare you both were caught in. Tell you to go if you could no longer do what he did. No one should. He'd offer you a green light, an exit. But before he could speak, you shook your head, knowing exactly what the words were he was mulling over.

"But I’m not going anywhere," you said, and even though the words felt heavy in your chest, you meant them. "I’m staying. Fuck it.." ''Glad to have you," Ash said quietly, a little more earnest than usual, before his lips pulled into a smile. "Well, you and your machete, that is."

He chuckled lightly, slowly letting go of your hand as he searched for your eyes. The sound of his chuckle felt oddly comforting. Despite everything, despite the blood and the mess, despite how close you’d come to losing yourself in it all, there was something in the way Ash looked at you now. You couldn't help but smile back, the faintest hint of something more beneath it. "Yeah, well, you'd be lost without me, Williams"

Ash raised an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping him as he stepped just a little closer, his eyes locked onto yours. "Guess I’ll never know." His voice dropped a little. ''Not planning on testing that theory soon.'' The tension in the air shifted, just enough for you to feel it and you took a step closer again.

You looked at him, really looked at him—his tousled hair, the scars on his aging skin, the faintest glimmer of exhaustion in his eyes, but something more there, too. Something you hadn’t let yourself notice until now. Should you ignore it? The way your body betrayed you, leaning in just a little, drawn to his lips—the same lips that had spoken such profane things, the same lips that had joked and teased you, made you question his sincerity more times than you could count. The lips that smoothed over words for every woman he met, effortless and easy. So why now? Why did it feel like the world had narrowed down to just him, just this moment, and the way his eyes held yours?

But even as you hesitated, you could feel the heat rising between you both, an unspoken thing that thrummed in the space between breaths. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back. And you didn’t either. Then, before you could think or question it any longer, he grabbed you. His hands on your waist, pulling you closer, and in that moment, everything you had ever felt, everything you’d tried to suppress, flooded back.. All the walls you’d built, all the excuses you’d made, crumbled away. You remembered everything. Every moment you’d spent fighting alongside him, every argument, every time you’d caught yourself watching him with more than just annoyance or confusion. You realized you wanted him—all of him. The fighting parts of him, the reckless energy, the parts that made you so damn angry, the vulnerability hidden behind his bravado. You wanted it all. The good, the bad—the mess of it. The contradictions that made him who he was, the reasons you had stayed through all of it. You felt your heart race, the pounding of blood in your ears drowning out any rational thoughts. This was it. You didn’t want to stop it. You didn’t want to stop him. The moment your lips met, it was clumsy—raw, imperfect. His skin, sticky with sweat and blood, pressed against yours. The faint, lingering taste of bile hung like a breath between you. It wasn’t the sweet, polished kiss you’d fantasized about, it was messy, and it should have repelled you. But it didn’t.

You felt every rough edge of him, every imperfection—his hands, slightly shaky as they cupped your face, the uneven rhythm of your breaths. There was no grace, no pretense. And right now that was everything you needed.

[the-dork-urge]

Raphael BG3 - Beneath

Just some fluff(?) Never wrote for Raphael so cut me some slack <3

He did it for her. Only for her. Allowing these humans to speak to him as if they were equals, to sit on the same crumbling barstools, sipping the same wretched liquor. It was beneath him, all of it. Yet he endured, suppressing the vast power that burned within him, lowering himself to their pathetic level—for her.

There was a sickly comfort in watching her laugh, oblivious to the sacrifices he made just to exist in this mundane world of hers. She should never have been able to make him question his own power. He was power—he was beyond this. He was Raphael, Master of the House of Hope. A being who could reshape worlds with a thought. And yet, here he was, caging his true nature, pretending to be nothing more than a man—for her.

His heart—if you could even call it that—ached with the realization. He had fallen for a mortal. A mortal. Someone so fragile, so fleeting. And despite all his arrogance, all his wisdom, he knew this would end in ruin. She would be nothing but a crushed memory. A footnote in the vast, eternal narrative that was his existence.

When he had first seen her, she had been nothing more than a broken adventurer, drowning her sorrows in bitter drinks, clinging to strangers as if they could offer her anything but empty solace. Her eyes told a story of too many battles lost, too many nights spent chasing the impossible. And he, well, he had been prepared to swoop in and take what was left of her soul, to claim the wreckage of her spirit as his own.

He’d done it before, countless times. Countless mortals, their weaknesses so obvious, so ripe for the taking. It was almost boring. But then something happened. He hesitated. He watched her, saw how she clung to that glass like it could anchor her to a world that had long since betrayed her. It was weak. Pathetic, even. And yet… there was something about her. Something that made him pause. Why?

For the first time in centuries, he found himself unsure, questioning the hunger that usually surged within him. The hunger to claim. To consume. To take. But then, something shifted. And for the first time, he didn’t want to take. No. He wanted to keep . A mortal. He—Raphael—wanted to keep a mortal.

So now there he was, sitting across the table, smiling awfully easily as she drunkenly joked, reminisced about old friends and stories. And somehow, he didn’t get tired of hearing them. And she clung to his every word in return, telling her stories, twisting his own experiences until they became something she wanted to hear... How utterly charming. How utterly beneath him.

She clung to him. She laughed at his words, leaned a little too close. She didn’t realize how easily she had tangled herself in his presence, in the web he had spun so carefully. How she hadn’t noticed how his every gesture, every touch, every gaze was pulling her deeper into his thrall was laughable. But, in her ignorance, she was beautiful.

She still hadn’t realized who she had fallen for. Who this man, once a stranger, now was. A being whose very name carried weight in realms far beyond her comprehension. And yet, here she was, completely unaware. She was so easy to get lost in, so obliviously charming in her simplicity. It made his chest tighten with something—something he couldn’t define, and it made him hate himself just a little bit more.

He could have owned her soul, could have shattered her entire being in an instant. He could have taken her from this place, from this world, and shown her a life she could never have imagined. A life she didn’t deserve. She was nothing in comparison to him. Nothing. He was a god in a world of insects. Yet, he stayed. And that made him furious, made him question his very existence in her orbit.

"Stay," she said, her voice soft, a touch of vulnerability leaking through. "I don’t want this night to end. Stay with me." An invitation.

He should have turned her down. He should have dismissed her like he had done so many before her. But no, he had stayed. And that simple, mortal invitation made something stir deep within him. A longing—no, a demand—for something more.

"I’ll stay with you," he heard hImself say, and the words felt foreign. He didn’t say them because he wanted to. No. He said them because he could. He had made the choice, as always, to do whatever pleased him. In that moment, he realized it was the only thing he truly wanted. To be here, with her. And it disgusted him.

She led him to her room in the inn—dirty, cramped, with bedding that scratched in all the wrong places, the air thick with dust and stale candlewax. The kind of place that was a disgrace to his senses, the kind of place only the weak, the insignificant, the mortal could endure. He was far above this. He could have taken her anywhere—anywhere far grander than this pit. But here he was, standing in her tiny, pathetic little room, watching her move about, blissfully unaware of the storm that churned inside him.

Her eyes met his, and she smiled—trusting, innocent, beautiful. And it made his chest tighten again, this feeling he hated, this thing he had never experienced before. A mortal, this fragile creature, had somehow made a mockery of him.

"You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to," she said, her voice light, but it wasn’t light to him. It was a command, and it made him want to disregard her, to laugh in her face. But instead, he found himself moving toward her. What was he doing?

His hand reached out, brushing against hers. It was a simple touch, but it was everything. He wasn’t staying because he wanted to. He was staying because she had no idea what she had gotten herself into. No idea how thoroughly he was about to claim her, mind, body, and soul. It would be slow, it would be excruciating for both of them. He realized something that made him sick. He wanted her to surrender. Willingly.

[the-dork-urge]

how the fuck are we all doing ghesties

[credit to @spinchs-field for the chart]

[the-dork-urge]

Bottle Of Whiskey

Just some sfw Butcher fluff.

You noticed how his gaze lingered on you, the dark red lipstick you wore tonight catching his attention. It was the kind of shade that left smudges on cigarettes and glasses, hints of something fleetingly glamorous yet just a little too cheap. You felt the weight of his stare, lingering longer than usual.

“Who’re you all dressed up for?” he asked, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. His eyes traced your lips as you brushed your fingers against them, drawing his attention without effort.

"I'm going out with Frenchie," you replied, exhaling a stream of smoke into the cool night air. You glanced at Butcher, hoping for a reaction—something to tell you he cared. “I could use a distraction.”

He didn’t say anything, but you knew what he was thinking. Nights with Frenchie weren’t just for fun; they were your way of drowning out the world. Wandering into strange places with stranger people, drinking, and losing yourself in the chaos. It wasn’t usually your scene, but after the past few weeks, you needed an escape.

For a moment, you wondered if he’d ask to come along, but his gaze told you everything—he wouldn’t. Butcher wasn’t the type to follow anyone’s lead, especially not Frenchie’s. Still, you felt the tension as his eyes traced your lips, moved over your body, and then settled on your heels. There was a pang of something unspoken between you, something you both shook off, like always.

"Have a drink—or five—for me, love," he said, trying to sound indifferent.

You gave him a sly smile. “I will. And when I get too drunk, I’ll just do what you do.”

He raised an eyebrow, his cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“I’ll make it everyone else’s problem.” You dropped your cigarette, crushing it beneath your heel with a slow, deliberate motion. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.

Butcher chuckled, but something flickered behind the laugh. You could feel the shift in the air. Was he imagining you with other men tonight? The thought sent a thrill through you. His jealousy was barely hidden, though he’d never admit it. “Just don’t come back pregnant. I’d make a shitty godmother.”

His tone was casual, a jab wrapped in sarcasm, but you caught the hint of something deeper, something protective. It almost made you laugh—the way he tried to mask it.

You smirked, teasing him with your response. “You worried about me sleeping around?” The words left your lips smoothly, but you watched his face closely. Would that bother him? You hoped it did.

For a second, his expression faltered, and you knew you’d hit a nerve. His jaw tightened slightly. You enjoyed it, knowing you had that kind of effect on him. But still, you felt something else—a strange comfort in the idea that he cared enough to be jealous at all.

“Just watch out, love. They’ll be lining up for you dressed like that,” he muttered, his voice rough around the edges.

You felt the corners of your lips curl into a smile. His gaze burned into you now, and you didn’t mind it. The dress you wore clung to you in all the right places—short enough to draw attention, revealing enough to leave little to the imagination. You knew the effect it would have, not just on the men you’d meet tonight, but on Butcher too.

“You really have a way with words,” you said, crossing your arms, pretending to be unimpressed. “If only you used them to your advantage.”

He shifted his weight, his tone softening. “Aye. Didn’t mean it like that, love.” His voice was quieter now, a little more genuine. “You look… fantastic. I’m just tired. Sorry.”

You nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it yourself. “So, what about you?” you asked, shifting the conversation back to him. “What’re your plans tonight?”

Butcher paused, caught off guard by the question. His usual sarcasm faltered for a moment as he looked at you. You could tell he hadn’t really thought about it. “Dunno,” he shrugged. “Same old, I guess. Drink, maybe head back to the flat.”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching into a half-smile. Then, as if on impulse, you said, “There’s a bottle of whiskey in my desk. A good one. I’ve been saving it for better times, but… those seem pretty far ahead of us, don’t they?”

His eyes flicked toward you, a glint of curiosity in them. He hadn’t expected that.

You shrugged, playing it off casually. “Take it. It’s not doing me any good sitting there.”

Butcher studied you for a moment, as if weighing your words, maybe wondering if there was more to the offer. “Better times, huh?” he muttered, his tone half-joking but with that edge of weariness. “Yeah, they’re always a few steps out of reach.”

The offer of the whiskey wasn’t just about the drink. You both knew that. It was an excuse, a gesture that said you understood the kind of days you were both living through. For a moment, you weren’t sure if he’d take it—if he’d accept what the offer really meant.

“You sure about that?” he asked, still eyeing you.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze. “I’m sure.”

Butcher dropped his cigarette on the ground, the ember flickering out as he took a step closer to you. You watched him, feeling the tension between you thickening in the quiet. There had been moments before—so many moments—where you had caught him watching you like this. Times when you could feel the pull, the want, simmering beneath the surface. You knew he’d thought about reaching out, maybe taking you back to his flat, but something had always held him back.

“Call me if you need anything, yeah?” you said, stepping closer as well, your hand resting on his shoulder. You leaned in, closing the space between you. “And I’ll come running to the office.” Then, without waiting, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to leave him with something to think about.

Butcher froze, the usual bravado slipping for just a second. He nodded, but you could see the confusion, maybe even a flicker of vulnerability. His cheek warmed beneath your lips, and you could feel the blood rush there. Why would you bridge that gap now? You pulled back slowly, your hand still on his shoulder—a reassurance, perhaps? A promise that this thing between you—whatever it was—hadn’t gone unnoticed. You wanted him to think about it tonight, to know that you’d be thinking about him too. That maybe this undefined thing between you could be something more.

“Have a drink on me, yeah? Or five,” you said with a smile, mimicking his earlier words before turning to leave.

“You go on ahead now,” he said, his voice gruff again, as if trying to regain his footing. But the surprise was still lingering in his eyes. ~

You didn’t get into too much trouble tagging along with Frenchie. The places were good—gritty, a little too underground for your taste, but there had been plenty of fun with all the attention you’d gotten. Frenchie had spoiled you with drinks, and the men who surrounded you had spoiled you with everything else. Their eyes, their hands—none of them subtle. You felt the weight of it, the gaze that followed you all night, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To let the world drown out the noise of what really mattered.

One man, a little bolder than the rest, wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you gently away from the bar. “Dance with me,” he begged, his voice thick with liquor. There was a drunken stumble in his footsteps, and it made you laugh.

“You don’t look like you can dance very well,�� you teased, placing a hand on his chest to steady him, though you weren’t entirely sure why you bothered.

“I can,” he insisted, eyes gleaming with the kind of overconfidence that came after too many shots of whiskey. His grip tightened on your waist, sliding lower, his body pressing against yours.You didn’t push him away.

His hands were all over you, moving up and down, a little too confident for someone so unsteady. His body was close, too close. You let your eyes drift shut, just for a second, letting the buzz in your head cloud the judgment in your heart. His fingers, rough and clumsy, traced patterns on your skin, and for just a fleeting moment, you pretended they belonged to someone else...

Butcher.

The thought hit you hard, almost knocking the breath from your lungs. You imagined his hands—strong, calloused, deliberate—on you instead of this stranger’s. You imagined his body pressing against yours, not out of drunken lust, but out of something deeper, something real. The idea of it was enough to make your heart race, a thrill running through you.

You leaned into the touch even more, just to feel what it might be like if it were him. The man’s hands gripped tighter, pulling you closer, his breath hot on your neck, the smell of whiskey and for a split second, you let yourself indulge in the fantasy. You felt something stir in your underbelly, a warmth you weren’t quite prepared for. But it didn’t last. Because it wasn’t him.

The illusion shattered as quickly as it had formed, and the weight of reality came crashing down. This wasn’t Butcher. You pulled away, taking a step back, letting the man’s drunken grip slip off you. “Find someone else to lean on,” you muttered, your voice cool, though your pulse still raced. ‘’Im sorry.’’

You pulled away, taking a step back, letting the man’s drunken grip slip off you. “Find someone else to lean on,” you muttered, your voice cool, though your pulse still raced. He stumbled, a look of confusion flashing across his face, but before he could protest, you were already walking away, leaving him to himself.

Frenchie was waiting by the bar, watching the whole thing play out.

“I need to go,” you said, slipping back beside him, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of that man’s touch.

Frenchie raised an eyebrow, curious. “Why? Things were just getting interesting, no?”

“Butcher,” you answered simply, the name falling from your lips without hesitation.. “I can’t explain it to you.”

But Frenchie didn’t need an explanation. He wasn’t blind to what had been brewing between you and Butcher. Everyone had noticed—the way you seemed to gravitate toward each other, the unspoken tension that filled every room you were in together. The way you allowed his jokes, the way you stepped in to protect the other too easily, or how arguments between you two dragged on, both of you too stubborn to back down. It wasn’t subtle. Not in the way you thought it was.

Frenchie gave a small shrug, smirking slightly. “You don’t have to explain it to me,” he said, leaning back against the bar. ‘’Go before some man grabs you again huh.’’ Frenchie joked. Frenchie watched as you left, the same amused, knowing smile lingering on his lips. He’d been around you long enough to recognize the look in your eyes. ~ Butcher sat in his apartment, the dim light from a single lamp casting long shadows across the room. The bottle of whiskey she’d mentioned sat unopened in his hands, heavy,, its amber liquid catching the faint light. He stared at it, his fingers tightening around the glass, his other hand bringing a cigarette to his lips. He took a long drag. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about cracking the bottle open. In fact, he’d thought about it ever since she’d told him to take it, her voice still lingering in his mind. “Saved for better times,” you’d said. Better times felt like they were always out of reach, just like everything else these days. Butcher exhaled, the smoke filling the space around him like the thoughts filling his mind. Your face appeared in the haze, that smirk you always gave him, the way youe eyes would flicker toward him, challenging. You left him with something tonight—more than just a bottle of whiskey. The kiss on his cheek still lingered, as if your lips had branded something on him, something he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried.

He’d thought about you before, plenty of times—too many if he was being honest. But he never did act on it. It wasn’t the right time; it was never the right time. He didn’t let himself think it could be more than whatever undefined thing it was. It should not be more. There was no time for whatever this could become.

But you had made it more difficult for him. You’d kissed him. A simple kiss, just on the cheek, but it wasn’t about the gesture—it was about what it left behind. He could still feel the warmth from your touch, the way your hand had rested on his shoulder, the way you’d leaned in close. You were leaving him with something to think about, something to sit with while you went out, dressed in that tight little number, turning heads. The idea of you out there, dancing, surrounded by men who didn’t deserve you, gnawed at him. He imagined their hands on you, their eyes taking in every curve, every part of you that he had only watched from a distance. It made him grind his teeth, the thought of you laughing, flirting, maybe even kissing someone else. But it wasn’t just jealousy—it was something deeper, something he couldn’t name.

He shook his head, took another drag of the cigarette, and stared at the whiskey again. Maybe a drink would help—take the edge off, drown out the thoughts that refused to leave him alone. But he didn’t open the bottle. Not yet. Butcher crushed the cigarette into the ashtray beside him, still staring at the bottle, the weight of it more than just the glass and liquid. He imagined you now, laughing at some bloke’s joke, swaying to the music, your lips curled in that familiar smile. And suddenly, he wished you were here, in this room, with him instead of out there.

The apartment felt too quiet, too still, and the bottle in his hands suddenly felt too heavy. Maybe he should call you, tell you something came up. Surely, you would come rushing. But then what? Butcher sighed, setting the bottle down on the table in front of him, unopened. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts still filled with you. Lately, it had always been you. With a frustrated grunt, he reached for his phone.

As Butcher’s fingers brushed the edge of his phone, he froze. His instincts flared, catching the faint sound of footsteps echoing from the hallway outside his apartment door. Slow, deliberate, as if someone was hesitating with each step. His hand hovered over the phone for a moment longer before he let it drop to his side. The apartment was too quiet—he could hear everything now. The footsteps paused just outside his door. His jaw tightened, senses sharp, ready for whatever—or whoever—might be standing on the other side. He silently reached for the blade he kept tucked in the armrest of his chair, just in case. The footsteps stopped. A moment of silence hung in the air. Then, a soft knock. Three quick taps. Almost familiar. His heart thudded once in his chest, and he cursed under his breath. Butcher stayed still, his hand gripping the handle of the knife. His mind raced, caught between the idea that it might be you—or trouble, or worse. Either way, the tension ratcheted up inside him, every nerve on edge. He stared at the door, waiting. The knock came again, softer this time.

Butcher opened the door wider, the knife still clutched in his hand but lowered now, his surprise momentarily masking the usual wariness in his eyes. There you stood, disheveled, your lipstick smudged and mostly gone, the hem of your dress slightly askew, your hair tousled as if you’d been moving around too much, too quickly. You didn’t look like the person who had walked out earlier, confident and collected. Yet you still looked beautiful. “What’re you doin’ here?” His voice came out rougher than he meant, his usual defenses kicking in.

You hesitated, as if searching for the right words. Then, with a small shrug, you said, “I didn’t feel like staying out.” Your eyes flicked down to the knife still clutched in his hand. “Expecting someone else?”

Butcher glanced at the blade and scoffed, tucking it back into its place. "Always am," he muttered, stepping aside to let you in. You walked past him into the room, your scent lingering, a mixture of sugary drinks, your perfume, and something darker, like smoke or whiskey, like the night itself had clung to you. He closed the door behind you and turned, watching as you looked around the apartment—your eyes briefly landing on the bottle of whiskey.

“You didn’t open it,” you said, nodding toward the bottle. He shrugged, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Not yet.” “It’s supposed to be a good one. Mallory got it for my 30th birthday.” “She got you a gift then, eh?” “You can get a lot of things if you’re friendly enough,” you teased, plopping down on his couch.

Butcher closed the door behind him and looked at you for a moment as you tried fixing your hair, only to tousle it up even more. He chuckled. You looked up at him from the couch. “You’ve been through the wringer tonight?” he asked. “Something like that.” “So it wasn’t fun? Is that why you’re here?” “Oh, it was,” you chuckled, “until it wasn’t anymore.”

“What? Some poor bastard finally got too handsy?”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I wanted, I could’ve handled him just fine.”

“Could’ve fooled me, showin’ up here lookin’ like that.” He gestured vaguely at you with a flick of his hand. “Lipstick gone, dress all crooked. What’d you do? Take out a whole bloody rugby team?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Just one guy—not exactly Fred Astaire—thought grinding meant trying to fuse himself to me.”

He grimaced in exaggerated disgust. “Sounds like you had a blast.”

“Highlight of my night,” you said sarcastically, then pointed at him. “At least I was out having fun. You’ve been sitting here alone, talking to a bottle all night.”

“Wasn’t talkin’. Was thinkin’ about drinkin’ it,” Butcher shot back. “And maybe I like a bit of quiet. Some of us don’t need to be out there gettin’ pawed at by half of bloody New York.” You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth twitching into a teasing grin. “Watch it, Billy. You almost sound jealous.”

He scoffed and propped his feet up on the table. “Jealous? Of what? A bunch of idiots who don’t know their arse from their elbow?”

You smirked, fidgeting with one of his pillows on the couch. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Butcher leaned back into the couch. It was strange having you here for real, but there was too much space between you. His hands were aching to pull you closer.

He exhaled sharply, breaking the quiet. “Okay, cut the bullshit. Why’d you come to my place?” He turned his head toward you, watching as you continued to fiddle with the pillow. “Not just to run away from some blokes at the club.”

You hesitated for a beat before speaking. “I was thinking about you,” you admitted softly.

The words hit him harder than he expected. Something stirred inside him, something he’d been trying to ignore. The fact that you’d been thinking of him—just like he had of you—was a relief, maybe even more than that.

“Fuck, love,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know what to say to that, not when it was the exact thing he’d wanted to hear but was too damn stubborn to admit.

You finally stopped fidgeting and looked at him, your expression softer now, vulnerable even. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight. And yeah, maybe I didn’t just want to run from those guys... maybe I wanted to run toward something.”

Butcher’s throat tightened, his gaze flicking to your lips, remembering the way you’d kissed him before. His hands ached with the need to touch you, to close the distance. “You didn’t run very far now, did you, love?” Your eyes softened, and for the first time since you’d walked in, the playful facade fell completely away.

“No, I didn’t,” you said.

The space between you felt charged, and he finally reached out, brushing a strand of your tousled hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering against your cheek. “If you’re here to figure somethin’ out, you know where to start.” Your skin was soft and sticky, a mix of makeup and the sweat of the evening you’d already lived. And yet he imagined that same skin against his lips, the taste of you.

Your breath caught, and you leaned just a little closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “And if I am?”

Butcher’s lips curved into a faint smirk, his tone low and rough. “Then stop thinkin’, and just come here.”

[the-dork-urge]

[the-dork-urge]

watching ash vs evil dead and this specific shot is the cutest thing i’ve ever seen i love this man with every fiber of my being.

[the-dork-urge]

[the-dork-urge]

Worth loving - Rolan ||BG3||

Short little drabble. Mention of abuse.

You had been so young when you first fell for him. His ambition and drive were mesmerizing, especially to someone as lost as you were back then. Lorroakan had seemed to have it all figured out—steady, purposeful, the very embodiment of what you wanted to be. You admired him deeply, maybe even envied that sense of purpose, which only made you cling to him more, hoping that some of his confidence would become yours.

But the years had changed him. He was colder now, less a man and more a statue of what he once was, sculpted and polished yet hollow. The warmth you’d once felt from him had faded, replaced by control and manipulation that seemed to touch every corner of your life. The boy you’d loved was gone.

And yet, you told yourself you still loved him. You held tight to the fleeting moments that did feel genuine, those rare times when he touched you with something like tenderness or looked at you as though you were everything to him. In those seconds, the years melted away, and it felt like you’d found your way back to him, back to the love you’d once had.

But those moments were always temporary, slipping through your fingers like sand. You’d search for them, try to make them last, but they’d dissolve into the reality of who he had become. And each time, you found yourself trapped in the same cycle, seeking solace in him, only to be left feeling emptier, more lost than before. But leaving him? That terrified you. Without him, who were you?

Then there was Rolan.. At first, he was just another student of Lorroakan’s, caught up in the same orbit, unaware of the traps laid out before him. Like you, he’d fallen into Lorroakan’s pattern of affection and neglect, and you watched as he was praised one moment only to be cast aside the next. And then there was the violence—the way Lorroakan’s frustrations manifested in blows. You knew those moments all too well, the scars they left. Now, they barely fazed you, as if you’d become immune to them.

You tended to Rolan’s wounds in secret, hiding in the shadows, whispering reassurances as you cared for his bruises. You told him to be strong, even as you quietly pleaded for him to leave. But as the words left your lips, you realized the plea wasn’t just for him—it was for you, too. Why didn’t you leave? The answer felt like a weight you couldn’t lift: One day, it would all be worth it.

So when you lay beside Lorroakan, a man who had become a stranger to you, your thoughts wandered to Rolan. Rolan, with his curiosity, his passion, his thirst for knowledge that came from a genuine desire to understand the world. He was nothing like Lorroakan. There was no arrogance in him, no need to control others—just a quiet brilliance and a warmth that ran beneath his wit, something gentle and pure. He listened to you, not as a formality, but because he genuinely cared. His gaze, the way it drifted to you when Lorroakan was near, held a quiet promise of protection, a reassurance that you weren’t alone.

And in Rolan, you saw someone worth loving. Worth fighting for.

That’s when you realized you couldn’t keep pretending. You deserved more than to wither in someone else’s shadow. You deserved a love that wasn’t twisted into something you barely recognized. So, in the quiet of the tower, you found yourself drawn to him, his face softened, his eyes filled with a gentleness that took your breath away.

You leaned in. All the lies, the manipulation, the twisted love you’d clung to melted away in that moment. This was what you wanted—a heart fluttering with hope, a choice that was entirely yours. And in Rolan’s arms, you felt it: the warmth of a love you had waited far too long to find.

[the-dork-urge]

[the-dork-urge]

Mr. Though Guy

#fluff

The office bathroom was bathed in a dim, yellowish light, casting long shadows across the cracked tiles and grimy sink. The mirror above was streaked with grime, reflecting Butcher’s battered face. His knuckles were bruised and smeared with dried blood. He winced as he examined his injuries—a split lip, a swollen cheek and jaw, and a bleeding cut above his eyebrow. Fumbling with the first-aid kit, he muttered under his breath.

The bathroom door creaked open, and she walked in, carrying a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. Still in her pajamas, her boots peeked out from beneath her rumpled sweatpants, which looked like she’d thrown them on in a hurry.

Her sleepy eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, but she quickly masked her concern with a sharp edge in her voice. She set the bowl and cloth down on the counter with deliberate care. “You’re bleeding all over the tiles,” she said, her tone laced with mock exasperation.

Butcher managed a wry smile, though it was marred by pain. “Don’t pretend this bathroom’s anything fancy, love. I’ve seen more class in a dive bar.”

She rolled her eyes, but a grin tugged at her lips. He was right—the bathroom had seen its share of rough nights. The tiles bore stains from old calc, blood, and the occasional mishap involving too much tequila after a successful day fighting supes. It wasn’t pristine, but it was familiar and functional.

“Sit down before you bleed on anything else. MM would kill us,” she said, gently pushing him toward the closed toilet seat and taking the first-aid kit from his hands. She placed it on the edge of the bathtub. Butcher complied, sitting down with a grimace. She knelt in front of him, carefully soaking the cloth in the warm water.

“So, what’s the verdict?” he asked.

She glanced up at his face, her smirk softening as she took in the sight of him. His hair fell in messy, disheveled strands over his forehead, matted with a mix of sweat and blood. His eyes, slightly shimmering from the recent punches, had an unexpectedly vulnerable quality. The faint, sharp scent of alcohol still clung to him, adding an extra layer of grime to his battered appearance. There was something strikingly raw about him in that moment, a rare glimpse behind his usual bravado.

“Well,” she said, her voice taking on a teasing edge, “considering you look like you’ve been in a bar brawl with a wall, I’d say the wall won.”

Butcher managed a chuckle, though it made him wince. “Yeah, well, the wall didn’t come out of this unscathed either.”

She finished cleaning the cut on his eyebrow and wiped the rest of his face. Then she reached for the antiseptic, pouring a small amount onto a cotton pad. “So, who were you fighting anyway?” she asked, hovering the pad next to his face.

“Just some drunken cunt on Fifth Street,” he said, glancing toward her hand with a mix of anticipation and wariness.

“A tall cunt,” she added, “some German asshole built like a fucking fridge.”

“Why’d you fight him?” she asked.

“He was running his mouth. Doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I shut him up and landed a few good punches.”

“I’m sure you did.” She laughed and, without warning, pressed the pad tightly against his cut. She watched him wince, her eyes softening with a blend of sympathy and amusement. Butcher clenched his fists.

“Christ, that burns,” he muttered. He forced himself to focus on her face instead of the pain, trying to find comfort in the expression she wore. Her touch was steady and surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the sharp bite of the antiseptic.

“Sorry,” she said, her tone softening, “I know it stings, but you’re a big boy. Just a few more seconds, and it’ll be over.” She smiled.

“You know,” he said, forcing a grin despite the sting, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re enjoying this bit, love. You just love to see me wince, don’t you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Butcher,” she shot back, pressing the antiseptic pad more firmly against his cut for a few more seconds. Butcher shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard toilet seat.

“There,” she said, finally easing off the pad. She applied a small bandage over the cut, smoothing it out with her fingers. Her touch was warm and soft against his bruised skin. She quickly combed back his hair with those same fingers, brushing it away from his face.

“Next time, try and pick your battles better,” she said, standing up and wiping her hands on paper towels. Butcher’s eyes tracked her hands and those soft fingers, realizing he already missed their warmth on his face.

“I’ll add that to my list of life lessons. Along with ‘don’t drink too much’ and ‘don’t piss off Germans.’ Though, considering my track record, I wouldn’t bet on it.” He said, groaning as he got up from the toilet seat, his muscles aching and stiff.

He glanced at his watch. Its glass cracked, but he could still make out the time—2:40 AM. “It’s way past your bedtime, princess. How about you pack up and go home, huh?” he said, examining his face in the mirror. It looked better now, cleaner at least. There were still faint streaks of blood and bruising, but there were no ice packs around.

“And leave you to clean up here? No way. I’m not about to explain to Milk why his bathroom is in such a state, why your face looks like that, or why I agreed to help you in the middle of the night.”

“You’re a good little one,” he said, smiling as he took the damp cloth from the bowl, wringing it out, and wiping away the bloodstains from the sink.

She picked up the first-aid kit and reached above Butcher to place it back on the shelf. She still smelled like sleep—a mix of creams and toothpaste  and the faint scent of day-old pajamas and slept in sheets. Her hair, usually styled neatly, now hung loosely and messily around her face, brushing against his skin as she leaned over him.

“Oi, you’re going to get all dirty leaning on me like that,” he said, stepping away slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was the potential for smudging his own grime or the way her scent stirred something he wasn’t quite ready to confront.

“Don’t care, Butcher. I’ve had worse shit in worse places. A little of your grime doesn’t faze me.”

She brushed past him, throwing the contents of the bowl through the toilet and than flushing afterwards.

"So, that's all the evidence gone, at least all I can see in this dim light," she said. "I'll make sure to get in nice and early tomorrow to clean up the rest of the bathroom."

He knew better than to argue with her and laid the cloth down in the sink before heading out of the bathroom. She followed behind him, closing the door softly.

It was dark in the hallway, darker than usual without the swinging bulbs and the cheap UV lighting from the rooms next door.

As he walked through the hallway, the reality of what he had asked of her sank in. He had called her to his aid in the middle of the night, dragging her into his idiotic mess, again. Guilt gnawed at him, and he felt a surge of anger at himself for putting her in this position, again. She followed him through the hallway like a calm shadow. She would follow him all the way home, just to make sure he was safe. That’s the kind of person she was. The one he called, the only one he thought of calling. And he, he just kept hurting himself over and over, while she stood by and watched.

“You really should go home,” he said again “You know, they say beauty sleep is important.”She shot him a playful look, her eyes twinkling despite the situation. “How kind and attentive of you. But no. How about we have a cup together first, eh?” She nodded toward the door at the end of the hallway, leading into the kitchen. Butcher raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips despite the discomfort. “You’re relentless.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she said with a playful glint in her eye. “A cup of something warm might be just what you need, to flush away some of that booze, and some of that smell on your breath.”

Butcher looked at the door and then back at her, knowing there was no convincing her otherwise. “Alright, alright. One cup of something it is,” he said, giving in with a resigned smile.They walked together towards the kitchen.

She leaned against the counter, her tired eyes following the rhythmic steam rising from the kettle. It was a small ritual they’d shared many times before, but tonight it felt particularly soothing, like a gentle balm against the chaotic night. Billy sat in one of the kitchen chairs, his posture relaxed despite the day's events. He watched her  as the kettle’s gentle hiss and occasional clinking of metal against porcelain created a strangely relaxing backdrop.

She turned her attention to the kettle as it began to emit a high-pitched whine, signaling that the water was boiling. With a practiced hand, she lifted the kettle off the stove and poured the steaming water into a waiting teapot.

As she set the kettle back on the stove and adjusted the teapot’s lid, Butcher’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “Why do you always help me out, love?”

She glanced over at him, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the kitchen light. Her gaze softened, revealing a hint of the affection she often kept guarded. “Because you ask,” she replied, her tone light but earnest.

Butcher furrowed his brow, leaning back in his chair. “Well, this once I called you, yeah, but all the other times?”

“Even then,” she said, pouring the tea into mugs with a practiced hand. “Perhaps not with words. But I can see when you need something.” She met his eyes with a small, understanding smile, a rare openness in her gaze.

“I don’t deserve it,” he mutters into his cup, hoping the words will disappear into the drkness of steaming liquid.

But she does hear him and lets the silence stretch as she considers his words. After a moment, she takes a seat opposite him, her expression a mixture of resolve and softness. “Perhaps you don’t,” she replies. “You are a real arsehole. Sometimes. We all think it.”

Butcher sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, I know. But those fuckers need a bit of shaking sometimes. A firm, loving hand.”

She ignores his attempt at justification and takes a sip of her tea, letting the warmth and flavor soothe her. “But it’s not about what you deserve,” she says, setting her cup down with a gentle clink. “It’s about what you need and what you need is someone to give you a hand, to help clean up your mess sometimes.”

Her words hang in the air between them, a blend of tough love and genuine care. Butcher looks up from his cup, meeting her eyes.  Butcher shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the weight of her words settling heavily on his shoulders. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the endless grace she extended to him. It felt both unfamiliar and unsettling: like holding a slippery fish. His instincts told him to deflect, to push it away.

Butcher took a deep breath, forcing a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, aren��t you the saint in pajamas,” he said, attempting to mask his discomfort with a half-hearted chuckle. Her gaze remained steady, unshaken by his attempt to deflect. “You can joke all you want, Butcher. It doesn’t change the fact that you need help. And whether you think you deserve it or not, you’re still getting it.”

“Look at you,” he said, trying to infuse some lightness into his voice, though it came out strained. “You’re practically making me out to be some charity case. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking if I need a warm bed and some milk.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she sipped her tea, her silence a testament to her understanding. She didn’t need him to change or to become something he wasn’t. She simply offered what she could, without expectation or judgment.

Butcher sighed, his eyes fixed on the cup in his hands. The laughter he had tried to summon felt hollow. “I don’t know what to do with all this, love” he admitted quietly. “It’s easier to just keep my distance.”

“That’s exactly what you do, isn’t it?” she said softly. “Push people away when they get too close.”

He met her gaze briefly before looking away. “It’s safer that way.”

“Maybe it is,” she conceded, “but it’s fucking killing you isn’t it.”

Butcher nodded, more to himself than to her, cradling the cup as if seeking solace in its warmth. The tea’s heat was a stark contrast to the cold distance he maintained. He took a sip, letting the comforting warmth distract him from his inner turmoil.At that moment, she reached out, her hand gently resting over his own. The touch was soft and unexpectedly intimate, and he found himself frozen, unable to pull away. Noticing his hesitation, she quickly withdrew her hand, murmuring an apology. Butcher was acutely aware of the profound emptiness that followed. Reaching across the table with a trembling hand, he grasped hers, causing the table to shake slightly. He held it firmly, the connection tentative but genuine, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort he had been denying himself.

"Butcher," she said, surprise tinged in her voice, but she clung to his hand nonetheless. Her fingers wrapped around his with a warmth that seemed to melt some of the cold barriers he had built around himself.

“Thank you, love,” he said, his voice stripped of humor and coldness. He searched for her eyes across the table, the same eyes that had offered countless soft glances. For the first time, he understood what those glances had meant. Perhaps that’s why he called her tonight. Because he’d always known. Holding her hand, he slipped from his chair and knelt in front of her, resting his head on her knees. She gently withdrew her hand and placed both of hers on his head, softly lifting it up. “Kiss me, Billy,” she said, her voice tender and resolute.

He craned his neck as she cradled his face. Their lips met hesitantly at first. He sighed against her lips, a mix of nervous trembles and a release of long-repressed feelings. The kiss was tender, filled with an earnestness that took them both by surprise. Butcher’s initial hesitation melted away, revealing a deep, aching longing he had barely acknowledged.

She pulled him closer, her hands gently cradling his face as if afraid he might disappear. Her fingers sifted through his disheveled hair. He responded, his hands finding her waist, holding her as if she were the anchor he needed.

When their lips finally parted, they both breathed heavily, the air charged with unspoken confessions. Butcher looked up into her eyes, now soft and glistening with emotion.

���Billy,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, “don’t push me away again. Let me be here for you.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I don’t want to,” he managed to say, his voice rough “I’m sorry for being an arsehole.”

She smiled, a gentle and reassuring smile. Her fingers still lightly touched his face, and he felt a sense of peace he hadn’t known in a long time, not since Becca.Slowly, she guided him back to his feet, her hands lingering on his shoulders. They stood together in the quiet kitchen, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light on their faces.

Ass they stood there awkwardly for a moment, a nervous chuckle escaped her lips.

‘’So what now.’’

‘’You tell me.’’ He said.

‘’We can keep kissing like akward teenagers or we can,’’ she let her eyes side towards the kitchen counter for a second, than back to Billy.

‘’I like where your heads at,’’ he said, grinning against her lips. He kissed her again, now hard, as his hands made their way to her back, travelling lower and lower as she led him toward the countertops.

[the-dork-urge]

Same coin.

Different sides.