#✦．¦ ❝head empty.❞ ╱ ⠀ ooc. ⠀ ❫

[anqelfries]

(please/don't) call me baby

soundtrack <3

pairing: tetsurou kuroo x f. reader

content: fluff, crack humor, kuroo acts like a loser virgin LOL, way too many pet names, it girl energy reader !!!

warnings: swearing, like one sexual joke, ooc

word count: 1k

for the lovely @chososcamgirl <33 i've had sm fun in your w this idea !!!

you call everyone pet names. it's kind of your thing now, really. everyone, from yaku (darling!), to kenma (sweetheart!) to lev (angel!). that is, everyone except kuroo. to you, kuroo is kuroo. occasionally tetsurou, if he's lucky, but mostly he is just kuroo.

he doesn't mind it, he swears. he doesn't even care! or he wouldn't, but he also unfortunately happens to be head-over-heels in love with you. how embarrassing. and he's totally not jealous of the other guys.

which leads him to his current situation. his head tips back over the back of his chair as he runs one hand through his hair. "y/n, do you hate me?"

"no, why?" your answer is sharp and fast from the desk next to his.

oh, shit. now it's awkward.

"because, like... you don't call me any of your stupid cute names or anything," he explains sheepishly.

you sit up straight, lips curving up into a beautiful, evil smile. "you wanna be called pet names, kuroo?"

he flushes, shakes his head. "naaah, just asking."

you don't seem to believe him, head tilted to one side as you regard him curiously. and then you're getting up and making your way towards him, bending down to get on his level, and he thinks he might spontaneously combust in his pants. your fingers dance across the broad expanse of his chest, and your eyes are like a predator's, stalking its prey. his breath hitches as he waits for you to speak; when you finally do, he thinks he might have be going insane.

"whatever you say, baby," you purr, and holy fuck, kuroo is so ready to get down on his knees for you or bark like a dog or do whatever the fuck you want right now. he is pathetically down bad for you — it's embarrassing, and like you can read his mind, you just have to go and make it worse.

you twirl his tie around your fingers, careful and calculated, and for a split second, he imagines being pulled up by it, letting you kiss him in this empty classroom, just like that. and oh, apparently you're satisfied with how much you've messed him up right now, because suddenly you're back at your desk, and he's watching you fix your skirt with a beet red face and even redder ears.

today, for whatever reason, you're taking longer than usual to pack up when class ends, so he takes the opportunity to extricate himself from this terrible, terrible situation that he's created for himself. but when he's finally halfway out the door, someone calls his name.

"kuroo," you call after him, sickeningly sweet voice pulling him back to you. "baby, don't say you're leaving without me!"

his knees give way.

"you haven't forgotten my offer, though, right?" what a perfect gentleman, walking you home like this. he's even limiting his strides so you can keep up with ease.

"what offer, baby?" you hum distractedly, eyes glued to your phone. manicured fingers fly across it as you text someone, and you only look up when he chokes unceremoniously.

"you okay—"

"yes! i'm fine!" he yelps before you can say another word — or rather, one very specific word — and looks away to hide his reddening face. "as i was saying—"

"yes, b—"

"stop talking! i mean, let me speak!"

you frown, surprised at the way he won't let you get in a word edgewise. "okay, weirdo. go on?"

"the manager position is still open," he huffs. he's still embarrassingly red; his heart has not yet calmed down. “if you want.”

"mm, i don't know, baby, i'll have to think about it."

he will die. or he will run into oncoming traffic and die. this is so unfair, it's torture—

"thanks for walking me back, baby, i'll see ya."

he trips and falls on his face. "fuck— i mean, see you later!"

"you seem awfully happy today," kenma observes. "did something happen?"

"what? no, why?" he splutters. splotches of red begin to appear on his face, and kenma smirks.

"sure."

"say, kenma."

"what?" he sounds annoyed even though he's the one who started this conversation.

"how do you deal with y/n's nicknames?"

"what d'you mean? they're okay."

silence. kuroo rolls this new piece of information over in his mind. "so... you don't feel like exploding or dying every time she calls you, like, baby or something?"

kenma looks confused. "no? i think that's called a crush, kuro. also you know she said she thinks that's too romantic for her friends, so no, 'cause she doesn't even call any of us that— are you okay?"

"kenma."

"what?"

"shut up."

kuroo is pretty. it's not an unknown fact, and you, having known him for several years at this point, are no stranger to it either. with sly honey-brown eyes and bedhead that he manages to make look good in a way that you just cannot fathom, he is — in short — just your type. this is also where you shamefully admit that yes, even his derisive remarks and general air of disdain when it comes to his opponents is very attractive indeed. not to mention his biceps— actually, let's not go there.

but biceps or not, he has been driving you insane as of late. and now, it's apparent that you're finally getting to return the favour. you're not stupid; you've been noticing his reactions to the nickname from the start. and it's almost satisfying to be able to toy with him the way he's — unintentionally — been doing with you. maybe he'll even catch the hints you've been dropping if he's lucky.

meanwhile, it's taken kuroo exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes to desensitize himself to (the thought) of your voice. anyways, it's not like he'll see you any time soon, so it's okay. first there's volleyball practice, then he'll go straight to bed.

kuroo hates himself — it's like everything he does comes back to bite him in the ass. or rather, in the lungs this time, question mark. because as he struggles to breathe properly, you're waving at him from across the gymnasium in a very oversized NEKOMA jacket.

"i thought about it it!" you yell. "i'll be temporarily managing the team!"

maybe he should quit.

author's note :: whenever i'm describing kuroo i swear i start typing w one hand😭😭 reader's pov was NAWT necessary to the story i just wanted to salivate over him ok.

also this is going to be a series so like :) that's why there's nothing major here really

[missggullet]

babe you're so quiet what's on your mind?

[insolemi]

New Beginnings

cate dunlap (gen v) x (hopefully)gn!reader

summary: cate's life takes a series of turns when she gets to God U, and you're at the center of all of them

genre: fluff, potential angst

inclusions: language, awkward situations, touchstarved and socially awkward!cate, overly-excited and outgoing!reader, ooc cate fs, this is more a few different scattered scenes that it is a full, single plot fic so be aware, my first attempt at a fic so please lower expectations

wc: 4.4k

hiiii… y’all i am so sorry this took me seventy years to get posted, i had the strangest series of events happen, but here it is and i hope you enjoy it !!

Godolkin is an entirely new environment.

It's not like Cate hadn't known that going into it, hadn’t known that her life would be completely different from the moment Indira Shetty had shown up in her room and offered her a way out of her childhood bedroom turned prison. She doesn’t think she’d ever be able to repay her for that. For getting her out of that house, out from under the echoing emptiness of the four walls of her bedroom and the occasional sound of her online homework videos.

For being the reason she met you. Her pretty, sweet little roommate.

Move-in day hadn’t been particularly good or bad, the large crowds of people and their chattering were overwhelming but calming at the same time, knowing the voices weren’t in her head but out loud, around her this time.

She made her way down the hall, brushing through smaller crowds of students and their parents as she counted the different numbers above the doors. 415, 417, 419. She reads the number, coming to a slow stop outside of the dorm room with the number written on the piece of paper in her hand, her name labeled right next to your name. The thought alone of it makes her nauseous, having to share a bedroom with an entirely new person she’d never met before and hope that they get along. 

Whatever. It’s fine. She can do this. All she has to do is walk into the room, introduce herself to you, and try her best to not embarrass herself. That’s easy enough, no? It’s not like its rocket science or a hostage situation (although the way her heart is beating loudly in her ears might say differently), all she has to do is walk in and say ‘Hi, I’m Cate’. 

She stands in the doorway, just staring at your back for a moment, her eyes wide, the leather of her gloves creaking around the strap of the bag she’s holding in her hands (one of the only things she’d even brought with her) as she works up the courage to just open her mouth and talk as the only thing running through her mind is that everything is fine, she's got this, all she has to do is say–

Fuck.

The second her mouth opens, you turn to face her from the desk you’d been arranging things on and any words she’d been carefully planning in her head die on the tip of her tongue immediately at the sight of you. 

She hardly has any time to let the thought cross her mind and register it before you’re in her space, introducing yourself with an excited note to your sweet voice and wrapping your arms around her in a brief hug, your chin pressed against the side of her shoulder, the palm of your hands braced on the back of her shoulders, the other hand around her neck. You pull back from her and rest your hands above the back of her elbows, your face still in her direct orbit as you smile at her, your mouth opening to continue speaking. “You’re Cate, right? My roommate?” There’s a pretty little sparkle to your eye that she has to tear her own away from.

She can’t think about anything but the sound of your voice ringing in her ears and the feeling of the heat of your hands over her sleeves, but she somehow manages to get the words out of her mouth to finally introduce herself. “Uh, yeah, hi,” she forces out, her head spinning so fast that she can’t think properly and she stumbles back a step, pulling out of your grasp, unable to handle the warmth of your touch. She awkwardly tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I'm, um… Cate.” It’s been so long since anyone touched her so enthusiastically, without any ounce of hesitation, and now here you are, all smiles and casual touches, and she can barely keep it together.

But she does. She doesn’t want to come across as weird, a freak, so she smiles and nods along with your excited chattering, your energy far off the charts of anything near the realm of what she’s used to. “Thank god,” you laugh, clapping your hands together as you look her over for probably the first real time since she entered the room. “I was so worried I was gonna get a total bitch, but you seem sweet, so, again, thank god.” Another bell-ringing laugh.

“You have a nice laugh.” Fuck. Again. Her and her big mouth. “Sorry! I didn’t–”

“It's fine! Thank you," you keep the pretty smile on your face as you continue to look over Cate, a tint to your cheeks appearing briefly before you’re back to talking, something she’s starting to get the sense you do a lot (not that she minds, not if it means she gets to keep hearing your voice). "Oh, your hair is so gorgeous," you lift a hand from where it’s clasped in front of your chest to briefly lift a strand of Cate's blonde hair, admiring the clips she has in place.

Cate feels her pulse quicken. “Uh... thanks. It’s just, you know... hair,” she laughs nervously, unsure what else to say. Your touch, though brief, leaves behind a warmth that spreads through her chest, and it’s making her head spin

You smile brightly, seemingly unaware of how much you're affecting her. “Y’know, you and me? We’re going to be best friends. I can already tell.” 

Cate’s face flushes instantly. "Oh, um... yeah! That’d be cool." Her voice cracks slightly as she tries to match your enthusiasm, and she winces inwardly. You sound so sure of yourself, have so much conviction in your voice that Cate can hardly do anything other than believe your words. It’s overwhelming, in the best way, but she feels like she’s drowning in it. She’s not used to this kind of attention directed at her. You’re all smiles, your energy is infectious, and it’s making her feel out of place for not being able to respond how she wants to. She knows what she wants to say, but that’s almost never what leaves her mouth.

Still in the back of her head, there’s a wiggling part that kinda smarts at what you say. Best friends. That’s exactly what she needs, she thinks, a genuine best friend, though that thought directed at you makes her chest tighten in a way she doesn’t know how to handle, for reasons she doesn’t want to think about.

“You seem... really sweet, too,” Cate admits, biting her lip the moment the words leave her mouth. She hates how transparent she’s being but with you... it’s hard to hide how much she’s already attached.

Your smile grows even warmer. “Good! ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Cate.”

Cate lets out a nervous laugh, trying to mask the overwhelming flood of emotions that sentence sparks. "Yeah... I’m okay with that." More than okay, she thinks, but she can’t say that out loud.

—

It’s late, and the two of you are sitting on the loveseat couch in your dorm room that you’d somehow managed to acquire (somehow being you sweet-talking a frat boy out of one, not that anyone else needed to know that), mid-way through watching some animated movie Cate can’t remember the name of but you’d forced her to watch (‘forced’ meaning you asked her once to watch it and she caved) once you realized she’d never seen it. You’ve been leaning against Cate’s side for most of it, your head resting on her shoulder, legs thrown over the arm of the couch, and she’s been tense the whole time, back ramrod straight, trying her best not to move too much, not to let her nerves show. She’s terrified that if she moves, you’ll realize how fast her heart is racing.

It’s silent in the room until you let out a soft sigh, shifting slightly where you’re laying basically your entire body against her side. Cate can’t help but somehow stiffen up more. This doesn’t escape your notice, just like anything else that has to do with her, and you lift your head, turning it to look at her.

“You okay?” The concern in your voice makes her heart squeeze and she makes a conscious effort to relax a little. 

“Yeah,” she slips you a tight smile, her eyes darting back and forth between the screen and your face. More than okay if she’s being honest.

You nod, a soft hum of contentment leaving your lips as you lay your head back down on her shoulder, pulling your legs closer to you on the couch and loosely wrapping an arm around hers. Cate’s breath hitches despite her best efforts to focus on anything other than your bare palm on her arm. “Yeah,” you echo, the sound full of a kind of relaxation Cate desperately wishes she could hit.

It falls silent in the room again, the neon colors on the screen glowing brightly around the room, casting long shadows where the light can’t quite reach. There’s almost something either poetic or ironic in that, Cate thinks. Maybe she could figure it out if she could think about something other than the heat of your skin or your breath fanning out over her arm, your eyes still focused solely on the screen.

She feels like she should say something more, but the words get stuck in her throat, but all she can think about is how warm you feel against her, how much she wants this moment to last forever.

You glance up at her again, noticing the distant look on her face, and nudge her with a playful grin. "You’re still watching, right?" you tease, your voice light but laced with affection. “This is my favorite part.”

Cate blinks, momentarily startled, then forces a sheepish smile. “Uh, yeah. Totally.” But in reality, she hasn’t processed a single frame of the movie. How could she, when you’re so close? When your every movement sends ripples of warmth through her?

The movie continues to play, but all Cate can focus on is how natural it feels, how right it feels, sitting next to you like this.

—

It’s been a few weeks since you two moved in together, and Cate is slowly starting to feel more comfortable around you. She’s still a little awkward, old habits die hard (especially ones like hers), but she’s not as jumpy as she used to be. Especially not now when, where there used to be hard spots of tension in every silence between you two, are now small, quiet moments that are more comforting than they are terrifying.

So today, when you suggested grabbing coffee at the campus café, Cate agreed. Even if the thought of spending time alone with you, even if it is in a public space, still makes her heart race, she just couldn’t find it in herself to say no this time. She’s sitting across from you, absently stirring her drink as you talk about anything and everything, your hands doing most of the speaking for you when you bring it up. 

“So…” She can already tell you think you’re taking a risk bringing it up, which makes her stomach twist a little. “There’s this little hangout thing – not a party!” You reassure immediately, hand coming up to stop any protests she might have, already well aware that parties aren’t her thing; too many people, too much noise, too much of a risk of something bad happening. “It’s not a party, it’s just, like, five or six people, I swear.”

“You should come with me!” you say, your eyes lighting up. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” It’s a long shot, asking her to go to a party (or anything, really), and you both know it, but you never skip asking her anyway, despite her numerous rejections. It makes her feel… warm? That you never give up on her. That alone makes her reconsider her usual knee-jerk reaction of saying ‘no’.

Her fingers toy with the rim of her cup, buying her a moment to think. “I don’t know...” she begins, her voice hesitant. “Parties aren’t really my thing.” She glances up at you, biting her lip. “But... maybe.”

You nearly spill your coffee as you sit up straighter, eyes wide and a hopeful smile on your face. “Wait—really? You’d come?”

Cate feels her heart skip a beat at your genuine surprise and excitement. A small, tentative smile pulls at her lips, and for once, she lets herself enjoy the idea. “Yeah,” she shrugs, trying to sound casual even though her heart is racing. “Why not, right?”

You grin from ear to ear, letting out a little squeal of excitement, making her feel a little braver for saying yes. “This is awesome, Cate! You won’t regret it, I swear.”

She hopes you’re right.

—

Later that night, Cate stands in front of the mirror, adjusting her shirt nervously for what feels like the hundredth time. She’s never been comfortable with events like this, even if it is nothing big, just a small gathering with some people from your class like you’d said. Despite the anxiety gnawing at her, she’s determined to at least try, especially since it means spending more time with you outside of classes. She tugs at the sleeves of her shirt, her eyes lingering on her gloves.

Your soft knock on the open closet door pulls her from her thoughts. You poke your head around it, a playful grin on your face. “You ready?”

Nope. She is absolutely in no way prepared for this. At all. Cate takes a deep breath, her lips quirking into a small, hesitant smile. “Yup,” she chirps, though there’s still audible uncertainty in her voice.

You walk over to her, gently reaching out to fix a stray strand of hair that’s fallen out of place. Your fingers barely graze her skin, but it’s enough to send her pulse racing. “You look great, Cate.”

Cate’s breath catches at the compliment, and she gives a soft, nervous laugh. “Thanks,” she murmurs, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “You too. I mean, you also look great.” She's not entirely sure that covers it.

You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “Don’t worry,” you say reassuringly, “I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

For some reason, that promise makes all the difference. Cate takes another steadying breath and follows you to the door, feeling just a little braver with you by her side.

Maybe tonight, she’ll finally stop holding herself back.

—

A few weeks later and the two of you are lying on your beds, the lights dimmed, just talking about anything and everything. These late-night conversations have become a nightly routine since moving in together, and Cate is starting to feel like she can really open up to you in ways she hasn’t with anyone else. There's something about the quiet of the room, the gentle rhythm of your voice, and the way you listen without judgment that makes her feel... safe, she thinks. 

You stretch out, letting your arm dangle off the edge of the bed, glancing over at her. “Hey, Cate,” you ask softly, “what’s your family like?”

Cate hesitates, staring up at the ceiling. She’s never been good at talking about them—the weight of her past always feels too heavy, too personal. But with you, it doesn’t feel quite as suffocating. There's something about the way you ask, like you’re genuinely interested, but not pushing her to share more than she’s comfortable with. She still isn’t sure how much she wants to reveal, but the silence that follows your question is patient, giving her room to breathe.

She finally speaks, her voice low. “My family’s... complicated.” She shifts slightly on her bed, pulling at the sleeve of her shirt. “I don’t really talk to them much anymore.”

You turn your head to look at her, your voice soft and full of understanding. “I’m sorry, Cate.”

Cate swallows, feeling a familiar tightness in her chest. She doesn’t want to go too deep, doesn’t want to drag the mood down, so she shrugs, trying to make it seem like it’s not that big of a deal. “It’s okay. I’m... kinda used to it by now.” Her voice wavers slightly, betraying her attempt at nonchalance.

The room falls into a thoughtful silence. It’s not uncomfortable, just heavy with the unspoken weight of everything Cate has never said aloud. You don’t push for more, just let her words hang in the air, like you’re giving her the space to share if she wants to. After a long pause, you break the silence with a soft chuckle.

“You know, I think we’re kind of like family now,” you say, the warmth in your tone unmistakable. You roll over on your side, facing her, your face half-lit by the soft glow from the window. “I mean, we live together, we spend a lot of time together, grocery shopping... pretty much checks all the boxes, right?”

Cate turns her head slightly, surprised by your words. The idea catches her off-guard, but not in a bad way. It’s just... new. “Yeah?” she murmurs, her voice uncertain. “You think so?”

“Definitely,” you say with a grin. “And you don’t have to think about any of that shit with your family right now. You've got me.” You scoot a little closer on your bed, giving her an earnest look. “So... if you ever wanna, like, talk about it, I’m here. But if not, that’s cool too. It won’t hurt my feelings or anything.”

Cate’s heart skips a beat. It’s not the words themselves that get to her—it’s the sincerity behind them. The way you say it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, makes her feel like maybe she’s not as alone as she thought.

A small, genuine smile tugs at her lips. “Yeah,” she murmurs, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “I guess.”

You flash her another warm smile, your voice light. “See? I’m not so bad to have around, right?”

Cate chuckles softly, the sound easing some of the tension in her shoulders. “Eh, you’re alright,” she teases gently, heaving an exasperated sounding sigh. “Guess I could do worse.”

You laugh, a playful glint in your eye. “Wow, thanks, I think? High praise coming from you.”

Cate rolls her eyes, but there’s no denying the smile that’s still on her face. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” you reply, your grin widening as you settle back into your pillow. The easy banter between you both feels like a balm, soothing the heaviness of the earlier conversation.

—

You and Cate are sitting on the bed, talking like usual, but there’s something different about today—something a little heavier in the air. Cate’s been quieter than normal, her gloved hands resting tensely in her lap, fingers curling and uncurling against the fabric. You can tell something’s bothering her, the way her gaze keeps flicking down to her hands, then back up at you, as if she’s debating something in her head.

You wait for her to speak, sensing that there’s something she wants to say but is struggling to get out. Finally, you reach over and place your hand on top of hers, your thumb tracing gentle circles over the soft leather. “Cate... what’s going on?” Your voice is full of care, inviting her to share what’s going through her head, even when you both know you already know.

It’s silent in the room for a moment before you speak again. “It’s about your gloves, right?” A gross underestimation and you both know it. “You don’t have to wear those if you don’t want to. Not around me.”

Cate’s breath hitches, her eyes widening as she pulls her hands away instinctively. “I– I do,” she whispers, almost like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. “You don’t understand. If I touch someone, tell them to do something... they have to. I can’t just take it back. What if I say something I don’t mean? What if I hurt you without even realizing it?”

Your expression softens as you scoot closer, your knees brushing against hers. “I trust you, Cate,” you say firmly, but with a gentleness that makes her heart ache. “C’mon, I know you’d never hurt me. Not like that.”

Cate bites her lip, her gaze dropping again to the gloves. She’s heard those words from you before, but it’s hard to believe them, especially when the memories of what happened to her brother still haunt her. “It’s not that simple,” she mutters, her voice tight. “I could slip up. All it takes is– is a touch and a word, and I could—” She stutters through her words before they break off, biting her lip. The thought of losing control terrifies her.

You lean forward, holding her hands tighter, not letting go this time. “I do know,” you say softly, your eyes searching hers. “I know, Cate, what you can do, what happened to your brother, but I also know you. And I’m not scared of you because I know it wasn’t your fault. Not even a little.”

Cate’s breath catches, her heart pounding as she stares at you with wide, searching eyes. No one’s ever said that to her—not like this. Not with so much confidence in her. She wants to believe you, wants to trust that she won’t make a mistake... but the fear of losing control, of saying something she can’t take back, always lingers at the edge of her thoughts.

She looks away, her voice trembling. “But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs,’ Cate,” you interrupt gently, moving her hand up to your cheek, even with the glove still on. “You can take them off. I want you to. Please?”

Cate’s heart pounds, her fingers trembling beneath the leather. She hesitates for a long moment, her mind racing with a hundred different reasons why she shouldn’t. But something about the way you’re holding her hand—like it’s nothing, like you don’t see the danger—makes her want to try.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, she reaches for the edge of one glove, pulling it off with trembling fingers. Her hand feels exposed, vulnerable, but you don’t flinch. You just hold her gaze, calm and patient, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

She pulls off the second glove, her bare hands now resting in yours. She waits—waits for something to go wrong, for the fear to take over. But nothing happens. You don’t pull away. You don’t flinch. Instead, you gently lift her hand back to your cheek, letting her feel the warmth of your skin.

“See?” you whisper, your voice gentle. “You’re in control, Cate. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Cate’s breath hitches, her chest tight with emotion. She can hardly believe what’s happening—she’s touching you, skin to skin, and it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It feels... right.

“I never thought I’d be able to do this,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I was so scared I’d mess up... that I’d say something and lose you.”

You smile softly, still holding her hand against your cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid, not with me. I trust you, Cate. I always have.”

Cate’s heart swells, the weight of her fear slowly lifting. For the first time in what feels like forever, she feels safe. Not just because of your touch, but because of the way you believe in her—like she’s more than just her power, more than her fear.

“I... I trust you too,” she finally whispers, a small smile tugging at her lips. She holds onto your touch, the warmth of your hand grounding her in a way she’s never felt before. “Thank you. For believing in me.”

And in that moment, with your hand in hers, the fear that’s haunted her for so long feels just a little bit lighter. Light enough to get everything else off of her chest.

Cate swallows hard, feeling like her heart’s going to burst right out of her chest. She tries to steady herself, but the weight of everything she’s been bottling up is too much. She glances down at her hands, then back at you, and before she can stop herself, the words start to spill out—awkward, messy, but real. “I... I’m scared because... because I care about you. Like, a lot. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone, and... and the thought of hurting you... it just—it freaks me out.”

She looks away as soon as she says it, like she’s half-expecting you to laugh or push her away. But you don’t. Her heart skips a beat when she hears your voice, soft and closer than she expected.

Your heart skips a beat at her confession, but you don’t pull away. “Cate, you’re not gonna hurt me.” You lean in, your voice a little quieter, a little more vulnerable. “I care about you too... more than you know.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide as she stares at you like she can’t believe what she just heard. “Wait... you—you do?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking just as nervous but still smiling a little. “I’ve felt like this for a while. I just... didn’t know how to say it.”

Cate opens her mouth, but all that comes out is this weird little half-laugh, half-gasp sound, like she’s trying to process it all. “You’re serious? You like... you’ve liked me?”

“Yeah. For a while now.”

There’s this awkward pause where you’re both kind of just staring at each other, unsure of what to say next. Cate lets out a shaky breath, her fingers twitching in your grasp, and she looks down again, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Your smile softens, and you reach out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to think about that. I’m not going anywhere.”

Cate’s throat tightens, and she feels her eyes starting to sting. She blinks quickly, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s no use. They’re not just tears of fear anymore. It’s everything—relief, hope, something she hasn’t let herself feel in a long time. She leans in without really thinking, her forehead resting against yours, her voice barely audible, trembling just a little.

“Promise?” she whispers, her breath warm against your skin.

You nod, your eyes closing as you hold her just a little tighter. “Promise.”

In that moment, Cate finally lets herself believe it might be okay.

[ask-the-rag-dolly]

Hey mod bee so how's Doggy doin?

Y'know the one that eats cement 💕💕

she's doing fine getting her daily nutrition of cement and being cared for by a loving family that is playing along with the bit for no reason . have a photo of her from weeks ago

[rubctosis]

I cant stop thinking about this scene ITS LIVING IN MY HEAD RENT FREE…tHE WAY HE MOCKS THEM. TEASING THEM EVEN. SMUG ASS. I LOVE HIM SM. MY BABYGIRL IS BABYGIRLING

[maegalkarven]

Homecoming

The third part of the Empty Prayers AU.

They are home, but Baldur's Gate is nothing Wyll remembers it to be.

Characters: Wyll Ravengard, Shadowheart, Enver Gortash, Nemo (Durge), Jaheira, Karlach, Astarion.

Dark Urge x Gortash.

Wyll's POV.

The city is quiet.

It’s the first thing Wyll notices, how quiet Baldur’s Gate is, almost unnaturally so.

This is not how it should be, not how Wyll remembers his city.

The streets should buzz with the sound; even at night there should be the echo of steps, someone having a brawl in the nearest inn, some criminal individual skidding about, some poor soul retching in the ditch. There should be a low, unmistakable hum of the city being alive. Baldur’s Gate, city of many, city of all. Criminals and respectful citizens side by side, the most beautiful gardens of the Upper City and the foulest smell of the sewers.

The Gate.

This not how Wyll imagined his return.

In his dreams, the deepest, most sacred of them, so secured even Mizora couldn’t get a grip on, he saw himself a hero returning home; with victory, with salvation.

Wyll saw his father pardoning him, embracing, hailing a true hero of Baldur’s Gate. He saw himself standing tall and proud in front of the patriarchs of the city and not being ashamed of who he was.

Sneaking into the city like thieves in the night was not in his dreams.

His father, exhausted, strained by the knowledge of things passed and things yet to come, was not in his dreams.

Fighting the losing battle against the Elder Brain crowned with Karsus’ infamous creation was not in them.

Allying himself with the men personally crowning said brain was...was unimaginable, really.

And yet working alongside the two former cult leaders is the best chance they have. Wyll has spend endless hours in conversations with his father about this; appealing to his sense of duty, his responsibilities to the city, his honor.

Wyll knows both Gortash and Nemo are awful people. He has met his fair share of the scum and recognizes it when he sees it. If things were different, if both of the men have not fallen from grace, then... Then they would be the enemy, and of the worst, foul kind. The clever, sophisticated kind of the enemy who knows they do wrong, but can’t seem to particularly care.

Wyll still isn’t sure how much they can actually rely on Enver Gortash, not to mention trust him. He rather agrees with Karlach’s assessment what trusting the man would be a fool’s play. But urgent need for survival pulls together and turns into allies even the strangest types of men.

And not all villains had the choice to begin with.

Wyll knows Nemo is convinced he is a being of pure evil, the Murder Incarnate, the Worst of them all. He also knows Nemo doesn’t feel slighted by that, it is his destiny, after all. It is what he was made for.

Made.

Not even born, Bhaal could not allow him even that small slither of grace. No, his friend was literally sculpted from the dead flesh of the dead god. Then, if Nemo’s recollecting is to be trusted, he was entrusted into the care of no one but Sarevok Anchev, who then proceeded to raise a boy as the true heir to their Father’s bloody legacy.

Wyll shudders at the way Nemo casually recounts his past, how he brushes over the awful details with practiced ease of someone who doesn’t see anything wrong in that.

And how could he? Who was there to explain to him that what his Father and then his brother did to him was awful? Who was there to tell the child, beaten bloody, what this ‘training’ Sarevok put him through was not humane? It was ruthless, it was unkind, and it was brought on a but a babe.

"The pureblood child of the Bhaal should be perfect," he remembers Nemo commenting, not understanding the level of horror Wyll felt, not seeing why would he even be horrified by that. "It should be stripped of any weakness, any chains society would gladly press on it. All Bhaal’s child is – His vessel, His hand, the blade striking in His name. It doesn’t have the personality, better yet no will of its own. It is Father born anew. It is His second coming. It is the maw what will devour the world."

How Nemo turned up being as sane as he is now is a mystery, all things considered. He was destined to be nothing.

Wyll will gladly help his friend to break out of this bloody destiny.

Which leads his thought to the unkind revelation to why the said child of Bhaal even started to break out of his fate. Or because of whom.

Nemo is almost sewn to the failed tyrant’s side these days; the dark shadow behind Gortash’s frame, hushed whisper into his ear, steady hand on the man’s forearm.

Wyll would think it to be suffocating if not for the way Gortash stands straighter at the touch, looks surer of himself, smugger, more unbearable.

They bring the worst into each other. They keep each other afloat.

Wyll remembers the first several days after the Moonrise Towers. He remembers Nemo disappearing into Gortash’s tent every night, emerging in the morning with the image of tiredness stitched up his face. Gortash didn’t look any better, the signs of exhaustion lying low in the dark shadows under his eyes, in the crease of his mouth, in the wrinkles on his forehead. Somehow everyone knew nothing lewd was taking place, what the two failed chosen simply guarded each other against the world.

As if the world was the enemy.

As if traveling with them has not shown Nemo what the world is a much kinder place than what he was taught to believe. As if they were not allies, were not friends.

Wyll knows the revelation of Nemo’s true identity, of his past had to cost him greatly. He remembers this confession as if it was yesterday.

***

He remembers Nemo’s fists opening and closing, helpless in the painful need to strike at someone. He remembers the half-elf taking his shirt off – for the first time showing them his naked chest – and he remembers the awful, stark revelation it brought.

The scars like those do not appear out of nowhere. The scars like those are left on the bodies forgone autopsy. Dead bodies.

And yet these scars bite into Nemo’s skin even now.

“I...I don’t remember who she was,” the bhaalspawn murmured then, voice low and dark. “But I remember her face and I’m sure I’d recognize her if we were to meet again. I am convinced she is a myrkulite and what she is somewhere in these Towers.”

“That’s not all,” he interrupted then Wyll opened his mouth to say something, maybe offer comfort, as futile as that attempt would be. “She was not the one to put tadpole into my brain. That was my sister.”

“Your sister?” Gale’s voice raised the octave. “Why would she do that?”

A smirk, a dark shadow of a smile, lips baring white teeth in a grimace what looks strained, forced upon.

“Because our father told her to,” a pause. “Our Father, Lord Bhaal.”

It quickly fell into dreadful silence then, no one knowing what to say, no one knowing what to believe in.

Wyll personally hadn't felt betrayed, shocked, yes, but not wronged.

He understood the heavy weight of a dark secret; he had one. Wyll has lived for seven long years with his lips sealed.

But Wyll would understand if the others would have different reaction. If anything, Nemo seemed to expect it.

Nemo tried to continue with the confession.

Yes, he was a bhaalspawn, but the kind of which no one saw before. He was a pure Bhaalspawn. There’s not a drop of mortal blood in him, not a drop of essence what is not of his father’s. He wasn’t born. He was made. And for the last thirty years he was the leader of the Church of Bhaal.

Thirty years. That gave Wyll a pause, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one.

“How old are you exactly?” Astarion, the resident old-timer of their ragtag bunch of misfits, inquired.

“Fifty,” came out an easy response. “I became the leader my Father wanted me to be at the ripe age of nineteen. It’s been an endless road of improvement since then, until...” A wild gesture around.

“I...I did not fail, you have to understand. I do not fail. It’s just...Father does not tolerate a straying thought. For the last thirty years I was careful with what I do and how I do it, careful to not bring his wrath on me. I was...probably the unconventional leader, I admit, but everything I did made the Church grow bigger, stronger, better. Everything but-“ he looked down. “I am not supposed to care, you see? About anything or anyone. I should only think of murder, of blood, of my Father’s goal.”

“But you care,” Karlach looked pained as she stepped forward. Carefully, as if approaching a wild beast, but surely still. “You care about us. I know, even if you try to downplay it. You care about things.”

Nemo took a shaky step back.

“I know,” came sounding worse the admittance than of his bloody legacy. How admitting you care could be worse than that? “But do you know when I started to care? Or when I realized I do, in fact, care?”

“When?”

“You will hate the next part.”

“I already hate every part of what you’ve said,” she let out a pained laugh. “How worse can it be?”

The bhaalspawn smiled the kind of smile what promised more disaster to come.

“Nine years ago,” he let out. “I was approached by the man named Enver Gortash. He had,” a movement to intercept whatever Karlach was about to say. “He had information about the Hall of Wonders,” a glance to Wyll. “You probably know of that, the disgraceful display of my brothers and sisters, put upon view like trophies. Well, I didn’t like that. And Gortash, he...offered the way in. A help, in kind.”

“Trust me when I say he would never offer any help just for the sake of it,” Karlach seethed. “He wanted something-“

“And he got it. That and more,” Nemo looked as if he was forcing himself to stay still, burning under the piercing stare of the Fury of Avernus. “We became allies. Did all sort of thing, the two of us. Planned, schemed. Broke into Methistar,” a proud little grin. “Stole the crown of Karsus.”

“You stole what?!” Gale, clearly familiar with the thing.

“-And put it on the Elder Brain,” oh fuck, Wyll didn’t like there it was leading. “Used the netherstones from the crown to control it. Started our own world domination plan.”

“And then your sister stabbed you.”

“And then my sister stabbed me. Because my father told her to. Because I started to care.”

“For what?” Karlach was hardly seen through the flames wrapping around her in waves. “For who?”

“We were perfect together,” Nemo stared straight ahead. “We were indestructible. We were meant to rule the world as the gods of new age. We were-“

“The name,” Karlach seethed. “I don’t want bloody details; just prove my worst fucking fears. Tell me the name.”

Nemo looked away. It was, perhaps, the first time he was admitting it aloud, or even at all.

The Pure Bhaalspawn was not supposed to care for the others.

“I didn’t want to kill Enver Gortash,” he let out, small and pained and weak. “I do not want to kill Enver Gortash. He is the only one...” he trailed off.

“Anyway, this is my crime, the one my Father punished me for. I care for the banite. I care. I fucking care, and I’m not supposed to. And he,” a quick glance at the Moonrise Towers on the horizon. “Is somewhere in these fucking towers.”

***

He did not have to kill the man, and Karlach didn’t get to kill him, because in the feat of reckless abandonment Lord Enver Gortash did something no one expected him to be capable of.

He saved Nemo’s life.

He ruined his own plans.

And everything changed.

Everything changed, and now they sneak across the streets, the wraiths in the night, criminals in their own city.

There’s a curfew, Wyll finds out. There was never a curfew.

Also there’s a siege on the city, brought by the forces of the army Ketheric Thorm has build and Absolute now uses.

There are posters on the streets claiming they’re enemies of the state. Wyll, his father, Nemo and Gortash. Four of their faces, painted in the likeness, printed out and put around the city Wyll calls his own.

And Florrick did it.

No, he shakes his head, Not Florrick, the Elder Brain what controls her, the tadpole what’s buried deep into her brain. Florrick would never do that, but she is locked somewhere deep in her own mind, behind the intricate web of psionic power Absolute possesses.

The Steel Watch is at her heed, used against their own creator, used by the Brain the same way it uses Florrick, the same way it uses Orin, the same way it uses anyone who doesn’t have the luxury of the astral prism and an unlikely illithid ally protecting them from within.

A mindflayer named Emperor, the one who seems to have some kind of a bad history with Gortash. If this is not the cherry on top of the overall disaster of their lives.

The world Wyll has known is burning around him as he watches, and the only hope of even getting out of this mess is the help of the criminal underworld of the Gates; the Ninefingers’ guild, the assassins Nemo claims would stay loyal to him, and Enver Gortash’s questionable contacts.

Somewhere in the city there’s a diabolist who will help them break into Hell, and at that point Wyll doesn’t even ask. He doesn’t trust Emperor, and Lae’zel demands Prince Orpheus to be released, so what choice do they truly have?

Somewhere in the city there’s a vampire lord planning to sacrifice seven thousand souls for his own selfish gain.

Somewhere in the city there’s a cult of Shar, hidden in the plain view.

Somewhere underground there’s a Temple of Bhaal, its torches alight, the screams of victims echoing in the halls.

Somewhere in the city where are refugees who managed to flood into the streets at the moment of confusion; somewhere in the streets there are Mol and Umi and the others, there are those of tiefling refugees who managed to survive against all odds.

Somewhere in this city where’s hope, and Wyll will be damned if he does not find it.

***

“Home sweet home,” Nemo smirks as they approach the building on the poor side of town. It seems to be the shoemaker’s shop, a small and unassuming building with the words ‘Flymm's Cobblers’ scratched on the plate near the front. “Didn’t expect this would be first place you’d want to visit.”

“Be quiet,” Gortash snaps back, more tense than Wyll would expect him to be. They are indeed a strange and suspicious group of adventures, with three of their faces put on every wall of the city with the world “reward” underneath. “We’re coming in, I’m taking what’s mine and we leave.”

“So no family reunion then?”

Gortash does not answer, instead working on the lock. Shadowheart looks around just in case, but the streets are empty, quiet. Abandoned.

“This curfew works in our favor,” she comments.

“This curfew is wrong,” Wyll argues.

“Would you two be quiet for a mere fucking moment?” the former lord hisses. “I am trying to do something here.”

“He is breaking into his own home,” Nemo comments helpfully.

“This is not my home and you know it.”

“And yet you still keep things here.”

“No one would think of looking here. Look at this place,” the man manages gesture around without breaking the hold on the lock. “Look at this excuse of a shop. I’m surprised they’re not run down by the debt collectors at the rate they’re going.”

“Wait a moment,” Shadowheart speaks. "You know these people?”

“They’re his-“

“They’re no one.”

The two of the gods’ chosen stare each other down. Nemo is the first to look away.

“Be it your way,” he murmurs. “But I think it’s dumb.”

“You think table manners are dumb.”

“Because they are!”

“Quiet,” Gortash hisses and pushes on the lockpick with the force the poor thing does not deserve. Somehow it works and the lock opens with a soft click. “Inside.”

“Who made you the boss?”

“Nemo, for the fuck’s sake, just once in your goddamn life-“

Shadowheart pushes them all inside and closes the door behind.

“There,” she comments plainly. “That’s better.”

The inside of the store is...quite insignificant, in lack of other, kinder words. The room to the storefront is small, ill-kept and rather unwelcoming. There are pairs of cheap shoes on display behind the counter; not badly-made, but not masterfully either.

Just a little poorly-maintained store in the Lower City, one of the many.

What Enver Gortash is doing here is a question. Nemo called it Gortash's home, but Nemo talks people in circles. His words should be put under scrutiny more often than not.

"Keep watch," the lord barks a command, already climbing the steps, and some part of Wyll wishes to whip the arrogant order off his lips, to remind him he is a lord no more. His fingers tingle with magic, Mizora's gift always ready to draw first blood.

That makes him pause.

Wyll is not that kind of a man and Enver Gortash will not turn him into one.

He resolves to respond with silence, locking gazes with visibly annoyed Shadowheart.

"I fail to see how Nemo finds it charming," she comments, observing the room around them, poorly lit up with the waning moon. "But again, he was raised in a cult."

You were raised in a cult, Wyll almost says, but manages to bit his tongue just in time. This is a dangerous topic.

"And so was I, I suppose," she continues, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "It's funny, I'd never thought Bhaal and Shar would be so alike; in their methods, if nothing else."

"All things evil tend to walk the same path," he offers tentatively, listening closely to the surroundings. So far things seem to be going smoothly. There's not a sound around, not as much as a creak of the stairs. The rooms above are silent, obvious to the intruders no doubt ravaging through things.

An echo of steps appears in the distance, and they crouch by the windows, peeking outside. A single steel watcher walks by, its steps mechanical and devoid of any life. A monstrosity of infernal iron, connected to the tadpole somewhere deep in the Foundry. Gortash told them that much after it became clear the Watchers are no longer his to command.

How they're going to defeat the Elder Brain in possession of one of netherstones is a mystery clouded in a failure.

"Look," Shadowheart murmurs, touching his shoulder. "Near the counter. Isn't that Gortash?"

And indeed it is him, or rather a very well-made portrait of him. It looks expensive and entirely out of place in the poor cobbler's store.

"That's weird," Wyll comments. "Should we investigate this place while our companions are busy?"

Shadowheart makes a face.

"I don't want to think what is it exactly they're busy with," she wrinkles her pretty nose. "Everything concerning these two is bad news."

Wyll can't not agree with that.

They swiftly move to get closer to the portrait, but before they reach it, the small door behind the corner creaks open.

They freeze.

"Who is here?" A shrill voice of an older woman demands and then the woman herself appears, dressed in a cheap nightgown with a shawl draping over her shoulders. "Who is it who dares to break into my house?"

There's something familiar in the crook of her nose, in the shape of her eyes; but Wyll can't for the life of his figure out what.

"Wyll," Shadowheart whispers, suddenly tense. "Can you feel it? This woman, she is..."

Wyll closes his eyes and concentrates on his surroundings, and indeed he can. The pull, not unlike the ones he has felt before, in the presence of so called True Souls.

"She has a tadpole," he whispers back. They could just...navigate conversation though their unusual link granted by tadpoles in their heads, but neither Wyll not Shadowheart like doing that. They have been stripped of personal space for long enough, he thinks, no need to break that little what remains of the inner walls.

"She does," Shadowheart agrees. "And it almost like...Like something fights it, tries to push the worm away, but to no avail."

"Her real mind perhaps, part of it not controlled by the tadpole?"

"Perhaps," she agrees. "I will try to reach out to it."

And, before he manages to stop her, she does.

The revelation it brings them both is worse than they could have expected.

***

Wyll pulls back at the sound of the steps above, interrupting the woman's inner pleas.

His mother. This woman, Sally Flymm, is Enver Gortash’s mother.

Worse, she sold her son - the spiteful ungrateful brat as she called him - to a warlock.

Worst of all, the tadpole in her brain is her son's doing.

The loud voice of said son interrupts his line of thoughts.

"We need to go," Gortash tells someone, irritation clear in his voice. "Let go of my forearm, if you may."

"But my boy," a man's voice replies. "You only just returned home, surely you will stay-"

"This is not my home," the lord cuts off sharply. "And I'm not staying. Come on," he nods at Wyll. "I have all we need, there's no reason to stay in this wretched place any longer."

"Enver," Sally Flymm, or rather the tadpole operating her body, speaks. "You won't rob us of your presence so quickly, will you? Please, I beg of you, at least stay for a tea. I can make some sweet to go by. Not a feast worthy of archduke, but-"

"No," he cuts off. Wyll can't help but notice the tension in his shoulders, the sharp edge in his voice. Enver Gortash has orchestrated this concerto, yet hates to participate.

For the first time since ever Wyll can't fault him for that. His father has his flaws and he did banish Wyll from his home - for a good reason -, but Ulder Ravengard would never do something like the cruel deed of the Flymms.

Nemo trails behind his companion, quiet for a change, eyes shrewd and thoughtful. Wyll knows Nemo is a noisy person and he bets the bhaalspawn reached for the man's mind the same way Shadowheart reached for Sally's. He wonders what Nemo found there.

They leave as quickly as they came, and just as quietly. The portrait on the wall doesn't leave Wyll's mind. It's expensive and well-made presence clashes with the environment, making him suspect how the portrait appeared there in the first place.

They sold him into slavery, he thinks, and his heart aches for the little boy Enver Flymm used to be. And in return he locked them inside their minds and made repeat the words of admiration.

Somehow it rings even worse than if Gortash had simply killed them. Somehow it tells more of the deep unhealed wound on the tyrant's soul.

It sure as hell does not excuse a thing, but at least gives some explanations to why.

"So," Nemo starts as they almost reach their hideout. Renting rooms in Elfsong was out of question, that with sparse recourses they have and being haunted by the law. By Elder Brain using the law for a tool, Wyll mentally corrects himself. So abandoned house close to the docks was pretty much their only option. That or the sewers, and Wyll really didn't want to camp in there. "Nice place. I like what you did to it."

There's an undeniable undertone to his words Gortash catches on almost immediately. He whips his head to the spawn, staring him down. Nemo only smiles languidly, clearly pleased with- himself? Situation they found themselves in? What Enver Gortash did to his parents?

The last one, Wyll decides. It would be the kind of thing Nemo appreciates.

Nemo seems to have a personal vendetta against parents all around the world, an echo of his existence as a child of a cruel god.

After a moment of scrutinizing inspection in which Gortash stared into Nemo's face as if looking for a trick and Nemo stared right back, relaxed under such pressing attention, the lord's posture slightly eases.

"Thank you," he lets out, turning away. "I knew you would get it."

There's strange, ominous kind of silence that falls between them.

Wyll can feel Nemo's mind buzz with elation and dark satisfaction. Not only he approves of Gortash's treatment of his parents, but the mere fact of said treatment makes him...not exactly happy, but cheerful, like a child who got the candy.

Wyll once again grieves for a boy Nemo never was, for a life created for a single, awful purpose.

He swears to break the chains tying his friend to the god of Murder.

***

"You need to break out of Bhaal's hold," Shadowheart states as they close the door to their hideout, Gortash quick to leave them behind and stroll for the room he claimed as his. Nemo turns around, curious.

"I do not exactly disagree with that statement," he hums. "But why bring it now?"

The woman reaches out, raising her hand, then letting it drop before it touches the spawn.

"It's just a thought I had," she replies, visibly closing off. Wyll sighs and wraps his arms each around one of his companions, feeling them both tense.

Children of the cults, playthings of the evil gods.

He will not leave them to it.

"Because you owe nothing to the evil who claims to be your god," he replies instead.

Nemo snorts.

"I'm pretty sure I owe him my own existence. Made of the god's flesh, remember?"

"Did you ask to be made?" that shuts the half-elf down. "That's what I thought. No child should bear the weight of their parent's expectations the way you do, not even a child of a god."

"Especially not a child of a god," Shadowheart chimes in. "And...I just had a curious thought. Parents sure are the first gods we ever worship, aren't they?"

Wyll contemplates it for a moment, but has to agree. Once upon a time Ulder Ravengard was his everything: his father, his hero, the symbol of everything Wyll strived to be.

Now he is but a tired warrior in a fight bigger than his life. Now he looks mortal.

This, Wyll thinks, is what growing up feels like.

"Are we going to address what we saw in that shop?" He asks quietly and is sure his friends understand the meaning.

"Depends," Nemo hums. "Do you want to get a bolt in the lungs? Kidney if you're lucky."

Shadowheart laughs, quietly as if she isn't sure she is allowed to.

Wyll wonders how hard it is to kill a goddess;  Shar has it coming anyway, after the Shadow curse and all the grief it brought.

"I'll pass," he comments instead, hugging his friends closer.

"Oh, a group hug," Astarion's voice reaches them before the vampire does. "Why are you having a group hug without us?"

"Because they're evil," Karlach comments. "Very evil. No fun. No hugs for me either, it seems. Despite, you know, me being the best hugger in the world."

Shadowheart laughs again, brighter this time, her cheeks warm. Wyll doesn't miss the way cleric brightens up in the presence of their fiery friend.

"That's true," Nemo comments, snaking out of Wyll's embrace. "I indeed am the worst person you'll ever meet. Now, if you excuse me, my evil deeds await," and he goes for the stairs, slightly wary around Karlach as he passes her by.

Wyll hates it, he hates the tension what has grown out between them ever since Nemo's confession and even more - after Gortash unexpectedly joining in. It's like they're drawing lines in the sand, with Nemo being steadily on one side with Gortash, and them - on the other.

He had thought they have built alliances, what they've grown closer, became friends, but the blunt way Nemo keeps choosing tyrant over them puts it in question.

Astarion seems to gravitate to where Nemo is, almost subconsciously, Wyll isn't even sure the spawn knows he does it.

Gale is staying aside for now, not willing to pick a side and not ready to condemn anyone.

Jaheira, surprisingly, is much warmer to Nemo than anyone would expect her to be.

It has to be the way Nemo denies his father; the way the struggle is clear on his face as Lord Bhaal calls for his wayward son; the way half-elf demands answers for how to defeat him from the harper: "How did Abdel Adrian did it? How did he free himself from the Dread Lord's bloody hold? How, how, how? Help me defy him, help me deny him. He will not have me, I am his puppet no more."

Halsin stays on some distance from Nemo, taking a stance similar to Gale's. He doesn't exactly like Nemo, that much is clear, but he also cannot deny his part of breaking the Shadow curse. Why Nemo even helped with that is a question Wyll still battles with. He hopes it is because, despite everything, there is a part of his friend that seeks light, what wishes to do good. What it's not just the lack of former power what makes Nemo form alliances and rescue refugees. Wyll believes there's goodness in him.

He hopes he isn't wrong.

He also hopes he won't have to fight Nemo, what he will not cross the line, does not breach the point of no return.

There's an awful thought what the point of no return has been crossed long before that. Fifty years of servitude to Bhaal is a long time. A long reign of blood and terror.

"What deeds?" Karlach calls out, almost grasping Nemo by the wrist, the man dancing out of the touch at the last moment.

"I already said: evil."

"Nemo."

Nemo sighs.

"Fine, fine, I'll answer," he became less cooperative since Gortash. A lot of things changed for worse since that. "I want to try and track assassins operating through the city. Some of them should've kept their brains in their heads and know what's good for them."

"And what's good for them?" Wyll isn't sure he likes where it's going.

"Me, obviously. Not my dreadful father and definitely not Orin, tadpoled or not."

"We need to find Minsc before you decide to deal with your family business," Jaheira interferes, appearing as if out of the thin air.

"I know," half-elf nods. "I have already contacted some of Ninefingers' run-arounds. I believe we will be allowed to enter her little den, but can't promise she will cooperate."

Jaheira's eyebrows climb up.

"You two know each other?"

"We do," Nemo sighs. "We had a truce of sorts after our organizations clashed badly. Same sewers, you know. People would run into each other sooner or later."

"I find it hard to believe she would agree to a truce so easily."

"I didn't say it was easy. It was a pain in the ass, actually. And I'm pretty sure the truce doesn't stand anymore, Orin would ruin all my hard work the moment she had the chance."

"I can't believe you've been a cult leader for thirty years," Karlach comments. "What did you even do? No, don't say it, I know, e-"

"Evil things," Nemo replies, a shit-eating grin pulling the corners of his lips up.

Karlach sighs loudly and rather dramatically.

"There is more in the world than evil things, you know?"

"Hm," Nemo hums. "Let me think about it. I'm sure I've heard something about things other than evil, but can't exactly point out to where..."

"Alright, smartass, I give up."

"Already?" Another sharp smile. "That was-" words die on his lips out of sudden, along with the smile. It slides off as if poorly drawn picture being washed away. His muscles tense, a telltale of the pain to come.

Shit. Not again, not so soon.

"Nemo?" Karlach tries warily.

"Get the fucking chains," Nemo manages to croak. "I- his face contorts in a painful spasm. "-hate this par-" he chocks on his words, biting into his own tongue. A thin trail of blood appears on his chin.

"Hold on, darling," Astarion seems to be that particular kind of fool who does not fear Nemo even when he should be. Even then it's the sane thing to do. Instead he steps closer, hands reaching to Nemo's.

"No!" He bhaalspawn gasps. "Chains-"

Karlach rushes back into the room, and when did she leave? She drops a long chain over Nemo's shoulders and starts fixing the locks.

"I hate everything about it," Wyll comments as his hands already move to cast the spell. He does hate every part of it.

"Shh," Astarion, almost obvious to the ruckus around, cups Nemo's cheeks in his palms. "I got you."

"Get away from me," Nemo tries to order, his voice breaking into a roar at the end. "Astarion, please, just get away-" his body convulses as power beyond man's control takes a hold, breaking bones and tendrils alike. It never goes the full way, the transformation Bhaal inflicts on his son, but it's no less horrifying for that.

"What's up with you lot this time?" Gortash descends the steps in a hurried annoyance, brought back by the noise. He freezes midway at the sight. "Again? The last time was just-"

"Father doesn't exactly care for the timing," it has to be a sheer need to have the last word what pushes words through Nemo's lungs. He chocks on the air then, trashing in the chains holding him down. Shadowheart joins her spell to Wyll's, amplifying it, as Jaheira's vine creeps about the spawns body, locking it in it's hold.

There's not a shadow of a smug expression on Gortash's face. Instead there's a look of someone staring straight into the abyss and not being able to look away.

"Stop-" Nemo croaks. "Staring...Creep."

Astarion laughs, a shrill and pained sound it is.

"You have an awful taste in men," he comments, smoothing the creases on the bhaalspawn’s shirt.

"Astarion, get out of there," Jaheira commands. "He isn't safe to be around now."

"I know that," the spawn huffs in annoyance. And yet he moves nowhere, a hand circling in smooth motion over Nemo's heart now. Nemo tries to claw at him, but the vines and the chains hold him down. Then he snaps his teeth dangerously close to Astarion's face.

"Well, now," the elf comments, entirely unbothered. "We ask before we bite."

"Since...then?"

"Since we learned we're more than just rabid beasts driven by hunger. Now," Astarion glances back at Shadowheart already casting the spell. "Rest, darling."

The sleeping spell hits Nemo in the head and gets to work immediately. The bhaalspawn struggles, before succumbing to it and sliding to the floor in a heap of limbs.

Everyone breathes out.

"Well, then," Wyll concludes. "It's another night of watching over our friend. Who takes the first shift?"

[raytm]

CAELUS !!!!!!

[fortifice]

me crawling out of call with terios after three days of belobog game play full of thoughts and feelings :

[wornkindness]

but gosh amelia really is just so pretty

[demonsfate]

actually this is my favorite dj related screencap

[stcries]

okay, but we can all agree this scene was hot as fuck, right.

[rubctosis]

The way he looks like he about to bite-

[monpalace]

When the telekinetic-telepathic has a mental bond with her soulmate. Teasing from ensues.

So, you're an omega-level mutant, right? You're telepathic-telekinetic? I know we've talked about it before, but it's always interesting to hear things about you, Jean.

There's a laugh from the other side of the link and Ms. Marvel Girl closes her mind off to the bustling students around her. It's a lot easier to deal with when it's only you, she responds. She was working on something for Professor Xavier— his mutant psychology and physiology class from what you could interpret. It's just.. so many things at once. I've recently learned how to shut it all up, but it still takes a lot of effort on my part, y'know?

I can figure, you respond with a fluttery feeling of your own. The softness of her voice and exhausted sincerity in her words made something in you fill with sympathy and pity. It sucks we aren't anywhere near each other. Do you think it'd be any better if we were?

Some part of Jean flusters at your thoughts. The mutant part her tries to recede into the further corners of her mind, but the soulmate part is unable to do the same. While a conversation is with you could never dull to be boring (she found you the most interesting in the world), she could still feel it start to become awkward from her side.

She'd think herself better equipped than this. She'd never probe someone's mind to know their innermost feelings, only figure out what next they wanted to talk about; but she doesn't want to do that to you.

Instead, she goes for (probably) the worst option on the list.

I can feel you're a mutant too. You can— What? What's wrong? What'd I do?

No, no! You didn't do anything. I just forget that you can do that— I didn't expect you to..

I really, truly am sorry! I just— I assumed and I shouldn't have and I— Jean stops herself when she feels you start to calm. The thought of helping your process by sending the feeling of lying down in a soft bed, the sensation of an animal putting their full weight on your lap, the sun beating against your skin while sunbathing on the beach— she quickly stops when she realizes you could hear her thoughts as though she were yelling them at the top of her lungs.

You encourage the train of thought, much to the befuddlement of Jean, and offer some of your own. You can keep going, if you want. I don't mind. You tease, trying to get her mind off of what happened seconds prior. Bringing them back to both of your attentions. Is that how you see me? It's so..

Accurate? Jean finished for you, bashfulness emanating from her. I don't think you'd want to know how..

I have a stalker?

Soulmate, she corrects, but.. yes.

Is it because you looked around with cerebro? You pry, a sly feeling washing over you. Jean was more than in-tuned with your mind, feeling you already knew the answer. Or did you look me up online? I don't recall a connection giving you any clues for your soulmate's looks.

Jean went quiet, lips pressed thin before she jumps out of her thoughts (and you). A rough knock on her door causes whatever subconscious mental gymnastics her mutation was working through, all the items in her dorm drop to the floor, thumps coming from the room beneath her's at all the noise.

Hold on, she grunts as she stands, feeling bruises form all over her body. Scott's here.

You're hurt?

I wasn't entirely mentally present.

Ouch. You reply with an airy noise of amusement. What does he want?

There was no feeling of jealousy in you or your words. Both of you were comfortable with where you stood in your situation-ship.

Another mission, Jean sighs. Putting on a knowing smile, she opens the door and offers a soft greeting to Scott. I have to go and get ready. Think about you later?

There's a hum of confirmation from you, Jean able to sense the adoration and worry as though they were trying to pull her under. Remember to check in every-so often?

Of course.

Then I'll think to you later.

[raytm]

Why is this man 80% leg anyway. Fucking danganronpa ass

[crowshoots]

what if you liked this and i wrote you a stupid silly starter based off this

[valiisthea]

[ Muse wise I'm kind of lacking. Reno is around, Roche is around, but I also randomly have like...Poe Dameron (star wars)? And Vincent Valentine? And Connor Temple? (Primeval)

Also, Barnabas is here. Clive is here. Dion is...not? But I could probably drum him up if he's wanted! I'm eye-zooming on Joshua right now but I haven't decided to add him yet.

Disney wise, Barley is here. Alfredo Linguini is here (Ratatouille). ]