#Feed Through Terminal

[momochimchim]

hi this is superstargaycare DUDE TAGS HAD ME FUCKING CACKLINGGGG LIKE UR SO FUNNY DAWG 😭😭 “im trying to catch up on tsams pero poquito a poquito suave suavecito” <- im gonna think abt this all the time. this is my new life motto /pos /silly

LMAAAOOO I'M SO GLAD I MADE YOU LAUGH I'M JUST SILLY AND INSANE LIKE THAT AUSJAKDD

THAT'S A GREAT MOTTO ACTUALLY, ON THE SERIOUS SIDE, sometimes things go too fast and you gotta slow down man, or you'll get squashed on a wall🥺 YOU GOTTA SING IT TOO, LET'S GOO, but yeaah, Someday I'll catch up, Someday....

[serenabenson]

this sounds insane bc i dont know how to articulate what i mean exactly but like. the way svu eps are doing olivia character work on two levels, one being knowing who she is in-svuniverse, and the second being knowing what Olivia Benson means like metanarratively?, or has come to mean as an icon to *us*.

[phantomrose96]

God's Favorite

Lucy wakes to the soft tapping of rain against her window, and she is God’s favorite. She knows this in the absent sound of her alarm, and she knows this in the yawning rumbles of thunder, and she knows this before she touches her phone alight to the notification screen.

8:43 am. Far from the 4:30 am alarm she’d needed to heed to make it to her flight. Her screen is awash with airline notifications.

She scrambles from bed. Her urgency is an apology. Lucy skips the shower and skips the hair washing and paints on deodorant before stowing it back in her carryon and calling her uber.

“Crazy weather,” her driver with the big mustache remarks. His windshield wipers swish through a river of rain.

“Yeah,” Lucy answers. She glances at her rumbling phone. She glances at the rumbling clouds. The road is clear. It shouldn’t be, not this route and not at this hour. A gas main broke somewhere up the highway that feeds this street. A freak accident. 2 injuries. It’s kept this road clear for just the locals since it happened. Lucy encounters no traffic enroute to the airport.

There are pockets of planes grounded across the runways, barely visible behind the sheets of downpour. They look like herding animals, herbivores, standing stock-still in brace against the weather. Lucy stares at them only a moment while the driver pulls her carryon out of the trunk. She grabs her jacket closed against the wind, and grabs her carryon handle, and thanks her driver. The rain does not reach her here, though the wind does.

Inside Lucy drags her bag past the help desks swarming with the orderly filings of people in disarray. Parents leaning too hard on help counters with kids pulling on bag handles. Hurried conversations and requests and arguments. The electronic boards are awash with deeply red DELAYED and CANCELED. The airport is choking. Lucy, who God loves, glides through security unimpeded.

At gate-side, Lucy finally looks to the large red board of DELAYED and CANCELED etchings to confirm what she knew without even checking her phone notifications. Gate A14. Her carryon wheels pitter and patter across tile as she walks, striding quickly, with apology.

When Gate A14 comes into view it is smothered with the weight of two or possibly three flights worth of people. There are people asleep clutching backpacks and curled on the floor. There is a four-year-old girl with her face buried in an iPad and a mother having a phone call whose clipped urgency infects Lucy. There is a man leaning over the counter to talk to the gate agent, and his hands pulse with each tensing of his fingers. “…to the hospital before she…” Lucy makes out, or thinks she makes out. She doesn’t hear the gate agent’s response, but she can read the defeated shake of her head.

Lucy’s carryon wheels clunk where the smooth tile of the terminal shifts to carpeting. She doesn’t think to grab a seat because there are no open seats. So she positions herself in a way to unmistakably say she is at the gate, threading between stagnant suitcases and kids splayed on the floor. Lucy approaches the rain-splattered windows, and like a conversation shy upon being overheard, the thunder recedes from her advance. The rain draws to a polite close. The clouds split along a seam and pull away, as if they were only ever a wave that had transiently crashed to shore. The sky is beautifully blue.

There is a stirring hopefulness in the air. Other passengers have pushed past Lucy to stand closer to the window and peer outside, as if their confirmation of the changing weather can convince the airline of what to do next.

The gate agent puts down the phone receiver of a one-sided call. She pulls the microphone close and with grainy clarity she announces, “Boarding for Flight A1874 to Detroit will begin in 10 minutes.”

On the walkway, through the gap between the throughway and plane, Lucy sees the puddles rising with steam. They throw the iridescent spectrum of a rainbow up into the sky.

In a backlog of hundreds of flights, Lucy’s is the first out across the runway. This is because God loves her. She only wishes It loved her in a way to fix her broken phone alarm.

…

In childhood Lucy had heard “God loves you” and “Jesus loves you” in the placative ways that Sunday School teaches its children. With jingles and crayon-drawings of sheep and shepherds and a decorated ornament, crafted each Christmas Eve.

Lucy had long since fallen out of it and had thought very little of her parents’ tepid god for the last 10 or 15 years.

It was last spring, 27-years-old, that Lucy had found her way out into the marsh. Mud sucking her boots and gnats plicking in swarm against her skin. Where she sat her tailbone in the muck and folded her arms over her knees and buried her face in her legs to cry. And cry. And cry. And there with the mugginess sopping her skin and the humidity coiling her hair, God decided It loved her.

It loved her with a parting of canopy for the robin-blue sky. It loved her with the chirp of cicadas. It loved her in the way a dog circles its owner and nudges a wet snout to palm, because It was here, and It would make her feel better.

Lucy’s seat is the window seat beside the man with the tensing fingers. He fiddles with a phone in his clutch until he locks it in airplane mode and stows it, to look at no more. Lucy wonders who this man knows in the hospital, and she wonders why God doesn’t love him more than It loves her.

…

In March, Marco breaks up with her over a plate of fish that is too dry. In the moment, Lucy wonders if it’s her fault, because of the fish. But that’s not it. The signs were there, in all the subtle and stuttering moments Marco had pulled away. Each little moment like a slightly missed step, on a staircase growing ricketier each month.

Marco leaves and everything is so quiet, to the point that Lucy thinks her own sounds are pretty stupid, and pretty embarrassing while she’s coiled snail-like and snottily-sobbing into her pillowcase. She thinks absently of how she has to wash the pillowcase now, and that’s fine, because she was going to wash her linens this weekend anyway. She sobs so hard she’s almost screaming. Oh, and kitchen towels. She’ll wash the kitchen towels too.

She’s alive enough the next morning to throw all her linens and her kitchen towels on the floor of the laundry room. And maybe Marco breaking up with her is fine, because his birthday is December 25th and who wants a husband whose birthday is the same day as Christmas?

Her doorbell rings. And somehow it’s Marco again. She opens it to him, and he smells like a wildfire.

“Sorry, Lucy, this is awkward,” and Lucy believes he means it. He’s clutching a jacket around himself for what looks like security more than warmth. His apartment burned down last night. A resident fell asleep with a cigarette lit and dangling from her fingertips. Unit right below him. All his stuff burned, or filled with smoke, or is now logged up with water. He’s been sitting outside on the cobblestone for the last few hours, watching the blaze, on the phone with insurance. His landlord hasn’t responded to him yet. He’s cold, and he’s smokey, and can he shower here maybe? Can he stay for just a day or two, maybe? Sorry. This is awkward. He has no family on this coast. He really has nowhere else to go.

“Sure.” Lucy lets in Marco who smells like a wildfire. She adds the towels to her laundry list because they will smell like a wildfire too once Marco has used them. When he is clean, Lucy asks him nice questions. He asks her nice questions back. She helps him figure out something strange on the insurance form. He starts cooking dinner before Lucy realizes he’d entered the kitchen, because she was busy with the linens and the towels.

Marco takes the couch and clean linens. “Thanks, again, really. I can pay you a few days rent, when I get the insurance payout.” It’s no problem. Lucy goes to her room and shuts the door. It’s warmer here with Marco again. She wonders how long he’ll stay. She wonders if it will be for as long as she thinks the sound of him breathing in the other room is a comfort.

Something twists in Lucy’s chest. She wonders why God loves her more than It loves Marco. Lucy wonders why God didn’t love the woman with the lit cigarette who did not make it out of the building.

…

In June Lucy is desperately throwing together the haphazard makings of a financial report. She meant to stay up late to finish it, and get up early to make it beautiful, but she’s had a cold for a whole week now and the new bottle of decongestant she grabbed wasn’t “non-drowsy” like she thought.

Her heart is beating, and she nearly twists her ankle with a misstep in high heels, and she almost loses her grip on the shoddy makings of a too-light financial report still warm from the printer. She can spin it, maybe, that it’s intentionally light and she’d simply wanted the esteemed and respected input from the executives in the room before she produces the truly polished report this evening. And when the eyebrows are raised and she is told the report is due now, maybe they will refrain from firing her on the spot since she is still the only one who can produce the report they need.

She pulls open the meeting room door as if she is not out of breath, as if her nose isn’t red from a thousand tissues. She takes her seat so hastily that she does not notice, until she looks up properly, and sees the CEO’s seat is empty.

No one speaks. No one acknowledges her entrance. Lucy hugs the warm binder to her chest.

The door latch clicks open, but Lucy knows it will not be the CEO. She heard the click of heels before the doorknob turned.

It’s his assistant with the lovely auburn hair that curls around her shoulders. Her suit is red and her eyes are red and she stands just behind the CEO’s chair. Everyone notices her in the way they did not notice Lucy.

She speaks. The CEO’s wife and daughter were in a head-on collision with a drunk driver 42 minutes ago. They’re in critical condition, and the CEO has gone to be with them. He asks everyone’s forgiveness and grace in this time. The meeting is rescheduled for tomorrow, same time, and he humbly requests if everyone in attendance can adjust their calendar to accommodate this. This is a big ask, he knows. The board will have questions, he knows. But these are extenuating circumstances. The assistant will help with any necessary reworking of everyone’s calendars. And Lucy, can you please deliver the report tomorrow? The assistant has a sympathy card, which she lays on the table along with a black pen, and she asks if anyone would care to sign it.

Lucy signs it. The card paper is so cold, compared to the warmth of the half-finished report squeezed tight against her chest. The half-finished report should have cooled by now, but God must know she’s cold and ashen-faced, and God loves her so much.

…

In July, Lucy is a perfectionist. Her mother swears she wasn’t always like this. Her high school best friend is surprised, when in town for a weekend and meeting up for coffee, by the way Lucy triple-confirms the time, and the place, and the way she wears two watches. Why two watches? he asks. Because the alarm on one watch might fail. What about your phone? The watches are the backup, if the phone dies.

There’s something off-putting in the way she talks, and the way she asks questions of him, and the way she exclaims in joy at every piece of good news he shares. Josiah glances behind himself, more and more, and it’s because Lucy stares back there like she knows someone else at the next table.

It’s all weird, and Josiah can’t help but pull away. But Lucy pulls away first, retroactively. She can always pull away retroactively, and declare to her four walls of her room how much she didn’t need that friend, like she doesn’t need Marco, or anyone else who God may drop at her doorstep like the dead bird bounty of a cat, happy to share with the person It loves.

Lucy finishes her reports early. She wiles away the sun at her office even in the summer finishing reports far before anyone could need them. She double-checks, every time. She triple-checks. Her boss pulls her into a meeting room and with hands folded on the desk, he asks if maybe she needs to take some time off. And instantly she declares to the four walls that no-one at the company is doing this to her. “I wasn’t implying that…” but she’s not looking at him when he answers.

In July Lucy returns to the marsh. She returns with stones she’s horded up and gathered in the trunk of her car. She walks through the boot-suckling mud and she weighs stones in her arms while she hurls them, and throws, and screams, and hopes one of them might strike God in Its snout.

“I HATE YOU!” she screams. She throws all her weight into a stone whose sharp edge nicks bark. She hurls one through the bushes and another into the leafy canopy above. She is sopping wet and the cicadas chirp at her. “I HATE YOU!! GO AWAY!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” She chucks a stone which lands in the sucking muck, capsizing like a ship beneath the algae.

She throws, and her gravity heaves forward, and her boots stay stuck in the mud. So she topples elbow-deep in the mud, spattered, soaking into her chin and her shirt and her jeans and her hair. She parts her lips and tastes the earthy wetness on her skin, coppery blood, split lip. The stones are all under her. She laughs. Lucy tilts her head to the sky screaming with laughter. Joyous to tears, with the wetness drawing rivulets down the mud on her cheeks. She laughs because sopping-in-mud-and-muck is NOT the state of something God loves. This wouldn’t happen to something God loves.

Lucy goes home. Lucy showers. Lucy does her laundry. And It crawls back into bed with her. Perhaps like a scolded animal, but perhaps It did not even know It was being scolded. Lucy cannot tell.

The wine stains came out of her linens today because God loves her.

[electronalytics]

Single-Level Feed-Through Terminal Block Market

[snail-day]

With All My Heart, Will You Be Mine?

Sum: Happy Valentine's Day!

Yan! Yakuza Gojo x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Kidnapping, Medical Horror, Graphic violence/torture, Terminal Illness (Reader), Blood, Gore, Dubcon kisses, Masturbation (Gojo), Manipulation, Forced Surgery, mentions of murder. MDNI

WC: 5.8k

A/n: Thank you 💖 anon for feeding me yummy ideas, lots of smoochies for you. You will receive my kidney for Valentine's day, keep it safe, use it for school! MWAH!

Really, truly - Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight? Absolutely. Intrigue at first sight? Happens all the time. But love? The heart-pounding, palm-sweating, head-spinning kind that made fools of otherwise rational men? No.

He was a romantic, sure, but not delusional.

And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a dingy little house in Tokyo, meant to be handling business like the good little Yakuza heir he was, only to be hit with something so absurd, so world-altering, so utterly ridiculous that it left him breathless.

And on Valentine’s Day, no less.

It was almost poetic, if not for the fact that he should have been spending his evening hunting for buy-one-get-one-free desserts, maybe stuffing his face with something obscenely sweet, letting powdered sugar melt on his tongue instead of dealing with this nonsense.

Instead, he was here, wasting time on a pathetic excuse of a man who had made one too many promises and delivered on exactly none.

The debtor knelt before him, flanked by two of his men, the poor bastard's shoulders hunched, his body shaking so violently that the faint sound of his teeth chattering filled the otherwise silent room.

Satoru sighed, rolling his shoulders, letting his hands flex, testing the weight of his own strength. A simple knockout, maybe - if the guy was lucky. If he wasn’t, well, there were other ways to collect.

If you can’t pay up, surely your organs can.

His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles shifting beneath his skin, ready to land a single, decisive blow. His arm swung back, muscles tensing, the force behind it measured yet lethal.

He missed.

His knuckles cut through empty space.

The Gojo Satoru, who never missed, whose strikes always found their target with effortless precision, had missed.

Something lurched inside him. Something sharp, something foreign, something completely uninvited. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his chest seizing up with a feeling that sent his pulse stammering, erratic.

The air in the room shifted, charged, like static clinging to his skin, humming beneath his fingertips, curling tight around his throat like an invisible wire. His breath hitched, a sharp, unexpected inhale that felt too much, too rapid, too overwhelming.

His body, his very existence, felt like it had been shoved off balance.

And all because of a picture frame.

A broken one, at that. Glass shards, littered the floor, glinting under the dim overhead light. His gaze flickered downward, catching the jagged fragments scattered like slivers of ice against the worn wooden planks.

And nestled between them, half-buried beneath the wreckage, was you.

His fingers twitched.

His chest ached.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, forcing himself to move slowly, as if rushing might break the spell of this moment. His gaze briefly flickered toward Ijichi, who stood stiffly near the door, face pale, fingers twitching at his sleeves.

Satoru ignored him, poor Ijichi's silent pleas to please get this over with. Instead, he bent down, his long, gloved fingers ghosting over the broken glass before carefully lifting the frame from the mess. His movements were strangely reverent, cautious in a way that had nothing to do with avoiding injury and everything to do with the image trapped behind the cracked glass.

You.

Oh.

His throat tightened.

A snapshot of softness. A moment of warmth and light and everything gentle in a world that had only ever been sharp edges and raw violence to him. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the frame over, gloved knuckles brushing against the broken glass, the sting of tiny cuts breaking through the protective barrier. Satoru barely noticed. The world had already tilted.

His breath came faster, shallower, something hot and unfamiliar crawling up his spine. His face felt warm. Too warm. Heat bloomed beneath his skin, creeping up from his chest, spilling up the curve of his throat, flushing the tips of his ears. His pulse—normally steady, untouchable—stammered, then slammed against his ribs, hammering like a war drum inside him.

His brain wasn’t working, actually Satoru's entire body was doing things it shouldn’t be doing. The way his fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like something precious, something irreplaceable, something already his.

And then—before he could stop himself—

He giggled.

A soft, breathless little sound, slipped past his soft pink lips without his permission, without his control. The feeling was utterly foreign to him, so completely out of place in this bloodstained room, that even the lackeys flinched.

The debtor—poor bastard, still kneeling, still hoping for mercy—dared to look up. His breath stuttered, a trembling, desperate sound escaping his lips when he caught the sight of Satoru, hunched over the picture frame, grinning like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

And then, in a panic-stricken voice, hoarse and broken, he begged.

“T-That’s my daughter,” he gasped, voice cracking, his entire body lurching forward before the men at his sides yanked him back into place. “P-Please! Please, don’t - d-don’t hurt her, please!”

Satoru stilled for a few beats. His long fingers twitched against the frame, his grip tightening just slightly. Slowly, he raised his gaze, sharp blue eyes gleaming, amusement flickering beneath something far, far more dangerous., a fool in love.

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, Satoru let out another breathless, giddy laugh.

“Oh,” he murmured, his voice a shade too light, a whisper too smooth. “Your daughter?” tilting his head, lips parting slightly, like he was tasting the words, rolling them around on his tongue just to see how they felt. Satoru's pulse was still racing, breathing still felt too fast, face still burned.

What a beautiful feeling. Love was truly a beautiful thing, he was a fool for thinking overwise. His lips curved into a lazy, lovesick smile. A slow exhale left him as he traced his thumb over the crack in the glass.

“What a lucky man you are,” Satoru mused, voice warm, teasing, almost affectionate. “To have someone so precious.”

Satoru's fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like he could sink it into himself, steal you away, make you his. Careless to the shards of glass pressing themselves into his shirt, sodden with blood.

And then, with a soft, almost dreamy sigh, he whispered into the room -

“Oh, I think I’m in love.”

The debtor was still babbling, breath coming in ragged little gasps, his face pale and sweat-slicked, as if he expected Gojo to snap him in half at any second.

Poor guy.

Satoru’s expression shifted the sharp gleam in his eyes melting into something lighter, dreamier. His lips curled into a soft, almost fond smile, the heat still high on his cheeks as he turned his attention back to the trembling man kneeling before him.

A soft chuckle left him - light, airy, amused.

"I think we got the wrong guy, Ijichi-san," he mused, voice kept casual, lilting as if discussing the weather. Ijichi stiffened from his place near the door, blinking rapidly behind his fogged-up glasses, clearly unsure whether to be relieved or terrified. Still kneeling, leaned in just slightly, one gloved hand reaching out to cup the debtor’s jaw.

The man flinched hard.

His entire body shuddered, a choked sound spilling from his lips, but Satoru’s touch was shockingly gentle - a stark contrast to the raw strength curled beneath his fingers. His thumb stroked slowly along the man’s cheek, a featherlight touch, almost affectionate as if comforting a dear old friend.

Then - he patted his cheek. Soft. Reassuring. And yet, something far, far worse than a punch.

Because Gojo Satoru was smiling.

Not his usual cocky smirk, not the smug little grin of a man who enjoyed toying with his prey - but something softer.

Something warm.

Something that didn’t belong in a bloodstained room.

His head tilted slightly, bright blue eyes twinkling, the blush still lingering across his pale skin as he murmured, voice dipped in unsettling fondness -

"My apologies, father-in-law."

The debtor let out a broken sob.

The room was silent, tense, like everyone was waiting to see if their boss had finally snapped. He swallowed hard, forcing down the giddy little laugh bubbling up his throat. He needed to—no, he had to—figure this out. He had to figure you out.

Satoru was still thinking about you, even during his long day of hard work. Ah, he should be charging your rent for invading his mind like this!

The poor businessman in front of him wailed, body jerking violently against the restraints, but Satoru barely acknowledged it. He twirled the bloodied pliers between his fingers, splattering droplets of red onto the floor, his mind elsewhere.

“You guys ever been in love?”

The lackeys standing near the wall exchanged uneasy glances.

“U-uh… boss?”

Satoru hummed softly, affectionately as if he hadn’t just ripped a nail from the man’s hand a second ago. He turned to one of the lackeys, holding up the pliers like a microphone.

“Be honest with me. What’s the best way to impress a girl?”

Silence.

Even the poor bastard tied to the chair stopped whimpering. The loan sharks shifted uncomfortably, like they weren’t sure if this was a trick question.

Gojo sighed, tapping the pliers against his chin. Careless to the blood staining his pale skin.

“See, I’m thinking flowers - girls like flowers, right? But that feels so… normal.” Voice coming out light, thoughtful, as if he were discussing dessert options instead of dating strategies while actively torturing someone.

A lackey gulped. “Uh… I-I guess girls like grand gestures?”

Satoru’s head snapped up. Oh. Ohhh. That was good. That was so good. Satoru's grin stretched wider, his body practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s what I was thinking too! Maybe I could make a little event out of it.” He flexed his fingers around the pliers before suddenly plunging them back into the man’s hand, gripping tight around another nail. The man wailed, body convulsing, but Satoru just clicked his tongue.

“Stay still, I’m having a moment here.”

He wrenched the pliers back with an almost theatrical flourish, watching as the nail came free, dripping red. He turned it between his fingers, examining it as he continued, “Like, I could just show up and say, ‘Hi, I’m your new boyfriend,’ but I dunno… that lacks finesse, don’t you think?”

Another lackey hesitated. “Uh… maybe you should… get to know her first?”

Satoru gasped. Ohhh. His fingers twitched, his pulse spiking, excitement crawling up his spine. “That’s a great idea! I should do some research. Find out what she likes, where she goes, who she spends time with - ”

He sighed dreamily, resting his chin on his gloved palm, pliers still in his grasp. “Ahh, this is so exciting. Who knew I’d find love on Valentine’s Day?”

The lackeys exchanged horrified glances.

The man in the chair sobbed.

Gojo barely noticed.

He was too busy imagining what kind of flowers you’d like.

Like any devoted future husband, he did his research.

By the time he finally stepped out of the shower after his long, excruciatingly confusing day—one he would rather you never know about—he had already started planning.

Steam curled in lazy ribbons around the dimly lit bathroom, clinging to the warm air like a ghost of the heat that had soaked into his skin. Water dripped from his snow-white damp hair, collecting in cool rivulets as they rolled down the sculpted lines of his collarbone, tracing the dip of his spine before vanishing into the plush towel slung around his waist. The overhead light flickered faintly against the condensation beading along the mirror, his reflection hazy and unfocused.

Satoru dragged a hand through his messy, damp white locks, pushing them back from his forehead, his fingers catching briefly on stubborn strands. He let out a slow breath, watching as the fogged-up mirror distorted his image, his usually sharp features blurred at the edges. For a moment, he simply stared, tilting his head slightly, his glowing blue eyes piercing through the humidity with an intensity that felt foreign, even to him.

His face felt… different.

He knew himself, had spent years looking at this very reflection - at the striking symmetry of his features, the lazy curve of his mouth, the effortless charm that had always drawn people in. But now? Now there was something wrong.

Or maybe something right.

His cheeks were warm, a soft flush spreading across his pale skin, settling stubbornly beneath his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. His lips—usually curled in an easy smirk, something smug and sharp-edged—felt softer, stretched into a stupid, giddy smile that he couldn’t seem to wipe off.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless, barely contained energy coiling under his skin. He could feel the uneven rhythm of his own pulse, the unsteady way it hammered against his ribs - too fast, too eager, like something wild and untamed.

A shaky laugh slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, and immediately pressed his knuckles against his mouth, trying to stifle the ridiculous giggle that threatened to bubble up again.

Oh, what the fuck was this?

His stomach clenched - not in discomfort, not in anger, not in anything he could name. The feeling felt like being electrocuted. It felt like a freefall, plummeting into something dark and bottomless, with no hope of stopping. His chest ached, a tight pull between his ribs, something raw and desperate.

This wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this was normal.

Satoru’s fingers curled into the edge of the sink, gripping the cold marble, but it did nothing to steady him. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the haze filling his head, thick and suffocating. He needed to focus.

His smirk twitched, wavering for just a second before solidifying again, as he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was here in the first place.

He had a plan.

Of course, he already knew he’d have to privatize a lot of your information. It wasn’t safe for someone as delicate, as beautiful as you to be left unprotected.

A beauty like you? Out in the open?

Far too dangerous.

You were just waiting to be taken, waiting for someone less deserving to snatch you up before he had the chance to make you his. The very thought sent an ugly, seething heat curling low in his stomach, his jaw tightening at the idea of someone else even thinking they had the right to look at you.

And then there was your father. Reckless. Stupid. Careless. Gambling away money, selling away your future with every thoughtless bet. If someone had to pay for his mistakes, it wouldn’t be you. It wouldn’t ever be you.

Satoru sighed, wiping the condensation from the mirror with the heel of his palm, only for it to fog up again seconds later. The humidity clung to him, soaking into his flushed skin as his gaze flickered toward the glow of his phone screen.

His research was proving… interesting.

His body froze.

The warmth in his chest twisted, coiling tighter, tighter, tighter, something sharp lodging itself behind his ribs. His breath caught, his fingers tightening around the cold marble of the sink.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The words didn’t change.

Waitlisted for a heart transplant.

His stomach dropped.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his vision blurring, as if the letters themselves were somehow wrong, as if seeing them enough times could make them disappear, could make them not real.

His throat was dry, the earlier lightheaded giddiness evaporating, replaced by something heavy and unfamiliar.

A slow breath, shaky and uneven, pushed past his lips.

Then another.

His heart stuttered.

Then picked up again, pounding, throbbing, screaming against his ribs with a force that almost hurt.

His lungs felt tight.

This—this wasn’t—

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

His stomach twisted violently, sickening nausea curling through him as he forced himself to swallow, his fingers digging into the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

He could fix this.

Of course, he could.

It was so simple.

Well.

He could just give you his.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His own ridiculous, hopelessly lovesick heart—wasn’t it already yours?

Wasn’t it already beating for you, racing every time he thought about you?

He wanted you to have it.

Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t that be romantic?

A tremor ran through his shoulders, something between a laugh and a shaky exhale, his body shuddering under the weight of the thought. He grinned, wide and almost delirious, his fingers drumming absently against the counter, a restless, frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

Oh.

Different blood types.

The air seized in his lungs.

An awful thing, really. A tragedy. A fucking crime.

It would have been the greatest honor - to have his very own heart inside your body, keeping you alive, keeping you safe, ensuring that he was always with you, always the one keeping you beating.

His grip on the counter tightened, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool mirror. His stupid, desperate, lovesick heart was still hammering, pounding so hard it hurt, and—

And he just knew.

No one else could have you.

You were his.

And if fate wasn’t going to let him keep you safe the way he wanted, then— - He’d just find another way.

A soft, breathless giggle slipped from his lips.

It was almost sweet.

Oh.

Oh, he loved this.

You were going to love him too.

Satoru wasn’t sure how he ended up here, standing in the soft glow of your hospital room, arms full of entirely too many roses, pretending he didn’t just spend weeks memorizing everything about you.

This was supposed to be casual. A natural, effortless, totally normal meeting where he charmed his way into your life like it was meant to be. And it was meant to be, of course - he already decided that long before you even knew his name.

But none of his meticulous planning, none of the hours of preparation, none of it prepared him for this.

Because now that he was actually standing in front of you, he could feel his carefully constructed mask cracking at the edges.

And it was all your fault.

You blinked up at him, your wide, curious gaze unraveling him completely. Even in your frailty—IV drips, hospital gown, the telltale exhaustion clinging to your frame—you still managed to look like the single most perfect thing he had ever seen.

Then, it happened.

A smile.

A soft, hesitant little thing, warm enough to make his knees feel weak.

And then - the monitor.

The steady beep, beep, beep of your heart rate suddenly spiked, an unmistakable, rapid rhythm filling the otherwise quiet room.

Satoru’s breath hitched.

Oh.

The realization crashed into him like a freight train.

Your heart was racing.

Because of him.

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the roses tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate stems, the thorns pricking at his skin, he barely noticed. His own heartbeat had gone completely wild, hammering so loudly against his ribs that he was sure the entire hospital could hear it.

Heat rushed to his face, a creeping blush crawling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his entire body betraying him. He could feel it, the warmth spreading under his skin, the dizzying, giddy sensation that made him want to scream into the nearest pillow.

You were flustered over him.

Him.

Gojo Satoru.

A helpless, breathless giggle bubbled up in his throat before he could stop it, and he barely managed to cover it with a light cough, turning his head slightly as if that would somehow hide the absolute mess he was becoming.

He had to pull it together.

His entire existence led up to this moment, and he would not be the reason he messed it up.

Clearing his throat, schooled his expression into something softer, gentler, the perfect image of a man who had no idea what was happening.

"Ah," he started, voice almost too smooth, though there was an undeniable waver at the edges. He made a show of looking down at the roses, adjusting his grip as if suddenly realizing he was still holding them. "I… didn’t expect anyone to be here."

Your lips parted, the faintest hint of surprise flitting across your features. He wanted to frame the moment, keep it forever.

He forced himself to keep talking, keep lying, before his knees actually gave out, even if they did, he'd crawl to you, rest his head on your lap - He'd be your dog if you'd just ask.

“It seems the room has already been cleared a while ago,” he continued, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “I used to leave roses here for my mother.”

The words left his mouth too easily, even as his pulse refused to slow down. Satoru's fingers twitched, gripping the flowers just a little too tight because you were still looking at him like that.

Like you wanted him to stay.

And that damn monitor -

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Each sharp little sound sent heat straight to his face. He could feel it, the way his blush deepened, the way it spread down his neck, his body completely betraying him in real time.

You liked him.

You were crushing on him.

You were falling for him.

Satoru had to physically stop himself from grinning like a lunatic. He had to bite the inside of his cheek, had to tighten his grip on the bouquet, had to plant his feet firmly on the ground because he swore to god if he let go of his restraint for even a second, he would throw himself at you and never let go.

This was dangerous.

You were dangerous.

Because he had barely even spoken yet, and you were already his.

And oh, you had no idea what that meant for you.

His stomach did another awful, fluttery thing, his entire world tilting as he dared to meet your gaze again.

“Would it be alright… if I left these here?” he asked, voice lower, smoother, betraying absolutely none of the chaos screaming inside him.

You nodded, still watching him with soft, wide eyes, and Satoru had to bite back a whimper. His stomach twisted, something fluttering, tightening - something unbearable and all-consuming. He had barely spoken to you, and yet, here you were, already accepting him, already letting him into your space. It was almost too much. Almost devastating.

He placed the roses carefully on the side table, arranging them with precision, as if they were an offering, as if their placement mattered more than anything else in the world. His fingers lingered on the petals, smoothing them down, before he finally, reluctantly, stepped back.

Your gaze was still on him. Soft. Trusting. Beautiful.

Operation: True Love had been enacted.

And it didn’t stop there.

It had become routine. Every morning, without fail, he made sure you had your favorite coffee in your hands before the sun had fully risen. Even on the nights when sleep barely kissed his eyes, when exhaustion tugged at his limbs, when his body ached from handling the scum that threatened the delicate world he was building for you, he always stopped by that little café.

It was such a simple thing, really - just a cup of coffee. But for Satoru, it was a symbol of devotion. Every single action, no matter how small, was done with you in mind. He memorized your schedule, your favorite flavors, the way you liked it just a little sweeter when you were feeling under the weather. He took a sip of it each time before handing it to you, just to be certain that it was decaffeinated, that your already delicate heart wouldn’t be forced to work harder than it needed to.

He had memorized everything about your condition, studied every prescription bottle by your bedside, traced his fingers over the labels when you weren’t looking, committing them all to memory. He knew your dosages, your restrictions, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when the medication began to wear off.

That was why, when the first drop of coffee hit his tongue that morning, he knew instantly that something was wrong.

The perfect order wasn’t right.

The bitterness was too strong, the warmth that settled in his stomach too telling. He pulled the cup away from his lips and stared at it, Satoru's mind running over the implications. The barista had switched it - either through incompetence or indifference, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

If he had been careless if he had handed it to you without checking if your poor little heart had struggled against the caffeine -

His hands began to shake, a slow, curling fury unfurling in his gut. The weight of what could have happened, of what he almost allowed to happen, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him. His fingers curled around the coffee cup, the lid creaking under the pressure as he slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself.

This wasn’t just a mistake.

This was a threat.

Satoru's grip on the cup remained eerily calm as he turned and walked back to the counter, each step measured, deliberate. His head tilted slightly, a soft, almost playful smile curving at his lips as he met the eyes of the barista who had handed him the drink. The poor fool didn’t even realize what they had done.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, voice light, almost teasing, like he was about to share a secret. “Quick question.”

The barista looked up, confused, but obliging. “Uh, yeah?”

Satoru took another slow step forward, resting his arms against the counter as he leaned in slightly. Bright blue eyes studied the poor barista, carefully, searching for a flicker of remorse, of understanding, but all he saw was ignorance.

That wouldn’t do.

A wider smile traced his lips, tilting his head as if in thought. “Tell me,” he said, voice still honey-smooth, still light as air, as if he wasn’t seething beneath the surface. “Do you know what happens when a heart stops beating?”

There was a pause.

A hesitation.

The barista blinked, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Uh - ”

Satoru didn’t wait for an answer.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the barista’s wrist before they even had a chance to flinch. He pulled them forward with terrifying ease, dragging them halfway over the counter, ignoring the startled gasps of the people around him. His grip tightened, just enough to feel the fragile bones beneath his fingers shift under the pressure, just enough to send a message.

He could hear the barista's pulse, feel the steady rhythm beneath their skin.

Pathetic excuse of a life.

“You see,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against their skin, “a little thing like caffeine doesn’t seem like much, does it? Just a tiny mistake.”

The barista let out a whimper, their free hand scrambling against the countertop, desperate to pull away.

Satoru grinned.

“But when the person drinking it has a heart that’s already struggling?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Well… then it’s a problem.”

He pressed down, just a little.

Just enough for something to pop.

The barista screamed.

Satoru sighed, shaking his head. “You almost killed someone very, very special to me,” he mused, watching the way their face twisted in agony. “And that makes me so sad.”

His fingers flexed.

The wrist in his hand gave way with a sickening crack.

The barista’s shriek pierced the air, loud and raw, but the café remained still.

No one moved.

No one ever did.

Satoru leaned in, crystalline eyes manic, lips just inches away from their ear, and whispered, soft as silk, “Do you know what that means?”

Their sobs were answer enough.

The next morning, Satoru entered your hospital room as if nothing had happened. The coffee was warm in his hands, a perfect balance of sweetness and warmth, exactly the way you liked it. You were just beginning to stir, your soft hands rubbing at your sleepy eyes, body curled up under the thick blankets.

You looked so sweet, so untouched by the world, that for a moment, he felt like he was burning alive. The moment your eyes landed on him, you smiled, slow and shy, and Satoru swore he felt his heart explode.

“Good morning, dumpling,” he greeted, sick with love, drowning in it, choking on it. You blinked up at him, looking so grateful, so happy, as you took the coffee from his hands.

He watched as you took a sip, watched as you sighed contentedly, watched as your heart monitor picked up just a little.

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The world around him faded, the memory of bloodied hands, broken screams, the useless little stumps where the barista’s fingers used to be all vanishing in the wake of your soft, wide eyes.

Nothing else mattered.

Not when you were safe.

Not when he was the one keeping you that way.

You still didn’t know.

But soon, you would.

He was waiting for the perfect moment - something grand, something special. Something that would tie you to him forever.

He loved watching over you.

He loved the way your eyelids would flutter, lashes casting delicate shadows against your cheeks as the medication coaxed you into sleep. He loved the way you’d sigh - soft, breathy little noises, so unaware, so vulnerable, your fingers curling instinctively against his sleeve as if you knew you belonged there.

And maybe you did.

Because this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Pressed into him, into his warmth, trusting and unguarded. His perfect little angel, unknowingly tucking yourself into the arms of the only man in the world who could love you properly.

You didn’t know what he had done to make sure you were safe.

Didn’t know how many hands he had taken, how many screams he had silenced, how many unworthy bastards had been erased for so much as looking at you too long.

Didn’t know how many times he had sat here, in this exact position, staring at the fragile line of your throat, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, watching the way your lips parted slightly as you exhaled.

Didn’t know how much it hurt to love you like this.

Because it did hurt.

It ached.

It burned, it devoured, it twisted inside him like something feral, something unsatisfied.

You were so small in his arms. So delicate.

And yet, his love for you was so enormous, so all-consuming, that sometimes he felt like he would crush you under the weight of it.

Every time your fingers twitched against him, every time your body relaxed, every time you made those tiny, sleepy noises, something inside him curled tight, so tight, too tight.

It was adoration.

It was devotion.

It was worship.

And yet, beneath that softness, beneath the aching love, there was something else.

Something darker.

Something needy.

Something filthy.

Because sometimes, when your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, when your lips parted just slightly when your warm, sleepy body curled into his, something unbearable coiled in his stomach, something starved and desperate, something that made him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The heat would pool low in his abdomen, coiling hot, tight, a restless hunger, a pressure that made his breath come faster, shallower.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that you were so sweet, so trusting, so untouchable - and yet, your body fit against his so perfectly.

It wasn’t fair that you were right here, so warm, so soft, so completely his—but he couldn’t touch.

Couldn’t have.

Not yet.

Not the way he wanted to.

Not the way he needed to.

And God—God, what an awful man he was.

What a disgusting, depraved, vile creature he had become.

He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.

You were pure, delicate, untouched.

You needed protection.

You needed his care.

And yet, his traitorous body was already reacting, already stiffening, already pressing painfully against the fabric of his slacks, already begging for relief.

The feel was humiliating, sickening.

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself to stop - Satoru couldn’t.

Couldn’t because you were so fucking beautiful. Because you were so fucking his. Because even long after he had gently laid you back against your pillows, even after he had stroked the soft strands of your hair away from your face, even after he had kissed your forehead so gently, so reverently, he still felt that sickening vile feeling, the pressure of his hardened cock against his slacks. That unbearable heat, that sickening desire, the overwhelming need to relieve the pressure before it drove him insane.

So he would excuse himself.

With the calmest smile, with the gentlest voice, he would whisper, "Sleep well, sugar."

Then Satoru would slip out of the room and head straight to the hospital restroom.

Lock the door.

Pull out his phone.

And scroll through the hundreds of photos he had taken of you.

Some were from your walks in the park, when you were strong enough to leave the hospital, your face turned toward the sunlight, your soft laughter trapped in still frames, preserved just for him.

Others were taken without your knowledge, stolen moments when you were distracted when your lips were pursed in thought, when your fingers played with the frayed edge of your hospital bracelet, when you gazed out the window with that distant, dreamy look.

And God, his angel, his girl, his everything -

With shaking hands, he would unbuckle his belt, slide his hand into his pants, stroking himself to the images of you, barely able to breathe, biting his own lip to silence the pathetic little noises threatening to escape.

It felt so wrong.

So dirty.

So perfect.

And when he was finished, hot and sticky, Satoru would take a moment to look at your photo, his release streaked across your delicate face, your soft smile, your innocent little eyes. Then, with trembling fingers, he would draw tiny hearts in the filth, circling your cheeks, tracing the outline of your lips.

Soon he will be able to be a bit more selfish, to feel those pretty lips of yours wrapped around his cock, be able to coo at you to take more into your mouth, to feel the swirl of your tongue around his hardened length.

Oh, Satoru couldn't help but feel his heart pound against his chest at the idea of your sweet warm cunt wrapped around him, he'd be so gentle. Take his sweet time, he knew he had to be gentle, you were a sick little thing. Should he cockwarm you first? Get you used to him? Get you used to feeling so full, to the stretch, to the feeling of having him deep inside you.

Fuck looks like he has to give it another go, you little minx. Raiding his thoughts as always - a slight giggle escaped his throat before he began to stroke himself once again.

Satoru had made sure you both were exclusive, ensured your father understood that no other man would come near you. Because when he finally was able to confess his undying love, when he finally gave you everything, the action would be in a way that you would never forget.

A grand gesture.

A symbol of his devotion.

And as Valentine’s Day approached, everything was falling into place.

Because love wasn’t just words. The notion wasn’t fleeting, wasn’t something to be given halfheartedly. Love, real love, demanded sacrifice. And he - he was willing to give you everything. Even if it meant murdering an innocent individual, claiming the poor saint had wronged the clan. Because he had found the perfect match for your heart transplant, a saint of a person, someone who had never smoked, never drank, never told a single lie. Someone pure, untouched by vice, someone worthy of becoming a part of you. Someone perfect, just for you, so you both could live your lives together.

Because a love like this? It was eternal.

And you would love him.

And you would be his, forever.

No one would take you away from him.

Not even death.

Not even fate.

Satoru had never known love like this how it had seeped into his veins like poison, sweet and consuming, twisting around his heart until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. You had become his everything, the reason for his existence, the reason he woke up each morning, the reason he killed, the reason he breathed.

And now—now, you were here.

Laid out on the pristine white sheets of the underground medical table he had so carefully prepared, your delicate wrists bound with silk restraints, not to hurt you, but to keep you from thrashing, from making mistakes, from delaying the inevitable.

Because you were scared.

And that was killing him.

His sweet girl, his delicate little princess, his angel, was crying because of him.

Satoru's breath hitched, vision blurring with tears, and before he could stop himself, a choked sob tore from his throat. His fingers trembled as he cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing frantically over your damp skin, trying to wipe away the pain.

"No, no, no, my love - please, please don’t cry." His voice cracked, wavering between soft pleas and manic devotion, his lips quivering as he leaned down, pressing frantic kisses against your damp cheeks. He licked away your tears, swallowed your little whimpers, inhaled your soft, hiccuped breaths as if he could consume your fear and turn it into love.

His fingers stroked your hair, tracing the curve of your face, his touch tender, adoring, desperate.

“I can’t take this, sunshine. You’re breaking my heart.”

A shaky giggle slipped through his sobs, his fingers still trailing down the curve of your jaw, tapping gently against your chin like he was teasing you like this was just another one of his games.

His hands slid behind him, reaching for the small, heart-shaped box he had placed so carefully beside your bed. Satoru's breath hitched, fingers trembling not with nerves, but with sheer, dizzying excitement as he held it between you both. His tear-streaked face lit up, his lips parting into an eager, breathless grin despite the shattered, desperate look in his eyes.

This was it.

The ultimate proof of his love.

His grand gesture.

His devotion, laid bare before you.

The soft velvet of the box rubbed against your trembling fingertips as he guided it into your hands. Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. You didn’t want to open it.

You didn’t want to see what was inside.

But Satoru - was watching you so closely, his radiant, unearthly blue eyes brimming with an intensity that demanded you obey. So, with numb fingers, you lifted the lid.

Your stomach lurched.

The room spun. The sharp, metallic scent of blood curled into your nostrils, thick and suffocating, coating the back of your throat, making your body convulse in disgust.

A heart.

A real, human heart. The flesh was still fresh, still glistening, nestled inside the plush velvet like a grotesque, bloody jewel. Thin, severed arteries dangled from the muscle, the tissue dark, rich, and far too real.

Your breath hitched in a choked, wet gasp.

The air rushed out of your lungs, your vision narrowing as cold, paralyzing horror wrapped around you. Your fingers trembled violently, nearly dropping the box, your hands refusing to function, refusing to believe what they were holding.

No.

No, no, no -

You could feel your heartbeat slamming against your ribs, erratic, uneven, weak. You could feel the sting of tears welling up, blurring your vision, pooling in your lashes as you tried—desperately tried—to make sense of the unthinkable.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to wrench yourself away, shove the box back into his hands, throw it, crush it, anything—

But you couldn’t move.

Your body refused.

Terror had turned your limbs to dead weight, keeping you frozen as if one wrong move might make this nightmare even worse.

Satoru tilted his head, watching you. That flicker in your eyes.

Horror.

Fear.

Rejection.

His grin faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

That look shattered something inside him. Satoru's breath caught, his smile wavering at the edges as his fingers twitched, his entire body stilling. For the first time in his entire, untouchable life, Gojo Satoru felt small. Like a child who had spent days, weeks, months crafting the perfect gift, only for it to be thrown away before his eyes.

A slow, breathy laugh fell from his lips - unsteady, cracked at the edges, but still so devoted.

“Aww, baby,” he whispered, tilting his head, his fingers tracing the side of your wrist, thumb dragging over your rapid, panicked pulse.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His voice was soft, teasing - but his grip on you was tight. The air grew heavier and thicker, the scent of blood still hanging between you like perfume.

You wanted to move.

You wanted to run.

But his fingers curled tighter around your wrist, and those crystal-clear, feverishly bright blue eyes locked onto yours, swimming with something too deep, too raw, too unhinged for you to break away.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

His voice was gentle, cooing, like he was humoring you, like you were simply being shy, overwhelmed, unsure of how to accept such an important gift. His free hand reached out, brushing your trembling hair away from your face, tucking a stray strand behind your ear.

“I mean, I did all this for you,” he murmured, voice feigning innocence, his lips curving into something softer, something that might have been mistaken for genuine hurt if it weren’t for the twisted madness shimmering beneath it.

His fingers slid down, grazing your cheek before resting against your collarbone, pressing - just slightly. Feeling the erratic flutter of your weak little heart, the heart he was so desperate to protect.

The heart that could have failed you at any moment.

The heart that was soon to be replaced.

"I went through so much trouble," he continued, his voice quieter, sadder, fraying at the edges. "Just to make sure you’d be okay, sped up the process even, to make sure we can be together."

A tremor ran through his shoulders, his lips parting like he was about to say something more, but instead, he only let out a soft, shuddering exhale. His princess was rejecting his love.

But he had to be strong.

He had to be brave.

For you.

And so, he forced himself to smile, to press another kiss to your forehead, to whisper sweet nothings into your skin, even as his heart shattered.

"I promise, my love, it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing."

Satoru's soft lips hovered over your ear, his voice a trembling whisper, thick with the kind of love that could ruin a man.

"And when you wake up, you’ll be all better." His fingers trailed over the silk restraints, his touch lingering against your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

Everything was going to be okay.

You were just scared.

You loved him too.

Major heart surgery is a scary thing. You’re just scared.

And if the doctor made a mistake - if you so much as whimpered in pain, if there was a single second where you suffered, where the operation was anything less than perfect -

Well.

There was a reason he had a backup doctor waiting in the next room.

A little extra insurance.

Because nothing could go wrong.

Everything had to be perfect for you. His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him, pressing a lingering, feverish kiss to your trembling lips - a kiss full of devotion, of desperation, of a love so strong it had become a sickness.

His heart raced, his breath shaky, uneven, manic.

And then, in a voice so soft, so full of adoring madness, he whispered against your lips -

"Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart."

As the medication in the IV lulled your eyes to sleep, all you could feel were soft kisses - featherlight, desperate, pressed against your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your lips.

A lover’s touch.

A farewell.

[dissociacrip]

disability and chronic illness and whatnot are really complicated sometimes and can result in a lot of complicated, messy feelings, but the pervasiveness of ableism and the fact being disabled doesn't exempt you from participating in it (yes, including on a violent interpersonal and an also an institutional level, as there are disabled people that work in the very healthcare system that neglects and violates many of us! there are disabled people that work as caregivers who are capable of abusing that power!) makes it important to discern whether you need to be airing out those messy feelings in public vs. working through them on a private level, not just for your own sake

people with terminal cancer, ALS, etc. aren't somehow "luckier" than those with PASC/long covid for having research and awareness and they aren't automatically treated well or taken seriously despite what one might assume

obligate wheelchair-users aren't "lucky" for having no choice but to navigate a world that is built for ambulatory people with a mobility device that is expensive/difficult to acquire, requires routine maintenance, can wind up damaged and destroyed, etc. and bars them off from being able to participate in all the same areas of life as the able-bodied because - again - society is physically constructed with ambulatory people in mind

people with visible disabilities aren't "lucky" for being recognized as having something "wrong" with them by other people (because "visible disability" does not necessarily mean others thinking "oh that person is a real disabled," it's more complex than that)

someone having a very visible aspect of their disability like a limb difference doesn't mean their disability can be reduced to just that limb difference (e.g. there are a lot of ways someone might end up medically needing an amputation, including forms of chronic illness, like diabetes leading to nerve damage, leading to infected wounds that then can't heal properly!)

having assumptions made about your intelligence or "mental age" by strangers based off visible aspects of disability is 100% a form of ableism but there are ways of discussing and addressing this that don't contribute to ableism against people who are genuinely intellectually disabled (some of whom might have the same condition you're talking about!)

autistic people who require caregivers for survival aren't somehow privileged compared to autistic people who can live independently but get burnt out, living independently = not having to worry about getting abused or violated or neglected by people you have no choice but to depend on to feed you, bathe you, attend to medical equipment, clean your living space to prevent bugs or mold, etc.

i also highly doubt sensory disabled people are automatically taken seriously in terms of "oh they're actually disabled" either, even people with total vision or hearing loss, so excluding sensory disabled people from the label of "invisible disability" (in cases where it isn't accompanied by visible disability, like strabismus impacting vision) based on that is purely something out of ignorance

too many people in online disability spaces (physical or psychiatric) actively spit on other highly vulnerable groups of disabled people by saying/doing these things and it needs to end, especially as the overton window continues shifting to the right when it comes to ableism in the western world and elsewhere

and don't sit around waiting to be corrected and instead deliberately expose yourself to the experiences of disabled people whose lives are unlike yours and are continuously shut down in online (and offline) spaces, which is part of the reason these prejudices and misconceptions exist in the first place; if we don't have solidarity, then we have nothing

[rollinouttahere-writes]

Breaking Point Chapter 2

Prev / Next

Whitebeard Pirates x Teen GN Reader

4.9k words

Summary: You awake on an enemy ship after failing to evade them the day before. Your mind is heavy with what is to come, and the actions of the people you know to be your enemies only serves to confuse you further. What have you gotten yourself into?

Warnings: suicidal ideation, mentions of previous suicide attempt, brief descriptions of past child abuse, dehumanization, burns, drugging, being unable to move, unhealthy relationship with food

“S-S-Sir!”

Akainu whipped around to face the marine that dared to intrude upon him. He is able to keep his magma from pouring out, but just barely. “What?! Spit it out! I don't have time to be listening to you trip over your own damn words!”

The pathetic excuse for a marine stumbles back, looking like he's on the verge of pissing himself. Why people like this joined the Marines was beyond Akainu’s understanding. Just as he was considering terminating him permanently, the whelp finally finds his words, “W-We got word that the Whitebeard pirates have picked up the medicine, sir!”

“Have there been any communications from them since the last?”

“No, sir!”

The lack of communication from them was grating on his nerves. He assumed this meant that the original plan was still on, but he would prefer confirmation. He needed to see that you were still alive. Akainu releases a sigh that teeters on being a growl, then waves off the marine, “Understood. Now get out of my sight.”

Fortunately, the marine didn't need to be told twice and promptly made himself scarce. Akainu isn't sure that he would have been able to control his temper if he hadn't left. 

It could not accurately be put into words how much Akainu hated everything about this situation. The fact that a bunch of pirates got their filthy hands on his child was bad enough; that already had his blood boiling. But what was really eating away at him was what he saw in the communication feed that had come through.

Since it was of a visual nature, he could see that this wasn't a bluff. They had you in their custody. There was a horrifying moment in the beginning when he thought they were showing him your corpse. The only reason the Marine base wasn't a molten wasteland was because he saw you blink. From there, he was able to also pick up on the steady rise and fall of your chest as you laid chained to some medical gurney by one of your wrists. Sea stone cuffs, surely. 

The look in your eyes was haunting him. They were completely lifeless. As the pirate, Marco, gave their terms, all you did was stare blankly ahead at nothing. He doubted you were even cognizant of the fact that you were being recorded. 

It was clear to him that those pirates had drugged you. That was the only way to explain why you were just laying there instead of fighting. You had never been the type to give up so easily.

Now it was down to a waiting game. The pirates adamantly refused to hand you over before the medicine was on their ship. He fought hard against these terms, but he ultimately had to yield. They had the more valuable bargaining chip, and they knew it. Sure, it was most convenient to get the medicine in bulk now, but it didn't appear to be particularly urgent. They could find more elsewhere at a later date, but Akainu couldn't do the same. If they killed you, that was it. He was backed into a corner, and he was loathing every second of it. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat comes from behind him. It would have made his temper flare even more had he not recognized it. He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves- as much as they could be- and turns to face the Fleet Admiral properly.

For a moment, Sengoku just stares at him with his usual frown. He then sighs and shakes his head, “Of all the people I expected to make a deal with pirates behind my back, you most certainly didn’t make the list.”

That made Akainu’s eyebrow twitch, and his teeth grind down on the cigar in his mouth, “Do you think I’m happy about this?”

Sengoku was undeterred by his subordinate’s behavior. “I never said you had to be, but accepting those terms on your own was out of line.”

“Time was of the essence, I couldn’t afford to wait for you to get here when my child is actively in a hostage situation.” His temper is already rising despite previous attempts to calm it.

The next sentence out of his superior's mouth only fanned the smoldering flame. “A hostage situation that they got themselves into, need I remind you.”

For a moment, he's too stunned to speak. When he finds his voice, the words are forced out through clenched teeth, “Do you want to run that by me again?”

“I know you aren't stupid, Akainu. You and I both know that (Y/N) was nowhere near where they were supposed to be.”

The vein on his forehead feels like it's about to explode. “What are you implying?”

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you? Are you that blind?” Sengoku pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh, “That kid has never wanted to be a marine. You know that at least, right?”

That did it. A fiery hole was punched into a nearby wall as what was left of his short fuse burnt away to nothing. “Bullshit! (Y/N) has given everything to the Marines!”

“What they've given is irrelevant to the point. It doesn't matter if they give their all to something if they didn't actually want to in the first place.” Sengoku meets Akainu's furious gaze with one of annoyance, “The point is that they did precisely what I expected them to do.”

The anger cools and is replaced by genuine confusion. “What?” Akainu squints his eyes and steps closer, “Did you plan for this to happen?”

“Not exactly. The Whitebeard's were a wildcard, admittedly.” Sengoku walks past Akainu and stares down at the base below through a window, “I'd had hopes for (Y/N) in the beginning, I really had. They were so promising, and I knew that if they would grow into and accept their role as a marine, that they would be an excellent soldier. Possibly even an Admiral some day. But I never saw that acceptance. They were always only ever following orders. A cog placed into a machine.”

A humorless chuckle escapes the Fleet Admiral as he pushes the window open, “Did you honestly think that I was so desperate for information on Red Haired Shanks that I would send a child after him? Please. It was all a test. I wanted to see what would happen when (Y/N) was cut from their lead and without supervision. Just as I predicted, they ran off as soon as they got the opportunity. It's a shame that so many resources were wasted, but it's for the best that they left now rather than sticking around to cause problems later.”

“Now you wait just a damn minute,” Akainu seethed. “Just because that snot-nosed brat of yours went awol doesn't mean that my soldier did. (Y/N) would never go against orders like that. Something went wrong. Shanks must have caught on to the mission, so they pulled back.”

Sengoku’s reflection betrays the slight grimace on his face at the mention of Rosinante, but it's gone just as quickly as it arrived. Instead, it's replaced by a bitter scowl as he turns around to face Akainu directly, “You can't be this deluded. Not even Garp was stupid enough to force his family to become marines. You-” he lets out a hiss of a sigh, “It's like you're forcing a circle through a square shaped hole.”

“What the fuck do shapes have to do with any of this?” This conversation was going nowhere and getting more and more ridiculous by the second. 

“Just because you can force it to fit doesn't mean that's where it belongs. Was (Y/N) a damn good marine? Absolutely. No one will ever argue that, but they weren't meant to be one. The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be.” Sengoku makes for the door, but stops just shy of it. “One last thing. If the deal you have with those pirates falls through and they don't hand (Y/N) over… I will not be permitting any further action against them.”

Everything said so far had been one sucker punch after another, but this took the wind from Akainu. His mouth opened and closed several times before he found the right words, “You want me to leave them to the mercy of a bunch of pirates?”

“Yes. They got themselves into that mess by abandoning their mission, they can get themselves out.” He meets Akainu’s shocked gaze over his shoulder, “I expect you to respect this. You're an Admiral, you have to put your position before your family ties.”

With that said, Sengoku takes his leave. Akainu stands alone in his office, thin wisps of smoke still filtering through the air from the smoldering drywall. 

—

It's the sound of turning pages that first starts to bring you out of your stupor. Bits and pieces of your memories seep into your foggy brain. 

Boats… you were looking at boats, but pirates tailed you after you left. The Whitebeard pirates. You got into a… fight? No, there was a chase, but they caught you. You were brought back to the ship and… Oh. That happened. 

When your eyes crack open, you're staring at the ceiling of an infirmary. You're still on the Moby Dick, so that's almost a plus. Definitely not ideal, but at least you haven't been handed back over to the Marines yet. 

God, your head is spinning. What happened to you? Did they drug you? Damn it, you can’t remember what happened. You try to reach up and rub your eyes, but you can't. Neither of your arms will budge. 

It takes a coordinated effort, but you're able to raise your head enough to see why you can't move your arms. Both of them are strapped to the bars on the sides of the gurney by a series of belts. You can't move them at all. 

You also take note of the picc line in your left arm. That definitely wasn't in there when you passed out. Your eyes trace up to the IV bag hanging above your head. Shit. They're probably keeping you on a steady stream of sedatives. That explains the lack of alarm you're feeling despite your current state of affairs. 

With your sleeve being rolled up for the picc line, one more thing was exposed. A large patch of scar tissue covering most of your forearm. A burn mark to remind you of one of the many times Akainu got too carried away while sparring with you. A plethora of similar scars littered most of your body, leading to you having a wardrobe consisting of shirts and pants that covered as much skin as possible. While many of your fellow marines took pride in showing off their scars, yours had always been a source of shame. Resentment. Hatred. Seeing one now only served to further sour your mood. 

“Oh!” 

The voice startles you out of your trance. When you follow it to its source, you spot a nurse sitting not far from you and holding a newspaper. You can immediately tell what her profession is because she has on the most stereotypical nurse's uniform you've ever seen. It's kind of odd to see such a sight on a pirate ship of all places. 

She gets up from the desk she was sitting at and hurries over to you with a smile plastered on her face, “Oh good, you're finally awake!”

Finally? “How-” You stop speaking and cough. Fuck, your throat is dry. Might be a side effect of the meds they have you on. 

Without even needing to be asked, the nurse fetches you a glass of water. She gently tilts your head up and allows the water to flow into your mouth at a steady pace. You greedily gulp it down in seconds. You watch the nurse closely as you drink, taking in her appearance. If you had to guess, she was in her early thirties. Coarse, blonde hair is held back in a ponytail with a few errant curls framing her round face. 

“Better?” The nurse sets your head back down and turns away from you, “You were out cold all night, we were starting to get worried about you. Well… more worried, I should say.” She coughs lightly and returns to your side with a clipboard in hand. 

“All night? What time is it?” Your voice was still a little croaky, but now you were thinking it had more to do with your brief coma than medication. You’re pretty sure it was only roughly midday when you got captured. You find it hard to believe you slept the rest of the day and through the night, but there isn't really any reason to lie about such a thing. 

“It's about a quarter till seven right now.” 

Damn. That shit really did knock you the hell out. You've always risen at five in the morning on the dot. Akainu would physically throw you out of your bed if you ever accidentally overslept, and then you'd have to run a lap for every minute. 

The nurse sat down on a nearby stool and smiled at you again, “I'm Elise. You'll probably be seeing a lot of me from here on out. Can you tell me your name, sweetie?”

Sweetie? The pet name made you cringe. You suppose you might as well answer her, though you can't imagine there's anyone on this ship that isn't aware of you and who you are. 

You tell her your name, making her hum in approval, “Very good! Now, can you tell me how you're feeling? Any dizziness or nausea? Difficulty breathing?”

“I'm… kinda lightheaded, I guess.” It's debatable if that's a side effect of the medicine or not eating for twelve plus hours, though. It could also be the result of prolonged sea stone exposure. Who knows?

Elise nods along and scribbles some notes down, “Good, good… Are you having any thoughts of harming yourself or others?”

For such a heavy question, she says it awfully casually, but the look in her eyes as she peers at you over the clipboard is anything but. You shift under her gaze. As much as you can, at least. The movement makes you realize that there are straps holding your legs down as well. 

What kind of question even is that? You're on an enemy ship, drugged, and restrained. How else does she expect you to feel right now? Especially with the impending doom of what is to come. 

Her stare doesn't let up for even a second. She isn't willing to let the question go unanswered, so you do what you have to. Lie. 

“No.”

It's evident to you that she knows that you're lying through your teeth. Mercifully, she doesn't call you out on it. After jotting down a few more things on the clipboard, it's discarded, and you're the center of her attention again. 

“I bet you're hungry after sleeping for so long. I'll ring the kitchen to bring something for you.” Elise picks up a transponder snail from nearby, “What do you like to drink in the morning? Coffee? Tea? Oh, I know! How about some hot chocolate?”

The response comes out before you can even really think about it, “I'm not allowed to have that.”

Elise gasps softly and brings a hand to her mouth, “Oh no, are you lactose intolerant? I think the kitchen has some alternatives they could use instead of milk.”

“No, I mean that it's too unhealthy. There aren't any benefits to drinking something like that.” Akainu never gave you the chance to form a sweet tooth. All of your meals were nutritionally dense with an emphasis on protein. Desserts were strictly prohibited.

At that statement, Elise frowns and puts her free hand on her hip, “Well that's just silly. Not everything you eat has to be “healthy”. A balanced diet is important, of course, but you're allowed to have treats.”

“But-”

“Ah, ah! No buts. I'm a nurse, so if I say it's okay, it’s okay.” Having made her point, Elise goes ahead and contacts the kitchen to order some breakfast for you. And a hot chocolate, apparently. 

Stubborn woman. But you suppose one has to have a firm foot and a backbone if they're on a pirate ship. Whatever. Might as well make the most of your last meal before you're sent back to hell. And subsequently executed for your misdeeds. 

The infirmary is empty, save for you and Elise. While you appreciate the privacy the vacancy affords you, it does leave you with a question.

“Where's The Phoenix?” You're honestly amazed he wasn't monitoring you directly given your perceived importance for the trade deal they had. 

Elise, having just finished placing the order for food, faces you again. “Marco? He left to supervise the retrieval of the medicine. A precaution in case the Marines try to pull something, I assume. Did you need something from him? He should be back tonight.”

Damn, they already have it? You thought you'd have more time before then. Your head drops down and your hands tighten into fists, “Oh. I'm guessing they'll be handing me over as soon as they're back…”

Genuine confusion flashes across Elise’s face, then realization, “Oh! No, no, no! We aren't going to be releasing you back to the Marines!”

Okay. You were officially lost. “You're… going to try and get more out of having me as a hostage?”

“That isn't it either!” Elise sighs and rubs her temples while quietly muttering, “Must be that medication's doing…”

“Am I missing something here?”

“Yes. One of the side effects from what we gave you initially is mild memory loss. It makes it hard to recall everything that happened right before the dose.” She approaches your bed and starts messing with the levers, “After your… outburst, Marco told you that you didn't have to go back if you didn't want to. Do you remember any of that?”

You wrack your hazy mind for the memory, but you're coming up blank. The last thing you remember is… a knife? Yeah, you got your hands on a knife and tried to stab yourself with it. Everything else seems to be lost. You aren't even completely sure if you just failed to stab yourself, or if Marco's healing abilities far exceeded Marine records. 

The lack of a response is an answer in and of itself. Elise shifts the upper portion of the bed up so that you're in a sitting position. The change makes your head spin a bit, but you keep that to yourself. 

A warm hand settles on your shoulder, and Elise speaks in a gentle tone, “No one here is going to make you go back to the Marines if you don't want to. You can relax.”

“But… if you're not turning me in, why am I still here? It sounds like you've already got what you wanted. I don't see why you'd be bothering with all this,” you nod vaguely at your body, referencing the straps and IV. 

“We can't in good conscience release someone in your state.” Her smile drops, and she stares down at you with what looks to you to be pity in her eyes, “You tried to end your own life, sweetie. That's something we must take very seriously.”

An uncomfortable lump forms in your throat, and your face feels hot with shame. You hated the way she looked at you just now. Like you were some poor, pathetic thing. Like she was looking down at some helpless rabbit ensnared in a trap. Like you were weak.

“I got this ready as fast as I could!”

You’re startled out of your thoughts by the infirmary door slamming open and the proclamation following immediately after. When you look up, you see Twin Blade Thatch entering the room carrying a tray with a mug and a bowl balanced on it. There is a twinge of familiarity in the back of your mind at the sight of him, and you don’t think it’s from seeing his bounty poster before. Did you see him yesterday? Maybe? You can’t be sure.

Thatch hurries over to you and sets the tray on the bedside table before turning to you with a smile on his face, “How are you feeling today?”

His question prompts you to look down at your restrained limbs and the- more likely than not medicated- drip bag, then back at him with an unamused expression, “Guess.”

The smile becomes visibly forced, sheepish even, and he averts his eyes, “Fair enough. Dumb question.” He clears his throat in a dramatic fashion, then recenters his gaze on you again, “I bet you’re hungry after sleeping for so long.” He picks up the bowl he carried in and tilts it toward you so you can see its contents. It’s a bowl of porridge with sliced fruit and nuts arranged on top in a visually appealing method.

But that’s not what you care about, there is a far more pressing issue at hand. You level him with a stern glare, “You better not be planning to spoon feed me. I will bite you.”

Thatch freezes and just stares at you with wide eyes for a moment, and that immediately makes you realize how stupid that was to say. You can’t even move, and you thought it was a good idea to start threatening people? What is wrong with you?! He could slit your throat right now if he wanted to, and you wouldn’t be able to do a single thing to stop him!

Instead of making your thoughts a reality, the pirate does something that shocks you. He laughs. You don’t know what to do with this. What are you supposed to do about laughter? Why is he even laughing? Did he find the absurdity of you spitting out threats despite your circumstances that funny?

“Oh, that’s a relief. You’ve got a sense of humor even after all that.” Thatch chuckles quietly and sets the bowl down before looking over to Elise, “We could take the straps off for now, couldn’t we?”

Huh?

Elise hums in thought, then nods. “I suppose we could, so long as you stick around for a bit to help keep an eye on them.”

Huh?!

They… They’re untying you? On purpose? This must be a trap. It has to be. They’re testing you. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

Your face is grabbed, and Elise makes you look her in the eye. “Do not,” she tilts your head down to look at the picc line, “try to rip this out. Understood?”

“Understood.” You knew better than to do such a thing. That’s a mistake you only make once.

After a particularly brutal training session with your father, you’d ended up in the infirmary. A regular occurrence, if you’re being honest. By the time you’d come to, the sight of the sun being high in the sky sent you into a panic. You were late, and Akainu loathed tardiness. In your rush to get out of there and beg for mercy for such a monumental fuck up on your end, you ripped the picc line out of your arm. Blood went fucking everywhere. On you, on the cot, on the walls. One of the nurses in the room fainted at the sight, followed shortly by yourself because all of your blood was now outside your body. You were out of commission for the rest of the day, and Akainu made certain that you made up for it the following day.

With your confirmation that you wouldn’t egregiously injure yourself, the two set to work on undoing the belts holding you down. Elise was making quick work of them, but Thatch abruptly stopped. You glance at him quizzically, wondering what the hold up was, only to see that his eyes are locked onto the opposing arm. You follow his gaze, and then you get it.

It was the burn scar marring most of your left forearm. Ah. This bizarre situation had distracted you from the fact that it was exposed. You can’t even cover it up because that’s the arm the IV is going into. Not that your other arm is much better. Or any part of your body, really. The skin of your face was the most intact, presumably because Akainu didn’t want to risk giving you the permanent handicap that came with losing vision in one or both eyes.

Elise loudly clears her throat and levels the pirate with a glare that honestly surprised you. How fearless she must be to behave in such a manner toward someone with a bounty like Thatch’s. This tactic, credit where it’s due, was effective. He snapped out of his one-sided staring competition with your arm and freed the other one.

Cautiously, you stretch your arms out now that they’ve been liberated from their confines. Mostly. The left arm stops short. You’d almost forgotten about the sea stone cuffs. It makes sense that they left that on, given that you’re a quite literal flight risk otherwise.

The tray containing your breakfast is carefully placed on your lap. The aforementioned bowl of porridge is on it, but so is a large mug that appears to be topped with a whipped cream. Is this the hot chocolate Elise had insisted upon? Your eyes flit up to the two people looming over either side of you. They’re staring at you expectantly.

All things considered, it seems unlikely that any of this is poisoned. They wanted you alive, that much was clear even if the particular reason behind it wasn’t. Besides, even if it was poisoned, you wouldn’t complain. Being freed from this mortal coil would be a blessing in your book.

Might as well do what they want. Maybe it’ll get them to stop breathing down your neck, if nothing else. You reach for the hot beverage first to see what all the hype is about. The mug is warm to the touch, but not so enough to burn you. Granted, that could just be the nerve damage talking. You’ll find out if that’s an accurate assessment based on whether or not this burns your tongue.

You bring the drink to your lips and sip at it. The cream is cold, but then a warmth trickles through and mixes with it. It’s very sweet. A stark contrast to the black coffee your father would drink and force upon you. The radically different flavor profile is borderline startling… but you don’t hate it. You quite like it.

Instead of savoring the hot chocolate and making it last, you continue tilting it up more and more until the cup runs dry. Okay. Perhaps Elise was onto something with allowing oneself treats such as this one.

“So it was a hit, huh?” Thatch is grinning proudly, “I made sure it would be the best you would ever have after Elise said you’d never had it before. Do you want some more?”

Mild embarrassment spreads into your consciousness at his observation of your enjoyment. This was a quirk of yours you never could really explain. Others seeing you experience contentment felt inexplicably wrong. Like you were doing something you shouldn’t be and being caught red-handed. You shake your head and set down the mug, “No. I’m good.” You promptly take the spoon on the tray into your hand and scoop up a mouthful of oatmeal in hopes of getting him to drop the subject.

The flavors of honey and cinnamon enhance the meal, making it taste far more pleasant than you’re used to. It’s all so good. You can’t stop eating it, and the porridge is gone almost as quickly as the hot chocolate was.

That familiar burn of shame reared its ugly head again. It would be bad enough to be so over indulgent at the best of times. What the hell were you doing doing so on an enemy ship? How disgraceful. 

“Good job! I’m so happy that you were able to finish it all,” Elise claps her hands together, looking weirdly elated over you eating. It’s unclear as to why that would matter to her. She continues, “Since you’re doing so well, how about we take you onto the deck for some fresh air and sunlight?”

“The deck? Like… of the ship?”

“Yeah? What else would it be, silly?” Elise moves behind the bed, clicks something, then begins to push it forward.

She’s trying to take you someplace where there will no doubt be a bunch of pirates. Some of which you may have even crossed paths with before. And you’re completely defensive. You look around at her and plead, “W-We don’t have to do that. I’m fine with staying in here.”

“Oh, hush. This’ll be good for you!” Undeterred, Elise proceeds to wheel you out of the infirmary with Thatch holding the door open.

Good for you? She’s trying to throw you into a den of wolves, and somehow thinks that’s going to be good for you? This was a set-up the whole time. They lowered your guard with a good meal just so they could rip the rug out from under you. Now you’re going to have to face the bulk of the Whitebeard pirates in your current hapless state.

All you can do is hope that pirates of all people will have the good grace to put you out of your mercy quickly.

Taglist: @twotrucksinatree @tigerstarstorm @mu5hro0m @brooks-real @one-piecelover

[eevees-hobbies]

My Boyfriend Works at a Butler Cafe - NSFW

Author’s Note: This is in response to the maid cafe requests I’ve gotten. While I don’t think I can add to the body of work that other content creators have already contributed to the fandom, I am dropping this at your feet. It may or may not be inspired by my trip to the Butler Cafe at Anime Expo, hehe.

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Multiple Characters (Mostly separate). Contains Fluff and Smut (Smut indicated by “after hours” text). P in V. Use of pet names like pretty girl, Daddy, possessiveness in Sakura’s, sex in public, cunnilingus, sharing, mention of a handjob, reserve cowgirl. Tis smut!

Synopsis: Picture a scenario in which Umemiya is concerned about the welfare and sustainability of some of the shops in Makochi, primarily because many of the shops are owned and kept up by some of the more elderly inhabitants. Some stores are dilapidated and at risk of shuttering their doors, which Umemiya sees as a significant loss to the community. After brainstorming potential ways to earn some donations, he has a brilliant idea! It’s a concept that has almost every Bofurin alumni grinding their teeth and shaking their heads in protest. Welcome to the Butler Cafe!

Word Count: 3.2K

Cottage dividers by Saradika. Story and character banners by me.

“I’m so happy to see you, baby!”

If he weren’t volunteering his time to work in the cafe, he would be terminated immediately. As soon as he sees you walk through the door, he shouts your name from across the dining room and beelines straight to you, arms open and with a broad smile on his face. 

The customers he was just serving? Ignored.

He’ll make sure to sit you in his section and pull up a chair to chat with you, which is a significant annoyance to management as Umemiya is a big draw to the cafe. His admirers line up at least an hour before the restaurant opens to see the cutie with the toned biceps serving them strawberry crepes.

Regardless, I hope you’re comfortable with your lover staring into the depths of your eyes—and soul—as you recount your day. 

He’s so incomprehensibly smitten with you that the only thing that he’ll allow to interrupt your verbal reverie is him spoon-feeding you a piece of cake. 

“I’m so glad you came to visit me today! Wait, what do you mean you’re genuinely here to eat lunch?”

Grade: C+

After Hours

“Let me have some of you before my shift, sweetheart. I need you.”

“D-don’t worry about those…let them fall.” Paperwork, pens, and even a stapler aren’t safe from the laws of gravity as Umemiya picks you up and pushes you onto the desk in the back office. He only has so much time before opening the Butler Cafe doors, and he needs to fill your womb to ensure himself a good shift.

Could you imagine a sex-famished Umemiya? It’s a terrifying thought!

You kiss each other hungrily, tongues meeting outside your mouths before you can press your lips together. Your hands are already fussing with his uniform, particularly where his toned chest strains the buttons of his ironed coat.

“If I’m not inside you right now, baby girl-” His sentence is cut off as his mouth latches to the sensitive skin on your throat, suckling and nipping until the spot begins to sting. But if it hurts, you aren’t showing it as your eyes roll back into your skull. 

He’s pressing his body into yours as though he’s attempting to collapse into you. His hands desperately tug at the fabric that covers up his favorite parts of you–your breasts, your stomach, and most importantly, the sweet treat you have between slick-stained thighs.

“Ume, this has to be a quickie!” 

You can feel him grumble against your skin, lips trained into a pout as he grapples with your words, but he knows you’re right. He shifts the seat of your panties to the side and sinks into you, inch by agonizing thick inch. 

And you thought you were ready. You thought the way your cunt was drooling for him just by seeing him in his uniform would mean you were fully prepared to take his girth, but the sheer thickness still has you gasping and gripping his shoulders.

“Shhh, you can take it, pretty girl. You always take me so well. I got ya’”

As he’s pushing into you, his words slur, drunk off your pussy, head swimming with love, lust, and adoration for his sweet girl. There’s no time for preparation; his shift starts soon, and weren’t you just rushing him, anyway?

But for all the stretching you must endure from taking him, Umemiya is still nothing but gentle.

“God, you’re perfect.” His fingers stroke your cheek, and you melt into the familiarity of his soothing touch. “Keep your eyes open for me ok, love? You close them, and we start over.”

Once you collect yourself, walls finally fitting snugly around him like a glove, you bat your eyelashes innocently, brushing your lips against his thumb before sliding it into your mouth. You don’t break eye contact with him as you flirt your tongue against the underside of his thumb, pretending as though you’re sucking on something much bigger and thicker—that of which is already inside of you.

For a brief instant, you see something flash in Umemiya’s eyes, something that you feel sink into your spine and crawl its way up each individual vertebrae with sharpened claws, something that would threaten your health and ability to walk if you were home instead of at the butler cafe. But he begrudgingly sets his desire to defile you to the side and removes his thumb from your mouth, hand moving down and using that same digit to rub at your clit.

“I love it when you help Daddy out like this. Suuuuuuch a good girl.”

The way the desk bangs against the wall and drags across the linoleum floor as he drives his thick cock into your sopping-wet mess makes you consider that you two might be found out before your quickie can conclude. 

Grade: A+

“Stop staring at me like that, and hurry up and order!”

“Ugh!”

Death has never been more welcome as soon as Sakura dons the butler uniform. Even worse is when he peers into the dining room and sees you. 

Why would you do this to him? Why would you show up here? Don’t you have any pity for him, or is this all some sick, twisted fantasy for you? 

He’s spiraling!

Staff must physically grab him and force him onto the cafe floor. 

He’ll approach you, grumbling, and every bit of him the reddest he’s ever been—and is that steam pouring from his ears?

As he mumbles out the delicacy of the day, you have to lean in just to hear what he’s saying.

“S-stop pretending you can’t hear me!”

But best believe that when he sees another butler giving you too much attention for his liking, he’s stepping in and taking care of all his girl's orders.

“Hey, she’s mine.”

“Y-you mean the table, right?”

“She’s mine.”

Oof, he said what he said!

And if Umemiya is popular with the younger crowd, Sakura, to his disdain, is popular with the older ladies. They don’t think he’s particularly cute or lovely to look at; they just enjoy a visit from this loud-mouthed kid telling them to hurry up and order.

They think he’s a hoot and taking method-acting to the extreme.

Aren’t the tsundere types so cute? 

He’s honestly a really bad butler. His inability to be friendly to the customers—except you—and attempts to always switch his shift with someone else does not go unnoticed by management.

Grade: F -

After Hours 

“I kinda like fucking you at work.”

As you gazed down at your plate, an unfinished parfait staring back at you, a simple sentence was all you needed to gulp the rest of the dessert down and follow your butler outside.

“Gonna be good for me and finish that so I can finish you, yeah?”

Um, fuck yeah!

“S-sakura, don’t you have to clock back in?” You mumble into his ear; you know you sound like an absolute mess, your breathing rapid and uneven, with small moans erupting from your throat.

“Fuck this job.” He has your hands pinned above your head; your legs are wrapped around his waist as he fucks you against the alley wall behind the cafe. “I’m exactly where I should be.”

His thrusts forward are hard and urgent, but the retraction of his dick is slow, drawing out the feeling of your satin walls grazing every inch of him. Your slick is staining his bicolored pubic hair as he grinds into you. His fingers dig into your wrists, seemingly in rhythm with each snap of his hips. 

“G-god, Sakura! Maybe I should make you dress up like a butler more often?” 

“P-pervert, you’d like that, huh? You want me to dress up as your fantasy and fuck you in costume?”

He nestles his face into your neck. You sound so good for him, and how could he resist the urge to take you outside and fuck you right here and now with how pretty you look?

You’re intoxicating, you’re perfect, you’re about to make him fucking cum, fuck! He considers pulling out, letting you finish him off with your hand or that cute mouth of yours, but you grip your legs around him in a vice grip.

“H-haru, stay inside, please?”

Oh, god, how could he say no to that? To you? He smashes his lips against yours, moaning loudly in your mouth as his cock twitches, spurts then fountains of his love and devotion for you filling you up to the brim.

His shift at the butler cafe is the last thing on his mind as he wraps his arms around your waist, peppering kisses against your lips and cheeks.

Grade: A+++++++++++++++++++++++

“Hey, you came just to see me, sweet girl? Aw, I’m so lucky.”

Although he technically didn’t have to attend this fundraiser, given his relationship with Bofurin and Makochi, he thought it was a good idea to show up ready to work.

Togame quickly becomes a shift manager. He’s reliable, a natural leader, and every client likes talking to him and even though he doesn’t walk with a sense of urgency, they don’t mind!

When Togame sees you enter the cafe, he’ll shoot you a lazy grin—the kind that makes your heart skip a beat and forces you to long for him even when he’s right there in front of you.

During his lunch breaks, he’ll take you out on the private patio he reserved just for you two and have the butler on duty bring out all the cafe items he knows you’ll like. 

As you speak and enjoy your time together, he’ll grab your hand in his, rough fingers drawing smooth circles around your knuckles, deep-green eyes trained on yours, and occasionally flickering down to look at your lips.

Of course, you want to kiss him, but he’s at work!

Knowing precisely how you are, Togame makes the first move, leaning over and capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft, unabashedly intimate, and that of which touches the furthest and most difficult-to-reach edges of your very soul. He’s breathing life into you, and before you know it, he’s pulling away, smirking, daring you to be the aggressor, and daring you to follow him. And you are, and you do.

Grade: A

After Hours 

“Gonna make you cum before my shift, beautiful. How does that sound? Look at me when I ask you a question.”

Your trembling hand shoots out to grasp the ledge of a nearby shelf in the cafe’s backroom. Togame has your legs draped over his muscular and broad shoulders with your back against the wall in the back office.

Togame loves using your thighs as earmuffs. The harder you squeeze, the more he can tell how good of a job he’s doing. When you squeeze and tremble because he’s sucking on your labia, taking each one into his mouth, sucking, biting, he knows that he’s doing exactly what he needs to get you to absolute euphoria.

“Jo,” you hiss through parted, glossed lips, “They’ll be able to hear us!”

“No, they’ll be able to hear you.”

And he’s right. He snuck you into the back prior to his shift so that he could devour you as though you didn’t pack him a bento box. 

But he’s doing such a good job, licking at your clit until you feel a dull throbbing sensation, making out with your pretty pussy until thick cream coats his lips, and leaving a reflective sheen on his cheeks. 

Unfortunately, the diners aren’t too far away, and you don’t want them to hear every sound Togame is pulling out of you.

And as though he’s intentionally trying to make you louder, he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, no longer teasing the nub but making deliberate infinity shapes that make her twitch.

“I’ll stop when you cum in my mouth, baby.”

He wants you to cum? Might as well take him up on the offer. 

You grab loose fistfuls of his hair and start grinding on his face, allowing his nose to rub against your clit as he offers your pretty hole free use of his tongue.

“That’s my girl. You’re such a good listener.”

“Jo, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Grade: A+

“I’m at your beck and call. Whatever you need is yours.”

To no surprise to anyone, Suo is poised and proper enough to make the butler gig look easy. He knows how to carry the trays without spilling a single crumb of food, he knows where to put the silverware when placing them on the table, and he’s certainly never stressed out during a midday rush.

However, his faults lie with you.

When Suo sees you enter the cafe, he becomes apathetic to the other patrons. He still serves them, yes, but his thoughts are obviously elsewhere. His eyes hardly leave you, watching as you bring a fork up to your mouth and it pushes past your plump lips. 

Your tongue darting out to lick the whipped cream from the corner of your mouth has his eyes widening ever so slightly, and the tea kettle he’s pouring tea from shaking just a bit. 

And when he’s able to serve you? He’s never been happier. Sure, you may not have asked for that extra piece of pie, but you’re absolutely going to get it. Can’t possibly drink any more tea? Nonsense. He’s topping you off again.

Anything for you.

Always.

And forever.

Grade: B

After Hours

"Pretty girl needs to cum at least one more time for us. I need you to cum in my friend's mouth before I touch you."

Your pleasure is Suo’s pleasure, so be a good girl and spread your legs for his friends, mkay? Suo’s tongue slides into your mouth as his fingers brush against the strands of your hair that have managed to fall into your face. 

He can’t help but admire you, your beauty, and your fucked out expression as your mouth opens and closes, waves and waves of pleasure rocking you to your core. 

His beautiful girl.

The cafe's shades are drawn closed, and the interior of the restaurant is only illuminated by dim amber lamp lights placed sporadically throughout the medium-sized room. 

Suo cups your chin, his mouth only leaving yours as he tilts your face forward, “Tell Sakura how much you like when he sucks on your clit.”

Sakura grunts from between your thighs. He’s on all fours, face so flush against your cunt that there’s surely no room for him to breathe. But if that’s the case, he isn’t indicating that oxygen is a necessity as he’s dragging his tongue, flattened and broad, against your swollen clit in long licks. 

“That feels really good, Sakura. You’re doing such a great job.” You pause, but Suo’s quick, heated glance in your direction wills you to continue. “You’re doing a great job, and I like when you suck on my clit”

“Good girl. It’s important to thank your butlers. Now be sure to thank Umemiya, too.”

You turn your head to the side, gazing up at Umemiya, who is pulling up his undershirt in clenched fists, exposing his toned stomach and chest, and his pants hanging loosely around his thighs. His pectorals have been a rosy pink all night, the persistent blush only spreading as he lays witness to you and what you’re capable of.

Your hand is wrapped around his cock, fingertips unable to touch each other from the sheer circumference of him, but dammit you’re trying. “Thank you, Umemiya, for letting me jerk you off.”

Suo lets out a quiet hiss, pleased with your obedience. He grips you by the cheeks and leans down, his lips so close to yours, his eye peering into your soul.

“Who do you think should go first? Which butler would you like to request, love?”

You’d smirk if his hand wasn’t forcing your lips into a pout, but your eyebrow twitches, and you get that familiar glint in your eye that Suo loves so much.

“I don’t think anyone has to take turns. Everyone pick a hole.” 

Grade: A+

“P-please tell me how I can help you?”

When you see Nirei in his butler outfit, you swoon. How could someone so innocent and cute look like that? And while he blushes and stutters when taking your order, he’s probably the most impressive butler in the cafe.

He knows the menu like the back of his hand, is always on time, and is willing to stay late if need be.

Unlike the other participants on this list, your presence isn’t enough to shake Nirei, and admittedly, that might hurt a bit, right? In actuality, Nirei does so well because of you.

He knows you’re watching, so he’s careful with every movement and every word he says. He so desperately wants to impress you. So you might not always see it, but he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye, hoping you saw him interact with a client with perfect protocol. 

As you have lunch with your friends and your eyes meet, he’ll shoot you a little wave as he turns his attention back to a customer. Your friends will giggle because how did YOU trap someone so cute, sweet, and innocent?

And you’ll take offense to that because 1) you aren’t a predator who hunts cute little animals–-Bambi is most certainly safe when you’re around and 2) Nirei is anything but innocent.  

Grade: A+

After Hours:

"O-oh god! You’re amazing, so beautiful, please don’t stop! I-I’m gonna..!"

With shaky hands, Nirei hangs onto the plush of your ass–and on for dear life–as you ride him in reverse cowgirl position on the floor of the Butler Cafe. 

“O-oh, my god…” He musters the strength to bring his head up to look at you expertly bouncing on his dick, swallowing him whole like you were made for this.

He doesn’t think he’s going to make it.

“Y/N! P-please slow down!”

You let out a breathless giggle, your nails digging into his thighs for leverage as you sit up straight and roll your hips. “You did so well serving me today, Nirei! I’m just rewarding my butler.”

God and he’d serve you for a lifetime if it meant experiencing this.

“D-do you know what I’m doing right now, baby?”

He lets out a grunt, the only sound he can manage, as the muscles in his calves tighten to the point of almost cramping.

Fuck, why are you so good at this?

You swivel your hips to the left, right, up and down, dragging the head of his cock against your g-spot. “I’m spelling your name.”

S-spelling his-

Oh, fuck.

Nirei bites his lip, eyes rolling into the back of his head as something so inevitable, so ridiculously powerful, hits him like a freight train. A cross between a whimper-whine escapes from parted lips, and it catches you off guard because, if anything, his moan is a clear indication of how much he desires you and how much he’s always wanted you. 

You consider stopping, the rolling of your hips slowing, but the feeling of immense pressure makes you moan. The licking of your lips replaces the cocky grin on your face as you throw your head back.

Because, god, there’s just so much of it! 

You look between your legs as his cum drips from your cunt and onto the cafe floor. His balls still clenching and unclenching as he continues to pour into you. 

“Nirei, there’s so much!”

“Mmmm, h-happy to give you some more?”

Grade: A+

Special thanks to @suosgirl and @hayatoseyepatch for your ideas/contributions. 

[schoolhater]

an urgent message from my friend siraj abudayeh (vetted):

I was asleep. I woke up a little while ago because we were drowned in the rainwater. We are now drowning. Do you know what we are drowning in? We have been submerged in rainwater, and the cold is crushing our bodies. A severe cold that hits the bones. We cannot bear it, so how about the children?

it is now the end of the year and for that entire time, gaza has been under siege. this is now the second winter that gazans have had to struggle to keep their families alive as disease, famine, and flooding all get worse.

siraj is a journalist, former charity worker, father of three, and primary breadwinner for 24 people, including 10 children. he lost $27,000 USD when gofundme unfairly terminated his fundraiser a month ago and has been unable to feed or house his family since.

please visit the above links for more context on his situation. on top of the loss of all his savings, he has to suffer daily indignities like flooding in his tent, watching his children suffer in the cold, and being unable to change these things on his own.

[bet-on-me-13]

What Happened to GIW Site-13

So! One day, in the middle of a random field in Illinois, there is a Spacial Anomaly that is picked up by the Watchtower's Sensors.

They send a team to investigate, and find a strange facility having suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The Terrain around the Facility seems displaced, like it was dragged along by whatever dropped the Facility there, but the Flora around the Facility matched its surroundings so it couldn't have come from too far away? Where did it come from?

The Justice League doesn't pay too much mind to it at first, busy dealing with their usual mess of problems to do more than contact the local government and send a few Heroes to help with the investigation. It didn't seem to be an active threat at the moment, so sending a few superpowered Heroes are a precaution was seen as a good enough response for the time.

When the first Expedition Team went missing, they took a bigger interest.

They made contact with the Agency that was leading the investigation, a smaller agency known as the GIW that was focused on studying Supernatural Anomalies. They usually wouldn't have been the first choice, given their niche focus, but this was a special circumstance.

The Facility that had been discovered both markings stating that it was "GIW Research Site 13", however the Records they had stated that this Facility was never actually built. There were Plans to build it, but the Agency was hit with Budget Cuts after they failed to provide adequate evidence of the Supernatural, and it was scrapped. They had no explanation for how a Facility that never existed suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

They decided to send in another Team as Investigation and Rescue, this time equipped with the latest technology they GIW had developed called "Ecto-Tech", as well as a Magic User from Justice League Dark for insurance. They managed to maintain Video Contact with the Team thanks to the Ecto-Tech Cameras they had, and what they saw did not sit right with any of them.

The entire Facility was built like a Prison.

Prison Cells, or to be more accurate, Cages, lined the Walls of the section they had entered. Evidence of previous inhabitants Littered the Cells, scratches on the metal and green glowing blood staining the floors were just some of the things they found in those Cages. One of the Technicians on the Team identified the Cages as having been built with Ecto-Tech, despite the fact that the Ecto-Tech they had spent years developing was nowhere near as advanced as this.

As they continued they found Walls covered in more Glowing Green Blood, spelling out haunting messages. "They never wanted to Investigate", "Guys In White", and the most common "What F̷E̴N̸T̴O̸N̷ happened to Site 13"

Delving deeper into the Facility, they eventually found a working Computer Terminal and downloaded as much information as they could, sending it back up to the surface wirelessly, before turning around to begin searching for the other Expedition Team. But when they tried to follow they path back to their starting location, they found that it had changed. The Hallways they had just passed were missing, there were new branches in the path that never existed, and their equipment suddenly told them that they halls they were standing in didn't exist according to the Blueprints they had.

The Camera's didn't last long after that, and the last images sent through the feed were of a glowing green figure slowly approaching the Team from down a dark hallway. It seemed to be dripping with blood. Non-Green Blood.

Of course some of the League wanted to immediately rush in to save them, but it would be too dangerous without knowing more about the situation. They looked at the files they had received from the Team before they disappeared.

From there, they formed a timeline of events.

It seemed that the Facility came from an Alternate History, or another Dimension, similar to their own but with a few changes.

By all accounts it seemed like the timeline of its Original Dimension followed their very closely, until one day in the 80's when the first major discrepancy appeared. On Febuary 12th, 1989 that Universes version of the GIW reported "A True Emergence of multiple Ectoplasmic Entities reported in Amity Park, Illinois, 2:31 PM".

Apparently in that universe, the GIW had been successful in locating evidence of the Supernatural. It seemed like this event allowed them to avoid the budget cuts they had experienced in their own Universe, which was the first major change from their own Timeline. Without the Budget Cut, the GIW managed to build their Facility near where they first spotted the Entity, and from there the timeline continued to diverge.

In that same small town, multiple more sightings of Ectoplasmic Entities were reported, all witnessed to be attacking the civilian population using their abilities. It was also reported that a single Ectoplasmic Entity, thereafter known as "Designation Phantom", was defending the civilain population for unknown reasons.

Eventually the source of these Sightings was tracked down to a pair of Scientists living in Amity Park, who were decades ahead in terms of the study of Ectoplasm and Ecto-Tech, who had managed to open a Portal into another Dimension they called the "Ghost Zone". The GIW Approached them for their research, and eventually hired them on as Scientists. Their names were Dr's Jack and Madeline Fenton.

A quick investigation revealed that Jack Fenton and Maddie Walker did exist in their universe, but Jack Fenton went into Mechanical Engineering while Maddie Walker went into Theoritical Physics. They had never met in the current universe.

According to the Doctors, Ectoplasmic Entities lack the ability to have Sentience, and held a malicious rage to all living beings. They stated that "Ghosts" were simply imprinted memories on Ectoplasm that acted as if it was a thinking entity, and that "Ghosts" should be eradicated at all costs.

Unfortunately, the GIW believed them to be Geniuses ahead of their time and accepted every word that came out of their mouths as absolute fact. Any researchers that protested their claims were quickly fired as to not upset their new Golden geese, and the GIW began to follow their new Mission of eradicating all "Ghosts".

From there was a series of files detailing multiple raids into the Ghost Zone, the capture and detainment of hundreds of Ghosts and "Ecto-Infected Humans", and the gruesomely detailed Experimentation logs of the Dr's Fenton as they studied their Captured specimens.

Many of the people being debriefed later on had to leave the room when they got to that point.

It seemed like the Dr's Fenton were the most proud of the Noteworthy Specimens they had managed to capture and dissect, those which evidence showed were much older and more powerful than the typical ghosts rhey captured. These were collectively designated as the "Ancients" by the Logs.

A Yeti-Entity with Ice Powers. A Shadow-Like Humanoid with Phobokinesis. A Female Humanoid with Draconification abilities. A Four Armed Female Humanoid with Extreme Strength. A Strange Entity with Chronokineses.

But what they were most proud of was one of the first Ghosts ever reported. Designation Phantom.

They particular File was completely corrupted beyond saving, but from the notes surrounding it, it had been a very exciting time for the Doctors.

But now, better informed on the situation and what they may encounter, the Justice League decided on a new plan of action. They still didn't know how the Facility had been ripped out of its Original Universe and into theirs, but for now their objective was simply a rescue mission for both expedition teams while Justice League Dark worked with the GIW on countermeasure for Ghosts. From the Files their Universes GIW had on Ghosts, they were certainly still dangerous, and allowing them to escape the facility would be a problem. So they needed containment measures.

The Justice League prepared for their Rescue Operation, unknowing of the eyes watching their every move.

He had dragged that accursed Facility into this world in an attempt to get help, and now all he could hope for was that this version of the Justice League would act better than their own. And if they didn't, he could always try a different universe.

All would be as it should be. Eventually.

[chocodile]

Worldbuilding time! Let's talk about vehicular travel in modern day Amaranthine, using the snowmobiles from this recent comic as a jumping off point.

"Prowler" - Ironfrost patrol snowmobile - (year of manufacture: 1912)

These half-track all terrain vehicles are used by Ironfrost soldiers to travel long distances over the tundra. Originally adapted from older, four-wheeled automobiles, the half-track Prowler design became increasingly standardized over the years as eternal winter continued to creep southward. They are capable of operating in a wide variety of terrain conditions and are fairly modular. Common mods include removable skis, hardtop and softtop roofs, gun mounts, and towing attachments.

Like all vehicles, Prowlers are steam-powered. The external combustion engine runs on kerosene. In snowy conditions, feedwater can be obtained automatically through a scraper port on the underside of the vehicle, though manual feeding is required in muddy or dry conditions.

Though not as fast, reliable, or efficient as trains, their agile nature have made them an essential part of life in the far north… and, increasingly, in the middle country as well. The Rising Dawn have stolen several Prowlers for their own usage.

"Aspire" - Classic automobile (year of manufacture: 1890)

Four-wheeled vehicles are an unusual sight in the modern day. Ironfrost-made cars were in vogue among the southern rim upper class for many years, but the worsening climate has made them more and more niche as road conditions outside of major cities deteriorate. The majority of higher horsepower automobiles were converted directly into half tracks, while older, lower-end vehicles were generally scrapped for parts.

The Aspire was the last four-wheeled vehicle widely available to the public. Advertised as a stylish, powerful, modern vehicle for the elite on the go, it boasted a sleek, classy aesthetic, a removable softtop roof, and a powerful steam engine with a large kerosene tank suitable for travel between cities. Preorders were advertised to southern rim wealthy in local papers. However, a series of unusually bad winters soon after its debut scared off buyers, shutting down production early and ultimately spelling doom for the entire four-wheeled automobile industry.

One of those Aspire preorders went to Baroness Jocosa North. Though she has since passed away, her son, Theopolis North, still maintains the now wildly impractical car in near mint condition. It is almost never seen outside of its garage.

"'Icebreaker' Class E 250" - Northern cross-country train (year of manufacture: 1903)

The majority of modern-day overland travel is accomplished via train. Massive long-distance rail lines, laid before the world became quite so cold, connect the remaining cities, allowing (relatively) safe travel and trade across vast expanses of tundra.

Southerly locomotives typically operate with only a basic wedge plow attachment. However, trains that run further north must be fitted with gigantic rotary snowplows. These complex machines require significant maintenance. Though they can and will chew up most things that get in the train's way, encounters with particularly large and bony beasts have been known to jam them.

Ironfrost's line terminates in a massive, sprawling rail yard where Icebreakers are fitted and maintained. Those who have visited it tell of a dark, dreary wasteland of twisted scrap metal and ice where coal dust and smoke have turned both the sky and ground black. All northern trains must pass through that place eventually.

"Chariot of the Dawn" - One-of-a-kind luxury automobile (year of manufacture: 1920)

The only place where four-wheeled automobiles still thrive is the City of the Sun. The eternal summers and paved roads are well-suited to cars and trolleys, though they are, of course, still something of a luxury good. Licenses for ownership and operation are ultimately controlled by the church, with His Radiance having the final say. (His most devout followers, of course, tend to get preferential treatment here.)

The City of the Sun manufactures its own vehicles, adapted from Ironfrost designs in a sort of divergent evolution. Freed from the road and weather concerns of the outside world, their automobiles favor sleek, swoopy body shapes, ornamental trim, low-slung bodies with limited ground clearance, and pastel paintjobs. Additionally, the engines are far less powerful and far more finicky, requiring regular maintenance.

His Radiance himself owns several custom automobiles, all of which are egregiously bedazzled to a degree that would look grotesque to anyone who wasn't used to it. Some are open-top, allowing his loyal followers an audience with his beautiful face and glittering halo, while others feature tinted windows. You know, in case he wants subtlety.

[aftertheleaving]

Not A Threat II

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

Genre: Action, Humor, Slow Burn, Tech/Engineering AU(?)

Warnings: Mild swearing, canon-level violence, light injury mentions (Jason’s bleeding, etc), Batfamily banter

Word Count: 880

Notes: if you can’t tell, i suck at labeling, so if this is mislabelled, i’m sorry. yell at me nicely and i’ll fix it.

1, 2, 3

You did not think he would actually use it.

The baton was half-finished. Okay, no. It was completely finished, but still—it was a dumb little sketch you made during your lunch break, just to prove a point. You hadn’t even meant to build it, and yet, three sleepless nights and one burnt thumb later, you handed it to him in a literal box with the words “Not A Bomb” written across the lid in Sharpie.

The only warning you gave was:

"Just don’t press the orange toggle until it’s fully powered. I haven't tested the kickback. It might kill you. Or launch you. Both?"

He took it without a word.

Just looked at it. And you.

Then walked away.

So you assumed that was that.

Until two nights later, you're scrolling on your phone during your subway ride home—and your entire feed is blowing up.

Masked vigilante stops traffickers using unknown high-voltage device. No comment from GCPD. Gotham’s Robin seen wielding unfamiliar weaponry—

You slam your phone shut.

No. No no no.

He used it?

---

Meanwhile...

In the middle of a half-lit Gotham bar, Red Hood is bleeding on a stool, holding a cracked helmet under one arm and pointing at Robin’s weapon like it just personally insulted him.

“I’m sorry. What the hell is that?”

Robin doesn’t even look up. “A baton.”

“No shit, it’s a baton—where’d you get it?”

“I built it.”

Jason barks a laugh. “Oh sure, and I made mine out of recycled coffee machines. Try again, demon spawn.”

Tim peers closer. “That’s not from R&D.”

Dick raises a brow. “Did B sign off on new field gear?”

“No,” Damian says, with the calm of a bomb ticking down. “And he doesn’t need to know.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “So you’re saying you showed up with some mystery stick that has better conductivity than half of our armory and just—what? Found it in a dumpster?”

Damian exhales, quiet. Then, with a glare: “I got it from someone. And it works.”

“Wait,” Tim blinks. “Is it from your intern?”

Silence.

Jason practically wheezes. “Oh my god.”

Dick laughs. “Ohhhh, you’re so dead.”

---

He waits until patrol ends.

Stands on a rooftop. Wind snapping against his cape.

Then dials a number he was never supposed to have.

You pick up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

He pauses.

"...It's me."

You squint. "Me who."

"...Damian."

You almost drop your phone. "WHAT— how did you get my number?! Wait—no, never mind, you probably hacked HR, didn’t you—"

“Not important.”

“That’s absolutely important!”

“I’m calling,” he says over you, “because I need to inform you that you’re being terminated from your internship at WayneTech.”

You stop dead.

“What.”

“I’m serious.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. “Oh my god—no, no, I didn’t mean to break policy—I didn’t sell anything—I just thought it was cool and—”

“You’re not being terminated for misconduct.”

You blink. “Then what the hell for?!”

“Because you’ve been promoted.”

A beat.

“What?”

“To Special R&D,” he says. “Effective immediately.”

You sit down. “No. That’s not how firing works.”

“You’ve been moved to a classified division. Higher clearance. You're now working with Lucius Fox.”

You press a hand to your chest. “I—why??”

“…Because you're smart,” he says, voice quieter. “Because the baton worked better than anything we’ve been issued in months.”

You fall silent.

“…Are you calling me from the cave?”

“No. You said not to.”

“…So where are you?”

Wind hums faintly through the speaker.

“…A roof.”

You bury your face in your hands. “You’re such a drama queen.”

---

The next morning, you show up at WayneTech R&D… and nearly have a stroke.

Bruce Wayne is already waiting.

Lucius Fox stands beside him, flipping through something on a tablet.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Hi,” you squeak.

“We know who you are,” Bruce says.

Okay. Terrifying.

Lucius points to the baton in his hands. “You built this?”

You nod.

“No lab?”

“Nope.”

“Scrap and apartment tools?”

“Yes, sir.”

He and Bruce exchange a look.

Then Bruce asks, “How fast can you make another one?”

You blink. “With real tools?”

Lucius gestures to a full bench. “you have access to anything.”

You stretch. Tie your hair up with a pen. Flex your fingers.

“Time me.”

Twenty minutes later, you slide the baton across the bench. Fully operational. Core stabilized. No short circuits.

Lucius picks it up and blinks. Bruce’s brow furrows.

“She’s faster than you,” Bruce mutters to Lucius.

“I didn’t even see her calibrate it,” Lucius says.

“Didn’t need to,” you shrug. “It’s a twin of the last. I built it in my head first.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Where’d you learn this?”

You grin. “My dad. Retired engineer. Said there was no point in paying for engineering school if he could teach me himself. Started me on wiring when I was six. By ten, I was building drones out of blenders.”

Lucius: “She’s either a genius or a war crime.”

Bruce: “Both.”

Damian: “Told you.”

Bruce sighs. “You’re hired.”

“You already hired me.”

“Then this is your official test. R&D, under Lucius. Batcave access pending.”

You blink.

Then you grin.

And take the ID badge Lucius slides across the table.

Weapons Developer II.

Not bad for someone who duct-taped their last prototype casing.

@corvoqueen @datgurl-rhea - who asked for pt 2

And @ur-mums-house who I think will defo like a pt 2.

Bye bye 👋.

[elmex309]

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[pearlymel]

warnings: ANGST NO COMFORT, (fem) reader has terminal illness, it's cute in the beginning, < dont let that fool you, death (reader), 3.2k words.

notes: hey yall.. It's been a month.. And im back with angst if u even care.. lol and no i did not kiss the brick before throwing it </3

Ever since you've been diagnosed with a terminal illness, specifically a heart disease, you were worried on how you would break the news to Caleb.

Your best friend. The person that is the most important to you, the one you never want to disappoint or upset.

It didn't feel normal, you didn't feel alive. You couldn't hang out or play with him normally like you usually would, and it's unfair to him.

You cried the whole night in Caleb's arms that night, and he only held you silently, tightly. Trying to soothe you with soft strokes along your hair.

It's been months since that night.

"Hey," he says quietly, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. "Don't give me that look.”

He can probably read you like a book by now. But rather than pity, there's only concern in his eyes.

He takes a seat on the grass next to your wheelchair while still holding your hand, his gaze still fixed on you. "Just tell me what's going on, pip-squeak. You know I can't read your mind, right?”

You squeeze his fingers as you look down at him, “could you…” you pause to clear your throat, “… Help me stand? I want to try and walk together.” you mumble.

And Caleb's eyes widen in excitement. He quickly stands up and moves around behind the wheelchair.

"Are you sure about this? I don't want you to push yourself, okay?" he says, gently taking hold of your wrists as he starts to help you out of the chair.

Your legs feel wobbly, but you manage with his help. You feel likd you can do anything at times when he's there.

"don't try anything crazy. I'm not above carrying you back kicking and screaming." He says it with a teasing smile, but his grip on your arms is firm, supporting you as you try to stand on your own.

“yeah, yeah.” you chuckle, your hands are firmly around his shoulders, and you lift your chin up.

“hi,”

Caleb grins at the unexpected 'hi', his cheeks warming a bit at your closeness.

"Well, hello there," he replies, his voice naturally playful. He keeps one arm wrapped around your waist, helping you stay steady on your feet.

His other hand finds its way gently through your hair, a comforting touch. "What's up, pipsqueak?”

“good.” you shrug. The breeze today feels unexpectedly nice, but the strands flying and sticking to the lip balm you applied this morning wasn't so fun..

Caleb’s grin widens at the sound of you attempting to shake your head amd blowing at the hair strands away, his arm still wrapped around you as he guides you towards the bench nearby.

"Alright, sit. Before you fall down and traumatize me," he teases, his tone light but his eyes serious. He gently helps you lower yourself next to him, making sure you're comfortable.

He then leans back, stretching his legs out and enjoying the sunlight, his gaze darting over to you every now and then.

"the weather is really nice." you hum, watching the people walk around, the elderly couple feeding the birds, and the children playing at the park.

It was at a distance, so you both were kind of alone in this corner.

Caleb nods, following your gaze at the people around them. "It is, isn't it?" he agrees, his arm still around your waist, holding you close. "It's been a while since we've been out like this, huh?"

He looks at the children tagging each other, and turns his gaze towards the couple feeding the birds. Something about this moment feels almost like the old days, before things got complicated.

His gaze turns back to you, "You really should get some fresh air more often. Being cooped up in that room all the time isn't good for you." He reaches over to tweak your nose, the way he used to when they were much younger, and you whine playfully at the gesture, "gotta keep the ol' pip-squeak lungs healthy, right?”

You huff, pushing his hand away, “i am healthy.” you reply defensively.

"Oh, really? And I suppose that weak little cough you've been trying to hide from me is just your way of practicing your opera skills, right?" he eyes you suspiciously, and you look away, pretending to whistle.

“I'll give you something to tease about.” you cross your arms, and he mimicks your moves.

“remember when we'd exchange secret kisses behind the tree?”

Caleb feels his brain go on short circuit.

"Wh-what—" he stutters, his cheeks warming at the memory. "That—that was back when we were kids. You can't bring that up, pipsqueak.”

You roll your eyes, “we were teens!”

His cheeks flush even more at your correction, and he rubs the back of his neck, "Yeah, yeah, we were. But still, it doesn't count. We were just kids messing around," he protests, his gaze darting away, unable to maintain eye contact.

He's clearly flustered, and it's hard to tell if he's more embarrassed that you brought it up, or remembering the feel of those secret kisses behind that old tree.

Teasing him back was just as fun, "We'd say it's just to practice for, oh, I don't know, future partners we'd be dating. How silly we were back then, huh?”

He remembers. Remembers the thrill of sneaking around, the rush of stolen kisses behind the tree, all under the guise of "practicing" for their future partners.

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head at their past naivety. "Yeah. We were pretty silly, weren't we?" he says, his voice soft. "Just a couple of dumb kids, playing at romance, pretending it didn't mean anything.”

He looks down, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, trying to collect his thoughts. He's not used to talking about his feelings like this.

"caleb, i.." you want to reach a hand out to his face, but it pauses mid air.

"nevermind." you whisper, retreating your hand away, "you deserve better."

Hearing your words, Caleb's expression shifts. Confusion turns to frustration, almost anger. He grabs your retreating hand to prevent you from removing it.

"What do you mean, 'deserve better'?" he asks, his grip on your hand tightening marginally, as if afraid to let you go. "Don't say that. Don't decide what I deserve,”

You see the desperation in his eyes, how he looks almost upset that you even said such thing.

“look at me—”

"I am looking at you," he cuts you off, "And I see you." He scowls, "Do you think I care if you can barely move? Do you think that's **what matters to me?”

You inhale sharply, biting on your lower lip as you look away, defeated.

“can i be selfish with you one last time?”

You're asking for something, and it's like he knows what kind of request it was, with the way you glance at his lips.

As your faces draw closer, he can feel your breath against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. Softly, ever so softly, he leans in, his lips gently touching yours.

a hesitant brush against yours. For a moment, it's just a soft, chaste touch, like he's testing the waters, making sure he's not about to lose control.

But it doesn't stay chaste for long.

The kiss deepens, as Caleb's hand cups your face, his thumb tracing light circles on your cheek. He leans in further, the intensity of the kiss building.

He could feel the tightness in your grip, the desperate way you're holding onto him, and for a moment, a thousand different emotions flick through his mind. The guilt, the helplessness, the fear of losing you...

But also the love.

The overwhelming, all-consuming love he's felt but never voiced. He kisses you harder, his hand moving from your jaw to your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, as if trying to pull you even closer.

He breaks the kiss to give you a break, only for a brief moment, his breath coming out in short breaths. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, as he speaks in a low, hoarse voice.

"One more.”

—

You feel yourself being pushed on the wheelchair by Caleb through the hospital hallways, returning to your room, he glances over at you.

He can't help but notice the smile on your face, the way your eyes are still gleaming from your earlier encounter.

He feels his face warm a bit, but he covers it by clearing his throat. "You... seem happier than usual," he observes, trying to keep his voice casual.

You look up, “i am."

"Good," he murmurs, almost to himself. He pushes your wheelchair into the room, carefully setting it next to your bed.

You push yourself off and back onto the bed, “i had fun today.” you voice out your thoughts.

He pulls a chair to your bedside, sitting down, and runs a hand through his hair, still a bit flustered.

"Me too..." he admits, "It's been a while since we've spent time together like that." He smiles, but there's a hint of melancholy in his eyes.

“… thank you.”

"What are friends for, right?" he quips, shrugging his shoulders. Then, he adds, "Besides, I couldn't just let you sit around in this sterile, depressing hospital room all the time. You'd go crazy.”

Your eyes narrow as you turn your head slowly to his, “friends, even after our kisses.”

"Uh, well..." he stutters, again. trying to find the right words. "I mean... friends can kiss, right?" He's trying to sound cool, nonchalant.

You gasp, then your arms cross, “then i should just kiss all my male friends.”

"What—no!" he exclaims, evident panic in his voice. "That's not what I meant. I just—”

He stops himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He opens them again, his gaze locked onto yours, and his voice is quieter, more serious.

"That's not the same.”

You become silent, blinking twice at him, “fine, we're ‘friends’ i suppose.”

Caleb's face falls a bit at your words. "Friends..." he repeats, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He wants to say more, to express all the things he's feeling, but he holds back.

Instead, he manages a weak smile, trying to keep the atmosphere light, "Right. Best friends.”

Caleb stands up from the chair, his expression conflicted. He wants to say more, to protest, to shout at you, to... say the truth.

“goodnight, caleb.” you wave your hand at him.

But he doesn't. He just nods, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer.

"Goodnight, pipsqueak," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

He turns and walks out, his hands clenched into tight fists.

“you can go back to sky haven.”

He stops in his tracks, your words hitting him like a cold wave. He turns back, his eyes locking onto yours, searching.

"You... you want me to go back to Sky Haven?" he asks, his voice a mix of confusion and hurt.

You avoid his eyes, “yeah, you've been here all week. Take a break.” you further reason out.

Caleb opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it again. He knows you're right—he's been spending all his time at the hospital, neglecting his duties at Sky Haven.

But the thought of leaving you here, alone... "You sure you'll be alright?" he asks, his voice low.

“… Of course.”

the way you're putting up a brave face. But he also knows you well enough to see through it. He clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to argue, to stay.

"Alright," he says finally, his voice betraying a hint of reluctance. "I'll go back to Sky Haven. But... you better text me every morning, and night." He glances towards you again. "Got it, pipsqueak?”

You only smile back, “i love ya.”

Caleb freezes. He hears those three words, those three simple words that he's longed to hear from you for so long. But they feel like a bittersweet goodbye.

He looks at you, his heart constricting in his chest, and he wants to say so much, to tell you everything he's felt for so long. But he just nods, biting back the words that threaten to spill out.

"Yeah." He manages a weak smile. "love you, too.”

—

Days pass. Caleb is back in Sky Haven, working on his duties as a colonel in the Farspace Fleet. But every day, his thoughts keep drifting back to you. He finds himself distracted, his mind constantly wandering.

Sunday texts.

you: it's hot today.

caleb: make sure to tell the nurse to not set the air conditioning too cold

you: m’kay

Monday texts.

you: i miss your cooking

caleb: only that? You don't miss me? :(

you: i miss you, too >:)

caleb: :)

Tuesday texts.

caleb: knock knock, did you lose your way here?

you: was watching the birds

caleb: are they that interesting?

you: nope.

Wednesday texts.

caleb: hellooo pipsqueak

four hours later and three missed calls.

caleb: </3 ignoring my calls now?

you: i was asleep! :’)

caleb: morning, sleeping beauty ;)

Thursday texts.

None.

Caleb's eyebrows furrow as he stares at the empty screen, refreshing his messages over and over, and calling every hour.

You're just asleep, again.

He sighs at the thought, right—

His blood runs cold when his phone rings, seeing the caller ID from the hospital.

“hello?”

“Mr. Caleb, we regret to inform you that…”

Caleb's heart drops.

The next words doesn't even register in his head, he can't process it, can't wrap his mind around the news.

He takes a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, to understand what he just heard. But it doesn't make sense. It can't be...

He hangs up, and he runs. Without thinking, and feeling all numb, he needs to get to your hospital.

—

Caleb arrives at the hospital, his steps heavy as he walks through the familiar hallways. But everything seems different now. Darker, empty. The memories he once had are now tainted with grief.

He enters your room, his heart sinking more at the sight of the vacant bed, the machines turned off. He sees a bag on the table, your belongings. He moves forward, slowly, as if in a trance.

His gaze goes from the bag to the letter atop it. He stands there, torn between wanting to open it and wanting to pretend it doesn't exist.

After a moment's hesitation, he picks up the letter, his heart pounding in his chest. He carefully opens the envelope.

“dear, caleb.

I'm sorry you had to find out like this, i didn't want to worry you. My health was deteriorating these past few days, but i told them to not tell you, and im glad they respected my wishes.

I wanted to spend my last few days with you, and told you to go back on the last few days so you wouldn't witness the whole thing. Again, I'm sorry.

Please take care of yourself. I left a bunch of other letters in the bag for you.

Love, “

Caleb stares at the letter, reading and re-reading the words. His vision is blurry, his eyes filled with unshed tears. His heart feels heavy, as if someone had reached into his chest and snatched it away. He carefully folds the letter and puts it back in the envelope.

Caleb is going to read those letters you wrote for him, but he realizes you'll never get to read his own letters to you, it was too late.

—

The days following your passing are blurry in Caleb's memory. He moves through life like a shadow, going through the motions but not truly present. His work is done in autopilot, his interactions with others are forced.

But every night, when he returns to his empty apartment, he re-reads the letters. Like a cruel, comforting cycle, he reads them again and again.

The letters are all scattered on his bed. He would be curled on the bed, embracing each letter to try and make him sleep, but he can't. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. And it almost feels like a nightmare.

These letters were a window into your thoughts, your feelings. And even though you were gone, he felt like he had a piece of you with him.

He would read until the early hours of the morning, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. But the pain was preferable to the emptiness that threatened to consume him.

It's been a week since your passing. He has avoided visiting your grave, unable to bring himself to face the reality of your absence.

Caleb is afraid of coming home to see scattered letters on his bed and not remembering who they belong to.

But today, something stirs within him. It's a mix of guilt, sadness, and a sense of resolution.

He needs to pay his respects, to fsce reality.

He makes his way to the graveyard, where your grave sits solemnly. The sight makes his chest tighten. But he takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what he knows he has to do.

Caleb stands in front of your grave, his hands shoved in his pockets as he stares down at the name on the grave. "H-hey, pipsqueak," he whispers, his voice extremely shaky.

There's a pause, and he can almost hear your voice responding to him in his mind, calling him by his name.

"I... I have something to show you," he murmurs. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a worn leather notebook. It was his own journal, filled with thoughts, sketches, and snippets of memories from over the years.

He sits on the grass, trying to be as close as possible.

"I've been thinking about you a lot," he continues, his eyes still fixed on the grave. "I remember all the times we were kids. Those moments... they were the best."

He opens the journal, flipping through the pages, each one a small snapshot of their shared past.

"And those letters you left..." he continues, his voice growing quieter. "I've read them again and again. It feels like you're right here, whispering in my ear.”

If you were there, he knows you'd say all the right things to ease his pain, to tell him that everything would be okay. But you're not, and the silence hangs heavy in the air.

Caleb's grip on the notebook tightens, his knuckles white with the effort. He takes a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to fall.

"God, I... wish you were here." his voice chokes up, and he swallows hard, trying to keep his emotions in check.

"I...I have so many things I want to tell you, so many things I never said...”

You closes his eyes, covering his face while he slumps against the stone, that one wish you wrote in your letters replays over and over in his head.

to move on.

[buckyalpine]

Imagine thinking Bucky is the cutest cinnamon roll ever and it confuses everyone including him. It starts with Peter scrolling through his phone along with the others who are lounging around, not doing much for once. He snickers at a video and the others overhear the audio.

Looks like a cinnamon roll; could kill you

Looks like they could kill you; actually a cinnamon roll

Looks like a cinnamon roll; is a cinnamon roll

Looks like they could kill you; would kill you

"What are you watching" Sam snorted while Peter shuffled over to show him the old trend that popped up again on his feed.

"Its this thing where people compare how some of their friends look cute and are actually cute and then there are some that just look cute but they're scary on the inside"

Sam grinned, scanning the room trying to decide who fit where.

"Alright, lets see, Peter you're a cinnamon roll, Steve looks like a cinnamon roll but turns into a feral mother hen at bad language, Tony, you look like a dumb ass and you are a- Ow! Nat looks like she could kill someone and could kill-

"I have killed" Nat cocked an eyebrow with a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah we know. Actually scratch that. You're a bunny compared to Barnes-hey!" Sam yelped at the cushion that was launched at his head, "It's not my fault he looks scarier than you!"

Steve snorted from the side while Peter stared at him phone, too scared to confirm or deny anything.

"Y/n, what do you think, where does terminator fall under"

"Bucky's a cinnamon roll" You shrug while everyone paused and looked at each other in confusion.

"We're talking about this Bucky. This one sitting right there, the one with a grumpy staring problem, threw me off a roof, has a metal arm, this Bucky right here" Sam pointed to the solider who glared at him in response, causing him to bounce in his seat, "See?! Look! He wants to kill me right now!!"

Everyone was about to chime in until you look up to meet Bucky's eyes and then they see how Bucky transforms as when you're near by. That grumpy face of his melts off into the cutest puppy like expression.

"Look at his little nose" You shrug while Tony's face split into a shit eating grin watching Bucky's cheeks tint pink, "He's such a cinnamon roll!"

"Yeah, he's something' all right" Sam snickered while Bucky continued to blink at you, his heart beating faster. You thought he was a cinnamon roll? "Okay but you can agree he sometimes look like he could kill you"

"He's nothing but a cutie" You shook your head, cooing at Bucky, petting head as you walked by to get a glass of water. As soon as you were out of ear shot, everyone lost it, cackling and Aww'ing until the burnette gave them a glare that brought the room to silence once again. He trailed after you, ignoring the snickers that followed, butterflies in his tummy fluttering wildly when he found you once more.

He'd always be a cinnamon roll for you.

(Imagine everyone calls him a cinnamon roll after that and he actually doesn't hate it cause you're the one who gave him the name anyway and it always turns him into a blushing mess no matter who calls him that)

[thevoidstaredback]

Hey! So, it's been a while, but I finally remembered to come back to this! But, it's not gonna go the way you'd think.

If Danny had it his way, he'd be at his Aunt Alicia's house for the summer instead of New Jersey. This place is gloomy, grimy, and soaked through with so much crime that it's a Problem(TM). Like, seriously? New Jersey hasn't allowed the death penalty since he was seven, but can't they make, like, one exception? Get rid of The Joker and half of Gotham's problems are solved.

Unfortunately, he's only here as a guest, so he can't really do anything. Which, for the record, is a shit rule. Call a goose and goose, and that's exactly what Gotham City, New Jersey is.

It isn't all that bad, he supposes. Sure, the pollution blocks out the entire sky at all times, the buildings that aren't condemned are only feeding the rich while stealing from the poor, an entire twenty-four block are has been given up on by mostly everyone, the local vigilantes won't kill the recurring problems like the cockroaches they are- There was a good point to all this.

Oh! He has family here. That's it. That's the only silver lining, and it's bronze.

But, hey, it can't be that bad. From what he understands, his half-brother and company don't actually live in Gotham. Bristol, according to Talia is technically outside of Gotham City Limits, but is still considered as part of the city. Makes sense, aside from the fact that there's no bridge between Bristol and Gotham. Weird design, but he's not rich so he's not really inclined to care or understand.

Half brother, right.

Danny doesn't like Damian much, but that's because he's a clone...of Damian. Danny's a clone of Damian, not the other way around. Ra's makes that very clear

The only reason Talia wants him with Damian is because she's upset with Bruce Wayne. What is it with divorced parents and putting their kids on the middle of their fights? Or maybe that's just Talia?

Anyway.

Gotham, New Jersey is a dismal place. Danny's not germophobic by any means, he can't really afford to be, but even he's having a hard time being in the city.

It was so much easier hiding out with the Fentons.

Well, 'hiding' is a subjective term. Ra's and Talia knew where he was, so did Deathstroke, probably, but that was it.

Essentially, everyone he should be hiding from knows where he's been hiding, which means he's just been on some kind of twisted, extended vacation.

As far as Danny knew, Bruce Wayne had no idea he was coming. Damian knew because Talia had wanted him to pick Danny up from the airport. Weird because while Damian is technically older, Danny is still legally two years older.

Well, 'legally' is a stretch. He doesn't technically exist, outside of the LoA and Amity Park.

The point is that Damian is waiting for him at the end of the terminal, looking as much like an excited puppy as he can, with an older gentleman. Talia had given him nothing to work with, but Danny didn't really care who this guy was as long as he didn't try to make him do anything he didn't want to.

...living in the Midwest was doing wonders for his mental stability, but Ancients was it making him soft!

"'Danny', I presume?" the old man asked, his accent heavy.

Good, so Talia did give Damian his actual name. "Yep. You are?" He may not want to be here, but he still knows his manners. Even if he's only going to use the bare minimum of them. Malicious Compliance and all that.

"Alfred Pennyworth, the family butler." He didn't extend his hand to shake. Danny didn't mind. In fact, he actually preferred that.

Okay, so maybe he's a little bit haphephobic. Leave him alone!

"Danny," Damian greeted, a smile of excitement in his voice but not his face, "It's good to have you here. How did Mother convince you to come?"

"Bribery." Mostly.

Damian seemed to deflate a bit. "Father and the others don't know you're here."

"Do they even know about me at all?"

"No."

"Perfect! Then I can stay at a hotel-"

"For the entire summer?" Alfred raised his eyebrow, "I must insist that you stay at Wayne Manor while in Gotham. Master Bruce will most pleased to meet you."

"Why?" Danny scoffed, "I'm not his kid, nor do I want to be."

Damian slouched a little bit more. "Come, we must get back before the others send out a search party for us."

"Dramatic much?" Danny scoffed.

"Not at all," Alfred took both of Danny's bags before leading the way out to the car, "It' happened before in less time."

"I don't doubt it for a second. I'm calling Bruce a dramatic bitch."

Alfred smirked ever so slightly. "Quite right, Master Danny."

"Don't call me that."

"Alright then, what should I call you?"

"'Danny'. No honorifics, no add ons, no trying to fullname me, nothing else."

"And when you go out with the rest of the family?"

He scoffed again. "You really think they'd let me go out with them? I'm an assassin. In fact, the first thing I'll do the second I'm let out of the house is kill the clown bastard."

Damian rested his hand on Danny's arm. "They let me out with them and I tried to kill Drake. As long as you uphold a promise not to kill anyone, you'll be allowed to patrol with us."

They reached the car, Damian sat behind the driver while Danny sat behind the passenger. Alfred put the bags in the trunk. "So? What will you be called on patrol?"

Danny rolled his eyes, popping his headphones in and not looking away from the window. "Respawn."

Masterpost Part 2