#LOOK AT THEM. and then... read about them

[shencomix]

I did an experiment on myself

I like to browse social media, but it's not really me who likes that. It's some baser, more lizardish part of my brain. It does not even know what it's looking at, or care -- it just knows it gets little dopamine snacks from it, and likes them.

I decided to do an experiment. I wanted to see what that part of my brain would do if I deprived it of what it usually likes. I blocked all social media in my desktop browser via an extension, uninstalled all my social media apps, and even blocked the websites on my phone just for good measure.

So, what would I do now?

It turns out I start going on wikipedia. I liked to look at the "on this day section," and use the random page button. It's kind of like social media because I never knew what I was going to see. It scratched that same itch.

But I wanted to go farther, so I blocked wikipedia too.

Turns out, after that, I start going on google maps streetview and exploring random towns in Chile or Mongolia. I see hotels and restaurants with 1 review. Who are you, reviewer. Why have you decided to give this pizza restaurant that just looks like a normal house this digital baptism.

But I wanted to go farther, so I blocked google maps too.

Then, I started going to my local library. The library had more information than I could ever read about practically anything I wanted to read about. I started reading about French history. The region we know today as France may look pretty innocuous, but you wouldn't believe some of the shit that went down.

But I wanted to go farther, so I stopped even going to the library. What would this part of me, that so desperately craved a constant intake of information, do now.

It was then that I descended into the sewers, and became the Rat Man.

I quickly became a legend in my town. Some teenagers saw me clamber out of one sewer grate and then into another across the street. They told their parents about it. Their parents didn't believe them. Truth be told, I almost didn't believe them either.

A woman eating oreos on a park bench once dropped one near a sewer drain at the local bike path, and yelped when she saw my arm reach out from the drain and swipe it. However, later on, she left another oreo there. She took pity on the Rat Man. I saw the Man that was left there, even though it was mostly Rat.

Ultimately I decided to allow myself the library.

[ilovolderman]

Playing It Cool

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam’s getting way too suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, laundry room shenanigans, sam wilson being done

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam didn’t sleep well.

It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t even the lingering PTSD from a week spent chasing Hydra remnants. No, this was different.

This was gut feeling. Instinct.

He was standing in the kitchen, hair wild, hoodie misaligned, and eyes like a war veteran who’d seen things and couldn’t unsee them. The clock blinked a smug 7:03 a.m. He poured black coffee like a man betrayed by the very concept of sleep.

That’s when he saw it.

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

 “Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

 “You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

[luna-azzurra]

10 Quiet Ways Your Character Is Breaking Their Own Heart (And Pretending It's Fine)

These are the betrayals that aren’t loud. They don’t come with fireworks or screaming matches. These are the small, slow deaths. The ones that your character lets happen... while smiling politely.

» They say yes when they desperately want to say no. Every. Damn. Time. They show up when they're exhausted. They agree to things they hate. They make themselves smaller, softer, easier, because "good people" don’t make waves, right? (Spoiler: they're drowning.)

» They keep chasing people who only love them halfway. It's not even subtle anymore. They know these people leave them on "read," show up late, make them feel like an afterthought. But they cling anyway, spinning every scrap of affection into a story about hope. (It’s not hope. It’s hunger.)

» They refuse to believe good things are meant for them. They’ll hype everyone else up. They’ll believe in everyone else's dreams. But when something finally good lands in their lap? They’ll panic. Push it away. Tell themselves it was a fluke. (Because being disappointed feels safer than being lucky.)

» They’re waiting for closure that will never come. An apology. An explanation. A miracle where someone says, "You were right, and I was wrong, and I’m so sorry." They wait years. Decades. Lifetimes. But deep down, they know: some people never come back. Some stories just end without punctuation.

» They’re hoarding all their "almosts" like treasures. The job they almost got. The love that almost worked. The version of themselves they almost became. They replay those maybes like a greatest hits album. (Meanwhile, real life is slipping by while they mourn possibilities.)

» They’re performing a version of success they secretly hate. Look at the Instagram. Look at the LinkedIn updates. Look at the shiny exterior. It looks like winning. But every trophy they collect feels heavier, not lighter. Every promotion tastes a little more like ash. (Turns out, chasing someone else's dream is still losing.)

» They forgive people who aren’t sorry. Not because they’re enlightened. Not because they’ve healed. But because it’s easier to pretend it didn’t hurt than to sit with the fact that it did—and that the person responsible doesn't care. (Some wounds scar better when you stop pretending they were accidents.)

» They punish themselves for still being soft. The world told them, again and again, that soft things get broken. And they believed it. So every time they feel too much? Every time they cry or hope or trust? They tell themselves they’re weak. Stupid. Embarrassing. (They're not. They're just still alive.)

» They downplay their own magic. They call their talents "lucky breaks." Their beauty "average." Their intelligence "no big deal." They shrug off compliments like they're dangerous. Because deep down, they've been taught that being remarkable makes you a target.

» They cling to the idea that if they just work harder, they'll finally be enough. They believe in meritocracy like it’s a religion. That if they hustle hard enough, self-sacrifice deep enough, burn themselves to ash perfectly enough, someone, somewhere, will finally say, "You're worthy now." (They were always worthy. The system is just broken.)

[kingdomvel]

Steddie | modern au | famous actor Steve Harrington | 3.4k | ao3

from this post

Eddie can’t stop the laugh that comes out of him because of the video on his screen, Gareth snickering next to him.

“This is great, I have to show this to the others later,” Eddie says. His fingers move automatically, pressing on the send icon and then on the profile at the very top, a move he has done hundreds of times.

“Dude, did you just send that to Steve Harrington?” Gareth asks with a dumbfounded tone.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you acting like that’s normal?”

“Because it is? I just send him the posts I find funny to find them later.”

“You know there is a way to save posts so that they are organized, right?”

“I don’t like it and this is like way easier.”

“It’s literally not,” Gareth says, but Eddie doesn’t pay attention to him or stop.

“Look,” he goes to the front page, slides to the dms and opens the conversation with Steve Harrington, always at the top. “It’s just right there.” He starts scrolling up to show him the long string of unanswered memes and videos, but Gareth interrupts him.

“Wait, wait. Scroll back down, what the fuck is that? Does he read your messages?” He is pointing to the little icon with Harrington’s profile picture just above the last video he’s sent. Eddie shrugs.

“It’s probably a bored media guy enjoying some memes on the clock or making sure I’m not a weirdo, it’s not like Steve Harrington actually uses this account.”

“You are a weirdo, I’m surprised you are not blocked yet.”

-

Eddie is on his phone, passing the time as he keeps an eye on the lonely customer currently looking through the new vinyls. It’s a routine, a mindless action as he saves another post to show the guys later, preferring to see their reactions in person. Nothing ever happens, that’s why he gets surprised to the point of sitting up when a notification appears on his screen.

Steve.hrrgtn: Dude, you just made me laugh in the middle of a table reading

Eddie freezes as the notification disappears. Did he see that right? He couldn’t have seen that right.

He goes to his dms and surely, there at the top, is a message from THE Steve Harrington, or at least from his account. A table reading. It has to be him, right? Not an intern or a media guy. The one and only.

Eddie sends a look to the customer, still engrossed in the new releases. He is tempted to call her so she can check if the message is real or an hallucination provoked by his boredom. When he looks down, the message is still there. It is also still there when he opens the conversation. His fingers hover over screen.

He can picture him, sitting around a long table with his castmates, hiding his phone like a student in class but unable to keep his laugh in.

The vision is a bit surreal. He made Steve Harrington laugh.

Batking: why are you looking at your phone in the middle of a table reading

Steve.hrrgtn: new season boring af

It’s Eddie the one that can’t keep his laugh in this time. The girl sends him a look, but he doesn’t care.

Batking: should you be telling me that?

 Steve.hrrgtn: I don’t even care at this point tbh

Batking: you are the one that signed the contract my guy

Steve.hrrgtn: I didn’t

Steve.hrrgtn: Never let your parents sign you into a multi season show when you are fifteen

Batking: I’ll keep that in mind for my next life

Batking: Sorry your parents made you a millionaire and famous

Steve.hrrgtn: 💀💀💀

Steve.hrrgtn: but really, at the time I thought hey it’s only a contract for five seasons for a teen drama, how bad could it be?

Steve.hrrgtn: now here I am, almost ten years later, listening to the worst script you have heard in your life

Batking: that does sound awful

Batking: you are making me happy that my folks are not in the picture

Is Eddie about to vent about his life to Steve fucking Harrington? It seems like it.

In the end, he doesn’t, because Harrington doesn’t answer to his message, probably swept away into actually working, or maybe he realised how weird it was that he was talking so casually to a guy he didn’t know.

Eddie doesn’t have time to wallow on it too much, because the girl comes to the counter with a vinyl and a question. The interaction with the famous actor moving to a part of Eddie’s brain normally reserved to daydreams.

-

Eddie thought that his interaction with Steve Harrington would be a one time thing, the guy looking at his phone because he was too bored and answering his message because, by some kind of cosmic coincidence, Eddie had happened to send it at the perfect moment. Just an impulsive action that he had regretted later. That’s why he is surprised when he gets a new notification after sending him the worst kind of shitpost ever, the ones that the algorithm feeds him at 2am – the current time – and send him in a fit of giggles with their complete absurdity.

Steve.hrrgtn: where do you even find these things

Batking: you are just jealous my algorithm is better than yours

Steve.hrrgtn: yeah everyday I dream about my instagram showing me a pig made with a sausage and sticks surfing some rotating meat skewers

Batking: It made you laugh though

Steve.hrrgtn: …..

Steve.hrrgtn: It did

Eddie lets out a short, disbelieving snort. It’s a bit crazy, knowing that somewhere out there a famous heartthrob is looking at his messages at 2am and laughing.

Unless this is the media guy.

Eddie prefers to believe that he is so funny he made a guy with millions of followers want to talk to him. Twice.

Batking: why are you awake at this hour anyway

Batking: shouldnt you be getting your beauty sleep

Steve.hrrgtn: we start filming the new season tomorrow

Steve.hrrgtn: today?

Steve.hrrgtn: and I can’t sleep

Batking: nightmares about the boring script

Batking: I see

Steve.hrrgtn: you could say that

Batking: well, check this out, your nightmares will go away

He sends another stupid meme (of the best kind, the ones from accounts that write in Cyrillic) and receives a set of skull emojis in answer.

-

Steve.hrrgtn: why have you stopped sending me memes

The message takes Eddie by surprise. It’s been a week since he texted with Steve Harrington for the second time – which still feels a bit surreal-, and he had decided to stop bothering the poor guy now that he knew he saw his messages. Going to his saved posts was still a nightmare, but Eddie knew how to behave.

Batking: didnt want to bother you now that you are working and I know you see them

Steve.hrrgtn: they have been my main entertainment for months you can’t just stop now when I need them most

Eddie blinks at the message. Months? The confirmation stuns him. The one that had been seeing his messages had always been him and not some media guy? Eddie remembers catching his name a few times on his Instagram stories. This is a bit trippy, if he is honest.

Batking: okay

Batking: as my liege commands

Batking: from now on I am your knight in shining armour your sole provider of memes

-

Batking: *reel attached*

Batking: did you kill the villain today?

Steve.hrrgtn: This is a teen drama???

-

Batking: *reel attached*

Batking: so, is the bad guy dead yet?

Steve.hrrgtn: Again???

Steve.hrrgtn: I told you like a thousand times that there is no bad guy to kill

Steve.hrrgtn: have you even watched my show?

Batking: I mean the scriptwriter

Steve.hrrgtn: lmao

Steve.hrrgtn: no, he is sadly not dead yet

Steve.hrrgtn: I think killing him would be a breach of my contract somehow

Batking: a pity

Batking: the way he insists on making your character straight? He deserves death.

Batking: don’t worry joe from normal life, I saw the way you looked at dacre, I know what you are

Steve.hrrgtn: I think that might have just been the way I was looking at Billy, the guy’s fucking hot

Steve.hrrgtn: an asshole though, glad he is not on the show anymore

Eddie pauses, his eyes reading the last two messages time and time again. Did Steve Harrington, heartthrob and ladies man, just admit to being attracted to a male coworker? Eddie’s thumbs hover over the keyboard. He looks up at Gareth from his place in their couch. He is not paying attention to him, too focused on his laptop.

Eddie is having a bit of a crisis here and his roommate is ignoring him. Maybe it’s best that he is, Eddie doesn’t really want to share this with anyone. Should he bring attention to it? Should he just ignore it and brush it off? The decision is not that difficult in the end. He needs to know. He knows that there is no way he has any possibility of actually bagging Steve Harrington. Exchanging messages and memes is one thing, a pseudo friendship is one thing, but something more? Not fucking likely.

He still needs to know.

Batking: did I just get exclusive confirmation that Steve Harrington likes men? Should I call tmz?

Steve.hrrgtn: you wouldn’t get any money

Steve.hrrgtn: I’ve been out as bisexual for years, the media just chooses to ignore it

Steve.hrrgtn: wow look at these pictures of Steve Harrington with his new male best friend that he goes to dinner and all premieres with! Totally platonic! Oh now they have stopped hanging out completely? What could have happened to their friendship?

Steve.hrrgtn: he cheated on me, that’s what happened

Eddie blinks at his screen. So, he had tried to avoid learning anything about Steve that the man didn’t tell him himself. Just a chivalrous, treat the guy like a normal person gesture, but now he is wondering if he should have paid a bit more attention.

Batking: ah yes, the joys of compulsory heterosexuality and conformity

Batking: that sucks, dude

Steve.hrrgtn: did you really not know anything about it?

Batking: sorry to burst your celebrity bubble where everyone knows everything about your life

Steve.hrrgtn: no no, it’s… nice

Steve.hrrgtn: I have a question though

Steve.hrrgtn: why did you start sending me memes if you were not really interested in me?

Batking: well

Batking: I needed someone very famous that wasnt likely to really see my messages and seemed chill enough to not block me immediately

Batking: and dude, you are like waaay more famous than the show you are in, it’s ridiculous, thought you must be a douche for a long time

Batking: but an interview with you and your friend Robin showed up on my fyp and I saw that you were pretty chill

Batking: so it was between you and Timothee Chalamet

Batking: and it ended up being you because you are hotter

Steve.hrrgtn: of course I am

Steve.hrrgtn: thank you for choosing me tho

Batking: anyone would have

Steve.hrrgtn: the casting director of a complete unknown didn’t think the same

Batking: well thats THEIR loss

Batking: you do a great job with the shitty script of normal life

Batking: you would have acted the fuck out of bob dylan

Steve.hrrgtn: I do a better job in my other stuff

Batking: you have other stuff??

Batking: I’m going to be honest with you here, I only watched normal life so I had context to bitch about the boring new season with you

Eddie looks at the three little dots that indicate that Steve is writing appear a disappear a few times. Did he fuck up? Maybe he sounded too eager, maybe Steve thought it was a bit weird that Eddie assumed they would continue talking. But they have been talking for weeks now. Was it bad to assume?

Eddie closes the app, deciding to give the guy some privacy to write down what he wants to write down and heads to the kitchen to prepare his dinner. If Gareth senses the way his mood has soured, he doesn’t say anything about it.

It takes a couple of hours for an answer to appear. It’s simple.

Steve.hrrgtn: that’s nice of you

-

It’s Steve the one that starts the conversation a couple of days after that. Eddie only sees his messages an hour after he sends them, too busy with customers. The group of notifications on his screen when he is finally able to look at his phone very welcome.

Steve.hrrgtn: so I just realised

Steve.hrrgtn: well, my best friend made me realise

Steve.hrrgtn: she basically said that it’s weird that I’ve been talking with you for weeks and don’t know anything about your actual life and that you could actually be a stalker with a lot of patience or something like that

Steve.hrrgtn: so tell me about yourself? You are not living like down the street from me and waiting for the right moment to kidnap me like Robin says are you?

Eddie tries not to feel giddy at the thought of Steve talking about him to his friends. He has not done it himself, mostly because he tried once and they made fun of his ‘delusions’ as they called it. Whatever. He doesn’t really expect Steve to still be online, probably already swept out to his own job, so he just sends his answer.

Batking: a very reasonable fear, some facts to follow

Batking: I live as far from you as you live from Chicago

Batking: I am a humble employee at a record store where I have to deal with pretentious assholes daily that don’t really care about music and just about bragging about their record collection

Batking: I also have a band with my friends

Batking: we have a whooping 1756 listeners on spotify

Batking: I know, I know, you didn’t know you were talking with a rockstar try not to be very starstruck

The answer, to his surprise, comes almost immediately.

Steve.hrrgtn: 1757

Batking: what?

Steve.hrrgtn: what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t listen to your band now that I know it exists?

Eddie would be lying if he said that that didn’t make his heart skip a beat. Is this healthy? Probably not. Is he developing a weird parasocial relationship with the guy? Probably yes, but is it even a parasocial relationship if he is actually talking with the guy and he called him his friend? This should be considered a normal crush, a normal, hopeless crush.

Batking: a very shitty one tbh here’s the link

Steve.hrrgtn: can I ask something else?

Batking: course

Steve.hrrgtn: you only have one pic in your profile and it’s with your friends

Steve.hrrgtn: which one are you?

Eddie taps the back of his phone a few times. It’s only natural that Steve would wonder that. He could just tell him, or… Eddie opens the camera and takes a picture, too close to see his face properly but enough that Steve will know who he is in the group picture now.

Batking: *picture attached*

Batking: this one

Steve.hrrgtn: fuck

-

Steve.hrrgtn: okay so the thought of you only seeing me in normal life is eating me alive

The notification comes when Eddie is with his friends, preparing for a night of DnD. Eddie was looking up some music to get the atmosphere going, but the music app immediately gets abandoned in lieu of the message.

Batking: can’t get me out of your head?

He knows he has been unable to keep the stupid smile out of his face when Jeff tries to glance at his screen. Eddie immediately slams the phone against his chest.

“Jeez, I thought you were looking at stupid memes again, who are you texting that got you smiling like that?” Jeff asks. He moves back to sit straight, so Eddie can look at his phone again.

“No one,” he says as he reads the new message.

Steve.hrrgtn: so I have a couple of indie films that are very good

So Steve has decided to ignore his message. Okay.

“He’s been like this for WEEKS now,” Gareth intervenes as he sits down at his spot. “He said it was Steve Harrington when I asked him when he started and has refused to say anything else.”

“The white boy of the month?” Jeff asks.

“White boy of the century,” Eddie feels the need to correct.

Batking: that’s great and all but I can’t watch your limited release indie films anywhere

Steve.hrrgtn: that’s why I’m sharing a link to the latest one with you

Steve.hrrgtn: don’t share it with anyone though

Batking: aw breaking the rules for little ol me?

Steve.hrrgtn: yeah yeah don’t get too cocky now

Steve.hrrgtn: can’t wait for your reaction 😉

Eddie stares at the winking emoji in confusion. What is that supposed to mean?

“Can you stop texting your white boy of the century now so we can start?” Gareth asks.

“Just a second.” Eddie sends a quick message back before he moves to the music app again, chooses the first song he sees and puts the phone down.

Batking: send it to me, soldier, I will watch it tonight and give you my honest opinion

-

Eddie stares at the screen of his laptop, currently on his thighs as he was lounging on his bed, seeing the film Steve had sent to him. The film is currently paused, Steve’s face staring at him with eyes and mouth half open.

Okay, so Eddie just watched his famous guy turned friend have an orgasm – fake! Fake an orgasm, Eddie feels it’s very important that he makes that clear to himself – on screen after probably the most erotic sex scene he has seen in a non porno in the last 10 years. Fuck. How did he not know about the existence of this? How did this not make the news? Probably because it was with another man. Double fuck.

Maybe this is normal for Steve, for actors in general, to send their friends a link to a film where you have a soul shattering orgasm with a message about wanting to know their reaction with a winking emoji. It is not normal for Eddie. It is also not normal for his dick, who has not gotten the memo about this not being something it should be getting so excited about.

Eddie bites his lip. His finger moves on its own, backing the film a few minutes so the scene plays again. Eddie tries to convince himself that this is not weird if Steve was the one that wanted him to see this in the first place.

Eddie curses and takes a deep breath. He eyes his phone. It’s late, nearly midnight, but he knows that Steve is normally away at this hour.

Maybe this is not normal for Steve either, maybe he did want to get some kind of reaction out of Eddie.

Eddie snaps a picture of his laptop screen, careful to get the tent in his pants just in the edge of the picture. It’s very obvious on it what scene he is watching.

Batking: *picture attached*

Batking: you sure know how to get a guy hot and bothered

Maybe he can play it off as a joke if Steve didn’t mean it like Eddie wants him to mean it.

Steve.hrrgtn: glad to see my acting is that good

Fuck, Eddie fucked it up, right?

Steve.hrrgtn: it did come out very natural

Steve.hrrgtn: but the real thing looks better

Eddie feels on the edge of a precipice, as if there should be a warning on his field of vision about how his choice here will change the trajectory of his story.

Batking: can’t say

Batking: I haven’t seen the real thing, so I can’t really compare them, can I?

Steve.hrrgtn: would you want to?

Eddie can’t get his hopes up, he can’t assume, Steve is so out of his league, this can’t be happening to him.

Batking: have you acted in a porno I don’t know about?

Steve.hrrgtn: are you always this dense?

Eddie’s heart is dying in his chest, that’s the only explanation to how it’s feeling.

He doesn’t have time to type an answer, Eddie’s screen is suddenly filled with something else.

Steve Harrington is video calling him.

Eddie has never accepted a call so fast in his life before.

part 2...???

tag list: @steddiefication @tailsfromthecrypt @orionchildofhades @coralineinwonderland @theohohmoment (you didn't ask me to tag you but I guessed you'd want to see it?)

[inbabylontheywept]

Memories of Grandpa Dale

I was playing in the barn, but I was also hiding from my grandpa. I was aware that this hurt his feelings, but I didn’t know what else to do. Every year I’d ever visited him before, he’d seemed kind of mad at me, but I’d hoped still that year was the year that we’d finally be friends. I even made a list of things to do together. 

Unfortunately, the list did not fix things¹ so I'd been forced to acknowledge that if he couldn't be happy with me there, and he couldn't be happy with me gone, then perhaps he simply could not be happy. At least, not until someone invented The Secret Third Thing.

(But I was only nine. So. That someone would probably not be me.) 

Fortunately, being happy is a task that I've never needed to delegate - I’m actually quite good at it. I’d been sad in the barn for maybe an hour or so, but eventually that got boring, so I invented a new game where I would chase big clouds of shiny blue flies off the sun-warmed horse-poop and try to shoo them towards a corner of the barn that I knew had a large spiderweb in it. 

I was perfectly aware that this is not ideal for the flies, but I had just read Charlotte’s Web, so my empathy function was very biased towards spiders, who I perceived as patient and compassionate and slightly maternal women. Who just happened to have eight legs.  

(I, like most nine year old boys, would have personally been willing to fight a war for every patient, compassionate, slightly maternal woman I had ever met. If you, personally, have ever hugged a little boy who was trying very hard not to cry in front of his friends after skinning his knee, know that there is a child in this world that would kill in your name.)

(Now live with that knowledge.) 

I played my game with the flies for a long time. Long enough to get into a rhythm of running and laughing and then panting outside on my back while wallowing in the long green grass.

It was during one of those walks outside to lay in the grass that I noticed my mom. She was sitting on a hay bale, looking baffled. I don’t know how long she’d been there, but I was too young and confident to even feel odd. She asked me what I was doing, and I just kind of gestured to the ceiling, and said, You know, just. Feeding spiders.²

She nodded. I was feeding spiders. Of course. 

We sat there a few moments. It was an amicable silence, but I was still faintly relieved when she broke it.  

Your grandpa’s been looking for you, she said. He got some grapes earlier. Wanted to take you to feed the ducks.

I've always really liked feeding ducks³. Visiting them had actually been the next thing on my list. 

I was baffled by the effort. 

He’s mad at me, I pointed out. My mom, to her credit, looked genuinely confused. 

He’s not, she said. 

But he was mad when we picked blackberries, I pointed out. And when we went on that walk down to the prairie. And he snapped at me this morning when I asked if I could have some of his dried mangos. 

The mangos had been my last straw. The weirdest part was that he didn’t even say no, he just (angrily) said of course you can, as if it was an insult to his hospitality that I was asking when just the year before he’d yelled at me because I ate a tin of dried apples. Apparently, I was just supposed to know that those apples were exclusively reserved for The Apocalypse. 

(To be fair, my grandpa has always been very worried about the apocalypse, but mostly in the context of not having enough dried apples for it. There was a period of my life where I thought that The Apocalypse referred to some kind of prophesied biblical event where there would be No More Apples. This thought has stuck with me for a very long time⁴.)

Well. Yeah. My mom said. He’s mad. But he’s not mad at you. He’s just… Mad. 

I mulled this over. 

What about the mangos? I asked, and she shrugged at that. 

Alright, so that time he was mad at you, but that’s being mad one time in three days. Cut the man some slack, you’ve been asking him for permission before eating anything. 

I just don’t want to eat the wrong thing, I said. I’ve always been very defensive of my rule-following. Both because rules are important, and also because that #10 can of dried apples ripped through me like a shotgun full of razor blades⁵. That “snack” had 400% the recommended daily fiber for an adult man. And I was very definitely not a grown man when I ate it.  

It was a very painful experience is what I am trying to say. 

I know, my mom said. 

I don’t even like apples, I added. Still defensive. 

I know, my mom said again. She’s very good at saying it. It always feels like she’s agreeing with me, and not just trying to rush me onto The Point. Sometimes, people need to make detours from The Point in order to explain things. Like, hypothetically, why they once ate a very large number of dehydrated apples. My mom is wise, and she has always known this. . 

I just really wanted to eat something sweet, I continued. They don’t keep anything sweet in the whole house. The day before I ate those apples, I licked all the salt off a saltine just so I could eat the cracker plain. And then the cracker tasted just like a cookie. To me. That’s how crazy I was going. 

My mom nodded her head sympathetically. 

My first month of college, she said conspiratorially, I ate about a box of poptarts a day. 

There was another longish pause as both of us considered what led us to this point. 

My parents are crazy, my mom said at long last. It’s a very peaceful statement to her. I'm sure it was stressful when she first realized it, but she's had a long time to make her peace, and she's made it well.  

Will you go with me? I asked. To feed the ducks?  

He’s not mad at you, she said again. Reemphasizing her point. He’s just mad. It’s just how he is. 

But she went with me anyway.

I watched Grandpa Dale closely the whole way to the pond to see if my mom was right. She was. She almost always is.  He was angry while he drove, and he was angry while he parked and he was even angry while he strode purposefully towards the park. When we got there, he took several grapes, and he angrily put them in his hand, and angrily extended the hand towards the ducks, and he looked at me, and for maybe a tenth of a second he looked okay. Not exactly happy, but a little less mad. Then a duck bit the webbing between his pointer finger and his thumb.

He immediately, without hesitation, without even a second thought, hit the duck with a haymaker⁶. For a human, the punch would have been devastating, but the duck had the benefit of having essentially no inertia, so it just kind of moved sideways and looked perplexed. 

You son of a bitch, my grandpa said. This is a funny thing for anyone to say to a duck, but it was especially funny to hear coming from a former Mormon Bishop. 

Quack,⁷ said the duck. 

My mom started laughing. I'd felt a sort of holy terror at the anger my grandpa was exuding in that moment, but the moment she laughed I realized how absurd it was. I was watching a grown man beef with a duck. I was watching a grown man beef with the world. 

I started laughing too. In a better world, maybe my grandpa would've joined. Maybe he would've taken a good hard look in the mirror and questioned why exactly he was so angry. But he didn't. Instead he swore at the duck some more, and he threw his remaining handful of grapes at it overhand, like a baseball, and then the duck ate the grapes out of the water, and my mom actually laughed so hard she started dry heaving a little, and my grandpa had to go sit in the car for a few minutes by himself to regain his composure. 

¹ He managed to pick blackberries angrily

² Unfortunately, I do this kind of response quite a bit.

³ I got my first kiss from my wife because I managed to capture a duck. They're like, a motif for my life. Very lucky to have that.

⁴ I reference it again in this very weird short story.

⁵ I eat a lot of strange things.

⁶ My wife is concerned people will not know what a haymaker is. It is simply the most redneck kind of punch.

⁷ ...What did you expect it to say?

[bluebellles]

"i'll take a quiet life"

gentle moments of reciprocating their affection

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, sfw

cw: varying relationship stages, brief callbacks to child experimentation (canon compliant), zayne’s describes a poor relationship with food, heavy on dragon sylus sorry i wish i could be different, ur down bad and a little embarrassing in Xavier’s but he’s worse, author is still settling into character analysis for these guys so pls forgive any ooc

Your hunting partner excelled in many ways. His skill in the field was both undeniable and terrifying, his ability to fall asleep anywhere concerned you as much as it impressed you, and his calm demeanor even in the face of the most stressful situations set your mind at ease whenever you fought alongside him.

The only area he truly lacked in, in your humble opinion, was in his ability to give a straight answer about anything to do with himself or his personal life.

He was, in many ways, a vault of information for everything from the history of wanderers to arbitrary and niche subjects that a normal person would have had to spend a lifetime studying to be able to reference as easily as him. If you had a question about nearly any subject, your walking encyclopedia of a partner likely had the answer ready to deliver to you accompanied by a yawn and that sleepy blink of his eyes. 

Answers about himself, however, were much harder to come by. He never declined your inquiries outright, but he had a litany of creative and mildly infuriating ways to dodge the question. He was very adept at distracting you, often with food or confusing questions of his own. You once asked him what he did over the weekend and he pulled a bag of your favorite candy out of his pocket to offer to you, waited until you started munching on it happily, and then just said “and what about you?” as if he had already answered your question. You were also highly suspicious about the timing of his naps on the train to get to missions – always falling asleep right after you try making small talk about where he grew up or his family. 

It's not like you didn’t want to respect his boundaries. He was probably just a very private person or a secret criminal and either way it was ultimately none of your business. It’s just that it was a little difficult to jump into battle alongside another person on a daily basis and trust them to have your back when you couldn’t even get him to tell you about his hobbies. Nothing to do with the way your heart sped up a little seeing him at his desk in the mornings at all. Completely sensible and utilitarian curiosity.

So, rather than continuing to pester him for answers you decided you would simply observe him to get to know him better. Admittedly, as far as subjects for study he was an interesting one. And very nice to look at.

You learned quite a bit about the sleepy man through your observations, jotting down everything you learned in a small, unassuming notebook you kept on hand during work hours. 

For example, he spends an hour in the break room every day eating concerning amounts of convenience store ramen and reading random books about obscure subjects like 101 Facts About Wooly Mammoths and Dating Advice for Older Men. Always a different book, and he always manages to finish it by the time his self-imposed break is over. If anyone tries to make conversation with him during that time period, he will pretend to fall asleep. You’re honestly starting to believe he has narcolepsy or something. Or just very selective hearing.

Contrary to your initial assumptions, he also does have a sense of humor. All of his jokes are told with his usual flat affectation and could easily be mistaken for serious comments, but once you start to look so closely at him it’s easier to pick up on the subtle, teasing drawl at the end of his quips or the way his nose twitches a little with the effort not to smile when he’s messing with you. 

You were in the middle of conducting a very serious investigation about his various micro expressions one night when the two of you stopped by a crepe stand on your way home from work. 

You had already been to the crepe stand a few times a few times with Tara. It was a cute little business run by an older man and his son who had recently graduated from university. You had rambled to Xavier enthusiastically about how they were the only place that had your favorite combination of fillings and how you were craving something sweet, and he had only nodded and said “mh”, which you had learned to translate as enthusiastic agreement.

The owner’s son happened to be running the stand that day and was just as friendly and outgoing with you as always, winking at you when he asked if you wanted your usual. His easygoing smile had faded, however, with a quick glance behind you before he busied himself with making your crepe.

You turned around in confusion, only finding Xavier with the same mild, spaced out expression as always looking innocently off to the side. 

A few minutes later, you dutifully hand over a delicious looking savory crepe filled with meat to the silver-haired man before looking over your own, practically salivating over the combination of fruits and cream. He stared it with what you had recently identified as confusion before looking to you imploringly.

“Not sweet?”

“Oh!” you flustered a little, realizing how presumptuous you had been in ordering for him, “Sorry, I just thought- you prefer savory to sweet right? I mean, when Jenna brings pastries in you always take a croissant instead of a donut-,”

You cut yourself off before you could start listing all the different ways you had been a total creep recently.

“I can get you a sweet one if you prefer,” you whispered out, trying your best to look completely unaffected.

A soft huff left Xavier’s lips, and you looked up to see that gentle half-smile he sometimes gave you and a very soft look in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he assured you, “I do prefer savory things.”

The second half of his sentence, oddly enough, was accompanied by a very smug glance at the owner’s son who looked rightfully confused and possibly a little nervous.

Armed with your contrasting crepes, the two of you chose to stroll and eat, enjoying the gentle spring breeze that blanketed the evening as you walked. Absentmindedly, you mentioned the owner’s son again in passing, praising him for his skill in creating the perfect ratio of fillings. Xavier suddenly made a face you hadn’t seen on him before.

A tiny twitch of his nose, similar to when he was trying not to laugh, but followed by a miniscule pout before he took a rather aggressive bite of his crepe as if it had done something to offend him personally.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to whip out your little notebook to record this breaking update in your investigation but refrained for the meantime, tilting your head to the side and studying him closely.

“Is something wrong with your crepe…?” 

He froze, glancing down at his food contemplatively.

“…Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I’m done,” he declared bluntly, turning to glare at your almost finished crepe with equal hostility, “Are you done?”

“I mean- I guess?” You blinked at him.

“Mh.”

Wordlessly, he took your crepe from you and ambled off to find a nearby trashcan. You took the opportunity to whip out your notebook to catalogue all the new data you had collected. 

The nose twitch was multipurpose – sometimes indicating amusement and sometimes indicating… irritation? And the tiny pout. Did he have a stomachache? More information was needed.

You were so wrapped up your excited theorizing that you failed to notice the presence of someone coming up right behind you, peering over your shoulder to read the words you were jotting down.

“I don’t have a stomachache,” a deep voice rumbled directly in your ear, causing you to shriek and fling the notebook further down the sidewalk. It scraped against the concrete before flopping pathetically next to a storm drain. 

You whipped around in abject horror only to find Xavier’s face two inches from yours, looking at you with an unreadable expression. 

“That was not at all what it looked like,” you lied blatantly, eyes darting between him and the notebook.

“What did it look like?” he asked mildly, his face betraying nothing of his current mood. He was still close enough to you that you could count all of his individual lashes and make out a few tiny scars along his jaw.  

“I’m not stalking you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Mh.”

Xavier didn’t press the subject, instead going over to retrieve the notebook. Mortification rolled over your entire being as he began rifling through the pages. You wished a car was driving by so you could throw yourself in front of it.

“It’s seriously not as creepy as it seems,” you sound delusional even to yourself, “I just wanted to get to know you better.”

While you were panicking and wondering how soon you could transfer departments, Xavier was staring down at the pages filled with your cute handwriting in contemplation.

It would seem that he had underestimated you once again. 

Finding you in this lifetime, as a dying star well past its expiration date, he hadn’t been expecting much in the way of your relationship with him. It was simply an impulse he could not ignore – the honor of being close to you. He sought out your brilliance and would always endeavor to orbit around you but it was hardly even a thought in his brain that you would be drawn to him in the same way. Not when he was so tired. Not when he could only offer you a beautiful afterimage of what he had once been.

He should not have doubted you. In every life, you were always the only one to really see him. The only one to even bother looking beyond his blinding light. After so many years of existence and so many different identities, he only ever really saw himself through the reflection of your gaze. He was a fool to have assumed your soul would falter even if he was scattered across the galaxy instead of whole as he once was. 

“Forgive me,” his voice was hoarser than his usually airy cadence, his gaze more focused than you were used to when he looked over at you.

Confusing as it may have been, you didn’t need your notebook to identify his current expression. When Xavier finally looked back at you, the way you had been looking at him all these weeks, it was impossible to mistake the devotion in his eyes.

Rafayel turned the conch shell over in his hands, letting out a thoughtful hum as he let his fingers dance across the spikes. The outside was a gradient of pretty blues that melted into a soft pink closer to the center. A small sticker with a price that had been hastily covered up with marker stuck to the side. The artist’s eye twitched minutely at the sight of it clashing against the otherwise pleasant color palette, already using a sharp nail to carefully peel it off.

“Isn’t it pretty?” you gushed a little, a self-satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you pointed at the shell as though couldn’t see it, “If you put your ear against it, you can hear the ocean!”

He let out a petulant scoff at this, eyes narrowing at the conch shell like it was guilty of scamming you and he was about to put it on trial.

“It’s lying to you, cutie,” he scowled a bit, as though the conch had advertised this gimmick itself, before pointing dramatically at the waves crashing right outside the glass of his windows, “and did you lose your vision or something? The ocean’s right outside if you want to listen to it so bad. …Maybe if you visited me more often you’d-,”

“No, shut up, I know,” you rolled your eyes and nudged him a little before brightening again, “but still – it really sounds like waves! Besides, I thought you could take it with you when you go on your trip for that client meeting. I looked it up. There aren’t any beaches nearby, the whole city is landlocked. I figured you might get homesick or something. Now you don’t have to!”

Rafayel stared at you. Things had been strange the whole morning, starting from when you showed up at his doorstep lacking any of your usual complaints about his antics and without any coercing on his part. 

You had come to visit him of your own accord? You had looked up the geography of his business trip because you were worried about him getting homesick? He mentally scanned through all the elaborate schemes to get your attention he had acted out recently, wondering which one of them had prompted such a reaction from you. He had been so busy with a new series for a very annoying client the past few weeks and he couldn’t think of anything he had done recently that would have warranted this. So why?

“Besides, it kinda looks like your eyes, right?” You said off-handedly, only half paying attention as you adjusted a setting on your watch, casual as if you hadn’t just said something that made his already rapid heartrate speed into overdrive and the tips of his ears flush a pretty red.

Just when he thought he was starting to get a handle on this version of you, that he had figured out the proper tune to draw you closer, you decided to change the rules of the game again. He supposed he should have been used to it by now. Every version of you always managed to shatter his expectations as easily as you breathed. As unpredictable as the ocean, and just as beautiful to him. But honestly, what was a fish to do? How was he supposed to ever prepare for you?

“Are you trying to win employee of the month or something?” he scrambled a little, whipping his head to the side and trying to keep the squeakiness out of his voice, “I won’t be giving you a bonus for it. Just so you know.”

You scowled at this, glancing away from your watch and trying to swipe the conch shell out of his hands.

“Whatever. If you don’t want it just say that,” you huffed as he held it out of your reach, still without looking at you.

“Be quiet,” he sniffed haughtily, holding the shell up to his ear and pushing you away gently by your forehead with his other hand, “I’m listening to the ocean.”

“I thought you said-”

Insufferably, he hushed you and closed his eyes under the guise of concentrating so you wouldn’t see the softness of his expression. All he could hear was random ambient sound, not even close to the vibrant complexities of the sea that encompassed his birthplace. Even still, as he pictured you carefully rummaging through different shells at the pier market and comparing their hues to his eyes, he had never felt closer to home. 

As much as he'd like to pretend he was the siren ensnaring you into his trap, he was well aware that that honor belonged to you. Regardless of the time or the place or the bodies you both inhabited, your song was a tune that could never be erased from the core of his being and one he would always walk towards willingly. How annoying.

For a man who lived his life with complete precision, who planned out every day with strict control and little room for superfluities, it was nearly impossible not to notice even the slightest changes in routine.

As such, every tiny alteration you made to his otherwise balanced life was meticulously documented and filed away. Not with annoyance or disapproval, as some might expect, but instead with the intention to figure out how to best accommodate for your whims without disrupting his own routines or, infinitely more abhorrent to consider, burdening your own carefree sensibility with his neuroses.

Pausing in the doorway to straighten out the shoes you had haphazardly kicked off on your way in. Making sure you had a glass of water next to your daily iced coffee so that you wouldn’t get dehydrated. Carefully holding onto your hand and keeping you steady as you insisted on walking across the side of a bridge rather than the sidewalk next to him. Despite the stoic expression and steadfast seriousness he exhibited while preforming these simple tasks for you, he did not consider them to be a burden. It was a privilege to bear witness the vivacity you brought into his world.

He was content, in this way, to watch you bulldoze through life with reckless abandon and dutifully reorganize the chaos you left in your wake. It was enough to feel the brilliance of your warm light soak into his cold skin. He would remain steady and controlled for the both of you.

You were, however, a little less content with this arrangement. Zayne was steady. Constant. A stone pillar for you to rest against when you couldn’t handle standing up on your own. You loved this about him, but he wasn’t infallible. Wasn’t impervious to desire and indulgence. You loved this about him too. You just wished he could learn to love it about himself.

You knew your boyfriend loved sweet things. It was something you often teased him about, mostly joking in every respect besides the potential cavities. To be honest, you found it endearing and loved to see evidence of the gentle, sweet man hidden beneath his frosty exterior. 

The only thing that really concerned you about the doctor’s habit was that despite his propensity for baked goods and sugary candy, he didn’t actually seem to enjoy the process of eating them very much at all.

It was often during times of stress that he’d make a detour by the local bakery after a long shift. He would eat pastries as quickly as possible, a stark contrast from his usual habits that left little time for savoring the flavor. It almost seemed like an uncontrollable urge, a shameful impulse that he wanted to push through as quickly as possible. As utilitarian as one could be while digging into a strawberry shortcake. 

Zayne was a tempered man, driven by the ideology that if he lost even an ounce of control, he wouldn’t be able to stop the spiral. He wasn’t someone who could integrate indulgence into his routine halfheartedly. There was no true enjoyment to be found from acquiescing to his desire, only a temporary slip that would be accompanied by unfulfilled resolutions to abstain in the future.

You disagreed.

The two of you had a nice, cozy dinner together every Friday after work. Usually consisting of takeout, often delayed due to both of your hectic schedules, and sometimes taking place on the uncomfortable wooden benches outside the hospital but you always made it happen without fail. 

One night after a good meal with lighthearted conversation about your respective days, you retreated to Zayne’s fridge and returned with a miniature cake and an excited smile.

Zayne stared. It was a pretty cake, artfully piped cream and strawberries between layers of sponge cake with a delicate dusting of powdered sugar on top. His brow twitched minutely, mentally scanning through significant dates or anomalous recent events that could have prompted such an extravagance as you carefully removed it from the plastic bakery box. 

“…What’s the occasion?” he finally asked with great reluctance, disappointed by his own inability to decipher what he was missing.

“Hm?” you blinked, setting out two dessert forks and keeping your countenance deliberately casual, “No occasion, it just looked good.”

He stared at the cake as if it held all the world’s secrets.

“Did something happen today?” he pressed on, carefully assessing your mental state as if expecting you to suddenly have a mental breakdown.

“I had a craving for cake, that’s what happened,” you shrugged, not waiting for him before digging your fork into the side of dessert.

He watched as you savored your bite of cake with simple contentedness, no hint of stress or shame about the enjoyment you took from a useless indulgence. Not giving in to any kind of uncontrollable urge or distracting from any kind of emotional need. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

“You aren’t going to make me eat this whole thing by myself, are you?” you pouted playfully at him, making the puppy dog expression that always got you an exasperated huff followed by the immediate entertainment of whatever you asked for, “It doesn’t taste as good if we aren’t both enjoying it.”

Zayne, as always, weighed out his options out. If it was for you, maybe it was okay. As always.

He picked up the fork and took a slow bite.

After that night you had decided this was now an inherent part of your weekly routine, showing up with brightly colored macarons, beautifully decorated tarts, and decadent chocolate creations depending on what caught your eye at the bakery. You started calling it your ‘mandatory sweet treat’ and continued the tradition without fail. Always eaten in tandem with a balanced meal and shared slowly over happy conversation. A celebration of your bond rather than a shameful impulse. 

Zayne continued to tell himself that he was just playing along with your whims as usual. After all, how could it be wrong when you smiled so sweetly at him as you handed him his fork? 

It wasn’t until one week, when you stumbled into his house flustered after an unusually difficult mission and no time to stop by the bakery before closing that he finally had to admit his own enjoyment for the activity.

There was a brief silence after dinner was finished that week. He stared at the cleared table as if expecting something delicious to appear out of thin air. When it didn’t, he cleared his throat and clasped his fingers together on the table with his usual sense of decorum. 

“…No sweet treat today?” he asked ruefully.

You couldn’t contain your grin, whipping out your phone immediately to scroll through bakeries and ice cream parlors that stayed open late for sugar fiends like your adorable boyfriend.

Something had shifted recently. A tiny change in your dynamic that pricked ever so slightly at the center of his chest. Like everything else with you in this new lifetime, he tried his best not to sink his teeth into it and drag it forcefully out into the open. Used all his self-control to let you tend to it on your own terms and pretended not to notice. 

In hindsight, maybe the first change had been after he showered in your apartment for the first time. He had taken a polite amount of your body wash, trying his best not to infringe on your hospitality like a normal, human house guest, but as the scent of it (the scent of you) rolled over him his pupils had dilated. Fingers clenching against the bottle with the minute tingle of claws that no longer existed trying to come to the surface.

Smelling like you, knowing if anyone else walked by they would associate him with you and you with him, fed that deeply hidden instinct he tried so hard not to bother you with. You had scarcely gotten over your disgustand he was going to do his very best to keep it that way, annoying and primal dragon brain be damned. 

But still, just this once. Just this little thing would be okay, right?

Before he knew it he was drenching himself in the scent. Indulgent and greedy and marked by you. 

When he confessed nonchalantly to having used your entire bottle of body wash, playing it off as a taunt and hoping you didn’t notice the faint flush of his cheeks, he expected your usual annoyance or scathing remark. Some sort of sly dig that he could latch onto and use to keep your attention on him. It was the game this version of you liked to play, and like every version of himself he was happy to indulge. 

Instead, you had just hummed thoughtfully. Eyes a little distant as though ruminating over something in your head. The switch up made him tense just a little. Wonder if you could see through to the most feral part of him and if you would scorn him for it.

“You’ll have to give me a bottle of yours, then,” you said instead, eye contact oddly intentional for the moment, “to make it even.”

He almost jolted in place, clenching his fists at his sides for just a moment before relaxing.

She doesn’t know what it means. How could she? Swallow it down. Keep pretending that you can be human.

“Your negotiation skills have improved, kitten,” he speaks mildly, instead of pinning you to the couch the way he wanted to, “I suppose fair is fair.”

The second shift came in the form of a necklace, elaborately encrusted with bloodred rubies and sparkling diamonds. It rested in its glass case at an underground auction, the gleam of it against black velvet activating that familiar desire to possess and hoard away treasures so that nobody else could have them. He pictured it laying delicately across your neck and had to stop the rumble that threatened to emit from his chest. 

He sprung it on you right before an undercover mission to gain intel about a powerful protocore, one of many he had sought out and curated to spend a little more time with you. Tried to feed you some line about how you needed to fit in with the wealthy crowd you were attempting to infiltrate that night.

He expected you to remark about the exorbitant tastes of the uber rich or fluster about the idea of accidentally damaging such an expensive item and try to force it back into his hands. Both reactions were equally endearing to him, as was everything about you.

Instead, you only looked at him with that same thoughtful expression, allowing him to gently drape it over you and fasten it while narrowly avoiding the urge to take a deep inhale of the back of your neck. 

You examined yourself in the mirror, fiddling with the stones delicately, but your gaze was on his reflection behind you when you spoke.

“It’s pretty,” you spoke simply, your tone of voice one he hadn’t heard from you before. Something more gentle, not quite complacent but almost approving.

As if you were praising his tastes. Praising his hoard. Accepting his courting gift.

It was more difficult than ever to swallow that rumble back down again. The reaction was new, but you couldn’t possibly have understood the delusions you were feeding. Stay human. Keep letting her come to you. You already used up all your luck the first time around, you have to be more careful now.

His eyes scarcely left your neck for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t until days later that the final thread of his self-control snapped. The intel mission had taken longer than expected, and you were staying in his house to avoid the tedious commute from Linkon. A practical solution, he insisted to both you and himself, nothing to do with the primal desire to keep you firmly in his territory. 

He could scarcely pinpoint how it had happened, but sometime during your quiet evening routine of reading next to each other on the giant, plush couch in his living room you had ended up curled between the couch’s arm and him. You weren’t pinned down by any means, but you were entirely engulfed by his larger frame. If someone were to walk by they would not even be able to see you beyond him.

Completely covered on all sides. Protected from threats. Guarded by him. Nothing could touch you tucked so deeply into his territory, surrounded by him and his hoard and completely at ease.

Despite his most sincere efforts, he couldn’t stop the rumble from finally emitting from his chest. Couldn’t stop the deep purr that vibrated throughout him and rolled over you. 

He froze. Cut himself off from making any noise and, for a moment, even breathing. It was with great hesitation that he forced himself to meet your gaze. Fearful of the disgust and reproach that clouded your first meeting in this lifetime making a reappearance as you finally recognized the part of himself, he tried to keep buried for you.

Instead, that curious expression scanned over his face. Your head tilted to the side just a bit. Tentatively, you reached for his hair from where he was resting against your side and began running delicate fingers through it. His breath hitched. You glanced away from him, returning to your book but keeping up your gentle ministrations.

His purring started up again. A tiny smile twitched at the corners of your lips.

Caleb dutifully held the umbrella above your head as though he was getting paid for it, but you caught his gaze drifting to the puddles collecting near the sidewalk multiple times. Your mind drifted to rainy summer days when you were kids, sloshing around in puddles and competing to see who could slosh the most water at the other before Gran would poke her head out the front door to scold you both inside. Something twisted in your chest. Without thinking much further about it, you ducked out beneath the umbrella and took a flying leap into the nearest puddle, delighting in the small splash kicked up by your boots. 

“You trying to catch a cold, Pips?” Caleb’s tone was shrouded in playfulness, the way it always was around you, but underneath it was a brief waver, a sharpening of his gaze that revealed the true panic he felt at even the possibility of harm befalling you under his watch.

 The hypervigilance that couldn’t differentiate between a mild sickness and the sight of your battered, tiny body strapped to a white table. 

“So what if I do?” you challenged him then, hopping to an adjacent puddle and trying to keep the intention out of your voice. He flinched, as if you had just said something absurd. Opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again before trying to adjust to something more casual. Teasing and relaxed instead of the phrenetic and overbearing mess he tried so hard to hide from you.

“If you get sick you’ll have to skip the congressman’s dinner, and I’ll have to go alone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” 

Right. An annual, stuffy dinner party where a bunch of government officials got together to talk about boring politics and pretend it was necessary to use four different forks for one meal. Half of them actively held grudges against Caleb for his unprecedented skyrocket to authority within the fleet and the other half thought he could be manipulated into granting them favors because of his youth. None of them deserved his time, you thought petulantly, not in the way you did. 

“So come get a cold with me,” you rebutted, tilting your head to the side playfully, “Then we can just stay home and play video games all day instead.” 

Caleb paused at this. You could practically see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tried to reconcile his pathological need for your safety with the temptation of staying inside with you all day, just the two of you, maybe curled up together on the couch as you ate snacks he would carefully prepare for you as he nurses you back to health, maybe sick with the same germs. His head tilted to the side like a puppy who had just heard the words walk, treat, and good boy in succession. 

 “…I bet we could even knock out a whole Lego set before we get better,” you sweetened the deal. 

Caleb practically flung the umbrella onto the sidewalk at this, giving no warning before launching himself into the puddle next to you and causing a significantly larger splash. You shrieked in both offense and thrill and splashed him back, reveling in the delighted laugh the usually curated man let out. The grin on his face was a little more crooked and uncontrolled than his usual teasing smile, the shrewd look in his eyes when he looked anywhere besides you just the tiniest bit lighter. It wasn’t a lot, but you were grateful for any amount of levity you could offer to him. Listening to the sound of his unrestrained laughter, something in you settled just a bit. 

For all his intelligence and capability, Caleb’s perception of himself was skewed by his self-imposed reluctance to ever look in the mirror. Caleb believed he was a feral wolf, with teeth too sharp to be filed down and starved by his trauma in a way that meant he’d never feel full again. So instead, he tried his best to show you a puppy. Docile and obedient without any appetite for vengeance or destruction. Someone who could curl up at your feet without you getting scared he’d sink his teeth into you the way he wanted to. You were the only one that knew he was neither.

Caleb was not the perfect, golden boy he spent so much of his life curating for you. He also wasn’t the cold, unfeeling weapon of destruction he desperately tried to hide away from your sight. He was something in between, childlike in his rage and his joy in equal measure. Calculating, certainly, and more than a little manipulative, but the end goal had always been to protect the both of you from a world that had never been as kind as he deserved. Caleb was not a monster, as he thought, or a perfect shield, as he so desperately wanted you to think. He was just a man, and once just a very scared boy. Just yours. And you would spend the rest of your life trying to prove that to him.

[starmaidengarden]

@meime13 request: well, I just read ur rules, and it seems ur requests are open based on what u wrote May I request Housewarden + jamil with a s/o (fem, if u don't mind) who doesn't talk much and is always reserved but when her interests are mentioned, she goes on full yapping, sharing all details she knows and sometimes her speech is incoherent from her stutters and fast her speech is, abt her interests i would like u to make interested in astrology and psychology and she finds observing ppl fascinating thing if u don't mind, I would like it to be romantic and in already established relationship I'm sorry if it's too much, u can ignore it if u want to, all in all, I hope u take care of urself

𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐬/𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝!

— Housewardens : jamil : x gn!reader. no cw/tw. established relationship. dividers : uzmacchiato!

a/n: I accidentally deleted the original request (｡T ω T｡)

Riddle Rosehearts ༉⋆｡˚

At first, Riddle felt a bit thrown off by the silence between you two—wondering if he had messed up somehow. But as time went on, he started to really enjoy the warm and cozy vibe that came just from being around you. One afternoon, with sunlight pouring in through the window, you got excited about astrology and started explaining all the cool stuff about retrogrades and birth charts.

Your words flowed out, full of energy and a touch of nerves. Riddle couldn’t take his eyes off you; your passion was adorable. He even looked up the compatibility of your signs, hoping to see if there might be some connection.

With his teacup long forgotten in his hand, he leaned in closer, eyes wide and fully immersed with what you are saying. The way your eyes lit up while you talked had him totally mesmerized; it felt like you were revealing a secret part of yourself. When you finally paused, a bit shy and apologetic for going on so long, Riddle waved your worries away. “No—please, keep going. I love what you're saying,” he said, his voice full of genuine excitement. In that moment, he realized there was nowhere else he’d rather be than right there, soaking up every word.

Leona Kingscholar ༉⋆｡˚

He’s pretending to be asleep, all relaxed and still, but you can’t help but notice his tail twitches every time your voice hints at something exciting. You’ve settled in next to him under the tree, with warm sunlight filtering through the leaves, making it the perfect cozy spot. As you start talking, your words come pouring out with all the energy you’ve got, and Leona cracks one eye open, a playful grin forming on his face. “So now the stars are telling people what to do, huh?” he says, his voice teasing. You can’t help but roll your eyes at his light-hearted joke, but you keep going, fueled by your enthusiasm.

He’s really listening, though, nodding along and watching you with a soft look in his eyes as you wave your hands around, totally caught up in your ideas. Even if he doesn’t say a lot while you’re rambling on, you know he’s soaking it all in. Later, he’ll surprise you by mentioning something you talked about, and your heart will skip a beat knowing he remembered every little detail.

Azul Ashengrotto ༉⋆｡˚

Azul assumed your reserved nature meant you were like him—constantly calculating, he admired how composed you were around others. However, he was totally caught off guard the first time you started throwing out all these fun facts about psychology. He blinked at you through his glasses, a little stunned. You waved your hands, trying to explain subconscious archetypes, your speech getting tangled in your excitement.

Azul absolutely melted inside. He got flustered and attempted to keep up mentally, nodding seriously even though half of what you were saying was flying over his head because you were talking so fast. He started intentionally researching psychology and astrology terms to understand you better, occasionally dropping them into conversation just to see you light up again. he just listens with warm, kind eyes. “Every word you say fascinates me,” he tells you, smiling softly. “Don’t be shy. Share more with me.”

Kalim Al-Asim ༉⋆｡˚

Kalim lives for your little info dumps, utterly enchanted by the way your quiet behavior changes into vibrant energy whenever you swoop into topics like star signs and personality theories. The moment you start talking, he can see your eyes light up, and it’s as if your passion spills over, igniting excitement in the air around you. Occasionally, you get caught up on certain words, searching for just the right way to express your thoughts, yet Kalim remains completely absorbed.

“Wow! Does that mean I’m a Cancer?” he exclaims, eyes sparkling with curiosity. His questions encourage you to express your thoughts, and your voice bursts with excitement, filling the air with liveliness.

Jamil Viper ༉⋆｡˚

Jamil sees every detail about you — your soft-spoken nature, your subtle expressions, and especially the spark that ignites when you talk about your passions. The first time you share your thoughts on zodiac signs, he stands there, momentarily stunned by your energy. He blinks, absorbing how quickly you change into this lively version of yourself.

“There she goes again,” he murmurs, utterly endeared. A small smirk pulls at his lips as he comes to love this unfiltered side of you, the one that rarely makes an appearance. When you start to lose your train of thought, he chuckles softly, placing a reassuring hand on your back. “Take a breath, dear. I’m not going anywhere.” he says gently. When you analyze the behavior of those around you, Jamil often teases, “Careful. If you keep being so spot-on, people might start thinking you’re a sorceress.”

Vil Schoenheit ༉⋆｡˚

Vil finds your shift into a passionate speaker utterly fascinating. Watching you come alive as you delve into topics like astrology and psychoanalysis fills him. Normally a quiet and gentle presence beside you, he can't help but be drawn in by the energy radiating from you.

As you lie on his bed, rambling on about everything under the sun, he listens closely, fully absorbed in your words while going through his beauty routine. Occasionally, he sets his products aside to give you his complete attention. “Don’t stop,” he encourages with a warm smile, “Your thoughts are as beautiful as the stars you describe.” Your cheeks flush at his compliment, and a warm sweeps over you. Moved by his patience.

Idia Shroud ༉⋆｡˚

Idia was first drawn to you because you were so composed. Unlike the loud, over-the-top people he usually ran into, your quiet nature put him at ease—no pressure, no awkward small talk, just a cozy presence. But things changed one day when he went off on a rant about character alignments—"Lawful Neutral, Chaotic Good, and all that"—and you jumped right in with some deep theories about personality types and why people behave the way they do.

He was so taken aback that it felt like his brain had almost shut down. The first time you became flustered—your words tangled and your speech speeding up as you tried to explain how astrology connects to attachment styles—Idia just stared at you, his hair glowing and huge. He didn't interrupt; instead, he leaned in closer, hugging his knees and listening intently, as if you were telling the most fascinating story he had ever heard. Idia sometimes notices you while you're completely lost in your conversation, your hands waving madly and your eyes shining — and he realizes how alive you are beneath the reserved surface.

Malleus Draconia ༉⋆｡˚

Malleus has always been genuinely fascinated by you—a fascination that extends beyond mere curiosity. You have a quiet, reflective nature that mirrors his, resulting in an connection between the two of you. As you gradually start to share your interests, a spark ignites in his emerald green eyes, brightening his otherwise stoic demeanor. He leans in closer, his entire attention focused on your words, as if every word contains the key to unlocking another side of you.

Even when your thoughts spill out in a rush, tangled and hasty, he remains patient and engaged, nodding thoughtfully as you speak. "Please, tell me more," he said with genuine respect. "hearing you talk is like music to my ears." At times, he leaned forward, a spark of curiosity in his eyes as he asked you to explain the complexities of human psychology. His fascination with your insights into the "mortal heart" shown how much he valued your viewpoint on it

[grenadehearts]

༊*·˚ katsuki writes you letters

katsuki bakugo has trouble verbalizing his feelings, he always has, but he’s also never really cared to try and verbalize them. never had a reason to try and understand the mess of emotions sitting inside him. there was no point—until he met you.

and then it was like something in him cracked open.

suddenly the feelings were too big to hold in his chest, too loud to ignore. he felt everything when it came to you. every look, every laugh, every touch—it all made his heart twist in ways he didn’t understand. he memorized the tiniest things you did, things he wanted so badly to tell you like how beautiful you were, things you did that made his breath hitch. but the words never made it past his lips. it was like his mouth was wired shut, barbed wire ready to catch his tongue if he dared to speak.

so he wrote it out instead.

at first, it was just scraps of paper. little notes folded and slipped into your locker, your purse, the back pocket of your jeans when he brushed by you and let his hand linger at your waist. quick things scribbled in his shitty chicken scratch handwriting—

“ya look really pretty today. that sparkly shit brings out your eyes.”

“s’not good at this but you got this, baby. beat his ass for me, kay? i’ll take you to that place you like.”

letters that smelled faintly burnt, like sugar.

he’d write them fast, shove them where you’d find them, then pretend he didn’t care if you read them or not. but he did. he always did.

and slowly, slowly, katsuki started saying those things out loud. not often. not easily. but he tried. little compliments slipped out between gritted teeth, under his breath, like they cost him something. he’d whisper that he loves you in the dark, voice barely above a breath, ghosting through the air, so soft you almost missed it—

but you didn’t.

and you didn’t say anything back.

you just squeezed his hand, gentle, grounding him into the mattress with you. and he pressed his face into your chest like he was trying to disappear there. like that was the only place he ever felt safe.

but over time, his feelings for you intensified, to the point his soul hung at the edge of his lips with every word he spoke, trying to jump out and bury itself in your ribcage, to mingle whole with your soul, to wrap around your heart, and come to life with every beat.

and every drop of blood he spilled on the battlefield, every bruise, every breath—it was all yours now.

so the letters got longer. messier. he started spilling everything onto the page. all the things he didn’t know how to say. all the things he loved about you. it was raw and unfiltered, his soul mapped out in smeared ink and rushed pen strokes. things he couldn’t tell you with his mouth, but could bleed out of his fingertips.

and somehow, that was more romantic than anything he could’ve ever said aloud.

he held his love for you in his hands, in the ink staining his skin, in the paper crumpled from how tightly he held it before letting it go.

every letter was a piece of him.

and he hoped—god, he hoped—you felt it.

masterlist link here.

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[baby-yongbok]

Look at me like that again

Kim Seungmin x afab!Reader

⤷ Smut [MDNI]

⤷ WC - 0.9k

⤷ CW - dom!Seungmin, dacryphilia, oral sex (f.rec), fingering (f.rec), praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation

You call Seungmin pretty once—he makes you cry it into the sheets

⤷ That middle picture brought me to my knees this morning... and theeennnn this happened♡ [this is kind proof read... just kinda]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You're not even sure when he shoved your panties to the side, only that he’s ruined them now, soaked through with your slick and his spit. They’re still caught around one ankle as your legs tremble, hooked over his shoulders, ankles crossed behind his back to keep him right there.

But that’s not what gets you.

Not the tongue — though that’s working you open with slow, excruciating precision. 

Not the hands — though they’re holding your thighs apart like you’re something to be studied. 

No.

It’s his eyes.

It’s the way they don’t waver.

Sharp. Dark. Locked on yours like he dares you to look away.

“Minnie—” your voice breaks. “You look so fucking pretty like that.” His eyebrows lift, just a little.

“You do,” you choke out. “God, your eyes—keep looking at me. Don’t stop.” He groans, deep and ragged, like he’s getting off on the praise alone. The vibrations shoot through you.

He keeps his mouth on you, blinking up at you with those dark, burning eyes while he traces soft figure eights around your clit, then he pulls back—only long enough to let a long strand of spit fall from his mouth and land right on your swollen clit. You gasp, hips bucking but he presses you back down, fingers splayed over the plush of your thigh. 

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks, quiet. Dangerous.

You nod, breathless, wrecked.

“You like the way I look between your legs, baby?”

“Y-yeah, I—fuck, I love it—”

“Say it again.” He licks a stripe up your cunt, coaxing the words out of you while those fucking eyes stare up, surveying the way your brow furrows and lips part. 

“You’re so—fuck—you’re so pretty, Minnie. You look so good between my legs.” He pulls back only long enough to murmur, “You wanna come while I look at you like this? While I eat your pussy and you cry about how pretty I am?”

You whimper. That’s all he needs.

His hands lock tighter on your thighs, pushing them wider, and he devours you. Tongue fucking, lips sucking, pace quickening until all you can do is hold on. Your fingers thread through his hair, back arching off the ruffled sheets and you sob. Every time you look down, his gaze is there — hot, wild, completely locked on you.

“Oh, fuck, you’re crying?” You try to cover your face but Seungmin is quicker, he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head. “Uh-uh. Don’t hide. Let me see.”

His fingers slip in, press up and curl. “That’s it, baby,” he sets a brutal pace from the start, lewd sounds echo and mix with pathetic whines and gasps. Seungmin leans in and kisses your tears away.

“Oh, she’s gone, huh?” he grins, cocky and hot before going back down and slipping his fingers out of you. He lands a soft slap to your cunt and you jolt, crying out his name. “My baby is wrecked, isn’t she?”

He spits directly onto your cunt—warm, thick—and watches it drip down to your hole before licking it back up with a groan that sounds inhuman

“This pussy's so wet for me,” he mutters, nose bumping your clit. “All this cause you think I’m pretty? Just a couple looks and now you’re begging to come on my face.”

“Seungmin—” he slurps, it’s obscene.

“You’re shaking,” he rasps against your clit. “You gonna cry harder for me, baby? You wanna cry while I make you come all over my fucking face?”

You sob something that might be “yes,” might be “fuck,” might just be your soul leaving your body.

“Good girl,” he growls, sucking your clit between his lips then pulling back, “Cry, then. Show me what that pretty face looks like when you lose your fucking mind.”

And you do.

Your orgasm rips through you like a scream, like a full-body confession, thighs convulsing around his head as you wail. He keeps going—grinding his tongue into you, licking through your orgasm like he’s trying to push you into another. Your body tries to jerk away, but he doesn’t let you.

“Oh, no,” he says, voice hoarse, face soaked. “You're not done. You don't come once and expect me to stop.”

He flattens his tongue again, licks a broad stripe up your slit. You sob, raw.

“S-seungmin, please, please—I can’t”

“God, I love when you beg.” He pressed his face back in. “You can,” he hisses. “You will.” His fingers slip back in, dragging out your climax to impossible heights. You arch, squirm, try to fight it but all it takes is one hand pressing down on your lower stomach to keep you in place.

“I want you ruined. Wanna keep you here all night. Just like this. Pretty little mess crying on my tongue.” Your second orgasm blinds you, hitting and crashing like a wave you never stood a chance against. You’re arching again, sobs clawing their way out of your throat as you shatter, twitching through it while he moans like he was getting off on your taste alone.

And still—he doesn’t stop.

“Too much?” he murmurs, licking through your aftershocks. “Then cry harder.”

His fingers work you open while he kisses up your stomach, dragging his spit-slick mouth along your skin, all heat and menace. The squelching of come and spit is nearly louder than your cries, or your heart hammering in your ears while you fight to catch your breath.

He kisses you—filthy, open-mouthed, forcing you to taste yourself, then he whispers against your lips

“Next time you call me pretty, I’m going to make you come until you pass out. Got it?”

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[sangunary]

Yandere BatFam x other dimension Reader.

SYPNOSIS: In another world they did love you.

IMP: Reader did get neglected in her dimension.

You've never been a figure or anything important, not something worth the light. Even in picture everybody looked so good and you're just there, even just from a glance it's hard to notice you.

You've tried to shine to take that light everybody else have in their grip but the light was purposefully avoiding you.

No amount of grade, beauty or perfection would make you their baby. Someone they cared for.

You weren't some star like them just the black sheep, everybody else have a life they can call theirs but your life was already written out for you, every possible things already carved out by everyone else but yourself.

Unlike Dick you weren't charming or good looking everything about him was amazing and admirable... The first Robin and the first to become their own person. Not even Bruce get to curve his story...

He treat his siblings equally, that was what he preached... It was true. You weren't a family to him, you didn't matter enough to be apart of his family.

Even when Jason decided to started killing you stayed by his side, brought him food and even tried to build an actual relationship but it was no use.

Everybody called you desperate for crawling to him when he needed somebody and the moment he healed(kind of) he throw you away. Ignoring how you were the only one who stood up for him, took all the insult and humiliation for his sake yet he took you for granted.

You took the word, hit and almost got disowned, for somebody who doesn't even care. You almost died for somebody you thought was your brother yet he didn't do shit when the family almost disowned you for staying by his side... Didn't offer home or solace. Just ignored your suffering for his sake.

Tim was smart everything you adore in a brother, stayed by his side spent sleepless nights just to watch over him when he was in the hospital, trying your best to support your brother who you fear might die.

Yes, everyone didn't get enough sleep but you didn't even sleep stayed by his side to make sure no harm could happened to him. Took your time to read book's knowing he can't even hear you, doing everything.

Yet when he opened his eyes he hugged the family and not you, even have the audacity to ask you to go out while they had some 'family' catch up...

Damian was one hell of a monster, yet you never gave up on him. He was just a kid and you wanted to be the admirable older siblings you never had.

It wasn't easy it never was, the constant lie about you to everyone and yes nobody in this world pity you enough to hear your side... Yout life was already hell and it wad just unfair how everybody else got what they wished for and you never get anything... Not even a family.

To the eyes of the media you were the black sheep often left out even in family portraits or any major Wayne gala, just some avarage citizen that was living the life...

Bruce couldn't remember your name's at times blaming it on old age, Alfred only saw you as an extra mouth nothing more nothing less.

Even when The joker kidnapped you and made Bruce choose between you and Catwoman he almost hesitate, you were never the first or second, you weren't an option to everybody... Just some extras living with them to make them look better.

Being you was painful itself, when your family who were supposed to be the hero rejected your presence.

So, when you accidentally step into another dimension you became attached.

Your false family loved you to no ends, you were dead in that universe... Dying a gruesome death.

Yet when they saw you alive even tho you weren't their family they cherished you and most importantly treat you like a family.

There was no more I no more threats just a loving family.

Who will do whatever to make you stay.

"I like this" You told them, you couldn't help but smile.

You've never played games with your actual family before, to them you were an actual bot with nothing interesting.

"Oh, you won't like it for long... I'll beat you"

Tim said as he aggressively nudge at you to make you lose control.

"Hey! That's cheating, someone take him out!"

Barbara stood up for you.

"Everything is fair in games... As long as you're the winner"

Damian speak up as he instinctively grab Tim hoodie and cover his eyes with it. To let you win.

"That's cheating! I should have won"

"Everything is fair in games... Just gotta have the right support"

You couldn't help it, everybody were together. You were finally in the picture, you didn't have to fit in they just have to accept you and they absolutely did.

You couldn't help but tear up, your heart aching slightly.

"Little wing are you okay? Should w-"

Dick spoke before he was cut off by Damian.

"Let's beat up Tim, he made them cry"

"Huh?! Im the one that lost... Your violence towards me make them scared!"

Before anyone else could argue on who made you cry Jason who was just there because of you spoke up.

"Don't be so obnoxious and loud... They're obviously emotional for a good reason. Bunch of wannabe adult in this room"

With that said he would gave you this handkerchief which was very unusual of him.

Taking a seat next to you on the ground as he pick up the extra controller, not even weirded out by your suddenly burst of tears just pure understanding.

Your Jason was the one who kick you aside the moment he felt healed but this one... He was trying his best to comfort you, he didn't like to be so upfront yet he was doing this to save you from embarassment and a little comfort.

Looking at the Handkerchief you couldn't help but smile, the same one you gave to your Jason when he came back but the one you made was burned into crispy by the very person you made for. He took it and throw it inside the crumbling building that was ignited into flames by him.

Called it a waste of fabric and time, not worth his precious time or life even tho you spend weeks stitching everything by hand... You just wanted to encourage him to be better you didn't knew he would take offence to your kindness.

There was some holes on the handkerchief yet it was extremely clean and ironed... He seems to cherish it alot.

"Took it everywhere and I ruined it, it was my lucky charm but you're here now so you'll be a good replacement"

"I don't think being compared to a literal fabric is fulfilling"

Duke commented.

"It's not just a fabric it's made by our beloved sibling here, shame on you Duke, shame on you"

Stephanie tease him with a fake offended look.

"They only made it for Jaybird... Im abit upse- Very upset"

Dick decided to bring another reason to start a full on war again.

"Hey! I want one but with our special logo!"

"This is childish, but I need one for a good purpose"

"Im the oldest so I should be first"

"Want one"

"Enough!"

Bruce spoke up, seems like all the arguing had finally went into his brain.

"As your Father... I am first priority"

"Master Bruce, as your somewhat father I must be the first I insist"

This was what family should be, united and happy. One that are willing to be by yourside even at your worst, willing to take the hit with you and just be ourselves to eachother without shame.

While you were finally getting the life you deserved your actual family were crumbling. Trying to find you, turning every nook and crook up side down.

Gotham was turning into literal hell, they were acting like dog hound pounding onto anyone who they assume have information on your whereabouts.

It seems like they have finally realised your worth. But you've already replaced them.

You were slowly healing but too bad they won't tolerate being replaced.

Watch me flop.

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 09. Oh no!

PREV PART Trigger warning: (past, current) mental + physical + emotional neglect, (name) pretends everything is fine, talking down of oneself, Reader isn't out towards the batfamily yet, mental gymnastics, disabilties are finally talked about, guilt, I think this is my longest chapter yet, pls tell me if I missed any warnings main m.list        series m.list

When you woke up your body felt sluggish as you try to remember what happened, you must have a fever, why else would Alfred be at your bedside sleeping. Seeing him there reminds you of the times your heart ached for his comfort, for the times you wished he would finally stand up for you. But he didn’t, he never takes your side.

Their reaction to you passing out must’ve been extreme, because the moment you tried to manoeuvre past Alfred Dick was there, standing in front of your door with a panicked expression. “You shouldn’t get out of bed,” he says with an attempted smile. It just makes you narrow your eyes and spitefully stand up. You ignore how the room spins and how your pain spreads to your neck and fingertips. It’s almost as if Dick can sense your discomfort (it would be a first) because the moment you lose your balance he’s there to keep you standing straight. “you really are stubborn.”

His words weren’t meant to make you flinch, but they still did. You don’t trust him, and you might never, anything negative from him puts you on edge (even if his statement is true). You never know how any of your siblings will react, and quite frankly you always found Dick the most difficult from all of your siblings. Impossible to read and always wearing that fake smile, he always used that smile when he interacted with you, keeping his real smiles for his true family. “Don’t touch me,” you hiss, raising your voice enough to wake Alfred up and enough for Dick to step back.

“(name),” he whispers as he moves towards you, checking your temperature with his hand not allowing you to flinch away from him. “Good, no fever….” Yet your eyes look anywhere but at his.

“Now that you’ve done the bare minimum to keep yourselves from wallowing in guilt,” you start, ignoring how Alfred’s face falls, how Dick’s breath becomes ragged and uneven. “I want you both to leave, I need to change for school.”

“You don’t seriously think you are going to school,” Dick says as his eyebrows furrow, his arm crossed on his chest. “not after passing out like that.”

You laugh, you couldn’t help it. Now they want to care for your health. “Didn’t you guys not send me to a hospital after I was viciously beaten and possibly had internal bleeding?” you shot back, and finally they look guilty. Their guilty faces and nervous ticks make you smile, finally you feel heard. “I pass out quite often, especially since then, I am going to school so get out, I’m going to be late.”

“At least let me drop you off,” Dick says before Alfred can protests. “it would make sense, Damian’s classes are in one of your school buildings today.”

You laugh. “Oh, he doesn’t want to be seen with me. Don’t you know?” But when you see Alfred’s nails digging in his palm you start to feel guilty. Perhaps Jason’s right and you are being a piece of shit. “But fine, I suppose, just get out I need to do my hair and put my uniform on.”

They listen, but once you close your door Alfred and Dick stare at each other. Having a conversation with each other with just their eyes. You are hiding something about your health, and they’ll force to the doctor if they must. “I’ll brief Damian of the plan,” Dick tells Alfred. “I’ll try to get more information out of them.”

Alfred nods and sighs; “Duke has been helpful but evasive, but it’s clear he doesn’t trust us.”

Dick nods, and he can’t help but think; ‘Who would? If they knew what we did?’

“He’s honouring (Name)’s autonomy,” Dick acknowledges as he brushed his hair back with his hands. “more then we have ever done…”

Awh, the poor bats are becoming self-aware, and guilt is weighing heavy. Too bad that it isn’t enough to compensate for your pain.

You, who had quickly done your hair (honestly you tried, it looks terrible but it is too much for you to handle right now, so it’s alright) and put on your uniform, was now in the kitchen, grabbing a quick bite to eat and make some lunch. It was important to nourish your body after such a health incident. You need to take care of yourself, alright? Otherwise Maria and Duke would absolutely hound you on this. You just wish Cassandra wasn’t here, analysing your every move. “You’re in pain,” she says simply. “you have been for a while.”

“Wow,” you say without thinking, looking over your shoulder slightly amused. “you’ve only noticed now?”

“I’m not talking about mental pain,” she says, and that makes you freeze, dropping your lunch box in your bag and you couldn’t be more glad about getting one with an extra safety lock. “you are ill.” You chuckle, you couldn’t believe it. Cassandra knows, and she has known for a while. “Is it because of Jason?”

You turn around as you place your back on the counter. “What has Duke told you?” you aren’t angry with him, no, whatever he told them, it doesn’t matter. He’s just trying to help. “Or is that just a small personal theory?”

“A theory, Duke has been evasive with his answers,” she admits, her eyes narrowing as she tries to read your body language. But it comes up the same as always, on edge, in pain and angry. “said that he wouldn’t break his future sister’s trust.”

“Huh, so Brucie is adopting him,” you comment.

“But he has told us the full story about what Jason did,” Stephanie says, coming into the room pretending as if she hasn’t been eavesdropping from the moment she realised Cassandra was trying to get answers out of you. “I’m sorry, if I knew-”

You scoff, cutting off her sentences. Your eyes watering, you always wanted acknowledgement of what happened. You wanted these girls to tell you what your family did was wrong. But it’s too late now, and Cassandra could read that. She could see your shoulders tense, biting your lip as you try and keep your breathing steady. You feel unsafe, and she wonders if she didn’t ignore your pain. If she realised the damage they were doing to you, would you be happier? Would you be healthier?

Oh, having a moral compass can be quite difficult, can’t it?

“I don’t want none of your apologies,” you tell them, your eyes look dull and they feel lifeless. Something Stephanie often saw with the victims her father created. Is she just as bad as her father? At this point she would say to a degree. And if you will allow her to, she’ll do anything to make it right. But there is no time for that, Dick is here to drive you to school. “and our conversation is done, Cassandra, be sure to keep your mouth shut.”

While Stephanie hasn’t heard the whole conversation you two had (and could you really call it a conversation?) Cassandra obviously asked something about your health. Something that you have hidden from them all, even legally.

Well illegally, seriously, how did you perfect replicating Bruce’s signature? Even Tim couldn’t replicate it to that degree, if he were to compare your falsified signature with one of Bruce’s actual signatures it barely has any differences (Barbara would love to learn from you). The ink only looks thicker on your falsified one, Bruce always kept his pen-strokes light and precise.

But there is no time to ponder about that right now, they need to focus on you actually getting into Dick’s care. He bugged it with one of his earpieces so that the bat-family could analyse you interacting with Dick and Damian. The two you always interacted with the most before Jason’s attack, but even that was limited.

When you got into the car, you notice how Damian was sulking. Something you’ve never seen him do, besides that one time that Bruce scolded him loud enough that you could hear him from your room. You ignore him and buckle yourself in, joining him on the backseat. “Don’t you want to sit in the front seat?” Damian asks confused, and you shake your head. No way in hell are you sitting next to Dick.

“I don’t like the passenger seat.” Liar, liar pants on fire~!

Damian’s eyes narrow and scratches the skin under his nail. ‘huh,’ you think, absentmindedly. ‘we have similar anxiety ticks.’

With that Dick drives away, trying to build up a conversation. But truly, you couldn’t give a shit. You’re texting with Duke, you have chemistry the first hour, and you want to make sure that he knows that you don’t blame him for letting Bruce adopt him and such. That you just hope that he would keep your back and stay close to you when he joins the family.

Truly, aren’t you embarrassed by this? How insecure can you be?

‘Ofc, I won’t! I swear I’ll explain everything once B signs the papers. Thank you for not being mad :)’ The text makes you smile, once Duke swears something, he keeps that promise. He’s more trustworthy than your mother, she always had her fair share of secrets.

‘I could never be mad at my favourite brother, and you didn’t out me so that makes me not being mad a lot easier /hj’ you sent back before closing your phone, closing your eyes in as you feel stress leaving your body. You’re excited to see him again, you can’t wait to tell your friends about Duke joining your family. It would make your time left there a lot more bearable.

The thought of not being alone withyour ‘family’ anymore made your frown disappear. But it returned the moment you got closer to school. “Drop me off here,” you say, ignoring how Damian’s hand itches. Clearly wanting to grab your uniform jacket. “my friends are waiting for me.”

Dick nods, knowing he shouldn’t push you. You’ll just shut down even more, and it would become even more difficult to re-connect connect with you. He could feel bile rise in his throat the longer he thought about what he has done, about the behaviour he has been complicate in. Oh, but how can he make you see that it was all for the best? How can he make himself see that it was all for the best?

He can’t, he should be on his knees begging for your forgiveness, but he knew that it wouldn’t be enough. He just doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know where he went wrong.

“That was a disaster,” Damian says when he can see you running up to your friends. Dick sighs, but he agrees. Damian knows it, he can see the disappointment on his older brother’s face, it makes him angry at you. But at the same time, why was he angry at you for their behaviour? Why did he give up your love for Jason when he was clearly in the wrong? Is it because of his time in the league, or is there still hatred in his body for you just simply existing?

Oh, what can the bat-family do when all they’ve done is estrange themselves from you? Can they redeem themselves, or will Duke take their place? Will your friends take their place besides your side?

With Duke you would still be apart of their family, but if you were to estrange yourself further from them, go no-contact and acknowledge your friends as your family and only allow Duke in your life they would have no excuse to try and make you understand their side. To try and get you to forgive them.

Because if they right their wrongs, you’ll have to love them. Right?

NEXT PART well, I am using this chapter as a distraction, my grandpa is getting better already tho! And I'm allowed to visit soon, so he's out of any danger zones, if you have any feedback do tell me. I have too many ideas of how to transition to the full yandere part and my brain needs to slow down fr.

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[cherry-coffees]

Caitlyn getting (accidentally) TikTok famous

Caitlyn getting TikTok famous is not something you had planned on.

It isn't something she had planned on, either. One moment, she's filming a short clip showcasing her outfit of the day; and the next, she's getting thousands of likes and hundreds of comments. She had only been wearing her simple black turtleneck, high-waisted pants, and heeled boots: Caitlyn doesn't see the fuss.

But oh, other people do.

Do you do weddings? (As the bride)

Just one chance 😫

Her accent??? I'll do ANYTHING

Caitlyn barely looks at her comments. She's not really on social media to begin with, only posting a few videos a week and scrolling for five to ten minutes. They're short: usually about her outfits, some event in Piltover she went to, or a particularly intense training routine that she worked up a sweat from.

Needless to say, those comments were particularly unhinged.

You sit in bed one night, the comforter pulled over your body as you lay back against the pillows. You're glaring down at your phone, each comment you read succeeding in further pissing you off. Who even are these people, and why do they think they have a chance with your girlfriend?

"What's wrong, darling?" Caitlyn steps out from the bathroom that's connected to your shared bedroom. She's gorgeous: a towel wrapped around her body and her wet hair reaching her shoulders. Loose droplets of water run across her collarbone and down her chest, and you can't help the flare of jealousy that rises inside you.

You know your girlfriend is hot. Still, these sights are for your eyes only.

"Darling?" Caitlyn repeats as she dries her hair with another towel. Her eyebrows furrow in concern at your lack of response, and she steps over to sit on the edge of the bed.

You huff out a sigh, holding out your phone so that the screen faces her. "Have you seen these?" Your eyes narrow as you gesture to a few of the many comments on her most recent video.

"Yes," Caitlyn shrugs like it's obvious, like there's no reason why she should care for them. "I don't know why people like it so much."

"It's cause you're hot." Your voice morphs into a petulant whine as you state the truth. You can't help it; why should you have to share what's yours?

"That doesn't matter."

You cross your arms, sulking as if you're a child. "Yes, it does."

Caitlyn laughs softly, endeared by your pouting form. She considers your words for a moment before she sets your phone on the bed and brings your hand up to her lips. She presses a gentle kiss to the back of it. "I think it's time that people met my girlfriend, hm?"

The next day, a new video is uploaded to Caitlyn Kiramman's TikTok. A clip from the song Out of My League plays in the background as Caitlyn backs up while facing the camera, pretending to accidentally bump into a girl behind her. Then, when the beat drops, she suddenly spins around and lifts you into her arms, carrying you offscreen as she gives you the sappiest smile known to mankind.

And the caption?

Meet my future wife 💕 #wlw

My upcoming idol!Caitlyn fic is SO long and I'm trying to make it the best quality possible for you lovelies! Here are some of my silly Cait ideas while I finish it and try not to die <3

~Cherry 🍒

[kitkatscabinet]

"THE WAYNE SIBLINGS READ THIRST TWEETS"

requested by anon

summary: the internet is horny for you, your brothers suffer for it.

pairings: platonic! dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake x batsis! reader

A/N: 18+, on account of horny twitter users ;)

You and your brothers are lined up in a semi-circle, Dick, you, Jason then Tim, each of you sporting different expressions as the cameras begin rolling.

You and Dick are cheerful mirrors of each other, while Jason and Tim look like they'd rather be anywhere but here as the four of you settle into place.

"So today we're going to have you reading thirst tweets, but the twist is, they're all about your sister." The producer says from out of frame. Abruptly, your brother's moods swing violently.

"No!" Dick cheers, the blinding smile plastered across his face never even twitching.

Jason's frown has evolved from "mildly disgruntled" to "about to start shooting people."

Tim, meanwhile, appears to have stopped working altogether. "Timmers?" You giggle, waving a hand across his face.

"Ew... I mean, people find you attractive?" He scrunches up his nose, and your face turns murderous.

"RIGHT! Listen here you little - " you lean across Jason to strangle your little brother when a giggle from somewhere on set reminds you where you are, and you paste on a practised grin.

"I can see why Damian wasn't invited now."

"None of us should have been invited, this shouldn't be happening." Tim mumbled with a thousand yard stare.

Relishing in his stress, you quickly pull a piece of paper from the oversized thirst jug, staring directly at Tim as you read. "Bruce Wayne's daughter could smack me across the face with a brick and I’d say ‘thank you, mommy’"

Tim dry heaves, face a little green.

"Damn, now I can never use that in bed again." Jason grumbles, causing Dick to spit out his water as Tim gags once more.

"You're disgusting." He kicks Jason as you hum in consideration.

"I don't know, I think I could get behind it."

"Never speak again, actually." Tim fires back.

"Well, if you liked that, then you'll love this one: Sit on my face, I'll pay you, anything! please, SIT ON MY FACE! SIT ON MY-” Dick, who's only just recovered from his previous near death experience starts choking again, making you hit his back a little harder than strictly necessary.

Jason starts attempting to take the jug off your hands, but you quickly dance out of the way, "Oh look, this one's not even that bad." Your brothers look sceptical, but they don't stop you, "She's so fine, I'd kill a man just to breathe the same air as her."

"What is with people and committing crimes?" Jason seems genuinely concerned. How chronically offline of him.

"I attract a very passionate demographic." You shrug.

"You attract future convicts," Dick mutters in devastation.

A shit eating grin covers your face as you read the next one, having lulled them into a false sense of security.

"Need her to pull on my hair like a leash as she fucks me into next week with the strap." Dick wails, falling sideways off the chair like a fainting Victorian woman.

"Hmm, you want the pink or the green one, baby?" you smile seductively at the camera.

"That's it! You're done, you're done!" Jason lunges for you at the same time as Dick, your older brother getting the jug whilst you're hauled over Jason's shoulder.

You shriek, but you refused to be deterred, unfolding one of the papers you'd managed to grab before Dick attempted to thwart your fun. "Not to be dramatic, but if Jason’s sister looked me in the eye and said ‘kneel’, I’d hit the floor so fast I’d break my - hey."

Tim pulls the paper from your hands, staring at it like it killed his puppy. "Why are you encouraging this?" Tim gestures accusingly at the Buzzfeed staff members laughing behind the cameras, before he does a double take at the twitter handle.

"Wait... This is from Roy's Twitter account!" Tim yells, whirling on Jason like he's personally responsible for all of his grievances.

"There's one here from Conner too," You clear your throat, holding the paper far above Tim's head with your superior height courtesy of Jason's unwilling help, "I’d treat you right. You ever want someone to make you cum till you forget your own name, hit me up babe."

Your brothers scream, and you’re having so much fun that you only mildly worry about Conner’s safety in the near future.

(You wonder if you’ll have time to take him up on his offer before his inevitable funeral.)

The video ends with a message flashing across the screen: "Several of the tweets submitted came from Wally West's Twitter account. Some were deemed too explicit to share."

[omegaversereloaded]

Being real if i made a video game i would look at every piece of porn ppl made about it ever i would read every fic and comment on them like im just a random fan and if a character was based off of me i would wanna know how many ppl wanna fuck them

[luna-azzurra]

Enemies to Lovers – Romantic Gestures That Could Burn Down a Kingdom (But Make You Swoon First)

Enemies to lovers isn’t just a trope. It’s a bloodsport. It's sharp words, lingering glances, and two people falling in love while pretending they're not. The gestures here are full of tension, denial, and drama. Because what’s hotter than someone who once wanted to destroy you now wanting to hold your hand?

╰ The “I Hate Everyone But You” Exception

They don’t do favors. Ever. But suddenly your character’s car is fixed, or their name is cleared, or someone suspiciously threatening has backed off. No explanation. Just, “Don’t read into it.” We’re reading into it. Hard.

╰ Bandaging the Wounds They Might Have Caused

Enemies fall in love while bleeding. One gets hurt—physically or emotionally—and the other is the one who stays behind. They patch the other up in silence, trying not to flinch at every touch. It’s a love language. A very stabby one.

╰ The Insult-That’s-Actually-a-Compliment

“You’re insufferable and reckless and… gods, you’re brilliant.” They can’t quite say “I’m in love with you,” so they wrap it in verbal barbed wire and hope you catch the truth beneath it.

╰  Fighting for Them Instead of with Them

When the enemy suddenly becomes your character’s fiercest defender. A verbal sparring match turns into: “You don’t get to talk about them like that.” Yes. That’s growth. That’s romance. That’s literary foreplay.

╰  The Reluctant Confession (aka Emotional Vomit)

It slips out. After a fight. Or in the rain. Or while one of them is bleeding and the other thinks they might lose them. “I don’t know when it happened, but I care. More than I should. More than I want to.”

╰ The Jealousy Meltdown

Watching someone else flirt with their former mortal enemy-turned-emotional-trauma-partner is agony. Cue the sulking, the sarcastic digs, or even a protective arm around the waist. “I thought you hated me.”, “I do. Just not when they’re looking at you like that.”

╰ Touch That Lingers

Accidental shoulder brushes. A hand that stays a second too long. Pulling them back by the wrist. They're not even sure when the touch went from "tactical" to tender. But we all felt it.

╰ Burnt Bridges, Rebuilt with Care

They say sorry. Maybe not directly. Maybe it’s “I didn’t mean it” or “You didn’t deserve that.” But for someone who used to only speak in daggers, that apology is a love letter in disguise.

╰ Sacrifice, the Ultimate Plot Twist

The character who swore they'd never care—who literally plotted the downfall of your protagonist—is now taking the hit. Protecting them. Giving something up. Choosing them. And not because it’s noble. Because they can’t stand the thought of losing them.

╰ The Kiss That Ends a War

When words fail, and emotions bubble over, and suddenly they’re grabbing each other like salvation. That kiss? That’s not just a kiss. That’s 100 pages of tension, regret, longing, and fury turned into a moment of surrender. (You know the one.)

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 51: Back To The Start

Summary: Now that you're back on base there's some adjustments that have to be made in order to make things as painless as possible.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 9,471 words

Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, angst, emotions, flashbacks, PTSD, angst, military inaccuracies, weapons, angst, language, some rehashing of previous chapters events

A/N: So this went in a different direction than I planned but we'll get there soon enough. This story is going to be 392040 chapters long atp

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“I told you this was a bad idea.”

“We didn’t have any choice.”

“There were ways to do this that could have avoided bringing her here.”

John stares hard at Simon, into the gap in his mask where his eyes stick out. He had donned the mask before they left the cottage, reverting back to old habits. He knows why Simon does it, why Simon insists on keeping himself hidden from those outside his pack.

He would have preferred to have this conversation in his office, away from where you might overhear, but the alpha had been on him as soon as they were away from the rec room.

“Like what?” He asks, crossing his arms.

“We could have gotten an apartment.”

“She couldn’t be left there by herself. That would be too dangerous.” John counters.

“We could have taken her to one of our families. Let her stay with them.” Simon says.

“I don’t know how long this will take. It’s not fair for us to burden them with taking care of our omega.”

Simon stares at John for a long moment. “You’re afraid of separation.”

John swallows thickly. Of course Simon would be able to read him so easily. “The last time I left her I nearly lost her. I’m not willing to risk that happening again.”

“So you’ll keep her here where she’s unhappy?” Simon gives him a look. “What are we going to do when we have to train or run drills? We don’t have anyone to lean on this time. We can’t leave her in here alone.”

“One of us will stay here with her, or we’ll bring her with us. We’ve done it before.” John hates to admit that Simon is right, but there’s no other option. “It’s only for a few weeks. This is the best option and we’ll do our best to make this as painless as possible.”

Simon stands up straighter, getting close to him. “It’s going to be painful for her no matter what. She’s not like us, John. She can’t just forget.”

Simon brushes past him, heading down the hallway before turning left towards the rooms. John hates that Simon is so right, but he’s brought up good points. They don’t have Dr. Keller to lean on this time. He knows if he called she’d come back without hesitation, but he won’t. She’s moved on to her new life and she deserves to live it. He can’t leave you here alone again, not after what happened the last time he did that. He’s worried, but he knows there really is no other option for them. They have to do this, have to make it through the next few weeks and hope his paperwork gets processed sooner rather than later.

The couch is just as uncomfortable as you remember. It never was comfortable, but it was what you had available. Now, after seeing what you could have, it’s almost unbearable. You miss the soft couches, the soft light, the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. You miss the soft colors and the warmth, the freedom that the cottage presented.

Now you’re trapped back in a prison, a prison of nightmares. It’s not just unwelcoming, it’s depressing and full of horrible memories. Broken promises, insecurity about yourself and your pack, anxiety about every aspect of your life, fear that something might happen to you or your pack, terror from the threat on your life. So much heartbreak has happened here that being back in it feels as if your heart is breaking all over again.

“I know it’s hard.” Kyle says softly. Your head is pillowed in his lap, his fingers gently massaging your scalp. There’s a blanket tossed over you, one Johnny had dug out of the boxes currently stacked in the hallway.

They’d abandoned unpacking and moving boxes as soon as your panic attack happened. If you weren’t so upset still, you’d almost find it endearing. How much they’ve changed from the cold, battle-hardened soldiers you met over a year ago.

Johnny is cleaning the rec room, keeping his hands busy after affirming you were going to be okay. Were you really? Debatable, but you knew he needed to do something. The barracks haven’t been cleaned in months and there’s quite the build up of dust across every surface. There’s a stale smell as well, not musty but like air that’s been stagnant too long. No one’s been inside to disturb it, to bring it back to life until now.

John and Simon went away to argue. You know that’s what happened as soon as Simon got you settled on the couch with Kyle. You wish John were in here now, comforting you, but you know they’re having a discussion leader to leader, alpha to alpha. What do we do? What can we do?

Nothing.

You can do nothing.

You’re stuck here in your nightmare until John’s retirement paperwork gets processed. That could take weeks. You’ll be stuck here in hell for weeks, forced back into old routines in a place you’ve always hated. Now you have even more reason to hate it.

Quiet footsteps approach the couch. Even after months they’ve never lost that ability. Always light on their feet, always agile and ready to strike at a moment’s notice. You’d never see it coming. You’re lucky McKinney had been far less skilled.

The thought of him sends a shiver down your spine, your leg aching where that scar is. You’ve tried not to stare at it, blanking your mind every time your fingers grazed over it in the shower. You wear a mark now like them. They all have those scars revealing close calls. Now you’ve had your own.

John sits down on the coffee table facing you. He leans his elbows on his knees, reaching out a hand to cup your face. His thumb is rough as it strokes your cheek, running over dried tear tracks. You managed to stop crying. That’s saying something.

“How are you?” He asks, his voice soft.

You almost scoff. “You want me to answer that?” You murmur.

“I know.” He breathes. “I should have thought about that before you came in.”

Yeah, you should have, you think. You wouldn’t dare say that out loud.

“We’ll get the door fixed and keep it closed.” He says. “You won’t have to go in there unless you want to.

I won’t want to. You’d be happy to never set foot in that room again.

“You won’t have to stay here alone, either. You’ll come with us if none of us can stay here with you.” He says, pulling his hand back. “We’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

It’s never going to be painless. Every moment spent here will be misery.

He stares at you for a long moment. You stare back, Kyle’s hand still in your hair, gently rubbing your scalp. There was a time you could have slept like this, but now you can’t relax. Your body is stressed, adrenaline high as fight and flight battle in your brain. You can’t do either, instead stuck in the limbo of freezing. You should feel safe, comforted by his words, his promises...but this is the place of broken promises.

“Now,” He says, putting his hands back on his knees. “We need to go check in, then we’ll get some dinner.” He gives you a weak smile. “Take a minute and breathe. Then we’ll go.”

He pushes himself up to stand, leaving the rec room. Johnny follows, but not before casting a glance your way.

Kyle pulls his hand away, resting it on your arm. “Come on,” He squeezes your arm gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You’re numb as you push yourself off the couch, your legs shaking just a bit from the drop in adrenaline and the nerves still coursing through you. You’re not sure which is worse, being trapped in the barracks or having to leave and face down the rest of the base.

Kyle takes your hand, leading you into the bathroom across the hall. He wets some towels with cold water before gently pressing them against your face. “I know,” He says, moving from one cheek to the other. “I’ll be glad once my paperwork’s in and approved. Won’t miss this place.”

His words don’t do much to quell the twisting in your stomach. “What about Johnny and Simon?” you ask quietly.

“They’ll stay here.” He says, pressing the paper towel against your forehead. “Simon will take over as leader of the team. He might work with Laswell to find new members, or it’ll stay just the two of them.”

“They’ll still get to see us, right?” You ask.

“Of course.” Kyle smiles, gently cradling the back of your head to press the towel over your eyes. “They’ll get to go on leave just like everyone else.”

He dabs at your face, the cool water helping calm your shaking body just a little. You can’t wait for the next few weeks to be over with, when you can leave this place in the dust and never have to return. You love Simon and Johnny but you wouldn’t come back here if your life depended on it. Even if it means going months without seeing them.

Kyle moves the towel to the back of your neck, his thumbs stroking your jaw as he holds it there. There’s a soft smile on his face as he stares down at you. “You’ll be alright. We’ll make sure of that.”

You wish you could believe him.

As much as you the to admit it, the cold water has helped a bit, grounding you out of your state of panic and nervousness slightly. You lean forward, wrapping your arms around Kyle’s waist. He tosses the paper towel towards the trash can where it lands with a wet plop. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close to his chest.

A moment of silence passes before you speak. “You missed that, didn’t you?”

He’s silent for a second. “...No…”

A small smile pulls at your lips as you hold him.

You wish you could say being outside the barracks was better than being in them, but that would be a lie. The nerves are back as the five of you walk towards the main building on base, the one in the center of everything. The last time you were there, you met General Shepherd for the first time, when the cameras were put up in your room. That idiotic moment when you left the barracks with a stranger.

Even now walking with your pack, you feel that nervous edge that had been there the first time. You’re in the middle of them, John leading the way, Kyle and Johnny on either side of you, and Simon picking up the rear. You remember all those times walking back and forth exactly like this. They only did it here, not when you went to town while you were at the cottage. Maybe because they knew you were more in danger here than out in the real world. These are well trained soldiers too, not easily intimidated like the average civilian.

It’s cool inside the building. Apparently no one on base has heard of heating. Not that it was really cold enough outside for it, but you’re beginning to crash from your heightened emotions and your body feels cold and shaky.

John guides you to a chair near the front, easing you down into it. His hand stays on your shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Stay here. We’ll be right back.” His fingers slide to your chin, lifting your face so you’re staring up at him. “You know what to do if someone approaches you.”

You nod. Whether or not you could actually do it is debatable. John stares down at you for a long moment before releasing you, turning his back to guide the rest of the pack away. You watch them go until they disappear behind a door, your nerves starting to pick up. There’s hardly anyone in the building aside from the stray soldier walking by. They give you hardly more than the occasional glance in passing. You doubt they’ve forgotten who you are in the months you’ve been away. Those orders still stand. They’re to leave you alone no matter what.

Time seems to crawl by, your legs starting to shake nervously as you wait for their return. John said it wouldn’t take long, but the minutes are starting to feel like hours. Time seems to pass differently here, slower than it did at the cottage. There’s more to be aware of here. You can’t relax in safety and security like you did there. Even when the threat of Shepherd was still looming over your heads there was still a sense of security at the cottage. You were far from anyone and everyone, free to do what you wanted.

Now you’re going to have to stick to a tight schedule, surrounded by the constant need for hypervigilance lest you face the threat of a cocksure alpha brave enough to approach you, even with your pack around.

That would always be a threat to you as an omega, but here it seems extra prevalent. Here there are rules, here there are expectations. They know better, but that hasn’t stopped them.

You let out a breath of air as your pack walks back through the door, heading towards you.

“Aright?” John asks, his hand on your back as you stand.

You nod. Are you really? Debatable, but nothing happened while they were gone so you have to say yes.

“Let’s get some dinner then we can work on unpacking.” He says, glancing at the rest of your pack before taking your hand.

You walk with him, the others following as you make your way towards the mess. It’s late enough it’s going to be full. You didn’t miss the mess. You didn’t miss having to eat in front of others at set times. The guys liked to keep a schedule, but it was your schedule at your own times. Now it’s entirely dictated by someone else.

You can’t wait to finally be free again.

John keeps his hand on your back as you enter the mess, eyes turning to you. They’re all staring, all glancing your way as you make your way to the line. They’re all wondering why you were gone for months, why you came back. They want to know but they never will. They’ll wonder again in a few months when you and John and then eventually Kyle drive away and never return, when it’s just Simon and Johnny showing up. You wonder if any of them will be the ones chosen to join the task force, which of them Simon would choose, if any.

You do wonder if he’ll choose anyone. It would be different, since they wouldn’t be part of your pack. You know Simon would never allow anyone else to join. It’s the five of you and that’s it. You have your dynamics, your balance settled. Anyone else runs the risk of disrupting it, turning it on its head.

Most of all, you know they wouldn’t be allowed near you.

John fills your tray for you, not forgetting his duties even back in this setting. At the cottage he made your plate, here he fills your tray with what he knows you might eat of the offerings tonight. It all looks so bland, so...beige. Formless slop with a side of mushy peas.

The five of you find a table near the back of the room, thankfully away from most of the prying eyes. You sit between Kyle and John, Simon and Johnny facing you. It’s like riding a bicycle, back to the automatic patterns even months spent away couldn’t break.

You stare down at the unappetizing meal on your tray, your mind already back to home cooked food, even if they were only okay at cooking. It was still infinitely better than this sad excuse for a dinner that you just know it’s going to be bland as hell.

They have no problems diving in. They’ve been eating this food for years, no doubt only thinking of nourishment and not what they’ve left behind.

You’re fighting tears as you attempt to cut what you think is chicken. It’s slightly tough, overcooked most likely. It doesn’t taste any better than how it looks, seasoned with hopes and dreams of what might have been good chicken. You wish you could go in there and cook your own dinner for your pack, give them the food they deserve to eat.

You pick at your food, eating and chewing slowly as you try not to think about it. You lived on this food for months, you even enjoyed eating it sometimes. You can do that again, slip back into that headspace where you had to do things, where you had no choice. You have no choice now?

“Everything okay?” John asks, glancing down at your still full tray.

“Yeah, just...not hungry.” You say. You’re starving, but you’re too busy grieving food with flavor and defined edges.

You should eat. There’s no snacks to go back to. They’re all probably expired and stale after months of sitting. Besides. Most of them are probably in your room anyway. The last place you want to go is in there, even out of desperation for some kind of good food.

“At least eat your peas.” John says, nodding to the mush of green in one of the sections of the tray. They don’t look in the least bit appetizing.

Tears gather in your eyes again as you acquiesce despite your reservations, spooning a bit into your mouth. They’re just as mushy and bland as they look, and you don’t waste much time chewing.

They’re all watching you as you eat, their own trays mostly clear. You feel a bit like a child forced to eat your vegetables before you leave the table. Shame burns hot in you and you quickly finish off your peas before downing the rest of your water.

“Good girl.” John says, patting your back before taking your tray. Your stomach is churning, and you feel a bit like you’re about to be sick, but you hold it down. This is the last place you want to cause a scene...another scene. You’ve already done that once.

You won’t be doing it again.

You cough a little as more dust flies up into the air. There’s a thick layer of it over everything and it’s currently being kicked up into the air by John’s dusting. You’re seated on his bed on a blanket, the sheets stripped to be washed. All of the washers are going right now, one for each of them filled with blankets, sheets, and clothes. Tomorrow they have to go back to wearing their uniforms again. You’ll miss the look of Simon’s ass in jeans.

There’s a bear in your arms, squeezed tight against your chest as you watch him clean his bookshelf. You’re trying to silence the quiet gurgling of your stomach. Whether it’s hunger or your body’s protest to the mushy peas you’re not quite sure.

“You doing alright?” John asks, deeply focused on cleaning the shelf he’s working on. The books are stacked next to him, each one getting a thorough wipe down.

“Yeah.” You say, rubbing some of the bear’s fur between your fingers.

“You want something to read?” He asks, glancing up at you.

You shake your head. “No, that’s alright.”

He sits back on his heel, pausing what he’s doing to stare at you. “You’re turning down a book?”

You shrug, dropping your gaze to the bear in your arms. “Just don’t feel much like reading right now.”

John hums before pushing himself up to stand. He sinks down on the bed next to you with a sigh, his arm wrapping around you to pull you against his chest. “I’m sorry you have to do this. I wish I could make it easier.”

“I hate it here.” You murmur, still holding your bear close to your chest.

“I know. I know you always have. You were here because you had to be and now that we’ve all gotten a taste of what life could be like...it’s hard to come back.” His hand rubs your arm. “Even if I hadn’t already decided to retire, I think I would have been pushed in that direction after coming back. If nothing else I’d suck it up and take a desk job and move us off base.”

His words give you pause for a moment. “Why didn’t you do that? Why fully retire?”

“It wouldn’t be the same. I’ve always been a man of action, out in the field, fighting to save the world. Better to be out completely than sitting behind a desk knowing I could have been out there myself.” He squeezes you gently. “At least if I retire I can learn to relax.”

It falls silent between the two of you for a moment, John’s scent soft and relaxed. It’s helping ease the turmoil in your mind just a bit. He’s trying hard, you know that. You know he means it when he says he’s sorry for bringing you back here. He really does feel guilty for what happened to day, for what this place means to you.

He sits up straighter, his arm dropping from around you. “I have an idea.”

He pushes himself up to stand, holding out a hand for you. You take it, frowning a bit as he pulls you up to stand next to him. He kneels down, putting the books back on the shelf before standing again. He starts to dig through the boxes, pulling out blankets, stuffed animals, and pillows before stacking them on the desk and underneath on the floor.

You take a couple steps back towards the bathroom door as he grabs the mattress, sliding it down to the floor. He shoves it up against the desk before standing. “Be right back.” He disappears out the door.

You stand there, watching the doorway as he makes his way down the hallway, calling for all of them to bring their mattresses and blankets. It’s not hard to figure out what he’s doing. You’re just not sure why.

John reappears in the doorway, a small smile on his face. Simon’s not far behind him, dragging his mattress into the room. He shoves it in next to John’s, dropping a pile of blankets on it. You didn’t even know he had so many blankets. He’s always seemed like a one rough, ratty blanket kind of man.

Kyle and Johnny appear at the same time, nearly getting stuck in the door at their excitement to add to the growing nest. It’s a nest. John’s making a nest for you.

John starts to arrange your blankets across the four mattresses squeezed onto the floor. They’ve all brought their own blankets, likely ones picked up while at the cottage or ones they washed and dried. You stand there as they arrange the pillows and blankets, trying to make a perfect nest for you. You haven’t nested in months and here they are trying to build you one instead.

Tears start to slide down your cheeks, a quiet sob leaving your lips. All four of them look up at the sound, pausing in what they’re doing.

“What is it?” Kyle asks.

“Is it wrong?” Simon asks at the same time.

You shake your head, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “It’s so sweet.” You cry, holding your bear tight against your chest.

“Aw bon, c’mere.” Johnny holds his arms out and you move forward into his hold.

The other three surround you, folding yourselves into a group hug as you cry. The action nearly makes you cry harder as you’re enveloped in their warmth and comfort. Their scents surround you, seeping into your brain and deep to where your omega has been pacing back and forth, awakened thanks to your fear and the perceived threat looming in the back of your mind.

It’s nice, being held by them, surrounded safely in their arms. You don’t think you’ve ever been held like this by them, all of them at once, securely in the middle of their protective circle. It makes you feel warm, fighting off the inevitable chill of the barracks that seeps into your very soul.

You don’t want them to let go, but you let them. You can’t stay that way forever, no matter how badly you want to. You don’t doubt they’d stand there until their legs gave out if you asked them to.

“Better?” Johnny asks, gently wiping your tears.

“Yeah.” You breathe, sniffling still. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Kyle kisses the top of your head. “You know we’d do anything for you.”

“I know.” You give him a small smile. “Even murder.”

“Just tell us who.” Simon says, looming behind you.

“Thankfully no one right now.” You say, plopping yourself down into the nest. “But I’ll let you know.”

“Good.” Simon says, staring down at you for a moment before heading towards the door.

“Where are you going?” You ask.

“Gotta get ready for bed.” He shrugs before leaving the room.

“Right.” You say, looking down at your clothes. You should probably get ready too.

You crawl over to the boxes of clothes, popping one open before digging through it. It’s a box of John’s stuff but that’s alright. That’s what you were looking for anyway. You pull out a t-shirt for you, before moving on to another box, looking for John’s pajamas.

“What are you doing?” John asks, watching you dig through his neatly folded clothes.

“Looking for your Pj’s.” You say.

“Probably won’t need them tonight.” He says. “It’s going to get warm in here.”

You sit back on your heels. He’s right. The last time you’d all slept in the same room it had gotten unbearably hot. You shrug before pulling your shirt over your head, ditching your bra and pants before pulling John’s shirt over your head. You turn to stare up at him, his eyes hooded as he stares down at you.

“What?” You ask, wiping your face in case you’ve been wearing remnants of mushy peas that no one told you about.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, pulling his shirt off. “Just thinking about how beautiful you are.”

Your face warms at his words, your stomach fluttering. “Don’t,” You say unconvincingly. “You’re gonna distract me.”

“Good.” He smirks, undoing the button on his jeans. You watch his fingers as he pulls the zipper down before looping those fingers into the waistband and tugging.

Your eyes follow them down before trailing back up his body to his face. He’s watching you as he steps out of his pants, kicking them over towards the bathroom door. You lick your lips, staring at his face for a moment before crawling past him, grabbing your big bear from the spot on the floor at the end of his bed. You drag it over to the middle of the nest, situating it next to where you’re going to lay. Right in the middle between them all.

You situate the bear before getting up, heading to John’s bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face.

“Bloody hell.” You hear Simon say, no doubt about the bear. It has a smile tugging at your lips.

You try to hide that smile as you step out of the bathroom, climbing back into the nest. Simon has settled himself closest to the door, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants. Your mood has been steadily improving since this new development, your eyes trailing across Simon’s back as he sets his phone on John’s shelf.

Johnny and Kyle enter, both of them forgoing shirts as well. Johnny is in nothing but his boxers, Kyle a pair of shorts. They’re trying to kill you, you know it.

Distraction: successful.

You settle yourself in the middle next to your bear, slipping under one of the blankets. Kyle tosses a couple more onto the pile, still warm from the dryer. Johnny plops down on your right, between you and Simon. He wraps his arms around you, tugging you against his chest. You just barely manage to get your arms around your bear, pulling it with you.

“No fair.” Kyle pouts, settling himself on your other side.

“Shoulda been faster.” Johnny says, spooning himself up against you.

You wrap your arms around the bear, holding it close against you. Johnny’s arms stretch across your middle to wrap around the bear as well, nearly suffocating you between them.

Kyle huffs, laying on his back. “I’m starting to realize why you hate the bear so much.”

“Insulting, isn’t it?” Simon mumbles from behind Johnny.

“Give into the bear.” You say, reaching over it to blindly find Kyle’s arm. You tug him over, or at least try to. He scoots closer, letting you pull him close against the bear.

He drapes his arm across the bear and across you to rest it against Johnny’s side. The room goes dark as John turns out the lights, making sure the door is closed and locked before moving to lay on the other side of Kyle.

“Can you breathe in there?” He asks before settling down.

“Yes.” You answer, your voice muffled from the fluff of the bear.

“Get some rest.” He says to everyone, his phone thunking as he sets it on the desk. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Kyle and Johnny grumble, no doubt dreading what tomorrow is going to bring after being spoiled for months. There will be no sleeping in, no lazing around, no more slow mornings. Now it’s only rise and grind, something you’ll have to get used to as well. You don’t want to be left alone here, no matter how badly you want to sleep in. If getting up early means getting out of the barracks sooner, you’ll take it.

You lay there, listening to their breathing even out. You’re jealous of their ability to sleep anywhere at any time. A learned skill in the field, you know. They never know when they’re going to get the chance to rest, so you have to be able to drop off at any time. You’re not so lucky.

It’s quiet in the barracks, too quiet. You can hear every breath, every small creak of the building as it settles. The door is locked and you have four very well trained soldiers surrounding you, but still you can’t shake that paranoid thought. What if someone gets in? What if someone comes back for revenge? What better time to strike than at night when you’re at your most vulnerable? It was dangerous coming back here.

You won’t be getting much sleep tonight.

It’s still dark out when his alarm goes off. He’s wide awake as soon as the sound starts, his hand reaching behind him to grab his phone and quickly silence it. It’s enough to rouse the others, quiet groans of displeasure reaching his ears.

Simon lets out a breath, wrapping his arms around the soft body against his chest for a moment. A soft body. Too soft.

He turns on his phone screen, glancing down.

He’s snuggling the bear.

He lets out a scoff, shoving it down off the end of his mattress.

4:30 his phone screen tells him. He’s been getting up early since the arrival at the cottage, unable to retrain his natural clock. Only, instead of getting up most days he just laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, pondering his life choices, thinking about what was going to happen next in his life, worrying about who might come after them on Shepherd’s behalf. It was senseless to worry, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop the racing thoughts, the fears that filled him, the images in his head. Shepherd would get rid of them to cover his ass. He’d never be safe so long as the 141 was out there, just as they’d never be safe so long as Shepherd was out there. Two missiles heading right for each other where they’d inevitably meet in the middle.

Now it’s over. Now they have nothing to worry about. Shepherd is gone, the threat has been removed from over their heads. John trusted they were safe enough to return here to base. Simon wishes he could be that positive.

He pushes himself up to sit, rubbing his eyes. The others have settled again. They won’t get up for another thirty minutes, maybe an hour. He’s always the first up, always the one starting the earliest. It feels good, getting back into this routine, this predictability. He likes it. He needs it.

He casts a glance across the four sleeping bodies next to him. John had gotten up to plug in your nightlight, giving the room a soft glow. Johnny is starfished across an entire mattress, Kyle curled up next to him. Simon’s startled to see you sitting up rubbing your eyes. John is on his side next to you, arm outstretched where you had been laying.

Simon crawls over, your head lifting to look at him. “Go back to sleep.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You let out a quiet sound, half murmur, half whine as he eases you back onto your back next to John. He tosses a blanket over you before standing, stepping back over Johnny’s legs towards the door. He steps on the bear on his way, not even looking down as he unlocks the door before turning the nob.

It’s bright out in the hallway, his eyes burning as he squints. He can understand your hatred of overhead lights in moments like these. He’s more than capable of moving in the dark, but the eternal fluorescents in the hallway render that skill useless.

He quickly changes into his gym clothes, slipping on his runners before hesitating, his hand hovering over the drawer to his nightstand. It’s been weeks since he’s put on a mask. He got so used to not wearing one it almost feels strange to don the characteristic skull-print balaclava once more. He could go without one. He could choose to bear his face to the many soldiers on base for the first time, but anxiety churns in his stomach. They’ll stare, they’ll point, they’ll talk.

No, he doesn’t want that.

He opens the drawer, pulling out one of the masks from the stack of them that have been sitting for months. It’s free of dust from having been shut in the drawer but he dusts it off anyway, staring down at it for a moment. He could choose not to, but that could complicate things. He pulls it over his head, situating it in place before heading out the door. There’s still an early spring chill to the air as he makes his way across the road towards the gym, his breath visible. It’s quiet on base, not many up this early since they don’t have to be. Usually there’s only movement this early when there’s a drill being run.

Soon he’ll be the one running those drills. Well, he’ll be running Johnny through those drills. Soon it’ll be just him and Johnny against the world.

He can hardly believe it. He never thought John would retire like that, though things have changed since your arrival, he supposes. You’ve changed all of them and priorities have shifted. John did what he needed to do. He eliminated the threat against his pack and now what’s left for him? He’s seen how you reacted to being back here, they all have. It’s torture for you and Simon hates it.

He enters the gym. It’s quiet, no one up yet. Just the way he likes it. He steps into the weight room, setting his phone on a bench before he begins stretching. He tried to keep up on his fitness at the cottage. Pushups, situps, jogging when he could. He knew coming back would be hard regardless after months away being spoiled. It had been nice, despite his inability to accept that kind of life.

Sometimes he wishes he could retire that easily. When he saw your face, how happy you were when John revealed his decision...it struck something inside of him. He always knew he’d be in this life as long as he could. He’d either die in the field or be forced to retire. Most days the former seemed the most likely option. The idea of being forced behind a desk was enough to drive him crazy.

That’s why John is leaving, though. He’d never be able to survive behind a desk. Better to be out completely than forced to watch others out saving the world knowing that could have still been you. It’s going to be hard. People like them don’t make that shift to civilian life easily. He’s glad Kyle is going too. John’s going to need support that you can’t give him. You don’t know what it’s like. You won’t understand when the nightmares hit, when the itching begins beneath your skin, when your hands start seeking out the comfort of a gun between them again.

What is he going to replace it with? What is he going to do to keep his mind and his hands busy? Fishing? Farming? Maybe he’ll get a dog. A big one he can take on runs. Long runs to keep his mind clear, give him some sort of familiarity of the life he’s spend more years in than out of.

Maybe he’ll fully settle down and you’ll have pups.

The mental image of you greeting him at the door with a fat baby on your hip has him twitching in his shorts.

Fucking hell, Simon, he grunts as he racks his weights.

That would be down the road though. The first battle is getting settled, figuring out how to live in the civilian world. That’s going to take time. He almost wishes John would get a place in Hereford where Simon and Johnny could stay, but he understands. He knows John wants to get as far from this life as he can, get you as far from this life as possible. He’ll get you your little house by the sea, let you live out your domestic fantasies.

Simon’s happy for you two. He’s happy for Kyle.

That doesn’t stop the bitter taste of jealousy from rising in the back of his throat.

It’s still dark out when the next set of alarms go off. Two of them ringing loud in the air. Kyle and Johnny move almost in sync as they reach for their phones on the floor above the nest, silencing the alarms. You’ve been awake since Simon’s went off. You’ve been awake most of the night, the hours crawling by as you drifted in and out of a light sleep. You wanted to get up with Simon, go sit with him in the gym or something, but he’d forced you back into the nest, back into a sleepless hold. John stirs beside you again, his arm shifting from beneath your neck. You wonder if he’s going to get up now too. You wonder what he’s going to do with his day. Go on like normal or is he going to do only what he has to for the next few weeks?

You can’t be sure.

Johnny and Kyle both sit up rubbing their eyes. No doubt it’s rough going from sleeping in and being lazy to having to be up early and start the day right away. You’d probably be feeling the same if you could have slept. You go to sit up too but John’s arm wraps around you tighter, keeping you down with him.

“Morning, love.” Kyle rasps, leaning over to kiss your sweaty forehead. “Get more sleep.”

You wish you could.

Johnny rolls over as Kyle stands, rolling until he’s face to face with you. “Enjoy sleepin’ in while ye can.” He says quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’ll see ye later.”

Both of them leave, your eyes squinting against the stream of light from the hallway. Silence falls once they’re gone, John breathing evenly behind you. You want to get up, go get ready with them and head to the gym if only to sit and watch them, but John’s grip around you is firm.

“Did you sleep?” He asks, his voice rough with sleep.

“Not really.” You admit, knowing he’d probably know if you were lying.

He hums, his face pressing against the back of your head. “We’ll stay here until they get back.”

“Not going to work out?” You ask.

“I’ll do it later.” He says. “We’re running drills after breakfast. See just how out of shape we all are.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Yes.” He answers, tightening his hold around you. “Wouldn’t be fair to leave you here alone.”

“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself for me.” You say despite your relief at his decision to bring you along with him. “I’d be fine.”

“I’m not sacrificing anything.” He says firmly. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not after what happened last time.”

“You’re scared.” You say quietly, laying there in his tight hold.

“Of course I am.” He breathes, shifting slightly behind you, almost as if you realization is uncomfortable for him. It probably is. It must take a lot for him to admit that he’s afraid. For a while, you weren’t sure he could feel fear. “I nearly lost you.”

“John?” You breathe, tears gathering in your eyes. “Would it have happened anyway?”

He pauses for a moment, just a brief second but you hear it loud and clear. “Inevitably. They would have used you no matter what. It was a fail-safe. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.”

“It’s not going to happen again, is it?” You ask, speaking aloud your fears even if they are irrational.

“No.” He says, his lips brushing your ear. “I won’t let it.”

“I’m scared.” You breathe, a tear sliding down your cheek.

“Don’t be.” He says, tightening his hold around you until it borders on painful. “I’m right here.”

You’re not sure how long you lay there, pinned tightly against his chest. You wish you could sleep but you’ve been awake too long. Your pulse races in your ears, muffling any sound that might indicate something is wrong, your paranoia heightened in your exhausted state. You want to believe John, but you know men like him have enemies. Perhaps you’ll never be safe, no matter how much he tries to reassure you. They all have their enemies. Sooner or later one of them has to come for you.

An hour goes by fast, your brain in turmoil as the thoughts race. John doesn’t let up, his hold around you tight. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s nothing he could say. All he does is hold you, breathing slow and even, his chest pressed against your back.

The barracks door opens and you flinch, the squeak of tennis shoes coming down the hallway. You hold your breath, preparing for the worst. You’re in front of John, you’re the one in the line of fire. You brace yourself, squeezing your eyes closed as the door handle turns.

“It’s pishing it doon out there.” Johnny says, sticking his head in the door.

He’s soaked, mohawk flat and dripping water into his eyes. That explains the squeaking shoes. No one trying to sneak in would take that risk.

“English MacTavish.” Simon’s voice floats down the hallway.

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Ye know what I mean.” He turns to look back at you two still in bed. “Dress warm.”

He closes the door, heading off to go shower most likely. John doesn’t move for a moment, still holding you tightly. No doubt he felt your flinch, sensed your fear before you realized it was Johnny. The paranoia is running rampant this morning, your mind stuck in a loop of fear.

“Come on.” John says softly, finally releasing you. He sits himself up behind you, leaning over your body. “Let’s get dressed. Go and get some food.”

You don’t want to get up. The prospect of moving your body feels daunting. Yet, you don’t want to lay here either. You push yourself up to sit too, John leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. It’s so soft and gentle, the opposite of the thoughts racing through your head.

He pushes himself up to stand, moving to his closet to pull out a uniform. Back to playing the soldier. He really is playing this time. In a few weeks he’ll be officially retired and the two of you will leave base never to return again. You’ll move on to some semblance of a normal life, playing at domesticity. Not long after Kyle will join you and it will be you and your pack with Simon and Johnny playing the satellite. Maybe some day they’ll take the plunge and join you.

You crawl over to the boxes, digging through to find your own clothes. You wonder if he’ll bother unpacking anything from these boxes. Or if he’ll just leave them so they’re easier to grab once the two of you do leave.

John goes into the bathroom while you decide what to wear. Sweatpants or jeans. T-shirt or long sleeves. Johnny said to dress warm so you decide on a t-shirt and a sweatshirt with jeans. Hard clothes meant for a military base. No more lounging around in the barracks all day. You’ll be out there with them, watching them run drills for the first time in months.

You quickly change, stepping into the bathroom after John is done. You’re quick, not wasting any time. The more you dally, the more time your brain has to focus on the fear swirling in the back of your mind.

John is waiting for you when you exit the bathroom. He’s close to the door, crowding you as you step out into the room. Your eyes trace his form from his feet to his face. He grips your chin, holding you still as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. He tastes minty, like toothpaste, his lips soft against yours.

“What are you doing?” You murmur when he pulls away.

“Trying to distract you.” He breathes.

“Do it again.” You say.

He kisses you again, this one harder as his hand slips from your chin to your throat. You hate to admit that it’s working, the swirling emotions in the back of your brain quieting as you kiss your alpha.

He pulls away too soon, your lips parted and eyes still closed as he releases you. “Better?” He asks.

You nod. You do feel a bit better. Your thoughts aren’t quite so loud now.

“Come on.” His hand slips into yours, squeezing it gently as your eyes finally open.

It’s time.

He leads you out the door, pausing to put his boots on once he’s over the nest. It stays where it is, messy and rumpled. None of them bother making the beds and you wonder if it’s driving them crazy. No doubt that need to make sure their bed is made carried with them to the cottage. You hardly ever bother as you usually wind up back in it at some point in the day. You wonder how crazy you drive them with that habit, or lack there of.

You walk with John at the head of the column as you step out into the rain. It is raining hard, and you’re glad you went with something with a hood. You should have dug out the rain jacket John got you at the cottage. That probably would have been smarter.

You’re cold and wet when you make it to the mess. It’s early enough it’s sparsely populated. You wonder if John did that on purpose, or if it’s just coincidence. You hold onto his hand until you reach the front of the line, letting him fill your tray for you with plastic looking eggs and far too watery porridge. Once again you’re reminded of how much you were spoiled at the cottage and how far you’ve fallen into the world of bland, tasteless food.

Or, as you would call it, British food.

John graciously chooses a table near the back, keeping you out of sight for the most part, away from prying eyes. You sit between him and Kyle again, staring down at your depressing looking tray of food. The only thing that looks good is the fruit, so you focus there first. They go down the easiest, filling your desperate stomach. You haven’t eaten a good meal since you all stopped to get food on your drive back to Hereford. You underestimated how much you’d struggle adapting to mess hall food again.

Granted, the last time you were coming from the CIA and their cafeteria food, and before that the institute. You can’t remember how long it’s been since you had a home cooked meal before the cottage. Maybe that’s why you were struggling so much.

How you wish you could go into the kitchen and make your mother’s enchiladas.

You struggle your way through breakfast, using the fruit to get you through the porridge. You leave most of the eggs, unable to stomach more than a few bites. Of course the rest of your pack clears their trays. This food must be heaven compared to stuff they eat while they’re away on missions.

It’s mostly stopped raining by the time you leave the mess hall, now just a drizzle. You’re clinging to Kyle’s hand, letting him lead you after John as he heads across the base towards one of the hangars. Time for training, you assume.

You recognize this one. You’ve been here before months ago. It was one of the first times you got to see their training. Hell, you yourself had participated in it once. You wonder if John will do that again, or if he’ll take pity on you and let you just watch.

“We’re going back to basics today, lads.” John says as the boys line up. “Testing where you’re at after months away. You’ll be timed on how long it takes you to get through the course as usual. Stay sharp and watch those corners. Who’s going first?”

“I will.” Johnny says, not even hesitating.

“Good luck Sergeant.” John says before turning to you. “Come on.”

He leads you up into the viewing area where the screens are located. You’ve been up here before a couple of times.

“Don’t want you catching a stray bullet.” He says.

You give him a sideways glance. The last time you were here they hadn’t used live rounds.

“Rubber bullets still hurt.” He says, giving you a grin.

You shake your head, watching as Johnny prepares himself to run the course.

Their times aren’t quite as good this time around. Even Kyle is dragging a bit, not quite as sharp as you remember him being. Granted it has been months. They’re all rusty and out of shape. You’re going to miss them being all soft and gentle. Even John will lose some of it before retirement, you think. The yo-yoing of his body is going to be hard on him. Strong and fit to soft and gentle to partially strong and fit again to permanently soft. You doubt he’ll give up everything completely. Morning runs, weight lifting, keeping himself sharp. He’ll never fully relax. He can’t.

“Not bad, muppets.” John says, standing in front of them. You hoist yourself up onto a crate. “But not good either. That’s to be expected after months of going soft. We’re going to focus on re-polishing those skills again. Building stamina and strength, sharpening those weapons skills again.” John stands up straighter. “Let’s hit the range next.”

He turns to you, holding out a hand. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You hop down off the crate, taking his hand. You’ve never been to the shooting range here. John always tried to keep you away from live fire as much as possible, god forbid there be some freak accident.

At least now you know what it feels like to be shot.

You have to accompany them now though, in fear of being left in the barracks all day. This is still far better than being cooped up in a place full of nightmares.

The range is in another hanger, and unfortunately not empty. It’s loud inside, two other soldiers inside firing at targets. You put your hands over your ears as you follow John towards the far side of the range. He grabs a headset, slipping it over your head. It offers just enough protection from the loud banging of the guns being fired. The sound in the enclosed space is enough to drive your adrenaline up. You can only imagine what it’s like with hundreds of guns going off all at once while half of those are shooting back at you.

You’ll never understand how they manage it.

You stand back out of the way behind them as they line up. Even John lines himself up this time, all of them firing down the line at targets. You keep yourself pressed up against the wall, watching them. It’s louder with the four of them shooting, your heart hammering in your throat. You can’t help but wonder what kind of firefight there was when they rescued you, if there was much of one at all. Their skills were sharper then, their abilities honed. Going up against trained soldiers would have been a walk in the park back then.

Had you known they were coming you might have waited, might have let them have their hostage rescue instead of having to chase your wild omega through the woods in her attempt to escape herself. You can still remember bits and pieces of it, the feel of blood on your hands, the adrenaline pulsing through your veins, the wild freedom to not care about anything but survival.

It makes your hands shake.

You squeeze them into fists, nails biting into your skin as they fire round after round, adjusting stances, reloading and then firing again. You can only see Simon’s target ahead, all of his shots hitting the outline of the body on the paper. You don’t think something like shooting would be a skill lost easily. Like riding a bike, you suppose.

You wonder how good it must feel to them to have a weapon in their hands again. That thought concerns you, but then again, there’s a lot about them that should concern you. You’ve gone numb to most of it, those thoughts you had early on not even in the back of your mind anymore. They are who they are, they’ve done what they’ve done and there’s no changing that. It simply comes with the territory.

“Hey,”

Your eyes dart up as a knuckle pushes your chin up. Simon is standing before you. He smells metallic like gunpowder. It meshes well with his natural scent creating an intoxicating blend.

“C’mere.” He tilts his head towards his now vacated spot. You follow him, his hands moving you into position. He slides the warm gun into your hands, clicking the safety off. “Take a shot.”

You stare down the line at the fresh target, gulping a bit. The gun feels heavy in your hands. The others have stopped, and you can tell they’ve gathered around, watching, waiting for what’s going to happen. You half expect John to stop this before it starts, but he lingers back, letting this play out.

Simon’s arms wrap around you, moving your hands into position around the gun. He lifts them up to proper height, holding you there for a moment before releasing you and taking a step back. Your finger twitches as it hovers over the trigger as you stare at the target. You take a deep breath in, holding it for a second before squeezing the trigger.

You fire three shots.

All three hit the paper of the target, missing the body but still hitting the paper. You lower the gun, clicking the safety back on before turning to face them. They’re all staring at you with faces of shock and mild amusement.

You glance at all of them before shrugging. “I used to live in Texas.”

Johnny and Kyle laugh, Simon shaking his head. “You need to work on your form.” He puts his hands on your shoulders, spinning you back around to face the target.

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