#but even then there's no real reason to expect every little thing to be explained to you

[sttoru]

‘and if i only could, i’d make a deal with god, and i’d get him to swap our places. .’ — kate bush

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. gojo satoru x wife!reader. fluff to angst (no comfort). spoilers chapter 261. reader’s pregnant. major character death. mentions of blood, death. nicknames ‘pretty, sweets’. not proofread bcs i couldn't through the tears. i cried nine times writing this so.. good luck! wc: 3.6k

“he’s kicking again,” satoru chuckles excitedly. he’s been clinging onto you ever since you got back from your doctor’s appointment. your baby boy is growing up healthy and there don’t seem to be any complications.

you smile and rest back against the velvety pillows. you’re enjoying the affection you’re receiving, the kisses and nuzzles against your swollen tummy makes every bit of suffering worth it. your husband is going to be an amazing dad, that you can tell.

“hey, little guy—don’t give ya mommy a tough time,” satoru huffs and gently taps the side of your stomach that was last kicked by the unborn baby, “that’s my wife, y’know?” you giggle at the scene in front of you and close your eyes, relaxing your body.

a comfortable silence hangs in the room. satoru’s warm hands cupping and rubbing your round stomach add to the tranquil atmosphere. the weight of your husband’s head presses onto the front of your plump belly—ear pressed against the stretched skin as if expecting to hear your baby boy talk.

after a while, you open your eyes. you hear a sniff and then the usual silence follows. you look down at satoru settled between your legs, hugging your waist and resting his cheek on your tummy. he’s awfully quiet and you’re unable to see his eyes because of his bangs.

“toru, everything okay?” you carefully ask. your voice comforts him for the next couple seconds, before his muscles tense up once more. satoru tries his best to seem unaffected by the many thoughts scurrying through his head.

“mhm,” your husband nods and forces a small smile. though, he can’t keep the facade up any longer. the longer you’re pregnant, the more worried he gets about a certain something; something that’s been bothering him ever since.

it’s the reason why he doubted even having kids in the first place.

“i—well. i don’t know, sweets,” satoru sighs. a deep sigh that shatters the mask he’s had on for so long. his brows furrow and his eyes dart from one place to the other. his fingers stop their movements on your stomach. they curl around the material of your shirt instead; showing a clear sense of vulnerability.

satoru seems. . . afraid, yet also angry. perhaps at himself, perhaps at the world. you don’t utter a single word. if there’s anything you want, it’s for your husband to speak about his inner turmoil freely. you’re the only person who he can have such emotional conversations with—the only person he can be himself with.

the real gojo satoru.

not the strongest.

that’s why you’re not surprised when satoru opens his mouth to confess the inevitable to you. “i’m scared,” his voice cracks. it’s a faint change in tone, but it is noticeable to you. you’ve been his lover for long enough to notice every minuscule thing.

the white-haired man lets out another sigh. you brush his soft bangs out of his eyes and instantly notice the sudden weariness in them. normally, those beautiful blue eyes shine brightly, yet that light has now dimmed.

you pat his head and satoru immediately leans into your touch. you allow him to process his own emotions and words before speaking up.

“scared?” you ask quietly and carefully, giving your husband space to explain.

satoru nods. there are a thousand thoughts running through his mind. all those thoughts he’s tried to suppress since the day you’ve announced your pregnancy. maybe even before that—at the day of your wedding.

he’s sat down with you a few months into the marriage, to have the talk about kids. he seemed to be delighted to have children with you, however there have always been some dark and hidden thoughts lingering in the back of his mind.

the sorcerer has chosen to ignore them for the longest time. he’s been trying to convince himself that he has nothing to worry about. you’re going to be fantastic parents and your children are going to be extremely loved.

the day you surprised him with your pregnancy, was like a dream. satoru cried - which he rarely does - so it was an emotional night for both of you. neither of you could wait to meet your child—happy with whatever gender.

despite all of the optimism and enthusiasm, satoru’s struggles with his inner thoughts have not yet ended. he doesn’t want to bother you with it. you seem so content and he does not want to ruin that at all.

but even the strongest without limits has to reach a breaking point.

“yeah,” satoru speaks up, his voice hoarse. he kisses your belly button, hoping his child doesn’t pick up on his distress somehow. your husband closes his eyes as he places his forehead against your tummy, praying that the heavens above hear his pleas, “i don’t want our kid to inherit my cursed techniques. at all.”

your hand doesn’t stop stroking satoru’s hair. you don’t flinch at his words, nor do you immediately discard his worries. in all honestly, you’ve shared the same feelings before getting pregnant.

you know how satoru’s treated by the jujutsu society. it’s dehumanising how he’s seen as a weapon of some sorts. a weapon that could solve all problems—one that cannot rest until its duty is done.

you despise it. you’ve told satoru about your hatred for the toxic society, even going as far as asking him to move to a different country without telling anyone. you’re sick and tired. you can’t recall the amount of times that you’ve cried alone, in the bathroom, after you’ve seen the state your lover comes back home in.

the white-haired man always seems so tired. his eyes and head hurt because of them overusing his cursed techniques. there are even days where satoru doesn’t put his blindfold or sunglasses off at home.

and when you try to talk to him about it, satoru simply assures you that ‘he’ll be fine’. you believe him in the moment, but you don’t know for how long you’ll be able to keep that trust.

you’re letting him break, slowly yet surely, right in front of you. he’s working himself to his demise. it’s nothing out of the ordinary to not want the same for your child.

though, you’re sure that it’ll be fine even if your baby boy inherits satoru’s techniques. that’s because you two are going to protect him with all you have. no one is going to treat your child like a weapon—not while the both of you are still alive.

“i don’t want our child to take over the burden i carry,” satoru continues. his brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. he��s already thinking about all the possibilities that can follow with the birth of your son.

he can hide his child from the world, but wouldn’t that be too restrictive? he can keep an eye on him every second of the day, but wouldn’t that be overprotective?

you notice satoru’s internal state of panic increasing, so you quickly cup his face. you lean down and press a firm kiss against his lips, to which he instantly responds. his breath hitches and he sits up on the mattress, deepening the kiss as his hands hold you by the back of your head.

he needs this—you—more than anything else in the world. if it wasn’t for you, he’d have lost his sanity long ago.

you pull back after a good minute and pant. you chuckle as you notice the slight pout on satoru’s lips. he never seems satisfied with just one kiss, which is adorable. you coo and pepper his face with small pecks, “aww.”

it’s comforting to the sorcerer. he closes his eyes and his mouth forms a small smile. you’re doing an amazing job at calming him down. satoru’s muscles relax and he finds himself nestled between your legs soon enough.

you realise that he’s still somewhat afraid for the future of his child by the way he’s playing with your shirt. his head lays on your chest and his long fingers trace shapes on your exposed skin.

“i know, honey, i know,” you murmur against the top of his head. you massage satoru’s scalp gently, nearly making him purr because of how incredible that feels. you stare at the ceiling and continue your little talk.

“i’ve thought about all of it too,” your fingers find his undercut, playing with the little hairs. all you can hope for is that your partner stresses less about the outcome of your pregnancy.

if you can do one thing for him, it’d be that. reassuring him that you’ll both do your best for your child will surely put him at ease. your husband has enough to worry about anyway.

you want to share that burden. you don’t want him to carry the world on his shoulders alone—he’s got you for that now.

“but i think that our son will be fine. why? because he’s got you,” you smile and kiss satoru’s forehead. it’s his favorite type of kiss and it works wonders when you comfort him. his ocean eyes regain their sparkle, both because of your unconditional love and trust in his parenting skills, “our boy will grow up fine and protected because he’s got you as his amazing dad, yeah?”

satoru takes some time to let your words sink in. your trust in him is a beautiful thing. of course, he’ll protect his kid no matter what. both you and his kid will be safe for as long as he’s alive. you’re going to be a happy family—one that he’s always dreamed of having.

he isn’t going to raise his child to be the strongest. he isn’t going to raise his child as an heir to the throne. he isn’t going to raise his child as his legacy. he isn’t going to raise his child as a tool.

his son will have a normal childhood and he will guarantee that. satoru will give his kid what he didn’t have as a child himself;

unconditional love and support for whatever his son wishes to become.

satoru raises his head and leans in to kiss you, hugging you to himself. he adores you so much, you’re all he needs to feel like he can do anything and everything all at once.

carrying the world on his shoulders so you can live peacefully in it is all satoru does it for.

“heh, damn right. i’ll be the best husband and dad ever.”

. . .

but in the end, your dreams are just dreams, right?

an escape from reality, that’s all dreams really are. all those times you’ve sat together to pick the furniture you want to place in the nursery, to paint the room a baby blue, to buy clothes and toys, diapers and carriers, to giggle about the places you would love to visit as a family, to think about possible baby names, to joke about whether your son will say ‘dada’ or ‘mama’ first — all of it were naive, hopeful dreams.

perhaps you were too caught up in them to realise that reality will hit when least expected.

satoru and you have lived in your own bubble—your own little fantasy world where tragic fates does not exist. no one in this planet would suffer if life worked that way.

no one on this planet would have to pick up the phone and have their world shatter, their dream bubble pop. to have all hope lost in the span of a second.

grief is a scary thing. it’s devastating and it will consume you whole. you don’t realise that until you experience it firsthand. losing someone close to you will break you in half. it’s a punch to the gut.

especially if it’s your husband. someone you considered your partner—who’s promised you to be together forever. maybe those promises were also a part of your fantasy.

maybe they were also but a beautiful lie.

your footsteps feel heavy. you don’t have any energy left in you. every drop has been drained from you the moment you heard the news over the phone. your eyes and head hurt, both feeling like they’re going to burst. you don’t want to accept any of this.

the faces of the people around you are a blur. they’re all holding their head low, their hands gathered in front of them to show respect. no one speaks—all the room is filled with are your sobs. the loud cries you let out in hopes that they wake you up from this absolute nightmare.

you drag your feet to the examination table in the middle of the room. tears continue to blur your vision, though surely, you can confirm the outline of the body laying underneath the blanket.

how could you not recognise the person you thought you’d spend eternity with?

it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. . .

“satoru.” your voice is barely audible. your hands are shaking and your face is stained with endless streams of tears. you stand at the side of the table and you instantly curl your fingers around the edge.

seeing that face from up close hits different. usually, it’d have your stomach fill with a feeling of delight, yet now all you feel when looking at it is unimaginable dread.

the blood on the corners of his mouth. the blanket that’s hiding whatever is left of him from below the waist. the dull eyes that once stared at you with hope and love. those dried lips that normally shone with a layer of gloss.

god, it’s awful. you don’t want this to be true. you’re still waiting to be woken up by your husband. so he can hold you close and hug you, whisper sweet nothings and reassure you that he’d never leave you alone in a savage world like this.

your shaky fingers reach out to his right hand. his skin feels cold and his hand doesn’t hold yours back. your breath hitches and you let out a long, devastating cry. it sounds like a scream for help as your body crumbles—falling to your knees whilst you tightly grip your lover’s limp hand.

“no, god no, please!” you cover your mouth with your free hand, nearly hyperventilating from pure pain. you feel like your heart is going to give up on you. it’s breaking into a million pieces, as does your future. you can’t live without him—you can't do it.

satoru is the sole reason you’ve held out for so long. you were each other’s support system. you can’t do any of this on your own. you can’t breathe properly—your body doesn’t let you.

not until you feel a hand on your back, rubbing it gently. you can guess that it’s shoko, but you’re too distraught to even pay attention to her. you lift yourself up by holding onto the edge of the table, your legs shaking. you sniffle and sob uncontrollably.

you reach out to touch satoru’s lifeless face, as gentle as you always do. you flinch when you feel just how cold his body is—the usual warmth that would comfort you gone, nowhere to be found. you don’t get a reaction from him when you touch his cheeks.

it only serves to remind you of the tragic events that unveiled. you’re still in denial, but the moment feels real. your brain is slowly yet surely processing the information. though, you don’t want it to. you want to live in a world where you grow old with your husband.

where your child is going to grow up with a father figure at home.

“satoru, come back to me.. to us, please,” you beg and beg, hoping he smiles and sits up, telling you that it’s just one of his silly pranks again. when none of that happens, you feel yourself become more hopeless. you hunch over him and cup his face. the same face that would light up whenever you’d touch it.

you hiccup and wail, unable to breathe. you rub his cheekbones with your thumbs, settling your forehead against his. your tears fall underneath his eyes and slide down his temples, making it seem like he’s crying with you.

you wait for satoru to respond, but he doesn’t. there’s an eerie silence on his part and you’re panicking. you need him to comfort you, but he isn’t there to do that anymore. you’re left alone, all alone.

“i can’t do this without you—we can’t do this without you,” you stammer between sobs. you can’t go through life, knowing satoru isn’t going to be there for you. he isn’t going to come home anymore. he isn’t going to cuddle you to sleep anymore. he isn’t going to experience what it’s like to have a family of his own. he isn't going to be able to hold his child and to play with him.

you blame life for being unfair—always taking away the people who don’t deserve it. satoru hasn’t done anything to deserve this. he just.. existed. his fate of becoming the strongest, decided at his birth, is what has lead to his death.

you continue to sob to yourself. you refuse to acknowledge anything or anyone else in the room. you’re solely focused on your husband. or rather, what’s left of him.

remembering how excited satoru was to spend the rest of his life with you and your future children pains you all the more. he’s been stripped from a normal life. you’ve tried your hardest to give him that said normal life, yet your hopeful dreams have gotten you nowhere.

you wipe your tears away for the first time in a while. your grief is making you delusional—disoriented to the point you try to make yourself feel better. you force a smile and hold tightly onto satoru’s limp hand, trying to speak through your quiet sniffles.

“o-our boy is gonna be born soon,” you chuckle bitterly and place satoru’s hand on your belly. it’s gotten bigger over the months and you’re already eight months along. he was so close to meeting your child—so close. yet his tragic destiny did not allow him to.

you hope he’s been happy with you for as long as he lived. you hope you’ve somewhat relieved him from his misery for as long as he lived. that burden he carried, the world he carried on his shoulders. . . it doesn’t seem to want to detach from him. even after death.

you press a deep kiss against his forehead. satoru’s favorite spot to be kissed at, you remember. you wish he feels it in the afterlife; wherever he may he. as long as he’s in a better place now, one that treats him well. this current world has been too cruel on him. it doesn’t deserve to home someone like your husband.

“i wish you were here to see your son. to see our baby grow up, you'd be so proud, honey,” you kiss satoru’s forehead again. it’s all you can do stop yourself from losing it completely. you know satoru would tell you to be strong, for his sake. for your unborn son.

“i’m going to tell him all about you, ‘kay? i'm going to tell him about how awesome his dad was,” your voice breaks for the nth time. you’re still in the first stage of grief, though you try to seem strong in case satoru is watching from somewhere.

that’s what he did when he was the one going through a tough time. he’d act brave and fine, putting on a mask to make you worry less, telling you all kinds of reassuring words while he was suffering internally.

now it’s your turn to safely send his soul off to the afterlife. to let satoru pass away in peace, with him knowing that you’re going to live on for him and for your child. it’s the least you can do at the moment.

you put on a brave face, staring into his lifeless eyes, smiling through the unbearable pain. you’re sure he’s still listening to you from somewhere. satoru’s always told you that your voice is soothing, so you do your best to calm his soul and reassure him that it’s fine for him to rest.

“i’ll do my best to raise him, yeah? so you.. you just rest.”

rest was a foreign word to the sorcerer. this world didn’t give him an ounce of peace. he’d either be overworked by his family or the jujutsu society, and if it isn’t work, his inherited techniques were slowly killing his brain and body.

you’re praying that satoru has none of that in the afterlife. you’re praying that he can live a normal life, eternally. so that when you join him one day, you both won’t have to suffer nor share the burden. you can live out your dreams without anyone interrupting.

not even fate.

“you deserve to rest. you really do,” you sigh.

soon enough, you feel yourself crumble again. you burst out in tears once you realise that he’s actually never coming back to you in this life. you bury your face in the crook of his neck and sob loudly, not holding back your emotions anymore. you just can’t—you can’t act brave when your second half has been taken away from you so suddenly.

you hope that you succeeded into sending him off without any worries. you can’t help but continue rambling to yourself, “i’m going to miss you s’much. oh, my baby.”

you lift your head back and stare into satoru’s eyes once more. did he think about you when he was on his deathbed? did he see his life flash before his eyes, including his many memories with you? did he see what could have been?

it’s unfair.

you give him one last bright smile and gently close his eyelids for him, hoping his lost soul saw your face before you did so. with one last kiss on his lips, you whisper your final words;

“please wait for me on the other side, my love.”

[classypauli]

𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑾𝑬𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑪𝑶𝑳𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑻

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x fem!Reader

Summary: You catch the eyes of the last person you would expect

Word count: 5.8k

a/n: Working on Doctor´s treatment part 2, if you have any ideas, requests, questions message me!

Nevermore academy, education soil for creatures of kinds you would never even dream of. But preferred by many, you could hear about them as Outcasts. No human with a healthy mind would ever think about walking by their land or the woods. Vampires, werewolves, sirens, gorgons,... you name it. They guarantee you don´t want to mess with them.

Clearly, that´s from a human´s perspective.

As for Outcasts themselves, they don´t feel that way about them. Of course, the dirty looks that are shot their way everytime they step into the Jericho make them a little cheerless, but that wasn´t their image. That is what people created in their heads based on actions and incidents where they weren´t even present.

Wednesday was skeptical about this school, her parents used to go there for a couple of years but she isn´t like them. Or at least that is what she felt and she was sure of it. Breaking rules and always be right is like her second name and looking just at the gate of the Nevermore she knew, this school wouldn´t be any different than others. It won´t hold her inside for too long. And her roommate already persuaded her about her plants as soon as she stepped into the dorm.

The werewolf girl showed her around and explained the system of the school. The girl must admit, it was catching her attention, being around outcasts was indeed more enjoyable than around people, even though sometimes outcasts were more predictable than humans. But still, this reason wasn´t big enough to make her stay.

She wanted to escape and the girl had it planned to the last dot. Packing her things, going to the festival, and meeting up with Tyler. He would then drive her far far away. And it would have gone like this if Rowan didn´t touch her. The vision made her follow him, Wednesday went to warn him about the danger that waits on him in the trees. It turned out that he was the danger waiting for her.

And the thing she witnessed... Wednesday was sure what she saw was real, that it wasn´t just a figment of the imagination. He said that she would destroy the school and everyone in it. But the strange part was that everyone kept declining that as if she didn´t see him all bloody yelling in agony. And that made her stay.

Wednesday was now sitting in Botanical Science class. Unfortunately, she needed to sit next to Xavier who was trying to impress her with his ability. She wasn´t scared of the spiders, otherwise, she was drawn to creatures like this. The spider was slowly coming her way and now everyone was watching the interaction, waiting for the girl´s response.

On the millisecond the annoyed face appeared on Wednesday´s face as she went to slam the fake eight-legged animal but was stopped by a blue flame that was shot straight to the spider. Everyone knew who’s the fire was. You were just sitting there a couple of tables from them looking at the Xavier with an unimpressed look on your face as you held up one finger with the blue fire above. Then the fire suddenly disappeared and you went back to doing your work.

The students around the school knew you, you were unique and a lot of them wished they could do what you can. You hated that, everyone only wanted the power but nobody saw the background of it. Even though they were used to your power, it didn´t stop them from being in awe every time.

The goth girl saw you a couple of times around, she didn´t know under what category of outcasts you belong. Enid only said that you weren´t what most of them were, nothing more. And her roommate wanted but even the biggest gossip girl around the school knew barely minimum about you.

Wednesday shot her eyes at you without moving her head, slowly scanning you. She must say she didn´t expect that. This was the first time she had ever seen something like that. You shot the ball of fire straight at the fake spider and burned it into the ash in seconds, the spider stood zero chance against the fire. It didn´t touch Wednesday but she sure could feel the hotness of the flame.

„Thank you Y/N. Well it looks like Wednesday wasn´t really mesmerized by your skills Xavier.“ Mrs. Thornhill commented and went back to teaching. The boy only put his eyebrows together as he looked at you and then faced the other side of his seatmate in embarrassment. The class laughed under their breaths at the sight of Xavier’s sulking after failing to impress their new classmate.

After the class, Y/N took her books and started to walk away. She isn´t much social person and she doesn´t care about it. The girl likes it better on her own, it feels calmer that way. Y/N only talks when it´s needed, so with her teachers, parents, or her only friend in the school. She doesn´t even have a roommate which is like a win to her.

„Next time your rescue isn´t needed.“

Y/N turned around to the voice and saw a girl who sat with Xavier. She knew of course who she was, she was the talk of the week of course. This was the first time she had seen her from this close, or almost close. It was clear Wednesday doesn´t like crossing the personal barrier between two bodies. But even from this apart Y/N could notice her deep brown eyes which were staring straight into hers and barely seen freckles across her face.

The taller girl only nodded, breaking the eye contact, and walked away from the girl. Wednesday kept looking at your fading figure in the hallway till she could hear tough steps approaching her.

„She caught your eye, huh?“ Enid smirked at her new roommate as she leaned carefully so as not to touch her. „I can´t blame you, she´s really something.“ Enid sighed dreamely at the thought of you and Wednesday now looked at the girl with a slightly disgusted face before turning around to leave.

„Leave these comments to yourself.“ Enid only laughed at her as she started to follow her to their next class.

Wednesday kept thinking about you almost the whole day. More like about your ability. Hate to admit it but it was interesting. Enid said you aren’t wich or some magician that you can just control fire, or more like it´s just coming out of you.

When Y/N is not around they call her a Dragon of Nevermore or just a Dragon, they know better not to call her that when she is near, the girl doesn´t like that. And when she´s somewhere around they don´t talk about her so she wouldn´t hear, for their own safety.

Now was Wednesday´s writing time and she just kept sitting there staring blankly at the empty page. She wanted to continue with her new book but her mind went back to the blue flame every time. She sighed in frustration and went to her bed. Thing saw her thinking hard, she had something in her mind and he was glad that something ripped the thoughts of leaving this school away.

Students were now sitting outside, enjoying food and chatting with each other. Wednesday saw her roommate eating and talking loudly with her vampire friend and a couple of others. She wasn´t a fan of a lot of people but she also couldn´t care less if the attention wasn´t placed on her. She was scanning the pentagon looking for a place to sit. Preferably alone. The girl felt a soft tap on her black boot, there was a Thing facing her.

„What are you doing? You want to be seen by somebody?“ Wednesday hissed at him, trying not to look suspicious. Thing only pointed his finger somewhere. She looked up from him in the direction and found you sitting by the table on your own, quietly eating while looking down at your plate.

Wednesday sighed and made her way to you. She didn´t know why, her mind started to recalculate her options of where to sit. And understandably you were the safest option, she knew you wouldn’t try to talk to her.

And so it was like that. You barely looked at who sat beside you, Wednesday somehow felt like you could feel that it was her, that´s why you didn´t need to look at the new intruder. Students looked their way, now silently watching the invisible interaction between the two of you, looking for any change of behavior they were used to seeing from both of you. But nothing. You just sat there next to each other eating food, minding your business. The girl felt a soft tap on her boot again, this time only to tease her, Wednesday kicked him away not showing any emotion on her face.

The werewolf girl saw you both sitting next to each other, smiling softly at the image. She liked the idea of both of you together, you would look good. It was clear that you nor she were good at social interaction, and this? This was definitely unexpected. Most of the time when someone wanted to sit with you, you looked at them, not saying anything because it wasn´t even needed. They understand very fast what you meant.

You didn´t shoot Wednesday one look.

„How does your ability work?“ Wednesday asked without looking at your side profile as you chew on your food. You kept your stoic face without any unnecessary muscle work not understanding her question. The girl was slowly getting annoyed by you, it seemed like you ignored her.

Wednesday was getting used to people asking her useless questions or pleasing her attention which she ignored. Sometimes she made savage comments to shut them down. This was the other way around, now she tasted her medicine.

Y/N looked at her scanning her facial expression, why would she want to know about her? Of course, not a single muscle moved but her mind was the opposite, jumping from one thought to another not understanding the girl right now.

The young Addams was getting frustrated at the girl beside her. She wasn´t getting a single thing from her.

„Uhm... I don´t understand.“ Y/N finally said looking around to find something to take her mind off of the conversation and the look she was giving her. She didn´t like talking about that.

„Why is it blue?“ Wednesday of course knew why sometimes flame was a different colour than red. But she wanted to know if you could control it to that part when it changed it’s shade or if it was always like this.

Y/N shrugged her shoulders and went to eat again, that action completely thorn off the new girl. Wednesday saw that this was getting nowhere so she let it be, but she will get her answers.

Unconsciously, you just become her new prey.

A couple of days went by since the joining of the new student, and everyone slowly started to come back to their things, forgetting about it. There were still students that liked to get on her nerves but most of them now didn´t mind her. They were quite afraid of the goth girl and she obviously had not a bad word for it.

„Y/N! Hey!“ the cheerful voice greeted you as you slowly approached the construction. This was one of your favorite places to go to. Not a lot of people went to this place so it was always so calm in there. The boy had a beekeeper´s suit on holding some equipment in his hands.

„Hey Eugene, how are the bees?“ The girl asked looking at the thing her friends currently work on. He was the only person who made her comfortable to talk with.

They knew themselves since the boy came. He was shy, he still is but back then it was much more, always looking at the ground, not looking at anyone, minding his business. At first, it was like a nightmare to him, he didn´t want to tell his moms that he had no friends, wanted to save them from being worried so it was better to keep that information to himself.

Minding on his own of course didn´t stop the bullies. Why would it, be right? He had never understood why they acted like that to him, it kept bugging him for a long and to the point when he was afraid to go out of his dorm room.

It was like this until it was Outreach Day, it was his first time to go here and he didn´t know what to expect. Eugene was set to work at Pilgrim World and he found him again. It was much worse this time because no one was around to interrupt them from what they were going to do. Unexpectedly someone came, at first the person was trying to talk them out of it but as the boys started to treat that person too, they got beat up. It was Y/N that came to save him. It was like a dream, the boy saw the tall girl a couple of times at school, he always thought that she looked savage, not caring about things that weren´t important. And he wanted to be like her but his mind wasn´t strong enough to believe in himself.

From that day the girl would keep him company wherever he wanted and like a sibling, you had each other's backs. Y/N was Eugene´s role model, someone he looked up to, his moms were so happy to hear that he had someone like her.

„They are good but they missed you!“ Y/N smiled softly at the short boy´s words. It was true, recently they weren´t spending much time together, but it was nothing serious, they just had separate things to do.

„I missed them too.“ She whispered and looked at the bee´s hive outside the window.

Wednesday was walking in the forest. She had to think about this dreadful place, her dead classmate and her loud roommate made it impossible. She enjoyed walking alone through the dense tree foam. It created a dark atmosphere. A lot of people were afraid of woods, but on Wednesday there was nothing to be scared of, she would walk there even in the darkness. She came by the lake as her boots were taking steps along the stones around. There was an old, wooden dock jutted into the water and the waves were dancing along the gentle wind.

Suddenly she heard something from the other side of the lake. She turned her head to the noise, her hunting instinct was now on looking into the center of the sounds. The girl could see a person standing there, hands together in a praying-like position with their head down. It looked more like they were praying or meditating. Wednesday could see slow breaths based on the small shoulder movements along with the person´s chest.

She took a small step to the front to have a better look at the scene. Suddenly the person turned their face in front of them, one leg moved back making them lean a little. One arm was moving up above their head and the other one was stretched in front of their body. Both hands were slowly turned into fists. And what happened next made Wednesday stand in awe.

The fire splutters out of one of the hands into the wind. The person took a step and jumped up turning their body high in the air kicking with their leg along with the hot flame. When they came down they turned their back around now jumping backward landing on their hands as they bounced back into the feet before doing a backflip layout. The blue fire was spewing all around, changing directions like it was listening to your body.

It was absolutely known who it was. You were the only one with the ability to control a blue fire. Wednesday couldn´t tear her gaze away from you. In situations like this, it was hard not to show an interest. The young Addams wasn´t someone who pretends.

The waves of water were lazily moving like a rhythmic melody along with your movements. As she was now standing there from the other side of the water, looking at you almost without blinking, it created the feeling of a border. As if the lake was a boundary separating her and you, separating her body from the unknown, from things that she wanted to know about but didn´t know how to move, how to make the step. So desperate to explore the untouched land.

It has now been a couple of days, the case was moving painfully slowly. Wednesday shared some evidence with the sheriff´s son and Enid. The girl didn´t like getting a lot of people into her soup but at the same time, she wanted others thoughts, even if it didn´t matter to her.

Thing has been quite a handful even with his remarks on someone. The young Addams have been sitting with you every lunch break, without a single word or glance. Just sitting there, quietly eating not bothering each other. Enid and Thing were great at getting on her nerves by teasing her about it.

Why they were like that? Wednesday didn´t know, she was only sitting with you at lunch, without any interaction at all.

Since that time in the forest, she didn´t see you use your fire. You barely use it. A lot of students were shocked when you burned that spider-like they weren´t used to seeing that, and now Wednesday knew.

They are currently having a class, she and Enid were sitting together paying attention, or at least one of them.

„Hey.“ Enid whispered leaning her head slowly into her classmate's direction. „Do you know where is Y/N?“

„How am I supposed to know the answer?“ Wednesday answered with a low voice, taking notes on the paper.

„Well, you are pretty close so I thought you would know.“ Enid shot her a quick glance before facing the teacher again as if she was listening this whole time.

Wednesday stopped her writing and turned to her roommate. „We aren´t close one bit. Just because we are sitting together doesn´t mean we are close.“ Her gaze was sharp looking straight at the side profile of the girl next to her. Enid didn´t mind her, she was now used to Wednesday´s behaviour so she only smirked.

After the class, she went to Eugene. Now as a member of hummers, she needed to spend some time also in the hives. She owned him for having her back at times when she went to investigate. He was exactly like her brother Pugsley, defenseless against the pitfalls in the world. Somewhere inside of her, she grew a soft spot for him but she didn´t want to accept it. Like always.

„Hey Wednesday, would you mind if we left earlier today? My friend is sick and I need to bring her some medicine.“

Her eyes were enough for her to see that her only friend of him was Y/N. Eugene didn´t talk about you a lot, only sometimes, like that you are also a member of hummers but nothing more. She could see the two of you sometimes in Jericho, walking around or after classes, like two siblings.

But now she knew the reason for your absence.

Y/N was lying on her stomach with a pillow over her head. Even though her room was already dark because of the covered windows, it still felt like there was a lot of light. The bed under the girl was like lying on tough ground. The thought of lying on the ground crossed Y/N´s mind a lot of times. Her body was on fire.

It has been like this for a couple of days, only in her room, without any light or social interaction. The only one she could see this awful day was Eugene, he was so sweet. Where would she be without him, only God knows. He brings her food and all the needed medicine. Even though he was trying so hard to help you nothing worked. And it wasn´t his fault.

Because of your ability your body gets too heated up sometimes, most of the time when you use flames too much. That´s why it´s better to train more so you can control it better and at the same time your body heat. But these were the consequences of the success.

No medicine could help, or at least you thought there was nothing. When this happens you are dealing with it just like this, waiting till it stops.

The knocking on the door tore you away from thinking about this uncomfortable position your body was put into. You just wanted to ignore it, even if it was Eugene but another knocking was heard, this time more louder than the first time. It was too much and your head started to spin around the room as soon as you got up.

Slowly opening the door, leaning against the door frame. You were waiting for Eugene with the food in his hands, you were waiting for Principal Weems with her questions about your absence, and you were waiting for Thornhill with the class work you missed.

What you weren´t waiting for was Wednesday Addams standing right in front of you with a bag around her shoulder.

She was looking at you with her signature stare, staring right at your face. She noticed your fallen eyes, bags under them, and lowered shoulders.

„You look horrible.“ That was her first word as soon as she saw her classmate. It was nothing like compared to the first day she saw you.

„Appreciate it.“ Y/N whispered back at her, not moving a single muscle in her body. The taller girl thought that maybe Wednesday made a mistake and she didn´t want to go into your room. But the Addams never makes a mistake.

She slightly pushed you into the room as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She could feel the heat of your body as she touched your chest in that millisecond. It was too hot and of course, the dark-eyed girl's body was most of the time under the normal temperature of a human body so everything compared to her felt warm. But this was too much, it was like touching a fire with a bare hand.

„What are you-“

„Sit down.“ Wednesday commanded to you, cutting you from sentence and you like a good dog listened to her. You kept your eyes on her the whole time, she went to your table by the wall, pulling up her bag with some things, and she started to do something. You didn´t see what she was doing because the only thing you could see was her back.

Wednesday then turned around to you, holding something like a small cup with some strange liquid in it. You wanted to gag at the smell of it, it didn´t look drinkable.

„Drink it.“ She pushed it even further to your mouth as you only pushed your head back away from it. Was she trying to poison you? You wouldn’t be so surprised, it was Wednesday after all. She was getting frustrated by your childish actions so she took the back of your head and brought you closer to the cup. The taste of it was awful, you just wanted to throw up.

„Swallow it.“ And you did. You could feel it as it went down your throat it was cold but so refreshing after your high temperature.

„Now lay down, you will feel better. Believe me.“

And you did. Lying in that uncomfortable bed, praying to fall asleep quickly.

„It´s because it´s hotter than red. I can’t control it.“ You said with your eyes barely opened. Wednesday kept looking for you to continue. „Blue fire is hotter than red. That´s why it´s like that.“

„I know.“ She whispered back. You don´t remember much of how you fell asleep but before the Hypnos took you away you could see her sitting on your chair looking at you. 

The next day Wednesday was sitting eating her lunch at your table, again without you. She must admit it felt strange but nothing she couldn´t manage to get over.

Suddenly she felt a presence next to her, and the dark-eyed girl slowly turned to the person who dared to sit next to her. Her eyes were met with the person she helped yesterday. She didn´t expect you to recover that quickly, she was guessing you would be fine by tomorrow, but here you are the next day.

„I see you feel better.“ She commented looking at your figure, as if yesterday you weren´t dying from high temperature.

„Yes, thanks to you.“ You still kept looking at her, your eyes were wide staring at her silently thanking her. Wednesday looked at her plate, not giving you another glace, her plate with food was now the most interesting thing.

„You don´t have to thank me.“ You only smiled at her actions, it was cute like she was embarrassed for helping you. You need to pay her back.

A couple of days went by and a lot of things changed. The two girls started to talk more, it was most of the time on the lunch break or sometimes when they caught themselves in hives. They weren´t friends yet but this was a great road to start the friendship between them. Wednesday even told Y/N about her case and her progress from the start.

Y/N was an intelligent, really open-minded person. It was good to have someone like her nearby if the shorter girl needed some opinions. Y/N was always available, she never turned Wednesday down. They spend more and more time together, the young Addams sometimes sits with her in class, or goes to her dorm just to talk or for help, you even told her about your ability more. Wednesday didn´t want to accept it but somewhere deep inside of her she knew, she had grown a soft spot your you

Now it was soon to be Rave´N Dance and you were thinking about it. Going there didn´t even cross your mind in the past, you had no one to go with so every time it came you and Eugene went out and did something. But now it was a little different. Maybe she wouldn´t even go, this didn´t seem like her cup of tea and why would she even go with you? There were a lot of other candidates who would have a bigger chance than you. Or maybe she would say yes, why are you doubting yourself if she didn´t enjoy your presence you wouldn´t be spending so much time together. You need to at least try. And that´s exactly why you were now standing in front of her dorm.

After a soft knock was heard on the door Wednesday did not expect to see you. You were standing before the door a couple of steps back as if you were afraid to disturb the dorm of the two girls. You were wearing your casual clothes, a black oversized hoodie and some big sweatpants, hands behind your back.

„Hey...uhm... I-I´m sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to ask you if...“ you didn´t even look at her, your head was down looking at your shoes. Your voice was low and Wednesday barely caught the sentence that left your lips.

„Y/N you need to talk louder than that, I can´t hear you.“ She just kept looking at you, trying to find the answer by your body language. You were nervous, because of what?

You sighed and turned your head in her direction, looking straight at her face. „I wanted to ask if you would go with me on Rave´N Dance.“

The young Addams for the first time in her life felt like she didn´t know what to say. It was unexpected. Sure it wasn´t like she would decline your offer. She liked you, as a person. You were currently number one closest to her, beside her roommate of course but with Enid it was different.

„Y/N… I already have someone to go with.“

Ouch. Well, it was something you were prepared for but it still hurts a little. Yeah, like she would go with someone like you. God, it was embarrassing.

The taller girl only nodded her head looking everywhere but at Wednesday. She pushed air out of her lungs and slowly pushed her hands from her back. „Y-Yeah okay... don´t need to worry I just thought I would ask.“ You smiled awkwardly and gave her the black rose that was hidden behind your back.

„Here... This is for you.“ You looked into her black eyes, this was the first time you saw her like this, so vulnerable, but only her eyes showed that. „Well I´ll go, you don´t have to feel sorry, I get it.“

She took the flower from your hand as you turned around and started to walk away down the hallway. Her eyes kept watching you till she didn´t see you anymore, her eyes went to the black rose in her hands. It was beautiful.

Wednesday could tell that you were the only person who she ever felt so much emotions because of. And now she felt miserable.

Today was the day of the Rave´N Dance and you were lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling. You wanted to spend some time with Eugene but he had some plans which he didn´t say what it was about so you were just by yourself.

Wednesday wanted to talk to you about it but every time she mentioned it you said it was okay, so she stopped. You didn´t want to know who she went with and if your ego would take it.

The small paper slid under your door, you stood up and took it into your hands. You didn´t know who´s writing was it.

Meet me by the entrance at 9 pm.

-WA

It was sure it wasn´t Wednesday's handwriting. You saw it a couple of times when she was giving you class work which you missed the days of your sickness. But it was her initials because you didn´t know anyone with the WA.

That´s why you came to her dorm looking for answers. You knocked on the door and waited. The note is still in your hands. The dark-eyed girl opened the door, looking at you with a questionable look in her eyes.

„Hey, what brings you here?“

You showed her the note in your hand. „I saw this note, I didn´t know i it was from you or not. You are the only one I know with a name that starts with these initials.“

Wednesday studied the note. It looked like a cheap version of her writing. As if someone was trying to copy her handwriting. It was sure who it was. She´s going to kill him.

Shouldn´t she be preparing? You just noticed her and how she still was wearing casual clothes. The dance started in a couple of hours and she still hadn´t even started.

Wednesday saw in her peripheral vision Thing, he was behind the door giving her thumb up. If he had a face she was sure he would be smiling from ear to ear.

„Yes, it´s from me. I wanted to ask if you would go with me to the Rave´N.“

What?! You were shocked, she wanted to go with you? But, but...

„But you said you are already going with someone?“ Wednesday leaned her head a little to the side, not meeting your eyes.

„Yes but something changed.“ She was still facing the other way but it took you too long to answer to she looked back at you with raising an eyebrow. „Well? Would you go with me?“ You nodded with your head.

„Great, meet me down at nine.“

And after that, you ran as fast as you could.

Wednesday closed the door and looked at Thing with dark eyes, he ran under the bed to hide from her. She just sighed and looked at the rose standing in the jar with a water on her table. She wasn’t really mad.

Your hands were shaking and your body felt hot. What were the main two things you could sense at that moment? You were standing exactly where Wednesday told you to, coming a bit earlier because it´s better than late and you could only imagine what would Wednesday do if you came late.

Looking around the passing by students somewhere double looking to make sure it was you. It was the first time they saw you in formal clothes like this. You didn´t feel very comfortable with all the glares and on top of that those tight clothes.

These things were forgotten at the same time as Wednesday came down. She was wearing a dark black dress and her hair was done perfectly. She looked beautiful, like always. You were glad that you were matching even though you didn´t talk about your clothes. You were also wearing all black.

„Hey.“ She gently greeted you as she came to you. „Are you ready?“

You nodded at her smiling softly, you offered her your arm, didn´t know if she would take it but to your surprise she did. And just like just like that you walked to the ball room. As soon as you stepped in everyone´s eyes were on both of you. It was shocking, sure a lot of people saw you these days together, but you were almost the same. But they didn´t expect to see either of you on Nevermore ball.

Enid was smirking at the two of you, glad it was you instead of Xavier. It was her plan after all and with a little help from Thing it became real.

The two of you decided to drink something and as you were standing there chatting a little with Enid, you saw Xavier´s glarings. Why is he staring at you like that? You didn´t break the eye contact, not letting him win. The dark-eyed girl saw you and took you by your hand.

„Come.“ She was really gentle that night, like a whole new person. But only you could catch that, she didn´t let anyone else see but you.

And you were having fun dancing around, chatting, and drinking. It was so refreshing, you didn´t have this much fun in a long time.

„Thank you for going with me.“ You said as she had her hands around your neck slowly dancing to the song. She kept looking at you with wide eyes. This was the second time you saw her eyes like this, the first time was a couple of days ago when you came to ask her to the dance.

This was the first time you were close like this, your hands around her slim waist and her around your neck. Looking at each other, to others around it looked like you were talking with your eyes. Your body was too hot compated to hers.

Wednesday’s heart was cold, that’s was people around her said and they weren’t far from the truth. But now as she stands infront of you and you are looking at her and holding her like she’s the only one in the world… her heart warmed.

„No need for that. I would do it twice.“ Wednesday said before she smiled gently at you.

[pinkerthings]

the significance of mileven simply not understanding each other (pt 1):

(others have brought this up before but I think it’s a bit overlooked imo)

There are numerous times throughout Stranger Things where Mileven is shown to not be on the same wavelength, and the Duffers like to make it quite apparent to the general audience.

Starting with the obvious scenes:

“BLANK makes you crazy”

El is literally staring at Mike like she has NO idea what he’s trying to say.

Shes STILL confused even after he tells her it’s something old people tell each other:

Like girl…. i KNOW you were watching them soap operas and old timey romances during that year in Hopper’s cabin. You really expect us to believe you have no clue what he’s trying to say?

This scene was written like this on purpose for two reasons: comedic effect and diving deeper into mileven.

Back to not ever being on the same wavelength:

I talked in this post here about Mike being okay with El standing up to bullies in the past when it came to Mike or Will, but Mike suddenly not understanding when it comes down to El defending herself against Angela, showcasing the idea that they are definitely not in agreeance over what happened at Rink-O-Mania.

The Duffers like to purposefully write Mileven out of step with one another.

It seems as though every season has something negative in store for the couple, and not in a fun, slow-burn agonizing romance type of way, but in the frustrating “why can’t they just work it out” kind of way.

Season 1 obviously has El “dying” and leaving Mike for a year, but on a smaller note also has Mike trying to explain to her that if she moved into his house, Nancy would be like her sister, but he would not be like her brother. She does not understand this, and has her classic confused face on.

Season 2 has her being gone and coming back to see Mike with Max, and even though nothing happened between the two of them, El was still cold to Max when they first met, showing even if El is incapable of knowing what the word “love” is, she still somehow knows what jealousy is.

Season 2 also brings us an interesting scene with Erica and Lucas, where the dialogue just seems….really off and random.

Lucas catches Erica playing with his He-Man action figure and gets mad, taking it from her. To which she says, “Hey! They’re in love!”

Lucas responds with:

The scene is extremely random and the dialogue is just weird to me, the only explanation it being a metaphor for something in the show, and the only viable explanation is Mileven.

Season 3 has the entire “boyfriends lie” side plot, resulting in El dumping Mike for lying to him about his grandmother after Hopper’s talk with him. Their relationship the entirety of season 3 is the epitome of immature pettiness caused by jealous and hormonal teenagers who don’t understand what being in a real relationship entails--

We get El and Max spying on the boys:

Eleven is a mystery to Mike, he pretty much says it himself.

Their whole relationship is based on immaturity, and the audience knows that. The audience can see that the two of are clearly immature and don’t have what it takes to be in a real, committed relationship. That’s the point. Their relationship in season three is almost entirely to move the plot around in whatever way the Duffer’s want, and to showcase the idea that their relationship in screen is nearly always shown in either a comedic, pre-teen immature light, or a jealous, misunderstood, and petty light. There is almost no stable relationship between the two of them in season 3. It’s either too clingy or too toxic or full of lies or immature, blah blah blah. The only scenes of them either not making out or fighting is the last scene of them together right before the Byers move, and that’s a whole scene in itself to unpack!

Season 4 is where things get a little chaotic, as if things weren’t chaotic enough.

There are so many miscommunications and misunderstandings with Mileven this season, but the big ones include:

El feeling like Mike thinks of her as a monster-

and Mike looking at her like she just spoke badly about his favorite Star Wars movie-

Directly after that we have Mike saying El is being "ridiculous" because she's upset that he won't tell her he loves her, and him calling her a superhero, the complete opposite of what she wants to hear in that moment, but Mike doesn't understand that, because who wouldn't want to be called a superhero? (his way of thinking)

Later on we get Mike recounting this to Will, saying, "and if I would have said that thing..." etc.

Mike can't even say that he loves El to other people, and we're expected to believe it's still true?

We also get this:

another misunderstanding on Mileven's part. El thinks Mike doesn't love her (at this point, does he?) so she finishes her letter the same way he has: From, El.

Next we have Will and Mike's conversation on top of the car:

"I think it's just scary to open up like that, to say how you really feel, especially to people you care about the most, because...what if they don't like the truth?"

I've said it before and I'll say it again,

why would El NOT like the truth if the truth is that Mike loves her?

Mike nods at Will's words and looks away, seemingly lost in thought. Why would he agree with Will---that it's hard for him to open up to El because she might not like the truth---if the truth is exactly what she wants to hear?

It literally makes no sense.

We also get the Byler van scene, where Mike compares her to a superhero yet again, something she clearly does not like (I don't have a vid but here's the official script, where he says the same thing):

Also El being Superman and him being Lois Lane in the analogy....okay.

Next we have him calling her a superhero YET AGAIN ! during his monologue:

Like girl if I was El I would just give up at this point. This is the last thing she wants to hear. She doesn't want to be a superhero all the time, she just wants to be a person ! a girlfriend ! a friend ! a daughter ! yet Mike is making it seem like the main reason he loves her is because she's a superhero, which she hates.

And lastly we have:

"Did she...talk to you at all?"

"Not much, I mean...a little bit."

Let me get this straight......you finally confess your love to your longtime girlfriend in the midst of her fighting a literal monster & monster from her past while she is being strangled and held captive all while she's also trying to save her friend from death, and she doesn't say anything to you for TWO days after?

Ladies...the Mileven break up is writing itself, really.

And that is a thread on how the Duffers intentionally write Mileven to be on different wavelengths with each other every single season without fail to showcase how incompatible they really are.

They are setting this relationship up to where you want more for both parties; El deserves to be loved the way she wants to be loved, and Mike deserves to be loved the way he needs to be loved (if u know what i mean)

In part 2 I will discuss the importance of byler understanding each other, juxtaposed to mileven hehe bye !

part 2 analyzing Mike & Will here !

[beenbaanbuun]

Hey!! I just read your most recent Addams!MATZ fic and the angst is DELICIOUS. Your talent for writing is incredible and your creativity really shines through with each and every fic. The fluff, angst, and even the smut are so wonderfully well done, you're one of my favorite ATEEZ writers.

If you're up to it, and feel free to ignore this, but I'd love to see a part two to the angst Addams!MATZ where seonghwa talks to hongjoong and hongjoong comes to apologize. If that's not something you see yourself continuing, I completely understand!

Make sure to keep yourself healthy and hydrated and get plenty of rest.

thank you for the compliments!!! they mean the world to me. i’m glad that my passion for writing and my love for these boys shines through in my work. here is a continuation <333

——————————————————————————

seonghwa doesn’t even bother to knock before barging into his husbands office. yes, he thinks anger is an ugly emotion, but that doesn’t mean he is immune to it. in fact, it’s the only thing running through him as he steps through the doorway and slams the heavy slab of oak behind him. hongjoong hasn’t shown you the courtesy of being polite; why should seonghwa show his husband the same.

upon hearing the bang of the door, the overworked businessman turns around, pen still in hand and glasses low on his nose. he was half expecting to see your feisty little self again, but instead he’s met with the sight of his husband. if it weren’t for the sneer that twisted up his husbands pretty face, he might’ve explained the same thing he’d tried explaining to you. something tells him that seonghwa wouldn’t have appreciated being told ‘i’m busy, i’ll come and talk to you when i’m finished designing these pieces.’

“what’s wr—” hongjoong doesn’t even get to finish before seonghwa cuts him off with a scoff and a petty roll of the eyes. it’s hardly like him to wear his emotions on his sleeve, and yet hongjoong can see each one of them clear as day. hurt, anger, disappointment; emotions that he never wants anyone he cares about to feel. his heart sinks just a touch as he realises who those emotions are aimed towards.

“you are a piece of work, hongjoong,” seonghwa spits, sounding beautiful even with venom laced through his voice. hongjoong knows that’s the last thing he should be thinking right now, but he can hardly help admiring his husband, even when he is seething. it takes the man a second or two to knock himself free of the love-induced haze and allow the words to sink in. “do you think you’re in the right for yelling at our darling? do you think that just because you’re overworking yourself it gives you the right to make her cry?”

hongjoong’s world comes to a standstill. the clock on the wall stops ticking, the heart in his chest stops beating, and most importantly, for the first time in weeks, the brain in his head stops thinking. finally, finally, it’s no longer filled with a myriad of complex ideas, each one overlapping yet individual in its own right. finally he just has one singular thought. it’s just a shame it isn’t a good one.

he made you cry…

hongjoong made you cry…

it repeats in his head, over and over like a mantra. it taunts him, the idea that he’d upset you so much feeling like nails on a chalkboard. his hairs stand on end and his breath catches in his throat. lord below, what has he done.

“where is she?” his voice is weak, pathetic, nothing like he usually sounds. seonghwa has to admit that his resolve takes a hit when he hears it leave his loves mouth. he reminds himself to remain strong; your pain is his priority right now. “seonghwa, please—”

“take a guess, hongjoong,” seonghwa replies, once again cutting his husband off. this time it wasn’t out of anger but of fear that he might cave if he has to listen to hongjoong’s heartbroken pleas for much longer. the pained look on his face is enough to send seonghwa’s heart into overdrive; he doesn’t need any more distractions from the real reason he’s here. “where might you usually find her when she isn’t with one of us?”

the rug in front of the fire—jongho.

hongjoong almost feels ashamed that he even had to ask; he should’ve realised the second you silently left his office that you’d gone to seek comfort in your favourite onikuma. realistically, though, he should’ve realised a lot of things. it hurts him to know that he was too focused on work to do so.

he stands, and he’s grateful when seonghwa shifts to the side to allow him past, even going as far as to re-open the heavy door for him. hongjoong isn’t quite sure he deserves the soft hand that’s placed against his back as he walks through the doorway, but he appreciates it nonetheless. now isn’t the time to be wondering how he ended up with such a beautiful individual as a soulmate, but he finds himself lingering on that thought as the two of them begin their journey to the living room. it’s hard not to when the warmth of seonghwa’s touch never once leaves him.

in fact, it’s only when the two of them step through the archway that seonghwa gives a small shove to the bottom of hongjoong’s spine before going to reclaim his spot on the couch. with a single nod in your direction, seonghwa redirects his husband’s attention and hongjoong lets his gaze flicker to the floor.

the first thing he’s met with is a glare from the mutt he’d been so reluctant to allow into his abode. normally, the beast would be scolded for being so bold as to openly disrespect his master, but he let it slide this time. he can hardly tell him not to give him the attitude he so clearly deserves. in fact, this is light compared to what he would’ve expected from the overprotective creature.

at least hongjoong knows he’ll make a wonderful guard dog…

“dove,” hongjoong coos softly as he dips down to your level. he can’t remember the last time he’d sat on the floor, but this feels necessary. the closeness is something that he finds himself craving, wanting nothing more than to have you next to him again. he won’t lie and claim that the sole purpose of this is to comfort you; he needs it too, to stave off the guilt that has begun to eat him alive. “can you look at me?”

there’s a certain element of pain in his voice that tells you he’s being sincere. that he truly does feel remorse for how he treated you. whether or not it’s seonghwa that forced it upon him, you don’t particularly care. all you want is to feel hongjoong’s warmth again, so you listen. you turn your head until your watery eyes meet his.

“there she is,” he gives you a humourless chuckle, a sad smile twisting the corners of his mouth up and the corners of his eyebrows down. the warmth of his hand as he places it on your cheek is comforting; more so than any words he could say. you just need him close. he seems to realise that as he turns to the werewolf, dangerously aware of the way his ears twitch angrily above his head. “may i take her, yeosang? i promise i’ll be gentle with her.”

“you weren’t gentle with her earlier,” yeosang growls, behaving more akin to what hongjoong expects from him. it almost has hongjoong flinching back in fear of yet another bite-shaped bruise on his hand.

“that’s true, but i would like i make it up to her,” hongjoong is soft as he speaks, less so for the sake of the angry mutt, and more for the sake of you. he doesn’t want you to see any more anger from him. “besides i really think it should be my little dove’s decision as to whether i get to hold her, don’t you?” yeosang snarls, huffing in dismay as he unravels his arms from you and lets hongjoong swoop you into his. manipulation never really has been the man’s style, but he has to admit that it works wonders with the mutt. use you as leverage, and yeosang will behave like a fully trained lapdog. he’s just like them in that respect; so desperate to make you happy that they’d risk everything, dignity included.

it’s not hard for you to let yourself be passed around like some kind of teddy bear as a pose to a real, living human. you’re tired from crying, not to mention desperate for the confirmation that you’re still hongjoong’s good girl. in fact, as hongjoong tugs you into his grasp like a rag doll, you find yourself leaning into his grasp. it’s so soft compared to his sharp words and cutting tone earlier, and his familiar scent of spices fills your nostrils. it dizzies you, but hongjoong is there to catch you…

“i’m sorry,” he whispers into your ear as he pulls you up to straddle his crossed legs, “my darling dove, will you forgive me?”

you don’t answer. you don’t find it necessary to. the way you see it there’s nothing to forgive; you annoyed him, he yelled at you. it’s give and take, and despite your emotions getting the better of you, you refuse to place the blame on hongjoong. not all of it, at least.

“only if you forgive me too,” is the answer you finally settle on, mumbling it into his neck. he squirms a little at the tickling sensation, and in your own mind, you find yourself thinking he’s cute.

“you have nothing to forgive, my dove,” he answers, “but if it will make you forgive me, then yes; i forgive you…”

[libraryraccoon]

A Raccoon in Twisted Wonderland ?

Gender : Raccoon

Pronouns : Raccoon

Infos : You're a raccoon. A real raccoon. That's it, that's the story. TW : Rook, bad english, english isn't my first language.

You were a normal raccoon, well normal, you had the power to speak in human language and to be smart.

These were the only powers, the only magic, you had, so imagine your shock when you found yourself at the NRC, the Black Mirror choosing you to be a student.

“BUT I DIDN’T EVEN APPLY ?!” -Raccoon!Reader, when a confused Crowley explained the raccoon situation.

Grim was jealous.

You, a fucking raccoon whose only magic was human language and intelligence, had been chosen but not him ?! Jealousy.

Grim became your rival without being asked, literally trying to be better than you at everything, while you didn't even acknowledge his existence-

You are in Savanaclaw, the only real raccoon there is in Savanaclaw.

When Leona and Ruggie started their plan in Book 2, you knew about it too.

They didn't tell you about it, no, you just had heard everything one day.

"You know this can lead to serious problems ? Like broken limbs ?" -Raccoon!Reader, on Leona's bed.

“Well, the nurse- WTF ARE YOU DOING HERE, FUCKING THIEF ?!” -Leona not having seen you arrive.

He give you money in exchange of your silence.

You are known at the NRC for stealing anything and everything, from money to trash passing by student and teacher files.

You once stole Crowley's file thinking it was Crewel's... You are the only student who knows his age and his true identity (you say nothing in exchange for him turning a blind eye to the illegal things you do).

You didn't know who Malleus was before the NRC, the reason is simple : no one knows anything about magic in your origin little forest. Magic and anything related to it isn't really something animals care about, so you didn't know it before the NRC.

“Oh, child of, uh, raccoon ?” Malleus suggested, confused about what nickname to give you.

"Kits. A raccoon child is a kits." -Raccoon!Reader.

Underrated friendship : Idia & Raccoon!Reader & Ortho.

You were adopted by the Shroud the moment Idia realized that you were not afraid of him and that you saw Ortho as Ortho and not just a robot.

You let them pet you, especially if one of them (most often Idia) is stressed.

You are Idia's support animal and the reason for his occasional attendance at class IRL.

Every class where Idia goes IRL (which is 3 times a month since you've been here) you accompany him and let him caress/pet you.

Imagine the look on all the 3rd years' faces the first time they saw him go to flight class with you that very first time (it was also the first time of all year he go to a class IRL).

Headcanon that you and Rook had some sort of weird alliance that consisted of you giving each other information on all the students.

A scary duo.

Literally the hunter and the supposedly "prey" teaming up was something no one at the NRC expected. Even less that they give each other information about the students.

Crewel is the one who makes your clothes, whether those for classes or those to use in everyday life, because for him it's not because you are a raccoon that you are obliged to have no style.

Lilia 🤝 Raccoon!Reader : playing jokes on students who didn't ask for anything (especially Sebek).

I like to think that Raccoon!Reader would be friends with all the NRC ghosts, and that they would give him free food.

For Overblots where you have to fight, be aware that you will jump on the Overblotter's face each time unexpectedly. No one knows why you do this, not even you. Your only answer is always “instincts”.

And it's not even just with Overblotters, but with everyone who annoys you.

The nurse is fed up with you, that's canon.

The Black Mirror is maybe the only one (with the Shroud brothers) who doesn't regret having you at the NRC.

[lilac-gold]

i know that this is just a part of how omori's fight system operates, but i find it very interesting that we are able to make memes like the one pictured below considering all we know about hero's character throughout omori, both in the real world and in headspace

this meme is made by using hero's "smile" skill as well as a rain cloud, sad poem or anything else that inflicts a sad emotion on him. hero's skills are primarily always either food-based healing (e.g. "cook", "fast food", "homemade jam", "snack time") or some form of charisma (e.g. "captivate", "mesmerise", "enchant", "dazzle"). it's hero's job to be the support of their team, and to use his pleasant demeanor and appearance as a distraction.

no matter which emotion hero has, he can still use every one of those skills. it is of no relevance how he feels as long as he can uphold his designated role as a charmer and a healer.

now, consider real world hero's way of dealing with things, which is that he simply doesn't. when he returns to faraway, he's there for everyone else, appearing on the surface to be completely fine and content, and simply not acknowledging his own trauma. he puts on a constant facade of normalcy and perfection. because to hero, it doesn't matter which emotion he has, he can still use every one of his skills. it is of no relevance how he feels as long as he can uphold his designated role as a charmer and a healer.

hero would bend over backwards to please others. he canonically has depression, but would much rather be someone else's shoulder to cry on than admit he's not okay. everyone puts him on a pedestal, viewing him as a sort of ideal to look up to. sunny does it. kel does it. his parents do it. even hero himself does.

i think that's part of the reason why he's so often overlooked by the fandom: hero's unrealistically perfect, but that's exactly the point. he forces those expectations on himself, forces himself to earn trophies and medals even while he struggles to even get out of bed. he smiles despite wanting to do the opposite, because he's not supposed to be depressed. he's hero.

his charm-based skills in headspace alternate between a) reducing foes' attack with a bonus happy effect and b) acting first with all foes targeting him for one turn. hero either dissolves the situation a little, acting like the mediator he always has been, or takes the blunt of the damage for his friends.

he's constantly in the spotlight, in every world.

headspace hero has done a ridiculous amount to help people, from stopping a wildfire to giving up all of his organs, has made such a profound impact on so many lives through his good deeds, and that's recognised. people in headspace adore him.

the conveyor belts at the junkyard are endeared to him. sweetheart falls in love with him. mr jawsum plans to essentially keep him trapped working at the last resort forever. medusa thinks he's "too pretty to sell". hero's worth something to so many people, even when he doesn't want to be.

and that applies to the real world too. he's the only older sibling left for his friends after mari's death. he has to be strong for them, to be that ideal, because they have no-one else to fill that role. he brings kel and aubrey together, rescues sunny and basil, says that they should have a sleepover like "old times". he's trying so hard for everyone else, he can't afford to let himself crumble.

hero's a performer. and we see canonically that he has at least some stage fright from sweetheart's quest for hearts.

sweetheart's an interesting case. i find it interesting that the image above would be found mostly in the fight against her. sweetheart is one of the bosses with a uniquely heightened emotional state, hers being that of happiness in "manic". due to the way the emotion system in battle works (explained to us, funnily enough, by hero himself), it makes sense to oppose sweetheart's mania with sadness, misery, and depression.

so that's what hero does! he has the depressed effect, he'd otherwise look incredibly morose, but as soon as time calls for it, he's got a smile back on his face. we see how uncomfortable he is about her advances, but he gives her a smile that sets into motion a whole separate stream of dialogue where sweetheart proclaims her that she would like to "make [his smile] mine".

hero's the group golden boy. the charmer, the healer, the protector, the older brother, the pillar for them to lean on when things get tough. he knows that he is, and upholds that image to the best of his ability.

that is, until mari dies.

then, he falls into a deep, serious state of depression in the real world, because he's failed. he and mari have strived for perfection their whole lives, only for her to apparently deem it all pointless and leave them behind. hero feels like he wasn't enough, like he never will be, no matter how much he's tried. the faked grins disappear alongside those which were genuine, for how is he supposed to smile when he's given up on the facade?

he stops talking to people. stops going outside. stops helping. he can't do anything but reflect on his perceived failures, and without his pillar of support, the group crumbles to pieces.

hero stays like that for a whole year, until he argues with kel and remembers the reason why he needs to stay alive. this is hurting his brother as much as it is hero, and kel's depending on him to get better. so he does, in a way.

he earns medals and trophies again, helps out again, lives up to expectations then exceeds them even more. he can't bring himself to do the things he enjoys anymore, or talk to the three kids he viewed as little siblings and he failed, but he's trying. then, he leaves, off to medical school like his parents wanted. it's a fresh start. it's a chance for him to start to move on.

he's been healing, a little, by the time he comes back to faraway. he can talk about what mari would have wanted without breaking down entirely. he can make kel and sunny breakfast. he can bring the group together like old times, and reminisce on all he used to have.

but he's still not better, and it shows. it shows in the tears he spills when alone beside mari's old piano. it shows in his refusal to visit her grave. it shows in all the little ways he can try to hide, can cover up with a smile too bright to be real. depression doesn't go away that easily, no matter how much hero tries to pretend he's fine.

all in all, i think this meme essentially sums up hero's character and arc in a single, otherwise funny image. am i overcomplicating things? oh, definitely yes. was this a blast to analyse nonetheless? absolutely! there are far too few takes on hero out there, and i hope this gave a little bit of insight as to why i adore him so much.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

Beautiful Boys

Prompt Day 23: Wayne Adopts Steve | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Lingering Injuries/Trauma | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Wayne & Steve, Wayne POV

Wayne is in Hawkins Hardware, looking at the fence pickets. He definitely didn't expect them to have this many choices. He figured he'd come in and buy what he needed, from the only option available. In and out. Wallet a little lighter, but no choices to be made. 

But, no. There are options. Decisions. And he isn't sure which style Eddie would prefer. He just wants Eddie to have a place he feels safe outdoors, again.

Wayne reaches out to touch the samples, again, when he hears clattering and an "oh my god, I'm so sorry" that sounds an awful lot like Steve Harrington.

Wayne pokes his head around the corner of the aisle, and Steve is gathering up a bunch of swag hooks off the floor, swiping them back into his handbasket.

"What're you doin' with those, kid?" Wayne asks, crouching down to help him.

"Eddie's plants," Steve says, standing back up, pushing his hair back and up, out of his eyes. These boys and their hair they can't keep contained. Wayne smiles. He remembers how his (now long-gone) hair was in the sixties. Different styles, sure, but just as impractical, at times.

"Eddie's plants," Wayne repeats with a smile, then asks, "You're gonna hang them from the ceiling?" 

Steve nods, and Wayne grins, "That's a good idea, kid. He'll love that."

Eddie has gathered up a lot of houseplants recently, tending to them, taking care of them, babying them. The first ones were sent to the hospital by his friends, and Eddie latched onto them. And now, Steve drags a new one home every week or two as a gift. Eddie is still recovering, might always be recovering, but his plants make him smile and give him something to do.

Wayne doesn't quite understand it, not with the black thumb he has, but it's like everything else about Eddie. Wayne doesn't have to understand it, to support him. If Eddie wants plants, they can have a whole houseful of them.

Eddie survived something he still hasn't fully explained to Wayne, might never, so if he wants to fill the house with greenery, so be it. 

If he wants to fill the house with Steve Harrington, too, that's also just fine by Wayne.

Steve smiles shyly, "If you don't care that I put holes in the ceiling, that is."

Wayne doesn't care. "I'll help. I've got a stud finder, so we won't have them falling and cracking us on the noggin."

Steve laughs, and nods, "Thanks. What are you doing here?"

Wayne waves him over, getting Steve to follow him.

"Trying to pick fencing for the backyard. If Eddie's gonna keep dragging home strays, we'll need a place to put them," Wayne says, and Steve blushes, just a little. 

"I could make a tent work," Steve teases, and Wayne squeezes his shoulder. Steve is always, and will always, be welcome in the house.

"Good to know, but I was thinking more along the lines of dogs, cats, raccoons. You know how he is," Wayne drawls, and Steve smiles. It's wishful thinking, because they both know the real reason for the fence. Eddie doesn't want to leave the house these days.

"I just assumed I'd get dog-ears," Wayne says, pointing at the slightly-rounded piece of wood on display. "But there are choices."

Steve studies them all, finally saying "I think Eddie would like the pointed ones the most. Looks dangerous," Steve says.

Wayne nods. He was thinking the same thing.

"They're narrower, be more work to set," Wayne mutters.

Steve turns to look at him, "I'll help you, you know that."

Wayne nods. He knows Steve will. He's a good kid, who spends most of his time hanging out in their new little house, doting on Eddie in one way or another. Wayne isn't blind. He knows what this is, what these boys feel for each other, even if Eddie hasn't told him yet.

He will. Wayne just has to be patient.

"Sounds good, kid," Wayne says, and Steve grins, big and bright. Like he wasn't sure his help would be accepted. 

"I don't know much about building a fence, but I can learn. I can follow instructions," Steve assures, and Wayne pats him on the back.

"Let's double-check my math here," Wayne says, pulling a small notepad out of his pocket, rerunning his figures. 

Once he's got a good number, Wayne directs them towards the stain options. Steve picks one with a red tint, and Wayne nods. Looks good to him.

When they get to the counter, he takes Steve's basket and adds it to his.

"You don't have to do that," Steve says.

Wayne knows he doesn't, but it's for Eddie and it's just a few dollars worth of hooks and bolts. He's definitely gonna get his money back in fence-building help.

"I know, I want to," Wayne says, opening his wallet.

Outside, Steve helps the guys from the lumber department load up the trailer full of the pickets. 

"See you at home?" Wayne questions, and Steve nods and smiles.

"Yeah, at home," he answers, walking towards his car, with his small sack of hardware.

And they spend days hanging the over-abundance of plants in front of every window in the house, so many that it seems like they're living in a greenhouse, and then they work on the fence. Putting it up, picket by picket, together.

Sometimes, Eddie comes and sits on the patio and watches, but it still takes a lot out of him, even now, months later. Wayne's worried he might never fully recover. 

But, Steve works hard to entertain Eddie. Steve's funny, and he treats Eddie real good. That's all that will ever matter to Wayne. Eddie's his boy, and by extension, Steve's his boy now, too.

Eddie and Steve fight over the radio, a welcome sound, and Steve's won. 

So, John Lennon's singing about a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. 

Wayne knows that feeling well.

He's got two of those beautiful boys, now. 

close your eyes, have no fear, the monster's gone, he's on the run and your daddy's here, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy John Lennon, Beautiful Boy

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[buckybarnesb-tch]

You’re Mine, Whether You Know it or Not -Klaus M.

Kidnapping theme, slight Yandere Klaus

You had been hanging out with Klaus for several weeks now.

It had started as an accident. You were excited as everyone in the Boarding house had gone out, leaving you all alone to watch TV and relax. You had stolen a bottle of Damon’s oldest Whiskey and mixed it with some coke, enjoying a tipsy night of movies, or so you thought.

Klaus had shown up looking for Damon and while you ignored the knock at the front door, the Hybrid didn’t need to be invited in anymore so he just walked into the house.

~~

‘Damon isn’t here. He’ll be back later after he saves Elena or Stefan or…I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. I’ll let him know you stopped by.’ You unpaused your movie, expecting the man to leave as he had no need to speak to you and you had never met before now so you had no reason to speak.

‘You won’t mind if I wait for him here, will you?’ It didn’t sound like much of a question so you ignored him, facing the TV again. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you here before…are you new?’ You shook your head.

‘Nope. I just try and stay out of their Supernatural issues. They have nothing to do with me and it’s not like I can help. Useless little human right here so you have no reason to try and hurt me.’ You grabbed another glass, pouring him some of Damon’s bourbon before handing the glass over. ‘Not that you would. You seem like a nice enough guy, personally I think Damon is a bit dramatic when it comes to you. If he just left you alone it would solve like 75% of the problems.’ You shrugged and didn’t notice the way the Hybrid had been staring at you since the moment he walked in. It only seemed to get worse as you spoke with him but you continued drinking and explaining the movie to him so he was caught up. He moved to sit beside you and spent the evening watching movies beside you until you eventually fell asleep on his shoulder.

That was the first time you ever met Klaus Mikaelson and you had considered it a good moment, you actually enjoyed speaking with the centuries old man, he had fascinating stories and he listened to you in a way none of your friends ever did, as if you had something interesting to say.

Klaus always gave you his undivided attention, to the point of ignoring real problems in his day to day life, not that you would know that but his family took notice. Elijah noted how you had captured his brothers attention and honestly, it worried him a bit. Elijah knew you to be a very sweet, kind hearted girl, you never judged anyone too harshly considering you liked him as well and only based things on how people treated you personally, and Klaus? He was always so kind to you. Kol noticed you as well and had been threatened by his elder brother repeatedly about leaving you alone and for once, Kol heeded those threats, there was something about how he spoke about you that the younger Mikaelson didn’t want to fuck around with.

Your friends repeatedly warned you about Klaus, now knowing that you were spending time with him nearly daily, to the point that he needed to see you at least once every day to ensure his day went well, if he didn’t see your smiling face at least once the Hybrid would be a miserable asshole all day.

Klaus went so far as to take care of you when you were sick. He had given you his number one of those first days you spent time together and while you didn’t use it much, when you woke up feeling sick that morning you texted him that you wouldn’t be out that day and to not wait up for you at the Grille. What you didn’t expect however was him showing up at your doorstep with bags of god knows what. When you saw the cold medicine and the food he had gotten to make you soup you realized how much he really cared for you and it was the first moment you invited him into your house.

What you didn’t know was that Klaus had planned it like that. He knew he could get you to invite him in to take care of you, you were his sweet little human after all, you needed to be cared for and nursed back to health. That’s what Klaus is here for.

You didn’t see his obsession with you growing the way that everyone else did and no matter how many times you were warned, you just thought your friends were being dramatic. Klaus was the best friend you had had in a really long time and you didn’t want to lose that, and you certainly weren’t going to give it up just because Elena and Caroline were a bit worried.

3 months after you began spending time together was when you finally realized your friends may have been right about how much Klaus had come to care for you.

You had decided to spend time with Elena, Caroline and Bonnie one weekend night, staying in all day, up all night and the next day binging movies and shows you had been putting off thanks to all the Supernatural drama and you had told the Hybrid you would be gone all day and night. You didn’t know that he had checked up on you at the Boarding house at least 6 times since yesterday and that night when you took your stuff and walked your way home, stoned from one too many of Jeremy’s cookies, that he was watching from the trees. The second he noticed you were high he knew that you couldn’t take care of yourself, and he knew that he needed to do it himself.

When you awoke the next morning you were in a much too comfortable bed. It was actually very nice, prompting you too roll over and drift back off to sleep when you rested your head on someone’s chest, startling you. ‘Klaus?! What the hell?!’ You snapped, moving to get up when his arms were suddenly wrapped around you tightly.

‘Calm down love, you’re safe. You were stumbling home, it was dangerous Little Wolf, and your so called “friends” just let you go! I need to keep you safe.’ The look on his face was one of devotion, it was strange to see from your friend.

‘Yeah, we got a little high but I’m okay. You don’t need to worry so much-‘

‘But I do! I do worry Y/n, because I love you and if you haven’t figured that out by now then clearly I’m doing something wrong, I-‘ he sighed heavily. ‘Please? Just relax and go back to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up and we’ll order some breakfast. Just sleep my darling.’ You nodded, doing as he said and trusting him, resting your head back into his chest. He had admitted to loving you and while that was a bit heavy you loved him too and you trusted him…you just didn’t know that he didn’t plan on ever letting you go.

Klaus Mikaelson Masterlist

[mikasa-imadebiscults]

The Silver Lining

(A/N- Ah yes, Donna, I love her so much)

RL! Donna Beneviento x FEM! Reader

(Warning: Swearing, smut, grinding, and of course face sitting)

When people think of memorable duos, some people think of Bonnie and Clyde or Sherlock and Watson but the first thing you think of is you and Donna. The friendship y’all formed is an unbreakable bond that no one can take away. The both of you are so lucky to have each other, no matter what you or her are struggling with, the other is always there to support and help every step of the way.

It was one of those times again, one of those days when you needed her. You look at your phone in shock when you read the short text message your partner had sent. They broke up with you, not only that but to make matters worse they confessed to cheating on you with one of your friends. You were so confused and lost, the first thing you thought to do was to call your best friend, Donna Beneviento.

With tears dwelling in your eyes and threatening to spill out you dial her number. She surprisingly answered quickly, the shop must be slower than usual today. “Hello?” Donna’s soft voice greeted your ears.

“Hey Donna, could you please come over to my house, something happened and I really need you here.”

Donna's eyes widened when she heard your voice crack just like when you’re crying. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?!” she frantically questioned, her voice slightly raised out of panic and confusion. She can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.

“No no, I’m okay, physically at least.” You admitted, feeling a little selfish for dragging her out of her work just for your comfort.

“Hm I’ll be right there, stay put dear.”

The beeping sound of the hung up phone went on as the last word Donna spoke ran around your head. Dear? She would always call you pet names, nothing unusual for you two but for some reason the sweet name warmed you up inside. It was a strange feeling.

*Knock knock knock knock*

A familiar knocking sound banged on your door; you already knew it was Donna. You got up to let her in and there you saw Donna’s worried expression plastered on her face. “Come in.”

You lead her to your bedroom since that’s where you both usually hang out together and plus it just felt right at this moment. Taking a seat on the bed, she sits next to you as you explain the whole situation. Donna can feel her blood boil with anger and disgust, “Those fucking bitches, how could they?” She muttered under her breath. She never did like your partner but this made her dislike for them turn into a deep hatred.

Although underneath all that hatred, she felt kinda glad. Glad that you’re finally free now, Donna has always had a huge crush on you, it was obvious to everyone except you, but when you first started dating your partner she was hurt. You were the one that got away, at least she thought, but now she still has a chance.

Donna takes a deep breath before speaking, calming her nerves down. “Don’t waste your energy on dumb bitches like that, they don’t deserve you. You deserve someone better.” She tells you with certainty before her voice drops to a whisper, “Someone like me.”

Your tearful eyes widened at those last words, looking at her to see if she really meant it, but she was avoiding eye contact and her face turned red with embarrassment. “Do you really mean it? Like for real?” You questioned softly.

Silence filled the room for a moment before Donna finally developed the courage to confess, “Yes, I do. I’ve had a small..crush..on you for a long time. I was just afraid to tell you.” Her face somehow managed to get even redder.

“Why..do you like me like that? What is it about me?” Asking in disbelief, Donna is your best friend and you never expected her to have feelings for you out of all people. Honestly you didn’t know how to feel, different emotions are coming at you left and right, it’s natural to be confused like this.

“Well..first off, your stunning personality and smile lights up my world. It makes my entire day, really. Not to mention your looks.” Donna admitted, fidgeting with her hands, not knowing what to do with them, in which you suddenly take her hand in your own. Leaning forward to kiss her, you’re not sure what you’re doing but you just let your body take control.

To your surprise, she kissed back, you would think that Donna would just be standing there frozen due to shyness though that’s not the case right now. She places one hand on the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds but it felt like minutes until she pulled away. “S-sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” She breathed out, and you took the opportunity to wrap your arms around her waist, connecting your lips to hers. This time instead of a soft kiss, it was a much deeper one. Donna was surprised that you took the initiative though she definitely wasn’t complaining. Although, she pulled away again, but this time not out of uncertainty.

“Let me take good care of you, tesoro, way better than they ever could.” Donna confidently said, also asking for consent to continue on further with what will soon to be the best experience of your life.

You gave her a small sound of approval and Donna placed her hand on the side of your face, her thumb almost touching your lips. “No tesoro, I wanna hear you say it.” She smirked at your expression. You never saw Donna act this way before but goddamn she looked so fine right now.

“Take good care of me, I want you right now Donna.” You said seductively, making her blush deeper across her cheeks while she carefully pulled you onto her lap.

“That’s all you needed to say.” Her words made your heart warm, who knew Donna could be so bold. She placed a soft kiss on your lips, letting it linger there while she littered kisses down your neck, nipping at it a little. The increasing anticipation made you want more, you couldn’t help but grind your clothed core on her lap.

Donna's lips stayed on your neck, her hands grabbing your hips to move you a little to the side, positioning your core on her thigh. With her hands resting on your hips you continued your movements, grinding and grinding, sending friction to your clit, ripping a small moan out of you.

“Damn- that feels good. So good.” You moan out quietly, praising Donna’s actions. The praise sent shivers down her spine and made her heartbeat increase. She always adored every compliment you would give her.

“Mm I can’t wait to taste you. Especially that sweetness I know you’ll produce.” She tugs on the hem of your bottoms, prompting you to lift up and swiftly take off everything from your waist down.

She lays herself down on the bed, patiently waiting. You climbed on top of her and straddled yourself onto her stomach, “Are you sure about this?”

Donna smiled at your thoughtful question, “I’m positive.” She said encouragingly, putting your doubts at ease. You move up with knees on either side of Donna’s head, you can see her smile before she takes her hands and makes you sit down all the way. Before you knew it she was already getting to work.

Your hands tangled in her hair as you started to experience waves of pleasure. Donna’s hands grabbed your thighs, forcing you to stay still when you began to squirm. You gave her a pleading look in hopes that she’ll have mercy and let you grind on her face. In response she smiled in your cunt.

“Just let me do all the work darling.” She mumbles the almost inaudible words against your clit, shooting vibrations to the sensitive nerve. The action made your back arch and your stomach getting an unfamiliar sensation. Donna knew you were getting close so she quickened her skilled movements.

The pleasure you felt was almost unbearable; a few tears slipped from your eyes out of utter pure pleasure as your climax hit you full force. Donna’s movements slowed and rubbed small circles in your hips as your muscles relaxed. Once you caught your breath you moved off her, thighs still trembling. Donna sits up and gestures to you to sit next to her.

“Damn I didn’t know you had all that in you.” You teased, making her blush and look away bashfully.

“Mm yeah, let’s rest up I know you need it.” Donna retorted while also changing the subject; you laid down while she kicked off her shoes and took off her gloves. She settled down next to you as you snuggled up closer to her, whispering a small thank you.

“No need to thank me, I won’t let anyone, especially those bastards, break your heart again, I promise.”

Masterlist

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Yo! Good morning/evening, hope you are fine^^💝. I wanted to ask you a question but I was afraid that it may bother you or something (you know..that feeling when you are scared that you might disturb someone or being an unwelcome person) but yeah I will ask you since i was serious about your answer for some time now so I hope I'm not annoying you or something *feel free to answer only if you wish^^. You seem to know the characters pretty well, you are quite capable and great at reading and understanding them, one of the things I'm serious about is what do you think would make someone qualified enough to be with malleus? Do they have to be of the same species?certain Reputation, stature or traits?(sorry can't help it since I can't rest until I know everything about what interests me and figure it all out😅). Thanks for giving me some of your precious time I really like your blog, you're amazing💜

No worries, you’re not bothering me at all ^^ I love to talk about my hyperfixations www

Now, I know a lot of fans (particularly on the EN side) like to ship Malleus with their OC and especially with Yuu so I want to first make it clear that my response is NOT meant to invalidate those Malleus shippers. Whatever I say here is based on my own interpretation of canon lore (and let’s be real here, TWST won’t ever confirm if anyone is romantically interested in Yuu because it might not work with how some players view their own relationship with that character). In fanon, anyone can be with anyone, but in canon there are very specific in-universe rules and expectations laid out for Malleus so these are what I will be referring to.

I also want to emphasize that the final traits I discuss in this post do NOT reflect Malleus’s personal tastes or views. He has little say in what kind of an individual his spouse would be, so his own preferences are not speculated about or taken into account here. The traits I will be bringing up are based on what I believe the lore implies are the desirable traits for those marrying into the Draconia royal family.

We got it? Good 👍 Read more below the cut!!

Firstly, I’m completely disregarding the ideas of “Malleus can love whoever he wants to love”, “Malleus can scare people into accepting who he loves”, and/or “Malleus can change the law so he can marry who he loves” (a la Sultan from Aladdin or through some other Disney magic or logic). Here’s why:

In general, those solutions for “high stakes issues” are too simple, and that has never been how Twisted Wonderland tackles complicated problems. Just look at every single OB boy’s backstory. They’re so complex that they aren’t totally resolved by the end of their books; these problems persist and are long term things each of them are working on addressing. This is also true of the politics TWST introduces to us; Leona for example explains how there is social pushback and resistance to the idea of infrastructure reform because the culture of the Sunset Savanna stresses harmony with nature. This has made it difficult for them to adopt new technologies because real politicians in their world have to seriously weigh their cultural values with their health and societal progress. The only time there are really easy solutions are in events or vignettes where the emotional stakes are not super high, but who Malleus marries is, in fact, super important since this will entirely change the life of a main character and his country.

With that first bullet point in mind… No, Malleus cannot love whoever he wants to love. Certainly, he may feel affection for another but he can never truly be with them. He is royalty and the only heir to the throne of Briar Valley. It follows that he is expected to marry for political reasons/to better his nation. This is a non-negotiable obligation for him.

Rather than saying, “Malleus cannot scare people into accepting who he loves”, I think it’s more accurate to say Malleus knows he probably shouldn’t. I mean, yes, he may be upset about his S/O not being accepted by his people but I feel that is discrediting a lot of the loyalty he has for his own country. As a kid he may have thrown tantrums when he was upset and potentially harmed staff, but as a 178 year old he has a much better understanding of decorum and maintaining it in spite of his own grudges. For example, even though he personally dislikes Leona he still commands Sebek to apologize to him because, at the end of the day, this could harm Briar Valley’s relationship with the Sunset Savanna. That’s not to say that Malleus can’t be petty (he definitely is)—but implying he would be petty toward basically his entire country just because they would disapprove of the one he loves?? (We know this would likely be true because Sebek’s parents faced similar backlash when they got together.) I feel like his own sense of awareness and responsibility for his country, crown, and people would override that. As an example, Malleus states that he has never been in a car before because the senate would be against it and often kept Malleus in the castle. Someone of his power could easily ignore them and sneak out and do whatever he wanted, yet the dialogue implies Malleus didn’t. He obeyed his political advisors even when he was younger and arguably much more immature. Malleus might not like certain decisions made about his life but it sounds like he ultimately complies with them.

Continuing from the previous point, let’s say for the sake of argument that Malleus does scare everyone into line. What about his public image and the mental health of his S/O? Maybe Malleus can frighten people to not talk out of turn to his face, but he cannot control what people whisper about him behind closed doors or to treat his S/O well or like they actually like them. Not only would they be alienated (away from their own home and forced to adapt to a new one) but they’d be treated oddly by others too. What kind of reputation is that for Malleus? To be a tyrant king who throws a hissy fit anytime someone talks about his partner in a way he doesn’t approve of? With a spouse who is not at their best mentally because of the constant ostracization? (This is similar to what Leona experienced in his childhood.) I don’t think Malleus would want to subject anyone to that kind of life, especially not one he loves. And again, this attitude would be the vast majority of his people. It’s not like it can be avoided or resolved in an easy manner, especially when the people of Briar Valley have proven to be against change.

Lastly, Malleus would not change the law so he can be with whoever he wants to. To begin with, I doubt this is a unilateral position the senate would approve of. But okay, let’s accept that Malleus is royalty so his power overrides the advisors’ power. So he effectively just changed a law for a very selfish and personal reason rather than changing something to actually benefit his people. That doesn’t feel in-character for him, not when Malleus seems to understand that it is the duty of those in higher status to help those below them rather than themselves (see: Riddle’s Suitor Suit vignettes. Malleus has acted selfish before, yes (who remembers Endless Halloween Night? His Dorm Uniform vignettes? I do.)—but never at the cost of changing the status quo of his country. (Book 7 is not included here because he’s in a very distressed emotional state then; this “new law” scenario posits that Malleus is in a normal state of mind.) This is a major change—change which Briar Valley, its people, and most importantly, Malleus, are not ready for. You think there wouldn’t be social pushback against this? From a society that has become complacent with its own way of life and is still isolated from the rest of the world? That Malleus, someone who struggles greatly with accepting life changes himself, could enact such a big change so easily? (On a more technical level, you don’t just pass a law and it instantly becomes tangible or real, there is a process of approval and then implementation.)

Additionally, it’s made clear in Ghost Marriage that “[Malleus] cannot enter into an engagement lightly”, which is why Sebek goes in his place. Eliza, the Ghost Bride, is royalty (er, albeit dead) but it seems that royal status is not enough to qualify as his partner. Maybe this is because she’s dead and doesn’t have anything of value for Briar Valley (no land, no people, no political power), but it could also mean that the partner has to be given the thumbs up by other parties.

All that being said, here are some of the conditions I think would have to be met for Malleus’s future spouse:

Has to be someone of equal or at least high status. This means they also have to be a royal or at least of nobility. This appears to be true of Malleus’s dad, who is referred to as a duke.

Because of how self-contained Briar Valley is + nocturnal fae having beef with diurnal fae, I imagine his partner would have to also be a nocturnal fae. This would also solve the MASSIVE lifespan difference between fae and non-fae because at least fae would be far closer to each other even if their lifespans fluctuate but subspecies.

Someone suited to rule by his side. Being married into any royal family is no joke—it comes with the expectation that you will contribute somehow, and the partner should be fully equipped to enter the world of politics with him.

Piggybacking off the last point, I think mental fortitude is also a prerequisite. This is because being a politician (navigating the social climate both within your country and outside of it, keeping your people and colleagues happy, maintaining public approval, managing laws, dealing with potential attempts on your life, etc.) can be very stressful and can hurt those who are faint of heart or not prepared for the responsibility. Leaders have to make tough calls at the drop of a hat, and they have to be ready for it.

Has a lot to offer in terms of benefits to Briar Valley as a country. This could be in terms of resources, connections, and/or political savvy. This appears to be true of Malleus’s dad, who acted as a diplomat for Briar Valley.

Vetting and formal approval from the senate. lmao good luck with that

Has to be able and willing to have a child. They at least need an heir to the throne to succeed Malleus. (However, knowing how exclusionary and conservative as heck the senators are, I doubt they would accept anything but a biological child 💀)

Preferably someone with powerful magic or is skilled at magic already so as to lessen the chance of “tainting” the bloodline with a weak mage or a non-mage.

I believe that Briar Valley would prefer someone with old fashioned values like them, not someone pushing for massive reform. They have a culture that is resistant to change and a history of fighting for resources with outsiders, so if Malleus’s new spouse tries to introduce a bunch of technology or open its borders to other countries (even if they have good intentions), the people + the senate may oppose them. His father is implied to be open-minded, but he at least understood that such change isn’t reasonable without time and effort dedicated to the endeavor.

All that being said 💦 I think that this topic is actually less about what Malleus as an individual wants and what his country, his people, and, yes, even his asshole senators, want. This is basically an arranged marriage situation so that their country can maintain power and relevance. It’s about the collective and what Malleus must do for their perceived security and prosperity.

[peachesofteal]

Hey Peach!!

I just read the ultimate angst post you made and I'm literally not ok but I absolutely love your writing. You write angst so so well it's astonishing and I strive to write at your level one day.

But I can't get all these possible scenarios out of my head about that au so I thought I might share them with you.

So I'm thinking Darling is going to the motions of grief and anger as the boys leave and so decides to ignore them completely. Like she goes ghost mode on them. They text her their apologies on the day their leaving and for obvious reasons can't keep in touch after that.

Darling is a complete mess for the first couple of months after their departure. Living in that apartment alone would become too much for her. Every nook every coner holding precious memories of their times together. She would cry looking at the knick knacks they'd left behind accidentally. Fantasizing about what could have been if she had told them, If they hadn't decided to break up on the spot without consulting her, if they had communicated better. But it's too late now, their gone and she can't even let them know she's pregnant, not that she wants to anymore after being dumped like that.

She decides eventually to pull herself together for herself and her growing child. An apartment move was very necessary for her mental well-being so she decides to move somewhere her child can have a fulfilling upbringing. A fresh start somewhere where she isn't consumed by their memories. Somewhere that doesn't remind her of them when she's walking through the park where she would pick wild flowers together with Johnny to put in pretty vases on the dinning table or going to their favourite grocery store and shops looking for ingredients to try new recipes together which might not always turn out great. Or when the local pub owners ask where her pretty men are when their away on ops. Those little things would chip away at her if she had to think about them constantly.

So she moves and begins her difficult and lonely journey as a single parent but still trying to enjoy all her first milestone of her pregnancy. She goes to these wellness classes for expecting mothers where she has to watch couples enjoying their pregnancy together while she sits there all alone. It's difficult to attend these check-ups and classes but she manages for the sake of her child. She might have a little gender reveal by herself or with some friends but in my head darling might go to a bakery with the little slip of paper the maternity nurse had given her and asks them if they could make a cupcake with the adjacent colour filling on the inside so she can celebrate at home, probably with some nice food and her favourite movie. Deciding the name of the child, painting and decorating a nursery, going clothes shopping she wishes she had them there with her as much as she doesn't want to admit missing them, she also might cry alot along her journey but she is constantly learning as she goes along to give her child the best possible life she can provide. But as her mental health fluctuates she finds it increasingly difficult to take care of herself as she nears the due date to give birth.

All this is happening while the boys are on their very difficult and taxing mission. Trying their best to stay alive for each other while dealing with the guilt of hurting darling the way they did . They try to rationalize their decision to break up with her to dissipate their growing guilt but to no avail. They're constantly thinking about her, wondering how she's faring, if she's eating well, if she's recovering from the hurt they caused. They hope to come back alive to talk to explain their reasoning for their decision and try to make it up to her again. Not realising the darling they had left behind was long gone by the time they would get back.

Sorry for going off on a tangent I hope you enjoy my little take on your au. The real angsty parts comes when they get back a realize she's gone for good. Thanks again for blessing us with your writing 💗

I am throwing writing tools at you! Books! Notebooks! Pens! Paper! Laptops! Disco baby au 18+ Mature themes.

I love all of this, but one thing that really sticks with me is the image of Darling, sitting at the kitchen table, alone with a cupcake. You don't have a party, don't have friends over, you just go to the bakery and get this one, singular cupcake, made for yourself.

And then, when you finally get home, after a way too long day at work, your body sore and back tired, you sit down in front of it.

You always thought, that if you were to have a baby, this is something you'd do with your partners, if you even chose to do it at all. You always envisioned not finding out, leaving it for a surprise when the time comes, but this... none of it feels right. None of it feels like it should, and you think that means you shouldn't wait. You should get to know, right now, since there's no one else to share it with, no one else who even cares.

So, when you finally cut into it, and finally see that stupid color on the inside (because also, screw this whole concept to begin with) you don't feel joy. Or excitement. You feel crippling sadness, and you rest your head on the table as you start to cry, cradling your belly with a hand when the baby starts to move.

This was supposed to be good. We were supposed to be happy. You can't not think about the way Johnny would whoop and cause such a ruckus at the news, the way his eyes would light up and how he would pull you in for a devastating kiss. You think about Simon, and the way his eyes would grow wet, even though he swore he wasn't crying, how he would hold you and tell you how happy he is, how much he loves all three of you now. You, Johnny, and little baby girl.

You can almost see them, in the flat, almost hear them, and if you close you eyes, you can picture them sitting on either side of you, holding your hand, kissing your skin slowly. Making you feel loved. Making you feel safe.

But they're not there. You're alone. You, and little baby girl, doing it on your own.

[beanghostprincess]

Silly goofy wild and funky idea:

Transman Crocodile who transitioned via Ivankov.

Cross Guild events and Cross Guild Poly where Buggy finally gets the nerve to come out to her two lieutenants and also boyfriends. Mihawk just blinks like "yes? Your Haki is distinctly feminine, so this makes perfect sense. Oh, dear why are you crying, stop that-" meanwhile Crocodile has to bite back every single we traded genders joke and instead just shrugs, going "I quite literally could not be paid to give a fuck. You know I'm bisexual, this changes little, Clown."

Croc does off hand offer to hook Buggy up with Iva if that's smth she's interested in, tho.

Meanwhile Sanji has come out to the Strawhats as a transwoman as well, and the reactions are much more dramatic but no less supportive - if anything, some may be too supportive /hj ((Franky calls her queen and sis and Hawt Mama, Chopper already began working on ways to synthesize estrogen Just In Case, Luffy could not be made to give a single fuck, Ussop is swooning, Zoro informs her that this changes nothing and he'll still kick her ass, Robin offers her congratulations, Nami is already mathing out adding another bed in the girls' room or making a room JUST for Sanji and Ussop to share, Brooke waits 0.006783259 seconds before asking to see undies, just everyone being supportive and stupid))

This leads to Ivankov getting two separate contacts for their services, and so they arrange to meet at a small-ish island to help both, two birds, one stone :)).

Both crews go full Spiderman meme when they come across each other, and Iva handles it with all the gentility of a bull in a china shop, whisking both ladies away while the rest are left just plain gaping and awkwardly avoiding eye contact or completely oblivious to the tension (cough cough LUFFY).

Insert your own silly ideas here, generally.

But when they come back, Mihawk, Crocodile and Ussop are all just absolutely SWOONING for different reasons, full of Respect Woman Juice and I Love My Wife energy, it's adorable and cute and funny.

((Bonus: Luffy calls Buggy auntie without hesitation, and she almost cries even as she punches him over the head))

THIS IS SO CUTE SELJKFNSFLEFNLNDFDLKNSDLK

Okay, so, my thoughts on this. Crocodile having to hold back the 'we traded genders' joke is so damn real and I laughed SO hard. Love him. So true. And transfem Buggy lives in my mind rent free so this is just perfect because I absolutely love her. She's my beloved. She'd be so anxious about it and cry and Mihawk and Crocodile are like-- So done with her because she's acting stupid and dramatic and of course they're going to still want her. And she's crying and they're rolling their eyes and patting her head at the same time. Poor thing. She needs comfort okay??

And,, Transfem Sanji coming out is always so beautiful in my head. She's been battling her gender issues for AGES and now she feels comfortable enough to come out to the crew. She's anxious but she knows she has to do this now or she never will. And it's-- It's so real to me. The way she would explain everything that happened to her back in Momoiro Island and then say that she's actually a girl. And everyone's quiet because they know she's looking at Luffy only right now, expecting an answer from her captain. And Luffy is just like "??? Okay? You're still my cook. So who cares? You seem happier now!" and that is when Sanji starts crying. Because of course she's crying. And of course, Usopp is the one to hug her first because that's his girlfriend and she needs a hug and forehead kisses right now. But they have 0 privacy because Luffy wants hugs too. I mean. Obviously.

Franky is loud af and he's SOBBING while he screams how proud he is of their cook (I've always said Franky feels like a girldad because just look at how he interacts with Nami. And he's sooooooooo loving Sanji right now). Robin would be so so proud too and would say she's happy for her and smile in the sweetest of ways (Robin please adopt me). I think Chopper would also ask a lot of questions before making estrogen, just in case, but then he'd go and try to make it right away. Nami hugs Sanji but the sweet moment doesn't last long because she's already telling Franky her ideas for a bigger, better room for the girls or!!! "Better!!!!!! A room for Sanji and Usopp so we don't have to deal with them!!!!!! But also make the girl's room bigger because I say so!!!!!!". Zoro says he doesn't give a fuck because he will still kick her ass but he's secretly happy that she looks more relaxed and comfortable in her skin. Brook is Brook and he says his Brook thing about panties but I think Sanji would kick him having the best gender affirmation moment of her fucking life. And Jinbe is just the cutest because I think he'd laugh at the chaotically sweet situation and say that strength comes from being happy with yourself and Sanji is the strongest for being so brave and true to herself (he be saying poetic and cute shit like that and he expects me not to absolutely love him. Dad behavior. I am SO sure he would beat the shit out of anybody who misgendered Sanji. But that's what any Strawhat would do, so,,,).

They go see Iva (Iva my beloved) and they're all,, So uncomfortable,, Buggy acts overconfident and says she's perfectly fine and not scared at all of what Iva's going to do to her body (liar. She's scared af and Crocodile and Mihawk know so they keep scaring her even more because it's funny to see their girlfriend crying. Look. The fact that they're soft and dating doesn't mean they're not gonna bully her). And Sanji has smoked like two fucking boxes of cigarettes already despite saying that she doesn't care about it (she has never been more excited in her entire life) and she's holding Usopp's hand so hard she's going to break it at some point. Anyway, Iva is a dramatic bitch and they make Sanji and Buggy come with them to a more private place because they want it to be a surprise for everyone (drama queen. Love them. I would do it too. Trust the process, girls, you're in good hands). So Cross Guild and the Strawhats end up alone and waiting for their girls to come back. And. Yeah. Uncomfortable. Zoro looks at Mihawk at some point and goes:

Zoro: I thought you were gay. Mihawk: I swing both ways. Usopp: Actually, you swing sword- Mihawk: Awful. Shut up. Don't ever speak to me again. Don't even look at my direction, actually. Roronoa, why is your crew like this? Zoro: It was really funny, though. Mihawk: I wish to not partake in this conversation anymore. Everyone just shut up and wait. ............. Luffy: Hey, guys, do you think Sanji's going to have bigger boobs than Zor- Nami: OH MY GOD LUFFY YOU CAN'T SAY THAT Luffy: BUT I'M CURIOUS Zoro: Yeah, she's going to ask for the biggest of boobs only to piss me off because she's annoying like that. Mihawk: Why would you even care about your breast size, Roronoa? Crocodile: Tsk. You care about mine. Usopp: OH MY GOD SJKFNSKDEWKFJNJKSFN

Okay, so Sanji and Buggy eventually come back. Finally. And they were gorgeous before but now they're even more beautiful because they actually look extremely happy with their bodies. I want to describe how I see them but just check @/vongulli's account and see their fem Buggy because she kills me every time and that's the only way I can see fem Buggy now. And Sanji to me looks like @/sibmakesart's fem Sanji. This artist made a nude fem Sanji not long ago and I loved it,, So much,, ANYWAY!!!!!! Getting carried away.. Thinking about women. It's not my fault I'm a lesbian. But they look perfect and they're comfortable and happy. And Sanji's boobs are surprisingly not huge and Zoro makes a comment about that but Sanji is like:

Sanji: WHAT????? YOU ONLY SEE ME AS A BOOB-OBSESSED GIRL OR WHAT? Literally everyone at the same time: Yes. Sanji: Well, for your information- Usopp: She likes thighs more Sanji: Usopp, don't tell them- Iva: And also, my dears, that is not how my power works Zoro: So you did ask for big boobs and you couldn't have them Sanji: I'm going to kill you and wearing heels it's going to hurt even more Usopp: Is it weird that I'm kind of turned on right now? Nami: ...Haha Usopp: Are you okay? Nami: Hey, Usopp, I- Usopp: You can't fuck her Nami: I swear I can't have anything!!! What do you have against lesbians??? Usopp: YOU WANT TO SLEEP WITH MY GIRLFRIEND WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY??? Nami: I dunno, yes??

Crocodile and Mihawk are having... A moment. They will still bully her and they're sure she's going to look extremely pretty crying and whining but right now she deserves to be worshipped because just look at her. Buggy approaches them and she's like "If you laugh I'm going to throw knives at you and then leave Cross Guild and!! And!! And I'm going to be really mad so pleasedon'tlaughireallylikethispleasedon'truinit" and they look at her with the fondest of looks (but gotta be honest, they're so horny right now it's unbearable. Like yes, happy wife happy home happy everything but also happy dick because just look at her). Crocodile is just frowning and genuinely asks "Why would we laugh? You look stunning, dear" and Mihawk follows with "I must say I'm not surprised, since you've always looked beautiful. But you look... More satisfied with yourself." And Buggy has to hold back the tears and that's why she starts saying things like "Pffft. Yeah! I knew I'd be gorgeous like this too! Now I look even flashier!" and y'know, the two men are letting her have her moment because now she looks even better and they can't stop staring at her. So maybe she's right this time when she fakes confidence.

Usopp and Nami need a second to process everything, I think. Also, they both hit Brook at the same time when he's about to ask Sanji the question™. Nami is having a lesbian moment, but of course Sanji realizes and does her Sanji thing like opening her mouth and speaking:

Sanji: Nami-swaaan!!! Do you like how I look now??? Nami, ignoring her and whispering to herself: Disgusting. I hate this. Zoro: At the end of the day it's just curly, huh? Nami: I was thinking with my dick. Zoro: Yeah. Happens. Been there.

So, Usopp and Sanji finally get their moment together because at least the Strawhats are respectful enough to give them their sweet uhhhh two minutes before they start complimenting Sanji. So that's something! Sanji is confident with her body but is a bit shy and isn't sure what Usopp will think about this. Not that she has changed much, even, but, you know. Just different. In a good way for her! But different. And Usopp approaches her slowly and smiling and he's just so so so happy. And he's like "You look gorgeous!" / "... Really? I wasn't sure whether you'd like it-" / "I will always like you! But more importantly, do you like you?" / "I mean- Weird phrasing, but yes. Yes? I think so. Yes." / "Then that's all that matters." And Sanji really, really doesn't want to cry because she has never cried in front of the whole crew. She just can't help it. But Usopp knows she doesn't like it when others see her cry so he quickly wipes her tears away and when she starts laughing (so so happy and full of love) Usopp just needs to kiss her.

Meanwhile, Luffy is there calling Buggy auntie and asking when she's going to tell Shanks about this. She keeps saying she will never tell him and if he wants to find out, he'll do it through her new wanted poster or whatever, but not from her.

[werewolf-witchboy]

Druig X Eternal! Reader

✨ (Gender Neutral) ✨

No Warnings.

After many years of being split up, the Eternals must come together as a team again. Nobody seems to know where you've been all these years, so they've gone to the one person who might know of your whereabouts...

Little did they know that you're a lot closer than they thought.

"You have given me a lot of bad news in one go, my lady." Druig's tone is a lot less welcoming after he's been told the horrible truth.

"You and (Y/n) are the main parts of our big plan. We need you both to get through this." Sersi explained again. "Will you help us?"

"We can't find (Y/n)." Ikaris cut to the chase, obviously not ecstatic about needing Druig.

"All of us have searched across almost the whole planet." Sersi subtly encouraged Ikaris away from Druig, sensing the tension already rising between them. "All of (Y/n)'s favorite countries, every area we've had somekind of special or significant moment, we've even asked elders who've written many books about (Y/n). Found not a trace of where they could possibly be."

Drugs arms stayed crossed. "I don't think it's my business to just give out personal information like that." Once his fellow Eternals showed up, his peace was interrupted and he now has a headache.

He knows he told them to "make themselves at home," but he didn't expect them to drop all of this shocking news on him about their true purpose as Eternals, and then interrogate him about your location.

"Do you all remember this forest? Beautiful." Druig walked around the room with his hands clasped behind his back, trying to make small talk and steer the topic away from (Y/n). "It was the last place that we all lived together." His tone held some sorrow at the memories.

"I've protected these people for 20 generations now. From the outside world, and from themselves."

Druig towered over Kingo's valete, Karun. "Your kind, my friend, you will be responsible for your own extinction one day. Don't you think?"

Karun looked a little intimidated, but he answered honestly.

"I think that we must learn from our mistakes and do better, sir. You must not give up hope."

Druig did not seem to like his answer, expressing so by possessing Kingo's valet and proceeding to throw his camera against a wall, thoroughly frightening Karun and pissing off Kingo.

"Oh, where is your sense of humor Kingo?"

"You are not a god. You know that right?"

"How ironic. Kingo, the movie star."

"I've directed some things too."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Some internet content..."

"How many views?"

"I don't do it for the views-"

"Let's go. He's waisting our time." Ikaris started heading towards the door.

"We need him and (Y/n)." Sersi tried to reason.

"Ikaris!" Druig stepped in front of the taller man's path. "I missed you."

Druig was really pushing it right now. "Are you not gonna charm me or threaten me?"

"There's a third option if you'd prefer that."

"It must be heartbreaking to find out that you're not mothers favorite." Druig taunted about Ikaris not being the next chosen leader.

"I'm sure she'd be real proud about what you've been up to." Ikaris always seemed to fall for the psychic's taunting.

"Druig, this is serious." Sersi tried to butt in once more.

"I'll tell you what's serious." Druig's voice got louder as he seemed to get more annoyed.

"I've just been told that I was sent on a suicide mission for the past 7,000 years, and that my entire existence is a lie." He looked Sersi in the eyes. "So excuse me for not giving a shit about your plan right now."

Athena stepped forward, brushing away Gilgamesh's hand that attempted to stop her from engaging in the conflict. She'd been quiet this whole time, but nobody else seemed to be getting anywhere with the stubborn psychic.

"This is very important. Everything will be lost if we can't stop the celestial birth. You have to admit that we've all gained somekind of admiration for humanity. Not only will the humans be gone, but so will all of the memories we've shared on Earth. Our memories with each other." Athena turned away from the rest of the Eternals, only addressing Druig when she said her next line, hoping that she'll strike a chord in him. "Your memories with (Y/n)."

Everyone was silent.

Druig let out a heavy sigh, but before he could even open his mouth to say anything, the large wooden door creeked open slowly.

"Hey Druig, I-"

Silence still hung heavy in the room amongst the Eternals, but this time it was shock.

There you stood, slightly different from the last time they've seen you many years ago, but still you. It all made sense now, why you were nowhere they searched, even though they've literally checked everywhere.

Your voice got caught in your throat as soon as you entered the cabin filled with your old friends, whom you may also have been technically hiding from.

"Uh...bad timing." Druig's voice rang in your head. Your panicked eyes met his from across the room.

"Holy shit." Kingo was the first to speak up. "(Y/n) has been here with Druig the whole time?!"

You let out an awkward chuckle, not knowing how to reply.

"What have the two of you even been doing here together for all of these years?!" Kingo's arms flailed in the air dramatically, obviously annoyed that all of their searching was for nothing.

"Actually, don't answer that question." Sprite put her hands up when she saw the look you and Druig exchanged.

"Ohmygosh-" Ikaris pinched the bridge of his nose in disgust.

Confused, Kingo looked back and fourth between everyone. "Wha- I wasn't even aware the two of them are a thing."

Everyone turned to look at the man in purple with expressions that read "really?"

"Are you telling me that I'm the only one who didn't know?!" Kingo was still going on about it. "(Y/n) is too kind and cute for Druig!"

You couldn't help but laugh behind your hand as Druig rolled his eyes, fighting a small smirk.

You had to admit that you missed your family.

"Well I for one honestly don't care where (Y/n) has been this whole time. I'm just glad to see them again!" Gilgamesh stomped up to you and scooped you into a big bear hug, fits of giggles escaping you as he squeezed your breath away.

Laughter eventually erupts from everyone, the atmosphere a stark contrast from how it was only 5 minutes ago.

When all was settled down again, Sersi sat you down and told you everything...

The tragic death of Ajak, your wise leader and mother figure.

How your purpose is to keep a planet happy and thriving just to destroy it by creating a celestial.

How all of your memories have been erased countless times, because you've killed planets and birthed celestials countless times.

By the end of it, you were a sobbing mess. You've always been a little more sensitive than the others, so this obviously deeply soured the peppy family reunion mood you were in.

There was no question that you were going along with Phastos's plan. You wanted to keep these memories that you've spent centuries cherishing, and you wanted to watch humanity grow so much more.

When you declared your certainty about going with them, Druig was dragged in by default.

Wherever you went, he went.

You did the same for him when shit hit the fan in Tenochtitlan and he left.

You knew you'd miss the little civilization that you and Druig have helped create, but it'll still be there after you've saved the planet. When it's all over, you can go back with Druig and continue waking up next to him every morning to start a busy day of harvesting crops and handwashing laundry.

For now though, it's back to Olympia.

....................

"Well, look who it is!"

"Didn't think you'd be so glad to see me Phastos." Druig remarked with a smirk.

"I'm not. I was talking about (Y/n)." He brushed past the raven haired Eternal to embrace you.

Makkari elbowed the psychic, who had been grinning like an idiot while watching (Y/n).

"You look like a lovesick puppy." She signed.

Druig rolled his eyes, but his grin never faltered.

"Well, I for one, still can't believe it!" Kingo's appeared on the other side of Druig.

"I've never seen this man smile bigger than that annoying smirk." Kingo playfully leaned an arm on Druig's shoulder.

"I've also had the displeasure of seeing them kiss like 50 times during the time spand of getting here from the Amazon."

"You're just jealous." Makkari joked.

"What?! No! I get tons of babes! I just don't have the time for a committed relationship." Kingo stuck his nose in the air.

You tried not to smile while listening to your friends tease Druig. You continued pretending to pay attention to Phastos's rambling about a new invention idea.

Druig's eyes caught yours.

"Get me outta here!" He pleaded in your head.

"We just got here baby." Your voice is always so gentle and soothing in his brain. Even though he's begging to leave, he doesn't mind staying as long as you're here.

"Alright. You definitely owe me one, love." A smug look dawned his features as he affectively ignored the two Eternals babbling next to him.

You felt your ears and cheeks blush, going thankfully unnoticed by Phastos.

You are going to do absolutely anything to make sure that you both come out of all of this alive and well. There's no way you could possibly imagine a lifetime without Druig.

[suzukiblu]

Day twenty-six of fic NaNoWriMo, obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Kon takes the bag, then peeks inside it with a puzzled little frown. Tim, again, makes a note to buy him more stuff. Kon is gonna expect presents every time he sees him, by the time he’s done with him. Because Kon deserves nice things and also–well–

Well, actually . . . okay, it’s not actually going to be necessary for Tim to get Kon a present every single time he sees him, admittedly, just . . . well. He wants to, he guesses. Wants Kon to feel valued for once in his fucking life, since as far as he can tell no one has ever actually gone to any effort whatsoever to make him feel like that. Like–ever. Not even once. 

If Tim maybe spoils him a little in the process, well–that’s only balancing out the bullshit, isn’t it? 

“Oh,” Kon says, his eyes widening a little in surprise before he frowns in confusion. Tim continues to notice the eyeliner. It’s just a little bit smudged, like maybe Kon’s still learning how to do it right, and it’s also low-key triggering an emotional crisis in Tim’s entire fucking everything, to be honest. “What's . . .?” 

“I mean, it’s a couple of things?” Tim says, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward about his gifting decisions. Choices. Choicisions. “I don’t know if it’s very, uh, romantic, but . . .” 

“‘Romantic’,” Kon repeats in the exact same awkward way he did “flowers”. Tim only doesn’t curl up and die by sheer force of will. 

“Yeah,” he says. Kon stares at him for a long, intent moment, then looks back down into the bag and pulls out the fat little plastic bag of Hawaiian-import gummy candies on top of it. Tim will take any excuse to get calories into him at this point, even if it’s just candy. Chocolates probably would’ve been more date-appropriate, but when he was looking for popular Hawaiian candies, these ones kept coming up. 

“I haven’t seen this brand in months,” Kon says, looking bewildered. “I didn’t even know they sold it on the mainland.” 

“They do not,” Tim says, trying not to look embarrassed. “I ordered it online.”

And also paid for expedited shipping to make sure it’d get here on time. 

“Oh,” Kon says, his cheeks turning just a little pink as he ducks his head and smiles again. Then he glances back down into the bag with a puzzled little frown and tilts his head. “. . . is that a Switch case? What’s that for?” 

“Because there was too much packaging to make you lug around all night but putting a loose Switch in there seemed like a bad idea,” Tim replies reasonably. It’s the Lite, because he still doesn’t know if Kon has either a TV or any real space for one in his room, so Kon can’t possibly worry about it being too expensive like he did with the phones. And even if it weren’t the Lite, it’s still not the OLED, so he thinks he’s doing a great job with the self-restraint, personally. 

“You got me a Switch?” Kon says. Tim continues to not know how to explain how much money he intends to spend on him, so just shrugs.

“Just the Lite. I got you the turquoise, since it doesn't come in green. And an online subscription, so we can play together,” he says. He hasn’t dug his own Switch out in a few months–too much else to do–but he figures if doing that gets Kon to accept the gift and gets him closer to apartment/cul-de-sac territory, it’s not exactly a burden. “I wasn’t sure what kind of games you were into, so I got a few different ones. They’re all in the case, it’s got interior pockets.” 

“I–you–” Kon fumbles a little, then turns red again. “You really wanna play together?” 

Tim wants to throw a lot of people off a lot of roofs. Hard. Just so hard. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course I do.” 

Kon gets even redder and shoves the candy back in the bag, looking away. 

“Thanks. That'd be, um–cool,” he says. “Uh–ready to go?” 

“Uh, there's one more thing in there, actually,” Tim admits, a little embarrassed by said thing but also not wanting Kon to miss it and accidentally throw it away later. It's silly, but . . . he doesn't know, he'd just thought it was kind of cute or whatever. 

Maybe “cute” isn't really a Kon thing, but he seemed to like the goat okay, so . . . 

“There is?” Kon peers back into the bag, then digs in through the tissue paper with a curious frown. “What's–oh. Huh.” 

He pulls out the chunky little plastic figure at the bottom of the bag and blinks at it. It's a Superboy toy, not because Tim was deliberately looking for a Superboy toy to give him but because the coincidence when he'd tripped over it had just seemed–fortuitous, he doesn't know. 

“It's a Duplo toy,” Tim supplies. “I mean, it was licensed so I assume you got paid for it at some point, but the set it's from came out while you were off-grid and I don't know how much your manager ever kept you in the loop on those things anyway, plus you said you didn't know what Duplo even was so when I found it I figured you didn't have one. The actual set came with, like, a few different hero characters, but it's sold out and I don't think they've done another run. I just found that little guy being sold solo on eBay.” 

“You got me a toy of myself?” Kon asks, giving him a wry look. 

“Superman's looked stupid,” Tim lies, because he would sooner burn his wallet than buy Superman merch at this point, never mind that he knows the money all goes to either various accredited charities or the Justice League. “Though I guess Supergirl's or Steel's would've been okay. I don't really know how close you are to them, though.” 

“I would say ‘not at all', probably,” Kon says, turning over the toy in his hand and peering more closely at it. “‘Duplo'? So like . . . the kid toys you were talking about at the museum?” 

“Um, yeah,” Tim says. “I mean, you don't really own any childhood stuff, right, so . . . I don't know, I figured why not?” 

“You're a Gothamite, man, you should've gotten me Bat toys,” Kon says, ducking his head with another smile. “Batman wouldn’t approve.” 

“Batman's just an urban legend,” Tim pretends to believe. Kon laughs.

“Please, that's just what you guys say to cops and tourists,” he teases. 

“I can neither confirm nor deny that statement,” Tim says. “Or make any comments on how incredibly inaccurate any nonspecific bat-themed superhero toys that've been commercially produced may or may not be.” 

“Oh yeah?” Kon asks, laughing again. It's that still-unfamiliar bright laugh that Robin's never gotten out of him, and Tim feels some very weird ways about it. Like. Several very weird ways. Many very weird ways. So many. 

Fuck, he's in deep here. But that's not news, so whatever. If Tim had ever once in his life gone to any effort whatsoever to avoid trouble he wouldn't be Robin and Bruce would be an even more vengeful and unhappy asshole who never talked to Dick and probably the Joker would be dead, which would admittedly be a single specific improvement but otherwise would suck. Like, really suck. 

Tim is gonna be a supervillain someday, yeah, but that's a rational decision that he's deliberately making, not a “driven by personal trauma and tragedy” grief response. And Bruce would be absolutely miserable as a supervillain, anyway, plus he'd never be able to convince Dick to go for it and then Dick would have to fight him and it'd be awful and Alfred would never make any of them post-patrol cookies again, which would immediately make this the worst possible timeline. And then someone would have to go trick the Flash into fixing it all and–look, it'd just be very complicated and unnecessary. So being Robin is just a better idea all around, really, and also saves the timeline from any speedsters happening to it. 

Again. 

“I just thought it was cute, I don’t know,” Tim says. “He’s got his little earring and leather jacket and stupid smirk, what can I say, I was endeared.” 

“‘Endeared’, huh?” Kon says with a grin, holding the little figure against his chest. 

“Oh, downright smitten,” Tim deadpans. Kon laughs again. 

“Nerd,” he says in obvious and unexpectedly fond amusement, which reminds Tim of him telling him to kiss him in the department store changing room and gives him a little bit of that whole cliché “butterflies in the stomach” rush. Or possibly batarangs, from how they feel. They might be batarangs. He forces himself to not look weird or sappy and just shrugs. 

“Maybe,” he says. “Anyway. Now I’m ready to go.” 

“Where are we going?” Kon asks curiously, and Tim smiles at him. 

“Somewhere nice, like I promised,” he says. Kon snorts, but doesn’t do anything to hide his own pleased smile. 

“Sure, whatever,” he says as he drops the Duplo figure back into the gift bag, still smiling. “Keep your secrets and lead the way, babe.” 

“I can do that,” Tim says, and then reaches out and catches Kon’s free hand to hold while they walk, lacing their fingers together. Kon turns red again and really smiles at him. His hand still feels too-soft and immeasurably strong, even though Tim knows for a fact that the TTK does more heavy lifting than Kon’s actual muscles do, or even can. No matter how the Kryptonian physiology is or isn’t coming in, the TTK is always gonna be stronger, Tim’s pretty sure. It’s not like it’s not going to get enhanced by the yellow sunlight absorption and the process of Kon’s physical maturation too, after all. 

But anyway, more importantly, he finally came up with a date idea he thinks Kon might like, so . . . 

Well, if Kon doesn’t like it, there’s backup ideas. But–he thinks Kon might like it, at least. It’s kind of weird, but so is Kon and so is he and so are their lives, and also there’ll be a gift shop to buy him stuff at. 

Tim is going to buy out that gift shop if Kon actually likes this date. 

Once Kon's done making fun of him, anyway, which he is definitely gonna do when he realizes what Tim is about to use a fake ID to do. 

. . . maybe he can just pretend to be eighteen, actually. Kon never did read that report he wrote up for him; he doesn't have any way to know how old he actually is. 

Eh, no, that's too weird and also would be annoying to remember without an associated cover. Fuck it, Tim will just live with the teasing, he guesses.

[starliights-shining]

Bayverse Megatron and Optimus prime w gn cybertronian crush

Where he gets asked by reader's old friend, "Are you their conjux?" Cause apparently anyone who knows reader well enough knows that they're into large mechs who can definitely dominate them.

Also also, reader reluctantly explaining to him as to why he got asked that question

Hi hi! SOrry this took so long to come out, but don't worry its here now! I hope this is what you were looking for, Enjoy :)

Charaters: Bayverse! Optimus Prime, Bayverse! Megatron

Warnings: Megatron got a small spice kick at the end other than that none

Optimus Prime

He'd questin why the Bot is asking him and not you, but then wouldn't really be worried about it.. He might wounder if you two look that comfy and cozy with each other. He'll bring it up to you, expecting it to be some simple and easy mistake, but is a little worried and confussed when you hesitate to tell him why they asked him. Honestly I feel like he'd find it just a tad bit funny and would even ask if they assume things like this alot. With Optimus I feel like its all light hearted.

You spent a lot of time around Optimus Prime, I mean he is leading the autobots in a battle over Earth. The same battles that were in and the same battles he asks for your expert opinions in, So of course you spent a lot of time with him. Helms clicking together as you both looked at the same holo projected map of the battle fields. If you asked anyone from an outside perspective they’d say you two looked quite cozy for just ‘co-workers’, which gets you in this situation. Face to face with them as they ask why that boy asked if he was your Conjux.

His cobalt optics staring down at you, you could feel them watching, taking in every bit of your small frame while you thought about how to tell him the reason. Your processor moving quicker than you can actually keep up with. You felt yourself shrinking into your frame, shoulder plating coming up to touch your audio receptors, you honestly didn’t want to be in this situation. If they could have just kept their mouth shut and not said a single thing, you could have your feelings and further more information to yourself. Your optics searched for answers in the surroundings.

“So, I would like for you to answer.” 

Your optics flickered back over to him, locking with his blue optics, those same blue optics that seemed to be searching yours for an answer. You thought more, you could just turn around and walk away, or maybe say it super fast so he doesn’t understand, or you could ‘man up’ as Sam would say and tell him the real reason. You sighed, lowering your shoulders and moving closer to him. Your servos go to grab his and you look down at him. Studying the grey metal and all their scars. You finally look back up at him, Squinting your optics as you smile sweetly. 

“Promise you won’t be upset or mad or weirded out or,” 

He cut you off. 

“I swear.” 

You smiled, letting out a small sigh, you guess now is the time. 

“They asked you because they know,” 

You trailed off, the one thing you were trying not to do, because primus knows how hard it is for you to get back onto the same sentence. 

“They know what?” 

He was confused, which is valid, he has every right to be confused. He should be so confused that he doesn’t want to know why they asked him such a question. It would make your life so much easier right now. 

“They know,”

You took a deep breath, the thought to just spit it out crossing your processor. 

“They know I’m into bigger mech who can like totally dominate me in any situation whatsoever.” 

You took your chance, a sigh leaving you. You now stood servo in servo with the Autobot leader with a terrible poster, helm looking straight at the ground between the two of you and your optics squeezed shut. 

You heard him chuckle, the sound causing you to open one optic and peek up at him. 

“What nonsense, all this for that.”

You were awestruck, stuck looking up at the ‘larger totally dominating’ mech frozen. You could hear him talking, see his mouth moving, a smile gracing his features but you can’t hear him. He gave your servos a light squeeze, bringing you back to him. 

“Don’t fret, this will not change my views on you.” 

You let out a relieving sigh, a small smile forming on your face. 

“It enhances my views of you.” 

Megatron

Is confussed, gives the Con who asked the question an evil look and pushes them away. Honestly I think he'd take it as in insult. He'd say something like, "You think me, Lord Megatron, Is soft to some random Con." He truly thinks they saw him as weak, weak enough to have a conjux, he cannot concern himself with such minor things during this war. When he brings it up to you about being asked, he'll just stare at you, waiting for some or any response. After explaining he'll take it as a completement that they asked, and even thought he looked dominating.

Once again you find yourself in the questioning crossfire of your leader, Megatron, after one of your dearly beloved Cons let their mouth slip. Asking Lord megatron if he is your conjux, landing you this great conversation with the war criminal. He seemed uninterested, more concerned on why they’d think he’d marry and have a weakness during such a turning point within the war. His optics actually hadn’t even landed on you, more concerned with Starscream.

He trailed off, punching and pulling things off Starscream while also yelling at the Mech. He just so happened to be doing the one thing that got him asked the question. Your smaller frame standing in front of the ruble Megatron called his ‘throne’ watching as he ‘dominated and controlled’ the screamer. His assault came to an end, pushing Starscream away with his foot and saying something about him being useless, oh well not really what you were focused on. 

Your optics stared at the leader, his back turned to you as he let out audible intakes, you could see his frame moving up and down from where you stood. The damage from his fights with the Autobots shows you the wear and tear of him. Besides his face the only thing that drew your attention was his wound, the gaping gash peeking over his shoulder plating with its screeching red and fire orange melted end, the little bot critter trying his hardest to put him back together. He stretched, showing off the movement of his joints and other moving metal, he turned around, facing you. That face mixed with displeasure and satisfaction traveling into his optics as he looked down on you. Your own optics not paying much attention to his, just taking in the way he frame looked, traveling all over his chest plating and then down to his midsection, your optics taking the way his midsection tapered into his hips, primus you loved it. 

“You do know why you’re here. Get to the point and start answering questions.” 

Your optics flickered up to his, cherry red staring you down. You felt like you were shrinking, in a terribly good way. You would smile up at him, but seeing as his temper is already short, you didn’t. You brought your servo up to your mouth, letting out a throat clearing noise as you got ready to speak. You stepped up to the Mech, keeping a serious face, your mouth opened and then it hit you. You didn’t know exactly what to tell him, How to say it, and how to explain it. You looked away, for this might be the first time since you joined the Decepitcons you’ve held yourself back around him. 

“Go on, I don’t have all day.” 

You lifted your servo, squinting an eye and smiling, your optics looking up at him. He's just looking down at you, crimson optics staring holes into you, waiting for an answer. You thought you’d play with his time, the worst that could happen is he yells at you, stands over you, or kills you. 

“What did you call me here for again?” 

He scoffs, backing up and sitting in his, pile of trash, throne. 

“Why was I asked if I'm your conjux.” 

He slumped in his chair, manspreading out his ass and a servo coming up to support his helm. You froze, shoulders slumping, you wanted him, you wanted to sit in his lap and be dominated by him. You shook your helm, once again locking optics with him and sighed, why waste time when he already has you right here. 

“They know that I like mech who can dominate at any time.” 

Your voice got smaller and quieter the longer you talked, you were sure Megatron couldn’t hear what you said. You looked away from him, taking interest in the leftover scraps he pulled from Starscream, before you heard him hum. Your optics flickered back towards him, locking with his cherry red’s. 

“Interesting.”  

He didn’t seem upset or anything, more pleased. You guess it's because it sounded like a compliment, they thought he was your conjux because he looked dominating. So he has no need to be upset or angry at you, too bad the poor bot who asked barely got away after asking him that. 

“Perhaps, I can show you true dominance.”

[bakughosts]

how real hunger has a real taste

Trigun Stampede ✮ Wolfwood/f!Reader, 18k. Also on AO3!

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want to run your thumb across his jaw without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch. You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else. (It matters. And then he inevitably betrays you.)

notes: mutual pining, angst, wolfwood in early twenties but looks older & reader implied to be in mid-to-late twenties, a little praise kink for the both of you, love confessions (but who knows if they're real? definitely not you), spoilers for all of trigun stampede s1 (HEAVILY canon reliant so it probably won't make sense if you haven’t seen it; if you don't have the time etc. and still want to read this, reading on from 'before julai' should be just un-confusing enough to work for you hopefully???)

The Fall of JuLai

It’s not like Nick thinks he’s a good person by any means. 

He delivered Vash to JuLai Tower like he was supposed to, and even though he begrudgingly likes the guy, Nick knows that he doesn’t stand a chance against his brother. His ‘do no harm’ bullshit is gonna put paid to that. Meryl and Roberto are there, too, because they're nosy and got swept up in all the things happening on this hellish planet that Nick has too much to do with. You’re there for the same reason—and when you had your chance to leave, to get out of the city safely, you didn’t. Because you’re entirely too idealistic and you’re delusional enough to believe that Vash can save the world.

The streets of JuLai are crawling with vines and blooming flora, petals and leaves black as the heart of a killer. Fluorescent blue pestles illuminate ruined homes, collapsed buildings, bodies. Some moving, some not. 

People are crying out, begging for help—from others, from God, which is funny considering Nick has known since long before he signed his pastoral contract that there’s no way any God could’ve seen this planet and not been disgusted enough to destroy it.

Navigating the streets is easier now that there aren’t guards shooting at him every five minutes. He ignores the people around him—the moving ones and the motionless ones. Kicks rubble as he walks much too slowly towards the exit of the crumbling city. The cigarette that he bummed off of Roberto is mintier than the Skulls he usually smokes. He didn’t know you could get menthols these days. The taste is unpleasant. Explains why the old man always smelled a little like toothpaste under all that stale tobacco.

Roberto’s dead now. His blood is still drying on the floor of the elevator where his life abruptly ended. These people are going to die if they haven’t already. Meryl is going to die. Vash is going to die. You are going to die.

So no, Nick doesn’t think he’s a good person. He never has.

But his freedom is his own. The orphanage is safe. His family—whatever remnants are left, without Livio—are all safe. That’s what being the bad guy gets you, because no one gives a rat’s ass about how good you are. No one cares about anything but themselves. No one was gonna give Nick his freedom, give the orphanage its safety. Not without something in return.

He’s moving so goddamn slow that you wouldn’t expect him to have just given up everything—to have betrayed the only people that were kind to him, that cared about him when he saw his brother die, when his childhood home was almost obliterated. If he doesn’t start running, he’s gonna go down with this city, and all of it will have been for nothing.

He can’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you realized what he’d done.

Meryl’s nattering is something he hardly remembers, something about him being unbelievable, I thought better of you, why isn’t everyone a goody-fuckin’-two-shoes like me, but every time he blinks, he can see you in perfect resolution, like there’s a screen on the back of his eyelids replaying his worst memories.

You hadn’t even said anything. That was the worst part.

The street beneath his feet shudders, the entire city groaning, the metal hull on which it stands screaming out in protest. Nick stops. He stops moving, all because he can’t get you out of his goddamn head, like you’re some sort of worm that’s crawled its way in there, all cozy and nested where he wants you least.

Knives is gonna tear you apart. You and the bratty reporter. You’re strong—you’ve shown that to him in your travels, that you’re not one to back down from a good fight, and he liked seeing a gun in your hand, fire in your eyes, blood on your teeth—but Knives is on a whole other level. Even Nick couldn’t take him out, and he’s a freak of nature thanks to all the shit Conrad did to him. 

He and Vash moved a fifteen-ton ion cannon with their bare hands because they were built to, and you’re up there in that tower all soft and kind and human . 

“Fuck.” His cigarette burns down to the filter, the taste more like plastic than mint. His cross is heavy, shoulder protesting the one-handed hold with which he carries it. He’s not going back there. He did all this for a reason. He saved his own hide because he’s a bad person and that’s what bad people do. You shouldn’t have expected more from him. 

Even though you did. Even though sometimes you looked at him and he really thought—and don’t get him wrong, it’s because you’re delusional—that you might’ve actually believed he could be a better person.

“Fuck.”

He’s back in the building before the butt of his cigarette has a chance to hit the ground.

Following Meryl seems to be a bad idea, but you do it anyway. Even as she calls after Vash, climbing through the broken window of JuLai Tower’s penthouse office, even as you hear the sound of metal hitting metal, knives and bullets clashing in violent bursts of embers, even with Doctor Conrad behind you—a man who, not even fifteen minutes ago, you would have ripped apart with your bare hands—you keep going.

What else are you going to do? What else is left?

There’s the gleam of silver, the sound of something very sharp slicing the very air, and before you’re able to get outside, Meryl is thrown across the roof of the tower, the dome of the office collapsing inwards. Glass tumbles down on your shoulders and you have to move—that’s all you’ve ever known. Just keep moving.

You’re out of the window frame and running towards her in an instant, lungs burning, but Meryl is still rolling, still sliding towards the downturned side of the roof edge, and you’re going to lose her, you realize—she’s going to fall.

Maybe you call out to her—you’re not sure. Your throat is raw already from yelling, your bones aching from the multiple injuries you’ve sustained. You’ll die here too, most likely.

The realization feels peaceful in a very empty way.

But before it can settle in, you see a familiar figure—a dark suit, a too-large gun in the shape of a cross, and Meryl is yelling, “Undertaker?” and Nick is there and you hate him for coming back.

When you reach them, he barely looks you in the eye. Just motions to his shoulders, asks, “Think you can hold on?”

You don’t want this man to be your salvation. You don’t want him to have anything he can possibly use to redeem himself. But you’re not going to die because of your pride. You let him turn and kneel before you, and your arms are around his neck and he’s got his gun in one arm and Meryl in the other and you’re flying—

Honest to god flying through the air, falling far off the top of the tower and then further, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Nick taking the brunt of each fall. You have to close your eyes or you’re going to throw up, and your legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist that you think you could cut him in half, and he smells like Roberto’s menthol cigarettes—and you knew something was different about him, that he was inhumanly strong, but the way he waltzes through the city from rooftop to rooftop while carrying a couple hundred pounds of extra weight is simply incomprehensible.

Things don’t feel real because there’s no way this could be really happening. You feel the wind against your face, the dulled impact of Nick’s feet hitting hard concrete and metal, and you can hear his labored breathing, hear Meryl scream for him to hold her tighter or she’s gonna fall, hear the gunshots of soldiers on ground level who have still, for some reason, decided that you are the enemy they should be after and not the miles-tall Plant aberration that’s growing out of JuLai Tower.

You can’t open your eyes even when Nick stops moving, when you’re far outside of the city. Even when his gun is on the ground, when he’s put down Meryl and lowered himself so your knees are on the desert floor. Prying your arms from around his neck would feel the same as dying.

Gently, Nick does this for you—moves your arms, but not off of him completely. Enough that he can turn so you’re both kneeling and facing each other, and only then do you open your eyes. He lost his sunglasses at some point during the escape. JuLai is a mess of pulsing blue behind him. He says your name very, very quietly. Your hands are curled at the back of his neck, fingers carding through the hair at his nape because at this point it’s instinct. His eyes are so dark they look black, and there’s blood smudged on his cheek, and your first instinct is to wipe it away for him—to remove any sign of hurt, any sign of injury. 

But Vash is gone, and Nick's the one that made sure it happened. 

You push away from him so quickly that you fall on your ass, sand dusted in a cloud around you. Maybe he was going to say something, some other half-assed excuse, but the hull of the ship that JuLai grows from groans loud, its metal body screaming for help into the desert night as if it’s not far past the point of salvation. The roots that pulse from the city begin to recede, crawling back through the holes they’ve made in infrastructure, curling back up to the top of the tower.

Much more quietly than it should, the largest city on the planet creaks, falls, and goes completely dark.

Before JuLai

Nothing annoys Nick more than routine gun maintenance, and the fight on the Sandsteamer had really done a number on the Punisher.

He always hated the way the doctor called him that—this is your duty, Punisher, this is what I created you for—as if he was nothing but an extension of his weapon. Though that’s all he’s really supposed to be. An executioner, an undertaker, a priest. A sentient trigger.

He doesn’t let things like that get to him. Seeing his brother as what he’d become, seeing him kill himself to escape the life he was living because he wanted to be just like Nick—

None of it gets to him. He doesn’t let it. He doesn’t care.

You sit down next to him when he’s in the middle of oiling one of the crossgun’s many chambers, kicking up sand in your wake. He probably shouldn’t have decided to sit out here to clean his gun, but where else is he gonna do it? In the car? Everything on the planet is covered in sand. He’ll have to deal with it. Still, he gives you a nasty side-eye for putting him back about three minutes of work.

“Am I interrupting? Sorry,” you say, and he can tell you’re not. “Thought you were gonna help us set up camp.”

“I’m busy.”

“You can get hot and heavy with your cross later. Meryl needs help getting a fire started.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t want to. The cloth he uses to clean the chambers is black with grease and he wonders when he’ll have to tear a piece of his shirt off to replace it with and he wonders if you got hurt earlier keeping the Bad Lads Gang off the reporter duo and he wonders what he could possibly do to get you to quit staring at him. His collar feels too tight even though the buttons start four inches down his chest. “Get Blondie to do it.”

At the top of the dune closest to camp, Nick has an excellent view of the stretch of absolutely fucking nothing that surrounds you all. Vash said his home was near here—needed to get his prosthetic arm fixed up by the people that built it. He probably isn’t in good shape to help anyone do anything. You both know that.

The wind pushes the dunes further out, transforming the desert into a rippling, golden sea. The sun is about to set, the sand already cast a shade of light pink by oncoming dusk. You’re silent for long enough that Nick is forced to look at you, which he doesn’t do often because it always makes him feel a bit hot under the collar, a bit hunted. He can’t explain it. Sure as hell doesn’t like it, though.

You’re not even paying attention to him. Instead, you take in the wide open desert as if it’s the first time you’re seeing it, and the sun touches your face soft like a lover and—there’s a pang of something in his stomach. Like jealousy. 

He can’t escape you. It isn’t like the others don’t try with him—he has to deal with Vash, who thinks he can befriend the entire fucking planet and bombards Nick with friendly remarks that he’s dying to see turn into banter; Meryl, who isn’t interested in him as more than a journalistic pursuit but still asks some very pointed questions; Roberto, who offers him a smoke every now and then and thanks him for doing shit that he didn’t do for anyone but himself in the first place.

And then he has to deal with you, too, but you approach him in a different way. A way he isn’t used to—not that he’s used to any of it—but that he can stomach. You’re open with him, but you don’t inundate him with things he doesn’t care about. You ask questions when they’re necessary. You give him disapproving looks when he runs his mouth a bit too much and much more pleased looks when he lets Vash wax poetic about saving the universe from evil. He finds himself shutting up sometimes just to see it—the slight curve of your lips, fond exasperation at Vash’s unyielding hope, a silent thank you in the pointed look you send his way.

“You grew up there?” you ask. “At that orphanage?”

You’ve decided, it seems, that these questions are necessary. He’d talked about the orphanage at some point in front of you, so he’s not exactly surprised that you know about it. Still, he’s in a shitty mood and he doesn’t want to talk about this with anyone. Especially you, even though most days you’re the person he’d be most willing to tell. “I never liked twenty questions. Too much talking involved.”

“I already know the answer,” you say.

“Then you shouldn’t have asked the question. That’s not how you win.”

“I’m trying to—I don’t know. Is it so ridiculous for me to ask you something personal every once in a while?”

He scoffs. “You’ve got more questions than bullets. And you fire them quicker, too.”

You fix him with a look, and he can only hold your eyes for a moment before looking back at his gun. Too much shit to do to get distracted, anyways. 

“How long have we been traveling together?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Couple months. Why?”

You shrug, and he can see it in his peripherals. You move fluidly, in a way he catches himself noticing too often. “Are you gonna tell any of us something real about yourself?”

“You should talk to Meryl,” he says. “I’m sure she could find you some kind of job in investigative journalism. Or maybe you could do some cam work, since you’re so far up my ass.”

“Fuck off, Wolfwood,” you say, but he can see the edge of your grin, hear the mirth in your voice. Something he likes about you: his attitude doesn’t piss you off. You take it in stride and on occasion, give it back. 

“I was here first,” he reminds you. “You should be the one doing the fucking off.”

You don’t fuck off. You sit next to him and things feel heavy but no heavier than they always do. 

He wants to hear you say his first name—a misplaced thought that he shouldn’t have had, like finding a coin in your pocket after it's already been through the dryer. (He’d kill to find a town with a laundromat, but they’re few and far between.) Wolfwood is so impersonal, what everyone he’s ever traveled with has called him. Punisher is out of the question. Nicholas he likes even less, somehow, because it feels like a name that was taken from him when he was too young to ask for it back. But thinking about the idea of you saying fuck off, Nick, or Nico, or whatever the hell you want to call him and trying badly to hide that little smile from him has his heart racing a thousand miles a minute. He looks at you and realizes what a bad idea it is because once he starts, he can't stop.

You frown—ruminative. Something’s on your mind. Something he’s worried you might try to tell him. “Are you ever, maybe…” you begin. Your words are quiet, measured. “Would you ever tell me something real?”

Nick’s hands are too clammy to keep working on the intricate parts of his gun. You’re setting him back even more. He hates it when you ask questions like this. He hates it when you mention the thing that sits between the two of you, the quiet understanding that even though you’d been a gun-for-hire traipsing around the planet and Nick had been tortured until his fucking eyes bled, you can somehow understand each other. He wants to knock you down a peg. To get you to leave him alone before he says something he’ll regret telling you. “I don’t know how you got the idea that you’re special,” he says, and the air in his lungs feels like too much for his body to hold, “but you’re not.”

You stare at him, hurt slowly curling your lips downwards. He shrugs his shoulders as if this isn’t how he wanted you to react and goes back to cleaning his gun. Tries to let himself breathe. It’s difficult. His big fucking mouth is gonna get him in trouble again if you don’t say something soon, or slap him, or leave, or—something. Nick doesn’t apologize for things. Never finds himself wanting to like he does right now.

“Forget it,” you say, standing to leave. “You—fuck. No, forget it.” 

You won’t look at him and he hates that you won’t. Some days it’s all he wants.

Traveling with Wolfwood is torture when he’s in a bad mood. He’s barely spoken to you since your conversation a few days ago—hasn’t even looked at you. That sucks for multiple reasons, but partially because today it’s you, him, and Vash in the backseat of the car, Roberto in the passenger (as always), and Meryl driving. 

You like Meryl—she’s sweet, and she has a lot of grit—but you don’t like the way she drives. The three of you slide all over the backseat like butter across a hot pan, your seat belts barely holding you in place each time she takes a hard turn—you’re in a desert, for Christ’s sake, and your destination is a straight line away from you, so you have no idea why she has to steer somewhere new every thirty seconds.

Vash had (without Meryl noticing, which would save everyone an earful) arranged the order of seating so you wouldn’t get crushed between him and Wolfwood, and took the driver’s-side seat so his prosthetic wouldn’t smack into whoever sat to his left and leave them with some nasty bruises.

Every two minutes your entire body slams into Wolfwood’s side, and he was already in a sour mood—by the time you reach the town you’ll be staying in for the night, he’s steaming, practically shoving Vash out of the car so he can leave the enclosed space he’s been forced to share with you.

Sometimes—or maybe more than sometimes, because you think about it often—you want to tell Wolfwood how childish he can be. You want to tell him that there’s more to life than smoking and sulking. But you prefer him when he isn’t giving you the cold shoulder, so you keep it to yourself.

The motel you find is cheap and clean. Well—clean might be a strong word, but at least it isn’t bug-infested like the last place you stayed, so everyone agrees to stay in town an extra day in order to rest. 

You all have lunch together (where Wolfwood ignores you), play games of pool in the motel lobby (where Wolfwood decides to go back to his room when you and him are finally up against each other), and even share a few drinks at the town’s bar after the sun sets (where Wolfwood flirts with any person that even so much as glances his way all night).

It’s not like you want to watch him shoot whiskey, head back and the long line of his throat exposed. It’s not like you want to hear the depth of his voice, its seductive edge, when he gets the bartender wrapped around his finger in under a minute flat. There’s just nowhere else to look, nothing else to listen to. The bartender leans in, smiling softly, as Wolfwood tells her something secret that has her face dusted a pretty pink. 

There’s a hand in front of you, snapping, and Meryl is asking you, “Are you even paying attention to me?”

“Yes,” you lie, “of course I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’d I just say?”

You genuinely have no idea. You didn’t even realize that Vash and Roberto had left the table, both fully concentrated on a game of darts across the bar.

“Yeah, thought so. Look—can you do something about it?”

“I still don’t know what you were talking about—”

“New subject. Keep up,” she says. “Can you and the Undertaker stop fighting? His moods drive me up the wall.”

Your eyes narrow. She’s doing that Meryl-thing where she asks you a question about something you’ve never established because she wants you to confirm whether or not it’s true. The amount of times Vash has been caught out by this technique is comical. 

“We’re not fighting,” you say. Fighting implies more than lukewarm camaraderie and routine disgruntlement. Fighting implies caring enough about each other to fight about something.

“Uh-huh,” she says, and you both watch as Wolfwood looks at the bartender and grins, all pretty white teeth, before glancing back at the table where you and Meryl sit. “So he’s doing this to, what, make me jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” you say, and the speed with which the words leave your lips has already damned you. “And he’s not—it’s not for me. It’s—he’s just being Wolfwood. What else do you expect? He likes the attention.”

Meryl only looks smug when she gets someone to say something she wants them to say, and she looks very, very smug. 

“We’re staying here extra time to rest,” you tell her, “not to—do whatever he’s doing. I’m not jealous, I’m annoyed. If I have to cover his ass in a firefight because he spent his spare time with some—some random, then I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Some random,” Meryl parrots, using her fingers to put quotes around the word. “Would you rather it not be someone random, then?”

You stand too quickly, the booze going to your head. You haven’t had that much to drink, you don’t think, but you sway a little on your feet. “I’m not going to be the one that lets down the team,” you tell her. “So I’m gonna get some sleep. For the team.”

Meryl hmms, amused, playing at believing you. “Go get some sleep for the team. We all appreciate your sacrifices.”

You laugh, and though you can only see him from your peripherals, you think you see Wolfwood’s head turn just a little. Probably looking for back-ups in case the bartender loses interest.

The walk to the motel is brisk and cold with the sun finally in bed for the night, and you hate the way you think about the slope of Wolfwood’s throat and the points of his canines when he grins and the darkness of his eyes peering over the rim of his sunglasses when he glanced back towards you—

You sigh, stopping outside your door and pushing your thumb and middle finger against your closed eyes, as if you can massage the images out of your sight permanently.

You can’t. No matter how hard you try. And you know why—really, it isn’t even buried that deep down. You like his cocky grin and dry sense of humor and the way his inky hair falls soft across his forehead. You like the way his hands look when he cleans his gun, long and pretty fingers removing and reloading clips of bullets that he clicks into place one-by-one with his thumb, quick and confident. You like talking to him in the middle of the night when you camp out in the desert and everyone else is asleep, and even though you’re both in your sleeping bags, you look up at the same stars and tell each other about your worst fights or about the people you used to know, and sometimes he makes you laugh so hard that you have to cover your mouth in fear of waking everyone else.

Sometimes, you think that—maybe he feels something like that too. Maybe there are things he likes about you that he keeps to himself, little secrets lined up like cigarettes in a pack. But he keeps you at arm’s length and it kills you. No matter how much he gives you, it’s never enough, and he knows it. You know a lot about him, but you don’t know him.

So when he flirted with the bartender, it wasn’t him trying to make you jealous. Because making you jealous implies that he wants something from you. 

Maybe he just wants to fuck you. That’s another fairly viable option, but not your favorite. It’s not like you’re asking him to profess his undying love—that doesn’t exist out here. You meet people and you form tenuous connections and you enjoy the time you have until it inevitably finds its end. Law of the wasteland. 

You just want something a little more real. You want him to like things about you the way you like things about him.

If it’s a physical connection he’s looking for, he can find it with the bartender once her shift is over. You’re in travel clothes still, cargo pants and the most worn shirt you own, and you’re covered in desert grit besides. The bartender is clean and pretty and much more accessible.

He can do whatever he wants. He just lost someone. Even if you were on the other side of the Sandsteamer, you’re positive you could've heard Wolfwood cry out when Livio’s body tipped over the side of the ship and melted into the sea of sand below. Maybe fucking away the pain is what he wants to do. And that’s fine.

When you get to the door of your room, you hear hurried footsteps and your hand is on your hip, finger already ghosting the trigger of your holstered pistol—but it’s him. Not enough for him to plague your thoughts, apparently. He had to follow you back to the motel and remind you that you aren’t going to be able to escape him for the foreseeable future.

“Why’d you leave?” he asks. Blunt, for him. You wonder how much whiskey he’s had. There’s a cigarette in his mouth and the smell of tobacco overwhelms you, makes you want one yourself. Smoking’s an expensive habit.

“Got tired,” you say. You’re pretty sure he knows you’re lying. It’s hard for you to not speak out of bitterness after you've had a little too much to drink. “I didn’t think you’d care that I left.” 

You don’t know how to define what you feel for him. It’s a soft spot, maybe. You like the way he looks at you. You like the way he seems to enjoy you looking at him. Maybe you’re both vain. Maybe you’re both lonely. Whatever it is, it’s been going on for too long and you’re tired of the uncertainty. 

“Nightcap?” he asks. You hadn’t noticed the bottle in his hand, some unlabeled, murky brown liquid.

“Have one with Vash.”

“I don’t want one with him.”

“What do you want, Wolfwood?”

He meets you at the door, and sometimes you forget how tall he is. But not right now. His hand covers yours on the door handle, cigarette between two fingers, and he’s standing closer to you than he ever has outside of a fight. Nothing you’ve felt has been as warm as his skin against yours. The ash that falls on your hand burns a little. “I want to have a drink with you,” he says. “And I want to tell you something real.”

“You’re drunk,” you tell him. His palm is softer than you expected it to be. “But I’ll humor you.”

When he grins, there’s something animal to it—something on the wrong side of feral. He pushes your door open and you follow him inside, sealing your fate for the evening.

There are no chairs in your room, so the both of you sit on the floor, backs against the foot of the twin-sized bed. There are no glasses either, so you both take turns with the bottle, choking a little after each sip. Whatever’s in there could level even the rowdiest bars in November, where you’ve seen more bourbon consumed in one night by your then-traveling companions than you’ve seen altogether in one location since.

“This your way of apologizing to me?” you ask.

He laughs a little then takes a long swig of liquor, inhales sharply through his teeth as the liquid burns down his throat. “I owe my fair share of apologies. What am I sorry for, exactly?”

What are you going to say to that? He hurt your feelings? He didn’t call you special, like some sort of child that needs the recognition, the assurance? He gave you the cold shoulder for a couple days? The way he’d laugh himself to death would definitely bruise your ego more than you can handle. “Tell me what you want to tell me or get out.”

“Don’t sound too eager,” he says. He hands you the bottle, whittling down his cigarette. The smoke that escapes his lips seems to sit between you instead of floating upwards and dispersing. Everything is hazy, soft-edged. “What do you wanna know?”

You wonder if you’ll only get one question, or if he’ll have patience for more. You wonder what the hell you’re even doing here, sitting on the floor with him, making progressively worse decisions. “Who was he to you?” you settle on. “The person that attacked us on the Sandsteamer?”

“No foreplay, huh? Getting right to the main event?”

You try to hide the choking noise that wants to escape you by taking a sip of the booze, but this makes you choke harder, and you have to cough for a few moments before you can even begin to consider a response that doesn’t bring your mind closer to Wolfwood and foreplay. Once you’re able to breathe again, you manage to say, “You were the one that said you wanted to tell me something real.”

He pulls one knee up, leaning forward to rest his elbow on it, and you watch as he cracks his knuckles slow and loud. Not a threat—a nervous tic. You’ve seen him do it after confrontations with Vash, after Meryl asks a question that hits too close to home. “He was, uh… someone I knew when I was a kid. Someone I was supposed to take care of. But I didn’t do a very good job.”

You’re sure he’s also thinking about Livio falling hundreds of feet to the planet’s surface, the sound of the gunshot when he killed himself, Wolfwood calling his name, crying out as he watched this person that he was supposed to take care of meet an untimely and awful end.

Guilt is something that everyone on Gunsmoke is familiar with. Its constant presence doesn’t make it any lighter to carry, any easier to share. Wolfwood bears far more than the cross on his back. The look on his face tells you he already knows where your mind is going and that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He holds out his cigarette to you in lieu of speaking.

You accept what he offers. Close your lips around the filter, try not to think about his lips touching the same place, about the nicotine you could probably taste on him. The drag you take doesn’t feel deep enough. 

“Your turn now,” he says, his deep voice almost too loud in the small room. “I want something real.”

You clear your throat, hand the cigarette back. “I give you real things all the time. You just never reciprocate.”

“My stuff comes with a price. Not my fault you give yours out for free.” Without his sunglasses, his stare is piercing. It makes you feel warm all over. 

Your fingers brush his as you both reach for the neck of the bottle, and neither of you move away. As if the liquor is a safe-ground where contact is okay. It doesn’t have to be questioned, because there’s reasonable doubt when it comes to either of you wanting to touch the other. The problem is that you’ve never wanted so badly to touch someone before now. 

“Tell me something,” he says.

“I want you to kiss me.”

His brows raise, shocked by your boldness maybe, but the cigarette is already out of his mouth and he’s flattening it against the floorboards beside him. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and you need to know what he would feel like against you more than you need to breathe. “Yeah? You want that?”

You nod and everything else is forgotten. The liquor is pushed aside, his body flush against yours, his big hand cupping your jaw, and—how long has it been since you’ve been touched like this? 

His lips find yours too easily, the first kisses slow, exploratory, but he’s impatient—this shouldn’t surprise you. His tongue slides against yours, permission for more granted without the question ever being asked. You want him messy—you want him warm and whole and unrestrained. Every slide of his skin against yours feels electric, sparks flaring and wires buzzing. 

“This good?” he asks—as if he’s worried, as if this isn’t what you’ve wanted for weeks .

You can only hum in response, pulling him back to you by the lapel of his blazer—his dumb fucking blazer that he fills out so perfectly, all wide shoulders and strong arms and—it needs to come off. 

Pushing it down his arms yields little in terms of results, but he takes over for you, carelessly tossing it across the room before returning to the kiss, allowing your hands to run across his chest, up to his muscled shoulders, twining your fingers in his soft hair.

He doesn’t push—just takes what you give him, which means you have to give him more, breaking the kiss and hooking your leg over his lap to straddle him. 

“Fuck, okay,” he says, more to himself than you. His hands find your hips and squeeze, eyes locked on the touch, pulling you closer to him. Through his slacks, you can already feel how painfully hard he is for you. “Okay,” he repeats.

His uncertainty begins to worry you. You tilt his head up carefully, forefinger crooked under his chin. His stubble is rough against your hand and you can’t help smoothing your thumb across the cut of his jaw. “Wolfwood—you know we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Are you—? Of course I want to,” he says, incredulous even though only a moment ago he looked absolutely at a loss for what to do with you. His hands move past the boundary of your shirt, warm palms against your sides, fingers digging into your skin a little desperately. “Fuck, baby, of course I want to.”

“But there’s something on your mind.”

From the way he pauses, you gather that there’s more than just one thing on his mind. He looks conflicted. His hands are still warm against you, and he squeezes your sides once again, warmly, before responding. “Use my name.”

“Okay,” you say, soft. You move your hands to the back of his neck, carding your fingers through his hair. It feels so good to touch someone after so long—but it also feels so good to touch him, specifically, after wondering what it would be like for all those months. “I can do that.”

“Nick.”

Something about the way he tells you this makes you laugh. “Do you think I didn’t know your name?”

He looks up at you, unimpressed. Even if you’re joking, he doesn’t like to be made a fool. “Didn’t want you to call me Nicholas.”

“Okay,” you concede, leaning closer to him. You won’t ask the reason because you’re sure it’s locked behind at least six boundaries you aren’t allowed to push. Into his ear, you whisper, “Is there anything else you want, Nick?”

You can feel his cock twitch against you, and he tries and fails to bite back a groan, exhaling hard, his lips ghosting your neck, the curve of your jaw. “Can you, uh—I just need to know that you… want this. You’ve gotta tell me. Keep telling me.”

Seeing him vulnerable is something you’re not used to. You get the sense that he’s not entirely comfortable with it either. He kisses your shoulder, bites softly at the junction of your neck, intent on not looking at you, you think, before you answer. 

“I’ve wanted this for a while,” you tell him, because it’s easier for you, too, when you don’t have to look at him as you say these things. “I’ve wanted—I want you.”

Before you can say more he takes your chin in his hand, pulls your mouth to his and kisses you hard, his teeth knocking against yours, and stands—stands while you’re in his lap, inhuman strength displayed in such a careless action. Your arms tighten around his shoulders, but his hands are on the underside of your thighs, holding you as if you’re lighter than air. He takes you to the bed and your back hits the mattress, a little dust springing up from the threadbare comforter. 

Looking at him above you is a religious experience. His eyes are black, clouded with lust, lips kiss-reddened, face flushed.

There’s an unparalleled need in his expression, his movements. He pulls your cargos off impressively fast, his knees hitting the wood floor hard enough that the impact rings through your bones as well as his. You’re wearing boxer briefs, you realize, because underwear is at a premium out here in the desert, and they’re fine but they don’t exactly make you feel sexy. Your face flushes a little, suddenly so worried about what he thinks of you, what parts of you appeal to him. “Nick—”

“What do you need, pretty girl?” He kisses the inside of your thigh after asking you this, eyes never leaving yours.

Christ—the pet name alone could kill you, but the look on his face is worse. Desperation doesn’t even begin to cover it.

His long fingers dip into the top of your briefs, and suddenly whatever you’re wearing doesn’t feel all that important. “I’m gonna take these off. That okay?”

You nod because you’ve been rendered unable to speak and he takes care of everything for you. He returns as soon as he’s physically able, kissing the inside of each thigh with a reverence you wouldn’t have ever expected to see from him. It draws a sigh from you, and it’s so nice to be touched, to feel Nick’s skin against yours, to feel the heat of his breath between your thighs.

The second his tongue is against you he groans, vibrations running straight through your body. “All for me, huh?” he asks, half-lidded eyes meeting yours, and you miss the heat of his mouth already. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. So good, I promise.” 

He kisses the inside of your leg once more and wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him, and he eats you out like a man starved—there’s some sort of technique to it, but it’s lost in the fervor of his movements, in the desperation of his mouth, in the depth of the noises he makes, like he’s been waiting for this for months and now doesn’t know what to do with all the pent up want inside of him.

You tell him he’s doing so good, so perfect, treating me so well, and the encouragement spurs him on, but when he’s opening you up with his long, pretty fingers, when he curls them inside of you just right, your words lose their shape. 

You’re at the edge before you realized you were approaching it, and Nick doesn’t stop his movements. He’s intent on getting you off, tongue moving in rhythm and fingers hitting the perfect spot, his other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. There’s nothing you want more right now than for him to mark you, to stake some sort of claim on you. To want you for more than just this. 

On instinct, your fingers curl into his hair, guiding him to where you need him—and a second too late you worry that it’s too much, that he won’t like it, but when your grip loosens and you begin to pull away, he grabs your wrist and places your hand back on his head, urging you to take what you need.

And you do—his soft hair thick between your fingers, your grip tightening as you pull him into perfect position, as he lets out a half-broken noise against you, grip tightening painfully on your thigh. His fingers reach a feverish speed and that’s all it takes—you cum hard against his face, your legs tensing around his head, and he couldn’t pull away if he tried. 

But he doesn’t—he works you through your orgasm until you’re oversensitive, until you’re tugging at his hair to get him to stop, until words come back to you and all you can say is please, please, Nick, please.

When he finally relents, he’s breathless, his mouth and chin shimmering and slick. He wipes his face off on the inside of your thigh, which instinctually you want to give him shit for, but immediately after he licks up the mess, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin when he’s finished. “Was that good, baby?” he asks, his breaths heavy, arms still loosely wrapped around your thighs.

He can’t possibly be serious. Yes, it was good. You don’t think anyone will ever be able to follow that up, and all he’s done so far is eat you out.

His face lights up wickedly, and—you said that out loud, you realize, without meaning to. You can’t find it within yourself to care. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so wholly true. “So far, huh?” he asks. “Think you can take more?”

You tug at his shoulder because you want him close—you want to kiss him again, because you’ve gone so long not kissing him that even now, only five minutes feels like too long without. He follows your commands with no complaint, a knee up on the bed, leaning over you to kiss you and you can taste yourself on him, on his swollen lips and the wet slide of his tongue.

“Nick,” you say when he gives you a moment to breathe, and—you had an idea of what you were going to say, but you can’t fully reach it. Any time you’ve slept with someone, it’s been quick and perfunctory. Either you ask them to fuck you or they do the same, and that’s that. But this is so different. You want him to fuck you more than anything, but telling him that you want him to fuck you feels too small for what you actually want from him. 

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want him to kiss you when you’re not in a bed in a cheap motel, and you want to sleep next to him, and you want to run your thumb across the stubble on his face without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch.

You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. You want him to touch you again. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else.

“I know,” he says, and he doesn’t because he can’t, because everything that’s going through your head isn’t allowed because that’s not how the world works. Because you think even if you closed your eyes, he’d be the only thing in your head, just his name on a loop and the sounds he makes behind it. He kisses the corner of your mouth and you wish you were in a different reality entirely. “Give me—five minutes, and I’ll be good.”

So he knows what you’re asking for. And he can’t give it to you right now. “Did you already—?”

He stops you before you get further. “It’s—I, uh. Fuck.” His olive skin hides any blush that’s not very deep, but there’s pink staining his cheeks, painting the tips of his ears. “Yeah. You just—yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“Look, if you’re gonna have an attitude about it—”

“I want you so badly,” you say, and nothing has ever been more true. You’re kissing him before you can stop yourself and you’d thought five minutes was a generous estimate, but that’s really all it takes, his body pinning you to the bed, your hips moving beneath him, your hands running up his back and fisting in his hair. You pull at his shirt, barely buttoned now. “Take it off?”

It didn’t even need to be a question. He stands and his shirt is on the floor in seconds, his slacks following quickly behind. His skin glows in the low light, dark hairs peppering his chest and trailing lower, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching out, running a hand up his stomach, feeling the indents of long-healed scars and the coarseness of his hair. When he breathes out, it’s shaky, poorly controlled. He, too, is wearing boxer briefs, and even though this is normal because they're best for the heat, you somehow feel less self-conscious about anything from earlier. He’s hard again, the boxers stained dark because he came while eating you out which you wouldn’t have believed possible before right now and he’s so disgustingly sexy without even trying that you need him to fuck you right now, actually.

You’d been too enraptured watching him to undress, and his patience is short. Your shirt is pulled up over your head and quick work is made of your bra, and Nick’s breath comes out a little less steady when he palms your breasts, when one hand runs up your sternum, up the column of your throat, before tilting your head up for a surprisingly soft kiss.

He smacks the side of your ass lightly, herding you up the mattress, laying you out fully. When he’s fully undressed, when he’s completely yours to admire, you can’t take your eyes off the precum rolling down the tip of his cock, down the incredibly pretty length of him.

The things you would do to this man if you had time—which you do, but it really seems like you don’t, the pent up energy making you both hazy, rushing you towards what you need. With him on top of you there’s barely any room to move, the twin not built to hold a man as large as Nick, let alone a second person. 

He kisses down the length of your neck and your eyes flutter closed. You tell him how pretty he is, how badly you want him, and his hands squeeze your hips in response, pulling your body so, so close to his. He’s hard against your thigh and you need him right now—you could die tomorrow and be happy if you could just have him inside you this instant. He sucks a bruise into the skin right above your collarbone, and you’re too far gone to worry about whether or not your traveling clothes will cover it tomorrow. “This okay?” he asks, moving a hand between the two of you to position himself at your entrance and ever so slightly push.

“You don’t ever have to ask,” you tell him, voice almost too breathy to be heard, because you would have him whenever, wherever—whatever he wanted. 

Slowly, he thrusts inside, and each inch has your legs clenching tighter around him, your nails digging into his perfect shoulders, most assuredly leaving marks. When he bottoms out you basically whimper—it’s embarrassing, the sounds he’s coaxing from you. 

But you can’t help it—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, and his face is buried into the curve of your neck, moans muffled by your skin, teeth digging into your shoulder.

“Kiss me,” you manage to stutter out, the pace he sets slow and deep, and you want him closer, somehow, as if you could have him living in your skin and it wouldn’t be deep enough. 

He does what you ask, hips snapping to yours, the old mattress squeaking in protest beneath you. The kisses are sloppy, wet, at some points your tongues simply pressed together. He pants something against your mouth—your name, you think, though it’s too quiet for you to know for sure—and with each kiss his thrusts get sharper, deeper, hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. 

Your vision spirals at the edges, white and black stars sparkling in your peripherals. And in the center, Nick: pupils blown, lips a perfect pink, cheeks reddened, and his eyes always, always meeting yours when they can, as if it’s essential whenever your lips aren’t slick against his, like he wants to be connected to you in every way possible.

“Want you to cum again,” he murmurs. “You can do that for me, right?”

All you have to do is hum an affirmative and his hand is between your bodies, thumb honing in on your clit and rubbing tight circles, his pace measured and even and so, so deep, and the closer you get the harder it is to keep your eyes open, to stop yourself from curling into him.

His forehead is flush against yours, his explicit groans all breaths against your mouth. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he says. “I wanna see you.”

You moan his name like a prayer, your eyes opening, still so close to him and he’s beautiful—sweat dripping down his forehead, face so open and earnest, as if this is the closest he’s ever come to being completely vulnerable with you.

It only takes a few more thrusts, his cock curved in the perfect way to hit the right spot inside of you, and you’re coming apart, arms wrapping around his neck and fingers gripping his hair and his name on your lips over and over, because he’s the one that did this and you want him to know that you’re only thinking of him. 

Your vision is blank, head hazy. It takes a long moment for you to feel like you’re a part of your body again, Nick still fucking into you, thrusts becoming sloppy, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in so hard you’d be surprised if they weren’t meeting bone. He mumbles something into your neck that you can’t hear, and you can feel his muscles tense, and you say please don’t pull out and he’s cumming inside you while holding your hips flush to his, and he keeps saying things to you like he can’t stop himself. When your senses return to you, you realize he’s saying so good, baby, knew you’d take me so good—and then, out of nowhere, “Love you. Fuck, I love you.”

After a moment, Nick pulls out, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He lays his head against your chest, one hand curled into your hair, the other gently tracing your side.

You can feel the exact moment that he realizes what he said. 

His entire body tenses, his hand stills, and it reminds you of the way a prey animal locks up when it knows it’s been spotted. When panic fills it so intensely that all bodily autonomy is removed.

What he said isn’t true, obviously. The words barely faze you. There are people in some towns that you can pay to sit in a room with you and tell you how much they love you, that they would do anything for you, that they would die for you. There are so few people scattered across the desert. If you’re a lonely traveler passing through, or even someone city-based but just as alone, being able to say you love someone and hear it back is intoxicating. The chances of anyone saying it to you organically are essentially non-existent. 

It’s certainly not something you’d have expected someone like Nick to be into, but who are you to shame him for the things he likes? He wants praise, he wants to feel wanted, he wants to tell someone that he loves them—there are much crazier things he could like. You’re fine with this.

What you’re not as fine with is the strained look on his face when he pushes himself up on his elbows, the way his words tumble out so quickly when he says, “I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay,” you say, but a stupid part of you stings in the face of such an emphatic rejection of any feelings he could have for you. “I know.”

Connections on Gunsmoke are forged fast and broken bullet-quick. You could meet someone and travel with them for a week and convince yourself you were in love with them because they’re the only person you talk to, the only person to offer you kind touches and pretty words. But those connections aren’t real. They don’t have weight to them, a foundation to stand on.

You and Nick don’t really know each other, despite the nights you’ve spent talking. Despite the ways he’s made you laugh and the ways you’ve made him smile genuinely—even if it’s a small ghost of a thing that doesn’t often grace his handsome face. Logically, he doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. There’s not even a fraction of you that’s tempted to say it because you know it’s not true. 

And yet, a small part of you yearns to have something like that—to have Nick tell you he loves you and mean it, and for you to love him back.

His face is red despite the aplomb with which you handled everything. He doesn’t quite look you in the eyes. “I’m, uh… Damn. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You still like him being close to you. You like the way he touches you, the way he looks at you. You don’t want this to ruin the chance of getting to do this again.

“That was—a lot.”

You run the back of your knuckles across his stubbled jaw, pull him towards you with a hand on the back of his head. He follows without any complaint, even kisses you back when you lean up to kiss him, which really was a gamble because some people don’t like any kind of affection once the sex is over. “You can tell me you love me if that’s what you like,” you murmur against his lips. “I can say it too, if you want.”

He breathes in deep—his exhale almost sounds like a sigh, as if he’s about to deliver bad news but has to gear up for it first.

“If you want to do this again,” you say, pulling back to look him in the eyes—to make sure he knows you’re serious. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so presumptuous. “If you don’t, we can go back to how it was before. That would be okay.”

“I want this,” he tells you, eyes flicking to your lips for an instant. “I mean—I want to do this again.”

Smiling at him is easy. Identifying the warmth you feel in your chest is harder.

He kisses you and you sink into the comfort of him, his easy grins and soft moans and light touches. He only stops to ask you very quietly if he should be worried about finishing inside of you, but years of radiation exposure from the dual suns have taken care of any risks there. In turn, you ask him to stay the night. The questions both somehow feel extremely intimate even though they’re normal questions to ask someone you’ve just slept with. He doesn’t hesitate to say yes, and you think—maybe this will end well. Maybe it’ll be exactly what you need for the limited amount of time you have it. 

When he falls asleep, he has one hand on the back of your head, holding you to his chest, and the other in yours, your fingers loosely intertwined. It’s sweet in a way you’ve never experienced.

Maybe this will end well, but you’re almost entirely sure it won’t.

For the next three days of travel to Ship Three—or Home, as Blondie calls it, which is a stupid name—Nick feels like he’s dying. He chain-smokes faster than normal, burning through a pack every couple hours. It’s like his skin is being express-washed with sandpaper and bleach. He wants to touch you so badly it burns.

And you just sit there all pretty, in the back seat next to him and in front of the campfire and on the car’s hood when you have to pull over because Roberto gets too sick from the driving and the alcohol. You sew up the bullet holes in his blazer because of course you’d do that for him, and you laugh at Vash’s jokes and talk to Meryl about the time you both spent in November and you look at Nick and smile like it’s nothing—like your eyes on him don’t drive him insane. 

He gets lucky on your final night of travel, everyone asleep except the two of you, and he takes his time kissing you against the side of the equipment trailer, the car shielding the two of you from your snoring companions.

He’s not gonna ask you to say you love him—when you told him you’d say it if he wanted you to, it felt like there was a bug crawling around in his stomach, an unnameable feeling that he didn’t ever want to experience again.

Saying he loved you in the first place was embarrassing as hell for multiple reasons. First off, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t. Secondly, it was his goal when he approached you that night to play it cool, and he ended up finishing before he’d even started because of how good you tasted, how much he liked the way you pulled his hair, how pretty you sounded saying his name—and then on top of that, you let him cum inside you and you felt so good, so fucking right, and he spilled those words because in that moment, he loved you like absolutely nothing else.

He’s half-hard thinking about it, kissing you slow and deep because fuck, he loves the way you sigh into him when he kisses you like this, the way your hands grip the open sides of his shirt right below the collar as if you wouldn’t let him pull away if he tried. 

There’s not a second where he’s not tempted to mark you, to suck a deep bruise into your neck right below the jawline so everyone knows exactly what’s happening when they’re not looking. But he won’t. He won’t. He’ll be good. He’ll stop kissing you, he’ll ask if you want to lie with him for a little before you go to sleep, he’ll talk to you until you begin to nod off.

Let it never be said that Nicholas D. Wolfwood isn’t a paragon of restraint. He’s the king of it.

The only slight relief he gets is when you all arrive where Vash grew up, when you get to stay in rooms that are a little more private. When he can sleep next to you at night, sometimes after he fucks you as quiet as possible so no one but him gets to hear the noises you make and sometimes after he doesn’t. 

He thinks it should only be about the sex—that’s what everything else he’s ever done with someone has been about. But he gets possessive over your time. He likes to listen to your soft breathing as he falls asleep, likes to feel the weight of you against his chest. Likes when you wake up before him and trace the angles of his face and the planes of his chest with a feather-light touch until he’s up too, and he could never be mad about losing sleep over you.

And he’s a shitty person for doing this. For letting you sleep in his arms, for enjoying the way your hands feel on his skin. There’s so much you don’t know about him, but that doesn’t stop you from asking. He can’t tell you his actual age, he can’t tell you exactly what made him into the freak he is, he can’t explain to you why Livio was after Vash and how he was like a brother to Nick. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, doesn’t want you to pity him. And most importantly—

He can’t tell you what his mission is. The cost of his freedom. You’d never forgive him.

He tries not to lie to you. He avoids questions, omits information where he can. And he knows that this is essentially lying. It’s the same as a broken promise. He’s a hypocrite for calling out Vash’s lies while adding on to his own burning pyre.

This doesn’t stop him from wanting you. He takes back all the paragon shit—Nick has never been very good at denying himself what he wants.

It’s when you’re having breakfast with everyone on an unremarkable morning that Nick reaches his breaking point. Vash’s foster parents are keeping you all fed well, vegetables grown in actual gardens and meat cloned from animal cells on your plates every day.

Nick doesn’t eat breakfast—doesn’t need as much food as other people. He has his coffee like always, a cigarette soon to follow. He sits next to you because that’s his unspoken and permanent spot during meals and at the campfire and absolutely anywhere else. He leans back in his seat, sips from his mug, chimes in on the chatter when he has something to say. Everyone else is chowing down, and Vash says some stupid joke about forgetting what greens taste like when they’re not covered in sand, and you laugh—and something snaps in him.

Nothing big. It’s wishbone-small, the slightest crack. But it’s enough.

He drapes his arm across your seat, cups the back of your neck with his hand, strokes his thumb over the dip of your spine right below your hairline. You swallow hard and he can feel the vibration in his palm.

Everyone is silent. You turn to look at him slowly and he can feel the heat that crawls up your neck. He thought you might be mad—but your eyes are wide, mouth parted in surprise, as if you thought he wouldn’t want everyone to know you were his, as if he’d never claim you publicly.

He’d do a lot more to you publicly if you’d let him, but he doesn’t want to push his luck.

“What?” he asks, as if this is something perfectly normal for him to be doing. He looks between the four of you, and every single one of you is looking at him dumbstruck. “Guess staring problems are an epidemic.”

Vash’s face is a deep pink. He stutters out, “Wow, guys—congrats. Or, uh—I mean. That’s nice that you’re… that—”

“It’s just puppy love, kid, you don’t have to make it awkward,” Roberto says—and Nick barely stops himself from bodily flinching at that word. It shouldn’t be spoken in the context of the two of you so soon after his mistake. “Let the Undertaker have his moment in peace.”

Peace isn’t what Nick was aiming to achieve by touching you like this—but he still got what he wanted. You and Meryl are staring at each other, communicating in a series of complicated eyebrow maneuvers. Vash is looking anywhere but Nick. Roberto, somehow the voice of reason in all this, is already shoveling the rest of his breakfast into his mouth.

He’s itching for a cigarette. He slides his thumb over your soft skin once more, then stands, curling a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. You don’t protest as he leans down, as he kisses you softly and extremely chastely. It’s not like he doesn’t know that he’s pushing boundaries right now, that you might be pissed at him for this. He’s not gonna stick his tongue down your throat in front of everyone. But he couldn’t stop himself from having just one kiss. 

Whatever broke inside him couldn’t be patched up, and he just—he needed everyone to know what you were. That you were something. That he was the one that’d take care of you if you needed it, that he was the one you were sleeping next to every night, that he was yours.

“Nick…?” You don’t look angry with him. Just confused. Concerned, maybe.

“Gonna go out for a smoke.” He knows you don’t like him smoking next to you while you’re eating, or he’d already have a cigarette lit between his fingers. His thumb swipes across your lower lip because he has a hard time keeping his hands off you once they’re on. 

He turns from the table and heads towards the hallway—where he’ll be breaking out his smokes, because he’s not walking through the entire damn ship to have a cigarette if they haven’t complained about him smoking inside yet. 

Before he makes it to the door, he hears Meryl loudly whispering at you, questions pouring from her lips, and Roberto saying, “Christ, Newbie, let her breathe.”

Outside the mess hall, Nick turns to the wall of the hallway. Presses his forehead against the cool metal. He’s an idiot for doing things like this. For acting on impulse. For not being entirely honest with you.

Maybe if he could get his contract from the church, you’d understand. You’d see the clauses on there that he remembers watching Conrad write— if this contract is breached, the Hopeland Orphanage will be destroyed and the lives of every child that resides within will be forfeit. You’d see the thick black line at the bottom that he was forced to sign when he was too young to know what a signature was. Vash wanted to see his brother anyway. All he had to do was deliver the kid to Knives. It wouldn’t even be extra work on Nick’s part. 

But he knows you well enough now. Too well to ignore the fact that you don’t forgive easily.

And this still doesn’t stop him, because he’s an awful person. Blondie’s arm puts you back a few weeks—weeks spent gathering materials and waiting for the old scientist to finish his repairs. 

And even as you spend more and more time with him, holding his hand when you walk into the mess hall for breakfast, laying against his chest as you read old books from the ship’s small library, kissing him goodbye when you or he take turns helping out on scavenging trips, he doesn’t tell you the entire truth. 

Even as he finds such simple happiness in talking to you about your day, even as he finds some kind of divinity in the way you moan his name, in the way your nails scrape against his scalp when he fucks you—always face to face, because he loves the way you look at him, like he’s the only thing that exists to you—even then, he doesn’t give you the most delicate, secret parts of him.

Just once—just one time while he has you laid out beneath him, while he has you in his ear telling him what a good job he’s doing, he considers taking you up on what you’d proposed to him all those months ago. He thinks about what it would sound like if you told him you loved him, even if you didn’t mean it, and he cums so unexpectedly that his vision whites out, that he feels a tipsy sort of dizziness, that you ask him if everything is okay after.

You mess with his head. He doesn’t know whether he likes it or hates it. Doesn’t matter how he feels about it, really—wouldn’t stop it from happening every time you smile at him after you’ve been away from him for a little while, the first time you woke up in his arms and said morning, handsome and every time after that.

When Brad finally tells everyone that he’s almost done with Vash’s repairs, Nick is disappointed. He wants time. He’s only had a month of this. He wants all the time in the world and more because he’s greedy and needs every part of you.

Only a few days later, you’re in the mess hall for dinner and Wolfwood is coming back from helping Blondie scavenge around for old ship parts. There are specific metals the scientist needs for his final repairs, all located in burnt out scraps of fallen spaceships that litter the wasteland around Ship Three. He’s been gone for eight hours and it’s been too damn long with you out of his sight.

It’s later in the evening—most of the crew have cleared out, but stragglers sit at the tables around the edges of the room and chat tiredly. You’re already done with your meal and Nick is so ready to pick you up and carry you all the way back to his room and get you in his shower, because he can’t wait to touch you until after he’s clean, free of the sweat and sand that feel like a second skin at this point. 

Except you’re talking to some asshole with a lopsided smile on his face, obviously already half in love with you. The guy isn’t even your type. Too soft, baby-faced, completely untested by Gunsmoke and its inhabitants. He looks like he wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun if Nick put one in his hand with the safety off and positioned his finger on the trigger.

He leans the Punisher against whatever’s closest to him and its weight causes the metal table it falls against to scrape across the floor harshly. You turn to look at him and you smile so softly despite the loud noise, and maybe he’ll just hoist you out of your chair and carry you to his room right now even though you’d complain about him being rude to this wet rag that wants to fuck you.

You greet him when he sits in the chair next to you and he missed your voice so much. The guy you were talking to looks at Nick, brows raised, as if expecting—what, that you’d actually want this asshole? Over him?

Nick shoots the guy a withering glare, then puts his arm around your shoulders lazily, murmuring hey, pretty girl into your hair while this idiot keeps staring at him as if it could intimidate him into leaving.

“I’ve heard about you. The Undertaker, right?” the guy asks, holding his hand out, as if Nick would actually shake it. “I’m—”

“Leaving,” Nick says. “Unless you’re looking for a problem.”

You turn to look at him, his name a protest on your tongue, but the guy is already getting up, muttering to himself about Nick having awful manners. Doesn’t matter—he’d rather have every person on this ship hate him if it meant keeping you to himself.

“You can’t talk to people like that,” you say.

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He could see the hunger in that asshole’s eyes, no matter how well he was hiding it from you. “He wanted something that wasn’t his.”

“Nick…” You pull back a little further away from him to really look at him, and he curls his arm around your shoulder because he doesn’t want you further away. He wants you against the wall of his shower right now, and then maybe on the countertop next to the sink, and then preferably in his bed for the rest of the night. “Maybe… we should go somewhere more quiet. To talk.”

Dread settles into his stomach so quickly that it’s like being hit by a bullet to the gut—and Nick’s taken plenty of those over the years, but none have felt quite as cold and heavy as this. He refuses to panic right now. “To talk,” he repeats.

You must see it in his eyes—the fear. Your hand is on his cheek in an instant, and you kiss him so soft and chaste, exactly like the first time he kissed you in front of everyone, and he feels safer. His heart stops beating out of his chest, the dread in his stomach warms to a tepid anxiety. He’s beginning to like kisses like these. Still not as much as when he can really kiss you the way he wants, long and deep and thorough, but there’s something in the simplicity of them that pleases him. They’re a message more than anything. An assurance. You still like him. You still want him.

Regardless, he follows you to your room with a stone in his throat. He’s not a big talker. Not when it comes to serious stuff. And this feels serious. You start pacing and his pulse quickens again, a raging beat against his sternum, an echo that rattles around his head.

When you stop, it’s sudden enough to rock you in place a little, as if you didn’t realize you were going to cease moving before it happened. “Sometimes,” you say, not looking at him, “you say things.”

He waits, but you don’t continue. “I tend to do that.”

“Nick—unless I’m not understanding things right, we’re not… we’re not together.”

Refusing to panic seems to be something he’s no longer good at. “We’re not together,” he repeats, because he’s an idiot that can’t string two words together if you haven’t already said them.

“Okay, that’s—that’s what I thought. I didn’t think you… yeah.” You still won’t look at him. You’re picking at your cuticles so hard that there’s already a little blood on your fingers.

His immediate instinct is to stop you—to step forward and take your hands in his, to smooth his thumbs over the wounds you’ve given yourself. “Look at me.”

When you look at him, your eyes are full of an emotion that Nick can’t name. Not desire—but want, on a certain level. There’s something you want that he can’t give you.

And he knows what it is. He’s not an idiot. He knows that the way you smile at him isn’t the way you smile at someone you’re not together with. He knows you don’t give him those reassuring kisses because you don’t want to be together with him. You don’t ever press him about it because this kind of stuff doesn’t happen. People don’t connect like this. Whatever the two of you are doing—it’s fragile, and you’re ready for it to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is, too.

If there wasn’t so much he wasn’t telling you, then—he doesn’t even want to think about it. Because maybe he’d like that too. Maybe he’d be able to give you parts of what you want, to be enough of what you need in order for you to be happy. 

You’d do it for him, no question. You already do it for him. 

“I’m not great at this,” he tells you. He’s not. He’s slept with a lot of people, but that’s easy on Gunsmoke. If you’re even a little good looking, half the planet wants you. But he hasn’t held anything more real than that, hasn’t felt the weight of it in his palm. “But I want… just you.”

You bite the inside of your lip, unsure—because what has he given you, really, beyond vague answers and truths that aren’t fully fleshed out? He can understand your hesitance. You’re so devastatingly beautiful and he wishes he wasn’t a piece of shit.

“Okay,” is your eventual response. 

He can tell that what he said wasn’t enough. But it’s all he can give you. It’s selfish of him to want reciprocation, he knows. “Do you…?” 

“Yes,” you say, but you look so sad and he keeps fucking up more and more. “Just you.”

He wishes he could see what kind of thoughts are running through your head—whether you hate him now, whether you’re okay with just this, whether he could ever make you forgive him for everything he’s about to do.

“Kiss me,” you tell him. “Please.”

How could he deny you that?

He doesn’t take you to his shower but you don’t seem to mind the grit and sweat of the desert on his skin—you’re pliant underneath him, you come apart on his hands, you kiss him like you mean it, and when he’s inside you and he whispers I love you, I love you, I love you into your skin, you don’t question whether it’s real or not and he doesn’t tell you.

You don’t say it back, but he didn’t ask you to.

After JuLai

There’s nowhere you can go but Home.

The entire coast of the Great Sand Ocean is covered in the debris of JuLai, and even then—no Sandsteamer is going to stop on a random stretch of coast to take you somewhere safe. If you can all make it to Home, Meryl can go north to November, Nick can go back to December, and you can figure out what you’re going to do since you didn’t have the good fortune to die.

So many people didn’t make it. You should be happy you’re still alive. But traveling with Nick makes you wish that someone else was here instead of you.

Vash is nowhere to be found. You don’t think he’s dead—because it’s him. Even with everything that happened to him in that tower, you have such a strong belief that he lived through Knives’s torture, through that bright pink light in the sky that exploded up into space, through the collapse of the world’s largest city.

Maybe that’s naive. But if you can go look for him after you get situated, that’s—something. You can do something and not feel so empty. Or you could follow Meryl to November, become a gun-for-hire like you’d been for so many years.

It’s a week's journey to Home on foot. You barely sleep. You and Meryl take turns keeping watch at night, always right beside each other, because there’s no way you could trust Nick to keep the two of you safe after everything.

But you can’t kick him out of your little group, either, because you’re without cover and without your weapon, lost somewhere in the escape, and Meryl’s Derringer only has three low-caliber shots before the bullets Roberto gave her are gone.

As much as you hate it, he’d be your only chance of survival if you got caught in a firefight out here.

Nick doesn’t seem willing to leave, either. He doesn’t speak to either of you—out of shame, you wonder, or because he simply doesn’t care?—but he nods when you say that Home should be your next destination, follows quietly when Meryl begins to lead the trek with her unflappable sense of direction, smokes cigarette after cigarette until his borrowed pack of menthols runs out and he gets twitchy, bouncing his leg whenever he sits down, toying with the buckles on the cover of his gun tirelessly.

The noise doesn’t bother you when you’re walking, but in the middle of the night, it sounds like a fucking alarm going off. And he doesn’t sleep—at least, you never see him unconscious during your trek, even though you know firsthand that he’s capable of sleeping—but obviously there’s a lot he hasn’t told you about himself.

The night before you get to Home, it’s too much for you—you’re about to wake Meryl for her watch, and you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, and he’s flicking a buckle open and closed, and you find the half-finished pack of cigarettes in your pocket that, before everything, you’d been holding for him.

There are no campfires these nights. You don’t have the resources, and you sure as shit don’t want to be spotted by anyone that might be heading to JuLai to scavenge its corpse. In the shine of the five moons, you make your way over to him—he’s never too close, maybe because he’s trying to be conscientious. 

He looks up at you, surprised, and—he’s terrible enough to have something like hope on his face. It’s not a good look on him.

“Here,” you say, and you hold out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He takes it from you slowly, like you’ll scare if he moves too quickly. “You need to stop fiddling with shit so I can get a good night’s sleep.”

“Thanks,” he says, but you’re already walking back towards Meryl, shaking her from sleep. 

The sound of his lighter clicking, the sound of him taking a deep drag and exhaling a long moment later—it’s so familiar. You’ve fallen asleep to that many nights over the past month or so, when Nick hadn’t been able to rest without a little nicotine to calm him down. He was always thinking hard when you were quiet in his arms, something in his eyes that spoke of conflict. You wonder now if he was thinking about the things he was keeping from you. The way he was about to betray you.

Meryl eyes the lit cigarette in Nick’s mouth when she wakes up, but she doesn’t look at you with any kind of judgment. She squeezes your hand and smiles at you, quietly says, “It’s okay. You need some rest.”

Maybe she’s talking about the noise that kept you awake every night—maybe she’s talking about something less tangible, an unrest that lives deep within you. You still don’t sleep well, and it’s his fault. Without the sound of the buckles clicking, you can hear him smoke, hear his deep breaths in the silence of the night. When you dream, it’s a hazy memory on loop, Nick holding you close and whispering things he didn’t mean.

Luida cries when you arrive and tell her what happened. You can’t blame her—you want to cry too. It’s all you’ve wanted to do for days. You just want to get to a room where you can be by yourself and finally, finally be allowed to feel.

Brad tells you that the room you’d stayed in is exactly how you left it, and you leave Meryl talking to the two of them, leave Nick leaning against the wall next to his gun, quietly smoking one of the last cigarettes from the pack you’d given him.

You get to your room, untouched to the point that it still smells a little like the body wash you used the last time you showered here, a little like stale smoke from when Nick would come to you at night because he basically refused to sleep if it wasn’t next to you, and you find that you can’t even do what you’ve wanted to do this whole time.

There are no tears. There’s no terrible cracking of the makeshift foundation you’d built to hold yourself up over the past few days. No collapse, no city falling dark. There’s nothing.

You shower and sit on the tiled floor, letting the spray hit your hair, your back, until the water goes lukewarm. Even after you’ve scrubbed every inch of your skin, you can still feel the desert on you, sand under your nails, baked into your hair, seared into your bones. You lay in your bed in clean clothes—truly clean clothes for the first time in more than a week, comfy pajama shorts and an actual sweater—and all you can do is stare at the ceiling, waiting to sleep, or to sink into the sheets and melt away, or to simply cease to exist.

He comes to your door in the middle of the night, knocks and waits outside, as if he couldn’t simply open the door himself. They don’t lock. People on this ship are respectful about privacy. There’s a large part of you that wants to leave him out there. He won’t come in if you don’t let him. You may not know a lot about him, but you’re at least sure of that. 

When you open the door, he’s flicking the butt of a finished cigarette to the ground. It bounces, crosses the threshold of your room. “Shit—didn’t mean to do that,” he says. I didn’t mean it, you hear. “Didn’t even think you’d see me, to be honest.”

“Do you need something, Wolfwood?” you ask. Whenever you’re not speaking your jaw is clenched so tightly that you can hear your molars grind against each other. He’s doing irreparable damage to your teeth. “Or are we done here?”

His face falls—not that it hadn’t been in a state that could be classified as ‘fallen’ before that—and he jams his hands in his pockets, swaying back on his heels, looking more above you than at you. The mask he wears to hide his thoughts from you doesn’t fit very well anymore. “I’m leaving,” he says. 

It’s what you wanted him to do, but it doesn’t stop you from inhaling sharp, from feeling a sudden pain against your ribs. 

“Thought I’d, uh…” He shakes his head. He’s replaced his sunglasses, or maybe he had them the whole time, and you can’t see his eyes in the hallway’s ambient night-time lighting. “Nah, never mind. Get some sleep. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He turns to leave and the lapel of his jacket is suddenly in your hand, sandworn and stitched through. You sewed up the bullet hole that rests snug beneath your thumb. You ran your fingers over the skin of his chest not long after that, marveling at its smoothness, the lack of scars to follow the wound. You thought then: was he disappointed that he didn’t have any marks to show for the trauma he’d endured? Or did he prefer that—a blank canvas that let him pretend that everything he’d ever known hadn’t really happened?

You had eventually come to the conclusion that he didn’t care. His scars were littered across bone and organ, never to be shown to another person. The cross he bore was his own terrible burden to shoulder.

Back then, you had been okay with that. After everything that happened, you shouldn’t care. You should let him shoulder the weight. You should let him leave. 

There are more holes in the blazer now, wounds he picked up on the way to his betrayal. “Let me fix this for you.”

He says your name small, quiet, the same way he’d said it when JuLai was burning with life behind him, exploding in flowers and vines.

“Before you go,” you say. You have no idea what you’re doing. “I want to fix it before you go.”

He swallows, nods. You can tell he wishes he had a cigarette right now. “Alright. If you want."

It takes a moment for you to let go of him, as if he’d melt into sand once you let go, as if this is only an apparition before you and your grip is the only thing tying him to the physical realm. 

He doesn’t melt. He doesn’t fade away. He follows you into your room and shrugs off his blazer, offers it to you. 

You take it from him silently. The sewing kit you use is somewhere in your travel bag, right where you left it before you were stolen away to JuLai. The sooner it’s unearthed from your stockpiled life, the sooner he’ll be gone. You should get it. “What did you come here for?”

He leans back against the doorframe, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his side. After a moment he takes his sunglasses off, puts them down on the table at the end of your bed. Drags a hand down his face like he’s the most exhausted he’s ever been. “There’s not a lot I can give you. I don't have much.”

You weren’t asking him for anything. You bite your tongue when you go to remind him of this.

“But I have answers now. The ones you wanted. Before.” He clears his throat. “If you still want them.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

When you don’t stop him, he continues. “I had a contract.”

“A contract.”

“The people that drew it up weren’t above breaking a couple bones to get me to sign it. ‘Cause I’d just heal up, right?” He laughs, and it’s an awful, bitter noise. “I’d be back in one piece so they could break the same bones again.”

You’re quiet.

He holds out a crumpled piece of paper, obviously balled up at some point in time—at the top: Pastoral Contract. At the bottom: Nicholas D. Wolfwood in a series of childish curls and shaky lines. Nick had written the terms of his contract out in the careful cursive of someone still learning to use it. The word ‘receive’ is misspelled. “How old…?”

“Nine,” he says. “I’d just turned nine.”

The first thought that crosses your mind: how many people has he killed in his time as a pastor, and could he remember each one if he tried? “How long have you—”

“I’m twenty-two.”

You’re stunned into silence. There had been no question in your mind that Nick was older than you by at least four or five years. 

If things weren’t the way they were, he’d probably make a joke about looking good for his age. If things weren’t the way they were, you’d be examining how much his age matches up with the way he acts, his impulsiveness and brashness and possessiveness, the way he couldn’t even handle someone else looking at you.

But this is how things are, and you can only stare at him. “How.”

“Conrad created his perfect weapon. I paid a price.”

You sit on the floor. You’re not sure why. You just can’t be standing anymore. 

Nick looks at you for a moment, quiet—then slides down the doorframe, joining you. The room is small enough that there’s only a foot or so between you. His knees are bent, forearms resting across them, and he somehow looks small like this. Like there’s a weight compressing him, curling his edges closer to his center.

“You weren’t—when we… was it your first time?”

His eyes snap to yours and he’s incredulous, amused, unable to stop himself from laughing. “You didn’t defile my innocence, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Something about his smile makes you want to scream. He looks so soft when he’s not being entirely too serious, the kind of soft you can’t fully comprehend until it’s felt, like the leaves of lamb’s-ear you touched in Home’s gardens when Vash told you I have something to show you that you’re gonna love. Because you’ve always longed for softer things, for things that have no chance of survival in the desert. “How long have you… looked older?”

“Since I signed my contract.”

You try not to think about it and fail. How old did he look when he was nine? How old was he when the church he worked for sent him out on his first terrible assignments? You know what he’s done—you’d known the reputation of Nicholas the Punisher long before you met him—and though innocence isn’t something you find in spades on Gunsmoke, you can’t help but feel a gut-wrenching sadness because his had been ripped from him so early. When did he take his first life? When was the first time someone took advantage of him at such a young age without even realizing they were doing it?

Nick hates it when people pity him. He knows he was dealt shit cards—he didn’t hesitate to let you know that anytime he told you the smallest details about his childhood. Now you have the big details, and you’re positive he wants you to pity him even less. 

You toy with the collar of his jacket, resting atop your crossed legs, because you have to do something with your hands. You have to have somewhere to look other than him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You really think that would’ve gone over well?”

How could he even be asking that question?

“Yeah, I do. You know how Vash is.” Was, your mind supplies. You’re so, so tired. “He would’ve understood. He would’ve gone with you anyway if he knew what you were being forced to do. He would’ve jumped at the opportunity to help you. He cared about you so much.”

He cared about all of you. And you’d all failed him. He was the only fully good person you’d ever met and you all failed him.

“He knew,” Nick says. “Before he got to Knives—we talked about it.”

You know without having to ask that Vash forgave him. He’d probably pieced it together already and forgiven Nick long before they even got to JuLai. There’s cotton in your throat, your tongue is a stone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A memory crosses your mind—sitting in the desert with him atop a sand dune, his gun laid out before him, telling you that you shouldn’t think you’re special.

If he’d told you everything, maybe you’d be sitting with him and Vash and Meryl and Roberto in a bar in JuLai, drinking to your victory. Maybe you’d be here with everyone, and Luida wouldn’t have let out that awful noise when you told her about Vash—a long, drawn-out note that she couldn’t hold inside, a keening that begged the question of why? and tapered off into silence. 

Maybe nothing would have changed at all.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I should have. I just—I didn’t want to disappoint you. I thought that if I didn’t give you all of me, then it’d be easier when we… when I did what I had to. When things were over.”

So he’d also known from the start that things wouldn’t end well.

“I would’ve done anything for you,” you tell him. It’s embarrassing to say out loud. You shouldn’t have said it in the first place—shouldn’t have even thought it. But you’re past keeping things from one another, it seems.

He stretches out his long legs, leans a little closer toward you. His hand reaches out towards you, an invitation to be taken or refused. “C’mere for a minute?”

You let him hold you. Your legs are across his lap, your body pressed into his chest, your arms curled around him so tight that it can’t be comfortable on his end. He has your head tucked beneath his chin, one hand on your hair and the other pulling you closer by the thigh, like he could crawl into your skin if he just had you close enough. 

“Was it easier?” you ask him.

“No,” he murmurs into your hair. “I think it made things worse.”

“How?”

“I didn’t want things to be over. Still don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, his entire body shifting to get you closer. “I know I’m selfish for that. You don’t have to tell me.”

Maybe you’re selfish, too. Maybe the words are softening the wall around your heart because if you were in his position, you probably would’ve done the same thing. You still can’t forgive him. “Nick,” you say. Pull back and look at him. 

“What do you need, sweet thing?” His voice is quiet when he asks this. It reminds you of the first time you kissed him—the first time he said those three heavy words to you, accidental whispers that held no meaning. 

“I want you to tell me you love me.” Even if it’s not real. Even if it’s just for right now. Even if it’s something he only murmurs into your skin when he’s between your thighs, when he makes you see the face of God in the way he touches you.

You expect him to kiss you. To start this final goodbye. But he doesn’t. He pulls you close to him again, lays his cheek against the top of your head. “‘Course I love you.” 

It’s nothing above a whisper. It’s a breath released into the air, something you wouldn’t hear if everything else wasn’t completely silent. But it makes you feel like crying and maybe you don’t hate him like you thought you did, but why shouldn’t you? All this wasteland has taught you to do is never trust people. Nick showed you exactly what Gunsmoke had already shown you a million times over. There’s not a person you know outside of Vash and Meryl that hasn’t betrayed you at least once. 

You’ve committed your fair share of betrayals, too. Law of the wasteland.

When you pull away from him, he looks a little panicked—but all you do is perch yourself on his lap, your knees boxing him in on either side, your face above his. “Could you ever mean it?”

He looks up at you blankly.

“If we stayed together. If we traveled. Or settled down, whatever,” you say. “Could you ever be able to say that and mean it?”

His brows scrunch, confusion painting his handsome face. “I mean it now,” he says, as if it’s obvious. 

And it’s like everything comes to a screeching halt inside you: all the hurt, all the exhaustion, all the emptiness. Emotions flood into the cavity of your chest so quickly that you’re drowning, your lungs full of too many things that aren’t air. 

Because this doesn’t happen. Not on Gunsmoke. Not to you.

“How do you know it’s real?”

“How would I know it’s not? Is there a checklist I should be consulting?”

You don’t know how to answer that because you feel like there should be a checklist, something that was left behind on the planets before Gunsmoke, burnt up in the crashes of the ships that populated the planet. Something you’ll never know the contents of—only that it existed.

“I know because it’s how I feel. Not gonna argue with myself on that,” Nick says, and maybe it’s that simple. He cups your face with a warm, careful hand and you melt into the contact. The first time you’d touched him like this, you worried that it might’ve been the contact alone that you liked. Not the person providing it.

But you know now that anyone else could touch you like this and you wouldn’t feel even a shadow of the way he makes you feel.

“You’re being awful quiet,” he says.

“You hurt me really badly, Nick.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

You think he is. You want to stay angry with him but he makes it hard. He made a mistake. He didn’t trust anyone enough to share his burdens. And could you blame him for that? You know firsthand how frightening it feels to trust someone. To want to.

“Would you want that? Us—together?” you ask.

“Yeah, I want that.” He laughs, as if any of this is remotely amusing. “Thought I made it clear.”

“You’d have to tell me everything,” you say. “Be honest about whatever I ask.”

“For you, anything,” he says, because he’s a corny idiot who likes his one-liners too much and it’s this stupid line above anything else that actually brings tears to your eyes, that makes you realize how badly you would’ve missed him if he’d left without saying goodbye, how much you want to keep him and how much you want him to keep you.

You still don’t know what to do, so instead you kiss him and he kisses you back and he feels exactly like he did the last time you’d been together like this. Things devolve quickly, as they often do between you. He pulls your hips against his to create friction and you missed him. It’s messy and his teeth find their way into the kisses a little too often and he can’t even stomach moving from the floor before he touches you, it seems, because he’s already pushing your sleep shorts to the side, feeling exactly how badly you want him. 

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t wait.”

He unzips his slacks and pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough for him to free his cock, and you inhale sharply when he pulls you further into his lap, ruts against you, coating himself in your slick wetness. The noise he makes is haunting, a little broken.

You cup his head with your hands, fingers twined into his hair, and kiss him hard, licking into his mouth, grinding against his pretty length. He makes sounds you want to lock up and keep under your bed. He says your name as if it’s the name of God. “Can’t wait,” he repeats. “Need you to take it. Be good and take it for me, pretty girl.”

He positions himself so you can sink down onto his length, shorts pushed to the side, strong hands guiding your hips slowly. It hurts a little more than usual, but everything is so rushed, so feral, that it doesn’t really bother you. The warmth of having him so close, the delicious stretch of him inside you, the way he groans when he bottoms out—it’s all worth the pain. 

It’s almost a disappointment when he goes still, when he waits for you to acclimate to his size. “Okay?” he manages to ask, because he always has to make sure you’re okay with things, even when he’s being reckless. 

You nod and you don’t even get a chance to move against him—his feet are planted on the floor, still in his dumb little loafers, and his hands hold you exactly where he needs you for him to thrust into you over and over again, root to tip, so fucking deep that you can feel him in your stomach. 

Your hands are pressed flat against the wall behind him, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder to muffle the noises you can’t keep yourself from making. He just feels so good—so perfect inside of you and against you, where he was made to be, and you tell him this because he needs to know.

His hand finds the small of your back and pushes you into an arch that has you seeing stars with every thrust. Not even pressing your mouth to his skin can quiet the moans he’s eliciting from you, so you bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder and he whines, body tensing, arms circling your waist to pull you against him in a crushing embrace as he buries himself deep inside of you. He twitches hard, talking without a thought like he always does when he finishes, saying that he needs you, saying that you’re the only person that's ever made him feel like this, saying that you’re the only person he ever wants to do this with for the rest of his life.

After his body loosens up, after he pulls out and his breathing slows to something manageable, he says, “One of these days I’m gonna be able to last more than a minute. Just need you to stop feeling that perfect.”

You laugh—honest to God laugh, and you want him so badly and you’re still so turned on and he’s exactly what you’ve always wanted. “You think that’s ever gonna happen?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he says. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, the ghost of a bite. A hallmark of want. “Are you gonna let me take care of you?”

Always. You’ll always let him take care of you.

He carries you to the bed and your shorts are gone, your sweater is gone, your sense of dignity is gone because you would give this man anything right now. He lays you out and takes his time pulling you apart, breaking you down with his tongue, his hands, his long, pretty fingers.

When he finally gets you off he keeps going, driving you to a point where you can’t handle any more and then pushing you through it, and when you reach your second peak, he laps up everything you give him, sighing soft against you.

He tries to wipe his face off like usual and you stop him, pull him to you, gaze at the shimmering mixture of your slick and his cum that covers the lower half of his face. You run the flat of your tongue up his chin and you could get drunk simply off the taste of the two of you together. His eyes are half-lidded when you pull away, and he whispers, “Christ, you’re perfect,” almost more to himself than you. When he kisses you, he holds you so close you can hardly breathe.

The after with him is always soft. He undresses himself because you’re undressed, then holds you gently, kisses your hair, tells you sweet things that he’d never say in public.

At least—that he wouldn’t before. Maybe things are different now.

You’ve been lying together, quiet, for a long while before he says, “I’m not gonna ask you to say it back.”

The air conditioning kicks on, a low drone that hums through the room like a distant insect swarm. You feel frozen, unsure what to do with your body.

“But do you think you ever could?”

You sit up because everything suddenly feels too heavy. Your face feels hot. You’ve never been good at thinking through your emotions because you haven’t had to. You’ve been a mercenary for a long time. You’ve killed a lot of people for a lot less than they were worth. You’ve traveled with so many companions over the years that you can’t remember all of their faces anymore. There’s never been anyone you’ve had to think over your feelings for—it’s been either like or dislike for so long that it feels like it’s all you know.

The things you feel for Nick, though—would they be classified as like? Or something more? He makes you laugh. He makes you so frustrated you could scream. He makes you want to travel to places you’ve already been just so you can see them together. He makes you want to cry, sometimes, because you’re scared of this, and you forgot what fear was much too long ago to feel comfortable with it now.

“How can I know?”

He looks a little hurt by this. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions even though he thinks he’s good at it.

“Genuinely, Nick. I haven’t… had anyone like you. I haven’t wanted to be with anyone like this. I haven’t cared about anyone like this.” You look at his jacket, discarded on the floor, still riddled with bullet holes that you were supposed to fix. “But how do I know if that’s enough?”

He sits too, takes your hands in his. He’s always so beautiful like this—when he’s taken off all the armor he shields himself with and lets you touch what’s underneath. “It’s enough for me.”

You look at your hands, fingers intertwined with his. “I could, I think.”

“Don’t want you to feel pressured,” he tells you. “Just—if it happens, you know, I’d appreciate it if you’d clue me in.”

“I can do that,” you say, and you can, because he doesn’t look disappointed that you didn’t do something you weren’t ready to do. He doesn’t look angry. He smiles at you, so warm and genuine that your heart feels like it’s cracking open, like everything inside you is spilling out. “I do. I already do.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I love you.” You cover your mouth with a hand after you say it, because it feels so heavy and damning. But it feels so right , too, and you don’t know what to do with that. How to fit the rightness into the way you’ve built your life on the foundation of so many wrongs. After a long moment where he waits for you to collect yourself, you’re able to lower your hand. “I love you,” you tell him. “I want it to be enough.”

“It is,” he says, thumb caressing the back of your hand. “It’ll always be enough.” 

You’ve never expected to get everything you want in life, and you most definitely won’t. But you can have this. This delicate thing that you’ve been building together, despite the missteps. Despite the fear. And it’ll be okay, because there’s no checklist. No requirements. You just love him, and he loves you back, and you're both allowed to decide what that means.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough.