#tysm for drawing the silly idiot though!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 2 years

Note

ZOMBIE AU YES steve and you but reluctant allies - forced to travel together and when you get stuck in a tight spot, you fully believe he's going to leave you behind. but steve does what he does best, he comes back

tysm for ur request! reluctant friends to lovers arc starts now. tw for zombie typical gore, violence + apocalypse struggles (near enoigh starvation, weight loss, isolation) this got longer than it was meant to

It's not that you don't like Steve. Though maybe that's what he thinks. He doesn't seem to like you all that much.

Steve Harrington is pretty. He's a pretty boy. You hadn't expected him to be able to fight or defend, or even run all that fast. He'd proved you wrong on each account eventually — "I ran track, idiot," — but the reluctance of your pairing has remained.

You can't like everyone. You and Steve simply don't fit. You didn't in high school and you don't now, and you know in reality that he doesn't like you. Not really. He tolerates you and he shares with you because you have more chance of surviving together than apart.

He searches the waste of Indiana for his friends. You follow. You have nothing else to do.

You're scouring for supplies in a mall not unlike the Starcourt in Hawkins. You imagine it's as desolate and derelict as this one. Escalators frozen in time, storefronts destroyed by time. Dangerous. There's a thousand places for a zombie to be dwelling. They aren't good at hiding, obviously, but you're also not good at finding them. Steve says you have poor observational skills.

"Yes, well, I'd hardly have any reason to need them if it weren't for the end of the world," you mutter.

"Why do you talk like that?"

"Like what?" you ask with a scowl.

"Like- like a rich girl. A really rich girl."

"I don't sound anything like you."

"Weak insult based in sexism. Next."

You drop the shirt you'd been looking at. "Right, I forgot. Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, progressive."

He meets your gaze and smiles at you. He does this, sometimes, where he forgets he doesn't like you. Then something happens, a disagreement or an argument, and you're back to square one, Steve and his burden.

"I'm very progressive." He looks between you and the shirt he's holding, a men's cut, plain with long sleeves. It looks warm. "I think this'll fit. Come here."

You step over a fallen mannequin and let him hold the shirt to your abdomen.

"You're losing weight," he murmurs.

"Lucky me."

His hand touches your shoulder and he draws very close. "Bad news."

"I had it to lose."

"You need all the help you can get." He doesn't bother saying why. You're both more than aware of how dire the food situation is getting. If you can't find anything worth eating here, you're probably fucked. You might be fine. (You're fucked.)

You take the shirt. "Do you think it's silly to put it on now?"

"Definitely. I'll turn around."

He turns. You put your bag on the floor and quickly take off your outerwear. Your shirt smells bad because you smell worse, the strong smell of sweat no matter how much you scrub at it lingering. The fabric is imbued with a permanent odour.

New t-shirt in place, you preen at the feeling of new cotton over your skin.

"Are you done?"

"No-"

"Hurry. We need to move."

You always 'need to move'. You think Steve says it to sound cool.

You pull your clothes back on and hang your backpack from your aching shoulders. Over time, the bag feels heavier. Funny, as it's contents constantly lighten.

"We haven't found anything for you yet," you say.

Your shirt had needed replacing, it was thin and stained with a seam slowly unthreading. Steve's pants are worse. The zip is tied closed with a hair tie and the cuffs are pulling apart.

Steve reveals a pair he'd already set aside. "Tada."

"Put them on!"

"Sheesh, hold your horses."

"You could've been changing while I was. You always nag about wasting daylight."

"And leave us both defenseless. Good idea." His tone suggests a genuineness he doesn't possess.

You stand guard. Steve changes. You have that intrusive thought to turn and look at the sound of his belt unbuckling, the shucking of fabric. Intrusive, unreal. You don't look because you're not a pervert. You do, however, wonder about it. His naked legs, his thighs.

You shake your head and bite the inside of your lip to stave off bad thoughts. Stupid.

"Let's go."

Out of the clothing store and back to the walkways. You and Steve skulk with your backs to each other and some space between you, watching the open shutters for zombies or other people. You don't know which is scarier.

The mall is wrecked. Smashed glass, mysterious liquids, no electricity. Daylight streams in bright and unhindered by the huge skylights above. Nature struggles to fall in with it, but it does. Birds nest in the rafters, bugs cling to the walls. You suppress chills at the scuttling sounds of vermin and almost trip over an upended rack of stuffies outside of the toy store.

"You okay?" Steve asks. You don't know if he's looking at you, your eyes pinned on the stairwell across the way. Accidental or otherwise, making noise is a signal to the zombies that you're here.

If there's anybody here, they definitely would've heard you.

You don't answer Steve's question. He doesn't ask again.

"There's, like, a hot pretzel stand to the right," he says, intrigued.

You check what's in front of you one last time and then catch up to Steve. You'd love to take his arm, not because you think he'd let you or anything, but it's easy to miss touching people and he's right there in front of you.

"Under the shutter," he says quietly.

You crawl under and emerge in the dark. Steve joins you with his torch already in hand, flashing light quickly in all four corners of the room.

"This might be a bad idea," you whisper.

"It's okay. I doubt zombies can crawl."

"If they can?"

Predictably, Steve ignores you.

He weaves between untouched chairs and tables. You catch onto the end of his shirt and he's generous enough to pretend you haven't, the two of you making your way to the front counter. There might've been edible food behind the glass once but now it's all infested. It's disgusting.

You've seen a lot worse.

"That's gross," Steve says.

You tap the display and a dead fly falls off of the glass.

"Lift the counter?" you whisper.

You make your way to the employees only door. "Be careful," he reminds you under his breath, "be quiet. You have your knife out?"

"Got it."

He throws the door open quick and looks around. There's a walk-in freezer to the left, an old couch in the middle, and a storage area to the right. Steve again checks each corner with the flashlight, the both of you holding your breath. You're holding the knife so tightly you can feel each divot of the grip moulding your skin.

"I think we're clear."

"I think we need another torch," you mumble.

It's really scary in the dark.

"They'll have batteries somewhere," Steve says. You think he might be humouring your fear. He's likely tired of having to reassure you.

Again, you grab his shirt. It's too dark to navigate the room without him.

Steve leads you to the staff kitchenette, opening the cabinets one by one. There's mugs in one, plates in another. Untouched by dust.

He has you hold the torch while he searches through drawers of kitchen tools and equipment.

"Do you miss pretzels?" you ask.

"Mm. With the cinnamon sugar."

"You like cinnamon?"

He pushes aside what looks like an ice cube tray of all things and finds an old key. He offers it to you with a peculiar smile, as if to say What do you think that does?

"Everyone likes cinnamon," he says.

"Not everybody."

"Everybody I knew did. Robin fucking loves cinnamon. At Christmas, she'd make me take her out for warm cinnamon cookies and... frozen cokes." His tone had started soft. It ends strangled.

"Frozen cokes? In winter? Isn't that sorta weird?" you ask.

He shuts the drawer harshly and doesn't answer. Your attempt to cut the tension backfires once again with him. Who could've guessed.

The next drawer is a motherlode.

"Yes," you say, cheeks taken by a sudden smile.

There's enough batteries to power your torch for a year. Steve tears open the packet and holds a hand up without looking at you. You scramble to open your bag and pull out your torch. Bigger and heavier than his is, it illuminates larger spaces and makes for less nerve-wracking supply runs, but it eats batteries like no tomorrow.

Steve cracks open your proffered torch and loads it up with batteries. The light flickers on before he's put the closing back into place.

He shines it straight in your eyes.

"Nice," you grumble.

"Now you got your own you can quit clinging," he says. "Why don't you go look in the freezer?"

"It'll all be spoiled. There hasn't been electricity in forever."

"Might find a can of something," he says with a shrug.

"If you want me to leave you alone, just say that."

"I want you to leave me alone."

You huff and spin away. Your torch shines over the couch, an ugly mess of floral pattern that went out of fashion a decade ago but is surprisingly new for a staff room. You drop yourself into it and stare at the ceiling for a while, dust motes drifting in the ray of torch light like snowflakes. You haven't seen snow in a long enough time that you're surprised you can remember what it feels like. If you close your eyes, stick out your tongue, a cold like ice feels sharp on your taste buds.

Steve cusses to himself. You sit up and find him sucking on an injured finger.

"Need help?" you ask.

He sticks his knife into the top of a cardboard box. "What did I tell you? Go look in the freezer."

"Steve, there's not gonna be anything in there."

"I worked in a place like this before. Just look."

You roll your eyes, feel super guilty about rolling your eyes, and then roll your eyes again when he says, "Don't be lazy."

"I'm not," you defend. Your whining falls on deaf ears.

The freezer door handle is fucked. You pull and pull until your palms burn and can't get it to unlock. Changing tactics, you press all of your weight forward and feel something click like it's not supposed to. The door crashes forward and you fall to one knee with a startled shriek.

Your heart slams between your ribs. When you're trying to be hypervigilant of every small sound, every movement, every change in your environment, sudden events are like a shot of adrenaline.

You land on one hand. Your torch flickers further in the room.

"Fuck," you mutter.

"What happened?" Steve asks, his footsteps fast and moving toward you.

You scramble forward to grab the torch before he can see you've broken it. You're ashamed at your own idiocy — you burn with it, a flush of heat in your cheeks that. Steve won't lie to you to make you feel better, so if the torch is broken he's gonna call you an idiot for it.

"Nothing!" you call.

The smell hits you like a freight train. Spoiled milk. Shelves and shelves of spoiled milk and batter. You gag and throw a hand over your nose. It smells almost as bad as a zombie, and they smell like fresh hell.

"Y/N," Steve says.

You throw your eyes over your shoulder and realise the door has closed behind you. There's a sound of a jiggling door handle on the other side. From your side it doesn't move.

A sinking feeling begins.

"Steve," you say, hitting your torch against your thigh. The light flickers off completely. You gawp.

"Can you open the door?"

You push your weight against it urgently. The handle doesn't want to move.

"I can't get it," you say, panicked.

"Push it inward."

"I am!"

"Okay, alright. Hold your horses."

"Steve, it won't open."

"I heard you the first time. Don't worry. I'm gonna get it open."

You throw yourself at the door. Steve must guess from the sound. "Stop," he says, frustration seeping into his low tenor, "that's not gonna work. It's hinged inward. Stand back, okay? I'm gonna force it."

"It's dark in here," you murmur pleadingly, moving away from the door.

"What?"

Your own fast breathing echoes around you. You hit the torch with the meat of your palm and the light flickers. You hit it again and it dissapears. You shouldn't be so scared, but the door closed means your trapped and the dark feels so oppressive now. Dark means you die, because you won't see a zombie before it bites you.

You realise that there's more than one person breathing.

Or rather, an illusion of breathing. A moan.

Your blood turns to ice as you spin. Your torchlight flicker flicker flickers, illuminating the face of somebody long dead.

"Oh my god," you say. It sticks to your throat like each word has been dipped in honey. Or ichor. "Fuck, Steve! Steve!"

"What?" he shouts back, equally freaked.

One eye opens. The other remains closed. One second, you can see the open socket, half an eyeball. The next, pitch darkness filled only by the grind of clicking teeth. Your breath catches in your throat and you keen as you walk backwards, the torch shaking in your hand.

The light flicks back on with your movement.

The zombie's face appears in front of yours.

You scream and fall flat on your butt, backpack preventing you from slamming onto your back. The torch turns off. You scrabble for your knife — where the fuck is your knife? Where's your knife?

Steve hammers against the door. "What the fuck?"

"There's a fucking geek in here!" you squeal, throat tight. You can barely get the words out. The zombie can't see you in the dark but it can hear you, it can smell you, and it's footsteps draw closer, one after another.

"Steve, get me out of here!" you beg.

He doesn't answer.

"Steve?" You don't sound like yourself. You're not sure you've ever made this sound before.

Nothing.

Your hands shake hard. You can't feel them as you bring the torch into your lap. You try to find the catch in the dark. When you can't you mess with the lens, screwing it tight to the right. You feel it move in, spinning back on.

The light exposes the zombies gained distance. He towers over you and you can't speak, can't breathe, can't sob. You hold your arms in front of your face and hope it won't hurt.

The door slams open. You get pushed roughly into the zombie's legs, the breath knocked from your chest.

You crumple in on yourself.

Footsteps slide with a rubber screech over the linoleum and you search the floor for your torch, breath coming in shirt pants. Your hand closes around it and you flick the switch with little success. Broken again. You must've loosened a fuse.

"Steve," you say desperately. Please don't die.

The zombie makes a noise like retching, Steve groans in extertion and then there's a sound of wetness, a sinking. A body falls to the floor.

Silence.

You flinch as he turns on his torch and shines it in your face.

"Oh, thank god."

Steve leans down and helps you up into his arms. You struggle to catch your breath, your face pressed hard into his chest. You can't cry though you desperately want to, too busy fighting for air.

Steve holds you, hands at your back. "It's okay. You got it, dummy, just take it slow."

You nod. You can't really focus as he pulls you out of the freezer. The air noticeably changes from brain matter to plain old stale.

"I thought you-" You swallow against an aching throat. "I thought you were gonna leave me."

"Why would you think that?" Steve asks.

"I was- I-" you stammer to a halt.

Your arms move of their own accord, over his shoulders and behind. You hide your face in the crook of his neck, hot tears spreading over his skin as you pull him in close, as close as you can.

Steve's hand is slow at first, hesitant against your shoulder. Your backpack stops him from hugging you properly, but you think maybe he might try otherwise.

"I wouldn't have left you here," he says.

There's hints. Confusion, sincerity. A rawness. You can't see his face, his torch pointed up at the ceiling, only where the light kisses his brow, the bridge of his nose.

Steve let's you cling until you've caught your breath.

"Let's sit down," he says.

He encourages you onto the old couch and shoves his small torch between the cushions. You miss his touch as soon as he leaves, an anxiety at being left alone dawns like a yawning chasm between you. Your relief when he returns can't be understated: you feel like a spent, abused nerve.

Cortisol and adrenaline crash through your veins. All that's left to do is come down. Hard, when you don't feel completely safe. Haven't felt completely safe in a long time. Steve's return helps.

"Don't touch the rim. It's sharp," he says, pressing an open can into your hand.

"Steve, is this-"

He passes you a spoon. "Sure is."

You don't have the luxury of nausea. Life or death situations start to wear off quicker when you're hungry, half-starved, and after a few good mouthfuls of pudding you're starting to feel better. Not perfect, not any less afraid, but there's a door between you and the zombie's dead dead body, and a door with a chair propped under the handle between you and the rest of the world. And there's Steve, a spoon between his lips with your poor torch in hand.

"You left your knife on the table. Do you know how stupid that is?" he asks, a spoon hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Yes."

"Hm." He whacks the torch with his spoon. "Shit."

"I'm sorry."

"About the knife? You should be. You were totally defenseless."

"The torch."

He puts your torch down on the floor besides your gathered things. "Couldn't be helped."

"How'd you open the door?"

"Running start."

You sniffle and eat another spoonful of pudding. The last thing you'd eaten was half a gronala bar in the early hours of the morning when Steve had insisted you'd need your energy. It had been a year out of date and chalk in your mouth. The pudding may as well be straight molten gold for how valuable it feels.

It goes down soft. Calms your aching throat. By the time you've finished you almost feel settled. Almost.

"Steve... I'm sorry. For thinking you'd leave me. That's not fair. I mean, I know-" Why is it hard to talk to him? He's the only perosn you've had for company in God knows how long and you're still fumbling for the right thing to say. "You wouldn't do something like that to me. You have morals."

"I would do anything for my friends," he says, like he's disagreeing. "I would do anything to see them again. See them safe. Anything."

You bite your tongue. Tears sting. Hypocritical tears, because haven't you had that thought before? You'd do anything to get what you want. You'd do anything to live. Steve doesn't owe you anything.

"I didn't think you'd come back," you confess sheepishly.

"I'm always gonna come back for you."

You look up at him, finding his eyes illuminated in the dim light sweet and soft and brown.

"I want you to be safe."

"Are you saying I'm your friend?" you ask.

He glares at you. "Are we in middle school?"

"What?"

"What do you mean, what? What, I have to invite you to my birthday party or something? We need to go rollerblading together?"

"You're an asshole."

He snorts. "Asshole just saved your life."

"I didn't even wanna go in there, if you remember. I expressly said that I didn't wanna go in the freezer. It's your fault I was even in there in the first place."

"That's ridiculous. And a low blow. And fuck you."

"Not very friendly."

He laughs abruptly. It's a pretty sound, made golden by it's genuineness. Steve does sarcastic snickers and mocking chuckles, and none have ever sounded as his true laugh does now.

"I'll show you friendly," he mutters.

You raise your eyebrows. He moves enough to make the couch shift, upheaving your empty can and spoon. They fall together with a metallic clinking.

You watch mournfully. "I kind of wish I hadn't eaten it that fast. When's the last time we had sugar?"

"Don't speak too soon."

Steve shows you the stash. An entire box of pudding, enough to feed you both for a month, though the sugar might rot your teeth.

"We'll be sick of it in a week," Steve promises.

You're not so sure. Chocolate is chocolate, whether it's eaten during the zombie apocalypse or not.

more steve zombie!au

#steve harrington imagine #zombie!au #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve zombie!au

2K notes · View notes

ovwechoes · 1 month

Note

heyy! love your headcanon lists- was wondering if you could write some for bapweaver? been thinking about them a TON and would love to read more hcs about them because we are in a drought... sfw or nsfw idc either way!! tysm

BapWeaver / Baptiste x Lifeweaver Headcanons (SFW) I'm happy to write for em! I love them so much and I wish I saw more content of them, so I hope you enjoy these - they're under the cut, and thank you for the request c:

What is their relationship dynamic? Honestly, you can't tell me that they're not ‘idiots in love’ with one another. They're both incredibly smart people, and are intelligent when it comes to healthcare and medicine - HOWEVER, the minute they're around each other, their heads are empty with each of them sharing a braincell. It's sweet how puppy eyed they go around one another, and they enjoy not having to use their intelligence as a shield to protect themselves when they spend time with one another. They enjoy being able to ask silly questions, and not have to worry about how they come off when asking them because of their professions. There's definitely been times where Baptiste's asked what pita bread is, and Niran's had to think hard about how to word an explanation for it, or when they've gone to a restaurant together and they're both stumped as to how to pronounce one of their wines so they turn to google to figure it out. It's silly, but they enjoy being able to not have to always worry about how they might seem to other people.

Who confessed? How did it go? I can imagine that Niran did - he's very in touch with his emotions, and he can handle rejection well if it comes to that. Was he anxious about it? Obviously, he's still human and still wants to be loved back so it's hard for him to imagine the worst outcome possible without shaking in his boots about it. It's something he had to do, though, as he couldn't help but find himself flirting with Baptiste more often than not, with Baptiste happily flirting back. It was leaving him with too many questions, his feelings growing from the flirting and he couldn't live in the grey area of what they were to each other any longer. It would've happened organically, with Niran asking if Baptiste is flirting or just joking with him, to which Baptiste would wholeheartedly say something like ‘why wouldn’t I flirt with a handsome man like yourself?' in an attempt to make it clear he likes Niran without actually saying so. It was a long conversation, with them talking about their feelings and asking one another where they came from, what started them, and what they want to do about it. Niran definitely went into it thinking Baptiste was just joking with him, half expecting the next day to be filled with Niran trying to move on from him - so, he never expected to end the conversation with a boyfriend that was already planning and talking to him about restaurants he wants to go to with him. Their mutual pining for so long meant that they had time to make up for, and Baptiste was definitely going to make the most out of the confession and draw out everything he was curious about in the past out of Niran.

How do they show love and like to receive love from one another? Baptiste likes to be shown love through quality time, but not for the reasons you'd expect. He enjoys building his bond with Niran through time together, of course, viewing it as a bonus to the real reason why he loves it so much. In reality, he likes quality time because it makes him feel included somewhere, like he fits right into their life. He never wants to be a burden, never asking if he can come with Niran places or do things with him that's on their itinerary, so Baptiste finds it heart-warming when Niran offers him a place in his time, asking him if he'd like to join him. It makes him feel seen, too, as though he's not just a forgotten bracelet on the wrist of his partner, left in a jewellery box for a long time until remembered about. It's important for Baptiste to feel like he has a place somewhere, like he matters, and Niran does this perfectly by including him in his life and activities. On the other hand, Baptiste likes to show love to Niran through words of affirmation - he's a hopeless romantic and he likes to tell his partner how appreciative he is of them, how much he enjoys their opinions, how handsome they look, etc. whenever he can. With Niran, he's coy and likes to play into them and drag more compliments out of his partner, which Baptiste's always happy to do for him. It makes Baptiste feel as though he's actually making a difference in Niran's life too, and that he's more than just a lingering person by their hip but a full fledged partner who's words matter the most to them. It's something he'll always enjoy, and he loves the way Niran's cheeks darken when he's given especially sensitive ones. Niran likes to receive love through physical touch, and likes to be complimented on his physique. He's a handsome man, and he knows this, but sometimes he struggles to feel as though he's anything more than just that. But, when Baptiste touches places like his lower back, or dances his fingers over the moles that scatter across Niran's thighs and stomach, it makes him feel as though Baptiste sees a beauty on and in him that isn't apparent to others. Niran especially loves when Baptiste points out new things he's noticed about Niran's body in a heart-warming way - like how his smile lines make him more handsome, and how he's thankful to have a partner who's not afraid to show their happiness. It reminds him that Baptiste isn't with him simply because he's muscular and tall, but because he sees a beauty in him that others simply glance past because of the former things mentioned. On the other hand, Niran likes to show his love to Baptiste through quality time. He finds that words alone cannot tell his partner how much he loves them, and understands Baptiste's concerns about not feeling included or involved in his life. So, whenever Niran can, he always includes Baptiste and makes sure that he's involved, actively enjoying himself, and is spending time with him. It's something important to Niran too - he finds that time together makes the heart grow fonder and stronger, and uses the time together to understand Baptiste more and more, learning as much as he can about him.

What was their first date like? It felt natural for them both, as they walked arm in arm to the most expensive restaurant that they could find in the area. They would've shared a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon together, as they talked about their relationship more (things like boundaries, deal breakers, what they want to have come out of the relationship). It was reassuring, and they loved the relaxing way they felt comfortable to share things with one another without feeling judgement or ridicule. They're both very open minded, and used whatever they could as talking points for one another to understand their individual perspectives and desires properly. They would've stayed until after the restaurant closed, using all the time they could together to keep the night going. Afterwards, Niran would've asked Baptiste if they wanted to share a room together, or if they wanted to go their seperate ways. They wouldn't have minded either way, but it was Niran's sneaky way to see how Baptiste sleeps and if the rumours are true that he talks in his sleep. It was a sweet night, filled with comfortable but necessary discussions that left the both of them hopeful for their relationship together. The bill definitely broke Baptiste's heart though, as he was the one who won the argument about who would pay for it.

How do they cope with long distances that keep them apart at times? They already knew that there would be long distances between them at times because of the nature of their work, and how they would need to figure out the best ways to go about it. It's something they're both okay with, often finding the time apart to be more of a lesson about each other as individuals rather than a reflection of the strength of their relationship. With Baptiste, he found it the hardest to cope with at first - he missed Niran more than he ever thought he could, and found himself craving him desperately but wouldn't communicate this out of fear of being seen as needy. When Niran finally pried it out of him, they decided to make sure that with each day that came from the long distance, they'd send at least one picture of what they did that day and talk about what they would've done together if they were both there. It reassured Baptiste to know that Niran didn't judge him or ridicule him for feeling this way (which was partly because Niran felt the same way). They like to have late night calls, recapping their day, and when they can't call Niran will always send voice messages from the comfort of his bed, rambling and ranting about his day to his partner's willing ears. When they have the energy and time, though, they like to facetime or watch something together online, using sites like Hyperbeam. It usually is just silly comedies or horror movies, but they enjoy the time together nonetheless with the night ending in Baptiste falling asleep on call, rambling into his pillow, with Niran settling himself down to sleep with the call still going.

Where do they like to go on holiday together? They both have an appreciation for countries that have historical importance, especially in the medical field. It's important for them to explore places rich in history, discussing the impact they had on the country and society as a whole with their own little facts sprinkled into the conversation. They're the type of couple who has a poster in their apartment with all the wonders of the world listed, a box next to each for them to mark off when they've finally gotten to see them for themselves. One of the first they ever went to was the Taj Mahal in India, with Baptiste eagerly listening to Niran talk about why it was built, the romantic connections around the building, things of that nature. Baptise would've practically begged Niran to recreate the British royal family's iconic pictures where the couples would sit on the bench in front of it. It's one of the only things Baptiste's aware of when it comes to the Taj Mahal, and he always wanted to find someone who was willing to recreate it with him.

#bapweaver #bapweaver headcanons #jean baptiste augustin #baptiste ow #niran pruksamanee #lifeweaver ow #overwatch #asks are open #requests are open #overwatch 2 #overwatch headcanons #safe for work #ovw headcanons

8 notes · View notes