#well. rather than them. its just my lack of self control

[dude-iloveu]

ah

[cregansdingdong]

ᴍᴇʀᴄʏ.

Cregan Stark x fem!reader | no use of y/n | warnings: NSFW, porn without plot, m!receiving oral, very sloppy blowjob good stuff, starts off slow but then there's some face-fucking, swearing, one *tiny* face smack (its not bad i promise), he’s gonna come in her throat for giving him attitude; yeah the gif is the perfect representation for this tbh

Hot stuff under the cut. 18+ only. I'm not responsible for the content you choose to consume. ty.

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“What was I supposed to do then? Refuse the Lord Commander?” Cregan raises a brow, head tilted up at the ceiling as his wife stood there in front of his desk, hands on her hips. “I didn’t say that, Cregan. He could’ve waited a moment rather than storm into breakfast. And for what? To report a runaway from Castle Black? He could’ve sent a raven and saved himself all the trouble. I think he just wanted a small getaway.” He barks out a laugh at her accusation. “And I think you’re spoiled. My spoiled little wife who does not like having my attention taken away.”

“And so what if I don’t?” She huffs, lips morphing into a scowl. “Especially not during meal times—you’re a busy man and breakfast is Cregan time, not Lord Stark. My time with my husband. Lord Commander Markus surely was exhausted from his journey—but the entire thing was needlessly frantic. You are not a dog he may call on the moment he prefers it.” Cregan, since the day they'd married, had been a fairly patient man. She had a southern temper, which he had to learn how to douse and maintain just as she did. That's not to say his wife wasn't capable of controlling herself—she merely didn't care how she spoke to him.

His glance is lined with warning, but she either didn't catch it or ignored it completely. He guesses the latter. “Those sorts of matters are my responsibility. Deserters must be punished by my hand, wife. That is the way of the North, which you know well by now. Refrain from comparisons.” Neither of them were backing down. “Of course that is the only thing you take away from what I'm saying.” She scoffs. “My comparison is correct. When he calls, you bark. When he arrives, you heel. Are you his Warden Wolf or his pup? Because I'm not sure I can tell the difference any—”

“Get on your knees.”

“...what?” The surprise on her face would be etched into his memory forever. “On your knees. I won’t tell you again, wife.” His voice was low in the quiet of the room; daunting, even. “Right here.” Cregan scoots his chair back from the desk, thighs spread, gray eyes unblinking as he waits. She debated walking away, but she knew better. He watched as she took a few meager steps around his desk, the hem of her gown slowly gathering on the floor. Maybe she'd pushed him too far this time. “I think you've forgotten yourself—who's wife you are.” He squeezes her chin in his large hand, pleased by her soft sound of protest. “Yes, you have.” He grunts, stopping the words from leaving her mouth. “And now, you’re going to do exactly what I tell you—when I tell you. Do you understand?”

He seemed fairly satisfied with her little nod. “Good, pup. Unlace my breeches.” His wife reaches out to fumble with the ties after only a moment, his hand releasing the grip on her flushed face. She tugs the laces with a fervor, feeling him harden under her fingertips. It didn’t take much, honestly. He murmurs something she doesn’t catch as she gently wriggles him out of the confines of his breeches, brows furrowed in concentration. “You don’t deserve my cock in your mouth yet. Kiss only. Use your tongue if you have such a lack of self-restraint. You’re good at that.” The jab was directed and shot, but the weight of him in her hand had her head spinning too fast to say anything smart in return. Her lips meet his tip with a quiet, pleased hum, her tongue dipping into the crease where his precum dribbled. 

Cregan’s reaction was immediate. “Like that…” He sighs, head tilting back, just savoring the relief. Fire thrummed in her stomach. She kisses down the underside of his cock, ignoring the tickle of the dark hair at the base of him as it brushed against her jaw.

His arms were slack on the rests, fingers twitching with every small suction of her lips on him. Kiss by kiss, he hardens fully under her hands, and lines of swears erupt from his throat like mantras. “In your mouth now, pup.” He looks down at her with hooded eyes, looking like he was trying not to smile but failing anyway. To be fair, it was Cregan. The slight quirk of his lips was upturned enough to count. She situates herself a little further between his thick thighs, resting her elbows down midway as her palms lay over his. And then she took him into her mouth.

“Fuck..” He groans, something low and sinful that brought her butterflies. It was quite the sight to see the Warden of the North melt so easily by a tongue. He wasn’t like most men sometimes—usually. This, though. He certainly was. Not much longer before he’d forget what she said to him in the first place. The thought drove her to sink deeper on him, barely able to go halfway but that was already enough to get his tip in the far end of her mouth. He curses more—although entirely unintelligible this time—and his hands lift, presumably to tangle themselves in her hair. But they don’t make it there. She might’ve been trapped there on the floor between his legs, but that didn’t mean he was going to get all that he wanted. Her nails dig hard into the back of his hands, close to the wrists, and keep them firmly planted against the armrests.

He hisses momentarily in surprise. With his thick skin, it was more likely his ego was more hurt than his hands. She bobs her head with a vengeance of her own, and he slumps in the chair with a growl, thoroughly annoyed to be held back. “I’m going…to give you…five seconds...wife. Release me.” Her nails dig harder in response, pinching the skin hard enough for him to react. Cregan’s thighs tense more under her elbows. She counted down in her mind as she was sure he was doing in his. It was absolutely worth a bit of punishment. Saliva coated his cock, the drool slithering down the underside of it enough to make it sound even more lewd. He loved it when she abandoned her manners. “Wife.” He warns again. What happened to never repeating yourself twice, husband? The thought would’ve made her laugh if it weren’t for his cock.

He bucks his hips toward her throat—on purpose, obviously—and the force of it surprises her entirely, gagging in the slightest as she loses her grip on him. His hands are snatched from under her ruthless nails, and although out of view as he clutched her cheeks together, she didn’t fail to catch the pinkish skin around the moon-shaped indentations. They would certainly leave a mark tomorrow. Cregan pushes her back from his cock, seething, and his dark eyes never leave her face. His fingers dig into her cheeks unconsciously before letting go—and as quick as they go, a warning smack makes her face turn to the side. It didn’t hurt, by any means, but it sent a thrill right down between her thighs. “If you ever hold my hands back again, I’ll fuck you so full of my seed that all of Winterfell will hear your pathetic little mewls for me to stop. Do you understand me, pup? Answer me.”

“I understand.” She relents, eyes darting from his face to his red cock, the beat of her heart following every throb of the pretty veins. His eyes narrowed at her, not entirely trusting but he’d gotten his point across. “Make me come, wife.” She didn’t need him to say another word, her lips instantly wrapping around his tip to pick up where she left off. This time, she kept her hands planted on his thighs, breathing harshly through her nose as she took more and more of his cock. Her fists clenched around his breeches tightly, her gaze flicking up at him. He was watching, panting, the last of his restraint hanging by a thread. Cregan never lasted very long in her mouth, not that either of them thought he needed to. “To the base.” He mutters, holding off the urge to fuck her throat. He wanted to see if she could do it herself first.

His wife does her best attempt three-fourths of the way—close enough for the tip of her nose to brush against the coarse hair. The feeling nearly brought him to the edge anyway, close to falling off entirely. His grunts were louder, less composed. He was getting desperate. He reaches out to grip her hair, his own strands drooping down into his line of sight. “I’m gonna come—hold your breath for me.” She does. He doesn’t waste a moment, cupping her face gently, thumbs soothing the skin of her cheeks as he starts to buck up into her mouth like he was rabid. The sound of his tip sliding almost into her throat was enough to do it. Cregan was snarling now, fucking her face with purpose as the come dribbled down her tongue and mouth. “Good girl! Good fucking girl! Taking me so well!”

Eventually, he slowed, spent and breathing heavily as she recuperated through long inhales and exhales through her nose. She was still sucking on him though, eager for every drop. Leaned back in his chair, limp like a rag doll, Cregan gave her one of his sweet, lazy smiles. “...Told you not to compare.”

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[capsi-cuminme]

Closer, Closest

summary: in which you've just joined the x-men, but land up in a situation where you're forced to get very close with logan.

pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader

word count: 4.4k

warnings: mild swearing, suggestiveness, smooching omg

author's note: This is my first ever logan fic, and my first overall full-length fic after a loooong time, so it'll probably be a bit botchy, but I hope y'all enjoy the self-indulgent logan content.

•──✦──•

Logan was not in the mood for surprises, or uncomfortable change. He’d had enough of very major, very uncomfortable changes in the past month or so - changing history wasn’t easy. So imagine his distaste when he got to the mansion after a seemingly easy mission the kids somehow managed to mess up, and instead of Jean, there was someone else that’s supposed to treat him - you.

A new recruit, he guessed. Brows furrowed, face covered with a cheap surgical mask, but eyes full of wonder, you were doing this and that to Logan’s few, easily-healable injuries, attempting to fix them. Your fingers were nimble, and shockingly not ticklish at all. He wondered if you knew you didn’t need to do half of what you were doing, considering the speeds at which Logan’s body tended to heal itself. Had Charles not told you? Well, whatever. He was too occupied with his cigar to want to speak anyways, so he waited. Waited and waited and kept on waiting for what seemed like forever but you weren’t letting up.

“Bub, are you creating new injuries to treat? I know sure as hell that it doesn’t take that long to look at any wounds on my body,” he grumbled, sparing you a glance as you continued to do whatever the hell you were doing, paying no mind to him or his questions. Your eyes were focused as they flitted around, jumping from one spot on his arm to another on his wrist to a third on his neck. It caught him off-guard, a tiny bit, the blatant indifference you displayed - as if he wasn’t an adult whose body you were tampering with, but a child who had to be dealt with. He didn’t really like it.  Nonetheless, he decided not to do anything. It was better to pass time on the bed and smoke peacefully rather than have to teach children History that he could barely remember.

Mind made up, he closed his eyes in relief, mentally applauding himself for successfully coming up with a reason to get out of class. When he opened them again, you were gone.

So was all the strength in his body.

. . . . .

“So, what did you think? Was healing him of any help to you?” asked Charles, smiling in the controlled, calm way he usually did.

You shook your head, “Not really, no, because I didn’t really heal him, you know?”

“Of course, you didn’t heal him; Logan’s body is capable enough to do that on its own means. What I mean to ask is, was he any different? Were you able to access his energy or were you unsuccessful?”

“Semi-successful would be the word, professor,” you grimaced. Taking the cup of tea he offered, you continued, “I was really not able to make any sort of progress when he was awake, so when he rested himself, I decided to drain him out comple -”

You were interrupted by the sudden bang of a door opening. As you turned around, you saw Logan standing in the doorway in all his muscled glory. God, it’d been so difficult to focus on extracting his energy and not ogle all the time he was there - being able to treat the Wolverine, being able to touch him, it was no less than a dream. Honestly speaking, half the reason you weren’t able to carry out energy identification and extraction easily was because of how distracted you were, how nervous. His muscles felt like God herself had carved them out of her best and favorite materials, while the intensity of his gaze seemed like fire itself burned inside them.

Your lust-filled train of thought was broken by Charles’s voice as he addressed the man you were dreaming about. As you turned to him, you realized that Logan was glaring at you, excellently conveying his lack of desire to be dreamt about. “Hello, Logan. How are you?”

“Who the hell is this, Charles? Why was she downstairs instead of Jean, and why the fuck did I feel like a dead body after she left?”

Oh.

Dream shattered.

You stood up hesitantly, nibbling on the inside of your right cheek, glancing at Charles for help. He didn’t return your look, simply straightening himself a little bit and then saying, “Logan, this is Vitality. She’s a new recruit, and will be helping around the mansion for some time before she’s ready to go on missions.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, lips pulled back in a sneer as he observed you. You felt practically naked under his gaze, and not in the good way; it was the kind of naked where there’s goosebumps on your skin right as you’re about to step into a shower of extremely cold water in a comparably cold temperature.

“Whatever she might be here for and whoever she might be, I couldn’t give less of a damn. I just want one answer – why did I feel so… so -” “So drained out?” you sheepishly suggested, noting his struggle to find the correct words. He didn’t look like he appreciated it, but nodded to the affirmative anyways. “Well, that’s because, as my name suggests, I deal with energy – any and all forms of energy, except what is found in living beings.”

“So what were you doing to me?”

You found yourself cringing at his words. “I wasn’t doing anything to you, Mr Logan, sir, I was experimenting with your energy. Remember how I said I deal with all energy except that of living beings? That’s because I can’t control my abilities well enough to not hurt living being if I tamper with their energy.” You stopped. You didn’t know how to continue explaining without possibly offending him.

“So, Logan,” picked up Charles, “since you’re someone who is beyond the risk of death, I asked her to try controlling your energy. It was supposed to be easier, more… convenient.”

Logan’s face had relaxed a bit, but he still looked confused and glanced at you for further explanation.

“Yeah well, in short, you don’t die and recover quickly and also have a lot of energy so you were the ideal candidate for me to practice on, but unfortunately I failed and ended up draining out all your physical energy for a short period of time,” you finished with a sorry expression your face, silently apologising.

“Why didn’t you tell me, professor?”

“Simply because you’d have spent more time asking where Jean is than actually helping in the experiment. Now,” he said, with an air of finality and dismissal, “if you’ll please leave, so that we can continue our conversation.”

You silently thanked the professor, moving to sit back down. Yeah, you had, like, a bit of a celebrity crush on him or whatever. So what? He was still intimidating and made you want to run out of the room (not before staring at him a little more). As you turned back to the professor, you were grateful the interaction with the legendary mutant was over, but you were also curious about something. Something that’d been mentioned throughout the conversation two to three times, and you felt like you’d already had enough of hearing.

Who the hell was - “Jean. Where is she though, professor? Haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

You swallowed, taken aback a little bit. Someone seemed to care about this Jean a lot. No one had told you the Wolverine had his heart set on some woman whose face you don’t even know.

Well, whatever.

“Jean’s on a mission with Scott. Now if you’ll excuse us, Logan?”

The aforementioned man grumbled something, then left after a quick, “Right, sorry.”

“I think we can resume our conversation now, no?” asked Charles, sipping a cup of tea, looking at you with a smile. Right as you started to nod, he said, “And oh, don’t worry – you’ll meet soon enough.”

Oh God, he can read thoughts. How stupid can you be?

Your embarrassment was only damped down by the mischievous twinkle in Charles’s eye and his swiftness to steer the topic of the conversation back to what it was.

. . . . .

It had been a month since you were here. A month filled with practicing extraction and infusion of energy relentlessly, all while trying to make at least a few bare-minimum acquaintances with your colleagues and the children you’re supposed to teach.

In some fields, you’d been making progress. Under Charles’s skilled eye, your abilities were sharpening quickly. Storm’s powers were similar to yours, so she would sometimes come and keep you company, sparring, chatting, lingering around. She was fun to be with – a good leader, but an even better friend. She was just the person you needed at this infantile stage of your journey to become an X-man. (X-woman? Whatever.) You’d even started teaching some of the younger kids, and they all seemed to be liking you, more or less.

There was also the not-great part.

Namely, Jean and Logan.

See, you knew you hadn’t started off on the best foot with Logan, seeing how you’d non-consensually (accidentally) drained him of his body’s physical energy for like ten or fifteen minutes, and so obviously it’d take some time for him to grow comfortable around you. Fair enough.

What wasn’t fair, on the other hand, was the fact that Logan was either in his room, or on missions, or teaching, or with Jean. Not-single, in-a-relationship-with-Scott, Jean. (Yes, you had noticed they were dating thank you very much.)

The person whose energy you were physically unable to be around, that Jean.

It seemed a cruel trick by fate.

You’d had a crush on him since forever, ever since you’d first seen him protecting kids on the news, and it wasn’t as if you wanted to fuck him or anything, no! (Although you wouldn’t be opposed to that.) But would it be wrong to want to be at least on talking terms with him? Apparently, yes. So you decided to just suck it up and carry on with your work. That’s what you were here for, that’s what you’d do; to hell with anyone who was a distraction to you.

. . . . .

Holy shit, working with these people was so difficult. It wasn’t the constant fights waiting to happen or powers waiting to erupt. It wasn’t even the fact that all this newfound energy around you, all the damn time, unsettled you heavily. No, you could get used to that.

It was their utter refusal to cooperate that was posing to be a bit of an issue.

You had asked Charles to lend you, for lack of better terms, a few mutants different to each other in terms of their abilities, so that you could practice.

So you had in front of you, the entire team – how were you supposed to not die of nervousness?

“Alright then, shall we begin? Any of you can step up first, whoever’s more comfortable,” Charles remarked quietly, observing from the sidelines the slight tremor in your arms and legs, coupled with the apprehension visible on the team’s faces. It’s a given, of course, the existence of the overall tone of nervousness. The team doesn’t know you too well, hasn’t known you for long, not even Storm.

You nod in response to Charles, signalling that you’re ready. For a beat or two, no one comes up. You stare at them, waiting; the moment you think Storm might step up, Logan strides forward and seats himself on the chair in front of you. You blink at him a couple times, not really expecting him to come up and offer himself for – for lack of a better word - experimentation so calmly when only a while ago he’d had a bad experience regarding the same thing?

Oh, well. It was a good thing, all things considered. You got someone to practice on, and it just so happened to be the person you’ve had the meanest fattest crush on forever. Works out perfectly.

So, on Charles’s cue and under the watchful eyes of all the X-men, “Logan, please close your eyes for a little bit.” As soon as he did, you started. You weren’t really trying to extract or infuse copious amounts of energy, just weeding out the bits of excessive power, that’s all.

But even though it seemed a small task, it had rendered you on your knees in only a few minutes, because a) energy extraction in living, sentient beings was not easy, b) it had only been your first or second time trying it and you were being extra careful, and c) Jean’s energy, constantly at odds with her own self, was distracting you more than you’d like. And you were concentrating, really, you were, but Kitty, apparently, was not, as she fell through the roof and on to the ground a couple of feet away from you. Her fall distracted all your momentarily built focus onto her instead, as you lost the thread of energy you had been constantly pulling out. The thread turned into a pool of energy before you realised.

You looked up into Logan’s eyes – yours were probably more fearful than his, but you still tried to give him some sort of reassurance. You could observe how quickly you were sucking up his energy; his skin was paling in an unnatural way, eyes drooping, but you didn’t know what to do. You’d learnt how to extract, infuse, and return the energy back. You couldn’t just skip the middle step, you didn’t know how. As you were scrambling to figure out a solution, a voice rang out in your head.

“Calm down. Think. The solution is what comes naturally.”

Naturally? What comes naturally?

Oh, right – your own energy. You could just infuse his energy with the tiniest bit of yours, and it’d work (most probably), so that’s what you did. You kept infusing and returning and repeating, but the amount of energy that had pooled out was so much that you were practically a cadaver by the time you were done sending it back.

“Are you okay?” you questioned softly, looking into the eyes of the man seated before you. You couldn’t muster your voice to be louder, so you hoped that your whispers and desperation were enough to convey to Logan what you were asking.

Tilting his head just a bit, he nodded, looking increasingly renewed and full of energy. You breathed a sigh of relief, finally stopping the influx of energy into his body and standing up.

The task had taken an unprecedented toll on you, what with the unexpected amount of work. So of course, the blood seeping out of your nose and ears wasn’t a surprise, nor was you fainting, unceremoniously falling to the ground right as a pair of arms gripped you.

. . . . .

When you woke up, you could make out several things right off the bat, without even fully coming to your senses - there were bunched up sheets digging into your back as your throat felt parched and scratchy. Needles pricked into your hands, slowly supplying glucose into your system, drip-by-drip. The air conditioning was making an unruly amount of noise. In the corner of the room, Logan sat on a stool, watching you with keen but tired eyes. 

“You finally up, Bub?”

It took you a second to register he was speaking to you. The movement of his lips seemed a bit unfamiliar. “Uh, y-yes. I’m up now. Awake.” 

“You feel fine now? Because you definitely don’t look the part,” he asked-or-said with the slightest smirk. At your consequent nod, he continued. “You looked the spitting image of a dead body when you fainted, ya’know? Had all of us scared, me especially, considering your decision to give me your energy or whatever.”

You tilt your head, confused. How did he know? “Did the professor tell you?” 

“Damn right he did,” he drawled, getting up from the stool and walking to your bed. 

You wished the slight increase in heart rate would go unnoticed. Just because you weren’t fully able to register your surroundings and connect the dots of what might’ve happened when you fainted, didn’t mean that you were also unable to register the veins in his arms as he folded them over his chest. God, that damn wifebeater of his - 

“Hey, you alright?” As your eyes lifted up from his chest and arms to his face, you realised he looked sort of concerned. For you. 

“Uh-huh. I’m good.” He nodded to himself, “Alright then. I’ll go tell the professor that you’ve woken up. You take some rest, okay? Don’t move from here.” With a quick dip of his chin, he turned, walking to the exit. Right as he was about to reach, you called out for him. 

“Hey, Logan? Thanks for being here and keeping an eye on me.”

“Wasn’t even here that long, but don’t mention it.” You were sure you saw the ghost of a smile on his face before he left. 

You were also certain that the sudden increase in heart rate did not go unnoticed by him, heightened senses and all. You hid your face in your palms, screaming silently. 

. . . . . 

After that day, things with Logan improved, however slight the improvement may have been. You’d gotten into a habit of greeting each other if you crossed each other in the halls and corridors, and if, by chance, both of you ended up at the breakfast table together then you’d have breakfast together too. 

Did you still absolutely lose your mind over him whenever you saw him walking around wearing literally whatever? Yes. But there was also a sense of newfound respect you developed for him as you watched him work and train students. You and he often had to substitute classes, so you’d understood his manner of work and training. As rough around the edges as he seemed, he was still a very soft-hearted person, never going overboard on any of the children and apologizing immediately if he thought he did. 

You were learning loads while working with him, and had to thank Professor X for that. So imagine your surprise when Charles called you into his office one day, and said “Congratulations, Vitality. You’re ready for your first mission, on which Logan will be accompanying you. He and Storm already know what is to be done, they’ll brief you. Now if you don’t mind, I have a class to take.” And with those words and a tiny smile, Charles sent you out of his office to embark on your first mission. 

Your first mission, with Logan. 

Oh God. You could absolutely scream. 

Was this some kind of joke? How the fuck were you supposed to carry out such a nerve-wracking task with the most gorgeous man on the planet? Yeah you’d grown sort of comfortable around him, but not if you two were supposed to go to some remote place alone on the jet. 

“Vitality?” 

You turned as Storm called you, Logan lazily walking right behind her. “Yes, what is it?”

“Did Charles inform you of the mission?” “Yes he did, but I don’t really know the details.” 

“It’s alright,” she assured, “just get ready to board the plane, Logan will explain everything to you on the way.”

. . . . .

The mission was simple. No fighting, just stealing. You had to go to some abandoned factory and take five vials of green-colored serum out of lots of multi-colored vials of serum. You’d asked what the serum was for, but Logan didn’t seem to know the answer himself, so you decided to drop it. 

As you sat in your seat, belted in and anxious, you watched Logan. He was sitting beside you, curiously looking at the jet’s controls the same way a baby regards new toys. It was kind of cute. And also very distracting, because Logan looked very good in his uniform; you hadn’t ever seen him wear it before this, so seeing him in it was doing things to you. 

“Have I got something on my face?”

You flinched, surprised at being called out. Refocusing your gaze, you were met with Logan looking at you with a crooked half-smile. “You were staring pretty hard there. Do I look that good in the uniform?” 

You resisted the urge to maniacally nod your head and instead settled for a meek apology. “S-sorry,” you squeaked out, more breathlessly than you’d like. 

“It’s alright, I don’t mind. Just didn’t think you’d be into old men like me, is all,” he remarked gruffly.

“Old?”

“Yes bub, old. ‘Ve been around for a good couple of centuries.”

Your eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. Sure, he aged slowly, but 200 years? You never knew. Before you could continue the conversation, the jet landed in the middle of the clearing. 

Both of you silently made your way inside the factory, no words exchanged, just vigilant gazes keeping check of everything around you. But even though there was no threat - nothing tangible, at least - you felt on edge. You were sensing a mixture of otherworldly and downright disturbing energies from various places within the factory, so when you finally reached the room with the vials, you couldn’t have been more thankful. 

With a silent look of understanding, Logan went in and retrieved the box containing the vials you needed. Mission complete. 

But as you guys were walking out, you bumped into one of the racks and another vial - deep purple - fell and broke right onto your shoulder. Logan turned to you with alarmed eyes. “What the hell? You’re not hurt, are you? Does it burn or something?” You quelled his worries and insisted to keep moving. After all, it didn’t burn your skin, nor did it harm you in any physically visible way, and it was an obvious assumption that the leak of energy from your body could be addressed in the jet. 

Unfortunately, you were incorrect. Despite going to the jet even faster than you guys had made it out, significant amounts of energy had started seeping out of you. 

Gasping, you said, “The serum probably had something to do with capability retention, that- that’s why I’m not able to maintain control.” You plonked down onto the jet’s floor, uncaring of the way the machinery around you rattled. 

Logan hurried to you, cradling your head and making you look him in the eyes. “What d’ya need, bub, huh? Tell me, tell me.” “Energy.”

He frowned deeply, confused. “Energy? Yours?”

Your eyes had begun rolling to the back of your head; you were about to pass out. Shaking your head aggressively, you clarified, “No, no, just- any energy works.”

Logan couldn’t understand. How was he supposed to give you energy, when yours was slipping away so fast? His lack of comprehension was annoying you. You whined, pulling him closer, hugging him completely. 

Skin-to-skin contact, the best way to get energy. 

As you basically situated yourself in his lap and hugged him like a koala in an attempt to gain back some kind of energy, your half-coherent brain could not register the rigidity of Logan’s body for the first couple of seconds, instead misinterpreting it as refusal to help. 

“Logan, please, I need you,” you borderline sobbed, shifting in his lap to make yourself comfortable, nuzzling yourself in your neck. 

“W-wait a second,” Logan said shortly, trying to comprehend what was happening. He could see that the energy leaks were decreasing, but God. This was uncomfortable in ways that weren’t exactly bad; it plagued him with guilt.

Oblivious to the workings of his mind and delirious due to the serum, you grabbed onto his arms, wrapping them around your waist, trying to get even closer. Tsk-ing, “Why can’t I get close enough?”

“Darlin’,” Logan mumbled, voice a couple of octaves lower and blood rushing south, “calm down. ‘M right here, you’ll be j’s fine, promise.” He rubbed soothing circles into your back, attempting to placate your restlessness. 

You lifted your face from the scruffiness of his neck, pouting as you looked up into his eyes. “Please Logan, this isn’t enough.” And God, he could not resist that face and that expression and that goddamned voice of yours, dripping with sticky-sweet honey and whining. So like any sane man, he did the only thing he could to get you both closer.

He grabbed a hold of your jaw semi-gently, making you look up at him. Once your eyes were finally focused enough, he leaned up to press his lips into yours. The kiss wasn’t exactly supposed to be chaste, but with the speed you opened your mouth and demanded entry into his with your tongue caught him just a tiny bit off-guard. 

He pulled back, watching you gasp for air. “This close enough for you?”

You shook your head, shifting yourself further and attaching your mouth to his, determined to get the closest you could. 

. . . . . 

As you once again regained your senses on the infirmary bed, you could make out several things right off the bat - there were bunched up sheets digging into your back as your throat felt parched and scratchy. Needles pricked into your hands, slowly supplying glucose into your system, drip-by-drip. The air conditioning was still making an unruly amount of noise. 

And of course, in the corner of the room, Logan sat on a stool, watching you with keen eyes. “You alright there, darlin’?”

You gulped, your throat feeling like the Sahara desert was in there. You’d damn well have spontaneously combusted hearing him call you ‘darling’, only you hadn’t forgotten what you’d done in the jet a couple days ago. 

“I-I’m good, Logan. Are you okay?”

He smiled. “Never been better.”

You exhaled shortly. “Good, tha-that’s great.”

“Sure is.”

You tried to breathe quietly. You felt you breathed too loud. Especially in a room with Logan. 

You were nervous. 

“You like Italian?”

Looking up, you were met with the sight of Logan, fiddling with his jeans pocket. Cute. “Sorry?”

“D’you like Italian, bub?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Great. Wanna try that new Italian place in the city? Scott wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Sure, yes. I’d love to,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek, trying to contain your smile. 

“Right. It’s a date then, love.”

[blacknight7890]

welp, essay time, lets talk about the clown in the room.

the amazing digital circus spoilers below!

so, Kaufmo's room.

The room of a mad man and a recently "abstracted" human. we don't know much about Kaufmo, other than he told unfunny jokes and was looking for a way out. He lost his mind at some point and got "abstracted" as the result.

What this means and how it happens is hard to say for sure as of now, but madness seems to be the main cause of it. Before he turned however, he has spread his madness to the rest of his room, so lets look at what we have here.

Most of it is simply the word "exit" over and over and over and over again with some disturbing art as well.

"EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT"

However, there are some exceptions. Certain spots have partially readable writing on them. To start with, the head of his bed.

"CAN'T SLEEP"

Its partially obscured, but its location behind the pillow make it obvious what it says. They say that they don't need to sleep, but this implies that he wanted to sleep, but couldn't. If that is due to just his madness, or something else its hard to say. Hard to know what that means as of now, but its something to note.

Now the sketch on the back wall. The phrase is fairly self explanatory, as far as we know, there is no way out of the circus. Not much to say about that, but the drawing is interesting. A fanged Cain chasing after Kaufmo. Seems he has a fear of the ringmaster, understandable at first, but further thinking makes you ask some questions.

"NO WAY OUT"

We see at the end of the episode that Cain actually tried to make an exit for them, but never finished his simulated version of the outside. When we first see him dancing around the idea of an exit door, we assume malicious intent. However, its more likely he was referring to this exit, rather than an actual way to leave.

This place is clearly a fabrication of the world outside The Amazing Digital Circus, one half built by Cain. He said he made it because everyone kept asking about it, but never finished it and didn't want them seeing his unfinished work. He also didn't want them ending up in the void, a slightly more important reason to keep it locked up.

But regardless, he did try to actually appease them, give the trapped humans the closest approximation to freedom he could. Its clear that Cain is not in full total control of the circus, its possible that even he doesn't know how to leave.

Anyway, back to my point. Cain is weird, strange, and insane, but he's not really "evil", so Kaufmo's depiction of him doesn't make total sense. But then again, the eyes of madness are hardly a reliable source. We will need to see more of him to learn his true intentions, but for now he just seems unhinged rather than actually bad.

Back to the room though, there is one more thing I want to go over, the foot of his bed.

"WHAT DID THE E------ SAY TO THE C--------"

this one is hard to determine, but thankfully for us, this isn't the only place we see this sentence. We also see it scrawled onto one of the paintings in the wide shot.

"WHAT DID THE EXIT SAY TO THE CLOWN?"

Now at first this seems nonsensical, but remember who wrote this. Kaufmo liked to tell jokes, this is the only real thing we know about him. In that light this is clearly worded as the setup to a joke. This begs the question on what the punchline is, but it also implies that the supposed "exit" somehow communicated with him. Probably not but its something to note.

We have no idea what the punchline could be at this moment sadly. It could be that him abstracting could metaphorically be the "punchline", or the lack of a response from the exit might also be it, hard to say.

"NO EXIT"

This is all what I can really determine from what we have seen in this room, other than interpretations of his various framed paintings, but I'll leave that to an art major or something.

Of course we have to ask if the "Exit" that he refers to even is the same exit Pomni found. They might have found something else, or maybe that exit door is a lot more important than we know. Maybe that weird computer is important.

Pomni seemed familiar enough with it that the mere sight of it sent her laughing mad. That vr headset looking thing is probably what she put on to get there.

All of this is just observations and speculation on the future, and I can't wait for the next episode!

[austinsastrology8991]

* DEGREE THEORY * and more...

this is just a theory, I love all degree theories and this is just my spin on the degree interpretations

Okay so I love the connotations towards Aries being 1°13°25° and that making the planet/point being aggressive and brash, and Taurus 2°14°26° making them more stable and growing into their power as time goes on, and so on with the rest of the signs; it makes good sense and I love reading the interpretations assigned to the signs inherent values. But I got a theory so Ive been connotating these degrees to the Tarot Card meanings, and well let me just go ahead and explain myself: 1° = The Magician - Represents creation, willpower, skills, but also negatively; cunning, vanity, or latent talents. > Now in comparison to the normal aries degrees - to me there are lots of similarities, aries is the starter - alike the magician - and they are both very aggressive in the attainment of their goals, which leads to vanity and well 'latent talents' from the lack of foresight. But on the positive they have plentyful amounts of willpower and are able to create things out of thin air since they have little foresight of potential consequences. 2° = the High Priestess - Represents Intuition, subconscious mind, spirituality, secret knowledge. but negatively; lack of self control, withdrawal, lack of self trust. These once again to me at least coincide with a lot of the taurus qualities > self control, self trust, withdrawal... Now i know you def could say its a lot like Pisces but I have a good counter. Look at the hanged man > Surrender, new perspectives, letting go... this is more in line with Pisces than the high priestess actually. Because the high priestess wants you to connect with YOUR higher power, the hanged man would rather you let go of your ego and connect the dots of the world around. But i digress. Also the connection between Taurus and Pisces is undeniable. Now im gonna switch what im sayin a bit but hear me out. > If you have a Pisces ascendant > aries is in your 2nd house (taurus) and we all know aries is something your constantly pursuing and are aggressive in the pursuit. Now if you have a Taurus ascendant > aries in the 12th house (pisces) you are aggresively trying to understand others because you have such a good understanding of yourself maybe learning from others would teach you even more (not to mention gemini in the 2nd... but i digress) okay so i understand this is a lot of information and maybe a little hard to digest so im not going to make it too long. But i have so many other theories and im just testing this post out to see how it is received. I could have gone on about each of the tarot card meanings, but i dont want to waste my time if it isnt going to be received well. However I do in my own spare time constnatly evaluate certain degrees with the connotated tarot cards... Like for example 8° is scorpio - power, mystery, intrigue, and well thats paired with the strength card... I mean im just saying i truly do believe there to be a strong connection between, tarot, astrology and well numerology also, i just wish we treated all the occults as the same subject - the occult because we are all just trying to discover secrets given from higher powers, so why we gotta act like they all cannot be correlated? also we've gone so backwards with our understanding of the occult > those witches back in the day just imagine what they all knew about the occult. and we are just over here trying to tell each other how sexy we are because we have leo and roar loudly or because you have scorpio you are sexy because you have a stinger.... like honestly sometimes i want yall to grow up.... ANYWAY i jumped around too much to be coherent, but well im just speaking my mind and yeah you let me know if this did something to your brain or if you fell asleep and want to be told that your a sexy demon seductress again...

[conceptofjoy]

not rlly a point im just writing to put my thoughts down, i think ive said heart was like the "character" aspect before, the leijons ship their friends in a way reminicent to how fandom ships characters. dps is the self actualized version of their components and is the final stage of their character arcs. dirk is made up of multiple characters and becomes different characters in the comic yk.

damn this got long

bc character transitions can b easily read as a trans metaphor, u can point to dps, who is canonically queer, and dirk(s) to be like oh yep trans gender. dirk's relationship to his body as well as bgd and hal's is rly interesting. hal has zero control over the safety of his body and bgd's existence relys entirely on jake.

dirk's casual suicidal tendencies are given a reason every time, and hal doesnt seem bothered to exploit them possibly exposing a shared value they have. "it is ok to die AS LONG as its for the greater good". its tested however when dirk kills himself in game over, as much as he tries to get shit done, he is just a 16 yr old. AND like the other space players, he's been awake on his moon for a while. the dual waking thing prolly wasn't any good for him and exasperated any dissociative symptoms he would have developed by living alone his entire life. so basically, i dont think he's very connected to his body, seeing his brain more of himself rather than the body he inhabits. the lack of physical autonomy in bgd and hal is a round are just different versions of that. body mind soul thing yk.

through a trans lens, i see him as a trans guy who's far removed from his body mentally. this could be from dysphoria, or an intense neutrality from it from disassociation. from a mental health lens, its giving dissociation and osdd. bro's filled to the brim with himself, but is also exhausted from his hyper vigilance in keeping himself in check.

i think the idea of hrt would kinda freak him out in the same way puberty would have freaked him out if he went through a regular one (no way his ass was getting his nutrience). any sudden changes to his body that he wouldnt have done meticulously would have been a big hell no despite his distancing. though it isn't "him", it's his, like how one would see a tool. he's hella anal about that sort of thing.

which makes me think about bgd. interesting fella. i think the way he copes is how he views himself as a tool, like how hal does when he says he's just glasses. he enacts jake's will by fighting aranea "for his honor". bgd is also smitten with jake, being a big loop of dirk and jake's feelings for one another, which also softens the whole thing. its rlly no shocking idea that dirk puts people on crazy high pedestals, so like as long as jake's happy, he's happy. its more complicated than that, but this is a long ass post lol.

[kobbers]

Hey there! Since you are a Leo fan I wanted to ask. What’s your opinion on Raph? I mean in general but I will say for 12 07 and 03 since those ass my favs.

In general? I love Raph. His archetypal role tends to be one of my least favorites in ensemble casts: impulsive, moody bad boys tend to get on my nerves. I simply don't find their angst and lack of self control Cool or Relatable, no matter how tragic their past is to justify their antisocial behavior.

Raph's frustration, however, comes from a place I can easily sympathize with - his family is on their own and in constant danger. You often get the feeling that he'd like to be part of society in some way, but he can't and that's stifling! The result is a core drive to protect the small circle of family and friends he does have, no matter the cost.

Though the human world is too dangerous to interact with openly, Raph still sees humans as fellow People, and will readily intervene on their behalf. He leaps boldly into action in part because he worries that indecision and delay will give the enemy more time to cause harm (of course, he also finds combat fun and fulfilling, which may occasionally get him into trouble). He may grumble and complain, but at his core Raph is a helper.

My favorite versions of Raph are the ones where he and Leo are almost too similar underneath their wildly different demeanors. Their conflicts usually come down to how they want to approach their goal, not on which goal to approach.

In fact, there's an argument to be made that in D&D terms, my ideal Raph and Leo could both be cast as paladins, with Leo as Oath of Devotion (focused on honor and protecting the innocent) and Raph as Oath of Vengeance (focused on justice and punishing the wicked). Mirage Raph, on the other hand, is 100% a barbarian. So I mean, there's a range of viable interpretations, and the character can be well-written anywhere within it. It's just that the more selfish Raph is, the less I will connect with him.

2003

I thought Blue Swords Guy was the coolest turtle as a toddler, and when I started watching 2k3 as a teenager, my general preference for straightforward paragon types led me quickly back to Leo. I liked Raph the least almost instinctively, purely based on role. But the show won me over on every single brother, and I couldn't even begin to rank a least favorite anymore. Even at his worst early in the show, Raph is just struggling with impulse control rather than relishing violence or being contrary for its own sake. Sometimes he might enter a fight too early or resist retreat, but he rarely enters a fight unnecessarily. He might hide his squishier emotions, but he clearly still feels them. It lays down that core of Raph-as-protector that softens him from his more troubled, bloodthirsty Mirage counterpart. A good bean, 10/10 favorite Raph, heavily influences what I want to see from the character in general.

2007

The general vibes of this movie are similar to 2k3, which is why it sometimes surprises people that it's supposed to be in the live action film continuity as a sort of TMNT 4.

It's weird as a whole though, because Raph was the director's favorite turtle and it shows - Leo makes a poor foil because he is simply written to be wrong (I HATE his "I'm better than you" line for many reasons, heheh). But in terms of how Raph reacts to everything the story throws at him, it all rings true to character. He's my favorite character in this movie kind of by default, because Leo and Splinter are ~off~ and Mike and Don are mostly just on quip duty. But that doesn't change that Raph's still legitimately solid.

2012

Honestly can't say much about this version - I only made it a season into this show due to general annoyances I had with the writing. I remember liking Sean Astin's vocal performance, at least. And I remember digging the premise of that one episode where Raph tries to be the leader and finds that he's way more comfortable acting on plans than making them.

[blackjackkent]

Some initial bits of Rivington exploration:

Rakha and company encounter their first brainquake, not that they know that's what it is at the moment. All they know is that the streets suddenly shake for no obvious reason. This unsettles Rakha - who has no memory of the concept of an earthquake - more than a little; she's only marginally reassured by Wyll explaining what an one is, since he also says he doesn't remember one ever hitting Baldur's Gate before.

Some of the Flaming Fist guards explain that there was an attack by cultists at the village's front gate - one that almost succeeded "before the Steel Watch intervened". Rakha remembers Florrick also talking about this "Steel Watch" - and mentioning that Gortash was behind its construction. This detail doesn't make sense to her. Why would Gortash's constructions fight against the Absolutist incursion? Then she remembers something Gortash said to Ketheric just before he disappeared, down in the Moonrise fleshpit: "You’re supposed to be the fearsome general, come to conquer the city. And I am the hero who will save it." And some of the details of the Chosen's overall strategy start clicking into place in her head.

Many of the locals are pretty upset about the presence of the refugees in Rivington as well - but not for the reasons that Wyll and Jaheira and Minthara are. Instead of wanting the refugees let into the city, they instead see them as interlopers and think the Flaming Fist should run them off. One of them tries to pick a fight with Rakha herself as one of these interlopers. Another tells her that he thinks all the refugees are cultists in disguise. It takes Rakha all of her available focus and self control not to break into violence and instead to walk way without answering.

A dark-eyed, goateed fellow nearby, watching these conversations, cuts in abruptly as Rakha walks past him.

"I took you for one of them for a moment," he says laconically. "The refugees, that is. You're a recent arrival for sure, still bearing dust from the road - but you have something they lack. Dignity."

Rakha stares at him coldly. This is an odd insult - the beast in her head, of course, wants to attack him on principle, but dignity has never really been one of her most significant features and there are a lot of other more direct hits he could have made. She's in the process of turning away rather than engaging with him when he speaks again:

"These wretches have nowhere to call home, nothing to live off but what they carry, and nobody to help them but themselves. And me, of course." He gives her a thin smile.

Rakha hesitates, glancing back. This is the first person she's talked to who claims to be helping the refugees - which is what most of her companions also want to do. "You help them?" she asks cautiously. "How?"

"Me?" he says, conversationally pleasant. "I lighten their load. You'd be shocked by the sort of things they bring with them. Gold and jewels they can't easily exchange. Heirlooms. Rarities. Sentimental items - even cremation urns." He snorts softly. "Alas, you cannot eat grandmother's ashes, nor can you easily trade a golden candelabra for a bowl of soup. That is where I come in - liquidity. Their heirlooms for my gold."

Rakha has to think over this for a moment to understand exactly what he's describing. "You're taking advantage of the desperate," she finally says slowly.

It's not precisely a judgmental statement - just a factual one, articulating her understanding of what he said - and he grins in response, unashamed. "Your point being?"

Another pause. "And what do you do with all these goods you're acquiring?" Rakha asks slowly.

This does put him on the defensive, and he folds his arms. "There is an enterprise within the city that I help to support," he says flatly. "I know I said I wasn't given to charity, but this place is dear to my heart." Again that thin smile, just for a moment. "I'd tell you more but they value discretion above all. As do I."

Clearly he's just hoping she'll sell him something. Perhaps she should - if there's cause in it. Perhaps he is telling the truth that his actions help the refugees to eat. Perhaps he is telling the truth that the money supports some cause inside the walls. Perhaps. She can see the doubt in Jaheira's eyes where the druid stands at her side, though.

[PERSUASION] "It isn't just about gold for you, is it?" she asks slowly after a long pause to consider. "There is more to this than you're letting on." If he will tell her more about where the money goes, perhaps she will contribute. She has little use for it herself, after all.

He tilts his head. "You're like a dog with a bone, aren't you?" he says with a cool laugh. "Perhaps you are cannier than I first gave you credit to be. I have some very special wares reserved for exclusive clientele - but I think you've earned a peek."

Rakha frowns. This is not an answer to the question she was asking. "That's it?" she asks, equally cool. "You're just a merchant?"

He scoffs. "Just a merchant? At least look at what's on offer before you embarrass yourself."

She's rapidly losing interest in both him and the conversation - but she does take a look at the wares on offer... and notices something odd. "These wares are too exotic to have been purchased from refugees, surely," she says slowly, slowly piecing together the facts around her as she always does. The man was not telling her the whole truth before. He was holding something back. "Who's your supplier?"

"Trade secrets," he says with a casual smile. "But I can guarantee you that nothing I have to offer was stolen. It was all given happily and willingly - every last item."

(A/N: I was waiting through this whole conversation for him to drop some comment about the Sharrans, since when Shadowheart is here this is the entry point into her Act 3 quest, as he tells her to come to the House of Grief. So this was oddly anticlimactic, though it does reinforce Rakha's awareness that lots of people in this city do not have the best interests of those around them in mind.

Perhaps she is not as terrible as she thought, for she, at least, is striving against the terrible impulses of her brain, no matter how dark they might get.)

[steddiejudas]

The Five Stages of Grief (and love)

Steddie || full fic on ao3

Would you believe it if Steve Harrington told you he wasn’t a huge fan of parties? He played the part well, kegstand king and all, but in reality, All the alcohol and drugs being thrust into his hands just made him feel out of control, like his body and mind were two separate entities fighting for whichever could give him a bigger case of Foot-in-Mouth disease. All through high school, his so-called friends threw parties, and of course he attended; most of them were at his house after all. Once in a blue moon he might even say he enjoyed the company, if he’d had a bad week — back then, a bad week entailed a lost basketball game, Tommy and Carol being grade A dicks, at worst Harrington Sr. getting on his case for his less than perfect grades — but really all they ever achieved was to make him feel like shit in the morning. 

Eventually, the stakes of a bad week to “King Steve” seemed inconsequential, laughable even. Now, in the face of the end of the world, temporary distraction is all he could hope for. Weekend after weekend, Steve hosts hordes of high schoolers who barely acknowledge him as a person rather than a symbol. He’s searching for a moment of relief, a second of feeling safe. 

It never comes, but the appeal of weed and liquor finally do. Steve thinks if he can just muddle his way through the trauma of fighting monsters in a drunken haze, eventually he’ll forget. Wishful thinking.

Because graduation comes with another apocalypse hot on its trails. Steve may have found a form of peace in Robin, but she isn’t the cure for the void in his chest. That void can now only be filled with a constant stream of substances. Okay, maybe it doesn’t fill the void, but he can pretend it isn’t there under the haze of glorious intoxication.

So, to Steve’s delight, after killing Vecna, he finds an acquaintance in Eddie. Maybe pursuing friendship would be more beneficial, but Steve can’t find the capacity to expend the energy that requires.

No, Steve has been meeting with Eddie, nearly three times a week, to stock up on weed. They share little more than a nod of solidarity for what they went through together, before Steve rushes home to smoke and pour himself a drink. Or two. Or three.

The morning after one of those nights he goes harder than most, Steve walks into his shift at Family Video, looking completely worn down. His hair lacks its signature “Harrington” shape and volume. A pair of thick sunglasses shield his eyes. His clothes are clearly unwashed, and smell strongly of his unconscionable decisions.  

“Gooood morning, sunshine!” Robin says, far too loud for Steve’s throbbing headache.

Steve winces and puts a hand up to rub his temples. 

“Damn, Rob, it’s too early to be so cheerful.”

While Steve self-destructs on a nightly basis, Robin is on constant alert, ready to be at his side at a moment's notice. She hardly ever lets on to this behavior though, fearing Steve will withdraw if he knows she’s focusing her energy towards him. 

Steve, though he’ll never admit it, has a habit of closing himself off the second he needs help. He would drop everything for any one of those damn kids, Robin, Nancy, or even Eddie, but he was never able to let them reciprocate.

“It is 12 o’clock in the afternoon, Steven. The sun is fully up.”

“Okay, so it’s too early in my morning to be this cheerful.”

“You really are a delight, you know that, dingus?”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too, dummy.” Steve lets out a half hearted chuckle, unable to fully match Robin’s energy. Frankly, he can’t match any energy at this point. The nightmares and crippling paranoia had too strong a grip on him last night. His sides, where the demobats had left nothing but shredded skin and muscle, were aching the worst they had since the night he got them. A joint and a nightcap hadn’t helped the way Steve had hoped, so he poured another. And then another. And then another. It was around the time he found himself dancing around the pool, a whiskey bottle in one hand and another joint in the other, that he realized he’d lost count.

The hangover’s cruel, but not enough to make Steve regret his choices. The room may be spinning, but it’s reminiscent of the circles he danced in with his arms out, listening to something that vaguely reminded him of Eddie. He may have a splitting headache, but it hurts less than his injuries had last night. He may have feel a constant dull pressure on the back of his throat, like everything from last night is trying to scratch and crawl its way out, but really, he’s so jumpy these days, that nearly every sudden noise has him on the verge of vomiting.

Robin stares Steve down as she watches him wince at too sharp a movement, or quickly grab at the trash can, just to set it back down with a thumbs up and a “false alarm.” Things had been hard on all of them, sure, but she knows Steve is far deeper than anyone else. Four times saving the world, and not once had he let his emotions be felt.

“You know, Eddie and I have movie night tonight. You should help me pick something out.” Steve is sitting on a stool, with his head in his crossed arms on the counter. It was a slow Tuesday, so Steve is taking advantage of this time to sleep the hangover off in 5 minute intervals. He lifts his head slightly, to give Robin a confused look.

“You want me, Steve Harrington, to pick out a movie for you and Eddie Munson? The man has never once entertained the idea of renting a movie I even express an interest in.”

“Granted, his taste is a bit… niche, but we’ve run out of movies to watch. We need a fresh pair of eyes, Steve!” Robin practically whines at him, and the noise is like a sharp object scraping against his eardrums.

“Oh my god, if you stop talking in that voice I’ll pick out a full movie festival for you.”

There’s a small mutter from Robin as he stands to search for something Eddie acceptable-ish.

“What was that?” He asks, now standing to his full height over Robin.

“Oh um, just that, maybe… Could you also drive me there when our shift is over?” 

Steve exaggerates a sigh and roll of his eyes, but they both know the answer to that question.

“And why isn’t Eddie picking you up today?” He calls from the sci-fi shelves. Robin follows him over, but he turns his back to block his potential selections from her view.

“I wouldn’t normally ask. You know I hate making you drive me around everywhere. Just two more months until I get my license and you’ll be free. It’s just, Eddie’s stuck at home. His van isn’t running. I think it’s something to do with the tank? Lines? Shit, I don’t know about cars, dingus. It doesn’t go.” 

Steve lets out a real laugh at that. They were few and far between, but the real laughs that could only be produced by Robin were almost as good as Eddie’s top shelf shit.

“You know I don’t mind driving you anywhere, Rob. Of course I’ll take you. Can’t let you miss the incredible film night I have prepared for you.”

“Show me what it is if it’s so incredible.” Robin giggles, trying to snatch the VHS from Steve’s hands. He holds it up above his head with a hand over the cover so she can’t read it. Robin jumps and grabs at it, the two in a fit of laughter. It’s moments like these that make the guilt catch up with Steve.

The rest of the day matches the speed of their slow morning, and the distinct lack of customers proves a strain on Steve’s mental health. His every other thought is an attack on himself, tearing him down for ditching his best friends. Sure he still spends time with them, helping the kids with homework and general chauffeur duties, taking Robin out to practice driving, single handedly keeping Eddie in business; but every attempt the others make to show him how much they care, he withdraws himself more. 

Physically, he’s still there, still looks like Steve, but he laughs a little less. Most smiles fail to reach his eyes anymore. He just can’t get his mind to wrap around the concept that he deserves their effort.

Customers trickle in and out one by one until closing. Steve, exhausted and ready for a drink, rents out the movie and ushers Robin out to his car, locking the store behind them. The ride to Eddie’s is filled with Robin’s pleasant chatter and soft laughter. Steve’s state of mind is plastered all over his face and Robin can see he’s drifting into a dark place. Though she can’t outright say anything, she knows her blabbering about nothing is just distracting enough to stop his mind from wandering too far.

Before long, they’re pulling into the Forest Hills driveway, down the couple lots to Eddie’s trailer. Steve notices the spot next to Eddie’s van was empty of Wayne’s car. He pulls in, headlights glinting off the trailer windows. 

“hold on a second. Robin, how were you planning on getting home if Eddie’s van isn’t running and Wayne is gone?” Steve looks at Robin, who’s been oddly quiet since turning into the trailer park. He can just barely see the mischievous smile that forms on Robin’s lips as she turns to him with just a bit too much melodrama. 

“Oh nooo! I TOTALLY forgot about getting home, Steve! I guess I’ll just walk home later, in the dark, alone.” she exaggerates a sigh to really sell it.

Steve rolls his eyes. Of course he isn’t going to let Robin walk home. He wouldn’t let her in broad daylight, much less around midnight. Still, he’s a tad bit annoyed. He’s exhausted from nursing his hangover all day and ready to fall into the bottom of another bottle. He doesn’t want that to be postponed by the looming responsibility of needing to operate a car to pick Robin up.

“You could always join us, of course. No need to drive back and forth. I can even drive us back after, as long as you ‘observe’,” she says with air-quotes. Driving lessons originally scared the both of them, but they quickly discovered that since she didn’t have to move her actual body, Robin was actually quite adept behind the wheel. Most of the drives they take, Steve just zones out to the music and watches the scenery go by.

He sighs, but it’s a decent enough compromise. “Alright, fine... If I’d known this was your plan all along I would have picked a movie I’d actually enjoy,” he grumbles. They exit the car, Steve with the movie in hand, and rap on the door. It swings open a moment later to reveal a comfortable looking Eddie.

Boy is this different. Steve’s visits with Eddie typically take place away from the trailer, where he’s always keeping up appearances as the metalhead ‘freak’. This Eddie looks so… soft? His crazy hair is half pulled up in a little bun on top of his head, while the rest delicately hangs over his shoulders. He’s wearing a shirt that reads ‘IRON MAIDEN: Live After Death’. It looks like it’s been well loved, and sloppily cut to stop right above Eddie’s navel, revealing the trail of hair that leads into his black sweatpants. He finds himself thinking he understands why girls find that so attractive and quickly shoves that thought into a little box he’ll be locking up tight under about a pound of weed. He doesn’t even realize he’s just standing there, looking dumb as fuck with his mouth hanging open until Eddie finally speaks.

“Good to see you too, Harrington. Buckley.” he gives Robin a little nod as she walks past him. Steve shakes his head, pulling a hearty chuckle out of Eddie.

“Uh, yeah, man. Good to see you. Sorry, I’m kind of crashing your movie night aren’t I?”

“Not a problem, man. So, you gonna come in or what?” Steve slip past Eddie, praying to a god he isn’t sure even exists, that Eddie hasn’t noticed the heat spreading in his cheeks.

Robin is already in the kitchen, making herself at home with snacks and a couple beers for the other two. The boys accept the drinks and get comfortable in the living room. Eddie slings across the armchair sideways, his head leaning over the side, near the spot on the couch where Steve sits. Not long after, Robin sets a big bowl of popcorn on the coffee table for all three of them, and curls up into Steve’s side.

“Alright, will you finally tell me what we’re watching, Steve? Eddie, this man would not tell me what we’re watching for the entirety of our 8 HOUR shift.”

“To be fair, I didn’t know I would be joining you, and I didn’t want you complaining to me all day that my choice was stupid. Now, sit back, relax, and get ready for 87 full minutes of the most dramatic irony you will ever experience in your life.” Eddie and Robin share a confused look. When the movie starts playing, the title screen alone is enough for them to start groaning. 

“Really, Steve. Strange Behavior? That couldn’t be more on the nose.” Eddie grabs a throw pillow and hits Steve in the face with it, smiling all the same.

“I know it’s on the nose, that’s why I picked it. Come on, I know you two cope with humor and this movie is ridiculous compared to the real deal!” 

“You were right, Steve. I would have– no, should have complained until you picked something else,” Robin teases. They all turn their attention to the screen to watch an evil scientist experiment on teenagers and turn them into murderers. 

In no way is the film intended to be funny, but they can’t help themselves as they laugh at how exaggerated and unrealistic it all is. 

“Okay, come on. You’re telling me ‘I was drunk, I don't remember what happened’ is a good enough excuse? How is no one questioning how Oliver was just MISSING FROM THE PARTY when Waldo got stabbed?” Eddie hollers criticisms at the movie’s lack of consequences the whole way through. At one point, he’s out of the chair, jumping and screaming about Mildred being useless when “SHE WAS GIVEN A FULL DESCRIPTION OF HER FRIEND’S KILLER AND SHE DOES NOTHING WITH THAT INFORMATION?” Upon settling back down, his head is just slightly closer to where Steve sits, the loose bottom half of his hair falling over the arm of the couch. 

With one arm wrapped around Robin, mindlessly drawing patterns in her cardigan sleeve, Steve’s other hand instinctually goes to stim somewhere else. The hand finds itself in the curly mess of hair near him, twirling it around his fingers. They stay that way in silence until the movie ends. The only noise left filling the room is Robin’s soft snoring. Eddie slowly stands, forgetting his hair is in Steve’s hand, the sudden loss of contact taking them both by surprise. A swift nod towards the trailer door is all Steve needs to detangle himself from Robin, wrapping her in a blanket before leaving. 

Eddie leads them to the back doors of his van. It opens up to reveal a fort of pillows and blankets. Eddie gets comfortable and pats the spot next to him for Steve to join. Eddie pulls the little black box holding his stash out from under the driver’s seat, as Steve grabs a handful of pillows and a loose blanket to make himself a little cocoon next to Eddie. 

“Cold, Harrington?” Eddie asks, not necessarily teasing. Well, maybe a little, but he doesn’t wait for a response before leaning over the center console to stick the keys in the ignition. The van starts up, filling the small space with warmth. Steve relaxes a bit as the warm air reaches him, which only reminds him of why he’s there at all. 

“Hold the fuck up, dude. Robin said your car broke down?”

“Oooh, shit. I forgot that was our story. She uh, she’s actually running just fine,” Eddie replies sheepishly. He passes Steve a freshly lit joint with an appeasing smile.

“So, what? You guys made up some kind of secret mission to get me to drive Robin around? I would have said yes if you just asked.”

“Exactly! That’s why we used driving Robin as the ploy to get you here.” Steve passes the joint back with a confused look on his face.

“That hard pressed for customers, Eds?” The nickname makes Eddie chuckle, but only slightly.

“No. No, I really don’t need any more customers actually. You’ve bought up nearly my whole stock.” Steve’s eyes widen. He knows he’s smoking probably more than he needs to, but damn, not that much.

“I- fuck. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to smoke you out of house and home, jesus.”

“Hey no apologies necessary over here. If anything you’re keeping me in house and home. You’re paying my bills, Stevie.” He takes a long drag before passing it back. Steve watches as Eddie’s head tilts back, letting the smoke stream out to hit the roof of the van. His head drops back down, meeting Steve’s eyes. He tries to take a hit to play it off, as Eddie continues.

“That’s actually why we wanted you to come over. Are you doing okay? I mean like, as okay as you could be?” 

Steve isn’t surprised. It isn’t the first time his behavior has alerted someone’s concern. After he and Robin experienced the highs (literally) and lows of Russian truth serum, Steve started drinking more and more in an attempt to forget what that horrible drug had felt like. Robin, of course noticed, having also been remembering that overwhelming, dread-induced, giggly feeling. 

Steve sighs out his hit, rubbing a hand down his face. 

“I’m doing fine, man. Really, I’m… coping.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Steve.” Eddie’s face is suddenly intense, the space between his eyebrows all but gone, his lips steeled in a frown. “You’ve been coming to see me three times a week, and I know you’re not stocking up for a rainy day because you don’t like having a large amount in case the kids find it. Don’t think just because you hide behind those sunglasses we haven’t noticed the bags under your eyes. They get darker every single day, dude. When was the last time you slept through the night?”

“Why do you care?” Steve suddenly spits back. “You just said yourself, I’m paying your bills. Isn’t it beneficial for you not to ask questions and let it happen?”

“Normally, yes, but you’re not just a dickhead rich guy who buys weed off me. I mean you are, but you’re also my friend. As a rule, Eddie Munson does not supply self destruction. And while I firmly believe weed is beneficial as a medication, that doesn’t hold true when you’re soaking up your cotton mouth with a bottle of vodka.”

Steve can’t fully process what Eddie is saying to him. He’s too caught up on the word ‘friend”. Steve likes Eddie. He’s a lot more than what he seems on the surface, even made Steve feel a bit of relief tip-toeing around vines in the Upside Down. And those lips. Fuck. But can Steve safely say they’re friends? Eddie’s incredible, but Steve doesn’t deserve incredible. 

“Whiskey, actually,” Steve mutters under his breath. “Look man, I appreciate the concern. If you don’t feel comfortable selling to me anymore, I understand, but I should really get Robin back to my place, that couch is going to kill her neck.” 

Eddie has no chance to react. Steve’s already out of the van, waking Robin to drive them home.

The drive is silent. Steve knows Robin set the conversation up, and Robin knows Steve knows. Maybe she thought Eddie would have a rougher approach. The whole ‘scare him straight’ tactic. It might have worked, even, if Steve could believe help was coming to him with no ulterior motive. Maybe it has to do with how he was raised, or maybe it’s his form of repentance for the way he acted in high school. Whatever the reason, he can’t see the unconditional love the others hold for him.

When they finally pull into Steve’s driveway, Robin hesitates to turn off the car. “I know you’re probably mad at me, I know. I just wanted you to see that I’m not the only one.”

“The only one? What do you mean?”

“The only one who loves you, Steve. We just don’t want to see you suffer anymore. Just, please, say something. Even if you need to yell at me. I just want to know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking… I’m thinking, I love you, Robin, and that’s never going to change. I’m not mad, really. I just don't know. I don’t know what I don’t know, I just know I don't know it.

“O– okay,” Robin says hesitantly. “So, you don’t mind if I stay over?”

“No, I don’t mind. I think I might actually need it.” Robin smiles softly at him. He means every word he says. Nothing could ever change the fact that he loves Robin. But, something is eating away at him. It was like pieces of his heart are slowly being flushed out of his body. Everyday he can feel all those positive emotions less and less.

Silence between them again, they swiftly make their way upstairs, working around each other to get ready for bed with ease. They’re a well oiled machine of toothbrushes, face washing, and pajamas. 

Robin crawls into Steve’s bed after him, both laying on their sides facing each other. Their hands intertwine in a ball between them. They slept like that almost every night following the mall incident, and it still brought them comfort to talk each other to sleep.

“Hey, Rob,” Steve whispers, not wanting to disturb the comfortable quiet between them. Robin hums in response. 

“I don’t know why we had to go through everything we’ve gone through. I still feel like… something is coming. I don’t know, maybe that’s dumb, but I just don’t believe it’s really over. I’m– I’m scared shitless rob.” He finally looks up from the four hands clasping each other on the bed. Robin is staring straight into his soul. She has tears in her eyes, which Steve rushes to wipe away and apologize, but she stops him. 

“Thank you, Steve. For telling me. To tell you the truth, I’ve been really scared too. It just feels like every time we get comfortable we get flipped on our heads again. I know you’ve been through more than me, so it’s not the same, but I really appreciate you trusting me enough to tell me.” Steve is smacked in the face by the power of the smile she gives him. His hands detangle themselves from Robin’s and wrap around her back, pulling her in for a hug. 

They sleep like that for a couple hours, until Steve wakes up from a nightmare, scars burning. The clock reads 6:30 AM, almost time to get up for their opening shift in two hours. Steve carefully pulls his arms away from Robin’s still sleeping form, and heads toward the bathroom. He checks the scars in the bathroom mirror. They look the same as always. Red. Bumpy. Disgusting.

The shirt drops with a heavy sigh and Steve trudges down the stairs to start breakfast, the only sure way to get Robin out of bed being the smell of sizzling bacon. He rounds the corner at the bottom of the stairs and enters the kitchen. Sitting out on the corner is half a bottle of whiskey. There’s a pot of coffee already brewed, still hot. Steve figures Robin must have gotten up to pee not too long ago and started the pot while she was up. He pours a cup and looks back at the bottle. Two hours was enough time to sober up after an Irish coffee. He grabs the bottle and twists the top off. The scent of the amber liquid tantalizing as it hits the mug full of coffee. He raises the drink to his lips, seconds away from taking the first sip, when it’s rudely yanked from his grip.

“What the hell?!” He shrieks, jumping at the sudden intrusion to the moment he assumed was private. 

“This what you eat for breakfast every day?” Eddie stands with Steve’s stolen coffee in hand, directly in his personal space. He’s back in his typical getup, though his hair is still half up as it had been the night before. It’s not unfamiliar, Eddie leaning in too close, throwing himself all over Steve, and he sees him dressed like this more often than not, but the look on Eddie’s face makes him nervous.  

“How the hell did you get in my house, Munson!” Steve realizes he’s shouting too late, as he hears shuffling on the stairs.

“Steve? What are you screaming abou–? Oh, hey Eddie.” Robin says, instantly relaxing into a smile and wave.

“Mornin, Buckley. I was just checking in on our boy here,” Eddie says with a strong hand clapping down on Steve’s shoulder. His knees buckle slightly under the weight.

“Wait, Rob, you knew he would be here? You watched me lock all the doors and you never went back downstairs. How did he get in here?”

“Duh, dingus, I gave him my key!”

“Okay, ignoring the fact that you apparently made yourself a key to my house, you then gave that key to Eddie and didn’t tell me? I thought I was about to be eaten alive by Dart.” Robin chuckles at the name. She had heard stories of Dustin’s pet demodog, though thankfully, she hadn’t been present to witness it.

“It was a necessary evil, dingus. Eddie is officially the babysitter’s babysitter!” Steve turns to look at Eddie who returns it with a smirk.

“And I need a babysitter because?”

Eddie speaks up to answer this time. “Because you have a problem, Steve. And maybe you don’t see it that way, but it’s the truth. So if I have to keep setting traps to pour down the drain until you realize you’re killing yourself and let us fucking help you, I will.” He punctuates the sentence with a flourish of the hand holding the mug, dumping the contents into the sink.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. We all cope differently, okay! You guys laugh at shitty movies about teenage murderers. Some people fuck their way through the whole town, and some people need to dull their thoughts so they can relax. What’s so wrong with that?”

“First of all, you just described three behaviors that fit yourself. Second, you are proving my point, pretty boy. You don’t see this as a problem, just like you don’t see that we really, honestly want to help you. You can kick and scream, call me a freak, annoy the shit out of me, I don’t care. I’m your friend, Steve, the same as Robin. We went through hell together, but you’re still stuck there. I’m here to lead the way out.” Steve, though annoyed, can’t help his eyes watering at the sentiment. Eddie the banished, who fought his way out of Mordor within an inch of his life, is still fighting. All for the sake of Steve. He can’t help the tears from flowing down his cheeks. 

[trainingdummyrabbit]

What do you think of aroace spectrum angela or like. any variant idk

REAL AND TRUE AND CORRECT. NOT TAKING ARGUMENTS AT THIS TIME <3

like. ok ive definitely spoken abt it offhand sometime before so im just going to use this opportunity to aimlessly ramble ok? ok. hyperfixation trap card.

like yeah theres the whole 'only having rep thats robots and aliens and etc' thing which is very much a fair and appropriate response, but also like. at a point you Do just kinda have to go 'Man Just Look At Her.'

i certainly couldnt say it as well as other folks, but... Man Just Look At Her. theres so many threads that are Literally Right There, its kinda hard Not to. id have to study again n cite my sources or whatever but also this is my house. ok.

like theres the obvious 'i see you as a friend' interaction with her and roland sometime mid-to-late ruina, which is. again. Its Right There. but its also the way she looks in lobcorp, and the instant she gets any agency she immediately veers in a completely different direction. (as a reclamation of self, as another small rebellion, as an exploration of how She would like to present herself and be seen)

its that interaction with xiao, her genuine confusion towards the concept of lovers, what they are, what makes it so different from any other sort of person. (as a jab towards her own isolation, the values she was made to uphold, her unfamiliarity towards cityfolk and the ways they carry themselves-- and that seeming contradiction of that affection vs. the way she was told cityfolk Work.)

angela, to me, feels like the type of character to simply Be. for lack of a better term. its a difficult concept to Describe in a way that makes sense, (despite me being, how do you say, In The Same Boat.) its something i could see her toss around out of curiosity, but honestly just... not really care for. she has things to do.

like... angela is just. a very cut and dry character, to put it in a way. she just kinda states things as they are, sometimes rather bluntly. its hard to elaborate because things simply Are. plain and simple, no need to fuss over it. and thats what this feels like itd be, yknow?

also iam just shrimply. forever an angela+roland qpr truther. tbh. like i dont know what the Hell those two have going on but you literally Cannot separate them. i hesitate to call it 'love,' because. well yes, but also no. but also kind of? but not quite. again, it just Is. they simply Are.

its one of those things that just feels Odd seeing her in any other context, in regards to romance or whatever. which is tied to a whole slew of other problems only tangentially related to the subject (shipping content bias, character simplification, and so on and so on,) but its just... man she would Not fucking say that. she would not Do that, she would not Act that way.

like i certainly believe it Is possible to have romantic interpretations with her, but its gonna be. Specific. with the way she carries herself, how she acts, and how she reacts to things. even with the romantic elements, itd still dip into aro experience territory, if you know what im saying. like whoever it is, this shit isnt going to fit into Roles and Archetypes, like how a lot of folks like to write ship content. for lack of a better descriptor, its gonna be Weird.

and thats honestly whats so frustrating about it! you Can have an interesting through-line and interpretation of that sort of thing, but a lot of the time whenever i (rarely) see it, its just... Typical Beauty Standards, Hot Secretary Lady, Scary Controlling Whatever the hell like... i hate t judge but cmon guys we can do so much better than that. ironically, wheres the Love? the respect for who she is, the curiosity on exploring that sort of thing with who she Is? guys come On...

which. grain of salt, because its not like i search out ship content, yknow. im not gonna speak like an authority for stumbling onto stuff sometimes. the fact that it isnt so popular and in-your-face is genuinely refreshing honestly, but. tangent.

anyway arospec angela agenda never sleeps and iam one of the strongest soldiers. the ace is Non Negotiable come back later with a warrant so i can Not Look At It. (<- this is a bit. (<- but im serious.)) thankyou. bows.

[absolutesuffering]

TDJ Writing Prompt Challenge with @gaylilsherlock :D!!

Cry

TW:- Semi-NSFW, self-depreciation, lack of self esteem,minor allusions to canon typical sexual harrassment, minor references to past trauma, religious imageries.

When is a monster not a monster?

The whisper-like drag of fingers across his sternum bent him into an arch, his hair a halo spread on the pillow. The hum of arousal simmering at his gut, his mind clouded with the heady rise of desire. One of his hands fisted into well worn sheets while the other clutched at a mass of tangled curls like a drowning man at a rope. His voice trembled like a ripple in a calm lake as unintelligible moans left his lips only to end up in gasps from the onslaught of pleasure. Another set of hands trailed down his body, deft appendages marking their territory in prints of blue that would give way to purple come morning. Lips mouthing at his neck, calling his name, he felt like a god prior to ascension, both divine and achingly mortal.

"Yohan"

Lips mouthed fervently against his rib. When had they slipped lower? He couldn't tell you if you asked. The only things he knew were devotion being lavished and the dizzying fog of pleasure that disarmed his senses and left him more man than monster, something he was almost surprised at.

"Yoha- ahng- yohan"

Another whimper snapped him out of his reverie. He looked, not for the first time that night, but the first glance in a while and found something worth destroying the world for all over again. Above him, sat in all his whimpering, trembling glory, a man Yohan wasn't sure he deserved but fiercely wanted to keep nevertheless, and by some stroke of misplaced luck, was kept in return.

"Gaon-ah"

His answering moan was like the catalyst to something akin to the gods being awakened. Like the sun parting the clouds in a divine intervention, Kim Gaon's face lit up in a breathtaking smile at his beloved's tender tone. And Yohan could only watch on in a besotted trance as his salvation lowered himself onto him, his voice strumming in ecstasy.

"Yohan. Yohan. Yohan. Yohan."

He chanted, like a dying man praying to the Lord for mercy.

"Gaon-ah. Gaon-ah. Gaon-ah."

Like a man lost at sea answering the phantom calls of his heart, Yohan responded.

His hands found purchase at the kanting hips of the younger while Kim Gaon's settled over his heart. Their bodies moved in tandem, Kang Yohan slowly losing control. And oh isn't that a thought? The paragon of command unraveling? Kang Yohan only smiled at his notions before bucking up into the body above, determined to rather be in the moment than be lost in his mind.

The cool breeze outside blew the curtains apart as moonlight filled the room with its enchanting glow. On the bed, two bodies tangled in each other, their hearts reaching to be closer as they crested their desires.

Later, much later, when they had cleaned up, Gaon lay cocooned in the protective arms of his chief and traced circles on the other's back, Yohan silently mumbled a question. His voice was unnaturally low, like he was afraid of disbalancing the delicate equilibrium between them.

"How can you love me?"

Gaon was sure he'd known heartbreak before but oh, did he find the organ shattering into a kaleidoscope of coloured glass all over again. His psyche sobbed at the almost childlike insecurity in Yohan's voice, like he was absolutely sure that he was unlovable. And Gaon wanted to hunt down every single person that had compelled his love to believe those lies and absolutely ruin them. He wanted to reach in the deepest pits of hell and drag Kang Jisang back to life so he could kill him all over again. He wanted to hold Jung Sunah by her neck and wring her dry until she begged for death. But he didn't. Instead, he responded with a question of his own.

"Why do you say that my heart?"

Yohan felt his cheeks darken at the pet name. The lilt of Gaon's voice a soothing balm to his anxiety.

"It's just- I've ruined you and all you cared about. I've uprooted your entire life and belief system, manipulated you, forced you, put you in danger. I've been sullied. I'm a monster. How can you love me?"

"Yohan. You are not a monster. No matter how much you think you are, you are not. You are only a human who has been dealt the most horrendous cards in life and has managed to turn them in his favour. And none, I repeat none, of it was your fault. Not what your father did to you, not what happened at the church and absolutely not what went down with Miss Jung. If that makes you a monster, then what becomes of me? The one who betrayed you? What is a monster? And what really is a hero? To me, all that matters is you. You and nothing else. I see you. And I love you."

His hands trudged up the scarry pack of Yohan's back, mapping the ridges of the cross he bore everyday. His lips marked absolution on the older's forehead as tears slipped their eyes. Lying there in the wispy trickles of the rising sun, they were washed of their sins.

Outside, the cries of the turtle doves over the Swiss mountaintops signalled the start of a new day.

Oh,when you love it.

https://www.tumblr.com/gaylilsherlock/754929781774123008/tdj-third-anniversary-celebration-writing-prompt?source=share

(Aka the link to the challenge🌸)

[theboy-thebitch-thelegend]

if u dont want my long ass rambling about Alastor, and some minor spoilers, dont look 😅 but he's my blorbo and therefore i'm studying him like a fucked up little bug (affectionate)

I see Alastor's character as a combination, mainly, of three main traits/motivations, plus one that i'm more guessing on but wouldnt surprise me:

1. he lacks empathy. this isn't a moral judgment, just a trait he displays

2. he seeks freedom above all else, but if asked, would rather admit to seeking power above all else. i believe his attempts to gain power are (consciously or not) a means to the end of freedom, not vice versa

3. he sorts people (demons, angels, whatever) into two categories: those he has control over, and those he doesnt. he is capable of respecting and forming relationships with only the latter category. not saying theyre healthy relationships, but they are often at least somewhat functional and prove lasting

...

the fourth (speculation) is that he hates himself lmao. which i think gets very intertwined with number 3. he's very self centered, that's just his view of the world(s). he has more respect for people who he has trouble controlling because he sees them as being in the same category as himself (as opposed to them being in the broader general category of a puppet audience beneath him). however he's not able to feel anything much deeper for them, because if his only lenses are "idiots" vs. "people like me", well. he has no respect for the former and no capability for love of the latter.

...

i think his inability to feel empathy or love leads him to have interesting motivations. freedom through power is perhaps the main one, as i mentioned. but when he first came to the hotel he stated his main goal was to be entertained. while he definitely had additional motives, i do think that was a true statement.

i think he's fascinated by Charlie because, well. she's the princess of hell. she should theoretically be one of the most powerful beings there. she *could* rule hell with an iron fist, if she wanted. but she doesnt. and i think Alastor wanted to see what that was about, i think it intrigued him.

right off the bat, she refuses to make a deal with him. that choice solidly places her in the "people he respects" category, by virtue of her keeping grasp on her own power and freedom. since that's Alastor's main goal for himself, it makes sense that he is drawn to others who manage to achieve it. if she'd taken a deal, the rest of the season wouldve gone way differently.

and probably, not as entertainingly.

one of the key parts of entertainment is that you don't quite know what's going to happen next. for a control freak like Alastor, that's hard to come by, unless he himself *is* the entertainment (which is a big part of his character). but he stated he came to the hotel to BE entertained. i see that as an admission that he didnt know what to expect from the hotel. which, coming from a powerful being, is quite a compliment- almost a statement that he believes in them.

i think Charlie challenges those fundamental categories that he puts people in. he can't sort her into either one. he can't control her, but she's nothing like himself. he knows she has something he doesn't. and unlike most other people, it's not something he can take from her to acquire for himself:

the ability to love.

as i said in the tags of a post i just reblogged:

#i think its interesting that the night before the fight tho when he's talking about getting used to the lot of them #it almost seemed a bit wistful #like i always knew he was fighting for his own goal whatever that may be #and yes he'll make alliances and stay loyal to them #but i really do think he was starting to wish it could be deeper than that #i dont know if he considers himself capable of it #we know he has old friends #not just strategic alliances but what actually appear to be friendships by every outward definition #but i dont think he's allowed himself (or believed himself able to) actually *feel* something for them #even when he can and will play the role of a friend and ally for various reasons #i think the hotel started to 'work' on him more than he anticipated #he didnt quite get to the point of truly feeling love for them #loyalty, protectiveness, willingness to avenge- yes. but he didnt feel love for them quite yet #but i think he wanted to. #ultimately he still was fighting for freedom (and i think his attempts to gain power are to that end, not vice versa). but i think he #did at least *want* to feel love even if he wasnt quite able to yet #and i think thats the only reason he didnt die.

in the battle, he lost his microphone, which represented his power, the measure of freedom and control he was able to claim: it's literally a tool to amplify and broadcast one's voice. by most reasonable calculations, he shouldve died. instead, his power and freedom was "killed"- but yet he wasn't.

the hotel didn't quite redeem him just yet: but i think it made him consider things he never had before.

...

i found it interesting that there was no big fuss about his return. they had to all assume he was either dead, or deserted them. he had to know that they would assume one or the other: and neither one looks good on him. yet he confidently just shows up again and falls right back into the group. whether he realizes it or not, he knows on some level that they will accept him back.

he might not be able to love himself, and he might not be able to love them- maybe not yet, or maybe even not ever. but some part of him knows that they love him. and accepts it enough to go back without shame.

some might read that as more of a strategic move to keep furthering his own ends. and actually tbh i think *he* only sees it as that.

but there *is* more to it than that. there *is* love there, and he's connected to it in some way, which is probably a first for him. and i think/hope that *thats* what will end up being the key to his freedom.

[grief-worn]

@neverhangd sent: “So…let me get this straight. Ye’ve got a magical doohickey in yer possession of foreign origin and unknown purpose, and it just so happens t’be keeping the tentacles at bay…and ye still plan t’hand it o’er when we get t’the fucking Gate? Does that apply even if the wriggler’s still present for ye?” She isn’t judgmental of the religious aspects of the cleric’s plans—that’d make her one hell of a hypocrite, her own sordid past considered—family’s family, whether that family’s a torture cult or a band of thieves—but the lack of self-preservation continues to astonish her. Especially seeing as Shadowheart’s yet to present such an astonishing lack of care for the self, both in battle and in camp.

The plan was intended to be simple. Horrendously dangerous and almost certainly liable to result in her own death, but simple.

Steal Retrieve the prism, keep it safe and out of unsafe hands, and deliver it personally to the control of her sacred enclave. This changed the moment she discovered its true capabilities. The moment she learned it was all that stood between them and their agonizing mutation. Not just a permanent end, but a resurrection into something monstrous and unfathomable. A mindflayer.

She still intends to carry out her mission in its entirety. Failure is not an option she is willing to consider, but she's not immune to doubt. To the grim reality of what obedience means for both her and her fellow companions. To choose between thoroughbred faith, and the atrocious violation of body and mind to live onward as illithid, well, such a decision is beyond what she's prepared to handle.

Still, if there's anything Shadowheart can rely on, it's faking it. And she will fake it until she makes it, or, until it breaks her.

"There is no outcome that ends in me forfeiting my duties. I will deliver the artifact, with or without help, and will face whatever consequences as they come." It's nearly imperceptible, almost invisible, but her voice wavers. She is scared. "… if you intend to stop me, I won't show mercy. Anyone who stands against me will be brought to their knees, through force, if necessary." A well-placed, violent threat might add a bit of credence, and she was eager to prove herself worthy of the responsibility placed upon her shoulders. Not that she needed to prove anything to anyone, of course.

The group treks onward, carving a route through a mountainous forest. Sun speckled polka dots filter through the canopy, still hours away from dusk. The day had been long, and it only promised more to come. Their journey's been anything but peaceful, and more than anything, Shadowheart just wanted to go home.

"We're a long way from the Gate, though. Might want to conserve your strength and focus on the more pressing matters at hand. There's a decent chance we won't even make it that far, especially with you jabbering my ear off." A rather abrupt plea to end the conversation. Shadowheart isn't chatty even in her sunniest of dispositions, and much less so when she feels cornered and probed.

"... and what of your fate? I can only imagine you'll find the nearest leaking tap and drown your gullet in pints of ale." Or rum. Or mead. Or whatever it is that seafarers seek to fill their barrels. That's what Anne is, no? Either a caster of nets, or an explorer of tides, or a castaway sailor seeking glory. Her story is sealed away, hidden behind chapters unopened, perhaps permanently. Shadowheart has pieced together a small bit of Anne's heritage, based on the odd off-hand comment or educated observation of the redhead's wardrobe. She smelled of the sea, as well. Whiffs of salt breezed water and a sun-kissed complexion. All the trademarks of a seasoned mariner.

Baldur's Gate is a port teeming with much of the same breed, and the Sharran would recognize their stench a mile away.

[cassynite]

For the fluff ask: how about confessing love when they're tired so they don't remember? For Sparrow and Dae :D

Thank you so much!!! Unfortunately I have once again ignored the spirit of these prompts so there is very little fluff if any--have some hurt/comfort instead :)

--

Daeran finds Sparrow curled up against the stone wall at the far end of the mining shaft, staring out at the abandoned crystal harvesting operation. The stones' otherworldly luminescence cast her face in a pale, sickly light, and her expression is blank and grave as she gazes out at nothing.

It is, unfortunately, an improvement. At least her posture is relaxed, limp instead of wound so tight her bones looked ready to snap. At least she doesn't flinch away when he drops to sit down next to her, though her near complete lack of reaction is troubling in its own way. She's like a puppet with her strings cut, and there is a very worrying second where Daeran wonders if something in her had broken completely when that smiling beast of a demon had snapped that collar around her neck.

But then she tilts her head in his direction, and her attention finally focuses on him. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"I have no idea to what you are referring," he says. At her flat look, he shrugs. "I think your reaction to being manhandled into battle slavery was perfectly reasonable. Perhaps you could have smashed that demon's head a little more thoroughly when you stomped on his body--I think I caught some identifiable pieces of skull in the viscera you left behind. But other than that I had no complaints."

Sparrow doesn't laugh. "You know what I'm referring to. My behavior was inexcusable."

Daeran sends a quick mental curse Regill's way. It was the paralictor of all people who had found Sparrow when she'd retreated from the group, after she had screamed at them all not to touch her, after they saw the Cheliaxian brand on her back. He has no idea what was spoken of, but Sparrow had returned to the frantic group calmer, if brittle in her behavior, and had explained in short, blunt terms what Daeran had already pieced together with a dawning sense of horror: that she had never been Evaethi Arvanxi, lady of Cheliax, but Sparrow the slave, chained for years before the luck of Kenabres' destruction freed her.

 Such a complete loss of control, for so long--and then to have that new freedom ripped away from her again, and by demons? Quite frankly, Sparrow's reaction was rather tame in Daeran's opinion. No one but Irmangaleth died, after all.

Derenge certainly would have done nothing to alleviate the shame that hung on Sparrow's face, and Daeran wonders how much of her self-flagellating thoughts are spoken in his words. He curls his lip. "It happened," he says. "There's hardly any point crying over it. And, to be blunt, this is the Abyss. I feel that each of us are owed one good breakdown. You have officially gotten yours out of the way."

Sparrow finally lets out a small huff of breath, not quite laughter but close enough for Daeran's purposes. "Each of us? Let's hope the Hand doesn't do that. I don't know where we'd be without his purification ritual."

"You misunderstand. I spoke only of mortals. An angel should be well equipped to handle being trapped in a different plane."

She slumps against the wall--it's not just the sickly pallor of the Abyssian air that's left her looking so haggard. Exhaustion carves itself under her puffy eyes and in the corners of her mouth, as if she has not slept in the twenty-seven hours it has been since she was first abducted. Slowly, she lists to the side, until her head lands on Daeran's shoulder--the weight isn't as heavy as it should be, still tentative. Daeran stays still and feels the pressure increase as she finally relaxes against him.

"I would have told you eventually," she says after a moment. "About me. And my past."

"It was hardly required of you," Daeran says. "We are all entitled to our secrets."

"Still. I wanted you to know. I was..." A yawn. "Frightened, I suppose. It seems silly now."

He does not acknowledge the small shift inside of him that occurs at her words. Certainly, he'd had a sense of smugness for most of his time in the Crusade, the joy of being in on a joke few others were aware of--he knew before anyone else that Sparrow had not been her name before Kenabres, that she'd dropped her life as a Chelish noble like a hot coal to take on this new identity. Even after others found out, it was only Daeran who had met her when she wore the stiff black dresses of the Cheliaxian court and hid in the corner of Mendevian banquets.

But it was the noble specter that had been a lie, and Sparrow the truth all along. That realization, and all that came with it--the reveal of her tracking brand, her agonized explanation of her past--disputed many things Daeran thought he knew about her. And, to his horror, he had felt a sense of betrayal. She'd looked at him, at all of them, like she expected a blow now that it was out in the open. That she anticipated them to--what? Leave her to go fend for themselves in the Abyss?

Daeran is a selfish horrible person who tramples on others' feelings when it's convenient for him. But he had thought she thought him better than that. Which is absurd, of course. As is the relief that spreads through him as Sparrow lets herself be vulnerable in her exhaustion and her sorrow, and tells him that she would have let him know her most painful secret on her own terms, with enough time.

"Get some rest," he recommends. It's hardly a needed suggestion, considering how heavy Sparrow is against him. If she isn't already asleep, it's not for her body's lack of trying. "I imagine we will have many more delightful tasks ahead of us tomorrow to gain the attention of Our Lady in Shadow." He really should drag her back to the sleeping pallets, but that would require putting her in front of the fretful attentions of their other companions.

He knows what it's like to need to lick wounds in private. And if his shoulder is a comfortable enough pillow, he can endure for at least a little while.

"Hmmm," she says. "'Kay."

He snorts. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she replies. Her voice is half-faded, already slipping into the realm of dreams. "Love you."

Daeran stops breathing for a moment, able to keep himself from jerking away through sheer will and the knowledge that it would be the worst possible reaction to her...declaration? But when he looks at her, she is finally peaceful in unconsciousness.

A slip of the tongue, then. But Sparrow has never been easy with affections, has spoken nothing even close to that intimacy in all their time together. If anything, she is too careful with her words, guarded to the point of affecting disinterest to those who aren't paying attention. He beats down the wild impulse to shake her awake, ask her if she meant it, as if he's some callow youth finally given attentions by some fine lady from across the dance hall.

Love you. Love you. The words circle in his mind, rattling around the sickening hollow in his chest. It's been there for over a day now, ever since Irmangaleth first put that collar on Sparrow and whisked her away. He doesn't want to think about those dark hours after, when everyone scrambled to come up with some strategy to save her and failing--he's successfully avoided thinking about any of it except what has happened right in front of him until this moment. But Sparrow's weight at his side hasn't lessened the chokehold of terror that throttles him, and her half-murmured sleep talking seems to only make him think on that period when he thought she was gone.

If it weren't for the ambitious tiefling giving them a way to take down the Battlebliss's master, Sparrow would have been gone. There is no way into the battle slaves' quarters without the key; none of them were strong enough to fight for possession of one. Iomadae's righteous Hand had disappeared with Sparrow--keeping her company and protecting her in what little ways he'd deemed appropriate, they'd learn later, but at the time seemingly abandoning them all with the goddess's champion captured. There had been a harrowing discussion of worst case scenarios, a tentative plan to escape the Abyss without Sparrow should her death be confirmed, even if it was roundly rejected on principle. No one wanted to admit that possibility that Sparrow was beyond reach.

Beyond reach. Gone, dead, worse. Trapped by demons, in a demon city, with no resources and none of her companions and her supposedly goddess-given powers useless. Trapped in, what he knows now, to be a nightmare powerful enough to nearly break her spirit. All he'd known was that he had no clear way to get her back--that he'd lost her.

Not lost. He keeps his breathing even. She made it through, as she always does, emerging victorious from the Battlebliss even if she was worse for wear. A good sleep, and she'll put on that mantle of Commander and trudge on with her head high, because he can't imagine her doing anything else. Protecting everyone around her with that quiet intensity of hers, leading them with her own inner light. Looking at him, over and over again, seeing past all of his acts and his banter to what he really wants to say, and responding to it.

Love you, she had said. The words circle in his mind as he leans back against the awful rough rock and closes his eyes. His hand drifts to her hair, not quite touching, but close enough that he can almost feel it, the weight of her presence. I love you.

He's no longer sure if the voice in his head is hers or his own.

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Write a Different Chapter for Us

Chapter Five: Heartbeat

Summary: The first scan

Words: 1819

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner, the Avengers Team

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark & Natasha Romanov & Bruce Banner

Tags: established relationship, family, team as family, pregnancy, conversations

Bruce chuckled. “You look nervous.”

“He’s scared it’s gonna be twins,” Natasha said with only an edge of her usual smirk.

“I’m not scared; I just told you to brace yourself, okay?” Tony clarified. “My dad was a twin and his grandfather was one of triplets; it runs in the family and it skips a generation.”

Bruce stood and gestured to his now empty seat. “Well, then, would you rather sit down?”

Tony’s eyes bulged. “It is twins!?”

“I haven’t even switched on the machine!” Bruce wheeled the seat across the room and set it beside the bed. “Just sit. I do not need you passing out.”

“I am not going to pass out,” Tony grumbled but acquiesced anyway, making sure he gave his friend a glare as he sat down, if for no other reason than to keep the mood light, keep the banter going—it made battling galaxy-conquering titans manageable, maybe it could help now.

“Well, if you do, you’re on your own.” Bruce retrieved another wheeled stool from under one of the desks and continued setting up. “Because I’m just gonna shove you in a corner and get back to my work. I’m not even giving you a pillow.”

Tony mock-gasped. “And you call yourself a doctor? With that bedside manner?”

“You are not my patient today so you are not my problem,” Bruce said, distractedly, punctuating his words with a staccato string of typing at the computer.

Tony racked his brain to find another comeback, another jab or joke—just something to stretch the back-and-forth a little further—but nothing came.

As much as he tried to smother it under wisecracks and subject changes or release it under the guise of something mundane or ridiculous, the real anxiety was still there, still gnawing away at him, wearing him down. He was no stranger to it in general, but this version was so different, so much deeper and so much sharper than what he was used to.

He never for a moment forgot that this was Natasha’s fight, too; the fear that plagued him, plagued her a hundred times more.

She hid it well. Just sitting on the bed, one knee up, she looked calm, almost bored as she fixed her gaze on the crisp view of the lake afforded by the windows dominating the wall behind Bruce.

Tony couldn’t believe her nonchalance, not when she had asked to take the long way from their apartment to the medbay that morning, and then asked if they could just sit by the lake a little longer; not when he had spent the past few nights with her on the bathroom floor, feeling so utterly useless as she threw up, over and over again; not when he had struggled to lighten the mood, to find words or gestures with meaning, with even just a sliver of healing power, and just having to settle for holding her when the exhaustion took its toll.

He may not have believed her crafted cool, but he sure did envy it.

Sitting there beside her now, made to wait in the quiet, his whole body ached to fidget. His fingers were itching to click and snap, to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, to just grab something—anything—off Bruce’s tidy desk and turn it over and over in his hands for absolutely no reason.

But none of that would help anyone. Calling on every last ounce of the self-control the world accused him of lacking, he shut his eyes, took a deep breath as slowly and silently as possible, forced his body to be still, and took Natasha’s hand.

She exhaled, her expression cracking for just an instant. She laced her fingers with his, squeezing tight enough that both her and his knuckles turned white.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just brought their interlocked hands up to his lips; as he pressed a kiss to her cold fingers, her death grip lost some tension.

Bruce let them have their moment. He obviously had everything ready but he ducked his head and made a very convincing show of inspecting the transducer, the bottle of gel, even a box of napkins. After a minute, and having quickly run out of things to fake set up, he cleared his throat. “Good to go?”

Natasha nodded and slipped her hand free of Tony’s to lift her shirt up. He didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked off to the side again; she hated baring her scarred midriff, hating feeling even just that little bit exposed.

Bruce applied the gel, mumbling an awkward little “Sorry.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, just reached for Tony’s hand, which he gave without hesitation, placing the other on her shoulder and rubbing her upper arm with his thumb.

The next few minutes crawled past, silence kept at bay with the soft whirring of the electronics and Bruce’s intermittent typing on the keyboard or clicking with the mouse. Every now and then, he would ask Natasha to hold her breath for a second or mumble some measurement or the other to himself but nothing else.

Tony watched the monochrome images blur and zip across the monitor. He had endured his fair share of ultrasounds—he had to get an echocardiogram at least once a year (another thing he trusted Bruce with). He could distinguish the different chambers of the heart and he knew what the shrapnel looked like, but he didn’t know what to look for in a prenatal ultrasound. He could learn; he could learn anything he set his mind to, but he very purposefully came here today sans a crash course in sonography. Natasha needed him as a husband today, not as a scientist.

She didn’t look at the screen; she just lay there, rigid as steel, staring up at the ceiling.

Tony resorted to gleaning clues from Bruce’s expression; there was a notably pensive crease in his brow, but it was too neutral to lend itself to any sure conclusion.

Eventually, Bruce’s brow smoothed out and a bright smile split his face. “You guys need to hear this,” he said and, not awaiting a response, clicked something on the screen.

Natasha instinctively tightened her hold on Tony’s hand as the computer relayed a quick, steady rhythm of muffled and garbled but still very distinct thumps.

Tony forgot to breathe for a second. He looked to Bruce. “Is that...?” His throat closed, halting the words.

His friend nodded. “That’s the heartbeat. And this,” he pointed to the monitor, dragged the mouse to highlight a portion of the sonogram, took a picture and kept the image on screen for a moment, “is your baby.”

It... really just looked like a lopsided jellybean, though an argument could be made for an inflated cashew nut.

Still, no masterpiece in ink or paint or stone could’ve meant more to Tony; they certainly couldn’t draw all the air from his lungs in one breath, leaving his chest burning and his heart racing like this. He looked to Natasha; she had abandoned her reluctance, her eyes now glued to the monitor as an unsteady smile tugged at her lips.

“Definitely ten weeks old and definitely just the one—seems you managed to dodge that Stark curse,” Bruce said, readjusting the wand on Natasha’s abdomen and continuing scanning. “Not ectopic, so that’s good. All the measurements are fantastic, actually. Textbook.”

“How big is it?” Natasha asked; Tony could feel the rigidity in her shoulders starting to ease.

“Uh... roughly... the size of a strawberry.”

“What kind of strawberry?” Tony asked. “They aren’t universally the same size, you know.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “A normal strawberry. About...” he held up his free hand, setting his forefinger and thumb about two inches apart, “this big.”

Natasha blinked, filing that tidbit away. “Can you... can you tell what it is?”

Bruce shook his head. “Not yet.”

Tony leaned over and pressed a kiss to Natasha’s forehead. “They’re a fighter, that’s what they are.”

. . . . .

Tests and examinations filled the next few hours; the summer sun had slipped and softened to a more enjoyable warmth by the time Tony and Natasha retired to the compound’s residential block.

As Natasha showered, Tony scoured their magnet-ladened refrigerator for one depicting a strawberry and soon found it hiding on the side, in amongst a gathering of cat Avengers (an anniversary gift from Kamala). He tacked the sonogram on the refrigerator door, in between the grocery list and week planner.

Natasha came through and curled up on the couch. She still looked pale and tired, the shower taking more than it gave; at any rate, she looked comfortable in his faded California shirt and, he suspected, his grey sweats.

It wasn’t yet evening but she said she could handle dinner now so he made dinner (just cereal—it was the only thing she could keep down and the only thing that didn’t stink to her at the moment).

As daylight began fading, Daisy stopped by. She and the others were heading out for curry—apparently, Thor had discovered a food truck that served something called “bunny chow”; he wouldn’t stop raving about it and now everyone wanted to try it, mostly out of curiosity.

Tony, mindful not to fall into excuses, just told her he and Natasha had planned to spend the evening in. Daisy wished them a good time and promised to bring them each a bunny chow, if it really was as good as Thor said.

They tried to watch a movie—Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, their go-to—but Tony had to carry Natasha to bed before the dolphins even finished their song.

He joined her. Even though he rarely slept a whole night through, he still made an effort to go to bed the same time as her.

He lay on his back for hours, propped up by pillows, arms folded behind his head, just staring at the diffused splash of light his arc reactor cast on the ceiling.

He remembered the other times; he didn’t think he could ever forget and it didn’t feel right to try. They would always be a part of him and a part of Natasha, no matter what.

Lying here now, fuzzy black and white pictures playing in a loop in his head, fighting for real estate amidst the usual clutter and train wrecks, he told himself he should stay cautious. But the optimist in him—the one that had believed and fought tooth and nail to get out of every cave and bottle this world had dragged him into, the one that could learn and heal and march on—wanted to hope.

For tonight, with his wife curled up beside him and sleeping soundly, he could let himself hope.

When his eyes finally grew heavy, he gave in and let Natasha’s steady breathing and the memory of a little heartbeat lull him to sleep.

. . . . .

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[mandareeboo]

Unfinished Work #52: "Get some self-care bitch"

Title: Get some self-care bitch

Summary: Rudy slowly learns that having a humanoid body means, well, having human needs.

Ahh, this one! I actually really like how this one went so far. I never got around to finishing it- mostly because I couldn't think of smth for every team member. I think Monster Girl was gonna help Rudy patch up some wounds and Rex was gonna give skin-care tips, but that's all I really recall.

There is very little fanfare surrounding Rudy's arrival. That's to be expected, of course- there are much, much bigger problems afoot. Omni-man has become compromised, and Invincible is nowhere to be seen after a rather bloody display. Then there's the city- homes torn to shreds, viscera everywhere, rubble to be moved. Rudy knows, logically, that this is not the time to be upset or unhappy by how things have gone.

So, he buckles down and moves on. Because that's what heroes do. That's what Robot does, and that's who the world needs right now. There will be time for proper conversation afterward, between himself and Monster Girl. He thinks- hopes?- that it will go well.

(She's losing years just cleaning up after the people they were supposed to trust. Rudy has spent thirty years in that cage, and he knows now is not the time to get sentimental. She needs to grieve.)

Rudy stretches as he flops out of the suit, taking a great joy in the ache it gives him. Rudy's always hurt, but now he's hurting from things that aren't beyond his control. Rudy made the choice to walk (walk!) out of bed this morning and work ground control. He had an option. It's exhilarating.

Black Samson, rubbing his wrist, is clearly not feeling the same way.

(Black Samson thinks Rudy wouldn't climb into the artic for him. In a way, he's right. Rudy didn't have to climb into the arctic to carefully piece his shattered bones and flesh together on the operating table, supervised by overworked staff he couldn't convince to take a rest. Because Robots don't need rest, and he refused for this to be done sloppily from lack of sleep.)

"Phantom pains?" he asks.

Black Samson grunts and stops rubbing, fixing him that no-nonsense stare he has. It's impressive, truly.

"Have you considered acupuncture?" Rudy inquires. He doubts the man would be interested in medication or full surgery. (Rudy files it away for later: next time he's under the knife, he will fix him.) "Its effectiveness varies, but it may help dull th-"

"I know what to do about phantom pain," Black Samson interrupts. "This isn't my first rodeo."

"Mm," says Rudy, sensing he's overstepped a boundary. "My apologies. I wanted to help."

Samson sighs, long and low, and stands. He sets a gauntlet-covered hand on his shoulder. "You want to help me? Drink a goddamn glass of water."

Rudy tilts his head slightly, brows raised. "That... would assist you?"

"You think I want to haul your scrawny ass around when you pass out from fatigue?" He raises his eyebrows in return. A challenge. "Take a glass next time the truck comes around. It's there for all of us."

Rudy, honestly, hadn't noticed that they were being served water at all. He cleared his throat, finding it dry, and nods. "Of course. Sorry."

And somehow that makes Black Samson smile, and Rudy is somehow more confused than when he began this conversation. "I think that's the first real apology I've ever heard out of you."

"Is it?" he asks, thinking of Rex and the confrontation. He'd said sorry then, hadn't he? Everything about that day was such a jumble.

"It is," he affirms. "Keep it up, hotshot. Might be some human in you yet."

———————————————————————————————————-

Rudy tries to be observant. He does. He keeps files on everyone he knows, with facts on them. Big or little. He's memorized every birthday and knows the exact amount of teeth each coworker has ever lost. He knows Kate is allergic to kiwi, and he knows Eve's favorite type of tree, and exactly how many freckles Monster Girl has (that is a variable fact, given her constant age fluctuation, but Rudy is studious).

For the life of him, however, he has no idea how they ended up sitting in a cramped Burger Mart booth for dinner. But, if he had to speculate, he'd guess it was Rex- he had a fondness for the chain Rudy didn't fully understand.

Someone cleared their throat. Rudy looks up from his hands to see Rae slowly pushing his tray closer.

"Oh. Yes. Right." He picked up a fry, studied it, and took a small bite. Cold. Insufficiently salty. A Burger Mart specialty. Rudy looks at his burger, then the fries, and keeps eating the fries.

Something must poke through his features, though, because her face softens. Before, Rae had simply been impassive. Now she was alert. Not a good sign. "You don't like burgers?"

Rudy shrugs.

"Bullshit!" Rex says, incredulous. "Who doesn't like burgers?"

"Vegetarians," Kate says pointedly, chewing on some nuggets. "The only way I can eat these is because I know there's no meat in them."

"Dude," Rex says, nudging Rudy's arm, and he looks more hurt than when he told him he'd stolen his DNA. "Are you a rabbit?"

"I... enjoy most other meats." Rudy shrugs again. "Once you've drank a bunch of burgers through a straw, they lose their appeal."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Rae asks.

Rudy shrugs a third time, unperturbed. He'd only ordered because they'd pestered him to. "It was the cheapest option."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Rex grumbles- and, to Rudy's surprise, digs out his wallet, shoving a crumpled twenty into his chest. "Go order something you'll actually eat, dumbass."

Rudy held his hands up, torn between being touched and wondering when he'll ask for the money back. He's a genius, sure, but he's not exactly made of money. Most of it pools into building robots and repairing various machines around the base. "That's... not necessary. I can still-"

"Shut up and take it, you weird ass rabbit. Before I change my mind."

(He orders mozzarella sticks- second cheapest, equally as unsatisfying- and somehow triggers some stomach issues Rudy wasn't aware this body had. Rex almost throttles him as he buys him "a goddamn chicken sandwich, like some fuckin' hippie.")