#you and stitch should be proud of me

[brainrot-stitch]

Making fits in adopt me and then they become characters which I then draw part 1

Silly goose :3

[yelloworangesoda]

gotta get off the internet and only interact irl with people who were 30 before they got their shit together i cant keep doing it like this

[pseudowho]

The Silent Stars Go By

On the night of October 31st, Nanami Kento feels his death approaching. Knowing you are on the battlefield with him, and knowing he cannot die without showing you how he feels, he seeks you out...and subverts destiny.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, "last night on Earth" smut, truly desperate, frantic, semi-public, Shibuya ending rewrite

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Nanami Kento knew he was to die, on October 31st.

He was no arithmancer. A pragmatist at heart with a mathematical streak, he had, however, carried his barely living friend to safety, found the bodies of many others, punched a young man to death, and lived to tell the tale. The numbers divined great danger ahead, and, by the time a pink-feathered songbird had sung the perish song of Satoru Gojo, Kento could not deny the maths.

Kento could suddenly see no distant future for himself, as he once could. And yet between then, and now, there was one stark similarity; what future Nanami Kento did see, contained only you.

Behind his eyes flashed a montage of memory-- of midnight laughter-filled dinners at the Konbi. Of shielding you in battle, and you shielding him in return. Of you sitting on his lap, stitching his wounds with utmost care, before your reverse-cursed technique had fully developed. Of falling in love with you, and denying himself joy for believing he may give you none.

Being around you was agony. Being away from you was worse.

"I'll be heading underground," he had intoned to Nitta and Nobara, taking in their girlish features for the last time with a stab through his belly, "after I catch up with someone. Stay safe. Don't sacrifice yourself."

He was a hypocrite. He knew this. He would walk to the gallows, proud, if only he could take you in his arms and cry his love for you, first.

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Looking out over the city, having heard Yuuji's cries for 'Nanamin' only a few minutes earlier, you did not know you were being desperately searched for by Kento. You had determined yourself to find and follow Yuuji, the boy without protection.

The night breeze whipped at you, unhindered by walls and trees, on the roof of one of Shibuya's tallest buildings. Turning to leave, you felt a familiar warmth approaching. The man you loved opened the stairwell door, squeaking on its pivot.

Missing his suit jacket and tie, with his sleeves rolled up, he thrummed with raw, uncontained power. Something feverish stormed within his eyes as he looked to you. His steps were slow, and considered. The quiet calm of his voice was deliberate, soft.

"Kento, what...what are you doing here? Is that blood? Oh god, you're bleeding-- let me heal you--"

"Stop. It isn't mine. Just listen for a moment."

"Isn't yours? Then one of the others? We should get them to Shoko--"

"--I need you to listen, now--"

"--we haven't got any time--"

"I love you." The air fell still; a puff of blossom in suspended animation. You had not realised you were holding your breath until Kento's steps caught up to you, and his hands grasped yours. A melancholic certainty rolled off him. Flicks of blond fell over his forehead, that fervour still gripping him; gripping you.

"I love you. You are the purest truth I know. The warmest light. Anything I am, and anything I could have been, is at your mercy, and always has been."

The gut-churning adrenaline you had felt for the fever-pitch of battle was suppressible, before Kento's impassioned promise. That dam broke inside you, and the terror and adoration and injustice heaved out of you in one great sob. You needed his body flush to yours. Public decency took a back seat. So many years of restraint and doubt slid away.

You looped your arms around Kento's neck, one hand grasping his shoulders, and the other sinking into the back of his hair. Kento almost broke, himself, but couldn't; not yet. He had to show you. Needed to show you.

You felt him pull your head away from his shoulder, and you resisted, until his fingers tangled in your hair, angling your head. You were nose to nose. You could feel his heart booming in his chest, fresh from a fight you had not witnessed.

"If this is my last chance," Kento whispered, his nose stroking yours, "will you let me take it?"

"...what...what do you know...that I don't? Kento--"

"Please." Kento growled, his teeth gritted. You felt the twitching contractions of his belly, his hardening cock pressing against you. You couldn't resist his need to control this, and take what he needed, even if you wanted to. Your breaths ached in your chest. Silent, glossy-eyed, you nodded.

Kento broke, possessing your lips in one shuddering kiss. His hands and body squeezed at your softly yielding hips, all-consuming, trying to overfill himself with any scrap of you he could take. He dominated the kiss completely, selflessly, as thoughtlessly altruistic as he had always been. He groaned, panting through the taste of you, his tongue sliding against yours. His cock wept inside his boxers-- it was all too much too much but not enough--

You mewled, little hands gripping onto his collar, sending thunder to Kento's core. Kento pulled away, cursing, feeling the need to know the scars that pleasure etched upon your skin. You were scorched by his touch, too pliable now to do anything but bend to his insistence.

In blood and brutality you sought each other, beacons in the night with stars as your witness. They looked on, disinterested, as if fate held any regard for the lives of mortals, over gods.

With time as his final remaining enemy, Kento pulled you to his lap, sitting with his back against the low wall overlooking the city. He knew for whom the bell tolled. He would see his duty done before the final chime, and he stared into you in your entirety. Though neither a painting nor an ivory box, he handled you with kid gloves.

You straddled his lap, unbuttoning his shirt, and he whispered, groaning and bucking up against your clothed sex as he watched your nimble fingers press his opened shirt apart. Running your hands in reverence down his bared chest and belly, he could not have loved you more than when he saw his own desperation reflected back at him.

In another life-- in any other world-- I--

He lifted you, enough for you to kick your jeans and underwear off, his teeth bared to feel your core press against his aching cock. He spoke through your kisses, a fractured sentence punctuated by his apologies.

"I didn't-- didn't prepare-- no protection-- I can't-- can't stop-- please don't make me stop." He begged, reaching down to hook his cock out. You silenced him with one hand wrapped around his rigid length, and Kento stilled with a hiss.

--take you to dinner first, I'd show you the world-- fill you with its beauty before I fill you with mine--

"Don't care--" You insisted against his neck, "--don't care...need to feel you." Kento almost sobbed with relief to feel you hold him, stroking the head of his cock between your glistening folds. You let his cockhead and slit catch over your clit, shivering, intoxicated by the way he watched you with one hand splayed across your belly, the other on your hip, and blown pupils. He bucked his hips, needy, full of baleful possession.

--and we'd have a Victorian glasshouse with a garden you'd love-- and you'd plant wildflowers while I do the laundry--

Grasping your hips with a snarl as you stroked his cockhead down, Kento impaled you downwards onto him, the moment his cock notched at your entrance. You squeaked, pussy clenching with the sudden blissful invasion, your squirming making you sink lower. Kento felt a telltale throb of impending orgasm in his belly, and he was certain if you clenched one more time--

Your pussy full to the brim, you instinctively bucked downwards. Feeling Kento belly-deep, his trembling fingers dropped to your clit, and you felt Kento's abs twitching beneath your splayed hands. Feeling two clever fingers bracketing your clit and rolling from side to side, you squeezed him, milking his cock and locking him inside you.

--all the late nights and early mornings and train rides and arguments in sickness and health for richer for poorer--

"--love you-- I love you too." You sobbed into his chest, loose and warm against him. Kento saw stars, coming with a shout, thick ropes of cum spurting into you. Looking up at the euphoric agony on his face, and his fingertips bruising your ass as they pinned you down around him, satisfied you spiritually, in a way so alien to you.

You rolled your hips, drinking down every part of him. The long, powerful contractions of his cock inside you, his stilted low moans, his gasps of pleasure as your tight gloved heat continued to stroke him. Starved for him, desperate for more, you rode Kento to frantic overstimulation.

--so unfair this is so unfair, die for you like you'd die for me like I'd die for you like you'd die for me--

You realised with a happy squirm that he hadn't yet removed his glasses or harness. With his shirt trapped against his shoulders, and his lens steamed, fucking upwards and thrashing his head from side to side beneath you, you couldn't stop yourself. You felt the fullness of his creamy load still plugged deeply inside you, and pushed hard against him. Kento cursed, paralyzing you with a hushed roar of agony, and a hand grasping your throat.

"--asked you to make love to me-- not kill me-- but shit, if this is how we go, just take me with you-- take me with you--"

His fingers had never left your clit, now rolling it insistently, until you were the one wriggling and desperate. Still being stuffed with his cock and cum made your pleasure three-dimensional, and Kento's half-hard length began to stir to life again, still high off the adrenaline of punching a man to death. He growled at you with gritted teeth.

"--beautiful...good girl...not done with you yet...shit, keep it in, keep it all in...take me with you...please--"

With half lidded eyes, you grasped Kento's forearm. His hand still braced you with exquisite tenderness around the throat, a necklace instead of a noose. His second hand worked frantically against your clit while you moaned and begged above him, still speared on his cock, feeling him lengthen and thicken again inside you. You whimpered and keened, and Kento committed you to memory, just like this. He would close his eyes in his final moment, and see you, breaking like spun sugar above him, no sweeter sound than his name on your lips.

--bake for you on Sundays, and the bread would always burn, because we'll be too busy--

Kento continued stroking you, pressing kisses onto your forehead as he guided you down from your high. Cautiously starting to roll his hips up again, he moaned at the slick sucks of his cock sliding through his cum and yours. Unthreading his shirt through his harness, Kento threw it to the ground, before lying you down on top of it.

Otherwise fully dressed, with dried stains of blood rusted over his chest and back, Kento bore over you like a vengeful god. Here to take his spoils, he still handled you like glass, resting your head on one of his planted forearms, with a hand under the small of your back to protect you from the floor.

"...I've wanted you for so long-- you don't even know--"

"I knew." Kento faltered. His anguish at leaving you for certain death sharpened, with the sudden knowledge of past chances untaken. His heart clenched, aching down his arms, steeling himself. He couldn't help but lean into your hand, cupping his jaw.

Nuzzling his nose to yours, Kento melted at your smile twinkling up at him. He smiled back, suddenly bashful, lopsided with crinkling eyes, before biting down on one lip and slamming his cock down into you. Your gasp shook through you, clawing into the harness across his chest and shoulders, hearing Kento swear with pleasure at the intensity of a second round.

Kento barely pulled out, wrapped in your arms and tight cunt. He almost spat with anger at the simultaneous need to savour you, and the need to leave, knowing he could not have both. Duty to you held the greater weight and, feeling another orgasm creep through his back and balls far too quickly, he slowed.

Completely engulfed by the enormity of him, you stared up at Kento, made submissive under his emotional insistence, the thick aching stretch of him sheathed inside you. Your back arched off the ground with a guttural moan when Kento slowed, dragging himself through your core from ball to tip in long, languid thrusts, the whole length of his cock glistening with gluey white seed.

He swore he could feel every ridge of you, the mind-altering bend of his cock as it moulded to the curve inside you. He needed you to carry the shape of him forever, an unremovable flesh-memory. Something had changed in him as you carded your fingers through his hair, whispering praises to him, to try to hold him together.

Kento looked drunk. His eyes were distant and hyperfocused all at once, his breaths and groans gruff, his voice gravelly with emotion as his mouth muffled against your shirt.

"--sorry, I...can't move my hands...hurt you, I--" Kento grasped your shirt between his teeth, ragging his head from side to side with a growl to lift it up over your breasts. He did the same to your bra, gripping the cups to yank your breasts free. They bounced out, full and peaked under his hot, frantic breaths.

Kento nosed at them, pulling his cock from you slowly, only to slam back into you with enough force to leave you writhing and whimpering. His mouth and nose played with your breasts, nudging, sucking and biting, hungry and obsessive. Something primal glimmered in his green glass-concealed eyes, as your mounds jiggled every time he fucked into you. The visual stimulus of you spread beneath him, your tight pussy slick with his cum, doe-eyed and completely willing, sent him spiralling towards his high.

"God I wish I--wish I could stay-- more than anything...cum with me, please please please--"

His thrusts became frantic, rough and sloppy with no warning. Kento's eyes darted from your face, to your breasts and pussy, and back again, drinking in the shock and ecstasy plastered over your face. You were trapped within the humid embrace of him, erotically overstimulated by his smell, his desperation, the constant stroke of his weeping cockhead against your spongy soft spot.

You didn't realise how close you were to orgasm until his position shifted, his trimmed honey-gold trail now rubbing against your clit. Clinging onto him, and rubbing upwards to meet his thrusts, you begged for Kento to help you. Your begging was Kento's last straw, and he gasped, his seed slugging out in lazy, creamy trickles against your overstuffed cervix and pussy.

Barely able to see straight, Kento kept rubbing his rigid pelvis against you, gruff and messy while you felt the drag of pleasure through you, softer than bare feet through hot sand. Kento whispered to you, sweat mingling on your foreheads pressed together; "...don't regret a thing...won't regret a minute-- wish this was different...deserve more..."

Panting in each others embrace, the dreadful horror of reality seeped back into you both. You could hear cries in the distance, the rumble of battles. You fought an unwinnable fight. Silent, and pensive, you jolted out of your reverie to hear Kento groan above you, reluctantly pulling his softening cock free. He knelt, dewy-eyed, watching the gluey drip of his cum from you, moaning and shivering as he held his half-hard cock, nudging the cum back inside with his tip.

The sudden emptiness almost made you weep. You felt the same terrible foreboding emanating from him as you had when he arrived on the rooftop. Kento smiled down at you, heartfelt and reassuring, pressing a folded pocket handkerchief to you before pulling your underwear back on over it. He kissed you delicately, from toe to knee while you giggled, before planting one lazy kiss and nuzzle onto your belly. You grasped his head there, scratching gently at his scalp with your fingernails.

"Stay with me, Kento. Just stay." You pressed, knowing in your gut that his decision was already made. His sigh creaked the leather of his harness with broad, corded tugs of his shoulders.

"They need help, underground. I'm one of the few First Grades available. It's only right that I go down there."

Kento's words, as always, rang with decisive finality. Before you could begin to talk again, he interrupted you smoothly.

"You will not come with me."

"You can't stop me."

"Shoko needs you. Your reverse cursed technique is second only to hers, and she's in need of support. It's the proper thing to do."

You squirmed with guilt, knowing you would choose to let Shoko suffer over Kento. Kento glowered down at you, stern, as if he hadn't just fallen apart inside you. You swallowed, a coil of doubt inside your belly.

"...don't be a hero, Kento." Kento frowned as if he didn't understand, and you insisted. "Don't be a hero. Get yourself out first. I mean it." Kento hesitated, looking out over the city lights, the breeze ruffling his mussed hair. He pulled his shirt back on, threading it under his harness.

"...alright." He lied. He paused. You both stood, sticky with each others' cum cooling between your legs. Nuzzling nose to nose, it felt so surreal to have to toss aside post-coital softness, in exchange for the cold embrace of battle.

"Go to Shoko," Kento whispered against your lips, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "and help her. Please. Do as I say."

"Promise you'll come back to me." You hushed into his kiss, beseeching him. He softened, deceptively reassuring, while hearing his clocktower chime.

"Always. I'm all yours. Always." Planting one lingering kiss to your forehead, you watched Kento's retreating back, his figure disappearing down the stairwell.

You wondered if you'd ever trust anyone other than Kento, over your own instincts.

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Shoko was surprised to see you, her cigarette drooping as she raised her thick, dark eyebrows.

"Kento told me you wanted me." You insisted. Shoko shot Yaga one questioning look. Yaga shrugged, arms folded.

"We haven't spoken to Kento all evening." Shoko assured. You felt a flash of panicked rage in your gut, knowing he'd lied to you. Knowing he was taking himself to an unwinnable battle. You grabbed Shoko by the arm.

"Where are they? His team? Where is he?"

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Kento was bloodied, missing an arm of his shirt, his vision obscured by the incessant bleed of a head wound. Pushing out of Dagon's domain, he knew he was exhausted, already skirting his limit. He felt a monstrous wave of Cursed energy, so much deadlier than his own.

A volcano-headed Curse approached him, its hand outstretched and hovering over Kento's abdomen. Naobito and Maki already smouldered in agony, and Kento felt the sickening weight of failure in his chest He had only a moment to protect himself, and he may have coated his body in Cursed-energy in its entirety, had he not filled his death-sentenced mind with thoughts of you.

He expected fire and flames...and felt you. When he protected his right half, you had arrived at the edge of a knife blade, and protected his left. The volcano-headed Curse faltered, stepping back with a scowl.

Kento looked down at you, knelt at his side in a braced position. His clock stopped chiming, in a moment of twisted fates reserved previously for the gods alone. He considered that you were, perhaps, a goddess, and he may be your vassal. You looked up at him, bristling with rage, and Kento's heart swelled.

"I'll tell you off later. For now...we have a fight to finish."

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By the end of the night, Itadori Yuuji had gained a brother and retained a beloved father figure. Nanami Kento cast his eyes over Choso with a hum of resignation, considering he may have another boy to look after, too. The patch-faced curse who may have been his executioner in another life, met its end. He witnessed an old friend who was not an old friend, cast a battle royale over the length of Japan.

Gazing in mute horror over the devastation left behind, Kento felt a hand slip into his own. His ears flushed red. He cleared his throat.

"I'm-- I'm so sorry--"

You laughed, your hands over your face. Kento's eyes glimmered with mirth. He plaited his fingers in yours, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, mumbling against them.

"My hero."

[ozzgin]

Is it just me or can I imagine a yandere with a darling who’s immune system and possibly everything about them just screams weak and pathetic, BUT their darling is actually very strong mentally and has and will create the most fucked up, batshit crazy inventions from what used to be harmless to something that can help them escape and possibly destroy everything in its path.

But at the end of the day, they become sleepy koalas who hug whoever is near them and fall asleep :)

This could be a request or rant, whatever you can think of! I just wanted to see how different yandere writers would interpret this small imagination of mine <3

But as always, stay safe and take care! everyone needs a break some time to time~

Sorry, but the moment I read the Darling's description, I instantly thought of Dr. Finkelstein from Nightmare Before Christmas. You know, Sally's inventor. 😭 So let me quickly write this down while I'm in my Shelley vibes, because I like the idea a lot. With a little twist, if you don't mind. :)

Yandere! Monster x Inventor! Reader

A frail inventor, and their affectionate rag doll that has been carefully stitched together for the purpose of a caregiver. An artificial existence, trapped within the confines of your lonely tower. Or so you might think.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, obsessive behavior

"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel..." [Frankenstein]

You dangle an old, rusty bell for a good minute before leaning back in your chair. The barely audible chimes are quickly swallowed by the loud, mechanical groans of the gears and engines occupying most of this room. No matter, his ears are good. You picked them yourself. And surely enough, within moments, the door to your laboratory opens and someone cautiously walks in.

A tall, slender man. Or rather, something meant to resemble a man. The skin is a clumsy patchwork of blues and grays - you're no talented seamster, sadly - gathering together the body parts in what feels like a parodic attempt at mimicking God and his image. You gaze at the creature approaching you with a tray of tea and sweets. Scarcely your best work, if you must adhere to honesty. Regardless of the quality of your labor at the time of creation, you are proud of the result. How could you not be? You know this man better than you know yourself. Every organ, every artificial nerve cord, every blemish and stitch of his body was placed according to your intentions. A masterfully detailed project that took you years to complete; not an easy feat considering the lamentable state of your health.

"Here's your deadly nightshade tea." The man places a small, porcelain cup on the desk. "Do let me know when I should take you to bed, (Y/N)." You wave your hand dismissively and stretch out your limbs. "Not yet. I am almost finished", you respond, returning to the mound of metal scraps and pipes before you. "Can I ask what you're making?" The pale creature lowers himself to your level, a curious smile plastered on his face. "It's a mechanical heart", you reveal boastfully. "Like the one I have?" You run your hand through the creature's hair affectionately. "Almost. I'm testing out a different way to build the valves, for a more efficient pumping cycle." You continue to explain the intricacies of your novel mechanism, occasionally sipping on your tea. "Who knows, you might have a sibling in the near future."

The man's smile drops in an instant, and his sunken eyes widen at your statement. "What? Am I- am I not enough?" You glance at the creature as he becomes increasingly frantic. "Don't speak nonsense. If it comes out alright, I'll upgrade your own parts as well. I'm a disciple of scientific virtue, of continuous improvement." Nonsense? Vile treachery! You might've chiseled the brain that throbs within the walls of his skull, but his mind is his alone, and you seem to lack a fundamental understanding of his feelings and thoughts. His ardent confessions of love are met with mockingly pitiful grins, in the way a parent soothes a needy child. Even now, your eyes reflect nothing more than sympathy towards his protest. A childish tantrum is what you're most likely thinking. You've no time for emotional bagatelles. He can read you like an open book.

You simply won't understand. There is no place for a stranger in the life he's crafted with his very own hands: you, and him, and the evening tea with a side of butterscotch biscuits, and the bedtime talks, and the stripped branches of the decaying tree that rap at the windows on stormy nights. You might be the Inventor, but he is not just a mere, humble servant, a rag doll to be tossed around or toyed with. As you will soon discover, after all.

You awaken in the midst of night with your temples burning from a much too familiar headache. Although it's not just the pain that has disturbed your slumber. You can hear rattles and thuds coming from the upstairs laboratory. An intruder? Oh, your creations! The sound of glass breaking and metal scraping sends you into spiraling despair. You fumble to reach the nightstand, patting the surface in search for the bell and keys. You shake the handle in a panic, unable to find anything else in the darkness.

The chaotic rustle abruptly stops, followed by descending footsteps. You hold your breath as the chamber door opens, but it's none other than your creature. "Another flare-up? Shall I bring you some medicine?" the man asks with monotonous courtesy. "What have you been doing? What's all that noise?" you demand, agitated, but upon lifting yourself off the mattress you discover your legs are numb and uncooperative. The man hurries to your bed with a worried frown, and you hear the familiar clatter of the keychain coming from one of his pockets. "Have you taken my keys? Cease this foolishness at once!" Indifferent to your reproach, he places a firm hold on your shoulders and forces you back down, tucking you in effortlessly.

"You must forgive my impertinence." he says in a pleading tone. "I do not wish to impede the works of your genius. As your partner, however, it is my duty to prevent you from making mistakes." You furrow your eyebrows at his words. "What mistakes? My invention was flawless!", you argue fervently. "Indeed it was, but not its purpose. What need have you for another being?" It is the creature's turn for a passionate speech. He stands up with a confidence you don't recognize and continues: "You should know by now that I am fit to perform any role. That of your servant, your caregiver, your lover, or anything else you may desire. You can resume your tinkering starting tomorrow, but such blasphemies to our bond as the one today will not be tolerated." He straightens his vest and reaches for the door handle. "I will prepare some tea to help you rest."

Inconceivable. Your own creation, built with your own hands...Has something escaped your attention? His dialogue is deranged, tainted by madness. "Have I done something wrong?" you mumble to yourself, deep in contemplation. "Nonsense." the creature turns to face you briefly. "It was you who created me after all. Everything is perfectly splendid."

[save-the-villainous-cat]

So sidekick is like the protective younger sibling (or younger sibling figure) of hero and they find out their older sibling is having a thing with the villain so they go and confront the villain and is all like “you don’t deserve to date my big sibling you sick, nasty villain”

But then villain pulls out the reverse uno card and is all like “oh please as if i don’t know you’re secretly seeing my henchman at the club every Friday night 🤨” then sidekick is like “😦😦they’re your HENCHMAN?-“

“I swear, if you touch them—”

“Oh please, they beg me for it.” They took a sip of their drink and leaned back, satisfied by the entertainment the sidekick gave them.

They were a lot like the hero, the villain realised. An angrier and smaller version of their nemesis.

“Ugh. Ew. Argh— I mean it, if you hurt them, you’re done.” The sidekick raised their finger but the villain couldn’t help but smile.

“What are you gonna do? Uninvite me to your birthday party?”

“You—”

In a sense, it put the villain’s mind at ease. To know that someone was there who was just as worried, just as protective over the hero was comforting. The hero needed to be protected with all their hot-headedness and impulsive decisions.

They could get into a lot of trouble, into a lot of fights. The villain had seen the scars.

“Listen, kid. You’re worried. But I promise, I don’t have any ill intentions.” They tapped their fingers against their glass.

The villain couldn’t get their mind off the hero. It was an actual problem at this point. It was more than a crush, more than dating. The villain was so helplessly devoted they found themselves pathetic.

A few months prior, they would’ve loathed this. But it was easy to forget everything when the hero’s hand was on their arm. When their fingers intertwined. When the hero held onto them when they got scared.

“Sorry, but I don’t exactly trust a villain. Do you think I’m dumb?”

“No. You’re clever and that’s why you’re going to believe me,” the villain said. “If I wanted them dead, they would be. Instead, I am stitching them back together.”

“That’s my job.”

“It shouldn’t be. You’re a kid.”

“I’ve been taking care of them my entire life.”

The villain tilted their head, smiling sadly.

“And that’s rather sad, don’t you think? The amounts of blood you’ve seen, the variety of wounds someone can endure — no child should see something like that.”

This time, the sidekick didn’t say anything, they just stared at the villain’s desk rather angrily. It was frustrating, the villain was fully aware of that.

It must’ve been difficult for the sidekick to realise something was changing, that their role as a caretaker was shifting. It must’ve been difficult not to feel replaced.

“I know you don’t agree with my methods. Neither does my lover. But I can promise you to take care of them, whatever it takes. You don’t have to carry this burden anymore.”

“It’s not a burden,” the sidekick snapped and the villain realised that the sidekick could’ve become a villain easily. They were angry and didn’t know how to handle that anger. They were frustrated and didn’t know how to express it. If they had been around the wrong people at the wrong time, they would’ve made a perfect victim of manipulation.

The villain wasn’t going to let that happen.

“They talk about you all the time,” the villain said. “Brag about your grades and awards.”

The sidekick looked up, eyes wide.

“What?”

“Oh, yeah. You play the violin, don’t you? And you’ve been obsessed with this new video game, aren’t you?”

The sidekick nodded. Suddenly, they seemed a little embarrassed.

“But you also get into a lot of trouble at school. Can’t stand bullies?”

The sidekick shook their head.

“They couldn’t be more proud,” the villain said. For a second, all was quiet. The villain was reminded of a lost childhood, of tears and fear. Of feeling alone, of losing everything. “Listen. They love you more than anything and I cannot change that, even if I wanted to. And I don’t. I guess I am trying to say that there’s two people now who can protect them. Plus, they’re not completely helpless.”

Now, the sidekick smiled softly.

“They’re stupid, though.”

“Oh, totally,” the villain agreed.

“They need me.”

“You need them just as much. They can’t give you that when they’re exhausted and need stitches all the time.”

“…I guess you have a point.” The sidekick let out a big sigh and rubbed their face with their hands. And that was the moment the villain knew they had changed their mind. It wasn’t easy to let go of habits and the villain was fully aware that this wasn’t over, that the sidekick would try to slip back into their role every now and then.

But this was a great start. That kid needed more free time.

“I always do.” The villain grinned. “They’re in good hands, don’t worry. I’ll take over the bloody parts and the tears, you do the video games and laundry fights, alright?”

“Ugh. Fine. That doesn’t mean I like you,” the sidekick said. They stood up, false annoyance all over them.

“Mmm, don’t worry. That’ll kick in later. Now get lost, don’t you have a science project or something to take care of?”

“You’re so annoying.” They were heading for the door but the villain had one last sideswipe. They couldn’t help themselves.

“Oh, tell my henchman to do their work on time when you see them tomorrow, will you?” They tried not to smile when the sidekick turned around.

“Excuse me?” The villain stood up, walked around the table.

“Tomorrow at the club, I mean. I’ve heard you’re quite the wildcards together.”

“Hey, what do you mean, your henchman?”

“Just try not to devour each other in front of other people, I don’t want to hear anything about that.”

The villain gave them a smile and pushed them gently out of the room.

“Woah, wait, hey—”

“Bye bye.” They closed the door of their office with a cheery demeanour. They’d always been a sucker for a little drama.

pt. 2

[from-the-clouds]

savior complex - joel miller x f!reader

masterlist | song inspo | gif: @joelmjller

All the skeletons that you hide Show me yours, I'll show you mine

summary: Joel shows up at your doorstep, battered and bruised. Despite the bad blood between you, do you have the heart to turn him away? Enemies to lovers. Takes place pre-television series/game. Was written as a companion piece/prequel to my other joel fic, but can be read on it's own. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 7k warnings: SMUT - 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. porn w/ plot, unprotected sex, dirty talk, implied age gap. Enemies to lovers. Heavy angst, multiple POVs, implied drug abuse, alcohol use, implied death of a family member, canon-typical suffering! Descriptions of injuries, blood, stitches (please dm for specifics if you have any questions). a/n: I haven't seen the enemies to lovers trope written for joel yet, and I'm also obsessed with the trope of a character showing up at their enemies house because they don't have any place to go. So maybe this is a little self-indulgent. Special shoutout to @ay0nha for letting me talk to you about this fic! Please enjoy, I'm really proud of/excited about this one.  ♥

“What do you want?” 

The ice in your own voice comes as a surprise. You weren’t sure you were even capable of sounding so cold, but it’s probably a good skill to have nowadays. Plus, he’s probably the last person you expect to see, and certainly the last person you want to see standing in your doorway.

“I need your help,” he says. 

You snort, lips pressing together in a bitter smile. “Uh-huh.”

It’s so dark in the hallway, you can barely see his face, but you can imagine what Joel might look like, lines etched in his face from the permanent frown he’s always wearing, particularly when dealing with you. You’ve known him a handful of years, here and there, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen him smile….or laugh…or display any emotion other than irritation, or indifference. 

The breeze from your open window shifts your curtains to the side, lets a sliver of light from the full moon pan over him, and you can see him clearly, just for a second. 

He’s covered in blood. 

It’s hard to see exactly how much, but it’s all over his face, his shirt, and accompanied by dirt and grime. One of his hands hangs limp at his side, his opposite clenched into a tight fist. The breeze dies down, the curtain falls back into place, and he’s cast once more in shadow. 

Crossing your arms, you lean against the doorframe. Anyone else, you’d help without question. At one point, you would’ve let him in willingly. But it had been months since you’d last spoken, and you had no intentions of ever seeing him again.

“Why should I help you?” 

He lowers his eyes, looks at the floor. When he answers, his voice is strained. 

“Because I have nowhere else to go.”

The more your eyes adjust in the dim light, the more you can see. Tattered clothes, rain dripping from the tips of his salt-and-pepper curls, his eyes dull. You wonder if he’s trying to make himself look like a kicked puppy, petulant and pathetic, but it doesn’t really seem like something Joel would do.

“Please?” 

He’s in pain, you can read it on his face, and you wonder if it’s because of his injuries, or because of how horrible it must be for him to beg you for help. Historically, it’s always been you in his place, needing something – and if it didn’t serve his interests, he’d leave you in the dust. Joel never made exceptions, no matter the circumstances, despite how long you’d known one another. With that to consider, you have every right to turn him away. You should feel satisfied, seeing him so desperate. You wished you could feel satisfied, but you didn’t.

“Fine.” You let him in. What is it about him that always makes you cave? 

Pulling a chair away from your small kitchen table, he staggers behind you, favoring his right foot, bracing himself on any surface he walks past – the doorframe, the countertop, the table, until he finally lowers himself into the chair.  

You cross the room. It takes most of your bodyweight to shift the couch in the corner of the room away from the vent behind it, and you kneel down. Air conditioning and heat are a thing of the past, but it’s got other purposes now. Using a blade of the knife you always keep handy, you’rable to pry the metal grate away from the wall, to pull out a tin tackle box that you haven’t had to touch in awhile. 

Joel’s still at the table when you return to him, breathing labored, and you flick on the lights. He blinks, his eyes are on you, you can feel the way his body is pinched with nervous energy – like a starving feral cat that’s been trapped in a cage, and still can’t decide if it trusts you yet. As if you’d ever done anything to hurt him. If anything, you should be scared.

“Alright,” you say. “Let me take a look at you.”

His eyes have shifted away from your face, but, too proud to cast them down, he’s glaring at some fixed point behind you, glazing over. He doesn’t want to register what is actually going on. It doesn’t stop you from the task at hand, and you begin to take inventory of his injuries.

“So what happened?” you ask. He’s got a black eye forming, several small cuts all over his face, one of which is slicing through his bottom lip, causing it to swell.

“It’s none of your business,” he quips.

“It’s precisely my business, if you want me to be able to actually help you.” 

“A deal went wrong,” he said. “I was in someone else’s territory. They said rather than turning me into FEDRA, they’d let me off easy.”

“This is being let off easy?” you ask, then cluck your tongue. 

Joel doesn’t answer. 

“And that?” you eye the bump forming on his opposite temple. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, even though, when you graze a thumb over it, he swallows hard. 

“You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

“Got uh, shoved into a brick wall.”

You slide two fingers underneath his chin, using light pressure to tilt his face towards you. “Look at me.” When you’re staring at him like this, studying him closely, you’re forced to acknowledge how handsome he is. Even battered and bruised, it’s the dark, sad eyes, sharp jawline, long lashes that draw you in. He’s hardened by the world he’s been surviving in for twenty years, like everyone is, but he wears it well. You’d never tell him that. 

“Any blurry vision, dizziness?” You aim your flashlight in his eyes, and his pupils constrict. 

“No,” he says. You study him a moment more, and know what to look for. But you don’t find anything of concern.

“Well, I don’t think you have a concussion,” you say. “But I’ll keep an eye on it…..What else happened?” 

“Got me with a knife.” That is what you’ve been the most concerned with since he’s stepped inside. There’s a dark stain blooming on his shirt, just below his left ribcage

“I see,” you say, stepping back. “Take your shirt off.” You open the tin that you left on the table.

It’s full of medical supplies, ones you’d pocketed from the QZ hospital the last few years working there. It’s not easy to sneak them out, nor is it entirely ethical, but you’ve gotten pretty good at it, and now have a decent sized stash built up in case of any emergencies. You’re still deciding if Joel Miller’s well-being is worth the waste of supplies it’s going to be.

When you turn back to him, he has unbuttoned his shirt, but is struggling to shrug it off his right shoulder, where his arm hangs limp at his side. 

“I….” he manages….”I can’t move my arm.”

“Sit up,” you instruct, and he does, which gives you room to slide the rest of his shirt off his shoulder. You immediately notice the obvious deformity. “Looks dislocated.” 

He nods, looking at the floor. “I was trying to defend myself.”

The idea of him, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, a position he’s so rarely in, is unpleasant. He might be an asshole, but because of it, he always comes out on top. There’s something almost comforting about that kind of consistency these days, and it’s tough to stomach the idea that he doesn’t have superpowers, he’s just another person. You’re not sure why you still hold him in such high regard.

You can’t dwell on it. Especially because what’s more pressing is the cut below his ribs, a few inches in length. It’s still bleeding, but not severely. It’s not a stab wound either, even though it’s deeper than you’d expected, but there’s no internal organ damage.

You take a clean cloth and place it over the wound, guiding his left hand overtop it. “You’ll need stitches.” You slide your hand from underneath his, ignoring the warm weight of his touch. “But we need to stop the bleeding. Apply pressure.” He does, and winces.

“You don’t have anything for the pain?” you ask, raising your eyebrow. 

“Front pocket of my shirt,” he says. You fish out a pill. Oxys. You’re not sure how strong they are, and you don’t want to encourage the habit, but this might be a case where he actually needs one. 

There’s a glass of water already sitting on the table, and you grab it, standing over him. Neither of his arms are free to accept the offering.

“Open up.”

He glowers at you like a defiant child. 

“Are you serious?” you tilt your head. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, he opens his mouth, and you tilt your hand to drop the pill in and lift the glass of water to his lips. 

When you’re done with that, it’s time to work on his shoulder. You had done this a few times before, even once to your mother, who had also been a doctor. Med schools didn’t exist anymore, but you didn’t need a degree now to provide care, at least not in this QZ…just experience. And your mother had taught you everything she knew. Before your part of town fell to the virus, she’d even had you reading her old textbooks. So you felt like you were only missing the degree.

You pull up a chair to face him, so close it’s touching the corner of his own, and sit, carefully taking his injured arm and bending it upwards with one of your thumbs in the crease of his elbow, your opposite hand wrapped around his wrist until his forearm is resting against your chest. 

It’s way more intimate than you want it to be, but you don’t have much of a choice. His jaw is set so hard you think he might crack a tooth. “So sometimes, if you relax your muscles enough, you can actually get the shoulder back into place that way.”

You release his wrist and reach out to knead the muscles around the problem area - his chest, his shoulder, in between his shoulder blades. He tilts his head back in the chair, his face pinched. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “Just don’t hold your breath, that makes it worse.”

Joel hates this, you can tell. How often does he have to rely on someone so much to help him, that he lets them touch you like you are, lets them see him vulnerable? 

As much as you can, you avoid eye contact, looking down. You didn’t need to see him shirtless before to know that he’s muscular – not perfectly cut, but that isn’t really your thing, anyways. He looks good enough that your eyes are being drawn to places they shouldn’t be, down his torso to the v-lines dipping into the waistband of his jeans. He clears his throat, and you turn to find him watching you. You hope he can’t feel the way your heart is hammering against the back of his hand. 

It’s been a few minutes that you’re trying to get him to relax, but he can’t seem to. You should’ve known that this method wasn’t going to work for him of all people.

“Okay, I’m just going to try to move your arm a bit, see if that’ll work instead.”

He nods.

“Just keep breathing,” you instruct. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” you slowly guide his elbow forward, still keeping traction. 

He hisses. “Relax,” you soothe. It’s hard, despite the bad blood between you, to resist the urge to be warm, gentle. To reassure. It’s in your nature, it’s part of your job.

Eventually, and with a little patience, you’re able to get the joint to move back into place, and you check to be sure Joel is able to move it on his own. He can, even though it’s sore. You fashion him a sling made out of an ace bandage. 

“You’re probably gonna be a little sore for a while, so take it easy.” It’s probably a useless instruction to give because you know he won’t take it easy. 

He has a sprained ankle, and you wrap it up, elevate it. There’s a near-perfect footprint left behind in dirt on the skin there. Like someone had stomped on his leg hoping to break it. You’re glad they failed.  

Next is the stitches. There’s a few cuts on his body that need one or two, but you start with the big one. The wound has stopped bleeding, so you disinfect it, pull out your tools, and begin working, bent over him. Every time the needle pierces his skin, he tenses. You wonder if the one oxy was enough, or if it hardly touched the pain because he’s using them so often.

The entire time you’re treating him, you’re trying to be as clinical as possible. You’ve got to focus because if you think too much about him, you think about the last interaction you shared, and how pathetic you’d been. And the fact that he’d thought to come to you of all people for this makes your head spin. It’s not supposed to. You aren’t supposed to feel these things for him. You aren’t supposed to owe him anything.

Joel’s fist curls so tightly into itself that his knuckles turn white, fingernails leaving crescents in the skin of his palms. “Kind of feels like you’re making this as painful as possible.”

You smirk slightly. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

He sniffs, and you glance up to see him looking down at you, the ice that had been in his gaze before has thawed.

You squint at him, try to act indifferent, and turn your attention back to the stitches. “Don’t worry, I’m almost done.” 

“Thank fucking-”

“Shhh, you’re distracting me.”

His hand relaxes slightly as you keep working, slow and methodical, silence casting like a spell. 

“Why me?” you ask, finally.

“What?”

“Why did you come here? To me?” you pause. “It’s been forever. You’ve got Tess, right? Couldn’t she help you?”

Joel rubs his aching shoulder. “I didn’t want to scare her,” he answers. “And…I know you’re used to handling this kind of thing.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “I am.”

One of you should probably acknowledge what had happened. But it won’t be me, you think.

“There,” you tie off the last stitch, and cover the wound with some gauze and a waterproof bandage. “You’ll probably need antibiotics. I’ll try to snag some from the hospital tomorrow.” 

Once you’ve fixed the most pressing issues, you focus on cleaning all the cuts and bruises on his face, his torso, cleaning and wrapping his bloodied knuckles. It’s probably been at least two hours since he arrived when you finally draw away from him, your surgical gloves snapping as you pull them inside-out, and off your hands, discarding them on the table, which is now littered with bloodied gauze, bandage wrappers, and medical supplies. You wish you had more ice packs than just the one for his shoulder and ankle, since he could use them just about everywhere, but it’ll have to do. 

“Could use a drink after all that,” Joel says, looking at his hands, flexing his fingers. 

“Don’t push it,” you answer, scraping the mess off your kitchen table into a bin. It dawns on you that you do have a half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting in your cabinet that’s surprisingly good. “But now that you mention it….” 

He snorts, the closest thing to a laugh you’ve ever heard. 

You pour a few fingers of whiskey into two glasses, sliding one across the table to him. Neither of you clink glasses, but you do eye each other over the rims of your cups as you take the drink in one go.

Joel places his empty on the table. “I should get out of here.”

“In your shape, it might be better to wait for light.” As much as he won’t admit it, you know he’s still weak, not in his right mind, and vulnerable to any FEDRA agents working the streets. “But I have to sleep, I’ve got work in the morning.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t fight you. 

You curl yourself up on the couch, that is old and worn but still surprisingly comfortable. Joel sits at the table awhile more, and has one more drink. After all the activity of the night, you’re out within minutes. 

Joel drags himself over to the bed, which you’d never offered him directly, but he assumed to take since you were on the couch. He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, but he can’t sit upright in your uncomfortable kitchen chair anymore. Every part of his body aches. Your bed is in the corner, neatly made, even though it’s just threadbare sheets and a blanket. His never is, and he finds it ridiculous you must waste the time at the beginning of your day for something like that.

He sprawls across it, surprised at its comfort. A breeze coming through the open window drifts your curtains to the side, and he catches a glimpse of the full moon. Between the liquor, and the pills, the pain has subsided enough that he’s able to relax a little. The sun will be up soon. He just has to wait…

— — — — — —

The next thing Joel hears is your voice, muffled by the buffer of your front door. He looks at the clock next to your bed, it’s early in the evening. The sunlight trickling through the gaps of your curtains is golden, a slanting orange glow in the corner of the room. The window is closed. Fuck. Did he really sleep all day? He uses his good arm to shield his eyes from the offending light before stretching. 

Sheets on top of him rustle, he must have climbed under them at some point the night before.

It feels like he’s been hit by a freight train, and he groans. Pain drips through him, settles in his shoulder, his side, his head. His mouth is dry, and he sees a full glass of water next to him, two white pills. He couldn’t remember you leaving that morning, but it had to have been you who left them there. Who else would it have been? Without thinking, he indulges. 

There’s a note scrawled on a scrap of paper underneath the pills. He picks it up with his free arm, the other one still wrapped in a sling. 

– Take pain meds

– Ice shoulder, eye, temple, ankle

– Change dressing

– LEAVE

The last word is underlined twice. He exhales, letting his head drop back against the pillows, until it snaps to attention….you’re still outside, but your voice has gotten louder, more animated. You’re talking to someone….no…..you’re raising your voice at someone. He can’t make it out through the door, and for all the bad things he could say based on the nature of your relationship, he knows that you don’t often lose your temper. 

‘I think you should leave,’ he catches the end of what you’re saying and is immediately jolted out of the fog of discomfort, leaving your note on the bedside table.

He’s crosses the room, ignoring the protest of pain from his ankle, hears a man’s voice respond, but just a snippet – ‘stupid fucking bitch’ – and he’s throwing open the door, nearly trampling you, since you’re pressed against the threshold with your arms around your backpack, eyes wide. 

When Joel follows your gaze, he spots a man about your age standing a few feet away, chest puffed out and chin up. 

“Joel,” you say, and he’s taken aback by your tone – relief. He’s never heard you say his name like that. Somewhere, in a small part of his brain he doesn’t want to acknowledge, he thinks he might like to hear you say it again. 

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,” the guy tilts his head back to look up at Joel, giving him a once over, and steps backward in consideration. 

Instead of correcting him, you say nothing. 

“What’s going on here?” Joel asks, and you lower your arms, move your shoulders back, standing up straighter as you turn to look at him.

“Ben was just leaving,” you say. 

“Sounds like a good idea,” Joel answers. His hand instinctively comes to rest on your shoulder – reverent, protective. He knows he’s in no shape to get into a fight right now, but he’s significantly larger than the other man, and figures that alone will be enough of a deterrent.

Ben notices, and nose curls into a snarl, rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever. He’s like…old enough to be your dad,” he mumbles under his breath.

You don’t answer, just stare with contempt as he retreats down the hallway. Once Ben has turned the corner, you step into your place, Joel’s hand falling from your shoulder. 

“Who was that?”

“Just some guy from work,” you say, sounding uninterested, dropping your backpack onto your kitchen table.

“How often does he–?”

“Let’s not get into it,” you shake your head as you pull open the curtains, sunlight casting warmth all over the room, specks of dust glittering in the air. But he wants to know more. He’s tried to ignore all the suffering that isn’t his own since the world went to shit, but he’s at least aware of how dangerous it is to be a woman, living on her own.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here, did you sleep all day?” 

Joel doesn’t answer.

“You probably needed it.”

You disappear into the bathroom, and Joel sees a rush of light through that door, the creak of a window opening. “I brought the antibiotics, they’re in my bag,” you say when you exit, hands on your hips. “You’re not feeling feverish, are you?”

Joel shakes his head no, and sits back down on the bed. 

“Well that’s good,” you go to the counter. “Hey, if you need to shower here, it’s probably better because I can dress your wound before you go. I was actually thinking today about how you would definitely fuck it up if you tried to do it youself.”

He rolls his eyes at the insult, but answers. “That’s fine.”

You’re making yourself something to eat. He notices a polaroid on your bedside table. It’s two kids – a girl and a younger boy, her arms around him – their lips curled into identical smiles. When he looks closer, he realizes the girl is you. 

Please? My brother is sick, he’s in a lot of pain, you had said, on your knees in front of him, swallowing hard. Your fingers were curled in his belt loops, the cold steel button of his jeans pressed into your chin, so close he thought it might leave a permanent mark. In one of your hands was a wad of credits, only a couple short of what he’d asked you for in exchange for the pills. I’ll do anything you want me to.

Of course he wanted you, how could he not? He wondered if you knew that already, and were just trying to take advantage of his weakness. Or maybe you were just that desperate. It didn’t matter either way. He can’t do it. Not like this, he thought. 

No, is his answer.

He stepped backwards, away and you still tried to cling to him. Sensing his reluctance, you continued to talk.  Joel, whatever you want. I’ll do whatever, please…it’s nothing. Eventually, he slipped from your grasp, and you fell back to your heels. He left you there, and he didn’t look back.

The memory is burned into his brain, and has followed him to sleep more times than he’d be willing to admit. He swallows hard, and you’re standing in front of him with an opened jar of applesauce and a spoon against your lips. “Are you looking through my shit?” you ask. 

“It was sitting out.” 

You snatch the photo from his hand so quickly that one of your nails knicks his thumb, shoving it in your back pocket and jerking your head towards the bathroom. “Hurry, I can’t be up late like last night.”

The shower feels nice, even if the pressure is shit and the water is cold. He still has blood caked under his fingernails that he can’t seem to fully eradicate even after scrubbing them against his palms. He slips back into his jeans when he’s done, and he notices a clean shirt has been left on the bed when he exits. 

“You done?” your voice calls. There’s the sound of a book snapping shut, your weight shifting on the couch. “I want my bed back.”

Joel grunts an affirmation, and you round the corner with the tin of medical supplies from the night before, discarding what you were reading on the foot of the bed. “This’ll take two minutes. Let me see.” Pausing in front of him, you press your fingers, a little experimentally, along his ribs, peering closer to examine your work. “Oh, this looks good. It should heal nicely.”

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“Uh-huh, but it’ll get better. Give it time.”

He sits down while you shimmy out of your flannel shirt. You begin to work, quietly, quickly, and at first, he tries to look away, at the top of the bedside table where you’ve placed a bag of antibiotics and a fresh glass of water. The note that was there earlier, with instructions on how to take care of himself in your absence, that also told him to LEAVE, is gone. He gives in and turns back to you, knelt between his legs like it’s nothing, pressing an adhesive bandage across the wound. 

He’s not sure why he had expected you to be cruel. You should be cruel, he knows that, but you aren’t. Your touch is confident, firm, and surprisingly tender. It must be muscle memory, he thinks, because he’s never known you to be sweet. Maybe he hadn’t been paying close enough attention.

“There,” you say, pulling away. “Now, I’d recommend changing that once a day at least, if you can. Take an antibiotic once a day, and make sure you do the full course. Ice your elbow, eye, ankle, all that every couple hours. Also, you should really use a sling for at least a month-”

“No.” He knows he won’t do any of those things, can’t really afford to between work, life, and resources.

“Suit yourself.”

“I will.”

You don’t scoff or roll your eyes at him or try to convince him why he should, and it’s like a peace offering. I could fight you on this, because I’m smart, but I won’t. It’s everything you’re saying, but you’re silent, and you sit on the edge of your bed a foot or two away, poking your fingers into the laces of your boots, untying them. 

“I’m sorry.”

Joel says it before he can stop himself. He can’t remember the last time he’s said those two words.

You balk at him. “For what?” 

Everything. “Your brother.”

“Oh,” you say, focusing back on your feet, pulling them out of your boots and pressing your thumbs into each arch. You shrug, shake your head.  “Yeah, well….I’m just glad he’s not in pain anymore.” 

“Yeah.”

“...And at least it wasn’t….you know…” The infection. 

He nods, takes a beat.

“I should get going,” Joel says, his hands on his knees. “The next time you need something-” 

“Uh-huh,” you cut him off tersely. “Right.”

“All I’m saying is that I owe you one.”

“You really think I believe that, coming from you?” You snort, shake your head, and reach to pat his leg in a patronizing way, until his hand lands atop your own. He thinks it might make him feel better, to see if your reaction to his touch gives anything away. But it doesn’t. Everything about you is rigid, cool. 

“I’m sorry….about that night,” he decides, purposely changing the subject. “But I don’t make exceptions.”

“Right. Then, I guess I’m a fool for doing this,” you gesture towards him, with your free hand - all the work you’d done. 

Joel shakes his head no, fingers tightening around your hand, clasping it hard. He’s sure, or at least he hopes, somehow, you can see it. That this isn’t a jab, that he means it. 

I’m sorry. 

You look down at where his hand is squeezing yours, and he watches your throat work once. 

“No,” he begins. “You just have every reason to hate me.”

A wistful smile crosses your face, but it’s hard to decipher what it means. To him, you’re still unreadable, even staring right at him. Most people avoid Joel’s eyes at all costs, but not you. You slide your hand out from underneath his, and he thinks for a second you’re going to retaliate. His body is facing yours, his hair is still damp, dripping onto his bare skin. It doesn’t stop you from placing your hands on either one of his shoulders, and learning forward. 

The white tank top you’re wearing clings to every curve of your body, except where it’s shifted off your shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. It’s intoxicating to have you this close. You must be able to hear the way his heart picks up, thuds heavy against his ribs, being so close to him.

“You think I hate you…” you say quietly, voice a low murmur, tilting your head, studying him. “That’s why you want me, isn’t it?”

This is why he’s never liked you. That uncanny ability to stare right through him, crack open the camera, spool out the film. 

“Isn’t it?” you prompt, when all he can offer is silence.

Of course it is. It is always easier when hate is involved. Hate bolds the blurry lines, boils everything down to its simplest point – that’s all that this would be, just two people trying to escape, if only for a little bit. And you, he’s sure, would make it so easy. 

“Yes,” he answers, though he’s not sure if he believes it. In this case, hate is just another medium to channel energy through. Passionate energy. True hate, maybe, would be your indifference. And neither of you are indifferent.

“Well….” you lean forward, your lips are nearly touching. He’s still frozen. “Maybe I do hate you.”

It’s a beat before anything happens, a few seconds of uninterrupted eye contact, your eyes have darkened, pupils wide. 

He pounces on you, ignoring the scream of soreness through his body as he cups both sides of your face, his tongue already scraping on your teeth, swallowing the surprised noise you make, which he finds ridiculous because what did you think was going to happen, talking to him like that?

But you can’t be that shocked, because your arms have tightened around his shoulders, you’re pulling him closer, he’s pulling you closer. A tightrope, about to snap. 

He wraps himself around you protectively, you feel so small there, he’s aware how easily he could break you, but he won’t. Or at least…he’ll try not to. 

You break away first. “Fuck.”

Your lips are full, wet, flush, parted, and you’re panting. He pulls you back against him, and you oblige, much more pliant this time, letting him claim you. Two sets of hands fumbling for purchase. 

“I do want you.”

“Then have me.”

He pulls you onto his lap, still sitting on the edge of the bed, and it’s shameful how easily you move there, settle your weight across his hips. You’re warm, so warm…too warm. His skin pricks.

Your hands thread into his hair and tug, it’s heavenly. He’s not used to being touched like this.. Grinding down, you find him already already rock hard – he has been since you were knelt in front of him cleaning his stitches, but he’d been trying to ignore it – and he moans. “You like that?” 

He hums into your mouth, agreeable. Yes. 

Joel wants to touch you, won’t be satisfied if he can’t, and he tugs at the hem of your shirt. You pull back, just for a split second to pull it over your head. It takes him a moment, but he still remembers how to unclasp a bra with one hand, and you’re bare before him. All he has to do is run a calloused palm up your spine and you’re arching your body closer, until he can mouth at your breasts. 

You sigh as he cups, squeezes, pinches. Latches onto one of your nipples and grazes his teeth over it, watching you closely….your eyes closed, head falling back, murmuring. Yes.

What he wants to do is to lift you up, spin you around, and press your back against the mattress. He wants to spread you open across the bed, put his head between your thighs and lave at you like a man starved. He wants to hear every way you can cry, moan, whimper his name as his tongue works your clit, fingers in your cunt, washing over him. Of course, he’d go gentle at first – not too gentle – but gentle enough, work you up. He wants to dangle you over the ledge, hold you there until you’re begging to be let go. And after you finally come, pulsing around his fingers, he’d wrap your legs around his hips and fuck you into the mattress until you do it again. After the first time, he thinks, it’d be even easier to get you to do it again. And again. Would you face his steely gaze head on, eyes fluttering? Would your nails scrape track marks down his back? Would you stifle a moan by sinking your teeth into the pulse point on his neck? He wants to- no, needs to know.

But he’s weak right now, and can’t do any of that. He’ll settle for what he can get.

Your fingers are twisting the button on his pants. “Come on,” you murmur. 

“You shouldn’t want me,” he warns.

“I know.” But I still do.

Your hand is down his pants, and he shifts his weight backwards to wiggle further out of them. It’s far more hurried than either of you deserve. You don’t even attempt to tease him through his boxers first, your hand wrapping around him in one swift and confident movement. 

Hissing, Joel sees you duck your head, feels the press your lips against his neck, his cock jumping in your grip as you run your thumb over the head, pump him once.

“You’re so big,” your voice is all breathy and soft, the sound of it has him growing even more frantic. He tugs at the loops on the side of your jeans. 

“Take these off.”

Yes. There’s no protest.

It’s torture when you leave his lap, for the brief time you do, his gaze tracing the curve of your ass as you wriggle out of your pants, then your panties, and when your return to him, he holds you closer.

“I knew you’d be so fucking good for me.”

“Did you?” It's playful, breathless, your arms around his neck. The lightest he’s ever heard you. 

You’re wet, already dripping onto him, and he dips a finger between your thighs, sliding it through your slickness, dipping into you just so, enjoying the noises you make before withdrawing. It’s a shame he can’t take his time. He’s too impatient. One of his hands he uses to guide his cock to your cunt, and the other he uses to steady your hips. His head drops to watch himself sink into you. 

The stretch of him inside you makes your toes curl, you’re already pulsing around him and he hasn’t even given you everything.

“Fuck,” Joel whispers your name when he feels you around him, all-encompassing and overwhelming. “So fucking good.”

You’re whining, but it’s unintelligible, your head bobbing into an enthusiastic nod, teeth snagging your lower lip. When he’s reached the hilt, you pause only for a moment before you begin to move on your own accord. Experimental rolls of your hips, not drawing back far at all, keeping him deep inside you, rutting and writhing with no reprieve. He thinks he might come right then and there, it’s been so long, and it’s you. This young, pretty thing who – if this whole fucking world hadn’t gone to shit – wouldn’t have looked twice at him before. It’s just another injustice – that you’re going to let someone like him ruin you.

You begin to bounce on him, dragging yourself along his length. “That’s a good fucking girl,” he groans. “Just like that.” 

“It’s so…fuck, Joel, you feel-”

“I know.” He answers, partially in agreement, and partially to shut you up. If you keep saying his name like that, it’s not going to end well. 

He tries as best as he can to answer your hips with ruts of his own, but it’s sloppy, erratic. The whole thing is, and he wants to curse himself because it really shouldn’t be, just like he shouldn’t be thinking about what he’ll do differently next time. 

It’s the first time he’s been with you, so he doesn’t know what it feels like when you’re getting close, but you’re throbbing and pulsing around him, your breathy pants and soft sighs start sounding more desperate. 

You’re so fucking wet he can hear it, can feel it seeping out, dripping down his balls onto the mattress. He realizes one of his hands is just clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm, trying his hardest not to come before you do. All he wants is to give you something, a chance to make up for everything that he’s taken.

“More,” you murmur, you don’t even seem to remember, or care, that he’s hurt. That you’d spent hours the night before after he’d been torn apart, putting him back together. “More, please.” 

His lips quirk into a boyish smile, something you’ve never seen before. He likes you like this, begging, desperate, sweet. “Don’t laugh,” but your lips are quirking, too, and you fucking nuzzle against his beard to hide it.

“I’m not - fuck.”

The shower was useless, he’s already sweating again, but so are you, and he trails his tongue across your neck to taste it, then unclenches his fist, moving it between your legs. He takes your clit between his knuckles, circling it carefully, steadily, while his cock keeps hitting the same, soft spot over and over again. 

You can’t get enough. “Harder, Joel…please.”

Of course, he obliges. And he’s lucky, because he doesn’t have to do much more. You slow, legs shaking, and you’re suddenly so tight around him he can’t move. “That’s it, baby, come on, so fucking good…” he would, is, saying anything to feel you. His name is a mewl on your lips, the rubber-band snaps, and you come around him, pressing every part of yourself against the hard line of his torso. He aches, it’s the sweetest torture he’s ever known. 

He knows, because he’s going to fuck you through it, has to, that he will not last any longer. 

“Where?” he pants, and you’re still peaking, gasping, grabbing. 

“Inside me,” you answer. “Please, inside me.”

He’s too lost in the moment to consider the consequences. Doesn’t care about them at all. When he comes, you groan at the feeling of him fucking you full, cunt still squeezing him, not as tightly as before, but still apparent.

The last bit of arousal is still waning, and he leans back to lie on the bed, pulling you with him. You fall to his chest, hands pressing lightly to adjust your position, suddenly aware again of the wound beneath his ribs, the bruises on his shoulder, settling so you’re pressed against his side, his arm still loose around your waist.

Neither of you say anything for a long time, and he notices your legs are trembling. 

We shouldn’t have done that, he wants you to say, as you should. But you show no signs of remorse.

Before all this, when he was a different man, he would’ve helped clean you up after. He would have soothed you in the aftermath; stroked your hair, peppered kisses along your neck, your cheeks, pulled you close so you could fall asleep in his arms. He can’t now, because you’re smart and you’d know what it means, but the guilt gnaws at him. 

When you sit up, pulling your shirt back over your head, sliding on your panties, and walking towards the bathroom, he imagines you think you’re doing him a favor. You are, in a way. Or maybe, you’re resisting the same impulse that he is.

You return a few minutes later, wrapped in a tattered robe, and climb next to him on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows, then looking down at him. Between the combination of being tired, stiff, and fucked-out, he still hasn’t moved. 

“Don’t you think Tess is worried about where you are?” You bend your knees back and cross your ankles. 

“She knows I can take care of myself.”

Your eyebrow quirks. Can you? Joel turns away and stares up at the water-damaged ceiling panels.

“You should probably go.” 

His head snaps back towards you. He thinks of every person over the last twenty years he’d said the equivalent to after sex, and wonders if it made them feel as nauseous as he does hearing those words from your mouth.

The feeling fades – only a little – when you reach over to press your palm to the side of his face, cupping his cheek, before tenderly moving a piece of damp hair off his forehead, nails scraping against his scalp.

He lets his eyes close just for a beat, before nodding and sitting up. “Thank you,” he says, and he’s not sure what for. All of it, he supposes.

“Uh-huh,” you roll over, reaching to grab your book that had fallen to the floor at some point during your coupling, while he pulls on his clothes, laces up his boots, and takes the antibiotics from your bedside table.

Joel takes one last look at you, already engrossed in your reading, and then walks to the door.

“You know where to find me, if you need anything.”

You look up, nod, and he’s gone.

— — — — — —

part ii

[not-my-final-account]

Danny is Gotham

The entire Justice League lay prone on the ground, some mutated Lex Luthor laughed above all of us, power flowed through his veins and I shivered. Even thoughs of us without magic origins could feel the power eminating off of him now. Zeus save us, I prayed.

Then a small green glow caught my eye. Batman? His wounds were stitching themselves together and his blood turned green, his normally white eyes also went green. He stood up wobbily then steadied himself, he jumped Luthor with streangth beyond that of a humans. His cape glowed with constellations and where there should be shadows there was glowing green light, he beat fought with Luthor for at least half an hour. Then he won. Won against who was effectively a god at this point.

Batman collapsed onto his knees, then onto all fours as the green drained from him. His teeth shrunk back down, his cape stopped billowing in imaginary wind, exaustion suddenly over took his body language. Despite this he tried to push himself back up, his arms shook but his teeth clenched and if there was anything I knew about Batman it was that he didn’t give up.

“Rest.” a voice said and Batman looked up but stopped struggling. Batman coughed something out that sounded like ‘moth ham’ which was strange “Heal my knight. For what it matters, I’m proud of you.” the voice said, this time a figure acompanied it, snow white hair and eyes that glowed the same green as Batmans had moments ago. But the black blurring the edges of my vision meant I couldn’t make out anything else about them,

Who was that? Persephone?

Somehow that seemed right, leading two very different lives. Like black and white. Or in this case black and green.

That doesn’t matter though, Batman trusted them, good enough for me, the black seemes really good right now.

[ghost-cinnamon]

I wanted to crochet Error and that’s what I did. I’m pretty proud of him

If you want to crochet him as well I attached my pattern below. Have fun crocheting

Abbreviations:

Rd - Round

R - Row

ch - chain

ss - slip stitch

dec - decrease

inc - increase

sc - single crochet

hdc - half double crochet

dc - double crochet

trc - treble/triple crochet

blo - back loops only

[…] x 2/3/6 - repeat what is inside the brackets 2/3/6 times

(…) - number of stitches that round should have

Legs x2

Rd1: 6sc into Magic Ring

Rd2: 6 inc

Rd3: [1sc, inc]x6

Rd4-18: sc around

don’t tie off the second leg, connect it to the other leg with a ss

Rd19-30: sc around (36sc)

Rd31: 2sc, Dec, 5sc, Dec, sc,Dec, 6sc, Dec,6sc, Dec, sc, Dec,3sc

Rd32: 8sc, 3dec,7sc, 3dec, 3sc

Rd33: 7sc, 2dec, 2sc, 2dec, 2sc, 2dec, 1sc

Rd34: [1sc, Dec]x6

Rd35: sc around (12sc)

3sc to middle of the back and change color to black

Rd36: [1sc, inc] x6

Rd37: [2sc, inc] x6

Rd38: [3sc, inc] x6

Rd39: [4sc, inc] x6

Rd40: [5sc, inc] x6

Rd41: [6sc, inc] x6

Rd42: [7sc, inc] x6

Rd43-47: sc around

Rd48: [7sc, Dec] x6

Rd49: sc around

Rd50: [6sc, Dec] x6

Rd51: sc around

Rd52: [5sc, Dec] x6

Rd53: [4sc, Dec] x6

Rd54: [3sc, Dec] x6

Rd55: [2sc, Dec] x6

Rd56: [1sc, Dec] x6

Rd57: 6 Dec

Arms x2

Rd1: 6sc into Magic ring

Rd2: 6 inc

Change color to red

Rd3: sc around

Change color to black

Rd4-5: sc around

Change color to red

Rd6-18: sc around

Sew body together and add the face

Pants

Rd1: ch31

Rd2: ss into first chain, 30sc

Rd3-4: sc around

Change color to black

Rd5: [8sc, Dec] x3

Rd6: sc around

Rd7: [7sc, Dec] x3

Rd8-10: sc around

Don’t tie off the second pant leg

Connect with ss to other pant leg

Rd11-12: sc around

Rd13: [14sc, Dec] x3

Rd14: [13sc, Dec] x3

Rd15: [12sc, Dec] x3

Rd16: [11sc, Dec] x3

Shirt

Panels

R1: ch19

R2-12: 18sc, ch1, turn

Rd13: 16sc, ch1, turn

Rd14: 14sc, ch1, turn

Sleeves

Rd1: ch13

Rd2: ss into first chain, 12sc

Rd3-16: sc around

Neck

Rd1: ch25

Rd2: ss into first chain, 24sc

Rd3: sc around

Sew everything together

(The neck piece doesn’t have the same amount of stitches as the panels+sleeves so you’ll have to use some stitches twice when sewing it on)

Scarf

R1: ch6

R2-80: 5sc, ch1, turn

Jacket

Sleeves x 2

Rd1: ch25

Rd2: ss into first chain, 24sc

Rd3-4: sc around

Rd5: 12sc, ch1, turn, 10sc, ch1, turn, 8sc, ch1, turn, 6sc, ch1, turn, 6sc

Change color to black

Rd5: 14sc to end of round

Rd6: sc around

Rd7: [6sc, Dec] x3

Rd8: [5sc, Dec] x3

Rd9: sc around

Rd10: 12sc, ch1, turn, 9sc, ch1, turn, 7sc, ch1, turn, 5sc, ch1, turn, 5sc

Rd10: 8sc to end of round

Rd11: sc around (18)

Back panel

R1: ch22

R2-16: 21sc, ch1, turn

R17: 18sc, ch1, turn, 15sc, ch1, turn, 15sc, ch1, turn, 2dc, 2hdc, 7sc, 2hdc, 2dc

Front panels x 2

R1: ch9

R2-16: 8sc, ch1, turn

R17: 5sc, ch1, turn, 5sc, ch1, turn, sc, 2hdc, 2dc

Collar piece

R1: ch37

R2: 2sc, 1hdc, 1dc, 1trc, ch3, 2ss, ch3, 22trc, ch3, 2ss, ch3, 1trc, 1dc, 1hdc, 2sc

Change color to yellow

R3: 5sc, ch1, 8sc, ch1, 22sc,ch1, 8sc, ch1, 5sc

Sew everything together and stitch the details on

Slippers x 2

Rd1: 6sc into magic ring

Rd2: 6 inc

Rd3: [1sc, inc] x6

Rd4: [2sc, inc] x6

Rd5: blo 10sc, ch1, turn, 10sc, ch1, turn, 10sc

Sew onto body

Now just dress your Error and finished

This is my first pattern so if there are things that aren’t clear you’re free to ask me about it and I’ll try to clear things up. Have fun :)

I have now also crocheted Ink. You can find the pattern here

[oneforthemunny]

I'd imagine that every time Halloween rolls around, Rockstar!Eddie and Nepo Baby are on the cover of at least one magazine with a spooky Halloween photoshoot. I'm seeing a werewolf eating (out) a fair maiden. Or a pregnant Nepo Baby tied to a table and a Rockstar!Eddie getting ready to sacrifice her. Or them recreating a scene from the biggest horror movie of the year.

Only over the years, as the kids accumulate, it goes from Playboy to Parade. And instead of tits with fang punctures, you've got a line of tots in skeleton pajamas.

(This was originally meant to be a blurb prompt and I got carried away so now I think it's more just a Spooky Thought I had to share with you. Whatever, Happy First Day of Fall! 😂)

oneforthemunny's spooky stories: rockstar!eddie x reader's time warp

or how halloween looks through the years for rockstar!eddie and nepo baby!reader :) ps pics below are for inspo that i used not specific more of just how the photos looked or what the idea was based off of!

October 31st, 1992

“Look at you.” Eddie grinned, dimples and shining eyes when they rolled over your frame. “My bride.” 

That you were, both in and out of costume. It was the only recognizable part of yourself right now, your engagement ring. Your skin had been tinged a pale green, the SFX artist made your ‘gashes’ and ‘stitches’ look far too real for your liking. Tonight, you were the bride of Frankenstein, instead of Munson. 

“Look at you.” You pouted, eyes rolling over his costume. Not Frankenstein, but… a vampire? “What-What are you wearing?” You huff, throwing an arm out at his costume. “We’re supposed to be Frankenstein and-” 

“-Technically, it’s Frankenstein’s monster.” Eddie grinned, fake fangs making his smile more sinister looking. “I had a last minute change. Dracula and Bride of Frankenstein together? That’s scandalous. So much better, baby, believe me. No one’s done this before.” 

You rolled your eyes, shifting the torn white dress to cover yourself. “When did you change your mind? While I was in makeup for six hours?” 

Eddie laughed, hands running down your skin. “I like your hair.” He muttered. “Think you should do this more often. Pretty metal look for you, baby.” 

“Yeah?” You hum, running a hand lightly over the electrified updo. “Too bad it’s a wig. Maybe I’ll keep it. Put it in the dungeon for you, when you want to get really weird and freaky.” 

“I always wanna get really weird and freaky with you.” Eddie growled, a low rasp in his tone that had your knees shaking. His lips ducked down towards yours, the fake blood around his mouth making your stomach turn. 

“No,” You shake your head. “Get these pictures first, then you can kiss me. I’m not sitting in makeup again, Munson, my ass was falling asleep. I was sitting there for so long.” 

“I can help you with that.” Eddie growled, a playful smack to your barely covered backside that had you shrilling, glaring at him through white contacts. 

October 31st, 1993

“You can barely even see the bump.” You huff, cradling your bare stomach in the mirror. “It just looks like I’m bloated.” 

“You’re out of your mind.” Eddie shook his head, inked hands cradling your torso. “You look so pretty.” 

Your lips settle in a pout, turning to the side, pushing your stomach out further in the pink, frilly lingerie from the 60’s. The sheer robe tied at your collarbones, flowing over your frame beautifully, parting so your belly could poke out. It wasn’t the pregnancy announcement you expected to have, but a fun one, regardless. One that would leave a shocking impression when it was sent to the press. 

Eddie’s ‘costume’ hung around his waist, arms crossed over his bare, tattooed chest. You grinned at the green, scaly suit- designed to subtly resemble Creature From The Black Lagoon’s monster. 

You smirked to yourself, looking at Eddie through the mirror. “My parents are going to hate this.” You grin, nearly proud. It made Eddie’s heart skip. 

“Good.” Eddie snorted with an eye roll. “Not their baby. Not their choice.” He shrugged, hands roaming protectively over your soft, stretched skin. “Victor shouldn’t hate it too much, right? It’s a movie reference, at least.” 

You laughed lightly. “True, and I’m… more covered than last time, right?” You grin, smoothing your hand over your exposed skin. 

“Definitely, much more reserved than last time.” Eddie grinned, chin hooking over your shoulder. “We have to be more appropriate, Button, now that we’re going to be parents.” Eddie mocked your father’s posh, droning tone, quoting what Victor nagged about over the last brunch you had together- a month ago when you told them you were expecting. 

Eddie’s lips pursed at the pinch still unfaltering in your brows, hands still smoothing over your belly. “Hey, look at me.” Eddie rasped, hand cradling your jaw gently, pulling your eyes to meet his. Those soft eyes that made your heart skip a beat every time you found yourself in their gaze. 

“Fuck ‘em, alright? This isn’t their baby, it’s our baby.” Eddie muttered. “You wanna do this? We don’t have to. I’ll tell them all to go fuck off if you want me to. Or we can do something different. Do the Mummy things if you want to. Just say the word. Your call-” 

“Ed.” The smile he’d been looking for graced your face finally. “I still want to do the photos. I’m just… I’m having a moment. I’m hormonal, and-and I’m just having a moment.” 

Eddie grinned, plush lips pressing a kiss to your nose. “Have a moment. You look hot, though.” 

“Thanks.” You muttered, eyes fluttering to look up at him through the strip of false lashes. “Not bloated?” 

Eddie snorted. “Definitely not. Very pregnant. Very, very hot.” 

October 31st, 1994 

“Ed, is she looking?” You say through a smile, eyes still trained on the camera. 

“No, she keeps looking at you.” Eddie huffed, lowering the camera. “Looking at your webs.” 

No crew this time, oh no, Eddie wanted to do it all on his own. The set up wasn’t elaborate, but your costume was. The Black Widow, finished with webs that attached to your dress, hung around you for the perfect dramatic effect Eddie was looking for. In your arms, your little itsy bitsy spider, Persephone. 

“Sephy,” Eddie cooed. “Fuck, babe, where’s the rattle thing? The lamb?” 

“I grabbed it. Look behind you.” You nodded, cradling Persephone closely, her little hands reaching for you and pulling the fake spider arms with her. “You’re just a pretty little spider, aren’t you? The cutest little spider!” 

“Found it!” The camera bounced on Eddie’s chest, shooting you a dimpled grin that had you flushing. “Look at me, Sephy! Look at Daddy!” 

You fixed her in your arms, cradling her to your side. “Is she looking?” 

“Yes, she is!” Eddie lilted in that babbling baby talk that had your heart swelling. “Look at my little spider. That’s so good, look at Daddy!” 

“You sure you don’t want to be in this one?” You asked, hoisting Sephy up higher into your arms, swaying her lightly. 

“Nah,” Eddie shook his head, looking down at the camera, pulling out the film. “Just wanna look at you, baby.” He winked. 

October 31st, 1999

“Kensie,” You coo, looking down at the red faced four year old, desperately trying to keep her from tearing off her ears, two fuzzy clips that mimicked a cute werewolf. “We just need to take a couple of photos, and then we can change and go Trick-or-Treating, I promise.” 

“I wanna go no-o-ow!” Kensie wailed, a piercing sob that had you cringing, the twins stirring in their black bassinet prop. 

“Kensington,” Eddie grit, adjusting Persephone’s cape. “Trick-or-Treating hasn’t even started. There’s nothing out there right now. No candy.” 

You glared at him lightly, though Kensie’s sniffles did ease. “No?” She asked, head tilting to the side sweetly. 

Eddie shook his head, green painted frown softening lightly. “No, baby. Doesn’t start until six. We have plenty of time.” 

“Better quit frowning, baby.” You hum, tapping your finger on Eddie’s creasing forehead paint. 

This year's theme was a take on the classic, creepy show from the 60’s. What better way to celebrate your still growing family than this? Everyone else was favoring the Addams Family this year, but not the Munson’s- Munster’s. 

“Are you ready, Mrs. Munson?” Phil asked, looking up from his camera at you. 

You nodded, fixing your dress while you stood next to Eddie, one hand on the bassinet. “You think they can tell?” You grit through your smile, your dress snug when you turn towards him. 

“No.” Eddie gritted back, eyes flickering down to your abdomen, just starting to swell with baby number five. “You look good, baby, always do.”

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 34 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

In the giant walk-in closet John enlists your help in putting on a sharp black suit.You are supposed to be helping him with his buttons, but you just can’t stop kissing him while he stands before you like this, his tailored pants undone, his shirttails loose. '

His chest is a constellation of bruises, and you can’t stop yourself from pressing your lips to them. “Baby…” he sighs, his head tilted back for your ministrations, his long fingers sliding into your hair. “It’s ok. I’m ok. I’m used to this.”

Somehow, he knows there are tears in your eyes. He always knows. And even though you know what he says is technically true– you've seen his scars– it does not soothe you. 

“I just…don’t want you to be hurt anymore,” you say, perhaps stupidly. Yet the sentiment seems to move him, as he pulls you close with arms around your back.

“I feel pretty good, actually,” he says, a warmth in his eyes that quickens your heart. 

With your hands on his bare chest, you run your fingers over a nasty purpling bruise just below his collarbone. “I can’t fathom how that’s possible.”

Yet when he turns your face up to his with gentle fingers, the unsaid truth rings in the air between you. You stayed. It seems there are things he’s not willing to say aloud yet either. That’s fine. More than understandable. There is more important business you need to attend anyway…like staying alive. 

So when John begins to back you up with hands on your waist, pressing you into the wall, you aren’t proud of the ridiculous little sound that escapes you. It’s only been a week. You should not need him this much. 

But, you do. 

“John…” you scold, sounding utterly convincing as your eyes flutter closed, his lips on your neck. “You’re going to tear your stitches.”

“Then you’d better be gentle with me.” You can hear the smile in his words. 

“I thought you said we’re in a hurry…” you try again, even breathier than before. You’re trying to be gentle, but your hands wander on their own, around the gap in his waistband, your fingertips dipping in to find the firm curve of the top of his buttocks.  

He huffs with laughter against your skin, pressing you into the wall with his solid weight, the bulge of his manhood deliciously hard against you. “I’m not going to last long,” he admits, and you realize he is laughing at himself. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

I was right here.

You manage to restrain yourself from saying it, because you sense a sort of truce has arisen between the two of you that you do not want to shatter again. You realize that you’re not proud of how desperately you want to go back to the way they were before, when things were good between you. You want morning coffee, and dinners you cook together, and lovemaking on the couch in between reading a book. You just…want the locks on the doors open, is all. 

Is it really such an ask?

And maybe…no one breaking into the house trying to kill you both. That would be nice. 

You know there’s no dissuading him, when he’s in this mood. And…you don’t want him to stop, if you’re being completely honest. You’d be a liar, if you said the sight of him looking at you like this, expectant, vulnerable, his eyes filled with longing, after being without him for what ridiculously felt like an eternity, didn’t make your pussy pulse and ache, your clit singing to life.

You had since changed from your bloodied silk pajamas into a simple t-shirt and panties, unsure of what you were wearing for this mysterious location John intended to go. His fingertips tracing the outside of your thigh, up to the elastic over your hip, makes your flesh quiver. 

Those long, questing fingers push aside the thin barrier of fabric between your legs, finding you soaking wet for him already. It wins you a moan from deep in his throat; a sound that lifts every little hair on your body. You clench around his fingers, already on the edge of orgasm, your need for him is so sharp, so aching. 

“You missed me?” 

The answer seems so obvious, but the fragility in his tone ties up your heartstrings. No matter what he saw or heard in your week apart on his camera in the bedroom, he needs to hear it from you. 

“So much,” you admit, throwing your self-respect out the window, along with your sanity. 

“Mmm.” His forehead presses to yours, and there are questions you know you should ask him. Important ones. But your brain has stopped functioning, and he will not let you get away, with two fingers buried in your cunt and his thumb upon your sensitive clit, moving slowly back and forth. 

“Wait,” you keen, clenching upon those beautiful big fingers, but he only shakes his head, sucking delicately at the sensitive skin behind your ear. 

This was the last thing he needed to be doing. You needed to be taking care of him. But here he was, stubborn as ever, making you see stars. “Let me have it, y/n. Need to feel you cum for me.” He pins you with his penetrating dark eyes locked with yours, just as much as his large body caging you in and his hand upon you. His thumb presses down on your button, firm, knowing. Because you’re his, a little voice inside your head sings out, and the thought as much as his touch sends you careening over the edge, a ragged sound torn from your throat, your head rocking back into the wall. The crackling fury of the pleasure lifts you to your tiptoes, and he keeps touching you until you absolutely writhe with overstimulation, tugging at his wrist completely ineffectually. 

You feel his satisfied smile against your cheek, as the world returns into focus, and you can hear again past your heartbeat and your labored breathing. When at last you’re able to open your eyes you find him looking at you with that black-diamond glitter in his eyes, and a tenderness that nearly breaks you all over again. 

With your hand splayed on his chest you push gently. “Sit down,” you tell him, and he lifts one of those dark eyebrows at you. 

Even bruised and battered, a cut on his cheek and the bridge of his nose and a scrape on his chin, he’s so handsome it hurts. 

Once upon a time, he might have laughed at your command and continued to do exactly what he pleased with you. But tonight, maybe for the first time since you’ve met him, he actually does as he’s told, lowering himself to the padded bench in the center of the closet. It’s meant as a seat for putting on one’s shoes…but that’s not what you intend to do with it by half.

You brush his hair back gently, tracing the shell of his ear. His eyes slide closed, leaning into your touch, and there’s nothing you want more in that moment, than to make all his hurt go away. “Thank you,” you whisper. 

His eyes crack open minutely for you. “For what?” It’s as though he really can’t fathom what you mean. 

“For saving us.”

His eyes slide closed again, as though against some thought he cannot bear. “I was so afraid…” he admits. “That they would make their way up here to you.”

“But they didn’t,” you assure him, still sliding your fingers through his silky hair. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

He gives that bitter huff of laughter that makes him wince. “The last one might have…if not for you.”

“Mmm hmm.” You really don’t take killing a man so casually–but you are still numb, and John is the focus of your universe. Later it will all come crashing in. “See what a good team we make?” you ask, pulling your t-shirt over your head. He is eye-level with your bosom–he buries his face in your cleavage, resting his cheek in the mounded flesh of your breasts. The gesture seems more in the pursuit of comfort, than sex.

“Are you…suggesting we do things like this more often?” he quips into your cleavage.

“Just that you don’t lock me away again.” You realize how utterly batfuck insane this conversation would sound to an outsider. Maybe you really have lived in your own little world with John for too long, but it doesn’t matter to you. All that matters is the two of you, now, and you sense that maybe, just maybe on the horizon lays a glimpse of a possibility that maybe this thing between you could still arrive at a place where you could both be happy. 

“What a forward suggestion,” he deadpans. It takes you a moment to realize that he is, in fact, teasing you, in a way that suggests he knows that his behavior was not exactly kosher. He sighs, kissing the soft flesh of the top of your breast. Even after the bone-melting orgasm he just gave you, it makes a shiver roll down your spine. “I needed to think.” 

Your grip in his hair tightens as you remember the absolute agony you’d put yourself through, locked away for the week that felt infinite in its agony. You’re not sure what to say to that, that won’t immediately start a fight. 

Maybe he senses the spike in your pulse against his ear, because his hands glide up the curve of your back soothingly.

“And then…” he goes on. “I was…working on something. For you.”

This raises your eyebrows, and again you have to bite your tongue. Because you didn’t want more gifts, or surprises. All you’d wanted was him. 

You turn his face up to yours, catching his lips in a kiss that curls your bare toes. It wins you a moan from deep in his throat; a sound that lifts every little hair on your body. 

“John…” Your voice is hushed, hoarse, caught in your throat. “I would have preferred to just have you.”

He closes his eyes to that, as though you’ve bestowed some healing balm. 

“You’ve got me, baby. I’m sorry.” You feel like he means…for so much more than just your most recent stint in solitary. Your lip quivers, and now you are the one pressing your forehead to his, as though you can transfer your feelings to him through this touch. “I’m sorry you had to do…what you had to do. I never wanted to expose you to this part of my world. I thought I could make us a safe little oasis here…fucking christ was I wrong.”

“It’s going to be ok.”

Mostly, you even believe it.

He cranes his gaze up to you, and you see the doubt in his eyes. It breaks your heart all over again.

“You sound so certain.”

“I believe in you, John.”

Again, his lids slide closed, as though he just can’t absorb what you’ve said with eyes wide open. This man has been through Hell and back, and in this moment a ringing clarity settles over you. You resolve to do your best to carry him through this crisis, as best as you can. After you make it through–you’ll take care of yourself. You make yourself this promise–or tell yourself this lie–so that you can do what you need to do to help him survive. What will come after…you’ll worry about it when you get there.

If you get there.   

You start by sliding to your knees, and expressing your appreciation with your eager mouth on his torso, making your way to his beautiful cock. For once he lets you have your way with him, leaning back and enjoying your ministrations without bossing you once, moaning deliciously as you free him into your hand, and take his luscious tip into your mouth. His grasping hand in your hair sends thrills down your spine, a heady mix of triumph and adoration spreading like a warm drug through your veins, and you take him as far as you can into your mouth. 

He was right–he doesn’t last long at all.

***

You finally get around to helping John dress in a very sharp black suit, buttoning his shirt, threading his belt about his trim waist, and helping him affix various holsters for guns, ammo clips, and knives. It’s still distracting, having his body under your hands, even in the afterglow of your life-affirming midnight  delight. You keep kissing him between affixing his buttons, and he growls against your mouth in a way that raises every hair on your body, in the best way this time. “If we weren’t in such a hurry…” he tells you with that deliciously dangerous glint in his eye. 

“Behave,” you tell him, smoothing his lapels. You step back to take in the end result, sighing. “God, you look good.”

He lifts a cut-bisected eyebrow to that, amused. “I don’t look like a beat up old man?”

This again. You are going to lock that joke up in a box and keep it there. You’d only ever meant to tease him, not hurt him.  

“No. You look like a dark dream, and I want to fuck you silly all over again but we don’t have time. What the hell should I wear?”

He laughs at your obvious frustration, winces because it hurts him, and kisses you with toe-curling sweetness before helping you pick out an appropriate outfit for your destination. Dark pants, semi-sensible pumps, and a kevlar vest underneath your blouse. 

You are both dressed to the nines. 

You pack up the Rover with cases of your things. On your part, clothes so nice you never had occasion to actually wear them in the house. On John’s part, his bags are filled with as many guns as they are garments. Dog spreads out across the back seat like this is old hat, going on an adventure again.

It is with a surprising sadness that you pull out of the garage of the cabin manse in the Rover, watching it diminish in your rearview. That house has been your prison for months, and yet…there were so many good moments there too. You find you wouldn’t mind coming back, as long as the doors are not locked to you. 

You drive on the highway through the wee hours, until you reach the bridge, and the lights of what all you small town yokels call The Big City greet you. Towers of glittering lights, big water–and drivers who seem like they are bent on murder just as intently as reaching their destination. It’s easier somehow, to drive defensively behind the wheel of the Range Rover, rather than the few times you’ve done it in your tiny Toyota SUV.

You realize with some amusement that you don’t even know where your car is at the moment. It doesn’t really matter. 

You follow John’s directions through Manhattan, until you arrive at a unique sliver of a building that looks like new construction made to look old. You pull up for the valet, and follow John’s instructions of immediately standing on the first step of The Continental hotel. It’s like the safe base in a game of tag from hell, he’d told you.

You want to go to the passenger side to help John. However, he stands tall, moving better than he had at the house, barely showing sign of injury. You’re impressed until you see the tightness of pain at the corners of his eyes, then you realize he’s putting up a hell of a front. 

He’d warned you to show no weakness here. 

Don’t smile at anyone, or for God’s sakes I’ll have to fight off the whole fucking hotel. 

You think he was joking, but you take playing it cool seriously. In the Big Apple, you know everyone wants a bite out of you. You’ve got to be ready to bite back. 

John lets the red-suited and copiously tattooed bell boys get your bags, which tells you loads about how he’s really feeling. “Mr. Wick?” one of them dares address him. “We’d heard…you were dead?”

John just looks at the kid, not really smiling, but not brushing him off either. “Guess not,” he finally answers, and the boys all share a grin.

“Welcome back.”

John doesn’t exactly groan, but you read the weariness in his expression all too well.

“Thanks.”

John offers you his arm, and together you stride through the doors, Dog at your heels, feeling as though you are stepping through a time portal back into his old life.

At the front desk it feels like he’s speaking in code, so cordial and formulated it’s almost painful. After securing your room he asks, “Is the manager in?”

“He’s expecting you for breakfast on the rooftop, Mr. Wick.”

All you really want is to sleep, but you sense this too is part of some crucial ritual.

One of the bellboys takes your bags up to your room.

John inclines his head to you to follow him. You walk at his side, trying not to gawk like a fucking tourist at the opulent Art Deco lobby, or the people who bustle through this waystation for the Underworld, even at this hour of the early morn. 

The people are interesting, to say the least. Some dressed as though ready for a board meeting, excluding their neck tattoos, and some as though ready for a posh punk concert.

You feel the eyes upon you, and you know it has more to do with the legend of the man who you are with, more than yourself.  

“Winston really outdid himself with the rebuild,” comments John once you are headed up in the elevator. He’d told you about how during their war with the High Table the original New York Continental had been destroyed. 

“Does it stand up to the old one?”

John sighs. “I think my sentimentality prevents me from giving that an honest answer. And…I’d hoped I’d never have to come back here.”

You nod, looking around. Even the doors have ornate Deco metalwork caging you in. “It all looks pretty fucking rad to me,” you say under your breath, pulling a small smile from the corner of John’s mouth.  

“I’ll be sure to tell Winston you said that.”

“Oh God.”

He laughs a little, and winces. Immediately you feel guilty. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he sighs, and as the door opens he leads you with a hand on the small of your back out onto the rooftop terrace of the New York Continental. Dawn is just breaking over the rooftops of Manhattan–the view from so high is breathtaking. 

Winston Scott is every bit the dapper gentleman you expected, after hearing John speak of him so many times. 

“Jonathan,” greets the manager with a handshake and a smile that seems to hold genuine warmth. “Always a pleasure, though I regret the circumstances.”

“Same,” answers Wick. 

“And who do you have here?”

“Winston, this is y/n. She’s my…” You turn your eyes up at John, curious just how he will choose to describe you. Girlfriend seems entirely too trite. Captive? Lover? John actually flashes a sheepish smile that lasts precisely half a second. “This is the light of my life.” 

The old man raises his eyebrows in a gesture of my my. You are surprised when Winston kisses your hand with old world grace, rather than shakes it. You hope it doesn’t show. “A pleasure, Miss y/n.” 

“Likewise, Mr. Scott.”

“Please, call me Winston. So, Jonathan. Just what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

John groans, and slowly lowers himself into a chair. You do the same, and the three of you hash out what happened, and how to go forward, over a delectable breakfast of crepes, fresh fruit, and good coffee. You feed Dog bites of bacon under the table, his block of a head resting on your thigh while you listen to these old veterans of the Underworld formulate a plan. 

You take some small comfort in the fact that Winston sounds so sure of himself. He seems to know a little bit about everything there is to know, and no tidbit of gossip surprises him. You can tell that John values his guidance, the older man speaking to John almost like a father. 

Just maybe the two of you will make it out of this alive after all.  

[ch-4-eri]

Don’t You Dare — Jill Valentine.

Jill X fem!reader.

I miss her so bad you have no idea!!! 😩 please laugh at me everyone sorry for slacking.

Warnings: needles, injuries, Jill being a total sweetheart, pure fluff. Again, Jill being an absolute babe (screaming)

Word count: 1k.

I know the people asked for angst, but all I offer is teeth rotting sweetness.

“Will you stop moving?” Jill asked, dabbing a cold cloth over your overheated forehead, spreading it out to let it lay on your head so your fever won’t get worse.

Your eyes blinked a few times as you were aware that you were fidgeting, the woman with short hair was attending to you for god knows what.

Did your head get that badly hit? Jill was your partner, and obviously a much better med trained than you were, hence why your heart is racing and you’re sweating buckets.

“Shhh..” Jill adds, placing a hand on top of the cloth on your head to somehow soothe you, bring you back to earth, and maybe stitch the gash on your arm.

You watched your partner grab a needle as you flinched, shaking your head absentmindedly. “Stay still.” Jill warned, her blue eyes piercing into yours, knowing you can’t say no to her or try to run away from this, can you? You’re in so much pain. There’s no running.

Your body stilled, relaxing your bleeding arm as you winced in pain at the sudden movement. “Just breathe okay? I’m not gonna hurt you.” Jill adds in the whirlwind of pain you were having, your hand sweating as it grabbed her wrist. “Do you trust me?” She asks, taking a hold of that hand to comfort you, pressing her thumb into your palm; feeling the pressure of it, you were okay.

You nod, of course you trust her; more than anything or anyone. “Hold still, and take a breath, okay? Keep breathing.” Jill assists, her hand letting go of yours to start stitching, she was trying her best not to hurt you, or be too rough.

As Jill stitched you up, very well that is— she’s proud of her work as she glided a finger down your injury, the stitching perfectly done, but Jill knew it would scar.

She noticed the look on your face, passed out from the pain, her hand coming to rest on your cheek and patted it. “Wake up.” Jill called, patting the pads of her fingers on your cheek.

You twitched, your eyes blinking as the feeling of reality slowly seeped over your vision, the sharp pain of your arm making you whine as you almost turned on your side, Jill’s fingers digging into your shoulder stopped you from doing that, hurting yourself even more.

“Shhh..” Jill soothed, her fingers rubbing your shoulder to soothe you. “You did a good job.” She whispered, rubbing your back. “I need you to sit up for me, we should head back to the RPD.” She adds, taking a hold of your hand, squeezing it, making you aware of what she’s saying.

“Come on, get up.” She adds, her tone soft. While her hand went to your waist, the other on your shoulder to sit you up, you felt like a rag doll in her arms, making her thankful you weren’t alone, and that she was here with you.

She felt a pang of protectiveness as she wrapped an arm around your waist, dangling an arm over her shoulder to help you step down the bricks she had you lying on. “Shhh… I’ve got you.” She mumbled, walking over to the car and immediately driving off to get you to safety, maybe give you some pain killers, and better clothes to avoid infections from the dirty ones you attired.

Jill had the nurses check you, waiting outside as she paced back and forth in the hallway, rubbing her hands together, she couldn’t help the fear that was cooking up in her stomach, too anxious for this she took a seat and bounced her leg.

It wasn’t long after she was told she can see you, quickly walking inside to see you sitting up with a hospital gown, attached with a small plastic tube to the back of your hand, you looked a little healthier than an hour ago.

Jill sighed in relief as her shoulders slumped.

“You’re okay.” She says as she nears your bed, watching for any signs of pain on your face, your eyes, or even your body language. “I’m okay.” You chuckled, that fog in your brain was no longer, thankfully.

“You’re smiling, oh thank god.” Jill cracked a scoff and gently wrapped an arm around you and pressed a kiss to your head. “You made me so worried.” She adds, keeping her lips to your temple, closing her eyes and taking in the smell of your hair, mixed with smoke and shampoo.

It was quiet in the room as one of your arms came up and wrapped around Jill, making her pull away enough to be close, but able to look in your eyes, she had no idea what came over her but she kissed you, her lips on top of yours, kissing you with all the fear she felt of losing you, even if it was just a little arm injury.

Recalling your face earlier, how pale and sickly you looked, her heart ached at the thought as she tilted her head and deepened the kiss, her hands cupping your cheeks as her kiss was so gentle and tender, so comforting.

Her thumbs brushed your cheeks as she pressed kisses to your lips, then your cheek, your chin, anywhere she could on your face, really. “Don’t do this to me again, don’t you dare get hurt again.” Jill says, pressing a final kiss to your lips, letting it linger.

You were a mess, your heart was racing, your nerves were numbed by her kisses on your face, each kiss made you shiver like crazy, you just sat there and accepted the kisses Jill gave you, and oh how soft her lips were, she was perfect.. and she was here, being worried about you, kissing you… you were going crazy, staring back into those beautiful eyes of hers, her perfect face, she was unreal.

As the final kiss lingered, your hand went up to tug on her shirt and keep her close, dragging your nails up her clothed back, making Jill unable to move from your lips, she was addicted, she can’t get enough of you and she has to have you.

Her hand grabbed your throat gently and kept you in place as her lips enveloped yours again, biting your lower lip as she got to taste you, her hand remained on your throat as the other went to your hair, keeping you close enough she wouldn’t be able to let go, she doesn’t want to.

[millenialfanfictionaddiction]

Being Team Japan’s Manager

Manager into crafts

Team Japan x Gender Neutral Manager (they/them)

Warnings: Like all fluff, maybe swearing???

AN: I’m back on my bs again and here to feed everyone 😅 sorry it’s so sporadic but I hope this holds everyone over for a bit!

When I say you should be nominated for sainthood Yn, I mean it!

These guys are a lot to deal with

Honestly, you have no clue how they even functioned before you came along

I mean, the coach practically begged you to be their manager

Man’s is tired 😴

Anyways, it’s safe to say that practices are eventful

Despite’s Bokuto saying he’s “matured”, he hasn’t

“How come Hinata got more sets than I did?” Bokuto asks Atsumu

You 👉🏻😃 crap he noticed-

“It’s simple, Hinata was just on today and you weren’t,” Atsumu responses, walking away

Bokuto 👇🏻

Meanwhile, Yaku and Hakuba are arguing about something 🙄

“That’s block sucked man, stop moving your hands all over!” Yaku shouts

“I wasn’t moving my hands all over, I was setting up for a receive when I knew I couldn’t block!” Hakuba yells back

On top of that Iwaizumi is yelling at Kageyama for practicing too much

Sakusa is complaining about how everyone needs to schedule their flu shot

And Aran has just all but abandoned the gym because he’s just over it

Thankfully, when practice was over, you were able to go home and spend some time enjoying one of your favorite hobbies

Crafting ✂️ 🎨 🧶

You had tried a lot of different crafts and found that you were pretty good at them

Everything from painting to knitting, from sculpting to resin

You enjoyed the creativity that crafts provided

It could be stressful but definitely not as stressful as your day job

Nothing can ever beat that stress 🙄

Anyways, you’d managed to keep your hobby on the down low

It wasn’t that you weren’t proud, it was more like you just hadn’t found the opportunity to bring it up

I mean, it’s not like you’re busy or something 😐

It wasn’t until one fateful night when your happy little secret was finally discovered

You see, you were home, watching/listening to some show while trying to knit

It was a newer hobby you’d picked up, on top of jewelry making, crocheting, etc

A jack of all trades our sweet YN 💅

You are knee deep in ‘knit one purl two’ rhythm when the door bell rings

Now since you had very little life outside the team, you were wondering who it could possibly be

You didn’t want to lose your stitch so you stood up and made your way to the door

On the other side was none other then Hinata and Kageyama

Panicked you quickly opened the door and stared at them

🎶 when he looks at me, and I look at him and he looks at me and I LOOK AT HIMMM 🎶

Obviously, you are draped in yarn while dawning other comfy attire 💅

Arguably two of the most “chaotic” members of the team just stare at you

Literally 👉🏻👁️👄👁️

You look at them like “What? Can’t I have a life outside of being your caretaker?”

Of course Hinata probably thinks you just escaped some maniac who attempted to tie you up with yarn of all things…

“OMG YN WHERE YOU KIDNAPPED??” Hinata yells, grabbing onto your shoulders and shaking you rather violently

“I’m in my own house Shoyo…” you respond, brain trying to reconnect to reality

Leave it to Kageyama to help the situation

“HINATA BOKE YN ISNT KIDNAPPED, THEY ARE PRACTICING THEIR KNOT TYING SKILLS!” Kageyama screams, smacking Hinata in the back of the head

See… helping 😌

Sighing as the two dunces fight in front of you, you try to calmly correct their mistake

“I’m not kidnapped, nor am I practicing any nautical knot tying, I’m learning to knit,” you explain as the two cock an eyebrow in your direction.

Both of them look at each other and then back to you, confused 🫤

You 👉🏻😐🙄

“You know what, it’s really not important! What do you two need?” You question, wondering why you were interrupted in the first place

“Well now I can’t remember why we came here!” Hinata exclaims, “can you Kageyama?”

“Yeah not really,” Kageyama answers

You definitely deserve a pay raise Yn

“Ok well if you two could kindly go home and rest that would be much appreciated. You know how angry Hajime gets when you guys don’t get enough sleep,” you scold as the two men’s eyes widen

They quickly take off, racing each other to who knows where

As you close and lock your door, you think about how the next days practice with go

Will Hinata and Kageyama tell the other guys about your hobby?

Will Hinata and Kageyama even remember?

Honestly you figure brain cells are on your side since the two that just exited your apartment have a combined one on a good day

There’s no way they’d ever tell the guys about your knitting…

Sure… yeah… absolutely… it’s DEFINITELY fine : D

*12 hours later*

“YN I didn’t know you tied nautical knots on your days off? What a unique hobby!” Yaku says, first the next morning at practice

“I didn’t even know you fished Yn,” Hakuba adds

“Maybe YN just likes the art of knot making?” Aran suggests

You 👉🏻 🧍🙄

“I don’t tie knots guys, I knit… KNIT!” You shout as their eyes all pop open

“Knit? As in like what grandmas do?” Atsumu inputs

Please someone 👊🏻

“Atsumu shut up! Knitting is something alot of people do to relieve stress. And with a team filled with dummies like you, I’m sure YN needs all the stress relieve they can get!” Iwaizumi shouts

“Oh my god,” you whisper as the gym fills with chatter

“Why didn’t you tell us about your hobby Yn?” Ushijima asks as you just stare at him and gesture to the chaos that is currently unfolding

Ushijima just nods and quietly walks away to resume his practice

“So YN do you knit? Like scarves or port holders or something?” Suna questions as he walks with you to your office

“Well I’m just learning the art right now but I do a few other crafts in my spare time,” you say, still ignoring whatever is happening on the floor

“That’s cool, you should post some of your crafts online. I’m sure you could sell them or something? Maybe make a little extra money?”

You shrug, not really interested in extra funds and more excited to just do something you enjoy

Or should I say, the TEAM enjoys 😅

Because if you think you’re going to get away with not teaching one craft Yn, you are very mistaken

Hinata is sending you 5 minute craft videos every day

Bokuto wants to know if you can knit special pads for him for practice

Atsumu is asking for a custom “Atsumu” phone case 🙄

It literally doesn’t stop

So what do we do about this? Well there’s only one thing we CAN do 👀

🎉 CRAFT PARTY 🎉

That’s right, you gather all your craft supplies and haul them into the gym one Friday during practice

The guys all stare at you like you’ve walked into the wrong gym

“Uhh Yn you do know this is a volleyball gym right?” Yaku jokes as you set up your table on the side lines and nod

“Yep! But after practice it’s going to be a craft party!”

“Craft… PARTY???” The guys all shout in tones varying from excitement to pure confusion

“Yes since you all want me to make you crafts, I’m just going to show you how to do it instead!” You exclaim

“You made sure to get non-toxic glue right Yn? I don’t trust some of the idiots not to eat it,” Sakusa remarks, staring at a few members in particular

You roll you eyes and smile, “yes Sakusa, it’s all safe! And I have crafts for everyone.”

Surprisingly, the guys are rather good at crafts

Sakusa’s flexibility makes crocheting and knitting a piece of cake

Atsumu’s flamboyant nature makes him great at painting

Hinata and Kageyama have somehow turned bracelet making into a competition

Komori and Yaku are great with stencils!

And you? You are just happy to be able to share your hobby with your favorite people 🥰

[swiftieblyth]

Troublesome Twin: But Daddy I Love Him

Warning list-

hunger games warning, abusive family, mother died in childbirth with the twins, Arachne, Coriolanus Snow, Dr. Gaul, violence, and murder.

I think that’s all, let me know if there’s more!

Word count- 1333

“I need to see Dr. Gaul immediately,” Coryo ordered to a peacekeeper at the lab.

He was escorted to her lab and waited for her to come in.

“Come to beg for her life?” Dr. Gaul asked.

“No,” Coryo explained. “No, my stitches, they broke loose. I didn’t want the doctors asking questions.”

“Come, sit.” Gaul ordered. “Pull your shirt down. This might hurt.” Coryo groaned as Dr. Gaul worked as he watched the birds in the cage. “Jabberjays we call them. We sent them out during the war to pick up rebel conversation, squawk it back to us word for word. Watch. A failed experiment, but an instructive one. I’m rounding them up district by district now to see what better purpose they might serve. I’ll see you in the auditorium for the finale, Mr. Snow. You should be proud of yourself. Your songbird, Lucy Gray, put on a wonderful show. Oh, and do give my god-daughter her dose of morphling. I saw it in your pocket. It’s about time for her to take it. Same as this morning. She needs to take it with food. I’m sure she’s in a lot of pain.”

On his way back Coryo put a handkerchief with Lucy Gray’s scent into the snake cage.

“Coryo,” Y/N asked, when she saw him come back with some food. “Where did you go?”

“To get you some food my love.” Coryo explained, bending down next to her so no one would hear them.

“What really happened?” Y/N asked.

“Just trust me. I went to go see Dr. Gaul to get my stitches fixed up. Now, I need you to eat and take your medicine.”

“Coryo, I’m not hungry.”

“I know, my love, but I need you to eat. Can you do that for me baby? I need to take care of you so you can get better, but in order to do that, you have to listen to me, sweet girl.”

“Okay,” Y/N sighed.

“That’s it, baby.” He smiled, leading a fork with food on it to her mouth for her. “Here.” They heard a noise and looked up. “Lucy Gray, is she okay?”

“She won’t be for long,” someone explained.

“That is not gonna be good,” Lucky explained, as drones flew down with the snake tank.

“Work, please,” Coryo whispered as Y/N squeezed his hand.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if it was candy?” Lucky laughed. The snakes came flying out killing everyone, making all of the watchers gasp. “Oh, not candy! Down goes Wovey.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Y/N breathed, a tear falling down her face. 

Everyone watched as the snakes killed everyone but Lucy Gray as she sang to them.

“She… She won.” Coryo explained. “It’s over, she won. She’s won, let her out.”

“Afraid, that’s not your call to make, Mr. Snow.” 

“Dr. Gaul, she won. It’s over, let her out. Must be the singing, it’s calming them.”

“She can’t sing forever,” Dr. Gaul let out.

“Val,” Y/N let out tears in her eyes, breaking Dr. Gaul’s heart, as the crowd chanted to let her out. “Please. For me.”

“Get her out.”

“Thank you.” Y/N breathed.

“Coriolanus Snow is the winner of the tenth annual Hunger Games!”

“You did it Coryo!” Y/N smiled, as Coryo picked her up and spinned her in the air, making her laugh.

“We did it my love! I can take care of you for real now.”

“I love you so much!”

“I love you more!” Coryo explained, putting her down and passionately kissing her lips as everyone cheered around them.

“I’m so happy for you Coryo.” Y/N smiled, as they sat in bed that night.

“I’m so happy for us.” He smiled, holding her close to him. “We can finally start having that future we always wanted. We can get things back up and running here, make it look good again.”

“We can buy Grandma’am all of the dresses and chocklett she wants.”

“Tigris doesn’t have to work for scraps to keep us afloat.” 

“You don’t have to see your father ever again. We can buy us a bigger bed where we can both comfortably fit.”

“And I can get a dog!”

“I’ll buy you all the dogs you want, baby.”

“We can both go to the University and you can start working your way up to president.”

“And you can work with your God-mother, after I take over her founding instead of your father.”

Y/N gasped as she looked up at him. “You’d do that for me?” She gasped.

“Of course my love. I would do anything for you.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you more. Now, get some sleep, we have a big day tomorrow.”

The two walked hand in hand into Dr. Gaul’s office the next day.

“Do you think we’ll get to see Lucy Gray?” Y/N asked, as she walked in with Coryo.

“I don’t know.” He replied, looking around.

“Lucy Gray?” Y/N called.

“Lucy Gray,” Coryo echoed.

They stopped when they saw what was on the lab table in front of them. Coryo’s compact mirror that now belonged to Y/N and Coryo’s handkerchief.

“Coryo?” Y/N squeaked in a whisper, clutching his hand as tight as she could.

“I warned you, Mr. Snow,” Highbottom let out. “Cheating will be punished. More poetically than even I could have hoped.” “Lucy Gray,” Coryo let out, slightly stepping in front of Y/N to protect her. “Where is she?”

“I would be more concerned about your own survival if I were you. Or that little toy of yours.” Highbottom explained as Mr. Crain walked in. Y/N’s eyes widened as she watched her father walk in with a murderer's look, and her sorrowful older brother behind him. She looked from her father to her brother to her god-mother, then to Coryo with fear racking her body making her trimble so bad that Coryo had to help her stand. 

“It’s fitting that both of your parents could be here for your big moment.” Highbottom continued. “That compact. How many times did I see your mother use it, I wonder… to powder her beautiful face? Come now, we all know that child from 11 didn’t die of disease. Or that lumberjack from 7. And that old handkerchief, we found in the snake tank, apparently condemning you with your father’s own initials. Your family won’t ever see that prize money now of course. President Ravenstill has left your form of punishment up to me, and your little toys up to her father. But for you, I’ve decided banishment to the districts where you’ll serve your Capital in exile for 20 years as an anonymous, peacekeeper grunt.”

“No!” Y/N screamed, trying to charge at Highbottom, but getting help back by Coryo. “No! You can’t do this!” She screamed, tears falling from her face as her boyfriend held her, his heart breaking into a million pieces.

“Do you hear that boy?” Highbottom chuckled as Y/N screamed and cried as her brother went over to grab her. “Finally. The sound of snow falling.”

“NO!” Y/N yelled as peacekeepers dragged Coryo away from her. “Coryo! Coryo!”

“I’ll be fine!” Coryo cried, as he was getting dragged away. “Take care of yourself. I love you!”

“Coryo!” Y/N yelled as her father hit her, making her scream.

“You are a disappointment to the family!” He yelled, pulling on her arm until it broke as she screamed. “And a disappointment to all of Panem!” He yelled, punching her face. “You’re never going to see him ever again. Or anyone for that matter!” “But Daddy, I love him!” Y/N yelled, like a child as Coryo was struggling to get back to her in the peacekeepers arms as they dragged him through the doors. 

“I’m having his baby!” Y/N yelled, unsure of what to do. The doors closed and Coryo was gone as the room went silent for what she said.

tag list here

Tag list: @uglyfish3rman, @Edb954, @joyfulyouthlover, @Warlike-morning, @melodyoflove99, @thatgurljen

[f10werfae]

Quick it’s BeReal

pairing: Henry Cavill x Girlfriend!Reader

summary: Henry where his BEREAL goes off during sex an their friends react reader has hickies all over her chest and neck and tied up (BeReal is an app where you post a photo at a random time, along with your friends to share) (requested by @princessbetsy123-blog )

Disclaimer: This story is fiction and should not be taken literally, the behaviour is simply imaginative and the content may be inappropriate

Henry Masterlist, Full Masterlist, Taglist Form

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

“C’mere love Bereal went off” Henry smirked out of breath, his face flushed red as he brought Y/n’s nude body into his side. The comforter just about covering her breasts, her hair crazy and her face dazed with the post-sex look. “W-what right now?” Henry nodded pressing his lips to hers sloppily, their tongues clearly seen in the picture as he took it. Purple hickies littering the tops of her breasts and her neck as if it was jewellery

COMMENTS:

@/Stephaniejohns: YES Y/n GET STUCK IN, GET THAT SUPERMAN DICK!

> @/Y/nL/n: I swear i’m literally paralysed from the waist down, it isn’t even funny. He had to help me shower and everything; he still has to carry me down and up the stairs.

-

@/lucygrover: Now Y/n in 9 months time, will we see a welcome banner in a hospital room?!?!

> @/HenryCavill: That’s the plane Luce! Already got the crib made in the garage and the names picked out in my head ;)

-

@/Missbeauty101: Now I know why Y/n is always stumbling whenever she walks into work, poor girls vagina is getting railed on the constant. NAH BECAUSE ONE TIME OUR BOSS POINTED OUT HER HICKIES AND SHE TRIED TO PLAY IT OFF BY SAYING IT WAS A BURN FROM STRAIGHTENING HER HAIR. Her hair was curly that day.

>> @/aliciabees: WAIT BABES SOMETHING SIMILAR HAPPENED A FEW DAYS AGO. Y/n came to my birthday with her lipstick all over her face, her mascara running everywhere and her dress was missing stitches at some places😭 Just how feral are you Henry ?

>>> @/Y/nL/n: Feral enough to tie me to the fuckin bed and now we have broken bed posts 👍

-

@/Trishabrown: Y/n say… Is this what happened to the victoria secret set I gifted you for your birthday 😍 Cus if so, gift well used I say

@/HenryCavill: Trish that lovely purple number didn’t even make it through the front door :)

-

@/freddyyyy: Henry mate get stuck in😩 Don’t let us catch you through the gaming headphones again though, that shit sounded pornographic as hell

-

@/leogrips: Y/n when is the pregnancy announcement 😍

>> @Y/nL/n: HOPEFULLY SOON🫶☕️

-

@/Jessicaframo: Remembering the one time Y/n couldn’t make it to work because Henry fucked her too hard and she had to ask me to bring it to her. Girlie was not lying, legs were like jelly.

>> @/Jessicaframo: Not to mention the literal blood necklace she got goin on😭 Henry is less bear and more vampire

-

@/Leahtoner: Why are there ropes on the head board, and rope burns on Y/n’s wrist 😳😳 THATS SOME SERIOUS BONDAGE THERE

>> @/Y/nL/n: you should see my ankles babes, rubbed raw for real. Sweating buckets and now I have to change the frickin sheets. Think I owe myself a nice hot bath to be honest

>>> @HenryCavill: Uh no invitation?

———-

“Babe you can’t just post us post-sex for a Bereal, my comments are blowin upp” Y/n whined nuzzling her head into his chest, a proud smirk on his face as he felt her shiver every time he ran his fingers down her arm. “Love it’s fine, you look gorgeous in the photo, not to mention we’ve basically promised them all a niece or nephew” He whispered feeling her hands feel him up sensually, her lips placing tiny quick kisses onto his chest and neck.

———-

I feel like this one is kinda disappointing but I hope you all still enjoy it!♥️

Taglist Tags (Form is up there^^): @thebaileybugle @teti-menchon0604 @ggmimitf @ninasw0rld @acornacre @keiva1000 @spencerreidat4am @diyabhanushali1 @angelmather1 @hp-hogwartsexpress @lastwandastan @fdl305 @alexxavicry @bookfrog242 @alina02 @aerangi @i-beg-your-pardon-laufeyson @sparklemarysunshine @oliviah-25 @mischiefsemimanaged @nikkitc0703 @hallecarey1 @misshale21 @girl-of-multi-fandoms @mansaaay @marvelgurl @princess-paramour @stormcloudss @uwiuwi @taramaria @mysticfalls01 @kebabgirl67 @athena-roy @tinyelfperson @madebylilly @dumb-fawkin-bitch @vrittivsanghavi @beck07990 @kimhtoo17 @thereisa8ella @pandaxnienke

[razzledazzle-pop]

Okay Okay Okay—More Samder Slides headcanons time..You’ve opened Pandora’s Box…

Personal headcanons/design things:

Keeps food in his pockets and then forgets it’s there. The way I know the amount of crumbs are insane.

Re-attached his logo with haphazard stitching so it matched Virgil’s :]

Always loses one sock in each pair. ALWAYS.

Has THE most insane takes. Leads to a lot of fun Patton and Logan discussions actually (*Hits them with the Trolley problem*: DISCUSS)

Patton would take the Utilitarian approach I think…Would think you should always sacrifice the one person in the trolley problem instead of the five because it minimizes the most suffering).

To that point, I really do think all the sides would enjoy watching The Good Place. Probably also The Magic School Bus.

All film media in Patton’s room is on VHS. Even if it came out recently. He made them that way.

I know we’ve literally seen his room in canon but in my heart it looks like Howl’s Room in Howl’s Moving Castle (insane levels of eclectic).

Has set the kitchen on fire 237856 times. It will happen again.

Has hand-made bracelets (themed each of them around one of the other sides).

Also has a hand-made doll collection…Roman’s doll is kind of like a traditional princely doll, Logan is probably a cube craft doll, Virgil’s is Coraline style (later redoes it with Remus’ help to add Virgil’s extra legs and mandibles (they’re articulated. He’s very proud)). Remus is a finger puppet and Janus is a sock puppet (those last two might change later)…

To that point: he still has a spider phobia, but he’s working on it (mostly for Virgil. A lot of it is him being like “could you please describe “x” to me, or draw me a picture before you revert so I know what to expect? :).” It’s going well.

One time they tried theorizing what kind of spider Virgil was. Patton immediately threw in Jumping Spider (he’s not) but Logan was happy to hear Patton had done some kind of research into something.

He’s Roman’s test audience/proofreader. He may be a Yes Man, but he’s good at spotting when character motives are unclear in a story/just generally to bounce ideas around with. They have days where they parallel play. Patton does his arts and crafts and Roman does his writing. At the end of it, they swap and critique.

Me throwing my takes at you (thank you for coming to my TED Talk):

[bloomingdayswithyou]

I'll throw a request your way. How about a embarassed Gladion asking his bf to mend his clothes after type null training.

Stitches of Love

Pairing: Gladion x m!reader

Words:

Warnings: maybe a bit ooc, and just cute fluff<3

A/N: so... it's really been a while🧍🏻‍♀️ actually sorry for that :(( hopefully I'm back but I'll post slower than before! At least until I finish with all the requests

Also I was thinking of changing my writing style a bit, so I tried with this one!! Hope it's good enough :)

The Alolan sun was setting, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink. m/n was lounging on the couch in their shared apartment, scrolling through his phone when he heard the familiar sound of the front door opening.

"I'm back," Gladion's voice called out, sounding a bit more hesitant than usual.

m/n looked up, a smile already forming on his face. "Welcome home! How was training with-" His words trailed off as he took in the sight of his boyfriend.

Gladion stood in the doorway, his cheeks flushed a deep red that had nothing to do with the warm Alolan weather. His usual black outfit was in tatters, with several large tears across his jacket and pants. His blonde hair was disheveled, sticking up in even more directions than usual.

"What happened?" m/n asked, jumping to his feet in concern.

Gladion averted his gaze, his blush deepening. "Type: Null got a bit... overenthusiastic during training today."

m/n crossed the room, reaching out to inspect the damage. Gladion flinched slightly but didn't pull away as m/n's fingers grazed the torn fabric of his jacket.

"Are you hurt?" m/n asked, his eyes scanning for any signs of injury.

Gladion shook his head. "No, I'm fine. Type: Null would never actually harm me. It's just..." He gestured vaguely at his tattered clothes, his embarrassment palpable.

m/n couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Well, I'm glad you're okay. But your outfit has definitely seen better days."

Gladion groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. "I know. It's ridiculous. I should be able to control my own Pokémon better than this."

m/n placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. Type: Null is a powerful and unique Pokémon. It's natural for training to be challenging sometimes."

Gladion gave him a small, grateful smile, but m/n could still see the frustration in his green eyes.

"Thanks," Gladion murmured. Then, hesitantly, he added, "I, uh... I was wondering if you could help me with something."

m/n raised an eyebrow, intrigued. It wasn't often that Gladion asked for help. "Of course. What do you need?"

Gladion fidgeted with the hem of his torn jacket, avoiding m/n's gaze. "I was hoping... maybe you could help me mend these clothes? I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't really have any other options right now, and I can't exactly go out like this..."

m/n's heart swelled with affection. Gladion, always so independent and proud, was asking for his help. He knew how much it must have cost him to do so.

"I'd be happy to help," m/n said warmly. "Why don't you go take a shower and relax? I'll see what I can do with your clothes."

Relief washed over Gladion's face. "Thank you," he said softly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to m/n's cheek before disappearing into the bathroom.

As the sound of running water filled the apartment, m/n gathered his sewing supplies and set to work. The damage was extensive, but not irreparable. He carefully stitched up the tears, his fingers moving deftly as he thought about his boyfriend.

Gladion had come so far since they first met. Back then, he had been closed off, wary of forming any connections. But slowly, patiently, m/n had earned his trust. He had seen the kind, passionate person beneath Gladion's tough exterior. And now, here they were, sharing a life together.

The bathroom door opened, and Gladion emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was damp, falling softly around his face without its usual styling. m/n couldn't help but admire the lean muscles of Gladion's chest and arms, a testament to his dedication to training.

"How's it going?" Gladion asked, peering over (m/n)'s shoulder at his handiwork.

"Almost done," m/n replied, tying off the last stitch. "They won't be perfect, but they should hold up until we can get you some new clothes."

Gladion took the mended outfit, examining m/n's work with a critical eye. "This is... really good," he said, sounding impressed. "Where did you learn to sew like this?"

m/n shrugged, a bit embarrassed by the praise. "Just picked it up here and there. It comes in handy sometimes."

Gladion slipped on the repaired clothes, adjusting them slightly. They fit well, the stitches barely noticeable unless you knew where to look.

"Thank you," he said again, his voice soft and sincere. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

m/n stood up, wrapping his arms around Gladion's waist. "Probably walk around in tattered clothes," he teased gently.

Gladion laughed, a rare, unguarded sound that never failed to make m/n's heart skip a beat. "Probably," he agreed, pulling m/n closer.

m/n leaned into Gladion's embrace, breathing in the clean scent of his shower gel mixed with something that was uniquely Gladion. "You know," he murmured, "you don't have to be embarrassed about asking for help. Not with me."

Gladion was quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around m/n. "I know," he said finally. "It's just... not easy for me. But I'm trying."

m/n pulled back slightly to meet Gladion's gaze, seeing the vulnerability in those green eyes that he rarely allowed anyone to see. "That's all I ask," m/n said, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair from Gladion's forehead. "I love you, Gladion. All of you – the strong trainer, the dedicated brother, and yes, even the guy who sometimes needs help mending his clothes after a tough training session."

A smile tugged at the corners of Gladion's mouth, soft and genuine. "I love you too," he whispered, leaning in to capture m/n's lips in a tender kiss.

As m/n melted into the kiss, he knew that no matter what challenges came their way – be it difficult Pokémon training or torn clothes – he and Gladion would face them together. And really, that was all that mattered.

.

.

.