#once again i take a hammer and FIX the canon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

undercoverpena · 6 months

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i. to fix a porch

joel miller x f!reader | chapter one of honey stained hands

chapter summary: it’s why he allows himself the chance to look, to admire. His hand slides in yours all over again, as you offer your name—dutifully exchanged. and all he can think is, you’re a pretty thing. He’s seen pretty, laid with it lifetimes ago, but there’s something different in you.

wordcount: 3.5k warnings: typical canon-angst. my spelling. joel trying to fit in and be good for ellie. an: i am so nervous about this. i hope you like. huge thanks to @guyfieriii + @thetriumphantpanda for holding both my hands.

The world had gone to shit, but the world hadn’t gone to shit.

It still grew, expanded—and changed.

Just as it once had. The grass didn’t stop turning green. The trees didn’t stop rustling, the flowers didn’t stop pollinating between bones and disintegrating fabric.

Nature, in all its immensity, didn’t bow to the cordyceps that stole minds and whispered destruction along roads and grass. Nature didn’t allow the rot to take the seasons, as it had done with so many other things.

The end of times wasn’t allowed to touch the moon’s schedule. It didn’t have an impact on how the daylight grew shorter and the night span longer. It had no bearing on the way leaves turned golden, the dew appeared on tall grass, or how both danced under amber-rising and lemon-setting suns.

The outbreak took souls, but it didn’t rid the craved scents of stews and freshly baked apples—two aromas that flooded Jackson's roads.

Mostly, even if something else thrummed along the ground, and spoke in claimed lives, it couldn’t try and claim to have any effect on the way frost made the morning path glitter—or how it made the world still feel magical.

Fungus had stolen a lot. Had spread its poison across state lines and once happy towns. But it couldn’t thieve the natural beauty that shifted in three monthly turns.

He wakes in a sea of sweat, panic and desperation. Forehead clammy. Salt and pepper hair clinging in thin spider-leg lines against the creases of his frown.

Each morning, since Joel has been here, has followed the same pattern. The shadowy nightmares were still there, ever-present—swirling and twirling, not ready to stop their dance. Even if the sun is blasting through, informing them it’s morning—it’s the time their claws should retract and allow him to experience a new day.

They never really do. They remain, hanging in the edges of his thoughts, his eyes—even as sleeping thoughts diluted into the present day.

Just the same as he did yesterday and the day before, his closed fist rubs in gentle circles against his chest—right over his heart. Where it thumps and beats, hammering quickly. Fingers and palm attempting to soothe it, half-wishing he could weave under milk-white bone and release the guilt-wrapped tendrils around it.

It doesn’t matter what his routine involves, it’s all in vain.

Little to nothing alleviates it. Not the circles of his hand over the bobbled t-shirt he sleeps in or the way he wills himself to breathe, to fill his lungs—advice given against his will.

Joel has attempted a lot of things, but the tightness always remains. The imaginary vines forever constricting, all stemmed with thorns, digging in, tightening their hold as he struggled to gasp, never mind breathe. It’s like a fungus of its own, a thing poisoning him, ruining him, blackening what’s left of his soul.

All because he made a choice—one he’d make a thousand times (if given the chance).

Blinking, he slowly sits. Back aching, body groaning as the honeyed sun coats the place he calls his. It flutters over the set of drawers, the flannel draped over the handle of his closet, and the strings of the guitar, gifted by Tommy to keep him busy and out of trouble.

It’s a good place he’s found himself in. A normal place—one found in the centre of moving on and trying to live life. Something he gives enough of a shit not to let it be torn from him and a thing he worries is being tugged from his grip all the same.

One wrong move.

That’s what he hears, even if no one says it. It never leaves their lips, but instead is etched into the faces of everyone he has been introduced to. It was discernible on his sister-in-law's face when he and Ellie appeared; it was poorly concealed by his brother when he’d handed him the instrument.

So much so, that he’s become worried all of this—the safety, the future for Ellie—will be taken from him if he breathes wrong. If he makes eye contact a little too quickly, a little too sternly, too forcibly and not followed quickly enough by a half-smile.

He tries. Not for him, but for her. The same person he keeps his jeans close by and his t-shirt on for—the one that makes him sleep on the side so his good ear can hear a scream of his name—just in case. The same person who manages to shift off the worry, dusting him down without knowing the impact she has on him—the young person who forms him, shapes him into someone half-decent, who is willing to try, who is willing to do things with his hands that isn’t fighting or shooting.

The only time Ellie has shouted for him since being here, though, is for breakfast.

Now, the house is silent—too silent. A smile almost appearing all on its own. An image bubbling, appearing, blanketing over the nightmares that tried to linger. One of her, in her new bedroom—the one she keeps talking about painting—all asleep, mouth open, catching flies.

Joel snorts, swallowing it back. All of the darkness that is weaved inside of him. Focuses on the little flecks of dust that glitter in the glow of a new day, how they fall absently in the space between light and dark—making a choice, one he makes each day, to be here. To try.

His hand slides from his chest, landing on his wrist. Sighing, he closes his eyes and lets his thumb slide over the broken glass of his watch—the one he never removes—another thing he does daily. Another thing that has become a routine.

He knew what Jackson was when he arrived the second time. A communal, a place where everyone chips in.

Joel had expected something more to be requested from him. Almost braced to be told he would be stationed on the other side of the gate—in a more permanent role than others. But, he wasn’t.

If anything, he was given tasks.

Menial things, but tasks all the same.

Little jobs, all reminiscent of a handyman back before things to fungus and rot. Oddities, bits and bobs. Projects half-finished or never begun at all—assigned, handed to him, chosen for him because he’s there and capable. And not, as Tommy explains, is because no one trusts him.

The first had been his own porch. The wood split, cracked, creaking—an accident waiting to happen (a thing he’d muttered to Tommy when he’d first walked up the steps of it), more so as the days became shorter and the nights loomed closer.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find a toolbox placed at his feet the next day. A smug look on his younger brother’s face: think it’s time y’fix y’damn porch, brother. A clap on the back to cement it, a promise silently exchanged—that he could ask more of him when he was done.

And Tommy did, just not how he expected.

His breath mists the same as Tommy’s when he sighs, the weather biting as the two hovered on his newly repaired porch: got something else for you to do.

Maybe he should have said something when the silence filled the air when Joel suggested after. That he’d be good on patrol, that he could help in ways that weren’t repairing porches, front of shops and whatever else he brought to his door. If not for the fact he was grateful for the chance, for her—for the girl who is slowly making friends, who is beginning to smile—he may have done. The old Joel would have. He’d have pointed out that his skin isn’t stained with scarlet, that his hands are worn, but not smeared with the guts of those who’d crossed him. That he’d hung up as much of the former demons as he could.

He suspected, deep down, that Tommy could still see them haunting him. Knew that they kept him awake when the world went silent—that Joel didn’t sleep until the moon was at its highest, and woke with them jeering at him, perched on his shoulders, poking holes into his soul.

Joel also presumed that Tommy could see the way guilt had looped itself inside of him, strangling, making truthfulness harder to spill. Even if Tommy had no idea. Even if Joel hadn’t whispered to even the animals, never mind a person, what happened before he and Ellie had arrived.

So, he doesn’t argue, not as he’s handed another task, and another, then another. Days seep into weeks, weeks ticking into another month. Each time, his jaw grits, and his head nods, all well-versed, practised, as he picks up his toolbox and heads where he’s needed.

Except, today, when he’d finished up the fence that contained the sheep, a request came from someone else—a person he had spotted, but never spoken to. They were weary, guarded—approaching with caution as though bracing for him to snap, to become the callous individual they’ve likely heard through the whispers of gossiped stories.

In time, they approach, asking, burying their hands into their pockets as they do, before they continue with their reasoning for the request—one not for themself, but another person in Jackson.

A person Joel realised was his neighbour.

He’d been a good neighbour once, almost a lifetime ago.

Had hoped that it would come to him when Tommy had introduced him to you the following morning after he and Ellie returned. Your hand in his, smaller, but warm, a smile that was inviting, but slid over to Ellie upon Tommy’s introduction.

You usually rose early, that he had learnt when he’d begun to watch the sunrise before the leaves not just changed, but began to litter the floor in an array of shades. A pattern of habits he had picked up when he’d descended his own staircase, finding you already passing his home or your lights were on, already busy ticking off the hours of your day.

Today, he’d spotted (thankfully) the latter. His coat was thrown on, boots stepped into, toolbox in hand before he closed his door behind him and headed over. Your name on the tip of his tongue, all heavy, thick—an array of unsorted letters he’s hoping will shift into something as he climbs the steps to your front door. The syllables there, desperate to form, but in no order when his hand lifts to knock.

Air is what greets him, as the door rips open before his knuckles can even make contact.

Now, he’s standing in front of you—again. Your eyes land on him, brushing over in thick strokes of warmth, and all he can focus on is how you don’t step back in fright or stand a little taller. If anything, you don’t react, don’t move, as though it’s normal he’s there standing, talking to you.

“Oh, hi? It’s Joel, isn’t it?”

It’s kind, sweet, your tone. Eyes wide in a way that reminds him of a surprised, small animal—except, you’re grinning, not spooked. No sign of fear or question sketched across your features, or into the rest of your face, not as he stands, hovering.

It’s why he allows himself the chance to look, to admire. His hand slides in yours all over again, as you offer your name—dutifully exchanged.

And all he can think is, you’re a pretty thing. He’s seen pretty, laid with it lifetimes ago, but there’s something different in you. Something that has remained, that has weathered the storm of whatever it is, and however you came to be. Your smile rises, sliding into your cheeks, as his brain snaps a Polaroid of it and stores it somewhere less dusty in his mind.

“I just have to nip out, do you need something?”

Your hand sliding a jacket—one he’d just noticed in your hand—around your frame. It buries you, smothering, hiding yourself into it as you pull it around, watching, studying him as he does the same to you.

Shaking his head, he glances at your porch. “No, ma’am. Jus’ here to fix your porch.”

Sighing, you roll your eyes. “I make one comment and… anyway, I don’t want to trouble you. You don’t have to.”

“Maybe I want to.”

Looking down, you stare around at the porch. Him waiting, watching. “Guess it’s lucky for you, I wasn’t planning on taking it with me.”

It tugs from him, not forcibly pulled, but rather rolling from his mouth willingly: a laugh. It’s gruff, covered in cobwebs and sheets. It’s different, laughing with an adult compared to a pun book in the hands of a child.

“Well, definitely makes my life a bit easier that you’re not.”

Smirking, you lick your lips—a thing he spots, and finds makes his cheeks burn. “Yeah, guessing that following me around the animal pen wouldn’t be your favourite thing… after the other day.”

His eyes narrow, attempting to follow—until it dawns. Until it slams into him.

“You saw.”

“I did. Roscoe is a very boisterous sheep, though. So, it’s more on him than you.”

Cursing under his breath, he dips his head. Trying to stifle the embarrassment, the one rising in him like a phoenix, swarming up.

“Anyway, do you need any tools…”

That’s when he notices how your voice dies, your smile fading. Your words all fall from existence as the warmth around the two of you suddenly chills, as though he’s been plunged into a snowstorm. Your eyes had dropped, landing on the box in his hand.

It’s long, too long.

Almost prolonged, the quietness shifting into awkwardness until you’re blinking, head lifting, chin rising, determined and full of insolence.

“I’ll be back soon, yeah?”

Nodding, he swallows. Ignoring, for your sake, that your voice cracks before you’re hurrying past him. Watching, and staring until you’re a blip, a little figure in the distance of the cold morning—unable to forget about it, the look, the one that unhooked something in him.

Because it made him question—made him want to ask.

His hand shifts around the handle of the toolbox, staring down at it—the one he suspects belongs to someone you knew, someone you were close to. One that is in the hands of someone you don’t know, someone you live next to, that you know nothing about.

Except stories.

And fuck, Joel knows the stories can’t be good.

Joel had maybe made an assumption that you’d never speak to him again.

Sarah’s voice, barely discernable, wafting around his mind, assumptions make an ass of you and me, dad. He blamed it on being bitter, tired—or grumpy, as Ellie liked to call him. The kind of qualities he’d rather be known for, than the ones he sees reflected in the eyes of the people living here, wondering the kind of man he was to go back out there and then return.

He’d made the assumption based on the way your eyes flicked to the toolbox when you’d eventually returned home—him halfway done, waving away your offer to help. You barely spoke, and skirted around him, only placing a glass of lemonade on the welcome mat as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

He drained the glass, and hated how good it tasted. Keeping in mind to leave the toolbox outside when he rapped his knuckles on your open door to bring the glass back in, inform you that he’s done. You call out to him, eventually coming into view—apron on, doused in flour, cheeks and smile smothered in it.

For a moment, he could almost forget an outbreak had even happened with the way you looked at him—the way you looked in general. Something out of one of those cooking shows that play at ridiculous hours of the night; a thing that’d had a street talking about with sweet you sounded.

“I bake—sometimes,” you announce, hands down your apron, leaving flour-finger strokes against the navy blue.

He could see that. Placing the glass on the side, thanking you—watching you glance around him, likely for that. He almost tells you, informs you it’s outside, left on your porch. But, he waves himself off as a beeping begins, that he’ll get out of your hair, because you’re busy—knowing deep down it’s the right thing to do.

That’s how he left it.

Nothing more, nothing less.

His thoughts sliding to you when he saw you talking to others; his mind unable to rid himself of the way you’d looked at the box he’d been given to be a helping hand.

So, it surprised him when he watched you climb the steps of his porch from outside Tommy’s. Something in his chest narrowing—different from the way it does when he wakes up in the morning. Observing how you’re nervously shaking your free hand, moving from one foot to the other—a thin t-shirt covering your frame (no coat or jacket on your arms) as you try to stand still in the chill at his dark doorstep.

It’s only as he nears that he sees what your other hand is holding. A bottle, the contents from appearing amber in shade. The hesitancy woven into your figure is more prominent as he reaches his own boundary, unsure whether to clear his throat—and only doing so when you knock.

“Heard he’s out fixing more porches.”

Turning, he finds you smirking. Spinning around on your heels, slowly taking a step down—still above him—before your hand gestures for him to take the bottle. “A thank you.”

Thank you, he thinks, staring at it. His thumb catches your fingers as he tries to ignore the twist and knot of his stomach when he eyes the label. It used to help, for all the wrong reasons. It’s why he’d tried not to drink since arriving here, still able to remember how it used to scratch an itch, how it smothered over scabs—ones that never healed.

It unlocks that part of him that worries that they’ll become inflamed again. All raw, hot to the touch.

“Y’didnt need to.”

“Well, it was alcohol or baked goods—and you strike me as a drinker over shortbread.”

Snorting, he lifted his head, swallowing. “I do like shortbread.”

Your face lights up—shimmers—under the slowly setting sun. A part of him wishing you’d brought him a tin of those instead.

Because the main reason he hadn’t been to the Tipsy Bison is that he preferred the version of him that didn’t drink. The one from before all of this happened—the one with a clearer mind. One that isn’t trying to run but rather settle and live—the one that comes out when he tastes something akin to what he shared with Tess.

The bottle in his hand demands his attention—a note attached to it that reads the same as your words. Gratitude humming, rolling from you, all in plenty. The entry at being neighbours suddenly ajar, the door taken from the hinges so it can never be closed again.

“Next time, then?”

You say it purposeful, full of genuine nature. And, it makes him roll his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek. Palm and fingers still clutching the bottle—unsure if he likes this. The neighbour thing—the pretty neighbour thing. Especially one who looks at him with a sweet smile and who makes lemonade just because.

“I should go, don’t want to interrupt your evening—”

“Well, the only thing you’re interrupting is whether or not I should open this now or wait.”

You stop moving at that, coming to a stop in front of him, smile broadening, almost turning into a smirk. “

Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighs. “Got another job in the morning. Be a lot on my own.”

“What problems to have, ay?”

He snorts.

But then, he finds you nodding, licking your lips. “How about this, for the safety of the porches of Jackson, I’ll help you with your problem.”

“And what’s my problem?”

“You don’t wanna drink alone—likely worried about what it means if you do.”

You say it nonchalantly, as though seeing through him was a relatively easy task. Your body is still not moving; the cold either not bothering you, or you are faking it all so well.

“Alright.”

“Alright,” you say, slightly more chipper than him.

CHAPTER TWO ->

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #pedrostories #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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bugeater77 · 7 months

Text

Nandermo things u probably forgot about

not in any order(i wrote them whenever i remembered them)

(scroll down for images, the ones pictured are highlighted) - Nandor holding guillermo up to make him feel like he is flying multiple times (quite possibly nandermo hug)

During the simon the devious episode where nandor once again takes him flying, they hold hands (last image)

Nandor telling guillermo to stay by his side until he falls asleep in the curse episode, then going to grab his hand but stopping (5th Image)

"you'll probably have to take it in the waist and out the shoulders" - guillermo knowing Nandor's exact measurements

Nandor getting so frustrated while talking about the other vampires wanting to kill Guillermo that he kicks and destroys a box

"take a picture of me having fun and then send it to guillermo so he knows how much I do not miss him" - nandor

Guillermo DROPPING EVERYTHING ON THE GROUND when he hears about nandor's engagement

"it's not gonna last." -Guillermo SHIT EATING GRIN after realizing that gale and nandor are not gonna be together

Guillermo PUTTING HIS ARM AROUND NANDOR AFTER THE GAIL EPISODE he thought he had a chance :( (4th image)

Sean calling Guillermo Nandor's boyfriend and lazlo not questioning it not one bit

pulling guillermo back way before he was supposed to after trying to use him as bait for the sire

this was also while he was shaking his money maker if i might add

like the second he did it...

entire scene where Nandor tries to convince guillermo to come back from celeste

ENTIRE HOMOEROTIC FIGHT SCENE

might i mention that nandor obviously thinks guillermo fighting him is hot??!

Guillermo gripping nandor plushie after he leaves (3rd image)

Guillermo has silver lined seatbelts in his car, meaning he was planning to rescue nandor for a while

"traveling the whole world with my nand- master" - guillermo

ermmmmmm glitter portrait ?!!

Nandor wishing to be human the SAME AMOUNT that guillermo wishes to be a vampire, seeing him as an equal

"my furry little friend" - nandor

Marwa, who likes EVERYTHING nandor likes, kissing guillermo all over his face

The wwdits cast interview about nandermo, which to me feels like a deep extreme very canonization

Nandor's pure jealousy after finding out about guillermo becoming a vampire

Him waiting for SO LONG outside of panera bread

Going to guillermos house to look at his baby pictures

talking about his goth phase with his mom...

"if i'm lying, kill me now" - nandor

Nandor being so upset and holding guillermos body after thinking he was dead

Nandor grasping guillermos sweater

speaking out against the baron to keep guillermo safe, which if you watch season 1 again you'll see that he is TERRIFIED of the baron

so excited to talk about guillermo killing vampires.... wtf is wrong with u nandor but we're not gonna get into that

"I will fix"

PUTS ON GUILLERMOS CAPE

he is so excited to kill derek, not to turn guillermo human, but literally just to kill derek out of jealousy

Nandor's face while guillermo is talking about his love life(second image)

Guillermos face after Nandor turns Gail into a vampire (first image)

guillermo hammering the door as hard as possible to wake nandor for his super slumber.

duh nandor knowing every part of Guillermos thank you card

The entire last episode actually?

theres absolutely more but this is all i remember just from my brain

(new additions) In another cast interview, Kayvan Novak says “I think he’s coming to the realization that his type is Harvey Guillén flavored.” about nandors type

Nandor makes guillermo spin around in his wedding cape

Nandor says he got the idea of having a wedding ever since him and guillermo "watched the wedding planner on that rainy sunday together"

ok listen closely, the wedding planner is about a woman planning a wedding falling in love with the groom causing him to leave the bride

he did NOT CARE WHO HE WAS MARRYING. BUT HE KNEW HE WANTED GUILLERMO TO PLAN IT FROM DAY 1

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ghost-proofbaby · 10 months

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i want Steve - Haunted more than i could possibly say

i refuse to think more than 5 seconds about it critically

just know

i am on my hands and knees

haunted (steve's version)

warnings: technically canon compliant (aka the upside down is happening), severe angst, pretty much hurt no comfort.

wc: 1.6k+

an: hi. i love you. i'd say i'm sorry, but i don't think i really am. this probably isn't what you meant by any means but when i hear this song and think of steve all i can think about is that moment in s4 between him and eddie waah. (also, reminder: i will repeat songs if the requests are for different characters!)

He wouldn’t look at you.

He was the one who started this terrible mess, who had initiated that first kiss, and now he won’t even look at you. Steve Harrington was doing the one thing he had promised to never do – he was walking away from you.

All the years are spiraling down the drain, years spent by his side even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when he was an asshole, even when he wore the crown of king Steve so proudly. Even when he didn’t deserve your allegiance, he had had it. And now, he won’t look you in the eyes. He’d rather stare down the barrel of death than face you right now, and that very fact was unraveling you at your core.

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that.”

His words are salt in the wound and haven’t stopped echoing in your spiraling mind since he’d said them.

What, exactly, was the mistake? What part of this did he not only take responsibility for, but regret?

Was it the lingering glances of the past? Was it all the nights you’d listened to him rant and whine after his breakup with Nancy? Or was it all the times he’d convinced you that he had put you first, not only in your daily lives but in all of this? Did he regret the day he’d thrown himself between you and that Demodog, bat swinging wildly as he didn’t show a sign of fear? Or when he’d left you with radio silence as he’d been tortured underground by Russians and you faced the monsters above, never knowing if he was alive or dead?

Or was it the kiss? The kiss he’d impulsively thrown himself into, hardly giving either of you a chance to think last night before he’d pressed his lips to yours as you tended to his wounds left behind by the Demobats. One moment, you were taking alcohol-soaked cotton swabs gingerly to his throat that was sure to scar once all was said and done, and the next, his tongue had been in your mouth while his hands gripped your hips and pulled you impossibly close.

“Staring him down isn’t going to fix whatever… weirdness is happening between you two,” Eddie’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, making you look up to where he sits in the grass, red in the face and holding a makeshift shield.

Dustin is still out of breath from their roughhousing and focusing on hammering nails into his trash can lid.

“Weirdness?” you retort, crinkling your nose, “Nothing weird is happening between me and Steve.”

Eddie shrugs, clearly not buying your defensive tone, “Whatever you say. But I’m not blind, sweetheart. If looks could kill, we’d be arranging a funeral for our resident babysitter.”

“A mistake? Steve, no, please-”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You knew fear. You’d faced the end of the world plenty of times now, you currently were again, but you’d never known trepidation like this.

“No one’s dying,” you respond blandly, looking back to the cup of nails as you pass another one to Eddie, “We’re not heroes, Eddie. No one’s dying this time, and there won’t be any more funerals.”

“I think it’d be a mercy kill if Vecna got his hands on Harrington first,” Eddie takes the nail, pausing his thought as his tongue peeks out between his lips and he levels the nail before bringing down his mallet smoothly, “I think when it’s all said and done, I’ll get red roses to lay at the grave he’s dug himself.”

It only gets a ghost of a laugh to escape you, a silent breath that leaves you sharply as you shake your head.

“Do you not want this?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

He didn’t know what he wanted. He’d made that clear over the last few days. All the tides of his attention had turned towards Nancy, and he’d left you on the sidelines, sick to your stomach and so uncertain of the future between you two.

You knew what you wanted. It was the same thing you’d always wanted, ever since he’d first laid his eyes on you, effectively cursing you to spend the rest of your days haunted by soft brown eyes and congregations of freckles that dotted warm, tan skin.

“Don’t be cheap with it,” you croak, eyes looking back in his direction. You don’t even hear Eddie’s amused snort. You’re stunned, taken back by the fact that he’s already looking at you, “Make sure to get him a proper dozen.”

As hazel eyes lock with yours, you ponder if he’d always been walking this very delicate line at your side. If maybe, you’d not been quite as alone in your unrequited as you’d always assumed.

And you wonder if even the world of the end can delay the impending break to come.

—

The plan is set, the supplies have been gathered, the teams have been formed – you all know what you have to do. It’s now or never, and there’s no time to second-guess any of it now.

You’re all back in the Upside Down again, hopefully for the last time, when Steve hesitates in front of the steps of the trailer on this side of the flipped world.

You almost convince yourself as he’s turning to face you, Eddie, and Dustin that he might bring it all up again. That he might leave you with something that soothes the ache he’d planted inside of you. He’d dug his claws into you long before that kiss, long before he’d lodged all those words of uncertainty down your throat about how he doesn’t know what he wants. You all but beg for him to just leave you with something to hold onto before you both face these nightmares one last time.

He doesn’t. Instead, he makes one last speech, sternly instructing you three, “Don’t try to be cute, or be a hero, or something.”

At some point, Dustin and Eddie interrupt him, joking about the way you three were just decoys, not heroes. But you’re not listening – you’re sharply focused on the way Steve’s eyes are avoiding yours again.

Please look at me. Please say something to me. Please don’t walk away from me, because something about this time feels like the last time.

You can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t stop feeling the way he’d latched onto you in that small bathroom, the way his fingers curled against your hips and the way he’d left your lips swollen and bruised before he delivered his final blows. You know him, better than the back of your hand, and you know that he hadn’t said half the words he’d wanted to in the aftermath. You know what brand cologne he wears and how his mother was the one to first buy it for him and he never bothered to venture from it, you know that he has glasses that he needs desperately after all the head trauma he’s endured these last few years and you know that he’s too embarrassed to wear them in front of anyone except you, you know the way he still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming at past memories twisted into night terrors. You know him. You swear you know him.

He still feels like a stranger as he turns without sparing you a glance. Eddie starts to take a step forward, opening his mouth, but you beat him to the punch.

“Hey, Steve?” you call out into the mist of blue tint and foreign particles.

When he looks at you, all the air leaves your lungs.

You thought you knew him. His favorite music played over late night drives with just the two of you, the way you teased him for his hair routine but secretly loved the smell of his coconut shampoo. You had every mole on his neck memorized and knew the curvature of his lips long before you’d felt them. Every inside joke, every quiet exchange of comfort, every moment of pining swallowed down, is choking you now.

You’ve already lost him. He was always destined to be a ghost in your closet, a cold chill to only visit you in his loneliest of moments. You’ve already lost him, and you never even had him.

“Please be careful,” you manage to whisper. Your face must be a mirror image to his the night before, he must see all the words you hold back and bury in your chest.

You are two sides of the same coin. Neither of you will ever learn to unlock your jaws long enough to stop biting your tongues. And it doesn’t even matter now; it’s too late to change anything.

All his features soften as he offers a nod and nothing more. For a second, you see the boy you once believed you knew. The same eyes, mouth, and nose that had laid staring at you from the pillow beside yours, fighting sleep and fearing the dark. Only brave enough to face it when he laid at your side, hand in innocent hand, never seeing the way he was stringing you along the entire time. Only knowing he needed that comfort and he needed that warmth you would offer to him time and time again, even as it left you hollow.

You’d already lost him once. As it happens for a second time, something in your gut churns and whispers it will be for the last time.

He turns around wordlessly, and follows after Robin and Nancy. You feel that thread that has bound you to him all these years pull mercilessly taut and wait for the break as Steve Harrington does the one thing he swore he’d never do to you – he walks away from you.

"it's getting dark and it's all so quiet, and i can't trust anything now. and it's coming over you like it's all a big mistake."

#speak now (ghost's version)#steve harrington #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #why do me and steve always end up SAD

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danwhobrowses · 13 days

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Okay so we are doing a very rare third post about the events of Critical Role campaign 3 episode 91 so avoid if you still haven't watched it because there will be spoilers again

Right. So I'm not gonna talk more about the Reincarnate vs Stay Dead debate with FCG, I still prefer Reincarnate for reasons I put in my last post but now I'm gonna talk about the other route, if FCG stays dead, what becomes of his remains?

It is almost ironic that a PC death happened a few episodes after Matt created the Ruidian custom of making weapons from a loved one's remains, something Ashton and Fearne were quite intrigued by, so I wonder if the Hells would do the same - in a way carrying a little bit of FCG with them to continue the fight. Outside of his loot it's hard to tell what the Hells can use, if it were me I'd have each of the Hells have a bracelet from his hair at the least, but the rest would probably need to be left in the hands of tinkerers to create things that may enhance the Hells' combat; maybe a conductive whip for Imogen to use for her more lightning-based magic for instance, I can also see Ashton fixing FCG's head onto their outfit or hammer and Chetney and Laudna maybe making little FCG dolls for each of them too.

Loot-wise I had to look at the wiki to remind myself of all the stuff FCG had on them, as well as see what Otohan had but outside of the backpack and swords it wasn't quite descriptive at this point, and even then there's no guarantee it'll all be undamaged from the blast, but there were some notable things that could end up in the Hells' hands to use. I feel like we're all in agreement that if FCG doesn't come back that Ashton keeps the Coin of the Changebringer, perhaps even have it affixed to their hammer so to feel like FCG is still fighting with them. The full extent of its magical properties were not shown outside of the Yes/No question and 1 bout of Lucky per day, but on Ashton's hammer the daily reroll might end up being helpful, though they are not a fan of the gods a little FCG-aided divine buffing could go a long way. Other than that, Ashton probably should claim the two Potions of Possibility FCG had, my earlier post mentioned my belief that Otohan's backpack should go to them because Dunamancy (I didn't however mention how echoes can work as temporary meat shields for Ashton to better negate enemy attacks that'd otherwise be aimed at the party) and the logic is the same here, Matt would probably have to try and balance Ashton's Dunamancy and Titan buffs so to not take all four potions (or more, think Fearne and Orym have one too right? *checks* oh and Laudna so that's 7 potions!) at once but those seem to be key loot Ashton should keep a hold of.

Outside of combat FCG would be helpful in using Identify when the Hells came across new objects. While Chetney has Grim Psychometry to do something similar, the Goggles of Object Reading that FCG used could be taken by Imogen - which in turn may provide Laura and the fandom a means to canonize glasses on the character - along with the Staff of Dark Odyssey that she has used before.

Fearne is another who could hold the Staff, but I find it unlikely. She would probably take the rod used to plane-shift to the Fey Realm, in a way being a key to home if she needs it. I can see her taking the Ivory Branch as well, albeit temporarily until a new healer presents themselves, due to the +1 Spell attack and +1d4 Healing. She might keep the Ruidian mood ring but I feel like that wouldn't survive the blast, same with the recipes FCG collected, though it'd be nice if someone were able to carry on his memory that way; Fearne, Ashton or Orym would be likely candidates for that.

Laudna would perhaps be able to use most of the scrap remains of FCG for her constructs, perhaps a little buffing for Pate is in order plus she doesn't use Sashimi often. Chetney only really works in wood so he probably won't take the remains, stuff such as his saws and propeller could be used to empower Laudna's own creations, maybe even the fake legs too.

One weapon I think will not end in Laudna's hands however is the Grapple cannon, which could suit either Orym or Chetney. Orym is the better candidate to use it though, given the 20 Dexterity compared to Chetney's 14, additionally there is the +1 Mithril Half-Plate Armor, which could be an improvement for either.

If Orym were to get both I could see it being a trade for Chetney not getting anything, in turn granting Chetney both of Otohan's swords to use - since Orym may want nothing to do with her equipment given her role in killing their family. Otherwise I can see Chetney maybe grabbing the saws ahead of Laudna, maybe the goggles but he does already have the monocle, and any utensils he can repurpose for crafting. There is also the possibility of him getting the Aeoran Scrambling Devices that we know little about, maybe adding a little 'this wouldn't happen if it were wooden' catharsis for Chet if he used them on machines.

The only other thing that is left from FCG are the bolt thrower and the All-Minds-Burn drugs. The latter could go to anyone but Ashton, Fearne and Imogen are more likely (she still needs to plant that seed), the bolt thrower could go to Laudna, she never used Bor'dor's slingshot with the Draconic Rune that Prism added to it, or to Chetney to fire a chisel. His coat he designed like FRIDA's would probably be kept for her to be given too. Outside of that the only other specific loot we currently know from Otohan is the Fake Treshi Ring for Scrying (not its official name), which won't be of use to the Hells since the next time they get close to a major enemy they will be fighting, but perhaps it could be placed in the hands of Liliana Temult, either to keep track of her or to plant on Ludinus so the Hells can track his movements instead.

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timotey · 2 months

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Ficlet: Needless Loss, Needless Pain

The Sign. Phaya/Tharn. Post-drama (theatrical release). Unbeta'd.

They might not have needed to end up enemies.

(I know, I know, I already wrote a similar ficlet, Hollow Victories, but now that the drama ended, I decided to give it another go and write a canon compliant ficlet. Tadaaaa!)

*.*.*

That night, the night following the day when Tharn comes back to him, Phaya wakes up from a nightmare - and to his empty arms. Tharn’s not there.

He sits up, heart hammering hard in his chest, and he’s looking around, searching for Tharn, because Tharn can’t be gone again, he just can’t be, he can’t be–

Then Phaya sees him, Tharn, on the other side of the bed, curled up and asleep, covers kicked off. He must’ve felt too hot in this muggy weather threatening rain, so he rolled away from Phaya and now he’s lying there just in his boxer shorts and Phaya’s undershirt, sleeping soundly.

Phaya’s heart could leap out of his chest! He’s so relieved, so relieved, so relieved that he actually feels like crying. His eyes burn and his nose burns and he’s all choked up and he wants to-he wants to pull Tharn into his arms and kiss him and make sure that he’s really there, really, really there.

But he doesn’t do it. He lets Tharn sleep. Because he remembers how exhausted Tharn was when they finally climbed into their bed after all the welcoming kisses and hugs and explanations that were no explanations at all because how can you explain something like that, a world full of wonder and magic.

And so Phaya lets Tharn sleep and climbs out of the bed, because he can’t go back to sleep, he can’t lie still, his heart is galloping too fast for that, his hands are shaking too hard, he feels jittery and completely out of sorts. He grabs a package of cigarettes, a bad habit he picked up once more during the past year of loneliness, and heads for the door. Walking out into the main room, he shakes one cigarette out and… stops.

Because he doesn’t need this, not anymore, this crutch. Because he has Tharn back. It feels unreal but it’s true. He turns back to look at Tharn through the open door. He simply looks. He can’t tear his eyes away, his chest is filled with Tharn, just with him.

He drops the cigarette back into the pack and crumples it, leaning against the door frame with a little smile to soak in the sight of his lover back where he belongs.

But then, suddenly, there’s the softest of sounds, a shiver of magic, and Phaya straightens up and twists around fast, heart in his throat. Because there’s Chalothon, there in the middle of the main room, materializing out of nothing and headed his way.

Phaya steps forward, blocking the doorway, intent on doing all he can to to stop the man, to prevent him from getting closer to Tharn, to–

“I’m not here to take him away,” Chalothon says quietly, staring past him at the sleeping Tharn. “I just wanted to make sure one last time that he’s happy here.”

Phaya is so tense he’s shaking. He doesn’t trust Chalothon, he doesn’t want him anywhere near Tharn, he wants him gone forever, as far from them as possible. And yet... He remembers Chalothon’s soul in the palm of Tharn’s hand, the thing that saved his lover’s life.

Swallowing hard, Phaya decides to take a leap of faith.

He moves aside a little, turning around to look at Tharn, too. They’re now standing in the doorway, side by side, sworn enemies loving one and the same person, watching him sleep.

Phaya clears his throat quietly. “He told me,” he whispers. “About what you did. That you gave him your soul to save him.”

Chalothon nods. “Eventually, yes.”

Phaya looks at him. Chalothon is staring at Tharn with a look of such intensity that it sends a shiver down Phaya’s spine. “Eventually?” he asks.

“Yes. A Naga soul doesn’t heal, it just fixes. It’s like duct taping a crack,” Chalothon explains. “If I took it back right now, his wound would come back and kill him. It’s not healed, it’s just... removed.”

Phaya’s heart skips a beat. “But you won’t, right? Take your soul back.”

Chalothon throws him an annoyed look. “I wouldn’t have given it to him in the first place if I planned on doing something like that. You know, as a Garuda you weren’t this dense,” he comments snidely.

Phaya lets it go, though. He has bigger worries. “But he will be okay, right? Tharn will?”

“Yes. He will live out his human life as was preordained,” Chalothon said, looking back at Tharn again.

Phaya feels so relieved that his knees turn weak and he has to lean against the door frame.

For a long moment, they are silent, just watching Tharn. Who sighs and turns in his sleep, scooting closer to where Phaya was resting before.

Maybe Phaya should let it be, maybe he shouldn’t ask, let sleeping dogs lie, but… he wants to know. He needs to understand. And so he does ask, “Why did you do it? Why did you let Tharn go? And send him to me?”

Chalothon is quiet for so long that Phaya thinks he won’t answer. But then he does.

“Like I told you, I gave him my soul - eventually,” he says. “First, I tried all I could to actually heal him. I don’t know if it was because of my powers, because of my weapon of choice or because of the place where it happened, but it just wouldn't work. Nothing worked. It took… a while. And it wasn’t painless.”

Phaya’s throat closes off and he has to blink hard. He still vividly remembers Tharn’s weight in his arms, the crimson on his lips, his torn body. Of course it hurt. Of course, of course, of course.

Chalothon's next words steal the breath from his lungs.

“He asked me to let him go, to just let him die,” Chalothon whispers. “That’s when I realized I couldn’t win. I could force him to stay with me, I could kill him if I wanted to but I could never make him love me. That’s when I gave him my soul and fixed him. I thought he would immediately leave but he stayed. I was weakened and he could’ve run but he stayed. And took care of me. Because despite everything, after everything, he still doesn't hate me. He doesn't love me, not like he loves you, but he holds... affection for me. Still.”

One part of Phaya is angry. Because he was left suffering for months, longer than he needed to. Because Tharn could’ve come back much sooner. Because… because he wasn’t the only one on Tharn’s mind, in Tharn's heart, he admits to himself, letting go of some of his anger. He has to because if Tharn acted differently, he wouldn't be Tharn.

Please stop killing each other. I’m begging you both one last time.

Wansarut loved Sakuna but she held a deep respect and much affection for her Lord Chalothon. And Tharn loved Phaya but he was still very fond of his Doctor Chalothon. Phaya has no doubt that if Tharn were forced to choose between them, with no coercion, he would choose Phaya, always - but this time, he didn't have to. He didn’t have to choose and he could finally resolve the animosity between Sakuna - Phaya! - and Chalothon peacefully, just like he wanted since the very beginning.

Something deep in Phaya relaxes, something that he didn’t even realize was wound up tight, had been for lifetimes now. He looks at Chalothon. “Thank you for saving him. And... I’m sorry,” he says, his voice serious and honest, and when Chalothon turns to him, startled, he continues. “I’m sorry about how we met, at the beginning of it all. That we always only fought instead of talking like Wansarut wanted. We probably never would’ve become friends, true, but we might not have needed to end up enemies.”

Chalothon stares at him for a long while, then he inclines his head in acceptance.

Taking one last look at Tharn, a long and longing one, Chalothon says, already disappearing in a whirlwind of green and black magic, “Take good care of him, Phaya, he’s precious… she’s always been.”

And then he’s gone and Phaya is standing in the doorway of their bedroom alone, feeling strangely hollow, as if too much was lost for nothing, as if too much pain was caused for nothing.

Then Tharn sighs and reaches out with his hand, casting about for Phaya and frowning a little in his sleep when he finds nothing but an empty bed. He makes a soft, unhappy noise deep in his throat - and Phaya smiles.

He pads towards their bed, dropping the crumpled cigarette pack on the bedside table, and slips between the sheets, taking Tharn’s hand in his and kissing his fingers. Tharn’s brows immediately smooth out and he snuggles close, resting his head on Phaya’s shoulder, inserting his leg between Phaya’s, making himself comfortable and letting out a little sigh of contentment.

Phaya’s smile widens. “Better?” he asks very quietly, wrapping one arm around Tharn’s shoulders and pulling him even closer. When Tharn just murmurs something unintelligible in reply, Phaya kisses his forehead tenderly, resting their locked hands against his heart.

“Sleep well,” Phaya whispers. And then sleeps too.

#the sign #the sign the series #my fics #my the sign fics #mé

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blimbo-buddy · 11 months

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Absolutely sobbing over your praise. I am but a mere and chaotic writer of kitty angst. I'm so glad you're loving it because it's just- man, I like writing it. I honestly was just taking from the prompts and bonefall's snippets. It's been like - gosh, about 9ish years or so? - since I read DotC.

I am 20% sorry for putting you through this, 50% thankful, and 30% ready to do it part 3.

The part about Turtle Tail not saying sorry was something I subconsciously hammered in my brain. I didn't want her to apologize because that wasn't the goal. Turtle Tail's self-loathing of herself blinded her. She hated what she did, so she beat herself down and tried to fix this situation with more hate at first. Then, she threw all of her insecurities out there in hopes of explaining herself.

In my mind, her fatal flaw is that she thinks too self-centeredly. Notice how Turtle Tail, while she admits her flaws, thinks that's her apology. She thinks that pointing out how much Bumble means to her is apologizing.

Not once did she say, "I'm sorry for everything I said to you."

But several times she did say what she thinks and how she feels.

There's no empathizing with how horribly wounded Bumble is.

There's no apologizing for breaking her promises.

It's just hatred for herself and the world.

It was something I knew subconsciously, but it hit me when I checked for myself that she didn't. I was shocked despite my brain knowing before writing what the last sentence of the Bumble part would be.

Turtle Tail told herself she changed, but did she? Was this truly change?

Stay tuned for more of me as, once it is not 2AM and I am not running on questionably made tea, I will return for your ankles.

You've done this to me anon. YOU DID THIS TO ME

But in all seriousness I am ready for part 3. I really like the fact that, yeah, TurtleTail only spewed out self-loathing comments about herself, unknowingly making the situation revolve around her and not her… you know… dying friend. I feel extra bad for both of them in the situation (seeing as they are dotc women and get the short end of the stick), but extra EXTRA bad for Bumble. And this story exemplifies it, imagine Bumble just waiting for TurtleTail to actually say "Sorry", hoping that she does, silently begging that she does. TurtleTail acknowledge the horrible thing that led to this and says that she had been thinking back on it, but, she missed the most important part of an apology, the apologizing itself.

TurtleTail had lost the opportunity to change in Bumble's eyes. Bumble pitied TurtleTail's self loathing, she knew that TurtleTail's "apology" was unknowingly focusing all of the attention back onto TurtleTail without that bullshit "I wish you could have been happy with us but you could never have been a wild cat" canon line we get, like, damn TurtleTail what a fucking line to tell your dying friend. But in this story, TurtleTail is truly hurting, so badly. She genuinely feels bad for what she had done (or lack thereof) and she wants to atone for it, but her apology doesn't stick, it's not really an apology without the sorry. So it gives you a mixed perspective of TurtleTail, not so much morally grey though, I'm sure there's a word for it.

I love the open-endedness of the two stories (especially the Bumble pov one), does Bumble truly forgive TurtleTail? Will TurtleTail give a proper sorry? Will they reunite when they die and that's when TurtleTail apologizes? Will they try again? GAGH, it's all so great! I'm really excited for part 3, don't stress yourself writing it anon I'd gladly wait weeks and months for it

#blimbo rambles #ask

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polyboros · 1 year

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any relationship hcs for the heroes? who do you pair with them, if at all? (ie: hero/hero, ouroboros/hero, etc)

farmersonly (juniper/zeon) is really cute, i think!! i saw a few pieces for it over on twitter (here & here) + the ascension quest featuring both of them is really endearing!! i love that they're two people who are learning how to be a commander in a way that fits the loss of the flame clock- and i like that they can learn from each other in different ways involving that too, because what they seek is kind of what the other has on lock (good leadership, farming skills)

ethel/cammuravi is really good too, but. uh. only when you either rewrite or disregard whatever's going on with their ascension "quest." i think they kind of fumbled the ball on that one!! the two of them just being. people who are in love in a world where they do not know what that is & find themself happy to die by each other's hands because they cannot recognize the feeling and what to do with it besides fight is.... insanely good. bonkers kinds of emotions over there. also cammuravi & the recovery from Not Being A Person for a while there is a lot to consider!! gently taking a hammer to their post-ch5 storyline. I Can Fix You. also up until ethel & cammuravi died for the first time i was deeply in love with the bolearis/ethel dynamic And I Still Am and i think its fun. can you imagine the bolearis-cammuravi dynamics. i sure can

ashera/eunie is SO FUN i like them so much. i dont have a lot of specific thoughts on them but everything going on with their canonical dynamic makes me feel bonkers & if you add kissing into that it can only be improved. like. exponentially.

miyabi & mio/sena is always really interesting to think about. because i think there is something to be had with getting to know each other all over again- because you are all different people, than you were when one of you died. and finally being able to be honest with each other in the ways you couldn't be before, etc. also the cooking fluff to be had here, especially wrt sena's little onigiri recipe thing that you see in segiri's hero quest. you know!!!

assorted others: - the tragedy of ghondor/shania is really good, though i stand by the idea that less of the "former backstory character turned moebius" guys should've died. having to Come Back From All Of That. yeah. - i made a joke about triton/grey once & it's still very funny to consider. rozana and grey are such a funny couple. guys who are extremely neurodivergent and extremely committing political assassinations when ouroboros isnt looking - read this irma & fiona fic always - do you think the queens of aionios ever-

#kbitycus talks #anonymous #xbc3 #polyboros tag #thank you anon!! i hope this is fun to read :] i had fun putting together my thoughts #i have a lot of love for literally every hero in this game but some of them i shrimply dont have romance/qpr thoughts for. at least not yet #i think a lot of them are fwiends though. valdi & alexandria + valdi & fiona + isurd & anyone dynamics i rotate them frequently

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ruethos · 4 years

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Me, giving Leah a girlfriend: It’s what she deserves

#Kassandra talks like someone's listening #KES&I #One of the MANY awful things in twilight: how dirty SMeyer did Leah #So. I'm trying to fix that.#Once again I take a hammer and FIX the canon

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

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Somebody to love (PART 2/2): (Richard Alonso Muñoz x fem!reader)

Summary: PART ONE IS HERE. Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE, THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Author’s note: This is part of my friends to lovers event, prompt requested by @foxilayde who I adore and you should too. Prompt was: he does something utterly mundane which shows how well he knows you, and your feelings hit you. I took some liberties with the prompt, and there is zero pressure to read this - IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB! :P More of these requests in pinned post!

Tags: (will add tomorrow)

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY): swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/ consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

The date has been flawless. The best date you’ve had.

Richard is amazing to talk to and appealing to look at. He makes you feel safe and secure, yet also ignited and pleasantly destabilised. His laugh is music. His smile is sunshine. He is at times serious and in other moments delightfully playful. His gentle, quiet nature suckers you in to him, and once you are in the circumference of his warmth, you simply don’t want to leave.

You want to treat this special man to all the love he deserves.

You reflect, as you walk together towards your street, hand-in-hand, that it feels as though you’ve known him for years - and, of course, you have. You simply hadn’t been paying adequate attention. It is evident that Richard has, however. That he already knows you and understands you better than you could have imagined.

So, now, as you step up on to your porch, Richard stands a couple of steps below you, his cola-coloured eyes big and gentle and sparkling as he looks up at you. You loop your arms so that they rest on his shoulders, your fingers dipping into the glorious manicured curls at the nape of his neck. You had hoped that Richard might respond by winding his arms around your waist -or perhaps gripping your hips or your ass, to be quite honest- but instead, he stands there, taut with nerves, and yet his arms hung limply by his sides.

He seems so responsive; so receptive to every small touch you give him, the man humming lightly as you stroke his soft skin, and yet, he hasn’t returned the favour. You wish he would touch you, but, in resignation, you smile softly, guessing that if Richard won’t take the initiative, you will simply have to. After all, you’ve been desperate to kiss the man all evening. So, with a gentle smile and a search of his eyes, you shift one hand to cup his shapely chin, tipping his face up towards you.

“I want to kiss you, Richard. Is that okay with you?”

Keenly, he lets out a half-strangled affirmation, the weight of his plea creasing the space between his brows. “Please.”

And so, you pick up his unsure arms and you guide them around your waist, until his hands tentatively settle, polite but also firm and broad and warm around you, and you rehoop your arms around his neck, readying to move in for the kill.

Dipping your head down, you inch yourself closer and closer towards Richard’s lips, and you wonder if his heart is hammering the way yours is. You take in the beautiful sight of his eyes fanning closed and chin tilting up eagerly towards you, before your own eyes follow suit, your noses bumping awkwardly as you tilt around each other. The first sensation you feel is his moustache, the thick brush of it tickling your lips and causing you to faintly moan as you feel this small indication of his closeness. This breathy, broken sound from you causes Richard’s hands to tighten around your waist, finally, and with either a surge of bravery or a collapsing of his resolve -perhaps both- it is he who closes the remaining distance, his warm lips keenly meeting yours.

At first, it is a chaste, closed-lipped kiss that, even so, makes your legs tremble almost immediately. His soft lips are so moreish that when you break from him, leaning your forehead against Richard’s -both your chests heaving and your breaths practically one- you immediately sink back again to his lips, needing to taste him again.

You smile into the kiss as you become accustomed to the sensation of that glorious moustache, scraping lightly against your upper lip and cheek and nose, and you feel desire sink all the way through the pit of you like a stone as Richard’s tongue delves gently into your mouth. This surge of his kiss is like nothing you have felt before, and whilst Richard may seem timid, and while his ministrations may be gentle and slow, you could swear you have never felt a more assured tongue in your life.

“Do you want to come inside?” you ask urgently, your voice a broken, breathy thing, the air for your words ripped from his lips.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to, very much,” Richard answers just as quickly, his eyes dancing with a delicious brewing heat as you take his hand and lead him into your home.

Your lips find him again as shoes and jackets are shrugged off, strewn haphazardly in the hallway, his kisses slow-moving and deliciously sweet, sending a cloying desire like warmed syrup sinking to the pit of you. Your stomach flips each time you feel his tongue against yours, as though your core intends to mirror the languid circling of his tongue, and suddenly you are already throbbing there, thinking of where these burgeoning kisses might be leading.

“You’re so beautiful,” Richard breathes, sinking on to your lips again, and your legs weakening beneath you.

You lead Richard deeper inside your home, and you vaguely consider your options, but with this hazy, hungry heat all around you, dragging him to your bedroom by the hand seems like the only viable course of action.

“Do you... want to come to my bed with me?” you ask, voice levelled with need and stomach buzzing with the pleasant thrum of nerves.

He answers affirmatively and you waste no time, until you are both seated on the edge of your bed, continuing your slow, sensual make-out session, bodies twisted towards each other. Richard kisses you deeply, opening your mouth up to him, until he breaks from you with a wracked groan, squirming with slight discomfort and apology as he adjusts himself, to better accommodate the growing bulge between his legs.

When he spreads his denim-clad thighs, like that, they look so sturdy and appealing that you want to climb him. Want to straddle his lap and writhe your heat right over his tenting arousal.

Still, you hesitate. He’s eager, you know that much; and God, so are you. However, he still seems nervous about reaching out to you or taking the lead. His hands never stray far from zones he may consider more polite or more comfortable, despite the fact he has happily allowed your hand to inch up and up his clothed thigh and towards that tenting crotch of his, his pretty, wracked moans spurring you on.

So, as he breaks from you, momentarily, you pull back to search his eyes.

“Would you… Would you like to touch me, Richard?” you suspire, wanting to progress this further, but only if he’s comfortable.

As you regard him, you note that you have never seen a man look quite so dishevelled with need - both literally and figuratively. Your hands have upset his perfectly fixed curls, mussed tendrils now draping over his forehead. His kiss-plumped lips are parted to accommodate his now ragged breaths, and he looks almost forlorn - pained with it, as though he might end if he isn’t kissing you again within moments. “Yes. Please.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” he responds, brow furrowed with weighty desire and eyes searching yours.

The tone with which he responds to you, sunken with need, has a hard swallow trailing down your throat. An immediate and impossible ache building between your legs.

“How about… here?”, you say tentatively, gingerly taking his hand, and moving it beneath the fabric of your dress until his warm fingers meet the bare flesh of your thighs. His thumb instantly sinks in to knead you as he works his hand up further, inching towards your core, exactly where you need him.

“God, you’re so soft. You feel so good.”

“C-can I touch you?” you ask, as he inches higher, and it comes out as a plea. You need to. Need to touch him. Everywhere. You need to feel him under your hand - feel him all over you. On you. Against you. Buried in you. Fuck, you need him.

With your question though, Richard’s hungry eyes are momentarily clouded by apprehension, and so, you take a moment to rein in your snowballing desire; to properly check-in with him.

“Let’s talk for a minute. Can I do anything to make you feel more comfortable?” your voice soft and soothing, your hand smoothing over his thigh.

Richard flutters his eyelashes and looks down at his lap, withdrawing his hand from under your dress. Your skin shivers, instantly cold with the loss of him. He nods, slowly, soberly, his face set and moustache downturned. Then, when his words come, his voice is small and sad. “I asked my buddy at work for advice. Said I had a date with someone out of my league. Somebody so perfect, and that I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Your eyebrows knit together. You shake your head in disbelief. Your one single desire now, is to set his misapprehension to rest. “Fuck that. I’m not out of your league, Richard. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect.” You cup his cheek again, planting a kiss on that now familiar spot, right on the tip of his cheekbone, a spot perfectly contoured to your lips.

His eyes flick back up to yours, shining with gratitude, but he still looks unsure.

“Perfect,” you repeat, dipping to press a kiss to his opposite cheek. “Gorgeous.” To the tip of his nose. “Sexy.” To the corner of his lips. “Handsome.” To the column of his neck. Meanwhile, smoothing your hand over his thigh and arm and chest, keeping your desire stoked but mainly aiming to offer him comfort, and to bolster his wavering confidence.

A smile claims Richards eyes, at least, if not his lips, and he brings his hand to your face, caressing you gently in gratitude. You pull up to search his eyes and his expression says it all.

You are beautiful.

And, despite his nervousness, his timidness, when Richard next speaks, there is no hint of self-consciousness in his voice. Not an ounce, his kind eyes backlit with lust. With that now familiar, gentle, nuanced heat. “He said… Said that I should eat you out like a man starved.”

To your credit, you try to speak. You really do, your mouth opening and closing again wordlessly, but all of a sudden, you have lost language. You can barely breathe. Can barely form a coherent thought. Barely an incoherent one. Barely a -

“Would you like it? If I did that, bonita?”

You whimper. You actually whimper, as he sits there, coolly holding your face in his broad palm, caressing you with the pad of his thumb. Behaving as though he’s an innocent thing and yet making you feel like this.

“I would not be. Opposed to. That,” you muddle out, barely, your voice trembling with need. An insistent pulse between your legs, causing you to press them tightly up against one another, just for a morsel of relief. “But… you. Ohhh.” His thumb brushes over your cheek. Towards your mouth. “Y-you don’t have to. Um.” Skims your lower lip. “Ahhh. Do. Anything you. Uh. Don’t want. To.” The pad of his thumb pushes inside, just deep enough for the tip of your tongue to meet it as he grazes over you. “Uhhh.”

Richard nods in understanding, and when your tongue fleets out to taste the tip of him, his eyes darken deliciously, pupils lust-blown.

You, meanwhile, are vapour. Your breath is ragged. Your arousal is soaking through your dress. You can feel it. Feel your own slick, a mess on your thighs.

And yet, you can tell there is more he wants to say, so you encourage him to go on. “Richard?” you plead.

“I... I want it to be perfect for you. You’re so perfect. But I...” his moustache twitches as he sucks his own lips between his teeth. His hands drop dejectedly into his lap, and he can’t meet your eyes, fixing his gaze on a spot of carpet. “I want to. So much. I‘m aching for you.”

Then what? You search his beautiful big eyes, reaching up to gently tuck a cute, hanging strand of curls away from his eyes and urging him to go on.

He reaches behind his head, to self-consciously stroke the nape of his neck. “The last woman I was with... It wasn’t... She didn’t like the moustache. And she... she said I was... too big.”

Fuck.

Your hand drops from his face into your lap, and your jaw slackens in shock as you let his words sink in. Meanwhile, his face becomes tinged again with that undertone of crimson you’re becoming rather familiar with.

Too big?

“Fuck, Richard,” you breathe -or, rather, can barely breathe- as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes, nervously, humbly awaiting your reaction. He really has no idea what he’s doing to you, does he? How perfect he is? You can feel the heavy pulse of desire throbbing between your legs once more - even more so now. A slow-crawling heat under your skin.

Can he really be so... endowed?

Can he really be so shy and so hot at the same time? (Yes, apparently, he can.)

You gulp. You take in a breath to speak and then literally say nothing. You consider, so help you, burying your face in the mattress and silently screaming. But, somehow, you hold it together.

“That’s. Wow. Well, we can definitely figure that out. Together, Richard. Can work around… That,” you reassure, your blood rushing in your ears, your hand slowly trailing back up his thigh. “Will you… will you let me take care of you?”

Looking reassured, he nods. He smiles softly. His eyes ardent as he looks at you.

You reinstate your hand on to his sturdy thigh, and you begin your slow, languorous crawl up towards his crotch, following the seam of his pants like a trailing spark along a fuse line. As you inch further, his eyes flutter shut and he groans when you reach the junction of his legs, lightly ghosting your fingers along his straining zipper.

“Can I... see?” you purr. “Are you hard for me, sweet man? Can I take you out of your pants?”

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes. Please.”

You proceed when Richard eagerly shifts position for you, parting his thighs for you and leaning back on his hands so that you’re able to unbuckle his belt, and to slowly release his zipper.

You’re playing really well at having any shred of self-control left, for his sake, but in reality, you’re a trembling, wet mess, overtaken by a furious, barrelling need. You simply can’t take this. Shit, you wonder if you will actually, very literally, be able to take this. Take him. Still, you certainly don’t want to stop, and so, with Richard’s cooperation you tug his jeans and his boxers down on his hips, and, biting down on your lip, you release his proud length.

“Fuck,” you say, almost inaudibly as you drink the sight of him in.

He wasn’t exaggerating. He is big. He’s long, but perhaps not the longest you’ve ever had – a fact you are honestly thankful for. He certainly is thick too – especially thick, his contoured head ruddy and gleaming for you. Launched on an urgent breath, you ask if you can touch him, and when he encourages you, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, his length warm and heavy in your hand. He fills the circumference of you in such a pleasing way, hard and velvety and thickly veined. He eagerly strains against you; engorging even further against your touch.

“What do you think?” he asks shyly, intently watching your fingers tease and skim and squeeze him. “Can you work with this?”

“You’re perfect. Fuck, Richard. This is the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean it?” he asks, modest as ever.

“Every inch of you is perfect, sweet man.” You want to prove it to him. And you know exactly how. “D-do you… Do you want to feel how wet you’ve made me? How much I want you, Richard?”

“Please,” he begs hoarsely, his voice quaking, desire knotting his brows, and, you stretch out on the bed beside his already half-reclined form, the mattress dipping beneath you. Eagerly, you return his hand to your thigh, where his girthy fingers resume their slow path towards your core. This time though, Richard doesn’t stop. Positioning himself, propped on one elbow, he turns on to his side, his other hand travelling under your dress - inching, achingly slow, all the way up your thigh. He traces a warm, steady, torturously slow pressure along your clothed slit, over your aching nub, until he reaches the top hem of your panties -silly, silky little things- and then, he pushes the elastic hem aside, dipping his two, thick middle fingers down into your folds, gliding effortlessly through your slick until he curls towards your entrance.

You shudder from his touch, submitting an open-mouthed moan to him already as he skims through your wetness, his half-bared cock twitching against his soft, rounded stomach in response to the feel of you. The sound of you.

He pulses and swirls his fingers up and down over your heat, simply gathering and playing with your arousal, and you can imagine what he is feeling beneath his fingers. You can hear your own wetness, your sweet nectar aiming to sucker him in.

It works.

“Please. Can I taste you?” he asks, in that wrecked voice again- the one which ends you.

Your eyes traverse him, hungrily. His mouth tipped open, needy breaths circling beneath that flourishing facial hair. His forearm exposed and veins popping as he works his fingers against you. His cock. Fuck. His delicious cock looks so hard and ruddy, the head of him practically crimson -fit to burst already- and the man must need some relief, and yet all he can think of is sinking his mouth to you? Not that you’re complaining, mind you.

What most gets you though – still – are his eyes. Those gentle, heat-infused, heavy-lidded, lust-laden, adoring, cola-coloured eyes.

Still, you throw your head back, as his fingertips continue to haphazardly explore your folds, your hips bucking and writhing readily, messily against his fingers. “You… ohhhh. You don’t have to do what your buddy said, you know? Only if you want.”

“I want to. I want to taste you, please. Hermosa. Please.”

Fuck, those beautiful brown eyes.

You never imagined you would end the evening with this handsome man begging to eat you out, and you don’t have it in you to resist, not even for a moment. Instead, you nod eagerly, scrambling to spread your thighs for him and hitching your dress up over your hips, opening for him with slick and eager hinges. Richard’s exposed member gleams for you, peeking out from his jeans, and each item of his clothing now looks like it is an impediment; however, he wastes no time on that. Instead, he simply begins a slow, deliberate peel of your panties down to your ankles, and, as you expel a string of affirmatives and pleas into the air, he sinks his face towards your heat.

You weren’t ready for it. You weren’t ready for the feel of his supple, eager tongue writhing against you, nor the feel of his lips engulfing you, his moustache scraping your sensitive skin ever so slightly as he munches over your clit. You weren’t wrong either - he is definitely, unequivocally not afraid to make a mess of himself. At all. In fact, you wonder if he has forgotten this is for you, as he truly does seem intent on tasting you, drinking from you as though he’s slurping on a milkshake, or relishing a cherry sucker. You think he might drink you dry. Or, you would think so, except you are getting wetter, as his assured, quietly confident tongue laps and probes and licks at everywhere it counts.

“Unnng. Dulce. Como duraznos en almíbar,” he praises into your heat.

Sweet. Like peaches in syrup.

You mewl for him. You writhe yourself desperately, embarrassingly, but this man moans eagerly into your heat as if he’s gaining as much pleasure from this as you are. That can’t possibly be true, however. It can’t be true because you are positively alight with ecstasy. You are experiencing such an abundance of it that you can scarce handle it, pleasure both balling and knotting tightly at your centre, and zipping out to every extremity. Your body bows and bucks under the weight of it and at the same time soars, weightless, to another plane.

When you think you couldn’t possibly take any more, Richard’s thumb begins a slow circle of your entrance, tracing around you. Dipping in to you. When his thumb slips in to fully puncture your heat, your juices spill over him, like you truly are a ruined peach, your fists clenching wildly in the sheets. You are his fruit. His ruined, ravaged fruit, existing and perishing only on his tongue. Coming to life and ending when he tastes you.

“Fuck, Richard!” you exclaim, as your peak threatens to overtake you so soon, and you worry that the sound was too weak for him to hear it; however, the man is apparently attentive as ever, even when he’s lost in between your thighs. He stops immediately, lifting his pretty eyes to yours, running his hands up and down along your quivering legs, trailing his fingers reverently over your mound and your patch of hair.

“You’re shaking, bonita,” he says, sounding awed.

“F-feels too good. But I want you inside me. I need you. Please. Will you – W-will you undress and lie down for me?”

It’s all you want. He is all you want. And you can’t explain why, but when you do fall apart for him, you need it to be together. Perhaps, so that when you unravel, you can bind yourself to him. You will tie those knots so tightly, you think, that they will not come undone.

In response to your request, Richard looks positively wrecked with need -and still a little nervous- but he obliges you, and your eyes keenly watch him as he slowly relinquishes his clothes. First his lower half, jeans kicked off to the floor. Then his shirt. He hesitates, when it comes to his white undervest. He looks so appealing in it that you wouldn’t mind if he kept it on; and yet, you are endlessly pleased when he peels it over his head, revealing his smooth chest and stomach and arms to you, your hungry eyes wandering over his form.

“Mmm. Gorgeous man,” you praise, rolling onto all fours with a surging, tidal wave of desire, trailing kisses and skimming your hot, wet mouth all the way down his bared torso as he kneels on the bed. He tastes faintly of sweat; salt on your tongue.

“Tell me what you want, Richard.”

“I… I need to feel your skin. Feel all of you,” he pleads hoarsely, and so, you follow his lead, tugging your dress over your head, and, with a ravenous, seductive stare, slowly releasing yourself from your bra. Richard’s jaw actually goes slack as he takes in the sight of all of you, entirely bared for him, the word “wow” gently suspiring from the pillow of his lips.

You smile as you guide him on to his back, and, tucking your body into his side, propped on one elbow, your hand smooths over his chest as you kiss him deeply. You taste yourself on him, a sweet, heady musk lingering on his moustache; and then, your hand traverses his chest and soft stomach, inching closer to where you crave. His body shivers under your hand as your fingertips stroke him at a spot where he’s evidently a little ticklish. He half-giggles, but the sound transforms quickly into a stuttered moan as your reach his arousal, a single finger circling the head of him.

Your fingers have barely so much as grazed him there and his cock is twitching, his hips bucking in search of your hand and his shapely chin tilted up towards the sky.

“Fuck. Are you sensitive there, baby?” you purr, and, as your fingers curl gently around him again, he nods vigorously – desperately- his expression almost tortured and his arms pinned by his sides.

“Yes, Ma’am. It feels so good when you touch me. Please. Please don’t stop.”

He shivers again -in a whole new way- as your thumb swirls, gingerly, spreading the glistening pearl of precum around the head of him.

You believe the man – that you make him feel good. He expels a breathy, gasping moan, or a tortured half-chuckle every time you so much as brush him. His might even be the most sensitive cock you’ve had, you think, and you watch, enraptured, as his pleasure plays out over his face, his hands fisting into the sheets at his sides as his body writhes for you. Still, you want more. You are greedy for him. Want to feel him everywhere.

“Can I take you in my mouth, Richard?”

“Do you want to?” he asks, and you nod, slinking cat-like down the bed, until you are in position, your mouth settling over his cock.

“You look delicious,” you purr, and when he pleads with you, you dip your head, your tongue laving out to encircle him in a wet, writhing embrace. He’s moreish here too, and so, you sink your lips down around his straining mass. He’s big, and he stretches your capabilities. You can’t even take all of him right away, but you give it your best effort as he moans beneath you.

“Unngg. No-one has ever fit so much,” he praises in disbelief as you take him deeper, humming around him, your head bobbing languorously over his shaft. Richard bucks his hips up ever so gently into your mouth - very careful not to drive into you further than you can take him. His hands come to rest tenderly on your head too, and his fingers smooth so delicately over your hair - reverently even. He doesn’t make any move to grab you to push you down on him- even if you might like that, or he might like that, at a later stage. Right now, you are more than content with this rare, unparalleled gentleness. This delicate, tender joy.

With relish, you continue. He makes such pretty sounds when you have him under your tongue, and yet, for how sensitive he is you are certainly impressed with his stamina. After a particularly deep bob down on to him, you surge off his length, using your hand to rub your slick into him as you look up at him, finding you have him transfixed.

“Need you inside of me, Richard. Can I get on top of you?”

This ache between your legs is becoming untenable.

“Unngg. Want to be inside of you so badly, bonita. Are you ready for me?”

Indicating your readiness, you shift yourself to straddle his hips, your core practically dripping over him as you settle your arousal over his. You writhe him along your folds, coating him in your juices, before rising up on your knees. You have to rise a little higher than you’re used to, to reach the tip of him, and eagerly you settle the blunt pressure of his ruddy, gleaming head at your entrance. You can barely steady yourself in position as your thighs and core tremble for him, in mere anticipation of him filling you. You are grateful when Richard’s hands come to lightly grip the meat of your hips -steadying you, supporting you a little- thumbs caressing your soft spots.

You tug in a breath as you prepare to spear yourself on him, the air faltering in your lungs as you pause where you are, just for a moment, Richard looking up adoringly from under you.

“Soñé contigo por tanto tiempo,” Richard whispers, barely audible. I have dreamed of you for so long. You’re not sure whether it is his sincere, heartfelt words igniting this pleasure within you or the slow inch and drag of your wet heat down his thick, veined shaft. Likely both, but either way, you know you want more.

“Uhhh. Slow. Slow, bonita,” he groans, as you begin to sink all the way down on him, his steady hands guiding you, now cupping your ass, staccato breaths escaping his parted lips as you engulf him. You take him, slowly, gradually, feeling him inch by inch as his girth and his length stretch you open. As you take him to his base, all the way, the full weight of you settling on his hips, Richard’s eyes practically roll back into his head. “God, it feels so good inside you. Can you take me like this?”

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip and you nod, stilling as you adjust to his size. He’s a lot, but it’s a pleasant kind of pressure as he strains against your walls and all your sweet spots. “Can you… take a little bit more, hermosa?” Fuck, how does he have even more to give?

“Say stop if it’s too much,” Richard pleads. “Promise?” When you nod, Richard slowly plants his hands on your hips and pulls you down on to him, just a little, as he bucks his hips up, ever so gently. You cry out, your face contorting in disbelief and your head arcing to the sky as Richard fills you to your limit. Meanwhile, Richard is studying your face with gentle concern, feeling it out, checking you are comfortable, letting you slowly reconfigure your insides to the shape of his girth and length. He’d never hurt you. He’d simply never.

And, even though he has filled you all the way up, it feels so good.

Richard stills under you, until you are ready. His fingers trail tenderly over your thighs and belly and breasts. Over the mound of you. Your legs are shaking, folded and clamped down around his hips, and you’re not sure that your weakened limbs have the strength to allow you to rise on his length. But damn it, you will give it a valiant try.

“I need to move,” you beg, even though you are in the position of control, and Richard looks up at you with big pretty eyes, and God, he’s buried in you that you can feel him all the way in your guts. You gasp, whimper, as, gingerly, you rise up, feeling the fullness and drag of him against your walls as you start working and undulating against him, feeling out all the angles which feel best and…

Fuck there are no bad angles.

As you melt, become molten, Richard is your stiffness and he gives form to your boneless, bodiless flesh. You are full, all the way up. You are so full and it could feel urgent and dirty, having his cock deep in you like this, but it… doesn’t. It feels… Fuck. It just feels…. right. You can only describe it as a caress, as he comes to be held safely and tightly inside you, and you begin to move slowly, wanting -somehow- to imbue each drag of him over your walls with the care and affection you feel for him. The adoration you feel so deeply; as deeply as he’s buried in you. Deeper.

“Richard,” you plead, and you hinge forward at the hips, until your chest sinks down to his, your lips on to his lips, and as you undulate on his body you cling to him. Bury your face and your tongue and your hopes and your dreams in him, as though, if you plant them deep enough you can take root and call him home. As if you are a fruit and you need his ground to grow.

In turn, he holds you, arms wrapped around you, fingers caressing your back, moustache scraping against your cheek, your lips, your neck as speaks honey into your skin, nourishing you with sweet, wholesome praises. And, when he’s content that you can take him, when you’ve shown him how you can, Richard starts moving too, working in tandem with you as your bodies roll and heave together.

You show him not only that you can, but how much you enjoy taking him. There are sounds of pulverised fruit, leaking over him, his cock pushing your juices out of you, as though there is no room inside you for anything else but him. And, as your tightness surrounds him, his arms surrounding you in turn, he bestows you with simple yet jewelled praises, calling you all the beautiful names under the sun in both of his tongues.

It’s sweet, and it’s slow, and you both embody tenderness, all caressing fingers and lips and sugary, grateful noises. Clutching hands and arms, drawing the other closer, deeper into this tangle. As he stokes you, you can barely stand these sensations. You can barely comprehend something so pure and so perfect.

He glides into you now, your slick everywhere, your sex increasingly loud and obscene as his beautiful cock is suckered into your wet, liquid heat. As you quicken your pace, Richard’s mouth settles over your shoulder, teeth lightly gripping your flesh as he stifles a moan into your skin. Then, his breaths are billowing gusts fanning over you, and you can guess that he is trying to bring his approaching release under control.

By this stage, you are overwhelmed, your legs spent and tremoring, and you can barely rise and sink on his length anymore for shaking. You have become weak for him, practically liquid from this slow, torturous build. You need Richard to be your stiffness and your joints. You need to be a fluid thing beneath him, or else, you think, you will perish.

“Lie down for me, bonita?” Richard whispers sweetly, so attuned to you, and, seeing, as you flounder with need, your full weight almost limp on top of him, that a change of position is in order.

He draws out of you with a shudder and rolls you, carefully, his own body following and chasing yours. Richard’s weight settles pleasantly on top of you this time, and, as you fumble into position you spread your legs for him, wrapping your thighs and arms tightly around him. You hold him close to you, your hands cradling his head, fumbling through his grizzled curls, now mussed wild tendrils falling around his face. Then, ever so gently, dipping to kiss you sweetly with that assured tongue, Richard re-sheaths himself, sliding easily inside you now with a divine caress of skin. He feels overwhelmingly good. He feels like heaven reaching inside you to kiss your soul and you pray out loud, your moans greeting his kiss.

The angle and the pressure like this is something else, the press of Richard’s soft stomach and hips and the driving of his cock pushing you pleasantly down into the mattress, your body given a little bounce from the springs which helps you set a perfect rhythm together. You are moments away from unravelling, already, as Richard pistons in and out of you, over and over, a glorious pressure building as you are wrapped up safely in the warmth and scent and sound of your sweet, perfect man. You are lost in the feel of him, both of you clammy and breathy and sheening with sweat as you writhe and combine; and fuck, you want to unravel. You need to.

You want to unravel so you can bind yourself to him with more than this ephemeral tangle of limbs. You want to get lost in him, in a way that makes you feel found.

“I’m going to lose it for you, Richard. It feels too good. I... can’t take it. I… It’s too much. I’m… Harder. Deeper. Please.”

Richard is spurred on by your praises, his pace becoming quickened, his thrusts slightly harder. He sinks into you with vigour, though not with any need to dominate or take from you, you think. Simply as an expression of the overwhelming need to be closer. Deeper. More held by you. To hold you in return. It’s not close enough, even as you hold him tightly in your arms. You are so greedy for him that you don’t think you could ever get enough, even as it’s all too much.

You moan. You moan like a sob. Like a plea. Like a prayer. And he shushes you. Soothes you. He shushes you while he’s buried so deep in you -burying himself so deep in you- that you are fucked wide open. There’s something so pure and yet so wicked about the contradiction of his gentleness and this huge, undeniable force in your centre. You feel that he has crawled so deep up in you that he can never leave; and you want it that way.

“Can you take a little more, hermosa?

Fuck. No. Can you? But, yes. Please, yes. God yes.

“Yes. Please, Richard. Give me everything. I want all of you inside me. Need you.”

He thrusts his hips forward. He’s been holding out on you.

“Ohhhh, just like that,” you plead, voice ragged and your moans escalating, both your bodies slick with sweat now as you tangle together. “Right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, Richard! I need. Unnggg. Fuck. Need you deep inside me, just like that. Please don’t stop. Don’t stop!” You plead desperately with him -as if you even need to bargain- your teeth clamping down on your bottom lip and your hands reaching for him, tugging him closer to you as he drives his length into you over and over, pressing you harder into the mattress as you sucker him into your tightness.

His lips sink to the column of your neck, that moustache grazing you there, his own rich sounds of pleasure reverberating against your skin, his voice humming so close it sinks into your bones.

“N-never want to stop,” he gushes hoarsely into your skin. “Always want to be inside you- feel you wrapped around me, preciosa.”

His words are sincere. Earnest. And, with his words, and the repeated drag of his perfect cock, and his warmth enveloping you, you finally cry out, omitting a wracked, disbelieving moan as your pleasure pulses through you; toes curling, head thrown back, body jerking and spasming beneath him. This is an orgasm which keeps on giving, deep and strong; waves of bliss rolling through you whole body. A star bursting out from your centre. A flood. Quite literally a flood, intense and urgent and everywhere, and you look down at yourself. This is something else. Something more. A bigger heaven. You hear a new sound even, and you look down, realising that Richard’s cock has you squirting all over him, your release gushing and sloshing wet between your bodies as he continues to thrust into you, coaxing you through your peak and deepening your earth-shaking orgasm with every single movement.

“Ohhhh fuck... Richard-” you cry out, in what can only be described as awe, almost sobbing with ecstasy, your legs violently twitching and trembling as they wrap more tightly around him “-no-one’s ever made me do that before!”

Despite his gentleness, his control, this flood seems to overcome Richard too, and his thrusts become sloppy, as though he can barely stave off his release long enough to keep going, his body going near limp over you for a moment. You even swear he gets harder and bigger and deeper -if that was even possible- when he realises exactly what he made you do. When he realises that you soaked him. Flooded him. Your liquid and your juices shining on his stomach and coursing down his sturdy thighs.

You worry for a moment- you wonder whether he minds or if he likes it, as your release coats his skin and the tangle of sheets, but you needn’t worry for anything more than a moment. In response to your deluge, Richard looks at you as though you are a divine being, and, if you thought he seemed dishevelled with need earlier, this is something else. He’s undeniably into it. Indeed, as he takes in the sight of you below him, bared and writhing in ecstasy amidst a tangle of wet sheets, he stutters moans into the air, his thrusts become more determined, his cock pumping into you with refreshed vigour.

“N- never done that b-before?”

“No, Richard. Fuck. You made me-”

“-I’m going to make you do it again,” he purrs, and it is not a command at all. He never loses his characteristic gentleness. It is half a plea and half a promise, his sincere as ever. “Do it for me again, Bonita,” he coaxes, and he sounds thoroughly levelled by you. He sounds like he can’t get enough of you.

Fuck. You don’t know if you can...

“You can do it, baby. Please. Soak me again.”

You don’t think you can, until Richard is talking to you like that, with profuse, sugared pleas, and until he is hitting you exactly where you need, how you need, all over again.

You practically scream with it, weep with it, curse with it, sending a hoarse, high-pitched crescendo into the air, the keen punctuated by quickened, spent grunts Richard expels into the air with each deep, thick, purposeful thrust into you. You don’t think you’ve ever felt a more assured cock.

You don’t think you can, until-

When you gush over him a second time you are more prepared for it. Prepared enough to watch as you spill over him. Prepared enough to catch the positively awed, sunken expression which spreads over Richard’s face. To appreciate the sound of your release squirting over him and sloshing, wet in-between your bodies, liquid slapping against the roundness of his soft stomach as he thrusts into you faster; more urgently. This time -how can he help it- Richard comes undone with you; and, suddenly it seems everything is liquid, like a flood.

You can feel him fill you up, can feel his hot seed pulsing all the way from the base of him and coating your walls with thick ropes of cum as his hips stutter, burying his length into your heat as deep as he can go. He goes practically limp on top of you, hips collapsing into yours, and you feel him filling you -once again- to your limit, as the motion drives him just a little deeper, just a little closer. Meanwhile, you twitch and shudder and writhe and clench through your aftershocks with Richard still balls deep inside of you, barely able to comprehend the new heights of pleasure you have reached together. Awed, by the way your bodies are speaking like they’ve known each other for years too - despite that this is their first encounter.

There’s this wetness. This wetness everywhere; inside you, on you, under you, and for several moments you feel you too could be liquid, melting and pooling and coursing from the bed. Becoming vapour and evaporating from his hot, sweat-slickened skin. You might, if it wasn’t for Richard - his weight settled on top of you in a pleasing crush. His head settling in the crook of your neck, his length still inside you, his tongue laving to bury itself in your mouth too in a desperate, haphazard motion. He means to bury himself in all ways he can, you think, and you let him. You let him become your stone heart, as you are nothing but boneless, bodiless flesh; an oiled thing beneath him like pulverised, spent fruit - all your juices squeezed out.

You coil your limbs fluidly around him, and you engulf his sturdy form with your softness, holding him at the centre of you. Still buried -softening too- in your centre. Held in this intimate circle of your arms. Becoming the centre of your universe.

You bind yourself to him. You become his. His fruit.

Still panting, spent, hot, Richard rolls off you then, his stiffness gone and his body boneless now too, his stomach and his thighs sheening with a concoction of wetness. His smooth, hairless chest slick with sweat. He collapses beside you, but he immediately reaches for your hand and presses his body to your side. Immediately checks that you’re alright, as you truly become corporeal again, flitting down from heaven and into his arms; a conduit of heaven too, you think.

Now, what the… hold up a damn second. What did this sweet man just-

You gush. You gush for him in words now that the old relic of language and (almost) coherent thought has returned to you, your voice still breathy and discombobulated. “Richard. Richard? Richard! Fuck me. That was... I need you to know that was... Fuck. Phenomenal. I’ve never. In my life. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never... Oh my God. I can’t feel my face. Was that... good for you? Was it...? Fuck. Sweet man.”

Richard chuckles fondly at your near-incoherent babble of words, drawing you into his chest and cradling you like you are a precious thing – the most precious thing.

“It was perfect,” he whispers, satin soft, through a disbelieving breath, and his words make your heart flutter and your stomach tumble pleasantly. Richard’s soft sounds continue, as he whispers sweet names and gentle praises into your hair, kissing everywhere he can reach to punctuate his words, and smoothing his fingers in nonsense shapes over your skin. Hermosa. Bonita. Preciosa. “Everything was perfect. You’re so perfect. I’ve never... I’ve never had someone take care of me so well, princesa. Thank you.”

You can hear it - the flood of emotion in his voice, and, at his admission, his praises, the rush, tears pool in your eyes. It seems he has yet more water to drain from you as a patter of tears course over the bridge of your nose and settle in the hollow of his chest. However, it is not sadness, but joy, you realise. You are thoroughly overwhelmed by how held you feel. By how happy you feel. However, when your eyes brim over and you sniffle, Richard cranes his head down towards you, pulling you up from him so your eyes can meet his.

He looks momentarily devastated. “What’s wrong? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“No, sweet man. Not at all. It was perfect for me too,” you are quick to reassure, and, as you shuffle on to your stomach, propping yourself up to gaze into his eyes, Richard runs a solitary thumb across your cheek. You ache with the tenderness of his touch. “Just... I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that either,” you admit, and his eyes shine gently at you, misting over with pure, unadulterated adoration. “I’ve never felt so-”

Loved.

Loved, you realise you want to say, but that would be ridiculous, right? This is your first date.

Who said anything about love?

Still, you realise that is the truth of things. That is exactly how he made you feel. Richard was so tender with you, so present, so sensual, so connected. So… right. Had you made him feel this way too? Will he let you take care of him again?

You want to. You so desperately want to. Want to protect him, care for him, laugh with him. Rest your head on the soft pillow of his stomach as he holds you close to him.

He has taken care of you so well, and you don’t want him to stop.

Please. Don’t stop.

Still, as you silently contemplate all of this, Richard simply bundles you firmly into his chest. if you are unable to find the right words, at least he is able to find the gesture. And so, the need to clean up forgotten, the cloying wetness of your skin and the sheets seemingly not bothering him, you languish against him, safe and warm and held.

“Did it feel good?” he asks, after a few moments of comfortable silence. “When you… um…?”

“Squirted all over your cock? Hell yes.” You interject, able to find the words for that at least, filling in the blank for him and laughing gently against his skin. You weren’t able to turn the act into poetry, not yet, your words clumsy and crude, but you didn’t exactly need to. The whole act felt like poetry already. Poetry written on your bones. Etched into your heart.

When he flooded you.

“Maybe you can write about it,” he suggests, and you can hear the cheeky, playful smile dancing on his lips.

“Richard Alonso Muñoz,” you scold, teasingly, your fingers dancing equally playfully over his smooth chest. “Is that what you want me for? You want to be immortalised in poetry? I don’t think you’re as innocent as you let on, are you?”

“I’m not?” he chuckles warmly.

“You read erotic poetry and trashy romance novels… and you fuck like that.”

Make love, like that.

You still cannot move beyond crude words, but in your heart, he makes the words come easily.

“Truthfully, it’s... not always like that,” Richard admits. “It’s… only like that with you.”

Once again, his sincerity has you speechless, and it is all you can do to hold him close to you, as tightly as you can, your eyes squeezing closed and a soft smile tipping your lips. He holds you in return. Holds you in this perfect moment.

“It really did feel good though. It was… I can’t even describe it. My body feels likes a… fucking… limp, wet noodle.”

The laugh he emits at your words is music. “Wet noodle? Aren’t you supposed to be a poet, darling?” Oh, he’s teasing you now? This sweet man is teasing you?

You gasp, mock affronted, and jab him playfully in the stomach with your finger, in the spots you remember he is ticklish. “Rude!” you exclaim, and he jiggles joyously against you. When the laugh dissipates, leaving only smiling, appled cheeks, silence once again enfolds you like a warm, comfortable blanket.

“I was thinking,” he begins softly, after a few moments of laying together. “We could go to the farmer’s market tomorrow. The one with the cider donuts. We could take Lady.”

You can’t answer right away, can’t find the words, and it is all you can do to tug in a slow breath. Your hesitation evidently has Richard worrying again, and he rushes to fill in the blank space with his own insecurities. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice brittle. “I assumed... because I want to, but... but maybe you’re not thinking that you want to see me again...”

You pull back. Urgently moving so that you are face-to-face with him on the pillow, his body following yours on to his side too, like a magnet. You cup his face again, with your tender, open hand. You look him in the eyes. Those sweet, expressive, cola-coloured eyes. Your heart is shining for him, and it feels rubbed until it gleams.

You examine his tentatively hopeful expression. You get the sense that this man falls hard. Falls quickly. He’s in love with love, after all. You, on the other hand, love slow. And so, even as it breaks your heart that you can’t yet say the words aloud, you deflect. “You want to know what I’m thinking, Richard?” He nods. “I’m still thinking about how you turned me into a wet noodle. You should be the smuggest Adonis this side of Midtown - how on earth are you playing that one so cool?”

Richard’s face pinches a little, his gaze dropping from yours, lashes fluttering.

“It was perfect,” he agrees, in a small voice. “But, I guess, I’m not as… surprised as you are.” You shake your head slightly, in mild confusion. Wanting him to elaborate. “I always imagined you would be perfect.” He blinks shyly, and attempts a masking smile. “I don’t know if you thought the same way about me.”

A terrible lump swells in your throat. Your chest tightens.

It’s time to speak. To make your words a little more like poetry.

But it’s scary. It’s hard. You know that now.

“That’s not quite it, sweet man,” you begin. Realisation sinking heavily through you, drawing your brow down with it. Richard searches your face, encouraging you to go on, expression open; pretty eyes big. And, although the words are hard to say, they are easier. The words are easier around him. “Honestly, Richard? I think, you’ve always been perfect. I just didn’t want to realise it. I didn’t want to notice you,” you confess, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Why?” Richard encourages, a knot in his brow now too as he smooths his thumb earnestly over your cheek, breath bated. His touch is like the path of a match against its counterpart box; it is a little thing, which threatens to ignite something far larger.

“I…” you sigh out some of your tension and nerves with a billowing exhale. “I suppose… because I knew. That as soon as I saw you, there would be no going back. I must have known deep-down, that if I saw you, that I… I could love you so quickly.”

Richard swallows. “Is that… not something you want? Love?”

“It didn’t used to be. I… didn’t used to believe I deserved it,” you reveal, tears balling in your eyes as all of your deepest fears and secrets loosen and rattle inside your chest, gradually being shed and needing to find their exit.

“And now, preciosa?” Richard asks, gingerly smoothing a hand over the crown of your head, dipping a moustached kiss to the centre of your forehead. “What do you believe?”

Now? Now, it is different, and a cautious smile slowly claims your lips - even as your cheeks are wet by tears.

“I’m thinking, Richard Alonso Muñoz, that… That nothing would give me greater pleasure than accompanying you to the farmer’s market.”

Your words sound flippant, perhaps insignificant, but you can tell, from the way Richard’s eyes pool with a subtle, brewing joy, that your true meaning is abundantly clear to him. So, in mutual celebration your lips press together in a crush, smile lines radiating across his face. When he pulls back though, a gentle, playful heat seemingly overtakes him. “Are you sure about that, bonita?” he asks in a fond, teasing tone. As his chest shakes in a rich, gleeful chuckle, you perfectly catch his meaning too.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, with a giggle, as he slants his hips forward, pressing his already hardening length against your thigh. “Maybe there is one thing that could give me more pleasure.” You tick-up a suggestive eyebrow. “Want to remind me?”

“Please,” he purrs, just as broken with need as before. “My beautiful, wet little noodle.”

At his ridiculous new pet name -which you only have yourself to blame for, honestly- you squeal brightly, expelling musical peals of laughter into his open-mouth as he surges to kiss you, the act imbued with deep affection. He kisses you until the laughter pleasantly dissipates, your bodies suffusing with a resurgent heat, as you tangle together all over again.

As Richard holds you, every so tenderly, you are overcome. Your loneliness? It has never felt so far away. You hadn’t realised how much you needed somebody to love. You hadn’t realised that someone was him. You hadn’t wanted to admit it. But, oh, you are realising it now. And, you are never going to forget it.

“Kiss me again,” you plead into the air.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Everywhere.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he responds, affirmatively, and with relish, you feel his moustache graze the column of your neck. Somehow, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of that feeling.

As his lips crush to your again, you note how he tastes. A combination of your sweet, nectar-like juices, and the subtle tang of sweat he has kissed from your sex-flushed skin. He tastes like a salted peach. He is pure poetry, you think. You’ve never tasted anything quite as sweet, and you’ve never experienced such a flood. And, now that your deluge of joy is through -your happiness instead streaming steadily- it no longer feels heavy. It no longer weighs you down.

You want to love him, and be loved; and, you will.

What’s more. You deserve every bit of it.

It’s the little things. One by one. And then, suddenly, there it is. There’s everything; in your arms.

#Richard Alonso Muñoz #richard alonso munoz x reader #the letter room #Richard Alonso Muñoz x reader #Oscar Isaac

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dragongirl642 · 3 years

Note

If you are taking requests may I request some Heisenberg with a mute SO (maybe from an injury? Or trauma?) who, initially when they first met he thought they were too afraid of him to speak to him but eventually realised that no, they just CANT speak. Maybe they communicate through sign language instead?

Hi there 😎 To confirm, asks are open for head canons and mashups.

Thank you for the ask, I am thriving of this Heisenberg fix 😘

Discalimer: I am not mute and have never written a mute character before, I apologise for any inconsistencies or stereotypes that arise.

Here are some sfw headcanons for Heisenberg with a mute S/o (including their first meeting).

How he reacts to a first meeting depends on the situation.

If he meets you while doing his job as a Lord, e.g., kidnapping, after the lycan attack, or catching you somewhere you shouldn't be:

Heisenberg isn't surprised when you don't say anything upon meeting him. He knows the effect an unknown man wielding a giant hammer and levitating metal has on an unsuspecting person and can't help but grin at your shocked gasp and wide eyes.

However, he does want a reaction. You know how he just casually stands there and waits for a reaction from Ethan? That.

So he starts to get annoyed when you don't say anything.

No pleas for freedom? Sarcastic comebacks? Witty banter? This man thrives off of whatever communication he can get from anyone who isn't part of his 'family', so he gets angsty.

He will amp up the dramatics for a reaction - think flinging metal past you or holding shards to your neck with his abilities, "Well, are you not going to say anything?" "Cat got your tongue?"

But when you gesture frantically to your throat and mouth and sign at him, he freezes.

At the moment, using his voice is one of the only ways he can actually rebel against his 'family', so he immediately feels pity for you.

Depending on his mood, and whether any of the other Lords or Miranda has a spy nearby, he may shoo you away/point to an exit. But most likely he will either kidnap you to his factory, telling himself that he'll let you go later, or take you to the others anyway.

If he meets you before the incident, while taking one of his coveted jaunts to pub or walk through woods:

Just like in the other situation, he craves communication and reactions.

He is momentarily shocked when you reveal that you can't verbally communicate with him, but then tries to immediately show-off the little Romanian sign language he knows. (During his initial kidnapping and experimentation by Mother Miranda, he met and learned a few phrases from one of the other children and a maid). However, he quickly realises that it's not enough to have a full conversation; also, you might/probably sign in a different language/non-compatible variant (BSL, Auslan, ASL, SSl, etc...).

If you respond with enthusiasm to his attempts, he will be encouraged to seek out other means of holding a conversation, writing on a napkin, playing yes-or-no, and charades.

Will make a lot of jokes and innuendos about a common language that doesn't require talking. (Wink wink 😉😱 if you know what I mean)

He's surprised by how much fun he has talking to you and playing yes-no/charades. He doesn't want to leave but he will.

Will most likely hint that you should leave the area, believing you'll be safer away form the village. (Anyone would be).

Whilst in a relationship

As mentioned before, Heisenberg is very insecure and requires reassurance from his s/o that they want to stay with him. Establishing communication with his s/o is of paramount importance.

All the paper he owns always ends up oil-stained, ripped, or charred, but he somehow immediately finds a clean notepad and gifts it to you with a gilded quill. He may forget to provide ink at first, but he soon realises.

Alao, if you're used to modern conveniences, you may have to deal with a quill for awhile - Pens, what pens, all of his are chewed to oblivion and empty, same for his pencils, chewed and shattered. He searches for three hours across the whole factory before he realises he doesn't have a single working pen left and will go out to find more (or buy some of the duke).

He learns the sign language you use. Even though he's a fast learner, It's a slow process since the only material he has to learn with is a few scraps of paper from an outdated sign book, in the wrong language, and you.

When signing, his accent is a bit lazy (especially if he's working) and, if you teach him, he uses a lot of slang, for speed. Basically the signed equivalent of a stereotypical movie cowboy drawl.

Although he's adverse to physical affection anyway, especially at the start of the relationship, he gradually gets more needy with hand-holding and kisses.

Everytime you squeeze his hand in response to a question/statement, he raises your hand and kisses the palm. It makes conversations ten times as long but he won't stop no matter what.

Kisses your neck...a lot!

Definitely knows morse code. Builds a receiver set so you can message him anywhere in the factory. If you know it too, he's happy to respond to you tapping messages, and sometimes making cheeky jokes and innuendos from around a corner where you cant see him. If you don't, he'll teach you.

Also, morse code arguments...that almost always end in laughter if one of you taps out "don't yell at me".

Will try and build an arm-mounted typewriter for you...It doesn't go well.

One day when he's tinkering around making more headgear for a hauler he has an idea and excitedly rushes to find you. Just like how the headgear simulates brain activity, he offers to try and build a neural implant that will transmit your thoughts to a speaker.

He will mope around/sulk if you reject him, and start building it in secret. If you give in to his puppy eyes and agree he will throw himself into building it, but once he realises how intrusive/dangerous it will be for you, he stops and congratulates himself on keeping you safe (even though it was his idea in the first place).

If you're mute due to an injury, he will sometimes entertain the thought of building mechanical vocal chords.

If you're a selective mute, due to trauma, the first time he hears you speak (if you do), he starts crying. Definitely recorded you for playback later.

I think he is the Lord most likely to use the fact that you're mute against you in an argument. Either as an insult, or to gain the upper hand by tearing away whatever you're using for communication to silence you, e.g., taking away your paper, pinning your hands to the wall so you cant sign, etc...

He always regrets it though, and will try to apologise by being extra accommodating and making you gifts.

If he is in a tantrum, after coming back from a 'family' meeting, and there is metal flying everywhere, It will be even harder to get his attention than normal.

The first time this happened, he didn't realise you were there until a shard of metal sliced open your arm and you fell into some boxes stacked in the corner. Thr clatter, your tears, and the pained sound you made, brought him back to the moment and sent him straight into panic mode, he fussed over you for five hours with tears in his eyes; patching your arm, worrying over blood loss, holding your hand and refusing to let go.

He made a loud jangly bracelet or belt covered in bells and asked you to wear them. It took a while of steady convincing for him to realise this is going overboard.

However, despite your refusal, he knows the factory is a dangerous place and is terrified that you may one day be in danger and he wouldn't realise. (Even more so that he will be the one to hurt you).

He finds an airhorn, and also makes a panic button that will set off the factory's alarms, for you. Should you ever find yourself in danger, e.g., cornered by a lycan or soldat, there's an intruder, or you need to snap him out of an episode, you can just blow the horn/start the alarms and he'll come running.

He will sulk until you accept the panic button and try and hide it in your clothes, either with his powers or through 'surprise hugs' (which is instantly suspicious, because he's not the one to initiate hugs most of the time).

(I feel like he would make a panic button for a non-mute s/o too. Losing you is this man's biggest fear).

Whew...all done. 😅 Thank you again for the ask, it was eye-opening researching different types of sign language.

#re8 #re8 village #re8 headcanons #re headcanons #resident evil 8 #resident evil heisenberg #karl heisenberg x mute reader #re8 karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x you

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captainsimagines · 3 years

Text

To Topple A Giant || Chapter One

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 1 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Trope: ‘Enemies to Lovers’; mainly angst, mutual pining, fluff, and eventual smut

Warnings: This story contains mature themes and discussions such as extreme canon violence, strong language, emotional angst, mentions of Endgame deaths and recoveries, sexual situations, and emotional/physical abuse. All trigger warnings will be listed before the chapter. This is purely fanfiction.

Word Count: 4000+

A/N: Ooo, let’s hope this does numbers! I love myself some ‘enemies to lovers’ tropes. It’s been a while since I’ve written Steve fanfics. :)

Wakanda, 2018, 4:04 pm.

The flash of bright white light temporarily blinded you, sending you back to the ground and cupping your face in self-defense. But as quickly as the initial crack, it was over. Eerily silent and loud at the same time. The birds whistled their same tune, some higher-pitched than others. The wind seemed to blow louder, rustling the leaves from the trees and landing all around you and your teammates.

“Thor?”

You lifted your head at the sound of Steve’s voice and checked if the coast was clear. All that remained of the evil was a new blood-stained hammer - a hammer that Thor was watching intensely, as if the answer lay hidden there. It was the only remnant left and your mind was already wondering how to use it to bring that evil back to finish a fair fight.

“Where’d he go?”

The birds stopped singing.

“Steve?”

You whipped your head around at the sound of Bucky’s confused voice, watching as one of your best friends dropped his gun and looked up at Steve as his hands began to disappear. In a matter of seconds, Bucky - or what became of him - fell to the dirt below. No one spoke, and you watched as Steve tried to control his breathing as he took a knee to place his shaking hand over his best friend’s ashes. A life and mind brought out of the darkness to finally amend those knots he had twisted, now ceasing to exist. In the distance you could hear Okoye shout in turmoil and Rocket begin begging.

“What’s happening?” you finally choked out, turning just in time to see Wanda lift her head to the sky, defeated and out of will, and succumb to the same fate. “No!”

You ran and fell beside Vision’s now gray and decaying body, reaching over and palming through Wanda’s ashes. You rubbed them between your fingers, inspecting them, and brought your hand to your chest. The pit of your stomach churned as you sat there, immobile and numb.

“Sam!”

So many names were being called but soon everyone who remained fell silent. The trees were still guiding the wind, leaves falling into the ashes of your friends, a sign of a new and unwanted chapter. You felt Steve drop beside you, turning Vision around to see the damage to his body. You winced when you saw the gaping hole in his forehead.

“What is this? What’s happening?”

Natasha ran to where you were seated, hand over her stomach as if she was ready to vomit. And once she took one look at Vision, that’s exactly what she did.

You removed your hands from your chest to look at them, the ashes still there and practically mocking you into finally believing this as reality. “Did we just lose?”

Steve was moments away from a full-blown panic attack. He simply looked up at the trees, watching the way the sunlight still burst through with no disruption. “Oh god.”

You caught Steve as he tipped his upper body toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding onto something real. He had to believe you were real. Anyone. And you were the closest person to him. You shut your eyes and held him, running your hands through his hair, wincing when you realized Wanda’s ashes were now on him.

You held him tight, praying to any God you chose to believe in at that moment, that Steve wouldn’t disappear too.

Unknown Location, 2025, 1:07 pm.

The air was incredibly musty, as if each person who struggled for breath in this room at one point or another left a piece of their soul floating in search of last minute penance for their sins. And the man in front of you was no different, choking on the purple blood that dripped down his neck and onto his now unbuttoned, white dress shirt. His chest was rising and falling, his breathing becoming less labored with each blink of the eye. His hands were tied behind his back and to the chair he sat on, a flickering light in the corner of the dark, concrete room somehow mocking this man’s last remaining seconds of life.

“I’m not an evil person,” you started, kicking one of the legs of the chair to startle the poor man. But your guilt was minimal - it’s not like you wanted to do this - but knowing this man did exactly what everyone said he did, hands red and dripping with young blood, you selfishly took pleasure knowing this man would look at you when he died. “It’s just my job as third in command.”

You gave the man a small smile as you bent down to his level, head hanging in shame, slow breaths now pausing in between each intake. You looked to the other party in the room, handing them the gun in your holster, and walked out the room as the sound of two gunshots rang out.

Left twist. Sting. Breathe.

You washed away any smell from that godforsaken room, giving extra attention to the roots of your hair and under your fingertips.

Scrub. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

The crack of your neck frightened even you, and you stood under the burning shower for a few more minutes before deciding the sting was enough. You changed into the most comfortable sweats you owned, surprisingly calm for such a gruesome morning you had, and took your time with your skin care routine.

Circle. Wash. Dry.

Soft music played in the overhead speakers, the classical sounds vibrating from one wall to another and surrounding you with something tranquil - something still. There was nothing to expect from such a sound, only the next repeated chorus, no words or drops - just tranquility. You could barely hear yourself breathe but you were at peace - or mostly - and ready to sooth your growing headache behind the eyeballs with more than just music. You slipped on a pair of comfy, forest green socks and bent them at the ankle to achieve an even fluffier look. You applied your favorite perfume, lotioned up your hands, and donned your tacky friendship bracelet.

One for you. One for Bucky. One for Peter. And one for Wanda.

You hummed the whole way to the common room, waving at the morning staff as they fixed lightbulbs, covered holes in the walls, and swept the floors. One muffin and a cup of coffee later, you were resting with your head in Wanda’s lap as she filled your thoughts with your chosen sceneries.

“I can make you see anything you have already seen, so yes.”

“A miniature golf course, Peter’s high school graduation, a field of all kinds of flowers, and Natasha.”

Wanda stilled her floating hand, smile faltering for a moment before she nodded. “Okay… okay, I can do that.”

They were images well-drawn out, slow and steady to make the atmosphere similar to when you were actually there. They seemed to float across your vision, comfortable in their positions and radiating the same warmth you had felt the first time around. A moving picture. Wanda really had excellent control of this.

“I won!” Sam leapt into the air, pointing at a disgruntled Bucky, who stepped off to the side to not throw Sam over his own head. “I won!”

“How is it possible for you to get a hole-in-one each fucking turn?” Bucky groaned, moping in Wanda’s shoulder as she held him and struggled to keep herself standing from her own intense laughs.

“I think we got a cheater on the loose,” Steve grinned, pointing at the ring Sam was trying to discreetly tuck back into his pocket. A friendly gift from T’Challa, no doubt.

“Nuh-uh, give me the fucking proof, Wilson!” Bucky roared, wrapping his arm around Sam’s neck and tugging him forward. “I will not admit defeat if there was foul play involved!”

Sam escaped the hold, climbing onto the rock located to the side of the flag and a sign that read ‘do not climb on rocks’.

“It just helped me calculate all things geometry, Barnes. We’re good.”

Bucky looked as if he was going to leap on him again, but before he could even finish that thought, Sam slipped on the wet surface and plummeted into the rushing little river.

Laughter erupted and did not cease until you were escorted out of the fairgrounds by four security guards.

A flick of Wanda’s wrist and a new memory began forming, colors blending like an oil painting, dried and covered with a glossy varnish, ready to hang.

“Don’t trip on your way up, kid.”

Peter swatted Steve in the side as the super soldier left the room, leaving Peter alone in front of the full-length mirror. He adjusted his tie and tried to lay that pesky dangling strand of hair over the top of his head.

You got up from the couch and made your way over, wrapping your arms around Peter and resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’ll do great. We’re all so proud.”

“It’s just high school…”

You frowned and turned him to face you. “No, you should already be in your second year of college. This is seven years in the making. We are all so proud.”

Peter could feel the slight burn at the corner of his eyes but he swallowed it down, giving you a small smile and a hug.

“And can you trip? Don’t you stick to all surfaces?”

Peter scoffed and pushed you away, his tiny smile never faltering.

You could feel Wanda shift her legs underneath you, searching for the most comfortable position as she continued her work. You sighed, already feeling the therapeutic effects.

“They’re all so pretty!” you yelled cheerfully, running through the field with your arms extended to the sky. Bucky and Steve followed close behind, leaning down every so often to pluck the flower of their choosing and adding to the bouquet in their hand.

“Which did Tony prefer?” Steve asked, snapping you from your pollen-filled, ecstatic state.

“Aesthetic beauty, Rogers! Natasha was a sucker for anything pink and sunflowers.”

Bucky nodded, seeming to take that information into consideration as he plucked the yellow and pink flowers only. Steve chose the most healthy looking flowers, his hand struggling to hold them together as he reached the two dozen mark.

“I think we’re good. These are good.”

You smiled at both super soldiers and admired their bouquets, leaning over to sniff their masterpieces. “Awesome.”

Wanda sighed as she neared your last vision, debating on showing you your chosen moment instead of another one. This moment always hurt Wanda as she wasn’t there to witness it, but it was special to you. There were so many others to choose from, but you insisted this was the one you always wanted to see. And Wanda was always hesitant at first - but when she lifted her hand slowly and dropped the memory back into the front of your brain, she couldn’t help but smile.

“Are we ready?”

Everyone was practically bouncing on their heels, both excited and terrified. Time travel was new to humanity and you were to be one of the first to experience such a thrill. You were going to get everyone back.

You squeezed Natasha’s hand once more before you walked back over to Thor and Rocket. You all nodded to each other, saying ‘goodbye’ and ‘good luck’ with your childlike expressions.

“See you in a minute,” Natasha grinned, her cheeks reddening with a friendly blush as she looked over at Steve. Her hair was pulled back into a braid, a braid you had helped her make, and she was carrying an extra pair of socks in case of a long hike.

Then a blast of color surrounded your body and the smell of peaches as you landed on Asgard filled your overstimulated senses.

You opened your eyes and smiled up at Wanda. You didn’t want to see old memories with your friend, but the most recent. It was like you were grasping onto that last memory of her, not wanting to change anything about her last smile, her last laugh, her last shred of existence. It was oddly calming, and so you hoped Wanda would understand.

You thanked her again and proceeded to the kitchen. It was bigger than the one before, the soft forest green color of the walls a nice contrast from the blue ones before. You laughed to yourself and your conscience as you silently thanked the explosion that obliterated the horrid blue walls, quickly backtracking at your dumb thoughts. Still, you chose to joke about everything that happened before to avoid falling deeper into yourself. The kettle started howling, smoke circling around the tip. You poured your tea, dropped two cubes of sugar in, and added a little milk.

It was quite bizarre how quickly you could bounce back from the morning you had. A very bloody, order-filled morning. When one order was given, you had to come up with a plan on how to not disregard the other. You had to listen to Fury and your father, gaining a few feet on each side without toppling the other. Still, it took a physical toll on you. But with Wanda’s help in easing your mind and the very sweet tea you nursed, your emotional baggage was pretty minimal. It sometimes scared you how easy it all was.

Your morning carried on quietly as you sat on the concrete curb, happily sipping your tea in your sweatpants. You could hear Sam and Scott arguing about something a few feet away from you and Bucky taking his afternoon jog around the track. Quite distracted, the sudden ‘thwip’ and superhero landing of a certain teenager scared you enough to spill a little of your tea.

“Goddamn, dude!” you whined, looking up at Peter as he tried to control his laughter.

“I’m sorry, I thought you saw me!”

“Excuse me for being distracted by the hot super soldier just over there,” you joked, pointing over at Bucky.

Peter rolled his eyes and sat next to you, immediately reaching over to take the tea from you and take a sip himself. You let him, as you had no other choice, rolling your eyes anyway.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had classes today?”

Peter handed back your cup, “Nah, I’ve only got classes every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Ugh, that sounds great. I remember I scheduled my classes for every day of the week just to have more units,” you sighed, taking another sip of tea.

“Stupid.”

You pushed Peter’s shoulder playfully, both your laughter catching the attention of Sam and Scott. But as quickly as you had distracted them, they ignored you and went back to bickering.

“I’m just here to see my friends, sue me!”

“Nope, you’re always welcome,” you smiled, holding out your wrist and bumping your bracelet with his. “How was your week otherwise?”

“Eh, nothing major. Just trying to navigate the world now that they know who's behind the mask.”

You gave Peter a look of sympathy, still mad at the sudden manipulation of the kid after such traumatic events. You had promised him you would protect him by any means possible, as did the rest of the team, but he seemed to be navigating the situation just fine. Staying away from reporters, scheduling his classes during the most isolated gaps of the day, and signing dozens of forms that promised to protect him, give him royalties, etc. After you had brought everyone back, it seemed the least the new management/orders could provide for you all.

“We all have our days,” you muttered, handing your tea back to Peter. You two sat there for a while longer, enjoying the slight breeze and taste of sugar.

An agent rounded the corner and spotted you, jogging up and handing you a yellow folder that was sealed in plastic. “For you, from Fury, from whoever before that.”

“Um, thank you?” you said as the agent walked away. You inspected the folder, turning it over in your hands and playing with the thin plastic.

You lifted it up to Peter’s face, “Here, smell it and tell me if there’s poison.”

Peter scoffed, “I can’t do that!”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

Peter muttered to himself as he took the folder from you, sniffing it awkwardly. “Smells like paper, dude.”

“Cool, thanks.”

You ripped the plastic off and unhooked the folder, dropping the single item onto your lap. Peter just sipped your tea and watched you open it.

It was another envelope, but this one was white with custom-printed indents that swirled across the front and a big, red blob of wax smushed- with your initials- sealing it. You ripped it open and pulled the invitation from inside. You must have read it a thousand times, eyes rapidly scanning the small page with secret meanings.

“You got invited to a wedding?” Peter asked, taking it from you and reading it himself.

“Yeah, but this is so much more than that,” you said, snatching it back and standing up from the curb. You quickly went back into the compound, searching for the one person who needed to read it also.

You seemed to find everyone before you found the super soldier who wasn’t out for a jog, a line of somewhat concerned superheroes following behind you from room to room. Eager minds and yet, inflexible rib cages full of anxiety and worry, all ready (and quite not) to tackle the new evils of this new world. And whether they followed you blindly or with functioning minds, they were prepared.

With the rest of the team behind you, you burst through the second floor with the invitation held over your head. Steve stopped mid-bite, milk dripping from his bottom lip as he stared at everyone in confusion. “Um…”

“It’s time-” you started, pulling the stool from next to him and sitting down.

“Time for what?” Steve interrupted, his mouth still full of cereal.

“Time for this,” you motioned to the envelope you were handing him. “-to finally end.”

Steve read the invitation word for word, the wrinkles in his forehead becoming deeper as his mind worked. You couldn’t quite discern the feeling in the pit of your stomach, twisting and spinning into a tight coil, seeming to spread to the others as it grew in pressure within you.

“All three?”

“All three,” you confirmed.

Peter pushed through Bruce and Rhodey, “What’s happening? What’s gonna end?”

You looked over at Steve, his bowl of cereal now forgotten and soggy.

His eyes were distant and rather cold, hands extended on his knees as if he was drying the accumulating sweat, shoulders building tension.

“Steve, we can finally end this. We have to tell everyone. It won’t be enough if it’s just you and me.”

He wanted to explode, in both anger and anguish, to stumble over his intact persona and leave it behind - someone he hasn’t known for a long time. It ate away at him each day since Fury notified him of your selfish choice, burrowing into his now tarnished soul in the most sadistic way. But the prospect of finishing this chapter - a chapter that was unexpectedly halted when half the world disappeared - was considerably euphoric. A chance to move on.

“Okay.”

Rhodey already had knowledge of your background, recruitment, and family but Steve’s initial involvement - the start of it - was still a mystery. You sat everyone down in the living room, making room for the others who arrived later, and clapped your hands together. “Story time!”

Steve groaned, face already pressed against a throw pillow. “Just tell them.”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“You know whose spawn I’m from,” you began, snickers from your amused friends encouraging you. “To better transport their product, they sent me over to the states to attend college like the good little girl they think I am.”

Sam cracked open a beer and lifted his legs up onto the couch, sitting back with a massive smile on his face as he got comfortable for your story. He handed another beer to Scott.

“Wait, product?” Scott asked, taking a sip from his drink.

You smirked at him and tapped your nose twice, amused by his ‘O’ reaction. “Anyway, by then I already knew that I wanted out of the game. I didn’t like that life, I didn’t like the violence, I didn’t like my family.”

Steve knew that was an understatement, a cruel and restrained statement from your part, and he wanted to tell everyone just how justified you were in your words, how real you were being, and how much help you would certainly need for this. But like always, he remained silent.

“But Fury got to me before I could leave. So, we made a deal. I would train as a field agent and he would promote me every other year to lessen suspicion on this whole ordeal. The deal being I would play both teams.”

By now, your whole team was intrigued.

“I would do what I could for my father and still have my family’s trust, while feeding the information to SHIELD and our lovely star-spangled man over here,” you pointed over at Steve. He gave you a tiny but forced smile.

“But after the collapse of SHIELD, my father only became more violent, more hard-headed, more suspicious. He- uh-” you stuttered, flashbacks suddenly filling your head. Wanda watched your eyes dart rapidly, sensing the rush of blood to your legs and tips of your fingers.

“He was power hungry,” Wanda said, immediately feeling your heart rate lower. Although you never actually said it, she could tell you were grateful for her intrusion.

“Yeah, exactly,” you cleared your throat. “But Steve’s involvement all started when Fury asked me who would be the best front - the most reliable front.”

“So, with only Fury and the bad guys knowing - Y/N named me as her partner in crime,” Steve explained, head hanging low as if it was such a disgrace to do what you openly did. You knew his troubles with coming to terms with such an offensive role were multiplying daily, but you were now this close to stopping every bad force involved.

“So, Captain America is the ultimate drug smuggler,” Scott spoke, somehow trying to comprehend the information all at once. You and Steve both nodded in confirmation and avoided the wide and questioning eyes looking back at you.

“Yeah, he’s essentially the top boss.”

“Y/N-,” Steve interjected, but you beat him to it.

“And here we are! Him and I both invited to the wedding.”

Wanda stretched out her words, “The wedding?”

“Yes, the wedding - where three of the most famous and powerful drug lords south of the border will be attending and ready for our taking - including my father.”

Steve stood from his seat, posture straightening as he spoke to the group. “The invitation reads like a threat. No cameras, no plus-ones besides those listed specifically on the card, no speaking to reporters before or after. The trust Y/N has gained would unknowingly make us the contraband of the party.”

After going through more specifics about the whole situation, Bucky finally raised the question eating away at his mind this whole time. “Whose wedding is it, anyway?”

You grinned that stupid little grin Steve always prepared himself for. It was the grin you would display whenever you were going to make a serious matter a joke, or brush something serious off your shoulder as if it didn’t bother you. The sarcastic grin he always wanted to wipe off your face as you defied orders.

“My lovely little sister’s.”

Rhodey stepped forward to take the invitation for personal inspection, “When is it?”

“A week from tomorrow,” you beamed. “Which means I got to get shopping for a wonderful little, red number!”

“Please, be more excited about this,” Steve groaned, sarcasm dripping off each syllable.

You flicked your right hand up and in position to flash your charming little middle finger at him, a river of fluffed ego and delight flowing to your cheeks as he huffed and left the room in a stumbled march.

“So…” Scott’s voice ripped through the awkward silence. “We’ve been secret drug smugglers this whole time?”

Please let me know what you think! I listened “The Archer” by Taylor Swift and I was like... yes, I see this, lmao. Tell me if you would like to be tagged in later updates! xxMoni

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yesiwasateenagewerewolf · 3 years

Text

I have been thinking about the fact that Richie in the book shared all his hopes and dreams with Eddie, and it got me thinking about Eddie showing Richie the soapbox derby car he was building (also book canon), shyly telling Richie he wanted to race and waiting for him to react like it was stupid, that Eddie was too delicate, too fragile to do something as dangerous as soapbox derby racing, but instead Richie was immediately 100% all in. "I'll give this thing a bitchin' paint job, Eds my boy!"

It becomes a secret project for the two of them, something they work on over weekends and evenings. Richie even starts saving up pocket money so they can buy Eddie a helmet and he can race properly once it's ready.

But then Sonia finds out.

Despite Eddie screaming and begging her not to, she takes a hammer to the soapbox car, destroying it right in front of her tearful son's eyes.

Afterwards, she tells him she did it for his own good. When Eddie is older, he'll understand that she was only protecting him.

Eddie shuts himself up in his room, too angry to even speak to her, sobbing his heart out into his pillow. He doesn't come down for dinner. He doesn't know if he can ever look at her again.

Richie was supposed to come over the next day and help him with the finishing touches, but Eddie can't have Richie there right then. Richie is like his soapbox derby car. Too special. Too important. His mother would smash Richie up into bits if she could, just like everything else that's precious to Eddie.

He hears Richie ring the doorbell, hears his mother explain that Eddie is too sick for friends, hears her tell him Eddie doesn't want to race anymore, and Eddie bites down on his pillow to keep from screaming about how it's all lies. He needs Richie to go. He needs Richie to be safe.

His mother shuts the door on Richie, slamming it shut right over his babbling, and Eddie curls up into a tight ball, screaming into the pocket of space between his knees.

A few days later, Richie wakes him up by throwing stones at his window.

He coaxes Eddie out of bed and encourages him to climb down the trellis at the side of the house. Then he rides Eddie double on his bike across town and to the Tozier's garage.

It's late, but all the Losers are there and Maggie and Wentworth.

Also there, loving pieced back together, is Eddie's soapbox derby car.

"I figured Sonia was telling big fat lies," Richie says. "So I went to your garage after she shut the door on me. I salvaged what I could and got the others to help me."

"He tried to do it alone at first, but he hit his thumb so many times, he called me to help him," Ben chimes in. "And I called Bev."

"And I called Bill."

"And I called Stan and Mike."

"And ta da!" Richie finishes. "We fixed it for you."

"And we got you this," Wentworth says, producing a helmet from behind his back. "Mags and I wanted to contribute something."

"Yeah, so I'm flush with cash from all that allowance I saved up. Milkshakes on me for the next month," Richie grins, looping an arm around Eddie's shoulder so he can ruffle his hair.

Eddie for his part is stuck dumb.

For the first time in his life, he thinks he understands what love really is.

Love is someone who'll salvage the bits of your wrecked dreams and put them back together again, who'll call all your friends to help, who'll never tell you you're stupid or fragile for wanting things.

Love is Richie.

And Eddie loves him back.

#reddie #book based reddie #eddie's soapbox derby car is love #eddie and richie love and support each other #sonia kapsbrak is a horrible person #richie tozier has good parents

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someillplanetreigns · 3 years

Text

Hardest of Hearts

Post-Canon Sylki

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: T

Summary: “It was all I had,” she said softly. Was she – no, she couldn’t be. Was she? She was crying. Another trick? He could hear her fighting the tears.

“Revenge. I couldn’t give up the only thing I had.”

“You had me!”He stopped himself saying But I wasn’t enough, was I?

She raised her head. Tears were streaming down her face. She looked snotty and blotchy and so soul-wrenchingly beautiful. “Revenge was all that I deserved.”

Additional tags: fix-it; angst with a happy ending; love confessions; self-esteem issues; Sylvie has issues; but she really is trying; inexperienced Sylvie; post-canon; post episode 6; happy ending

With huge thanks to @violetvapours for betaing this!

You can also read on Ao3

Here he was again, then. Another timeline, another TVA, another interrogation, another ugly little room. They’d left him alone, probably because they were off panicking somewhere over what to do with him. Who would interrogate him? Mobius again? Would that be better or worse, to have that familiar face that no longer saw him as familiar?

They wouldn’t need to play him the tape this time. He could play it all back in his own mind in perfect, agonising detail.

There was someone in the room. He felt the presence, though he hadn’t heard the door. Had he merely missed it? He didn’t look up immediately, prolonging the not knowing for that moment longer. And then slowly, so slowly, he turned his head.

She looked worse even than she had on Lamentis, when they’d been sure they were going to die. She looked like something had broken inside of her. And she looked – so unlike herself – hesitant.

He said nothing. They stared at one another, the room stretching between them like a chasm.

After what felt like eternity, she broke the silence.

“I fucked up.”

“Oh, really?” He lacked the energy for the full force of the sardonic tone.

“I didn’t mean to send you here. I thought I was sending you back to where you’d be safe, with Mobius and B-15.” She made her way further into the room slowly, cautious, like she was approaching a wild animal. Or like she was a wild animal. “I didn’t realise how the branch worked. I’ve been hunting the timelines for you.”

“Well perhaps if you hadn’t felt the need to make your rejection quite so dramatic...”

“It wasn’t –” she burst out, then caught herself. She lowered her eyes.

“Was it satisfying?” he asked, hating himself for it. “Killing him?”

Slowly, so slowly, she shook her head. The knowledge did not make him feel any better.

“It was all I had,” she said softly. Was she – no, she couldn’t be. Was she? She was crying. Another trick? He could hear her fighting the tears. “Revenge. I couldn’t give up the only thing I had.”

“You had me!”

He stopped himself saying But I wasn’t enough, was I?

She raised her head. Tears were streaming down her face. She looked snotty and blotchy and so soul-wrenchingly beautiful. “Revenge was all that I deserved.”

“What?”

She scrubbed her sleeve over her face ineffectually. “You’re so much better than me. That’s it, that’s you, you’re the superior Loki.” Her weak attempt at a joke brought on a fresh sob. “You were the one who cared about saving the universe and innocent lives – I only ever cared about getting back at whoever did this to me. I’m not like you. I’m not good.”

Before he could find words, she ranted on, “His dreamland, where we run the TVA, don’t you see what would have happened? You would have realised. You would have realised that I’m no good, that you deserve so much better, and you would have –”

“Sylvie...”

He was on his feet without even realising he’d stood up.

“I know, I know,” she said, “you’ll say you wouldn’t, but...” She swallowed. “That was my first kiss.”

“That...? Your distraction tactic? That was your first kiss? How?”

“It was not a distraction tactic! I wanted... But I – This is exactly what I mean.”

He moved towards her. Norns knew she could be lying. But... But Loki knew lying. And this...

“I told you, I spent my life running from the end of one world to the end of another. I spent my life alone and angry and scared, and I didn’t have... anyone. How, in all of that, could I trust anyone enough to...” She made a nondescript gesture with her hands. “Whereas you, you’re a prince saving the universe. However much I want you, I can’t have you. I was so wrong that they pruned me as a child. They robbed me of any chance I had to be happy.” A beat. “Or I did.”

He cupped her shoulders gently in his hands, steadied her.

“I know you can’t forgive me. But I don’t know how to stop this mess with the timelines on my own. So if you can just... be the superior Loki and put aside how much you hate me to help me fix it...”

“Sylvie. Stop.”

She looked at him, eyes wide. He could see without feeling that her pulse was hammering.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Not what you think you have to want, or what you are projecting that I should want, or anything else. Just. What do you want?”

She was shaking beneath his hands. “I want to be able go back and not push you away. I want to go back and for us to find another option, not time fascism or time war, something else, some other way.”

“Which is to say?”

“Which is to say... I want... you.”

He slid his hand into her hair and tipped her mouth to his. He tasted the salt of her tears. He suckled on her lip gently, trying to soothe her even as he encouraged her. Tentatively, she pressed closer. He deepened the kiss, drawing her in, parting just for an instant to whisper her name before surging back in as though he needed her to breathe.

“There,” he husked when they finally parted, not going far. “That’s two now.”

She looked at him with such raw vulnerability that he couldn’t stop himself leaning in once more to just brush her lips with his.

“I knew,” he said, finally pulling back to look at her, “I knew that in that moment, what you needed was for me to back you up. For me to say, ‘Have at him!’ and cheer for you when you killed him. The reason I didn’t do that isn’t that I’m better than you. It’s because I haven’t been through what you’ve been through. And it’s because, on the other side of that gambit, I wanted you. Sylvie, you’re... incredible. And it’s not just that you’re beautiful and talented and witty and determined and that you defy all expectations, although you are and do all of those things –”

“So you’re saying I’m you, basically?” It was a teary version of her usual tone, and it made his heart soar.

“Sssh. You are all of those things, but at the end of the day... Sylvie, it’s real. With you, it’s... it’s real. I don’t know if you believe me, or if you feel...”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you,” she whispered to him. “I love you, and I know what I did was... that I...”

“I love you too.”

She clung to him for a long moment, her breathing slowly evening out. She smelt of ozone and smoke and frost and magic.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry that I... How do I unfuck it?”

He moved her so he could look at her again, but kept his arms round her. “You need to trust me. If I trust that you aren’t going to push me through another time door, that you are choosing me, will you trust that I am choosing you? That I am choosing you, and I am the one who gets to make that choice, and I am making it because you are everything?”

She sniffed and nodded slowly. She reached up to wrap herself round him again. “I trust you. I trust you.”

She was fumbling in her pocket, and in spite of himself he had a wild moment of panic. Then she pressed the TemPad into his hand.

“I trust you,” she said again.

Taking the TemPad, he took her other hand in his. He kissed her again, deep and adoring, trying to pour everything he felt into it, and finding she was giving the same.

“Let’s go,” he said. He opened a door.

“We do have a universe to save,” she said, her voice still rough from the crying.

“Yes. Although I believe you have some catching up to do first – that’s only four, and there are so many other –”

She elbowed him, but her smile was radiant. He smiled back. Hand in hand, they stepped through the door.

@dianamolloy @winterisakiller you both expressed interest (thank you!)

If anyone else would like to be tagged in this or anything else, please let me know! I don’t currently have a tag list

#this is my writing tag #hardest of hearts fic #sylki #loki x sylvie #the loki show #loki series spoilers

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nekoramen · 3 years

Text

indelible;

kageyama tobio. angst, post-breakup au, timeskip. 1,166 words.

will this be inaccurate to possible canon personalities / schedules / lives of the schweiden adlers? perhaps.

(♫) — being left by zico feat. dvwn

it had been so long since kageyama’s infamous reign at kitagawa first that he’d forgotten the feeling of being left behind. he never imagined that the person who’d remind him of that lonely, numbing void would be you.

kageyama wakes at 5 am. he hasn’t used an alarm in a long while, not since you had moved in with him, but he didn’t bother setting up the clock again after your departure.

at 5:15 he trudges through the kitchen after a quick shower, munches on a banana, and downs a glass of milk. he brushes his teeth and finishes dressing by 5:30, and before he leaves, he lets himself glance at the living room of his apartment.

the sliding door to his balcony is still cracked open just the slightest, and the bouquet remains neatly wrapped on the coffee table, though there are a few new petals on the glass today. the sight outside is nothing to behold, completely absent of any balmy hues when it’s this early. it was dreary that day, too.

finally, he steps outside with his gym bag and makes his way toward the schweiden adlers’ gym. he still hasn’t broken out of the habit of walking down the path you both took on the days that you managed to wake up alongside him—kageyama staying on the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road, as always—even if it adds an extra ten minutes for him to get to practice. his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, the tips of his fingers eagerly seeking warmth as his mind turns over the last memory he has of you, frigid and clear.

perhaps he had known that day. he recalls the clench in his stomach when he bought those flowers; when he breathed in their delicate, soothing scent before he turned the handle and walked into your shared apartment; when he gingerly set them down on the table after you’d said your piece and closed the door behind you.

perhaps it’s time to throw them away, he thinks after a shiver and a sneeze. it would be nice to be able to relax on the couch again without something beautiful and bitter within arm’s reach to haunt him.

“kageyama?”

he stops. was he at practice already?

“captain,” kageyama greets his senior standing outside the gymnasium with a bow of his head, the corners of his lips pressed back.

“kageyama,” hirugami repeats sternly and holds up his hand before kageyama could take another step forward. “you’re drenched.”

kageyama’s brows furrow. he looks down and notes the puddle at his feet, then he glances back at the curtain of rain hammering the concrete past the overhang of the gym’s entrance.

“ah,” kageyama says when he turns back to the older man. “i forgot my umbrella. it’s okay, my bag’s waterproof so i’ll just change into my extra clothes.”

hirugami claps a hand on kageyama’s shoulder before he can pass through. kageyama doesn’t glimpse at the captain. “would you please listen to me this time and rest?”

“i’m fine,” kageyama returns immediately, voice soft and almost pleading. he keeps his gaze fixed forward.

hirugami sighs and gives kageyama a final pat on the back before following his junior into the building. “take your time.”

kageyama is on the court and warming up with everyone else within five minutes. some of the adlers send careful glances in their setter’s direction during the drills. the frizzy, dampened locks and atypical practice attire are new; the way the ball’s trajectory increases in power while gradually losing the normally consistent accuracy when under kageyama’s control is, as of late, anything but.

in the locker room after practice, kageyama heaves a long sigh into his towel. everything aches.

“here.”

kageyama uncovers his face to see ushijima with his hand outstretched toward him. he reaches out, the reddened skin of his palm and fingers facing upward, and he intakes a short breath when he feels the sharp bite of an icepack against it.

the two men blink at each other for a moment, warm olive eyes boring steadily into fractured blue irises.

“i don’t know what is the best thing to say,” ushijima says finally, “but i—we are here for you. we’re all family off the court as well.”

kageyama takes in the rest of the room, the onlooking sets of earnest gazes and gentle smiles, and he feels a swelling in his chest. he opens his mouth but his throat is tight, so he musters up the best smile he could to show his gratitude before quickly looking away. the past few days have been more than enough time to get acquainted with the burning sensation in his nose and what would soon follow. but beneath the security and warmth that kageyama’s team blankets over him, today’s cry leaves him feeling a bit lighter.

by the time kageyama arrives at his apartment, it’s well past sunset. he kicks off his shoes, drops his bag, and passes right by the balcony door and wilting bouquet, the plush of his bed welcoming him with open arms. the sky seemed even more inky and endless tonight. when he peered up at it, he tried to remember the stars in your eyes, but each attempt was replaced by the image of your pupils that fateful night. when had they stopped dilating at him? when had you begun looking at him no different from when you’re reading the paper, or sitting in traffic, or cleaning your car?

when had you stopped loving him?

for the umpteenth time, kageyama can’t seem to pinpoint the exact moment he stopped being special to you. so once again, at precisely 9:30 pm, he scrolls through your past texts and listens to old voicemails. at 10:15, he clicks the power button on his phone and sets it aside, his eyes puffy and tired. a whisper of a chilly breeze from the balcony settles against the stinging warmth of his cheeks, but like the past few days, he doesn’t bother to get up and close the door or grab another blanket. maybe a part of him believes that if he gets sick, then he’ll wake up to you, just like that one time when you had gazed down at him so fondly with a smirk on your lips and a mug of hot milk on the nightstand.

yet he knows it’s nothing but a dream.

kageyama lies in the middle of the bed and spreads his limbs out in an effort to make the space seem even the slightest bit less empty. as he closes his eyes, he wills himself to quell the memories of unfinished plans and finite promises, at least enough to keep the sob in his throat at bay.

at 10:45, kageyama finally succumbs to the night as he pretends that the comforting voice in his mind that says he’ll be okay isn’t yours.

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sineala · 3 years

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A Few Thoughts About Hurt/Comfort

I have been asked this month to make a post about hurt/comfort in Avengers comics. And I love h/c -- I actually have a massive number of WIPs right now that are h/c -- so I am very happy to talk about it! Anyway, this is not really all that planned out and this mostly turned into an excursus on Tony Stark's pain. I'm sure you're all surprised.

Like pretty much everyone else, I'm sure, I have found that everything lately has been... pretty tough. And the coping mechanism that really got me through last year and this year was reading and writing a lot of h/c, on the theory that, however lousy a day I'm having, I can absolutely make sure that Tony Stark has a worse one. And then I can make sure he gets hugs. Wish fulfillment? Why, yes. (Once at Hallmark I was trying to find a "get well soon" card, forgot what it was called, and described it to my wife as "a hurt/comfort card.") I think Marvel Comics -- the Avengers side, in particular -- is an interesting canon for h/c for a lot of reasons. Though, honestly, if you asked me to recommend you, a hurt/comfort fan, a new fandom, I would probably just hand you some Starsky & Hutch DVDs. Go watch "The Fix" and get back to me later. If you like that, there's way more where that came from. But there's still lots to love in Marvel! Superhero comics are really a goldmine as far as the hurt side of h/c. Because superheroes, and you probably have noticed this, get hurt a lot. They get hurt repeatedly, in fantastical ways that are probably impossible in real life both physically and emotionally (at least, I don't think anyone's invented mind control yet), and even the heroes without superhuman healing powers tend to get physically hurt a whole lot worse than actual people can take. Currently in Iron Man comics, Tony has a broken back and is dealing with this by locking himself into the armor as a backboard and injecting himself with massive doses of painkillers. He's busy! He's got stuff to do! He doesn't have time to lie around and heal! So, basically, if you name a kind of pain that you would like to see happen to a character, it's probably happened to superheroes. Multiple times. The downside, though, is that comics do not really deliver that well when it comes to the comfort part of h/c. They could. It's not inherent to the medium that they don't. But because of the serial nature of comics and also the fact the primary audience is dudes who want to read about people in spandex punching each other, a lot of the time they don't really feel the need to provide closure and write about people dealing with any of the hurt. (Raise your hand if you're still annoyed with the end of Hickman's Avengers run.) But at the same time, I think that's a quality that makes Avengers ripe for h/c fanfic. Because, generally speaking, fandom likes to provide the things that canon doesn't, and fandom is more than happy to provide the comfort. If you enjoy canonical h/c in comics, I think you really can't go wrong with Iron Man. One of the big innovations of modern Marvel Comics was the concept that heroes would also suffer from relatable human problems, and in practice what this means is that a lot of heroes start with a fully-loaded angst-ridden backstory and origin story, ripe for h/c. So Tony starts out by incurring a heart injury that he fully expects is going to kill him, which he responds to by vowing he won't get close to anyone so they won't be sad when he dies, and throughout the early Silver Age is constantly on the brink of death as his heart nearly gives out on him practically every issue. And then even after his heart gets (mostly) better, there are various plots involving his armor being detrimental to his health and him choosing to fight on anyway. It's hard for me to think of another superhero hitting that particular variety of h/c in exactly the same way. Sure, superheroes risk their lives constantly, because this is how superhero comics work, but Tony is the only one I can think of who is this constantly this badly off, physically. Like, think of all the other heroes who have had a continual solo presence as fan favorites across Marvel history -- Captain America, Thor, Spider-Man, Wolverine, maybe even Deadpool. You know what those guys all have? Healing factors! For the most part, they are not running around continually on the verge of death, and while there are certainly memorable arcs involving several of them being severely injured and/or dead, you really have to work at it. It's not their constant state of affairs, whereas Tony is the kind of superhero who shows up to a fight already bleeding out under his armor. Yeah, I know Extremis gave him a healing factor. But he didn't have it very long, and also he did some extremely dangerous things while he did have it; I'm pretty sure I've never seen Wolverine saying that he'll just solve a problem by cutting off his own foot. So, anyway, yeah, there are a bunch of good arcs involving h/c for Tony. If you're looking for physical injury, he has a whole bunch of heart problems over the years, gets several new hearts, then ruins his brain, et cetera. That level of hurt is basically the background pain of Tony's life; every so often, his heart will get damaged or he'll have to live in the armor or the armor will be killing him, et cetera. If you're looking for more unusual trauma, I am, as always, going to rec Manhunt, a relatively obscure arc in late v3 (IM v3 #65-69) in which Tony has an extremely bad week. His tech is stolen and used to bomb a building. Then he gets shot in the chest. Then while he's at the hospital a nurse tries and fails to poison him, and she then tries to beat him to death. Then he checks himself out of the hospital and a helicopter shoots missiles at him. Then he becomes a fugitive from justice. And then, oh, yeah, he has to fight the Mandarin. It is... a lot. (Volume 3 of Iron Man is pretty good as far as h/c possibilities. You've got a lot of physical pain, Carol's drinking arc, the Sentient Armor, both DreamVision arcs, and Manhunt. Manhunt is finally supposed to be out in trade this month, by the way.) There are of course the drinking arcs, which probably count as their own type of hurt. But if you haven't read the second drinking arc (IM #160-200), please do. Marvel likes to up the stakes on events (Fear Itself, Secret Empire) by making Tony drink, and it does work, I think. I feel like I've spoken at length about Tony's drinking elsewhere so I don't really want to rehash it all here. And then there's the emotional pain. Angst and drama is something that happens to a whole bunch of characters, yes, especially in comics, but somehow Tony seems to end up with possibly more than his fair share of it. Fandom likes to make a lot of Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, so much so that you might think, if you didn't know canon, that this was just fandom running with a throwaway mention of Tony's terrible childhood and making it worse. But, no, canon really does go there with a reasonable amount of frequency. Howard's actual first appearance is in a flashback where he's ordering teenage Tony to break up with his girlfriend because she's the daughter of one of Howard's business rivals. And then we get into the verbal abuse, and the physical abuse, and the time Howard made Tony take his first drink, and the part where Howard was a demon in hell who Tony fought while he insulted him. And more! Currently, in canon, Howard is alive again and is in league with Mephisto for the express purpose of ruining Tony's life. Also when Tony was a baby, Howard tried to trade him to Dracula. I think you can make an argument that fandom is actually showing restraint when compared to canon. Tony also has a whole lot of Terrible Exes whose presence and/or former presence in Tony's life can be used for a lot of hurt. If you've read any amount of fanfic, you probably know that the exes who get the most play in fandom are Sunset Bain and Tiberius Stone -- not that Tony and Ty were ever canonically a couple, of course, but fandom is definitely enamored of this idea. Ty and Sunset both have relatively similar interactions with Tony in canon, in that they are both liars and emotional abusers, heavy on the gaslighting, with the purpose of becoming more successful than Tony. They both also attempt to murder Tony, although this is after he figures out they're evil, at least. (Yes, I know, this is not how either of them usually appear in AUs.) Tony also has a bunch of exes who also have just straight-up tried to murder or otherwise hurt him, sometimes while they are dating, and sometimes before Tony dates them: Whitney Frost, Indries Moomji, Kathy Dare, and Maya Hansen come to mind. There are probably more I'm not thinking of! But, yes, if you want to write about a guy in a series of terrible relationships, please consider Iron Man comics. If mind control is one of your favorite flavors of hurt, Tony's pretty good for that too. We all know about The Crossing. I suppose when I say "mind control" I mostly mean "armor control" because there are an awful lot of plots where someone else makes Tony's armor do whatever they want it to do and Tony is along for the ride -- Demon in a Bottle, Sentient Armor, and Execute Program are the first things that come to mind. There is also a fairly obscure What If that is What If Iron Man Lost The Armor Wars in which Justin Hammer apparently really wants Tony in a mind control collar to take off all his clothes and lounge around in his underwear. No, really. I think a lot of pain for Tony often revolves around his issues with control, generally -- his alcoholism comes into play here again. The entire aftermath of Civil War is also notable for its propensity to hurt Tony over and over and over. Is he stoically soldiering on through his grief after Steve dies? Hell, no! He cries, like, six separate times. He 100% blames himself for Steve's death. It's great. Everybody loves The Confession and the funeral in Fallen Son, but one of my personal favorites is Avengers/Invaders, in which Tony is confronted with a time-traveling Steve from WWII and in order not to screw up the timeline, he can't tell Steve he knows him. He is clearly not coping well. He shuts himself in a room with a giant wall of pictures of Steve! Also there's a part where he has to try to convince Steve he can trust him and he ends up having to tie Steve to a chair to talk to him, and Steve looks at him and asks, "Who did you kill to get where you are?" and I feel like that is probably one of the worst moments in Tony's life. No wonder he gave himself amnesia. So now we might want to ask, okay, but why is hurting Tony in fanfiction so much fun? I mean, I can tell you why I think it's fun. I can't speak for anyone else. One reason is that he is very emotional and very affected by everything he does. Sometimes you will see people complaining that the heroes of m/m fanfic cry too much and this is not realistic. This is not a problem if you're writing Tony! He can cry as much as you want and it's perfectly in character. I don't think it would be as fun to hurt him if he didn't express so much of his pain. But he does. He also feels guilty, and for me that's a very satisfying character element. If he were well-adjusted and didn't blame himself for so many things, it wouldn't be nearly as fun as watching him blame himself for everyone whose death he thinks he is responsible for, whether or not he is. And then he just keeps going, and it's, y'know, nice to watch him be resilient, too. So, I guess, I think hurting him is interesting because it's easy to hurt him, his weak points are pretty obvious, and he reacts a lot. Steve doesn't hurt quite as much as Tony does, in canon. It's certainly possible to hurt him -- I mean, they did actually kill him after Civil War, after all -- but I don't think the canonical patterns of hurting him are as numerous. Obviously deseruming Steve is a fairly popular go-to in terms of physical hurt; he's been deserumed at least three times that I know of. I think's easy to see the appeal there of taking a character who is fairly physically resilient and making him... much less so. Certainly Marvel seems to see the appeal. But other than that I don't think he has any other really common way to get physically injured. Unlike Tony, whose origin story is basically "oh no, I've acquired a disability," Steve's origin story is "I drank a serum that cured all my disabilities." Which, I mean, great wish fulfillment but there's not really as much there to poke at. Pretty much all of Steve's pain is emotional, but, unlike Tony, his pain isn't often specifically in response to someone directly, purposefully hurting him. Hickman's Avengers run is a big exception, yes. His pain seems to come up most often as a kind of situational angst. He feels like a man out of time. He feels out of touch with the modern era, with people his own age. He feels guilt because he feels responsible for Bucky's death. He feels like he can't trust the government and therefore he can't be Captain America. He worries that he doesn't know how to have a normal life. And, yes, these are deep and important worries but it's different than, like, Indries Moomji dumping Tony with the intent to make him sad enough to start drinking. Very few of Steve's villains want to personally ruin Steve's entire life the way Tony's villains do; mostly they just want to do things like bring back the Nazis. In terms of Steve's potential for h/c, I think Steve is harder to hurt than Tony is. Physically, he is definitely harder to hurt. You can deserum him, sure, but unless you want everything you write to be a deseruming fic you're probably not going to want to do that more than a couple of times. And if you want to hurt him physically while he has the serum, you have to hurt him hard. Usually past the point where a regular human would ever survive it. He's also harder to break, emotionally, than Tony is -- which means it's very satisfying when you can get him to break, but this is a guy who's only cried twice (that I remember) in canon. So if you want to get him to cry, you really, really have to wreck him, and he doesn't have as many obvious weak spots. He also doesn't generally sit around blaming himself for things that aren't his fault, and the whole "stewing in guilt" genre of plots for him basically came down to "he was sad that he thought Bucky's death was his fault," and that's really the biggest regret he seems to have, and also Bucky's not dead anymore. The Steve/Tony relationship itself, I would think, is also appealing to h/c fans because canon provides a lot of ways for them to hurt each other. Some people only ship pairings who would never, y'know, take turns beating each other half to death in major event comics. (And for a lot of Marvel Comics history, that was also Steve & Tony, so if you want them to be BFFs who have never fought, you can just set your fic earlier.) They have definitely hurt each other both physically and emotionally, so if you're looking for something easy and satisfying as a h/c fan, you can just read or write something where they... make up. What about Marvel characters other than Steve and Tony? Surely some of them are angsty, yes? Well, yes, but also it depends on the particular flavor of angst that you like. If you like the way Tony hurts, you may very well enjoy Doctor Strange comics, because they have a very similar attitude towards life -- they are both former alcoholics whose origin stories involve physical disabilities, who routinely make tactical decisions that negatively affect their continued existence and/or happiness a whole lot. It's very much an "I must suffer alone in the dark and no one will ever know what I am doing to save the world but it's the right thing to do" sort of vibe. Like, you can read comics where Strange is lying in hell with two broken legs, hallucinating that Clea has finally come to save him. Strange's biggest fear, akin to Tony's control issues, is basically that one day he's going to be an asshole again, so he's out there trying as hard as he can to do good. Also, if you like tentacles, he has all of them. I mean that. Carol also occasionally hits similar angst spots, and her drinking arc is great. A lot of people like Natasha, too; I have read zero Black Widow comics but I get the impression many people enjoy her brand of angst. The mutant metaphor is a little different in terms of overall vibe, but some people really like it as a source of angst -- the whole "protecting a world who hates and fears them" thing. It may not work for you, but if you like your hurt to include things like systemic oppression, go pick up some X-Men comics. Start with something like God Loves Man Kills. I feel like I liked this sort of thing a lot more as a teenager but that I kind of aged out of liking the mutants quite so much. It's also worth mentioning that not everything that hits the spot in one universe will be the same in the others, and I'm mentioning this because I feel like I have to say something about MCU Bucky. MCU fandom seems to get a lot of mileage out of Bucky's guilt about being the Winter Soldier, everything he was forced to do, et cetera. I have definitely read my share of those fics, and FATWS sure went right for that angst too. But as far as I can tell, he doesn't hit the same way at all in 616. And I like him a lot in 616; I'm always pleased when he shows up on a team. (He was so good in Strikeforce. Everyone was so good in Strikeforce.) But the thing is, 616 Bucky is, basically, phenomenally well-adjusted, given everything he's gone through, and I'm including the time he wrestled a bear in a gulag. He gets over having been the Winter Soldier, and now he's just, y'know, a guy with a cool arm who likes to bring guns to every fight to horrify his teammates, and he snarks at Clint. If you're looking for that angst, that is really not him these days. He's all better. So pretty much all that is canon. So what do we do in fandom for h/c? Well, as far as I can tell, a decent amount of it is canon-based or very canon-close -- there are a whole lot of stories exploring the angst of Civil War or Hickman's Avengers run. Tony's drinking comes up a fair amount, and if one of Tony's Evil Exes comes back to haunt him, it's pretty much only Tiberius Stone. I don't think I've read a lot of fic with Steve getting deserumed; it doesn't seem as popular in fandom as in canon. When Steve gets hurt, he tends to just get physically whumped pretty hard, and there's a fair amount of that for Tony too, but of course Steve can take more. There's also a thriving, uh, subgenre of pain involving Hydra Steve doing terrible things to Tony, presumably the terrible things he would have wanted to do to Tony in canon if Tony had had a flesh body. There's the usual kinds of h/c setups that appear in basically every fandom as well -- sickfic, whump, dub-con/non-con. You get the idea. But since fandom in general likes to take specific inspiration from canon, there's a lot of fic where the hurt tends to resemble things that happen more in canon. Like, I feel like comics fic probably has more tentacle fic and more mind control than canons that don't come pre-stocked with those. Probably everybody has a whole lot of "tied up by bad guys," though. And then, of course, fandom brings the comfort that canon does not. This is true in pretty much every fandom -- I mean, you aren't going to find a lot of actual canons where Character A saves Character B from mortal peril and then there's gay sex -- but, like I was saying, comics don't provide a lot of closure before it's onto the next thing. Usually with a different creative team, who has no interest in wrapping up anything from the last team. Steve and Tony talked about the incursions exactly once after Secret Wars and nobody mentioned the part where Steve spent several months trying to hunt Tony down and kill him. Tony is never going to remember the events of Civil War. Hydra Steve died ignominiously in a fire and no one has ever talked about him again. Honestly, if you're looking for a way to get some comfort in your fanfic, picking an event, any event, and just having the characters talk about it will be way more than any of them get in canon. I feel like honestly that can often be a pretty satisfying to read. And even though comics canon physically hurts characters pretty often and pretty badly, they also often skip right past the recovery. Maybe you'll get one page of a character in a hospital bed at the end of the story arc. Maybe you won't. Demon in a Bottle has one splash page of Tony going through alcohol withdrawal and then he's all better. I think Manhunt skips to Tony getting out of the hospital at the end. That's just not a story that they want to tell very often. The second drinking arc is notable in that it devotes almost as many issues to Tony's recovery as it does to getting him to rock-bottom. Similarly, Steve is done with his Nomad angst way way faster than you probably think he is (though The Captain does go in for a fair number of issues). So one of the things we often want to do in fandom is focus on all the bits that canon skips over, both in the "why did no one ever mention this story arc ever again" way and the "wow, so how long are they in the hospital after that" way. That's really all I can think of about h/c! I'm off to write some more of it!

#posts i actually wrote

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