#they are pins and needle buddies
Note
I like to think Buggy’s entire sleeping situation is beyond weird and takes a while to get used to. Personally a big fan of the “he detaches while sleeping” headcanon and sprinkling my own brand of alight angst in there by making that clown touch starved and only being able to sleep well when he’s cuddling his own head like a morbid teddy bear. Of course as soon as someone else enters the mix it gets weirder because he cannot kick the habit of wanting something to cuddle, so he likes to spoon his so, but he also can’t keep his head comfortably on his shoulders most nights and detaches it anyways, which sometimes means he gets spooned by SO holding his own head or he is the big spoon to his SOs little spoon to his own heads littlest spoon. There are so many opportunities for weird situations with his detachable parts it’s just a joy to think about (As well as the fluff potential of Buggy realizing that this is something his partner actively loves about him, to be able to hold onto his Torso and listen to his heartbeat even when he’s already getting up. To be able to become the world’s comfiest body pillow by carefully detaching body parts to hold them just right. The ability to wake up next to them and float over to their side of the bed to see them peacefully sleeping, it’s one of the first times he actively enjoys his powers)
Nooo, Buggy cuddling his own head is so adorable and so bittersweet.
That is the cutest, though, and a wonderful way to not have him honking and snoring in your ear the entire night. Falling asleep every night to his head cradled against your chest, the feel of his soft hair on your skin, and your lips pressed to the crown of his head. Or drifting away to his body nestled against yours, arms wrapped around his waist, and his head in the right place for you to caress his cheek.
No pins and needles in his arms when you want to rest your head on his shoulder or his chest. The opposite also works - Buggy would try different ways to segment his body so he can curl up to you without pinching any nerves.
Some nights he’ll slip a hand in yours, just to have that connection. You wake up in the morning, palms a little sweaty and fingers entwined.
Buggy will give you a leg to hold between yours, which makes your hips feel so good. When it’s time for you to roll over, he lets you take the appendage, just so you can stay comfy.
And chilly nights. Let’s talk about those.
The first time he tried to push his cold fucking feet against you, he was promptly ejected from the bed. After that, Buggy learned to warm his own feet first. While you refused to be touched by those icicles, you were willing to help with his cold hands. Holding you as the little spoon, Buggy’s hands would find their way between your thighs and wait in the soft warmth. Once warm, he’d enclose your hands within his.
For Buggy, having to get up in the middle of a cold night wasn’t much of a problem. He just needed to send whatever bit of his body off to do whatever, while the rest of him kept the bed warm. You did not have that ability. When you got out of bed for a late night bathroom run, Buggy would wiggle some of himself over to your side to keep it warm.
Connecting that to Buggy becoming the absolute best snuggle buddy, he manages to develop a secret sense. Buggy sleeps deep and sleeps hard. He’s not waking up until he decides it’s time or there’s an emergency (and even then, it’s a struggle). But he’s always aware of you in bed. The way you move, the sounds you make, when you wake up… Some part of Buggy pays attention throughout his slumber. When you’re restless, he moves to comfort you. When you can’t get comfortable, he knows what you need.
The bed is a messy nest of limbs and bodies, which is why you two always sleep oh so soundly. (Minus the snoring.)
#buggy headcanons#buggy x reader#buggy the clown x reader#buggy x you#buggy the clown#x reader#buggy op#opla buggy#one piece buggy
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A Pretty Butterfly
|The Watchmen|
Rorschach x fem!reader
Summery: Watching a stranger from your windows quickly turned into a human connection you craved. You just wanted to help this strange man who walked past your home everyday…but it seemed you got more than you had bargained for.
Warnings: SLOW BURN, violence, mentions of rape and assault, age-gap (reader is mid -late 20’s and Rorschach is 45) smut, dub-con, fingering, obsession, stalking, anxiety, Rorschach being a tit, pessimistic thoughts, self-sabotage, sunshine and grumpy old man dynamic
Word count: 13.8k words
MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE YOU WILL BE BLOCKED IF YOU DO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DONT READ THIS
Notes: In the film, they claim Rorschach is 35, but the comic has him at 45 so I went with that instead. a special thanks to my buddy @mandowifey for sending me down this rabbit hole and helping me out with my scatter brain🤍
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You didn’t mean to stare.
That was a lie.
…a half lie.
You liked to watch, but you didn’t mean to latch onto one face in particular when you peered out of your window. You never really had before; perhaps the odd flamboyantly dressed hooker or someone with outrageously done hair, but you couldn’t say you had ever taken notice of someone who seemed so inconsequential.
It was his red hair that made you look twice, at first.
From your little window, above a small tea shop that was run by a family who smelled of jasmine, you first saw that little man who wandered the streets of New York with his picket sign.
“The end is nigh” it said.
The first time you saw it, it made you laugh a little. So pessimistic. You wondered why he felt the need to forecast such a statement to the city. Was the end all he could see? Was there no good in his eyes?
Silly, you thought, to busy yourself with a stranger’s story that you had fabricated entirely in your mind.
But then the second time you saw him, those words made you think.
Perhaps it was close- the end, that is. The more and more that chauvinistic Dooms Day Clock ticked, the more you started to believe that man.
It was inevitable.
Perhaps it was close, too.
You wondered if he was unstable- mentally or otherwise. Wandering the streets when he should have been getting help. But the more you watched, the more you realised about him and his meandering walk; never once did you see him lash out or scream like you had seen so many times from those who injected and snorted and drank any substance they could get their hands on.
You watched him for months- accidental at first, then you found yourself checking outside your window to see if he was there. It was as if he was your own personal dooms-day clock- each time you saw him it was a tick. Somehow you found him far more comforting than the Armageddon timepiece the government kept.
Then you got tired of walking from your desk to the window, and moved it up against the glass. You told yourself there was no harm in thoughtfully gazing at someone…you weren’t harming him or yourself. You liked to pretend you were friends…though you knew he wasn’t even aware of your existence. You bet he had a million odd stories of the world around him- he looked far older than you. Older and harsher.
Then came the day that changed your private little relationship.
The day he stared back.
It had scared you half to death when you had been watching him in your usual daze- silly smile on your face and chin in your palm- and he had paused. He had looked down the street, stopped, then snapped his head up to look you in the eye. He was 25 feet below you yet he saw you so clearly and you felt stripped bare.
You had nearly fallen out of your chair to scramble away from the window; goosebumps had sprung up on your arms and your feet had pins and needles in them. Your heart had leapt into your throat and pounded furiously. It had taken you 10 minutes to finally inch back to the window. To your relief, he was no longer there, but then distress began to set in as you wondered if you had scared him off. He didn’t exactly look blessed with monetary abundance, and you doubted he appreciated a strange woman staring down at him.
The next day, you thought he might not pass your street; having a stranger watch him was likely not on his to-do list and there were hundreds of streets for him to march down instead of yours.
However, even though you agreed with this likelihood of him not coming back, you found yourself unable to complete any work until noon. A call from your employer was the only thing that snapped you out of your reverie, and even then, you could barely focus on your work.
Your knee bounced as you did your best to prioritize, and almost got lost in the work in front of you until out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flicker of red. It was embarrassing how fast you looked down, not that you truly cared.
Your heart jolted. He was there. You didn’t scare him off.
Then, he looked up again.
This time, you didn’t run. You held your ground…and even managed a little wave.
He didn’t wave back, and you even wondered if he saw it.
He only readjusted his sign over his shoulder and kept walking.
What an odd man.
Though you supposed you were just as odd to show such an interest in him.
Perhaps a little perverse…
You blanched at the thought; hoping to god that he didn’t think that.
While making dinner, a thought struck you. You made just a little extra food, and saved it in a container, even writing a note for yourself to not forget to give it to that strange man. You knew it was silly, and forward - truly very unlike you- but in a city where it was next to impossible to make any selfless human connection…you didn’t want this to go to waste. Even if he told you to piss off, at least you could sleep at night knowing you tried.
So you waited.
You truly hoped against hope that your wish to show compassion wouldn’t be seen as anything but what it was…though a part of you began to think you were practically asking for trouble or misinterpretation. The longer you sat the more nonsensical you felt as your knee bounced twice the speed of your heart beat.
It was almost 10 am when he came into your view, only this time it was as if he materialised out of nowhere instead of the slow walk from your right to your left.
You didn’t even wait to see if he would look up.
You didn’t let yourself think.
You dashed to your door, food in hand, and tore down the stairs to the small gate separating your home’s entrance from the figures trudging past. You opened it and stepped out onto the street, trying not to get stepped on by passers-by as you looked for him. To your luck, he was only ten feet down from your building, and before you could stop yourself, you quickened your pace to catch up.
“E-excuse me! Sir?” You called softly once you were behind him. The man came to a slow stop and turned- a stoic look on his face.
Now that this man was in front of you and was giving you his very real attention, you felt your lungs cease their function for a few seconds, no words forming in your mouth either.
He was handsome…in a strange sort of way.
He looked…jagged, and guarded.
Thin, short, and tired…but by god you couldn’t look away. Not until you realized you were staring again.
Simple and to the point.
You looked down at the container of food in your hands that was still warm.
“I’m- I apologise…I wanted you to have this…it’s getting cold.” You said, holding out the food to him.
Most impersonal act of kindness in recorded history, well done.
You returned your eyes to his face, and found him looking right back at you. Neither angry nor kind. He simply looked…beaten. Tired of his life…tired of the world…you didn’t know for certain. But you understood.
Somehow.
“I’m-…I’m sorry for staring. And I hope you’re not allergic to anything…um, there’s a fork in there, you can keep it, good to have, you know?” You knew you were rambling, and very aware that he hadn’t looked away from you once. You fought to hold his gaze, but admittedly it was an intimidating stare.
He turned to walk away, and you felt panic fill you.
“Please take it.” You tried again, but he didn’t say a word.
He silently left you standing there, and you felt like New York’s biggest idiot.
It was the rambling…defiantly the rambling. Oh maybe it was the act itself I mean he probably isn’t used to having that kind of- okay now that’s a bit of an over-assumption…he might have lots of people offering him kindness…and now you’re the one standing on the street staring at a lamppost.
…pull yourself together.
You watched him disappear, just like your pride; whatever had been left of it. Your shoulders began to sag as defeat settled into you and turned your tongue sour.
Which was why you decided to do the exact same thing again the next day.
You waited. Perfectly ready to not see him after that embarrassing display yesterday…but sure enough, there he was.
You noted that he did not not look up today, not that you blamed him.
You were out the door before you could dissuade yourself.
“Mister!” You called.
He didn’t turn this time.
You repeated yourself a little more clearly. “Mister!”
He kept walking. And somehow every time you almost caught up to him, he would slip out of your grasp.
You could only continue like that so far down the street, and eventually had to give up. He was stubborn…and you could be too. You didn’t know this man’s story, and if he didn’t see himself as good enough to receive kindness, then you could continue until he did understand…or until he called the police on you for harassment.
So you did it again. And again.
You told yourself you would try two more times and if he didn’t take them…that would be that. You would have to move on.
You made a rich stew, and even put a few pieces of bread in a bag for him. You steeled your shot nerves, and began to walk down to your entrance before even seeing him.
You saw him coming from a few blocks away, and very slowly made your way into his path. He gradually took in your form, but didn’t pause or even stop. Not until he was a foot from you. But you held your ground.
“Look…I’m not…I don’t know why you won’t let me help you, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get some gold star or have you boost my ego by being thankful…I just want to show you kindness and if that’s too much for yo-“
He held his hand out to you, palm up. He didn’t look away, and blinked slowly.
You might not have been the best at reading every person you met, but his message was obvious. “If I take it will you leave me alone?”
You grinned timidly, and placed the food in his hand gently. “Keep the container…they’re good to have.” You said under your breath almost out of habit- it had been something your mother did and now you found yourself doing.
He took it without another word, and you felt a pleasant heat bloom in your chest.
The next day, you childishly watched for him again- as if he was your Santa Clause or Tooth Fairy…although he looked like he might knock someone’s teeth out rather than give them a couple coins for them.
You made a soup that would fill him up and picked up an extra loaf of bread to give him. Both sat on your lap as you sat on your stoop, ready for him. You kept telling yourself you just wanted to help out a lonely soul like yourself, and that you weren’t developing a juvenile crush on the man who hadn’t even spoken to you.
You leaned out periodically to see if you could see him, and found yourself readying your nerves to confront him again.
You sighed and went to lean out again, only to freeze rigidly.
“M-morning-“ you squeaked.
The very man you were waiting for was standing just feet from you, staring, and his free hand in his pocket. As if he had come up from the gutters themselves.
You hadn’t prepared for this kind of sudden interaction, and found yourself mentally throttling your brain to do something.
Anything.
It seemed however that whatever god was above you decided to take mercy on you for once, and the man reached out his hand just as he had the day previously.
You wordlessly handed the food to him then remembered the bread. “Oh! This um is for you too…it’s fresh.” You added, pretending like your cheeks weren’t warm and your hands weren’t shaking.
You smiled gently, but it faded fast when you notices a small group of seedy men approaching the two of you. You didn’t like to instantly label people, but this particular flock of men were well known in the area…you had watched them many a time from the safety of your window.
You instantly began to shrink in on yourself, and it seemed your change in demeanour was enough to catch the older man’s attention. He followed your stare behind him, and his nose momentarily scrunched up in a displeased snarl. A mere twitch.
Vermin.
Rorschach felt something ugly build in him. He knew their faces well…rape, theft, assault, vandalism. These men were true scum under his boot…he hated that he couldn’t put them in their place without his face.
“Hey-yo mammi lookin good!”
“Hey you wanna lift that skirt a little more?”
“Whatcha doin with the little rat, hm?”
You could feel your heart rate pick up as they got closer, and you hoped that they didn’t realize you lived in that building. You wished you didn’t feel so small but-
The older man handed the food back to you without even looking. It was enough to bring you back to reality, and you took it quickly- the last thing you wanted was to antagonise him. Then he turned his body fully to the approaching group, and he waited patiently.
Your heart stopped. Was he about to-
He didn’t move from his stance in front of you, and he almost looked bored. Inconvenienced.
“The fuck you gonna do weasel?” One of them sneered.
That’s not very nice-
They’re not nice PEOPLE
You watched, terrified, as they got into his face and towered over him. The last thing you wanted was for him to get beaten for just being near you-
“What’s your fucking problem huh? Just gonna stare at us with those freak eyes cuz you can’t fight?” Another taunted, guffawing.
You winced, and your eyes unfocused…just like they used to-
But then, something in the men changed like a light switch. With his back to you and now a few feet away, you couldn’t tell if the man had said something, or done something, but what you did know was that the skinniest of the group was clapping the biggest on the shoulder and telling him “The little rat ain’t worth the trouble.” But there was an urgency in him what wasn’t there before.
The men huffed and some blew kisses at you which made you wrap your sweater tighter around yourself wishing you could disappear. Your eyes refocused as you heard them walk away, and you slowly looked over at the older man who was now half turning back to you.
You stared at him, your appreciation evident on you face. “I- Thank you sir…I don’t…” Don’t want to think of what might have happened if you weren’t here, you wanted to say, but you kept it simple instead. You sighed and shook your head, then held out your offering to him, and the bread you were sure he would like.
The man stared, and rose his right brow slightly, then took both from you. He turned and left you there as if it was a normal day.
Your heart was still beating wildly by the time he had left your sight, and you couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread through you as you thought about him defending you; even if it was simply him not in the mood to witness a young woman have her dignity taken…he had done something, and that made you stare after him longer than usual.
You didn’t ask why he came back at all.
Nor why he was right by your stoop that morning.
And you never inquired as to why he never asked why you didn’t give him money.
He knew why you didn’t. Perhaps not enough to make a full admission to himself but he sensed something in you…that stupid little girl. You didn’t give him money because money was too easy to fall into sin. Gambling, drugs, whores…all for money.
You wanted your kindness to stay as it was intended to be- good.
The warmth you had felt stewed in your stomach right through to the next day; you had made your way to your favourite shops early that morning and picked up a few bags of things to cook with. Then as you went to turn to your building, you paused.
You knew that red hair a mile away, and you only needed to look a few feet to see it resting against your stoop entrance.
He-
You looked around at nothing as if someone might tell you what you were seeing.
He was sat there on your building’s steps, newspaper in hand…reading. You considered continuing walking down the street and pretending like you didn’t see him or live there, but you felt silly even considering such a thing.
He didnt look up at you, and didn’t acknowledge you as you slowly approached the steps.
“Morning.” You said gently. Your cheeks began to flush when you looked at him- attempting to retrieve your keys from your pocket without tripping. It came out almost absentmindedly, seeing as you didn’t exactly want him to know that you had been fixated on how to approach him…although you supposed you had already had blown that when you watched for him every day and chased him with food…
He didn’t say a word.
An anxious knot began to tighten in your stomach. You truly didn’t know what to do…you didn’t want to seem rude if he just hadn’t heard you. You got to the first step and glanced down at your hot coffee. You wondered if he was able to speak at all…At this point, when you figured you were mostly talking to yourself and that he likely barely listened to a word you said.
“You need this more than I do…it’s September now…getting cold.” You bent down, hoping your paper bags didn’t rip, and placed it onto the second step by his boot.
You wanted to ask him why he was on your steps; wondered if he was waiting for you; wondered if he might clasp a hand over your mouth and slit your throat the moment you walked past him. It wasn’t that you wanted to think the worst, but after years of seeing the worst in the city, you couldn’t help it. You hoped that you were wrong, for you sanity’s sake.
The man still hadn’t acknowledged you, and your arms were growing heavy. With nothing left to do, you opted to walk past him and unlocked the door; chancing a glance back at his form. Perhaps you were delusional, but you swore you saw his head turning back to its original position. Had his gaze followed you?
A glance.
It was small and secret and you were elated.
You wasted no time in running up the stairs into your apartment, and grabbing the food you had saved from the night before. You counted the seconds mentally that it took for you to descend the stairs again, hoping it wouldn’t be enough time for the man to disappear.
You nearly tripped on the last step when you saw him standing and folding the newspaper. In another attempt to regain your composure, you slowed your pace as you came to the top of the stoop. You almost handed the food to him from there, but it made you feel like someone with a saviour complex instead of just trying to be nice. The tentative step you took down to his level seemed to finally grasp his vague attention as he looked down at your feet then up to your face.
You held the food out by his gloved hand.
“I hope you’re okay, mister.” You said earnestly, holding his gaze, “It’s horrible out there.” You didn’t know what made you say that, but it had been something that weighed on your mind for months…perhaps years. A dormant thought that his picket sign had awakened.
The man took the food, and it was then that you noted a certain despondency in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way his weathered face made them stand out so much more amongst the lines of age.
He left you there again just like he always did: silently.
Just as you were about to wander back up into your home, you glanced down and stopped and smiled.
There sat the coffee cup you had handed him.
It was empty.
Perhaps he was accepting your gestures in hopes of having you eventually leave him alone, but you were only fuelled by his recipiency. It became a routine for you to keep extra food for that man. Even if you ordered take-out, you kept some for him.
You noticed, however, that not long after you made contact with the strange man, a few things started happening to you that certainly had not before. In fact, you were beginning to ponder your sleep quality as you often woke up to far less food than when you had gone to sleep. Were you sleep walking? Or simply forgetting all together how much you had eaten?
Then came the dreams. At least a few times out of the week, your dream-addled mind swirled with unclear images of someone or something visiting you at night- a shadow, a whisper, a puff of smoke in the wind. You swore you woke up with things moved, but there was no forced entry that you could find, and thus you never thought more of it than you needing more sleep.
Weeks passed as you took it upon yourself to care for this man, even though he seemed to dislike the company. You knew he found you childish, it was beyond evident in his face when he stared at you. But even still, he took what you offered him, albeit begrudgingly.
Each time you saw him, a part of your heart felt bruised. Not that you pitied him -you were certain he would resent any pity- but you could tell when a person was damaged. Be it from something personal or the world itself…it didn’t matter. You were all hurt in your own way. You wondered how long it had been since someone was kind to him; had he known much kindness at all? Had he lost everything? Did he have anything to lose in the first place?
You hoped you could provide him with a tiny little ray of hope amongst the arduous reality.
Perhaps you were too optimistic like your mother had said when you were little…but you didn’t care. Not when it helped you sleep at night and get through the days of listening to the dwindling city below you.
But then, he stopped coming.
It had been a full month and a half since he had first accepted your offering. You had gotten so used to your routine that the first morning it happened, you felt sick- like a punch to your gut. You heart had dropped to your toes and your tongue felt heavy and your ears rang. You instantly thought the worst. Of course you tried to rationalise it, telling yourself that he most likely just wanted a change in his route and would be gone for that day…or perhaps he simply got sick and didn’t go for his usual walk.
When you sat there at your window, having gone back up dejectedly, you found yourself staring into nothingness. You hadn’t realized how attached you had become to that little man.
This man who never spoke had become a friend of sorts…some kind of stanger who gave you a tiny bit of human contact that you grew dependant on. It wasn’t as if he was kind to you, in fact he was a little standoffish when it came to you…you wondered if you bothered him more than anything else…and the more you thought about it the more you realized you probably did.
That night came and went; quiet and lonely aside from those strange dreams. Your eyes prickled when you awoke- already feeling empty.
You felt so silly. So selfish. Ridiculous really.
You felt even more ridiculous when you called in sick to work even though you couldn’t afford it. You found yourself wandering the streets without the slightest idea where that man came from or what his routine was, so you picked some directions to try and set off. There was no plan, you just needed to know that the one person you actually cared about wasn’t laying dead in an alley, at the very least.
It took three hours.
Three.
Asking various vendors and urchins of the streets before you were pointed in the direction that ultimately led you to that tuft of dirty red hair. He was passing by a news stand, that simple pace carrying him as always.
“Mister!” You called before you could tell yourself this was stalking…and the fact that you had no plan whatsoever.
The only indication that he heard you was when the man’s steps faltered for a moment. A slight pause in his foot and a tightening of his shoulders.
You ran to him, and moved into his field of vision. He stared at you almost like a stranger, and that stung you more than it should have. But you did your best to remain calm and kind.
“I haven’t- you-“ you tried, but failed to catch your breath, “I thought something had happened to you…but I’m so glad to see you safe. Can I- can I buy you lunch?” You asked him.
The man stared at you hard, that line between his brows even more pronounced than usual. He was thinking.
Rorschach loathed how bare he was without his face. If he wasn’t in disguise he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you to take your pity elsewhere, anything to get you to unstick yourself from him.
When he didn’t budge, you shifted on your feet, looking around to break his intense eye contact, “I- you dont have to repay me or anything…just a bite to eat. I care about you…- more than I should probably.”
“You shouldn’t.”
You almost jumped at the voice that left him.
That was the first time he had said a word to you, and you admittedly never would have thought that that would be his voice- it was so deep and hoarse that you shivered.
Then you realised what he had said.
“I sh-…why?” You asked, scrunching your brows together.
He hated his weakness in finally speaking. You would never let go now.
“People like you don’t care about people like me, and vice versa.” His words came in a rumble, and they tore you down so easily. A stomp to your heart.
You tried to pretend like tears weren’t welling in your eyes; like you were stronger than the curt, sharp words of a man you barely knew. “And what kind of people are my people?” You pushed, though it sounded more desperate than you wanted.
His face was pure stone. “Good people.”
You swallowed. “And you’re bad?” The question was timid; any wind that had been in your sails was long gone as soon as he had opened his mouth.
“Yes.” He rasped. Rorschach didn’t have the patience to baby you, and frankly his temper was rising the more you made him speak.
“Call me naive…but you don’t seem bad to me…you look…worn down.” You shrugged. “You seem like you need a little good in your life…and I really want to help you with that-“
“No you don’t.”
He said it so quickly it was as if he had practiced it or said it before. You wondered how many times he had gotten hurt.
As you searched for any retort, he continued, and began to stalk towards you causing you to back away. “You don’t want to help with anything. What you want is to feel a little less self absorbed than you already do but in doing so you only fall further into your pathetic, egocentric existence. You think you’re being compassionate? Look again. You’re nothing but a privileged little girl looking for a new toy until she gets bored and wants another one. Look in the mirror for once and see what you really are, you wretch.”
His words rang in your ears, and you felt lightheaded. He stared you down a moment longer, then he was turning around and disappeared into the crowd before you could find a rebuttal or feel your hands. You were numb.
Your heart ached as much as your feet did, if not more.
No…certainly more. You felt nauseated.
It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on you from the top of one of the skyscrapers above you. You felt cold and breathless.
You didn’t remember walking home, but you must have seeing as you were sitting on your couch, coat off and tears dry by 6 pm.
You never thought he cared that much; thought he just saw you as a free meal and you were alright with that…but hearing what he had thought of you all along made you want to double over at your stupidity.
Had he been obvious in his distain and you just hadn’t noticed? You supposed it had been you who forced him to take your food in the first place…he had tried to get away from you but never could because you were so persistent. You were selfish in your want to help, and it had angered him terribly.
And you had lied to yourself; you had told yourself that if he told you to piss off, you would just have to accept that…but here you were with him telling you just that and you couldn’t handle it.
You should have known it was only a matter of time before you pushed this stranger too far…
He was like a wild dog; he would respect you…and then he wouldn’t.
And now you felt even worse for comparing him to a dog.
You hung your head in your hands and let your tears fall. In your want to help someone you had only made an enemy, and made yourself feel more alone than ever.
But that one morning still played over and over if your mind- when he hadn’t let that gang of men get any closer to you; he could have so easily just taken the food and walked away to leave you to their mercy…but he had stood his ground.
Your head ached as you tried to rationalise everything and piece it together.
But all you could come up with was that he thought you were a horrible person…and you were starting to believe him. You supposed you were nothing more than a caterer for him and you had pushed his boundaries too much.
It was all your fault.
A week passed. Every night, you still made the extra food for him, only now you left it out on the stoop since you didn’t see him anymore; hoping he might wander by when you weren’t looking. But you felt your heart ache when it was untouched. On more than one occasion the food was taken, but you assumed it wasn’t your…friend.
Of course, you had no idea that the very man you urned for sat beside those containers almost every night for at least an hour without his face. He never touched what you left for him, and he stared at it in distain. You were young, and you were stupid. He gathered he couldn’t even call you a whore yet…hell you almost had a pretentious halo around you from being born still. He wondered how it felt to be so utterly ignorant.
Rorschach hated that he knew more about you than you thought. That he had taken up the habit of perching on your fire escape outside your window as he wrote in his journal, and you cooked or read.
What he didn’t know was why you did this. Rorschach was a master of puzzles and he loathed that he couldn’t figure your motive out, not fully at least.
You said you cared.
Said you wanted to help…
Stupid.
There was no way in hell that anything you said was true. There was some kind of poison lacing your words and he had already let himself be exposed too long. No one liked Walter Kovacs, and no one liked Rorschach; they used him and worked with him…but like?
No.
A young woman liking him?
Unheard of.
Preposterous.
But that first day you had come to him on that filthy street had felt like an itch had been scratched. For months he had felt eyes on him on that particular stretch of street, but when he had finally spotted you upon your little perch, he felt what it was like to have a question answered for once. It had startled him. You had startled him. He had imagined it was an old, fat creep spying on the passers-by or a whore looking for a client…just like her…
But then there you were- this soft young woman with clean clothes and a gentle stare; you had almost fallen out of your seat, red cheeks visible even from his view point below.
Just another strange woman then.
Then…and only then when you had burst out onto the street, and run after him did he allow himself to look at you. Actually look at you.
You had looked irritatingly familiar.
There was a timidness to your eyes- a sadness that had turned to kindness. A stark contrast to the sadness in his own eyes- a sadness that had turned to venom and ice long ago.
Your voice was soft as you spoke all in a rush and apologising as you held that peace offering to him. A warm meal.
Selfless.
You were young, and selfless.
You didn’t care that he was as filthy as the street you stood on. That he hadn’t even spoken a word.
You had just wanted to help.
Stupid.
Rorschach was pleased that he had chosen to leave you there; he wasn’t one to pick up strays.
But you were stubborn. He loathed how stubborn you were. Treating him like he was a bug under your microscope.
That next time when he finally took your selfish, presumptuous offering, he considered not eating the food lest it be poisoned, but then again that wouldn’t be the worst thing he had endured in his lifetime.
He had watched you retreat back into your little home like some little, pathetic mouse.
He wasn’t young, or stupid, or naive, or innocent.
He wasn’t about let his gaze wander to some girl who would be a whore in a year or two.
At least that was what he had told himself up until night fell. Once the city was plunged into darkness and his disguise came off, Rorschach clenched his bloodied knuckles as he scaled a near-by building. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop until he came to a familiar neighbourhood. Rorschach had huffed behind his mask, and crawled down the ladder system to your window; a sick, juvenile curiosity making him feeble. Contempt flooded him.
He sat outside your window…watched you as you put yourself to sleep; tugging frustratedly at your night-dress when it bunched up under your blanket. There was an innocence to you that made his nostrils flare under his mask and his ears ring; as if an old memory was trying to resurface. It was ludicrous, of course.
Your window had opened surprisingly quietly, and he soundlessly eased himself inside. Your home was simple and comfortable despite likely having a landlord who didn’t give two shits about you. Tidy enough for a young woman. Rorschach stalked from shadow to shadow, mapping out the apartment. Then he came to your bedroom, and he paused; watched how gently you breathed as sleep took you. As if you didn’t have a care in the world, or perhaps you simply weren’t aware of the scum that lay below you.
He told himself he was just collecting information on this strange person who had extended him a disingenuous olive branch. Nothing more.
It wasn’t that there was an itch in his hands when he saw you, or a twitch in his eye when he heard your voice; that you got under his skin.
You little creature.
A little light that had turned on in his dark world.
He hated the light.
He stared at the dress that you had worn that day- draped over the back of a chair in the corner of your room. It had sat at your knee, a modest length especially given your young age. It wasn’t often that a young woman attempted to protect herself with a show of dignity. He gathered you must be hiding something…
You were odd. A sliver of grey in his black and white world.
He hated grey. It made no sense.
Then there was the routine that you forced him to partake in.
He found his steps slowing when he passed your building- not out of expectation but out of a foolishness that made him engage in the childish game you laid out.
Your presence ate away at him like a corrosive acid.
Each day he expected you to not be there. To disappoint him like everyone else.
But you never disappointed him, and he loathed it.
There was twice where he had made it past your building with no sign of you, and he had decided that the game was done and he could carry on with his existence, but then that frantic little voice of yours would make him stop. Calling after him like he was so important. Like you needed to give him your kindness as much as you assumed he needed to receive it.
Then he found himself slipping.
So stupid.
Putting off jobs or rerouting himself to pass your window. Just a glimpse- a reassurance that you were alright like double checking that you have your wallet when you leave the house.
Then it wasn’t enough. He began to sleep there on your stoop, picket sign beside him like an old friend. He didn’t care if he saw you in the mornings, but he saw the type of people who frequented the area and he wasn’t about to let a single one get past your door. He didn’t need the blood of a foolish woman on his hands as well.
The image of your bloodied, violated limp body made his stomach churn; just like it had when he found Blair Roche’s remains. And that was what scared him- or the closest thing he could feel to fear.
He held this pristine little being in his pale hand, and he knew that the longer he held it, the more likely it became that he would ruin it. Crush you in his palm just like that man had done to that little girl all those years ago…taking Walter Kovacs with him.
And he would not drag you down with him. He would not stoop to that monster’s level.
So he stopped showing you his disguise. He couldn’t have you know he was there, just like the rest of New York. He needed you to forget about him; treat him like a ghost you saw out of the corner of your eye.
When he was across the city that morning and still heard your voice behind him, he had felt his muscles tighten in distain.
Because then it wasn’t a game anymore. He was done.
But you were so insistent that you cared.
You truly cared.
You had spent god knows how long looking for him.
As soon as he had heard you, he had to steel his composure lest you attempt to lure him back into your scheme.
He hated that you had gotten him to speak, but he had watched you crumble under his words; it was alright that you were upset. He could handle that far easier than your kindness- perhaps you might even grow from a little cruelty.
Weeks passed, and he found himself returning to his usual schedule; almost appreciating the simplicity of the dullness and angst.
It was a Tuesday night when Rorschach sat on an old roof top, jotting down his visit to Daniel Dreiberg’s home- noting that he had gotten even lazier with his physique and needed to stop lying to himself about the state of the world. The odd scream and rushed fuck in an alley-way rang out below him here and there; the usual.
Dull, really. He sighed, and tucked the book inside his coat. He leaped down to the neighbouring roof, and trudged along it.
Then from down below, he swore he heard a familiar voice.
Rorschach almost rolled his eyes as he came to the edge of the roof and looked down. It was dark, but he knew your voice from a mile away- you had forced that skill upon him.
You were backing away from five men, all considerably more imposing than yourself and your warm drink. Hot chocolate to be exact. You always had at least one once a week…taking a stroll to a small coffee house-
Rorschach ground his fist into the brick to halt his unnecessary thoughts as he crouched.
He listened to the men taunt you, and saw them back you into an alley wall.
He watched, bored, waiting to see what might happen. Then the more he listened, the more he came to realize that the conversation being had sounded familiar.
“What you thought I’d be locked up forever, pumpkin? Nah they just needed some good behaviour ‘n that was enough for them to slap my ass outta there.” One of them laughed, and he neared your cowering form.
Rorschach noted just how badly you shook.
“What? You’re not happy to see me? Cmon now, don’t you have a kiss for daddy, hm?” The man sneered, successfully trapping you against the disgusting alley wall.
Rorschach began creeping down closer to hear, his eye twitching under his face when he watched the other men keep a look out and stare at you like meat on a plate.
“There you were thinking you were so smart with that speech of yours… “My boyfriend raped me and made me watch him launder all the money.”.”, he put on a horrible high pitched voice to mock you, “God you sounded pathetic. 15 fucking years…got out in 7…missed you, you know?”
Rorschach’s brain itched as he tried to recall this particular monster…it was all so-
Then it clicked.
That nagging familiarity of your face wasn’t a coincidence. He had seen you before, of course he had. He felt so stupid.
He had been outside the courthouse after you had given your heartbreaking testimony and that vile man was sentenced to 15 years for assault, murder, rape, and money laundering with attachments to drug trafficking to the homeless. Some monster with a god complex. He had seen you come down the stairs, one of your eyes still black, and head down as the onslaught of reporters and media flocked to you. You had been in the damn paper, why the hell didn’t he remember that. You were barely legal too…he remembered how his stomach had churned-
Your scream snapped him out of his memory, and he was leaping down into that alley before you could finish your cry for help. You sounded so terrified.
As Rorschach landed, a knife was held up to your lips, ready to carve your face. He felt rage fill his veins; was there no end to the putrid barbarians that staked their claim on what they saw fit?
He cleared his throat. Each head turned to him, including yours, as he stood.
As one of the most recognizable figures of New York’s underbelly, Rorschach was used to the look of fright directed at him. What he was not used to was the look of solace that washed over your tight features once your eyes locked onto his inkblot face.
Rorschach found something rewarding in your eyes.
Fuel.
The man holding your throat nodded for the man closest to Rorschach to attack first, which he did. His neck snapping echoed louder than your sobs.
The cold knife poked carelessly into your soft cheek, and you did your best to squirm away.
The next man to lunge at the vigilante smashed his bottle of beer against the brick wall, smirking as if his glass weapon would do any good. Rorschach let him get close. Then faster than a bullet he snatched the man’s weapon-laden hand and squeeze tight; the bottle breaking easily in his fist and puncturing the man’s hand like a balloon on a tack.
Two other men attempted to assault Rorschach, and each time he found such generous abundance of horror and dread in their eyes right before he gifted them each with an irreversible injury.
One after another, the men fell, until it was just Rorschach, the man holding you, and you.
He knew the dog had a name- knew he had heard it specifically- but he couldn’t bring himself to care. No doubt he would hear it over a news channel tomorrow.
The lout man held you tight, and knocked your head against the wall to stun you before turning to Rorschach. You slumped to the ground and watched as the masked vigilante took measured steps to him as if to speed up the process.
You had heard of the Watchmen before, and the countless criminals they had put away and subsequent lives they had saved…but Rorschach wasn’t what you had imagined. He didn’t tell you to save yourself or ask if you were alright. He was silent.
And somehow you found comfort in that-as if you were in the fight with him instead of a damsel in distress. You couldn’t look away, even going so far as looking for something to immobilize the brute of a man who had stolen so much from you all those years ago when you didn’t know any better.
Then once you looked up again, he was down in a heap.
You didn’t even see the altercation, but regardless there was an evident dent in the side of his bleeding head.
The filthy alley floor dug into your knees as you sat and stared. Your mind was playing catch-up with your eyes, and you felt as if the world had been eradicated from your shoulders.
You felt tears well in your eyes and a line of gratitude on your tongue.
Then the masked man turned to you and your entire world shifted when he spoke.
“Go home.” Was all he said.
But it wasn’t how he said it or what he said.
It was his voice.
You knew that voice.
You missed that voice.
You had wanted so badly to understand that voice…
Even the compact build and attitude were right.
Your lungs burned from you forgetting to breathe for a moment.
You stared up at his looming figure, eyes wide and tears long forgotten.
“It’s you…” you whispered. “You’re Rorschach.”
He let out a noise that sounded akin to a growl and a sigh. The sound send a shiver through your cold body. Then without another word, he pulled out a grappling hook like you had seen on the news, launched it, and disappeared into the smog and thick dark.
Rorschach berated himself for hours following the incident. So badly that he beat an old pimp into a coma and ripped his face off to breathe as he sat on a fire escape.
This was a nightmare.
You knew him. Knew his face and his voice.
He had slipped.
Stupid stupid stupid stupid.
There was only one thing he could think of that might rectify it, and it didn’t include you living.
He sighed.
Rorschach stood outside your door, returned to his disguise, and found that he could hear your footsteps through the thin wood. You were cleaning… doing something to distract yourself. Your hands were shaking judging by how you kept dropping things.
He knocked three times, and heard you pause at the sound. Paranoid. Frightened. You very quietly approached the door, and took a look through your peephole before falling completely silent.
You weighed your options; you could not open the door, and risk that pissing him off and breaking the door down…or you could open it and simply speed up the process of whatever it was he wanted. It took ten seconds before you pulled the door open for him.
There was no hiding how startled you were by him being there…now that you knew exactly who he was.
You were looking for something he say, he could practically hear your mind working away…up until your eyes fell on his bashed cheek and the blood drying there. You hadn’t realised he had gotten hit during the fight.
“Y-you’re hurt,” you murmured, and he nodded, not letting his eyes leave you. You sighed and stood aside, “Come in.”
He stared at you for a moment, then slowly walked past you into your home as if it was the first time he had been there. Like he didn’t know the layout and where you slept and how you folded your clothes or the hangers you used.
“Sit down.” You gestured to the couch, and offered a very small smile as if to reassure him that he was welcome there. That you weren’t holly terrified of him.
Rorschach sat, and watched you as you approached him with a cloth and small bowl of water. You sat close to him, and brought the cloth up to his cheek after wringing it out, but he caught your wrist before you could get any nearer.
He looked at you. Truly looked at you. Looked through you.
“You shouldn’t waste your tears on something so undeserving as a man.” He rumbled.
Your eyes were locked on his, and you felt as if all air was sucked out of you. You still weren’t used to that voice of his; pure gravel.
His words hung heavy in your ears, and you realized that you must have looked like an absolute mess- tears still drying on your cheeks from sobbing for your life in the alley.
He watched you take the tactless comment and he slowly released your wrist, and you gently began to clean his injury and grime on his face. There was a firm line between your brows as your worked- wiping the sharp planes of his face while trying to ignore his eyes on you, burning a hole through your skull.
His face came clean, and your bowl of water was murky and pink. This was possibly the most surreal nights you had had in a very long time. You went to get up but again, his hand caught your forearm and kept you seated. You looked from his hand to his face, staying quiet.
“Why are you helping me?” He snipped, grip tight.
You blinked, and searched his handsome face for any idea why he might doubt you aside from the fear he caused you.
You shook your head, “Why wouldnt-“
“Why?” Rorschach snarled, pulling you so close that you breathed the same air- those cold blue eyes of his harsh and intimidating.
You gasped, but refused to look away. His grip hurt, but he had saved your life and you were afraid that if you said or did the wrong thing he would disappear again. It was pathetic, you knew that, but you felt a strange bond to him.
And though he didn’t want to admit it, he felt an odd attachment to you as well.
For 45 years he had only ever seen the greed and filth that came from humanity; shaped from it, starting from the very womb he was born from. Lies and hatred, murder and rape and theft and horror beyond your imagination. For him to find your grey in amongst the rubble of humanity, it felt like good gold. He was waiting to rub away a coating of false innocence and find another piece of coal.
But there you were…coming whiter and whiter until-
Rorschach didn’t like being wrong. Being surprised. It was tedious.
But it would be a lie if he said you were anything but one of the innocents.
A good person.
Each of the deeds you had done for him had in fact come from a place of benevolence, and not deceit.
Rorschach let his grip on you lighten.
Despite your brain cautioning you of the vigilante in front of you, you simply stared back at him and ignored how strong his hold on you was.you did note that he released you slightly, the same moment his eye twitched.
“I think there’s something to that old saying of a wounded soul recognizing another wounded soul…you looked like you had some decency left in you, sir…please don’t tell me I was wrong.�� Your voice was soft. Gentle. But no less direct than his. You were kind, not weak, and you were hoping against hope that he wasn’t like America’s favourite hero, the Comedian when it came to women; a line of them out his door begging for his sexual attention and him using them then tossing them aside as he pleased.
“Or maybe I’m just stupid.” You shrugged and looked away, afraid he might confirm your statement. You wouldn’t put it past him to be blunt.
Rorschach almost reacted to your use of that word. For so long he had labeled you as such, and while you might very well still be…he was sceptical to assume anything of you. He continued to stare, his sharp eyes cutting into you like you were a cloud of vapour. He relaxed his grip on you again, and stared at where he had held your arm- red finger marks forming on your clean skin. You must have washed yourself as soon as you had gotten home…scrubbed yourself clean from those vermin.
Good.
“I have…I have some dinner I was going to-um…well bring down for you…if you want it.” You began to shift uncomfortably under his gaze when he looked back at you. You swore he stared more than he spoke.
He nodded after a moment, and you smiled a little.
An incandescent sight.
“Okay.” You whispered, finally getting up. It was surreal.
Rorschach watched you go, noting that a pleasant scent followed after you.
Why did he notice that?
You walked to your little kitchen, and placed the dirty cloth and water in the sink before going to grab the pot of warm soup. You filled a bowl for him, and turned around to grab a spoon when you froze and jumped back, spilling some soup.
You hadn’t even heard him walk up behind you, didn’t even feel him even though he was a mere breath away.
“What are you…?” You murmured.
He watched you startle, and looked for any last ill intent or motive; any snark comment or any price you might want to put on your kindness…but nothing came.
It never did.
His breath was on your face, and you could only stare at him. There was a tragedy to him, hidden under the dirt, and he was impossible to read. He might have been plotting your gruesome death and you would have no idea.
Rorschach focused on you.
Fixated.
So innocent…white and pristine amongst the blood, filth and rot of his world. He hated it. Hated how you were allowed to be like that; a poster child for something that didn’t exist freely.
He sighed, pursing his mouth.
You had chosen this; you had decided to care for him. You had lead him down this path.
You had given yourself to him.
You looked away for a moment, and gingerly placed the bowl down before you spilled it. Then before you could think of anything to say with this dangerous man who was a hair away from you, you felt the skin of his lips catch yours when you turned back.
You wouldn’t call it a kiss- it was more of a hook or bait. A test. But when he did it again…that was a kiss; tentative and slight as it was. He heard your breath catch , and could feel the heat from your cheeks as they warmed and flushed.
You blushed.
Whores didn’t blush.
He kissed you again, with a little more force, and your hands came up slowly to his chest, resting there like you hadn’t decided if you wanted to draw him closer or push him away.
He might have been one of the most infamous men in New York…if not America, but he was flesh and blood underneath that mask. He was warm, and sturdy.
Rorschach was far from weak, but when he felt your soft lips brush back against his, he felt something deep inside him snap.
A low growl rumbled in his chest and he unclenched his fists; bringing his calloused hands up to grab the back of your head and your jaw to draw you closer as he backed you hard against the counter.
It was messy and Rorschach held you possesively as you gave into him. Your teeth clanked together, and your rhythm was fueled with need as he nipped and bullied his tongue into your eager mouth. He gripped your hair so tight it hurt your roots but you didn’t dare tell him to stop.
He only removed his hands from you to shuck off his jacket and gloves, mouth still sealed over yours, and then they were back on you. Grabbing at your flesh, drawing you closer; chest flush against yours.
You shakily forced your hands between and the two of you and began unbuttoning his shirt- the older man hummed in regards to your tremor.
You nervously loosened his tie and let your hands wander over the skin of his collar and chest. You hadn’t expected him to be so strong, but knowing who he was, it only made sense. Before you could get any further he weaved his fingers into your hair and pulled your head away from him.
Rorschach held you there for a moment, soaking in how you stilled so obediently; staring at you as his free hand began to gather the hem of your little night dress. He huffed, and gave your roots a quick squeeze, and the message was clear: “Stay.”
Then once he was satisfied with your cooperation, he brought his other hand down to the other side of your nightie and brought the garment up and over your head with ease. He let it fall to the ground, and you followed its descent; unable to look at the older man now that you were left in your panties while he was still almost fully clothed.
He placed two fingers under your chin to force you to look at him; you felt your blush deepen when you saw how blown his pupils were. He looked determined, and feral- deep breaths making his chest heave.
Before you could say a word, Rorschach scooped you into his arms and didn’t even pretend to not know where your bedroom was. A gasp escaped you, and your wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He carried you with little effort, and had you plopped down on your mattress in seconds. The older man crawled over you before you could even sit up; lips on yours, kissing you so hard your mouth grew tender. He only paused to pull back and kick off his trousers.
Then he was everywhere.
Rough hands grabbing at your soft skin; low rumbles and hums in his chest that vibrated against you and made you need him even more. He kissed and bit at you- marking you as his. You held onto his strong shoulders, whimpering and moaning quietly as he made you forget your own name and only know his.
Rorschach bit into your neck, and rocked firmly against you. You could feel him scorching and pulsing against your core, rubbing hard against you to create friction that had you forgetting to breathe.
“P-please” you whispered, raising your hips up to meet his.
The man stopped, and you immediately regretted saying anything. He pulled away to stare down at you. You thought you had done something wrong until he spoke.
“Say that again.” He murmured, his nose brushing yours.
Your quick beating heart was so clear for him to see, along with your nearly black eyes; the throbbing vein in your neck and pulse in your chest.
“Please…” you said again, lips red and swollen.
He sucked in a breath. Having your warm, soft skin against his bare chest was the first human contact he had felt in decades. It made him feel…human. He was fighting to maintain his practiced composure, but he could feel it slipping through his fingers with that one word.
“Again.” He rasped against your lips, throat tight; invading every inch of your space. He knew he shouldn’t ask it of you, but be needed this. He needed you to say it again.
You swallowed.
“…please.” Came your timid, needy voice. Your hands started to fidget as he refused to look away, barely blinking as he took you in. Drank your generous vulnerability.
Rorschach hummed low in his chest.
“You’re mine.” He growled simply, the skin of his lips catching yours as he spoke.
Your mind was gone already, sitting in that bowl of cold soup on the counter.
You could only nod.
He sighed through his nose, and then it was as if the last part of his restraint broke. Rorschach locked his lips onto yours, and you parted yours to gasp as his hand came to your hip- squeezing and stroking your skin. His tongue moved against yours and you let out a surprised moan that he swallowed greedily. Then just as quickly, he ripped himself away from you, and you watched his veiny hands as they pulled himself from his boxers; painfully hard and leaking precum. You’d be lying in you said you hadn’t thought highly inappropriate things about the man- something about his simplicity and your need to please him. He lowered himself over you, resting his weight onto you as he bit at your lips.
Low hums would rumble through him and you couldn’t help but think he was purring. He perched onto his forearms, and shifted closer; you gasped when you felt the tip of his cock against your entrance, and choked out a cry when it entered you without warning.
There was no sweetness. It was blunt, and clear as day.
Rorschach rested his head into your neck as he hunkered over you and pushed forward, then drew back; fucking himself into you. You were no virgin, but you might as well have been. It only took two brutal thrusts before his hips were flush with yours and you were clinging to him pathetically.
You whimpered in his ear at the stretch of him so deep inside you. You couldn’t help but squirm slightly in an attempt to get used to him. Rorschach brought a hand to rest at the nape of your neck to keep you still as he drew out of you again then snapped back into you, making your body bounce under him. It was as if he was testing you…or perhaps testing himself.
Then you felt a puff of his hot breath as he quickened his pace, taking full advantage of how soaked you were for him. You could feel him throb inside you, and you suddenly remembered that he was only a man…a much older man who was rutting inside you like he owned you. The thought alone had you moan into his shoulder as his fat tip dragged against your insides and bruised your cervix. You rolled your hips with him, gasping at how hard he gripped your hip and neck.
He was possessive and harsh in his need for you. Like a man who had been starved and you were his first meal.
And he would devour you.
You felt his pace pick up and his thrusts turned harder and sloppier. He locked his arms around your shoulders to keep you still as he bruised your pelvis. Your back arched and hips met his in a need to feel every inch of him. You hooked your legs behind him to bring him closer. You could feel him huff into your neck, a rumble in his chest.
“I-inside me- please…” you managed to croak out, though you doubted he would listen to any request that he didn’t like at that point. He was going to make you his in every sense, and that meant filling you with his cum.
Rorschach growled deep into your shoulder and bit into your flesh. You felt him pulse inside you, then a warmth spread inside your navel as he emptied his cum into you. It had a comfort to it that made you cling to him, nuzzling your face into his strong shoulder. Ragged breaths were in your ear as he hammered into you a few more times like he was proving a point. Making sure you knew that you were his now…his secret.
You panted with him, and clenched reflexively as he began to pull out. You already missed the warmth he brought you. His shoulders were visibly more relaxed as he moved to lay beside you, and you slowly grasped his jaw and brushed your lips against his, which he returned ever harder. You pulled away, and you liked that he hummed when you did.
The man beside you leaned up onto his arm to stare down at you thoughtfully. As if he was trying to read something on you. Your skin flushed with warmth under his scrutiny, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to tell him that you didn’t cum.
When you moved your hand down between your legs where his cum now leaked from you, you twitched. Every inch of your skin was hypersensitive and when you touched your clit you almost flinched at the contact. All of which instantly drew the attention of the man beside you. He stared at you intently- a deep line between his red brows.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
His scrutiny was jarring, though you noticed it wasn’t judgemental…it was studious. Curious. You looked away from him, and felt very naked under his gaze, afraid he might ridicule you for something like that. It wouldn’t be the first time you had gone to take care of yourself and a man had almost laughed in your face.
“I’m…I didn’t um…” you tried, but he watched you so closely, and felt as if he was studying you.
He was.
Then he understood. His eyes widened ever so slightly.
“Oh…” he rasped, looking down where your hand had been. You bit your thumb nail as you waited to see what he would do or say. You liked this man more than you would care to admit, but you knew men could be selfish…and uncaring…and mean. Hell, you had never had anyone make you cum besides yourself, and your expectations were not-
Your thoughts were halted when you felt the warmth of his calloused hand on yours. You watched as he very simply took your hand from your mouth, and returned it to between your thighs, and looked back at you expectantly. At first it felt like a slap in the face, as if he was telling you to take care of yourself…but with how intensely he was gazing at you, you realised he was examining your every move. You moved your fingers and he regarded them carefully. Like it mattered greatly to him.
The older man committed everything to memory; when you petted, when you were gentle, when you moaned, when you pressed harder, when you stroked, when you arched your back, when your hand started to shake, when your brows pitched up, when you slipped your fingers inside yourself.
You found yourself unable to look away from him even as your eyes drooped and your mouth dropped open in a permanent sigh. Your breaths were coming in little gasps, and you didn’t even notice he was just as effected as you- his chest heaving as he took deep, controlled breaths.
You slowly pumped your fingers inside yourself, stroking your g-spot; then gasped out a soft whine at the contact on your sensitive flesh, at which point Rorschach deemed to be enough watching for his liking. He snatched your little hand and replaced it with his own far larger and rougher hand.
You gasped when he touched you so accurately…but this time you gasped for him.
He leaned over you, his lips just a breath away as if to breathe in your whines and pleas. Watching what he did to you.
His thumb drew small, feathery circles around your clit; alternating between direct but tentative touch, and agonizingly slow strokes that didn’t quite touch it. You began to pant, and your hands found his strong shoulders- hanging on like a lifeline. The older man hummed, and looked away from you for a moment to watch what he was doing, how slick his hand had become as a result. Once he had your hips rolling up into his palm, he eased a finger inside you, although his was noticeably longer and thicker than yours.
You gasped at the sensation.
“I-if you- ah! Can you move l-like this?” You showed him how to curl his finger inside you and he instantly followed your instruction, and even added a second finger; you cried pathetically as you surrendered to his mercy.
He stroked your inner walls for a few moments until he found what he was looking for. Once he made contact with that hypersensitive patch inside you, you let out a gasped moan that you tried to cover with your hand, but Rorschach was having none of that. His free hand that had cradled your head smacked your hand away and didn’t even pause his ministrations. This was just as much for him as it was for you. He wanted to know everything he did to you.
You whined softly against his mouth.
The movement of your hips began to be more deliberate as your body chased its craving. As if catching onto what you needed, he focused on that spot inside of you, and you let a series of moans slip from your mouth. Your pelvis bucked up into his touch, and you could have sworn that amongst the focused breathing and studious stare, you saw that man smirk.
Smirk.
He huffed out a ragged sound that must have been a laugh.
He continued to watch you, and you found yourself lost in the feeling of him and the sight of his eyes staring down at you like you were the most important thing at that moment.
Like there was nothing he would rather be staring at.
It took only a few more moments of his careful ministrations before you were falling apart in his arms. Your back arched up off the bed as you gripped his fingers like a vice inside you, and he continued his strokes, though he slowed them considerably.
The steady drag of his fingers inside you set your veins on fire. There was a mess of your and his cum between your thighs,and he used the saturated slickness to lazily finger you; carrying you through your high.
As you eyes refocused and unglazed, you stared back at him, and caught his lips with yours. He eagerly returned your needy kiss, and very gently removed his hand from your cunt.
You lacked proper judgement and acted purely on what you wanted; with his hand resting on your penvis, soaked and sticky, you took his wrist in your hand. You didn’t want to know how much blood had been shed because of those hands, not in that moment to be specific, but what you did know was that he had you wrapped around those fingers tight. You lifted them to your lips licked the slickness off of them, cleaning him. You flicked your eyes up to his, and we’re startled be how close he had moved. He hummed low in his chest when your tongue slowly lapped at them to clean him.
He drew his hand away from you, kissed you; holding you jaw surprisingly gently as if you didn’t have the shape of his hands bruising your hips or an ache deep inside you.
Your head felt light and disconnected.
Rorschach pulled away after a moment, and propped his head onto his hand to watch you. He gingerly traced your face shape with his finger, as if mapping and memorizing you. Touching your eyebrows, the ridge of your nose, your cheekbones.
He was lost in his own little world.
“I like the way you sound when you cum.” He said so a-matter-of-fact.
Your cheeks went rosy and warm. You didn’t know if you should thank him, so you grinned sweetly.
There was something in him that made it compelling to watch him. Something drawing you in as he stared back with such fixation. You didn’t know how to look away.
Not until your eyelids drooped and exhaustion took you. You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but you did know that when you awoke, your blanket was laid over you, your hair was out of your face, and you had a pair of crystal blue eyes staring back at you. Rorschach looked to have not moved an inch since you had fallen asleep. His head still propped in his hand, watching.
“Did you sleep?” You asked, rolling closer to him; your head and body consumed by your pillows and blankets.
He shook his head.
“You do you ever sleep?” You flicked your eyes across his face.
And he shook his head again.
You placed your hand on his cheek. His face didn’t soften- it never did, you noted. But regardless, his attention was on you entirely; you stared at him like he did you, then smiled gently at him.
“Thank you for trusting me.” You whispered, and he clearly hadn’t expected such a thing.
Again, he didn’t move from his place, but you noted the twitch in his brow, and small smirk that sat in the corner of his mouth. Perhaps he thought you foolish, but you didn’t care.
You pressed a kiss to his lips, and pulled away quickly even when he chased you. A displeased huff escaped him, but you eased it away when you gently hitched your leg over him. He grabbed your waist as if anticipating something volatile, but when you leaned over him, your chest against his, he seemed to pause mentally. You nestled your hips against his, your thighs on either side. With nothing between you, the feeling of his hardening cock against your lips was evident. The older man’s warmth radiated into you. You felt his fingers start to dig into your hips where he gripped you, squeezing the flesh as if he was about to lift you off. But then, you rolled your hips against him, sliding along his shaft easily given how slick you were already. He stopped all trains of thought he had for a moment when the sensation registered in his nerve-endings.
His gaze continued to make you self-conscious, but you wouldn’t shy away from him now.
You repeated the motion again, and felt him twitch and harden under you; you gasped when his hands held you firmer. You enjoyed the feeling of his cock under you, and your eyes began to glaze over when you felt the swollen tip catch your entrance, slipping inside you without warning. The soreness you felt from the night before didn’t stop you though. You watched him carefully, and while his stare was intense and focused, there was no unease or resistance.
Your cheeks flushed and you couldn’t help but stutter, “I-is this okay?” To the nearly silent man.
Again, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he gripped your hips tighter and bucked more of him into you.
You took that as a yes.
Encouraged by his action, you rolled your hips on him a few more times to get more of him inside you; a whimper and a gasp escaped you as he filled you so completely- the stretch painful but addictive. Your slower pace appeared to bother him and he ground you down onto him to get his cock fully inside you. The force made you breathe out another gasp; your hands found their place on his muscled chest to steady yourself.
With you both satisfied with being locked together, you slowly bucked your hips, drawing him in and out of you. You felt his grip grow more possessive, almost pawing at you as he held you.
You started slow, and deliberate; angling your hips to have his cock drag against your g-spot. At the first contact, your tempo stuttered, and your choked on a moan. He seemed to find your pleasure amusing as he hummed and began to meet your thrusts. He seemed to understand what to feel for after a moment when he stroked that sensitive patch, and you noted that he was very particular about hitting it.
Then you started to notice just how much pleasure he was receiving when his lips parted and the tendons in his neck began tighten.
Each time you came down on his shaft, you felt him reciprocate the movement- grinding up into you. It was as if he knew exactly what to feel for that made your toes curl.
You could barely hold a thought in your head as you felt fire brew in your veins and a tightness in your pelvic muscles.
You tilted your head back, and your arms that were braced on his chest buckled; bringing you closer to him. Your head fell back down and your eyes locked onto his- pupils blown. There was a new intensity to his face, a determination.
Then, as if he had had enough of you in charge, the man suddenly gripped you waist and flipped you onto your back. He crawled over you, and slipped his cock back inside you, earning him a whine and gasp from your sweet throat. He found a rhythm identical to the one you had set atop him, and your lips parted when you felt him angle his hips to target that spot inside you; the intense drag of his cock hitting it each time. He rendered you speechless in seconds.
After mewling and huffing out breaths, you finally managed to find a couple words.
“H-harder…” you forced out, “Ple-ase.” You pleaded.
It seemed he was intent to oblige. The gradual roll of his pelvis escalated into a harsher snap of his hips that had him watching you with rapt interest when you cried out.
Out of habit from your past, your hand flew to your mouth just like it had the night before, but just like then, he grabbed your wrist and pinned it beside your head without a moments thought. You felt scrutinized and your cheeks began to heat up so much you felt the warmth spread down your neck.
He wanted to know exactly what he did to you.
And that thought alone forced your body to clench and melt for him simultaneously.
With his careful ministrations, your orgasm grew quickly- an overwhelming amount of pleasure spawning inside you that you hadn’t felt before. Just as you had asked, he kept his pace steady and firm. His desire to know how to play you as he liked made your brain go dizzy with need, and you were intent to follow his wishes. While it made you flush even more to tell him what you needed, you swallowed your pride and forced another pathetic whimper from you. “Slower…please.” You breathed.
At your request, he leaned down over you more, his chest almost flush with yours. He kept your one hand pinned while he used his other hand to pull your thigh up and pushed your knee to your chest.
The change had your eyes rolling back, and you heard him hum; vibrations from his chest buzzing into yours making your fingertips tingle.
It took all of ten seconds before your thighs shook and you desperately rolled your hips up to meet his. He watched as your brows pitched up and your swollen lips parted. Your face flushed in ecstasy.
Rorschach could feel you tense around his cock, and smirked to himself when he felt a rush the of your cum soaking him inside you. You nearly sobbed. Eyes glassy and back arching as you came.
The older man slowed his pace, until eventually stopping all together, but only for a moment. He leaned his nose down into the crook of your neck, and inhaled softly. His grip still possessive; it made you shiver.
Then, just as you settled, he snapped his hips once, forcing his cock back into your tightened heat and he pulled away from your neck to stare you down- nose bumping against yours. You cried out from the impact and looked up at him. He had your attention now. And he began to fuck into you steadily again, but growing in need.
His message was clear.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
And he certainly was not.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
#Rorschach#Rorschach x reader#walter kovacs#Walter Kovacs x reader#the watchmen#watchmen#dc comics#no one asked for this#but i did anyway#jackie earle haley
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Oh, come on! I thought we bonded! Keith? Buddy? My man?
“My man...?”
Keith felt the words zip down his spine like lightning, warming him from the inside out. He felt the words settle in his belly like fire as heat bloomed across his cheeks.
Lance’s man?
Keith liked the sound of that…Liked being the one coming to Lance’s rescue, liked being able to banter with him—flirt with him, his mind whispered—or simply bail him out. It made him feel bold enough to say, “Can’t have it both ways, sharpshooter.”
Lance’s slow, “huh?” had Keith chucking.
“I said you can’t have it both ways. Am I your buddy? …or am I your man?”
If Keith couldn’t hear Lance sputtering over the comms, he’d worry he’d gone too far, but as it was he could practically feel Lance’s blush as he said “Keith!” almost as if he was winded.
“Better decide quick,” Keith murmurs. “I’m about to land.”
He could make out Lance muttering “oh my god” over the comms in a breathy voice. Keith decided to end the link before Lance could hear him laughing.
He was glad he had when he landed close enough to glimpse the blue Paladin, ass up, chained to a tree and took a picture for the sake of blackmail, obviously. Definitely not to keep for himself.
As Red and Blue settled down in the sparse terrain he could feel the lions chuff in amusement at Lance’s predicament.
“Hey,” Keith called out with a smirk as he walked up to Lance, casual and easy as you please.
He took his time, took in the pretty picture Lance made before gracefully sitting against the tree Lance was chained to.
“Just hanging out?” Keith asked dryly.
Lance snorted. “Oh, screw you man!” He flailed dramatically before resting his cheek on his outstretched arms.
It could’ve just been the rosy hue of the atmosphere here, but a Keith could swear Lance’s cheeks were dusted with a light blush at the red paladins attention.
“How does this always happen to you?” Keith asked (fondly), propping his chin up on an elbow as he met Lance’s eyes.
Lance sighed out one gusty sigh and thumped his forehead into the dirt. “You tell me. I guess I always wanna believe someone’s actually interested? Like interested in me,” he huffed in a self depreciating way. “And not just interested in the Paladin of a Voltron lion. But once again…” he quirked his lips and looked up, nodding toward his bound wrists.
Keith hummed. “They don’t know what they’re missing,” he said quietly as he moved over to break Lance free.
Lance sighed in relief and groaned as pins and needles assaulted his fingers in a rush.
“Thanks,” Lance said softly, pushing up and meeting Keith’s eyes—much closer than he’d anticipated. “Oh” he breathed quietly.
“Any time,” Keith murmured, eyes flickering between ocean eyes and sweet bitten-pink lips.
Slowly, Lance brought one hand up and pushed a lock of hair behind Keith’s ear, leaving his hand there against Keith’s cheek. Lips curving up in a smile as Keith leaned into the touch automatically. Lance let his eyes trace down to Keith’s generous mouth, feeling stuck there…
As if gravity itself was pulling on the both of them, their lips met in the middle in a soft kiss that surprised them both.
Keith gasped out a noise he might deny later, reached up a hand to keep Lance’s hold against his cheek and kissed him again.
When they broke apart, Lance breathed out, “Your man,” cheeks bright red.
“Huh?” Keith asked airily, head floating a little.
“You-you uh. Asked me earlier. If I was your ‘buddy’, or…”
“Oh,” Keith couldn’t believe his own ears, smile becoming blinding.
“Either way, I just wanna be yours.”
Lance leaned forward & pressed another kiss against Keith’s smile.
// transferring my twitter threads a little at a time 🥰 you can find the original post here: thread
#klance dreams#my writing#transferring my twitter threads#klance#vld keith#vld lance#lance mcclain#keith kogane#flirty keith and blushing lance is everything to me#klance drabbles#twitter threads
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hiiiiiiiii,
i was wondering if your requests were open, and if so, could you do a hair braiding fic with Wally Darling x gn!reader? like. wally has No Idea how to braid hair because his hair is always, Like That and the reader teaches him how and then he does their hair and they're both blushing and,
accidentally went off the rails and wrote 2k+ words and i forgot the prompt halfway but here it is :”D i literally have no idea how to braid hair or fix hair. tried to learn before i chopped it off and literally cried sooo there’s no tutorial in here djdvshdvsh super fun to write!! sorry if it wasn’t what you expected aha
cw: touch-centric, maybeee non-consensual kissing?? reader is cool with it but no questions were asked, mild implications of mind-reading, mentions of blood and needles
Desc: Wally X Human Reader,,, julie and wally style your hair before the former needs to leave due to a butterfly-related emergency. it’s just you and him.
No horror this time lol
Everyone in Home was just so fascinated with your hair! Especially Julie. She was pretty handy with her own locks of yarn, so when you strolled in with those thread-thin layers (no, thinner than thread!) she was lightning-fast to sink her hands into it and start suggesting styles! Poor girl nearly exploded when you told her she could go crazy with it, you didn’t mind! You were at ease just letting her run a comically large comb through it, but you were yanked from your serenity when she pulled out the needles.
Turns out, the citizens of Home have a unique way of grooming, involving pins and sharp bits, string, a bit of dexterity…
Her scream was as instantaneous as your yelp. You grabbed the back of your head and felt a hot dewdrop stick to your palm.
Honest mistake, really. You told Julie she was fine! You should have thought of it sooner, haha. There was a teary-eyed apology and a hug. You’re never going to get used to their empathy, you think.
Later, she was recalling the strange story to her friends, noting that their new buddy is slap-full of paint! It hurts for that paint to spill out, apparently! Wally was listening.
Little guy creeped you out, honestly. It wasn’t like you didn’t like spending time with him, you just always felt like there was something brewing behind that permanent smile. No one else seemed to notice or care.
And he was on to you, too. Your mind felt… strange when he was around. You don’t know how to voice these concerns, so you didn’t.
You were fast friends either way. There was a mutual understanding of… something. You knew you two were kindred spirits right when you laid eyes on him.
Anyways.
You loved that big ole’ ball of yarn he had. “Hair” was a strong word, it was all stitched in, but it was even better to bat around or give a little squeeze! And he sure didn’t mind at all! Sometimes he’d even ask you to run your fingers through it or stitch something back into place. He trusted you a lot with his pomp. You think it has to do with your agile fingers, or your nails. (Your nails were a big hit in Home! You gave the best scritches, according to Barnaby.)
You eventually rescheduled that hair-styling date with Julie, more than a few times. The neighbors were never far behind, but Wally tagged along the most. His passion for fashion was no secret so he and Julie collaborated often to dress you up like a doll. You’d get the chance to style them, too. They thought your preferences were unique for a number of reasons and marveled at their transformations.
Today was one of those days. You had your head hanging over the sink, squeezing out shampoo. You had brought your own products because fabric softener didn’t agree with your… anything, really. You were washing out the absolute excess of spray, gel, glue, and whatever the heck Julie had plastered to your skull for your latest look. Your scalp was screaming for emptiness, but sweet Jul still had some fire left in her and was intent to braid your whole head while it was damp, as she was basically dreaming to see you with a head full of curls! You’d do anything for her, so whatever.
Wally was sitting on the counter, gazing at himself in a small hand-held mirror with the larger bathroom mirror blatantly behind him. His lips were moving silently in accordance to a song playing idly from the record player in another room.
Julie was beside you, also bouncing along to the distant melody, doing her makeup. She was in an orange mood today, she said.
“Alright, Jul, I’m ready.” You stood straight up and attempted to straighten out your aching back.
“Oh! But my…! Give me a second, just wring it out; I’m almost there.”
You took a towel and gave your hair a good squeeze, having a brief vision of folding it on the floor like a pillow and going to sleep. You prayed she’d have you sit down.
“Okie-dokie!” She slapped her pallette down on the counter. Wally looked up. “I’m ready.”
You yawned and you felt your eyes unfocus in the mirror. Standing on a stool to reach you, she ran her hands through your wet locks until it reached some sort of satisfactory position, and started from the top. You could feel her precision in your skull.
Wally’s attention drifted away from himself and he leaned in; his lazy gaze looking very similar to your own at the moment. “Now how’re you doing that, Julie?”
“It’s super easy! You just section it out, like so…”
Her explanation was lost on you. You were fantasizing about a nap.
“You try it!”
You floated back into reality when gentle hands sifted into your hair. With Julie, debatably a professional, styling and cutting for you all the time, you could easily sense the inexperience. The process began again, albeit slower, clumsier, and Julie started to tap her foot.
“You take that side, and I’ll take this side! We’ll be done in no time.”
Braid upon braid was piled onto your head. You focused more on the progress on your left, where you actually saw Wally squint in the mirror. Julie worked so fast that you couldn’t even feel it sometimes. Wally had his soft fingers against your scalp, tugging gently at the strands tight to your head for closer coverage. Julie stopped to help him every once in a while. You closed your eyes.
A commotion from the living room. Doors being thrown open.
“Julie, by stars, we NEED you!” Frank had rushed into the bathroom with the frenzy of someone being chased by an ax murderer. “A-27 is emerging and has requested you be there! For her, Julie!”
Julie gasped and dropped the hair she had so delicately braided. “Chryssabellum? She isn’t due for another week! Oh, um Wally!” She ran backwards out the door and flicked her hand. “You finish that!”
The door was swung halfway closed and the two were gone in a flash. You just stared.
“Hi, Frank. Okay, Julie.” Wally said after a long moment of them being gone. He hadn’t even looked up from braiding.
“Wow.” You breathed. Okay. “Can we sit down?”
“Sure. You look very very tired. I would be too, I think.”
You let out the most satisfying sigh ever and sank to the floor. The cold linoleum was heavenly in contrast to the balmy air. With only being twelve apples tall, Wally could still easily reach the top of your head. You planted your hands on the floor and leaned your head back, resting it on your shoulders.
His progress didn’t shift at all. He kept at it, slow, careful, learning, folding your hair over and over again.
Now that you think about it, Wally’s never fooled with your hair before. He was more of a wardrobe guy. “How’s it going back there?”
“It is going much!”
You let out another dramatic sigh. “She worked me today, Wally. She really did.”
“I can tell. You looked nice though. And funny.” He went for that spot between your neck and your skull, making little scratching motions to bring the hair closer to him before starting to braid. You let your eyes slip shut. He got on his knees for a better angle.
Yet another sigh. You got off your hands completely, preferring to lean back into his lap. Unbothered, yet hindered, he took his hands away, gazing down.
“You got sweet little hands, man.” You iterated by taking one in your own. It was damp from your hair. His whole outfit, including him, was now dampened by your hair.
“Thank you. They’re mine.”
“They are.” You repeated, smiling. It was sadly taken away.
“Sorry. Julie told me to finish.”
You huffed lightheartedly. “Can you manage upside-down?”
“I can try.” He straightened his legs, placing each at your side.
So you rolled over, crossing your arms over his thighs (or the equivalent) and laying on them. Your forehead was comfy against his abdomen. Finally satisfied, your eyelids dropped.
He started working on your hair again, adapting to the new position quickly. You were lost in the motions once again before the record player, for the first time that night, caught your attention.
It was playing something slow, emotional. Not quite sultry, you think. Goodness no. Just… passionate. Wally was humming along. You could feel the tiny rumble coming from somewhere inside him as he did so. Every once in a while, he’d whisper a breathy strand of lyrics that had you… thinking.
Everyone in Home was about as shy as a golden retriever. Embraces like this were not uncommon. In the time you’ve existed here, you’ve been hugged, kissed, cuddled, coddled, and just plain handled more than you ever have in your entire life.
So why were you all of a sudden funny about it? It’s not like your position was scandalous. Could be misinterpreted among humans, but it was very very very difficult for puppets to be scandalous. You appreciated that. You’ll forget about these fuzzy feelings later, you reckon. Hopefully.
He must have finished, or was close to it, because the lovely little motions stopped and he had one braid between his fingers.
“It’s like a paintbrush.” He positioned the end to mimic the act of painting his hand. “You’re full of them.”
You smiled against his legs. Now that he didn’t have an objective, you lazily looped your arms around him, further crushing yourself into his middle. He folded his hands in your hair.
Wally didn’t feel the need to make conversation or small talk, or anything like that. You were fine, there was no pressure on you to do so either. He was content to stare holes in the back of your head. You imagined that he was painting you in his mind, picking out a shade for each thread of your hair, envisioning just the right stroke at just the right speed so he could fully capture the wonders of you. Maybe he’d even paint with your hair. That’d be a fun exercise.
You got bored of imagining and flipped over. He never let go of you, which translated to his hands lightly traveling to your cheeks. You were met with deep black vaults, barely outlined by white, connecting with your own. Startling to a stranger, slightly less startling to you.
With his hands on either side of your face, you couldn’t help but feel something other than fear. You reached up and poked where his nose would be. He returned the gesture by brushing his thumbs down the slopes of your nose. The record player continued softly.
“Sorry for getting you all wet.” His damp hands felt nice though. Like getting a facial. You wouldn’t be surprised if your skin was a tad shinier after this.
“It’s fine. You’re still warm.”
Your face sure felt warm.
It slowly dawned on you that this interaction was getting less and less friendly. In the best of ways. Would he even know what you were talking about if you brought it up? Probably not. You’d sound like an idiot if you were too direct.
“What’re we doing here, Walls?”
His smile barely widened, in a half-laugh kind of way. His thumbs moved to smooth your cheekbones. They ached from your smile.
“The funny things you’re thinking about… that’s what we’re doing.”
You were just about to ask what he meant.
“Muah.” He said, against your teeth, catching your open mouth just in time. You felt fuzz on your tongue. His departure somehow caught your bottom lip. It tapped back to your teeth unceremoniously. Over before you knew it.
Very not friendly, you realized.
“Wally!” You flicked him on the shoulder, playfully offended. “Some gentlemen you are.”
He giggled, mirth wrinkling his eyes and your own.
“Did I do good?”
You licked your lips unconsciously. “Yeah, yeah. That was fine.”
His hand found your chin, barely tugging at your lip. It didn’t even expose your teeth, just serving to drive you absolutely insane.
“Are you sure I did it right…?” He asked.
“You usually open your mouth.” You finally said, quietly. Your hands and fingers and nails found the back of his head, burrowing under the yarn of that stitched in hair-do.
“Oh. That’s it, then.” His volume matched your own. You were lowering him towards you. Of course he’d have his eyes open, wide and starry. You got ready to close yours. You had just the faintest idea of what you were about to do.
A commotion from the front door.
You meant to yank your hand out of his hair and act as natural as possible when your finger snagged and you ended up snatching his head to the side.
“Oh! N— Wally I am so sorry.” Poor guy looked completely bewildered.
You automatically glanced at the door to see Julie’s befuddled gaze that clearly asked ‘Am I interrupting something?’ She said nothing, but cracked a grin as you hastily untangled from his pomp and addressed her from his lap way too casually.
“So, how did it go!”
“Um, good! Good. A little rough at first. Chrysabellum has a pattern on her wings that we haven’t seen before…”
She was definitely asking you about this later. And you definitely weren’t going to know what to say.
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Buddie Season 7 Hype and "Brothers" Rumor
I know some of us may have seen the "brother" rumors floating around, hinting that an upcoming Buck and Eddie scene this season might officially cast their relationship as strictly platonic.
Some fans just want to live in the buddie moment and be happy after the stills and 7x04 synopsis dropped. I get it. It's fun being on the buddie train. But some are worried now that they've gotten their hopes up. I get that too. So I just wanted to talk about it here on my little buddie blog. If you're unbothered by it, definitely scroll past this post.
Firstly, we don't know yet if they will actually call each other brothers or not. It's just rumors at this point, from what I can tell. And if even if they do, we don't know the full context of it or either character's reaction to it. Secondly, just the way the show has stirred up the buddie hype this season makes me want to believe the "brother" dialogue that may or may not even happen would NOT be meant to shut down buddie canon hope once and for all.
While I don't think we're getting a clear and true, full out buddie-feelings-realization in these next couple episodes, it would be very cruel if the show instead went in the extreme opposite direction and defined their relationship as "like brothers" at the end of this particular storyline that has fans so hyped up, if their intention in doing so is meant to cement their relationship in the general audience's eyes as brotherly only.
Let's be real: the show has ramped up the marketing attention on Buck and Eddie this season like never before. From pre-releasing a ton of Buck-and-Eddie-centric stills to the decision of pairing Ryan and Oliver together so damn much for promotions … all actions not seen on this level in any previous seasons.
To me, that demonstrates the show's intentions to build hope for buddie rather than dash it.
Especially because we know the show KNOWS their audience. I think the show knows how to market to the buddie fandom, even when they're marketing differently to the rest of the general audience and other potential viewers. They are acutely aware that the buddie fans tend to be dialed in, always seeing the episode stills the instant they're released, waiting on pins and needles for the next synopsis to drop, theorizing, reading each article, devouring every interview, examining bts details, etc. They tend to be highly engaged fans.
The showrunners and powers-that-be know how this promotional content is perceived and are aware of the fandom's dedication, and so have fed into the fervor with strategically released content for calculated engagement. And now we have the carefully worded synopsis for 7x04, where we've been told Eddie will form a close bond with someone else, and Buck will be envious over it. It's obvious how buddie fans will perceive this.
So for them to pivot so sharply and end up defining Buck and Eddie's relationship as nothing more than brotherly after such a known buildup would not only be a massive letdown but might also be perceived as an uncaring bait-and-switch tactic. And I really don't they would do that to their fans.
They wouldn't hype us up to the top of a cliff knowing they're only going to throw us off it, right?
I don't want to get into if it would be queer baiting or not; the situation isn't black and white, and I don't think it's blatant enough to be considered anything like that.
It's more about the emotional investment the fans have made, based on the carefully crafted cues the show has provided them with. The ethical route, if the showrunner's intention this season was always to solidify buddie as a brotherly bond with no romantic potential, would have been to firmly manage expectations from the start rather than amplifying them to the point of no return going into this network change and new season.
To sum up here, the buildup we've been given around Buck and Eddie lately leads me to hope we're moving in an optimistic direction that will eventually culminate in the chance for a buddie romance at some point in the series. At the very least, I hope it means we're not going to have our hopes crushed entirely and see Buck and Eddie be officially friend-zoned. (Even though we can certainly still ship them to eternity and beyond regardless, it means so much if them going canon remain a possibility.)
To officially redefine Buck and Eddie's pairing in strictly platonic terms now, after all these seasons, would not only be a disservice to an incredibly invested fanbase but also a hell of a missed opportunity to go on and explore a rich relationship in a more dynamic way, especially as buddie has captivated viewers for so long in a slow-burn sense already.
#911 abc#911 buddie#buddie#buddie thoughts#eddie diaz#evan buckley#buddie canon#buck x eddie#hoping for the best
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the boys & hearing a song from your phone on shuffle
a/n: nsfw songs ahead <3 ur welcome.
tw: some songs contain heavy subjects such as rape.
simon "ghost" riley - good lookin' by dixon dallas
He's bouncing off my booty cheeks, I love the way he rides
I can hardly breathe when he's pumping deep inside
I kiss him on his neck and then he kisses on my bussy
Call him "Daddy" while I holler
Man, that boy so damn good looking (looking, looking)
He has a thousand yard stare as you try to contain your laughter at the song. you love this song, and the artist in general. You originally found him when he was just doing rap, his name being iamjakehill. you completely embraced both the pop punk (ur pretty) project & the country project of his. and now, you're showing your lieutenant one of his very gay masterpieces, despite the artist being a very straight man.
könig - dana dan by bloodywood
Not all men, yes, all men
Need all men for what we're solvin'
Can't be what it's been but we're evolvin'
You see for yourself now get involved in
Talking all in, do more, boy, it's a war
Chainsaw to the dead weight, leave it raw
Bloody galore as we clean out the core
Yeah, we do it for her, so we kick in the door
he definitely looked up the lyrics, meaning behind the song, and translation as soon as it was over, and with that he found a new band to listen to. listen, the dude may basically be a war criminal [ they all fuckin are, lets admit it ] but he sure as hell would fucking destroy a rapist as soon as he had the opportunity. all of them would.
john price - i threw glass at my friend's eyes and now I'm on probation by destroy boys
But fuck you!
You're so old, dude!
Like seriously, what do you think you're doing?
Your hands are so big and you're so tall, wow!
You know, I kinda wish I had let you do that one thing that one time
But in retrospect, it would've been a bad idea 'cause
You don't care about me like I care about you so I feel bad
man, this dude felt this song was a personal attack on him. yes, y'all had an age gap, but you needed to assure him he was perfectly fine, and you just liked the song because of trauma prior to meeting him. being a kid/teenager with unmonitered internet access really fucked you up, buddy.
keegan p. russ - chokehold by sleep token [ cover by will ramos ]
So show me that which I cannot see
Even if it hurts me
Even if I can't sleep
Oh, and though we act out of our holy duty to be constantly awake
to say he loved the dudes voice would be an understatement, and then to figure out it was a cover of a song and he heard the original? the man was offended you kept will ramos, his band lorna shore, and the band sleep token from him. his phone would end up being filled with both bands discography.
kyle "gaz" garrick - to the hellfire by lorna shore
Accept this descent into the night
Releasing your grasp to induce separation
Plunged into the shadows
Lost in sensation, we're free falling down into the everblack
Can you feel it? These pins and needles
He got scared. He also wondered how you could understand what the guy was saying the whole time. He got VERY confused when the pig squeals started - confused enough to ask if they had a pig in studio. You laughed and explained that no, the vocalist that was screaming - Will - did it all himself. It then lead to you info dumping on the genre of music as a whole.
johnny "soap" mactavish - pisces by JINJER
No promises I ever give
Don't rely on me and I won't deceive
The beginning or the end you can't tell
When I wave my fin and shake my tail
I grew in different normality
With unblamable morality
Hooks and nets are there for me
But I'm skittish
The soft voice is what got to him, his eyes going wide when he heard the screaming. He didn't believe you at first when you told him the woman singing was also the one screaming, too. - "No fuckin' way is that a bonnie doin' that." - so you pulled up the song on youtube, and then also pulled up a few live videos of the band, too. He believed you after a few videos, and may have gotten a little jealous when you said she causes you to have a MAJOR gay panic. You also state you wish you had the same amount of talent as her, especially with the screaming.
#.txt#call of duty#cod mwii#mwii#simon ghost riley#johnny soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#john price#keegan p. russ#könig#rat writes
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Robin is staring at a wall. Specifically her bedroom wall, not just a random one, so it’s not that weird, not as strange as it could be. At least that’s what she’s decided to tell herself. It’s a justification, it doesn’t have to be a good one.
Truth be told, her reason is good enough anyway, she doesn’t need any of the bull-shitty excuses she’s coming up with by force of habit; her world has been turned upside down. Frighteningly literally, apparently.
Just over a month or so, the shiny new mall in Hawkins ‘burnt down’, see: Robin walked into her own kidnapping by evil Russians with Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington and narrowly escaped with her life, only to immediately witness terrifying flesh monsters raze the new Jewel of Hawkins; the ‘Battle of Starcourt’, as the kids have taken to calling it, when they actually bring it up. Which in Robin’s opinion, happens a little too often and too casually based on the way it derails her entire day at the reminder.
It’s also been just under a month or so since she’s got more than an hour of sleep at a time (on account of the horrifying nightmares and such), and she can feel how much it’s showing. Who knew sleep deprivation makes your hair feel greasy and your skin feel clammy, no matter how long you shower, and how much soap you burn through? Though that may be a side-effect of the torture.
Maybe the drugs are still running rampant through her system. Surely not. Did they even wash that needle between her and Steve’s doses? Were there different needles? She can’t remember. Fuck, it’s all fuzzy. Her vision now is fuzzy.
Her wallpaper is peeling a bit.
Robin can tell she’s spiralling. Her head hurts. If she were talking to someone, the word-vomit would’ve started about half an hour ago, no end in sight. Hmm. Maybe that would help. Actually getting the thoughts out of her head into the air. But, of course, she can’t just talk to her parents down the hall, the copious amounts of government-issued paperwork ensured that, no matter whether they’d even believe her or not. Hell, if she weren’t so painfully aware that it’d prove her insanity, Robin would be talking to her shelf of stuffed animals.
The wallpaper isn’t stuck on properly, there are little bubbles in the wall.
It’s just that the world almost ended a month ago . And apparently it’s the third time that’s happened?! And that’s just in Hawkins. How many times has the world almost ended in New York? Movies liked to start the end there. San Francisco? Italy? Russia ? Robin can feel the centrifugal force of her brain spinning like a goddamn record. Her skull is due to pop at any second.
She imagines popping her wall-bubbles with a pin. Maybe she can find a poster to stick up over them. Too bad that music store burnt down with literally everything else in the mall. Like the Russian Base .
Robin takes a shaky breath in what feels like hours. It isn’t the first time she’s accidentally held her breath—waiting for Steve to move as he was strapped to her back, trying to stay as still as possible so she could tell if he was breathing or not, then waiting for his disgust to show after she told him , and way before it all, hearing about Barb’s—
Anyway. Maybe she actually got out of this hellhole.
God, Steve. Steve . Steve Harrington is her work-friend. Though now, they can probably say they’re something more. Torture-mate? Drug(ged)-buddy? Comrade? Fighting-interdimensional-monsters-and-burning-down-our-previous-place-of-work friends? Maybe surprisingly-successful-and-heartwarming-coming-out-on-icky-and-disgusting-bathroom-floors-after-puking-truth-serum-out-of-our-collective-systems-friends.
Robin’s lip twitches. The trials and tribulations of Steve-and-Robin is starting to sound dangerously close to a recipe for ‘best-friends’. She starts to feel almost pleasantly warm at the thought, but she internally bursts into laughter when the term ‘soulmates’ pops into her head.
Her eyes are on the verge of finally coming into focus when—
Tap, tap .
Holy shit. They’ve found her.
Robin’s entire body seizes up and she can’t make herself turn around to face her window and the noise coming from the other side. The Russians. Steve had told them Dustin’s full name and description. It isn’t too much of a stretch to think they found him then found Steve , then found their other prisoner who ruined their base and got them all fucked up by the American government. They’re here, and they want her to pay .
The blood rushing in her ears and shuddering frame distracted her long enough that she missed the first few muffled words, coming from the same direction. They sounded frantic.
“—shit, Robin! It’s me!”
That motherfucking dingus.
Whipping her head around, Robin glares through the glass, trying to disguise the fact that her vision’s still a little double.
“Steve?! What the hell are you doing here? My parents are literally in the next room !” She hisses, wrenching open her window. God, he looks like shit. Literally.
(It’s almost funny).
The swelling in his eye and mouth has gone down, but the bruising all over his face has taken on a gross yellowy-brown, green shadows here and there. If it weren’t his face , Robin might consider it almost ‘artistic’. His pyjama pants look like he’s worn them for a very long walk in the woods, or perhaps a trek through her back garden, and he’s pushed the sleeves of his garish yellow sweater up past his elbows, like he needed the extra movement to manoeuvre through the rose bushes. Thank God she doesn’t live in a double-story house like Steve, he’s in no condition to be performing any of his usual Romeo-wannabe stunts.
Steve doesn’t answer her, just heads straight to her bed, kicking off his sneakers and shaking his arms so his sleeves fall down as he goes. It’s as if he’s moving on muscle memory. Biology and psychology or whatever hasn’t been one of the subjects of Robin's obsession before, but she’s pretty sure that muscular habits take a little longer than maybe three irregular occasions before the action’s set in stone. Even so, she finds herself climbing in after him without making the decision to. Before he even fully stretches out his arms to beckon her in. Maybe habits can be formed in no time at all. Maybe they’ve already fallen into a rhythm.
By nature of Robin’s itty-bitty (twin sized!) mattress, they’re forced to curl into each other, opting to wring their hands together, tangling their fingers and legs in tandem. In their past sleepovers, they’ve had a little more difficulty finding comfortable positions, what with Steve’s bludgeoned brain and body, but with his snail-pace healing going on, they’ve managed to work around it much easier lately. Robin wedges herself in, head resting over his left arm on the bed and her left hand clasped in his right. If you ignore Robin’s fist in Steve’s obnoxious yellow sweater and her leg hooked around his knee (and the fact they’re in bed ), it’s like they haven’t let go after a bro-y handshake. It fits. They fit. Robin watches Steve’s eyes flutter closed (he can actually open his left one now!).
Robin giggles, unbidden. Steve Harrington is in her bed, and she isn’t even throwing up about it! Steve seems to understand her sentiment and rolls his eyes behind his closed eyelids.
And suddenly they’re still. Settled. Well, they should be, but Robin’s still Robin, and she can’t stand the quiet for more than a second unless she’s already unconscious (which she hasn’t been doing very often lately). Weirdly enough, even with his obvious exhaustion, Steve doesn’t seem bothered by her inevitable interruption. He seems to expect it:
“Steve?”
“Mmm?”
She squeezes his hand softly. He squeezes back.
“You didn’t answer my question. Did you… have a nightmare, or something?”
read on ao3
#ao3#stranger things#robin buckley#steve harrington#platonic stobin#i cannot stress enough that it's PLATONIC#there will also be steddie#eventually#steddie#fanfic#stranger things fic#fic
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Escape Attempt (excerpt from Alfie WIP)
....
At one point he did think he heard the baying of dogs. But as faint as they came, they faded away.
The next day he was worse. When he realized he was unable to get up from his post below the pine, a cold horror pervaded his senses. Maybe he would die?
He had wanted that before hadn’t he? Maybe this would be best? His own terms here more or less. He wished he wasn't still in a straight jacket though.
The night came again and he found himself shaking, from the med withdrawals or the cold or both, he wasn’t sure. His moments of lucidity were fewer and farther between.
At one point he realized he didnt know what day it was. He had no idea how long he had been out here, could have been any amount of time and he’d believe it.
Fever set in in earnest on the third day however. From there all he could hear were the dogs. Now baying in his memories as he watched them from behind the institutional glass as they went after other poor escapees.
—
A man was yelling.
“He’s here! I’ve got him.”
Alfie’s foggy eyes opened and he started like an animal to see so many of them. Men everywhere, some with guns, one holding the leather leash of a hound barking.
“Fuck still has the jacket on too.”
The one who yelled stepped closer and Fie jerked himself back with his final energy reserve. Days beyond clarity, he scrambled away from the man with pitiful coordination. Not aware enough to realize it was futile.
“It’s okay, buddy, we’ve got you, you’re safe.”
The man reached out and Fie cried out in animalistic fear trying to shrink further into himself.
They were going to take him back. No no no nonononono-
“Let’s get some help over here!”
Suddenly there were more hands grabbing at him. He lashed out with his legs trying to kick and screamed bloody murder.
“Shit, he’s gone off the deep end- I thought they said he was harmless!”
“Shhh– come on, you’re coming with us. We’re gonna take you home-” Someone whispered to him like a wounded feral animal while hands pinned his ankles for someone to shackle them.
His breathing intensified, ragged and desperate.
“We’re gonna need that needle for him. Can’t get him back like this-”
“You’re safe now-” The gravelly voice started again.
“Nh- nhhh!” He shrieked, now feebly struggling as the last burst of energy waned and his body began to fail him again.
“You’re sick huh? We might not need it on second thought- I think he’s fading fast-”
Fie choked on his own spit struggling, coughing pitifully.
“Slow down there, bud. We’re just taking you home. Gonna get you a good meal, a bath and fresh clothes. Sounds nice right? You want to go home, it’s nice there. You’re safe there. They will take care of you.”
This man- those words- “home”. Alfie struggled to focus enough to find him with his gaze. Why was he so tender but so cruel? He didn’t mean to be, Fie processed with his last moments in reality.
The man was right, they wouldn’t need the needle.
#alfred finch#wip#escape attempt#whump#psych whump#mental hospital#psychiatric whump#whumpee#defiant whumpee#well meaning whumpee#capture#tw needle#straightjacket
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45 + boyf riends :)
So. i got super carried away with this one. like. this isn't even everything i wrote. i basically started rewriting everything from this point to jer waking up in the hospital. it's. not finished. i may just post it to ao3 when/if it is. BUT in the interest of finally answering this ask, here's as much as i could write to an ok-ish stopping point
45. realization of feelings at the Worst Possible Moment + boyf riends
"I'm going to improve your life, Jeremy! If I have to take over the entire student body to do it!"
Jeremy's phone clattered to the stage floor, his entire body seizing up as he followed it down. Shockwaves rippled through him like the worst case of pins and needles in the world as he tried to reach for his phone. He needed Michael, the only person that could drag him out of this mess. He knew Michael didn't have much reason to help him, but it was his only hope. His only chance at fixing what he'd so royally fucked up.
Jeremy's stiff limbs couldn't get him any further as he watched his phone screen go dark, the cropped New Year's selfie of him and Michael disappearing just like he’d disappeared from Michael's side. The darkness backstage started to swallow him until a piercing light flashed over him. As quickly as it was there, it was gone, but as quickly as it was gone, Jeremy felt the static start to clear from his heavy body and found he was being pulled up off the ground.
"Don't think you're supposed to be napping backstage, buddy." He felt his arm loop around something as he was hoisted to his feet. "Might miss your cue."
Jeremy blinked away the remaining static in his head and blearily looked up at his savior, eyes widening as recognition hit him like a stack of bricks. "Michael!"
He threw himself into a hug on sheer instinct, and any idea that Michael didn't want any part of him was quickly forgotten when he hugged back, squeezing him with just as much enthusiasm as ever. Jeremy would've stayed in that hug indefinitely if there weren't more pressing matters at hand.
"How did you- you actually came for- what made you-" He abandoned all questions he had and pulled away with an excited laugh he didn’t know he was capable of anymore. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
Michael handed Jeremy’s phone back to him, wearing an easy smile that Jeremy had nearly forgotten. “I was just in the audience thinking, 'this is pretty good for a school play.' Then I was like,” he shook Jeremy’s shoulders for comical emphasis, “'this is way too good for a school play!' They've all been squipped, right?”
Jeremy blinked rapidly. "W-w-wait, you came to see me in The Play??" That tugged at his heart more than he expected it to. Even after blocking Michael out for so long, he still…
Michael reached into his hoodie pocket with a playful smirk. "Even brought my own refreshments." He pulled out a red soda and pointed it to the sky like it was an all powerful elixir. To Jeremy, it practically was.
"Is that-?!"
"Mountain Dew Red!" Michael poked Jeremy's arm with the top of the bottle. "Told you I did my research."
Jeremy had to remember to shower Michael with every ounce of praise in the world the moment there wasn’t a tyrannical computer meddling around inside his brain. "That's amazing! Give it to me!"
Michael suddenly pulled the bottle out of his reach. "Ah-buh-buh. No."
Dread ran down Jeremy's back like hot molasses. No? After bringing it to The Play?? "What?? But- I need it."
Michael crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly looking about half as angry as Jeremy suspected he should’ve after all was said and done. The other half was a painful mix of betrayed and tired. He didn’t imagine the isolation had exactly been fun for Michael. "And I need an apology. I think that's in order. I mean, you treat me like I don't exist for weeks, then blow me off when I try to help you-"
Jeremy dropped his shoulders with a sigh, accepting that he’d been a bit hasty. An apology was the least Michael deserved. "Okyouknowwhat, you're right, I'm s-"
“Vocal Chords: Blocked”
The word got scrambled on Jeremy’s tongue. He brought his hands to his throat with wide eyes when further attempts to say sorry produced only silence. Shit, the SQUIP still had control over him! Of course it wouldn’t go down so easily!
Michael rolled his eyes hard. "Really? Is it that hard to say you’re sorry?"
"Y…” The tension in Jeremy’s throat thankfully subsided, but he knew Far Cry 3’s definition of insanity, and resigned to the fact that the apology had to be shelved for now. “Yes! Come on, man, this is important!"
"This is important to me!" Michael insisted. Of all the times he could’ve chosen to be stubborn…
"It's a word!"
"It's a gesture! Gestures matter!"
"It can wait a couple minutes!" Jeremy made a move for the bottle, but Michael still kept it above his head out of arm’s reach. Shit, if only he knew the full scope of what the SQUIP was doing.
"Kung Fu Fists: Activate"
Jeremy's body snapped into a stance he'd never taken, much like an idle character jerking into a fighting animation about as smoothly as you’d expect for a buggy video game. His speech felt much the same. Thoughts he’d never dare say out loud coming out in the worst way they could’ve been phrased.
"This is so you!" A punch that Jeremy didn't throw nearly connected to Michael's newly shocked face. "You love to feel superior," another punch that Michael narrowly avoided, "just because you eat eel on your sushi!" Yet another, "And listen to music on vinyl!" A successful kick to the side that caught Michael off guard, "And you don't care about being popular!"
The SQUIP had taken control of Jeremy’s body before, usually just to get him out of a room or something equally menial. To watch his own body attack Michael without his input while he was powerless to stop it was nothing short of horrific. And to hear such twisted sentiments falling out on his mouth was just as much. Michael’s easy indifference to a reputation that Jeremy had always cared so much about was a little annoying, yes, but this wasn’t the time nor the way that Jeremy wanted that dirty laundry to be aired out. Not when his sheer admiration for Michael outweighed that little smidge of underlying bitterness.
The weight of just how long it’d been since they last linked up started to press down on Jeremy. Two months of no AotD or weed or runs to 7-Eleven all caught up to him and hit him at once. Holy shit, he missed Michael so much. And to imagine a world where he didn’t have him? Where the SQUIP completely erased him from his life, for good? Jeremy couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let the SQUIP win. He loved Michael too much to watch him fade away again.
Wait. He loved Michael. Like. As something other than a best friend. As someone he didn't want to be apart from ever again if it could be helped, and he hoped it could be, considering the technological uprising in progress. He’d never paid much mind to the more… questionable thoughts he’d had of Michael and always just blamed it on hormones, or loneliness, or some resignation that no one else would ever date him so fantasies were the best he was gonna get. But… no. No, he wanted that stuff too. There was a bigger reason that the homophobic remarks of years past hurt as much as they did. Impulsive stoned desires of kissing Michael weren’t a sole product of being high; they hadn’t come out of nowhere.
Jeremy loved Michael. His humor, his charm, the upbeat energy that seemed to follow him everywhere - SQUIP happenings notwithstanding - there was a reason he’d felt so hollow after blocking his friend. He'd always known he loved Michael; they'd known each other pretty much their whole lives after all. He just hadn't known the wider scope of it until... shit, why did the world decide now was the time to give him this revelation?!
Michael caught Jeremy's foot out of the air, struggling against the second kick the SQUIP was trying to land since the first one had actually yielded results. "Of course I care!" He threw Jeremy's foot down, causing a stumble and forced repositioning. "I just know it's never gonna happen!"
Michael tried stuffing the soda back into his hoodie pocket, only being able to get it partially in before Jeremy pushed him into the wall with strength that wasn't his own. "So you resent me because I didn't give up like you did?" a scary voice sneered.
Michael grabbed Jeremy's wrists and crossed his arms over his chest to give him less mobility and reach to fight him. Something painful flashed over his face. "No, I don't resent you! I'm jealous you try!"
"Well I'm jealous you don't!" The truth of the words scratched at Jeremy’s throat as he tried resisting whatever lie or petty jab the SQUIP wanted to twist out of him. The SQUIP tried thrashing Jeremy out of Michael’s grasp, but an overcalculation brought them both falling to the ground instead.
The Mountain Dew Red fell out of Michael's pocket with a dense thud, followed by a quiet hiss. A thick layer of pink foam began to form atop the meniscus of the soda as the bottle jerkily rolled a few feet away before coming back halfway to a wobbly halt.
Michael grunted in pain upon landing with Jeremy on top of him. "Then why are you hitting me?!"
"I'm not-" Jeremy’s fist veered just far enough left to miss Michael's shoulder and punch the stage floor instead – it hurt, and it was the most he'd been able to accomplish, "trying to!"
Michael managed to take hold of Jeremy’s wrists again. The SQUIP fought hard to keep control. Jeremy hoped that he could fight harder to take it back. "Well don't try harder!"
“It’s not me!” Jeremy choked out, the burning in his scraped knuckles getting drowned out by the one holding his body hostage. “It’s- my- SQUIP!”
He sloppily tore himself off of Michael, the pain of resisting the SQUIP’s actions strangling a raspy gasp out of him as he hit the stage floor. The friction prickled at his elbow as he tried to distance himself and keep from hurting Michael further. He couldn’t get very far before he was seized into place by the SQUIP’s electricity again, like when he’d tried calling Michael. Jeremy didn’t think he’d ever been in more pain, but he’d endure it if he didn’t have to watch himself fight his best friend.
Michael’s eyes widened in horror at the kind of power the SQUIP had, then darkened upon things becoming more personal than they already were. He’d never been fond of anyone that went out of their way to hurt Jeremy, and the SQUIP was clearly no exception. "It's. What?"
Unshed tears stung Jeremy’s eyes. He wondered if fire burned half as bad as this. He wondered if Rich knew. He wondered if he’d live through this and actually be able to tell Michael what he really meant to him. "It's taking over my body.” Jeremy tried pushing himself up, but his arms gave out beneath him. He felt like an elephant was standing on him. It was so hard to breathe. “You gotta help me! I'm sorry!"
#asks#mj says shit#be more chill#writing#fanfic#sorta?? we'll see#bmc the play#squip#jeremy heere#michael mell#boyf riends
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Hello. I’m not sure if you do requests but if you do could I have one with Steven Grant where he meets this sweet person(the reader) at the museum and asks them out on a date and when he gets home he begs Marc to not take over his body until after the date and to not screw anything up. Marc ignores him and does it anyway causing him to miss the date and he thinks he’ll never see the reader again but sees them again and despite thinking that they’ll be mad at him they’re really understanding and were actually worried about him
AN | I love one (1) Steven Grant and one (1) Marc Spector 🥰🥺
Pairing | Steven Grant x Fem!Reader
Warnings | None
Word Count | 1.9k
Masterlist | Main, Moon Knight
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──
“You finally managed to find a date,” Steven stopped in his tracks at the sound of Marc’s little quip. He turned around to see where he was lurking, finding his reflection in the windows of the shops he passed on his trek home, “I’m proud of you, buddy.”
“Marc,” it was an exasperated and almost desperate little groan of his name as he tried to make himself inconspicuous and not attract too much attention, “of all the times for you to appear, this is not opportune. Can’t you give me some peace for once?”
“What?” there was a boyishly wicked little smirk on his face as Steven picked up his pace, “it’s just that I’m…well, shocked to be honest.”
“It’s not that shocking-”
“It is.”
“Is not.”
“When’s the last time you had a date?” with that singular question, Steven huffed heavily and sped up, pointedly avoiding the question. Marc laughed as he followed him, “that’s why I’m saying I’m proud! You actually asked her out…it’s been months. I didn’t think you’d pluck up the courage to do it.”
“I don’t need you to mock me, thank you very much,” Steven replied out of the corner of his mouth, growing more annoyed with each passing second, “just because I don’t feel the need to ‘hook up’ or whatever with every person I see, unlike you, doesn’t mean I’ve never dated!”
“Whoa there, Steven,” Marc rolled his eyes dramatically, “I do not just hook up with people, let’s get that straight.”
“This conversation is over,” Steven hissed as he turned his gaze away from the shop window. He made it a point to avoid any reflective surfaces on his way home so he no longer had to deal with Marc. At least not for now - he was already on pins and needles about actually going on a date, he didn’t need Marc to make it any worse. The mere thought of your pretty, glowing smile was enough to make him weak in the knees.
He really wanted this to go well. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this excited about anything.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──
“Alright,” Steven sighed as he stared at himself in the mirror, tugging at the collar of his fitted button-up, suddenly feeling like it was choking him. Was it too much? Was it not enough? Did it fit right? Would you like it? Despite his best intentions, he stared at himself in the three-way mirror, tilting his head to the side as he tried to make sure everything was fine, “I suppose this will have to do.”
“Oh my,” of course Marc wouldn’t listen to him. He had to show up and Steven internally - and externally - groaned at his reflection, “don’t we look handsome for our little date.”
“Marc please,” he was ready to plead and beg if he had too. Marc raised his eyebrows in amusement at the sound of desperation in Steven’s voice, trying his best to control himself and not laugh in his face, “I really like her. I just want…I want to be normal for once.”
“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie,” Marc shook his head in amusement, his curls bouncing lightly, “you picked the wrong night for a date. I’ve got things to do tonight. Sorry buddy.”
“Marc…I - ugh, really?” he frowned at him, an almost pathetic little expression was on his face, “it’s just one night…please. What - am I supposed to coordinate calendars from now on?”
“I mean it wouldn’t hurt - we gotta be on the same page. So no can do,” he shrugged, looking sorry for about a millisecond before his normal expression returned, “maybe next time.”
“Marc-”
That was all Steven managed to say before Marc took over and pushed him to the recesses of his mind. There was a certain pang that settled in his stomach as he turned around to avoid even the possibility of Steven popping up and guilting him further. He hadn’t wanted to ruin any plans for Steven but the man really had some terrible timing.
“Sorry,” he whispered more to himself than anything else, but hoped that Steven would hear him. He hastily undid the buttons of the new, dress shirt, ripping it off and tossing it to the side and out of sight so it wouldn’t set off further guilt. He hoped that one day Steven would understand, but underneath it all, he hoped that you would understand. He hadn’t met you, not directly anyway, but he’d seen you, heard you and had already drawn the conclusion that you were a kind person. Marc understood why Steven had been so smitten with you.
Marc noticed Steven’s phone sitting on the table when the screen lit up. He walked over and quickly scooped it off the table to examine the notification. His stomach churned when he saw your name on the screen along with a quick text of can’t wait to see you soon!
“Please,” he sighed quietly, “please understand.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──
You’d arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early and decided to wait outside for him. Your nerves had gotten the better of you and rather than be even a moment late you were early; you figured that was better anyway. A small, nervous sigh escaped your lips as you waited at the corner of the street, straightening out the dress you’d picked. It was new but you had to have it from the moment you’d see it, figuring it would be great for a first date and that Steven might like it as well.
After about ten minutes had passed, you started to wonder if you’d gotten the time right. Oh no - what if you’d come to the wrong place? Just to confirm, you pulled out your phone and studied your plans, realizing you had the right place and time. He was the one that was late now. Odd. You hadn’t taken him for the type…or you’d expected a text at least.
But nothing ended up coming. Maybe something had happened…an emergency or something and he was just running late. Yeah…that was all. Steven Grant wasn’t the type that would stand you up. Right? Right? Your heart fell a little bit as you watched couples coming and going into the restaurant.
You decided you’d give him half an hour of leeway. Life happened and sometimes things didn’t go according to plan. Curious but not wanting to seem too clingy, you’d texted him once more simply to let him know you were waiting outside the restaurant.
A response never came. He never showed up.
It was with a heavy heart and eyes brimming with tears that you finally decided that Steven wasn’t coming. Sniffling, you dabbed at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater and turned to walk back home. Even though you knew that you’d been stood up, you couldn’t help but glance back a few times on the off chance that he did show up. He didn’t.
When you arrived home you didn’t even bother to undress, simply kicking off your shoes as you headed into your room and collapsed on your bed. Pulling the warm duvet around your body, you allowed yourself to get all of your tears out, falling asleep soon after. You felt stupid; stupid for getting your hopes up and stupid for liking him so much. You tried to not get too mad or upset because there really was a chance that something had happened; despite your sadness, you truly hoped he was okay.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──
Steven felt like a cloud was following him around the next day. He was mad at himself, he was mad at Marc, he was mad…at the universe. When he’d woken up that morning he’d looked at his phone and saw the messages from you he felt like the biggest jerk. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to text you back or call, feeling like anything he would say would fall on deaf ears or seem like he was trying to make it up to you to get into your pants. Would you even want to hear from him again? Probably not. He wouldn’t have blamed you.
Instead, he’d swiped away the texts and gone about his normal morning routine, heading into work in a dour mood. Even Donna noticed that he seemed off from his normal self and didn’t have the heart to harass him. And of course, it happened to be slow that day so he didn’t even have the sweet distraction of museum goers.
It was around lunch time when you made your way into the museum, anxiously making your way towards the gift shop. You hadn’t really formulated a plan on what you would do if you saw him. Would you speak to him? But if you did that, would your emotions betray you and refuse to let you keep yourself together? Maybe you’d just peek in to make sure he was alright…even if you were heartbroken over last night, at least you’d know he was safe and sound.
Once you were just around the corner, you made an attempt to be subtle and quickly look in, but naturally that wouldn’t do. Just as you looked in, a pair of big brown eyes caught yours. He stared at you for a few moments, a nervous expression etched on his features before he softly whispered your name. Finding yourself unable to turn away, you nodded before making your way over to him.
“Steven,” he’d half expected you to yell at him - like he was sure he deserved - but you didn’t. You gently reached up and put your hand on his face, stroking his cheek, “you’re okay.”
“I…what?” he asked in confusion as you almost laughed at the look on his face, “why aren’t you yelling?”
“What do you mean?” you almost laughed, “would you prefer if I yell?”
“Yes…I mean no…I’m just confused as to why you’re here. A-after last night…”
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt…that you were safe,” you admittedly sheepishly, “I know…I think to believe anyway, that you wouldn’t just stand me up.”
“No,” he promised, “no. I wouldn’t…it’s just…umm. I don’t even know how to explain. I don’t expect you to forgive me or anything, but I hope you know I’m truly sorry. I really wanted to go…to be with you.”
“Me too,” you let out a nervous breath, worrying your bottom lip before smiling lightly, “maybe you could try explaining over dinner? Tonight?”
“I don’t know if you’ll ever want to see me again after I explain,” a red flush crept into his cheeks before he turned to stare at his feet. You laughed, that small sweet little laugh that made his heart skip a few beats, before putting your hand under his chin and turning his face towards yours.
“I highly doubt that will happen,” you promised, “I like you, Steven. I’m willing to try if you are.”
“I am,” he promised eagerly, “I like you too.”
“Well that settles that,” you leaned in and kissed his cheek, “we’ll have dinner tonight and then you can explain it all to me.”
“It’s a date,” he grinned nervously as you nodded.
“It’s a date.”
#steven grant#steven grant x reader#steven grant x you#steven grant x fem!reader#oscar isaac#oscar isaac x you#oscar isaac x reader#moon knight#marc spector
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for your consideration: taylor swift (headcanons? is any of this canon?)
when he feels short stabs of anger (you know the ones), Taylor's hair FWOOSH! flicks on fire like the short click of an air freshener to an open lighter
it's kinda weird that I say this here instead of a fanfiction but I think the entire close/foster/swift family have extremely telling eyes. what I mean by this is like--you ever make eye contact with someone and you're like "oh, okay. something's off with you." it's THAT, but they know that you know something's wrong. like I imagine Glenn makes eye contact with an NPC, sees their miffed expression, and just gives a little eyebrow wiggle. feel like it'd fit Taylor, too. thats so specific im sorry
^ it's not even a demon thing, either. they can camouflage their eyes and your intuition would STILL be ringing bells. the first time Link meets Taylor he feels this prickle of unease around him for a week straight (you can thank inheriting Darryl's religious sixth sense for that one, buddy)
Taylor lights on fire when he walks into churches. not because the Holy Spirit is repelling him but because he gets an intense feeling of pins and needles all over his body, freaks the fuck out, the fear turns to anger and that outburst accidentally sets him on fire, etc.
Taylor thought he was THE ANTICHRIST FOR FOUR WEEKS STRAIGHT BECAUSE HE KEPT LIGHTING HIMSELF ON FIRE IN CHURCHES AND HE THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO END THE WORLD AND CRIED A LITTLE BECAUSE HE DIDNT WANT TO HURT HIS MOMMY
sorry I think the "taylor INADVERTENTLY lights himself on fire" prospect is REALLY funny
I can't remember if Cassandra knows that Nicky's a demon, but I think it'd be sweet either way that she consoles her poor little son who bursts into flames at random moments and has a Very Scary Aura as if he were just going through growing pains. I think if she DIDN'T know Nicky was a demon, she'd blame it on the ADHD lmao
#taylor swift dndads#dungeons and daddies#headcanons#nicky close foster#cassandra swift#taylor swift spontaneous combustion myth#he gets at least one true crime episode dedicated to him because he accidentally burns a church to the ground#poor taylor :( sweet boy
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adult child abusee problemz
acknowledging that whats happening to me might be abuse is like unlocking so many memories it feels exactly the same as stretching a numb limb and the pins and needles start rushing in. its like all these little things id repressed or downplayed or dismissed or forgiven or forgotten come back and show me this pattern of increasing controlling behavior and goalpost moving... and just
for the longest time i was like "well it can't be abuse because when i put up with the inevitable tantrums and hold her hand through it and walk her through why she's not allowed to open my mail or whatever she usually stops opening my mail or whatever, except sometimes when she doesn't, its just that its really exhausting to have to get screamed at and break it down in small words why I'm actually an adult and allowed to have boundaries like her not opening my mail or throwing away my stuff without asking me, so i mostly don't do it anymore because its so exhausting that its easier to just let it go"
yeah that's an abuse tactic buddy. thats one of the oldest in the book.
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Speculation Time! 6B
Ok, Ok, Ok, I have an idea - so it's already been filmed, but I have the gayest Buddie idea about Buck's injury/coma.
So check this: Buck gets struck, falls, comatime in 6x10 "In a flash". Then in 6x11 "In another life" there is a dream sequence for the "another life" part - like there was in TK's Coma episode. The twist is that... it's not Buck's dream sequence. Eddie brings Chris to the hospital to see Buck - only this time it's Chris that has the panic attack because yet ANOTHER parental figure has almost died/may die.
So Chris ends up unconscious in the hospital and it's HIS dream sequence. And so what kind of "unique" dream style might Chris' dream have? A telenovela of course! Chris' dream is a hilariously dated, 1980s style telenovela, with big dramatic flair and style (and maybe a song) as Eddie rescues Buck - who is the damsel in distress. These are dramatic quick cuts between the regularly shot parts of the episode where the 118 are doing their thing. This lets us get inside the way Chris views Eddie/Buck's relationship, which the audience can't really know how Chris feels about them as a pair or how he wants them to interact. Plus the only other times we got a view into chris' inner world was in the drawings from the tsunami which were also about Chris missing his mom (drawing her as a woman lost in the tsunami).
Gifs via @fruitydiaz
Chris wakes up in the hospital and Eddie's totally lost it - Buck and Chris are both in the hospital after all. Chris asks Eddie to promise him Buck will be ok... a promise Eddie knows he can't keep. But Eddie can't say no to Chris, especially a Chris he just saw pass out after a panic attack, and Eddie promises him that Buck will be ok. Eddie explains the will to Chris and that Buck is basically his other father (Sure if Eddie dies, but also Eddie accepts Buck is also a father figure).
Then in 6x12 "Recovery" Eddie is in Buck's hospital room and loses it. He goes full crying breakdown with Eddie yelling "I told Chris you would be ok! Don't make me a liar to our son!" Like Carlos & TK in S3 of Lonestar, Buck begins to wakes up, the nurses rush in.
Bonus points if the "our son" line happens in front of Maddie and THEN she finds out about the sperm donation and has to ask "Wait, how many kids does my brother have??!!"
From there, Eddie's feelings for Buck have kind of come to the surface and in 6x13 "New Sensations" he has to deal with the fact that he called Chris "our son" to Buck - something Buck doesn't remember (because he was in a coma). So now Eddie is like... hyperfixating on men's bodies and Buck moves in with them (to recover and he hears about Chris' panic attack). But Buck being everywhere is making Eddie crazy: Pining Roommates Era.
Eddie is pining and is on pins and needles around Buck and Buck realizes something is up, but thinks Eddie is mad at him, can't understand that Eddie is in love with him until, down the line, Maddie reveals that Eddie called Chris his son.
It probably won't happen BUT IT WOULD BE MARVELOUS.
#911 speculation#911 s6#buck x eddie#buddie ship#911 buddie#buddie 911#evan buckley x eddie diaz#evan buck buckely#edmundo eddie diaz#eddie x buck
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Necromancer Study Buddy
"Wha-? Hey! Mal, let go!"
But Malorn holds fast as he drags a panicking Duncan behind him.
"What are you doing?!" Duncan continues to complain, twisting and turning with all his might to no avail.
"I'm getting you out of the house, that's what I'm doing," Malorn replies, not bothering to turn to face his friend. "Just because Malistaire isn't here anymore doesn't mean you get to stop studying."
Duncan grits his teeth and reluctantly allows himself to be dragged along. Being pulled from his home was certainly not on his to-do list today; he very much felt more like becoming a vegetable than eager to study. But it's not like he was going to do anything else useful with his time. In a way, part of him is grateful for Malorn showing up like he did.
The longer the two walk, out of Triton Avenue and up the steep slopes of Olde Town, nearing the Shopping District, pins and needles dance across Duncan's entrapped hand.
"Dude, let go. I can't feel my hand."
"Sorry," Malorn mutters, promptly releasing him from his tight grip. Duncan takes a moment to nurse his poor hand before trudging along behind his friend.
"I'm guessing you have a plan in mind?" Duncan asks as they pass by the Wizard City shops.
"Sort of," Malorn admits with a shrug. "I've been going to the library and pulling books off shelves."
A frown plasters itself onto Duncan's face. "Seriously?"
"You have any better ideas?" Malorn retorts. "The Professor's gone. The classroom's gone. The textbooks are useless without a teacher. Might as well go poking around ourselves."
He makes a good point. Without a Professor to direct them and answer questions and explain concepts and spells as they arise, they're at a loss with the school-issued textbooks. But what good is pulling books off shelves at random?
"Boris has been pretty helpful, too," Malorn continues as they stroll, noting Duncan's skeptical scowl. "Trust me, it'll be worth it."
"Alright..." Duncan sighs skeptically.
They make their way around the lake of the Commons, heading towards the small-looking building that is the Ravenwood Library. Within its walls exists a seemingly endless supply of books and shelves, with reading spaces dotted about at random. The books within float about by invisible hands, constantly engaged in the complicated dance of rearrangement, as if they're constantly dissatisfied with where they rest on their shelves. As they enter, the kindly head librarian from Marleybone, Harold Argleston, raises his shaggy head to greet the two Necromancers.
"Ah, well if it isn't Malorn Ashthorn and Duncan Grimwater!" he says merrily. He leans forward in his seat, pushing aside the open ledger before him. "Is there anything I can help you boys with today?"
"We're just here to read some books about Necromancy," Malorn replies. "Is Boris around?"
"The lad should be somewhere in the back," Mr. Argleston chuckles. "You know how to find him."
"Great! Thanks, Mr. Argleston."
With that, the two students make their way into the maze of bookshelves.
"Doesn't he also have classes to attend?" Duncan can't help but ask. It always feels like Boris is hiding away in the library, buried in books all day, completely neglecting his studies as a Diviner. How come he gets to play in the library all day whereas Duncan hardly gets any time to himself?
Malorn just shrugs back at a loss for words.
As they take a few more twists and turns in the vast expanse of the library, Malorn finally cups his hands around his mouth and calls out, "Boris? Boris!"
For a long moment, there's no reply. Not even a shift of cloth moving nearby. No footsteps ring in the air. Duncan doesn't frequent the library; he hardly reads despite his own home library being fully stocked with all sorts of family tomes. He can't help but find Malorn's aimless calling a little weird.
But then the point of a long yellow hat appears, growing longer and longer until Boris Tallstaff is peering at them from behind a nearby bookshelf. He's smiling, as if he had been expecting them for the longest time.
"Hi there!" he greets them, stepping into full view. His arms are full with an assortment of books, but despite their number and size he doesn't appear too concerned by their weight. His gaze shifts from Malorn to Duncan, and his smile grows wider. "You finally dragged him along, eh?"
"Yep," Malorn replies with a slight chuckle. "Is the study space prepared?"
"Of course!" Boris answers, nodding his head in a way that indicates that they should follow him. Beaming, Malorn starts off after the Diviner, Duncan still in reluctant tow.
Boris leads the Necromancers to a small space between the bookshelves. A single table lined with two long benches sits in the center of the space, candle flames flickering with soft orange light in their candelabras. Multiple stacks of books, each one bound by black covers, litter most of the space on and around the table, leaving but a small space for one to actually sit and read.
All of this was prepared in advance? Duncan lets out an impressed whistle.
"I think I got everything you'll need for the next few days," Boris speaks. "If there's anything else you want, feel free to let me know."
"Thanks, Boris," Malorn nods. "I think this is good for now."
"Happy studying!"
With that, the student librarian returns to his previous work, disappearing around a corner. His footsteps continue for a short moment before falling silent altogether, as if he suddenly stopped existing.
Malorn gestures to the table way too enthusiastically for a study session. "Ready to get started?"
"We're reading all of this?" Duncan asks, once again looking over the mountain of books. The more he counts the spines, the less eager he is to sit and start.
"Pretty much," Malorn nods back.
Duncan can't help but let out a groan at the task ahead of him. Yes, admittedly, he's been neglecting his studies. It's easy to do when one no longer has a Professor nor a classroom to turn to. Even their teaching assistant - poor Dworgyn; Duncan sort of liked him... kind of... when he wasn't annoying - is gone, and the Headmaster hasn't bothered getting them a new one for the time being.
"Hey, if you're not going to study, you can always take the Headmaster's offer and switch schools," Malorn adds casually, turning towards the table.
"We had that conversation!" Duncan retorts as if it were a valid point. He's not switching schools. Period. It'd feel like a betrayal on his part if he ever did, so he doesn't allow himself to entertain such a thought.
"Then sit down and start reading," Malorn replies firmly. "Malistaire wouldn't want you slacking."
A little pang of guilt stabs Duncan's heart at the statement. Indeed, Professor Drake would hate to see one of his star students behind on studying...
His gaze sinks to the floor, his body feeling heavy. He wasted the last week doing absolutely nothing with himself. If the Professor saw him now, he'd be extremely disappointed.
Duncan takes his seat across the table from Malorn and picks up the first book within his reach. It's time to stop wasting his time and get back to work. He has people to make proud of him.
#wizard101#writing#short story#duncan grimwater#malorn ashthorn#fanfic#time to get your ass back in gear duncan#Death Dudes (TM)#i wrote this one like two days ago
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Christmas Office Party
》 WIP for the Miguel's Secretary story, one of the little parts that is mostly inconsequential and will be expanded. Also trans flag snowflakes because I found them.
You never quite liked secret Santa, it would be infinitely better if you got someone and they knew so you could get them something they wanted instead of shooting in the dark or getting them a gag gift. But as luck would have it there was an office secret Santa and there was an uneven number so you had to join. Luckily, Miles wasn't too hard to shop for. A few color pencils would have done it but you weren't that cheap, especially for him. That and it wouldn't do for an office setting.
He unwrapped it and was kind of confused before he thanked the room for whoever gave him the briefcase. You chimed in and said he should open it effectively outing yourself, you didn't care in the slightest. The look on his face was priceless. Miles was an adult, sure, but you knew the look of a kid at the tree in the morning. The sense of pride almost made you brag so you took a drink of your eggnog.
When Hobie's turn came it was really nice. It was a bunch of little things, jacket pins, guitar picks, black things, silver things, even a loc needle. He was genuinely surprised before his smile turned smug. "Thanks, big man." Looking straight at Miguel.
Miguel's previous unbothered state became annoyed very fast. "Why can't you ever be quiet?" You did find it amusing, so did most of the office. He looked annoyed but seven months with him told you he was embarrassed.
Later, during the actual party, you were looking for a chance to slip away quietly. But when you found that moment Miguel left and it would waste all of the effort of sneaking if he saw you, because knowing him he was probably going to his office for something. You waited till he came back and took the next moment. You grabbed your purse and 'went to the bathroom for lady issues'.
His office was unlocked so that made it easier for time. You took a little box wrapped in green paper and a yellow bow out of your purse and placed it on his desk before slipping back out. But from the door, while you weren't making your get-away, you could see your work station and there was something on it. A long thin box wrapped in dark blue and tied with a red ribbon. You couldn't help laughing. Great minds think alike.
Neither of you said anything on Tuesday. Miguel had a new watch no one blinked an eye at. You had a red tie everyone saw and asked about because you were never one to wear ties. All you said was someone important gave it to you and it became the word around the office with the endless question about who it was. Jess tried the 'girl to girl' thing. Pavitr said please and if anyone else gave you the tie you would have told him. Even Hobie was getting into the mix. But you didn't move an inch.
"Okay, now that the kids are gone, who is it? Stays between you and me." Peter asked in the buddy-buddy way he did everything. It was at this point starting to die down but Peter wanted to know, if not to have a laugh to be in with you.
"They're still adults." You responded. You wouldn't be a very good secretary if you broken under any kind of pressure, this was nothing. All week not a word came out of you and that wasn't going to change.
"Do I know 'em or are they an outside source?"
It was clear to you this was going to become school yard talk and you were ready for rapid fire answers. "You're just as bad as the kids."
"Family?"
"It's cute you think I'm going to tell you."
"Boyfriend?"
Ha, I wish. "Like I said, I'm not saying anything."
"Girlfriend?"
"Changing the gender isn't going to change my answers."
"Brother?"
"I have work to do."
"Sister?"
"I already said genders didn't make a difference."
"An estranged child."
"You're covering a lot of ground to get the same answer."
"Leave her alone, Parker." Miguel said as he walked past and into his office. There wasn't an inch of malice which was a switch. A month ago he would have told the both of you to get back to work. Maybe the holiday has mellowed him out.
Peter didn't quip back or talk shit, he furrowed his brows. The way he turned to you was with an actual question, like he had the answer but it was too far removed from the subject. "Is it Miguel?"
You didn't skip and word or react. "Being specific isn't going to get you an answer either."
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HTTYD Hiccup x Male!Reader: Chapter 1 :)
Heyo!! so,, this is the beginning of a HTTYD Hiccup x Male!Reader that i've been cooking up for a while!! It's not a request,, so it's straight from my brain especially for your viewing pleasure :]
anyways,, enjoy!! :D
(story starts under the cut!!)
- Mod Jericho :))
You reattach your journal to its place on your leather belt at your hip, straightening your spine and pulling your shoulders backwards. The wind streams through your hair and pins the stray strands to both sides of your face, moisture from the young early morning clouds clinging to your eyelashes. Dawn’s rays bounce off your companion’s murky scales, complex muscles moving intently just beneath his skin. Broad wings gently carve through the heavens like raw ink across paper, a dark blot against the sky and a shadowed smudge reflected in the waters below.
“Alright, Boy.” You reach out a hand to swipe across his head affectionately, earning a contented chirp in return. “We’re almost there; what'd ya say we see how fast we can go..?”
You plant your feet firmly in the stirrups of his saddle, gripping securely onto the leather handle in front of you in anticipation.
Swiftly, the reptile tucks his feet backwards, extending out his wings to their full span before bringing them harshly back down, propelling the two of you forwards at a stunning speed as you blink the air from your eyes.
Try as you might, you can’t block the wide grin that develops across your face; despite the many, many years you’d both been travelling together, the sheer childlike thrill of soaring through the clouds at extreme speeds simply never weakened, never failing to grip your chest tight with emotion and send adrenaline rushing through your body.
As you look to the horizon, a rather meagre, leafy expanse of land begins to emerge.
“Well then, Buddy…” You address your accomplice, feeling the air pass by at a more leisurely pace as he slows the beat of his wings, “This looks like our stop.”
At your word, he curls his body downwards and pushes himself into a nosedive, aiming for the shade and cover of a lush, green forest sprawled out below the two of you. He keeps his speed, aptly weaving in and out of dense trees before halting himself at a clearing with a swift and powerful thrash of his wings, dropping to the ground silently and flopping to the floor in order to rest his limbs.
Dismounting his saddle, you begin to take in your surroundings as you walk around to speak with your reptilian companion.
“Great job, Ulfur.” You praise him, giving him a scratch under the chin as he chatters back in reply.
You appear to have found yourself in a clearing of sorts; the both of you are now surrounded by lanky, thickly needled trees and heavy shrubbery. The day was still young: the sky managing to peer through the forest's canopy and the sun's warmth travelling with the wind.
You take your place on a nearby moss-tainted rock, settling down cross-legged and once again pulling your journal from your hip, running your fingers briefly over the rough leather cover.
Your stomach lets out a hearty growl, and you can’t help but chuckle.
“Hey, Boy.” You think aloud, grabbing the reptile’s attention. “You wanna go fetch us some fish while I write a few observations in my notebook..?”
The dragon groans in agreement, pupils visibly widening as he bounds off into the waxy shrubbery ahead, leaving only the sound of rustling leaves in his wake.
Something brushes against the back of your neck. You startle, whipping your head around hastily to get a look at your 'attacker'.
You let out an audible hum of confusion when you're met face-to-face with a needled tree branch sprouting intense, crimson berries.
“Hmm, strange…” You murmur, touching the tip of your pencil to your lower lip as you flip through your notebook with your thumb, “I swear I've never documented this type of tree before…”
You look up from your fixation on your work only to lock eyes with a young boy, possibly around your age, looking you over with awe etched onto his face.
You stumble up from your sitting position, disorientated at the sight of another person.
“Hello there..!” You attempt to be friendly- you don’t want to scare him, “Sorry to intrude- I didn’t think anyone inhabited this island.”
Pulling at your collar sheepishly, you observe the boy quickly pull himself together, an awkward smile eventually befalling his face.
“Er, Yes- we’re a village of Vikings, I’d say around 150 to 200 strong..?” The mystery boy replies, taking a few curious steps closer to you as you look back to him in shock.
“Really?” You slap yourself for not properly looking for any settlements as you were landing, “I’m truly sorry; if I’d have seen your village on the way in, I’d have gone to introduce myself..!”
You leave the short boy in front of you no slot to speak, instead deciding to ask a few questions.
“So,” You open, bringing your journal up to eye level once again as he steps ever closer to you, “what else can you disclose about your village..? If you don’t mind telling me, that is…”
The mystery boy opens his mouth to answer, but before he can even get a word in, a hulking mass of black scales and brown leather moves hastily in front of you, extending out its wings to act as a shield and baring its sharp teeth in a low growl.
You panic, running out in front of the reptile and trying to get his attention.
“Woah, easy Boy..!” You attempt to quell him, resting your hand as gently as you can on his muzzle, “He doesn't want to hurt us..!”
To your relief, you are able to calm his nerves with ease by tenderly running your hand along the bridge of his nose. You sigh, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding in and allowing yourself to catch your breath.
“A… Nightfury..?” You hear the mystery boy breathe out behind you, and you whip your head around to face him.
“Don’t freak out..!” You extend your free hand out to the boy as if it will make him stay to listen, “Please..!”
You can hear your heart racing in your ears: the last thing you want right now is to be chased down by a group of dragon hunters.
However, the boy’s feet stay planted firmly where he stands, with you taking his choice to remain as your chance to explain yourself.
You usher Ulfur over to stand by your side, preparing to make your getaway if it is needed.
“Look…” You start, sending a serious look to the boy standing in front of you, “I know it's not exactly… common practice for a Viking to ride a dragon.”
You gesture to the wind-battered saddle strapped on your companion’s back, and the expression on the boy’s face is unreadable.
“But you have to understand…” Your voice lowers in level- you need to get through to him, “Ulfur and I… we grew up together. I would trust him with my life should the situation turn grim.”
You turn to the side in order to brush a hand across the top of Ulfur’s head, and he lets out a noise of hushed endearment.
“I don’t know how much your people have documented about his kind, but I can assure you that he’s not a danger to you or to anyone in your village.”
A moment of silence passes between the two of you, and you brace yourself for the worst.
You debate just grabbing onto Ulfur’s harness and leaving; moving on to the next island on your map and forgetting that this ever even happened.
The boy’s quiet voice brings you back from your thoughts.
“S-So you’re saying…” He stumbles over his words, taking a hesitant step closer whilst eyeing Ulfur, “It’s possible..? They can be trained..?”
You’re stunned at his question. You take a moment to gather your thoughts, genuinely unsure of how to answer.
“Dragons..?” You question, hesitant: you’d expected him to react with fear, not with curiosity. “Well, sure- I’d say so…”
A look of long-awaited respite washes over his face, a small smile emerging on his features. You eye him with caution, indecisive on how to feel about his reaction.
“Okay, this is gonna sound crazy,” He starts, the beginnings of a chuckle woven into his voice, “but… could you help me with something..?”
alright,, my first ever writing post on this blog!! I wanted to start this series off with a sort of prologue,,, just to get myself onto the right track of thought and maybe possibly drum up some interest??? (i’ll still write it even if no-one sees this,, i'm in love with the ideas i have for this story :D )
yeah so basically what i'm trying to say is the chapters after this will include more story and be better etc lmao
but,, i hope you enjoy this nonetheless!! :)
- Mod Jericho :D
[Next Chapter: 2]
#HTTYD#httyd fanfiction#fanfiction#chapter one#ao3#wattpad#new blog#let me know if you're interested in a chapter two!!#excited to be writing again :)#hiccup haddock#hiccup horrendous haddock the 3rd#how to train your dragon#hiccup horrendous haddock iii#hiccup horrendous haddock#sorry the pacing is crap lmao
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